Date: April 26, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
The silence in the white valley was absolute. Rosh stood at its edge, his long, thin shadow lying on the sand, and he waited. The figure in the shadow of the cliff didn't move, gave no sign of life, and this began to irritate him. He didn't like waiting. Didn't like when someone didn't react to his presence.
"Are you deaf?" he asked, taking another step forward. "Or just afraid?"
The figure stirred. Slowly, unhurriedly, it rose to its feet, and Rosh finally saw who had been hiding in the shadow.
It was a dwarf. Short, stocky, but in his dense, solid figure was considerable strength. Broad shoulders, powerful arms that seemed capable of bending an iron bar. His face was weathered, with deep wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, and his reddish beard, thick and unkempt, fell to his chest. He wore worn traveling clothes — a leather vest, trousers of coarse fabric, boots that had seen many miles. But most importantly, in his eyes, bright green, burned a fire. The kind found in those not accustomed to retreating.
Rosh felt his presence — dense, heavy, like a granite boulder. This dwarf was no weakling. He was a Pillar. Just like Rosh himself. Perhaps even stronger physically.
The dwarf looked at Rosh, his gaze calm, appraising. He wasn't afraid. Wasn't surprised. Just looked, and in that gaze was something that made Rosh tense. Not from fear — from anticipation. This dwarf was dangerous.
"Watch your tongue," the dwarf said. His voice was low, hoarse, like the scrape of stone on stone. "I was just resting. The road was long."
"Road?" Rosh smirked. "Are you collecting leaves too?"
"I am," the dwarf nodded, his hand resting on the axe handle at his back. "You here for the same?"
"The same," Rosh stepped forward again. "But it seems we'll have to share the spoils. Or fight for them."
The dwarf didn't answer. Only tightened his grip on the axe, and his eyes, green, bright, flashed. Rosh felt the air around them grow denser, heavier. Two Pillars. Two warriors, each with their own power, each with their own will. This could be an interesting fight.
"You can't beat me," Rosh said calmly.
"We'll see about that," the dwarf grinned.
He stepped forward, and his hand pulled the axe from behind his back. The blade was wide, massive, and on it, in the light of the white world, silver veins glinted dully. Rosh narrowed his eyes. Interesting. Very interesting. This dwarf had also received the Tree's blessing. Or his companion had.
Because at that moment, from behind the dwarf, emerged something that made Rosh freeze.
A bear. Huge, brown, with thick fur that shimmered in the strange, unreal light. His eyes were amber, calm, and in them was neither fear nor aggression — only wariness. But most importantly, his fur. Along his sides, along his spine, over his shoulders, ran wide silver stripes. They glowed from within, pulsed in time with the beast's heart, and in that glow, in that rhythm, Rosh recognized the same as he felt in the mark on his left hand. The Tree. The bear had also touched the Tree. Also received its blessing. Also become part of this white world.
And he too was a Pillar. Rosh felt it — his power, his density, his presence pressed on the space like a heavy boulder. The bear was not just a beast. He was a warrior. A dangerous warrior.
The bear stood beside the dwarf, his head level with Rosh's shoulder. Huge, silent, he stared at the half-blood with his amber eyes, and in his gaze was something that made Rosh tense. Not from fear — from respect.
"You have a bear," Rosh said, surprise in his voice that he didn't try to hide. "And he's a Pillar too. Interesting company."
"He's my brother," the dwarf adjusted his axe.
"Brother," Rosh smirked. "I never even had friends, let alone brothers."
He raised his hand, and his fingers began to move, ready to trace the first vectors. He didn't know what this dwarf was capable of. Didn't know what his bear was capable of. But he knew one thing: they were here. Inside the Tree. Like him. Seeking. Collecting leaves. And they were in his path.
Two Pillars against one. Uneven odds. But Rosh wouldn't be Rosh if he retreated.
"People like you," he said, his voice turning cold, metallic, "have no place here anyway. The Tree summoned the strongest. And you... you're just more weaklings."
He stepped forward, and the white sand beneath his feet trembled faintly. The dwarf raised his axe, and the bear, his huge, silver-striped companion, crouched, ready to spring. The silence in the valley grew dense, heavy, like water at depth.