Chapter Seven - Better Off Not Arriving
The party of four moved carefully through the golden fields, their steps muffled by the whispering waves of tall, wind-swept grass. They avoided the narrow dirt road that ran up the spine of the Coccyx, wary of crossing paths with unfriendly travelers—or worse. The fields had grown wild, the grass shooting high in readiness for the harvest, prepared to feed the longhorns and sheep through the coming winter. Yet, most of the livestock were now housed in barns close to Calimorë, shielded from the ever-present danger that plagued the land. Livelihoods had withered, and what little remained was guarded fiercely.
They passed a shepherd tending his nervous flock, his eyes hollow with sleepless nights, and a herder overseeing his massive longhorns, the beasts’ cumbersome horns drooping under their weight. The shaggy creatures trudged through the grass, fattening for a winter that promised to be long and cruel. The risk of grazing them here was worth the potential bounty, a desperate gamble in desperate times.
As they ventured farther from the village, the desolation became palpable. The last farmhouse stood a ruin, the barn doors hanging splintered from twisted hinges. Around them, the decomposed carcasses of livestock lay forgotten, their bones picked clean by scavengers. The house itself was a skeletal monument to abandonment, its roof caved in and walls cracked as if mourning the loss of what had once been.
Half a day passed before the dirt road splintered, diverging into two paths that meandered into the unknown. To the left, it wound inland toward the rolling hills, where alchemists clung to their hidden towers like wraiths among the undulating land. To the right, the path snaked toward the windswept cliffs, where the grasslands yielded to jagged edges and the ocean roared endlessly below. Neither way offered comfort, only the cold embrace of uncertainty.
Gruff had spoken of Azahl’s tower, a structure clinging to the cliffs above the sea, where smugglers once used the caverns to stash their stolen wares. It was still half a day's journey to the magician’s lair, but as twilight threatened to steal the light, they chose to make camp. Three mighty oaks stood a short distance from the road, ancient and gnarled, their trunks forming a natural U-shaped barrier. The trees loomed over them, their canopies thick with dark green leaves, a living fortress that guarded them from the night’s chill.
Beneath these oaks, they built a small, concealed fire in a pit, its glow muted to avoid unwanted attention. They shared a flagon of wine, passing around salted meat, aged cheese, and crusty bread—a welcome gift from the furred gnome who ran the friendly tavern back in Calimorë. The camaraderie was fleeting, a brief respite from the darkness pressing in on all sides.
Guard duty was split into shifts, each warrior taking their turn to keep watch over the slumbering camp. Woolah went first, his eyes scanning the shadows, muscles coiled with tension. Nuke spent his time oiling his joints, the sea salt clinging to his metallic frame and grinding against his gears. The ocean breeze carried with it the dust of distant lands, and he tended to his reflexes with methodical precision, unwilling to allow any weakness.
It was Tengukensei who, in the last hours before dawn, saw a strange light far out to sea. At first, it was a mere glimmer, a star fallen to the waves. But slowly, steadily, it drifted closer, resolving into the shape of a ship. The vessel anchored off the cliffs, near where Azahl’s tower loomed like a specter, its masts slicing through the early light of morning.
As the first rays of sunlight fractured over the ocean, the Kaiju Clan had already broken camp. They erased every trace of their presence, rested and fed, with purpose steeling their resolve. The magician’s tower awaited them, a bastion of mystery and malevolence, and beyond it, the ship that had come to shore. Whatever dark secrets lay ahead, they pressed on, ready to confront the beasts and shadows that lurked within.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
Chapter Eight - Precious Cargo
The dusty road narrowed, brambles and unruly shrubs closing in from both sides to form a ragged corridor. The Kaiju Clan trudged forward, the thorny growth scraping at their clothes, the path winding closer to the cliff’s jagged edge. The wind had softened, only an occasional gust nudging them forward like a playful ghost. Ahead, the ship loomed larger, its swollen belly of a hull a testament to the weight of its purpose. Azahl’s tower, meanwhile, rose like a spiraling monument of doom, a grey pillar stabbing into the heavens. The vessel and the tower stood aligned, accomplices in some dreadful scheme that had yet to fully reveal itself.
From their hidden perch atop a craggy outcropping of rock that jutted like a spear from the cliffside, the Clan could spy on the happenings below. The rock formation afforded them cover while also providing a vantage point. They watched as the sea birds wheeled on the air currents, screeching and diving with expert precision to pluck fish from the restless waters below. The tower itself, a grim monolith, seemed to funnel the wind upwards, accelerating the birds’ flight like arrows loosed from a bow.
Out on the ship, crew members paced the deck, their movements tense and methodical. A rowboat now set off from the vessel, carrying rough-looking sailors toward a gaping black maw at the base of the cliffs—a cavernous entrance that swallowed the waves and vanished beneath Azahl’s tower.
“I’ll scout ahead,” Woolah volunteered, his voice a quiet rumble. He packed a few light supplies, secured a rope to the rocky outcrop, and, with a nod, descended the cliffside, vanishing into the void below. The others stayed behind, trading watch duties while the rest sharpened their blades or tried to steal brief moments of rest. The wind picked up as night fell, the chill gnawing at them through their cloaks. The hours passed in uneasy stillness, until the first pale light of dawn painted the horizon, and the sound of loose stones skittering into the sea below drew their attention.
“Cursed rocks,” came a whisper, followed by the scrape of claws on stone. Woolah’s scaly green hand appeared over the edge, gripping the rope. He hauled himself up, looking as refreshed as if he’d been for a stroll rather than sneaking into a den of horrors. His eyes, though, were wide with the knowledge he had gathered.
They gathered around, shivering as the morning air bit at their skin. Woolah took a hearty swig from a flagon of wine, the liquid warming his blood, before recounting what he had seen.
He had followed the cliffside path to the massive sea cave beneath Azahl’s tower. The cavern, a grand natural dock carved by the ocean’s hand, bustled with activity. Rough sailors unloaded massive wooden crates, each banded with iron, stacking them in neat rows upon the cavern’s smooth stone floor. The place was a cold, unnatural expanse, and the chill seemed to seep into Woolah’s bones, his breath fogging before him as if he’d stepped into a winter graveyard.
He had waited until the sailors were preoccupied, then crept closer, his heart pounding. Using his blood sword, he pried open one of the crates. The sight inside nearly sent him tumbling backward. Piled within, frozen and grotesque, were bodies—humans, goblins, trolls—all neatly arranged and entombed in bricks of ice. Shaking, he opened another crate. Severed limbs, decapitated heads, and even hearts, each preserved as if awaiting some dark purpose.
Then he heard voices—rough laughter and cruel banter. A Blue Wizard had arrived, his robe the color of an unforgiving sky, his presence an aura of disdain. Woolah overheard the wizard speaking to a sailor. “Azahl is most pleased,” the wizard sneered. “He’ll pay double gold for this shipment. The war against the Goblin Mob and their allies at Kelpie Bay has proven most profitable. I always thought they deserved the copper mines, but now I see they’re worth more dead than alive.” His laughter rang out, sharp and hateful, echoing through the cavern like the knell of a mourning bell.
But it was the final horror that sealed the nightmare. As Woolah made his escape, he saw them—malnourished, terrified prisoners, a chain gang of humans being driven toward the stairs that spiraled up into Azahl’s tower. Their eyes were wide with hunger and fear, their steps heavy with dread.
Back at the camp, shock had carved itself into the faces of the Kaiju Clan. Woolah’s words were a blade twisting in their minds, and the shadow of Azahl’s tower seemed darker, more suffocating. The path they trod only grew bleaker, and with each step, the world around them seemed to wither, heavy with the weight of horrors yet to be uncovered.
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