Gothar

Chapter 22

The Old One

In the ever-encroaching cloak of secrecy, Garoush cradled his elusive secret like a phantom, guarding the enigmatic nocturnal carousel of his dreams from the probing eyes of the world. These were no ordinary dreams; they were visions that transcended the realms of the mundane, catapulting him into the sinewy bodies of wild creatures—a clandestine ballet where he became one with the untamed. Captain Willem and the enigmatic Crowe Cyrus spun tales of skin changers, beings forever tethered to a solitary form. Yet, Garoush's nightly odysseys flouted this sacred decree, suggesting that he held dominion over any creature's guise at his whim. The mere notion of aligning himself with the shadowed realm of the accursed skin changers sent a visceral shiver through his very essence. Once a humble baker's apprentice a mere moon cycle ago, he now precariously straddled the precipice of becoming a vagabond, a stray, or perhaps a harbinger of Gothar.

The unraveling loom of Garoush's existence was no tapestry woven by the indifferent hands of fate, but a quilt of misfortune stitched together by his own misguided choices—choices spawned from the unholy triumvirate of curiosity, obstinacy, and folly. In the brief span of a handful of days, his life morphed from the monotonous routine of a baker's apprentice to a tumultuous whirlwind of calamity. A cosmic wormhole cradled him within its ethereal arms, astride a colossal caracal that carried him through the warp and weft of realities, embarking on a quest to rescue a deity ensnared in the unfathomable depths of the underworld. The path forward, shrouded in uncertainty, offered no retreat, with the spectral gaze of undead kings, silent guardians of the underworld, looming ominously. Uncharacteristically, they permitted him passage without demanding tribute, as if guided by an unseen force. An inexplicable force nestled within his chest, a magnetic pull drawing him closer to the ancient being in captivity.

The conundrum unfurled—the rescue of an ancient deity from powerful captors. If a god languished in chains, their captors wielded unparalleled might. How could a baker's boy contend with adversaries commanding armies of monsters, wielding magic, and perhaps being gods or demons themselves? Strangeness had dogged him since the descent into the well. Where others met their demise, he emerged unscathed. A gargantuan caracal spared him, ferrying him through the wormholes. Subsequently, three ancient kings, their cadaverous forms brandishing intimidating swords, granted him passage without challenge. The strange realm welcomed him, from eccentric mudflats with exaggerated smiles to rituals reminiscent of sacrificial offerings. Was he but a pawn in a cosmic play, walking willingly to his own sacrifice? The inexplicable ease with which he traversed this surreal landscape left him with haunting questions.

Why him? Why did others succumb to the well's depths while he emerged unscathed? Did the art of skin changing play a role in his peculiar fate? Was he one of those fabled beings? The old one persisted, urging him to perform a mysterious ceremony. Countless questions swirled in Garoush's mind, each seemingly meaningless and inconsequential. After all, he was but a humble apprentice baker—no more, no less. Yet, the fabric of reality seemed to warp around him, even in the dreams that visited him upon slumber.

In one such reverie, Garoush found himself transformed into a falcon, perched atop the familiar Cadwalk rock. The surroundings, however, were disconcertingly altered—an infernal sky ablaze on the horizon, cliffs shattered or scorched, bodies strewn across the landscape. A flight south revealed an unprecedented conflagration, consuming the old town, the forest, and even the charred remains of familiar white mastiffs. Was this a foretelling of events unfolding, or merely a nightmarish concoction of his subconscious? The pain that shot through his foot as he soared above a distant army encampment, arrows launched by unseen archers, added another layer of surrealism. The falcon vanished into the clouds, reappearing over familiar landscapes scarred by fire—Mugger towns and forests in ruins. This couldn't be real; he was merely adrift in the sea of dreams. It had to be a dream, and the waking world awaited him, beckoning with the promise of answers to the riddles that haunted his every step.