The forests of Stewjon rested beneath a silver sky, the twin moons hanging low over a landscape wrapped in mist and moonlight. The air carried the scent of pine and rain-soaked soil, cool and clean beneath the wide canopy. In the heart of the forest, torches marked a broad clearing where flames burned with steady warmth. Their light glinted across armor worn by warriors who had returned from Erinar’s shadowed caverns and Firefist’s burning front. Some stood in silence. Others spoke in low tones as the night settled around them. All had come at the invitation of Gerwald Lechner to witness a tradition that belonged to his people.
The Great Hunt was older than the Order. It was older than the wars that had shaped recent years. It belonged to Stewjon alone. Each season the Hunt called those who wished to test their senses against the rhythm of the wild. It asked for patience, for stillness, and for the will to face a quarry without the support of ranks or fleets. Tonight the chosen prey was the Cerynth, a creature known for its grace and strength. Its bronze hide reflected the moonlight like weathered metal. Its crest of iridescent feathers moved with quiet light. Its antlers carried a soft glow that shifted between green and blue. To the people of Stewjon, the Cerynth represented harmony with the land. To the visiting Sith, it offered a challenge far removed from the battlefields that had shaped them.
The forest gave the moment its full attention. The wind softened until the branches rested without movement. The fire narrowed to thin tongues of light. Far beyond the torches, something passed between the trees with calm purpose. Those gathered felt the stillness grow. The Hunt was never meant for spectacle. It was a measure of instinct. It stripped away titles and rank and left only the hunter, the quiet breath of the forest, and the choices made within it.
For many who had fought beside one another on Erinar or survived the storms of Firefist, this night carried a different weight. It was not a continuation of war. It was a return to clarity. It allowed them to step into a place where victory was not taken by siege or flame, but by patience and focus. Gerwald understood this. Stewjon had shaped him before any empire or campaign. Tonight he shared a part of that world with those who walked with him now.
Banners hung above the clearing, still against the cool night air. The forest stretched outward in every direction, filled with quiet life and the promise of motion beneath the leaves. When the horn sounded, it would echo through the trees with the voice of an older age. It would call each hunter forward and guide them away from the firelight into the deeper wild.
And when the Hunt began, Stewjon would watch. The forest would stir as men and women stepped past the line of torches and into the dark, carrying the memories of Erinar’s depths and Firefist’s harsh skies, and meeting a challenge that belonged to the land that once shaped the Dread Wolf himself.
As the night deepens and the flames begin to dim, the celebration shifts toward contest. Circles are marked in the dirt, blades are drawn, and challenges of strength and endurance ignite around the fading embers. Wrestling, sparring, and trials of will turn festivity into rivalry as pride and ambition burn bright. Though no death is meant to come of it, the night stands as a reminder that power must always be proven. The Feast of Flames is more than a revel, it is a reflection of the Sith spirit, where laughter and struggle mingle beneath the silver light of the moons.
Some Sith may choose to follow that call, turning from the hunt to seek what lies hidden among the roots and stones. What begins as pursuit may lead to discovery, revelation, or danger, for the woods remember those who walk too far beneath their shadow. Those who enter the Whispering Woods may find more than prey waiting for them.
THE GREAT HUNT BEGINS NOVEMBER 26!
