Aramar The Disc: Part 4
Glimpses and snatches of strange sights and sounds passed through his drooping mind. A room full of weapons which emitted constant clicks, a room with dozens of Blind-Folk praying, bowing to a shadowy figure in the corner, a large creature, but one he couldn’t quite make out…his vision faded in and out, in and out, like the tides of the ocean. At last his captors came to a great face, carved into the wall -- the snarling visage of a demon. Then the mouth opened and he was falling, falling into a great darkness.
Aramar awoke and groaned. He felt as he had right after the Fall – every muscle and bone in his body was aching. He staggered to his feet. At least they had left him his weapons, puny as they were – his trusty knives were still secreted in their sheathes at his waist. He blinked and looked around, his eyes by now blazing the familiar orange light that signified that his darkvision was being used, and he saw…nothing. The darkness extended out as far as he could see on all sides of him. He looked up. He could see nothing – no stars, shining in the heavens above; no moon, guiding his path. In a way, he wasn’t surprised. Everything had been taken from him. Now his sky, the familiar light that he had watched and loved was gone. He slowly got to his feet and began to walk – what other option was there? He walked and walked, for what seemed an eternity. His legs gave out, and he slept several times, he knew not for how long – without the familiar lights of the sky, time was lost to him. The blackness stretched out, endless, eternal.
Or did it? As he paused, he saw for a moment, deep in the distance, the faintest of lights. He quickened his pace. A path stretched out before him, one visible only faintly, even with his second sight. Making a split second decision, He turned to the right and began running, eager to escape whatever nightmare he had entered. If there was a path, there must be an exit. He smiled, excited at the prospect of reac—whatever though he had just had was cut off as he ran smack into a wall. He had been so distracted, and it had been so opaque that he had missed it, and ended up mashing his face into it. He looked up. Before him he could just make out a massive vertical face of rock. But it sloped inwards, almost as if…it was a cave. His jaw opened as he realized the full scope of the cave he was in – it must be a dozen, no, dozens of miles across. He looked about him, searching for something, anything that would allow him to escape. He saw nothing, except a small lip of stone, far above. He imagined that this must be what the path had led to, but there was no way up. It was a sheer wall. No way up. Aramar punched the wall in anger, the rough stone drawing blood. The pain helped him focus. The path must lead somewhere else. And he would get there.
But first, seeing his golden blood gave him an idea. The sigils he had learned in his time among the Nightborn used woven reeds to accomplish their deflections of vision and sound, but he himself had drawn sigils in the air out of pure essence, when he had still been in the White City. He didn’t have that power any more, he knew, but with godly blood…
It took him several minutes to draw the arcane symbols on his chest with his own blood, and several more to verify their accuracy – though the godly blood glowed in his second sight, he was in poor condition and his mind felt sluggish. The symbols faded into his skin, and he closed his eyes for a moment. Then he turned, and began jogging back down the way he had come – he would escape this prison, he promised himself, and return to the life-sustaining outdoors.