Thunder Revenant

Thunder sounded before the scout's foot landed. His own pending step threw him backward.

The Revenant stood between two weather fronts with a hand on a new boundary post. Dark cloud plates floated around a soldier's shape. Lightning passed through old wounds and left as red square motes. We tried the ravine; its arm stretched across. We waited; the pressure hurt our teeth. Vale drove a copper survey rod into the exact middle of the line and named both sides as one watershed. The next bolt chose the rod. With no separate territories left to guard, the armor fell as rain.

It selects the most meaningful division available. Intended crossing is enough: the thunder strikes where the movement is about to end. An attack charges its plates and widens the boundary. A grounding rod wholly inside one territory becomes another possession to defend. It must be placed where both sides agree.

The Revenant cannot explain the mandate. If the distinction is truthfully dissolved, the potential difference vanishes and the body rains out. A false declaration receives immediate lightning.