A woman dressed in the common red garbs of a healer walked into a small room in the far end of the infirmary, in her hands she carried a pile of black woven sheets typically used to wrap the recently deceased. She reached a stone-like altar in the room, placing the sheets next to the body of a young sellsword that laid dead atop it.
The healer unfolded the sheets ready to pull them over the corpse when in the corner of her eye she noticed something strange. Movement. The woman froze for a second, hoping her mind was playing tricks on her. When she went to take another look, the corpse’s eyes were staring directly at her.
“Help,” the man mutters under a raspy breathing.
The woman’s blood ran cold the moment she heard the dead man speak. She was completely sure this man died last night, his skin was cold, his lips lacked color, and his pulse was gone. Yet, he spoke to her. Coming to the realization that he was surely supposed to be dead she took a step back.
The man reached out for her wrist, taking a tight hold. His dirtied fingers clenching desperately around her white skin.
“Don’t leave..please...where am I?” The man questioned.
Despite the man’s pleas, the healer violently yanked her arm away, losing her footing in the process. Terrified, she stumbled her way back up and out of the room in a hurry.
The scared woman ran out of the infirmary and stepped out into the dirty cobbled streets of Galdorith. It was night and the city was quiet. While Galdorith was considered to be a dangerous place at night, the healer wanted nothing more than to find help. She ran down the dimly lit streets reaching a small plaza with empty market stalls spotting three city guards laughing with one another at the other end of the plaza.
“Guards!” she yelled out to get their attention.
The soldiers dressed in chainmail tunics and conal shaped helms adorned with green and black colored feathering looked over at the red robed woman. One soldier withdrew his shortsword from his sheath expecting the worst.
“What’s the matter?!” One of the guards asked.
The frantic woman approached the three soldiers, a little out of breath. She turned to face the man with his weapon unsheathed and pointed to the direction of her infirmary down the street.
“Please you have to help me, there's an undead man in my infirmary,” the healer explained.
A look of confusion washed over the guard’s face. He took his sword and placed it back into his sheath. The soldier looked over his shoulder to his two other comrades standing behind him before looking back at the woman.
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“An undead man?” The guard said, crossing his arms with a furrow of his brow.
“I promise you, he stumbled into my infirmary last night complaining of pain in his chest. Hours later he passed away in his sleep, I was certain he did,” the healer replied frantically.
The soldier took his hand and ran it slowly down his full black beard. He looked back to his men, unsure of what to say. He planted his hands on his hips and squinted at the woman before gesturing with his chin for her to lead the way.
“You better not be wasting our time, healer.” The guard warned.
“Of course not, follow me,” the woman said, turning around and leading the soldiers down the street her infirmary was on. She stopped at the entrance and looked back to the guards following her. “He’s in the room at the very end once you step inside,” the healer explained.
The leading soldier pushed the door open and peaked his head in to see the room at the end of the hall the healer spoke of. Stepping further into the infirmary, the guard couldn't help but feel a slight dread the closer he and his men got to the room. All kinds of scenarios ran through his mind, he was sure the undead weren’t real..yet this woman claimed there was one sitting in the room directly in front of him.
Taking a deep breath the guard stood by the door, hesitating for a moment. He looked over his shoulder taking one last reassurance his men were with him. Without speaking a single word, the man pushed the door open, walking inside of the room with the altar at its end.
The guard untensed his shoulders when his eyes laid on a young man with black hair tied in a small bun sitting on the floor with his back against the altar. The injured young man groaned, struggling to even lift his head to look at the guards.
“Looks like the healer was being dramatic after all,” one of the guards said, standing next to the door.
A second soldier approached the young man and knelt next to him, giving his shoulder a tap. “Hey, you’re not undead are ya?” The soldier jokes, trying to lighten the mood.
The young man dazedly looked up to the soldier knelt next to him, his dried bloodshot eyes staring at the guard. “Where am I?” The young man questioned.
“You’re in Galdorith, capital of the Reaver Isles,” the guard answered, “Are you alright? You gave our healer quite a scare.”
The young man lifted his head higher propping it against the cold stone of the altar behind him. “I don’t know, I can’t remember anything,” the young man responded with a heavy breath.
Without warning, the young man felt a jolt of searing pain run from his fingertips to his chest. A strained gasp was all he could muster while he fought the intense pain. A pain that was recurring ever since he woke up on the altar.
The guard kneeling next to him noticed something strange with the young man, blackened veins coursed from the base of his neck to his jaw. The soldier’s eyes widened when he noticed the veins, his stare slowly raised back up to the young man’s face. “You’re a Black Blood..” the guard muttered in shock.
A slam at the door took his attention from the pained young man. Turning his head the soldier saw a group of five armored knights rushing into the small room. One of the knights grabbed the guard closest to the door, forcefully lifting his head from behind and slitting the man's throat with a sword. Blood splattered onto the ground, pooling below the dying man’s feet.
Seeing his friend have his throat cut, the second guard unsheathed his blade swinging it at the closest assailant. The knight took a hold of his sword arm catching it mid-swing, and planting a firm kick to his chest. The guard stumbled backward, dropping his sword only for the knight to rush a blade into his chest. Blood bubbled from the guard’s mouth trickling down his chin.
The final guard remained knelt on the ground next to the young man. Seeing his men slaughtered by the knights he saw no other choice than to surrender. Without even taking his blade out of its sheath, he raised his hands up staring at the cold armor of the knights.
“Why are you Wardens killing my men?” The guard asked, his voice cracking.
One of the knights raised a blade dripping of blood and mercilessly struck the surrendered man down, leaving his question unanswered.
The knight finally turned his attention to the cowering young man splattered in the blood of the man he had just slaughtered. The knight wore a heavy metal chestplate adorned with layered pauldrons on his shoulders. Running down his waist was a blue cloth held up by two leather belts. A similar blue cloth was wrapped around his neck much like a scarf. This was a famed Warden of the Veiled.
“We’ve been looking for you Akaro,” the knight said.