The sun had set, plunging the land into a timely darkness, but the night was unlike the many nights before, at least for the inhabitants of Hingr Wynd. Some times has passed since the grim task of burying the dead, and now the village lay in a fragile stillness. The air was biting, the chill of winter seeping into the bones of those who remained.
Most of the survivors had taken refuge in the village hall, huddled together for warmth and comfort, mothers comforting their children, fathers grieving over their loses, their spirits weary from the weight of the day's tragedy and sorrow. The hall, once a place of gathering and celebration, now served as a sanctuary for the grieving, its walls echoing with the soft murmur of whispered prayers and the occasional sob.
Yet, some villagers clung to the remnants of their homes. Despite the damage and the cold, they chose to sleep under their own roofs, seeking solace in the familiarity of their surroundings, even though those surroundings were now marred by the scars of battle. The night was harsh, the wind howling through the cracks in the walls, but that small comfort still allowed their weary eyes some rest.
Not everyone could find sleep, however. The horrors of the day clung to the minds of some, refusing to release their grip. Arnolt was among them. Though his body screamed for rest, his mind would not allow it. The image of his parents' tragic end haunted him, vivid and relentless. Determined to remain vigilant, Arnolt had volunteered to guard the village through the night, his energy all but spent, but his resolve unbroken.
He perched himself on the old bell tower, its bell long gone, sold by the former chief in more prosperous times. Miraculously, the tower had survived the Omens' onslaught, standing almost untouched. Beside him, Xiona slept, having tried in vain to stay awake and keep watch with him. Exhaustion had claimed her, and now her soft, steady breathing offered Arnolt a brief respite from the nightmares that threatened to overwhelm him.
Arnolt was not alone in his vigil. After the battle, most of the adventurers had returned to their guild, but five had chosen to remain, standing as the village's last line of defense against the lingering threat of the Omens. Among them were familiar names—Grennyn and Lady Alastir—seasoned warriors who had earned the villagers' deep respect and gratitude.
Grennyn, a stoic and experienced crossbowman, patrolled the village outskirts with the quiet confidence of someone who had faced down many dangers before. Even in the darkness, his presence was a comfort, a reminder that not all was lost.
Lady Alastir, her armor dented and dirtied from the day's battle, kept a vigilant watch near the village hall. Her sword and dagger rested within arm's reach, ready to be drawn at a moment's notice. Though weary, she radiated an unshakable resolve, her very presence a bulwark against despair.
Three other adventurers also remained, each playing a crucial role in the village's defense. Haeness, a one-star Argentum-ranked (Silver) Earth Mage, had been instrumental in the aftermath of the attack, using his magic to help create mass graves for the fallen, sparing the survivors from the grueling labor. His face was lined with fatigue, but his hands still hummed with the residual power of his craft. He had chosen a spot near the old well, where the earth was soft, as his resting place for the night. Even as he sat cross-legged, seemingly meditating, his senses were attuned to the ground beneath him, ready to raise walls of stone at the first sign of danger.
Tyrina, a two-star Uiridium-ranked (Copper) axewoman, was a stark contrast to the somber atmosphere. A muscular woman with fiery red hair and an equally fiery spirit, she wielded her massive axe with ease. Despite the tragedy that had befallen Hingr Wynd, she remained energetic and outspoken, offering words of encouragement to anyone who crossed her path. Tyrina had set up a makeshift campfire near the village's edge, her booming laughter occasionally breaking through the night's silence. She refused to let fear take root, her presence a defiant beacon against the encroaching darkness.
Jaaka, a two-star Veirium-ranked (Iron) crossbowman, had positioned himself atop one of the remaining intact rooftops. A laid-back man with few words, but can be a chatterbox when the situations were to his liking. He preferred to let his actions speak for him. Well-acquainted with Grennyn due to their similar choice of weapon, Jaaka was a reliable ally in any skirmish. His crossbow, already notched with a bolt, was trained on the distant tree line, his sharp eyes scanning for any movement. Though not as experienced as Grennyn, he was still a capable marksman.
Arnolt felt a small measure of relief knowing these five were there, willing to stay and guard the village. Without them, he was certain another Omen onslaught would mean his own death, along with the remaining survivors.
The night was somber but vigilant, the village's defenders holding their posts as they awaited daybreak. Grennyn had sent a letter to the Lord of the land, requesting a refugee camp to be built near a nearby town. Until a reply came, they could only hope to see the next sunrise.