The coach had stopped at last. As the sun gently rose over the horizon, welcoming a new day on this world, you stepped down the wagon's squeaky little steps into the Hamlets town square. You had made it at last. To your old home and, regrettably, your new one as well. It had been years since you had last set foot in this place, but even your most horrendous preconceptions could not surpass the scenery around you. As your eyes wandered all around, they found nothing but sorrow.

You remembered this place as the shining jewel of the coast. Bustling streets of commerce and promise, adorned with laughing, shouting, cheering faces. The houses that surrounded you were broken. Shattered. Their ruinous state would imply that this village had just recently suffered a catastrophic blow to its infrastructure were it not for the layers of rot, mud and decay that had spread all over the cracks and crevices within this once shining, resolute city. The rays of sunlight creeping over the horizon amplified this place's sheer lack of color. No matter where your eyes would go, there was nothing to see. Nothing to say. The collapsed walls and broken pillars of this village were devoid of... anything. The surrounding people echoed their towns despondence. Disinterested and shambling, their affects had more likeness to the undead than the very much alive.

A state of limbo had fallen over your old Hamlet. From the wavering nameless streams of people, a small crown began to form before you. You had arranged for someone to meet you here, someone "trusted", but this did not look the part. Taking up their vigil, your bodyguards positioned themselves by your side. The faces opposite you, if not downhearted and lost, were spiteful. Hating. They knew who you were. Not all of them, surely, but you could tell who did. From the colorless miasma you had so recklessly set foot in, pinpricks of fiery, grudging hatred sparkled towards you. Their collective minds thinking as one, beholding you as one. Seeing through you. Mistreated and abused by none other than your ancestor, your own flesh and blood, the blood that had spawned you into this world, they had nothing but disdain for you. You did your best to quell their fears and hostility, introducing yourself and stating your allegiance to their cause. Then you watched as the Hamlets quiet hostility turned into unbridled, rancorous mockery. Your outstretched hand, a gesture of good will and good spirits, remained tauntingly empty as the crowd dispersed.

As the people disappeared, they gave way to one of the larger, more intact houses. One of the few. The tavern. It was readily apparent why this abode was one of the few fated to survive the onslaught of time in this place. Tempting passers-by with an escape from the surrounding bleakness, it held bargain for the rich and poor alike. The bar offered all manner of liquid distraction, while the basement doors served as a gateway - to the consuming hell of gambling games and other notorious pleasures.

Through the sunken roofs and narrow streets you made out the other two lucky guests of this village. The abbey, surely, as religion once more served as the final and - for some - only refuge from their justified hopelessness. They lastly, the hospital. Surely no esteemed doctor had seen this place in months, but despair and looming death gave way to all manner of creative implement. The trifecta of distraction, denial and absolution - cornerstones of a civilization desperate for a better future that simply would not come.

Then, something took you by surprise. You had not seen it at first, as the cart had landed directly next to it when you arrived, but as your gaze concluded a full turn through the city, you finally saw it. A statue. Right in the center of the town square, somewhat decrepit, but yet still standing tall. A robust icon mimicking the silhouette of your late ancestor. Why? Of all the places these people had to let succumb to ruin and rot, how was this not one of them? Why was your ancestors mocking, vile visage still held up high, surveilling the city and its surrounding lands? No riotous mob had formed and toppled the idol years ago. No singular delinquent had set out one night to deface and shatter the stony image, bit by bit. Only weather and time had, with major exertion, eaten and gnawed into the statues surface. He was still there. Surveying. Observing. Bearing witness to his towns demise from within his stony prison. You felt his gaze on you, as must every waking soul in this city. But then, to your horror, you realized he was not the only watcher.

Slowly, carefully, your gaze scaled the stoic idol, the towns roofs, the abbeys decrepit tower and crept towards the distant horizon. It encroached on that hill you recognized, past its increasingly withered and shattered vegetation until it arrived. The manor. Or rather what was left of it. Overlooking it all. And as you beheld its ruinous mess, the crumbled façade of a long lost seat of providence, you made eye contact. That which was watching from within looked right at you. It saw you. You felt it. Enticing you. Begging you. Tempting you to come and see for yourself. And you were staring back, caught within your sudden contact.

The loud cracking of a whip right behind you snapped you back into the moment. You turned around to see your wagon take off, back into the depths of the forest, the madman atop laughing and shaking, ensnared in his own twisted version of reality. The men who had escorted you stood next to you with a poise of doubt, discreetly beholding their new surroundings. This was it. Your new home. For as long as it would take.

Through the narrow streets you spotted a man hastily making his way towards your group. He stood out from the rest of the Hamlets people, so brittle and old and yet in such a rush. Nobody here seemed to have any urgent business to take care of, no place to be. The depressing slowness the folk here moved in served completed the drab, lifeless picture that was this Hamlet. But this man had a mission. Finally, your contact revealed himself and immediately you found his appearance familiar. Not a single strand of hair adorned his wrinkled head and the specular lenses on his face did little to hide that telltale spark of madness in his sunken eyes. His smile, grin rather, felt strained and untruthful and it was bothering you. It was then you understood that this man, as absurd as it was, stood out as an exact replica of the coachman, just slightly less unhinged and incapable. Brothers perhaps? Hastily he greeted you, shook your right with his both hands and introduced himself as the caretaker of the Hamlet. So both served this little village, interesting. Though where exactly their familial context lied was of no importance as long as both played their part.

With no hesitation the man waved you towards the tavern and personally handed out keys to your rooms. It was then you realized you had not given much thought to your temporary place of residence in this village. As luxurious as your Ancestor had lived you had simply expected premium accommodation, your own place of rest at the very least. But as you had come to witness the state of this place, you realized that a whole room to call your own within one of the yet standing domiciles might regrettably be your best option. With a small nod of gratitude your two companions brushed past you, each taking a key from the mans hand and retreated to their quarters upstairs. You were alone now. You stood there with your host, within the stuffy confines of the town bar. The keep behind the counter eyed you silently, while the drunken compatriots on their stools slept, snored and coughed. Few torches lit the room, dimly illuminating the empty chairs and tables, the bales of hay and the cobble walls.

You took the final key. Though instead of unpacking your bags and settling in as the man had proposed, you decided to accompany him right back to the abbey, where he had invited you to join him after. This place had managed to give you pause just in the few short minutes since your arrival and no amount of rest or refuge could help you shake it now. What you required were answers. Answers to hundreds of queries slowly accumulating in your head, spinning a web of smothering, impeding frustration and unease. You followed the man through the winding streets. Any onlooker might have been fooled by his outer appearance, the brittle stance, that never fading, eerie grin on his face, but you had seen his hands. Scarred and scratched - this man had been wielding a sword. He had been a defender of this town, repelling beast and butcher alike, some time in the past. What happened between then and now you could only wager to guess.

You drew closer to the abbey. A small square in front was kept clear of building and rubble, as if to at least keep up the appearance that this once holy building was still an honorable, welcoming place. It looked significantly more disfigured than expected upon closer examination. With every step you took, you could make out more of the broken stones and damaged, fouling woodwork. The bastions massive wooden portal, cracked and hanging crooked in its hinges, lead you to the inside of this forlorn sanctuary. A priest, muttering silent words of prayer, greeted you as you entered the building, his eyes hidden behind the hood of his torn robe. The caretaker lead you trough the drawn out hallways of the abbey, the torches mounted on the steep walls sending shifting shadows down the path before you.

As you reached a particularly small door on your right, the caretaker halted and ushered you inside the equally tiny room behind it. Another hooded stranger sat on the only chair in the chamber, hunched over a collection of pages, notes and eerie depictions scattered on the table before him. As he noticed the newcomers, he got up and left without saying a word, shutting the portal behind him. The caretaker motioned you towards the now vacant seat and as you sat down, you beheld the clutter of paper on the table before you. There were plans, drawings and maps, all addressing either the town's buildings and infrastructure or the surrounding acres of farmland, forest and ancestral ruins. The time to plot had finally come.

Before you even began digging through the generous collection of resources before you, your focus was drawn to one peculiar volume that stood out from the rest. An ample assortment of pages bound in a red leather jacket. It had once been sealed tightly by a metal lock, but an unauthorized entry had left it bent and broken. Apprehension spread through your mind and body. Carefully you lifted the heavy cover to reveal the first page and found your dreadful suspicions confirmed. You recognized the font immediately. The large and wavy, yet somehow crooked letters were the same you had seen on the letter. You had seen them spell your doom. Here their treacherous, winding curls spelt a name all too familiar. A shiver ran down your spine. You had uncovered your ancestors journal.

Driven by that lurking fear you tore past the first page, into the maddening vortex your ancestor had left for you. The first page alone intimated you with the sheer amount of letters spilling from its pages. Cryptic drawings to either side made no sense to you, the words between them rang confounding and hollow. As if their meaning was hiding somewhere in the shadows, somewhere deeper within the bound pages of that damnable volume. You pushed on momentarily, but soon a sense of futility settled over your endeavor. The journal was thick, vast in its content, plumbing its depths might take you weeks if not another few months. Time you did not have. The adventurers had been hired and awaiting command. Your arsenal of coin was yet existent, but harshly limited. And the stirring in your gut would simply not abate. You could not endure this any longer.

Your purpose in this quest felt nebulous at best and it simply would not do. You needed to know, what happened and what needed to be done. And you realized who would know. He would. He, before his, at that point, inevitable doom, he would have known what it would take and what it was that had gone so terribly wrong. The earlier writing had an almost childlike quality in its aspiration and goals. No insight into errors or problems that might arise from these methods. So you finally detached from the cryptic ramblings of the humble beginnings and decided to skip ahead. To the end. Turning the book over you lifted the back cover and were confronted with the final pages of your ancestors journey. Few blank pages remained between them and the books limit. It had been filled almost in its entirety. Eagerly and desperate, you read the final page. The last page on which your ancestor had spilled ink in crooked form to spell a message to no one but himself. A last word of goodbye.

Ambition has brought me to my knees.

Within the rituals containment I had felt the captain, the leader of a cosmic crusade. I realize now, the rules of the bargain had been obscured from me intently, alas the deal is final.

Powers of the cosmos, once so evidently fluid within my grasp have ebbed to a laughable dribble, siphoned away by those truly deserving of them. I have become underling of the crown, no more than a peddler of their influence.

The gruesome realization of what it is that has been summoned into life below this ancient walls, of what it is that I brought into this world, has sent my mind into a shattering tailspin. The very nature of that thing, the utter stunning implications of its mere existence. The shrilling horror I feel at the mere thought.

Terminally askew by the terror of my own creation, I find myself incapable of self-preservation. My every step unsettles this which lurks below and its strenuous echoes send blasts of bewildering madness through my mind. I can not rest, for my spirit is ablaze with the imagery of cataclysm. I can not run, for my body buckles under the tremors that be.

There is a riotous mob outside the gate that will have me dead within the day. Their covetous shouts ring in my ears as I am writing this. I have invited havoc and it arrived. No more remains for me to do.

Your inner eye played the images for you. A ravenous horde of villagers tearing the man into chunks, malicious wailing laughter, hysteria over the masters fall. A gruesome scenery. Though the thing that stuck with you, the important detail within your long lost relatives final passage was the mention of the source. The scourge, the very well from which sprung the echoes of dread that had since consumed the Hamlet and its surrounding acres, woods and fields. It was there, underneath the manor. What was is that this fool had unearthed? What foul call had he, in his boundless arrogance, bellowed into the unknown? You had been at odds with your ancestors antics before, though this... was so much worse. The horror that jolted your body at the mere touch of the page, the visible shake in the hastily scribbled glyphs, it spoke more of the magnitude of his crime, than his words ever could.

There was another important detail within his writing. The day your ancestor left this earth behind, the day he burdened you with the terrible ballast of his work, there had been people at the manor. From his descriptions, quite a number. What did they find? Eagerly you turned towards the caretaker, still just standing there, arms low, hands held together. Smiling that tense, upsetting smile. "There was a riot at the day of my ancestors death," you stated with mounting interest. The caretaker nodded silently. "Where are these people? I need to speak with them!" The queries quelled from your mind with refreshed vigor. The idea of isolating the target of your quest so early, being able to make quick work of it and retiring, gave you unexpected energy. The mob would know more. But the caretaker did not answer your question. A look of sadness spread over his strained expression. Then he slowly shook his head.

You were stumped. Then you understood. "They never returned," you concluded. "They never made it back from the mountain," the caretaker confirmed your suspicion with a crack in his saddened voice. Effortlessly and without your own doing the image manifested before your eyes. The riotous horde, bearing blazing torches and shouting wildly, reduced. Reshaped. Their errant forms littering the fields around the cursed manor, shambling through the emptiness, devoid of goal, idea or purpose. Leaving behind husbands, wives and children in the relative safety of the Hamlet at the foot of the hill to suffer the following blows of the stain that inched towards them.

You remembered earlier passages from the journal where details of numerous creatures were laid out. There had been mentions of "sources of power" and pieces fell into place in your mind. Whatever it was that was so hatefully beholding from atop the manor, feasting on the failures of human existence, it appeared to draw its horrible power from the stain that spread throughout the lands. Your only chance, so it would seem, was to push back the tide of corruption, halt its spread and surgically erase the corruption from these lands, piece by piece, combat by combat. Or the beast would have you share a fate with the village mob before you.

Slowly you returned to the beginning of the journal, searching for a loose thread to pull on, hoping to unravel this contorted mess strand by strand. In those first few pages dedicated to cosmic curiosity and ritualistic findings, your ancestor had been exploring one specific entity, the first he had come to discover. With an almost dreamlike quality he had raved on, endlessly, about its qualities, implications and its power before, a few pages later, moving on to the next best thing. The thing he had been so obsessed by in his early phases of pursuit was a thing so banal in nature you almost found a semblance of humor within it, were it not for the implications. Resurrection. Mastery over life and death, as he described it in his own words. The beast who wielded that very power, who had been imbued with it went only by the description of "Necromancer". You had arrived in this village, weapons drawn and ready, and with no better idea of where to aim your firepower, this would serve as an apt first target.

The book in hand you got up from your seat, a certain newfound height in your stature. You turned to your host, your unexpected colleague and pushed the heavy volume to his chest. Perhaps you had a use for this man after all. "I need you to find out all that you can on the beast known as the Necromancer."

Behind the fragile grin on the mans face you saw something fracture a little and you felt as if, were it not for the constant painful mask seared into his facial features, he would burst into tears on the spot. The book pressed against his fragile body served as an anchor, dragging his down to a hell only he knew. But someone had to do it. And he would. He knew this place inside and out. He had seen the terrible consequence of a work complete. Indebted and bound to your predecessor by some undisclosed pact, he would take up his role and serve his purpose.

As you left for the tavern you wagered a glimpse back at the gaunt old man. He just stood there, frozen, clutching that old book and he appeared so utterly lost. His eyes staring off to where no light shone, caught in a maelstrom of compulsive, damaging thought. Replaying that which he had seen, which he had so regrettably come to witness, in a loop that he knew no escape from. You looked at him stand there and some part of you felt for him. Then that mantle of noble disregard swept you up once more and you could leave the abbey unburdened.