Something short as I have to study for my finals.
Btw I would like to ask you what your impressions of sunless was/is from an outsider perspective?
Like if idk a random sleeper from the slums/ castle or Gemma, Harus or Alice perhaps even Neph had to describe him.
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Quietly stepping over scattered debris, Sunless moved with the silent precision of a shadow, his cloak brushing against jagged stone and broken glass. The ruins of the city sprawled around him like the skeleton of some dead god, bones picked clean by time and rot. Wind whispered through the hollow windows of gutted towers, carrying the distant echo of a broken world. But here, in this forsaken stretch of dead stone and silence, there was a deeper stillness—a strange, stifling absence of life.
For some reason, very few Nightmare Creatures dared to roam this forgotten district. Sunless had noted the pattern days ago: trails went cold here, patrols steered clear, even the corrupted carrion-beasts gave this place a wide berth. It wasn't natural. It was as if something ancient had coiled into the heart of this place and declared it sacred—or cursed—ground.
Sunless suspected it had something to do with the Dark Sea. The unnatural abyss had a tendency to twist the world around it, and whatever creature it had birthed or drawn here... it had clearly left a mark. A mark even predators feared.
He tightened the strap of his cloak, checking the shadow at his heels—Saint followed in silence, her armored bulk surprisingly light-footed. Together, they stepped through a crumbled archway, entering the building marked on his worn and annotated map. It must have been a palace once, or a temple. The remnants of its grandeur were visible even now, in the tall shattered columns and vine-covered statues of forgotten kings. Most of the roof had collapsed, and nature had begun reclaiming the stone, curling roots around iron and bone.
The courtyard lay ahead, sunken into shadow.
Sunless scaled the remains of a collapsed wall and dropped soundlessly into the space beyond. Saint followed with a practiced slide of weight, landing beside him like a boulder with purpose. Together, they stood in a dark, secluded courtyard ringed by moss-slicked walls. Thick ivy strangled what had once been windows. Trees had pushed their way up through flagstone. The scent was musty—rot and damp stone, the musk of things long buried.
At the center of the courtyard was a well.
Its round mouth loomed like a wound in the earth, framed by cracked marble and strange, faded carvings. An ornate iron grate sealed it shut, thick with rust and almost organic in its twisted artistry. It reminded Sunless of barbed thorns—or ribs. Someone had gone through great lengths to keep it sealed. The thing must have weighed several tons. He could feel a strange pressure in the air around it, as if the courtyard itself held its breath.
He didn't like it. Not one bit.
This was the part in the horror story where the idiot poked their head where it didn't belong. And here he was, apparently, playing that part. Even with his strength, even with Saint at his side, Sunless could feel the wrongness clinging to the well like a second skin.
Still, curiosity was a blade sharper than fear.
He stepped forward slowly, each footfall carefully measured, until he stood at the edge. The grate was slick with condensation, cold to the touch. He peered down between the twisted iron bars.
Blackness.
The kind of black that didn't shimmer or shift. The kind that absorbed light and never gave it back. The silent well was so deep that even his enhanced vision saw nothing.
Maybe there wasn't a bottom at all.
Frowning, Sunless reached down and picked up a fragment of loose stone. It was smooth and flat, pale against his glove. With no ceremony, he dropped it through the grate.
The courtyard held still.
The stone vanished into the well's mouth, swallowed by the dark.
Seconds passed.
Then more.
Still no sound. No echo. Not even the faintest suggestion of impact.
Sunless reached for another stone, intending to try again.
And then the well spoke.
A voice rose up from the depths—melodic, smooth, disturbingly warm. It slithered into his ears like honey, like a promise.
"Ah... a guest…"
He froze.
The voice was not feminine. That was the first alarm. The second was how *pleasant* it sounded. It wasn't threatening. It was worse. It was *inviting.*
He staggered a step back on instinct, heart cold, mind calculating.
'Not the dancer,' he thought grimly. This wasn't what he'd come for. Whatever this was, it was *something else.*
A mimic? A bound spirit? The thing from the fog ? Whatever it was, it wanted attention.
And still… he hesitated.
The voice hadn't growled. It hadn't threatened. It had sounded almost human. More than human. Like someone familiar, someone warm. The kind of voice that pulled you closer, made you want to trust.
That made it *dangerous.*
He gritted his teeth, shaking off the subtle pull it exerted over his mind.
'Get a grip. You're not here to play curious apprentice. There's something wrong. Something old.'
Still, he didn't flee. Something in his gut warned him that leaving now, without understanding, would be a mistake.
Behind him, Saint had taken a guarded stance, greatsword already out and resting against one shoulder. She did not speak. She didn't need to. The tension in her form said enough—she felt it, too.
Sunless watched the well, heart thudding against his ribs in the steady, measured cadence of readiness.
And then, as if it had tasted his hesitation, the voice returned.
This time, it whispered.
"How *wonderful.* I haven't been fed in a long… long time…"
'*'
The voice drifted up from the well, rising on a tide of whispering echoes. Smooth. Silken. Each syllable laced with subtle warmth, like a hand brushing over velvet. It sounded like a young man… if human throats were capable of such music.
More fitting for divinity .
…Or a something profane.
Sunless didn't indulge in the luxury of awe.
Suspicion sharpened his thoughts like a whetstone. He didn't blink, didn't breathe too loud, and didn't waste time trying to unravel the illusion of charm. Instead, he reached out with his will and spoke a silent command to Saint.
The Tactum knight answered without hesitation, shifting imperceptibly behind him, ready for violence.
From the dark, the voice echoed again, trailing a single word like a feather through fog:
"…time, …time, …time…"
That was familiar. Too familiar.
He had only ever heard a few things speak like that. Mimics, mostly and mocking beasts who learned to parrot human words from the victims they devoured.
He even had some enthralled by the Shadow of the Soul-devoterer, or Prince as he had come to call the Titan in his mind.
Back then, his curators had purged the worst of the vocal ones to make room for more combat-oriented specimens.
But some still lingered.
Some had followed him.
Like the thing that had risen from theDark sea and stolen Cassie's voice—its whispers still clawed through his memories. That night had nearly broken him.
She had saved his life without lifting a blade. Just a quiet warning, a voice barely above the wind. If not for her… he wouldn't be standing here.
He remembered the way she'd trembled, silent and pale, but still reached for him like it meant something. Like he meant something.
That was reason enough to be thorough.
And now—this. Another one. A different horror. But no less ancient, probably. No less dangerous.
Why had those Animals looked it up for?
His frown deepened. If this was part of some operation sanctioned by Gunlaug, he would've known. Which meant it wasn't. A secret project. A rogue faction. Something even the Host had lost control of.
Unacceptable.
The false fall of the Golden Serpent had to be clean. Precise. Nothing unaccounted for. No wild variables. Especially not ones with voices that sounded almost… kind.
That's why he stayed where he was, despite the quiet panic pressing against his ribs. His instincts screamed at him to run, to flee from the well and whatever nightmare coiled in the darkness below.
But instincts were blunt instruments.
He preferred tools that cut finer.
The well yawned before him like a wound in the world. The ancient grate covering it—thick, heavy, and almost ceremonial in its design—was suddenly a thing of beauty.
He licked his lips. Found his balance. Midnight Shard flickered into his hand as he took a slow step forward, eyes locked on the abyss.
Then, in a calm, measured voice, he said:
"…It's nice to meet you."
He didn't know why those words came out first. Courtesy was no longer a habit, and kindness had been cast to the wayside long ago. But here and now? It was a calculated risk. There were maybe three creatures he'd ever met that could both speak and kill him. He could afford to make a good first impression.
Life was funny like that.
Until it stopped being funny.
The voice chuckled softly, a velvet note vanishing into the stillness of the courtyard.
"Oh, no… the pleasure is mine…"
"…mine, …mine, …mine…"
Sunless stood motionless.
Each word he chose next could mean survival… or not.
He thought of Aslan's experiences. Children devoured for wrong answers. Monsters that wore games like masks.
The smart thing would be to leave. Turn and go.
But before he could say anything more, the voice returned:
"So… are you guys going to feed me or not? Not to offend anyone, but lately, you've been very tardy. I've been sitting here by my lonesome for three days already. Or have you decided to try something new?"
Sunless blinked.
What?
That… wasn't what he expected.
The tone wasn't hungry, menacing, or dripping with ancient malice. It was frustrated. Petulant. Almost—human.
Too human.
He felt the pressure of his *Flaw*, compelling him to respond.
"We'll see how this conversation goes," he said. "If I don't like it, I'll leave."
Neutral. Vague. Enough to bluff insight he didn't have.
He kept his blade low, Saint behind him like a looming statue, and forced himself to analyze. Could an entity this strange have stolen language from his memories? If so… what else had it taken?
The voice replied without delay:
"Oh, I see. So we're going with starvation now. Well… I have to give you guys some credit. This is your best idea yet. Sadly, it won't work. Do you even know what kind of diets we trainees have to follow to debut? I guess not. Actually, I should be thanking you. This is a great opportunity to work on my BMI."
"…BMI, …BMI, …BMI…"
Sunless stared.
'…BMI?'
His expression didn't change. But internally, a part of him quietly screamed.
What kind of Eldritch horror knew about BMI?
His brain stalled. Then rebooted in cold fury.
"Identify yourself," he said sharply, his tone shifting into the clipped authority of the Duke of the Dark City.
Silence fell.
He replayed the last words in his head. Something about food. Three days. Not being fed. At first, it had sounded ominous. Like a threat. But now?
Now it sounded like an actual complaint.
He thought of the map. The hunters he had led to their deaths. Harus had said one of Alice's dancers had been among them—but none of them were male. And if this place wasn't part of any sanctioned territory…
Why lock someone up here?
The voice returned, strained now. An edge of panic beneath the velvet.
"Wait, you're not one of the… you're not… oh! Oh, gods!"
Sunless pressed a hand to his face.
There it is.
"Oh, gods! It's not a human… heavens, I'm going to die. Those damn fools finally got me killed!"
From the bottom of a dark well in the middle of the ruins, there were only two categories of visitors. Captors… or predators.
By asking the wrong question, Sunless had confirmed he was neither jailer nor ally. Which left one possibility in the Sleeper's eyes:
A Nightmare.
"Wait… it *speaks*," the young man wailed, voice trembling. "Oh, gods! I've only ever heard of two creatures on the Shore that can mimic human speech… no, no, no! Not like this…"
Sunless could almost admire the voice even now. Rich. Distinct. Even despair sounded beautiful in it.
He scowled.
'What the hell is wrong with me?'
Was he really this desperate to hear a human voice again?
'Focus.'
But on what? He hadn't expected a person here. Certainly not someone this… articulate.
So now he had to figure it out.
First step: determine identity.
Second: determine value.
Third: decide what to do—rescue, abandon… or end the problem entirely.
But that required trust. And first, he had to earn it.
He glanced at his shadow.
It was doubled over, shoulders shaking.
Laughing silently.
Sunless sighed through his nose.
This was going to be a long night.