The Lantern Keepers of the Abyss
The characters and events in this story are entirely fictitious. They do not resemble anyone, and any resemblance to any region or real-life persons is purely coincidental.
Episode 1: First Flame in the Dark
The iron bridge swayed violently over the bottomless chasm known as the Great Void of Alreth. Barnaby clutched his brass oil canister against his chest, feeling the biting wind claw at his heavy cloak. As chief lantern keeper, his duty was to maintain the perpetual flame that kept the subterranean horrors at bay. Below the bridge, absolute darkness swallowed all light, hiding creatures that whispered in forgotten human tongues. He reached the primary beacon station, unlocking the heavy brass housing with a key worn smooth by decades of use. The wick inside the massive reflector lamp was charred and dry, flickering with a weak, dying amber glow. Barnaby unscrewed his canister and poured fresh whale oil into the reservoir, watching the level rise. He struck a flint against steel, sending a shower of sparks cascading onto the freshly trimmed cotton wick. With a soft hiss, a bright, steady flame ignited, casting a protective golden halo across the stone walls. He checked the pressure gauge; the oil flow was stable, ensuring the beacon would burn brightly through the long night. Suddenly, a sharp screech echoed from the depths of the chasm, vibrating through the iron suspension cables of the bridge. Barnaby stepped out onto the platform, holding his hand lantern high as he peered into the abyssal gloom below. A pair of glowing violet eyes blinked open in the darkness, staring directly up at him with malice.
Oil and Amber
The violet eyes vanished back into the depths as quickly as they had appeared, leaving an eerie silence in their wake. Barnaby locked the beacon housing and hurried back along the stone walkway toward the keeper’s quarters. The quarters were built directly into the cliffside, smelling of burning wax, salt, and stale pipe tobacco. He poured himself a cup of hot chicory tea, trying to steady his nerves after the unsettling encounter at the bridge. His logbook lay open on the wooden desk, detailing the gradual decrease in oil quality supplied by the surface city. For the past three months, the shipments had been diluted with cheaper mineral substitutes that burned out twice as fast. If the fuel purity continued to decline, the main beacons would fail before the winter solstice arrived. He examined a sample of the greyish oil under his magnifying glass, spotting impurities that clogged the wick fibers. Someone in the supply syndicate was cutting corners, putting the entire canyon population at risk for meager profit margins. He resolved to investigate the supply depot at the edge of the chasm during his next scheduled off-shift. A sudden scratching sound at his wooden window shutters made him freeze, his hand dropping toward his utility knife. He crept toward the window, pulling the heavy wooden latch and flinging the shutters open into the dark night. Outside, nothing was visible except the swirling mist and the distant glow of the secondary canyon beacon.