2. In the Shadow of Galahad: Ashes of the Old Gods - The Call of the Mask

Chapter 2: The Call of the Mask

Arion emerged from the depths of the underground chamber, and the cool night air rushed to meet him, sharp and bracing against his skin. The mask, cradled in his hands, was a tangible weight — its surface unnervingly smooth, almost icy beneath his fingers. He slipped it into his satchel, yet its presence clung to him, an insistent pressure at his side.

Around him, the Moonlit Festival pulsed with life: lanterns drifted lazily through the air, their soft light bathing the merrymakers in a golden hue. The sound of upbeat melodies filled the air, mingling with the rich scents of mulled wine and sizzling meats. Yet, for Arion, it was all a distant spectacle, as though he were gazing upon it through a thick, unyielding pane of glass.

He drifted through the festival grounds, his thoughts a whirlwind, still caught in the echoes of the chamber. The voice that had whispered to him, the mask now tucked away, the inexplicable draw he felt toward it — all of it swirled in his mind, too vast to untangle.

As he meandered into a shadowed alley, his gaze fell upon a cluster of figures crouched low to the ground. Their garments were tattered, their faces gaunt and worn, marked by the unmistakable signs of deprivation. Banished or Cursed, he surmised — the forgotten ones, those whom society had cast aside.

Undeterred by their wary stares, Arion drew closer.

“Good evening,” he greeted, his voice calm and unwavering.

The group recoiled slightly, their expressions a mix of fear and distrust. A woman, her face a tapestry of scars, took a tentative step forward.

“What do you want from us?” she demanded, her voice edged with caution.

“Nothing at all,” Arion assured her. “I'm merely passing through.”

“You're not here to make trouble?” another voice chimed in, belonging to a man whose leg bore the signs of an old injury.

Arion shook his head gently. “Not in the slightest. In fact...” He reached into the depths of his satchel and retrieved a small, jingling pouch. “Take this. Use it to buy some food.”

The woman’s eyes widened in disbelief as she accepted the pouch. “Why would you do such a thing?”

Arion offered a nonchalant shrug. “Because I can.”

The group shared uncertain glances, and after a moment, the woman gave a small, grateful nod.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the distant festival music.

Arion returned the nod and resumed his path. As he walked away, he pondered his own actions. It was unlike him to engage with others, especially those society had forsaken. Yet, something had compelled him to act. Was it the mask? Or perhaps the lingering echo of that mysterious voice?

That night, as he lay in his tent with the mask resting beside him, Arion was swept into a dream unlike any other.

Vivid images unfolded before him: a colossal figure, hands aglow with radiant light, sculpting the very fabric of the world. Shadowy silhouettes of the Old Gods loomed in the distance, their faces obscured, their presence watchful. And there, in the midst of it all, stood Arion himself — alone on an endless, desolate plain, the mask in his grasp, pulsing with an otherworldly luminescence.

He awoke with a start, the dream clinging to his mind like mist, its significance just out of reach. Arion sat up, blinking away the remnants of sleep. The mask lay beside him, seemingly ordinary, yet he could not dispel the notion that it held a power far beyond its appearance.

He lifted it, examining it closely, his fingers tracing its smooth contours.

“What are you, truly?” he whispered to the silent artifact.

Though it offered no reply, a sudden warmth blossomed within his chest — a profound sense of purpose, as if he were part of something vast and unfathomable. The feeling was both comforting and unsettling, leaving him uncertain of how to proceed.

For the moment, he resolved to keep the mask near. There were secrets yet to be uncovered, truths waiting to be revealed. In time, perhaps, the path would become clear.

Arion rose to his feet, securing the mask to his belt. The festival beckoned, but beyond its revelry lay the deeper enigmas of Valaron. With determination etched into his features, he stepped forward, ready to confront whatever lay ahead.

The Moonlit Festival thrummed with vibrant energy, yet Arion’s mind was adrift, untethered from the merriment. He gravitated toward the periphery of the festivities, where the throngs of people gave way to solitude and the shadows stretched long and deep. In these hushed pockets, away from the clamor, he could almost discern the faint whisper of that enigmatic voice from the chamber.

“Not all who wander are lost... but some who rest are waiting.”

The cryptic phrase reverberated within him, weaving itself into the tapestry of his dream. His eyes fell upon the mask at his side, and for a fleeting moment, it seemed to vibrate subtly, as though attuned to the very cadence of his thoughts.

Arion shook his head, attempting to dispel the haze that clouded his mind. He needed clarity. There were mysteries begging to be solved, and he knew that answers would not come to those who remained idle.

He ventured toward the heart of the festival, where a towering bonfire roared, its flames licking the darkness and casting a cascade of sparks into the starlit sky. Encircling the fire, storytellers held court, their voices weaving intricate tapestries of ancient valor and divine mysteries, each word dancing in harmony with the flickering light.

One tale, in particular, seized Arion’s attention — a saga of Galahad, the divine architect who had conjured Valaron from the abyss of nothingness. The narrator spoke of sacred relics left in the god’s wake, each imbued with the power to unlock the deepest truths of existence.

Arion’s breath caught, his fingers brushing against the mask at his side. Could this be one such relic?

The storyteller’s voice deepened as he recounted how these artifacts were not mere objects but sentient forces, selecting their wielders and steering them toward destinies of great import.

A chill crept down Arion’s spine, though he quickly dismissed it. These were but fanciful tales, he reminded himself — embellished myths passed down through the ages.

Yet, despite his skepticism, the warmth within him intensified, and the mask at his hip seemed to thrum in rhythm with the very beat of his heart.

As the tale drew to a close, Arion withdrew from the throng, his thoughts a tempest of curiosity and uncertainty. He yearned for deeper knowledge — of Galahad, of the relics, of the voice that had spoken to him in the depths.

But where could he begin his search?

His mind drifted back to the Banished woman he had aided earlier. Perhaps she possessed insights that could guide him. Those cast out by society often clung to wisdom that the privileged chose to forget.

Arion retraced his steps to the dimly lit alley where the group still lingered, now partaking in a modest repast bought with the coins he had bestowed upon them.

The woman with the scarred visage glanced up, her eyes widening slightly at his return.

“You again?” she remarked, a note of astonishment coloring her words.

“I come seeking answers,” Arion confessed. “About the ancient legends, the gods... about Galahad.”

A shadow passed over the woman’s features. “Those are perilous inquiries,” she muttered. “But I suppose you’ve earned a measure of truth.”

She motioned for him to join her, and Arion lowered himself onto a weathered crate at her side.

“Galahad’s name is seldom uttered,” she began, her voice low and measured. “Particularly among those like us. Yet, there are murmurs — tales handed down through the ages, from one generation to the next.”

She cast a furtive glance around, ensuring their conversation remained private.

“It is said that Galahad scattered fragments of his divine essence throughout Valaron. These artifacts lie dormant until the moment is ripe, then they awaken, selecting those deemed worthy to wield their power.”

Arion’s pulse quickened. “And what fate befalls those chosen?”

The woman lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “Some claim they rise as heroes, others that they are driven to madness. The line between fact and fable is blurred.”

Her gaze sharpened, boring into him. “Why do you seek such knowledge? Have you... discovered something?”

After a moment’s pause, Arion chose to place his trust in her. He retrieved the mask from his satchel and held it out for her to see.

The woman inhaled sharply, her breath catching in her throat.

“By the gods,” she breathed. “Is this what I think it is?”

“I cannot say for certain,” Arion admitted. “I unearthed it in a subterranean chamber not far from the festival grounds.”

Tentatively, the woman extended her hand, her fingers trembling as they hovered just above the mask’s gleaming surface.

“I’ve heard whispers of such artifacts,” she said, her voice hushed with reverence. “Masks that bestow visions upon their bearers, forging a link to the divine.”

She withdrew her hand abruptly, as though the mask might burn her.

“Tread carefully, wanderer. Power of this magnitude always exacts a price.”

Arion nodded solemnly, returning the mask to its place.

“I am grateful,” he said. “For both the counsel and the knowledge you’ve shared.”

A ghost of a smile touched the woman’s lips.

“Remember this: appearances can deceive, and trust is a rare commodity.”

With those parting words, she turned her attention back to her companions, and Arion took his leave.

As he strode through the festival, the heat in his chest flared, and he could sense the mask’s influence deepening, as though it were weaving itself into the fabric of his being — quietly, insidiously.

Yet, Arion resisted. He was a man grounded in logic, driven by inquiry. He demanded proof, not mere tales and intangible sensations.

Nevertheless, the unanswered questions gnawed at his mind, relentless in their persistence. He knew that peace would elude him until he uncovered the truth.

The night was still young, and the festival sprawled before him, a labyrinth of brilliance and darkness. Hidden within its folds was the next clue, the next step on his journey.

With resolve hardening in his heart, Arion straightened his posture and advanced, prepared to confront whatever challenges lay ahead.

The Moonlit Festival carried on, its revelry undiminished —
but for Arion, the real odyssey had only just commenced.

🌘 To be continued…