Chapter 8 - Pulp
The golden dunes were gone.
Astoria stumbled as the pull released him with a violent jolt. He barely managed to catch himself before falling onto the alien terrain beneath his boots.
The sun was gone—no, not gone, but transformed. Where once it had been a blazing, golden tormentor, it now hung in the sky as a black orb, its edges shimmering faintly with an eerie, silver corona. It cast no warmth, only a cold, hollow light that stretched across the alien expanse. The sky, no longer a dull wasteland of heat haze, was now a canvas of stars, countless and brilliant, scattered like shards of broken glass across the void.
The sand beneath his boots was no longer golden but crimson, a deep, blood-red expanse stretching endlessly in every direction. It shimmered faintly, as though flecks of glass were embedded within each grain. It felt unnervingly alive, shifting subtly underfoot as if reacting to his movements. Strange, jagged spires of obsidian jutted from the earth like the teeth of some long-dead entity, their surfaces etched with shifting patterns of faintly glowing runes.
Astoria turned in a slow circle, his pulse racing. His breath caught in his throat. The change was violent and absolute, like being yanked into another reality. One step, and everything Astoria knew vanished. Including the battlefield; the endless dunes where he was originally supposed to wander.
Suddenly a biting wind screamed past, carrying with it faint, fragmented voices—whispers of desperate pleas. The voices didn't feel distant; they felt close, surrounding him, brushing against his ears like cold fingertips.
"Lost… lost… lost…"
He flinched, instinctually shifting his stance in preparation to defend himself. The Mantle of Reproval flared to life around him, its misty aura thickening in response to the sudden shift, shielding him from whatever unseen forces now pressed against him. The Satchel at his side twitched, the buckle snapping faintly as though it, too, sensed the shift and was eagerly feeding off the vileness of this land.
Astoria gently pressed his hands to his ears in an attempt to block out the whispers.
He looked up. The sky seemed impossibly vast now, the countless stars swirling faintly as though part of some celestial current. Among them, sentient shadows slithered, massive and serpentine, moving lazily across the starscape.
He was trying to manage his breathing, but the air in this place was different, it wasn't human, or meant for humans. The pull within his chest grew sharper, more insistent, dragging his gaze toward the horizon. Somewhere in this fractured landscape whatever was calling to him lied. He was sure of it.
Before, the pull was nothing more than an impulse, now it physically hurt him, as if his soul was trying to physically crawl its way out of his body, but still, it managed dragging him forward even as dread coiled in his stomach. It felt as though the black sun itself was calling to him, its cold light pressing against his very soul. Astoria understood it instinctively, whatever his soul wanted, he knew it was here.
"Astoria…" The whisper was clear now, a voice like fractured glass. It wasn't his imagination. Someone—or something—was speaking.
With a steadying breath, he stepped forward. The red ground crunched softly underfoot, faintly mirroring the sound of breaking bones.
'From scorching heat to petrifying cold, this mantle is the only thing making it possible for me to survive in either environment. I wonder if Avon knew of this. Is this the peculiarity of the Desert that he spoke of? And what exactly makes me or these two Supremes capable of passage through here. Are they also here, in this realm?' Although Astoria was curious about the reason for his acceptability to pass through here, somewhere deep down he already understood; whatever was calling to his soul allowed him to be here.
Putting one foot in front of the other he watched as the fine red particles crunched under his feet, reminiscent of sand. Astoria believed that if he were to try and hold these sand-like particles in his palm they could cause cuts.
Bending down Astoria gently placed his knee onto the ground, his pants were thick so he wasn't too worried about it cutting through the material. After all, his boots weren't high quality and they hadn't suffered any damage so far.
Astoria gently picked up a small amount of the sand-like material. It felt cool against his skin, but instead of cutting his fingers, it dissipated almost immediately, dissolving into a crimson mist reminiscent of blood. It floated away with the wind's wailing cry.
'What is this place?' He stared at the wisps of red. The Mantle flared again, reacting to the whispers at the recess of his mind he had blocked out.
Suddenly, the ground beneath him trembled. He shot to his feet, heart pounding as the earth seemed to heave. The sand shifted violently, pulling away from his boots, revealing jagged black rock below. The tip of an obsidian spire greeted him, it was eerily sharp and radiated a cold aura, as if just a scratch from it would cause permanent damage, not only to his body but also his soul. Astoria was almost distracted with his monologue, but still he had enough time to react; he dove to the side of the spire, his boots scraping against the shifting sand as he landed, his breath coming in sharp gasps. Just out of range of the spire as he watched the soul-cutting obsidian sprout high into the sky like a sentinel.
Relief washed over him, almost allowing himself to willingly lay on the ground, but something deep inside of him sang of danger. The ground shifted again. Astoria tried to react quickly, expecting another spire to sprout from beneath him, but something different happened.
The ground under him was dissipating, just as it had before when he held it in his hands. But instead of blowing away with the wind it was swirling around Astoria, as if trying to embrace him. It moved with purpose, reaching for him like tendrils of smoke, wrapping around his legs and crawling up his body.
Panic flared as the mist pressed against him, cool and suffocating. He clawed at it, his fingers tearing through the wisps, but they reformed instantly, tightening their grip. It wasn't like fighting something solid; it was like battling a phantom—one that didn't tire or yield.
The first tendril brushed his face. His breath hitched as it slipped past his lips and nostrils. The sensation was alien, a freezing burn that spread through his chest. He gagged, choking on the invasive mist, but it pressed deeper, coiling inside him.
'No… this can't…'
The whispers returned, louder now, drowning out his thoughts. They didn't echo—they were inside his head.
"Lost… lost…lost." It whispered in a continuous rhythm.
His hands clawed at his throat as the mist continued its relentless advance. It wasn't just invading his body; it was wrapping around his mind, his souls, pulling at something deeper, something he couldn't fight against.
Through the haze of panic, a single, chilling thought crystallized, 'I was never supposed to be here.'
The obsidian spires in the distance emitted a faint hum, their runes glowing brighter, pulsing in an unnatural rhythm.
The whispers rose to a crescendo, overlapping and chaotic.
The world seemed to blur in shades of red.
Astoria's head lulled to the side slightly, from the corner of his eyes he saw the sky again. 'This place is harrowing, but it's so beautiful. I wish I could see more sights like this. I'm sure the Dream Realm has even prettier views.' His thoughts were nothing more than a whisper now, growing blank from the lack of oxygen. Or at least whatever the mist was doing to him.
Still, something deep down inside of him was still burning with life. That ancient call, whatever entity or thing, certainly didn't want it to end like this.
Pilgrimage, Pilgrimage, Pilgrimage.
The whispers were barely audible, simply a scratch against his tired mind.
Astoria barely managed a lucid thought amongst his last moments, something he barely recognised as not his own, Your satchel, your satchel, your satchel.
In the next moment something happened, maybe not even of his own accord. The Rapacious Satchel allowed itself to let its hunger out, with greed that could only be described as voracious, the mouth opened to unproportional widths and the black abyss swirled as the satchel started to inhale the red mist coiling around his body.
Astoria felt the mist ease off the pressure on his mind and somehow was able to mentally command the satchel to target the mist obscuring his face, as that's where most of the mist seemed to occupy.
He allowed himself no time for relief, as soon as he was able to grasp an ounce of freedom from the mist, he immediately struggled with all of his might, which was only made easier by the Rapacious Satchel readily inhaling the remaining mist occupying his body.
Astoria sprung to his feet, the Mantle of Reproval wrapping itself around him, almost as if attempting to comfort him in some sort of sentient-like manner. He appreciated the comfort, or at least an attempt at comfort. Walking through the desert and then suddenly arriving at this harrowing place had done damage to his mental strength. As his mother had always told him, "Physical strength is no use without mental strength. They come simultaneously, not separately."
Still suspicious of the ground under him, he looked at it warily, he even glanced at the spire, considering climbing it so he had a purchase above the seemingly sentient sand. Astoria glanced at the spot one more time, making sure there were no remnant wisps of mist, then glanced around him. Everywhere within sight was the red sand and obsidian spires, there was seemingly no escape from either of these. Filled with a sense of dread Astoria made sure the Rapacious Satchel was situated at his hip still, then he continued towards the horizon with hurried steps, as if the ground beneath him could come alive at any moment's notice. Which really, he wouldn't be surprised if it did.
'Oh look, a tasty human.' Astoria thought, trying to calm his racing heart down by making humor of the situation, which failed miserably.