Chaos Bleeds

Fate'sTwist

Thellia Barlok has only left the City of Shadows a handful of times, and all them in the comfort and safety of a carriage surrounded by loyal soldiers pledged to House Barlok. Diplomatic missions to other city-states of the Underrealm, ones that all swore they were still loyal to House Barlok but occasionally need to be reminded of their oaths of fealty.

Amara Johnson has never been anywhere in the Underrealm.

Perhaps the strangest thing so far is Thellia's memories. Amara can sift through the memories of visiting Amathrae, Loleise, Kaiete and Máire. She can remember the food presented to her, the entertainment provided, and the assassins sent to her rooms every night she spent in the satellite cities.

She still hasn't been able to figure out if she’s always been Thellia, but something happened last night to make her recall her previous life, or if she is possessing Thellia's body, and Thellia's soul is either hiding or missing.

Maybe it doesn't matter.

Shayn is just a few steps ahead of her. She turns over her shoulder, glancing back at the black marble city. Amara comes to a stop beside her and looks back as well. The city is gorgeous. Tall spires, minarets, towers with gleaming jewels perched at the very top, reflecting the light of the fungal sky. The whole city glitters, resplendent in all of its shadowed glory.

But the view of the city in its radiance is fleeting. They are blown back by the blast before they hear the boom or see the explosion.

Amara lands badly on her back but sits up quickly as the roar of the blast hits them. Three fires lick the tops of the spires, consuming the city in flashes.

“I take it your ex has anger issues? Or does he just not like Dusk Elves?” Amara’s mansion sit at the top of the city, rising above the rest of it. Safe and secluded. It is just the outskirts of the city currently being destroyed. The homes for fourth and fifth sons, the outcasts and exiled members of noble houses, and those too weak to claw their way to power.

But still. The part of her that is still Amara is distressed; this isn’t a game world. For the people caught in the blast of the magical explosion, it’s a very real life or death situation.

This is an event—a huge attack on a capital city—that would go down in the lore. A lore event that she would have had the leeway to create for the purpose of the Chaos Bleeds module. But she hadn’t. Never once had such an idea entered her head. She turns back to Shayn. “Well?”

But the Wild Elf remains silent, jaw slack as she takes in the fire, the faraway look of someone caught between the past and the present.

Amara shakes her head. Thellia’s feelings mingle with her own; disdain for those too weak to fight their way out of the fire, indifference to the lesser sons, glee that the children of her rivals cannot be recalled to their houses to resume duties after being forgiven for bringing shame, however many centuries before.

No. They aren’t Thellia’s feelings. Thellia and Amara are the same. She knows it now. She died four hundred and thirty-eight years ago. She only just remembered her past life last night. The memories were strong, so strong that she lost herself in them and they nearly consumed her.

But she is Thellia Barlok now. Amara Johnson is dead. There is no way back to Earth. The magic is real; the people are real; what happens here is a real. She is not going to wake up in a hospital and sigh in relief, muttering that it was all just a dream as Aislinn holds her hand and smiles down at her.

Maybe enough time has passed on earth that her friends have all passed on to, if not by an unfortunate encounter with a truck, then old age or parasailing accident.

And if they are here, it seems unlikely that they, too, would remember who they once were.

If she meets Aislinn again, it will be as strangers. She will have to win her love all over again.

That is, if she recognizes Aislinn.

She might hope that Aislinn is now Dame Kelodossia, Paladin of Light, a Dawn Elf pledged to the Primordial Goddess Alyndra. But that is not guaranteed.

Her heart aches and her lungs burn; it has nothing to do with the smoke wafting on the subterranean breeze. “Come on,” she says softly, her gravelly voice finally sounding like her own again. “If you are one of his targets, we must be well away before he realizes you’ve escaped his snare.”

Shayn says nothing, rising to her feet and brushing off the dirt from her breeches.

They stalk through the Underrealm in silence, Amara navigating the dark easily, remembering the small sanctuary for Katta along one of the main roads. “There is a temple for Katta to the north. We can be there within the hour.” They will not be heading that way directly, but it is one of the best places for them to grab water and hide while they figure out their next move.

“I can’t,” Shayn says, finally returning to the present. “The Mother of the Forest…”

“Would your mother rather you die on the street than sustain yourself in a shrine not belonging to her?”

“It’s not that. She said I must get the Umbraith. And if Khellid just destroyed it…”

“If he destroyed it, he has completed your quest for you. Or am I mistaken?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. He’s up to something, though. This isn’t just about me. Not with how much fire power he brought.”

Amara checks their surroundings again. If this were a game, this would be where a player character reveals the tragic backstory and gives the context needed to advance their personal side quest. A competent GM would either initiate a symbolic battle or provide a concealed and safe location for a short rest, depending on how the player’s character expressed their emotions and how the player communicated to the GM that they might like the scene to play out.

But this isn’t a game. She cannot count on the creatures nearby being at comparable strengths.

“Over there,” Shayn says, pointing at a looming shadow behind a copse of dusk fronds.

Should have known that even thinking about a high-level monster attack would trigger one. Amara sighs and raises a hand, calling forth a flicker of purple flames to her hand and holding it up to illuminate the area.

Sure enough, a breseod is stalking toward them. A creature that makes its homes even further below, carving out tunnels beneath the Underrealm. More often than not, just a mere nuisance as its tunnels sometimes pass under roads and can cause sink pits. But one that is angry? One that is hungry? It’s large and unblinking eyes stare back at them, it’s long blue tongue dangling from it’s maw. It digs with its many rows of teeth, but right now it clearly wants to chew on flesh rather than dirt.

Amara grabs the dagger in her belt and hands it to Shayn. “Turn that on me, and it will be the last thing you do.”

Shayn runs a hand over the blade, wild magic—golden dust and the scent of the forest—embeds itself into the dagger. Thellia hasn’t encountered such magic before, but Amara knows it too well. Wild Magic Ranger was always one of her favorite classes to play on the rare occasion she wasn’t the GM.

Thellia sifts through the knowledge of her past life; a tactical advantage, she realizes. The sentimentality of her past self is a little off-putting, but the knowledge it comes with… Invaluable. She smirks and casts her purple flames around them, a shield against a surprise attack.

Shayn squares her shoulders and flings the dagger at the breseod. It sinks into the left eye before returning back to Shayn, the hilt easily finding Shayn’s palm again. The ranger flings it again, this time blinding it in the right eye.

It all happens before Thellia can even finish the incantation for her sacred fire bolt. Still, she send the violet flames careening toward the lumbering beast, striking between its now bleeding eyes.

It rears up, it’s front legs flailing wildly, the sharp talons fully extended. Thellia sends another bolt to strike the abdomen and Shayn’s dagger slices across the jugular, blood spraying forth in quick bursts.

The breseod falters on its hind legs before collapsing back to the ground, crushing the dusk fronds beneath its dead weight.

Shayn plunges the dagger into the soft dirt and twists its a few times before pulling it out again, spinning it in the air before catching the now clean blade in her hand and offering the hilt to Thellia. “I never aimed the blade at you.”

“No,” Thellia says, shaking her head. “Keep it. For now.”

The ranger shrugs and slides it into a fold in her boot. She approaches the beast, laying a hand on it and closing her eyes. “It was hungry.”

Thellia rolls her eyes. That much could be gleaned just from looking at it. But this might be Shayn’s first time encountering such a creature; she keeps her quip to herself.

“The usual food source… Some rodent? Larger than a rat?… hasn’t seen one in weeks.”

“Crils. Large rodents, yes. Usually they are everywhere. The bane of every farmer in the Underrealm.”

“Well, apparently the population is in decline. I would say this creature was likely level ten…”

Thellia is not shocked by this news, but the part of her that is still Amara is startled. She hadn’t thought that the people of the world would use terms like levels. It was all supposed to be a meta system for interacting with the world as players and game masters. But for Thellia, there is no other way of assessing strength and prowess.

But the two conflicting sides of the soul inside the Dusk Elf body both have the same realization at once. Why would a level ten monster be unable to take out larger prey if crils were not available?

And maybe even more unsettling. What is taking out the crils to begin with? And why?

“Come.” Thellia releases the holy flame shield around her and Shayn. “Katta’s sanctuary. Something is wrong and I do not want to encounter more breseod if it can be helped.”

But Shayn does not rise, her hand still on the body of the beast. “Breseod… No. The body maybe, but not the soul. I sense sorcery. Unnatural sorcery transformed this creature.”

Thellia flips through the pages of Amara’s memories, hoping to find any information that can help her figure out what plotline or side quest they have strayed into. But she finds nothing.