This is what Eshurin has been up to while I've been away handling housing.The final word count is 3407 pages. I hope you enjoy the read
A summons from the Llynburh Chapterhouse had arrived to the Abanweard estate some time ago with urgency, bearing news that a town near Blackiron City had been burnt and ravaged. While many survivors having fled to the city for refuge, a handful of guards and elders remained behind to hold what was left of their home. They didn't speak of raiders or bandits but of a monster wreathed in molten fire, moving with unnatural speed and precision. The devastation was not random as the Investigation team concluded—it bore a magical link like something designed would have. The investigators had traced its origins to a fort in the outskirts, but now repurposed by magic to hide a laboratory sealed with incantations.
He had departed at dawn, standing upon his Makk-Shield, the blessed construct gliding smoothly beneath him. The shield, gifted to him by his father, bore ancient etchings related to his culture and family, inscribed with blessings and words of incantation. The spirits bound within it whispered at the edges of his mind, guiding his path, their presence a steady hum in the back of his thoughts. With each shift of his stance, the Makk-Shield responded seamlessly, weaving through the rugged terrain as if weightless, defying the broken land below. The wind howled past him, carrying the acrid scent of smoldering wood and burned flesh. He had seen destruction before, but something about this felt different—more cruel. As the ruins of the village came into view, the weight of duty pressed heavier upon him.
Eshurin crouched among the charred remains in the settlement, his fingers grazing over the scorched earth. The heat that lingered was not the wild spread of a natural blaze; it was precise, searing in distinct patterns. A force had guided these flames, carving through wood and stone with a cruel, deliberate hand. The villagers' accounts painted a haunting image—a massive figure of obsidian and embers, leaving behind only molten footprints and the ghostly wail of something neither wholly living nor dead. But the whispers in the wind carried more than the acrid scent of burning. They carried pain—deep, unfathomable suffering, a suffering that lingered even in the stone itself.
Closing his eyes, Eshurin let his elemental attunement reach into the landscape. The ruined homes and cracked earth bore the imprints of agony, echoes of a presence that had not always been a monster. The soil trembled beneath his touch, not just with heat, but with a deep-seated memory of transformation mixed with agony. Through the whispers of stone and soil, he caught the faintest traces of the past—steps leading away from the village, into the skeletal remains of an abandoned Ashaven fort. Something had been twisted there, reforged in flames and torment. The suffering in the land was not old—it was fresh, renewed by something lurking within those ruins.
The air in the town still simmered with tension, the very earth groaning beneath him as if recoiling from the devastation. He rose, his keen eyes scanning the horizon where the jagged silhouette of the ruined fort loomed like the shattered ribcage of a beast long dead. Each step he took away from the village felt like stepping deeper into the past, into a history carved into the bones of the land itself.
With his spear in hand, Eshurin followed the invisible path that only the land itself could reveal from the very steps of the query responsible for the village. The ruined fort, swallowed by time and volcanic ash, had once been a bastion of the army. Judging by the remains of the dummies that rats had chewed apart to train the city's next soldiers but they most likely moved the location of the facility to a place more well-suited. Now, it was a graveyard of lost history. The shattered ramparts stood like the ribs of a fallen beast, and the crumbling halls whispered of the past with each footfall. The banners of old wars still clung in faded tatters, forgotten by time. As he moved through the abandoned corridors, the weight of forgotten battles and long-buried voices pressed against his senses. But beneath them all, there was one presence that still lingered. Watching. Waiting through that similar connection to the Aloria as he possessed..
The closer he drew, the more unnatural the air became. The volcanic heat pulsed in waves, not as a byproduct of the mountain's breath but as the heartbeat of something still clinging to existence. The stone walls bore not only the scars of time but the frantic claw marks of something that had tried—desperately—to escape. The air shimmered with embers that had no source, the ash shifting as if something unseen had disturbed it only moments ago.
A low, echoing growl drifted through the halls, vibrating through the stone beneath his feet. It was not a sound of hunger nor anger, but something deeper—a lament. A tormented whisper carried by the crumbling walls. Eshurin adjusted his stance, his fingers tightening around the shaft of his spear, golden threads along the weapon stirring in response to the tension of the air.
Eshurin inhaled deeply, tightening his grip on his spear. He had to be on the top of his guard, the elements were quiet, forlorn even. Usually he could feel a certain liveliness to them but not right now. He continued deeper into the fort.
Then, he saw it.
A hulking mass of obsidian and flame, crouched in the remains of what resembled a war hall. Its form was cracked and broken. Molten veins pulsed beneath the surface, fire coursing through them like blood. Yet, it was not the monstrous shape that held Eshurin's attention—it was the remnants of what lay beneath that was so familar to him. A warrior's jawline, then his eyes travelled down to the faded marks of an Ashaven fraternity tattoo, distorted by searing heat. This had not always been a monster. Once, it had been a soldier, especially one from the fraternity he spent his young summers at before his squireship.
Eshurin clutched at his head, the truth unraveling before him like an emotional overload. The whispers in the stone, the beast's very being as it was one with the elements carried the last moments of the revenant's past—a soldier, mortally wounded in battle, taken not for burial, but for experimentation by someone they once trusted. An Eronidas mage, one who had long since abandoned honor, had reforged the warrior in molten rock and Oblation magic, stitching fire where flesh had been. A cruel rebirth, one that had left the soldier neither alive nor dead—only suffering. But the worst of it was that the whispers of the fortress suggested this had not been the only experiment.
His head spinned with thoughts of the person he once knew—how had they trained together, how they and the rest of his frat brothers ran amok in the city social scene. Had his fraternity brother cried out in agony, calling for help that never came? The weight of it is suffocating, his breath unsteady as rage and sorrow war within him. He clenches his fists, gripping the spear tighter, as if anchoring himself to something tangible. This was not just a violation of honor; it was a desecration of everything Eshurin held dear. The revelation is not just painful; it is deeply personal, he marked it into his heart
The revenant's breath came in labored gasps, each exhalation sending embers into the stale air. It looked at him, not with the eyes of a monster, but eyes that reflected a broken will. The revenant had been waiting—not for battle or prey, but for release. Eshurin wanted to be that release.
A rasping sound escaped the revenant's throat, like molten rock cracking apart. Though no clear words formed, the weight behind them was unmistakable. There was a plea in that sound, a final surrender to the agony that had bound it for so long.
Eshurin tightened his grip on his spear, feeling the threads of golden light weave through his fingers. He did not need to hear the words to understand. The revenant's struggle was not one of survival but of escape—from itself, from the suffering that had been forced upon it. It had been waiting, not for a challenger, but for an end.
The flickering embers in its form wavered, as if even its fire hesitated. It did not strike, nor did it flee. The weight of its existence bore down upon it, and for the first time in countless years, it was given a choice.
He could see it now, the remnants of the soldier within, something once proud, now broken beyond recognition. The revenant shuddered, its molten veins dimming as though the last remnants of its will were slipping away. It was not defiant. It was not enraged.
It was tired.
Eshurin exhaled slowly. This was not a foe to be vanquished in the name of victory—it was a spirit to be freed.
Eshurin gripped his spear, golden threads coiling along its shaft like ribbons made tangible. The revenant's ember eyes met his, recognition flickering within the molten depths. It neither charged nor fled, only breathed—ragged and heavy, burdened by its own existence. It was waiting. Not to fight. But to be freed.
The creature did not resist, not truly. Focusing a single strike from his spear, guided by instinct and the weight of ancestral strength, as ghostly hands reached around his spear to aid the strike's force. The spear made contact, but the revenant fought, its head strengthening to protect itself cause the creator demanded it. Golden filaments danced through the air from the spear, weaving through the cracks in the beast's obsidian shell, severing the bindings of the magic within it. The molten beast swiped at Eshurin's armor, its movements slow, almost reluctant, clearly it was a reflex.
With a final surge, Eshurin forced his magic to overload as his ancestors gathered more around his spear. Only then did the weapon find its mark, piercing the molten heart that had become the soldier's prison. The revenant did not roar in rage. It sighed, a long exhale of something ancient and weary. Its body cracked apart, and where fire once burned, only cooling fragments of black stone remained.
Eshurin stood alone in the room finally, his spear still aglow with the lingering energy of his ancestors. The revenant was gone—but its creation was no accident. Someone had done this. Someone had forged a weapon out of a life that should have been allowed peace for its valor. He was done with this mission, he wanted to leave.
Yet something held him back. The ruins still whispered, their echoes not yet stilled. The remnants of the mage's work were buried deeper within the fortress, beyond broken doors marked with warnings—not of danger, but of secrecy. Whatever had been sealed here was never meant to be unearthed.
Eshurin exhaled slowly, the last embers of the revenant's form cooling into lifeless stone at his feet. The weight of the battle still clung to his muscles, not from exertion, but from the heavy understanding that this was not a nightmare he would experience just once.
The ruined hall was silent, yet the fortress still breathed its secrets. He turned toward the deeper corridors, where broken doors bore not warnings of danger, but of secrecy—symbols of warding, of things meant to be forgotten. Whatever lay beyond had been locked away long before the revenant had ever drawn breath.
Eshurin moved cautiously, his spear still humming with latent energy. The golden threads woven into its shaft pulsed faintly, reacting to the air—an unseen force still lurked here, something powerful enough to leave echoes even after abandonment that scared the elements. As he stepped forward, the fortress itself seemed to resist him. The stones beneath his feet groaned. The air thickened, pressing against his skin as though unseen hands wove through the currents, trying to turn him away.
The corridor stretched unnaturally, twisting beyond logic. Shadows writhed against the walls, recoiling from the golden glow of his spear. The deeper he walked, the heavier the air became, until even his breaths felt thick, drawn through unseen strands of resistance. Strange symbols flickered on the walls, surfacing from beneath layers of soot and decay—glyphs that pulsed weakly, feeding from some long-dormant power that was beginning to stir.
Ahead, the corridor widened into a small antechamber. Broken weapons littered the floor, remnants of those who had come before him. Eshurin knelt, running his fingers over the rusted edges of a shattered blade. The fractures in the metal were not caused by battle, but by something far worse—heat so intense it had warped the steel itself. He could almost hear their last moments, the screams that had once echoed through these halls, swallowed now by the weight of centuries.
Something in the walls whispered in response to his presence, a wordless murmur, neither welcoming nor hostile, but waiting. Always waiting.
He pressed on.
With a firm grip, he pressed his palm against the ancient doors, their surface marred with sigils of sealing magic. They flared briefly at his touch, resisting, before the golden filaments in his spear flared in response. The sigil fractured, light bleeding through their cracks. The groan of the doors' surrender echoed through the chamber, reverberating as if the very walls shuddered in protest.
And beyond them, the abyss waited.
The chamber stretched into darkness, a cavernous space swallowed in shadow. Yet, Eshurin did not need light to feel what lay within. The air here was dense with something wrong. The very essence of the fortress had been shaped to cage it.
He stepped forward, the glow of molten veins in the walls pulsing softly—remnants of the experiments that had twisted the revenant into existence. But there was something more here. Not just one experiment. Not just one soul lost to the forging of fire and suffering.
A whisper curled through the chamber, thin and brittle, like dry leaves rustling against stone.
The words were faint, layered, as if spoken by many voices at once. A single plea carried through the air, one of desperation and unfulfilled purpose.
Eshurin froze. He recognized the weight of lingering souls, the way their presence clung to the walls like mist. He turned his gaze toward the heart of the vault, where the shadows swirled unnaturally, rippling against the feeble light from his spear. And then he saw them.
Rows of obsidian sarcophagi, each one marked with intricate etchings of Eronidas war sigils—names, ranks, honors of warriors long fallen. But none of them had been granted peace.
The air pulsed, and the lids of the sarcophagi trembled.
Eshurin's jaw tightened.
The revenant had been only the beginning.
Eshurin steadied his breath, his grip tightening around his spear. Destroying the vault would be righteous—but it would also be reckless. If the revenant was merely one of many, then these sarcophagi held more than just the dead. They held answers. And he needed to know the name of the one who had committed this atrocity before he could decide how best to end it.
He stepped closer, his free hand tracing the sigils on the nearest sarcophagus. The stone was cold, but beneath its surface, something pulsed—faint, like an ember buried under ash. The warriors within had been taken, reforged, their bodies altered, but their souls… they lingered. Trapped. Bound.
He asked the stone who had done this, his elemental attunement stretching into the silent weight of the vault. At first, there was only stillness. Then, the air thickened with an unseen force, and the memories trapped in the stone surged forward.
The forge was dark, buried deep beneath the mountain. Chains glowed with unnatural heat, binding bodies that no longer bled. A voice, steady and commanding, wove words in a language that did not belong to the Eronidas or any mortal tongue. A hand, pale as polished bone, pressed into molten rock, shaping it as if sculpting flesh and fire into one. And then, a brief glimpse of a bone-white figure, the golden trim of some tusk adornments catching the forge-light before the vision shattered.
Eshurin stumbled back, his breath unsteady. The stone had given him a name, he knelled down frantically scribbling into the ash with his fingers, letting the elements guide his hand to write.
'The Name in the Ash' was constantly echoed
Breathed heavily as the weight on his shoulders and chest lifted, the name appeared like an ember rising from smoldering coals. The latent elements surged with anger, the revenant was still with him as it echoed the name in his head.
Vararic.
Eshurin exhaled, centering himself. This was no ordinary act of desecration. It was an experiment, one still in motion.
And it was not finished.
He turned from the antechamber, sealing the doors behind him with what little magic he could weave into the stone. The barriers would not last forever, but they would hold long enough for him to return to Llynburh with his information.
As he emerged from the ruins, the gathered remnants of the village awaited him, their faces lined with exhaustion and fear. They had watched their home burn, seen loved ones lost to the creature's fury, and now stood in the shadow of what had been. Eshurin met their gazes and spoke with measured calm, telling them that the beast had been vanquished, that it would trouble them no more. The people murmured among themselves, some exchanging relieved glances, others remaining wary of what had transpired.
One of the village elders stepped forward, his voice unsteady yet filled with gratitude. He thanked Eshurin, though the weight of what had been lost was clear in his tone. The villagers, though still shaken, gathered what little remained of their lives, turning their attention to rebuilding. Though they had suffered, the knowledge that the immediate threat was gone brought them some solace.
A few asked about what had brought such horror upon them, and though Eshurin hesitated, he told them enough—that the beast had been created, shaped by a force still at large. He could not say more, not yet, but he reassured them that the threat was being pursued.
With their thanks still ringing in his ears, he mounted his Makk-Shield once more, its enchanted surface humming beneath his feet as he set his sights on Llynburh. The echoes of the vault still clung to his thoughts, a gnawing reminder that what he had witnessed was only a fragment of a greater design. The knowledge that Varanor remained free, continuing his twisted work in the shadows, stirred unease within him. The spirits of the Makk-Shield murmured in agreement, their restless energy kept the knight awake for the ride.
The journey back was silent, the fortress behind him watching in quiet resignation, as though even the stones understood that its secrets could not remain hidden forever.
He rode back upon his Makk-Shield, the floating construct gliding effortlessly through the evening sky. The spirits within murmured in a solemn chorus, as if echoing Eshurin's own troubled thoughts. The weight of what he had uncovered pressed down on him heavier than the night air, the knowledge that something far worse than a mere revenant had been set into motion.
He landed before the Abansige family estate, the night guards eyeing him as he stepped off the shield. Without question, they allowed him to pass, recognizing the exhaustion in his stance. His limbs felt leaden as he trudged through the corridors, his thoughts consumed by the report he had yet to write.
Collapsing onto his bed, Eshurin let out a slow breath. Sleep eluded him. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the molten veins of the revenant, the flickering recognition in its ember-lit gaze. It had been waiting for release, and he had given it peace. But peace would not come for him, not yet at this hour.
He turned onto his side, staring at the flickering candlelight in the corner of his chamber. Tomorrow, he would tell the Llynburh Chapter what he had uncovered. He would write of the revenant, of the fortress, of the name whispered in the ash.
But for tonight, he allowed himself a moment. A moment to grieve for the fallen.
Closing his eyes, Eshurin let his elemental attunement reach into the landscape. The ruined homes and cracked earth bore the imprints of agony, echoes of a presence that had not always been a monster. The soil trembled beneath his touch, not just with heat, but with a deep-seated memory of transformation mixed with agony. Through the whispers of stone and soil, he caught the faintest traces of the past—steps leading away from the village, into the skeletal remains of an abandoned Ashaven fort. Something had been twisted there, reforged in flames and torment. The suffering in the land was not old—it was fresh, renewed by something lurking within those ruins.
