“You called for me?” Fajar dropped to a knee and bowed his head as he spoke the words. He hated being summoned to the commander’s pavilion. Feared it. Feared the man, if one could call it that, that was in the pavilion.

“I did.” A voice answered, one that Fajar knew far better than he had ever wished. “You may rise.” Fajar hesitated for a moment before doing so.

“Is… Is now the time Lord Goscelin?” Fajar asked as he quickly took in the interior of the pavilion. It was mostly empty, save a large table dominated by a map of a continent he had never seen and an individual dressed in blackened armor.

“It is.” Goscelin said as he gestured for Fajar to approach the table. Drawing closer confirmed his suspicions that the continent was one unknown to him. The names of the countries on that map were not so foreign to him however. And how could they have been? Goscelin and the other Einherjar, the true Einherjar, had been obsessing about destroying the likes of Mycae, Riawin, and Eisen since before Fajar had ever even heard of the Einherjar. “Our attack starts soon” Goscelin stated, “and you shall be our spearhead.” Something about the way Goscelin said that last line caused Fajar to shiver.

“Will the Legions support me, Lord Goscelin?” Fajar asked.

“Of course. We wouldn’t dare miss out on the massacre.” Fajar had seen the Einherjar raze entire cities simply because they hadn’t surrendered fast enough. He had no doubt that Lord Goscelin was speaking literally.

“And what… is the plan?” Fajar asked after a moment.

“It all starts with the so-called ‘Fell Lands’” Goscelin began. “They will either bend their knee to us or flee in terror. Regardless of the decision they make, they will cause chaos in the northern regions of Mycae. And while the Mycaens are distracted in the north, you will lead our armies to strike them in the south.”

Fajar eyed the map for a moment before commenting “This Mycae looks like a great empire. Won’t we sustain serious casualties fighting them?”

“The strongest materials are also the most brittle.” Goscelin stated. “Kill or turn the Mycaen Lord Cornwalkis and the country will fall apart. Even now we are working to turn the nobility to our cause.” Goscelin paused for a moment before adding “You need not concern yourself with these matters Fajar. Leading the vanguard is your task.”

“I understand my lord.”

“Good. Now once Mycae has fallen we will move here” He traced a line from Mycae to a country called Cormyral. “If all goes according to plan Cormyral will already be at war with its neighbor, Riawin. Even if it is not, the outcome will be the same. We will break the Cormyrean hero known as the ‘Lioness’ and in doing so we will break the country. The entirety of the south will soon be thrown into chaos as all the remnants of the Riawin Empire fight each other. They will be easy pickings.”

“From there” Goscelin continued, “The west will be open for invasion. We will have to take care with Dakarragord. They know war better than others. I have great hopes in turning them, but should that fail killing their leader, Vaemaradosth Dakan, will spell their end. Great conquerors they may be, but in the end they are no different from any other group of barbarians.”

“What of the northern regions?” Fajar asked. “This Sakabanatu region and further north?”

“They are of no concern.” Goscelin stated. “The barbarians of Sakabanatu are disorganized and no threat. And those who dwell further north… They may be amongst the greatest warriors on the continent. We will leave them till the end or they will charge at us to their own doom. Either way it makes no difference.”

“When is it that we will use the fleet?” Fajar asked. “Would it not be easier to conquer the likes of Cormyral and Riawin if we struck from both land and sea?”

“The fleet” Goscelin’s tone caused the blood to drain from Fajar’s face, “is not something you need concern yourself with. It will be used in a time and place of my choosing. Not a moment before. Now go. Ready your troops. Soon we will strike.”

The hot desert sun burned savagely over the running boy. Clouds of sand shot out from under his sandaled feet with each kick, and his ragged breath sucked in the hot wind. Scarlet blood caked his face, hands and down his torn linen tunic, cut off at the knees. Each pounding step caused his heart to shake and lungs rebuke the hot sandy air. His legs burned and his ribs hurt, each thud of his sandals causing a piercing pain.

Above him the sky was a cool blue, cloudless and taunting. Looking up from the endless dunes the boy felt his mind longing for the sky to fall on him, and wash him away in it’s infinite blue. He let his crusty eyes close for a moment, sinking into thought as his legs pumped his ragged body on its doomed journey. He tried to imagine water, rest, but all he could gather was the feeling of his parched throat and cracked lips.

His ear jerked at the sound of a horse galloping. They had caught up to him, his heart hurt as it bounced against his chest. He didn’t want to look, he couldn’t. Looking up to the sky he pleaded, his lips whispering prayers. The horse whinnied and he was cut short in his tracks as the slim desert beast turned into his path.

Skidding he nearly crashed into the beast. Without the momentum of his run, his knees buckled and he collapsed to them. The sand sear his bare skin, but his body ached too greatly for him to noticed as his chin dipped downwards, his neck failing to look up.

“Brother,” a voice called to him, sandals falling from the horse and planting next to him. The boy turned to the legs sprouting from the sandals and let his forehead rest on the shin. The man who called out to him knelt down and grabbed the boy by the shoulders, shaking him gently, “brother!”

The boy felt his brothers arms snaked under his armpits. He felt his body leave the sand as he was picked up and placed on the horse. He laid sprawled out on the tiny horse. His brother worked quickly to secure him. Pressing his forehead to the boys he spoke, but his words were muddled as the boy’s mind began to close. His brother looked frustrated, mad even. There were yells, and galloping hooves in the distance, then one loud crack as his brother slapped the horse’s rump. The desert wind returned as the horse escaped the scene, boy atop.

The boys eyes drifted in and out of conscience, and it was at this point that he wished he had let his exhaustion conquer him, but he didn’t. Struggling to sit up in the saddle, he turned to look at his brother. The wind screamed in his ear as he turned, and in the distance he saw his brother, laid in a heap in the sand, three riders standing over his corpse. Blackness.

A sudden splash woke the boy up, his body has slipped from the horse and into a shallow canal that cut through the unforgiving desert. He rolled out, letting his body soak as he laid back on the dreaded sand, the lukewarm water offering some coolness to the heat. He rolled on his side, his eyes drifted over his brothers horse. It was a strong beast yet small, a pouch fat with bread was tied to its rump.
The boys eyes focused underneath the belly of the horse, in the distance, across the canal, a being stared back at him. The being was slender and tall, the sun seemed to avoid it, caressing its body instead of beating down on it. It was unnatural how relaxed it looked, how it’s shadow grew from its figure, almost ghostly, yet very corporeal. Intricate blue lines segmented and decorated its body in between strange tufts of long and colorful feathers. The boy squinted to see the creature better, but as his eyes narrowed the sand erupted around the feather cuffed entity and it was swallowed by the desert.

Rollin on his other side the boy laid there, eyes wide and thoughts traumatized by everything that had happened. He was so much in shock he didn’t register the roguish looking character approach him, knife drawn.

“Is this your horse,” the rogue said, but the boy didn’t answer. A few more questions rang, each more aggressive than the last, but the boy could only watch as the man drew closer, knife threatening him. As the man grew into a few feet away, the sand erupted once more and the tall figure across the canal shot out of the desert itself.

The rogue thrusted his knife but the creature side stepped, gliding on the desert breeze. It’s feathered cuffed arm shot out and snatched the man’s hand, a sudden spin and the other feathered arm bent at the elbow and smashed into the rogue’s arm, breaking it backwards. The rogue screamed and the creature suddenly spun, its legs sweeping down, and ankle shooting out, swiping the rogues own legs from underneath him. As his body fell horizontally, the feathered leg shot straight up and quickly fell back down to the desert, its heel planting into the temple of the rogue. Soft, pain filled breaths was the only response the laid out rogue returned, consciousness long lost.

The desert creature approached the boy, and the boy reeled in fright. His eyes scanned the face of the entity, but what he saw was indescribable, yet unforgettable. This was a ghost of Sondoper. It’s hand shot out towards the boy before softly laying a palm on his head. A sudden burn seared across the boy’s skull and very mind. He tried to struggle but the strength of the hand holding him was unbelievably steady. He couldn’t move as his mind was set on fire, his very thoughts an erupting volcano. Then suddenly, cool drips of knowledge fell onto the fire in his mind, and with each drop, a new thing learned. The drops formed rivulets and before he knew it there was a chilling cascade of information flooding his mind. His breath retreated and as the hand left his head, a scar the shape of the palm burned into his scalp, he felt the blackness conquer him once again. His eyes slid closed and he collapsed back to the sand. His mind slipped into the void of dreams, eventually finding the darkness of subconscious.

The boy, now a man, convulsed violently in his sleep, a dark haired woman shaking him roughly. His eyes opened wide, two pools of silver under dark eyebrows and an eerie scar the shape of a hand.

“Mozkurtuta! Mozkurtuta!” The woman leaning above him whispered harshly. Mozkurtuta’s arms flailed, “wha wha where am I!” His eyes narrowed on the woman, confused, “Emagaldu?”

Emagaldu pursed her lips, “you stumbled into my yurt in a drunken stupor again.” She answered, seemingly used to the scenario. Mozkurtuta sat up, a thin linen blanket falling off of his bare chest. Looking around the yurt, everything was toppled over or misplaced. It looked as if there was a massive fist fight in the tiny leather yurt, even the bed of furs he laid in was strewn about carelessly.

“Looks like we did more than stumbling,” He looked back at her, but was met with a unamused frown. Before she could answer the flap to the yurt was thrown aside and a burly man dressed in red scarves and a white skirted tunic came roaring in, “EMAGALDU!”

“H-husband,” the woman quickly stepped away from the side of the bed, revealing the naked Mozkurtuta.

Emagaldu’s husband looked his wife up and down. She looked fine, her curly hair tightly braided and her long brown dress and cloak unwrinkled, but looking to Mazkurtuta’s all he saw was a naked slob with a messy beard, bald and scarred head accompanied with the stench of alcohol. The scene was up to interpretation, and the bull headed husband was quick to see an opportunity a lot of men in the tribe had been looking for, his wife be damned.

Pointed a hairy knuckled finger he shouted, “Adulterer!”

Emagaldu screeched, “WHAT?”

Mazkurtuta burped.

“Muda, Husband, what is this nonsense?”

“Quiet, adulterer, speak only before the council of our elders, I shall see to it that justice is served,” Muda spat into the yurt, ignoring that it was he who owned it. Turning he let loose a shark’s smile as he left the yurt.

“MAZ!” Emagaldu whacked the drunk upside the head, “go settle this and tell him what really happened.”

Mazkurtuta looked up at her, “I mean I would but I can’t remember the last two days as it is, no thanks to you,” He rubbed his head, ”Besides it is in the elder’s hands, they will see the truth.”

“Drunken idiot.”

-------------------------------------------------------to be continued--------------------------------------------------------------------

(Got lazy, made it a two parter, sue me)

Drago bent down, staring close to the ground at the strange sight that was in his eyes. He bent down to touch it, the dirt and dried blood caked beneath his fingernails a stark contrast to the blue of the flower's petals. The scout and Scaven member plucked it up, bringing it to his nose, taking in the sweet fragrance. One of his fellow scouts approached him. "What is that, Windwalker?"

"Flower." Some of the other scouts listening to their commander nearby started muttering to each other. The initial scout that approached him spoke up again. "They got flowers here?"

"Aye. Seems that way." Drago stood up, not taking the flower from his sights. "We should get back to camp." The other members of the scouting party began to follow him, and another one spoke up. "What of the Einherjar? Shouldn't we make a more thorough search?" Not looking back, Drago replied, "Einherjar don't leave flowers."

The High Judge, Rudik Greentree, studied the flower in his hand. His tent was filled with members of the Scaven, as well as onlookers, onlookers who shot out from the tent as well, gathered in the thousands with the rumors that Drago found a flower. "Drago." The scout and hero of the Scaveni stood before him. "Yes, Judge?" The judge licked the dry on his lips. He looked around at the room full of hopeful faces, all wanting to hear him say the thought they were thinking. "When was the last time you saw the Einherjar?"

Drago thought back. Time was something hard to tell in the horde; hours and days mixed together in with the months and years. But he focused back. "About two months ago." There were excited murmers among the representatives. Rudik stood up. He wanted to say something, something to finally bring hope and joy to these people who knew nothing but destitution. He looked into the crowd; there were children. Children whose entire lives were spent in tents. He looked to the elderly, who spent most of their lives on farms and in cities, but whose pride and livelihoods were ripped away. He looked to the Scaven, the ancient institution which he headed, once the pride of his nation, as well as the namesake, now reduced to old men yelling about matters in which they have no say. He needed something to say. But he found nothing.

Luckily, he was interrupted. A man frantically ran into the room. "The king...has signaled for a convergence!"



Convergences were rare for the Scaveni, only happening if there is a need for a major decision. Convergences, of course, were a temporary unification of the four hordes. While creating a larger military force, it also presented the fact that were they to be wiped out, there would be no Scaveni left. But strangely, people were far less fearful at this convergence. Like most convergences, it began with old friends greeting each other, visits to shrines of gods that didn't exist in other hordes, and fighters heading off to the civilian horde to find some gullible women. And some of these gullible women were brought to the Princes.

"I promise, if you do this, your children won't need for food for a year!" said Crown Prince Alyn. The woman on her knees looked away from him. "I...I'm not sure..." Alyn put his hand on her face, and moved it to look at him. "Hey...think about the children..." The woman nodded sadly, and began taking off her robe, revealing her body, malnourished and dehydrated. Just then, Princess Eosia walked into the tent. "Brother-" seeing the woman, she gasped and looked away, as the woman shrieked, covering herself and running out from the tent. Eosia looked back to him, disappointed. "Taking advantage of the commoners again, I see?"

Alyn smirked, and laid back on his bed. "Why have the power if you won't use it, Sister?" The princess stepped forward and smacked him across the face, before turning around to leave, saying, "Father wants us present at the meeting. Make yourself decent."

The leaders of the four hordes all sat in the Meeting Tent, as well as some of the more notable followers of the hordes. Drago was of course present, as were the children of the King. Representing the Dwarves was Reimlyk the Younger, bearer of the Sword of Lodd. The King spoke up. "For the first time in twenty years, we need not worry for our immediate safety." Nobody else in the room replied. "But we know not what these lands are, or who they belong to." Drago spoke up. "I will set out for the roads, find the nearest town." King Vorin nodded. "That would be wise...but first Drago...sleep." The scouts eyebrows knitted. "What?" Vorin looked to him. "Drago...you need to rest." Drago sat back in his chair. "Yes..."

Sudd, the King's brother, spoke up. "And now what do you want us to do, Brother? We've been fighting for two decades!" The King didn't make eye contact with him. "Sleep." Sudd's face scrunched up at this. "What?" "Sleep, Brother. Rest. We need to rest." Sudd leaned forward. "Well what do I tell my men?" The King looked at him. "That. Rest." The King stood up from his chair. "Tommorrow, Drago will scout the area. Wunal, tell the hunters and gatherers to do just that, we're low on food. But now, we rest." With that, the King exited his own meeting, making no time for bravado or inspiration.

That night, Drago walked into his family's tent. His wife, Vila, woke up and turned to him. "Drago, how was the meeting?" Drago simply grunted and fell onto the bed roll, then slept in the first time for what felt like forever.

There a few things you can learn from studying account books. You can learn when a mercahnt has a new mistress. When some noble in some land is trying to bribe someone. And when somebody is preparing for war. You can see these things simply by noticing the patterns. An extra jewel here, a few coins there.

Or in the case of war, its when abnormalities add up. Such as a nobpe purchasing more blades than normal. A town that normally only asks for ore asks for a few Mercenaries. Or an entire country asking for more metal ore than normal. Now, on their own these numbers mean little, could be the noble wants to impress some visitors with the size of his army. The town may be having trouble with some bandits. Or the country may have closed down one of their mines for not producing enough metal ore. But, when all put together, when every number is crunched, and when all these types of trades are made rather close together, then you know that something very large may be happening.

Now to most people this would mean nothing, even if they saw the numvers they may not care, afterall so long as the numbers made up and everything was paid for then as far as they were considered it made no difference.

But Luke Perchant was not most people.
Where most saw nothing but coin, he saw opportunity to make even more coin. To win a war, a country needs many things. Troops, food wood and metals to make weapons and armour, building materials and information. Coin can buy you all that and more. And the one with more coin had the larger, better trained, better fed and better equiped army had the upper hand on the battlefield.

Of course all that would go to waste with the three S's. Shit weather. Shit strategies. Sit generals. Even one of those could shake the balance of a battlefield and leave the one with the most coin the one being bent over a barrel.

No matter what though, the Merchants will always prosper. They didn't care who won or lost. Who was right or who was wrong. All they cared about was that the coin poured into their coffers and that trade continued, even if that meant their former trading partner was replaced by another one.

Now that Luke smelt war brewing, he smelt the opportunity for more coin. He wrote down a quick letter the all Merchant Houses and the Council Representatives. Within the letter was a short proposal.

To all Merchant Houses and Council Representatives.

My dear friends,
I am sorry that I must bother you all, but I have noticed some abnormalities with the latest accounts. Now before you all get upset, I am not saying that someone has been skimming, or that items have been sold for the wrong price. In fact it is good abnormalities.

I have discovered that unusual amounts of materials and Mercenaries have been purchased from us lately. It is my belief that a war may be upon some distant land, and it is my belief that where there is war, there is profit.

Therefore, I propose that we form an assembly to meet and negotiate upon new prices for our wares. I suggest we increase the prices of our Mercenaries, our metals and our wepaons and armour, not so much to be outrageous and therefore not worth it, but just enough that we may get a few more extra coins from this far away war.

The exact price upage shall be discussed when assembly is held. My thanks for your time.

Signed,
Luke Perchant of Merchant House Perchant, Council Representative and Lord of Accounts.

He called in his assistants to take the letters and make copies for all Merchant Houses and Council Representatives to receive one, including a copy for his own use.

He knew every House would send someone to speak for them, and that the prices for merchandise would change. If there was one thing that every Merchant House could agree on, it was that coin ruled the world as well as them.

And everyone knows, a Merchant is drawn to profit like a pig is to shit.

“Rain, again..” a deep, commanding voice said, gazing out of a massive stained glass window. He could see for miles, miles of land that both lived and died under his thumb. Bursts of lightning illuminated the trees and villages in his domain, but this sight was nothing in comparison to what to the power this man sought.

“I know it’s here.” the man said before motioning towards one of the large set of doors. “Come Aristal, Have you brought the books I asked for?”

    A frail yet once athletic framed woman stood by the door holding a massive tome, only the light of the hallways and a single lantern upon a great desk illuminating the book covered room before her. His question would seem odd to anyone unfamiliar with the man, for he was Cornwalkis, the mighty general, but much more diligent scholar of the mystical.

    Taking careful steps into the room, careful not to ruffle the thin yet fine linen carpets, nor step on a loose leaflet of paper, covered in strange writings, Aristal approached the man. The study smelt of old paper, and fresh ink, the iron stinging her nose as she got closer and closer to the writing booth by the window, where her eyes met the powerful frame of the man, outlined by the dark blue light of the rainstorm outside. Lightning struck, pressing his image in her mind, and his negative in her sight.

    Aristal laid the book down carefully onto the booth, albeit even the slightest bump of its landing was enough to make her shiver, unsure on how her new master was to react to any trespassing sound, or even the slightest smudge of error.

    In a dull tone, “Excellent.” was all Cornwalkis could muster as he slowly ran his gloved fingers across the cover. “This.. Aristal, this has to be it. Years of searching.” he said, now with an almost desperate excitement.

    For a few moments, the slave girl, Aristal could do nothing but watch her master carefully thumb through the pages in what was a mix of frustration and delight. “Aristal, Long ago I had asked about your people and their ideals regarding oh what was it, spirituality?” He began tapping a strange symbol on one of the still dusty pages of the ancient tome, “Tell me, what does this mean to you?”

    “It is the mark often used in one of the children’s tales,”  Aristal answered obediently, more out of fear than respect, “a whimsical conclusion to a tale of a scared baby.” In truth she wanted to trace the half circle mark with her finger to show him the trick, but she was far too nervous to even move from her statuesque like stance by the booth.

    “A scared baby.” Cornwalkis said, clearly unimpressed with her answer. “Then tell me, Aristal, what would scare a baby enough to be worthy of print?” He shook his head slightly as he looked into her eyes, “Tell me Aristal, what is it.”

    Aristal placed her finger roughly onto the symbol, clearly a little frightened, her finger shaking. Tracing it as it was, it almost resembled a frown, tracing it backwards she muttered, “a frown upside down is a smile, that was the punchline, I swear!”

She frantically traced it again and again, her finger jumping from one end of the crescent, which pointed to the word “Handia,” while when her finger raced to the other end it spelt “indarra.” The longer she did this, the more her eyes widened as she read the words she kept pointing to and fro. Slowly she looked over to her master, surprised, “the title of another story,” she murmured.

    Cornwalkis rose his voice, and his figure itself, “Another story?”. As his frustration seemed to swell, a burst of lightning illuminated him, covering her in his shadow. He took a deep breath before calming, “Let us talk of a story then, something to perhaps loosen your lips. Your people were quite removed from this world, yes? And yet valued by the natives of that land for your heathen ways. Do you even realize how expensive you were to procu-” He paused, and forced an apologetic tone,  “I suppose that is besides the point.”

    “We are obviously at an impasse’ at this point. Your stories of children's nightmares seem to bring no clear answer.” Cornwalkis turned his attention back towards the book and sighed heavily, “So what is the title of this next book. And know that if you’re misleading me, I’ll have your head.”

    “Handia-indarra is not a book,” Aristal straightened her pose, trying her best to force confidence into her truths. She shook her head, “our people do not write such stories down, they are too problematic. Only a select few know of its plot and conclusion. Our scholar being one of them, and any at his bedside during his passing.”

    “It is a tale for fools to follow, the title a subtle trap if you ask me,” She leaned in to try and punctuate her point. Saying the words slowly she attempted to cast any further questions away by expressing the title with as much sarcasm as possible, “a conclusion that promises power beyond imagination to be summoned at the will of the finder.”

Straightening once again she crossed her arms “, It’s pure madness.”

    It was almost as if he had stars in his eyes as the word power deafened everything she had said afterwards, “Perhaps there is more to this than I realized, perhaps there is more to you.” he said confidently, “Traps are only traps when fools spring them.” He turned away from her to stare out of the window. “Aristal, pack my things. I believe a trip to your ancestral home may shed some light on this riddle you’ve placed before us.”

    “But,” She went to say his name but stuttered, not knowing what exactly she should call him while maintaining her dignity, “L-L-L...Lord! I told you, this is insane. It was kept away because it was deemed too powerful, that it was too dangerous for one person to wield!”

    “I am not sure as to which part of ‘pack my things’ you do not understand.” Cornwalkis said, lazily waving her away. He never made eye contact as he purposely shoved her aside as he made his way to the doors, slamming them behind him.

    Propelled slightly by the shove, Aristal sat into Cornwalkis’ chair, as broken and dispirited as the moment of her capture. Though they dressed her malnourished body in silks, she felt of rags. She let her head hang, and sucked in her breath to savor the last few minutes of innocence before she betrayed her family's secret to the world. Her breath escaped her lungs and her eyes closed, frightened and forced into treason, she stood back up. To her homelands she was to return, but not the fit hunter she left as, but a frail slave, a traitor.

Perhaps it was fate where the Scaveni made their camp, Far enough away from the paranoid eyes of the eastern legion, but near enough for the hired guards of a nearby village to take notice.

Two lowly Guards made their way through a dense field of trees, illuminated briefly by the golden spears of light that pierced the tree tops. They had made no effort to keep themselves quiet as they spoke of memories and women, to be followed by loud laughs at some lewd jokes. Behind them was four thin lines of dark grey smoke, raising from the chimneys of the small village they called home.

As the two Guards moved further and further away from the relative safety of their village, they grew more and more paranoid. "Did you see that?" one proclaimed, pointing at a layer of low laying brush. From it erupted a small feline, who upon seeing the two hissed before retreating. Further up the road, a flock of birds soared through the tree line, rustling the branches, freeing leaves to fall at the two Guards feet. What was most unsettling though, was the constant feeling they had been spotted. Though, there were many predators in the south that could've fit the description.

It was as if the light at the end of the tunnel was reached when they appeared at the opposite end of the forest, to be greeted by a expansive field of emerald grass. It was a sight for sore eyes, eyes that were reminiscing of home, a small town surrounded by enough fields to feed the residents over the winter months. This field was ended by a small cliff, one that upon reaching the precipice of, could see a sight unlike any they had gazed upon before.

"Are those tents?" a gruff male voice asked, referring to a massive Scaveni settlement.

The Guard next to him spoke in a much softer, reserved tone. Its voice was full of shaky confidence, "I-I think so. We should go back.. Yes, back to warn the Legion."

The Gruff male snickered, "This doesn't look like a military camp." Before his eyes locked onto movement, and in his mind he knew, if you could see them, they could very much see you.

He motioned to his ally to drop to the ground. The grass was high enough to hide their bodies but for how long they had been openly standing, this delayed response would be sure to have given them away.

(Collab with @Monkeypants)


 
The horse was taking too long. Its face was buried deep in the trough of water, lapping up the liquid as frothy drops fell from its face. Drago stood by, impatiently, with a few of his men behind him. He was to search out the immediate area and identify the land which the Scaveni now occupied. Of course, he could only start this mission after his horse stopped drinking up their water supply.

Sighing, the scout looked up, when his eyes, sharp like Wanous's axe, spotted two dots in the distance; men. Clearly, they didn't want to be seen, as they fell to the floor of the plains. Drago could tell two things from this; one, these men haven't yet seen battle to the same extreme as the Scaveni, or else they would've fled at the sight of the camp. Two, these lands belong to someone who knew not of the Scaveni's prescense, or else they wouldn't have approached on their feet.

Drago swiftly leapt atop his horse, pulling its head away from the trough, and kicked it towards the men. Those of his men who were mounted quickly followed.

"Run for it!" was cried out as the two Mycaeans burst out from their cover. They attempted to navigate the tall grass in ways to throw the riders off but it was a wide open field, making them rather easy prey. The first man, stumbling over the weight of his armor, fell onto his face, screaming out to the other. This other guard, either by cowardess or lack of perception, left his fallen comrade behind. 

The first guard began grasping at the dirt as if to somehow pull himself away from the oncoming cavalry but found himself overwhelmed easily. The second, upon finally realizing he was alone and the treeline was still far off, finally stopped and turned about to give in to these unknown men from the east.

The Scaveni riders surrounded the two guards, as Drago approached, looking at the two of them. Huh. Usually humans were a welcome sight. Speaking up in his native language, he said, "You don't happen to speak Scaveni, do you?" Already knowing the answer, he sighed, and dismounted, beginning to speak in the most recent language he's picked up on the road.

He first looked to the more distant guard, shouting in a thick accent. "You'll do more harm to your health by running in that armor than by coming back here, boy." He stood completely unarmored, with only his small axe in his belt, his hand on top of it in case either of them try anything, which is unlikely. He looked to the guard on the floor. "Quite a friend to leave you in the dirt, eh?" He chuckled, then kneeled to him, giving him his water horn. "Tell me, what are these lands called?"

The grounded guard looked up to Drago, "Myc-Mycae." he said, clearly nervous. While the other man in the field slowly started towards the four men. His arrival was quick but he still kept his distance, enough to talk clearly but far beyond the range of a thrusting spear.

His words were simple, "Who are you."

Drago waited for the guard to take the horn in his outstretched hand, but saw that the gift wasn't being recieved, frowned and stood back up. Not looking back at the other guard, he stated simply but loud enough to hear, "I am Drago. I do not know Mycae...do you live in houses or tents?"

"H-Houses?" The man answered. He finally got the courage to look Drago in the eyes, "W-why are you here?"

At this news, the blankness on Drago's face shifted, back straightened with his eyes open wide. He looked around to his men, before shouting one word; "Skuya!" At this, the rest of the horseman all started muttering to each other, that word, Scaveni for 'houses', being thrown around quite a bit. In Scaveni, Drago, instructed one of the men to report back to camp, before turning to the guard again. "Have your people not yet faced the Einherjar?"

"Ein-?" The guard said, "Is that some sort of predator?" 

Drago swallowed, twenty years of war and flight encapsulating his mind. "Yes. But worse." He looked around, biting his lip, before looking back to the guard. "My people mean yours no harm. We have been driven from our homes, in search of a new one. I am Drago Windwalker, Scavenjed of the Third Order. Please, I must speak with who leads you...there is a darkness to the east of here, one the likes of which you have never seen.

At this Drago mounted his horse. "My people...we are Scaveni,"

The Guard who had been standing narrowed his eyes, not as if to focus on a foe but it was that he had heard of something long ago, "I remember a prophecy, well, I heard it from a shady looking man in a tavern." The man on the ground shook his head, "You seriously listen to those stories?"

"Yes, you should always heed words of doom." The first motioned towards the forest, "There is someone who would benefit from your information."

Drago kicked the side of his horse, following them. A female archer in his scouting party placed her hand on an arrow, and spoke up in Scaveni. "Should I kill them? Could be Einherjar agents." Drago put his hand up. "Let us follow a while. Einherjar would send more men to kill me if it's a trap. Still though...go back to camp. Tell the King I've left to meet with some locals. The rest of you...follow." She nodded, and rode off, while the rest of his scouting party, two men on horseback, followed him into the forest.

It had been three grueling hours of ride on horseback as the group finally approached the castle. The weather had changed drastically by the time they had arrived. The bright sun had been replaced by joyless clouds and a constant change between hard rain and a cold drizzle that had by now, nearly soaked their clothing. 

The dreary weather was nothing in comparison to the massive fortress that stood high into the sky, and instead of a true moat, a deep crack in the earth did well to prevent any would be attackers from scaling the walls easily. Flanking the castle was a large mountain and a range that followed, making that direction near impossible for a large army to traverse with any order. 

At the base of this castle, across from the crag, sat a large city that contained everything from holy places to foreign gods to the taverns where the sins repented at the church were regained. The five made their way through the city and finally reached the castle gates. Drago and the Scaveni sat on their horses in front of the castle, the two scouts with mouths agape, and Drago swallowing deeply. This is the largest settlement by far that they've seen in two decades. Memories of home filled them as the two Guards said a few words to a gate keeper, followed by a simple nod and the dropping of a solid metal drawbridge. 

"Welcome to Winwaith Castle." The first man said. "This is where we stop." He continued before dismounting his horse. The Guards were met by something of their own that they feared, Legion Knights whom silently motioned for the three Scaveni to follow, and for the two Guards to return to their homes.

The ascent to the near top of the castle was nearly as grueling as the three hour ride. Stairs were seemingly in all directions, and doors that had no signifier as to what they could possibly contain. But the two Knights knew their direction without any second thought. While the Scaveni men were certainly impressed by the intricit designs of the castle, it was nothing compared to when they passed the kitchen. At the scent of fresh food, and possibly even the prospect of ripened fruit, the mens stomachs growled, mouths watering, one of the scouts even starting to drift away from the Knights, but Drago pulled him back. He was sure food would come later. Now, they must finish their hike.
 
And upon reaching a set of gilded doors, and inside was a sight to behold, a true and well adorned bassilica, furnished with manniquins wearing armor of intricate and rare design, holding weaponry of alien design to even their owner.At the opposite end of this massive room was a large stained glass window, facing the east, and at it, a feminine figure draped in shadows, only momentarily lit by the occasional strike of lightning. "Lord General, we have escorted three men who claim to know of the prophecy." one said, before bowing out. The figure nodded as it stared out the window. 

"Welcome to my Castle." the voice said with a commanding yet with a soft feminine tone. She turned to face them, "I am Lord General Joannah. May I ask where you are from?"

Drago stepped through the doors, looking at the woman. He wasn't used to a woman in this sort of role as a leader, but now wasn't the time to be rude. Instinctively, his hand moved to his Scaven Knot, making sure it was in place to signify his rank, as he motioned for his men, hesitantly waiting by the door, to follow.

"Scavenia, a land you are unlikely to know...and a land which is long gone." He walked in further, and put his fist to his chest, a Scaveni military salute, and said. "I am Drago Wildwalker, Scavenjed of the Third Order." He relaxed his hand, and glanced around the room, strangely confidant for a man of such a scrawny frame. "I must say, Sjin, this is quite a hall you've built..." He looked back to her. "Mice...ayy. Mice-ay, that is the name of this land? Correct?"

"Yes, this is the name of my homeland." Joannah paused to stare out of the window, watching as three figures made their way out of the castle. She sighed before turning back to them, "You said you're from Scavenia, and it has been... destroyed?" Her pause led to a number of steps towards them. Her figure became far more visible, with long flowing black hair that fell past her shoulders. She fixed her gaze upon Drago's eyes, "Tell me... What was it that destroyed your home?"

Drago stood tall as she approached, and said one word that sent a rush of fear through his men; "Einherjar."

She cocked her head in confusion, "What is an Einherjar? Is that your people's name for the prophecy?" Her unflinching gaze at Drago continued, staring deep into his eyes, "Are they the enemy that we have been searching for?"

Uncomforted by her gaze and closeness, Drago instictively moved his hand to his axe, before relaxing it and breathing out. "I apologize, Sjin, it has been...a while...since I have met a foreign face not trying my demise."  He coughed, and continued. "I know not of this...prophecy...you speak of..." He looked away from her. "But yes...I don't know why you would search for them...but the Einherjar are most certainly an enemy." He licked his lips. "They have pursued our people from our homeland for...what...twenty years now..ungodly creatures, with the looks of a man, but the spirit of something far more evil." He turned from her.

"It is because of them that about half a million of my people are camped in your homeland...Mice-ay."

Joannah, noticing Drago's subtle movements for his axe and stepped back calmly. "So did your people not dare to put up a fight?" He grimaced, and she frowned, "Perhaps that wasn't the right question. So what are your plans now? you're on the doorstep of a far and wide empire. And it seems the only direction for you is through us."

Drago took a deep breath. "It is not for me to decide. It is for the king...and for the Scaven...if the King permits..." He paused, before saying, with a bit more disdain in his voice. "By the way, we did dare to fight...most of us even refused to leave." He sniffed. "They are dead. The Einherjar will not stop...they will attack you soon, so we cannot stay. If you could find the kindness, Sjinn, my people would surely appreciate the permission of yours to move through this land, as well as some food...we haven't eaten a fresh apple in decades. In exchange...I would gladly share my knowledge of fighting the Darkness."

"An Apple?" Joannah said, surprised at such a simple request. "I am sure we can arrange for an apple. But the grander desire of food.." she took a deep breath, "Feeding, as you have said, half of a million people, is a very tall order. This isn't something we can even consider. But moving through our land seems somewhat reasonable, so long as you stay to specific areas I will direct you." Her frown turned to a smile, "If this amendment to your request can be agreed upon, I'd very much like to hear about this 'Darkness'."

The Hidden Village of Galdtuta

The journey had been lengthy, and it would have been even more so if not for Aristal’s presence to help with finding the village lost in the shifting sands of the north eastern deserts of the Sakabanatu region. For what should have taken a month at least from Cornwalkis’ estate, had been shortened to just a week, and then of course, having a villager from a hidden village certainly helped.

As the small group consisting of Cornwalkis, Aristal, and an assortment of mules crested a dune, through desert scarves the group saw the small cluster of yurts squat in between two rocky outcroppings and withered farmland, the harvest time long past. Aristal’s face seemed to sink into sadness at the sight she once longed to see, while Cornwalkis, she assumed, wore a hungry bear’s smile under his scarf.

His hungry smile was masked but his hungry gaze was not. It seemed to be pleased for the moment but the temperament that Aristal had grown used to, made its way back to the surface as he slowly dismounted. “So, this is where you came from? How quaint.” he said, hinting at sarcasm.

Aristal stared at the man for a second, forcing down the desire to mention that this is where she was ripped from against her own will and cast into slavery, “yes.” Looking forward again she took a few steps forward, “we need to find the old well.” Her voice either teamed with defensiveness, or a forced urgency, but either way it was clear she was uncomfortable being at her home, shamed and accompanied by the man who leashed her.

Cornwalkis piqued a brow, “You seem rather uneasy, Aristal. Perhaps bringing you here wasn’t prudent? I am sure a group of soldiers could assist me further if you’re this bothered.” He said, looking about. In truth, with him not speaking directly at her, it was possible that she only heard what she could, or wanted to.

“I’m not giving you the story that easily,” Aristal answered, occupying herself with skidding down the dune without falling face first. The heated grains of sand tumbled under her feet as she slid, keeping her back to her traveling companion, in a hopes to make this moment feel like how she always dreamed it would.

She sucked in the evening desert air and sighed, knowing the feeling of triumphant return wasn’t going to happen, not like this. As her feet found the flat of the valley where the yurt village stood she finally turned back to Cornwalkis, “this way! And we better bring some rope, if I remember correctly, we are going to need it.”

Walking into the small scattering of yurts, it was clear to Aristal that her family hadn’t been there for a while, presumably moved due to the surfacing of their secret location after her capture. Her stomach sank as she took in the sights, where only the worst of the yurts remained among tattered fields of rotten crops. Against the golden sands the village was a corpse colored grey, fitting to the dead village. Passing a tattered yurt of hide and lumber, she poked her finger through one of the holes torn into the side and sighed, attempting to expel the weight in her chest.

From behind her, Cornwalkis’ hand reached out to meet her’s as if to help her open the yurt. He sighed along with her, seeing another empty dwelling. “You mentioned a well?” he said while gently pointing her towards a stone structure.

“Right,” Aristal looked at the man for a moment before following his gaze to the well. Her voice was somber and her shoulders drooped with a weight. Holding out her arms she quietly asked, “rope please.”

Cornwalkis stood back before reaching for a long spool of rope, then handed it to her. “The next part of this riddle has us descending into a pit?” He had thoughts of her possible betrayal at this point. At no point in their time together had they been this alone, in his mind, this was the time to be as cordial as possible.

Aristal silently tied the rope to a stony outcrop before leading it to the well, “yes.” She replied finally as she tossed the remaining rope into the well with a delayed splash, “the children used to try and get down in the well to possibly take the power to get rid of bullies and the like, but that obviously was always met with failure.”

Cornwalkis looked into her eyes, “Tell me, honestly, what is this power.” he shifted his gaze to the well, “And why your people went to such lengths to hide it, rather than use it.”

Aristal stared back, “all I know about the power is that we shouldn’t be doing this, and that whatever it is, shouldn’t be touched by us. No one ever actually gave it a form, or said what the power was, there are only warnings.”

“Perhaps it was misunderstanding that led people to cower from it. Things are never what they seem, my young Aristal. You must go into life with both eyes open.” Cornwalkis said, smiling confidently. He then motioned to the well, “Lead on.”

Aristal stared for a moment, “or perhaps it was out of respect.” With her words covered in a stubborn poison, she turned back to the well. Peeking down all she saw was a continuous blackness, only disrupted by a water’s shimmer at the bottom.

Swinging her legs over the low well walls she held tight to the rope. Letting the fibers slip through her grasp she slowly let herself down the rope, until a cold water bit at her ankles. Letting go with a splash, she fell deeper than she expected, the water climbing all the way up to her waist. She shivered, turning quickly in search of some sort of passage from the pool.

A dark mouth formed on one side of the well interior, and she quickly ducked through it and into a smooth soil floored tunnel. The tunnel was a tight fit, but at least she could stand. Turning she shouted out for Cornwalkis to come down.

It didn’t take Cornwalkis to reach her, and being a tight fit for her was an even tighter fit for his much larger build. But he pushed on, nearly shaking with excitement. As the little light they started with faded, he rose his left hand up and with little effort, a bright point of light formed, illuminating their cramped surroundings. “Let us keep moving, Aristal.”

Secretly Aristal was hoping the lack of light would’ve deterred further efforts, a childs wish, but one all the same squashed when she remembered Cornwalkis’ magical ability. Frowning by the light of his wisp she continued.

Slowly the tunnel started to widen, until it was a full blown atrium. The atrium walls were smooth and covered in depictions of various deeds. A closer look revealed a horned figure riding a massive boat over the very moon, while another showed the same figure in mortal combat with a large and grotesque beast. The pictures continued down the wall, from the figure standing next to a crazed and golden haired noble by a tree, to the figure smashing the head of someone else onto the very same tree. Aristal was mesmerized, her fingers tracing the intricate painting of the figure riding atop some sort of mechanical giant. It was only after a mote of dust irritated her eye enough for her to blink and spin in pain for a moment that her eyes found a strange door marking the end of the atrium. It was at least thirteen feet high and stamped into its bronze face was the circular letters of the Sondoper, the traditional language of the Sakabanatu.

“Incredible.” Cornwalkis commented, showing the first bit of wonder and respect this entire time. He stared in wonder at the intricate pictures but was confused as to what the horned figure could be. But ahead of him stood Aristal, gazing upon the door, “What does it say?” He asked her, trying to decipher it to no success.

Turning from the circles she stared Cornwalkis down, hoping for a particular answer to her translation, “it says simply ‘this door is not to be open before the time is right’.”

Cornwalkis let out a chuckle, “Well, there is a popular saying, ‘There’s no time like the present’.” he said before placing his hand upon the door. His first push was met with solid resistance. Instead of taking a more brute force approach, he examined the door. He spoke under his breath, “Now how do you work.” before catching sight of a pin and hook latch. “There we go.” He said, turning to Aristal, “See? The time is now.” His hungry mind began to race as he opened the latch. It made a loud clank, signaling it was ready to be opened. “Come Aristal, help me with this door.”

Aristal held out her palms in front of the door, a disgusted and worried look on her face, “I really… don’t think I can.”
Cornwalkis grew frustrated with her, nearly to the point of yelling at her defiance, but surprisingly took a different direction. He began using his entire weight to slam into the door, finally forcing it open. Immediately a ghastly chill overtook the pair as a grand, lighted hallway was revealed on the other side of the door. Torches blazed against gilded walls of alabaster, somehow not producing smoke or flickering out. At the very end of the hallway stood a podium, an item covered in red silk lay on top.

Before the two could properly examine the rest of the room ,the torches suddenly wavered as a great darkness formed out of thin air. The darkness took form and a disgusting void colored beast came snarling out of the creation. It was large and almost reptilian if not for it’s rigid body being covered in slimy black chitin and it’s mouth filled with three rows of saw like teeth, eyes lifeless and cruel.

Aristal yelped in surprise, reaching for her hunter’s bow, but then remembering her predicament and untrusting ‘owner’.

Cornwalkis didn’t hesitate, withdrawing his sword and forming a flickering light in the palm of his hand, “Aristal! Arm yourself!”

Aristal pretended to draw a mighty invisible blade from her back, staring Cornwalkis down from behind she called out, “okay let’s do thi-”

Suddenly the beast let out a scream that sounded too human and charged at Cornwalkis, its clawed feet scraping against the alabaster floor of the hallway as it launched itself through the door at Cornwalkis.

Cornwalkis shook off the surprise of the beast and thrust his left hand forward. The light in his palm grew brighter before reaching a critical mass and erupting into a solid ray of white hot light. The creature hissed and reeled at the sudden eruption, skittering backwards.

“Damn!” He shouted, turning to Aristal, “Attack it!” he shouted before bringing his sword to try and somehow parry the massive creature.

Aristal gave Cornwalkis a face before charging past both him and the creature. She slid on the alabaster and into one of the stands holding the torches. Quickly snatching it and couching it under her armpit she turned back to the fight, but as she turned a glimmer caught her eye. A razor sharp edge peaked out from under the red silk.

While she sprinted over to examine the possibility of an actual weapon, the creature regained its pose and began swiping menacingly at Cornwalkis with dagger like fingers.

Cornwalkis dodged the first few swipes but the creature attacked with a strength the likes of which hadn’t ever faced. The creature rose up to take what would be a fatal strike but it gave Cornwalkis the opportunity to dive between its legs evading what would’ve likely ended his life. The creature kept its attention on him and attempted to stomp him with its clawed feet. Cornwalkis found himself rolling from left to right to try and evade before swiping at the back of its legs with his sword.

Cornwalkis’ sword bit into the creature's leg, forcing a painful howl. While the beast roared in anger, Aristal grew closer to the cloth, realizing the size of whatever was underneath was as tall as herself. Pulling the blanket back she gasped as a mighty axe, etched in runes unknown laid waiting. It’s metal was unknown to her, and it’s use was worn proudly on it’s shaft and blade. It was clearly a blade of a veteran fighter and has seen more battles than she has stars. Yet despite its clearly worn appearance, it still glimmered, as sharp as a newborn edge. She reached out to touch it, and as her finger touched the surprisingly warm metal of the blade, a massive bolt of fire came roaring out.

The ball of blame crashed into the creature, and sent it flying out of the hallway and into the atrium where a bright flash of yellow exploded. Black chitin was sent back into the hallway as shrapnel, covered in a gory mess. Aristal stood in complete shock and surprise, eyes as wide as saucers.

Cornwalkis crawled slowly towards a wall before pulling himself upright, His clothing, now covered in blood and pieces of the now very dead creatures scales. “What…” he said, confused and surprised. His gaze shifted from the bloody heap of the creature that moments ago had him at wits end, to young Aristal and said something he hadn’t in a long time, “Are you okay?”

“Y-yes,” Aristal shook her head, snapping back into reality, “that… was incredible.” She leaned backwards onto the altar, making sure not to touch the axe again. Instead her fingers fell onto the bare copper top of the alabaster podium, feeling the bumps and ridges of more Sondoper writing. She turned to words and squinted to read them.

Cornwalkis made his way to her, choosing to lean over and examine the words as well. Like before, there was no translation in his mind. “Tell me Aristal, what does it say.”

She looked confused as she began to read directly from the characters, “Arise Harnian and retake your axe. The time has come once again.”

Suddenly the hallway began to shake, the vibrations cutting through the pairs chests. Aristal was bursting with adrenaline and shock as the wave formed a headache in her mind, her eyes being forced closed. Suddenly a loud thunderous clap sounded and all she saw was the pink of a flash behind her eyelids and then, a deep throated voice yelled, calling forth her attention.

Her eyes shot open at the words, “YORTORG, HINAN!”

She fell to her knees and clapped her hands over her mouth. Where the altar stood, now stood a being of both man and bull, holding the massive axe over its shoulder. The great bullman stood at least twelve feet tall, and was as wide as he was clearly and proportionally muscular. Grey hairs grizzled an otherwise dark brown bovine coat, giving his face that of an old bull. Wise eyes rested above his snout and a grim what could only be called a bull’s attempt at a frown was worn below. Clothed in chain links of metal, straps of leather, and a massive book the size of a small human chained to his back, the bull man didn’t seem amused at all, yet ready for anything.

“What… what are you?!” Cornwalkis said, consumed by confusion and awe at the sight infront of him. He began to edge closer to Aristal, who was the closest thing to an ally he had, who in the shock of the moment seemed to be thinking the same thing.

“I am Harnian, hinan, I am Freg Gerntef,” The bullman spoke from his throat, “we have much to discuss.”

(collab with @Monkeypants)



“So tell me again, why did you decide to hire people from the outside?” A soft, feminine voice said. The room, lit by candlelight and filled with the gentle pattering of a light rain, contained a variety of mounts for weaponry and wooden dummies, adorned with gilded armors. The soft voice spoke again, “And why did you fall back to the castle?”

Across from the voice, sat Mycae’s greatest, and only female General, Joannah. “Why must you always question my motives.” Joannah said, strumming her fingers across a wooden desk. Behind her, lightning gently lit the room for moments. “These plebeians are perfect for a task such as this. Expendable. Finite usefulness. I assumed you knew me well enough Numi.”

“You treat these people like simple resources.” Numi said simply before walking over to one of the mannequins. “I guess I’ll go along with this.” She continued, “But I want to pick who we send.”

Joannah nodded, “I’ll take your picks into consideration. There is already some very promising arrivals. People from the far west.” She snickered, “There’s even a Grogar. I think.”

Numi sighed and motioned Joannah to the door. The two ladies didn’t speak as they walked through the imposing fortress. Solid stone steps made no sounds as the women made their way into a small, quiet room with a large clear window facing the east. Inside were an assortment of would-be heroes, people who Joannah had placed a call for nearly three weeks ago.

Numi gazed about the room, before locking onto a rather large figure wearing a solid suit of red armor. She shook her head ever so slightly before leaning towards Joannah, “Is this it? Where’s the knights, where’s the Grogar.”

Joannah was similarly unimpressed, “Ladies and Gentlemen. I am Lord-General Joannah, though you shall refer to me as Lord General.” She began to gently sway side to side, as if nervous, although her commanding voice showed otherwise, “I have summoned you from afar to earn a reward of three-hundred gold, assuming you can survive a simple mission.”

Before anyone could continue, a young male with an Axe strapped to his back interrupted, “What kind of mission is it?”

Joannah sighed, “I do not believe you are right for this job.” and pointed towards the door. His departure was guaranteed by two Mycaean knights, who ‘gently’ nudged him out of the room. “I am going to ask one question before I continue, and this is one for all of you.” She paused, looking all of the applicants over and settling on a girl in the center of the group. “Are you afraid of the shadows?”

“What an oddly peculiar question” The girl not quite answered. “Lord-General are we” She gestured to the other occupants in the room “to assume you do not mean this question to be taken literally?”

“So you presume I am not asking the question literally?” She brought her attention away from the young woman, towards a knight clad in all red. “I’ll give you this opportunity. If you choose to answer my question with a question, then you can all find work elsewhere.”

The voice behind the armor was loud, stalwart and clear, “We have all come here, unafraid of what perils you would pit us against.”

Joannah smirked, “So, you speak for the group?” Her attention was brought back to the young, defiant woman. “Does he speak for you?”

“I am not one to jump at shadows” The woman replied with a smirk of her own, “be they literal or metaphorical.”

Joannah stepped back and softly to Numi, “Those two, we just need one more.” her gaze went around the room before Numi nodded towards one of the men, “That squirrely one in the back, he is a mage.”

“Are you sure?” Joannah said.

Not waiting for an Answer from Numi, Joannah pointed at the man, “You, back there, step forward. Give me your name and what you would bring to this endeavor.”

“Cedric Girard” The man said as he stepped forward and swept into a semi-formal bow. “Perhaps you have heard of me?”

“THE Cedric Girard? From Cormyral? I heard that you were instrumental in the civil- ” Numi interjected.

Joannah quickly quelled the wonder that Numi had, “Well, you being a veteran of a war already puts you in my favor.” She looked to Numi again, “Is this really what you want?”

Numi’s grin spread ear to ear, “This is exactly what I want.” She turned to the others, “There’s twenty gold for each of you at the gates. For your troubles. Make sure to keep available, there could be openings in the future!”

Joannah motioned for the three picks to follow her into the next room. It was far cozier than the last, wooden paneling and a stained glass window, letting in the little rays of light that pushed through the grey clouds above. Numi walked to the window and watched the water droplets slide in random patterns down the window.
Joannah took a seat at a large desk in the middle of the room. Laying across the top were three papers, with three ink quills above each. She motioned to them, “These are contracts, basically stating you’re going to put your life on the line for Mycae. And that upon your death, your reward will go to your next of kin.” She then leaned back, and began gently tapping the arms of her chair.

The girl shrugged before taking a quill and signing one of the contracts with the name ‘Soraya Kazemi’. Cedric, with a look that somehow mixed bemusement and indifference, signed his contract as well.

“So” the girl, Soraya, began as she backed away to make room for the red knight, “what are the details of this job?”

Numi spoke up, and tapped on the glass, “You’re going there.” she said softly, looking to the dark clouds in the east.

Joannah nodded, “Yes, I need people to explore the east. In there is a, ‘Prophecy’ that has caught my attention. I cannot send my own men due to..” she cleared her throat, “Restrictions from my king.”

Numi chuckled, “And your rewards are directly from the Lord General's pocket.”

“I see” Cedric stated. “The Lioness has similar concerns and restrictions.”

“Prophecy?” Soraya asked.

“Yes. The final prophecy of that so called ‘Prophetess’.” Cedric answered. “Something about doom and gloom coming from the East.”

“Ah. You are referencing the end of the ‘Legend of the Silver Legion’ as told throughout most of the continent.” Soraya said.

“Uh… yes.” Cedric shifted his attention back to Joannah and Numi. “So the short is go out and look for massive armies, monsters, or plagues that shouldn’t be there and report back?”

Joannah looked at each one of them before drawing the contracts back towards her, “Yes.” She took a dramatic pause, perhaps on purpose, “You’re to leave immediately, so as to not miss the cover of darkness. There is rations and a cache of weaponry in a cart by the castle drawbridge. I would stock up on anything you can. Any other questions?”

“I’m ready to go” Soraya said as she glanced at Cedric and the red knight.

After a moment’s pause Cedric said “I am as well.”
The Red Knight was the first to leave, only halted by Joannah’s inquiry, “Erex, you do not talk much do you.”

“I only speak when it is necessary.” he replied clearly.

Joannah watched as the group left and turned to Numi, “I know how badly you wish to go. And you already know I forbid it.”

Numi continued to stare out the window and muttered under her breath, “Yes Master.”

(Collab'd with @Darkspleen.)



    “What do you see?” Cedric asked for the second time.

    “Mountains.” Soraya answered. That answer had applied for much of the two days since the party had left Mycae. “And trees.”

    “I could have told you that much.” Cedric grumbled. “And I didn’t need to stand on my horse’s back to do so.”

    “I suppose so.” Soraya commented from where she did indeed stand upright on her horses back. “But do I not strike a heroic pose while doing so?”

    “I’d rather you act the part then look it.” Cedric grumbled again. He’d become increasingly grouchy since leaving Joannah’s fortress. Soraya, on the other hand, seemed to be rather thrilled with the prospect of ‘exploring the unknown’ as she had put it.

    “On the subject of acting…” Soraya’s eyes narrowed as she caught movement in the tree line before them. She had her bow in hand already, her free hand slowly started moving towards her quiver. Catching sight of her movement Cedric followed her gaze towards the trees. It took him a moment, but he caught sight of several man shaped somethings moving about.

    “Three?” Cedric quietly asked.

    “Five” Soraya answered after a moment, by this point her hand had grazed the end of an arrow. Her fingers twitched a moment before one of the unknown creatures burst forth from the woods. A second later it fell to the ground, clutching at the arrow protruding from its throat.

    “What is that?” Cedric asked as he stretched his hand out towards a second creature, roasting it alive with the flames that shot from his fingers. “A child?” The creatures did in fact almost look like human child. Or more specifically they looked like human men that were the size of children, except with abnormally large feet.

“Ugliest children I’ve ever seen.” Soraya commented as she let loose a third arrow, still standing atop her horse.

    The little children were falling left and right, all thanks to a mounted archer. Erex, the red knight, found himself just short of being bored as the enemies never seemed to get close. Luckily for him, there were more coming and they were just as vicious as before. Erex had this opportunity to get in the fight as the critters closed in fast.

    “Behind you.” Erex said calmly to Cedric before slicing one of them in half across the chest with a mighty swing. He quickly turned to face another, one that had ran up onto a rock before leaping towards him. The red knight simply thrust his fist forward, nearly sending the creature where it had came from. Erex sighed as he planted his foot into another creatures groin, kicking it nearly ten feet away.

    Soraya’s arrow ended the creature Erex had punched as Cedric’s flames ended the one he had kicked. Noticing they had killed all of their foes Soraya half heartedly said “Oops.”

    “You miscounted.” Cedric stated.

    “What?” Soraya asked as she, at last, dropped back into a sitting position.

    “You said there were five.” Cedric pointed at each of the bodies as if counting before adding “There’s six bodies.” Soraya simply rolled her eyes, apparently having decided to not dignify Cedric’s statement with a response.

    She lightly tapped her horse on the side and maneuvered it towards one of the bodies. “Now this is interesting.”

    “What?” Cedric asked as he walked over to the body.

    “Check out this wound.” Soraya said as he approached. “See the missing eye. This is old. Like… years old. And the scarring…. This doesn’t look like it was caused by a battle wound.”

    “So are you thinking torture or some kind of ritualistic sacrifice?” Cedric asked.

    “Could have just lost the eye to an infection.” Soraya said with a shrug.

    “But….?” Cedric pressed.

    “But if you’ll notice his little guy is missing a finger on each hand.” She continued. “And look at this odd scar.” She prodded the creature’s hand with her foot. Cedric’s eyes narrowed as he caught sight of the scarring she had mentioned.

    “Is… that a slave brand on his palm?” Soraya’s only response was another shrug.

    A familiar feminine voice sounded from nearby brush, “They are slaves.” she said, before tossing a human head out to them. The figure cautiously stepped out from the brush, making sure to keep an eye on the ‘shoot first and ask questions later’ archer. “See the markings on its face? Those were tattooed on… willingly.” She paused and looked around at the small bodies that lay about, “Not like the brandings that these unlucky things received.”

    “So there were actually seven of them” Cedric commented.

    “Shut up Cedric” Soraya said with little venom. “Numi” She turned to the newcomer, “We didn’t think you would be joining us.”

    Numi cocked her head slightly and smiled, “You thought I’d miss a foray into these lands?” She said, almost as if there was an expectation for them to know her.

    “Seeing as how no sane person should enjoy this sort of thing,” Cedric turned towards Numi, “I assumed you would.”

    “I’ve been enjoying myself.” Soraya commented. “Well, besides the tiny men trying to murder us.”

    “You were standing on the back of your horse the entire fight. That is not something a sane woman would do.” Cedric countered. Soraya simply shrugged, a small smile forming on her face. “So how long have you been following us?”

    Numi smirked, “About two days now. Well, whenever we left Joannah’s fortress.” She paused, “You guys talk a lot, except for the big red guy.” Her expression turned more serious as she approached Erex, “So, I know that you’re usually the life of the party.” She watched him as he stood silently, “Well, as they say, actions speak louder than words!!”

    “Anyways.” Numi said, “Those little shits have been following you for a short while now. Any idea what or why they were so aggressive?”

    “My guess is they are scouts.” Soraya commented. “Notice the lack of any real gear? They aren’t carrying everything they would need to survive out here. That means they either have someone else doing that or they left it at their camp. Either way its very concerning we didn’t notice them up till now.”

    “You guys didn’t notice them.” Numi said with a snarky tone. “They’ve been following you for some time. I wasn’t sure if they were hostile at first. Guess that matter is settled.” she said before nudging one with her foot.

    “She should complete our objective and get out of her.” Soraya shifted in her saddle. “I don’t want to be nearby once their main force notices they haven’t reported in.”

    “Shall we go up there and see what's around?” Cedric pointed towards a nearby mountain. “Looks like we might be able to reach that ridge halfway up.”

    Numi looked to the mountain, then back to Cedric, “Well, that’s not too far.” The sarcasm was obvious but she was first to turn towards the mountain, “Guess we should start then?”

    “Guess we should” Soraya agreed, lightly kicking her horse into action. “Kohnians lead the way.” Cedric rolled his eyes, following without comment.

    In the end the way up to Cedric’s ridge ended up being a meandering animal trail that went around huge boulders, across rivers, and almost felt to go down as often as up. All through it Soraya seemed confident in the route she was leading the party through and after two hours they found themselves on the ridge, overlooking a valley that opened up towards the east.

    “By the gods” Was all Soraya could get out as she caught sight of the valley below. A valley filled with men and beasts.

    After a moment of shocked silence Cedric commented “Even combined the armies of Cormyral and Riawin are dwarfed by… that.”

    “That’s a lot of soldiers, what do you think they’re up to?” Numi said before pointing towards the beasts, “Are those things supposed to be cavalry? They’d tear a horse to shreds in a heartbeat.”

    “Let’s just hope they aren’t as fast as horses are.” Soraya grimaced at the thought. “Well, we came, we saw, now shall we flee?”

    Numi nodded at Soraya, “We need to be careful leaving though, imagine if that army got wind of us.” She was the first to turn, followed by the red knight. After only one pace, Numi turned to Erex, “What is this tough guy, I figured’ you want to stay and fight.”

“Well, well, well” A deep voice said from nearby. “Now aren’t we just a collection of mangy rats.” Soraya nearly jumped out of her saddle, so startled by the alarmingly close voice. She looked around the nearby woods, but saw nothing. Still, even if the individual had not spoken, she would have known something was amiss by now. She felt a chill that seemed to seep right into her bones, despite the temperature being somewhat warm that day. The wildlife had been silenced; the only things she could hear was the breathing of herself and her companions.

    “Notice that accent?” Cedric whispered.

    “What accent?” Soraya answered.

    “Exactly.” Cedric’s answer came a moment before the owner of the voice revealed itself. He appeared to be a human, or something with a human shape, outfitted in full plate armor. A rarity in of itself, but even stranger was the fact that the armor was obsidian in color, except for a few details made in silver. He did not seem to be particularly large for a human, yet somehow he possessed the presence of a man much larger than he.

    Numi took a defensive stance but refused to comment as she examined the new arrival for any weaknesses in the armor. The red knight grasped the handle of his sword but did not draw it, instead choosing to interact with the black armored warrior, “Who are you?” he said calmly.

“I am the vanguard of Ragnarok, Lord Goscelin.” The black knight answered. “I shall give you four one chance and one chance only to bend the knee to me and our goddess. Or you shall know me as Death.” He drew his arming sword and pointed it at the red knight, his left arm preparing to raise the kite shield it held into position.

Erex, the red knight stood tall. “I will not bow before you.” he said calmly. “Nor will anyone from my homeland.” After speaking he took an offensive stance, drawing his sword and pointing it towards Lord Goscelin, “You will fail.”

Goscelin let out a scream, a bloodcurdling battle cry that had all present shying away. Soraya in particular had trouble keeping her horse from bolting from the inhuman scream. Before any could fully recover Goscelin was already charging towards them. Finally bringing her steed under control, Soraya let loose an arrow moments before Goscelin reached the red knight.

“Mithril?!” Soraya cried as the arrow simply bounced off.

“Not quite.” Goscelin answered as he swung at the red knight.

Erex quickly dodged the swipe as he had anticipated such a move from a charging foe. Once he recovered his footing, Erex then thrust his sword straight at Lord Goscelin’s chest. Goscelin laughed as he stepped to the side, avoiding Erex’s sword. He then brought his shield up just as Cedric, who had circled around to the side, let loose a series of magic missiles. He laughed again as the missiles simply bounced off of his shield.

“Is that the best you have?!” Goscelin demanded as he swung his sword at Erex before taking a few steps back. Clearing some distance between he and Erex, he pointed his sword at Cedric and traced a circle in the air. The moment he finished the circle a bolt of lightning shot out of his sword’s tip, striking Cedric dead center in the chest. The mage crumpled to the ground without a sound.

Soraya let loose a second arrow much to the same effect as the first one. “Any ideas?” She asked as she fired yet a third arrow, this one bouncing off of Goscelin’s helmet. The black knight didn’t even seem to notice. “Cause things are going south fast!”

Erex jumped in to attack again, putting his full force into a wide swipe, to try and catch Goscelin off guard while Numi, seemingly out of nowhere, threw three daggers straight for the joints under the black knights arm. Goscelin managed to block Erex’s attack, but in doing so allowed Numi’s daggers to slip through his defense. Even so two of them simply bounced off. The third dagger seemed to sink in, but Goscelin, if he even noticed the wound, simply didn’t care. Instead he bashed Erex with his shield before putting his strength into a savage slash aimed for the red knight’s neck.

    Numi yelled in anger as her daggers had no effect, “That poison should’ve dropped him in sec-” her frustrations were ended as blood splattered upon her face. Her gaze shifted towards the red knight, right as Goscelin’s sword finished separating Erex head from its body. Numi’s eyes widened in terror as the knights body fell heavy upon the ground, nearly crushing her if not for a swift roll out of the way.

    “Go!” Cedric yelled as he struggled to rise to his feet. He was wounded, but not dead. Yet. “Go now! Warn Mycae and Cormyral!” He reached towards Goscelin, flames shooting forth from his fingers.

    “We have to go!” Soraya cried as she rode up besides Numi, offering the woman a hand up as she glanced towards Cedric.

    “Hurry!” The mage cried as Goscelin, safely behind his shield, began to close with the wounded mage.

    Numi didn’t hesitate when offered a ride and quickly pulled herself up. She turned her attention towards Goscelin, throwing her last dagger towards his helmet, which had the same effect as Soraya’s arrow, “Damn.” she said as the dagger sparked across the helmet and into a nearby bush.

    Soraya kicked her horse into a run the moment Numi was in position. She glanced back once, just in time to see Goscelin close with Cedric, but flinched away before the black knight struck a killing below. Even so she heard the mage’s scream of pain. And Goscelin’s parting words as they charged into the woods.

    “Run swine! It will make no difference whether I end you today or a decade from now!”

Although it was already a few hours past midday, the sun, hanging high in the clear yet pale sky, did not beat mercilessly upon the group's heads, but glimmered whitely through the blurred haze it was itself casting, its light spreading so pervasively through the heavens that it almost seemed to efface itself in its own radiance. Beneath it, the dry brown soil, whose firm consistence had crumbled after ages of exposure to the elements and been reduced to a thick, granulose dust, creaked softly under their steps as their feet arose from misshapen tracks. A heavy silence hung over the arid earth; aside from the sound of their advance, only the loud, rasping breathing of the hulking crustacean-like behemoths in the rear-guard could be heard. Nor was there anything in sight which might have been alive, save for the troop itself. Not a shrub, nor even a desiccated tree-stump or an insect crawling over the cracked surface of the desolation. These lands were barren even compared to the Fell Lords' domain; so barren, indeed, that even the rapacity of the Ironbound and their servants found naught to strip from them. Thus, scarce a sound ever resounded in those forlorn regions; but, on that day, the skittering of chitin claws and the heavy trampling of iron soles had broken the stillness which had for years weighed over them as an unseen shroud.

"How much further is it?" the armoured figure marching at the front of the column inquired, its hollow, metallic voice echoing unnaturally as it resounded over the heads of the squat Riglir flanking it. "Not far, master Harbinger" the nearest of them replied in a scraping, almost intermittent voice, "Reach soon. Easy find before, easy now." The three other such creatures at the forefront of the group nodded vigorously, their knifeclaw-equipped clutches involuntarily twitching to indicate the way forward, then withdrawing in frightened haste let their master punish them for their presumption. But the figure did not pay their gestures any heed to their motions, the eyeless gaze of its helm's darkened slits seemingly fixed on the empty horizon far before them. Neither its inscrutable visage nor its movements betrayed any impatience or hesitation as it strode forth like a grim automaton, its pace regular and deliberate, yet such that its cohorts struggled to remain alongside it.

Finally, after what might have been minutes or hours, the being that had spoken second abruptly stopped in its tracks and raised a sharp, clicking noise by snapping its mandibles in rapid sequence. "Here, master. See before you." it rattled, as it scurried a few steps forward to crouch over what seemed to be markings in the dust. The armoured figure lowered the foot it was about to lift and stood still, as though all ability to move had suddenly forsaken it; behind it, the entire column ground to a halt, blades and carapaces clattering against each other. The ligaments in what should have been the leader's neck scraped against each other with a sharp grinding sound as it lowered its head to observe what the scout was pointing at. By its feet, the other Riglir crawled around and nearly over each other, attempting to catch a glimpse of the find; behind its back, the towering Korekk peered over its shoulders, exchanging low, guttural rumbles.

There, in the sand-like brown soil, were traces of something's passage - a series of rather small, circular depressions, unlike any creature of the Fell Lands would leave behind itself. Indeed, it was no wonder the Riglir who had discovered them did not know what could have left them - such beasts had only been seen within their boundaries once in the latest three centuries, and that had been years ago. "Horses" the Harbinger spoke aloud as he stepped closer to the tracks, "Beasts such as men ride. Some were here not long ago." Yet what horses could there be in those arid wastes, devoid of anything a large animal could feed upon, and, had there even been any, why would they suddenly have appeared now, and not at any moment in the preceding hundreds of years? "Someone must have led them here, and they cannot be far. You, you and you" he pointed the index of his right gauntlet, in sequence, at three of the nearby Riglir, "Follow these tracks, and find those who left them. Smell them, if you must. Once you have seen the intruders, return to me." The creatures signalled their assent with a swaying of their heads which could be reasonably interpreted as nodding and scurried off, dropping on all fours as they ran, their feelers writhing as they sought to locate the scent of their prey.

The Harbinger followed them with his gaze till they vanished behind a ridge, then turned once again to the traces in the dust. Though the lords of the Fell Lands never did expand their holdings into the desolation in the east, seeing as there was naught to be gained by stretching their forces over such an extension of fruitless land, they nonetheless regarded it as part of their dominion, for there was none who might have contested their rule, and, though the wastes were not worth fighting a war over, far would it be from them to effortlessly stake claim to as much as they could. Yet his chief concern was not so much that there had been an intrusion into their supposed lands, but that anyone had come there at all. There was, to his knowledge, no life in the east for as far as any of the Lords' scouts had ever seen, and no word had ever been heard of realms inhabited by men, or the likes of them, lying there. All that was known of the east was that an army assembled from throughout the western lands had once deceitfully lured the greatest Ironbound champions there and slain them, though it had itself been decimated in the struggle. Assuredly, this was further proof of the east's emptiness, for surely the westerners would have chosen for their treachery a spot as remote from any witnesses as they could find. And yet, here was proof that something was indeed stirring there... and it was approaching.

His cogitations were interrupted by the sound of approaching scurrying steps. The scouts were returning - far sooner than he would have liked. This meant that whoever had left these marks could not be far, and, if so, it was likely they were not alone. The Riglir stopped, lowering themselves into a crouch, then one of them spoke: "Men. Many. Great army. Have beasts, wagons, many different banners. More approach. All armed." Its breath was rasping and irregular with exhaustion, and perhaps because of this its words seemed all the more urgent. The other Riglir almost flattened themselves upon the ground, rhythmically rising and falling in brief motions, and even the Korekk shuffled in discomfort.

The Harbinger remained silent for a few moments, his empty eyes apparently boring into nothingness, as though contemplating something beyond the sight of anything else. Then, abruptly, he moved towards the Riglir at his sides, and beckoned to one. "You" his voice resonated, apparently as toneless as before, but in truth subtly laden with a new, impalpable presence. A shade of something which might have been surprise, or even apprehension, lay upon his speech. "Return to the garrison, and bid them send word of this to the Dread Keep. Make haste." As the messenger turned to dart whither he was commanded, Vrathar added, in a lower, almost sepulchral tone, "The Overlord must know."

Eastern Tarkima
Clan Ardir Territory
A small herd of deer, no more then a dozen, were found serenely grazing the snow-blanketed forests of Eastern Tarkima, despite being a land rife with violence and inter-clan warfare. Even the frozen North holds a sense of beauty in its environment, not too far from the grazing deer was a small hunting group, a group of four men slowly making their advance towards the herd, bows in hand and ready to strike. At the lead of the four men was none other then Firgus Holen, Chieftain of the Ardir Clan. Flanking him was his right-hand man, Olaf Tarin, a long time friend and brother of the Chieftain, along the two were two members of Firgus' elite guard. Firgus raised his hand as the herd was within sight. "Alright lads, bows ready." He whispered, pulling out an arrow and readying his bow, his party doing the same as they all took for their respective targets. Firgus begun to tremble as he took him, something Olaf had taken notice of. "Losing your nerve already friend?" Olaf quipped.

Ha! Just you watch!" He laughed as he let go of his arrow, the others soon following, within moments four deer had dropped to the ground, the rest scattering out into the forest, blood staining the snow. Firgus had a satisfied look on his face as he and the others approached their kills. "Come on friend, what troubles your mind?"

Firgus let out a big sigh as he bent down and hauled up the large deer onto his shoulder. "It's Elina."

"Ahhhh, I see." Olaf replied, pausing a moment to lift up his own deer. "Firgus, she's a fine and strong young woman now. She can look after herself, and she won't be alone."

"I know that." He sighed once more. "It nonetheless chills my nerves...she hasn't been far out of my sight since she first stood on her two legs. Ever since her mother passed on." Soon the four begun their return trip to the carts, followed by their trip back home. "She's soon to be married." Olaf said. "And the boy to ask her hand has been pretty damn persistent in pleasing you, I think your Elina is in good hands."

"Perhaps...the boy did punch out a godsdamn grizzly..."

"And even brought you the hide!"

"....You could be right, brother. Still I can't help but wor-" Firgus was abruptly interrupted as a loud beastly roar was heard, from the trees came bursting tall white-furred beast, a pair of horns protruding from it's skull. "YETI!" one of the guards cried out, pulling out his sword, dropping the deer carcass, and charging forth at the beast. His sword managing to pierce through the beast's hide, crying out in pain, the enraged Yeti swung it's arm towards the guard, flying him towards a tree. The others had followed, and pulling their swords, letting out a war cry and charged, encircling and swinging their swords at the beast. But the Yeti would not relent, and grabbed a hold on the other guard, tossing him towards a broken tree, the poor young man impaled by a particularity sharp edge of the damaged tree. In that small moment, Olaf swung his blade, but his timing was off, and had missed the Yeti by a hair. He stumbled and maintained his pose, turning to face the beast, a thought clicked in his head. "Wait..what the hell am I doing?!?" He cursed to himself as he toss the blade aside, and clasped his hands together, and begun praying. In the chaos of the fight, poor Olaf had forgotten the fact that he was a Mage, a member of the Ursya Priesthood to be exact. He hands split apart as blue flames begun to materialize, in that instant he caste his flame magic upon the beast, the flames burning the flesh off it's arm, it had fallen down on its kneels from the sheer pain. "Now Firgus!" he shouted.

Without hesitation, frigus made one last charge towards the yeti, slicing off it's charred arm, followed by piercing through it's chest, straight into its heart, in mere seconds the Yeti had gone limp, life leaving its eyes, Firgus rose one leg up and pushed the beast back to liberate his blade.

All was no quiet and calm for a moment, firgus breathing in and out in rapid succession, the thrill of the fight just exiting his system. All the sudden, both Firgus and Olaf had a fit of laughter. "Still has spiry as ever!" Firgus cried out. The laughter unfortunately was cut short as he, olaf and the wounded guard took notice of their dying comrade, a few minute pass as they worked to free him from the tree, and place him on the ground. "Oh Gods..." the first guard muttered as he saw his brother-in-arms in his last moments, a gaping hole in his chest. He turned to Olaf with a desperate facial expression. "You must do someone! Can your magic not reverse this?!" Olaf sadly shook his head, "My boy, this is beyond my healing magic...I'm afraid we can not do much for the poor lad..."

In a but a small moment of life, the dying guard struggled to utter a word. "I...serve.." he continued to struggle.

"No need to say a thing, guardsmen." Firgus said kindly, grasping his hand. "You've done your chieftain, your clan and your family proud, know this as you come to the loving embrace of Ursya."

The guardsmen made one last smile begin he had finally passed on. More time had passed as the three worked to give the warrior a proper burial worthy of a Tarkiman, a large pile of stones cover his body, his blade piercing the ground in front of the pile. The once again had a moment of silence as they resumed their journey to the carts and onward to home.

(SpleenxGold)

Dust motes suspended in the morning sunlight. Golden shafts speared through thin cotton curtains, spilling out into a small dusty tavern room worth about two meals and a mid morning snack. Splayed out on a thin mattress held up only by a wobbly wooden frame was a young man from the desert. His wiry black hair covered his dark face, save for where his intoxicated snore pushed it away only to suck it back down.

An empty bottle laid loosely in his grip, his other hand holding a dinged up flanged mace that had seen fair use. His linen shirt was wrinkled and covered in splotches of the previous night, including the crimson red of an unnecessary brawl over nothing but pride and the will to die. Knives of all sizes scattered the floor where dusty shoes and cloaks laid, and a long curved blade laid hazardly on top of a leather coat meant to be worn under the armor of a soldier.

The man twitched his nose and a hand of calloused and bloody knuckles retreated from the bottle to scratch it, falling down to a stubbled cheek after the deed. A stiff breeze sent the curtains of the room into a flap, allowing the breeze to rush in and brush the hair from the man’s face, surrendering it to the morning sun.

The man groaned from a sobering headache and opened his deep brown eyes to the optimistic morning rays, greeting it with an angry and pessimistic grunt, disappointed in being alive another day. He wiped his forehead, swiping sweat from a unique tattoo of a hand, an insignia worn by the scholars of the Sakabanatu desert, a very upholding and moral society, whose meaning was long lost in this man’s mind. He only knew of three things now a days, a huge contrast to his days as a student of knowledge and spirituality: one, that every day he lived with the knowledge of the past his heavy wish of death only grew, two, that he knew he was destined to die in a blaze of glory worthy of his long lost relatives and friends, and three, that no matter how hard he tried to die, one woman would intercept him every damn time.

Turning onto his shoulder he looked over to the hidden body that also laid on the other side of the bed, the sleeping form of a woman, a woman who only owned the body of a human from the waist up, but the tail of a snake from the waist down, a Lamia. He pushed himself up onto his arms and continued his hungover stare. This was the woman who single handedly ended a massive brawl the night previous, the woman who kept his own throat from being slit when he fell over himself, drunk and belligerent. Of course it wouldn’t have been the best way to go, but at least he would’ve died fighting, and then maybe he would have the chance to see his lost family and tribe, but then again would it have been a worthy death for his cause? Perhaps not, the man shrugged, but then again, he would have been dead.

“Someday you’ll break something important” The lamia said as she stirred. “Hil,” It was her nickname for the man that had saved her so long ago, “you can’t keep doing this.” She turned her head towards him; although her eyes remained closed, she still knew exactly where he was. She reached towards him and, after a moment of slight fumbling, managed to grab one of his hands. “At least they are are only scraped and bruised this time.” She said as she lightly touched his knuckles with her fingers.

Hildako looked down at Cyra’s fingers and formed a fist, “they will be healed before dusk, and ready for the next fight.” He pursed his lips, a look of annoyance aimed at his traveling companion, “but I suppose that just means you’re going to be ready to intervene by dusk then, too.”

“I’m always ready to intervene Hil.” Cyra’s smile belied the fact that Hildako was annoyed. Perhaps she found some degree of enjoyment from annoying the man. Either way she smiled sweetly at her companion as she said “Or maybe -and I know this is quite the stretch- but maybe we could leave for Kern. We could catch a ship to Xoskea from there. I know many consider the southern islands to be a paradise.”

“Can’t,” Hildako pulled his hand away from hers while making a face he knew she wouldn’t see anyways, “we have too much work to do here and elsewhere. Moving, sleeping, eating, it costs money, and we need contracts, lots of contracts, the kind you won’t find in Xoskea. But hey, I’m not the one keeping you here with me.”

He squirmed slightly at the sound of his final words escaping his lips before he could even think about them, but quietly accepted them with a sigh.

“Hil” Cyra said after a long, and almost intentionally overdramatic sigh, “you know we have more than enough money saved up. We wouldn’t even need to waste money on a ship if that was an issue.” She moved her hand up to his forearm and gave it a light squeeze as she asked “Would you at least consider it? Just for a month or two?”

“I can’t afford to waste months chasing paradise,” Hildako sat up, looking down at Cyra, long wiry hair falling past his chin, “mercenary contracts are popping up like crazy these last few weeks and the stakes are getting larger along with the rewards. People are getting desperate, and dangerous. I can’t miss this opportunity.”

“Just... think about it.” Her tone, and the way there was a distinct pause between the first and second words of her sentence, were a clear indicator of finality in the conversation. She rose from the bed and turned her back to Hildako, something that she never did while in the middle of a conversation, before slithering towards wardrobe that currently held all of their clothes. She misjudged the distance, smacking her head into the wardrobe. “Damn” She cursed, backing away slightly and giving her head a slight shake.

Hildako held out hand as if about to warn her, but flinching as he heard the smack. He sucked air between his teeth and slipped onto his feet, kicking aside one of the discarded blades, “you okay, Cy?”

“Yes” Her tone disagreed with her. She turned back towards Hildako, showing a bright red spot on her forehead, before turning back to the wardrobe. “Damn!” She cursed again as she smacked the wardrobe’s door against the side of her head.

Hildako flinched again, reaching out to move the door out of her way. With a sigh he looked over her new injuries, “and yet I’ve seen you pacify mobs.”

Taking her hand into his he guided it into the wardrobe and onto the collar of a fresh shirt.

“An army of heavily armored men is something I can handle” Cyra commented as she grasped the shirt. “This…. Monstrosity” There was more than a little venom in her tone, “is not to be trifled with.” She slipped out of her old clothes, either forgetting Hildako was right next to her or simply not caring, as she continued “I swear someone moves this damned thing every time I sleep. AND I’m pretty sure the length of the doors are different as well.”

“That would explain the people who break into our rooms at night and move around the furniture too,” Hildako replied, a hand over his eyes. By now he was actually quite used to the situation he found himself in, but still found it polite to preserve modesty. After a brief moment of listening to her struggle with what he assumed was an unruly sleeve he tilted forward on his toes, hand still drawn over his face, “done?”

“Maybe?” Cyra not quite answered. She patted herself down and then gave a contented grunt. “Ok. Where are we going today?”

“You’re not going to like it,” Hildako answered, taking his hand off his face to inspect the wardrobe for his own change of clothes, “remember fat Gil? He liked what we did with those outlaws and deserters so much he wants to hire us again, this time Grogar if I heard right, big money, big risk, big Grogar, I think he said.”

“If he steps on my tail again” Cyra said, “then Eros be my witness I will end him.”

Hildako rolled his eyes, “if you want, you can stay here while I go talk to him?” He snatched a new white shirt, and pants and began to clean himself up.

“As much as I’d love the chance to catch the bastards who keep moving our wardrobe,” Cyra said, “I’d rather catch some sun.”

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Gil’s office was actually an old guarding post repurposed, long abandoned of any municipal duty after the city expanded past its jurisdiction. The exterior stone walls and crowning watchtower had fallen into disrepair but as soon as one passed the reinforced door, the interior was anything but unnoticed. The walls were lined with trophies and paintings from local games and artists. Littered between the art were the tackiest decorations once could imagine, from gold plated alabaster dragons to Ogryn guards made out of fake ruby and cheap wood. The old slitted windows were replaced with large bow windows that let in floods of light to cover the rugs that covered the floor with an overwhelming amount of popping colors. Hildako poked one of the life sized Ogryns, trying to ignore the headache the very floors of this overdone room was giving his hungover head. The hollow structure tilted back, summoning a groan from a fat man sitting on a fatter chair, the two looking almost symbiotic.

“I don’t know why you stay in this game,” Fat Gil continued a previously interrupted conversation, “with your reputation you could be sitting pretty by now but hey, I am not complaining; That last job you did netted me some nice profit with the merchants guilds around here, even landed an obligatory tariff on one road.”

“Uh huh,” Hildako turned from the statue and rested his hand on the hilt of his long curved blade that sat upon his belt, armed to the teeth with blades of all shapes and sizes, plus one flanged mace, “so what am I throwing my life at this week?”

“A lot,” Gil gave a toothy grin, minus the two front teeth, “things are whipping up. My sister Leona in Mycae can barely keep up with the contracts herself.”

Mimicking a hawker he started numbering his fingers, “we got rogue ogryn, we got grogar war bands, we got paramilitary, we got deserters, bandits, goons, armed peasants, strange refugees from the east, we got it all kid!”

“You and miss scowl over there are going to be busy,” Gil laughed, “assuming you want the contracts.”

“I hope you aren’t going to try and sneak in a few counterfeit Kern silvers in our payment like the last time.” Cyra didn’t quite snarl. Not that receiving those coins was a problem in and of themselves as they did have real silver in them, just not as much silver as the legitimate Kern silvers. She let her snarl turn into a more neutral frown as she added “What’s going on Gil? Everyone is acting as normal, but I can tell there are more soldiers on the streets. The nobility is gearing up for war again. Is Riawin going to restart the war?”

“We can only hope so,” Gil shrugged, “that’d mean more business, and definitely more work for you and your friend.”

“You two are getting quite a name for yourself, and it’s lining my pocket to be working with you two, so rest assured I’ll have you on the top of the list as always,” Gil gave a wicked smile.

Hildako nodded, “that’s great and all, but what about the contracts, what about the action, that’s what I want to hear.” The young man was now turned completely away from the statues, trying to ignore his companion’s potential disappointment while he himself was busy staring down fat Gil.
Gil chuckled a wet chuckle, “you see this is why I love you guys, straight to the point, with not a care in the world. Okay I have a few lined up, I assume you want the much more… opportunistic... one again?”

“I don’t suppose we could take a more relaxing job,” Cyra said with a sigh, “for once.” She already knew Hildako would throw himself at the most dangerous job without hesitation. Still she could have a bit of hope. “No? Of course not.”

Gil folded his fingers across his bulging stomach, “I mean, it isn’t out of the question. Yes I prefer you guys on the biggest and baddest sets, but if you wanted to clean out my small bin first, I wouldn’t object.”

Hildako looked at Cyra, his left eye wincing more than it normally did, “C’mon Cyra, we tried that once before, but it was nothing more than stiff warnings and shake downs.”

“I like shake downs.” Cyra countered. “There's significantly less people shooting arrows at me. And have you tried digesting chain mail?”

“No…” Hildako begrudgingly answered, “but it is a waste of…” he pondered the correct words, “opportunity to advance in the field.”

His wince softened into its normal wrinkle, a twitch he has owned since the day he saved Cyra, “I think the larger contracts would be better, at least for me.”

Gil made a face and leaned back, “I’d love to say I have all day, but I’m a very busy man. What do you two want.”

While impatient, Gil even know better than to attempt to split the two up on separate contracts.

“Fine do as you will Hil” She jabbed a finger into his chest, “but don’t pretend that wandering aimlessly through the woods is the same as advancing on an objective.” She prodded him again with her finger before turning to leave the room. There was a moment of hesitation before she slithered towards the door.

Hildako gave out a frustrated sigh before looking at Gil, who simply shrugged with an indifference gained after seeing this particular fight many times. Hildako bit his lip in thought.

“Why do you keep her around if she just makes your decision making more fuddled,” Gil suddenly asked.

“I don’t keep her around, she keeps me around,” Hildako answered mindlessly, “give me the usual.”

Gil sighed, knowing what Hhildako meant, having been in this situation before, “two smalls and one big coming right up, kid.”

Hildako looked over the man with his wince, “shakedowns?”

Gil gave a single prolonged nod, “and one bandit cave.”

Hildako sighed, “put my name on them, and have the papers sent to my room at the Gilded Pelican Inn.”

“Should make her happy,” Gil snickered, “consider it done.”

“Whatever,” Hildako gave a frustrated frown, “hopefully I won’t be seeing you again.” The young man made his way to the door, hearing Gil yell out after him, “AS ALWAYS, KID!”

Hildako slammed the door behind him, greeting the noon sun, a busy cobble road fit between run down shops, and one pissed off lamia.

“The usual,” Hildako parroted at Cyra, his look of contempt hinted at which usual it was, and not the dangerous kind.

Cyra turned slightly towards Hildako, a small smile forming on her face. “Shall we get some breakfast before starting on our day’s work then?”

Volus x Serp



Timid pulled himself up onto his horse allowing himself a small sigh. Even though the orders were from the empress herself, still he couldn't believe the mission which he was about to embark upon. He began to wonder if the empress would ever give up on this near pointless endeavor or if he would be stuck coming up with a better plan simply to see her smile again. The only thing he knew for sure was if he ever got the chance he would slit the traitors throat himself, if for no other reason then the misery she has caused the empress. As he left through the gates of the castle towards Cormyral he noticed a beautiful young woman that save for a few scars may have even rivaled his empress. Raymond was escorting her which would normally not be that odd, seeing as he would often partake in the finer pleasures of life, except he was leading her toward the castle. Perhaps he was trying to make the empress jealous again, it rarely works in his favor but that never stopped him before. Still this woman seemed almost pompous, like she felt superior to her fellow kin.

Timid sighed again and continued on his journey, if he was to travel to Cormyral's capital without going crazy he would need to stop focusing on every detail and relax. It would be a long trip with no one but his feathered friends and his own thoughts for company. He was starting to wonder which was scarier.

***

Raymond escorted Sylvia through the streets pointing out statue after statue, most of which were nude of course.
"So whats it like working for those lizard folk?"

Sylvia slowed her steed down as she moved through the city, nostalgia forcing her to look around at the city, looking between the statues that Raymond pointed with brief apprehensive, as well as slight wishfulness, Sylvia turned to her guide.

"The weak are eaten alive. Literally, I mean."

"Well you do look quite delectable yourself. You know, you could always stick around. I'm sure the temples would be happy to take a woman of your...stature. I know I would be sure to pop in from time to time."

Sensing the mans obvious intention, Sylvia couldn't help but laugh, for a moment breaking her trained aloofness. It has been a long time since I've heard something like that She thought.

"Maybe I will, who knows..."

Raymond drew in closer to Sylvia
"Well, I could always give you a taste..."

"You'll, sadly, have to wait though" she said while twirling the wooden container with the diplomatic missive within in her hand "I have things to do". Ah, how she enjoyed playing with peoples hearts, or a certain member, as is more the case here.

"Damn, you're as serious as Timid. You know, it wouldn't hurt to play abit. Hell, since we are off to see Runewind we could always ask her to join us. She is always more...agreeable after a good bedding down."

"So. What is she like, the Empress I mean?" Sylvia said, deciding to change the subject on the spot.

Raymond stopped for a moment with a confused look on his face, not familiar with rejection.
"She is...a child. She may be 42 but she still acts like a teenager. Honestly though, you can't help but to love her...or hate her. There isn't much in between. She has a good heart but her emotions can get the best of her, especially after the recent wars. To be honest I'm surprised you would risk meeting with her...you might want to reconsider my previous offer, you may not get another chance."

Sylvia hesitated to respond, weighing the odds if he was serious or just trying another attempt at getting into her dress. "She does not recognise the protections offered to emissaries?"

"She does...but like I said...her emotions... Well if it comes to it ill try and convince her a sentence of life devoted to Eros in the temples would be better then execution...or at least I can try and get you a less disaggreable death then the feathered freaks."

"Well, why thank you" Sylvia sighed then, her amusement with this strange man running out.

"Don't mention it. It would be a shame to see such a beauty torn apart...again."
Raymond and Sylvia stopped before a set of large and ornate doors.
"The Empress is just ahead. I'll go in first and judge her mood before declaring your arrival. Shall I delay till tomorrow if her mood is sour?"

'If it would sate your need to protect me from... Eros temples... then you may delay our meeting if you wish"

Raymond gave a slight nod and a snicker before vanishing behind the doors, leaving Sylvia alone with her thoughts.

This was it, Sylvia thought. The Supreme Tyrant had been clear, Sylvia was to meet this empress personally and give her this message. Her possible death did not matter, as all was already concluded by the Supreme Tyrants visions that guaranteed her success. Having grown up as a child-hostage within the Dominion had ensured long ago her willingness to do even the suicidal if it meant proving her usefulness, and more importantly, that she was not weak.

As moments passed Raymond returned from behind the doors.
"So bad news, the Empress is in a less then stellar mood. Worse news, she already knows you are here and is expecting you. I recommend not mentioning Cormyral or traitors...or anything about hair..."
And with that the great doors began to open.

"You may enter." Beckoned a voice from the throne.
Hesitantly Sylvia approached the throne with Raymond taking his place by the Empresses side.

The room was dimmed, save for the glow of candelabras set about the wide platform, upon which stood a life-sized effigy of solid ivory. It had the form of a young dancing woman, carved to a marvelous realism. Such was its likeness that if its flesh colored and sprung to life, it would be the desire of all men and the envy of women.
Prostrate before the idol was a lithe figure, olive skin shining in the candlelight, dark hair woven and decorated with ostentatious bands. She wore only a gold-chased girdle encrusted with gems and a silken skirt, transparent as gossamer. Her eyes looked to the white face above her, arms outstretched and grasping at air.

“Twenty years it has been, since I have taken the throne in my brother’s place! Twenty years and he has not returned to me. But he cannot be dead - every man on the field that day was examined for his likeness,” Princess Yadira exhaled, wringing her hands together. “I have done all I can for Hyrkos, if only by the guidance of Vizier Gaspar and Agaipos’s friends. Yet I am afraid! The Dakarragord have only grown stronger since their conquest. Amberland is no more, and Riawin is a shell of its former glory. Hyrkos is alone and, without Agaipos, I too feel as such! Oh Ishtar, what do I do?”

Yadira’s head drooped in resignation and she groped at the marble floor. She was exhausted from all this kingly work, even with the tutelage of Gaspar and the reassuring words of Agaipos’s inner circle, two decades of a monarch’s duties bore down on her like a river erodes stone. To gossip and play with her handmaidens again, and run among the gardens as she did in her youth! That was the life she wanted again.
A silky, feminine voice stirred Yadira from the marble, and lips parted in an O of surprise, she gazed on Ishtar’s idol.

“Be at ease, daughter of Eneas.” The words were rhythmic and honeyed, and they seemed to come from all around her, besides the effigy itself. From it, Yadira sensed an intangible presence of immense power and knowing.
“I know what it is that ails you. Follow my directions, and in doing so, save your brother, your kingdom and the entirety of Askor with it. Place Hyrkos in the hands of Vizier Gaspar and gather up a troop of one-hundred and eight trusted men. Go you to Cormyral and seek out Duchess Lynette ‘The Lioness.’ Dark events transpire in the east, and Mycae will fall...”

“Oh, but I am frightened! I know nothing of the lands in the east!” Yadira moaned with a shudder. But her goddess did not speak again. The princess picked herself up from the floor, and as she did so, her eye caught glimpse of a trinket on the altar that had not been there before. Gingerly, she picked it up, dainty fingers wrapping around a gemstone as white as milk. At its touch, it felt warm and comfortable, like a toy a child prizes above all others. Yadira slid the cord it hung from around her neck, and slipped from the chamber, half-terrified, but with a liveliness in her step that told of a surge of purpose.


And so Yadira mustered one-hundred and eight of her finest Tagmata, departing from Iznea by ship. She had left Gaspar to act as regent in her absence, and kissed her handmaidens goodbye. Upon the canopied aft, stretching her limbs on silken cushions, Yadira spared a long gaze at her homeland, fingers tight around the white gemstone at her breast.

Spleen x Ekreture



The leaders of the usually separate hordes piled into the main tent of the king yet again. For the first time in two decades, the morale of the horde has actually seemed to raise, with children starting to play outside, and people regularly praying at the gods' shrines.

King Vorin sat on a mat; since the hordes were to leave the next morning, he'd rather not set up a whole table. He wore a robe, not feeling the need for armor being in Mycaean territory, and awaited as his advisors and the leaders of his people piled in; Drago, the scout, often seen as the hero of the Scaveni. Reimlyk the Younger, the dwarf hero and bearer of the Sword of Lodd, who know often speaks for the Dwarves. Sudd, his brother, and leader of one of the military hordes, with Lessik, the High Priest of Vascun and known werewolf following behind him. Wunal Luddsman, another leader of a military horde, and his close friend. His sons, hated by the commoners, but tolerated by the nobility. Rudik Greentree, the High Judge, and supervisor of the main horde. A few more followers, nobles, and Scaven members followed after, and after some pleasantries were exchanged, Vorin spoke up.

"As you may have noticed, my daughter, Eosia, is missing." There were worried murmers among the group. "Do not fret-I have sent her to establish relations with the nearest nation to the west...Corm...Corp..Cone..."

"Cormyral," corrected Drago. He and Reimlyk were the only ones in the test who still carried their weapons wherever they went. Vorin gazed at him with annoyanced, and gave a quick glance to the dragon on his neck. 

"Yes. But in the meanwhile, Rudik, how are the foodstores?" Rudik grew red in the face. He knew he would have to talk at some point, but even though the news wasn't terrible, it could still be better. And he didn't want anyone to harbor animosity towards the Mycaeans.

"Uh...well...the Mycaeans have refused to restock our food supplies...but we should be able to make it to this...Corn...mural...with food. If they agree to provide us with some food, we should be fine." Vorin nodded. 

"Good." He looked at Reimlyk. The dwarf was sitting off to the side watching a mouse run around on the floor. Every way it went, he would box it in, but for some reason it never gave up that it would find a way out. "Reimlyk, it's been awhile since I've heard your voice. How goes it in the dwarf camp?" Reimlyk looked up the King of the humans he travelled with.

"Good." Vorin raised an eyebrow. 

"Good?" Reimlyk nodded. "Pigs are fat. I haven't killed a tin man in a while. It is good."

"Ragnarok has begun" A feminine voice spoke up. "Just as was foretold three hundred years ago." The speaker stepped forward from the shadows where there clearly had been no one mere moments ago. She was dressed much as she was the previous times she had appeared before King Vorin and his men, in a simple brown cowl, the hood raised and the obviously unnatural shadows it cast completely hidding the top half of her face from view.

Wunal's eyebrows rose high. "The Sage!" As Drago looked over to her, his hand moved to his axe. He didn't like things he couldn't immediately understand...of course, she had always been helpful. But he wasn't sure where she's been leading them. King Vorin stood up from the mat and stepped towards her. "Sage, what is it you speak of?"

"Ragnarok" The Sage answered. "The End War and the ultimate objective of those you call the Einherjar." She seemed to look at each individual in turn before turning her gaze to Vorin. "All that has occured till now has been to sustain them and grow their power in preparation for this."

Sudd spit on the ground, his arms folded below his long, black beard. "If this is the end why have you led us here? Why not let us die as heroes in our homeland?" Lessik smiled at his lord's bravery in speaking in such away, licking the tips of his sharpened teeth. Rudik, on the otherhand, started sweating, nervous that she would lash out at the king's brother.

"I merely showed you a possible path." The Sage sounded almost amused. "It was you who chose to walk on it." She took a few steps towards Sudd and, despite being dwarfed by the man, somehow seemed to possess the presence of a much bigger entity. "What is a hero?" She asked after a moment. "A man who throws his life away for nothing?" She paused for a moment, almost as if inviting him to answer. "Or a man who sacrifices so that others may live?"

The king's brother grunted, and stood, looking at her directly in the eyes. "And what sort of living is this? Moving every night? Fighting an enemy that we could never defeat? Living in squalor in a land a continent away from where we are from?" The last question was a shout. He inhaled deeply, before saying, in a quieter voice, "I did not choose to be here." He looked to his brother. "I merely obeyed."

"ENOUGH!" Surprisingly, this did not come from the king. Reimlyk, dwarfed even by The Sage, now stood proudly. "Sudd, if you had died, there would have been more men. By Vascun's breath, Sjin, if all the Scaveni had died, there would have been more men. But only ten thousand of my kind still walk this earth, and I must see if there is a way to keep them on it." He looked to the Sage. "So? Is there?" Sudd, still disconent, grunted and sat back down.

"This continent has strength enough to fend off this threat." The Sage said. "But it is divided. Distracted. Vulnerable. Its greatest power, Mycae, will be hit early and hard. Whether the blow shatters the rest or helps consolidate them..." The Sage shrugged. "The hearts of men are hard to read."

Reimlyk had sat down while she spoke. Drago, still sitting, gazed at her, and spoke, not standing with the same passion as his comrades. "And us? What is our part in this? Yes, you showed us a path, but why? There were countless lands and peoples closer to this continent than Scavenia. Why have you chosen us while all others perished?" His hand had moved off of his axe. He was leaning back, but very curious about her answer to this question.

"A wise friend once told me 'you ought not look a gift horse in the mouth.'" Her lips turned upwards ever so slightly at the memory. "Will you waste your questions on my motivations or seek knowledge about these lands you find yourself in?"

Drago rolled his eyes. Now Vorin spoke again. "I have sent my daughter to Cormyral. Will she be safe there? And can they help us?" He seemed more worried as he spoke about his daughter than in anything else he spoke of. The princes, by now, as usual, had left, and were now off tormenting some commoners somewhere.

"Cormyral has food enough to feed your people" The Sage answered, "and still have some to spare. But it is not a monolithic entity. And there is much fear in that country. To its west is the Kingom of Riawin, which until recently controlled Cormyral. Mycae is also an object of great fear in Cormyral as, even though Mycae aided it against Riawin, it could also invade. There are whispers of the war with Riawin resuming." She paused before adding "That would be most unfortunate given events in the east."

Sudd leaned forward. "What of this Riawin? Will we be forced to take a side, or could we make arrangements with both? I cannot imagine it would be easy for them to put aside their hatreds." 

Lessik spoke up for the first time that day. "Who of them are stronger?"

"I cannot read the hearts of men" The Sage said to Sudd. "Who you side with, if anyone, is entirely up to you." She turned towards Lessik and spread her arms out to either side. "They are both powerful, but in different ways. Riawin has three distinct military groups, each that follows different leaders and employs different tactics. Despite this clear division of leadership, as a whole these armies are unified by their loyalty to Riawin and their 'Empress'. Cormyral's troops are experts of skirmishing and possess exquisite bow cavalry, but their loyalties lie with their ruling nobles first and the country as a whole second. Despite this division of loyalty, they are still united by their fear of external threats. In the end Cormyral won its independence from Riawin, but some would say that was due to the Empress's disinterest in continuing the war."

Drago still sat back, eyeing her inquisitively. "Do you speak to Cormyral? Or Riawin? Or Mycae? Do you just speak to us?" There was silence in the room for a second, before the scout sighed and lept up from the floor. "Forgive me for being apprehensive, Sjin, but after twenty years of flight, I think I've earned the right. I am aware of your refusal to say why you've made the Scaveni your...project. But I at least want to know if we're in any way unique."

"Do you wish to believe yourselves to be some kind of 'chosen' people?" The Sage asked.

Drago stepped closer. His arms were crossed, his upper teeth digging into his lower lip. Though his eyes showed know fear, the many other members of the Scaven in the room did. "I wish to know the truth." There was a fire in his breath.

"And if I refused to speak?" The Sage closed the distance between them, coming close enough that he could easily wrap his arms around her. She turned her head up to look at him, her lips forming a smile. "Would you beat me? Strangle me? Rip my hood off and pull my eyes out of my head? Wrap those arms of yours around me and crush me in their embrace till I stopped moving?" For a moment her smile seemed to widen, but suddenly her lips flattened into a frown. "What value is there to the truth if it doesn't aid you?"

Though he didn't move, Drago's spirit seemed to step back a little, his eyebrow raising at her violent descriptions. "The Mycaeans...they speak of a prophecy...one of a darkness. I am to guess the Einherjar, your Ragnarok...they are a part of it." The Scout relaxed his arms, and leaned forward. "Nowhere in this prophecy do they speak of half a million refugees pouring over the borders." He moved his hand over his beard. "Ten years fighting, you wonder how you're alive. Twenty years...you ask why. Forgive me if I offended the Sjin with my intrusiveness...and I would not hurt The great Sage." He turned to sit back down on his mat, but before he did, added on, "Although if others have in the past, I am sorry."

"You need not answer for the crimes of others" The Sage said after a moment, almost sounding disappointed. "The... so called Prophetess of these lands was a powerful being, but she was far from perfect. Otherwise she would not have given that final prophecy while being burned at the stake." The Sage shook her head as she spoke and gave a small shrug. "But to answer your question from earlier: I am, as of yet, unknown to the peoples of these lands. Now then..." She turned back towards the king. "Is there any other answers you seek?"

Vorin studied her for a moment, and, just as he began to shake his head, Wunal spoke up. "The gods. Do they still watch us? Lodd? Wanous? Aea?" He paused. "I...I know...you may not be able to answer this question. But...you must have some divine knowledge if you have known all that you do!"

The Sage regarded Wunal for a moment, seeming unsure whether to answer or not. After a moment she opened her mouth to speak. "The old gods have long since abandoned us. Can you not sense the gradual weakening of magic as their blood in us" She placed a hand over her chest, "becomes ever more dilluted. With every passing year the dragons become less magnificent, the children of mages that much more mundane. We are dying out and soon all that is left in this world will be mundane." She paused, sniffed, a smile spreading across her face again. "Or perhaps I will be proven wrong and they shall return."

Wunal simply nodded, and looked away from her. Lessik bared his teeth when she said they had been abandoned. Drago looked down, finding himself clutching onto his dragon pendant. It seemed warmer than normal. Reimlyk laughed. "Lodd left us out in the darkness and all I get is his lousy sword."

"That is more than most ever recieved from the old gods" The Sage turned as if she meant to return to the shadows from which she had made her entrance. She paused, however, as a thought occured to her. "They are close behind you." She said to Vorin. "Lord Goscelin has already fought mighty warriors from these lands."  She let out a long sigh. "He found them wanting. One of the four is dead. Another they are no feeding on. The remaining two are in flight."

Vorin stroked his beard. "Do we seek them? Will they find us?" He sighed. "I swear, you get more cryptic with every visit."

"They will either escape on their own or fall short." The Sage answered. "There is nothing you can do to alter their fate. I tell you only so you realize just how close the Einherjar are." She smiled at him. "Or would you rather I have just said something cryptic?"

Vorin nodded, embarrassed. "The hordes will split tomorrow, and we will resume our travelling westward. Thank you." Drago laughed. "Would The Sage like some mead before she heads back to the shadows?" He now laid back on the floor, with his head on the mat, looking up at the tent roof. He hated how powerless he felt sometimes.

The Sage shook her head as she turned away, but even so the ghost of a smile was visible to those looking. "Perhaps I will accept such a sacrifice another time." She said as she walked towards the shadows. "Although I would much prefer wine." She reached the shadows and walked into them, completely disappearing from view. "Perhaps if you prepare some and pray hard enough for my presence I'll come."



The royal palace in Levine was by no means one of the great architectural wonders of the continent. It was a modest building, at least in terms of palaces, located in the center of town. What set it apart from most others was it had clearly been added to in recent years. New standards were evident throughout the building, new fur and cloth rugs. Even the doors that led to the throne room looked brand new.

"Prince Madec will see you and your party now" One of the soldiers who guarded those doors said to Princess Eosia. Something that would have become evident to her and those in her party early on was that the city, no the entire country, was preparing for war.

The doors were opened to admit the princess entry, granting her view of a large, but mostly empty, throne room. Towards the back was the throne, an elder man rested upon it. He didn't immediately notice the princess and her group, his attention on a young woman who stood to his side, discussing or arguing with him. As if to contrast the prince, the woman was young, in her mid to late twenties, and dressed in chain mail armor. An arming sword sheathed at her hip.

Eosia somewhat mirrored the young woman, still adorned by a full suit of scale armor, with a large shield in her hand, and her sword in her belt. She was followed by eleven of her shieldmaidens, all dressed in a similar fashion. The looked around; despite the modest nature of the palace, it still impressed them, being one of the first true buildings they stood in in years. Eosia looked between the two of them, unsure of who to approach; her grasp of their language was somewhat limited, and she still found gender to be confusing. Still uncertain, she simply stepped forward, placing her clench fist on her chest as a Scaveni sign of respect. 

"Sjenna, it is great honor speaking with you," said the warrior princess. "I come, represent my people. Scaveni." Her hair, unallowed to cut it as according to Scaveni custom, was tied in a side braid which trailed down to her chest.

"Sjenna..." The old man leaned forward in his throne. "Scaveni. These words are unknown to me."

The young woman frowned at her liege before turning towards Eosia. "This is his Majesty, Prince Madec. And I am Duchess Langelier." She gave Eosia a slight bow. "What brings you to our lands?"

The shieldmaidens behind Eosia were muttering to each other, pointing to the Duchess, with one word being heard above others; 'Gjerla'. Eosia nodded at her in thanks. She was nervous, used to war, not diplomacy. "I, Scaveni. My people, Scaveni. My father...he is...no prince..." She thought for a moment for the correct word. "King."

She built up the sentences in her head before continuing. "I am Eosia, child of Vorin. My people were once many, but now, not...we are from far. Far from this...Askor? Fought from home...Scavenia. The Einherjar...they fought us long. Since I was small. We...need travel through these lands."

Prince Madec raised an eyebrow as he exchanged a look with the Duchess. "Your people traveled here from beyond the mountains?"

The Duchess' frown deepened. "Einherjar.... Are they still pursuing you after so long? You must be at least twenty years old. How many of you are there? Where are you going?"

"And what" Madec cut in, "Does Girla... Geja... Gjerla? What does that mean?"

At the prince's question, Eosia's face grew red. "Gjerla...it is, eh...kin of spirit?" She looked to the Duchess. "We are Feljirtas...eh...women of shields. You are too. So we Gjerla." She looked down. How is she getting embarrassed? She's sliced through fields of Einherjar like a knife through butter, but meeting with some lord she gets embarrassed? She looked back at them. "Einherjar...yes, twenty years. How long they have...purse-ued. I am twenty and five. Eh..." She tried figuring out how many there were.

"Half of one...melon. There are half of one melon Scaveni." She reddenned at the snickers of the guards, then realized her mistake. "Million! Half of one million Scaveni." She paused. "The Einherjar...they will destroy the...Mai-say. So we go west."

"That sounds disturbingly like the prophecy." The Duchess commented. Prince Madec simply rolled his eyes.

"Why you believe such nonsense is beyond me." He said. "We have greater concerns than your fairy tail. We both know the Riawins are spoiling for a fight."

"And this Einherjar threat?" The Duchess turned slightly towards her liege while keeping an eye on the Scaveni.

"They are Mycae's problem." The prince answered, eliciting a small shake of the head from the Duchess. "We don't even know if they" he gestured towards the Scaveni, "are speaking the truth."

"True." The Duchess agreed. "But we soon will. Cedric will return with the answers we seek."

The Prince scowled at her. "We will discuss that later." He returned his full attention to Eosia. "You wish to move a half million people through our lands?" His eyes narrowed. "That's an army."

Fairy tale. The words were ringing in Eosia's head. That this spoiled Prince dared to degrade her and her people's struggle as a mere story...she felt a rage build inside of her. But, as she was about to start shouting, she closed her eyes, and breathed deeply. Rage would get her nowhere. Instead, she handed her shield to one of her maidens, and looked up at the two of them. "May I pull sword, Sjenna?"

The Prince seemed to be about to say 'no', but simple shrugged and gestured for her to do so. The Duchess didn't say anything, but nodded to Eosia, resting the forearm of her left arm on the hilt of her sword.

Eosia nodded in thanks, slowly drawing out her sword, and resting the blade in her offhand, holding it as a presentation rather than a weapon. She slowly approached the throne, before kneeling down in reaching distance of The Prince and saying, "You may take."

The sword itself was beautiful. The blade was made of a fine Dwarven steel, and the hilt of silver. The pommel was shaped like Wanous's axe, and despite years of use, it has clearly been shown a certain respect and affection from its user.

That said, bloodstains covered the blade, and the sword of a whole. But these bloodstains were not the red or oxidized brown of humans. It was black, black like tar. It seemed like it was a shadow that had been turned to a liquid, a darkness that had enveloped this fine blade.

The Prince took the offered sword, looking it over only as a true swordsman would. His eyes narrowed as he took in the bloodstains. They were odd, unknown to him. After a few moments of observation he returned the sword to Eosia. "This proves little."

The Duchess let out a fustrated sigh. "I've never seen bloodstains such as those."

"Nor I" The Prince agreed. "But all that it proves is that out there" He gestured towards the East, "are creatures with strange blood. So tell me" He seemed to be addressing both the Duchess and Eosia, "would you have me handle a known enemy on my doorstep or ignore that to prepare for some distant entity that I do not know of?"

"Riawan," spoke the Princess, "why are they enemy?" She asked, sheathing he sword and standing up, before taking a step back, though not returning to her original location.

"We were once one country" The Duchess answered. "But we had some... disagreements in how the country should be run and who should have power. Needless to say we could come to no compromise, so we decided to break free. Obviously the empress of Riawin didn't take too kindly to that."

The Princess nodded, with a look of understanding on her face despite the lack of it inside of her. "That is much reasons. Einherjar has no reasons. They kill. They fight. They torture. They know nothing else." She paused. "I not ask you to send army to fight them. I ask for you to let Scaveni through your land." She took a deep breath. "And for food for them."

The Prince leaned back into his throne and although he said nothing, the look in his eyes was one of denial. He was observing the Scaveni princess, perhaps trying to decide exactly how to word his denial. The Duchess shifted her stance, her chain mail clincing as she did so. She glanced up at the prince before saying "You may travel through my lands."

"What?" The Prince sounded like he wasn't sure what he just heard. "You can't-"

"Yes I can" The Duchess cut him off. "The throne may control the royal capital and highways, but it does not control movement through the lands of the aristocracy."

"Your lands are nowhere near the border. They have no route through the country." The Prince countered.

"Then we need only negotiate with the various lords." The Duchess stated. "And we have food enough to feed both our army and the Scaveni."

By this point the Prince's face had gone entirely red and, for a moment, he looked about to explode. He didn't, however, and instead took a few calming breaths, perhaps realizing that now wasn't the time to force a confrontation with the Duchess. He took one final breath before calmly asking "But do they have the means to pay for our food?"

At this, for the first time in the meeting, Eosia smiled. She yelled out, "Da!" And two shieldmaidens stepped forward, carrying a massive chest, covered in engravings of dragons, gods, and trolls. The chest alone would have been worth a fortune, but they unlatched the lock, and opened it up. It was filled with not only treasures of the Scaveni, but treasures from the many ruined cities and castles the Scaveni had encountered on their trek. There were gold coins, jewels and jewelry, as well as weapons, in addition to some scrolls and books written in various languages.

"This...from my personal treasure." She looked to the Prince, and sarcastically said, "Is it...good?"

The Prince's eyes lit up as he took in the fortune. "Yes. Yes it is."

"A pity you won't be able to tax this." The Duchess said with a wide grin, "since they won't be using the highways or coming here to the capital."

The Prince frowned, but shrugged after a moment. "Yes, I suppose it is. But keep in mind that I will hold you personally responsible should they cause any issues."

"Of course." The Duchess rendered a low bow, her tone belying the rolling of her eyes that the bow had hidden.

"Is that all you wished to discuss?" The Prince asked.

Eosia nodded, satisfied in what she had accomplished. "Eh...there is one more though...would you host my women and me before my people come..." she turned the Duchess and said, "...Gjerla?"

"I have an estate her in the capital. It may be a bit cramped with so many guests, but I should be able to house all of you if a few of your.... servants? Don't mind sharing a bed." The Duchess said.

The Scaveni princess nodded with a fist to her chest. "Of course Gjerla, we have done this before...but they are not servants...they are warriors. Pardon the correction, it is just they fought their lives...I speak for them in saying they are servant to no man."

"My apologies... Gjerla" The Duchess tested the word, not quite pronouncing it right, but getting close enough. "I should have showed more respect to your retinue." She paused for a moment before continuing. "I have some more business to see to here in the palace, but I could have a few guards show you the way to my estate now if you wish."

The princess nodded. "That would be much thanked." She turned to the Prince. "Thank for...hearing me." She put her fist to her chest again before turning to leave, then stopped to ask. "Oh...where would I send the horse?"

"My servants will see to the needs of your retinue and horses once you arrive at my estate" The Duchess answered.

Eosia blushed. "No...eh...my father sends horse from his line with me as gift for host...I thought it would be the Prince, but it seems it is not the case..."

"The Duchess is your host." The Prince answered. "It is only right that she recieves this gift."

Eosia nodded. "Gjerla...I will bring it to...ess-tate?"

"Yes" the Duchess said with a nod. "and I will follow you to the estate shortly."

Several days ago, Somewhere in Cormyral....
A pair of siblings, a boy and a girl, were dashing across the southern beaches of Cormyral, racing each other while their town prepares for the local festival, a time of great celebration and of a great feast. Not too far of a distance, both children took brief glimpses of their home town as the sun set, the lights blaring up as the town as the torches have been lit, smoke slowly rising, the irresistible aroma of cooked meat reaching down to the coast, the festival was nearing. Both the boy and the girl had come to a screeching halt as the sun set, wide smiles forming from the sheer excitement of it all. "Race you back home!" The boy challenged his sister.

"You're on!" She exclaimed. "Last one has to-..." She had stopped speaking midway through as the girl had noticed something off, beyond the boundaries of the beach. "What's that...?" She asked both herself and her brother. The young boy turned to investigate what his sister had saw, he stepped close to the water, squinting his eyes. Black sails was all he could see, as black as the night sky or the deepest and darkest of caves, this had sent shivers down his spin. The parents of the two siblings had often warned them of black sails far off shore, they barred grim omens of things to come. Black sails were often the banner of pirates, Tarkiman Corsairs of the Craitan Clan to be exact. The boy was quick to react, running towards his sister. "Run!" he shouted, and so they both ran, ran as fast as they could to warn the town of the raiders.

---------

Aboard one of the approaching Craitan ships was Jarlan Urgan, the right-hand man and top enforcer of Chieftain Gamor Tuiri. Jarlan was an unpleasant sight to behold, a Drimuc of imposing stature, his horns and fangs were chipped to no end, his skin was scarred and aged. Despite his age, nearing on seventy, old Jarlan was still among the Craitan's most fearsome warriors.

From a high point of the ship, Jarlan focused his gaze upon a pillar of smoke just a little before the sun had set, he smirked with a sense of satisfaction. "Land ho!" he screamed, catching the attention of nearly all the fleet. His present crewmen all turned their attention towards the captain. "Alright you bastards, prepare to disembark!" he ordered, his warriors scrambling as they directed the ship towards the coast, the other ships following behind. "We're going to be rich tonight!"

Breakfast had been unremarkable. Shredded pork on a buttered biscuit with a small cup of expensive tea for Cyra, and a tall glass of milk along with remarks on how he should probably eat more in the morning for Hildako (who later found himself hungry and fetching a lucky, yet questionable meal from a street vender along with a few I-told-you-so’s).

With stomachs full, the two made their way briefly back to the inn to fetch the contracts and before they knew it, they found themselves in one of the many misty forests of Levine’s countryside. Underfoot and undertail, mud from a rain two nights ago was still slick, while the greenery of the leaves remained the rich and velvety green often scene in a thunderstorm. The droplets of the mist formed on Cyra’s tail, making Hildako wonder a little bit about her tropical home back in Xoskea. He stared in what would have be silence if not for the loud caw’s of the forest birds for quite a while. His mind eventually wandered back to about her life back in Xoskea, after all he had known her for about two years now, and he found appropriate to probably know these details about the companion that put up with him for so long.

He went to ask, but he retracted his words as he opened his mouth, assuming it would spark another conversation about their possible vacation in her homeland that she desired so strongly. Instead he kept his mind on the business at hand, “So this is just a simple shake down. We throw our weight around a little, retrieve the lost purses and property of the farm these goons sacked, and go on our way. The usual.”

“That’s not the usual. Not for you at least.” Cyra said with a raised eyebrow. She looked and sounded amused. Perhaps she was in a good mood because she had yet to slither into a tree. Perhaps she found Hildako’s statement funny in an ironic sense. “So” She continued, “I’ll just stay in the back, looking pretty, while you give them your usual scowl.” Not that she knew what his ‘usual’ scowl was or if he even had a usual one.

“Pffft,” Hildako sarcastically replied, “let’s hope they don’t give up that easy, I didn’t tredge in the mud all this way to go home bored.”

He shrugged while side stepping a stray bough from one of the trees, “but sure, the usual scowl for the unusual situation.”

Cyra let out something between a squawk of surprise and a grunt as she smacked her forehead into the branch Hildako had so smoothlysmoothly avoided. “You” She rubbed her forehead, “really need to warn me about things like that.”

“Sorry!” Hildako yelped, jumping to grab both her shoulders and shift her away from the rest of the tree, “where there are branches…” He murmured, “ let’s hope our targets didn’t hear that.”

After a second of thought he added, “Actually let’s hope they hear us coming.”

Suddenly Hildako squeezed Cyra’s shoulder, “There they are!”

In front of them the trees parted to reveal a haphazardly put together camp. Canvas tents ringed a massive fire pit, where three burly looking criminals were roasting what could only be a poached calf on a spit. It could only be assumed there were more in the tents, as sounds of various activities both ordinary and obscene were taking place. Some tents had more than one shadow cast on them, and Hildako had rather not define what owned them, in fact he found it better to not prepare himself for the numbers, and just dive right in.

His boots kicked up the dusty dirt of the clearing, scuffing loudly as he exited the trees shouting, “this place smells like shite!” The men around the fire looked him over confused for a few seconds before registering the challenge, hopping to their feet, weapons at the ready. A dumb smirk grew on HIldako’s face, only causing rage to twitch in one of the campers faces.

“Hil” Cyra’s voice, full of warning, drifted out from the woods. Despite possessing a massive snake tail in place of legs, or perhaps being of it, she could seemingly disappear into the woods when she wanted to. Very likely the group Hildako and Cyra had come to ‘persuade’ had no idea she was even nearby.

Hildako’s ear twitched at the sound of his name, but he attempted to ignore it as he started forward. One of the brutes chewed out a threat from a very unkempt mouth but it was so mumbled, Hildako had no idea what he had said and simply walked into the light of the fire, smug face now illuminated below his tattoo. Stepping on foot onto a log used for a seat he leaned forward on his knee and casually gave the large man the finger.

Saliva foamed around the man’s mouth as he fumbled for his own blade, cursing. His buddies started to egg him on. “Show him.” “Yeah go get em Big Jeb.” “Snap him like the twig he is.” Among a sea of swears.

Hildako spread his arms as if inviting the criminal to fight him, impatient eyes staring the criminals down.

“WAIT!” A commanding voice suddenly sounded, ordering the obedience of the campers and turning them to silence. A man who had just exited one of the tents stood near the fire now, buckling loose pants, steely eyes trained on Hildako’s forehead. His finer clothes and shaven face either pegged him as a classier rogue or the ringleader, perhaps both.

“You fools, can’t you see that’s The Omen,” A steady finger pointed at Hildako’s forehead. A small look of fright crossed the faces of the three campers and there was a rustling in all the other tents at the sound of the nickname.

“I’d wager the guardian of the shadows that watches over this demon is around here somewhere too,” The ringleader bit his lip, while Hildako stood in surprise.

“Boys,” the ringleader turned the the emerging criminals from the tents, marking their number at eleven men, all scared. The ringleader kept a finger trained on Hidako while shaking his head in disbelief, “grab the loot boys, and run we will meet at our other location, RUN!”

Hildako waved his hands, “wait no!”

“Stay back, Demon! We’ve heard the stories of all who cross your path!” The criminals were rushing around the camp, knocking down tents to swipe all the loot and stolen goods they could, two men had already fled the camp with arms full of loose goods and cash. A stone dropped in Hildako’s stomach, and his wince twitched, his targets were getting away -- his opportunity was getting away.

Unknowing in how to stop this, he charged the scattered group of criminals. The forest wind rushed by his ears, howling at him as he kept his sights on the ringleader. Kicking off of one of the stumps used as a seat, he launched himself in the air, turning his foot to make a point at the heel, he smashed it into the face of the ringleader mid jump. The kick burst the ringleaders nose into a cloud of crimson, with a further crunch as he crumpled to the ground, Hildako landing on him.

Big Jeb saw this and charged at Hildako, club in hand. The large man swung at Hildako , only to find a set of rapid punches slam down his rib cage coupled with a sudden elbow to the neck. The large man collapsed next to his leader, gasping for air. Four more had fled by time Hildako was by the tents, mace in hand. The three remaining criminals were backing slowly to the treeline, two with blades in hand, one shakily holding a hunting bow and all with scared faces worn.

“We don’t want to fight you, Demon,” one stuttered, causing a deep frown to carve into Hildako’s face. He winced, “do it.”

“N-no!” One pointed his blade at Hildako, “stay b-back!”

“Do it,” Hildako hissed through his teeth, taunting them by opening his arms for a strike. His face turned grim, a look of anger turned to a spark of sadness as he started to close the gap.

“No!” The one holding the bow shouted, releasing his arrow with a twang. The arrow clumsily left the hunting bow and slammed into Hildako’s shoulder, causing him to take a few steps back with a grunt of pain. He felt the small bodkin tip poke out of his shoulder blade, and a warm red spot started to form on his shirt. He looked down, surprised at the sight of the wooden shaft protruding from him, but when he looked back up, expecting the blade of one of the criminals to finish him, they were already sprinting through the woods, terrified and anxious. Hildako just stood there, eyes wide as he stared at his fleeing opportunity, his shoulder pulsing with pain, and his head feeling a little lighter as the red splotch thickened.

The man with a bow screamed as a tiger, massive in size, stepped into his path, blocking his way. He took a single stumbling step back towards Hildako as he dropped his bow and reached for a long knife, almost fumbling it several times. The tiger let out a low growl, its eyes closed, but somehow it still seemed to know exactly where the man was at all times. The man screamed as he lunged towards the tiger. The tiger tensed as if to dodge or leap onto its target, surely it had more than enough time to do either. It did not, however, instead it leaned in towards the man, as if willing him to stab it. And he did, driving his knife into the tiger’s should.

“Hah!” He yelled triumphantly, but let out a terrified screech as the tiger slowly looked towards him and growled. He run away into the woods, so terrified that he didn’t even think to pull his knife out of the tiger’s shoulder.

The tiger seemed to watch the man flee for a moment before turning towards Hildako and letting out a long growl, one that sounded more displeased then threatening.

Hildako’s widened eyes narrowed at the growl, “you’re the one who let him stab you,” he answered, slowly using his left hand to add pressure around the arrow shaft that protruded from him in an attempt to slow the bleeding. While he was not opposed to the idea of death, not like this, not while being nagged.

The tiger let out a second growl as its body began to shift. Within moments it was gone, replaced by one specific lamia that had a knife impaled in the back of her shoulder. “Your actions” She said, wincing as she reached back towards the knife and pulled it out, “have harmed us both.”

Hildako frowned, clearly unconvinced as he walked over to her, one hand on the arrow, “My actions?” He huffed, “my actions did nothing but attempt to save the contract, but NOW we have to go back to the fat man and tell him it’s all kinds of screwed up before he starts blaming us for tipping them off or whatever fantasy he will conjure up.” He angrily added the last half of his sentence as he ripped his shirt away from his arrow wound, saving the clean bits and stuffing them into some sort of ball as he stared at the hole in Cyra’s back.

“Who was it that said we would just throw our weight around a little?” Cyra frowned at him. The wound on her back bleed freely, ignored. “I could practically smell the fear of those men. Actually… I’m pretty sure I did. I think some of them pissed themselves.” She scrunched up her nose in disgust. “Had you demanded they left behind their stolen goods they almost certainly would have. Instead you were too fixated on starting a needless fight.” By this point a bit of frustration had crept into her voice. “How long are you going to keep doing this?”

“Fear… fear was the problem! If they didn’t fear any of this I wouldn’t have had to act, but noooo- reputation got in the way!” He angrily grumbled behind her, focused on collecting the cleaner fabrics. “They were going to just retreat with everything. It is highly unlikely they would leave anything behind at a simple request! I needed to act.”

Hildako finished his makeshift bandage while ignoring her final question with a wince. His voice softened from an angry growl to a softer growl, “heads up, bandage going in.” He pushed the bandage into her shoulder with his thumb. He looked over to the still flickering campfire where the large man and the ringleader laid flat, unconscious or possibly dead, “want me to burn it close or can you make it back?” He looked down at his own puncture, the blood having stopped against the shaft.

Cyra winced as he applied the bandage. “You can try and fool yourself,” She said, ignoring his question about cauterizing her wound, “but you will never be able to fool me.” She waited a moment to make sure he was done with the bandage before beginning to slither away. “Just remember that I won’t let you pass away. Not while I still draw breath.”

“A threat if I ever heard one,” Hildako replied, clearly bothered by her statement as he started to walk towards the fallen criminals by the fire.

(Collaboration with Darkspleen)



The wastelands of the east was a place where little life could be found. A few shrubs, mangled and dried up, could occassional be found dotting the hills of the landscape. A vulture or two was usually visible in the skies above. But by and large life was a foreign concept to these lands. Yet suddenly it was teeming with life. The Einherjar army had arrived. A force of over a hundred thousand men, dwarves, humanoid reptilians, and a hundred other creatures marched towards the west. A hundred different banners was raised over this army. The soldiers all had different styles of armor and weapons, seeming to indicate that this was not one army but, in fact, many. And at the core of this host marched two hundred humanoids in black full plate armor. In the skies above a few wyverns, mounted by individuals in the same black armor, watched for possible threats.

Anon, in the distance there seemed to appear a vague, dark mass, flowing forward as though it were a tide of viscous black liquid. As a shadow, it covered hills and crags, sweeping over what little stunted vegetation the arid soil supported and leaving the land, if possible, even more desolate than before in its wake. As the black flood drew closer, it could be discerned that it was, in fact, not a roiling stain of shade, but a host of innumerable hideous creatures, snapping and chittering with their inhuman maws and appendages as they advanced. Among them, striding forth with thunderous steps, were beasts of vast size and unearthly form, their chain-bound limbs tugged at by robust chitin-clad monstrosities; and at the forefront of the horde there marched a file of armoured warriors, naught but their iron trappings discernible to even the most keen-eyed of observers. Over the clustered mass of creatures flew black, ragged standards emblazoned with a crimson gauntlet; and, for all the magnitude of the force and the feral appearance of the beings, not a single voice or cry could be heard rising from their midst.

Upon drawing near to the gathered armies of the Einherjar, the armoured figures stopped in their tracks, leaving an interval longer than an arrow’s flight thrice over between themselves and the invaders. Behind them, the entire horde ground to a halt with surprisingly few collisions for something so chaotic in appearance, the vanguard peering curiously at the uncommon sight with bulging black eyes and the warriors in the central bulk almost scampering over one another to catch a glimpse. Then, one of the iron-clad leaders stepped forward, flanked by a handful of the skittering, verminous creatures and three crustacean behemoths, one of whom bore a banner attached to its back by its pole. The detachment advanced, somewhat warily, but without displaying hostile intentions in their motions, weapons demonstratively lowered. Coming within earshot of the armies facing them, the group stood still as one; then the armoured figure, imposing in its spine-adorned array of dull grey metal, spoke in a lifeless, resonating voice:

“Halt, whoever you might be. You have trodden the Fell Lands unbidden, and trespassed upon the rule of our mighty Overlord. State your name and intent and bow before our signs, and you might be spared an ignominious death.”

Three knights, outfitted in black plate mail armor, rode out from the ranks of the Einherjar host. One of these knights carried a black flag, a flag of parley. As they neared they looked alarmingly similar to an ironbound, only somehow more sinister. They somehow seemed to be a cloaked in an aura that caused a sense of dread in those around them. At least those of weaker will.

“I am Lord Goscelin” The lead black knight said as they approached. “And I have come to bring Ragnarock to these lands. I will off this to you once and only once.” Those present could almost hear a sneer in his voice. “Bend your knee and offer your services to the Goddess, every decade offer us ten thousand of healthy body and mind. Do this and we will not only spare you, but will help you seize the northern half of Mycae. Refuse and your screams of pain and terror shall be our subsistence.”

“Bend our knee?” though the figure’s voice lacked any tone or inflection, its cohorts could have sworn that, had there not been such an absence, it would have carried more than a hint of amusement. “Bold words, and foolhardy. As for your goddesses, we have no use for such intrusions into the faith we safeguard… Sound the attack.” it finished, turning to its retinue. Thereupon, one of the squat, four-eyed imps raised to its mandibles a red horn of curious spiralling shape, and, inhaling as strongly as its carapace would permit, blew into it twice, sending two low, almost mournful reports forth into the empty sky.

As the second ringing sound died out, a rumbling arose from behind the heralds’ backs. Though faint at first, it rapidly began to grow louder, until it seemed to shake the very earth. The horde was moving once again, but now it was not merely marching - it was charging forwards, clouds of dust rising from beneath thousands of misshapen feet as the stampede neared the ranks of the Einherjar. At its head was an avalanche of steel and bone-plate, swarms of bloodthirsty Korekk, clad sparsely yet menacingly in jagged plates of armour, a growling guttural sound preceding their onslaught. Behind them, scores upon scores of screeching, savage Riglir loped and bounded with cruel anticipation, swinging their knife-claws at the air and gnashing their maws in a ghastly display of readiness to tear into the warm flesh of their foes.

The Einherjar army was quick to respond, moving forward in what could only be called a fast march. Bolts, fired from ballista that had been assembled during the parley, flew overhead into the oncoming horde of Korekk and Riglir. As the two armies neared, many soldiers in the Einherjar force stopped to unleash volleys of arrows while the lead soldiers continue onwards. The Einherjar cavalry, mostly lightly armored, moved to flank their foes from either side, with a contingent of a hundred heavily armored black knights staying in the back.

As the two armies began to clash Goscelin drew his sword as his two escorts charged forward. He drew a circle in the air with the tip of his sword and pointed it at the Ironbound before him, a bolt of lightning shoot forth from the weapon towards his foe.

The blast struck the armoured figure squarely in the chest, leaving a large scorched mark upon its breastplate. The Ironbound staggered and sank to its knees, its mace, released from its grip, dropping to the ground as its escort gazed in confusion. The Korekk were the first to recover, moving to assume a defensive stance between their master and the attackers; the Riglir, somewhat hesitantly, followed suit, albeit remaining behind their towering comrades’ backs.

Around them, the hordes of the Fell Lands were bearing down upon their enemies’ vanguard. The heavy projectiles hurled from the ballistae, flying forth unimpeded, had carved swathes through the charging swarm’s ranks, and the hail of arrows felled many Riglir in the loose formation’s centre; yet more and more took their place, rushing over the bodies with nary a moment of hesitation. Somewhat diminished, yet not slowed, the armoured spear-head collided with the Einherjar’s foremost soldiers, the frenzied Korekk swinging their sharp, heavy pincers in broad sweeps, aiming to fell as many as they could with every strike. Along the flanks, the heavy guard turned, cumbersomely yet eagerly, to meet the cavalry’s assault. The brutish Korekk lashed out at the incoming adversaries, some of them cut down before landing a blow, yet the others forming an impenetrable line between them and the massed infantry. Meanwhile, the metal-clad Riglir, taking advantage of their companions’ superior size and more menacing appearance, lunged at the assailants’ mounts while they were preoccupied with the crustacean terrors, seeking to cut them down from under their riders and bring the latter crashing to the ground.

From the top of a hill near where the horde’s rear was now located, a group of Ironbound, assembled around a standard larger than most planted in the dry soil, were observing the course of the battle. Among them, one was particularly notable for his unusually ornate armour. The finely crafted metal was shaped into a multitude of interlocking blades, which seemed to constitute the suit’s entire plating framework in themselves; its helm was artfully fashioned to resemble the horned skull of some primeval beast. The figure’s edge-inlaid gauntlets were resting on the grips of two great sabres, standing, their tips driven into the earth, diagonally in surprisingly precise symmetry. “Vrathar” the being spoke, its voice even as that of other Ironbound, but heavy and rasping like grinding iron with great age, “You said it would be an army of men. Yet I see there are… creatures among them the likes of which I have never encountered before.” “That was what the scouts reported, Fell Lord” replied one of the company, who was indeed that very Harbinger whose discovery the approach of the enemy host had been, “And I had no opportunity of verifying in person without risking capture, or destruction.” The Fell Lord Vorthal turned his gaze away from the subject of his inquest and back towards the field of battle. “It would have been undesirable for them to lay their hands upon one of our prematurely, yes” he conceded, “Besides, it matters little what they are. They bleed and fall all the same, and they shall meet their end here.”

Soon the ground was soaked in blood. Korekk and Riglir cut down Einherjar soldiers, only to find themselves bleeding on the ground moments later as more soldiers pushed forward. The Einherjar light cavalry charged into the heavily armored flanks of their foes, only to be beaten back a moment later. All the while Lord Goscelin and his two guards cut through the battle, leaving a path of broken bodies in their wake. After an hour of battle he pulled back from the front, whether this was due to growing bored or going to the edge of his endurance none could say.

“I grow weary of this” Goscelin stated two hours after the battle had begun. Neither force seemed to have gained the upper hand. “Signal the legions.” Off to his side one of his guards procured a horn and let out a single long note. Immediately the two hundred black heavy infantry, members all of the core Einherjar legion, began to move towards the front of the battle. The black knights too also moved to the side to prepare a charge. Immediately it became apparent that these black armored individuals where of a caliber well above that of those who had been fighting earlier. With distressing ease the two hundred began cutting a line of death through the center of the Fell Lands formation.

While, up to that point, the battle’s outcome had seemed largely uncertain, each side struggling to forge ahead till the field was strewn with corpses, yet neither of them relenting, with this new development the advantage distinctly shifted to the side of the Einherjar. The beats of the Fell Lands, many of them weary after the prolonged struggle, watched with alarm as the black-armoured warriors almost effortlessly made their way through their ranks, despite being beset from all sides by sweeping claws and darting blades. As more and more of the creatures were cut down, havoc began to descend upon the horde. Those in its midst, hampered by each other, attempted to turn against the assailants, their already tightly massed bodies scraping against one another as their unwieldy movements brought them closer together still, leaving them, if anything, even easier prey for the legion’s blades. The heavy infantry guarding the flanks, thrust outward by the pressure against their backs, staggered about, attempting to resume their positions but being pushed away once again. At the front, the armoured Korekk troops, dismayed by the wide gap in their centre, began to waver and gradually yield ground, driven back by the advancing Einherjar vanguard. Slowly but steadily, the host was receding, its onslaught having ground to a halt and its vast numbers seemingly providing little defence against the superior prowess of the black legion.

On his overlook, Vorthal tightened his grip on his weapons in irritation. “Why do they not press the assault?” he thundered, his sorcerous sight, steady yet short-reaching, sweeping over the host, which was now almost entirely in disarray, “What is it that is forcing them back? Surely it cannot be these fleshlings. Tell me what you see.” he commanded, turning towards a Riglir crouching near the standard, most likely kept in the rear for precisely that purpose. The creature raised itself upon its segmented legs, its eyes almost appearing to move on their short stalks as it directed its gaze in the direction of the battle’s clamour. Then, having stood thus for a few moments, it replied, its clicking intonations bearing the mark of fear: “Warriors from enemy army, Fell Lord. Not many. One, two hundred. But all strong. Move through other Riglir, kill many. Cannot stop.”

Vorthal glanced once again at the thick of the struggle, as though making one last attempt at glimpsing the cause of the enemy advance himself; after which, perhaps dissatisfied either with what he saw or with the fact he could not see anything, he twisted his clawed gauntlets around the sabres’ hilts, clutching them. He then lifted their blades in one swift motion, as though readying himself for combat, and motioned at the Ironbound assembled near him. “Come” his harsh voice resounded, “Victory shall not be theirs with such ease. I shall finish this myself.” With these words, he strode heavily down the hill in the direction of the rearguard. Behind him, his cohorts marched in a perfect cuneus, their heavy steps smiting the soil in unison. As they approached, the lines of the Riglir parted, the creatures appearing to shrink in fright from their masters more readily than from the Einherjar themselves, leaving a wide open gap between them and the black-clad juggernauts. As he moved, the Fell Lord gained in speed, until his pace was faster than would normally have seemed possible for something so heavy. Breaking away from the formation, he almost rushed at his foes, his blades cutting through the air with a whistling sound as he brought them to bear with tremendous force upon the first line of legionaries. Behind him, the other Ironbound menacingly readied their own weapons, their progress slower but no less steadfast.

The legionnaires were skilled, far more so than the average soldier, but in the end they were mere soldiers. The Fell Lord’s blade cut into the armor, sending droplets of black ichor-like blood into the air. Still they pressed on, advancing ever forward, with those immediately before the Fell Lord holding their shields up and fighting defensively as others moved around to strike him from the sides.

Off in the distance Lord Goscelin, at the head of the formation of black knights, charged into the Fell Lands heavily armored, but in disarray, flank. Much like the black legionnaires, these knights possessed much more power than their earlier counterparts. They sliced into the Fell Lands formation, Goscelin leaving a trail of broken and mangled bodies in his wake as he headed towards the Fell Lord. His sword lit up in flames as he slashed towards the Fell Lord. “Entertain me further!”

As the Einherjar’s heavy cavalry clove through the host’s flank, Vorthal swung around to face it, bringing one of his sabres arcing to keep the armoured warriors at bay, and indicated for a part of the Ironbound following him to engage them. Immediately, the cuneus split into two halves: one of them moved to intercept the legion’s circling motion, the disadvantage of its slow pace somewhat offset by the latter’s cautious maneuvering, whereas the second arrayed itself beside the Fell Lord, the armoured figures thrusting their weapons forward in an attempt to break the black knights’ charge.

Preoccupied with directing his troops’ motions, Vorthal barely had the time to react to the Einherjar commander’s blow. Raising his right blade in an abrupt, almost mechanical gesture, he deflected the bulk of its force; however, he could not prevent the flaming sword from scraping against his pauldron, leaving a deep blackened scratch in it. Without so much as staggering, the Fell Lord lifted his left-hand sabre in a horizontal position, as though preparing to parry Goscelin’s successive strikes. “The only entertainment fit for you is the release of oblivion” he spoke, then his echoing voice erupted in a harsh command: “Take him!” At once, the nearby Riglir, who had been cast into confusion by their foes’ cavalry, stood still in uncertainty; then, driven by the Fell Lord’s imperious summons, they surged at Goscelin, clawing and lunging at him from multiple sides. At the same time, Vorthal himself swung his upheld blade at his opponent’s chest, while thrusting forth the other one, aiming at his left side.

Goscelin simply laughed as he smashed his shield into the face of a nearby Riglir, literally sending it flying away to crash into several of its allies. He then brought his shield around to protect himself from one of Vorthal’s blades as his shield deflected a second attack. For a moment it looked like the Riglir might successfully encircle him, but then the nearby black legionnaires and knights surged forward and it was suddenly Vorthal who was in danger of being encircled. With his flanks now much more secure, Goscelin focused on the attack, launching a series of brutal and powerful attacks focusing on hitting Vorthal in the comparatively weak joints of his armor.

With their Riglir servants repelled and cut off from them by their foes’ advance, the Ironbound under Vorthal’s lead found themselves distinctly outnumbered by the black-armoured soldiers. Worse yet, almost all potential ways of retreat were barred, the enemies closing in from front and flank alike. The possibility of being trapped in the midst of the Einherjar force did not escape Harbinger Vrathar’s notice; beckoning to his few subordinates among the Fell Lands’ forge-wrought masters, he began to slowly edge in the direction of the horde’s rear, which, being furthest from the Einherjar, was as yet open. If his warriors held fast, not only would they prevent the black legion from entirely surrounding the Ironbound’s position, but, in the event of a complete rout - an outcome which, loath as he was to admit it, seemed to be growing more and more likely despite the Fell Lord’s presence on the field - they would have a chance to withdraw to safety, if enough of the wavering Riglir and Korekk could be roused to cover their retreat.

Meanwhile, the Fell Lord himself was being forced back by Goscelin’s flurry of blows. His own strikes having been blocked, it was only with a potent effort that he could draw his blades back before himself and parry the first few. Yet his adversary was too fast, and eventually a vicious slash reached his left elbow’s ligaments, severing them with terrible strength. Vorthal’s forearm clattered to the ground, still clutching the sabre’s hilt. In its place, a gaping hole now exposed the void within the armour. The Fell Lord withdrew by another step, seemingly more astonished at his enemy being capable of such a feat than else. “How…” he began to rasp, but then checked himself, and once more took a stride forward. “Enough! When my new hand is drawn forth from the forge, it shall be cooled in your blood!” he rumbled, swinging his only remaining blade in a vertical arc over his head and bearing it down upon Goscelin’s helm.

“I’ve never heard a retort quite like that one!” Goscelin said with a laugh. He parried Vorthal’s attack and responded with a jab towards the Ironbound’s helm. Meanwhile the black legionnaires and knights, seemingly sensing the fear in their foes, surged forward as once. It was almost as if their endurance was without limit and, if anything, these warriors seemed even stronger than at the start of the battle. Even so this was not true for the rest of the Einherjar army. Many of these soldiers seemed exhausted and less enthused about the battle. They too pressed forward, but with a fraction of the vigor of the black armored soldiers. The sole exception to this was the Einherjar light cavalry who, with the exception of that first early charge, had stayed out of the battle. They harassed the flanks of the Fell Lands army, seeming less interested with cutting off their escape so much as simply causing as much damage to the army as possible.

His deflected blade swerving sideways, the strength of the blow still sufficient for it to embed itself in the soil, the Fell Lord finally stood vulnerable, and his opponent was swift to exploit this. His blazing sword, thrust towards Vorthal’s hollow helm, plunged through its frontal opening and the empty space behind and pierced the metal of its hind side. With a creaking sound, a single, almost perfectly straight crack spread across the armour’s headpiece from aft to fore; as it reached the fissure through which Goscelin’s blade had passed, the Fell Lord’s entire head abruptly snapped into two nearly even halves, which rattled down at his feet. The rest of the iron body remained standing for yet a moment; then it collapsed, fragmenting as its parts struck the ground and remained strewn sparsely, having lost any shape ever so vaguely recognisable as having been human-like.

The forces of the Fell Lands, relentlessly driven back by the armoured legion and harried by the Einherjar’s cavalry, were already on the verge of shattering; seeing their supposedly invincible master fall was the last straw. The flanks disintegrated as Riglir rushed madly to all sides, attempting to escape the slaughter by any possible means, clawing at each other to clear the way to safety. The Korekk still formed pockets of resistance here and there, but, without the bulk of the army to support them, they were likewise being swiftly routed over the entire front. Many of the Ironbound found themselves pinned in place by their own fleeing servants, at the mercy of the black-garbed warriors, and were cut down, even to the last never ceasing to swing their weapons in desperate fury.

Amidst the chaos, Vrathar turned to the Riglir horn-bearer who had remained near him through the battle, and was now casting about terrified glances, as though asking itself in whither it were better to scamper away. “Sound the retreat!” he commanded, then, as the creature obediently let loose three brief howls from its instrument, he spoke to the Ironbound under his command, who, it seemed, were by then the only ones remaining on the battlefield, or soon to be such, uttering a single word: “Scatter.” Immediately, the armoured figures spun about as rapidly as its weight would allow them and set off in a hastening march towards the hills they had come from. Around them, the horde began to similarly splinter, groups of irregular size gathering about each of their commanders or simply bolting off in the general direction of their desolate homeland. The Einherjar might have been fast enough to pursue them, but they were unfamiliar with the terrain, and most, if not all, of their troops, with the possible exception of the black-armoured soldiers, were not as tireless as the Ironbound; furthermore, had they even split their forces, they could not possibly overtake more than a few of the escaping clusters. Such were the Harbinger’s thoughts as he disappeared behind a ridge, his shield raised so that the glimmering of his armour might not attract the notice of the wyvern-riders in the sky; the battle was lost and the Lord of the Balespire himself had perished, but he, Vrathar, lived still.