I love getting back into the open ended storytelling, my mind is racing with ideas and possible indications, i wont reveal much details as im not wanting to spoil anything but ill hint at where my mind wanders..
I wrote a little thing, only on my own accord and with no knowledge of anything but my own creative writing.
We were gathered by the fire, wrapped in silence deeper than night. The dunes of Toulan held no warmth after sundown. Stars stretched overhead like the eyes of forgotten watchers, unmoving and too numerous. We had spoken little that evening. The sand felt wrong beneath us, too smooth, as if it had been brushed by something vast and unseen.
That was when he arrived.
Not from any direction we could mark. He was simply there, crouched at the fire’s edge. His robes were worn with age and salt. His skin bore the dust of many deserts and something else, something that clung like the scent of sealed tombs. Around his neck hung a narrow vial filled with a thick fluid that moved as if stirred by its own dream.
He did not speak at first. Only stared into the flames with eyes too ancient to be whole.
When he spoke, the fire dimmed.
He drew shapes in the sand with fingers that trembled not from age, but from the weight of memory.
His voice cracked then, not from frailty, but from a sound trying to escape him.
He paused, long enough that we thought he might be done, but his gaze lifted toward the dunes and the stars beyond, and when he continued, it was not to the fire, but to something far away.
The old man rose without sound. He left no footprints. The place where he had crouched was blackened, and the air held the scent of scorched herbs and burnt metal. We watched the night long after he was gone, unable to speak.
But it was not over.
Some nights later, the journal of Dr R C Veylan, a scholar of forgotten places, was recovered from beneath the sands. It was water-stained and ink-blurred, but one passage remained:
Then came the intercepted transmission. Its origins remain unknown. Some say it was broadcast from beneath the Obsidian Expanse. Others claim it came from nowhere, that it simply was.
The voice was female, low and echoing with a resonance not fully of this realm. She called herself Decca.
There have been sightings since then. The sky shifts without warning. The Veil shimmers at the edges of things. Whole quadrants go silent, only to return with altered topographies and blurred memory logs. Hally was last seen walking into the Western dunes at twilight, whispering to no one.
None dare follow.
And now, in our dreams, the Veil pulses. It waits. And it remembers.
I wrote a little thing, only on my own accord and with no knowledge of anything but my own creative writing.
Whispers Beneath the Crimson Veil
We were gathered by the fire, wrapped in silence deeper than night. The dunes of Toulan held no warmth after sundown. Stars stretched overhead like the eyes of forgotten watchers, unmoving and too numerous. We had spoken little that evening. The sand felt wrong beneath us, too smooth, as if it had been brushed by something vast and unseen.
That was when he arrived.
Not from any direction we could mark. He was simply there, crouched at the fire’s edge. His robes were worn with age and salt. His skin bore the dust of many deserts and something else, something that clung like the scent of sealed tombs. Around his neck hung a narrow vial filled with a thick fluid that moved as if stirred by its own dream.
He did not speak at first. Only stared into the flames with eyes too ancient to be whole.
When he spoke, the fire dimmed.
He drew shapes in the sand with fingers that trembled not from age, but from the weight of memory.
His voice cracked then, not from frailty, but from a sound trying to escape him.
He paused, long enough that we thought he might be done, but his gaze lifted toward the dunes and the stars beyond, and when he continued, it was not to the fire, but to something far away.
The old man rose without sound. He left no footprints. The place where he had crouched was blackened, and the air held the scent of scorched herbs and burnt metal. We watched the night long after he was gone, unable to speak.
But it was not over.
Some nights later, the journal of Dr R C Veylan, a scholar of forgotten places, was recovered from beneath the sands. It was water-stained and ink-blurred, but one passage remained:
Then came the intercepted transmission. Its origins remain unknown. Some say it was broadcast from beneath the Obsidian Expanse. Others claim it came from nowhere, that it simply was.
The voice was female, low and echoing with a resonance not fully of this realm. She called herself Decca.
There have been sightings since then. The sky shifts without warning. The Veil shimmers at the edges of things. Whole quadrants go silent, only to return with altered topographies and blurred memory logs. Hally was last seen walking into the Western dunes at twilight, whispering to no one.
None dare follow.
And now, in our dreams, the Veil pulses. It waits. And it remembers.
