The fallen City: Prologue

A long time ago in a world much like our own, in those ancient bygone days, in those distant faraway nights. When the earth and the heavens above were once united under creation, and all things had their place in the grand cosmic order, no matter how grand or insignificant. From the tiniest of insects to the grandest of celestial bodies. Oh, this world of vast and majestic land masses, from vibrant rolling meadows and lush forests to untamed jungles, from blighted rocky mountains to immaculate arctic and desert wastelands. The skies and oceans were clear and vast. The sun and moon hung high in the sky, and the stars shined brightly in the inky black void that made up the cosmos, like polished diamonds. This world is called many things, but most would call it Terra, much like our own planet Earth. It is populated by all sorts of life. However, unlike ours, it is a world of myth and magic, of virtuous gods and wicked devils, of mundane men and fantastical beasts. For it is a world where the stuff of dreams and nightmares is real and made manifest. In a world where the winds and water were once rich with magic, you could see it in the air and almost taste it upon your lips. On this world, there existed civilisations of humans or of other blood so advanced that the distinction between magic and science became blurred. Even the gods themselves once walked the land, and the essence of creation was visible to all to see. However, we are not talking about that age, as that golden era has long since passed. All that remains of it now are dusty bones, decaying ruins, and unknown peoples squatting in the remnants of their forbearers’ former glory. What led to the demise of this golden age, you may wonder?

It is a story that the history books wouldn’t tell you, for there are none left alive to recount it or commit it to memory. However, if you were fortunate enough to stumble upon fragments of the frantic writings of a madman who witnessed it first-hand, you would discover a tale of love and loss, friendship and betrayal, courage and sacrifice, and the death of hope and dreams. The main characters in this story teeter between heroism and villainy. It is a story about the end of an era, a time of heroes and legends, the decline of enlightenment, and the collapse of Civilization itself. It recounts how one young man’s pivotal decision, the only true choice he ever had, not only altered his own fate but also reshaped the destiny of the entire world. This decision ushered in an unprecedented era of gradual decay, and ultimately darkness, leading to a period of devolution and barbarism not witnessed or imagined since the dawn of time, when the race of men first opened their eyes and drew their first breath as they emerged from the primordial soup. It was an era that future generations would rightfully label as the Dark Age, a dark chapter in the annals of mankind.

However, the story being told to you now is not from that distant past; that is a tale for another time. The story being told before you focuses on the aftermath of those events, centred on the two solitary flickering candles that have survived from that bygone age. These candles were once at the prime of their lives, a roaring bonfire of pure power, representations of what humanity could achieve. Now, in this age of darkness, they are nothing more than mere embers, shadows of what they once were, forced to bear witness to what they all knew to be nothing more than bitter ash in their mouths. Much of what they had has been lost to time, and none can share in that pain, for they are truly ignorant of what has been lost. We now turn our attention to one of these solitary flickering candles, a candle that has been burning. Left wallowing in its own candlestick for untold and uncounted years, this candle is about to be set free, to light the flame.

It was a clear night, with the moon and stars shining in the black void, illuminating the sand-covered ruins below. The city was once part of a powerful Civilization from a mythical age of gods, monsters, and sorcerer-kings. The decline of this once-powerful Civilization remains a mystery, with only vague rumours and speculation offering clues. The passage of time has obscured all but the most trivial details: who they were, what their accomplishments were, and what ultimately caused their downfall. This mystery has confounded even the most adept historians and scholars, leaving it as a puzzle that may never be completely solved. But regardless of the reasons, isn’t it the destiny of all civilisations and peoples to eventually meet their end? To be surpassed and subject to the whims of time in a world where nothing is permanent. The endless ebb and flow of rising dawns and falling dusks play out in endless repetition. But what if you had the ability to defy this fate? To possess eternal life, to be untouched by the march of time. Would such a life be appealing, or would it simply be a postponement of the inevitable?

In the centre of these ruins, bathed in the light of the full moon, stood a young man who seemed almost ageless, possessing a tall and lean physique reminiscent of carved marble statues. His tanned brown skin had a pale alabaster sheen, making him seem almost otherworldly. His face and eyes were as sharp and focused as a hawk, a stark contrast to his dishevelled black hair that melded into the darkness. His amber-colored eyes shone with a faint, luminous glow in the moonlight but also bore a tiredness that stood in direct opposition to his youthful appearance. He was draped in a tattered hooded cloak of faded colours that danced as the calm night breeze washed over him, partially concealing his faded and dull bronze breastplate with runes that faintly glowed a dim green. By his side, a curved bronze sword was tucked between his belt. The sword, like his armour, also had runes etched into it, but these were a dim red. His armour and blade shimmered in the moonlight, casting a blue hue.

If an observant person were to watch this young man, they would be struck by the contradiction that defined his existence. He appeared youthful and almost timeless in his appearance, yet he carried himself with a sense of tired aloofness that was like an old man in the last stages of his life. And like all old men, he was surrounded by the signs of stagnation, death, and decay. His clothing, armour, and weapons all belonged to a bygone era, a time long past. The city around him was worn and dilapidated, with the once sturdy stonework of the buildings now standing as relics of a once great age, the many roads and footpaths becoming jagged and cracked like mountain rocks. The greatness and achievements of that era were now lost to time, and what remained was left to decay on the vine. The only one who still remembers these primordial glories and what they once were in their full splendour, was the brooding young man bathed in the moonlight, surrounded by the remnants of a forgotten past that forever remain etched in his heart.

It was a peaceful night, and he cherished these moments of solitude, for they allowed him to delve into his memories, akin to exploring the depths of the ocean. On the surface, everything was clear and illuminated. Every little detail was vividly remembered-the sights, the sounds, the smells, and, if he was fortunate enough, even the slightest touch or taste. Yet, as he delved deeper, striving to uncover more profound insights in the deep sea of his memories, the path ahead of him quickly became shrouded in darkness and the uncertainty of what was unseen and unknown. What he once believed to be undeniable truths now seemed clouded by the murky depths, shaped by personal biases and perspectives.
Tonight was a memorable night for the young man. This city was his former home, a place whose name has been lost to history. Despite the surrounding sand and ruins, the city remains vivid in his memories. As he strolls through the city, in his mind’s eye, he is struck by the warm feeling cast upon his skin as the sunlight illuminates the city. The buildings shine and shimmer in the golden rays of sunlight, the vast grassy plains beyond the city’s great walls flow in the breeze, and the pristine water flowing from the great northern mountains now flows through the city’s many canals, glistening and sparkling like diamonds.

Such a scene would bring tears of joy to even the most hardened man, witnessing the beauty unfolding before him. The sounds of people indulging in various joys of life echo in his mind in an endless loop. He observes the children’s happiness as they play on the street, kicking a ball or playfully sparring with sticks. He also notices the weathered faces of labourers carrying heavy loads of stone, wood, or metal. He listens to the merchants involved in their trade, with one particularly intense discussion revolving around a merchant selling subpar copper. He even catches the whiff of freshly baked bread. How long had it been since this city was bustling with activity? Ten years? A hundred years? Maybe even a thousand years? He used to measure time by the movement of the stars, but he had seen so many pass by that he had lost track. Was it truly a thousand years ago when he last checked? The uncertainty gnawed at his thoughts as he delved into his memories.

As he strolled down the street towards the south gate of the city, he caught sight of a faint flicker of light in the distance. It seemed to him that the only light in the city at night was the moonlight that illuminated his path. The flickering lights that once powered the city had long since gone out, and there were none left to fix nor light torches in their absence.
Intrigued, he made his way towards it like a moth drawn to a flame. He approached the light cautiously, moving quietly, silent as a wisp of wind. As he neared, he saw the dying embers of a campfire. Alert and wary, he cautiously approached the campsite. In this city, there shouldn’t have been any inhabitants apart from maybe the odd squatter or two who come from the bleak wasteland that now surrounds and strangles the city in a vice-like grip, struggling to survive and fighting one another for scraps like rats in the ruins of the once-thriving metropolis.
As he explored the campsite, he noticed that while it was empty, it was too organised and well stocked to just be squatters. Trying to eke out some meagre existence among the scraps.

Surprisingly well-equipped for squatters, he thought to himself, his arms crossed as he surveyed the campsite.

Pieces of armour and weapons of unknown make were scattered around, along with bags full of provisions, sturdy tents, and a makeshift shelter, partly constructed from the derelict remains of what was once a popular bar for labourers. Inside the shelter, he discovered a sturdy wooden table covered with stacks of maps and books written in a language he couldn’t identify. Everything appeared basic and almost laughable to him in its simplicity. Studying the map, he recognised it as a crudely drawn city map. His mind raced with thoughts as he absorbed all this information.

Seems like another group of treasure hunters, he thought to himself as his brow furrowed. He would think that after all the other groups of people that came to this city from the outside world and never came back, these people would get the message to leave this city untouched. However, danger always seemed to tempt the reckless and adventurous. It was a sensation he knew well. Leaving the campsite, he set out to find his latest target. With his keen senses, it didn’t take him long to locate them. The torches they carried and the unfamiliar language they spoke made them easy to spot. There were twenty of them, heavily armed, seemingly exploring the ancient temple in the city.

Too many to take on at once.

While in single combat, he could take on one of them in a one-on-one contest of arms, maybe even several of them at once. However, he didn’t like to charge in; it wasn’t how he liked to conduct himself. Both in politics or war, he preferred a more subtle approach. Over the next few hours, he immersed himself in this new activity. He watched them from the shadows, closely monitoring their every move, and when the chance presented itself, he would quietly strike from the shadows and eliminate them one by one. Using the cover of darkness and his intimate knowledge of the city streets, alleyways, and buildings to his advantage, he would strike swiftly and mercilessly. His victims fell easily, like mice ensnared in the talons of a hawk. Though he found some satisfaction in this, it was overshadowed by a sense of duty and responsibility. These treasure hunters were oblivious to the fact that some things should be left undisturbed. If the city only held riches from the past, Tharos felt no connection to the scattered trinkets.

However, lurking in the depths of the city was something far more perilous than the ghost of a young man haunting its once majestic halls. One could simplify it by calling it a monster. Its true nature remained a mystery to him, but the extreme danger its existence held was undeniable. Even the most arrogant sorcerers would not dare to try and control it. Standing on the temple roof, he surveyed the aftermath of his efforts. His cloak was stained with a thick layer of red, and his armour and sword bore new chips and dents, even his bare flesh bared small scratches that were vanishing like the mist. This marked the eleventh group he had confronted in recent years. Typically, it would be decades before another band of treasure hunters appeared, but the frequency of encounters was now escalating at an alarming rate. These encounters were now on a yearly basis.

These treasure hunters seem to be more organised than I first thought.

Looking up at the night sky, the stars shone like bright diamonds, their light reflecting in his faintly glowing amber-colored eyes. He gazed up at them as he had always done, even as a small boy, hoping beyond hope that the heavens would provide some insight from the grand cosmos. He knew in both his head and heart that it wouldn’t come, not any more. But if Tharos knew one thing for certain, it was this: He was about to have his work cut out for him.