Relics, Ruins, Remains

Somewhere in the northeastern parts of the Sunless Jungle

Drip.

The night is quiet; the air is still and tense, like an in-drawn, held breath.

Drip.

Blood, dark and steaming, spatters across an old stone floor. It pools in the cracks and crevices, soaks into the moss, makes the ground slick and slippery. Tall, crumbled walls bear witness, silent and silhouetted against a starlit sky.

Drip.

The trees around are slowly encroaching on the old ruin; their roots greedily reaching for what was once theirs, while moss and vines soften the sharp corners of broken pillars and arches, half-buried in the soil.

When the stones were newly hewn and carefully placed, it was a proud shrine for a fickle patron, frequented by visitors from all over Ivras and beyond. A place of power and magic, drawing those who wished for more like moths to a flame; adherents burned their offerings on polished stone altars, whispering their secret desires to a capricious benefactor. 

But places of power may attract other things, too. Old and relentless things, hungering; always craving more, devouring until there is nothing left…

Now, the place is forgotten and abandoned, slowly reclaimed by the hungry jungle—but high up on one of the broken pillars, the sharp-grinned mask of Fortune hangs. Its once colourful paint is chipped and faded, and it is missing teeth, but its dark and empty gaze still lingers over the remains of its domain. No longer do those who beg for Fortune’s favour come here; years have passed since any offerings were made, and yet, there is something in the air—an unseen presence; the night is deeper here, the air a little colder. Few animals pass by, and no birds sing. 

Those few who still know of the place try their best to forget it.

Drip.

Ravenous does not feel the chill of the night, and cares little for the watchful gaze of lingering spirits— the blood of his prey is still warm, its flesh hot in his mouth. Bone and gristle fall to the slick stones underfoot, and for a time, Ravenous is full and sated.

But there is always the next meal, the next victim. Flesh and blood only fills his belly; to satisfy the burning, endless hunger, the yawning emptiness, he needs magic—the more, the better, and in this forgotten place there is no more magic to devour; Ravenous ate it all.

Restlessness creeps into his mind, a dull and churning anxiety; fear is an alien emotion to him, but he is all too aware of the hunger pangs that will soon tear and claw at his insides. Without magic to eat, his mind becomes dull and sluggish; his gaunt body stiffens and slows and eventually fails.

A faint breeze stirs the air. A bird’s piercing cry echoes, and the wind changes—he drops a piece of bone, stills, and listens. He takes a rattling breath, nostrils flaring; somewhere nearby, there is a scent of living flesh, of magic in abundance. 

Namarast. Ravenous does not know the name of the great mage city, and if he did, it would still mean nothing to him—and yet that place is like a beacon in his mind, a great feast set in front of a starving man; at the same time maddeningly close, and endlessly far away.

His current meal is forgotten, only the next matters, and moments later, the old shrine once again stands empty and silent. 

Only the gruesome scraps of a meal remain. The earth greedily soaks the blood, and the mask of Fortune watches, and its wide grin endures.