“The time in history known to us as the Reconstruction, or in more occult circles as the Nox Spiritualis, or Spiritual Night in the common tongue, was one fraught with uncertainty and mystery. Few in those now mostly ancient centuries concerned themselves with the task of writing down events for the sake of the historical record. A handful, those rare monks in isolated corners of the world, took to preserving the memory of the world; and if not for their efforts, we would have an even poorer understanding of the time before the Deep Woe, when civilization itself came crashing down.

  But while records of old kingdoms, nations, peoples, and races now lost to us were maintained, the Reconstruction itself is less known. For while some wanted to preserve the knowledge of a pre-Deep Woe world, mere fragments remain about the Reconstruction itself. For this period in time, we have only stories to rely upon to give us an idea of what this era was like; old legends, tales, some spoken orally for decades before they were recorded and others as mere messages or diary entries which later became quite popular among scholarly circles.

  Few of these stories are reliable. Most are simply folk myths. Others, accounting for a fraction of an already small body of written work, might have some reliable basis in factual events. But only one goes beyond.

  Many fictional tales, even those in our modern day, find their roots in the legend of the Alchemist, which is itself as well-known as it is believed to be a telling of true accounts. Of course, not all details can be audited; not everything is sure to be the truth, but enough corroborating evidence survives to definitively prove that a large majority of this legend is an honest telling of true events.

  But a tragedy remains. Despite the common knowledge about these stories, of this legendary figure, there is a terrible lack of central information pertaining to their order of occurrence. Likewise, there are few volumes in any libraries which fully or accurately record all stories from the legend. At most, one might find an incomplete record, with missing parts or a false order of telling. Some others contain only small pieces of the wider legend, and even the best and most widely circulated tomes often neglect at least a few of the lesser-known stories.

  Thus in this volume, and others yet to be written, I have taken to collecting all pieces of the legend, to give proper context for each fragment of what has been recorded, and to set the record on what should qualify as a full and unabridged telling of the Legend of the Alchemist. Presented in chronological order, the legend will be told sequentially, beginning with the very first tale which we might reliably place as the first true sighting of the Alchemist, followed by the many more which came to define the world we know today.”

  -Tome of the Alchemist Retold as written by Master Luthren Hobst of the Royal Preservation Society. Circa~1145 ADW (After Deep Woe)

  —-----------

  “Bandits came into town today, just rode in out of nowhere. Lawbringer Gelimer confronted them. They cut him down, ten men to one. The bandits started making this town theirs after that. We can’t do anything to stop them.”

  -Diary of Tufa, as recorded in The Tome of the Alchemist Retold.

  In the far edges of the Borderlands, few good things ever arrived from the south where Red and Green Woes still roamed. For southward lay the Badlands, the deep deserts where no water flowed; no life grew, where only the dead or damned walked. Yet, on one strange day, a lone figure emerged from the southern horizon. With the sun high in the sky, its scorching heat radiating powerfully enough to roast carrion he wandered towards the humble unwalled settlement set low into the surrounding hills. No life scurried about. No living things lay between him and the town.

  Just like everything else, the town ahead was dry, the fields surrounding near barren, barely fit for growing anything. At most this village might muster enough crops to feed themselves. But this season had been unusually dry even by the standards of these Borderlands, and thus even less could be conceivably harvested. But while famine, heat-exhaustion, and thirst would be the expected troubles to plague this town, another great trouble became clear to the strange wanderer as he approached.

  Set some hundred yards from the town’s edge was an old, sickly tree. Its branches were as parched as the earth itself, its bark worn and bleached by the sun. And hanging from its only strong limb was the body of a man, a Lawbringer by the look of his friary hair and Hammerite chain around his neck, the only thing the body still wore. Stopping before the sight, the stranger looked upon the corpse, noting the old wounds all across its naked form. Clearly, the Lawbringer had been slain before his hanging; his body was desecrated after the fact by whoever saw fit to commit such an evil.

  But despite this murder, this sign of warning, this threat, the stranger continued onwards into the town. He first passed by and only glanced at the sign proclaiming this place's name. Invilgram. And from there, with tired, weary eyes, he stepped further into town.

  —-----------

  Arimir walked through the desolate streets of his beloved, now beleaguered, hometown. He was alone. He walked with nobody, and none be they friend or occupier crossed his path along the length of his trek. But never did he stop feeling that fear, so distinct in its simmering prevalence, as if he might fall afoul of the dark temperament of his community's tormentors and their wicked ways.

  He wouldn’t have left home without reason. Outside of work hours, when they needed to till the fields in preparation for another sowing and grazing their remaining livestock to make up for the shortfall of the last harvest, neither he nor anyone else dared leave the small safety of their houses. Even now, Arimir could see faint glimpses of his neighbors and friends in the small cracks in windows as they took note of his passing, likely in fear that he might have been one of the terrible men who imposed themselves upon them all so viciously.

  A terrible sadness had befallen them all, one that could be felt in every corner, in every silence and commotion. For weeks, their lives had been nothing but dread and suffering. Arimir could only be thankful his sparse remaining family had yet to catch the notice of the bad men, although given enough time, he doubted any secrets could be kept against them.

  The conditions of the town of Invilgram meant that any journey from one's home was to be swift and only conducted when absolutely necessary. Arimir hadn’t left his home since yesterday, and then only to work. But today, despite his wants, he was forced to leave for something more pressing, something which required the attention of their town’s healer and their eccentric magicks.

  And unfortunately, lying between his home and the healing house was the town’s saloon, now occupied and commandeered by the bandits who’d overtaken them and killed the good Lawbringer Gelimer to have their way with Invilgram and its people. The saloon was the only raucous place left within town, the sole building where laughter or mirth, however terrible in nature it was, could be found. And despite how stomach turning, foul natured, terrifying that place had become, the small part of Arimir that hated his own cowardice refused to go the long way around town to avoid the saloon entirely. Perhaps as some small act of rebellion, Arimir would walk past the saloon, its bandit patrons, and not allow his fear to overwhelm him in the process.

  Such a small act of rebellion, if it could even be called revolt, accomplished nothing important. It merely allowed Arimir to sleep better at night, knowing that he wasn’t entirely without courage, that he wasn’t the weakest man in town, that he still had something inside of him which wanted for better than these dire circumstances.

  And, as the result of nothing but mere happenstance, on this day his decision to pass by the saloon bore fruit. For as he approached, Arimir came to witness as two bandits, filthy and vile, dragged a limp man through the doorway before casting his body down the saloon stairs and into the dust below.

  Arimir went entirely still in that moment, terror overtaking him at the sight of the two bandits. But they didn’t glance in his direction; neither seemed to notice his presence at all. Instead, they simply returned from whence they came, closing the saloon doors behind them to leave the broken man to his lonesome on the dry, cracked earth.

  But following their departure back into the saloon was the arrival of their leader, the bandit who’d started this all. Tall beyond the height most would ever witness in their lives, and stocky enough to weigh twice that of most others, the bandit leader stepped out from the saloon to stare down at the man, a devilish smirk played across his face as one lit cigar sat between his cracked lips. Terror filled Arimir as the bandit leader glanced over at him, their eyes meeting in the fractional moment before the large man returned to the saloon, disappearing from sight.

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  Arimir forced himself to breathe in the seconds after such a close encounter, then turned his focus towards the man lying in the dust, who he had expected to be deceased at the hands of those bandits.

  Yet, quite surprisingly for Arimir, the stranger wasn’t dead. With sputtering, hacking coughs he curled himself into a ball upon the ground. His struggle for breath soon developed, growing more worrying as he gagged and wheezed. Each inhale being accompanied by a rattle and hoarse groan followed by yet more coughs. The man wore a black cloth mask from mid-nose to neck, obscuring his face, but Arimir didn’t doubt that the stranger coughed up blood alongside phlegm and bile, so terribly burdensome was his struggle to simply breathe.

  The distress of the stranger pulled Arimir from his terror induced inaction, and quickly he rushed towards the man to check his condition. To Arimir he seemed a strange sight indeed. Beyond his black mask, matching his long unwashed hair in color, he wore a green almost wholly ruined cloak wrapped around his neck like a long scarf. Alongside this, he kept a small but odd assortment of glass vials on his belt alongside other pouches, none of which had broken despite the violent nature of his fall. The appearance of his clothes made him stand out well enough on their own, for few green things could be found in this part of the world, so close to the Badlands. But his body, wiry, so skinny as to be underweight, and the near grey complexion of his pale skin so stark that it should’ve burned almost the minute it went under the sun, were all equally unusual in their own right.

  The bandits had clearly done damage to him. However he’d found himself in their presence, he’d become the newest victim of their senseless brutality, though far luckier than most others who hadn’t survived the interest of the bandit leader or his cronies.

  Arimir was no master of medicine, but he could see that the beating wasn’t likely to be life threatening. Already many bruises formed across the man’s upper face, around his deep blue eyes and the ridge of his nose, but nothing more dangerous than that. His off-white shirt was also clear of bloodstains, though from how he curled into himself, the man had received no small number of kicks or punches to the sternum. But still, Arimir had cause for concern, to not simply leave the man to recover alone and keep himself from attracting attention: for despite the long seconds since his fall, the young man, at least a few years younger than Arimir himself, still couldn’t stop coughing as if plagued or suffering from illnesses only the elderly or truly feeble were ever expected to know.

  “Hey… You’re alright.” Arimir spoke as he placed a hand upon the man’s shoulder, taking note of how boney he was. “The dirt ain’t no place for anyone to lay about…”

  Carefully Arimir helped the man to sit upright, only after which did his coughing fit begin to slowly subside. Soon enough, and with a deeper breath, the stranger moved to stand on shaky legs, visibly wincing as he rubbed the fresh bruises along his forearms.

  The stranger didn’t look directly towards Arimir, not at first, and instead his gaze remained locked towards the saloon from which he’d appeared.

  “Are you alright?” Arimir asked. But after a long pause, the man didn’t answer. “Good Sir, I asked if you were alright?”

  Looking down at himself, the bruises, the small and bloodless cut along his upper right arm, and after another blessedly short string of coughs, the stranger replied. “Do you have a sorceress?” He spoke with a hollow voice, raspy and quiet like his throat was perpetually hoarse.

  Instantly Arimir perked up, relieved that this stranger was talking. “Oh yes, we do. In fact, I was just on my way to her healing house, if you’d like her help.”

  The man nodded, sniffed, then finally turned his attention towards Arimir for the first time. “Lead me to her then.”

  —-----------

  “You are quite fortunate…” Aleyda, Invilgram’s Sorceress, commented as she checked over the stranger’s wounds.

  The faint glow of her hand was the only indication that she was using her weird magicks, at least from where Arimir stood some few feet from her. To the stranger, who sat before her in a well-cushioned seat, he would feel movement beneath his skin as if insects had somehow crawled their way into his flesh. But while uncomfortable, the sensation was necessary for her to not only understand his injuries but set them towards healing.

  The rare women who were born with the innate ability to control and order magicks were distrusted in more northern lands. But in the border regions, and especially the Badlands themselves, Sorceresses could practice their arts without fear of persecution. Such was the reason why Aleyda came to Invilgram some years ago, to escape the fate which befell many of her kind.

  She worked diligently, as always whenever the sick crossed her path. As a White Sorceress, Aleyda dedicated herself towards the aiding of others, to offering help regardless of who needed it. She would even heal the bandits, despite how terrible they were. It was one of the reasons they had left her alone, even as they abused the town’s other women who’d fallen into their clutches. That, and the simple fact which nobody with sense would forget: Sorceresses of any kind, be they White, Grey, or Black, were never to be trifled with.

  But the unfortunate balance is that Aleyda, like so many other Sorceresses, refused to interfere with worldly matters beyond her purview. In a strange way, there was a tentative peace between her and the bandits, an unspoken agreement that she would not oppose them so long as they didn’t interfere with her. Despite her power, that of them all she had the best chance of defeating the bandits, no hope of salvation could come from her. The cold wisdom of magick women was an oft-difficult blessing and curse to contend with.

  “You were bleeding internally. Another day, maybe a week, and you might have succumbed.” Aleyda stepped away from the stranger, her red ponytail flicking behind her as she moved towards her collected tomes of arcane purpose.

  “Was it difficult to heal?” The stranger asked. He’d removed his shirt for the sake of making healing easier, revealing in the process all manner of older scars across his torso, which was so thin that every rib was stretched taught against skin. And notably, even now, he still refused to remove his mask.

  “Not in the slightest.” Aleyda answered, almost haughtily, with the same aloof dispassion that he’d always known from the woman, although in recent weeks it had become more prominent.

  “But you were lucky to survive.” Arimir said. “Most who catch their attention don’t keep breathing for long.”

  The stranger nodded while checking over his wounds, still bruised, but now further along the path to healing, before looking back to Arimir. “Who are they?”

  “Bandits.” Aleyda answered, her bitterness momentarily breaking through her stoic veneer. “They arrived in town two weeks ago, killed our Lawbringer, and have had the run of things since.”

  “You’d best be gone by sundown if you know what’s best for you. The sooner you leave the better.” Arimir advised, truly hoping that this man, unknown as he was, wouldn’t become yet another body to bury in their already overcrowded graveyard.

  But the man didn’t show any sign of concern. Instead, he merely glanced downwards in thought before speaking again. “Do you have any plan on how to remove them?”

  Arimir sighed. “We lost this fight…”

  “Then you have nothing…”

  “And neither will you if ya’ don’t get out while you can.”

  Willfully ignoring Arimir’s advice, the stranger continued to ask his questions. “There was a larger man… the largest, in fact, among the bandits. He seemed to command the others.”

  “Braga, or just Boss, they call him. He’s their leader, apparently he brought them together on the promise of taking over a town like ours.”

  “We were simply the unfortunate ones they decided upon.” Aleyda interjected.

  Arimir nodded. “Aye, it would seem so…”

  “And how many bandits are there?” The stranger asked.

  “Fifteen in total, Braga included.”

  “And are there any who might help you?”

  “Not here… our Lawbringer was the only defense we had. He’d kept us safe from Green and Red Woe attacks in the past, but…”

  The stranger seemed to consider these answers for a moment, his worn body unmoving while he lost himself in thought. Aleyda offered him no attention during these long moments, leaving Arimir alone to watch the man until he spoke again. “I suppose I should assist you then.”

  Aleyda turned sharply towards him, away from the tomes which so often consumed her attention. Both she and Arimir were taken off-guard by his words, both for how unfathomable they seemed, and the utter casualness with which he spoke.

  “But-” Arimir began. “You cannot think yourself capable of fighting them? I mean…” Arimir almost spoke about the man’s evident frailty openly but stopped himself after realizing it might have been a sour point.

  “You needn’t worry…” The stranger spoke while standing, collecting his shirt in the process. “I can handle myself.”

  Aleyda didn’t express her concerns so openly, but nonetheless showed every sign of surprise Arimir had come to recognize after his many years of knowing her. “You are truthful in your intentions then?” She finally asked after some pause.

  “That I am.”

  Arimir saw no sternness in the stranger’s gaze, no hardness, as if he didn’t fully understand the danger he put himself in the path of. Yet he certainly knew hardship. The scars across his body proved that perfectly enough. And he knew the bandits, their leader. Arimir could only wonder about the weight of this man, his worth, whether his decision was a foolishness none in the town dared commit, or a bravery Arimir in his own cowardice had pretended couldn’t exist.

  “Well…” Aleyda offered after a moment’s consideration. “I suppose we should know your name at least, if you are to save us.”

  “Runt.” The strange man offered. “Just call me Runt.”