The Sentinel

In the cursed realm of Tenehu, cyclopean ruins from an ill-begotten time are said to lie hidden. Yet these haunted remains are seldom visited, for they are guarded by mysterious lone figures who allow no one to approach the obsidian structures.

Though many believe these sentinels to be ghosts or dark spirits belonging to the precursors who built the ruins, other, more believable tales speak of something else.

They say these dark figures are not supernatural at all, but men—clad in tall fur suits and wearing skulls as masks.

Those who have dealings with the barbarous peoples of the mountains say these mysterious sentinels are of their kin.

When one of them dies—be it through illness, old age, or violence—all the tribes of the greater region gather to perform the proper funeral rites and to choose a new sentinel from among their number. This is a time of great joy, for it is rare that all the remote villages meet at once. Yet it is also a somber occasion, for its purpose is sacred: they view themselves as keepers of many arcane secrets.

The village champions then duel one another, and he who defeats all his opponents is chosen to replace the fallen sentinel.

The chosen one carries the body of his predecessor and lays it, naked to the elements, on a tall nearby peak. There he sits in solemn meditation as vulturous birds pick the bones clean. When the skull is bare, he takes it and fashions it into a mask, carving elaborate motifs upon it to honor the joyous dead—for in all ways and purposes, he is now one of them. He may never again leave the cyclopean ruins, where he will stand solitary guard until death takes him as well.

Only on rare occasions will he meet others of his kin—either when a great foreign threat approaches the ruins, or when, by some inexplicable reason, he is forced to abandon his post. Such events are exceedingly rare, and most of his people dread even to approach or speak of the ruins.

He is well-armed for his task. He carries a club, as any warrior of his people does, and a sling, to bring death from afar. He also uses stones fastened to cords, hurled in such a way as to twist around a target and immobilize it. But the greatest weapon he wields is fear itself—something any who have gazed upon him can testify to.

He marks the boundary around the ruins with rope adorned with brightly colored strips of fabric and small bells, as his people do at places they deem sacred. These are believed to ward off dark magicians—who, it seems, take a great interest in these ruins.

Why that is, we can only guess. And I dread the day we might find out.