The Great Conflict, and the world, has ended. Magic is forbidden, so that the world can heal. I believe it’s stolen your memories, too. Which is why you and I are keeping this journal. You, reading this tomorrow, and me, writing this today.
Remember this if you can:
Your name is Carth. You are a warrior, aged boy. You travel with a woman named Aos and a man named Desmon. Do not concern yourself with the torn patch of boiled leather on you breast, nor the ones on your companions’, nor the looks that the empty patch may garner. For an index of items, places, people and locations, refer to the scrolls next to this one.
* * *
There are strange heads in this place. I don’t like it. You’ve been traveling for days through a black burn of ash and glass. Aos and Desmon keep insisting you’ve been eating every day—that you’re just forgetting (as usual). But dry lips and an angry belly tell you another story.
You were all wandering, yesterday, along a street whose stone had been battered to sand, when you saw the wolves’ heads: furless, with fresh flesh and dried up eyes that were wrinkled as raisins.
A mile farther one you found more skulls. Rabbits, deer and squirrels. These were not skinned like the wolves, but they’d only a shadow of sparsely furred flesh, stretched thin over their skulls like a shadow to cover wide eyes and teeth that seemed peeled back in something of a snarl. Tongues lolled about in the wind.
“We’re getting closer,” Desmon told you. “We’ll be at Sanctum by the end of the day.”
“Where’s Sanctum?” you asked him.
Desmon shook his head. “How often do you update your scrolls, Carth?”
“That’s what I thought,” he said. “Just keep moving. We’ll be there by morning.”
I will update you again when we’ve found lodging in Sanctum.
Special thanks to my patron on Patreon, Alicia Cameron