This is just introductory fiction — More fiction and the event to follow coming this week. Date/time TBD
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Owain shivered uncontrollably as a slight wind blew against his wet skin. The drip of water from his hair and flesh to the stone floor echoed throughout his otherwise silent, bleak surroundings. As he focused on the sound, vague memories flashed through his mind in a frantic effort to recall how his condition had come to pass.
The words of power; he remembered uttering them above Relvinian’s grave, he remembered the earth contorting into a chasm beneath his feet, the yells of the Royal Guards as he was consumed by rock, the light fading from view as his scabbard scrapped against the tight, cavernous confines of his hellish freefall. He felt terror, falling, unable to see anything around him. In an instant the plummet had stopped as abruptly as it had started. Owain struck feet first into a pool of water, unprepared for the gush of liquid that entered his gasping lungs. He struggled to maintain consciousness as he swam toward the surface, kicking off his boots. Emerging, he spat the thick, bitter liquid from his mouth and breathed in gasped, ragged breaths as he pulled himself from the pool. The only visible object was a blue speck of flickering light in the far distance, which seemed to cast no illumination on his surroundings. The last moment he could recall, he was falling to his knees, losing the struggle for consciousness.
He had fallen through Relvinian’s grave, or been claimed by it, rather, into an underground cavern. His eyes searched for the blue light he had seen before, yet only unforgiving darkness met his gaze. He took a deep breath as cold air pierced his lungs, exhaling, envisioning the white cloud it would produce. He cringed, spitting to expel the foul taste of the dank, putrid air from his mouth. As he drew his sword from his scabbard, he could hear the water dripping along its blade into a puddle at his feet. He scrapped it along his immediate surroundings. His body screamed as he turned. He ignored the pain as he searched the floor for anything that could indicate where he was. The only response was the clink of steel upon rock as his sword bounced on uneven ground. As he advanced, his sword located an obstacle to his side. He reached out to investigate as his hands met a large barrier. As he turned, he pressed his body against what he assumed to be a wall. His fingers moved with care along it, caressing level, even cracks across its rocky construct.
As he trudged forward with one hand against the wall, guiding his way, the rancid odor became more pronounced, unbearable. He breathed in slow spurts in an attempt to quell the bile that gathered in his throat, begging for release. With each step the grotesque fumes grew in strength. Owain fell to his knees and vomited the water he had swallowed in his plummet onto the cavernous floor. He leaned against his sword, unable to gather the strength nor will to rise to his feet. The retching continued, emphasizing the empty contents of his stomach with each vomiting spasm.
He heaved heavy breaths through his glove in an effort to calm his nerves, allay his stomach. As he began to put weight on his sword in an attempt to rise, he saw the blue flicker out of the corner of his eyes. For the first time in this dark expanse, he felt hope. It began to grow; it bounced across the surface of the floor in spastic motions, as if celebrating its resurgence. Owain took in its beauty, forgetting momentarily about the rank stench of decay that emanated from all sides. Between four spots it danced, and the spots began replicate its azure glow. The areas illuminated, began to take the shape of runes of an ancient language. As the light reflected against the dark walls of the chasm, Owain’s fascination turned to horror.
Relvinian leaned against a pillar in the center of the cavern. Patches of rotten flesh hung from his face as if they had been ripped forcefully from his skull. Black, lifeless veins bulged from his neck as he twisted his face in a wicked grin. He raised the black staff he clutched with fleshless, gnarled fingers and pointed it at Owain.
The black void of his mouth seethed virulence as he spoke between ragged breaths.
“Welcome, Lord Surrey, to my abyss.”
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Owain shivered uncontrollably as a slight wind blew against his wet skin. The drip of water from his hair and flesh to the stone floor echoed throughout his otherwise silent, bleak surroundings. As he focused on the sound, vague memories flashed through his mind in a frantic effort to recall how his condition had come to pass.
The words of power; he remembered uttering them above Relvinian’s grave, he remembered the earth contorting into a chasm beneath his feet, the yells of the Royal Guards as he was consumed by rock, the light fading from view as his scabbard scrapped against the tight, cavernous confines of his hellish freefall. He felt terror, falling, unable to see anything around him. In an instant the plummet had stopped as abruptly as it had started. Owain struck feet first into a pool of water, unprepared for the gush of liquid that entered his gasping lungs. He struggled to maintain consciousness as he swam toward the surface, kicking off his boots. Emerging, he spat the thick, bitter liquid from his mouth and breathed in gasped, ragged breaths as he pulled himself from the pool. The only visible object was a blue speck of flickering light in the far distance, which seemed to cast no illumination on his surroundings. The last moment he could recall, he was falling to his knees, losing the struggle for consciousness.
He had fallen through Relvinian’s grave, or been claimed by it, rather, into an underground cavern. His eyes searched for the blue light he had seen before, yet only unforgiving darkness met his gaze. He took a deep breath as cold air pierced his lungs, exhaling, envisioning the white cloud it would produce. He cringed, spitting to expel the foul taste of the dank, putrid air from his mouth. As he drew his sword from his scabbard, he could hear the water dripping along its blade into a puddle at his feet. He scrapped it along his immediate surroundings. His body screamed as he turned. He ignored the pain as he searched the floor for anything that could indicate where he was. The only response was the clink of steel upon rock as his sword bounced on uneven ground. As he advanced, his sword located an obstacle to his side. He reached out to investigate as his hands met a large barrier. As he turned, he pressed his body against what he assumed to be a wall. His fingers moved with care along it, caressing level, even cracks across its rocky construct.
As he trudged forward with one hand against the wall, guiding his way, the rancid odor became more pronounced, unbearable. He breathed in slow spurts in an attempt to quell the bile that gathered in his throat, begging for release. With each step the grotesque fumes grew in strength. Owain fell to his knees and vomited the water he had swallowed in his plummet onto the cavernous floor. He leaned against his sword, unable to gather the strength nor will to rise to his feet. The retching continued, emphasizing the empty contents of his stomach with each vomiting spasm.
He heaved heavy breaths through his glove in an effort to calm his nerves, allay his stomach. As he began to put weight on his sword in an attempt to rise, he saw the blue flicker out of the corner of his eyes. For the first time in this dark expanse, he felt hope. It began to grow; it bounced across the surface of the floor in spastic motions, as if celebrating its resurgence. Owain took in its beauty, forgetting momentarily about the rank stench of decay that emanated from all sides. Between four spots it danced, and the spots began replicate its azure glow. The areas illuminated, began to take the shape of runes of an ancient language. As the light reflected against the dark walls of the chasm, Owain’s fascination turned to horror.
Relvinian leaned against a pillar in the center of the cavern. Patches of rotten flesh hung from his face as if they had been ripped forcefully from his skull. Black, lifeless veins bulged from his neck as he twisted his face in a wicked grin. He raised the black staff he clutched with fleshless, gnarled fingers and pointed it at Owain.
The black void of his mouth seethed virulence as he spoke between ragged breaths.
“Welcome, Lord Surrey, to my abyss.”