The roads of Etharis are filled with travelers.
When I dwelt in the heavens, I believed movement belonged to the stars and the celestial spheres. Mortals seemed rooted to the earth below, their lives bound to fields, villages, and graves. Yet since my fall, I have discovered that they are constantly in motion. They travel in search of trade, safety, purpose, and sometimes simply because remaining where they are has become impossible.
I now find myself among such wanderers.
Our caravan made its way toward Rivergate, winding through the countryside beneath gray skies. Of my companions, only Alvaro is familiar to me. He is a dragonborn inquisitor in service to Empyreus. There is a certain irony in our companionship. Once, I served powers far greater than any Arch-Seraph. Yet now I walk beside one of Empyreus' faithful, while the being he worships sits upon a throne built from the ruins of a dead heaven.
Still, Alvaro possesses conviction, and conviction is a rare thing in this age.
The others remain strangers, though the road has begun the slow work of revealing their natures.
There is Skara, a wolven warrior whose words are few and carefully spent. During the long hours of travel, she seemed content to let silence accompany her. Yet when the carvaloths attacked, that silence vanished beneath a storm of violence. She hurled herself into battle with a ferocity that reminded me of the celestial warhosts of old. Not disciplined as an angel, nor orderly as a soldier, but fierce in the way of a wildfire. Some beings speak with words. Others speak with action. Skara appears to belong to the latter.
Then there is Memento Mori, a dragonborn paladin whose loyalties lie far to the east, among the vampire lords of Ostoya. Had I encountered such a servant during my days in heaven, I might have considered him a contradiction. Yet Etharis is a world built upon contradictions. He carries himself with the conviction of a holy warrior, even as he serves masters many would call monsters. More curious still is his constant interest in an organization known as the Ebon Syndicate. Their name emerges in conversation often enough that I suspect they occupy his thoughts more than he cares to admit.
Amityria is perhaps the most difficult to read. An elven woman with green hair and twin pistols resting at her side, she moves through the world with the confidence of someone accustomed to danger. Mortals often wear masks invisible to one another but obvious to those who know what to look for. I suspect she wears several. Though she speaks little of it, I sense threads connecting her to the same Ebon Syndicate that interests Memento Mori. Whether those threads bind her willingly or unwillingly, I cannot yet tell.
It is a strange fellowship.
A fallen angel.
An inquisitor of Empyreus.
A silent wolven warrior.
A paladin sworn to vampire lords.
An elven gunslinger carrying secrets.
Had such a gathering appeared before the gates of heaven in ages past, the scribes would have mistaken it for a riddle.
* * *
The journey should have been uneventful.
Instead, the beasts came.
Carvaloths emerged from the wilderness and hurled themselves against the caravan. There was a desperation to their attack that troubled me. Predators understand risk. Even animals possess the wisdom to distinguish between prey and danger. Yet these creatures attacked armed travelers with reckless abandon, as though driven by some unseen hand.
We slew them.
Steel, spellcraft, and faith proved stronger than fang and claw.
The merchants celebrated their survival, but I found little comfort in the victory. The dead beasts lay scattered beside the road, and as I looked upon them I was reminded of the final days of heaven. There, too, I had witnessed creatures driven beyond reason by forces they could neither understand nor resist.
The world often reveals its wounds long before it reveals the knife that made them.
We later arrived at the farm of a man named Thomas. He, too, remarked upon the strange behavior of the carvaloths. The concern in his voice lingered with me. Mortals spend their lives studying the rhythms of nature because their survival depends upon it. When a farmer tells you that something is wrong with the land, wisdom demands that you listen.
At the farm we met a villager named Lia, who joined us on the remainder of our journey. She spoke of ordinary concerns, ordinary people, and ordinary hopes. Once, I would have considered such matters insignificant.
Now I wonder if they are the only things keeping this broken world alive.
We reached Rivergate without further incident.
The city sits beside the water like a patient sentinel, watching the river carry both fortune and misfortune through its gates. We found lodgings at the Drifting Feather Inn, where weary travelers gathered beneath a common roof to share food, drink, and stories.
I have always found inns fascinating.
In heaven, every being knew its purpose. There was certainty in all things.
Mortals possess no such certainty.
Yet they gather together regardless, finding comfort in one another despite the darkness pressing in from every side. Perhaps that is a kind of courage angels never needed to learn.
Alvaro and I paid a visit to the local chapter of the Inquisition. There we met Captain Severin, who offered his support in whatever troubles might lie ahead. The Inquisition remains a curious institution to me. Once, the servants of the divine received guidance directly from the heavens. Now they seek truth in a world where the gods are silent and the Arch-Seraphs speak with voices colored by their own ambitions.
I do not envy their task.
The following day we turned our attention toward the docks.
Every city reveals its soul at the water's edge. Rivers and seas carry more than goods; they carry stories. At the harbor we met the harbormaster, and from her we learned of a mystery that now draws our attention.
A ship had arrived carrying death.
Its crew was dead.
Its cargo had spoiled.
A curse, she said, seemed to cling to the vessel.
Such tales are common in taverns. They are less common when spoken by officials whose livelihoods depend upon separating truth from rumor.
Most curious of all was the fate of the ship's captain. He survived where his crew did not, and now he is being held by the Arcane Enclave for questioning.
A dead crew.
A living captain.
A curse borne across the water.
The world has a way of whispering before it screams.
I have learned to listen.
For though the gods are dead, darkness remains very much alive.
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