Ember of Courage

In the third month of Avila, marked on the Wither Calendar, gentle warmth began to radiate with the first light of dawn, casting a soft golden hue across the horizon. The sun gradually emerged from its slumber, and the sky transformed into a breathtaking canvas of bright colors, signaling the start of a new day. A ruthless and vast horde marched forward with unwavering determination, their heavy boots thundering against the ground as they closed in on the Sanctuary. The air crackled with tension, and the distant echoes of their war cries reverberated through the valley, promising an imminent clash with the defenders.

The glint of their polished armor sparkled like stars against the waking sky, creating a mesmerizing display of metallic brilliance. The sun bathed the battle-scarred landscape in a golden tone above them, and the banner of the mercenary army danced in the crisp morning breeze, a vibrant symbol of their determined ambition.

Beneath the glaring sun, a vast expanse of steel and leather unfurls before the eye, gleaming ominously. At the forefront of this formidable army, Lord Roldan perches majestically atop his powerful black stallion, his antennae quivering in eager anticipation. His eyes, ablaze with fierce intensity, reflect an insatiable thirst for victory and dominion.

Surrounding him is a wall of protection, a battalion of his guard clad in heavy armor that glints in the sunlight, creating a tight, impenetrable circle around their leader. He revels in the dread he instills in his enemies; his mere presence drains the resolve from the hearts of those who dare to oppose him. As he gallops into battle, the rhythmic pounding of hooves reverberates like the beat of a war drum, echoing the promise of domination.

On the opposing side, the valiant "Ironbark Legion," a unit of 2,000 heavily armored warriors wielding massive war hammers and towering shields. There was an inscription on the banner, the unmistakable image of a clenched fist that flutters proudly against the wind. With antennae closely cropped, the soldiers project a distinct and fearsome visage. Renowned for their unfaltering discipline, the Ironbark Legion is a bastion of resilience, capable of withstanding even the most brutal assaults. At the helm is Buckman, a mountain of a man whose presence inspires fierceness among his troops.

Flanking them is the infamous "Drumdawn Battalion," a striking unit of 2,500 armored riders atop coal-black stallions that seem to weave in and out of the shadows. Jillian is skilled not only with the sword but also as a sharpshooter. Her banner, adorned with the menacing symbol of a silver skull, sends shivers down the spines of their adversaries. The soldiers bear antennae dyed to match their steeds, embodying a fearsome symmetry that enhances their dread. This cavalry is legendary for its lightning-fast charges, effortlessly dismantling even the staunchest enemy lines.

As the army drew closer, their formations undulate like a living organism. Each division and wing operates maneuvers in perfect harmony. Lord Roldan stood before the imposing structure of the Sanctuary, its ancient stone walls rising majestically against the horizon like a steadfast giant. Bastions jutted proudly from its surface, and towers stretched skyward, a testament to its fearsome defenses. His eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the fortifications, searching for any sign of weakness. "Report, Theron," he commanded, his voice steady yet filled with anticipation.

"Sir, our scouts confirm the garrison stands at 2,000 strong," Theron replied, urgency lacing his words. "They've had weeks to prepare, but our intelligence indicates their supplies are dwindling, which may give us an advantage."

Roldan nodded, contemplating the implications. "Very well, then. Prepare the siege engines and ready our forces to breach their walls." He felt his horse stir restlessly beneath him, sensing the tension radiating from its rider. Gently, he patted its neck, grounding himself as determination etched across his features. With a deliberate motion, he raised his hand high, signaling the commencement of the battle.

The banner of the Haven Emblem fluttered majestically against the crisp expanse of the blue sky, high above on its stone pedestal. At its heart, a white dove soared in mid-flight, its wings elegantly outstretched as it embraced the delicate silver laurel wreath encircling a radiant golden seven-pointed star.

The gentle breeze brushed against the banner, and its silk fabric danced in fluid waves, casting fleeting shadows upon the ancient stones below. The meticulously magnified motto "Refuge and Light" stood proud in an elegant script. Sunlight played across the surface as the golden star gleamed brightly, each of its five points stretching upward, reaching toward the heavens like a beacon of hope and resilience.

The wind surged, and the edges fluttered with vigor, producing a soft, rhythmic rustle that mingled with the breeze. The sound resonated like a whispering lullaby, a soothing melody that assured those within its embrace that they were protected, safe, and free to find solace in this sacred space.

To the left of the principal banner, a smaller pennant flapped energetically, decorated with the secondary motto, "Hope and Holiness." Its presence is a poignant reminder of the sacred bond uniting the sanctuary and its devoted guardians.

The Sanctuary troops stood poised at the edge of the wall, frozen in reverent awe as they gazed upon the sprawling army arrayed before them. Despite feeling small in the face of such formidable numbers, an ember of courage ignited within them. Their spirits, tempered by rigorous days of training and sacrifice, began to take flight. They understood the odds, yet they also recognized their strength—the unyielding determination to protect their homeland, their families, and their cherished way of life.

Greylock commanded a vantage point atop the Sanctuary wall, clad in formidable steel armor that glinted defiantly in the fading light of day. The interlocking plates of his armor, forged from a unique darkened steel alloy, absorbed the hues of twilight around him, enhancing his imposing presence. The primary color of his suit was a deep, charcoal gray, accented by dark gray and silver trim that denoted his Expert-tier status.

The polished cheek plates of his helmet framed his chiseled features, highlighting a sharp jawline set with determination and resolve. His armor was a masterful blend of leather and steel, painstakingly crafted to withstand even the fiercest conflicts.

His brown eyes scanned the horizon, intensity radiating from his gaze as he locked onto the enemy troops massing beyond the outer defenses. His grip tightened around the handle of his battle-axe, knuckles going white with the strain. The familiar texture of the worn leather wrap felt reassuring against his calloused hands, the perfectly balanced weight offering him comfort amidst the gathering storm. With battle cries echoing through the valley, his jaw clenched in determination, thoughts racing with rival strategies while he anticipated the flow of the impending conflict.

Surprise ignited within him, giving way to boiling anger as his eyebrows furrowed and his lips pressed into a thin line. His eyes blazed with fervent indignation, fueled by a fierce resolve to defend this cherished conurbation. "I will not yield," he whispered fiercely, the words binding him to a solemn vow.

Behind him, his loyal infantry maintained a resolute stance, arrayed in simple yet formidable iron armor. Each soldier wore segmental helmets crafted from overlapping steel plates to shield the neck and shoulders. The nasal guards cast protective shadows across steadfast faces. Their torso armor, composed of laminated iron scales, overlapped to provide maximum safeguarding while preserving agility. Sturdy iron greaves protected their legs with reinforced leather boots encased their feet, bracing them for the warfare.