At first light, a pale silver mist clung to the freezing air near Xakaito’s northern steppes, where a solitary Strafe Buzzard stirred in its rugged nest high atop the jagged mountainside. With a ruffle of dusky feathers, the buzzard spread its impressive wings and soared into the waking sky, sunlight glinting off the frost-covered peaks. The bird’s keen eyes scanned the terrain below, moving over the plains, searching for the forms of perished or expiring beings amongst the brittle grasses and icy stretches. Strafe buzzards were opportunists. Their persistence reflected the harshness of the land they called home.

Beneath the buzzard’s flight, the Kingdom of Xakaito stretched across the steppes, more like a busy trading post than a true kingdom. At its center stood the Blazing Hearth Citadel, a stronghold radiating warmth amid the biting cold, with towers guarding the northern, western, and southern mountain passes. The wind carried the faint scent of pine resin and wood smoke, blending with the ever-present tang of frost, as traders and guards hurried through the citadel’s gates, their voices muffled by thick scarves. To the east, the land sloped down into the dangerous Brileberry swamp, accessible only by a winding trade road that twisted through dark pools and ancient, gnarled trees. The treacherous terrain turned into a trap for the unwary.

Local legends, passed among traders and tribal folk, spoke of a time when powerful magic had swept through the region, leaving devastation in its wake. Tales claimed a violent conflict forever twisted the land into shapes that echoed old grief, poisoning the very earth. Despite this grim history, the Brileberry swamp pulsed with life. Dense stands of hemlock—some so tall their upper branches vanished into perpetual dusk—offered refuge to countless creatures. Human tribes, territorial, claimed portions of the swamp, their bright banners and painted faces visible only to the observant. Yet, the aura of secrecy pervaded the swamp, as though its depths concealed mysteries unknown even to those who dwelled in its shadows. Hemlock wood, prized for its strength and hardness, was a coveted export, fetching soaring prices from Xakaito’s merchants.

As the buzzard glided above the ancient trees, it rode the rising thermals, eyes alert for movement. The bubbling black pools hinted at easy meals. The buzzard observed a group of humans, cloaked and hooded, on horseback, traveling near a wagon. The wagon’s wheels struggled along the muddy trail, its faded canvas cover flapping as it made its way toward the distant silhouette of the Blazing Hearth Citadel. The guards remained vigilant, hands never far from their weapons, serving as a warning to any would-be thieves. As there was no opportunity near the guarded caravan, the buzzard moved off, traveling further into the obscure swamp for simpler meals. The air thickened with the smell of decay and the earthy tang of decomposing leaves.

A glint of motion caught the buzzard’s eye, but before it could react, a black wooden arrow shaft pierced the mist. The arrow flew and struck the buzzard with lethal accuracy, piercing its eye in a flash of pain. Everything went black as the bird tumbled from the sky, crashing into thin air and landing with a muted thud on the frozen ground. In that moment, one of the wagon’s wheels rolled over its lifeless body without pause. The guards’ laughter echoed as they celebrated their precise shot.