Murkspire sprawled like a web of chaos across a tapestry of emerald foliage and neon light. District platforms: cities unto themselves, lie in the shadows cast from the smaller locale rings above: away from the hustle and bustle of the guilds; rope bridges, covered in flowering vines – ran like the connecting tissue of a vibrant colossus, binding it all together.

  Eldrin Mythweaver had chosen the city's location well, seeking to impose his will on the most ancient of titans, whose canopies like clouds wafted for miles around, dancing and entwining with sister tree and spirit mist alike.

  The Keeper’s lore told: Eldrin looked upon the Mire’s canopied night sky and knew – from the sage moss’s bright glow – that none had ever gathered those mana-packed tufts.

  None knew his level, his class, or what skill Eldrin had used; warping and bending the first titan, withdrawing foliage and folding trunk – widening the base and deepening roots, until a platform grew, one whose area might hold an entire city, towers and all.

  Not all titan trees’ canopies reached such ethereal heights. Nay, some lived like bonsai, stretching no more than two or three stories high – creating vast tunnels over unseen swamp-lands. Eldrin had created a district tree for each of the guilds, and more – his grand works never realised, their designs hidden away or perhaps lost to time, the Keepers Guild would not say, one of their many secrets, locked in secret libraries hidden in disappearing vaults.

  Eldrin had vanished without a trace – no district trees ever again shaped; they became known as ‘city trees’ by those ancestors of orcs and creatures – of scale, slime, and hide.

  Denizens who braved the bustling district platforms today fight for levels and class in a red and pink haze of rune-sign-lit streets, among buildings stacked like blocks four and five stories high – their square and trapezoid frames covered in windows glowing with any color and size one might imagine.

  The Spire, aptly named, stands above any guild tower, devoid of right angles and straight lines – the tallest of its branching conical sections – may one day reach those unmolested sage moss tufts, its titan tree – to this day, yet still grows.

  The Keepers Guild – whose schemes and plots put the most grizzled veteran of the great game to shame. Lords, commanders, masters, priests, and every system-blessed class in between, be they above or below, knew of the depths of depravity the Keepers Guild might reach. Their charter was the only law its members knew, and none were sacred before its will – their most loyal members acting swiftly and without remorse. Knowledge was power – truth kept, a [ Keeper ]’s work never done.

  Eldrin had created the spire from the first stone to the last – its sweeping stairwells, majestic spirals, and rune-scripted corridors pulled from the recesses of his imagination. His true legacy lay closer to the district's decking and its twisting, turning barracks.

  Guards' boot heels clicking trailed like ants to and from the district – night and day – carrying orders, notes, supplies, prisoners, coin, and any other supply guild members might request, require, and or otherwise desire.

  War took supplies after all; none knew this better than the Keepers, who waged a ceaseless campaign, all in the guise of securing the City’s and, by extension, the Mire’s future. Its planning and execution took place out of sight.

  Secret tea houses tucked into back rooms locked by skill and stone. Generals on both sides plotted and schemed, but some took a different approach, hiding in plain sight. If you could speak their language and ask, they would be sure to let you know – there was nothing more critical, nothing closer to their founder's heart – than the Spire’s sage moss problem.

  Its ancient peak proved a perfect spawning ground for the spirit-attuned algae. To battle this enemy, the Keepers employed a secret weapon, the oldest of its members, Wyrmback Monitors. These warriors of the graise worked tirelessly to weaken the enemy.

  The Keepers had control over their domain, encompassing everything from the smallest microbes to the lightest wisps of knowledge, spanning both the physical and the intangible. It was all power, and the Keepers wielded it like a legendary blade. Today, as Wrymbacks munched and guards patrolled, their uniforms pressed and skills levelled, the Keeper’s blade in the darkness strolled through the barracks, winding paths. He was on his way to interrogate their new prisoner, one with interesting implications, if the reports were accurate. He was in no hurry; he adjusted his robes, checking the tooled leather spellbook at his hip. Appearances were everything.

  The sound of small, sharp nails, scrabbling over stone – disappearing out a window – brought Rens' mind back into his body. Eyes shut, drool dribbling down his chin, he –

  [ *Shing* ]

  [ Echo Runner Level 13 ! ]

  [ Gratz! Qualifications Met. ]

  [ Skill (Passive) -- Anime Hair Lost. ]

  [ Skill (Passive) Anime Hair --> Super Anime ]

  [ Skill (Passive) Super Anime Obtained! ]

  “Yay, I’m going back to sleep.”

  The rattling of chains. The press of cold steel, biting into his wrists. It might be hard to sleep like this. Ren lifted his head. Cobblestone, a ratty pile of straw in the corner; Ren’s head lolled to this side, still half asleep, a small table tools on top: a metal spike, narrow enough to fit into a nasal passage, a small pean hammer lay beside it; Ren rolled his head the other direction, nothing to see here. A window lit the room; a bit of sage moss stained the ledge, having been chewed down to the stone.

  “At least the lighting is good.”

  Ren was draped across the wall, arms raised in a Y. He stretched his legs, easing the pressure on his wrists. He glanced up, confirming what he already knew. What happened?

  “Something went terribly wrong – was it my lyrics? Maybe I shouldn’t have mixed so many – unknown substances, at least, not at one time, in such large amounts – heh, heh.”

  Ren stretched like a cat, pulling taut against his restraints. His breath smelled terrible, no surprise there; he hadn’t seen a toothbrush since – He continued to roll out his spine, enjoying the glorious sensations of blood being forced into his extremities. Having pushed all the breath from his lungs and survived the smell, his stretching complete, Ren spoke to nobody in particular, “The vibes here are –”

  DG4!

  His little flying football friend, where had he gone, and more importantly, what had he done? The little scamp had delivered him a microphone; there had been something about it, he remembered seeing – “my words rippled in the air.”

  Ren shook his head, looking around the room, “DG, I hope you’re alright, little buddy.”

  Ren relaxed his neck, bouncing his chin off his chest. Gathering himself, he glanced again at the stool and the instruments of –

  "Very un-chill..."

  If you were to ever ask Ren about what he did next, he would deny it. It didn’t matter what day you asked him on, what time it was, or how many paper cones of Sandy’s – he would never tell you the truth.

  Ren flailed and bucked – generally doing an excellent impression of a toddler's tantrum, he succeeded in doing precisely nothing – he bruised his head, banged his joints, and definitely wounded his pride. After the episode was done, cooler head prevailing, Ren worked out his predicament with a little more thought.

  “Leverage, I’m strung up like what’s his nuts on the cross for a reason – these jerks really don’t like me.”

  Ren jumped, trying to tuck heels to butt. He succeeded only in bashing heels into stone – bone on stone, he decided, was his least favourite combination. It was at this point that Ren, for the second time in his new life, behaved in a way that, if you asked, he would deny, until his dying day.

  After he finished doing his best impression of a mime, doing their – Shirley Temple learns, she’s best remembered for being a mocktail – impression, he calmed down – again, and cooler heads prevailed. Lifting his chin off his chest, drawing in a slow, deliberate breath, so as to calmly and collectedly –

  “[ELECTRIC PACE], [BOMBASTIC BASS DROP], [BOMBASTIC BASS DROP] …”

  Feet stomped, wrists flailed, and Ren ducked notes of energy and force, jumping for his temples – in the midst of his second tantrum, he remembered something.

  “Ahhh, what the heck, may as well look good, while I’m doing it, [Super Anime] !”

  Let it be said, Ren, going oh-for-three – controlling his inner two-year-old, was not his best day, but there were many good reasons, the least of which was the pile of straw in the corner and its suspiciously colored stains.

  As the dust settled, Ren took occasion to notice sheer blue notes floating around his ankles. He flexed his toes and rolled his ankles – noticing how pristine his sandals were, and wondered –

  “Huh? What's going on with my…?”

  Ren went limp, like a rag doll or a child throwing a – Ren, wasn’t going there, not even in an analogy – and he floated, held in place like a balloon, light as a feather.

  “So the voice of Pennywise had more than just cosmetics for me.”

  Ren, the buoyant, grew a gallows grin. Straightening his arms, bowing his chest, Ren climbed up the wall, walking backwards. He ended up with his arms at his sides, horizontal to the floor. He looked down at his wrists – the length was all wrong. Taking one wrap of chain around a wrist at a time, Ren bent his knees, working himself into a squat. When he was ready, taking a few deep breaths, like a champion lifter, Ren strained into the chains wrapped around his forearms.

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  One inch at a time, chains constricting, veins bulging, breathing steady – Ren heaved, corded and layered muscles, from days of running, and whatever the chemical vat and core thingy had done to him – stretched iron chains, one link at a time, the groaning of stretching steel.

  It would only take a single –

  The chain snapped in one direction, and Ren flung, like a door off its hinges, in the other. He hit the torture stand, sending tools flying across the room.

  “That was easy enough.”

  Now more limber, with one arm free, Ren yanked himself into position. Legs spread to either side of a wall ring, he once again wrapped his arm in a chain, this time pulling together as he gripped the chain with his offhand. Length appropriate, Ren the champion lifter, flexed and heaved.

  "Come on, you--"

  Ren rocketed across the room, hitting the far wall, where he stuck, arms and legs splayed. His top arm, still weighted from the chain, fell to the ground, peeling him like an onion. Ren settled on the ground, hovering inches above it, wrists touching, mission impossible style.

  Ren took deep breaths. He wasn’t going to freak out; there was no reason to be upset. He simply wasn’t used to having floaty powers. He was sure something like this would never happen again.

  After collecting himself, Ren dusted off his palms, chains rattling – and looked down.

  “Sorry, Dr. Hack’n Saw, I have a better use for your implements of torture.”

  –

  Ren had managed to knock the end of the shackles' pin, which was the weak point in the design. He was sure he remembered that from a movie. Movie hack or not, his body had to withstand the abuse of him banging away on the pin's head.

  He massaged his wrists; they were a bit sore, but unblemished. Having escaped his bonds, Ren moon-walked to the window, hair waving.

  He popped his head out and brought it right back in. Ren didn’t like what he saw. “Did I really deserve to be put in the highest tower?” Figures like toy soldiers marched around corners, drilled in yards, their weapons clanking against crude wooden target dummies. A maze of barracks ran like cracks from the tower's base to the edge of the platform.

  Ren shook his head, glancing down at his feet, hovering inches above the ground. He smiled at the notes bouncing off the stone wall. The pattering of footsteps one stone, distant, almost a whisper – drawing closer.

  Wow, my hearing is –

  “Open up that door, the wards are breached!” A voice carried by the approaching steps.

  “Sir! Right away.” Came a worried voice—the jangling of keys. Swords were drawn. Ren was out of time.

  Ren turned back to the window. Steel sliding on steel. I’m out of time. The doors' latch snapped up. Ren kicked off the wall, launching himself towards the sound. He tucked his chin to his chest, shouldering the door; the sounds of fingers crunching beneath chainmail gloves as he impacted the wooden frame. Curses and hollow banging, as the other voice fell down the stairs, their curses fading.

  Ren stopped listening. He put his back to the door, no time to hesitate now, clearing his mind and squaring his shoulders, he kicked off the door, propelling himself toward –

  Halfway to the window, Ren leapt with a twist, heart in his stomach; heights weren’t exactly his thing. He screamed, doing his best impersonation of Superman finding kryptonite in his tights, moments after launching himself from a twenty-story building.

  "LOOK OUT BELOW!"

  Canopy—cityscape—barracks— trees—they came one after the other, blurring together in a kaleidoscope of color as he spiralled away.

  Wyrmbacks stopped their munching, DG4 stopped his graze-gazing – from his covert position, as he waited for Ren to – do anything but what he had done, and far below, a tiny peaceful not very evil looking speck, looked up, to see their escaping subject.

  A human bullet arced through the air, leaving a swirling trail of sheer blue notes popping and fading. DG4 trailing, his after-image, still lurking.

  The aether hung hot and heavy, and the Spires' watchful eye cast doubt on all who looked upon its lofty heights. Two companions stood upon skill-enhanced soil. Sandals tightened, packs overflowing, and hearts uncertain. Behind them – trouble, the [Keepers] wrath; ahead an endless and inescapable swamp.

  Draven stubbed his finger into Thalgor's chest, his jaw set, and eyes ablaze.

  "I shouldn't be here -- not with anyone, and never with you."

  Thalgor gripped his satchel, strap tight against his chest. Unbowed by the assault, eyes firm, conscious clear.

  “We don’t have a choice.”

  He started. Draven looked away. Thalgor continued.

  "We must go, we can't evade their watchful eyes, the bog’s shifting soil, and hidden depths, our only security. You better than most, might be our guide.”

  Bats clicked, in sharp, rapid succession – interrupted by a rapidly approaching sound.

  “Yee..EEHAAAAWWW!”

  Draven paused in the act of placing a rune-stick in his lips. Thalgor did too – together they looked in the direction of –

  A missile plummeted overhead – in their general vicinity; such was the team's luck that day.

  "What is -- "

  Thalgor bolted. Draven shook his head, adjusting his collar, taking a long, deep inhale, as he headed in Ren’s direction. On his approach, Draven noticed several things.

  Ren had back-stopped into a massive root that extended from the soil, like an overpass on an organic freeway. DG4, the faithful, buzzed and whirred, jets flaring, basket arm hooked around a sandal, while Thalgor danced and fussed, trying not to break anything, and Draven – he let out a long regretful sigh, as he flicked his rollie to the ground, where the damp earth swallowed it up with a hiss.

  Things were off to a rocky start, but the best was yet to come, at least if you asked DG4 – ever the trusty sidekick, he had great faith in his companions.

  The path ran in a straight line for as long as it lasted. Shallow, bright green marshes gave way to deep, dark swamps, where pontoon decks, their ancient planks creaking and twisting under the weight of sandal and boot, slapped against the dark liquid beneath.

  Their days were lit by an eerie light, filtering through distant and closed canopies, leaving one to guess when dusk might arrive. Time dragged on, a sick joke, spirits in the mist laughing, their only joy, the torturing of one's own internal clock.

  Mist a mind of its own – or perhaps, spirits did more than lurk, and mock – slithered down trees and under roots, gliding over the surfaces wet and dry, giving pause to those who might step without care.

  DG4 thrummed overhead, soaking it all in, not a care in the world, his jets thrummed, pilot lights twinkled, and his canvas snapped – taught and proud like a sailor's pressed dress. Draven walked ahead of the line, their leader in pout – his duster was crisp, and his smoke flowed steady, twisting and turning, to join the vapours all around. Thalgor wore a serious expression as he alternated between clutching his satchel and pointing out interesting facts nobody cared about. Ren, in board shorts and pristine sandals, was happy to be away from the Spire.

  They brushed aside vines slick with dew, climbed over roots grown up out of the water – like monsters from the deep, and passed under titan roots like whales breaching the surface.

  It had been days or perhaps weeks since the queer quad’s last sighting of Murkspire’s lights, like dying embers seen through the cracks of trees, left layered in their wake.

  Forks came at them like a game of asteroids, ceaseless and with increasing pace, the world of Sinking Gods Mire, opening up before them. It was a strange world, vast and contained within the greater world writ large – Ren was more conscious of that fact than his companions, having been the only one to venture out.

  Haunting cave mouths peered at the end of branching paths, while others contained vortexes – writhing and churning in place, tunnels to underwater realms and cities, that Draven assured were quite safe.

  All save Draven, and DG4 – he trusted his team with all his heart – had long since lost their way, so many twists and turns had they taken.

  Fires of nomadic tribes oft dwindled in the night. Giving the feeling of being tracked, gone in the day, only to return at night. Sounds travelled best at night, when the mists relaxed and fell into dormant states — causing even the crinkle of a bedroll to project for miles, perhaps allowing distant pursuers an easy signal to trace. At times, they wondered if the swamp thought it best they be captured or killed – even Draven, the sullen, seasoned veteran of swamp and soil, couldn’t escape this feeling on occasion.

  The parties' spirits dampened as their surroundings dried up, except for Ren, happy to see dry ground and rocky shores – and DG4, who was full of faith and pride, at his team's excellent pace.

  Their new surroundings lie scattered in all directions as if a careless god had spilt rock, stone, and sand from on high. Their pace slowed as dry sand underfoot pulled at their hopes and dreams.

  When night came, Ren, sensing the mood, suggested they set up a camp off the road for some extended rest.

  As the night grew long, and the canopies' sage moss came to life, like glittering stars, on a desert night. The companions gathered around a small rune block, their camp a small wedge cut between two haphazardly stacked rocks, the color of a burnt orange peel.

  Warmth from the small cube radiated out, in opposition to its size, sounds of a fire cracked and popped from symbols glowing like freshly dried rust. The companions chewed on bland protein cubes, while DG rested on a nearby rock, digesting amiant aether, as he recharged his energy. Ren looked up from a mouthful of rubbery goodness, grinning as he spoke.

  “Great job with supplies, Draven. These cubes are super–filling.”

  Thalgor chimed in, coming to their guide's defence, “Yes, they’re packed with protein, of course, as well as a mix of vitamins and carbohydrates. It is actually exciting how cubes are made, a derivative of bok rice, hand-milled, and skill –”

  Draven blew a cloud of smoke into the clay-skinned orc's face, silencing his animated explanation on the finer points of protein cube fabrication.

  DG4 gave a sharp whistle for Draven to be nice, and Ren took another bite, listening to the sounds in the night. Distant howling. The flitting of bugs. Movement beneath the sand. The crackling of their rune-cube. Draven grumbled. Thalgor info dumping. A wash of sounds, unfamiliar to Ren, he looked up at the sage moss twinkling in the night sky, a question on his mind, "Is that heater-box making fire-side sounds?"

  Thalgor, hiding in the tunnel of his hood, was taking a rare moment away from his satchel, enjoying the cube side chat, "I'm glad you asked that question – it's a point of pride, I spent the extra coin on an enchantment, thinking it might liven the mood, as we marched into the deep swamp.

  DG4 beeped in agreement (his companions indeed deserved the best in every detail). Thalgor smiled, “The Broken Lands are an unsettling place; it is well that we stop now. Our pace has been hard.

  The rune-cube popped, “After the Tearing, many places such as this cropped up. Mostly unexplored, the terrain is alien to us, Mireborn, and the loot here is poor."

  “Tearing?” Asked Ren.

  “Yes – this was before the founding of the Keepers guild, mind you, so records are sparse. It is written: the land shook, a fissure opened up in the sky, all were thrown to the ground, even titan trees were bowed and broken, throughout it all, the sound of thunder, constant; starting as a low rumble, that grew to a cacophony, to drown out the voice of Deybroke God of Muck and Grime. All at once, the pressure cut off, the sound ended, and the sky darkened. When the people woke from their stupor, a mist shrouded the skys, the Mire's boundaries, our tomb."

  Draven shot a ring aggressively into the air, and DG4 gave a low, sad moan. Silence. A howling, Ren cocked his head, sharpening his eyes. Thalgor filled them in, “Cleft hyenas, if I’m not mistaken. Unique to this place, and one of the rare treasures to be found here – if you can, find them. Their coats shift to match their surroundings. There is an obscure theory, one I find to be credible – the beasts throw their voices, deceiving would-be trackers."

  Beastiary’s place them in dry, rocky climates, like these – rare in the Mire. Their pelts are hard to come by, as they can camouflage themselves remarkably well; their pelts shift, their colors are mysterious, and their movements are elusive. Some believe they have movement abilities, while a more obscure theory, one I favor, refers to them being able to ‘throw’ their voices, deceiving would-be trackers.”

  Ren shook his head. There's something below the sand.

  Thalgor squeaked as he leapt into the darkness. Draven and Ren exchanged looks as DG4 powered up. Thalgor chased after something, moving on the ground, leaving a trail in its wake.

  Ren’s eyes grew wide; his danger sense, late to the party, was in full-on red alert. Movement beneath the sand, all around them, fast and growing, "Thalgor, get back here!"

  DG4 zoomed out of the camp, whistling to the rescue. Ren followed, Draven hot on his heels. They dug into the sand. Hearts pumping, pupils dilated, lungs burning, and jets flaring. The three skidded to a halt, as Thalgor was down on his knees, arms half-buried in the sand, a look of panic on his face; Thalgor's eyes were wild, panic replaced with pleading, and all the companions piled on, in desperate need.

  A groan from down deep. Like a mountain coming to life, buried in the sand. The companions froze. DG4 tucked close to Ren. They looked into each other's eyes. Something was wrong; they shouldn't be – A vortex of sand shot from the ground like a geyser, in a funnel of chaos – limb, fin, a still lit rollie – swirled in the air, before all were sucked down into the ground, flushed like a failed science project.

  Above, echoing howls, fading footprints in the sand, a custom rune-cube.

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