Broken Home

Just as the evidence had presented itself, the strange homestead was occupied. We approached to the sound of firewood being split. The sound was piercing against the arcane sky. Its source was an elf outside his home—he greeted us as we approached.
 
Something about him was… out of balance. But I had warned my companions as much as I could. His greeting was friendly enough. When we introduced ourselves as lost travelers, he offered guidance freely. Or, he said he would: as his thoughts went to his wife, his very form flickered, as he was restored to how we found him.
 
There are legends of certain creatures from the age of magic which could dart in-between the realms at will, be they hunters, pranksters, or ordinary beasts. This did not seem the same. How could it, in this cursed place? He referred to it as being “Broken,” a process which apparently affects mages the quickest. Am I counted among them? The drow possess innate magic, and I myself channel the energies of some eldritch entity. Still, I do not practice magic as a master of the arcane arts. Perhaps I will be spared of such a rapid decay. Krisa, though, will be gone quickly, if that is the case.
 
Our conversations with the elf grew more and more sparing as he flickered more and more rapidly. It was a horrible thing to see him realize exactly what was happening each moment without being aware of it. When he discovered us “uninvited” within his house, his demeanor became grim as he offered any belongings to us we could take. I wondered if he felt hunger, if old wounds festered, if agonies of the mind maintained their dark hold. Looking through the gemstone, I saw he was shot through with fissures, his essence fractured by the properties of this place.
 
There was nothing we could do but take what he had once given us. I watched him cradle his fading wife as we began to sift through his house.
 
Apparently, the two were mapmakers. About the rooms were scattered half-finished maps and etchings of the Shattered Realms, writ in fine ink. One was more complete than the rest. On it was depicted an almost treelike structure; at the bottom, “The Unknown” was marked, with subsequent branches labelled “Infernus,” “The Tidelands,” and then, “The Iron City.”
 
If any of these places were ones my years had acquainted me with, they were lost to me now. All I could do was hope these maps would lead me out of this plane.
 
We made ready to leave. There were rations aplenty; Caesar had no need for them, but I took enough for at least a week. When I scanned for Krisa, eager to move on from this place, I found her huddled in front of a fire, still cold despite my coat and her elemental abilities. Did she not know we had no time to dawdle? Every moment we waste in this deadly world is a gamble we cannot afford. I tried to impart this to her. If she wields the magic of the elements, I asked, can she not warm herself on the move? Surely she, as a revolutionary, has faced worse conditions than this?
 
Just as our argument reached a climax, Caesar claimed our attention; the world around us had fallen dead silent. No rustling of the residents upstairs, no creak of the wind against the house, no rattling of the shutters. Complete stillness.
 
A shriek pierced this void—Krisa’s, having discovered the ceiling oozing a dark ichor upon her. Blood. The moan of the steps made it clear: something was coming our way.
 
I found cover behind the table as Caesar drew his sword. Krisa touched the foot of the stairs and a burning sigil etched itself in the wood. I trained my revolver on the staircase. And we waited.
 
The thing that came down the stairs appeared as a twisted facsimile of the woodcutter’s wife, wreathed in murky shadows and etched with glowing ley lines like those which permeated this world. I called for her to identify herself. She responded by clawing at us with arms grown impossibly long, shattering my cover and forcing us into action.
 
Caesar charged first, but he had neglected to mind the sigil Krisa had carved into the floor, and it enveloped him in a burst of flame. I wasted no time in loosing my hex-shot upon the creature as Krisa darted away. It was persistent in its attacks, a claw tearing at the mage as she staggered backwards. Another shot from my Gryphon rang out, and Caesar moved back to shoot it from a distance. The sound of splintering wood and gunfire mingled with the creature’s shrieks. As it moved to advance, a wall of flame checked it—so our spellcaster does have some tricks up her sleeve, after all. Unable to reach me or Caesar, it tore at her again. My gaze flicked to Krisa, and I caught a glimpse of her clutching her stomach, blood seeping through her fingers. Little I could do. The room filled with gunsmoke. The flames from Krisa’s spells lapped at the walls of the house, eager to tear it down. I was out in a flash, positioning myself outside behind the doorway now as I took another shot. A miss. The creature’s ire was focused fully on Krisa now as shadows stitched its form back together. Our attacks were harming it, but now we needed to finish it in one decisive blow. Retreat? The thought danced through my head. I banished it. Checked my ammo. One shot left. The shadow-thing descended on Krisa. Flick the cylinder back in. Krisa darting for the window. Cock the hammer. Caesar swatting at his flaming jacket. Hand steady, even. Shadowy head in the sights. Breathe in, release halfway and hold. Dark claw poised to strike.
 
Silence.
 
And my pistol roared as it blew the head off this demon, scattering its essence across the wall.
 
Swing the cylinder open and dump the brass. Spent cartridges steam in the snow. I’ll pick them up later so we aren’t tracked.
 
I surveyed the scene as I reloaded. With a crash, the house collapsed in on itself, consumed by the flames, as we dusted ourselves off. Krisa sorely wounded, but alive. Caesar as stoic as ever. I pulled out our new maps, consolation for the grim trial. Above us, the sky stretches forever into the fey dusk.