I'm finally getting a moment to sit down and answer the Worldbuilding Prompt from two days ago #235 - Time Traveller. I was pretty excited by this one when I created it, and I've been juggling three possible characters to focus on as I mulled over what might be the most fun. I finally settled the internal debate this morning... so without further ado...
Azazel groaned as he opened his eyes. He could hear the familiar banging of hammers and shuffle of boxes somewhere in the manor below him. His mercenary group of kobolds, the Chromatic Crew, were always tinkering with something it seemed. These days, the noise was an old companion, and Azazel grinned slightly before rolling over to return to slumber. As he rolled, his eyes glanced over his hanging calendar, and he sat bolt upright.
It had happened again.
"Fuck me." He whispered, rising to take a closer look. A shocking amount of red X's crossed-out days that he couldn't remember.
Azazel ran a hand through his hair, shoving it back between the horns on his head. This wasn't the first time he'd found himself losing time recently. It had started a few months back, and at the beginning, it was so minor that he had attributed it to the stress of trying to secure contracts for his company. He'd lost an hour or two here and there, and when he noticed it just shrugged it off. Who hadn't gotten fixated on a project and looked up to see the sun had set? It happened to everyone.
Only, for Az.. it was getting worse. An hour or two here and there had turned into half-day losses every couple of days, and that had eventually morphed into full days being lost. Fearing he was losing his mind, he'd purchased a calendar and had rapidly formed a habit of crossing out the day every morning.
That had worked, for a little bit... but then he'd started losing multiple days at a time, and pretty quickly Az decided it wasn't enough to just mark the days. Days he couldn't remember at all were marked, and his companions were adamant that he'd been around and acting like his usual self on each of them. So, he started memorizing the date; fixing it in his mind every day. Today should have been 3 of 5 Dawnwatch... but it wasn't. The undeniable record of days crossed off told him that it was 1 of 4 Mournwatch. A full 13 days, gone.
He cursed again under his breath, ripping open his drawer to find the notebook he'd started keeping. Journaling his day wasn't something he particularly enjoyed doing. It was a needless waste of time, as his memory was - typically - extraordinarily reliable. Until he could get a grasp on what was happening to him though, keeping it was yet another small concession he had to make.
He sat down to read through it, frustrated by the number of pages he'd have to read that was almost certainly going to be nothing but boring logs of recent jobs the Chromatic Crew had taken for island residents.
Azazel sighed and rubbed his eyes. The room had grown dark as evening was beginning to fade into night and he reached for a candle to light before freezing in place.
'Evening?' he thought, jumping to his feet. 'Impossible! I had at most 15 pages to read, there's no way that took me all day!'
Dread rising within him, he shut his eyes and reopened them to properly look at his surroundings.
The manor was quiet. Quieter than he'd ever heard it. Dust caked everything and the calendar on the wall... Azazel felt a flutter of nausea as he looked at where his calendar hung. Dozens of them littered the floor, and the one on the wall was sun-bleached and cracking.
"How long?!" Azazel whispered to himself, as he turned back to his journal. "How fucking long has it been!"
He began frantically flipping through page after page of filled days. The end of the book coincided with the end of the year he remembered being in, with nothing particularly noteworthy jumping out at him as he rapidly scanned each page.
He ripped the desk drawer open again, and, as he had suspected... found dozens more of the journals.
On the top of the pile was one that stood out, however. Bound in a soft red leather, it was a stark contrast to the pile of dusty brown notebooks under it. With shaking hands, he picked it up and flipped it open.
Azazel.
If you're reading this, I've failed. We've all failed. The task falls to you, now. I don't know what age we're down to by the time you read this... hopefully you've already surpassed your pact and mastered your magic - but if not... If you're still pact-bound... well, maybe the me that is young and full of ingenuity will have a perspective on the problem that an old rigid me won't.
Regardless, time is short and while I'm sure you have more questions than you'll ever get answers to... if you're here it's time to move. Go to Avensol City. In the ruins, you'll find a spell-circle. In case you're unfamiliar with what to do, I've left another journal there. Read the incantation, and you'll begin the ascent to the Wound. Find a way to close it.
Nothing is more important than this. WE can do this. We've always done what others have failed to do. We're the best there has ever been.
Remember that. My failure is not your failure. We are unbeatable.
Oh, and one last thing: Tempting as it might be - don't look at the Wound.
The sky is broken, and whatever the fuck is out there past the Wound... well, it's best not to lock eyes with the thing until we're ready to rip the eyes out.
Good luck.
- Azazel Jones, The Devil of Avensol Isle.
