Soft groans and the sound of flesh against flesh drove the demons of sleep from the head of most who stayed in the Farmer’s Daughter. Even the employees struggled to sleep until at least their third moon working there. The Farmer’s Daughter - or ‘Farm’, as it was known to the locals – sat snugly in the bend of the River Platt, making it only a short journey across Toll Man Bridge into Gothic-Maxima proper. Do not be fooled, however, and think that the Farm’s proximity to wealth makes it anything like the pretentious and classy establishments found within the city limits. The Farm came into being around twelve summers ago after two plots of dock space, among other vast swathes of the Hollows, were burnt to the ground in the Great Fire of 868 XIIA. Allowing the proprietor to pick up the land cheaply and give it a new purpose.

It was these soft groans that first awoke Rask, drawing his mind back to reality from the realm of dreams he had been enjoying. At first the only sight that greeted Rask was the gloom and shade of his room, nicknamed ‘a cell’ by the working girls for reasons plainly obvious to him. Quickly Rask’s eyes adjusted to the lack of light and he was able to pick out details close by. The splintered wooden walls were close either side of him and gave the impression of lying in a hallway, rather than on a bed. The hard wood of the cot could easily be felt through the stained sheet that counted as his mattress, and it had left him feeling stiff this morning as he attempted to sit up on his elbows. Rask normally slept in the nude, though as he put his elbows down and felt the crust of dried fluids left by the previous occupant; he remembered why he had elected to remain fully clothed. Swivelling ninety degrees on buttocks Rask sat upright and stretched upwards, letting his feet touch the floor and gently bump against his boots, which he had removed.

Slipping his feet into the boots and lacing them up was but a moment's work and Rask was taking a few short steps out of his cell before he knew it. His ‘door’ was actually a dark curtain on a rail just inside the frame and allowed for very little in the way of privacy, meaning Rask could simply shoulder his way out and into the actual hall on the top floor with little to no effort. His room was the furthest from the stairs and meant he had to walk past the rooms of the working girls before he could descend into the actual business. The girl’s rooms were exactly the same design to his, a small wooden cot at the far end, a solid looking chest at the foot of the cot, a curtain for a door and no window; only a small alcove in which a candle could be placed. Where the girl’s rooms differed was that many had thicker mattresses and cleaner sheets, as well as some personal decoration on the walls. Obviously bought using the wage they earned whoring, Rask thought. There were a few windows on the hallway allowing some light to pass in and a sprawled body of a working girl could be seen in some of the cots. Most had their curtains open as natural light was a commodity here; a commodity well worth allowing some of the other working girls seeing you sleep. Rask had tried on his first day to drag the latch on one of the windows up however the thing had rusted shut and so the smell of sweat, stale sex and cheap perfumes permeated the floor like a solid. Hunting down un-assaulted nostrils and invading quickly.

The usual thoughts on his accommodation killed the time from his room to the stairs and taking them two at a time, he climbed down into the Lounge, making sure to duck slightly so that his tall stature didn't cause him to strike his head on the frame of the way down. This floor was very different too the one above. Firstly there was far more windows that did actually open, allowing the room to feel fresher and more spacious immediately. Furthermore a majority of the space was openly planned, the fireplace being the centre, and then everything else built off of it. Making the entire floor feel even fresh. The fireplace had a number of long sofas around it and a small table in the middle of them, off to one side was a well varnished bar with stools, all of which backed onto the windows at the front of the establishment. Then the opposite side of the floor too Rask had two sets of doors. The first was a set of two doors, the owner’s room and office; and the girls’ lounge where they could get ready for the day and relax when off hours. Rask had no idea what was actually behind either of those doors though. The second set of doors numbered around eight and behind each of them was a room, about twice the size of a cell. These rooms had a larger bed, a mini bar and a chest with certain tools of the working girl’s trade. In his stay at the Farm Rask had frequented these rooms a number of times. This was where the girls took patrons who were after a certain type of entertainment. The vile aroma of the floor above seemed to rise and so this floor only smelt of the cheap perfumes and modestly priced spirits. It was early hours and so this floor was fairly empty, there was only one patron sitting at the bar, from his escort’s look he had been there since opening and looked to be more interested in talking and drinking, rather than whoring. The other girls who weren't upstairs would either be in their lounge, or out and about the Hollows; since the morning was probably the safest time to go out.

The previous floor always left a wry smile on Rask's face as he descended once more, a smile which once again appeared as he was arriving on the ground floor. This floor was your average tavern. A large bar occupied one side of the room and the rest was made up of tables and stools set up to accommodate both large parties and lone drinkers. The end opposite the bar was raised slightly and every night furniture was removed from the cheap plinth to allow for a bard or troupe to play. This floor was fairly dank and dark despite having as many windows as the floor above. This was mainly due to the much larger quantity of furniture on the floor and the position of four load bearing pillars, spaced apart equally around the floor. The barkeep, known only as Grin – most likely due to the fact that the man never smiled, who said those in poverty didn’t appreciate irony – was polishing glasses and gave the only paying tenant a passing nod. Rask returned the gesture and walked around the back of the stairs. Here a trap door had been permanently jammed open using a wooden block, allowing for people to freely use a set of quite steep stairs, leading to the basement.

The basement wasn't actually in use yet, it never was until the evening, and so the candle alcoves that seemed to give the whole room an almost church like feel, hadn't been lit. The basement was split into two sections by a thin rope rail, strung from one wall to its opposite. On one side there was a cloth matt covering bare stone, this was the ring. The Farm held a small fighting tourney here for residents of the Hollows and this allowed the owner of the Farm to make a lot of money off bookies and the other vices of patrons. The opposite section of the room was larger, with wooden plank, like the other floors and had a number of tables set up for both spectating the fights and playing card and dice games, another way for the owner to make money, as he took a percentage share of all winnings earned. Of course if you played a wager-less game, he would probably have the bouncers beat you and kick you out for being too poor, taking any money you had at the same time as well.
Now, according to Civitas law prostitution, gambling and serving drinks were all legal. However the law also stated that a licence was required by each location, for each of these services. This would mean that the owner of the Farm would need to purchase three licenses in total, none of which he had bought of course. The guards rarely ventured into the Hollows though, and those that did, did so in force and were paid off to stay clear of the Farmer’s Daughter. This gave Rask a great deal of safety and anonymity that he could not afford to lose. Making his way over to the bar Rask sat down on the stool closest to the stairs and hunched over the decrepit wood that was looked after not nearly as well as the bar upstairs, causing his long black hair to drop in front of his weathered face ever so slightly. Each wavy lock reached down far enough that from a distance it might look as if his hair actually fed right into his ragged beard, but you would of course be mistaken to think so.
There was a squelching of mud just outside the door before the wooden shutter was slammed almost off of its hinges. Standing in the doorframe, silhouetted by the light behind him, stood a short bald man who looked as if he had just been thrown from the stables. His outfit was the shit shade of brown and he looked as if he had never owned another set of rags, his features covered in a thin grime that accumulated on everything in the Hollows. Stumbling in the man rushed towards the bar, almost falling over, and proceeded to knock a number of glasses onto the floor. The shattering glass broke the silence Rask had been enjoying causing him to turn and stare daggers at the arrival. The man, seemingly unaware of his indiscretion, continued to pull out a worn coin purse and order a drink. Grin simply looked at the glass on the floor and then at the man, not once moving to fill a glass. Clearly the drunkard didn’t know when enough was enough, slamming his fists onto the bar in anger at having not been served.

“Why don't you piss off home? Nobody is going to serve you here, or anywhere, might as well save yourself a beating. This place won't take kindly to your attitude.” The drunkard turned to Rask, a disgusted look on his face, eying up Rask he looked at the man’s hunched posture and the edge of grey creeping into his black hair. Drunken bravery told the alcoholic that this was a fight he could win.
“Why don't you make me leave? I want another drink, damn it and I will get one here, no grumpy fuck is gonna’ change that.” Standing up Rask straightened his back and stood to face the drunk. Rask was at least a head taller than the drunk and was broader too. He certainly wasn’t immensely bulky but the lean muscle he did have was tough as nails. Suddenly the drunk didn't look quite so confident and, backing away slowly, tripped over his own feet. Falling onto the hardwood he yelped in pain, it sounded like he had fractured his wrist in the fall. Walking forward Rask grabbed the drunk by the scruff of his tunic and pulled him to the entrance where upon he used his foot to push the man out of the door. Turning back to the bar he got another nod from Grin who was now working to clean up the glass shards. Sighing Rask sat back on his stool and heard a mug pass over the rough wood. Looking up Grin had poured him out a milk for breakfast, he was willing to pay however he assumed it was his reward for clearing out some early rabble. Sipping at the milk Rask grimaced, pulling his thick jawline and deeply set features into a jagged portrait, it was warm. Though in truth he preferred something non-alcoholic in the morning and you could never trust the water in the Hollows.

Rask put his hand in his pocket and rolled the two items between his fingers gently. The first was a rusty key, for the chest in his room that held his gear, and the other was a dirtied gold coin. Both reminded him that his time in this hellhole was almost over. If all had gone according to plan his advertisement would draw some attention, then he could set out for his true goal, rather than sit around and fuck whores whilst drinking himself silly. Over the next few hours Rask sat and drank, chatting to some of the regulars, awaiting his party of adventurers to arrive.

“Ms. Thorne.” The man’s voice, deep and husky, rattled the young woman from her thought. The quill held in her hand drew a line across the paper as she jumped in her seat.

“Oh! Mr. Howard, you startled me.” Wretha gasped placing a swift hand over her racing heart. She closed the little black book she had been writing in and immediately replaced it back in her coat pocket.
“I do apologize, Miss.” Mr. Howard, captain of the Sea Sprite, was a courteous man or at least he appeared so when ever present in front of Wretha and she had no reason to think otherwise. He was an older man perhaps in his sixty and most definitely past his prime with a big round gut jutting in front. Ms. Thorne liked to speculate his well-known affinity for sweets had something to do with it. A thick black beard littered with gray hair covered the bottom half of his face, a contrasting featured to his shinny baldhead covered in sheen of sweat. “I thought you would like to know, we are nearing land. We should be docked before sundown.”

A small smile graced the woman’s face as she glance out the porthole, all she could make out was the blue sky and the calm sea outside, but she trusts the man’s word. “Thank you Mr. Howard. It is good news indeed, I’m afraid the sea life isn’t agreeable with me.” She teased, not entirely true.
“Ah, the sea is no place for a women.” It was a typical men remark, one that robbed the smile from her face, but otherwise she ignored the prideful man. Instead she was more interested in his stance, his entire weight was shifted on to his left foot, and the movement was accompanied with a slight grimace. “How does your foot fare?” She asked rising from the barrel she had been using as a seat. “Come, have a seat and I will take a look at it.”

“No need. I’m quite fine.” He reassured her, “Besides, you seemed occupied, I didn’t mean to disturb-“

“Nonsense, Mr. Howard. It’s no disturbance at all, now please sit.” Wretha stepped aside and motioned for the man to sit in the barrel. The Captain was a stubborn man, she knew that as well as the sailors under his command, and she’d had weeks to know the man. Grumbling under his breath Captain Howard shuffled into the small quarters that had been temporarily outfitted as the woman’s room. It was by no means anything extraordinary; it was quite the opposite in fact. Crates lined the entire back wall, used for storage, and a small cot had been set up for the female with a pair of stained sheets laid over it. A cannon laid still taking more than half the room and was secured down with ropes, thankfully the situation to use it hadn’t arise, something Wretha was both thankful and disappoint it for.
With a grunt the man flopped onto the barrel and Ms. Thorne dragged over a crate so he could prop his foot on top of it. “This is really not necessary, I’m quite fine, really.”

“Now Mr. Howard, you know better than to argue with me.” Wretha was stern, but never rude. “Remove your boot please.” Another line of protest was murmured under his breath as he did what was commanded. Ms. Thorne unbuttoned her grey coat and tossed it on top of the cot. Underneath she was wearing a regal dark green dress with tight sleeves and fitted torso, the endings along the sleeves and neck were detailed with white lace. If it weren’t for her current location, she could have passed for a lady of distinguished upbringing.
The foul stench pouring from the man’s foot slapped Wretha across the face and assaulted her delicate senses almost immediately upon the removal of the boot. It took some self-control but she managed to remain calm and not betray her disgust. The captain had been suffering from acute podagra, his foot was red and swollen, the skin underneath the big toe had rupture in several places with puss crusted over and reeked something fierce. Large inflamed lumps covered his ankle, some large enough that seemed ready to burst at a moment’s notice. It was clear that the disease wasn’t getting any better, partly due to the Captain’s fault. Wretha had seen her share of gruesome sights; especially during her tenured, but at the sight of Mr. Howard’s foot she could feel her stomach turning in knots- whether or not the rocking of the ship had something to do with it was beyond her. “Have you been taking the medication I gave you?”

“That disgusting concoction you brewed makes my innards churn. A mighty sight that is let me tell you.” Wretha shook her head; there was no point in arguing with the stubborn man. She turned back towards her cot and leaned down reaching under the bed for her bag of belonging and pulling it out from hiding. “You really ought to be drinking the medication, Mr. Howard, it helps ease the pain and fever.”
“Blah.”
She had to give it to the man, he was a strong one, and there was no doubt in her mind that he was in excruciating pain – then again the rum she could smell from his breath must have been helping to dull the pain. She dug through her bag until she produced a paper wrapping tied with a piece of string. She undid the knot and unwrapped the item. In her hand she held two wilting purple flowers with white pollen inside. “What is that for?” Howard asked curiously, which Wretha replied back with a prompt ‘Shh.’

Placing the flowers aside she dug around her bag once more until she pulled out a small white marble pestle and mortar and a small vial of clear liquid. She made quick work of grinding the flowers, stem and all, and every now and then she would have to catch her balance when the ship rocked one way or the other. Afterwards she poured a small amount of the clear liquid into the mixture and churned it with her fingers until she was tossing about a greenish-brown paste. When the paste was to her liking she placed the mortar down and splashed some of the same clear liquid directly on the Captain’s foot. “Fuck! What in the nine hells is that!” The old man shouted in pain, his foot overcome with an immense burning sensation.
“Oh, Mr. Howard, don’t be such a child.” Wretha retorted, reaching over for the bowl and taking a handful of the paste. She moved quickly with steady hands and experience, she didn’t have time to think too much on what she was doing, otherwise she wouldn’t be able to go through with the procedure. She couldn’t think twice or she surely would’ve heaved her breakfast all over the Captain’s burlap coat. The paste was cool to the touch as she rubbed it between her palms, before Howard’s protests could become too frantic, Wretha plunged her hand into the otherwise gruesome sight, coating his foot in the green paste. Every crook and crevice of the ship, every sailor- even the man on the crow’s nest heard the Captain scream in pain.

The Sea Sprite had docked on the harbor of Gothic-Maxim, a routine scheduled stop on the way to Civitas proper. It was a chance for sailors to stretch their legs, fill their bellies with some spirits other than rum and to satisfy their more basic needs. It also served as a chance to restock the ships wares and sell some goods the Captain had picked up in other ports. Amidst the excited sailors crowding the deck of the ship, stood Wretha patiently waiting for the ramp to be lowered onto the dock itself, her small bag of belonging tightly held at her side. She had placed her coat back on along with her dark green and black cloak to shield her form the brisk breeze rolling in from the sea.
“Are you sure this is where you want to disembark?” Mr. Howard came up next to her then, a bushy eyebrow rose in concern. “This is no place for a young lady to be on her own.”
“Thank you for your concern, Mr. Howard, but I’m more than capable of handling myself.”
The old man scuffed and let loose a hearty, deep laugh, “I don’t doubt it.” It was infectious and soon Wretha joined in with her own giggle.
The wooden ramped touched down onto the dock’s planks with a resounding thud. “Alright, you lazy scoundrels, we leave at first light tomorrow! If you aren’t back by then, then you’re swimming back home!” The captain’s voice boomed over the ruckus as the men rushed down to land. Wretha watched it all with mild curiosity; she too was itching to be off the darn ship. She had felt so cramped and uncomfortable from the very moment she stepped on-board. But nevertheless she was thankful to Mr. Howard for having allowed her free passage in return for her services with his ill condition. She turned to him then, her smile and all semblance of jest gone from her features. “Mr. Howard, please do take your medication and as soon as you reach your destination seek a doctor, immediately. Your condition will only continue to worsen. If you do not heed my warning, next time I hear of Mr. Howard will be as the peg legged Captain of the Sea Sprite.”
“You worry too much, lass.” The captain hiked his pants up, the action rather comical due to his round belly. “It’ll blow over, you’ll see.”
“Perhaps.” Wretha knew better, he would lose his leg of that there was no doubt in her mind. But whether or not he chose the leg or allowed the disease to claim his life was another matter entirely. “Well, Mr. Howard, this is were we part ways.”
“I can’t say it was a pleasure, but thank you for your help.” The man slapped her across her back in a friendly manner, but the act almost toppled the female over if she didn’t catch her footing in time. “Goodbye, Mr. Howard.”

The harbor reeked of fish, sea water and sweat, a stench that made Wretha cover her nose with the back of her hand in an attempt to conceal her sensitive nostrils. Men littered the docks, some working, others mingling about and some sitting on the edges fishing. She could feel the leering eyes on her as she ‘clocked’ her way across the wooden rampant that led to the city proper, she tried her best to ignore the stares and whistle blowing of the men but for the most part she was left alone. She dug around in one of her coat’s large pockets until she produced a crumbled piece of paper. With fast hands she unraveled it, iron out the creases as best as she could, it was a flyer advertising work and adventure. It looked rather poorly made to Wretha but nonetheless it still had caught her attention back when she had first laid eyes upon it. She had felt a familiar sensation, one that she had grown accustom to, some might have called it a gut feeling and others an intuition but it went further than all that. To Wretha once her path was set there was no diverting from it, she knew better than to at any rate. It was like a magical tether that pulled her with gentle tugs in the direction she needed to go, and right now, it was pulling something fierce. Glancing up from the flyer, straight ahead, loomed her destination. The Farmer’s Daughter. A gust of wind snatched the paper from her hand, carrying it down the street, but Wretha no longer needed it or cared as she hiked up her skirt and made for the Inn.

Evening was fast approaching and the Farm was already starting to become busy with the regulars that frequented the place. Wretha wasn’t sure what she had been expecting, and one glance over didn’t betray anything unusual. Her entrance drew several eyes towards her, nothing she hadn’t encountered before, but for the most part everyone seemed to mind their own business. She took a seat at the end of the bar tucked away in a corner, green eyes surveying the patrons that mingled about drinking and talking. The barkeep caught sight of her and began to walk over – most likely to see what she wanted to drink. The female waved him away with a shake of her head; alcoholic beverages weren’t exactly her forte.

"GAHRK-" A cry of pain came out of someone as they got knocked clean down to the floor, then thrown out onto the asphalt. "Damn tough-shots, thinkin' they can just force their way in with their fists..." Thena spoke, going back to the entrance of the tavern she'd been standing guard at. The rules were clear and written next to the wall: "Pay up before you enter, and you get some fine ale. Enter without paying, and you get served in blood." The message apparently wasn't clear to some people. In order to enter you need to pay, if you don't, then you either run or get beaten up. It's that simple, yet they still can't seem to grasp that concept.

"Just a little longer 'till this shift is over... Then I can finally get payed and go away from this place..." Thena mumbles, clearly dissatisfied with the work. She didn't mind roughousing up some people, Hell it's what she does best, but the number that try is ludicrous. Did this place hire complete whimps before her? She's a girl and yet still manages to overpower pretty much every tough kid that thinks he's the hottest shit since fire. "And what do we 'ave here?" Some cloaked fella was approaching the place, clearly looking to get in. Still, Thena wouldn't do anything unless they tried any funny business. She just silently stared at the person as they drew closer and closer, starting to feel like something's amiss. "What's up with the complete body-coverin'...?"

The man finally stopped in front of her, holding out a pouch. "Pay's not 'ere, it's the guy inside." She said, a smirk visible under the hood of the other. then the ugliest, raspiest voice you could imagine had the misfortune to fall on the elven woman's ear. "Oh. Ho. Ho. I'm not asking you to accept the money, I'm asking you to keep quiet... And this is a little compensation." ...Compensation? The hell was this bloke on about? Then Thena noticed a bit too late the other hand of the man had pulled out something else, made of steel. It was very close to her stomach... And a region that wasn't protected at that. "Pullin' out a knife on me, eh? What's the big deal?" She asked.

"Nothing, just a little silence m'dear. You'll do that won't you?" ...Idiot. They didn't really expect her, who accepted this job, to slack off on it right? Thena had this little policy: Do a job and do it right. She was getting paid for that, not for this bollock. "I'm sure I will be silent, but not for you." A smirk came on the Elf's face, dropping one of her crossed arms down to smack the Knife downward and the other forward to hit the geezer right in the chest. That little plan got foiled though, as they'd drop down their pouch and blocked off the punch with astonishing force. "Crap, he's not as frail as he looks!" ran through Thena's head. She brought up her knee and landed a blow right to the man's stomach, doubling him over while loosening his grip on both the dagger and Thena's hand. The woman quickly made sure to land another blow to his back, knocking the guy to the floor and then pressing a boot down on his back. "So, what's the big idea? Actually, I don't need to know. Get lost." She threatened, taking hold of the other guy's neck to give a few more punches to the solar plexus, all the while making sure those spikes buried in nice and deep. She then picked up the bleeding mess of a man with two hands and threw him out onto the pavement of the street.

"That guy wasn't tough at all... Sure talks big though." Thena mumbles to herself, looking down at her feet. The pouch and dagger still lay there, which she both picked up. "The hell...?" The brunette quickly noticed something very odd about the little sack: for something supposedly filled with money it was incredibly light. "...Did he seriously think that'd work?" She sighed and opened the door to throw the dagger to the guard inside. Anything the rule breakers had of value on them gets sold and added to the paycheck, so that was good. More importantly though... "What is IN this thing?"

The elf opens up the little sack, finding a... Crumpled note of sorts inside. No, it wasn't a note... A flyer. "...A band of travellin' mercs for the sake o' loot? Ha... Interestin'." Actually quite pleased with this find, Thena waited out the rest of her shift.

"So, this is the place huh?" Thena mumbled to herself. She'd gotten done with her work a while ago, then went on to go buy some food and kill time fighting some of the local tough guys. She actually lost once, which explains the trail of blood coming down the left side of her mouth. This particular mercenary doesn't mind much though, shrugging it off as a minor wound. She's had worse. Much worse. After mulling things over again she opened the door to "The farmer's Daughter" with an aura of cockyness around her, which caught her a few mean glances from those that bothered to look at the newcomer. "What're you lot lookin' at?" she replied back, everyone quickly tending to their business again. Thena knew she wouldn't like this place from the moment she read what it actually was, but not like it's of much importance. "Now ta find that 'Rask' bloke..." The elf took a few steps forward, wiping off the blood on her chin while shooting everyone at the bar glances. Her eyes settled on a figure that was most certainly out of place: A lady at the counter. She looked frail and not the type to drink alcohol on a regular basis... let alone now. But no reason to approach her, Thena focused her attention back to everyone in order to find this self-proclaimed 'Adventurer'.

Rekugin looked up at the entrance to the Farm. “Hmm is this it?” was his first thought, his second was “I’ve stayed in worse.” He shoved the door open and stood in the entrance. Not bothering to remove his hood he quickly looked over everyone before walking slowly towards the bar. It was late so it involved a bit of weaving through crowds but he got there eventually.

Signalling the barkeeper he waited until the barkeep was in front of him “whiskey,” his gloved hand shot out between the folds of his robes and he tossed a silver coin out of his gloved hand on the counter of the bar, before placing a copper coin down with his left hand, “and an answer to a question.” He waited until the glass of whiskey had been placed in front of him and took a long and appreciative gulp, “Ahh now my question. Is a man called Rask here?”
“Hes not ‘ere at the moment, wait a while and he’ll come eventually.” The barkeep took the coins on the table with a swipe of his hand and walked of before Rekugin could respond.

“Might as well get comfortable then” Rekugin muttered darkly under his breath as he turned to stomp over to a corner. He had no doubt that Rask was in the building and that the barkeep was even now going to tell him that a hooded figure was asking about him. He sat down sipping the whiskey occasionally thinking about the amount of effort he put into getting to the Farm. He hoped it payed off.

Rekugin’s trip to the Farm had taken him a week. He was down in Midcy’ru when he found out about Rask and his offer. He found out about it at an inn once he got back from a mission. He grimaced as he thought back to the night. He had been looking forward to sleeping in a bed but first he needed a drink, so he went to the bar underneath his room. Sitting in a corner like he usually did he overheard a group of men, mercenaries by the look and manner of them discussing a piece of paper. He only heard snatches of conversation, with phrases like “Rask,” “adventure,” “money, and adventure” being said a lot.

He was interested now, he didn’t know who Rask was but the rest of the words had a high interest with him. He had proceeded to walk over to the group, where they promptly told him to “fuck off.” He slunk back to his corner and carried on drinking till they got up to leave the inn. He had followed them out, following them into the night. The first sign they had of an attack was when one of the men fell over with an arrow to his thigh, followed promptly by another man with an arrow to the shoulder. Rekugin had drawn another arrow and aimed it at the last man, around 10 meters away. “If you want to stay alive you will answer my questions.” He had then proceeded to question him about this offer of adventure, travel and loyalty. He even got the flyer from the man who he had shot in the thigh, albeit with a little blood on it and a hole through it.

He had left the next morning from the inn on his horse. He had rode for 4 days before his horse had lamed itself. He had been near a forest so he let it go on the borders of the forest, before he himself headed off through the dense forest. He had found the River Platt the day before and started following it downstream with his gear until he saw Toll Mans Bridge. Rekugin was happy with himself; he had managed to make good time on his journey without any delays, missions or encounters with legions or outlaws. He set off toward the Bridge and past that, the Farm.

Rekugin looked up at the people still in the bar. It had gotten later and later in the night, with patrons leaving and entering all the time but 3 people stayed in the same position looking around often. “Hmm I hope he's accepting more than one person otherwise I have completion.” He smirked at this as he focused more on the three people there. One a human lady, she didn’t look like much of a fighter. One a female elf, now she looked like someone who could handle themselves. The other was a man, waiting and drinking patiently. He gave Rekugin a sense of unease.

That's a left hook. Duck.

The fist slammed heavily into Mordrag's right jaw. The hulking man stumbled backwards – though that was more likely due to the dozen or so pints in his body than to the punch.

Alright then, my turn.

He rose up like a bear, preparing the mightiest hammer fist, and was promptly flattened by a tackle from behind. Kicks rained in on the huge Gothi from all directions, and it was all he could do to roll over onto his stomach to protect his face and stomach.

“Alright there, that's enough!” The speaker seemed to be a mile away to Mordrag who wasn't entirely sure where that would even be at the current moment. “He's had enough ye bastards. Now get yer arses back in the bar.”

With a few final kicks, the men made their way back into the... fine establishment... The deliverer of the left hook spat on the heap of flesh before slinging his mate's unconscious body – the initial cause of the confict – over his own massive shoulder.

With the street cleared of all but Mordrag and the man who ended the fight, the peacemaker sat himself down on the damp, foul smelling curb. “When are ye gonna quit gettin yer broke face broke even more, ya stupid lout?” The big man grinned back at the comments stupidly. “You're not gonna remember a moment of this are ye?”

“I'll sure remember your ugly arse, Friend.” Blood sputtered out of Mordrag's mouth with every other word. Though he was a decent fighter with an impressively muscled body, guzzling booze proved once again to quickly replace coordinated skill with bumbling awkwardness. His taste for a good drink – especially at a reduced price in the tavern owned by his friend, the peacemaker – meant that the big bruiser was well acquainted with the street. Another fight over a spilled drink... or a girl or dirty look or the sort... made Mordrag happy that he could take a hell of a beating. He would be okay, but first, blackness...

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Though the big man surely deserved it, Arbo Horst wouldn't let his friend finish off the night in the street. Though he was a huge – massive! – pain in the arse, the massive Gothi was a huge asset to The Golden Spring. For its location in the Hollows, the tavern was comparably upscale with no in-house prostitutes, thinly-veiled illicit drug sales, or holes in the furnishing. Horst's vision for The Golden Spring came into being At its outset, Arbo Horst naively believed that a classy establishment would attract similar patrons; however, he had been dramatically mistaken. With the competition in the Hollows, any increase in prices – regardless of any increase in quality – meant a decrease in profit. The Golden Spring was in imminent danger of going under, being outcompeted by the neighboring Fisherman's Beans and Barrel every night, when Arbo Horst found his lifesaver in a loud mountain of muscle.

For all of Mordrag Desertheart's affinity for making enemies, the big man with the big personality was equally as proficient at making friends. The day he came bumbling into the Hollows with hooligans hailing from Midcy'ru to Pinnor, Arbo Horst's luck changed. Arbo met the man at a butcher's shop, and the two shared a laugh over a hefty housewife and the large sausages she was purchasing. In no time at all, the massive Gothi and his companions were enjoying drinks, stews, and pastries at a discount. Suddenly, The Golden Spring was filled with drunk musicians, amateur magicians, and revelers of every sort. As the travelers grew to admire Horst and his establishment, the brawls moved more consistently out of the tavern and onto the streets. An atmosphere of loyalty, respect and joyful celebration began to permeate everything associated with Arbo Horst, building a community that attracted more people from all around the Hollows. The Golden Spring would never be able to compete with higher profile, opportunistic places like Fisherman's Beans and Barrel or The Farmer's Daughter, but Horst would survive thanks to a steady patronage and a growing loyal staff – not one of them more so than the head bouncer, Mordrag Desertheart himself.

The whole situation was convenient – even enjoyable – but nearly every day the man would claim that the job was only temporary. Any day now he would be off in the world to make himself rich enough to live the way he wanted, supporting his sister and paying off his numerous debts. Every day he spoke boldly about his dreams, and every day he was working security in the bar, drinking too much and picking silly fights.

That all changed with one simple flier.

________________________________________________

A band of adventurers led by some bloke named Rask?

This was his chance. With a few parting words to Arbo and a half dozen regulars currently in The Golden Spring – Mordrag was never one for sentimentality – the big brute slung a small pack of his belongings over his shoulder and walked out of the tavern. For some reason, the world seemed to be a hell of a lot bigger than the groggy night before.

Inside the lounge The Farmer's Daughter, Mordrag sat back near the fireplace, his bulk taking up an entire sofa to himself. His thirsty mouth swallowed generous amounts of an awful dark stout. Any notable patrons?

A tall, muscled elf; tough bitch. An ugly man with tattoos from fingers to face; hits like a girl, punchable nose. A serving girl with her ample chest threatening to burst out of her low-cut shirt; diseases for certain. A well-dressed, reserved woman; business in the streets, madness in the sheets of course. Mordrag prided himself on his quick judgment of people. They weren't always – or even often – accurate, but his judgments were absolutely quick. The large man relaxed and waited for this Rask, a smile on his face and a drink in both hands.

Howland Morrys - The Opportunity

While he awoke in the cold morning, Howland's pale blue eyes unveiled themselves to the crisp morning of dispersed hay that was on the floor ahead of him and the fine, warm wolf pelt that lay beneath him. The pelt felt matted and rough, as it always did, but enough to make him adequately warm under his undergarments and silk shirt he wore as clothes to rest in. He was nestled comfortably the soothing warm coat that blanketed over him which he used as a cape whenever he didn't stop to sleep somewhere for the night. His fine, black leather armor was carefully placed next to him while his father's sword was still tightly grasped in his hands. Weather can cut through any metal-armor better than sharp steel or mithril blade, which is why he preferred leather over any metal to wear, if he had the chance to choose between the two. Metal could only slow the boy down, it was a burden he preferred not to have.

His father's sword was something with needed to be watched with the utmost protection, it had been in his family for generations and was worth more to him than any gold ever offered to him. To Howland, the sharp longsword was a symbol of where he came from which originated from a battle long ago. To make a long story short, its origins are said to have emerged from the Dragon Knight of the North and his infamous sword, the "Prince of Scathing." It was a very fascinating sword, it's hilt was comprised of a golden dragon which decorated a pommel, its eyes were flaming a bright red crimson diamond. The grip was made of a fine leather material that was changed every few years or so and the cross guard was carved with symbols of the olden tongue that even Howland couldn't read. The blade itself was said to have been made of mithril, but no one could be sure, mithril was a very rare material that was once dug by the great Dwarven miners to the south and forged by them. The blade hardly, if ever, required sharpening and survived for hundreds of years. Where they managed to find the long sword was unknown - but the story was that Howland's ancestor was the main subject in a grand, epic tale in which Rassel, the Ice-Scourge of the North, was responsible of slaying the illustrious Dragon Knight of the North in single cobmat during some great battle of some kind. Everything that happened thereafter, was completely obscure. The morning sun had stubbornly sheered its way into the open stables and greeted the young boy with a warm, gentle kiss to give him strength for the day. The stables were then alighted with a bright orange pigment as the he slowly adjusted his eyes to the morning light, an orange sun had finally risen from the horizon.

While he slowly and progressively began to get out of his sheet and out of bed, a stable-boy who looked no more than ten or so approached him with a pint of cold ale which was half full along with a wooden plate of sausage with mashed potatoes, topped with delectable yellow cheese which was freshly cut and prepared by the farmer who let him spend the night in the stables. The brightly, red-headed boy waited while Howland was assembling his leather gauntlets, tightly to his forearms before reaching out for the plate. To his side, stood his trusty stallion, Dustard, who was named for his enjoyment rolling around in the dirt and often had a tendency to behave rambunctiously whenever they stopped to rest anywhere out of town, the trusty steed was probably the only thing Howland ever felt close to. The boy then greeted the young man with his breakfast and a simple "Good morning" which was then preceded by a awkward silence before Howland finally signaled the stable boy to leave before the red-headed boy darted back to the farm to inform his father that his temporary worker was finally awake and ready to leave the farm.

Out of the many rooms the farmer had, Howland kept to the stables with Dustard, he was quite used to sleeping outside comfortably. Mainly because he hardly the money to sleep anywhere else - even with the many odd jobs he had the past years since he ran away from home to make a living for himself. There was a comfort in solitude and sleeping outdoors with his trusty steed, he would hardly trade a special night like that with anyone else, not even with a whore to comfort him. This was the last night Howland would spend at the farm, where he had planned to work for only about a week before he was to head to the coast toward Gothic-Maxim in search of other jobs. As he drew towards the coast from the mountain ranges, he would smell the fresh ocean breeze that filled his lungs with satisfaction and a sense of an opportunity which was possibly at hand, whatever it may be.

After he broke his fast on the succulent pork sausage and the potatoes which were sparkled with fresh cheese and a half-pint of ale, Howland bid his farewells to the both the amiable farm owner and the shy, redheaded boy who insisted that Howland take a sack of food in his journey towards Gothic-Maxim to which he then thanked. The ambitious boy then gave them an earnest smile and walked towards the trail, grabbing Dustard by the dusty reins and headed to the port-city of Gothic-Maxim. However, before he was able to mount his horse, something peculiar took his sight. Three men, who he had never seen before emerged from the trails ahead of him. They were ugly men, men who Howland could tell were trouble in his experiences throughout his voyages across the continent. Their mismatched armor, which was almost undoubtedly stolen, became more visible from the distance and as they walked toward Howland and the farm behind him, they grew taller. Howland paused for a moment, to get a good look at the three of them.

One man was dressed in studded, iron armor which covered the majority of his chest but left his arms exposed, he was the tallest man there. He was was covered in long, white-blonde hair that flowed down to his stomach with a scruffy beard that appeared to be stained with ale and looks as it it had never been properly washed. The brute wore a large iron, horned helm which covered the majority of his ugly, brute face and was the largest man Howland had ever seen in a while; He stood a head taller than he did and Howland was considered a fairly tall boy. The other two, who the blonde one towered over, stood on either side of him. They were dressed in leather armor that was stained by unwashed dirt and most probably, blood which seemed to be months old.

As they approached, they seemed to ignore the young man entirely and headed to the farm and its two innocent owners who then meekly gave them a quick glance. Howland turned to see it all happened, there was a short yet loud discussion between then and Howland then knew what was happening. Trouble was coming and it all almost seemed that the incident was nothing more than a shake down through intimidation. Howland knew he needed to do something for the farmer who had just gave him a place to stay. With a rush of confidence, Howland darted near a tree, tying Dustard's reins firmly onto thick branch before throwing his warm coat over the saddle of his stallion.

Howland then made his way to whatever was going on as he then tighten his sword belt to ready himself for anything that might happen, should it ever befall on him. The mangy men turned towards him as he approached the small crowd of men gathered. A part of himself wanted to turn his back and run away, but Howland forced himself to stay there. Howland has killed men before, terrible men - he does not fear of doing it again if he had to.

"The fuc' do ya want?" One of them grunted.

"I couldn't help but notice the yelling and I wanted to know what the fuss was about."

"Why? It's no concern of yours. Now, fuc'yer off and leave us alone." He said.

"Oh, but it is my concern. It makes no difference that your excessive pestering of is poor man is any more annoying to him than it is to mke." Howland emphasized. "And no, I'm afraid I can't do that. I want you to leave this man be and carry on your way. Do this and there will be not blood shed, I am not looking for a fight with you men."

"You wan-" One of them said before a loud roar of laughter burst from him. The others did not seem so easily amused.

"Now, I'll kindly ask you one more time to leave this kind family alone and be on your way." He replied, earnestly.

"Go ahead n'ask, boy!" Proclaimed the large one in a wretched groan, staring Howland straight into his eyes a way that a predator hunted a prey. He then turned to face him fully but Howland would not give up so easily, not through mere intimidation and although there were three of them - he could easily tell they were not experienced, at least not diligently. The way they stood their stance gave it all away. Howland then reached for his pommel and stood his stance, facing his shoulders towards the oppressors. His blade had shown itself, an eighth of it was exposed while the larger man examined it. "That's quite the sword yer got there, would be ashamed if I took it for myself in yer pretty boy blood."

"Is she? I'm afraid she is far too beautiful to be yielded by fuck-ugly, impudent brute such as yourself." Taking offense, the large brute briskly drew his sword while Howland drew his immediately after. Howland's ancestral blade sung a beautifully powerful tone as it was unleashed from his scabbard. The first man who approached him was the man on the brute's side who then charged at Howland impetuously in an attempt to thrust his blade into him, but Howland was far too quick. With a quick flick of his wrist, Howland jerked his sword and deflected the incoming blade, just having the point of his enemy's sword from striking his abdomen. He sped across Howland and tumbled in the mud. The larger brute was second, who had his sword held high with both hands, ready to strike down the young man with his brute strength while Howland readied himself for the blow. Howland clutched his sword above with head with one hand that gripped the blade, the other was held tightly around he hilt until they both caught blades as both swords sang in a loud clang that deafened Howland's ears with a sharp pang.

The third man came from behind the large one, but before he could make a move, he was impaled with an arrow form an archer behind Howland. Howland did not turn to see who did it, the only thing that mattered was that whoever was killing these bandits, was most definitely on his side and cared not to even question who fired the arrow. The large bandit gawked at Howland with hungry, aggressive blue eyes that wanted blood as Howland soon thrust himself backwards to break himself free. Howland then looked to see the first man with his peripheral vision to see that he was struggling to get up while the farm owner rushed out of the house with a long sword in his hands. Howland then concentrated on the larger, blonde man while the father fend himself against the other.

The large man swung his blade while Howland pranced around him, barely missing the blade as it whooshed past him or happened to be blocked by Howland's blade every now and again. The young man waited for the right opportunity to strike when the simpleton exhausted so that his movements would slow with every swing of his rusty sword until at last, his opportunity came... Just barely, as Howland caught the bandit's blade and forced it on top of his guard. The boy then crouched and thrust his cold blade into the brute's exposed armor just under his rib cage. The large brute man got the sword he wanted, but through his stomach and only stained with his own blood than with Howland's.

The brute did not scream, but his eyes met Howland's with disbelief as the boy soon reached for his dagger and plunged it into the man's neck, burying it deep into his throat as veins popped from around the man's head. Immediately, the once tough brute collapsed while Howland released his weapons from the man's flesh as blood gushed from the wounds and stained the blades. Howland turned to see the farm owner, covered in bright red blood while he nodded his head and approached him to see if he was alright.

"Are you hurt?" He asked.

"No." He said, breathing heavily. "Thank the gods... And thank you." The farmer coughed from exhaustion, his red beard waved as he coughed. The farmer was an elderly man in his fifties but could yield a sword effectively, or so he proved. The farmer later explained that he was a veteran of war long ago and wished not to use it ever again and thanked Howland for his efforts in fending him against the bandits. "Where did you learn to fight like that, is that why your going into the city?"

"One of the reasons, yes." He replied though he did not say anymore, not even he knew why he was truly going there. Just a gut feeling telling him to travel to the coast. The old man stood straight and cracked his back which was followed a sigh of relief while his shy, red-headed boy ran towards him, carrying the longbow in his hands he used to kill the third man. Surprised, he added a small sentiment. "I cant say, it's a very long story, but killing a man is not something you'll get used to." Howland then looked at the boy who had concern written all over his bright blue eyes while he father comforted him and put an arm around his shoulder. When the farmer insisted on rewarding him with a pouch of gold, Howland simply refused and rode along the trail with haste after helping to gather the bodies together. Killing a man was something he did not enjoy, but it was the only way to get himself out of a dire situation if he could not use his tongue.

---

Howland rode his steed with haste through the trails as Dustard speedily ran without getting too easily winded for the three to four hour journey he rad. Dustard was a horse you could easily depend on during a voyage, he was rambunctious and steady as he was enduring. They passed through thick woodland and flat marshes of the rolling hills until they reached the destination about fifty miles from where they started. It was the Toll Man Bridge, a large infrastructure made of thick cobblestone and was guarded by twelve or so crossbowmen who observed incoming traveler. Howland stated his business and was permitted access into the port city.

The city was rather large, almost too much for his liking, while his horse happily trotted in the busy city roads as they neared the harbor. It smelled of spices, fresh fish, or other foods that soon made the young man and his horse hungry once again. Howland then pulled a bright red apple from his pouch to feed his Dustard, he saw a woman crossing the street near him who held a piece of paper in front of her. He could not read it well from the distance, but he had the feeling that it was something promising. She was a tall, voluptuous young woman who darted through the crowds of people with a look of disgust in her face as she held her nose in from the harbor. He watched as she strode through the city streets, constantly ignoring the catcalling of the men who were near her. She held the piece of paper in her hands tightly as it appeared she was using it to guide her way through the streets before it was snatched from her hands by a gust of subtle ocean wind. The paper then flew across the open air and headed towards Howland's direction, grabbing the paper as it almost flew completely right past him. Before his horse could even have a bit of the tender, juicy apple that was in his hands, Howland clutched the flying paper for himself, holding it tightly so it would not be carried off from him too. The horse gave out a neigh of complaint while he read the paper to himself.

It was a summoning of ambitious young people like himself to band together who had a thirst of adventure and that would transpire in the process, the place was not too far from where he stood which immediately caught his attention. It was not very far and he had nothing to lose.
The Farmer’s Daughter was the name of the Inn and Bar that was ahead of him. Howland did not much think of the place, it was a large Inn but seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary from your average one. Howland soon parked his horse and then dismounted, realizing that he still had the red apple which the horse so desperately wanted, still in his hands.

"Here ya go boy. I'll be back." Howland said, giving the apple to the hungry horse who then gave a neigh in satisfaction while he petted his black mane. Howland turned to the door of the Inn and took a deep breath before entering and hoped that he would not get into another brawl. When he entered the bar, Howland did not expect there to be so many people cramped into a bar this early in the morning, but they were there anyway. Even the woman he saw earlier was there although he could barely see her. Could they have also been here for the meetings? He questioned. Inside, the smell of fine ale and food as Howland casually made his way to the stand and ordered a pint of golden ale to wash down the cheese he would be eating from his pouch. When his ale was finally served by the bartender, Howland eat his lunch alone and waited to hear someone speak which would most certainly be Rusk, whoever he was. Only then would feel the need be gregariously inclined to utter a word to anyone at all.

Rask finished off the last dregs of the piss that the landlord called ale and slammed the glass down hard. However from the noise of all the other patrons, only those sitting directly next to him looked round. A quick lean back and a look out the window told Rask that it was gone midday now, and that meant anybody showing up, would be here by now. Standing up Rask stretched out his legs and arms, which had gone numb from so long spent at the same stool. Walking over to the small wooden plinth he nodded at Grin and the barmen immediately halted his work. Rask stretched to his peak height and slammed his foot down on the floor twice to grab people's attention. His strength practically cracked the floor and the sound resounded off of the wooden walls heavily. Everyone went silent and turned to look at the man who had disturbed their daytime drinking. Reaching into his back pocket Rask pulled out one his flyers and held it aloft as he spoke, making sure his voice was heard all throughout the room.

"I am Rask. Some of you are here because I called for it. You came under the promise of work, money and glory. However you also know you risk your life and that we may find nothing at all. THis is the life I can promise, along with a good meal in your belly at night. Anybody here to sign on should follow me now, we have the basement to ourselves for now and that is where you can interview. I wont just take on any Tom, Dick and Harry who has a knife. But I also don't expect blademasters, so don't worry too much."With that Rask stepped down heavily from the raised wood and walked towards the open hatch which now glowed slightly as one of the serving girls had been down earlier, on his command, to light the alcoves. Descending the steps Rask grimaced as the full smell of blood hit his nose, even living as a fighter you never got used to the blood, you just learnt to live with it. With one hand, Rask pulled two of the tables together and parked at the head of the table, gesturing for the people who followed him to sit down as well. At the same time he pulled out the dirty coin and put it in front of him. The coin was strange in shape, having very blunt serrations carved into the edge as well as a square hole in the centre. The coin was embossed with floral patterns but, strangest of all, beneath the grime the coin shone of what was clearly pure gold. Whilst current currencies were called 'gold' in actual fact they were all certainly gold leaf and some cheap metal. This coin was solid gold, and had a history that Rask would need to look into. Whilst people were still coming down Rask spoke to them.

"Introduce yourselves now, I will learn names but only of those who interest me. Also, I hope you all brought your weapons, there is definately tests."

Rekugin noticed the flicker of movement, from the man that filled him with unease, and looked up and stared. Finishing his whiskey with a sigh, he placed the cup down and looked around. No one had seemed to notice the man get up-*BANG BANG*. Every eye in the room was now focused on the man.

"I am Rask. Some of you are here because I called for it. You came under the promise of work, money and glory. However you also know you risk your life and that we may find nothing at all. THis is the life I can promise, along with a good meal in your belly at night.” Rekugin listened intently while also looking at the people who he had marked down as waiting for Rask and saw that he was correct on all of them, they were waiting for Rask. He turned back to listen to Rask when someone got in his way. Rekugin kicked him sideways without getting off his seat with a snarl. “Anybody here to sign on should follow me now, we have the basement to ourselves for now and that is where you can interview. I wont just take on any Tom, Dick and Harry who has a knife. But I also don't expect blademasters, so don't worry too much."

Rekugin laughed quietly to himself, “well half of these people aren’t gonna get it…scratch that,” he would mutter as he saw some people stumble and argue as they pushed to get to the stairs, “nearly no one will get it.” He saw a rush of people still trying to follow Rask to the basement, including the one he kicked out the way before. He waited until there weren’t any people left pushing to get down thee stairs, before getting up and walking to the stairs of the basement. There were a couple people in the bar for just a drink but they didn’t really care about what was going on. He was the last to enter and saw that the seats at the tables had already been taken up. He was fine with that and moved so he was leaning against the wall able to see Rask and … a coin.

"Introduce yourselves now, I will learn names but only of those who interest me. Also, I hope you all brought your weapons, there is definitely tests." He had been focusing on the coin when Rask had said this and his eyes swiveled up to look at him. He looked around and no one responded to Rask yet, so he spoke louder than he normal would. “I am Rekugin…archer and swordsman.” His speaking brought forth a torrent of other names and titles.

Wretha was one of the first to follow after the man called Rask, down the steep steps that led to the basement of the establishment. The stench of men sweat mixed with a potent dose of blood hung upon the air, thick and low, out of habit the lady covered her nose with the back of her hand as she descended the last of the steps. It wasn’t much, just like she had been expecting, the basement was broken in half by a rope strung up from one wall to the other. One section serving as a sitting area for patrons and the other a great pit she suspected was used for fighting; a couple of dried blood spots soaked the ground. Wretha stuck out worse than a sore thumb in a crowd of all kinds of individuals. Sellswords, bandits, crooks, adventures, wanna-be adventures; the whole lot was present, counting to a total of about eighteen. And here she was one of three females in the room, entirely over dressed for the occasion and looking rather out of sorts.

She was able to snatch a wooden chair, taking a seat with her back straight, legs crossed and hands delicately folded on her lap and her bags of belongs sitting on the stone floor at her side. She looked like quite the proper lady. Or rather she did until perhaps the biggest man she had ever laid eyes on, slumped onto the chair next to her, making the small woman look like nothing more than a silly little girl trying to play grown up. His arms alone were probably the size of her torso, she tried her best to keep her eyes off of the brute and occasionally would scoot her chair further away so that he didn’t encroached on her personal space. She fleetingly wondered if he belonged to one of the tribes of the Gothi federation, surely he must have or at least carry some bloodline of theirs. During her travels she had never had the pleasure of visiting the barbaric lands, although not for a lack of trying.
She turned her attention towards one of the other two females in the room, an elven female tall and broad- very unlike her kind who preferred the regal and beauty. Wretha couldn’t help but take the she-elf’s attire in strides finding it to be rather revealing. A few choice words came into mind then, among them ‘improper’ rang loud and clear.

“I am Rekugin…archer and swordsman.”

The room erupted into an incoherent and indecipherable garble of names and titles all coming forth from every corner of the dank room. Wretha however remained silent, her attention drawn to the man that had spoken first, a hafling if her observation was correct but then again he was across the room half cloaked in shadows. The lit candles around the basement didn’t provide sufficient amount of lighting to be certain. A distinct vibe rolled off the young man, something that Wretha could only describe as arrogance. He didn’t hold her attention for long however, the name shouting was coming to a conclusion and she realized she had yet to introduced herself. Although, Wretha wasn’t some kind of animal that needed to bark her name across the room like some dog yelping for attention, at least someone had to have some semblance of proper manners in this place.
The female stood up from her seat and zig-zagged her way through the maze of chairs and patrons, sets of eyes following her like a hawks, until she came up to the man hosting this little show. “Wretha Thorne.” She said with a stern voice, extending her hand out in a sign of introduction. “I am no swordsman or archer-“

“No shit.” A little twat, no taller than Wretha, piped in interrupting her mid sentence, followed swiftly by some brief laughter from other men. She glanced at him briefly, he had short cropped, dirty blond hair and a freckled face with a nose ring hanging from his left nostril. She wagered he was no older than twenty-one at the most. A wicked smile graced her lips for a mere second as a thought crossed her mind before she turned back to Rask and finished her introduction, “I am no swordsman or archer and I’m afraid I’m not much of a fighter either. But, I do have other talents that you might find useful to your cause. I would be of no burden; I am quite capable of taking care of myself. Please, allow me to show you.”

"Great, I gotta follow this showoff?" Thena mumbled to herself while she was watching Rask make his little 'introduction'. The man didn't seem like a complete wimp, but he certainly seemed to be carrying himself as more than he actually was to her. "Guess it's needed, though... Considerin' some of the people 'ere." The elf was watching some of the ones following Rask down, noticably the female from before stood out. "Wait, what...?" Oh now THIS Thena had to see. It looked like she's straight from an elven noble's household, and SHE was going to adventure? The girl had guts, she did. The fighter made her way to and down the stairs as well, but couldn't help but feel the stares going through her as she did. Some people took notice of her, for whatever reason... They looking to take out the competition...?

Blood was a scent the fist fighter was used to by this point. Not only did she have to knock it out of people on a regular basis, but she's had a fair share of blood drained from her own body as well. The taste though... Now that was another story entirely. Everyone'd arrived in the basement, a few wooden chairs scattered around... And the 'Noble' had occupied one of them. Unforunatily, the seats around her seemed to have all been taken, so Thena wouldn't be able to get a good glance in. When that thought entered her head, however, that very same person shot her a glance. More specifically, her clothes. The 'Noble' turned her head away as quickly as she used it to sneak a peak, but Thena had still noticed. "Takin' an interest to the way I dress m'self, huh? You're an odd one..." She mulled over those few words for a bit before taking a seat of her own, somewhere among the left edge. Rask took out some kind of coin and began toying with it, but Thena could care less. Prolly some sorta initiation test, looking for those whose eyes are glued to it.

"Introduce yourselves now, I will learn names but only of those who interest me. Also, I hope you all brought your weapons, there is definately tests."

Rang out. Not too short after...

“I am Rekugin… archer and swordsman.”

Followed. And then everyone spoke up at once, much to Thena's annoyance. None of them seemed to have any patience, save a few, and swarms of names got lost in the ruckus. It died down on it's own though, and then 'Noble' girl took her time. But before she could even usher a full sentence, an idiot found it a crackin' idea to interrupt her and slow down things even more with roaring laughter. The female's introduction did eventually come to a close, and much to the actual fighter's expectations, she wasn't a fighter at all. The name also seemed oddly regal, only furthering the suspicion she's of a higher caliber than your average Joe. Hope those other talents are useful, Wretha... Thena thought to herself, before silence took over the room again.

She figured it was her time to speak, and rose up out of her chair to stretch a bit. "Name's Thena, nothin' more and nothin' less. And if someone decides to take a crackshot like the little brat over there did, I'm not quite that afraid of letting someone get crushed under my boot. I'm a merceneray for a livin', and more to the point, I find your best weapon is your own two fists." What a mouthful, but it'd have to do. Thena glanced over to Wretha again, giving a sly smile before sitting down in her chair again, folded arms firmly secured under her chest.

Various adventurers and ragamuffins introduced themselves, bragging of exploits exaggerated, spontaneously invented, or even stolen straight out of children's stories. Mordrag found it hard to believe that the spindly young man using a chair leg as a club slew the powerful dragon of legend, Ymratu the Devourer. As for himself, Mordrag Desertheart knew that he would only need to let his bulk do the talking.

Grabbing each side of his sofa cushion, the massive man slowly raised himself up. A few eyes looked towards the Gothi, intimidated by his size, but the chaotic rabble of the tavern remained largely the same. A few different would-be heroes approached that bloke Rask individually, and Mordrag followed suit. Not bothering to set his glass down, he strolled down into the horrible stench of the basement. With a smell akin to an abandoned slaughterhouse in his nostrils, the big Gothi pushed his way through the gathered applicant. He walked up to the leader and clapped a large hand on his shoulder.

“Mordrag Desertheart. Boom! I bring the mushcle,” he smiled at his own word slurring. Not-too-subtly flexing, the barbarian shot a look at the proper woman he had noticed before. Wretha Thorne was her name and the raven beauty resembled a delicate wine, wrapped up in the finest apparel like a wedding gift. He sent her a lewd wink over the rim of his glass. As inebriated as he was, the large man paid no mind to the rivulets missing his mouth and catching in his beard.

Mordrag finished his circuit of the room by grabbing the buttocks of a female dwarf brawler and a pretty young archer, receiving a smile and a slap respectively. Thoroughly enjoying himself, Mordrag sat back down in his original chair and rested his hands behind his head. As jovial as he appeared, however, the man wasn't here to enjoy himself. Though his body was relaxed, the Gothi let his right hand fall onto the handle of his makeshift polearm hammer. He had taken note of Rask's warning that there would be tests.

The white cheese Howland ate was tangy, sharp, and bold, just like the farmer who gave it to him and filled his mouth with a zesty feeling as it dissipated in his mouth before he chewed and swallowed the scrumptious cheese, satisfying his urging hunger. To wash it down, Howland took a large gulp of his golden ale and drank the malty beverage lightly to taste the quality. Not the best ale he ever drank but what else did he expect from a farm just outside a larger city? It'll do for now, I can't complain... Howland thought to himself. As he drank and ate in the corner of the bar stand, two loud thumps hit the floor of the tavern and vibrated afterwards which almost seemed to crack the floor below the man doing it. He introduced himself as the leader of this band of ambitious, young adventurers and named himself Rask.

Rask looked like a leader as he spoke to the small crowd of applicants, but Howland did not expect so many people to show and by the looks of it, most of them would probably have to go home. Almost all of them were considerably young and had a look which read 'eager' on their faces, but Howland could also just as easily read how many of them were most likely not going to integrate into the new team. As the others introduced themselves (and fought with each other), Howland then rose from his corner stool after finishing a long pint of ale. Stand firm and confident and surly you will not appear weak. He told himself.

"My name is Howland Morrys, son of Howard. Swordsman, Archer, and a few other things." He could feel the eyes of everyone watching. For a moment, he felt naked but would not let it get the better of him. "I am a little trained in arts of healing spells and I look forward to working with you all." He added, standing to his soon-to-be new peers before sitting down and waited patiently for what was to come next.

Rask listened to the chorus of names that crashed down on him like a wave. The crescendo of voices came together in such a way that Rask almost moved his hands to cover them, though he held back of course. Instead his eyes closed into slits and he scanned the crowd, looking for someone who stood out. Some of the people moved forward to greet him and he took special notice of them. Dogs stood around and yelped, adventurers made themselves known. Pointing at a fairly attractive girl who had introduced herself to him Rask spoke.

"You, Princess Thorne. Into the ring." Rask pointed into the cordoned off area, once again being used for fighting. "And you, ya' little gutter shite. Didn't hear your name. Into the ring a well." Rask had pointed at the wretch that had been looking to pick a fight with the young lady. He was puny looking and clearly liked the sound of money, not entirely sure just how dangerous the real world was. The 'boy' looked a little shocked to have been picked out however he was egged on by his peers and raced into the ring jumping around he stripped off his tunic to reveal a fairly scrawny body. On his waist he had a slightly rusty sword and he looked like he had never used it a day in his life. Leanign forward Rask whispered into Wretha's ear.

"Make it bloody, you show that piece of filth what you can do and I will be impressed. Especially considering your boasts that I could use you despite no ability to fight." Leaning back Rask stood and silenced the room with a single share of his hand. "Silence, watch the fight and let's see if either of these can be a Broken Horn. There was a silence for only the briefest of moments before many of the men began chanting and cheering the usual blood words that they sung when drunk and baying for violence.

Wretha scoffed, quickly looking away from the walking mountain, named Mordrag, after his most indecent wink towards her. She was insulted that so many would think of her like any other common whore that worked upstairs, not to mention the stench of alcohol spewing out of his mouth…’Boom…? Who the hell says boom?’ She mused to herself as the man walked away, causing a small ruckus with two other females. She shook her head in disbelief anyone could have such an appetite for salacious fare.

She could feel everyone’s eyes on her, burrowing small holes through her cloak and clothing, down to her bare self. Gathering the folds of her attire, Wretha dipped under the rope outlining the boundaries of the fighting pit. Her shoes dug into the small amount of sand spread throughout the ring, she supposed it was to soften the fall of unconscious bodies.
Wretha felt as awkward as she probably looked standing in the middle of the fighting pit waiting for the scrawny, young man that had disrespected her to enter the ring. Some of the men cheered him on and others merely laughed wholeheartedly at the sight of his opponent. Wretha took it all in strides with her head held high, she was painfully aware how ridiculous this fight looked, and she didn’t expect the support of anyone on the audience. Wretha briefly locked gazes with the She-elf, Thena, but quickly pushed her out her mind. She tossed Rask a side-glance as he leaned in to whisper in her ear. "Make it bloody, you show that piece of filth what you can do and I will be impressed. Especially considering your boasts that I could use you despite no ability to fight."

She had been boasting, hadn’t she?
‘Oh, Wretha, you stupid girl what have you gotten yourself into?’ Her inner thoughts seemed to have a mind of their own, she could almost feel the scowls they were casting her way.
Rask wanted bloody. He wanted a performance to showcase what she could do, and as her bright green eyes settled back on her opponent, an idea began to form. If she was ever to gain any respect from this lot she needed to teach this man what she was capable of. Bloody wouldn’t be enough. Wretha couldn’t just beat him, she had to embarrass him, make an example of him.

“Come,” Wretha called out over all the chanting and hollering that had erupted from the onlookers, “show me how well of a fighter you are.” Already her mind was working in earnest, combing through all of her memories trying to remember every word of every spell she knew carefully. Just one slip of the tongue, one word uttered incorrectly and she was certain she would be thanking the sand for softening her fall. She took stock of her surroundings, judging the distance the man would have to travel to reach her- it wasn’t much, he was only a few feet away from her. It would be a tight window but she wagered she could manage, besides she didn’t have much of a choice.

The scrawny twat threw her a smirk it was her only warning as he burst into a mad dash for her, sword over his head at the ready. As soon as he exploded into motion, so did Wretha, only she wasn’t running or moving at all. Instead her lips were smacking furiously as she chanted a spell in the olden tongue, “Itsi sist. Eksleebire. Ye non hun wesrat horri momenta.”
She raised her hand from the folds of her cloak, pointing it at her attacker as she reached the crescendo of the spell. The man was upon her then only a foot or two from her, sword poised for the attack.

The world seemed to freeze as the crowd went dead silent in anticipation of the blow.

But the blow never came.

A wicked smile slowly stretched Wretha’s lips as the man mirrored her amused look with one of dread. Using her magical abilities she now had a hold of the man, frozen in mid attack. The spell wouldn’t last forever and required a large amount of her concentration to maintain it, but she didn’t need long at all. “Ye wosseri. Etsoo an esee uumezhdesi.” With the room having gone silent, Wretha’s incantation, a language few had ever heard of, echoed across the room as she spoke, sounding all the more eerie and menacing. The look of terror in the man’s eyes was priceless, and Wretha enjoyed every second of it. With her hex now completed she released him dropping her hand back to her side with a sigh.
Now freed, the man looked around confused, he couldn’t understand what Wretha had done. She hadn’t harmed him in anyway and his first thought was that whatever spell she had done hadn’t worked. “Ya’ bitch!” He shouted at her face raising his sword once more over his head. Before he could deliver the blow his body jerked oddly for a fleeting moment and the man took a step back confused.
“You should have more respect towards women, young man.” Wretha scolded, “Especially when one has just bested you in combat.”

The man jerked once more and this time he doubled over spilling the content in his stomach across the sand, Wretha took a step back to avoid getting any of the vomit on her. The man heaved again and another torrent of bile came pouring forth out of his mouth and nostrils. Simultaneously, his bowls loosened and with a symphony of farts and gases his pants became stained with a familiar brown coloring, while urine ran rampant down the front of his pants. Some men yelled in disgust and others remained silent, their small-framed minds still trying to fathom what had just happened. The fight was over as quickly as it had begun as the young man made a dash for the stairs in search of a pot, or in his case two or three, leaving a line of bodily fluids in his wake.

This time there was no need to zig-zag her way back to her seat as everyone moved out of her way trying to give the witch a wide berth. Wretha didn’t mind their sudden precaution; the ordeal, although extremely short, had left her slightly winded and she did her best not to show it as she gently sat back down in her chair. Magic wasn’t something to trifle with, it requires large amount of concentration and power to perform even the minor spells and it came at a cause to the user. Without the proper training such magic could do more harm to the caster than the intended victim.

Rask watched as Wretha worked, he knew a few spells himself but would never call himself a trained mage. However what he had just seen was clever, inventive and utterly disgusting. Already he could there was trails of people storming back up stairs. Clearly they hadn't expected this kind of treatment for try outs. Clapping Rask realised he was the only one doing so in the room and he nodded slightly at the elf as she sat down. She certainly was staying. Standing again he looked around at the men and women who had stayed. The smell of bodily fluids was acidic in Rask's nostrils but he put it out of his mind, there would be worse and better on the road.

"This is what you can expect. There will be filth and it will not be pleasant. I am glad to see the wannabe heroes leave, now I am left with you true fighters. Pair up, Wretha has already fought and so she has passed. The other...ten odd...of you will fight one at a time. I don't care about the order. And the filth stays in the ring for the fights, out in the real world you will be slipping on mud and snow. Vomit and shit will only mimic that." Sitting back down Rask pulled out the coin from his pocket and threw it to Wretha. He leant in again, realising now he was the only one coming near her.

"Take a look at this, you know the old tongue, do you know what it means?" Rask wanted to see how much this girl had studied. He of course knew it was the Chant of the Dead. A short verse that was supposed to send dead spirits on their way. The Gothi believed that only one man had this chant inscribed on his treasure. I warlord by the name of Mesticaccus. Supposedly the man hid his spoils in a large complex within the snowy mountains just on the border between Gothi and Civitas. It was Rask's first desire to find this treasure. And this gold was from their first port of call.

Mordrag burst into laughter at the sight of the young man's displeasure. The boy ran straight for the door, passing so near to Mordrag, that the large Gothi could smell the foul trail left behind. The rancid smell sent the big man into a coughing fit, only making him laugh all the harder.

Not all what you'd expect with this lass! “Lickin my lips to see what else she's got in store! Eh!?” his big mouth proclaimed loudly.

“Ye crazy? Ye dumb bastid, she'd tear ye apart!” Mordrag narrowed his eyes at the response. “Bloody I could do the same, big and slow as ye are!” The speaker was the same tatood man he had seen before. The big barbarian rose up from his chair and leaned over the man, staring down at the brave look in his eyes. Mordrag had predicted punches akin to something from a prepubescent girl. When the challenger didn't back down – or even flinch – it appeared to be time to find out.

“Get your arse in the ring then, boy.” The big man eased his makeshift polearm hammer off of his back. It had a long, bent shaft over half as tall as his massive body ending with a long, thin spike – truly a shard of metal haphazardly embedded in the wood. Underneath the slipshod but sharp extension are two hammer heads, adapted from an actual butchers meat hammer. Though not the most efficient weapon, its appearance and operation were brutal enough. If Mordrag's reach – half again as long as most other men's – wasn't already enough, the range afforded by thrusting or even swinging kept most enemies far away from the brute. If an opponent managed to maneuver themselves within the reach of Mordrag's hammer, they were viciously bombarded with headbutts, high knees and, most wickedly, with punches from big, cloth-wrapped fists adorned with studded iron rings.

Unconcerned with the barbaric danger facing him from across the ring, the tattooed man pulled out a rusty cutlass, the blade shrieking horribly as it left its ill-fitting scabbard. The combatants glowed orange from the dim torchlight. Mordrag shifted side to side, the vomit-soaked sand softly crunching and squishing under his significant weight. The He wanted to smash that ugly bulbous nose almost as much as he wanted to wrap his fingers around the ridiculous anchor tattoo on the man's neck.

Two tattooed arms waved up and down, awkwardly trying to excited the crowd. One man gave a quiet “whoop” in response. He addressed the gathered vagabonds and ragamuffins, comparatively quiet after Wretha Thorne's earlier display, “I'm Boruss, an' this is my lurvley blade Shelisse!” He turned to Mordrag. “An' Shelisse'll be drinkin yer blood soon ya big... piss... ugly piss!” About as eloquent as Ugly Boruss was going to get. He charged at Mordrag, barely keeping his footing in the sewage beach.

For the first time since he had entered the tavern, Mordrag's behavior was somber if not completely sober. He set his feet and lowered his hammer, lining up the spike extension with the rushing spastic. It was a wonder that the tattooed fool could even see with his long greasy hair flopping off his head and sticking to his face. Just when Boruss was nearing Mordrag's reach, he dodged sideways. Or attempted to. A – surely tattooed – foot in a ragged boot planted to dart away from the makeshift polehammer but sunk into the sand, dropping the man to the ground. Surprised, Mordrag swung down with the tenderizing face of his hammer. Metal connected with bone and a sickening pop shot out throughout the room as Boruss's elbow exploded. Eyes wide with pain, the smaller man screamed and rolled towards the Gothi, flailing arms and legs in all directions.

Mordrag tossed his hammer to the side and dove down onto a ball of fists, elbows and feet. A big Gothi fist connected solidly with a greasy jaw which popped cleanly out of Boruss's cheek. In return, the hulking brute received a quick series of blows in the stomach. One specific knee knocked the all of the air out of Mordrag's lungs. He would have surely doubled over if he wasn't tangled up in sweaty, tattooed limbs. What the smaller man lacked in size, strength, experience and skill, he made up for with energy, and while Mordrag was no stranger to grappling on the ground, it surely wasn't one of his strong suits.

For someone like Mordrag Desertheart, the only way to beat savagery was with more savagery. Steeling himself against the multitude of blows raining in on his chest and neck region, he flexed his neck and brought his forehead down with unrelenting force. Boruss's bulbous nose burst into blood and pus upon forehead impact. Mordrag cranked his neck back and brought it down again. And again. And again fifteen more times until he became aware of a texture like banana pudding meeting his headbutts.

The huge barbarian rose up to his knees and fell back onto the seat of his pants. Though his vision was obscured by hair matted with sweat and blood, Mordrag could see what remained of Ugly Boruss. The greasy man's face could barely be distinguished as human. The Gothi coughed and wiped his face on his arm – smearing the blood more than removing it – before sauntering out of the ring, slapping Rask on his shoulder and buttock as he passed. The big bloody brute picked his way through the crowd before dropping down heavily into the chair next to Wretha Thorne.

“Now I'm almost as purtty as you, eh Sweets?”

Thena watched with a little disgust as Wretha made a complete fool out of the kid, but also grinned at the display. Brat had it coming to him. She was one of the only ones to still look the magic user in the eyes, curiosity having been piqued to say the least. Soon after Wretha took her turn, a large bruiser of a man picked a fight with... Another large bruiser. Well, this was amusing. The fight that followed not so much, courtesy of the first of the two, named "Mordrag" if Thena remembered correctly. The she-elf whistled as they went to town on the other man with the very rusty sword, eventually absolutely pulverizing them. Well, there's one for the grave... Shame. Such a ball of muscles, easily fitting right into a construction job, dead. It only served to get the elf into the mood to fight herself, though and she rose up from her seat.

"Alllright, people, there's two down! I'll be takin' the next fight, any volunteers?" She called out to the room, a single person walking up to her. A man. Rather tall, pretty aged, gold hair with hazel eyes. Seemed to be a hammer on his hip, and a small round wooden shield secured to his arm. "You're full of it," they spoke to Thena. "There's no way an elf could beat someone, much less a woman!" Thena didn't even mind the trashtalking, it only served to get her into the mood to give this guy a beating further. "Cocky, ain'tcha? Get in the ring, lessee if I'm 'Full of it'!" The elf cracked her knuckles whilst walking towards the ring, then looked upon the corpse lying there. That'd be getting in the way for sure, but she didn't care much. Avoiding it should be easy enough.

The nameless man who'd accepted Thena's challenge took out his hammer, then opened his mouth. "I already introduced myself earlier, but considering I'm about to put you in your place I suppose it's only fitting I'll repeat it for you... Recule Grand. I don't need to know your name, by the way, as you'll be- Guh!" An abrupt cutoff to the monologue was delivered due to a swift blow into the man's gut, the spikes on the tip of Athena's gloves easily ripping through the man's clothes and piercing his skin. "Keep an eye on your opponent, Moron." She tried to sucker in another one to the right, although it connected with the shield Grand had on him, quickly pushing Thena off of him.

The battle had officially begun with that notice, a swing of the hammer coming out with a lot of force. It was easy to read with the man overswinging hard, a quick dash to the side able to get out of the threat zone. When it came down and whiffed Grand tried a quick one by bringing it back via the direction Thena was standing in, the surprise factor catching her off guard and delivering a good blow to her side. It didn't hit any bones, luckily, but too many of those hits could definitely crush her organs. The force of the blow caused Thena to stumble and lose her balance, another one coming out overhead. The elf barely managed to grab the hand that was holding the weapon, stopping the momentum of the blow dead in its tracks.

She gave a good pull backwards to cause the blonde to lose his balance, using that opportunity to give a good right blow connecting with the man's cheekbone. The assualt didn't stop there, she let go of the armed hand and let out a punch straight into the man's ribcage, knocking him off his feet straight into the sand. So far they'd only gotten knocked around a bit and a hole-shaped wound or four, but it was about to get worse. Thena gave no time for Grand to recover, stomping down her boot on his stomach causing another grunt of pain, and reflexively cause the man to drop his hammer to the floor. Thena took this chance to quickly pick it up and look at it. "Nice weapon y'got there. Although that one blow really hurt, y'know?" A wicked grin sprawled over the elf's face as she grabbed it in both hands and brought it down on the blondie, lying dazed on the floor. He'd brought up his shield to block it, but even though it came down on the wooden surface you could hear something below it crack. Grand let out a cry of pain at his new broken arm, which collapsed onto his torso.

Thena grabbed the scruff of the man's neck, who now had eyes filled with fear. "I recall ye sayin' I was full of it... I think you were mistaken." She headbutted him once, then grabbed the non-broken arm. She put down her boot on the man's torso first to stop him from rolling, holding his very hammer high up in the sky. "Hope you don't need this!"

Another crunch came out as the steel connected with the bare skin, soon followed by yet another scream of pain. The elf had officially broken both of the blonde's arms now, leaving him a crying mess. Thena picked up the man and threw him onto the floor next to the ring, causing even more screams of pain to echo in the room. "Well, tha's that!" She exited the ring herself. The elf made her way back over to her own seat, pretty satisfied with her own handiwork. She glanced around the room, scouting out the others who still had to pick a fight.

Howland watched as the competitors almost effortlessly defeated their seemingly formidable opponents which ease, making their way to the victor stands just near Rask. He needed to be up there if he wanted to pursue his life as an adventurer but who would compete against him? It certainly could not be someone as mediocre as the other competitors who were easily beaten, he needed to make a decent first impression. The room still smelt of shit from the spectacle Wretha displayed earlier, leaving Howland hyped after what Mordrag and Wretha just did to their opponents but made him nervous, realizing he needed to be next.

As quick as a shadow lynx, as sly as a fox. He encouraged, quoting the faded words his younger sister gave him when he conspired to steal a sweet roll from farmer Jak many years ago. Howland could remember the old, auspicious farm where he was once called his warm home. A muddy, dust-filled place that brought to him - a pranging feeling of both nostalgia and despair which ached his heart in a egregious way almost similar to being punched in the gut by a large Gothi brute. He could not return to that place, even the thought of his mother who he failed to protect would leave him in a state of turmoil, would soon flood his mind with darkness that wrenched the young man's heart at even the closest thought of it. The pangs of longing and despair, Howland realized, are far worse than any of the afflictions of physical pain would ever bring to him and the emptiness which followed afterward. His mother, a nurturer and fond friend of his and his sister, who drowned herself in her many books with him. The feelings of home could easily pierce the heart with either joy or plague it with an unrelenting sickness which deprived him of meaning. Howland then closed his eyes to console himself for a brief moment, realizing that he had not arrived here to mourn the dead or become homesick and slowly began to unsheathe his dragon sword, holding he dragon-carved, ancestral pommel in front of his nose to pray to his Gods.

Gods above, bless me the strength to carry this blade in my hand and the will to yield it. He prayed silently to himself. Howland paused for a moment and began to hear a horde of roaring laughter to his left only a few feet away. When he opened his eyes he realized that the laughter was towards him and was inclusively perpetrated by one woman who Howland would most certainly tell was from the the further east from a small providence in the Trattican Empire. She was a tall, beautiful brunette woman behind her freshly-made red war paint who was comprised of green-hazel, almonded shaped eyes and short, curled hair. Like the others, she was big, muscular and formidable. Her ragged leather armor which was slightly exposed and its style, would easily give away her appearance as a Rothka tribesmen of the Ruby Shore of the southern forests to the east, a place once home to the mighty Dragons according to legend before being killed off by invading barbarians.

The Rothkai were known for their incivility, "Shield Maidens" which the Gothi also auspiciously called their women warriors, and a sense of brute, barbaric humor which she most certainly had displayed to the leftover men of the audience she tried to impress behind her. Surly the gods had most certainly chosen a worthy adversary and not one which was prone to boasting and falsely dubbing themselves as a great warrior. Even the way she approached him was different from the other amateurs Howland has faced and defeated in his time.

"Do not mock my gods." He asserted, while a crowd of people soon turned towards them. He stood up to meet her on eye level.

"Fuck yer gods, I shit on your gods." She spat on the floor, her accent thick and sounding malicious nonetheless, it was almost as if she were looking to pick a fight in the ring with him.

"What's wrong with my gods? Let me remind you that Mushar, your God, the God of Strength and War failed to protect your people from the Trattican Peoples who invaded your lands. I doubt he could even protect a weakling like yourself, seeing that he could not protect your own people while he let your men be butchered and your women raped. What a shame, I guess he really does protect the strong." His words were cold but defensive and the tall shield maiden breathed out heavily like a bull does before a charge as veins popped from her forehead and possessed a look with the intent of ripping him to shreds for mocking her people and her god.

"How about we fight in the ring and figure it out?" She suggested, grinding her teeth together to calm herself. "Then we will see whose Gods are truly protecting us." Soon enough, both competitors entered the ring, eager to win the preference of their new employer while the smaller crowd around them talked among themselves and made wagers. The sounds of conversations flooded the room and soon faded as more began to speak and Howland could no longer make sense any wager as it was lost in the sea of other conversation. Both Howland and the Shield maiden readied themselves for battle.

As quick as a shadow lynx, as sly as a fox. Howland took a briefmoment and guided his Longsword just above his nose with both hands on the handle, leveling it with his eyes. If they both had anything in common, it was their methods of fighting, their quick cunning ways of finding exposed weakness in order to strike with lethal intention and their disdain for metal armor, using speed as their advantage to tire their enemy out. It is gong to be a tricky situation. May the Gods be pleased if I find myself out of this. he thought to himself as others around them chanted for the battle to commence. A clash of steel on steel followed afterwards as each competitor trusted or slashed their swords, only to be blocked or dodged.

A series of clangs from their collided blades and chanting came from the room around them as both warriors fought for their position among the pedestal of victors above them. After a while, the battle seemed to be going nowhere as both were almost equally matched as it waged for a few minutes afterward. Howland then backed away to catch his breath while the Shield maiden took hers, crouching protectively behind her wooden shield which was patterned with steel that covered the outer portions and red war paint as she held her sword, still firmly grasped in her leather gloves.

Howland darted toward again, thrusting his pointed blade in one arm towards the cunning warrior who had managed to dodge the incoming blade, just barely missing the top of her dirty brunette head. The warrior then spun around and crouched below him as Howland frantically pranced back, his stomach pressed inward to avoid the blade but not quick enough, the sharp had abruptly sheered through his leather armor and his sensitive flesh below, forcefully cutting through it like a butcher slices through bloody raw pork meat. A intense, searing feeling in his stomach followed shortly after, leaving Howland in agonizing pain as tickles of blood began to flow down his lower abdomen. But he had to stay standing, relentless and willing to fight. He then pranced backwards and stood on guard, realizing the barbarian had a sly jester of a smile on her face as she then realized she could easily finish him.

"Tis but a scratch." He said, thought it was much more than that judging but the pain. The tall shield maiden chuckled through her teeth as if wanting to bit him and go for the throat like a rapid wolf. Howland pending for her to strike, which would most certainly end in him losing this battle if he did not think quickly, tried to think of a way to out maneuver her. Howland braced himself as the warrior woman approached him.

As quick as a shadow lynx, as sly as a fox. Howland moved as quick as he could, trying to dodge her shield bashing with her every move before letting her sword do the work, leaving a part of her shield arm exposed. Howland finally had the upper hand as he left his knife he had just pulled, slice its way downward, cutting the warrior's shield arm deeply. The maiden then let out a subtle cry of pain before jotting backwards and casting a throwing knife in his direction which Howland just barely managed to block with his Longsword. The throwing knife bounced from his sword and dug its way into the sand below him while the warrior made her way almost hopelessly toward Howland. With a few blocks, Howland patiently waited for the opportunity to finally strike when an opening was left wide open. Howland then grabbed the central ridge of his blade with his left hand and letting his right take the fuller portion of the blade and held onto the blade of his sword before striking down on the head of the brute with a considerable force with his pommel.

A loud thump followed afterwards which almost certainly meant a concussion as the crowed shrieked behind him, knowing she was done for. Howland moved back to see what she was going to next as the warrior let out a small grunt before her eyes turned back into her head before falling to the floor half conscious, just catching herself with her sword hand. Without hesitation, he moved in for the kill while the Shield maiden grabbed a hold of her blade and tried to swing, just missing Howland's legs by a foot. She could not tell whether or not Howland was approaching her from a foot of even and a few hundred feet away, everything was faded and unclear to her until the young man grabbed a hold of her sword arm and kicked her shield from her reach. Howland placed the point of his sword towards her neck while spectators asked for blood behind him.

"Mercy, please." She cried, just barely managing to utter words from her tired lips. Her daunting look soon turned to concern as Howland removed the blade from her throat as blood trickled down her neck where the blade once ly. When he let go, she clumsily grabbed her items and ran out of the tavern, injured and shamed.

"Is that good enough for you?" He asked calmly before making us way to the stands near Rask, clutching his stomach wound with both hands and uttering a few incantations he learned from the White Mages who taught him a few minor healing spells to heal his wounds. It was said that the Rothkai people dipped their weapons in cow manure before going into a battle in order to assure that their victims would die form infections. Howland sat in the chairs above the small stands to heal himself with great effort and hopping that was just a rumor.

Rekugin watched from the corner, leaning on his bow, as the other fighters fought. “hmm this is gonna be interesting” he murmurs under his breath. The human witch had been interesting, the Gothi even more so. The elven woman fought well, a bit violent but still a good fighter. He watched as the latest guy beat the Rothkai woman. He had snorted at laughter over the cause of the fight. Gods! He thought them two drunks but the man fought well, especially seeing as both were matched.
He looked up and around the room. There were not that many people left. Some were there now just to gamble now, they had put their weapons aside and watched in interest. Rekugin looked at one of the few people still there to join the band. They were all older than him, some by a few years, some by a decade or more. He was going to have to prove that someone so young as himself was worthy to join the group. Cracking his neck, he glanced at the last Gothi left. Not a giant by Gothi standards but one and a half times bigger than Rekugin. The Gothi wore a leather shirt, with a longsword strapped to his back and a pair of hairy leather trousers and boots. He gulped and closed his eyes for a second before exhaling. Raising an arm through the folds of his robe he pointed to him, “Wanna fight me?” The Gothi started shaking. It took Rekugin a second to realise the Gothi was laughing. “You, wanna fight ME! You ‘re ‘alf my size little man. You wouldn’t even be able to touch me, you little fuck.”
Rekugin shook his head “you know you made two mistakes there. The first you should of declined my offer to fight when you had the chance. The second was insulting me, now we have to fight.”
The Gothi boomed with laughter and stepped toward the ring, “bring it on. Just know the name of the man who will kill you, Droth’kar” Rekugin walked up to the ring and ducked beneath the rope. Looking at the ground he grimaced and unclasped his cloak and lay it onto the rope in the corner where the rope met the wall. He hoisted his bow up and looked over at the Gothi who was flexing a few meters away. Rekugin heard a gasp and some laughter come from the crowd of gamblers and onlookers. A few mutters, form various converstions, reached his ears. “a boy……gonna die…kill him…what was he thinking.” Droth’kar looked up and started laughing as well, “wanna to leave boy. I’ll let ya, if you say give me a tribute. Tha’ cloak there is good.”
Rekugin just shook his head in response wondering why his mouth was so dry. Taking in a long breath he closed his eyes again for a second and reopened them. He could feel the sand shift slightly underneath him as he shifted his weight from foot to foot.
He drew two arrows and held one in his left hand along with his bow and the other he nocked on the string. The Gothi roared “YOU READY TO DIE” before raising his sword and lunging at Rekugin. Rekugin flinched and stepped back, bringing a round of laughter from a few onlookers.Staring at Droth’kar he drew the arrow back and snapped of a shot quickly. Not full power but enough for the arrow to whip towards the huge man. Droth’kar noticing the movement of the draw stepped sideways to the left. The arrow hit the bicep of the Gothi, who looked at it and hissed. “BIG MISTAKE BOY!” Grabbing the shaft the Gothi snapped the arrow near the head and threw the shaft away. Pacing forward Droth’kar started swinging his sword in small circles in the air. Rekugin let out a shuddering breath he didn’t realize he was holding and drew the second arrow. He snapped of the shot and realized straight away that it was a bad shot. He had snatched after the arrow, causing it to go askew. Realising how close the Gothi was Rekugin threw the bow over to the ropes by his cloak with out looking.
The Gothi was a meter from him now and was swinging with a sword. Gasping Rekugin dove sideways and landed in the sand. Feeling the blade swish over him he felt a tingle in his left calf where the blade had made a shallow but long cut. Scrambling up he drew the two blades from the sheaths on his back and held them with the blades facing down. The Gothi roared and swung the sword down again causing Rekugin to leap backwards to avoid being clashed in two. Feeling the wall, Rekugin pushed off it towards the Gothi as he hoisted the blade up again.
Inside the arc of the Gothi’s blade Rekugin slashed at the stomach of Gothi with the two blades parallel. Two lines of blood appeared and a steady trickle of blood started flowing from the wounds. Rekugin gave a satisfied smile and stepped sideways and away from the Gothi. The Gothi checked the wound to see that it was a minor wound. Roaring like a bull, he charged Rekugin, who was trying to get his bow, catching him unaware. Tackling him and knocking the blades out of Rekugin’s hands, he crushed the elf in a bear hug. Rekugin felt the armour he was wearing shifting, and buckling under the pressure. He was struggling to breathe as the air was forced out of his lungs. “TIME TO DIE BOY!” was yelled in his ear but to him it sounded miles away. With his arms pinned to his side he struggled to find a way to fight back. Feeling the feathers on the quivers on his sides, he pulled an arrow from each and worked them up into his palms as quickly as he could. Stabbing backwards, he caught the Gothi in the thighs; twisting the arrows, he pushed them harder and harder on his last breaths of air. The Gothi grunted with pain but kept squeezing, leaning forward to crush the armour harder. He could see everything tingeing with red. Thrashing he jerked his head back caught the Gothi in the nose. Droth’kar gasped with surprise and let go of the elf. Rekugin fell to the floor yanking out one of the arrows form the thigh of Droth'kar, as the Gothi backed away in pain.
Rekugin laying on the ground gasping for breath knew he had to act quickly. He could feel the armour he was wearing was warped and felt it pushing his chest in.
“That’s it. I'm going to make you die screaming, you little shit!” The Gothi stormed back to his sword and snatched it up and charged at Rekugin. Crawling towards his bow Rekugin snatched it up and turned around to face the Gothi on one knee. He had one of the arrows from before still in his hand, nocked, and drew it. With a scream, the Gothi was upon him and raised the sword executioner style to chop Rekugin into bits. Rekugin released the arrow with eyes closed, waiting for the blade.
The blade never came and Rekugin opened his eyes and glanced up. His arrow had gone through the screaming mouth of Droth’kar and lodged into his brain. The arrows broadhead had come out of the skull with a bit of brain still attached. Droth’kar toppled sideways into the sand. Rekugin remained there panting before finally forcing himself to his feet and undoing the straps of his iron armour, he placed it at his feet. Stepping over the huge Gothi he went and retrived his blades and sheathed them. Returning to the rope he grabbed is cloak and threw it over his shoulders and refastened it with a knot and an iron ring. Bending down to pick is bow and armour he stepped over the rope and limped over to the table. “I better be in after that.” He growled before sitting down and wincing

Wretha hastily caught the golden coin in between her palms, almost missing it entirely in the poorly lit basement. She brought it up to her eyes, giving it several turns while examining the design closely. It was shaped oddly, not like the current currency, not like any currency that Wretha was aware of. Her fingers traced the deep serrations and the inner square at the center, but what struck most odd to her was the floral pattern.
From her side she heard the start of an argument as Mordrag stood up from his seat to confront another man. She came in late into the conversation and didn’t quite know what had started the heated exchange but it quickly ended with a challenge in the ring. The female found herself curious about this large hulking pile of muscles on legs. Surely a man of his size had seen his fair share of fights, but the same thing could be said for his opponent. At the very least it would be intriguing to watch given that she had never had the pleasure of experiencing a fighting pit before. Her attention wavered, however, drawn to the coin twirling around her finger. It nagged at her something fierce, like a fly that just wouldn’t shoo away. She recognized the pattern but it was hard to say where she had seen it before. She raked through every lesson she could remember and every book she had read; it was a slow progress as the fight proved a worthy distraction.
The fight reminded her of something almost primal, savages going for each other’s throats and with each fist that connected Wretha flinched a little, imagining how much pain each caused. To say she was a little more than disgusted was an understatement when Mordrag walked away leaving a bloody heap of a mess laying in the sand. She glanced back to Rask’s coin trying to avoid direct contact as the large man slumped back into his seat next to her.

“Now I'm almost as purtty as you, eh Sweets?”
Against her better judgment she glanced up at his blood smeared and sand crusted face and a small smile formed on her lips against her will. “Truly.” She laughed.

Thena was up next, and Wretha scanned the She-elf’s from head to toe. She had mentioned that she preferred her fist as her best weapon, but that simply left Wretha wondering- how good could fist be against real weapons. In Mordrag’s case he had nothing but brute strength behind each blow, but Thena wasn’t nearly as big as him. She was formidable-looking, no one questioned it, but Wretha had her doubts of how effective her tactic would be.
Ms. Thorne was proven wrong when Thena left her opponent with two broken arms and a shattered ego. After the fight had finished, it was only then Wretha noticed she had been sitting on the edge of her seat caught in all the excitement of the fight with the rest of the crowd. Leaning back she wiped the small beads of sweat that had began to form on her forehead. The candlelight was beginning to turn the basement into a melting pot and the rowdy crowd was not helping either. And suddenly it hit her out of nowhere, her eyes shooting back up to Rask, before she knew it she had leaned forward to grab a hold of the man’s wrist. “The Verbis De Mortem.” She gasped, “The Chant of the Dead.” From just the look in his eyes she could tell her guess was on point.
“A legend, Mr. Rask, surely you don’t mean to seek the cursed treasure of the Sayamir Peaks.” Wretha returned the gold coin back to its owner as a young man, named Howland, picked a fight with a red haired female.