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"Do you think monsters are in these woods?" Harold asked, nervously rubbing his thumbs along the set of reigns he held. He looked over his shoulder. The caravan obstructed most of his view, but he could still see some of the path he and the others had traveled. On either side of the dirt path, carefully bordered with rocks and stones, was a thicker section of Borea's forests. They were a day's ride from the nearest town, which Harold only knew because he and the rest of his gang had ransacked it a [i]day ago[/i].

"Aye. I wouldn't worry too much about 'em, though." Jon replied. He sat next to Harold at the front of their covered wagon that had been filled to the brim with pilfered loot. Behind them was a short line of men -- The Black Ermine Company. A small but recognized band of thieves and mercenaries. Three were on horseback, two were on foot, and one was at the helm of the second covered wagon, though his was steered by two horses instead of Jon and Harold's three.

"Why not?" Harold asked, looking over his shoulder once again. He wasn't sure if it was fear or intuition, but something was [i]following them[/i]. The hairs on the back of his neck had been raised for hours, and every snapping branch or rustled leaf seemed to make him jump. Perhaps the feeling of being watched was guilt, though Harold hadn't felt guilty for anything in a long time. Overhead, a falcon had been circling them occasionally, as if warning them. Or [i]spying on them[/i], Harold thought to himself.

"If we were alone, we should worry. Mutants are dumb, but they ain't dumb enough to go after eight men with big bloody swords." Jon shook his head and chuckled, uncorking a jug and taking a hearty swig. He cringed for a moment as the drink stung his lips, shaking his head once more. "Never knew you were such a delicate maiden, Harry."

"Am not." Harold replied, checking over his shoulder once more. "I just have a bad feeling is all." The falcon overhead cried once, and disappeared over the slim line of sight the tall trees granted the group.

Before Jon could respond, the loud cracking of a tree falling filled the air, and the group stopped dead in their tracks. About ten meters ahead, a tall oak tree crashed to its side, obstructing the dirt path. It collapsed loudly, cracking at the middle and sending a cacophonous roar throughout the otherwise silent forest. The sun was just beginning to set, and the only sound that could otherwise be heard were crickets and owls.

"Better get one of the new men to move it, eh?" Harold asked, distracted from his fears for a moment. It was peculiar that such a young tree had fallen over, but perhaps it was eaten by termites, or had been gnawed on by some strange forest creature. Harold paused to think about what would've eaten the tree, paying little mind to the two men making their way from the caravan towards the felled tree. Harold wasn't [i]from[/i] a sleepy forest village, and knew little in the ways of animals that dwell outside of cities. [i]Perhaps it was a hugely fat beaver who ate the tree[/i], he thought.

"Looks like it'll rain s-" Harold's musings were cut short by an arrow launched through his forehead by an unseen bowman. He died instantly, and his head reeled back from the sheer force of the impact with an unsettling [i]crack[/i] before he limply slumped onto Jon's shoulders.

"[i]Ambush![/i]" Jon cried, ducking down. Six swords were unsheathed behind him in rapid succession as the men scrambled to face every possible angle. Jon unsheathed two curved daggers from Harold's hips and threw him over the side of the caravan's seat, hoping to trick whoever dared attack them into giving away their location. It did not work -- No arrows were fired at Harold's body, and Jon cursed the man he was about to find and kill.

The company of men waited for what seemed like eternity, staring into the thick forests for any sign of motion. Just as Jon was about to give the order to search the forest, he saw a flash of movement in a patch of brush. Before he was able to articulate a thought, a great flash of green sprung out from the woods, covered in leaves and twigs as if it had been spat out of the forest itself. It shrieked wildly like a bobcat, launching itself towards Jon with a speed that he had seldom seen in his [i]horse[/i]. By the time Jon raised the two daggers he had stolen from his Harolds corpse, the flash of green had already made a large hole in his neck, and had leapt off the caravan into the woods on the other side of the path. Jon dropped his daggers and grabbed at his throat, gurgling and spitting as he dropped to one knee, and then to the other, rolling off of the wagon's seat onto the ground.

One of the younger bandits who had originally meant to help move the tree began to panic, sprinting into the forest in an attempt to escape, crying in terror.

"It's the mutants! The [i]mutants[/i]!" He shouted back at the group. Within moments, his cried and thunderous footsteps were cut short with a loud thud. The remaining five men had formed a circle between the two unmanned wagons with their fifth member loading a rifle as quickly as he could, while the four held their swords out with white-knuckled grips.

If the silence of the forest was unsettling before, it was now [i]terrifying[/i].

The collective breathing of the group was broken only by two things; The sound of their rifleman frantically cramming powder into the barrel of his gun, and the whimpering of what was now their youngest member.

"What're you on about, lad?" A bearded bandit asked, looking at the sniveling blonde young man to his right. The young man was unable to stop from whimpering, and only nodded towards a section of the forest, pointing his sword weakly. "Lars."

The older bandit's eyes darted towards where he had pointed, filling him with a sense of dread. Hidden in the trees, their companion who had ran off into the woods was hung upside-down by his ankles, with his throat slit. His blood-soaked face was twisted into a permanent state of anguish, with his eyes and mouth wide open in terror. He swayed gently in the breeze, causing the branch he was held on to creak softly back and forth. The bearded bandit dropped his sword, and began sprinting towards the corpse of his comrade. "[i]Lars[/i]!" He cried out, reaching for a dagger at his belt to cut him loose. The others shouted out for him to stop, but it was too late. Before he could reach the path's stony border, three arrows in rapid succession pierced his chest, sending him collapsing to his knees.

Four men were left. The rifleman stood up from his crouched stance, finally ready to fire at his target, if they could only [i]find[/i] him.

The youngest bandit began to weep, holding his sword up as if it weighed more than himself. "Show yourself, coward! Enough of your hiding!" He gritted his teeth in anger, rolling his shoulders as if to warm up for a duel. His opponent's response was swift and uncertain -- two arrows were launched at him, one through his shoulder and one through his neck. He fell instantly, grabbing at his neck with his uninjured arm, clawing at the arrow lodged firmly above his Adam's Apple. The rifleman fired at where the arrows had come from, though his shot rang out without the sound of any impact. Too quickly for him to begin reloading, the flash of green flew out of the trees again. This time, they were certain as to what it was.

It was a ranger.

He sprinted towards the three, with nothing more than a dagger in hand. The first of the bandits swung at him with a broadsword, intent on cleaving him in two. He was too slow, and as the sword reached the peak of its arc, the ranger delivered a swift kick to his unguarded kneecap, bending his leg backwards at an unnatural angle, before sweeping him off of his feet with another kick. Before the second swordsman could swing, the ranger sprang upwards, burying the dagger in the mans heart.

There were three men still living. The swordsman on the floor, gasping wordlessly at his leg, the rifleman who had now raised his hands in surrender, and the ranger.

"Please sir, mercy, I beg of you." The rifleman's face was riddled in brutish scars, with a bald head and strong, meaty features on his face. He was not a man who normally begged.

The ranger stared at him for a moment silently with a face that lacked any sort of true emotion. The wind began to howl, as if to respond.

The ranger pulled the longbow from his back, plucking an arrow from his quiver in one fluid motion. Within a second, he had fired an arrow through the man's skull, leaving only him and the crippled bandit, as his last companion fell to the floor, momentarily raising a small cloud of dust. The ranger looked at the bandit on the floor who stared back at him, whimpering in terror at his awaited execution. The ranger kicked the bandit's sword away by the hilt, and grabbed the bandit by the cuff of his leather tunic, throwing him onto one of the horses with a grunt. He stared at him for a moment wordlessly, for there was little he needed to say. The bandit knew what he had been spared for. As a warning to the [i]others[/i]. The ranger slapped the mare's flank, causing it to take off galloping.

The ranger watched the lame bandit and his horse until they were out of the line of sight, before turning back to collect his arrows. It would solve little to try to return the gold they had stolen, and it was getting late. He would leave what he had left, save for any arrows or rations he might find, for the forest to take.

Such was the way of rangers.