Peace is but a distant memory. One that is quickly fading amidst a sea of corpses and bloody streets. Daybreak comes. With it, a golden tinge to the pavements laced with genocide. Just enough in this wintery frost to give a faint glimpse of what was not too long ago a city of prosperity. This wooded sanctuary, this Arcadia, was home to tribes belonging to various disciplines.
From the east were the staff bearers. Practioners of magic both foul and pleasant. From the north, sovereigns of steel. Masters of the blade with no equal. And finally from the isle west, venturers. Merchants adept at minting coin. All of them traveled far and wide only to make this nestled part of the forest their home.
Once at odds with each other until an entire generation was ruined in a never-ending war. It was only then that better sense prevailed. With their spells, swords and coin they made this fair land prosperous. A council formed with representatives from the three ensured that the peace was kept.
Between these houses of power, Arcadia was bereft of crime, poverty and violence. There was order. There was law. There was life.
We were free from the covetous gaze of the Kingdoms south. Goblin hordes never dared to come close to our borders. The foul demonspawns that once walked this realm would think twice before laying siege if they were ever to return.
All this changed in the blink of an eye. And it all happened the day we allowed a witch refuge into Arcadia.
My reminscings were cut short by a shrill sound that pierced through the icy air, like acid on flesh, it melted every instinct except that of utmost pain.
The shrieks were getting louder to the point that I could not hear myself think. What ever it was, it was getting closer.
By now the beams of the sun had emanated every crevice and narrow pathway of the town. And yet it felt like the night had never ended.