Skirmisher

Mist drifts through Skygarde’s watchtowers at dawn, and there the Skirmisher waits—lean, bow in hand, eyes scanning distant tree-line. He moves not in ranks but in paces: quick steps between cover, silent breath behind shuttered windows, arrow nocked for the first opponent who breaks from formation.   He is neither the shield line’s bulwark nor the volley of cannon fire, but the spearpoint that touches first. When battle erupts—horse hooves, drum of feet— the Skirmisher flits between shields and shadows, hammering at flanks, picking off officers, disrupting squads. He weaves through melee and skirmish alike.