Blood of Ishtar

The desert had claimed empires before Dravendir’s boots ever touched its burning sands. Each step forward felt like walking through a desolate graveyard, where wind-carved bones of ancient cities jutted from the dunes. The Umberglow Atelier’s commission burned in his mind—find what remained of the hanging gardens, retrieve the blood-red beetroot that grew in their mythic shade.

Three weeks of following markers carved in cuneiform had brought him here, tracing symbols that bled meaning across forgotten rock faces until the signs converged on this wasteland where even the desert nomads refused to venture. It was there, beneath the merciless noon sun, that he found a bronze plate hiding beneath the sandy surface - ornate, ancient and decorated with reliefs of flowing water.

Akkadian script spiraled around its edges, and it was burning hot to the touch - a clue. When Dravendir poured water across its surface, the metal shimmered and the earth split open revealing a sloping passage downward, exhaling cool air that carried the scent of tropical fruit and flowers. The invitation was clear, and Dravendir descended without hesitation, leaving the scorching desert behind.

The chamber below was incredible - a testament to powers that had shaped stone and water into beauty... though now it was mostly ruins. Still, cascading streams fed suspended gardens that hung in the darkness, where plants that existed only in the fever dreams of botanists grew in abundance - moonflowers that shed silver light, crimson herbs that swayed without wind and vines whose blooms shifted color like gemstones.

But such wonders were not left unguarded. The mist thickened around Dravendir, and a figure took shape in the form of a Babylonian guardian who materialized from the misty vapour, bronze armor gleaming with spectral fire, gilded spear hungry for blood. It struck without ceremony, each thrust designed to split soul from flesh, forcing Dravendir to draw upon his knowledge, the glyphs.

His hands traced sigils that burned the air while mystical words spilled from his lips naturally, shadow-dark power erupting from his fingertips. The battle was brief but vicious - spectral warrior met displaced wanderer in a dance of steel and sorcery, until finally the guardian’s form wavered and dissolved into dust.

In the settling silence, a voice rose from the depths - ancient and resonant: “ Wayfarer,” it boomed. “You do not belong here. Your mind is clouded, yet you press forward in this world where you should not be. This I respect.” The words shook Dravendir’s bones, and he stood motionless, letting the sensation wash over him in waves before the voice faded, leaving only the gentle sound of the garden waters.

Near the chamber’s heart, exactly where legend promised they would be, he found the beetroots growing in dark soil, their blood-red skin deep and rich. He harvested only three, careful not to upset the balance of this place... or to invoke the wrath of the guardians.

His objective completed, Dravendir took one last look at the gardens, breathing deeply and feeling a sense of peace.

As he exited the cavern where the bronze plate had been, the sand sprung to life, and began to fill in the passage behind him, falling like water into an empty cup. After, there was no evidence of the miracle below save for the three roots wrapped carefully in his pack.

The master artisans at the Umberglow Atelier received his prize with reverent hands, their excitement barely contained as they recognized the magnitude of what he’d retrieved. For hours they labored in their deepest workshops, combining the supernatural roots with rare minerals and celestial essences, creating what they named the Blood of Ishtar - a supplement that promised not just physical renewal, but clarity of mind and spirit.

Yet in the quiet hours after his return, as the artisans celebrated their success, Dravendir found himself lost in thought. The voice from the garden echoed in his mind, speaking to something fundamental, something broken in the architecture of his existence. He had gained knowledge from his expedition and earned the gratitude of the Atelier, but still, why was he here?

What had he been before.... and how could he help...?

His thoughts trailed as he regarded the Blood of Ishtar bottle on his desk. He took a pellet, swallowed it.

The answers would come, however long it took to find them.