The golden vision dissolved like smoke from a snuffed candle. Taran blinked the Ash from his eyes, his fingers grasping, digging into the ground. . The word clung to his bones, exciting but terrifying. In Akshaya, his small forgotten village at the edge of the world, Seekers were campfire tales— dead fools who traded their flesh for Mara’s cursed gifts. Tales told to give the people some semblance of hope. Returning his attention to the vision surrounding him, there was now a scroll showing his path choice and a wealth of more information.
- Taran Sandhin - Seeker
- Dharma Path: [Lightweaver]
- Dharma Seeds: 0/100
- Lotus: Clay Petal [F]
- Race: Human [F]
- Karmic Echoes
- [Asura’s Blood Debt]
- Karmic Epithets
- [Mara’s Touch]:
- Samsaric Crafts: None
- Karmic Threads: 0
- Sutras
- [F]
- Naraka Corruption: 0%
- Dharma Seeds: 0/100
He had no idea what Karmic Threads were, but he assumed Sutras referred to his new abilities, suggesting maybe there were more out there as well. Naraka Corruption… Naraka, the hell realm. The word soured his tongue. Endless torment, demons, and hellfire. He knew it was real, had lived through the consequences of his parents Naraka Bargain. Had scrubbed his father’s hell-charred bones from the floorboards of their home. The reason for him and his sister being seen as outcasts. It didn’t sound particularly… good, especially with whatever this [Mara’s Touch] epithet was seemingly increasing his gain, but maybe it would be worth that ten percent boost in his corporeal stats. The [Asura Blood Debt] Karmic Echo made him uncomfortable, what was a Blood Debt anyway? But there wasn’t a lot of information provided and he didn’t see a way to get any more detail.
Opening his eyes he found himself back in the Ash Plains, fully healed but marked with faint golden veins running down his arms and across his body, ending in the Karmic Seals carved in his chest. His chest burned where the Karmic Seals pulsed, the golden veins spiderwebbing across his skin like gilded cracks. Looking around, Taran noted with relief that the storm had passed, the remnants of petrified hands studded the ash all around him. Shuddering, he turned away and began walking back towards his village, Akshaya.
A searing pain scorched through his entire body, the faint golden threads in his skin flared with a purple-black fire, dropping him to his knees in agony.
“Three souls, Taran! Begin with those who left you to die.”
Mara’s voice was less sound than pure sensation that echoed in his head. As the pain faded, leaving him splayed out on the ground gasping for air, Taran slowly got to his feet and brushed the ash from his tunic. Recovering from the pain, Taran looked up, exasperated, to find the Ash Plains transformed. Faint impressions glowed where boots had crushed the gray waste.
The stat sheet floated through his memory. Higher than normal humans. Normal humans don’t see the world etched in light. Normal humans died when taken by the Thousand-Hand Storm. So what was he now?
Taran decided it was time to truly test out this new Seeker status. He felt some inherent knowledge of his new skill [Dawnstrand] had been imparted to him during his transformation, like it had always been a part of him. The [Dawnstrand] Stura ignited before he could even fully raise his hand. They lashed against a nearby tree stump and he watched in growing amazement as they sliced through the rotting wood as easily as Anya’s bone needle through cloth.
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He shook his hand violently. The light-strand clung, stubborn as cobwebs. Ash hissed when they lashed against the ground. The realization sent icy tendrils snaking through his blood. Calming himself, Taran pressed his other hand to the sigils in his chest. he said to the glowing footprints.
The Dawnstrands snapped back into his palm, leaving smoking divots in the Ash.
—
He tracked the villagers using his newly heightened perception, following the wispy scattering of light near the fast-fading footprints. Hours passed before he found himself overlooking a small ravine. Hearing low voices arguing, he crouched down low and crept slowly towards the ledge. They looked so small now, not just the distance, but he knew without a doubt that he could crush these men. He hesitated, the Dawnstrands quivering with anticipation— [Blood Debt Unpaid] struck across his vision. Someone’s laughter, no… violently flooded his ears. Not a joyous laughter, he hadn’t heard that in years. This was the child-like laughter he remembered from so long ago, the mocking laughter of quarreling siblings, the mocking laughter she gave him when he’d balked at gutting his first rabbit.
An icy-hot resolve took over as his blood began to boil. These were the men who had just left him for dead. The men who had stolen his hard-earned Rot Leaves. The Rot Leaves that would keep his sister alive. Logical thought left him as if blown away by the ashen winds.
The [Dawnstrand] Sutra once again ignited in his palm. The searing threads lashed towards the men as if hungry to relieve them of their worthless lives. The Dawnstrands sang as they cut through the air. The closest man was caught mid-sentence, the threads slicing through him with all the resistance of a hot knife through butter. In his angry haze, Taran was only vaguely aware of the acidic burning smell and the slopping sounds as the pieces of the man fell to the ground. Thick blood painted his new golden veins a dark red.
The other two men froze where they stood, mouths agape at what they had just witnessed. Taran took advantage of their inaction, ripping the threads through the midsection of another of the men.
“WAIT! Wait. Please! Please wait!” The last man screamed as he held up his hands in a futile attempt to fend off this demon before him. Taran hesitated long enough for the man to start stammering again.
Groveling in front of Taran, tears streaming down his ash-covered face, the man managed to get out a few words, “I’m.. I’m sorry.. s-so sorry! We stole those leaves, I know, you can can have them back I promise! But… w-we stole them for a child from our village, she’s sick. She’s dying, please, I’m sorry. Just let me go back to her.”
The blood-haze covering his vision like a film began to fade. Taran faltered. He knew this man, not who he was, but how he felt and what he was going through. He knew the desperation in watching a loved one suffer through The Rot.
The Dawnstrands fell sizzling into the Ash, wriggling in place, hungry to continue, but Taran pulled them back, retreating into his palm once more.
“Leave. Leave and never come back this way,” Taran grunted through gritted teeth.
Without a word, the man scrambled to his feet and ran, faster than he had ever run before, unsure where he was going, uncaring as along as it was away from this demon.
Looking around the makeshift camp, Taran found what was left of his Rot Leaves. Not enough to get by, he’d have to come back he realized, frowning to himself. Taran was ripped from his thoughts and brought to his knees by the paralyzing voice of Mara.
Mara spoke with a clear mockery of Taran’s mercy, as if a cold finger traced along his spine, “One soul’s suffering was denied me. Your sister pays the debt.”
Taran bolted from the camp, legs carrying him far faster than he had ever run before, his newfound strength propelling him through the ashen wastes, fueled by his panic and fear.