Campaign: “Fury of the Forgotten”
Episode 2: The Dying Fortress
April 23, 2025
The road to the city curled like a scar through withered hills and thinning trees.
As Caelan Thorne rode, the wind picked up — not fierce, but sharp, whispering half-words that vanished when he tried to listen. Perhaps it was nothing more than his mind shaping fear into form. He had come seeking the undead. Now, even the wind felt haunted.
Caelan rode past overturned carts and broken weapons left to rust, The City of Blackmere emerging ahead — its walls tall and proud. Smoke curled from its chimneys. Banners hung stiff in the wind. This was no village lost to fear. Blackmere held its shape. It still believed in walls, in order, in control.
At the gate, the paladin was greeted by one of the city guards.
State your name and business.
The guard's armor marked him as a knight. Caelan’s arrival drew wary glances, but no challenge. Just questions.
Caelan Thorne.
He answered quickly. Sent by the Order of the Dying Light to help purge the evil that has befallen your tarnished land.
Tarnished?
The guard chuckled. The land is fine, it's the people who need your clergy.
He was referring to the loss of faith since the arrival of the walking dead. Still, he seemed genuinely pleased to see the Dying Light finally taking action.
I'm looking for information.
Caelan’s horse exhaled sharply, as if to remind the paladin they had been riding for days. And perhaps a place for him to rest.
You might want to check in with the other priests.
The temple's towering spires loomed above the stone. Impossible to miss.
Peering inside the walled city, the streets were cleaner than expected. Soldiers moved in patrols. Market stalls buzzed with muted life. But under the surface — he could feel it — something was unraveling. Despite the illusion of security, even this walled city was affected by the chaos stirring just beyond the gates.
The knight motioned toward the castle beyond. Or perhaps you seek audience with the King?
Caelan needed answers. And the City of Blackmere had no shortage of voices eager to offer them.
He could seek out the local tavern — drink loosens lips, and the right drunk often knows things not meant to be said.
Or maybe listen to his steed — find shelter, rest, and let his thoughts settle. To breathe. He might use that time to fall to one knee and pray — not for safety, but for guidance.