Blood of the Forgotten Gods

The Shadows of Westwatch

The towering walls of Westwatch Outpost loomed before them, casting long shadows across the rocky terrain as Dan and his companions approached. The outpost was more fortress than camp, a stark reminder that this was no ordinary assignment. The stone walls were thick and weathered, battered by years of conflict and harsh weather. Scorch marks and gouges from old attacks marred the surface, telling silent stories of the ambushes and raids that had tested Westwatch time and time again.

Dan felt a knot tighten in his stomach as they passed through the heavy iron gates. The air here was different—thicker, tense with the weight of expectation. It wasn't just the physical presence of the walls or the fortifications that made Westwatch feel oppressive—it was the atmosphere itself. There was an unspoken understanding among the soldiers here, a shared sense of wariness, as if every shadow could hide an enemy.

Inside the walls, the outpost bustled with activity, but there was no laughter or lighthearted chatter like there had been back in Ithos. Instead, there was a grim efficiency to everything. Militants moved about their duties with sharp, purposeful strides, their faces hardened and eyes always scanning the perimeter. The old heads, as they were called—veterans who had survived multiple tours in Westwatch—stood apart, their expressions cold, their gazes distant. The thousand-yard stare was more than a rumor here; it was a common sight.

Dan, Gareth, and Tomas walked in silence, taking in the scene. Westwatch was divided into sections, with the barracks located at the back of the outpost and a large open square in the center. Wooden watchtowers rose above the walls, where lookouts stood, ever-vigilant, their hands gripping bows or spears. The sense of constant watchfulness permeated everything.

"Not exactly a warm welcome, is it?" Gareth muttered under his breath, his eyes flicking to a group of older militants huddled near the armory.

Tomas shook his head. "They've seen things out here. You can tell."

Dan didn't respond, his focus on the outpost itself. The place felt like a pressure cooker, a fortress where every soldier was on edge, waiting for the next attack. The tension was palpable, and even though they had just arrived, he could feel it seeping into him.

As they made their way toward the command building, they passed more soldiers—some fresh recruits like themselves, their eyes wide with the realization of what Westwatch really was, and others who had been here too long, their faces lined with exhaustion and scars both visible and hidden. No one smiled. The occasional nod of acknowledgment was the closest thing to a greeting.

Inside the command building, the air was thick with the smell of sweat, iron, and damp stone. A large map of the surrounding region covered one wall, dotted with markers indicating areas of frequent ambushes and raids. Dan scanned the map briefly, noting the many danger zones spread out across the Outskirts. This was no simple patrol post; they were in the heart of a warzone—even if it wasn't an official battlefield.

At the head of the room stood Sergeant Orlan, a grizzled veteran with a thick scar running from his temple down to his jaw. His face was weathered, his eyes dark with the kind of knowledge that only came from years of surviving in places like this. He looked over the new recruits with a mixture of indifference and disdain, as though he had seen this same scene play out a hundred times before.

"Listen up!" Sergeant Orlan barked, his voice rough but commanding. The room fell silent instantly. "You're the new meat. Fresh out of training, thinking you're soldiers now. Well, welcome to Westwatch, where we separate the survivors from the corpses."