A letter finds its way to your hands by means of a strange Raven, or was it a demon with a glamor hiding its true form? He’s sure to know it’s true form, but who would send him a letter line this?
“There are whispers going around about you, and those whispers have made it to my long ears. While I do not know who or what you are, it peaks my interest either way. As one who is tired to the void since birth I both fear and respect your power. I can feel it, but I do not understand it. It’s old. Too old for my mind to comprehend. I simply wish to say you are an interesting one. Perhaps one day our paths will cross. If and when that happens I’m sure there is a lot one could learn from one so well versed in certain magic as you. Till the day we meet, or you find me, I bid you farewell.”
The salt-heavy Kul Tiran air invaded his senses like a sickness—briny, cloying, and curdling in the back of his throat. He loathed it: the damp wind, the reek of fish and rot, the dockhands who staggered drunkenly through streets soaked in seafoam and sin.
How he longed to see the cobblestone paths and buildings replaced with spires wrought from ancient malice and forgotten purpose. Structures carved not by hands, but by whispers older than stone.
But for now, this was sanctuary. The Scholar’s home—offered, accepted. A reluctant accommodation, but sufficient. The void pulsed through its walls like veins through a dying mind, each thread a thought the Scholar once dared to think, now unravelling beneath the weight of him.
The entity stood outside the threshold, testing the skin of the world with his presence. Clad in the Vessel’s shell, his true form twisted beneath void-kissed armour... coiling, shifting, smoke made flesh. His gaze swept the street, pausing only when a winged thing cut across the sky.
No. Something in a raven. Something hiding behind feathers and glamour. Demonic.
It landed with no ceremony, eyes glinting with something borrowed. It offered a letter. He took it. Read.
“There are whispers going around about you…”
Veiled praise. Respect wrapped in mortal awe. Admiration painted as curiosity. Fear softened into flattery. The writer didn’t know what he was—not truly—yet still they dared reach out, as though proximity offered understanding. Or safety.
Allasticus’ brow lowered not in anger, but in amusement. A lesser thing had felt his shadow. Traced it. Found him. How?
He cast a slow glance toward the hovel. Then, with no more thought, the letter turned to ash, consumed in a hiss of void and flame.
Inside, he shed the Vessel’s mask. Shadows surged like breath held too long. His true form unfurled—shifting, indistinct, a silhouette stitched from memory and madness. He moved with purpose, overturning relics and books, inspecting every item, arcane and mundane. Her sanctum.... his sanctum had been touched. Someone had whispered.
The thought curled through him, not as fury, but as intrigue.
A smirk pulled at his lips.
“Oh, sweet one... are you trying to rattle the cage being built around you?” he murmured, letting the darkness bleed from his limbs. Sigils reformed. Wards rewove themselves tighter. Hungrier.
And then, in a voice that scratched beneath the skin, he spoke:
“T̶̠͕̱̯̪̦̰̳̖͒͑̑̕͝ḧ̵̡̘͔͚́̎̄̅͑̑͐́̓ê̴̛̟̺͓̦̒̌̓̓̕̕n̷̢͕̖̬͛̉̇̋̇̿͜͝ͅ ̶̢̡̖͚̬̻̻̠̃̈́̿̊̐͐̉͑͛̚͜ͅľ̸̪̗̗̩̙͈̅̊̈́͜͜e̶̋̀̈ͅẗ̵͇́̕͝ ̷̗͎̻̃̈́͐͝͠ṵ̴̞̼̳͉͂́̒͆̾̄ͅs̵̨̜̼̩̊̄̔̕͠ ̶̛͇̳̜͓͇͆̉̾̄̎̈́̂̉̃͜f̵͖̫̬̥̜͂̓͒̏̇̾̊̒͂͜͝ͅa̸̧̛̜͐̉̋̽̋̾̓̾s̸̩͍̣͙̯͆̓ţ̸̞͕̲͂͋͆͋̔͌̔͋͝ę̸̢̼̬̱̰̙͕̲͒͌͝n̷͇̖͋̒̇͝ ̸̢̧̬͉̺̰̞̖͓̇͒̿̈͛͗̌̆̓̉͜t̶̛̬̮̃͋͑̄̈̓͘͝͠ḧ̵̹́͊̋͋̅͂ë̷̢̢̧̞̦̭̣͉̽͂͛̍̿̕͜͝ͅ ̴̨̰̝̩̦̜̝̫̬͗̈́l̸̨͙͕͙̰̫̝̏̈́́͒̑̍̕͝ò̷̡̬̠̦͂̔͐͆̂͒͛͐c̸̢̡̭̖̯̟̮̜̦͋̀͜k̴̡͔̟̳͙̻̯̩̫͙̓͐̚͝,̸̧͓̼͇̹͊̀̋̈́̕͜͝ ̸͚̈́͠s̵̥͒ḧ̷̙̯̆̎̌̏̒͊̎͝a̶͔͓͓̜͂͐͗̈́́̒͒̍l̷͎̓̉͊l̵̛̼̅̑̀̎̃̾̂̒̑ ̶̮̣̦̠͙̋w̴̪͔͈̞͍̜̪̮̩͋͊͋̊͠͠ẹ̵̡̜̺̈̐̂̆̂́̽̕͝?̵̯̝͎̺͔̗͊”
When it was done, he opened the door and gazed into the street beyond. Whether the messenger still lingered or had already vanished was of no concern. His voice spilled into the air like oil across water, slick and heavy, searching.
“Curious little thing… You fear me, yet you wrote. You do not understand, yet you invite. You admire what your mind cannot contain. How... exquisitely mortal.”
“You say I am interesting. But interest... is the first step into the maw, is it not? When your mind begins to fracture beneath the weight of me, will you still call it curiosity?”
A response—not penned, not sealed, but carried in shadow.
The Raven would feel it.
The sender would hear it.
And if they listened too closely...
they would never unhear it.
@eluviannaa mention (I renovated! yay!)
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