Migrated from original creative writing blog from 2018. Excerpt from “DA”.
Seven hundred and thirty-four Alternations had passed since Kaltaril last saw this place, his home from a life nearly forgotten, swept away by the relentless tide of time. Cautiously, he entered the cavern, his gaze sweeping across the vast hall. The once-mighty pillars were now weathered and worn, the walls exuded a chilling cold. The very air felt vacant, heavy with the residue of memory, the faint echoes of songs long silenced. Such a mark always lingered in places where life had once thrived, where it had woven its roots deep into the very fabric of existence, only to be violently uprooted and left to fade. What remained was a shell, a hallowed space, destined, like the shore battered by relentless waves, to sink beneath the surface, remembered only by some great creator, to be turned as soil is turned, reborn at the dawn of another spring.
Light spilled into the barrow from the newly unearthed passage behind Kaltaril, its illumination barely reaching beyond the immediate vicinity. The once-proud banners of his kin were gone, their vibrant blue now torn and tattered fragments scattered at the base of the entrance pillars. These banners had once welcomed his people home, offering peace and hope to those seeking refuge from the encroaching darkness. In the twinkle of yesteryear, the light of the twin stars had smiled upon these now-desolate halls. The city, built by a forgotten people, had once perched upon the side of the greatest peak on Ma-dayn, the grandest mountain in the Maheydra Range. But Kaltaril remembered a time before Ahmilyan, the larger of the twin suns, was lost beneath the sea, before the mountain swallowed the city into its belly. Then, it had been a beacon, an intrepid warrior standing defiant against the night, unyielding in the face of any storm. He placed his right hand firmly against the cold wall, listening to the profound stillness, broken only by the soft whisper of wind from the world outside.
Kaltaril was weary, his clothes tattered and torn, revealing beneath their folds a being both organic and mechanical—flesh and bone interwoven with whirring gears and clicking joints. “There is nothing here,” he whispered, his voice a mixture of organic and synthetic tones, “I am too late.” His head bowed, he sank to his knees, his hand sliding down the rough stone wall with a grating sound of metal against rock. A soft, mournful sound, part sigh, part mechanical wheeze, escaped him. He had come so far, but what had he truly expected to find? A people untouched by the fires of war that had swept across the land? The comforting touch of a hand on his chest, awakening him from a long, agonizing nightmare? What resistance could the city have offered? Its protectors had long since departed, consumed by their own fear or greed, blinded by ambition and the intoxicating allure of newfound power.
With a guttural growl, Kaltaril roared in a voice that seemed to emanate from both organic and mechanical sources, raising his fists and bringing them down hard against the stone floor, cracking and splintering the surface. His rage echoed through the deep chambers, reverberating within the mountain’s hollow core, the tomb that held the remains of his home.
Slowly, Kaltaril calmed himself, becoming acutely aware of the lingering anger. He knew he must quickly quell the turmoil within, regain control of his senses. Much remained to be done; his journey was far from over. He remained kneeling, focusing on his breath, closing his eyes and gazing into the darkness within, seeking a moment of peace. Taking one last deep breath, Kaltaril rose and turned to leave the ancient city. Glancing back over his shoulder one last time, he extended his hand, and a thunderous blast of energy erupted from his palm. It struck the mountain face near the entrance like a colossal hammer blow against steel. He would seal this place, complete the city’s tomb, burying its secrets forever. As he prepared to strike again, a deep, rhythmic scraping and pounding, like a colossal hammer striking the very bones of the mountain, echoed from the depths. It was a sound of stone grinding against stone, yes, but beneath that, a distinct metallic clang resonated, as if vast gears were slowly turning, ancient mechanisms groaning back to life. Kaltaril froze, his hand hovering over the mountain face. The energy crackling across his fingers dissipated as a cold dread gripped him. “The city wasn’t destroyed by an army!”, he realized, turning back to face the the sound. The rhythmic pounding intensified, each strike resonating deep within his mechanical components, sending shivers through his organic frame. The mountain seemed to hold its breath, then the pounding abruptly ceased. A moment of utter silence hung in the air, broken only by the whisper of the wind outside.
Then, a series of sharp metallic clicks and clangs echoed from within, as if chains were being drawn taut, followed by the heavy scrape of stone against stone, growing louder, closer. A low rumble began to emanate from the depths, building in intensity until the very ground beneath Kaltaril’s feet vibrated. The air grew heavy, charged with a palpable sense of anticipation. Then, from the heart of the mountain, a deep, resonant note suddenly rang out against the silence like the sound of a great horn. It was a sound of immense power, cutting through the stillness like a physical blow. The note hung in the air for a moment, then echoed back from the depths, slightly distorted, as if the mountain itself was answering. Then, again, the note rang out, louder this time, more insistent. The rumble intensified, and the scraping of stone became a grinding roar. The note rang out a third time, deeper, more resonant, shaking the very foundations of the mountain. The mountain seemed to shudder, and dust rained down from the newly formed opening. Golden beams of light, waving in the darkness, slowly grew in the deep. Kaltaril’s weathered face sank, realizing what was to come. As the light grew, a shape emerged from within it, seeming to form from both the light and the dark. The forth blast of the horn; heralding the haunter of Ma-Dayn.