The HaRT Knight Decaverse

Correspondence from the Afterlife

Letter 08

Monk's Wood Haven. 105 Years Since Departure.

A.,

As the sands of time continue to ebb within the ever-flowing river of eternity, my ink finds itself once more upon this parchment. The ceaseless march of years has granted me a longevity unmatched, an agelessness that alternates between gift and curse. The words I weave here are tethered to hope--a beacon amidst the gathering shadows--transmitted across time's unforgiving chasm to you, dear friend, whether you still exist to one day read them or not.
As you will see from my date, I am writing you from a Haven known as the Monk's Wood--my haven that I built myself. Yes, A., I have found myself transmuted from warrior to tavern keeper--an occupation I never foresaw yet one that suits my newfound existence. The Monk's Wood Haven is a refuge in the midst of chaos, a sanctuary amid the tumultuous tides of afterlife. Peace finds purchase here, an elusive salve to soothe the ravages of torment that lingered within my soul.
These letters, I must confess, had remained mere fragments of intention--unfinished, untouched by the finality of my hand. But, in a twist of fate that rekindled my dormant spirit, I find myself able to put quill to parchment once more. The world, in its capricious nature, has seen fit to bestow upon me an extraordinary gift--a gift that illuminates the recesses of despair with a shimmering ray of hope.
Allow me to elucidate the sequence of events that have unraveled before me, a tale interwoven with the delicate threads of fate. It began modestly, as whispers of mysterious disappearances began to breach the tranquil refuge of the Monk's Wood. At first, my suspicion fell upon the occasional miscreant seeking to pilfer goods for their gain. However, the true nature of these vanishing phenomena soon emerged, ushering forth a revelation that would reshape my very perception.
A year past, a barrel of fresh water was the initial victim of this enigma--a theft beyond explanation. My logical mind sought refuge in rationality, attributing the incidents to crafty thieves who had breached the sanctum of my haven. Yet, perplexity plagued me when the absence of patrons rendered such theories untenable. A puzzle unfurled before me, a conundrum that resisted the latticework of reason.
Then, D'lan--newly welcomed into the fold of Ravenmen--fell upon the doorstep of Monk's Wood in a state of unconsciousness, a harbinger of revelations yet to come. Our collective foray into the surrounding woods revealed the presence of a young boy, scarcely ten years old, burdened with sacks of grain as he breached the demarcation of the blightlands. The significance of this child's actions would prove to be the catalyst that would propel me toward the threshold of salvation.
In our pursuit of the boy's origins, we traversed untrodden paths, driven by a curiosity entwined with apprehension. His actions painted a narrative of resilience, an unwavering spirit that had navigated the blightlands with an uncanny tenacity. My mind flashed back to discussions of wolves, their unwavering determination to sever a limb ensnared in the cruel grip of a trap. This boy embodied that spirit, an emblem of survival within an inhospitable realm.
Yet, the veneer of his fortitude masked an underlying truth--the blightsickness had embedded itself within his being. In a poignant scene, the collective resolve of my companions converged with my own, straddling the precipice of compassion and cruelty. We found ourselves confronted with a choice: the merciful release of death or an agonizing descent into the abyss of the blight's corruption.
The echoes of my own past transgressions resounded in that moment, igniting a fire within me--a fire that refused to permit the repetition of past atrocities. A pact formed within my heart, cemented by the realization that this child deserved an opportunity, a chance denied to so many. As we tended to him, the kernel of a theory forged in the annals of Caim Fos began to stir--my untested hypothesis that held the promise of a cure.
A concoction brewed and bubbling, a mixture of hope and desperation, as my trembling hands set forth to mend what the blight had sundered. The minutes ticked away, and as his body writhed in the throes of agony, the potion took root within his veins. Its efficacy was revealed, a revelation that culminated after hours of torment--a testament to my conviction, a testament to the resilience of a young soul.
As he stirred from the shadows of unconsciousness, the specter of the blight relinquished its grip. The tide of hope surged within my heart, intertwining with the collective determination of my newfound comrades--the Ravenmen. United by a common purpose, they resolved to disavow a life dedicated to avarice, instead embracing the mantle of healers. Armed with the knowledge I had imparted, they embarked upon a quest to illuminate the darkness--to heal, to mend, and to reshape this realm's destiny.
In this moment, A., I am overcome by an overwhelming sense of joy, the likes of which I have not tasted in ages. A spark has ignited, a flame that refuses to be extinguished, forging an unbreakable bond of purpose between disparate souls. The world may be fraught with turmoil and despair, yet a glimmer of hope emanates from the heart of Monk's Wood Haven. With this, I send my words across the expanse of time--a declaration of triumph amidst the chaos, a proclamation of resilience against the odds.

With Renewed Purpose,
Amobiel