Sorcerer's Shadow - Chapter 35: Crimson River

Drevolan decided to follow the course of the stream, and after a couple more hours, it had grown into a modest river. By nightfall, it had expanded into a large river, and we found a suitable spot to set up our final camp.

As we were winding down for the night, I asked, “Drevolan, does this river have a name?”

He replied, “Crimson River.”

“Makes sense,” I commented and drifted into slumber.

After an hour of walking the next morning, our journey led us to NecroGate Falls.

NecroGate Falls has a specific geographical spot; hence, so do the Paths of the Dead, but also, they don’t. I cannot provide an explanation for this oddity. I understand that somewhere within the Misty Mountains lies a lofty crevice known as Ashfog Valley. A perhaps mythical assassin, Puzo Ashfog, named after this place for the number of victims he reportedly dispatched there.

This valley is the resting place for the bodies of Imperions significant (and affluent) enough for someone to handle the arrangements. The Crimson River runs into the valley and over a waterfall, and that’s where the living’s involvement ends.

The height of the waterfall has been described by those undead who have returned from the Paths. Some reports suggest a mere fifty feet, others claim it’s a thousand feet, and countless estimates fall in between. Your conjecture is as reasonable as mine.

No one has ever reached the base of the falls via any route except the cliff, even though many, particularly Falcons and Lurivox, have attempted. Essentially, the base of the falls doesn’t seem to exist in the same realm as the top. Many discussions have been written arguing whether this is divine design or a natural anomaly. The fruitlessness of the debate is illustrated by the fact that even the gods themselves have taken varying positions on the matter.

The rare individuals who exit the Paths of the Dead (such as the undead Alyssra, and Empress Marya who received an exceptional allowance) don’t exit via the falls. Instead, they report emerging from a long cave they can never locate again, or awakening at the base of the Misty Mountains, or getting lost in the Forbidden Forest, or even strolling along a coastline a thousand miles away.

I suppose it’s not meant to be comprehensible.

I stood on the edge of the waterfall, looking out at an orange-hued horizon punctuated by the sporadic protrusion of craggy peaks. Dense, grey fogs rose and whirled below, veiling the base hundreds of feet beneath. The waterfall’s roar made conversation virtually impossible. The Crimson River, during its thunderous descent, inexplicably transformed from red to white.

I stepped away from the precipice. Drevolan, standing beside me, mirrored my actions almost simultaneously. We distanced ourselves from the waterfall. The noise subsided rapidly, and the river promptly broadened and slowed down. Merely fifty feet from the falls, it looked like you could easily wade into it, and we could hear our own breaths.

Although it seemed strange, I didn’t feel the need to inquire about it.

An unusual, possibly longing, expression crossed Drevolan’s face as he surveyed his surroundings. About twenty feet from the water, he fixated on a pedestal. As I approached him, expecting to see a deceased individual’s name and to ask Drevolan if the person was a relative, I was instead met with the carved image of a stylized Pardus head.

I sought clarification from Drevolan. He gestured towards the river, where I noticed a flat area. “This is the place where the remains of those from the Pardus House are released into the river to go over the falls.”

“A watery farewell,” I noted, “But they’re already deceased. I doubt it concerns them.”

He acknowledged with a nod and continued to gaze at the pedestal. Trying to maintain a nonchalant tone, I asked, “Do you know any Pardus lords who’ve journeyed here?”

“Alyssra,” he responded.

I blinked in surprise. “I thought she was a Dragon.”

Drevolan just shrugged and moved on. We kept walking away from the falls. We reached another flat area by the river, which had started to bend now. I noticed a stylized chreotha, then a Falcon, and finally a Dragon. Drevolan paused there for a while. I retreated a few steps, giving him space for his private emotions. His knuckles turned white as he gripped the staff that housed his cousin’s soul in some form or another.

Opal remained hidden inside my cloak. I noticed the giant Vorgan were still circling above us, their cries echoing occasionally. Soon, Drevolan joined me in observing the dark, swirling waters. Bird calls resonated in the clear, sharp air. It was a serene yet somber place, an ambiance seemingly created with purpose, though how it was accomplished remained a mystery. However, there was no denying its effectiveness.

Drevolan remarked, “Dragons typically use boats.”

I nodded and tried to envision a small fishing vessel, then a Moonrise River skiff, and finally a rowboat, which seemed the most logical. I could imagine it drifting down the river until it reached the waterfall, then disappearing over the edge.

I asked, “What happens next?”

Drevolan replied, “In time, the body settles along the shore, beneath the falls. After a few days, the soul awakens, takes whatever usable items it finds on the body, and embarks on the journey to the Halls of Afterlife. The journey can take anywhere from hours to weeks. Sometimes, it’s eternal. It depends on how well the individual remembered the Paths of their House during their lifetime, and what or who they encounter on the way, and how they deal with it.” He paused. “We might encounter some of those who have been wandering the Paths eternally. I hope we don’t. It would likely be quite distressing.”

I asked, “What about us?”

“We will descend next to the falls.”

“Descend?”

“I have a rope.”

“Oh,” I said, relieved. “Well, that’s fine then.”