Deep in the woodlands is a small town in the shadow of an obelisk. Upon this monument is a clock which has been counting down for centuries. No one remembers where it came from, what it means, but it is about to strike midnight and toll the centuries silent bell. -- Anon Guest
The clock has always been there. Attempts to find when it was built have resulted in nothing but frustration. Even the first images of Lumberhill, back when it was a simple mining camp, showed the clock. Some tried asking the Trolls and the Dragons, but they, too, did not remember the clock not being there.
It used to show millennia. Then it showed centuries. When it ran out of centuries, it showed decades.
Now? It was counting down in hours.
The people of Lumberhill had been worried about it since the decades counted down. There were those who had made secure bunkers in their basements. There were those who stockpiled arms and armaments. There were those who were training up their magic to the highest possible achievement. Readying for the worst. Many turned to their patron gods.
A very, very few attempted to live their lives normally. Perhaps it is those that the world has to thank. Or to blame.
One hour remained. Those with bunkers hunkered in them. Those with arms and armour girded them on. Those with magic readied every preparation they had. Watching the minutes, then the second tick down.
There was no earth-shattering kaboom. There was no cloud of doom. Not even a light, if chill, breeze. No Dragon decided to erase the town from existence. No plague erupted, no doom descended from the sky, no armies arrived to raze the place.
The only thing rending the air was the howl of a newborn infant.
Nobody there was smart enough to worry about that.
[Photo by Ondrej Polak on Unsplash]
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