The temperature is rapidly decreasing by the time the trees thin out. So far, I’ve avoided three more sets of demons: two fenrir taking apart a fresh kill, a cerys that was walking away from me by the time I noticed it; and, shortly after, a small herd of the female ceri, whose moon-glow eyes would paralyze anyone unfortunate enough to get within their Area of Effect. I did not look closely at what the wolves were ripping apart; the single exposed limb I’d glimpsed was far too humanoid, too human…

Nope. Stop. Not thinking about it.

Thankfully, the ceri were beneath me, down a short ravine. I hid beneath another oversized fern, waiting with painfully held breath as they passed in their herd-leader’s wake. Ceri are among the least aggressive demons, but their alerting cries and Area Of Effect would end me.

Golden god rays stream through broken patches of canopy, punctuating the forest gloom with what I estimate to be late-afternoon light. That’s worrisome. Dusk is falling. After that, nowhere will be safe.

Considering how I hid before, if I can find somewhere to hole up for the night, breaking all line-of-sight, I may stand a fighting chance. Well, more a “laying down and praying” chance. The question remains, “How did that work?”

It seems significant the only demons—and zombies?—I ran into were larger than me. If there’d been a baby nago, or a kitsune, or any of the tiny demon breeds they could easily have rooted me out.

It’s a disquieting thought; the sort I can’t afford to linger on. I’ve spent more than enough time panicking. Rather than clouding my mind, the pain throbbing through my avatar has given me something to focus on: finding help. At the very least, I need medical supplies.

The forest continues to thin until I glimpse half-grown verdant wheat rising just past the edge. A field? Where there’s a tended field, there’s a farmer; thus, a farm. It seems too much to hope for, and yet logical. A farm means defense, clothing, maybe even tools or weapons.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Tamping down on my excitement, I limp my way through the last line of saplings and find myself facing a shoulder-height wall of wheat spreading across a gently rolling landscape. Down the hill, in the center of everything, stands a stone wall with a high gate, and a tower peeking out from the top.

A castle.

Not “castle” in the fantasy sort of sense, but a castle in the early medieval fashion: probably a single-room tower, judging from what I can see, with either one or two floors. The wall and tower both fashioned from white and grey stone. Two thatched roofs stand inside the circle of protective walls; outbuildings, then. There could even be livestock inside.

And yet… nothing moves save the wheat dancing in a gentle wind. No one shouts. No animals bray in pens. No chickens cluck. There isn’t even birdsong.

Something about this place is wrong. That, and I’ve a rising certainty I know this place. The design of the castle, the layout of the fields and forest… Thanks to DUSKFALL’s regulated map, the Points of Interest were always the same. At least, they are when the game starts. Players tend to change things shortly thereafter, but that doesn’t change the fact that every structure in DUSKFALL is unique. Each farm, for instance, has features and a layout unique to itself. If I remember where this place is, I should be able to locate a city.

But the pain that’s so helpful in centering myself also keeps specific information just out of mental reach. A groan rumbles in my throat as I start forward again. There’ll be time for that later. For now, I need to get inside solid walls.

The gate is well made, thick, and standing ever so slightly ajar.

Fear worms its way down my throat, curling in my stomach. A stench, terribly familiar and sickly sweet, has been building the closer I got to the castle. Now, it’s practically overwhelming. Death. That smell is death.

I could leave. I should leave.

These thoughts aren’t sudden. Some iteration of the same has been cycling a continuous litany as I limped my way through the wheat fields. Those fields are thick; they could provide cover. For a while. Maybe if I took a nap and pretended nothing was happening, I’d be fine.

And ‘maybe’ I’d wake up from this nightmare with a living, cancer-free father. Nothing just ‘goes away’ because you take a nap, Alexa; no matter how tired, and sore, and hungry, and thirsty, and terrified you are. Naps solve nothing.

I know that. But knowing doesn’t assuage the urge.

Every second I waste outside the gate is another second of light lost. Already my skin prickles with the gaze of unseen eyes. Sure, they’re probably my imagination. Can I afford the risk of barging inside? Taking a deep breath, trying not to gag on the sweet stench filling my throat, I lean in close to the gap between gate and wall, and listen.

There’s a faint breeze rustling in the field behind me, cicada singing nearby, and… that’s it. No movement. That has to be good enough.

I don’t want to open the gate any wider; it seems too likely to attract attention, so I squeeze through the gap instead. Rough wood and stone scrape my the burn marks left by the demon’s claws. Fresh pain bursts through me, forcing me to my knees inside the gate. I hit the dirt, fighting back nausea and the desire to scream. Slowly, the rolling of my stomach ceases, and the pain ebbs back to the standard throb I’ve come to know.

Panting and trembling, I work my way back to my feet before turning my attention to the yard.

The bailey is littered in corpses: five orcs, several chicken, a couple cows, a donkey. Their blood pools in rusty stains on the packed earth yard. Clouds of flies cover every rotting carcass; darting in and out of open nostrils and mouths, pooling in the sunken eye sockets.

My stomach rolls again. I swallow hard once; twice; three times before losing the battle.

Taking another step inside, I turn just in time to spew stomach acid all over the ground instead of my feet. My stomach is empty. There’s nothing left to come up. That doesn’t stop my body from trying.

“A game with a gag reflex?” I’m not sure what’s worse. Puking or pissing myself from fear. When I get out of here, I’m finding the dev team and punching each and every one of them in the teeth.

When my stomach finally settles again, I spare another glance at the corpses. It takes every fiber of willpower I can muster to step toward them.

A distant howl lifts into the air, raising the hair on the back of my neck. It’s followed by a chorus that seems to surround me.

The light. I forgot about the light, and it’s fading. The light is fading.

Demons are coming.

I rush back to the gate, grabbing a brass ring set into the wood, and pull. It swings more easily than I expect, slamming loudly into place.

Second mistake. Another howl sounds, this one louder and closer than the first. If it heard that...

There has to be a locking mechanism. Besides the handle, there’s three brass fittings for a bar. A quick glance around finds a long, thick wood beam leaning against the wall to my right.

I try to lift it, but it’s too heavy for me on my own. I need help, or leverage or…

Leverage. Given the angle it’s been set at, and it’s distance from the door fittings… If I can tip this over, I should be able to guide the beam into place, using the fittings to carry some of the beam’s weight as I pick up the other end.

There’s a rustling noise outside; loud as a gale through the fields. Something huge is coming this way.

Setting the beam to the first fitting is relatively easy. I move to the other end, gritting my teeth and bracing my knees as I grab it with both hands and lift! It’s heavy, so heavy. I groan with the effort of pushing it forward until it slides into the next fitting. With less weight on me, the last push should be easy. Then I can go hide somewhere.

A loud grunt outside the gate tells me whatever is out there probably knows I’m here. As if in answer, it’s followed by a series of giant-like footsteps growing ever closer.

Not a Fenrir; the steps are too dense, and they rarely grunt like that. Nago?

The gate quivers. There’s a sound like a brush scraping against the wood.

I redouble my efforts to push the beam into place, but it seems stuck on something. The last fitting; it’s not correctly lined up.

Swallowing a frustrated curse, I pull the beam back—aware of splinters digging into my fingers and the way the wood scrapes too loudly against the gate. Once I’ve got it back far enough, I lean my weight into it, trying to realign the business end as I shove the beam forward once more.

The gate shudders, and the beam catches against the fitting, missing the slot.

“Come on,” I breathe, and inwardly curse my stupidity. Another grunt sounds, louder and interested. The gate quakes as the demon slams against it. I scream, stumbling away. A long, eerie growl answers me.

Above the gate, a shimmering panel suddenly flickers into being.

Gate. Wood, reinforced.

Quality: Fair

HP: 800/1000

I could run. I should run. But going now would leave the gate half-barred.

The gate shudders again. The wood creaks as the health bar takes another, far too large dip. Sixty percent.

Fuck This..

Turning, I half-run, half-stumble my way to the main building while there’s still a little light to see by. Behind me, the gate groans.

At least I’m right about the castle. Its base is a stone square with rickety wooden steps built into the side. They lead to a movable bridge connected to a second-story balcony.

I hobble my way up, stopping just outside the door to lift the bridge. It’s an awkward thing to carry, taller than me and heavy enough to tip me off balance if I’m not careful. My shoulder screams, begging me to drop the damn thing. It’s sheer belligerent persistence that lets me pull up and to the side. I lean the bridge over the door at an angle, with the foot braced against the thin balcony railing.

Behind me, the gate buckles inward with loud, alarming cracks. Maybe the bridge will stand through morning, maybe it won’t. Either way, it won’t fit through the door.

Speaking of, I turn to find the door fitted with a poorly hammered iron latch. No key hole or lock of any kind. Anything could be inside. People, bandits or worse: other players.

It’s not like I have a choice.

I grab the handle, twist, and the door pops open like it was waiting for me.

Closing it behind myself, I lean into the door as I force my gasping breath back under control. Though muted by the surrounding stone, and the heartbeat hammering in my ears, the crash of the gate finally giving way still sends shivers down my spine. Another unearthly growl vibrates through the air, underscored by feral, huffing, breathes.

I wait, back pressed against the cool wood, for the tremble of stone beneath me. I imagine a nago, huge and spiked, stalking toward my position. In another minute, I’ll lose my only hiding place.

Maybe it’ll give me a log off option when I die.

…

…

…

I open my eyes, staring into the void that is this tower.

The demon is definitely out there; I can hear it raspy breathing. But nothing’s happened.

Gradually my heartbeat calms, my breathing slows, and common sense floods back in beneath the adrenaline and fear.

That demon never saw me, did it? No. It heard me, but now I’m silent, and hidden from view. Out of sight, out of hearing… out of mind? That seems workable, in theory. It also means I’m stuck.

The castle is deathly quiet and pitch black. Moving blindly through a foreign space is a stupid idea, likely to send me blundering into something I shouldn’t; something that would make noise.

If I’m being honest with myself, I don’t think I can move anymore. Not even if I wanted to.

Slowly, carefully, I slide down to the cold wood floor. Just sitting there, being still? It feels like heaven. Drawing my knees up to my chest, I close my eyes and try to relax.

The demon will revert to a normal animal by morning. That’s how DUSKFALL works. The devs can’t have changed that much, right? Sure, said animal will still be hostile but I’ll be able to see it, and it won’t be capable of taking the castle down around my ears. Plus, there’ll be light enough to sort through what’s left to work with.

What happened to this place?

That’s a great question, Lex; a question which applies to so many things right now. But my mind’s eye conjures an image of those corpses outside, the flies dancing across their bodies. It takes all my willpower not to vomit again.

Those bodies... they haven’t been there long. So... Maybe a day? Not that I have much experience with corpses, but their forms were still recognizable beneath the bugs. Maybe two days? Surely no more than that.

The Devs must have done some scene dressing. There’d been rumors that the long-promised quest system might finally work, though no patch notes had been released. Could that explain this?

That depends on the rules for NPCs. They used to be immortal, but can I assume that’s still the case? Doesn’t seem wise. OK. Simpler solution: someone came through here and killed them. Whether that was another player, or an NPC remains to be seen. Either is possible.

There’s also the possibility it was demons. I shake my head, dismissing the idea as quickly as it forms. From what I’d just witnessed, demons aren’t keen on leaving doors politely ajar.

That still leaves several good questions: Where are they? Why slaughter the livestock? Am I sharing this darkness with a murderer?

No. Not a murderer, necessarily. “Murder” implies those NPCs were alive to being with. That’s the one thing I know for certain: the bodies were orcs, and there’s no species selector in the character creator. Best guess: the old rules about humans being PC-only still stand. Therefore, if whoever killed them was a player, well, that was just the game, right? If the killer was an NPC, then the event was scripted.

No big deal, except neither distinction means whoever it was won’t try to kill me.

Would that be such a bad thing?

After a day spent plodding through a hostile forest, nearly being killed—twice—and some self-humiliation for added flavour, I have no desire whatsoever to remain in this hellhole. What love I had for DUSKFALL is well and truly gone, no matter how pretty it is or however involved the crafting system proves to be.

I close my eyes, shoving my pain and hunger aside as I mentally reach for the menu. Once again, the “status” popup appears. Sighing, I dismiss it again without bothering to read the so-called “character sheet” again.

Slowly, deliberately, I try every other option I can think of: logout, exit, escape, etcetera. I even try “console.” Nada.

Carefully containing a sigh, I once again access the surrounding void. Maybe dying would be a good thing. I’d considered previously that dying could prompt a logout option. It would mean a lot of pain, but it could be worth it.

Still, it feels safe to assume there’s a chance respawn would just throw me back into a forest somewhere; lost, alone, helpless. Destined to be mauled again, and again, until I spawned somewhere at dawn. Here I have shelter, resources to scavenge, and a way forward. That should last me until I figure out what the hell is going on.

Though it’s a risk, I whisper into the darkness: “If there’s a murderer in here, maybe wait until morning to kill me? ‘Kay?”

I don’t know if I’m happy or upset when my only answer is silence.