Chapter 1: The Raven's Dawn | Emberfall | The Princess & Warlock
Music Credit: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Ruae8pd5dk
Chapter 1: The Raven's Dawn | Emberfall | The Princess & Warlock
Written By Josh Bottorff
Chapter One: The Raven’s Dawn
The first light of dawn crept over Ravenhall’s fields like a thief cloaked in ash, spilling long, jagged shadows across the dew-soaked grass. Each blade glinted like shards of obsidian, catching the sun’s tentative rays as they pierced the eastern sky. There, the heavens blazed with streaks of purple and crimson, a wild tapestry unfurling to herald the sun’s slow ascent. The air was a bit sharp and cold, winter’s ghost clinging stubbornly to the breeze, though spring whispered at the edges with promises of green. Beneath it all, the faint tremor of Emberfall’s heart pulsed—a subtle rumble from the volcano that loomed beyond the horizon, its presence as constant as the tides, its silence both a blessing and a warning.
Ravenhall stood at the edge of these fields, its black stone walls rising like the bones of some ancient beast, pocked with age and crowned with ravens that croaked mournful songs. The keep was a fortress of trade, and secrets. It’s towers jagged as broken teeth, its battlements worn by centuries of wind and ash. Beyond its gates, the fields stretched toward the Ashenplain, where the earth grew dark with volcanic silt, and further still, the Obsidian Mines glittered with riches that fueled Emberfall’s dominance over the region. The island’s heart was fire, its soul was trade, and its people—tieflings and humans alike—carried both in their blood.
Through the morning’s stillness came a burst of laughter, bright and reckless, slicing the quiet like a blade forged in the volcano’s depths. Four young souls, their hearts alight with dreams of glory, clashed in a daily ritual of mock war. To them, these fields were no mere patches of earth—they were battlegrounds of legend, where heroes were forged in the fire of their own imaginations, their wooden swords carving destinies as bold as the tales sung in Emberfall’s taverns.
Talon Valenwood led the pack, thirteen summers old, all wiry muscle and restless promise. His hair hung dark as the ravens stitched on his family’s crest, a cascade of black that caught the dawn’s light like polished obsidian. His grey eyes sliced through the world, sharp and unyielding, as if he could see the threads of fate woven into every shadow. He swung his wooden sword with a grace beyond his years, weaving through his friends with a hunter’s poise, each movement alive with purpose. Talon was the son of Lord Alistair Valenwood, a name that carried weight in Ravenhall, yet he bore it lightly, his grin as quick as his blade.
Beside him stood Cecil, two years younger, a boy built more for books than blades. His hair glowed lighter, kissed by the sun, a soft brown that framed a face still rounded with youth. His brown eyes flickered with quiet thoughts, always darting, always searching, as if the world were a puzzle he could solve with enough time. A worn tome peeked from under his arm even now, its leather cover scuffed from countless readings—likely a history of Emberfall’s trade routes or a treatise on the Obsidian Pact, the ancient deal said to bind tieflings to dragonkind. Cecil’s sword hung loose in his grip, a tool he wielded halfheartedly, his true weapon: the mind that unraveled chaos where others saw only mess. He was the thinker to Talon’s fighter, the shadow to his brother’s flame, and though he lacked Talon’s fire, his loyalty burned just as fierce.
Orin Harding blazed like a torch among them, nine summers young, his wild red hair a match for his wild spirit. His freckled face was flushed with effort, his green eyes alight with a joy that bordered on madness. He threw himself into the fray with boundless fire, swinging his wooden blade in mad, joyful arcs that cared little for form or finesse. His laughter boomed louder than his clumsy blows, a storm of noise and motion that filled the fields with life. Orin was the son of Symon Harding, Ravenhall’s steward, a man of ledgers and scowls, but Orin was all heart, a spark that refused to be dimmed. He idolized Talon, trailing him like a squire, and though his swings rarely landed, his spirit was a force none could ignore.
