“There comes a time in every man’s life when their life changes forever. Is it the will of the gods? Everyone, from king to warrior to farmer, has their life’s path already laid out before them, and they have no choice but to play out their preordained role, their fate as it were. Or perhaps it is just chance, the randomness of an ever-changing world, formed and shaped by the independent actions of people. Those who preach for either the forces of order or chaos have often made this the case. Though I am not one who would be swayed to either side of this grand cosmic debate, I say let the philosophers ponder the nature of such things. But regardless, once you have had that moment, in which I have had several in my long life, nothing is ever truly the same again. The first of these many paramount moments came to me when I was but merely a young stripling, who could barely hold a bastard sword nor even wear a great helm. Oh, how quickly that changed. It was at this time in my life when I first met him, Tharos, or as he was known to most, The “Dark Hawk”, the man who would change my life in so many ways, in ways I can’t thank him enough for. He was my mentor and my most trusted confidant. He took me all across the land of Aria and to lands far beyond the setting sun. We fought side by side in many battles to the death, and he showed me the many delights and pleasures life could bring. This fateful encounter happened on the late hue of winter when I was but a child of thirteen years old on the cusp of adolescence, brought low by circumstances beyond my control and forced into a life of servitude, dragged against my will by whoever owned the chains around my neck, to Zarbar, the lost city.” —Excerpt From the memoirs of Cenric Dellcreek.
Sleeping on a humble bed made of straw and animal skins was a young boy, teetering on the edge between boyhood and manhood. He was skinny, with short golden blonde hair, dressed in tattered rags, and wearing an iron collar with intricate etchings around his neck, a stark contrast to his surroundings. This young boy was a slave. In this time of turmoil and anarchy in the land of Aria, it is often the dispossessed and the desperate who end up being fed into the meat grinder that was the slave markets of Aria, and end up only gods know where. For in these times, the cheapest and most plentiful resource available to the wanting and greedy was human life.
This young boy was just one of many who had been swept aside in the great struggle that all living beings, whether they know it or not, participate in—the struggle for survival and supremacy. However, in his dreams, he is not a slave; in his dreams, he is truly free. In his dreams, he is still that farm boy from a backwater village who has now earned and gained his freedom. He lives a humble and simple life in a village until he fades into obscurity, buried by the ever-passing sands of time like so many others who live such a simple and mundane life, destined to become the forgotten and unmourned. However, in some of his dreams, he is a conquering warlord with legions at his command and a sword made of pure fire at his hip. In these dreams, he is the lover of a woman clad in riches and bathed in shadow who has ensnared his heart as much as he has hers. In these dreams, he battles a warrior clad in head-to-toe black plate who has a blade that shines like moonlight. But lately, his dreams have been none of those things. His dreams of late have been of him meeting a black-feathered hawk. A hawk who shows him the path of freedom, for the thing that this young boy desires the most in his heart of hearts is to have wings. Although at the end of the day, this young boy will never remember these dreams, for these dreams are as tangible as the very air he breathes. However, it is these dreams that have kept this young boy going in what could be considered a trying time in his short life. However, for some, dreams are not mere mist conjured from the depths of your own mind. For some, dreams are as real and as tangible as facts of life itself. The sun is hot and water is wet. However, only time will tell if this young boy’s dreams are nothing more than mere phantoms or what will one day become reality.
“Cenric, wake up.” The young boy stirred in his makeshift bed of straw and animal skins at the sound of his name.
“Cenric, wake up,” the voice called again, this time with a hint of concern. Slowly, he roused from his sleep, the iron collar around his neck softly scraping against his bedding.
“Cenric, wake up!” The voice now sounded more urgent. Startled, he shot up from his bed.
“I’m awake, Thorag.” He stood before the old man, his messy blonde hair and bright green eyes meeting the weathered face of his friend. Torag, tall and muscular, looked down at Cenric with a stern expression, his grey beard framing his face.
“You don’t have to shout, Thorag.”
“Would you rather Lord Eilis or his entourage wake you, Cenric?” Thorag’s voice held a hint of sarcasm.
“Fair point.”
Thorag gestures to himself quickly and around the tent where Cenric is standing, his voice carrying a tinge of concern and profound bitterness. A bitterness that he was quickly learning to understand. Unlike himself, who had only been a slave for a year and more, Thorag had been one for at least a decade and more. He was once an infamous warlord, commanding armies and bringing cities to the sword. Known as Thundering Death Thorag, he was a powerful and feared man. Now, he was just a weak old man whose pride, ambition, and spirit had been broken. Cenric couldn’t comprehend why men like Thorag would risk everything in the pursuit of more. Perhaps it was because he was still a child whose view of the world was shaped by what he could see from outside the village fences. Maybe his humble birth and stature in life never gave him the kind of hunger that many men like Thorag had, the same look of hunger he saw in Eilis and in many of his followers. Cenric still couldn’t understand it, but if there was one thing he did understand, it was the feeling that things had to change. These never-ending wars between various kingdoms and city-states, with petty tyrants and warlords fighting over the scraps of a once-mighty empire, for a crown that was rusted by time and a throne that lies empty, had to stop. However, this was how things had always been, or at least as long as his father or the village elder could recall. The land of Aria being carved up like a festival feast, as hungry dogs fight over the bones.
But dose have to be this way? Before he could ponder further on these thoughts, he is abruptly interrupted by an angry voice.
“Oi your lazy gits get to work.” The voice called out from beyond the tent. Thorag shook his head and then glanced down at the ground.
“Well duty calls.” Thorag exits the tent, and a rugged man walks past him, giving him a menacing glare. The man then shifts his focus to Cenric.
“Good news kid you’re going to Feeding the prisoner and on baggage train duty.“ The man says with a rough grin on his face. “Though I would be careful, he is feeling quite feisty this morning.” Cenric noticed the man’s new black eye and several nicks and dents in his chain mail Armour. The man handed Cenric a small bag.
“Yes sir.” He responded hoping this was enough, his gaze shifting downward to the ground. Just as he was preparing to depart, a sudden, sharp pain shot through the back of his head as an armoured fist connected with him, causing his head to ring and his ears to throb. Staggering forward, he slowly turned to face the man. “You are only allowed to speak and move when I give you permission. Do you understand.” The man spoke angrily as Cenric, with his head and ears still ringing and blood slowly dripping from the back of his head, slowly nodded in response.
“Much better.”
The man smirked with satisfaction and gave a quick, hungry stare from his eyes, resembling a predator sizing up his new prey. He then exited the tent, his voice echoing as he continued to bark orders to the other Thralls or the sound of his armoured fist striking bone, sometimes accompanied by a satisfying crunch. Cuthfrith, Eilis’ overseer of slaves, was known for his cruelty, but he felt fortunate this time, considering the rumours circulating in the camp about him and the hushed whispers among the other slaves. However, they were just rumours, right? He shuddered at the thought and quickly left the tent once he was out of earshot.
This was the way things were, but did it always have to be this way? Before he could finish his thought, Cenric was interrupted by a small ray of sunshine shining directly into his eyes. He raised his hand to shield himself from the sudden stinging sensation. The sunlight, which had briefly pierced through the thick clouds, quickly faded away. Rubbing his eyes, Cenric made his way to Rayner’s holding cell.
Rayner, also known as Rayner the Crimson Wolf, was a notorious mercenary and the leader of the mercenary group Rayner Raiders. He was renowned for his ruthless nature and was considered a formidable warrior with almost superhuman strength and skill. This reputation was even further solidified in his mind by the tales he heard in camp and from the towns and villages they traversed during their expedition. Despite all the hardships he had endured, from the loss of his village and loved ones to his capture and enslavement, marching through the desolate Deadlands and encountering a bloodthirsty maniac did not instil the fear one might expect. he couldn’t help but wonder if this lack of fear was normal, but his growling stomach quickly diverted his thoughts.
As Cenric approached the camp, it was bustling with activity. Camp followers and slaves were scurrying around, while Eilis’s personal soldiers and hired mercenaries were busy preparing themselves. They were dressed in chain mail and armed with axes, swords, and spears. Some soldiers were eating breakfast, while others didn’t pay any attention to Cenric as he walked by. Engrossed in their conversations, they huddled around a dying campfire, and Cenric overheard snippets of their discussions as he passed.
“I hope we see some action soon on this damn trip. It’s been all training and marching for the past month. I was hoping we’d get to fight some orcs or run into those snake people. Are we even sure this city is real?”
“It doesn’t matter if it’s real or not. We get paid either way,” one of the other mercenaries said while sharpening his axe.”
“I guess you’re right, but…”
“But what?” The other mercenary looking perplexed.
“What about the others who were sent out this far into the Deadlands? None of them ever returned.”
Cenric’s neck hairs stood on end upon hearing that they were searching for a long-lost city. Rumours around camp suggested it was for treasure or a powerful magic artifact, but he sensed there was more to it. If it was just treasure, why go to such lengths? If it was a powerful artifact, it would explain why Eilis was leading the expedition personally after many failed attempts. However, something felt off to him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a deeper motive at play, one he didn’t fully grasp. The sinking feeling in his stomach and the cold chills down his spine only reinforced his unease.
I guess i can still feel fear great.
Something was amiss, deeply amiss, but the question of what it was remained unanswered. Passing through more soldiers and fellow slaves engrossed in their tasks, Cenric finally arrived at the entrance of the tent where Rayner was held captive. Taking a deep breath, he entered cautiously, his heart racing as he peered inside. Before him lay a man, battered, bloodied, blindfolded, and bound in silver chains within a massive iron cage. Towering in stature and breadth, his rugged physique bore scars and blue tattoos, his features reminiscent of a wild, wolf-like creature with pointed ears and sharp teeth beneath his lips. His unkempt, blood-red hair added to his savage appearance, leaving Cenric uncertain whether he beheld a man or a manifestation of pure ferocity. Despite his blindfold, Rayner sensed Cedric’s presence, his nose and ears twitching subtly. Their eyes met, and even through the blindfold, Rayner’s gaze exuded a formidable strength of will that gave Cenric pause. Though beaten, Rayner remained unbroken, a fact that both intimidated and impressed Cenric.
I have your food here. Cenric offered tentatively, approaching the cage’s edge to place the bag of provisions inside. Anticipating a harsh response, he was surprised to see a slight softening in Rayner’s expression, though his words retained their edge.
“Listen, you whelp.” Rayner’s voice rang out with sense of pride that was common along his people.
“I will not accept any sustenance from that sorcerer bastard, do you understand!” Cenric nodded slowly, acknowledging Rayner’s refusal.
“May I have your food then?” he inquired nervously, although Cenric wouldn’t consider himself a selfish person. His own hunger was beginning to gnaw at him.
“You may, Whelp. Now leave before I change my mind.” Rayner commanded, his blindfolded gaze piercing through Cenric.
“Thank you.” Cenric replied hastily, sensing the intensity of Rayner’s scrutiny as he made his exit. Cenric hurriedly exited the tent, glancing around to ensure no one was watching. He eagerly consumed the food, aware of the consequences if caught eating without permission. The best-case scenario would involve a beating and being deprived of food and water for a few days, while the worst-case scenario sent shivers down his spine at the thought of Cuthfrith’s twisted punishments. He was surprised by the unexpected kindness, knowing that Rayner probably needed the food more than he did. After finishing his meal, Cenric noticed the camp was almost ready to move. Thorag gestured for him to join the baggage train, and for hours, Cenric trudged behind the rest of the group with a heavy bag on his back. The scorching sun and biting wind took a toll on him, every muscle aching and his breath laboured. Thorag nudged him forward whenever he lagged behind as they traversed a series of large sand dunes, the distant sound of shouting echoing in the air.
“We found it, we have found it, The city It’s real, Zarbar.”
As Cenric and Thorag trudged over the dunes, they spotted it. In the distance, like a gleaming jewel, lay the sight of a massive city. Cenric felt a mix of relief that their journey would soon be over, but a sense of unease gnawed at him. There was something off about that city, something deeply unsettling. And he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was the only one who sensed it. As they drew nearer, the decaying grandeur of the city came into full view. his eyes caught a fleeting glimpse of someone standing atop one of the buildings, watching them as they approached the city’s outer wall.
“What is it Cenric.” Thorag inquires as he observes Cenric gazing into the distance.
“It’s nothing Thorag, I just thought.”
“You thought what?” Thorag’s voice echoed a sense of concern.
“I thought I saw someone, up there.” Cenric pointed to the building where he saw the figure, and Thorag squinted his eyes in that direction.
“It was probably nothing Cenric, the desert can play tricks on you.”
“Yeah, I hope so.” Cenric was certain he had seen something, but perhaps Thorag was correct in suggesting that it was merely a mirage caused by the desert. The city appeared empty and lifeless, with no signs of any inhabitants. However, Cenric couldn’t rid himself of the nagging suspicion that the city was not as deserted as it seemed at first glance. Looking up at the afternoon sky, the sun shone even brighter for a brief moment as he looked up at it.
