VII: Dead Things

Earth was cold and half-dead.

The ruinous Collapse had blotted out the sun with ash, which in turn brought endless snow after the Traveler had repulsed the Architects. A biting frost chilled the lands, leaving them cold and unwelcoming to all.

What remained of Humanity following the Collapse had survived by either hiding in protected bunkers deep beneath the surface, or by simple luck. When these people began to look upon their ravaged home, despair gripped them in a vice. However, Humanity's faith in the Traveler was not lost, for they knew not much of the destruction was its own doing.

Hopeful to the end, these survivors began organizing into traveling groups and villages, struggling to gather what was needed to survive the seemingly eternal winter.

Then, from the ceaseless snowstorms and, came the luminous machines; the Ghosts. They claimed to be tasked by the Traveler with protecting Humanity, with raising the dead and gone as new vanguards of recovery.

It was a lie.

Tasked by the Traveler with raising the dead, these Ghosts had scattered across the Earth, each seeking out a victim of the Traveler's own counterattack in the Collapse. Some found them in melted buildings, others in collapsed tunnels, or perhaps strewn along a dead field in many pieces. In flashes of bright Light, the Ghosts dragged their chosen dead from oblivion, as instruments of the great war to be waged.

Imbued with the Light's raw power over the cosmos, these chosen would serve as the Traveler's army against the Darkness, at least until its true weapon's completion. By the Ghosts' healing touch, these chosen were restored to physical prowess, even if the age of their bodies suggested otherwise, and be able to shrug off fatal injuries, poisons, and diseases in mere moments. Should they be killed, their Ghosts would be able to restore them to life once more. Their only true weakness laid in the destruction of their Ghost, which would render them mortal irrevocably.

Furthermore, upon their first revival, these new warriors' past memories were stolen away by the Ghosts. Not erased, merely hidden away by their restorers. In this void, it was hoped that the Ghosts would be free to mold these amnesiac undead into tools of death for the Traveler.

However, a fluke appeared in this design.

The Ghosts could not squash the innate conscience of life, even in returning it from death. As a result, the chosen would act of their own accord, forging new identities of their own. The Traveler accepted this compromise, for it required a force of loyal believers. It would merely empower those who followed its scheme, knowingly or otherwise, so that they could chaff away the dissidents.

The Traveler had created an army of dead things given life again, true affronts to both Light and Darkness. But for the Great Machine, they would do well. It need only wait.

As more and more began to walk the Earth, these chosen began to encounter more and more remnants of Humanity, both of flesh and metal. To Humanity, these chosen dead became known as the Risen.

In the eyes of those few who remained, these Risen became likened unto gods, unable to die and bestowed with great power by the Traveler itself. This unending praise stoked hubris and greed in these first Risen, leading them to crave the lands that remained on the wracked Earth; for they were theirs by right.

Ignoring the guiding words of their Ghosts, these Risen grew deluded by their power, becoming thieves and killers. But most dreaded of them were the Warlords, who gathered followings of mortals to their name. They launched violent raids and campaigns against neutral villages and one another. Some even called other Risen to their side, forming fellowships, alliances, and armies to lord over greater swathes of territory.

However, not all of these chosen were so keen to seek glory and power, rather they looked for a purpose in the chaotic world they had come to live in. Some sought isolation, so that they could study their wondrous new power in peace. Others took to defending their mortal kin, though these souls were few in number and strength. Many more simply wished to experience what they could in this world, exploring the ruins of the civilization they had once been a part of.

In spite of their differences, all Risen, be they Warlord, hermit, or adventurer, valued the gift of their Light and the mysterious Traveler it came from. They valued what it permitted them to do and to achieve.

Except for one.

One man drifted the ravaged Earth, alone save for the Ghost at his side. He had grown to disdain his Light. When the spectre that accompanied him spoke of it as a gift, he saw a curse. He had been pulled from a peaceful death by this Traveler, so that he could serve its divine name.

This man saw the death and pain that surrounded him, how too many of his fellow Risen terrorized Humanity, and was disgusted. It stirred a hatred for the Light's dogma, a hatred for its apparent design of needless pain.

So, he ignored his spectral companion's pleas to grow in strength. Instead, the man hid himself among the mortal survivors, cloaking his Ghost and his Light; the former under duress. He would live a simple life, one unobstructed by dogma and eternal life.

As Warlords raged against each other and the innocents caught in between, the first century after the Collapse drew to a close. This Long Winter continued inexorably; its grey-white clouds giving spare few glimpses of the stars beyond.

Stars that hid those who had yet to be awoken.


Author's Note

Okay, so this is being added way later than intended, and since it's releasing on the same day as the launch for Season of Opulence, I doubt people will read it until days later. It's just a simple matter of priorities, and I only have myself to blame.

The delay came from me working on this story and two others at the same time, which was a terrible decision in hindsight. So to try making up for lost time, I'll be doing something different with my upload "schedule," if it can even be called that. I intend to start creating smaller chapters, meaning I won't be putting out three thousand word chapters like Pawns To Be. Rather, I'll space out what overstuffed chapters I currently have, and write newer ones with objectively fewer words. This is so that I can hopefully create new chapters faster, and make it less of chore for readers to digest all the fluff in my writing style.

If I do this right, then there will be more chapters getting put out at a more consistent rate, so that people can see more of this thing.