Getting to this dreary place nearly cost him everything he had. Following the blood of the wounded, the scent of battle, those brave enough to even speak to him had lead him to this miserable place. Somehow the looks of everyone made him feel simply colorful by comparison. The reds and greens of his vials conflicted in a rather festive fashion but only he seemed to appreciate it. Regardless, he plied his trade, or atleast tried to. Everyone thought as a doctor, he was rich and he was continually harassed for coin that he simply could not afford to lose. He lost track of how many brusing neanderthals he gave a nasty case of magically induced Urticaria (Itchy Skin Hives). Really, Apothecaries wear the leathers for a reason. Haven't they heard the rumors? Why would you ever get so close?

Alas there was a few high points. A child sick with consumption, though his family paid him in apples. Good for breakfast except that mouthful of worm he got. A mercenary with a broken thumb didn't have any gold on him, but did offer to punch one of Pox's thugs in the face. Quite amusing. And finally Qwendar the Hunter who got on the bad end of an elk's antler. A charming fellow once you got past the smell. At least he afforded Pox another few days to rest his head.

A long day, Pox closed his door and sighed before humming a slight tune before going through the arduous process of stripping his robes from his person when there was suddenly a tap at the door. Pox made sure to rebuckle his coat and slip back on his hat. "Good evening?" He said in his chiper somewhat muffled voice. Always the pinnacle of politeness. Another job. "Thank you Hans." he said with the news.

Pox ran a quick calculation. He was loath to go out at night into the wilderness to help mercenaries (unreliable at the best of times) whom were fighting a bunch of bandits (never a fun time). There were too many variables that screamed alarms in his head. Still though, worth the risk. He needed that gold. Maybe the gentleman that told the innkeep was still below and could give Pox more information on the road.

"I'm heading out n---" A commotion from outside. A familiar voice. The old hunter, in anger. What's going on now. "Uhhh- yeah I'll head down. Just give me a moment." Pox decided to see to the well being of his only paying customer for the day. He threw on his bulky bags. "Ugh, this pack gets heavier all the time..." and headed downstairs, through the bar and out into the crisp air, believing he could resolve a simple dispute before hitting the road to aid the captain, but fate would not be so clear cut.

He turned a corner to where he believed he was hearing the ruckus. "What's going on?" He called out calmly. "Sir, you'll open your stitches if you get all worked up..."

Qwendar The Hunter didn't really belong in Cullwath, or Naveroth in general. He was at least a decade beyond his prime years and his life had become somewhat aimless. When he was younger, he was travelling the plains of Alvion with a rag tag group of adventurers, money was plenty and life was easy. Back then you could make living taking guild quests to fight wild boars, zombies and occasionally a Sasquatch. Enemies that any warrior with a year or two of training could defeat easily. But as time went on, the guild quests became more challenging, and boar hunts werent paying as much, not when there were wild Griffons and Dragons about. Qwendar's group decided to stay in the guild hunter life and one by one were all killed on the ever more dangerous quests. Until only Qwendar himself, with no livelyhood or any means to make a living started to travel....and somewhere along the way he ended up here, killing giant rats and skeletons for small coin and getting injured most of the time doing it. A pitiful and slow chapter to an increasingly sullen life.

By the time Pox came outside he was able to hear the thump and crunch of a beating, only slightly muffled by the enraged barking of Qwendar himself. 2 Black Beak mercs were kicking and punching a female merchant she was scrambling to her feet but being beaten back down every time. A sinewy dark elf in a long coat rubbed his hands and seemed to be ordering the two bruisers to continue the beating. Qwendar's voice was full of rage but also fear.

That's enough Ragnap! Call off your dogs, Syril has done nothing wrong, she is an honest merchant! You mercernaries cant just act however you like, even in a town like this!

The Dark Elf Ragnap, spat on the floor and scowled at Qwendar, holding up his hand to signal the thugs to pause the beating.

Fuck off old man, you know Cullworth tradition, we don't let snake oil merchants get off with just a verbal warning. And round here the Count says what goes, and this bitch hasn't been paying her protection money. Now get out of my face while I'm still willing to consider you a piece of bad scenery.

Qwendar gulped and turned around him, there was a small crowd watching, but no one said anything. They knew who Ragnap was and they knew he represented the count, even if some admired Qwendar's spirit they dare not show it. The aging hunter turned to find the good doctor Pox emerging from the Inn and pleaded with him.

You see this Doc? We can't let these thugs push decent people around, I'm gonna take these assholes on, but I need your help, these stitches are still fresh an I'm outnumbered. Please Pox.

Qwnedar was right, he was outnumbered, he was also a past his prime rat hunter with a cheap shortbow who looked like he was still too weak to aim it. No one knew if Ragnap was an able fighter or not, but there was a shortsword hanging from his belt, the two Black Beak mercs were covered in black armor, and wielding spiked maces. They also appeared to be sober, which made them twice as dangerous as the regular Black Beak merc. Pox had to consider this before making a decision.

-Fight the assailants with Qwendar

-Leave the area and make for the East road.

Pox mental facilities kicked in at the scene before him. Sizing up each member of the conflict. Qwendar, old, injured. Woman, Syril, injured. Merchant. Not a combatant. The leader, armored, sober, convicted, weapon drawn. The other two, lackeys, but sturdy, reasonably healthy, high on adrenaline. There was a crowd now, a lot of by-standards. Collateral damage. Unacceptable. Pox considered his options.

Combat was out of the question in this instance.

Much to his chagrin. He had no idea whom was right in this. Sybil was a victim, easily swaying emotion, particular if the Hunter was her friend. He would ignore her transgressions which seemed common in this lawless place. Qwendar pleaded with him. 'Please Pox.' Pox signed in his mask. He was asking Pox to kill either him or that poor girl. That is what the doctor was worried about and he was no guardian. Too many risks with too little reward. It was cruel but true.

"I swear why does everyone make that distinction. I sell snake oil, its good for arthritis." Read a book. Though he didn't say that last part out loud. He approached, try to come to the old man's side as he addressed them hands raised to disarm the situation. "The woman can't pay if she's dead." Pox proclaimed with logic in his words. "And right now, her ribs are getting quite cracked. Give her a chance to repay her debts. For instance, I'm off to patch up your captain on the East Road. Maybe her 'Snake oil' will do some good in that instance. Surely I can put in a good word to him if I come bearing gifts." Pox turned to depart. "Something to consider sir knight. Maker bless you."

Pox put a hand on Qwendar's shoulder. "This is a battle you cannot win." he whispered. "A battle we cannot win. You are a good man, and this is just a small part of a great evil. If you truly wish to stop these travesties. Walk away for now, and we can win another day. I know its hard. But trust me." He hoped the Hunter would see reason.

Ragnap put a hand on his chin when the Doctor Pox boldly made his point about the merchant not being able to pay off debts from the grave. There were a few shocked ramblings from the crowd as they witnessed a Doctor of all people address Ragnap and his mercs.

You know what Doc you're right, she cant pay anything while dead....but she also cant seem to pay when she's alive, so might as well at least get a good clear message out of her. Just incase anyone else thinks they can be tight with the Count.

With that sentence the Dark Elf grabbed the beaten merchant by her hair and dragged a large knife across her neck, slitting her throat and watching her gurgle and grasp in in her last 2 seconds of life. It was as normal to him as sealing a letter, there was no strong emotion on his face. A few whimpers and gasps from the crowd but no screams, they were all to used to these sights.

But Qwendar was not used to this, and he had no intent of being quiet now, he ran towards the trio drawing his shortbow, getting ready to string an arrow.

NOOOO you sick FUCK! She did nothing wrong! I'll skewer everyone of--

Qwendar's battle cry was cut short by a wet smashing sound, one of the Black Beak Mercs had hurled his mace and it stuck the old hunter directly in the skull, leaving a nasty caved in wound as the hunter skidded across the floor, gushing blood from the cavity in his head and twitching like a snared squirrel.

Ragnap chuckled under his breath before turning to the doctor, his hand began to shake with a dark energy, and he grinned before pointing at Pox, shooting out a black magic bolt that knocked Pox on his back, completely taking the wind out of him. Ragnap revealed himself to be a Spellsword, dangerous mages of destructive energy who also fought with melee weapons, rare in Naveroth, almost unheard of in Cullwath.

The only reason that bolt didn't kill you is because you're more worth to the mercs here alive, you've patched up a lot of us since you've been here and saved the bosses around town a lot of money on medical bills, you're a net benefit. But if I see your ugly beak around The Count's territory again, I'll consider you tax deductible.

Ragnap kicked Pox hard in the stomach, which caused the doctor to crumple further on the floor. Ragnap also reached into Pox's coat and stole the remainder of his gold pieces, chuckling as he walked off. One of the henchmen walked over to the still twitching Qwendar and raised his mace, it was out of Pox's line of sight, but he clearly heard the mace smashing into the old hunter's skull and the wet crunch of bone and brains being pulverized against the pavement. One towns person vomited, but they all went on their way as the mercs left the scene.

Pox looked up only to see a female face hovering over him, it was that of an elven woman who was sleeping at the same inn he came out of only to be awoken by the noise, it was a gruesome scene indeed and she was wondering what the hell happened.

@ShwiggityShwah@Vox

Accept the inn request and head up the east road

---

Cold.

No matter the time of season, that's what it always seemed to be in Naveroth. Not even the mug cupped in the elven woman's hands did anything to warm her up, weak as it was. Dreary as the place was though, there was history here. Beneath the bog swamps and gray pavements were stories of battles long gone, of other civilizations lost to time, of heroic deeds long forgotten. Even in dull town like Cullwath, the city constantly whispered its own history, the architecture weaving its own tale. One could literally walk the streets and see the different ages of the town, of the Empire.

Of course, all that traveling left Caoimhe dangerously low on funds. She was about to ask the innkeep for any jobs before that curious medicine man came in again. The two briefly talked, and Caoimhe managed to overhear about the situation with the mercenaries. She wasn't the best doctor and the job probably was more of the medicine man's speed, but the roads of Naveroth always remain dangerous despite the patrols. Perhaps she could at least offer protection services.

But then some commotion seemed to drag the doctor's attention outside before Caoimhe could even get up. From the sounds of it though, it seemed like another Black Beak altercation. There was some shouting, screaming, then the all-quiet sound of death.

Caoimhe wisely decided to finish her drink first before getting anywhere near that situation, though the last dregs were splashed against her shirt as someone "accidentally" knocked into her. She didn't deign to turn, though she could hear the snickering well enough, as well as a low muttered "knife-ear." The elven woman very carefully put her mug down and went upstairs to don her armor and gather her equipment. Once she went back down in her full battle regalia, the room quieted down just a bit, though she could still feel the glares. She told the innkeep she'd take the job patching up the mercenaries, who only grunted in response, seemingly more interested in cleaning the mug she just put down despite a line of others waiting.

Taking that as a contract signed, Caoimhe began walking out.

Someone slapped her ass as she walked, followed by the sound of cheers and then quieted down by jeers as they insinuated how someone could find her attractive. Like all the other times before, she told herself to keep walking. Spit landed close to her feet as she took the final step out. Like all the other times before, Caoimhe ignored it all with practiced grace and barely repressed shame and rage.

Once outside, the ranger found the bloody scene outside the inn to be much more comforting. It was an environment that she was used to and had control over. With a practiced eye, she scanned the situation.

Two bodies, a man and a woman, lay dead. The man, who looked like he was ready to charge in and save the merchant presumably, died from a blunt weapon to the head, and the woman, probably the merchant, from a slit throat. Looking at the crowd that pretended not to notice anything and from the heavy boot prints in the snow, it seemed safe to assume that the Black Beaks were involved. A shame, but someone would clean up the mess eventually.

Curiously, the third body was that of the medicine man. It was hard to tell through his garb, but he appeared mostly unharmed and was only unconscious. Likely didn't intervene too much, and from all appearances seemed to be a capable doctor and so, a valuable asset. Still, he wouldn't survive too long out in the cold regardless of who he was. With a huff and puff, Caoimhe managed to heave up the shorter man and deposit him inside the inn right on the doorstep. She quickly retreated before any assumptions could be made.

Done with her good deed for the day, Caoimhe made her way up the east road, intent on finding those mercenaries. Once she got out of the city, she drew her bow with practiced ease and kept careful watch on her path ahead.

Blood. Sickly sweet and cloying. The oily blackness of it filled Rhiannon’s nose, forcing her to breathe through her mouth as she ran. It was drying on her arm as she flung herself forward, binding her soaked hand to the black-coated knife still clasped within it, a foul-smelling adhesive. It clung to her face in blotchy droplets and soaked into the fabric of her carefully woven tunic. More still mingled with the deep, healthy red pumping from her damaged side as her free hand pressed against the four ragged claw marks in a desperate attempt to stay alive. Alive! She hadn’t even lived yet.

Trees whipped by, black monoliths, each one hiding a thousand more tainted wolves, or so it seemed. Within Rhiannon’s mind, she still felt the slimy presence of them as she had reached out with her thoughts, her essence to touch these creatures, the first she had met after several long days and nights in this cursed forest. Their eager howls had first sounded joyful to her lonely ears, but if they had been, it had only been the joy of bloodlust, of taint and destruction.

A sudden sharp pain, tiny next to the ragged openings in her side, jerked Rhiannon forcibly back to the present. It was a high root against her ankle and she was falling down into a pool of swamp muck, her already strained leggings acquiring a new coat. Grimly, she pushed herself up again, coaxed on by flashing images of a heavy body falling towards her, spiked jaws open, eager.

Eventually, the demonkin woman began to slow, her clumsy footfalls coming at longer and longer intervals, her heartbeats softer against the drums of her ears. Adrenaline was seeping out of her pores like sap out of an old maple, taking strength and fear with it. She began to bargain with herself, to cajole:

“A few more steps… That's it, past that tree to sleep… Just until there’s some dry ground…”

When the trees began to thin, Rhiannon didn’t quite believe it at first. What place did fresh air have in nightmares? She shook her head; it remained. She blinked. It was still there. With a last animal effort, she surged forward, breaking out from the dark trees at last near a lone house set alongside a dirt road.

“Its dry,” she said, stupid with fatigue and blood loss, and collapsed in a heap.

"Oh, this will not do," Mortirmir said, standing over Rhiannon. "This will not do at all."

He carefully looks around him, and notices the tell-tale movements that skulking creatures make when they believe they are hidden. He pauses, and takes a small breath to calm himself before opening his eyes to the aethereal.

"Hmm."

He makes a small gesture half-unconsciously, and a great round gout of flame bursts forth from his outstretched palm, roaring as it comes into being. Mortirmir briefly glances at the wounded woman at his feet, before pushing with his will, and the flame launches from his hand.

The ball of fire splits into nearly a dozen smaller versions of itself, covering half a league in land. The balls land in brush and stick onto trees, igniting instantly with a deafening roar and a blinding light. Mortirmir shields his eyes, and when he looks again the land in front of him is a swirling inferno, a wall of fire nearly ten feet high. Mortirmir frowns.

"Perhaps a bit too much," he admits, then staggers to the side in sudden fatigue. He holds a hand to his head. "Yes. Too much indeed. Hmm."

He returns his attention to the wounded woman, and tends to her quickly. He heals the minor wounds and stabilizes the others, careful not to deplete his remaining potentia, which he must guard jealously. Then, with a grimace, he picks up the woman, groans, and looks around for an escape route.

The lessening of pain made itself known much more slowly than the presence of it, a dim, cooling sensation as wounds closed and bleeding stopped. It was peaceful to lie still while her body mended, the terror of the last several hours finally beginning to fade, and the dryad felt her muscles start to unknot

With this reduction in pain, came an increase in awareness, however, and soon Rhiannon became aware of a distant roaring. At first, she could not quite make out what this sound was; it seemed too capricious to be water and too hungry to be the wind. It was definitely starting to fade, though. Was she moving away or was it?

For what could have been moments or hours, Rhiannon faded back into comfortable blackness, lulled away from exhaustion, but some undefinable amount of time later, she realized that she wasn’t comfortable at all. She was certainly swaying but in a way too rhythmic and bouncing for her to be in the comfortable bows of a big old oak. The constant movement tugged at the still-painful gashes in the dryads side, dragging her unwillingly from blissful unawareness.

Gradually, Rhiannon came to realize that she was being carried like a child, with someone’s arms under her knees and behind her shoulders. With a small groan, she tore herself into full awareness, unwilling to let herself be taken anywhere without knowing. Her eyes adjusted slowly, but soon the dryad found herself looking up into the face of a thin young human that she had never seen before.

With a small yell, Rhia began to struggle, kicking at him with her heels and pushing at his chest to get away. Soon she squirmed her way free and found herself in the middle of a dirt road, a cloud of smoke billowing up from the clearing behind them.

“Who are you?” she demanded, the words feeling unfamiliar in her mouth for lack of using them.