The Raiders

At least thirty figures emerged from the hills, their forms ghostlike in the dark night. They moved with the grace of seasoned hunters. 

They were silent, efficient, and deadly. Rusted blades, hand crafted spears, and modified rifles rested in their hands. 

They weren't pointed at Kael and his friends. Not yet. But they were a warning. 

Kael's hand clenched around the handle of his pickaxe, the gem in his chest thrumming in response. 

Not yet. He didn't want to use it. Not unless he had to.

The leader stepped forward. A hooded figure with a voice like grinding stone. "Kael Duskborne? We've been looking for you."

Familiar.

Kael's body tensed before his mind caught up. He knew this man.

Long ago—before the mines, before Kreel's tyranny—Kael had encountered him. 

A brief, fleeting moment. The man had saved his life from a wild beast when Kael had been traversing the Wasteland.