“Priest,” the voice whispered. A grating sound more akin to a rasp, “Thy cross is of little use if the armour behind it is broken.”
Yish nodded. “The texts span Elder Mages, the Necromage and Witch Queen. Do you never read? The sorcerer passed through here sacrificing his guard to the undead as payment to pass. He travelled through here to the Dragon Yard and beyond into the badlands seeking the green Dragon Stone.”
Naz nodded, his throat felt dry. He reached into his gunna and drew out a water-skin. “It has insatiable curiosity,” he ventured.
“If you unearth an elder portal be warned. Treat them carefully as we have no desire to lose more students.” Jeremiah Delalande, Lecture on Thaumaturgical Archaeology.
“There may be a great fire in our hearts, yet no one ever comes to warm himself at it, and passers-by see only a wisp of smoke.” Vincent Van Gogh.
The Black watched on as, through the debris of ancient battle, the Smith walked between life and death. Two worlds, two paths; one outcome.
In a body that is failing, a mind wanders two realities. Divided, dying in one and hunted in another. It was never supposed to be this way.
Wayland, having fallen from the path as a unseen force blinked his inamorata out of existence, wakes in a world where life is no longer quite the same.
When the sun sets before nightfall and mist flows like blood, it’s too late to run.