CHAPTER 1 - Exodus

Exodus

The end of a journey starts by an Exodus

Underneath the tent’s canopy, the Half-Orc stirs. His mouth opens, his eyes blink as he glances around. The air is relatively warm, even if the fire had turned to cinders. He glimpses and passes a hand over his burnt face, his scars-stricken face. He passes the hand over his recently shaved scalp, over his beard, over the old lashes running across his face… Then, to his broken tusk, he taps.

A reflex. An old reflex he follows as he ponders and thinks. More breaths and a deep rumble akin to a Beast’s snore fill the tent. He sits still for a moment, with only the sheets to cover his modesty, as he passes an arm on his knees. Outside?
There are rays coming from behind the flap, sunlight is there. The wind is tame, barely whistling against the repaired leather. It is almost appeasing, enough for him to feel a faint smile appear on his face as he turns and sees another smile.
Silence. The snores continue, and he shakes his head, passing a hand over the gold scales. Rough, resilient. Yet, he can feel every detail as he passes a finger over that chest and those arms. Over that face, the scutes over them, the brows. Even then, there is barely any movement. But the smiles are there.

Then, he sighs and reaches for the horns. Just a second.
He could have stayed in bed a bit longer, but he already did it. Already blissfully rejected the cold morning for the comfort of the shared sheets. He stretches, fighting against the slight soreness in the legs and arms. Still, he gives his body a once over. Arrow scars, ashen skin, hair… And more scales, inked in faint gold, over the back of his legs, over his shoulders. It had been silly, stupid. But he did not regret the request.

Finally, he leaves the snores and the smile back as he pushes beyond the flaps with nothing on him. The air outside? It is warm. Sweltering. But less so than one would expect from the Western Fringes. It was a lucky find to have this Oasis placed right by the oh-so-seeked ruins. Lucky, or maybe some internal pipping still working.
But there is no life there. An eerie silence was met by the sounds of wind.

It had been grating at first.
After two lifetimes of sound, whether from towns or forests, the silence was… Brutal. It was not even like the Badlands where they used to live only a few weeks ago. Further east, closer to civilization, you would hear the hyenas’ cackling, the crocodiles rumbling, and the lions’ roar. Here, in the Western Fringes, the silence was omnipresent. It eroded all other sounds, making it so there was nothing else but the wind. But the sand. But the faint clapping of water as he squats by and cups some water to rub his face. He is clean… As much as one could ask. Still, he inspects his reflection.
Brown eyes, uneven teeth, ashen skin. Badly-healed burnt skin. Across his face’s right side, or the top of his skull, or everywhere. But still, no traces of what killed him almost a year ago.

“Morning, my beautiful Orc,” whistles a voice as one droplet of water rushes upward and hits him across the face.
“Morning to you, too. You made any progress on the translation?” he asks, wiping his face and yet feeling that faint smile stitching to his face.
“We did. If it’s right, and I believe Hogorath, we’re close to our escape.”
“It is still… Strange. To imagine it,” he whispers back, reaching for his neck to massage it while he straightens his back… And instantly feels another calloused hand going for his shoulders.
He does not tremble. Not anymore. And the strong hands are already pressing on the knots naturally forming in his muscles, the thumbs digging into his skin. It is a whole different type than what he learned so long ago.
“So tense. What preoccupies you?”
“The typical thoughts. We are good with our supplies. And there are no traces of them. We are safe.”

He says that. But it is something else his soul screams. He knows it as much as his reason says otherwise. They can stay here. They should stay here. It is difficult to admit one soul’s woes.
“This time, you could join us.”
“I am not good at this,” he grumbles.
“Nonsense. You have an excellent memory. And you can compare our notes. It will take your mind off them.”

Them.
The knots are undone by the thumbs, squeezed until his shoulders drop, and so do his arms in the Desert sun, basking and soaking the heat hitting his chest, his belly, his entire self.
“Hmmm. I can do that. Is he awake?”
“Not yet. Wanna wake him up?”
“I will let you do that. I will seek dry wood for our fire.”
“Got it. But I don’t want you wandering.”
“I will not.”
The hands peel back, releasing the relaxed muscles and allowing them to contract again. Fear. Fear is a difficult enemy, but he welcomes the reprieve from it. No… He accepts it as he reaches for where the hands were, on his back… On the scales that had been inked, on the swollen flesh where he received the lashes years ago.
He sighs, hearing the steps drifting away while he moves away from the water to walk along the Oasis’ edge. There are dry plants and trees whose withered branches he picks while glancing at the cloudless sky.

Them.
The others. The chaos.
It was so different, only a few weeks ago. So different, it felt like he had changed his life for the better. His… Theirs. Everyone had a second chance, and they embraced it. Formed a little pocket of peace for themselves. Their refuge.

When he arrived there, he was a droplet in a sea of lost souls.
All were picked by a Shepard who sought to use them as protectors of a realm. Picked on the day of their death, picked as their lights went out. Some crushed, some burnt to death, some poisoned. In his case, he died holding onto his cut-open belly, glaring at the three bastards sent after him to disclose a final message.
By the time they told him, his consciousness had already slipped. The second after, he woke up in a cold room, surrounded by stones and blue fire. He advanced, welcomed by the Shepard, who went on about a story on a plane of existence, drifting amidst the void and untouched by the Gods. The Shepard’s realm, the Shepard’s kingdom. A silly tale he barely gave heed to before he was allowed to pass. And be reborn in a church dedicated to Illmater located atop a hill. Standing proud above what was that plane’s remaining civilization. The City.

Unsurprised by his arrival, the monks helped him get his bearing and clothes to cover himself before they let him on his way. Him… And the many others reincarnated. Their names. Select few, yet a wave of them suddenly thrown in a plane that barely wanted them.
The City, the Capital, the economic center of that Realm? They were enjoined to leave it and settle in the wilderness, as far as possible from the inhabitants.
Abandoned, again. But this time. He tried something different. He tried to find people and… Security.

He is musing, the tone at his lips as he holds the dead wood and approaches the tent nestled near a rock. Sand has accumulated around the setup, but nothing threatening, nothing serious as he passes through the flap and finds them comparing notes. He throws the wood in a typical corner and sits, his plate filled with bread and dried roots. The latter are not so nutritious, but they’re supposed to help with his soreness.
“Where should we go next? I think we have covered everything within the library.”
“Uh… I am not sure. What about the alcove with that strange stone?”
“You’ve translated it, and Drosk wrote it down for you.”
“Oh! Sorry! Then… Yes, we could go to the next tower, the one at the center. Drosk? Will you join us?”
He nods.
“Yes. I will. If I can help.”
“Of course, you are helping! Plus, you are improving with the translations!”

He passes a finger over his broken tusk, despite the endearing smiles he faces. He taps it. He is slow on the uptakes with the grammatical aspects. However, he is capable of remembering most of the vocabulary, allowing him to compensate.
No… He is indeed improving, he nods.
“He will not admit it out loud. But he is improving.”

Improving.
Improving is an easy path when what was before could be compared to a lifetime of fleeing. In this new life, that plane, he was allowed to start afresh and anew. Except people were growing petty and territorial. Druids, nature lovers, tyrants, hedonistic, murderers… It was a strange melting pot of personalities, and they often clashed.
He clashed with them because they did not agree with how he saw things. They saw him as a cold and brutal Half-Orc. But he told the truth. He never hid away what they represented to them… Whether an ally or an enemy. Without enmity.
Words or statements were enough to get them riled up. Merely stating the facts was grounds for insults. And those he was to protect, those he had decided to hold near, they were regularly picked at… Sometimes because of him, no… oftentimes because of him. Yet, not only.

But he did nothing that could have led to the territorial conflicts. His words were so often twisted against him, he was growing weary. Weary of it all.
Improving. In those early days, it felt like he was only sinking down further and further. Until they were there and opened up to him.
Hogorath. Einlavir.
Two different voices. Two different opinions.

They were not the only ones who opened up to him, truthfully.
But they were the last ones he had at his side, steadfast. More than that, their presence was something different for the Half-Orc. They were not perfect, neither was he. But they were fine with his issues. No, they were fine listening to his opinion. They valued it. And they understood him, better than most.
And they brought him peace.
He brought them peace.

“Here.”
He accepts the blade, one of the many he forged. He puts it and the scabbard aside, enough to finish wrapping the cloth around his torso, covering it, but not everything. His clothes are flowy, although he keeps his arms exposed so he is not bothered when drawing the eastern-stylized blade strapped to his belt.
Then, he wiggles his toes, feeling the distinct feeling of sand between them. He sighs, looking aside and then up to the two.

Hogorath. This time, he is going for his green dress. The fabric is showing some signs of wear and tear, due to the constant rubbing. But it holds fairly well when covering the gold Dragonborn. It is also easier for the muzzle to have the clothes wrapped than worn in the typical human fashion.
Einlavir, in comparison, is going for open clothes. The marmoreal skin has taken a few darker shades… But the golden veins across it are still visible, similar to something that has been broken and rebuilt with that gold. The Aasimar’s attire is the best, even though it is but a portion of the clothes bought before their Exodus far from civilization. This time, he wears a black robe with gold filigree cinched with a belt.
A stark contrast to the ruins they are to explore.

But that was Einlavir.
He, too, was imperfect. He, too, had a terrible life which ended with a betrayal and poison. He, too, was cautious and brutal. But they were different. He showed a hedonistic side, a yearning for pleasure, for crowd, exposure. The Aasimar was the contrast opposite, basking in the admiration and the influence exerted over the others. Through cajoleries and smiles, Einlavir was a guiding voice amidst the discordants and reincarnated.
It was no surprise his associated attires were audacious, bold, and sometimes inching on exposure. Indecency, Einlavir often followed that word.

A stark contrast to Hogorath’s more timorous attitude. Burnt and brought back, the Dragonborn could not have been more different. Except that he was of Gold and naturally attracted the attention, even unwanted. Generous, eager to hide himself. No, he was afraid of speaking up. But beneath that fear, there was a compassion and kindness that was genuine. Genuine. A rarity. Before and after the Shepard.
He was changing, showing a more assertive version of himself. He was soothing. So much.
“Here. That way.”

The Half-Orc follows, his steps careful as they enter the ruins through the main door. It looks like a town, but built beneath the sand. One of the many ruins peppering the Plane, even near the City further east, beyond the Badlands, south of the Highlands. All where they used to live. But those ruins? They are different, they do not reek of corruption or perversion, it is not like those fortresses basking in undead or whatever horde. It is silent, dead. But placid. Waiting.
“Shall we turn right, this time?”
“You wanted to see the central tower?”
“Yes. I noticed stone tablets inside. It might be a second library or an archive. What do you think, Drosk?”
“I follow you.”

Contrary to Hogorath, he does not need a torch to see through the permeating darkness. But he holds one while Einlavir keeps a spark in the palm.
Both are used to lighten the path as they delve deeper into caverns. Into those ruins. The roads are wide, the blockages are sparse despite the sand slipping between the cracks and forming mounds left and right. The silence is heavy, but bearable. Around them, the stone is black as ebony. It bears the typical structure of the realm’s ruins, that’s certain. But there is levity… Old flowerbeds. Statues that don’t wield weapons. Former ponds overfilled with sand.
More than that, the structures are… More genuine. If Einlavir’s guesses are right, and he is mainly right, there are no barracks or akin structures; there are only libraries, museums, bathhouses, houses, common kitchens, and more. The place is a whole different subset compared to the militaristic culture that might have spawned through the entire plane. Almost as if it is a distinct branch that was cut off.
“Drosk?”
“Hmm?”
“What do you think of this? It’s in my liking?”

His eyes drift away from the nearby garden right onto… A statue. It looks indeed like Einlavir with long hair, a stern face, a chiseled jaw. The body fits with the musculature. But as his eyes go down, he shakes his head and smirks.
“No, it does not look like you. Some parts are too big.”
Another smirk and a huff, a bit facetious of him. But it is innocent, and they know when to read his humor. When he is not serious, it’s all in good faith.

It was not like so. The beginning of their relationships was so rocky, so unstable.
The conflict between Einlavir’s people and his was overbearing. Then, there was his attempt to sway public opinion in his favor against Einlavir. A petty fight whether they should uphold the City and its guilds’ rules or not. By any account, it should have been the end. They should have been over and done. But commiserating helped. And Hogorath. Mainly Hogorath.
“I am sorry for wounding you. You know, I felt I had no other choices. But if I had known the results, I might have chosen a different direction.”
Words. He did not lie this time, and even though he did not regret his act, he regretted his act was to wound Einlavir.

“This is it. What do you think? It looks like a library!”
“More like a mage’s study. Which means, we might find something useful!”
Einlavir is beaming, following Hogorath as they enter the wide tower. The Half-Orc follows, his eyes going left then right. No traps, no enchants, no wards. This is truly different in the Western Fringes. But it is appreciable as he approaches one of the tables, wiping the sand and dust away. There are no traces of tools and trinkets used in the tower. However, that’s not what Einlavir or Hogorath are seeking. No, they are seeking a way out.

This plane. It is limited. Go further East, you’ll find the City. And further, you’ll have the Short Sea. Which ends with mists you cannot cross through. As much as you’d like it, if you are crossing them, you cannot advance further. And those who manage to, through magic or unconventional means, their bodies are washed ashore soon after.
South, beyond the Badlands, you have another desert swallowed by mirages until you lose your path and are spit back into the Badlands.
North? Mountains and volcanoes block your path, culminating with an everlasting snowstorm pushing you back or killing you.
And the East? Well, it is different. The expanse is unknown; people rarely dare to walk towards the regular sandstorms’ point of origin, those that have turned the Badlands into what they are.

Hence, it was… And remains their best choice. For an escape, for fleeing.
“What do you think of this? Drosk, can you read it?”
He approaches, putting his torch in an unstable sconce while he receives the stone tablet. He tries to read it, but he only grasps a few words: power coursing through something, plane, moving, stars or star-chart, instability, passage. He frowns.
“This is linked to what we search?”
Yet, they are both grimacing while looking at the text. “They were so focused on finding a way out, here. They were counting on the stars to find a passageway.”
“They did?”
“We are unsure. The recent documents were destroyed. As for the old tablets, they repeat the same idea. To get to a tangent plane, they have to chart a path.”
“Back to the stars. Maybe our nights spent watching them could prove useful.”
“Doubtful. But it would be great.”

Leaving the torch where he put it, the Half-Orc continues to explore the room. By any account, whoever worked in this tower should have lived here. There is a stone table with a hearth at the center. There are traces of former bedding due to stone indents. The opposite side of the room has shelves, but… As he looks at the walls, he sees no path. And yet, above, there is a hole. No, a passage.
“Einlavir. Can you make us stairs?” he asks, pointing at the ceiling at first. Then, approaching one wall. There are more indents in the stone, regular. They were stone stairs, but they were removed.
“Yes. But it will take me time. I cannot make stone out of nowhere,” grumbles Einlavir, following and touching the wall while the Half-Orc shoves the shelves aside. “I will take whatever rocks I find outside.”

It would be to offer to help. But useless, pointless. Einlavir was and is a monk who was taught to manipulate the elements. Moving rocks with his will alone is a feat he employs with such levity, he makes it look easy. So easy, it is humiliating as he goes out of the tower and returns with two of those blocks in toe.
On the other side, Hogorath helps with the shelves so they are set aside.

Those rocks, the control over matter… Einlavir is dangerous, extremely so. Whether crafting daggers from moisture or crushing people with rocks, the Aasimar is a dangerous fighter. In a way, if they were to truly fight… Nobody would have left unscathed if they had followed up on the threats.
It was through luck and complacency there were no direct fights. It was through the reincarnated fleeing, trying to find a path, dying, or founding new alliances that nothing happened. Drosk lost a few people he was close with during that period. So did Hogorath. And Einlavir, as he lost his friends. Dying. Seeking a way out with a lover.
It certainly undid some of the tension plaguing the Realm, but it did not help Einlavir. Yet… As terrible as it was, the Half-Orc found relief in their passings.

That was an indecent thought as much as it brought satisfaction. He would have gladly fought before, but not now. Not anymore. Even then, their passings happened almost by the time Einlavir was through with them and decided to move away. Not that his loyalty waned, he would have fought to death for them.
As for Hogorath… He had settled in a farm away from the conflicts, in a relative peace. But he had sought a place further, somewhere where he could live without worrying about getting stabbed in the back or losing someone he loved in the same fashion.

All came down to the Highlands. When the wave of Reincarnated arrived, most sought to settle in the higher and grassy lands, lush and generous in resources. It had been such a direct choice to leave for the south, weather the regular Sandstorms, and settle in a fertile valley. All three, together. No one else joined them in the first days of that endeavor. But conflict… It kept hounding them.

“What do you think?”
“It looks solid. But we should test them. I could climb the stairs with a rock, for your weight.”
“I’m not that heavy!”
“You lost weight, sadly. But you are still heavier than me or Einlavir.”
The stairs are coming nicely, with Einlavir hitting the rocks until they have the right form and can fit in the indents. Even then, there is no mortar or anything to stabilize them further.
“You know I can heal myself. And I won’t fall.”
“Not if you are unconscious. And I would rather keep you in good shape.”
“So what? No climbing for me? You will need me upstairs. You cannot always protect me.”
“Would it be fine if we use a rope, once upstairs, to secure you?”
It is not the best option. But it is the one the Half-Orc could imagine as he looks above. The stairs are set. It would be easier to let Hogorath climb without precautions.

But he would not let Hogorath into harm’s way.
He had already seen the Dragonborn in bad shape, throwing himself into the frontline to protect others. He had seen him so wounded he had to push him aside against an earth elemental so he would not be hit. That day, he had been so frightened and angry at Einlavir for his carelessness.
But… In the end. No. Einlavir had been right. The monk could not have helped Hogorath, even if he so desired. So, they trusted him and his choices, even if they were born from fear. They believed in his actions. They…

“That’s fine. If it helps with your worries. But if it’s safe, I’ll remove the rope.”
“Deal.”
Two nods, and he goes for the rope. The walk outside is relaxing, easy. Soothing even for the Half-orc, who has to blink to adapt as the sunlight hits him. And for a moment, as he protects his eyes, he expects them.
Familiar faces, familiar individuals.

There were so many. The Priestess of Silvanus who made his life difficult at first with her flock. The Bard who sang as he paid and tried to compose whatever music he found. The Aasimar merchant and his clique, the gaggle of women enjoying their own giggling. The Tieflings and their holding in the Jungle near the City… So eager to push them aside when danger was at their door. And then, to accuse them of being bellicose.
His list of grievances and faces was slowly waning but there was the frustration, the anger.
His teeth are gritting, ruminating as he always does when he thinks. A rope. He must focus on it. On the rope he fishes out of their meager supplies, out of the bag. It is old, a bit worn, but sturdy as he tugs on it.
Perfect for his way back as he delves back into the ruins. The path… He doesn’t even need a map; he already has it in his mind. He could almost walk through with his eyes closed, but he doesn’t… And grumbles as he watches the stairs built and the Dragonborn, a few steps in. Einlavir must be above.
“You could not wait for me.”
“It’s only a few steps. Nothing dangerous.”

Hogorath is right. Still, the Half-Orc climbs the stairs with a focused mind. He stomps on the stone once he passes by the Dragonborn, waiting, and continues. No mortar, but Einlavir has reinforced the stone for them. More than that, he even added support while the Half-Orc went for the rope. Truly, a good addition. But no traces of the Aasimar.
“It is safe!”
“I know! Send me the rope, or I ascend the stairs now!”
He looks at the rope and then… At one post near where a handrail would be. He fastens it and throws it down.
“You can use it if you want! But it should be fine!”

It is time for him to trust them more.
They trusted him for so much. For the defenses, for building their little refuge in the Badlands, for fighting, for… A lot. They believed in him. They believe in him. Yet, he had… Wronged them.
Not directly, but by his actions as the Exodus was near.
He had been a fervent critique of the locals, of how they handled the reincarnated and how the City imposed so many rules on the reincarnated. But then, there was… The chaos.
Not that it appeared one day. No, most of the time, the City handled the reincarnated through its guilds. Adventurers, Scholars, Merchants, and… Criminals. Guilds, or unscrupulous groups were battling for influence and dared not to cooperate.
Their inaction led to more conflicts between the reincarnated as the dangers and corruption in the realm were obvious. More than that, they… Managed to mistreat some reincarnated, leading them to flee. And once they were gone, most of them. Then, then there was the Chaos.

Zhentarim, or something similar. They were the first to strike, settling in the Short Sea, hitting and striking every outpost on the coast or along the rivers, going upstream to the Badlands.
Then, there were the undead from the ruins in the mountains, rushing towards the Highlands and anyone still living there.
And as the Chaos continued to unfurl, the locals still refused to act. And the reincarnated were forced to… Fend for themselves and do nothing. No, worse than that, some even acted against others, sabotaging any efforts and collaboration.
So… What the Half-Orc did. What Drosk did. Was… calling them out.

Their hypocrisy in the face of their inaction. The nepotism. The petty fights. The disregard for the reincarnated. The way they drove everyone away. Managed to undo what had been done before. Everything… For this.
And they turned against Drosk. No. They turned against the three even as everything was crumbling around.

They tried to make him the villain. They tried to defame Einlavir and Hogorath by association. They tried to drag the two in the mud. And as they left… Drosk was not certain if they were chasing or still planning something.
He wronged Einlavir and Hogorath by association. He exposed them to the danger because he thought it was better to call them out and hope for them to be shaken, to correct their ways. But in doing so, he gave the City a scapegoat. And he gave his enemies… Something to unify under, a banner. And undid Einlavir’s work in uniting the others.

Still, the Aasimar followed him. And so did the Dragonborn as they left the Badlands behind, the valley, their refuge. Everything they had for the Western Fringes. There were rumors about the ruins and maybe a way out of that plane. One that showed signs of crumbling soon.
Already, the nights were filled with strange signs as lights bled into the sky and most constellations vanished.
More than that, the horizon toward the East was growing dimmer each day. More… Ominous.
He never told them; he preferred to keep it quiet, though they probably knew.

There was no direct danger, and it would take weeks, if not months, to reach them. They could even move further, maybe there was an edge to that Realm. A threshold they could cross. If not. Then… Maybe accept the moment. They died once. It is an experience no one should embrace, but there is worse than that.
Einlavir would have a way back from his divine lineage. Hogorath and Drosk? It would be the expected death… Even then, Death… Death would always come, somehow.
Would it be terrible to fight it, again?

“There’s something on your mind. We can hear it from here.”
No, they can always hear his rumination. That old reflex as he looks at the star chart plaque on a pillar.
The place looks like a laboratory with more books, more tablets. At the center, there is what could be compared to a planetarium, and yet large enough to have someone placed inside with a platform in the middle. A contraption, probably for teleportation and movement. Nevertheless, he stays on the star chart, watching and comparing what has changed.
“This place. They were working on a portal, were they not?”
“You’re hiding something, Drosk. You’re avoiding the topic.”
“Right,” he starts, exhaling. He has avoided the subject for far too long. But if they’re pushing, he can’t… Lie to them. No, he doesn’t want to. “You saw the horizon in the East?”
They nod. So they knew. They look at each other, then at the Half-Orc, who taps his broken tusk.
“We did not want to warn you. You would be too anxious or would be… Preparing for it. Or going to meet the danger. You don’t need to, it’s not them-”
“This is the end, is it not?”

Einlavir nods, then approaches, reaching for Drosk’s shoulder, touching it. His hands are calloused, but his touch soft. Comforting. They sigh, then Drosk’s shoulders drop, his gaze returning to the star chart.
“There is nothing to prevent, not at my level. But… Maybe these,” he points to the star chart then the device. “Could do. I count on you for your research.”
Like he did.

They were the researchers. Well, Einlavir first. From the beginning, he held the most influence over the scholars among the Reincarnated. He was the one guiding them, leading the projects, and oftentimes leading the expeditions. He was beaming those days.
And he was the one betrayed by the City, set aside for someone else, ditched by some arrivists. Those days, he was so scornful it was painful to even stand in the same room as him. He would mostly spend those days ruminating, leaving everyone else worrying and incapable of helping him. Though, he always returned, always sought more.

Hogorath was the second. At first, he had been working with the Adventurers alongside Drosk. But through the lack of initiative and inaction, the lack of sanction in any expeditions, he turned to the scholars so he could become a protector, for them, for Einlavir.
Drosk? No. He was no scholar. Counting, reading, memorizing, he knew it. But he preferred something concrete, real. Something that had weight or importance, something he could directly employ. Maybe it was the irony to know his “concrete” knowledge had no weight here, whereas they were the ones capable of understanding everything that was to be.

“I am leaving. I am returning to the tent.”
“What? What about the tablets?” asks Hogorath, holding one out.
“I can carry a few there so you can continue back there. But we will need a meal for tonight. Allow me to help.”
“This is not an attempt to check our perimeter? You told us you’d be fine, this time.”
“No. You can… Believe it,” mumbles Drosk. Not that he would have done a run like before. But it hurts not to be believed on that subject.
“Fine. If you can prepare us something light this time, no greasy stew!”

Greasy stew? That’s the most hearty food for someone on the run. Better than jerky or dry rations. Still, he nods at the request and grabs a stack of tablets to get them to the tent. Anything that seems useful but not critical as he glances at them, comparing with Einlavir’s notes.
And then… He descends. The stairs are sturdy, resilient. He descends them, and… Nothing.
His steps are continuous through the ruins, with the eerie sensation of being watched, and yet nothing exists here. His ears picked no sound whatsoever except the faint motion of falling sand and wind. And even outside, as the Desert’s sweltering atmosphere welcomes him, there’s nothing. And on the horizon, there is that darkness.

It was the truth.
Einlavir and Hogorath had compared notes before. No, all reincarnated, they compared notes about a corruption from an ancient civilization living in this plane. How someone had opened rifts and used necrotic spells to gain authority over the rest of the Realm.
In short, the entire plane was riddled with creatures, brigands, and whatever entity had managed to slip through and get a hold of whatever fools lived there. But it was curious how… Fool and stupids the inhabitants were. Never looking outward, keeping to themselves, and counting only on the reincarnated to set outposts.
In fact, it felt like… Like everything was a molasse or… Maybe a plot? An overarching but dull plot. A story in which they were to be the heroes but where the scene itself was unstable and comical.

And now, the scene is folding.
In the Western Fringes, they are potentially protected from the worst. But it will come for them. Hunt.
With a grumble, Drosk chases that idea away as he continues to cut the vegetables he has found around the Oasis.
Foraging was not his forte, but remembering what roots are toxic or comestible is fairly straightforward, as much as wielding a knife. He cuts, stabs, and reduces to nothing before he throws everything into the iron pan he has kept for so long. With a fatty chunk of meat for the taste.
“Do you need help?”

Hogorath’s voice is soft and caring. His fingers are twirling on his clothes. But his eyes are wholly on Drosk, who nods and points to the pan with his chin.
“Can you handle it? Check if it’s roasted,” he says. Then, he returns to his cutting. Roots… Herbs. Some plants he put aside. Those, he will let Einlavir handle.
“I am sorry if we kept you in the dark about the East,” starts Hogorath, his hand on the panhandle and shaking.
“What for?”
“It wounded you. We saw it with Einlavir.”
“No.”

His answer is clear, but as he sees the Dragonborn’s puzzled and focused expression, he relents. A sigh escapes his mouth as he sets the knife aside and reaches for their wooden spoon. He pulls it out of the bag and hands it to Hogorath.
“I kept you in the dark, too. You did it to protect me, so I am appreciative of it. No. This is about Einlavir’s question. I would not try to go against my vow even if I was truly in the dark.”
“Ah.”
The Dragonborn looks down and keeps scrapping the pan. It is worn, in some places even rusty. They will have to replace it, soon. But where to find a new one?
“So you are not angry at us?”
“No,” continues Drosk, no longer cutting and instead watching the flames. Watching Hogorath work. He could technically add more meat, but too much fat is not good. And they have not found much prey through the traps set around.

Hogorath’s gaze is still insisting, pushing him to open up further. And further. His eyes were so soft, eager, earnest. It was not pity. Or if it was, it was not the plaintive and self-righteous one. It was… Empathy. And longing.
“No. You know I do not want to be angry at you. I know well, entirely, that you are doing what you think is best for me. It hurts, but it is indicative that some of my actions are against my own interests.”
“You…” the Dragonborn inhales and exhales. A long, repeated discussion. “You are allowed to feel angry at us. And to be happy or proud of yourself. Don’t let what happened before torment you.”

And yet.
Yet. It is easier to grip at what happened, to remember, to make sure of not making the same error.
Old habits, old reflexes. When he first arrived, he thought he could not change. Then, he could find people to help him. Then… That he could improve. Then, he could wound others. Then, he could be worse. Then…
That his path is not always certain and perfect. Hoping every trouble would vanish over time is not stupid but driven by fear. What if he would never heal? What if he was utterly broken from the moment he stepped inside his Master’s shadow?

A hand, covered with warm scales, lands on his shoulder. Some wagging and moving, and here they are. Shoulders to shoulders. His gritting teeth stop and he smiles, at least allows it as he feels the comforting presence by his side.
“Let’s talk of something more joyful. Should we? It’s too bad you left so soon. We found a treaty on medicinal herbs. You should have seen Einlavir’s eyes!”
He does not have to see it; he can imagine it. He already saw the true joy when the Aasimar found something interesting and novel. Not a new person, or a man he would be interested in. Rather, something that reached him beyond that hedonistic attitude. Something…
“He will not leave the tower alone. Unless we drag him out. Should I?”
“Hmm. No, he promised me he would come here when he feels hungry.”
A nod.

A nod and then a chin landed on Drosk’s shoulder, warm. Rumbling.
“He also promised to give us a translation to read. So you won’t be bored.”
“There is…” Drosk starts, then he shakes his head. “I appreciate it. I already have your notes to read. It will take me time to catch up with you.”
“Hmm… But we have time.”
Time. Indeed. They have it.

Before their run for the West, beyond the Badlands, their lives were so full. Einlavir worked with the scholars and established his monastery. Hogorath handled the farm and deliveries to the nearby settlements. And Drosk did his perimeters run, and prepared for dangers.
Even then, they found time to be together. Be with the reincarnated passing by their Oasis, their home, their little garden.
Time for cooking together, eating together, bathing together. And more. It was more pleasant than working as a whore or slaving away for a guy. It was… Simpler.

“Let me handle Einlavir’s meal. Take a rest.”
Drosk looks at Hogorath, watching the rumbling and passive Dragonborn. The heat has that effect on him, making him sleepy. This place could have been perfect, in hindsight.
With a growl, Drosk reaches for that scutes-covered chin to scratch it, and then kisses it. Covering it with a few soft kisses, chaste even, before he pushes him away.
Just so he could finish preparing Einlavir’s plate and cover it. He puts it by the fire, so it remains warm.

In the back, Drosk hears the Dragonborn shuffling away and returning, his steps heavy. And then, the sound of something placed on the ground. A towel? Or a drape that strokes his scar-covered back before the Dragonborn huffs and lands on it. Sunbathing in the afternoon.
It is… Good. Not unnecessary. At moments, resting is far more efficient than working and pushing for more. At moments, it is merely better to close the eyes and relax, to sleep. That and eating. Everything else might be superfluous, but it is still… Good. Good for the soul.

“I will watch over. Rest.”
“Thanks,” grumbles the Dragonborn. And even though he says nothing, doesn’t force himself, Drosk scoots back and closer so he can have his hand on the Dragonborn’s back, tracing and softly caressing Hogorath’s bare scales and hard spine.
Under the fingers, the muscles relax. The tender contact is slowly expanding, going over the shoulder blades. They’re grazed but barely more. It is but a whisper against the scales, pressuring them but only for a second, even less. Then, the fingers are somewhere else, barely doing more than those nudges. It is not a matter of keeping him awake, but to make him feel… That sensation running down the spine, the relaxation of a touch so soft it is… Appeasing.
One touch so soft you are wanting and craving it.

One touch so soft. You have been missing it.
And Drosk offers it, passing a finger over the shoulders as he hears Hogorath’s relaxed breath. He guides him, lets him close his eyes and then. The growling sleep.
The Half-Orc’s eyes drift away from the fire. On the Sun starting its descent in advance. On the darkening sky. On the constellations swallowed by what happens away.

In the distance, if he squints, he is certain to see fire or something brazen. But too far.
So, he returns to the Dragonborn, stroking him and feeling how secure he is. He doesn’t move, the place is as safe as it can be. If not one of the most secure in that Realm.
Fleeing further would be a bad idea, though it is possible. It is always possible to move.

That’s something they did when leaving the chaos within the Highlands to go south. That’s something others did, too, when fleeing in all directions. There was even an elf, someone he had a fondness for, who had to run away due to the territorial disputes.
He rarely thought about her anymore. And wherever she was, he hoped she would still live. Or if not, it would have been painless. Odd.
He no longer had it in himself to wish for those he hated to die slowly. He merely… Wanted them gone. They and their insufferable presences, their controlling nature, their yearning for power.

“What’s the topic?”
A hand on the Half-Orc’s back. Calloused, Einlavir. He has approached softly, carefully so he would not wake up Hogorath. His hands are devoid of tablets, so he must have left them away. Then, Drosk points at the plate he prepared for the Aasimar, while patting the side beside him. But no, Einlavir goes for another seat after fetching the meal. He sits by Hogorath, adding to the hands brushing and stroking, going for the Dragonborn’s lower back.
In between, Hogorath might be rumbling, but he looks pleasantly satisfied. His voice is deep, his breathing regular.
“I was thinking how this place is perfect. Did you find anything?”
“No. Yes. I found a lot of information, but nothing about this portal. Yet,” grumbles Einlavir, waving the fork before he plants it into a cut root looking like a potato. He grunts at the taste: “It’s stale.”
“It is enough,” answers Drosk, shrugging and rolling his shoulders.
“So. The place is perfect? Tell me. It has no defense, nothing. I’m surprised you’re not going anxious and setting up a brick wall, somewhere.”
“If I truly want this, I can establish a wall at the ruins’ entrance. It could be a strong chokepoint,” continues Drosk, passing his index against Hogorath’s neck, scratching it. “But there is no need.”
“Hmm? Continue?”
“Whatever comes, it is for everyone. This is not something physical like an army or soldiers, it is beyond my reach. I accept this.”
“Amusing. Because you can do something about it.” Points out Einlavir, waving a chunk of meat before he gobbles it. “You can pick your brain to help us.”

For a moment, Drosk scoffs.
He had been told he was too stupid to be in a cobbler’s workshop. Too stupid to be a good investment. Too stupid for being civilized. And too stupid to understand people’s exchanges that went over his head.
Receiving the opposite, being told his mind is useful is as pleasing as surprising, as rattling.
“I can. But I will not ignore the camp’s needs,” he starts, watching Einlavir wave the fork again as if to invite him further. “Organizing, cooking, hunting.”
“Pass.”
“Pass?”
“Pass on your cooking,” chuckles Einlavir, still taking a bite. “Hogorath’ll be our cock. You’ll hunt and organize. But when our Dragon’s busy cooking, you will help me.”
“Even if he tries his stuffed innards?”
“Even!”

With a chuckle, Drosk gives up and raises both hands. If his cooking doesn’t please, he can’t fight. And so, he sighs. Sighs and reclines, looking around.
“So… What is the history of that faction? They seem different from the elders and their curses.”
“Hmm. Do you want the abridged version?”
“The palatable version.”
“Shortly? They were a faction living among their peers in their capital, the ruins we had to map out, but they fled when the Sorcerer King tried his grand ritual and committed with Tiamat’s champion. They were thinking of a way out. And on settling here, they installed wards to protect themselves from the King’s magic. They were not found, and they started to prosper before they vanished. Or died away.”
“My allegations about those ruins’ security were true.”
“Oh, more than that. You can’t scry them. No. You cannot even teleport to them.”
“Well. You cannot teleport in and out of this place.”

Something that was… Well, it was not like they could not teleport. But the options were restricted. It was possible to use trinkets to teleport across the land. Outside the realm? Fat chance. However, they could have worked with the other clans to build a network of portals… If not for the constant infighting, the City barring it, and the physical limitations for building grand-scale portals. It would have helped secure the roads and the outposts. But… No.
So many stupid choices… And now…

“Are you still mad about this?” asks Einlavir, knowing how touchy the subject is.
“Mad? No. But if it would have been different. Maybe we would have been more than us three.”
“What? Are you thinking about saving more? Plus, it could have been the opposite.”
“It is a what if. But I have friends I would have gladly led here. If not for… That end,” grumbles Drosk, closing his eyes and stroking the back of Hogorath’s nape.
“So. The security?”

“Right. They constructed this place to weather the Realm’s destruction. But in the end, it never happened. So they settled, continued their research, expanded the city. Then… Yup. Done. I think it was an epidemic.”
“Like that? Without flair?”
“Nada. The most recent documents were talking about the day to day life with some falling ill. By any means, without that portal thing, they would have been another community suddenly vanishing…”
“But this is not a dud. We have that portal.”
“No. Yes,” continues Einlavir, waving his finger as he set his meal aside. “But I think I will have more in store once I confirm my suspicion. I am going to bed. Will you join me?”

One glance down, and Drosk smiles, standing up as he fights against his legs. Hogorath is still sleeping, but it doesn’t stop him from reaching beneath the sleeping Dragonborn. From passing a hand underneath that back and, through Einlavir’s help, to have the big lug lifted.
“Hrmph… What’s going on?”
“We are going to bed. I do not want to leave you sleeping outside.”
“’is nice. Thanks.”
Behind them, the night sky is already welcoming them… Strange days, indeed.

-

“What do you think of this?”
With one tablet in hand, Drosk points at one sentence. One line: “The curse of this plane cannot be undone without divine power.”
At least, that’s what he can read without having the complete vocabulary or his favorite Dragonborn around.

“Ominous. But in the failure pile. What else have you found?”
“A treaty on the weave, I think,” mumbles Drosk, squinting at the document he has tried to read without growing bored or frustrated at the tangents explaining the difference between the weave here and a web. A strange read his mind would not wrap around it for at least a few years.
“Give it to me, I’ll read it. And Hogorath?”
“He is still cooking for us. I think we will not find any more clue on what happened here.”

The tower is different, way different since they have found the portal. Most of the tablets have been moved back to camp or downstairs. Downstairs, where they have even started to pile up their supplies inside, making it easier than to pack everything inside when a sandstorm sweeps through.
It would even be smarter to move inside entirely, if not for the water access and the food they have been foraging around the Oasis.
“Nonsense. I am feeling close to a breakthrough. This… There is something here we have not seen. I mean, look at those buildings.”
Still, the Half-Orc looks at them without a hint of surprise.

“Yes?”
“I mean. How are they still standing?”
“Hmm. They used an excellent material? Or engineering knowledge we do not possess?”
“Thhth,” answers Einlavir, wagging his finger. “I tried to meditate here and communicate with Earth, here. And what do you know?”
“I cannot say.”
“I… Couldn’t… Hear it.”
“This is… A bad thing, is it not?”
“No. This is an excellent thing!”
“What’s excellent?”

Already, Drosk turns his head towards their Dragonborn. Holding their meals in a plate and their water skin in his backpack, Hogorath is just in time to stop the conversation as he puts everything on a stone desk at the corner of the room.
“Einlavir cannot communicate with the Earth inside the ruins.”
“Uh… Strange. I cannot do the same with Bahamut. I cannot feel anything.”
“You, too,” goes Einlavir, almost exultant as he looks around. Almost expecting, almost looking for something that’s not there. Even then, he looks. And so follow Drosk and Hogorath, curious as to what gets him so riled up, so curious, so perky.
“You don’t get it?”
“I am no mage or whatsoever. I have an inkling, but… Could you enlighten us?”
He turns to the Dragonborn, who nods in return. The curiosity is there, but the answer doesn’t now follow.

“Have you tried to pray outside the ruins?” asks Einlavir, biting into the fried leaves, letting them crinkle before he chugs everything down with water.
“No. I didn’t try. I can do that after we eat. It’ll be-”
“Let me stop you here,” chuckles Einlavir, raising one hand to stop the Dragonborn in his line of thinking.
“That’s fine. It’ll work. Because I got it! An enchantment or a rune blocks any magic from leaving the ruins!”
“It makes sense if it is impossible to scry or track down. If it cuts someone from entering, it cuts-”
“Someone from leaving. That’s the issue. I cannot find the rune.”
“I could have helped,” adds Drosk, biting into the dry meat. Hogorath, in comparison, remains silent but mindfully eating. “Besides searching through the tablets or bringing them to the camp.”
“Doubtful.”
“Doubtful?”

Drosk observes Einlavir, waiting for an answer. Yet, for a moment, the Aasimar acts as if there is nothing. He eats, drinks, puts the dishes, aside and crosses his arms. He grins, offers that rogue smile.
“You would throw yourself at it if I told you. You would inspect every nook and cranny of those ruins without the certainty it is there and not underneath the sand.”
True. Drosk ruminates, his teeth grinding while he ponders. But he nods.
“I could have searched through the same documents as you do.”
“And not understand what I’m seeking exactly? No, you are better at this.”
“This?”
“At searching on a broad scale. You kept tabs on clans and people that were so far, you were capable of finding connections. If you search where I don’t, you can find something useful to me. I trust your ability.”
“He is right. I believe Einlavir can find what he wants in the documents. But you’re better handling what’s on the side, Drosk. You have an eye for what’s been ignored.”

And that… Yes. They’re right.
Damned and yet right. He used to observe the other clans when they still lived under the City’s scrutiny. He used to prod and asks information, just like his Master taught him once. And he made connection.
When that cult to Asmodeus started to take root, he was the one handling the affair. He was the one who had planned to employ them at least for a temporary gain while preparing for an assault on their fortress. He had etched the plans to access the isolated plateau on which they settled.
It was he who tracked whoever attempted to join them, took the counts, ensured they were not encroaching, poaching, or acting up.
Likewise… Likewise to the other menaces. The cult of Asmodeus had been the most recent. But there were others. He had lost his notebooks and maps, some through an accident, some through their dastard escape to the desert.
But he had spent hours scratching inks, words, plans, elaborating on what was to happen, what danger could strike them. People found him frightening, but it also allowed Hogorath and Einlavir not to be stressed by the chaos outside their door.
He… Can accept that compliment, that he is perceptive in ways others are not.

So. He nods.
“This is accurate. I will continue my work. And should you want me to help on the tablets, I can help.”
“Oh, I will need your help! For the notes. You’re better at this than me,” quips Hogorath, his scales almost taking a rubicund color as blood rushes to his face.
“You do not need that to make me feel good. But I know this is not what you meant,” says Drosk, pushing his plate aside before he stretches and groans. “But I might need you two.”
“How’s that?” asks Einlavir, surprised. But intrigued.
“If it’s to leave you strut outside for a perimeter, now, I think Einlavir can accept this? Right?”
“Right.”

Still, he leaves the two wondering and talking before he coughs and shakes his head.
“No. Hogorath. Hmm. Einlavir, when you contact the Earth in the ruins, how does it feel?”
“Like it is cut off. But if I move, it can improve. I tried to map it, but it’s fluctuating per moment.”
“Hogorath. If I remember, you can faintly feel Einlavir if you focus enough.”
“You know it’s not perfect. I can feel his energy, but… It’s not perfect.”
“I only need to know when you cannot sense him anymore,” adds Drosk as he looks at Einlavir, who’s rubbing his chin.
“I get it. The spell must have a perimeter. You want me and Hogorath to find where the limits are.”
“It must be a sphere around its source, or at least it can be mapped. Partially. If we know the extent of the effect…”
“We can pinpoint where we should search. Without reading all tablets. See, when I told you you can come up with solutions.”
“Hmm,” cut in Hogorath, raising one hand. “You know I can’t always so do this. It’s exhausting if I do it too many times.”
“We will not overdo it, if you are wondering. But we can start today, and advance little by little. What do you think?”

Drosk looks at the two, at his partners, lovers. And those who have protected him with their lives while he has done the same for theirs. And what he can do, as he belongs here.
“Let’s do this! We finish to eat, and we follow with Drosk’s plan.”
“Let me fetch something before we start. And I will need you to point me where you can safely use your powers.”

Then, with that note, they are back to eating or reading. For Drosk, he is content with waiting and thinking about the ruins.
They were built inside a cavern, though the structure is odd and impossible. Near the center, but further back, was the Tower where they settled. But on the way there, it would be possible to find any type of construction ranging from bathhouses, libraries, or townhouses in numbers that made each back and forth a long trek. It took Drosk around one hour to pass through the ruins, which meant the rune was to be a powerful enchantment. Moreover, to cover such a distance, it had to be near the center, which coincidentally stuck to the tower and the adjacent buildings, bigger than most constructions on the outskirts.
However, as Einlavir pointed out, some buildings were partially buried under the sand.
If it happened the structure was underneath the sand, they would have to count on Einlavir only. He was the only one capable of excavating quickly without damaging anything.

“So. You got what you wanted?” asks the latter, hands on his hips and looking back at Drosk.
In the Half-Orc’s hands, there were sticks. Simple but sturdy with little clothes he had attached to them. He had to sacrifice one of his attires, but it was a good sacrifice and he wasn’t using it much, anyway.
“Hmm, hmm,” he nods, weighting the sticks. Nothing fancy. But it is more useful as he offers some to Einlavir while passing a hand over Hogorath’s shoulder. “We will put ourselves at the limit where you cannot communicate. It will be our base. From there, I count on your speed to move across the ruins.”
“And exposing me to danger?”
“What kind of danger?”
“If something hurts you, we will hurt it more,” snides Hogorath, offering both a smile. “I should focus on Einlavir?”
“Not now. But you will. And when you lose contact with him, you tap me. I will shout. And Einlavir will plant a stick where he is, wait one minute, and then move again.”
With that, Drosk reaches for the sandy ground, hastily drawing a diagram. At first a circle, but with the buildings appearing inside like a construction.
“I assume the spell will be focused on that area. So… If you can do a sweep by moving from the inside and outside of that circle.”
“It’s… Convoluted.”
“It might give us a better view. If there is a zone where the spell fails, we can notice it. And likewise, if it spills over. We will sweep close to the entrance and then circle around the center to have a proper view.”
“How many times should we do that?” grunts Hogorath, already dreading the exhaustion… Magic was not without a cost.
“If we manage to do it fast enough, eight days. Then it will be over.”
A grunt.

-

“It didn’t help.”
“Not at all,” he confirms.
He confirms as he looks at the map. With the different sweeps they made, the notes and markings are all over the place. In the end, the mapping ends with something that looks closer to a map with points everywhere.
Instead of ending with a circle, they got such a convoluted formation that Einlavir had to request more sticks. Drosk had to remove the older ones, too, while marking it all on a map he hastily drew the first days in the ruins.
More and more, the plan to find that portal or that way out was gnawing at the three. With each passing, they were focusing less and less outward. Outside.

Outside… Where the sandstorms were starting to grow dangerous enough for them to settle their tent in the ruins. To start creating a tunnel to get the water flowing inside the former baths. Such an idea hadn’t been without delaying their research. But they could survive a bit more inside with their rations… But even by hiding in the ruins, they saw it. There was the Horizon.
The East had become a bleeding sun, even at night, with fissures growing across the sky each day. The situation could no longer be ignored… The winds coming from the East carried the stench of putrefaction and death. It made them cough and ill, only for Hogorath’s healing magic to be the sole protection against it.
They were pressed by time.

So much it has become easy to read anguish on Hogorath’s reptilian muzzle, the tension in Einlavir’s jaw… Or yet, the uneasiness in their meals around the fire.
Through a lucky find, Drosk has encountered a fireplace that can be activated with a mere word. Something that should have been a regular occurrence, but not in the tower… Forcing them to settle in one of the surrounding houses.
With their complete work, the three are sitting and watching the map. With all the tracing done, what could follow is… A sort of embellishment, similar to constellations. As if someone has decided it would be better to decorate the map with symmetrical and wavy lines. In a way, it makes sense. But in the other, instead of a circle, they have that shape which can still be attributed to the tower, at the center.
But… They searched it.

“What about the tablets?”
The piles have been moved inside their new camp, or back in the tower. What has been read has been set aside, forming a large stack that could threaten to fall if not for its many brothers and sisters of stacks. Even if it was necessary, everything has been read. And now… it leaves them with only themselves as they are feeding on roots, the spices and salt gone a while ago.
Still, it is bearable for the Half-Orc as he bites into them, similarly to Einlavir. Hogorath, he seems nonplussed.
“I scoured them all. Even the cooking manuals, they’re not helpful. It’s crazy, they wanted to remove that portal. But couldn’t. I saw it in their texts.”
“They described it like a hole or a tear they closed it the best they could,” adds Hogorath, leaving the roots aside before he takes a chug of water. He is thinner. They are all thinner already, though they could bear it a bit further.

A bit further, then what?
Drosk looks down, feeling the weight of his belt and blade. They, too, must have thought about it.
“Let us work through what we know. Einlavir, do you confirm the portal worked?”
“It did. They wrote about it. It opened, sucked the mages working on it, and they closed it. But for a moment, they were able to confirm the Mages’ well-being before they cut everything off.”
Drosk nods, taping his broken tusk. His reflexes, beyond ruminating, while he sets aside the map.
“How long between the incident and the inhabitants’ death?”
“I don’t know exactly. From the details, maybe two generations?”
“Three,” mumbles Hogorath, solemn. “They had children there.”

Continuing his taping, Drosk then looks down at the map. Imitated by Hogorath, as he, too, is glancing at it. Same as Einlavir.
“So they stayed here despite the danger. It could be fair… To imagine they were maintaining the protection they created or found a way to hide it.”
“Do you have an idea?” asks Einlavir, finishing his roots and sitting, looking away. Wine would be a neat addition, but no. It has run dry, too.
“Only a last-time solution. Breaking,” starts Drosk. Only to be met with an intense gaze from the two. An intense gaze he has to disarm by raising both arms, hands extended. “Before you ask me if I went crazy, let me explain.”

He sighs. And takes a deep breath.
“None of us can feel magic. Or rather, I cannot, and you two feel what you are attuned with. The tower is clearly at the center of the structure and should be where the portal is. It is fair to assume everything was hidden before the former inhabitants disappeared.”
Hastily, he reaches for another stack of paper, one of the last, and draws a plan of the tower, pointing at many points.
“Near the stairs. Underneath the central tile. And maybe inside the non-structural pillars. Those are the sole options I see. Where they could have hidden a rune or anything the like.”

All the while, Hogorath keeps chugging, watching the map and the quick drawing.
“We’ll destroy the entire tower with that line of thinking. And we’re not even sure if the portal is still active. At worst, it’d destroy our only protection.”
“No. We are not sure. But do we have another option? Stepping outside is not a solution,” adds Drosk, watching Hogorath. “Not anymore.”
Surely, the Dragonborn is showing a tough front. But he was also the most impacted by their exposure to the curse outside. He healed it, he said. But even then, it took a toll on him.
“No,” nods along Einlavir, his gaze directed at the same direction before he shakes his head off, passing a hand into his kept but un-oiled hair. “We’ll do as you say. And maybe, find that damned protection.”

And so… The ransacking is allowed.
Even after a night of sleep, even with a meager meal, it is the tower that’s the target of their focus as they have little time left. It would not take long before the corruption seeps inside, and no amount of wards could stop it. They saw it in the East, in the expeditions to oust undead and the like.
The ground itself is shaking slightly each hour. It stirred them at first, but now… It is a reminder, like a beating heart whose rhythm hastens, ever so slowly.
Their hearts are beating faster, too, as they are working under that pressure.

Einlavir’s task is the first. With the others’ help, they have removed everything that is not bolted or made of stone. Everything else, it is up to Einlavir to break it with his abilities.
Manipulating stone is more than a useful talent, and as he punches through the rock, sending pebbles flying, the others watch him from a safe distance.
They are protecting themselves, observing as he toils… And finally takes a break, allowing them to kick the pebbles aside and observe what is under the central tile. Foundations.
“Are you certain that’s it?”
Drosk turns his eyes to Einlavir, watching the flicker in the Aasimar’s eyes. He reaches for that shoulder, of gold and rosy skin, to rub it.
“I am not sure. But let’s try.”
As he says that, he looks over his shoulder. Hogorath is nearby, hastily pushing pebbles away. Then, slips away, to the little setup he and Drosk have established while waiting. To the map of the city and the protection around it. His eyes wander on it… Even when Drosk joins him and sits by him.

In the distance, the thumps from Einlavir breaking the stone resonate. They echo within the abandoned town, shaking them whenever a particularly nasty hit breaks through the foundations.
“I don’t think that’s the solution Drosk. If we break everything, we might break the portal, too.”
“I… Yes,” grumbles Drosk, tilting his head. “But it should open nonetheless. Right? It is a rift?”
“Hmm hmm,” nods Hogorath, his claws clicking. “But I read about fractured portals in the Nexus’ library. Sometimes, when a portal is broken halfway, you’re sent somewhere else.”
“On Faerun? We would be split… But alive? Is that what you mean?”
“More like sent everywhere possible. Astral, Ethereal, Elemental… Whatever. I don’t want to be burned again if I land in the elemental fire.”
“And I would rather not end in hell,” answers Drosk, crossing his arms. The idea of this, of what could be in the afterlife. No. He is not one of faith, or rather he only believes in the certainty that everything that is would perish or vanish. But… Death is not something he welcomes. And if he fights it, he can gain a few more minutes, hours, days, or more. “You have a preference of where you would be?”

“Uh… Not really. I heard… Well, I read through texts on what awaits us. Please, don’t look at me like that. I wanted to know how it would be for Einlavir,” mumbles Hogorath, passing a finger on the map. “I read about Elysium, where he will be if his Father welcomes him back. It is a lush land, covered with forest and trees, from what I read. But not like where we lived. It’s always warm, but not too much. And you can pick fruits wherever you want. It’s a perfect place.”
“It is?”
As Hogorath is starting to explain, he pushes away the map and grabs his knife. One he uses to draw in the sand. A circle. With sixteen dots around and one in the middle. And he points at the one right above everything else.
“When we die. We are taken somewhere on those planes. I don’t know much about them. But Einlavir could land at the top. I mean, it’s probably that one.”
Slowly, Drosk looks at the other points… Even the one at the center.
“And you? Where would you be? If you had the choice?”
“Hmm…” Hogorath fumbles a bit, then he points with his knife on the left. One. Two dots.
“Mount Celestia.”

“It is a bit on the left,” mumbles Drosk, thinking about it.
“It doesn’t mean it’s a worse place. It’s different. At least, for the five above,” points Hogorath, waving his knife at all those. “They represent different… Paradises. And Celestia. There’s Bahamut there.”
“He is?” asks Drosk, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, his house. That’s what I read. A palace where he hoards his treasure, watched over by great wyrms. He is said to feed on honey, grass, and petals there.”
A smirk escapes Drosk, and a slight snort. But he feels Hogorath elbow press against his sides without hurting.
“Don’t laugh!”
“I am serious. I find it absurd,” groans Drosk, though he shakes his head. “But continue. What is so nice about Mount Celestia?”
“Well. It is a big mountain. A big mountain where you have steps. And the more you climb, the more beautiful it is supposed to be.”
“Is that so?”
“Hmm, hmm! Imagine a silvery sea, perfect, and scintillating under the night sky. Then, above, you are suddenly in endless daylight. It’s where they house their soldiers. And they’re so many, they are constantly training and fighting to protect the paradises from devils and demons!”
“And above?”
“I… Did not read much further. Once I learned about Bahamut’s palace at that level, I searched for more details. But the Nexus’ library didn’t have much about the outer planes. Einlavir might know more.”
“I should ask him more about this. It sounds… Relaxing.”
“It’s surprising you’ve never learned about it. You went through Einlavir’s books when he borrowed them.”
“I focused on the medicinal treaties. But I should have dwelled into them.”
“Dwelled into what?”

Almost lost in their discussions, Hogorath and Drosk turn their head towards the sweat and dust-covered Einlavir. From there, it’s clear the sand has covered most of his body. But his traits remain visible as he drops to the ground, sitting in front of them. He crosses his legs, grunts, and massages his slightly bruised knuckles.
“We were talking about the paradises. We went on a tangent.”
“Urgh. Please, not that. For once, I’m glad I cannot feel my father’s constant nagging here. If I leave for some higher place, he will track me.”
“Yeah… Sorry.”
“Hogorath explained to me what he liked in Mount Celestia after our tangent. But we were thinking if the excavation might break the portal and how it could send us anywhere.”
“Then, good news!”

Drosk’s lips perk up ever so slightly, even as his eyes. Hogorath’s nostrils dilate, the anticipation there. But everything drops.
“There was nothing linked to the portal there. Or even the rune. It was not that.”
“Too bad… We had a good plan,” mumbles Hogorath, returning to the ruins’ map. “Maybe it’s in another building.”
“Wait. I only did the foundations.”
“We have more to do,” explains Drosk, wiping the crude drawing by Hogorath as he puts down the map. But only Einlavir follows him.

“Near the stairs, I doubt it will be there. Therefore, it must be the pillar.”
“Hmmm… What about-”
“Which one should I break?”
“That one and that one, first. They are not load-bearing and the most recent.”
“I… Did you notice it?”
“I’ll handle them. Just point me where I should hit.”
“Let-”
“Drosk.”
Just at the moment of standing up and moving, Hogorath’s hands grip him. Grip the map he brings, before he points at it. The Half-Orc ruminates but sits back, looking at the map.
“What is this?”
“It struck me now, after we talked about… Well. The ruins and the wards. Doesn’t it look close to a constellation?”
“Uh… It’s true,” adds Einlavir, his brows lifting and then rolling. He passes a hand on his beard, stroking it.
“Hmm, hmm. Indeed. Just like the star chart they were using,” confirms Drosk, pondering. “Like… The one upstairs.”
“Upstairs?”

Before Hogorath’s surprise, the Half-Orc shrugs then taps his legs, standing up.
“You did not see it? There is a star chart engraved on one of the pillars. A load-bearing pillar, so I assumed it was better not to touch it.”
“That’s… That’s it!”
Hogorath’s eyes suddenly fire up as he stands up, too, placing a hand on the Half-Orc’s shoulder to shake it.
“It is only a plaque.”
“It must be hidden underneath. We only have to destroy it!”
“But if we do… The structure.”

Drosk looks at the two. But their brazen and suddenly perky attitude leaves him no choice as he sighs and nods.
“Fine. We will try.”
It’s not like he has any other options. He was drawing straws at this point, he had been guessing and wondering without Einlavir or Hogorath’s knowledge. But they were better at this. Maybe he should have told everything he had noticed earlier?

Still, he follows. He follows as he quickly steps around the crater Einlavir dug up in an attempt to reach something, anything. Still, they walk around it, avoiding the perilous fall before they near the staircase.
With the tremors, Einlavir reinforced them regularly. But it is not the time for them to worry as they climb upstairs. Drosk’s calloused hand is on the stone, feeling the quiver inside as he climbs higher and reaches where the portal would be… Useless, broken.
And yet, behind it, there is the plaque. The one he points to.
“That one,” he says, approaching and followed.

“I can’t feel anything from it,” says Hogorath, grimacing.
“If it’s a rune or a protection, they must have made it to be inconspicuous,” growls Einlavir as he closes his fist and… Punch.
His arm pass through the stone with ease, breaking it apart in a loud thump followed by the cry of ceramic dropping on the floor. Behind it? Nothing.
“Another failure. It must be somewhere else.”
“Uh… What about breaking the other plaques around the city?” asks Hogorath, grimacing.
“We can… Drosk, you’ve got a map of them?”
“Yes I-… Wait.”

Drosk’s eyes open as he turns toward one of the tower’s windows. A whistle. A faint noise he can hear.
“Do you hear it?”
“Hear… It’s… A whistle?” mumbles Einlavir.
“It sounds like it,” says Drosk as he squints. It comes from the entrance, and…
CLAC!
The sound comes not from the entrance but from somewhere else, and the whistling grows stronger.
CLAC!
It is like the sound of ceramic that’s breaking with enough strength to echo. And with each occurrence, the whistling is stronger. Like something slipping inside. And… Cracks start to appear. Cracks in the stone ceiling above the ruins.

“Uh… Drosk? Einlavir?”
Forced to look away, the two turn to Hogorath. Hogorath, who’s pointing at the portal. At the rift inside out of thin air. One that’s opening, like a block of stone splitting up.
“It’s… it’s the portal!”
CLAC!
The fissure increases in size, but so is the whistling. A whistling that’s slowly growing like a howling. Like a beast entering, approaching, like… Wind. Cursed.
The eyes toward the windows, Drosk sees the fractures in the stone ceiling above the buildings. And beyond that, dark waves sweep across the sand-riddled town below.
“The protection!” he shouts, looking at the two. “We left everything at the camp!”
“We can’t get to it!” answers Hogorath back, his teeth gritting as another CLAC echoes within the ruins, and the ground starts to shake.

Around, the town is swept by those waves coming from the entrance, like a tidal wave. It reaches and erodes, devouring the smaller buildings one by one. The Earth seems to break apart. Blocks of stone drop from the ceiling, falling on the stone roads while the tower holds fast.
And the rift, the portal, is opening up. With each CLAC, it grows but not fast enough as the three are standing in front of it, disarmed.

They don’t have to say it. They know. As the ceiling drops, as the sky appears through the cracks, they see the fissures across the sky. They see the blinding light slipping inside and seemingly devouring the stone. They destroyed their sole protection against the plane’s destruction. And now, whatever… Whatever brought destruction is entering the ruins and devouring what remains.
“You… You are right,” mumbles Drosk, noticing the waves sweeping higher, making it almost impossible to see the ground and sand below. Then, he returns to the rift as it opens.

As it’s fiery and ablaze, like an iridescent magma. It changes, it distorts, and it twists as it grows and reaches half their heights. It is small. But they cannot force it to open. They’re no practitioners.
CLAC!
“Are you certain about the mages and if they survived?” asks Drosk, already feeling a slight pull. Enough for him to plant his feet on the stone despite the tremors growing in intensity. The tower itself is shaking, and in that instant, the three’s eyes are focused on the growing portal.
“I am not! They wrote they saw them!” answers Einlavir, shouting amidst the chaotic howling that’s coming from outside.
The ground level is almost covered. And above, well… The stone ceiling is entirely gone, broken, and swallowed. Even the tower’s trembling, the roof holding but not for long.
“Then, it’s good!” shouts Hogorath, trembling.

Trembling like Einlavir. Like Drosk.
They are all trembling as what they have, what they had, is truly disappearing. The peace, the joy, the satisfaction in little lives as field workers, as artisans, as protectors, as teachers. What they had. What they held dear in this plane. Everything’s going away.
Everything has vanished since. And they’re alone.
Together. Alone in this tower, as it’s crumbling from below and above, as their sole escape is a portal they don’t know if it will work.

For once, Drosk swallows his saliva and reaches for Einlavir’s hand. He finds stuck in a tight fist, finds the knuckles tense, almost white from the pressure. And he reaches for them, pressing his palm.
Einlavir’s eyes turn to him… Then to Hogorath as he’s held. As he’s forced to open his hands and welcome theirs, their hands.
They tremble and are afraid. Uncertainty is there, and even the inured souls find themselves facing oblivion, the end of a world, their world. And still… They take a deep breath. In unison.

CLAC!
CLAC! CLAC!
CLAC! CLAC! CLAC!
The remaining plaques are breaking somewhere away; the sound is so loud it pierces through the wind. And with it, they watch the rift grow. Grow. And grow.
The pull on it is too intense, and they must step back. But as they do, they hear the rumble of a wall breaking down, and finally, the tower cap is ripped off. Stone flies, attracted by the burning white sky up above, swallowing everything.

Beyond the portal. There is still that fiery light, that uncertainty.
“Are you ready?!” shouts Einlavir, trying to plaster a tense smile on his face.
“I’m with you!” answers Hogorath.
“One!” shouts Drosk, holding onto the hand tighter.
CLAC! The portal is now big enough for them, for all three.
“TWO!” joins in Einlavir and Hogorath, emptying their lungs.
CLAC! The tower trembles, the stone floor is coming apart.
“THREE!”

There is another CLAC. It echoes behind them. But they run. They run altogether into the portal as they traverse it. As they pass through the trembling threshold. They feel it like cold water rushing toward their skins, their scales. And then… It swallows them in a ripple before they disappear.
Around…
Around. What their world was is finally coming to an end: the City, the clans, their refuge, their home. Everything’s coming to an end.
But finally. They are free from this place.

-

The air is humid, cold, but bearable in that early morning. The winter weather is brutal, but with enough clothes, it is possible to ward off its bite. More than that, there is nothing that can beat a lit hearth.
Still, the ashen hands work. They toil to moor the boat. Today’s fishing was fruitful. That… And, well, another soul.
“Do not wait for me. Follow the road. It will lead you right where you want.”

A sigh, but there is no point in fighting the order. With a grunt, the nets are lifted and set aside one by one, filled to the brim with seafood and fish that will feed the town.
Still, the path ahead is not on the quay or the little houses bordering the ravenous sea. It is a path leading upstairs, passing by the city of wood and stones. It looks almost abandoned, with only modest and small souls there. Some are toiling the harsh ground despite the winter, cutting wood, preparing the granary, and shepherding the beasts. By squinting, it is possible to see most are wearing the same attires of newly minted monks, ochre.
Though the cling of metal hits echoes through and dares the gaze.

Red flames meet gold as the hammer falls, flattening the steel that would become either a sword or a horseshoe. Fire keeps coming from that breath as the pliers are trembling but holding firmly even when they are brought close to a gaping mouth and exposed to fire.
But the path continues. It ascends the old stones as the climb turns from a mere inclination to stairs. Stairs that go beyond the little town slowly coming back to life. On the outskirts, you see more houses built or restored from abandoned foundations.

Beyond. There are the vast plains, wind-swept, and bringing along their natural fragrance between the biting breeze. The higher, the more stones seem to overtake the landscape along with the trees, completing the scenery if one gazes upon the southern side.
Still, the stone path leads further ahead.
A young monk, a Tiefling with reddish skin and short-cut fiery hair, is standing near the entrance. Her jaw relaxes at the approach, and a hand welcomes the passage inside the monastery.
Built of stone, gray and used, it looks flamboyant with the banners at the entrance. There is an aura, of joy and invigoration once close enough.

One that seems to ward the harshness from the North, the ruggedness of the stone, the isolation. It is a home. A refuge. Far from civilization as it is known. A place only a few seem to know and can reach safely despite the treacherous currents. But it is… Safe. It feels safe as it is untouched by the wars outside, by the creatures waging conflict.
Without even an introduction, here he is. The Master. His glowing gaze might be strict, but it is soon to mellow and soften. As it will soon change into a grin as today’s training is starting early.
It will take the neophytes through the chaos of rocks, inside the caverns, atop the cliffs, just so they can learn from, and feel the elements.

It would take them across that domain, once abandoned, forgotten. And now repurposed to be a place of joy and learning.
Maybe more will come. Maybe nobody. But it is enough.
Whatever might have happened before, here is our refuge. Our place of respite. Isolated, yes, but welcoming. And the place we can be without fear and judgment.