Hungry Ravens

– Haah, khah... am I alive?

The man greedily inhaled the fresh air of freedom, as if trying to saturate himself after a long confinement. Looking around, he saw a wide plain stretching before him, covered entirely with an endless carpet of flowers and grass.

Dozens of scents filled the air, but one stood out in particular—the smell of a new opportunity. However, before he could feel any joy, a sharp pain pierced his mind.

– Aah, damn...

Memories surged in, sweeping everything away. He was Renold Zendos, one of the knights of the ancient Crusader Order. Once, he had taken a sacred oath, but after breaking it, he became an outcast.

Having found a new purpose, Renold set out on a journey in search of enlightenment and justice. He swore to protect the weak, dispense justice to criminals, and slay the beasts that threatened the world.

But the path of a lone knight proved thorny and unforgiving. As a noble knight, he rejected offers to join mercenary groups or band together with other travelers. For that, he paid the price: in one ambush, bandits captured him and sold him to the Eastern Colosseum.

When Renold was captured and sold into slavery, his soul seemed to turn to stone. At the moment when the shackles clamped onto his wrists, he felt as if the entire world had collapsed. The pain and despair gave way to a deaf void.

Each day in the arena became a battle not only with his enemies but also with himself. He had to prove to himself that he was still alive, still unbroken, even when blood flowed from his wounds and the crowd ravenously demanded death.

But what was worse than anything else was the fear of forgetting who he was. He clung to the memories of his past like the last shard of hope.

As a slave, he fought in the arena—first as a doomed man and then as a master, close to the level of a Grand Master.

The Colosseum's arena was a vast sandy expanse, surrounded by ancient stone walls. Traces of previous battles were visible everywhere: dents in the metal grates, bloodstains on the sand, which seemed to have absorbed thousands of lives.

The wind lifted grains of sand into the air, settling them on the fighters' faces, mixing with sweat and blood. There was no place for mercy here—only a struggle for every breath, for each new day.

At the great Tournament of Gilhar, he won his freedom, but the Vizier refused to release him. Renold was sent back to the arena, but a year later, he and other slaves made a daring escape. Their attempt at freedom was short-lived; they were captured by nomads in the middle of the desert—ruthless and merciless.

In captivity once more, Renold was certain that he was destined to return to that cursed arena. But fate showed him mercy: mercenaries attacked the nomads, freeing the captives and helping them reach the nearest city.

The city was like a living organism that never rested. Even at night, its streets were filled with sounds—the ringing of bells as the guards patrolled, the shouts of street vendors who continued peddling their goods even after dark.

The tightly packed buildings, made of gray stone, appeared cold and unwelcoming, much like life here. In the main square stood the Colosseum, its towers towering over the city, casting long shadows on the merchants' colorful tents.

Sitting on the cold ground, penniless and unarmed, Renold had never felt so helpless. He had walked the path from noble knight to slave, then gladiator, fugitive, and finally found himself in the position of a beggar.

– Has God turned his back on me?

– Hey, guys, look, a beggar!

– Hey, old man, dance for us, and I'll give you a coin—one of the young noblemen grinned, flashing his teeth.

Two young men in lavish clothing appeared before him. Their appearance made it clear that they were the sons of local nobles. Behind them stood guards—their personal entourage.

Renold looked up, coldly and disdainfully glaring at them.

– Dance for coins? I haven't fallen that low yet—his voice was quiet but full of dignity.

Renold had once been filled with nobility and believed he could change the world for the better. He was ready to fight for justice and defend the innocent, but years of exile and slavery had made him harder.

Now, he understood that ideals alone were not enough to survive. He had become more pragmatic, sometimes even cynical, learning to hide his feelings behind a mask of cold resolve. But deep inside, hope still flickered to restore his lost honor and once again feel like the knight he once was.

– Did you hear that? – the second nobleman laughed – Fendi, make this dog dance.

Fendi smirked and stepped closer. His face was marked by a scar that ran through his left eyebrow.

– Are you deaf, old man? – He grabbed Renold by the hair and roughly threw him to the ground – Do you need help understanding your place?

Renold felt a surge of pain but managed to suppress a scream, merely breathing heavily. Each breath came with difficulty, and he felt weakness spreading through his body. He knew that to respond with his fists now would mean signing his own death warrant, but submitting to such humiliation was unbearable for him. Once, he had been a knight, a commander, but now he lay in the dirt beneath the feet of these boys.

– You'll pay for this – he hissed, narrowing his eyes, his voice full of rage and determination.

– You son of a... – Fendi growled and struck him again, but even now, with blood on his lips and blurred vision, Renold continued to look at him with a defiance that neither hunger nor captivity could erase.

– Why don't you just give up? – Fendi threw a quick glance at his young lords – Fine, let's see how long you can keep that "dignity."

– Fendi, what's taking so long? – one of the boys called impatiently, urging the guard.

– I want him to dance! – added the other, his voice laced with a mix of anger and irritation.

– Fendi, look over there – one of his companions suggested, pointing to a pile of filth nearby. A cruel grin spread across Fendi's face.

– Young gentlemen, have you ever seen the kind of "cakes" beggars eat? – there was contempt in his voice as he yanked Renold's hair even harder, forcing him to look at the filth.

– Pfft! Cakes? They're beggars.

– Yeah, what "cakes"?

– You'll see soon – Fendi sneered ominously.

Renold knew exactly what was coming. He tried to resist, but his emaciated body, worn down by flight and starvation, lacked the strength for any real struggle. Fendi tightened his grip on Renold's hair, forcing him onto his knees, and shoved his face closer to the filth.

– Look at this "delicious" and "aromatic" cake – he taunted, pushing Renold's head nearer to the filth.

– Ooooh, what a sight – one of the young nobles clapped his hands, his voice ringing with mockery.

– Fendi, help him eat it; he's too weak to do it himself – laughed another, gesturing disdainfully at Renold.

– Stop it! – Renold's voice was hoarse, but it still carried a note of pride – You'll answer for this...

– Quiet – Fendi raised an eyebrow, smirking – No problem.

He slammed Renold's face into the dirt with such force that the world around him darkened for a moment.

Boom.

A dull sound echoed in his head, and everything around him became hazy. Even as a beggar, Renold could not escape humiliation and disgrace, from which there seemed to be no refuge. He lay face-down in the dirt, inhaling the cold stench of decay and realizing how far he had fallen. Where had he gone wrong? Where had he taken the wrong turn?

What if he had accepted the offer to lead a mercenary company instead of proudly going it alone? Perhaps then he wouldn't be here, lying in the dirt under the laughter of these boys.

But he would never know... or would he?

– Renold!

Breaking out of his reverie, he couldn't believe he was back. Turning to the voice, he saw three men and two women setting up camp behind him. It was they who had offered to form a mercenary company, but he had been too proud and refused.

Renold felt a surge of determination rise in his chest. This was his second chance, and he knew he couldn't afford to waste it. In that moment, images from the past years flashed before his eyes: the sand of the Colosseum, the cries of the crowd, the chains on his wrists.

He would never again allow himself to be humiliated. He was no longer alone—these people were ready to follow him. It was their shared opportunity to rewrite fate.

– Thank you, Lord, for giving me a second chance. This time, I won't let you down.

– Renold, come join us.

– Coming, Leila.

He remembered them all, each of them unique, just like himself, but only he could unite them, and this time, he would lead them.

He was Renold Zendos. He was not just a former knight, but a man who had once lost everything he had. Betraying his own ideals had brought him to the brink of the abyss. Now, having been given a second chance, Renold knew he could not afford to repeat the mistakes of the past. He was resolute that he would never again kneel before anyone but his own honor. His path now was one of redemption, and he would lead his comrades to glory, even if it meant going through all the circles of hell.

The second was Malkoris, a dark elf, skilled assassin, and ambitious seeker of wealth. He was accustomed to working in the shadows, killing silently and without unnecessary questions. For him, gold was always the measure of success, but deep inside hid a desire to prove to himself that his life wasn't limited to just killing for hire. Becoming a mercenary was his chance to do something greater and earn enough to one day escape his past and live in his grand mansion, leaving all dangers behind.

The third was Dragnar Stormbringer, a barbarian from the North, who had often heard tales of valor and deeds of the northern warriors in his youth. He grew up among savages, where respect had to be earned through strength and skill in battle. However, now, despite his wild nature and thirst for combat, there was something more within him: he wanted to prove that he could become something greater than just a barbarian. His path to glory was a way to shake off the shadows of the past and find a place in the world where his name would be remembered not just for his strength, but for his wisdom.

The fourth was Alae'thris Ventur, an elf from the High Forest; her life was always filled with questions that seemed out of place among the elders of the High Forest. Alae'thris yearned not only for knowledge but for the experience that could only be gained through travel. Every fight, every discovery was an opportunity for her to know herself and the world around her. She saw mercenary work not just as a means of survival, but as a path to understanding the ancient secrets hidden in the land.

The fifth was Fargrim Grey, a wandering dwarf druid-pilgrim, who left his clan because he saw in them not just adherence to traditions, but also an inability to change. He always felt a special connection with the forest, far stronger than with stone and iron, to which his kin were accustomed. For him, mercenary work was an opportunity to promote his philosophy: using magic to restore balance rather than accumulate power.

The sixth was Selina Dalmora, a half-elf from distant lands. She grew up in luxury and comfort, but for her, it was always like a gilded cage. She dreamed of a life full of adventure and freedom, which neither wealth nor court intrigues could give her. Becoming a mercenary gave her the chance to shape her own destiny with her own hands and prove that true strength lay not in a title, but in courage.

Despite their different backgrounds and aspirations, they were united by one thing – the desire to change their lives and leave a mark in history. Each of them had their own reasons for becoming a mercenary, but together they found a purpose greater than just a bag of gold or a new title. They wanted to create a legend that would live on for centuries, and their band was to be its beginning.

Around them, the camp was enveloped in twilight, and the flames of the fire cast dancing shadows on their faces. The sounds of the wild blended with the rustling of leaves, creating an atmosphere of anticipation. It seemed as if the very earth was holding its breath in anticipation of something important.

"So, Renold, do you agree?" – asked Malcoris, his gaze intense and demanding.

All eyes turned to Renold. They had gathered here for one purpose – to form a mercenary band that would go down in legend. Renold gave a slight smile, feeling a wave of determination rise in his chest, and nodded:

"Yes, I will lead you. Our band will be called the 'Hungry Ravens.'"

"Why 'Hungry Ravens'?" – Selina asked, her voice carrying a hint of doubt.

"Because ravens never miss a chance for prey," – Renold replied firmly. "They survive where others perish. We won't just follow opportunities. We'll seize them from fate. Our wings will shelter those who need protection and tear apart anyone who dares to stand in our way. We hunger for battle, for freedom, for glory. And we will achieve it!"

"These lands are our proving ground, and the world will know what it means to face true predators. We are the 'Hungry Ravens,' and we will hunt until we are satisfied!"

Selina met Renold's gaze, her lips curling into a barely noticeable smile. She was seeking freedom, and the 'Hungry Ravens' were her chance to break free from the shackles of the past.

Malcoris smirked, but his eyes remained cold and calculating. For him, this was another step towards his goal, and he was already estimating how much gold their first bounty would bring.

Dragnar let out a low growl of anticipation, his hands gripping the handle of his axe as if he were already ready to charge into battle. To him, Renold's words meant only one thing – new fights and fresh blood.

Alaetris easily waved her hand, as if removing invisible chains, and her eyes sparkled in the light of the setting sun. She longed to leave the familiar forests and see the world with her own eyes.

Fargim threw back his hood, and his gray hair stirred in the wind. He felt the magic of nature awakening around them, heralding the beginning of something great. For him, Renold's words were not just a speech but a call to restore balance.

"So, it's decided," – said Renold with determination in his voice. "We are the Hungry Ravens."

He looked at his future comrades and continued:

"These lands are full of both dangers and opportunities. At every step, we are stalked by robbers and bandits lurking in ambushes along the forest roads. Monsters hunt even in broad daylight, threatening peasants and soldiers."

"The wild tribes of orcs and goblins are uniting to subjugate other races. Even forbidden expansion – necromancers, witches, and other dark forces – has once again risen in this era. Some prophets speak of the end of the world, but I see only a new opportunity!"

Renold drew a dagger and cut his own palm, letting the blood drip onto the ground.

"Let this blood be a symbol of our resolve," – he said, extending his hand. "Who else is ready to seal the oath?"

One by one, his companions repeated the action, swearing allegiance to the Hungry Ravens.

"This is our chance to enter this era and make the world know our name!"

"Yes!" – voices rang out, supporting his call.

Renold felt the air crackling with energy, heralding the events to come. The 'Hungry Ravens' had just taken their first step toward legend, and this path was full of dangers and glory.