In the drowned epochs before men counted time, there was a river that did not flow with water, but with shadow. It was called the Black Current, a tide of living darkness that dragged all who touched it into an abyss without return. No soul crossed its waves without leaving behind their memory, their face, their very name—forgotten even by the stones of the earth.
But the Current was not unguarded. From its depths rose a sentinel, wrought of abyssal will and crowned in coral spines: The Warden of the Black Current. Neither god nor beast, the Warden was shaped from the chaos of the tide itself. Its form shifted between serpentine coils and insectile limbs, each movement dripping with the residue of lost ages. Its many eyes never closed, for they were tasked with discerning what may pass and what must drown.
The Warden’s purpose was not cruelty, but balance. For the Black Current was no ordinary river—it was the artery between realms, carrying away the echoes of worlds that had already died. Without the Warden’s vigil, the Current would swell and overflow, swallowing the living with the dead, the present with the forgotten.
Legends say that when the Warden stirs, entire civilizations falter. Ships sink without storm. Memory rots in the minds of kings. Lovers forget each other’s names. For to cross the Warden’s gaze is to stand trial in silence: if you are found unworthy, the Current takes you whole, and your existence is erased as though you never were.
Yet, for those who dare to seek it, whispers tell of an exchange: an offering of something you treasure most—your voice, your sight, your heartbeat—laid upon the Current’s edge. If the Warden accepts, it may allow you passage into the places where no light dares swim.
But no offering is without cost. For every step deeper into the Black Current is one step further away from being remembered.
