Prosperion | The Dump

[SacredSource 397]

 

PROSPERION 

Strength Through Order. Wealth Through Unity.

 

From above, a lone Wyrmstalker remained still shrouded by his cloak, his eyes darting down below. The putrid streets were littered with the shuffling movements of the crowds, the deceitful antics of the scavengers, the hungry desperation of the downtrodden. Raw savagery, the worst of his kind laid below for the squalor here made even the imperial slums seem like the skies. This realm was apocalypse, the future that the Betrayer wished to create.

 

The land he arrived at was sardonically named Prosperion, a supposed new paradise under the Blessed Despot. This supposed state “united” a collection of warlords beneath its banner.  Warlords who clutched upon their territory like starving beasts, opportunistically finding any moment to seek more power for their own benefit. Any laws were nothing more than suggestions with the real power being held by territory by steel.

 

 

---

A Simple Lesson

Into the open he went, his steel gleaming, his demeanor poised, the Paladin of the light drew the eyes of many. Almost immediately upon being spotted, a frail man arose. An old man? No, most certainly not, the grey hairs upon his visage were a false herring. No this was a young man, perhaps barely of age to be called to the levy; though, it was clear his life here had brought him to the harshness of reality quicker than most. The boy bowed then pleaded, his voice and eyes full of desperate hope gnawing at the opportunity. Appropriately, as befitting his station, the Paladin offered a handful of coins, altruism perhaps out of pity more than piety.

 

His act of kindness only brought a gathering to plead their case. More who wished to receive a blessing from the foreigner. Experienced, he saw a mob forming, growing restless with the greed that came from opportunity. Drawing upon steel, the loud sound of thunder resonated against the ground, shaking the wills of the helpless. Snarling, the face of intimidation from the Paladin brought the horde to flee, bodies now pushing against each other in a frenzy to escape.

 

In this chaos? In this respite. He shrouded himself within rags of filth; concealing his armor for he now realized the liability of being seen within the crowd. 

 

Weaving through the alleyways of garbage and rot, the man saw a fresh body clearly pilfered. It laid face down and partially submerged within a heap of garbage. Richard instantly recognized him, the beggar, the first face he encountered in this realm.

 

The coins were gone, the pockets gutted. There was no mourning, no pause from any passerby. It is a simple lesson.

 

Charity breeds envy.

Envy breeds the blade

Even an act of kindness breeds suffering.

 

There is a consequence to any action that ripples far beyond the reach or eyes of the actor.

 

He whispered an Athnaic prayer not for comfort, but from habit.

 

For this was the known result of Order’s absence. 

 

 

---

Sanctum Hill

A sinister gnawing continuously grasped upon his soul. Almost akin to the mutilation of his ember, a constant gnawing upon the very fabric of his being. Disapproval, anger, death. A clear sign he was not of this land. An unwelcome foreigner unaware of the struggles of those who were native.

 

He himself, why was he here? Why had the Lord sent him to such a place where he had only created suffering. There must be a reason, he must find it before he would need to open his eyes to return to the nightmare of his homeland.

 

His feet brought him into the depths of  Prosperion, past the mounds of refuse and rot, with the scenery shifting though the sense of dread remaining constant. Here he arrived in yet another district, the streets bore banners of sanctity, the sigil of the Blessed Despot painted on walls, flanked by glyphs of Order’s eight-pointed star. The people walked straighter, but kept their heads lower. For minders observe every step, accompanied by the constant priests’ recitals of falsities as law. 

 

The watchers recognized him. Even beneath rags, the bearing of an outsider, a threat to the fragile peace was not easily hidden. Whispers spread. A champion stepped forward. Experienced, armored, his gear scavenged from the vanquished. He carried himself like a guardian, but his eyes revealed the truth. He ruled here not by faith, but by fear. Perhaps this warrior was embered in a previous life, or perhaps Richard tried to find connection where there was none. It mattered not.

 

No words were exchanged. There was no sermon, no challenge. Only recognition.

 

Clambering of steel resounded.

 

The duel was swift. The enforcer fell. There were cheers and jeers ushering chaos. What ‘order’ existed here collapsed.
 

 

---

Escape

 

He stood alone in the turmoil, the cries of the natives echoing in the alleys. He had performed his duty, but each act of guardianship had birthed new suffering. Every attempt at good had sharpened into cruelty.

 

Alas, he became one of those desperate within the crowds of before. It was his time to find his own salvation out of this land. He drew upon his origin. Planting a familiar weapon against the crackled ground, his hands wrapped around its hilt, his head dips down towards the lightstone of old. 

 

 

“Liturgy is Our Salvation”