Spring was warm in the Scarlatan air as Spire Hayabusa walked west along the Prelatorian Highway from the city of Delos. Punctuating the balmy eve in 716 AF, birdsong and the low-grade hubbub of life filled the air with familiarity as the Ithmias passed by to the north, Green Lake to the south, and onward past the Brass Lantern Inn, all its rooms brightly lit, ready to welcome the night's custom.

Onward towards the junction north of New Thera, walked the monk. Ever closer he strode until the cool shadows of the Black Forest crept across the road. The ambience of spring life faded here, even those upon the road became quiet and chill. A rough scraping noise issued from somewhere nearby, Spire paused and turned to look behind him, fists clenched in readiness, but there was nothing to see.

As the xoran stepped forth to continue his journey, his nostrils flared, the sensitive olfactory skills of lizard-kin assaulted by a sweet rush of rot and decay. Spire's eyes narrowed.

The dark reaches of the Black Forest seemed to loom close in the day's encroaching twilight, the branches of the roadside trees reaching with spindly grip and shadow for those who walk the road.

As if in mockery, a heavy voice muttered unintelligibly nearby, too twisted and unnatural to have come from any normal throat. Moving to the middle of the road, Spire peered into the inscrutable depths of the ancient wood.

In response to the inspection, the long shadows at the edge of our traveller's vision seemed to shift, reaching forth across the cobbles, as if they were not truly shadows at all. A deep growl filled the air, accompanied by an inexplicable gurgle and rough scraping noises.

Heralded by the discomfiting tones, a strange figure stepped forth from the treeline, its body utterly concealed by ebony black robes.

Unnaturally fast movement, a slither more than a walk, placed the figure at Spire's shoulder. The robe-clad thing uttered a dry and grating chuckle.

Spire was frozen to the spot, unable to fight or flee. The black shroud moved again. The creature darted forth with a twisted limb that ended in a horrifically curved stinger. The parting of its robes revealed a hideous, impossible storm of swirling lights in unnatural colours that pulsated against masses of unidentifiable substances.

Without even a cry, Spire collapsed to the ground, his features deathly pale.

Embracing death with a silent vow to return to the forest and mete out some retribution, Spire wandered the hinterlands of the Soulrealm, his ephemeral self tortured by the pangs and pains that all souls suffer on the journey.

Before the great waterfall, our intrepid, if dead, adventurer met a tall figure with a smile full of fangs, clad in tattered robes and a black metal crown.

The horrendous smile widened as Lord Babel slowly shook His head, the motion implacable and terrifying. The Lord of Oblivion raised His fiery spear and almost negligently gave it a dismissive flick. In instant response, an ominous vibration shook the Soulrealm. The bleak ether surrounding Spire grew brittle and strained, an eerie and painful radiance shone through the burgeoning cracks. But the dispirited reality held and the ghostly form of Spire remained, pinned to the blasted earth by a churning spear of fractured motes.

His aberrant smile undeterred, the Lord of Oblivion departed.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Summary: Having been slaughtered by the Hunter, Spire Hayabusa was denied resurrection by Lord Babel.

Penned by My hand on the 17th of Scarlatan, in the year 716 AF.