FREE USE in Primitive World

He pulled the tunic over his head, smoothed it down, and reached for the rest of his clothes. Once dressed, he wore his black armor and strapped the heavy scabbard of the Dreadwing Blade on his side.

The familiar weight settled against his side like a trusted old companion, someone he could trust his life with.

Only after carefully correcting it, did he step out of the tent.

The crisp morning air greeted him happily.

Sol paused just outside the entrance and took a slow, deep breath.

The cold mountain air filled his lungs, carrying the mingled scents of grass, woodsmoke, and roasting meat.

Before him, the valley stretched out in the soft light of dawn.

Mist still clung to the lower slopes in pale ribbons. The distant peaks were catching the first true gold of the sun, while the white limestone flats below retained the cool violet shadows of early morning.

Despite the scars of battle that still marked the ground in places, the morning itself was strikingly beautiful.

Around the camp, dozens of fires were already burning.

The rich, savory scent of roasting meat drifted strongly through the air. With multiple Layer 3 warriors among their ranks, hunting the massive beasts of the surrounding plains had been almost trivial.

Entire carcasses of mountain game had been brought back before first light, and now groups of Veynar were efficiently butchering and cooking the meat over open flames, preparing enough food for both the warriors and the long column of prisoners.

Sol stood there for a short while longer, simply taking in the scene, before slowly making his way toward the central area of the camp.

Along the way, the warriors greeted him energetically, though deep reverence was still visible in their forms.

Sol also happily greeted back, not putting too much airs.

Warchief Veylara, High Shaman Zephyra, and Commander Thauren were already gathered near one of the larger fires. A low stone slab had been set with simple wooden platters of food. Kira and Zeyra fell into step beside Sol without needing to be asked, flanking him as he approached.

Veylara looked up as he drew near. Her deep blue eyes assessed him with quiet satisfaction.

”You’re up,” she said. ”Good. Sit. Eat. We will move as soon as the preparations are ready.”

Zephyra inclined her head in a small, graceful greeting. Thauren offered a respectful nod, his expression still carrying the residual weight of the previous day’s losses, though it was tempered by hard-won relief.

Sol sat with them on the low stones arranged around the fire. Kira settled on his left, Zeyra on his right.

Thick cuts of freshly roasted meat, dense flatbread still warm from the stones, and steaming bowls of herbal broth were passed around.

For a time, the six of them ate in relative quiet. The simple meal restored strength and grounded them after the chaos of the war.

The crackle of the fire and the low murmur of the camp filled the comfortable silences between bites.

Only once the edge of hunger had been satisfied did the conversation turn practical.

Final details of the march were confirmed. The order of the march was settled. The handling of the nearly one thousand prisoners was reviewed one last time.

Veylara’s voice remained steady and decisive as she outlined the plan; Zephyra added quiet observations about the state of the surrounding territories; Thauren confirmed the readiness of the guards and the condition of the captives.

When the meal was finished, the camp began to fully mobilize.

Warriors extinguished the smaller fires. Gear was checked and secured. The long column started to take shape across the limestone flats.

With a heavy, collective thud of boots and hooves, the grand procession began its descent out of the limestone valley, marching through the plains and jungles back toward the heart of the Veynar territory.

...

At the very front of the column walked the nearly one thousand bound Coalition prisoners... Zerith stalkers and Gray Marauders arranged in double files, their wrists tied securely with heavy hemp rope.

Placing them at the head of the formation was a deliberate choice. If any of them tried to break and run, they would have to do so in full view of the entire Veynar force behind them. Not that anyone truly believed they would dare. The lingering shadow of the black-armored reaper walking behind them was more than enough to keep their heads bowed and their steps obedient.

Directly behind the prisoners marched Warchief Veylara and High Shaman Zephyra, their postures straight and unyielding.

Commander Thauren and the battle-weary Veynar veterans followed, with the rest of the tribe’s warriors, kids and support personnel filling out the long column that stretched across the pale stone.

Sol walked near the center, Kira and Zeyra at his sides, the Dreadwing Blade resting against his back.

The morning sun continued to rise, casting long shadows across the limestone flats as the victorious Veynar began the journey home... no longer a battered, nearly broken tribe, but a force that had rewritten the balance of power in the northern sectors of the Great Orrath.

...

The march took several hours, the long column winding through the rocky gorges, wide plains, and dense forests of the Great Orrath. As the sun reached its mid-morning height, the outer wooden palisades and watchtowers of the main Veynar settlement finally appeared through the jungle’s mist.

Inside the tribe, the atmosphere had been suffocating for two days. The women, children, elders, and the warriors left behind to guard the home territory had spent every waking hour in agonizing suspense. They had been on high alert since the vanguard marched out, knowing that if the Coalition won, total erasure awaited their clan.

Suddenly, a young scout atop the highest wooden tower blew a sharp, panicked blast on his horn.

HOOOOOOOORN!

”SOMETHING;S ON THE HORIZON!” the scout shrieked, his voice cracking with terror. ”MASSIVE NUMBERS! IT’S THE ALIENS! THE ALIEN RACES ARE MARCHING ON THE GATE!”

Instantly, the whole tribe erupted into chaotic panic.