The stars were firmly fixed in the night sky above Stormbriar, it seemed to Maris. From the peak of the Fortress, he could see the eastern sky for miles, before it became swallowed by Darkness. The Fringe lay beneath that blanket of stars, and under the sort of light this night held, he felt could just make out the distant, twisted shapes that made up that tainted divider between light and dark.

The air was crisp and clear, with the passings of the rains earlier that day. The over-ripe smell of demonic taint was never far away, of course, but he had long gotten used to it. However, the air held.. something else, tonight. Something troubling.

Clack. Clack. Clack. His feet placed themselves in rhythmic timing against the stone of the unique battlements. This fortress was impressive, if not invincible, Maris considered. Without a single crack, it had held the demons at bay since the Cataclysm, and was the jewel of Wolfwood, if not the realm. Kizuni Odawi was a mighty fortress as well, but not in the same manner.

Improvisation.

Earthworks.

Innovation.

The wall had not been here when the troubles began, and it had not built itself. It was Maris, his men, and his ingenious, calculating mind that had turned Wolfwood into the unstoppable eastern aegis it had become.

“How fares the storm?”

Those were the words, the phrase that the guard used. It was hardly secretive, but it bolstered the men to feel such a symbolic tie to the fury of Heas storms.

Sven, the elderly veteran who had served in the only way he could, for near a decade, gave Maris a smile and a nod. “The skies are clear, tonight.” he answered in gruff, but familiar tone. He received a pat on the shoulder, and a metal flask. Guarding Stormbriar was often boring, with how superb their skills at demon hunting had become, but Maris did his best to keep the men sharp, or at least awake.

It was rare for the Lord himself to make the rounds, but Sven was an old friend. All worked hard to keep the taint back, rank aside in favor of sheer strength of will and blade.

Where the shield-hawk flies, the man walks, they say. The rumors were not unheard of by any of those who formed Stormbriar’s elite, but few concerned themselves with the Marquis’ doings. He was a valiant, wise man, and if he kept secret dealings, it was for only their safety. This arrangement worked perfectly for Maris, as well.

He turned away, moving towards the north. It was not his usual restlessness that had driven him to the top of his fortress, but a peculiar uncertainty. A patrol had been found dead, slaughtered to the man. An envoy had vanished, and information with it.

Something is brewing, he felt in his gut. Something dan-

Thump. Clink! Crash!

Blood.

His senses rushed information to his brain faster than he could process it, and his weapon was out already when he turned to face the noise.

The intruder.

Sven lay against the cold stone, his blood pooling atop the Fortress and a black-clad indivudal standing over him. Yellow eyes, like Maris himself possessed, looked out at him coldly, predatorily.

The two blades crashed into one another an instant later, the sound bouncing off of those impenetrable walls to either side.

*****

In the span of time it had taken Sven’s flask to fall from the ramparts to the barren land beneath the eastern edge of the wall, the victor had finished off their foe. Blood flowed freely from several wounds, both on the loser and, to a lesser extent, the combatant still standing. Stepping over the body, their feet carried them away from the southern end of Stormbriar Fortress. There was work to be done.