Marauder

At dusk, when the last golden light fades and shadows swell in the gaunt hills, a Marauder crouches behind a crumbled wall. Their eyes glint with hunger—not just for coin, but for the smell of fear, the creak of gates, the promise of chaos before dawn.   They emerge swift, blade drawn, boots crunching on gravel. A merchant’s wagon creaks under its load; guards are lazy from midday heat. The Marauder strikes—one swift slash, a scream swallowed by night, a pocket of purses taken. Then gone, swallowed by darkness.   They are not heroes, not villains with cause: they live in the cracks of law, where no king’s eyes see, where wealth drips slowly from rich hands. A Marauder’s loyalty is to their shadow, to what they can take, to what they can make vanish.