Deep Sea Embers

The unexpected visitor had made a swift and abrupt exit, just as their arrival had been sudden and unanticipated.

The seasoned caretaker of the old cemetery stood in stunned silence, his gaze still fixated on the spot where the spectral flames had evaporated into nothingness. His mind was a whirlpool of thoughts, trying to process the flurry of information that the fleeting interaction had thrown his way. He stood there, caught in the hold of this puzzling event, until a gentle pull at his sleeve brought him back to the present.

Dropping his gaze, he found young Annie looking up at him with a troubled expression. Her eyes were a pool of uncertainty, anxiousness, and deep puzzlement.

Even though she had come to terms with the harsh realities of life and death at such a tender age, the bizarre events that had just unfolded were beyond her grasp.

The old caretaker crouched down, the winter chill seeping into his aged, stiff joints and causing a mild, familiar ache. He reached out, brushing off the falling snowflakes from Annie’s shoulder, and assured her, “Annie, there’s no need to be scared, nothing untoward has happened.”

“Grandpa Caretaker…” Annie started, her lips moving in a futile attempt to articulate her confusion, “That person just now…”

“Sweetheart, don’t ask too many questions, don’t overthink. Just like we’re taught in school, don’t delve too deep into knowledge that’s beyond the comprehension of us mere mortals. All you need to understand is that the visitor meant no harm and now that they’ve left, our ties with them cease to exist.”

“What about my father…”

“Your father might have achieved something truly supernatural, something that we can’t even fathom,” the caretaker replied gently, patting her on the head. “Don’t worry, Annie, your father is not lost at sea anymore. He’s moved on to a better place. Go home and share this news with your mother; she has been anxiously waiting for it.”

Hesitant, Annie pressed her lips together before finally voicing her concern in a soft whisper, “Is it for real this time?”

“Yes, Annie, it’s for real,” the caretaker smiled, “You’re not a little girl anymore.”

Annie gave a nod of understanding, bidding the old caretaker farewell. She turned and began her journey towards the neighborhood, following the clear tire tracks on the otherwise snow-laden path, gradually making her way home and disappearing into the silver-white canvas of the city.

The caretaker stood at the cemetery entrance, watching her recede into the distance until her silhouette was swallowed up by the intersection.

“The young girl hadn’t stumbled on her way this time,” he sighed a breath of relief and reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing against the letter that lay within.

The unexplainable visitor had left behind an innocuous-looking piece of paper, but the caretaker had an inkling that it carried knowledge and mysteries beyond comprehension. What was the significance of this letter?

His gaze turned grave as he turned around to walk back into the somber confines of the cemetery. As he left, he waved a hand behind him, and with a dull creak, the heavy iron gate swung shut.

The gates of the cemetery were to remain shut for the remainder of the day.

…

Agatha peered intensely at the fragmented remains scattered across the ground. Her long hair danced in the persistent icy wind that whistled through the narrow alley. The biting cold air sneaked its way into the crevices of her clothing and her bandages, seemingly cementing the terror and despair that marked the final moments of the two defeated cultists.

Several guards dressed in black were bustling about nearby. The first response team that had arrived on the scene had swiftly cordoned off the alley entrance, and now, personnel were meticulously combing through the adjacent alleyways, scouring for clues. The evidence collection process was systematic, yet Agatha’s heart remained riddled with perplexity.

What sort of formidable force had the power to shatter a person into fragments, akin to a delicate porcelain doll meeting an untimely end?

Up to this point, no known divine or heretical incantations were known to inflict such a peculiar effect. Even the most nefarious of curses wielded by the enigmatic demons hadn’t shown signs of inducing such bizarre phenomena.

A young gatekeeper maneuvered his staff, employing its metallic end to prod at one of the fragments. The ceramic-like, pallid piece teetered and flipped, creating a sharp, distinct sound as it made contact with the ground.

Once flipped, it revealed a partial face – lips, the bridge of the nose, and a single eye.

Although incomplete, it portrayed the last moments of the cultist with chilling clarity, an explicit expression of terror etched onto his features at the time of death.

And was that… a trace of a peculiar smile?

Agatha knitted her brows together, her attention drawn to the uncanny upward curve on the porcelain-like fragment’s lips. It appeared as if a tranquil smile was in the process of forming, yet it had been abruptly halted in its tracks. This ambiguous curve, juxtaposed with the fearful eye, rendered the facial fragment exceedingly eerie and unnerving.

After a moment of contemplation, Agatha shook off her thoughts and proceeded further down the alley to another grim “scene.”

A heap of charred debris lay strewn across the alley, the surrounding area showing signs of a fierce battle and ensuing explosions. The extent of the damage was vast, yet it was apparent that the fight had been heavily lopsided – the combat style distinctly different from the one that had resulted in the fragments at the alley’s entrance.

A priest, who had been examining the scene, rose to his feet beside the pile of remains. He stripped off his gloves and inclined his head towards Agatha, “This is the work of a fully cleansed Annihilation Priest. Judging by the degree of his flesh mutation, he was a formidable adversary. In theory, he should have been able to hold his own against a fully manned twelve-person guard squad, possibly even managing to escape. Yet, he was swiftly neutralized, and there’s scarcely any evidence of a counter-attack.”

Agatha’s brow furrowed deeper, “Can you discern who or what he was up against?”

The priest shook his head, “It seems to be the most straightforward and brutal mode of attack – raw physical force. This makes it challenging to pinpoint the identity of the adversary. However, we did find a peculiar residue of condensed water vapor in the vicinity, which may be our only lead.”

“Condensed water vapor… Just that as a clue?” Agatha murmured, casting a glance back towards the entrance of the alley, “Two drastically contrasting styles of combat.”

“Indeed, one is basic yet ferocious, and the other is peculiar and treacherous. However, both methods display one commonality: their formidable power. Cleric-level heretics didn’t stand a chance,” the priest agreed, “The only sliver of good news is that these unknown entities appear to be adversaries of the annihilation cult.”

“An enemy of our enemy doesn’t necessarily translate to our friend,” Agatha responded, shaking her head, “Especially when they seem to be intent on concealing their activities – their reticence to reveal themselves is a troubling matter.”

She paused briefly before asking, “What have we learned from interrogating the surrounding residents?”

“The local residents heard the commotion of the battle but were largely too terrified to investigate. Their accounts help us ascertain the time and duration of the altercation – it commenced after 1 AM and presumably lasted less than three minutes.”

“Is that the extent of our information? Isn’t there anything else?”

“For now, there’s no more to share,” the priest gestured expansively. “I’ve dispatched teams to conduct door-to-door inquiries, including probing the more distant alleyways, for any accounts of unfamiliar faces lurking around. However, considering the vast expanse of Fireplace Street, it’s unlikely we’ll uncover anything substantial in the short term.”

Their discussion was suddenly interrupted by the sound of hurried footsteps approaching from the adjacent street.

A guardian with a mop of short brown hair quickly made his way into the alley, delivering his report to the priest.

“Inside the building?” The priest furrowed his brow as he listened to the subordinate’s account, casting a glance up at the building that stood diagonally across the alley.

Upon witnessing this, Agatha inquired immediately, “What’s the matter?”

“In house number 42,” the priest responded, “an orc woman was found assaulted by an unearthly power, leaving her in an unconscious state. Moreover, a room on the second floor was discovered, tainted by an unidentified object.”

…

Meanwhile, within the confines of the cemetery’s guardhouse, the elderly caretaker methodically secured the door. With a grave expression, he made his way over to the desk nestled in a corner.

He had instructed the guardians stationed outside to remain vigilant in the vicinity of the guardhouse. Meanwhile, he had set up protective measures in the surrounding open space but was acutely aware that these defenses may not suffice.

Upon reaching the desk, he drew out various items from a drawer: incense, essential oils, candles, and a collection of herbal powders, and began to meticulously construct a potent spiritual altar.

He positioned candles at specific points, anointing them with the essential oils and sprinkling them with the herbal powders. Filling the room with the sanctifying aroma of incense, he positioned the incense burner at the core of the circular candle arrangement, symbolizing the creation of a sacred space – he executed each step with precision and skill, each movement an echo of countless repetitions past.

Such was the precision of a seasoned warrior.

Within mere minutes, the altar stood completed.

The old caretaker took a moment to draw in a deep breath, his gaze lingering on the ghostly flames dancing atop the candles, and the thin tendrils of incense smoke twirling upward from the table. He could sense the divine presence of the god of death, Bartok, temporarily inhabiting the guardhouse. The holy essence hovered near the desk, serving to steady the progression of time and space, and in doing so, fortifying his spirit.

No precautions were deemed excessive or over-detailed when dealing with knowledge that defied comprehension.

He eased himself into the chair, silently reciting a prayer, then with a grave countenance, he withdrew the letter from his pocket for inspection.

It was an item the mysterious visitor had entrusted him to deliver to Gatekeeper Agatha, yet he had indicated that it would suffice to dispatch the message to the Silent Cathedral – there were no instructions forbidding others from perusing the letter.

If his only responsibility were to relay the message, reading the letter himself and then passing on the information would be deemed permissible.

After all, as the cemetery caretaker, he served as the primary line of defense to the cathedral.

The elderly man drew in a deep breath, his preparations complete, and picked up the letter opener resting beside him. With utmost care, he breached the seal of the seemingly ordinary envelope, causing a folded piece of parchment to tumble out.

His expression solemn like never before, a resolve akin to that of a martyr glistening in his eyes, the old caretaker gingerly unfurled the paper.

The words “Report Letter” leapt into view, sending the old caretaker into a wildering pause, “…?”