A Phantom's Origin

Volcier urged his stolen horse forward, the rhythmic sound of hooves echoing through the streets of Cimbar. The city sprawled before him, a vibrant tapestry of culture and intellect. Its reputation as a hub of philosophy and art preceded it, and Volcier couldn't help but feel a sense of anticipation as he ventured deeper into its embrace.

As he rode through the streets, he marveled at the cleanliness and beauty that permeated every corner. Cimbar was a city that took pride in its appearance, ensuring that even its cobblestone pathways were meticulously maintained. The buildings, adorned with intricate carvings and vibrant murals, stood as testaments to the artistic spirit that thrived within its walls.

Cimbar was divided into two distinct halves, each with its own unique charm. Old Cimbar, the historical heart of the city, boasted grand structures that whispered tales of a glorious past. The Palace of the Sceptanar, a magnificent architectural marvel, dominated the skyline, a symbol of power and governance. The nearby University, a beacon of knowledge and enlightenment, beckoned scholars and sages from far and wide.

On the other side, New Cimbar exuded a bustling energy that embraced the present and looked toward the future. The largest port in the region welcomed ships from distant lands, bringing with them trade, ideas, and a myriad of cultures. Homes and shops lined the streets, their facades displaying the craftsmanship of skilled artisans. The air buzzed with the sounds of laughter and conversation, punctuated by the occasional roar from the nearby theaters, hippodrome, and arena, where the arts were celebrated and the passions of the city's inhabitants were ignited.

Volcier guided his horse through the lively streets, absorbing the vibrant atmosphere and the palpable sense of creativity that permeated the air. Even the slaves, a group often denied education and agency elsewhere, were not exempt from the city's commitment to enlightenment. In Cimbar, literacy was a fundamental right, and the pursuit of artistic expression was encouraged in all walks of life.

As he made his way through the city, Volcier couldn't help but be captivated by the sights and sounds that enveloped him. The richness of Cimbar's cultural tapestry unfolded before his eyes, inviting him to immerse himself in its offerings. The scholarly pursuits and artistic endeavors that thrived within the city's boundaries painted a picture of a society that cherished wisdom, creativity, and the free exchange of ideas.

Volcier's stolen horse trotted toward his destination, his excitement mingling with a sense of reverence for the city that lay ahead. Cimbar, a haven of philosophy and art, held the promise of new experiences and a chance for him to deepen his understanding of the world. With each passing step, he embraced the vibrant tapestry of this city-state, ready to delve into its intellectual and artistic depths.

Volcier reached the bustling port of Cimbar, a gateway to distant shores and new adventures. The scent of saltwater mingled with the lively chatter of sailors and the creaking of ship riggings. As he approached the dock, he spotted a weathered merchant sailor, his face etched with the tales of countless voyages.

"Good day, my friend," Volcier greeted the sailor with a nod. "I seek passage to Procampur. Are there any ships departing soon?"

The sailor, a man of seasoned experience, eyed Volcier curiously before replying, "Aye, there be a vessel set to sail for Procampur on the morning tide. The ship's name is the Shar's Blessing. A sturdy vessel, she is."

Volcier listened intently, eager to secure his passage. "I am in need of passage for myself and my horse. Will the ship accommodate such a request?"

The sailor scratched his salt-and-pepper beard, contemplating the logistics. "A horse, ye say? 'Tis uncommon, but we've had stranger cargo aboard the Shar's Blessing. 'Twill require an extra fee, of course."

Volcier nodded, understanding the additional cost. He reached into his pouch, counting out the necessary coins. "I am willing to pay for both myself and my steed. Please ensure that proper arrangements are made."

The sailor's eyes gleamed with a hint of appreciation as he collected the coins. "You've got a deal, my friend. We set sail at sunrise. Be there with your horse, and we shall see to your safe passage."

Expressing his gratitude, Volcier graciously acknowledged the sailor and guided his horse away from the bustling port. The city streets of Cimbar greeted him with their captivating allure as the sun gradually descended, painting the sky with hues of fiery orange and dusky purple.

Lost in the labyrinthine pathways, Volcier's eyes fell upon a cozy inn adorned with a sign bearing the name, The Friksy Chicken. A smile played on his lips as he secured his horse outside and crossed the threshold into the inviting establishment.

Volcier stepped into The Frisky Chicken, the warm ambiance washing over him as he entered. The familiar aroma of hearty meals and mugs of ale filled the air, accompanied by the lively chatter of patrons. Making his way to the counter, he found a Tortle barkeeper attending to the bustling crowd.

"Good evening," Volcier greeted with a polite nod. "I'd like to inquire about a room for the night."

The Tortle, his aged eyes peering out from under his wrinkled skin, smiled and replied, "Of course, traveler. We have a few rooms available. Single or double?"

"A single room will suffice," Volcier responded, reaching into his coin pouch. He placed the appropriate amount on the counter, sliding the coins toward the barkeeper.

The Tortle counted the coins with a practiced hand before nodding in approval. "Very well. Room number four, on the second floor. It's clean and cozy, I assure you."

"Thank you," Volcier replied, taking the room key offered to him. "Is there a place nearby where I can stable my horse for the night?"

"Ah, yes. Just around the corner, you'll find a stable run by a reliable stablemaster. Your steed will be well taken care of," the Tortle assured him.

Volcier guided his horse through the narrow streets, following the Tortle barkeeper's directions to the nearby stable. The rhythmic clip-clop of hooves on cobblestone filled the evening air as they made their way to the stables. A sign above the entrance read "Steadfast Stables."

Entering the stables, Volcier was greeted by the familiar scents of hay and leather. The stablemaster, a burly man with a weathered face, approached with a friendly smile. "Evening, traveler. Looking to stable your horse?"

"Yes, indeed," Volcier replied, dismounting and handing the reins to the stablemaster. "I'll be staying at The Friksy Chicken for the night."

The stablemaster nodded, taking the horse's reins confidently. "Rest assured, your companion will be well cared for. We have a spacious stall and fresh feed available."

"Thank you," Volcier said, patting his horse gently before making his way out of the stables.

With his horse settled for the night, Volcier retraced his steps back to The Friksy Chicken. The inn's warm light spilled onto the street, inviting him inside. As he entered the establishment, he was greeted by the lively atmosphere once again.

Making his way up the wooden staircase, Volcier found his room on the second floor, marked with a faded number four on the door. He inserted the key into the lock, turning it with a satisfying click. Pushing the door open, he stepped into the cozy room, greeted by the sight of a comfortable bed, a small writing desk, and a window that offered a glimpse of the city's evening lights.

Volcier closed the door behind him, letting out a contented sigh. He removed his traveling cloak and hung it on a hook near the door. Fatigued from the day's journey, he relished the thought of a good night's rest. Settling onto the bed, he allowed the weariness to seep away, knowing that a new day and new adventures awaited him on the morrow.


In his dreams, Volcier found himself transported to a different time, a fragment of his childhood memories. He stood amidst the haunting remains of a once-thriving village, its buildings reduced to crumbling ruins and smoke still lingering in the air. The sky above was filled with a melancholic grayness, casting a somber atmosphere upon the scene.

Volcier, now a young boy, ran through the debris-strewn streets, accompanied by his childhood friends. Their laughter echoed through the desolation as they played a macabre game of catch with a blackened human skull. They tossed it back and forth, their youthful innocence oblivious to the darkness of their plaything.

Giggles and joy reverberated as the children chased each other amidst the broken structures, finding amusement amid the destruction. They reveled in the freedom of their games, the forgotten remnants of their village serving as their playground.

But their carefree reverie was abruptly interrupted. The distant sound of hooves grew louder, and the children's smiles faded as soldiers on horseback emerged on the horizon. Fear etched across their faces, they knew they had to flee. The soldiers represented danger, the harbingers of a world stained by conflict and despair.

With hurried steps, the children scattered in different directions, their laughter replaced by desperate gasps. Volcier's heart pounded in his chest as he sprinted alongside his friends, their feet kicking up dust in their wake. They sought refuge, hiding in the surrounding woods, their innocence shattered by the harsh realities of their surroundings.

In the depths of his slumber, Volcier's dream wove a tapestry of sorrow and resilience. He found himself standing amidst a ragged camp, surrounded by weary faces and tattered tents. This was a place of displaced souls, victims of the relentless wars that had ravaged their homes.

Volcier's gaze fell upon his childhood friends, the familiar faces he had played with amidst the ruins. Together, they navigated the camp's somber atmosphere, their presence a small glimmer of companionship amid adversity.

As dusk settled, a fire crackled in the center of the camp, casting flickering shadows upon the makeshift huts. The pungent scent of roasted dog filled the air, meager sustenance shared among the children, their laughter mingling with the crackling flames.

Volcier and his friends gathered around the fire, their eyes shining with hunger and weariness. They tore into the charred meat, finding solace in the simple act of sharing a meal, their bellies filled with warmth and fleeting contentment.

With nightfall, the chill in the air became biting, the thin walls of their tents offering little protection. In a show of camaraderie, the children huddled together, seeking shelter in each other's warmth. They curled up on a thin, threadbare blanket, their bodies pressed close, finding solace and fleeting comfort in their shared vulnerability.

As sleep claimed them one by one, their dreams intermingled, the dreams of innocence and resilience. The hardships they endured forged an unspoken bond, a collective resilience that bound them together, even in their slumber.

As the dream unfolded, Volcier found himself traversing the desolate plains, accompanied by a sea of weary refugees, their feet carrying them through the war-torn landscape. They walked for hours, their steps heavy with exhaustion, seeking solace in the camaraderie of their shared plight.

As evening cast its somber veil upon the land, the weary travelers settled in another makeshift camp, their meager belongings scattered about. The aroma of roasted dogs once again filled the air, mingling with the weariness that clung to their bones. The flickering campfire provided a feeble warmth, as they huddled together, trying to stave off the chill of the night.

But when dawn broke, a collective sense of dread washed over the camp. Talia, one of Volcier's closest friends, had vanished during the night. She had ventured out into the darkness to relieve herself, never to return. Panic rippled through the refugees, their faces etched with fear and anguish.

Volcier joined the search for Talia, his heart pounding with trepidation. The children fanned out, their young eyes scanning the surroundings, calling her name amidst the chaos of their despair. They searched tirelessly, their young bodies pushed to the limits, desperate to find any trace of their missing friend.

The dream led Volcier to the edge of a foreboding forest, its towering trees standing as silent sentinels. Rain poured relentlessly, soaking through their tattered clothes, mirroring the anguish that weighed heavily upon their souls. Standing amidst a crowd of indistinguishable silhouettes, he felt the weight of their collective grief and sorrow.

His gaze lifted to a gnarled tree, its twisted branches reaching out like accusing fingers. There, swaying from a rope, hung a blood-soaked sack. The crowd murmured words that Volcier couldn't comprehend, yet the memory of those chilling words lingered in his subconscious. A silhouette emerged, ascending the tree with deliberate purpose, before severing the rope that held the macabre burden.

The sack plummeted to the ground, spilling forth a horrifying sight. Talia's lifeless body lay before him, cruelly dismembered and callously arranged. Her vacant eyes stared into the abyss, while a grotesque note pierced her forehead, a sinister message etched into her very being.

At that moment, anguish and horror flooded Volcier's senses, the pain of loss and the brutality of their world consuming him. It was a nightmarish reminder of the atrocities that unfolded in the wake of war, a stark illustration of the darkness that lurked within the hearts of men.

Within the ethereal realm of his dreams, Volcier found himself standing in the heart of an ancient tomb, its walls adorned with faded hieroglyphs and the weight of forgotten history. Encircling him were the familiar silhouettes, silent witnesses to his journey into the unknown.

Driven by an insatiable curiosity, Volcier approached a long-forgotten chest nestled in the shadows. The aged wood creaked in protest as he pried it open, revealing a sight that sent a shiver down his spine. Resting inside the chest was a black leatherbound book, its cover adorned with a crimson emblem—an unmistakable six-fingered hand.

Compelled by an invisible force, Volcier claimed the book as his own, his fingertips grazing the textured surface. In that instant, the dream shifted, transporting him to a secluded cabin deep within the dark woods. Surrounded once again by the enigmatic silhouettes, he felt an undeniable surge of purpose.

With righteous fury burning in his eyes, Volcier stormed into the cabin, his heart set on retribution. Inside, the very men who had inflicted unimaginable suffering upon Talia stood before him, their twisted smiles a mockery of humanity. It was a confrontation fraught with primal rage and sorrow.

Unleashing his dormant powers, Volcier tapped into the eldritch forces that coursed through his veins. Arcane energies crackled around him, engulfing the room in an ethereal dance of destruction. With every gesture, every word spoken in the language of forbidden spells, he exacted his vengeance upon those who had stained his world with blood.

Their cries of pain and terror echoed through the cabin, drowned out only by the thunderous pounding of Volcier's heart. Tears streamed down his face, mingling with the sweat and the darkness that clung to him. At that moment, he embodied both a harbinger of justice and a vessel of sorrow, a paradoxical mix of strength and vulnerability.

And as the dream neared its climax, Volcier emerged from the cabin, his body trembling with a mix of exhaustion and catharsis. The silhouettes that had accompanied him throughout his journey stood as silent witnesses to the aftermath of his retribution. It was a bittersweet victory, for while justice had been served, the pain of loss lingered, leaving an indelible mark upon his soul.

With tears still glistening in his eyes, Volcier awakened from his dream, his chest heaving with a mixture of relief and sorrow. The memories of the dream's vivid encounters and emotional turmoil lingered, imprinted upon his psyche. It was a dream that had unraveled the depths of his emotions, illuminating the path that lay before him—a path woven with vengeance, sacrifice, and the relentless pursuit of justice.


Volcier descended the creaking wooden stairs of The Frisky Chicken, his footsteps muffled by the early morning stillness. In his hand, he clutched the key to his room, a physical reminder of the fleeting respite he had found within its walls. With a sense of finality, he approached the barkeeper, a Tortle with a weathered expression.

"Thank you for the accommodation," Volcier said, his voice carrying a hint of gratitude. He extended the key toward the barkeeper, their hands meeting for a brief exchange before parting ways.

Leaving the inn behind, Volcier strode purposefully toward the stable situated at the rear of the establishment. The first rays of dawn painted the sky with a soft palette of colors, casting a gentle glow upon the surrounding streets. His horse, ever faithful, awaited him with patient eyes.

With practiced ease, Volcier released the horse from its tether, feeling the familiar connection between them. The animal followed dutifully as they made their way toward the bustling port, where the majestic Shar's Blessing awaited its passengers. The ship's crew, experienced seafarers, stood ready to receive their newest cargo.

Volcier handed over the reins, a gesture that marked the horse's transition from trusted companion to the care of the ship's crew. The gentle creature, its presence no longer needed for the journey ahead, allowed itself to be led away, blending seamlessly with the rhythm of the maritime routine.

Embracing the dawn's embrace, Volcier stepped onto the deck of Shar's Blessing, a vessel bound for distant shores. The crew members bustled about, preparing for the upcoming voyage, their movements a well-choreographed dance of efficiency and purpose.

Finding his way to the modest quarters assigned to him, Volcier settled into the confines of his small room. The comforting scent of aged parchment and ink filled the air as he reverently opened his grimoire, its pages filled with arcane knowledge and untold secrets. His fingers traced the well-worn edges of the tome, a tangible connection to his identity as a warlock.

Flipping through the pages, Volcier immersed himself in the intricate symbols and cryptic incantations, his mind absorbed in the delicate balance between power and responsibility. Each passage stirred a familiar energy within him, igniting the ever-burning flame of curiosity that fueled his journey.

Lost in the timeless dance between knowledge and sorcery, Volcier welcomed the solace his grimoire offered. With each page turned, he felt a renewed sense of purpose and determination. In this intimate communion with his arcane arts, he prepared himself for the challenges that lay ahead, confident in his abilities and the path he had chosen.

With a sense of anticipation, Volcier ran his fingers along the intricate carvings that adorned the pages of the grimoire. It was a repository of forbidden knowledge, a testament to his insatiable hunger for magical prowess. Flipping through its weathered pages, he gazed upon the portraits of those he had encountered on his path, each representing a spell he had carefully stolen and made his own.

His eyes danced with delight as he read the descriptions accompanying each portrait, his mind unraveling the secrets woven within the lines of text. The spells, like whispered promises of power, beckoned to him, inviting him to unlock their hidden potential.

With every turn of the page, Volcier reveled in the sheer variety and abundance of spells he had acquired through his unwavering determination and cunning. Spells from every school of magic—all lay within his grasp, waiting to be harnessed to further his ambitions.

He traced his fingers over the faded ink, savoring the euphoria that came with the knowledge that he had expanded his repertoire. The stolen spells were not mere words on parchment; they represented his triumphs, the triumphs of a skilled thief of magic, who dared to claim what others hoarded.

As his eyes roamed from one spell description to another, Volcier's imagination soared, envisioning the possibilities that awaited him. Each incantation whispered secrets of destruction, manipulation, and control. The allure of power coursed through his veins, a heady elixir that fueled his desire to rise above the limitations of mortal existence.

In this sacred space, surrounded by the essence of his stolen treasures, Volcier reveled in the delicate balance between knowledge and ambition. He knew that every spell he had pilfered carried the weight of its originator's expertise and experience. Yet, he was the one who had unlocked their potential, bending them to his own will.

With each page turned, his mind expanded, absorbing the intricacies of the spells and weaving them into the fabric of his being. The stolen incantations became his allies, the keys to unlocking a realm of unlimited possibilities. In their presence, he felt a sense of empowerment, of being connected to a lineage of spellcasters who had come before him.

Lost in the depths of his grimoire, Volcier relished this stolen bounty of knowledge. Each spell acquired was a testament to his audacity, his relentless pursuit of power. And as he delved deeper into the descriptions, his hunger for more grew, for the allure of the arcane was insatiable, a flame that could never be fully extinguished.

In the solitude of his small room, surrounded by the whispers of his stolen spells, Volcier allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. But he knew that this was merely a stepping stone on his path, a glimpse of what he could achieve. The world lay before him, its secrets waiting to be unraveled, and he, the ambitious warlock, would stop at nothing to claim them all.