text: Somewhere, in the vast Acathian deserts, where men go crazy under the screaming sun, lays the forgotten city of Cal’Haldron, sifting through the golden dunes, lost in time. Under the constant erosion from the waves of sand and the blazing wind, the cyclopean city had fallen into a state of decay as it descended further into new layers of fine glitter. But intriguingly enough, no matter how ancient, how fragile the crumbling city was, there seemed to be a wisp of force holding onto it. A force just barely strong enough to encase the city in unalterable time, keeping it’s destruction at bay, as if it were a wounded kraken, waiting to reemerge from the depths once the perfect storm has been brewed. Occasionally, when the heat is high enough and the season is right, the eastern winds pick up, conjuring flash sand storms that whip hard enough to rip through the hides of a desert beast. And ironically, the destruction of such a volatile sandstorm will bring about a new different perspective in the bleakness, changing the surfaces of the sand, transforming the face of the desert. As these flash storms being to slow down, settling the dust in the air, if there is a right amount of trembling at an exact rhythm from the earth below, the marble tips of Cal’Haldron will begin to resurface, catching a quick breath of fresh air from the cleansing skies, and all those in its vicinity will be lucky enough to at most glance at it for a few moments before losing it again to the sands. Many men, both gallant and tough, have ventured into the deserts of Acathia, and marched through the long days and the brief nights, in search of the whereabouts of Hal’Caldron. They had hoped to not only be the first men to uncover the sandstone pillars last touched by those from generations beyond, but also to be the men who uncovered this treasure of fame and glory that awaited for the first. Many men, both craven and fragile, have strayed far from their journey’s route, and lumbered through the long nights and the brief days, in search of the nearest signs of civilization. They had hoped to not only avoid being the men who forgot their names and lost their sanity, but also to avoid being the men who got covered in this wasteland of dust and wind that was indifferent to them. However, neither the gallant or craven, nor the tough or the fragile, achieved the goals they had originally set out for, with many concluding without beating hearts. Those who were unfortunate enough, succumbed to the rash cuts of the sand in the wind, and withered under the scorching sun. While most of those without the intentions of trespassing were eventually retrieved by other travelers, and those of the opposite circumstance were forever consumed by the shifting waves. Often, at the back of the tavern in a nearby desert outpost, amongst the drunken men and beyond the whores out looking for pieces of silver to earn, gathers all left in the tavern that can still pronounce their names properly. And in the center of the crowd, usually sits a survivor who has seen the dark grasps of the endless desert, accounting his perilous tale out beyond where knowledge knows. He will talk about his week long struggle to cling onto his own very life, and the crowd will murmur in awe. He will recall the last few gasps of air he takes before waking up in the rescue of a caravan, and the crowd will sigh in relief. And finally, he will describe the sight in the distance he saw in which he firmly believes was the lost city of Cal’Haldron, earning the disbelief and the attention of those who still bother to pay attention. While many men claim to have seen the white marble of Cal’Haldron off in the distance, and many more claiming to have spot a glimmering light off into the distance where no civilization lies, none could ever certify their claims with any firm evidence. But the arbitrary events of an unlucky, but well-built sheep farmer travelling to sell his stock in the capital to the west landed him in the wrong place at just the right time. Without a proper map due to his negligence the farmer strayed off his journey’s course, and found himself trudging in the sands through the long days and the brief nights. He felt the heat rise beyond its usual bounds, and witnessed the brewing of a flash sandstorm. Barely making it to the cover of a nearby plateau, and just whisking his life away from the death grasp of the cutting winds, he set tent in hopes to outlast the winds of the east. But no sooner had the winds begin to drop, did his unfortunate soul run into a seasonal earthquake that shook the plateau from below. And as he scrambled out of the falling cliffs and dodged through the rising rocks, he mistook one step and fell sideways and down into the shifting dunes. But when he came to a halt at the bottom of the dune, he no longer felt the heat on his neck, and the shaking from beneath had stopped. Slowly, carefully, he looked up, and found himself, at the gates, of Cal’Haldron. As the sand seethed through the cracks in the stone, and while the pillars began to slightly crumble under its own weight, the sheep farmer, so inquisitively, lifted himself up, leveling with a sculptured jackal. Lifting a hand up close to the jackal’s face, and as if drawn to it, he reached out instinctively, and touched it. The beige sandstone and the smooth surfaces seemed to distract his attention from the menacing glare and the sharpened teeth of the statue, as if it simultaneously welcomed and warded off the city to strangers seeking its fortune. The round edges of the jackal were the roughest, and the cornered sides were the smoothest. The sandstone that stood guard under direct sunlight felt cool and calm, but the base and neck of the jackal that remained in the shadows radiated with heat and energy. He could feel the integrity of the inanimate stone and its foundation; he could feel the life that swirled within the sculpture, within the city. Oblivious to his surroundings and current predicament, the sheep farmer, mesmerized by the energy and force that he felt within the lost city, detached from the statue, delved into the citadel that loomed over him. The bright sun that warmed both sand and stone around him glimmered off the golden arches, reflecting off the still settling sand, sparkling in his nearby vicinity. The silent alleyways that were strung across the city in no organized matter gave off a mysterious aura that lured his mind and body in, leading him through a string of abandoned sectors of the city that lay barren. As he exited the outskirts of the massive city and entered the inner rings, giant monuments that worship the old forgotten gods towered over him, casting long shadows that stretched further than expected. The hollowness of the parade ground before him looked a bit darker than it had from afar, and suddenly a cool breeze swept across the field, prompting the farmer to tug tighter on his robes, so he urged on further into the depths of the city center. At the end of the opposite field, cemented firmly into the ground, was a large temple built with blackened sandstone that featured obsidian figurines that seemed to keep a constant watch on the farmer. By then, there had been a noticeable change in the atmosphere that shrouded the sheep farmer. While the sun still stood bright directly overhead, he no longer felt any warmth from it. The winds that orchestrated the desert did not pick to even the slightest whisper, and the sand that had originally struck bright with its golden light were now a few shades darker, absorbing the brightness around it. Though the farmer began to feel the corrupting power that rose from beneath the ground, he no longer had the ability to muster his will and head back out of the darkness. Compelled by the bleak energy, he trudged, one step, at a time, up the stair of the ziggurat, and at the top of it was a set of trapdoors that slid open without command, revealing a dark descent into what lies beneath. On his very first step down into a crypt of insanity, the farmer, aware of his vulnerable mortality towards the malevolent energy but incapable of doing anything about it, was overwhelmed almost instantaneously by everything all at once. His past, present, and future flooded his memories. He felt afraid, confident, ecstatic, depressed, all at once. Every single bit of movement in the entire city was relayed through his head, every tick of sound that crept in the city rang in his ear, and every ray of light which shone in the city blinded his eyes. And within a second, all the chaos around and within the farmer ended, and the void of the temple opened itself up, consuming the collapsed farmer into its abyss. When he came around to his senses, the farmer found himself in a cavernous room with pillars supporting the slanted ceiling. The trapdoor above had long ceiled itself off, and the stairway leading down had retracted back into the walls. As he tried to lift himself up, he found himself unable to do so. His limbs were immobilized by an unknown force, and his soul was shackled to the energy that filled the room. Like the harbinger of insanity, time dripped into the farmer’s mind. Slowly, it drained into his pristine chalice of mental state, corrupting him while he gripped at what left of his clear thoughts he still had. Dazed with his back leaned against a marble pillar, he couldn’t rid of the clamorous silence that wouldn’t stop buzzing at his hears, and would regularly release a feeble whimper of pain and struggle. And it what could have been an eternity, the calmness that drove the farmer mad was disturbed by a rising tremble, breaking the silence and the stillness in the room. Out of the peripheral vision in his fading vision, he saw the swirling of physical energy that came together and formed a vague humanoid being off in the distance. Fear forcibly struck through his heart, the farmer, with his last bit of personal will, called out and questioned his own sanity whether he was seeing things or not. The figure, upon hearing his sound, dispersed into the air, and the farmer suddenly encountered a steadily rising feeling of anger and hatred. Without anymore will nor life, under the corruption and control of a split mind, he closed his eyes for the last time, and in the distance he heard the rumble from the ground. “Your time is up, farmer, but mine is about to begin.