The tide recedes as you walk, revealing a shoreline littered with the secrets of the deep. Shells spiral in impossible geometries. Sea glass glints like fallen stars, polished smooth by time and salt. Occasionally, stranger things emerge from the wet sand—fragments of carved stone bearing unfamiliar symbols, metal objects too corroded to identify, and once, a mask of tarnished silver with empty eye sockets that seem to follow your movement.
The beach narrows as you approach the river mouth, eventually giving way to rocky terrain that forces you inland. The river itself flows with unnatural stillness, its surface unblemished by ripples despite the gentle breeze that combs the dunes. Its waters are not the expected blue or green, but instead a deep amber that captures the morning light like liquid honey. Within its depths, shadows move in ways that defy the current.
As you follow the riverbank inland, the signs of former habitation grow more pronounced. Weathered pilings protrude from the water—remnants of docks long since collapsed. Stone foundations emerge from the sand, marking where houses once stood. Rotted boats lie half-buried along the shore, their hulls split and gaping like the ribcages of massive beasts.
Most curious are the shrines—if shrines they are—that appear at irregular intervals along your route. Stacks of flat stones balanced with impossible precision, each crowned with a final stone bearing the same carved symbol: a perfect circle split by a jagged, lightning-like line. No offerings surround these monuments, no signs of recent visitation, yet they alone among the ruins seem untouched by decay.
Twice more you encounter the shambling hollow ones. The first appears from inside a collapsed fisherman's hut, crawling through a window frame with disjointed movements. The second emerges from behind one of the stone shrines, already lunging with desperate hunger. Each attacks with mindless ferocity, and you barely manage to drive them away with wild, desperate swings of your rusted blade. These hollow husks seem different from the creature on the beach—emptier somehow, their movements more mechanical, their purpose more singular. When struck down, they simply collapse like puppets with cut strings. No essence emerges, no memories flow forth. They are truly empty vessels, devoid of even fragments.
Your movements remain awkward and uncoordinated as you continue your journey, the rusted sword still an unfamiliar weight in your hand. Yet something drives you forward—not memory or purpose, but perhaps the simple need to discover what lies beyond the next bend in the river.
The settlement grows larger on the horizon as you approach. What appeared from a distance to be a handful of structures reveals itself as a substantial village, though one that has clearly seen better days. Buildings of weathered stone and salt-bleached wood cluster around what must once have been a harbor, now partially collapsed and reclaimed by the amber river. The dominating feature is what you had taken for a lighthouse—a cylindrical tower of dark stone that leans at a precarious angle, its upper third sheared away as if by some tremendous force.
At the village's edge, where the wider harbor narrows into the river proper, stands what can only be the Mourning Gate. Unlike the humble structures of the fishing village, this edifice speaks of a different era and purpose altogether. Two massive stone pillars flank the river, each easily five times the height of a man. They support a weathered stone lintel carved with scenes too eroded to decipher, though the circle-and-lightning motif appears prominently at its center. Between the pillars, spanning the river, a portcullis of black metal hangs partially raised—not enough to allow a boat passage, but sufficient for a person to duck beneath on foot, using the exposed riverbed at low tide.
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As you approach this ancient threshold, a figure emerges from the shadows beneath the archway. A hulking knight in full armor steps forward, each movement accompanied by the creak of metal and leather. The armor itself is a marvel of craftsmanship despite its weathered state—interlocking plates engraved with flowing script in a language you cannot comprehend, all tinged with verdigris and rust that somehow enhances rather than diminishes its grandeur. A tattered surcoat hangs from broad shoulders, the emblem upon it faded beyond recognition.
In one gauntleted hand, the knight holds a massive halberd that stands taller than your entire form. The blade catches the morning light, revealing an edge that remains keen despite its age. The knight's helm is equally impressive—a full face covering with a narrow slit for vision, from which a dim amber light emanates rather than anything resembling eyes.
You approach warily, rusted sword at the ready, though it seems a pitiful weapon compared to the knight's imposing presence. To your surprise, the armored figure makes no move to attack. Instead, the knight leans casually on the halberd as if it were a walking staff rather than a deadly weapon.
"Your soul is long lost like most of us," the Gatekeeper says, voice resonating with a hollow echo from within the helm. "You have no soul of your own, yet you are no Soulless. Tell me, what do you seek?"
The question hangs in the air between you. What do you seek? How could you possibly answer when you have no memory, no identity to guide your purpose? You stare back at the knight, unable to form words even if you knew how to speak.
Around you, the landscape seems to hold its breath. The amber river flows silently beneath the gate. Birds—if birds they are, with their too-many wings and eyes like distant stars—circle overhead without sound. The village beyond the gate appears frozen in time, figures visible but unmoving, as if waiting for some signal to resume their hollow existences.
The morning sun has climbed higher, casting the knight's shadow long across the exposed riverbed. Within that shadow, strange patterns form and dissolve, like writing in a language too fluid to capture. The air smells of salt and metal and something deeper—a scent like time itself, if time had fragrance.
"It does not matter," the Gatekeeper continues after your prolonged silence, the amber light within the helm dimming slightly. "There's little left in these lands to find. Faram's Respite lies just North of the Gate. Other Soulless have ventured there, although do not expect a friendly welcome."
The knight straightens, lifting the halberd from where it had rested against the ground. For a moment, you tense, expecting an attack at last. Instead, the armored figure turns to gaze out over the horizon, where distant mountains cut jagged edges against the sky.
"My watch here has ended," the Gatekeeper says, a note of something like weariness or perhaps relief in that resonant voice. "I will head to Dawnsword Keep and find my new purpose. I hope you find yours."
With that, the knight steps aside, clearing your path to the village beyond. No challenge, no combat, no soul to absorb—just passage granted and an enigmatic farewell. The Gatekeeper begins to walk away, following the riverbank in the opposite direction from which you came, armored footsteps leaving deep impressions in the damp earth.
You stare after the departing knight, then turn toward the village. Ducking beneath the partially raised portcullis, you cross the threshold of the Mourning Gate. The air feels different on the other side—heavier, charged with something that raises the fine hairs on what remains of your skin. The amber river seems to flow more slowly here, as if reluctant to pass beneath the ancient portal.
As the shadow of the gate falls over you, you cannot help but wonder at the Gatekeeper's words. Not Soulless, yet without a soul of your own. What does that make you? And what awaits in Faram's Respite, where others like you—or perhaps not like you at all—have gone before?
The village opens before you, and with it, the next step in your journey to discover what manner of being you truly are.
Who you are: What do you seek?
