Sixteenths - Verse 4, 11/16 - morale is low

>An eerie crossroads

>An eerie crossroads

this one! faust! faust! faust! faust!

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SpoilerWe're approaching the climax of this verse--whatever you do here, expect a cliffhanger. ;)

Update 16/16 of all verses will be Special, featuring an increased word count (a multiple of 16, perhaps 16x16) and all that verse's text under a spoiler. I'll keep linking back to it; something tells me we'll all start forgetting what's already established. :'D

14/16.
in which you encounter the Crossroads.

You travel through nightfall, until the Crossroads find you.
The shadows delight. Your compass bleeds tar.

Why aren't you afraid?

>_

you came here to suffer as penace

its not yet time

You are too tired to be afraid anymore, so you stopped giving a frick.

>Why aren't you afraid? The crossroads are old news. Kind of trivial at this point. You've seen worse.

15/16.
in which you fear nothing.

"I'm tired," you tell the coalescing fog. "Not now."
"Yᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ʜᴜɴɢʀʏ," It replies, in Eloa's voice.

What really awaits you on the battlefield?

>_

Your future lies there. As well as the future of thousands you can save.

Oh also the corpse of your dead best friend, which is entirely your fault.

redemption. no, really

Nothing, because everybody is dead, and you caused it. But maybe it can be fixed?

>Putting old dogs to rest.

An impossible choice

spooky scary skeletons necromancy

one final choice

a meal.

well. sort of. (IT'S PEOPLE)

Nothing, because everybody is dead, and you caused it. But maybe it can be fixed?

I can dig.

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SpoilerA handful of the last batch of suggestions are canon now. I couldn't pick one, and 16/16 has 16x the usual word count, so I broke my own rules :'D

16/16.
in which you will not be swayed.

"Wʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴏɪɴɢ?"

Eloa's face fades into focus, spun from mist and memory. Your eyes harden when a body completes the illusion.

"The battlefield."

"Aʜ." It reaches for your arm, but you jerk away. "Tᴏ ᴄᴏɴsᴜᴍᴇ."

"To atone," you snap, louder than you wanted, as if shouting makes it true. You breathe hard. The case of crystal vials weighs on your arm, and your soul.

Not-Eloa's shark-toothed grin reaches Its ears.

"Tʜᴇ ᴘᴀᴄᴛ ɪs ɪʀʀᴇᴠᴇʀsɪʙʟᴇ." The shadows seep into your bones, swim in your veins. "Yᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ, ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ'ᴠᴇ ᴅᴏɴᴇ--ᴏʀ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ'ᴠᴇ ꜰᴀɪʟᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ."

The truth twists daggers into your gut. You glance at your faceless, shivering aide, and the fractured compass in your palm.

You remember Eloa's goodbye.

'Keep it,' she called after you, while you stared at the floor. You couldn't bear to see her bedridden. 'Travel the world. Eat good food. Find that mudyak an' show it what for. And—'

Her voice broke, so you turned around. The rot had painted caverns under her cheeks. You'd have stripped the soul from every man, woman, and child in town to save her, but she wouldn't allow it. You'd lost enough of yourself on the Battlefield.

'Find peace, and think of me sometimes.'

You throw Not-Eloa a fierce stare. When It cups your face, mocking you, you swipe Its spindly arm away. Someone with nothing to lose has nothing to fear.

"I'm going to the battlefield," you say, "to finish what I began."

That, at least, is possible still.

==>

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SpoilerHonestly, you guys have a better idea where this is going than I do. POV shift, away!

1/16.
in which you observe the aftermath.

You've been studying the battlefield, informally, from the Valor-Upton Waypoint.
The sky hasn't changed in months.

Who are you?

>_

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Verse 1, Compiled
The hamlet is saved, and you are in exile. The midwinter winds slice at your cheeks. What village exiles their only healer? You saved more lives than you sacrificed, in the end.

...No matter. Esgil's soldiers appreciate your talents-or at least they know better than to question them.

After four years of it, on and off, you're accustomed to eviction. Sometimes it's lonely business. Your only ever companion lives countless miles and three exiles away. You hope Eloa's forgiven you.

You shake your head, grounding yourself. You'd rather not recall your tragic separation.

"Just keep walking."

Despite your resolve, your body protests, and your muscles burn with every step. The shadows hum. Somewhere, somewhen, exists 'you' who knew better than to embrace them. You envy him sometimes.

A snowdrift trembles in the distance. Then a woman emerges, uniform crumpled, wobbly on her feet.

"Hello," you supply, after some awkward, mutual staring. The shadows stir hungrily under your skin.

Aha. Her face has vanished.

"Don't-"

Yet she glides through the snow and to your side. She caresses your cheeks. Her hands are cold; smooth; lifeless as porcelain.

You're too tired for this.

"Carry these." You drop everything but the compass and a case of crystal vials. "We continue North."

You travel through nightfall, until the Crossroads find you. The shadows delight. Your compass bleeds tar.

"I'm tired," you tell the coalescing fog. "Not now."

"You're hungry," It replies, in Eloa's voice. "Where are you going?"

Eloa's face fades into focus, spun from mist and memory. Your eyes harden when a body completes the illusion.

"The battlefield."

"Ah." It reaches for your arm, but you jerk away. "To consume."

"To atone," you snap, louder than you wanted, as if shouting makes it true. You breathe hard. The case of crystal vials weighs on your arm, and your soul.

Not-Eloa's shark-toothed grin reaches Its ears.

"The pact is irreversible." The shadows seep into your bones, swim in your veins. "You can't change what you are, what you've done—or what you've failed to do."

The truth twists daggers into your gut. You glance at your faceless, shivering aide, and the fractured compass in your palm.

You remember Eloa's goodbye.

'Keep it,' she called after you, while you stared at the floor. You couldn't bear to see her bedridden. 'Travel the world. Eat good food. Find that mudyak an' show it what for. And—'

Her voice broke, so you turned around. The rot had painted caverns under her cheeks. You'd have stripped the soul from every man, woman, and child in town to save her, but she wouldn't allow it. You'd lost enough of yourself on the Battlefield.

'Find peace, and think of me sometimes.'

You throw Not-Eloa a fierce stare. When It cups your face, mocking you, you swipe Its spindly arm away. Someone with nothing to lose has nothing to fear.

"I'm going to the battlefield," you say, "to finish what I began."

That, at least, is possible still.

you are the reserve militia captain.

your troops are dead

War's once-deity

Once a boy who escaped the massacre, now a man who wants to bring them back.

you are the reserve militia captain.

your troops are dead

Seconded. Some form of officer, at least.

2/16.
in which you are the reserve militia captain.

Your troops are dead or worse, and the battlefield bleeds down the valley.
The shadows crawl.

How did you survive?
>_

You abandoned them to save your own skin.