The courtyard of Moonrise is quiet in the crisp morning air, the last traces of starlight fading behind the distant hills. Mamba steps out from the master chamber, the door settling shut behind him, carrying with him the warmth of his queens and the strength of a satisfied dawn. His bare feet strike the stone with the heavy, natural confidence of a man who owns the ground he walks upon.
A shadow passes overhead.
Then a presence descends.
Wings of hammered sunlight spread across the courtyard as a massive golden form coils down with grace no creature its size should possess. The gold dragon is young compared to Arcaeon but still impossibly ancient compared to mortal lifespans—its scales gleam with shifting geometric patterns, each angle catching fire in the morning sun.
The ambassadors of the Gold Dragonflight are not mere emissaries. They are arbiters of ancient pacts, memories kept in living flesh.
Its voice resonates in the stone beneath Mamba's feet:
"Warchief Mamba. By decree of Lord Arcaeon, I come to escort your new ambassador to the Dragon West."
Jaheira steps beside Mamba, wearing the Chieftain's cape across her shoulders. It dwarfs her slightly in size, but not in presence. The green of her Harper attire blends with the deep colors of your banner almost poetically—as if it had always been meant.
She grips her staff, lifts her chin, and touches your chest softly with two fingers.
"Keep them safe," she murmurs. "You always do."
Shadowheart and Minthara stand just behind you—Shadowheart strong and steady as the moon, Minthara stoic but clearly fighting the pinch in her jaw. Their loyalty to Jaheira is real; she saved both their lives multiple times during your campaigns.
As the gold dragon lowers itself, Jaheira mounts with the nimble confidence of a ranger who has lived through too many lifetimes. The dragon bows its head toward you in respect before lifting off—one beat of its wings sends a warm gust through the courtyard, making the banners of Snake Tribe whip like serpents striking skyward.
Jaheira disappears over the rising sun.
The tribe watches in reverent silence… until Mamba's voice cuts through the courtyard like a blade of purpose.
A NEW MISSION
Mamba turns, drawing in the morning air, letting it fill his lungs with clarity. He steps down into the lower courtyard where the warriors are gathering for assignment and morning rations.
Faces turn—ogres, druids, Harpers, myconids, tiefling youths, former Absolute soldiers. Every race. Every creed. Every ability. United under the same serpent banner.
But now his tone shifts.
Serious. Focused. Protective.
A guardian of his people.
"There is a problem in our new village," Mamba begins, pacing before the crowd. His hand rests on the hilt of his chain-blade, the weapon glinting with the same eerie life it always has. "A nest of spiders beneath the well. A matriarch. She has been growing her brood."
A growl ripples through the ogres.
One—Grubnak—raises his hand immediately. "Warchief! Let us smash spiders!"
Mamba shakes his head.
"I need a small team. You are—"
His eyes soften apologetically. "—too big to fit where we are headed."
The ogres grumble like giant disappointed children whose toy was taken away. Even the druids riding their shoulders hide smirks behind their hands.
Mamba continues, louder:
"I need non-ogre volunteers.
Swift.
Quiet.
Smart.
Able to move through tight tunnels and fight where the walls close in."
The courtyard falls silent again.
A moment of anticipation.
Then—
Volunteers begin to step forward.
A half-elf scout from Jaheira's ranks places a hand over her heart.
A myconid sovereign chitters, its spores glowing indigo.
Three rogue-trained Harpers slide from the shadows.
A tiefling boy barely old enough to fight raises his hand—Shadowheart gives him a small, warning look, and he lowers it sheepishly.
Then Minthara steps forward.
Her posture is clean, elegant cruelty wrapped in devotion.
"You face a brood-mother underground," she says. "You will need a blade sharp enough to sever her will. I volunteer."
Shadowheart joins her, folding her arms, her voice calm but firm.
"And you will need light. Radiance. Healing in tight places. I volunteer as well."
Even Orpheus approaches, fists behind his back, eyes burning with githyanki discipline.
"A matriarch of spiders preying on your villagers is both dishonor and challenge. I, too, will join this operation—if you allow it."
Three of your strongest lieutenants.
Three of your queens' best.
Three souls who would tear the world open for you.
The tribe is breathless, watching for your final word on the strike team.