Page 95 of Remnants: Disruption
The final frontier of sentient-kind is death. Nothing else exists that we have not yet explored.
Godwin, Tempest Seer
The inside of the circular building is what I imagine an old colosseum looked like in ancient Rome. Along the walls are hundreds of seats carved directly out of the stone walls. Fifteenfeet separates the first row from the pit itself which is a bare field of sand.
And in the center stands the Red Mage.
“Finally,” they say, unfolding their arms. “Did you get lost?”
“You didn’t tell me where to go,” I say, closing the space between us. “A nice lady in a panther mask found me wandering around the stalls like a lost puppy.”
“And how is Bast this morning?” Azazel asks, and something in the monotone makes me wonder if the mage has a soft spot for the woman.
“Chatty. She said you’re a cryptic ass,” I say stopping a few feet from them.
“Are you always like this?” Azazel asks, tilting their head.
“I’m a veritable source of whimsy,” I say nodding. “So where do we start?”
Azazel waves a hand and the colosseum darkens to almost pitch black. The only source of light emanates from Azazel. Almost like the robes themselves are glow-in-the-dark.
“Oh—” I huff out, feeling the spirits already waking.
“Resist them,” they say and I feel the color drain from my face.
“How?” I hiss, watching the first ghastly form appear from behind Azazel.
“Their power is only what you give them. Do you see one?”
I nod, not really caring if Azazel can see me or not.
“Where?” they ask, and maybe I imagine it, but they sound more kind now.
“Behind you,” I whisper, watching the nearest one peak around Azazel like this is a fucking game. They look absolutely horrific. Apparently this one decided to keep the form they had when they died, rather than do me the service of looking moderately less terrifying.
“Fascinating,” Azazel says. “Recall your rage and hatred. Do not let it take that from you.”
I don’t really hear Azazel, though. The whispers have started and, God, they’re loud.
“They don’t want you,” the spirit hisses. The familiar words like stinging nettles in an already raw soul.
“Hiraeth,” Azazel’s voice sounds far away.
A tendril of darkness lashes out from the void, piercing directly at my heart.
I hit the sandy floor, the tendril whipping like the tail of a fantastical beast. Each movement shoots spikes of white-hot fire through my body.
My labored breathing sounds like a death rattle as I tear at the tendril with swiftly weakening fingers.
A red flash explodes from nearby and the tendril evaporates. As does the ghoul.
I gasp out in panicked breaths. My fingers scrabble at the quickly knitting whole in my chest as sand crunches nearby.
“I see the issue,” Azazel’s voice, while monotone, is quieter now.
Words don’t form as I let out a choked sob. Embarrassment and shame flash through me like a torrent of awfulness. My chest rises and falls as anxiety threatens to turn visceral.
“What are you so afraid of?”
