The fallen City: Chapter One

The sky was clear, and the sun was shining brightly in the clear blue sky, casting it’s shining and burning rays upon the city of Zarbar. The sand was scorching, and the stone buildings that made up most of the city’s architecture were absorbing the heat, turning the city into a giant oven. The sun-bleached skeletons of earlier visitors to the city, who were either killed by him or killed by others, their bones scattered about the city like macabre decorations, forever preserved as monuments of human morality. What expressions did they wear in their final moments? Tranquillity, fear, defiance? It was a question left unanswered, and one that Tharos was fine to leave unanswered.

Beside them now lay the freshly slain corpses of the treasure hunters the young man had killed, stripped of everything, denied even a proper burial as they should have received. For they have experienced what those who came before and those who will come after them will one day experience: the final sleep of the wicked and just. Their rough, contorted faces were hidden beneath their own decaying remains, baking in the desert heat. Only a thin layer of sand covered them, like a protective blanket shielding the world from this most gruesome of sights. It was as if the city itself was a mother tucking her child in for the night. Reflecting on them were the virtues and vices of those shaped by the crucible of war, with each hardship etched on their skin as a testament to their strength. These marks served as badges of honour or shame. In this way, they were akin to the young man who ended their lives, who once soared across the ancient battlefields of yore like a hawk in flight, in long-lost and forgotten wars. The horrors of which couldn’t be imaged or described.

The sounds of scavenging birds and rodents feasting on the remains, the stench of decaying bodies baking in the sun, remained a disturbing experience for him, no matter how many times he encountered it. It was a sickly-sweet odour that overwhelmed his nostrils, the smell of death. During this time, he sought refuge from the sun’s rays within the temple, even though the heat never really bothered him. But Tharos found solace in this temple; there was a secluded spot in the corner of the main hall where the sunlight could not penetrate. It was his favourite spot, as he would often spend days, if not nights, going through various tomes and scrolls he found he hadn’t turned to dust yet. The traces of magic that once kept these tomes and scrolls in pristine condition was slowly vanishing as the days turned to weeks, weeks turned to months, and months turned to years. Even the arcane arts couldn’t stop such degradation.

The temple’s interior was kept neat and clean to the best of his abilities, serving as a place of great sentimental value for him. It held a significance in his heart that went beyond mere nostalgia, though he had long forgotten the origin or purpose of these feelings. he was determined to preserve the temple, despite the paradoxical nature of his attachment to it. He sat down on a well-crafted chair made of slate. In front of him, there were several wooden shelves made of cedar holding various ornaments and trinkets, a large stone table, and a few small stone chairs. A massive yellowish-brown earthen jug filled with dark red wine sat on the table. He poured himself a drink from the jug into a simple silver chalice until it was full to the brim, to the point that adding another single drop would cause the wine to overflow. Taking a deep sip from the chalice, he barely let the wine touch his lips as he drank it down with grace. Using his free hand, he rummaged through the belongings of the people he had defeated. Swirling the chalice in the other hand, a few drops of wine splattered on the lightly sand-covered stone floor.

One thing he truly enjoyed about the treasure hunters was their habit of bringing great drinks. This alone would have been reason enough to welcome them with open arms. The rich taste of the wine on his tongue brought back memories of simpler times in his youth, memories that were fading with time. Unfortunately, these people seemed so different from him, almost alien to him. Some of them reminded him of peoples he once knew, cultures that were long since dead or changed so much that they were barely recognisable to him. The treasure hunters, from what he could tell, came from two different types of people. One group reminded him of the hill tribes to the west; these were the most common. They often had olive and lightly tanned skin, darkened eyes and hair, and lean, often well-toned and athletic physiques. However, the other group, which seemed the most alien to him, had blonde hair and pale skin often accompanied with sky blue or stormy gray eyes, although some of them had darker eyes and hair. These people were often tall and strong in body with broad shoulders and well-muscled limbs, covered head to toe in battle wounds or what he assumed were tribal markings. Clearly a more savage race of man, built and bred for war.

They probably think I am rather strange as well.

Tharos was certain that they probably viewed him the same way, as their languages and customs were so unfamiliar and strange to him, much like his language and customs were to them. Forming any kind of connection with them seemed impossible. There was no common ground that he knew of between them, outside of the fact that they were both members of the human race. If only there was a way to bridge the gap, perhaps they could avoid bloodshed. But without shared understanding, it seemed unlikely that people from such different worlds could ever come to an agreement.

He chuckled softly at the thought. Even when it came to the inhuman races like elves and dwarfs, who were more alien in both body and mind compared to humans, there were still some commonalities that existed between his people and them that helped ease the tension. For example, with the elves, there was a shared love of the finer things in life such as art, poetry, music, or simply appreciating nature’s beauty. Beauty comes in many forms, like a well-crafted sword. One can appreciate the way the blade sings through the air as it cuts into flesh and bone, or how it effortlessly pierces through the thickest armour with its finely sharpened edge. The shimmer and shine in the light, or the faint droplets of blood slowly dripping onto the ground after a kill. In contrast to the elves’ idealistic and spiritual view of the world, the dwarfs hold a more pragmatic and materialistic perspective.

There is not a man alive in the world, whose heart, and mind couldn’t be swayed by gold.

An old dwarf saying that held a kernel of truth to it. Wealth and material possessions were powerful motivators for many people, a universal truth of humanity. The desire for wealth, power, and control was something that everyone experienced at some point in their lives. While this sentiment resonated with his people and the dwarfs, the dwarfs embraced this love and avarice with a greater intensity than any human.

I wonder if they are still around.

It had been centuries since he had last encountered an elf or a dwarf, and in his current state, he found he had more in common with elves than with dwarfs or other humans. At times, he felt like a passive observer just existing as the world changed around him, watching the passing of seasons and stars, unmoved and unchanged as if the flow of time didn’t affect him. He let out a rather sombre sigh as he contemplated this. The gear and equipment he had acquired from the treasure hunters would serve as suitable replacements for his ever-dwindling resources. The well-crafted and often magically enhanced items of his people, like everything around him, were crumbling to dust beneath the wheels of time. Most of these items were designed in a way that would require time to become accustomed to and use effectively; they were also quite crude in a way he wasn’t used to.

The books and maps, while aiding him in deciphering possible intentions of these treasure hunters, were written in a language that was foreign to him. The only thing he could glean from the crude writings of these individuals was how they might have worded certain things. However, without any translation or even an approximation to his native language or the several other languages he spoke, this was simply speculation on his part. But the two things that did catch his attention were the symbol on the books and maps, along with a series of words that appeared regularly. The symbol was white and in the shape of a bird he was unfamiliar with. From its appearance, this bird seemed gentle, unlike the carrion or birds of prey he was accustomed to.

Maybe a symbol of some new religion or the banner of some king. Perhaps this is some sort of organised expedition.

It was clear that these treasure hunters were highly organise and on a specific mission, possibly seeking something more valuable than just riches. He wondered if more treasure hunters would be arriving soon and if it would be more practical to set traps and activate the city’s defences rather than trying to track down each group individually. However, Tharos was not a hunter, and he did not have the knowledge or ability to activate the city’s defences, as that required arcane rituals known only to mages like his friend Vartark, a high-ranking official at court.

The temple or palace archives might have the knowledge he sought. However, it had been a few decades since Tharos had last visited the temple archive and centuries since he had even set foot in the palace. The temple archives were one of the few places that he neglected to keep clean or maintain regularly, even though he visited this temple quite regularly. As he descended the stone stairs into the archives beneath the temple, he was met with a sight of thick cobwebs and dust covering the archives like a blanket. It had been a while since he had last cleaned this place, and the only relief he felt was that no sand had managed to find its way in. As he walked in, running his tanned hand across the dusty shelves, the dust underneath his fingertips felt like he was petting a sheep whose wool had been slicked with grease. A slight look of disgust crossed his face as he finished tracing his hand on the shelf. Sorting through the shelves, he found a mix of decaying scrolls and books. None of them were legible; some had holes in them, others were moth-eaten, and some had ink faded to the point of obscurity. This was what he disliked about paper items. they were rare and valuable, but the writings didn’t last like the clay and stone tablets that held the words and wisdom of past eras. He would have to check the palace for any legible writings.

They might be in the palace archives.

As he pondered his options, he exited the temple archives. At the top of the stairs, a noise caught his attention from behind. Turning quickly, he saw an elderly woman standing at the bottom. She was short and wore elegant white robes. As Tharos focused on her, the temple surroundings seemed to transform into a pristine and orderly state. The echoes of conversation from the main hall reached his ears, where the head priest was delivering his sermon to the devoted congregation. The sounds of scribes diligently transcribing the sermon filled the air, ensuring its preservation for future generations.

“Tharos!” The woman sternly called out to him, her face showing a hint of fatigue, indicating that this was a familiar exchange for her.

“You’re going to be late. His majesty is expecting you at the palace soon for consul, you cannot keep him waiting forever.”

He was on the verge of speaking, bewildered by the unfolding events. Just as he was about to utter a word, he heard a voice – his own voice – but he wasn’t the one speaking. Turning around, he saw himself. The sight left him questioning his own existence. Who was he, really? And who was this person staring back at him? Before Tharos could make sense of it all, the once pristine temple was engulfed in a storm of sand, obscuring everything around him. The sounds of people were drowned out by the howling wind. When he opened his eyes again, he found himself lying outside the temple, covered in a thin layer of sand. As he rose to his feet and brushed off the sand, he noticed the sun setting in the distance, casting a golden glow over the stripped corpses in the fading light.

Was that genuine? Or was that some form of illusion?

He hurried back into the temple, moving with a sense of urgency as if driven by a force beyond his control. He meticulously searched every corner of the temple but found it deserted. The absence of the old woman, the priests, and the scribes left him unsettled. Who was she, and why did she seem familiar to him? These questions lingered in his mind as he headed towards the palace. Walking through the deserted streets, he observed the sun setting and felt a chill in the air, reinforcing the stark reality that he was completely alone in the city, with only his thoughts for company.

As he approached the front gates of the palace and gazed up at the palace, a sensation he hadn’t experienced in a long time washed over him—fear. Tharos couldn’t pinpoint the reason for this sudden feeling and scanned his surroundings for any signs of danger but found none. Despite the absence of any visible threat, the fear persisted. Determined, Tharos pushed through the front gate, crossed the courtyard, and ascended the imposing stone stairs leading to the main chamber and eventually the throne room. With each step, his fear intensified, causing his heart to race and his pulse to quicken. Taking a deep breath, he entered the main hall, prepared to confront whatever awaited him in the palace.

His fear dissipated, replaced by shame and regret. The main hall was filled with dust, sand, and cobwebs, adorned with several worn statues dedicated to the different gods, each representing various aspects of the cosmos. As he made his way to the throne room, he felt the statues’ eyes on him. Inside, he found a room in desperate need of maintenance, with cracked floors and walls, a damaged roof, and a complex magic circle on the floor surrounding the throne. The throne had definitely seen better days, with the bronze casting twisted and the seat area marked by a massive scorch mark. The melted crown and golden sceptre added to the sense of decay, with the crown adorned with jewels and gemstones that once symbolised wealth and power now cracked and shattered. It was a stark reminder that nothing lasts forever, no matter how grand or imposing. As he studied the throne, his vision suddenly blurred and flickered. When it cleared, he heard a voice behind him, this time belonging to a young woman.

“Tharos, there you are. You’re late; my husband is waiting for you.” He turned to face the voice and saw a voluptuous woman with long, curly sandy brown hair tied in a ponytail. Her wide hazel eyes lit up as he approached. She was wearing a white silk robe with a golden trim, adorned with jewellery. Her luscious lips formed a warm smile as she responded to his attention.

“I understand that your studies are a priority for you, but it’s important that you also fulfil your responsibilities here,” she said, crossing her arms and playfully attempting to come off as stern and annoyed.

Just as he was about to reply, the woman vanished, and in an instant, the faint sunlight that had been shining in the room disappeared. The room was now bathed in a soft blue light, cast by the full moon in the night sky. With darkness outside, Tharos suddenly felt a wave of fatigue wash over him. It was time to go home and get some rest, he decided. He would resume his research the next day when his mind was more alert.