Alright, buckle up, buttercups, 'cause we're diving headfirst into the post - apocalyptic fiesta!
Last Bastion: The Fate of the Doomsday Prophet
The wind howled like a banshee through the skeletal remains of what was once a city.
Dust devils danced across the cracked earth, swirling around Ethan's worn boots.
As he walked, he stepped over the broken remnants of a once - magnificent fountain, its marble shattered and algae - covered now.
Dust.
That was the taste of the morning.
The gritty dust coated Ethan's tongue, an unwelcome and constant presence, as he picked his way through the skeletal remains of what was once… well, something.
Now, it was just another pile of pulverized dreams under a sky the color of a bruise.
The sky loomed above him, a dull, menacing purple - gray, like a bruise that refused to heal.
His stomach growled, a pathetic symphony of emptiness that echoed the desolate landscape around him.
He could hear the faint rattle of loose debris in the wind, a haunting sound that filled the air.
He kicked at a twisted piece of metal, sending a shower of rust cascading down.
The rust flaked off in a cascade, the sound of it hitting the ground like the final notes of a dying song.
"Come on, universe," he muttered, his voice raspy.
His throat felt dry and scratchy, like it was lined with sandpaper.
"Just a crumb. A freakin' crumb of something edible."
The sun, a malevolent eye in the sky, beat down on him.
The heat radiated off the ground, baking his legs, and turned his scavenged leather jacket into a personal sauna.
He could feel the sweat trickling down his back, soaking into his shirt.
He swiped a hand across his brow, smearing grime across his forehead.
The grime felt sticky and rough against his skin.
It had been a while since he had a proper bath, but hygiene was a luxury he couldn't afford right now.
His mind drifted back, unbidden, to those final days.
The screams, the chaos, the… sacrifice.
His mother.
He clenched his fist, the memory a sharp, painful shard lodged in his chest.
He saw her face, the determined set of her jaw as she pushed him behind her, facing down a horde of… things.
"Protect the others, Ethan," she had said, her voice a strained whisper.
"Be their shield."
Ethan had been too young, too scared.
He had run. And she… she hadn't.
A wave of guilt washed over him, bitter and familiar.
He could taste the bitterness in the back of his throat.
He forced it down, shoving it back into the dark corner of his heart where he kept all the things he didn't want to deal with.
"Damn it," he cursed under his breath.
"I promised. I won't let anyone else…
"His thoughts were cut short by a sound.
A faint, whimpering sound, carried on the wind.
It was a soft, plaintive cry that seemed to pierce through the desolation.
He froze, every muscle tensed.
He could feel the tension in his body, like a tightly wound spring.
He knew that sound.
The sound of desperation, the sound of someone clinging to the last threads of hope.
He followed the sound, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
He could hear his heart thumping in his ears, a wild drumbeat.
He rounded a crumbling wall, and there she was.
A little girl.
No older than six, maybe seven.
She was huddled in the shadows, a pathetic ball of rags and bones.
Her rags were dirty and tattered, fluttering slightly in the breeze.
Her eyes, wide and haunted, stared up at him.
They were too big for her face, reflecting the harsh reality of their world.
"Hey," Ethan said softly, approaching slowly.
His footsteps were soft on the ground, trying not to startle her.
"It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you."
The girl didn't respond, didn't even blink.
She just stared, her lips trembling.
He knelt down beside her, his heart aching.
He could feel the rough ground against his knees.
She was skin and bones, her ribs protruding like a macabre xylophone.
He knew that look. He had seen it too many times.
Starvation.
"I'm Ethan," he said, offering a weak smile.
"What's your name?" A flicker of recognition crossed her face.
"Clara," he repeated, testing the name on his tongue.
"That's a pretty name." He reached out a hand, hesitant.
The air was cool against his outstretched hand.
"Come on, Clara. Let's get you somewhere safe. Somewhere with…" he trailed off, realizing the pathetic emptiness of his promise.
Somewhere with… something.
He gently scooped her up in his arms.
She was lighter than he expected, fragile as a bird.
He could feel her tiny body trembling in his arms.
He started back the way he came, his mind already racing.
He had a small cache of scavenged supplies hidden a few miles away.
Not much, but enough to keep them going for a little while.
Suddenly, a chorus of guttural voices shattered the silence.
"Well, well, well," a voice snarled, thick with malice.
"Look what we have here. A little lost lamb and her…" the voice trailed off, a cruel chuckle rumbling in his chest.
"Her shepherd." The Scavengers, with their tattered leather vests and mismatched boots, moved with a predatory gait.
They emerged from the shadows, a motley crew of hardened survivors, their faces scarred and their eyes glinting with avarice.
The smell of their unwashed bodies and the stench of sweat filled the air.
They were armed with rusty pipes, scavenged knives, and a couple of brutally modified crossbows. "Looks like you found yourself a little snack, friend," the leader sneered, stepping forward.
He was a hulking brute, his face a roadmap of old scars.
"Too bad we're feeling a little peckish ourselves."
Ethan's grip tightened on Clara.
He could feel her small body tensing in his arms.
"Leave us alone," he growled, his voice low and dangerous.
The leader laughed, a harsh, grating sound.
"Leave you alone? Now, why would we do that? We see what you got there, boy. Supplies. And we're in the mood for a little… redistribution."
"She needs help," Ethan said, his voice pleading now.
"She's starving."
"Everyone's starving," the leader retorted, his eyes cold and unforgiving.
"But some of us are just more… deserving than others. Now, hand over the goods, and maybe we'll let you walk away. Maybe."
Ethan knew what they meant by "walk away." They wouldn't kill him outright.
They'd strip him bare, leave him for dead in the wastes, to be picked apart by the elements or the… things that roamed the night.
He braced himself, his mind racing.
He was outmatched, outnumbered.
But he wouldn't give up.
Not without a fight.
He couldn't.
Not after everything.
"I said, hand it over!" the leader roared, taking a step forward.
Suddenly, a jolt of energy coursed through Ethan's veins.
His vision blurred, and he was bombarded with a series of fragmented images.
A flicker of movement, a glint of metal, a… collapsing wall?
He blinked, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
It was like a broken movie playing in his head, disjointed and confusing.
But there was something else too.
A sense of… knowing. He knew what they were going to do.
The leader lunged, his hand outstretched, reaching for Clara.
Ethan acted on instinct.
"Clara, behind the car!" he shouted, shoving her towards a rusted - out sedan that sat abandoned nearby.
The leader hesitated, confused by the sudden outburst.
Ethan seized the opportunity.
He dodged the leader's outstretched hand and sprinted towards a pile of rubble, his mind replaying the images he had just seen.
He grabbed a rusty iron bar, its edges jagged and sharp.
It was his only weapon.
The Scavengers surged forward, their faces twisted with rage.
He knew where they were going to move.
He used that knowledge to his advantage, weaving through the debris, anticipating their attacks.
He swung the iron bar, connecting with a sickening thud against the leader's leg.
The impact sent a jolt of vibration up his arm.
The brute roared in pain, stumbling backwards.
Ethan didn't stop.
He kept moving, kept fighting, using every ounce of strength and agility he possessed.
He was fueled by adrenaline, by desperation, by the memory of his mother's sacrifice.
He managed to take down one of the Scavengers, a skinny kid with a makeshift knife.
But the others were closing in, their numbers overwhelming him.
He was tiring, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
He could feel the burn in his lungs, like fire.
He could feel the pain in his muscles, the burn in his lungs.
He knew he couldn't hold out much longer.
Just as he was about to be overwhelmed, a new sound pierced the air.
A sharp, hissing sound, followed by a series of panicked yelps.
The Scavengers staggered back, clutching at their faces.
A figure emerged from the shadows, a woman, her face obscured by a bandana.
She held a small, ornate pistol in her hand, a strange contraption that seemed to spit out… something.
"Get away from them!" she yelled, her voice clear and strong.
The remaining Scavengers, disoriented and in pain, hesitated for a moment, then turned and fled, disappearing back into the ruins.
Ethan slumped to the ground, exhausted.
He could feel the cool ground against his back.
He watched as the woman approached, her movements cautious and deliberate.
She knelt down beside Clara, examining her with a practiced eye.
She pulled a small vial from her bag and carefully administered a few drops to the girl's lips.
Clara coughed, sputtered, and then, miraculously, opened her eyes.
A spark of life flickered within them.
"She'll be alright," the woman said, turning to Ethan. "Just needs some nourishment."
She reached into her bag again and pulled out a small, sealed pouch.
"Here. This should help."
Ethan stared at her, dumbfounded.
Who was this woman?
And how did she know what to do?
"Who are you?" he croaked, his voice hoarse.
She smiled, a small, enigmatic smile.
"Let's just say I'm a… wandering chef," she replied.
Alright, buckle up, because we're diving headfirst into the gritty world of Last Bastion: The Fate of the Doomsday Prophet.
This is gonna be a wild ride!
The wind howled like a banshee through the skeletal remains of what was once a city.
Dust devils danced across the cracked earth, swirling around Ethan's worn boots.
He tasted grit with every breath, a constant reminder of the world's demise.
This wasn't the world his mother had told stories about, the one filled with shimmering skyscrapers and green parks.
This was a graveyard, and Ethan was just trying to survive another day in it.
His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of the ruins.
Three days since...
since the Raiders had come.
He clenched his fists, the memory a raw wound.
He'd been powerless then, just a kid watching his mother...
He pushed the thought away. Focus, Ethan.
He had to focus.
He wasn't that scared little kid anymore.
A flicker.
A sensation like static electricity buzzing behind his eyes.
It was the "Whisper," the first whispers of what he later called his "Prophet's Eye." Images flashed – a Raider's blade, a spray of blood.
No, not now.
He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting the vision.
The "Whisper" was still unreliable, a chaotic storm of possibilities.
He was scavenging for scraps amidst the rubble of an old grocery store, and every creak of metal or shift of debris made him jump.
The creaking metal sounded like a groan in the stillness.
Bronze Level, he reminded himself.
Barely scraping by.
He needed food, water… something.
That's when he saw her.
She was rummaging through the wreckage of a rusted food truck, her face smeared with grime but her eyes bright with a defiant spark.
Avery.
Even in this wasteland, she managed to look… alive. She was tough.
He could tell.
Something about the way she handled a makeshift wrench, or the no - nonsense way she cursed when a bolt wouldn't budge.
"Need a hand?" Ethan called out, his voice rough from disuse.
Avery jumped, spinning around with that wrench raised like a weapon.
"Who's there?"
Ethan stepped out of the shadows, raising his hands to show he meant no harm.
"Just me. Name's Ethan."
Her eyes narrowed, sizing him up.
"Nah, I don't need no help. I can manage on my own." But there was a flicker of something in her gaze, a hint of weariness that betrayed her bravado.
"Suit yourself," Ethan shrugged, turning to leave.
"Just thought I'd offer. This place ain't exactly safe."
"Wait!" Avery called out, then muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, "Stubborn idiot." "Alright, alright. Maybe a little help wouldn't hurt."
As they worked side - by - side, a fragile truce forming between them, Ethan felt another "Whisper." This time, clearer, more focused. He saw a group of Raiders approaching, their faces cruel and hungry.
"We gotta go,"
Ethan said urgently, grabbing Avery's arm.
"Now! Raiders are coming."
Avery scoffed.
"Raiders? You some kind of fortune teller now?"
"Just trust me," Ethan pleaded, his eyes wide with the urgency of the vision.
He didn't have time to explain.
He just knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that if they stayed, they wouldn't survive.
And that's when they saw her – a little girl, no older than five, huddled behind a pile of rubble, her eyes wide with terror.
Clara.
She was skin and bones, shivering in the tattered remains of a dress.
Avery's face softened.
"We can't just leave her," she said, her voice filled with a fierce protectiveness.
Ethan hesitated.
Raiders were coming.
Taking Clara would slow them down.
But he looked at Avery, at the determination in her eyes, and he knew he couldn't leave the girl to die.
Not again.
Not like his mother.
"Alright," he said, his voice grim.
"We take her. But we move fast."
He scooped Clara up in his arms, the little girl clinging to him like a lifeline.
He glanced back at Avery, her face a mixture of fear and resolve.
"Ready?" he asked.
Avery nodded, her wrench held tight in her hand.
"Let's go make our own luck."
And as they fled into the ruins, the wind seemed to whisper a warning, a promise, and a challenge.
The Iron Prophet's Dominion was just beginning.