Arzal Ravencloak had never been a man of idle talk. His boots seldom lingered long in one place but on one dusky evening, as the hearths crackled and shadows danced across the walls of The Prancing Pony, a grim-faced knave whispered something that gave even Arzal pause. It was one of the spies he employed.
“Trouble stirs in the east,” the man muttered, eyes darting toward a darkened corner of the inn. “The dead don’t stay buried in the Lone-lands.”
With nothing more than a nod and a refill of his waterskin, Arzal departed.
The Great East Road stretched long before him, and he followed it with steady purpose. Each evening, he made camp beneath the stars, keeping his distance from wandering merchants and wary travellers. His path was his own atleast for now.
Days later, he arrived at Ost Guruth, the heart of the crumbling Lone-lands. The Eglain were wary folk, and though they offered no welcome, they sold him provisions and gave him a roof for the night. When Arzal began to ask about unusual happenings—groups moving through the night, strange sounds from the marshes—he drew only silence.
Only one dared approach him: a bent old man with a long, silver beard and a cane that tapped sharply on the stone.
“You seek things best left buried, stranger,” the old man rasped. “Agamaur reeks of sorrow and spite. The dead there are not at rest. Turn your back to it… or you’ll find your soul twisted like theirs.”
The old man said no more. Within a blink of an, he was gone.
But Arzal was not a man easily scared away.
Before dawn, he set out toward Agamaur, following the fog-choked paths into the rotting heart of the marshes. The wind carried no birdsong—only the low groan of earth and water. Trees stood like twisted sentinels, draped in lichen and sorrow. Yet to Arzal, there was a strange beauty in the desolation.
At last, he reached the broken ruins. Moss-covered stones and shattered tombs sprawled around him, ancient resting places long defiled. Bones lay scattered like leaves in autumn—unburied, forgotten.
Among the ruins stood one tomb unlike the rest: a stone effigy of a crowned man carved into its lid. A king, perhaps. Arzal climbed atop it to scan the horizon—but what he saw instead was a crimson pool in the distance, its waters shimmering unnaturally.
He turned to descend—only for the air to freeze around him. A spectral figure rose from the earth before the tomb. Its body was half-shadow, half-rotten flesh, and its limbs jerked like a marionette cursed to dance forever.
The creature spoke in a voice not made for mortal ears.
“Do not proceed. Stronger men than you pursued what you seek. One of them you see now. Beware… beware, lest your fate be mine.”
Then it wailed, a sound that shivered the soul, before vanishing like mist in the morning sun.
Arzal stood motionless, fists clenched, heart pounding.
Yet still, he walked on.
Drawn to the crimson waters, he descended the cracked steps into the shallow pool. The liquid lapped at his knees, cold and unnerving. From below, a pale skull rose, bobbing on the surface.
Without hesitation, Arzal reached for it.
His fingertips brushed bone—and a flood of memory, pain, and triumph not his own surged through him. The skull shattered like a vase. The water fell still once more.
He took a vial from his pack, filled it, and turned back toward Ost Guruth.
He spoke to no one upon his return. Not the traders, not the watchmen, and definitely not the wide-eyed child who asked if he’d been to the marsh. Arzal searched the settlement for the old man—but none had seen him. Curious...
It was as though the warning had come from beyond the grave.
That night, beneath a moonless sky, Arzal stared into the vial of crimson water.
The journey was only beginning.
