Alun sat outside a small alehouse in the capital city of Alturine and read the newsprint, the front page of which had plastered upon it the image of the burnt-out husk of the city's university. He hid under a broad-brimmed hat and a deep, grey cloak which matched his tunic and trousers. Folding the paper and picking up his bag, Alun finished his beer, dropped some spare change into his glass, and strolled casually down the cluttered street in the general direction of the locomotive station. Pulling out his ticket from a pocket inside his cloak, Alun checked the platform number and carriage he was heading for.

Steam hung upon the station as an eerie first morning fog caused the constant flow of passengers to seem as shadowy apparitions, each crossing the cobbled platforms, floating to their respective destinations. The steady flow streamed around one another in what looked to be a dance of swirling mist that curled and snarled, threatening to swallow a man whole. Alun stepped out from this swirling mist, desperately looking for his train. He snaked between the multitude of passengers, aiming for his intended platform. He pulled out a silver wind-up pocket watch from a chain attached to his belt, and felt dismay bubble up inside him as the clock crept closer to ten.

Alun began to push through the crowd frantically as he tried to reach platform seven, and broke into a run as his train's whistle sounded out. His frantic dismay attracted the attention of a pair of obese guards, who sat lounging outside the station's tavern observing the crowd with the smug expressions of overweight pigs in mud. Alun was unaware of this as he struggled to his platform, and called out to the platform's porter who, just in time, signalled the driver to hold the train. Panting, Alun lent on his knees whilst pulling out his ticket. Once the ticket was inspected, the porter picked up Alun's bag and walked down the platform to Alun's cabin, beckoning him to follow.

Alun dropped into the wooden seat of the cabin and mopped the sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. The whistle sounded once more and the train pulsed into motion. Alun heard the chug of the pistons up ahead, and the reciprocating movement of the locomotive snapped into action. The train pulled out from its platform and slipped away from the industrial suburbs into the foothills of the surrounding mountains. The train rocked like a boat, and the inclement weather outside hammered rain against Alun's cabin windowpane, distorting the colours outside into a montage of blurred rainbows.

He watched as the green foothills of the Dragon Fang Mountains became more jagged, and the greens turned into greys as the grass gave way to rock. The carriages tilted with the wind as the storm smashed into their sides, and the countryside became more ragged as the train ploughed on into the mountains. A tunnel loomed up from the shadows, plunging the train into darkness. Alun watched as the porter walked up the train's corridor, lighting kerosene lamps to give light to the passengers. He passed Alun's cabin and lit the nearest lamp, providing a pool of orange light that enveloped both Alun's cabin and the cabin opposite.

Alun looked across at this cabin and observed a man sitting strangely on his own bench seat. This man seemed to be meditating, but would occasionally twitch or cower from some strange spasm or unseen spectre that tormented him. His dark hair was flecked with white, and he bore the uniform of the church.

The train burst into the open once more and revealed the rolling foothills of the once prosperous kingdom of Branir. Alun let out a sigh of relief as the beautiful greens of his home country shone out in the impending storm. Lightning bolted out over the hills, and thunder caused the glass to shake in their window frames. Wind whipped against the train once more, causing an alarming rocking motion. Again, the porter walked down the corridor, but this time he extinguished the flames in the event of greater turbulence, and again, Alun looked across at his unusual neighbour, who sat transfixed upon the monstrous storm which bellowed outside.

The hills gave way to farmland, and Alun watched the summer colours make up a vast patchwork quilt across the countryside. The occasional stone out-house or homestead could be seen smoking by the chimney, and lights flickered at their windows as the storm began to die down and the clouds started to part, showing a red sky that blazed across the uppermost clouds and broke through in beams onto the surrounding hills, painting them with a pinkish hue. Day turned from the black, rolling clouds into a crimson setting sun as the locomotive pushed closer to the northern border of the Holy Empire of Alturine. The stone homesteads became more frequent, and the occasional hamlet flitted past the windows. In the distance, vast keeps watched over the farmlands in anticipation of the northern raiders, but despite the old tales, they had not seen action in centuries.

Finally, the sun set beyond the hilly horizon.

...

Marius lifted a single eyelid, and looked up at a high-vaulted stone roof that held intricate arches and gargoyles that snarled down at him. Pain seared through his body, and memories flooded back as snapping jaws dived at his throat and, struggling with the exertion, he tried to pull himself from his terror-filled bed.

Suddenly, a giant with white hair and beard loomed over him; blue tattoos swirled across his features and played off the various scars that broke the wrinkles of his ancient face. His massive shoulders were cloaked in an equally massive leather coat. The giant gently pushed Marius back into bed and offered him a cup of steaming liquid.

"Here, boy, drink this."

Holding Marius's head, the giant poured the steaming liquid down his throat. Marius felt the pain ebb away, and the memories became hazy. He propped himself up on his elbows and groaned from the anticipation of more pain, but to his surprise, his ribs and back only ached with the soreness of misuse, and not the agonising sting of his broken, crippled body. He licked his lips nervously and glanced around the room, imagining shadowy demons in every corner. And then, his eyes rested on the giant in front of him, who stood smiling with his broad arms folded across his massive chest.

"It seems you’re alive, then!"

The giant had a thick, booming voice that reverberated throughout the room. His whole manner seemed cheerful and almost jolly, but the runic tattoos that were etched upon his mountain of muscles were enough to tell Marius otherwise. He looked up at his saviour and cleared his throat; the last sound he had uttered had been the ripping scream he had cried as he flew at the crowned demon, and now his voice felt raw and blistered.

His words came out in stuttering pauses: "Who...who are you, and where a-a-am I?"

The giant looked out from under two white bushy eyebrows with flawless blue eyes that pierced through even the blackest black.

The resonating voice rung out once again as he answered, "I am known as Olaf, and as to where you are... you are in my house."

Marius thought about the answers he had been given for a moment, and then looked up at Olaf.

"How a-am I alive? And those runes, they look as if they c-c-came from the old kingdoms."

Olaf smiled another one of his smiles and sat down in a chair by the bed. Out of the folds of his giant coat he produced a wooden pipe, the likes of which old men smoked outside taverns. He bent over it, muttering to himself, and as he did so, lit the end and sucked out the foul-smelling smoke; it snaked out from his nose and swirled up into the ceiling.

"Boy," he said, and this time his voice had dimmed a little and his booming voice carried a lyrical rhythm to it. "Let me tell you a few things about the lands of old." He puffed once more on his pipe, and his tattoos glowed subtly as the smoke changed colours and formed shapes; they formed great buildings, high and noble.

“Once, when man was still young, and magic wasn't so rare, great wars plagued the kingdoms of this world. The Eldar races, known in folklore today as elves, fought against man in a savage clash for power over the land."

The smoke turned into two armies, and the cries and roars of men echoed faintly through the room as Olaf continued.

"The Eldar were scared that man would corrupt the land and destroy all life, so they fought against us. They almost won, but as the last noble line of man sought a way to end the war, they found the delving people known as the Dwarves in their great underground kingdom of Doflhiem, and struck a deal. The Dwarves had always hated the elves and envied them for their magical gifts, so the Dwarves crafted three great weapons out of the centre of a dying mountain and gave them to the three sons of the first king of man."

The smoke swirled and depicted an axe, a sword, and a bow, each of which swirled around Marius's head.

"Man struck back at the Eldar and caught them unawares. They butchered many of the Eldar people until they finally surrendered. We exiled them to the East and kept this land as our own. The last king sought to prove the Eldar wrong, and tried to preserve as much as the magical nature of our land as he could, but as the noble line grew, more of man became selfish and greedy. Powerful merchants sought power and claimed land as their own. They hunted many of the mystical beasts that once roamed this land; killing many of them, and chasing the rest into hiding. The king's sons became corrupt by the power their weapons gave, and ultimately failed to hold their power. As such, man started to fight amongst themselves, and split into thirteen kingdoms. Then, the inquisition of Alturine usurped the royal throne, and formed the holy empire to return order to the southern kingdoms. However, they distanced themselves from the supernatural by branding all northern kingdoms heretics and casting them out, forcing the Vakringuardian kingdoms to pillage, raid, and trade between themselves."

Olaf exhaled deeply, and the smoke depiction of the port cities and various creatures faded, and were replaced by the holy cross encompassed by the circle of the Inquisition.