#westmoore

You didn’t mean to bump into the man — an older fellow, only managing to keep from toppling over thanks to his well-planted cane. He scuffled along at a faster pace, obscenities most likely what was muttered under his breath as he passed you by. While you may have been at least somewhat sorry for burdening the elderly man’s day, you were far too focused on the journey ahead. Candlelight Cove, the main port town of the Westmoore Province. You had heard tales, from strange to downright cautionary, of Westmoore and its surrounding locales. But from where you heard them seemed to constantly elude your memory. While Candlelight seemed to be the most tame, it carried most of the warnings being the entryway to most’s adventures into Westmoore — mainly being, don’t go. It was the first stop — and therefore, it was the first mistake. Stay away from Westmoore. Turn back. L̻͖̮͈ͅe̳̬̤̙̫̹a̡͕v̶͈e̸̤͉̥͓̣.͈̺̝̭͔̭̘.

It was an accident — the sudden lurch of the boat tugging against its anchor as it docked caused your hand to catch at some loosened wood on the deck’s railing. A long, albeit shallow scrape now stung at your palm — but ignoring the light throb of freshly broken skin, you stepped foot onto the dock. It was just as dreary as the stories foretold. A light, gentle patter of sprinkling rain kept the stone roads slick and shiny enough to reflect the grey, cloudy overcast. As you and the remaining fresh arrivals stepped into town, others hurried to leave — plenty seeming far too eager to return to La Noscea. Casting your doubts aside, you gave the small town a quick glance — and true to its name, ever-burning candles decorated anywhere the rain couldn’t reach. Windowsills, lamp posts, the crooks of sheltered alleyways. It was ominous, in an eerie sort of way.

It was an accident — you must have spaced out while you were fixated upon the fountain of liquid pearl. How was that possible? Could pearls even be perfectly liquefied like this? It was a smooth, ever-flowing cascade of pearlescence — rainbows shimmering within the milky whites and shimmering silvers as the flowing substance caught the flickering candlelights. It didn’t even seem like water. It was dense and viscous, like some sort of runny syrup — and for some reason, images of blood beginning to coagulate and clot were filling your mind as you studied the fluid. Your fingers were so close to dipping within the fountain’s falls, but the sudden hand on your shoulder startled you away. A few splatters of your blood speckled against the hypnotic substance, quickly mingling into the pool below as the falls continued. “Welcome to Westmoore~” chimed a rather mountainous man. He was dressed in a finely pressed suit — but although it was clean and wrinkle free, he seemed to have clothed himself in a hurry. The buttons were loose, his inner shirt askew. The collar was half unfolded, and his tie was loose and lopsided. Dark hazelnut-brown hair was swept back in messy curls, while golden eyes stared into your own. They were empty, vacant, as if staring straight through you to the ground below — accompanied by an equally emotionless smile, as if his lips were simply plastered that way. His voice was low, rich and smooth — flowing effortlessly like honeyed whiskey as he introduced himself. “I’m Rodarin Calrise, the Mayor of Westmoore. Come — let’s get you settled in.”

It was an accident — before you knew it, you were already leaving the faint glow of Candlelight Cove in the horizon, coming upon a signpost that waited at the T-shaped ending of the road. To the left, Westmoore. The right, Devil’s Edge. And right you turned, following the self-proclaimed Mayor the opposite direction of your intended destination. "We.. aren’t going to Westmoore?” You finally managed to ask, fighting the sudden wave of nausea that tried to prevent the question from being asked. “Oh no, no–we need to get you settled in first.” Rodarin replied — his stare and smile as glazed and absent as ever, as if in a haze. A haze you soon felt buzzing over the back of your mind as the road descended towards the thick treeline of the woods by the side of the road. Everything became.. calm. Numb, even. All you could focus on was the smell of moist bark and the crunch of the stone road you absently followed.

It was an accident — at least, you think it was. When did you arrive in the woods? You think back, brows physically straining as they knitted together in struggled contemplation. You.. couldn’t remember anything. All you could recall was walking on the road — Rodarin saying ‘you needed to get settled in first’. You can’t remember how you got here, when you got here, how much time had passed, where Rodarin was, where you were — nothing. The canopy of pine made it impossible to tell if it was night or day within these woo — wait.. canopy? You recall the woods by the road you had walked upon earlier — their branches were barren. This.. wasn’t right. None of this was right. And the more you thought on your situation, the stronger your stomach knotted and shakier your hands became. The air was somehow chilled, yet humid at the same time — and it was taking its toll quickly. You could already feel your skin prickling in defense against the cold, your teeth quietly chattering to prevent from locking. But a shimmer of hope soon sent you running towards it — the gentle glow of light flickering against the trunks.

It was an accident — surely, this had to be an accident. A mistake. A prank — anything to explain what you were seeing here. It was you, slumped against the trunk of a pine on the cold, damp ground. Motionless. Pale-blue. The left side of your skull was caved in, while a large gaping hole was missing from the right side of your torso — a few pieces of meat still clinging desperately to the blood-stained tips of what ribs remained. A single lit candle was held in your hand, your knuckles whitened and blood dripping from the base as if you had held onto it for dear life. The light danced upon a white creature crouched by your corpse. It held no features, its figure resembling the basic shape of a humanoid structure — like a cheap doll that sat in the children’s stores in Limsa Lominsa. Stumpy arms and legs, and a large rounded head — where blood stained and dripped over the area a mouth should be. Your blood, no doubt. Its ‘skin’ was constantly rippling, like waves upon a disturbed lake — ending in thick streams and globules of its white composition to fall and spill over the ground. The scent of a charred candlewick filled your lungs — and that’s what it was. It was wax. A golem, perhaps? Some sort of animated waxen puppet? 

Your guesswork was interrupted as it seemed to look back towards you — it was hard to tell with the absence of eyes. Rodarin appeared from behind the tree your body rest against, his vacant smile now replaced by a grin of absolute pleasure — his teeth all sharpened into fine points. “Welcome back to Westmoore. I hope you enjoy your stay. Try to avoid the Woods next time, won’t you?” he said before bursting out into laughter--though whether it was out of amusement or malice, it was hard to tell. And then, pain. Your hands clawed at your chest, desperate to remove whatever white-hot dagger was digging itself into your heart — only to claw at your own flesh. You gasped for air, falling to the ground and curling involuntarily in defense against the crippling pain — its intensity so powerful it caused you to gag. Your eyelids fluttered as your eyes rolled back, staining your mind with the last image they saw. Your corpse, staring back at you — grinning so widely and gleefully that the corners of its lips were beginning to tear and bleed. And then, the world went dark.

              .

I’ve always had a morbid curiosity for Murder. Specifically, how a Murderer’s mind worked.

Rough crinkling of parchment filled the air as Rodarin shuffled through the various stacks and disheveled piles of documents atop his desk. A rugged hand reached up to glide his fingers through curled locks of chestnut-brown, a deep sigh escaping his lips—a mixture of frustration and fatigue. 

But this?... This is just fucked up...

The flames of various candles began to flicker in unison as the stilled air of his makeshift office was disturbed by the opening of his door. A fair-skinned woman with raven-black hair and gentle eyes soon peeked into the room, offering a weak, almost apologetic smile to the man. “It’s nearly midnight.. Are you coming to bed soon?” Rodarin’s figure had shifted instinctively, using his broad frame to shield her view from the documents cluttered over his desk. She didn’t need to see this. Turning to glance back over his shoulder, Rodarin offered a forced smile in return to his wife, Sarina. “Yeah.. yeah, I am. Couple more minutes, love.” She lingered in the door for a few moments longer as she watched her husband turn back to the papers he studied, her weak smile slowly faltering to a more worrisome expression. Nonetheless, she took her leave, the gentle thump of the door signaling Rodarin’s privacy.

I’m sorry for worrying you.. I’ll make it up, somehow.

A tired slouch returned to his posture—his facade was becoming tiresome to portray. His gaze swept over the various stacks of parchment towards the farther corners of his desk. Articles, written accounts, sketches, photographs, his own notes—cases he had either solved, or assisted with. Rodarin was an investigator, his experience ranging from queries of petty theft and cheating spouses, to assisting the Fleet when they were stumped. Some were even solved out of personal interest, a byproduct of his ever-inquisitive mind. As Rodarin’s gaze fell back to the documents resting before him, his brow pulled in frustration. This was the best of both worlds—a contract made with investigative branches of both the Guard and the village council for differing reasons. And the more he learned, the more it gnawed at his mind. He was curious—too damned curious.

Eagerly, he shifted through the papers once more, studying the articles that had been brought to him. A copy of a statistical report from the council, showing a sudden and drastic spike in missing children reports from the village and surrounding towns, and even more coming in from various sources. This wasn’t limited to Vylbrand, or even Eorzea—it was occurring everywhere. There was seemingly no discrimination as to race or location.

As Rodarin continued through the pile, the documents became more recent, and more violent. Murdered parents, with their children missing. Reports of children leaving for the forests, and brutally attacking Maelstrom privateers who try to stop them—some of them even being confirmed as a missing child themselves, and search parties unable to locate them afterwards. The final folder within the pile was the latest to date, one that filled Rodarin with unease. The Westmoore Orphanage Massacre. 

Eight caretakers dead—horribly mutilated. An elbow thumped against the table as his forehead leaned into his palm in effort to lean closer, a sour taste in his throat as he studied the photographs of the crime scene. The caretakers were completely unidentifiable within the photographs—the only way they figured out who was killed was thanks to the work schedule kept on record by the head Matron. Their torsos were all split down the middle, their insides completely cleaned out to be strung throughout the orphanage. Their heads were missing, and as yet have not been found. Their arms and legs had been scratched down to the tendons, and three of them had their legs broken to splinters—it was Rodarin’s assumption that these three had tried to run away.

What kind of sick fuck would do this, at an orphanage? Why kidnap the children afterward? It can’t be for ransom, they’re orphans..

The most chilling aspect of any of this, however, was the location. Westmoore—the quiet village tucked away in the mountainsides of Vylbrand he and his family had lived in for many years. He remembered it clearly, only a handful of days having passed since—the screams of panic when the scene was discovered, and the stench of rotten flesh and dried, caked blood that wafted from the building the next few days afterward during the preliminary investigations. Not a single orphan was accounted for—all forty-three of them were now listed as missing, though the entire village suspected the worst. The council wanted answers for the growing fear of citizens, and the Maelstrom held suspicions for terrorist or even cultist activity. Rodarin, however, feared for his own son and daughter, and planned to protect them the only way he knew how. By solving the case.

((  @rodarin-calrise   ))

The thick, liquid pearl sloshing in the fountain caused him to fancy it as congealing blood. Blood fresh from his victim's mouth, slightly foamy, but hardening into brown flakes. Blood seeping from where the ceruleum charge had launched it when it made contact with the soldier’s abdomen. The ichor from the body's stomach was even thicker, more in tune with the consistency of the fountain. The outer layers had congealed and darkened, becoming almost rubbery in texture like extra surprise giblets that coated the entryway to the man's-

A hand grabbed his shoulder, and the pout that formed over his deliciously purposeful feminine lips portrayed his disappointment with the manners of the equites here as he was force fed greetings of, “Welcome to Westmoore~ I'm Rodarin Calrise, the mayor of Westmoore. Come -- let's get you settled in. ”

The man's manner of dress did nothing to save him from the posh Viera's judgement. It was disheveled, poorly done, and basically an afterthought. Ka turned and bounced his travel bag up the touched shoulder slightly, also meant to dislodge the mayor's hand. A perfect smile played over the previous pout and he masked his voice with effeminacy, “Hello there, pumpkin. I'm here to inspect the scene.”

“Ahh, yes, yes, right away, but first let's get you settled in!” The mayor left little room for protest as he moved off down the path, but protest Ka did. 

“I only have this little satchel. Hardly a reason to fuss over room and board,” he mentioned sweetly, if not saccharinely. 

“Nonsense, nonsense!” Rodarin replied as he seemingly sped up even more, “Guests are welcome. Yes. Very welcome.”

The darkness closed in with no more candles to hold it at bay as Ka followed the man until they reached a crossroad, one sign pointed at Westmoore, and another at someplace called Devil's Edge. It was the latter that Rodarin chose to head down. “We aren't going to Westmoore?” he asked with a chipper lilt that cloaked an abrupt nausea. 

“Oh no, no -- we need to get you settled in first,” the mayor replied with a stare devoid of thought.

One of Ka's ears folded over itself in disgruntlement, but -- the smell of the moist earth was so thick and rich the mosses growing over it could be visualized, shoving their image to the forefront for observation. It was nice, thick and green, but -- cold, cold, cold. He shivered. Arms wrapped tightly about himself as his nose bobbed nervously and his ears swiveled for any purchase on reality. 

Rodarin was gone. There was no road. There was no sky. Only a forest. Another forest come to further mangle the remnants of his sanity. 

He froze at the sight of a light, paused, thought, and then cautiously approached with arms still about himself trying to calm the shaking.

What the light illuminated left his head slightly slack from confusion. That was clearly his gorgeous self on the ground. His androgyny would be near impossible to replicate in the exact portions he had sculpted for himself. His eyes moved from where his skull had caved to the hole in his torso where the slightest hints of organs were visible -- what did his insides look like? Sheer curiosity overpowered anything else. The faceless, waxen monstrosity sampling his corpse didn't phase his mindset. It would just be a bothersome detail until it acted as something other than decoration.

The monster looked his way and Rodarin appeared from about a tree, “Welcome back to Westmoore. I hope you enjoy your stay. Try to avoid the Woods next time, won't you?” He was all smiles and sugar, displaying the points of his teeth. A new detail. And then he began letting out howling laughter, and not the sort you would release towards an ally in such a predicament. Not if a shred of empathy existed, anyway.  

Ka stared at him as his mind did a few simple calculations that lead back to the conclusion that no action he would take would have any meaning. In summary, he was either already dead or this wasn't real. Either way nothing he could do past this point would ever matter, and so Ka did as he pleased-

-and gave a quick succession of jabs at the Mayor's gut, the same sort a rushed chef gave a chicken prior soaking it in spices. The previously unseen dirk was quick and to the point. It conveyed all he wanted to say to him, really. 

While he aimed towards the gut, something else stabbed him in the heart. Ka's fist squeezed the wooden handle as the stream of pain hit and nearly brought him down. Without break, another torrent of searing ice in his chest forced him to his knees and his response was to release a steady tone, lips pulled back into some combination of a smile and a snarl. The tone raised, hit a new note, and continued in song. Even as the agony tore at his innards and brought him flat and blind, he sang gently until his mind joined the void with his other senses.

Amidst the propaganda of war littering every major city, Horde and Alliance alike, flutters a strange flier that only a select few would notice. Are you one of the unlucky ones? Perhaps you spied The Eye? Or maybe it was the mention of The Children that caught your attention? Do you remember them? When they spoke to you in riddles? When the world stretched out strange, quivering fingers, to reach the moon that was no moon? Doesn’t it remind you of blood? Of war? Of Omens, ill, and quickly being fulfilled?

If you take one of the cuttings and read it, instead of shoving it away like you wish you could the terrible things in your mind, you will find a time and a place.

Thursday, the 9th of August. At the 4th evening bell. The Weary Ember of Candlelight Cove, Westmoore. Eastern Kingdoms.

OOC under the cut.

“You want to survive in the shadows? Do not kill people; do not even maim someone. Sure, sending a head to someone will give a message, but it is not the message you assume.”

“The message you offer so eagerly is: ‘you have a cause.’ Even the most wicked of villains can recruit the holiest of heroes if there is a cause noble enough. Vengeance for a snuffed life is the easiest of the noble causes.”

“You want to thrive? Steal things. Obtain truths. Things can be replaced, and truths are more readily kept secret rather than shared. A cause is less appealing if the heart of the matter is replaceable or hidden.”

[ TW: Extreme Violence, Gore ]

Brisk steps echoed along the street as Rodarin made his way through the Ward, his heart continuing to drum on the edge of panic and mania. He needed to see that his twins were safe — to make sure no one would harm them. He didn’t have to worry about those dark, abysmal Children of the shadows. They didn’t kill fellow children, onl̢y ̴hor̢rifi̵ȩd ad̷ưlts̢ ͘k̨il̕l͝ ̛Ch͏i̧l͟dre̸n. That’s all that matters to you, their safety. That’s all that mattered to him, their safety. The few people that still lingered in the streets gave him puzzled glances of confusion or concern. Others just pretended not to notice, keeping their distance from anything that would prevent them from having just another ordinary day. Despite the absence of any wound from the branch that had impaled him, the gaping hole that persisted on the front and back of his shirt, coupled with the large blood stains that seeped beneath them, offered clear evidence it had happened. Small rivets of crimson continued to dribble from his ears and nostrils — the gentle ringing in his head still persisting. His staggered, swaying gait didn’t persuade people to offer aid.

Once the home of Sarina’s sister came into view just at the end of the street, he fought against the dizzying buzz in his skull to quicken his pace — nearly stumbling over more than once as he grew closer. He needed to hurry — he needed to see with his own eyes that his children were safe. That the Children were safe. That the C̛h̸i͠ĺd͏r͢en ͏w͏er̸e ̷sa͏f̵e. He didn’t even bother with the door, his shoulder bashing into the side — a loud crunch and clatter of splintered wood raining down as the frame was ripped open for him to storm in. “Sarina! Viveann!” He called out their names, squinting to see into the darkened home. He hurried into the living room, his fists clenched tightly as no sign of t́he ͟C͞ḩi͠l̕dr̸en were present — not even the toys they had packed. Hurried footsteps alerted him to the staircase, his hand instinctively bolting to the hilt of his sword — though relaxed only slightly as he saw Viveann in her nightgown. “Rodarin!? What the fuck are you doing!?” She exclaimed, a slight tremble of fear and frustration in her voice at the sudden and violent intrusion.

“Where is Sarina? Where are the Children!?” Rodarin demanded, easing closer towards the staircase as Viveann reached the bottom, her brow furrowing into a glare at the man, as her fear had given way to confusion — though the anger was still quite apparent. “Sarina? Th’hell are you talking about, Rodarin? You lot haven’t visited here since the Moonfire Faire!” A painful thump hammered into his mind, the ringing in his head growing slightly louder — and more disorienting. No — focus, he told himself as his body swayed lightly in recoil, allowing Viveann the time to register his bloodied appearance. Her tone sweetened, cautious hands reaching out towards him. “Oh gods — Rodarin, are you alright? There’s so much bloo–.” Rodarin gripped at Viveann’s forearm, reeling her closer as his words grew more spiteful. “I don’t have time for this shit, Viv — I sent Sarina here with the Children to stay after the murders in Westmoore. Where. Are. They?”

Viveann’s head shook slightly in disbelief, her eyes widening — staring upon Rodarin as if he were mad. “W-What murders, Rodarin? Sarina — the twins — they aren’t here. Are they not home with you? I.. I’ve not heard of any murders in West–” A loud smack filled the room as Rodarin struck her to the ground. Liar. “Liar!” he cried, dropping to his knees to deliver another blow — this time with a closed fist. Viveann grunted in pain, frightened whimpers and mumbled, stuttering pleas unable to escape her lips fast enough before the next blow. And the next. And the next. “Where are they!?” Rodarin snarled — smashing his knuckles deeper into her already crackling jaw before she could even answer. ”I’ll never tell you” “Rodarin, please! Li–” Pop. Her jaw snapped from its joint, a cry of pain gurgled behind pooling blood. “Tell me where the Children are!” ”Never!” Crunch. Viveann could do nothing but watch as Rodarin’s fist wound up for blow after blow — eventually granted the mercy of numbing unconsciousness as his beating went unhindered.

Tenderized chunks of flesh, splintered segments of cranium, and an unrecognizable mound of meat were all that would remain of Viveann’s head–Rodarin’s own hands flayed down to the bone and tendon around his knuckles. She was going to harm the Children. She was going to harm the C̡̕͠h́͟ild̛ŕ̛̛e̡͞͡n. His vision blurred behind a building wall of tears — perhaps he was too late. Perhaps she had already killed them — or handed them off to the Maelstrom to do the dirty work for her. T̨h͞i͝s ̨d͜ea͜th̨ wa͜s̷ ̢too lènie̡n̡t f͟or̕ he̷r.͘ He spent his last few hours in the house searching for any sign of their stay — their clothing, toys, anything at all. It looked as if a whirlwind had devastated the interior by the time he was done, Viveann’s lifeless body lost beneath scattered furniture and debris. He ripped ribbons of linen from her gown to dress the oozing wounds on his knuckles, finally taking his leave from the wrecked house and locking it behind him with the key he had found during his search. He stood there in the chilled night air, staring vacantly at the sky — unsure of what to do. Maybe they returned to Westmoore. A spark of hope ignited in his chest, his feet automatically setting forth to leave the Mist just as quickly as he had arrived. Maybe they returned to Westmoore!

It hadn’t taken him long to complete the journey — a couple of hours, considering his unsteady balance and repetitive pauses to rub at his throbbing temples. Dawn was breaking, a beautiful fiery horizon of the sun’s rays greeting him as Westmoore finally came into view along the cobbled road. It was a peaceful sight compared to the macabre carnage of the past long hours. The streets were still relatively empty — something he was thankful for given his appearance. He was making his way for home, hopefully to Sarina and the C̷͞h̀į͜l̕͠͠ḑ́r̴én͡ — but then, he froze in his tracks. No.. That wasn’t possible.. He turned, looking to the Orphanage that rested on the outskirts of the village. He approached carefully, his eyes wide as he looked into the windows. He could see them — the orphans. Carrying about their morning as usual, along with their caretakers. Their alive, unharmed, caretakers. He pushed the gate open, moving to knock upon the front door.

He was welcomed inside by a startled caretaker, rushing the others to retrieve the first aid kit to tend to his bloodied hands. A cold sweat began to roll down his arms and forehead, his arm reaching to catch himself against the doorway as another agonizing thump hammered at his skull, the ringing growing louder. They should be dead. “You should be dead..” he murmured in disbelief, his fingers trembling as he struggled to keep himself steady. “Pardon?..” The clueless caretaker asked, her frightened appearance only growing. These Children were supposed to be taken, and protected. They should be dead. Blood oozed along the previously dried trail that now caked under his nostrils and ears, the deafening buzz in his skull almost maddening. They should be dead. His least-injured hand reached for the hilt of his blade, the slow metallic ring of steel being unsheathed sending the Orphanage into silence. Vacant, hazed eyes stared back at the woman as Rodarin’s grip over his sword tightened. “Yo̡ù ͜s͝h̡ould ̵b̛e ̷d̵̰ḙ͙͡a̠̱͓̩̪ḑ̟̜̪̯̮̥.̟̪”

With one swift, mighty swing, the enchanted blade sliced through her neck — literally cutting off her scream before she could release it as her body dropped to the floor, her head rolling a few feet away. Rodarin closed the entrance behind him, the other caretakers beginning to scream and beg for their lives — only to be cut down in the same fashion. Three of them tried to run from him — but the orphans, who had been watching silently with emotionless stares, pinned them down to hammer at their legs with whatever they could find as the caretakers screamed in agony. This seemed to awaken the otherwise motionless onlookers, setting them to finish what Rodarin had started. They used large kitchen knives to mercilessly hack away at the remaining victims necks, unable to decapitate with a single cleave given their weaker arms. Others began to scratch away at their limbs, open their bellies to play with their entrails — playful giggles and smiles beginning to show on their faces. What good Children. What good C̵͢hiĺ́dr͞ȩ͝n, he thought, allowing them to play as he moved to take his leave, only to find a dark figure standing in front of the door. It was one of those shadow-woven Children, waiting for him as glowing white eyes and wide, gleeful grin were resting upon him. Its words flooded his mind.

C҉̘̳͖̪ͅo͔͙̘̫̼͞m̵e̙̗̬̝̤̱̥͜.̼͈̫̯̜̙̞̀ Ț̛̦̯̠̳̙̫h̛e̴̬͍̙͎ṛe͔ ̤̬͖a͖͇̝r̙̭̙̹̭e m̸̟̟̦̳o̦̰̪̻͓̮͟ͅr̦̬̘̭̯͡e̸̲̦̙̥̱͖ ̳͍C͏͙͓h͏̭͈ͅi̵̬̘̱̫̻͖l̷̮͔d̵̳̙r̗͓͓͔̬͘e͎̣n͉̤͡ ̞̰̲̼̲̝f͍͜o̤r ̰̤̩̱̜̳͚͘ý̳͎ͅo̞̮͕̠̗̦ụ̠ͅ ̻̝̞t͖̭̰̗̱̤̬o͓ ̠̪͘s̬̰͍̺̬a̺̣̖̤͡ve̴͕̻̘̝͍̣̟.̢̦̮͔  .

Go with them. Rodarin nodded, moving to take the dark Child’s hand. His vision began to blur and distort — or perhaps it was the world itself? The familiar crimson taint began to seep into his vision, overtaking it and drawing the world back into focus until he was able to make out his surroundings. He was back at the school, standing in the entrance and looking into the main hall. With a blink of his eyes, the bloody shadows were gone — the school appearing as normal. The sounds of lectures and murmur of children filled the hallways, muffled behind closed doors. Thump, the ringing grew even louder in his mind, fresh blood spilling from his head once again as he fell to his hands and knees. The teachers are still alive. They should be dead. He pressed his hands tighter to the ground, arms quaking behind his struggle to lift himself back up. They should be dead. To protect the Children. Once he was back on his feet, he staggered his way towards the main office — Rodarin’s face completely expressionless as he drew his bloodstained sword once more. They need to be dead.

The door for the office shut behind him, a soft click offered as it locked. None of the faint, muffled cries of terror and pain, nor the heavy cleaves of his blade carving through flesh would be heard through the closed door as the school’s lectures persisted. The headmaster and his receptionist were dragged into their storage closet as Rodarin fabricated notes in their handwriting. Noting not to come into the office due to repairs. Not to contact him, as the administrative staff were on a sudden conference call to Limsa Lominsa. All students grade six and higher were to stay home tomorrow. And all other staff members were to stay after hours with the younger students for a safety seminar to be presented in room ‘1-B’ about the Orphanage Massacre. He taped the notice to the office’s door, locking it behind him before slipping copies of the notice under each classroom door with a single knock. The ringing pulsed louder in his mind as the final notice was delivered, the crimson shadow returning to his vision and resetting him back at the entrance of the school, the doors now closed and the sickly crimson remaining after a testing blink. With blade in hand, he made his way down the hall to ascend the stairwell to the second floor.

Just as instructed, he could hear the panicked discussions of the staff, frightened by the sudden supernatural shadow that had washed over the school, and the chill that lingered in the air. Kill them. The ringing now numbed Rodarin’s mind, his body no longer swaying with dizzying fatigue. I’ll kill them, was the only thought in his mind as he opened the door to step inside — cleaving and slicing through any of the staff that happened to be nearby. The young students watched with indifference as the adults screamed and cowered, toppling desks and scurrying out of the classroom like mice. Rodarin finished plunging his blade into the last victim that remained in the classroom, not even bothering to withdraw it from the man’s chest. He grabbed at his leg, dragging his blade’s new sheath of flesh down the hall to the one classroom he knew they would be hiding in. And just as with the Orphanage, the Children soon set into motion, playful giggles escaping their lips as they hurried to play with their new toys at the end of the hall.

With his work done, Rodarin carefully descended the stairwell to make his way for the exit, pausing at the bend to stare. He could see..well, himself — his back to the stairs as his other self stared at the closed doors of the front entrance in what appeared to be shock. A small hand brushed against his bandaged right, causing him to glance down at the dark Child that was now holding his hand. And just like that, they were gone — Rodarin’s previous self running towards his children’s classrooms in a panic, to try and find them, and make sure they were safe.                         .                        .

[ TW: Gore below the ‘Keep Reading’ line. ]

“Our children aren’t safe!”

“Have they found who killed those poor people?”

“It’s gonna happen again!”

“We want answers!”

More voices soon joined in, eventually creating a dull roar of overlapping panic from a slowly growing crowd of villagers that had gathered before the town hall—it was a bi-weekly occurrence by now since the massacre was discovered. Rodarin shifted his posture against the stone wall of the storefront he leaned upon, watching and listening as they shouted their concerns and pointed fingers. He couldn’t blame them—hells, he sympathized with them. They were scared because no one had answers, and they were angry there was nothing they could do. A gentle sting of pain pulsed through his lower lip as he bit at it in frustration, quickly turning from the crowd as he made his way to the schoolhouse. He needed to pick up his son and daughter early so they could begin packing their clothes and toys. Sarina planned to leave with the twins, take them to stay with her sister in La Noscea while Rodarin stayed a few more nights to find out what he could.

Firm steps echoed along the tiled floors of the hallway, his stare held upon the dull reflections within the tile while he lost himself to his thoughts. Westmoore had always prided itself on its higher educational standards—it was the reason he and Sarina moved here once they learned she was pregnant. It wasn’t a massive, sprawling city like Limsa Lominsa—but it wasn’t some small, run-down village either. There were multiple classrooms, one for each grade. Luckily, his children were only a year apart—their classrooms were directly across from one another at the end of the hall to his left. As he rounded the corner however, a sudden chill licked at his spine, causing him to stop in his tracks. 

He had been so absorbed in his thoughts about the circumstances surrounding the disappearances, that he hadn’t been paying attention to his own. This wasn’t right.. something was very wrong about this. The hallways were unnaturally dark given the time of day—and even more alarming were the sudden lack of windows. His breaths became slightly unsteady as a sense of claustrophobia gripped at his lungs. It was far, far too quiet. There were no murmurs of lectures, nor childlike chatter and laughter. With this level of silence, he didn’t doubt he could even hear the soft scribbling of pencils from the classrooms on the second floor—but there was nothing. He took a few quick steps, which seemed to echo endlessly in this dreadful silence, to peer down the main hallway. The front doors were closed. They were open when he entered—they were always open to help keep the hallways cool during the hotter days. And that was another thing—the cold. The chilled air that sank deep into his flesh that was beginning to make his teeth chatter. This wasn’t right.

His heart began to drum within his chest, heated breath billowing from parted lips as he walked briskly towards the end of the left hallway—he needed to see his children. The doors to the classrooms nearly burst open behind the urgency of his entries, but both would be empty. His heart hammered loudly in his ears, hands lifting to run through and pull at his hair as his mind raced with horrible possibilities. Who took his children? What were they doing to them? And were they even still alive? Soft whimpers and murmured pleads began to dribble from his lips as tears gathered—but fighting through the sickening fear that knotted in his stomach, he sprinted for the other classrooms. With shoulder positioned forward, he burst through door after door—each more violent than the last as wood splintered and hinges cracked. He had eventually searched the entire first floor—even the main office and cafeteria. As he approached the staircase that led to the second floor, the shadows seemed to grow darker. His frenzied pace faltered, shaking fingers resting upon the rail as he peered up into the dark.

He proceeded with caution, climbing the staircase with slow, careful steps as he took this time to try his damnedest at calming himself. Rounding the bend that brought the staircase the rest of the way up, a deep crimson hue began to bleed and taint the shadows, corrupting it into a sickly crimson that tainted his vision—his careful stride pausing a moment to adjust his eyes. His heart skipped a beat as he heard the faint rustling of paper and muffled laughter of children, his pace quickening once more at the mere prospect of finding his son and daughter. Though once he reached the top of the steps, his excitement was quickly crushed by the smeared blood that streaked along the hallway. The first classroom’s door on the right was wide open, blood pooling into the hallway from within. He could make out the smeared drag marks that lead from this open classroom to the one at the end of the hall, with its door closed. Various small shoe prints were left behind in the blood’s trail, all following towards the same closed room. He inched his way down the hall, shaky breaths filling the air between the pauses of muffled laughter and movement that came from the closed classroom. On his way, he carefully inched closer to the open door where the blood trail originated.