The Silent Cataclysm

Silence. The space provided a new meaning to the word: silence. Not just silence in one sense, but all of them. Each one muted, diluted until only the most basic of their aspects remained. He couldn’t hear, couldn’t see, couldn’t feel the breeze or humidity. He thought for a moment that he was experiencing a lack of existence, and that somehow his mind remained. That perhaps, this was what death really was. A lack of all things, except for the mind that cannot be destroyed. How can an aspect outside of flesh be deteriorated anyways? Maybe you could say that it is simply signals, electricity firing off in your brain to form thought. But he never believed it was quite that simple.

Nothing was ever that simple. For what he was experiencing now was far from such. In fact, with what little cognitive abilities he had left, he figured he was the first to ever experience something like this. The absence of everything. He figured too that if it were anyone else, their mind would’ve collapsed upon itself in panic. But not him, no, he was not so simple himself. He was built from a finer stalk, strong, durable stalk. He wouldn’t let a little confusion get the best of him.

Running through all possible scenarios in his head, only a few came to his mind. One of course being he was somehow in a coma. That was the most probable idea, as there was no point in jumping to the Ethereal too quickly. If it was indeed a coma, he would only need to wait until he awoke. But there had been cases of people in comas for up to a decade. What would happen to him then? A mind wandering inside of itself, devoid of its functions, withering in its own silence.

Two: he was dead. This was the second most obvious concept. But still, unlikely, as from his decades of studying the afterlife he never once heard of an outcome like this. It was well accepted, thanks to his profession and abilities, that there were only two outcomes to death. Those who followed in the footsteps of their god and creator, Hyvale, would be granted life in the New World after death. While those who shunned their creator, and lived a rotten life were cursed to wander the Red Sands of Coreterra for eternity. The dead, and Godless planet that hung above their own.

This, whatever this was, clearly was neither. It seemed a place beyond the Endless itself, stripped away from the world he once called home. Perhaps this was a special punishment, one only he was admitted to because of some heinous act he’d committed whilst he was alive. But what could he have done, if anything at all? This led him to the next most reasonable string of thoughts: What had become of his memory?

Digging into himself, he began to search for something within. Fragments of memories flew by like comets, too hot and bothered to stop for him to truly analyze. It felt like sifting for gold in an endless dune sea, wave after wave of sand crashing down onto him and forcing him to restart.

Eventually though, perhaps just from statistical chance, a comet hit him square between the eyes. And a memory began to play out in his head. It began with a massive tower, sprawling upward into a darkened sky. The spire was carved out into a large study, his study he believed. Below the tower, dozens of other buildings all surrounded it. The word Rihat danced on his metaphysical tongue.

He was a professor at the Rihat Academy, yes. A school for those cursed by the sun falling behind the moon. The Solar Conduits. Better known as Deadspeakers: the ones gifted with the ability of necromancy. In his time, they were praised and seen as gifts given to royalty to allow them to speak to their relatives who’d long since passed. They were expensive, loved and cherished. But, naturally, no one wanted to see exactly how they learned their ways, and thus a school was born far from any city.

Deep in the Roht, an Academy was built. He remembers watching it being built stone by stone, until it became the massive collection of knowledge and magic that they knew today. Or...perhaps not. More memories flashed, of tides turning, people growing sour. Something unexpected came. A force outside of anyone's ability. The Ethereal was breaching the Inethereal.

“Uttral” A voice cried out in the back of his mind. If he had a throat, it would’ve clenched in surprise. His name, Uttral, he’d nearly forgotten. It rattled around in his head, causing all sorts of damage before returning to its rightful place.

“The rumors are true, Uttral. They are here!” The voice shouted again, this time it felt closer, and more familiar. Another word began to form in his mouth.

“Bayel, grab that there.” The memory kept playing, and images began to form. It was startling at first, but he quickly adjusted to the burst of color and light. He saw himself, outside of himself, standing in his study. The massive spire had three vertical windows that displayed the large open field leading to the Rotting Forest. Something was beginning to pour out from the tree line in a violent manner. It had been true. The Purgers.

“Quickly, boy!” He reminded the child, who hurriedly reached down and grabbed a satchel from off the ground. Giving the outside one last look, Uttral grabbed Bayel by the shoulder and pushed him toward the stairs. The young Deadspeaker did as directed, and sprinted ahead. Bayel had been taught as Uttrals apprentice to protect his fellow students, and that was exactly what he intended to do.

By the time Uttral reached the bottom of the spiraling stairs, Bayel was already banging on student's dorm rooms and directing them to get ready. Something all the students had been taught was that there was no such thing as running. If the school was ever to be attacked, students and teachers alike would fight until the last one of them fell.

Just as Bayel reached the end of the first hall, and alerted the last of the students, Uttral caught up to him. Grabbing the boy once again, he spun him around to look him in the eyes. Students began to spill out into the hall, running past them toward the stairs to get ready at the main gates. Bayel looked eager to follow them, his eyes shifting toward his peers. Uttral grabbed him by the cheeks and forced his gaze toward him.

“Listen to me. You need to get down to the archives and go through the tunnels. They lead under the Rapture Mountains and will take you to a village called Whalerot.” Uttral began to explain, but Bayel ripped his arm free and stepped back, shaking his head with a look of disgust.

“I’m not just leaving! Master Gorwell, that's not right!” The boy argued.

“You will listen to me. You are too special to waste your life dying to some beast! You must escape.” The world seemed to shake as something pounded against the walls of their academy. Whatever was out there was going to get in, and rather soon. “If the rumors are indeed true, these things can’t be killed. These are the last moments of this academy, boy, and you need to leave. Make sure no one forgets what happened here today. How the world let us die.” Uttral had a maddened look about him, his black hair falling before his eyes as they were drenched in sweat.

Bayel didn’t say anything, his eyes fluttered with defeat, his lips sealed. Slowly, he nodded in acceptance, and started for the stairs. Uttral followed close behind and watched as the boy veered off toward the catacombs where the tunnels had been built centuries ago. His heart ached as he knew it would be the last time he would see his apprentice. But he also felt a deep sense of relief knowing he would be safe and away from the carnage that was going to ensue.

Stepping into the main hall, he saw as students and teachers readied themselves for the coming assault. A flurry of steel and iron as students were given armor and spears, while the teachers would rely completely on their Solar Energy. The spears were a facade, placebo. It was only there to make the young children feel safer and perhaps give them a chance. But if the rumors had any merit, they were dead before those gates even opened.

And how they opened. Bursting inward they were knocked from their hinges and sent falling onto the first three or four rows of people, crushing them instantly. They stood no chance, blood spewing from all sides of the door as the massive things stomped their way over the gates. They were massive, bulbous creatures that could only vaguely resemble a human body. Like stone giants, with dual horned helmets and soulless eyes. They must have weighed more than three dozen men, and yet moved with the speed and elegance of a fox.

The next few rows were too shocked to do anything, too confused by the scene that they practically allowed themselves to be cut down like wheat. The sickles in this case were massive, crooked swords, each one a unique shape that served as no practical mechanism. Despite their size, they swung their blades as one could wave a feather. Tearing through seven or eight men and women like a tanner would leather.

Eventually, the room began to light up as Splinters were cast between teacher to teacher. This being a pure beam of Solar Energy, that slices through most objects with relative ease. But as the thin beams of Energy smashed against the stone bellies of these creatures, they were sprung straight back. None of them had ever witnessed anything quite like it. The Splinters were sent in all different directions, bouncing off their faces and chest plates like light reflecting off a mirror.

Fruitlessly, they continued their counter-assault, peppering the Purgers with everything they had. Spearhead met the Purgers with no effect, the students immediately being tossed to the air or stomped. Uttrals gut wrenched as he watched helplessly, casting his own Splinters to the same result.

In the peak of the horror, he saw something shimmering from high above them. The elegant chandelier that took up the span of half the room was beginning to shake. His eyes followed the metal chains that held it up until he saw what it was. Dammit it all, it was Bayel.

He screamed out to the boy, telling him to stop and leave, but his voice was lost amongst the screaming of students and yelling of teachers. It didn’t matter though, as Bayel used a Splinter to cut through the chains. The chandelier jerked, falling a few feet but stopping as it got stuck between the walls.

Uttral remembered the way they had to pull it up unevenly to fit it in the domed ceiling. It wasn’t going to fall unless something pushed it down. And he could tell from the frantic look on Bayels face that he had the same revelation as well.

“Bayel, no!” Uttral screamed, throwing a Splinter next to the boy's head. Bayel slapped against the wall, having crawled over the second story balcony to reach the chandelier. The boy had an odd look of contempt as he looked at his master, though his nerves still betrayed him. He smiled nervously before looking back at the chandelier and finally jumping.

Landing in its center, he pushed down with all his might. The fixture broke loose and came crashing down. The Purgers looked up as the hunk of steel rained down upon them. Uttral cried out, pushing through the crowd just as it slammed down.

He watched as it crumbled around them, and it did nothing. They didn’t even flinch as the metal warped around them, and Bayel was sent tumbling before their feet. Cutting away at the chandelier, it acted as nothing more than another door they had to open to reach their targets. And laying before them, a boy.

Uttral pushed through the crowd just in time to watch as one of the Purgers raised its massive flat foot and stomped down on Bayels head. No final words, or goodbyes. No cries of anguish or screams for help.

Just like that, the boy was gone. And Uttral was left with a swarm of stone tumbling toward him. He was dead too, just like everyone before him and behind him.

He had only one thing left he could think to do. Something he had been studying for decades and trying to perfect. As a Deadspeaker, one could raise the dead to only a certain degree. But what if one could hold their soul between death? Forcing their soul to remain on Joryik. He wasn’t sure if it was even possible, but he knew now that there was no repercussion for failing.

As the wave of Purgers descended over him, he hummed his final spell. Reality broke away from him, his soul ejected just as a crooked sword tore through his neck. He screamed out in panic as he floated backward into the air, watching the swarm tear through those around him.

And as his mind began to fizzle and bend, the world melting around him, he saw one last thing. Himself. Not his body, but another fraction of his soul. He stood beside their body with a look of utter indifference, then turned to him.

His expression was flat, completely neutral. Uttral had no time to ponder as the Endless slipped off the bone, and his mind returned to himself in a world of darkness. His senses gone.