“The worst part of forgetting is not even knowing something was ever there.”
I wander through the streets, cloaked in the hues of the cold and noble—the architects of this realm. The fog has lifted; the day is half-spent. The sun beats down on my brittle hair, threatening to scorch it away. Yet, everything feels dull. Perhaps it’s just my imagination.
Families pass by—fathers carrying daughters on their shoulders, mothers trailing behind with vacant expressions. Their children mirror their coldness. I move past them, my arms still aching from hours of aimless wandering. My blood, once spilled, now circulates again, infused with magical energy. Or has it only been minutes? Time blurs.
I run my metallic hand through my warm hair and exhale deeply. What I wouldn’t give for a Nigil cigar—one of the few ties that still bind me to this kingdom.
"Catch me!" a child’s voice rings out, growing louder with each heartbeat. A little girl, smiling, runs without watching where she’s going. She collides with my leg and falls. I look down; her smile fades. My heart skips a beat. My hands tremble, even the prosthetic one. I collapse.
Blood—green and orange—fills my vision. "Ella!" someone screams, but I can’t focus. I try to rise but slip, my body unresponsive. Sweat pours from my brow, more than during the battle with the orange one. She looks at me, concern replacing her smile. She approaches, but I recoil. The blood is all I see.
"Ella!" the voice cries again. The woman grabs the child, pulling her away. "We have to help," the girl protests. "No means no!" the woman insists, dragging her off. As I gasp for air, they’re gone.
My legs shake; my arms lie in the warm dirt of the asphalt. "Casandra..." I whisper. My eyes turn green, shimmering as tears fall. I pull myself together. The blood isn’t real. It’s been five decades. Not reality.
I rub my eyes, push off the ground, and scratch my head hard, digging my nails into my scalp until skin peels away. My eyes still flicker. It’s worse now. I can’t go on. Children scream, calling me. Casandra. The dark silhouette. I don’t want this. The blood drips over me. I feel it on my fingers. Her orange eyes in my hands. I gasp, scratch harder, open my head, claw at my brain. I don’t know if I’m truly doing this, but it feels real.
People avoid me, fear in their eyes, but I continue until I stop. I stand and walk on as if nothing happened.
But where is this guild?
I stroll through the streets, my prosthetic hand clutching my shoulder, surprised at how quickly my wound has healed. Why are my hands wet? Fresh blood? My gaze shifts. I hear robust voices—possibly orange ones. A familiar scent, but from where?
I approach a building on a wide street lined with shops selling gear. Ah, a guild. A guild... My mouth waters. Beer. Drafted from Avelor. Expensive, but worth the 8 Celi. Pricey, yet delicious.
I push open the saloon doors, running my warm fingers through my scratchy beard. I feel like the star of the show—or at least, that’s how it seems when every eye turns to me. No exceptions. Everyone looks down. Some from the upper floor, perhaps sharing rooms with prostitutes or just lodging in this district like I often do. Even below, the bartender behind the left counter, the receptionist on the right. Guests, assassins—all stare.
Their gazes are cold, brows furrowed, jaws tense. I take a step, and each one averts their eyes. Some whistle unnaturally, mimicking morning birds; others pretend to sip from already empty mugs. Only the receptionist and bartender maintain their gaze. Professional, yet I can read the fear in their eyes. Their legs likely tremble behind the counter. Understandable, seeing someone drenched in orange blood.
"A draft beer," I say, glancing at the bartender, savoring the fearful looks. It’s unsettling, yet oddly comforting. Almost forgettable. "Avelorian style," I add. The bartender appears unusually young, with slicked-back black hair and a light blue suit—uncommon attire. The receptionist, however, seems typically mature. Mid-80s. Despite her petite and uneven stature, her short side-swept hairstyle gives her a certain allure. It’s her face. No wonder so many still glance her way despite my presence.
My steps echo on the usually silent floor, but it always squeaks when I enter a guild. Everyone remains silent. I stand before the woman with full blue lips and oceanic eyes. My blood-stained fingers reach into my pouch, dripping with viscous liquid. I place the tongue and two orange eyes on the counter. A rare sight for blues. These are valuable ingredients for various formulas or enhancing artifacts. Worth as much as their annual salary. I could earn three of their yearly wages in top form, but the fourth would be challenging. Five? Perhaps.