First Impressions
Silence. Then troubled wheezing and coughing erupted from within the burial woods.
Air filled Oswald's lungs for the first time in ages. His eyes adjusted to red-tinged sunlight filtering through twisted branches as he felt the intertwined roots that had held him in place. As he stirred, the hollow bough loosened its grip, roots uncoiling from his body like reluctant tendrils.
Memories slowly returned to Oswald and so did a growing sense of urgency. He had died in battle—that much he remembered. Yet here he was, breathing again. Unease welled in his heart despite feeling well rested.
He stumbled, slinging the Thornwood Great Bow onto his back, its familiar weight shifting in his arms. The massive curved wood now felt like nothing to him. Where he expected blood, fire, and smoke, there was none. Just stillness amongst a flower field surrounded by trees as Oswald moved carefully not to disturb them.
Then he reached the end of the clearing and found himself at the foot of some gates. Engraved upon them was his lord Sun looking down upon him. Oswald studied the expression on the marble roundel, which he decided was a look of pity upon him and perhaps all mankind.
"Nothing can be done by feeling so sorry for myself. There must be a reason you've brought me back. What shall you have me do?"
There was no reply when he pushed the gates open. Inside, Oswald saw shining gilded halls marred by dust parting before him. Broken statues lined the room, separated by ornate pillars that reached toward a vaulted ceiling. The further he went, the harder it got to see. In the middle stood a metal carving embedded in the floor. Behind it loomed another set of doors, heavy and imposing.
Oswald walked past it and tried pushing the obstacles in his path open. They didn't budge from any strength or force he could muster. He backtracked to the center engraving and heard the way he came from shut. Taking out his greatbow, he snapped off one of its spines as he retracted the bowstring. Mana in the air, Oswald sparked it, igniting the makeshift arrow.
It revealed a sundial. Twelve bronze inlays circled the surface's edge, each inscribed with a virtue. Some were worn smooth by time and ash: Valor, Wisdom, Justice. Others gleamed as if freshly etched - Faith, Devotion, Compassion, and Sacrifice.
Oswald understood. Could he call himself a knight if he didn't? His shadow bounced across each virtue as he considered, each word glowing in a reaction of flashing colors. The magics hum grew insistent. He needed to choose one he truly believed in—the one that meant protecting the smiles of tomorrow.
Without hesitation, he settled on Justice. The word flashed brilliantly before calming, as if accepting his choice. Oswald heard the sound of heavy stones moving as the path cleared open. As his torch died more red sunlight shone through.
As he walked through the chamber, he spared the room one last glance. All the statues had shifted positions and now pointed forward. When he faced the horizon, he saw the silhouette of distant buildings. A renewed sense of resolve bloomed in his chest at the sight of what appeared to be civilization. Oswald stepped into the light and gave the statues a salute.
He fell into rhythm walking down the cliffside and past even more gravestones. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows from the monuments that surrounded him. Past fields of swords and memorials which he tried to commit into memory. At first they were organized, spaced ceremonially — knights and nobles with their family crests still visible despite the weathering. Names he once knew, maybe even fought alongside.
"So many," Oswald whispered. Then it occurred to him, he hadn't checked the other trees when he woke up. There was no turning back now. And Oswald didn't think he was ready to see what became of his old comrades in arms. Not yet. Maybe he was the last one left or maybe they went on ahead. He wasn't sure which was better.
The further he walked, the more erratic the graves were. Some jutted at taut angles, others had sunk halfway into the earth. Past a stele marked with the tallies, tombstones filled his sight with the occasional dead tree twisting between them. Many markers bore no names at all, just crude scratches or symbols he didn't recognize.
The path descended into a valley where mist clung to the ground. Oswald put one foot forward then another into the coils of swirling haze. Which parted only to reform stubbornly in his wake. It carried the strange aroma of salt and resin.
As Oswald ventured deeper into the swirling haze, his hand found the familiar hot steel by his side. Drawing it with reverence, he watched heat gather along its edge. Flames bloomed from the metal, pushing back the darkness—only to sputter and fade. His confident smile faltered as he examined the cracked blade, now fragile like autumn leaves clinging to a branch.
"Oh. You're hurt too. Worry not. I won't push you to the brink."
Oswald chuckled softly, loosening his grip. The sword's light retreated to a tiny ember, barely visible in the gloom. The mist, seeming almost triumphant, swallowed the space where light had briefly conquered.
Through the dense fog, Oswald's outstretched hand found rough stone ahead. His fingers traced the contours of what felt like carved rock until they discovered a depression. Lowering his sword to investigate, the ember's glow revealed an ancient brazier encrusted with soot and strange symbols. Remnants of old tinder miraculously caught the heat, flaring briefly to push back the darkness. In that momentary illumination, the true nature of the impasse revealed itself.
Mountainside was cut straight down the middle, each side honeycombed with recesses. Within each alcove rested a body, preserved and wrapped. Dozens, perhaps hundreds of graves stretched into the distance where the canyon narrowed to a tight passage.
The gap constricted dramatically, barely wide enough for a man. Oswald's sword ember revealed faces of the dead watching him from their alcoves, their empty eye sockets seeming to track his movement. He paused at the entrance, sword raised to better see the narrowing path.
"Don't mean to disturb your rest," Oswald murmured to himself, steeling his resolve. He turned sideways and edged into the constricted passage, his greatbow scraping against stone.
A cold weight pressed against his back and shoulders in this cramp space. The sensation grew heavier with each step, as if countless hands were trying to pull him down into the stone. A chorus of soundless pleas filled his ears.
"JOIN US..." the cacophony seemed to say.
The pressure intensified, something cold brushing against his back—like fingers seeking purchase on his shoulder. Oswald pushed forward despite the strain, but found himself forced to one knee as the burden became unbearable.
"WHY DO YOU STILL LIVE?" the voices accused, their shrieking becoming more desperate.
Oswald's cracked sword flickered feebly, the ember nearly extinguished by the surrounding despair. Never would his head turn back as the dead seemed to press closer.
"My life isn't mine to surrender."
The intensity of their sorrow grew heavier, threatening to crush him completely.
"There's still hope for those who remain," he promised, voice strained. "Don't you have loved ones you want to protect? Let me carry that torch forward."
"NO HOPE... SAD FOREVER," the voices lamented.
Then slowly, the voices shifted—a cacophony of screams and sobs that gradually ebbed into something like fragile acceptance. The spectral weight eased, allowing him to rise once more.
The passage finally opened to a small clearing. Oswald stumbled forward, collapsing onto a fallen log. His limbs quivered from the ordeal as he fumbled to prepare a fire, unkind thoughts still heavy upon his shoulders
He sat in silence for some time, gathering his strength. Then, almost defiantly, Oswald began to hum—a soft, determined tune that grew stronger with each note. It was an old marching song from his crusading days, one that had lifted spirits on many a dark night.
"Can't let the reaper have all my thoughts," he murmured, his hands growing steadier as he arranged kindling. With renewed purpose, he struck his ornamental blade against flint. "A fire shall be our victory tonight," he announced as sparks caught the tinder, "and tomorrow, we press on toward those distant buildings!
Evening had fallen over Anfitrain once more as darkness crept over the outskirts. Oswald poked at embers with the dulled tip of his sword, and sparks leaped upwards like pollen. He then drove the blade into the campfire; it blazed for a moment before settling into a fiercer glow.
He heard footsteps but tended to the fire instead. The faint outline of a figure waved in the shadows beyond. Oswald hoped his lowered guard wouldn't aggravate the first person he's seen since awakening. It didn't attack him outright so all things considered he felt that was a start.
"Oh, hello there. Come hither and warm yourself by the fire. These nights grow colder than they ought to."
A figure emerged from the darkness. And when she stepped into view, Oswald could see a woman with striking crimson hair and pale skin. She wore fine foreign clothes unlike any he had seen in his time, elegantly cut yet practical. This was Rosalyn Monroe, though he didn't know her name yet. She dragged a square sword behind her, carving a thin furrow in the dirt. Her serene expression revealed nothing to Oswald as she stood at the edge of the light's reach.
Oswald gestured to a log across the fire, not blinking at her strange attire. In these lands, such oddities were commonplace.
"I am Oswald of...hm." He paused in thought. "Nowhere really now that I think of it. Hah hah hah. Still, 'tis good to finally see a friendly face."
Rosalyn perched on the log, carefully settling her cloak down. She propped her sword The Weapon against mossy wood which flared for a moment before calming. The woman offered a subtle incline of her chin in acknowledgment.
"Nary a sight to behold in the fog beyond us. Some sort of unnatural stillness, I reckon. Best wait for resplendent sunshine to light the way lest one wander blind. Ah, but you don't look undead, far from it. Whereabouts did you come from?"
Rosalyn's gaze flickered between Oswald and the dancing flames. Her fingers drummed idly against her knee as she accidentally gestured eastward.
"The eastern kingdoms? Curious." Oswald mused, tossing a stick into the fire. "A pity those territories fell some time ago. Or so I heard."
She shook her head in denial, correcting herself.
"Perhaps not east then? My apologies. From what I have learned these cursed lands beyond seem to twist and turn. Easy to lose one's bearings." Oswald reached into his pack producing a small bundle wrapped in cloth. "Food, if you'd like. Hunger still affects some of us, though others... well, some appetites fade with resurrection."
Rosalyn accepted the offering with a graceful nod. The corner of her mouth twitched in what might have been gratitude as she unwrapped the cooked mushrooms inside. Her eyes moved from the orange sprouts then fixed on Oswald, studying him with evident caution.
"These are called Hen-of-the-woods. A small comfort to see them growing in these parts. It's better with butter though one must make do with a wash and roast." He bit into some of his own. She shrugged and hesitantly nibbled a piece of the meal. Save for the occasional sip of water, the two ate calmy. Afterwards, Rosalyn snapped her fingers to grab Oswald's attention.
"Yes?" Oswald asked
With a flourish, Rosalyn beat her chest with her palm, then placed her hand near her fiery red hair, tugging at a strand.
"Ah, How rude of me. I hadn't even asked your name." Oswald studied her gesture, his eyes lighting with understanding. "Your hair..." He pointed to his sandy-colored locks for comparison. "Shall I call you Ginger?"
Rosalyn frowned at him and shook her head firmly.
"Hah hah! Red? Is that correct?" He ventured with a half-smile.
She gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up, her lips curving into a satisfied line. After a moment, Rosalyn leaned forward, her visage growing serious. She bent her arm horizontally across and walked two fingers slowly along it like a traveler on a path, then pointed questioningly toward the distant silhouette of Anfitrain.
"The road?" Oswald followed her gesture. "Ah, you're asking which grounds you've reached. This here seems to be for the Sun's faithful. Sadly we've all seen better days. Are you perhaps of the faith?"
Rosalyn pressed her lips together, shaking her head firmly. Her hand made a sweeping motion across herself before pointing upward, then dismissing the sky with a flick of her wrist.
"No?" Oswald replied. "Ah, it's no bother. You seem like a good sort and there may be a path I know not about." He inhaled the chilly air of the night. "I believe fortune smiles upon us."
Oswald's voice dropped as he pulled his sword from the fire. The blade glowed faintly orange, seemingly absorbing the heat rather than being harmed by it. "Some became empty, driven only by despair or rage. These hurdles seemed to prevent such dangerous souls from wandering further."
The sword's glow intensified slightly as he spoke, casting strange shadows across his weathered face.
Rosalyn studied the sword with interest, her hand ghosting over her own blade without quite touching it, a question in her eyes. The Weapon gave off a faint, almost imperceptible chime of pride. Having felt its mistress unconsciously compare it to the fragile blade in Oswald's hands.
"This old thing?" He noticed her staring at the sword. "A gift from some friends and a symbol of my knighthood. Nowadays, more like a trophy only fit for mantling." He turned the blade carefully, revealing hairline fractures running through the metal, visible only when light caught them just so. "Enchanted to spout fire once upon a time. It can only keep embers now. Useful for lighting the way, if nothing else."
Rosalyn remained seated, caressing the burial gift on her finger, and for a moment she was far, far away from here. The Weapon lay across her lap now, its weight reassuring in the growing solitude. The crackling flames and distant hoots of nocturnal beasts were the only source of noise among the two for several long minutes.
Oswald tried giving her privacy; it was obvious they needed space. Sometimes trying to help just hurt instead. But that forlorn emptiness in her eyes spurred him to action. He'd seen that same hollow look too many times before—in refugees, in fellow knights who'd lost too much. In those days, a kind word or shared purpose had sometimes been enough to reignite a spark. Not always, but enough times to try.
"Why don't we band together? Quite the lonely path ahead and I would be happy for the company." Oswald cleared his throat softly. He knelt on one knee to meet her eye level, his expression earnest.
"You have no reason to trust me. But I, Oswald, declareth upon my honor: I shall be a steadfast shield-brother to you on this journey!" His hand thumped against his chest with such enthusiasm that it dislodged a small cloud of dust from his tunic. "May the Spirit strike me down if I prove false."
Rosalyn stared at him incredulously for a moment. Though no sound escaped Rosalyn's lips, her expression crumpled into unmistakable mirth. She covered her mouth with eyes crinkling at the corners.
She stood up and for a while? Everything felt like it was going to be okay.