Imrathil walked out of the tree line and breathed in the air. He grimaced, smelling only death and decay where the smell of flower meadows and grass should’ve been. The Nameless Woods was gone; in its place was a forest of withered and dead trees, where nothing grew, not even moss. The seemingly endless green plains of its northern reaches were gone as well, now nothing more than a field of grey and black soil, scorched and dried.

What happened to this place?

A hundred years.

He’d been gone for a hundred years. And this is what became of his resting place. He’d built a small, wooden hut somewhere here all those years ago, the place where he was planning to live in when the Knights of Dol Morag were finally no longer needed and he could finally rest his weary hands. He’d always wanted a family of his own; raising a child here, with a kind and loving wife, would’ve been his dream fulfilled.

Imrathil gritted his teeth, his hands squeezing into fists. They’ve taken everything from me.

He breathed in and sighed. If his memory was correct and not at all hideously outdated, there should be a town in the northwestern edge of the plains, a place where Slayers gathered to stop the monsters in the Nameless Plains from advancing into the civilized lands. They were successful for the most part and the town, Greensedge, grew because of their presence. What would it look like after a hundred years? The Nameless Woods was dead. The monsters and beasts that once roamed beneath the shade of its trees were gone, which meant there was very little work for Slayers, where meant there was no real reason for them to stay here; would the city have survived without their presence?

It seemed unlikely, but there was really only one way to find out.

And so, Imrathil turned northwest and began the long walk to civilization. The sky was dark and dreary, grey and black clouds that seemed perpetually at the crux of rain, but he’d not felt a single drop of water from the sky, not the slightest trace of moisture. The air itself was arid and dry, and the ground looked as though it hadn’t felt the touch of dew for an entire lifetime. He couldn’t even see the sun, making it impossible to predict the time of day.

This place was dead; its beauty was gone.

What happened to the verdant plains and the evergreen woods?

There were faint traces of magic in the air, but it was so old as to be untraceable, like the dust that lingered within ancient bones.

Imrathil continued onwards for what must’ve been hours. He felt no exhaustion; his body was too physically powerful for that. But his mind was tired, just as his soul was famished. He felt hunger and thirst, however, but not enough of either to slow him down. He continued until he reached a prominent and familiar hill that’d once been covered in emerald grass and pretty yellow flowers that reflected the light of the sun, like golden mirrors in a field of green; it overlooked the city of Greensedge.

Now, it was nothing more than a mound of blackened soil and ashes.

He walked towards its top and frowned. Greensedge seemed to have grown significantly larger in his absence. The towering grey walls that now guarded the inner city and the massive fortress that overlooked much of it certainly weren’t there before. Greensedge hadn’t been a large city the last time he came here. At best, it was about as large as three villages put together, though with massive farmlands that stretched far beyond the norm. Its structures were made of mudbricks, instead of cobblestones, houses stacked taller, instead of wider; the only place of significance was the town center, where the Slayers gathered in their spare time. There, the buildings were made of better materials; merchants gathered there as well, selling foreign wares from distant lands. It was a thriving place. And that was precisely the biggest difference.

Greensedge might’ve been far bigger now than it once was, but Imrathil found no trace of life – no guards by the gate, no villagers walking about, no Slayers in the ramparts; there was nothing and no one, not a single soul in sight. The city, for all intents and purposes, seemed abandoned. But, with the tall walls looming ahead, Imrathil couldn’t be sure. If he still had his former skill, Detect Life, he could’ve made certain without venturing into the city itself, but – alas – the only skill he did have was not at all useful in this situation.

He wasn’t even sure how the skill worked, since it didn’t work when he tested it back in the woods.

Well, there’s only one way to find out. Imrathil continued forward, descending the hillside towards the city in the distance. Thunder rumbled in the sky as he approached; streaks and arcs of lightning flashed across the clouds. And yet, no rain came.

Soon enough, Imrathil reached the city gates and stopped in front of the mangled chunk of metal that might’ve been a gate at some point. As he neared, his eyes fell upon the random, rusted, and withered weapons and armor on the ground, cracked and caked with grime and dirt. The walls themselves were covered with slashes and claw marks, entire sections of it seemingly scorched black by massive plumes of flames or partially melted down by some kind of acidic attack.

His purple eyes narrowed as he walked towards the mangled gate, a monstrous hulk of malformed metal. Was the city overrun by monsters?

Imrathil reached out, grabbed a handful of the gate, squeezing so hard that the aged metal groaned and bent in his grip, before pulling and ripping apart an entire section of the gate. The rotting, withered metal screamed in protest, howling like a wounded beast as it was torn apart and its pieces scattered. Imrathil frowned when his eyes fell upon the armored skeletons that lay buried underneath the gate, their torsos squeezed between massive chunks of withered and rusted metal.

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

The size and shape of their skulls confirmed one thing: these were the skeletons of children, neither of them above the age of sixteen. They weren’t old enough to be warriors. And yet here they were, perishing in the fate of soldiers. Imrathil seethed.

Just what sort of madness befell this city that even children were forced to take up arms?

The Knights of Dol Morag was founded specifically to ensure the safety of children, to ensure that no child may ever have to take up arms; they were meant to be the vanguard of mankind, the shield against all adversity, the sword that protected the innocent, and the torch that lit up the darkness. What in the bloody hell was his comrades doing when this city fell? Did they betray their purpose, just as they betrayed him?

Imrathil strode on and walked into the city. Once inside, he noticed the ruined cobblestone buildings and roads, tall and withered towers, looming over the streets, and the lone fortress in the distance, whose spiraling structures seemed as tall as mountains. Stale air and silence greeted him. The cobbled ground was lined with the bones of the long dead, withered and blackened by time – Humans, Elves, Dwarves, and Lizardmen alike, hardened Slayers all of them, bearing arms and armor in death. And yet, accompanying them were the bones of monsters as well, gigantic skeletons of Wyverns, Primal Beasts, and Tyrant Lizards as far as the eye could see; they were on the roofs, within the ruined buildings, and out in the open.

As he walked across the ruined city, Imrathil became acutely aware of a skittering sound that seemed out of place. At first, he’d simply thought it to be bones, rattling in the wind. But then it began following him, and he knew immediately that whatever skittered in the shadows of the dead city was alive and intelligent, hiding its presence from him. It was a good attempt, he mused, with the most likely culprits being mid-tier Thieves or Assassins, or Looters and Treasure-Hunters with a dedicated stealth sub-class. Or a very big rat.

He paused and huffed, his ears stirring as the barely audible skittering continued. Twelve to fifteen meters to my left; it’s following me, but is making a very good attempt at keeping its distance. There’re plenty of buildings for it to hide in. I don’t think it’s an Assassin, but anything’s possible at this point.

Imrathil continued towards the town square. It was much larger and more spacious than he remembered. At its northern face was a Temple to Valtar, the God of Slayers; its marble walls were cracked and withered. At the very center of the square was the tall statue of a figure, who bore a familiar sword, head held high and facing the heavens above; the statue’s face was serene, eyes closed. It was him. There was a statue of him in the center of Greensedge. Imrathil approached it and eyed the stone plaque.

Imrathil, the Savior of All,

Long has he defended us from the Darkness,

And in timeless sleep shall he linger with the Gods,

Hail the Holy Savior, Hail the Sword of Justice.

“Who put this here?” He chuckled bitterly, before lurching forward and launching a kick that shattered the plaque to pieces and the statue with it, shattering the marble monument into a thousand pieces that exploded outwards and bore holes into the ruined walls of the surrounding buildings. A cloud of dust and debris surged upwards, creating a blanket of obscurity across the city square.

Imrathil breathed in and forced his beating heart to calm. Anger would do him no good, especially when there was no real reason for it. Whoever erected this monument likely did so to honor his achievements and sacrifices, his victories and defeats, all in the name of the mortal races, to keep them safe from the shadow. While he never wanted it or needed it, Imrathil would readily admit that it felt nice to be appreciated and celebrated. And it felt especially nice whenever he inspired the youth to do the same, to strive towards the best of themselves.

Lauretia was rather fond of the masses. She craved the cheers and affections of the people; she often said it was the only reason she even wanted to save the world, praise. Imrathil mused. Lauretia, the Crimson Death, was among the greatest of their number; faster than the eye could follow, the last thing her enemies saw before their demise was the bright color of her fiery red hair and their blood. She wielded a wicked mace, which spurned quite a bit of teasing from others who bore the famed and dreaded Duelist Class, the most famous weapon among whom was the rapier. Lauretia proved them all wrong by soundly beating every single Duelist with her mace and then further proved the effectivity of her weapon in the battlefield.

For a moment, he wondered what became of her in his absence. Lauretia often spoke about opening an academy for Duelists when the dust settled, open to all races. Such a dream would’ve been attainable with the gold they received after the war. Did she succeed in doing just that?

But then his eyes darkened. She was there. Lauretia was there, standing with the rest of his brethren when they attacked him out of the blue, joining forces in their ambush.

Rage

Pain

Anguish

I will kill them all….

He shook his head and turned towards the massive fortress in the distance. He wasn’t sure what exactly he was looking for in this place, this city, but he’d probably find something there; a place that large was bound to have something of value, hopefully in the form of information – a scroll or a diary or anything that would tell him what happened to the world when he was busy being dead.

Before he ventured any further, however, Imrathil figured he might as well deal with whoever was constantly following him.

He stopped in the center of a desolate street with ruined houses at his flanks and nothing but open road in front of him, though littered with the bones of the dead, mortals and monsters alike, strewn about after what was surely a brutal battle. This was as good a place as any. Imrathil breathed in. “Come out! I know you’re there. I know you’ve been following me.

Come out and I swear, on my honor, that I won’t attack you!”

The skittered stopped for a moment. Whoever or whatever was following him definitely understood his words, which meant it wasn’t a giant rat. He glanced around. Who would want to linger in a city such as this? There was no water, no food, no life; this place was about as dead as the remains of the Nameless Woods. Still, to prospecting Adventurers and Treasure-Hunters, the ruins of Greensedge might just be the perfect place to be – ancient weapons and armors, bones of powerful monsters, and whatever else was left lying around after time had its way with the city.

Imrathil’s ears perked up at the sound of footsteps steadily approaching. It was faint and muffled, the footsteps of someone who has trained to be stealthy and quiet. He turned and kept his eye on a shadowed trail that lay between two ruined buildings, and waited.

An Elven woman walked out of the shadows, garbed in padded cloth armor. A recurved bow was strung over her book, alongside a quiver of arrows. A single arming sword dangled from her waist – she was left handed, it seemed. Her face was mostly concealed by a dark green hood, leaving only the lower half of her face to be seen. She was tall, like most Elves, and stood about as high as he did. Her every movement was tightly controlled and her muscles were tense. She was ready to strike at any moment. She’s not an Assassin or a Thief, but a Ranger, probably a mid to high level one. What’s she doing here?

“How did you know I was here?” She asked, stopping two meters away from where he stood. Imrathil huffed. This woman was definitely highly trained and experienced, positioning herself just far enough away that an actual conversation could be initiated, but also not so close as to be disadvantageous for her class. Rangers, after all, favored attacking from a distance, though they did have a few skills that allowed them to strike at close range, which was what her sword was for.

“You weren’t as quiet as you thought you were, my lady,” Imrathil offered her a curt bow. She was dangerous and he could respect that. She was also suspicious, which was ironic, since she was the one who was following him the whole time. He should’ve been asking the questions. “I noticed you were following me. I don’t like being followed, especially in deserted cities.”

“What are you doing in this place? Who are you?”

Imrathil raised an eyebrow. “Do always ask strangers these questions or am I special?”

The Elven Ranger drew her sword. It was a beautiful thing that glinted like silver, etched with glowing runes in the Dwarven tongue. “I am Maranael Luvorian, First Ranger of the Shadowmoon Host. Entering the Dead City is illegal, human.”

She raised her sword and aimed it at him. “Now, I won’t ask again; who are you and what are you doing in this cursed place?”