Urdal was barely a young man when he was forced to drag the body from that decrepit house in the narrows. To this day he does not remember what business his sister had there. Was the old dwarf woman a relative? Why did the neighbours fail to smell the corpse for so long before the siblings arrived? Why was a dwarf so sheltered from the world made to endure this as his initiative to the abject darkness of reality?
All the cleric knew was that he now saw the many shades of putrefying flesh and bone swirling in the sickly yellow smoke that bore down on him, and the regrets of his past in the ominous horrors surely lurking within. Urdal was no longer protected by the sturdy dwarven walls he grew up in, and the fairy tales woven by his family; he knew that whatever this magic, be it arcane, divine or even alchemical, it was powerful enough to be a mirror to whomever observed it. If there was anyone else fleeing the cloying tide over these grimy cobbles then it would surely be stirring something similar within them, be it the shadows of misguided choices or a noble urge to combat the approaching darkness.
The footsteps of old colleagues, tending to corpses beneath the temple. A dusty, vermin infested basement rather than somewhere the dead should be allowed to be interned. A rotting wooden chapel rather than the glorious stone and marble houses of worship Urdal had imagined from simple sketches in long forgotten tomes. Pale faced, toothless chancers who shouldn't be allowed within five miles of the recently deceased filling their pockets with valuables and worthless trinkets and experimenting unchecked behind closed doors.
Was Urdal half remembering the sorry excuse for a temple, or was he imagining it? Worse still, was his memory so fragmented that he was filling the gaps in it with such evil in an attempt at cohesion? The dwarf was sickened further by the idea that his own mind would conjure up this darkness. Had he been so damaged by life itself that this corruption had become his narrative?
At each corner Urdal fully expected to emerge on to that street, his sister urging him to lug the blanket wrapped decomposition out in to the street. Sweating and red faced as the horrified neighbours looked on. He expected to see the chapel, with the horse and cart at the door and a thin, jaundiced undertaker smirking as he delivered his latest haul. He expected to see leathery wings flapping above a poverty stricken village, and people peering nervously through window slats. Maybe a bard playing lonely in a town square, songs that seemed to promise a life elsewhere in some opulent city or sleepy hamlet. Instead the dwarf saw more narrow twisting alleyways and the curls and wisps of ochrine smoke inching their way ever closer.
Ahead, a literal fork in the road that would have caused Urdal to laugh if not paralysed by fear, doubt and uncertainty. A road curved upwards, and it's opposite down. Perhaps the lower road would offer the opportunity for shelter, maybe a dark basement with a thick door and a heavy iron lock where the cleric could wait out the approaching ominence. The road upwards could offer the opportunity to outrun the smoke and whatever lay within. Maybe higher ground would attract others looking for companions and assistance.
Although he was loathe to admit it, even inside his own head, Urdal was drawn even backwards to the smoke. A familiarity lurked inside, and an opportunity for control. After all, why run from your fears when you can have power over them? This time, however, fear lay in every direction. Whichever path the dwarf chose would bring him face to face with something he was likely ill prepared for.
Urdal closed his eyes and for once ignored the images which seemed to be branded on the inside of his eyelids. He began to run.
