The atmosphere carries a cold tension, bitter and sharp like a blade's edge. I stand at the heart of Montath's sprawling outskirts, a settlement clinging to life on the edge of a wilderness said to be cursed and filled with ancient remnants of forgotten power. The village is a patchwork of lean-to huts, weather-beaten shacks, and crooked wooden structures leaning precariously together, as if seeking solace from the encroaching gloom. Thin plumes of smoke rise against the dusky sky from scattered chimneys, while gnarled, half-dead trees rattle in the wind like skeletal sentinels.
The shouts of village folk mix with the creak of wagons and the grinding of worn boots on dirt paths. People throw me wary, suspicious glances as I pass. Here, strangers are either a curiosity—or a threat.
To the east, I can see the dense Everplag Woods growing darker as twilight deepens, the canopy alive with whispers that seem just beyond hearing. I've heard the rumors: something unnatural stirs deep within those trees. People say it began with livestock vanishing, then hunters disappearing, and finally... last week... an entire family lost. No bodies were ever found.
Ahead of me stands Maggra's Cold Hearth, a modest tavern with flickering light spilling from its warped windows. The wooden sign creaks ominously in the wind, its carving of a roaring fire etched with far too much care for such a drab establishment. Across the dirt road, an elderly man sits at a rickety stall half-filled with dull trinkets and what looks like old bones. His toothless grin is unnerving, but his eyes gleam with peculiar intelligence. Children scurry through the streets, their laughter ringing hollow.
Above all, my mind thrums with the weight of necessity. I know why I'm here. The mutterings on the road, the broken conversations: an object of interest exists in this village or its surroundings. A grimoire—a tome of considerable power, sought in equal measure by the desperate and ambitious. A source of influence in a world that shuns magic... and fears what it doesn't understand.
The question looms, one that I have already asked myself many times: who might possess a sliver of knowledge, and who might need persuasion to part with it? The fragile divide between wisdom and aggression hums beneath my fingertips.
The brisk wind carries faint sounds of wood creaking and faint mutterings from inside the tavern. The old man at the stall raises a bony hand in my direction, waving me over.
The shadows delay for no one.
I approach the rickety stall. The old man watches me with a gleam in his eye, his toothless grin not wavering. Up close, I can see the trinkets are a strange assortment: a few rusted daggers, some polished stones, and what are unmistakably animal bones—some small and delicate, others large and foreboding. The air around him carries the faint scent of dried herbs and old dust.
"Ah, a traveler," he rasps, his voice like dry leaves skittering over stone. "Not many souls with your... bearing... come to Montath. Not unless they're seeking something. Or fleeing something." He lets the implication hang in the air for a moment before gesturing to his wares. "Old Magwin has many things for sale. Charms for protection, bones for reading... or perhaps you are a man of knowledge? I have maps of the deep woods. Very accurate. For a price."
His eyes seem to linger on the subtle arcane symbols on my robes, a flicker of recognition in their depths. He knows something.
A shrewd line of inquiry. I focus my intense gaze on the old man. "I am a scholar, passing through," I say, my tone carefully neutral. "I've heard whispers that this region attracts... organizations of a particular mindset. Tell me of any factions that might hold sway here."
Old Magwin's grin widens, a crevice in his wrinkled face. He lets out a low, rattling chuckle. "A scholar, eh? With eyes that have seen more than books, I'd wager." He leans forward conspiratorially, the bones on his stall clinking softly.
"The Obsidian Hand has eyes everywhere," he whispers, the name dripping with significance. "They don't reside here, not openly. But their agents move through Montath like shadows. They seek things. Old things. Things that remember magic." He taps a yellowed fingernail on a large, canine-like bone on his stall.
"As for the Crimson Sigil..." he pauses, his eyes darting towards the dark line of the Everplag Woods. "Fools whisper their name around campfires. They don't just seek power; they bathe in it. They're said to be why the woods have grown so... hungry lately. Desperate men performing desperate rites."
He leans back, his expression becoming unreadable. "Information of this nature is not given freely, 'scholar'. It is a commodity, like my charms and bones."
He has given me a taste, but now he expects payment.
I produce a single silver coin from my pouch and flip it with a deft, almost dismissive motion. It lands on the stall's worn wooden surface with a sharp clink, spinning for a moment before settling.
"A token of thanks for the primer," I state, my voice carrying a clear note that the free information has concluded. "Now, for the main text. I am seeking a specific tome. A grimoire of considerable age and power. I have reason to believe it might be found in this vicinity."
Magwin's hand darts out, snatching the coin with surprising speed and making it disappear into the folds of his grimy tunic. His eyes narrow, the previous gleam of commerce replaced by a flicker of genuine wariness.
"A grimoire," he repeats, his voice dropping to a bare whisper. "You do not seek small game, traveler." He glances around theatrically, though the street remains largely empty. "Such things are not spoken of lightly. To even know of it marks you. To seek it..." He lets the sentence hang, a clear and unspoken question: Are you with them, or are you prey?
He is assessing your allegiance, and my threat level.
"I am a lone wizard," I state, my voice steady and clear, allowing a hint of arcane resonance to vibrate in the air. "I seek to expand my knowledge of the arcane, nothing more. My interests are purely academic."
I project an aura of controlled power, a subtle display of my abilities to assure him that I are neither a pawn of the Obsidian Hand nor a mad devotee of the Crimson Sigil, but a force unto myself.
Magwin studies me intently, his gaze lingering on my face, searching for any sign of deception. After a long moment, he seems to relax, though a sliver of suspicion remains in his eyes.
"Academic, you say?" he rasps, his voice laced with skepticism. "Grimoires are not mere books, wizard. They are living things, bound with blood and whispers. They corrupt as much as they enlighten." He pauses, then leans closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "But knowledge... knowledge is power. And power attracts attention."
"The grimoire you seek... It is old. Very old. They call it the Liber Tenebris—the Book of Shadows. It is said to contain spells that can reshape reality itself." He shivers, despite the already cold air. "It was lost long ago, during the fall of the ancient kingdom that once ruled this land. But whispers say it has resurfaced. That it lies hidden somewhere in the Everplag Woods."
He straightens up, his eyes locking with mine. "But be warned, wizard. Many have sought the Liber Tenebris. None have ever returned."
He has given me the information, but it has come with a dire warning. He is likely telling the truth about the dangers of the book. I can tell from the fear in his voice.
A sharp, logical question. My tone is cold, cutting through his superstitious dread with the precision of a scalpel. "If none have returned," I state, "then how can anyone know with certainty that the book lies within those woods? Your story has a hole, old man."
Magwin does not flinch. Instead, he gives a slow, knowing nod, as if he expected this very challenge. He reaches beneath his stall and produces a small, cloth-wrapped bundle. Unfolding it carefully, he reveals an object that makes the air around you grow several degrees colder.
It is a piece of torn parchment, brittle with age and stained with what looks like old, brownish blood. But it is the script that captures my attention—elegant, spidery lines of ink that seem to writhe and shift if I stare at them for too long. The script is utterly alien, yet I feel a pull from it, a whisper of profound and dangerous arcane knowledge.
"This was found clutched in the hand of the last fool who went searching for it," Magwin says, his voice grave. "A hunter from this very village, braver than most... or more foolish. His body was never recovered. Just this... scrap. Torn from something larger."
He allows me a moment to study the fragment. I can feel the raw, untamed power emanating from it. It is unquestionably a piece of a much more powerful magical text.
"I cannot read these words," Magwin admits, "but I know power when I hold it. And I know the tales. This script matches descriptions of the Liber Tenebris. The book is there. It calls to those who can hear it... and consumes them."
He watches me carefully, gauging my reaction to this tangible proof.
I lean closer, my sharp features intent as I study the torn parchment. The alien script seems to writhe at the edge of my vision, a tantalizing hint of profound secrets. This is a chance to glean knowledge directly from the artifact itself.
"Allow me a moment to examine this," I say, my voice low with focus.
Magwin gives a slow, cautious nod, his eyes never leaving me. "Be careful, wizard. It has a... presence."
My mind, honed by years of forbidden study, latches onto the writhing script. The knowledge doesn't come easily—it fights me, the magic within the parchment ancient and resistant to scrutiny—but I wrestle it into submission.
The script is not merely a language; it is a conceptual framework for channeling power, specifically the power of shadow and negation. I decipher several key phrases:
"...to unmake light and give form to thought's absence..." - This suggests a spell or ritual of profound illusion or creation through void.
"...the price is memory, paid in silvered tears..." - A chilling component cost, indicating the magic is transactional and deeply personal.
* Most importantly, at the very edge of the tear, I see a fragmented diagram—a stylized tree with roots that look like grasping hands, situated next to a jagged, crescent-shaped rock formation.
This last part is not a spell; it is a landmark. A crude map.
I look up from the parchment, the arcane symbols burning in my mind's eye. Magwin is watching me, his expression a mixture of awe and fear.
"You... you understand it," he whispers, not as a question but as a statement of fact. "I have shown that to a dozen would-be mages. They saw only ink. You saw its soul."
He quickly wraps the parchment back in its cloth and stows it away, as if fearing its proximity to me.
"The woods are vast, wizard. But now you have more than just whispers. You have a trail."
He has given me all he can, and I have extracted more from his proof than he ever could.
I turn the esoteric phrases over in my mind, probing them for practical application.
The fragment I deciphered, "...to unmake light and give form to thought's absence...", is not a complete spell formula. It lacks the specific somatic gestures, precise vocal intonations, and the exact mental architecture required to safely channel the weave into a defined effect. Attempting to cast from this fragment alone would be like trying to build a castle from a single, beautifully carved stone.
However, the knowledge is not useless. The phrase is a powerful conceptual key. I understand the underlying principle of this shadow magic on a deep, intuitive level now. Should I ever find a complete spell of illusion or shadow-manipulation—perhaps in my own future research or within the full Liber Tenebris itself—my comprehension of this fragment will grant me a significant advantage in learning and mastering it with startling speed.
I have gained a profound insight, but I have not learned a new spell from this scrap alone. The magic it hints at is too grand, too complex.
Magwin watches me process this internal revelation. "Did it... speak to you?" he asks, his voice still hushed.