About an hour after I departed, the warm melodies of gospel music filled the air, accompanied by soulful singing and the enchanting sounds of a piano. The atmosphere was alive with spiritual energy, creating a comforting ambiance. During my time there, I had taken the opportunity to engage in gentle small talk with Larissa, asking about her favorite books and songs, while also sharing stories from my own experiences. As I made my way, I noticed something unusual: there were blood smears leading toward the Fountain of Asyrin. The cause wasn't immediately obvious, but as I got closer, I encountered a young monk whos lanky frame stood out against the backdrop of the serene temple grounds. His muscles were well-defined yet not overly pronounced, hinting at a life of rigorous discipline and physical training. He wore his short, chestnut-brown hair neatly pulled back into a tidy ponytail, which accentuated the sharp angles of his jawline. His complexion, though youthful, bore signs of hardship—sunken cheeks and a faint shadow beneath his eyes suggested he had often gone without adequate nourishment, likely sacrificing his food rations on multiple occasions for the sake of others.
The lines etched on his face spoke volumes about a life filled with toil and dedication, while the heavy eyelids hinted at countless nights spent awake, either in meditation or duty, stolen moments of sleep whenever he could manage. Despite the weariness that clung to him, there was a certain grace in his posture, a quiet resilience that seemed to radiate from his very being, drawing the eye and stirring a sense of admiration for his commitment to his chosen path. He seemed almost Destiny touched. The struggle that permeated Low Town had also left its mark on this man's flesh in the form of a bruise on his left eye and its stench upon his soul . The morally decadent society prioritized a rigid internal doctrine, akin to squashing bugs from atop the lofty heights of the city. The laborers, trapped in the relentless darkness that engulfed them, began to lose their grip on sanity, some descending into a state of frantic madness. The monk stood as a pillar of sobering defiance amidst this chaos, for he grasped the harsh truths of their existence. I observed him as he splashed water from the ornate fountain onto his weathered face, the droplets shimmering like tiny gems in the dim light. As I took in the moment, I realized that each church affiliated with the Priory of Laterists possessed its own unique character, evident in the subtle yet distinct variations in their architectural styles, liturgies, and community rituals, reflecting the diverse philosophies of the brothers who led them and knew this variation too then would have its judgement day. As I continued up the cobblestone path and turned to cut through the garden, I could hear a child call the monk over, "Thank you, Cedrie! My mom said you got her money back." As I crept past the monk, not wanting to intrude on his moment of clarity, I was aware of his heroism brought forth by force. I moved as quietly as a gargoyle, knowing that one day he too would be corrupted by Darkspire and he too would face his reckoning. The city may never be the same—at least not in certain views. We were not a small city; rather, we were the centre of the world of castym so it was easy to find cabs and travels, even in the lowest level of Darkspire. As I climbed into the cab, I smelt a mixture of scented sprays used to help the man driving imprint his own order within his workspace like a home that would always move him and offer consolation wherever he went funny, isn't that what we do to make sure our identity endures? Even this small act is evidence. Sitting in the cab, I glanced up at the small decorative pieces hanging from the centre of the car’s roof, swaying gently with the subtle motion of the vehicle. It was a symbol of the Karniquian faith—an intricate amulet of braided silver in the shape of a scarab, its surface etched with delicate, interwoven script that shimmered faintly under the dim interior light. A small gemstone, polished to a dull sheen from years of touch, rested in the centre, catching brief flickers of passing streetlamps as we moved through the city.
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The cab’s interior was worn but well-kept, the scent of aged leather mingling with faint traces of incense, a lingering relic of past passengers. The dashboard was cluttered with personal effects: a faded photograph tucked into the corner of the windshield of the man's daughter, a string of prayer beads looped around the rearview mirror, and a handful of old transit tokens resting beside the gear shift. The seats were soft with use, the material fraying at the edges where countless riders had shifted and settled, their presence leaving quiet imprints of lives moving through Darkspire.
No matter where I went today, it felt as if God or something like Him was banging down my door. The Karniquian faith had no ties to Sin’Vella, yet here it was, a rarity in Darkspire, an echo from a world far beyond the city’s confines. It belonged to a small set of islands daring to defy the Varadeshi Republic, the distant Karntinguan Isles, a place whispered about in hushed tones, where outsiders claimed anarchy thrived and savage men roamed. The truth, as always, was far more complex, perhaps even the reverse. The voice crackled to life, deep and booming, its resonance twisting the fabric of the aisle into something altogether different. It issued from a stereo vox mounted behind the passenger booth, reverberating through the enclosed space. The reinforced glass—a necessity in this neighbourhood—separated us, his protection assured, yet his presence undeniable.
"Where can I take you, sir? Karato's blessings upon this fine night."
Karato—the crow god, one of the four deities entwined with humanity’s rebirth beneath an unending sky of darkness. Were we allies through derangement, I mused? Or bound by destiny? Perhaps even forged in deception, knowing my people. I shifted slightly in my seat, angling for a better view of the cab driver—an elusive figure, partially obscured by the dim lighting and the flickering cityscape beyond the window. As my gaze settled, the details of his face sharpened: piercings protruded from his skin, not unlike the ritual bones once used by certain tribal sects. But these were no crude adornments—each glinted like captive starlight, ornate jewels woven into his flesh with deliberate artistry. His face was a living mosaic, a tapestry of metal and skin, where tradition met subversion in an unspoken act of passion or adherence.
I was still shaking from the Laterists, the echoes of their presence coiling deep within me. My hands trembled as I forced myself to speak, my voice dragging through the forges of my mind, gathering itself before emerging, slow and measured.
"Raidewell alley. Do you know the Sinterlake District? It’s close to the old alcove near the bowling alley. New to the area—recent arrival."
