Hiraeth

The irregular rhythm of rusted iron against rock permeates through the hot underground. A desolate, gargantuan cavity houses a molten wasteland with men and women boring into its foundation.

It has been 7,432 days since Soren arrived here with the condemned—cursed with an eternity of punishment when purgatory caved in. He remembers the great beast who coveted a thousand souls to create his empire. Scouring through the underworld, the beast threatened the dead with hellfire but a few lost souls weren’t enough. And thus, in his unholy lust, he annihilated the sanctuary between death and paradise.

Soren remembers the sight of bodies free-falling in a hollow ravine, salvation’s light growing dim and distant. Limbs flailed in an attempt to grasp whatever there is to grasp and the broken choir of a thousand horrid screams pierced from every direction. The crackling of bones and the sloshing of blood decorating the terror orchestra was burned into Soren’s mind ever since.

Now, Soren spends his days as a cog in a wretched dominion. For his first four years, it was gathering the bones of the fallen. For the next seven, it was eating the coarse, hot sea of sand all about the underworld. For six more, it was pooling a river of boiling blood. And now, it is to mine into the rock indefinitely.

But Soren knew that deliverance was divinely prophesied. Down the river of blood and behind the gory waterfall lay a cavern. Slaves would carefully trod about the treacherous cliffside to behold the grotto’s inscription.

At first, Soren dismissed the holy writ as a false promise, but it has been six years since the scripture was first found and everything has come as it had predicted. Before the pouring of the crimson river, prophecy bled onto the rock in pure white light. Those who laid witness were enthralled—it reminded them of the post-mortem bliss before arriving in purgatory. The Elysian Fields could almost be felt through the light as it was written:

Hear me, fallen souls: the almighty has seen you suffer in this wretched place. The beast has remained sharp, but after two decades, he has grown careless—too engrossed by his work.

I know he had commanded every man and woman to eat the sand along this place. I know that his demand is now a river of blood. You must hide this message at this time. Know that he will then command a great quarry upon the earth. Trust in your true lord and know that this will be his gravest mistake. Follow his command diligently. Strike the rock beneath you with every ounce of valor and strength.

The beast knows aether’s light all too well. As such, this will be the only message. Have faith. Deliverance will come.

And strike it they did. Though, Soren remained cynical. He went about his work but dared not associate himself with the message in fear of an even darker punishment.

In his worn rags, he ventures through a bony path and dug along the red shore, dreading the metallic smell. He shuddered at the sight of blood after the falling—a reminder of that gruesome choir. When the river was pooled, Soren’s breath hastened and his limbs grew shaky— losing his sense of reality. But he tried to conquer it—a small goal amidst his suffering.

Still shaken, he grips his debased pickaxe and tries to focus, but with every whiff, he can nearly taste the disgusting rust. Soren grits his teeth and represses his nerves, dead-set on ridding himself of the nightmares.

Moments pass and after concentrating, his breathing steadies. To his surprise, he recovered much faster this time and a smirk crept up on his ragged face. His humble work, now a foot deep hole, gazes back at him. Almost done.

Upon the next few blows from his gaunt tool, Soren feels the ground harden like nothing before. He struck thrice more but not even a chunk of the thing gave way. Soren shakes his head and raises his pickaxe high. He buckles his body and, with all his might, strikes the rock dead center.

Without warning, a great geyser of hot steam erupts and knocks Soren afar. Beneath the stream is pure darkness and a big hiss echoes throughout the underground. The floor all about the massive cavern rumbles.

Bewildered, the slaves look around and in an instant, more steam geysers spew forth and shatter the foundations of the cave. The slaves scatter, but a chain of heat and explosion shakes the entirety of the hollow until the ground begins to give.

Geysers all about the crimson ocean compound into one colossal

tidal wave, flowing through every crack and crevice and devouring anything that came its way. Soren flails about in the wave in sheer terror with the others.

The destructive path slithers through the winding grooves littered with gore until it comes upon an enormous throne of bones in a ceilingless chamber. Beaten and bloody, Soren submits to the scarlet surge. One blurred sight is the last thing he sees before darkness: a towering creature with the body of a man, head and legs of a goat, and crowned with three twisted horns.

Soren awakes on a cliffside above the massive throne. Rubbing his eyes, he sees the relentless torrent of blood savaging everything it caught and sees something caught on a stalagmite: a shattered horn ripped apart by the current.

Still in disbelief, Soren finds himself in the bottom of a familiar hole. Upon looking up, he saw exactly what the message had prophesied: the masses of slaves clawing their way up into the dim light above— exodus. when the ravens murder KRIZZIA RICCI NEPOMUCENO

He attempted to blow the straws off his shoulders as blistered chaff fell from where the ravens preened their feathers. Low, gritty croaks broke out of their sharp beaks, squawking prodigies that foretell a catastrophe. They formed a tempest over his head. A squall of ebony waiting to swallow him whole—poised to dredge his roots away. Even so, he had long been earthed in the dry prills of the parched soil, a skeleton hooked six feet under the barren ground of this empty field. And as long as that went, he had been a man laid under the sun—a sacrifice for scourge, a lone shack in a godforsaken farm. Like a burlesque oblation, he lived his entire life merely a caricature to rattle the birds who, with time, turned numb.

Dust coughed out of his droughty lips, a mark left by the heat’s reign over the deathless meadows. It is not until twilight that the man pries his mouth open to warn the ravens of the impending decay. “Never fall in love with a scarecrow,” he said to the birds time and again. “A jackstraw does not have a heart nor a brain, only sun-burnt fodder, and his husk bones will wear your own.” Abhorrent, the birds of prey spread their wings like capes shrouding the ruby horizons into night, basking in their haughty shrieks. Like withered, empty hulls of grass, his words were just a passing breeze. Who would ever believe a man pieced into existence with rags and hay?

Soon enough, a flock of crows brood over him with their sable feathers, quills dismounting their wings with every strike to the wind.

Silence.

Oblivion.

He stands there, crucified.

A Chill in the Wind Fall Guy 2837

ART BY MIKEY VINCENT VICENTE

My body recoiled as I caught myself against Windstride’s wall, gathering my bearings on the scene before me. “Not again,” I muttered as the crowd thinned, going about their day, leaving the coroners to their business.

My feet dragged itself away from the square. Something was uncanny, and something was definitely amiss. Nearing the frigid castle gates, I could neither attend to nor repress the bile rising to my throat.

The guards knew my face, and let me pass without question. Manfried, the king’s steward threw me his usual greeting while pointing me towards the dungeons.

I gave him a curt nod before starting my descent with only the thud of my steps as company.

Stepping foot into the darkest reach of the castle, I paced myself. All of the cells were empty, except for a memorable one down by the corner.

“Well, well. Look who decided to return,” a familiar voice crept from the darkness it housed as I neared the end of the hall. A figure revealed himself in robes under the rather dim glow of the solitary sconce lighting the dungeon.

“Another victim,” almost stumbling over my words. My gaze was met by squinted eyes from his wrinkled face, preceding the sound of slow clapping, spite lacing every interval of it.

“Shame. And here I am,” he mocked, shifting his weight on the jagged stone bed. “Looks like you aren’t what you thought you were.”

A moment passed in silence, as I stood there under the ex-court wizard’s smug grin that only continued to unnerve me. “Look, I’m sorry,” wringing the words out of my mouth. “But I need your help, even though I can do it myself,” I mumbled.

Wuund’s grin quickly faded. “Well, you can’t be a wizard without a blasphemous amount of patience, especially in Windstride.” Despite the ordeal, it was oddly comforting to hear that from him.