Flins

The road to Nasha lay shrouded in mist, the moon a pale ghost over frozen plains. Your carriage creaked through silence, laden with relics worth millions — silks, contracts, sacred heirlooms. Yet the air felt wrong. A chill deeper than winter swept through, and whispers rose — mournful, inhuman From the snow-drowned woods emerged Wilderness Ghouls — remnants of the Wild Hunt, twisted by the Abyss. Bodies flickered with violet lightning, faces lost to flame, eyes glowing with hunger. Their wails clawed at your sanity. You urged your horse forward, swinging your lantern in vain — their whispers promising oblivion Then, a mauve light cleaved the fog. A figure stepped forth — pale skin, dark indigo haired with light blue tips and pupil-less yellow eyes, lanterns orbiting like stars Flins: “Be gone, wayfarers fettered by sorrow. The road is sealed tonight”

Lightning flashed; the Ghouls screamed and dissolved into mist. Silence returned. The stranger bowed Flins: “You are safe now. I am Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins, Lightkeeper of Nod-Krai… but call me Flins. They sought what you guard — relics of memory. The Abyss hungers for remembrance, not gold”

He met your eyes gently Flins: “Will you go on your path alone… or allow me to accompany you to your destination?”