Chapter 6 - Dead Souls
As Astoria crested the dune his breath caught in his throat and his counting was halted. The horizon resolved into a battlefield, sprawling and horrific. Just as Avon had promised. Thousands, no, hundreds of thousands of bodies lay strewn across the desert sands, their forms twisted in unnatural positions. Some bore scorch marks as if seared by unrelenting flames; others were riddles with jagged precise wounds that spoke of merciless, calculated violence.
He descended the dune cautiously, his boots crunching on shattered shards of metal一broken swords, shattered armor plates and pieces of shields. Each step brought him closer to the carnage, the air heavy with the scent of scorched flesh and an abundance of blood. The battlefield was long abandoned from what he could see, yet it felt alive with the echoes of violence.
As he stepped towards the corpses he noticed something uncanny. All of the bodies were identical一down to their features, expressions, and even their armors were identical. Each figure was a mirror image of the next, their faces locked in an eerie sameness. Astoria's breath hitched as he stepped closer, the uncanny nature of the scene sending a chill down his spine despite the desert's oppressive heat.
The realization settled in his chest like a weight: 'These arent just soldiers soldiers; they're clones.' Every body, every lifeless form, was an exact replica, as though stamped from the same mold.
His gaze lingered on the expressions frozen on their faces—anguish, rage, determination. Yet, even these emotions felt calculated, like someone had meticulously crafted them to elicit unease. Whoever these Saints were, their power wasn't just destructive—it was deeply, unnaturally precise.
Astoria crouched by one of the bodies, his fingers brushing against the surface of a blood-stained shield. The material was cool to the touch, unyielding despite the deep gashes carved into its surface. He pried it free and examined it closer. The edges were adorned with faint, glowing runes, their purpose unclear but intriguing. He set it aside and glanced at the Rapacious Satchel.
'Time to get to work.' he thought.
With a flick of his wrist, the satchel opened, its dark void swallowing the shield as if it had never existed. The whispers rose faintly in his mind—a chorus of hunger and satisfaction—but he ignored them, moving to the next item.
Astoria began scavenging systematically. A battered sword, a cracked helm, fragments of armor. He avoided touching the bodies directly whenever possible, his skin crawling at the thought of the unnatural perfection in each one.
As he worked, he couldn't shake the feeling that the battlefield was watching him. The silence pressed down on him like a tangible weight, broken only by the faint sounds of sand shifting under his boots and the occasional metallic scrape as he lifted a weapon or piece of armor.
He paused over a cluster of corpses, their identical faces frozen in a grim tableau of battle. Among them was a halberd unlike any he'd seen before. Its blade was wickedly curved, etched with intricate runes that pulsed faintly as he reached for it. The weapon was far too large for him to wield effectively, but that wasn't the point. He didn't need to use it—he just needed to take it.
The satchel accepted the halberd eagerly, the runes along its leather surface writhing in response.
Astoria's hands trembled as he turned back to the battlefield. Despite his focus on collecting what he could, a nagging unease clung to him. 'Why had Avon sent him here?' The weapons and armor were valuable, yes, but the scope of the scene felt almost… lacking.
A flicker of movement at the edge of his vision snapped him out of his thoughts. He whipped around, his heart pounding, but there was nothing there. Just the endless expanse of sand and the still, identical bodies.
He swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus. There was no point in dwelling on the strangeness of it all. He tightened the strap of the Rapacious Satchel, its weight still the same somehow, even with the spoils of his scavenging. Astoria turned toward the horizon again.
Astoria moved methodically through the battlefield, his footsteps crunching against shattered armor and splintered weapons. The endless sea of bodies and debris stretched out in every direction, the silence broken only by the occasional metallic scrape as he pried loose another piece of gear from the sands.
He didn't look at the faces anymore. There was no point. Every corpse was identical, their expressions frozen in eerie replicas of pain and determination. The monotony of it mirrored his task: search, retrieve, and move on.
He stepped over a cracked spear, its haft warped from heat, and stooped to pick up a helm half-buried in the sand. The metal was scorched black, but the faint glow of runes around its edges suggested some lingering enchantment. Without pausing, he opened the Rapacious Satchel, and the helm disappeared into its endless void.
A few steps further, he knelt by a shattered shield. Most of it was useless scrap, but embedded in its center was a circular gem, pulsing faintly with a soft red light. He pried it free, ignoring the sharp edge of the metal that cut into his palm, and dropped the gem into the satchel.
The whispers stirred faintly at the back of his mind, but he tuned them out, focusing instead on the task at hand.
He moved from corpse to corpse, occasionally kicking aside the sand to reveal more buried relics. A dagger with an edge that shimmered like glass, its hilt wrapped in worn leather. A gauntlet etched with intricate patterns that seemed to shift when viewed too long. A belt buckle shaped like a coiled serpent, its eyes tiny emeralds that glinted even in the harsh sunlight.
Each item disappeared into the satchel with a muted hum, its weight never changing no matter how much he added.
Astoria didn't linger over any one piece for long. There was no time to marvel at the craftsmanship or ponder the stories behind these relics. This wasn't a museum—it was a graveyard, and his goal was survival.
Occasionally, he stumbled upon something larger: a broken halberd whose blade still radiated a faint, ominous energy; a warped shield whose surface was scorched but unbroken. He dragged these heavier items to a clear space and fed them to the satchel, the void swallowing them effortlessly.
The desert heat pressed down on him, sweat dripping into his eyes as he worked. His legs ached from the constant movement, and his hands were raw from gripping sharp-edged metal and splintered wood. Still, he pressed on.
A cluster of corpses near a jagged outcropping of rock caught his attention. The remains were piled haphazardly, their weapons scattered in all directions. Among the debris, he found a staff, its shaft carved from dark wood and capped with a fractured crystal that glimmered faintly. Without hesitation he took it, the satchel devouring it with ease.
Nearby, half-buried in the sand, was a small metal box. It was battered and dented, its surface etched with strange symbols that seemed almost alive, shifting and writhing as he looked at them. He brushed away the sand and opened it cautiously. Inside was a set of coins, each one stamped with a sigil he didn't recognize. He dumped the coins into the satchel and discarded the box.
The battlefield stretched on endlessly, the dunes rising and falling like waves in a sea of destruction. Astoria kept moving, kept scavenging, his mind numb to the monotony of the task. Over time Astoias unease of scavenging dead corpses faded. His mind growing numb to the task.
A pair of boots, the leather still intact despite the scorching heat. A quiver of arrows whose tips gleamed with an unnatural sheen. A shattered pendant, its chain still intact, the gemstone at its center faintly pulsing with energy.
Piece by piece, he gathered what he could, the satchel his only verbal companion in this desolate expanse. The whispers rose and fell in the background, an ever-present hum that he ignored as best he could.
The horizon remained unchanged, as if time never passed, always the same endless expanse of sand and sky. Astoria straightened, wiping the sweat from his brow, and adjusted the satchel's strap across his shoulder. There was more to find, more to take, and no time to rest.
His boots pressed forward into the sand, the weight of the satchel steady and familiar, as he continued his march through the remnants of war.