On the eve of shadows
-Vangaurd-
The crackle of campfires cast hypnotic light across restless shadows, dancing in time with the pulse of a thousand whispered fears. Encircled by great warriors, smoke rose high into a night sky heavy with stars, though even their light felt dim, as if the heavens held their breath for the battle to come. Vanguard sat apart, his hands clenched tight around the shaft of his polearm, listening in solemn silence to the murmurs of the men around him. Some voices were mighty, others meek, but all gathered here to bear witness to the glory of their chief and commander—the great battle shaman known as Warcaller. Her might and fury had united ten thousand arms against the endless tides of horrors summoned from the mire-clad depths of the mountain, spawn of a dark demigod who held mastery over the night. But for the first time in an age, they stood united under her rule; by her power and benediction, they had driven the enemy back to the thumping heart of their corrupt campaign.
“I’d wager my best blade that come dawn, I’ll have cut down more of those pit fiends than any of you!” boasted one of the younger fighters, a handsome man hardly old enough to grow a beard. He balanced his axe in the palm of his hand, the gesture a vain display of skill and confidence. “Those beasts of shadow and smoke are nothing compared to the blood and bone of a true warrior!”
The scarred, broad-shouldered veteran beside him—a hulking figure more gorilla than man—let out a hearty, rumbling laugh. Vanguard knew him well: a seasoned warrior, hardened by countless campaigns, with age and malice etched into every scar. “Keep your blade, boy,” the old veteran chuckled, his voice rough with amusement. “You’ll need it when you trip over your own feet in the rush of the melee.” He hefted his enormous two-handed sword, which glided effortlessly before the evening flames, a weapon that seemed weightless in his grip. “Besides, the glory will be ours for the taking. We’ll send those horrors back to the hell that bore them.”
Nearby, a slender man, silent and watchful, dragged a whetstone along the tip of his spear. His hands trembled slightly, betraying the bite of the night’s terror. “I’d settle for any blessing that god sees fit to spare,” he murmured, his voice thin and tight.
“Blessings?” The old veteran scoffed, clapping the slender man on the back with a force that nearly sent him sprawling. “We’ve got our Warcaller, don’t we?” His laughter bellowed into the night. “With her might, she’ll lead us to victory!”
Their cheers rang out, deep yet hollow, defiant of the shadows pressing at the camp’s edge, yet unable to banish the fear that lurked beneath. And then there was the one they called the Vanguard: a man half a head taller than any other, with long red hair and a beard like wildfire, and eyes as blue and deep as the ocean. His armour of fur, leather, and ring mail was battered and buckled, yet stood stalwart in the face of darkness. He stepped forward into the circle, leaning on the shaft of his halberd, and spoke with a voice like the clash of thunder—a boom of baritone and brass.
“Save your boasting for the morrow,” he commanded. “Or do you plan to face your enemies with nothing but empty words and an eagerness to die?”
The laughter stilled, replaced by the hushed whispers of crackling flames, the bark and wood surrendering to the solitude of smoke. The warriors averted their gazes; the young fighter tightened his grip on his axe, his bravado slipping away as his confidence retreated.
The Vanguard watched them, his massive jaw set, though a pang of regret twisted in his chest. These warriors, brave but young, had not yet learned the true cost of glory: the tithe paid in the blood of brothers, fathers, and sons. But at dawn, they would face a darkness unlike any they had seen before. The horrors that lurked within the Mountain of Smoke—the pit fiends, ancient and merciless—were not foes to be taken lightly. An unknowable number dripped from the basalt cliffs like water, pooling in the black mire.
It was his hope that their courage would hold steady in the face of that abyss, their strength unbroken when the shadows came for them. And more than that, he hoped the Warcaller’s might would be enough to drive the enemy back, to lead them to victory as she had so many times before.
Vanguard’s gaze drifted toward the great tent at the centre of the camp. White silks, kept immaculately clean, billowed gently in the night wind, sacred smoke and incense pouring from the canopy. The banner of the flaming horn hung proudly, flanking the entrance to this monument to conquest. Inside, she prepared for the battle that dawn’s light would bring—a name spoken in tones of awe and reverence. Not only a warrior of legend, whose fury could rend the crust of terra asunder, but also a healer who carried the prayers of her people. She was their bulwark against the dark, an unassailable shield, and a guiding light imbued with a grace no mortal man could claim.
But tonight, with the shadows pressing in on all sides, fear crept its tendrils into Vanguard’s mind. She was the Warcaller, her voice a force of the divine, yet even she might be tested beyond her limits in the battle to come.
Striding toward the entrance, Vanguard thrust the hilt of his halberd into the ground. He passed the honour guard—two sentinels of unparalleled might, skin as strong as Ashwood and eyes like burning amber. Clad in full plate armour, with beards as black as the midnight sky, they were the twin furies who guarded her gate and flanked her in battle. Yet even they, in all their fearsome stature, barely stood tall enough to reach the top of Vanguard’s formidable moustache.
As he stepped into this inner sanctum, a place where only the chosen few were permitted to tread, the first thing Vanguard saw was her armour. It waited, polished to a mirror finish, each piece of silver spell-steel gleaming with divine light. The sleek plates were adorned with wings and feathers, symbols of the power she wielded in the name of the divine. Beside the armour knelt her two squires, clad in simple robes, their bald heads pressed to the ground in solemn prayer.
At the centre of the room, upon a round cushion, sat a force of nature. She was entirely naked, yet carried no sense of vanity; her skin, white and strong as marble, bore the unblemished purity of one blessed by higher powers. Muscles, sculpted and honed by a thousand victorious battles, rippled beneath her flawless skin. Despite all she had endured, not a single scar marred her body.
Her hair, jet black save for a single streak of white that framed her striking face, flowed behind her, crackling with arcane energy. Even in her meditative stillness, eyes closed in battle trance, Vanguard could feel the power radiating from her—a fierce, unnatural green that, when opened, glowed like a copper flame.
As Vanguard stepped deeper into the sanctum, the Warcaller’s eyes opened, twin flames of verdant might blazing in the dim light of the tent. The intensity of her gaze struck him like a physical blow, and he fell to one knee, his breath stolen by the sheer force of her presence. Her power was palpable, radiating from her with a grace that seemed otherworldly, and even the sacred smoke swirling around them seemed to bend to her will.
She regarded him with a calm that belied the storm she was about to lead them into. As she stood, the pressure of her presence grew ever stronger. Her squires moved in reverent silence, wrapping her in sacred linen scrawled with prayers—for safety, for strength. Piece by piece, they assembled her armour: chainmail, then breastplate, greaves, and vambraces, each polished to a mirror shine, gleaming with symbols of the divine.
Last came her spear, the colour of gold yet stronger than the mightiest of metals. Its name was Dawn, and it brought light into this realm of darkness.
When she spoke, her voice was music—soft and low, yet filled with unshakable confidence. It was a lullaby and a war drum all at once, soothing and stirring in equal measure.
“Rise, Vanguard!” she commanded. Her words sent chills down his spine, yet he felt compelled to move, his body obeying before his mind even caught up. “The dawn will soon be upon us. Bring the men into formation, for today we cast this so-called demigod back into the dark. Today, we bring the light back into the world.”
