When Garma awoke he found himself blinded by the glaring light of the sun. He lay flat on his back atop a building of some variety. The fog was gone, a distance memory hopefully to buried in the bottom of his mind in the same way as it was buried in the bottom of the ruins.
He struggled to pull himself into a sitting position for a while. When his eyes eventually adjusted to the new light he took stock of his surroundings. He could make out miles of collapsed buildings littered around, as if a child had whimsically thrown them there, just as he could before. One of them had the rotten remains of a poster on it bearing a giant trident. The symbol of the once great Triton, now a forgotten, rotting ruin.
Eventually, after figuring out where he was he began to wonder how he got there. He looked around to see a few men, scattered messily around. Most looked fatigued to the point of collapse, there was the figure of one man whose face was covered by a sheet. Headtails stood with the group, all of them upright and powerful. They all carried less than impressive spears, wore the customary Headtail loincloth and had giant, rat-like tails protruding from the back of their heads.
“How did I get here?” Garma said weakly.
“We found you unconscious in the fog. You and a few others.” The largest of the Headtails answered. His voice was deep and thick, monotonous and animalistic. Garma looked up at him; his powerful jaw was adorned with scars, as was the rest of his body.
The group sat in silence for nearly an hour. Everyone had a mouthful of water and a piece of stale bread. There was a tense silence that hung heavy in the air. Scorching wind occasionally blew over them, leaving the stench of rotting flesh and death as a parting gift.
“What are we doing here?” One of the soldiers said to Garma, he was young. Probably the youngest of the group, Garma slowly turned to him before speaking.
“We have been sent to find something Triton left behind. Some kind of artefact or weapon I don’t know.”
“What is it?”
“It’s called an Infinus.” Garma sat up straight now. Forcing himself to try and look strong, he knew that his men weren’t going to like what he told them if they continued to ask questions.
“What is it?” The young man questioned again, Garma gave this some thought before answering.
“It’s a device built to replicate the magic within the bodies of Headtails, Water Sprites, Shadow beings and that sort. It recycles dead magic, giving a human an infinite magic supply.” The Headtails said nothing but the soldiers were evidently impressed. They glanced to one another, each looking excited at the prospects of such an amazing machine. Humans only have a limited supply of magic to use in their life time, should they use it they would die. The supply is so small it is barely worth the time for any human to use it, which is the main reason that magic hasn’t been used by humans since Triton was destroyed 100 years ago.
“What does it look like?” The young man asked again. There was silence, intent, excited. Garma looked in the eyes of his men; they each had renewed hope and purpose in them. As if the suffering they endured finally had meaning. Garma’s heart sank as he looked at his men. Finally he said:
“I don’t know.”