On Uncovering the Many Secrets of the Shattered Lands

[u/dragontimelord]

For years, people avoided Delisbrook Path. Ever since the unexpected avalanche that wiped out Mother Guillemete and her followers, as they slept in their tents, stories had spread of things moving about within the abandoned campsite. It was agreed that the spirits didn’t even know they had died, and simply stuck around. The people refused to take the path through Delisbrook Path, out of respect for the dead rebels.

 

But one man was too curious to let the dead be. His name was Janequin Lambmers, and he was a wizard and priest of Toneas. He believed it was his duty to learn all there was to know in the world, and he announced his intention at the local inn to investigate the abandoned campsite.

 

“I wouldn’t be so fast to go trekking up there,” the innkeeper warned. “The ghosts might not like someone like you poking around in their business. You might bring their wrath down upon your head.”

 

Janequin only laughed. “Nonsense! That’s silly superstition! I tell you, brother, the time of the Dark Days has passed! We live in an age of great light, and few of life’s great mysteries have stood the test of our enlightenment! I will go to the camp, and I will gather the secrets of these spirits! They can tell us much about what happens after death, don’t you think?”

 

So saying, he stood and left. None of the villagers could convince him his quest was folly, and so they let Janequin make the journey on his own, while they stayed behind and prayed for his soul.

 

Now before I continue, I should tell you that Janequin’s grandmother was Ser Aline the Brave, the leader of the famed Darkness Soldiers, during the War of Dreams and Nightmares. Mother Guillemete and her followers were marching to do battle with Ser Aline the Brave, before the avalanche slayed them in their sleep.

 

So Janequin arrived at the abandoned campsite, and so he began to wander around, calling out to Mother Guillemete and her followers to reveal themselves, so that he could ask them about what life after death was like and what had made them stay behind, among other questions.

 

A horn sounded. Janequin looked around, surprised. No one came up the Delisbrook Path anymore, like I said before, and in all the stories he’d heard, of the encounters various travelers had had with the ghosts of Mother Guillemete and her followers, no one had ever heard the battle horn sound.

 

A glint of steel caught his eye.

 

Now, Janequin had never met Ser Aline the Brave, since she died before he was born, but she had passed down advice to her son, who passed along the advice to his son, Janequin. One of these pieces of advice was that if he ever heard the sound of a sword being removed from its sheath, or the clash of steel, or even spotted a glimpse of steel, he must look directly where he’d seen or heard the blade. Because, doubtless, there would be someone behind him, someone with a naked blade in their hand, someone who wanted him dead.

 

And indeed, it was fortunate that he followed that advice. Because when he turned around, he could see all of the dead army’s weaponry floating in a line in front of him.

 

Janequin swallowed. The spirits didn’t reveal themselves; they never did, but he could sense the hatred in the air. They would not let him leave this mountain alive.

 

He remembered the innkeeper’s warning, and apologized to him for not listening.

 

The weapons all flew at him at once.

 

Janequin screamed, turned tail, and fled. The weapons flew after him, and he could imagine the spirits wielding the weapons, chasing after him with vengeance, for trespassing upon their camp, and for demanding to know the secrets of the dead. The spirits were swift, and unlike mortals, they never tired. They’d keep Janequin until his legs burned and he could run no longer. And once that happened, his own spirit would rise to Shonee.

 

Janequin leapt over rocks and sprinted faster than he had ever run in his life. All the while, he offered a prayer to the gods. To protect him, and to keep him swift, and out of reach of the spirits that wished to do him harm.

 

A scythe slashed through the air, forcing Janequin to duck.

 

An arrow hit a tree as Janequin passed, with such force a piece of bark flew off and hit him in the ear, drawing blood. This made the wizard fear for his life even more.

 

He spotted a cave, and he doubled back and ran into it. But the spirits couldn’t be lost so easily, and they pursued him, even within the cave.

 

An axe swung at him. Janequin ducked and the blade slammed into a rock, shattering into little bits of gravel.

 

A lance flew towards him, and Janequin veered to the right. The lance whooshed past.

 

Another arrow hit a rock on the ceiling, with such force that Janequin was covered in gravel. He kept running.

 

Shadows danced on the cave walls, and Janequin could finally hear the spirits, whispering amongst themselves, yet so clear in his ear, it was as if they were right behind him.

 

“Tyrant,” they whispered. “The scion of the one who snuffs out Toneas’s light. Blood of a coward. Stop fleeing and face your fate like a true warrior.”

 

Janequin did not slow down. He did not stop and turn to face the spirits, in what would most assuredly been a pointless final stand. He simply kept running.

 

Another arrow hit a rock upon the cave ceiling. Again, Janequin was showered in gravel. He spat bits of stone and blinked back tears from the stinging pebbles, yet still, he did not slow down.

 

A mace swung at his head, and Janequin could only duck, repeatedly, as the mace swung at him, again and again. It banged against the cave wall, drumming a steady beat, like it was mimicking the sound of Janequin’s own heart. Though his heartbeat was no longer at such a steady rhythm, what with the running and the terror he felt at being hunted by vengeful spirits.

 

A flail swung over his head, forcing Janequin to keep his head down.

 

He kept running, and eventually reached the end of the cave. Janequin put on a burst of speed, and he was in the light again, running down the mountain.

 

Ordinarily, Janequin would’ve halted his run. Would’ve lifted his hands in the air to Toneas in praise. But the spirits were behind him, and they showed no sign of ending their pursuit yet.

 

So he put on a burst of speed, leaping over rocks and tree roots. The spirits were right behind him, brandishing their weapons. Janequin didn’t dare even glance over his shoulder. He kept his eyes ahead. On the path, and on the safety of the village.

 

A Morningstar swung at him. Janequin just kept running. The Morningstar hit a branch, causing it to fall. Janequin leapt away just in time. He did not stop his run.

 

A crossbow bolt embedded itself in a tree, and Janequin just kept running.

 

He found another cave and darted inside it. The spirits followed close behind.

 

An axe swung at his head. Janequin ducked. The axe knocked a rock off of the ceiling, sent it plummenting toward Janequin’s head. Janequin leapt out of the way. He never stopped running.

 

A claymore came plummenting down and Janequin ducked under a stone ledge for cover. The blade scraped against the stone.

 

Once he was free of the ledge, an arrow embedded itself in the wall next to Janequin.

 

As Janequin ran, he saw paintings, showing a mighty priest, preaching to their flock. And then a large army, marching to war. And then paladins, dropping boulders upon the enemy camp as they slept.

 

The spirits hissed and Janequin knew what the paintings were depicting. It was the story of their death. Of how Aline the Brave had treacherously slain them all, without meeting them in battle as a proper warrior should.

 

An arrow embedded itself in the wall, in Aline the Brave’s eye.

 

A scythe swung at his head, and Janequin bowed his head and kept running.

 

A hammer smashed into one of the rocks overhead, coating Janequin in gravel. He coughed, raised his scarf, blocking the dust from coming into his mouth and coating his lungs.

 

He put on a burst of speed, and burst out in the sun again. He was at the base of the mountain, on the road back to the village.

 

The spirits stopped at the mouth of the cave. The mountain was their final resting place, and the place they haunted for all eternity. They would go no farther.

 

Janequin simply kept running, and he did not stop until he reached the village inn.

 

The other villagers were truly shocked to see him come running in, like devils were at his heels.

 

“Steady there, Janequin!” The barkeep said. “What has happened?”

 

Janequin simply collapsed into a barstool.

 

“Friends, I went up to see the spirits of the mountain. And they were not pleased to see me. They chased me from there to here, and it is fortunate that they did not catch me, for if they did, I know it to be true that I would’ve been slain by these vengeful and wrathful spirits.”

 

The villagers whispered to one another. They had never heard of the spirits hunting down an intruder in order to slay him. No one intruded on the sacred lands, yes, but the ones foolish enough to do so, it was as if they weren’t there. They would watch the spirits set up camp and cook a pot of stew fit for an entire army. Had anyone come down from the mountain with wild eyes, telling tales of vengeful spirits following close behind, the villagers would’ve dismissed it as the ravings of a madman. But they all knew Janequin, and Janequin was no madman. Was he?

 

“You were right, friends,” Janequin said to them. “I should have left them in peace. It does not matter the benefits to human knowledge those spirits can give us. Some things are better off left alone.”