Stories made by heart, stories born from words.
A multitude of tales dwell within the human soul.
Lauren Valley is a place where stories are
born—a sonorous voice keeps it alive.
Its source is unknown, yet the stories whisper:
It came from a cranny hidden among ancient stone.
Present
Somewhere in an alleyway, nothing flickered but candlelight.
It wavered dimly in the breath of the wind.
Windy as it was, a band of reavers moved through the dark, searching for their quarry.
Viour, the demanding soul, watched them as they passed—and in time, they came upon the prey they pursued.
The band of reavers hunted their prey with haunting words. They pursued violence—merciless and cruel. The prey was fragile, trembling with a shaking hand.
Viour watched quietly, from within the grim shadow that shrouded his form.
Time moved—
click… click… click…
It did not take long for the prey to be shattered by the band of reavers. Satisfied by their inhuman acts—(of assault and violence)—
they left the prey alone in the void.
The prey's sobs echoed through the alleyway—
traumatized by the abyss that had touched his soul, and the demons that had ripped his heart.
Then came gentle footsteps.
The prey flinched—afraid the abyss had returned.
But no.
Viour stood beside him—his eyes filled with
warmth, yet carrying a commanding presence.
"You—" he began in a gentle tone, almost reassuring.
But before he could continue, the prey cried out, voice trembling with anger and pain:
"Why? Why?! Why did you sit in the corner—just watching while I was tortured by the abyss?"
Viour, unaccustomed to such twisted cruelty, found no excuse to give.
"I am no fighter," he said softly.
"Still, you could have asked for help!"
"There was none to be seen," he sighed. "None at all. All I could do was watch the horror unfold before my own eyes." His voice carried a trace of guilt that lingered in the dark.
The prey whispered,
"You cannot touch me… can you?"
Viour answered softly,
"I wonder—can I, or can I not?"
The prey's voice drifted like a fading breeze:
"You do not deny it."
"Your presence is like a whisper—fleeting, almost unreal."
Viour replied with a faint smile,
"Perhaps my utmost presence is nothing more than a soft sigh—melancholy, yet ever near."
The prey grumbled, turning away,
"Hmph."
And left the void within Viour—alone.
Viour—now ever so lonely—returned to Lauren Valley as the sun slowly sank beyond the horizon.
The journey had been long, and when he arrived, the Valley was already cloaked in twilight's soft embrace.
There, in the fading light, he stumbled upon a gentle soul—Yvole; the man he had met only days before.
For a moment, their eyes met, and something unspoken passed between them—a quiet recognition, as if two halves of the same whisper finally found each other.