Act 1: Outcast and The Wall
The twilight sky stretched gray over The Wall, a grand yet somber monument standing at the southern border of Middle Earth. This colossal wall towered high, serving as the final barrier between the seemingly peaceful world to the north and the unseen threats from the south. Cold and unyielding, The Wall was an ancient masterpiece of elves and dwarves—a testament to a great collaboration that had now become little more than a forgotten relic of history.
Its walls were filled with cracks, signs of aging that time could no longer deny. In some places, wild plants had begun to creep up, covering parts of the great stones that once symbolized hope. Yet the wall still stood, though it had lost its former glory. The wind that passed through the cracks in the stone created a melancholic tune, like whispers of the ghosts of the past—reminders of war, destruction, and great sacrifices once made here.
Atop The Wall stood an old man, his long cloak billowing in the sharp wind. Oldman, the leader of the Outcasts, gazed at the horizon with a burdened expression. The wrinkles on his face, the result of long years spent under pressure and sacrifice, reflected a weariness that could not be hidden. His eyes swept across the wall, observing the modest structures below, scattered throughout the headquarters he led. Those small huts, the homes of the Outcasts, radiated a life that was simple yet filled with struggle.
Thin smoke rose from several chimneys, carrying the scent of meager meals and a harsh life. The Outcasts gathered there, living their days in a place the world regarded as a wasteland. In the distance, the creaking sound of the old dwarven-made lift echoed with every movement. Though old and fragile, the lift still faithfully carried people up and down the towering wall, which stood more than a hundred meters high.
Oldman walked back in silence, allowing the cold wind to strike his face. His thoughts drifted far, traversing the history he knew so well. The history of the fall of the Human Empire, the great war of the three races, and the ever-looming threat from the south. He took a deep breath, letting the weight of those memories sink in. "Perhaps all of it is just legend to those who live out there," he muttered softly, "but here, behind this wall, we know the truth. The shadows still lurk."
His hand touched a small bottle of Bloody Potion hanging from his belt. The thick red liquid, the only hope for the Outcasts, was both a source of incredible strength and an inescapable curse. He stared at the bottle with deep intensity, as if searching for answers to the dilemma that had haunted his life for so long.
The silence was finally broken when a senior Outcast entered his office. With swift steps and a respectful demeanor, he handed Oldman a letter. "Latest report, Oldman. The assassination mission of the Cynics in the south has been completed."
Oldman took the report without a word, allowing the Outcast to leave. He unrolled the parchment, reading the brief yet concise report. However, the letter barely held his attention. To him, such reports came in every day—missions to slay monsters, tasks to dismantle bandit groups, or efforts to quell minor conflicts around Middle Earth. It was all just part of the routine at The Wall.
As silence reclaimed the room, Oldman spoke to himself in a low but meaningful voice, "The Outcasts are merely tools. Tools for the Lords who are too busy with their political games to care about the real threat." He gazed out of the small window in his office, looking at the dark horizon to the south. "They keep ignoring the real danger, pretending this wall is enough to hold it all back. But The Wall is nothing more than a thin line that could crumble at any moment under the wave of horror from the south."
Oldman took a deep breath, trying to calm his troubled thoughts. His eyes remained fixed on the horizon, as if trying to pierce the darkness to see what lay beyond. Deep down, he knew the southern threat would never stop. Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow, but that wave would come. And when it did, only The Wall and the Outcasts would stand between it and the destruction of the world.
With slow steps, he left the window, placing the report on his desk. The flickering candle on the table cast shadows that followed his movements. Oldman's mind remained focused on one thing—endurance. The Wall must stand, no matter what. And he knew that this task could only be fulfilled by those the world considered worthless.
****