SABERS: Shadows of Ravena

Eilífr stood in the dimly lit underground chamber, his towering frame casting long shadows across the room. His golden armor caught the flicker of hanging lanterns, a stark contrast to the worn, grimy faces of the survivors who stared back at him with a mix of awe and trepidation. Though he wasn't used to prolonged conversations, Marcus Colridge, the former mayor of Morgan, insisted on introducing him to everyone.

"You might as well know who you're risking your neck for," Marcus had said, his voice steady but tinged with a weariness that spoke of years of hardship.

The introductions began with the children, their wide-eyed curiosity overriding their fear. Eilífr met Kira first, the little girl who had approached him earlier. She stood at the front, nervously fidgeting with the hem of her oversized sweater.

"This is Kira," Marcus said, gesturing toward her. "Eight years old. She doesn't remember much of the world before."

Kira looked up at Eilífr with the same cautious curiosity she'd shown earlier. "Are you really human?" she asked softly, her small voice barely audible over the murmurs of the crowd.

Eilífr knelt slightly to meet her eye level. "I was once," he said.

She didn't press further, only nodding solemnly before stepping back into the safety of the group.

Next was Erik, the teenager who had first led Eilífr to the shelter. He was wiry but strong, his clothes patched and mended so many times they barely resembled their original state. "He's our scout," Marcus explained. "Knows the city's ruins better than anyone. Quick on his feet, too."

Erik offered a hesitant smile. "Just doing what I can," he muttered.

As they moved through the group, Eilífr heard snippets of their stories.

"This is Marta," Marcus said, gesturing to a middle-aged woman with graying hair tied back in a tight bun. "She was a nurse before everything fell apart. Kept most of us alive when the Extractants hit the city."

Marta looked at Eilífr with a mixture of respect and guarded skepticism. "You're a fighter," she said plainly. "That's good, but if you're sticking around, don't bring trouble back here. I've patched up enough wounds to last a lifetime."

Eilífr gave her a slight nod. "I'll do my part."

There was Elias, a former engineer who had helped build the underground refuge, now serving as its de facto handyman. "We'd have died if he hadn't gotten the ventilation system working," Marcus said. "And he keeps the generators running on scraps and prayers."

Elias pushed up his thick glasses, a nervous habit. "Scraps, mostly," he corrected with a weak chuckle. "Prayers don't do much when the wiring's frayed."

Further introductions followed. Each person carried a story of loss and survival. Parents who had lost children. Children who had grown up too quickly. Shopkeepers, teachers, factory workers—ordinary people who had been forced to become something else to endure the nightmare.

One man, Victor, stood apart from the group. His rough demeanor and scarred face marked him as someone who had seen more violence than most. Marcus introduced him last.

"Victor used to be a security guard," he said. "Now he's our muscle when we need it."

Victor crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing as he studied Eilífr. "You're not like us," he said bluntly. "You're a weapon, not a person."

Eilífr's golden visor met his gaze evenly. "And a weapon is what you desperately need."

Victor grunted, unconvinced, but didn't push the matter further.

By the end of the introductions, Eilífr had a clearer picture of the people he had stumbled upon. They were fragile, resourceful, and clinging to life with a tenacity he hadn't seen in years.

As the group began to disperse, Marcus lingered, his eyes thoughtful. "Before the Extractants came, Morgan was a bustling city," he said. "We thought we were untouchable, that nothing could bring us down. But when the first wave hit, everything changed."

He paused, his voice lowering as he continued. "We lost so many in those first days. The hives grew faster than we could react, and the military pulled out before we could evacuate. Those of us who made it here… we were lucky. Elias found an old maintenance tunnel that led to the greenhouse. It wasn't much, but it kept us alive."

Marcus gestured around the room, his hand trembling slightly. "We've been living off what we can grow and scavenge ever since. It's not much, but it's home now."

Eilífr nodded, the weight of their plight settling heavily on him. "I'll do what I can to get you out of here," he said.

Marcus's lips pressed into a thin line. "I hope you're serious, Eilífr. Because if you can't… there's no one else coming for us."

"I'm always serious. Especially with time I don't have."

Marcus could only look up at him in slight confusion.

Eilífr moved through the dimly lit tunnel, his massive frame nearly brushing against the jagged stone walls. The passage was narrow, damp, and oppressive, with a lingering chill that seeped through his armor. The faint glow of his helmet's HUD illuminated the path ahead, but even the advanced optics couldn't pierce the shadows that clung stubbornly to the tunnel's depths.

"This is no ordinary maintenance tunnel," he thought to himself as he pressed forward, his boots crunching softly on the loose gravel underfoot.

The air was thick with the scent of mildew and rust, punctuated by the occasional drip of water echoing from unseen crevices. He'd been walking for miles, each step measured and deliberate, his rifle gripped firmly in his hands. Despite the relative silence, his instincts remained sharp. A tunnel this deep and old could hold any number of dangers, from structural collapses to hidden Extractants.

The community's leader, Marcus, had warned him about this path: "It's safe, but it's long and isolated. The gate at the end hasn't been opened in years, so be prepared to force your way through if need be."

Eilífr finally noticed the tunnel widening ahead. The rough-hewn walls gave way to smooth stone, as if the passage had transitioned from natural formation to something crafted with purpose. Intricate carvings adorned the walls, faded and weathered by time but still recognizable—images of harvests, tools, and scenes of people laboring.

As he rounded a final bend, the massive iron gate came into view, looming out of the darkness like a relic from another time. It stood at least twenty feet high, its surface reinforced with thick horizontal and diagonal iron bands, each rusted with age but still formidable. Massive rivets held the structure together, their heads the size of his fists. The gate's edges were framed by massive stone columns, chiseled with motifs of strength and endurance.

"Medieval," he muttered under his breath. The design was primitive, almost archaic, yet undeniably effective.

He approached cautiously, his weapon sweeping the area for any signs of movement. The gate was flanked by two heavy iron hinges embedded into the stone, and a crossbar mechanism sat locked in place near its center. On closer inspection, he noticed that the ground in front of the gate was unnaturally smooth—polished, as though countless feet had worn it down over the years.

Eilífr stepped closer, his boots sending small echoes bouncing down the tunnel behind him. He placed a hand against the cold metal, feeling its age and weight. It didn't budge.

"Figures," he muttered, his voice amplified slightly by his helmet.

He scanned the structure, noting a small viewing slot near the top, secured with a rusted iron grate. It was too high for an average person to reach unaided, but for him, it was easy. He climbed a few inches, his armor's servos whining softly as he hoisted himself up.

Peering through the slot, he was met with nothing but darkness on the other side. No movement. No sounds. Just the faint impression of an open chamber beyond.

"Sealed for a reason," he thought, pulling back.

Returning to ground level, Eilífr reached for the crossbar. His armored fingers clamped down on the metal, and with a low growl of exertion, he began to pull. His suit's servos whirred to life, amplifying his strength, but even so, the bar resisted.

"Stubborn old thing," he muttered.

After a moment of straining, there was a deafening CLANG as the crossbar finally gave way, sliding free from its rusted housing. The sound echoed through the tunnel like a gunshot, and Eilífr froze, his senses on high alert.

Nothing.

He pushed against the gate with both hands, the massive iron doors groaning loudly in protest. Slowly, they began to swing inward, revealing the chamber beyond.

The room was cavernous, its walls reinforced with crumbling stone arches that stretched high above him. Dust and cobwebs clung to every surface, and faint beams of light filtered through cracks in the ceiling, illuminating the area in hazy streaks.

Eilífr stepped through cautiously, his weapon at the ready. The gate creaked shut behind him, the sound reverberating like a tolling bell in the still air.

Eilífr took a deep breath, his lungs filling with the simulated cool, earthy air as he stepped into the open. The oppressive darkness of the tunnel finally released its grip, and he emerged into the familiar, dense forest he had passed through days ago.

He paused for a moment, the weight of the journey pressing on him. For six long days, he'd swept the area, searching for any signs of Extractants, moving through the underbrush with calculated precision. The forest had been eerily quiet, the kind of silence that left a heavy, almost foreboding feeling in the air.

After three days of searching, he had found a spot he deemed safe—an isolated clearing shielded by thick trees and rocky outcroppings. He had stayed there another three days, ensuring no one had followed him, no new threats had appeared, and that the extraction point was secure.

Now, as he surveyed the area one last time, he felt a slight sense of relief. The location was still undisturbed. 

He knelt down, removing a compact comms beacon from a compartment in his armor. It whirred softly as it powered up, and he placed it on the ground with care. The beacon emitted a faint, rhythmic pulse of light, and Eilífr adjusted its frequency, aligning it with the long-range band he needed to reach.

He straightened up, his eyes scanning the horizon once more. The night remained eerily still. Too still. The beacon flashed red indicating that the messages had been sent and their receivers intercepted them.

"Time to move," he muttered to himself.