Legend of Ransera

Bazyl leaned against the cart, savoring the familiar taste of espresso—rich and bitter, warming him from the inside. The bustling streets of the Commons were alive with the usual chaos of vendors calling out their wares, steam rising from food stalls, and people ducking in and out of shops to escape the mugginess of the heatwave and the occasional light rain that drizzled from the sky. Bazyl found a peculiar comfort in these small moments of normalcy amidst his often chaotic and dangerous life. Today’s plan was simple enough: meet with an old friend at the academy to discuss the floating isle of Terra Nimbus. He knew the information would likely be the same as the heavily filtered news from the Great Noble Houses, but it was worth confirming. Mostly, though, he just wanted an excuse to visit his favorite street vendor.

His attire was a modified kimono-style Hitatare, practical yet elegant, allowing for easy movement while keeping him cool in the oppressive heat. His throwing axes were strapped visibly at his waist—an ever-present reminder that Bazyl was never truly off duty. Full armor would be intolerable in this weather, and while he wasn’t expecting trouble today, the city had a way of surprising even the most prepared adventurers.

As he finished his second espresso, the invigorating kick of caffeine washed away the last of the morning’s sluggishness. He decided to make a quick detour to the Mistreach Keep, hoping to scout for potential hires among the roster of old veterans and eager adventurers. His recent skirmishes in the Astralar mountain ranges had made him realize that they could use more hands—people experienced enough to hold their own.

Pushing through the throng of people heading toward the Keep, Bazyl felt at ease. The rhythmic bustle of the city, the chatter of the crowds, and the occasional clang of blacksmiths at work made the world feel alive and vibrant. But just as he reached the entrance, the bells of the Keep rang out, cutting through the air with a sharp, urgent clamor that made everyone freeze. For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath; conversations halted mid-sentence, and people paused, caught in a split second of shared apprehension.

Bazyl’s grip instinctively tightened on the handles of his axes. The bells were a warning—something had gone terribly wrong.
Sky Guards and Dead Legion members sprang into action, moving with disciplined haste as they gathered near the entrance of the Mistreach Mines. Bazyl watched as miners stumbled out of the tunnels, wide-eyed and breathless, their faces streaked with soot and terror. The scene was one of frantic urgency; miners and guards alike stood side by side, hastily arming themselves with whatever they could find—pickaxes, hammers, swords, and spears.

Bazyl joined the formation without hesitation, positioning himself among the defenders as they braced for whatever had forced its way to the surface. The air was thick with tension, the anticipation of battle hanging over them like a shroud. He scanned the trembling mine entrance, his heartbeat syncing with the dull, rhythmic pounding echoing from below. It was a deep, resonant boom, growing louder and more menacing with every second. Bazyl planned to utilize the range and power of his throwing axes to strike the first two creatures that emerged before switching to melee combat, knowing his resources were limited.

His eyebrows lifted as the sight of familiar armor caught his eye, and a familiar accent reached his ears. It had been a long time since he had fought side-by-side with the Dawnmartyrs. The last time they had stood together was during the siege of Ailos, a memory that sharpened his focus. He steadied himself, curling his fist and giving two light thumps on the Dawnmartyr’s armor. "I got ya, mate. Just like old times." His voice was firm, filled with the weight of battles past. With a steadying grip on his axe, he turned his gaze toward the entrance of the mines.

Above them, the sky darkened as the clouds condensed, a phenomenon he knew all too well. He didn’t need to look up to identify the source. "The Hero of Udori Lake," he muttered under his breath, recognizing the telltale sign of an approaching storm conjured by the powerful mage. Bazyl held mages in the highest regard. If only there were more like the Hero of Udori Lake or the upper echelons of House Briathos, perhaps the Graveplague would have been eradicated sooner. But the Cult of Mending wasn’t lacking in powerful mages either; the Graveplague, after all, was a product of their own making. Bazyl feared it would grow into another catastrophe on the scale of the Sundering if left unchecked.

As the swarm of Shinaegri monsters burst from the mines, Bazyl braced himself, his heart pounding in time with the earth beneath him. He waited, knowing that none of the beasts would reach him unscathed. As expected, a blast of icy magic froze the first wave of Shinaegri in their tracks.

"Got your back," Bazyl said to the Dawnmartyr ahead of him. Through the gap in the shield wall, he hurled his axe at a rushing Shinaegri, before quickly grabbing another axe and throwing it with practiced precision at another one. As the wave of Gravebound barreled toward their line, Bazyl switched to melee, ready for the inevitable clash.