You choose the direct approach. There is little point in stealth when your very existence feels like an intrusion in this hollow world. The rusted sword in your hand has begun to feel less awkward in your grip. Though still unbalanced and pitted with age, there's a nascent familiarity to its weight—a whisper from muscle memory suggesting you once knew what it meant to hold such a weapon
Stepping from the shelter of the lightning-struck tree, you begin walking down the gentle slope toward the central square of Faram's Respite. The descent feels unnervingly exposed. Each footfall crunches against dried grass that seems to shiver away from your touch. The air grows thick with tension—a stillness that precedes violence rather than peace.
The first hollow husk notices you before you're halfway down the hill. It freezes mid-motion—arms outstretched in the act of hanging invisible laundry on a line that isn't there. Its head swivels with a sickening crack of dried tendons, empty sockets fixing on your approach. A sound escapes it—not quite a moan, not quite a call—something between warning and recognition.
The noise ripples across Faram's Respite. One by one, the hollow husks cease their meaningless routines. Weapons that had hung loosely from lifeless fingers now tighten in their grip. A hooded figure near the edge of the square raises a corroded axe, its edge catching the midday light with dull menace. Another tests the point of a spear against its own palm, puncturing the desiccated flesh without reaction, black ichor seeping from the wound.
Yet they do not advance. Their collective attention feels like a physical weight, dozens of empty gazes pressing against your hollow chest. The air vibrates with unspent violence, like the moment between lightning and thunder.
As you enter the square proper, the cobblestones beneath your feet tell stories of former grandeur. Once-intricate patterns of red and gray stone form whorls that might have depicted legends or histories, now worn nearly smooth by time and the endless shuffling of hollow feet. Fragments of colored glass crunch beneath your steps—remnants of lanterns or windows that once adorned the buildings surrounding the square.
These structures loom like silent witnesses to your intrusion. To your left, what might have been a meetinghouse stands with its roof partially collapsed, exposing interior beams that reach toward the sky like supplicating fingers. Opposite it, a row of smaller dwellings leans against one another for support, their doors hanging from leather hinges stiffened by age. Their windows—those that retain any glass at all—reflect the dull light in murky, distorted patterns.
The hollow husks part before you, stepping back with mechanical precision to create an emptiness around your path. You notice details about them now that were invisible from a distance. Some retain scraps of individuality—a necklace of shells around a neck too withered to support it properly; a ring embedded in a finger that has shrunk away, leaving the metal band loose but unable to slip past the knuckle; a patch of colored cloth sewn onto a sleeve with stitches so precise they could only have been made by living hands motivated by pride in their work.
The weapons they clutch speak equally of the village's former life. These are not implements of war but tools adapted to violence—fishing spears and carpentry axes, kitchen knives bound to poles, and in one case, what appears to be a ceremonial staff topped with shells and stones that could crack a skull with equal efficiency as it once tapped rhythm for forgotten rituals.
A hollow husk that might once have been a child steps partially into your path, head cocked at an impossible angle, a small fishing knife clutched in its tiny hand. For a breathless moment, it seems it might attack—then another husk, taller and broader, gently pulls it back into the widening circle. A parent's instinct preserved beyond death and emptiness.
The smell of the village envelops you now—salt and decay predominate, but beneath them lies traces of what once was: smoke from hearths long cold, herbs that once hung to dry under eaves, the ghost of meals prepared and shared in community. Petrichor rises from the cobblestones, suggesting recent rain, though the sky above holds no clouds, only an unrelenting blue that seems to press down upon the village like the lid of a tomb.
The massive, mutated creature notices your presence as you cross the midpoint of the square. You see it fully now—a grotesque parody of what might once have been a bear. Its fur grows in patches of deep brown and sickly gray, exposing skin beneath that pulses with something that isn't quite blood. When it rears onto its hind legs, it towers to nearly twice your height, blocking the sun and casting you in momentary shadow.
The misshapen head swivels to focus on you, the bulbous growth on one side containing multiple eyes that blink in disquieting patterns, never all at once, never in any recognizable sequence. They range in size and color—some human-like, others elongated or round like those of different creatures, as though the beast had absorbed parts of everything it had ever killed.
A growl builds deep in its chest, rising in pitch until it becomes almost tangible in the air between you. The sound reverberates through the cobblestones beneath your feet, sending minute vibrations up through your hollow legs. One massive forepaw—the grotesquely enlarged one with claws like curved daggers—swipes at the air, creating a whistle as it cuts through the space between you. The claws leave faint traces in the air, momentary distortions like heat rising from sun-baked stone.
The smell of the creature reaches you—musk and rot and something metallic, like blood left too long in the sun. Its breath, visible in the air despite the day's warmth, carries the scent of meat long past turning. Yet beneath these repulsions lies something almost sweet, a fragrance like honey or overripe fruit that makes your hollow form react with instinctive wariness.
Yet for all its threatening display, the creature makes no move to approach. Like the hollow husks, it seems content to merely observe, though with far greater awareness and evident displeasure. The growl continues, a constant rumbling backdrop to your journey across the square. Its multiple eyes track your every movement, pupils dilating and contracting in asymmetrical patterns.
The dry fountain at the center of the square reveals itself as a work of considerable craftsmanship now fallen to ruin. Once-white marble has yellowed and cracked, but still shows traces of intricate carvings—sea creatures both familiar and fantastical twining around its base, water-bearers with pitchers positioned around its rim, their faces worn almost featureless by time and elements. At its center stands a column that might have once supported a higher basin, now broken halfway up, its jagged edge pointing accusingly at the sky.
The woman sits exactly as you observed from afar—perched on the edge of the fountain, wrapped in layered garments of faded blues and grays. Her hooded face remains turned toward the ground as you approach, only lifting when you stand before her, close enough to see the shadow beneath the hood. The air around her seems different—clearer somehow, as though the decay afflicting everything else in this broken world keeps a respectful distance.
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What happens next defies explanation.
The face that emerges as she raises her head is not the weathered visage of the crone you glimpsed on the beach. Instead, you find yourself looking at a woman of extraordinary beauty, youthful features framed by hair the color of polished copper that cascades past her shoulders in waves that catch the midday light with metallic brilliance. Her eyes shift color as you watch—from amber to violet to a blue deeper than any sky this broken world has seen in an age, the transitions fluid like ink diffusing through water. Her skin is flawless, with a luminescence that suggests she's lit from within. Her lips, full and curved in a smile that suggests both amusement and appraisal, are the deep red of the last autumn leaf before winter claims the world.
"Bold," she says, her voice a soft whisper that somehow carries clearly despite its quietness, as though the words form directly in your mind rather than crossing the air between you. "Most would skirt the edges, hiding from what they don't understand." She gestures at the circle of hollow husks still frozen in their observation of you, weapons held in abeyance. "They recognize something familiar in you, yet foreign. It confuses them." Her gaze travels over your form, lingering on your chest where the tainted soul fragment resides. "I confess, it confuses me as well."
She rises from her seat at the fountain's edge, her movements fluid and graceful, reminiscent of water flowing over stones. Her height becomes apparent as she stands—taller than you by at least a head, adding to her imposing presence. The layered garments that had appeared as tattered rags now seem to shimmer with subtle patterns that evade direct observation—present when glimpsed from the corner of your eye, vanishing when looked at directly. The fabric itself seems to shift between states—sometimes appearing as woven cloth, sometimes as layers of mist given temporary form.
"Impressive restraint," she says, directing this comment not to you but to the massive creature that continues its warning growl. At her words, the sound diminishes slightly, though the beast remains alert, multiple eyes blinking in unsettling asynchrony. She extends one hand toward the creature, fingers splayed, and though she stands nowhere near it, the beast responds as though to a touch, the bulbous growth containing its many eyes turning slightly into an invisible caress.
She circles you slowly, examining your hollow form from all angles. Her footsteps make no sound on the cobblestones, though the hem of her garment whispers against the ground, disturbing small fragments of stone and glass that skitter away like frightened insects. The air around her carries a scent impossible to place—something like petals crushed in the palm, or the moment before rain falls on parched earth, or the memory of smoke from a fire that provided comfort on a cold night.
"How curious you are," she muses. "A Soulless, by all appearances. Yet..." She stops before you, raising one delicate hand to hover inches from your chest. Heat emanates from her palm, warmth that penetrates the cold emptiness of your hollow form. "There is a fragment within you. Small. Tainted. But undeniably there." Her eyes narrow slightly, the color shifting again to something like burnished gold streaked with threads of silver. "That should not be possible. A Soulless is, by definition, without a soul. That is their nature, their purpose. An empty vessel waiting to be filled."
The woman lowers her hand, head tilting slightly as she continues to study you. A strand of copper hair falls across her face, and she tucks it behind an ear with a gesture so human it seems out of place in this hollow world. "Yet you have begun filling yourself. However accidentally, however marginally, you have changed what you are." A smile touches her lips again, revealing teeth that seem too perfect, too white. "Or perhaps revealed what you truly are?"
Around you, the hollow husks have begun to move again, resuming their pointless routines, though many still pause occasionally to stare in your direction. Their weapons have lowered but remain in hand, a latent threat held in abeyance. The massive creature has settled back onto all fours, the growl faded to a low, continuous hum that vibrates through the cobblestones. It watches you with evident wariness but no immediate aggression, massive head swaying slightly as if keeping time to music only it can hear.
"You don't speak," the woman observes, her whispered voice carrying the cadence of leaves rustling in a gentle breeze. "Cannot, or will not? No matter. Words are rarely as honest as actions anyway." She gestures toward the dry fountain, the movement leaving a momentary trail of light in the air like the afterimage of a flame. "Sit with me. Rest, if rest is something you require."
You remain standing, uncertain. The rusted sword hangs at your side, suddenly seeming a pitiful thing compared to the unknown power this being clearly possesses. This transformation from crone to youthful beauty, this recognition of the soul fragment within you—none of it aligns with the limited understanding you've gained since awakening on the beach. Is this the same being who pointed you toward the Mourning Gate? If so, why the deception? If not, what connection exists between them?
The village around you has taken on an unnatural stillness, as though Faram's Respite itself holds its breath to witness this encounter. Dust motes hang suspended in the slanting afternoon light. The shadows of buildings stretch across the square, their edges unnaturally sharp and dark against the weathered cobblestones. A distant wind chime formed of shells and hollow bones sounds a discordant note from somewhere beyond your sight, its music carried on air that doesn't seem to move.
The woman watches your hesitation with evident interest, a finger tracing patterns on the cracked marble of the fountain's edge. Where she touches, the stone momentarily regains its original luster before fading back to decay when her finger moves on. "Caution. Another trait uncommon in the truly Soulless." She settles back onto the fountain's edge, arranging her shimmering garments around her with the precision of someone setting a stage for an important performance.
"Peculiar. I wonder..." she ponders, her gaze fixed on your chest where the tiny soul fragment resides. Her eyes narrow, and for a moment, it seems she can see directly through your hollow form to the tainted gray wisp that constitutes your only possession of significance. "Could you be a Soulseeker?" The term hangs in the air, undefined yet somehow significant, vibrating with potential meaning like a struck bell whose sound lingers long after the impact.
She seems to reach some private conclusion, nodding slightly to herself. A smile forms on her perfect lips, not reaching her color-shifting eyes that have now settled into a deep violet ringed with gold. "I have a task for you. Do this, and I may be able to tell you more, oh Soulless." Her eyes meet yours, the violet deepening to something approaching black, yet still luminous, like the night sky holding distant stars. "But first, tell me. What are you afraid of?"
You remain silent—unable or unwilling to form words, even if you knew the answer to such a profound question. How could you articulate fear when you have no context for safety? How could you name what you dread when you have no foundation for desire?
The woman smiles, the expression both gentle and knowing, like a parent watching a child struggle with a puzzle whose solution is inevitable but must be reached independently. "Don't worry, I don't need to hear the words to know the answer." Her voice drops even lower, becoming almost inaudible, yet somehow clearer than before. "The emptiness speaks loudly enough."
The question lingers in the air between you, laden with significance beyond its simple words. Around you, Faram's Respite continues its hollow existence—mindless husks performing meaningless tasks, weapons hanging from lifeless grips yet ready to rise at some unseen signal. The mutated guardian watches with its multiple mismatched eyes, its hum a constant reminder of malformation and pain given physical form. And before you sits this enigmatic woman with a task she has yet to reveal, her beauty as unsettling as it is perfect, her knowledge of your nature more complete than your own.
What indeed are you afraid of, in a world where you have no memory, no identity, and only the barest fragment of a soul to call your own?
Who you are: What are you afraid of?
