Chapter 1: The Cold Night
7th of the red moon, Year 345 of the 24th Era of Umbra.
The village of Neruled lay in peaceful slumber under the pale light of the waning moon. Nestled within the dense forest of Misharb, it was a humble hamlet, its wooden cottages standing resolute against the encroaching wilds. The main road, a dusty path of trodden earth, wound its way from the south, cutting through the heart of the village before disappearing into the northern woods. Tonight, silence reigned supreme, save for the occasional hoot of an owl or the distant howl of a lone wolf.
Warm light flickered in the windows of the cottages, slowly dimming as the villagers prepared for sleep. In the central square, a solitary lantern hung from a post, casting a gentle glow over the cobblestones and the old well that had quenched the village's thirst for generations. All seemed calm, a typical night in the sleepy village of Neruled.
But this night was destined to be anything but typical.
The tranquility was shattered by the thunder of hooves. From the northern road, three armored cavaliers galloped into the village, their horses wild-eyed and frothing at the mouth. The lead rider, an elven woman with silver hair streaming behind her, pulled her steed to a halt in the square, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and urgency.
"Wake up! Everyone, wake up!" she cried, her voice cutting through the night like a blade. "You must flee if you want to survive!"
Villagers, roused from their beds by the commotion, stumbled into the square, their faces a mask of confusion and dread. Mothers clutched their children, men grabbed whatever weapons they could find, and the elderly leaned on canes, their eyes wide with terror.
"What is it? What's happening?" an elder called out, his voice trembling.
"There's no time to explain!" the elven cavalier replied, her voice edged with desperation. "We are pursued by a force beyond reckoning. You must leave now!"
As the villagers murmured and glanced nervously at one another, a chill began to creep into the air. A frosty white mist seeped through the village, its icy tendrils curling around the cottages and encircling the square. The temperature plummeted, breath misting in the cold air.
"Look!" a young boy pointed, his voice high with fear.
From the fog, figures began to emerge. Skeleton soldiers, their bones clattering with each step. Dulhahan, headless riders carrying their grinning skulls under one arm. Ghouls, hunched and snarling, their eyes glowing with an unholy light. And towering above them all, Devourers, grotesque and insatiable, their jaws snapping at the night air.
Chaos erupted. Villagers screamed and scattered, some trying to flee, others paralyzed by terror. The undead fell upon them with a savage hunger, ghouls and zombies tearing into the fleeing populace, their grisly feast sending shivers down the spines of those still alive.
The three knights drew their weapons, their faces set with grim determination. "Stand together! Protect the villagers!" the elven leader shouted, her sword gleaming in the dim light.
The elven knight, her blade a glimmering arc of death, charged into the fray. Her strikes were precise and lethal, cleaving through skeleton soldiers, their bones shattering with each blow. Beside her, the two other knights fought with equal fervor. One, a burly human with a greatsword, swung his massive blade in wide arcs, decimating any undead foolish enough to come close. The other, a lithe dwarf with a warhammer, smashed through the ranks of ghouls, their vile bodies crumpling under the force of his strikes.
"Hold the line!" the elven knight commanded, her voice steady despite the chaos around her.
A skeleton soldier lunged at her, its rusty blade aimed at her heart. She parried and riposted, her sword driving through its ribcage and scattering its bones across the cobblestones. Yet for every undead she felled, more rose from the mist, their cold, dead eyes fixed on the living.
Nearby, a group of villagers attempted to make a stand. Armed with pitchforks, axes, and anything else they could find, they formed a loose defensive circle. An older man, his face lined with years of toil, wielded a woodcutter's axe, his swings wild but desperate.
"Keep them back! Don't let them through!" he shouted.
But the undead were relentless. A dulhahan charged, its head laughing maniacally from its perch on its arm. It swept through the villagers, its blade cutting down those in its path. A woman screamed as a ghoul dragged her to the ground, its teeth sinking into her flesh.
"Help! Someone help us!" a young girl cried, her voice lost in the din of battle.
The burly knight saw the villagers' plight and broke from the knights' formation, charging towards them. His greatsword cleaved through the dulhahan, its body crumpling even as its head continued to laugh. He turned to the girl, scooping her up and placing her behind him. "Stay close!" he commanded, his eyes scanning for more threats.
But the tide was turning against them. The villagers, despite their bravery, were no match for the undead. One by one, they fell, their cries of pain and terror echoing through the village. The knights fought valiantly, their blades cutting down scores of undead, but the sheer numbers were overwhelming.
Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the assault ceased. The undead froze, as if caught in a moment outside of time. A heavy silence fell, broken only by the labored breathing of the survivors and the crackling of the frosty mist.
From the depths of the fog, a sound echoed—slow, deliberate footsteps accompanied by the heavy thud of wood on soil. The villagers turned, their eyes wide with horror, as a figure emerged from the mist.
It was a lich, draped in heavy armor, its visage a skeletal grin of malevolence. In its bony hand, it clutched a massive wand of dead black wood, twice the size of a man. The lich's eyes glowed with an eerie blue light as it surveyed the chaos it had wrought. A low, chilling laugh emanated from its skeletal frame, reverberating through the night and filling the villagers with a primal dread.
The elven knight stepped forward, her sword raised defiantly. "Leave this place, creature of darkness! You will not claim these lives!"
The lich's laughter deepened, a sound devoid of mirth. "Foolish mortals," it hissed, its voice echoing with the weight of centuries. "You cannot escape death. It is inevitable, and it has come for you all."
The lich began to advance toward the elven knight, each step causing the ground to wither and rot under the influence of his necromantic power. As he moved, the nearby fallen villagers' corpses shriveled, their flesh turning to an ashen hue, resembling dried, aged meat, their vital force drained away.
"Stand firm!" the elven knight commanded, her voice unwavering despite the terror in her eyes. But her call to arms was in vain.
The knights, fueled by a desperate determination, charged at the lich. They raised their weapons high, hoping to strike him down before he could wreak further havoc. But as they closed the distance, the lich raised his skeletal hand, and an invisible force immobilized them. They were paralyzed, their muscles locked, their minds overwhelmed by a crushing wave of fear. They could do nothing but stare into the lich's face, its eyes glowing a sickly green beneath a mask of rotten flesh.
"Futile," the lich hissed, his voice a chilling whisper that echoed through the silent night.
The lich continued his inexorable approach toward the elven knight. With a swift motion, he grabbed her by the hair, lifting her effortlessly off the ground. She struggled, her eyes wide with terror as she was brought face to face with the ancient evil.
The lich drew in a deep breath, savoring the scent of her vital force. "Ah, such life," he murmured, a grotesque smile spreading across his decayed features. "It has been so long since I tasted something so pure."
The elven knight's eyes widened in horror as the lich opened his mouth. A dark void seemed to form within, and with a powerful inhale, he began to draw out her life essence. The knight's struggles grew weaker, her once radiant skin turning pale, then grey, and finally ashen. Her body withered, her life force consumed by the lich's insatiable hunger.
The other knights and villagers, still paralyzed by the lich's power, could only watch in helpless terror as their leader was drained of her vitality. Her lifeless body dropped to the ground, a desiccated husk that bore little resemblance to the valiant warrior she had been moments before.
The lich let out a low, satisfied laugh, the sound reverberating through the air like a death knell. He turned his malevolent gaze toward the remaining villagers and knights. "Now," he intoned, "who will be next to offer their life to me?"
In this cold night the village of Neruled was destroyed with no survivor
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A pair of golden eyes blinked open in the midst of the devastated village, surrounded by the chilling remnants of the undead onslaught. The frost-covered ground was littered with the corpses of zombies and ghouls, their twisted forms mingling with those of the villagers they had once been. Among the carnage, the figure held an item in his hand—a hourglass, its sands slowly trickling away until nothing remained but a fine dust.
As the figure surveyed the scene before him, a mixture of curiosity and concern crept into his voice. He went this village after accepting the quest when he was in the town of Theoddan nearby in north west inside the kingdom of Undra, to make some money , expecting to find nothing more than the aftermath of a typical undead attack to make some easy money with some simple extermination and cleaning. But what he found was far more sinister—a lich, an ancient and powerful being, had unleashed destruction upon the unsuspecting villagers.
"Fascinating," the figure mused, his voice carrying an air of detached interest. "I had assumed this to be the work of mindless zombies or rampaging ghouls. But a lich... This changes everything."
He knelt beside the hourglass, his gaze lingering on the now-vanished sands. "Time is a fickle thing," he remarked, his tone thoughtful. "It slips through our fingers like sand, leaving behind only memories and regrets."
With a sigh, the figure rose to his feet, his golden eyes narrowing with an hidden light within. "I cannot allow this abomination to go unpunished, The lich must be stopped, lest it bring further suffering upon the innocent." he declared, his voice ringing with greed. " I think that a lich core should fetch me some millions of Orus".
A smile bloomed on his face with his eyes squinting, slowly dancing on the undead corpse making a way out of the village while humming a lullaby, already thinking about how could he spends all this money in Bel'Larond, the capital of the kingdom of umbra.
"In the morning light, we toil for gold,
Through sweat and strife, our fortune told.
With coins in hand, our dreams unfold,
In wealth's embrace, our story bold."
Softly hummed the young man covered by a cloak with a deck of card embroidered on his back.
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Dear Readers, How did you find this first chapter ?
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