There's the slow rustle of brush as Tychus and your band march through the Belgo Steppe's tall grass. The sun is slowly starting to rise overhead. A fraction of your personal weariness flees, motivated by the sight of that bright, yellow light in the sky. In the distance, you can see wild horses graze, gnawing at the grass, while craggy outcrops in the landscape dominate the background. You've been traveling towards the crags for the past few hours in relative silence, only speaking when necessary lest you draw attention to yourself.

"We're almost there, lads." the husky and raspy voice of the elderly Tychus rings out.

The sun reveals the man in more detail than you'd seen previously. He stands at an average height with long, white hair and a bushy mustache. His eyes are a dark brown, and there's a certain crookedness to his nose. From the many scars decorating his face, you can tell he's seen plenty of action in his prime. Moreover, he's armed to the teeth. He carries a longsword in his calloused hands, a rapier at his side, and two long knives holstered on his back underneath his long, leather trench coat. He was definitely prepared for the worst.

Your not sure where this old man is taking you, but he's the only chance you have to get to freedom. He mentioned earlier that he would enlighten you once the group had reached his "safe haven". What this means to you, you have no idea. About a half a mile away from the outcrops, Tychus holds up a hand, stopping the group.

"Do you smell that?" he asks, suddenly taking audible whiffs of the air. To those of an ordinary sense of smell, there was only the sweet scent of lilacs and honeysuckle wafting through the air. To those with a more keen sense, there was a tinge of sulfur intermingling in the air. A growl emits from the old man and his dark eyes shift to the west. "Shit. We've got company." he mutters. He beckons you to start jogging.

A quarter mile left, you can make out the rocky landscape that lays before you. It's mostly barren with the exception of the occasional shrub. Before you can make it closer though, an intense smell of sulfur permeates the air and a guttural tone echoes out. "In the name of the Grand Marquess, drop your weapons and surrender!" To your left, a giant of man stands a few hundred feet away in a great suit of ebony armor. In his hands, he carries a gigantic mallet. You're left bewildered as to how you missed this man approaching.

"They sent these guys?! ...Shit!" Tychus swears loudly, readying his longsword. Apparently, he had not expected whoever these people were to be here. As soon as he says this, a gorgeous, white haired woman slinks out from the grass to your right. In one hand she holds an elegantly shaped blade, while the other grips a similarly ornate spear. She wears a white dress with little armor decorating her form.

"Of course. Did you think they would have sent rookies to defeat the legendary Shadow Reaver? Especially after what you did back at the prison camp? Tch. They're offering a million sovereigns for your head. Each one of them is worth an extra hundred thousand." the woman calls out, ice in her tone as she slowly approaches the group. It's evident these two are bounty hunters come to collect you or execute you.

"All of you, run towards the crags. These two are way above your skill right now. You'll find a passageway in there that will take you to where you'll find answers. I'll hold these guys off... Just don't die." Tychus orders you, frustration tinging his voice. At once, he charges the woman, sword pounding against her spear. As though conjured by magic, 4 exact duplicates of the old sword master rise from the shadows. 3 rush toward the overtly large knight, while the last one starts swinging wildly at the woman. Knowing you are no use right now, it's best you do what he asked.

The last few hours had felt like a dream.

Horace had imagined his escape from the camp more than a hundred times. While he lied on his back for the night and found a comfortable place to set his shackled wrists, he would stare upward and imagine the warden arriving to inform him he had been pardoned. Or perhaps a great earthquake would crack the walls and allow him to escape. Sometimes it turned out that the Archtemplar was not dead after all, he’d merely gotten stuck in the privy and was too ashamed to admit it.

Last night, he’d ended his day as he’d ended every other: dispirited and in pain. One of the guards—the female one who’d be fetching if she could stop scowling for a half minute—had pulled him aside to hand him his usual string of questioning. By now, Horace had given up telling them that he knew nothing. He just made untoward comments and gave bitter welcome to his new round of bruises.

Gods, he might have been able to stand it if he could remember something! DID he kill that bleeding bastard? He didn’t feel capable of murder, but perhaps that was hidden in his fogged memory as well.

But now, suddenly, none of that mattered. Instead of being executed, he found himself in tow behind a mysterious stranger. A man with the power to almost single handedly (or was it all him?) disable the slave camp and help him and the others escape. Horace should have been relieved, elated, but he found he was only numb. He would be grateful, perhaps, when he understood what was happening.

The amnesia was still gripping him, and just as before, he had no control over his situation. None. What fate was he walking to now? What would happen if he fled? Not that he had the energy for it. Not yet, anyway.

When the man spoke for the first time in a long quiet span, Horace lifted his head warily. All he could smell was the flowering plantlife, a scent that would from this day forward remind him of his freedom. If he wasn’t killed horrifically by tomorrow.

Horace’s attention gradually sharpened into alarm as the situation began to slide apparently out of the stranger’s control. He gritted his teeth when he noticed the armored knight, and not for the first time he felt Death’s icy presence looming behind him, readying her scythe. Horace nearly choked on his own breath when the woman appeared as well, armed for combat. She was easy on the eyes, but probably not on the torso, by the look of that spear.

A hundred and seventy pounds of uselessness, he clenched his hands into fists and waited for direction from the stranger. What else could he do?

“What—?!” Horace looked off into the crags, hesitating. Why was the stranger making it sound as if he’d have to find his answers alone? He could handle himself in a fight, couldn’t he? Would he catch up with them later? He had to. Either way, Horace couldn’t stand here in indecision. “Well… you neither, mate! I expect to see you again!”

With a glance to the other prisoners escaped from the camp, he began to jog offward. He wouldn’t run until he was sure the others would be coming with him.

“C’mon, do as ‘e says,” he beckoned. Whether they would choose to be his allies or not, Horace didn’t want to flee alone. “I assume the man knows what he’s doin’!”

It's never as clean or as easy as you hear in the stories, not that Dotazaic could actually remember any of the stories specifically at the moment. Prison break stories were always a popular source of entertainment at some of the less reputable taverns that he had been 'invited' to over the years, and there was a common issue with all of them: ending the tale with the escape cuts out all the truly hard bits. No story that Dotazaic had ever heard had mentioned the grueling hours of fleeing on foot, constantly looking over your shoulder in fear of the mounted soldiers who were no doubt out there looking for you, nor the constant paranoia that gripped your thoughts on that walk.

Could this have been staged to lower my guard? Was I broken out just so I could be punished further or subjected to a far crueler fate than the executioners axe? These thoughts and more occupied Dotazaic's thoughts as his body wearily followed the group of escapees through the grasslands behind their apparent savior.

Fortunately, before his paranoid and fatigued mind could convince him to do something immensely stupid like running off into the grasslands, his thoughts were interrupted by the man who called himself Tychus, who announced that they had company. Nowhere near tall enough to be able to see over the top of the rest of the group in front him in order to catch a glimpse of their adversaries, Dotazaic instead searched the ground for anything that could be used as a makeshift weapon. Finding nothing of any use to him, he quietly cursed to himself about how stupid he was not to have grabbed something from the prison camp on his way out. Anything at all would have been more useful than the grass and dirt that seemed to be the only things to hand. Then he caught sight of their opponents and all thoughts of fighting left him.

Off in the distance he could see an enormous plate-clad figure who was holding a warhammer which had a head the size of his entire torso; one hit from that thing would very definitely spell the end for him. However, the woman who slid from her hiding place in the grasses was the one who really caught his attention and got his heart properly racing with fear. She carried an air of casual lethality about her, but more than that, he got the feeling that even encumbered with weapons as she was, there was no way he could escape her alone. Even accounting for the height disparity, Dotazaic was confident in being able to out-sprint a being in full plate armor, but he felt there would be no escape from this woman.

Nonetheless, when he heard the urgency in Tychus' voice when he told them all to flee, he didn't stick around to question the order. He knew perfectly well how useless he would be in his current state; even if he had a weapon to hand he wasn't sure he'd know how to use it, let alone keep up with Tychus. All in all, he'd just be a hindrance here, and he had every mind to put as much distance between these bounty hunters and his scalp as he possibly could. Hearing the human escapee call back to the group, Dotazaic replied as he ran past him. The stilt was only jogging. Typical.

"You don't need to tell me, lad. Now put those legs to good use before you catch a spear to the torso..."

Reno's mind felt as though he'd been in a daze for the past few hours. His execution was nearing, and his bindings and chains as tight as ever, cutting into the flesh of his arms more than it had been for the past few weeks. Someone had helped him, among others, escape from the hell hole. Who it was, wasn't really on his mind, as he operated on instinct rather than cognitive thought. He hadn't spoken at all since they had escaped, he didn't know anyone here. He expected all of them to be killed by now.

Soon his mind started to clear, shaking off the extreme negativity that held it. Those thoughts lingered, but he felt more alive as they walked through the grasses. He didn't know where they were going, neither did he care. As long as he was out of there and free, he thought he'd be okay.

He observed the man that had saved them. His hair was white, much like Reno's. Probably because he's old. he chuckled inwardly.

When the man mentioned a smell, he sniffed the air. Although he didn't know what it was, it was an odd smell that lingered among the smell of flowers and grass. A familiar smell. But he didn't know where he knew it was from. The man beckoned them to start jogging, but Reno opted to take longer strides. No need to tire yourself before anything happens.

It wasn't long before they were ambushed by a giant knight. Reno had noticed that the smell was stronger than before, but he didn't think that such a huge man would escape his vision. The metal man shouted at them to drop their weapons, but Reno merely shrugged, his gesture hindered by his tight shackles. "No weapons here." He replied simply. The first thing he said since they had left was an 'astute' observation of his own equipment. Nice one.

A woman spoke from the right, his head instinctively turned to look at her. More people with white hair! He smirked, but this time she was young. Beautiful. He could appreciate the aesthetic of the blades, but he wasn't sure about the practicality. But this wasn't time for an analysis. Beautiful woman with sharp things. Big metal man with giant hammer. Bad situation? Yeah, maybe.

When the man told them to flee, Reno hesitated. He could feel a thrill course through him. He wanted to join in. He shook his head to regain some cognitive function, nodding slightly. "Alright. See ya later." And with that he sprinted off toward the crags, passing by everyone in a tunnel vision. He didn't bother looking back, for if he did, he might not be able to stop himself from trying to join. He didn't know why he felt this way, it wasn't like he had any combat capability. None that he knew of. Even if he did want to join, he couldn't.

She wasn't special. If she was special she's know it right? Granted, she didn't seem to know much these days. Who killed the beloved son? What her own name was. Things. She attempted to be stoic about everything, keeping her face impassive. Lately it was just exhausted. The escape had been a whirlwind and it hadn't stopped being so. She hadn't had a chance to sort through everything that happened yet. And currently she was stuck on why. Why she, among these other strangers, was freed. Why none of them spoke. Not that she could complain, she hadn't said much thus far either.

Was this what freedom felt like? She didn't know if she'd ever been free, she assumed she must have been at some point. This wasn't quite it. Not yet.

She was among those that didn't smell anything untoward. Nothing special.

And then all of Zeal's hard work on her stoic expression simply melted away. A giant of a man in armour that, for some reason, stabbed at her gut (was it longing?) seemed to appear out of no where. How had they not noticed him? How had they not noticed -her-? The elven woman's face finally showed something other than weariness. Fear, irritation, the desire to hit something. She, too, hesitated when told to run. Her gaze swept the ground, seeking a possible weapon. Nothing, damn.

Another of the prisoner's was beckoning. Zeal loosed a series of curses, mostly revolving around the genitalia of gods, and then took off, long legs carrying her hurriedly, adrenaline giving life to said limbs.

Memory of her crime had escaped her mind. Of course, memory of a lot of things had escaped her mind, including the details of her personal life and anything beyond the past week. The last thing she could remember was waking up a slave, being tortured and worked to near death every day. This experience had effectively suppressed her imagination or curiosity and Grinn had seemingly accepted her fate, awaiting execution with patience. It wasn't until the old stranger had freed them that her mind began to wander. Who was she? What did she do to deserve this? Why couldn't she remember when so much seemed to come as instinct?

Even with her newly found freedom, Grinn had little time to think all of this through. They had escaped but were still in danger, hiding their position from prying eyes and careful to avoid any and all potential enemies. Who ever these people were that Grinn had escaped with were connected to her and they were all wanted for something that had apparently earned them extreme hatred. For all she knew, there could be people waiting at every corner for them.

The group was suddenly stopped when a man in armor had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. What ever thoughts that were crossing Grinn's mind had slipped away as a surge of energy burst through her body. If she weren't more reserved, she would have already charged forward, unarmed and screaming, attacking the sudden threat. Grinn felt that if they were attacked, she wouldn't be able to help herself.

When another figure suddenly appeared, Grinn was aware of the developing situation. They had been hunted down by who had likely been bounty hunters. The man who had freed them from captivity beckoned for the escaped slaves to run. It felt as though every fiber of her being was fighting this command, nearly forcing her to join him. However, she pushed herself to run, following those who had already began making the sprint toward the crags.

Whether she would stick with these people or not was debatable but she knew that her best chances would be with them at this moment in time.

A cage. A stupid cage for two FULL weeks. The fairy fluttered angrily with a bunch of strangers remembering her horrendous time in the slave camp. She would've rather wanted to do labor work than be somebody's pet. Her body glowed brightly as sparkles came from under her wings. Her slave clothes disgusted her for some reason... they were not appealing at all. The little one did contemplate whether or not she murdered someone... something told her she wasn't the most lucky person and that it was highly possible... BUT that was simply her intuition. All the guards doubted she was capable of such crime. Being big-mean-jerks while she was behind bars. She hated small spaces. She hated THAT cage.

WHAT IF SHE DID KILL THIS REALLY IMPORTANT PERSON?! A fairy could be just as much of a murderer as a big, scary orc!

She looked at the female orc beside her and tilted her head. Out of all the others running, the orc was the most intimidating one, along with the old man but that was besides the point. Perhaps simply misunderstood. What if they all were misunderstood?

Huffing to herself for thinking too much, not liking how blank her mind felt, she focused on following their savior. The old man leading them seemed to have his fair share of battles. He was a top notch professional and he achieved a great feat by helping them escape! For now, she'd stay quiet and hope they would find a safe haven. The people accused for the same murder were all very strange... her insides told her that they weren't stupid enough to kill Mr. Lonefire, the son of the Grand Marquess. But who knows! In this moment, they were all murderers until proven innocent. Stupid system.

Her face saddened. That can't be true, right? She began hitting her head to remember things, "Think Noli! Think!" Until the party came to a full stop. Floating in the air by most of the heads of the group, she realized the old man was about to get in a brawl with an immensely large, giant of a man and a small, snowy-haired girl.

"They think they're tuff shots hmmm! Obviously , they're not good enough if they need to be together." She was ready to throw something at them, but only fairy dust seemed to come out... she was not very effective. The old man gave her glaring eyes and the fairy retreated behind the priest, "PROTECT ME HUMANNNNN." She decided to rest herself on his head.

Sitting on his head, she pointed in the direction the old man directed them to follow, "WE GO HUMAN!" She looked at the other party members, not really caring how they thought of her tiny self and said, "Lets get to steppin', you heard the Mister!".

She giggled in excitement, this was so much better than a cage, "We got exploring to do!"

This entire situation felt like a dream... no, a nightmare. Two weeks ago she woke up without any memory of who she was, or why she was being harassed by men clad in armor accusing her of some murder she had no recollection of. Thereafter she was dragged to a slave camp, tortured for what seemed like days on end, and forced to labor in their dirty mines. The brutes even left welts, bruises and cuts all over her body - they seemed to like her face when they felt particularly frustrated. "Let's mess up that pretty face of yours, doll." they'd say, "Then we'll see if you talk." They never believed a word she said, accusing her of working with several others who she also didn't know. Who was actually evil here? Them or her? Perhaps it really was her. Sometimes she wondered, as she lay in her cell staring at the cold stone walls before day break and the nightmare started all over again.

Either way, execution day came and the slavers still had no confession from her or the others they thought she was working with. At least it would have come had a mysterious figure not come to their rescue the night before. At that point Echo had been looking forward to her own death, as she felt so worn down and tired that it no longer mattered to her. Being free of the slave camp would be enough, even if it was in the after life. That and the fact that she had no idea who she was or her own purpose in life helped her make that quiet decision with herself. However, this mysterious man who called himself Tychus of Shattergarde had other plans for her life. Yet again, she had become another pawn in someone else's hands.

The man was insanely talented, she would give him that much. Somehow he managed to take out all of the guardsmen in the camp and free her and the others accused of Tancred Lonefire's murder. Whether or not he was by himself she wasn't sure, but he currently led her and this small group of misfits by himself. Initially she had asked questions after escaping; who was he? Why did he release them? Where was he taking them? Who were these people? Did he know who killed the Grand Marquess' son? It wasn't her, was it? To be fair, she had a lot of questions that he could not answer at that time. Tychus only told her that she would know in time, and she best keep quiet or risk revealing them all. Understanding, she remained quiet for the rest of the long journey, occasionally eyeing the rest of the group with her pale green eyes.

"Do you smell that?"

Her thoughts broke and she glanced up at Tychus. He smelt something? Was he part canine? All she smelt was lilacs, which she had realized earlier that she hated. At least, if anything, she knew that she hated lilac. Perhaps she should have told someone to write that on her grave stone, considering what was about to appear before her. "Here lies Echo Notaras. A person with great distaste for lilac."

Her own banter in her head quieted as Tychus motioned for the group to start jogging. She felt so exhausted that jogging seemed impossible. They hadn't even stopped once since escaping save a few seconds pause, how did he expect them to run? The rest looked just as run down as she did, perhaps more so. Nonetheless, she gathered all the energy she had left in her tiny body and did as he asked.

"In the name of the Grand Marquess, drop your weapons and surrender!"

Echo's heart dropped at the sudden voice booming through the valley. It felt familiar, but as she looked at the massive knight before them she could not bring a name to mind. Why did she have the feeling in the back of her mind that she knew this behemoth? There was no time to ponder on it, as Tychus quickly drew his sword. Just as rapidly a snake of a woman revealed herself from the grass. "How did we miss them?" She thought, baffled. "How long have they been following us?"

As the women approached, yelling at Tychus, Echo's heart began to race. She almost felt frozen in place, unsure of what to do. Was she supposed to roll over and be captured or not go without a fight? Which would be the worse option? Apparently, Tychus opted for the latter.

"All of you, run towards the crags. These two are way above your skill right now. You'll find a passageway in there that will take you to where you'll find answers. I'll hold these guys off... Just don't die."

She stared at the older man as he sprang forward and attacked the two, then glanced toward the rest of the group. They all began running as Tychus said, and Echo had the brief thought of running in the other direction. Perhaps running with them until the very end, slinking off by herself when no one was paying attention. She could escape on her own, couldn't she? Why did she need the rest of this group?

"Of course I need them. What good is a girl on her own who remembers nothing about herself?" She thought, realizing she would have no clue what the next step would be had she been able to disappear on her own. That, or those two hunters would notice and she would have been easily picked off when alone. Convinced, she began running toward the crags with the others.

Echo briefly glanced back at Tychus, witnessing several copies of himself fighting against the two rivals. Quite amazing, if you asked her. Who was this "Shadow Reaver" anyway?

As your group runs forth, mustering the strength to sprint across the last quarter of a mile, you hear the sounds of swordplay behind you. Tychus seems to be holding his own against these two assailants. In fact, if you dare to look behind you, you can see that he is actually beating them back. Perhaps they aren't as dangerous as they originally seemed?

He's able to hold the duo back long enough for you to get into the thicket of the rocky land in front of you. It's a winding maze of barren scaling cliffs and sharp crags. Fortunately, there is a clear yet narrow pathway for you to follow. The party keeps moving, eyes on the lookout for what Tychus was referring to. The path eventually runs out, ending in a narrow crevice that you shimmy through, but only one at a time. Looking through the darkness, you can't make anything out, but you do smell a lingering scent of fire, as if someone had been camping within this cave. The old man immediately comes to mind, and you can guess that this is probably where Tychus stayed before he came to free you all. He said that answers lay through here, but what could that possibly mean?



Suddenly, like a crack of thunder, you hear a howl of agony behind you. Tychus skims across the path that led you to the crevice, blasted by some foreign power to about 400 yards behind you. The man looks to be alive, but just barely. His right arm hangs from sinew, blood gushing out onto the soil. Pained, the elderly man looks at you all and waves you on with his intact arm, trying to say words but unable to speak.

"Ivory, after the prisoners. I'll finish off that pathetic man." the soft voice of the white haired woman boomed.

On command, the giant knight rushes onto the scene. Like a gigantic bull, he lowers a shoulder and appears to be aiming to dash you all against the cliff walls. Tychus can't respond fast enough to protect you all, and you have moments to shimmy as fast you can away from the knight. By the looks of it, if you manage to squeeze through and avoid him, he would be too large to get through the entrance.

If you manage to shoot a glance back in your rush, you see the female bounty hunter approach the struggling Tychus. He rises once more, his severed arm finally snapping from the sinew and falling to the ground. Nonetheless, he pulls out his last knife and lunges at the woman. As he strikes, some sort of sorcery envelops the elderly man, pushing out from his form before they vanish into a dark smog. Unable to see any more, you can only ponder on the old man's fate.

Horace couldn’t allow himself to run at full tilt until he was certain everyone was coming with him. Gods’ sake, no one else here but their benefactor was even human, but still he couldn’t stop himself from caring about the others. Whether they were orcish or elven or a strange, little pixie bug, they were bound by what they’d been through at that damned labor camp.

Without having the slightest clue to anyone’s nature in this colorful assembly, it was nearly impossible to predict what anyone was going to do. To his enormous relief, they seemed as willing to listen to the old man’s orders as he was. Confident that his escape was a matter of obedience, and not cowardice, Horace let go of his doubts and hesitation.

He had plenty of encouragement.

“Ow! What?!” The insect did speak, and it was making a nest in his hair. “Protect you? Who do you—ow, hey! You’re pulling my hair! I’m going!” Fairy, that’s what she was. Horace had read about them. Mischief makers, magical and rare. What had she been doing at the labor camp? “I don’t wanna die here, either!”

Bringing up the tail of the group, Horace tried very hard not to listen to the fighting behind him while he sprinted toward the rocks. The crags pushed closer together, and for a moment he feared a dead end, but the path seemed to continue through narrow walls. Horace leaned his head forward, looking around the others and becoming intrigued by the opening of the cave. The smell of cold smoke wafted from inside.

It must have been where the old man was taking them.

A deafening crack behind them shook him out of his fascination, and Horace glanced back to see the armored knight charged forward. Beyond them was the old man—on the ground, broken and bleeding. The only man who’d helped him in the past few weeks, the only one who could offer him any answers about any of this!

“Wait! Wait, you can’t!” The knight was closing in and Horace knew he had to get to safety, but panic and confusion froze him in place. “You can’t die!” Not yet! “Who are you? Who are any of you?!”

Dotazaic almost gasped with relief when he saw the cave entrance. The stint in the prison camp had done nothing to improve his already below average stamina for running, and just trying to keep up with the rest of the long-legged folk had left him sorely out of breath. Not to mention that the whole time there had been the constant sounds of steadily approaching conflict from behind them; a constant reminder of the lethal danger that the group was still in.

The crevice called to him, speaking of safety and comfort, and a last burst of energy brought him up to the cliff face to join the faster members of the group who had got there first. Seeing them all wasting time looking at the fight going on behind him, he snuck a glance over his shoulder, just in time to see Tychus get sent flying, with blood pouring out of an almost severed arm. He knew what that wound meant, particularly against foes such as these; their benefactor would almost certainly never see another dawn. Turning back to the crevice as their female aggressor gave orders to the knight, Dotazaic heard the human just behind him falter and begin panicking. He knew instinctively that if this man froze here in panic or fear, he would certainly die. Action needed to be taken, and he'd be damned if he'd leave this stupid stilt here to die.

Drowning out the human's ramblings, Dotazaic's powerful dwarven voice filled the canyon,

"ALL OF YOU. INTO THAT CREVICE. GO."

Turning back without waiting to see if they'd heard, he applied all his remaining energy to trying to drag the presently motionless human back towards the hole, shouting at him as he did so.

"NOT THE TIME, LAD. LIVE NOW, ASK QUESTIONS LATER."

Dotazaic just hoped they'd make it in time before their heavily armored friend rocked up. He really didn't want to have to leave this human to die, but if that's what it took to survive then he would not hesitate for even a moment. No stranger was worth giving up his life for, no matter who they had supposedly killed.

As he ran, it was quiet for a time, he could hear swordplay in the background, but he didn't want to look back. Looking back would mean that he would have to fight back the boiling feeling.

Reno felt some relief as they made it to the cave entrance, but that relief was dashed as he turned to see the old man landing near them, his injuries looking fatal. The half-elf furrowed his brow in frustration as he saw their assailants move toward them. He wanted to fight them, but he didn't know how. Deep within him he felt a familiar urge. A rage was boiling, but his fogged memories stopped him from realizing what it meant. "Are you fucking serious?" He muttered in disbelief as he looked over the old man's wounds from a distance. These two 'hunters' were ridiculously powerful, there was nothing any of them could do. Especially not Reno. His shackles were thick and tightly bound, as were his chains. Even if he knew how to fight, he couldn't anyway.

He clicked his tongue in disgust as he listened to the dwarf. He was right, they had to go no matter what. He followed the dwarf and the human into the hole. He jumped into it, fitting perfectly into the gap. He didn't know what was going to happen to the old man, but he felt that he should forget about him and keep moving forward.