[Wanderers Journey]
In a world divided in two, a tale of unimaginable heroism begins to unfold.
The lands of the North and those in the South are divided not by language, faith, or governance, but by a hostile expanse of endless burning sands and razor-sharp black rock. The Sun, its great power, scorches the surface along the equator. This furnace of barren wasteland, known as the Great Divide, is a boundary none can cross.
Under moonlight, this region unveils new horrors. Tales of men and beasts alike, gasping for breath, choking on the frigid, poisonous air rising from deep cracks within the earth. The piercing cold freezes them in place, standing like statues awaiting the Sun’s relentless return.
Their great cycle ends.
But, tales of the Great Divide isn’t where our story takes root…
It begins in the South.
Far from the Divide’s searing heat, the Southlands stretch out, lush and green. Beyond endless fields of grass, wheat, and towering trees. Over lands filled with stories of pain and loss—a troubled history shared between civilised cultures & savage Herdsmen.
The lands here rise into hills of soft earth, sweet grasses, and the sounds of woodland life which sing on a gentle breeze. The songs of birds echo off of a towering mountain range. This unchanged landscape, which has witnessed countless ages of cycled time, now sits, holding its breath, bearing witness to the exceptional narrative even these timeworn mountains have never seen.
At the foot of these peaks lies Backwater. A tiny town nestled deep within an ancient forest. It stands as the last outpost of a powerful empire—a slumbering titan, bidding it’s time, ready to awaken.
It is here on a lonely path to a small nearby encampment where our story begins…
On this narrow, winding path, an old man trudges forward, leading a weary donkey and cart by a fraying rope. The forest around him, once a comforting canopy of green with its familiar scent of pine and the soft rustle of leaves in the wind, now feels isolated and oppressive. The towering trees fracture the sunlight into shards, casting the ground into a perpetual twilight.
In the back of his cart, covered with brightly coloured textiles from Backwater, lay the goods he’d traded for—supplies the encampment had been waiting for. There were sacks of salt, precious for preserving food through the colder months; iron tools, heavy and hard to forge in the camp, clinking softly with every step; jars of lamp oil, their thick glass catching the last of the sunlight; and a small barrel of wine, a luxury they could never produce in the woods, saved for special occasions or barter. Each item was necessary. Each one a reminder of how isolated the camp had become, reliant on distant trade routes to survive.
The old man's mind is troubled. It is not just the silence of the woods that unsettles him—it is the memory of the sky, darkened by an eclipse two days prior. That image of the blood-red sun still burns in his mind as if the forest is haunted by it. A sight he has never witnessed in all his years, a fear he has never felt. The sun, overtaken by the eclipse, became a darkened, fiery eye, watching the land below as if it held the power to judge all beneath it. As the memory plays out, a shiver runs through him as if the sun’s gaze has moved his soul.
He pulls his cloak tighter around his frail body, murmuring to himself, his voice barely more than a whisper. "And in the wake of the red eclipse, the darkness shall come, and with it, the end of all things..." These words, taken from the last pages of the Order’s holy book—a prophecy of the world's demise, spoken in times of great fear. His lips tremble as he repeats the verses, seeking comfort in the familiar cadence of the prayer, though his heart finds no relief.
The donkey beside him snorts uneasily, its eyes wide with a discontent that mirrors his own. The animal’s hooves clatter nervously against the dirt of the path, its ears twitching at every rustle in the underbrush. The old man pats its neck more to calm himself than his companion. "Easy, old friend. We’re almost there... just a little further."
He looks into the endless trees and thinks, "This place feels different now. As if the eclipse took something I can’t quite name." The usual songs of birds are absent, replaced by an eerie silence.
Every creak of the trees, every crack of a twig beneath his worn boots, sets him on edge.
As they push onward, the path climbs, leading them to an ancient chapel. Its weathered stone steeple peeks through the trees. The sight stirs a relieving comfort in the old man—this tiny, forgotten shrine has always marked the edge of home.
A familiar landmark in a world that has suddenly felt unfamiliar.
But even the comfort of home couldn’t shake his sense of unease; his memories of the red eclipse still linger in his mind.
The chapel also reminds him of the old rituals, childhood blessings of protection he now longs for. He hopes familiar faces at home might hold answers to the eclipse’s dark omens. He’s eager to deliver his traded goods—the things the encampment relies on to survive the coming months.
But the closer he gets, the more the words of the prophecy echo in his mind, louder and more insistent.
"The sun shall bleed. The doom of all things approaches..."
The old man shakes his head, trying to dislodge the ominous thoughts. But it’s no use. The sense of this spiritual doom clings to like his brown leather robe. With every step, uncertainty grows.
A Siren Song bird cries, its alarm call rising from the depths of the forest, freezing the old man in his tracks. The donkey stops too, ears flattening against its head, a low whine escaping its throat. The bird's cry, remarkably similar to the screams of a deeply distressed child, is a rare occurrence. It almost always signals that something dreadful is near when it emerges.
The old man's heart pounds in his chest. A cold wave rushes through him. He forces himself to move.
He sees the chapel's weathered stone steeple growing clearer. The donkey plods beside him. Their shared exhaustion is heavy in the stillness of the forest. But just as they near the chapel, something catches his eye—imprints in the dirt, strange tracks weaving along the path.
He exhales a breath he didn’t realise he was holding, hope warming his chest. “Perhaps Idris is close, hunting us some dinner,” he thinks while kneeling beside the tracks, running his fingers through the disturbed earth. But as his fingers brush through the dirt, hope fades. Something about these tracks is wrong—too large, heavy, and far too many.
A strange smell begins to cling to the air—faint at first but growing stronger. He wrinkles his nose, pausing momentarily to take in the scent. Something is unsettling about it. It’s hard to place.
He studies the prints more closely. Unease settles in. The tracks seem erratic. Like something—or someone—has staggered up the path. His pulse quickens.
He glances at the donkey which shifts nervously, its ears twitching as if sensing the same wrongness. The old man stands, gripping the fraying rope a little tighter. Despite the dread prickling at the back of his neck, he follows the tracks, his steps slow and cautious. They lead straight toward the chapel door.
His stomach lurches as he sees it—the heavy wooden door, always sealed shut for as long as he can remember, now hangs open, broken. Not just opened but torn from its hinges. Splintered and broken as if something has forced its way in. His throat tightens. The strange tracks vanish into the gaping darkness beyond the doorway.
The chapel, once a comforting sight, now looms before him—its quiet presence thick with unease. The hairs on the back of his neck rise. But despite the warnings in his mind, curiosity stirs within him.
“What could have done this?”
He should turn back and go straight to the encampment—but the pull is undeniable. His home is close, and surely someone must be inside, someone he knows.
“Stay here,” he says to the donkey, though he doesn’t expect it to obey. His legs feel heavy as he approaches the chapel door, his heart pounding like the tolling of a bell. The strange smell that has been lingering at the edges of his awareness grows pungent—thick and damp, like rot and decay.
The old man hesitates at the threshold, his hand brushing the torn, splintered wood of the doorframe.
His body tells him to turn away, to run back down the path, but the hope of a familiar face or the fear of what might threaten the nearby encampment forces him to stay.
He peers into the darkened interior, his eyes straining to adjust to the shadows. His breath catches in his throat as he quickly pulls out a worn handkerchief, covering his nose and mouth. The smell is too much to bear—suffocating in its intensity.
Stepping inside the chapel, a new sound greets him—the droning hum of flies. Thousands of them. Their bodies buzzing in a feverish cloud, crawling over every surface. Maggots squirm in piles of filth scattered across the stone floor, their white bodies writhing in the dim light. The old man’s heart pounds, each beat louder in the choking silence.
His eyes dart around adjusting slowly to the gloom. Thick candles line the walls. Their flames flicker faintly, casting long shadows as they near the end of their lives. He stares at them for a moment—these candles have burned long, almost too long, and yet they still cling to life. The room seems suspended between life and death, the fading light clinging to the walls as if afraid of the dark.
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Then his eyes land on the floor, and he freezes.
Bodies. Broken and bloodied, scattered across the stone like discarded dolls. The old man stumbles back. A gasp caught in his throat as he takes in the full horror of the scene. The victims are men—holy men—draped in the unmistakable robes of the Order of the Forbidden Seal. He recognises the crimson seals on their cloaks, symbols of their sacred artefact. A holy group, the Order of the Forbidden Seal, is known throughout the land, their teachings woven into the very fabric of the faith.
But now they lie here, torn apart, their lifeless eyes staring into nothingness.
His breath quickens, panic rising like bile in his throat, but he forces himself to focus. “Why are they here so far from the Empire? What happened to them?” He takes a cautious step forward, careful not to disturb the dead as his eyes scan the room for any sign of life.
There is none.
He moves toward the nearest candle, plucking it from its holder with trembling hands. His hands are slick with sweat as he lifts the candle high, its weak flame barely illuminating the gruesome scene around him. He can feel questions swirling in his mind, but there are no answers—not yet.
Then he notices something strange—a small door in the middle of the chapel’s floor. It’s wide open, revealing a staircase descending into the blackness below. His heart skips a beat. He steps closer, gripping the candle tightly, and peers down into the cellar.
Stairs. Endless stairs, vanishing into the void. There is no light, no sound, only darkness.
The old man bends down, leaning in for a closer look. The flame from the candle flickers at the edge of the doorway.
Squinting into the darkness below, the flickering light of the candle barely pierces the blackness. He leans in anyway, desperate for some sign of what lies down there. His heart pounds in his ears, each beat growing louder. As the flame sputters, he feels it—a shifting, a movement in the shadows.
At first, it's subtle, like a trick of the eye. But then it becomes unmistakable. Thin, spindly legs, long and dark, begin to unfurl from the walls of the staircase. They slowly creep along the stone like the legs of some nightmarish insect. They stretch upward, blanketing the walls and ceiling with a slow, deliberate crawl. Each limb is thick, bristling with tiny hairs, moving with an eerie, purposeful motion. The old man’s breath catches in his throat. His pulse quickens as more legs—dozens, hundreds, thousands—begin to appear, weaving across the stone, ascending from the deep like a living shadow.
His mind staggers, refusing to process what he's seeing. They look like the limbs of some monstrous spider or mosquito, too many to count, too large, too grotesque to belong to any creature he knows. The legs crawl slowly but surely toward him as if the very darkness is alive, coming for him.
The old man’s grip tightens on the candle, his body frozen, unable to tear his eyes away from the horror unfolding before him. Then, with a violent jerk, he throws himself backwards, his foot slipping on the bloodied stone. The candle tumbles from his hand, its weak flame extinguished as it hits the floor with a thud.
In a moment, the world is consumed by darkness again. Terror grips him like a vice. He screams—shouts with pure fear—as the monstrous legs seem to slowly grow forward, reaching for him.
His body moves before his mind can catch up. He scrambles backwards, his hands and knees scraping and slipping against the cold stone as he tries to push himself away from the yawning blackness.
His heart pounds wildly, panic driving him as he turns toward the chapel door. The familiar light from outside seems like a distant beacon, but he focuses on it, forcing his legs to move. He rises unsteadily, his body trembling as he bolts for the exit. His breath comes in ragged gasps, every fibre of his being screaming to flee.
He stumbles out the door, bursting into the open air, where the cool breeze greets him like a lifeline. The thick, suffocating stench of the chapel is left behind as the fresh air fills his lungs. But the terror still clings to him, prickling his senses. His legs feel heavy as he rushes down the chapel steps, nearly tripping in his haste. He doesn’t dare look back. The thought of those spindly legs crawling after him sends a fresh wave of panic surging through him.
The donkey stands where he left it, ears twitching nervously, sensing his panic. The old man rushes toward it, his hands trembling as he grabs the rope. The cry of the Siren Song bird pierces the air again, louder this time, closer. The sound rattles his nerves, its urgency reverberating in his chest. His mind races as his thoughts start spiralling into panic. He tugs hard on the donkey’s rope. “Move, damn it!” he mutters through gritted teeth.
But the donkey refuses to budge.
Instead, it stands frozen, its wide eyes fixed on something the old man hasn’t noticed yet. Its ears twitch nervously, its attention pulled toward something just out of sight.
“Come on!” The old man tugs harder, frustration bubbling to the surface as his pulse hammers in his ears. He glances back at the animal, noticing its rigid posture. Its nostrils flare as if sensing something he cannot. His breath comes out in ragged pants, the urgency to flee but the donkey won’t move.
“What is it!?” he snaps, his voice shaking with fear and impatience. He tugs again, harder this time. But the donkey doesn’t flinch, it stays rooted to the spot, fixated.
The old man’s frustration mounts, but something about the donkey’s stillness makes him pause. His grip on the rope slackens as a sinking feeling creeps over him. Slowly, reluctantly, he turns his head to follow the donkey’s gaze.
And then he sees it.
Just a few paces ahead, lying in the dirt, is a woman's body. Bare and beautiful, her pale skin gleams in the faint light filtering through the trees. Her chest rises and falls slowly, just barely, as if she is merely asleep.
For a moment, time seems to stop.
Everything fades—the panic, the fear, even the urgency to escape. Despite everything he’s just witnessed, he feels no danger or need to run. He feels… calm. The oppressive weight of dread that had clung to him in the chapel is gone. Replaced by an unexplainable sense of stillness. She looks so peaceful, almost ethereal, her body resting in the middle of the path like a dream.
There’s something about her presence—something captivating. His heart, racing moments ago, now slows to a steady beat. He stares at her, his eyes tracing the soft contours of her delicate features. It’s as though she doesn’t belong to this world but has been placed in his path by some divine hand.
He takes a cautious step forward, but it’s not fear driving him.—it’s curiosity. The closer he gets, the more drawn to her he feels. There is no malice here, no threat—only a strange, magnetic pull that seems to come from deep within her. She radiates a quiet power, yet it feels gentle, almost soothing.
His gaze lingers on her chest as it rises and falls, steady and calm. Each breath is as if it were a promise of peace. The silence that had once pressed down on him now feels lighter and softer as if she is holding it at bay. The tension in his body melts away, replaced by a warmth he can’t explain.
The donkey shifts beside him, but even the animal, which is usually so skittish, seems oddly at ease in her presence. The old man swallows hard, his eyes never leaving her. He feels mesmerised. Like time has slowed, the world around him fades into the background.
He steps closer, almost as if in a trance, drawn to the woman lying before him.
It’s as though she’s more than what she seems, something beyond his understanding, yet her presence feels safe, comforting in a way that defies reason.
He stares at her. For a moment, he considers leaving—walking away and forgetting what he’s seen. But as he looks at her lying so vulnerable. The thought of abandoning her troubles him. It feels wrong, like a betrayal of something far greater than himself. He hesitates. He glances back toward the chapel, its broken door still open as if urging him to go. But when he looks back at her, the pull is undeniable.
He can’t leave her. He won’t.
He steps closer. He notices the ground beneath her looks different—softer, somehow. The earth around her seems… harmonised, as if her presence has persuaded the land into a peaceful slumber. His eyes widen as he notices something else—tiny particles of dust and fine sand float gently around her. Suspended in the air. They drift lazily as though drawn to her, swirling in delicate patterns as if her aura is affecting the world with some kind of magnetic harmony. It’s strange, but instead of filling him with confusion or fear, the sight brings him a deep sense of calm.
Everything about her seems to belong.
He bends down carefully, his hands trembling as he reaches out to lift her. The moment his fingers brush her skin, a wave of warmth surges through him. It’s not just warmth—it’s strength. His frail body, burdened by years of age and wear suddenly feels lighter, rejuvenated. The aching in his joints, the dull pain that had accompanied every step, fades as though it had never been there at all. His back straightens, his limbs feel stronger, and for the first time in years, he feels… young.
He exhales sharply, blinking in disbelief. “How could this be?” Yet, the truth of it pulses through his veins. Holding her, even briefly has filled him with an energy he thought was long gone. The thought of helping her now seems like the most important thing he’s ever done—like a purpose he hadn’t realised was missing from his life until this moment.
With a reverence he doesn’t fully understand, he lifts her into his arms. She’s lighter than he expects. Her body is limp, but breathing steadily, as if she’s merely asleep. The strength coursing through him makes the act feel easy, natural. He feels as though he could carry her for miles, but he knows the cart will be safer for her.
He moves quickly though with care, placing her gently in the back of his cart. He looks around, grabbing some of the brightly coloured textiles from his trade to drape over her, hiding her from prying eyes.
As he tucks the fabric around her he glances back at her face, still serene and peaceful, as though she hasn’t a care in the world. The sight fills him with a strange, unshakable sense of purpose.
It’s as if everything in his life has led him to this moment. The years of wandering, carrying burdens that seemed heavier with each passing day, feel distant now—unravelled. Like her presence has un-knotted the tangled threads of his past, giving him something to hold onto that makes sense. He feels lighter, his heart clearer than it’s been in decades.
Taking a deep breath, he grips the donkey’s rope and leads the cart back toward the encampment. The path ahead feels less daunting now, the forest less oppressive. The woman’s steady breathing is barely audible beneath the textiles, but knowing she’s there fills him with an unexpected peace.
With each step, he feels stronger and more focused, as though the decision to help her has infused him with a sense of destiny. The weight of the world, once heavy on his shoulders, is lifted. Now, for the first time in a long time, he moves with purpose…