In the twilight gloom before the dawn, the shadow-play of leaves and branches cast a mottled cloak over the militia, their presence as indistinct as the half-heard rumors of brigands prowling the Eldergrove. The early mist hung like a haze over the still-shadowed landscape. The silence was as palpable as the morning's chill, broken only by the steady march of their footfalls.
Bjorn crouched low behind the rampart of gnarled roots. His deep-set eyes, accustomed to the dim undergrowth, remained vigilant for any signs of movement. The air was cool and carried the earthy scent of dew-laden grass, mingling with the faint, underlying tang of oiled leather and metal from his hidden compatriots.
The silence was as palpable as the morning's chill, broken only by the steady march of his heartbeat. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his rune-etched claymore, and he breathed deeply. The familiar scent and texture of leather, the smoothness of the metal—they served to center his focus.
Time crept slowly.
Silently, he appraised his militia. Fifty individuals concealed themselves within the Eldergrove's murk—their movements synchronized and disciplined. Every member represented a valued asset. Farmers, huntsmen, and crafters. All possessed a sense of duty and responsibility, motivated by their willingness to defend their home.
Bjorn would not risk their lives recklessly.
Minutes passed.
A birdcall, out of place in the rhythm of the forest's symphony, signaled the approach of the brigands. It was a feint, Bjorn knew, an attempt to draw them out. He had heard tales of the marauding force led by a man as ruthless as the winter gales of the northern fjords, though Bjorn knew neither the name nor the face of this leader.
His orders to the militia were clear: stay hidden, stay silent, wait for his signal. Until then, stealth and surprise would determine the militia's advantage.
A clatter of armor broke the stillness, and figures emerged from the murk.
Bjorn's gaze narrowed as he counted. Forty... no, sixty men, armored and bearing the crest of no known lord or lady—a band of wolves come to prey on his home. They moved with a brash confidence, as if certain their quarry would cower before them. Bjorn did not doubt such arrogance was justified—the brigands had no reason to suspect a resistance.
His grip tightened on the hilt of his sword.
Patience. The brigands were still too far from the trap. His eyes flicked to the treeline where his warriors lay in wait, their presence known only to him. Bjorn resisted the urge to signal. Not yet. Soon.
The brigands halted, their formation loose, the front lines bearing shields—likely anticipating a volley of arrows that would not come.
Bjorn's lip curled in a faint, unseen smile. They expected a town of artisans and farmers to fight like soldiers from their barracks.
They were mistaken.
An imposing, brutish figure stood tall and broad at the forefront of the brigands. Though Bjorn did not know him by name, the massive cleaver in his hands marked him as the leader.
The man shouted orders, his voice carrying across the clearing, authoritative and gruff, the tone of a man used to being heeded without question.
"Form ranks! We'll take the town, loot its riches, and establish ourselves! Earn yer keep, curs, or Vasco will feed ye to the wolves!" the large man commanded, and the brigands moved into position—spreading out, forming a shieldwall before advancing.
A hand signal from Bjorn, subtle as the flutter of a leaf falling to the forest floor, set his own plan in motion. From the woods to his left, a raven took flight, a second unnatural call cutting through the air. It was time.
Bjorn stepped from the cover of the trees, alone. His emergence was the spark upon the tinder. As he strode into the clearing, he saw the brigands tense, their formation tightening.
"Come for glory, have you?" Bjorn called out, his voice booming, grating, filled with a challenge. "You'll find naught but steel and resolve here!"
Vasco, surprised by Bjorn's lone advance, hesitated, and in that moment, Bjorn gave the brigand leader a nod, almost respectful. It was the signal the militia had been waiting for.
The earth itself seemed to erupt as Bjorn's warriors sprang from their hidden burrows. Arrows whispered death from the treeline, and blades flashed from the foliage. Those brigands fortunate enough to raise their shields in time found their defenses useless against the barrage—many fell instantly.
Bjorn met Vasco's furious roar with his own.
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Vasco snarled in rage as arrows rained from the treeline, his shield barely raised in time. Fury clouded his mind, his cleaver biting the air as he charged, roaring. Beside him, his men answered his cry, charging alongside him.
Yet Vasco's advance was slow and unsteady, his anger tempered by disbelief.
He had seen the trap unfold, the woodland disgorging its hidden warriors like a beast spewing forth its young. His men, caught off balance by the ambush, now fought to reclaim their footing.
How could he have missed this trap? How could his scouts have failed him so thoroughly? These artisans and farmers, how had they caught them off-guard?
Regardless, Vasco was not prepared to surrender. The town would be his, and the Eldergrove would provide him a new beginning.
The man who had challenged them strode forward confidently, his claymore flashing in the morning light, and Vasco locked eyes with the warrior. He did not falter, did not shy away—no. If anything, the man met Vasco's advance with a savage grin.
Vasco hated him immediately.
With a wordless roar, Vasco swung his cleaver, the blade whistling through the air. Their blades clashed—metal against metal—and the shock reverberated through Vasco's body. The warrior matched him blow for blow, the strength behind his swings and cuts equal to his own.
Vasco gritted his teeth and pressed onward, hacking and slicing, and the warrior held his ground against him. Around them, their followers clashed and fought, cries and shouts filling the clearing.
"Who are ye?! Who leads this town?" Vasco spat. Even as he dueled the claymore-bearing warrior, he surveyed the battle—counting heads, noting losses. Vasco would have answers, regardless of whether or not he won the confrontation.
"My name is Bjorn!" the warrior shouted, his blade singing against Vasco's cleaver, sparks flying. "Hersir of Ebonheim!"
Bjorn's strikes flowed, his footwork sure and swift—his technique refined.
Vasco's frustration grew. Against a lesser opponent, a single swing would have ended the fight. Against this Bjorn, Vasco had to struggle.
Again and again, Vasco hacked and sliced, his cleaver biting the air—his swings a whirlwind—yet Bjorn matched Vasco blow for blow. No matter how hard he fought, his cleaver could not pierce his opponent's guard.
His broad chest heaved, a bull ready to charge, but this was no time for blind aggression. He backed away and raised his massive cleaver, signaling his men to form up, to turn this ambush back on their attackers. The disciplined part of his mind, the remnant of his days as an officer, sought to impose order on the chaos.
"Shields!" he bellowed, voice cutting through the clamor of battle. His men rallied to his call, forming a protective ring around their leader. He was their anchor, their bastion, and they would not falter while he stood. "Drive 'em back!"
A warrior at his side faltered, an arrow finding the gap at his neck. The man crumpled with a dying gasp.
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Vasco kicked the body away and scanned his surroundings. His men fought admirably, yet his opponents harried them. From the treeline and foliage, his adversaries ambushed his forces—shooting arrows and striking quickly. Vasco did not fear their strikes, but the lack of battlefield control irritated him.
He couldn't help but turn his snarl into a grin.
This was the challenge he lived for, the moment when everything else fell away until there was nothing but the next swing, the next block, the next heartbeat. These defenders were no rabble—but neither were they veterans.
His initial plan to serve as a decoy had worked, albeit differently from his expectations. Now he had to rely on Silas and Jarek's forces to secure a decisive victory.
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The forest was a living cloak for Silas "Shadowweave" Morr, its shadows wrapping around him and his band of brigands like a protective mantle. As the feint unfolded in the clearing, he led the true strike force through the thickets, their footfalls silent as ghosts.
Silas moved with a purpose that belied his withdrawn nature. His eyes, dark orbs beneath a furrowed brow, scanned the dense foliage, searching for the telltale signs of an ambush.
Around him, his fighters crept forward cautiously—Arcanists, rogues, and a handful of mercenaries. Silas had carefully selected his team for the task ahead.
The plan was simple in its brutality: circle around, strike where they least expect it, and watch as the town's hastily assembled defense crumbled. Simple, elegant, effective.
The air around him grew colder as he drew on the shadowy tendrils of the forest, weaving a veil of obscurity over his companions. He reveled in the power at his fingertips, a power shunned by his former peers at the conclave. Here, in the wilds, he was free to use his gifts as he saw fit, unbound by the chains of academia and ethics.
As the outskirts of the settlement came into view, Silas' suspicions were confirmed. The bulk of the defenders had marched forward to face Vasco's distraction. This presented the perfect opportunity for his team to slip through the gaps and strike at the town's heart.
"Onwards. Quietly," Silas ordered, his voice a whisper. Drawing the shadows tighter around him, he continued leading his team.
They were nearing the town's perimeter when Silas felt a disturbance, a ripple in the fabric of his illusions. Someone, or something, was out there, countering his magic with a silent force of their own. He halted the brigade with a raised hand, his senses extending into the forest, probing for the source of the interference.
"We're not alone," Silas warned. Signaling his associates to fan out and remain alert, he peered deeper into the thickets. To his surprise and confusion, Silas detected no hostile presences. The ripples continued interfering with his illusionary veil. Who—or what—could generate such magical disruptions?
"Fan out," he whispered, his voice a soft command that spread like a chill wind among his followers. "Our approach has been sensed."
His forces obeyed, spreading into the forest with the silent assent of seasoned hunters. Silas remained still, his hands raised, the shadowy mantle around them fluctuating with his concentration. He sensed the forest's breath, the subtle shift of energy that spoke of a pending encounter.
There was no sound, no warning. The clash came like a winter squall, sudden and fierce. Figures emerged from the treelines—defenders, cloaked not in shadow but in woven fibers, their features obscured. Silas didn't have the chance to count his ambushers—they struck swiftly and dispassionately.
Blades flashed, and the shadows protected him.
A young brigand at Silas's side fell—a throwing knife lodged in his throat. Blood spurted violently, and the man crumpled, gargling and grasping futilely at his wound.
Silas reacted, not with spells of destruction, but with more layers of illusion, a kaleidoscope of false images to bewilder and deceive.
His magic painted phantoms among the trees, warriors where there were none, numbers where there was scarcity. It was a crude tactic—one meant to buy time rather than cause direct harm. Silas needed to gather his bearings and ascertain the circumstances.
Yet for each illusion felled, a real brigand stumbled, pierced by an unseen throw or cut by an invisible blade. The illusionary duplicates did little to protect Silas' forces. They were surrounded, encircled. Silas could sense it.
Who were their ambushers? How could they see through his magic so easily? Silas struggled to weave another illusion, attempting to locate his adversaries amidst the confusion. Nothing. The interference had grown stronger—disrupting his spells.
Cursing beneath his breath, he summoned his conjurations—shadowy wraiths and phantoms—instructing his creations to harass the unseen aggressors. Silas didn't wait for his efforts to take effect. Instead, he fled deeper into the forest.
Disengagement was his priority. Withdrawing would preserve his strength and aid his surviving brigands.
As he ran, Silas managed to catch a glimpse of a blurred figure. A woman, her silhouette stark against the forest backdrop—her stance firm, her cloak billowing. Twin daggers flashed in her hands—each stroke swift and lethal. A glint of silver dangled from her belt—an emblem, a sigil, a mark of affiliation.
Realization dawned upon Silas as he fled, his conjurations disintegrating into ephemeral mist. These were not ordinary fighters—they were no mere artisans or farmers.
Silverguard Company.
Silas blinked and she was gone.
Another brigand fell, his belly opened like a gaping mouth. Silas did not stop. His flight intensified.
This was no ordinary town.
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Kaela moved through the forest with the silence of a shadow, her senses attuned to the faintest rustle of leaves or the softest snap of a twig. The moon above was a sliver, casting the woods in a tapestry of silver and black, a hunter's light. Her team flanked her, equally silent, equally deadly.
Their mission was clear: engage the enemy flank. Intercept and eliminate.
The chill air was a balm on her skin, the earthy scent of the forest filling her lungs with each breath. She had always felt more alive in the throes of danger, where every moment held the weight of a thousand choices. That thrill, the exhilaration—it fueled her—made her sharper, faster, deadlier.
The brigands' feint at Bjorn's position had not fooled her. Such crude tactics were expected, and she had prepared her mobile units accordingly. But as they patrolled the flanks, a chilling sense seeped into her bones—a magic, dark and oppressive, that sought to cloud her mind and lead her astray.
A signal from one of her scouts—the faint whistle of an owl—halted their advance.
Enemy mages moved through the forest, their presence a blight upon the natural balance. Kaela's lips thinned. Magic was a tool better wielded by scholars and craftsmen—those capable of refining its nuance and application. For those incapable, magic became a destructive force—a wildfire whose unpredictability threatened everything and everyone.
She watched as phantoms born of shadow and fear prowled the edges of her vision, illusions meant to terrify and confuse. A lesser warrior might have faltered, but Kaela and her team were made of sterner stuff. They had faced the darkness before, both within and without, and had emerged stronger each time.
With a swift gesture, she signaled the Arcanists lent by the Artisants of Spark and Ethervein Enclave to start their countermagic.
Arcane incantations rippled through the night air as the Arcanists unleashed their arts. The phantoms dissolved into wisps of shadow, and the illusionist controlling the spells flinched visibly. Taking advantage of the mage's momentary distraction, Kaela sprung.
Her daggers sang, cutting through the darkness. Her stride was akin to a dancer's, lithe and graceful. As her victims collapsed, lifeless, she did not celebrate—such distractions would get her killed.
The other Silverguards engaged, their motions a mirror of her own—fluid and fluidic. One by one, their opponents fell. Despite their superior numbers, the brigands had no answer for their precision.
From the corner of her eye, Kaela spotted a familiar rogue—an Arcanist shrouded in shadow. It was the mage responsible for the phantom illusions.
The rogue's identity did not faze her. There would be time later to question his affiliations. For now, the brigands' defeat and elimination was her foremost concern. She would not allow the threat to her comrades and her new home to grow.
Steeling herself, Kaela gave chase.
As the rogue fled deeper into the Eldergrove, she pursued relentlessly. He was not the first Arcanist she had hunted—nor the fastest. His path deviated from the main engagement. Perhaps the brigand mage hoped to lose her—to escape her hunt.
Kaela's tenacity would not allow her target to flee. Darting between the trees, her cloak billowed in her wake.
Up ahead, the forest shifted—the shadows warped—forming a protective barrier. The brigand mage was trying to summon a means of egress—an arcane gate or portal. Such feats were impossible without anchors. Even the Arcanists of the enclaves would have difficulty executing such a complex spell.
Reaching toward the aether, Kaela drew upon her innate skills, her body infused with a rush of energy. Time seemed to slow as her perception expanded, allowing her to pinpoint her foe. Instinct guided her throw.
One dagger flew—silver and shimmering—through the forest gloom. The blade bit deep, lodging itself in her target's shoulder. Kaela's other blade followed suit—slicing through the aetheric portal—interrupting the rogue's casting.
Without missing a beat, Kaela darted forward.
But just as she was about to close the distance, the brigand mage turned.
Tendrils of shadow sprung from beneath her boots—snaring her limbs. She fell—hard—striking the dirt. Kaela's chin hit the forest floor, her teeth grinding painfully. Ignoring the flash of agony, she wriggled frantically, struggling to break free.
Yet the bonds restraining her were strong. Too strong. Kaela cursed beneath her breath and focused her efforts, seeking the flaw—the weakness—within her binds.
Nothing.
Damn it. She cursed her haste. The brigand mage had not fled as a means to escape. His detour had served a dual purpose—he had set a trap, and Kaela had walked right into his web. Now she was a fly, ensnared.
If only she hadn't acted impulsively...
The brigand mage approached her, a dagger clenched in his fist. His hood obscured his features. Kaela glimpsed the glimmer of an amulet strung from his collar—an emblem engraved upon the medallion.
"Tell me," the brigand mage rasped. There was a coldness in his voice—a detached professionalism—behind which lurked the hint of a smirk. "Do I know you from somewhere?"