Aftermath RPThe battle was over. The sky no longer wept fire, nor did the earth groan beneath the weight of war. What remained was silence — vast, heavy, and unfamiliar. The kind of silence that comes after the end of a story, when the final page has been turned, and all that is left is the lingering echo of what once was.
Escalia was a world in waiting. The kingdoms had sung of a hero who would defeat the Demon Lord and bring peace, and now, at long last, that prophecy had come to pass. Yet peace was a fickle thing, more fragile than any sword. The people stood at the edge of it, hesitant, as if afraid that even breathing too deeply might shatter the illusion.
The road stretched wide beneath an open sky, winding through fields that had once been fertile but now bore the scars of war. Crops lay trampled, and the skeletal remains of burned-out villages dotted the landscape like forgotten graves. Yet there were signs of life. In the distance, smoke curled from chimneys — humble homes where farmers tried to reclaim what little they could. Children’s laughter, thin and cautious, carried on the breeze, a hopeful sound in a wounded world.
At the crossroads stood a signpost, weathered and leaning slightly, its carved letters pointing in three directions:
- North, toward the Kingdom of Valehart — a land of proud nobles and ancient traditions, where the king had once pledged his armies to the war effort. Rumors whispered that Valehart’s throne now wavered, its court filled with intrigue and ambition.
- East, toward the Whispering Wastes — an expanse of wild, untamed land, where strange creatures roamed and few dared tread. It was said that the demons who survived the war now lurked in the shadows there, gathering their strength.
- South, toward Arland’s Rest — a once-thriving port town that had become a sanctuary for refugees. They said the townsfolk still sang songs of the hero’s deeds, though their voices were tinged with sorrow for those who never returned from the war.
The wind stirred, carrying with it the scent of salt from the distant sea and the faint, acrid tang of ash. In the shadows of the trees, eyes glinted — cautious, curious. A traveler might wonder who, or what, those eyes belonged to. Were they the wary gaze of a lost villager, or something darker?
At the heart of it all, Escalia held its breath. The world had been changed, reshaped by the fall of the Demon Lord, but peace was far from secure.
There were whispers of cults forming in secret places, murmuring prayers to the fallen lord. There were tales of monsters emboldened by the power vacuum left in the Demon Lord’s wake. And, more than anything, there was uncertainty.
Because when the story ends, life goes on.
In the distance, bells tolled from a village spire — a celebration, perhaps, or a warning.
And somewhere, in the far corners of Escalia, there was talk of a way home. Vague and elusive, like a dream fading upon waking, but enough to stir hope. Or longing.
Escalia was a world in waiting. The kingdoms had sung of a hero who would defeat the Demon Lord and bring peace, and now, at long last, that prophecy had come to pass. Yet peace was a fickle thing, more fragile than any sword. The people stood at the edge of it, hesitant, as if afraid that even breathing too deeply might shatter the illusion.
The road stretched wide beneath an open sky, winding through fields that had once been fertile but now bore the scars of war. Crops lay trampled, and the skeletal remains of burned-out villages dotted the landscape like forgotten graves. Yet there were signs of life. In the distance, smoke curled from chimneys — humble homes where farmers tried to reclaim what little they could. Children’s laughter, thin and cautious, carried on the breeze, a hopeful sound in a wounded world.
At the crossroads stood a signpost, weathered and leaning slightly, its carved letters pointing in three directions:
- North, toward the Kingdom of Valehart — a land of proud nobles and ancient traditions, where the king had once pledged his armies to the war effort. Rumors whispered that Valehart’s throne now wavered, its court filled with intrigue and ambition.
- East, toward the Whispering Wastes — an expanse of wild, untamed land, where strange creatures roamed and few dared tread. It was said that the demons who survived the war now lurked in the shadows there, gathering their strength.
- South, toward Arland’s Rest — a once-thriving port town that had become a sanctuary for refugees. They said the townsfolk still sang songs of the hero’s deeds, though their voices were tinged with sorrow for those who never returned from the war.
The wind stirred, carrying with it the scent of salt from the distant sea and the faint, acrid tang of ash. In the shadows of the trees, eyes glinted — cautious, curious. A traveler might wonder who, or what, those eyes belonged to. Were they the wary gaze of a lost villager, or something darker?
At the heart of it all, Escalia held its breath. The world had been changed, reshaped by the fall of the Demon Lord, but peace was far from secure.
There were whispers of cults forming in secret places, murmuring prayers to the fallen lord. There were tales of monsters emboldened by the power vacuum left in the Demon Lord’s wake. And, more than anything, there was uncertainty.
Because when the story ends, life goes on.
In the distance, bells tolled from a village spire — a celebration, perhaps, or a warning.
And somewhere, in the far corners of Escalia, there was talk of a way home. Vague and elusive, like a dream fading upon waking, but enough to stir hope. Or longing.
1302
