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Karredland. Here the lands were ravaged by war and fire, once so fine and green now reduced to a wasteland, where dust and sand and ash rain eternal. There was magic here, but the powers that be have been weakened, and those who wield it few and far between, some living as wanderers, and still some no longer known to the world. In the passages found, in the midst of the Fifth Age, a journey is set by a single man with a singular quest.
What is written has become somewhat illegible, but some of the markings are clear as day, and these I shall read.
The name christened to me is Arken, son of Haroden, but the few who I’ve encountered have taken to calling me Veliras, or Mourning Star. I have nothing with me but the will to carry out my quest, and the dark cloak I’ve worn since I was young, and the sword that has spilled much blood but in that, has kept me alive, breathing this sickening air. This desert they call Karredland is ashen, the ground under foot as dark as the night sky. The days are warmer than I care for, and the nights bristling cold. The stars they may peek their flickering heads and the moon may hold high and bright, but for all the light they give I fear it is not enough when accompanied by such a deepening black.
I am to deliver a message, no matter the cost to myself. Whatever price is deemed worthy of the task.
Each step forward disturbs the ash. I keep a wary hand upon the hilt of my blade, and I survey my surroundings though my sight is obscured by falling flakes of grey and black. Where the sun is, I could not say, but I feel it, heavy and sweltering upon my back, a burden to my shoulders. Its heat threatens to suffocate.
In the distance I observe what appears to be a lone figure, but as I blink, the visage has vanished and I am left wondering if I’ve truly gone mad. This cursed land has taken my body and deigns to steal away my mind.
The trek sees the sun sleep and darkness loom. I make camp for the night, its chill visible in every breath, and lay down next to a faltering fire.
This figure came to me in my dreams, a shadowy stranger encompassed by wild flames, and within the hood it wore bore two ruby jewels as eyes, glinting in the firelight. The blade it wielded was thin and short but sharp enough to draw blood from my throat. I made an attempt to flee, but the flames gave me pause, and their heat soaked into my skin.
As the figure struck down its death blow, I awaken, gasping for the air that escaped my lungs.
Morning climbs above the horizon and its light stretches, revealing cracks in the empty black. I stamp out the campfire and press on. The ash rains are less heavy, and somewhere beyond darkened clouds hangs the sun.
A song enters my thoughts and I find myself humming its melancholy tune, the words all but forgotten. Though I remember the story behind them, and their warning.
Before Karredland had met its desolation, it was ruled by two kings, one of the North, and the other of the South. By chance, it seems, the monarchs were siblings, and the blood that bonded them so dearly led to many years of peace and prosperity. That is, until a fateful encounter intervened.
A princess hailing from some far away land sought to forge an alliance between the Kingdom of Karredland and her own. The King in the North fought for her favor and won her hand in marriage, but all was not as it seemed, for the princess found a clandestine lover in the brother to the South. One night, the princess and her lover lie entangled in his chambers, still reddened with bliss.
The King in the North barged in, unannounced, festering with a molten rage. The brothers engaged in a brawl, and the Northern King escaped, wounded and promising vengeance. So war ensued, and the land was ravaged, and when nothing could temper their feud, in the midst of an invasion, the princess died.
Thus is the tale of Karredland and its doom.
The hum drifts into silence, and there it is kept for a long while. Such sad stories exhume little hope. My long journey brings me to a mountain side. I stand at its eaves amongst rubble, and stare above toward its peaks which are lost to the dark clouds. To my left is a stone stairway etched into the side, and gradually it climbs up and around. Curious, I travel these steps, and high above, the steps make their end against a blank wall, smoother than the rest of the mountain’s jagged edges.
I press a hand against the wall, and its surface begs no clues as to its purpose. As the light withers away and night breaches the world, I sleep here till the day beckons. Roused from my dreams, the stone wall is cast aglow in a shimmering blue, and then it opens, outward like a great door. I peer inside, greeted by a perpetual black, a deep, deep dark and shiver though the air is no more colder than usual.
I step in and feel warm air, and the door shut, scraped against stone, and for a moment I felt trapped. Then torches lit, one by one breathing green flames on either side of a narrow hall. Shadows dance in their light, and I walk slowly into the depths of this strange place.
Skeletons and other bones litter the dusty floor. A sense of dread spreads over me, and within a certain fear stirring in the pit of my stomach. This is not a shelter for wayward travelers, that much I know, and the further I went, I bristle against the chill that manifests along my skin, raising the hairs.
In the distance, I hear a voice, and as I move closer, the voice begins a chant. The words are of my language, and I have written what was sung:
Our Lord Malkaihem,
take these bones and pick them clean,
slice their bodies and drink what they bleed,
oh hear me, Dark God, your willing servant
these tributes be your reward,
gathered in your Halls
and make plenty your hoard
The hall recedes and inclines into a large circular room, the walls lined with the same green torches, and those lights make bright a gazebo. In the center of the gazebo, knee deep in bones and blood, stands a hooded character. He is dressed in black garments, sparkling as the light touches, and within the shadowed hood are red eyes shining like rubies.
I suck in a breath and unsheath my sword.
“That blade will not aid you here, Veliras. The Dark God is my ally.”
The figure removes their hood and I collapse to my knees. The face I stare at is my own, though riddled with scars, eyes alive and smiling.
