“It’s all I have left!” the woman pleaded, clutching onto a copper pendant. “No merchant would pay you good coin over this thing, just-“ Her eyes widened as one of the highwaymen surrounding her drew a knife. It was an effective signal to shut up, though it only stifled her whimpering; which was barely audible through the heavy rain.

The knife-wielding man knelt in front of her, and looked her in the eyes. “I don’t think you understand what’s happening.” In a sudden motion, he gripped her hair and yanked it back; exposing her throat. Cold steel met the warmth of the woman’s skin. The man’s voice turned sour. “We’re takin’ everything. I dun’ care if’s the most precious trinket in your cart, or some worthless scrap. As long as that lard-pot Garethul doesn’t pay for our protection, he’ll see his shipments and carts go disappearin’. What you do have a say in, love, is whether or not his merchants turn up dead or alive. Are we clear?” As the woman sank to her knees in the mud, she held up the pendant, and cringed as it was swiped.

The other outlaws turned their attention to the horse-drawn cart she had brought along the way. One of them stroked the horse’s mane, before giving a shrill whistle. The cart was cut free, the horse kept in place. The group dragged the cart off the road and into the forest. Only the knife-wielding man and the merchant remained.

“I did what you asked,” she said, “please let me go.”

“Well you did, but not without giving me a little trouble.” The man grinned, leaning in to look her in the eye. “’haps you should do something for my troubles.” There was a pause, before the woman got up and tried to run before slipping in the mud. The man scambled overtop of her, and pinned her down with a hearty laugh. “Go on, love, I like when they struggle!” He gripped the collar of her shirt, and dragged the knife through the cloth; splitting it in two to reveal her bare back. No sooner had he started to pry further with his barehands than he stopped. Blood gushed down his face, and poured onto the woman as the bandit gave way to a violent spasm; his hands reaching up at the spike through the top of his skull. The woman screamed as she looked over her shoulder to find another man driving the sharp handguard further.

With a sharp twist, the bandit stopped moving, and the stranger ripped his blade free before grabbing it by the handle. Pushing the bandit off of the woman and into the mud, the man planted his blade into the ground. The woman started to crawl away again, before a cloak fell over her body. She paused – wrapping herself up – and looked at the armor adorning her rescuer’s form. It was filthy; grime in some parts, broken chain in others.

“Sir Garethul hired me to investigate matters on this route,” the man explained, surveying his surroundings. He knelt beside the bandit, and turned the corpse over. “What was in your cart?”

“Jewelry,” the woman replied, standing up. She held the cloak tight around her form, and approached the man. “I owe you a debt,” she said, managing a sheepish smile. It was plain to see that her terrors were far from gone; there was no chill in the air strong enough to take credit for her shaking. “What is your name?”

“It won't be hard to track.” The man stood up and handed the copper pendant to the woman. “I’ll return with your cart. Stay warm.” With that, he grabbed his sword and strode off in the direction of the other outlaws. Their footprints were well defined in the mud. From what he could tell, there was at least five or six others. The canopy above sheltered his body from the rain as he followed the trail. Rain in On’hino made it difficult for thieves to get away with robbing merchants. Not only because it left tracks for anyone to follow, but because-

A loud crash resounded through the rain. The man grinned, and picked up his pace. It was easy for someone to wreck a cart in the woods when the ground is muck. He climbed up a hill to find a sharp decline ahead. The cart must have fallen down. Peering down, he found the group of bandits circling the cart, trying to pluck their take from the earth. Tightening the grip on his blade, the man walked down the decline and approached the bandits. They were nothing special; all of rather average builds, wearing little armor aside from studded leather.

“I have a message from Sir Garethul,” he said, gathering their attention. Raising his sword over his head, he threw it at one of the highwaymen. It caught one of them by the throat; the sheer force pulling him to the ground and pinning him in the mud. The rest of them drew their weapons; ranging from crudely-formed swords to axes. The man stopped, and raised his arms in a welcoming gesture. “Is there anything you’d like me to say to him?”

As the bandits charged towards him, the man curled his hand into a fist and struck the first one to come in the jaw; a snapping noise in reward to the blow. Before the foe could stagger back, the man pulled him to take the business end of an axe in motion. The force behind the blow sent both the man and his meatshield back, but he remained balanced. However, he grimaced as the bandit he held vomited a torrent of warm blood into his mail.

“Thanks,” he muttered before throwing the body to the ground; liberating a blade free from its dead owner’s clutch. As the axe-wielding outlaw readied an overhead swing to cut the man in half, the man leaned in and jammed his shoulder into the opponent’s core. His strength was enough to lift the cutthroat off of his feet.

The bandit tried to pry the man off of him, before he was slammed into a tree; impaled on a broken branch. The man stepped back before hot pain dragged like a nail through his side. Recoiling and turning around, he narrowly caught the next swing of another attacker with his steel. With one hand free, the man grabbed his assailant by the back of the head, and pulled his face into the back of his blade; eliciting a pained scream that made the last two step back. The scream only stopped as the man grunted and pulled even harder; pushing the metal past the skull.

There was a deadly silence, aside from the thud of a fresh-made corpse falling to the ground. The man stared at the two remaining outlaws. As one sank to his knees and dropped his weapon, the other turned and ran.

“W-we were just doing what was needed to get by,” the last criminal said, “we did what we were told.”

“I believe you.” The man approached him, and smiled. “Offer your hand.”

The criminal hesitated, before lifting his hand. With a single motion, the man released an agonized scream from the criminal. They both stared at the severed hand on the ground; an occasional twitch still coming from the fingers.

“Find your friend,” the man said, “and kill him. Then let everyone else know what happens to anyone who so much as points a sharp stick at Sir Garethul’s employs.” Dropping the sword, he walked over and ripped his own blade free from its flesh scabbard. “If they don’t believe you, show them the bodies.” With that, he left the remaining outlaw in the blood-saturated mud.



“If I didn’t know any better, I would say you’re lying,” Garethul said as he and the man walked through the streets of Perona. The amount of years the businessman had spent in the harbor-city had left him adept at weaving through the busy streets, despite his portly figure. The cries of vendors from their stalls fell deaf on his ears. “But I do know better, Reinold Sul’athar. Do you think we’ll hear anything more concerning my carts being stopped in the Abode?”

“Your carts will remain untouched, at least until the Frost sets in.” Reinold held his side, as if his hand would soothe the pain of his bandaged wound. “I’m certain that another pack will take their place, eventually.”

“Well I’d rather pay you to kill them off every now and then over being extorted.” Garethul chuckled, and patted Reinold’s shoulder. “I’ve seen to it that your reward is aboard the vessel you requested, along with a little ‘bonus’ for saving me the trouble of another dead worker.”

“Bonus?”

“Trust me, you’ll like it.” Garethul stopped in front of a store; the building itself dwarfing the houses that filled Perona. He gave a bow towards Reinold, and then opened the door. “I’ll see you when the Frost arrives, Sul’athar.”

I suppose I'm not living up to the Swift part in Swift Colossus... Carver thought to himself as the bear planted him into the palace stone masonry. The wall was quite unforgiving to his back, as Carver couldn't help but let out a loud grunt as his armor met the hard surface. The tackle from the bear had been so great that he had dropped his great sword, and it seemed that the Lord Tyrannus was left unarmed against this monstrous beast.

Guards began to rush towards him, but Carver quickly waved them off to dismiss them from helping him. The guards looked at each other nervously then stepped back. They figured if they intervened with Carver's fight, they would get in as just as much trouble as if they let the Tyrannus die. Carver noticed their apprehension and gave them a wink to reassure them that they made the right decision.

Hidden from the two guards, Carver reached underneath his plate mail and pulled out a dagger, to which he drove straight into the bear's eye. The bear screeched and reared back, freeing Carver from his pinned position to the wall. He quickly rolled over to his fallen weaponry to rearm himself with his preferred weapon of carnage. The bear was still in a daze from the dagger to the eyee, which gave Carver the perfect opportunity to exact revenge on the bear by charging it, great sword aimed true at his target.

Carver let out a war cry as he stabbed the bear beneath it's throat, twisting his blade to finish off the beast. The creature managed to stifle out one last growl before falling limp. Victorious, Carver let out one final roar before falling to the ground exhausted.

"You act like it's your first time fighting a bear, Carver." Claudius said, making his way to him from the other side of the courtyard. "I thought you had faced one before."

"A lot... can happen in 8 months... old friend." Carver said between breaths. "The other one... was probably... a lot smaller..."

"Or maybe you're not the same age as when you were fighting Orcs at Fort Gloria," Claudius said, offering a hand to his prone friend. "And these exercises may be doing more harm than good."

Carver chuckled as he reached out and grabbed the dragonborn's hand. "Last time I checked, you were a High Dec, not my mother." Carver groaned as he rose, reaching for his back. "That slam into the wall is going to hurt way more in the morning."

Carver walked to the palace, and motioned for the guards to clean up the mess. Claudius quickly followed him.

"I'll bathe before I attend to the rest of my duties for the day." Carver said to Claudius.

"Should I expect you in about an hour then, Carver?"

"Actually, send me up a handmaiden as well, if any are in the mood. A brunette too, if possible."

"Alright, I'll send whoever wishes to come." Claudius said, beginning to part ways. "I'll see you in an hour and five minutes, if you want a hand maiden."

Carver chuckled at he parted ways with his friend.

Bear fights, a warm bath, and hopefully a nice lay. A good start to the day, if I do say so myself.

"Another pint, and make it quick," billowed the powerful voice of Admiral Curo, audible even amongst the cheers and bustle that came to be as a result of one of the largest partipaties in history. Stouts lept from the ships' riggings, tossing waste into the seas beside them, creating a steady splashing in the shallows around them. Each flotilla linked to eachother with a series of firm planks, attached to a series of brackets on the deck. These were usually used to hold the flotilla together at sea during the night, but this linkage was due to the massive over-crowding of the docks, almost every Stout ship outside the royal fleet and Veritas was here, and though the docks of Dux took up half the sea, they were still crowded out by the incredible volume of ships. The scent of incredible food permeated the air, and the orgasmic cheers of those lucky Stouts who were served by Cacophoni's master chefs could be heard above all others.

"Another pint Curo? That's your fifth, I'd have thought you'd be done by now," Admiral Remy stated, astonished by Curo's resilience. Curo rolled his eyes and smacked the table.

"I'm not even tipsty yet!" Curo got out, only slurring the fourth word incredibly. He nudged the man seated next to him with a chuckle. Unfortunately he was seated next to the taciturn Admiral Omegon, who responded with a horrid stare of his sapphire-blue eyes and a slight puckering of his black lips. Curo laughed nervously before turning his head away, sweating only slightly. Omegon returned his stare to the roof of the ship. Integro's flagship, Curo's home. The largest out of all of the Stout's ships, it was usually the home of inter-Flotilla negotiation, and today was no exception. Omegon seemed intrigued by the vessel, staring intently at the dark pine that made up the planking. He quickly twitched a hand, and without a word a black-clad Polako agent stepped out of the shadows and produced a notebook, which Omegon speedily wrote within with naught but a finger. The human seemed massive amongst the Stouts seated within the room, but even he seemed dwarfed by Omegon's terrifying presence. The Order Priests rarely offered assassins to any other than themselves, and it spoke to Omegon's power that he was not only able to escape assassination, but convince the assassin to serve him, as an attendant of all things.

Of the four admirals gathered so far, only one was neither drunk, silent, nor cowed into subservience by Omegon's presence. Admiral Harrion simply sat, feet placed carelessly atop the meeting table. He picked at his teeth with a small toothpick, having had his fill of Cacophani's luxurious and decadent feasts and having already stolen the hearts and kisses of a gaggle of young maidens. He smacked his lips and tossed the toothpick aside haphazardly, grabbing onto a flagon of ale roughly and pouring it into his mouth with a rough motion. Slamming it on the table, he leaned forwards to let out a mighty belch before leaning right back again.

"So what's taking so long? I'm bored out of my skull," Harrion said, letting out a large yawn and stretching his short limbs as far as they could go.

"Just a little longer Harrion, we're waithi-wati-waiting for Duvessa and the high priestsn," Curo slurred out, punctuating his statement with a hiccup.

"Wait no longer, children, the Flotilla Ecclesiaro have arrived," Fulminio grandiosely announced his arrival, flanked on each side by an attendant, one Stout and one Halfling, the latter of which stumbled in a way characteristic of most Halflings when within a hundred feet of alcohol.

Curo belched in greeting, and Duvessa, who had seemingly materialized within the room, offered a bow to the high priest, who reciprocated with a smile.

Harrion snorted out a greeting to the High Priest, gurning in a way that forced a smile to sneak its way onto Fulminio's face.

The smile quickly faded when Fulminio witnessed Admiral Omegon seated at the table.

"I had asked that he not be here," Fulminio said indignantly. "Do my wishes mean nothing?"

Omegon responded with a quizzical tilt of the head.

"Fulminio please-" Duvessa attempted to calm the high priest but he interrupted her with a yell.

"He is an affront to the gods, as were all before him, him and his entire fleet are traitors of our holy oath and should be burnt on the waves!"

The drunk halfling that served as Fulminio's attendant noticed this, and as a result pulled an axe from his back, an overreaction of course, Fulminio had never intended for this to escalate into violence.

By the time the halfling got the axe in his hands his head was beginning to arc through the air.

The Polako assassin had crossed the room in an instant, and now crouched on one knee, his arm still in the air, wielding a curved and freshly-blooded blade.

The room erupted, Harrion attempting to claw his way up the wall, Fulminio retreating in a quite undignified manner to the corner of the room, Duvessa standing up and pulling Remy into a corner of his own, and Curo pulling his massive sword from under the table and steadying the point at the Polako.

Admiral Omegon seemed to be the only one nonplussed by this, twitching a hand in a manner that drew the Polako back towards him.

The room was silent for quite some time.

"...Hmmph," Fulminio finally huffed after looking thoughtful for some time, taking a seat at the table once more, seemingly cowed by the Polako's demonstration, though it was probably moreso him not wanting to cause any more of a scene. He wasn't one to let slights go easily, and everyone in the room knew that eventually he would ensure that he got his revenge.

Everyone else in the room were just as unwilling to escalate the situation any further, and all returned to their seats at the table.

The room remained silent for some time until Curo finally drew the piece of business that had brought them all here.

"Well, thank you all for coming!" Curo said in a way that was clearly ironic. "Well now that we're all settled, I would like to establish why you all were called here."

Curo cleared his throat and unfurled a scroll, seemingly sobered by the events that had just taken place.

"This is a royal decree, it states thusly; 'All fleets and fleet elements shall, under order from the King of Benaduza, prepare for immediate invasion immediately.'... kinda redundant, immediate invasion immediately, damn scribes."

The rest of the room immediately assumed serious expressions.

"Even Flotilla Maxim?"

"Forget Flotilla Maxim, he's literally summoning Flotilla Barbaros! This has to be come kind of joke, some bored scribe or something trying to get himself killed to escape the tedium."

Fulminio had a grim look upon his face, and he spun his scepter in his hand out of worry. In contrast, Admiral Omegon displayed the first hint of emotion he had displayed since entering the room, raising his eyebrows just slightly.

"Calm, everyone, I think the king means that all fleets must be prepared for possible combat, I do not believe that he means to bring us all to campaign."

This was the intention of the statement, and, written in Gnomish, the decree utilized the word "Depreanda", meaning an invasion that must be defended from, in contrast to "Depritus", meaning an invasion that the subject is a part of.

The tension in the room did dissipate at this, if only slightly.

"So he's preparing for war then? Against who?"

"I have reason to believe On'Hino."

"Pointless conflict for the sake of conflict? How horrible."

"Not pointless, this is a war for hegemony over the seas. So that we can show just why Benaduza is called an empire," Curo said proudly, clenching his fist as he did so.

"Though I am loathe to fight, I will prepare Maxim for the conflicts to come, our King knows the way," Remy promised with a sigh, he was clearly not wishing to fight, but he would do so out of loyalty to his king.

Duvessa was visibly growing more and more uncomfortable with the situation, to which Remy placed a tender hand on her shoulder.

"We promise you that, Curo," he said, speaking for his wife due to her quickening breaths. "May we be excused?"

Curo nodded, and they quickly took their leave, Remy placing a cloak over Duvessa's shoulders, covering her raven hair.

Curo sighed and ran a finger over the bridge of his nose, tired blue eyes peeking out under his wild red hair. He looked over at Harrion, who looked down at his feet.

"Flotilla Barbaros will be ready if the need be," he said in a halting way. Curo nodded in response and allowed him to leave.

"This holy quest is what our gods will, I bless our king's holy expedition, and wish you the best of luck, Admiral Curo," Fulminio offered grandiosely. Curo growled in response, and Fulminio took his leave.

Curo was excited at first to fight, but seeing just how it had affected his fellow admirals had made it hard for him to remain excited, he massaged his temples and sighed.

He barely heard Admiral Omegon leaving.

Luchia sat on a stump that was part of the campsite. She had a few other companions, but they were temporary. A dwarf, two humans, and a halfling. She didn't remember their names. They were here to take down dire wolf that was terrorizing a merchant's trading route. She didn't exactly know what part of the wilds they were in, and she didn't remember where the wolf was. Luckily, that wasn't her job. The halfling had the map and the quest. She was getting a fifth of the contract. Everything was split equally, something Luchia thought unusual. Normally, the leader of the group got two shares.

While they waited for nightfall, when the beast came out to attack merchant camps, they told stories of their past adventures. Luchia thought she had the best stories, but she hadn't had to chance to tell them. The dwarf, who she assumed was drunk at four in the afternoon, kept talking. He had many stories to tell, and wouldn't shut up about it.

"I was on that beach for four days, all alone. The rest of the crew was dead and I had to live off of crabs." As the dwarf told his story, the human woman swooned.

"How did you survive?"

"Coconuts. First day I got hit en the head with one, and I figured out they had water en 'em. Gave me a bad headache, but my head was hard enough to crack it open." The dwarf gave a hearty chuckle. He smelled like old ale, and his shirt had many stains on it. He was a slob, but he was good with an ax.

"I was stuck on an island once too. It's not as difficult as he's making it out to be. A shelter can be made out of palm leaves. Water, yeah, can come from coconuts, food is fish and the like. You could survive on an island for years. The other human poked at the sand, upset that his companion was paying more attention to the mess of a dwarf than him.

"Thing is, Benauld, there was only one tree. Can't do much with one tree."

"How'd you even get stuck on the island in the first place?" The halfling raised an eyebrow. He started the story in an odd place.

"Oh. We got attacked by pirates and I had to row away 'cause the ship was sinkin'."

"That seems like a better story than this one." Luchia joined the conversation. She was facing away from the camp, technically on the look-out. The wolf was usually out after sundown, but it didn't hurt to watch out. They were in its territory after all.

"What'd you know about a good story, Luchia? Last one you told was 'bout rocks!"

"At least her story had flare. Not everyone gets to fight earth elementals. Getting stuck on an island is a common thing."

"But it was a real small island!" The dwarf huffed. Only one person was enjoying his story, and that was because they fancied him. He had no argument. His story was boring, plain and simple.

Luchia saw something move in the forest.

"Wait, shut up." Luchia stood on her stump, looking into the forest.

"Is it the wolf?" The lady human whispered, but it was still too loud. Wolves had great ears.

"I think so. Let's go get it." Dorret hopped off her stump and grabbed her bow from the ground.

The group gathered their things and crept into the forest. The male human was a tracker, and was head of the group. The dwarf and the human were behind him. Luchia and the halfing were in the back. The wolf was worth more alive than dead, but they had heard it was a dangerous thing. It had killed many other hunters that went after it. The one that issued the bounty on it wanted to keep it as a pet. Like that would happen.

As they tracked the wolf, Luchia saw another blur. She wanted to ask if it had been proven that the wolf was a loner, but any noise might give away their position. Luchia suffered from delusions sometimes, and this might just be one. She began to doubt that the dire wolf was alone. What if it had gotten a mate since it had been last seen? What if it joined a pack? She didn't think they could handle a pack. Dorret looked around, tense.

The group stopped. The human pointed into a clearing, at the target. It was larger than Luchia expected. It had midnight black fur and was about the size of a horse. It was eating a deer. Luchia felt bad for the deer, it's death would mean nothing. The wolf would be dead and the food probably wasted.

Dorret climbed into a tree, getting into position. She aimed at the beast. She wished she could see the wolf's face. An arrow in the eye would be a huge disadvantage for the wolf. The back would have to do. A butterfly landed on her knocked an arrow, but Luchia ignored it. She couldn't mess this up. She breathed in, aimed at the wolf's heart, and fired with her exhale. The arrow was made to tear all the way through someone while ripping out their organs. It had a heavy tip, but it was a powerful head.

It hit the target but didn't go through. One of the arrow's downfalls was that it had trouble going all the way through bone. The wolf, who Luchia had dubbed Dutch, spun around. It spotted the little group on the ground. The halfing sent out a firebolt, catching Dutch's black fur on fire. The beast yelped and ran into the forest, burning. It would create a forest fire if they didn't deal with it soon. Luchia wasn't thinking about that. She was surrounded by blue butterflies. They blocked her vision and were all over her. They smothered her, and she fell out of the tree. They covered every inch of her, getting into her mouth and nose. She couldn't breath, they would suffocate her. But, no one else could see them.

"What the Hell?" The dwarf cursed as he watched Luchia spasm. She was hitting herself, trying to crush the invisible butterflies.

"I'll deal with her, get the wolf!" The female human came to Luchia's aid.

The rest of the group didn't question her orders. They ran after the wolf, following it's blood trail. Luchia prepared for a non-lethal hit and had poisoned the tip of her arrow. It would make the beast sleepy, slowing it down and making it easier for the others to cut it's head off.

Luchia was beginning to black out. Her brain was shutting down from lack of oxygen. The human desperately searched through her pack, looking for her antipsychotic. It was a small brown fungus. A mushroom like that was easy to overlook. It blended in with the trees it grew on. It's considered poisonous since it makes healthy people see horrible monsters. Although, if taken in small amounts and given to people that normally hallucinated, it could be a powerful antipsychotic. It works immediately since it's toxin is administered through the skin.

The healer must have found it since she began putting on her gloves. Luchia could only see darkness and blue butterflies in varying sizes. She pulled the brown mushroom out of her bag and placed rubbed it against Dorret's arms. The butterflies began to disperse, and Luchia could finally breathe. She gasped for air and grabbed the healer's shirt. She didn't save Luchia's life, as soon as she passed out the illusion would fade, but she certainly kept her from passing out. It wasn't often that the hallucinations attacked her, but when they did it was devastating. They couldn't do any real damage, but the brain tricked itself into thinking they could. Luchia owed the healer, and that fact alone made her feel bad.

After a few minutes, Luchia was back on her feet. She dusted herself off as the two of them made their way back to camp. The other three should have no difficulty taking down Dutch because of the poison. Dorret went back to her place on a stump, waiting for the others to return. She mumbled a thank you to the healer, hating herself for letting her mind get the best of her yet again.

"You sit there idle, Lord Tyrannus!" The Dec shouted, foam almost seething from his mouth. "A farming village destroyed, and you show no action other than a reconstruction force!"

"We don't know who or what we are dealing with," Carver said, voice growing weary. He felt as if he had been arguing the same points for several days now, and it had only been an hour. The cautious approach to the attack near Artis Port had been met with more opposition that he initially expected. To him, it was the obvious approach. To send several troops from the rest of the kingdom would make the attack seem like a bigger threat than it was.

"To think this is a planned attack by another kingdom is foolish. We shouldn't mobilize units for an offensive quite yet."

"A single group of raiders could not take out a village that easily," scoffed the Dec, "A force to be reckoned with is loose somewhere in Praelium, and it wishes to start a war."

"Damn Benaduzians!" Another Dec shouted, "It has to be them! They're blood hungry and we all know it!"

"Benaduza is a trading ally we have little quarrel with them," Carver replied, "And while they would dominate us at sea, we have a much stronger land force. We would have seen a much stronger naval blockade and a bigger show of force on our port sides."

"So what do we do, Lord Tyrannus?" The first Dec said in a mocking tone, "Get down on our knees and pray they infiltrate Praelium softly?"

Carver's tired posture straightened and flame of fury ignited in his eyes. His gaze, which was trying to address the entire House of Decus, turned directly at the out spoken Dec. The rage fueled stare shocked the Dec, and his initially aggressive posture turned stiff.

"Praelium has suffered a minor causality at best." Carver spoke fiercely. "Do not think I will let Praelium fall. We do not want other nations to think this was a significant hit."
The Dec meekly nodded, and the rest of the House murmured in agreement.

"If that settles all, then we are all adjourned." Carver waved his hand, dismissing the Decs, and they all shuffled out. All except Claudius, who waited for the rest to leave before approaching Carver.

"If it makes you feel better, I approve of your strategy, Lord Tyrannus."

"Thanks Claudius," Carver said, his previously intimidating presence withering away as he spoke. "You think we would want less wars, as we are already fighting the tribes to the north. Apparently, that's not enough for them."

Carver's eyes glazed over before he buried them in his hands. "And to top it off, House Dominus wants to see me."

Claudius reached his hand out to Carver's shoulder reassuringly. "Did they tell you what for?"

"They're going to pull a Annog a kill me," Carver said, half jokingly. He knew that very well could be the case, he could have been violating some Dominus standard that they never told him.

"Damn time they do," Claudius said back. "I want take a shot at this Tyrannus thing. I think I could do a better job that you, easily."

Carver chuckled, and lifted his face from his hands to face Claudius. His smile was weak, but there nonetheless.

"Thanks old friend," Carver slowly began to rise. "I'll head over there now. If I'm to be killed, midday would be my preferred time."

Reinold Sul'athar,

Gods' Fury and unfailing warrior,

I charge with the protection of a woman, with whom the fate of Erelith rests upon. Upon completion of your contract, you will find your price more than satisfied.

Find your charge in the Burning Mare Inn.





Reinold groaned as the port of Artis came into view. Perhaps he spent too long in the cold climates, but the warm air cut through him. It sapped his energy, and made him sweat in his armor. He had longsince abandoned his coat. Many aboard the ship had complained about the sunlight shining off of his mail, but between overheating or being an eyesore, there was little choice.

“Can’t y’find somethin’ elsewhat to wear?” one of the crew asked. When he received nothing in response, he set down what he was doing and approached the Templar. “Did y’hear me? Or’re ye deaf?” He chuckled, and reached out to give Reinold’s shoulder a shove. “So you’re-“ the sailor was cut short by his own tongue as the Templar turned around.

“Sod off.” Reinold towered over the man; his glare far more intense than the sun. He flicked his eyes to the rest of the crew, which sent them busy into their own work. Turning around again, he looked at the oncoming port. He had plenty to think over, and the letter in his hand did little to quell his thoughts. It had found him by name alone; he had no true home, and few his name or whereabouts. For him to be tracked down… the thought baffled him. Perhaps he had let something slip.

The ship reached port, and Reinold stepped off. The boards creaked underneath his boots; prompting him to move quickly. The port was not a far cry from Perona, spare that there were not as many walls. Life bustled through the streets. Merchants shouted over one another in a bid to garner interest. Urchins raced through the crowds to prey upon unattended coinpurses.

Stepping into the crowds, Reinold looked around at the buildings that lined the streets. The letter described one named ‘the Burning Mare Inn.’ It was there that he would find the beginning of his contract. A woman. While ambiguous, the letter detailed the job of protecting her, no matter where they went. But, why go through the trouble of finding him? Why not anyone else? He was always hired to kill, often discreetly. Bandits were akin to business competitors. His price was not so cheap, but he had yet to fail an agreement. Perhaps that was his draw.

Reinold stopped as he found the Burning Mare; a building indistinguishable from the others. The place was well-kept to the eye, and there was little to suggest elsewise. There he was, yet something left him hesitant. This was no ordinary job. Resting his hand on the grip of his sword, the Templar pushed open the door. There was nothing but silence to greet him. Stepping inside, he found nobody else, spare at a table in center of the room. Though hidden away under a hood, the figure sitting at the table was clearly a woman; her figure gave it away.
“Who are you?” Reinold asked, stepping inside. The door closed behind him; muffling the noises in the streets. He approached the table, yet stopped a couple paces away. “If this is a trap, don’t leave me in suspense.”

Inside the Ministry, there was not a single peep as the eyes of every Minister were fixed on the podium at the center. Amid the house of nobility and politicians stood a single man; plastered in mud and dirt, his clothes torn to rags. He shook under the glare of Galedrith, who gestured for him to begin.

“I- we didn’t think they were telling the truth, sires,” the man began, running a thumb over the back of his left hand. “Figured that we would go out to the island, maybe find a bit of metals in the shaft and be on our way. But when we got there, somethin’ was off ‘bout the land. The trip was easy, but there was nobody else there. No buildings, or people.”

“We are aware of Blackreach’s conditions in terms of population,” Galedrith interjected. He frowned, glaring at the man. “You were part of the excavation crew. That is the part we want to hear.”

“Aye, sir.” The man paused, looking around the room as he trembled softly.

“Quit your shaking and speak!” Thibault boomed, before Galedrith raised a hand to halt him.

“Th-the mine was all we found,” the man continued, “for the most part intact. Nobody else in sight. There was plenty to haul, so the captain put us to work. The boat was loaded to the brim with fine ores, and as it sailed away…”

“As it sailed away, one of the crew found the Door.” Galedrith shuffled a few papers on his podium. In the past few years, Blackreach had been nothing but a nuisance to him. Even if he wanted to investigate the ‘Island that ate Men’, the rest of the Ministry was quick to become a pain in his side. But, with the way things were now, he could throw as many boatloads of men as he pleased into the Abyss and not a single Minister had the stones to bring the matter up. And with reports of similar doors being found by scouting teams in their search around Lerem, perhaps there was more to the Island than men being consumed. “You’re in a rare position,” he said, sitting up. “The first to have ever left Blackreach. I want to know what you saw before you left, and how you escaped.”

“Aye sir.” The man shambled idly in his place at the center of the Ministry. “We found a stone door at the end of the mines the same day that the boat left. The captain had left with the boat, so we took it upon ourselves to dictate our next move. We opted not to touch the door, and to wait for the captain’s return.”

“According to the captain’s reports,” Val stated, “which are corroborated by logs taken by officers in Perona, he was sent off to return to the island within the week.”

“That’s wrong,” the man said, looking at the Minister. “We were stuck on that rock for months. We did what we could to survive, but each day we found less and less to eat. One of our grew so crazed by hunger, he destroyed what water supply we had left. With death awaiting us on the beach, we decided to open the door. Figured, there was no point in waiting around if we’re going to die anyways.”

“What did you find beyond the door?” Galedrith asked.

“Something… something…” the man muttered, before looking around himself again. “I’d rather have died on that beach from hunger again, and again, and again…”

“Is he right in the mind?” Thibault asked.

“I swam to get away from that place,” the man continued, sweat beading on his skin. “No man is ready for what lays within that place. It reeked of the air surrounding Lerem.”

***

“That was a waste,” Thibault muttered as he, Galedrith and Val walked through a hall in the King’s Palace. “Man was clearly deranged. It’s likely that there’s something in the air that drove him out of his right mind, and perhaps he killed the rest of his crew.”

“Perhaps.” Galedrith furrowed his brow. “Yet the captain found no signs of carnage.”

“It’s not the only place to not abide by the natural laws,” Val interjected, “with Stal and its eternal Frost being the closest example.”

“This isn’t about seasons,” Galedrith replied. “This is an island that wants us to delve into it.”

Thibault scoffed at Galedrith. “Us?”

“Yes. Do you not think it strange, how it let one single man escape?” Galedrith stopped as Thibault took a seat on a bench. He grinned as the older man groaned. “Don’t tell me you’re growing soft, Thibault.”

“I’m about as soft as a stone.” Thibault smirked, before gesturing him to go on, leaning back in his seat.

“Yes. This has never happened, not until we secured control over the Ministry.” Galedrith clasped his hands together. “But now that we decide what happens with On’hino, Blackreach spares a man to draw us in with a mystery.”

“Be careful, Galedrith,” Val said. “Remember that Alnharte is still out there, and this may just suit to fan his flames-“

“Or extinguish them.” Galedrith turned to Val. “What kind of monsters are we if our labors provide us with artifacts to match Kalold in power?” Grinning, he began to walk, leaving both ministers behind. “Yes, I think I know what course we shall take. Send out a notice across the realm, and let the most daring of explorers root through Blackreach; those who find anything of worth will be handsomely rewarded.” Looking over his shoulder, he dragged a finger over his neck. Thibault’s fit of laughter wrought a grin on his face.

Yy'Sil read the letter once, and then twice over. Thrice to make sure. Sighing in exhaustion, she looked around inside the caravan she was in for the almost thousandth time. They had arrived in Praelium without much difficulty, and over the few days, had finally made it to Artis Port.

"My lady, we have arrived in Artis Port." The lady within the caravan smiled and moved a curtain to the window aside, revealing the bright sun that was dimmed by the fabric in front of the window. Grabbing her cloak, she tied the article of clothing just in front of her neck and put the hood over her head to peer out the window. Seeing the streets filled with people, the corners of her lips curved upwards in a small smile, eyes softening at the sights. Soaking in the images, she sighed and pushed the curtain back into place to cover the window.
"It's beautiful. Thank you, for allowing me to tag along on the caravan. A carriage arranged by Heirtol would have attracted far too much attention..." She bowed her head forward towards the woman within the carriage.

"Oh no no! No thanks is needed, Lady Yy'Sil. I understand your concerns; I just worry about how you will return back home to safety." The lady shook her head and waved her right hand kindly, as if waving off the gratitude.

"Thia arranged for a bodyguard. After business is done here, I will return before the ball will happen." Yy'sil smiled and tightened her hood's tie, concealing parts of her outfit underneath as she felt the wooden caravan come to a halt.

"We've stopped. Thank you again, for the ride." Bowing her head once more time, Yy'Sil gave a smile to the woman before stepping out of the caravan, and into the port.

Feet having touched the ground, vivid purple eyes glanced skyward before staring back down at the bustle of the port, and then at the ocean. Inhaling the air, she coughed at how salty the breeze was.

I've read about the ocean, but never thought the concentration of salt within the water would change the taste of the air.. Thinking to herself, she smiled and looked at the assorted wares and people, almost giddily looking about before hearing the lady that brought her here in the first place speak up.

"My lady, I think it best to get to where your sister told you to meet your guard." The lady smiled, understanding the girls obvious interest in the new environment.

"Oh, of course. I guess I should.." her cheeks were slightly tinted pink in embarrassment before starting to make her way towards

Walking up and down the streets, her purple eyes wandered the vendors, catching very few eyes of those who saw. Stopping in front of a little jewelry stall, she looked at their wares and took mental notes of the different ways to place a pearl before excusing herself. She looked at all the signs and vendors before clearing her head of distractions and making her way towards the Burning Mare Inn. Pushing open the door, she looked inside and looked at the inside of the quiet inn and took a seat at the chair available with the single table. It was eerily quiet, and very empty for an inn. After looking around a bit, she stared at the table and the material it as made of before scratching a little etching on the table with her fingernail. Her attention was taken from the little marks and notes of her job when she heard the door open.

The door revealed the silhouette of a man, a decent height taller than her who opened his mouth to speak.

"Who are you?" the male spoke. Approaching her, yet stopping just a few steps away. He was cautious, the hand on the hilt of his sword at his side. Her fingers were halted in their mark making when he spoke the words, "If this is a trap, don't leave me in suspense.". She looked up at man, the hood pulled back a bit so her vision would be better, amethyst-like eyes observing the male before she spoke up.

"I can reassure you, if this place was a trap, I would be trapped, unless the trappers were waiting for you, of course. I've no idea who you are though. My sister decided to hire someone outside of our nation." she shifted her position on the chair, so her whole body was facing him. Her feet were on the ground, shoulder width apart with her left hand on the table right above her etching while the right rested on the edge of the chair she sat on. A precaution, in case this person was dangerous. Her body was leaned forward slightly as she stared upwards at him with her eyes staring at his own, one eye slightly obscured by her front bangs, however gave hints to what she was wearing underneath, judging by the amount of skin from her chest that was visible.

"Tell me, does something in this inn seem off..? " she glanced left and right before she kept her eye on him. Rising from her seat, fingers still upon the table and just right above the edge of the marks. "The moment I entered, there was no one. Normally within an inn, there is usually company, or at least travelers." The fingers of her left hand brushed against the etchings left on the table, scorching the marks that were made before she felt the heat brush against the palm of her hand, and some of the small embers linger in her grasp, but the display was cut off by the muffled shouts and screams from the streets.

"I saw one enter here!" Could barely be made out from the shouts. Peering through the windows available, she saw three men approaching the inn with rope in one mans hand, and gleaming weapons in the other two.

"Interesting. I guess the hood wasn't enough...Was it the eyes..?" She muttered to herself before raising her left hand and spoke the word, Glis before mimicking the hand motions of locking the door. The door made an audible click noise, and the material on the bottom of the door started spreading outward and downwards to cling to the ground, making it difficult for the assailants to open the door as they pounded away at the surface and shouted in frustration.

"If you were given a letter, I am the one you are to protect." She spoke quickly, glancing up at the male before she looked back at the door. The men were quick to react when they realized they couldn't open the door with fists alone. A blade had started slamming through the material of the door before Yy'Sil stepped back and adjusted one of the earrings on her left ear as she prepared for the fight.

"There she is! They'll pay good money for that one!" The face of one of the men appeared as they kept hacking at the door with their weapons before breaking a sufficient hole through the inn door for all of them to enter. "Keep her alive! A pretty thing like that will be worthy of a fine price!"

A small arrow whizzed past her shoulder and caught her hood, knocking it right off her head before she was able to cast her first spell. "Accelati" a faint glow enveloped the male bodyguard as he would feel a little lighter and quicker, if this support magic of hers would even affect him. The three men were eager, as one was reloading his cross bow on his arm while the other two charged at Reinold, with their weapons barred. Yy'Sil behind Reinold, quickly cast a small fireball to distract the crossbow user for a bit, hitting his crossbow with accuracy.

"Another day at the docks," Jameson muttered as he handed the halfling his papers. "Another day reading midget's merchant qualifications..." The halfling spoke something in his native tongue as he made his way to the door, probably something the lines of "about damn time."

Artis Port was never a soldiers favorite station. The work was tedious, there was no action, and everyone's job was essentially to be a nuisance to traders and travelers. Checking papers, making sure people had badges, searching cargo for contraband, it was all boring as hell. And Jameson Telluth had been the bastard lucky enough to be in charge of it all. He remembered the days he spent on the wall in Fort Gloria, thinking it couldn't get worse than hot desert heat and constant threat from the desert tribes to the north. But even the beautiful landscape of Port Artis wouldn't stop him from trading posts with one of those soldiers any day.

"Next merchant..." Jameson called, his voice droning. It was only noon, but he felt as if he had been sitting at his desk checking papers for days now.

Oh God, if you're out there, give me some sort of out...

The door swung open and crashed into the walls of the room, the metal cracking the wood as the door slammed into it. Jameson jumped and instinctively drew his first sword with his right hand and his left on the other's hilt.

"Sir! We tried to remove some illegal travelers, but they were too violent and skilled for the Green Stripes! They got Maiht!"

"Damn, they took out a soldier?" Jameson growled, his second sword now drawn. "The scum will pay. Where are they now?"

"The Burning Mare, sir."

Jameson nodded and made his way out the door.

"Stay here, son. Deal with the paperwork, I'll be back when the invaders are dead."

The door slammed and the young guard sighed.

"Damnnit..." He grumbled, making his way to the desk. "I think I'd rather be Maiht right about now..."

“Don’t you think you’ve gotten a little extreme? It’s not like the children could do any actual harm…”
“You, of all people, shouldn’t be talking about getting extreme.”

“Wow, way to bring the mood down, Tendum. ”

Tendum let out a sigh. With a shrug of the uttermost absolute carelessness, he wandered away from the pitiful confrontation. Like a victor standing over their spiteful foe, he looked around for a better challenge. When none forced themselves upon him, the mountain tree branches rubbed off on him.

Not used to the heights, …(not Tendum… greeted the people of Denegrims capital. “War, how fare you?” His hand reached the height of his head as the fingers circled his palm. The gesture hardly matched his common greeting, but one of the people replied with similar response. Getting into a conversation about the usual topics of controversy. Whether they be beast attacks, the newest hall or even the clan leader struggling to remain loyal to the Manhandler’s denomination of strength.

A few weeks passed before ….(Tendum and the crew)… were entirely adapted and established in their new environment. Getting used to the accents so far away from home, they couldn’t help but take time to bring themselves up to date on the latest distinctions of the words “kill” and “food” in both Denegrimian subcultures. All the extensive worldly discovery details aside, they were asked to be seen by the dictator. The person who was effectively emperor, high king and pope. Luckily for them, it would be one visit and the visit would not include the Vassal clan leaders or any of the pretentious wannabe’s that so often usurped the dictators time. (The parliament & above.)
Arriving at the hall, there’s not a single person in sight. Nor was there a single person inside. Sheepishly staring into the hall, the group began to doubt their original premise. The emperor wasn’t going to show up and they would be stripped from their rights as citizens, just because they failed that one boar hunt last month. And to top it all off, the pesky council of honorable wannabe pretenders were going to be the heroes that exposed them too.
The rampaging thought process of future despair was interrupted. A deep voice, untrained and not very loud and outspoken fluttered in between the walls. It did not sound like a commoner: “War…”
Well aware of the dictators presence and slightly frightened by the clarity of such a silent greeting, the few humbled themselves and gave back a greeting of their own as gently as they could. “War…”
The lighting in the room was minimal and progressing through the hall happened very slowly. When out of thin air, there seemed to be two bright eyes afloat, reflecting in what little light the hall let into the room.

The eyes were accompanied by a set of instructions. Both booming and unnerving, they were as followed: “From this inner city to the outer reaches where they greet you, walk.”
Genuinely confused as to why they were being sent on a quest to tour the country in a broken sentence, … uttered a “As you will?”.
The instructing continued: “A map of all you find, you will bring to me.”
Mapmaking. The quest the great and proclaimed nearly all powerful warlord, magician master of all of Denegrim needs a group of youngsters for is mapmaking. “He hasn’t done anything for me, he hasn’t provided me with anything, he hasn’t even bothered to change anything to the stupid and redundant psychological study system that tries to divide people into 8 categories.” Resounded within Tendums mind. With a deep sigh in his mind, Tendum replied in sync with the rest of the group: “As you will”.
“Your final instruction is to name them to me. Once you can no longer remember the places you have visited, you may return and deliver.”
“As you will”, the group replied once more. Tendum was still not convinced this entity was supposed to be their grand leader. “What was with the shady behavior? Did he really need to hide his body from the handful of people that came specifically to serve him? Why was it so incredibly important that this remained a secret? It wasn’t like anyone wasn’t going to be asking them what the reason for their visitation was. And if the dictator was not in fact such a great warrior, he could at the very least have resorted to sending out letters. What was with all these shenanigans and secrecy?...” The chain of thought was broken.
“Shame is a powerful tool”, The deep voice seemingly replied. “And exactly why you wisely do not openly speak your mind against your dictator. But there is no place you could hope to hide from me. Skilled warriors don’t need protection to strike their enemies.” Tendum took a moment to swallow his pride. “You will do my bidding, worse yet. You specifically will reread your mind and remember every location you visit. And visit them all you shall.” Before Tendum had a chance to response, the voice continued to address the others. “Now leave before your body submits entirely to my authority too. ”
Tendum woke up with the sound of doors slamming shut behind him. The memory of that red shirt underneath the piercing gaze still staining his eyelids, he felt like something unexplainable had just happened to him.
“Haha, I knew it, dude! This guy is the real deal. Just look at the authority this guy has. I couldn’t move! I couldn’t even resist. And I’m said to be the brains of the party. I better not get to close to this place again or I might just start growing bodily hair just to conform to the emperors will. Whoohoo!”
Couldn’t she shut up? Didn’t she realize we were just mind controlled by some sick trick? “Hey, mind control doesn’t share your excitement. And there’s good reason for the brains of the party to shut it.” “Yeah, sure. That’s what all these barriers here are for. Let’s face it, you felt it too. You felt the power. The real unbridled power of authority. And you even listened to it twice in a row, now. Sounds to me like that’s pretty consistent. But hey, don’t dally on your defeat to be your own man, we can still get you a book and have you hallucinate on fertility.” The words would have driven Tendum to more spite if he actually cared about books. Sadly for him, the decision to rush back into the room was met with a fully lit room. Clearly visible torches and open, curtain free windows revealed not a single person inside. Not before hundreds of fangirls stormed in, nearly trampling our hero and the rest of the party.

Staring at the blankness of what once might become his greatest adversary and role model alike, Tendum couldn’t suppress the urge to go out and have a look at all of Denegrim. Marking the beginning of his adventure, he spend the next month working for gold, preparing to leave and gathering supporters to fund his religions representation in parliament.

But it wasn’t long before Tendum noticed a surprising change in the atmosphere. The people here were, without a doubt, the tallest among those that lived in Denegrim. With more than a few being several feet taller than Tendum, he expected there to be some form of corruption ongoing. Corruption he was introduced to in the form of an encounter with The Ogres Militants Camp.

"If you were given a letter, I am the one you are to protect."

Reinold’s grunt was the closest to a sound of approval as Yy’Sil was going to get. Sitting down, the Templar set the letter on the table, so that she could see the signature. “My name is Reinold Sul’athar. I’m a hired sword, and there’s not much else to say. ” Remaining calm despite the commotion from outside, he leaned back into his chair in a bid to get comfortable before continuing. “I have questions of my own, when the time for them comes. ” He frowned. The way her sister was able to find him left him uncomfortable. He looked her over carefully, his eyes cold and calculating. “I don’t see a weapon, and you don’t have that ‘look’ in your eyes. The kind you get from splitting a man open. Wherever you’ve planned to go, I hope it’s nowhere risky. ”

With each thunk of steel stabbing into the wooden door, he maintained eye contact with the woman. He had to get a feel for how she held up under pressure. “Here is my proposal. ” Reinold drew his sword and set it on the table. The sound of it being set ever so gently betrayed its heavy weight. “I’ll be your bodyguard for the time being. If someone so much as threatens you, I’ll see them choking on their own teeth or worse. If your sister doesn’t compensate me after the end of this job, I’ll see you pay for it. ”

Once the door fell into splinters, Reinold stood up, sword in hand. There was silence as he watched the men enter the room, crossbows in hand. Their appearance sent the hairs on his neck stiff; a sensation he had felt only once before when his eyes fell upon the brown robes with gold trimmings. That alone was once too many for his lifetime. “You wouldn’t happen to know a little magic, would you? ”

“Don’t you move a muscle,” one of the men growled. Weapons aside, they were far from intimidating. They robes they wore betrayed them as scholars rather than soldiers. In fact, they lacked any armor. Yet Reinold knew better. He slowly sheathed his blade, and raised his hands.

“I’m not a mage, ” he said as they approached. “The girl, maybe, but I’m as plain as they get. ”

“Shut up!” The trio drew close, as one pulled a strange device from his satchel. When he pointed it at Yy’Sil, it glowed at let out a shrill ringing. One of the Artificers fired a bolt, prompting Reinold to duck As the fireball flew from his charge’s hand, he grabbed the table and flipped it towards the men; pinning them underneath. In the same breath, he pulled Yy’sil along as he ran out the back.

“A bloody mage, ” he muttered under his breath. “Why couldn’t you just be normal? ” As they back door opened, sunlight poured into the inn. Shielding his eyes, the Templar led the way into the back alleys. They were nearly as crowded as the main streets, yet he made quick work of clearing the way. Not many stood in front of an armor-clad juggernaut.

The Artificers rushed out the door in purist, and it did not take long for the remaining bystanders to draw accurate assumptions. As a bolt flew by Reinold’s head and caught the skull of a street performer, panic spread through the streets. Many cried for help as they surged out of the alley; blocking the exits. Muttering a curse under his breath, Reinold turned around to face the Artificers.

“If you’ve got any tricks up your sleeve, don’t use them yet. ” His face was pale. While many things could not break his calm exterior, the Templar lacked any real confidence in the confrontation. It was not the men who worked that fear into him.

From the inn emerged a tall, hooded figure. Its height would have indicated half-giant roots, but something was off. The way it walked as unnatural and forced. If one listened carefully, it could hear a slight wheezing from under that hood. Moving in front of the Artificers, it pulled down the hood to reveal a head made of steel; a crude mask lacking anything but eyes hiding away any shred of humanity. One who was sensitive to magic would be as repulsed by the abomination as one would if they stepped in excrement. It was an affront to nature, and reeked of rotting flesh and oil. As the hood fell, so did its cloak; revealing nothing but metal plating, as if it was a suit of armor.

“Drop your weapons,” one of the Artificers said, “or we’ll fit them down your throat.”

Reinold stepped in front of Yy’Sil, and grunted. “We’re lucky, this time. Husks rely on the braindead hosts within to regulate its magic intake. Listen to me carefully. ”

“HALT!” City guards squeezed their way into the alley, surrounding Reinold, Yy’Sil, the Artificers and the one thing no sane man would confront. “Drop your weapons! You’re under arrest!” One of them moved towards the Artificers. The Husk – in a startling display of speed – whirled around and grabbed the guard by the throat; lifting him up like a doll. Nothing but wheezes came from the guard as the others stepped back.

“Cover your eyes, ” Reinold muttered.

The guard kicked and tried to try the hands free, before the Husk threw its fist into his face. With a loud crunch the bloodied fist emerged from the back of the guard’s skull; covered in blood, matter and bone fragments. The Husk let go of the corpse’s throat, before using its bloodied arm to throw it through the wall of the inn. The Artificers raised their crossbows to the city guard.

“Interfere, and the rest of you will die far worse deaths,” one said, as the Husk turned to face Reinold and Yy’Sil again.

The Templar rushed forth, swinging his blade to get the Husk’s attention. With a swing of its arm, the construct met his blade and sent him stumbling back and his blade to the ground, before reaching for his throat as well. Lifting him up, its metal fingers closed around his windpipe. His face quickly turned red, and the veins started to protrude from his skin. However, Reinold remained calm. Swinging his legs, he caught one of his boots on the Husk’s chest. The other boot lined up with it before he extended his body into a plank.

The sound of chains breaking came from the Husk’s chest before the metal plate opened to reveal an exposed chest cavity. The heart was pumping erratically, and what skin that could be seen was green in color. The Husk raised its fist to do the Templar in, much like the guard. Reinold looked over his shoulder at Yy’Sil.


“Fire, ” he croaked, “now!”

Jameson shoved past the panicking crowd and merchants, barking orders to them as he past. Most of the citizens had seen combat for worse than the street chase, so they knew how to handle themselves. The merchants, however, had fallen into hysteria. Several of them had hastily packing up, others simply leaving their belongings at their stands and making a run for it.

Typical foreigners... Jameson thought to himself, making his way through the crowd. None of them have had any type of training. Seeing the lot of them scramble like scared rabbits... Makes me glad to be Praelian.

However, as he made his way further down the streets, the panic seemed to spread to more Praelian citizens as well. They had the look of terror in their eyes, as if they had seen something from their nightmares. The force from the stream of bodies rushing away from Jameson's destination was so great he had to pause his advance to brace himself from not falling over. Eventually, the flow from the river of people ran dry and Jameson could finally move again.

He had briefly lost his direction, before it was recalibrated by a loud crunch and scream from a nearby alley, followed by multiple Praelian guards running away. At first Jameson was baffled that his men would run away from anything, but he then turned furious and began yelling at the men.

"Are you men not Praelian?!" Jameson barked, waving his swords in the air. "What the hell are you running from?"

The men seemed not to skip a beat on their retreat, most completely ignoring Jameson. The few that didn't only gave him a grave look with faces turned white. Most sane beings would have taken that as a sign to flee, but then again, most begins are high ranking Praelians. With both swords drawn, Jameson headed towards the alley. Jameson entered with both swords pointed to the figures in the alley, battle stance ready. His tone was harsh as he spoke...

"Everyone stand down, or be slaught-" Or at least, he was initially. His eyes adjusted to the dark, and he saw what he could only describe as a cross between an automaton and a zombie, holding a heavily armored knight by his throat. Somehow, the knight managed to configure himself in a plank and had his boot on the strange creature's... Well, Jameson couldn't call it a chest, for it's torso was mostly carved out. What he could see though, was some sort of organ, wildly convulsing within the cavity.

Jameson made a snap judgement of the situation, and he assumed that whatever creature holding the knight by it's throat was some sort of bad. Trying his damnedest, he threw the sword in his left had at what he guessed to be the heart of the unholy Frankenstein, hoping that piercing the organ would stop whatever it was from it's assault. A brief thought came across his mind as he threw.

Perhaps paperwork isn't that bad...

Darlien took a weary gulp from his waterskin, sucking the water down as if he hadn't drank in hours.

Mostly because he hadn't.

He'd been trying to scale this godsforsaken mountain for what felt like hours, hopefully it was worth it. He had heard that a branch of the infamous "Beacon" or something of the sort lived up here, they'd help him destroy Praelium, this horrid, brutal country that had cost him anything good in his life, he would show them.

He would make them pay.

He would make them burn.

Darlien's hand lit up in that flame, that same flame that burned behind his furious eyes. He held his flaming hand up to the wind, watching as the flame, stoked by the winds of the Praelian mountains, began to burn ever brighter. His hand tingled, it had long since lost most feeling as a result of his use of the flame, but every now and again he felt that tingle that told him that they were still there, that he was still alive.

Sometimes it was hard to remember that.

His senses were dulled, eyesight weakening, hearing fucked as a result of a poorly-timed detonation, and almost every inch of his skin was burned to some degree. On most parts this just meant stinging pain and bleeding, but on some it meant he felt nothing at all.

He had taken some Sikali herbs that were said to heighten every sense, and it had only given him agony, and it was all his fault. His stupid, moronic fault.

He hadn't taken the time to learn, and as a result he had ruined himself.

He would fix this, he would fix this all. The Beacon had a way, or at least that's what he had been told.

He lowered his hand and again looked at the mountain. He tightened his hood against the cold air and leapt up the steep cliff wall. The snow-covered stone not even registering in his blackened fingers. He cried out in frustration as one of the hand-holds freed itself from the wall and tumbled into the snow below. He cursed all of the earth gods he knew of and attempted to continue his climb.

A hand shot from the newly-made hole and tightly gripped Darlien's ankle, causing him to gasp in shock and almost lose his footing. He kicked at the hand fruitlessly, watching in terror as the rest of the wall crumbled around him. Finally his hand-holds fell too and he began falling. The hand still held on his ankle, and the sudden shock of the hand stopping his fall sent the back of his head slamming into what remained of the cliff.

He awoke later, staring at a blue-stone ceiling, vines growing in every crack and a quiet dripping noise ringing throughout the room from somewhere he didn't know. He was laid upon a firm surface. So firm it caused him to ache. He grappled at it with his hands and felt the sharp square edge, the cracking around the structural weak-points, and the meager cold of polished stone.

He felt.

His hands felt.

Darlien held them in front of his face.

No cuts, no bruises, no scars. Like the hands of an adolescent had been sewed in their place. He stared at them with mouth agape, following the trail of veins as they ran down his arm towards his heart, the connecting sinew on the back of his hands hidden once more by a lair of skin, black hairs innocuously prickling their way out of his pores.

He set a fire on the tip of his pointer finger, feeling the warmth with closed eyes, the slight pain but most of all that sweet warmth. It had been far too long.

A cloaked man tapped the stone floor with a wooden cane, shocking Darlien into a seated position. He had crossed half the room without a sound.

"Darlien Garandinar of Praelium-"

"Sir Garandinar of Nowhere to you. Back off!" Darlien growled with a handful of flame. The man retreated slightly, offering a passive stance.

"We mean no harm to you, Sir Garandinar of Nowhere," the man spoke with a voice like dripping wax.

Darlien had to admit, he hadn't actually expected him to call him that.

"You have come far, Sir Garandinar, do you wish for a heated drink?"

Darlien turned up his nose.

"Er... no, I'm alright. Where am I anyway?"

"You are home, Sir Darlien of Nowhere," the man said, placing extra emphasis on the "nowhere". Darlien got the point.

"Oh, I see, do you belong to the Withered Beacon by any chance?"

"Where can a man be said to 'belong'?" the man waxed. "I simply am, belonging is of no importance."

Darlien snarled.

"Fine, is this the Temple of the Withered Beacon?"

"This is a temple, one of many," the man said, his voice was detached and lacked all emotion, combined with his unmoving body and hidden face it was quite unnerving. "You pursued us for a reason, no?"

"Yes, but... you seem to have already addressed my concerns." Darlien said, again looking at his hand.

"We have fixed your hands, Sir Garandinar, but we have not fixed your body. You have yet to be of use to us."

Darlien bared his teeth and a raging fire appeared in both of his hands.

"Use to you? I am no-one's errandboy! I came here to learn the dark arts and get my hands fixed, not to pledge myself to some bullshit cause!"

Darlien moved to stand, but in an instant the man's walking stick was jabbed into his chest.

"You are powerful but foolish, Darlien, you will do our bidding, consciously or unconsciously."

Darlien roared and fired a powerful ball of flame into the man's chest, sending him flying across the room.

"I am not a toy! Play around with someone else's fate! I am here to destroy Praelium, and you will accommodate me!"

The man's corpse sat on the ground only for a matter of seconds before suddenly appearing, as if he had never been struck.

"It is the nature of time that the old order must fall, and Praelium will fall with it, do not fear, Sir Garandinar. You will learn respect in time. For now, eat your fill of Praelian blood, return to us when you see the truth."

The man lifted his cane and slammed it against the ground, releasing a sound louder than any other Darlien had heard. His hearing became all he could focus on, he grasped at his ears but did not feel them, all he could do was hear.

Then he awoke. He looked around, only grass and the sun shining down, blurried by his failing eyes. He looked at his hands.

Good as new. Ready to be abused again. He would be more careful this time, he knew this was his only second chance.

He wouldn't waste it.

Carver was rubbing his temples in a dark, plain room. There was a hooded figure across from him whose face was obscured by the shadows. The figure sat hands clasped together and across the table, motionless and without reacting to the Tyrannus' distress state.

"A powerful mage has been out their for at least 7 years and you tell me this now?" Carver said, more exasperated than angry. "Not to mentioned you killed a Dec, too. We thought it was an assassination that killed Dec Garandinar..."

"The past cannot be changed." A female voice replied from the seemingly lifeless robe. "We focus on the now. Intel tells us he is plotting to destroy the entire nation of Praelium. And he is quite capable of doing it."

"Right, right, a human with possible the highest magical potential in years, and that was at age thirteen." Carver replied sarcastically. "Gods know how powerful he is now."

"We will send out someone of our own." The voice responded. "They also have high potential. Not nearly as great as his, however."

"Yes, I'm sure that will go over well." Carver said, sitting up from his chair. "Now are you done telling me that doomsday is nigh for Praelium, or can I leave?"

The figure responded with silence. Carver took that as a cue to leave, but as he turned his back the figure said something else.

"Only one." The figure revealed itself to not be some emotionless automaton by speaking with a bit of uneasiness in its voice. It seemed to be contemplating something. Finally, the figure spoke, but their voice was softer than before. "Your reign of Tyrannus will almost certainly be short. Prepare for death."

Carver's posture immediately stiffened, as if he had just been struck by lightning. To have his reign be cut short by one man? To have the entire country be ended by a single soul?

No... I will not allow it. No matter his magical talent, he will not get the best of me..

Carver's previously frightened demeanor shifted towards and aggressive stance. He slammed his fist against the royal armor he bore and room resounded with a spectacular metal sound.

"The bastard may end me, but he will not end Praelium." He snarled and turned around. He stopped in the doorway. "And I'll be sure to take him to hell with me."

The figure remained motionless, but cracked a smile under their robe.

"See to it, Lord Tyrannus. May Erelith's power guide you."

Pulled from The Burning Mare, she heard Reinold curse her magic heritage under his breath, and gripped his hand tighter, or as tight as she could, in response. Flinching at the sudden sunlight and lead into an alleyway, despite the opposite flow of people that pulled against her. While being pulled, Reinold dodged a bolt and she watched as it landed right into the skull of an innocent street performer which caused even more panic. At this, she grabbed for whatever material she could of Reinold's and gripped tightly as he brought them to a halt in the alley.

If you've got any tricks up your sleeve, don't use them yet." Peeking over at Reinold, she noticed his face had paled in comparison to his rather confident self from earlier in the inn during the introduction, and she realized very soon why. Even before the the hooded figure could even emerge, a pang of nausea hit Yy'Sil like a train as she pressed a hand onto her mouth, trying to cover her nose as well. It was no use; her sensitivity, borderline over sensitivity, caused a reaction almost close to vomiting as she coughed, almost gagging. As Reinold stepped in front of her, she dropped to the ground onto her knees and had both hands over her mouth and nose at this point, all in vain. Glancing upwards, she saw the Husk and it's uncloaked form.

We're lucky, this time. Husks rely on the braindead hosts within to its magic intake. Listen to me carefully." Sil could barely make out the words, but remained as attentive as she could. Staring at the Husk, and then back at Reinold before city guards approached. The warning Reinold gave was far too late, as her attention was already on the monstrosity's speed and strength. Even in her dizzied state, she could still make up the crunch of skulls. It was not the first time hearing this sound, but the brute and disturbing display stilled her. As people ran from the area in fear, Sil watched as Reinold ran straight towards the Husk. She watched him become disarmed, and practically strangled, and then miraculously remove the plate from the Husk's chest plate, and slowly regained her bearings.

Pushing herself upwards she stared at the open heart and heard the queue from Reinold. Clenching teeth, she spoke the word, "Fire" . Embers rose from around her person and launched themselves towards the target, the inhuman heart. Their target was clear as the embers touched the organ before the thrown sword could and quickly burst into flames once they touched, growing intensely as the heart kept pumping. Every movement that the heart increased the burn and the size of the flame until it spread throughout the husks body, engulfing it with intense heat that had even melted the soldier's sword that he had thrown earlier, which did end up landing in the heart as well. The fire itself was unyielding as it burned brightly at it's target.

After the cast, Yy'Sil pushed herself upwards and stumbled towards Reinold, still trying to grasp her bearings. Falling just a few inches away from her appointed bodyguard, she stared at his neck for a moment. A choke hold from a monster of that caliber could have bruised his windpipe severely, at worse ruptured a few blood vessels. By instinct, she lifted her hand and held it as close to Rein's neck as possible. A faint light enveloped her hand and slowly rose towards Rein's neck, soothing the injuries and slowly mending them, but not completely. Not wanting to exert too much of her energy.

The Artifice members who had their attention on the soldiers earlier now had their complete attention on the two on the ground. The fire itself almost blocked their way, but one had the chance to brave the flames and make it over, ditching his robes as the flames caught onto them. Sil froze for a moment. This was the same person who had lifted the device to her in the first place.

"Well, looks like we'll need compensation for the Husk that was destroyed." The man had a slight tone of anger in his voice. He saw the two on the ground and approached with a sword in hand. "The Mage will do nicely."

The Husk had cut off Reinold’s air passage, seemingly enthralled by the Templar’s struggle to breathe. It made some sort of guttural growl, before a city guard’s sword stabbed trhough one of its lungs. Instead osmashing Reinold’s skull, the Husk staggered back and wheezed, the lung deflating like a balloon. It looked at the sword, before reaching to rip it free. Before it could, Reinold pushed the blade further with a kick. The Husk whined and trembled as an ink-like fluid gushed out over the Templar and its nearby surroundigns. The rancid stench would have made Reinold vomit, if his neck was not being crushed. Then, the Husk dropped him, using both hands to rip the blade free.

“You whoreson!” one of the Artificers raised a crossbow and fired at the city guard turned hero. The bolt caught the guard by the shoulder, the sheer force behind it enough to bore a hole through his flesh and shoulder. The Artificer loaded another bolt, and took aim.

“Fire.”

The husk turned into a ball of fire; stumbling as it tried in vain to put out the flames. On the ground, Reinold looked up at Yy’Sil as he approached. However, rather than looking thankful in the slightest, there was this look of sheer disbelief. He tried to gesture for her to run away, but lacked the strength as she placed her hand on his neck. His entire body went limp, as he existed between a state of healing and rotting. Every attempt to mend his damaged tissues would only be counteracted by the damage reoccurring. His blessing and curse.
The sound of one Artificer approaching filled Reinold with a burst of energy. It was enough for him to force himself to his feet and shove away Yy’Sil. He reached for his sword, before the Artificer took aim. They locked eyes; both knowing that death was a breath away.

Before the Artificer could fire, the Husk grew into a towering inferno. The intensity forced the man to step away, before the flames suddenly collapsed in on the Husk’s figure. While to the plain eye it appeared that the flames were being sucked away, those attuned to the magic knew far better. The flames were not vanishing. They were condensing . Reinold motioned for Yy’Sil to stay back.


It was too late. The fire released into an explosion; sending Reinold and the Artificers flying back. The Templar crashed through the window of a building; a symphony of crash, bang, snap, and boom. The stench in the air was replaced with the smell of spent sulphur, while smoke obscured everyone’s vision. When the flames died down – along with the smoke – two of the Artificers were nowhere to be seen. In the Husk’s place was a single, large crater. Next to it was the remaining portion of the Artificer that closed in on them.

Reinold groaned, sitting amidst the shards of countless pots and heirlooms. The shop owner could only look at him with a mixed expression of fury and horror. Sitting up, the Templar brushed himself off. Somehow he had avoided getting carved up by all of the broken pieces, not to mention the window. He own luck never ceased to amaze him. However, to say he was untouched was far from the truth. The entirety of Reinold’s back was a hotbed of pain; one that would not subside anytime soon. He looked at the shop owner. “Sorry about the damages,” he croaked, his windpipe barely able to force out the words. “I’m sure I could compensate you, but I’m needed elsewhere.”

He climbed through the window, before hitting the ground. He was stricken with a serious case of vertigo. Down was left. Up was forward. Everything hurt. Opting to stay on the ground, he crawled towards Yy’Sil, before raising a hand. “I’m alright,” he said, rolling onto his side. He pointed to the guard on the ground, not far away from them. “Tend to his injuries. If he dies, our word won’t hold much weight in a trial. And, I’d rather not hang for nothing short of terrorism in Praelium.”

Reinold knew little of Praelium’s laws, but something told him that having some semblance of an official word in their favor may be what it takes to leave Artis alive. He chuckled, before rolling onto his front. Whatever luck he had been keeping in reserve for the past few years was spent on killing the Husk. Those infernal abominations had seen entire armies laid to waste. Something he had the displeasure of witnessing only once before. He glanced over at Yy’Sil, remaining silent. While he would never admit it, it was thanks to her that they survived the encounter. Of course, it was her fault that he had to fight the Artifice to begin with. The Templar frowned. This would be far from the last they saw of the Artificers. A mage that beat one of their acquisition teams? That blew up a Husk? There was no way they would ever let her be now.

He glanced over at his sword; now embedded in the wall of another building, sent flying by the explosion. So much for that simple contract.

Jameson couldn't help but grin at the abomination screeching in pain due to his sword. It had been awhile since he had some quick thinking like that, most of the conflict in Artis port simply required him to draw his sword and the merchants would back down.

"Looks like I still got it!" He roared, bravado coursing through his veins. The creature grasped at the sword in his chest, but only to have the warrior he was holding to brutally kick the sword further in. The creature dropped the man to the ground to bring its other hand to the sword, desperately trying to free itself from the pain.

"Hold on, traveler!" Jameson said, confidently running to the fallen man. With his pride and adrenaline at the highest it had been in years, Jameson figured he could easily retrieve the wounded knight as the creature was trying to free itself. This would definitely be a tale to tell to all of his friends. Perhaps he could even get an early retirement out of this.

"You whoreson!"

A crossbow bolt had stopped Jameson's day dreaming and his stride, piercing his shoulder and a wall behind him. Jameson screamed in pain, immediately dropping his sword and clutching the gaping hole left in his shoulder. The arm was completely limp, and the injury in his shoulder felt as if every tendon was being pulled and twisted, then dipped into a jar of acid. His screams almost deafened him to the the phrase uttered behind him.

"Fire."

The words seemed to be spoken so softly compared to the devastation it caused. It began with the husk turning into a bonfire, then an inferno. However almost instantly, the towering flames collapse, leaving nothing, and for a second there was only Jameson's screaming. Apparently the flames felt as if they could do better than Jameson's screaming, and an explosion of fire roared from the husk, sending the knight flying through a wall. Jameson was further back, but was still thrown by the blast, skidding on the ground, probably about two or three feet away from the source of the faint voice. The only thing that stopped him was the width of the alley way meeting with the top of his helm, which was enough to cause Jameson's vision to envelop in darkness.

Having stayed back at Reinold's motions, she hid behind whatever she could find, which was the wooden stand. Curling up and tucking her head under her arms, she braced herself for the explosion that occurred casting a buff upon herself that raised her resistances. The blast had tossed the soldier from earlier away and past Yy'Sil as she ducked to saved herself on the ground for extra measure. As the noises died down, she raised her head and looked around before raising her whole body.

She lifted herself before eyeing Reinold as he climbed out of the window that he was tossed out of. Just as she was about to ask of his condition, she took note of his condition, however, and quickly approached his crawling body.

"I'm alright. Tend to his injuries. If he dies, our word won't hold much weight in a trial. And, I'd rather not hang for nothing short of terrorism in Praelium." Having not ever stepped foot in Praelium before, she assumed that Reinold had far greater experiences here than herself. Looking over where Reinold was pointing, and approached the guard.

"Then please don't be alarmed..And contact someone about the..Fire..As soon as you can. I have very little knowledge of how to control it at this point." Yy'sil bowed her head towards Reinold and then proceeded to the soldier unconscious on the ground. Kneeling down, Yy'Sil shuffled her dress and cloak so that her knees were not touching the ground full of debris, and started attending to the thrown soldier. Examining him with gentle touches until she found the areas she would need to treat. Gently removing his helmet, she placed it to the side of his head. The soldier definitely had a concussion of some sort, definitely. Moving on, she looked at the open wound on the shoulder of the soldier and did her best to remove the clothes. The fabric that she couldn't remove, she ended up taking out her knife that was holstered at her thigh and cut any material away in a gentle manner to avoid increasing the amount of damage he had taken. After removing the obscuring material, she pressed down on the wound with a cloth in hand and allowed the blood to be soaked up by the fabric. After cleaning the blood off the wound, she saw something odd.

The opening of the soldier's wound was a purple-ish hue, masked by more blood that was pouring out and slowly darkening in color. Yy'sil bit her bottom lip. It was poison. Rather potent stuff from her observations. Most likely coating the bolt and whatever remained inside of the soldier or leftover of the bolt. Magic could treat wounds, but not all wounds, yet. She wasn't willing to risk the damages that magic could cause if she didn't do the treatment properly, so she changed her approach.

"My apologies for whatever pain I may cause you..." she tore a piece of her cloak and balled it up. Grabbing a green vial from her belt around her waist, she poured a few drops onto the fabric before putting it into the soldier's mouth the best she could. Anesthetic, of some sort, that would keep the soldier knocked out as he would try to inhale from his mouth and nose. Afterwards, she pulled a small glass vial-like bottle that held an amber colored liquid inside. Closing the vial, she put the vial into her mouth to hold it for the time being. Observing the contents through the glass bottle, she nodded and pulled a rolled up leather case that clinked slightly. Unrolling the case would revealed several small medical blades, a strange and small looking pair of forceps that looked somewhat like scissors, and several needles of varying lengths and thicknesses, and wire that resembled that of string. Having already exposed arms and hands, she inhaled, and exhaled, allowing a very hot breathe to blow over the flesh of her palms and fingertips before picking up a blade and doing the same to it.

She proceeded to firmly press into the slowly rotting flesh of the wound, opening it a little more to allow a better view of what was leftover of the bolt that lingered. Setting the blade aside, and away from the other equipment of hers, she grabbed the scissor-like forceps and pushed them inside the soldier's wound. It would seem a bit crude, but it was going to get the job done. Watching the wound closely, she kept squeezing the forceps gently together to test whether or not she could find the bolt. Once the handles would no longer close, it meant that she had found the leftover bit of the bold.

"If you're awakening, breathe and bite into the gag..." She huffed. A little miffed at the rather lewd comment, but she pulled quickly upwards, pulling the residual bolt from the male's shoulder. She almost dropped the toxic metal, but before she could, she placed it next to the bloodied knife and forceps that were a great distance away from the clean equipment. Pulling the vial out of her mouth, she poured the amber colored liquid into the wound that the bolt created. A small burning and hissing noise as well as the faint scent of burning flesh arose from the wound as it sunk into the wound, slowly returning the flesh to it's normal flesh-like state. Setting the empty vial with the used equipment, she then grabbed a thicker needle and some of the wired thread; she strung the thread through the needle's eye and tied the end in a knot. She pierced the edge of the wound and would stitch the opposite side in order to bring the wound closed, and continued to stitch the wound shut in a quick yet accurate manner. It was almost a perfect stitch. two or three of the stitches were slightly crooked compared to the others, but other then that, they were tight and sturdy.

While setting the dirtied materials aside, she observed the wound before pressing a palm over it and allowing a faint and warm glow to emit from her palm. Breathing steadily, the wound itself was slowly healing, and all the tendons within the inside were slowly fixing themselves into a state before it was pierced. It only took about 20 to 30 minutes, but to her and possibly others around, it would seem like forever.

"Hopefully it'll be fixed." Yy'Sil sighed out a breath as she watched the wound change in color from a bruised looking red to a more flesh toned color gradually. "I just hope he doesn't dare strain himself...It could re-open.."

Reinold looked up at the sky as he rolled onto his back. The glaring sun still beat down on him; baking him in his own armor. With a pained groan, the Templar managed to stand up. Bruises and cuts aside, he was still in one piece. While he would certainly be sore once he had time to rest, he did not plan to recover in a cell. He left his sword, and walked over to Jameson, folding his arms over his chest. While the Templar’s wounds were unaffected by Yy’Sil’s healing, the city guard would need her to mend what she could. If they were arrested, this poor sod was the closest thing to an alibi that they had.

"Hopefully it'll be fixed. I just hope he doesn't dare strain himself...It could re-open.."

“Just get him well enough to see tomorrow.” Once he was sure that Sil was done healing, Reinold lifted the city guard with a grunt. Whether it was Jameson being heavy, or the Templar was growing weak, carrying the body was difficult. As if on queue, the barking of orders resounded through the air. “I know you saved my life, ” Reinold said, “and that we just saved yours, but I’ll snap your neck in a heartbeat if you so much as whimper to give us away. ” He walked back into the inn at a brisk pace. Though they committed no crime, he knew that he and Yy’Sil would be questioned for some time. At the end of that, prison was still possible.

As he walked through the inn, he looked over his shoulder at Yy’Sil. “If you had any other plans for us here, they will have to wait for another day. ” Once he emerged from the inn, he was the center of attention for the crowded streets. Screaming and explosions had a penchant for stealing attention. Muttering an oath under-breath, Reinold walked quickly through the crowd. He was not so bothered by the looks of panic, confusion and anger. He could only hope that Yy’Sil was not, either.

“What are you doing with that guard?” one man asked, stepping in front of Reinold – a poor mistake. The Templar cocked his head back and slammed it into the obstructor’s nose. The man was knocked onto his ass, and he crawled out of the way without another word. So much for slipping away into the crowd. As Reinold moved as quickly as the crowd parted for a man with blood splattered on his face – carrying a city guard – several other guards emerged from the inn in the trio’s wake.

The Templar stopped as a pair of guards moved in front of them. No words were needed. Reinold remained still as Artis’ finest surrounded him. They did not seem particularly interested in Yy’Sil – the them, there was only one culprit to apprehend.

“Put Jameson down,” one guard demanded.

“You’re going to arrest me. ”

“Did you think you could come here, blow things up and leave?” The guard scoffed. “Of course you’re under arrest, you dimwit. Now, put Jameson down or I’ll kill you where you –“

Reinold walked up to the guard, and let the blade rest at his throat. “Try me. ”