RAVEN'S GAMBIT | Part 2: The Camp at the Mountain’s Shadow
The divine gateway shimmered behind them like a bruise in the sky—an unnatural wound held open by the whim of a trickster god. One by one, the summoned exiles of countless worlds emerged into a place of steam and stone, coughing and blinking against the sulfur-choked twilight.
Before them loomed White Plume Mountain, ancient and malevolent, its jagged slopes wreathed in thick mist and hissing geysers. The land itself seemed hostile to life. The air crackled faintly with the residue of divine magic and distant madness. Somewhere deep within, it was said, lay the source of their trial—and perhaps their salvation.
They were sixty-nine in total, ripped from their own realities at the moment before death, gathered by Raven for a divine purpose none yet understood. Now they stood at the edge of legend, scattered in loose clusters, suspicion and uncertainty thick between them.
An impromptu encampment began to rise near a shelf of black volcanic rock. Mages raised wards. Warriors stacked stones. A rogue fashioned a makeshift latrine while muttering about “shared madness.” No tents. No banners. Just raw survival.
But with survival came arguments.
Near the ridgeline, Marshal Darian Thorne, a weather-worn veteran clad in star-flecked plate, pounded his sword into the cracked earth.
“We need structure,” he growled, “not chaos. Tactical hierarchy. I’ll take command.”
“No,” came the sharp voice of Kaelen Thornstride, a moon elf ranger whose gaze rarely missed anything. “This isn’t a battlefield. This is a trap-laden ruin. We need a tracker, not a warlord.”
“Pah!” spat Kale Stronemarch, a ranger turned mercenary. “A leader needs grit, not maps. I’ve hunted basilisks with my teeth. We follow the toughest—me.”
“I vote none of you,” chimed in Thalia Emberbranch, another elf ranger cleaning her fingernails with an arrowhead. “Too much noise. You’ll get us killed before breakfast.”
Just as tensions neared a boiling point, a gentle snap broke the chaos—a lacquered fan unfolding with a whisper. All eyes turned to a figure gliding forward like silk on water.
Bayushi Kaede, a courtier from a land of shadowed honor and sharp smiles, regarded them with practiced contempt.
“Really,” she said, her tone smooth and mocking, “is this how the greatest warriors in the multiverse conduct themselves? Bickering like orphans over spoiled bread? I’ll lead. At least I won’t stink of sweat and desperation.”
Her words hung like incense—sweet, acrid, and utterly infuriating.
Even the arguing veterans paused, unified briefly in their annoyance. But no one challenged her—yet.
At the edge of camp, Sir Cedric Lightbringer knelt with his sword across his lap, eyes closed, his lips murmuring a prayer to a god who might not hear him here. But then—he felt them.
His eyes snapped open. Shadows moved unnaturally in the gloom.
Standing just beyond the firelight were four figures.
A vampire spawn, its eyes sunken, lips bloodied.A wight, dead hands twitching.A mummy, regal and rotting, its linen robes whispering with every breeze.And a mohrg, a skeletal horror with a serpentine tongue undulating from its mouth.
Cedric’s hand went to his blade. Divine fury surged within him.
“These abominations shouldn’t be allowed to draw breath—if they even breathe.”
But before his sword left the scabbard, a voice, calm and commanding, spoke behind him.
Lady Vexa Andros, noble of a forgotten empire, stepped beside the paladin, her cloak of crimson and gold fluttering faintly.
“They’re allies, for now,” she said. “Strike them, and you’ll doom our mission before it begins.”
“They’re undead,” Cedric growled. “Foul. Cursed. Evil.”
She met his glare with cool indifference. “So are half the others here. Shall we purge them all? Or finish Raven’s trial first?”
His jaw clenched, but he stepped back.
“Very well,” he muttered. “But I’ll watch them. And if they falter—”
“They’ll find your blade waiting,” Vexa said. “As will I.”
Elsewhere in camp, three figures knelt in a quiet triangle beneath a dying tree.
Jedi Master Oryn Tal, his skin lined, and his robes dusted with ancient stars, reached outward with the Force.Beside him, Taro Vex, a scarred Jedi Guardian with battle in his bones.And opposite them, Seris Kael, a Force Adept with arcane tattoos spiraling down her arms, eyes half-glowing.
The Force shimmered like a wind through glass.
Oryn’s mind brushed the mountain—and recoiled.
“It watches,” he whispered. “It… waits.”
Taro frowned. “For what?”
“For us. Not as prey. As pieces.”
Seris opened her eyes slowly. “This mountain is alive. Or possessed. Either way, it’s wrong. We’re walking into a trap laced with purpose.”
Watching them from a distance, Sir Alric Thorne no friend to mystics, muttered under his breath.
“Magic nonsense. I’ll trust cold steel and holy scripture before floating tricks and riddles.”
As night crept in, the camp settled into uneasy silence. Fires crackled. Sir Cedric Lightbringer sang softly. A half-orc barbarian and a samurai argued philosophy. A rogue gambled with herself.
The Citadel, high above in the twilight sky, pulsed like a second moon—watching.
And in the aether above, where gods walk unseen, Raven laughed.
The game had begun.