Monuments



The Beginning of The End



I - Dead Alive
Belial was a city of constant change. Every minute detail was subject to modification by a troubled local government elected by a confused populace of wealthy merchants, retired soldiers, and common folk; the merchants, soldiers, and other variously well-off citizens were content to live within their own sphere of reality in which the only thing of concern was where the next gala was being held.

Meanwhile, the toiling common folk, the pitiful souls who dared to get their hands and minds dirty to bring home a morsel of food for dinner, lived in a quite different world. News of nearby settlements being raided by the mysterious "Cult" was cause for great anxiety among the proletariat, coupled with the sudden and unexplained appearance of strange obsidian obelisks throughout Kilran, with reported sightings in locations as remote as Elenmoir.

Still, while the tides of change within Belial were unpredictable by even the most renowned sages, one thing in that cursed city remained constant: the incessant, torrential downpour of rain from angry black clouds that choked out the warm blue of the sky and deprived the jealous sun of its light. Yes, it seemed no matter the week, month, or season, at least half of every Belian day was pure overcast.

Cannonwalker had always enjoyed the rain. The steady dripping of cold tears from the sky always seemed to give him some trace of odd comfort in his youth when he could deprive none from any other sources. And yet his fondness for rain simply couldn't have prepared him for the daily apocalyptic flooding of Belial. It was truly a sight to behold for both Cannonwalker and any other visitor to the bustling city that sat on the bay. Truthfully, though, Cannonwalker's reasoning for visiting in Belial was a far cry from virtually any other traveler's, he concluded.

Under the protection of a crude parasol he purchased from one of the many stingy streetside merchants that had set up shop near the city's center, Cannonwalker hurried through the bustling crowds of Belial, clutching his satchel tightly, though not as tightly as his parasol, which the persistent wind repeatedly attempted to wrestle from his hand. Several native Belians chuckled softly as they glanced his way, catching a glimpse of a young, black bearded man from the mountains in the north, his expression as icy as the bitter tears of the sky.

Following the ebb and flow of the crowd, Cannonwalker eventually reached the Residential District of the city, passing several great structures along the way; a great statue dedicated to an elderly looking individual that, from what he could tell, actually bore some resemblance to Cannonwalker, and an ornately crafted building of quartz, both of which he wished sorely to stop and get a better look at - though he knew that stopping for anything longer than what was absolutely necessary was grounds for a fight in the constanty moving Belian streets. Besides, he was already running late, if his sense of time was accurate.

''908 Byrd Street. ''This was the address that was covertly given to him several weeks prior, and here he was, on the second day of autumn, as instructed. It was one of the many modest apartment buildings in the Residential District inhabited mostly by the most secretive and hermetic individuals in the city. This particular street typically received relatively little traffic, though as Cannon arrived at the door and knocked, he overheard two individuals in the nearby alleyway quietly gossiping about a great many things, namely the apparent impending end of the world.

Cannonwalker had heard the stories of the obsidian structures that were popping up in several locations in Kilran. They went by many names and had many potential explanations - it depended on who you asked. But what was more or less agreed upon was that these objects were a sure sign of something dark and sinister to come. Cannon couldn't be sure what exactly the structures were, or if the end of the world was imminent. But the stories of the obelisks corrupting landscape - twisting the grass into a sickly purple and driving wildlife and terrified human passerbys alike to madness - they deeply concerned him.

However, the mountain man had little time to ponder his fears before the door before him swung open, and an unseen hand pulled him inside. Clutching his satchel, Cannonwalker wacked the assailant with his parasol before he could open his eyes, prompting the individual to yelp in pain. Opening one single eye to scope out the danger, Cannonwalker realized he was finally free from the storm outside, basking in the warmness of the apartment. He cringed when he looked upon the face of the man he whacked in self defense.

"Gah! What's your... problem?" groaned the man, clutching his face in pain. He was an older man, perhaps a touch above middle aged, with premature snow white hair common among the moorlanders of the west. Cannonwalker set his parasol down and rushed to the aid of the man, helping him up.

"I-I'm sorry, you caught me off guard," Cannonwalker apologized. The older man groaned and removed his hand from his face, revealing a nasty black eye.

"You're a canvas shy of a full sail, if you ask me," the man scoffed.

"To be fair, you did grab me... violently," Cannon shrugged. The white haired man sighed.

"Come on, he's waiting for you," he said, wincing. Cannonwalker didn't bother to ask who he was. He was fairly certain the white haired man probably didn't have a good answer himself, or perhaps wouldn't give it to him if he did. The two men walked into an adjacent common room, on the far side of which was a small table placed near a roaring fireplace. A man with his nose deep in his notes, which were draped erratically on the table, was sitting alone. He remained silent for a few moments before asking them to take a seat without taking his eyes off whatever he was studying.

Finally, as he sat down on a modest chair, Cannonwalker got his first good luck at the man whom he could only guess was the enigmatic recruiter that had brought him here in the first place - Bronze. At least he gathered the man was Bronze, as the well-defined man sported a magnificent ginger beard. Bronze was a mostly unremarkable man with calm green eyes and modest garb that could very well be the attire of a remote farmer. But his enormous muscles were by far his most recognizable and intimidating feature. After a few moments, Bronze lifted his eyes from his notes and observed Cannonwalker. The other white haired man lazily sat down on a rocking chair near the fireplace.

"So," Bronze began. "You must be Cannonwalker." His tone, a low bass, was almost emotionless, and undeniably commanding.

"That's me. And I presume you are this mysterious Bronze," Cannonwalker nodded.

"Correct. I see you've already lacerated Ned. I would commend you, but he is not your enemy," Bronze said calmly. Ned pouted, rubbing his face.

"And who exactly is my enemy?"

"Oh, I think you know," Bronze nodded slowly. "The black hooded figures in the night. The same ones who whisper dark secrets and promises of wealth and power into the ears of our politicians. The ones who are responsible for this."

Bronze placed a standard map of Kilran over the table, completely mundane except for the fact that several locations were marked with black triangles. He then carefully handed Cannonwalker a sketch of an obsidian obelisk, adorned with strange markings in a language he did not know.

"We call them Monuments," Bronze explained. "When the first one appeared in the spring, we were content to label it an isolated incident of little threat or consequence at all. But now we've counted at least fifty all across Kilran, and more are appearing every day."

The ginger man handed Cannon another sketch, this time of a mountainside cloaked in shadow. He could vaguely make out a number of hideously twisted creatures meandering about in the darkness with haunting deformities. Most of the creatures were completely alien, but a small minority of them had barely recognizable features of animals that he had seen before, as if these Monument devices had corrupted them into something evil that defied nature itself.

"You were brought here because you want to help keep what order Kilran has intact," Bronze continued. "To seek out the enemies of the Empress and defend her cities and the people within them at all cost. I do not know your true motivations. Perhaps you simply yearn for adventure. But this matter is a grave one that could very well threaten all our lives."

"So you do work for the Empress," Cannonwalker noted.

"We serve Tatha, yes," Bronze said. "She entrusted us with defending Kilran at all cost, and we can't do it alone. You and Ned are just two of about a dozen individuals whom we have placed our trust in."

"But why us? Who is the enemy?" Cannon pressed.

"You know them. The Cult has eyes and ears everywhere."

"You're saying the Cult is responsible for these... monstrosities?" Cannon asked in disgust, glancing at the sketches.

"Exactly," Bronze confirmed. "All machinations of the one they call Kastor. Don't bother - all we know of him is his name, and that he has learned things throughout his unnaturally long life that men were never meant to learn."

Cannonwalker considered the situation before nodding. "Where do I start?" he asked.

"Where do we start, you mean," Ned corrected him, standing slowly from his rocking chair and crossing his arms with a crude grin on his face.

Elsewhere...

The room was black as midnight, save from the dull light in the center that illuminated the map directly below it. The map, a detailed likeness of the continent of Kilran, was decorated his small setpieces of hooded men and a handful of colorful characters - some old, some young, one with a bow and one with a dagger - in battle armor. Along the border of Kilran, several tiny hooded figures were encircling the men in battle armor.

"It will be a swift and painless death," explained one of the individuals standing over the map, carefully moving around the set pieces with a short acacia staff, studying the details from behind his obfuscating green goggles. "The collapse should be more than enough to eliminate them, but just in case, it would be prudent to send some additional backup to confirm the kill. I recommend someone whose brutality you personally trust."

"The Butcher is dispatched elsewhere," another figure stated coldly. "You must find an alternative." This individual's face was completely covered in shadow cast by a large red hood, and though he must have spoken in only a hushed whisper, his words reverberated throughout the room with supernatural weight. The other man might have had shivers sent down his spines by the spectre's diction some months ago, but now he had grown accustomed to his ghostly growls.

"Not to worry," the man with the goggles said apathetically, clutching his staff with both hands. "I think I have just the man." From behind him, two red eyes slowly manifested in the darkness, accompanied by a low rasping sound.

The beast was hungry.

II - The Outlanders
Soon!