- 16 Nightal, -2128 DR -
Welcome, brave traveler, to the ancient land of Murghom, forgotten since the world was newly weened. Though the land is old, plants and animals not but carcasses buried deep under sands that have seen the creation of time, it is still inhabited by those who could stand the barren plains, or those without a choice.
Such it was some years ago when the refugees of a deadly orc raid fled here, seeking security in a land were such marauding creatures are loathe to enter. Against many odds, they managed to establish a village, a quaint little community forged by need and tempered by the fellowships borne of the will to survive.
And, perhaps, that's all the land truely needed, for with their coming, so did the land seemed to revive, quenching its drying throat with the blessings carried by the resourceful and the faithful. Chauntea, goddess of the harvest, brought by a cleric who had fled with the refugees, had kissed the land, nurtured into fertile soil to which they could grow plants.
And with those plants came food, and from the scraps of that food came small animals such as mice and rabbits. From there came larger creatures who brought with them pollen meshed with their fur to bring forth vibrant plant life.
Somehow, a small village of some twenty or thirty people had brought life to this ancient land, revitalizing it. Water from the Fountain of Youth to the parched lips of and elder.
The village thrived, growed, expanded into a city worthy of name and recognition. A young lord, whose farther rulled over a large city to the southeast, had taken residence a few years ago, bringing with him trained knights, bodyguards lent to he by his doting father. Those knights trained the militians, and they became true warriors, able to stave off mighty foes. It was lucky they where. In thanks, the nameless town had named the city after the lord. The great walled city proudly bore the name of Chrirtwor.
Yet the world did not exist on happiness and joys. Hardships had arrisen--plagues, droughts, pestilential swarms, monsters--yet the folk were hardy and managed to set their shoulders, bend their heads to the gale and press on.
Yet it was today, sixteen dasy after the Feast of the Moon, that they faced their greatest challange.
And they had succumbed to their wounds, ripped open by wrath.
Crimson rays splayed out across the green plains of Murghom as the sun began its ascent into godhood, slowly reaching for the zenith of the heavens. It was eager, but seemed to hesitate when it had cleared the horizon halfway when clouds, large, yet somehow lanky-looking, passed before the sun, blocking its all-seeing rays.
And the sun should be glad, for it is vieled from the horrible sight of death.
The curtain walls of Chrirtwor, once proud and overbearing guardians, lay in ruin, the rubble of their stones littering the streets of the city. Houses were devistated, either burning or burnt to the earth, their remnants nothing more than ashes and blackened skeletons of stone and wood.
Other homes, those composed of nothing but stone, were shattered. It was clear some great force had been about, rampaging with abandon, for some of the walls that lay in rubble had been feet thick.
But even burning towns or the thick smoke that billowed to the heavens, racing the patient sun, and that clogged the streets with a hazy miasma were nothing compared to the genocide of the town's people.
Maimed, scorched, ripped asunder, corpses littered the streets, their blood spattering the earth in a morbid mosaic of death. Limbs reached out in agony under toppled stones, mangled corpses that looked to have plummeted from the cloudy sky dotted the lands in and around the city limits like acne.
And still some looked to have suffered from a far worse fate. Their flesh withered, their bone's exposed against pallid skin with eyes wide in horror, those who had been bligted by pure evil and darkness stared with unseeing eyes, their mouths agape in their silent screams of defiance, or (more likely) agony. There was no doubt that they had suffered.
Still, the corpses seemed off. None had weapons laying beside them or clenched in hands too stiff with death to release them. They had not died in formations of battle, either, but sigularly or in small groups.
It would then strike one with horror. The groups had been a couple of friends, chatting pleasantly about the weather or about their families. Those who died alone did so with food from the markets or whistled songs on their lips. They hadn't even seen death when it had struck.
This theory was also supported by the many dead within the shells and husks of their homes, many laying dead around their dinner table, their food being devoured by the flames instead of their mouths.
It looked as if an entire legion of ogres had rampaged through the city sneaking in with stealth, smashing stone with clubs and setting fires with their eagerly raised torches, the fires leaping anxiously, unable to sit still and wait for the burning.
Yet there was no evidence to such a raid, not even overtly large footprints. No, there was only one abnormality in the ashed-covered dirt. Clawed footprints, some with four toes but more with three. There was only one set. They had been slain by a singular, ungodly creature.
Those who are familiar with them would notice the familiar striking patterns of them, or the effects of their breath weapons. Those who were knowledged would know.
It had been a shadow dragon.
It must have been a towering monster! those knowledged people would think. Yet the footprints didn't speak as such. They were rather small, though still big compared to a humans. A little bigger than a dire wolf...
How odd... they would ponder, then see movement to the side. Alert, they'd turn swiftly to face the beast--to find a somewhat short figure kneeling in the dirt.
What they would see would be a demon, with bat-like wings as black as pitch and a sinuous tail, the tail or the conniving snake. They would see it bowed over a corpse, relishing in the slaughter. They'd see its bloodied, clawed hands clenching and unclenching, awaiting more humans to cover them with even more blood. They'd see its thin shoulders shaking in laughter. They'd see its mouth curled in a ugly sneer, fangs exposed. They'd see its eyes glitter with malice and hatred for the races of good.
They always did...
But then, some might see the truth. They'd see a pitiful creature, skin black as night, robes of silk spun in a similar color that made it hard to distinguish the slender form from the volumneous clothing. They'd see it kneeling over a murdered form, mourning. They'd see it clench its hands in an effort to contain itself. They'd see its shoulder bobbing with its heartfelt sobs. They'd see it biting its thin lips to keep from screaming in anguish. They'd see its eyes, a most profound sapphire, dark with grief and spilling bitter tears of remorse over the death of the brightly armored woman.
Whichever they see, a wrathful demon or an oddly compassionate drow with odd appendages, they would all see the bitter weeping of Rakashi, crying for the maimed corpse of Dalstinnia.
The woman he had killed.
The town he had destroyed, his hands forever stained with their blood.
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