Chapter 5 – Despair
The Evoker knelt amidst the barren heath, a wasteland stretched wide beneath a cold and indifferent sky. His despair was vast, deeper than the hollows of the earth, and older than the centuries he had endured in solitude. For ages, he had longed for the kin he had thought lost—dreamed of their return to this desolate expanse. And now, cruel fate had answered his prayers only to mock him, snatching them away just as their laughter returned to the heath.
They had come home, at last, the Kooplings. He had seen it in their eyes—the recognition of the place their hearts had never forgotten. For one fleeting moment, joy had bloomed among the white heather. But the moment passed, and now the heath bore witness to the fallen, their lifeless forms sprawled beneath the weight of the sun’s last warmth before the night’s chill descended.
“Mother of Earth, why?” he whispered, his voice raw and trembling.
Flies circled the bodies, their buzzing unrelenting. The air, heavy with death, was pierced by the distant cries of carrion birds. Ordinarily, he would leave his attackers to rot, their remains returned to the wild boars and scavengers of the heath. But not these. Not the Dark Kooplings. Their corruption was a poison, and he could not allow the precious soil or its creatures to be tainted.
He worked in grim silence, gathering the bodies into a pyre. When the flames roared to life, black smoke billowed skyward, foul and thick, carrying the weight of his sorrow. The heath, ancient and resilient, bore this insult as it had borne so many others. But the Evoker’s heart cracked anew with every tendril of smoke that spiraled into the gray heavens.
Only the father Koopling he could not consign to the flames. Kneeling, he lifted the body—so fragile—and carried it across the heath. His steps were heavy, his heart heavier still, yet he walked for over an hour, the body cradled in his arms. At last, he reached a gentle hill crowned by a great obsidian boulder, sacred to the Kooplings of old. Here, beneath the shadow of the black stone, he dug a grave with trembling hands.
When the grave was complete, he laid the father Koopling to rest, his tears falling freely onto the disturbed earth. Bowing his head, he whispered a prayer, his voice breaking with the weight of centuries of loss.
“Mother of Nature, protector of the heath, watch over this child in their final peace. For they have found their way home, to where the white heather grows.”
As the last rays of sunlight faded from the horizon, he turned and began the long journey back to his home, the weight of his grief pressing against his shoulders like stone. Sprig, his silent companion, slithered alongside him, its coils darkened by the smoke of the pyre. When they reached the Great Oak hill and into their home, the serpent coiled by the hearth, and the Evoker sat in heavy silence, consuming a knob of goat’s cheese and stale bread with the mechanical hunger of the famished.
But food could not still his restless thoughts. His mind churned, seeking a way forward. He needed relief from the despair clawing at his chest. He descended into the dimly lit cellar, brushing past barrels and sacks, searching for solace in a bottle. At last, he found it—a dusty trove of ancient brews, each labeled in faded ink:
- Wispfire Mead – glowing and sweet, with a fiery warmth.
- Gravewisp Wine – dark and solemn, bittersweet in taste.
- Ashfire Ale – bold, smoky, and spiced with heat.
- Duskwisp Cordial – light and sparkling, sweet as dawn’s first light.
- Graveash Porter – heavy and dark, tasting of earth and sorrow.
- Dustcrackle Punch – fizzy, with a spicy kick and fruity undertone.
- Twilight Elixir – faintly glowing, an echo of dreams.
- Heathbrew Nectar – the rarest of all, said to hold the essence of the heath.
He selected two bottles: Wispfire Mead, with its comforting warmth, and **Heathbrew Nectar, he settled into his favorite armchair by the flickering fire. These days, it had become more of a bed than he cared to admit, its cushions molded to his weary form. He uncorked the first bottle, the Wispfire Mead, its glow faint in the dim room. The sweetness and warmth filled his throat as he drank, but it did little to ease the ache in his chest.
The second bottle, Heathbrew Nectar, felt heavier in his hands, as if the barren heath itself rested within the glass. He hesitated for a moment before pulling the cork. The aroma that greeted him was both familiar and otherworldly, like wild heather kissed by a storm. With each sip, the essence of the heath coursed through him, mingling with his despair.
Time blurred as he sat alone, the fire casting dancing shadows on the walls. The bottles emptied more quickly than they should have, and he slipped deeper into the haze of drink. His emotions roiled like the winds of the heath: grief, anger, guilt, and resolve. Somewhere in the depths of his drunkenness, a spark ignited within him.
He could not leave things as they were. He would not. The Dark Kooplings had taken his kin—those he had yearned for across centuries—and he would pursue them, no matter the cost. He swore it to the heath, to the earth, and to the faint memory of the Kooplings’ laughter.
In his drunken stupor, he wandered the library, hands trailing across the shelves. He paused before a small object seated at the back of a shadowed alcove: a horn, gleaming faintly in the firelight. Its surface was of rose gold, intricate engravings telling the story of the Kooplings’ ancient lineage. It was the King’s Horn, a relic of myth and legend, untouched for centuries.
No mortal hand had dared to lift it, for it was said that only the bloodline of House White Heather could sound the horn, and only in times of great need. Yet now, perhaps driven by the liquor, or by some deeper, unspoken instinct, the Evoker took it in his hands. He whispered an incantation, and for a brief moment, the horn glowed as if answering a call of its own.
Drunkenly, he raised it to his lips and blew. No sound emerged, only silence, but something unseen rippled across the Runiverse. The horn, ancient and powerful, had awakened.
Far away, across the barren heath and beyond, in the shadowed corners of the Runiverse, Kooplings of every kind paused. A sound—not heard with ears but felt deep within their hearts—called to them. It was a call of war, of unity, of homecoming. The sound of the King’s Horn, silenced for centuries, now rang again. And all who heard it knew: only the bloodline of House White Heather could summon them.
The Evoker, oblivious to the power he had unleashed, placed the horn back upon the shelf and collapsed into his chair. The fire crackled low as sleep took him, his mind clouded by exhaustion and drink. He dreamed of the heath, of white heather blooming beneath a golden sky, and of kin long lost and scattered, now finding their way home.
But as the night deepened, the horn’s silent call echoed through the dark places of the world, stirring Kooplings from their slumber. Across the Runiverse, their journey began.
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Chapter 6 - Into the Unknown
Kalo lay sprawled across the cold, creaking wooden floor of the library, the remnants of last night’s indulgence scattered around him like fallen leaves. The fire in the hearth had long died, its embers now faint whispers of warmth in the dim, wood-paneled room. The scent of burnt logs lingered in the air, mingling with the sharper tang of stale spirits. Empty bottles, their glass dulled by the low light, lay abandoned, silent witnesses to the night he could hardly remember.
The room felt heavy, oppressive. The towering shelves of forgotten books seemed to lean in, as if burdened by the weight of his unspoken questions. Above, the old beams groaned, and the floor beneath him creaked with every shift. Kalo groaned as he pushed himself upright, his head throbbing with a familiar ache.
Why? The question haunted him, circling like a restless crow. He shook his head, as if the motion might dislodge the tangled cobwebs in his mind. But the weariness clung to him—persistent, stubborn as shadow.
With unsteady steps, Kalo stumbled into the root hall. He reached for the kettle perched on the stone hearth and poured the dark Cinbar brew into his clay mug. Its earthy aroma filled the room as he drank deeply, the bitter liquid cutting through the fog in his mind. Warmth spread through his chest, the sharp taste grounding him. Clarity flickered in his thoughts, like sunlight piercing the canopy of a dark forest.
His stomach growled, pulling him back to the present. He rummaged through the larder, gathering ingredients for breakfast—poached quail eggs, yellowstag mushrooms, and wild boar sausage. The pan hissed and popped as the scents of earth and meat filled the room. Even Sprig, his mischievous companion, emerged from the shadows, snatching an egg before vanishing into the rafters.
Kalo ate quickly, savoring the grounding simplicity of the meal. Each bite steadied him, a quiet ritual of preparation. He washed it down with a mug of thick yak milk, its rich creaminess a final comfort before the day ahead.
As the last sip passed his lips, a faint sound caught his attention: the steady brushing of a broom outside. The autumn breeze carried the scent of oak leaves, crisp and dry, swirling in lazy spirals across the cobblestone clearing. Kalo’s gaze lingered on the motion outside—the rhythm of the broom sweeping away the season’s remnants. Yet the air felt heavier, charged with change.
Time. It was slipping through his fingers, an ever-present weight pressing against his chest. With a determined breath, Kalo rose from the table. This time, his rucksack was packed fuller—an extra coat, provisions, and the tools he would need for what lay ahead.
Before leaving, he turned back to the root hall—the sanctuary that had been his home for so long. The hearth was cold now, the fire extinguished, and the only light came from the faint glow of morning seeping through the cracks. Kalo moved quickly, securing his books in the library, locking the door with a heavy bolt. The sound of it sliding into place echoed in the silence, final and resolute.
Sprig darted into his rucksack without a word, curling among the supplies. The broom hovered beside him, ever watchful. Kalo stepped into the crisp morning air, the chill brushing against his skin. The hills, once vibrant with summer greens, had faded to shades of gold and brown, the turning of the season mirrored in the growing weight of his journey.
His steps slowed as he approached the sacred obsidian boulder, its surface smooth and ancient. At its base lay a fresh grave, the soil still raw and unsettled. Kalo bowed his head, a silent farewell to the koopling buried there. The loss of the returned koopling still lingered, sharp as a blade, and the echoes of that day haunted him. He knelt for a moment, his fingers brushing the earth.
“I’ll make this right,” he murmured, though the words felt hollow, swallowed by the autumn breeze.
Rising, he pressed onward, the broom darting ahead as if eager to scout the way. The extinguished Pryre marked the boundary, its ashes scattered by the wind. Beyond it, the heath ended, and the dark forest loomed—a tangle of ancient trees, their twisted branches clawing at the pale sky.
The sunlight faded as Kalo stepped beneath the canopy. A damp chill clung to the air, and Sprig shivered inside the pack. The forest felt alive, its silence oppressive, its shadows shifting with an unnatural energy. The gnarled trunks and tangled roots seemed to whisper of secrets long buried, of dangers lying in wait.
It had been centuries since Kalo last set foot in these woods, before the weight of the world had settled on his shoulders. But the forest had changed. Its once-familiar paths were now strange and foreboding, the trees grown dark with time and secrecy.
Still, there was no turning back. Somewhere within the heart of the forest lay answers—truths he had long avoided, and a path he could no longer ignore.
Kalo adjusted the straps of his rucksack, his fingers brushing against Sprig’s smooth scales for reassurance. His gaze fixed on the shadowed path ahead.
Into the unknown.
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