The air in the mess hall crackled with energy. The Black Vanguard, a sea of armored bodies, reveled in the aftermath of their first victory. The flickering torchlight danced upon calloused faces smeared with grime and victory sweat. The air hung heavy with the savory scent of roasting boar and the intoxicating aroma of fermented barley. Laughter, robust and unrefined, echoed through the cavernous hall.
At a long trestle table, a group of grizzled soilders, their beards braided with trophies of past beast encounters, swapped stories of the fight. Borin, a hulking man with a shaved head and a missing ear, slammed a tankard of ale on the table, sending a spray of foam flying.
"Those Direboars!" he roared, his voice thick with a nordic accent. "Charging like mad bulls, tusks bared. But did they stand a chance against the Black Vanguard? Not a snowball's hope in the hellscape!"
