forgotten monument, forever overshadowed by the enormous, torn wings of a shape perched above it. The wings reflected no light, throwing off even Ghain’s lambent glow.
Behind the gate a featureless wasteland stretched out into the distance: endless flat miles of red dust and rock. There was no escape from Ghain, this empty place that sat between the domain of daemons, Ghenna, and the implacable Jailer of the Dark. In the Age of Myths, the dragon had been too proud and too powerful to accept death, so the Gods had chained it there, to prevent it from ever returning to the Land.
Mihn felt it watching him, its presence like acid on the breeze. Above his head something invisible flapped past with slow, heavy strokes. He shrank down instinctively but the sound of tattered leather wings soon passed and he was left alone once more, feeling increasingly bleak.
He rubbed his palms together and looked at the stylised owl’s head on each. While he hadn’t seen what had flown past, it had been close enough to see him. Clearly the magic imbued into his skin by the witch was still working here.
Please let that continue , he prayed fervently. Without it I don’t stand a chance.
How much the tattoos could protect him he didn’t know, but he had no wish to find out what would happen if the magic failed. As he lingered, chilling howls rolled over the dusty slopes, provoking renewed fear. Mihn wondered how he ever thought what he was attempting was even possible . . .
But he walked on, glad to turn his back on the dragon. He focused on picking his way up the slopes rather than thinking too hard about the sounds that echoed across Ghain. Still he saw no others, neither torments nor trudging souls, until the slope suddenly levelled out for a stretch and he saw a silver pavilion emerge from the gloom.
Not far away was a figure, a man in rags, slightly transparent, who wore around his neck a collar with a dozen or more long chains attached; they were twenty or thirty feet in length, of all sorts of thicknesses and materials, and they dragged behind the soul along the ground. The soul was looking up the slope as he plodded slowly on, but he made no progress because one of the multitudes of chains had snagged on a stone.
Mihn looked around. He could see nothing else nearby, neither spirit nor daemon. As he neared the tormented soul he checked again, but there was no visible cover that some creature might lurk behind. The soul himself paid Mihn no attention as he tried in vain to march forward. The ground was flat and featureless, with no indication of lurking torment, despite the easiness of the prey - and Mihn suddenly realised why: they would not come within sight of Mercy’s pavilion, for fear of the only Aspects that trod Ghain’s slope.
Mihn had spent the last few days before his journey trawling his remarkable memory for stories of this place, anything that might help him survive his sojourn here. So it was apparently true that following Death’s judgment, the Herald would affix a collar around each soul’s neck, so they would proceed up Ghain’s slopes dragging their sins behind them. There was copper for avarice, jade for envy, pitted iron for murder; a different material for each sin. Death had built seven pavilions on Ghain, and some of the sins could be forgiven at each. This was a journey all mortals made; some ascended only part of the way before they were borne off to the land of no time, while others were forced to travel untold miles to the fiery River Maram and across to the gates of Ghenna itself, before which the last of the pavilions stood. Even then, some sins were unforgivable, and the dead would be forced to continue onwards.
He crept closer to the chain, watching the soul carefully, but he appeared not to notice the not-dead traveller at all, not even when Mihn nudged the chain - ivory for malice of deed - off the stone. Once freed the soul continued to plod onwards, and as he began to approach
Behind the gate a featureless wasteland stretched out into the distance: endless flat miles of red dust and rock. There was no escape from Ghain, this empty place that sat between the domain of daemons, Ghenna, and the implacable Jailer of the Dark. In the Age of Myths, the dragon had been too proud and too powerful to accept death, so the Gods had chained it there, to prevent it from ever returning to the Land.
Mihn felt it watching him, its presence like acid on the breeze. Above his head something invisible flapped past with slow, heavy strokes. He shrank down instinctively but the sound of tattered leather wings soon passed and he was left alone once more, feeling increasingly bleak.
He rubbed his palms together and looked at the stylised owl’s head on each. While he hadn’t seen what had flown past, it had been close enough to see him. Clearly the magic imbued into his skin by the witch was still working here.
Please let that continue , he prayed fervently. Without it I don’t stand a chance.
How much the tattoos could protect him he didn’t know, but he had no wish to find out what would happen if the magic failed. As he lingered, chilling howls rolled over the dusty slopes, provoking renewed fear. Mihn wondered how he ever thought what he was attempting was even possible . . .
But he walked on, glad to turn his back on the dragon. He focused on picking his way up the slopes rather than thinking too hard about the sounds that echoed across Ghain. Still he saw no others, neither torments nor trudging souls, until the slope suddenly levelled out for a stretch and he saw a silver pavilion emerge from the gloom.
Not far away was a figure, a man in rags, slightly transparent, who wore around his neck a collar with a dozen or more long chains attached; they were twenty or thirty feet in length, of all sorts of thicknesses and materials, and they dragged behind the soul along the ground. The soul was looking up the slope as he plodded slowly on, but he made no progress because one of the multitudes of chains had snagged on a stone.
Mihn looked around. He could see nothing else nearby, neither spirit nor daemon. As he neared the tormented soul he checked again, but there was no visible cover that some creature might lurk behind. The soul himself paid Mihn no attention as he tried in vain to march forward. The ground was flat and featureless, with no indication of lurking torment, despite the easiness of the prey - and Mihn suddenly realised why: they would not come within sight of Mercy’s pavilion, for fear of the only Aspects that trod Ghain’s slope.
Mihn had spent the last few days before his journey trawling his remarkable memory for stories of this place, anything that might help him survive his sojourn here. So it was apparently true that following Death’s judgment, the Herald would affix a collar around each soul’s neck, so they would proceed up Ghain’s slopes dragging their sins behind them. There was copper for avarice, jade for envy, pitted iron for murder; a different material for each sin. Death had built seven pavilions on Ghain, and some of the sins could be forgiven at each. This was a journey all mortals made; some ascended only part of the way before they were borne off to the land of no time, while others were forced to travel untold miles to the fiery River Maram and across to the gates of Ghenna itself, before which the last of the pavilions stood. Even then, some sins were unforgivable, and the dead would be forced to continue onwards.
He crept closer to the chain, watching the soul carefully, but he appeared not to notice the not-dead traveller at all, not even when Mihn nudged the chain - ivory for malice of deed - off the stone. Once freed the soul continued to plod onwards, and as he began to approach
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