The Primordial Record

Revised Chapter One:

Artist Illustration Of Rowan Kuranes

Darkness, a realm I knew too well, was shattered by a blinding flash of light. Pain, sharp and unyielding, tore through me, begging for release. I desperately yearned for an end to this torment, this cycle of suffering that seemed to have no respite.

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Rowan woke with a start, his head feeling like it was trapped under an anvil, mercilessly hammered by a blacksmith. A phantom pain raced along his spine, evoking fragments of memories tainted with sickness and moral decay. His throat constricted, stealing his breath, until, as suddenly as it appeared, the sensation dissipated, leaving behind a faint echo.

Faint, distant sounds of music and laughter, intermingled with the baying of horses, reached his ears. Odd, he thought, struggling to make sense of it – such sounds had no place near his worksite or home.

His body felt heavy as if buried under a mountain of leaden blankets. This suffocating weight, oddly enough, brought a momentary respite from the relentless pounding in his head.

Memories of migraines, companions since childhood, flickered through his mind. Yet, this pain was different, more intense, even for someone who had braved the physical demands of mining since the age of nine.

He mentally cataloged this new pain, adding it to his 'List of Glass' – a personal collection of remembered agonies. The name of the list was a mystery even to him, a whimsical touch to an otherwise grim inventory.

Struggling to open his eyes, he found them unresponsive. Determination set in, and he attempted to lift his hands, which felt as heavy as dead logs. After what seemed an eternity, he managed to bring them to his face.

"How much did I drink last night?" he rasped, his voice barely a whisper. "Feels like poison, yet the culprit lacked the courtesy to finish the job."

His mind wandered to the recent discovery of a diamond, a rare find that, even after extortionate cuts by a corrupt foreman, had left him with a substantial sum. Enough to indulge in a reckless spree of alcohol and fleeting pleasures, enough to test the limits of his endurance, both physical and mental.

As he finally managed to touch his face, he realized it was encrusted with dried muck. Gently, he began to scrape away the grime, particularly around his eyes, wincing as he accidentally plucked out lashes in his effort to regain his vision.

Had he stumbled into one of the mud pits near the abandoned mines? In his drunken haze, had he wandered into that desolate, perilous area? Such a mistake would be costly – assistance was a rare commodity in these forsaken parts.

After a painstaking effort, his eyes were free at last.

"By the sweet cheeks of Ares," he groaned, his voice a raspy cough. He spat out a sticky, unknown mass and inhaled deeply, the air filled with the scent of overripe fruits and a hint of decay.

A newfound focus surged within him, and he pushed through the pain to take in his surroundings.

He lay on the floor, immobile, in a dimly lit room. His gaze was drawn to candle stands shaped like mermaids, their craftsmanship astonishing in its detail. The mermaids' triple arms held candles that emitted thick, black smoke, a curious sight that momentarily captured his attention.

Rowan's eyes, tracing each meticulously crafted scale, and then he shuddered for he briefly thought he saw a mermaid blink. Dismissing it as a trick of the flickering light, he muttered, "I've definitely had too much to drink. Where am I?"

He continued to admire the mermaids, the candlelight casting a greenish-purple hue off their scales, suggesting they were made of gold. As his gaze wandered, a chill ran through him.

The room was a canvas of blood, varying shades splattered across walls and floor. It took a moment for his mind to comprehend the grisly scene.

Dismembered bodies lay strewn about, their expressions twisted in terror and agony. Limbs were contorted into unnatural positions, a testament to their suffering.

A surge of panic and disbelief propelled him to try and rise, ignoring the throbbing pain in his head, neck, and shoulders. As he lifted his head, the full horror of his situation dawned on him.

He was entombed beneath a pile of corpses.

"No, this can't be happening. This is a nightmare," he whispered hoarsely, a squeal of terror escaping him. "Wake up, Rowan, wake up!"

But the cold, undeniable truth stared back at him: He was trapped in a living nightmare, surrounded by death and chaos.

Editor's Note:

This revised version aims to deepen the character development of Rowan, add more sensory details, and clarify the sequence of events for a smoother narrative flow. It maintains the tension and mystery of the original while enhancing the overall impact of the chapter.