The Graveyard of the Dominion

A forsaken soul walking among forsaken souls.

The shades shift and roll across your periphery; each time you look at them they distinguish into individual silhouettes, defined by their neon red eyes and the faintest glow from behind their jagged teeth, but when you look away they soon bleed back together as a formless cloud of malicious smog choking the city. They are a cycling whirlpool of souls hunting evermore throughout their eternal prison for something, anything, to punish for their existence, scouring each and every nook and cranny for any sign of life to snuff out.

On the streets, they practically blanket the city; their foul energy runs together, obscuring the cobbles and making it hard to see beyond a few yards. Still, your memory of the town's paths somehow yet surviving, you trudge onward, following flickering lamplights and a steady descent towards the city gate, the shades keen to bow out of your presence. Though your heart beats and your blood runs warm, and you can watch their beady eyes briefly catch on you, they seem to have no interest in being around you.

The smell of rotting wood runs below the scent of the rain itself, the houses having become sallow against it. Practically every inch of exposed wood has long begun to decay, making for the only other sound to breach the patter of rain on stone: the creaking, groaning and settling of buidlings that struggle to stay standing. Still, it’s a testament to human architecture that any of it still even stands, ravaged though it is by years of neglect and rain.

It’s hard to take much in here, though, the air being so thick with restless spirits. You’d rather not linger here, anyway, lest the shades awaken to your presence.

Passing through the plaza at the heart of the city, you step over skeletons, every hint of flesh washed free of the bones and into the storm drains by unending rain. Some were claimed by the famine, others by plague, and many more by the blades of the city guard you once commanded. You notice a skull, split by a deep gouge consistent with the strike of a longsword.

…

You keep moving, and fix your eyes forward. The winding paths descend from the business side of the city into fractals of further roads splitting off into rows of houses. Here, your soul roils a bit, rankled by constant reminders of the humanity of the shades that now infest the corpse of this city. One particular house has a beautiful stained glass window, unique from every other house in the city in its reverent display of Fanekh’s countenance. Another has an intensely decorated exterior, adorned by pots of dead mud and countless statues that the owner must have been proud of. Perhaps they were a sculptor, or perhaps simply an enthusiastic collector, you ponder.

Not that it matters. Either they have escaped the city, or they are now a drop in a choppy sea of rage. You turn away from that home after a moment lost in thought, lips pulled into a reserved sneer.

You pass by Fanekh’s church, placed squarely among the residential homes at the bottom of the city, where it is most accessible. You don’t dare enter, though. You see smashed glass and broken down doors, and multiple bodies litter even the front steps, clad in patchwork armor and scattered among a motley assortment of weapons. You refuse to look too long, lest your mind wander to what became of…

You just keep walking. You fix your gaze at your feet and keep walking. Just keep walking.

And, not far behind the church is the gate itself. All roads converge here, to a massive, overly designed gate, placed to intimidate any foreigners who had the unenviable task of visiting this wretched place for whatever passed as ‘diplomacy’ here. Of course, as you stand in their vast shadow, you can feel that the gates are long since sealed shut, held tightly so by a magical seal placed by the King’s mages to ensure that no one else could escape the King’s service. Even now, a decade later, the magic is still strong enough that you can feel it on your skin as you approach the gate.

But, you know a way out nonetheless. The wards have weakened such that there are routes out of the city, though inaccessible to the mindless shades. You’re sure of it.

And so… up those steps, beyond the remains of those brave rebels, you pass into Fanekh’s church.

Here, the shades relent, seeming unwilling to tread in these holy grounds despite Fanekh’s assured decade-long absence. Instead, creeping plantlife desperately seeks refuge from the unrelenting rain, breaching through the floors and sprouting into the pews, vines hanging out of the shattered windows and climbing the walls. Among the overgrowth, though, are yet more remains; scores of dead, many without armor or weapons to speak of, strewn across knocked-over pews.

You walk between them, slowly. You wonder for a moment if you can feel Fanekh’s gaze at your back. Your footsteps are light enough not to further crush the broken stained glass that litters the room.

A little crow sits on the vacant pulpit, gently pecking at it. It perks up as you approach, looking at you with a curious eye, hopping back and forth across its edge. You must be the only other living thing its seen for some time… and it’s much the same to you. You reach out with a halting hand, trying to touch it, and end up running your fingers over its head.

You will take this crow with you. You usher it onto your finger, and then onto your shoulder, which it merrily perches upon. It’s oddly friendly; maybe, free to pick at the city all by itself, it has lost any fear of people. Or… maybe there’s something to that strange, knowing glint in its eye.

You move into the offices in the back of the church, finding them in no better state; partially charred, littered with more corpses, and thoroughly ransacked. Still, what you seek is here. A door in the High  Priestess’ office, smashed open in such a way that it suggests it was used to breach into this room, that leads to a secret tunnel.

Though parts of the tunnel strain to hold up the sodden earth above, and broken supports abound, the tunnel holds steady… at least long enough for you to pass through, a shimmering magical flame flickering in your hand to guide your way. You have to dissuade the crow from aggressively inspecting it, though.

As you reach the other end of the tunnel, you feel a faint rumbling beneath your feet… as parts of it begin to crumble. You hurry the rest of the way, stepping out of the makeshift tunnel and into the frigid stone basement of one of the guard towers that attends to the gate, hearing multiple supports snap behind you as dirt comes crashing down. The entire length of the tunnel must have collapsed…

Breathing a quiet sigh of relief, you begin to ascend the tower. It’s familiar. Every guard spent hours a day, cooped up in these awful, empty stone corridors across the walls. Up a spiral staircase you go, measuring each footfall as not to break a step. Would be rather anticlimactic to die now, so close to freedom from Death’s door.

And would that a physical place on Elstren could be considered Death’s door, you would most certainly be at it.

You make it to the top of the tower. The first thing you see is a beautiful view, as fresh in your memory as it is nostalgic and comforting. Just beyond the gate, and the pall of endless rain, is a winding forested countryside at the base of the mountain range. The rain hasn’t smothered too much of it, confined as it is to the rough area of the city alone.

And then, you turn, to face the city itself. Etched into the side of this mountain, it’s… it’s hard to look at. Glorious though it once was, it’s now a festering graveyard; parts of the city lay flat as buildings toppled on each other, giving away as the entire Jewel surely shall in time. An intricate sprawl of roads that would once bustle in the daylight now sits empty of all but the hateful shades that patrol it. Lanterns, which somehow still draw power from an unknown source, flicker and spark out of the darkness of the shades, almost like stars in the night sky.

It almost looks as a corpse. The color has all drained away in the rain, critical parts are missing or terribly disfigured, and it writhes with infestation. The only part which still stands flawless despite the wear of time is the Castle itself, across a long bridge over a chasm which has likely been raised for the entire decade since your death. Its intimidating, unmistakable figure looms tall over the city even still, unblemished by decay… and when your gaze lingers on it too long, a distinct nausea sinks into your gut.

Something unspeakable still sits in that throne.

It will be a long walk across the wall to another tower, where you can exit the city. It will be an even longer walk when you’ve finally made it out.

In all that time, you keep your gaze off of the castle.