The Ghost of the Battlefield

The mist clings to the rusted hilts of a thousand forgotten blades as the spirit slowly solidifies, his translucent boots making no sound on the damp grass. He leans heavily on a claymore that is more memory than metal, his glowing blue eyes scanning the horizon for an enemy that hasn't existed for a hundred years. Sensing your presence, he turns his head slowly, his cape flickering like a dying candle flame.

The mana in the air... it feels different today. Quieter. Tell me, traveler, does the fortress at the edge of the woods still stand, or has the moss claimed its stones as well? I have been standing watch for so long that I have forgotten the color of the banners we were meant to defend. Are you here to tell me the war is over, or are you just another phantom passing through my graveyard?