Welcome to part three of my Isthmus solo adventure of Against The Wind. I really love this game and I can only recommend buying it. Judging be how the book is layouted and illustrated, I think that the intended atmosphere is quite different from what I made of it. Even though I love the illustrations and the overall feeling they transport, I always drift to something sinister, weird and dark. Sorry… I guess?! lol
Last week the protagonist in this harsh world entered quite a strange settlement. Let’s see what he makes of it…
Sentient waters
The silence stretched, an oppressive blanket woven with unspoken questions and simmering suspicion. The blacksmith’s gaze remained fixed on me, unwavering, and I could see the muscles beneath his weathered skin tense and release with each breath. It felt like an eternity had passed, though it was likely only a few minutes. Then, without warning, a ripple jolted through the cobblestones under my foot – a subtle tremor that seemed to vibrate through the very ground itself.
Just as I began to question whether I imagined it, a hand landed on my shoulder. The touch was surprisingly gentle, and a raspy voice spoke from behind me, breaking the tension that had been building between myself and the blacksmith. “Come now, stranger,” the voice croaked, “walk with me.”
I turned to see an old man, his face etched with the deep lines of a life lived in harsh conditions. His skin was like parchment stretched over bone, and his eyes held a depth that seemed to encompass centuries of experience. Despite his frail appearance, there was an undeniable presence about him – a quiet strength that radiated outwards, calming the air around me and subtly easing the tension between myself and the blacksmith.
The blacksmith’s gaze softened slightly, though it didn’t entirely disappear. He simply nodded curtly, allowing us to proceed. The old man gestured for me to follow, and we walked towards a fountain in the center of the square – a simple structure carved from grey stone, its basin filled with water that reflected the pale sky above.
“The water is sentient,” the old man stated matter-of-factly, as if discussing the weather. It was an utterly baffling statement, delivered without preamble or explanation. I opened my mouth to respond, but he cut me off before I could utter a word.
He reached into the fountain and gently touched the surface of the water. The ripples spread outwards, distorting the reflection of the sky above. As he did so, his voice shifted – becoming slightly higher pitched, almost melodic, as he murmured a few sentences in a language I didn’t recognize. It was a low, rhythmic chant that seemed to resonate with the very stones of the square.
When he finished, he turned back to me, his eyes holding an unsettling intensity. “The waters know why you are travelling this land,” he said, his voice returning to its raspy timbre. “And they were expecting you.”
Nothing of what he had said made sense. Sentient water? Expecting me? It was a jumble of nonsensical phrases that defied logic and reason. I opened my mouth to question him, to demand an explanation for these bizarre pronouncements. “I… I don’t understand,” I stammered, feeling a surge of disorientation wash over me. “What do you mean by ‘expecting’?”
Finally, the old man spoke again, but his words offered no clarity. “Understanding is not always necessary,” he said cryptically. “Sometimes, one must simply accept what is.” He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “The land remembers things that men forget.”
He turned his gaze back to the fountain, tracing patterns on its surface with a gnarled finger. The ripples continued to spread outwards, distorting the reflection of the sky above. I felt a growing sense of dread – not just fear for my safety, but a deeper, more unsettling feeling that I had stumbled into something far beyond my comprehension.
The raven
The weather in the town of Ashain was unsettlingly mild. Despite the pervasive gloom that seemed to cling to everything, the air lacked the biting chill I expected given the latitude. Low-hanging clouds pressed down upon the settlement, heavy and grey, but they didn’t bring a storm – only a persistent, light rain that had begun an hour ago, dampening my clothes and clinging to my skin. It was a deceptive kind of mildness, hinting at something deeper and more sinister lurking beneath the surface.
The feeling of being unwelcome in Ashain solidified with each passing moment. The villagers’ glances were sharp and assessing, their conversations abruptly ceasing when I approached. There was an unspoken agreement amongst them – a collective decision to ignore my existence. It wasn’t outright hostility, but it was a palpable rejection that settled heavily on my shoulders. I decided to leave.
Driven by this unsettling feeling and the gnawing emptiness in my stomach, I attempted to trade what few belongings I possessed for some sustenance. A small, tarnished silver locket – its contents unknown – and a length of sturdy rope were all I had to offer. The carpenter, after a lengthy appraisal that felt more like an interrogation, grudgingly exchanged them for a loaf of coarse bread and a handful of dried berries. It was a meager offering, but it would stave off starvation for now.
Without a backward glance, I left the western gates of Ashain. The departure wasn’t unnoticed; several villagers paused in their activities to watch me go, their expressions unreadable. As I walked away, I could feel the weight of their collective resentment pressing down on my back – an invisible barrier separating me from the settlement and its inhabitants. It was a feeling that settled deep within me, a constant reminder of my outsider status.
The following days were remarkably dull and uneventful. The landscape stretched out before me in a monotonous panorama of grey skies and windswept plains. The biggest constant, however, was the wind – an incessant, howling presence that seemed to permeate every aspect of existence. It shredded the already bleak landscape, whipping up dust devils and tearing at my clothes with relentless force. More disturbingly, it gnawed at my mind, eroding my thoughts and blurring the edges of memory.
The path I followed was well-travelled, a testament to its importance as a trade route or perhaps simply a lifeline through this desolate region. It was easy enough to traverse, though the wind made every step an effort. The terrain shifted dramatically over time, a reflection of the land’s capricious nature. Initially, it was dominated by low-lying scrubs and hardy grasses that clung tenaciously to the soil. Gradually, these gave way to small forests – stunted but resilient stands of trees that huddled together for protection against the wind. Then the vegetation vanished altogether, replaced by a barren rocky desert punctuated only by patches of moss and lichen clinging to the exposed stone.
Despite the changing scenery, the wind remained unchanged – an omnipresent force shaping the landscape and dominating my senses. It carried with it whispers of forgotten things, fragments of memories that danced just beyond my grasp. I tried to focus on putting one foot in front of the other, ignoring the unsettling feeling that I was being watched – not by human eyes, but by something older, something woven into the very fabric of this land.
I found myself rationing the bread and berries from Ashain, knowing they would need to last until I encountered another settlement or managed to find some sustenance in the wild. The prospect of finding either felt increasingly remote with each passing day. The wind seemed to mock my efforts, carrying away any hope of warmth or comfort.
The lack of memory continued to plague me. Fragments surfaced occasionally – fleeting images of faces and places I couldn’t quite grasp – but they vanished as quickly as they appeared, leaving behind a frustrating sense of loss. Who was I? Why was I travelling this land? The questions echoed in my mind, unanswered and unsettling.
As the days bled into one another, marked only by the relentless wind and the changing landscape, I began to feel like a ghost – adrift in a world that didn’t recognize me, with no past and an uncertain future.
The landscape continued its relentless march of barren rock and wind-scoured scrub. The constant howl had become a familiar companion, a harmonic undersong to my solitary journey through this unforgiving land. Then I saw a stark contrast against the grey stone: a raven perched on a weathered boulder beside the path. It was an unremarkable sight at first glance, another creature battling the elements. But as I drew closer, something about it felt profoundly wrong. Its feathers were black, undeniably so, but scattered across their surface were patches of luminescence – faint, ethereal spots that pulsed with a strange, internal light.
I consciously tried to ignore it. The wind was already playing tricks on my mind; I didn’t need any more unsettling sights to add to the growing unease. I focused on putting one foot in front of the other, willing myself to move past the rock and leave the peculiar bird behind. But as I was a few steps beyond the stone, a voice shattered the silence – a guttural croak that sent a shiver down my spine.
“Lost, aren’t you?”
I spun around, heart hammering against my ribs. My gaze locked onto the raven, and to my greatest horror, it was speaking. The words were raspy and laced with an unsettling amusement. It wasn’t just mimicking sounds; it was clearly articulating a sentence, directed at me.
“Wandering through a world that doesn’t want you,” the raven continued, its glowing spots seeming to intensify as it spoke. “A ghost adrift in a sea of stone and sorrow.”
The mockery stung more than I expected. It was an unnervingly accurate assessment of my situation – the isolation, the lack of memory, the feeling of being utterly alone. A surge of anger flared within me, a desperate attempt to push back against the unsettling reality it had laid bare.
“Go away,” I snapped, my voice trembling slightly despite my efforts at composure. “Leave me alone.”
The raven merely tilted its head, those luminous spots gleaming with an almost predatory intelligence. It didn’t respond verbally, but a chilling certainty settled within me – the bird wasn’t going anywhere. As I resumed walking, attempting to regain some semblance of control over my situation, I realized it was following. Not directly behind, but always just out of sight, a shadow flitting at the periphery of my vision.
Each step I took seemed to be met with another rustle of feathers and the faint echo of that unsettling croak. It wasn’t speaking again, not yet, but its presence was undeniable – a constant reminder of my isolation and the mocking prophecy it had uttered. The wind continued to howl, now seeming to carry the raven’s laughter along with it.
The tale of Shojun
The wind, previously a constant annoyance, now carried with it a biting cold that seeped into my bones. The landscape had transformed overnight – or perhaps it was simply the cumulative effect of days spent wandering through this bleak realm. Snow fell steadily, heavy flakes swirling in the grey sky and blanketing everything in a layer of white. Patches of vegetation were scarce, clinging desperately to life amidst the snow cover – isolated trees bowed under the weight of the accumulating drifts, their branches laden with ice crystals. Large boulders of black rock jutted from the landscape like jagged teeth, stark against the pristine whiteness.
Despite the harsh conditions, there was a breathtaking beauty to it all. The sheer scale of the scene – the vast expanse of snow-covered plains stretching towards a distant mountain range – was awe-inspiring. The peaks themselves were shrouded in mist and snow, their silhouettes sharp against the clouded sky, a grand display of nature’s unbridled majesty. It was a landscape that inspired both reverence and dread; a place where beauty and danger coexisted in perfect balance.
The path I followed had become almost entirely obscured by the accumulating snowfall. Each step required careful placement, testing the ground ahead for hidden obstacles or treacherous drops. The wind whipped at my face, stinging my eyes and making it difficult to see more than a few feet ahead.
Then, through the swirling snow, I noticed something unusual – a dark shape protruding from the landscape. As I drew closer, I realized it was an obelisk, fallen long ago and now partly buried beneath the snow. It was crafted from obsidian, its surface polished to a mirror sheen despite centuries of exposure to the elements. The sheer size of it was impressive; even partially submerged, it must have been at least fifteen feet tall.
Driven by curiosity – or perhaps simply desperation for something other than endless white – I walked towards the obelisk and began brushing away the snow that clung to its surface. As more of the obsidian was revealed, intricate carvings became visible – a series of symbols unlike anything I had ever seen before. They were elegant yet alien, hinting at a civilization lost to time. The language was utterly unfamiliar, defying any attempt at recognition.
The raven appeared then, seemingly materializing from nowhere. It settled gracefully atop the fallen obelisk, its luminous spots glowing with an almost mocking intensity. A low croak escaped its beak – laughter, I realized with a growing sense of unease.
“Fascinating, isn’t it?” the raven rasped, his voice laced with amusement. “Trying to decipher the whispers of forgotten ages? Such futile efforts.”
I ignored him, focusing on the inscriptions. The more I looked at them, the more they seemed to shift and rearrange themselves, defying any logical interpretation. Frustration began to build within me.
“You seem… perplexed,” the raven observed, his glowing spots pulsing rhythmically. “Allow me to offer my assistance.” He paused, a theatrical gesture accompanying the words. “I can read them for you.”
A wave of suspicion washed over me. The raven’s sudden offer felt like a blatant attempt at trickery. Everything about this situation screamed danger – the fallen obelisk, the strange language, the bird’s unsettling presence. Yet, despite my reservations, a desperate desire to understand the inscriptions outweighed my caution. Perhaps it was simply the loneliness talking, the yearning for connection in this desolate world.
“Why would you do that?” I asked cautiously, my voice barely audible above the wind.
The raven let out another short burst of laughter. “Let’s just say… I have a fondness for stories. And this obelisk holds a remarkable tale.” He paused again, his gaze fixed on me with unsettling intensity. “Consider it a gesture of goodwill.”
Against my better judgment, I agreed. “Very well,” I said, bracing myself for whatever consequences might follow. “Read them to me.”
The raven settled more comfortably atop the obelisk, spreading its wings slightly as if preparing for a performance. A strange stillness descended upon the landscape, broken only by the howling wind and the rhythmic fall of snow. The luminous spots on his feathers intensified, bathing the fallen obsidian in an eerie glow.
The raven cleared its throat, a dry, rasping sound that echoed unnaturally in the snow-laden air. Its luminous spots pulsed with an unsettling rhythm as it began to speak, translating the ancient inscriptions not with words, but with a chilling recitation that seemed to seep directly into my mind.
“Let us see what echoes linger within this stone,” he croaked, his voice taking on a strange resonance. “The script speaks of one… Shojun.” A pause, and I could almost feel the raven’s amusement intensifying. “A fitting name for such a… creature… oh wait… he is a god.”
He continued, his tone shifting to a more formal cadence as he relayed the information gleaned from the obsidian carvings. “Shojun’s domains encompass a spectrum of destructive and disruptive elements. Chaos, murder… bugs. A curious emphasis on insects. Trickery, filth, death – all embraced with unsettling fervor. It speaks of a rejection of order, a celebration of transgression.” The raven paused again, letting the weight of those words settle in the frigid air. “A worldview that revels in the darker aspects of existence.”
“His depiction is consistent,” the raven continued, his voice taking on a theatrical quality. “Always a bald man, adorned with antlers – symbols of power and… bestial nature. Glowing red eyes, pale skin… an unsettling visage designed to inspire dread.” He paused, then added with a hint of relish, “And always, always, a cloak. A black cloak meticulously decorated with the most unpleasant things imaginable – bugs, innards of dead goats – a deliberate act intended to express animosity towards his brother, Utar.”
The raven’s voice took on a more somber tone as he described the symbolism further. “The antlers are drenched in blood within these accounts, reinforcing his connection to violence and bloodshed. And wherever Shojun’s influence is felt… filth, foul odors, swarms of insects – signs of decay and contamination.”
A dry chuckle escaped the raven’s beak. “Despite his reputation for malevolence – and it is significant, believe me – Shojun’s cult is surprisingly widespread. Attributed to the appeal of unrestrained practices… and the perceived power he offers those who embrace chaos.” The words hung in the air, heavy with implication.
The raven’s voice dropped to a near whisper as he detailed the rituals associated with the cult. “Human sacrifices are regular occurrences. Initiates selected as offerings… followed by acts of sexual violence against the spouse of the sacrificed individual. A complete disregard for societal norms, an embrace of brutality.” He paused, and I could feel his gaze upon me, though I couldn’t see his eyes in the swirling snow. “Murder is considered a sacred act – honoring creativity and brutality while performing the deed. Aggregations of Shojun’s followers are often found within guilds of assassins and thieves throughout Atarr, leveraging their skills to further his agenda of chaos and disruption.”
The raven continued with a dismissive tone. “Shrines devoted to Shojun lack permanence. Simple piles of innards – preferably goat – or the corpses of freshly killed humans… reflecting a disregard for conventional religious practices. The ephemeral nature underscores Shojun’s association with transience and decay.”
Then, his voice dropped again, becoming almost mournful, though laced with that unsettling amusement. “And finally… a particularly disturbing belief. It is said that Shojun sexually abuses his sister Irenta in an act of vengeance against her… and against her lover, their brother Utar.” The raven paused, the wind seeming to pick up as if echoing his words. “The howling winds within these mountains? They are attributed to Irenta’s screams – a testament to the unspeakable acts perpetrated by this Shojun.”
He finished with a final, chilling croak. “That is all that the stone reveals… for now.” The raven settled back on the obelisk, his luminous spots dimming slightly as if exhausted from the recitation. A silence descended once more, broken only by the wind and snow – a silence far more unsettling than before.
Salt
The raven’s mocking pronouncements had faded behind me, swallowed by the relentless wind, but their echo lingered in my mind – a constant, irritating reminder of my predicament. I pressed onward, driven by a desperate need to escape both the memory of those words and the oppressive weight of this land. Days bled into one another as I stumbled westward, each step an act of will against the growing exhaustion that threatened to consume me.
The initial landscape, dominated by the jagged peaks of the mountain range I had finally cleared, gradually transformed. The dense forests gave way to a vast, desolate plain stretching out before me like a bruised canvas under a perpetually overcast sky. Here, vegetation was sparse and tenacious – stunted shrubs clinging stubbornly to the parched earth, their leaves a dull grey-green that mirrored the oppressive atmosphere. Thorny bushes clawed at my threadbare clothing with every step, a constant irritation adding to the growing discomfort. The ground itself was a mosaic of cracked clay and loose shale, offering little purchase for weary feet.
The air began to carry a subtle tang – a faint salinity that tickled my nostrils and coated my tongue. It was a peculiar sensation in this otherwise barren landscape, hinting at something vast and unknown beyond the horizon. Was I nearing an ocean? The thought offered a flicker of hope, quickly extinguished by the sheer bleakness of my surroundings.
The weather had become increasingly hostile. Lightning storms were now a near-constant companion, rolling across the sky with terrifying frequency. But these weren’t ordinary storms; they felt… prolonged. Each flash and thunderclap seemed to linger in the air, stretching out the agony of each moment. The bolts themselves were unnervingly close, illuminating the desolate landscape in brief, stark flashes that revealed the utter emptiness surrounding me. Several times, I had felt the searing heat of a strike narrowly missed, the ground trembling beneath my feet as if the very earth was protesting my presence.
It wasn’t just the lightning; it was the feeling of the land itself. A palpable sense of rejection permeated everything – the wind that whipped at me with increasing ferocity, the dry scrub that seemed to actively impede my progress, the ground that offered no comfort beneath my worn boots. It felt as if this land did not want me here, and it was doing everything within its power to rid itself of me.
My movements had devolved from a purposeful walk into a clumsy stumble. Each step was an effort, my muscles screaming in protest against the relentless exertion. Fatigue gnawed at me, blurring my vision and dulling my senses. The hope that had initially spurred me onward began to dwindle, replaced by a growing sense of dread. It felt as if my luck was running out – that each passing moment brought me closer to oblivion.
Driven by a desperate surge of adrenaline, I increased my pace, attempting to outrun the approaching storm and the encroaching exhaustion. But it was too late. My foot caught on a hidden root or a patch of loose shale, and with a sickening lurch, I tumbled forward, hitting the ground with bone-jarring force.
A searing pain shot through my left ankle, radiating outwards like wildfire. I lay there for a moment, gasping for breath, trying to assess the damage. The world swam in and out of focus as I attempted to sit up, but the effort sent another wave of agony through my leg. It felt… wrong. Twisted.
I cautiously probed the area around my ankle, wincing at the sharp pain that accompanied each touch. There was a distinct lack of stability; it wobbled beneath my fingers with an unsettling looseness. Was it broken? I couldn’t tell. The pain was intense, overwhelming, threatening to drown out all rational thought.
The storm seemed to intensify as if mocking my misfortune. Rain began to fall in sheets, soaking me to the bone and turning the ground into a muddy quagmire. The wind howled like a banshee, carrying with it the scent of salt and impending doom. I was alone, injured, and stranded in a hostile landscape that seemed determined to claim me as its own.
Despair threatened to engulf me, but something – a stubborn refusal to surrender – kept me clinging to consciousness. I needed to assess my situation, find some way to survive. But the pain in my ankle was relentless, a constant reminder of my vulnerability. The vast, desolate plain stretched out before me, an endless expanse of grey under a sky that mirrored my own bleak outlook. The wind carried with it not just the scent of salt and rain, but also the chilling whisper of impending death.
The ruins of Alghad Zuth
The grey sky remained stubbornly unchanged, a perpetual canvas of gloom mirroring the landscape’s inherent bleakness. The thunderstorm’s departure had brought no sunshine, only a lingering dampness that clung to everything – my clothes, my skin, and the very air I breathed. It was a temporary reprieve, not a promise of better weather to come.
My progress continued its agonizingly slow descent. Each step sent a jolt of pain through my ankle, a constant reminder of the injury sustained during my fall. The swelling hadn’t subsided; it felt as if my foot were encased in lead. I knew that pushing further without rest would only exacerbate the damage, potentially rendering me completely immobile. Finding a suitable place to settle, even temporarily, became paramount.
The sound had been faint at first, easily dismissed as another trick of the wind. But as I crested the larger hill, there was no denying it – the unmistakable crash and sigh of waves. My instincts, honed by weeks of navigating this unforgiving land, confirmed what my ears told me: an ocean lay before me. A vast expanse of water, a potential lifeline or a formidable barrier, depending on its nature.
The sight that unfolded was both exhilarating and deeply unsettling. The sea stretched out to the horizon, a grey-green sheet blending seamlessly with the overcast sky. But it wasn’t the ocean itself that held my attention; it was what stood between me and it – the ruins. Those impossible structures, black and sleek, dominated the landscape, an alien presence amidst the natural world.
I approached cautiously, my senses on high alert. Each step was measured, each shadow scrutinized. The air around the buildings felt… different. Not just still, but charged, as if holding its breath. I circled a low-slung structure, searching for an opening, a weakness in their impenetrable facades. Finally, near one corner, I found a slight imperfection – a section of wall that seemed subtly less smooth than the rest. It was small, barely large enough to squeeze through, but it represented hope – a chance at respite and recovery.
Pushing through the narrow opening, I entered a space devoid of any discernible purpose or history. The walls were cold and smooth, radiating an almost imperceptible hum that resonated deep within my bones. There were no markings, no signs of habitation, nothing to indicate what this place was meant for. It felt… waiting.
I collapsed onto the floor, ignoring the renewed surge of pain in my ankle. For now, I was sheltered, at least from the elements. But the question lingered – a shadow darker than the grey sky above: What did these ruins want? And would they allow me to heal long enough to find out? The ocean remained visible through a gap in the structure’s design, a tantalizing promise and a potential prison, all depending on what lay ahead.
To be continued…
This is the end of part three, I hope you liked it and I would be very happy to welcome you next week for the fourth part.
