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These Once Fields of Gold

All was black, my thoughts polluted by the discordant voices of creation, bidding me rise once more. The Great Communion, as my fellow druids referred to it, normally rose within my ears as a gentle choir. However, no such clarion awakened me but mournful lamentations. I felt a gentle rustling breeze as it danced over the countryside, this seemed familiar. I felt the warm bed of trampled wheat beneath me, easing my worried thoughts. 

On instinct alone, I opened my mind to the Great Communion. All creation rose once more against my thoughts, looming over me like some apparition of shadow that seized my world of sight, casting down my thoughts to a cesspool of ancient fears. That fear threatened to spread throughout the pathways within my cursed flesh. Mournful lamentations turned into anguished cries, deafening me.

I broke my communion with the dirt I lied upon, my thoughts still muddy but not as polluted. I noted the odd resistance that pushed against me, resistance is to be expected albeit much milder than what I faced.

The function of my body returned, my tired bones creaked as I pushed myself up. All the while, my sight still defied me.

I forced my eyes to open. The blur faded as I breathed once more.

It felt isolated from my actions and my thoughts. I felt distant like I drifted through a dense fog. Still, I shook my form free of my drowsy shackles.

The blur subsided, and I looked up to the fields that I knelt within. My blood froze, the familiar world I once knew seemed to have died whilst I blacked out.

No skies of blue, but caustic sulfurous smog that polluted the skies. No clouds of white, only obsidian specters of decay. These once fields of gold corroded into fields of rust. Even the air, thick and laden with corrupting dust.

Bodies, as far as the eye could see. A sea of death's sowing, reaping the sorrow of war's spoils. The acrid stench overwhelmed my nostrils, seizing my nasal passages, and crawled to my stomach. I wrenched and whatever presided in my stomach now joined the bodies that piled up around me. I shivered as the contents left my stomach, horror; unspeakable horror unfurled before my eyes.

What apocalypse had overtaken the world I knew? What events transpired that I had missed? I sorted my memories, searching for the answers that I demanded. I am Arvandus Rima, druid of the Elder Grove. The Eddinbarge is where I studied, then a splintered faction of the Shepherds of Revendor besieged the city of rivers. They sought to pollute the healing waters that ran through the city. I remembered fighting well, then a force struck my head and all went black. For how long had I blacked out?

I winced, a sudden searing pain unfurled within my side. I looked down and within the tattered cloth of my robes lied a gash the length of my side. The lingering sting comforted me, the gash lied on the surface of my flesh.

I stood up, my hands clenched in fear, and walked amongst the decaying bodies. Doing well to not focus on them for too long as I walked by.

I stopped at my destination, hand clenched at my side, leaning down at the river’s bank. Its waters appeared red, but everything around seemed to have a reddish hue due to the smog and the fires. I reached my hand into its depths, the unexpected warm waters puzzled me. Typically, the waters of the Eddinbarge were cold to the touch. I pulled my hand from the depths and my heart sank. My hand was covered in blood.

The invaders had gotten what they wanted, they disturbed the waters and corrupted the magic that it offered. Anger boiled inside me but what could I do? What could be done to purify its waters once more? The healing rivers of the Eddinbarge were no more.

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Raising my hand, I called upon the mana of the earth to my awaiting vacant reservoir of magic. A rush of power flowed through me as I communed with the stored energy within the dirt. But the soothing, harmonious tone that I had grown accustomed to did not answer back. Instead, a vexatious lament replied. The muted energy filled my awaiting vessel of magic.

A strange sensation, though I willed the magic to my fingertips it felt despondent, woeful even. Pressing my hand against my side I felt the borrowed magic latch unto the wound. I watched as it closed.

A rapturous sound interrupted my healing, I looked up to see what caused the siren-like roar.

The lofty form lumbered towards me, it stood no taller than two men atop one another. Its hulking bulky limbs marched it onward, as it charged forward I saw the runes upon the blood-glistened iron golem. It was a golem of Mon-Bhouldr, but the runes changed. The runes that gave it life, that willed its existence did not speak of the same mantras of protection but spoke of hate and prejudice.

I leaped to my feet, drawing on the borrowed power once more, taking a minuscule amount. Lightning burst and struck my awaiting palm, I pushed my palm outward and the bolt of lightning burst forth towards the golem.

It connected with it but did not damage the metal surface. It charged on unfazed.

Panic rushed through me, I willed more magic, the reservoir now at half capacity. I raised my hands and balled my fingers. The dead vines of the vegetation around him rose and wrapped around the golem's charging feet.

It stopped dead in its tracks, the vines ensnaring the towering monstrosity.

It yanked at the vines twice before it settled, drawing its elbows in, the runes on the golem glowed. The cold fluorescent light burst and blinded me for a second. 

All at once, the muted magic that flowed through my veins ceased. In an instant, my reservoir of magic energy evaporated and stole the air from my lungs.

I burst to open my eyes and ran in the opposite direction. What in the thirteen levels of Nosgora happened to this golem? I then remembered the nullifying powers of the splintered faction of the Shepherds that attacked us, this golem must have been taken and reconditioned by the new faction of the Shepherds.

I ran through the ever-flowing sea of bodies, no sense of where my feet took me. At the present moment, my mind raced to ensure my survival. I stepped over bodies, weapons, armor, banners, and fallen steeds.

The ground shook as the golem charged towards me, the quaking earth attempted to knock me off balance. The adrenaline pumping through my veins willed me to run. My breaths raspy and uneven, the polluted air choking my lungs as I felt the strangulating atmosphere constricting my throat.

Disparity overtook my mind, the golem's steps drew ever closer. My doom rushed towards me, each step my hope died a little more.

I then felt a force bash my back, my bones felt like they splintered under the great force.

I collapsed to the ground, the pain enveloping my back and my neck, I howled in anguish. I tried to lift myself off the ground to continue my efforts of escape but the golem pressed its flat pillar-like foot against me and pinned me to the dirt. Fear overtook me, I scrambled and tried to break free from the clutches of the golem.

A low rumble burst out from the golem and in choppy words, it said, "Duty fulfilled; mage apprehended. Preparing the subject for transport."

Transport? Subject? What did that mean? What great hell awaited for me if not my death? By the Pantheon, I cared little for what awaited me. Torture or worse awaited me.

Tears streamed down my cheeks, my lips quivered, and fear so great it was palpable. I had to act, I dared not think of what horrid experiment I would be used for.

I stretched out my arm and gripped the handle of a nearby dagger. Slowly, I brought the blade to the nape of my throat.

I hesitated, my tears flowing from my eyes as I sputtered to myself, "I don't want to die... I don't want to die... I don't want to die... I don't want to-"

In one quick, fluid motion, I let the blade glide over the nape of my throat. A hot sting, as it pierced my flesh, and then a warm rush of liquid flowed without restraint.

My limbs shook, the final movements leaving them.

As I laid there bleeding out, I heard the golem as it said, "Recalculating... preparing corpse.”

All was black, my thoughts polluted no longer as I embraced the cold cradle of death.

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