The Walled City of Arcanum was a bright tapestry of colour and sound, its golden spires and domes seeming to reach up towards the heavens.
Amid the outskirts of this enchanting sight, lay the slums. An area that gave very different sight than the towering golden buildings whithin the city centre. Filth covered the streets here. Trash both literal and of the human sort.
Every grimy corner and bulding seemed to be peddling some sort of service. Be it drugs, games of chance or the empty promise of a warm body for the night.
Flitting between the growing shadows falling over the area, walking home from another day of hard labour, was 18-year-old Varis Blackthorn.
With eyes like fractured moonlight and a mop of unruly midnight hair, he moved like a specter amid the slowly lessing throng that still filled the streets.
The gaunt young man possessed a surprisingly striking appearance, at odds with the dirty broken lot that called this place home. His passing drew curious glances and a whispered word. Not that you could blame them, if not for his threadbare clothes, soaked with sweat and grime from a day of hard work, Varis would look more fitting as some noble or mage's apprentice.
Varis' complexion was fair, almost snow white, even after many long days spent outdoors. His hair, a deep midnight cascade that fell just past his shoulders in a tousled, untamed manner. When the light caught it just right, subtle blue undertones shimmered within the darkness, giving his hair a luster even in his unwashed state.
His eyes were the true marvel—a pair of mesmerizing silver orbs that held a depth that was out of place on one so young. His gaze seemed to hold many a secret. The hard slope of his brows hinted of hardships and horrors endured but a spark of determination still glinted.
He had a wirey yet well-defined build, born from years of survival in these harsh streets. His clothes, while worn and tattered, hinted at an attempt of style despite his limited resources.
Varis often wore muted shades that blended with the shadows, but occasionally, a hint of deep blue or green would appear, a small burst of color in his otherwise bland adornment.
Varis' unique blend of features and the aura of mystery that surrounded him made him stand out, something he cursed the gods for regularly. Standing out was a problem in a place where annonimity provided protection.
He learned at a young age when he was cast out that standing out in the slums was something that could attract the worst type of attention. He shivered at the memories that tried to claw thier way into his mind.
No dont think about it. I survived. No thanks to that Bastard.
His life had been a hard one, marked by constant misfortune. Years ago his family cast him out for being a 'talentless waste'.
Unwilling to allow a failure like him to stain thier family's so-called good name, they instead threw him into the unforgiving embrace of the Arcanum's streets. Saying that he should be thankful they did't just kill him instead.
He was 12 at the time.
The stigma that clung to him was as dark as the alleys he called home. A stigma and hatred borne by the fact he lacked a soul rune—an innate gift that almost all children developed at the age of 10. These runes branded one a Player.
Players were the apex of society, the privileged who possessed the power to stand against the ever looming threat of the Mist.
The Mist, a sinister curse that had slithered across the Earth from another realm enveloped the Arcanum like a spectral shroud. Held at bay by the mystical runes that covered every inch of the cities protective walls.
Exactly when the Mist first appeared no one knew for certain but what little records are left tell the tale of how humanity's reality was shattered by an unprecedented event that forever altered the course of their existence.
Scientists had been tracking an anomalous celestial phenomenon for years—a swirling, otherworldly rift that appeared in the night sky. At first, it was considered a mere curiosity, a marvel of the stars that captured the attention of stargazers and enthusiasts worldwide.
However, as the rift grew larger and its otherworldly energies intensified, it became clear that this was no ordinary occurrence. The rift acted as a bridge between dimensions, a conduit between Earth and the realm beyond. Dubbed "The Void Gate" by researchers, the rift was a gateway to an extradimensional plane—a place of blood, shadow and hunger.
As the energies emanating from the Voidgate grew stronger, a thick, eerie mist began to seep through the rift, spreading across the world like a sinister plague.
This mist defied the laws of nature, manifesting even in the absence of water sources or weather conditions. It seemed to be imbued with an otherworldly sentience, targeting populated areas and blanketing landscapes in an impenetrable haze.
As the mist enveloped different regions, strange and terrifying phenomena emerged. Flora and fauna within the mist's grasp underwent grotesque mutations, giving rise to monstrous creatures that had never been seen on Earth before.
These creatures, referred to as "Mistspawn," varied in size, shape, and abilities, but they all shared a malevolent nature. Some were colossal and lumbering, while others were swift and elusive, preying on both wildlife and humans alike.
Humanity's attempts to combat the Mistspawn was met with limited success. Traditional weapons and tactics proved ineffective against these otherworldly beings, whose bodies seemed to defy the laws of physics.
It was soon realized that the supernatural nature of the mist had granted the Mistspawn unnatural abilities, rendering them nearly invulnerable to conventional attacks.
Society was thrown into chaos as countries fell, governments crumbled, and billions of lives were lost. The Mistspawn's relentless assault left humanity reeling, struggling to adapt to this new and horrifying reality.
In the midst of the devastation, hope bloomed. Individuals known as "Players" emerged—individuals who displayed unique abilities and attributes, granted by the same supernatural energies that had birthed the Mist. The Players were humanity's last hope, fighting back against the Mistspawn and seeking to understand the mysteries of the Voidgate.
Now, what's left of humanity, even after countless years of fighting and research, live behind the walls of the Runed Cities. Still waiting for the day when the Player's will lead them back outside to reclaim the land that was taken from them.
As Varis was lost in thought, pondering Humanity's plight against the Mist and once again daydreaming of what it would have been like if he was a Player, the sun's golden fingers continued retreated behind the horizon, painting the sky with hues of amber and a deep purple.
Varis wandered through the darkening labyrinthine alleyways toward his humble abode. His dwelling, a patchwork construction of scavenged materials and poor repairs was located in one of the many abandonded homes within the slums.
His home for more than 5 years and constant reminder of the poverty and shame that consumed him.
Varis continued his walk home, the moon now rising into the deepening night sky, casting a dim glow over the desolate alleyway. Varis trudged over the worn cobblestones with a heavy heart. The night was eerily quiet, the only sounds being the distant echoes of his footsteps against the uneven ground.
Unbeknownst to him, shadows stirred in the darkness, waiting for the right moment to pounce.
As Varis neared a dimly lit corner, a sudden rush of movement disrupted the silence. Three figures materialized from the obscurity, their presence like a dark cloud looming over him.
At the forefront was the hulking frame of Malachai Vesperas, his lips twisted into a malicious grin that sent shivers down Varis's spine. Flanking him were his henchmen, the latest nameless idiots lured in by promises of money and violence.
Malachai had a face made of hard lines, with a chisled jaw and sharp cheek bones. His slightly curved nose gave him a predatory appearnce, like a hawk on the hunt.
Cold sapphire eyes, framed by a short crop of burnt auburn hair, regarded Varis with cruel amusement.
Malachai was a noble and powerful young Player. Everyone thought would be apart of the next generation of heroes. If only they knew what he actually was.
A monster.
"Well, well, what do we have here?" Malachai's voice dripped with condescension as he stepped forward, his henchmen flanking him like loyal hounds.
"It's the prodigal outcast, wandering through the filth where he belongs."
Varis's heart quickened at the sound of Malachai's voice. He stopped in his tracks, his grip tightening on the strap of his satchel.
"Malachai. Just leave me be."
Malachai just laughed in response.
"Leave you be? Now, why would I do that? You're the source of endless amusement, Varis. What would I do without my favorite trainign dummy!"
Varis's jaw clenched, the memory of years spent enduring Malachai's 'training' sessions surging to the surface. He met Malachai's gaze with a mixture of hatred and apprehension.
"I'm not playing your games anymore Malachai."
Malachai's henchmen exchanged amused glances, clearly finding Varis's bravado amusing.
"Oh, look at the street rat trying to stand up for himself," one of them sneered, his voice dripping with mockery.
Malachai took a step closer, his presence overwhelming. His red hair seeming to glow with a firey light.
"You really think you can defy me, Varis? You're nothing more than a stain on this city, a wretch who was tossed aside like garbage."
Varis's fists clenched, his nails digging into his palms as he struggled to keep his temper in check.
"I'll just be on my way. I have things to do."
Malachai's gave him a smile full of malevolence as he took another step forward. Blocking any potential escape. His henchman still laughing darkly behnind him.
"You're quite the resilient one, I'll give you that. But let's see just how far your tough act takes you. No matter what you do all people will see is runeless, pathetic street rat. "
Without warning, Malachai's henchmen lunged forward, grabbing Varis by the arms and restraining him. He struggled against their grip, his heart pounding as he realized the confrontation was taking a darker turn. As it always did.
Malachai's cold laughter filled the air as he circled Varis like a predator closing in on its prey.
"Tell me, Varis, does it hurt to know you'll never measure up? To know you'll always be beneath me?"
Varis's chest heaved with a mix of anger and fear, his voice wavering but defiant. His growing anger flaring in his tone.
"You can't break me Malachai. I've endured worse. I bet mummy would be so proud to see her prick of a son ganging up like this."
Malachai's sneer deepened, the mention of his mother seeming to rile him up. With a nod, his henchmen tightened their grip on Varis. In a brutal display of force, they began to rain blows upon him, their fists connecting with his body again and again. Each strike felt like a reminder of his insignificance, a harsh reality he had grown all too familiar with.
Malachai just watched. Glee and satisfaction clear on his face.
As the beating continued, Varis's vision blurred with pain. The sounds of his own ragged breath and the sickening thud of blows melded into a nightmarish symphony.
Finally, as the assault reached its brutal climax, the henchmen released their grip on Varis, allowing him to crumple to the ground.
Lying there, battered and broken, Varis tasted the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. His body throbbing in familar agony. As the the footsteps and laughter of the group faded down the allyway, he struggled to his feet, his movements shaky and unsteady.
His mind was a swirling storm of emotions—anger, despair, and a longing for an escape from this life he had been discarded into.
Limping away from the alley, Varis's steps were heavy, blood dripping down onto the street from his busted lip.
He knew his fate was one filled with pain and heartache, but deep within him, a spark of determination remained. Hope that somehow life could get better even for a runeless like him.
As he headed home, he couldn't help but continue to yearn for a way out, a glimmer of change to guide him toward a brighter future, away from the darkness that threatened to consume him.
The city's majestic skyline, adorned with its spires and starlight, bore witness to this unspoken plea.
What Varis didn't realise that his story was just beginning. He would ascend from the alleys and life of shame, defy the destiny that had been forced upon him, take revenge on those who cast him aside and confront the malevolence of the mist.
The capital may have forsaken him, but he was resolute in his determination to rise above his runeless label.
And so, in the embrace of Arcanum's night, the tale of Varis, the orphan who defied the stars, began to unfold.