Captain Garma crawls through the ruins of a once great city. Searching for the secret of magic once held by his countries eternal enemies. The fallen capital is far from dead however, little does Garma know he is being stalked at every turn, from every building


The sun had finally begun to rise, peaking through the cracks in the huge sprawling metropolis of rubble and dust that was the remains of the city of Triton. The suns morning rays illuminated the disturbed particles of dust hovering like fireflies before Garma’s eyes. He squinted a little in the new light before climbing from his hole.

For a hole was all it was in reality, carved into the steel remains of what was used to be a massive, sky scraping building. One of the many that used to line the streets of the old city. It now lay sideways, crumbling and occasionally shaking as another piece of it was finally crushed by the thick moss growing around it.

The ground was utterly invisible in most places; pieces of the old upper city were layered on the crushed corpses of the slum dwellers who once lived on the ground here. Long rope bridges had been slung from broken building to broken building. The once great constructs were scattered around as if they had been tossed at random. Hurled from the plates they were built on as each one crashed into the massive pile of wreckage Garma was now stood in.

Garma pushed himself out from the dusty hole and looked out onto the horizon, for miles all that could be seen were the scattered, unordered remains of the city. Pointing out from the low hanging fog were the remains of the four plates, each one miles wide. He rubbed his eyes, still straining to see in the morning sun. He dusted off his jacket, paying special attention to the emblem on the left breast of it. It depicted a great sea serpent bearing malevolently down at a ship; the emblem was a symbol of power, one whom all his men would follow. After finally forcing himself to wake up he called to those men.

“Everyone up!” Garma called, at his command the ruins around him stirred. One building, somehow standing began to resound with the noise of people stirring within. The two watchmen positioned atop another oversized chunk of debris left their posts and clambered down to their leader. Buildings stirred as ranks of soldiers, still half asleep, began to file out. They formed in orderly lines on broken rooftops, shattered balconies and flimsy wooden bridges to listen to Garma, their captain.

Garma stared silently out at the plate in the distance as his men filed out. It stood dominant over the surrounding area, casting its great shadow over the wreck as the city once cast its own over the world. Fog swirled and twisted at its base, even in its derelict state its glory still held the suns rays from much of the ruin. Brushing back his long black hair thick with dust and wiping the dirt and sweat from his face, Garma prepared to address his men. He could hear weezing and heavy breathing among the ranks, the remains of Triton were sweltering even in the night and now the sun had arisen it was bound to get worse.

Garma nodded to the men, and then flicked his hand in a pointing gesture. He did this a few times, directing his men in different directions. He had neither the time nor the energy to make a speech at this point; his commanding gestures were more than enough.

The obeyed their leader, moving slowly and wearily. The Headtails, who were accustomed to extreme heat and lack of water, moved nimbly ahead. Their abilities in these conditions made them excellent scouts. Triton used to be a place easily crossed in a few hours, now however it would take weeks to navigate the thick debris that filled the area. A landfill site the size of a super city, Garma thought.

They were only a day away now, so close. With little food and water left it was lucky they were. Nearly one-hundred men, advancing in ordered, if tired ranks out into the suns rays, towards the final goal.

The End

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