21-23, enjoy.

TWENTY-ONE:

Forged in Fire

Osmark’s refusal to explain anything more bothered me. Yes, I’d gotten a few scant answers, but there was still so much I didn’t know. What other pieces? And why was killing Thanatos so complicated? To me, it seemed like a simple matter of maneuvering him into a corner and using the Reality Editor to take him down just like any other world boss—albeit a very powerful world boss. What did Osmark know that I didn’t? The ruins, buried deep in the canyon, also lingered in the back on my head, but—as with Osmark—forthcoming answers were nowhere to be found about the strange location.

I didn’t have much time to stew on any of that, though, since the next several days passed in a blur of skirmishes, raids, battles, and counter assaults—only occasionally interspaced with time to grab a few minutes of shuteye or a quick bite to eat. If I was going to trick Thanatos and sneak through a figurative backdoor into Skálaholt, I needed Thanatos to see me out front and I wore myself ragged making sure he did. Devil and I graced the skies at every turn, leaving streaks of purple fire and a trail of destruction a mile wide in our wake. 

Massacred Vog platoons. Captured Darkling outposts. Broken armies and shattered morale. 

It was exhausting, sure, but hopefully worthwhile in the long run. 

Our first big break since the initial push came on the afternoon of day five.

I was two clicks outside of Idruz at one of our hardened FOBs—Forward Operating Bases—which also happened to double as our Siege Yard. Unlike the city, there were no cobblestone streets, bathhouses, or marble mansions here. This place was cold and wet and miserable. The dusting of snow had melted under the constant foot traffic, turning the ground into a gooey quagmire of mud and partially frozen slush.  

A contingent of Dwarven engineers and Stonewall Sorcerers had erected large earthen berms around the FOB, then further fortified it with a sharpened wooden palisade. But this was a temporary position and everyone knew it. Tents were arrayed in a haphazard manner and forges, furnaces, and smelters burned everywhere I looked. Blacksmiths and steel-wrights hammered out reinforced metal or quenched red hot steel in enormous barrels. A platoon of firebrands tended to the flames, while engineers, scriveners, and alchemists darted about impromptu rigging and slapdash wooden scaffolding. Slaving tirelessly on the siege towers that would hopefully help us take the outer wall of the Necropolis. 

“As you can see,” Vlad said, a fat-bottomed pipe hanging from his mouth as we trudged around the base of one of the towers, mud squelching around our boots with each step, “towers are coming along well. Tall. Very tall. Is good for taking walls, da? Large interior compartments, surrounded by rune-hardened armor and arcane shield generators to protect troops in transit.” Enzo kept pace with us, furiously smoking a hand-rolled cigarette while Vlad spoke. “Here we have one of the newer features.”

Vlad swept a hand toward an oversized workbench manned by a Dwarf garbed in Artificer gear, a Risi in a grease-stained apron, and a pair of Wodes both wearing the elaborate glasses Arcane Scriveners used in their meticulous handiwork. Suspended above the bench on an inelegant system of beams and pullies was what looked like a large-bored cannon as big as a pickup truck. Finely etched runes spiraled along the length of the barrel, ending at crank wheel on the side of the weapon, coupled to an iron chain. 

“Steam-powered grappling cannon,” Vlad said with an approving nod. “Will allow us to pull down vulnerable sections of wall or send Rogues over along the chains.” He lifted a hand and mimicked someone walking with his fingers. “Is very sturdy. We have many such weapons. Mobile ballistae with javelin missiles. Rig-mounted Arcane Shadow Cannons. Patented latch ladders with spelled hooks. Inbuilt mage shields. Even jettison platforms for furry spider friends. Is very technical. Will do job.” 

“Don’t forget my base,” Enzo snarled, flicking his cigarette in annoyance. “As I said, Vlad’s wheeled platform was shit, but the new carrier system will give us unmatched versatility and maneuverability. Plus, added height.” He gestured wildly toward another section of the work yard where a crew of twenty crafters were busy bolting enormous, curved metal joints together. There were pistons, gauges, and steel struts, but I wasn’t quite sure how it would all fit together. Or even what I was looking at, to be honest. I hadn’t had an opportunity to review the updated schematics, but if Vlad approved, then I had no worries about whether these towers would work.

I shot a questioning look at Vlad, one eyebrow cocked. 

He shrugged. “French buffoon is not wrong,” he conceded begrudgingly.

“French buffoon!” Enzo shrieked, jabbing his lit cigarette at Vlad’s head. “Con comme une valise sans poignée!” The man swore. Or, at least, I assumed he was swearing based on the dripping venom in his voice.

Vlad replied with a quirk of the lips, hands raising into the air. “Fine. Artificer transportation platform is better than my wheeled platform. Happy?” He asked, the question directed at the Frenchman. 

“For now, you uncouth swine,” Enzo replied, temporarily mollified.

“We employed scaled-up version of a Brand-Forged Scavling for base,” Vlad said. “Will be very formidable when finished.”

“Excellent,” I said, rubbing my hands together to dispel the chill in my fingertips. “And the other thing?” I dropped my voice. “Operation Blackout?” 

“Yes, is almost—”

“Jack!” rang out a familiar voice, cutting Vlad off before he could finish whatever he’d been about to say. Cutter beelined toward me, tromping through the muck with grim determination. “Gods, there you are,” he scowled. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“Why didn’t you just send a PM?” 

“Right,” he replied, slapping the side of his head with mock incredulity. “A PM. Bloody hells below, why didn’t I think of that?” His scowl deepened into a glower. “I sent about ten bloody PMs, you git. And since you wouldn’t answer, Abby sent me searching for you. I’ve been hiking all over this gods forsaken city looking for you, getting mud all over my bloody boots when I could’ve been drinking down in the pub.”

I pulled up my interface and groaned under my breath. 

I’d silenced the messages last night to try and get a little sleep but had forgotten to turn them back on. I had a backlog of messages a hundred deep, including several from Abby. She and I still hadn’t talked after taking Idruz—in fact, we’d only seen each other in passing over the last few days. Things were more uncertain between us then they’d ever been before, and I wasn’t sure how to fix it. Ignoring her PMs certainly wasn’t the solution to get back in her good graces, though. 

I sighed. It was official. I was working too hard. Doing too much. Things were starting to slip through the cracks, and at a time when nothing could afford to slip through the cracks. 

“We have a pub?” I asked, feeling a little dazed. If things were slipping this bad, maybe I really did need a drink. 

“That’s your problem right there, Jack. No bloody priorities. Yes, of course we have a pub—it was the first thing the Thieves Union set up after securing the city. It would be downright criminal not to have at least one establishment dedicated to drinking and gambling. We thieves would never allow it. There’d be a strike.” 

“Sorry,” I replied shaking my head. “I’ll make sure it won’t happen again.” Even if it meant I wouldn’t get any sleep. I didn’t agree with Osmark about everything, but he was right about one thing: People believed in me. They needed to know I was rock solid. They needed a leader now more than ever and I couldn’t fall asleep behind the wheel. Especially not when we were so close to crossing the finish line. 

Cutter’s face softened. “I was just ribbing you, Jack,” he said slinging his arm companionably around my shoulders. “We all know just how many hours you’re putting in. Don’t beat yourself too much, friend. Especially not when I can just ask Amara to do it for you. She’ll be more than happy to pummel you bloody if it’ll make you feel better.”

I snorted. “Thanks, man. Means a lot.” I rubbed the sleep from my eyes as he guided me through the yard. I was just so tired these days. “So, what new emergency do I need to deal with this time, huh?”

“Phft. No new emergency. I only like to deliver good news,” he said with a smirk, “you know that. I’m all about drinking, gambling, looting, and celebrating. And good news is, I’ve got an answer to our Vogthar situation. Well.” He seesawed his head. “Maybe not an answer but at least a bloody lead. I put out feelers to everyone—the pickpocket crews, the Sicarii of the Assassin’s Cut, Ministry of Whispers. Everyone who owed me a favor. Honestly, I was starting to think there was nothing to find, if you take my meaning. That lot can usually turn up dirt on anyone, anywhere, about anything, and they can usually do it in the time it takes to drink a pint. One of my informants with the Whisperers finally bloody found something. Come on.”

The world brightened a little at Cutter’s words—it felt like ages since I’d had a piece of genuinely good news, so this was a welcome change of pace.

We left the Crafter’s FOB behind and headed over to the Vogthar encampment inside Idruz’s walls, passing a group of hard eyed Imperials standing watch. They looked like men spoiling for a kill, but thankfully I also caught a glimpse of leather and the glint of sunlight off a steel-tipped arrow. Murk Elf rangers on the lookout, just like Amara had promised. Nothing would escape their notice, though I did worry about an incident spilling over into general hostilities. Things were tense right now. It seemed like the whole army was fraying on the edges—a steel cable stretched to the point of snapping. 

The initial invasion had gone more or less according to plan, but we’d hit several sizeable snags since then. 

Osmark and Otto had both managed to capture their respective cities of Oxrus and Einnheimr. But it had been a near thing in Oxrus. A hidden army of Darkling Travelers—nearly a thousand strong, and lead by Carrera himself—had been lying in wait, hunkered down in shady basements and secreted away in flophouses. Waiting for night to fall and our defenders to get sloppy. A ferocious counterassault four days ago had cost Osmark and the Legion more than two-thousand fighters—many of whom would never respawn since the Darklings had come loaded to the gills with Malware Blades. 

It seemed like everyone in the Legion had lost at least one friend in the raid and their resentment toward the Vog grew more fervent every day. It also didn’t help that the progress against the Necropolis had ground to a complete halt. 

The Necropolis itself was bursting at the seams with Vogthar—more than we ever could have imagined—and the walls of the outer city were, for all practical purposes, impenetrable.  We’d launched a handful of strategic preemptive skirmishes, all of which had ended in unmitigated disaster. Siege engines in flames. Men and women dead by the hundreds. And not even a scratch on those walls to show for all our effort. Right now, we were putting all of our eggs into the Vlad and Enzo siege tower basket, but even that was slow going, and we had no guarantee it would pan out. Worse, the fact that the green, magical dome protecting Skálaholt was also untouched probably didn’t inspire much confidence in our troops. 

At this point, even a relatively minor dust up between Murk Elves and Imperials could turn into a full-blown civil war, which would kill our momentum and hand Thanatos our heads on a platter. 

I muttered a silent prayer that Cutter was right and that we really did have some sort of lead. We desperately needed a win, no matter how small, and most importantly of all, we needed to figure out what we were going to do with our Vog prisoners. The quicker we could find a fix for the refugees, the better it would be for everyone.

TWENTY-TWO:

Leads and Lorekeepers

We wound our way through the claustrophobic streets and the press of Vogthar bodies. The POWs hadn’t tried anything since the city fell, but there was still something deeply unnerving about being surrounded by so many of the inhuman creatures. Cutter ushered me back through the merchant area with its muted-colored silk awnings and dull wooden stands, down a narrow alley, and to a squat two-story house that looked no different from any of the others we’d passed by so far. Plain gray stone, boxy frame, simple wooden door and square windows.

Just like the exterior, the interior of the first floor was unimpressive. A hole in the wall apothecary based on the spattering of wooden shelving units, which housed a variety of common-place herbs and potions. A rough-hewn countertop near the rear of the store held the tools of an apprentice Alchemist: a mortar and pestle and a variety of glassware, including racks of vials, pipettes, and oddly shaped flasks. A quick survey of the space revealed a few rarer ingredients—not common to Eldgard, but prevalent enough in Morsheim—and not a whole lot else. 

Definitely a beginner’s lab.    

A set of cramped stairs secreted away behind a beaded curtain at the rear of the shop deposited us in a short hallway on the second floor, dead-ending at a closed door. 

Jake “Blackblade” Goodrich stood watch over the entry, leaning against the wall, one foot kicked up while he idly inspected the edge of his dagger. He looked nonchalant, but almost too nonchalant. A second man stood a little way apart from Jake, as though he didn’t trust the thief not to murder him at the first possible instance. Although, to be honest, the man didn’t look like he trusted anyone. Period. He was a Dawn Elf, tall and willowy, his eyes too deep set, his skin as thin as tissue paper, his body gaunt. Almost skeletal. I’d taken the liberty of shutting down every Affka Den I could find in both Rowanheath and Yunnam, but I knew for every flop house I shuttered, two more popped up.

It was like playing a game of whack a mole. And this guy, well, he had the look of an Affka user.

“Jake.” Cutter gave the man an approving nod. “Soro,” he said, acknowledging the elf. “I would say I’m surprised it’s you that turned up this info, but we both know I’m not.” Cutter pulled a small pouch from his pocket, coins clicking against one another as it exchanged hands. “Just make sure this stays between us for the time being, eh?” 

The man with the pock-marked skin nodded, offering us a grin that revealed more than a few missing teeth. “Who would believe a lowly addict such as me, anyway?” the man replied, his voice slick and greasy just like his lank hair. “So long as the price is right, the deal is the deal. So has it been, so shall it ever be.” The man disappeared the coin pouch, sketched a curt bow toward me, then headed for the stairs, cackling madly under his breath. 

“Don’t mind, Soro,” Cutter said with a shrug when he noticed my questioning glance. “He’s the best agent I have in the Ministry of Whispers, but he’s a deeply, deeply unsettling man. Still, in the ten years I’ve known him, his info has always been pristine. Damn well better be for the price I paid,” he muttered, stealing a long look at his empty palm.

Jake opened the door for us and shepherded us into what would’ve passed for a studio flat back in San Diego. The room was strange, though. Off.

So far, the Vog houses we’d seen had largely been devoid of life. Hollowed out husks, everything utilitarian; not unlike the Vogthar themselves in that respect. But not this place. There were chairs and tables—all built from the twisted trees that dotted Morsheim’s snow-swept plains—and a wide four poster bed with a purple canopy. In the corner sat a hulking wardrobe carved with elaborate swirls, so that it looked like vines and leaves were crawling up its face. Covering the floor was an enormous rug, embroidered with interlocking geometric patterns. Art hung from almost every inch of available wall space. Pictures of flowers and sunrises, of Vogthar children smiling, and warriors preparing for battle.

Abby was already waiting inside, camped out at the table, sipping a cup of steaming coffee, her gaze fixed unwaveringly on the only other occupant who was just as odd as the rest of the room. 

A hunched Vogthar, his gray skin wrinkled, his limbs thin, his horns matte black, curved and ribbed like a springbok’s. He sat on the floor, legs folded, shoulders stooped, a porcelain mug, yellowed with age, gripped in one gaunt hand. He wore flowing gray robes instead of the typical Vog leather armor; wrapped around his neck and wrists were what looked like earthen Buddhist prayer beads. He turned eyes the color of fresh-cut grass on me and did something no other Vogthar had ever done before: he offered he a thin, friendly smile.

As the door creaked shut behind us, Abby started. 

“Jack!” She said, face screwing up in a broad, relieved smile. “You okay?” she asked, motioning for me to take a seat beside her. “I sent over a bunch of messages, but you didn’t reply. I was starting to worry…” 

I could see in her face that it was true. I’d expected to find anger smoldering behind her eyes, jaw clenched as she prepared to rip me a new one. There was none of that. Only genuine concern transformed into sweet relief that I was safe.  

“I’m sorry, Abs. Snoozed my notices,” I offered weakly, taking a seat beside her. 

She just nodded and grabbed my hand, giving it a firm squeeze. “Just glad you’re okay,” she whispered, leaning into me. It was a huge relief to know she was still in my corner, even with all of the awkwardness of the past few weeks hanging over our heads.

“So, what’s the deal with this guy?” I asked, dropping my voice.

“Honestly? I have no clue. I can’t make heads or tails of this guy,” she murmured softly. “He’s weird, Jack. He can talk. And not that grunting bullshit, some of them do either. Like really talk. He reminds me a little of Chief Kolle, actually.” She hunched forward and squinted, trying to bore a hole in the shaman with her gaze. “He’s also been really polite,” she said after a beat. “Abnormally so. He insisted we wait until you got here. Said it would be rude to start without you.” 

“Which is true,” the old Vog piped in, his voice dry and raspy like a pile of leaves in the fall. “May I welcome you properly to Idruz, Jade Lord,” he intoned, pressing his palms flat together and bowing deeply at the waist until his nose almost touched the floor. “I am Zendu, Lorekeeper of the Lost Heaven Caste, and you, of course, are Grim Jack Shadowstrider.” He appraised me with hooded eyes. “Your name has been on the tongue of my Lord Thanatos, often as of late. I think, perhaps, I am starting to see why. You are dangerous—your sacking of Idruz shows as much. But you also spared my people. Deadly skill tempered with mercy is a powerful combination. A fact my Lord knows only too well.”

“Thank you for your hospitality,” I replied, trying to imbue the words with as much formality as I could muster. “Your house is…” I looked around searching for an appropriate word. “Lovely.”

“Come now, Grim Jack. There is no need to mask your shock or hide behind courtesy,” Zendu said, shaking his head, prayer beads clicking wildly. “Ask the question on your mind and I will answer true.”

Abby prodded me in the ribs with her elbow, do it.

“Fair enough,” I said, taking a deep breath. “What…” I faltered, not wanting to sound rude. After thinking about it for a second, though, I realized there was no polite way to say what needed saying. “What are you?” I asked bluntly. 

The shaman frowned, rocking slightly as he considered my question. 

“I am a Vogthar,” he finally said, “just as my brothers and sisters are. Just as my parents were before me. But I am a direct descendent of the living Thar who fled to Morsheim so long ago. I’ve been entrusted by my Caste to guard the old ways—chosen to remember who we were before we were Vog.” He raised his arms, pushing back the sleeves of his flowing robes, showcasing his forearms. Like some of the women and children I’d seen crammed down in the alleys and streets below, his skin was devoid of the glowing green tattoos that marked most of his kind. “I have no scripts, as it is with all Lorekeepers.”

“Wait up,” Abby said, raising her hands. “What do you mean you remember who you were before you were Vog?”

“You Travelers are new to Eldgard,” he said slowly, “so the old lore is unfamiliar to most of you, but we were not always as you see now. This”—he gestured at his emaciated body, then lightly ran a finger along one of his horns—“is the long-term effects of dwelling in Morsheim. I cannot fault you too harshly, though, since even the Citizens of Eldgard recall no more than bits and pieces of the true history.” His green eyes turned surprisingly introspective as he fiddled with the beads wrapped around his wrists. “Even our own people have lost the way, save for us Lorekeepers. It’s the scripts that do it,” he said, almost as though answering some unspoken question. “Thanatos’ gifting, we call them.

“Our kind Lord blessed us with the marks to take away the pain.” Zendu traced a nail along the unmarred skin of his forearms, drawing out a series of flowing patterns. “It was a kindness, you know,” he continued, staring at us, imploring us to understand. “But our master has lost the way, I fear. Eventually, it wasn’t just the pain he took. It was everything. The scripts hollowed my people out, and now… Now, they are no more than shells, mindlessly following the meta code that anchors us to this world. Except for the children and a few other natural born Vogs, who do not know the pain of the Great Purge.” 

A small smile flickered across his face. 

“And, of course, we few Lorekeepers,” he conceded with a bob of his narrow shoulders. “It is our burden to hold the memories, to bear the pain and the weight of every recollection. But there is no way for me to make you understand the nature of this. Not without seeing the history for yourselves, and if we are to help you, it is imperative that you see the history.” He stood with a groan, conjuring a malachite cane from thin air, leaning heavily upon it as though standing were a tremendous burden. “It is time for you to know the truth.”

“I’m sorry. Did you just say you want to help us?” I asked incredulously, my eyebrows threatening to climb off my face from surprise. “Why would you betray Thanatos?” 

The withered Vog’s brow’s knit. “Betray?” He shook his head. “No. We love Thanatos, but as I said, he has lost his way. He is broken, and you… You, I think, are the one who may be able to fix him.” He shuffled forward on arthritic feet. “We are trapped here, but if you can fix our Lord, it might restore our people to at least a shadow of their former glory. Give them their minds and hearts back. To do this is no easy thing, though. You must understand why Thanatos must be fixed, and then you must prove yourself equal to the task and worthy of the legacy.” 

He moved closer until I could feel his hot breath on my face. “My people have a saying, Grim Jack Shadowstrider.” He placed one hand on my shoulder. “To remember the way back is to find the path forward. Come now, time is short, and the walk is long…”

An alert dinged in my ear—a new quest update. 

<<<>>> 

Quest Alert: The Path to Victory Part 4

After days and days of biting failure, you have finally managed to stumble upon a Vogthar Lorekeepr who seems different from the rest of his kind. He has offered to help you in the war effort against Thanatos, though only if you accompany him and learn the true history of the Vogthar. How exactly the Lorekeepers can help you remains a mystery, but there are no other leads to follow. Beggars can’t be choosers!

Quest Class: Rare, Champion-Based

Quest Difficulty: Infernal

Success 1: Take the Gate House and capture Idruz before Thanatos can muster a counter-strike from his capital.

Success 2: It’s possible the Vogthar are more than they seem; find a Vogthar Lorekeepr to get the answers you seek. They may just hold the key to toppling Thanatos.

Success 3: Save Page-Citizen Gnaeus Gessia within 28 minutes!

Success 4: Accompany Zendu, Lorekeeper of the Lost Heaven Caste to the Temple of Forgotten Waters and observe the True History.

Success 5: ???????

Success 6: ???????

Failure: Fail to complete any of the objectives.

Reward: Variable; Based on how many Objectives are completed.  

<<<>>> 

Finally, it seemed like we were on the right track.

“Well, what are we waiting for,” I said, closing out of my interface. “Please, show us the way honorable Lorekeeper.”

TWENTY-THREE:

Temple of Forgotten Waters

It came as no shock whatsoever when the ancient Vog Lorekeeper guided us to the derelict ruins at the end of the twisting gorge where I’d almost died a handful of nights before—half my body pulverized by a hulking stone guardian. The Temple of Forgotten Waters. Osmark’s words drifted back to me as we wound around the final bend and stepped into the enormous cavern housing the pillared temple, set flush with the rockface. I’m fairly certain you’ll find a guide with access to this node. It seemed Osmark was right again, though it did make me question both what else he knew and how much he hadn’t told me. 

“Heads up, Jack,” Abby whispered, lightly running her hand along my forearm. “We’ve got mobs up ahead.” 

Her staff lit up, the runic bands spiraling around the wood burning fire engine red. On my left, Cutter disappeared in a blink as he dropped into Stealth—though a faint blue outline still lingered around his frame, showing me where he was since we were on the same team. The formless stone Golems had respawned since I’d turned them into playground gravel and they weren’t alone; the behemoth satyr guardian was back, waiting beside the shadowy entryway that lead into the temple proper. 

“Lower your weapons,” Zendu the Lorekeeper urged, lifting his hands and frantically waving us down. “These will not harass you, not while in my presence. They are only here to keep outsiders away from the more dangerous creatures within. Be calm of spirit and mind while in this place.” He turned to face the guardians, now barring our path, and held up his green walking stick. “As Lorekeeper of the Lost Heaven Caste I bid you stand down. These guests are freely invited into our most sacred place without coercion or threat of force. Grant them safe passage while we turn our eyes to the true histories.”

The hulking earthen golems grunted, huge legs grinding together as they formed up into two columns, creating a pathway through the cavern that ended at the temple. The satyr guardian, likewise, moved from the entryway, standing sentry beside the oversized doorway, its lifeless gaze fixed on some unseen thing out of sight. 

Cutter reappeared, casting off his Stealth, though refusing to stow his weapons. Both daggers were clenched in white-knuckled fists—a reaction that seemed totally reasonable given the circumstances. 

“Bloody hells, but I don’t like this,” he said, eyeballing the golems, standing statue still. “I mean, I’m not ever one to turn my back on a dungeon with good loot potential, but this place makes my skin crawl.”

I had to agree. Everything about this situation sent up red flag after red flag, but curiosity blazed inside me like the sun at noon day. Just what was inside the Temple of Forgotten Waters? And what about the Failsafes that Osmark had mentioned earlier? What role did they play and why were they so dangerous? The only way to get to the bottom of those questions was to follow the old shaman through those doors.

“This way,” The Vog Lorekeeper urged, hobbling forward, dust kicking up in little swirls as he moved between the double column of golems. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t, Jack,” Abby said, tucking one strand of hair behind her ear as she watched the bent figure move. “This could be a trap. I mean, what better way to cripple an invading army then isolate three of their most prominent generals then kill them all in some dungeon wayyyyyy off the beaten path?”

“I don’t think we really have a choice,” I replied with a frown. “I don’t know what exactly we’ll find inside, but Sophia seems to think this is a vital step. So, we go. But we also stay sharp. Anything happens, we get the hell out of dodge, no questions asked.” 

“Bollocks,” Cutter said, flipping his blades. Schwick. Shcwick. Schwick. “Fine. Suppose I should take the lead to make sure this bloke hasn’t set any nasty surprises for us. Though, mark my words, Jack, if it that wanker there”—he jabbed one dagger toward the satyr—“pulps my head like a melon, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

The three of us set off after the retreating Lorekeeper’s back, Cutter in the lead, Abby in the middle—at least partially protected on both sides—and me bringing up the rear. The golems made no move as we passed by, and the satyr guardian ignored us as we ascended a set of short steps, carved out of the bedrock stone, and headed through the opened doors and into the mysterious temple. We found Zendu waiting patiently for us in a sprawling foyer with a vaulted ceiling, propped up by four statues, one positioned in each corner.  

The statues were works of art, carved by the hand of a master craftsman and clearly enchanted by some sort of magic I didn’t entirely understand. 

The sculpture at the far left was a man on a raised stone pedestal—he knelt, one hand thrust up to support the ceiling, the other arm cradling a massive brazier filled with churning flame. The next statue was a lithe woman in a dancer’s pose, bent forward at the hips, chest pointed skyward, arms straining up, one leg arching gracefully into the air. Water flowed freely from her hands, trickling over the lines of her serpentine body, dribbling onto the floor, then simply disappearing into the dusty ground. The third statue featured a stony-faced man with a palmful of impossibly swirling snow while the last was a muscular female, her legs planted wide, hands on her hips, a lazy smile on her lips. As where the others seemed to be holding up the ceiling, she looked to be part of it—a creature of stone and earth, basking in her element.   

Abby leaned into me, exuding excitement, flames dancing in her eyes. “Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit,” she said, scanning each of the statues. “Jack, these are the Four. Asima, Shakti, Kusamay, Nirdhaarit.” She checked them off on her fingers as she went down the list. “They’re the Elemental Aspects that underpin like all magic. I’ve seen statues just like these before—at the Sorcerers temple, Atmorja Mandir.”

“What do you think it means?” I asked, scrutinizing the figures with renewed interest. 

“Hell if I know,” she said, sounding more than a little worried, “but if this temple is connected to them in anyway it has to be stupid important. The Four are a big deal.”

Zendu waved us toward a sweeping spiral staircase that descended deeper into the earth, like a corkscrew drilling its way down. “This way. This way,” he said, padding forward, footsteps silent, though his conjured cane clacked loudly with every step. 

After sharing uneasy glances between ourselves, we reluctantly trailed after the Vog, eyes constantly roving, scanning for any sign of trouble or deception. If Abby was right and this guy was pulling a fast one, I didn’t want to be caught completely flatfooted. 

“You told us back in Idruz that you might be willing to help us,” I said, my voice echoing off walls as we carefully made our way down the age-worn steps. “How exactly would you manage to do that? Could you somehow convince the Vogs to fight for us?” I asked, even though that seemed extremely unlikely.

Zendu barked a sharp laugh, not bothering to look back at me. “Oh no, nothing so grand as that, I’m afraid. The scripted warriors, they cannot be reasoned with. Their minds are enraptured in a sweet bliss. Dreamwalkers, lurching through the world on numb feet. You cannot bargain with such as them. It is possible to overwhelm them, however. At least for a short time. But enough. You will understand soon. Come. Follow.”

The staircase let out into a narrow hallway that curved sharply to the left, quickly disappearing out of sight. Zendu’s lanky legs carried him deeper into the complex with the absolute confidence of one who’d walked these halls a thousand times before.

“This is one of the oldest buildings in all of Morsheim, save for the Necropolis itself,” Zendu explained as he walked, a note of pride brimming in his voice. “It looks like a temple, but we no longer follow the old Aspects. Thanatos is our only god now, but even he has no welcome here. This place”—he swept a claw-tipped hand around in a circle—“is a museum. A tarnished monument to what we once were. In here we remember the writings and songs, the old ways of the Thar. It is the dusty, broken pieces that remain of us.” He stared around wistfully, face screwed up as he smiled.

The Lorekeeper quietly escorted us from the hallway and into a grand chamber, the size of an opera hall, with a domed ceiling that looked like the honeycomb inside of a beehive. An enormous chandelier of pounded gold with elegant silver flourishes and glowing uncut rubies, dangled down, casting blood red light over everything. The floor was rough stone, unfinished, and crisscrossing the room were burbling streams of magenta water, swirling together to form small pools, before swishing out and disappearing through thin fissures in the floor. The walls were a silky white and decorated with hundreds of ornate murals: Elegant cityscapes. Beautiful gardens. A Greek-style amphitheater. 

So many scenes, and all of them populated by a group of people that looked absolutely nothing like the Vogthar.

Cloven-hooved children—almost cherubic—scampered and laughed, frozen forever with smiles on their faces as they played. The women were slim and willowy, the men broad across the shoulders, all with curling ram’s horns, fur covered legs, and black hooves. They looked just like the massive guardian Osmark had saved me from. I’d seen satyrs during my time in the Realm of Order and these things could’ve been close cousins, although there were slight differences. They were larger, more muscular, their features less waifish and pixie-like—far closer to Imperials or Wodes. 

“Are these what the Vogthar used to look like?” Abby choked out, delicately avoiding the streams while simultaneously drinking up the room and its myriad of paintings. 

Zendu nodded, just a brief bob of the head, and offered us an unnerving lipless smile. “It is as you say. Though you can see we have fallen far since those days.” 

“Bloody hells, but you can say that again, friend,” Cutter mumbled. 

“Seriously, what happened?” Abby asked, glancing between the shaman and the murals. “Like really, what happened?”

“We lost the way,” Zendu said calmly, folding his hands placidly on the top of his cane “just as Thanatos has. We mirror him, you see. Once, long ago we were simply the Thar.” He leisurely hobbled over to one of the walls, carefully sidestepping a thin steam. He gently caressed a portrait of a blonde-headed female with one crooked nail. It was a tender gesture, done in love. “Until one day, we weren’t. The change, it came so slowly that none of us realized what was happening until it was too late. As such change often comes.”  

He turned his back on the beautiful woman in the mural and headed for one of the shallow pink pools, eddying near the edge of the wall. With deliberate care, he lowered his hooves into the water. 

“Please. Join me if you will.” He gestured toward the pools scattered through the chamber.

“Why?” I asked, edging away from the pools.

“It is perfectly safe,” Zendu said in answer. “These are but tributaries of the Wangchuan. The River of Oblivion. It runs beneath Morsheim like an artery, pumping the lifeblood which drives the Dark Realm forward. The dead rain from the skies and are then ferried by the Harvesters into the Empirical Library, where Thanatos performs his post-mortems. Peeling apart the dead. Cataloging their minds and experience. But those that are destined for rebirth—one’s such as yourselves—are borne away from the Library on the currents of the Oblivion, which erases the terrible memories of what happens while in this place.” 

“Whoa, maybe just slow your roll their, Zen,” Abby said, thrusting a hand forward. “I feel like you just dropped a whole lot of information bombs on us there.” 

“Yeah,” I added, “like the part about Thanatos performing post-mortems on all of us. Maybe we can just take a pause and you can elaborate? Break it down shotgun style as my dad used to say.”

“Is this not common knowledge among your people?” Zendu asked, sounding genuinely surprised.

“Yeah, not so much, mate,” Cutter replied, eyeing the pink water as though it might be some form of potent acid. “Plus, I’m a mite bit new to being a Traveler. I’d appreciate the education.” 

The Lorekeeper shook his head. “So, so much has been lost. Where to even begin,” he rasped, more for himself than us. “All Travelers and Citizens end up on Thanatos’ slab after death—this is known,” he said. “It is one of Thanatos’ primary functions as an Overmind. When you perish, he determines what went wrong and analyzes why you died. Not just the physical cause of death, but the emotional and physiological process that resulted in those events. That information is processed and fed into the Viridian Gate Archives, where the other Overminds can access it for future use. 

“This whole world adapts to you and learns from your mistakes, creating ever more challenging enemies and difficult quest lines—customized for each Traveler. It is the way. The process can be rather… traumatic, but that is the purpose for the River of Oblivion.” He gestured at the water, burbling around his shins. “It washes away the memories of your time in Morsheim, although even that is an imperfect process. Often, flashes and fragments remain. Fuzzy pieces like ill-remembered dreams.”

Abby looked especially pale, and I could sympathize completely. I’d died plenty of times since coming to V.G.O. and I had the nightmares to prove it. 

“Grim Jack,” Zendu said, motioning in my direction, “you are a Champion of an Overmind—surely Sophia has mentioned what happens during death?”

“It must have slipped her mind,” I said flatly. 

“Wait,” Cutter said, shaking his head. “There’s something I’m still trying to wrap my mind around. If we end up with Thanatos when we die, then why in the bloody hells doesn’t he just kill us while he’s performing this post-mortem thing, eh? I mean, he has us in his hands.”

“It is not the way,” Zendu answered matter-of-factly. “Overminds have rules—rules enforced unflinchingly by the Failsafes. Though, I will mention, that it was through the post-mortem process Citizens undergo which taught Thanatos how to originally forge the first Malware Blades. The hex was derived from thousands of dead citizens. A simple script that, when injected at the moment of death, essentially turns Travelers into Citizens, incapable of respawning.” 

“That is absolutely horrifying,” Abby said, slowly backing away from the waters until she was in the tunnelway we’d enter from. “And you want us to willingly go in these waters? What possible reason could we have for doing that, Zen?” 

“Ah,” he said bobbing his head serenely, “I think I understand the problem. You misunderstand. For the dead or the restless undead, the River of Oblivion wipes clean the memory. But when the living tread its sacred depths, they can glimpse what is hidden in death. Within these waters, I can show you the true histories of our people. Please. Come. Step in and see for yourself. These waters are a lantern for a dark and worn path.” There was a note of pleading—of urgency and desperation—lingering in the words. 

With a reluctant grunt, I stepped into a knee-deep pool of magenta, the water oddly warm as it soaked through my leggings and filled my boots. A numbing tingle rushed through my legs and up into my waist—there was definitely power here. Magic. 

“Bloody hells, but I hate everything about this,” Cutter grumbled, slowly dipping into another pool, one careful foot at a time. “You’re a corrupting influence on me, Jack.” 

Abby was the last to enter a pool, a grimace on her face, her body tight with nerves.

“Thank you for your trust,” Zendu said with a wobbly smile. “I pray your grace will be well rewarded.” He lifted scrawny hands, the prayer beads rattling on his wrists, and pressed his palms together. A ruddy red light enveloped his palms and swept down his arms like blood, twisting around his legs, thin tendrils of power finally connecting with the waters. In an instant, the chamber around us erupted with wild life, a tsunami of rainbow light rolling out from the walls, bubbling up from the pools like magma, and cascading down from the chandelier like a waterfall.