The cold night air swept across the farmlands, ushering in the beginning of autumn. It was the kind of cold that nipped at your skin and hastened the blood through the veins.
Emerald rays illuminated the houses beyond the golden fields of wheat and cast the landscape in an ethereal glow. Nestled in the middle of the buildings was a tavern, which had white smoke lazily rising high into the night sky and joined with the clouds above.
The tavern's sign hung from the iron post just outside of the wooden double doors. The sign was a weathered, wooden board with the words, The Hollow Drum, etched into the wood itself. Carved into the wood was the image of a drum, cracked and split down the middle, with two crossed drumsticks beneath it. The paint clearly had faded from the years of abuse and bad weather.
The sign swung with the ebb and flow of the wind and lightly creaked as the iron hinges strained to keep the sign from falling away.
The tavern was thick with the stench of sweat, stale ale, and the weight of unspoken fears. A man sat slouched in a dark corner, his fingers tracing the rim of a half-empty mug. His long brown hair, matted with the grime of too many sleepless nights, framed a face that seemed carved from stone, hard, unyielding, and haunted. The fire in the hearth crackled and spat, casting flickering shadows across the warped wooden walls. The low hum of whispered conversations buzzed around him, but none dared to speak too loudly, not with him there.
He tilted his mug back, draining the last of the ale. It wasn't strong enough to drown the memories tonight. He slammed the mug onto the table harder than he intended, and the sharp thud drew glances from the other patrons. His dark brown eyes flicked toward them, catching a few nervous gazes before they quickly looked away. The tavern's keeper, an older man with deep lines etched into his face, hesitated before approaching.
"You've had enough, Davorian," the man muttered, wiping his hands on a stained apron. "You should leave before you, "
Before the old man could finish, a rough voice cut through the din from the far side of the room. "Let him drink himself under the table, or into the dirt where his kind belong."
The tired man's hand tightened around the handle of his mug, the knuckles turning white. He knew that voice. Jarric, a local thug and mercenary, had been running his mouth for months now. Drunken or sober, he had learned to ignore it, until tonight. There was something in the man's tone, a note of superiority that stoked the fire he had been trying to snuff out with each mug of ale.
He rose slowly from his seat, his movements deliberate, the heavy scrape of his chair drawing all eyes in the tavern. He crossed the room with the grace of someone far too skilled for the condition he was in. His boots clomped on the wooden floor, and the tension in the tavern grew thick enough to cut with a blade.
Jarric, lounging with two of his cronies, looked up with a sneer. "What, you gonna try your luck tonight, Davorian? Or are you too drunk to stand?"
Without a word, his hand shot out, grabbing Jarric by the front of his tunic. With a single fluid motion, he yanked him from his chair and slammed him against the nearest wall. The tavern erupted in gasps, but no one moved to stop it. They'd seen this before.
"You've been talking too much," he growled, his voice low and dangerous.
Jarric's bravado faltered for a moment, but he quickly regained it, his lips curling into a sneer. "You think you're still the great monster hunter? Still the mighty Davorian, protecting the world from evil? Look around, Aric. No one here cares about your name anymore."
Aric's fist collided with Jarric's gut, and the thug doubled over, wheezing. The cronies started to rise from their seats, but Aric's icy glare froze them in place. They had no interest in taking on a Davorian, drunk or not.
The tavern fell silent, save for the crackle of the fire and the heavy breathing of Jarric, slumped against the wall. Aric let go of his tunic and turned to leave, but not before whispering, "Next time you open your mouth, think twice."
The cold night air hit Aric's face like a slap as he stumbled out of the tavern and onto the empty street. The village was quiet, the only sounds the soft creak of the wind through the nearby trees and the distant hoot of an owl. The stars, distant and cold, glittered above him, and the three moons, Glain, Petril, and Rhuz, hung like watchful sentinels in the sky.
He paused, looking up at the moons, their light casting a pale glow on the world. Once, long ago, his family had believed in the balance those moons represented, Glain, the emerald protector; Petril, the cold watcher; and Rhuz, the blood moon, a harbinger of chaos and destruction. Now, Aric felt only their indifference. The world moved on, as it always had, while he remained stuck in the ruins of his life.
With a grunt, he resumed his trek back to the Veltrin Estate, his master's home perched like a dark specter at the edge of the village. His boots scuffed the dirt road as he trudged forward, his body aching from too many drinks and too many fights. The cold seeped into his bones, but he welcomed it. It kept him awake, kept him from sinking too far into the fog of his mind.
As the estate came into view, a familiar dread settled in his gut. Lord Veltrin was not a patient man, and Aric had no doubt he'd face punishment for disappearing into the tavern again. How bad would it be this time? A beating, perhaps, or maybe he'd be thrown into the stables again for the night. It hardly mattered.
The tall iron gates of the estate loomed before him, and with a reluctant sigh, Aric pushed them open and made his way up the cobblestone path toward the manor. The windows were dark, save for the faint glow of a dying fire in the foyer. He slipped inside, closing the heavy oak door behind him as quietly as he could manage.
The foyer was as cold as the night outside, the embers in the hearth barely giving off any warmth. Aric tossed his cloak onto a nearby chair and made his way to the hearth, tossing a few pieces of wood into the fire and stoking it back to life. The flames licked at the logs, casting flickering shadows on the stone walls.
Aric collapsed onto the worn couch in the corner, rubbing his temples to ease the pounding in his head. His body ached, not just from the fight, but from the weight of the years pressing down on him. It was the same routine, night after night. Drink, fight, return to the estate, take the beating, and repeat. A life that had once been filled with purpose had now dwindled to this.
As he sat there, staring into the flames, he felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. The air in the room shifted, and before he could react, a voice cut through the silence like a knife.
"Drunk again, Davorian?"
Aric's body tensed, and he slowly turned his head. Lord Veltrin stood in the doorway, his thin frame cloaked in the shadows. His face, sharp and angular, was etched with disdain as he looked down at Aric with those cold, calculating eyes.
"Late again, too," Veltrin continued, stepping into the room with measured, deliberate steps. "It seems your nights out are becoming more frequent."
Aric didn't respond, keeping his gaze fixed on the fire. He knew what was coming.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you," Veltrin snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut through bone.
Aric turned his head, his eyes meeting Veltrin's. There was no fear in his gaze, only the hollow acceptance of a man who had endured this treatment for far too long.
Veltrin moved closer, his hand resting on the back of the couch as he loomed over Aric. "I pay you, Davorian, and what do I get in return? You disappear for hours, nights on end, drunk and useless. Why should I keep you around, hmm?"
Aric remained silent, knowing that anything he said would only make it worse.
Veltrin's face twisted into a sneer as he reached into his robe and withdrew a gold ring, bearing the insignia of his family crest. "Kiss the ring, Davorian," he ordered, his voice dripping with condescension.
Aric hesitated, his pride warring with the knowledge that refusal would bring harsher punishment. After a long moment, he reluctantly leaned forward and pressed his lips to the ring.
Before he could pull back, Veltrin's hand lashed out, striking him across the face with the back of the ring. The impact was brutal, and Aric's head snapped to the side as the insignia was pressed into his skin, leaving a painful, red imprint on his cheek.
"Pathetic," Veltrin muttered, stepping back. But before he could continue, something caught his eye through the window behind Aric, a faint, ominous orange glow in the distance.
"What's that?" Veltrin demanded, his tone shifting from disgust to suspicion. He moved to the window, his eyes narrowing as he peered into the night. "What have you done this time, Davorian?"
Aric, still recovering from the blow, shook his head, confused. "I don't know," he muttered, wincing as the sting of the imprint on his cheek throbbed. He pushed himself up from the couch and moved toward the window. The orange glow on the horizon was growing brighter, flickering like fire.
The screams grew louder, shrill and desperate, carrying on the night wind as if the very air itself was being torn apart. Aric's pulse quickened, but his body still lagged behind, weighed down by the dull haze of alcohol that clung stubbornly to his mind. The pounding in his head from the bar brawl still echoed, and his legs felt heavy, slow. He blinked hard, trying to shake off the lingering effects of his drinking, but the world around him remained blurry, distorted by the alcohol and the rising smoke.
"You've stirred up trouble again, haven't you?" Veltrin spat, his voice sharp and accusing, though it seemed distant in Aric's ears. He could feel the lord's glare piercing him, but the screams from the village cut through the noise, demanding his attention. "This is your doing," Veltrin growled, stepping closer, his shadow stretching long across the floor as the flames outside reflected in the windows. "You've brought this upon us."
Aric barely registered the accusation. His gaze was fixed on the ominous orange glow spreading across the horizon. His muddled thoughts struggled to focus as the village, his village, began to burn.
Through the haze, Aric could make out shadowy figures moving in the distance. At first, they seemed like nothing more than blurred silhouettes against the backdrop of the flames. But as the firelight flickered and grew brighter, the shapes became clearer, darker, more menacing. Orcs. Tall, hulking brutes, their blackened armor catching the glow of the fire as they stalked through the streets. They moved with a terrifying precision, dragging limp bodies behind them, the screams of the villagers growing more frantic with every passing second.
"Guards!" Veltrin's voice snapped Aric out of his daze. The lord turned on his heel and stormed toward the door. "Guards, get in here!" His voice echoed through the hall as he flung the door open. Two guards rushed in, their armor rattling as they skidded to a stop in front of their lord.
"The village is under attack," Veltrin hissed, his eyes darting back to the window. The glow was growing brighter, the shadows of the orcs reflected in the flames dancing across the walls of the estate. "Take care of it. Now." He turned to Aric, his lip curling in disdain. "Take him with you. Maybe he'll be of some use for once."
Aric's mind was still foggy, but the urgency in Veltrin's voice snapped him into action. He stood, blinking hard as he tried to steady himself, his hand instinctively going to the hilt of his longsword. His body moved on autopilot, years of training kicking in as he followed the guards out into the courtyard.
Veltrin, however, was not finished. "I'm going to bed," he muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. "No one is to disturb me. Handle it." With that, the lord turned and disappeared up the grand staircase, leaving the guards and Aric to deal with the carnage outside.
The cold air hit Aric like a slap as he stumbled into the estate's courtyard. The world outside felt disjointed, the alcohol still numbing his senses. The haze in his head refused to clear, and the lingering taste of ale clung to the back of his throat, but the screams, those piercing, agonizing screams, cut through everything. They were real. Too real.
Around him, the guards scrambled to mount their horses, their faces pale with fear. Aric could see it in their eyes, the way their hands trembled as they tightened the straps on their saddles. They had heard the screams. They had seen the flames. And they were just as unprepared as he was.
Aric moved toward his horse, Storm, the dark gray stallion snorting and pawing at the ground, sensing the tension in the air. His fingers fumbled with the saddle straps, the alcohol making his movements slower, clumsier than they should have been. He cursed under his breath, fighting to stay focused. The night felt like it was pressing in on him, the cold seeping into his bones, the smoke from the fires rising in the distance, filling the sky with an acrid, choking haze.
As he mounted Storm, the sensation of being in the saddle grounded him. The familiar weight of his sword at his side, the cold steel pressing against his leg, brought a sense of clarity. He wasn't just a drunk tonight, he was a hunter. And something needed to be hunted.
The guards mounted their own horses, exchanging nervous glances. The flickering light from the burning village reflected in their eyes, casting shadows over their faces. They didn't know what awaited them in the village, but Aric could feel it in his gut, something dark, something monstrous.
"Move out!" the lead guard shouted, his voice shaky but determined. The group spurred their horses forward, galloping out of the estate and into the night.
The ride toward the village was a blur of motion and noise. The pounding of hooves on the dirt road, the rush of wind in Aric's ears, the distant crackle of flames growing louder with each passing second. The cold air stung his face, but it wasn't enough to clear the fog entirely. His vision wavered, the orange glow in the distance shifting and warping as if the fire itself was alive, moving toward them.
And then the village came into view.
Flames towered into the sky, licking the heavens as if trying to consume the stars themselves. The buildings, simple, small homes and shops, were engulfed in the inferno, their thatched roofs collapsing in on themselves, sending embers spiraling into the night. The air was thick with the stench of burning wood and flesh. The heat radiated outward, suffocating, oppressive. But it was the screams, those blood-curdling, desperate screams, that cut through everything.
Aric reined in Storm, his horse snorting and stamping its hooves in agitation. His heart hammered in his chest as his eyes darted across the village. Bodies lay scattered in the streets, mangled and torn apart in ways that no blade could have done. Limbs twisted at unnatural angles, faces frozen in twisted masks of horror, and blood... so much blood. The streets were slick with it, glistening in the firelight.
"By the gods..." one of the guards whispered, his voice barely audible over the roar of the flames.
And then Aric saw them, the orcs. Hulking shadows reflected in the flickering firelight, their dark armor spiked and brutal. Their helmets bore wickedly curved horns, their gauntleted fists clenched around crude weapons that dripped with blood. They moved like predators, methodical, calculated, dragging villagers, mostly women, by their hair, their cries muffled by the sound of crackling flames.
One orc, larger than the rest, held a woman by the throat, her body limp in his grasp as he dragged her toward the flames. The light from the fire danced across his armor, casting a hellish glow over his faceplate, his glowing orange eyes gleaming with a cruel, sadistic pleasure. He tossed the woman aside like a ragdoll, her screams cut short as she hit the ground.
"To arms!" the lead guard shouted, his sword already drawn, the steel catching the light of the fire. The guards followed suit, their weapons trembling in their hands as they steeled themselves for the fight.
Aric was already in motion. The fog of alcohol was still there, but the adrenaline rushing through his veins helped him push it aside. He drew his longsword, the familiar weight of the blade steadying his hand as he spurred Storm forward. The massive orc with the glowing eyes turned toward him, releasing a guttural roar that sent a shockwave through the air. The beast's massive axe swung wide as Aric closed the distance.
The strike came faster than Aric expected. The orc's strength was immense, and the sheer force of his swing nearly knocked Aric from his horse. He leaned low, dodging the massive blade by inches, and countered with a swift slash aimed at the orc's exposed side. His sword bit into flesh, dark blood spurting from the wound, but the orc barely flinched.
With a roar, the orc backhanded Aric, the blow sending him flying from his horse. He hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from his lungs. His vision blurred, the world spinning around him as pain radiated through his side. He tasted blood, warm and metallic in his mouth, but there was no time to recover. The orc's axe came down again, slamming into the dirt inches from Aric's head, sending a shower of dirt and debris into the air.
Dazed and disoriented, Aric scrambled to his feet, his sword still clutched in his hand. But before he could gather his bearings, something caught his eye, the orcs were crawling. Not just across the ground, but vertically, scaling the sides of the burning houses with terrifying ease. Their heavy, spiked armor didn't slow them down at all. They moved like twisted spiders, dragging their captives with them as they ascended the flaming walls.