CODEX: FORGOTTEN

ENTRY#001: The Grave with the Smiling Wall pt.1

LOCATION: The Still Acre

Chronicler Note:

I didn't want to log this one. In fact, I wanted to burn all the pages I had collected.

They think Gods speak in boisterous acts of grandeur. But it's never that loud at first.

It starts with rot. Or a name whispered where it shouldn't be. Or someone staring too long at the wrong kind of silence.

This one tested me; combing through the entries Leyna left - the weathered paper she scribbled on sometimes hard to decipher. I am grateful there was any record to be found, given this particular deity isn't known for leaving a lot of clues.

He isn't chaos. He isn't random. That's a more comfortable lie. Loki is vicissitude with a pulse. A thorn in a root. A wall that grins after it's cracked. And I fear Leyna found him in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or perhaps wrong place, right time - depends what side of the Codex you're on.

This one was buried deep. Not by time, but by shame. Someone wanted to hide this event. Wanted her side to be forgotten.

I'm glad I've salvaged what I can, and this, is her story.

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-LEYNA-

The sun was low, angry, and red when Leyna stepped down into the broken crypt. Still Acre stretched silent around her; nothing but scattered headstones and hot sand. Trees, or what was left of them, creaked and sighed with the wind. It felt suffocating in a way only empty graveyards at twilight feel.

She had no real reason to be there. Though, perhaps it was just the call of an alluring unknown. A dream half-remembered, clawing at the edges of her memory. Or maybe she was simply bored.

The stone steps underfoot were slick with dust. Cobwebs floated around in the dry air, sticking to her clothes. Nothing about the place appeared safe or even all that interesting, but Leyna was pulled deeper into the crypt. A cool draft wafted up from further down the steps as she brushed past bugs and dying overgrowth.

Relieved from the burning desert air above, Leyna sighed, the sound echoing gently off the stone walls. But there was something else, layered over that sigh...

A voice.

No, a... humming.

Soft melodic murmuring filled the small space. The sound vaguely otherworldly.

With a hammering heart, Leyna did what she always did; exactly what you shouldn't. The humming, like a hungry snake wrapped around its first meal in ages, dragged her even deeper. She couldn't object, she couldn't resist. The sound was haunting, and so damn beautiful.

Thick dust and crumbling stone surrounded her, the decay and grime a stark reminder of where she was. But still, she stayed, and she listened. She needed to know where it was coming from.

As her boots scraped the floor, the crypt opened into a low-ceilinged chamber - lined with alcoves, fractured coffins, and the scent of old paper. Stacks of rancid cloth piled in corners gave the illusion of exhausted ghosts hunkered down for the evening. An image that wasn't lost on her; she shivered involuntarily.

Leyna's footsteps were loud, bouncing off of the stone. Yet the humming remained singular. The sound didn't echo. It was flat, quiet, present. As if it came from inside her head. That was the first wrong thing.

Her eyes slowly adjusted to the lack of light, flakes of dirt clinging to every surface. Just being down here felt like trying to breathe underwater - the air stagnant and dull.

She made her way to the furthest wall to her left. The humming drew her closer, a particularly decrepit section of the tomb covered in paint and dry vines calling for her attention.

A mural, sprawling across the rear wall like ivy. The colors were faded. The vibrancy long since lost. But the artistry, the virtuosity still pulsed... Figures twisted in frozen motion - some dancing, some running, some laughing. And at the center stood a man. His long once-emerald coat flared as if caught in a gust of wind. His grin sharp and narrow. One long, slender, hand grasped a silver knife. The other? Empty. Outstretched. Like it was reaching.

Leyna approached slowly, more of the image coming into focus. She scanned the wall searching for any inscriptions, a label, something. But there was none. Only paint, dust, and now, silence. The thudding of her heart seemed louder than a siren.

She squinted. The eyes on the painted man - one green, one full of stars - seemed to stare directly at her. Not in the way murals usually look at you, where it's more suggestion than sensation.

No. These eyes saw her.

And then he blinked. Just once. Leyna froze, blinking back in response.

"Ah," purred a voice, incredibly cheerful. "Finally. Someone interesting."

There was no more humming. No measured notes roaming the crypt. Just his voice and the crackling of the stones around the painting.

Leyna took a slow step back. "...Who's there?"

The painted man's smile seemed to cut wider, his mismatched eyes staring, though the rest of the mural remained motionless. A wave of unease flooded her lungs, her throat, clouding her head. If Leyna knew anything at all, it was that murals didn't speak.

"Well, I was hoping for someone a tad taller. More robust. Perhaps a shining sword and a suit of armor," the voice mused, as if disappointed. "But I suppose you will do."

Leyna held up her hand like a shield, instinct nudging her back a few paces. "What are you?"

The mural sighed. "A prisoner. A painting. An exiled mistake. Pick your poison, little echo. Personally, I enjoy 'mysterious entity trapped within antique wall art.' Very Byronic."

A heavy pause lingered between her and the wall. The wind out above sounded mean. Impatient.

"I'm not here to free anyone." She spoke carefully. Her words felt strange, like they didn't belong to her. But as they left her mouth, the painting's edges began crumbling, small pieces of rock clamoring to the floor. She acted as though she didn't notice.

"Of course not," the mural replied. "You've come because the time was right. Or maybe the humming got to you. It does that. Very catchy."

The silence shifted, the voice sounding somehow closer. "I'm a memory, little wanderer. One they tried to bury. A story they bound in stone and ink. But I am also truth. And truth," he said, painted eyes sparkling, "always wants out."

Leyna took in the image in front of her, truly looking at it. The robes, the knife, that pointed smile. The way his mouth never moved, yet she heard every utterance. "I don't know you-"

"You saw me," the painting interrupted, his tone harsh, biting. A few more stones tumbled to the ground. "That's all it takes. This painting, this ink...it's not just a mural. It's a lock of belief. And you cracked it open with your attention."

Leyna didn't respond. Instead, she moved closer to the smiling wall. Slowly, gently, as if guided from behind. Her hand found its way up and out, palm resting against the stonework. "What do you want from me?"

Silence choked the tomb, not so much as a breath to be heard.

"Do you believe in stories that don't end? Ones that linger? Ones that wait?"

Again, Leyna didn't answer. The quiet air rustled around the crypt. Without any warning, the painted man leaned forward, protruding out of the wall at an odd angle. This time, she gasped, nearly falling back. "You're...alive?!" Her voice cracked and rose in pitch.

"Marginally," he replied with a theatrical bow, the tip of his gleaming dagger tapping on the edge of the mural. "But stuck. A God doesn't belong forever to one sorry little wall." A vibration of color rippled across the artwork as though in applause. "But enough riddles. I need your help."

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