[The Wanderers Journey] - Chapter 1.

Far from the towering Hulkat-Kah peaks where the ancient ones dwell, the land descends into rolling, fertile lowlands. To most, these regions embody the mundane—the ordinary world of men, elves, and others alike. Here, life thrives amidst lush fields of wheat and grass beneath the canopy of towering trees. Gentle hills cradle roaring rivers, and the melodies of woodland life are carried on soft, cool breezes.

Birds call across the valley, their songs echoing off weathered stone. The mountains here differ from their sacred cousins – shorter, minor, rougher, worn by time rather than touched by gods. They watch and wait, as they have for countless generations.

Yet, these lands are no haven. Beneath their beauty lies a history of struggle, pain, and blood—woven from endless conflict between civilised kingdoms and the savage Herdsmen. Fresh graves dot the countryside alongside old ones, a story of unending conflict. The earth here is stained with the weight of countless lives lost. These lands remember what people choose to forget.

At the edge of the forest that hugs these peaks, nestled in a secluded valley, lies Backwater. The town is a humble outpost, its name drawn from the cluster of springs that merge into a meandering creek. The buildings are simple here – wooden structures with thatched roofs, smoke rising from morning fires. Though its size is modest, its significance looms large. Backwater stands as the Empire’s last frontier, the tip of its reach; any further and maps become unreliable. The wilderness beyond its borders returns to the untamed, the uncivilised.

The Empire—vast, young, and powerful—rests here, seemingly dormant. A slumbering titan, biding its time, readying itself to awaken. Its presence is quiet but undeniable. Its influence on the land it’s touched seeps in like roots beneath the soil. But power flows differently at the edges of civilisation. Old ways persist. And in the spaces between order and chaos, new stories take root.

The stillness is deceptive here. The air is now heavy with the weight of something coming—a ripple of change that promises to break the quiet and reshape the land. It’s a tension that prickles the skin. Though small and seemingly insignificant, Backwater stands at the edge of a rising storm. It’s in the quiet valley where the forest meets the mountains that the first ripple of a tale begins—a story of destiny, sacrifice, and a Great Evil stirring beneath the surface, waiting for the moment to break the world open.

Old man Obin treads a path here. A path leading from Backwater to a hidden encampment. An unregistered settlement, illegal under Imperial law. The lonely road stretches empty before him, the sky turning orange, heavy with the day's coming end. The air is cooling, the wind weaving through the trees, rustling leaves in a soft, steady rhythm. A sound he has always loved—that endless hush of nature.

Obin walks with his head low. His loyal companion, a donkey named Bessy, plods beside him, pulling the cart. They have walked many miles together, through thick and thin, and shared decades of history. His hands clench around Bessy's reins, gently leading her, his knuckles beginning to ache in the cold.

Backwater was quieter than usual, but he got what the encampment needed—lamp oils, salt, heavy iron tools, a few bottles of liquor, and root extracts for Bo’s stores. And he even managed a little extra. A traveller from the North had fine silks and cotton to trade, the kind he rarely sees this far south. It's a good find—a rare one.

Yet, a deep unease lingers in his chest.

The Red Eclipse came and went. The world didn't end, it still turns, but the event lingers in the back of his mind. That hollowed-out sun bleeding red in the sky. He shakes his head, trying to push the thoughts away. "Omens are for fools," he mutters. He's never believed in prophecy, never believed in magic or gods. But he does know that fools sleep better at night than men who know the world.

"And in the wake of the red eclipse, the darkness shall come, and with it, the end of all things."

A verse he whispers. He can’t stop replaying it in his head. The words are taken from the last pages of the Order’s holy book—a prophecy of the world's demise, spoken only in times of great fear. He glances back down the path—nothing behind, nothing ahead. Just him, Bessy, and the cold stretch of land between Backwater and home.

"That sky yesterday... never seen an eclipse turn colour like that before. But I did tell you we’d make it back in one piece, didn't I?" Bessy doesn’t answer, of course. She just plods along, her ears twitching at the sound of his voice. Still, he keeps talking. Or the silence makes his unease worse.

She whines softly.

"You’re right. I’m thinking too much," he says with a shake of his head. He pats her side. "Still, it’s good to get out, isn’t it? A bit of adventure before we’re too old for it." He chuckles, but there’s a longing there. He misses it. The encampment—his home—is close now. His heart begins to flutter. A faint smile appears, warming his face. "You know… even after all these years, travelling this far from Backwater still makes me nervous." A pause, turning to look at his companion. "Maybe next time, we’ll take the road North. See if there’s still anything left in the world worth seeing."

He exhales, glancing up at the dimming sky. The air is cool now, the last light stretching long across the land. He reaches out, fingers trailing through the tall grass beside him. The touch reminds him of something. Old memories of simpler times —He used to lay in fields of grass like this with Mom, not a care in the world. He sighs. “Where has the time gone, old friend?”

He shifts the weight on Bessy’s back, adjusting the bundle of textiles. His fingers brush over the fine silks from the North, and he can't help but smile. "That was some deal. Run it through some red dye, weave it right… I could make something special. Might even get some decent coin for it."

His hands linger on the fabric before he looks down at them properly. Worn. Scarred and calloused from decades of work. He flexes his fingers slightly, feeling the dull ache that never quite leaves him anymore. It’s worse in the cold. The ache makes him wonder what awaits him once he can no longer craft his trade. The thought scares him, but he pushes it away.

The path begins to bend gently ahead. His eyes lift to the familiar sight that waits just beyond the turn, and his pace slows. He exhales another deep sigh. Then, without a word, he reaches into the back of his cart, his fingers finding a small bundle of flowers. He pulls them free and steps off the path. This is always the hardest part of the journey. A simple stone stack sits ahead. Unmarked, unassuming, forgotten by the world—but not by him. He kneels, placing the flowers carefully at its base. For a brief moment, he allows his heart to rekindle sacred memories.

But a strange smell drifts through the air—faint and unfamiliar. It pulls Obin from the moment, his brow furrowing as he lifts his head. He peers over the stone stack, scanning the quiet stretch of dense woodland in front of him. He hears Bessy shift, snorting, ears twitching. She smells it, too. He sniffs, trying to place it. It's not woodsmoke. It's not animals. It's something else.

He straightens, pushes himself to his feet and dusts off his robe. That’s when he notices it. The ground beneath him is pressed and disturbed. Tracks. More than a few. Fresh. And not his. He scratches his chin, leaning in for a better look. He traces the edges of the pattern with his calloused finger. He doesn’t recognise them—not animals, not Herdsmen. That's a relief. "Who the hell would be all the way out here?" he thinks.

He makes his way back to Bessy and grabs her reins, his eye being guided by these foreign tracks in the dirt. They lead up to a tiny chapel, the last landmark before home. It is a lone structure of smooth white stone and thick oak doors sealed tight, as always. No one knows when it was built or why. It has no priests, no visitors, no stories. It is a relic, lingering on the road's edge like a forgotten thought.

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They continue together down the path, following the tracks. The forest grows quiet around them, but coming out of the deep depths of the distant woodland, he hears it—the rare Siren Songbird call. It’s faint but unmistakable. Remarkably similar to the cries of a distressed child, the sound seeps out of the woodland toward him. All know its warning: Danger looms. He must get home. "Come on, old girl. Let’s get a move on."

He raises his head, finally noticing where the tracks lead, straight to the chapel door. He stops, and his breath catches when he notices it. The door—sealed shut for as long as he can remember—now stands open. His grip tightens on Bessy’s reins, holding her close as his failing eyes try to make sense of the dark beyond the entrance.

The smell grows stronger with each step, turning sour, pungent. Something is wrong. As they pass, Obin's eyes remain fixed on the chapel's entrance, his thoughts racing to places he doesn't want it to go. He stops. "What if something's happened back at the settlement?" The thought that sits heavy on his mind.

He stops, studying the doorway, staring into the darkness beyond the white stone. “In all my years walking this road, that door has never been open. Not once.” For a moment, nothing moves. The stillness begs for an answer. "Damn it all," he mutters in frustration as he marches to the back of the cart. He pulls the cover aside, grabbing his walking stick. "What if it's something that the encampment needs to know about?" he says to Bessy, though he's really trying to convince himself. "Just a quick look. That's all. Just to quiet my head."

The ground crunches beneath his feet as he approaches the chapel. He pauses, looking down. These aren't the usual twigs and leaves of the forest floor. They're splinters of oak—pieces of the chapel door itself. His eyes adjust to see the truth: the door hasn't been opened. It's been torn apart as if something burst out from within.

A faint light stirs in the darkness. A single candle, its flame dances, barely holding on. Obin holds his breath, suddenly aware of how loud his heartbeat sounds in his ears. The smell starts to become unbearable. The stench of rot. His skin prickles as he takes the chapel steps one at a time, each footfall deliberately silent. His instincts beg him to turn back, but his feet keep moving forward.

He steps toward the entrance, fingers grazing the torn, splintered wood. It’s unlike anything he's seen before. “What could have done this?” His attention shifts back to the darkness ahead. The silence breaks. A sound rises from within. Buzzing. Flies. Thousands of them. He pulls a used cloth from his pocket, shakes it free and places it over his mouth. The stench has now become unbearable. He fights back waves of nausea.

The first step inside feels like crossing a threshold he can't uncross. This isn't the adventure he's been yearning for. His eyes slowly adjust to the darkness around him. Things slowly become clear, shadows taking shape. Bodies, broken, twisted, and bloodied, scattered across the stone like discarded dolls. He gasps but swallows it, forcing himself to stay silent, careful not to make a sound.

The candle dances. Flickering near the end of its life. His blood runs cold. He’s lingered too long. He needs to leave. He wants to turn and go, but the thought appears, “What if I recognise any of them? We are the only people out here, for miles.” Unless… “Please, no,” he whispers, the words escaping before he can stop them. But he holds his panic. He steps carefully across the room to grab the candle. The sound beneath his boots—maggots bursting under his weight.

Grabbing the candle, With trembling hands, he lifts the light to the nearest corpse. Its soft, dull light slowly illuminating the horror. He can feel the cold beads of sweat forming on his back and hands as the face of the corpse lights up. A man. Cloaked. His body, stiff in its final moment of terror. Obin gags, eyes watering. He doesn’t recognise him, he doesn't recognise any of them. But what he does recognise, is their robes. These are Imperial men. Men of The Order. But he’s had enough. He can’t be here any longer.

He moves toward the exit but stumbles, his foot catching on something. His hands hit the damp stone, almost snuffing out the candle. Pain flashes up his arms, but something else makes him freeze. Something protrudes from the centre of the chapel. He raises the candle, waiting for its light to illuminate his surroundings again. His arms and hands shake, but the object reveals itself. A cellar door. Wide open. “Fuck no,” he thinks. He stands, just managing to see the inner skirting of the cellar. Stairs. Stairs leading into blackness.

Common sense tells him to run, yet that bottomless black transfixes him. The darkness beneath is swallowing the fragile light. But something catches his eye. The edges of the darkness surrounding the staircase beneath slowly begin to move, to wriggle. “This isn’t real,” his mind freezing as he sees it. Thin, spindly legs, long and dark, begin to unfurl from beneath. Like the limbs of some monstrous spider or mosquito, too many to count—dozens, hundreds, thousands—begin to appear. A living shadow reaching for him.

His instincts finally kick in. He screams, turning and running for the door, dropping the candle in his haste. The candle's light finally dies, but he makes it outside, the fresh air filling his lungs again. He gulps it down like a drowning man.

Running down the stairs is a reminder that he is not the youth he once was. He stops, hands on his sides, catching his gasping breath. “Damn it!” He shouts, fighting back the tears. Nothing in his long years has prepared him for such horror. "It can't be real," he repeats it, over and over, as if saying the words enough times might make them true. "You fool. You damned old fool." His eyes stay fixed on the chapel's dark mouth. But, the Siren Songbird cries. Its call is closer now. Obin shudders. His eyes remain fixed on the chapel’s dark mouth, but that sound—spurs him back into action.

He tosses his walking stick back in the cart and rushes to grab Bessy’s reins. She snorts uneasily, shifting nervously. “Come, girl. We must leave, now!” he urges, tugging her. But Bessy doesn’t budge. “Come on, move!” He pulls harder, but she has no interest. She isn’t looking at him. She’s looking at something else. Fixated on something Obin hasn’t noticed yet.

He recognises her fixed gaze and pauses. The hairs on his back raise. He turns slowly, following Bessy's sight down the path. And for a moment, it feels as though his heart stops when he sees it. There, blocking their way, lies another body. But not the body of a man, not one of the cloaked bodies from the chapel. There are no symbols of The Order. It’s the body of a woman. Lying motionless. Lying bare.

Obin stands frozen, his grip tight on Bessy's reins, his fingers aching. The woman lies motionless on the path ahead, her bare form catching the last light of day. He wants to look away but can't. His eyes straining the contours of her body, considering how he’d manoeuvre around. But then, he sees it. “Still alive,” he notices, holding his breath. He watches her chest subtly rising and falling with perfect motion. A deep sleep.

He forces breath through his nose. His feet move forward without thought. But the moment he takes that first step, something shifts. An invisible but undeniable force pushes through him, unseen but absolute. It is not a feeling. It is a presence. It’s unlike anything he's experienced in all his years. He swallows, his throat dry. The closer he steps, the harder it becomes to breathe. A presence hums beneath his skin, neither warm nor cold, but something—awake. Something aware.

He’s captivated by her.

There's something about her, something about seeing her, something impossible. It’s pulling him in. Her features are not just beautiful—they are unnatural in their precision. As if crafted rather than born. He steps over her, looking down, and the world feels different. Her hair—brilliant silver. Not grey, not white, but something else entirely. A colour unlike anything he's ever seen. Her form is strong as if woven by the divine. The sight of her drowns out everything else - the horror in the chapel, the approaching night, even his fears—all of it fades against her radiance.

He has spent years dismissing stories of gods and their games, spirits walking the land in mortal skin—fairy tales. Gods were for the desperate. Visions were for the mad. And yet, here he stands, feet planted in the dirt, his pulse hammering. As though he stands in the presence of something far greater than himself. He doesn’t want to believe it. He doesn’t want this. He wants to be the same man he was this morning. But a whisper from deep in his bones tells him—“I will never be the same again."

He understands that he cannot go back to who he was.

He stretches a finger out to touch her, to feel if she's even real. The closer he reaches, he finds the pain in his joints fade. Like it was never there at all. The dull weight of age, the quiet pains of time—all disappearing. His doubts, his fears of growing useless, of fading into nothingness—are small now. He begins to feel—clear. He doesn’t realize he’s kneeling until his hands press against the earth. The gesture feels right - feels necessary. For decades, his hands have shaped his world—thread, stone, soil, the weight of a life measured in labour. No gods, no fate, no magic, only the work of his own fingers. But this is different. Something his hands cannot shape, something his mind cannot grasp. He is not meant to understand it. He is meant to kneel… and so he does.

“I must help her.”