A woman stood at the edge of a cliff, facing a burning village in the distance. Her ginger, shoulder-length hair hung over her distraught face. Her shining golden eyes watched discreetly over the village that had enchanted her for so long. There was a scar stretching up across the right side of her face, ending under her eye, leaving an aching memory of her reckless luck. This was the face of Ruby Knightingale, a true warrior among the high elves of Nisera. She had been born in that burning village, Rylion, and grown to become the leader of her elven clan. Rylion had been sacrificed to save twenty-seven lives, most of which were Ruby's warriors. They had burned the village to the ground, you see, because the apocalypse was upon them. The dead had started returning from the grave mere days ago, the result of powerful sorcery. They were able to infect other living creatures, and if infected, there was no such thing as safe. Even as of now, the Restless Dead were roaming what was left of her village, many of them her own elves, her family. Some were centaurs, who had come to aid the elves against the dead, but unfortunately died themselves. Only three had survived. The centaur's leader, Ourin hadn't, but his son, Yri, along with Viorn and Elhaine, two of his most trusted warriors managed to make it out alive. The sun was slowly setting, and although elves are excellent at navigating in the dark, they sought shelter before nightfall, since the dead were more active in the dark, it was not wise to be out after the sun had gone down.
