Breck’s eyes moved to Leon, his face now expressionless. There was a chuckle or two among the group. “You will be guided toward your side of the camp,” Breck motioned to one of his men who nodded in head, begrudgingly though, “Come morning is when you all will receive your first orders. Take this evening to get used to the camp and rest well tonight. The quartermaster is preparing supper as we speak so it should be soon enough you can fill your bellies after the long day you’ve all had.”

Iliskra heard a shuffling off to the right and looked to see the source of it - two men lugging a heavy wooden chest between them as they approached Breck and the rest. Even where she stood in the midst of the other hirelings Iliskra could hear the men’s labored grunts which ended with a pair of loud exhales as they set the chest down in front of Breck with a harsh slam. Breck nodded as the two men half-stumbled away, stretching out and shaking their arms almost in protest at having to lug the large chest as they disappeared back into the camp. Breck reached forward and pulled the lid open from the back revealing the chest was filled with tied up burlap sacks.

“Your payment up front.” Breck nodded beckoning the group forward.

The group impulsively surged forward, shoulders and arms pressing together as the hirelings closed in like vultures around the chest. Breck sharply raised one hand in a “halt” gesture making them all come to a stop. Breck reached in and grabbed the first bag in sight with a grunt and heaved it to the tall, heavily armored warrior who eagerly caught it with both hands. As Breck reached for the next bag the oaf had already opened his own and a twisting grin stretched out under his helm as he reached in and pulled out a handful of gold coins revealingly. As the second mercenary claimed their coin the brute let the gold in his meaty paw tumble from his fingers back into the bag - enjoying the clinking of his newly claimed wealth. As the third person acquired their pay Iliskra and the others noticed that the Helmite and one other knightly sort had abstained themselves - standing together, arms crossed, with rather pompous expressions painted across their faces. Iliskra sneered to herself as she moved closer to the chest, let those two have their empty moral superiority. Better to be rich and hollow than noble-hearted but poor. One of the others who had also noticed asked about their shares as well as the gold meant for the fallen from earlier to which Breck sharply replied it would be kept and used for merit pay. While some were visibly aggravated at the concept of not getting a slice of the unclaimed shares they kept their mouths shut.

Leon took his gold and tied it to his belt without even bothering to count it. Gold was useful, it could open doors, loosen tongues, and encourage daggers to strike where there weren't any before. It was a tool, like his sword, and he treated it as such. Making his way around the crowd, he wondered how many of them would try to slip away during the night now that they had received their up front payment. It's a shame the reward for deserters was too low to be of interest to him, some quick spell work along the most likely escape routes would net him a tiny profit he imagined.

He stopped by the two mercenaries who seemed to think themselves too good for their coin. "A word of advice from a man of faith, even if it isn't a faith of your own," he said, "always take the gold. It does no good sitting in that box. And if you spread it among the needier citizens it could buy them bread and water for another month. Or perhaps you could use it to ensure some of the loyalty of the more... shiny-things motivated among us. Or you could indulge yourself for one night. No judgement here."

Actually, he judged them quite a lot by their refusal to take the gold. There were only ever two reasons to turn down gold. Either you were so powerful that your skill with a blade or talent with magic exceeded any possible threat that could come up against you... or you were an idiot. The shadows did not long suffer idiots to live. Pride without the power to back it up was just suicidal.

Leon followed along to the series of tents set aside for the use of the mercenaries. Although normally an assigned sleeping place would never have worked for him for fear of waking up with a dagger running across his throat, the tents were small enough that his warding magic should be able to alert him of unwelcome guests. Still, if the opportunity presented itself he would have to see about quietly switching with another person. He secured his gear in the trunk in his tent, taking only his armor, weapons, mask, and a much smaller, more easily concealable bag of gold for any incidental exchanges he might need to make before sleeping tonight.

In the few hours he had before curfew, he wandered around the camp, noting the routes of access, how many ways in and our of the camp there were for a single person or as many as a dozen people, and where battle supplies like arrows and pitch were stored. The guards were well disciplined, but some innocent sounding questions and a few palms greased with coin for the purposes of buying themselves a drink later on and he developed a rough idea of the guard practices around camp. Breck ran a smooth operation, one that only talented thieves would have a chance of taking advantage of. Leon also tried to find a polite way of getting more information about their upcoming tasks, but it seemed only Breck himself knew the answer to that question, and he wasn't taking visitors. At least not the likes of Leon, anyways.

A bit disappointed that there wasn't any real trouble, Leon returned to the tent and went through his nightly routing, stripping his armor and cleaning it, caring for his longsword and shield, and speaking the secrets he had gleaned to his diety in his nightly prayers before tracing another warding circle along the inside of the tent and going to sleep.

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NIGHTAL 3, 1372 DR
MAIN ENCAMPMENT
WEST OF SCARDALE TOWN

The morning sun peeked over the towering oaks that enshrouded the encampment. Bright, orange rays bathed the grove and was a welcome feeling against the skin of the occupants of the camp. The snowfall from the day before and lasted through the night, finally stopping just before sunrise. Off-duty men grumbled under their breath as they shoveled fresh white layers from the walkways between tents and away from the supplies and armaments. Iliskra had awoke early, dressing herself and then leaving her tent to go find a morning meal. While she had slept in worse places before than a crowded winter encampment Iliskra admitted to herself that the cold was quite “biting”. This winter was going to be a rough one indeed.

The quartermaster served a modest oyster stew and a mug of warm ale to go with it. Iliskra and several others ate their meals alone in their tents away from any curious eyes. Some of the younger mercenaries had helped themselves to sitting with the more welcoming of Breck’s troupe making ideal conversation while others of Breck’s company glowered over their bowls at the newcomers. Iliskra had just downed the last drop of her ale when one of Breck’s men appeared in front of her tent, his aged face grim as he told her that Breck wanted to see all the hirelings in the center of camp for their first assignments. Iliskra did as requested, following in last behind the handful of others that had secluded themselves to the mercenary quarter of the camp. As she walked Iliskra looked the encampment over more critically, something easier done in the daytime. While she could not count the number of tents present Iliskra estimated there to be between thirty and forty men and women here, excluding herself and all the other new arrivals. She noticed the small number of horses - ten exactly - tied shoulder-to-shoulder under a small shed along the eastern palisade. Iliskra assumed the horses were reserved for scouts and for when dire situations arose. There were a few servants present, Iliskra had counted what looked to be four so far - mostly helping the quartermaster with cooking and keeping the supply shed orderly.

Who is keeping up that illusion? Iliskra wondered as she and the others neared the center of camp, Breck does not seem like a wizard of the capability to perform such a feat and all I have seen so far has been his men-at-arms… And that was it. All Iliskra had seen so far was Breck and his swordarms. Somewhere in this camp there was a wizard maintaining the illusion seen yesterday to keep away intruders. And if this wizard was worth their salt at all Iliskra imagined the surrounding woods - the actual forest - had magical traps to deal with any potential interlopers as well. And if there were no magical traps Iliskra was certain then these light-footed ranger-scouts of Breck’s had laid traps of a more material design throughout the woodland around them.

As she reached the center of the camp with the others Iliskra’s question was answered straightaway. Sitting in the exact center of the circle of now extinguished torches was a long table that resembled a common dining table. At closer glance Iliskra was quite sure that was what it was. Laying in the center of the table was a square, white piece of parchment - a map. All of the hirelings were on one side of the table, their backs facing the south as they stood crowded - elbows and shoulders uncomfortably jammed together as they looked down at the map. On the opposite side stood Breck, propping on the table with both palms pressed into the wood. Two of his hooded scouts lingered at his back. And then to Breck’s left was a new face.

There stood a man of average height and frame. His face was weathered with age and adorned with a bushy brown beard. His hair was unkempt and shaggy. His eyes despite a somewhat weary look sparkled with whimsy and intellect. He wore a red cape that hung short past his shoulders, a heavy forest green robe covered all but his hands. In his right hand he gripped a polished wooden staff topped with a finely cut clear gemstone that resembled a spear tip. So this is our wizard. Iliskra thought as she squeezed into the crowd of people gathered around the table.

“Allow me to introduce you all to Leifar Wingur. A wizard from the Chandlerscross tower,” Breck said rather suddenly, “he is here as our arcane expert as well as putting his illusion mastery to work helping our efforts.”

Leon slept a relatively undisturbed sleep, waking only a few times during the night to unfamiliar sounds from unfamiliar people. Fortunately, his training had given him an excellent grasp of determining what was and was not a present threat based on the sounds that were made, or the absence of others and so he was able to roll in his bunk and return to his dreams, his magical warding circle undisturbed. In the morning, he rose and quickly wrapped the blanket around himself as he carefully smudged the runes of the circle to disarm it. He muttered a curse about the morning cold, the tent having managed to keep the worst of it at bay, but he had never really developed a love of low temperatures. He had always claimed he would rather boil to death than freeze.

Despite the foul mood, he performed his morning routine with the precision of a ritual that had been performed thousands of times now. He cleaned his armor and weapons, stretched and performed what few exercises he could in the small space before cleaning himself with a washrag and cold water, which only worsened the bite of the winter air sneaking it's way in through the tent's openings. He dressed quickly, putting on a compact, but fashionable set of middle upper class clothing before putting his armor and weapons on over it. Lastly, the golden lion mask was retrieved from it's spot within the circle and hung once more at his waist.

Even as he dressed his body, he dressed and reworked the personality he presented to everyone around him. His current persona had been working just fine, a religious swordsman with a keen eye and a bit of wit that was eager for coin yet wise enough to understand his own skin came first. Now that they were closer to the job he would have to let more of his strategic mind into his personality, while not dropping his guard on the fact that everyone around him could easily be bribed into adding their daggers to his neck in a heartbeat. Idly, he wondered what Mask had planned to gain by placing one of his agents here, but his faith reminded him that his god had plans that stretched beyond one agent's life.

Leon's breakfast was interrupted by Breck's men summoning the hirelings, and he quickly drained the warm water he had requested instead of ale and stuffed a piece of burnt toast into his mouth as he turned to walk towards the gathering. He listened as the wizard was introduced, though the name was unfamiliar to him. Hardly a surprise, since he had not been to the Chandlerscross tower and had few reasons to seek out a wizard for his own use. Still, the man must be of respectable power to hide a camp this size, even if it meant he had to be here in person to do it.

Tempting as it was to needle Breck into getting on with the briefing, Leon chose to keep silent for now, instead focusing on the wizard to see if perhaps his presence here was about more than just an introduction. Had the wizard scryed something of importance? Or perhaps he was hear to give an expert opinion on some of the tasks Breck required handling. Maskarran reports certainly suggested arcanists in the former capital, but that was little surprise. Magic was growing it seemed, the arcane weave was behind every single nook and cranny these days... as were poorly instructed wizards that were trying to twist it to their use.

Hopefully this particular wizard was an exception. It would be a literal bloody shame if their camouflage were to fail simply because the man was at a briefing instead of tending to his wards. The only way to find out it seemed... was to wait.

“I trust you all slept well enough,” Breck said, “because now the work for which you have all been paid begins.”

Breck smoothed the corners of the map, the group huddling in closer by impulse. Iliskra then noticed the handful of objects that lay on the table just to Breck’s right. A finely pointed piece of black chalk, a motley wiping rag, and four game board pieces of different shapes - a shield, a pair of crossed swords, a wizard with a large pointed hat, and a crouched, hooded figure.

“Lord Hastlon wishes to see Scardale’s capital reclaimed and a proper, ideal government re-established. This you already know, of course.” Breck said. “Unfortunately a direct attack on the city is out of the question, at least for now. Even ravaged as it is the capital is still a defensible stronghold, a direct offensive would just lead to a long, bloody siege that would take many weeks - if not months. And those that have taken the city for themselves are deeply rooted and in great number. Losses would be high and there are still innocent, good folk in the city that would surely perish in such a vicious battle.”

A steady wind picked up and Breck firmly pressed in hands down on the sides of the map to hold it in place.

“Lord Hastlon wishes that we dismantle the malevolent forces that have seized the city from the inside. We stop their operations - whatever they are - cut down their numbers as swiftly and often as possible, and put down their leadership when the chances arise. I cannot say how long this… mission will take us. But I expect at the very least past the new year. As I said, the forces we stand against are deeply rooted and have plenty of strength to muster.”

“What ‘forces’ are these?” asked the wizard among the hirelings which prompted grunts and stray affirmations among the group.

Breck continued, “There are four major factions, if you will, that have taken over the major areas of the city. Three of them are our enemy while one as luck would have it are our ally. The first of note is the Ashaba Talons, Scardale’s oldest and once influential thieves guild.”

Breck picked up the game piece that resembled the hooded man and placed it in the center of the southwestern portion of the city. “The Ashaba Talons are the weakest of the four. They have far fallen from their past glory and even now according to my agents their numbers are dwindling away. Word is they are near to losing what territory they have left between squabbles with petty street gangs and pressure from their rival ‘neighbors’.”

Breck then picked up the shield piece and set it in a large section of city just across the map river on the north side of the Talon’s territory. “Then there are the city watch. Despite all the chaos and withdrawing of the government… the city watch stand as a loosely organized force even now. Desperately trying to maintain what little order is left. Those fleeing the nearby districts all seek sanctuary in the city watches’ cradle. But if possible they flee west to Scarsdeep or Chandlerscross.”

“Is there anyone in command of the city watch? A authority figure that keeps everything together at all?” the Helmite asked.

“Yes,” Breck nodded, “Commander Raibal. When the capital fell into total chaos and the government retreated from the city Commander Raibal disobeyed orders and remained behind, rallying together all the guardsmen brave enough or mad enough to stay in the city. He has also mustered a militia force from the locals and when necessary dips into what coin he has to spare to hire mercenaries. My agents met with Raibal and from what they reported back to me his lines are near collapse. Every week thugs, renegades, madmen, and the Red Wizards attack their position.”

“The Red Wizards?” someone piped up, a touch of fear in their voice.

“Our third power in the city.” Breck said in response, moving the wizard game piece and placing it directly on top of the city maps’ keep on the northeast rise of Scardale Town. “They arrived not long after the city descended into insanity after the plague and they took over Harborwatch Keep, driving the watch out by force. No one knows who leads these Red Wizards or how many wizards per se are among them, just that they stay in the keep for the most part and have a company of Thayan knights dug in at the keep as well as the old Zhentarim garrison nearby. Commander Raibal says the Thayans have been the most constant threat and in the past few weeks the watch have lost much ground to them.”

“I know the Thayans well,” Leifar spoke up for the first time in a gruff voice, “they will rely on magic before risking their own numbers in this. They will send demons, undead, and other lackeys to try and overwhelm the city watch and the others that stand in their way.”

Breck nodded as his hand moved to the fourth piece, the crossed blades - his fingers tracing the tips of the wooden swords as his hand lingered. No, hesitated.

Leon couldn't help but let out a snort as Breck mentioned his timeline. It was a well known idiom that plans never survived the opening shots of a battle. If Breck expected this to last past the new year, everyone should get comfortable, because it meant they could be here for multiple years cleaning out the same scum over and over again. Were the city not such a symbol for the government in exile, it would have been put to the torch by now.

Ashaba's Talons, Leon thought, intrigued that the original thieves' guild survived the plagues onset and still seemed to be operating in the city. Of course, the black market would be hugely profitable... but anywhere Thayans were, was a place no one else wanted to be. Still, he liked thieves' guilds, not only would they have many tools of their trade available, they were usually the easiest to motivate and the most predictable when it came to betraying you.

The Red Wizards on the other hand... better not to meet them at all. Despite being relatively few in number, even one Red Wizard could field a company sized unit of undead and/or demons. It was their specialty to use these kinds of forces to wear down their opponents, though they were no slouch in combat either. Not as fireball-y as an evocationist, but still powerful enough to choke the life from you at 30 or so feet. They would undoubtedly have to die to a man.

And then the brave... loyal... stupid watchmen. Even if they weren't corrupt by now, how much longer did they really expect to last without outside help. Hells, half of them were probably plague ridden themselves. Still, they sounded like the most directly experienced with combat, and if that was the case, shining even a sliver of hope among their number could turn them into an effective fighting force.

He watched Breck's hand trace the lines of the swords on the crossed sword piece. Each of the pieces so far had been represented by a faction similar in function the piece chosen. Cross blades could mean another band of mercenaries, bandits, or other trouble, but it could also be used to represent something darker. An assassin's guild, perhaps? Equally useful as the thieve's guild, but with a much higher penchant for murder among their own.

“And… the fourth?” asked one of the mercenaries.

Breck clasped his fingers around the crossed swords and lifted the piece from the table, placing it then on the southern side of the city east of the Talons’ territory. “The fourth group…” Breck’s tone of voice had become uneasy, “we know them only as ‘Shagarm’s guild’.”

“‘Shagarm’s guild’?” blurted one of the sellswords followed by scattered mumbling of curiosity and doubt alike.

“Yes,” Breck said, his voice steadying, “we know very little of them. As do the city watch and the locals my agents questioned. This lot arrived in Scardale Town this past summer, lead by a figure known only as Shagarm. Folks say that they were a band of ruffians come to the capital, yet others say they were adventurous blades-for-hire that broke away from their patron and decided to cut away a slice of the capital for themselves. The southeastern side of the city had at that time yet to be claimed and was mostly occupied by gangs. This Shagarm and their cohort cut a bloody swathe through the streets, killing those who stood against them while welcoming those willing to submit and join their ranks. Deserters, local thugs, and villainous free companies all flocked to this Shagarm who quickly began pushing into the Talons’ territory while also keeping the Red Wizards from getting a foothold on the southern side of the river.”

Breck stood up straight, rolling his shoulders and giving his neck a good twisting crack before continuing, “My last agents sent said they spotted some of Shagarm’s men moving along the southern road and down the coast. And I am concerned of… ‘outside contact’. Interloping from Sembia to the south or across the sea.”

“Across the sea?” asked the Helmite.

Breck nodded, “Shagarm controls most of the cities’ docks and has been pressing to take complete control of the bay. A real thorn in the Red Wizards’ side.”

“No one knows anything of this Shagarm? Nothing at all?”

Breck shook his head, “All that is known is that this Shagarm is a strong warrior and apparently commands near fanatical loyalty among his… or her… followers. ‘Shagarm’ could even be a pseudonym, a fake name…”

Leon's hand brushed over his mask, a habit when he was legitimately deep in thought instead of pretending to be, as though his god might somehow provide him some insight into this group of strangers that had appeared so recently and forcefully onto the scene in the ruined city. One the one hand, any enemy of the Red Wizards was a boon to the civilized world... yet fanatical groups tended to be so damnably single minded. Easier to manipulate, until they came to a decision, then they would be undeterred no matter what you said or did.

It was a safe assumption that Breck's men must have tried to make some kind of inroad with them if they possessed this much information. Yet he doubted this was a faction that Lord Hastlon desired within the capital. "I don't suppose Lord Hastlon has placed any... special bounties for if certain problems were to be resolved?," he asked, the most polite way of asking if there was a price to be gained from serving a head up on a platter, "as long as verifiable proof of the target is obtained as well, of course."

The last part was added as he saw more than one face light up at the idea of headhunting. The less moral and less intelligent among them might just try to turn in five or ten different heads, claiming each one was this Shagarm person. As amusing as it would be to see happen, Leon was not yet ready to start sacrificing more of his fellow hirelings until he was certain of the forces they faced inside the capital.

"I assume we will still be given our own little assignments," he said, looking pointedly at the map covering the table, "but from what you describe, I also assume Lord Hastlon would see us back this city guard faction in any way that we might be possible. With it being the last gasp of legitimate government in the city, it would play well to supporters. The story of a hundred or so brave men and women, fighting against all odds to save their city from vile red wizards and shadow damned cutthroats... the bards would have a pleasant time shaping that sort of tale."

"Still, I doubt your plan is to hurl well-paid bodies at the problem until it stops being a problem...," he said, looking back up at Breck, "so at the risk of sounding rude... what's the job?"

Breck glared at Leon, his brow furrowing like a caterpillar bundling itself inward. “Supporting Commander Raibal is a major need,” Breck said, “Commander Raibal is a fine man and a seasoned officer and fighter. And his role in reclaiming Scardale Town will be invaluable. As you have guessed we will begin with the bulk of this company marching east and joining with Commander Raibal’s forces. Most of my men as well as a fair number of you lot will aid the commander in holding his ground and defending the good people of the city.”

“A fair number?” questioned one of the halfling pair.

“Those of you not joining in the efforts on the north side of the city will be sent across the river.” Breck nodded.

“To infiltrate the Talons and this other ‘guild’.” the other halfling stated the obvious.

Breck nodded, “Infiltration is ideal. But if you find other ways to disrupt or even cripple their efforts all the better. My best scouts will be helping those on the south part of the city, keeping eyes on the streets, asking around, and looking for weaknesses in these two other groups. The thieves guild will be simple… this other group though… A shame we do not have another wizard adept among us, eh, Leifar?”

The bearded wizard nearby shook his head in a visible reaction of irritation, “I already told you, Breck. That will not be so. At least not from the Chandlerscross tower. After all, I am… not even supposed to be here.”

“Yes, of course,” Breck snorted with a smile, “your fellows believe you to be in Shadowdale for the time.”

“So,” the Helmite woman spoke up, “most of us, here at the first of all this, will be working to help stop the Red Wizards from claiming the whole north side of the city while the rest work to weaken or even wipe out the miscreants across the river. That brings to question if we will receive any other aid…?”

“I am already preparing a letter to send to Lord Hastlon to inform him of your arrival,” Breck replied, “and I will be requesting additional manpower from his personal company. I will also be extending… ‘feelers’ of my own to see if some old friends of mine could be of help even if indirectly.”

“Just who will be going where? I mean… who will be standing with the watch and who will be crossing over into the southern part of the city?” asked one of the sword-arms.

“That shall be decided right now.”

Leon listened to Breck outline the general plan, ignoring his glares. He was sure he was violating some kind of protocol, speaking out of turn like that, but Lord Hastlon had not required an ability to be polite or follow military etiquette as part of his request for aid. Besides, needling someone was usually the best way to see their true nature, and Breck seemed to be exactly what he seemed. A thug in shiny armor, but one smart enough to understand how to coordinate other thugs and get results. A man worth keeping in one's service.

He wondered if volunteering for a particular assignment would get him anywhere, but Breck seemed like the type to have already scribbled up a plan and would die before anyone else changed it. Again, not a bad trait to have in a sergeant or lieutenant of one's private military. It was a shame that Leon had already decided that staying near him or the city guard was the least likely route to getting anything worthwhile done in the city.

Leon muttered a prayer of thanks to Mask when Breck mentioned that their assignments would be decided now. Solo work or in a team, he didn't care as long as it took him away from this camp. Safety was the enemy of foresight. It dulled the senses and made you second guess what your instincts screamed at you. One by one the hirelings moved forward, receiving a sealed letter with from one of a few stacks as they approached Breck. Leon took his with a half-smile, which likely irritated Breck, but chose to say nothing as he walked away and opened the letter.

The instructions inside were to meet the remainder of the 'team' at the bank of a river directly south of the encampment in one hour. Once the hour elapsed, they were to pay a ferryman to take them across to the south side of the bank and enter the city from there to make contact with the Talons, the established thieves guild. From there, the orders became very vague, citing that they should 'establish if such an organization can be of use in liberating Scardale and act appropriately to bring them into the fold or disrupt their operations for the eventual campaign for the south side of the city'. Leon chuckled as he read it. He liked simple plans. It meant there was room for him to work his own magic into the mix. He returned to the tent, packing up his belongings and slinging the backpack over his shoulder as he headed south to the river bank.

He arrived fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. At first, he was tempted to hide in the shadows of the trees and watch the gathering point, but he knew it would be likely that other shadowy individuals had been selected for this 'team'. Someone would have to go out into the open in order to stick their neck out first and gather the others. It may as well be him.

Leon donned his mask, moving to a spot on the riverbank where the reeds had been frequently crushed. A clear sign that a boat or raft of some kind stopped here often. He looked out over the river, it's deceptively calm surface hiding a rush of water below that would shove any careless man into a series of rapids further downstream that would leave him a broken and bloody mess. He set his pack down, rolling his shoulders and adjusting his longsword and shield to an easier draw position in case of trouble.

When the rest of the team arrived, he would introduce himself by his first name and offer that he had some command of magic and was a fair hand with a longsword and shield, underplaying the talents he had displayed in the ambush.

“Well now…” came a voice from nearby, “I see you and I shall be working together.”

There was a rustling of branches and leaves rising up and out from a nearby bush came Iliskra. The half-elf smirking as she reached up and peeled her hood back from her head, letting her obsidian hair fall free around her neck. Iliskra had arrived just prior to the masked man and had hidden herself away in the bramble for both whimsy and safety. Even with the brigands from before dead one could not be too careful. Of course, Scardale soldiers patrolled this main road and they were far enough from the maddened capital for any constant threat to be behind every tree and shrub. Still though… Iliskra used her knee to shove a particularly stubborn branch aside and approached Leon, her smirk still gracing her comely visage.

“Surprised I am not, what does surprise me is that you would openly place yourself as you are now. But… I suppose there is no real need for such skulking for the time. Seeing as we killed all those bandits together.”

Iliskra lightly shook her head, “Ah, pardon me. I ramble. You and I have not even been formerly introduced. Would you care to tell me about yourself while we wait for our dwarven companion? I am Iliskra; thief, spy, and something of an illusionist if I dare say so.”

Leon tilted his head to the side as Iliskra approached. "Normally, you would be quite right. Only a fool stands out in the open in unclaimed ground... but someone had to do it or else the three of us may very well have skulked the entire way to the town. Not exactly efficient use of a team so it seemed a worthwhile trade to endanger myself for fifteen minutes if it meant we could all have a chat," he admitted, then introduced himself, "Leon. Amateur swordsman and humble man of the faith." He deliberately did not mention which particular faith, that was part of the game Maskarrans played with others. If you knew of Mask, it was easy enough to guess his priest's or priestess's allegiance. If you didn't... well that was just more fun for the Maskarran.

"I would have wagered a good deal of coin that the dwarf would have revealed themselves long before you though. Our last conversation was far from... endearing," he said, chuckling and turning his head to the side to show the part of his neck she had flicked, "do you suppose they are here and watching us or elsewhere and simply not fond of arriving before they absolutely have to?"

Leon took a moment to scan the shadows, his inner clock telling him that the ferry man was supposed to arrive any minute based on Breck's timetable.

"I do not know if you have ever worked with a priest before, but I will keep my talents brief. I can heal wounds of course, but I'm a much bigger fan of ensuring we are not targeted in the first place or that everything is a bit too dead to hurt us in turn," he said, "I'm also a talented liar, story spinner, and entertainer of sorts. Unlike most priests, I don't give a damn who you are or how you do what you do, as long as it doesn't kill me. I'll try to keep from getting you killed in turn."

"Any thoughts on our soon to be partners in crime?," he asked, referring to the Talons.

“Hmmmm…” Iliskra mumbled aloud even as her mind swirled, ’The faith’. Shar, Cyric, or Mask I wonder. Iliskra’s eyes wandered over the man himself and then the actual mask he donned. The way he spoke of himself and his ways, Iliskra was quite convinced he was either a follower of Shar or the god of thieves himself, Mask. Cyric - when Iliskra actually considered him - was unlikely. Iliskra had only ever met three Cyric worshippers - an assassin, a witch, and a murderous tavern girl - and this cheeky if sharp tongued man in her presence lacked that same inner turmoil, madness even, that Cyricists seemed to be filled with.

Definitely a Maskaran. Iliskra kept this thought to herself.

“Well, it is good to know that you have the ability and will to keep us both alive. I have never called any priest or priestess my brother or sister in the shadows, no, but as they say there is a first time for all things. And if your skill matches your obvious sense of self-assurance then I think we should do well together.” Iliskra paused briefly then continued, “As for the Ashaba Talons… I have heard of them before. For several generations they were the most powerful criminal organization in this region, or close to it. From what I know their old guildmaster was among those to die from the plague years back and after dales’ capital plunged into disaster their guild started falling apart. Breck said their numbers were few and they were the weakest ones vying for power in Scardale Town. Perhaps so weak we may even be able to pick what remains of them apart ourselves.”

Iliskra suddenly heard a grumbling nearby and her hands moved impulsively to her weapons, coming to rest on their hilts as her eyes looked in the direction of the low noise. However, on seeing it was the dwarf from the encampment approaching Iliskra relaxed and dropped her arms back to her sides.

“Accursed snow and ice… better a boiling summer day than this Auril-forsaken winter…” the dwarf grumbled as he crunched through the flaky snow, arms pressed tight against his sides. Iliskra presumed the short warrior had spotted them already as he did not even acknowledge she and Leon with a moments’ gaze. Iliskra had first noticed the dwarf back in Chandlerscross yet for the first time really looked the dwarf over. For his kind he seemed the usual to her. He had a thick, bushy beard red in color that was tied into tight braids. His carrot-colored hair was cut high atop his head and stood up rather wildly. Heavy brows pressed down in a natural wrinkled grimace. And he boasted a stout, burly body shape. The dwarf wore a full suit of splintmail and his gleaming, wickedly sharp twin axes hung ready at his hips.

“Tempus’ sword straight into her maw, I say, straight into her frosted maw…” the dwarf spat as he came to a stop in front of Iliskra and Leon.

Iliskra smirked, “Not one for winter, master dwarf?”

“Call me Ibdur,” the dwarf growled rather casually and immediately, “and no, elf, I have little love for the biting cold of the winter season.”

“Iliskra,” Iliskra stated her name, her smirk withstanding, “and this man here is Leon. And I am a half-elf just so you know.”

“Alright.” Ibdur rumbled with uncaring flatness, his arms still at his sides and his emerald eyes looked out over the river. Despite being one so small he spoke spoke from his chest and his voice was husky and forceful.

“You are rather far north for someone who so clearly hates the winter.” Iliskra said pointedly.

“Tempus wills I go where there is the glory of battle to be found,” Ibdur said with a hint of pride, now meeting Iliskra’s gaze, “and this… Scardale Town is a city of battle.”

“And glory to be found?” Iliskra’s smirk lingered still though Ibdur seemed not to notice her impishness and replied with a low “indeed” and a fiercely curled fist.

This is going to be quite intriguing. Iliskra thought, wondering what Leon’s first impression of this battle-hungry dwarf was.

Perhaps so weak we may even be able to pick what remains of them apart ourselves.

"That does seem to be the implication from Breck," Leon agreed. However, he had long ago learned that the intelligence gathered on an enemy rarely lasted through the hour in which it was gathered. He had no reason to suspect the Talons had made any overt moves against their competitors, but fortunes changed hands like coin purses in the shadows and until someone admitted that the Talons were on the verge of collapse, he was inclined to believe they still had enough blades to finish off three overly curious interlopers. It was fortunate that they were being allowed to approach in their own way. Iliskra's skills would make her irreplaceable when it came to recognizing their marks and traps.

Leon's eyes shifted over to the dwarf as he approached, though he made no move for his weapons. His instincts were sharpened much in the way Iliskra's had been, but he was used to presenting himself as a non-threat, then surprising an opponent later on rather than diving straight into combat against an unknown foe.

Twin axes. Durable armor. Tempus's name on his lips and in his heart from his words.

His training on Tempus flooded his mind, books and lessons in the temple strictly outlining common practices of the god of chaos in war. Infiltrating the War God's own was a more direct task than the Maskarrans usually felt necessary, but in these times, every god should keep a close eye on their shadows.

"Welcome, Hammer-Arahar," Leon dipped his head in a gesture of respect, though it was an empty one. From what he had been taught, Tempus's chosen cared little for anything beyond two very simple subjects: Where is the fight, and how do they get there. He cast a look towards Iliskra, at least they both knew now who was likely to die first. An excitable fighter with heavy armor did little for stealth operations... but with a little bit of preparation he could be a very large and very unexpected knife to the vitals of an enemy.

He chose not to disclose that he was a cleric to Ibdur, though if the dwarf had more than a few brain cells to rub together the presence of his mask and the runes along it's edge would reveal it as a holy symbol.

"You are welcome to what glory you may find," Leon said, tilting his head to the side at the dwarf, "though I suspect you may have a while to wait. We'll need to establish if the Talons are worth rescuing from their current state before we start making moves against the other factions in preparation for Breck's forces. Though with foes like the Red Wizards and this... Shagarm person, there will be glory aplenty. We just need to live long enough to see it."

They heard the ferry man long before they saw him, the man singing a loud song about some kind of encounter between a bear and a maiden that was probably a local favorite. Leon looked on carefully as the man's raft approached, noting no signs of unusual construction or places where a trap might be hidden. The man himself was ordinary enough, an overweight human thick arms from poling the raft up the river.

A brief negotiation settled on a small handful of coins passing from Leon to the man, as well as a second handful and a quiet, but very thorough threat of what would happen to the man if he made the mistake of telling the story of the day he transported three strangers on his raft from one side of the river to the other. Were it not for the presence of the dwarf, he might have just cut the man's throat and dumped him into the river. Small secrets always had a way of undoing major plans.

The trio seemed to reach an agreement of sorts not to talk on their way along the river. There was little need to and giving the boatman more information would just end up reversing Leon's decision to leave the man alive in any case. Of course, his mask hid any such thoughts from the boatman, even if his body language showed a man that was ready to spring into action, specifically in the direction of the boatman at a moment's notice.

The boatman tried to make idle conversation with them, but Leon intercepted as many of the questions as he could, telling outright lies when it suited him and obscuring truth when that was more effective.

The journey to Scardale Town was short, the human, half-elf, and dwarf walking for just shy of an hour and a half before reaching the outskirts of the capital. The snow on the ground was thinner and slippery much to the disdain of Ibdur who more than once had to catch himself from falling. Iliskra found herself in awe as the sea came into view in the near distance, glimmering in the high afternoon sun.

“It is beautiful…” Iliskra remarked with a raised pointer finger aimed at the distance, Leon and the dwarf having no comment which prompted Iliskra to embrace the silence again.

The capital cities’ towering stone walls were also in sight; scarred with deep cracks, scorch marks, and crumbled towers that looked like broken off teeth in an old misers’ mouth. Iliskra could hear the sounds of the city that drifted on the wind. Not the sound of idle prattle of sprawling masses, merchants hawking their wares on every street, and weary guards bellowing out. Rather it was the sound of blades striking, screams of pain and battle cries, and shouts of fear and commanding alike. Truly unlike anything Iliskra had heard coming from over a cities’ walls.

A sundered city indeed. Iliskra thought as she and her two companions neared the capital.

---

“So this is the great Scardale Town…” Ibdur mused cynically as he took in the sight of the ravaged capital. Uninterested in dealing with any guards or patrols Iliskra, Leon, and Ibdur had avoided the south road into the city and just passed through a gaping hole in the southern wall - on their way stepping over the putrid and fly-covered remains of what must have been three dozen men and women in a vile, sickening scene. Iliskra had wondered aloud who they were, Ibdur noting the lack of uniform among the dead who all looked to be fighters. There were no discarded banners or emblems in the blooded dirt and the fallen were equipped with everything from cheap hide cuirasses to full suits of steel plate. Most of their weapons were either broken or missing meaning that the scene had already been looted.

“Tis likely that they were rival gangs or mercenaries on opposite sides of a conflict.” Ibdur stated.

The corpses were still relatively fresh meaning that whatever had happened along the collapsed wall was recent which inspired the three to move along inside the city. That and the horrid odor of death that rose up from the site of battle. Within the confines of the city things were no more appealing to the eye. Sizable blood marks, ash piles, collapsed structures, and even long decayed bodies littered the wide streets and alleyways. Houses were in a mixture of states - some were all boarded up save for perhaps a single door or window, others dilapidated and falling in, and some were naught but burned out husks with all that remained being blackened posts and hunks of cracked wall.

“This place is… disastrous…” Iliskra said, the concern and disbelief creeping up in her voice.

“I have seen far worse,” Ibdur crossed his arms, “this city has fallen. I dare not even call it a city anymore… but a rats’ nest. Pray tell there are those here who can match my axes in battle. Tempus surely sent me here for a reason.”

Iliskra gave the street on which the three stood a hard looking over. Most of the nearby houses were destroyed, the alleyways blocked by rubble. There was no sign of life on this street, save for a pack of rats that came scurrying by along the chipped cobblestones and vultures that circled above. Iliskra curled her lip and looked at Leon, “According to Breck this is the thieves’ guild territory. Where would you say we should start in this hellshole?”

“Tis likely that they were rival gangs or mercenaries on opposite sides of a conflict.”

Leon nodded along, his mask hiding the grimace on his face. Recent conflict meant that even now the lines between factions were shifting. He prodded a body with his boot, checking it's wounds with his eyes to see how recently the man had died. Fortunately it seemed to have been at least a few days, the body swollen and broken. It had been picked clean of valuables, even a few rings removed along with the fingers that held them by his guess. Survivors. Looters. But ones that had moved along a long time ago.

"Throw good men and women into the pyre to save a place closer to hell than any decent person ought to experience," he said, irritated at the waste. What was here that could possibly be of such value? The rights to a burnt out city?

"Rat's nest is generous," he added after Ibdur's comment, "I doubt even the rats choose to live here among the rot and the dead. Small wonder the Red Wizards have taken an interest..."

“According to Breck this is the thieves’ guild territory. Where would you say we should start in this hellshole?”

Turning his mind back to the task at hand, Leon looked at the nearby buildings and tried to reach out for guidance for his god. Thieves' were always welcomed into the shadows, and in exchange for that protection the secrets of their passings could be made known to those who knew where to look and how to read them.

"Breck said the Guild was on the downslope of it's power, but has been in the city since before the plague. They'll have dug in deep, and probably exhausted all but the sturdiest and most hidden of the safehouses," Leon said, looking down the street, "but like all mortals, they'll need access to clean water, food, and an ability to traverse the streets if they are still actively pursuing guild activities."

"The buildings will have been searched and looted one by one years ago, and if they were holding on to any Breck would know about it from the surrounding factions laying siege," he continued, closing his eyes and reaching out to his god, "the good news is, we should start seeing guild marks when we get close if they still call themselves a guild, probably disguised as graffiti or gang markings. If I had to pick a place to start, I'd say we follow the one other living thing that seems to have survived this city falling into chaos and madness. Follow the rats and hope the smell doesn't stick too harshly to our boots."

As he spoke his face was turned towards a collapsed part of the street, the bricks having loosened from disrepair and collapsed into the sewers that ran beneath the city.

"Of course the other option is we run around like tourists and eventually the Talons will find us. most likely to try to rob us... but a conversation is a conversation," he said, looking at Ibdur as though expecting this option would delight the dwarf far more than him or Iliskra, "I could attempt to use some of my gifts, but I suspect they will have warded their domain against such measures, especially with Shagarm on the prowl."

“Look there!” Ibdur barked suddenly causing Iliskra to flinch. The half-elf looked to the dwarf and then turned her eyes to the direction that he was pointing - that being to the northwest just down the street to their left. It took less than three breaths for Iliskra to see just what the Tempuran had spotted.

Well now, Iliskra thought, … speak of a devil…

Two hooded figures were hurriedly walking along the broken sidewalk along the main road, one notably taller than the other. Though at a closer glance it was quite clear that “walking” was not exact. The taller figure was in fact hunched over and visibly limping while the shorter figure had an arm around them and was very obviously supporting their labored stumbles. Iliskra - even over the dreadful cacophony of the city - could hear mumbling between the pair as they came to an alleyway entrance and turned slowly, casting worried glances behind them.

“I wonder who those two are…” Ibdur voiced, looking between Leon and Iliskra.

“They could be Talons. They could be common hoodlums. They could be a pair of witches.” Iliskra mused, “There is really only one way to find out…”

“We follow them then?” Ibdur asked, looking directly at Leon.

The shadowy duo turned down the alley which seemed to lead into a back-way area amid a jumble of rickety houses. The three companions needed to move now before whoever those two were disappeared down some rathole, a sewer entrance or a hollowed out cellar. Assuming of course they were worth following. Iliskra looked at Leon with an expression of “What do you think?”

“We follow them then?”

Leon considered the information he had for a slim moment, knowing time would be of the essence no matter what choice they made. Two targets, humanoid. No obvious weapons, meaning likely hidden daggers and maybe a crossbow each or possible spellcasters. They were clearly more worried about what was behind them than what was around them or they would have seen the trio crouching among the shadows of the wall.

Scenario 1. They are fleeing a greater danger, meaning the trio's position was about to become compromised anyways by whatever was possibly following them and Leon was not about to fight something that someone else was already fleeing without knowing more. The trio could easily catch up to the pair, and perhaps an offer of help in exchange for information would at least earn them a favor with whoever they were.

Scenario 2. They are bait for a trap, meant to lead the trio or others like them into a kill box. Kill them all, and take their stuff. Risky business, and crude, but still presents a way for them to gain information. If they are Talons, they might welcome some help. If they aren't... well... then they would see whom the shadows really favored.

"I did say follow the rats," he muttered, looking towards Iliskra, "I'll take Ibdur with me in the open. Keep an eye out for trouble?" He offered her a wink through the mask, then gestured with a nod toward Ibdur that it was time to move.

They caught up to the pair as quickly as Leon thought, though the priest thought it very strange that they had seemingly turned down a dead end alley. Were they so desperate they lost their way? Or did the city have a few more secrets than it was willing to share with the strangers.

Leon purposefully kicked a rock into a nearby wall, drawing attention from the pair as they got close enough to have a conversation. The smaller figure, a female human immediately pulled a knife and held it in a fighting grip towards the masked man and his heavily armed and armored dwarven companion. Now that the pair had turned to face them, Leon could see that the larger figure was a half elf male, and was leaking a lot of blood from places that shouldn't be leaking.

Leon held out his hands in a calming manner, showing he was holding no weapons and stepping in front of Ibdur to discourage the dwarf from seeking his battle glory on a pair of what he hoped were misguided sources of information.

"Easy. No need for steel, right?," Leon called out in common, "Name's 'Leo'. I'm a priest. I can help your friend there. For a price, of course. Tut, tut, don't jump to conclusions. My price is simply answers to five questions."

"I'm looking for a cousin of mine that their last letter said they were here in the city. Just a name, maybe a description, and I'll be more than happy to do my best to make sure your friend there sees another dawn," Leon said, the first part a very deceptive lie, but one that would allow them to ask after the Talons and see if the pair had any reaction or was willing to admit they knew of them, "I know what you're thinking, if you turn me down and demand we leave, we will leave you in peace... but your friend there doesn't look good. He might not make it to wherever it is you're going, especially if whatever did that to him catches up..."

He took a tentative step forward, watching the woman's body language for signs of an attack. "Decide quickly though. Please."

“You stay back.” Spat the woman, holding her stance and keeping her weapon at the ready. Even with the hood she wore concealing part of her face the woman was obviously quite young, given by the sound of her voice particularly.

“Calm yourself, girl,” Ibdur grumbled, “we did not follow you down this alley just to kill you two.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” the woman retorted forcefully, “you follow us here, start raining questions upon me - a complete stranger - and insinuate in the same breaths you can help… him. You are either fools or this is a ruse, an illusion.”

“Leon-er… Leo…” Ibdur hastily corrected himself, “we are wasting time here. All I see is two common hooligans that were on the bad side of a deal. A purse cutting gone wrong or a gang fight I would wager.”

“‘Common hooligans’,” the woman repeated with an indignant mocking tone, “the gal, I say!”

“Elthel…” came a weak groan.

The hooded woman looked down at the wounded half-elf, his pale, dainty face twisted into an expression of equal pain and weariness.

“If… they can help…” the half-elf strained, “we… I… am in no place to turn them away.”

“But… we don’t even know who they are! What about all your words and ways of caution? They could be with Gunalar!” Lethal replied.

“If they are… perhaps they will make it quick for me…” the half-elf forced a pained grin, “but… I do not… think they are that half-orc’s thugs. They do not… look to be. And… at this point… I have not the privilege… of caution.”

Elthel turned back to face Leon, eyes narrowing beneath her hood. Her lips parted as she was about to speak when a deep voice boomed out from behind Leon and Ibdur, “Did I hear ‘mine name?!” A short chorus of harsh laughter followed in tow. Ibdur’s axes came free from his belt as the dwarf sharply whirled around to face the newest arrivals in the alley. Lumbering around the corner came a towering, ugly, swarthy-skinned half-orc with thinning hair and a scruffy, greasy black beard. The half-orc was adorned in a rickety set of chainmail with a scarred breastplate that barely fit over his wide midsection, over his right shoulder he carried a large, gleaming war hammer. His beady black eyes were pressed into a scowl and his wide mouth was spread in a vindictive grin that revealed two yellowed tusks jutting up from his jaw. At his back were three human men baring shortswords and round shields, their only protection cheap iron helmets and breastplates like their apparent leader wore.

“So… Gunalar…” the half-elf forced himself up into a sitting position, arms quivering at his sides, “you… found me. Very clever… for an orc.”

“Ha!” snorted the brute, “I needed only follow the fresh trail of blood, frail half-elf. Even a touched bloodhound could have found you in this hole you backed yourself into.”

“Or even… a poorly bred orc-blood.” came the weak but sneering reply.

“We will see who laughs when I kill you and your little friends here and carry your head to Shagarm, thief.”

“So… you’ve sold yourself out too…”

“Not sold out. Made a smart move.”

Leon's mind raced, caught between a half-orc bruiser and his prey was not a wise place to be. Despite that, the conversation had already confirmed enough to make it clear that he couldn't afford to let the half-orc just start killing people. He sighed heavily and turned towards the newcomers.

"Alright, that's quite enough... why is it that so many thugs are so foolish," he said, rolling his eyes and starting to reach out for divine power. Subtly, the magic began to thread itself into his words.

"Ten seconds I've known you and I already count five mistakes you've made which are going to cost you and your minions there their lives," he continued, trusting the Iliskra could hear him and would take appropriate advantage. Though it was subtle, almost imperceptible unless you were looking directly at them, Leon's shadow wavered and began to reach out and touch each of the enemy's shadows in turn. His body language changed, the motions more dramatic, the irritation and frustration in his tone reaching deeper as everything but him seemed to become blurred in the eyes of the thugs.

"No, I'm serious. This is embarrassing," Leon continued, "I mean, first of all you just assume we're on their side when the lady clearly doesn't want or seem to appreciate a sense of helping hand."

"Second, you then verbally declare that you're going to kill all of us, regardless of our allegiances. I mean, even a child could figure out that if you waited until after you killed these two, maybe... just maybe, I would have stayed out of the fight and then you could fight us separately and at least you would know how your friends are after finishing off this pair."

"Third. Who the hell announces themselves before they strike anyways? I mean, that's just sloppy murder work, even your buddies there know that. I haven't heard a peep out of them, but you. No, I gotta hear your whole belly-ache with this elfblood. Hells, for all you know I could be some kind of Red fucking Wizard or Corellon himself come to smite your Gruumsh-fucked face."

"Fourth. Did you even notice my armed and armored dwarf friend here? Because let me tell you, he has been spoiling for a fight and you look like just the meathead to work out some aggression on as a warmup to a real battle. Then again cosmetic surgery by dwarf axe might be an improvement for you."

"And finally, number five," Leon said, holding up his hand and waggling his fingers, "never let a spellcaster talk this long. You never know when he's got more than just shadows for friends. Thank you for coming to my talk. Now kindly keep those throats nice and exposed for my friend."

With that Leo would fall back, unbuckling his shield from his back and moving to cover the pair of strangers. Already he was tapping into more of his divine power, hissing a whisper behind him.

"Do you believe me now?," Leon said, "because the offer's still open. I help heal your friend."