Frederick von Bonraffen
1st of Dragonmark, 2189 PD

My dearest Marguerite, as it would undoubtedly take many months for my letters to reach you, I shall write sparingly and with brevity, for I know next year we shall be reunited in Magdebaden. I write to you in the Brandywinter Inn at Torm's Gate. It is just as you said it would be. The wall is vast and made of hard mountain stone. The people here are intrepid travelers and doughty folk, and I have met the head of the caravan, Master Falkenrath. He has assured me of the safety of myself and my baggage. I miss you for all the world, and I know we will see one another soon.

---

Frederick von Bonraffen
4th of Dragonmark, 2189 PD

My dearest Marguerite, we have set off just this morning. The sun will set soon, but I still see the Dragonback if I were to look over my shoulder. We catch the occasional traveler making their way back with pelts and high spirits. It's bloody cold, but we have taken our first step in the journey and the trees are not so thick on the path as of yet. Today I met two fellow members of my trek. A lovely young woman who is full of cheek and knowledge of the marches, though not from experience as she admitted. The other was a young man, strong but very kind. He helped me load my wagon just this morning, but his outfit is queer and he has a purpose on this expedition, I have no doubts. I got to speaking with some of the guards. A few of them have taken this path we are traversing now. Their spears gleam in the cold air, and I feel comforted. Until next time, dearest niece.

---

Frederick von Bonraffen
7th of Dragonmark, 2189 PD

My dearest Marguerite, I have to admit my back has not forgiven me for taking this journey. It takes hard men to live such a life, or a vivacious spirit like yours, or that young woman I spoke of earlier. One night we heard howls, perhaps two nights ago? It sounded like large wolves, but since then we have heard no sign. Master Falkenrath and the good Captain Rohardt have pressed us and our mules hard, and for an entire day I barely glimpsed the sun through the trees, so crowded were they around our carts. But now we roll in an open, albeit muggy plain. I have made a few good friends, including a fellow merchant by the name of Munst, who has a daughter in Iskura. His stories of her remind me of you. Until next time, my favorite niece.

---

Frederick von Bonraffen
10th of Dragonmark, 2189 PD

I write to you with some anxiety, my dear Marguerite. I admit I had some worries in my last entry, but I did not want to voice them so as to bring them to light. But this forest we have passed through is cold, and I do not know how large it truly is. Some days we hear the growls of a beast and screams of something unnatural, but we have yet to see anything. I write to you by the light of the moon, as I was awakened earlier and didn't know what to do with myself. Something had entered the caravan and walked about. Something I thought might have been a man, but wasn't. I didn't know what it was, but it chilled me. My chiefest concern is the Captain Rohardt. He says all is fine, but his face says otherwise. I see less guards now, what's more. I think a few of them might have deserted, or perhaps have gotten lost. I don't mean to worry you dear, and I doubt you'll ever read this. But it eases my worries to write to you. I love you.

---

Frederick von Bonraffen
11th of Dragonmark, 2189 PD

I write this as a message to my brother, Heinrich Von Bonraffen. I am uncertain if we will ever speak again, brother. The caravan has been attacked, but by what I know not. We travel in small columns and are separated by units of our caravan guards, perhaps covering a bit over a mile. I heard screams from behind, those of men and women. Our guards went to the cries but I haven't yet heard back from them. I have just spoken with Master Falkenrath, and he informed me must continue on or the entire train might be lost to what he called a 'landslide.' I know such things are a danger here, but a landslide does not do what I heard. I write this letter to settle my affairs, if somehow this comes back to you. Perhaps I am a bit too worried, but better to be safe than sorry as our mother always told us. Send my accounts to your house in Breightfallen and let Otto handle them. He's a good, astute man. Thank you brother. And do not show this to Marguerite, I do not wish to worry her. You know how fond I am of her.

---

Frederick von Bonraffen

If anyone finds this note, tell my niece I am sorry. Tell her I should have listened to her father. Tell her never to come north of the gate. Things watch from the trees. Things of evil and unknown purpose.

Help me.

---

A warbling cry and a wet crack sounded, and the grunts of many heavy things followed by footsteps. Beren heard it all for the first time, the world coming back to him like a hammer blow. His head began to race, and he realized he was in complete blackness save for a small hole where light poured into his warm, albeit stuffy prison. He could hear sobbing, and then a woman begging before her cries were ended in a sound he could only equate to chopping steak. As he wiggled his way to the hole, he heard something else. A roar, no, many roars. A cacophony of primeval screams erupted from his right, which could have been any worldly direction. As he placed his eye at the hole, his vision was filled with horror.

Some thing, some corpse of gnarled muscle and ripped skin somehow stood over another corpse. This one the fresh cadaver of a woman, her blood staining the muddied ground from both parts of her now bisected body. Beren recognized her. She was one of the smaller retailers finding a new life north of the gate. He didn't know her name, but her body now lay before him, cut open by... some restless dead. It didn't breath, but it moved. Worst of all, it was holding Beren's axe. Its head turned to Beren's direction, and twin blue lights twinkled from its scarred sockets. His breath caught, but a few moments passed and he found it wasn't looking at him. Instead another woman was brought forward by two lesser dead men. A woman he recognized as well, but he had only seen once. She was the pretty one he had seen on the first day, the funny one. Behind her were cages of men and women, some motionless but most screaming to their gods for help.

Now something else walked into his field of vision. A cloaked figure with eyes that burned like braziers from under its cowl, moving with the grace of an elf as it wielded a terrible black-iron sword. It strode past the risen executioner, past the woman that was now set onto her knees. Vaguely he realized it was dawn, now. Where was he? The wood against his arm and the piles of various things atop him gave him a guess. He was on a wagon, and somehow Munst's stuff was ontop of him. But why? Where was Munst? He heard a screech, and suddenly other figures appeared, these creatures coming from the opposite direction. They were muscled and primitive, scarred from battle and leaping like apes. They had coarse hair and primitive looks, and fangs so large Beren might consider them tusks.

Beren recognized them as Orcs, and their sudden involvement froze his blood. The cowled thing impaled a flying orc on its blade with preternatural speed, but was lost in the swirling melee as the muscled raiders moved like mangy dogs, hacking apart walking corpses and punching through bone like mouldings of wood. Even through this maelstrom of mayhem, Beren saw the executioner get attacked by an Orc. The thing blocked the sword of the monster and promptly beheaded the thing. Blood spurted from its shoulders and the body flopped to the ground like a sack of meat before the woman, who gave an understandable 'eep!' Horror in his eyes, he watched as the wight raised its axe again, this time its target was the kneeling woman, still held down by one of the restless dead.

"No..." He breathed to himself.

Beren shoved upwards, hitting something solid. Small bits of packed grain slid down from the wagon, but the pile held fast. He growled, planting his hands against the wood as he struggled. A moment later, something snapped and the weight above him began to lift. Beren was exceptionally strong, though his form was hard to gauge from the thick, long sleeved jacket he wore to stave off the cold. Grain and iron and letters of payment erupted from the pile of the wagon, and the cold air hit him like a slap in the face, but he was free. His vision no longer narrowed, he was met with more surprises.

They weren't in the woods. Their slaughter had happened by a copse of trees, but before him was a battlefield. Rolling hills and small mires were stained with the black blood of orcs and the bile of horrible monstrosities. Some were dead men, others were ghoul-like crawlers, some with four arms that moved like spiders, and yet still some where giant, flightless bats that ranged across the bogs like hulking ogres. Much to his chagrin, he also saw Ogres as well. They wielded giant logs and beat the dead to true death. Both the Orcs and the Ogres had iron helms and face masks burned onto their flesh, and the two armies fought beneath the shadow of a lonely mountain at the edge of a large forest.

Beren didn't hesitate or give it thought. He grabbed the closest thing he could, which turned out to be a heavy chest of some kind. He placed one hand behind its butt, planted his boot on the edge of the wagon, and threw it, turning it into a heavy projectile fit for a siege engine. It slammed into the executioner just before the axe fell upon the woman's neck, shattering the ribs of the aberration and sending the axe to the ground. Beren was so relieved, he almost didn't see the Orc coming at him from the flank, shoving a spear at him. He leaped off the wagon, feet skidding on the dirt before he raced over to the woman, leaping over an Orc and a ghoul wrestling on the ground. Beren grabbed his axe and knelt behind the woman.

"Let's go." He said, cutting through her bonds with the weapon's keen edge. Behind them, the chest had cracked open, revealing her weapons and effects.

six months earlier



She had nearly made it. The door transcribed three complete rotations before it smashed into the wall in a shower of plaster dust and splinters. Jocasta Jonquille was frozen in the task of shoving papers and belongings into her rucksack as rough looking men rushed through the smoking hole where her door had been, truncheons raised. There was no point in resorting to sorcery. Rychards’ boys all wore amulets of amber set with lead. She considered running, but there was no chance she could wiggle her bottom out of one of the basement’s small windows before the grabbed her. Rychard himself stepped through the low doorway behind his bully boys, long cane clicking on the stones. He took a look at her hastily stuffed sack and clucked his tongue in disapproval.



“Going somewhere Jo?” he asked in his crackly dry voice. Recovering herself, Jocasta tossed her tight bob of white blonde hair nonchalantly.

“Just a little spring cleaning,” she lied patently, casting an accusing eye to the wreckage of her door and wall.

“Ah,” Rychard replied, in acknowledgement but certainly not agreement. He was a heavyset man with large jowels and drooping mustaches, a bastard of Andred’s over inflated nobility some said. Nobility or not, as the chief loan shark of the city, he certainly was a bastard.



“Good to see you getting things in order, a smart move for someone who owes me so much money…” he said, casting an eye around the basement. It was a small space, almost every inch of which was covered with tacked up pieces of parchment containing arcane notes, formulae and experiments. Faintly luminous potions were racked along one wall in a bewildering array of glassware that lacked any kind of consistency. Reagents were packed into boxes and vials stacked haphazardly in the center of the room, miraculously untouched by the flying door, save for a crate of mint which had been scattered like confetti by the missile.



“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that,” Jocasta replied, fighting the urge to lick her lips nervously. Rychard arched a bushy eyebrow.

“Really, because one of my associates tried to talk to you at the College and you vanished out a latrine window. Another tried to speak with you in the market and you rushed into a brothel and never emerged,” he accused.

“Well,” Jocasta said, “I obviously emerged…” Rychard narrowed his eyes dangerously. The cat was evidently done playing with the mouse.

“I see a lot of people like you, coming here and going into debt to study at the College. Most of them are smart enough to quit while they are ahead. By my calculation you now owe me one thousand nine hundred and six marks,” he told her. Jocasta winced slightly at the number. Even that was a fraction of what it would have cost to attend the Mythrim Tethir formally. Most of the gold had gone to bribes to get access to libraries and laboratories, or to encourage people to look the other ways while she audited the odd class. The Occult bastion had been a somewhat easier place to gain instruction, but both tuition and tutelage tended towards the criminal. It was a poor fit for Jocasta’s obsession with ancient magics, though like her small potion selling shop, it helped pay the bills. Well keep the bills from becoming crippling too quickly. Come to think of it, she had probably made her share of anti-magic amulets and door breaking charms that allowed thugs like Rychard to collect on loans to his more magical clientele.

“Do you have one thousand nine hundred and six marks miss Jonquille?” he asked with exaggerated politeness. Jocasta sagged slightly and opened her mouth, but he held up a hand to forestall her.



“Because if you don’t, I know a Vrettonian noble who will pay top dollar for… shall we say less willing witches?” he leered. Jocasta shivered with genuine fear at the idea of winding up as fuel for some nobles perversions, be they sexual or political. Rychard was, no doubt, as good as his word. There were rumors of others he had disappeared under similar circumstances. The fear galvanized her into action.



“I have seven hundred, I hoped it might buy me an extension,” she all but wined. Rychard grinned his sharks smile.

“With your shop, that might make a full thousand. Why don’t you get it and then we can discuss my terms,” he told her. Jocasta sagged and stood up, surreptitiously lifting the satchel she had been packing when he arrived. She crossed the room to a large trunk made of old leather bound with brass. One of the guards whistled at her as she went but she ignored it. She bent down and opened the trunk.

“It’s empty,” one of the nearby guards remarked, his monobrow crinkling in confusion. Jocasta stepped into the trunk and closed the lid on herself, the latches snapping shut.

“What the…” the confused guard bleated.

“Get out!” Rychard, sharper than his men, blurted. The shelves of potions collapsed in an avalanche of falling glass. Unstable magical elements, mixed and frothed for a long second, spewing forth rainbow coloured vapors. Then the whole mess exploded like the mother of all Dre Costan cannons.



[/i]present day [/i]



It took Jocasta a moment to realize she was free. Her mind had been in a fog, partially magical, partially of cold terror. The sight of her few possessions galvanized her into action. She staggered unsteadily to the chest and snatched up her rucksack with its precious notes and pulled her shortsword free. The man, Beren she thought his name was, was yelling at her to move. That seemed like an obvious course though where exactly they should go was less clear. An orc charged past her, skin burning squealing in agony only to meet the talons of one of the undead horrors as it cleared the end of the wagon. All around her was magic, steel, and the reek of blood.



“Move!” Beren shouted and shoved her towards the copse. She moved, leaden limbs coming to life as she ran for the cover of the trees. The tall arctic beeches reached skyward like fingers thrusting up from the chilled earth. Under normal circumstances it would have been a foreboding sight. Being caught between the army of the damned and the army of the hammed hardly counted as normal circumstances Jocasta thought and then giggled at her own joke, the sound brittle and hysterical in her own ears. An orc charged out of the thicket, leveling a spear at her. She yelped in panic and swatted the point aside with her, embarrassingly, still sheathed short sword. The axe in Beren’s hand hacked the orc’s arm away just below the shoulder. It squealed and staggered away, gouting stinking black blood that steamed in the snow. They ran into the trees, crashing through the low underbrush. Jocasta’s breath billowed out in front of her in great clouds of steam and her lungs burned from sucking in cold air. She ignored the scratches of twigs and branches as they ran into the copse, her conscious mind not even registering the minor injuries.



“Watch…” Beren shouted as Jocasta ran through a low bush and suddenly found there was no ground beneath her leather snow boots. Jocasta made an inarticulate squawk as she plunged down a steep defile, crashing into sapling and bushes that clung to the shallow rocky soil. The sky cartwheeled dizzyingly over her head until she crashed into a hawthorne bush significant enough to arrest her fall. Her knapsack hit her on the head by way of final insult. As Jocasta lay on her back staring up at the cloudy sky she realized that the sounds of fighting had died away, at least for now.



“Are you ok?” Beren asked, as he descended the gully with significantly more grace. Jocasta sat up and spat out a mouthful of dirt, snow and twigs.



“Never better,” she replied brightly, reaching behind her to retrieve the still sheathed blade which had whacked her across the head during the tumble.

"Well, that's one positive," he said with levity. He wiped his forehead with his jacket sleeve, but it only spread more frost and flecks of mud under his thick dark hair. In the morning light, his eyes and skin looked especially dark. In the light he was more caramel in color, maybe a tad lighter. It was hard to tell where he was from, really. But he spoke like a commoner of the north and sarcasm wasn't lost on him, so it didn't matter much at the moment.

He placed an arm under her own to help her to her feet, but he looked back up the gulley. It was practical since they very well might be chased, but really he felt torn. The men and women in the cages... they would either be used as a ritual for abominations or eaten in an Orc fire pit. He wanted to go back up, but he knew it would help nothing. He didn't voice his concerns, and instead stepped forward. All his grace, or most of it was gone when his foot clipped something in the snow. He almost fell flat but nimbly leaped to catch himself, planting his foot where it was going to be a moment earlier.

"Are you good?" She asked, apparently seeing it was her turn.

"Yeah I... oh nice!" He said, a smile reaching his face. He had brushed aside the snow and found a staff, painted maroon in color. It could server as a walking stick or quarter staff in a pinch, and by the twinkle in his eyes, he recognized it. He reached down and picked it up. "Good, I thought I lost this thing."

Absently he slid his axe into the loop of his belt and hefted the staff.

Whoops and undulating, inhuman screams erupted behind them from above. Beren glanced back and didn't spot anything, but he knew anything that happened to look their direction would go after them. The brambles before them looked uncomfortable to wade through, but thankfully they were both dressed for winter.

"Fuck, fuck, let's go." He said, and the two of them braved the mud and the slicing sharp tips of dead brush. Whoever the girl was, she weathered things well and broke aside mottled branches and dead wood with grit. Eventually they reached the end of the small, muddy no-man's land and made it into another thicket. Beren felt it was just his luck when another cry, unimaginably loud, echoed across the small dale. He looked back and saw three Orcs, each holding wicked axes and crude halberds looking at them like hungry lions, eyes wide and teeth bared. Four more joined them at the top of the gulley, and Beren didn't stop to see if they were going to pursue. Orcs were bloodthirsty invaders of the realm. Their entire religion was based on destruction and their physiology helped them accomplish their bestial goals.

"Are you always this lucky?" Beren asked Jocasta.

"Funny, I was going to ask you that." She said back, both of their eyes on the Orcs, before looking at one another. Without another word, the two sprinted off into the woods.

The air in their lungs was cold and came haggardly, though Beren was a bit better off than Jocasta for having been out for hours. The cold clung to them like an unwanted lover, and though the sun peeked further up from the horizon, it would only reveal more horrors in all likely hood. Damn, he thought they were close to civilization by this point. What happened? He would find out later, but as it were their only option was to run.

They had a good head start, but their feet crunched leaves and snow and they couldn't well conceal themselves while they sprinted. For a good solid ten minutes, Beren thought they might have to fight for their lives, but the trees suddenly disappeared, the two cutting through grabbing branches to find rocky crags climbing up the slope of the mountain they had seen from the distance. Or was this a different mountain? Yet again he would care later. As Jocasta determinedly began to climb, Beren stopped her.

"Wait!" He said, holding his hand out to halt her and staring at the rocks. He seemed to be looking for something. After standing there for ten solid seconds, she waved a hand across his face.

"He's gone crazy," she said to herself.

"No, I saw it." He said, still being unrelentingly vague. He walked over to the largest rock, a huge boulder twice the size of a wagon, with other rocks stacked around it. On second glance, it didn't look man-made but not entirely natural either. He blew across the frost that clung to the stone, brushing it away to reveal runes. Broken runes, unfortunately, but runes nonetheless. Another hoot lifted out of the trees, but instead of running, Beren took out his axe and tapped the blade on the stone three times, then seven, then two. "Hope this bloody works."

"Akra-dum ish-ta-krumnul," He said, nervousness in his voice. He knew time was up. The stone, still as death, began to shift. The language was dwarvish, something virtually unknown to human scholarship for the secretive practices of the race. Somehow Beren knew it, but that didn't end their problems. The stone moved, and Beren's smile died when he saw an ornate stone door with shimmering glyphs, ones he did not recognize. His heart sank, and he realized this wasn't a normal entrance to a dwarf city. It was something else. A dwarf, a friend of whomever had made this, had placed the first barrier up. Now it was the second entrance.

"Wait, that's Andernic!" She said at the 11th hour, just as the first Orc leaped out of the trees. Relief and dread flooded into Beren.

"Ok, you handle that, just try and go quick ok?" Beren said, doing his best to remain calm and not to make her nervous since she held the key to their lives. He took up his staff and strode forward, taking a deep breath to steady his sense of self. Closing his eyes, even as the Orc barreled down on him like a raging bull, he breathed in...and out... and opened his eyes.

He reacted to the Orc's lunge like he was in a sort of moving meditation, as if he could see where the sword was going to go. His staff spun, batting the sword aside and cracking the Orc across the head with the arc of a windmill. It didn't kill the monster, but it sent it to the ground. Another Orc appeared, this one approaching more slowly. It bore two axes in its hands, and the first one was groaning. Beren kicked it in the head to silence the groans.

Jocasta steadied her breathing, a life of petty crime and scholarship in Andred wasn’t the best preparation she might have had for desperate and headlong flight in a frozen wilderness. If she lived she might suggest a course in cardiomancy be added to the curriculum. Her eyes flicked over the ancient serpentine script. It was ironic that she had come north of the Gate to study just such ancient sites, and now there was a better than good chance she was about to be skewered while attempting to do so. It was a difficult dialect and even under ideal circumstances it would have taken her days to fully translate. Fortunately Andernic had certain alliterative constructs which were depressingly familiar. Woe be to he who opens this portal. Death shall come upon swift wings. Cursed be the seed of the interloper to the seventh generation. May the manhood of he who breaks this seal shrivel and rot. Etcetera Etcetera. What was abundantly clear was that she didn’t have a snow flakes chance in Arad Lund of unraveling this spell before the pair of them were chopped to orc kibble.



“Hurry up!” Beren urged as the big orc with the axes rushed him, windmilling its vast tendon lace arms alarmingly. Another orc burst from the brush, this one lifting a crude black bow and pulling a rust tipped arrow from a quiver that must have been made from half a deer. Jocasta lifted a hand.

“Yeshira adac anisoptera,” she snapped. A cloud of dragonflies burst from the under brush and swarmed the orc archer battering at its eyes and nostrils. The brute roared and pawed at the air, momentarily distracted by the swarming insects, though it was clear that the spell wouldn’t hold it for long.

“Less jabbering more getting through the door,” Beren called, flicking his strange staff up. To Jocasta’s amazement he was managing to keep both weapons away from his body.



“Less helpful than you might think,” she admonished before reaching into her pouch and rooting desperately around her small collection of arcane tools and pulling out a stubby stick of wax wrapped in metallic foil. Hematallow was one of the tools she had used when a wizard was not polite enough to do the civilized thing and take a bribe to let her into his library, or when the Occult Bastion wanted a particular price for a lesson. Its making was unpleasant and limited by certain lunar conditions and the would be alchemists ability to focus. She carefully inscribed two glyphs and then added a third, then placed her hands on her hips.



“Redrecko mater putarii!” she shouted. Beren cast a shocked glance over his shoulder, apparently recognising at least some of the words. The rock seemed to boil up into a snarling face, thin lips spreading into a maw filled with vicious teeth. Jocasta grabbed Beren by the belt and leaped into the mouth. They hit the back wall but rather than smash themselves against the granite they splashed through it like children in a pool of viscous mud. Jocasta squeezed her eyes shut as they passed through the oddly liquid rock and burst into the pitch darkness on the other side. She dispersed the spell with an effort of will and she hit something in the darkness a moment before Beren hit her and sent her sprawling on her ass. She rolled downwards in the darkness, smacking frequently against unseen objects that gouged at her knees and elbows before finally coming to rest with a clatter. She swiped furiously at her mouth, dislodging a thin layer of mud that had air hardened into rocky flakes when the spell had ended. There was a muffled howling from the other side of the stone, the Orc trying to follow them was either very frustrated, or more likely, had become partially stuck in the newly solid rock. Lifting her hand she muttered a simple cantrip and a ball of light sprang into existence above her hand, casting a cool faintly greenish light around the chamber. They were in a circular room cut into the rock, a spiral staircase of crudely cut stone leading up to the portal they had entered through. Exiting corridors with monumental arches carved from stone lead in three of the four cardinal directions. The floor itself was covered with bodies. They weren’t quite skeletons owing to the fact that a kind of mossy fungus grew on the bones, its roots having sucked the moisture out of the ancient cadavers to the degree that they more resembled mummies. The preservation was good enough that Jocasta could tell that each of them had been laid carefully in place and then had their throat ritually cut. Shallow trenches gouged in stone were dusty with ancient blood which had been drained away for purposes unknown but which Jocasta doubted was black pudding. The whole place smelled of death and mushrooms.



“First thing,” Jocasta muttered disconsolately, “new paint, new cabinets.”



“Do all of your plans involve falling down things?” Beren asked a touch sourly as he picked himself up.

“Are you kidding?” Jocasta asked, “most of my plans scarcely involve plans.”

Beren dusted himself off, taking it all in stride. He had to admit, despite the horror, it was exciting if nothing else. "Well you saved my life. Or our live, I guess." He said, and blinked at the new light that formed. The floating orb...

"You can do magic?" He asked, looking at her in a light light. He crossed his arms, impressed.

"You can do the spinny staff thingy?" She said, wiggling her fingers like what he did was also magic.

Beren almost snorted, trying to hide the inevitable smile. He cleared his throat and enhanced his already moderately deep voice so as to appear as if he was woo'ing someone. "Yes, I spin the thingy quite well, I've been told."

A small rock falling from the air-dried wall that had just been made caused them to be on edge for a brief moment, and it changed the mood and reminded them of where they were. Or better yet: "Where are we?" He asked, looking at the segmented ceiling, before scanning the bodies. He was an avid reader, but he had never had any former schooling past his boyhood tutor, and this was beyond the scope of the layman's expertise.

"I was hoping you knew." Jocasta said, placing a finger on her chin as she examined the mosaics in the stone. Most were of battles with men in nose-guard helms and wielding axes and spears, with the lords carrying swords at their belts. One depicted a dragon in the process of being slain buy an unnamed warrior. "Wherever we are, these ruins are of the old andernic tradition. Which means these tombs could very well be over three thousand years old."

Such a time frame was beyond the scope of mortal comprehension for the ordinary man, but Beren had a better grasp of such things than most. He had grown up around Dwarves, after all. "I know a bit of old history, but I'm glad you're here." He admitted, which reminded him. He looked her way. "Did you call the owner of this tomb a whore?"

"No, I called his mother a whore." She said pointedly, winking his way. She carefully vaulted over an ornate stone sarcophagus, twin swords carved across its top. Dust lifted and another small bit of masonry fell, but she made it over and approached the center of the room where a stone lift stood. Atop it was a frame, and within it looked like some sort of precious stone. It glimmered blue in the light, and framing it was a bronzed torque with filigree of pure gold. Around it were small bestial stone guardians that Jocasta promptly walked past.

"Was that a good idea?" Beren asked, walking up to one of the sarcophogi. There was an alien inscription on it with a few words he vaguely recognized, likely loanwords from Drimgoth. One of them said 'open,' but it could easily read as 'never open this thing you idiot.' Still, Jocasta didn't seem alarmed so he might not need to be anxious on it. He placed his fingers under the stone and lifted it lightly, just enough for the light to peek in.

"Trust me, I'm a professional," She said, and she plucked the crytal-like stone up without toughing the frame it sat on, letting the torque slide down her arm.

Just as she did so, Beren opened the casket slightly wider and peeked in. There was a sunekn corpse in there, more preserved than the dead outside and wearing a strange crown of iron. He tried to read the runes atop the metal, but suddenly the dead man turned his head. Beren blinked and promptly shut the casket, placing his hands atop it to keep the weight on. "Hey, we might have a problem"

"Well it probably cant lift the..." Jocasta began before a booming impact blasted dust from the seams of the coffin, lifting Beren and the stone lid like a hard footstep shifting a doorstop. Beren sprawled over the sarcophagus trying to hold it closed as three more blows rattled off the inside.

"Ok... well I can..." Jocasta said, pulling her hematallow from her pouch. A minor alteration of the spell would let her seal the lid to the coffin so that... CRUNCH. Dust exploded around a hole in the stone as the eldrich corpse within drove a fist through two inches of solid rock missing Beren by a few inches at most. The skeletal hand began to reach around, trying to find whatever or, in this case whomever, was impeding its well earned ritual murder rampage.

"Lets..." Jocasta began again. Beren nodded.

"Lets," he agreed. The both bolted. Beren hurdled off the top of the sarcophagus a moment before the lid exploded upwards like an over pressurised pot, flipping several times before it crashed to the ground and broke in half with a titanic crash. Jocasta was still staring as the corpse sat up in its mouldering funeral garb and began to climb free. Beren caught her and half shoved, half carried her down a side passage, through a series of decending archways.

"We don't need to be going down..." Jocasta tried to object as she managed to get her feet underher. The burst into another chamber much like the first. This one was in worse condition than the first. Gnarled roots of an unhealthy whitish color were in the process of prising appart the ancient stonework, their relentless assault having already tumbled masonry down to block one of the exits. They splashed through a pool of blackish water that was for sure filled with leeches and the gods knew what else.

"Flee now, cartography later," Beren suggested.

"But this stuff is priceless!" She complained, getting hustled through the earthen mausoleum. She did well on her feet, even when being moved bodily by Beren holding her shoulders or half carrying her. They had just officially met no more than an hour ago, but neither seemed too preoccupied with worry about personal space or awkwardness at the moment when the shuffle of feet and rasping croaks of awakened denizens, ones that shouldn't exist in all laws of the natural world, just down the corridor behind them.

"Look, later when you have supplies and better equipment you can come back. I might even come with you, but for now we need to get going!" He told her, taking a step down the next archway. His booted foot touched down, and suddenly there was a mere moment of low scraping that served as the brief and only warning of a trap being sprung.

Three scything, axe-like instruments on pendulums slid out of the hall's walls, the first nearly chopping off Beren's nose. Jocasta stumbled into him, as he had stopped on a dime. The axe swung left and passed him just as she pushed him, and he swung his arms wildly to keep balance as its arc ended and it began to swing back at him. He knocked her back by throwing his rump desperately backwards at her and then sprang backwards as well just as the axe descended back into the pattern. It would have completely decapitated him had he kept himself in that position.

"Are you ok?" She asked him, embarrassed of the very real death she had nearly thrown him into. He had his hands on his knees and idly reached up to feel his neck to make sure his head was still attached.

"Yeah, I think so." He breathed, pulling back his thick mane of dark hair.

"Beren!" She said suddenly. He perked up like an alerted hound, and when he saw her eyes looking past him, he moved in pure, instinctual muscle memory. Beren spun and gave a beautiful roundhouse kick to the draugr that he had correctly guessed was behind him, punching into its gnarled chest cavity and sending the corpse stumbling back into the wall to drop to the floor.

"Nice," she said, impressed.

Two more entered the room. One was akin to the one Beren had (likely) dispatched. A circlet on its head and rags, more dust than cloth, clinging to its wraith-like form. It had a heavy, broad bladed sword it lifted high in the air like the axes still swinging on the path ahead. It swung at Jocasta in a surprising rush, who ducked the blow but couldn't keep a hold of the torque she had on her arm. It reached for it with wicked fingers and grabbed it, having used the blow as a mere distraction. It yanked the cord, but it was made of bronze links and did not break. As it swung again, trying to brain her, Jocasta's short sword lifted up to parry in a clang of metal. Clearly she knew some self defense, as her arm was in the perfect position to give a back-handed blow to its head. The bone and teeth hurt, but it staggered the thing for the second it took to swing her sword back in a calculated move to cut its head clear from its rotting shoulders.

She relaxed for a split second, until the headless thing grabbed her by the neck and began to squeeze. She stabbed into its stomach with a cry and then shoved it away before she hacked its arm and the rest of the body to pieces.

Behind her, the third Draugr stood and watched calmly, swaying just enough to showcase it had indeed not lost its unnatural animation.

When it's 'comrade' died, that was when it lifted its grimril axe, the grey-metal blade glimmering. This was the Druagr that had punched through stone, wearing a crown of iron with gilded rings still on its fingers. The others had shown a bit of cunning, but this one showed full autonomy, or at least some dark will guided it. It moved with an alien gait, both stiff and yet sure footed as it rounded the tombs in the chamber.

"Beren where are you!?" She called, turning to see her companion. Before her eyes, he had somehow found a stone slab in his arms. It must have weighed as much or her, or even more. He carried it with just a small grunt and leveled it at the archway, and he tossed it into the corridor like it was a log to add to a greater pile. The axes bit into it and groaned loudly, but luckily the slab had stopped the trap for the moment, bits of stone crumbling from its sides.

"Next time, tell me you have a plan." She said as she approached him, leaping over a small wall and knocking aside a rustic candelabra in her hurry to get to him.

He didn't respond, his eyes noting the small fragments that fell from the deteriorating slab of stone. Just as Jocasta reached him, the front axe continued its swing as the ass-end of the stone broke just beside them. Beren's eyes widened, and in an instant he reached for the haft that descended from the ceiling and held the crescent blade, stopping it and planting his foot on the wall, arms shaking as the thing threatened to cleave Beren in half. Between him and the quivering blade, there was a small opening Jocasta could just squeeze through.

"Cutting it close, aren't you?" She asked breathlessly. She didn't quip and wait for a reaction, however. Jocasta moved closer and carefully she slid one leg through and then the other, flattening her upper body as best as she could in the tight quarters, squaring her shoulders. Her generous chest was almost pressed to his face, a hair's breadth away from touching his nose as she slid by him.

"Not by design," He grunted hoarsely, both from the exertion and the close proximity. His vision having been filled with the danger and the admittedly distracting assets of his new tomb-diving partner, once she was passed him he almost missed the Barrow-King's approach. Suddenly the witch-light from its eyes drew his attention as it stepped just to his right, and it made a rasping gasp, the first noise it had made in millennia. Beren could smell the old, rank air that erupted from its throat, air that could kill a man if inhaled too deeply. It raised its own axe, and he knew it was do or die.

Beren let go of the scythe-bladed trap as he pivoted and threw his body, hips-first to the left, letting it swing to the wall and block the descending axe-blade of the Barrow-King. Unfortunately, as the blade swung its reverberation made the others shake, causing the slab to crack, seams running through the stone just below Jocasta's feet.

"Oh fuck!" Jocasta called, and she scrambled across the slab like a crumbling bridge as both the second and third pendulum scythes began to bite further into the stone. Beren hurried behind her, and she dived out of the corridor just as the slab broke. The woman hit the ground in a roll, and lucky for her. Jocasta's shoulder hit a pressure point. Arrows shot by some unknown mechanism were loosed from kill-holes from the left and right walls, cutting across the stuffy air just above her prone form.

Unfortunately for Beren, he only managed to clamber passed the second scythe-axe before the slab deteriorated and broke into three separate pieces with an enormous cracking sound, much like a wheelock rifle, that rang across the walls of the mausoleum. Nearly getting split open again, he froze between the two blades as they began their deadly rhythm again and waited for his chance. Jocasta had gotten to her feet by then, the arrows harmlessly now splayed across the floor. Beren counted the iterations, one, two, three, and then butterfly kicked out of the hall in a desperate leap. The blades scythed across the air swiftly, so quick were they that even timing it perfectly, its razored edge sliced into Beren's shoulder. Only by the grace of the gods did he land unharmed, the left sleeve of his jacket having been sheared off and swinging with the last blade just a stride from him. It revealed an impressively tanned and built arm, but he seemed more annoyed than glad even standing there unscathed.

"Fuck, that was my favorite jacket." He growled in a fuss. "My dad got me that jacket."

Across the archway, the Barrow-King watched them impassively as the swinging blades now stood between it and its prey.

"Maybe take off the other sleeve and make it a vest?" Jocasta postulated as she tried to catch her breath as she absently admired Beren's muscular arm with one eye and watched the ancient barrow king with the other. The later continued to stare at them, greenish witchfires glowing malevolently in its eyesockets. Despite its evident hate, the creature did not seem willing to risk passing the blades. Evidently the ancient steel was heavy enough and sharp enough to give pause even to ancient champions of undeath. As always, Jocasta was unable to help herself. She stuck her tongue out at the wright. The witchfires flared white hot and the ancient corpse thrust its head forth and unhinged its mouldering jaw. Arctic air blasted forth in a torrent of physical cold that coated every surface of the chamber. An almost physical ball of ice struck the swinging blades and burst around them like a crashing wave. Jets of cold struck hard enough that Jocasta felt stones crack as the moisture in them flash froze in a heartbeat. The blades slowed almost to a stop for a fraction of a second as she stood with frost in her eyelashes.

"You were clearly the child who poked the beehive with a stick," Beren remarked dryly. The barrow king rehinged his jaw, then abruptly turned and strode off out of view beyond the passage.

"Well, anyone you run screaming away from," Jocasta replied. She turned and surveyed the new chamber, greedy eyes following inscriptions on the wall with the care of a librarian.

"What now? I don't imagine our friend there is simply off to make a complaint and I don't fancy trying to double back through the Demon Cheesegrater," she asked.

"Oh, I'm Jocasta by the way," she concluded brightly.

Beren had taken the opportunity of the sudden, freezing breath to grab at the ripped sleeve still on the now-impassive blade. Frost flaked the cloth, but it didn't seem too damaged other than where it had been severed. He would hire someone to sew it back on, because Evergod knew it was cold enough up here in the wilderness. He barely felt adequately dressed even with his shirt, outer shirt, and the jacket. Luckily the catacombs, while not warm, did not have the freezing temperature or biting wind of the upper world. He shook the frost off and shoved the cold length into his pocket just as Jocasta introduced herself.

He had vaguely recalled her name being Jo-something, and she had evidently remembered his name. He took her hand and shook it, giving a knowing smile. "It's nice to meet you. I'm Beren."

"Are you cold, tired, and hungry Beren?"

"Yep."

"Then let's see if we can get out of here," she said, responsibly. The pretty woman thought a moment, placing a finger on her bottom lip. "Depending on if there's another exit and the tunnel is leading due north-west like I think it is, we should be slowly heading along the path we would have taken had we not been attacked."

"If this tomb-complex has more resting places, then it should have another exit. Then again, I'm not familiar with this culture. What even caused these things to get up?"

"I don't know, but whatever it is, I don't think it's the same reason or even the same source of power that had summoned the dark army just outside. The runes along these walls are filled with poetic portents, sagas, and soliloquies. There seems to be some sort of latent pocket of fel magics that wants to defend this place very badly."

"Let's hope we can oblige and get the hell out," Beren grunted, and the two began a small trek forward. The next room was an armory, with withered, old weapons, shields, and suits of mail. A red and gold cape was draped along a wooden bar on the wall. Beren took it and shook the dust off of it as Jocasta rifled through the old weapons. Beren decided to take the cape for warmth, and Jocasta pocketed a rusted but ancient seax with a silver wolfish embalm on the hilt. Blowing on it before putting it away, she found it wasn't rusted but simply dusty like the cloak. There were ripples along the blade that caught the low light in different, glittering facets.

Beren took a moment to admire the weaponry as well, but soon they moved on, going down winding, baroque stone stairs that fed into a foyer connecting a large chamber with walkways and hanging lights of strange crystals that glowed, casting the ground in pallid illumination. Beren stepped over a line that had been laid as a trap, and Jocasta managed to find the exit by following the pictograms of a marching army along the wall until they reached an archway made of brass and iron.

Beren stepped in carefully, and when nothing happened, they walked further and traversed three long halls and guardrooms (where they found some old coins and swiftly nicked them) until they found another foyer. Only this one was partially broken, some hard earth poking through the stone and roots winded down the right wall like the tentacles of some monster. More importantly, there was an empty brazier on a stone rise.

"Keep going or...?"

"No, I need to sit on my ass for a bit." Jocasta said tiredly. As she went to sit, Beren handed her a small bag he had in his backsack. She opened it up inquisitively and found jerky in there.

"Not much, but it's something." He told her, and he went to the wall and yanked at the roots that tangled out of the shattered stone, breaking some off and tossing it into the stone brazier. After about nine or ten gnarled, dry roots he grabbed two rocks and began to slide them together, trying to make a fire.

"Oh, let me." Jocasta said helpfully with her mouth half-full. She got up and snapped, mumbling a few words.

Nothing happened. She blinked, and then snapped again, and again, and again, and then three times in rapid succession before a flame erupted from the brazier like an oil-fire. She squawked and fell back into Beren, who caught her as gently as he could.

"Good job," they both said together, and then they said 'no problem,' and then they shut up for a moment as they felt the next words would inevitably be the same too. The room was small, and soon it would be cozy with the flame. Luckily, the catacombs had filters and vents for air in the ceiling, likely more for the workers who made the tomb than for the benefit of the eternal sleepers in the tombs themselves. Beren draped the blanket over his shoulder, and then stretched it to drape over his companion's as well. She handed him some jerky, and he took it with a smile. She took out the knife and looked at it curiously, holding it up in the firelight.

"Do you always meet guys like this?" He asked her, trying to fill the silence with levity.

Jocasta snickered as she chewed her mouthful of jerky. Some of the herbs she had in her pouches were technically edible, but she had nothing she could really consider food. Some adventurer she was she thought as she turned her new found knife over in her hands, examining the strange rippling steel in the fitful firelight.

"I can honsetly say this is in my top two strangests dates. Top three if you count the time I dropped that coach and horse team through the great bridge on Eventide," she admitted. She felt extremely tired now that the adrenaline had somewhat worn off and the warmth of the meagre fire had banished at least a little of the chill. It would be night above ground now, though keeping track of the time was more a matter of guesswork than science. She watched the flame as it devoured another piece of root and an idea occured to her.

"I suppose if we head towards areas where there are more roots we must be getting closer to the surface right? THey must connect to a tree afterall," she supposed. The roots here might be from a single massive tree, but judging by the subtle differences in size and girth Jocasta thought it more likely there was a forest overhead. The events of the afternoon were confused but she thought they were probably under the low hills a mile or two from the caravan route.

"What about you? Do you make a habit of rescuing damsels in distress and then leading them through ancient cursed catacombs? Or am I just special?" she teased.

Beren laughed, much like a boy caught in the midst of a prank would. He had a nice voice, but it was humbled when he nearly chocked on a piece of jerky. He hit his chest with his hand and swallowed, clearing his throat.

"I wouldn't say it's a habit, no." He said, keeping it relatively vague to mess with her. He pulled the cloak tighter around his left, uncovered arm. "But I do tend to get into situations like this. Well...yeah, no, I do."

"Same here," she admitted, but turned to look at the door they hadn't yet walked through. "Though none quite like this so far."

"As for damsels, is that what you consider yourself?" He asked with a smirk.

She turned back and fluttered her lashes, looking for all the world like a lost maiden in a romance tale. "Who me? Why do you ask?"

He tried to hide a smile, but was unsuccessful. The fire was starting to feel very warm, and the enclosed room felt nice. He hadn't counted on having a place to make a fire before reaching the town of Helguart. He was also a little embarrassed. Beren was the kind of person who got along well with people and didn't think about it until he got a step too far. He knew she was joking, but he hadn't been on a real date in awhile, by his estimation. He was more used to death than an attractive woman, and he felt that was sad in and of itself.

She really was different, though. Somehow after the wholesale slaughter of the caravan and the dangers that had accompanied it, he felt somehow good. He knew he shouldn't, but he did. Silently he made a small prayer for their souls, and to get he and Jocasta out of this literal dungeon. He didn't want to dwell on it, and a question came to him. Now that he had some time to think, it should be an obvious question.

"Why are you here?" He asked her suddenly, turning to her. His dark eyes looked rich and golden in the firelight, much like the bronze of the torque. The light showed his hair wasn't black like one might assume at first glance, but a dark chocolate. "Did you come to find ruins like this? You seem to know a lot, and where did you learn it?"

He leaned against one of the rocks and let his elbow rest on it, in turn resting his chin on his hand as he looked at her. He found she really was pretty.

Jocasta cleared her throat with embarssment. The idea of studying ancient magics seemed alot less problematic when one wasn't trapped in an ancient web of necromantic spells. It had to be admitted though, that despite their predicament, she was fascinated by the crumbling stonework around them. Her eyes tried to memorize every frieze and inscription she passed.

"I studied," she admitted carefully, "at the College of Magic in Andred." It was a crime to suggest you were a student at the Mythrim if you weren't offically on the student roles. Students had ancient rights included in the university charter, immunity from civil prosecution, immunity from pole tax, liscence to possess certain illicit texts and artifacts which would have been illegal for the lay man. Such rights were valuable enough that interlopes often pretended, and usually to their peril as none were more zealous in rooting out imposters than the College Provosts. Jocasta had endured her shares of run ins with them herself, though she was cunning enough and lucky enough to avoid being caught in her occasional lapses.

"They have some tomes on the history of the North. Vague rumors really of the Pale King and his seven Lost Knights. Stories about the Tower of a Thousand Teeth, the Circle of Twelve, the Pillars of Can Berath," she explained, her voice taking on the dreamy quality that it always did when recounting the old tales.

"The more I looked into it though the more I discovered that they didn't really know anything beyond folk tales. Even the magic they used up here is all but unknown. I found bits and pieces in ancient tomes and a surprising amount in the confessions of various hedgewitches but its pretty clear that no one has ever really studied it," she went on.

"I thought I'd be the first, who knows, maybe make my name and my fortune while I'm at it," she added with a giggle.

Beren watched her talk and even though it wasn't too farfetched of an explanation, he found he was pleasantly surprised. She was kind of cute talking about her interests, as well. He wished he had been able to get some sort of diploma or certification from a university, but his old master had always told him it was a worthless piece of paper and wisdom was valuable in and of itself. He was right of course, but it still kept him from gaining access to certain libraries up north. Not the marches, but the north in general. He still had to remind himself not to call Andred and Vrettonia and the kingdoms south of the Dragonback 'The North' up here. But to him, it was all pretty far above where he had been born.

"Most people I meet tend not to have goals, much less auspicious ones." He admitted with a smile. "That's actually pretty cool."

The warmth of the fire and the fine talk (coupled with his tiredness) were relaxing, and Beren found himself loosening up. "I promised an old friend I would deliver an item to a tomb. Not one like the tombs we've seen. It's in a mountain further north, near the Frostfalls. At least that's what I'm told."

"Deliver something to a tomb?" She asked, somewhat incredulously.

"Uh..." He started, and decided it didn't harm anything to tell her. "Well he's a Dwarf and I gave him my word. He couldn't come with me. He had other obligations."

"You're a Dwarf-Friend then... like actually one." She reasoned, as impressed with him as he was with her. Dwarves weren't the rarest creature, but they were the oldest race on the planet and keepers of many secrets. The mere fact Beren knew any of the language was something even the old greybeards in the academies would be taken aback by, not to mention they would pay handsomely to find out some of his knowledge.

"I am," he chuckled, somewhat embarrassed himself. He leaned back and reached behind him to pull out the axe she had seen him hold earlier. It did not look like more than a simple, battle-worthy hand-axe earlier. He handed it to her. The haft was slightly less than a meter long and finely made, wrapped in crimson leather over what seemed to be steel coating over stout wood. Along its back was a thread embroidered with gold coloring. The axe had a bearded blade, carved in the shape of a Dragon's maw, and a stout but sharp spike at its back. Most impressively, the blade was made of Baldr. An exceedingly rare metal, though not quite as valuable as Valdium for certain items that required more finesse and magic. It was a metal only the Dwarves knew how to shape, and it was the most durable metal known on the planet. Along its head were runes, though it didn't seem like they provided any real enchantments to the item.

"When we get out of here, we should get to Helmguart as soon as possible," He said as he let her look the item over. "After that, I'll be going to Iskura next, unless you need help doing something else?"

They hadn't exactly made a partnership, but he did want to give her a chance if she wanted him to tag along somewhere. Maybe it was just him giving an excuse to hang around the woman, but either way. He was the wandering type, so he was used to meeting and then leaving if it came to it.

"I don't... you know... have any particular place in mind, not yet anyway. One place is more or less as good as another, at least until I get my bearings... or where my bearings would have been a few thousand years ago anyway," Jocasta explained. Beren nodded as though that made total sense. It was incredible to meet a real life dwarf friend, most humans who had close realtionships with the ancient dwarves seemed to inherit some of their laconic nature. She wondered if there were dwarven tomes on the ancient kingdoms. The fact that this barrow was locked behind a dwarf door suggested there might be.

"Iskura is a good place to find artifacts and rumors if nothing else," she continued, "assuming of course we can get out of here without being munched on by the hungry dead."

"You certainly have a gift for looking on the bright side," Beren replied sarcastically. Jocasta hopped up onto a raised slab of stone high enough that she could kick her booted feet and plucked one of the coins she had stolen from her pouch and examined it.

"Blood King Argante," she said, turning the coin so Beren could see the slope jawed profile.

"This coin is about six thousand years old, or course, who knows how long it was around before it ended up in this tomb?" she mused.

"Fascinating stuff, I don't suppose you have an idea about how to get out of here?" Beren asked. Jocasta looked around the chamber, her eyes following the intricate carvings on the walls. Some phrases she could half understand but it was clearly in some kind of archaic dialects.

"As a matter of fact I do, although it won't be quick."

Jocasta moved around the chamber clockwise while Beren went wittershins, each of them carried one of Jocasta's notebooks and a stick of charcoal, merticulously copying the inscriptions onto the pages of precious vellum. Jocasta muttered about the virtues of papyrii as she worked, but she hadn't exactly been given time to prepare for her expdition before fleeing Andred one step ahead of a long list of angry creditors.

"Did you hear that?" Beren asked, pausing to glance up one of the passageways from which a faint clicking sound was now audible. It was eerily reminiscent of bone rattling on bone.

"We are out of time," Jocasta declared as the sound began to grow louder. She stuffed her book into her pouch and went to the center of the room. She pulled a stick of white charcoal from her pouch and began to scratch a circle of sigils on the ancient flagstone.

"What do you want me to do with the book?" Beren asked as Jocasta sat cross legged in an expanding circle of sigils. She looked up at him in apparent confusion.

"Just put it in your pack or whatever," she instructed. It was Beren's turn to look confused.

"Don't you need it for whatever spell you are working?" he inquired, casting a wary look towards the tunnel from which the clacking of bones and the rattle of rusty weapons was growing louder. Jocasta shook her head.

"It's just for my research," she told him absently. Beren stared at her in amazement.

"YOu mean you had me spend six hours copying down inscriptions rather that trying to escape?!" he demanded.

"Well, it would be irresponsible otherwise," Jocasta replied defensively. She paused and observed her work, absently sticking her tongue out of the corner of her mouth as as made a few last minute modifications. The marching tread of skeletal feet was joined by a foetid stench of the grave. Beren hefted his axe and stepped into position between Jocasta and the passageway. She stood up and began to chant, raising both hands above her head.

"Whatever you are doing you had better..." Beren began. As he spoke a phalanx of walking corpses errupted from the tunnel, wicked spears and rust billhooks brandished. Jocasta's voice grew panicked but her chant didn't waver even as Beren leaped forward and clove one of the archaic corpses in half, scattering bones and rotting cloth in all directions before being forced back in a series of desperate parries.

"I think we should..." he began to shout but he was drowned out as Jocasta shrieked the last word of her spell. The sigils light with green white light and leaped up into the celiing, vanishing rather anti-climactically. Beren cast a wild eyed look over his shoulder.

"That's it?!" he shouted, batting away an axe blade and breaking the jaw of one of the creatures in a spray of teeth.

"Well..." Jocasta began and then the roof exploded. Dust and stone blocks flew in all directions, shattering statues and crushing several of the draughr in the process. The survivors surged around their fallen foes, taking advantage of Beren's shock to exit the mouth of the tunnel and begin to encircle the warrior. Thick white roots, each the thickness of a man's trunk stabbed downwards out of the ongoing landslide like the fingers of a giant, each one driving a corpse into the ground in a spray of bone fragments. Before either Beren or Jocasta could do more than gawp the roots pulled tight around them and yanked them up into the crumbling ceiling, squishing them together as they were ripped upwards through the heart of the mountain. Rock and soil ground past outside the protective cocoon, half falling and half being pulled through the debris.

"Isthisagoodthing?!" Beren mubmled, his face squeezed tight against Jocasta's left breast in their undignified sprawl.

"Sort of!" Jocasta shouted. The spell had been cast, but it was well beyond her control at this point. Working magic within the magical echo chamber of the tomb had been a risky move, allowing her to tap into far more power than she had any hope of controling. With a shocking suddeness they burst into bright sunlight, the roots around them opening like a child tossing a ball. Jocasta tumbled end over end, clinging to Beren as they cartwheeled thought the air for long moments before she landed on top of her erstwhile partner a moment after he hit the snow cover. They slid down the snow in a heap as stones fell around them like rain, the rumble of the destruction behind them only growing. They hit a snow bank against a fallen elm tree with a crunch that shook a hundred pounds of snow from nearby trees. Jocasta pushed herself to her feet, spitting out snow. By chance she was facing towards the hill they had just tumbled down. The great tree at its crest was attempting to shove its roots back down into the hill, but the damage had been done. Snow and stone were slumping down the hill and gathering speed, developing into a full fledged avalance.

"Definitely coming down on the side of 'mixed blessing'," Jocasta said, making quotation marks with her fingers as the ruin of the hill and the barrow raced down on them like an unstopable tide.

"Oh no," He said with wide eyes when he saw the explosion had inadvertently caused a rumble up the hill, and not only were debris falling around them, but the snow had been displaced. Slowly, it tranformed from hail to an avalanche. As it approached, Jocasta finally noticed, her mouth making an 'O'. Beren had seen one once at Thundrim Kadrin, but from far off and out of its path. This one was much like the other. It was hundreds of tons of snow, wood, leaves, and now masonry and other debris.

"Maybe I spoke a bit too soon," She admitted guiltily.

Beren scooped her up in his arms, causing her to suck in her breathe by the sudden feeling of iron-corded arms holding to a broad chest, the adrenaline of the situation adding to it. He started to run away toward the tree line, though there were only a few copses of pine and coniferous trees here or there. Beren was a fast runner and he moved like a dwarven steam train, but he wasn't fast enough. Jocasta watched the avalanche from over his shoulder with wide eyes as it caught up to them, at the crest of the 'wave' was a log spearing at them. She closed her eyes, and suddenly felt weightless. She had thought she was dead, but soon she found gravity again, and the intense rumbling was all around them.

Jocasta opened her eyes to see Beren precariously atop the log, surfing the snow. Well, surfing implied finesse. It was impressive he had leaped atop it, and it was clear he had a lot of acrobatic training. But he swayed this way and that and didn't seem all too convinced they would stay up, though his dark eyes were steeled.

"Are you sure this will work!?" She asked him above the din

"No," he said.

They passed over some crags and brush, demolishing the landscape in their path. Beren re-positioned his front foot, but it nearly cost them their perch on the bucking log. For a moment they seemed ok, racing past a copse of trees and a bend in the earth, but soon they saw they were in a path that fed directly towards a large oak. Beren tried to manuever his weight, but it wasn't working. Jocasta screamed and Beren's heart thundered in his chest.

"Hold on to me!" He told her, and she did so instinctively as Beren leaped from the log moments before it smashed into the tree and broke in half, the man making a desperate reach for a lower branch. In the second it took for him to sail through the air, time seemed to stop. But all at once reality came crashing back, and he caught the branch in his hands.

The very land itself flowed under them like a river, and they hung there for the next ten minutes until the Marches slowed and were spent, almost as if it were bored with the avalanche itself.

"Wow." She said. Her arms around his neck, she was very close to him. He hadn't noticed, but to keep herself clinging she had wrapped her legs around him, their chests pressed together. Beren's face, once stern with purpose, was now reddened at the close proximity. She smiled brightly. "This is a good date."

"We should probably get to town," he said, his usually deep voice cracking.

---

The next day...

They were cold and slightly tired, but they were alive. They were even clean, one of the rivers that flowed out of the mountain was naturally heated, likely from some hidden reservoir of magma beneath. There was an abundance of fish in it, and they caught some, drank the water, and one bathed while the other stood watch. They stayed there that night and continued forward to Helmguart the next day.

The township was guarded by a stout wall of stone, just ten feet high but wide enough for two men to comfortably walk abreast. The gates were open, but crossbowmen in kettle-helms stood above it and along the walls, obviously vigilant from the sounds of battle the other day just a few days travel from there. It was hard to see the wall from the trees, as the wood was thick about it. But they had found the trail again, and made it mid-afternoon that day.

The guards looked strange. Some of them wore brigandines or chainmail, but most of them you couldn't tell their armor, as they wore black tabards and cloaks with the symbol of the lion. Beren didn't recognize the sigil, but Jocasta likely would. They were the Mortus Leo; The Dead Lions. A mercenary group made famous for its wars in the Seven Cities along the Blood Coast. What they were doing here was a mystery, but it likely had something to do with their latest military disaster near the pirate haven of Balcet, where the Basilean army had overrun their position. It was one of the many rumors that had passed through Andred before the winter had pummeled the nation into submission.

The buildings were made of sturdy timber and mountain stone, most of the roofs had wooden frames and made thatched, though a few had slate tiles. Laborers, errands-men, mercers, fuellers, smiths, bakers, and the general citizenry walked about as if nothing was off, though most gave the roving bands of Black Lions a wide berth, and there were at least two of the mercenaries at nearly every corner of the roads. Every mercenary bore a wing-tipped spear or a crossbow, though all of them had a schiavona sword sheathed at their hips. While Beren didn't know of them, he knew there couldn't be many even if he saw them in most direction, as the town wasn't very big by most northerners. If Beren had remembered from his conversation with the merchant Bonraffen, there wasn't more than four thousand citizens here. A rough mining and logging town, kept alive by merchants traveling from Torm's Gate to Iskura.

After passing down one street, a guard stopped them. Not one of the Lions, or at least he didn't wear their crest. He had a thick goatee and sported a messer at his hip, but he had on a sigil at his sleeve that looked like a bascinet helmet.

"I saw you enter the gate. Might I ask your names and your business?" He inquired brusquely, as a watchmen or sentry might do. Beren and Jocasta glanced at one another, both looking a bit weary at being stopped before they could walk into a warm inn, but they shrugged as they also had nothing to hide.

"I'm Beren, this is Jocasta. We're chance travelers. We were apart of a caravan coming from the Dragonback, but we were attacked by Orcs and... and the dead. And more things I dare not name except in private. We were the only survivors that we know of, but now-"

The guard made a baffled noise and held up a hand. "You were in a caravan meant for here?"

"Yes, to pass through to Iskura."

The guard turned and bade them wait, before he jogged off to the next street for a brief minute. Jocasta hugged herself and groaned, simmering with annoyance that the guard couldn't talk to them somewhere warm. There was no snow about them, but the temperature was still easily below freezing. Beren felt her pain and nodded. He was usually fun or stoic, switching between the two when needed. But he was just about ready to complain as well. Soon the watchman came back with a companion, similarly dressed.

"Thank you for waiting," the first man said apologetically.

"How long had you been on the road?" The second one asked.

"Almost two weeks. But we're really tired, sir." Beren said.

"And how did you two surv-"

"Can you boys point us to the nearest inn?" Jo pipped up before further questions were tossed at them. The two guards regarded her question, and then looked at one another. The second one nodded, and the first took his hat off in apology.

"Aye, yes. The Crimson Wyvern is just north of here, two streets away. Tell Bonnie that Melve sent you. But before you go, I will let you know tomorrow the master of Helmguart might call on you. I advise you to not tell any black-clad man who you are or where you come from, for your own safety as well as that of the town."

"Ok," Beren said, not wanting to be rude but not really understanding the situation. They were both dismissed and allowed to go, and when they exited the guard's company, Jocasta smiled at Beren and held up an ancient coin with a wink. "How many rounds do you think this will get me?"

"I've got money," he assured her with a laugh, knowing she was also joking. "I'm just getting water myself anyway. I'm more hungry than anything."

"You get the feeling," Jocasta asked as they passed through the street, ignoring the drifting flakes of snow, "that something bad is going on here?" The black tabarded mercenaries were clearly going out of their way to be seen. Two more of them stood outside a two story stone building with a roof of patchy tile, abrided by wind and weather to show the tar beneath. One man leaned on a halberd, the other was packing a pipe with tobacco that he lit with a taper from a shuttered lantern. Both gave Jocasta a speculative look and regarded Beren with more professional interest. The interior of the Crimison Wyrven was a bustling riot of noise and movement. A bard stood on a table before a fire place, strutting black and forth and belting out what might have been part of the Ballad of Black Cally, his long poulin shoes tipped with bells that the shook to questionable musical accompanyment. A group of sellswords were engaged in what might have been a knife fight or a card game depending on ones point of view, with curses and blows flying in a half dozen different tongues. A pair of farmers were locked in a chess game in the corner, their mastiffs so similar they might have come from the same litter. The bar was a single slab of polished wood with a large redish inclusion in the middle that closely resembled a dragon with its wings coiled around its body. Despite the fact that every nearby surfaces was piled with bottles, barrels and baskets of food and drink, not a single item was sat on the bar.

"Nice place," Jocasta commented in a determined neutral tone.

"I've been in worse," Beren replied.

"Like vountarily?" Jocasta quiered.

"What can I do you for," asked simply the most stunning woman Jocasta had ever seen, in a voice that sounded like someone was strangling a cat with a violin. The contrast was so violent that Jocasta was momentarily disoriented. The barmaid sighed and planted a fist on either side of her hips with a weary look.

"Happens all the time. I'm Bonnie, what can I do you two for?" she asked. The grating voice made Jocasta's eye twitch invoulntarily.

"Melve sent us?" Jocasta tried. The woman's beatuiful lips scowl grew deeper.

"That old drunk owes me two crowns," she carped.

"Sure," Jocasta agreed, making a placating guesture to word off further comment from the human squeezebox.

"Can we get some wine and food please?" she asked, then clapped Beren on the shoulder, "On my friend here."

Beren did notice how extravagantly pretty Bonnie was, but whenever their was a dog in the room his eyes drew towards that instead. He always liked dogs. Loyal, loving, and helpful beasts. Truth be told he loved all animals, though he was still an eater of meat. There was something about a dog though that he gravitated towards, and they gravitated towards him as well. Before he could call to one to have them come over to pet, the woman spoke and finally that drew his attention. Both he and the dogs seemed to shudder at the sound, but he hid it well on his face when he turned to her.

Whereas Jocasta had an almost silken silver to her hair, Bonnie's hair was strawberry blonde. Bonnie's lips were soft pillows and her face was shaped like a statue's impeccable countenance, and Beren could see why this was a popular place if one could just look at her while they ate. He glanced to Jocasta, her face was more vixen-like, and the mischief in her eyes was endearing to him. Had he been most men, he would have had all manner of fantasies in his head of the two beautiful women speaking with himself almost sandwiched between them, but as it were he was far too hungry. Plus that simply wasn't his manner.

"Some water for me, and a loaded potato?" He asked hopefully.

"It's your lucky day, we still have a few potatoes from the coast that had been shipped up here. I'll see about getting some beef and cheese, but we're running out of pork and onions. Honestly if we hadn't gotten so little in the way of commerce and travelers this year, we'd have to tighten our belts for another three months." She explained conversationally. Beren wished she didn't. He was impressed at the grating, cat-choking voice that still erupted from her.

"Thanks, and do you take doubloons?" He wondered, brows raised. He produced three, watching her face.

"Yeah, sure." She said to his relief, and he handed them to her. Jocasta would know that amount roughly equaled an Andredian gold piece. "And for you?"

"Well so much for my order of pulled pork," Jocasta said with a helpless shrug.

"Honey, please." Beren said with a tongue-in-cheek roll of his eyes to play along.

She tapped her chin, looking around the room at a few of the dishes to see what was available. "Beef brisket and...what are those little berries?"

"Falta Berries. They're pretty good. Sort of like grapes and strawberries put together. They grow up here."

"Oh I'd like some too," Beren added.

"Don't worry, it'll be a good sized bowl. Ok sit in a corner, but it'll probably be a tight squeeze. Be there soon." She said, interrupted at the end by a call from a customer across the bar. She cried out "coming!" and it was physically painful to the ear. Beren and Jocasta hurried to their seat.

They passed by the mercenaries, a few of the wearing the black tabards of the Lions, but another four wore mix-and-match gear, showing they were freelancers. A few of them laughed and jeered, tossing cards and swigging drink while at least three seemed to be on the verge of violence with one another. As Beren passed them, he found he was near the mastiffs. He knelt down, not afraid to get bitten and let his hand out to get sniffed. The farmers chuckled, and the closest said. "Looks like old Gorman likes you." He said, petting the dog as he sniffed Beren's hand.

"Good fella," Beren whispered, giving the dogs a few pets as they took in a good few whiffs of his offered hand. It only took a moment, and he got up and followed in Jocasta's wake to their two person booth. Unfortunately, Beren wasn't the only one.

As they sat down at their little booth side-by-side, a man approached. One of the mercenaries, wearing a black tabard with the symbol of a Lion. He looked at Beren appraisingly and Jocasta with interest.

"Where you from?" He asked conversationally, placing one hand on the table. Alcohol covered his breath. Beren remembered what the guards had said, and he felt this was just shit luck.

"Varone," Jocasta replied quickly, placing a hand on Beren's arm to keep him from speaking. It was a good cover; far enough south to be truly foreign but well-known enough to still be recognizable. "We're just two travelers heading to Iskura."

"Really? Just two travelers?" He echoed, and to both of their surprise his eyes fell on Jocasta, or more specifically, her bosom. "So, you're not... together."

"I confess I'm a prized commodity," She said with a facetious smile, innocently batting her lashes. Beren had no idea what was going on. At first he was afraid of being connected to the caravan, but now this looked like a drunk man flirting. Was it both? He guessed so...

"Where's this from?" the mercenary asked, reaching down to the andernic torque that hung at the crest of her chest.

Beren casually grabbed his arm before it got to her. It had been easy, since he had to lean just by him to reach for Jocasta. The mercenary blinked and looked at him, amusement warring with annoyance.

"Look man," the merc said, almost overwhelming Beren with the poor breath that accompanied the miasma of alcohol. "I noticed her bottom passing me by, and now I see it's matched up top. Let me work here."

"Oh, pfft yeah of course. Is that all? Sure." Beren said, but didn't let go of his arm. In fact his grip tightened.

"If I were you, I would let go." The mercenary said, eyes flashing dangerously.

"If you were me, you'd actually be charming." Beren replied back without a beat.

The man, though drunk, reached quickly for something at his belt. Likely a knife. Beren's fist was quicker, snapping like a cobra-strike into his face. He made sure not to hit the nose so as not to bloody the table, and as the merc staggered back, Beren got up and followed. The merc caught himself and reacted with a swift punch to Beren's midsection. Beren raised his knee in a block, and then snapped his leg up to take the man under the chin. He stumbled back and hit a few of his 'friends,' who looked just as pissed at him for knocking over some drinks as they did at Beren.

The other two Lions stood up, one holding a crossbow (albeit not yet aimed) and the other with his hand on the hilt of his schiavona. Beren held up his hands, smiling guiltily. "Just want to drink alone fellas."

"Bastard!" The pervert said, taking out his thick bladed knife. Beren looked at the other two to see if they wanted to intervene, hopefully to stop him rather than help him to kill Beren. Just as the three began to move, Beren's meal, sleeping arrangements, and maybe life on the line, there was a strangled noise that curdled everyone's blood.

"Hey! Not in here!" Bonnie cried, walking up with two plates of food. How could someone so gorgeous sound like that? She glared at the lions, not giving them a piece of her mind but not backing down either. They looked at her and then to one another, the crossbowman stepping over to pat his perverted friend on the back. The freelance mercenaries watched and grinned, and began to drink again.

"Let's go." the crossbowman said, eyes flickering to Beren and then Bonnie before guiding his drunken friend and the third (who glared at them) away.

"Sorry," Beren apologized earnestly, sitting back down beside Jocasta. Bonnie watched them leave, and once they were gone she set the food, the berries, and drinks down before the two hungry adventurers. Their mouths immediately watered at the assault of smells from the food.

"Don't be. That was dumb of you, but I'm glad those assholes are gone." She said, and placed her hands on her shapely hips, smiling. "Wish my last boyfriend had the guts to do that for me. You'll get the wine on the house, let me know if you need anything else." She offered.

Beren laughed the compliment off, and thanked her before she walked away. He looked at Jocasta's, shrugging with a dramatic air about him. "Danger follows me wherever I go, tis a curse." He facetiously deigned to explain as if they were in a melodrama.

“Beren the Cursed,” Jocasta murmured before popping on of the berries into her mouth. Bonnie’s assessment was correct, though they leaned hard towards the tartness that was just a counterpoint in a ripe strawberry.



“Or should it be Beren the Accursed?” she mused, “never quite sure which of those is grammatically correct. Beren didn’t dain to answer that, contenting himself instead by tucking in to the baked potato that had been served on a wooden board, slathered with butter, salt, chives and what was probably the scrapings of the morning’s bacon. The wine was sour and astringent but was no worse than Jocasta had drank elsewhere. She opened her notebook and began to review the inscription she had copied down, crabbing notes into the margins with a small stick of charcoal as she went. It appeared to be part of a saga relating to a young king who sought the aid of an ancient and powerful witch to regain his patrimony from his wicked brothers.

“Jocasta,” Beren said in the tone of someone repeating a name for the third or fourth time. A point that was underscored by the fact that he was snapping his fingers in front of her face.



“Whaa…” she mumbled around a mouthful of berries.

“You have to stop and chew at some point,” he pointed out. Jocasta looked down at her cheeks, crossing her eyes, and noticed they were puffed out like a chipmunks, so absorbed had she been in her study that she had simply been mechanically shoveling them into her mouth. She rubbed her nose, leaving a smut of charcoal on the very tip.

“Wrright,” she mumbled and made several deliberate efforts at chewing before swallowing the mouthful convulsively.

“Sorry,” she apologized, attempting to wipe the charcoal with the back of her hand but succeeding only in spreading the mark across her face. Several of the locals were watching them with interest, not all of it welcoming.

“I was asking you if you wanted any more food,” Beren segued neatly. Jocasta hadn’t touched her potato as yet so she picked it up and took several bites, remembering to chew this time. It was a little dry and stringy, but wonderfully filling. The innkeeper, a portly man in a greasy smock ambled up to the table with a pitcher of wine in his hand.

“Begging your pardons patrons, but would you be requiring lodging?” he asked uneasily, his eyes darting down to Jocasta’s book.

“And if I might suggest madam, you should put that away, folk round her don’t hold much with people messing with the fairy marks,” he whispered in a sotto voce that probably carried across half the tavern.



“Fairy marks?” Jocasta asked, perplexed, momentarily unable to connect the colloquial term with the ancient writing she was deciphering.

“These aren’t fairy marks. I found them in a t….” she cut off with a squawk as Beren slapped a hand over her mouth to prevent her from admitting to desecrating a tomb in front of a room full of superstitious villagers.

“Point taken, and if you have a room we will take it,” he said quickly, using his free hand to flip the book closed with a thump.

Despite the crowding below the Crimson Wyrvern did have rooms to let. Most of the crowd, as Bonnie sonorously informed them, were locals who came to drink but had their own places to sleep. Given Beren’s meager supply of coins they opted for a single room which turned out to contain a down mattress a small table with a pair of stools and a somewhat lumpy looking couch. The window looked as though paint had closed the frame forever several generations back and dust had taken care of the rest. During her time at the Mythrim Jocasta had slept on a palette behind the counter at her small shop, so ironically this was something of an upgrade.



“I’ll take the couch,” Beren offered, eliciting a knowing snicker from Bonnie who, mercifully, didn’t wish them a goodnight. Jocasta clambered gratefully into bed and promptly fell asleep, the stress of a long day filled with almost lethal encounters obviously taking a toll, he soft snoring filling the room almost immediately.



Canithrid screamed his defiance as his brothers dragged him from the wooden hall of Omynith, spittle flying from his lips as his father glared imperiously down at him, the circlet of broken thigh bones making him look far more slender and far taller than a man should be, even with the Cloak of the Moon Bear around his shoulders. The old man had long favored his younger sons over his eldest, having despised his first wife as a seeress and witch woman he had been forced to marry due to clan politics. Canithrid was a constant reminder of the woman and her weird warnings that his ambitions would be as ash and his death would be an inglorious one. The young man had her look, the fine gold hair, the strong brow and the eyes of the icy north. The old man spoke the words, denying his son before the stars and the Blood Moon, cursing him to wander forever as a beggar as his brothers dragged him to the edge of the stream. The youngest brother Glynfian, only sixteen but already cruel and filled with hate, picked up the stone mallet that was customarily used from breaking open clams. Two of the older brothers stretched his right leg over the breaking stone, shards of clam shell cutting deep into the skin. Glyfian lifted the hammer and swung it down with all his might…


Jocasta awoke with a sneeze that cleared dust from her sinus and made her hiccup ever so slightly. She sat up to see if she had disturbed Beren but he remained supine upon the couch, the soft tremble of breath across his lips visible in the fraction of moonlight that managed to penetrate the window. Jocasta lay back and tried to go back to sleep, but found oblivion elusive as she tossed and turned. She wasn’t the type to sleep long hours, her mind too active to allow her to sleep deeply for more than a few hours at a stretch, even after a few cups of wine. She lay in bed staring at the rafters and thinking. Eventually she got up and headed down to the kitchen. It was lit only by the coals of the cook fire. The innkeeper was curled up on a platte beside a barrel of ale, snoring like an angry thunderstorm. There were more sounds of snoring coming from the common room beyond, where those who chose not to pay for a room slept where they could, under tables or against the walls. Jocasta found what she was looking for against the far wall. The apron which Bonnie had been wearing. Crossing over to it she examined it closely and removed three strawberry blonde hairs she found there. Her primary goal accomplished she took a small bottle of brandy from beneath the bar and lay one of her few coins in its place. Carefully she wrapped the hairs around the neck of the bottle and then thrust it into a pouch before creeping back up the stairs. Reaching the room she pushed open the door, frowning that she had forgotten to close the door when her precious manuscript was…



There was only a fraction of a second warning as something dark and solid whistled through the air. Jocasta epped and dived forward, the only direction her momentum would allow, past a shadowed figure whom she suddenly realized was in the room. The cudgel bounced of the ancient plasterboard with scarcely a sound. Jocasta grabbed her shortsword from beside the bed where she had left it. Irritatingly the scabbard clung to it and she swept it like a club at her attacker, who deflected it with his own weapon with a deft flick that sent it spinning from her hand. Desperately she grabbed one of the stools and swung it at the man with all her might. He caught one leg in his palm with a meaty slap.

“I’m only here for him, but I can do you too if you shout,” the stranger grated. He held the stool between them effortlessly.

“Rather a pathetic effort,” he sneered, sensing his superiority and drawing his club back. Three of the legs coiled around his arm like the tentacles of an octopus. He let out a shriek of disgust and realed back. The fourth leg struck him across the nose like a man disciplining a pup.

“What the fuck!” he shouted in horror, staggering back and trying to shake free the animate chair that was clinging to his arm and batting at his face. Incredible Beren was still sound asleep, untroubled by the ruckus going on around him.

“B…” Jocasta began to shout but was cut off as the intruder swung his arm, chair and all, like a club, she ducked under the blow and one leg of the chair grabbed at a rafter, momentarily pinning the thugs arm. Jocasta jumped onto his back, wrapping her arms around the intruders neck and her legs around his waist.



“I will fucking kill you!” the thug roared, ripping his arm away from the rafter with such force that the leg holding him to it ripped free. It waggled organically for a moment and then stiffened into inanimate wood once more.

“I hear that alot!” Jocasta shouted as the second stool jumped to its feet and charged across the room like a newborn foal. The intruder kicked it into the wall as he spun, trying to dislodge Jocasta. Lacking better options, she bit his neck as hard as she could. He roared in pain and grabbed for her with his free hand, getting a hold of her hair and yanking painfully, throwing her over his head just as the charging stool reached him. Somehow it had gotten a hold of the leg of the first stool and whacked the would-be assassin hard across the shin with its improvised weapon. Jocasta landed on Beren’s lap, driving one knee into his chest to break her fall and driving the air from his lungs.



“Give him one for me!” she shouted in breathless encouragement as the stool as it continued to bludgeon away with its baton.

Beren hadn't been dreaming. He'd been asleep like a log, not snoring but making soft sounds. Absently he shifted in his sleep while Jocasta fought for her life. He was just out of her reach until she was flipped and thrown to him, Beren's world came crashing back. Her knee into his chest was like the catalyst of a pendulum, and Beren swung his top half up, eyes wide for a moment before he blinked, scratching his head. He was shirtless and his thick dark hair was somewhat wild.

"What th- Jo?" He said hoarsely.

She grabbed his head with both of her hands and turned it at the assassin bearing down on them, having become wise to the charging objects and leaped over it's path. Beren saw the downward arc of the cudgel, and he pushed Jocasta and knelt backwards so the cudgel hit the frame of the couch. Beren lifted his legs and flipped backwards over the arm of the furniture and grabbed the couch pillow, as the attacker, his face carved like granite with hard eyes, pursued quickly. He tried to brain Beren and then go after his kidney, but each time Beren placed the pillow there as a shield, bouncing off but smarting if nothing else.

"Make it easy on yourself!" The assailant growled, punching Beren in the face. Normally Beren was very good at close combat, but he was so bewildered at having been woken up, he hadn't seen it coming and took it in the cheek. Beren stepped back from the blow, but unfortunately for the attacker, it had fully awaken the warrior. The next swing of the cudgel didn't hit his mark, Beren catching it mid-swing, simultaneously chopping the man's exposed neck with his free hand.

His hold of the cudgel weakened, he grabbed at this throat and stepped back, wheezing at the lack of air. That made two of them, because Beren still felt winded from Jocasta's knee. The assassin knew the situation was quickly deteriorating, and he decided looking for an exit was a good idea. Jocasta kept him from finding a way to leave, having gotten the last chair, holding it over her head (and this time from behind him) and smashing it against the man's exposed skull. Luckily it didn't kill him.

His fall where his neck hit the bedframe at the end of the bed did, breaking his neck and sending his head flopping at a weird angle as his body his the ground.

"Eugh," Jocasta and Beren remarked simultaneously. Outside there were raised voices, and lamps turned on. It slightly illuminated the room, casting some light on Beren. His body was heroically muscled but slim enough at the waist to perform his acrobatics, with very little fat on his caramel form. There was a large scar across his left pectoral and his broad shoulder on the right, and on his right arm looked like an old, faded snake bite or some other such creature.

"You ok?" He asked Jocasta as Bonnie, the Innkeeper, and another person hustled toward their door with oil lamps.