DEATHROOT
Ayy. Coming at you again with the story for Deathroot. Peep it below:
“The clamor of battle echoed through Mori’aul all the long night as Erdinus Athelard, his flesh streaked with fresh cuts, moved through the castle’s labyrinthine halls. Eventually, he vanished back into the shadows, and found himself near the end of a forgotten corridor in the depths of the dungeon. The walls were damp: the residue of an unspeakable history known only to the dead.
He halted at the final holding cell, frozen for a moment, as his wandering gaze met a pair of eyes glittering in the darkness. A midnight chill swept through the air, as if guiding him closer to the black-cloaked figure in the corner—whose face could not be seen.
“Why have you come?” the figure intoned.
Erdinus gripped the rounded pommel of his sword. “I seek redemption,” he replied.
The hooded creature, enveloped in an aura of eldritch power and deep knowledge, chuckled under its breath. “A noble pursuit. But one which requires true sacrifice.” A few moments passed, then: “Will you pay the price?”
Athelard steeled his spirit. “I’ll do what it takes to make things right.”
The figure nodded in approval, its black hood near imperceptible in the gloom. “Then there is but one task you must undertake,” said the low, rumbling voice. “An ancient artifact lies within these depths, coveted by those who would unleash its unholy might upon the world.”
“And what is this trinket called?” Erdinus asked.
“The Duskheart,” said the shadow. “A gem of unimaginable power, capable of turning even the noblest souls. In the wrong hands, its corrupting whisper could plunge the Realm into night eternal.”
The young warrior shuddered. “I shall find it and ensure it never sees the light of day.”
The hooded being extended a pale, skeletal hand, revealing a rolled-up map that glowed with the light of antiquity—and, perhaps, something otherworldly. “Descend further to the catacombs. Down there, you’ll find the way to the artifact’s chamber.”
Erdinus thanked the thing in the shadows, and saw the glimmer of a smile beneath its hood. He turned to leave, but not before asking, “Why are you helping me?”
Its eyes like embers, the cloaked form floated toward the cell’s bars. “In our own way, we all hunger for some measure of redemption. May you find yours.”
Next up is Wretched Renaissance. See you soon.
Peace,
-Sam