Elion - The Silent Collector

Elion - The Silent Collector

Though its name suggested stillness, Port Silence was never truly quiet. The world continued as it always had, merchants locking their shops, sailors securing their vessels, revelers stumbling from taverns, their laughter carrying through the darkness. But beneath the hum of city life, unseen and unnoticed, a quieter force walked among them. Not a lord, not a warrior, not even a priest, but something far older, far greater.

Elion moved without sound, his steps slow even as they carried him in great leaps, his presence barely more than a ripple in the deep pool of reality. His cloak billowed softly around his slender frame, dark as the sky before a storm, woven with threads that held no reflection, no warmth. Those who he passed by rarely glanced his way, and if they did, their gazes slipped from him as though he were no more substantial than the mist curling at their feet. His existence was not meant to be acknowledged by most, not until the moment arrived when his presence could no longer be ignored.

He did not hunt. He did not chase. He did not steal breath from lungs or sever flesh with steel. He did not take what was not already given. He simply gathered what was already lost.

A merchant lay motionless upon his bed, his chest rising for the final, agonizing, time before sinking into stillness. His widow dozed in a chair beside him, unaware that she was now alone. The man’s soul drifted in the space between the living and the dead, uncertain, trembling in the fragile moment of transition. And then Elion reached out, the black woven net in his fingers grazing the faint shimmer of the departing spirit. The merchant did not scream, did not fight. There was no battle, no plea for another day. There was only acceptance.

As he had done countless times before, Elion collected. And the soul faded into the void of Vapul’s will.

Port Silence stood as a gateway to the world, its harbors overflowing with its powerful Navy, sailors seeking fortune, its markets bustling with traders chasing wealth. It was a place of stories, of ambition, of dreams bound to salt and tide. Yet for all its movement, all its restless pursuit, none could outrun time.

As Elion walked, he passed homes filled with prayers, with offerings to distant gods. The deities of fortune and protection, the champions of war and wisdom, the spirits of hearth and harvest. Their faithful asked for wealth and security, begged for more time, pleaded for safety in their waking hours. They cast incense into the air, lit candles against the darkness, wrote names upon scrolls, hoping divine grace would see their wishes made manifest.

But none of their pleas, their prayers, their cries, were for Vapul. Not yet.

Elion stepped into the lower districts, where the sick houses reeked of stale herbs and dying breath. The city’s healers worked tirelessly, their hands stained with mixtures of elixirs and blood, their expressions grim, their hopes often fleeting. It was here that the most stubborn souls resided, those clinging to existence with desperate hands, refusing the inevitable even as their bodies betrayed them.

An old beggar slumped beneath an archway, his life reduced to quiet suffering, his limbs curled inward, his body stiff with hunger and time. He no longer whispered prayers, no longer reached for a future, he had long since surrendered. Elion knelt beside him, pressing gentle fingers to his forehead. The man sighed a slow, worn exhale, as his pain ended and his spirit rose from his flesh as effortlessly as mist lifting from water, gathered in the dark net of Vapul.

A noble sat alone in her chamber, her body stricken by illness, her once-gilded robes sagging upon her frail frame. Her family waited outside, speaking in hushed tones, refusing to accept what they already knew. Elion passed through the open balcony, unseen, and with quiet certainty, he extended his net. The noble woman blinked once, twice, and then… Finally... Peace.

The dawn threatened to break upon Port Silence, the first slivers of orange creeping into the mist-laden sky over the waters. The city would stir soon. Merchants would open their stalls, priests would renew their sermons, sailors would prepare their ships. None would pause to consider how many had slipped away in the hours before, how many had taken their final breath while the world continued spinning.

Elion stood high upon the bell tower, watching as the morning reached toward him. He did not resent the living. He did not envy them. Their Ignorance. Their successes or failures. He understood them. Understood their fear, their resistance, their desperate grasp upon fleeting time.

But it did not matter. Not in the end.

They could pray to the gods of fortune, of war, of love and ambition. They could cling to their faith, their hope, their endless pursuits of permanence.

But when the last breath escaped them, when time stole what they would not surrender, they worshiped only one.

Elion smiled faintly, almost sadly, the wind carrying his words into the rising sun.

"Everyone worships Vapul in the end."