Alcello Bas had been in the town for hours. He had arrived at dawn, before the fighting at the edge of the town had erupted into the crescendo that it had by now become. The town was all but deserted, and Alcello had even helped the remaining inhabitants to barricade the tavern, keeping the hood over his face as he did, despite there being few who would know his face. Once the people of the town had taken refuge, Alcello had found himself a seat opposite the tavern, and pulled his pipe from his cloak, lighting it and sedately smoking it as he watched the sun climb higher in the sky. 

The noise of the battle had only increased as the hours had passed, but if Alcello was phased by the screams of dying men, and the cacophony of war, he did not show it. He had watched the deserters skulk into the town, nursing their wounds and hiding in the abandoned houses like the rats they were. Most of them had wisely ignored the hooded man smoking his pipe, and the two that hadn’t lay dead in the street, looks of shock and confusion frozen across their faces. 

Alcello had watched Farrin walk slowly into the town and take his own seat, in the shadow of the tavern. He recognised the man almost at once, for his very name had been etched into the legends of the kestaphos. Farrin had faded since his time as a hero, his hair gone, and his legendary sword arm cut away. But Alcello had heard the songs of how Farrin had lost his arm, of how it had been lost in a titanic struggle with some unspeakable monster, and that Farrin had made it pay with it’s life. To Alcello, seeing the old man evoked his youth, his times studying the legends of the kestaphos, of Farrin, of his father, of the long line of great warriors that had taken on the name and defended their people against whatever horrors the Cradle threw at them.

A twinge of regret tweaked Alcello’s hardened heart, and his hand subconsciously gripped the handle of his pipe as he remembered the bloodshed of his people, carnage and slaughter flashing before his eyes until he drove his memories down again, squaring his jaw as he allowed himself to be distracted by the strange figures that began to gather around Farrin. 

He was surprised to see two men clearly from Baccum join Farrin outside the tavern. Alcello had travelled across the length and width of Baccum over his years of hunting, and he knew the culture that existed behind the façade of savagery, but both men matched that façade. One stood tall, heavily muscled despite his thin figure, with straggled blonde hair and barely clothed, his tanned skin covered with arching tattoos. What was most curious were the two spears that the man carried, and Alcello frowned slightly as he took a long drag on his pipe.

The other Baccum man was nearly just as tall, tattoos also covering his body, the scars crossing the bands of muscle beneath the hardened skin. Lightly armoured, the man seemed constantly ready to move, almost like some predator waiting to pounce, and Alcello couldn’t help but be put on edge, glancing at the large swords the man carried. 

The gem that Farrin pulled from his pouch caught Alcello’s eyes, but he still didn’t move, preferring to watch how events unfolded from his seat across the street. It was clear that it was not just his eye that the gem caught, as the taller of the two Baccum men challenged Farrin’s story, although despite himself Alcello found himself agreeing with the questions. 

Smiling slightly as Farrin rose to his feet and rebuked the Baccum spearman, but at the mention of the great harrow, Alcello’s blood ran cold. He had seen creatures and monsters that could only have been dragged from the deepest and darkest depths of hell, and he had slain them, driving his blade through their twisted and corrupted flesh until they had finally stopped their writhing. There were few alive who better knew the horrors that could drag themselves into the cradle, and at the sound of Farrin’s suggestion of sealing the hellscape, Alcello’s mind was made up. He would join this quest, and lend his sword to whatever missions that Farrin gave the obscure group. 

As Alcello went to move, he hesitated as he saw another figure join the group, even as the other Baccum male jibed at Farrin. The newcomer was lithe, and her female form looked fragile next to the two towering warriors that she moved to stand beside, but one glance at the wickedly bladed Naginata she carried gave Alcello an idea that the young woman was able to fend for herself. Glad that he wouldn’t be dealing with the butting of heads of the two headstrong Baccum warriors for the whole journey, Alcello was about to move to join the group when a fourth figure moved into his field of vision, and his blood froze in his veins. 

Stunningly beautiful with fiery red hair highlighting her amazing body, the woman looked like she had stepped out of any man’s dreams, but for Alcello she was straight out of his nightmares. The mark of the Cult of Marra, carved into her stomach, had been burnt into his mind ever since he had slain the shaman that had butchered his people. He watched as the woman all but slithered her way into the group, and a chill ran down his spine as he watched her take the gem from the taller Baccum's grasp, just moments after Farrin had passed it to him.  

Hand moving into his sleeve to grasp the handle of one of his chakram’s, Alcello extinguished his pipe and tucked it into his cloak, rising to his feet and moving to join the group, his face still mostly shrouded by his hood. He glared at the blood cultist for a moment, having to hold himself back from pulling his blade free and lunging at her, before he spoke, raising his voice slightly to be heard. 

[b]“This is a ragtag group of adventurers if ever I saw one. Perhaps it is best we let our wise friend here tell us more of his quest, rather than bicker like children.” [/b]