In the medieval continent of Terrall, the existence of witches and wizards are rare. Feared and persecuted by some while revered and glorified by others, most of them choose to live their lives safe in secrecy.
But not all.
Enter the Western kingdom...
The dead had always been with her for as long as she could remember.
At times when she traveled. At times when she slept. At times when she opened and closed her eyes. She saw them flicker at the edge of her vision, heard them whisper indecipherable words to her ears, felt their cold and hesitant touch on her skin. To Chell, they were a constant presence in her life, an undeniable existence that she could never ignore nor stop.
She was aware of how different she was. Unlike others, she spent more time with the dead than the living. Most instances, she would even have trouble discerning the two. After all, both the living and the nonliving neither seemed nor looked that much different from the other. The only problem with the dead, of course, was that they were devoid of life—nothing else but the remaining hollow echoes of their living selves.
They were always there with her. And Chell, in turn, had no qualms to being with them.
She preferred it that way. To her, being with the deceased was better than being with those who were not. After all, with the dead, they couldn't possibly hurt her. And most importantly, with her, she couldn't be able to hurt them.
That was the main reason why Chell felt comfortable having them by her side in her constant travels. In a way, their own presence had become reassuring, seeing as how she would always journey alone. They might have even been the reason why she never felt truly lonesome throughout her years of wandering in solitude. For Chell, the deceased were as much company as the living.
Still, there was another reason why she allowed herself to journey with them. Oftentimes, they whispered important things to her.
Warnings. Omens. Secrets. Prophecies.
They sensed and knew things that most of the living couldn't. Chell had learned that almost everything they told her tended to be accurate. Even the places she would go and choices she would make were of those often suggested in their quiet whispers. They spoke to her in soft, discordant voices, warning her of what to do, whom to trust, and where to go, guiding her in their cold silence. And she would oblige without any doubt.
To Chell, the dead had always been with her for as long as she could remember. They were a constant presence in her life, an undeniable existence that she could never ignore nor stop.
That was how it was supposed to be.
Until the day they suddenly disappeared.
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