"Unknown Lands"
Blackened armour curses his body, each step creaking with the armour's rivets groaning in age.
Garentile walks, his home far from him, his family long gone. Each scar scrawled upon his armour, serving as reminders as to what's lost.
The kingdom of Harrenfall, a city once standing tall with its flora and beauty upon the mountains, now lays to rest. This once bustling kingdom of miners and gardeners remains unawakened, a tomb of lives and secrets. Garentile walks, the garden his family once wandered for hours, day to day, passes him. Memories rush, tears fall, Garentile walked. More locations show, more memories flow, a torrent of feelings rise up as Garentile walked further into the epicentre of his torment. Then, it came into view, the place of unending turmoil and hatred within Garentile's heart. The castle, and it's inner sanctum. Flashes of his service to the emperors of Harrenfall invaded him, their "branding" of his armour upon his body with each spike piercing him made ever heavier as their purple barbaric runes glow ever on. An unholy combination of Transfiguration magic in terms of binding magic spells. The magic spells in question, are that of a healing spells twisted and cast by the kingdom's witchdoctors with wards made to reject removal. Garentile looks upon his armoured hands, the metal wounds of fire blasted upon his gauntlets ever present. Garentile took one more look towards the centre piece of the sanctum, the ruined crooked chairs that once sat the emperors of old and brandished his dirtied longsword. He lifted it with their two hands, the very edge of the blade untouched by ground shining from oncoming light, as he swung. His blade met rotted wood, the damaged spectacles of power bursting apart at the seams with each swing, Garentile's palpable anger bursting out like the morning light of the new day through dark clouds ahead. His blade soon rested in his right gauntlet, the chairs of power now being nothing but unrecognisable scrap wood and splinters. Garentile stowed his sword, the blade hanging by his side as he exited the castle, his anger now let out as he walked with the ever-rising sun. Exiting the kingdom, Garentile felt the waves of water fell from the sky, the dirt once decorating his armour now muddied and slid off his metal exterior. Crashes were heard, as the spirals of wind found themselves tossing the Garentile around. He looked up at the imitation of clouds, a mystical streak of scrawling runes going across it with each second, the light spread from the abuse of magic across it reflected off of Garentile's mix matched eyes. And suddenly, that very streak falls, the humming of static and wind foreign to these lands piercing the air, and crushed Garentile. He fell, feeling his entire being seemingly fall through the ground beneath him, as he was carried through an everlasting darkness of currants, his very being crushed with his armour as he flows through the infinite until, finally, it stopped. Garentile's eyes remained closed, his body completely removed of any and all concepts of the pain he just embodied, the waves of agony he felt simply non-existent. Rattled, his body shaking with the imitation of the rustling trees near him, Garentile gets up from his laying position. He finds himself in a place off oddity, the trees unfamiliar to him, the ground beneath his very foot softer and the grass foreign to him. He looks upon his armour; it's integrity completely damaged as its entire form is darkened beyond comprehension. Gazing at his gauntlets, lays on an unfamiliar castle, the formation of the building confusing to his eyes. His home no longer near, Garentile walks, his destination clear; the castle of the autumn trees.
