-One-

“How about it?” the young man asked, looking tired but hopeful. He stared, for what seemed to be several minutes at the shopkeeper appraising the sword. “The metal’s Tauran steel, not to mention the scabbard is made of—“

“It’s nice,” the shopkeeper cut in, handing the sword back, “But the sword is focused mostly on its design, which is pretty much looked down upon by the people here.”

The young man’s hope deflated.

“Besides,” the shopkeeper went under the counter, taking a meat cleaver from a chest. At least it looked like a meat cleaver, though much longer and more menacing than the common kitchen tool. The surface of the blade was dirty, a combination of blood, sand, and all sorts of dirt.

The cutting edge of the blade, however, was razor sharp.

“This,” The shopkeeper began triumphantly, “Is a blade.”

-Two-

It was Al Molloch, greatest of cities in the country of Ulthar. A center of commerce and trade, kept strong by the massive oasis it was built upon, sustaining the life surrounded by the endless and ferocious desert. It was the waypoint of merchants and explorers, seeking for either fame or wealth.

Due east was the location of the mines, a near endless supply of metal and precious jewels for the city. From the south came the people, either the merchants from the other cities of Ulthar or the adventurers. The explorers, adventurers and treasure seekers, all came to the city for one thing.

Far to the north, beyond the desert sand was the ancient capital of Ulthar. Massive ruins were in place of what once was a great city, created before the time of the Gods of Absolute. A city of the ancient people: mysterious yet at the same tie foreboding.

The kings of the ancient civilization were said to have hidden their treasures beneath the city, and so those who heard had come seeking for it. Many men and women had indeed found their own treasure, yet an innumerable number of people were never to be seen again, lost forever in their search in the ancient city.

Al Molloch had become a waypoint, a stopover for explorers before heading out to the ancient capital. They were the first ones who had brought knowledge of the outside world that was beyond Ulthar, foreign men and women each different in looks and character.

The people of Ulthar were of Elven descent; tall, lean, dark-skinned and ears long and pointed. And it was also easy to point out, which of the foreign adventurers had stayed too long in Ulthar.

“What I don’t understand,” the young man began, taking a small loaf of bread from his plate. “Is our damn luck.”

There were only two of them, talking rather noisily inside the small tavern during lunch. They were obviously foreign, judging from the clothing and physical appearance; and also obvious was the lightness in their skin tone, not even close to a tan color. It meant, among other things, that their stay in the country hadn’t been that long.

“Our damn squad gets called back to the empire, and then those mercenaries back out after arriving in the city…”

The young man had a face of pure, cynical agitation. The eyes were half-bored, half-ready to glare at any other person in a bar. He had a scowl that could only be attained through practice, and for the moment he was eating a cheap yet meager lunch.

At least he had his youth ahead of him. He was blue-eyed, tall, and lean, with blonde hair that shone under the sun. But still, in his thoughts, he was still eating a cheap lunch that not only was small, but tasted like old vegetables soaked in vinegar.

“What do you think, Troll?”

Troll was the second person. Troll wasn’t exactly a troll, but was specifically a human with mixed blood. He was of wendigo descent, which could explain his large bulk. Over eight feet tall, Troll looked like he ate some poor human being and combined weights with each other. He also had large arms, where his hand could wrap itself around a coconut. Or a human head.

“Urrh… der mercenaries say dat dey dun get no more money…” the giant man said.

It was common assumption for most people to assume that wendigos and their half-breeds lacked intelligence. They may be slow-moving and easy-going, but they weren’t dumb. Besides, speech pattern aside, Troll was vice-captain, plus the fact that he liked to act stupid was unsettling.

Cyril, the captain, sighed, leaning back on the chair. “How much money do we have left then?”

“Enough for der pay for der inn, and food…” which also meant that they had no money to travel back on their own. Cyril had the choice to stay in Ulthar or return with his squad, while Troll simply followed whatever his captain did.

“At any rate, I’ve come too far to leave now.” Cyril said to himself as he stood up from the chair. “I’m going to explore the city, try to find someone crazy enough to get hired by us.”

He left, exiting through the door quietly. Troll, who generally was uncomfortable with his seat, fumbled in his pockets before finding the money to pay the bill. Taking his cloak that had been hanging in the chair beside him, Troll lumbered out of the tavern.

-Three-

During the night, silence dominated within the ruins of the ancient city.

Tanner was a sorcerer, and from his training he had acquired a talent to sense locations where magic flowed. So it was unsettling for him, not being able to sense anything from the gloom inside the ruins, since the most basic of magic came from living creatures.

He kept his thoughts to himself, as he and his team walked deeper into the darkness. There were four of them; three humans from the empire of Bodom, including himself, and one mercenary from Al Molloch. All of them were silent.

They had found the temple deep in the center of the ancient city, and, like all other structures in the capital, was abandoned, most of them untouched for countless centuries. Beyond the ruined altar was a stairway leading down, spiraling into dark oblivion.

It could have been hours, no one could tell anymore, that the group spent walking down into the darkness. The lights from their torches were weak, though showing no signs of going out: as if the dark gloom was merely becoming like thick fog.

And there was the silence. Unlike the absence of sound, or the strange feeling where the ears begin to ring, the silence deeper down had a certain quality—hunger. Every sound they did: the creaking from their footsteps and the breath from their mouth; all seemed consumed into the dark silence. Into sheer nothing.

Clink.

It felt clear, like a rock falling into a clear pool of water. All four men turned toward the direction where they came from. Clink, clink, clink. The sounds continued, not just from behind them but everywhere. The sound was similar to a small piece of glass, falling to the ground and shattering; increasing in volume as if it went closer to them.

Tanner felt the cold sweat, as his companions did. From the very corner of his ear he could hear their hired help, the mercenary from Al Molloch mutter a prayer or saying. What type of prayer was incomprehensible to Tanner, for it was in the language of the old society of Ulthar, the same society that lived in the city long ago, who had worshipped gods of the old age. Massive in size, horrific to behold, each god was given morbid description by the campfires of traveling nomads, inciting the curiosity and fear of many travelers.

Tanner could remember one, only one of the old gods from his studies as a youth. Ixar, worshipped as the god of knowledge and truth. The creature was a black hole, endless and devoid of anything else, save a single red eye at the center, said to be the located in the deepest end of the blackness. Those who saw him saw everything: the purpose of life, death, and existence, soon to be followed by an inevitable madness. Knowledge so great as the reason for existence drove madness into the soul, a price that the god gave to all those who see him.

Remembering that, he could only hope and shudder that nothing came after death. After all, such sickening knowledge is beyond punishment for the idea of an endless afterlife.

The group walked deeper down the stairway, ignoring the clink sound that followed the from behind. Tanner ignored everything around him as he walked. The sound of his group’s footsteps, and once in a while one of his companions would curse, or maybe mutter a prayer into the darkness; all were painful for the sorcerer to hear. His thoughts would return to Ixar, and it drove him mad.

Time was no longer mentioned, and it came to all of them in an instant. They all ran, faster to the deepest levels of the near-endless stairs. They no longer questioned the direction they took, as long as they escaped the noise.

Clink.

Tanner could hear it clearly now, not the sound behind them but the voices of his companions: Screams, so loud that he felt the fear drive through his spine, and from the fearful voices of his group he could hear his own.

I don’t want to die.

I don’t want to die. Over and over again he would tell himself, screaming inside the deepest regions of his mind. Despite the panic and fear around him his brain worked perfectly. He was a sorcerer, he could draw out magic as a weapon, and he could survive. But there was the fact before, he could not sense any magic flowing inside the ruins, but a horrifying fact came to him: magic could also be found in any living creature: his companions, for example.

The thought of using his companions as a weapon and shield sent fearful bolt of awareness in him, followed by an deep void of hopelessness.

He stopped running: it was back to nothing, endless nothing. He could no longer sense his companions; all that was left was darkness. The fire from his torch went out, and everything was silent.

He screamed, over and over again for his own version of eternity. Until the madness came. Until the darkness would consume him into nothing. Hands colder than ice pulled him down, and he found it, a small source of magic from a living creature.

Finally, it wrapped itself around Tanner, as dark oblivion came to the mad mind of the sorcerer Tanner.

-Four-

After leaving Troll to pay for lunch, Cyril decided that finding people who would guide them to the ancient capital safely would start in a tavern for two reasons. One reason was people who hung out and did nothing but get drunk during the afternoon had nothing else to do. Another reason was he badly needed a drink.

Though Troll was in charge of their living expenses during their stay in Al Molloch, Cyril kept a hidden stash in case of an emergency. Technically the money was not enough to get out of the country but what was exactly needed for a decent meal, or in Cyril’s case, several drinks.

Four gold coins fell with a clink, shining on the surface of the bar’s counter, “Keep filling the drinks until I get bloody pissed.”

Cyril emptied the first glass or beer without pause, doing the same until the fifth glass. He wasn’t drunk yet, and there were no signs of effect from the liquor, but someone sat next to him, staring.

“Can I help you?” Cyril said without moving as he waited for his sixth glass.

If he had glanced over to look at the stranger, Cyril could point out that the person was a man, just another native of Ulthar: dark-brown skin, pointed ears, though a little more muscular, a little more rugged than the average brawler. His face was clean shaven and relaxed, while a pair of light brown eyes observed Cyril slightly.

“Nothing really,” the man said, taking a sip from his drink. “Just admiring your face.”

The sixth drink was finished before Cyril spoke, “Pardon?”

“Your face: I’m admiring it. It’s very tense, but it’s one that would attract quite a lot of attention, most people generally believe that something is hidden underneath that cold scowl.”

“You’re drunk.” Drink number seven, and Cyril was either unfazed or simply did not care.

“Not that drunk,” the man finished his drink, and it seemed that his face inched closer to Cyril’s. “But listen, I know a good brothel that would pay you a lot for some light work.”

There was a pause during drink number nine, but everything continued a second later. He waited for drink number ten.

“I’m not a girl.”

“And I’m not mistaking you for a girl, friend.”

Drink number ten. The man’s hand found itself resting on Cyril’s leg.

What happened next went by very quickly. Both of Cyril’s hands moved, the glass of beer dropping to the floor. The right hand knocked away the hand on his lap, the left hand moving much quicker as it went straight for the man’s face. The man was knocked away fro the barstool, crashing down to the floor, which since the tie of its creation, had never been properly scrubbed.

Nearby, three men came rushing to the aid of their fallen friend. Or they were simply just a barfly who lived for a fight. Either way, Cyril was ready.

Now would be the best and only time to describe what Cyril looked like excluding his face that was described before. Most of his clothing was colored black; the cloak, the shirt and trousers, plus the boot. There was also a breastplate made out of leather, dark-brown in color, and at that moment, the sword he had failed to sell earlier was pointed at the man who groped him.

“Listen up! The next man who even tries to poke me would get three feet of Tauran steel down their bloody damn throat!” he announced, causing all eyes inside the tavern to look toward him. “This blade may damn well not compete with your own weapons, but I bloody well guarantee that it’ll hurt a lot!”

Cyril noticed that the effects of alcohol were creeping up on him. It was now or never, as he faced the crowd.

“I’m going to the ancient city in search of something bloody important, and I’m going to need a few men to help during travel and I bloody need some protection! Who’s with me?” Yup, Cyril thought, definitely drunk.

A voice from behind muttered something.

“What was that?”

“…I said… how much are you paying?” it was the man he knocked out, nose bloody and badly broken.

Cyril paused and looked at him intently, “Fifty percent of whatever I find, and nothing else.”

The man gave a sound that was something like a sneeze. “Who the hell would accept something like that? It’d be a damn waste of time if the expedition’s a bust, especially since we’re not being paid cash up front!”

“There is a treasure,” Cyril said coldly, “I’m positive.”

“I’m taking your offer,” the voice came from the corner of the tavern. The voice was neither loud nor rough, but it was young and definitely female. All eyes looked toward the source, and the new character is introduced.

Definitely young, and female, it was the tall figure of a young woman that stared at Cyril. Like everyone in Ulthar, her skin tone was tan, albeit a little lighter than most, and unlike most people in Ulthar her ears were not pointed. She wore a black vest, while an equally black skirt reached down to her ankles. Two swords were sheathed beside her belt.

Her face was smooth, and her raven black hair was shoulder length and a ponytail. She stared at Cyril with deep, light green eyes.

“You?” the man with the broken nose scoffed, “What does a spoiled bitch like you know about the sands of the ancient city?”

She grinned, not taking her eyes off Cyril. “Much more than you, obviously.”

Cyril, somewhere in the borders of drunk and sober, leered at the girl. “It would seem that introductions are in order then… and you are?”

She walked slowly toward him, until Cyril could get a very close look at her face. She smiled at him, and said: “Call me Morphine.”

-aus-

note: and I’m finished! I’m in desperate need for sleep, so I’ll make this quick: update is somewhere in a few days, reviews and comments greatly appreciated KTHNXBAI!!!1