Laria
Laria screamed as the animated skeletons carried her with demonic swiftness through the unearthly catacombs. Their dry, bony fingers dug into her skin like the fingers of death itself. Their hollow eye sockets glowed with a chilling light as they sped through the enchanted caverns on the black altar’s power.
They came to an abrupt stop outside a small antechamber. One of the skeletons went to work on a hidden door, which opened with an eerie metallic screech. They rushed into the lightless chamber beyond. Laria momentarily ceased her struggles, knowing she could never find her way out of this dismal darkness.
Another troop joined them in the murky depths. Their dry bones clacked and clattered unnaturally, and the eerie glow of their eyes made Laria shudder with fear. If there was any possibility that she could break free and escape, that hope was now as dead as the hands that gripped her.
“The stars have nearly aligned,” the leader of the squad uttered in a hollow, monotonous voice. “The sacrifice must be made ready.”
“The sacrifice must be made ready,” the others all repeated as one. They sounded utterly soulless, like automatons bound to a single will. Even as a slave, Laria had never been totally possessed like these skeletal warriors were to whatever force compelled them to carry out the Dark King’s orders. Their movements were stiff and mechanical, like puppets on unseen strings of sorcery. Whatever souls had once possessed these undead bodies, they had been twisted or cast out of them long ago.
Up ahead, Laria saw a light at the end of the tunnel, and realized that it led back to the temple of Xulthar. She renewed her hopeless struggles as they carried her swiftly toward it, breaking off a fingerbone but otherwise having no effect.
“Let me go!” she screamed, kicking her feet in vain.
“The sacrifice must be made ready,” the undead apparitions continued to chant. They carried her through a cloistered hall into the central chamber, beneath the enormous dome. The chamber was now filled almost to overflowing with the animated bones of the undead souls that the Dark King had bound to his will.
The black altar stood in the center, its smooth marble stonework gleaming with unearthly light. Behind the altar bent the shapeshifting priest, his eyes deadened and cold, while behind him the Dark King towered like an indomitable force of iron will. He stood dressed in sinister robes of deepest ebony, a crown of sorcerous gems upon his skull-like head. Laria shrank as he seemed to penetrate her with his eyes. His sneering smile widened as the skeletal warriors dragged her into his dominating presence.
“The hour of Xulthar’s restoration is nearly at hand!” the Dark King bellowed. “Bind the sacrifice!”
“Bind the sacrifice,” the skeletal warriors repeated with one voice, sending chills of terror down Laria’s spine. She tried one last time to break away from their iron grasp, but the mindless hands ignored her ineffectual struggles, methodically ripping off her garments until she was utterly naked. Against her will, they pulled her onto the stone platform and wrapped strong cords around her wrists and ankles, lashing her to the sorcerous altar.
Laria was powerless against the evil forces gathered around her. She panted and arched her back with all her strength, but it was no use: she could not break free of her bonds. A smile of cruel intent crossed the Dark King’s countenance as he came closer, looming above her.
“Is everything prepared?”
A shadowy cloud of smoke obscured her vision as the priest examined her from head to toe. He placed a cold and clammy hand on her forehead, his nails like uncanny claws, then ran his fingers along her side, making her shiver.
“Everything is prepared,” the priest answered. “Her soul remains untainted.” His voice was nearly as mindless as that of the other undead minions the Dark King commanded. Laria stared wide-eyed at the thing that had once been a man, remembering the counsel he had given her and Roderick in this very chamber, but the light of his own will had nearly gone out of his eyes, and he was fully possessed by the Dark King now.
“At long last,” the Dark King gloated, his exultant voice dripping with icy malice, “the dawn of my immortal reign has come! Centuries have I waited for the time when my soul would no longer be bound to these crumbling ruins. With the imminent slaughter of this last and final sacrifice—this soul untainted by money or coin—my power will fill the whole Earth, and all of the nations touched by the coin of Xulthar shall be mine!”
The coin! Laria realized too late, remembering the fallen god Zonthar and his gift which she had shunned. If only she had accepted it, instead of casting it into the desert sands, the Dark King would now be deprived of his precious sacrifice, and his plans would all be thwarted. But now was the Dark King’s hour.
“Help!” Laria screamed, glancing frantically every which way. “Roderick! Save me!”
“Your foolish companion will not save you,” the Dark King taunted her. “But it shall give me great pleasure to enslave his will to mine when he comes to try. What form shall I change him into? A wolf? A bear?”
Laria gazed up at the Dark King in horror and anguish, but as his mocking laughter filled the chamber, her mind began to clear. She suddenly remembered how the priest of the black altar had urged them to sever the heart of Xulthar. Now, as she stared up at the Dark King, she understood what he had been trying to tell them, for the gem that was set in the center of his crown shone with crimson light and pulsated with sorcerous energy, almost like a living thing.
“Roderick!” she shouted. “The Heart of Xulthar—it’s here!”
“Silence!” screeched the Dark King, his mocking turning to malice. He lifted his arm, and with a flick of his wrist, a wave of evil sorcery rippled over Laria’s bare skin.
The effect was immediate. Laria’s spirit was torn from her flesh, her form suddenly as insubstantial as a wisp of smoke. She stared down at her body, lying prone and unconscious on the black altar. The thread that tied her soul to her flesh was so thin that she feared a gust of wind could blow her into non-existence, like the touch of the dawn’s first unrelenting rays upon a desert cloud.
In that moment, a swirling black abyss opened and pulled at her spirit, threatening to swallow her whole. She tried desperately to pull away, to return to her body now lying below her, but the Dark King’s power was too great, and she fell into the Void.
Laria
When Laria came to herself, she was floating through formless mist. She was alive, but still separated from her body, in a world that had a certain dreamlike quality to it, as if time and space were as fleeting and formless as clouds on the wind.
She looked down and saw what appeared to be a dark and misty canyon. A pale ribbon of a river wound its way through a chaotic course of rapids, and the canyon walls climbed ever higher, shrouding the river in shadow. The churning of the water was the only sound.
She floated over the canyon until the river widened, and waters began to run smooth. The roar of the rapids faded into the distance as she descended, her soul all but swallowed by the calm, unbroken mist.
For how long she drifted over the water’s surface, she could not tell. It could have merely been moments. It could have been a lifetime.
Bright pricks of light pulsed in the fog like light shining from lanterns. They glowed and brightened, seeming to come closer. The fog lifted, and Laria saw that each one belonged to a shrouded figure, their faces hidden by long, hooded robes. They seemed to float with the river, carried down the canyon by the current.
One by one, they began to pass by her, reaching out their hands in silent communication. Come, join us, they seemed to say. Fear and horror warred within her heart, but the moment she accepted their invitation, she drifted alongside them as if propelled by her own will.
“H-hello?” she called out tentatively. A few regarded her sadly, but their faces were as stone, their half-hidden features distant and cold.
Suddenly, Laria realized that she knew the name of the river. It was called Death, and flowed eternally without beginning or end, like a snake eating its own tail. How did she know its name? The memory came to her as if from another life, one which she had forgotten at her birth.
“Who are you?” she asked, trying again. This time, one of them drew near to her.
“We are the forgotten of Xulthar, the ones caught under the Dark King’s sorcery. In life, we were citizens of Xulthar, rich and poor alike, but our names have been stolen from us, and we have forgotten who we were.”
“Who you were?” Laria asked, confused. “Don’t you mean, who you are?”
“Nay,” the shrouded figure told her. “The Dark King stole our bodies, stripping away our flesh and casting our spirits aside like old clothing. Because we are neither living nor dead, our souls are consigned to wander this river until our physical forms have been shattered.”
As Laria watched, the lantern of one of the distant figures suddenly went out, like a flickering candle extinguished by a gust of wind. The shrouded figure floated upward through the air, rising through the haze and fog.
“I am free!” he cried in manic exultation. “My chains have been shattered, and I go to the immortal realm!”
A point of light appeared above the fog, and he drifted toward it like a moth circling a flame. But as he drew nigh, his face suddenly twisted into a mask of agony, his mouth contorted in a silent scream. Just before he passed into the light, he howled a despairing cry that seemed to pierce all the shrouded figures along the river, causing them to shudder and shrink.
“What was that?” Laria asked, an awful sense of dread rising from deep within her.
“That was his freedom,” the figure solemnly answered. “His body was slain in the land of the living, freeing his spirit to enter his eternal reward.”
“His eternal reward?” she whispered.
“Yes,” another figure moaned in sorrow and woe. “The moment his eyes beheld the Immortal Realm, he remembered his name—and all of his manifold sins. They must have been many, to cause him so much anguish. Such is his eternal reward.”
“No,” argued another. “His soul was not ready to enter the Immortal Realm, and so he passed into another part of the Void.”
“We do not know what happens after we pass beyond,” the first one admitted to her. “All we know is that without our names, our souls are bound to this river, unable to continue on to the Immortal Realm.”
Laria’s spirit-eyes widened in shock. “What about your bodies? Can’t you return to them?”
“Nay, for the Dark King has stripped them of all their flesh. It is his power that now animates them, and if our spirits were to return, our bodies would crumble and perish.”
“Which would be far preferable to wandering this damnable river for eternity,” the second figure added in a sullen tone. Laria sensed that he had been a man of action in life, and was ill-suited to this hellish limbo between worlds.
“Is there nothing we can do?” she asked.
“No,” the first figure said sadly. “When Xulthar was destroyed, our souls were bound eternally to this river. Until the Dark King is slain and his power over our bodies is shattered, there is nothing we can do.”
Laria’s heart sank at the shrouded figure’s somber words. But then, she remembered that she carried no lantern and wore no dark robes.
“What about me?” she asked. “Is there nothing that I can do?”
Her shrouded guide paused for a long time to consider. “For us, death is our only release. But for you, there may be a way. How did you come to be here?”
“The Dark King plans to use me as a human sacrifice,” she told him. “My body is tied to the altar in his temple. When the stars are aligned, he will slay me to complete his spell.”
“And consign your spirit to wander the river with us, no doubt,” said the figure, nodding sadly. “But until such time as that, I see no reason why your spirit cannot return.”
“But how?” Laria asked desperately. “How can my spirit return to my body? How?”
The figure shrugged and began to drift away. In alarm, Laria realized that all of the spirits were departing from her.
“We do not know,” her one-time guide admitted to her. “Farewell, my friend. May you ultimately find the eternal peace of the Immortal Realm.”
“Wait!”
But time and space shifted, leaving Laria all alone. She tried to run after them, but her limbs were nearly frozen, as if she were caught in a dream where she was unable to move of her own accord.
The mists were now impenetrable. No matter which way she turned, she found only more of the thickening fog. In desperation, she cried out, knowing that she had to find a way back to the temple of Xulthar before the Dark King completed his sacrifice. But how?
As soon as that thought entered into her mind, her spirit feet felt as if they touched solid ground. She took a tentative step, and the dreamlike quality of the Void faded as well, unbinding her limbs and leaving her free to move as she willed.
She saw that she was in a dark forest, on a straight and narrow path that extended only a few steps before her before it was shrouded in darkness. Though the mists had released her, they had not receded far, and she sensed that if she forgot her purpose or failed to exercise her will, the mists would swiftly swallow her again.
Her will—her free will. That, she realized, was the key in this realm between life and whatever lay beyond.
Suddenly, she heard a voice calling for her. It was an older man, distant and yet familiar. The kind words of her first slave master echoed in the air.
“Come back, little child,” he called to her gently. “We need you.”
Laria’s heart leaped, and without a second thought, she left the path and ran after him. But as she drew closer, the same feeling of helplessness began to overcome her, and she realized that she had made a terrible mistake.
Just then, a creature with glowing red eyes stepped out of the shadows, charging her with venomous fangs bared. Laria screamed and ran back through the swirling fog, until she stumbled breathlessly back onto the path. The creature watched her from the shadows, his red eyes tracing her every move, but it did not challenge her.
Willing herself forward, she took another step, but an overwhelming chorus of voices soon met her ears.
“Come here, slave girl!”
“Come to me, you little wench!”
“Here, my pretty little slave!”
“What’s wrong? Would I ever hurt you?!”
Laria trembled in fear and indecision. The voices belonged to all of her prior masters. The ones who had been cruel were easy to ignore, but those who had been fair to her were much harder, for a part of her still yearned to be a slave. The benevolent and kind ones were the hardest to resist, and it was all she could do not to run and leave the path.
But then, she remembered the beast who had just attacked her. These voices were all an illusion—or if they were real, her masters were all monsters now, eager to consume her.
Ignoring the temptation to return to the life of a slave, she followed the path through the mists and forest of darkness until time and space shifted once again. This time, she emerged over the ruins of Xulthar, that city of dark and sorcerous power that had fallen in a single day. She looked down upon the crumbling ruins and realized that this was the city as it really was—she had returned to the land of the living. And yet, as a spirit touched by the Void, she could see beyond the mere physical reality to the underlying powers beneath.
What she saw filled her with fear and fascination.
Deep, unearthly shadows wandered the dusty streets under the full light of day. Strange eldritch lights from before the city’s founding shimmered within the forgotten depths of the catacombs. But what fascinated her most were the dark and sorcerous energies that possessed the ruins themselves. Invisible to mortal eyes, it seemed as though some powerful presence flowed through the empty fountains and the abandoned homes.
Fearful yet curious, Laria followed those energies, drifting like a ghost on the dusty wind. She saw the temple, with the Dark King and his minions crowded around the black altar. She even saw her own body lashed to its black marble surface. But to her surprise, the source of the city’s power was not to be found there.
She drifted away from the central domed chamber. The deeper she went within the temple’s antechambers, the stronger the sorcery became, until she felt it throbbing and pulsating all around her. Through a thick stone wall, her spirit now plunged, until at last she beheld it—the riches of Xulthar!
Gold and jewels beyond every description filled the chamber from wall to wall. Coins minted by magic and cursed with dark sorcery issued out of a shimmering fountain, spreading from the very heart of the fallen city throughout the entire world. Looking upon them, Laria realized that the riches of Xulthar were the true source of the city’s evil power. Before them, the Dark King and all his minions were naught but slaves themselves.
But what could she do? So long as her spirit was sundered from her body, she was helpless. And soon, her sacrifice would seal Xulthar’s terrible restoration, not as a city of wonder and glory, but an eldritch abomination of undead horror. What could she do? What could she do?
As if in answer, she felt a familiar soul enter the temple from below. She flew through brick and stone until finally entered the crypt, and when she saw him, her soul leaped with hope. It was Roderick, his eyes blazing with determination as he rose to his feet and picked up his sword.
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