Spawn of the Outworlder

“In the Solis Empire and its surrounding kingdoms, there is no man more feared and more infamous than the sorcerer, Abbadon. The man who threatened to bring the Empire of False Light crashing down, his mastery over the magicks of the dead made him a terror to all who opposed him. Counsel from tacticians and strategists long since passed. The armies he crushed beneath his mighty boot then rising up once more, now fighting for his cause. To hold all crowns within his hand and crush them to dust. His reign ended thousands of years ago, yet his name remains on the lips of kings and emperors alike, muttered and hissed like a curse. How foolish would they feel, I wonder, if they knew they cursed a false name and how they’ve ensured the doom of this foul empire...”

Even without knowing their strange language, I can feel the hate behind it. They strap the odd device to my head. Voices screaming at me. In that strange language. What little I can see of the room suggests it is rather small. The room is sterile, made out of some odd pearl-white material, all stained and cracked. Parallel lines of grout spread across the material. A crowd sits before me. An odd panel of glass separates me from the others in the room. The panel distorts their faces, twisting them into a mass of malice and fury. I am restrained to an odd chair, unable to move. A louder voice booms throughout the room, and the voices cease. The voice continues, speaking with a quizzical tone. Then I feel vibrations coming from my throat. “I” have begun speaking. The words coming from my throat are condescending and cruel. I can’t understand them, yet I know that “I” am cursing the people in this room. A pleasurable feeling overtakes me. “I” am enjoying the suffering of the crowd before me. Reveling in their misery. Then a loud SSSLLAMMMM!!! The device on my head activates. Filling my entire body with a burning current. My body shakes and shutters violently, the pain animating it unwillingly. I feel my bones breaking against my restraints as my body attempts to escape from this agony. The vibrations fill my throat, loud and vicious. “I” am screaming. The current begins to eat away at me, my skin beginning to sizzle and burn. Soon, my body is aflame, melting flesh and bone together. My jaw stretches wide, the muscles tearing and snapping like broken leather. The flames burn away at my eyes as my body degrades. Still,the current runs through me, the pain never ending. The room shakes from “my” screams, the glass panel splintering from the heat of my burning body. The flames burning through my chest, the muscle beneath burnt black, “my” screams continuing as my body---

Graham Blackwell bolted up from his bed, his breathing heavy and labored. Instinctively, he felt at his body: arms, face, chest. As he searched, he saw no sign of burns or broken bones. He held a hand to his chest, feeling his heart race and sweat coating his body.

There’s nothing. I’m fine. It was just...a dream.

Another cursed dream.

Graham held his head in his hands, his knees pulled closer to him to provide support. He’d begun to take slow, full breaths in an effort to calm the beating of his heart. The exercise had become routine at this point.

As he breathed, he attempted to gather his thoughts. Need to write this one down, he thought. Before I forget it. One final breath and his pulse was calm.

With his heartrate returned to normal, Graham became aware of his surroundings. It appeared to be just before dawn. The sky that could be seen outside of his window colored a mix of blue and pink just before the sun rise, the moon still somewhat visible. He was in his room, somewhat obscured with shadow. A humble space, it contained only his bed, a small desk and a cabinet for his clothing. The floor was made of a medley of various stones found throughout the village, most gray but with a shard of brown or black scattered out amongst it.

Graham stood and set his feet on the floor, cautious not to rise up too quickly. One step at a time. Don’t want to faint. Not today.

Graham took slow, deliberate steps to his wooden desk and began searching through the drawers for a piece of parchment. With a piece in hand, he picked up his steel quill pen and checked the dispenser within to ensure he had enough ink.

He began to write:

Journal Entry of Graham Blackwell,

21 Marte, Month 3 of 12, Year of the Crescent Sun, 191

Another dream. Nightmare. Same as the other nightmares, I was in the body of someone else. I could feel both myself and the self of this other person. I was in some odd room, as a crowd of people screamed and howled at me in hate. Then, some odd device began to burn me away from within. A ritual, maybe?

If my older journal entries are correct, the nightmares are coming more and more. Before, the nightmares came once every month or so. Then, they started to come every few weeks. Now they seem to come every other night.

I wish someone in the village could help me understand these nightmares. Why they feel more intense, more real than the other dreams I have. And why they’re so violent.

No two nightmares are ever the same scene, but all of them are so full of horror and pain. So much cruelty and death. Hate I didn’t know was possible. Why do I dream of these things? I’d never hurt a soul. Not on purpose and certainly not like this.

I’ve gathered my older journal entries together and I plan to give them to Paul to take with him for today. Maybe there is someone in the Capital that can help me understand the cause of these horrifying visions.

Light, I pray that they can.

As he finished writing, Graham couldn’t help but feel a bit ashamed of himself. 20 years old, a grown man, and still these nightmares have me shaking. By Abbadon’s Eye, I should be so embarrassed.

Graham laid the parchment aside and brought out the bound-together journal entries. The entries were contained within a small leather folder, almost resembling a short book. Bit of a grim book, Graham thought to himself. Graham opened the folder to check on the note

he’d left on top of the pages:

Please send any possible solutions or inquiries to Graham Blackwell, woodcutter of the village Brightshade, north of the Nightpeak Mountains.

Graham closed the folder, satisfied that it would (hopefully) be enough for some possible answer to reach him. With the folder put away and his mind cleared of the dream, he began to realize he’d been ignoring something. The sweat he’d woken up with had dried upon his skin, leaving an sticky viscous coating all across his body. The sweat had also brought a rather sour smell to Graham’s body, his nose wrinkling as he inhaled his own scent.

Can’t go to Paul’s big goodbye smelling like this, Graham thought. Still a few hours left before the ceremony. S’pose it’s enough time for a bath.

Graham sat in the tub, relishing in the satisfaction of a nice hot bath. His shoulders resting against the edge of the tub with his head leaned back, staring up at his white ceiling. For this brief moment, his mind felt clear.

The wash room wasn’t much. The wooden bathtub itself took up about 1/3 of the room and the only other thing in the room was a reflective glass, currently coated in steam from the heat of the bath. More of a big closet if anything.

As he laid in the bath, for fear of remembering the horrific visions of the nightmare, Graham let his mind wander. How long has it been since I’ve just enjoyed a nice calm morning bath?

Traditionally, Graham would spend his mornings rising before the sun itself did and heading straight to the lumber mill. He’d spend most of the day there, aside from a brief break for lunch when he’d head into the village and enjoy a fresh piece of bread from the local bakers. Then he’d head back to the mill and work until sunset. Then head home and try to put a decent meal together before exhaustion came and he’d go out like a light.

No need to worry about that today. Mayor’s given everyone the day off to say goodbye to Paul. Graham rose from the tub, stretching his body upwards to get some blood flowing back into his arms and legs. He headed off to the glass, clearing away some of the fog to get a good look at himself.

He couldn’t help but notice his skin, the brownish hue of wheat, appeared to be getting darker, a sure sign that spring had once again brought with it more sunlight throughout the day. His black hair, normally straight, had begun to curl somewhat at the ends from the heat and moisture. Probably straighten out once I dry it. He began to dry himself off and felt some odd grooves and bumps along his rather wide frame. Have I got a bit more muscle?

Graham looked into the mirror once more and saw that, indeed, he did appear to have a more defined physique. Nothing too astounding. He certainly wouldn’t be posing as reference for any recruitment posters anytime soon. His rather plump belly and round face would make sure of that. But his arms did look a fair bit larger than they had at the start of winter and he appeared to be about half a head taller than before. Guess there’s some benefits to swinging an axe and hauling logs all day. But enough of this. Can’t spend my whole morning off gawking at myself.

Graham, now dry, stepped into his room and began searching for an outfit for Paul’s goodbye ceremony. Still can’t believe it. My little brother being summoned to the Capital by the Emperor himself. He must’ve made one hell of a name for himself out on his adventures.

Graham’s brother, Paul Blackwell, was well known across the local villages. An adventurer by trade, Paul was usually called upon when a daemon was sighted near the village. The kingdom had knights to protect the villagers, but they were mostly trained for combat against human enemies such as bandits or madmen (although talk around a few neighboring villages is that the knights were none too good at dealing with them either).

As such, the public usually depended upon the help of local adventurers and mercenaries to deal with monsters and daemons and the like. Paul had only been at it for two years or so, starting at the age of 15. It was rare that anyone would hire an adventurer younger than 18 years, for fear their lack of experience could lead to their deaths (as well as the loss of the village’s coin). In that time, Paul had managed to take down various daemons. Goblins, orcs, undead. He even joined a band of knights and mercenaries to take down a troll that had been giving the eastern village, Starbend, a rather harsh time.

All those heroics appeared to have brought quite a shine to Paul’s name, as just a few weeks ago, word had come to Brightshade’s mayor that the Emperor was to send a Herald to the village to take Paul to the capital city, Lux Sancta, for a matter of some great importance.

Wonder what it could be, Graham thought to himself. Must really need Paul if they’re coming all the way out here. The village Brightshade resided upon the outer edges of the Solis Empire, high above the seaside, along the cliffs on the land. Travel from here to the Capital would take Paul a good two months, assuming he spent every waking moment walking.

While he wondered, Graham assembled his outfit for the big ceremony. It was not an impressive outfit, him wearing a simple white tunic, a pair of black trousers and his leather work boots polished and wiped of any dirt or splintered wood. But it was a clean outfit, composed of the few pieces of clothing that fit him properly. ’s like Mom always said. “People of our size and shape can’t afford to dress fashionably.” Besides, this is Paul’s big day, not mine. As long as I don’t make a joke of myself, I’ve done my part.

With that, Graham was ready to step out into the village.