Shrine. A city which served as a monument to the sins of our fathers and the sins of their sons. A broken throne for the wicked and a prison to condemn the damned.
The city of Shrine was a refuge away from our doomed world. Far away from the wounds of our own design. Shrine was meant to be a new home for our people. A place to rebuild. A place to prosper. And a place to grow. A world touched by advancements so far beyond our comprehension that the uninitiated considered them to be magic. Some considered these advancements to be divine in nature. Certainly there was something peculiar. An intangible power. A deep latent power that you could feel in the soil beneath your soles. In the air you breathed. In the water you drank, and in the waste you pissed out. I truly mean it. You could feel an untapped potential there. That, over time, had given us strength. It had infused our people with a conviction to strive to even greater heights. This power seeped into our blood and our bones, sharpening our minds and pushing our bodies to unprecedented levels of strength. But it wasn't magic. Call it divine power or madness. Name it whatever you deem apt. But know this: whatever name one prescribed to its alluring call, that call was masked in the form of a temptress' song. A song which hinted at a tune of the lingering source of power. A power which resonated like a drum. A pounding and pounding. An incessant drum pounding from below and from within our own chests. Unknowingly, we sang along to its damnable chorus, striking bone against bone, trying to match the tempo of this world's beating soul.

Whether by happenstance or fate, we arrived, drawn to that persistent beat. A melodic drum beat pulled all who listened into a seductive trance. Its resonance infected us. Certainly, the contagion was far more pronounced and virulent in others. Those are the saddest of the city’s tales, belonging to those individuals who were the most susceptible to its resonating frequency. In our folly, we had ignored the corrupted chorus which echoed back, we further ignored its lyrics and the hymns being sung and we carried on, ourselves willfully singing along in the orchestra of chaos.

Now every tale could have multiple origins. There lies a web of a great many strands of thread that, when pulled on, have the possibility to unravel significantly more than anticipated. Many of which are legends, intermingled with myth, that may have once been based on faith or conspiracy, eventually emerging as the definitive truth. Other threads, if you were to continue to pull, would be easy to see the tangled web of history unravel what was thought absolute.
I present to you one particular thread, one particular strand on which I shall pull. This strand is where the melodic beat of that wretched song changed its cadence. Where the flow meandered its way to the inescapable morass of Shrine's ultimate crescendo.

I had been approaching adulthood at the time of the great betrayal. Yet, in the eyes of the people of Shrine, I was just a boy named Serif. Serif Shrine. Smaller in stature when compared to other men my age. Frail, arrogant, and stupid. Born to a bastard father and an estranged mother who, as I was told, had fled to a world beyond Shrine sometime after my birth.

My father, Sernan, refused to speak her name. Out of grief or feelings of betrayal, to this day, I still do not know. Inwardly, I suspect he had murdered her. That thought later helped me rationalize and move beyond my guilt years later, when the unwanted memories of killing him would invade my mind.

Being born a “Shrine” did not mean I was without prospects within the city. I was the son of a well-known thief, general public nuisance, and a liar. Much like my father, I, too, was a thief. And I suppose a liar as well. All thieves are inherently liars, and as such, my father and I conspired with other thieves and liars. Oftentimes, taking on dubious contracts to steal from the poor, murder for the rich, or otherwise, settle scores that kept the wheel of revenge ever turning.

Living as a criminal in a city governed by sanctioned criminals had profitable benefits. But when poor, one spends all of their money to meek out an existence.

The Tiers of Shrine always have a grudge, a debt, some grievance that needs to be settled. Scars that never quite heal, but fester when unaddressed. The need for retaliation once again had called upon the ‘tierless’ members of Shrine, particularly my father and our co-conspirators. Certainly Tiers attacking one another outright would bring the city to the brink of another domestic war and that was a dangerous prospect. It hurts power. It hurts deeply entrenched groups and ideologues–people that do not wish to see their power be usurped or destabilized in any way. So the act of hiring criminals provided the facade of deniability. The Tiers and The Guard all played along as long as the actions of my sort kept the greater peace.

My father and I, peacekeepers in the loosest sense, were criminals. The term 'criminal’ lacks any sort of charm. Cheap and effective enough to not overstep the delicate balance. This balance allowed for precise and coordinated violence. Certainly we knew the risks. Capture meant immediate execution by The Guard, yet capture from one of the Tiers meant torture. Torture that would have even the most honorable men confessing to imaginary and abhorrent crimes that only devils could ever conjure in a dream.
'Keep the knife in your boot. Cut into your stomach, pull out your own damned heart before they catch you.'

Is what my father would say before the start of a new task, for the descendants of Angellen have always had novel and inventive ways to enact horrific forms of retribution on one another.

During this time, long ago, there was a plot brewing. A grandiose plan that would shake Shrine to its foundations. Rumors and whispers spread among the lesser folk. Some spoke of rebellion against their respective Tier-Lords, while others spoke of fleeing the city of Shrine to more prosperous lands in the stars beyond. That was my father's intention – and mine, to a lesser extent. To start anew where one may be an unknown entity. Where one may reuse old tactics into new frauds, to cheat those that were unaware of our usual antics in a wholly new world. Although, as I would later discover and exploit for my own ends, often those who would go meandering through life seeking lucrative rewards that require minimal effort through the exploitation of others, are themselves easily swayed with sweet words of liars.

Over the preceding weeks, always when the moons hung high and the sun was still many hours from rising, my father met in secret with, what I thought, prospective clients. They always spoke inside of our decrepit home, sending me outside to guard the door. Which, was a ridiculous notion for someone my stature with only a knife as a weapon. However on some nights, a few unfamiliar faces joined the meetings. The meetings were quick and the group dissolved just as fast, each melting away beyond the lamps’ glow.
My father, despite his wickedness, treachery, and his usual habit of letting secrets spill out of his mouth like cheap drink, somehow, beyond all the odds, remained silent about these future arrangements. He elaborated on nothing. Only that I was to be involved. Rumors still slithered through Shrine’s underbelly. When I hinted at those rumors, I saw something new tighten in him. Anxiety. Real anxiety. He would glance over his shoulder and mutter, almost conspiratorial, ‘somethin' big. We do it and we're free.’

I wish I had understood then. But what would I have done differently I wonder. The scheme was too grand, too reckless. Had the full scope been presented, I wouldn’t have believed him.

Looking back, every last one of us was chasing something. Some wanted chaos; others, vengeance. Most just wanted a dream, and back then, I was as foolish a dreamer as any. But reality skews dreams, and in Shrine, that shift unraveled everything. It is astounding how fast the deck was reshuffled, handing new fates to fools who never knew the odds were stacked against them.

Decades later, the memory remains sharp. I still smell the damp stone. I still hear the roar of the water rushing beneath the archway where I stood.

The drizzle had cleared, but runoff still churned through the city’s ancient drainage channels, spilling through the arched mouths of The Well and plunging into the abyss. Standing just paces from the drop, I thought it was a strangely beautiful sight.

The inhabitants of Shrine colloquially called the pit "The Well," though no water had ever been drawn from it. No rope was long enough to reach its depths, and even if one were, no sane person would drink what came back up. Following the city's inception and the eviction of its original inhabitants, the pit had served as a sacred burial site where the fallen were wrapped in cloth, set ablaze, and cast into the void. Serif had witnessed the ritual only once in his short life, though there was nothing sacred about it.

Over time, the sacred site degenerated into a dumping ground for refuse. Irrigation lines were redirected, and rather than flushing sewage out toward the sea, the city simply fed its waste into the chasm.

“You’re up next,” Sernan said, stepping beside his son and unbuttoning his trousers to urinate over the edge.
Serif felt a familiar surge of impulse—a sudden urge to shove the bastard over. Thoughts of ending his father’s life had grown more frequent over the past few weeks, though it was a urge he kept in check with freedom so close at hand. Once this job was done, he would take his share and cut ties. Ideally, he could prove his worth to the Reavers of the Fourth Tier and secure a place among them.

Sernan finished, shook himself, and tucked away. “Go on now. Go replace Jetter.”

“I haven’t eaten yet, and it hasn’t even been an hour—”

“Aye, and it don’t matter none. It’s your own damned fault for standing around like a dolt.”

Serif lowered his head and followed his father down the corridor. He watched the older man duck repeatedly to clear the decorative stones jutting from the low ceiling—a hazard Serif’s short stature saved him from.

A dozen feet ahead in the forking paths of the aqueduct, Jetter sat hunched in the shadows. Protocol for their crew dictated a brief pause to observe, followed by a light knock to signal relief. Serif waited out the standard count, tapped the stone, and stepped forward.

“Already?” Jetter whispered.

“Aye,” Serif muttered, frowning at his friend. “I think food's ready. You should grab some before those lazy bastards eat the lot.”
“Lazy bastards,” Jetter grumbled. “Yeah, why’s it always just us two on watch?”
Serif offered a helpless shrug. “Anything I should know?”
“Naw. Just rats. Pretty sure I saw a snake or some slithering bastard.”
Noticing he was ankle-deep in the murky runoff, Serif stepped onto the raised ledge designed to guide the flow.
“Great,” Serif said, watching Jetter pick his way gracefully along the stone ledge toward the camp opening.

Left alone in the dark, Serif pulled his scabbard flush against his chest and gripped the handle of his weapon. It looked less like a proper dagger and more like a butcher's knife used for trimming fat, but it was the only steel he owned.
After a while, Serif settled into a meditative state of sorts. The water deep below hummed like a low drum. The flow through the aqueduct had dried to a trickle, leaving only the occasional scurrying of creatures to break his deep contemplation. He wondered what other worlds were like. What the cities of the Strands looked like, and what their women looked like. He wondered how much money he would receive for this job, and how he might spend it rather than squandering it. Ideally, he would buy some new steel—anything that wouldn't mark him as a poor beggar.
Then, he felt more than heard a change in the air, as if a subtle breeze had washed over the fine hairs of the stubble he was trying to cultivate into a beard. Serif peered around the corner, exposing only what was necessary to glance left down the fork, as there was nothing to his right. No lights burned in the darkness of the aqueducts, but like all of his kin, his eyes adapted remarkably well to the low light.
He saw long, winding corridors stretching out to either side, with branching lanes that led to the edges of more archways carved into the interior of The Well.
Then came the knock: a familiar tap, followed by a double-tap.
Serif rose slowly and drew his dagger. An abundance of caution was always necessary when a potential threat approached from the front—a lesson he had learned the hard way years prior with an arrow to the stomach.
Though anxious, Serif tried to remain calm, cursing his luck that this hadn't happened while Jetter, far more experienced and reliable, was on watch.
Serif tapped the sequence back: knock, pause, knock-knock, adding two extra taps at the end. A friend would reply with two matching knocks. In the tunnels beneath the city, the only allies were the ones you arrived with, and even then, caution ruled.
A pause followed, and Serif felt a surge of internal panic as a shape materialized from the shadows. It was unmistakably a member of the Fourth Tier, yet something about the figure looked wrong. The movement was so seamless that Serif questioned his own senses, wondering if the shadow itself had come alive. Then the shape stopped soundlessly, tapped twice, and continued forward.
When the stranger stopped before him, Serif saw a man with a stern, clean-shaven face, marked by old scars across his lips and jaw. Serif read the man's silent mouthings.
“All taut and trim?”
“Aye,” Serif mouthed back. “Who are ya?”
Serif knew a Fourth Tier operative was supposed to join them as an escort to the Fifth Tier vault the following night, but he wasn't taking chances.
“Friend.”
“Aye. Wait here,” Serif said, backing away with his steel drawn. Keeping his eyes fixed on the stranger, Serif retreated far enough to tap the visitor code against the wall. He waited. Receiving no answer, he tapped again until the response echoed back from the camp.
Serif signaled for the stranger to follow, but worried he was too far to be seen, he began to step forward. Before he could, the stranger closed the distance at an alarming speed. Serif nearly screamed to alert the crew, but he hesitated as the stranger—perhaps sensing his alarm—slowed his approach.
Serif backed into the safety of the chamber, and the stranger walked boldly into the center of the small room, surrounded by the band.
“Which one of you is Sernan?” the stranger asked in a husky whisper.
“Aye, here,” Sernan said, stepping out from the corner of the room with a clenched hand on his steel.
“Crew ready?” the stranger asked.
“For tomorrow? Aye. Just missing one.”
“Yes. The locksmith will be escorted here early tomorrow night.”
“Who are ya?” asked Drawly, the muscle of the crew. He was a stout, broad man with a back nearly as wide as he was tall, likely carrying dwarvish blood in his veins.
“Your employer. Call me Amir. Commander of the Fourth Tier.”

For a long moment, the small chamber felt as constricting as a prison in the bowels of The Guard. Five mouths hung agape, five men seemingly unable to move.
“The fookin’ Reaver himself? Ain’t no way!” Drawly said in astonishment.
“Hello.” Amir said curtly after a moment of examining each face of the five faces individually.
Rook, the fifth man in the band, shot Drawly a fierce glare, as Drawly's voice was the loudest sound the group had heard in hours.
“Aye. Amir is fine. For now,” Amir said, lowering his sack and moving beside Drawly to set his gear down. The stout man nearly tripped over Rook in his haste to back away from the Reaver and give him a wider, albeit, unnecessarily large berth.
Serif and Jetter locked eyes several times, then glanced nervously at Amir’s back as the man unrolled his bedroll and meager belongings. Unclasping his long black cloak, Amir revealed a broad, bone-white weapon slung across his shoulders. It was a wicked, heavy thing, beginning straight at the wrapped bone grip before sweeping outward into a dramatic, sickle-like arc that pooled its weight toward the outer edge. The metal thickened along a pronounced central spine, tracing the curve all the way to a sharp, vicious hook at the tip, giving it the menacing look of a predatory bird's talon. It hung low across his back, looking less meant for elegant, swift murder and more for shearing through armor or ripping a shield from a man's grip.
Serif coveted it. It was perfect—a truly remarkable weapon that would garner him a status far beyond whatever he was currently. He looked down at his own ragged clothing and shook his head in dismay.
In addition to the wicked sickle, Amir carried two traditional yet elegantly designed steel daggers representative of a man of his station—if this was indeed the Commander of the Fourth Tier. Certainly, his dress and deportment matched his title. Curiously, a fourth weapon rested on his lower back: a heavy dagger that looked as if its maker had drawn inspiration from a butcher’s cleaver, while still keeping the curved spine of a fighting blade.
The band stood in silence. Serif looked to his father, who would normally be the first to command the room. Then Serif realized there was no outrider watching the entrance. Fearing his lapse in judgment would earn him a harsh punch to the face from Sernan—a lesson he was still failing to learn despite several brutal blows—he prepared to slip away to the watch post.
As Serif inched to move, being the first in the group to stir since the Reaver’s arrival, Amir stood quickly.
“Caution is prudent. You—Mouth. Go be our outrider,” Amir said, pointing toward Drawly who flinched as the hand moved in his direction.
Without a word, Drawly scrambled, stepping on the scattered cards of their interrupted game and tangling his boots in Rook’s bedroll before shuffling out toward the fork from which Commander Amir had emerged.
“The sun is rising,” Amir said. “We shall remain in this chamber along the walls. Soon, we shall all hear bells. A great many bells.”
And as if cue, the first bell rang, high above the Well, as if from the Second or First Tier. Then, more bells began to chime and then more bells which joined the orchestra. The sound began to flood the small chamber through the archway which overlooked the abyss below. The ominous vibrations and cascading, resonant sounds echoed deep within The Well.
The invasion had begun.