A veritable wall of enemies desperately tried blocking the way to the central keep, as that bronze-clad golem clanked down the steps and towards the breach. Briefly, the quartermaster pondered how long it would take to fully cook a man, walking around in a bronze oven like that on such a hot, dry say.

Even so, he had to do something before everyone got too bunched up. Zarif was not one for getting all up close and personal in tight places. Well, except perhaps... He chuckled to himself, and knocked another arrow.

Salador rode in a tight circle, and at it's apex, Zarif loosed the shaft on the poor hunter the stand-in captain Ashür had envenomed moments before. With a satisfied smile, Zarif watched the arrow sprout deep in the poor soldier's left eye, and fall.

Lyun: "The mother of mothers, regardless of its name, origin and bond..."

Eyes fixed on Kashtilashu, the brute lobs his axe past Siris and into another misguided Kassite.

Etor rushes into the house. Desperate to find something that helps him fight or helps the others. He bursts through the door and surveils his surroundings.

Clashing with the spearman before him, Siris received a deep gash on the right side of his abdomen; on the same side he had received a cut on his upper leg earlier in the battle. While finishing off his current opponent was tempting, Siris had a better idea. Throwing his knife deep into the spearman's shoulder, he used the opportunity to run past him and Balathu to face off with what he thought to be the leader. Taking a couple seconds in the middle of the vicious battle to belittle his opponent.

Siris: "You! You dare call my ally Lyun a dog in front of me? He's a man who's strength as a warrior has been acknowledged even by me, I will not let someone so pathetic as to attempt to lead his men while attacking from behind a defenseless archer make fun of him. You're no warrior, thus using an actual sword is wasted on the likes of you" Siris said as he smugly moves his dagger side to side.

Although he meant what he said, Kashtilashu's massive axe seemed not only incredibly dangerous but also incredibly heavy. A slight difference in swing speed in a battle between warriors could mean the difference between a lethal blow and a miss.

Kashtilashu: "And I won't waste anymore breath on depraved sellswords."

With a smile, Siris strikes a pose holding his dagger pointed towards his enemy.

Siris: "Trust me weakling, against me, you soon won't have any breath to waste."

Angered and not willing to waste the opportunity in front of him, Kashtilashu charged and swung at the opponent in front of him. As he did so, Siris changed his grip slightly and threw the knife at Kashtilashu's right leg. Losing his balance, the swing came slower and clumsier; using his still healthy left leg Siris lept towards his opponent. Using his shield next, Siris deviated the already clumsy swing as far as possible from himself. Quickly unsheathing another throwing knife from his side, it was stabbed deep into Kashtilashu's side before he even had time to completely stop his swing.

The Kassite warrior seemed to lose his breath, however such a wound would not be enough to stop him. Swinging with all his might, the warrior attempted once again to strike Siris who's current shoddy footing would make it difficult to avoid his current blow. Kashtilashu's attack would only hit his enemy's shield, though the combined strength of his burly body and heavy axe being strong enough to knock Siris back several feet.

Siris: "Damn, my left arm's numb after that. He's as strong as he looks."

Putting his shield between himself and his opponent once again, Siris raises the dagger once more and points it at the wounded Kassite.

Siris: "Don't worry, I'll be sure to finish it with the next blow."

Lyun: "..."

There isn't much to say. Nothing that will sway those left standing into accepting their mistake with dignity, certainly not after all their companions falling.

Ninil: "I'll finish this one off!"

Instantly, an arrow flies through the air penetrating the Kassite rebel's throat. He falls to the ground, a puddle of blood quickly forming around him.

The exhausted, demoralized Kassite defenders fell upon the spears, swords, and arrows of the Hellion sellswords, one after another. Expressions of stark fearlessness in defense of their home quickly turned to frenzied panic, as the walls surrounding the Citadel became a deadly inescapable trap.

All battles come to this... Full of honor and glory, until they aren't.
The once-merchant's eyes looked on somberly as they died, so full of fear, little more than boys.

His men now dropping like so many flies, only the commander stood firm, his heavy Bronze Plate shimmering resplendently under the crimson setting sun, masking the torrent of his life's blood poring from the wound Siris had planted deep in his side. The sea of his men, fighting, struggling, dying had surrounded him, getting smaller and smaller, until it now was just him alone, locked in battle against the fearsome spearman Siris.

Sensing an opening, Salador acted before his sentimental master had noticed, and charged through the gap in the archway to the Citadel. Zarif blinked, and knocked an arrow, as the camel leaped over a pile of dead men and broken spears. They ran out behind the General, arrow at the ready, flanking the poor fool.




The commander blinked back in confusion, trying to divide his attention between both Siris and the nomad. It was a proverb from the land of the Pharaohs. 1 part tin, for ten and one parts bronze. It refered to a fair trade, good business.


The foreigner didn't give the dying man a chance to answer, and loosed his arrow. His attention still on fending off Siris' strikes, it took him in the pack of the neck. With a sudden great shutter, he staggered, and fell to one knee. His voice was pained, and sounded wet with blood and bile,



With a crash of heavy bronze on the wet cobbles below, he fell dead, his heavy Axe splitting a small stone as it thudded beside him. Zarif watched, mournful, the deep red sun nearly blinding, as it reflected off his backplate.

With the final breaths of their leader, the last Kassite remaining in defiance of the joint effort of Imperial Contracted mercenaries looses their bow toward the brute, that traitorous kinsman who cut down their numbers with little remorse. The arrow flies true. . . But not true enough.

The assault is over. A single Kassite stands, drawing breath still, defiantly refusing defeat. The brute moves with heavy footsteps, made heavier by his wounds, gesturing for Ninil and Makeen to clear the way. Once him and his kin are face to face, the bowman is lifted by his leather harness and tossed backward. Back, towards the middle of the band and - specifically - towards the young spearman.

Etor puts the legumes in his pocket and heads back to meet with the rest. He was preparing a wry remark to mask his embarrassment and shame that he experienced today. He'd make the remark and there would be some kind of acknowledgement of his statement, and then the young boy would strive to do better next time. They wouldn't laugh like Ravinia did but they understood that Etor was still a growing boy or something that let him off the hook.

Etor returns to a resilient hunter, eyes still burning despite his wounds. Some of the hellions didn't acknowledge the situation by facing away. Ashur stood resolute. He offered no explanation or tough love. He stood by knife in hand in case Etor was found wanting. Lyun meets etor's eyes and the two exchange words without speaking. The young spearman could not afford to be left behind. There would be no more waiting.

Etor's spear finally rattles up after a brief hiatus. Wordlessly, the young man impales the hunter. Then stabs him again for good measure. There can be no more doubt.

The final barbarians within the walls fell, the Kassites of Zagros who beset upon the city Der to escape their harsh homeland were defeated and broken. They lay about the collective sellsword hired by the Imperials of Akkad, their hopes tarnished and trampled over by the peerless allure of coin. Just so, Der itself had suffered greatly, with their Lugal dead, stuck and bled in the throne room, and their homes burnt and battered, it would be a long and harsh struggle for them to recover. Especially so now with the oppressive looming fear of yet more barbarians crawling out of the eastern mountains for another wanton go at imperialism. Perhaps another would-be warlord like Kashtilashu with aspirations of greatness for his people, misguided by those who'd ply at a greater stage.

Yet such musings were both above the heads and purses of Hellions of Gir, no, the little force under Iddin-ninshubur milled about the inner sanctum of the city cleaning their blades and tending fast their wounds with only a mind for today, and the sum of Aurums promised to them. Despite the danger they'd invested themselves in, they were the lucky few who did not find themselves dashed against Kashtilashu's frenzied army, for beyond the walls heaps of corpses and horses alike were strewn about, their allegiance either to coin or to some national cause were irrelevant now. Mercenaries and the Zagrosi found brotherhood in death.

As the Hellions gathered themselves a handful of hooves cried by way of the eastern gate. For a moment it unnerved the mercs again until their eyes affixed upon the warn banner bearing the dual-headed hound wreathed in flame.

RAVINA: ". . . snake, how could we have let them get away? Another enemy to come sneak into our camp at night and slight our boys' throats." She sighs, shrugging as she and Sim-Ma-Sihu flank Captain Doan-Nasir as they each and all trot into the sanctum courtyard.

SIM-MA-SIHU: "Ravina. . ." Is all the lieutenant is able to muster before Doan sets his worries aside.

DOAN-NASIR: "Ravina, hush, a man must do what he can to make a living. It is merely the way of it." Doan's dour voice ablates his companion's woes for now as he and the others halt their hooves before their comrades, the dusty earth pluming forth. With one sweep of his sunken eyes the veteran takes in the situation - The Kassite chieftan's broken body, slick blood dribbling down the shaft of Etor's spear, and Lyun standing with the boys, covered in fresh scars, to that he grants a hearty nod

LYUN: "Home is those who care we are gone. I thank you for giving me my second one, captain."

Looking over the group, soon the rest of the Hellions that aided in distraction arrive from throughout the city and the entire band is collected, no better a time the captain lets his voice be heard. "10,000 Aurums!" The man raises his peculiar lance to the sound of the survivors' dull roar. Doan counts heads deflating his victorious cry for a moment, twenty, just twenty of them now. . . "450 Will go to each of us, that'll be the sum of our payment. The rest we'll spend on great food and drink to honour the fallen!"

The Hellions, twenty-told, dared not to spend the night within the walled city of Der for they were not welcome there. Not among the cowering populace who merely viewed them as hungry wolves and opportunistic dealers of death rather than heroes. And not among the corpses of the barbarians or their fellow sellswords, at least not yet -- Fate deigned they still had blood to spill yet in these harsh lands. So camp it was, just far enough to escape the ire of the common folk picking up the pieces of their lives yet close enough to watch black smoke billow into the cloudless night sky. The band broke into their good stores of wine and cured meats and celebrated well as Kashtilashu's severed head looked on in disgust alongside the covered body of the fallen Yasub-Yahad, once ensi of Der. Both were collected as proof of their concord kept.

DOAN-NASIR: "Hellions!" Called the captain over the central flame of their camp. "A toast to fallen, and to our triumph!" He embellished to word, choosing it over the more realistic 'survival', and as he did, poured out a liberal swig of wine into the Kassite Chieftan's half-agape mouth. It elected the response he desired and a goodly cheer came from the men. "Tomorrow, the least weary of our group will ride to Ur and collect our fare. Iddin, you and yours will rest and recuperate in Awan. I believe it best we remain on this border, there'll be more conflicts between the Kassites and our esteemed šar-kiššati, that, I am sure of."

"Only the fleet of us will go to Ur and prostrate, it should be no more than two weeks before we return, so rest easy."

NINIL: "Can't be far now with all the farms huh? Come on ya lead-foots I want a bed and a bath!" The plucky archer throws a finger toward the horizon, leading the pack toward Awan. Yet her pointer waivers after a moment or two, "Hey, uhm, do you guys see that?" Her gaze is beyond the little crops of brush they'd rounded -- a cloud of dust, the sun glinting off metal, and the clamber of bodies.

ASHÜR: "Yes, someone is pillaging the farmsteads, so it seems." The ex-bandit hisses his words as if personally inconvenienced. "Let us not tarry and circumvent this trouble."

NINIL: "How could you say that Ashür? If we deal with it before Awan even gets wind then we've got leverage to negotiate a reward don't'cha think?"

The young lancer march along taking in the sights of the trek, thinking about what he'd eat for the night, and what lessons Asher had for him so that he can tame the mysticism within him. The newfound gift was turbulent but once he had a handle on it he knew it would no longer be a source of shame for him. He didn't think about the life he took and the lack of thought about it is what remained in Etor's mind. He took it as a sign of his resolve hardening and left it at that.

Without inserting himself into the conversation, Etor did agree with Nil and started shuffling his way towards the scuffle up ahead. He was nonchalant in his approach but now that trouble was quite literally on the horizon the sounds of battle echoed in his brain. Soon they would manifest onto this land once more

He stows away his freshly purchased vulnerary and begins to move in coordination with his peers but waits for the others before he begins his advance.

LYUN: "..."