The Legend of the Hunter
Gaining A Soul

Fythlasine, the Queen of the Hollow People, known to her subjects as Her Emptiness, had a problem. Her mind was in turmoil and it was being caused by what she had always strictly controlled: emotions. She was experiencing intense feelings, and much worse: she feared she had developed a conscience. The change happened soon after the Elfling had healed her, and she was convinced that he had done something to her. She was afraid to admit it, but she thought that he had somehow given her a soul.

She was reading through the ancient scripts passed on from queen to queen, searching for answers in the books that chronicled the entire history of her People. She had just come across some paragraphs that gave her gooseflesh, and she settled more comfortably in her plush chair to read the account again. It had been written by Queen Myrasda, known as the most intelligent queen the Hollow People had ever had, the one who had excelled most in her experiments.

After studying numerous texts and scrolls on the matter of energy threads and auras, I am certain I have found the reason why my People have no souls. I have no doubt that my search has revealed this obscured secret, and I intend this revelation to serve as a means for my People to reclaim their souls.

When our Master, Warlock Azlotlin, created us through his occult art, he intentionally severed our life thread from our soul thread. He wanted to have a force that would not be hampered by any guiles of guilt or concerns of conscience. He wished to have mindless minions who would go into battle and slay even children without any reservations. He ensured that the links to our souls were tied off and separated from our life threads, effectively sterilizing us metaphorically. But there is hope: there is a chance that we can once again have a soul.

At this point, Fythlasine stood up abruptly because she was so agitated that she needed to walk off her tension. It seemed to her that the text was confirming her suspicions, but she wanted to read it more carefully to be certain. She noticed that the day outside had suddenly become darker, but then she went back to reading Queen Myrasda’s entry and paid the sombre atmosphere outside no further attention.

I managed to obtain a rare Elven scroll that discusses the art of healing through the manipulation of the energy threads and colours. Only rarely is an Elf born that has this gift, but an Elf who has the ability to use the body’s energy flows to heal itself can also theoretically reknit the severed life and soul threads. Such an Elf could forge a link anew and thus grant every single Hollow Person his or her very own soul.

Queen Fythlasine sat in stunned silence as her mind processed the impact of what she had just discovered. The three seemingly innocuous paragraphs had shaken and tilted her world, and had she not been seated, she would surely have collapsed to the floor.

“I was right,” she said to herself. “He has given me a soul! Sweet Spirits! Can it be true? Can he give all of my People a soul?” she wondered in stupefaction. Then another sinister thought struck her. She had only recently been granted a soul and by extension, a conscience, thus she still thought like the cold woman she had been before.

“Would my People want to have souls?”

Fythlasine wondered if they would be willing to face what they had done as Hollow People, and be held accountable for their acts of cruelties. Would they be ready to make attrition and offer recompense? Would and could the citizens of Wrochcia ever forgive them?

Then her regal nature asserted itself and banished her timid, doubting character. She was the Queen, and her People would do whatever she commanded them to do. If they had to make restitution for all the suffering they had caused, they would gladly do so if it meant they could regain their souls.

It was the sudden cessation of the constant background chanting that made the Queen realise that something was seriously amiss. She walked sedately towards the library windows, refusing to appear inelegant by rushing to see what was wrong, even though she was alone in the room except for her two attendants, and they didn’t count. She experienced another unfamiliar feeling at thinking her attendants were nothing: shame. It was more confirmation that she was irrevocably changing. Tacitly, she welcomed the transformation.

She looked down from the library window to see her subjects gathering around some menacing and looming figure. She couldn’t see it clearly from this height in the Shrine, but she had a bad feeling about whatever was happening outside.

Before she had reached the lower levels though, she felt an irresistible pull, as if her body were being commanded to move in all haste towards the unknown presence in front of the Shrine. Yet … something deep inside her was resisting the compulsion, warning her that all was not as it appeared to be. She slowed her descent and her two attendants brushed past her as if unaware that they had just overtaken their Queen. They wore identical blank expressions and their large eyes were extended to their limits. Fythlasine experienced an epiphany so profound that she gasped aloud.

The “thing” outside was drawing her People to it, and her mind made the connection as to who it was. Only one creature could cause her subjects to be this unresisting, mindless and docile: The Master. The Drakheen had finally come to claim his army. She stood on the threshold of the Shrine, simultaneously stupefied and horrified. She couldn’t believe that their creator had actually returned to life without any of them even having had any forewarning; and she was terrified that she was resisting his call.

“How is it possible that I’m not as affected as the others?” she asked herself, already knowing the answer. She hazarded a quick glance beyond the doorway to assess the situation outside, and that’s when another realization struck her: the number of Hollow People gathered outside did not reflect all her subjects. As Queen, she knew exactly how many of her People were under her reign, and the crowd outside numbered about just more than half her subjects. Her sharp mind instantly jumped to a logical conclusion.

“Could there be others who are resisting the call? Have others also somehow developed a soul?” she thought, reluctant to voice her hopes aloud. Then she heard movement somewhere behind her. She spun to defend herself against whatever might be threatening her, only to stop and stare at the men and women standing quietly in the large entrance chamber beyond the foyer. They regarded her in fear and terror, but they didn’t run away. Instead, one of them carefully and slowly approached her, as one would move towards a dangerous viper.

“Your Emptiness,” the man said in abject devotion and fright, “we are confused. We feel the pull of the Master, but our bodies refuse to obey him. What’s wrong with us?” he asked.

“There’s nothing wrong; you’ve been changed somehow into a better version of yourself,” Fythlasine explained. “We need to move away from the Beast outside and those he has gathered if we are to survive,” she added.

With that, she moved towards the rest of the silent crowd. Without waiting for them to follow, she led them towards a secret exit located beneath the temple that would take them away from the Drakheen standing in front of the Shrine, and the threat he posed to their new lives.

The Drakheen was furious; he looked at the number of Hollow People assembled in front of him, and he was inflamed by how few of them there were. He estimated that they probably numbered under one thousand five hundred while he had anticipated gathering an army of thousands. He could not have known of the Curse that had decimated the ranks of the Hollow People so very recently.

The Beast gazed with barely controlled rage at the silently waiting servants he had created. They were under his complete thrall, and it pleased him that every single one of them would die in service to him. He sent out a telepathic message of carnage and plunder that was so overpowering that some of the gathered Hollow People buckled to their knees. The Drakheen was deeply dissatisfied though that the Queen was very much conspicuous in her absence, but he would deal with her later. For now, he wanted to get his army moving towards the Ripple.

He felt her presence as a constant burn in the back of his mind, and it satisfied him enormously to taste her fear and dread of him. When he gauged that the time was right, he finally spoke aloud to his slaves.

In a deep, booming voice that sounded like boulders slowly grinding together, the Drakeen commanded, “Today you will fulfil the purpose for which I shaped you. You will be my sword and spear, knife and shield, and you will help me capture what is mine. You will attack the place where my Ripple is and give me the time and means with which to finally claim her for myself. You will travel now to the destination I have projected into your minds, and you will not stop until you reach it and attack those who dare try to thwart me!” he screamed at the Hollow People.

As one, they turned and started to march out of the Forsaken Forest, in a literal sense forsaking it at the bidding of their cruel Master. The Drakheen watched as they streamed off towards Zanderon before lazily unfurling his wings and taking flight. He planned to touch down at one more destination before he would set off for Zanderon. He would reach that place where fates would be decided exactly when the Hollow People arrived there. Nothing would prevent him from becoming the Lord and Ruler of Wrochcia. He flew fast to the home of the Silent Ones.

The Gillipo Marshes was a silent graveyard when the Drakheen landed among the houses on stilts. The previous time he had landed here, the place had been alive with screaming Silent Ones. The thought momentarily amused the Beast, but then he became annoyed by the lack of people. He stalked through the town, smashing the boardwalks and pathways that connected the houses, not caring that he was unnecessarily causing destruction in his wake. His patience was running out and he thundered in fury.

He had come to gather his second army of slaves; betrayal and cowardice greeted him instead. His creations had obviously fled and had thus clearly displayed their disloyalty to him.

He wondered where the cowards could have gone, but after twenty minutes of impotent raging, he finally had to accede defeat. In a mood as foul and dark as the clouds gathered above his mountain, he flew back to his underground cave to rest and strategise. On his way he scooped up a few wayward sheep to feast on and replenish his energy. The Drakheen’s ire was reaching its climax, and the erstwhile Warlock buried deep within the consciousness of the Beast plotted murderous revenge on his enemies.

As he reached his retreat and descended once again to the pitch black foulness of his cavern, a lightning storm was finally unleashed. It was a spectacle that could be heard and seen from as far away as Queleuq, and everyone who witnessed it knew it was a gravid portent of doom.

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