4.2.25 - The Swajin Drujin of Neverwas: Tomorrow's Folly pt 1

Parable 1: The Catacombs of Ghentsai

“Swajin. We have arrived at the Catacombs of Ghentsai.”
A whisper. Then the violent lurch of a landing pod, jarring the old man awake. Swajin Drujin blinked once, then slowly turned his ear toward the voice. Ghentsian dialect—yes—but with a subtle Cantonian cant. His brow furrowed. Strange days when accents survived the burning of history.

“You lived through a turbulent time,” Swajin murmured, his eyes still closed as he reached for his coat and hat. “Not many left who carry that lilt. You’ve acclimatized well.”

The handler—frail, robed in simple wool—nodded solemnly.
“Yes. Dark times... but peace came with our demunyo. I hope my voice hasn’t offended you, Swajin.”

Swajin opened one eye, squinting at the pale, overcast light pouring through the crystal-lined windows. Ghentsai’s signature weather: constant snow-flecked ash and blinding gray glow. He pulled on his heavy coat—dox fur-lined, clasped by a golden chain and a silvery-white gem—and stepped toward the door.

“Not from Canton. Not Invokar, either. You’re from the South,” Swajin rasped, adjusting his collar. “But no, I don’t offend easy. Not at my age. In the end, we’re all Zser—ashes fed to the tree.”

The handler gave a soft bow and exited.

Swajin followed, stooping slightly as he stepped from the pod. He paused, gazing up at the gates of the Catacombs—tall as mountains, carved from sootstone, whispering with runes that hadn’t been translated in centuries. The pod behind him was modest but opulent: ashen wood inlaid with the city’s sigils, cushions stitched with fabrics only a Gek merchant could afford.

They began the ascent. Long, steep steps. A hunched figure awaited them.

A man danced alone at the summit—twisting slowly, muttering to himself. Draped in sapphire robes, the dancer bore a relic of Ghentsai: two round spheres on a string, spinning in hypnotic rhythm. Without a word, he turned. A seam in the gates yawned open.

The Swajin and the handler stepped through the door into a chamber vast enough to mock reality.

The room stretched wider than memory. A single pathway jutted forward, and with every step they took, the surrounding walls shifted, reshaping into new formations. Endless rooms—tombs, cells, monuments—rotated in a slow orbit. The walls groaned softly, like beasts dreaming in their sleep.

“I, Lyzair, welcome you to the Great Catacombs of Ghentsai.” The dancer now stood still, regal. “I am its Crypt Keeper.”

Swajin did not bow. “I am not part of the King’s Guard,” he said flatly. “You should’ve received a pearl by now. If not, it matters little.” He reached inside his coat and retrieved a token. “Scan it. I’m Swajin Drujin. One of the Klaw. If you know anything of King Tor Hos, you’ll know what that means.”

Lyzair’s brow twitched. Sweat gathered near his temples. Without a word, he rune-wove. A door opened ahead.

Swajin walked alone through the opening. The handler remained outside.

Inside: a damp, echoing chamber. Blood—old and tired—stained the stone floor. A bucket sat near the entrance, waiting to wash death down the drains lining the room. In the center stood a naked old man, gaunt and silent. Holo-recorders blinked from the walls.

Swajin set down his case. Clicked it open.

A feather. He withdrew it gently and approached the prisoner.

Tickling.
Not torture. Not yet. Just the strange, deliberate intimacy of a feather dragged under the chin. Along the ribs. Over cracked skin. The man laughed—helpless, wheezing. Then Swajin shifted to plucking hairs from armpits and jaw.

Without warning, he laughed—a soft, barking sound—and hurled the feather like a knife. It pierced the nearest holorecorder, cracking it with surgical precision.

“Now,” Swajin said, voice low, “you don’t look like an aydham. Who are you, old man?”

He withdrew another feather and traced it slowly around the prisoner’s chest, circling the nipples as he spoke again.

“Did you happen to hear something you weren’t supposed to?”

The man gasped through laughter.
“I’m just... just a janitor... please... I don’t know what de runes mean...”

Swajin’s head tilted.

“Now that’s interesting. What runes, janitor?”

The old man’s chest heaved. Swajin stepped closer, removed the blindfold. The janitor’s eyes were sunken, ringed in bruised circles. Swajin turned, walked back to the door, fetched the bucket. He poured its contents over the man’s face, then gently wiped the water away with his hands.

“You looked hot,” Swajin chuckled. “Too many wet rocks in here.”

The janitor blinked. They stared at each other. Swajin’s bald spot glistened. His briefcase, still open, revealed nothing but darkness.

He followed the janitor’s eyes.

“Nothing else in the case,” Swajin assured. “Let’s speak plainly. Tell me your name. Tell me what you heard. I will not interrupt. I’m here for truth, not blood. The old days are gone.”

The janitor—breath still ragged—spoke softly in Cantonian.

“Me hear not. Dere were three. I see dem. I only saw his mouth move, and de rune etched on mi. I remember da war. I rebuke da etch. But he no care. He grab me. He make me say it. Nil Isle. Das what I hear. I am no spy. Mi name is Algahast. I worked here all mi life. I lived tru da Great War. I pledge to The One Above. Please, Swajin. I love mi life.”

Swajin pulled a vyp0r stick from his pocket, lit it with a gesture, and took a slow drag.

“I can’t make promises,” he exhaled. “Nil Isle... do you know their names? A face? A mark? Something distinct?”

Algahast hesitated. Then switched to Invokaree.

“They were small. Young. No guards. Had to be workers... or royals. Guards ask if I hid her. I told dem—I just work here. I barely saw them. I woke up here... after I heard the rune.”

Swajin said nothing. He stood, fastened his coat, adjusted his hat. One last drag of the vyp0r. Then he placed the stick gently in Algahast’s mouth.

He walked to the door. Turned. His voice was stone.

“As the king says: sometimes, luck simply isn’t on your side. His Royal Guard are coming. They’ll torture you. Then they’ll kill you. Then they’ll find whatever’s left of your family and kill them too.”

A pause.

“I can’t save you. But I can spare your family. I can end this pain. Your choice.”

Algahast sobbed. Unrestrained. Every breath a tremor. Then he stilled.

“They died in the war,” he said. “It’s time I joined them. Just kill me.”

Swajin tapped the gem at his collar. A twin-headed creature, serpent-like, emerged in silence—and swallowed Algahast whole.

Seat and all.

Swajin took a black shell from his coat. Whispered into it. A pearl formed, pulsing with light. The shell devoured it, then sealed shut.

He stepped into the hallway.

Lyzair and the handler awaited. Swajin offered no words, only a nod, and walked past before the Crypt Keeper could speak.

The handler found him already seated at the goratha’s pod—affluent, quiet. Swajin waved lazily as the crystal viewing dome flickered to life. The handler climbed onto the creature’s neck and steered it toward the frozen skyline of Ghentsai.