June; 6 months after The Start of The End

The Golden Stag stared at the remains of The Clinic looming ominously before him. The walls were charred; blackened with a layer of ash and soot. Through the dark he could see the building in hyper detail; its windows shattered, its door frame broken and leaning inward. Despite this the structure stood strong, surviving in defiance of its history. The hairs on his neck stood up, and he shuddered.

Shaking off the foreboding feeling, The Stag reached into one of his pockets, pulling out a small metal flashlight. He clicked it on, projecting a beam of hard light in front of him. The remains of the door creaked as he pushed it open, a comically creepy sound that bordered on the stereotypical. As he entered he swept the light over the lobby, which had fallen into disrepair. Overturned chairs and papers littered the floor, which was coated in a heavy layer of dust. The paint on the walls was peeling, while the plaster below cracked and crumbled. To both his left and right long hallways stretched the building, leading to treatment rooms and offices.

Crossing the lobby, The Stag moved towards the passage to his left. He stopped at the entrance, pointing his flashlight down the empty space. The Hall had a series of open doors, each leading to pitch black rooms. He spotted the one he was looking for at the end, which remained closed.

Scrrrrrrrrrrreech.

The Stag whirled around, swinging his flashlight through the lobby. He scanned the room carefully, then froze. A single chair sat in the middle of the hall across from him.

The Stag turned back to where he was headed, and began walking forward.

Scrrrrrrrrrrreech.

The Stag glanced behind him, finding a second chair stacked on the first. The two formed a lone tower, motionless and in perfect balance. He forced himself to ignore them, continuing his walk down the hall.

SCRRRRRRRRRRRREECH.

The Stag turned in frustration, but the chairs were the same. He stared at them for a moment, then with a growing horror forced his eyes downward.

A single chair was directly behind him, just inches from his legs.

“Nope.” The Stag turned and rushed down the hallway, quickly reaching the door on the end. He grasped the knob and turned, but felt the door catch in the frame.

SLAM!

The Stag turned his head to see the first door in the hallway slammed shut, though no one was there with him.

SLAM! SLAM!

He watched as two more doors slammed shut of their own accord.

SLAM! SLAM!

The Stag jiggled the handle of the doorway, but it refused to budge. Beginning to panic he stepped away from it, and in one swift motion kicked it open. He rushed through the entrance, finding himself in a heavily cluttered storeroom. The space was bordered on all sides by tall wire shelves, whilst the floor was littered with garbage. The shelves around him were mostly empty, though what did remain appeared untouched. Quite a few of the supplies were unopened - saved for a future that wouldn’t come.

Outside the hall fell silent, and he breathed a sigh of relief. The Stag placed his flashlight on a shelf to his right, pointing it towards the ceiling. A dim light filled the space, and he took a second to let his eyes adjust. On the shelves to his left he saw sanitary equipment, including scrubs and an entire row of unopened KN-95 masks. His right had various fluids and salves, still sealed in their original containers. Across from him at the back of the room was wound care, which was a disorganized mess.

He walked to the shelves in the back, then crouched by the bottom row. He reached deep into it, closing his hand on a glass container. He pulled it out of its hiding spot, revealing a half empty bottle of whisky. Right where the doctors had left it.

The Stag pulled the cork out of the top and took a large swig. The whiskey burned his throat as he swallowed, and he smiled. No one knew where The Black Owl had found the bottle, which had been distilled before The Start of The End. It was an opening present to the staff of the clinic, given shortly before he disappeared entirely.

The Stag stood back up in front of the shelves, taking mental inventory of their contents. He spotted an unopened container of medical staples, gauze pads, and a large amount of double length sports wraps. He swore under his breath, and reached for the stapler.

Step. Step. Step.

Footsteps echoed through the hallway, heavy upon the floor. A light breeze blew into the room, and The Stag turned to the open doorway. The temperature dropped, and his breath grew visible.

“Where are the hell are the ghostbusters when you need them.” The Stag took another swig of whiskey.

Step. Step. Step.

The footfalls grew closer. Light clouds of dust swirled on the floor, and The Stag drew his dagger. He had had enough encounters for one day.

Step. Step. Step.

Silence. The walking had ceased, but the doorway was empty. Another ghost.

CRASH!

A bottle of Iodine suddenly flew off the shelf next to him, flying inches from his face. Glass and chemicals flew everywhere as it slammed into the opposite wall. The Stag stumbled back a step, pressing his back against the shelves behind him. As he did a box of gloves flew through space he had occupied, smashing against the shelves next to him.

“Who’s there?” The Stag glanced around the room frantically, his eyes betraying his stoic facade.

SMASH!

The whiskey bottle in his hand exploded, and The Stag cried out. Small cuts opened where the glass bounced off his body, cutting shallow grooves in his chest. The wounds at his side burned as the alcohol hit them. He dropped the remnants of the bottle to the ground, switching his dagger to his dominant hand.

“Show yourself!” The Stag’s voice wavered, his confidence failing. His heart pounded thunderously, while his hands began to shake. The temperature grew colder, forming frost on the bottles of antiseptic.

WHOOSH!

A violent burst of air ripped through the room, pouring in from the open doorway. Great billows of dust blew in from the hall, and a figure materialized in the entrance. Papers and medical supplies began to fly about haphazardly, forming a whirlwind around the space.

BANG!

A ceiling light outside the door exploded, sending sparks and glass outwards. In the sudden burst The Stag saw the figure shift, transforming from a shadow to a doctor.

Step. Step.

CLATTER!

The flashlight on the shelves fell over as the entity stepped into the room, rolling to point at the opposite wall. The spirit walked through the beam, revealing itself once more. It had the form of a man, and appeared to be wearing long sleeve scrubs and medical gloves. Most of its face was covered in a surgical mask, with only the skin around its eyes visible. The figure appeared in monochrome, with a complexion paler than any possible in life.

Step. Step. Step.

The wind began whirling at an even greater speed, rattling the heavy bottles of fluids on the shelves. Light medical supplies whirled around like whips, and The Stag winced as a wayward needle punctured his arm. The ghost stopped a few feet in front of him, staring with lifeless eyes. Whispers filled the room, speaking on the edge of consciousness.

“Who are you?” The Stag asked. Anger filled the space, and the flashlight flickered.

“You have forsaken us.” The voice came from nowhere and everywhere. It was in his mind and the air, enveloping him without existing. It was deep and layered, as if multiple people spoke simultaneously.

The figure moved suddely, wrapping a hand around The Stag’s neck faster than he could react. Its fingers were like dry ice, freezing and burning at the same time. It squeezed, and The Stag gasped for air. The dagger fell from his grip, clattering on the floor as he scratched at the ghost. His hands went right through it, and the grip tightened.

“Please-” The Stag coughed out

“A beggar King.” The voice interrupted “A false King. Chasing the one but forgetting the many.”

BANG!

The lightbulb in the ceiling of the room exploded, and The Stag saw figures surrounding them. There were men and women of all ages, from children to the elderly. Their expressions were mournful, though the figures were silent. Like statues they stood watching, dressed in their finest regalia. All of them were paler than death itself, and from each of their eyes tears wept.

The Stag gasped as they materialized, beholding the remains of the Woodland Realm. The grip tightened, and he looked towards the doctor holding him. Its eyes started glowing, burning into his consciousness. A ringing sound grew in his ears, and his every memory played simultaneously. Rage, sorrow, mourning, disgust, every emotion he had ever felt came rushing forwards. The spirit was cutting through him, reaching into the very essence of what he had become. Every piece of him, every memory, every feeling he had since the disasters had struck were broadcast to the ghosts.

The arm holding him raised slightly, and The Stag felt himself pulled off the floor. The room blurred as the oxygen in his lungs began to run out, black creeping to the edges of his sight

“What. Do. You. Want” The Stag gasped. The Ghost’s eyes flashed once, and knowledge flowed through him. He saw the spirits as they were; every hope that had curdled into vengeance, every dream that had crumbled into disappointment.

“Avenge. Us.” The spirit was joined by the chorus of whispers, a thousand voices echoing. A small object was placed into The Stag’s left hand, and he dropped as the grip released him. His legs buckled beneath him, falling to his knees. The wind stopped blowing, the whispers silenced, and the temperature rose.

The Stag heaved, coughing as he gasped for air. Around him medical supplies clattered to the floor, and he looked up. The room was empty. The figures had vanished.

The Stag grunted as the pain of his wounds hit him, the suppression of adrenaline running out. His head pounded, and every cut and gash throbbed. He spotted his dagger on the ground nearby, and reached for it. He hesitated as he got close, hovering a hair’s breath from the hilt. He withdrew his hand, then moved it towards his boots. He closed his fingers around the hilt of the dagger the Goddess had given him, pulling it from its hiding place. The justice scales engraved in the pommel gleamed as he traced them with his thumb.

“Where the sun and moon are in balance.” He muttered.

He tucked the dagger into the sheath at his belt and found that it fit perfectly, as if it had been made for it. He smirked slightly as he did; the old man had been right, the road had been treacherous.

With new resolve he lifted up his right hand and gripped the shelves behind him. Using them to support himself he stood up carefully, his body aching. Turning back to the wound care section he grabbed the medical stapler and a pack of staples, placing them in the same pocket he had taken the flashlight from. In his back pocket he stuffed a variety of gauze pads, while he tucked a few sports wraps under his left arm. Turning towards the hall he grabbed his flashlight and a bottle of isopropyl alcohol. He froze as the light hit the doorway.

DO NOT FORGET US.

The words had been carved into the hallway, cut deep into the plaster. The Stag walked slowly out of the room, not taking his eyes off of them. As he grew close he reached out and touched the lines, feeling the deep grooves. A silent promise passed between his lips, and a slight glint drew his eyes towards his hand. He opened his fingers in the light of the flashlight, and his blood froze.

He was holding a small medical vial filled with clear liquid. The label was scuffed and worn, with the warnings and use directions nearly indecipherable. Regardless they echoed in his head, memorized long ago. At the top of the label the word ANTI-VIRAL was bolded in red. A large logo was visible on the bottom, a single word in simple text. A sensation of movement tugged at him, pushing him forward. This was where he must go. To chase the balance of the celestial objects, and unravel the web of his encounters. He stared at it, repeating the logo in his mind:

THRENODY.

AUTHORS NOTE:

You've made it to Episode 10, and the end of the first arc: The Haunted King! The Golden Stag has been through a lot, but things will only get crazier as he searches for answers. It's really hard as a new author to build an audience on this platform, so be sure to spread the word - and thank you so much from the bottom of my heart for supporting my work so far. The next arc - Journey Through Mists - starts with the next episode. I hope you like it!

I know you probably have dozens of questions so far, and I promise I'll answer most of them. In the next few arcs we'll be unraveling a lot of the layers we've built up, with plenty more ghosts, monsters, gods, and intrigue. Nothing in this story happens due to coincidence, and the pace will be getting faster and faster as it continues. I don't have any major lore bits this episode, besides this fun fact: The Golden Stag's favorite color is turquoise.

Next episode takes place 3 months after The Start of The End.