Ambush in the Ruins

The air in the ruins of Oakhaven tasted of dust and the metallic tang of old blood. What had once been a vibrant marketplace was now a jagged scar upon the earth, a testament to the Strangers' swift and brutal passage. Borgen navigated the rubble with the practiced ease of a seasoned scavenger, his massive frame dwarfing the shattered stalls and collapsed buildings. Each crunch of debris beneath his worn boots was a familiar sound, a morbid symphony of his existence. He was here for the spoils, the meager remnants of lives extinguished, but a deeper purpose gnawed at him – the faint hope of a clue, a flicker of understanding about the shadows that had stolen his world. He paused, his keen eyes scanning a particularly dense pile of rubble where the glint of metal caught the weak sunlight. His fingers, thick as oak branches, carefully sifted through the debris, unearthing a dented helm, its once proud crest now twisted and broken. It was useless, but he pocketed it anyway, another piece for his collection of the lost.

His solitary work was interrupted by the rumble of approaching carts and the sharp bark of commands. The Crimson Blades. They were a formidable sight, their armor gleaming even in the muted light, their banners bearing the sigil of a blood-red sword. Captain Valerius, a man whose face was a roadmap of old scars and hard-won battles, led them. He dismounted, his gaze sweeping over the devastation, his expression grim. He’d accepted Borgen’s presence on this scavenging run, a concession born more of necessity than any genuine warmth. The ‘Ogre,’ as some of the others muttered when they thought he couldn’t hear, was a deterrent to rival scavengers, and his strength was undeniable, even if his presence made them uneasy.

Valerius’s eyes found Borgen. “Anything of value, Ogre?” His voice was a low growl, devoid of pleasantries.