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Season: Early Fall/Late Summer
Time Of Day: 7:52am
Weather: Slightly overcast but still sunny
General Ambiance: The town of Stockton seems to be rather cheerful, many people preparing for the festivities of the Elvish festival celebrating the arrival of Fall and ending of the Cycle of Birth.
Location: Stockton
Setting: Stockton is a large town heavily influenced by the Elvish heritage many of the inhabitants have as well as the proximity to the mostly Elvish lands to the west. Much of the town is built from simple yet hardy wood, so much so that it seems more like a part of a forest than a large city built by humans and Elves alike. Trees line many streets and some even grow as centerpieces of entire houses. People are lively even though the threat of monsters is still in the air.

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”Ack, this town smells too much of musty wood and rain to me. I don’t know how ye humans can live like this. The stone tis better, though cold, and never rots. Me family would think I’ve gone crazy if they saw me living in a place like this, said the stout dwarf sitting astride on his pony, an amusing sight for sure for anybody who was paying attention. Darathor had been out of his home for so long that he yearned for the stone itself yet he couldn’t deny that his adventures with his current companion was not full of interesting stories and events. A town like Stockton was nothing new to him, many of the towns west of Julas Fort and Tommen Hold were like it. They were a mixture of ethnic backgrounds, humans and elves contributing to the design of the city. He had even been to Certruri Cerce and which seemed more like the Orcish holds from Cour-Rath and Southern Aurelion.

”Ha, if cold stone and the smell of fungus is your fancy then I’m sure you must love the smell of the cave Master Dwarf. Your kind have always bewildered me. I don’t see how you dwarves think that the night sky is not beautiful or the feeling of rain wonderful. Perhaps ye should’ve just stayed underground. Or, on the off chance, should’ve chose another profession than being a Scribe at least,” answered Darathor’s companion, a large man wearing the armor of the Vigliants yet with a wide smile on his face. Unlike his companion, Sir Gormun loved the towns he had been too. The people were lively, living not in fear like others he had seen. They trusted him, knew of his actions as a warrior and leader, and even celebrated his captaincy years back. Yet, not everything was nice and happy in the towns. Some saw the Vigilants as leeches, sucking blood out of people who had already been drained dry. They were the Vigilants who used the monsters as a chance to earn coin, the Vigilants Gormun could do nothing to get rid of yet had created his company of soldiers into a force for good and not for coin. He accepted only small amounts of food and drink as payment, some coin in its place as provisions were needed to be bought occasionally.

Darathor grumbled at his companion's response, looking away and at the people who lined the streets. ”Whatever ye say you crazy man. I just want our business to be over here till we return to Tommen Hold or even Hightower. I wish for new from my family on the birth of me cousin!”

Gormun’s sigh was enough of an answer for Darathor to know that there was little chance that they’d leave anytime soon. ”If it were that simple, we’d be on our way home by now. But you know as well as I do that we have to be here till the festival is over. So many people in such a small space, it is impossible to keep them all safe with simply the guards allotted to the town normally. We need to protect them from the monsters drawn this way by their weird migrations. I don’t even understand what the Elves were talking about when they hired us to do this job, but we will do it as well as we can. It is our duty to the people.” Gormun’s small speech, as Darathor had come to refer to it in his time with the man, had always seemed to inspire the dwarf. More so than the idea that the story of a bunch of soldiers fighting off monsters attacking a town of merry would be an amusing one. Gormun was right though the man didn’t understand what the Elves meant, that was what Darathor was for. It seemed to the dwarf that the monsters were naturally drawn west and south once Fall begins for those seem to be the warmer lands. The monsters acted very much like normal creatures and followed these patterns but some had none at all, preferring to go wherever they wanted with no goal at all.

”Well, ye’ve got me on board boyo. For the time being though, I think we should see about getting some help. Yer commander didn’t give you much for such and important mission. Only fifty men? I swear that man has it out fer ya.”

”That he very well may Master Dwarf. We’ll see if we can get some mercenaries to help I guess,” sighed the Knight. He certainly was facing a difficult mission ahead of him to protect the town from monsters if he only was going to do as such with fifty men.

A pleasant sensation, a distracting one, warmed the worn face of a traveler in the way it always did at this hour with its rays. The morning sun was a blessing, gentle enough to caress rather than oppress as it did in other places - summer or not. It now found itself above the boughs of the forest flanked road, illuminating much if not all of it and draping the rest in soft shadows which swayed at most in the breeze. For many days prior it had done this just as well, year after year beyond number or even recollection and well before the path here existed surely, but for the past few weeks and months it also revealed the aforementioned wanderer. She had avoided the open throughout its majority, seeing it only sparsely through the branches above but not without reason.

Whereas most men could walk freely in the day without fear, rather greater safety in doing so, her odd figure could not. It was only now as she drew closer yet to the mingled town of men and elves did she have no other option but to set down the road in plain view; concealing herself would only arouse worries if she were discovered, ones that often met in violence if panic was not preceding and prevailing. So she endured the end of her travel on the dry earthen road before her, distancing herself from her concerns of being so vulnerable by musing on the sky above her.

Even with one pallid eye marred by a wicked scar that drew from brow to cheek, she admired it and the openness of it all before her, letting it lull her into a sense of better memories.

But those did not last, not as she drew ever closer and ever nearer. The seriousness of her nature and her concerns played themselves out as her jowls curved from subtle contentment to disciplined calm. It returned to her, this levelheadedness, when she saw the outskirts before her unfolding; houses built along the path with some among the trees and fields and others right beside the road. All the same, she moved onward and into the foreign land with the same pace her large feet carried her before, the dull glint of the sun upon her armored breast and the rest absorbed by the dark tatters of her faded robe and cloak.

A few folk, busying themselves in conversation beside a low fence, became quiet. A woman in humble tan threads pushed her child behind her and the man, once leaning against the fence, stared just as wide eyed as them both. He didn't move - almost as though he feared that if he so much as twitched the stranger who towered over him as she passed would cut him down where he stood. Others tending their fields or stock likewise slowed to various halts, with at the most hushed mutters and murmurs circulating. They were unpleasant words, some spoken in the common tongue, others in elven, but the former were far more critical than those latter. The wanderer paid them no heed in response, though in heart she felt their bite just as much as she had before; they were just as much daggers today as they were ten, twenty, if not thirty or more years ago.

It took her time, with onlookers still staring the entire way, to reach the gates of the city. While manned by mostly various elf blooded guard, the men on post before her rose to their feet at what they saw coming toward them upon the road. Many tipped their helmets or cupped their hands to their brow; what thing was so bold as to walk into the city and just what was it exactly? Of all of them to react however, the youngest and most inexperienced man did. He was a boy playing soldier, perhaps just old enough to have found his way into the guard on good favor or debts he or family owed, either way he raised his weapon and challenged the tall, strange woman. Rushing closer as he did, spear at the ready, he raised the point but perhaps a few feet from her; his cohorts hesitated behind him, unsure if he was doomed or if he would actually stop her.

And stop she did.

He glanced unsteadily from shoulder to shoulder, realizing he was alone despite his mustered demand to know who she was and what business she had; "You, thing, who - who are you and w-what is your business?"

The other few men fell in, keeping their weapons low at the ready, attempting not to escalate matters any further but unsure just what it was they were looking at let alone dealing with. She was this odd melding of woman and terrible beast of prey, with a tawny fur to her, strong limbs and injuries of old; unsightly, so they felt, but unnerved all the same. Not quite a monster as they expected or had heard, but not at all what they were prepared to meet on this day at their gate.

She moved carefully the left hand to remove her hood, revealing her ferine muzzle in its fullest. They stared at one another in brief, man and beast, observing the cold lifelessness of one wounded eye and the vibrant gold of the other that punctuated her features. The threatening spear shook a little, but shivered more when her low, rumbling voice spoke with near regal authority.

"I am Sakaala and my business is work."

@Mag Lev

Shiiiiiing~

The whetstone was brought across the already-oiled axeblade, making the room ring with noise. Feeling the edge, Eirik, unsatisfied, brought the whetstone across again.

Shiiiiiing~

Eirik had a certain affinity for weapons and tools. They were reliable, if you treated them right. Unlike people.

Shiiiiiing~

Finished sharpening the axe, Eirik wiped the blade clean of oil, and set it down on the bed beside him. Gathering his cleaning kit, he carefully packed it in a small satchel, making sure each item was in its place. Putting it on the floor, leaning against the bedpost, Eirik stood from his spot on the bed, and popped his back, by twisting his upper body. Reaching down to his toes, Eirik began stretching, getting ready for the day. The sun was barely above the horizon, and a cool breeze was blowing past his open window, the last vestiges of night getting swept away by the warm breeze of morning.

Dressing in a loose cotton tunic and leather breeches, he pulled his boots on, and opening the door to his room, locked it behind him, ready for his morning training regimen. Walking into the courtyard of the hostel, Eirik passed a group of Vigilants who were headed to their rooms to sleep, night shift finished. Performing one last stretch of the legs, Eirik jogged down the road to the gates, intending to run around the town several times to wake himself up.

Passing several yawning guardsmen who had just gotten onto the morning shift, passed them, giving them a start, but they settled down as soon as they saw who it was. He had been a regular appearance around the city gates, where he was generally posted when he was on guard duty, and he passed through every day for his morning run.

Feet pounding the packed dirt between the trees, Eirik ran through a path that circled Stockton. He was careful to keep to the path, and stay within view of the town, for there were few good things in the woods to begin with, especially now, in the current era. The forest luckily shaded him from the sun, which, this far south, meant that it wasn't overly warm during his run. And he liked it that way. Getting into a circular rhythm of breathing and running, Eirik focused on the ground in front of him, exercise taking up all his concentration.



He was on his fifth lap around the town, coming back around towards the gates, when he saw something strange. A crowd of guards had gathered around the gate blocking his reentry. The crowd in question had their weapons at the ready, pointing at some Beastlike creatures. However, the creatures did not appear to be hostile, and Eirik assumed that they would only attack in their own defense. That course of action would more than likely leave most of the guards lying on their backs and quite sore, covered in bruises.

Slowing to a walk, Eirik arrived just in time to hear the back end of the cat-woman's greeting. He was the only Vigilant present, the gate guards were all frightened town militia. Work? Unless this Beastwoman was a craftsman here for the festival, and arriving late, then the only possible work one might find in this backwater town for such a being would be with the Vigilants. He didn't particularly feel like intervening, as the whole business had nothing to do with him, but the militia was blocking the gates, and, well, he was paid to keep the peace in the town. A fight that broke out while he was nearby would technically be his responsibility, he supposed. At least, Sir Gormun and that Dwarven scribe, Darathor would hold him accountable.

Walking towards the debacle, Eirik left the woods for the clearing around the road, and striding steadily, with a impassive look on his face, he stood to the side. As he approached, the guards took note of him, and they became visibly less nervous, and stood straighter, staring at the beastmen with still-visible trepidation, but that trepidation was backed by steel. Eirik was quite popular among the gate guards, due to his post, regular appearance, and visible strength. However, Eirik didn't care about their adoration, which led to even more. Apparently, stoic, strong men were seen as exemplars to the novice soldiers of the town militia. Whatever.

Sizing up the catwoman and the dragon-man without fear, steely gaze sweeping up and down their strangely human frames, Eirik spoke, thick Havarthi accent giving his voice a slight growl. "Ah doubt ther'll be one if ye keep yer nose clean, Dragon-Man. And yer here fer work, Cat? Ah'm a Vigilant, and Ah assume taht' one o' yer kind ain't 'ere to spin th' pottery wheel 'r sell taps'tries. Ah kin take ya to th' Cap'n of tha 3rd Platoon, Sir Gormn', if thas' who yer lookin' fer." Staring into the cat-woman and dragon-man's eyes, he said, "Othr'wise, ye be'rr keep yer noses clean while yer 'ere. Town's under the protection o' th' Vigilants."

She made no effort to disallow the scaled one's interruption, neither quite welcoming it nor unthankful for the distraction. The attention for the time being had been less upon her and now on the other. By some means, maybe nothing more than sheer luck, the young men that made up the majority of the town's seeming guard at this gate stayed their weapons; the older men were wise enough to stand back, as ready as they might think themselves to be with two strange arrivals. She knew they had no interest in an actual fight, but they were not about to outright tell her let alone any other that. They were obligated to make some form of effort and await someone who knew what specifically to do, which in time proved about as accurate as the keen mind of the aging woman thought.

"No, there had been no problem." She replied with a narrowed brow, observing how the throaty man unslung his weapon from his person.

Pondering if he was quite aware of what it was she meant, there seemed to come a more pressing matter as the guardsmen became more postured and disciplined in arms. Sakaala however, did not move - she had no need to - even with the unnatural idleness of one of her limbs. She could hear another man's approach just as she had the great footsteps of the dragon-blooded prior, but these were not nearly the same. In truth, she was unsure what the sound had been at first - the dragon's arrival - let alone the presence of it; she had heard of such creatures, but seeing one was unusual.

This was different yet familiar, a level of predictability that came with years of being around men.

A robust man who appeared nothing akin to the others came to confront them both, looking the two over with a forwardness that the former ranger could feel as nothing but prideful and arrogant. The accent of his words perhaps stronger than he was, he called himself a "Vigilant" and appeared to hold some sway over these men - many of whom eased their weapons' threats. They seemed to support him, or at least had the confidence to act it, but she reasoned it was legitimate.

She stared down and back with a hardened set of eyes, "I have no quarrel with the people of your town, but you and others would do well to not call me 'cat', Vigilant."

"Short of this, you are correct. Indeed I am looking for such a man and those who follow him."

The calmness in the intensity of her words betrayed a personal investment in the matters of the Vigilants, one the beastwoman appeared strangely educated upon. It was clear she had business with them, perhaps long ago or quite old by the looks of her herself, but that she came here and now only called up greater inquiry. Just who was she and why did she fancy herself in a position to confront them? It undoubtedly was not by sword - she could kill any number of men, but they'd no doubt overwhelm her - not by quill either, words maybe? What words could a monstrous thing have of any value?

@Mag Lev@dragonmancer@Athinar

The swift padding of booted feet, the small clinking of what little metal the messenger wore as well, were the first things that Gormun heard of the approach of another man. Despite the crowd around him and Master Darathor, he could hear that sound clearly from the distance. He pushed through the crowd and towards the lanky man who stopped before him, breathing heavily from the run before he could speak. The poor man was disheveled and unkempt, quite like many of the men of the Vigilants nowadays as their rations grew smaller, their armor was less maintained and the battles with beasts and bandits alike more prominent as a part of their day to day duties.

”Sire, there is a weird… beast creature at the gates. It walks on its two legs and talks our tongue as well. It looks like some kind of giant mountain lion and this other beasty quite like a lizard came along as well sire.” The frantic man’s speech betrayed little of how the situation had gone thus far but it seemed dire if they sent straight for Gormun. What little the man knew of the situation was enough to warrant his presence.

”Do not call me Sire, Hormund, you know my name and thus you use it. Now then, let us go see this situation. Shall you come with us Master Dwarf? I assume you’d be interested in both of these beasts that my young friend here is talking about,” said Gormun as he hopped up onto his horse and looked back at the dwarf whom was already mounting his own pony. The pair rode off towards the gates to the town, their intent to greet the two beasts whom had arrived at such an odd time.

On the other side of town though, the gates were wide open as a flood of men and women came in. Many were elves and Humans yet one stood out among them, one strange Orcish female. Her eyes were alight with delight, the amazing sight of the city of Stockton during its famous festival of the Fall was certainly a sight to see for her. Though, it didn’t bring the mystic feeling to her heart the her home city of Klosterous did when they hosted their festival. But it wasn’t the feeling of the festival that brought joy to her heart, rather, it was the sight of such thronging hordes of people who had lived together as a whole and protected each other which brought to her the mixture of joy and fear.

---

Though hidden well within the deep pine woods, still the camp was cautious; even in daylight could the smoke of a fire be spotted. Thus their commander had ordered that they hang sheets and nets and boughs over them, dispersing the smoke. He had had them march single-file into their hiding place, too, hiding their numbers thereby. Speaking at any louder volume than a hushed whisper was strictly forbidden.

"We cannot wait another day," he had said, leaving it at that, even when his soldiers challenged him to debate the point. He did not repeat himself. His word was law, although he had placed his hand casually on his sword's pommel just for punctuation. That is how it was decided that the White Worms would enter the woods at high noon, send forth their scout in broad daylight, and attack that night: we cannot wait another day. Waiting for nightfall to scout, and then the next night to actually attack, wasted time; and wasted time wasted supplies, from food to ale to patience.

But patience he possessed in abundance, that orc. At the fringe of the camp he waited, squatting atop a small boulder, peering with vicious beady eyes in the direction of the town, between the trees where his reconnaissance would come scurrying. It was a long trek, especially for such a short-legged creature as this scout to endure, but because the forest's undergrowth had bloomed wild and shaggy, and because the dry, dead firewood on the floor had not been scavenged, Gûshruk knew that the chances of being spotted by a hunting party were slimmer. The villagers were not wandering this far out for their firewood and game; uneducated and perhaps stupid, but Gûshruk was far from blind. He noticed these things quickly and naturally about this hostile world he inhabited.

Notice. He would hear the goblin before he saw it, especially in those drab rags it wore, and with the earthy tones of its slick, filmy skin. Hopefully the same could be said of the villagers.

The wayward huntress' lips neither curled into a smug smile at the silence nor did they show much of any reaction at all, her tongue clearly held in the quiet. The keenness of her good eye swept from the larger man to his seeming cohorts then back, lingering on the draconic being for an unsettlingly added moment. The men shifted slightly in discomfort, easing their weapons and withdrawing them wholly but at a slow, unsure pace.

"Thank you," At last her brutal figure reacted, the touch of what could only be a "smile" at the edge of her lips, "I will take it then that I am free to see this man."

"If you have need of me I am not difficult to find."

She blinked in a way almost surreal with calm; at no point did this thing play its hand. Whatever her game was, events like these were not new. With such a note hanging in the still undisturbed air, she walked between them - guardsmen parting to each side, instigating boy of a man included. They watched, puzzled, but then turned back their attention once more to their superior and the dragonkind. At a loss what to do, having seemingly let one of the "enemy" in with almost no challenge, they kept their focus away from him.

Sakaala, in the meanwhile, tread step by steady step into the town, but she did not get far before two men upon horseback intercepted her. One, a dwarf upon a steadfast pony and the other a man on an actual steed, hurried in across the earthy path. The three met, the crowds having wisely parted at the towering, animal figure in their midst and now the onset of falling, clattering hooves. The horses snorted and whined, uncomfortable at the mere sight of what seemed to be a her but obeying their masters as they had been so trained to.

The activity of the town, more than ever in light of the days to come, made things even more chaotic all as what appeared to be another confrontation was to arise...

@Mag Lev

Inside the little village were numerous smoke clouds. At first glance, the amount of smoke above town would make it appear as if it had been raided a few hours before and set ablaze. However, as little Gushrak got closer,he would find no charred ruins. The hunt had been good, and for the first time this year, the Thegn called for a feast. At first, this was to Utha's dismay, as this feast would make his job twice as difficult. The town already had problems sustaining itself on its own, ever since most of the outside trade had ended.

Eventually, Utha agreed with his Lord's decision. In times like this, morale was subpar, even in the quiet little town. Once upon a time traders would sell goods here, and stop for supplies themselves. Now it was a thing of the past, and the villagers had little heart left. For little Gushrak, he would go unnoticed as the wives prepared meals and the men and children played games.

Sir Gormun pet his horse lightly at the sight of the large cat being standing in front of him and Darathor. He had never seen anything like it before, both of beasts and man though he knew well enough that this world was full of unseen wonders. Credit was to be given where credit was due though as he didn’t quite believe that the messenger was truly bringing such news. His eyes wondered over what he believed was a female, though of what race he knew not. ”Master Dwarf, what do you make of this female? Do your books tell of any creature like her,” He said casually.

”I know not of any tiger which could talk and stand on two legs if that is what ye mean Gormun. Though many of my ancestors tell stories of many stranger things from the East and North alike but we know not if they are true.” Darathor seemed unsettled by the sight of the creature and shifted around on his pony. Whatever it was, it had been through more battles than even the dwarves of the Hanathor Clan had.

”Well, I see no danger here either way. What brings you to this peaceful town on this wonderful day?” The Knight’s small smile caused a mumble in the crowd gathered around them though some people wandered of, either with dismissive glares at Gormun and the beast or with quite mumblings of thanks for his presence.

Pride, among many other things, had been buried long ago in her heart. So it came as no bite to her vigilant ears when she received the welcome she did between the muttering of the worried townsfolk, the advance of the guard, and now indifferent talks about her identity. If anything the truth that they did not immediately rouse to arms was progress enough; she was not lying about her lack of intent to stir trouble into the mix. She had real work to be done, the sort not solved for her old heart by inviting men's fears and paranoia.

"I am seeking a man among a group of men." Her voice both noble and beastly, an air of command to it, "One who I have business with, whether he knows of it or not."

She paused to judge their demeanor, carry on when she seemed satisfied that they were wary but not too much that inklings of distrust or even loathing could wholly take root. In the breath between, she looked over them and their steeds both, being cautious of the events unfolding before her eyes, as sightless as one of the two was.

"I have been told he is known as 'Sir Gormun', a captain of those that call themselves the 'Vigilants'." The exchange playing before her as she spoke suggested that at least for the moment she was safe enough to continue her reply.

"And from what my ears tell me, that man would be you."

Sakaala's hands remained idle out of conscious decision not to spur the onlookers to action. One, feigned in part as it was, the other set to act on the slightest of triggers. A fight was always a dangerous ordeal that could erupt from an encounter like this and she had seen her fair share of business turn sour.

"So when I say that I call myself Sakaala and my business is work, I believe you better than most understand what it is that I mean."

All of her hideous appearance paled to how eloquent she carried herself and the words she shared. Either she was among the most sophisticated of monsters in the land, one well read and studied, or she had lived among men for some time. Mercenaries specifically, for no woman of any stock would dare be so bold as to wear steel and dusk armor while speaking about "business" and "work" the way she did. It perhaps seemed almost surreal to onlookers, many of whom had not assumed such things existed, let alone could talk.

@Mag Lev

---

Even through the nearsighted and blurry eyesight of his breed, the captain Orc knew that what scurried and skittered before him was neither man nor animal, but one of those detestable breeds lying between the two. He straightened his legs, stepping down from the boulder whereon he had squatted. Indeed, his goblin had returned, crawling along with filth crept up under its fingernails, and grease on its belly.

It knelt to him—not because he was particularly morbid and awe-striking as Orcs went—because it already was cultivated to be subservient, pitiful, cowardly, and to any noble creature which stood tall and proud, detestable. Its wide saucer-eyes and its long, bent nose and its huge wrinkled ears all were better-suited to dark and clammy places, drenched in shadows, where it could sneak and steal with all the better likelihood of skulking away intact thereafter. It sported gaunt, gangling limbs, but slithered nonetheless on its belly, which glistened, like the rest of it, with lanolin and all the grime which mingled with it as it was dragged along. And it wore its leathery rags with the same nonchalance as an emperor in velvet and sables.

"See? See?" said the goblin, clasping together its palms, interlocking its spindly digits. "Golgash has returned, master. He hasn't run away!" But Gûshruk's beady eyes watched, instead, the space behind Golgash, where the trees grew nearer and nearer and formed ahead a great brittle curtain. For he knew that the goblin, weak and obsequious, was clever only in the matter of its own survival, and that it easily may have been followed as its cowardice threw it back toward the safety of the camp.

Reared on human values within a human city, Gûshruk's instinct was to pity his Golgash terribly; nonetheless he knew to keep him in line, and appeal to the sensibilities of his race. Gûshruk beat Golgash, but rarely, and only because he knew that if he did not, he would be deserted and betrayed. He had learned quickly as a bandit king that so many of his lessers responded not to mercy, kindness, rhetoric or logic, but rather, simply, to guttural, visceral fears; the fears of pain and of death. So the Orc kept up his façade of being a wild and irreconcilable force of violent rage, satiated only by obedience and by loyalty.

"Good," he snarled. He began a slow, trodding march toward the camp, which the goblin took as his cue, predictably, to follow close behind. "Now tell me what we're up against."