Enter

The sky was more black than blue, choked with vultures and crows circling like a living storm, their screeches echoing across the desolation below. The battlefield stretched out endlessly, a sea of broken bodies stacked so thick that the earth itself was hidden beneath the carnage. Blood soaked the ground, the stench of death clinging to the air, heavy and suffocating.

On a crumbling balcony of a once-grand castle, a solitary figure stood in silence, overlooking the massacre. The figure’s form was cloaked in shadow, barely distinguishable from the ruins around him. He gazed out at the grisly scene, his expression unreadable, as if lost in thought.

From within the depths of the castle, heavy footsteps approached, each one sending a faint tremor through the ancient stone. It's deep, resonant voice broke the silence,

"All things with form will break. All things with essence will fade. And all creatures, wild and tame, will know my name."

The figure did not turn as the presence behind him grew larger, more imposing, until it filled the balcony with its massive shadow.

“Of all the Carrion Lords gathered here today, Terminus, the one which pronounced this speech, is the last one I’d expect to find skipping the meeting.” The speaker was an imposing giant of a creature, adorned in a regal cape that swirled around him like a blood-soaked mist. Massive horns curled upward from his brow, framing a face that might have once been noble, but was now marred by a twisted grin.

The figure on the balcony remained still for a bit. Slowly, he turned his head, just enough to acknowledge the one who had spoken.

Ferdinando’s grin widened as he continued, “Are you going to miss the feast? The spoils are yours to claim after all, Entair.”

The present day felt worlds apart from the blood-soaked memories of the past. En had been walking for weeks, possibly months, without stopping. One of the many perks of being undead was the freedom from basic needs—no food, no sleep, no rest. His journey had started in the forsaken ruins of the northernmost lands, a desolate place where few dared to tread. He had skirted the edge of the Rotten Peaks, their ominous red-tinted mountains now visible in the distance, like a festering wound on the land.

The Rotten Peaks were a sight to behold—and to avoid, he Flesh spread like a cancer, covering rock, soil, and anything unlucky enough to linger there for too long.

En continued his lonely trek southward, the harsh lands of northern Fharamun his constant companion. The biting winds, the relentless cold that even his undead form could faintly feel, the barren stretches of land. In a strange way, these miserable conditions had kept his curse at bay. The worse things were, the less his bad luck seemed to interfere. It was as if the harshness of his journey balanced the scales, holding disaster at bay.

Along the way, the other undead that roamed these lands tended to leave him alone. Perhaps they sensed what he was, a kindred spirit, or perhaps they simply knew better than to approach. Either way, En continued his journey undisturbed.

En’s mind had drifted as he walked, his thoughts lost in the rhythm of his steady, unending march. He had been on the move for so long that the world around him had blurred into a monotonous landscape of dead trees and cold winds. The journey had been rough, but for someone like En, who thrived in harsh conditions, it had been strangely peaceful.

Without realizing it, he had fallen into step with a small horde of zombies that had risen from the graves scattered across the land. The Sanctuary Groves were notorious for their restless dead, a place where the remnants of a long-forgotten knight order still clung to some semblance of life. The groves were filled with the bones and armor of knights who had once tried to tame Fharamun, only to be claimed by its unforgiving nature. Now, these undead warriors often wandered, their spirits unable to find rest, and it wasn’t uncommon for the living to test their mettle against them.

En, however, was no thrill-seeker. The presence of the zombies didn’t bother him; in fact, he barely noticed them as they shuffled alongside him. The undead generally left him alone, recognizing him as one of their own, and so he walked in their midst, oblivious to the scene he presented.

It wasn’t until they reached the borders of the Sanctuary Groves that disaster struck. En’s curse, long dormant, had been waiting for just the right moment to rear its head. As the horde of zombies crossed into the territory of the groves, a group of warriors from a nearby garrison spotted them. These warriors, stationed to keep the restless dead from spilling out into the surrounding lands, sprang into action.

En, covered in dirt, branches tangled in his hair, and his clothes disheveled from the long journey, looked every bit the part of a wandering zombie. Walking among the other undead, it was no wonder the warriors mistook him for one of them.

En found himself comfortably seated near a fireplace among the very warriors who had confronted him earlier, now back at their garrison headquarters. The place was sturdy and welcoming, with the inviting scents of strong drink and hearty stew filling the air.

Despite the initial misunderstanding, En’s charisma had won the soldiers over with ease. His open admission of being undead hadn’t caused much concern—his charm and the oddly formal, old-fashioned way he spoke seemed to endear him even more to his new companions.

The captain of the squad, the same tall, stern-faced Bodja man who had nearly ordered his demise, was now laughing heartily beside him. “I must apologize once more, Sir En,” the captain said, a grin on his face. “We’ve had more than our fair share of trouble with the undead spilling out of the Groves, and, well…” He gestured vaguely at En, who, despite being covered in dirt and looking rather worse for wear, seemed completely relaxed.

“Worry not, good captain,” En replied in his notably ancient manner, which was at odds with his casual vibe. He was in the middle of pulling an arrow from his neck, the shaft having somehow ended up there during the earlier commotion. “No harm hath been done. And yet, I must decline thine offer of drink, for if I am this distracted whilst sober, imagine the misadventures that might befall me under the influence!” He chuckled as he discarded the arrow with a flick of his wrist.

The captain shook his head, still grinning. “I can’t argue with that! You’re something else, En—never thought we’d be sharing a laugh with one of your kind. Specially in this line of work.”

En smiled, a gentle, knowing expression that seemed far older than his youthful appearance suggested. “I have walked many paths, and encountered many souls,” he said with a slight bow of his head. “It doth please me greatly to find such friendly company here.”

One of the younger soldiers, still grinning from ear to ear, leaned forward eagerly. “So, Sir En, what brings you down to these parts? Doesn’t seem like the kind of place someone just passes through.”

En shrugged slightly, the smile never leaving his face. “Merely a wanderer am I,” he replied. “I thought it wise to see these lands again with mine own eyes. And so, here I stand.”

The captain raised his mug in a toast, his voice warm. “To En, the most well-spoken undead we’ve ever met—and likely the only one we’ll ever befriend!” The others cheered in agreement, raising their drinks high.

Though En wasn’t drinking, he lifted his hand in a mock toast, his grin widening. “Thou art too kind,”

And then, as if to join the celebration, En's curse acted up once again. Two legs of his chair breaking, causing him to fall into the fireplace.