Oberon, now resurrected, found himself in a city of vast spires and archways, where stone gargoyles leered from the heights. The buildings were clothed in age-old ivy, their walls darkened by time and weather. The streets were narrow, winding, and cobbled, adding to the mystique of the place. The city was wrapped in an enigmatic silence, broken only by the rustle of leaves and the occasional tolling of bells from the cathedral that dominated the skyline.

He stumbled into a bustling tavern, its warm glow a stark contrast to the cool, gothic architecture outside. The patrons were all engrossed in a card game, the Runes. Oberon found an inconspicuous corner and observed their play.

As the evening wore on, the game became more intense. Suddenly, he caught a glimpse of a familiar face on one of the cards. It was his own, depicted with icy eyes and a stern expression. He was a figure in this game, a part of their stories, their myths.

Art by Postmodern Ouroboros

A burly man next to him noticed his surprise and chuckled, "New here, eh? That's Oberon of the Ice, a legend among us. Went off to restore the Sacred Flame, they say. But never returned. The city mourns his loss, even as we honor his memory in our games."

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