Trial of Mortality

Welcome to my second Spooktober adventure! This year, I aim to turn the prompts into a choice-driven folktale, where each article represents a step along a haunted, twisting path through the world of Kena’an. You’ll encounter strange sights, whispers in the mist, and various trials. At the end of each article, you’ll face choices that lead deeper into the story. Some paths are hidden for now, but don’t worry: as the month unfolds, more will reveal themselves. Start your journey at the Ring, and see where the adventure takes you.

When the light fades, the world feels smaller.

Stone walls surround you; old and veined with cracks that smell faintly of damp earth and cooled ash. The ceiling presses low above your head; your breath comes out in slow, pale clouds. You trace the carvings cut deep into the walls: prayers, names, symbols worn thin by time. Each mark feels like a memory someone once tried to preserve and forgot halfway through.

You step forward. The passage widens into a burial chamber. Graves stretch across the walls in perfect symmetry, each marked by a portrait - your portrait - etched into the stone. Some show you younger, some older, some softer, some proud. Beneath each likeness lies a different title in each of them.

The Worker. The Dreamer. The Lover. The Loyal. The Bold. The Quiet. The Lost.

You take a breath, and the silence shifts - not into voices, but into faint impressions, like echoes rising from dust. They are neither cruel, nor kind. Just familiar.

"They were always the first to arrive, the last to rest.”

"They used to dream so vividly; it scared them, sometimes.”

"They loved as if time would never end.”

"They stood by everyone else.”

"They spoke loudly, but only to hide how unsure they were.”

Each whisper brushes the edge of your mind and fades. None feel entirely false, yet none feel like the whole truth either.

At the far end, one grave stands apart.

It bears no image, only your name. The stone around it is smooth and unmarked.

And then, as you look around, you see something at the center of the chamber. A single white flower lies there, untouched by dust. Its stem bends gently toward you, as though it had been waiting. You lift it, feeling warmth pulse faintly through the petals: alive, but calm.

The flower in your hand glows faintly now, as if aware of your choice before you. You understand without being told that you need to leave it at a single grave.

What will you do?

Place the flower on the grave that bears your name

You turn away from the labels. Their carved faces sneer and weep, begging to be remembered. You cross the chamber to the solitary, unadorned tomb.

When the flower touches the stone, it glows.

Light spreads from petal to vein, climbing the walls, tracing ancient sigils that burn away dust and time.

You feel the weight of countless gazes lift from you: every name you were ever called, every version of yourself that lived only in the mouths of others. One by one, they fall away.

Light seeps from the grave and climbs your hand, tracing fine silver lines along your palm. Sigils bloom there - old, living runes that shift like liquid light - and at their center, your name appears, carved in quiet fire.

All around you, the tombs dissolve into dust.

The air smells faintly of rain on stone. You feel small, but whole.

You are not a mask. You are the one who remains when it's removed.

The chamber dims, leaving only the light from your hand to guide you forward as a faint path of silver light opens beyond the tombs, leading upward.

Trial of Morality

Generic article | Oct 21, 2025

Place the flower on the grave with the title you accept

You kneel before the chosen title - The Lover, The Bold, The Loyal - whatever truth feels nearest, or safest. The flower’s glow dims as you press it to the stone. For a heartbeat, the grave brightens with warmth, as though approving your choice.

Then, the scent changes. The sweetness curdles. A slow rot creeps through the air. Cracks split the graves around you. Pale, brittle fingers push through the seams. The carved faces begin to move, their mouths stretching into grotesque smiles that are almost yours. They whisper the title you wore like a crown again and again until it drowns all thought.

The ground softens beneath you - wet, sinking - and the smell of decay thickens until it coats your tongue. The flower blackens in your hand. Then withers away.

You try to step back, but the graves keep opening. Every version of yourself rises: smiling, rotted, hollow-eyed. Their hands reach out, desperate to pull you down with them.

The light above you shrinks to nothing. The walls close in.

When the last whisper fades, only the foul smell remains.

_{This path is not yet open.
If this was your choice, make sure to come back again to check it out!}

Trial of Decay

Generic article | Oct 8, 2025

_{All written content is original, drawn from myth, memory, and madness.
All images are generated via Midjourney using custom prompts by the author, unless otherwise stated.}