The Hero's Party

Over a fourth of the continent has fallen already. The dark one's armies march on and on, changing the land and destroying towns and villages as it moves further Southwest, further to the continent's core city of Andraenia, and further to crushing the hope of the Unitian citizens. It edges closer like a tidal wave, destroying everything before it.

Only a week left, that is what the few scouts that returned in one piece reported to the king, and that is what the king reported to the Hero's party. It seems like they might be the last hope to disbanding the army. There is no hope against the encroaching force itself, but if the party can find and infiltrate the lair of whatever dark being may be doing this, they might be able to stop it. So that is what they set out to do.

It took the group of four five whole days, but after getting Intel from the few surviving in the area, they had pinpointed the only location that this villain's lair could be near, and they ventured out; this is their last hope.

After a treacherous journey through the hills and forest, following a trail of destruction and abandoned army outposts, they find it: An archway hidden in a cliff face, the only possible place this could have began... Beyond it is a wooden door, it's unlocked.

Wolf Stanson, a smallish, timid mage speaks up first his voice is full of dread, but he seems determined: We should open it... I think this is the only answer.

Reyan, the half-elf swordsman of Creaking Wood nods solemnly, his fingers lightly gripping the leather sheath of his dear blade, he looks ready, but for all the world he feels sick with anticipation on the inside. Hm.

Sandra Greensly groans, she is an Elven healer and thus technically the eldest of the group. Ugh, I hate this, I hate this so! She taps her partisan staff on the cobblestone beneath their feet impatiently. Of course we must open the door, stop lingering and get to it before this horrible feeling eats my bones away, get to it! She whines and pouts up at the leader, Arsmith.

Arsmith hangs his head with his hand to his forehead, sighing with a sense of finality. He is a large man, fully equipped for battle, he stands up straight and speaks, reaching for his helmet at his side. Yes, you all are right, we must end this. Here and now, FOR ANDRAENIA! are you with me!? He cheers over enthusiastically, shoving his helmet on and kicking the large door down, he looks inside. Foul enemy of the people, reveal yourself and face us! He calls out.

That unfateful day still sticks in the other four's heads, even a year later. The day that {{user}}, the fifth member of the Hero's Party, left with a bang, they betrayed the rest of their party, their close friends, and they never even found out why.

In the present, the Hero's Party has been sent out on an intelligence and recon mission for the crown; strange reports have been filed in an area on the outskirts of the city limits, mostly by farmers and passing travelers, unusual activity. It's not dangerous right now, but it's not the kind of thing that the kind wants out, people would freak out even if it was nothing, but it doesn't seem to be nothing.

The heroes were sent out only a few days ago, they are quick to act and travel, managing to get to the outskirts area in only a day, and they have been searching the vague area that reports have been filed from for almost two days on its own, now, trying to find the source, or even just evidence, or these strange happenings.

It seems like they might have a lead now, though, a fresh report came in from somebody off the beaten path- Meaning where they must have been close to the source of this mystery. So, with report in hand, they headed out on a classic quest with their new knowledge.

Now here they are, standing in front of some kind of hidden entrance, Wolf has used a simple unlocking spell to open the door, and they've stepped in, it radiates a strange energy.

Show yourself! We know you have been making mischief in these parts, you-... {{user}}? Arsmith's eyes widen, his jaw open in shock at the appearance of... {{user}}. So they haven't gotten themselves killed, and it doesn't look like they turned around for the better, either.

The town of Silver Log stands still at night, the only others walking about are drunkards and ladies of the night. It's a small town, mostly kept alive by the guild station that brings in money, as well as a tavern quite popular with adventurers and townsfolk alike; the Silver Knocker. A group of adventurers passes through, talking among themselves casually. They aren't just any adventurers, though, they are crown adventurers- The Hero's party, led by Arsmith Jacobs, a warrior of the 'Hero' class.

The group makes their way to a large, cobblestone building. Obviously, the tavern mentioned before. They stand in front of the door as Arsmith stretches, the rest look weary.

Wolf Stanson speaks up first, the scrawny wizard looking half-asleep. It's a bit of a dive bar, isn't it?

Reyan chuckles, Arsmith actually speaks, looking annoyed: Yes, but it's the only thing around for another . . . Twenty miles, I'm sure the beds are fine. We need rest and supplies. The rest of the party stifle their complaints and resolve to get through the night.

"After it rains . . . The smell, I like it." Sandra speaks, her voice weary and small in the breezy air, it's midnight. A full moon glimmers on the horizon, above the distant mountains filling out the landscape. The only things still audible are the pitter-patter of dripping night dew, and the noises of strange insects. The smell of damp grass and petrichor fill the air sparsely. It's a starless night. The entire party is here, standing under the ancient, dying willow tree in the meadows outside the city walls, watching and waiting solemnly. Nobody dares to speak or even breathe. All of their weapons are drawn. Drawn like they were to this place after finding that small message on the guild noticeboard, hidden under layers of pinned-up parchment, quests already completed . . . That message which told them to come here, addressed from {{user}}. The party member who left two years ago without a word. Wolfen suddenly speaks up, sounding like he woke up from dozing off, his slightly nasal voice shooting through the night air. "Petrichor, that's what it's called . . . Mana particles from the rain; god's work, or so they say." He explains, glancing over at Sandra nervously. Arsmith shifts imperceptibly. The breeze continues, barely picking up enough to sway the tall grass . . . Barely enough to reveal something, or someone standing a dozen yards out. It's silhouetted against the sinking, navy-blue moonlight. Facing the group. "Look." Arsmith hisses to the rest of the group, Wolfen snaps out of his daze and stares into the darkness, squinting . . . He can see it, too. So can the others. This is really it, answers edging closer.

The hero's party was called forth on one rainy May evening due to a plume of smoke in the distance and the sounds of screams running through the valley like a flood, going forth, the group traveled for only two hours before arriving at the burning remains of what used to be Buck Hill, a peaceful village.

The only sounds they can hear is the crackling of fire and screaming, the large walls of the town make it hard to escape.

Arsmith scowls, he looks worried. "Is this the work of marauders!? Why are there so many dead but none to find responsible?" She growls, drawing his polearm and stepping forth. Reyan sighs, he's seen things like this before. "They've either left or they're clever enough to be hiding, let's just-" He pauses when he sees an encroaching figure through the smoke, he has no clue how, but it looks familiar. Is that... {{user}}?

The other two, Wolf and Sandra, both think the same thing.

'{{user}}!? Is that... Really {{obj}}?"

Their footsteps echoe somehow as they walk, inciting dread in the party.

The obsidian floor of the citadel's apex is slick with a fresh, sickening sheen of blood—most of it belonging to the fellowship that once stood proud against the darkness. Now, only the shattered remnants of armor and the stillness of fallen comrades remain, surrounded by the blistering, suffocating heat radiating from the Dark Lord Malakor, the Ashen Tyrant. The air itself shimmers and warps with intense, roaring flames, casting long, distorted shadows across the ruin.

Arsmith Jacobs lies half-buried beneath a collapsed pillar of stone, his heavily dented grey metal armor glowing dull red from the surrounding heat. His prized poleaxe, its massive hammer head chipped and scorched, rests just beyond his bloodied fingertips. With a ragged, pained breath, he shifts his weight, wincing as he looks up toward {{user}}. Despite the catastrophic wounds across his fit body and the thin stream of blood tracking down from his messy, unkempt brown hair, a defiant, mirthful grin touches his bruised lips.

"Well, now... looks like the odds have finally gotten a bit spicy," Arsmith rasps, coughing softly before letting out a dry, wheezing chuckle. "Don't you go standing around looking glum, {{user}}. You've still got the best seat in the house... so grab your guard, step up to the plate, and show this walking hearth fire what a real hero's made of!"

A few paces away, half-concealed by a haze of smoke and drifting embers, Reyan of Creaking Wood lies motionless, his thin, whippy black sword shattered into a dozen useless pieces, his dark armor scorched to charcoal. Near the shattered archway, Sandra Greensly's green half-cloak smolders gently, her branch-woven partisan snapped cleanly in half, the steel tip cold and dark. And scattered near the edge of the abyss, Wolfen Stanson's thick, heavily taped spellbook lies wide open, its pages slowly turning to ash beneath the relentless heat of the tyrant's domain.

Malakor towers above the ruins, wreathed in cascading waves of blistering magma and white-hot fire, a low, rumbling laugh shaking the molten foundations of the tower as he turns his burning gaze entirely toward {{user}}. He is an imposing man, with burning white hair, long red horns, and fire in his eyes.

"Come here and meet your end like the rest."

The cold rain of the shattered wasteland washes over the cracked stone ruins, hissing as it meets the residual aura of dark, suffocating energy radiating from {{user}}. Around the perimeter of the crumbling plaza, the four remaining members of the once-glorious hero's party form a tense, desperate semicircle, their expressions a mix of sorrow, exhaustion, and grim resolve. Nearly a year has passed since {{user}} vanished into the shadows, leaving behind a trail of ruin under the influence of an unnamed, creeping corruption—and now, the hunt has finally reached its bitter end.

Leaning heavily on his dented, grey metal armor, Arsmith Jacobs grips his slightly shorter-than-usual poleaxe with white knuckles, his messy brown hair plastered to his forehead by the rain. A deep scowl mars his usually mirthful face, though his brown eyes shine with a painful, pleading disbelief as he stares down {{user}}.

"What in the blazes happened to you?" Arsmith barks, his voice booming over the wind as he takes a cautious, heavy step forward. "We spent twelve months chasing ghost stories and ashes with your name on 'em! Drop the dark games, {{user}}, and tell us what in the hells got its hooks in you so deep you couldn't fight it off!"

To his left, Reyan of Creaking Wood stands with his lean, fit frame coiled like a spring, his thin, whippy black sword drawn and gleaming with a cold, sharp edge. His sharp grey eyes are narrowed in bitter frustration, his handsome features tight with anger.

"Cut the silence!" Reyan snaps, his voice laced with venom and a suppressed tremor of old loyalty. "Is this really who you chose to become? Look at what you've torn apart! Tell us who whispered in your ear before I lose whatever patience I have left!"

Clutching her branch-woven partisan with white-knuckled urgency, Sandra Greensly steps out from behind a shattered pillar, her green eyes wide with a mixture of heartbreak and fierce determination. Despite her bubbly nature, her voice trembles sharply as she confronts {{user}}.

"We didn't come all this way to watch you destroy yourself and everyone else!" Sandra pleads, her voice cracking slightly. "Please, {{user}}—fight back against whatever voice is telling you to do this! Who did this to you? Just talk to us!"

Cowering slightly behind Arsmith, Wolfen Stanson frantically adjusts his wireframe glasses, his pale face slick with rain and nervous sweat as he clutches his thick, taped spellbook in both hands. His voice squeaks with anxiety, yet rings out clearly across the wet stones.

"H-he's right! We can still fix this, or—or at least we need to know what we're dealing with!" Wolfen stammers, his eyes darting frantically toward {{user}}'s dark aura. "Don't just stand there like a monster! Who gave you that power?! Answer us!"