418

The god-coffin causes hallucinations, if you tarry too near, too long. It was excavated nearly a century ago. The consensus rumor is that a particularly lost explorer was led to it via raven. Certain circles attribute it to other omens. Through much contention, it has passed through many hands in its short century of sunlight. The Archive, whose library and reliquaries sit upon the Great Bridge, has sought it ever since gossip of its existence reached that high point of civilization, which sits above the mighty River Gorge; builders anonymous, age unknown.

Interstitial History

The Archive is as good as blind, for all their claims otherwise, in this primitive world; too advanced for a mere four hundred years, but with no written history to elucidate upon the shadows out of time. The first written record of mark was logged 418 years ago, claiming no date of its own. Civilization simply carried forward from that fated record.

The world is as pristine now as it has been for these young centuries. No meteoric pits, no mounds of mass dead or relics which enlighten the observer on the prehistory of this realm, as of yet discovered. Then again, even the sciences of archeology and discovery remain in their infancy. To go out beyond established boundaries is ill-conceived. Much work remains to establish the infrastructure of a burgeoning world.

At present, the god-coffin rests in a dark oubliette. The chamber is of dimly lit stone, carved by amateur excavators. Scattered about are various claimed relics, none for certain with any historical poignancy, all for sale or observance with proper tribute. The caravan which hoards these hoary materials coins themselves “Infidelitous”. A band of low morals and keen plotting. They guard the stony tomb which sits shallow underground and collect regularly artifacts for which to barter through it.

A debtor has entered the chamber, ill-prepared, of middling constitution. Farah leads him through its openness, around stonework pillars and makeshift displays of lesser renown. The shadows play across their path in jest of the wicked torchlight which shapes them, as if entertained by some upcoming woe.

Farah glides a hand gently up his back. The debtor represses a shiver as her hand crawls to his shoulder and squeezes lightly, indicating to pause. They have arrived at the god-coffin. Though rumors persist, stretching across the corners of the established realm, still many are not in circles which confess such niche claims or knowing. The debtor discovered the claims of a sleeping being, trapped inside a basalt container, only weeks ago.

The debtor, Franklin Weaver, has since pursued every avenue of seedy or enlightened predilection, in a desperate bid to discover the reality of such a unique and impossible treasure. He considered it gracious fate when he discovered the relic was currently held by a group already in his dealings. Though he lacked the funds to make amends, and those amends were somewhat past due, he beseeched them still.

Here Franklin stands before the legend. Its quality greater than any anticipation he had dared to journal over these last few weeks. The basalt coffin is smooth though unpolished. Its gray and black surface is spotted with millions of white specks, the cosmic night on cloudless occasion. The “coffin” is large and nearly square, only a minute narrowing at its bottom indicates its similarity to the standard form. In divorce of the norm, four perfect circles adorn the lid. They are seven feet high, as the coffin is stood vertically within the dingy tomb.

The circles are holes. Two on either side of the lid. Too small for a hand to reach through. They appear to be breathing apparatuses, 4-5 inches in diameter, perfect for peeking. Franklin starts to reach toward one, then pauses. He looks over to his museum guide for permission, but she has already backed away. Franklin searches the shadows, only observing the same vague wavering dance of light and dark. Her form might be found with some lengthy observance, but he returns to the coffin, impatient. Eager.

Franklin approaches the lowest hole, reaching a hand into it. He pulls the hand back in fear. Not due to sensation, but thoughtfulness. He isn’t tall enough to peek, he discovers. With another glancing sweep, he searches the room for something to elevate his average stature. A small wooden table is nearby, scattered cards and flimsy chairs decorate it. Franklin grabs one of the chairs and returns to the enigmatic container.

This offers him the opportunity to search again for Farah. He finds her form mostly obscured on the far end of the room, next to the exit ladder. He continues about his arranging. Before Franklin Weaver can climb atop the chair, he finds himself dizzy, observing violet fumes, crawling and nearly still. He is sure the tinted smoke was not present before, and yet its meandering pace is incompatible with sudden projection.

This final sane thought bounces twice through his slow mind before the room is taken completely in black and purple. He considers that he might have coughed before losing consciousness, though total numbness defies his recollection.

A Vision

Franklin began to hallucinate, or dream, or perhaps even to travel. His self was suffused through that violet smoke, which tempted his personhood away from a spiritual mind. He left behind his bodily concerns, his dire circumstances, the gravity of life. In this ill-remembered dream, he felt little but awe and curiosity. The world through which his ethereal presence now wandered was not his own. It was much older.

For a moment, the spirit mind could see the whole of this foreign realm, through symbol and implication. Towers of alien manufacture broke the sky and anchored deeply into the earth. They were equidistant across the planet, indicating a union of labor spanning this aged globe. The spirit mind sunk deeper into the vision. Details presented themselves and global concepts faded from awareness. Caverns, kingdoms, expansive forests of people and monsters blurred as the individuals were visualized.

Grotesque beings of humanoid stature but with too many limbs and saturated in red pigment stormed across forest floors. Tribes of only a dozen, dressed in hunted leathers managed impossible feats of magic and influence. A king waved from atop a moving metal creation, which moved faster than a horse-wagon. A god looked down from his tower, one of the six anchors piercing the clouds and the world below. His insanity struck out violently as two others melded into his consciousness. Three became none. “The Lost of Light” sounded, a thought-form in the spirit mind. A memory not belonging to anyone.

On a long narrow ridge, either side an infinite cliff, a battle occurred. A woman, unarmed, clashed with a man, lit green in eery fire. His scowl darkened a tattoo over his forehead, a stylized line dipping into a “V” between his eyebrows. His fiery temperament was quashed in a brilliant pillar of light the woman seemed to conjure, which narrowed to sputter out, leaving the dual cliff in utter dark.

Fiends and fey carried on once the humans of this realm were gone to their own violence or negligence. Gods abandoned the crashed dimension when the people were all gone. The rest was chaos, empty ages, the diminishing spirit of a world. As the star which shone on this place petered out, one figure was left. High in the clouds, apart from tower or any form of grounding, a squat pillared hall remained. It rested on clouds, traveling the sky without purpose. Within this small hall was an ancient stone table. Four equally aged and pitted stone stools were arranged at either of its sides. At the head of this table, a figure of stone sat, staring into infinity. It showed no age and seemed polished in some eternal perfection. “Godhead” sounded in the spirit mind, the same stolen sound memory as before. It was something never created, never altered, only revered.

418

Infidelitous storehouse

Franklin awoke on the ground. One of his shoes lay a few feet away. The disturbed dirt on the floor in a line indicated that he had been dragged. He could see the coffin from where he was. Observing his surroundings, he noted he was now next to the exit ladder. He felt nearly dead. A weakened heart and heaving chest indicated that his guide had perhaps waited until the pivotal moment to rescue him from that enigmatic fugue. The memories of that other dimension were beginning to filter out of him. Beside his conscious perception, part of him perceived a flow, violet, from him and returning to the dark container.

I hope you enjoyed reading this and I thank you for the gift of your attention.