1041: Story 1041: Heir of the Black Shaman 1041: Story 1041: Heir of the Black Shaman Deep within the Badroot Pines, where crows circle endlessly and the trees bleed sap as dark as tar, a boy was born under a moonless sky.
He was nameless for seven days—a tradition among the Blackroot clan.
But when the child opened his eyes, every lantern in the house shattered, and the wind howled like it had lungs.
They named him Ashkai.
And the elders whispered that he bore the mark of the Black Shaman.
Long ago, the first Black Shaman made a pact with an elder god buried beneath the earth, trading his people’s future for forbidden power.
His soul was too dark for death to claim, so it scattered, waiting for a vessel.
Ashkai was that vessel.
He could hear things—songs in the bones of the trees, laughter in the veins of the stone.
By age seven, he could summon fire that screamed and make dolls move with empty sockets.
He was forbidden to leave the Pines.
But the dead never respected fences.
The Hollow Plague was spreading fast—zombies twisted by whispers of something older, something hungrier.
Survivors wandered toward Badroot Pines, seeking refuge from rot.
They found Ashkai standing barefoot in the mud, eyes glowing like coals, and smiling at the sky.
He welcomed them.
He told them their ancestors were waiting.
That he could open the way.
The plague grew worse.
The survivors began worshipping him.
And deep beneath the forest, the pact awakened.
One night, beneath a sky the color of bruised fruit, Ashkai led a ritual.
The earth cracked and moaned.
Roots as thick as wolves’ torsos pushed up from the ground, writhing in ecstasy.
The dead rose—not shambling, not moaning—but chanting.
They surrounded Ashkai and knelt.
He had become more than a vessel.
He was the Heir of the Black Shaman—the one who would unite the living, the dead, and the eldritch.
He fed the plague with purpose.
The Hollow Ones no longer hungered for flesh but for soul and memory.
Cultists flocked to him.
Survivors who resisted vanished—later found stitched into trees, whispering prayers to no gods anyone recognized.
The Pines grew stranger—trees shaped like ribcages, skies that rained black feathers, owls with human tongues.
The longer you stayed, the more you forgot who you were.
The more you belonged to Ashkai.
One of the remaining elders, wracked with guilt, tried to kill him.
Slashed the boy’s throat with a silver blade.
Ashkai bled smoke and whispers.
Then laughed.
He wore his ancestor’s skull now, carved with runes.
The old shaman’s spirit had not only returned—it had thrived.
Now, travelers say if you wander too close to the Pines, you’ll hear drums—steady, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
You’ll smell burnt bone.
You’ll see a boy with glowing eyes, waiting at the tree line.
He’ll offer you shelter.
And all he asks is your name.
Because once he has that?
You’re already his.