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My name is Damien, son of Hark, the blacksmith of Serondale.

I lived with my father my entire life. My mother had died during my birth, and my eldest sister has long since left with a group of traveling bards to pursue music. It is what mother would have wanted, my father would say.

She was lucky.

I trained under my father in the art of the blade, from its creation, use, and eventual end. He was a master, well known throughout the land. He was always pursued by would-be swordsmen and aspiring blacksmiths alike for tutelage.

He settled down in Serondale after meeting my mother, and no one has bothered him since.
Because they never found him.

Serondale is a small desert village, with a taiga to its north, not uncommon in this odd land. It is unremarkable in every way.
No wonder they never came to look for him here.

Anyway, my tale of woe begins the night of the new moon, August 12, 16 A.F. (After Forge).

My father had just installed a redstone security door; I was at the table reading a letter from my dear sister.

She had just been accepted as the high Kings newest personal bard. I told him, and, beaming, he said he couldn’t be more proud.

The sun was setting, and the other villagers began the usual scramble back to their homes. The moon was of a sickening red hue. I pointed this out, and father asked me to take the news to the local Myst Keeper, which I found quite odd. Never had I seen my father associate with him, and it was generally accepted that they hated each other. But, nevertheless, I did as instructed.

I arrived at his door, found it was open, and walked in. There was the familiar green book on the pedestal, which I had been told by all to never touch, and the odd page with the mysterious symbol on the lectern. No sign of him, so I left.

Returning home, it was now dark, and, oddly quiet. We were used to the zombie attacks, the bands of roving skeletons and spiders, and of course, the creepers, but, tonight, there was no sign of any of them.
I told my father that there was no sign of the Myst Keeper, and that this moon frightened me. Alarmed, my father reached for his sword and heeded for the door. Turning to me, he said,

"No matter what you see or hear out there, do not leave this house".

It was the last time I would see my father alive.


His words sent a chill down my spine. I stared after my father as he ran to the town square, wondering what horrible things could possibly happen in this back water town.

Everything horrible happens in the back water towns.

And soon, I would find out what sort of nightmare this moon would bring.

Out of my window I could see them. Formless at first, as they drew near, I could plainly see that they were scorpions. Behind them was a single pair of glowing red eyes.

They fell upon the town like water, sweeping away the weak first, carrying them off screaming into the darkness, as their master made his way to the square.

At this point, I was too frightened to look, but unable to look away.

I couldn’t spot my father from my angle, but I heard him give orders to those who remained.
Then, it turned to him. It clearly grabbed for him, I could hear him scream. It pulled him back, into view, and ran its tail into his head. And then, I watched it rend my father limb from limb.

He never stood a chance. He never even drew his sword.

It was a monster.

That massive black scorpion, which I’ve come to name the Emperor Scorpion, haunts me, even to this day, it’s soulless eyes a piercing blood red, and the glowing devil-mark on its back, it’s only other shape-defining quality.

I’ve never been so afraid.

Its swarm made another sweep of the village, this time breaking down doors and windows, dragging those smart enough to hide away.

They burst into our... my home. I hid under my bed, a coward, but alive. I hid there till morning.
There were still many out there. Their master was gone, and with him, the brunt of the swarm.

I gathered my wits, and looted my home, anything useful, which was everything. Father only kept essentials. I drew my sword and donned my leather armor, and charged through the door.
I slaughtered every remaining monster in the village.

And then, I was alone, surrounded by the corpses of everyone I knew.


I decided to survey the damage and bury the dead, no matter how difficult.

I buried my father first, tears welling in my eyes. It took everything I had not to break. I already lost so much, I wouldn’t lose myself. It would dishonor the man who raised me.
The others were… less difficult, mainly because I hardly knew them.
I never had many friends; I focused on my studies, physical and mental, throughout my childhood, with little care for companionship. My father was all I ever needed.

I found the body of the Myst Keeper, submerged in the well. It seemed he was murdered before the attack began. I remembered the days I spent perusing his collection of books, and how he would scold me whenever I made even the slightest glance towards the magical green book. I could hear his voice even as I shifted the last of the sand over his body.

I stood over the now finished graves a moment, pausing in reverence of the people who made this town wonderful.

I went to the library, and without a moment’s hesitation, took everything related to the book binding craft. I stopped and looked quizzically at the green book. I dare not open it. The symbol, the book filled with even more symbols, I yearned to understand them, believing they held the key to the prior night’s massacre.

Then I disobeyed the Myst Keeper and my Father.

I finally left the library, satisfied in my new goal, and looted the crops.
I would need food for this journey. The dead can’t eat, and they’d want me to survive.
Why else did father tell me to hide?

I turned to the north, the only land other than this I even remotely knew, and walked.
I looked back once, a last farewell to Serondale.

Night fell. The first night
The monsters appeared as normal, and I fought, as I would of if father and I got caught before reaching home again after a day of fishing.

Everything was normal.

But it was not well. There were too many questions, no answers.
I was tired, hungry. I hid in a hollowed out tree, likely an ancient Elven home, and slept.

I woke the next morning with a start, my head aching, dreams filled with the horror of the night before. I opened up my backpack and rummaged through it and found the wheat I had taken from the village fields.

Placing down the crafting table, I marveled once more at the spaciousness of this tree. Elves have long since gone extinct, and little records remain as to their history. What have survived are the numerous mysterious books and pages they’ve left behind, as well as these magnificent homes.

I laid the wheat in a line, the recipe for bread, and cast the binding spell. In an instant, the three bushels of wheat became bread, as it should.

I had never questioned binding before, but now, I wondered how exactly did this method of crafting come about? Few artisans remained in this world who knew how to properly bake, smelt, and the like, and it is through them that we have the more exotic, custom products. Who discovered the binding spell which took the hours of labour away?

Putting my questions aside, I packed up my bed, the table and set to eat, prepared to leave immediately afterwards. I took the loaf and began to munch, spinning the carrot in my left hand, much as that girl at the produce stall would do with leeks. I was always fascinated by the prospect of what could been going on behind her pale blue eyes. She had left years ago, to attend to her ailing grandmother in New Eden.

I wondered how she was doing.

Silly boy, I thought to myself. You never even knew her name! Why bother falling for a memory?

I chuckled, and finished the bread.

The morning light, the mobs casually burning, some smart enough to seek refuge under the tall spruce trees, made for a delightful scene in such a peaceful place. Yet over the hill I could see the smoke rise from Serondale. This taiga was not far enough to escape its image.

I needed to go farther. I must head north.

I never bothered to eat that carrot. I left.

As I walked onward, dodging zombies and arrows alike, I stumbled across a cave. Towards its mouth were several curious “ores”. I say “ores” because, as I found out, they were fossilized eggs. I mined them up, not knowing of what creatures they were, although I had a suspicion that at least one of them was of a hostile beast.

I would have gone further into the cave, but my sword broke as I slew another zombie, and within the cave was nest of creepers. I had picked up an Aether’s Guard and Aqueous Blade from prior kills, but neither were in any condition for sustained fighting. I ran.

I journeyed north for a few more hours before crossing into a plains biome. Not much of interest happened before then, simple explorations of various small ruins, broken down churches, abandoned homes and the like. The plains bordered another desert, which should surprise none.

What an odd world. Almost artificial.

I skipped over the desert, I had not the weapons to travel through it, as night drew close.

And, in a blink, night fell. The second night.
I head eastward, as there was no shelter in sight towards the north, where I had spotted an abandoned home. It was a small abode, no door, with a ladder up to the roof.
I would rest here for the night, sleeping before the monsters arrive.

It wouldn’t be that easy. Never could be.

But it was. I woke the next morning well rested and refreshed, albeit quite late. It was already noon. I could not afford to dawdle any longer.

I set out north again, travelling through desert and jungle. Not much of interest occurred until I finally reached what looked on my map to be a settlement, deep seated in the middle of a vast plains biome.
Three men stood guard at its southern border, two with bows trained on my vitals. The center guard spoke as I approached,

“What business do you have here? We do not take kindly to intruders!”
I could tell.

“My name is Damien. I have travelled from far south in search of refuge,” I said, making my intentions clear. This far in, I’d rather not find myself in undue altercations. “My home of Serondale has been destroyed. By what, I shudder to describe. A simple nights rest and directions to the nearest city are all I ask for.”

By now, many of the other settlers had poked their heads out of their homes, intrigued by my statement.
“Serondale has fallen!?” exclaimed one man.

“What manner of beast could destroy a village of such peace?” cried others.
If there was anything known of Serondale, it was its steadfast neutrality and peaceful stand on all conflicts.

The guard motioned for the onlookers to hush.

“You may enter, as it is nearing nightfall. You will tell us,” he waved his hand toward the entire settlement, “everything.”

I was surprised to find that this community was very connected. Unlike Serondale, all meals were eaten as a group, instead of in individual homes. The chefs prepared a hearty meal of meat, stew, and fine cheese, mainly imported from the nearby city of Cale.

I told them of what horrors I witnessed, the monstrous black scorpion that laid waste to my home, and they sympathized. Each family here had been displaced by many monstrosities. It pained me more as I heard each tell the tale of many towns I have heard of, Mayna, Vad, Ethy, even the military stronghold of Iod had fallen.

“I had no idea that the continent was so… troubled…” I stuttered, trying to find my emotional balance again.

“I don’t blame ya, kid,” said the old man nearest me. He was in his late seventies, the tan on his arm suggested he was a blacksmith, his muscular arms still rippling with strength. “Serondale is pretty far removed from the rest of the kingdom. Hey, if you don’t mind me asking, I heard rumors that Hark set up shop there. Any truth to that?”

I cringed. I wasn’t averse to telling the truth. In fact, father once told me that should I travel, I should tell them about him, where he is, what he’s been doing. I assumed he meant after his death, because why have me do that when you came here to hide, ya know?

“If you don’t want to talk about your town…” he mumbled apologetically.

“No, no, it’s fine… It’s just that… it’s hard to talk about… my father…”

Everything stops. For a moment, I wondered if the questions would flood in next.

That didn’t happen. They mourned. They treated him as my father. Not the legendary smith.

We connected. They understood that this was not just a great man. He was a father, a husband, someone’s child.

Something that many people forget.

The feast ended there. I was escorted to my room at the inn, and I couldn’t relax. It was past midnight, the mobs were at it, yet it was quiet. I didn’t like it at all. I got up; grabbing the sword the old man gifted me after the feast.

I ran down the stairs, preparing for battle, even if there was none there. I couldn’t get rid of that feeling. Something was wrong. Very, very wrong.

And I was right.