The Western Front: Fire on the Horizon
The far west is a land of rugged foothills and windswept brush, where jagged peaks loom like silent sentinels over scattered settlements. Life here is harsh but steady—at least, it was. Now, an army marches, leaving a trail of scorched earth and smoldering ruins in its wake. Villages crumble beneath their advance, the quiet hum of frontier life replaced by the crackle of flame and the distant thunder of war drums. The people of the West have little time left to flee, to fight, or to watch the horizon darken with the smoke of what once was.
The air hangs thick with something unseen, a quiet tension woven into the very earth. A whisper rides the wind-low, deliberate, laced with an eerie certainty. "Not yet - but soon. And when it comes, there will be no mistaking it." A distant tremor rolls beneath your feet, subtle at first - then stronger, as if the land itself is holding its breath.
The air hangs thick with something unseen, a quiet tension woven into the very earth. A whisper rides the wind-low, deliberate, laced with an eerie certainty. "Not yet - but soon. And when it comes, there will be no mistaking it." A distant tremor rolls beneath your feet, subtle at first - then stronger, as if the land itself is holding its breath.
The air hangs thick with something unseen, a quiet tension woven into the very earth. A whisper rides the wind-low, deliberate, laced with an eerie certainty. "Not yet - but soon. And when it comes, there will be no mistaking it." A distant tremor rolls beneath your feet, subtle at first - then stronger, as if the land itself is holding its breath.
The air hangs thick with something unseen, a quiet tension woven into the very earth. A whisper rides the wind-low, deliberate, laced with an eerie certainty. "Not yet - but soon. And when it comes, there will be no mistaking it." A distant tremor rolls beneath your feet, subtle at first - then stronger, as if the land itself is holding its breath.
The air hangs thick with something unseen, a quiet tension woven into the very earth. A whisper rides the wind-low, deliberate, laced with an eerie certainty. "Not yet - but soon. And when it comes, there will be no mistaking it." A distant tremor rolls beneath your feet, subtle at first - then stronger, as if the land itself is holding its breath.
The west remembers every fire, every loss, every name swallowed by the ashes.
