Contaminated water had killed Rothelion’s riding ibex the day before, stranding him two days from any known settlement on the map he possessed. Carrying what he could without risking exhaustion, he’d been forced to continue on foot. Another laughable turn of fate delivered by some fecking divine jester. Well, sod it. If there truly [i]was[/i] some self-important, so-called “grand [i]wizard[/i]” at Six Corners, perhaps he could simply MAGICALLY TRANSPORT everyone to where they needed to be.

And then they’d save the world.

Or whatever.

[hr][indent]The day had grown too hot, and both Rothelion and his riding ibex were in need of some food and respite. They had just left the township of Lofton to the north, but there had been nothing left after it had been raided first by the dark hordes, and then again by a roving band of human brigands, snuffing out the survivors and stripping what little remained. Nice, right? Like pissing on someone’s grave.

By the time Rothelion passed through, all he managed to pick up was some fresh cloth and leather to mend his garb and repair the ibex’s harness. Unfortunately this sight was starting to become common since the Mad King pressed his reign down onto the races. Someone might say it was starting to look a bit hopeless now, if that someone was a brazen idiot who couldn’t see that yes, everything was now burnt to the ground and everyone was dying.

Taking a moment to let his ibex graze and drink from a pool at the bottom of a hill, Rothelion retired beneath a barren tree and grazed himself on the meager rations he was slowly running out of. If Six Corners didn’t have something to eat, he might have to slaughter the ibex.


Roth glanced down the hill at the creature, wondering amidst his guilt if by some magic it could read his mind. Stupid beast. It would be better off running now while it could. 

Having swallowed what mouthfuls he thought he could afford, and saving the rest of his food for later—for the ibex’s sake if anyone’s—Rothelion settled down for a brief nap. The landscape was fairly open, dotted by only a few trees. The hillside afforded him a good view in any direction, and even if he dozed off, he’d be able to hear an approaching threat. Anyone who thought it might be a good idea to creep up on him might find themselves very foolishly chasing after their own lopped off head.

With his bladed staff tucked in his arm and at the ready, Roth leaned back his head and enjoyed what relative peace he could manage.

He was awoken some time later by the feeling of something depressing his staff. Rothelion lifted his mask.

Perched on the dull side of the blade was a fat crow, its sleek feathers iridescent in the brutal sunlight. It was, most likely, wondering if Rothelion had perished. Of course [i]crows[/i] would be doing well, while the world was in an active state of decay. They and the vultures and the rats must have been in pure heaven. This was the state of things now; civilization perished while the scavengers gorged themselves.

[i]Don’t look so smug, crow, I’m not dead yet.[/i]

“Ho there, little bird.” Rothelion glanced to the side, to see if his ibex was still there. It had laid itself neatly in the dry grass, resting along with its master. “Do you bring news from the west wood? How fare the Lebethron?”

The crow said nothing; it only cocked and turned its head in the avian way, seeking only what would interest itself and caring for little else.

“Don’t feel like talking?”

Roth reached into his pouch and closed his fingers around a piece of dried meat. Working them blindly, he sought to tear off a small enough piece he could offer to the wildlife. Scavenger or not, even they would suffer in this collapse of civilization if darkness turned it all into ashes and ruin.

“A bargain then. A morsel of venison for a morsel of kindness, hm?”

Just as he’d managed to tear off a piece, the elf froze. Opening its beak, the crow’s tongue had slithered out to taste the air. Forked, like a serpent’s. It had been a very long time since Rothelion had communed with nature and the forest’s native spirits, but he was [i]pretty fecking certain[/i] that crows weren’t supposed to have forked tongues.

“My mistake…” Roth slowly withdrew his hand from his pouch. The crow eyeballed it when it didn’t contain the promised morsel. “I hadn’t realized the Mad King’s evil had consumed you too. In that case…”

In a whirl of movement, Rothelion had sprung to his feet, pulling his staff in a lethal arc that briefly encased him in a gust of air. As his cape gradually settled at his sides again, the crow—now in two pieces—fell into the dry grass.

He nudged one piece with its foot.

“Is there even any world left to save now, I wonder?”

Thumbing away a speck of blood on his cheek, Rothelion called down to ibex to leave. When it didn’t respond, the elf narrowed his eyes and ambled a few steps forward, calling louder. A few more corrupted crows took flight at the sound of his voice, and it was then that he could see that the animal was dead.

Moving further around, Roth could see that a small murder of crows had been blocked by the ibex’s body, which had begun to bloat in the sun. Some of the birds had buried their entire heads in its bloodied flesh, straining to reach the good parts.

“Oh. Good.” Rothelion hurled down his staff, which bounced up once with a metallic rattle. “Just wonderful! [i]Take it![/i] Take the only friend I have left!” The friend he was very likely planning on eating himself. “Here, take my coin! Take the clothes off my back too, why not! Bloody arseholes!”[/indent][hr]
There was nothing at Six Corners. Nothing and no one.

Rothelion made camp there for a day, managing to trap a hare to serve as dinner while he took shelter in some abandoned hovel. A small filrepit had been improvised in the middle of a stonefloor, where a rotted rug had once made it friendly to bare feet. It had been someone’s parlor once, and now Rothelion sat on a bedroll, feeding himself pieces of rabbit on the broad side of a knife.

If no one arrived by tomorrow, he would leave.

Maybe even go back home. If there was a home to return to. The world was crumbling, eroding away with the darktide. The least Rothelion could do was meet death in his homestead, standing with his family.

And then, voices. Distant, but as he sat and listened, Rothelion was positive. Humans? Orcs? Not elves, surely, but someone new had arrived. Could be foe. Could be a fecking [i]grand wizard[/i], why not.

Prompted to investigate, Rothelion hastily cleaned up camp and emerged from the ruins. It did not take long to find the pair of humans standing in what looked once to be a tavern. One certainly did seem to fit the description of a wizard, while the other was a beast of a man nearly as tall as Rothelion himself, if not taller.

No, not taller.

“So there is someone here.” Rothelion lifted his wooden mask, a gesture of peace toward strangers. “Is one of you a Grand Wizard by the name of Mulad, perchance?”