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ArtistKorrekturprompt: Preserve the current image exactly as shown. Make one single correction only: On the far left side of the image there are two visually identical dark-haired men wearing dark cloaks. Remove the man standing directly behind Morksik on the far left. Keep the other dark-haired cloaked man standing to the right of Morksik exactly unchanged. After the correction there must be only ONE dark-haired cloaked man in the entire image. Fill the removed character’s area naturally with the existing rock, mist and landscape. Do not replace him with another person. Do not add any new characters. Change absolutely nothing else. Preserve Morksik, the remaining cloaked man, Eldren, Grimmeldorn, every portal, the small village scene, the Collector of Roads, its hanging bell, all architecture, lighting, mist, composition and camera angle exactly as shown. Preserve the existing watermark exactly as shown.
The Morks of Mistmoor
Chapter 38 The Place Mistmoor Came From Part 2 The Name That Travelled with the Village
Three knocks sounded beneath the ground. The enormous shape stopped moving. Vale gripped Morksik’s arm. “Close the eye.” “You know the word. Read it.” Vale looked toward the distant shape. “Not here.” Borstel glanced around. “Excellent. We only need somewhere less alarming than a vanished village.” The mechanical iris remained open. Inside Morksik’s silver eye glowed a single word: ORREN. Vale released him. “That was my name.” Hopsy looked from Vale to the eye. “Was?” “Before Vale.” Archivara opened. SECOND TRAVELLER — ORREN. IDENTITY — CONFIRMED. Vale stared at the page. “I don’t remember it.” “But you recognised it,” said Eldren. “My head didn’t. Something else did.” The eye turned toward him. Vale stepped back. “Please tell it to stop doing that.” Morksik closed his fingers around it. “How did your name get inside my key?” Archivara began writing: TRANSFER —. The letters vanished. Another three knocks sounded below. The enormous figure moved closer. Grimmeldorn crouched. “Not following.” “What is it doing?” Hopsy asked. “Finding.” Stone steps appeared ahead, descending through the empty landscape. “I suppose we follow them,” said Morksik. “I hoped we had developed survival instincts,” Borstel replied. They descended. With every step, the enormous shape became harder to see. The landscape changed. They stood in a wide valley filled with thousands of stone circles. Some were no larger than plates; others surrounded entire hills. Every circle contained silver mist. Eldren unfolded his map. Nothing appeared. “We are off the map.” Borstel nodded. “I suspected the map was the sensible one.” The older Avelin examined the nearest circle. “What are these?” Vale whispered, “Doors.” Morksik looked at him. “You remember?” “No. But Orren does.” Archivara wrote: PLACE ROUTES — ABANDONED. Inside one circle Morksik saw a forest under a purple sky. Another contained an empty harbour. A third showed snow falling upward around black towers. “Places travelled through here,” Eldren said. “Like Mistmoor.” Grimmeldorn stopped beside a broken circle. “Dead route.” Something knocked from its darkness. Once. Borstel moved away. “That circle has made an excellent argument for leaving.” Vale stared at the broken stones. “The thing in the fog never followed Mistmoor.” “Then what happened?” asked Morksik. “Mistmoor carried part of it.” Archivara wrote: JOURNEY SEVEN — CARGO UNKNOWN. Avelin went pale. “We packed the entire village onto that platform.” “Including something that did not belong there,” said Eldren. Hopsy looked upward. “Is it still there?” Three knocks answered from beneath another circle. Then three more farther away. Soon the valley echoed with them. Knock. Knock. Knock. “I regret asking,” Borstel muttered. The silver eye grew warm. Its iris opened. ORREN had vanished.
