The Blood Horn: Ashes Beneath a Burning Banner
They came bearing light, but left only fire. What began as a crusade wrapped in faith and purpose now cuts through the land with merciless precision. Villages smolder, homes are swallowed by flame, and those who once stood proud are driven to their knees beneath gleaming steel and sacred banners. It is no longer a campaign for belief—it is an extermination.
Among the scorched ruins, a leader rises—not for glory, but because there is no one else left to stand. The clans are scattered, divided by blood feuds and forgotten oaths. Yet if they do not come together, they will be wiped out one by one. Trust is scarce, but desperation is a powerful motivator, and old enemies may yet become uneasy allies.
But war rarely draws clean lines. In the smoke and confusion, unseen forces twist the tide. Some speak of hidden hands turning blades, of secrets buried beneath the chaos, of unseen puppeteers who profit from the blood spilled on both sides. This is not just a battle for survival—it is a reckoning.
His hooves struck stone as he stalked toward the altar, blood steaming on his blade. A priest of the Light whimpered, cornered and trembling.
Kregath bared his fangs. "No sermons," he spat, lifting his swords "Only screams."
The strike echoed like thunder through the hollowed bones of the valley.
"Nothing but rock and dust." The words are bitter, stolen by the howling wind. "And yet we’re still here." A knowing glance, a steady step forward, boot against loose stone. The valley does not welcome, nor does it warn. It simply watches, waiting to see who will endure—and who will be lost to the dust.
The training post cracked under her swing, splinters flying. She turned to the gawkers, blade resting on one shoulder, sweat gleaming on scarred skin. Her grin was all teeth. "That it? I thought this place had fighters." Silence followed. She stepped forward, slow and deliberate. "Prove me wrong... or stay useless."
A boot shifts through the smoldering debris, embers flaring briefly before fading back into darkness. "Still warm." The air is thick, stifling, the heat of the dying fires still clinging to the ruins.
"Any sign of them?" The voice is low, wary, barely rising above the wind that howls through hollowed homes.
A shattered warfront where loyalty fractures, and survival demands sacrifice.
