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The Evil Within- Chapter 3
It was a night of omens in Litz. The old king, William, who despite his many years had never shown the least frailty or indisposition suddenly took ill, and died within a few hours.
A mist manifested in the Rahd. Everyone had heard the stories of old men cadging for drinks, of the 'bubbles of evil' that supposedly appeared during the Last Days, but it was unfortunate that none had taken these tales to heart. Then again, what could they have done against this witch-fog of evil in any case?
The tendrils of mists curled around the shack of old Boras the miser, where he sat counting his money by the light of the one candle-stub he permitted himself. Perhaps he had time to regret that he had no better light-source to beat the mist back. The remains that cautious thieves found the next day did not look happy anyway.
The mist swirled and danced and ran down the street, the wisps of fog like excitable children. They mist found Elza the whore, still optimistically hawking her tawdry wares by the light of the full moon, covered her scantily clad form for a few brief moments, and continued, leaving a somehow...chewed corpse, face staring blankly at the sky.
A streamer of mist even found it's way under the battered blue door of a tavern, where Fyuhald the mercenary sat regaling a crowd of onlookers with his tales of his prowess in love and war. Perhaps the tales of his skill in war can be disregarded, certainly he made the grave mistake of sitting with his back to the door. None of the survivors were in any mood to comment though.
Perhaps most onimously, a lightning bolt flashed down from the sky on to the statue of Queen Amaralde, best loved of the legendary rulers of Sylvain, and tore the head from the shoulders. That was not what upset the white-faced onlookers who discovered it in the morning. What upset them were the letters the lightning bolt had clearly carved into the inscription below the now decapitated statue:
Dark Gaia
I was King William's last gasp. I was in the mist that stalked the narrow alleys of the Rahd. I was even the lightning bolt that struck the statue, though some would say it is near blasphemous for me to claim it. But these harbringers are not the only deeds of significance in this (literally) God-forsaken city so I will quit the trapping confines of my own narrative and tell the tale of others abroad in the Rahd that dark and portentous night.
It was Lykath who suggested it. Lykath, that pale golden haired will'o'the'wisp who whispered his dares and bets, but never carrying them out himself, Lykath sur Sylvain, always out on the outside, always in the know, always with that secret smile. He'd suggested it to Karena. Now he was safe at home, laughing.
Karena was worried, although neither her pride nor her concern to keep the others' spirits alive would allow her to admit it. It had seemed like such a good idea, in the light of the sun on the other side of the river. Her and her special friends, a collection of teenage noblemen and women, would sneak out of their respective parents' mansions and palaces and seek the forbidden and intriguing delights of the Rahd.
Dusk was fading into evening when the ferry took them across, all agog to see the fascinating evils which must lurk in the Rahd. Then they had discovered that the Rahd was smelly, tumbled down and altogether free from any redeemingly decadent evil. Feeling the beginnings of the chill bite of disillusion, they had wandered it for a while, not admitting to each other or themselves their disappointment.
They'd had a few drinks in one of the decrepit, blue-doored taverns, but the ale was weaker and fouler-tasting than the wine they had surreptiously sipped . at family gatherings, and eventually just the menacing glares other patrons gave this band of rioutously self-conscious revellers drove them back into the streets. Where, trying to save what face they could, talked about how much dare-devil fun it had been. But let's go home now.
Because the Rahd is now not only smelly and tumbled down, but now full night has fallen an indefinable air of sinister menace pervades the streets. Our feckless band of young heroes is...lost. Because the Rahd is a rabbit-warren by day but it becomes a spider's web by night and the role of hapless fly is a position all too easily filled.
Karena, the unofficial leader of the group, has mustered up enough courage to ask for directions twice. A brusque snarl is the only answer from the first but the second, a woman, turns, oh so slowly, and smiles at the young nobles.
'You are lost? Oh you poor dears. You must come to my house. I'll give you warm drinks and soft beds and then return you snug and sound to your worrying parents'
Karena opens her mouth to offer a polite refusal and a renewed plea for directions, when a stray beam of moonlight catches the kind lady's eyes. Yellow eyes, feral eyes. Eyes that fascinate and hypnotise and repulse. And Karena seems to slip into a dream and murmurs soft acceptance and the young, oh so young and innocent, would-be debauchees meekly follow the golden-eyed lady towards the river.
It was a night of omens in Litz. The old king, William, who despite his many years had never shown the least frailty or indisposition suddenly took ill, and died within a few hours.
A mist manifested in the Rahd. Everyone had heard the stories of old men cadging for drinks, of the 'bubbles of evil' that supposedly appeared during the Last Days, but it was unfortunate that none had taken these tales to heart. Then again, what could they have done against this witch-fog of evil in any case?
The tendrils of mists curled around the shack of old Boras the miser, where he sat counting his money by the light of the one candle-stub he permitted himself. Perhaps he had time to regret that he had no better light-source to beat the mist back. The remains that cautious thieves found the next day did not look happy anyway.
The mist swirled and danced and ran down the street, the wisps of fog like excitable children. They mist found Elza the whore, still optimistically hawking her tawdry wares by the light of the full moon, covered her scantily clad form for a few brief moments, and continued, leaving a somehow...chewed corpse, face staring blankly at the sky.
A streamer of mist even found it's way under the battered blue door of a tavern, where Fyuhald the mercenary sat regaling a crowd of onlookers with his tales of his prowess in love and war. Perhaps the tales of his skill in war can be disregarded, certainly he made the grave mistake of sitting with his back to the door. None of the survivors were in any mood to comment though.
Perhaps most onimously, a lightning bolt flashed down from the sky on to the statue of Queen Amaralde, best loved of the legendary rulers of Sylvain, and tore the head from the shoulders. That was not what upset the white-faced onlookers who discovered it in the morning. What upset them were the letters the lightning bolt had clearly carved into the inscription below the now decapitated statue:
Dark Gaia
I was King William's last gasp. I was in the mist that stalked the narrow alleys of the Rahd. I was even the lightning bolt that struck the statue, though some would say it is near blasphemous for me to claim it. But these harbringers are not the only deeds of significance in this (literally) God-forsaken city so I will quit the trapping confines of my own narrative and tell the tale of others abroad in the Rahd that dark and portentous night.
It was Lykath who suggested it. Lykath, that pale golden haired will'o'the'wisp who whispered his dares and bets, but never carrying them out himself, Lykath sur Sylvain, always out on the outside, always in the know, always with that secret smile. He'd suggested it to Karena. Now he was safe at home, laughing.
Karena was worried, although neither her pride nor her concern to keep the others' spirits alive would allow her to admit it. It had seemed like such a good idea, in the light of the sun on the other side of the river. Her and her special friends, a collection of teenage noblemen and women, would sneak out of their respective parents' mansions and palaces and seek the forbidden and intriguing delights of the Rahd.
Dusk was fading into evening when the ferry took them across, all agog to see the fascinating evils which must lurk in the Rahd. Then they had discovered that the Rahd was smelly, tumbled down and altogether free from any redeemingly decadent evil. Feeling the beginnings of the chill bite of disillusion, they had wandered it for a while, not admitting to each other or themselves their disappointment.
They'd had a few drinks in one of the decrepit, blue-doored taverns, but the ale was weaker and fouler-tasting than the wine they had surreptiously sipped . at family gatherings, and eventually just the menacing glares other patrons gave this band of rioutously self-conscious revellers drove them back into the streets. Where, trying to save what face they could, talked about how much dare-devil fun it had been. But let's go home now.
Because the Rahd is now not only smelly and tumbled down, but now full night has fallen an indefinable air of sinister menace pervades the streets. Our feckless band of young heroes is...lost. Because the Rahd is a rabbit-warren by day but it becomes a spider's web by night and the role of hapless fly is a position all too easily filled.
Karena, the unofficial leader of the group, has mustered up enough courage to ask for directions twice. A brusque snarl is the only answer from the first but the second, a woman, turns, oh so slowly, and smiles at the young nobles.
'You are lost? Oh you poor dears. You must come to my house. I'll give you warm drinks and soft beds and then return you snug and sound to your worrying parents'
Karena opens her mouth to offer a polite refusal and a renewed plea for directions, when a stray beam of moonlight catches the kind lady's eyes. Yellow eyes, feral eyes. Eyes that fascinate and hypnotise and repulse. And Karena seems to slip into a dream and murmurs soft acceptance and the young, oh so young and innocent, would-be debauchees meekly follow the golden-eyed lady towards the river.