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A Single Gaze *These Events are not public knowledge, only those who experienced or are told, should know of such* Art Credit - Ivan Aivazovsky It had been a year, a year since his sight had been ripped and stripped away by his own hands. A year since the dark had graced him, and a year since all he could see was that murky abyss. At first, that nothingness had been a comfort for him, for it granted respite from the lingering shadows. From the creeping figures that taunted his vision, from the faces beneath the waves, and even from the sickening bodies in the deep blue. Yet the peace was a deceit, it was a fallacy from the start, a lie to lure him into a false sense of comfort. For just as soon as he had grown accustomed to that lack of sight, did the nightmares once more arise. For every day of respite and rest, did a night's worth of horror and anxiety creep into his gut. The moment his head rested upon that silk, that creeping terror started to build. For what was worse, was not the ability to see the horror around him, but being unable to view that which lurked around. His ears would pick up on the whispers and slight creaks, his nostrils picked up on the scent of brine and blood, and his fingers often felt the damp remnants of whatever passed by. Yet tonight started differently for the Delmar… Just as he had done everyday, for the last year, the Harren'hil placed his cane by the doorway. His hand extended out to use the wall as a guide, before pulling him partly closer to the bed. Taking a seat next to it, his gaze panned to the wall, his mind still reeling from the events of the day. “It would be easier if I told you what he wasn’t involved in, he was a man of many secrets” “He had eyes, hosh eyes, weird eyes, nub eyes. Worms where in them, he cut them out and gave them to Ixris” “You remind me much of him” A sharp knock drew him out of his stupor, the noise coming from the crimson glazed window, followed by an abrupt meeting from the Mali’aheral. A matter about an egg, one vibrant in hue, yet hidden amongst the woods. The Mali’dun merely waived such off to over-caution, despite his recent encounters with the odd things that lived in the wilds. Yet it would be a lie if he said his mind was fully invested in the conversation, instead it drifted it off. Focused upon the conversation he had been in, only hours prior. After a few questions, only spoken due to reflex, his own thoughts managed to escape him, and so the ‘aheral grew curious “Meditate for what?” “To get some answers” The Adunian took a deep breath, his mind clearing as he sat on that bed of silk, breath slowing down as began to mutter a slow prayer. His words at first stalwart, yet soon did those syllables become shaken, that newly gained nervousness kicking into each word. “That which lurks in the deep, I pray unto you for guidance in those darkened and false waters, I pray and apologize. For my arrogance and for my outrage. I pray forgiveness and I pray for repentance, to return that which I so foolishly gave without true thought. For a chance, to see as my forefathers saw.” Silence, followed by a soft weight and pressure around his skull, his head flicked around nervously. Though such was futile with the inability to actually, and truly, see what was around him. After what felt like centuries, the once slightly crazed tone of the ‘aheral resounded out once more. His tone, holding an ominous and knowing tone to it. “So your sight shall return. Sleep Reynard, and the blessing from the selfish shall come in time.” “The Selfish?” “Yes, for even the selfish give away their blessing, but not without payment.” “Then so shall payment be given” Just as he spoke, a yawn exited from him, his head growing lighter and lighter as he felt the weight of the day start to crash upon him. His mind drew deeper into the abyssal pool that was his psyche, the rhythmic breathing, slowly creating a soothing beat that caused the praying pirate to slowly enter the dominion of dreams… Art Credit- Keid-89 It was that overwhelming smell that drew the corsairs attention, his eyes opened in what felt like forever, and he was greeted to the scene around him. He was not in the water, but rather on it, his feat grounded upon the wet wooden boards of a long galleon. Sails of crimson Rh’thoraen red blew in the stormy breeze, as water washed above the sides. From what he could see on deck, not a soul resided upon the ship, not even one controlling the wheel. The ship crashed and shook throughout the murky waters, as the Harren’hil used the mast for support. The sound of the bird drew his attention upwards, his gaze landing upon a crow, eyes of what looked like black ink. Staring dead into the Adunian, before it flew off, landing near the entrance to the bottom deck. “Well. . .at least I'm not drowning.” The young man attempted to use his own humor to combat the slowly growing dread within his gut, the corsair taking tentative steps forward across the slippery wood. His gaze, or what he perceived of it, looked about the area in a mixture of shock and horror. The corners of his vision, continuing still see images, not blurred shadows. But tendrils of writhing mass and flesh, that threatened to tear away at whatever was granting him this sight, this glimpse back into what could be. He drew closer, nearer to the doorway, before a gloved hand reached out. Pulling open the door, and revealing to him the stairway down. Shadows clung to the corners of the staircase, the flashes of lightning, only granting brief respite from the dark. Taking a shaky breath in, and then a shaky breath out, the adunian slowly began his descent down the stairs. His gaze sweeping around, before he entered the second deck, hues catching onto the brief flash of purple that swiftly descended down to the next floor. “HEY! COME BACK HERE!” A sharp caw, alerted his attention to behind him, his gaze catching sight of the black feathered crow, soaring downwards from the stairwell. Flying past him, only to land directly where the purple coated figure had traveled to. “This. . .isn’t suspicious at all.” The sharp crash of lightning, caused him to hurriedly make his way across the wooden floor, his gaze flicking to the cannon openings. Another flash, and he stopped in his tracks, his eyes widening as he gazed to the blackened ocean sea. “No. . .No it can’t be-'' He walked over, a gloved hand shaking as he extended it outwards towards the water logged wood. Before his gaze shifted downwards, towards that dark murky water. At first, he saw nothing, the sea froth and foam, covering what lay beneath the rampant and chaotic waves. Ease settled into him, his head shaking as he went to turn his gaze away. When suddenly, another flash erupted from the heavens, and to his horror did it reveal the truth behind the waves. Bloated bodies, bound in chains of algae and barnacles, shifting throughout the water. The pirate stumbled back, his breath ragged and heart racing in fear as he looked to the entrance that lay before him. He quickly scrambled and clawed his way up to his feat, rushing towards the door, and slamming it open. Revealing yet another set of staircases, these ones he leaped down, near crushing into the wooden wall. Yet still he managed, his gaze flicking about as he remained on the floor, before finally landed upon something. A figure, bearing dark hair, and wearing what looked to be a blindfold. His visage turned to greet him, a smile splaying over his features, before he slowly dipped into the waters of the hull. Bubbles spewing to the surface, before nothing else occurred. He took a moment to gaze at the dark waters, before he slowly stood up, the man taking a few tentative steps forward to get closer to the waters. With every step, a queasy feeling graced his stomach, something sickening and foul. Once he drew near the water's edge, he slowly peaked over the side, gazing into that reflective pool. Yet, it was also the first time he saw those eyes of his. Shimmering orbs of watery ash, dripped with foul water, faux tears dripped down his face as he gripped his cheeks. Fingers gripping around the eyes, as all he could do is yell in both shock and terror. With the sharp noise, did a lumbering sound resound from the gullet of that ship, and tendrils of writhing white flesh tore through the saltwater. Grasping onto the Delmar, and dragging him in. His body tense, expecting pain, torture unlike anything he could ever conjure. Yet, such never arrived, the only thing of terror being that infinite expanse of murky darkness. It was only after what felt like centuries, did a voice finally echo throughout his psyche. A single phrase, for the Adunian to ingrain into his mind and memory. Art Credit - Diana Franco “See through the drowned, Delmar” A single eye, a hundred eyes, a million eyes. It was like viewing through a hundred different operas, all in a singular moment. What should have been hours of listening, experienced in a singular second. Yet this sight, this feeling, was all but temporary. It did not, but drew a focus upon that crow. The every watchful bird turned to gaze at the deep blue sea, it’s wings stretched outwards, before it slowly lifted itself from the railing. Soaring upwards, higher and higher, before it looked down and dived towards him. Just as he waited for it to crash into the waves, his vision distorted, replaced by an ever hungry orange eye. The likes of which peered into the adunian greedily. He awoke in a pool of his own sweat, breathing ragged and harsh, as he gripped his eyes. A harsh pain resting in his empty sockets, as a nauseating feeling gripped his stomach. His mind reeling over the events, and images of that ever important dream. It left him with many a question, a hundred different thoughts running through his mind. After a moment his hand parted away from his visage, the hundreds of questions, diminishing to tens, and then dozens, before finally focusing upon a singular query. What would be the price, he would have to pay?

It had been decades since the pact was first formed. Oaths were made, some kept, and others broken, though through this, one constant remained, a half goblin whose skin was stained with the ichor of her matron. Throughout this span, the ire of Gazighaz occasionally followed the aging hybrid, but in truth the spirit and the masked shaman that followed her word to the very letter had grown distant. Even still, when Emony’s power waxed, the mother of blood smiled, her hands folded in anticipation of the day she could call for her dept to be repaid. Gazighaz bid her time for the day when the hybrid’s power reached its zenith. The day eventually came when the blood mother’s patience waned far below a tolerable level. A cold fog rolled in over the city of San Velku as deep within her bowls, a magician and her master practiced rituals that were considered too dark for the eyes of ordinary folk. The goblin seemed to take to the lesson quickly, aiding in the right with only a few minor issues indicative of a first timer. As they concluded, Emony felt a strange twinge in her nostrils. She ascended the set of stairs out of the hidden space with haste, all the while grasping her nose shut with her thumb and fist finger. By the time she had reached the main square, her face had begun to pale as blood trailed down her chin. Her pace was slow as she held her right hand against the surrounding walls for support as she made her way to her shop. Blood now flowed freely from the nose of the goblinoid, trailing behind her as she weekly climbed the ladder to her office. As she passed the mirror within the cave-like space a look of horror settled upon her face. Within the mirror’s reflection stood a half goblin with pale green skin. The former red pigment to her skin was seemingly draining from her nostrils. Emony recoiled in disgust at the face she had long ago abandoned as the last of her red left her face. Her hand curled int a loose fist which she threw at the mirror’s glass, but her strength had already left. The goblin’s knuckles thumped pathetically against the mirror before she fell to the ground. Within moments, Emony found herself in the place between the realms. Her body huddles through the utterly desolate plane and seems to be battered by an omnidirectional, rushing force. What met her vision when she fought the pressure exerted upon her eyes enough to open them, she was met with an utterly empty, lightless void. The hybrid’s ears only beheld the sound of the gale like winds that signaled their movement through this vacant space. Soon enough her nostrils are assaulted by a pungent metallic odor. This pervasive olfactory stimulus trounced every other sense. The falling sensation was soon replaced with a feeling of sinking into a bottomless abyss of stinking entrails. Further adding to this sensation, the temperature and humidity rise in tandem. Emony awoke upon the heaving realm of guts, organs, and blood from whence she once drew her pride. With her skin stripped of its blessing, the pulsating landscape before her felt all the more hostile. The ground squelched beneath her feet as she approached a massive pulsating mound seemingly formed from the intestines. She folds her arms close to her chest, huddling against her own fear as she approaches an opening within the pile. The flesh tunnel extended deep into what could be considered earth within this realm. The intestinal tract’s interior possessed an oppressive humidity, enough to make the skin of a hardened traveler crawl with discomfort. This space varied in its width; some areas allowed the goblin to stand comfortably while others forced her to squeeze through their barely traversable passages. All this was traversed with sparse lighting. Veins within the wall occasionally dipped or ascended close enough to shed a pale crimson light. With each step, the ground seemed it would give way beneath her tread before her sinking was impeded by strands of connective tissue. Each footfall seemed to yield little in the way of progress. Her distress grew as she descended ever deeper. The path became more snakelike as it began to deft all logic, doubling back on itself in impossible ways that would normally see the space converging on itself, though nothing like this occurred. The tunnel eventually began to radiate a fowl, coppery odor which assaulted the olfactory senses and mind of the goblin. Within her mind several voices began to shout, as if spurred on by the stench. They called to her in warning. Ukh krum (go back) Irz mokh-ûr, gaz baalak (Run for home, little half breed) Lat paashnar bazg nau. Lat ufur hûnpûlp (You cannot reach the end. You fear the heartbeat) No matter what was chanted, they all discouraged progress, though Emony was persistent. She pressed on, covering her ears to spite the fact that this served no purpose. When the voices became more persistent, she increased her speed. Eventually all fell to silence and the horrific scent faded leaving the goblin to recover. Within this new room the ground lay somewhere beneath a pool of blood. Each step brought Emony deeper into its body, quickly passing her knee and by the time she had reached its center, the crimson pond threatened to pass her neck, but it wouldn’t get the chance as Emony ascended a bone pile that lay at the pool’s heart. Perched atop this osseous mound was a great throne constructed of muscle stretched over rendered bone. Within it sat a disfigured female of indiscernible race. Her gaunt and pale figure nearly matched the coloration of the bones at her twisted feet. The woman’s skin bore a spidering network of blue veins that all seemed to lead towards her dislocated jaw. This maw retained a set of jagged teeth, built for the single purpose of piercing flesh. The horrific figure stood as its hollow gaze spotted the lone traveler. Its upper lip curled into a mangled half smile. The spirit’s jaw flapped as it spoke to address the goblin. The following has been roughly translated from old blah. So, the prodigal daughter returns to the realm of the heartbeat heading its call once more. You who once showed such promise, now writhing in the blood like a worthless parasite. Speak worm. Give your pathetic excuses. I thought my actions pleased Gazighaz. The rights I performed were in her honor. Truly, you are misguided if you think that blood magic of yours pleases the matriarch. You have done nothing to spread faith in her. Even if the little “rites” you performed did somehow serve the blood mother, you always do so in secret. We require new followers, and you refuse to preach the faith. Is that why my skin has returned to the color of my birth? Indeed. You must earn the right to wear the mantle of Gazigazh. What must be done to regain what was lost? The mother and I demand you build a great shrine. Construct a heart of bleeding stone, bound with links of iron. Endow this with the blood of your people, of any descended willing to give of their blood. Then, become her herald to the uruks. Who shall this heart be dedicated to? THROQUGRIZH With that name uttered, the bones beneath Emony began to tremble. They shifted, falling away from her feet, leaving her to plummet into the body of crimson ichor once more. Her vision was filled with red as she sank beneath its surface, but this soon descended into pitch black. Before long Emony awoke on the floor of her office in a small pool of blood from here her nose had leaked. Her reflected appearance in the mirror sported the green skin she was born with. As she stood, one final phrase echoed in her mind. Nar lûmp garmadh-ishi. (Do not fall in ruin [do not fail])

The Woods of Oren, Two Years Ago The bells of the Basilica tolled loudly, though Markus didn’t notice too much from inside. However, it would seem to be enough to wake him from an apparent slumber- his head would snap to attention. As his eyes flashed open, and he adjusted to the light, he'd notice he stood before the altar. He’d smack his dry lips together lightly, and rock his head back and forth with a subtle crack as he slowly regained his bearings. How long had I dozed off? I couldn’t have been out for too long. He’d glance down, and saw himself wearing unblemished plate armor- finer plate than he’d ever had seen. His best dress. Adorning it, was the Morovarian Coat of Arms- and tucked in his left arm was a fine piece of cloth, which likewise bore the signature of his house. Confused, he’d turn around- to see Konstanz Barclay, likewise dressed as sharply as him. He’d simply shoot a childlike, mischievous grin to his best friend before turning around. Markus had regained his bearings. Markus knew where he was. It was the best day of his life. His wedding day. Excited, but yet nervous, as all prospective groomsmen were- he’d glance at the crowd. He recognized the faces of his many friends he had grown up with. The Vyronovs showed out, as the two large brothers occupied a pew to themselves. The princes, his other friends- Karl, Sergei, Josef, all sat in a pew, accompanied by their Marian. The Dame, Mariya, sat eagerly waiting in a pew- seeming much older than Markus thought was right. Diverting his eyes to another section of the Basilica, he’d eye his twin brother, Petyr, who raised his hand in greeting. He’d poke their mother to alert her- Eleanore would then grant Markus the biggest smile he had ever seen. If she could right now, she’d give me the biggest hug. I know it. His father would look upon Markus with watery eyes, a proud gaze befalling his son. The duo would exchange courteous nods- the message they had just communicated known only to a father and a son. He’d continue his assessment of the crowd. Notably toting their colours, the Baruchs sat in a row- His boss, the Palatine himself, Eirik, sat dwarfed by the always intimidating Isabel, who, in an anticlimactic finish, was followed by Saoirse. The trio noticed Markus’ attention, and proceeded to wave, hoop, and holler at him. Family. He’d then return his gaze back to the altar, to see the Pontiff himself, to his surprise. Breaking free of his astonishment, Markus would politely dip his head to his holiness. After reciprocating the courtesy, the Pontiff would quickly shush the crowd, just as the doors to the Basilica were opened. A veiled woman would enter, in traditional Haeseni wedding attire. She’d begin her slow walk towards the altar, rose petals adorning the floor as she meandered forth. It seemed an eternity to Markus as she walked forth. His heart beat out of his chest, as he averted his eyes to the floor to ease his nerves. Finally, however, the walk had finished, and it was time for the ceremony to begin. The woman ascended the altar, taking the position opposite of Markus. She’d lift the veil hiding her face, causing Markus to gasp- loud enough for only the three of them to hear. She’s… all I’ve ever wanted. All I ever will want. The two would clasp their hands together, as the Pontiff began to rattle off the words he had said a thousand times before- the words flew right on over Markus’ head. I’ll be a papej. I’ll be the best papej there ever was. My son and I, we’ll play forts, play knights. My daughter will rescue me from the clutches of a dragon! And we’ll go and have a tea party! He’d then glance back up at Margrait, his wide smile revealing what he was thinking. And they’ll be as beautiful as her. Eventually, the Pontiff finally got to the part where they exchanged vows- and, in what seemed like a blur to Markus, they finally got to the end of the ceremony. Markus would stride forth to sweep Margrait off her feet, but suddenly, she’d hold her hand out. “Markus! Ye know we cannae! Ye know ah’m married now.” Markus would chuckle, shaking his head. “Da! To me!” “Nae. To Mikhail.” A constant stream of rain began to thud on the roof, and a dull pain began to throb behind Markus’ eyes. “Nie… Nie. Vy canniet be married to Mikhail! Vy… vy are supposed to be married. To me! Niet the abuser! Niet the snake!” “Sorry, Markus. But ye know et must be. Now wake up, love. The Kingdom needs ye.” The roof of the Basilica turned to the cloth roof of his tent, and the warm feeling turned to pain- in Markus’ stomach, in his head, and all over his body. All he felt was pain. And wetness. How can I be wet? The roof of the tent is perfectly fine. He’d lurch forward, and look down at his tabard. It was completely soaked in what appeared to be vomit. With a groan, he’d lean onto his side, and regard the many, many, empty bottles that littered the tent. “Why can’t I just die!” His voice was hoarse after he cried out. He knew nobody listened- he knew nobody heard. He knew nobody cared. Konstanz was long dead by now. It was the fourth time he had attempted to die this way. Each time, he awoke from his attempt- with a pounding hangover, and a lurching stomach. Each time he awoke, he was reminded of his failure. The lady he wanted was in another castle- and he slept in a filthy tent. He’d eventually garner together enough strength to leave his tent, stepping outside into the pouring rain. Eventually, in a fit of anger, he’d begin to abuse his tent. Starting with the wooden frame, he’d begin to smash bottles against it, bend it, snap it- whatever it allowed. He’d pound his fist against the ground, over, and over, and over again- proclaiming his failure. “Loser! Bastard! Weak-minded, effeminate excuse of a man! Vyr not half the man Mikhail is! Vy gave up! Vy need her! Vy need her, and vy lost her!” Lightning would flash, and eventually, after a while, he’d fall to his knees- and eventually, after a while, he’d defeatedly lie on his back. The rain would lightly, yet affectionately, tap on his face. Tap. Tap. Tap. His mind would flash back to the time spent with Margrait in Ghaestenwald, prior to his leaving. His face was flushed red with anger. He’d let loose a little tantrum, kicking baggage as if he was but a toddler who did not want to leave a friend’s house. Meanwhile, Margrait nervously stood in the corner of the room. “The Papej! Me! Me! It should be me! Niet Mikhail! Me! Ea will crumble his walls, if he even touches vy!” Margrait would become angry, shooting an accusing finger at Markus. She’d scold him for his incessant anger, his yelling- his threats. The tapping of the rain would bring him back to the present, and he’d let his body lay at rest. Tap. Tap. Tap. “Eam a child. Eam simply a child, an anguished child who throws vain tantrums. Ea still haven’t fixed myself, my anger, even after Margrait asked. Nie. After Margrait Demanded.” “Mikhail isn’t a snake. And he’s… grown. Moved on. Since we were kids. Eam the one who hasn’t. Eam the flawed one.” He’d shake his head with a sigh, covering his eyes with his hands. “Margrait shouldn’t have me. Eam nie papej. Eam nie husband.” “Eam nie man.”

[!] A frigid wind swept through the empty, moon lit streets of the Iron Ugz. At this time of night, many were sheltered from the pitiless gale within their homes. As the spirits of wind played their heatless games, one human kneeled before an altar, wrought of brilliant quartz and arum. Within his right hand, he held a stone that shown with ethereal radiance. He had placed many offerings on this shrine to Zkorthuz, including a recently forged ingot of pure arum, and a bottle of heavily distilled water among others. This was Brawly’s nightly ritual. As Brawly prostrated himself before the pristine altar he felt a pull at his right hand, as if the light stone within it wished to lead him. Its light burst forth, enveloping the man’s vision until it was nothing but pure white. The light eventually faded, revealing a truly horrific sight. The ground lay somewhere beneath an inch of blood. The crimson liquid danced and rippled beneath his feet as he stood. His front was covered in the crimson ichor, its warmth gradually fading as it ran down his form and through his clothing, gradually returning to the pool. With each step Brawly took forward, he seemed to sink further and further into the sanguineous ocean. At the point where it reached his waist, he beheld a semi-circle of Orcs, those he had come to know as his brothers and sisters. Brawly approached one of them with caution as he could not identify the individual. As he drew near, it became apparent that the orc was muttering a phrase. It was familiar to him… “Grizh tu flow… Grizh tu peep…” The whispers of this individual repeated in an endless loop. Brawly attempted to join the orc in their chanting, but as his mouth perched to form the first syllables, he was interrupted by a thundering shout. “Bruddahz, Grizh ez truth, GRIZH zhowz da wey, GRIZH TU HAV GRIZH TU PEEP.” This was met with riotous applause as the crowd repeated the phrase with a mirrored fervor. Brawly’s vision shifted as he ventured to ascertain where the initial cry had sounded, and his eyes discerned the countenance of an altar wrought of carved bone and rendered flesh. Before this altar stood a hulking figure, adorned in the garb of the Krughai. Within his hand, an ossein dagger hewn to a razor-sharp edge. This sight was familiar, however, something seemed off. Instead of the rites he was used to, Brawly witnessed something unfamiliar. The Armored orc drove the dagger into an amorphous mass of flesh. The ground beneath his feet heaved as the figure reached his hand into the incision. The tremors intensified as the figure revealed to the congregation the object within his grasp… a heart, still beating and dripping with vitriol. The Orc lifted the organ to the ashen black sky in bloody victory. Brawly’s ire was drawn away from this gruesome scene by an aberrant gleam that incurred into his vision from somewhere beneath his field of vision. He looked down and spotted the gleam within his grasp, his light stone. However, the incandescent splendor it gave forth was weakening by the second. It pulsed in a counter beat to that of the heart. Brawly extended his fingers so that they would no longer obstruct the glow from the stone which now rested within his palm. As the light dimmed, Brawly could now distinguish his own visage reflected within the blood. Within its hand was not a light stone, but a quietus crystal that seemed to be growing in strength, its core alight with an eerie pink glimmer. There was no other difference between Brawly and his doppelganger aside from on detail. As Brawly held a serious expression on his face, the mirror image was twisted into a mirthful smile. As the light finally died, Brawly awoke before the altar he had constructed. His surroundings were familiar and offered respite from his vision. Questions rushed through his mind as Brawly lifted himself from his prostration, What did it mean? Was this a prophesy of things to come… a representation of times to come? Was there anything that could or should be done? All went unanswered as the only sounds that filled the home were that of the unrelenting squall that raged outside.