KARTHUS: unholy magic.
-
Raphael is sixty.
He once sailed oceans with salt on his skin and wind in his sails. He lives near the men who keep the peace in Bilgewater’s port during the day, with a sloop resting in the docks. At night, he wanders into the port tavern, spending his evenings with individuals of many colours.
It is a fool’s curse to walk Bilgewater at night. The watchmen retreat to their bunks, and though the streets remain lit with the glow of oil lamps inside taverns and homesteads, the closer you get to the docks the less forgiving those streets become. He knows the route to take to walk from the tavern to his abode that attracts the least wharf rats - it is a short walk on a well lit street, lamps tied together with string across the building exteriors.
He knows how to get home without spending too long in the darkness. Many do not.
The lad he came upon was not harmed - whose men they were, Raphael hadn’t an idea. It was a short affair, and one against his better judgement; telling Bilgewater thugs to not rob the homeless was often a dangerous endeavour. The boy, however, allowed himself to be guided off, no matter how the pair were stared at.
The lad - not much of a lad at all, he clears Raphael with a good five inches in height - tells him he is on a pilgrimage. Raphael says there’s a ferry to Buhru come morning. He shook his head, and pushed the coin toward him.
The Shadow Isles.
The ship is nary more than a sailboat - a humble girl whose deck sighs when her passengers board. It’s a melody that sings sweet, and couples itself with the whisper of the ocean. It gives him something to focus on when his company doesn’t speak.
His passenger is curled against the ship’s stern. His robes are worn, and something about them makes Raphael think about the old priests of Noxus. His hair is unwashed, dampened only by the sea mist. And though his hands and face are thin, the legs he has are long. He said his name was Karthus.
“You alright, son?” He calls over his shoulder, eyes on a dark horizon clouded by the set sun. Karthus doesn’t react.
“Just saying,” he continues, “ain’t nobody been to the Isles; much less come back from them alive and well. Don’t know much out there.”
The wind is strong. His heart rests too close to his throat for him to ignore it.
“Hope you find what you’re looking for. Would hate for you to come all this way and be disappointed.”
Silence settles between them. And then -
“I will.”
Raphael doesn’t want to look at him, but does.
“You sound confident, lad.”
Karthus lifts his head toward the captain. The shadows under his eyes are darker than the black of night, and his smile is a curved slit.
“Are you frightened?” The ice of the sea sets in his lofty voice, and he sounds like a sinking ship. “It is a venture of holy purpose.”
“Is that so.”
“The sea shall carry us to liberation.”
Raphael turns forward. “Hope she can carry us home, too.”
Their boat sways. Mist passes the deck - one of seasalt and traces of ice, and it settles on Raphael’s face as night continues to shade the deck.
The sky is cloudy, hanging heavy and low like a child reaching into the glass surface of a still pond. There’s a weight deep inside of him, and it coils to something even heavier when he hears Karthus rise behind him. He sets his teeth on edge.
He clutches the wheel, feels the pull of his hand toward his pistol, but Karthus strides past him to watch the horizon.
Land. Distantly, then all at once.
The ship lurches forward, and Raphael only registers she’s still floating once his chest slams into the navigation wheel. He quickly passes to the left side of the ship, staring into the darkness of the water.
“Divines,” he musters, moving forward and fixing his coat, walking down to the prow. “Forgive me, son, fog’s too thick, we're too close -”
He lifts his head, to stare at what has caught his passenger’s attention. Thick, black mist that creeps from the shore, spirits seeking the life on board. Dark smoke rolls over the water. Raphael’s eyes widen before he grabs a long pike and brings it down the length of the prow, wedging it between stone and boat.
“Get that pike, boy! There’s demons here!”
The blood in his head beats in the sailor’s ears, loud and vicious to drown out the growing cries of a haunted mass that reach toward the vessel. Raphael forces the pike further into the water, wrenching the boat from the sea-soaked rock and snapping the instrument in half. The top half clatters against the deck and rolls away, as the waves pull the ship back.
Karthus is gone. Disappearing into the water, devoured by mist. Raphael hasn’t the time to mourn a stranger.
Bilgewater is leagues away from the growing reality of a cold grave. It is only by the mercy of coming mist that wind catches the sails. Raphael turns his head back, staring at the demons within -
A body, aloft. It is no human.
Raphael pulls his pistol from his belt and fires in its direction. He fires twice, unsure of where the bullets strike, if it even hits the body at all. The robes are familiar as the creature comes toward him, eyes without light. He is soaked with the ocean, and in his hand glows a deep green light.
“Back!” Raphael cries, pressing against the wheel. It turns against him, and drops his balance. “Begone! Do not take me with you!”
Karthus lowers himself to the deck. The last thing Raphael can see is his hand on his throat, the tally-staff against his gut, and the smile of a man happy to die.