Dark Age Year 871
Twenty Third day of the Third month
“The village of Golden Apple was an experience for me, marking the beginning of my journey as an adventurer and independent mercenary. Despite feeling somewhat inexperienced at the time, the chaotic state of the world demanded quick decisions and strength, traits that were often rewarded over hesitation and weakness. Witnessing the best and worst of humanity first-hand, I too was influenced by the harsh realities of that time. Despite the challenges, there was a certain allure to the chaos – whether it was the thrill of battle, the sense of adventure and freedom, or the bonds formed with comrades. Even now, I struggle to pinpoint exactly what made those times so captivating. It could be the idealism of youth or the nostalgia of looking back. However, what began as a straightforward job quickly unravelled into a complex web of truth and deception. The most valuable lesson I took from that experience is that things are not always as they appear.”
—Excerpt From the memoirs of Cenric Dellcreek.
After a night of heavy rain, chilling winds, and an undead horde descending upon the village like a swarm of locusts, the village of Golden Apple woke to a new dawn. However, the usual joy of a new day was absent. Out of the roughly eight to nine hundred villagers, half were killed by the undead during the attack, leaving the rest ether terrified, injured, or on the brink of death. It was a miracle that more weren’t lost. Cenric marvelled at their survival.
How am I not dead yet? It was a question he didn’t really have an answer to. In the span of three months, he had encountered and narrowly avoided death several times, when so many others didn’t. When he exited the village hall that night, he saw what was starting to become commonplace for him. The village was a gruesome scene, with corpses littering the streets and buildings drenched in blood. Death spared no one this night. For all The men, The women, The children, and the elderly, where killed in equal measure. It was a massacre that left Cenric pondering his own mortality, along with Rayner and Tharos.
It not like Tharos can die, he taken hits that would have killed someone ten times over.
It was a massacre that brought back memories of the tragedy in the city of Zarbar, but this was even more devastating. The people in Zarbar had a better chance to defend themselves or escape. They were warriors, soldiers, and mercenaries skilled in combat. They had the open sky and desert wasteland to flee to before the monstrous creatures made of liquid metal or twisted flesh could overpower them. However, the villagers in this case were not fighters; they were farmers, woodworkers, and craftsmen. While some tried to resist, their efforts were futile, and they had nowhere to seek refuge. Many were trapped in their homes and mercilessly slaughtered by the undead closing in on them. What was once a safe haven, a place of happiness and peace, turned into their graves.
He could see it all illuminated by bright torches and faint moonlight: their faces, pale, angry, and horror-stricken expressions, their eyes staring back at him with lifeless and fear-flushed gazes. Cenric realised once again that they were not living people, nor were they empty shells devoid of life. They were reminders that he wasn’t strong enough. He couldn’t save his village of Dellcreek, he couldn’t save Torag or the other slaves in Zarbar. Hell, he barely managed to protect himself that night from the zombies that tried to eat him alive. If it weren’t for Tharos and Rayner, he would likely have ended up as zombie food. This pain inflicted him more deeply than he could have imagined. It gnawed at his heart, surpassing the scars from his enslavement and the wounds from battling the undead that marked his youthful body. It was the ache of failure, the feeling of not measuring up, of still falling short. Maybe he had been too hard on himself, too impatient. Tharos would say so, and perhaps Tharos was right. Despite making significant progress in his training over the past two months, Cenric couldn’t shake the feeling of inadequacy. He wondered if Tharos was just trying to boost his confidence or if he truly believed in his improvement. Uncertainty clouded his mind, but one thing was clear: he despised the thought of being useless, of not being able to assist when needed. He refused to be dead weight.
Throughout the night, he was plagued by feelings of fear and dread, haunted by visions of zombies and skeletal warriors. Morning brought no relief as a village meeting was called to discuss the impending danger. It was decided that most villagers would flee to warn others, while a brave few, including the village elder, would stay and defend against the necromancer and his undead army. Tharos set out to track down the necromancer, while Rayner and he helped the villagers prepare for the battle. They were then tasked with disposing of the dead bodies by burning them, a grim but necessary task. Together with some villagers, they dug a large pit for the bodies, completing the task by midday. The stench was overwhelming, one that Cenric didn’t think he would get used to, and one that took all his willpower to not throw up in his mouth. Even Rayner struggled to cope with the smell and the sounds of carrion birds flying overhead, attracted by the smell.
After the villagers had departed, Rayner muttered to himself, “Cowards and weaklings, all of them.” He turned to Cenric and said, “Let’s hope you don’t become like them or meet their fate,” tilting his head towards the freshly dug mass grave.
Cenric met Rayner’s gaze and nodded.
“Remember, your better then these weaklings.”
Better or just lucky. Cenric couldn’t tell which it was.
Cenric gave a slight nod, not necessarily in agreement with his words, but perhaps acknowledging the sentiment with a simple “As you say.”
“Anyway,” Rayner continued, “if you want to sneak off and investigate that farm, now would be a good time while everyone is preoccupied with their grief.”
“What will you say if they realize I’m missing?”
“I doubt they will notice, and even if they do, they are too afraid to challenge me on whatever I say. So, Get to it.”
Cenric quickly nodded and hurried to gather his gear after the undead departed. He believed it would be unwise to venture without weapons, especially given Tharos’s recent suspicions. The farm held unknown dangers, and Cenric was aware of the risks involved in trespassing and breaking in. If caught, regardless of Tharos’s suspicions, it would not end well for him or the group. After collecting his armour, axe, and a couple of daggers from his room, he stealthily made his way to the farm, keeping to the tree line to remain concealed. He reached the farm without delay. As he arrived at the farm on the outskirts, he was immediately struck by its size. It covered approximately ten to fifteen acres of land, making it the largest farm in the village of Dull Creek. The next biggest farm in the village was only about half the size.
Ozias must have been a super farmer to do all of this. Cenric pondered to himself as he walked through one of the untilled fields. The ground felt soft beneath his feet, and dark brown water seeped from the mud, accompanied by a faint sloshing sound. Pausing to kneel down and scoop up a handful of dirt, he noticed the rich earthy smell and the abundance of worms in the soil. He gazed at the dirt in his hand, feeling its softness and the worms wriggling between his fingers before gently returning it to the ground. The place began to evoke memories of home, and with that, a wave of warmth washed over Cenric. In that moment, he wasn’t just a former slave striving to prove himself to his saviour or a novice adventurer embarking on a new journey. At his core, he remained the farm boy from a small village with a nondescript creek, and perhaps that simple identity was all he truly was, despite the new roles thrust upon him.
So much has happened.
If someone had told him that this would be his life, he would have thought they were crazy. It was only two, no maybe even three years ago, that everything changed. What started as a normal day turned into a day of hell, with people murdered and those who couldn’t escape captured in chains. It was the day his simple life as a farm boy ended, the day Dellcreek village burned, and the day his new life began. He was free now, but unsure of what to do with that freedom, other than following Tharos around. Perhaps he would never fully understand it. Maybe, just maybe, Tharos could help him figure it out.
As he walked through the untended fields, the homestead appeared in the distance. The house was simple and homely, two stories tall and spacious enough for ten people. It resembled the houses in Dellcreek but was less elegant. There was a certain charm to the place, a vision of starting a family, growing old, and waiting for the inevitable passage of time to claim you.
Starting a family. The thought lingered in his mind as he pictured Estrid, not as she was when he last saw her, but how he imagined she would look now if she were alive. He envisioned her sparkling reddish-brown eyes, rounded face alive with joy, long flowing chestnut brown hair with small braids. Her once skinny body and limbs becoming more muscular and limber like that of a cat. She would be taller and perhaps more well-endowed in the chest area. Cenric felt a slight blush spread across his cheeks as his face turned a faint shade of red. He shook his head.
She’s a friend.
Despite finding certain aspects of Estrid cute and oddly charming, more so than any other girls in Dellcreek or elsewhere he had met, he ultimately saw her as a friend and loved her like a sister. If he was being honest with himself, he knew that was the extent of his feelings towards her. How could he not view her as anything else? They were practically brought up together and were raised as if they were brother and sister; all his earliest memories had her in them. In fact, he wishes he could see her again or at least know if she is alive or dead. I mean, he made it, maybe she made it out as well. She was always a skilled hunter and quick on her feet; if anyone could have made it out, it would have been her. Perhaps like him, she is now travelling with a group of companions and going on adventures, or maybe she is starting life anew in a new village or town, finding someone to gift stuffed birds or rabbit teeth necklaces to. He couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought of the unfortunate person who might win her affections, knowing that her feelings would be reciprocated. Due to her passion for taxidermy and related hobbies, many older villagers gossiped about her being unsuitable for marriage. They questioned who would marry such a strange and morbid girl. These comments irritated him. Yes, she wasn’t what you would call your normal girl, but as far as Cenric viewed it, that was part of the charm. It was charming in a way that she was willing to be herself at all times, regardless of what others thought or would say, and that was something to be admired.
After traversing several more acres of untilled fields, pastures, and fenced enclosures, Cenric found himself standing just outside the porch of the homestead. He looked around, keeping his ears alert for any noise, but there was nothing. The farm was empty, quiet, and still, with no sign of life anywhere. It was rather unnerving, even with undead creatures stalking about. The emptiness of the farm felt unnatural to him. As he approached the farm, the sounds of birds chirping and crickets became more distant. In fact, he couldn’t hear anything aside from the rustling of trees and grass in the wind and the droplets of water in puddles, buckets, and troughs around the farm.
What kind of mess am I about to get into now. He thought to himself as he stepped onto the porch and reached his hand towards the door. As he twisted the knob, he noticed the door wasn’t opening.
“Locked, figures.” he muttered to himself.
Cenric quickly glanced at his axe and the daggers tied to his belt.
Well, there are wooden shutters. I could use the axe to break down the door or one of the shutters. However, that would make too much noise. Besides, those shutters are too small for me. Perhaps there’s another way.
Cenric circled the homestead and reached the back where he discovered a locked back door. However, he also noticed what appeared to be the entrance to a cellar, possibly connected to the homestead. Giving the cellar door a quick tug, he found it unlocked.
What luck.
Before descending into the cellar, he noticed a tombstone behind him. It was a well-crafted tombstone with an inscription on it, much nicer than anything typically found in this village. The tombstone was adorned with fresh chrysanthemums, indicating they had been placed there recently, perhaps within the last day or two. Approaching the tombstone, he struggled to decipher the Invicti inscription, as his knowledge of the language was limited. He was better at speaking it than reading it. He could grasp some basic words but not enough to fully comprehend the message engraved on the tombstone.
The tombstone read, “Here lies Ozias.” As he finished reading the inscription, he noticed what looked like another inscription, a smaller one hidden by some dirt at the bottom of the tombstone. As he bent down and dusted the dirt off, he tried to read the inscription. Although he couldn’t read all of it, he could only make out one word, “Faustina.” Cenric’s green eyes widened and lit up.
Faustina wasn’t the name of the mage Tharos mentioned. Did this mage know Ozias, the person who was murdered a few months ago? Wait, didn’t she also go missing around the same time?
As Cenric read this, puzzle pieces started to slot into place. He didn’t know what or why, but something felt off, and he had a hunch that he might uncover answers at the homestead. If he could discover something, he could demonstrate to himself and Tharos that he wasn’t dead weight, that he could be valuable. He took a deep breath to steady his nerves, summoning all the foolhardy and youthful courage he could muster as he opened the cellar door. He closed it behind him and descended the wooden steps with an axe in hand. He wished he had brought a torch as pure darkness enveloped him. Not knowing what he would find down there or in the home, he hoped to make his way upstairs. It was pitch black, and as he felt his way through, he grasped a metal lever, hearing a clicking noise. The torches on the walls and scattered candles in the cellar suddenly lit up, revealing what appeared to be a mage’s study. As he stood there, taking it all in, Cenric had a sinking feeling that he may have bitten off more than he could chew with this investigation.
