Journey to the Darkest Dungeon

Hamlet

The coach had stopped at last. As the sun gently rose over the horizon, welcoming a new day on this world, you stepped down the wagon's squeaky little steps into the Hamlet town square. You had made it. To your old home and, regrettably, your new one as well. It had been years since you had last set foot in this place, but even your most horrendous preconceptions could not surpass the scenery around you. As your eyes wandered, they found nothing but sorrow. 

You remembered this place as the shining jewel of the coast. Bustling streets of commerce and promise, adorned with laughing, shouting, cheering faces. The houses that surrounded you were broken. Shattered. Their ruinous state would imply that this village had just recently suffered a catastrophic blow to its infrastructure were it not for the layers of rot, mud and decay that had spread all over the cracks and crevices within this once shining, resolute city. The rays of sunlight creeping over the horizon amplified this place's sheer lack of color. No matter where your eyes would go, there was nothing to see. Nothing to say. The collapsed walls and broken pillars of this village were devoid of... anything. The surrounding people echoed their towns despondence. Disinterested and shambling, their affects had more likeness to the undead than the very much alive. 

A state of limbo had fallen over your old Hamlet. From the wavering nameless streams of people, a small crown began to form before you. You had arranged for someone to meet you here, someone "trusted", but this did not look the part. Taking up their vigil, your bodyguards positioned themselves by your side. The faces opposite you, if not downhearted and lost, were spiteful. Hating. They knew who you were. Not all of them, surely, but you could tell who did. From the colorless miasma you had so recklessly set foot in, pinpricks of fiery, grudging hatred sparkled towards you. Their collective minds thinking as one, beholding you as one. Seeing through you. Mistreated and abused by none other than your ancestor, your own flesh and blood, the blood that had spawned you into this world, they had nothing but disdain for you. You did your best to still their fears and hostility, introducing yourself and stating your allegiance to their cause. Then you watched as the Hamlets quiet hostility turned into unbridled, rancorous mockery. Your outstretched hand, a gesture of good will and good spirits, remained tauntingly empty as the crowd dispersed.

As the people disappeared, they gave way to one of the larger, more intact houses. One of the few. The tavern. It was readily apparent why this abode was one of the few fated to survive the onslaught of time in this place. Tempting passers-by with an escape from the surrounding bleakness, it held bargain for the rich and poor alike. The bar offered all manner of liquid distraction, while the basement doors served as a gateway - to the consuming hell of gambling games and other notorious pleasures. 

Through the sunken roofs and narrow streets you made out the other two lucky guests of this village. The abbey, clearly, as religion once more served as the final and - for some - the only refuge from their justified hopelessness. Then lastly, the hospital. Surely no esteemed doctor had seen this place in months, but despair and looming death gave way to all manner of creative implement. The trifecta of distraction, denial and absolution - cornerstones of a civilization desperate for a better future that simply would not come.

Then, something took you by surprise. You had not seen it at first, as the cart had landed directly next to it when you arrived, but as your gaze concluded a full turn through the city, you finally saw it. A statue. Right next to you and in the center of the town square, somewhat decrepit, but yet still standing tall. A robust icon mimicking the silhouette of your late ancestor. Why? Of all the places these people had let succumb to ruin and rot, how was this not one of them? Why was your ancestors mocking, vile visage still held up high, surveilling the city and its surrounding lands? No riotous mob had formed and toppled the idol years ago. No singular delinquent had set out one night to deface and shatter the stony image, bit by bit. Only weather and time had, with major exertion, eaten and gnawed into the statues surface. But he was still here. Surveying. Observing. Bearing witness to his own towns demise from within this stony prison. You felt his gaze on you, as must every waking soul in this town. But then, to your horror, you realized he was not the only watcher.