“So you are leaving.” Brands voice was steady and unwavering, even when he asked his oldest son where he was going. Hara kept putting his stuff together, packing in earnest. “I have to. I am not well father. I need to seek out my past, in order to put it to rest.” He sighed. “Tell the others I’ll be back periodicly. They should all be old enough to handle it.” He almost collapses into sobs and heaving. But that would not do for the oldest son. Instead his fingers, blackened and forever miss colored by the cruelty of his own mother, gripped the table so hard he felt splinters around his fingers. His Fathers hand gripped his shoulder suddenly, not hard, but firm enough to steady him. There was no more words exchanged, a silent agreement hung in the air. He would leave, but he would come back. Maybe he’d return tomorrow or maybe in ten years. Hara left in the morning on a caravan north.



He had known the kings madness would one day embroil his father. He had travelled far and wide, and met both royalty and poor. And he had seen what men with power and money could do and he had seen first hand what desperation looked like. He stared at the former at that moment. His black blade glistened with the blood of a hedgeknight who had taken offence that a dirty half-drow drank at the same establishment as him. That violent and unhinged part of him had snapped at the chance. Without taking his eyes off his drink he had spoken up loud enough for the lordling to hear him.

“Would Sir wish to take his blade to me?” As he spoke a sinister smile crept across his lips at the thought of his own death. “Surely, you a trained knight could dispatch sucha foolish cretin as me without breaking a sweat.” He had hardly had the time to set the trap before the beligrent rich man had lept upon the chance. And now, only ten minutes later there he was, a dead man at his feet.

“You all saw this was a legitimate duel! I offered to make it only a first blood one!” He yelled out to the shocked onlookers. The lords retinue looked ready to attack him, to kill him on the spot. They had spears and swords. He could take them, they were just muscle. This “Lord” had only been a wealthy landowner. But none had made a move. He had lived his life by the sword, trying to find meaning in the thrill and pursuit of mastery. Trying to shape his dark and undeniable heritage into a thing he could control. But at the end of each duel, he had stared at the blades in his hand as ever darker clouds of doubt and self-loathing hung about his person. It was just as one of these duels had ended that the raven reached him. When one of his sisters raven had found him it had startled him. It carried with it a simple message. “Father.”



People all but tossed themselves out of the way as hooves thundered down the road. The ravenblack steed galloped as fast as its rider could drive it to. Don’t you fucking dare be dead. The errant thoughts belonged to Hara, a handsome if grim looking man who was currently making his way towards a place he had not seen in years: His home. He had ridden like this for the entire day now. Ever since a raven had arrived with the word of a brewing conflict that involved his father. He cursed everything. He could not lose his family, could not allow his father to be dead. Yet there was a hollowness to him he had not felt since his day as a sacrifice in the making.

When he heard the clamor of battle, he spurred on his horse faster. He rode like the wins of a unyielding storm. He was not sure who was fighting, but if he found kingsmen he would kill them all himself if he had to. His sabre slid out without a sound from his scabbard, the black steels glimmer was all the warning his enemies got. He rode into the confused and onset knights like fury personified.

“WHO?” One knight drew his blade but Hara had already unfastened and readied his crossbow. The bolt effortlessly punched through the helm of the Knight and put him down for good. The knights body slumping backwards off the horse and onto the blood slick road with a clatter of metal. His attention was drawn by one of the men-at-arms who was still on horseback. He was hurriedly trying to notch a bolt on his crossbow while eyeing someone Hara knew. Haras eyes widened at the sight of him. Last he had seen him, he had been but 10 years of age. Yet they had only one other half-blood among their kin. “Gray!” He yelled out as drove his dagger into the man-at-arms armpit and drove them both of the horses on to the ground, Fury overtook him as he lifted the dagger and drove it down again and again, blood flowing like the wine from a broken keg.

Around him more arrows found their targets. These overgrown, overconfident bullies had relied on their shiny armor and numbers so long they had forgotten about the basics. A Ranger never leaves his woods, not even if he is dead. He pulled gray up from the now dead man, noting the broken face those fists had left. He pushed his crossbow into the younger man’s hands along with a handful of bolts. “You’re wounded. Cover me. Oh and it is nice to see you Gray. You have grown into quite the man.”

He then launched himself back into the fray. Saber and Dagger gleaming as he set to avenge their father. “Blood cries for blood! Cut them down to the last man my brothers and sisters!” He parried one of the remaining knight’s sword as it came crushing in clumsy overhead swing and kicked the man away. Stalking him like a panther stalking its prey, the half-drow moved with deadly grace and confidence. The knight swung and he danced away, just of reach. The knight drew on the attack, swing his sword from his hips in attempt to cleave the seasoned duelist with to much for for him to parry. Hara barely blocked it but it threw him off his feet and sent rolling to the left away from the swing only to be met with a kick to the gun. He grunted and deflected another downward swing, driving his shoulder into the knight and catching him off guard. As the knight stumbled once Hara used the sable to keep his opponent on the retreat before moving in with a cats grace and shoving his dagger in between the front and back plate. The blade shoved deep in between two ribs as he stepped in close so they stared face to face. “I will kill your king myself, Knight”

@Naril @POOHEAD189 @Gunther @NickTrano @AirBender @HeySeuss @Noxious @Flagg @R31GN

The letter from Sachevia arrived on a crow, cawing Loden's name. Typical, Varrick thought, The witch never hurt for style. Varrick had a healthy distrust for the scheming and self-serving witches, and he considered Sachevia only marginally better. Still, in the war to come he knew they'd need all the help they could get. Even if he hated taking it.

With the location of Brand's corpse now known, Brand's children stormed through the forest at Ashira's heels to reach it. There were about thirty men in the caravan, and a few of them were knights. Varrick recognized the banners of Rike, Stonewood, and Burnes. Local houses, and not particularly powerful. Varrick knew the youngest of them - the squire, Daved Rike. In years past, Varrick had been taken on by House Rike as a hedge knight. The young man was a brat, but quick with a sword; probably close to taking his knighthood. Varrick knew who he would be killing.

After final preparations were made, and Loden offered his words of encouragement, the battle was joined. Varrick stood along with Masef and Beren, loosing arrows into the neat lines of troops. Bodkins pierced mail and sometimes plate, dropping men to the ground. In moments the calm caravan turned from an organized march to utter chaos, as men and horses scrambled for cover. Wordlessly, Varrick dropped the longbow and charged, drawing his unnamed blade and dropping the visor of his helmet as he did so.

There were few men between Varrick and his target, but he cut them down all the same. One died without even drawing his mace, an overhead swing splitting his skull to the bridge of his nose. Another swung and missed before losing an arm and then his guts. The last simply ran away, and Varrick let him go.

"Daved!" Varrick called as he reached the squire, causing him to whip around. He had been walking his horse, and had no time to remount before an arrow pierced its neck. "You're working for the king now."

The squire's smirk belied his pale face. "So what if I am? He's not the one who died begging for his life." He drew his sword and came to the ready. "Actually, that sounds a lot like your what old ranger friend did."

Varrick flourished his blade. "It's going to be fun killing you, Daved."

"Likewise," the squire shouted as he charged.

The first swing came quick, and Varrick caught it on the flat of his sword before it could connect with his throat. The squire tried to score a killing blow on his first strike. He was fast; he almost succeeded. The second and third blows weren't far behind, but the squire overextended himself and Varrick slammed his gauntleted fist into Daved's face, sending blood spurting from his nose. The squire disengaged.

One of the many men at arms chose that moment to come to his master's aid. Swinging a mace, he charged the knight. Varrick was ready for him, and sidestepped the blow before burying the point of his bastard sword in his chest. The man dropped to the ground like a rag doll, but not before sending a frustrating stream of blood to soak Varrick's sleeve. Not that the knight had a chance to complain; he had a squire to kill.

"It's a shame you're never going to see that knighthood, Daved," Varrick spat. He didn't give him a chance to respond, though, before beginning his own assault. Hammering with his blade, he gave the squire no chance to attack. He swung hard from the right and chipped the squire's sword, the vibration of the blow numbing his hand. Before the squire could respond, Varrick pushed forwards and pressed Daved's blade against his chest using his shoulder.

Daved looked confused for a moment, before Varrick sprung back and stomped the squire's left knee cap. Even if he still had the use of his leg, the pain would have been enough to make him drop. Varrick stood over his defeated opponent and raised his sword. "See? I told you it would be fun." He plunged the blade into Daved's neck, through the spine, and into the ground. It only took moments for the light to fade from his eyes.

Varrick retrieved his sword, and turned to face his next opponent. He saw a knight standing near a wagon, and was about to charge when he heard an unfamiliar voice cry out. "Blood cries for blood! Cut them down to the last man, my brothers and sisters!"

After a couple seconds, it came to him. Gods, Varrick thought, it's Hara. The half-Drow had always been a little overwrought, Varrick knew, and it seemed Brand's death hadn't taken that away from him. A battle cry, he thought, what is this? A story?

Even if the story book antics bothered Varrick, he couldn't fault what came after. Within a few strikes, there was a dagger straight through the knight's chest and out his back - through both plates. Varrick found himself impressed with the strength such a deed took. In the time he spent watching Hara fight, another pair of men at arms decided to make Varrick their target. Their numbers were growing thin, and as they charged him one of Ashira's arrows took one in the neck, dropping him permanently.

The other recoiled from his fallen friend, but kept charging. Varrick respected his bravery - even if that wouldn't stop him from killing the man. The man at arms was barely ten feet from closing with Varrick when another arrow took him in the chest. He nearly tripped, but held his footing. Varrick sighed, it must have been Loden this time. He stepped forward and with a single swing, separated the man's head from his shoulders.

Varrick looked around. The battle was won; the final few defenders were either surrendering or in the process of dying to one of Varrick's siblings. He wiped his nameless blade on one of the king's men's cloaks, and sheathed it.

@Naril @POOHEAD189 @Gunther @NickTrano @AirBender @HeySeuss @Noxious @Flagg @R31GN

Mid-nights tenebrosity seemed to expel the carriage from the road and into the King’s keep, collapsing any sort of reverie the passengers had found as they were greeted by the commotion of a bustling hold. The dark hour held little bearing as guards and servants alike seemed enthralled with their own droning motions, weaving in and out of the shadows.

_{The wicked are like the raging sea, that cannot rest,}
^{whose water fometh with the myre & grauel.}

Working beneath the mad King made the guards flinchy dogs, traipsing along a line of cruelty and fear and unsure which to provide the carriage and its occupants. They debated amongst themselves, casting leery glances towards the women, the carriage and finally the parchment that had been handed over. As the acceptance of her forged missive began to take hold their interest became minimal, exerting only enough effort to show Sachevia and her handmaiden to their newly acquired servants quarters and allowing the carriage and the remaining handmaiden to depart and succumb once again to the anonymity of darkness.

_{For the iniquity of his covetousness was I wroth, and smote him;}
^{I hid and was wroth; and he went on backsliding in the way of his heart.}

The forsaken pair were accustomed to rehoming amongst strangers and integrating themselves; such was a nomad's fancy. Rosealia, the unarguable favorite of Sachevia, had been glissading into homes for long enough that they fell into a subliminal routine moving about their shared room. Their outward appearances were amended to cater to their new stations with little pomp, while they quietly whispered about their new selves, solidifying their backstories. The excitement seemed to flutter within both of them, brushing notions of sleep to the wayside.

_{And so ye wicked have no peace, saieth my God.}

Dᴀʏs ʟᴀᴛᴇʀ...

Sleep continued to be elusive, conscious favoring a conspiratorial sojourn as candlelight quivered in decaying twilight and cast spectral shadows across the dull walls of servitude. The muddled ambience was furthered by a chaos of castoff garments and possessions that covered the cramped quarters as if it had been in their custody for months. The conspiracy of ravens had surely made themselves at home, at least three had tucked themselves in for the night amongst the belongings. Despite the eerie climate, the occupants seemed jovial. There was an air of comfort, a lightness, that wove between the two as they recollected the previous days progress in giggling whispers. Co-conspirators were the only friends of the wicked.

Incorporating themselves into the household was of little trouble. It was a few mere passes by the guards with busy hands before they no longer noticed the new additions. There are plenty of ways to make yourself useful and invisible, and the Sirens were sure to teach the girls the value of a chameleon soul. Rosealia had taken a job skinning the animals brought in by the hunters. Kitchens had access with shared responsibility which usually built easy camaraderie. She had little difficulty with the skinning and it gave her access to a myriad of individuals; many were volunteering to hunt for the kitchen as a means to escape the confines of the Mad King.

Tonight Alia spoke of a man in particular she’d been growing a familiarity with. He seemed to fancy her, though, Sachevia wasn’t surprised, Alia was groomed far beyond her believed station. Previously, the majority of his conversation had been grumblings about unsteady pay, but gossip came quickly with attraction, especially when goaded with ale and... other manipulations.

The young fighter turned hunter eventually let go an intriguing story of a name not entirely unfamiliar to the Sirens, Veredict Daigon. Alluring tales, almost hopeless. They seemed to mirror some of the gossip Sachevia had garnered. Daigon apparently had collections of varied “savage” races in a war band that devoured not only the bodies, but the souls of those they defeated. This Daigon could caress the shells of the dead with a gift from the cryptic pagan lord of the mountains and called upon spirits to speak. He may or may not be immortal, that part seemed debated. No witches of mention. He had departed recently searching for some Netherwood hell beast. The details were gory and mystical, and likely over embellished; Sachevia couldn’t help but smile as she took him in. She was betting on a conjurer.

Sachevia had not been idle either. The King had apparently taken a youthful mistress, mistress Magdaline. If there was anything Sachevia could pretend to relate to, it was the woes of a youthful harlot- it was an exaggerated stretch to put herself in the girls elegant yet ill fitting shoes. Insecurities were a favorite manipulation tool and they went hand in hand with being the mistress of a Mad King, that or madness. Either way, it was an in.

Manicured claws dropped some coins into the greedy, underpaid, and unquestioning fingers of newfound servant comrades and a surprising amount of doors and secrets fell open for. She found loyalty to the King, even within the castle, seemed to waver. It was almost disappointing the lack of influence it took to displace mistress Magdaline’s bathing nurse and slip into the position.

She lined the decorative walls with infused candles, scribing runes into the unseen bottoms. The scalding bathwater in the yawning tub was garnished with oils and flowers, disguising the quickly dissipating liquid that fell from her once again pierced fingertip. When the mistress began to rub across her slender neck the witch was there, fingers kneading into the girl’s shoulder blades. A tepid humming dissipated from her fingertips as her lips grew closer to the flushed earlobe and her influence drenched the girl in a hazy ease.

It wasn’t long before they were drinking wine and discussing the finer points of a man’s foolhardy nature. Sachevia continued to purr closely and trace her tingling fingertips at opportune times across the youthful girl’s skin. Truly, she prefered the company of women; the way into their trust was delicate, complicated, soothing, natural. Magdaline asked for Sachevia again the next night and their bond intensified, daily their secrets became more and more hushed.

She told the mistress about her home, a fictional one based in truth that’s roots were reinforced by cryptic whispers. A coastal port town not far to the west were her merchant family had raised her. Their wealth and reputation had landed her a place in the King’s Keep, but prior to that she had spent a good amount of time chatting with seamen and other visitors; the lie that would wrap about all the following lies.

It was during these hushed meetings that she heard more about this Daigon. The mistress seemed fearful of his influence over the King. Stories about magic seemed to bristle people, but could always be used to weave dissent. She poured another glass and repeated a legend of an old man she had met, and more importantly, his skills with talking to the dead. She assured the mistress it was true, but that these types were not to be trusted.

Each night as Rosealia and Sachevia found themselves in the room, her smile seemed to grow. Seeds had begun to flower. These talks would be her revenge, woven into falsehoods and half truths, enough of each to leave a balance and a fear. She used the rumors she had “collected living on the coast” to fuel her actual knowledge and slip into the mistress’ ear without drawing attention to her own magical inclinations.

Tonight she had told her about the cave, just enough to get her curious...or to get the King curious, for she was sure the mistress was passing off this knowledge as her own to the Mad King. She curled those plump lips and spoke sickly sweet lies to the mistress about the forbidden cave, full of knowledge for the taking, for those willing to take measured risks. Conjurers such as Daigon would likely keep the place a secret from the King in an attempt to control him, as people like that tend to do.

@Naril @POOHEAD189 @Gunther @NickTrano @AirBender @HeySeuss @Flagg @R31GN @The Survivor

Bodkins were good for penetrating armor but the best armor would deflect them. That was Masef's problem. The knight coming at him was exquisitely armored. Two arrows simply bounced off the plate, which was angled to deflect and thick enough to resist piercing.

The knight was on horseback and Masef had no doubt that the lance would be aimed well. If whoever paid for that knight's armor didn't invest in training him to use a lance, he would have been surprised. In any case, the next shot was a different sort of arrow, aimed lower. Blunt tipped, it would leave a bruise but wouldn't kill unless it was shot badly. Any animal, stung thus, would react, and it was the same with the horse. It was an old Sun Cities archer trick to preserve the horse while taking the rider off. The arrow hit, the horse reared and the knight clattered to the ground. This fellow got right back up and went for the hammer, a claw-headed thing designed to pierce armor or crack a skull, that was hanging by a strap off his belt. It bought Masef time, but this fellow seemed resolute. It was hard to tell what the expression was behind a wedged visor, but he got the impression the fellow was taking this seriously.'

"Ho! Brigand!" The man decided it was a direct challenge, and was coming for him with that hammer and a shield, with the shield up so that he could guard himself against the next arrow.

Not good. Masef didn't particularly like his odds with his axe against this one, and his other kin were otherwise engaged. He had a few tricks up his sleeve, glamours he could attempt. An arrow was nocked, but he knew he had to do something. He had to reach in and pull out from where he didn't want to pull. With a whisper of willpower, he drew and released, and the arrow streaked toward the gorget of the man. It landed like a lance of molten fire, piercing easily through shield and gorget alike. It sliced into the man's throat as he came for Masef with his weapon in hand, and it exited the back of his neck with a hellish glow. The knight crumpled while Masef heard the laughter ringing through his consciousness. The battle was forgotten momentarily as he wrestled with it. The power of Qazar didn't seem appreciably changed in that it took the usual momentary stifling to shut the old bastard up, but Masef knew he'd taken a step, however necessary it was to stay alive.

He'd pay later. There was still a fight on. He had to survive it. He was able to fall into the mode of using his bow rather than opening doors best left tightly shut. There were a couple more arrows fired, but his siblings were eager in their work and the fight was pretty well finished. He moved forward with his bow held loosely in hand, just in case something else came, but made a grab primarily for the reigns of the wagon that Brand's body rested upon. That seemed like the most important thing at this point. It gave him something to focus on besides the disquieted soul within, the one telling Qazar to shut up. Meanwhile, a part of him did glance down at the treasure and taxes, wondering what they might actually do with such a wealth. They did not intend to take Harold's taxes, but the fact was, they had decisions to make on what to do with such a bounty...

@Flagg@Naril@R31GN@Gunther@Airbender@POOHEAD189@NickTrano@Noxious

Razan stepped off the ramp from the wooden ship onto the rickety docks. Seagulls cawed and circled the ocean side hub and commerce that was Osten's port district. The young Half-Orc smiled and inhaled, breathing the first scent of Vendish air that he had in 8 years. He made his way towards the market, his long black cloak gently swaying with the ocean breeze. The sun was setting and he needed a drink. And a girl. He weaved through the crowds, ignoring the strange glances and odd stares. Orc weren't too common in Vendland but Osten got many Orc mercenaries. Still, not many ever went into the Port district, preferring more, lucrative docks with nobles and businessman. This was a district for fisherman and trinket merchants. The market was noisy, smelly, and potentially dangerous for one's wallet. So it was Razan's keen eye and alert senses that shot out to grip the arm of the pickpocket in an iron vice. He yanked the thief's arm around and sent him tumbling into the water, hearing a satisfying splash. He turned into an alleyway to reach the entrance of the Sailor's Gullet, an inn on the waterfront.

As Razan opened the rotting wooden door and entered, all conversation stopped suddenly. There was a pause as every eye in the inn sized him up, before music and cheer erupted again and the patrons turned their heads. He sauntered up to the bar and took a seat on the stool, his long cloak draping down, nearly touching the floor. The innkeeper, a thin, dark, and gaunt woman turned to him and said in a gruff voice "Breakfast, Board, Women, you want it, we got it." Razan took out a pouch of money and dumped a pile on the counter. "That's for dinner, breakfast, a room, and a girl. I also need to find out where to get a warhorse."



Razan had been riding fairly hard for the past two days, his warhorse charging on without complaint. He was getting close to Bosfyrd, the scenery changing to something familiar. And while he should have been filled with joy at being home, he was not. There were rumors from travelers he encountered on the road, that old Brand of Nightwood was dead, killed by the King in the recent revolution. Razan grimaced as he saw the little hamlet of Bosfyrd and pulled back on the reins as he trotted into town. The villagers looked slightly disgruntled, even more so when Razan trotted by. It was only when a booming voice shouted "Orc!" that he smiled. Robb Iron, the local smith and his mentor in completing his training as a smith himself. "Robb." he said in a deep voice, his accent pleasing to the ears. Robb Iron was a broad and big man, bald with a bushy brown beard and bright green eyes. "Boy, you sure have grown. Hey, I would love to talk with ya, catch up but I imagine you're here to help your brothers and sisters, huh?"

Razan's brown furrowed and he asked "What do you mean?". Robb's face fell and he said in a sympathetic voice "Oh, I thought you knew. Brand is dead and the king took his body from what I gather and your family is trying to get it back." He knew it. He expected it. But that still didn't stop him from feeling like he got hit with a ton of bricks. He sat on his horse silently for a moment, staring off at the nightwood before saying "Thank you, Robb. I will return later and we can...catch up." And before Robb could say a word, Razan dug his heels into his horse and rode off towards the forest he called home.

He heard the sounds of battle, echoing through the moss covered trees and spurred on his mount, his black cloak flowing in the wind. He was deep in the Nightwood, not too far from Brand's. As he approached he saw the last of what he assumed was the enemy fall and the victors began to mill and approach the caravan. He brought his horse to a halt and looked around, glancing over the bodies and looking at the faces of the people. A man, with a sword, armor and blazing red hair...That must be Varrick! He dismounted and quickly scanned over the faces of the others. Ashira, of course, he could recognize that elf anywhere. Masef and...Grey!? Wow, never could have imagined him with a beard. And Beren, Kiera, Loden! And... even Hara has returned. He smiled as his siblings approached him warily, realizing that he still had his hood up.

He threw it back and allowed himself a toothy grin, looking at their faces. Varrick had approached him first, obviously still worked up from the fight. Razan went up and grabbed his face, pressing his own forehead to Varrick's, an Orc greeting for family he had taught him before Razan left. He greeted the others, hugging Kiera and Ashira in a bear hug (Both at once) and using the Orc greetings with Loden and Beren as well. He clasped forearms with Masef, remembering he wasn't the sentimental type. He even greeted Grey with a forearm clasp, silently surveying the man he had become and finally turned to Hara and grinned, grabbing his face and bumping their foreheads together. "It's been a long time." he said as he looked at Hara's face.

Turning around to address the others, his smile slowly faded as he thought of Brand. "So he's really passed?"

@HeySeuss@Noxious@NickTrano@Hellis@Naril@Gunther@POOHEAD189@R31GN@AirBender

Loden nocked another arrow, pulled the bowstring back, aimed at a soldier dressed in studded leather and standing seemingly dazed in the kill zone. He was no one Loden knew, not a brother of the Nightwood. He let his arrow fly, true to its mark. He repeated the process at least a dozen times more, maybe more. Some arrows found their mark, killing or wounding his prey while others simply flew past to be lost in the wood behind. He would retrieve whatever arrows he could later, even if they were coated in the blood of his victims.

Curiosity did take him to consider the condition of his brothers in the kill zone. He watched their progress with some feelings of trepidation. He whispered a simple prayer hoping they would fare well in this maelstrom of flying missiles and flailing steel. He could not afford to lose another family member so soon after the loss of Brand.

Loden spied a well armored man-at-arms charging towards Varrick, who had recently dispatched a foe. He pulled back on his bowstring, aiming carefully down the shaft at this imposing threat to Varrick. He allowed the string to retract, hurtling the wooden shaft towards the charging man. It struck him in the chest. The man appeared to stumble, but did not fall. Varrick in turn stepped forward, separating his head from his shoulders with one slash of Varrick's sword. It was a clean cut with the severed head rolling onto the ground.

The battle may have lasted fewer than five minutes and appeared to be dying down. Loden stepped from his position behind a tree. He failed to see the close call Masef had recently survived, even though his brother stood only a few feet away. Apparently, he did get caught up in the moment, seeing only those events in his point of view.

Once the last of the King's men had hit the ground, Loden called out, "Is everyone all right? Is anyone injured?" He looked around and tried to count his brothers and sisters present in the ambush. But an interloper fell upon the group, distracting him.

This was no stranger, it was one of their brothers who he had not seen in many years. "Razan Ter!? is that you!?" Loden smiled and ran to his brother. They grabbed heads and bumped foreheads in the Orcish way. Loden never cared for real orcs, killing several in those years between leaving the Nightwood and today. But Razan Ter, was his brother, never considered as a real orc. This one was special, at least to him. He was his friend, confidant and brother. He would die for this man, who only looked like an orc.

"So he's really passed?" Razan Ter asked the question. It served to bring Loden back to reality. The joyous expression of a hasty reunion, rapidly replaced by the grim expression of sadness.

"Yes, my brother. Our father has passed," Loden looked at Razan Ter and then up at Masef inspecting the corpse. "Go take a look for yourself." He pointed at Masef, then turned toward Krayton Mott holding his right hand pressed over his left bicep.

Always ready to help anyone injured, Loden rushed to Krayton's side, "sit down!" he ordered.

Krayton sat upon a fallen timber. Loden eyed the laceration to the outside of Krayton's arm. "I will need to sew it up. You are cut pretty deep." He pulled his pack off his back and retrieved a needle and thread. After pushing the thread through the eye of the needle, he began to pierce the pointed end into Krayton's flesh. The larger man winced at the slight pain, but bore it bravely. Slowly, Loden worked his fingers back and forth in an attempt to close the wound. Once he was complete, he cut the string, returned the needle to his pack and retrieved a white powder. "This will reduce the pain and prevent the wound from festering," Loden attempted to calm him down knowing that if the wound began to fester it could go bad. "Let me know if this starts to smell liked old rotten cabbage." He finished it off by wrapping a strand of cloth around the wound, binding it tightly. But not too tightly as to cut the circulation off.

@Flagg@NickTrano@HeySeuss@R31GN@POOHEAD189@AirBender@Naril@Noxious@The Survivor@Hellis

In the shifting streams of sunlight that managed to break through the Nightwood's thick canopy, wolves and trolls and blood flies were feasting.

None bothered to flee at the sound of approaching hooves.

"For Jago's sake," growled Forrestor Thalmy, coming around a bend in the road into full view of the carnage. A bone snapped loudly in one of the trolls' jagged maws. Thigh bone. Horse. The monster looked up, single eye blinking blearily at the approaching column of riders, then snorted and went back to its grisly meal.

Daigon sighed and leaned back in his saddle. "Get rid of the corpse eaters," he said quietly to the men on either side of him.

Five mercs on horseback fanned out across the road. Two in the middle had crossbows, the three on the flanks spears. They loosed a few bolts at the nearest troll, sending it shuffling lazily into the woods. Another of the monsters charged the soldiers, a shrieking whirlwind of claws and teeth and brown, gnarled skin, but the Red Fangs were no rabble of drafted peasants. Any sellsword worth his salt could handle a wild troll.

A speartip through the neck, another through the chest, piercing the beast's main heart. A gurgling roar and a heavy thump and the monster was on the ground, bleeding out and whining.

"Carve it up," shouted Thalmy, "Good eating. Save me the liver!"

Daigon had swung down from his saddle already, approaching the upended wagon and ravaged bodies. The wolves had fled to the treeline, where they padded quietly in the shadows, watching their human counterparts with hungry eyes and bared, bloody teeth.

The bloodflies hung thick over the scene of the battle, swirling in twisting clouds and buzzing eddies.

Not much was left of the caravan guard or their horses. Daigon's eye caught a few arrow and sword wounds amid the bite marks and chewed fleshed and jagged points of exposed bone.

"Gold's gone, of course," he called back to Thalmy, who was helping the men skin the not-quite-dead troll.

"Of course," shouted the hulking mercenary, "Small wonder the King fled back to Caerwick, where I can't get my hands on 'im."

"Not yet," said Daigon quietly, and his eyes fell on a body half hidden by the wagon. Clad in the heavy plate of a knight. None of the carrion-beasts had touched it....nor the flies.

The sellsword captain kicked over the corpse with the toe of his boot. Part of the Knight's shield and gorget were misshapen, as though melted by heat. The body itself was pale and undecayed, blood vessels turned to black beneath pale skin, eyes open and staring and milky white.

Daigon sank to his haunches, studying the corpse. He put a gloved finger in the arrow(?) wound that had killed the knight. Dark ichor bubbled out.

The sellsword smiled.

He stood, and as he did so the flickering rays of sunlight shifting through the branches overhead seemed to slow, then almost freeze in place. The labors of Thalmy and his men hacking at the troll grew hazy and indistinct. The buzzing of the flies grew louder, as did the low growls of the wolves circling slowly in the woods.

Daigon said something that sounded almost like human speech, but wasn't quite. The woods darkened. The bloodflies swarmed into a single cloud, hanging in the air before Daigon. In the suddenly dim light, the swirling cloud of insects looked almost like a face.

"This one addresses us," said the swarm-skull, "This one knows the old tongue. The hidden speech."

"Lucky guess," said Daigon, still smiling, "Death and spent magic- I assumed one of your kind would be lurking here, feeding."

"The ancient laws of courtesy stand," said the swarm, "You who addressed us, make your wishes known."

"The killer of this man," Daigon said, pointing to the knight's corpse, "Find him."

"And in return?"

Daigon sighed, "Make your wishes known."

The swarm-face paused, as though considering something, then said: "In return we wish a secret."

"Your kind is odd," Daigon said, "in what you treasure."

"Indulge us, fleshling, and we will hunt this killer for you. This man who slays with dark spells."

"Very well, what kind of secret?"

"A secret shame. Shame is..." the swarm thing made an unspeakable sound, "delicious to us."

Now Daigon paused, thinking, lips pursed. He did not speak. He did not need to. A series of images flickered through his mind, offered to the hungry swarm.

A younger Daigon, thinner, gaunt, with a full head of stringy black hair and no mustache. He is standing at the door to a hut, somewhere in the northern mountains. There is a woman at the door in peasant garb. She was pretty once, before exhaustion and bitterness etched themselves into her features.

"Where is the boy?" young Daigon asks.

"You done nothin' by him, nothin' by me," said the woman with a cruel smile, "Off doin' whatever you do. Whisperin' with ghosts and fightin' other men's wars. Couldn't afford no child on my own."

"Gods and demons, woman," snarled Daigon, "That is my son."

The woman shrugged, "You didn't value 'im nothin'. Left me here alone, after you got what you wanted from me. So I did what I needed to do, to eat. Them southron slavers what come through these passes- they value young stock."

He kills the woman very suddenly, and with cruel magic. One second she's scowling at him, the next second her hair and clothes are on fire and she's screaming and laughing as her skin bubbles and melts.

"Exquisite," says the swarm in its toneless buzz.

"Glad you enjoyed it," says Daigon. He looks paler than before and slightly tired, but is otherwise composed, "Now go find my quarry and tell me where he hides, and how many are with him."

The swarm of flies exploded as the insects shot off in every direction. The day brightened, sunlight began flickering once more, and the ugly wet noises of Thalmy's troll-flaying resumed.

"You hear that just now?" called Thalmy.

"Hear what?" asked Daigon. He was still looking down at the corpse of the knight.

"Dunno, loud buzzing or something. Now its gone."

"Nope, didnt hear it," said Daigon, "Probably just these damn bloodflies."

Deep in the Nightwood...

The ruins of Woldin jutted out of the undergrowth here and there, moss-and-ivy covered. A column here, an arch there, and many tumbled stones. Masef was familiar with the place from his youth, but all of them were. Sunlight pierced the forest canopy, here and there, but it was a place in the shade and through the passage of time. Woldin had long since been picked clean of secrets, except for a few carvings one could study here and there, but it was also a place of nature and spirits.

It was also the place where Brand was being laid to rest, in among people like him. Druids, rangers, and other worthy folk. It was a place of peace. Few knew of the place to seek it out, and what once were rooms and buildings were converted over to catacombs for these people.

Qazar noted how thin the boundaries between this world and the spirit were, but otherwise was silenced. There were other things Masef was listening to with new ears, such as the almost-song on the wind, a language he could only partially decipher. In his childhood, these things came to him once in awhile, but less indecipherable was still indecipherable.

Usually, this place of serenity would be a place to linger, but here it felt like they had a sad duty to carry out, with Brand's body in tow. They'd buried the gold for later, figuring that was best hidden away if Bloody Harold had a good use for it, but they'd have to determine what could be done with it later. Lingering in this place was not, in Masef's mind, an option, but they had to spend some time to ensure that Brand was properly laid to rest. At the same time, it was hard to shake the feeling that Brand's body on that cart meant something, though Sachevia was vague and none of them had any idea as to what that purpose was. His instinct, and he listened to his a lot, was that there was a darker purpose than merely some display. A sense of unease flitted past him, but he wasn't sure where it came from. It was there, but he didn't have the means to decipher it.

Once the family was there, what was left of it anyway, Masef broke the silence; they had the coffin, lugged through the woods painstakingly, and they had the burial ground, "I think we need to burn his body. Whatever purpose they had for it, ashes scattered over Woldin would be hard to desecrate."

Brand would, hopefully, approve and understand. He'd be one with the land.

@Flagg@Naril@R31GN@Gunther@Airbender@POOHEAD189@NickTrano@Noxious@Hellis@The Survivor

Beren nodded with a sad smile to his siblings, and then began to collect bits of fallen wood and branches, along with whatever dried leaves he could. He worked quickly but silently, and before an hour was up, there was a small pyre with a relatively flat platform to lay a body on. His first breath after seeing his finished work was a bit shaky, for realization washed over him of what was about to happen, and what they were about to accept as a reality. He was glad he was a bit older now. Back when he was younger, he couldn't even function for weeks after his parents had passed. Now he was much more stoic, his inner passions staying within.

He carefully lay Brands body before the assorted group of ne'er do wells, adventurers, rangers, and adopted siblings. His body was cold to the touch, but he tried not to notice such a detail. He just did what he could to make him lay dignified, and then Beren stood back, gathering a torch that had been prepared previously. He looked to Grey, and he gave him a knowing nod. Both of them were the religious and idealistic ones of the group. But Beren was the more decisive, so he'd go first and let Grey speak as the funeral truly began. As he stood there before the body, torch in hand within the silent and misty glade, all eyes were on him.

It occurred to him at that moment, that despite his decisive nature...he didn't quite know what to say. All of these people, faces familiar yet somewhat foreign watching him and waiting for what? He shook his head in a subtle fashion. "I'm sorry I just...I had a thought." he said to them, his voice low yet smooth. "Even for an introvert like me, I'm sometimes amazed at the variety and energy of people. It's hard to imagine that we can all be so similar yet different, I think. Yet we are, and it's a testament to this man we all knew as a teacher, and perhaps even a father to have shaped us this way." His following silence filled the glade. "We all have different strengths and abilities, and passions. I think we'll all use ours to make this world a better place, and to set justice on those who murdered our teacher. I know that's what I shall do..." He took one step forward, and bowed before Brand's body. With a careful movement, he lowered the torch and let the flames lick the dried leaves until a small fire began to flicker and slowly spread. He dropped the torch, and gave a bow of respect to his teacher. "I don't want the last thing I say before him to be angry or violent so...I love you, Brand. Thank you for always being there for me and us, and for encouraging me, even if it was from afar. I wouldn't be who I am without you...and I'll miss you."
@HeySeuss@Flagg@Gunther@The Survivor@Noxious@Hellis@Naril@R31GN@AirBender@NickTrano