Forsworn Vision

As Charles pauses, his quill still hovering over the page, he reflects on how to best phrase the next part of his letter to Beatrice. The lateness of the hour drags on his senses, and fatigue wraps around him like a heavy fog. He yawns, blinks, and suddenly notices something strange: black rivulets of liquid are seeping from beneath his sleeve’s cuff, winding across his hand, dripping slowly onto the parchment below. His breath hitches as he stares in disbelief, watching the ink warp and shift. The carefully written words he had written transformed—”Forsworn, Frsworn, Forwrn” repeated over and over on the page.

A sickly reddish-yellow glow begins to creep across the letter, and Charles hesitantly raises his gaze. Sitting before the hearth, where the fire should have been crackling warmly, is a man slouched on the floor. His once vibrant hair is now faded to dull, lifeless strands, with only faint hints of fiery red remaining at the roots. Scattered about him are half-eaten, rotting morsels of food, and beside him rests a crystal goblet half filled with a dark, nearly black wine, some of it carelessly spilled on the floor around it. His clothes, formerly the fine raiment of a servant of Sarenrae, are now torn and ragged, seams frayed and undone, stained with long-forgotten meals and spilled drink. The emblem of the goddess, now faded and marred, barely clings to the black of his cloak.

The flames in the fireplace twist unnaturally, no longer the comforting orange Mutu had set earlier. Instead, they burn with a baleful blood-red and sickly yellow hue, weaving together into a grotesque, humanoid form. Wrapped in tattered strips of yellow cloth, the figure clutches a dark, noisome staff in one hand that seems to tear at the very fabric of the air. In the other, it holds a smaller staff, wrapped in lurid yellow tendrils. Behind the figure, a gibbous orb rises, casting a distorted, otherworldly light upon the scene, while tendrils of smoke spiral upwards, forming a monstrous halo of writhing te ntacles.

The man in front of the fire does not turn to show his face, but his shoulders sag in a display of utter indifference as the strange light washes over him, highlighting every stain, every tear, every trace of decay that clings to his worn-out form. His shadow spills unnaturally behind him, growing darker and more solid. And as Charles watches, horrified, the shadow begins to rise, straining as if desperately trying to escape from the seated man. The man, oblivious, raises his goblet in a mockery of a toast, then drinks deeply from it, uncaring of the grotesque events unfolding around him.

Charles’s hand trembles, and he drops his pen. The sudden clatter breaks the spell. His companions startle at the sound, their attention drawn to him. His heart races as he blinks and looks around. The fire crackles normally again, the man and the twisted yellow figure are gone, and the words on his letter to Beatrice have returned to what he had written. No longer do they repeat “forsworn” in that eerie, fractured scrawl.

For a moment, out of the corner of his eye, Charles thinks he sees something—some kind of being with white fur, multiple horns, and spectacles, watching him quietly. Then, with a blink, it’s gone.