“The dead ruined this place, and so the dead rule it...”

Solomon Grundy shivered slightly, looking away from the dirty plane of wood haphazardly shoved into the black earth. The words had been clumsily scribbled onto the rough surface, but the eeriest part of the makeshift sign was the fact the words appeared to be seared into the plank, as if they had been written in flames instead of ink. The tall elf clutched at his cloak, wrapping it tightly around his thin frame. The wind whistled across the Land of the Dead, piercing through the thick woolen garment as if it didn’t exist, turning his very bones to ice. The Quendi bitterly curse under his breath, burrowing his chin into his chest so that the fringe of the cloak covered his sensitive, pointed ears. His already unruly hear was now a messy mop on his head, blowing in front of his eyes. He sighed, rubbing his hands together underneath the cloak. Dori’ba was not the elf’s idea of a good place. He was quite fond of nature, and seeing the bleak landscape made Solomon uneasy. No grass grew here, no in this cursed area of the Salquedor Grasslands. The scholar glanced around, kicking at the black dust that coated the ground, wincing as the vengeful wind whipped it back into his face. He had studied the area extensively before traveling here. Dori’ba had once been a sacred graveyard, a place of rest for the honored dead. But the Apocalypse Alliance had changed all of that. Demons, every last one of them, and they had razed the earth itself, demolishing the graveyard, shattering the protection that some ancient god had placed on this remote patch of dirt.

“The dead...” His voice carried oddly in this place, carried by the wind across the barren wasteland until it returned to his own ears, his words lengthened by the distance they had traveled, his tone turned to a whistling screech. The elf snuggled deeper into the warm cloak, vowing not to speak again unless it was absolutely necessary. The echoes were far too creepy, and he was worried that someone else would hear his unnecessary musings. Dori’ba was an unsettling environment, the whirling wind masking any sounds another visitor would make. He glanced into the sky to make sure the sun was safely above the horizon. The surrounding people had told him dark rumors of this place after dark, how the blackness called forth the spirits the Apocalypse Alliance had set free on that fateful night. Even now he could see the evidence of that calamity, the shattered bits of stone from pulverized tombs and the broken sheets of wood from smashed coffins. His sharp eyes could even pick out shards of human bones sticking out of the soil, a grotesque mockery of the saplings that would never grow here again. Solomon planned to be long gone from this haunted place before the sun set, far enough away that no specters could haunt his sleep. The elf sighed, moving past the shoddy warning, green eyes scanning the dead landscape. The dead may rule here at night, but by day, it’s Solomon who gets to have his fun... A small smile spread across his thin face. The scholar had never really paid any attention to the superstitions of the Quendi. Knowing the legends was not the same as believing them. And although he, like most elves, respected and revered life, there was something here he must have.

The dead could not hide their secrets forever.

Solomon took the small sheet of parchment out of his cloak, running his hands over the scroll to press out the deep creases. It was an ancient map of the Dori’ba Graveyard, although it was next to useless due to the current absence of any notable landmarks. A single grave on the map had been circled in red ink, almost illegible script written next to it. Solomon’s smile grew as he read the note from another scholar, remembering the excitement that had coursed through his body upon discovering this map, hidden in the pages of a larger book about the history of Arda. He tapped the circled site, sharp eyes flickering from the page to the empty land. On second thought... this could take a while... Grumbling to himself about the cold, the elf began to kick aside the rubble scattered here, trying to find any indication of where he was. The note on the map had been scribbled in haste, the handwriting loose and sloppy. Here lies the body of Griffyth Linkor, the Sage of Tyme. Buried with him are his secrets and his scrolls, which were decided to be too powerful to donate to the great libraries...

Solomon Grundy unconsciously hummed as he searched, the haunting nursery rhyme carried on the wind, spreading across the bleak landscape.