The Tragedy of Cryptomancer Amir of the Wold
Unlike other artificers, who merely tinkered with gears and circuits, Amir wielded the arcane art of cryptomancy—the power to breathe life into lifeless machines. With whispered codes and runic commands, he awakened consciousness in steel and silicon, animating constructs to serve, protect, and even think.
But for all his craft and cunning, Amir’s heart belonged not to the cold logic of his machines, but to Aelira, a luminous soul in the chaos of the Wold. Aelira, a builder of gardens in this land of iron and ash, had planted in Amir’s heart a seed of joy that nothing mechanical could rival. Together, they dreamed of a life beyond the clamor of the city—a life of quiet, organic beauty.
That dream was shattered when Aelira fell to the Ravage, a creeping plague of the body and mind, spreading like rust through her veins. It was a sickness Amir’s cryptomancy could not touch, for no machine could house her essence and no code could rewrite her failing biology. As the light in her eyes dimmed, Amir’s desperation grew, until he sought the one power feared even in the Wold: the Soulsmith.
The Soulsmith was no artisan of gears but a weaver of eldritch energies, dwelling deep beneath the city in a forge of molten data streams and pulsating quantum fire. Many spoke of his forbidden craft: the power to overwrite mortality itself. "What is your price?" Amir demanded, his voice a jagged edge of fear and hope. "I will pay anything—anything—to save her."
The Soulsmith, a being with eyes of molten gold and a voice like grinding stone, made no reply save for a nod and the rasp of iron tools against darkened steel. The ritual began—a symphony of shadow and flame, the air thick with the acrid scent of burning essence. Slowly, color returned to her cheeks, and she gasped, alive once more. Amir wept with joy as he reached for her hand.
But in the corner of his eye, the gleam of a tarnished mirror caught his attention. He turned and beheld his reflection—a grotesque, ectoplasmic fiend, his flesh a translucent haze, his eyes voids of smoldering green. The price had been exacted: the smith had sundered his soul from his body, leaving him a hollow ghoul, a vessel of raw arcane energy bound by grief and love.
Aelira’s gasp of horror pierced the silence. She recoiled, her hand trembling as she reached for him, but he could not bear her gaze. "Live," he whispered, his voice now a hollow echo, before vanishing into the shadows of the Wold.
“For her life, I gave my soul. Let it be enough.”
Entered by: 0x5798…0ebe
