Vanguard, Chapter 22: To Casserton

The hours passed, one by one. The cart rolled quietly through these hilly lands, into little groves and past lakes that glistened in the blushing light of the setting sun, now that the overhang finally had passed. Every time Ramund opened his eyes from his sleep, it was as if a new face of The Fairlands showed itself. The heaving green hills speckled with the white wool of grazing sheep at first; then came the groves, birch trees aplenty, stretching far upwards like ivory towers. The lake they passed once was a beautiful sight too. He woke up to behold it when the cart crossed a wooden bridge, bending over the exit river of the lake. Three small waterfalls poured into this beautiful lake where the waters were still and shining like gold. For a moment, Ramund thought he was still dreaming. Truly, only fools would judge The Fairlands by a black sheep like Westport.

And not long did it take before the cart came to a halt. The fat pony at the front let out a hoarse whinny before it stuffed its face down into a patch of grass and began to chew. Dusk had come, and night was not far behind. The last rays of light had disappeared beneath the green horizon of rolling hills, leaving a curtain of dark blue over the land. Ramund opened his eyes again at the sound of the horse, and slowly sat up. He looked about himself, seeing both Duncan and Rose still fast asleep—-strange, really. And here he thought he was the one who'd be so deep into sleep that one could wonder if this was when he had finally closed his eyes for good. Yet here he sat, blinking the last slumber out of his eyes as they began adjusting to the darkness. And only when they did, did he realize why the cart had stopped.

The village of Casserton was a beautiful place-—more beautiful than Retby, many would say, and with good reason. The hundreds of straw-roof houses and estates stretched out to become at least three times the size of Retby, yet not even half as muddy. In the silver glow of the moon, Ramund saw how the village seemed as if it had started atop the large hill that rose like an earthen wave before him, and had simply poured down onto the rest of the land—almost like a river or waterfall in itself. Staying true to the concept, there were several rivers that passed through the village, and Ramund could see one of them, snaking its way through the valley between two other hills in the distance. Like a great snake wrapped in jewelry, it glistened and glimmered in the moonlight—Ramund was quite certain this was the river that he could hear, over the sound of a dog barking in the distance.
He couldn't help but smile. Looking over the village, it seemed so wonderfully at peace. All lights were out, save for a few windows further up the slope, speckling the night like fireflies. The land was open and smooth, the groves somewhere over the hills, and Ramund could see a herd of cattle laying down to sleep in the near distance. He looked down at Duncan and put a hand on his shoulder, speaking softly.

“Brother. I believe you would want to open your eyes now.”

Duncan grumbled a little and let out a slow moan. Ramund saw how Rose did the same, awoken by his deep and rumbling voice. Duncan slowly sat up and blinked, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He looked up at Ramund with question, but received only a smile in return. He seemed like he was about to ask why he was woken up, but when he turned his head and saw the village of Casserton pour down from the hilltop, his question was already answered.

“Ahhh, there you are, old friend.” Duncan smiled widely and scooted off the cart, his sabatons clapping and his armor rattling as he landed on the smooth brick roads. While Rose sat up and seemed generally unimpressed by it all, the same could not be said about Duncan. A great smile spread itself over his face, his teeth shining with moonlight while his eyes shined with relief. He rested his hands behind his head and slowly turned, taking in the beautiful panorama of green hills tinted blue in dusk, and the ocean of straw roofs and specks of lingering light. He looked at the river that swept in from the west, the tall estate at the very top of the great hill, and the smooth streets that wound in between all the cozy little homes. Unlike Westport and Retby, Casserton seemed the only village in The Fairlands to get their streets right.

Ramund scooted off the cart as well and turned to Rose, offering a hand to her. Rose, who was otherwise busy trying to seem unimpressed, turned a peculiar look down at Ramund's hand. She seemed a little confused at first, her eyes seeming to say 'what am I supposed to do with this?', but her eyes lied—-she knew perfectly well what to do with it. It came into contrast of just how great the difference was between their two hands as she laid hers upon his, and let herself be helped down unto the ground. She brushed some hay off her sides, straightening out her leather guards and picking straws out of her black hair, all while sending Ramund a look that closely resembled gratitude. It was brief and fickle, but it was all Ramund needed. She had been dead silent after what happened in Westport, and he could understand that.

While Duncan approached the cart driver to pay for him for his services, Ramund turned to Rose, offering her a smile “Slept well, I should hope?”

Rose paced around on the flat road, seeming almost befuddled at its smoothness, as if she was utterly confounded by the lack of dents and spikes and missing bricks. She took her time to answer Ramund's question, her eyes soaring out over the dusk-smothered hills, up to the sky where the stars began to appear, and the moon too, of course. Ramund considered asking again, in case she didn't hear.

“Well enough, I suppose.” she said, clearly having heard it anyway “I slept. It's not often I do that.”
Ramund leaned up against the cart, his heavy weight causing it to lean as much as he did. He cast Rose a curious look, his gaze rising from her feet to her eyes “Are you afraid of your dreams?”

Rose's attention was torn away from the darkening horizon as she sent Ramund a perplexed look, seeming rather ambushed by his question “Afraid? No. No, that's stupid. Why would I be afraid of my dreams?”
Ramund shrugged his left shoulder “It is no uncommon trouble, Rose. My own daughter was afraid of her dreams, once. She was only a little girl, though, always asking me to sing her a lullaby before bed time. I had to promise her that the ice trolls wouldn't come to take her away at night, and act like I was standing guard until she fell asleep.” he smiled at the memory.

Rose turned her look away from him, looking back into the horizon where the shadows were growing thick and mighty, eating away the hills, making it seem like the land and the sky were one “And I am no little girl. I am a grown woman. I've laid nightmares beyond me by now.” she said, though Ramund could tell by her voice, she sounded like she was trying to convince herself as much as she was trying to convince him. He tapped his fingers on his elbows, heard how Duncan was still trying to figure out a fair price with the driver, his eyes still lingering on Rose. However, before long, he followed her gaze into the hills, seeing them slowly meld together with the night. With a little sigh from his nose, he asked “What did you dream, then, if not nightmares?”

Rose visibly flinched at the question. Her eye twitched, her arms folded-—she was frustrated. She clearly didn't like being asked all these questions, and Ramund knew he was pushing her “My childhood.” she said, perhaps a little too quickly “I dreamed about my childhood. I usually do that, when I don't feel comfortable here any longer.” if what Duncan had told him was true, Ramund knew that she was lying, but still, he listened. For a moment, she turned her gaze to him, their eyes meeting in a fraction of a second “After... after what happened at the tavern... I've been feeling quite uncomfortable.” she shook her head, eyes falling to the ground “I'm just glad we're out of that place.”

Ramund took a breath to speak, but was interrupted as Duncan came along, smiling “Excuse me as I butt in, but I think it's time we get a move on.” he said, knocking his ironclad knuckles on the cart twice—the fat horse promptly set into motion, and Ramund had to rely on his own feet now “Night is falling, and our hostess isn't known for staying up late.”

Rose slowly cocked her head at Duncan, approaching with curiosity in her eyes “Hostess? You've already found us a place to stay?”

“In a way.” Duncan said with a smile and a mirthful look on his face “Come on. I could tell you all about it, but I think it'd be best if you saw it for yourselves.”

Ramund watched as Duncan strolled off, seeming quite joyful with Rose close at his heels. Ramund looked over his shoulder at the cart, seeing it trot away into the growing shadows, and decided that it was best to follow, than to stick around for nightfall.

Heading into town, Ramund took a deep breath of the fresh air. For that was what it was—fresh. The pleasant scent of hay made such a wonderful change from the reek of sewer and death from Westport, or the pungent odor of cattle droppings in Retby. Here, everything was so pleasantly... clean. The streets were smooth, the houses all neatly kept, each one housing a family of their own. Most of them had dogs sitting at their porches, many of them being beautiful collies for sheep herding. Ramund caught eyes with some of them, and while he smiled at them, most of them seemed rather surprised by his size—clearly, they hadn't seen a Mjaln before.

But while Ramund simply enjoyed the cleanliness and coziness of this town, Rose couldn't settle with just that. She moved up to many of the windows, staring inside to peer through the darkness, clearly in search of someone inside. She kept away from all the houses with lit candles in. Ramund saw mothers with their children, fathers at the hearths, enjoying a moment's rest after hard work on the field. It was a relief to see all this peace and harmony, in a place like this. After all those things he had met on the way here... it was a much-needed change.

Before long, however, they came to one of the rivers. The density of houses was thinner here, and it was slightly more muddy-—still not nearly as bad as Retby, though. There were a few pig sties here and there too, fenced in between the houses, and Ramund even spotted a cattle tied to a wooden pole, further down the road. Unlike Westport, the town of Casserton had no winding byways or dark alleys. The streets were wide and open, obviously made for carts and herds of cattle to make their way through at day. At night, though, they were all empty-—and quiet. The thump of Ramund's heavy sabatons seemed to the be the only things that disturbed this nightly silence, save for the distant barking of a dog, or the occasional song of a homeless cat. Ramund had wanted to ask where they were going, but he had a feeling that Duncan wasn't going to answer that. But when he came to a halt before a little house at the riverside, he knew he didn't have to.

It was a strange little place, seeming like a straw-roofed house like all the rest, but with a mill awkwardly worked into it. A great wheel stood from its side and turned with the current of the moonlit river, but Ramund couldn't for the life of him see what mechanism it would be turning—the rest of the house seemed like nothing more than the usual family home, after all. Duncan, however, didn't let him think all too long about it, seeming quite eager to approach the house, rather than contemplate its architectural structure.

“Come on!” he urged, beckoning him and Rose closer “I know what you're thinking. You can ask her about the mill when we're inside.”

Ramund's curiosity was growing, but he had a feeling that he knew who this was. Duncan had been talking quite a lot about her, after all—-not to mention all the letters he had tried to send her. He put on his finest smile and straightened up his armor, trying to seem dignified. With Rose close at his heels, he approached the strange little house, and heard the sound of Duncan knock three times on the door.
Thrice a knock of metal upon wood, and then a silence. Duncan straightened up as well, as if he was still out on the field, about to be examined and by his superiors. Rose sent both of them curious looks, but Ramund gave her nothing but a little smile. His face wrinkled up as he smiled, and Rose only seemed more puzzled by it. And that was when the door went open.

Standing in the light of a candlestick holder in her frail hand, was a woman. She was old and tired, enfeebled at the eve of her life, and was draped in a musty, moth-eaten gown, covering her from neck to toe. In many ways, she reminded Ramund of himself-—if he was much smaller, weaker, female, and didn't boast a glorious mane like his own. Sadly, she had balded so much that all of which was left, was but a grey patch of hair on the back of her head. She looked at Duncan with wide eyes-—eyes that seemed disbelieving, moving between his face and those behind him. Duncan, however, couldn't stop smiling. He stood there, formal and straight, hands folded at his lap. Rose seemed even more puzzled now, wondering who this lady was, but when Duncan gave a little bow and spoke, it all became clear.
“Hello. Mother.”

At the sound of Duncan's voice, the old woman's eyes welled with tears. Her hand began to shake, the flame of her candle swaying like a belly dancer before she put the copper holder down and opened her arms wide.

“For crying out loud, stop being so formal, Duncan. Give your mother a hug!” her voice was withered and broken, now shivering with chopped-up words of someone on the verge of crying. However, before Duncan could respond, his mother gave him no choice as she moved forward and embraced him herself. She wrapped her gaunt arms around his ironclad torso, and he laughed quietly, a few hints of tears in his own voice as he hugged her back.

“So many years, Duncan, so many years! I thought you had forgotten about me. Not a word, not a peep! Ever since you left, I've only had the dog to keep me company.” she was significantly shorter than Duncan, age having taken its toll upon her, and it was clear of how gentle Duncan had to be when he hugged her back.

“You wouldn't believe how much I have been trying to make it otherwise, mother.” Duncan sighed, chewing at his lip while trying to keep his own tears at bay “I've lost count of how many letters I've sent, but not a single one had come through. Please don't think ill of me, mother. I hadn't forgotten you for a moment.”

Ramund looked over at Rose and saw that she had taken her distance from this. She had turned her back, looking away, trying to ignore. She sat crouched down at a patch of grass, picking at the straws, collecting dewdrops. Ramund shook his head at her, but she ignored him as well. The same, however, could not be said about Duncan's mother.

“And this...” her old eyes stared up at Ramund, fascination on her face-—for such an old lady, she had actually kept many youthful features in her expression; something Ramund envied. She was even standing up straight, rather than being hunchbacked and relying on a cane for her to move in the first place.

“This is Ramund.” Duncan stepped aside to present the big man, still holding his mother by her hand “He's my sergeant, and life-long companion, I would think.”

Ramund performed a bow of his own, swift and gallant, as much as his back now could handle “It is an honor to finally meet you, Miss Ross. Duncan has been mentioning you quite a lot, in our time on the field.”

Duncan's mother smiled widely, slowly approaching Ramund and offering a bony, withered hand “It is an honor to meet you as well, Ramund. A friend of my son is a friend of mine.”

Ramund accepted the hand as gently as he could, holding it flat in his own rather than shaking it “I am glad to hear that, Miss Ross.”

“Please, call me Agatha.” she replied “Everyone else does.” her eyes then moved over to Rose, giving her a curious look, before turning to Duncan “...And her?”

Duncan looked over his shoulder at Rose “Oh, yes, of course. Rose... would you like to come say hello for yourself?”

Rose visibly flinched at being called out, and sat still for a few seconds on end, like an ostrich stuffing its head into the ground. However, it didn't take long for her to realize that no matter how still she sat, she wasn't invisible. She slowly rose to her feet and approached the old woman, Agatha, and gave a small and quick nod.

“Hello.” she said. She seemed like she tried to smile, but it wasn't working all that well. Agatha, however, had no troubles smiling back.

“It's such a delight to see all of you. Please, come inside. I want to hear everything you have to tell. I was just beginning to think you had given your life to the war, Duncan... but it seems the gods are more gracious than that.”

As Duncan and Rose went inside, following the fickle glow of Agatha's candle, Ramund felt happy and sad at the same time. Happy to see Duncan re-united with his mother... but sad, knowing that the tales they brought were probably not the ones she wanted to hear. Nonetheless, he made his way inside, away from the growing shadows of night.

Once inside, the glow of Agatha's candle spread out to illuminate the room beyond. It was clear to see that she was living alone, the house being a fair-sized one with space for a husband and a child, but she had only needed to light a single candle; the rest the main entrance room was drowned away in darkness, only faintly tinted by the silver glow of the moon. The floor creaked and complained under Ramund's astonishing weight, and he saw dust drifting from the walls. It was ancient, almost. Agatha must have been far too old and feeble to keep it clean on her own.

The same could be said about the dog. As Ramund walked in, he was greeted with a single curious eye from floor-level, since the other eye was cloudy and blind. He saw it in the shine of Agatha's candle as they passed the hound by. Its fur was as wispy and grey as Agatha's hair, and it was equally gaunt and bony. In many ways, it seemed like Agatha and this hound carried quite the amount of resemblances.

“Good gods... the memories.” Duncan quietly mused as he walked through the rooms, eyes soaring over all the ornaments that lie upon the wardrobes and drawers, the tables and chairs, the desks and cabinets “It is exactly as I remember it.”

“Not much has changed ever since you left, no.” Agatha said. Walking at a slow pace, since Agatha's feeble legs couldn't carry her that fast, they made their way into a room further inside-—a room Ramund assumed to be the living room. The floor in here was covered in a long, dusty carpet, and a few chairs here and there stood upon it. There was cold hearth at the back of the room, and unlit candles spread about on the armrests and drawers. The dog had followed as well, strolling beside Rose, who seemed quite curious about the animal. She reached down to pat it, and for a moment, seemed genuinely amused. The dog, however, seemed as indifferent to her touch as could be.

“I've not touched a thing in your own room... everything should be just as it was, down to the last candlestick.” she said, smiling as she walked about the room, spreading her candlelight to the other candles, creating a few bubbles of light here and there to chase away the darkness “Ever since your father passed away, I've been trying not to change too much... it preserves the memories, see, and in my age, forgetting important things is an all too real threat.”

Ramund took the liberty of carefully sitting down in one of the chairs, slowly as to make sure not to break it. It creaked under his weight, but seemed to stay intact—thank the spirits. Rose, however, simply crouched down in a darker corner, idly patting the greying hound. Ramund let out a long sigh, trying a little smile “Sadly so, Miss Ro-—“ he interrupted himself “...Agatha. Age brings wisdom, but as misfortune would have it, it often makes you forget that wisdom later on.” he says with a deep, guttural chuckle.

Agatha smiled in return and took her own seat, close to Duncan, and put her lit candlestick on the table before her “But enough talk about me. Please, you must have so many tales to tell! What is it like, down there, on the battlefront? You were so excited when you set off, Duncan, eager to serve your faith and fatherland. I remember it as if it were yesterday.”

Ramund took in a long breath, giving Duncan a look. He saw that he tried to smile, but it was forced and crumbling, his tongue limp at a reluctance for words. Their eyes met, and Ramund knew.

“What it's like?” Duncan scratched the back of his head, still not having taken off his armor, his eyes lingering on the dancing flame of Agatha's candle “It's... not what you'd expect.”

Agatha seemed a little puzzled at first “Oh? All the other veterans that come by here from time to time always bring these astonishing tales to tell. Marvelous stories of victory and brotherhood in battle, fighting back this demon horde, gods at their backs and shield-brothers at their side.” she said, almost theatrically, as if citing directly from what she had been told “It sounded quite exciting... just the kind of thing you'd like, I'm sure.”

Duncan's eyebrows rose, and this time, he was truly at a loss for words. Rose looked over her shoulder, her attention torn away from the grizzled dog, an entertained smile on her lips. Duncan, however, could seem nothing but shocked. Ramund too felt a pool of concern growing in his stomach.

“Mother, that...” Duncan chewed at his lip, eyes averting and full of spite “...that's not at all what it's like. Who were these veterans? Someone from town?”

“No no, not at all. They seemed like Rimnoll people; all nicely dressed and pretty. Usually there come a few riding into town, sitting down to have a drink at the pub while telling these amazing tales. In fact, I'm pretty sure there was one as soon as yesterday. Why do you ask?”

“Miss Rose...” Ramund intervened, momentarily forgetting to call her by her first name. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, sincerity in his eyes “...those people are not veterans.”
“Not even close.” Duncan continued, fiddling with his fingers, taking in deep breaths to calm himself down—Ramund saw how clear it was that Duncan wouldn't let himself show anger, not now, not after just having arrived home to his mother “These... people. I don't think they've even served on the battlefront at all.”
Agatha seemed utterly confounded “What do you mean? They had such elaborate stories, and all of them were quite convincing! Duncan dear, are you sure you don't just need a cup of tea?”

“Yes, mother!” Duncan snapped, hissing through his teeth, but it was clear that he regretted the words as soon as he had spoken them. Agatha twitched, startling slightly in her chair “I'm... I'm sorry. Mother, of all people, please don't let yourself be fooled... you're smarter than that. Those 'veterans' out there? They're actors; damned liars under the pay of Lucius Deum. They are meant to be convincing-—that's their job!” he shook his head, sighing deeply, head sagging “You're right, mother-—I do have a lot of tales to tell, but I don't want to tell you any of them, and you don't want to hear them. What... what I've seen... what I've done.” he gritted his teeth, lips peeling back in an angry sneer. Ramund cleared his throat with a cough, putting a hand on Duncan's shoulder while turning his gaze to Agatha.

“Agatha, your son has seen many things no man should see, and done things no man should ever have to do... as have I. What lies Deum's actors are spinning are simply an elaborate form of propaganda, meant to make the war seem like any young boy's dream. But believe me when I tell you: it is no dream. It is a nightmare.”

Agatha sat silent in her chair for a few moments, eyes wide “I can't believe this. Why would he do that? This... Deum man. He's the leader of The Crusade, isn't he?”

Ramund nodded a few times “He is, he is. As for why?” he leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping on the armrests “For if the people knew what horrors lie in waiting out there, The Crusade would only be full of suicidal fools and madmen.” his eyes moved briefly to Rose, and hers moved to his. He saw some spite in them, but she knew it was true.

“And you can be damned certain that if you see a veteran telling tales like those, he's a liar.” Duncan continued, his teeth grinding so hard Ramund could hear it “A paid, filthy liar. Not only because of the pretty stories he spins, but also because of the fact that he's here in the first place. All those veterans that you see coming home... I will bet you that nearly all of them—-if not all of them—-are actors. See, mother... the only way to come home from the war is in a wooden box.”

“But... then why are you here?” She asked, looking between Ramund, Rose, and Duncan, confusion in her eyes and her smile long gone “You're not in any wooden box, thank goodness!”

Ramund looked over at Duncan, sighing “Brother... I spite that we must bring bad news now, having stepped in the door mere minutes ago... but your mother deserves the truth.”

Duncan looked up at Agatha, apology and reluctance on his face. He met Ramund's gaze and pursed his lips, seeming doubtful—yet it was clear that he couldn't deny Agatha the truth now “I suppose you're right...”

“Duncan, dear...” Agatha spoke, inclining her head at him, a sympathetic look on her face “...If there is something you need off your heart, you can always tell me. I am your mother, after all.”

Duncan snorted “It is not as much what I want off my heart as it what I need to tell... everyone. And by 'everyone', I do mean everyone.” he glanced over towards Rose in the corner, and took a long breath, before turning back to Agatha “I've been away from the battlefront for about a week now, and with good reason. We don't quite known how it happened, but something happened, and that 'something' has amassed a demon army larger than The Crusade itself, and it's coming our way. First, it hit our front-most camp, where Ramund, Rose, and myself were stationed-—we were lucky that an airship came by to find us while we fled, or the desert would've definitely gotten us, if the demons hadn't. We thought we were safe when we came to Aegon, but...” he shook his head “...we were gullible. The demon army plowed down the walls of Aegon like were they made of straw. Aegon burns now, as you may have heard, but don't believe any lies of an accident or crazy arsonists or whatever they can think of. It was demons through and through... and you won't know it until they're here, at your doorstep.”

“Unless we tell you about it, naturally.” Ramund continued, gazing past the dancing flame of the candle between him and Agatha “We've tried it before, and with little luck. The council of Aegon must have been utterly careless about it, and because of their foolishness, we lost our esteemed general in the attack. I, personally, spoke to the mayor of Westport too, but he was not much wiser. And because of his refusal to take up arms, what must have been a scout of this coming army ravaged a nearby tavern, relentlessly butchering nine people.” he seemed like he wanted to put it softer, but he wouldn't lie—-this was how it was “It was only when I threw the corpse of said demon on the mayor's table that he may have begun to realize the coming threat. I pray that he will see reason. If he doesn't, it will be his own undoing.”

Agatha seemed at a loss for words. Ramund knew that look anywhere-—the look of a shattered illusion. Deum's actors had put up a pretty curtain in front of her eyes, and this was always the look he got when he tore them down. It was never a pretty sight, but he knew it was a step in the right direction.
“This... this is not good.” Agatha pointed out the obvious “Are you telling me that an army of demons might come swarming over Casserton at any moment? That's dreadful!” she rose from her chair, gripping her cane and moving about as fast as her feeble body could take her “I must pack my things. Duncan dear, could you help me with the paintings? And your old toys too, if you want them. They may have gathered a bit of dust by now, but memories are important, so-—“

“Mother!” Duncan interrupted her, rising to his feet “We don't have time for this. You can't take the entire house with you, as much as you would like to. Look, when we've made sure that all of Casserton is aware of what's at stake, then we can move. Pack what is necessary, and nothing more. The road to Moonby Sanctuary is long, and you can't carry around a bag as large as yourself—especially not at your age. Understand?”

Agatha seemed horribly disappointed; offended even, but quickly came to realize that what Duncan was saying, was true. Her shoulders sagged in a tired sigh, and she nodded “Alright, alright... I'll pack what is necessary.”

Duncan smiled, glad to see his mother see reason. He moved to approach her, and give her another hug, gentle as always “You'll be alright, mother. Just take it easy, and let us do the work. We've tried this before.”

Ramund looked over at where Rose sat, and saw how she seemed to have disappeared. Only the dog lay there now, all grey and tired, probably not used to being petted so much. Ramund looked around the shadows outside the glowing bubbles of the candles, trying to see if she was hiding somewhere, but he couldn't see her anywhere.

“If you say so, Duncan...” Agatha smiled in the arms of her son, holding him tight “If you want, you can sleep in your own bed tonight. It might be a bit dusty, but it's still as good as it was when you left.”

“Thanks...” Duncan smiled “...I appreciate that.”

Ramund watched as Agatha lead Duncan away, carrying a lit candlestick. He smiled a little. It was a long time since he had seen Duncan like this, and it gave him great relief to be witness of it. He let out a long breath of his nose, leaned forward to squeeze out the flame with his fingers, before finding himself some more sleep in the chair he sat in.

But in a place over the hills, past the scum and lowliness of Westport, beyond the mud and cattle of Retby, stood the great Wilderness Gates. Stoic and strong, raking far into the sky, gleaming in the moonlight like marble. It was a quiet place, this one, peaceful despite what one might think of The Wilderness. At night, it was even more so. The only company the gates saw was the stray sheep or cattle, somehow lost from its herd. And this night was no exception.

He sat by the warming glow of a campfire, huddled around it with a blanket over himself. It had been a long day, and a long night was about to take its place. He stared into the fires, occasionally turning his eyes to the darkening horizon, to the moon above, and the stars that twinkled in its honor. He sat there, on duty, as always. Pointless it seemed, sometimes. There hadn't been a monster at the gates ever since he was put here, and he was beginning to doubt the existence of said monsters in the first place. Big, hairy creatures, with arms like tree trunks and teeth like longswords. He huffed, shaking his head at the thought. Ridiculous. He turned the skinned rabbit that sizzled over the fires, watching the meat cook, whiffing at the sweet aroma borne by the cold winds of night.

Though there was that about that man, the Mjaln, and that black-haired woman... his ridiculing smile faded away as he thought back to them. His colleague, Moira, had gone off with them to Retby, he remembered—something about needing to see a healer. Moira hadn't returned since, and it had been days. Lonely, boring days, in fact, now that his company was reduced to the rabbits that he eventually ended up eating, anyway—like this one. He turned the rabbit again, wondering. Those three that came out of The Wilderness seemed largely unhurt, save for that one man who had been poisoned somhow. He didn't doubt the existence of poisonous plants, but all the stories of monsters seemed like nonsense to him—-fairy tales meant to scare people away, surely. He looked up at the huge gates, his eyebrow creasing... but would they really build massive gates like these to keep fairy tales inside?

That was when he heard it. First, he thought it was another rabbit, and hoped that he might actually get a larger meal tonight. But then he realized—it wasn't coming from this side of the gates. His heart began to beat a little faster... could there be more of them? More travelers from The Wilderness? Something seemed a little strange. He heard the sound of shuffling feet, snapping branches, and vegetation squished underfoot. There was definitely something on the other side.

He took a deep breath. It was surely just more poor travelers who had made their way into The Wilderness, and hadn't found the gates before now. And even if it wasn't, it didn't sound like anything particularly... monstrous. He rose to his feet, walking to the gates, leaving his rabbit at the fire-—he didn't really care about it getting scorched by now. He wasn't hungry anyway.

However, despite all this, he caught himself in putting his hand on the hilt of his sword. His armor was shining bright in the moonlight, making him seem so noble and strong, but he had to admit—-something seemed a little too strange here. He chewed at his lip, slowly approaching the gates—-he could still hear the sound of feet. There were more than one, he could tell. He tried to look at the bright side of it all... if these were more lost travelers, and he managed to save them, surely he would get a promotion and be rid of this awful duty!

“Hello?” he called out, breaking the silence of night. He stood before the gates, trying to raise his voice to speak through the wood, but he got no response. The shuffling had come to a rather abrupt stop as well. He could feel his heart wake up and beat rather quickly in his chest, but still, curiosity brought him forward. With gritted teeth and a conviction that he wasn't actually scared, he reached forward and unlocked the gates.

When he pulled them open, grinding and groaning like church doors, the silver glow of moonlight came down like a slanted pillar upon the world beyond. He had only opened them up slightly, just large enough for someone to pass through, but as he looked at the man that stood on the other side, he doubted he would even need to open that wide.

He was gaunt as a stick, that was for sure. Slender and skinny, but draped in colorful clothing—everything from green and yellow, to purple and blue. But strangest of all was the large top hat on his head, almost twice the size of his head. He had the sharp ears of an elf, but the green eyes of a snake. When the gazes of him and the elf met, he felt a cold shiver trickle down his spine, and it wasn't the chill of night that was causing it. Looking into those eyes, he felt as if he was staring into an emerald abyss, full of guile, a devil of deceit. His eyebrows raised and he wanted to speak, but the elf beat him to it.

“Good evening, my friend.” his voice was like silk, diabolically smooth and with a prodding sense of arrogance underneath “Are these The Fairlands?”

He stuttered a little, seeming unsure what to say at first, despite the obvious “Well.. uhh... yes. Yes they are. Are you lost?”

The elf smiled, a creeping smirk spreading across his face like an infection “Not anymore.”

In a fraction of a second, the guardsmen quickly came to realize that the elf was indeed not alone. First, he saw them—the bloodshot eyes of something horribly inhuman peering forth from the underbrush. But he only traded gazes with the creature for a second or two, before it was already too late. He wanted to scream, but when the demon leap unto him and dig its bony blade into his throat, all he could do was cough up blood. He screamed inside, but no words escaped his mouth-—only more blood. He didn't even know he had fallen before he looked forward, and saw the sky. The twinkles of stars seemed like they sung his farewell, and the moon seemed so bright, almost as if it was opening its arms to him, bidding him welcome. His body felt so cold. So deathly cold. It was only then that he realized-—he was already dead. All faded away, and the last thing he saw before death took its grip, were the hungry eyes of the demon, staring into his.

But the elf—-he could only smile. He stood there, resting on his cane, grinning like a devil. His green eyes seemed to light up with glee, the blood only exciting him further. And that was when the rest of his company showed itself, stepping forth from the leaves and bushes. Shedding their subtlety, the sound of screeching howls filled the night, followed by the monstrous, resounding steps of juggernauts. Two of these monstrous creatures stepped forth from the shadowy trees, their massive bodies glimmering in the moonlight, and proceeded to hurling the gates open to a full. The elf looked out over the hills, over the moonlit horizon, raising his hands out to either side in theatrical grandeur.

“The carnival has arrived!” he shouted out, troopers and lurkers and juggernauts marching past him like a stampede from hell. His green eyes rose to the heavens, as if challenging the gods to do something about his monstrous march. But he knew they could do nothing. Not now. It was far too late already.
“And it shall shake the foundations of this world. Go, my minions, my performers...” his grin grew even wider, and the look of a snake gleamed in his emerald stare “...entertain me.”