The Isles - Book One: Awakening

Nine Divinities

The hunter studied the standing tower in the middle of the city. A huge central pillar that served as the clocktower for the people of Ardentis. Where he was from, a similar, massive monolith was constructed the same way underground to determine the time of a place that had no seasons or daylight. The clocktowers small hand had struck upwards to the sky.

It was midnight. The appointed hour.

He moved and retrieved his mount that had been sleeping under the shade of a nearby tree and sped off down the empty streets, finding interesting routes in the dead of night that would take him through the puzzle of houses and businesses out to the eastern most entry point for Ardentis—the point closest to the slave tents and the gate always used by runaway slaves. Once he emerged out of the eastern end of the great city, the guards there beckoned him through and outwards into the wild plains and farmlands that surrounded the inner city.

He held the collar of the slave to his lizard, with one deep breath, the creature knew its mission. His mount bolted, its feet hitting swiftly and softly as it moved quicker than any horse, even with him on its back. He knew his mount would lead him straight to the girl's whereabouts, which was probably only a hour on his mount. If the girl stopped. And they always did.

As he moved silently on cobblestoned roads, few people in the fields to his left and right looked. Not because he was being loud, but because they noticed a disturbance in the shadows. Beast people, in his eyes were horrible monstrosities between already two lesser races. From the beast folk with animal ears and tails to the scaly lizard people of the Marsh, slaves in collars and shackles looked at him for only a fleeting moment before averting their eyes back to their work in the dead of the night. Knowing their restrictions as slaves, they took care not to look him in the eyes as he quickly passed.

Not that he would have paid them any heed anyway. He was too consumed by the urgency of the moment, the thrill of a hunt. He kicked his mount to even greater speeds when he ran out of cobbled roads and curving stone walls. He rushed toward the eastern regions of the surrounding forest, towards the giant crystals that led to the Tomb of The Cursed Ones, as it was called in the mortal tongue. The Ancient Language was the language of magic, the language spoken by the gods before him and by those who delved into the world of power. 

And while many have learned to speak the ancient tongue, few had the magical affinity to transform such words into forces of destruction. Even less had the ability to use it for the other eight divinities. Understanding the words was the easiest part of the fragile world he lived in. The real terror of such a language was the knowledge of why it had been created, it was something that always clouded the minds of the beholders of the language. To know was to be susceptible to the will of the gods—to their mind-shattering realms of existence. Realms undiscernible to the minds of mortals, and a place where knowledge was corruption.

He shook his head at the thoughts that had once again plagued his mind. Magic was this world's greatest pleasure, and power was the high. Seeking a higher power was natural for those fortunate enough to taste such sweet magical peaks, but with each step climbed higher to the transmundane, the mind was driven to the further reaches of insanity, and such power couldn't be acquired in any other way.

His mount broke through the lines of shrubbery that led into the darkness between the trees, and immediately, his vision shifted into that of the creatures that had adapted to The Twisting Darkness of his homeland. He had no light to guide him, but like his mount, he needed none. In his superior eyes, his eyes translated subtle signatures of heat and cold into vivid and colorful images that he understood far too well. Colors all across the spectrum swirled in front of him, from the earth below his mount's feet, to the trees and brush that was in his way. But none of the signatures were nearly as terrifying as what watched from above.