Ruen Hollow

"He tried his luck beneath the stone, Now time has left him skin and bone." —The Legend of Ruen Hollow In life, Ruen Hollow was the kind of thief legends envied. They called him Fortune's Shadow—a man who could slip a crown off a sleeping king and escape by the skin of his teeth—the wicked, the proud, and the dumb, were all at risk. He had earned his reputation by relieving unsavory people of even more unsavory objects, until the job came, the one every thief dreams of. Details were left in the stump of an old alder, one of his many dead drops, and read as follows: "Ruen— You're to lift the Scythe of Zelus from the thirteenth crypt on the western wall of the Nordshire Cemetery. If you reach the fourteenth, you've gone too far, and the twelfth—never mind, you get it. Don't drink the glowing water, don't flirt with the statues, don't 'borrow' anything that isn't the blade, and definitely don't die a thousand horrible deaths. —Luzash Legus." "Tosser of a name, that," thought Ruen, chalking it up to a new hire. No matter—the pay was absurd. One last score, and he'd be off counting coin while they dealt with the Lord of Styx, Tya be damned. The crypt was quiet—the kind of quiet that sweats. Shadows leaned wrong, and his torch burned in silence. Ruen grinned, because that's what he did when fear tried to take hold. All was going to plan until—laughter in the dark, the flash of a blade, and the warm, wet slosh of his own blood... dead. Or so he thought. Ruen awoke where he began, at the start of the crypt. Whole again. Heart pounding. He tried to laugh it off. A dream, perhaps. An illusion. But the second death came slower—poisoned dart, bleeding lungs. Then another. Crushed by stone. Skewered by spikes. Once, he tripped and impaled himself on his own arrow, which, frankly, felt personal. Each time he revived, the crypt reset. Same torches, same smell, and the same laughter echoing through the same dark halls. Days blurred into decades. Decades into centuries. His skin turned to parchment, muscles to string. This was a sick game, and Ruen was not in control of the board. In his madness, the crypt grew crowded with whispers, reflections caught in wet stone and the mirrored sheen of his blade. Then, in a rare moment of clarity, he saw them. Not phantoms. Not enemies. Himself. Thousands of Ruens, each a failure. A hall of mirrors filled with regret, wearing his own skinless grin. Ruen shook his head in confusion and pulled out the dead drop instructions, reading them for the thousandth time. "Yes, yes, steal the scythe, get in get out… what of it?!" He glared at the words until all at once it clicked like an opened lock… Luzash Legus. He stared at the signature in silence before carving the letters into the stone, rearranging them slowly: "Zelus… laughs." The crypt shuddered, and shadows convulsed. Then, from the ether, emerged Zelus, regarding him with amusement. "Well done, Ruen of Hollow. You've solved my anagram, though I'd expected to wait, oh… a century less?" With a swirl of his fingers, Zelus conjured a small medallion with the insignia of a tiny skeleton, dropping it daintily into Ruen's exposed ribcage where it clattered around before settling. "Your prize," he continued solemnly, "is absolutely nothing. However, for your efforts, I am rewarding you with a lifetime of servitude. From today, you shall pilfer and purloin for the greatest thief to grace Tya. Together, we shall rob their graves, and me your grave! Consider this a win-win." "The medal is cursed by the way. Enjoy."