Deep Sea Embers

The unsettling declaration from the young nun, “Ashes… can easily be assimilated by ashes…” brought Vanna to a momentary standstill. In that fleeting moment, a sensation washed over her as if a tight knot in her mind had slightly unraveled. She was on the verge of inquiring further when the nun, cloaked in black, allowed a soft smile to grace her lips. Then, to Vanna’s utter astonishment, the nun disintegrated into a heap of ashes that the wind whimsically scattered right before her eyes.

The sound of tapping, reminiscent of a familiar yet elusive memory, echoed once more from the void, signaling another presence within the church’s ancient walls. Vanna’s instincts sharpened; she turned her gaze towards the source, only to be met with the sight of an indistinct silhouette at the church’s entrance.

As the figure drew nearer, its form gradually became more defined with each advancing step. It was an elderly priest, his posture bent, adorned in the worn vestments of his vocation.

In one hand, the old priest held a lamp emitting a soft glow, its light reflecting off his hand, revealing a metallic sheen. It became apparent that he had lost an arm in some bygone conflict, now replaced with a steam-powered prosthetic. Despite his slow approach, his eyes never once settled on Vanna; instead, they were fixated on some distant point beyond her, filled with an ineffable longing.

Overcome with an inexplicable sense of recognition, Vanna felt compelled to leave her seat and greet this mysterious figure. “Hello, may I inquire as to where I am?” she ventured.

The priest halted, his attention still diverted beyond her, and responded in a tranquil tone, “You have strayed into an wayward thread of history, Inquisitor – you must find your exit from this place lest you too are reduced to ashes… He is no longer capable of discerning.”

Confusion laced Vanna’s voice as she asked, “He can no longer discern? Who are you referring to?”

“The deity tasked with the chronicling of history…” the old priest murmured. As his words trailed off, his body began to crumble into ashes, which the wind swiftly carried away. His parting words, barely audible, lingered in the air, “…everything… will drift towards the ultimate chaos…”

Warmed by an unseen force, a strand of ash brushed against Vanna’s fingertips, jolting her with its touch. Though her memory remained shrouded in mystery, unable to recall her past or recognize this desolate place, a deep-rooted alarm within her urged her to flee.

Without hesitation, she sprinted towards the main door of the church.

Pushing the door ajar, Vanna was greeted by the expansive night sky. Unbeknownst to her, day had transitioned to night, and the desert now lay under the cloak of darkness. The day’s blistering heat had succumbed to the chilly nocturnal winds, now reigning supreme over the barren landscape. The wind, a harbinger of the desert’s merciless nature, hurled sand like tiny daggers, lashing against the ancient ruins and Vanna’s exposed skin, inflicting a stinging pain.

Vanna’s skin, known for its resilience against small-caliber bullets, now bore the delicate lacerations inflicted by the sand, driven by the fierce wind. She observed her arms with a mix of surprise and confusion; rather than blood, what seeped out from these fine wounds was akin to fine ashes, resembling black smoke that gently rose and then dissipated into the atmosphere as though being eagerly consumed by the very essence of this world.

The realization hit her – she was gradually being “absorbed” into the fabric of this strange world.

A fleeting thought urged her to seek refuge back within the church’s walls, yet the echo of the unnamed nun’s and the old priest’s forewarnings ignited a stark admonition within her heart.

The sanctuary, with its deceptive offer of shelter, posed a far greater peril than the abrasive desert sands. The illusion of safety within its confines threatened to erode her resolve, effectively disintegrating her existence into nothingness.

Determined, she knew she had to escape this city… These “ruins” that rose amidst the desert sands offered no shield; rather, they stood as beacons of danger. The environment here was paradoxical; the open, barren sands might paradoxically offer a safer passage…

These thoughts cascaded through her mind in a rapid torrent, yet her resolve did not waver. Protecting herself with a ragged cloak against the stinging assault of the sands, she made her way towards what she recalled as the city’s exit.

The sands around her stirred, hinting at a disturbance or, perhaps, revealing that this city had never truly permitted anyone to leave. Out of the corner of her eye, Vanna noticed a sudden movement in the sand. In an instant, a hand emerged, grasping her ankle with unexpected strength.

From the depths of the desert floor, a figure composed entirely of sand rose, gripping Vanna in a manner reminiscent of a soulless specter. It slithered on the ground, its visage ever-changing, momentarily taking shape only to release a series of garbled roars and murmurs!

Yet, this sandy assailant could not detain Vanna. With a determined step, she broke free from the grasp of the “sand person,” then forcefully stamped the ground, causing a thunderous noise. The resultant shockwave obliterated the sandy figure, scattering it into a cloud of dust around her.

As the dust settled, a half-buried stone pillar with faint inscriptions became visible among the sands: “…Wilhelm… The Black Sun descends from… we have failed…”

The moment of shock was fleeting, and Vanna, without a second’s pause, continued her flight.

The wind crescendoed into a howl, carrying with it a cacophony of sounds. These sounds, vague and overlapping, resembled the bustling noise of a busy marketplace, complete with the chatter of vendors, the footsteps of pedestrians, and the clatter of carriages.

Amidst the ruins of the sand city under the cloak of night, these vibrant sounds enveloped Vanna as if an invisible, bustling city had awakened beside her. She could almost visualize a lively and prosperous scene unfolding in parallel to her solitary escape, imagining a city that throbbed with life even under the cover of darkness. Meanwhile, from the corner of her eye, she noticed flickers of light emerging in the distance.

In this surreal tableau, it seemed as though, following its abandonment or perhaps its complete fading from collective memory, the city’s lights stubbornly persisted, lingering in the annals of history. These lights, relics of a bygone era, would dutifully flicker to life at dusk, casting their glow upon the spots they once brightened…

As darkness enveloped the city, the lights brought an eerie semblance of life to the ruins. Beams cut through the shadows, illuminating the skeletal remains of structures and fallen columns, around which shadowy figures moved, their voices a muffled cacophony in the dim light.

Vanna, sword in hand, moved through these spectral images with a single-minded focus. She navigated the illusion-filled landscape, her steps unwavering and determined, her eyes fixed on the path ahead.

Yet, despite her resolve, her body continued to succumb to the insidious assimilation by the surrounding invisible ashes. Her injuries multiplied, and even without the abrasive touch of the sand, her flesh seemed to fissure spontaneously, emitting plumes of black smoke and ash. With each puff of ash that left her body, the ambient sounds grew louder, the ghostly scenes around her clearer.

In one lucid moment, amidst the ambient noise, she caught snippets of conversation as if the speakers were right beside her, perhaps even addressing her:

“Have you heard? The Thirteen Islands of Witherland have vanished… Word from the north came just days ago… That fearsome ship tore open a portal to subspace…”

Vanna chose to ignore these disembodied voices. With a sweep of her arm, she conjured a gust that scattered the encroaching sand. Amidst this disturbance, a flyer whipped past her, carrying the unmistakable image of Tyrian Abnomar on a wanted poster. The figure beneath the portrait was a sequence of zeros so lengthy, it bordered on absurd, suggesting not a monetary reward but rather the immeasurable danger this individual posed.

Suddenly, the tranquility of the night was pierced by the sound of rhythmic music, suggesting the presence of a large gathering somewhere in the distance. Vanna strained to listen as voices cut through the murkiness:

“…A new queen for Frost… Today marks the coronation of Her Majesty Ray Nora. May we revel in the queen’s glory, seek her protection, and offer her our unwavering allegiance…”

This auditory chaos was soon joined by a plethora of sounds, sights, and snippets of information that seemed to envelop Vanna purposefully:

One street over buzzed with the celebration of Queen Ray Nora of Frost’s coronation day; another echoed with the turmoil of the Frostbite Rebellion; conversations about the wanted poster of the infamous former Frost Admiral Tyrian filled the air; and not too far off, a gathering around a podium where relics from the era of the ancient city-states were on display, with a prominent historian—credited with significant discoveries from that period—addressing the crowd. This figure, a beacon of knowledge in the field, was unfamiliar to Vanna…

Suddenly, as if conjured by the swirling winds and shifting sands before her, a figure materialized. He was a man dressed in worn, ragged garments, his movements betraying a sense of disorientation. His eyes, clouded with confusion, seemed to scan the horizon endlessly, as though trying to make sense of his surroundings. Clutched in his hands were a battered scroll and a stub of a pencil, and he stood there, his demeanor one of apprehension, as if the very air around him was a source of fear.

He bowed repeatedly to the invisible throngs that passed him by, his actions mimicking those of someone desperately seeking information from any who would listen. His mutterings were punctuated by moments of loud exclamations as though frustration had seized him in a sudden frenzy.

Vanna brushed past this enigmatic figure initially without a second thought, but a specific phrase uttered by the man halted her in her tracks. He was earnestly questioning the passersby, his voice tinged with urgency, “Excuse me… what year is it exactly? Does anyone know what year it is now?”

Turning her attention fully towards the man, Vanna noticed that he, too, seemed to recognize her presence, lifting his gaze to meet hers almost simultaneously.

“Hello, my name is Puman,” he introduced himself with a wave despite his evident confusion and wild-eyed appearance. His tone, oddly enough, retained a semblance of politeness, “I’m dreaming again, but this time I can’t seem to find the way out… Can you tell me what year it is now?”

Puman… could this truly be the infamous “mad poet” Puman, known more for his bewildering verses than clarity of mind?

Caught off guard by the encounter, Vanna barely had time to process the moment before the man, who had just identified himself as “Puman,” dissolved into the wind and sand as swiftly as he had appeared.

Left behind, as tangible proof of his brief presence, were the crumpled scroll and the pencil stub he had been clutching, now lying forsaken on the ground.

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