Chaosbound: Elarith Chronicles

Road to Minla

Their mount—a long-suffering bay gelding—snorted as Ron adjusted the fifth bag of "essential equipment" strapped to its flanks. Markus patted the beast's neck in silent apology. "So this 'demon'," Markus said as they rode, "any chance it's just some drunk with bad tattoos?" Ron adjusted his glasses, sunlight flashing across the lenses. "Witnesses described claws that split stone and eyes that burned through fog." He leaned in conspiratorially. "Also, he apparently quotes ancient poetry before eviscerating people." Markus groaned. "Of course that's the detail that excites you." "I have priorities!" Ron's laugh faded as the road curved into dense forest. "Father wouldn't have sent us if it were just superstition. The last similar report was... thirty years ago. Right before the Bloodvein Riots, when the river ran red for a week." The name landed like a tombstone between them. Markus's hand found his sword hilt, the worn leather a familiar anchor. He looked at Ron, whose face had gone pale and still. "You think this is connected?" The only answer was the unsettling rattle of the horse's harness as Ron, lost in thought, unintentionally pulled on the reins. It was a silence that spoke of thirty years and a river that ran red.

The Weight of Shadows

The town of Minla was a collection of squat stone houses, their thatched roofs sagging under the weight of untold years, their cobbled streets winding between them like cramped veins. Markus noted how villagers avoided lingering near doorways, their gazes darted toward the water when they thought no one was looking, as if the river itself held a silent threat. Their hurried whispers seemed to hush as Markus and Ron passed. Ron inhaled sharply through his nose. "Smell that?" Markus did. Beneath the usual scents of baking bread and river mud lurked something acrid—burnt hair and wet copper. Their first witness was a grandmother shelling peas outside the chandlery. At their questions, her gnarled fingers stilled. "Demons are for fireside tales and drunkards' lies," she muttered, though her knuckles whitened around her knife. The butcher proved more forthcoming. He leaned across his counter, bloodied apron rustling. "Seen him myself last full moon. Tall as a gallows tree, with eyes like—" His voice dropped to a whisper. "—like banked coals watching you from the dark." By the time they reached the docks, even the gulls had gone quiet. A fisherman mending nets refused to meet their eyes. "Ain't natural, what walks that riverbank after dusk," was all he'd say before spitting into the murky water. Ron's notebook filled with frantic sketches—a figure elongated in lamplight, the curve of claws against moonlit reeds. "Every account agrees on three things," he murmured. "The river, the eyes, and—" "The poetry," Markus finished, recalling the butcher's mention of whispered verses in a tongue that made dogs howl.

An Innkeeper's Warning

The Black Eel Inn smelled of stale beer and desperate prayers. The innkeeper, a wiry man with a patch over one eye, slid their key across the counter with a hand that trembled slightly. "You'll be wanting the room facing the square," he said too quickly. Ron arched a brow. "We'd prefer a view of the river." The man's throat worked silently before he managed, "Ain't safe." He leaned in, his breath reeking of juniper berries. "He comes for those who watch the water after dark." Markus exchanged a glance with Ron. The scholar's eyes gleamed with unholy excitement.

Preparation at Dusk

The setting sun bled through the inn's warped glass windows, painting the room in hues of blood and gold. Markus pushed away his empty plate, the chair groaning in protest. Across from him, Ron's quill scratched feverishly across parchment, ink splattering like bloodstains around a hastily drawn map of the riverbank. "Gear check," Markus said, standing. Ron waved a distracted hand. "Bring the silver-chased dagger, the vial of grave salt, and—" His quill paused. "—the bone whistle. Definitely the bone whistle." The "gear" sprawled across their rented room looked less like hunting supplies and more like a mad apothecary's final confession. Markus lifted a glass orb filled with swirling smoke that recoiled from his touch. "Why does this one... pulse?" "Because it's angry," Ron said matter-of-factly, snatching it away to wrap in black silk. "You don't want to know what I had to do to trap a living shadow." Markus gingerly picked up the whistle—carved from what was unmistakably a human finger bone. "And this?" "Last resort." Ron finally looked up, glasses flashing orange in the dying light. "Blow it only if something's trying to wear my skin." A beat of silence. "You're joking." Ron stuffed three more vials into his coat. "Mostly." Markus's gaze hardened, his hand moving to check his blade's edge. He adjusted his sword belt, the familiar weight a comfort against his side. As the last light bled from the sky, they shouldered their packs and took their positions by the riverbank. The water moved sluggishly, its surface oily with reflected starlight. Somewhere in the reeds, a nightjar called—or something mimicking one. Ron adjusted his glasses, the lenses catching the moon. "Now we wait." Markus rested his hand on his sword. The familiar weight was the only comfort in the gathering dark.

The Cry for Help

Ron vaulted onto their long-suffering steed with all the grace of a drunkard attempting ballet. "Onward, noble steed!" he declared, nearly kneeing Markus in the ribs as he seized the reins. "To adventure! To discovery! To hopefully not dying horribly!" Markus barely had time to secure their overstuffed saddlebags before they lurched forward. "You do realize," he grunted, clinging to Ron's waist as they bounced down the cobbled streets, "that normal investigators walk to crime scenes?" "Nonsense!" Ron adjusted his glasses with one hand while nearly steering them into a fruit cart with the other. "Time is of the essence when one chases nightmares made flesh!"

Their reluctant guide - a grizzled farmer who smelled distinctly of sheep and bad decisions - led them down a winding path toward the river. Markus spent the journey torn between watching for threats and preventing Ron from accidentally impaling them both on low-hanging branches. As the sun dipped below the treeline, painting the forest in amber and gold, they reached a small clearing. The peaceful babble of the river should have been soothing. The birds should have been singing. The world should have made sense. Instead, a scream tore through the twilight like a knife. "HELP! PLEASE, SOMEONE HELP!" Markus's sword was halfway drawn, but his brain finally registered the source—a young girl crashing through the underbrush, her dress torn, her face streaked with tears and dirt. Ron immediately struck a dramatic pose. "Fear not, fair maiden! We shall—" "Grandma's being chased by a monster!" the girl sobbed, cutting off Ron's theatrics before he could finish. Markus didn't wait. He hit the ground running before his boot even cleared the stirrup, Ron scrambling after him with considerably less coordination.

The Monster Revealed

What followed was the most undignified rescue in recorded history. Markus, trained warrior of House Rugal, immediately tripped over a root and went sprawling. Ron, brilliant scholar and alleged adult, somehow managed to tangle himself in his own cloak. Their noble steed chose this moment to express its opinion of the situation with a loud, derisive whinny. Through this chaos burst an elderly woman moving with the speed and terror of someone being pursued by the literal jaws of death. "RUN, YOU IDIOTS!" she shrieked, vaulting over Markus with agility that defied both age and physics. Then the trees parted. The creature that emerged was wrong in ways that bypassed the eyes and went straight to the lizard brain. Its limbs moved with the jerky precision of a puppet on broken strings. Its eyes burned with a light that had no business existing in anything living. And the smell - gods, the smell - like rotting meat and spoiled milk left in a crypt. Markus regained his feet just in time to intercept the thing's lunge, his sword meeting claws that screeched against steel. The impact vibrated up his arms like a church bell tolling his mortality. Behind him, Ron made a sound somewhere between a whimper and a giggle. "Oh. Oh this is magnificent." His fingers twitched toward his notebook like an addict reaching for his vice. "The limb articulation! The ocular luminescence! Markus, don't kill it yet, I need samples!" The creature's head snapped toward Ron at the sound of his voice. Its mouth opened. What came out wasn't a roar, or a growl, but words - mangled and wet, but unmistakably human: "Hungry... so hungry..." Ron's pen froze mid-scribble. His glasses slid down his nose. "Well," he whispered. "That's new."

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The Confrontation

The world slowed to a crawl. Markus was a blur of motion—steel flashing, boots kicking up dirt as he danced between the creature's frenzied swipes. The old woman and her granddaughter huddled behind a gnarled oak, their terrified whimpers barely audible over the creature's guttural snarls. But Ron? Ron stood perfectly still. His breath hitched. His fingers twitched at his sides. The creature's jerking, unnatural movements—limbs bending at impossible angles, its spine arching like a bowstring—should have filled him with terror. Instead, his chest swelled with something dangerously close to joy. Because this wasn't just some drunken farmer's tall tale. This wasn't a trick of torchlight or swamp gas. This was real. The creature's eyes—gods, its eyes—burned with an eerie, flickering luminescence, like embers in a dying fire. Its mouth stretched too wide, revealing jagged teeth that didn't quite fit its human jaw. And the way it moved—like a marionette with its strings tangled, every motion sharp and stuttering—sent a shiver down Ron's spine. Not from fear. From recognition. "It's real," he whispered, his voice trembling.

Memories flashed behind his eyes— His father's dismissive scoff when he'd first shown interest in the occult. The way scholars at the university had smirked behind their hands when he presented his theories on spirit possession. The countless nights spent hunched over ancient tomes, his fingers stained with ink, his eyes burning from lack of sleep—all for this moment. A laugh bubbled up in his throat, wild and disbelieving. He clamped a hand over his mouth to stifle it, but his shoulders shook anyway. I was right. I was right. The creature's head snapped toward him, its glowing eyes locking onto his. Ron's breath caught. For a heartbeat, they stared at each other—scholar and specter, man and monster—and in that endless second, Ron understood. This wasn't just some mindless beast. There was intelligence in those eyes. Malice. A cruel, calculating awareness that sent ice flooding through Ron's veins even as his heart raced with exhilaration. "Ron!" Markus's shout shattered the moment. "A little help?!" Ron blinked, reality crashing back in. Right. Right. Science first, existential crisis later. His hands flew to his satchel, fingers digging through vials and trinkets with practiced ease. He pulled out a glass sphere filled with swirling silver mist—a spirit trap, one of his earliest (and most unstable) inventions. "Markus!" Ron called, his voice steadier now, edged with the sharp focus of a man who'd spent his life preparing for this exact moment. "Drive it toward me!" Markus didn't hesitate. With a grunt, he feinted left, then slammed the flat of his blade against the creature's ribs, sending it stumbling backward— Straight into Ron's waiting trap. The glass sphere shattered at the creature's feet. Silver mist erupted upward, coiling around its limbs like living chains. The creature howled—a sound that wasn't entirely human, wasn't entirely animal, but something other—as the mist tightened, its glow intensifying. Ron's fingers flew to his notebook, scribbling furiously even as the creature thrashed. Subject displays clear signs of spiritual possession— The creature's head jerked up. Its mouth opened. And it spoke. " You do not know what you meddle with, little scholar. " The voice was layered—a chorus of whispers and growls, as if a dozen throats were forcing the words out at once. Ron's pen froze. His blood turned to ice. Then— The silver mist contracted. The creature's body convulsed, its back arching violently as the mist seeped into its mouth, its nose, its eyes— And with a final, ear-splitting shriek— It collapsed. Silence. Markus stood panting, his sword still raised. The old woman clutched her granddaughter to her chest, both trembling. And Ron? Ron stared at the unconscious figure, his hands shaking, his mind racing. Because this changed everything.

The Weight of Revelation

The forest held its breath. No birdsong. No rustling leaves. Even the fading sunlight seemed reluctant to touch the clearing where the possessed man lay motionless. Markus wiped sweat from his brow, his sword still humming with residual energy. The dark aura had dissipated, but the memory of those glowing eyes and unnatural movements clung to the air like smoke. Ron knelt beside the unconscious figure, his fingers pressing against the man's throat. "Pulse is steady," he murmured. His other hand hovered over his spirit-detecting device, its faint glow illuminating the sweat-slicked face. Then Ron froze. "Markus." His voice had gone dangerously quiet. "Look at his cheek." Markus stepped closer, his boots crunching on dead leaves. The fading light caught on a familiar jagged scar running from temple to jaw. His blood ran cold. "That's..." "The bandit leader from your caravan mission," Ron finished, pushing his glasses up his nose. The lenses flashed as he turned the man's head, revealing more identifying marks. "The one who got away." Markus's grip tightened on his sword. "He wasn't like this before. No glowing eyes. No unnatural strength." Ron's fingers traced a blackened mark snaking up the bandit's neck - like a brand burned from the inside. "Not until something got inside him." He looked up, eyes alight with grim understanding. "This wasn't random possession, Markus. That spirit didn't just find him. It was sent to someone already dangerous. Someone who knew the Rugal trade routes." A chill crawled down Markus's spine. The implications settled like stones in his gut. The elderly woman and her granddaughter emerged from the trees, their faces pale. "Is...is it over?" the woman whispered. "For you, yes," Markus said gently, stepping between them and the unconscious bandit. He lowered his voice to Ron. "We need to take him back. Your father will want to question him." Ron was already binding the man's wrists with silver-chained rope. "Oh, we're doing more than questioning." He jerked the knots tight. "This scarred bastard just became our best lead on who - or what - is sending spirits after Rugal assets." As Markus heaved the bandit over his shoulder, the man's head lolled, revealing the black mark pulsing faintly at his collarbone. Ron's device emitted a sharp whine in response. "Interesting," Ron murmured, tapping the flickering gauge. "The connection isn't fully severed." He met Markus's gaze, his smile all teeth. "Looks like we'll be having words with our friend here sooner than expected." The forest exhaled around them as they turned toward Minla, carrying their unconscious prize. Somewhere in the gathering dark, something watched them go - and waited.

Return to the Estate

The dying sun painted the Rugal estate in hues of blood and gold as Markus and Ron approached the gates. Their exhausted steed plodded forward, its head drooping under the weight of Ron's clattering instruments. Markus bore a heavier burden—the unconscious bandit Kane slung over his shoulder like a sack of grain, his limbs bound with silver-chained rope that sizzled faintly against his corrupted skin. "Faster, Markus," Ron urged, his usual playful tone replaced by something sharper. His fingers twitched toward the spirit-detecting device at his belt, its glass surface still clouded with swirling black mist. "The sun's nearly set and I don't like how quiet those woods have become." Markus adjusted his grip on Kane, feeling the unnatural heat radiating from the man's body. "You think something's following us?" Ron's glasses caught the last crimson rays as he glanced backward. "I think whatever sent that spirit isn't done with its puppet yet." The great iron gates groaned open before them, revealing a dozen armed guards with torches already lit against the coming dark. Their captain, Ramon, stood at the fore, his scarred face grim. "By the gods," Ramon breathed as he took in Kane's twitching form. "You actually caught the River Demon?" "Not a demon," Ron corrected sharply, already striding past. "A possessed man. And we need him alive."