Interactive Story 2#CHAPTER THREE - AN UNMPROMPTED GOODBYE
Your fingers meet the man's, rough and calloused, and in one fluid motion he yanks you forward. Glass explodes inward as a felled spirit crashes through the window. The man's arm becomes an iron bar across your chest, shoving you into the kitchen as crystalline shards rain down behind you.
Immediately he fires a shot from his thick-barreled pistol. How did he draw the weapon so quickly? The bullet looks like a shooting star as it flies through the air. It catches the spirit in the chest and white flames burst from its impact and swallow the spirit up.
Writhing in agony, the beast falls to the floor as the white flames lick up its seething flesh. Your sister buries her head in your shoulder, her entire body trembling. Even though fear is wracking your nerves together, you squeeze her tighter, attempting to assure her that she’s safe and everything will be fine.
Before you’ve even realized what’s happened, the man has unsheathed a sword bathed in white flames, illuminating the room as the felled recoil in fear. Like a fluid dance, he wields his blade and attacks. One, two, three he slashes down, and the remaining few scatter in retreat to the nearest shadows.
The man spins around, the white flames illuminating one half of his face, revealing the hazel color in his eyes. For a moment he studies you, like your eyes are windows into a mystery he’s come to solve.
“If you don’t want more to show up,” he says calmly, “you’ll follow me and leave her behind.”
“Huh? Who?”
Pressing his lips into a flat line, he gestures at your sister.
“What?” your sister says, panic shaking her voice. She turns her blue eyes toward you, tears spilling out of them. “Don’t leave me! Please!”
Your eyes harden at the man. “Are you insane? I’m not leaving my sister. I’m the only one who can care for her.”
Hovering over you, the man takes a deep breath and says, “You don’t have a sister. She’s an agent of the felled. You know that.”
“What? You’re crazy!”
“I’m sorry,” the man says, sheathing his sword. “I was hoping it didn’t have to be this way.”
“Stay back!” you say, squeezing your sister tighter.
“Don’t let him take me!” she yells, kicking her legs repeatedly as the man lurches toward her. One foot lands on the man’s bottom lip. He spits blood on the kitchen floor and fastens his hands around each of her ankles.
“No!” screams your sister. “Stop! Please!”
You try to pry his arms away, kicking at his wrists yourself, but he bends his elbows and contorts his body, spinning all of you on the floor. Somehow you end up in his grasp, and your sister is on the kitchen floor.
Screaming, crying, kicking, you try to free yourself from the man’s grip, but he’s stronger than you. He yanks you away, and the last thing you see of your baby sister is a red, tear-stained face as she sobs helplessly.
[[Continue | 4]]#CHAPTER THREE - THE MIRAGE
Disbelief washes over you as you approach the train station. How did you even end up here this fast? How could your plan have possibly worked? Fuzzy images replay in your mind of hurrying your sister down the hall and into the laundry chute, barely missing the claw of a felled spirit on your tail. Right now, you’re just thankful to be alive.
“Are we there yet?” your sister asks.
“Quiet,” you snap. A surge of guilt rises in you. The intensity of the past few moments has gotten to you, and you let it get the best of you. “I’m sorry, sis,” you say, pausing several feet before the ticket booths on either side of the arched entryway. You set her down and look her in the eyes, a reminder of how you share the same blue irises. “I’m going to get us some train tickets, alright?”
“Where are we going?”
“To Uncle Gordon’s. You remember Uncle Gordon, right?”
Beaming, your sister bobs her head up and down.
You chuckle. “Wait here, alright? I won’t be long.”
Whatever just happened at your apartment, you’re not sure. But if anyone would know what to do, it would be Gordon. Your brother lives in the closest thing to a safehouse you have access to as well.
“Where to?” an old woman says as you approach, her voice muffled behind the plexiglass.
“Glen Solace,” you say.
The old lady’s attention turns to an empty paper ticket as she scribbles on it with a feathered quill. You turn around to check on your sister, who’s impatient self is finding ways to entertain herself. Dancing, hopping, skipping…
A sinking feeling fills your gut. The world seems to spin. Your sister just walked through a flock of doves, and they did nothing. Instead, the flock just happily continued pecking at crumbs on the street. Passersby begin to glance at you, making you uncomfortable.
You step forward to examine your sister again, and this time a stranger steps through the bird flock, and at once they scatter into their air, resounding in a symphony of wing flaps.
“It can’t be,” you whisper. Memories flood your mind…
“The healer says he can make the hallucinations go away…” Gordon had said.
“You’re not well,” a man in a trench coat had said once. Where was that?
Snapping back to reality, you now see all eyes in the city locked on to you. What’s happening? Hundreds of people are staring directly at you.
Someone snatches you by the wrist and pulls you away. You fall into step behind the man in the fedora, his grip fastened tightly around you.
“I’m trying to save you!” the man says.
One glimpse over your shoulder reveals your sister now screaming, bounding toward you with tears filling her eyes.
[[Continue | 4]]#CHAPTER FOUR - YOUR SISTER
“Stop!” you yell, clawing and punching and biting. The man overpowers you with impressive strength, almost otherworldly, and drags you into a nearby alley.
“You know you don’t want me to stop,” he says. The intensity of his eyes cuts through the shadow under his hat and pierces you. Something strangely familiar about this mind starts to rise up in the recesses of your mind. The memories are fuzzy. Why does nothing seem clear? “Think! You’ve seen me before. You know who I am.”
A voice calls to you from outside. Though muffled and faint, the voice is familiar. Your sister. She’s in danger!
“I’m coming, Sis!” You yell. You attempt to leave, but the man pins you to the wall.
“Your sister isn’t real,” he says. His tone is firm, yet remorseful. Almost as if it was news he didn’t care to deliver. “She’s an agent of the felled, crafted from the privation of your imagination.”
“What’re you talking about?” you say. Your heart is beating through your chest. Beads of sweat form at your hairline. “You’re crazy! Help! Somebody!”
“I am the help.”
Those words stop you cold. You look into his eyes, searching for any reason not to trust this man.
“You need to think, alright?” he says. “Where did we meet?”
Searching your thoughts, you try to piece together all the fragments of memories scattered throughout your mind. Pooling blurry images, you remember a handshake.
“Anchorton,” you say, finally. “I-I-I went to the council’s chambers.”
“That’s right,” he says.
“No!” you shout. “Th-that was a dream! That didn’t happen!”
“That’s the felled talking,” he says.
Heavy breaths escape your lungs faster than you can control them. Spots flash in front of your eyes. Are you about to pass out?
“Take it easy,” the man says. “The felled have had control of this place for a long time, and trying to win it back is going to be difficult.”
Your gaze passes over the alleyway. “Place? What place?”
“You’re not in Anchorton right now. You know that, you just have to remember. You’re in Sominvale.”
“Huh? We’re in Somnivale?”
Could this really be happening? Somnivale is the realm of dreams. Is this all a dream? Storm clouds form overhead and a crackling thunder tears through them.
“Settle down, now,” the man says. “You have to control your emotions or the whole place will get out of control.”
You try to calm your breathing and the thunder settles to a dull roar.
The man sighs with relief. “Think with me now. What’s the first realm you must conquer to become a scarlet knight?”
“It-it’s, uh… Somnivale.” A clearer image of shaking this man’s hand pops into your mind. You have met him before. You went with him to Somnivale, the realm of dreams…
Crying sounds turn your attention to the mouth of the alley. Your sister is there, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Please help me!” she says through her sobs.
“She’s not real,” the man says.
Casting a glance upward, you see felled spirits on the roofs, their beady eyes piercing the darkness. Two tiny explosions rock the skies, jolting you. Engulfed in white flames, two bullets pierce the spirits’ chests and they come falling, but the white fire vaporizes them before they hit the ground. Your eyes turn back down to the man, a tail of smoke is rising from his pistol’s barrel.
“When you believe that girl is real,” the man says, “the felled will show up.”
Shaking your head, you say, “This can’t be right.” Your sister cries harder, shattering your heart. Memories of taking her in flood your mind. You’ve cared for her for years, you’ve practically raised her. You promised her you’d never leave her.
“It is right,” the man says. “If you’re honest with yourself you’ll know it’s true.”
Your throat constricts as tears blur your vision. Each shake of your head feels like fighting against chains of memory. "Why her?" The words come out as barely more than a whisper, yet they carry the weight of years of protected lies.
“She was your choice. This world was built by you.”
“If I built it then why are the felled here?”
The man’s eyes darken. “Think back to when you met me. Think hard. If I try to convince you here, it’ll rattle you and this world will be swarming with the felled. You have the power to remember.”
Pooling your thoughts, you shut your eyes and search the fuzzy memories. You met him in Anchorton. At the Scarlet Council…
Pain shoots through your chest. You grunt and bend over.
“Just keep remembering,” the man says.
“For years I've known I wanted to be a scarlet knight,” you had told the man. “It’s my purpose, I’m sure of it.”
“It’s not easy,” he responded. “There’s a reason it’s the rarest profession in all the realms of Melodor. You must spend a year in each realm, studying and mastering their gifts. Over half of all recruits don’t even make it past the first trial.”
“What’s the first?”
“Somnivale.”
“That’s odd. I would think that dreams would be the easiest to master.”
“Most would. That's one of the reasons why it's so difficult. The felled are drawn to our first experiences of deep pain. The moments that shape us. When a child first encounters true hurt, the felled appear in their dreams offering a trade.”
“A trade?”
“They present themselves as healers, guardians, or comfort-givers. In exchange for taking away the pain, they ask for something that seems small: the ability to ‘help guide your dreams.’ What the child doesn't realize is that they're actually surrendering their imagination piece by piece.”
“But how does that work?” you asked. “How can anyone just give away their imagination?”
“Imagination isn't just about creating fantasies," Wulfric says. "It's about seeing possibilities beyond what is. When you give that up, you accept a single, comfortable story instead of facing the truth. But more than that—you're giving control of your dreams to another being. The felled feed on this—they grow stronger with each mind they've bound to their false comforts. Each piece of your imagination they control becomes another thread in their web.”
He pauses, letting the weight of his words sink in. "Think about your own dreams. When was the last time you had a truly new one? Or do you just return to the same safe places, the same comfortable lies, night after night?"
The question strikes uncomfortably close to home. You try to remember your recent dreams, but they all blur together into a familiar pattern.
"And you're telling me everyone accepts the felled's offer?"
“Most don’t know it’s happening. The felled are usually disguised in your dream as something that represents healing to your pain. Whatever that thing or person is, they essentially separate you from your imagination and bind it to the object. We call that a stronghold. Overcoming the stronghold is difficult, and most go their entire lives without ever even confronting it. Much less defeating it. Scarlet knights must vanquish it completely. If you’re to forge a scarlet stone, you can’t have any shred of a stronghold left.”
“Why is it so hard to let go of?”
“Because when you’re dreaming, every emotion is heightened. All your pains are twenty times more painful, and your joys twenty times more joyful. The felled have spent years tying your joy to your little make believe world where you never have to confront the pain you endured, and they’ve convinced your subconscious of its reality. Tell me, have you ever had a nightmare?”
“Only when I was little. Not anymore.”
“Exactly. And when did the nightmares stop?”
You furrow your brow, thinking. “Around the time…” Your voice trails off.
“Around the time your 'sister' first appeared,” Wulfric finishes. “That's how strongholds work. The felled first attack with nightmares, testing our defenses, searching for cracks in our resolve. When they find our deepest pain, they offer comfort—a dream so perfect we never want to wake up. That's why defeating a stronghold is so difficult: the moment you start to break free, the nightmares return.”
“So nightmares are... good?”
“They're honest,” he says grimly. “When you have nightmares, it means you're facing reality instead of hiding in comfortable lies. Every scarlet knight had to face their nightmares before they could truly wake up. The felled know this—that's why they fight so hard to keep us dreaming peacefully.”
The words hit you like a truck. You realize you can't remember the last time you had a truly frightening dream. All your nights blur together in a soft, warm haze of familiar comfort.
You suck in a deep breath as your eyes open. You’re gasping for air, and the man places his hand on your chest.
“Slow down,” he says.
The alleyway is darker than you remember, and felled spirits are surrounding you. Your sister is nowhere to be found.
Pain flares up in your chest.
“I’m impressed,” he says. “This is only your third attempt. Most recruits have at least five before they make serious progress.”
“Sure doesn’t look like progress,” you say as you look at all the felled spirits.
“The deception isn’t working,” he mumbles. “Now they’re resorting to fear.”
“Well that might work.”
“I can get us out of here with your imagination fully in your grasp,” he says. “But you need to fully release your sister to me. She is the stronghold. The embodiment of whatever pain you've yet to confront."
“How do I do that?” you say, an uneasy feeling simmering in your belly.
The man looks down at you with empathetic eyes. “Honesty. Tell me what your sister really means. What wound is that band-aid covering?”
Nausea churns your stomach. Everything in you wants to run away and go find your baby sister again. She’s scared and alone, and you can feel it. How could you abandon her?
“You need to say it out loud,” the man says. “Who is she to you?”
''WHAT IS YOUR BACKSTORY?''
//Choose to learn your story//
[[🧙♂️ The Orphaned Wanderer | 5 Orphan]]
[[👨🏫 'The Scholar Who Saw Too Much | 5 Scholar]]
[[👑 The Fallen Noble| 5 Noble]]
[[🦸♂️ ''The Reluctant Hero: | 5 Hero]]#CHAPTER FIVE - THE RELUCTANT HERO
The alley walls seem to close in around you as memories you've tried to suppress come rushing back. You shake your head, fighting against the current of truth threatening to sweep away the comfortable fiction you've lived with for so long.
"I never wanted any of this," you say, your voice barely audible. "I was just a merchant. A simple life was all I ever asked for."
The man in the fedora nods, understanding in his eyes. "The most reluctant heroes often make the greatest difference. Tell me what happened."
You close your eyes, and the grimy alley transforms. You're standing in a bustling marketplace, weights and measures on your table, goods neatly arranged for display. The familiar smell of spices and leather fills your nostrils. Simple. Predictable. Safe.
"I had a small trading business," you say. "Nothing special – textiles from the east, spices from the south, crafts from the mountain villages. I kept to myself, made a modest living. I was... content."
Your sister appears beside your memory-self, helping arrange merchandise, smiling at customers. A perfect assistant, a perfect companion.
"I was on a trading route I'd traveled dozens of times before," you continue. "A small village called Elmridge was the last stop before home. I'd been there so many times I knew every family by name."
The scene shifts to a dirt road winding through rolling hills, your cart loaded with goods, the village visible in the distance. But something is wrong – dark smoke rises from thatched roofs, and an unnatural silence hangs in the air.
"I heard the screams before I saw them," you say, your hands trembling slightly. "The felled had come through the western forest – dozens of them. The village militia was overwhelmed."
Your sister tugs at your sleeve. "You don't have to remember this part," she pleads. "It was just a bad dream."
But the memory continues. You see yourself abandoning your cart, running toward the chaos rather than away. Villagers flee in terror as shadowy creatures with burning eyes tear through their homes.
"I told myself I was just going to help evacuate people," you say, watching your past self move from house to house, guiding terrified families toward safety. "I wasn't a fighter. I had no special training. Just a merchant's dagger and a fool's courage."
The man in the fedora steps closer. "What changed?"
Your eyes cloud with emotion as the memory shifts to a small cottage at the edge of the village. A felled spirit cornering a mother and her children, claws extended.
"I didn't think," you whisper. "I just... acted."
In your memory, you charge forward with nothing but your dagger, placing yourself between the creature and the family. As the felled lunges toward you, something extraordinary happens. A light erupts from within you – brilliant and blinding. The creature shrieks and recoils, its form dissolving in the radiance.
"I had no idea I could do that," you say, wonder mixing with sorrow in your voice. "No one was more surprised than me."
The scene changes again. Survivors gather around you, awe and hope in their eyes. Words like "savior" and "chosen one" ripple through the crowd.
"Word spread," you continue. "People started coming to me with their problems – disputes, monsters, mysteries. They looked at me like I had answers. Like I was meant to lead them."
Your sister stands beside you now, her expression darkening. "You never wanted that burden," she says. "You were happy before. Remember how simple things were? Just you and me, traveling the trade routes, counting coins by candlelight."
"I tried to go back," you admit. "For months, I ignored the calls for help, the stories of suffering in other villages. I told myself it wasn't my responsibility."
The memory shifts to you alone in your home, sleepless, haunted by the faces of those you could have saved but chose not to. The weight of potential unrealized crushing you more each day.
"But you couldn't hide from who you truly are," the man says softly.
You nod, a tear slipping down your cheek. "The night I decided to seek out the Scarlet Knights, to understand this power and learn how to use it properly... that was the first night I dreamed of her." You gesture toward your sister.
She backs away from you, betrayal in her eyes. "I've always been with you! Always! You can't just decide I'm not real!"
"You were never there," you say, the truth finally breaking through. "I created you because I was afraid – afraid of responsibility, afraid of failing those who needed me. You were my excuse to remain ordinary when the world needed me to be more."
Your sister's face contorts with rage. Her small form grows, darkness pouring from her eyes and mouth like smoke. Her limbs elongate, fingers stretching into claws.
"You could have been happy," the Nightmare Weaver hisses, its true form emerging from the illusion of your sister. "A simple merchant with a simple life. I offered you peace! Freedom from expectation!"
You stand your ground as the creature towers over you, its form a twisted reflection of your deepest fears.
"There is no freedom in hiding from who you're meant to be," you say, finding strength in the truth. "And there's no peace in turning away from those who need you."
The felled spirit towers over you, its form shedding the last vestiges of your sister's appearance. Darkness swirls around it like a cloak, its eyes burning with ancient malice.
"You were never meant to be a hero," it hisses, its voice like stones grinding together. "You're just a merchant who stumbled into power. You'll fail them all in the end."
The words strike at your deepest insecurities, but you stand firm, recognizing the fear that has held you back for so long.
"Maybe I will fail," you admit, your voice growing stronger. "But that doesn't mean I shouldn't try. The simple life I clung to was just another way of hiding."
The felled spirit circles you, tendrils of shadow brushing against your skin, cold as winter frost.
"They'll demand everything from you," it warns. "They'll take and take until there's nothing left. Is that what you want? To be drained dry by the needs of strangers?"
You think of the faces in Elmridge—the mother and children you saved, the villagers who looked to you with hope when all seemed lost. Not strangers at all, but people connected to you by something deeper than blood.
"What I want," you say quietly, "is to sleep at night knowing I didn't turn away when I could have helped. The burden of action is heavy, but the burden of inaction is unbearable."
You take a step toward the felled spirit, no longer intimidated by its size or form.
"I created you—or rather, the image of my sister—because I was afraid of standing alone, of making decisions that might change lives. I wanted someone to tell me it was okay to stay small when the world was asking me to grow."
The felled spirit wavers, its form becoming less substantial as your resolve strengthens.
"You don't need me," it says, and for a moment, there's something almost like sadness in its voice. "You never did."
"No," you agree, reaching out to touch the dissolving darkness. "I needed courage, not comfort. I needed to accept who I am, not hide from it."
As your hand makes contact with the felled spirit, it begins to unravel—not violently, but like mist dispersing in morning sunlight. The last traces of your sister's face appear briefly, smiling not with manipulation but with something like pride.
"Thank you," you whisper, "for sheltering me while I found my strength. But it's time for me to walk my path alone."
The felled spirit doesn't fight or scream as it fades. Instead, it seems to release itself willingly, as if your acceptance has freed you both from the prison of fear.
In its place stands a momentary vision—not of your imagined sister, but of yourself as you truly are, merchant's hands and all, surrounded by a soft light that comes from within. This light grows, expanding outward until it engulfs the alleyway, the man in the fedora, and the last shadows of doubt in your mind.
For an eternal moment, there is nothing but pure, cleansing brilliance.
When the light recedes, you find yourself blinking into new awareness. The world seems more vivid, more immediate than before. The reluctance that has defined you for so long hasn't vanished completely—perhaps it never will—but it has transformed into something wiser: a humility that balances your newfound purpose.
You understand now that heroism isn't about seeking glory or even feeling ready. It's about seeing a need and responding, even when every instinct tells you to turn away. It's about embracing your gifts, however unexpected they may be.
The simple merchant still lives within you, but now stands alongside the hero you've finally accepted yourself to be.
[[Continue |6]]#CHAPTER FIVE - THE FALLEN NOBLE
The alleyway grows colder as you lean against the wall, memories flooding back like a tide you've spent years trying to hold at bay. Your hands instinctively adjust your posture – shoulders back, chin high – muscle memory from a life that feels impossibly distant.
"Your family," the man in the fedora prompts gently. "Tell me about them."
The simple question hits you like a physical blow. You close your eyes, and suddenly you're standing in the grand hall of your family estate. Polished marble floors reflect ornate chandeliers. Servants move efficiently through the space. The crest of your house – once one of the most respected in the realm – hangs proudly on tapestries along the walls.
"We were... respected," you say, your voice taking on the refined cadence of your upbringing. "For generations, House Devereux governed fairly. We had the ear of rulers, the trust of merchants, the gratitude of commoners."
Your sister appears beside you in a silk dress, her hair perfectly arranged, smiling the easy smile of someone who has never known want. She takes your hand, but you continue speaking.
"My father taught me that nobility wasn't about privilege, but responsibility. 'Power is given to us so we might lift others,' he would say."
The memory shifts to your father's study – warm firelight, the scent of leather-bound books and aged brandy, your father's kind but serious face as he instructed you in the duties that would one day be yours.
"Then the Autumn Festival came," you continue, your voice dropping. "Our home was filled with guests – nobles, diplomats, merchants from across the realms."
Your sister squeezes your hand tighter, her smile fading. "You don't need to remember this part," she whispers urgently.
The man in the fedora steps closer. "This is where the truth lies. You must face it."
You nod slowly, allowing the painful memory to unfold. The grand hall transforms, now crowded with guests in their finest attire. Music plays as servants circulate with trays of delicacies. You see yourself younger, dressed in formal regalia, moving confidently among the elite of society.
"I was speaking with a foreign ambassador when the commotion began," you recall. "My cousin – my father's brother's son – announcing that he had evidence of treason. He claimed my father had been conspiring with enemy forces, selling secrets, undermining the security of the realm."
The festive atmosphere in your memory shatters as royal guards storm in, followed by your cousin's triumphant sneer.
"It was all fabricated, of course," you continue, bitterness edging your voice. "But the evidence was compelling – forged correspondence, testimony from bribed servants, financial records meticulously altered. He had been planning it for years."
You watch as guards seize your father, your mother's screams echoing through the hall as guests back away, their faces transforming from respect to disgust in an instant.
"Within a day, everything was gone. Our titles, our lands, our fortune – all transferred to my cousin. My father was imprisoned. My mother..." Your voice breaks. "She took her own life rather than face the shame."
Your sister clings to you, tears streaming down her face. "Please stop," she begs. "We don't have to think about that anymore. Remember how it was before – the gardens, the music lessons, the summer balls."
But the memory continues relentlessly. You see yourself cast out, former friends crossing the street to avoid you, shopkeepers refusing to serve the child of a traitor.
"I lived on the streets," you say quietly. "I saw how the common people struggled under the very nobles I had once dined with. I witnessed the cruelty of the system I had benefited from without question."
The memory shifts to a rain-soaked night, you huddled in a doorway, watching a patrol of guards harassing a family unable to pay their taxes.
"That was when I truly understood my father's words about responsibility. I vowed that if I could ever reclaim my position, I would use it differently. Not for personal gain, but for justice."
Your sister's grip on your hand loosens. "You're choosing them over me," she says, her voice suddenly different – hollow, echoing. "I kept you connected to who you were. Without me, you're nothing but a fallen noble, a discarded relic."
You turn to face her, really seeing her for the first time. "No. Without you, I'm free to become something better than I was. You're not my sister – you're my past. The comfortable lie I told myself to avoid the pain of betrayal."
Your sister's face contorts with rage. Her skin cracks like porcelain, darkness seeping through the fissures. Her elegant dress melts into writhing shadows as she grows taller, more monstrous.
"You were royalty," the felled spirit hisses, its voice no longer your sister's but something ancient and malevolent. "I gave you back your rightful place, your dignity, your family's honor. And this is how you repay such generosity?"
You stand your ground, facing the creature that has fed on your pride and your grief for so long.
"My dignity was never in my title," you say firmly. "And my honor lies in fighting creatures like you, not hiding in false memories of a golden past."
The felled spirit towers before you, its form shifting between the elegant visage of your sister and something ancient and terrible. Shadows coil around it like living fabric, mimicking the fine silks and brocades of noble attire while darkness seeps from every fold.
"You would throw away your birthright?" it hisses, its voice echoing with the hollow resonance of empty ballrooms. "The respect, the power, the legacy your ancestors built?"
You stand taller, feeling the weight of your noble upbringing fall away rather than burden you.
"My birthright is not a title or lands," you respond, your voice steady. "It's the principles my father taught me. Power used to serve others, not to elevate myself."
The spirit circles you, trailing wisps of darkness that form into ghostly images from your past—the marble halls, the family crest, servants bowing as you pass.
"Look at what you've become," it taunts. "A shadow of your former self. Without your name, without your status, you are nothing."
You feel a pang of the old grief, the shame of falling so far. But then you remember the lessons you learned after your fall—the true face of injustice, the strength found in compassion rather than authority.
"I am more than I ever was," you counter, taking a step toward the creature. "My fall stripped away everything superficial and left only what matters. I've seen both sides now—the marble halls and the muddy streets. That perspective is worth more than any title."
The felled spirit shrieks, its form destabilizing as your certainty grows.
"You need me!" it insists, desperation creeping into its voice. "Without the comfort of your past glory, how will you face each day in this cruel world that rejected you?"
With gentle determination, you reach toward the felled spirit.
"I don't need false comfort anymore," you say. "I need truth. My family is gone. My title is gone. But I remain, and I can build something new—something better than what was taken from me."
Your hand touches the swirling darkness where your sister's face flickers in and out of existence.
"Thank you," you say softly, "for preserving the memory of what I lost. But holding onto ghosts has kept me from embracing what I might become. It's time to let go."
The felled spirit trembles at your touch. Its form begins to dissolve, darkness fragmenting into motes of shadow that scatter like ash in wind.
"Without me, you face the world alone," it whispers, its voice fading.
You smile, sad but resolute. "Not alone. With clarity."
As the last vestiges of the spirit dissipate, you catch a fleeting glimpse of your family—your father's proud smile, your mother's gentle eyes—not as phantoms conjured by a felled spirit, but as true memories, untainted by manipulation. They seem to nod in approval before fading away.
A brilliant white light surrounds you, washing away the alleyway, the man in the fedora, the lingering remnants of your painful past. For a moment, there is nothing but pure, cleansing radiance.
When the light recedes, you find yourself blinking into a new awareness. The world seems more vivid, more immediate than before. The pain of your fall from grace still exists within you, but it no longer defines you. Instead, it has become the foundation upon which you will build a new legacy—not of titles and holdings, but of actions and principles.
You understand now that true nobility has nothing to do with birth and everything to do with how one chooses to live. And you're ready to choose a path worthy of the lessons you've learned, both in privilege and in hardship.
[[Continue |6]]#CHAPTER FIVE - THE ORPHANED WANDERER
Tears fill your eyes, distorting your vision. The alleyway seems to stretch and distort as memories you've tried desperately to forget begin to surface.
"I... I can't," you whisper, pressing your back against the cold brick wall.
"You must, $name" the man in the fedora says firmly. "Your sister is not real. She's a manifestation of your pain, created by the felled to keep you trapped."
Your legs give out and you slide down the wall, sitting on the damp alley floor. The shadows around you grow longer, more menacing. Felled spirits gather at the edges of your vision, but they don't attack. They're waiting.
"My village..." you begin, the words catching in your throat.
The man kneels beside you, his eyes intent. "Tell me about your village."
"It was small. Peaceful." Your voice sounds distant, as if someone else is speaking. "We grew crops, traded with neighboring settlements. Everyone knew each other."
As you speak, the alley around you begins to shimmer, like heat rising from sun-baked stone. The urban scenery melts away, replaced by wooden houses, fields of grain, and a clear blue sky. You can almost smell the freshly baked bread from the communal ovens.
"It's not real," the man reminds you gently. "This is your memory."
You nod, tears streaming freely now. "I was... I was out hunting. Just a day's journey from home." Your hands begin to tremble. "When I saw the smoke."
The idyllic scene before you darkens as an unnatural storm gathers. In the distance, thick black smoke rises from where your village should be.
"I ran," you continue, your voice breaking. "I ran until my lungs burned and my legs gave out. But I was too late."
The peaceful village transforms into a scene of devastation – homes reduced to charred ruins, the fields trampled and burning. And everywhere, the bodies of people you loved, people who raised you, friends you grew up with.
"The felled came without warning," you say, a coldness settling in your chest. "They left nothing alive."
A small, desperate sound escapes your throat as you see yourself – younger, covered in ash and blood not your own – wandering among the ruins, calling out names that would never answer again.
"For days, I searched for survivors," you whisper. "Until I found her."
There, amid the rubble of what was once your home, your younger self discovers a small figure – a little girl, miraculously alive, cowering beneath a fallen beam.
"My sister..." you say, reaching out toward the vision.
"No," the man says firmly, gripping your shoulder. "You had no sister. Your family, everyone you knew, died that day."
You shake your head violently. "But she was there! I found her! I protected her!"
"Look again," he insists. "Really look."
Forcing yourself to focus through the pain, you stare at the scene. The little girl wavers like a mirage in desert heat. Sometimes she's there, sometimes the space beneath the beam is empty. A fabrication. A desperate wish.
"After that day, I was alone," you admit, the truth cutting through you like a blade. "I wandered from town to town, surviving however I could. I was... completely alone."
The vision of your destroyed village fades, leaving only the alley. But where your sister stood moments before, a new figure materializes – a twisted, shadowy creature with glowing red eyes and a mouth full of needle-like teeth. It's wearing your sister's face like an ill-fitting mask.
"That's why you created her," the man says quietly. "Not to remember, but to forget. To never be alone again. The felled found that wound and exploited it, creating a prison of false comfort."
The creature hisses as its disguise falls away completely. Your sister's innocent face dissolves into something monstrous and ancient.
"You couldn't protect them then," it says in a voice like breaking glass. "You can't protect yourself now."
You rise to your feet, a new determination cutting through your grief. This thing has fed on your pain, kept you trapped in a lie for years. The truth may hurt, but it's set something free inside you.
"I don't need to protect a memory," you say, your voice steadying. "I need to honor it by living."
The creature that wore your sister's face shrieks, lunging toward you. But instead of reaching for a weapon, you stand your ground, opening your arms wide.
"I understand now," you say, tears streaming down your face. "You're not my enemy. You're my pain given form. My guilt. My refusal to accept that I couldn't save them."
The felled spirit falters, its movements becoming erratic. The face of your sister flickers across its features, a desperate attempt to maintain control.
"They died, and I lived," you continue, taking a step forward. "For years, I couldn't bear that truth. I created a sister I never had because I couldn't face being the only survivor."
The creature howls, but the sound is weaker now. The shadows around it begin to dissipate.
"I don't need the comfort of a lie anymore," you declare, your voice growing stronger. "I will carry my village within me—their memories, their teachings, their love. But I will also live my own life. For them. For me."
You reach out, touching the creature's face where your sister's features still struggle to remain. "Thank you for sheltering me when I couldn't face my truth. But it's time for both of us to be free."
The felled spirit trembles beneath your touch. Its form begins to dissolve, red eyes dimming as the hatred and fear that fueled it drains away. In its place, for just a moment, you see the smiling faces of everyone you lost—not as ghosts or manifestations, but as memories. Pure, untainted by the felled's corruption.
"Goodbye," you whisper.
A blinding white light engulfs everything around you. The alley, the man in the fedora, the creature—all fade away in its brilliance. You feel weightless, purified, as if something heavy you've carried for years has finally been set down.
When the light recedes, you find yourself blinking awake. The world seems somehow clearer, more vivid than before. The grief is still there—it will always be part of you—but it no longer consumes you. For the first time in years, you feel truly awake, truly present.
A new path stretches before you. One where you are not defined by what you lost, but by what you choose to become.
[[Continue |6]]#CHAPTER FIVE - THE SCHOLAR WHO SAW TOO MUCH
The alleyway darkens as you struggle to confront the memories you've kept locked away. Books, scrolls, and ancient texts flash through your mind, each page a stepping stone that led you toward a truth you weren't meant to find.
"Knowledge," you murmur, almost involuntarily. "It was always about knowledge."
The man nods encouragingly. "Keep going, $name. What knowledge?"
You close your eyes, and immediately the scent of aged parchment and ink fills your senses. The musty smell of your master's study materializes around you – walls lined with leather-bound tomes, scrolls stacked in careful piles, artifacts from distant realms displayed on polished shelves.
"I was an apprentice to Sage Valerian," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. "One of the great minds of our age. For years, I cataloged his research, organized his experiments, prepared his materials. I was... devoted to him."
The memory shifts, and you see yourself hunched over a desk, candlelight flickering across ancient texts as you worked long into the night while others slept.
"There was a locked chamber in his tower," you continue. "Forbidden to all apprentices. But I had earned his trust. He gave me access to sort newly acquired manuscripts."
Your past self approaches a heavy door inlaid with strange symbols, a key trembling in your hand.
"I found an unmarked text," you say, watching your younger self pull a weathered journal from a hidden compartment. "Notes your master never intended anyone to see."
The man in the fedora remains silent, letting you work through the memory.
"It detailed... experiments. Terrible things." Your voice catches. "He had been studying the felled spirits not to defeat them but to harness their power. He had found a way to communicate with them, to negotiate."
In your memory, pages flip faster and faster, revealing diagrams of abominable rituals... correspondence with dark forces.
"The famines in the eastern villages, the unexplained disappearances – none of it was random. It was him. My master. The man I revered was feeding the felled, strengthening them, allowing them passage into our world in exchange for secrets of power."
Your sister appears beside you in the alleyway, her small hand reaching for yours. "You don't have to remember this," she says sweetly. "We can go back to how things were. You were happy then, weren't you? Before you knew?"
You stare at her, tempted by the comfort she offers.
"Don't listen," the man warns. "Truth is painful, but ignorance is fatal."
Turning back to your memories, you see yourself confronting your master in his private chambers, the damning journal clutched in your shaking hands.
"I challenged him with what I'd found," you say, your voice hollow. "I thought... I truly believed he would have some explanation. That I had misunderstood."
Your master's face transforms from surprise to cold calculation in the memory. "You always were too clever," he says, his kind mentor's voice gone. "But some knowledge isn't meant for apprentices. The felled have shown me wonders beyond your comprehension."
"He tried to silence me," you whisper. "Called the guards, claimed I had attempted to steal forbidden artifacts. When I fled, he sent hunters after me. My own master – the man who had been like a father – tried to have me killed for discovering his betrayal."
Your sister tugs more insistently at your hand. "Stop remembering! It only hurts you!"
But the memory continues relentlessly. You see yourself running through rain-slicked streets in the dead of night, precious few pages of evidence tucked inside your robe, betrayed by the one person you had trusted most in the world.
"I took what proof I could carry to the Scarlet Knights," you say, standing straighter now as the truth flows through you. "Because I knew the truth needed to be known, no matter how painful."
The alleyway begins to shimmer and distort. Your sister's form wavers like a reflection in troubled water.
"You were never there," you tell her, newfound certainty in your voice. "You're the comfort I created – the innocence I lost when I learned what knowledge could cost. You're what I was before I saw too much."
Your sister's face twists in rage, her sweet features mutating into something alien and terrifying. Her body stretches and darkens, transforming into a towering figure with too many limbs and gleaming red eyes.
"Knowledge is pain," it hisses in a voice that echoes inside your skull. "I offered you blissful ignorance, and you rejected it. Now you will know only suffering!"
You stand your ground, facing the felled spirit that has fed on your fears and your desperate wish to return to simpler times. The creature that once wore your sister's face now shifts and writhes, a mass of shadows and stolen memories.
"Knowledge is responsibility," you counter, your voice finding strength in conviction. "Even when it hurts. Especially when it hurts."
The felled spirit circles you, its form fluctuating between the comforting image of your sister and its true nature—a dark entity composed of denied truths and painful memories.
"You could have lived in comfort," it whispers seductively. "I gave you respite from the burden of knowing."
"At what cost?" you ask, taking a step toward the creature. "My autonomy? My purpose?" You think of your master's betrayal, of the innocents who suffered while he conspired with darkness. "Knowledge may wound, but ignorance kills."
The felled spirit shrieks, the sound piercing your mind rather than your ears. "You are nothing but the bearer of unwanted truths! No one thanks the messenger who brings pain!"
Your hands tremble, but your resolve strengthens. "I didn't choose this path for gratitude," you say quietly. "I chose it because truth matters. Because light must be shone into dark corners, no matter how comfortable the shadows have become."
You reach out toward the felled spirit, not in aggression but in understanding.
"You are the part of me that wanted to forget, to go back to when the world made sense and my mentor was still worthy of my admiration. But I can't un-know what I've learned. Nor should I."
The spirit's form begins to fragment at your touch, wisps of darkness peeling away.
"I accept the burden of knowledge," you continue, your voice steady now. "I accept that learning brings responsibility. And I accept that the innocent apprentice I was is gone forever—not because of what I found, but because growth demands we leave comfortable illusions behind."
The felled spirit trembles, its power over you diminishing with each word of acceptance.
"Thank you," you whisper to it, "for trying to shield me from pain. But I don't need protection from truth anymore. I need courage to face it."
As you speak these words, the felled spirit that once appeared as your sister lets out a final, mournful cry—not of rage but of release. It dissolves into motes of light that swirl around you like fireflies before fading into nothingness.
In their place stands a fleeting vision of yourself as you once were: the eager apprentice, eyes bright with wonder and possibility. Your younger self nods once in acknowledgment, in passing of the torch, before disappearing.
A brilliant white light engulfs your surroundings, washing away the alleyway, the man in the fedora, the lingering shadows of your past. For a moment, there is nothing but the pure, clarifying light of awakening.
When it fades, you find yourself blinking into a new awareness. The world seems sharper, more vibrant than before. The pain of betrayal still exists within you, but it no longer defines you. Instead, it has transformed into purpose—a scholar's determination to seek truth, no matter where it leads.
You understand now that knowledge isn't just power—it's a sacred trust. And you're ready to honor that trust, whatever comes next.
[[Continue |6]]#CHAPTER TEN - SACRIFICE
Wulfric awaits you at the top of the hill above the domed sanctuary. Though your battleworn body can barely move forward, approaching with your beast in stride beside you fills you with the thrill of victory. All the blood stained on your clothes, the aches and pains jabbing the whole of your form, doesn't take from what you're about to encounter. It's been six years since you began this journey, and your refusal to give up despite its ever-present allure will now finally pay off.
You remember each realm's trial like it was yesterday: mastering white fire in New Eden, where you first purified your item. The haunting melodies of Ethersong that tested your resolve; the entangling roots of Arborland that tested your patience. Each trial pushed you further than you thought possible, each victory earned through sweat and determination.
Not all trainees make it this far. But you persevered, driven by a purpose that grew clearer with each passing year.
Each step forward resonates with the connection you now share with your beast—your heartbeats synchronized, your breaths falling into the same rhythm. The creature beside you isn't just a mount anymore; it's become an extension of your own spirit.
Stopping where you stand, you notice two other figures on either side of Wulfric atop the hill. One is a nightguard, his moth-wings flickering gently like a twitch behind him. Another is a female voxan, the ends of her silvery hair forming mists that evaporate as they drift away.
Who are they? Why do they seem familiar?
Finally you approach, and all three of them marvel at your beast.
“Wise choice,” Wulfric says, his eyes wide at the beast.
“Who are you?” you say, pointing at the nightguard and voxan.
“Friends,” the nightguard says, a sly smile slanting his lips.
“They’re with me,” Wulfric says.
“They don’t have scarlet stones,” you say.
“Neither do you, but you’re with me,” Wulfric says.
“Are they trainees too?”
“Hey, kid,” the voxan says, her fiery eyes hardening at you. “What’s with the twenty questions?”
Wulfric steps in between her and you. “All you need to know is they’re with me. You’ll see why as soon as you’ve finished your training.”
“Finished? I thought this was the final trial.”
Tilting his head, Wulfric says, “Half of it. We never tell trainees what the end is, because in order for the trial to work, you have to genuinely bond with your beast.”
You feel your brows knit.
“I warned you,” Wulfric says, “that the first and last trials are the hardest.”
“What do I need to do, Wulfric?” you say.
Reaching into his trench coat, he pulls out a shining dagger and hands it to you. “In order to forge a scarlet stone, one who has conquered the trials of every realm must kill a beast they’ve bonded with, capture its blood, and purify it in white fire. If you’ve done all your trials correctly, this will forge a scarlet stone, and you will be welcomed into the Order.”
Your heart sinks to your stomach. You turn your eyes to the beast who trusts you. Its bond with you strong, like your hearts are welded together. How could you betray this beast you tamed?
“No,” you say. “That’s impossible. It’s not true!”
“Scarlet knights have a difficult duty,” Wulfric says. “We must understand the power of the felled over the realms. Its result is death, and if death doesn’t claim us, it must claim something else in our place. Only then are we freed to wield the power of the realms.”
Tears surface and you shake your head. “I can’t do it!”
Wulfric takes your hand, opens your palm, and places the dagger inside. “You must. Don’t waste the past six years of your life.”
What if they’re agents of the felled, deceiving Wulfric into doing something so horrific?
Are you just looking for an excuse?
Your heart plays tug of war. You don’t know who to trust. But now you must act.
Do you kill your beast?
[[Yes |11A]]
[[No |11B]]#CHAPTER ELEVEN - A FINAL CHOICE
Grief wreaks havoc on your heart as you sob over the death of the beast you bonded with. Seeing its blood spill from its wounded heart, you realize there could be no other way, for its power seeps into your skin and flows through your body. Wulfric and his two companions loom over you in anticipation, their presence like a persistent shadow.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper to the beast, stroking its side as the final bit of life fades from its eyes. Sparks flicker at your fingertips. You glance at them in shock and step back. The blood of your beast flows toward you, and somehow white fire rushes out of the palm of your hands, its bright light reflected in the awestruck eyes of your onlookers.
How could this be? There’s no chime stones, and you’re not in the realm of New Eden. Only a scarlet stone could allow you to use white fire here.
This thought sends a rush of adrenaline through your veins. It’s obvious now that this truly is the moment you’ve longed for your whole life! Peering through the pale flames, your eyes observe the form of a shimmering gem, its rough edges now gently poking the skin of your palms.
“I can’t believe it,” you say, trying to catch your breath. The stone pulses with life and you sense all the realms coursing through you at once. The voice of Ethersong, the beasts of the Riverwilds, the Light of Glistfield, the chime stones of New Eden, the roots of Arborland, and the stars of Somnivale. Blood flows like a river from the beast to your hands, defying gravity. Once all the blood is gone, the pale flames vanish, and you behold the gem in your hands.
Wide-eyed wonder is all you can muster. It looks as if you plucked a star straight from the celestial skies and took it in the palms of your hands. Six years enduring the Trials of the Realms, and now you finally have a scarlet stone. One that is your and only yours. Bound to you and no one else. It was your dreams, your ears, your eyes… the blood of your beast that forged this stone.
“It worked,” whispered the nightguard.
You glimpse up. Wulfric steps forward, gently nudging his two friends behind him. “We’ll see,” he says.
“Huh?” you say.
Catching you off guard, Wulfric snatches the stone out of your hand and shoves you down. Your back hits the ground, pockets of dust flying up from the impact. Your gaze turns upward in shock as Wulfric wields the stone. Scarlet stones were meant to be, well just that. Scarlet. When a stone’s owner was not in possession of the stone, it was said to turn into a dull maroon color. Yet in Wulfric’s hands it remained as white as starlight.
“Finally!” Wulfric's voice rises with a dark jubilation that makes your skin crawl. His eyes gleam with six years of contained triumph finally unleashed. “I've done it!”
“I told you it would work!” the nightguard says. He joins in a celebratory dance with the female voxan. “Now even a scarlet knight is no threat to us!”
“What?” you say, helping yourself at least to your knees. “No! That’s not possible! I’m the one who forged the stone!”
Wulfric turns darkened eyes down to you. “Yes, but you did it with a bridged mind.”
Those words somehow jog your memory. Flashes of memories appear in your head and vanish as quickly as they come.
“You’re sure about this?” Wulfric had said somewhere in a dark alley. You were half asleep, in a daze from being ambushed and beaten.
That wasn’t a dream?
“Yes,” the nightguard had replied. “You can bridge the victim's mind to yours in a dream, I’m sure of it. This is our victim.”
“And you’re sure that will make the stone work for me too?”
“Yes, yes, yes. The stone won't respond to a felled in control of their mind because they are not living like you and I are. They're certainly real, but not necessarily alive. If someone hands over their cognition to you in dream, your mind will be like an extension of theirs, and vice versa. The stone will think it's bound to both of you, because it will think you're the same person.”
“What if it doesn’t work?”
“It will,” the voxan had said. “I’ll help convince the victim in the Ethersong trial.”
“It’s settled then. Six years from now,” Wulfric’s voice had echoed in the alley, “Melodor’s rulers will finally have a true contest, and we can begin our destiny of reshaping the realms to our order.”
You look up at Wulfric in dismay. “You've had control of my imagination since Somnivale…”
“Ever since you let me ‘help’ you defeat your stronghold,” he says with a cruel smile. “You just transferred control from the felled to me. And since your imagination forged this stone…”
“But you had a stone!” you say. “I saw it around your neck!”
“When did you see it, huh? Think…” Wulfric almost seems to enjoy unveiling his plan to you. Like it gives him a sick, devilish pleasure.
Waves of fear and confusion crash over you as you remember the first dream in Somnivale. It was the only place you had ever seen him wearing a stone. He planted the idea that he was a scarlet knight in your mind. He fogged your memory to forget the ambush outside of the council's chambers when you applied to be a knight. You were chosen because of your weak mind, to give a scarlet knight to some criminal. How could you have done this? Nothing like this has ever happened before in the history of Melodor!
Wulfric turns to his posse, a wicked smile stretching their mouths from ear to ear. “Six years. Six unbelievably long years. And we’ve done it!”
They erupt in cheers. Wulfric splays his fingers and pumps his palm skyward. Light bursts from his hand like a shield of translucent gold. The energy from it distorts the air, knocking even you back a little.
“And now the power of the realms belongs to me!” Wulfric says.
You hang your head in shame, sulking in the embarrassment of your failure.
“First, New Eden,” Wulfric says. “My homeland needs the most reordering. One day at a time, ladies and gentlemen. Shall we?”
He’s about to leave with the stone.
Your stone.
The stone you spent six years forging.
Determination rises within you like flowering tongues of fire. Even if he has the power of the realms within his grasp, you must try to stop him somehow!
An idea strikes you. Now is no time to wallow. You must do something to make this right.
How do you fight Wulfric?
{
You spot a tree nearby. If you can force him through it,you may be able to use the stone to get him on your own turf,so you lunge and tackle him.<br>
(link:"Choose")[(set: $choice to "v")(goto: "Choice Check")]<br><br>
Wulfric’s and his gang’s flaws are evident to you. Loyalty is at the mercy of power in Wulfric’s eyes, but not in the eyes of his men. Exploiting his weakness, you convince one of his followers that they should be the keeper of the stone, as they care more about the collective group than Wulfric. You’ll use this to pit them against one another, and the distraction will allow you to sneak in and grab the stone.<br>
(link:"Choose")[(set: $choice to "s")(goto: "Choice Check")]<br><br>
Risking it all, you take advantage of the power of the realm you’re currently in and lure a stampede of beasts. You put yourself in danger too, but you bet on yourself navigating the uproar better than they can to come away with the stone in your hands.<br>
(link:"Choose")[(set: $choice to "r")(goto: "Choice Check")]<br><br>
Recalling your purified item, you remember it works in all the realms, despite not having the stone. Could this be what gets the stone back in your hands? There’s only one way to find out.<br>
(link:"Choose")[(set: $choice to "h")(goto: "Choice Check")]<br><br>
Let him take the stone and convince him of your surrender. For now. Recalling your baby sister lingering in your dream, you travel to Somnivale and reenter your own dream. If you can undo Wulfric’s grip on your mind, you can remove his bind to the stone and latch it back to you.<br>
(link:"Choose")[(set: $choice to "n")(goto: "Choice Check")]<br><br>
You play the long game and wait for an opportunity to strike. Seasons pass, and though he wreaks havoc on many places, striking before the right opportunity will yield poorer results. One day, like the bud of a burgeoning flower, opportunity will reveal itself to you.<br>
(link:"Choose")[(set: $choice to "a")(goto: "Choice Check")]<br><br>
}#CHAPTER ELEVEN - A FINAL CHOICE
Shaking your head, you put your foot down and say, “I can’t do it. There has to be another way.”
“I told you,” Wulfric mumbles as he grinds his teeth. “This is not the one.”
“Oh, this is the chosen one alright,” the nightguard says, drawing a blade from its sheath. “We’ll make sure of it.”
Your beast senses danger and takes a defensive pose. You know this because its feelings are bridged with yours.
Now the voxan takes a warrior’s stance as well.
“What’re you doing?” you say as sweat forms on your palms.
“I’m sorry, $name,” Wulfric says. “It didn’t have to be this way.”
Your beast lunges toward them with a fierce roar. The voxan and nightguard coordinate their attacks like they’ve done this a million times, drawing it into their trap.
Meanwhile, Wulfric is bolting toward you, his sabre sword unsheathed and in striking position. Jolting, you quickly take out your sword and parry his attack, the clank of your blades echoing the call of battle. One strike, two strikes, three strikes… Wulfric’s fluid motions with the blade outmatches your skill twenty-to-one. You desperately swipe away at his attacks, dodge, kick, and roll, but he’s too fast.
The tip of his blade slices your arm, and a searing pain swallows the length of your arm. You cry out in agony and drop your blade, looking up at Wulfric in defeat.
“I don’t understand,” you say, gripping your wounded arm. “Why are you doing this?”
“There’s no other way,” Wulfric says. He grabs the collar of your jacket and drags you across the ground with surprising strength.
Dust covers your vision. You punch and yank to free yourself, but Wulfric turns around and presses his thumb into the wound on your arm. The roar from your pain tears through the air. It hurts so much you’re seeing spots.
Finally he brings you to your beast, whom his henchmen have cornered against a grove of trees. You can feel the beast’s terror welling up inside of you as well. Wulfric raises you up to your knees as you face your beast, and the nightguard puts his own sword into your hands.
“Don’t fight it,” Wulfric says. “It will only make this take longer.”
Gripping your wrist, the nightguard shoves your hand that holds his blade into the chest of your beast.
“No!” you cry, tears streaming down your cheeks. Now the air fills with your sobs as you watch the life fade from the beast who was bound to you. Entrusted to you.
“I’m sorry,” Wulfric says over your shoulder. “There’s no other way. We can’t risk your knightship.”
You want to ask what he means by that, but you’re too overwhelmed by the loss. As blood pours out from the beast’s heart, you’re shocked to see it crawl up your person unaided. The first sight of it makes you flinch back, but Wulfric holds you in place.
Finally the blood collects in your palms, its power seeping into your skin and flowing through your body. Wulfric and his two companions loom over you in anticipation, their presence like a persistent shadow.
Somehow white fire rushes out of the palm of your hands, its bright light reflected in the awestruck eyes of your onlookers.
How could this be? There’s no chime stones, and you’re not in the realm of New Eden. Only a scarlet stone could allow you to use white fire here.
This thought sends a rush of adrenaline through your veins. It’s obvious now that this truly is the moment you’ve longed for six whole years. Peering through the pale flames, your eyes observe the form of a shimmering gem, its rough edges now gently poking the skin of your palms.
“I can’t believe it,” you say, trying to catch your breath. The stone pulses with life and you sense all the realms coursing through you at once. The voice of Ethersong, the beasts of the Riverwilds, the Light of Glistfield, the chime stones of New Eden, the roots of Arborland, and the stars of Somnivale. Blood flows like a river from the beast to your hands, defying gravity. Once all the blood is gone, the pale flames vanish, and you behold the gem in your hands.
Wide-eyed wonder is all you can muster. It looks as if you plucked a star straight from the celestial skies and took it in the palms of your hands. Six years enduring the Trials of the Realms, and now you finally have a scarlet stone. One that is your and only yours. Bound to you and no one else. It was your dreams, your ears, your eyes… the blood of your beast that forged this stone.
“It worked,” whispered the nightguard.
You glimpse up. Wulfric steps forward, gently nudging his two friends behind him. “We’ll see,” he says.
“Huh?” you say.
Catching you off guard, Wulfric snatches the stone out of your hand and shoves you down. Your back hits the ground, pockets of dust flying up from the impact. Your gaze turns upward in shock as Wulfric wields the stone. Scarlet stones were meant to be, well just that. Scarlet. When a stone’s owner was not in possession of the stone, it was said to turn into a dull maroon color. Yet in Wulfric’s hands it remained as white as starlight.
“Finally!” Wulfric's voice rises with a dark jubilation that makes your skin crawl. His eyes gleam with six years of contained triumph finally unleashed. “I've done it!”
“I told you it would work!” the nightguard says. He joins in a celebratory dance with the female voxan. “Now even a scarlet knight is no threat to us!”
“What?” you say, helping yourself at least to your knees. “No! That’s not possible! I’m the one who forged the stone!”
Wulfric turns darkened eyes down to you. “Yes, but you did it with a bridged mind.”
Those words somehow jog your memory. Flashes of memories appear in your head and vanish as quickly as they come.
“You’re sure about this?” Wulfric had said somewhere in a dark alley. You were half asleep, in a daze from being ambushed and beaten.
That wasn’t a dream?
“Yes,” the nightguard had replied. “You can bridge the victim's mind to yours in dream, I’m sure of it..”
“And you’re sure that will make the stone work for me too?”
“Yes, yes, yes. The stone won't respond to a felled in control of their mind because they are not living like you and I are. They're certainly real, but not necessarily alive. If someone hands over their cognition to you in dream, your mind will be like an extension of theirs, and vice versa. The stone will think it's bound to both of you, because it will think you're the same person.”
“What if it doesn’t work?”
“It will,” the voxan had said. “I’ll help convince the victim of the truth in the Ethersong trial.”
“It’s settled then. Six years from now,” Wulfric’s voice had echoed in the alley, “Melodor’s rulers will finally have a true contest, and we can begin our destiny of reshaping the realms to our order.”
You look up at Wulfric in dismay. “You've had control of my imagination since Somnivale…”
“Ever since you let me ‘help’ you defeat your stronghold,” he says with a cruel smile. “You didn't defeat it at all—you just transferred control from the felled to me. And since your imagination forged this stone…”
“But you had a stone!” you say. “I saw it around your neck!”
“When did you see it, huh? Think…” Wulfric almost seems to enjoy unveiling his plan to you. Like it gives him a sick, devilish pleasure.
Waves of fear and confusion crash over you as you remember the first dream in Somnivale. It was the only place you had ever seen him wearing a stone. He planted the idea that he was a scarlet knight in your mind. He fogged your memory to forget the ambush outside of the Citadel when you applied to be a knight. You were chosen because of your weak mind, to give a scarlet knight to some criminal. How could you have done this? Nothing like this has ever happened before in the history of Melodor!
Wulfric turns to his posse, a wicked smile stretching their mouths from ear to ear. “Six years. Six unbelievably long years. And we’ve done it!”
They erupt in cheers. Wulfric splays his fingers and pumps his palm skyward. Light bursts from his hand like a shield of translucent gold. The energy from it distorts the air, knocking even you back a little.
“And now the power of the realms belongs to me!” Wulfric says.
You hang your head in shame, sulking in the embarrassment of your failure.
“First, New Eden,” Wulfric says. “My homeland needs the most reordering. One day at a time, ladies and gentlemen. Shall we?”
He’s about to leave with the stone.
Your stone.
The stone you spent six years forging.
Determination rises within you like flowering tongues of fire. Even if he has the power of the realms within his grasp, you must try to stop him somehow!
An idea strikes you. Now is no time to wallow. You must do something to make this right.
How do you fight Wulfric?
{
You spot a tree nearby. If you can force him through it,you may be able to use the stone to get him on your own turf,so you lunge and tackle him.<br>
(link:"Choose")[(set: $choice to "v")(goto: "Choice Check")]<br><br>
Wulfric’s and his gang’s flaws are evident to you. Loyalty is at the mercy of power in Wulfric’s eyes, but not in the eyes of his men. Exploiting his weakness, you convince one of his followers that they should be the keeper of the stone, as they care more about the collective group than Wulfric. You’ll use this to pit them against one another, and the distraction will allow you to sneak in and grab the stone.<br>
(link:"Choose")[(set: $choice to "s")(goto: "Choice Check")]<br><br>
Risking it all, you take advantage of the power of the realm you’re currently in and lure a stampede of beasts. You put yourself in danger too, but you bet on yourself navigating the uproar better than they can to come away with the stone in your hands.<br>
(link:"Choose")[(set: $choice to "r")(goto: "Choice Check")]<br><br>
Recalling your purified item, you remember it works in all the realms, despite not having the stone. Could this be what gets the stone back in your hands? There’s only one way to find out.<br>
(link:"Choose")[(set: $choice to "h")(goto: "Choice Check")]<br><br>
Let him take the stone and convince him of your surrender. For now. Recalling your baby sister lingering in your dream, you travel to Somnivale and reenter your own dream. If you can undo Wulfric’s grip on your mind, you can remove his bind to the stone and latch it back to you.<br>
(link:"Choose")[(set: $choice to "n")(goto: "Choice Check")]<br><br>
You play the long game and wait for an opportunity to strike. Seasons pass, and though he wreaks havoc on many places, striking before the right opportunity will yield poorer results. One day, like the bud of a burgeoning flower, opportunity will reveal itself to you.<br>
(link:"Choose")[(set: $choice to "a")(goto: "Choice Check")]<br><br>
}#CHAPTER SIX - A PURIFIED ITEM
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A luminous symphony of light and architecture stretches beyond the grasp of mortal imagination. Towers of glimmering gold and crystalline glass rise into infinity, their spires capturing the light of countless moons, each orb gleaming with a timeless radiance that rivals the stars. The structures seem to breathe, their surfaces pulsing with an otherworldly glow, murmuring echoes of ancient histories and realms long lost to memory.
Bridges of impossible delicacy arc between these celestial marvels, suspended effortlessly above a mirrored abyss. The surface below reflects the skyline with such flawless clarity that it seems to extend existence itself.
In the distance, the central palace dominates the horizon, its gates a swirling cascade of luminous energy. It is a dreamscape wrought into reality, a threshold to worlds more transcendent than imagination can conjure. Your gaze is irresistibly drawn to it. Above it, a galaxy spirals in majestic stillness, as if the universe itself pauses to admire this celestial sanctuary.
Standing here, at the edge of the divine citadel, you are impossibly small yet profoundly intertwined with the fabric of existence. Time and space seem to dissolve, bowing in awe of this place where reality and eternity entwine.
This is Somnivale, the realm of dreams. Beautiful as it is, you find it hard to dwell on much else after waking from such a rattling dream. Part of you feels like a great weight has relieved you of its burden. Another part groans from deep, newly agitated wounds.
Conquering your stronghold should’ve made you feel complete, right? Why, then do the wounds still linger, you wonder? Letting go of your sister felt like letting go a part of yourself, not rescuing it.
“It’s the hardest part,” says Wulfric. You remember his name now as he enters the room behind you. Being in his true presence after your many encounters with him seems almost less true in a way. You glance over your shoulder. This time his hat is off, and his curly brown hair is slicked back. “Second hardest, I should say. The most difficult trial is the last one, but few who complete the first one fail the last.”
You nod, then hang your head. The sting of losing your sister, fictional though she may be, still cuts through you. You never remembered waking up like this before. Mostly you never even remembered your dreams. Part of you wants to laugh at the irony. The felled had you in a utopian paradise every night, and they didn’t even let you remember it.
“The pain doesn’t ever truly leave,” Wulfric says. “True freedom exacts a heavy toll. But it’s worth it for what we can do.”
Lifting your head to meet his gaze, you say, “Why is my imagination so important anyway?”
“It’s partly what powers the scarlet stone when you forge it. If you were to try and forge one while your imagination was locked away, you would be forging it for the felled.”
“You mean they could use scarlet stones if people forged them without the Trial of Sominvale?”
Wulfric gives a slow shake of his head. “The stone wouldn’t work for them. At least not in the same way. But it wouldn’t work for you either. You’ll understand more as the trials continue. Come with me. You have more to do before you can continue the trials.”
You cross the room, trailing Wulfric. The recruiter puts on his hat and leads you through the citadel, past a few halls, and into the biosphere—a great expanse of forest enclosed within walls of crystalline glass. Towering canopies formed of trees brush against the rounded roof that separates this garden from the endless space above. Though these great oaks, elms, and pines pale in size compared to the colossal trees of Arborland, their presence beneath the endless cosmos creates a breathtaking contrast.
Nightguard flutter overhead or stride along the spider-web trails, their translucent gossamer wings shifting the starlight that passes through the biosphere. Following Wulfric, a question gnaws away at you on the inside, and somehow you find the courage to ask it.
“Hey, Wulfric,” you say.
He stops and turns to face you. “Hm?”
“What was your stronghold?” you ask.
He huffs a half-chuckle out of his nose. “It was an old widow.”
Of all the responses you’d anticipated, this was not among the list. You tilt your head at him, wordlessly asking for more.
“I never knew my mother,” he says, his eyes looking out to the starways beyond the forest. “Everything I’d ever imagined a good mother to be was made manifest in the widow. She offered me wisdom, comforted me, and cooked meals I didn’t even know existed…” As he trailed off, facial tics revealed the pain these words stirred up.
“Are you ever tempted to go back?” you ask.
A hardness comes over his eyes, and he turns them honestly toward you. “Every time I shut my eyes.”
You swallow as a wordless moment passes between the two of you. Finally he continues down the trail until arriving at a large hut in a grove of trees. Formed of the same celestial stone that the rest of Somnivale was built from, eight great pillars held this hut in place. Inside was nothing more than a long hall with random items scattered throughout, torchlight shedding dim, warm light throughout. Scanning the area, you spot a trench coat like Wulfric’s, a variety of hats, percussion pistols, sabre swords, longswords, boots, books, gadgets… Some things are things you can’t even describe.
“Tomorrow we venture to New Eden,” he says. “There you’ll master the use of white fire...”
You start piecing together the puzzle before Wulfric finishes speaking. White fire was the power of the chime stones in New Eden, and it served two purposes: 1. To kill felled spirits, and 2. To purify. Purifying any item in white fire gave it a mysterious, supernatural ability only accessible by its owner. Whatever ability it gave was unknown and random.
Few people in all the realms own any purified items, as they are expensive, and few tinkers knew how to create white fire to make them. All scarlet knights do, but the Scarlet Council forbids any knight to purify an outsider’s item for them. Only registered tinkers unfettered to the Order are able to purify an item.
Each scarlet knight, however, is granted an item of their choice to purify, and Wulfric is giving you the opportunity to choose yours. With the exception of the scarlet stones, purified items are the only items unfazed by the boundaries of the realm.
Each realm has its own powers. For Sominvale, it's dream; Arborland, rootwielding; New Eden, tinkering with the chime stones. The only way to access such powers is to be in the realm to which the powers are bound. Scarlet stones give knights their ability to use the power of every realm no matter which realm they are in. Purified items are the only other exception to the rule, as their abilities follow their bearers beyond the boundaries of realms.
“Choose wisely,” he says. “Whatever you pick will help you complete the trials.”
[[Percussion Cap Pistol |7]]
[[Sabre blade |7]]
[[Adventurer's Trench Coat |7]]
[[Tinker's Gauntlets |7]]
[[Spectacles |7]]#CHAPTER SEVEN - A TEMPTING SECRET
Sleep eludes you the night before you venture to New Eden. As you toss and turn in the sheets, the irony feels like salt on the wound. In the realm of dreams you can find no sleep. Heart beating out of your chest, you sit yourself upright and face the window. Ethereal beauty greets you in return: a vibrant explosion of nebulae and galaxies glowing with the light of a trillion suns.
Rather than fight with your sleepless state, you accept your fate and head to the common room for a glass of water. It's refreshing when it rushes down your throat. You let out a sigh of satisfaction, and then splash some more water onto your face.
How can you still feel so betrayed? So incomplete? If this is what having your imagination unlocked feels like, then you start questioning your decision to join the knights. Images of your sister continue flashing in your mind. In some ways you feel her presence more than you did before.
Some kind of growling noise startles you. You glimpse up, flinching. There it is again… but this time it’s less of a growl and more of a subtle hum. Stretching your neck, you look past the kitchen wall and down the hall to find Wulfric’s door cracked open. He’s snoring.
Despite everything in your conscience telling you otherwise, you creep toward the door and give it a gentle push. Its hinges groan, making your whole body cringe. You sigh a breath of relief when Wulfric snores again, his figure still dormant under the sheets.
If Wulfric had truly conquered his stronghold to become a scarlet knight, his dreams would reflect that, wouldn’t they?
You shake your head, trying to stop the thought before it becomes a temptation. Entering someone’s dream without their permission or warning is forbidden in Somnivale, and in the Scarlet Order. If you get caught doing such a thing, you would get kicked out.
Still something doesn’t sit right with you about all of it. You don’t feel free. What does freedom really feel like? What if you get to the end of the trials for naught because your stronghold still has your imagination captive?
“No, no,” you finally mumble to yourself. Becoming a scarlet knight is your dream and your duty. You can’t abandon that…
//“Are you ever tempted to go back?” //you remember asking Wulfric.//
“Every time I shut my eyes,”// he had said. You picture the look in his eyes. He’s hiding something. But what?
A longing to find out causes you to cast one last glance into his bedroom.
Do you enter Wulfric's dream?
[[Yes |8A]]
[[No |8B]]#CHAPTER EIGHT - STRANGERS & A CAMPFIRE
Environments come and go like wisps of clouds. Fear swallows you up as you can’t seem to place your feet anywhere. Are you floating? Falling? There are seas and stars and mountains and caverns.
Voices call out from the void. You turn your head in search of their source to find a small light, faint but obvious, further into the changing landscapes. It is the only unchanging thing about this soulless place.
Everything in you tries to run forward, but you can’t move your legs.
Panic threatens to take over, but you slow your breathing and remind yourself you’re in a dream. Someone else’s dream.
Finally you stride forward calmly, and the environment around you settles to a peaceful beach where a tide brushes gently against the shoreline. You move toward the light, and now see its true form. A flickering fire warms a cavern beneath a towering cliff.
Silhouettes surround the fire, their mumbling voices faint and indistinguishable. As you near the campgrounds, their forms take more familiar shapes. One is a male nightguard, the other is a female voxan. Lightning-shaped veins glow across her night-blue skin, and the ends of her silver hair fade to wisps of clouds, shedding thin layers of fog around present company. The third figure is the one you’re most concerned about. Wulfric.
You reach out with your feelings to sense how he's controlling this dream. Is he nervous? Is he confident? Is he insecure?
Nothing is all you can feel. Pure nothingness, like his feelings are hidden behind a mysterious invisible gate. But something else nags at you; a sense of familiarity, as if you've shared this dreamspace before. Not as a visitor, but as...something else.
“...the one?” you make out the voxan’s voice from this distance.
“Without a doubt,” Wulfric responds. “This one is something special. Believe me, I—”
He stops and all three heads swivel until their eyes face you.
Panic shoots through your body like a ravenous beast, devouring every shred of confidence you once had.
“Special’s right, Wulfric,” the nightguard says. “This one’s got guts.”
“See you on the other side,” the voxan says. She vanishes, leaving a faint mist behind.
Next the nightguard vanishes with a flash.
Wulfric’s eyes meet with yours from across the sandy divide. In an instant, everything goes black.
You both shoot awake in his room in Somnivale. Leaping back in a fright, your back hits the wall and you slide to the ground.
“Have you lost your mind?” Wulfric shouts, leaping out of his bed. His unruly brown hair, parted in the middle, covers his face in an ominous shadow.
“I’m sorry,” you say, panic causing your voice to shake. “That was stupid of me.”
“That’s putting it mildly,” Wulfric says. “You realize what you did is a felony of the highest order, right?”
“I don’t know what I was thinking,” you say, placing a hand on your head and shaking it repeatedly. “I just, I was scared.”
“Scared?” Wulfric says. “That’s an excuse to go poking around in someone else’s mind unwarranted?”
“No! Of course not!”
Wulfric grunts and slams his fist into the wall. “I can’t believe this! You were meant to bring us into a new era!”
“What?” you say, the revelation distorting the muscles on your face.
“You showed promise. More promise than any recruit we’ve ever had!” Wulfric says. He approaches you, and the proximity reveals the stubble around his goatee. “If I had any sense, I would kick you out of the Order right here and now.”
“Would?” you say. What would possess him to do anything less than that? What you have just done is a violation of the Order, worthy of expulsion.
He studies you for a moment, then visibly grinds his teeth. As uncertainty hangs in the air, you can’t help but wonder who those other people were. Were they figments of his dream? Or were they real people meeting together in dream? Scarlet knights held dream meetings all the time, and they were in Somnivale, so anyone here could meet in dreams.
What were they talking about? What did they mean when they were talking about “the one”?
“I must be out of my mind,” Wulfric finally says, disturbing the quiet. He locks eyes with you and says, “You’re on strict probation now. Count your lucky stars today, kid, because if you even hint at a step in the wrong direction, you’ll be out in a split second. Got it?”
At first, your only response is stunned silence. Why would he let you get away with this? A scarlet knight, no less?
Finally you nod. “Thank you.”
“Thank me by never speaking of this to a single soul for as long as you live. And then thank me by completing the trials without screwing up again.”
He storms away, leaving you to stew alone in his bedroom.
[[Continue |9]]#CHAPTER NINE - ETHERSONG
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{(if: $race is "v")[All throughout a shimmering mist, where the firmament stretches into a kaleidoscope of star-kissed hues, float the islands of Ethersong—the realm of Eternal Song. Here, there is no true ground, only a cascade of vast floating islands suspended midair, each held aloft by the levitating power in the resonance of Eimai’s Eternal Hymn.<br><br>
One glance over the edge of the island and into the misty abyss. You glimpse a few visitors panicking at the sight. Although this is your homeland, you understand the fear of plummeting into an endless fog. But as countless fellow voxans float effortlessly onto the island upon which you currently stand, you remember the element of surrender required to survive your birthplace realm.<br><br>
“What're you waiting for?” calls Wulfric from behind.<br><br>
Regret chips away at you now. You’re no longer in Somnivale, and the opportunity to study Wulfric’s motives in dream passed you up over a year ago.<br><br>
“Trust me,” Wulfric says, “getting there is the easy part...<br><br>
You turn a blank stare to him. “Whatever mystery awaits me on the island you've prepared for me is what's got me nervous.”<br><br>
He laughs.
](else:)[All throughout a shimmering mist, where the firmament stretches into a kaleidoscope of star-kissed hues, float the islands of Ethersong—the realm of Eternal Song. Here, there is no true ground, only a cascade of vast floating islands suspended midair, each held aloft by the levitating power in the resonance of Eimai’s Eternal Hymn.<br><br>
One glance over the edge of the island and into the misty abyss leaves you breathless with panic. You know the eternal song will hold you up and guide you to the nearest island within the prismatic fog. Partly because you witness countless voxans floating effortlessly onto the island upon which you currently stand.<br><br>
“If you can’t trust the power of the realm you’re in,” calls Wulfric from behind, “how will you ever trust them on the outside?”<br><br>
Regret chips away at you now. You’re no longer in Somnivale, and the opportunity to study Wulfric’s motives in dream passed you up over a year ago. Perhaps you’re just searching for an excuse not to jump, but his pressure isn’t making your leap into an unseeable void any less horrifying.<br><br>
“Trust me,” Wulfric says, “getting there is the easy part. It’s what’s on the other island that you should be concerned about.”<br><br>
You turn a blank stare to him. “Have you ever considered motivational speech as an alternative career?”<br><br>
He laughs.]}
Although the fear persists, you know what you must do.
With every muscle in your body trembling, you make the leap of faith. Relief floods your body when a gentle hum holds you steady amid the fog. You spin around midair, like you’ve taken the form of a cloud, and witness Wulfric waving at you with a victorious smile from the floating island beneath. Now you can see its bottom like a many-spired mountain hanging upside down.
All there remains to fear is whatever awaits you on the next island. As the ethereal resonance carries you away, the fog swallows up Wulfric’s island. You marvel at the radiant colors lighting up the mists as voxans appear and disappear, traveling through the mists of the song-formed skies.
To behold the sights is a rare delight, but the sounds passing through your ears are something divine. You close your eyes and hear the faint melodies and harmonies of the ethereals from elsewhere. As legend has it, the ethereals themselves built this realm with their music in harmony with Eimai’s Hymn, and such an event brought the voxans to life.
While traveling the skies, you can still hear them singing. Echoes of long-forgotten songs linger in the acoustics of the firmament. But there are other songs here. Uninvited ones. You open your eyes as a lashing tone cuts through the melody, startling you and disturbing the serenade.
You’re standing on a new island now. How long have you been here? The voices have been distracting you so much, you never realized where you were. Lush green covers the rolling hills around you. As you spin to observe your surroundings, you stop when you place the ruins of a vast city sinking and rising with the hills.
Shards of Lyre-shaped towers stretch skyward, their few remaining strings thrumming softly in the wind, casting partial chords across the expanse. Below them, broken windpipe temples hum with a weak whistle, their open ends catching breezes that once created rich harmonies. Massive drum domes, adorned with iridescent skins stretched taut over polished frames, are toppled over, only thrumming off-beat when a gust of wind graced their surfaces.
Sucking in a deep breath, you begin your approach. The city lies under a clear sky, many paces past the fog wall at the edge of the floating island. As you near the abandoned city, you replay Wulfric’s instructions in your head.
“Identify the lies, then follow them to the felled’s hiding place.”
“How will I know what the lies are?”
“That’s what the Trial of Somnivale was for. Your mind is no longer a prison, but free. So act like it.”
Although you aren’t sure the specifics of what he meant, you think you understand the gist. You follow a weed-infested brick path through the remains of a once great city, eyes searching every nook and cranny for an eavesdropper. Eavesdroppers here weren’t other people listening in, they were items that captured words spoken in the realm of New Eden.
Voxans played the role of finding eavesdroppers and bringing them to their respective islands. Evil words belonged in evil places, and good words in good, but the felled were always attacking them, attempting to sabotage their efforts and place evil words in good places.
Islands here mirrored the words and songs of men in New Eden. Whether they represented words purely of individuals, or regions, or some unknown segmentation of the collective humanity, no one knew. All they knew was that words and songs meant to build up help build the cities here, and words and songs meant to tear down helped rip them apart.
“Wulfric is lying to you,” a whisper comes finally. You flinch and turn your eyes toward the sound. Where did it come from? You spot a broken windpipe, an abandoned throne, and a large table with only three chairs, all of them choked in vines.
Another thing these islands did was help both the felled and the voxans speak to all the peoples of the realms. These islands synced both ways. Words spoken here often reached the ears of men and other peoples as well, although not audibly. Instead, they appeared like faint whispers or thoughts in the recesses of your mind, and distinguishing between the true voices and the felled’s voices wasn’t always easy.
While in the realm of Ethersong, however, those voices became audible and ten times more powerful. Wherever the felled had control of an island, the lies were nearly impossible to tell apart from the truth.
The voice sounds friendly, not evil. It's like the voice of a concerned mother.
“Is that you?” comes another voice. You can spot it anywhere. It’s your sister from your dream. Why does it sound so real? Spinning in all directions, you search to find her, but can’t. “Don’t listen to Wulfric. I need you, please.”
This is obviously a lie isn’t it? The voice of your baby sister pulls on your heartstrings, but you cling to Wulfric’s advice. Don’t act like you’re still a prisoner.
Sucking in a deep breath, you lend your ears to the voice. Hearing is heightened here. It’s almost as vivid as seeing, guiding you down the path of the ruined palace. The voices continue.
“You’re safe over here.”
“There’s no reason to keep going. You should turn back.”
“You’re worth more than you think. Wulfric knows that.”
Now the voices are blurring together, and some of them really feel true. You turn down one path, then another, then turn back. Frustration begins to well up within you, and you’re worried you may go insane.
“Wulfric is lying to you,” the clear voice comes again. Why does this voice sound so peaceful? It makes its path known to you, as if all obstacles part ways just for you. You turn and follow the voice. “Don’t believe him,” the voice says. As you near its source, you begin to question whether it’s truly the lie, and it makes your heart sink.
Without question, you place the source as a thick, dust covered book lying on a bowed table. You pick the book up, dust off the cover, and the title reads—
A great screech turns your head. Fear numbs your body as a felled spirit appears behind you. This eavesdropper must be keeping a lie, because it brought out a spirit to stop you!
Arms morphing into lava-like red blades, the felled spirit snarls at you and lunges for an attack. Recalling Wulfric’s training, you reach outward and call forth the eternal song, then release it from your palms.
Horns blast in the air, the force sends you and the felled spirit flying in opposite directions. Holding the note with all your might, you push until reaching the fog wall, so the ethereal song carries you back to Wulfric’s island.
Catching your breath, you rest in the song-built conveyor taking you from one island to another. Relief floods your body, and not just from escaping the felled. Back in Somnivale, you’d almost entered his dream and risked your chances at becoming a scarlet knight for nothing. The felled were lying to you about Wulfric.
You stuff the book safely under your arm, happily ready to meet your mentor and deliver the good news. You’ve now conquered the third trial of the realms.
[[Continue |9]]#CHAPTER NINE - THE RIVERWILDS
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The waterfalls here soar to heights rivaling the skyscrapers of Anchorton, cascading in torrents that thunder into crystal-clear pools below. Billowing mists rise from the impact, weaving a silvery veil over the tranquil chaos. The sound is a constant symphony—steady and mighty, like the low rumble of watchful giants keeping the Riverwilds in balance
Encircling the pools are colossal mountains, their jagged peaks framing the heavens above. These walls, crafted by the riverkin themselves, are a breathtaking mosaic of boulders, mud, and twisted branches, forming an open-roofed dome. Escape lies only through the pools, their depths hiding passages known only to the riverkin, whose unmatched endurance allows them to traverse the underwater labyrinth. For outsiders, the wilderness beyond is a perilous expanse, teeming with feral beasts whose wrath can shred the unprepared.
To survive, the riverkin have forged an intricate network of waterways connecting these domed sanctuaries. Riding swift aquatic creatures, they navigate these channels with grace and ease, avoiding the dangers above. Overhead, winged beasts soar in and out of the dome’s open crown, their majestic forms a lifeline for those who cannot claim their own mount.
Without one, the only escape is to barter for passage—a costly compromise. Thankfully the Scarlet Council makes provision for trainees, and Wulfric will cover whatever cost you acquire.
Your mission is clear: tame and bond with a beast from the wild. Only then can you pass this trial and claim your destiny.
{(if: $race is "r")[
This is your native ground, your birthplace, and your solace. This trial should be second nature, but Wulfric’s warning lingers like an echo in the back of your mind. This time will not be like the others. Still, a quiet confidence anchors you. You’ve trained for this moment. You’ve done this before.<br><br>
The mist kisses your skin as you step through the waterfall, savoring its cool, purifying touch. You pause to drink, the water here impossibly pure, its taste a reminder of the Riverwilds’ lifeblood. With a deep breath, you dive into the crystalline pool, the frigid embrace of the water sharpening your focus.<br><br>
The underwater journey is serene yet electric with life. The grand mountain looms above as you swim beneath its foundation, the dim light casting shifting patterns across the rocky ceiling. Riverkin pass you, their fleeting forms waving in camaraderie. Among the shadows, massive aquatic creatures glide—some bulbous and gentle, others sleek and swift, and a few with teeth like shattered glass, their silhouettes a chilling reminder of the Riverwilds’ untamed power.<br><br>
Twenty minutes pass before you break the surface, lungs burning yet exhilarated. Fresh air rushes in, a welcome relief. Pulling yourself onto the shore, you take in the sight behind you—the hidden sanctuary you emerged from. Only the sharpest eyes could discern its secret, the water above blending seamlessly with the falls that conceal it.<br><br>
Now, your final trial awaits.](else:)[
This is unfamiliar terrain, a realm of wonder and peril where every step feels both foreign and exhilarating. You’ve heard the stories—the Riverwilds, home to the enigmatic riverkin, a sanctuary built within cascading waterfalls and hidden beneath an endless dome of mist and rock. You don’t belong here, not truly. But you’ve come prepared. To survive this trial, you’ll need help.<br><br>
Mist clings to your skin as you stand at the edge of a towering crystal pool. The roar of the falls is deafening, the air thick with moisture and mystery. Around you, riverkin bustle with purpose across stilted walkways that snake through a labyrinth of huts that unfold in levels from half the mountains’ heights to the very bottom. Their ease here is a reminder of your outsider status. But this place doesn’t intimidate you—it challenges you, beckoning you to prove your worth.<br><br>
A sharp whistle pierces the air, drawing your gaze upward. High above, winged beasts glide gracefully, their silhouettes dancing in the shafts of light breaking through the dome’s open crown. The beasts are magnificent, their wings catching the sunlight in shimmering patterns. For a moment, you’re captivated by their beauty. Then, a nudge from a passing riverkin snaps you back to the task at hand.<br><br>
You approach a trader near the water’s edge, their table piled with various tokens, trinkets, and a ledger etched with names. Their sharp eyes size you up, calculating your worth before you even speak.<br><br>
“Looking for a way up?” he asks, his voice a mix of intrigue and amusement. Though he stands half your height, his brawny figure doesn’t fail to intimidate.<br><br>
You nod, handing over a pouch of coins or barter. The trader grins, motioning to a waiting rider and their winged steed—a sleek creature with feathers that glint like molten silver.<br><br>
Moments later, you’re lifted into the air, the wind whipping around you as the beast’s powerful wings beat against the misty air. Below, the crystalline pools shrink into shimmering mirrors, and the towering mountains seem to bow to your ascent. The rider expertly guides the creature upward, and soon, the dome’s open crown comes into view.<br><br>
As the surface comes into sight, your heart races. The Riverwilds above are vast and untamed—a place where trials await and beasts roam freely. When the rider lands, you dismount, the ground beneath your feet feeling firm yet alive, buzzing with the energy of this new frontier.<br><br>
The air is fresh here, untainted by the mists below. You glance back at the waterfall-draped dome far beneath, the hidden sanctuary you’ve left behind. It’s a marvel of nature and ingenuity, concealed from the world and guarded by the riverkin.
Now, it’s time to face the surface trials and prove yourself worthy of what lies ahead.]}
The landscape sprawls before you in a breathtaking panorama: emerald plains speckled with ancient forest groves, their canopies whispering secrets to the sky. Otherworldly creatures roam this vast expanse, their majesty both awe-inspiring and humbling.
Above, winged deer glide effortlessly, their broad wings casting sweeping shadows over the grasslands. A family of brachiosaurus moves slowly across the horizon, their towering forms proclaiming dominion. In the dark embrace of the forests, horned wolves the size of draft horses let out haunting howls, their piercing eyes gleaming from the shadows.
Your chest tightens as you scan the options. This choice will shape your future. The beast you tame will be more than a mount—it will be your partner, your companion, your tether to survival and glory. As a scarlet knight, this bond will last until your death.
With steady resolve, you step onto the plains. The grass bends beneath your boots, the wind carrying the faint cries of the wild. A surge of determination fills you. This is the moment you’ve trained for, the test that will define you.
Today, you will claim your beast. Today, you will become the scarlet knight you were destined to be.
CHOOSE YOUR BEAST:
{(if: $race is "r")[
[[Guaral (sabre-toothed, sleek skinned feline half the size of an elephant) |10]]
[[Grug (a canine-headed companion with the size and body of a caribou) |10]]
[[Cauver (orange-feathered emu-like beats) |10]]
[[River Grizzly (semi-acquatic beaver-grizzly hybrid |10]]
]}
[[Horned Wolf |10]]
[[Allosaurus|10]]
[[Pterodactyl |10]]
[[Banktrotter|10]]
[[Dragon|10]]#✨ THE REALMS OF MELODOR ✨
Have you ever heard of acoustic levitation? Believe it or not, this real phenomenon was the first spark of inspiration for the Realms of Melodor. Scientists today use soundwaves to suspend tiny objects in mid-air, and some even theorize that ancient civilizations might have used similar techniques to build wonders like the pyramids.
This idea became the seed for Ethersong, one of Melodor’s six realms, where sound itself shapes the world. Whether or not you visited Ethersong during the interactive story, you’ll see much more of it in future novels.
But Ethersong is just one piece of Melodor. Over the past eight years, I’ve built a world inspired by ideas that have fascinated me—acoustic levitation, antediluvian theories, and the mysteries of the supernatural. What if ancient legends and scientific speculation were just glimpses of something bigger? What worlds do the worlds look like where the unseen forces fighting over us every day?
These questions became the foundation for Melodor. The heart of its story isn’t just epic battles or mysterious realms but the deeper battle over the human heart. What does it mean that God chooses us in a world where powerful angels also dwell? What happens when ordinary people step into a struggle that spans realms?
Melodor is my love letter to these questions and the themes that have inspired me for nearly a decade. I’m thrilled to finally share this journey with you!
If you’d like to follow the progress of the series, you can check it at dprowell.com, as it’s updated frequently. You’ll already be automatically notified of its progress every month for being on the story group newsletter.
Thank you for being part of this adventure. I can’t wait to explore new worlds with you!(set: $name to (prompt: "Enter Your Character's Name","Default Name"))
#CHAPTER TWO - ROOKIE'S AMNESIA
Something feels strange about this. You can’t explain why, but your head is fuzzy, and nothing seems quite right. Why is a scarlet knight recruiter in your apartment? It’s not common for recruiters to show up in your apartment while you’re sleeping.
Your mind shifts to your sister taking a nap in the bedroom down the hall. Could she be in danger?
“Take it easy, $name,” the man in the fedora says, his concerned expression mirroring yours. “We’ve already met once before, remember? I just needed to see if you remembered who you were.”
“Why would I not know who I was?” you say.
“Rookie’s amnesia is more common than you think,” the man says.
A chill runs down your spine. “What do you mean?”
“Imagination has power here,” he says, studying your reaction. “And where there's power, there are those who would corrupt it. The felled spirits don't just attack in the physical world—they've been working on your mind for years, clouding your memories, offering you comfortable lies in place of painful truths. Your imagination isn't just locked away—it's in their grasp.”
The walls of your apartment shimmer like a mirage. You blink hard, trying to focus. “My sister—”
“Is part of their deception,” he cuts in gently. “Think carefully. When did she first appear in your life?”
You try to remember, but the memories slip away like water through your fingers. Each time you grasp at a specific moment with her, the details blur and shift.
Vague memories surface in your head. You seem to remember shaking this man’s hand at one point. His goatee looks especially familiar. Have you met him?
“What’re you doing in my apartment?” you say.
“This was your choice,” the man says.
You shake your head. “You had to have sneaked in here while I was sleeping. I didn’t know you were here until I was awake.”
“Hello”? Comes a voice. Your sister is standing in the hallway, protecting her dolly under her arm. “Who’s he? Is everything okay?”
“She shouldn’t be here,” the man says, a shadow of worry passing over him.
You rush from your chair and pick her up. She wraps her arms around your neck, and you can feel her fear rushing through you.
Screeches echo through the air. Everyone in the apartment freezes as icy terror sweeps over you. Going against your better judgment, you hurry to the window, your sister still tight within your grasp, and peer outside.
Five felled spirits are climbing the brick wall, their beady red eyes locking on yours, black dust floating off their charcoal skin, their veins glowing deep red like lava.
“Don’t panic,” the man says. “Just stay calm. Listen to me, we’re surrounded, but I can get us out of here.”
He extends a hand to you, but you recoil. There’s another way out in your bedroom. The laundry chute. You’ve taken it before with your sister during play time. But who’s to say the felled won’t follow you out? If this man really is a scarlet knight, he can kill the felled.
But if he’s not, your fate could be worse.
''DO YOU TRUST THE MAN?''
[[Yes | 3A]]
[[No | 3B]]#CHAPTER ONE - THE MYSTERIOUS MAN
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<img src="https://i.imgur.com/86tm1EW.png" alt="Chapter 1 header">
</div>
Chime-stone energy thrums through your bones as you wake, its resonance mingling with the morning chaos of Anchorton City. Barterers' calls pierce the air like arrows through silk, while the thunder of countless footsteps below tells you the busybodies have already claimed the streets.
Something feels off about the scene—like watching a painting where the colors don't quite match reality. The chime-stones' hum sounds distant, almost echoing, and the shadows of passing crowds seem to linger a moment too long. You've had this feeling before, but can never quite place why.
A glance to your left, away from the open window, reveals a tiny apartment inside with a man in a trench coat and a fedora sitting on a loveseat across from you.
It doesn't take long for you to recognize the starlight gem hanging from his neck. He's one of the scarlet knights. A recruiter, by the looks of it.
“Finally awake I see,” he says. He leans forward, his mysterious eyes hidden in the shadow under the brim of his hat. “It's true, we've been watching you, and you've showed promise. But if you want any part in this, we're gonna need to know a little more about you.”
''WHO ARE YOU?''
<h3>HUMAN - REALM OF NEW EDEN</h3>
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<img src="https://i.imgur.com/G11RgHH.png" alt="Human selections banner">
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<img src="https://i.imgur.com/MkCtGx8.jpeg" alt="Human portrait 1">
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In New Eden, mankind holds a unique position among the realms of Melodor. They were the first beings to stir in this divine tapestry, and the Great Eimai forged with them a covenant unlike any other. To humanity alone were granted the pholythysts—the chime stones, as they’re commonly known—crystalline artifacts that harness both Song and Light, the twin forces that form the foundation of all creation.
This gift came with profound responsibility. Eimai’s mandate was clear: the chime stones were to be wielded in service of order, to cultivate abundance that would nourish all realms. Yet humanity’s inherent fallibility proved a crucial weakness. When their corruptible hearts threatened to unravel creation itself, the ethereals intervened, establishing the paradisians as guardians to prevent mankind from unwittingly destroying themselves and the delicate balance of existence.
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<img src="https://i.imgur.com/OSjsuwo.jpeg" alt="Human portrait 2">
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Now humanity stands at a crossroads, no longer alone in their sacred charge but part of a greater fellowship. Alongside the diverse peoples of Melodor’s realms, they strive to transform chaos into harmony and confront their ancient adversaries—the felled spirits whose malevolence threatens all of creation. Their journey is one of redemption and restoration, seeking to fulfill their original purpose not through solitary strength, but through unity with all of Melodor’s
(link: "Choose Human")[(set: $race to "h") (goto: "Chapter 2")]
<h3>SCINTILLIAN - REALM OF GLISTFIELD</h3>
<div class="image-container selections-banner">
<img src="https://cdn.leonardo.ai/users/93a054d4-91be-4b29-8fec-bbb99ed6dd4d/generations/56c10b05-f98f-4c4e-9b36-6e0e019b9890/Leonardo_Phoenix_10_A_vast_fantasy_landscape_bathed_in_perpetu_1.jpg" alt="Scintillian selections banner">
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<img src="https://i.imgur.com/pgR8YYl.png" alt="Scintillian portrait 1">
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Scintillians, the luminous inhabitants of Glistfield, have forged an intimate bond with their realm’s fundamental force: Light itself. Their mastery extends far beyond mere illumination—they bend lightwaves like master weavers manipulating threads, allowing them to phase between visibility and shadow at will. This profound connection grants them insight into both the physical and metaphysical, enabling them to perceive intentions and truths that lie beneath surface appearances.
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<img src="https://i.imgur.com/cWI5h57.png" alt="Scintillian portrait 2">
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Their otherworldly appearance reflects their light-touched nature. Skin like polished moonstone and eyes of molten gold mark them as children of radiance. Most striking is their hair—appearing pure white in stillness, but erupting into cascading waves of prismatic color with every movement, as if each strand captures and releases fragments of rainbows. This dynamic display serves as both a reflection of their emotional state and a reminder of their connection to Glistfield’s luminous essence.
(link: "Choose Scintillian")[(set: $race to "s") (goto: "Chapter 2")]
<h3>RIVERKIN - REALM OF THE RIVERWILDS</h3>
<div class="image-container selections-banner">
<img src="https://cdn.leonardo.ai/users/93a054d4-91be-4b29-8fec-bbb99ed6dd4d/generations/a74cfd79-0aa2-4fcc-9725-9480f5f2b738/Leonardo_Phoenix_10_Paint_the_following_in_a_digital_art_style_0.jpg" alt="Riverkin selections banner">
</div>
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<img src="https://i.imgur.com/NaZ8LEQ.png" alt="Riverkin portrait 1">
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Deep within the Riverwilds, where ancient waterways carve through primordial terrain, the Riverkin have built an empire beneath the waves. Their architectural marvels—living dams that rival mountains in scale—stand as testaments to their ingenuity, shielding vast underwater cities from the fearsome creatures that stalk the surface world. These barriers are not mere walls, but complex ecosystems cultivated through generations of careful engineering and beast-mastery.
Despite their shorter stature, Riverkin possess an indomitable spirit that towers above their physical frame. These semi-aquatic dwarves have built an empire beneath the waves, with living dams that rival mountains shielding their underwater cities. What truly sets them apart is their extraordinary affinity for wild creatures—from leviathans to dragons, Riverkin forge profound bonds with beasts others would flee, creating partnerships based on mutual respect rather than dominance.
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<img src="https://i.imgur.com/0Lr9LBg.png" alt="Riverkin portrait 2">
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These partnerships are not born of dominance, but of mutual respect—each Riverkin warrior learning the ancient art of beast-speaking from childhood. Their river dam cities pulse with life, where trained creatures serve as everything from transportation to defenders, creating a harmonious blend of civilization and untamed nature.<br>
(link: "Choose Riverkin")[(set: $race to "r") (goto: "Chapter 2")]<br>
<h3>VOXAN - REALM OF ETHERSONG</h3>
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<img src="https://cdn.leonardo.ai/users/93a054d4-91be-4b29-8fec-bbb99ed6dd4d/generations/191b49d9-21c3-42e6-9e75-c31fb4eabc5f/Leonardo_Phoenix_10_All_throughout_a_shimmering_mist_where_the_3.jpg" alt="Voxan selections banner">
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<img src=https://i.imgur.com/x6KeKh4.png" alt="Voxan portrait 1">
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In the realm of Ethersong, where reality itself resonates with ancient harmonies, the voxans have attuned their existence to the fundamental force known as Song. Their homeland defies conventional physics—a vast expanse of floating islands suspended in perpetual mist, held aloft by ethereal acoustics that transform the very air into a celestial symphony.
These remarkable beings bear the mark of their melodious heritage in their very form. Their veins pulse with electricity-like energy, tracing luminous patterns beneath their skin, while their hair defies terrestrial nature—each strand beginning solid but dissolving into living cloudstuff as it extends outward, creating halos of mist that drift and dance with their movements.
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<img src="https://i.imgur.com/ITMknvu.png" alt="Voxan portrait 2">
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Through their profound connection to Song, voxans command sound itself with masterful precision. They can orchestrate acoustic forces powerful enough to lift massive airships or shatter solid matter with perfectly pitched frequencies. Yet their abilities extend far beyond mere manipulation of sound waves—they are conduits for a more primordial power.
For Song, in its truest essence, is the eternal melody first sung by Eimai, Creator of the Realms. This divine music serves as the fundamental ordering force of all Melodor, weaving through reality as both physical law and moral truth. Voxans view their acoustic abilities not merely as tools, but as a sacred trust. Their culture revolves around the philosophy of harmonizing with this cosmic Song, seeking to align their lives with its patterns of goodness and truth. To a voxan, mastery of sound is inseparable from the pursuit of spiritual resonance with creation
(link: "Choose Voxan")[(set: $race to "v") (goto: "Chapter 2")]
<h3>NIGHTGUARD - REALM OF SOMNIVALE</h3>
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<img src="https://i.imgur.com/7v7bGF5.jpeg" alt="Nightguard selections banner">
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<img src="https://i.imgur.com/L0SrJhs.png">
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In the starlit expanse between waking and dreaming lies Somnivale, a celestial oasis where the Nightguard maintain their eternal vigil over mankind’s dreams. These insectoid sentinels are the custodians of imagination itself, their gossamer wings reflecting the cosmic light of their astral home.
Humanity’s dreams are more than mere fantasies—they are wellsprings of creative energy that sustain Somnivale’s very existence. Through these dreams, the Nightguard traverse the boundless landscapes of human consciousness, their compound eyes uniquely adapted to decode the symbolic language of the sleeping mind. They are both scholars and warriors: interpreting the encrypted messages of history and futurity hidden in dreams, while defending these delicate mindscapes from the Felled—entities that seek to suffocate human imagination.
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<img src="https://i.imgur.com/dy5pdKs.png" alt="Nightguard portrait 2">
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Within dreams, reality bends to imagination’s will. Any construct of human thought can be manifested and retrieved, becoming tangible within Somnivale’s boundaries. Yet the Nightguard’s power comes with strict limitations. They navigate the dreaming realm blind to both the dreamer’s identity and their place in the temporal stream, bound by ancient laws to remain passive guardians rather than active participants in the dreams they protect.
(link: "Choose Nightguard")[(set: $race to "n") (goto: "Chapter 2")]
<h3>ARBORIAN - REALM OF ARBORLAND</h3>
<div class="image-container selections-banner">
<img src="https://cdn.leonardo.ai/users/93a054d4-91be-4b29-8fec-bbb99ed6dd4d/generations/2db9eb4b-9cfd-4056-a7e1-0803e360a643/Leonardo_Phoenix_10_Painted_in_the_style_of_a_middle_grade_fan_0.jpg" alt="Arborian selections banner">
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<img src="https://i.imgur.com/iQ3yAoq.jpeg" alt="Arborian portrait 1">
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In the heart of Melodor lies Arborland, an ethereal forest where reality intertwines with mortal virtue. Here dwell the arborians, distinguished by their charred-orange skin, luminous teal hair, and majestic antlers that mirror the branching canopy above. These forest sentinels tend to a garden unlike any other—one where fruit springs not from earthly nourishment, but from the seeds of human goodness.
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<img src="https://i.imgur.com/wP3Dmgt.png" alt="Arborian portrait 2">
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Distinguished by their charred-orange skin, luminous teal hair, and majestic antlers, Arborians tend to a sacred grove where fruit springs from human virtue. They combat the insidious Rot that feeds the malevolent felled spirits, employing their rootwielding abilities with the same methodical care used to nurture delicate saplings. Arborians value patience above all—waiting for the perfect moment to act with devastating precision, just as trees grow slowly but endure for centuries.
(link: "Choose Arborian")[(set: $race to "a") (goto: "Chapter 2")]{
(if: $race is $choice)[
(goto: "Victory Ending")
](else:)[
(goto: "Defeat Ending")
]
}#THE REALMS HAVE FALLEN
Looming over the carcass of your dead beast, you sob quietly alone in the Riverwilds. “I’m sorry,” you whisper, placing your hand on its body. Now the beast’s sacrifice was entirely in vain. Wulfric has defeated you, and he’s off in the realms somewhere using the power of the realms for who knows what kinds of wicked ends.
As time passes since Wulfric escaped with the stone scot-free, you kick yourself for not thinking of a different way out. {(if: $race is "a")[You are an arborian! You should've been more patient and played the long game, as it's your nature!](else-if: $race is "s")[You are a scintillian! You should've exploited Wulfric's and his teams flaws!](else-if: $race is "v")[You are a voxan! You should've tried to get Wulfric onto your turf!](else-if: $race is "n")[You are a nightguard! You should've gone back into dream, your wheelhouse, to remove Wulfric's hold on you!](else-if: $race is "h")[You are a human! You could've used your purified item with better luck, since it comes from your native realm!](else-if: $race is "r")[You are ariverkin! You should've utilized the power of your home realm, the realm you're standing in!]
}
Rising to your feet, you look out to the vast landscape of the Riverwilds, the home of the realms’ most wondrous beasts. It can’t end here. It musn’t. But what could you do?
The Scarlet Council! You think. At the very least, you could warn them of their new enemy. It would be shameful to admit what you did, but it’s the only way to stop this from getting far, far worse.
A determination rising within you, you look back to the cavernous riverkin dwelling beside the sea and begin your new journey, to right the wrongs of the first.
[[Continue |About Melodor]]#YOU SAVED THE REALMS!(set: $race to "r")
“How can this be?” Wulfric says, looking up at you from the flat of his back. Stone in hand, you turn cold eyes back down to him.
“I’m {(if: $race is "a")[an arborian](else-if: $race is "h")[a human](else-if: $race is "s")[a scintillian](else-if: $race is "v")[a voxan](else-if: $race is "n")[a nightguard](else-if: $race is "r")[a riverkin]}, Wulfric,” you say. “You can’t beat me at my own game.”
The nightguard and voxan threaten to lunge, but you immediately raise your hands. The power of the stone flows through you, and a simultaneous burst of Ethersong and Glistfield power form a flash of radiant power, knocking them both back. You glance at your fingertips in awe.
“I’ll get that stone from you,” Wulfric says, glaring up at you. “One way or another.”
“No you won’t,” you say. “Because I’m taking it to the Scarlet Council. So they can destroy it.”
Panic flashes over Wulfric’s gaze.
“And then the knights will come for you Wulfric,” you say. “They’ll find you and put you in the darkest dungeon of all the realms to rot for the rest of your miserable days.”
You take delight in watching him gulp down his fear, then turn around and stride toward the exit in a victorious march.
[[Continue |About Melodor]]
