I finally reached the village of the abandoned. They are people who had the misfortune of not having a mage among their born. That, along with a lack of resources, forced them to live in small, horrible houses piled one on top of another in a vain attempt to seek protection that fragile, rotten wood could not provide. Every two or three weeks, a family tries their luck building closer to the Dark Forest. Even at this distance, the mage's containment field is present but very weak—not enough to power the most advanced machinery of the past or present (if they even had the money or luck to have any). Dim, dying lights illuminate the counters of hundreds of bars, cabarets, and taverns. They are utensils that even novice mages would not bother to make. They only contain two runes—"Store" written on their base, "Release" marked on the metal resistance. They are made by children before entering the building that will train them. Dwarves are trying to imitate their principle but have not yet achieved something that can burn at that intensity without being consumed. Meanwhile, the rich within these outskirts use them as a symbol of power, amid the misery that surrounds them.
We are outside the reach of the laws. Even the most powerful mage has no way of knowing I am here. People do not approach—not due to any emotional spell. They simply know the weapons they have could do nothing before losing their lives. Nothing like knowing one is mortal makes them appreciate their lives. I leave them in peace. My intention is to enter the forest through this zone. The mages gave me entry without knowing it... but the villagers know it. Almost all their weapons contain a little wood from the forest—not much because it is scarce, and most do not dare enter its territories directly for fear of the containment field, enemies, or soldiers who occasionally patrol the borders. More likely, it is fear of the darkness lurking in the trunks blackened by the city's filth.
As I exit the squalor of the village they call "Goblin Head," I contemplate very seriously the head of the poor wretch that adorns the exit—deformed lips in an eternal grimace of terror, revealing sharp but harmless teeth in a body that never grew beyond a meter and a half. Beyond the borders are the fishermen. If the village people are poor, they have no comparison with the miserable without families—the orphans and the deformed. Through my contained field, I can feel the grime, the pollution that abounds in these wretches. On the next slope, I can see why they look darker. From both pipes, liters and liters of waste that "Bloodyhammer" pours are expelled at regular intervals. All the villages on the outskirts are the dumping grounds of the great cities. The forests, due to their magical nature, were considered safe for dumping all garbage. There were dissenters, those who protested, but they were merely dinner table complaints. Comfort prevented them from recognizing the excesses that truly occurred behind their backs—far, far from them, hundreds of meters below, splattering lands made infertile for planting by magic, contaminated to the marrow by a society that, seeing no other use for them, acted as if they did not exist.
The little hands of the children are smeared with this black, tarry substance. None smile. Most have never had many reasons to. I have descended the slope and can finally see the roots of such enormous trees. I do not know if they have magical names. My masters did not seem to care. The inhabitants apparently do not either. The people who come to "fish" in this filthy pond are the most screwed, as I suspected. Some already have minor mutations—bald heads raise watery eyes of different colors for only an instant, then continue trying to catch something. Most use only hands, which in some cases are scaly; others are green; some have fish membranes. All in absolute misery, waiting against all odds for someone "above" to send something of value down the drain—some magical item, higher quality clothing, money. What I see worries me. The degradation of these people is too accelerated to have occurred in the few decades since my masters abandoned the continent. I will have to touch that garbage if I want answers.
As I approach, some of them cast apprehensive glances. I suppose they think with my boots I can enter the center of the pond, unlike them who are on the banks or in the multiple streams. They know it burns to the touch, but they do not care. A good piece of lead or perhaps some cutlery would allow them to sleep in some stable—it might even afford some wine and stale bread. Up close, I can confirm that the water, besides being black, oily, and thick, has something more. Crouching surrounded by so many (child/man/wretch) is not a good idea. Even with the armor, I could not save myself from being attacked in an attempt to rob me. I extend my field a little over the infected surface... and receive a response!
It is very weak—barely a shadow of a request for magical energy. Inside here, at the bottom of all this garbage, there must be a couple of magical objects. Sensing a field, they try to absorb its power in an attempt to continue functioning as they were created. I choose the closest—something at least two meters deep, not very large, barely a thirty-centimeter square. Since I cannot inject my force into it for fear of making it explode from excess energy, I use a piece of sheet metal beneath it. At each end of the sheet, I carve the letters of "Levitate." My energy feeds the runes, making the object levitate uniformly. Most of the scrap fishermen move away. One thing is trying to rob a mercenary; another is messing with some warrior mage straight out of a fairy tale.
As the water allows me to see the piece I seek, I feel fury intoxicating me. A magical wooden plaque contains a carving of a scantily clad woman. Still disgusted, I imprint some magic into that piece. At first, nothing happened. Then, with a horrible screech, music began—if it could be called music, it sounded horrible—a mix of percussion and some strings playing a brothel song. In the carving, the woman began to shed her scant clothing. The movements were clumsy, the illustration poorly made. Undoubtedly fabricated by the mind of some student of this mage—one who had apparently left the tower on more than one occasion to know pleasures beyond magic. The filth is useless—no utilitarian value, no armament value, just an obscene piece some initiate carved for his recreation. I throw it behind me and leave. The coffin follows me as I activate the movement and levitation runes carved along its black body. I have not advanced two steps when I begin to hear grunts. It probably fell on the ground, not in the lake. Now I can hear more clearly. They argue, fight over a piece of stupid wood. For them, fortune. For the rest, just waste. I follow the path of the largest stream, and just around the corner, I hear the first cry of pain from a senseless fight.