547 ASE (After the Scouring of Ethyria)
Arthur found himself on the ramparts of the port city of Alexandros. He stationed himself near the brazier—to keep himself warm, with his spear in hand. Arthur gazed at the night sky, in pure awe of its beauty—lights beyond counting shone brightly, forming patterns that told a thousand stories. Along with the beautifully lit night sky, the sound of the waves crashing against the ramparts soothed his ears; he felt his eyes beginning to grow heavier and heavier.
"Arthur!" A voice shouted behind him.
Arthur's eyes shot wide open and whipped his body around in haste, rousing himself from slumber. As he was fully turned around, it was the Serjeant—Serjeant Harren. Sweat began to form on Arthur's forehead; he knew he was in trouble.
Serjeant Harren sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Gods damn it, Arthur…" Serjeant Harren inhaled, then exhaled. "I need you to be on full alert. Would you want the fucking undead to gut you in your sleep?!" Serjeant Harren screamed.
"A-aye, Serjeant!" Arthur gulped.
"'Aye', as in you want to be gutted by those fucking fleshwalkers?" Harren raised an eyebrow.
"Aye—uh, I mean, no, Serjeant!" Arthur stumbled. He could feel the sweat begin to drip down his face.
"Then stay the fuck awake!" Harren shouted, with saliva flying all over Arthur's face. Harren then began to walk off into the distance of the Ramparts, grumbling to himself.
Arthur sighed. The Serjeant was right; if he slacked off, the undead might come crawling up on the ramparts and lay waste to the city without warning. He didn't want that—to be the cause of what could potentially become the destruction of Vileria itself.
The Republic of Vileria was considered to be a nation of the arts, culture, music, and magic, and Arthur had loved it. He remembered the street artists and musicians in the capital city, often sneaking out of his home to indulge himself in the arts. The very land which bore Vileria was rich in the precious resource known as Gharanite ore. This ore could be used to forge powerful artefacts, such as the Dawnbreaker—a legendary warhammer blessed by Luminarch himself, once wielded by the first Paladin, Alaric von Helldorf. Such achievements didn't go unnoticed. Beneath polite diplomacy, there was a hidden resentment and jealousy from the other nations of the Centrolian Continent—especially from the dwarves of Nordheim.
Arthur was not alone in unease. Just a week earlier, the Archbishop of the Diocese of Vileria, Archbishop Dammon, received a vision that a horrible dark crusade would plague Vileria. The Archbishop had visions of farmlands ravaged and burnt to the ground, with crops shrivelled and decayed, the very streets of the capital overrun with undead horrors and abominations, and the very people of Vileria suffering a slow and accursed death—eventually transforming into mindless husks. The Archbishop claimed that this would begin in the port city of Alexandros.
The port city of Alexandros was beautiful, thriving off of commerce and trade, and full of bustling streets and filled markets. The ports of Alexandros were a vital travel point from the Centrolian Continent to the Rytuvil Continent in the East. Because of this, members of the Volunteer's Guild—Adventurers—would be a common sight, coming from all walks of life: Man, Dwarf, Elf, Lizardmen, Beastkin, and even those of Orcish and Vael'thiran ancestry. Despite all these rowdy and arrogant adventurers, the people of Alexandros lived happy lives, indulging themselves in new foods, music, languages, and fashions which arrived with every tide. But, all of this would be at risk—if the Archbishop's vision heeded the truth, the city needed to tighten its security.
In turn, the watches were doubled on the city defences, with shifts rotating every six hours to now twelve, and with the number of soldiers doubled from a mere five hundred to one thousand, even adventurers were hired to garrison temporarily in the city. Questions arose in Alexandros about the growing military and adventurer presence. Confusion curdled into panic—panic into fear. This fear had reached the ranks of the city guard long before it had even reached the civilian populace.
In contrast to these looming tensions, Arthur joined the Vilerian military for the benefits of a peacetime soldier—warm sheets every day, hot food, a roof over his head, and enough coin to live off of. He wasn't ready to die. He was merely twenty years of age. His ideals of a military career were crushed with the harrowing realities of war and battle at the very doorstep of Vileria—and he was supposedly at the very front of it. Many times had Arthur thought of escape once he heard that he would be potentially sent out to fight, but he couldn't. If he had been caught, he would have been executed in the city square, humiliated, and dishonoured. If he did escape, what would he do then? Nothing came to mind. He had no other choice but to stay.
As Arthur lost himself in thought, staring away into the endless sea before him, he heard two more sets of footsteps approaching him. Arthur fixed his posture, not wanting to have another situation with a Serjeant again. Then, he felt someone grip his shoulder. He turned around to see who it was.
"Hey!" A man with ragged brown hair said, with another man with ginger hair in a bowl cut behind him nodding.
It was Arthur's two friends, Yorick and Ham.
Arthur sighed in relief, "Luminarch be praised… I thought you were a Serjeant!" He chuckled.
"Bah, nonsense! No Serjeant would look as handsome as I!" Yorick jested, stroking his goatee. Ham, in turn, groaned, seemingly tired of Yorick's boasting.
Arthur had a close bond with Yorick and Ham, one that could only be made between soldiers. They trained together, worked together, and got drunk together. Arthur had only been in the Vilerian military for nearly a year, but he could truly call these men his brothers-in-arms.
"Ah! That reminds me…" Ham said excitedly, as he rummaged through his brown satchel, pulling out two bottles full of rum.
"You've gotta be kidding me, Ham… What if we get caught? What if the undead truly show up?" Arthur worried.
Yorick patted Arthur's back. "It'll be fiiiine, we'll drink just enough not to be drunk. And if—if the undead truly show up, they'll have to face my drunken wrath!" Yorick laughed.
"Come on, Arthur, have some fun!" Ham said as he raised the two bottles of rum to show them off in each hand.
"...Fine, but if we get caught by a Serjeant, I'll be pinning the blame on both of you!" Arthur pointed at the two of them with his unoccupied left hand.
"Hah! Why not! Now let's drink!" Ham said as he removed the cork from one of the bottles, handing it to Arthur.
***
Arthur woke to pain.
The pain wasn't sharp—it was heavy and continuous. He felt as if his head had gone through a hundred blows from a hammer. His mouth tasted foul from both saliva and alcohol, leaving a horrible taste.
Light seeped through his eyelids as he groaned. It was the break of day, and the sun wasn't fully out yet.
Why am I on the floor…?
Memory came back to him in pieces: laughter and drinking around the brazier.
Hells, I can't believe I passed out…
Arthur noticed Yorick standing still. As if he were in a state of paralysis.
"...Yorick? You good, mate?" Arthur groaned as he struggled to stand up.
No response.
That annoyed Arthur. Yorick always had something to say—but now he was silent?
Arthur now stood beside Yorick, studying his face. "Mate, what's the deal with you?" Arthur rubbed his eyes with his palms.
No response. Yorick's arm then slowly crept up—pointing towards the open sea. As Arthur studied his face more carefully, he noticed Yorick's eyes were wide open, not with awareness, but with fear instilled into them.
Arthur followed Yorick's hand, tracing it towards the sea. There, he caught a glimpse of something.
Dark shapes pressed upon the sea, low and motionless. As his eyes began to adjust, the shapes began to move—slowly, steadily—with masts rising like forests against the sky. Arthur's eyes shot wide open.
As the ships began to draw nearer and nearer, he noticed that these ships were not of human, dwarven, or elvish design. The design of these ships was foreign to him. These ships looked old and decayed, as if they had seen a thousand battles in their lifetime.
Arthur felt his body completely tense up. His body felt hot, his forehead and back felt as if it was itched and burning—as if a thousand needles had pierced his skin, he could feel every bead of sweat forming on his forehead and back.
One of the ships began to glow an ominous green—then two, then three, four. Slowly, all of the ships began to glow with this ominous green light. Arthur and Yorick were in a state of shock, with their feet planted onto the stone ramparts as if they were frozen themselves.
Sounds of crackling came from the direction of the ships, the green lights began to draw closer—and fast, fast enough to reach Arthur and Yorick before they could react.
A bolt of green light crackled between Arthur and Yorick's heads, then it dissipated into the sky like a gas. This gas, which initially started as a small cloud, began to grow larger and larger. Then five more bolts followed and exploded, forming more gas clouds.
Arthur whipped his head back to Yorick. "Sound the alarm! We're under at—"
Arthur was cut off as Yorick was hit in the face with one of the green bolts, knocking him to the stone-cold floor of the ramparts. The bolt had left a green mark all over Yorick's face. The green mark had begun to spread across his face and slowly disappeared, tearing off his skin and revealing the very muscles of his face.
Yorick screamed in agonizing pain, loud enough to burst his vocal cords. As Yorick screamed, his flesh and muscle began to slowly disintegrate as well, revealing his skull. Yorick's screams grew louder.
Arthur stumbled back in surprise, falling on his behind.
He watched as his friend's face fully disappeared, leaving only his skull behind. And with it, the screams stopped.
Arthur felt his heart begin pounding like a thousand drums; he could feel himself sweating buckets. He began shaking uncontrollably in fear, unable to stand. He looked around the ramparts for Ham, but he was nowhere to be found. He then spotted the horn to signal an alarm. It was only a few steps away from him, but a hundred green bolts crackled overhead.
Arthur tried to retake control of his breathing, slowly inhaling and exhaling. Once Arthur took control of his breathing, he began to crawl on all fours towards the blowing horn.
As he stood up to blow into the horn, a green bolt flew straight into his chest, knocking him on his back. He now lay beside the lifeless and faceless corpse of Yorick.
A rush of liquid came through Arthur's throat and forced its way through his mouth, throwing it up all over his face. It was a mix of alcohol, bile, and blood. Arthur's stomach writhed in pain. He could feel his very skin and flesh being eaten away.
Arthur screamed.
It was of no use; no one could hear him. The sky began to cloud up with green gas and surrounded him. Arthur began to choke. He could no longer scream. A mixture of both gas and bodily fluid swelled his throat. He soon felt the gas creep inwards, burning his lungs.
Arthur no longer felt the pain, only the brush of undeath on his lips.