[Creative Work] Bound Wars: Arrival Scene (Prose)

Hey guys,

Following on from my “One Gate Too Far?” post in General, I thought I’d share a little piece of the world I’ve been building these past months.

Nothing too loud, nothing promotional, just some writing.

This is the opening scene of Bound Wars, written in-story, in prose, the moment the Binding War was thought won and the moment the Tidebound first arrived on Cael Morren.

(I’m not a writer or anything, just putting the world in my head into words, so please forgive any rough edges.)

No context needed. Just read it as fiction.

The Arrival

Opening Cutscene in Prose

The storm broke like a war.

Wind howled across the shattered battlefield, tearing banners to rags and driving ash through the air. All around, the dead writhed, spirits lashed to corpses, chains glowing, eyes hollow with endless torment.

The Lich-Lord towered above them, arms spread wide, dragging both living and dead in his wake. His laughter was the grinding of stones, his breath a plague. Warriors broke beneath him, their blades shattering against the weight of his bindings. Elemental fire burned away in his shadow, swallowed whole. Even the bravest faltered when his chains reached for their souls.

But on that day, desperation burned hotter than fear. They hurled themselves at him, soldiers and mages and civilians alike, striking from all sides in one last frenzy. Steel tore. Flame cracked. The Lich-Lord fell, body split, chains snapping one by one with shrieks like rending earth.

And then his spirit burst free, vast, terrible, flung to the storm. The skies convulsed, thunder swallowing the world. Rain lashed down in sheets, washing blood from the ground, drowning the cries of the dying. His body lay broken, but his shadow lingered, carried on every gale.

The storm rolled on.

The Custodian remembered it well. He remembered standing on the high dunes of the Academy isle when the bells began to toll, their clangor drowned by the roar of wind and sea.

He looked down to the shore and his heart broke.

Children. So many children.

They staggered out of the surf, bare feet sinking into wet sand, clothes clinging to their skin. Some were sobbing, eyes wide with terror. Others simply stared ahead, dazed, as if their souls had been scoured hollow by the storm. Their small hands clutched at each other, clinging to sleeves, to wrists, to hair. Some collapsed on the sand and did not rise until another dragged them up.

Pairs were everywhere, a boy dragging his sister from the waves, a girl pulling another close, their faces pressed together as if to be sure they were real. Others wandered in confusion, but when their eyes met, when their hands touched, they stilled. They knew. The bond had already chosen them.

The Custodian’s throat tightened. He could not move. He could only watch as the scene unfolded below, as the bells rang on.

From either side of the dunes, lanterns bobbed through the storm. Civilians, soldiers, fishermen, mothers, fathers, all running down, blankets clutched to their chests, cloaks thrown over their shoulders. Some stumbled in the sand, but rose again, driven by the cries of the children.

“Here!” voices shouted, breaking against the gale. “This way! Quickly!”

Torches flared. Cloaks spread. Arms wrapped trembling bodies, lifting them from the tide.

The storm raged, but the shore was filled now with light and movement, the rush of those who had come to save them, and the scattered cries of children carried up the dunes in arms.

The Custodian closed his eyes, the salt wind cutting his face. He knew, even then, what they were. Not shipwrecked orphans. Not lost wanderers. Something else entirely.

Tidebound.

Chosen by a bond no one commanded, no one understood.

And as the rain poured and the bells tolled, he knew he would remember this moment for as long as he lived.

If anyone wants more pieces like this, or wants to know anything about it, just ask.

If not, I hope you enjoyed the read all the same.

Cheers,

Crow

Here’s another piece. It's another cutscene written on prose.

It's the same location, the same folks but a different time. It's the evening of their military Academ graduation, 15 years after their arrival.

The Silent Vigil (Acceptance)

The last light of the sun bled into the sea, streaking the sky with rose and ash. In the Tidebound quarters, the bell for evening drills had long faded. The halls lay hushed. Only the surf and the slow sigh of the wind stirred.

The Bound Hero looked up. A glance. A gesture.

“Come.”

Nothing more was needed.

The two walked together through the quieting grounds, past banners drooping with salt, past firepits reduced to ash. Each step was measured, as if the island itself had slowed. The worn path rose through grass bent low by the sea breeze, toward the crest of the dune.

At the top, the world opened wide. Below stretched the long curve of the beach, washed pale by the dying light. It was the place. The place where children had once stumbled ashore, half drowned, trembling, clutching one another against the storm.

And as they looked, another figure stepped silently into view. The Custodian, the one who had stood here all those years ago, who had been the first to see the Tidebound delivered by the sea. He did not speak. He only came to stand beside them. A silent witness then. A silent witness now.

The Player looked to him, and he to them. The Bound Hero’s hand brushed theirs.

A nod passed between all three, wordless, certain. Then the pair descended.

From shadowed lanes, from alleys and side-paths, they came. The Tidebound. Drawn as if by an unseen call, in twos, in threes, in fours. Their steps made no sound in the dusk. As they passed, hands reached out:

A forearm clasp, grip steady, lingering just long enough to mean I am with you.

A palm laid upon a shoulder, warm, grounding, before falling away.

A brief embrace, cheek against cheek, the faintest tremble of breath.

A hand pressed to the chest, a small gesture known only to Tidebound, heart speaking to heart.

Every touch left its weight behind, so that by the time they reached the sand, the Player carried the whole of their people with them.

The beach spread wide and dark beneath the last blush of sunset. The Tidebound formed no ranks, no drilled array, only fellowship. Arm in arm, hand in hand, head upon shoulder. Each pair or trio leaning into the next, a chain of quiet presence stretching along the tide’s edge.

The Player and their bondmate found a place at the center. Without words, the others shifted to make space, a subtle gesture of belonging. Behind them, high upon the ridge, the Custodian remained, a lone silhouette watching over them as he once had before.

Silence.

The surf rolled in, whispering, and withdrew again. The wind hushed. Every breath held. Not a cough. Not a sigh. Not a word.

Then it came, a single gasp, sharp and unbidden, shattering the stillness.

All turned as one.

Over the crest of the dunes, light flared. Lanterns. Dozens. Hundreds. Then a thousand or more. Stretching east to west, unbroken, until the horizon itself was ablaze.

Beneath every flame, a figure stood. Soldiers with weathered faces. Cadets with fists clenched to still their trembling. Custodians, tall and solemn. Villagers and pilgrims who had walked the length of the isle. All stood unmoving, lanterns aloft, their eyes fixed on the Tidebound.

A murmur of breath rippled through the gathering below. Some gasped, hands rising to mouths. Others clutched their bondmates close, tears breaking free, shoulders quaking. A few sank to their knees, overcome. Yet not a voice was raised. Not a word spoken. Only the sound of hearts breaking open together.

Then the bell.

One clear note, pure as glass, rolled out from the Academy.

A second, longer, fuller, echoing over the black waves.

A third, deep and resonant, so vast it seemed the very sand shivered beneath it.

At the final toll, every lantern lifted high, as if the sky itself had bowed. The shore, the ridge, the horizon burned with light. For a heartbeat, the Tidebound stood as the center of the world’s devotion.

And then, slowly, the lanterns sank. Row by row, one by one. The figures turned, and with steady steps, disappeared into the dark beyond the ridge.

The Tidebound remained.

Hands still clasped. Arms entwined. Heads resting, foreheads touching. Some wept openly. Some stared out to the sea, eyes shining, mouths trembling with words they would not speak.

The Player felt their Boundmate’s hand seek theirs, warm and strong. The squeeze said what words never could: We are not alone. Not now. Not ever.

Above, the Custodian lingered on the dune, his face shadowed but his eyes fixed on them. He had seen them come ashore as children, broken and lost. Now he saw them stand, no longer orphans, but Tidebound, whole, accepted.

He did not speak. He bowed his head once, low and solemn. A silent benediction.

The tide drew in. The tide drew out. Each wave smoothed the sand, erasing its own mark, leaving only the living line of the Tidebound upon the shore.

Unbroken.

I hope you enjoyed the read.