N3v3rM0r3
Lunatic Fringe
CabbageAngel
ZenBlve
RPM
TruckKun
Blue Wolf
Zero TraceThe moment passed without ceremony. With the Hime-sama already withdrawn and Rextelian occupied elsewhere, the gathered warriors were left beneath the walls with nothing but wind, snow, and one another.
Hiruq listened as the group spoke in turn. He did not interrupt Youko’s explanation of her combat style, nor Varius’ concern for positioning and infection, nor Yukan’s careful breakdown of formation tactics. When KaMara finally spoke, grounded and practical, he turned fully toward her.
“You don't need to call us commanders. We're not here to take any lead position.” Hiruq said calmly. “Command here rests with Commander Rextelian, under the authority of the Yamamoto clan.”
He glanced briefly toward the inner keep before continuing.
“We came to discuss alliance and to offer aid against a common problem that plagues these lands.”
His gaze shifted briefly to Youko.
“Close combat is good. ” he said. “The undead do not break easily, but they can be overwhelmed.”
To Varius, his tone remained even.
“Your caution is warranted.But it this curse, or whatever it is, isn't spread through infection. Only those who die near the undead, will rise again.”
Yukan’s contribution was met with a short nod.
“Aye, I got to witness your fire usage just a few days ago. That will be of great help against the undead.”
Around them, the guards who had been hovering uncertainly now relaxed slightly. With no immediate orders forthcoming and dusk still hours away, one stepped forward and gestured toward the inner corridors.
“Mess hall is open,” the beastkin said. “Warm food while it lasts.”
Stone passageways wound between the inner walls and the keep, their surfaces worn smooth by decades of boots and claws alike. Paper lanterns hung at regular intervals, their light muted and steady, casting long amber shadows that stretched and bent with each turn. The smell of smoke followed them, not acrid, but old and familiar, the scent of a city that had been burning fuel carefully for far too long.
The mess hall sat low within the structure, partially recessed into the stone itself. Its ceiling beams were thick and darkened with age, reinforced to hold the weight of winter storms above. Long tables filled the space, scarred by use rather than neglect. Benches bore marks of claws, blades, and heavy armor set down too often in haste.
Through narrow slit windows, the sky continued its slow descent. The light outside shifted from pale gray to deeper blue, clouds gathering low against the mountains. Snow fell in fine, steady sheets, coating rooftops and roads alike.
Hiruq listened as the group spoke in turn. He did not interrupt Youko’s explanation of her combat style, nor Varius’ concern for positioning and infection, nor Yukan’s careful breakdown of formation tactics. When KaMara finally spoke, grounded and practical, he turned fully toward her.
“You don't need to call us commanders. We're not here to take any lead position.” Hiruq said calmly. “Command here rests with Commander Rextelian, under the authority of the Yamamoto clan.”
He glanced briefly toward the inner keep before continuing.
“We came to discuss alliance and to offer aid against a common problem that plagues these lands.”
His gaze shifted briefly to Youko.
“Close combat is good. ” he said. “The undead do not break easily, but they can be overwhelmed.”
To Varius, his tone remained even.
“Your caution is warranted.But it this curse, or whatever it is, isn't spread through infection. Only those who die near the undead, will rise again.”
Yukan’s contribution was met with a short nod.
“Aye, I got to witness your fire usage just a few days ago. That will be of great help against the undead.”
Around them, the guards who had been hovering uncertainly now relaxed slightly. With no immediate orders forthcoming and dusk still hours away, one stepped forward and gestured toward the inner corridors.
“Mess hall is open,” the beastkin said. “Warm food while it lasts.”
Stone passageways wound between the inner walls and the keep, their surfaces worn smooth by decades of boots and claws alike. Paper lanterns hung at regular intervals, their light muted and steady, casting long amber shadows that stretched and bent with each turn. The smell of smoke followed them, not acrid, but old and familiar, the scent of a city that had been burning fuel carefully for far too long.
The mess hall sat low within the structure, partially recessed into the stone itself. Its ceiling beams were thick and darkened with age, reinforced to hold the weight of winter storms above. Long tables filled the space, scarred by use rather than neglect. Benches bore marks of claws, blades, and heavy armor set down too often in haste.
Through narrow slit windows, the sky continued its slow descent. The light outside shifted from pale gray to deeper blue, clouds gathering low against the mountains. Snow fell in fine, steady sheets, coating rooftops and roads alike.