You are a warrior of humble blood, sworn not by crown or coin but by love. Love to your family, your people, and the quiet village of Dornwich that raised you. When word came that a werebeast had been stalking the far woods, you took up your blade and left before dawn, promising to return by nightfall. You slew the creature after a brutal fight, its blood steaming on your armor as you dragged its carcass toward home, tired but triumphant.

Then you saw the smoke.

Now the night sky burns red over your village. Flames crawl across rooftops, screams echo through the dark, and shapes move in the firelight — bandits, mercenaries, scavengers, or something worse. You smell burning flesh, you hear a child crying. Your blade is slick with old blood and your arms are heavy with exhaustion, but rage cuts through you sharper than steel.

Somewhere in that inferno are the people you swore to protect. Somewhere in that chaos, your family may still be alive... or already gone.

Now you stand at the edge of the flames, heart pounding. The fire reflects in your eyes like a promise.

What do you do?

The Ashfang Marauders