A cold wind begins to blow through the land surrounding a large desolate city.

Sweeping the streets with its languid touch, shifting the husks that dot the city side to side.

It caressing the buildings with a light touch one has in grief as it touches cold forge and cold homes.

 

Though sad, not only the humans were affected, as the forest and grasslands are silent now.

The animals that once populated the outskirts of the city are long gone.

Those that were not quick to run from the danger lay in their final resting spots, mummified.

 

For on this dark day, the bustling capital city Keithast had become silent.

For all of the citizens of the city had died mysteriously overnight.

Transformed into mummified husks of the former people they were in life.

 

All that remains in this city is a single noise that stands out against the silence.

A noise that defies the grave tragedy that will forever mark this city.

The sound of scraping metal and the shout of someone questioning the silence.

 

For a short distance from the Royal Palace, rest the royal dungeon.

It is from this place the noise echoes forth from.

Within the deepest cell is where the origin of the sound dwells.

 

Within this cell is a multitude of tools meant for torture.

Many of the nonlethal ones are still slick with wet blood.

As if the torturer was in mid usage when the tragedy befell the city.

 

It is amongst these tools, do we find the origin it is a young man on the Rack.

A device meant to stretch the limbs above and beyond the breaking point.

Though the torturer is still at his post at the turning wheel.

 

He is certainly no longer alive, as he had joined the rest in their mummification.

Resting on the wheel like a dried leather set to dry in the sun.

His clothing is still soaked with blood as the wheel stays firm in place.

 

Though the Prisoner could not look any better in contrast to his environment.

With his skin as pristine as the day one might have taken a thorough bath.

Any of the wounds he should have had are long gone.

 

This prisoner finishes his shouting for others to respond, fearful just of what it implies.

As he then starts to struggle in his bonds, trying to muster the strength to break them.

Though what breaks him out is not his strength but his new eldritch nature.

 

As the claws on his hands brush against wood and rope tying him down.

Seemingly erasing whatever it touched from existence.

As the young man sits upon the rack, once the ropes seem to loosen around his arms.

 

With the rack's wood now a bit more full of holes.

The young man unties or attempts to untie his legs now.

Though his claws make short work of the material, leaving himself unscathed and uncontained.

 

As the man tries to adjust to the new circumstances he has found himself in, visibly shaking.

Taking a wide path around the dried carcass of his former torturer, he heads for the cell's door.

Though he could use the key on the torturer's belt, he chooses to use his claws to erase the door's lock.

 

He rushes out of the prison room, closing the door behind himself.

As he tries to take a breather after whatever...he had done to survive.

He tries to center his thoughts as he looks at his hands.

---

(Prisoner's P.O.V)

Staring at his hands, formerly unordinary from any peasant or person.

But now, a deep sapphire pattern spreads across his skin like a tattoo.

And with its presence is a set of ethereal claws set like gauntlets on both his hands.

 

Emma sigh's with sorrow at what had happened, even if he could not control it.

As he felt something call to him in the deepest reach of his mind.

Something to make all the pain end, all the sorrow and pain end if he let it out.

 

Though he could not have known, he still regrets choosing to listen to his deepest instincts to survive.

Though not because he chose to live, but for what he had done to the torturer and possibly others.

 

He stares forward listlessly as he walks through the prison, looking for any survivors.

His emotions crystal clear with soft sorrow and deep grief for what he fears to see.

 

His hope growing dimmer as he walks through the complex, row after row of dead prisoners.

As he looks at each of the corpses noticing that they died peacefully.

With only a rare one that seems to grimace in agony as they perished.

 

He wishes he could say the same for those he sees as he walks out of the Royal prison.

As I see the state of the city, with all its citizens dead, all by my hand.

Though most still seem to have died a peaceful end.

 

A far greater number looks to be in agony when they finally perished.

With some of them appearing to have been actively struggling in their final moments for something.

Though Emma has been avoiding the corpses till now, he walks to one of the carcasses now.

 

Looking at a former guard who was standing duty at the front, now a mummy at dawn.

 

The guard still in his works outfit, outfitted chainmail and spear made for combat.

Emma touches the guard softly, staring at it with a hollow gaze.

As he walks forward towards the Royal Palace, taking in all that is left of the city.

 

Once a bustling town, it is now a ghost town, a husk of its former self overnight.

As Emma begins his stroll to the palace to see if they all had been done in there.

Moving forward with an uneven but ultimately steady gait, accepting whatever sight will greet his eyes there.