Darthas. The city's gothic spires rose high above the billowing chimneys of its industrial quarters, disappearing into the thick sheet of smog that they produced; charcoal-stained remnants of a bygone era. I was surprised that they still stood, all things considered. To my estimation, and to the knowledge of my handlers, Darthas was a bloated corpse waiting to burst.
"Halt." A gateman barked through the muzzle of his respirator, words punctuated by the barrel of a blunderbuss. "Dismount and state your intentions, rider." A small host of guards stood in his company, each clad in the protective leathers of the watch and sporting cumbersome, full-faced respirators; their stares hidden by dull, ruby lenses. They were not typical guards, rather, plague wardens.
"I come with the authority of the Silver Tower," I replied with a modicum of respect by offering the proper salutations, presenting the token of the Tower; such courtesy was not returned.
"'The Silver Tower'," another guard scoffed, a dry cough catching in his breather, "and what business would those witches have with Darthas? Have you and your mistresses not heard? The taint's corruption has reached the Ivory District; the city is lost." His question was rhetorical. All had heard of the taint, from the foothill kingdoms of Mornfall to the eastern slavers of Bal'Ketim; a plague born of greed. But the fall of the Ivory District? It seemed that not even the disgraced nobility of Darthas would be spared.
Long before I was born, at the turn of the era, Darthas had established itself as a thriving metropolis. Few of the city-states could rival the opulence of the city or the ingenuity of its scientists. For the first time in recorded history, the works of men had rivaled the capabilities of magic, catapulting a new caste of industrialist into positions of power that threatened even the old hierarchies of the mystic conclaves and their advisories. Of course, this shift was not met without resistance—or calamity.
I gestured above the city wall, pointing out the rising plumes of soot, "Yet the syntherium factories still run? Surely, the production of syntherium has only worsened the pandemic, has it not?"
My observation was met with a defensive retort, "They must run, or the entire city would be consumed in a matter of hours." The guard hesitated, as if not to give too much information, but ultimately relented. "The coils of light are powered by it, without them, the beasts would ravage the what districts remain." While the dilemma of Darthas would most certainly prove a challenge, it was not my chief concern.
"I see. As stated, I am here under the authority of the Silver Tower. Our scions, including the Chief Prophetess, have divined the presence of a great channeler; a child."
"Within Darthas?" One mocked, "Have the Gods not tormented us enough? Now they send a lapdog of witches to find a child. Have you not been listening—"
In a flash, my silvered blade rocketed from its sheath and flourished in a crescent-shaped arc; its tip rested at the throat of the chief gateman. Such preternatural speed indicated my position as a 'silver ripper'; servitude to the witches of The Tower offered its privileges, even if it robbed of my humanity. The amplifications of their boons and elixirs allowed for feats unfathomable to the uninitiated.
"The child, if lost to the taint, will be the end of Darthas. A threat to the realms. You will allow this 'lapdog' to conduct his duties, lest your dying city lose what little aid it does receive from the Silver Tower and our affiliates."
For a moment, the guard was frozen in fear, then he recovered himself and spat, "I don't take orders from witches! Or lapdogs!"
"Then, perhaps, you should prepare for war." With that, I withdrew the blade, allowing the man to scramble back over the barricade. My horse snorted in annoyance, impatiently pawing the ground. "You've wasted more than enough of my time. You may enter, ripper."
With that, I urged the steed towards the city walls. From the shadow of a nearby building, I watched as the guards abandoned their posts and ran off to warn their superiors; there would be no further delay.
The streets of Darthas were filled with a disordered crowd of desperate peasants, fleeing the encroaching taint. It was a terrible thing, really. To be touched by the taint of unrefined syntherium was to become an atrocious beast. Even more troubling, some of the tainted—especially those with the potential for channeling—posed a greater threat powerful weavers of perverse magic. They were sentient agents of corruption. If the diviners of the Silver Tower could feel the awakening of a nascent witch in Darthas from our temple some several hundred miles away, Gods knew what would happen if such a power was to be lost to the taint. I'd been given a medallion by my mistresses, a token of power that would lead me to the child. Yet in a city the size of Darthas, and with such corruption running rampant—how long would it take before the beacon of potential was drowned out by the cacophony of beasts? Or even worse, assimilated by it?
As I approached the outer wall, the gates came into view; a large wooden gate flanked by two sentries armed with blunderbusses. Beyond lay the last bastion of civilization; a district known as the Ivory District. The name was fitting, for it housed the only remaining source of refined syntherium. In ages past, the ivory towers of the ruling aristocracy had once topped the highest spires of Darthas; a testament to their wealth and power. But now, after the fall of the Ivory District, the towers stood as rotting carcasses amidst a sea of charred rubble. As I approached, I saw that the district was deserted; the last vestiges of the aristocratic class fled to safety.
I'd long dismounted my steed, having left him at the stables of the outer walls. Travel by foot seemed a necessity for slinking through the tainted streets of Darthas. I drew my hood low and proceeded on foot, passing through the gate and into the Ivory District.
Once within the district, I found myself in a narrow alley between crumbling tenements, a veritable maze of decay and desolation. Such was the fate of the poor, the destitute and the desperate; to perish in the mire of the taint. Then, from the darkness of an adjacent alleyway, an animalistic growl echoed across the cobblestone street.