The Dark Isle

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Just off Ish-Gahn's northeastern coast, sleeps a colossal slab of deep jungle trees and lush, mossy floor. The near-black green of the trees topping the isle, like the burnt crust of a fresh loaf, looked a permanent shadow juxtaposed to the vibrancy of Ish-Gahn's shore. Several miles off, looming ominously, silent, it demanded the attention of those that lived in the surrounding area known as the Scaled Bay. Minds aflame with growing Sentience pointed, pondered, and painted legends of what might reside on the distant Dark Isle.

Its silhouette stood as a tantalizing secret for years; so close, yet formidably out of reach. Its haunting allure beckoned the rapidly expanding and curious minds of the First People to heed the call. Both shore and sea proved to be adversaries for the individuals that attempted to make the pass several times before it proved futile. Before long, droves of teams of strangers brought together with a similar goal, would think and formulate new attempts at methods to reach their destination. This would see to the creation of boating and naval exploration to travel the Continental Sea which would be employed across the world. Despite this, the Dark Isle would see an untold amount of death approach as each attempt was met with macabre failure.

Just as many living souls left seaside Ish-Gahn for the isle as corpses washed back upon the shore. Yet ceaselessly the attempts continued. Unbridled fascination, exasperated by the increasing need for expansion and exploration as more of the First People ventured from the Life Glade, pushed them toward the siren song of this mystery. Families prospered and flourished into full communities and these communities ebbed and flowed as the waves they threw themselves to. Together they would rise to large ranks and dwindle to fractions, all in pursuit of the unknown.

Playing witness to the struggle was a lone philosopher, a recluse with a morbid interest in the suicidal reckless abandon. Secluded and skulking from atop a ziggurat-like hill, the pale elvan man, named Morose, pondered and observed. He would obsessively take notes and gather remains from the seaside after every failed trial of passage to the Dark Isle. By studying the corpses that had no claimers, and even some that did, Morose unraveled the mysteries of anatomy and biology, albeit secretly.

Almost a full elvan lifetime would be spent detailing immaculate records in boundless tomes, each depicted diagram after diagram with note after note that began to feel and breathe like scripture to him. This knowledge put him a step above most of the other denizens of Ish-Gahn and, before long, he had made quite the name for himself as a scientist and doctor, being able to diagnose what ailed anyone who would come to his door. This would not come without cost and Morose began to require payment in one form or another. The concepts of trade and coin had long begun to spread alongside the advancement of naval travel and commerce, but coin only had sated Morose while he needed it, and his elaborate mind began to desire other forms of recompense.

Once the gold no longer appeased him, Morose started taking students under his wing. Typically, a person with an ailment would come along to seek his aid and a contract of indentured servitude would be drawn up with the details befitting Morose's needs at the time. After the terms were met and the patient was treated, they would be allowed to return to their lives. This was the state of business for a short while, but his intrigue in study would only grow at the proximity to the living subjects that so eagerly delivered themselves to his door. His genius mind inevitably formulated ideas and plots he knew would draw the ire of the community he served if his intentions saw the light of mixed company. His ambition became too advance for the general population and, were they to know of his experiments and projects, he'd no longer obtain his subjects so easily. To continue his work, Morose knew he would need privacy, distance, and total seclusion. There was a perfect yet impossible answer to this; the Dark Isle.

From out his tower window, Morose gazed across the sea towards the looming shadow of his destination. Yet another group of potential subjects pushed a new model of ship with massive sheets for sails out off the bank and into the dark choppy water of a stormy sea. Bored at the futility of the effort, he watched as in mere moments they were capsized; flotsam and jetsam dotting the Continental Sea like Zardon constellations in the night sky. It was obvious that the Dark Isle would have been isolated enough the protect his experiments from prying eyes, but it was a matter of getting there himself.

Time would trickle by and Morose began to near insanity, completely sealing off his chambers to observe the sea in solitude to plot his course of action. With all his time observing the sailors with their ships and attempts at the seas, the secrets of a successful passage eluded him to the point of maddening frustration. He would ceaselessly pour through his notes, scrawlings of schematics, boating blueprints, but the dark obsession with death and bodies dragged him like an undertaker to his thick bound tomes of anatomy. It was like a lullaby, a children's bedtime story illustrated with organs and viscera with pops of pink and crimson gore. He would purr to himself, pouring through the pressed parchment in a zealous fervor that blocked out thoughts of all subjects aside from dissection, dismemberment, and discovery.

The obsession began to take him, a shadow of his former genius. Morose had become a starved hollow husk, driving himself further from stability and a sense of societal refinement as the diagrams and tomes consumed him in turn. For months he was locked away, he would not sleep or eat or drink, simply write and draw and ponder, yet he was sustained. The pages began to speak to him in his rattled state, telling him to just turn one more page, then another, and another. His eyes turned sunken and narrow, blood red from dehydration with bright blue veins bulging beneath sallow milk-white flesh, barely clinging to the bones below.

“You're almost there Morose, you have my support.” A woman's voice rang clearer than the screams echoing over the field that separated him from the would-be sailors of the Scaled Bay. Unbothered, as if he refused to hear it, or couldn't over his obsession, he would continuously read and watch and pace and work towards his machinations. “I support your path, it will serve us well. Continue to walk it, continue your tutelage. Build your following and you will achieve all you've dreamt of. But first, you must make it to the Dark Isle. Declare your faith to me, and it will be yours.”

At once, Morose stopped flipping the pages of the tome he fashioned from leathered flesh within his weak grasp. He stared deeply into the sketch of an emaciated woman, white bloat from absorbed water extending the proportions of her body with maggot holes like porous cork across the flesh. Her mouth was open and the head of the image shifted on the paper to stare him directly in the face as she revealed herself to be the source of the disembodied voice.

“I am Alaxendaria, Goddess of Death, and as my servant you will be the most powerful elf to ever live, serve my will and you will achieve your heart's blackest desire. Take the strength I offer you now and amass a collection of sacrifices to send to me on the Dark Isle. The way will become clear for you, Morose, you won't disappoint me.”

With a shudder, the yellowing skin of the leathery tome began to ooze and drip black, tar-like shadow that slipped through Morose's fingers with sickening schlocks. Gathering in stasis, a bubbling, roiling puddle of deep lightlessness lapped at his feet like black waves with whispering hisses. It seeped into the floor, disappearing between the wooden boards until all that remained was a smoking mirror of the tome it once was; pure black bindings and grey metal clasps bound the spine of breathing shadow.

“Yes, Grey Lady, I will serve you.”

Emerging from his seclusion for the first time in he didn't know how long, Morose found himself in no shortage of aid in his endeavor. Just stepping from his door, there was already a crowd of potential subjects, floundering in the sand. With a zealous fervor, Morose began to gather these desperate souls to his side to hear him speak on the Grey Lady, Alaxendaria. To his credit, just his appearance, as dark a portent as it may have been, lifted the spirits of the broken around him.

“You simpletons have been going about this quandary of yours so foolishly! Throwing yourselves to Our Grey Lady, making nothing of your pitiful lives before treading to Her Soul Pouch. A life squandered means nothing to Her and I will not allow you to sully Her name with foolish brazenness!” Morose spoke with an unearthly, almost monstrous rasp that shook the foundation of the continent. The voice was deeper than mortality and caused massive waves to surge back against the flow of the ocean separating the Ish-Gahnians from the Dark Isle. “She has spoken to me and has granted me the ability to make the passage countless have failed. Those that would devote themselves to the Grey Lady would see this trek as well! Are you with me, in Her name?”

With no restraint or hesitation, the gathered team of thirteen individuals, two friendly families who dreamed of making the passage together, eagerly offered themselves before him. Much to the delight of Morose, the two Rhyonis' of the families bowed before him; grown men groveling in the heavy wet sand, crying of boyhood dreams of adventure and crossing to the Dark Isle together. “Please Morose sir, we will do whatever needs be done, our souls to the Grey Lady!”

“Us too, please, sir!” A delightful chorus of joyous volunteers from the Rhyona's and collective nine Rhyos. They all smiled and gathered together, bunching into a single amalgamation of bright beaming faces, brimming with excitement and communal glee. This had gone even better than the recluse could have hoped for. They were like sheep, these fools, playing right into his hands, and all he had to do was ask to play the shepherd.

“You thirteen will be my first disciples.” He poured the words over them like honey sinking into a bowl of milk. Through glinting tears and opened mouths they listened and swallowed every sweet syllable. “I will part the waters and upon the Dark Isle, we will create a temple to the Grey Lady where She will bless us as the conquerors of the cursed and damned island! We will find untold secrets the Isle has kept from the world and you will travel far and wide, spreading the name of the Grey Lady and what She helped you to achieve. Your families will be legendary!”

Each promissory word drew them deeper under his spell and, without their knowing, the light dimmed around them; day bleeding into an oblivion night with roaring waves crashing beside them, ocean spray dotting their motionless forms before Morose. At once and without words, they bowed their faces, buried them in the sand and darkness overtook them. Their golden tanned skin sunk and clung to their flesh, paling, leaving valleys of shadow beneath mountainous pallid bone structure. Like a rapid sickness robbing them of their life, the exuberance and lust for life they just displayed faded from their entire beings as they stood once more. This time they were silent, still, and twisted husks of their former selves. And with that dramatic transformation, Morose turned, smiling inwardly, and made his way towards the shore, his Disciples in tow, sheep with their shepherd.

The moment Morose's sandal-clad foot made contact with the water, the Continental Sea itself parted for him and his black parade, forming a perfect circle around the troupe that unabashedly began to make the passage. One step at a time, Morose spearheaded the procession, never breaking his concentration or stride. He would pay no mind to the myriad of passing wildlife that swam near the bubble of icy waters held back by solid walls of shadow; the only thing that mattered was forward. Occasionally, Morose would spot a corpse or two from various wrecks of past passages. As his eyes would scan them, fingers or necks twitching to turn and watch the grim crowd of silent shambling forms across the ocean's floor, only to cease and remain in their positions once he passed.

For nearly half a day they walked with a zeal, drive, and obsession, carrying the once regular elves, now something far different, to a known destination wrapped in nothing but unknowns. The majority, completely devoid of thought; ducklings following an addled mother on the verge of madness. After their trek, the Dark Isle greeted them with ominous silence and absolutely no ceremony. Morose was the first to breach the shore as his bubble of shadow burst through the crest of a wave and the sand of the Dark Isle seeped between his toes.

It was black. All of it. Each grain darker than the most lightless cave of Rhyonis' Underdark. It poured through his long, spindly, spider-like fingers, sticking and slipping against itself like tar and, as it fell, he could swear it sounded like screaming.

“My Disciples.” He turned, greeting the still nonspeaking volunteers, the first to step foot upon the Dark Isle after so many years of failure and death. “I welcome you to the Dark Isle, congratulations!” No response came to their lips. All thirteen stood firm, mouths stuck in a stark straight line as they stared unblinking at their leader. A rumbling echoed through the trees and a strong breeze began to unsettle the heavy robes draped over Morose's frail form, pulling him deeper within. “Onward then.”

Without hesitation, he stepped through the trees which, like the ocean waters, bent and swayed to the side for him. Each step into the isle's wilds was met with a soft sucking sound as moist, untread earth would bend and breathe with the weight of gentle, steady footfalls. Black sand would fade and feed into lush dark green moss, brackish slick mud, and thick pools of bubbling tar, hidden alongside blending blackness. The path to their destination became clear on its own, be it an innate knowing in Morose's brilliant, if disturbed, mind, or the Isle itself moving to lead the troupe. It took but mere hours to trudge through the island to the open clearing that stood in the exact center point of the Dark Isle, eagerly, expectantly, awaiting its arrivals.

“We've arrived.” All thirteen of the family members' voices spoke in unison for the first time since their transformation into these new shadowy gaunt figures. It came as a shock and startled Morose and he turned to look upon them in a start. Again they had bowed, arms outstretched and faces buried deep into the dark and damp dirt. They stood and moved to arrange themselves in a full circle around him, Morose uneasily waiting alone in the center. He chanced to look up through the canopy at the countless Zardons dotting the sky above, taking a momentary marvel and their multitude. They were the only source of light for miles upon miles and did little to fight back the oppressive darkness circling the gathering like a misty pack of wolves.

From age to youth, in a clockwise pattern directly in front of him, it was the youngest child that opened their mouth to address him first. She was but a girl, just able to walk and support her own weight, yet she spoke to Morose as something greater. It was the same gravelly monotone that had driven him down this path initially from the journal in his laboratory; it was Her voice. With a haunting droll it echoed, starting a moment later by the next oldest child, so on and so forth around the circle until all thirteen of the elves spoke in the same voice, like a chilling cacophonous round of lyrics. They were ancient, powerful, and destructive as they forced him to his knees. He steadied himself against the weight of the words that threatened to tear him apart, but he forced himself to listen and decipher what was being chanted over his crumpled form.

“You've done well to make it this far. There is still more to do, however, this was but the first step. My time for this realm is not long and I will need someone to continue to represent the watchful gaze of Death in my absence. These thirteen will be the foundation of what will become known as the Grey Lit Path, where I will be confined until a great turn of events will call for my presence once again. You are to act as my envoy with powers beyond that of any mortal creature.”

There was a stirring in the trees that ruffled the lowest threads of Morose's robes and he noticed the darkness slowly creeping up his legs. He remained still and allowed it to happen. Remained silent and allowed Her to speak. Remained curious as to what would come next as he always had been. Curious. He was utterly transfixed by the shadow sinking into his flesh, turning it from pale ivory to sliding shadow and murk, he stood as Morose, but could feel himself transforming into something much different. Much more.

“You will serve as a reminder of myself, to never wander too far into the darkness, to never allow your curiosity to unhinge yourself and stay on the path of neutral morality. Death Essence clings to you like wet silk from your emersion into it. You are darkness incarnate, Morose, and in the darkness, you shall remain. What little light lives in you will never leave the Path, forever Undying.”

Each of the thirteen figures stretched out their palms to the entity in the center; once an elf, now a solitary form of pure shadow, dripping, slipping, and sloshing to fill the entirety of the circle. Their mouths opened impossibly wide, back over the confines of their skulls, pulling in faint strands of grey light from his dark form, siphoning it into themselves before releasing an ear-splitting scream as Morose erected himself and pushed back the blackness and their gathered light. What stood where he was could not be compared to anything yet to walk the realm of Rhyonis; it was the first Archfey of the realm.

Vastly larger than His former self, Morose rose, a glistening obelisk of liquid shade. “I proclaim you Archfey of Darkness and Death, you stand without antithesis and have power comparable to Angehlah Herself, but I suggest remaining hidden here. You may study, observe, wait, whatever you see fit. In due time our plans will converge, but for now, explore this new power, create, destroy, rebuild, whatever you'd like! It is yours to use! May the world come to fear darkness and the uncertainty it holds, or idolize and imitate your path, that is for Rhyonis at large to decide!” With that last word, the thirteen collapsed, crumbling into ash and dust, only to be swept away in a faint gust of wind. No words followed, just agonizing pain tearing apart the structure of who Morose once was, and what he had become.

From there, He would explore the darkest depths of Rhyonis', spreading His teachings in whispers and messages, hidden signs from the shadows, calling to all the morbidly inclined of the world. His ideology would subtly disperse and flourish in esoteric circles where morality would wander and new practices would spring up with convergent minds. A new school of magic even came into fruition; necromancy, the manipulation of Life and Death Essence. He mastered this practice like an artisan and refined it to perform an untold number of grevious and disturbing art forms. From suspending corpses into animation to serve hismeans, siphoning Life Essence from one being to another, even tying Death Essence to a living vessel to keep it in an in between state.

These in between beings would be Morose's favorite, his personal servants. They are replications of the Thirteen that helped Him tread His path to the Dark Isle and all that's come after. Only a spare few He would bless with this power over darkness and Death Essence; chosen elves that proved themselves to be worthy of being His trusted extensions of self. They would be known as the Erlys Elves and their connection to Morose's power would allow them to see and dive through darkness as well as resist the draining effects of Death Essence. Despite all this power at His disposal, He still served a greater purpose. Happily, faithfully, in exchange for His freedom to perform His experiments and observe at His leisure, He amasses power for Her, the Grey Lady.

Alaxendaria's intelligence is unmatched by all, especially in those early days of Rhyonis'. She easily comprehended how the world functioned and played Her role without judgment, taking the souls of those whose Life Essence would expire. Her domain was far vaster than that of the other Creation Gods, even Malirica's as Death is timeless. She knew that Her work would be endless, so long as life existed, She would always need to be there to collect, and there were limits to how much Her Soul Pouch could hold. Even before Angehlah would spread Sentience at Her behest, Alaxendaria was conscious of these limitations.

It was the sacrifice of the Thirteen that allowed Her to reform Her split Pouch, once it would come to contain more than it was capable of, by sewing it together in a new, empowered form. Their Life Essence, even under the throes of Morose's transformation on them, was connected, tethered, and would merge during their collective deaths. She would stitch their Essence, their Souls, into a new being entirely so that, even as their lives ended, they continued on. Their passions and vibrance would become Her sole companion; the Undying Light.

As the pouch would unravel, ripped to shreds by Her scythe and the souls inside, Alaxendaria would forge these Souls into the Undying Light, a massive grey star that shone like a shadow of the sun Balasar. She then used the shells of Thirteen to cocoon their Death Essence around Morose while She saved their Souls from being consumed by him. Once free and under Her protection, She granted them eternal life to encompass an entire new realm alongside Rhyonis, Her Domain Realm, the Grey Lit Path.

The Thirteen would become the foundation, the borders, and light of the Grey Lit Path itself, on which all the souls of Rhyonis are life to exist once their physical life expires. Through their sacrifice to create a safe haven for all departed souls, Alaxendaria would grant them the ability to obverse and live through all the lives that would come to the Path. It is under Their light that They judge and reveal a soul's life to it. They, now known as the singular Undying Light, will cast their judgment upon a soul, and if it lived a life of goodness and is remembered fondly, the soul is cast in layers of brightness to enjoy their memories. Conversely, if a soul is deemed to be tainted, dark, and lived a life of evil, the Light leaves them in darkness, tormented by their shortcomings and most devastating moments of failure.

It is on the Path, with the countless souls of Rhyonis' fallen, and the Undying Light, that Alaxendaria waits, having set Her Frozen Vanguard and Archfey of Darkness upon Rhyonis. Shrouding the truth behind Her Domain Realm from even the other Creation Gods, She waits and bides Her time, praised and worshiped as the Grey Lady, Collector and Protector of Souls.

Want to keep reading? Click here for Session Five: The Farmer and the Tinkerer!

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