ASHÜR: "Do not look to me when this goes for ill. . ." Speaks the mercenary as he assents to sub-captain Iddin-ninshubar's word. He pushes his bereavements down and sets hawkish eyes upon the band of ravagers just beyond the log bridge overlapping the sluggish river.

ASHÜR: "Come along boy, learn something."

With only the distant sounds of conflict to inform their approach, Lyun wordlessly follows Ashür's example. The Hellions have no idea still of what is waiting for them upriver, and while aiding the common folk is often a boon - for both their pockets and souls - such a skirmish is a golden opportunity for the young ones to learn.

Lyun: "..."

Etor line of vision was already fixed on the upcoming enemy. With only a nod to A shut, The youngling doffs his breastplate. He stows it with a longing look and a quick buff of a scuff, it is put away and Etor begins his assault. Every soul on the field fights knowing they could be breathing their last breath. With new deftness in his stride, Etor finally prepared to risk it all in the heat of battle. The young spearman twirls his weapon around as he makes his way to the first test of his resolve.

Ashur's words stuck with Etor. He has undoubtedly learned a lot but he knew that the grizzled veteran meant the mysticism that was newly awakened in the young boy's soul. His lack of knowledge in the manner and control of his supernatural forces caused much trepidation in the boy and in this battle he chose to forego the chance of losing control again.

Wordlessly he followed up behind Makeen to deliver the killing blow to the outnumbered sword brigand. The young spearman played his part and would continue to do so, all the while never looking away at what were the results of the group's efforts.

The first village is close at hand, and Lyun presses the attack.

Lyun: "..."

Zarif blinked, and tilted his head for a moment, seeming a bit lost. Then he blinked again, looking from side to size from his perch upon Salador's back. Hadn't he just loosed an arrow? He saw an arrow burred in the side of that dead brigand to his left, felt the strain of a recently drawn bowstring in his fingertips, but he couldn't remember....

He shook his head. He must have blanked out again. What a horrible habit for a mercenary to have. Even worse for a merchant. Keep this up, and he'd get stabbed when not paying attention. Or, worse... have someone make off with an extra copper! He shuttered at the thought.

Just as he snapped back to his senses, he was just barely able to dive to the side to avoid a mortal blow from an oversized scimitar being brandished by a bearded sellsword. The blade tore into Zarif's calf, and he cried out in a tongue none within a thousand leagues knew a word of. It was all he could do to grip Salador's reigns to not fall off. Not a moment went by before the splintery shaft of a rough-hewn arrow grazed his shoulder, hot blood dripping down his arm, dribbling onto the camel's hide

Galloping away as quick as he could to get a bit of breathing room, Zarif quickly spied a golden opportunity. His pained exppression melted into his trademark sly grin, the same he made whenever he'd had some foolish customer completely under his thrall, moments before a very favorable sale. With a firm kick, he galloped Salador up past Siris, whom had just celebrated evening the score between the two. One swift shot later, and the swordsman's mark, the very same who'd nearly sliced off his own leg, lay dead at his feet.

Zarif: You... haven't the caught up with Zarif just yet, friend Siris!

Both grinning and wincing in pain, the merchant trotted his Dromedary back a few paces. He was losing blood quickly, and that hunter could be anywhere... he needed that priest to tend these wounds quickly, else the company would need find another quartermaster.

Rather than strike at the fresh bandits across the field, Ashür hefts up one of Lyun's throwing axes from the belt abaft his large frame to help him quickly swap to a more reliable weapon given the situation.


From behind his thick armor, Balathu wordless lunges out from the treeline, narrowly missing the outnumbered bandit bowman, stripping leather and cloth away from him as well as the symbol of his gang, but no blood follows.

There is a definite advantage in not having to rush towards the enemy to claim victory for oneself and though the Hellions press the charge, these brigands manage to hold ground for now.



Lyun: "Ashür...!"

The brute pierces the brigand's defenses, hoping that proves enough of an opening for his comrade's magicks to finish the job. Among the clanging of blades and the shifting of bodies, however, Ashür needs a few more seconds to ensure his flame strikes true without harming Lyun on its path forward.

Seeing Siris miss his opponent, Balathu charges in to assist him. However the slippery thief manages to avoid his attack as well as counter Balathu twice, however both of his attacks are blocked!

Zarif winced as the bizarre magic of this foreign god bound his flesh back together with thousands of tiny shards of glass. There really wasn't much pain, despite how it looked, but it never failed to make the merchant deeply uncomfortable. The gods of his homeland were spirits of the sand and sea, ephemeral, yet powerful. This was... something was different, darker, more tangible. Still, he owed the priest thanks, he'd been right at deaths door, and now he was back in tip-top shape.

Zarif: Er.... my giving of thanks. I uh... AH! PRIEST!

Just as he spoke, a wooden shaft sprouted right square in Iddin's chest! It went ALL THE WAY THROUGH him! Zarif felt nautious as he waited half a heartbeat for his robed ally to keel over, dead as the brigand he'd felled mere moments before. Yet somehow, impossibly, as if through some divine miracle, the man began chanting even more zealously than before

Both unnerved and a bit in awe, Zarif drew his crossbow and easily planted the bronze headed bolt directly between the offending archer's eyes, producing the effect he'd expected in Iddin. Hesitantly, he trotted off behind a small circle of trees, covering his advance

The battle's pace has quickened and Etor's eyes follow the arrow as it pierced Lyun's shoulder. With terror overtaking the boys senses, he runs out across the river. The young spearman wades through the river, tripping over himself as he traverses the rough terrain. Hands wet, his spear slick, Etor reaches the end of the river, but knows his spear is unreliable. For a moment everything slows down as he takes inventory of the situation and the danger ahead.

Etor had been trying to process his innate arcane abilities through his conscious but apprehensive mind. He was scared of the power he could potentially wield so his head and his heart were always at odds. In this moment Etor had no time to think or manually try to guide his gifts. The moment he wanted to protect his band of brothers was the catalyst for his magic to flow freely.

Bloom.

A black coffin encapsulates the axe brigand who has only a moment to begin to scream in terror as they are crushed muffled by the weight of their demise brought to life. Etor stands at the end of the river hand outstretched and panting heavily.