A ripple of golden light cuts across the air like a blade.
The portal blossoms open — not crackling, but thundering softly, the kind of sound a mountain makes when it breathes.
You step through.
Mamba.
Warchief.
Returned from the domain of Arcaeon the Eternal.
Behind you the light collapses, leaving only the scent of warm embers and wind from the high skies.
And instantly —
almost subconsciously —
the air in the throne hall shifts.
A heartbeat of reverence.
A breath of relief.
Not fear.
Not tension.
Just home recognizing its king.
⟡ Orpheus Notices First ⟡
The githyanki prince — tall, coiled strength wrapped in discipline — steps forward, his posture perfectly rigid.
"Warchief Mamba," he says with a deep bow of the head, "your return is felt through the entire camp. All has remained stable in your absence."
He speaks as one warrior to another.
Equal respect.
No subservience, no arrogance.
Just honor.
He steps aside so you may pass.
⟡ The Training Grounds ⟡
Sunlight pours across the packed earth of the yard.
A dozen ogres spar with weapon masters.
Druid riders leap from backs and vault through thorn-shaped obstacles.
Myconid scouts glide between shadows like ghosts.
Minthara's black-armored vanguard drills formation transitions like a blade turning in the hand.
And at the center of it all:
Shadowheart.
Her hair pulled back, armor off, striking through a half-cleric, half-rogue footwork drill that looks almost like a dance.
When she sees your silhouette in the gateway, her rhythm doesn't break.
Her eyes soften.
But she keeps training.
She respects the moment you ask for.
⟡ And Minthara… ⟡
She is barking orders, twin blades out, staring down three Absolute deserters she's whipping into shape.
She glances at you only once.
A grin — sharp as a wolf's — flicks across her lips.
Then she returns to her drill.
Fearless. Proud. Yours.
⟡ Your Line Rolls Across the Grounds ⟡
"Don't mind me.
I'm simply here to observe."
Your voice carries like thunder wrapped in velvet.
It touches every warrior.
Every druid.
Every ogre.
And without breaking rhythm…
They push harder.
Faster.
Stronger.
The presence of their Warchief is a blessing and a challenge —
a silent vow to show you the tribe you built is still worthy of you.
Shadowheart Drifts Close, Not Stopping Her Movements
As she pivots past you, the faint brush of her presence touches your arm.
Not clingy.
Not needy.
Just her way of saying:
"You're home."
Without a word.
A Young Scout Runs Up
A tiefling girl, maybe 15, breathless with excitement.
"Warchief! Warchief Mamba!"
She skids to a stop.
"Prince Orpheus told us you would return today — is the ancient dragon truly an ally now?"
All nearby heads tilt slightly, awaiting your answer.
Even Minthara's eyes flick over, curious.
Shadowheart's step slows half a beat.
Because whatever you say next…
is going to echo through the entire Snake Tribe.