The HaRT Knight Decaverse

Correspondence from the Afterlife

Letter 03

Three Hills Haven. Fifth Month Since Departure.

My Dearest A.,

Two months have transpired since my entry into the enigmatic labyrinth of the Blightlands. The proximity of Caim Fos now beckons, a mere week's voyage hence by ferry. It has been a time fraught with darkness, a stretch during which my musings found it difficult to navigate the contours of these pages. However, I am compelled to clarify that this hiatus, while not exempt from justifications, is not proffered as an excuse. The toll extracted by my passage through the Blightlands has cast a pall of somberness upon my spirit. Conceptual understanding of abhorrence is but a mere wraith when juxtaposed against the vivid reality that has unfolded before me. Through the crucible of adversities in my prior existence, I encountered naught resembling the Blight's malevolence.
My life has been consecrated to a code, those same tenets I expounded to multitudes in my former life. Honor, loyalty, integrity, compassion, courage, respect, and righteousness--these were the precepts by which I steered the course of my previous life. However, a disconcerting reckoning materialized last night, casting a shadow upon these principles that once guided me unwaveringly.
In the stillness of night, my compatriots and I sought refuge within a sanctuary known as a Safe Haven--a tavern ensconced within the heart of the Blightlands, fortified by rudimentary wards that shield against the Blight's horrors. It is imperative to convey, for your probable unfamiliarity with the term, that a Haven serves as an oasis for weary travelers, offering respite betwixt settlements. Yet, the tranquility of that eve was fractured when one among us was roused from slumber by anguished screams, a wail that echoed with torment hitherto unimaginable for a soul not ensnared in the clutches of tormentors. Our collective attendance promptly transpired as we entered the anguished man's chamber, a sight met by a writhing form sprawled upon the floor, consumed by a paroxysm of agony--the ominous blight had taken root within him. This marks the second instance where my gaze has borne witness to one's succumbing to the blightsickness, memories of the initial soul's suffering remain etched within my psyche. Still, the gravity of what transpires upon succumbing to the blightsickness--evoking a fate that defies comprehension--reverberates with harrowing resonance. The blightsickness's clutches do not consign one to conventional death; for in a realm already embraced by the ephemeral coil of existence, mortality merely ushers a soul towards rebirth. The blight, however, perpetrates a perversion of existence. Following its vile embrace, a soul relinquishes its sanctity, morphing into an insentient abomination--a fate universally dreaded. Souls left untethered to corporeal form swiftly succumb to the blight's corrosion, their essence contorted into nigh-undefeatable entities christened “adumbratim”--monstrosities fueled by cannibalistic urges and the turmoil of corrupted soul energy.
The weight of this dismal destiny is a somber tapestry, woven from threads of terror and despair. Such trepidation was etched upon the countenance of my companions, a testament to shared dread. The silent symphony of expressions spoke a chilling truth--we comprehended, united in our unsaid realization, that should this man's transformation unfold within the haven's safety, a cascade of death would ensue, extinguishing lives with ruthless celerity.
Here, dearest A., I am seized by remorse as I recollect my actions and choices, which, paradoxically, upheld self-preservation at the cost of compassion. This convoluted decision stemmed from fear, manifesting as cruelty. The paradox of my moral compass remains stark. It was I who turned away from compassion and embraced an expedient choice, orchestrating, in conjunction with my fellow survivors, the removal of the infected man from the haven's confines. This decision culminated in an incendiary ending, setting alight a pyre that consumed the frail vessel of a soul plagued by the blight's embrace. All that remained--a crystalline sphere--a soul's essence crystallized into something far too familiar.
For you see, my friend, as the flames waned and relinquished their fiery embrace, a recollection surged to the forefront of my consciousness; I had borne witness to these curious spheres within the confines of Caim Gorllewin, being passed between merchants and their customers in exchange for wares. However, at that juncture, I had remained oblivious to the grim revelation they concealed.
But now comprehension dawned: the currency of this afterworld comprises fallen souls. Though fire, a soul's essence – that which epitomized the value of a life--had been transmuted into currency. This notion unsettles me, for it seems incongruous and unjust to tether the exchange of trivialities to the cost of a soul's sanctity. The Shepherd King himself has perpetually reserved the gravest punishments for souls that elect to barter their essence. Such a perspective leads me to query, within this kingdom ruled by the Shepherd King, a domain wherein virtuous souls are bestowed peace and felicity while Apothes, the Punisher, exacts retribution within the New Tartos Prison--how could such a state of affairs descend into this dire abyss? How could the Shepherd King permit this? Were it not for the knowledge that the Shepherd King is an embodiment of Death, one could be persuaded to believe that he himself must be deceased.
My queries persist, a refrain echoing since my arrival within Cladis--a realm poised within the afterworld's embrace. If I can unravel these enigmas, perchance I shall unearth the panacea of enlightenment. Although progress may elude quantification, I am afforded direction as I journey toward Caim Fos. Let us hope I do not forfeit my very essence amidst the enshrouding darkness.

Yours with a Weighted Heart,
Amobiel