Runt’s warning fell on deaf ears as Dragomir pierced his own throat. With a curse Runt watched as the zealous, well-meaning man accepted his own sacrifice with fitting eagerness. This was a land of death. Blestrysnia was a city that happily fed upon its own people, be it through its celebration of sacrifice or its willingness to subsist upon their corpses. No wonder the Grey Woe chose to use Dragomir’s desire for self-destruction against him. Perhaps other Corpsehunters had come here before, and like Dragomir they were shown a vision that made them embrace death by their own hands.

  The Grey Woe had thrown Runt no less than fifty paces, fast enough that the initial throw was almost enough to make Runt lose consciousness. The quickness potion he imbibed on their approach didn’t make a difference, and the toughening concoction he’d also taken was perhaps the only reason he still lived. Runt was still recovering from the landing when Dragomir fell to the ground, limp and bloodless. He drank down two potions, one which focused his thoughts and helped to stave off the concussive effects on his brain, and the other which stemmed the bleeding on his head and back where splintered pews had cut deeply. Though both potions would have their side-effects, they would be a problem for later.

  In this moment, the greatest threat to Runt, to perhaps everyone beneath the shadow of the Barrow Mountain, was the Grey Woe. It was before him, and clearly it fed upon Dragomir’s lifeforce, his blood which now floated from the ground up towards the altar to soak into the old wood and the phantom itself.

  The Grey Woe made no attempts to hide its identity or intentions anymore. With a wicked smile, long limbs, and a visage more hauntingly perverse in its glee than anything Runt had seen in an age, the monster of these lands looked now towards the bleeding victim before it.

  By some small miracle Runt’s cleaver landed by his side, though the weapon was likely useless against a ghost. Phantoms were rare beings. Even in places dominated by death and necromancy they were rare things. Lifeless corpses, bereft of spirits, were easy playthings for Wizards and Black Sorceresses. Souls were almost unfathomably difficult to capture or control, and even the most wicked or magicks might struggle to capture even the weakest spirits. And Woes which took the form of ghosts were an even more rare sight. Doubtlessly this being was the Grey Woe, for no lesser Woe could possibly have the strength to take such a form.

  Runt grunted, nearly falling back to the ground as he looked towards the phantom. He could feel a large piece of wood in his leg, another in his arm, two wounds that his potions couldn’t heal before he removed them.

  And Runt’s chances of defeating the Grey Woe, wounded as he was, were slim if at all still possible. The exorcizing of ghosts was the domain of powerful Sorceresses, not simple men with simple weapons. Without much need for the blade, Runt ignored his cleaver while assessing his options. For the moment the Grey Woe seemed content to simply savor Dragomir’s blood, increasing its power and weakening the chains which bound it to this strange cathedral.

  Yes, this palace was a prison, Runt thought as he felt the pull of strange magicks around him. With every drop of blood the Grey Woe consumed the dim light in the glass windows dimmed. Something truly powerful had summoned the spell to imprison the Woe here, away from the world. And while successful in keeping the Grey Woe’s tyranny at bay, the prison was imperfect, as evident by the curse of death that still persisted beyond its walls.

  Retreating would be the most intelligent choice; Runt knew that. This was a lost battle, and he was wholly unprepared to defeat the Grey Woe alone and without weapons to even harm it. But if he fled, then it would only be a matter of time before the Grey Woe escaped its prison. More Corpsehunters would stumble upon this prison; more people would be tricked into giving their blood to the Woe, and eventually, inevitably, it would break free to wield its terrible power far across this land and beyond. Blestrysnia would not survive that day, nor would its people. And in his lifetime Runt had seen too many people, cities, nations even, die in agony for him to retreat now without a fight.

  Assessing his surroundings, Runt looked for anything which might tell him more about this cathedral or its prisoner. Great columns of fine stone and marble surrounded him; fine scaffoldings and arches high above that crossed the vast gasp between one cathedral wall and the other though anything higher was well-hidden by gold-tinged clouds.

  Runt didn’t dare turn away from the Woe for longer than a single moment. Any instant of complacency might prove to be the opening the ghost was hoping for. And even separated by dozens of paces, Runt doubted he was safer where he stood than directly before the altar. Runt knew that moving, especially in a way that made his intention to keep fighting clear, could very easily provoke the Woe into action. But stillness could be equally dangerous, given how open and exposed his current position was.

  Bracing, Runt took a deep breath and began to move slowly. One step after another, he pushed past the pain in his right leg from the wood fragment that still pierced his flesh. He kept his steps quiet, though total silence was impossible to achieve with how deeply every last disturbance echoed. He walked towards the nearest pillar, hoping it would offer cover and some semblance of safety.

  Yet his efforts did not go unnoticed. The Grey Woe’s attention, its hauntingly deep gaze turned finally from Dragomir’s still bleeding body to watch Runt. At that moment Runt’s instincts told him to halt and stand in place, but he knew better. Breaking into a run, Runt crossed the final distance between himself and the pillar just as another great force rushed past him. He felt as debris from broken pews were cast into the air.

  Landing behind the pillar, Runt glanced back from where he’d been to see nothing but a cloud of dust as the objects caught in the Woe’s power smashed hard against everything from the close walls to the distant floors many paces further back. Runt stifled a cough, his lungs already protesting against the exertion. But the sudden burst of effort, painful and unassisted by potions though it was, had been necessary to avoid the attack.

  Runt felt his leg muscles spasm, rebelling against him as he caught his breath. But he was safe for the moment, or at least he hoped. Turning his attention towards the large wood fragments in his leg and arm, he first prepared a coagulating potion before pulling each piece out. He stifled a cry by biting his tongue, drawing blood that filled his mouth with a chemical taste as the first fragment in his leg was pulled free.

  With a gasp, Runt looked down and realized that the fragment had been nearly a foot long, and the one in his arm proved to be nearly the same length after he removed it as well. Runt didn’t dwell on the wounds. He drank down the coagulating tincture and turned his attention towards more important matters.

  The Grey Woe was now hostile; that much was clear. Whether it had finished drinking in Dragomir’s blood and wanted more or if Runt moving had merely reminded it of his presence ultimately didn’t matter. Runt was also determined to defeat the Woe, be it through slaying it or by weakening it so that nobody else would befall its trickery. And while Runt still didn’t know how exactly he would accomplish his intentions, he knew that he needed to get closer. The altar, one way or another, would be the key to defeating the Woe. It was where the ghost had coalesced, what drank Dragomir’s blood, and the very thing from which all aura of evil originated from. Runt could only assume that some magick had been imbued into the altar.

  The possibility remained that the altar, if destroyed, would free the Grey Woe from its imprisonment; but Runt doubted this. If freedom was so simple, then the Woe would certainly have tricked Dragomir into destroying the altar. Certainly then, by its unwillingness to see the altar destroyed, the Woe revealed how important the object was to it. Thus, Runt’s objective was now the altar itself, though still the problem of approaching remained, with the Grey Woe gorged on potent blood that imbued its spells with greater power.

  Runt couldn’t simply sprint towards the altar; the Woe would catch him in another powerful gust that might kill him outright. And his body now lacked the strength for such an effort, at least without another cocktail of tinctures that would cause their own issues he couldn’t afford to suffer until after this fight was over. Ideally, Runt would save his potions until the right moment, and attack with everything he had if possible.

  A direct assault would be foolish. He needed another angle to look at things from, a vector of approach the Woe wouldn’t notice. And looking upwards, up the column he sat against and the high arches and balcony walkways it supported, Runt began to form a plan.

  With a potion that would strengthen his muscles just enough for the task ahead, Runt stood and prepared to scale the pillar. Hidden from the Woe’s view, Runt used his momentarily enhanced strength alongside the uneven nature of the pillar’s surface to climb. He needed to be swift lest the potion’s effects fade before he’d reached his destination, but likewise he couldn’t be careless and risk the Woe realizing what he was doing. The only way his plan would work is if the ghost was unaware of his position.

  From the pillar, Runt very carefully pulled himself from it up onto a ribbed vaulting, wide enough for him to still hide behind, before shifting and climbing onto the balcony beside it.

  He’d barely completed the task when the potion faded, leaving his muscles suddenly weak and spasming. Runt suppressed a harsh exhale as his lung momentarily went numb. He collapsed but managed to soften his fall enough to avoid making a sound as he rolled onto his back to catch his breath. His muscles certainly couldn’t handle another potion, not one which would enhance his strength or anything else remotely similar. Another shock to his system, and he might paralyze his heart.

  Soon enough, Runt began to overcome the after-effects of the last potion and looked around the balcony. Along its far side, hidden from view below, were evermore dried husks; bodies that were long ago part of some unknown ritual that stole away their essence for the sake of a powerful magick. Runt could only guess as to the number of dead, either here or below, but at the least he could count thousands, perhaps more if other hidden corners of this cathedral were as filled with corpses as these balconies and pews.

  After minutes, or mere seconds as time itself was difficult to judge in Runt’s current condition, he rose from the ground and began to make his way forwards.

  Perhaps the Grey Woe knew where he was, or maybe it thought Runt was still cowering behind the pillar, but regardless it spoke outwards not with a booming voice but instead a quiet whisper that pierced so deep that it seemed to shake the old stonework.

  “You smell of death.” The statement came with no small amount of mirth, fascination, a strange interest that made Runt’s skin crawl. “You were not meant to live.” The Woe wasn’t taunting Runt with the statement. Runt knew well-enough the truthfulness of it, but he didn’t linger on the thought or wonder how exactly the ghost knew such a fact. Although he took note of its knowledge.

  Runt continued down the balcony, keeping low and behind the Bannister in the dark as he crept his way closer to the altar and the Woe which sat upon it. Soon enough he caught sight of Dragomir’s body as it lay motionless upon the ground, his blood still flowing from the cut in his neck and onto the stones where it formed into dark runes or flowed into the altar.

  Still hidden, Runt watched as the altar seemed to pulse with unhallowed energy, a faint groan in the air as if the object itself was savoring the taste. But Runt didn’t risk being spotted and retreated from the balcony’s edge, resuming his slow, silent approach closer to the altar as the Woe again spoke.

  “You… Why do you fight? Why bother standing… When such effort is required to merely breathe, is it not better to embrace rest eternal?”

  Runt had asked himself similar questions countless times before. It was true, the willpower, the strength, courage even, required to do what others did without needing to struggle was immense. There was perhaps a time, long ago, when he wanted the death he’d always so narrowly avoided. But Runt long ago learned to embrace the life he had. The venomous whispers of a Woe, even a Grey Woe, wouldn’t sway him. And as the Woe spoke again, Runt realized the method by which he would defeat this monster.

  He knew which of the Woe’s words were lies and which were truth. It spoke of things he perfectly understood, and easily he perceived the hidden reality of its trick-filled utterances.

  “You are weak…”

  True

  “I can offer you reprieve…”

  Lie

  “Blood is my succor…”

  True.

  “With this blood, I might offer you new life.”

  One lie, and one very notable omission. Interesting, Runt thought.

  “Leave this place. But if not, come to me, and I will relieve you of your body’s ailments.”

  Lie. But also an accidental admission, one that only served to make Runt absolutely certain he possessed the means to defeat the Woe. Of the lies and truths the Woe spoke of, it never asked for or rejected Runt’s blood. It asked Runt to offer himself, it mentioned the power inherent to the blood it already possessed, but never had it asked for Runt to bleed himself for its sake. Perhaps the Woe realized that it couldn’t play the same trick upon Runt as it had Dragomir. But its final statement, to either leave or accept submission, revealed to Runt a simple fact.

  The Grey Woe was afraid. It didn’t want his blood, and if anything actually avoided it.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Through its magick or by observing the blood upon the ground that Runt had already spilled, it knew the impure nature of Runt’s vitae. Perhaps it recognized the true danger of what lay within. But regardless of how, its unwillingness to demand of Runt what it had already taken from Dragomir showed a weakness Runt was more than willing to exploit.

  Finally reaching the point on the balcony closest to the altar, Runt looked down to see how the Woe still stared towards the pillar he’d hidden behind. The ghost would react quickly to his attack. Perhaps it would strike too quickly for Runt to reach his target, but whether he did or not ultimately didn’t matter. He knew how to ensure victory, regardless of his own survival.

  Stepping back from the balcony edge, Runt pulled out a potion, a simple concoction that would numb pain for a few brief moments. Drinking it, the dull ache that dominated every moment of his life faded alongside the sharp pain from his recent wounds. Then, Runt pulled out his harvesting knife. Carefully, sure to maximize bleeding without making the wound unhealable, Runt slashed his left wrist. Immediately his bile-like blood began to pour from the wound, a steady stream of vitae that would not halt on its own.

  Sheathing his knife, Runt then prepared himself for what would come next. Mustering all the strength he could, breathing deeply while tensing his muscles, Runt grabbed hold of the Bannister and leaped over its edge.

  Towards the altar he fell from the upper balcony. The distance was at most a matter of twenty paces, close enough to ensure Runt would survive the fall given he landed on his feet, but far enough to make the drop seem like an eternity to him. And despite his hopes, the Woe proved too alert and aware for Runt’s ambush to go uncontested.

  With a flash its head twisted to stare straight towards Runt, and in the instant to follow another powerful gust was summoned. Runt could only wince, close his eyes, and brace himself before the Woe’s powerful assault was upon him.

  Numbed to pain, Runt didn’t lose consciousness. Yet despite the potion, he’d barely endured. It felt as if a wall had been thrown against him. In one instant, Runt was falling and the next his velocity had been reversed. He felt more splinters of wood impact against him, a piece of metal cut against his cheek, his ears ringing and head throbbing as his vision failed him. Runt thought, for the briefest of moments, that perhaps he would be thrown high enough to hit the ceiling, so impactful was the Woe’s attack. But soon enough he felt himself fall.

  His body, already taxed by his potion use and the damage inflicted against it, failed him. Limply he felt himself descend back towards the ground, the hard floor racing towards him as he perceived it with unfocused vision.

  Runt barely managed to brace his fall, but regardless he almost felt himself shatter against the stones. At least one bone was broken, likely a rib Runt thought judging by the sharp crack he’d heard. To an outside observer he would seem utterly defeated; he knew that much. And in truth there was nothing more he could do against the Woe. His body was beyond exhausted. He still bled profusely from his wrist. If he’d been wrong in his guess about how to defeat the Grey Woe, then he would die.

  But the sound he next heard, even while motionless, proved that he’d been correct. And despite all the weight of his wounds, Runt couldn’t help but ever so softly smile.

  The sound he heard proved that, even while falling and after being cast away from the altar, Runt’s blood had reached its mark. From his profusely bleeding wrist, at least some modest amount of his vitae landed upon the altar and the Grey Woe itself. From there, the blood drinking entity that haunted this great cathedral was subjected to the very thing it had refused to ask for. Runt’s blood was offered regardless of its desire, seeping into the altar’s wood and mixing with Dragomir’s spilled life-force.

  The shrill cry, ethereal and beyond human limits, echoed across the walls with enough force to crack stone and even shatter the high windows, which then fell upon both Runt and the Woe in countless fragments. Runt could barely muster enough strength to look towards the altar to watch as the Woe’s ghostly form thrashed against itself. Bound to its altar, forced to accept the cursed blood, it proved powerless against the blood’s influence. It could only cry out, impotent to enact revenge against Runt for this trespass despite how wrathfully it stared towards him. In that moment they exchanged looks, the ghost evidently noticing Runt’s mask-covered smile as its essence was pulled back into its altar, its power drained enough for the prison to re-embrace the Grey Woe.

  Runt sensed as the evil aura around the altar faded, weakening alongside its source, until finally the ghost itself began to fade back into mist. Then in the next moment, as the revenant faded wholly from this world, everything went silent.

  Runt was left alone, broken and bleeding; Dragomir’s drained body a mere few paces away. Mustering the strength required to stand, let alone stemming his bleeding and leaving this place, would be a monumental task. The effort required would test most beyond their limits. But if there was a single thing Runt was most used to in this world, beyond the limitation of his body, it was in defying its weakness.

  With a grunt, Runt pulled himself from the stones, mindful of the fragmented glass all around him. Then standing, he bandaged his wrist, stemming its bleeding.

  He turned towards the altar, now silent as the evil within lay dormant. The Grey Woe would not escape its prison, at least for many years, perhaps centuries. All the progress it had made over the age since the Deep Woe and its first imprisonment had been undone, and without another host of willing sacrifices it would not break free. And unless someone was foolish enough to slit their own throat before the altar without provocation, then the Woe would be unable to even communicate let alone trick well-meaning people into acts of self-sacrifice.

  Finally, Runt turned towards Dragomir. The man lay still, motionless, pale. Runt walked over to him and placed a finger against the man’s neck, feeling for a pulse. He hadn’t expected to feel anything, given that the stream of blood from his neck had dried up. But surprisingly, Runt felt a warmth unbefitting a dead man. Then after many long seconds, a single pulse; a sign that while bereft of blood, his spirit refused to leave his body for the hereafter.

  “You are one tough man, Dragomir.” Huffing out a surprised laugh while speaking to the unconscious man before him, Runt pressed one hand against Dragomir’s punctured neck to keep any more drops of blood from escaping while the other fished a rubber tube from his pack. While anathema to many things both magickal and natural, impure, cursed in its own way, Runt’s blood could still sustain another’s life. And without hesitation, Runt prepared to give some of his own depleted vitae to Dragomir, though the experience would be anything but pleasant for the other man.

  Soon enough the tube connected them both, with Runt’s impure blood flowing into Dragomir’s veins. Only then did Runt relax, sitting up against the altar as he waited for the transfusion to be completed. He would offer only as much blood as he could, then wait for Dragomir to awaken.

  But Runt could wait. They both could. Injured, worn and weary as they were, Runt already suspected that this victory didn’t just mean their survival, but perhaps heralded something truly new for these lands beneath the Barrow Mountain. The Grey Woe’s power, while not lifted from the land, would certainly be lessened. For a place so familiar with its curse, the dead would still walk and many good men would still die to keep their home alive. But from here, maybe over the course of years the Barrow Mountain’s curse would begin to fade. Maybe life would start to creep in from the far edges. Maybe the Grey Pall that doomed the land to eternal twilight would be overcome by forces from beyond.

  Perhaps, this land might know the sunrise again.

  —------------------

  Dragomir knew very little about the world. He understood the curse, death, the struggle of life and how it inevitably ended. But it was only in what he thought to be his final moments, after falling victim to the Grey Woe’s trickery, that he truly recognized all he’d never had. There was a time when he thought of getting married, of having a family. There were other times when Dragomir desired a humble life, perhaps as a chef, preferably one who knew more than mushrooms harvested from corpses. Of course, such fantasies died upon Florin’s decision to make Dragomir a Corpsehunter. He left those dreams behind, like he’d left his family who he encountered only ever in passing on the streets of Blestrysnia, as they in turn treated him as if he’d already died.

  He often pretended he didn’t wish to speak with his mother again, his sister, two brothers, to know more about their lives and perhaps meet his nieces and nephews. But above all else, he wished to have seen just one sunrise.

  Dragomir wasn’t sure exactly how he continued to live. Through willpower and perhaps by holding onto those long-discarded dreams, realized only after foolishly throwing his life away, did his spirit endure. He fought, unwaking, on the verge of a death he’d long thought inevitable, to truly live. To feel the warmth of the sun.

  And despite all the effort he made to keep breathing despite the blood loss, he never truly expected to see it. Yet, when finally his eyes opened upon the slopes of the Barrow Mountain, while wrapped in his own travel blanket, just outside the doors of the old chapel, the first thing he noticed was the simple warmth upon his skin.

  Before him, through the trees lay a sight unlike anything he’d ever known. With brilliance unfathomable, golden rays angelic, warmth all-melting, Dragomir’s cold flesh and weary eyes were finally granted the blessing they’d long been denied. He looked out towards the sun as it raised itself over the horizon. All words failed him. He allowed a tear to fall down his cheek, so enraptured by the view that he’d completely failed to notice the man sitting by his side.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Runt spoke to finally pull Dragomir’s attention elsewhere.

  Though still masked, Dragomir knew that Runt was smiling. The man looked worse for wear, wounded with bandages on both arms and one around his leg. Several small cuts along his upper face signaled many other minor injuries. But he lived, and Dragomir felt relief for it.

  “By heavens…” Dragomir spoke while attempting to sit upright, off the rock Runt had laid him against. “How did we get out?” Looking back towards the old chapel, Dragomir noticed that its doors were closed, sealed shut, and barred. And for some unknowable and certainly magickal reason, he knew that seal would not be broken by any mortal man.

  “It’s defeated.” Runt answered.

  Dragomir almost couldn’t believe it, despite the ultimate proof of that victory shining down upon them. “How?”

  Runt shifted his sitting position before answering. “It's altar… That was the key.”

  “Then, is it dead?”

  “No, but it won’t ever escape its prison.” Runt looked back towards the sun, his hand messing with the bandage on his other wrist. “I’m sure of that.”

  “Then… Is it over?”

  “The curse, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  Runt sighed, still staring towards the sun, and only then did Dragomir recognize the dimming light around them. Turning to the horizon, Dragomir watched as the Grey Pall of the endless clouds and deep mists overpowered the sunlight to inevitably conceal its magnificence from these lands. Dragomir only admonished himself for expecting anything better. Blestrysnia was a place not suited for blessings, no matter how small.

  “Don’t be so grim.” Runt said. “That won’t be the last you see of the sunrise.”

  Dragomir huffed, unconvinced. “How are you so sure?”

  “I felt the Grey Woe’s power as it was sealed. Its curse might persist, but nothing sustains it now. Given enough time, if enough of its creations are returned to death, life will return. Deep roots will make themselves known from below, critters will wander in… The sun itself will defy the clouds for longer and longer…”

  “Do you think I might live to see it?” Dragomir asked.

  Runt looked up, nodding towards the heavens. “You would have to live many years more for that.”

  “I… I don’t think I’m alright with dying. I don’t think I’ll be giving it up so easily anymore.”

  “Then… Perhaps one day you might even live to know the sunset, and the stars beyond.”

  “… I think I’d like that.” Dragomir spoke softly before unwrapping himself from his blanket, no longer requiring its warmth. But when he moved to stand, Dragomir was overcome by a feeling of intense vertigo, followed swiftly by nausea, then a dull ache in his heart.

  Runt was quickly by his side to steady him. “Careful. I had to give you some of my blood.”

  “You live like this?” Dragomir said while finding his footing, the feeling of deep sickness almost overwhelming.

  “I know how to.” Runt answered. “It’s more a learned still than anything else to live with one’s own imperfections… It made dragging you out of the cathedral difficult, but nothing I haven’t dealt with before.”

  Only now, after experiencing the precipice before death, did Dragomir understand Runt’s attitude towards the world, himself, everything. “I guess coming close to death gives you perspective… makes you appreciate the small things.”

  “You understand now, yes?”

  “I think I do…”

  Runt nodded, then looked down the mountain slope. “Then we should be on our way. We’ve done more than enough… And Blestrysnia’s people should know the reason for this sunrise.”

  —---------------------

  The recordings of early Blestrysnian history might puzzle many layman readers and scholars of modern history alike: for the shape of those lands beneath the once called Barrow Mountain are vastly different today than in those ancient times. It was recorded by Blestrysnia’s Exile Prince Mihai Demesceria that the first sunrise, during that year we know as 223 ADW, was herald to the triumphant return of two men, one of which being the subject of this record, and the other being the eventual Exile Prince Dragomir the Great, whose reign lasted another thirty years after his crowning; ending only after the falling of Blestrysnia’s first sunset.

  In the centuries to follow, the old corruption and deathly curses that gave the Barrow Mountain its name faded, and in its place the renewed kingdom of Blestrysnia became a new haven during the latter years of the Reconstruction period known most for its fertile lands that feed much of the wider region to this very day.

  But such subjects are both well-known and beyond the scope of this text. What matters for our purposes is that this event, the cleansing of the Barrow Mountain of its Grey Woe, and the recorded return of both Dragomir the Great and the Alchemist, marks the first proper written account of the Alchemist on record.

  Yet, even still, it is among the lesser known of his stories. Popular tellings of his legend neglect his role within Blestrysnia, at least those written or told beyond sight of the Barrow Mountain.

  It is only with the next telling that this text arrives as the first commonly known legend of our modern age, and the expedition which gave the Alchemist his first contemporary notoriety, though as later accounts prove, popularity is often a double-edged sword.

  -Tome of the Alchemist Retold as written by Master Luthren Hobst of the Royal Preservation Society. Circa~1145 ADW