[center] [i]“The quarry of two separate hunts will always nest in the same burrow.” - Ereau Siderman, nobleman from the Old Aeon [/i] [/center] [hr] It was a good night to hunt. Barabas knew it in his bones. The portents were already there. The sky glimmered with the Spear of Calesvol and he could see the head pointing to the Herd of Stars through the dense thicket of trees that the YonderTimber was famous for. He spurred his wylderhog forward. The beast dwelled in the north of Skof up in the high mountains. It was squat and was no substitute for a fine destrier or steed but the YonderTimber was inhospitable to all forms of cavalry. The brown-furred beast between his leg was akin to Durandal boars if they had bred with bears and had horns longer than most men. Barabas blew a three-tone whistle – two high and one low. A shuffle of hooves and crumpled leaves indicated that they had all stopped behind him. He stepped off his horse and unslung his spear. It was carved from cinnamon wood and the tip held a barbed tongue of blue steel. He brushed the edge through a bush and narrowed his eyes upon meeting resistance. He pulled it out. The tip had stabbed into a torn piece of white fabric, stained brown and red. Barabas took off the tip and sniffed deeply. He turned around to regard the pack of mercenaries behind him. “ What do you smell?,” He tossed the ragged piece of leather to one of his huntsman. His name trickled into his mind a moment later. Yuren. A new fusilier. He was from – Barabas pursed his lips – Chamchir. No, not Chamchir. A border town between Durandal and Chamchir. It was the olive skin and the slick black hair that would have him confused for one of the desert wanderers. The young mercenary took several sniffs and then, spoke in a measured tone. “ Burnt tea wheat from Saryonne.” “ What do you feel?,” Barabas asked again. Without a word, Yuren passed it to the next fusilier standing to his right. She was Orago of the Laughing Bell. Her family worked as bell tenders in the churches of the Holy Hundred. It was said that years of tolling the bells had rendered her mad and that the only sound that would make the bells go away in her mind was the symphony of screams. “ Fine linen.” Orago closely rubbed it in between the pad of her thumb and ring finger with a giggle. “ Not woven. Needle-sewn by seamstresses.” “ What do you taste?” The next fusilier was a obscenely large man from the alpines of Skof. In Barabas’s opinion, Skof men had the physique for a good hunt but were never shrewd or high-minded enough to make use of it. The Skoffian took the fabric and stuck into his mouth, slowly sucking on it like toffee. “ Blood. Noble blood.” “ The Lady of Lucroy -is cunning but not so cunning to outfox the likes of us.” Barabas crushed the fabric in between his fingers and signed in mock sadness. “ Ah, to think this hunt is so close already! I must applaud her for entertaining us so. I would not be so cruel to take out my rage on such a fearsome quarry such as her.” He smiled at his pack, his pack to [i]command[/i]. “ A swift death would agree with her, wouldn’t it, boys?” The mercenary crew cackled and laughed in chorus. Barabas mounted his wylderbeast and waved his spear in the direction of the densest thicket of the forest, where the fabric had been found. “ She can run as far as she likes. It is no matter. Our wylderbeasts will ride her into the sun until she is blinded by its light.” His voice then became low. “She remains mine, though. A Lucroy is a rare quarry enough and Lucroys – lucroys will not go without a fight.” Barabas took off the scarf covering his throat and his men flinched. A long mottled collar of white scar and pale pink flesh circled his neck. “I learnt that myself.” [hr] Ogar was just about to reach over to take a bite of his fish when the stranger burst forward from the bush. His instincts took over, hand reaching for the comfort of his axe handle. He had brought up his axe and raised it just above his head, the fire illuminating his figure in ghastly orange light. His mind had been worn and weathered from the countless ambushes by Devereaux’s soldiers. The thought of killing, chopping off her head, came easy to him as offering a handshake. They had tried talking and negotiations first but after the second or third ambush, chopping off heads was a more effective way of communication. Why shouldn’t he? That was all he was good for. Chopping heads and forgetting. He was about to swing down when the questions unmanned him. His arms trembled and then, he dropped his arms down. Her armor was soiled by mud, her long locks of brown hair had been marred by the YonderTimber and those brown eyes were full of desperation. She was alone. Ogar had always longed for solitude but he wasn’t so sure of it now after looking at this stranger who had disturbed his dinner. “Oh, the Duke must be truly desperate now if he’s sending the likes of you to finish me off,” He whispered quietly. Slowly but surely, he tilted the head of the axe downwards, the blade cutting a thin groove in the wet river loam. Scratching the back of his head, he walked to the fire and tore off a hunk of pike, the skin charred black and brown. It was hot but his hands could handle it. He walked back to the stranger. Awkwardly, he kneeled down on his knees, hands parted out. His axe was set on the mud nearby, just within reach. “ I’m –“ He nearly said his name but decided against it. “– I’m lost in this damn fucking forest is what it feels like. I was just about to have that nice big pike over there.” He nodded to the chunk of roasted fish in his hand and then, stared back at her with some modicum of sympathy. “ Look. I’ve been fighting constantly for the last ten moons and tonight’s the night I finally get some rest. Now, you can either keep treating me as though I’m going to stab a knife in your back or you can sit by the fireside to share that nice juicy pike with me.” [hr] [u]Glossary[/u] [1] – Shan – One of the ten Arch-Lords who was responsible for the end of the Old Aeon. Shan is frequently both reviled and worshipped in Durandal for his witch hunts that ravaged entire villages out of fear and superstition. [2] – Beningrad – The capital of Durandal. [3] – Astrolancer – Astrolancers, practitioners of an obscure branch of thaumaturgy, receive generous stipends and offers from noble contractors to act as their personal wayfarers. [4] – Colonial Fusiliers – A famous mercenary group hailing from beyond the Black Tide. Currently under the employ of the Arch-Administration. [5] – Wylderbeasts – Chimeric fusions of regular animals. Believed to have been the results of magical experiments conducted by ancient Lutin.