Your warriors stand before you — knees bent, breathing fast, tension sitting sharp in their shoulders.
The scent of crushed spider ichor clings to the dirt.
Your people still tremble from the initial ambush, but they stand ready.
Willing.
Proud.
You let them feel that silence for a moment — the calm before the deeper storm below.
Then your voice comes down like a hammer of carved stone:
"This is your battle."
The Harper scouts nod sharply, hands on their blades.
The druidic twins mirror each other — knives spinning through their fingers with fluid, dancing silence.
The tiefling archer rolls her shoulders back, fire-light burning in her pupils.
The myconid vibrates faintly, spores drifting like a quiet promise of war.
They listen.
They hang on every word.
"You all fight with everything you have."
You circle them like a beast-king inspecting new hunters.
Not judging — measuring.
Testing the steel in their spines.
The druid twins straighten.
The tiefling archer shifts her stance into precision readiness.
One of the Harper scouts touches a charm around her neck, a silent ritual she does before serious missions.
"Fight to win."
Your voice shakes the moss from the old stone well.
Even the ogre guards nearby stand a little taller.
"Fight for the glory of Snake Tribe."
The tiefling archer's eyes flare brighter.
The myconid pulses with a ripple of luminescence.
The Harper scouts exchange a brief, tight look of resolve.
You give them what they need most
They need your strength.
Your promise.
Your presence like a wall of iron behind them.
So you raise your chin and let your gaze sweep over them — sharp, unblinking, predatory.
"But know this…"
A hush falls deeper than silence.
No birds.
No wind.
Just your voice.
"I observe you this mission—yes."
Their shoulders tighten.
They know what this means.
Every strike they make today, every mistake, every breath…
you will see it.
Your judgment is both a pressure and an honor.
"But I will not let any one of you fall today."
A soft, collective inhalation.
Their fear bleeds into certainty.
You speak the words like a vow:
"If she goes for a killing blow…
I will end her."
It is not bragging.
It is not a threat.
It is simply the truth spoken by a man who has crushed an eight-foot spider's skull without breaking his stride.
You take a half step back — giving them the battlefield
Your shadow stretches long behind them in the sunlit clearing.
"Now go."
The word lands like a war drum.
"Show me what my tribe is capable of!"
This time the scouts don't hesitate — they sprint into the tunnel beneath the well.
The druidic twins vanish into the darkness like mirrored wraiths.
The tiefling archer drops in last, sliding down the ropes with practiced fluidity, embers dancing around her knuckles.
The myconid descends silently, spores drifting behind like a luminescent trail.
And you — the Warchief — remain at the lip of the well
Arms folded behind your back.
Face unchanging.
Aura simmering with quiet, lethal promise.
You watch your strike team disappear into the deep.
Because this is their test.
But the Spider Queen?
If she tries to take one life…
Tonight, the Blighted Village will learn why
Mamba is not merely king —
he is the storm that kings fear.