RAVEN'S GAMBIT | Part 3: The First to Tread
The tension in the encampment was thick as incense. Force-users, warriors, scholars, and mystics stood in tight-knit circles, their voices hushed, their expressions grim. The encampment became a temporary sanctuary—neutral ground where rival creeds had, at last, lowered their blades and egos in pursuit of a higher cause.
Raven watched from afar.
In a rare moment of unity, the gathered leaders had come to a conclusion. Diplomacy had prevailed where threats would have fractured them. They would form twelve teams. Each would enter White Plume Mountain one hour behind the last, in staggered succession—like pulses of light into an abyss. The logic was simple: if one group failed, the next would be close enough to respond, learn, and adapt. The risks were undeniable, but the alternative—chaotic incursion—would be a death sentence.
The first group was already chosen. Their task was grim: break ground, test the mountain’s response, and carve the first trail into the belly of this legend-shrouded tomb. At the head walked a man of few words and lethal precision.
Kale “Whisper” Stonemarch moved like wind through trees—seen, barely heard, and gone before his name could be remembered. Once a sniper on bloodstained borders, he was now a mercenary tracker, sought for the kind of recon work others were too loud or too slow to survive. His fingers tapped lightly on the fletching of his arrows as he surveyed the fog-draped horizon ahead. White Plume Mountain loomed like a fang of the gods.
At his side strode Elaren Duskroot, the Archivist. He was tall, angular, his cloak frayed by age and salt winds, face hidden under the hood of the Silent Order. He spoke rarely—but when he did, the words dripped like honeyed ink from a forgotten tome. He muttered verses from texts no one else remembered, quoting philosophies that hadn’t been taught in centuries. His knowledge would guide them through arcane puzzles and forgotten defenses.
Two others bore the aura of dragons: Kael Emberblood, a Dragonshaman blessed by Bahamut, walked with an aura of thunder and resolve. His steps resonated like distant drums of stormfronts, his armor etched with lightning motifs. Across his chest hung vials—small, preserved scrolls of divine scripture, a sacred talisman to ward off the mountain's corrupting grip. He was a bulwark, his aura meant to shield allies from whatever darkness Raven had stirred.
Beside him, his grim echo—Varek Duskwither, a Hexblade of morbid charm and quiet fury. He treated prophecy like a punchline and fate like a forgotten joke. Though he followed the plan, he trusted no god, no cause—only the curve of his steel and the twitch in his left eye when death drew near.
Kaito Shadowstep, ninja of the Sazoku, flitted just behind them, soundless and spectral. Raised to kill without leaving a ripple, Kaito had been trained to stalk demons and generals alike. Now, his piercing eyes scanned every crevice, every shifting shadow. His blades were ready—but he hoped not to use them until it was necessary.
Trailing the group was Jahari Malek, the nomadic scout from the desert realms. His cloak was stitched with sand-blown thread and whispers of tribal runes. His instincts—honed across storm-choked dunes—were invaluable. He could read terrain like a story and sense disturbance in wind and stone. While the others looked for enemies, Jahari listened to the land itself.
Sixt-nine would eventually walk into the mountain—but six now descended first.
The sky above roared softly, clouds parting around the gaping maw of White Plume Mountain. A hot wind exhaled from the entrance—sulfur, rot, and something older.
As Kale motioned the group forward, the others behind—those still waiting at the encampment—watched in silence. Some prayed. Others sharpened weapons. A few clenched talismans until their knuckles whitened.
After lighting torches, the first group disappeared into the mist.
Their story—whatever it would become—had already begun.
And somewhere, deep within the heart of the Citadel Raven smiled.