Kaelen Stonehand, their leader, fixed Vorlag with an unblinking stare. Kaelen was a Shard-Warrior, his raw geo-energy focused into devastating strikes. His weapon, a massive obsidian cleaver, rested against his shoulder, its polished surface reflecting the stark glare of the twin suns. He tore through enemies like a force of nature, cleaving both flesh and crystalline rock with equal ferocity.
Beside him stood Lyra Frostshard, a Glacial Seer. She had, with but a gesture, momentarily stilled the shimmering heat haze that twisted above the ravaged land. Her touch could make unstable obsidian hum with chilling calm, or conjure crystals of biting frost.
Next, Roric Echo, the second-in-command. His keen eyes missed nothing, his mind sharp as newly fractured glass. He had unleashed the resonance attack, a focused wave of pure vibration that made the ground beneath the Shard-Serpent shudder. He could feel the pulse of the Marches, detect the hidden flaws in the crystalline shell of the world.
Lastly, Gronn Ironhide. A mountain of muscle and hardened will. His true nature, despite a deceptively calm demeanor, was brutal. He shattered the Shard-Serpent’s head with a single, earth-shaking blow, his raw strength a testament to his chosen path.
Kaelen’s gaze, sharp as an obsidian blade, cut through the shimmering air.
“How did you survive?” His voice was a low growl.
“Every other soul became splinters in the beast’s gullet. How did you stand alone?”
Vorlag met the stare, his face unreadable beneath the mask of dust and dried gore. “I… I awoke amidst the shards. When awareness returned, I was upon the crystalline surface.” The truth, yet veiled in deliberate ambiguity.
Kaelen’s eyes narrowed further, twin points of hardened stone. “Awakened, you claim? Lyra, examine the Mark upon his wrist.”
Lyra, her movements fluid as flowing ice, stepped forward. Her fingers, cool as polished marble, closed around Vorlag’s wrist. A sharp twist sent a jolt of pain up his arm. He grunted, muscles tensing.
She examined the skin, turning his wrist under the harsh light.
“No Mark. It is clean.” Lyra’s voice held a note of genuine surprise. She showed Kaelen the smooth skin.
“Only fortune then,” Kaelen muttered, a hint of disdain in his tone. “No awakening. The Maw of the Marches is not so easily defied by mere chance.”
Among the Wayfarers, when a soul Awakened, seven thin lines appeared on their wrist. These Crystalline Marks resembled ancient military insignia.
A single line, glowing faintly, signified a Shard-rank F. Two lines, E-rank. Up to four, C-rank.
The color of the glow indicated their power’s essence. Shard-Warriors bore a crimson hue, like fresh blood on jagged obsidian. Glacial Seers displayed cerulean, akin to ice from the deepest chasm-lakes. Echo-Strikers showed umbral, the color of twilight shadows cast by crystal spires. Even irregulars, those few with unique, unclassified abilities, bore a Mark.
Kaelen’s wrist pulsed with crimson light, a clear declaration of his Shard-Warrior status. Lyra, Roric, and Gronn bore their own distinct Marks.
Vorlag’s wrist, to their eyes, was an unblemished expanse of skin.
“He’s just a man blessed with absurd luck,” Gronn rumbled, his voice like grinding stone.
“The Shard-Serpent does not grant reprieve to mere fortune,” Roric countered, his gaze calculating. “Not to a single soul from a shattered crawler.”
“What course, Leader?” Lyra asked.
“The Core-Crystal Veins beckon,” Kaelen decided, turning his back on Vorlag. “Bring him to the crawler.”
Lyra let out a short, cold chuckle. Vorlag, however, found no humor in the words. A cold dread settled in his gut.
They saw nothing. The single line on his wrist, unseen by them, pulsed with the deep, somber luminescence of freshly cooled obsidian. Not red, not blue, not umbral—but the color of the very Marches themselves. The hue of ancient, raw power.
He knew, instinctively, that this color was unheard of. Stories of Awakened with this specific shade were absent from any lore. His power, the mastery over the crystalline formations, over the Obsidian Marches themselves, was unlike any other.
The entire wasteland, the endless expanse of razor-sharp rock and glittering spires, was his stage. The thought sent a shiver through him, both exhilarating and terrifying.
Exposure would be a disaster. He had witnessed the fate of others whose abilities defied the norm: dragged to laboratories, dissected, their essence harvested. He was a mere F-rank, a commoner in their world of powerful Wayfarers.
He needed to hone his abilities. To strengthen them, to ascend. That would offer a sliver more chance for survival, however slight.
Another challenge. The ceaseless struggle of this world. Damn it all, he thought, biting down hard on his lip. The inability to reveal his awakened power gnawed at him, a constant, suffocating pressure. Yet, it was better than the helplessness of moments before.
Vorlag chose to cling to that small shard of hope.
---
Gronn’s massive hand clapped him on the shoulder, a jolt of bone-deep impact. “Hear me, whelp! Mount the cargo carrier.”
“You dislike it?” Gronn’s voice held a hint of menace.
“No,” Vorlag replied quickly, clambering onto the open platform. “I find the cargo carrier… suitable.”
Moments later, the rest of the party climbed into the cabin. The Shatter-Crawler, powered by pulsing Core-Crystals, surged across the treacherous terrain.
Vorlag sat hunched on the platform, observing the desolate landscape. The twin suns, blood-orange eyes, began their slow descent towards the jagged horizon.
The Obsidian Marches, brutal by day, turned lethal under the growing gloom.
---
No matter how formidable a party of Wayfarers, survival in the Obsidian Marches at night was a gamble no one willingly took. Kaelen Stonehand drove his crawler onward, pushing its limits towards the safety of the Obsidian Quarry.
They arrived just as the last sliver of sunlight vanished.
“Is this the Core-Crystal Veins?” Vorlag stood, steadying himself against the crawler’s jostling.
A massive, jagged peak dominated the horizon, a fortress carved from the heart of the Marches themselves. A colossal wall, built of raw, unyielding obsidian, encircled the base, a defiant barrier against the prowling Shard-Serpents. Shard-Wardens, armed and vigilant, stood sentinel atop the battlements.
Only the main gate offered passage into the inner sanctum of the crystalline mountain.
As Kaelen’s party approached, the Wardens on the wall opened the massive gate, the grinding of stone on stone echoing across the barren land. The crawler slid through, entering the sheltered interior.
Within the fortress walls lay a small city, a collection of hardy shelters and workshops. As a primary hub for Core-Crystal extraction, supplying the distant Shardhaven, it bustled with activity. Though dwarfed by the great city, it offered most amenities for its grim residents.
Kaelen’s crawler rumbled to a halt. A Shard-Warden, his face etched with the hardships of the Marches, approached. Recognition flickered in his eyes, morphing into a scowl.
‘Why is this human trash here?’ The thought seemed to hang unspoken in the air. Kaelen Stonehand, known as ‘The Cleaver’ for his merciless brutality, was infamous.
“Long time, Cleaver. What folly brings you to our veins?” The Warden’s voice was tight with thinly veiled contempt.
“My business is my own. Why pry into my movements?” Kaelen’s reply was sharp, dismissive.
The Warden’s face flushed crimson. His hand clenched into a fist at his side.
Gronn stepped forward, his immense frame blocking the Warden’s view of Kaelen. “Care to test your mettle, Warden?” His voice was a low growl.
Faced with Gronn’s sheer presence, the Warden’s fist slowly relaxed. Gronn, true to his moniker, possessed strength beyond measure. No low-rank Wayfarer could stand against such a force.
The Warden took a step back. “No strife while you lodge here. That is our law.”
“My quarry lies beyond these walls, not within them,” Kaelen chuckled, a dry, grating sound. “Rest assured, I hold no interest in your petty affairs.”
Kaelen might be ‘The Cleaver,’ but he was not foolish enough to provoke the direct authority of Shardhaven within its own managed Quarry. This place served merely as a waystation for his true objectives out in the Marches.
“Oh, by the way, take this one,” Kaelen said, pointing a finger at Vorlag. “His Shatter-Crawler was breached by the Maw. He’s the sole survivor.”
“The transport for the diggers?” The Warden’s brow furrowed.
“Aye. By the time we arrived, every other soul had been rendered to dust. This one alone remained.” Kaelen gestured to Vorlag on the cargo carrier.
The Warden sighed, running a hand through his bristly hair. “Hah! The shortage of hands… it’s a constant gnaw.”
The Core-Crystal Veins always struggled with manpower. Many applied, drawn by desperation, but many more perished. The work deep underground demanded exceptional fortitude, making it a brutal test for even the hardiest souls. They accepted anyone, regardless of status or past.
The Warden approached Vorlag. “You seek entry as a digger?”
“Then follow me. I shall point the way to your creche.”
Vorlag descended from the crawler. “My gratitude for my reprieve,” he said, giving Kaelen a polite, yet utterly blank, nod. He then turned and followed the Warden.
Kaelen watched Vorlag’s retreating figure, his eyes still sharp, still dissecting.
“What stirs you, Leader?” Lyra asked, a puzzled expression on her face. She wondered why Kaelen was so fixated on a seemingly ordinary man.
“Something unsettles me,” Kaelen admitted, his voice low.
“Isn’t it strange?” Roric added. “Every other soul perished. He alone walked away.”
“But we confirmed he’s not Awakened, yes?” Lyra insisted, a slight frown marring her features.
“The Shard-Serpent does not grant reprieve to mere fortune,” Kaelen reiterated, his gaze never leaving Vorlag until he disappeared from sight.
Lyra mumbled to herself, a soft, frustrated sigh escaping her lips. “If not for the Cleaver’s shadow, I might discern the truth. A pity.”
The Warden led Vorlag to the miners’ lodging, a cavernous space carved into the rock. Pointing to an empty alcove, devoid of any furnishings, the Warden said, “This is your creche.”
“It’s vast,” Vorlag observed. “How many souls rest here?”
“Twenty… souls.”
Vorlag’s eyes widened slightly. The room, while large, still seemed impossibly cramped for so many. The pervasive smell of sweat and crystalline dust, the stench of endless toil, made his stomach clench. Twenty men, breathing, sweating, sleeping in such close quarters – the image was suffocating.
The Warden chuckled, a humorless sound, observing Vorlag’s reaction. “I said twenty souls, but not all of them sleep together in one creche. A few might not return, you see, given how many accidents claim lives here daily.”
“Is mining work so dangerous?” Vorlag asked, his voice flat.
“That is precisely why we accept those like you. Those with no abilities, no other recourse.” The Warden’s words were a blunt instrument of reality. Vorlag’s hands clenched at his sides, a phantom urge to strike the man. But such an act would seal his doom. Now was the time for silence, for humility.
“Keep quiet,” the Warden warned, his tone hardening. “Cause trouble, and I shall scatter your fragments to the wind, a feast for the scourers.”
“Are there many scourers around this place?” Vorlag inquired.
“They are legion,” the Warden confirmed, his gaze sweeping the walls of the quarry. “Were this not a mountain of solid rock, it would be their dominion.”