Entry 2

Most surviving members of the Tresin community had long since moved on, finding new places throughout the continent to call home. The few who remained in the area did so as workers: slaves to the soldiers who failed them, serving drinks for men who had let their people starve while they themselves ate roast duck and spiced meat. Sadly, the abandonment of the fort and collapse of Bovica didn't have the joyful reaction shared by other oppressed peoples of the Kyrlund. Without a fighting force in the walls, or even the government regulations in place to feed them had they remained, those who established residency within Fort Sinder met the swift revelation that their food stores would run out by the end of the month. No new supplies would be coming from the dead monarchy, meaning any and all food would have to be rationed and that discovering new sources of sustenance would need to become the top priority.

I arrived at the fort in the middle of this transitional period; wanderers stumbled upon the fort, drawn by the chances to loot an abandoned military installation, only to find that "abandoned" was a bit of a loose term for its current state. Stationed upon the ramparts were multiple strangers wearing what looked to be sets of Bovican armor, left behind as dead weight by the fleeing soldiers.

Miraculously, one or two of these strangers actually looked like they knew what they were doing.

Getting inside the walls proved much more difficult than I originally thought as an unseen person from within the gatehouse walked me through a series of increasingly pointless questions before eventually letting me enter, once it was determined that I was neither a Bovican, Tritonian, rebel, raider, murderer, cannibal, vampire, werewolf, or an excessively religious sack of horse shit. That turned out to be the first time someone had wasted the breath in their lungs to ask me if I could transform into a six foot tall, upright wolf whenever the moon came out. And if I died tomorrow, that one time would still be one too many.

Making my way into the fort, only a dozen or so people meandered around the large entry courtyard. All of the past cottages and thatched rooves had been replaced with specifically designed stone structures, and these buildings surrounded the central focal point of the scene on both sides. From the gate I had just walked through to the fort's main hall stood a number of market stalls and booths, left to the elements and wasted because of it. Holes filled the makeshift cloth coverings, and the remains of wooden stalls which had rotted to the point of collapse littered the grounds of the old marketplace. Some newer stalls stood out, run by more people who I didn't recognize. But one face did catch my eye, and my curiosity. A face I hadn't seen in so long, I believed that surely he must have left the area years ago. Yet there he was, avoiding the main courtyard and turning left onto a less traveled path leading behind the wall of military-built structures. The confusion drew me down that path, urging me to follow him.

James Parson had returned to Tresin, and I needed to know why.