[IC] Black Lily [High Casual]

B l a c k L i l y

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_{An Original Dark Fantasy Roleplay}

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[Concept]

Chapter 1

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Value

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Combat guilds were the most popular guilds for a reason. Even before the collapse of the monarchies, children the world over would often dream of becoming the strongest or most courageous warriors their respective kingdoms had to offer. Knighthood was among the most sought after positions and there was never a shortage of willing applicants who wished to hand over their lives in service to their lord and country. After The Catastrophe created a new world order, mercenaries not only exponentially increased in their numbers, but also began a slow ascension towards the top of the pay scale. With the introduction of creatures and beings not of humanity's world, the lone warriors finally shed the shadow of glorified bounty hunters and stepped into the light illuminating the world's most important soldiers of fortune. They began to demand higher payment from fearful clients who would give anything to be rid of the supernatural intruders and, for a time, mercenaries enjoyed even greater fortune and revere than the knights who used to routinely shame them. Eventually, however, greed took its rightful place on the throne of the mercenary's ambition.

The hired men and women fighters turned on one another and began slaying any potential threat to their individual income streams. It seemed like contracts were being ignored in order for one merc to slay another thereby making themselves that much more marketable. False legends were built on piles of bodies and the ravenous new breed of hellish foes were left free to wreak havoc across what was now known as Pratus, decimating villages, devastating cities, and slaughtering any who dared to try and travel without a proper escort. It took time, but as the families of the selfish warriors were slain, there were those who snapped back to reality and remembered why they had taken up the blade to begin with. Those individuals sought other like-minded allies to aid them in their battles against the more aggressive beasts and while small, roaming bands were nothing new to the world, these new groups looked to create formal relationships with emerging local governments. In short, guilds were born. And simultaneously, so were their tales.

Stories were passed around often from bards to tavern owners to smithy's and they all told of the fantastic spectacle to behold if one were lucky enough to witness a combat guild in action. The synergy the guild members shared, the coordination of their offensives and movements, and the flawless execution of their unified plans became almost mythical. Combat guilds had become the most organized, well trained, and well respected guilds in all of Pratus.

Black Lily, a guild infamous for being totally comprised of criminals and misfits, was none of those things.

The beating of hooves into the dirt road was a fierce and intense sort of sound. Plumes of dust burst into the air as manic horses furiously pulled several carriages along a path towards an unknown destination. The treeline on either side of the beaten road stood far in the distance which made sense because this particular path was one of the safer travel routes merchants often used to transport their goods. The Wildlands were dangerous pockets of uncivilized areas prone to supernatural entities wandering around and going about their own schedules doing whatever it was they did when they weren't killing people and animals. At this moment though, the most dangerous things on the road were the six, masked horse riders chasing the manic carriages along the merchant's route.

While most of the carts were filled with businessmen, traders, and merchants who were scared out of their minds, one that previously only held boxed cargo was quickly being filled with common looking men. Gabriel spurred his steed to increase speed and quickly adjusted the maroon fabric he wore over the lower half of his face. "What in god's name are they thinking of doing... They're not just going to dump the cargo, are they?!" He wondered aloud. The common looking men begun to pull small orbs from their pockets and bags and as one defiantly glared into Gabriel's face, the masked mercenary instinctively drew his horse to the side. The orb flew from the carriage and exploded upon landing where Gabriel had just been, sending the masked man's horse into panic. "Fucking hell!" He shouted, quickly regaining control of his courser.

He looked around at the others who had successfully surrounded the speeding caravan from the back and sides and watched the same orbs fly in their directions. Small explosions popped off one after the other as the other guild members dodged the magical bombs and quickly regained their positions as well. "No one said one fucking thing about magicians!" Gabriel shouted in genuine anger. He spurred his horse again to keep up the pace, but he stayed to the rear of the caravan as he was meant to be. The plan called for Gabriel and Darian to the rear, Giselle and Amara to the left side, and Willard and Covell to the right. It was supposed to be an easy take with only a small escort to deal with. The situation had become much more dire.

"We need to get those damned boxes," Gabriel shouted out to the group, "Screw the plan! Now we've got magicians creating magical cannon-fire! This day's gone to hell!"

[Narcotic Dollie]

When Amara had agreed to robbing this merchant caravan blind she hadn’t imagined it’d end up like this. Yet here she was, careening down a dirt road while her marks hurled magical explosives at her.

“Tch,” the blonde hissed through clenched teeth as the dirt kicked up from the horses stung her eyes, the bone white face plate she’d chosen to mask her identity doing nothing to protect her vision. Her mount, a buckskin called Acorn, wasn’t doing her any favors either. The stable she’d purchased him from had assured her that he was a tried and true warhorse, but the way he was jumping and pulling away from the carriage told Amara that the stable master was a fucking liar. She nocked another arrow and pulled it back, only for Acorn to lurch to the side for no apparent reason at the very second she released it. As a result her aim was comically off, the arrow missing the carriage completely and imbedding itself uselessly in the ground.

The man she had intended to hit even had the audacity to laugh at her before he lobbed another bomb her way. Amara jerked the reins towards the left in an effort to dodge the electrical energy and while she managed to miss it by the skin of her teeth, Acorn decided right then and there that he was done. The horse stopped so fast the he almost sent the woman over his head and then gave her no time at all to recover before he began bucking like an unbroken yearling. Amara tried to hang on but quickly realized that it was a lost cause. She had no choice but to let go and hurl herself away from him, rolling to the edge of the road to avoid him stomping her in his frenzy. The moment his rider was free of him Acorn turned tail and headed back the way they came and away from the chaos.

Good. Amara hoped that he would be eaten by a chimera.

Amara got to her feet right as Giselle, who had slowed her horse down considerably, was coming up alongside her. Realizing what the other woman meant for her to do the blonde jogged along side them and grabbed the saddlehorn before she hoisted herself up, bringing her leg over to successfully mount the beast behind the raven haired beauty. “Thank you,” Amara exhaled heavily as the other spurred the horse onward to make up the distance they had lost. Her bow had survived the fall by some miracle and she wasted no time nocking a second arrow, pulling it back, and firing it into the caravan. This one hit right where she was aiming, the projectile piercing through the skin just below the laughing man’s adam's apple and driving all the way through to the back of his neck. He made a sickly gurgled sound as he tried to yank the arrow out but in the end he only succeeded in keeling over and falling from the wagon.

Amara grinned from behind her faceplate but quickly realized that the kill was far from a victory, as the rest of the guards on their side of the caravan had wised up and taken to tossing their bombs from behind crates, preventing the archer from getting a clear shot. “I don't think I can hit them anymore,” Amara admitted into the other woman’s ear, speaking loud enough that she could hear over the wind. “Let me have the reins, Giselle,” she said quickly, her hands reaching around the woman’s slender waist and hovering just above the reins, waiting for the other to agree. “We both know you’ve got a better shot at hitting them up close then I do,” she explained, as it wasn't a secret that Amara’s weakness was close combat. She was meant for arrows through the eyes, stealthy daggers to the heart, or slipping something insidious inside a mug of mead and had no business trying to take out anyone up close who could see her coming.

But she knew Giselle was wicked with that sickle of hers, so she was the obvious choice in this situation. “I'll mind the bombs and get you close enough, you just focus on getting them to stop all this magic. We're going to attract every feral creature in The Wildlands if they keep this up!”

[Rockette]

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████████████████. . .████████████████. . .████████████████. . .████████████████. . .████████████████ 𝓢he was black on black; blanketed in ebony and obsidian waves of fabric against coal-hued veils and hide, pale face and kohl-smudged eyes brimming blue liken to cemented, dead forgeries in the winter. A specter she is, a reaper bathed in slick red smiles and coils of hair reminiscent of serpent-haired maidens. She's all bone white with silver ticked fur adorned over her shoulders and streaming behind her elegant posture do silver charms eerily ring, her funeral tole. Giselle leans down close against heaving withers and adjusts to the shift of her mount galloping headlong along a predetermined course. There's dust in her eyes and her thighs are already aching -- because she hasn't ridden in a long time, but Gabriel had insisted they all go and with new mounts at the ready -- but her blood is singing and adrenaline pumps hard and thick in her veins and she urges the grey-dappled mare all the more by digging boots into her decorated flanks.

𝓣o the left they had said, and whilst Giselle guides the mare after the flighty buckskin carrying Amara, she feels a subtle pulse in the air that suffers heat and a pull. Almost an instinctual sensation that pings something deep within her coiling belly, she flinches the moment sparks fall around hooves and hocks and draws back at Gabriel's carrying baritone. It's magic all right, though of a different construct and intention, capsuled in specially blown glass interlaced carefully with enchantments courtesy of pyro aficionados. She has ever seen the like, but only has heard of their use in passing. Giselle peers through the black veils pulled over her veneer, attempting to judge their trajectory the moment she witnesses Amara thrown from her horse and cinches her fingers tight against the reins, pulling hard to the opposite of their track, veils rising above her crown and coloring her presence darkly as she slows. Giselle hardly understands the bonds of camaraderie, after all, she's been surviving on her own merits for years, but she finds something ill in allowing the younger woman to fall beneath the wagon or threat of fire. Perhaps it's her image, all manipulative delicacy and pale hair, dark eyes that shimmer black and dangerously so with a keen intelligence privy to assassins.

𝓦hatever it may be, she thinks in the moment, that she's meant to assist her and when she hoists herself up and over, the mare gallops that much harder from the descent despite the added weight on her quarters. Her brow lowers into something akin to a scowl at their distance and the weight of her sickles hidden beneath the veils at her hip are that much more apparent at her own disadvantage. Amara was meant for this range, and she attempts to keep her horse steady along the road as her arrow pierces through the air and straight through a man's mocking laughter and impaling deep past his flesh. She grins at the sight, relishing in such a bereavement and almost sings in mirth herself as they begin to hide. Such attempts would only serve them quicker to their death beds, they had signed the warrant of their demise the moment calloused palms curled over infected glass. Giselle keeps her body low, risking a glance at the weave of Amara's voice through the commotion, bell like and a little shrilly as she suggests their next course and silently Giselle nods her consent and releases the controls the moment her slight hands curl around her waist.

𝓢he doesn't hesitate -- she thinks she maybe, sort of, trusts Amara [poisons aside] compared to the other members of the Guild, some are crazier than her after all, and maybe it's because of their shared gender -- but Giselle lifts a few veils away from her person, coils them within her hand and turns.

"Get in her closer, once I get inside, keep to the left, and if you see a chance to shoot - take it."

𝓣he silver within her hair chimes madly the moment she shifts her weight around and coils her figure tight, almost felidae like and contorts her body slight enough to not hinder Amara's controls. The mare blows hard through her velvet nose and with one hand coiled with sheer fabric, and the other through her greying mane, she bunches all the weight into her legs the moment the caravan comes nearly parallel and launches herself at the crates their sudden enemies have chosen to hide behind.

𝓢he falls hard, the jarring impact loud to her ears and her shoulder takes the brunt of the impact before she forces herself into a roll from the crate she has landed on and crouches down low and hisses. Magic pulsates thick in the air, heady and coating her skin in a heavy heat that beads sweat on her dark brow.

"Hello, boys."

𝓖iselle is a dark whorl smudged betwixt blossoming reds, her veils fanning outward and the ones previously coiled in her grasp used to sheath around stricken faces, masking and blanketing them in sheer darkness before her sickle shines and slick and heavy, it strikes across one neck that weeps over her fingers and there's blood that falls suddenly like rain. She laughed and abandoned her mark and pirouettes to face her next opponent. There's two that have abandoned their magical explosives, but the others have taken to launching them still at the others, and showers of flame and sparks fly, reflecting eerily in crystalline eyes. Giselle takes her sickle, her lips parted on panting breaths whilst her tongue coils against the sharpened blade that shines against bone white teeth.

Two down. Now c'mon fellas, time to get to work.

^{████████████████. . .████████████████. . .████████████████. . .████████████████. . .████████████████}

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[Heat]

The streets still made him nervous, too many weeks solely upon land caused the former pirate's mind to wander to strange places. Covell missed having his feet on the sturdy wooden floors of a ship, the denizens of the city claimed without real knowledge that the seas were a dangerous place. One that was utterly unpredictable with constant sorrow whether it be storms, piracy or the monstrosities which tended to lurk below the waves. He claimed the opposite. Once one lived upon the seas long enough they grew accustom to its joys and sorrows. There was a beautiful calmness to the waters, one could go for weeks on end without seeing another vessel. This city on the other hand stunk of depression and hatred, it teemed with backstabbers, vagabonds and thieves. It reminded him of his hometown, only on a far grander scale. Traces of memories of that place still littered in the corners of his mind, Covell having tried damn hard to expunge much that concerned his childhood before his entrance to piracy.

Still, he was stuck here. Covell having pledged himself to the Black Lily guild, it was money at least. One day he'd make enough to be able to afford a proper vessel, one that was a true successor the Rose, may she rest in peace among the sea floor. Upon that day he'd seek vengeance upon the creature which slaughtered his crew and left him adrift along the raging waters. He still remembered every crewmen of his it had drowned in the sea. He had taken one of its teeth, made the beast bleed. All that was left was to return and finish the job. He knew that exacting his revenge would be a glorious moment. But he could not concern himself with such a scheme at this time. That was for down the road.

The steed shifted and stormed under his reins, Covell still was not a great horse rider. He had been forced to learn the skill within the three months of joining Black Lily. It was still not something he was entirely comfortable with. He did not fear the animal, he rode with drive and focus it was simply not an easy shift after being practically sea bound for decades. His horse's breath was hard and heavy, its fine dark grey coat shimmering in the daylight as it rocketed down the dirt road. One of his hands reached up and resettled his hat upon his head, it had been rocking intensely in the horse's powerful strides. Riding to the right side alongside the grimy looking Willard, Covell's horse leapt over one of the orbs as it was launched in his direction.

"Watch those bombs, boy!" The pirate hollered to the younger Willard as he charged towards the caravan, his horse's hooves clanking hard against the dirt road. With each kick dust rose into the air, only adding to the chaos.

Growing more bold, Covell closed in closer to the nearest carriage. More explosions flew out towards the six criminals, he reached towards his belt then drew his dagger. Cursing the lack of rope available at the moment he whipped the reins harder as he practically demanded the horse worked harder than it already was. He pulled away from his formerly designated position alongside Willard as Covell charged closest he could, closing in proximity to the man driving the carriage. He heard noises as Giselle secured cargo on another part of the caravan.

Rapidly removing both his feet from the stirrups, Covell shifted quickly in his seat. This was an incredibly dangerous maneuver that could easily end badly with him at least suffering multiple shattered bones. But, the sheer thrill of it convinced him to ignore any potential danger. He would die someday, and it damn sure wouldn't be on a dirty road in the middle of nowhere. He drew his dagger, it giving him the quickest chance to land a rapid and lethal blow. Then he launched himself from his horse, soaring through the air as his horse screeched in pain. One of the orbs impacted into the beast's back leg, sending it to the ground in a fit of anguish.

The action seemed to come to a standstill as Covell whizzed in the air, carrying himself forward with purpose. He heard the sounds of battle as the woefully unprepared magicians aboard the caravan tried to stop them. More orbs launched in his direction as he floated in the wind, legs pushed forward as he estimated his landing. He could practically sense the fear in the men as he crashed into the caravan, just behind the driver. With a split second smirk he drove his dagger into the man's neck, sending a shot of blood into the air as agony filled the driver's expression. His hands shot upwards, releasing the reins as the blade wedged deeply into his throat. The horses continued forward, as the three other men in the carriage reacted to the intruder with surprise.

"Ahoy, Sorry to barge in." The pirate stated, quickly drawing both of his cutlasses. His dagger still embedded in the driver's neck. The three other occupants of the carriage stared him down with shock and rage, one readied more magical orbs to fling at the other riders, while the other two produced small blades. They were woefully unprepared.

[LokiLeo789]

The tingle of magic in use swept over Darian in waves, with the sharp report of heavy discharge rattling his brain into his skull and battering his body. Oaths hot on his lips, the wraith, wrought in wool of dull and plain colors: browns, grays and blacks sawed back on his reins in time to avoid getting wretched into pieces by one of the explosions. Instead it slashed into the dark soil of the Wildlands, kicking up a gout of dirt and uprooted grass mere hand spans from where his horse jerked to a stop in a spray of sod fragments.

As the dirt and dust washed over him, he twisted in the saddle to stare back along the path they had come, his face tight with fatigue under his steel helm, as his company raced forward like Drakes after prey. Yet the man’s eyes burned with intent purpose, firebrands in the midst of the sun-darkened and weathered features.

With a grace that seemed as instinctual as it was smooth and economical, Darian pulled a soliferrum from his saddle. As if by silent command the assassin's charcoal steed spurned into action, burning the last of it's energy reserves to reach top speed. It's muscles rippled from under it's freshly groomed pelt and his powerful legs with every domineering stride.

Into the fray Darian returned, bent low on his horse's back in order to avoid drag and increase speed; a lesson of old now practically applied. Beneath his calf he could feel his steeds rib cage now heaving in silent protest as he maneuvered to and fro in order better throw off the aim of the magicians. Explosion after explosion deafened and nearly blinded the man, but keen eyes still caught the shifting shapes of his compatriots, two of which who succeeded in boarding the vessels.

They lacked numbers and firepower, turning what was supposed to be an easy settlement of coin into a deadly gambit, but who was Darian to ignore the chance at adding a few heads to his kill count. Ripping his boots out of there stirrups and quickly shifting his weight upwards to leap and squat on his saddle, Darian prepared a maneuver similar to which Covell preformed only moments ago.

Reins in one hand and soliferrum in the other, he stared down his target, a rather youthful look magician fumbling for ammunition in his pouch, while his allies seemed rather distracted by the highwayman at there backs. Darian hefted his soliferrum and took aim and whipped the reins to force his steed forward quicker. With one last cough the steed road harder, closing the gap between him and the cart.

The magician only had time to catch the glint of silver before a soliferrum entered his chest and drove him into his mate, knocking them off balance and causing them to sprawl. Darian was close behind, leaping off his stead who quickly collapsed in agony, and landing heavy in cart. Without a moment to spare, he recovered and darted for the third magicians jaw. Jarred by the sudden sequence of events, he was unable to avoid Darian's quick hand and was slammed into crate.

For a split second,Darian leaned in, his steel helm only inches from the man's face. Into his eyes the magician glanced, struggling to escape Darian's iron grip, but it was like nothing was their to behold. An endless depth of ink, sorrow, and pain. He could barely see whites of his eyes nor the vessels that flowed through them. They were depths of hell holding a thousand souls yet there were none to be seen.

The man ceased to struggle for a moment, then died as Darian shoved a dagger into his gullet and up into his brain. He let the body fall then reached for his blade, squaring up to the last, struggling magician.

[Nox Grimoire]

A heist. Of all the jobs they could possibly have been hired for, it had to be a fucking heist. Willard hated thieves. Almost as much as he hated mercenaries. Funny then how it seemed life was constantly conspiring to turn him into both. Complicating matters more, he was now tasked with doing his part for the plan, all the while dodging the thrown explosives of a pack of bloody spellslingers. Willard hated mages.

He reined in his horse, pulling up short and to the side, narrowly avoiding the small explosion which took place right in front of him. “Fucking mages!” He growled through gritted teeth, dust and smoke stinging his eyes, and making it bloody hard for him to breath.

"Watch those bombs, boy!" He heard the pirate, Covell, bark at him.

But too late, as the next thing he was aware of was a shower of fire and death. He and his horse were sent flying and tumbling through the air, as three bombs exploded, nearly simultaneously, right underneath him. Ill luck for the young Willard Cavanaugh, or was it...

* * *

He rose slowly to his feet, every last inch of him aching from the fall. Of course his horse was dead, the poor black mare blown to Kingdom Come as she was. Fortunately for him, she had caught the brunt of the impact, which was probably what had saved his life. But now he was alone, miles from civilization, his comrades and the carriages they were chasing long gone.

“Shit,” He swore out-loud, more for his own sake than any other.

He torn the bit of ragged, sweat-stained linen he wore from about his face and tossed in on the ground. Then he started to walk, hopefully in the same direction his “friends” had been going. He knew he had no chance of actually catching them, not on foot as he was now was. But at the very least, he thought, once they were finished, one of them would surly come looking for him. That last thought made him laugh. They probably thought he was dead, or worse. Most of them most likely relished the thought, evil bastards that they were. Still, they and the others of Black Lily were closest he had to kin anymore, and he would rejoin them by any means necessary.

He was jarred from his contemplation by a rustling in the underbrush, and at first he feared it was some beast attracted by the earlier magical discharge. Never in all his life was he more relieved to see a horse, as he was when the buckskin stallion stepped into view, Amara's saddle still strapped to his back. He gave a silent prayer of thanks to whatever powers may have brought him such good fortune, as he swung up onto the gift horse's back. A good, hard kick. and a snap of the reigns, and he and his newly acquired steed were racing off along the trail.

He was confident he would soon catch up with the others now.

[Concept]

Crimson mist and smoky dust danced alongside one another as the Black Lily guild-members went to work. It was rare that a plan actually went accordingly, but improvisation had always been the guild's strong suit anyway. Gabriel glanced around as his fellow members took control of carts and slayed the bomb-spouting mages one by one. He was quickly reminded of the reason they had worked so well together for the past three months; though none of them could call each other friend in the traditional sense of the word, their collective propensity for fatalities had brought them together and it was undeniable that, together, they had to be one of the deadliest units in all of Pratus. One more thing was also painfully clear to the speeding mercenary as he settled his gaze on a carriage that had been relatively untouched. He realized that he had yet to pull his weight on a job that he, himself, had pushed for.

Lips twisted into a sinister grin under maroon fabric as emerald irides locked onto the unfortunate conveyance that was yet to be accounted for. A sharp pain dug into the side of the ebon courser inciting a strenuous neigh and a final push in acceleration. The masked mercenary, lowered and slightly raised from the saddle, sped past the other carriages and trampled over slaughtered bodies, reaching the untouched cart in an almost otherworldly amount of time. Gabriel wasted not a second more. All in one motion, he swung an lightly armored leg onto the back of his mare and pushed off violently, sending him up and into the carriage and causing his steed to lose balance and fall behind. As he landed, a broken spearhead emerged and immediately impaled the first unlucky magician through his abdomen. An instinctive boot rose to meet a charging bomber from the rear, sending him stumbling back and over the low edge of the transport just before the adrenaline-fueled merc trapped the arm of a knife-wielding assailant in mid-swing and forced the knife into the wielder's chest. He drove the man back, stabbing him a few more times as he forced his body to floor of the cart and locked eyes with the dying mage.

"Don't rely on shitty magic," Gabriel growled as his prey died, mouth agape. Erecting himself quickly, he turned and retrieved the spearhead, still resting in the warm abdomen of its target. Just as the rest of his comrades had done, Gabriel slayed his cart's driver and the entire caravan eventually slowed to a halt. A gloved hand pulled down the fabric covering his face and Gabriel hopped down from the cart before wiping his brow. His body was in plenty good shape, but it still wasn't a breeze to move quickly in even light armor. Gabriel's combat style was always much better suited to one who ignored armor altogether, but he also desired to live a few more years if he could help it. He only briefly glanced around to make sure the others were still living before he hefted a wooden box from his cart and dropped it unceremoniously on the dusty road. His gaze drifted upwards to the sky to be met with a mixture of orange, red, and even a little lavender. It was mostly cloudless, but the sun was descending slowly in the east. He cursed under his breath.

"It's already dusk, damnit," he said out loud to no one in particular, "And we're miles away from The Disk. We might have to travel to Braven and find an inn for the night." He collected his box and put it back on the cart, before climbing inside once more. He headed towards the driver's seat. "Guess we'll have to turn this caravan towards the east. We can't be this far out when the moon finally shows itself. It'll turn an already fucked day into something much worse," He echoed to everyone. He sat and took the reins of his cart and snapped the leather. The horses cried and begun a slow turn towards a small, almost hidden path leading away from the main road and heading towards a village you could just barely see in the distance. It was never safe to be out at night in the Wildlands, even if you were with a group. In the case of Black Lily, they had just had an encounter with men who preferred to use as much as magic as humanly possible and there was already a danger of the worst kinds of creatures coming to see what had drawn them there.

If they were to survive, they would hightail it to the village of Braven. The others grabbed the other carriages and the newly owned caravan started its journey towards the village. The sun was setting quicker than they were anticipating.

[Narcotic Dollie]

When the dust had settled (literally and figuratively) all the merchants lay dead or dying and Black Lily were officially the owners of three shiny new carriages. Amara pushed her porcelain faceplate up until it was perched on the top of her head and let out a final, ragged exhale as her onyx eyes surveyed their spoils. The air was thick with the metallic scent of gore and the dirt road on which they now stood was slowly darkening with blood of the fallen. She actually found the smell comforting in a twisted way, as it reminded her of the long days she had once spent in her father’s morgue, watching as he tended the bodies of the recently deceased.

Giselle’s mare interrupted Amara’s musings, chomping at her bit and pawing the ground in an attempt to portray how impatient she was to get back to her master. “I hear you, girl,” the pale woman murmured, gloved hand coming down to pat the beast’s neck soothingly. The mare let out snort but seemed to settle after a moment, appeased for the time being. With a click of her tongue and an easy nudge of her heels the blonde’s mount started up at a trot towards the equipage that contained Giselle.

Once she had gotten close and the interior of the carriage came into view, Amara let out an appreciative whistle, both brows migrating towards her hairline. Giselle stood among the wreckage, her sable hair dappled in the dying evening light and the wooden floor around her littered with the corpses of all that had opposed her. Her sickle was still drawn, rivulets of blood dripping lazily from the curved blade and coupled with the wispy veils and her striking blue eyes she appeared more like a goddess of death rather than an ordinary woman. “You did a number on them,” Amara finally said when she found her voice again, her words taking on a timbre that was approaching reverent. She quickly cleared her throat, her tone returning to its typical silvery lilt as she continued. “I brought your horse back. Did you want to ride her or steer the carriage?”

As she spoke the blonde turned her coal colored gaze back towards the way they had come, catching sight of Wil riding her flighty stallion back up the main road. “Hey,” Amara called out when he was close enough to hear, the scarred side of her mouth quirking up into an easy half smile as she raised a hand and gave a subtle two fingered wave. “Good to see you’re not dead yet,” she commented as she looked him over, checking for any obvious injuries. The man appeared a little disheveled but mostly fine as far as she could tell, however his dark blonde hair seemed more brown than usual thanks to the bits of dirt still in it. Maybe he had fallen? That would explain why his own mount had gone missing. “Thanks for rescuing my horse,” she continued, nodding her chin down towards Acorn, who’s ears pinned back the moment he caught sight of her.

Amara scowled at the behavior, recalling how he’d thrown her earlier and how her body still ached from the impact of the fall. “I’m glad somebody found him useful, anyways,” she grumbled, chewing the inside of her cheek in obvious annoyance aimed solely at the buckskin.

"It's already dusk, damnit," she heard a voice curse from somewhere behind her, and the scarred woman turned her head just in time to see Gabriel climbing to the front of the carriage that he and Darian had overtaken together. He had taken to leading this particular job, so Amara listened silently as the green eyed man instructed them to ride out towards Braven and seek shelter for the night, lest they get caught out on the roads after dark. Amara couldn’t help but agree, she’d spent enough time in the Wildlands to know she didn’t want to be out in the open after sunfall.

[Nox Grimoire]

Willard returned Amara's wave with a roguish grin. "Aye," He replied. "It'd be more like he found me." He stroked the buckskin's neck affectionately. "He's a fine steed. Can't for the life of me imagine why he'd be so quick to git away from ye." He laughed. "Oh wait, o' course I can." He hoped she wouldn't take too much offense at his little joke at her expense. In his mind, she was like a little sister, and a bit of light teasing was how he showed his affection.

Affection. It was such a funny thing, if you thought about it. Black Lily was probably one of Pratus' most notorious organizations of outlaws, killers, and thieves, with everyone of them more than willing to sellout the others at a moments notice. And yet, there was a certain amount of affection to be found between it members, be among good friends, old comrades, or the sort of familial affection to found among the teams. It wasn't something he expected to find when he joined three months ago. This sense of belonging was unlike any thing he'd experienced since...since the night Kaitlyn took her life.

Ah, Kati. It been more than twelve seasons since her death. More than twelves seasons since those bastards did what they did. He'd got them in the end though, and it'd been worth every once of misery he'd spent hiding in the wilds thereafter. However, Black Lily had offered him a escaped from all that, and an opportunity to do a little good, by way of being very, very bad. For that he would always be grateful. He just hoped that they did give him cause to regret his loyalty.

"It's already dusk, damnit," He heard someone curse loudly, shaking him from his introspection. He looked just him time to hear their illustrious leader, Gabriel, instruct them to make for the village of Braven. "Good," Wil mumbled under his breath. "Be glad for a spot o' ale and warm bed." He scowled. This job had already been more trouble than it worth. And he still didn't know what was in those damned boxes.

[Rockette]

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████████████████. . .████████████████. . .████████████████. . .████████████████. . .████████████████ Victory came at the proceedings of carnage, elegantly or barbarically undone by methods deemed cruel by the mortal givings of their existence. Giselle witnessed the shine and ping of life bleed out into bland monotony; flat and lifeless with her blade slick and curved deep to the forged hilt into one man patterned in grime. Silver charms twinkled eerily against ebon hair that stilled around a dementedly contoured face of this would-be reaper, and thus he fell, hands clutched against silver fur and obsidian veils and she watched, curiously so, as he sputtered and cursed her very being. Ironic, wouldn't it be, if he knew her life was already adorned in the dressings of the forlorn and forsaken. Giselle proffered a silent simper laced to the teeth with a stoic malice and slid her sickle free from flesh, and nudged with her boot to send the body onto the road and beneath the wheels of the carriage and the hooves of those following.

The horses stilled and fell back, with their bindings now loosened, there was nothing to insist their heavy charge and whilst the caravan slowed, Giselle wiped free the remains against her blades, fingers slick and heavy, burdened with life and sin and they trembled doing so. It was something akin to excitement at the mayhem she had procured and, as one of the boys might put it, a job well done. To work for someone else had never given Giselle the report of loyalty and pride to a higher being, however there was something pleasurable still in taking these lives and knowing she had done so without a hindrance that was utterly flawless. At the appreciative whistle, she knew just that, and allowed her simper to beam into something widely satisfied and, perhaps, a bit manic and bordering something feral. Of course, she would not be the perpetual specter within the eyes of the dying otherwise, so such a garnish was befitting no matter how woefully demented.

Adorned in silvery intonations, with pleasing lit and charm, Amara offered her mount back into her graces and Giselle almost cooed at the beast for displaying such loyalty, even with having only been under her charge for perhaps a few days of practice. She rose gracefully to do just that, for she was not keen enough to pilot a carriage, when her boot struck against a poorly contained satchel and from it rolled glass orbs boiling within the rose coloured sunset. Brimming with fire and life, demanding that they explode and be struck upon the earth, as per their creation, and tempting to the woman in their remains. Her eyes lit up, briefly, alighted with a scholar inclination and want, a curious mind baited by the givings of magic and pain of it. Giselle carefully bent at her knees, kneeling as if allowing herself a moment of reprieve and waited, watching Amara fixate her attention else where, and whilst she engaged in banter with -- Willard -- yes, that was the name. It flitted seldom across her mind, usually associated with that curling, bitter taste of magic that surrounded his impression in a lamplight of madness. Giselle inhaled, sharp like slivers, ice in her veins and shining in her eyes as delicate fingers curled around globes of hellfire and swiftly pocketed them within her veils -- hidden, yes, to be examined.

Giselle was a curious creature, a woman that pursued the findings of life and carefully scribes them within the flickering candle light in her evenings. She claims, often that the means are meant to be's and must haves, that she is the one who must do them for nothing else will quell the musings of her mind warped and hellish bound.

She dismounts from the bloodied transport, mindful of her new possessions and grasps hold of the halter of the mare, loosely brushing fingers against her decorated mane and tugs loose the reins from Amara's hold, bringing her back around from Willard's attention.

"Thank you for keeping her, I'm no good with carriages -- well, steering them anyways -- so I'll ride along side." Giselle admitted and stepped around, allowing Amara to descent from her temporary mount and board the vessel now under her care. The others it would seem, had taken to similar purposes, following after Gabriel's call that they bank East wherein a small town laid, a blemish upon the road, she remembers, called Braven. Fitting, her mind supplies, and she hosts herself back upon the dappled mare and steers her along side Amara's guidance, keeping herself at the flank and back, taking up a rear position of their stolen caravan of bounty.

Giselle had been privy, once, a long time ago lost in the shadows of night and memory, to the darkness of the Wildlands in the cover of pitch and wonder. Of what rutted among the browse and called in the night on capers of raven song and howls of addled creatures. Things that, by her observation, were warped eternally by something suspiciously similar to a magic infested artifact bridled under queer enchantment. Crystalline eyes panned towards the thicket of their hidden passage, the road hardly traversed by the undergrowth teeming about their hooves, the bodies left behind would appease and assuage curious appetance of those manic beasts drawn by the magic used today. And so, with that small, careful thought tucked into a reassured mind, Giselle lifted the veils upon her features and bounded her eyes straight ahead and urged her horse into keeping a steadier pace.

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[Heat]

As Darian seemed to appear from thin air, the former pirate king watched the assassin expertly cut down two of the ill prepared magicians. His compatriot had pulled a similar to maneuver to which Covell had, using his steed as a launching pad rather than anything else. Blood splashed the floor of cart, as corpses piled up on it. He had expected no less from the Black Lily Guild, exceptional violence was one of their many calling cards. He shifted towards the last magician, who was in Darian’s sights. Not to be unmatched, Covell smiled widely, a grin which missed a few teeth. The sheer fear in the man’s eyes, his body language already showing obvious defeat.

Two razor sharp saber blades whizzed through the air in a symmetrical swing, as the magician’s chest seemed to explode in a shower of blood. Breath exited lungs for the last time, and the corpse shimmied before it slammed to the floor in a death sprawl. Covell silently cleaned his sabers off on the man’s back, wiping the crimson splatters off his blades. With one more glance around he noted all of their foes had been slain.

“It’s already dusk, damnit.” Came the voice of Gabriel, their ‘leader’ clearly angered by their current situation despite the victory over the magicians.

“A few beasties don’t frighten me, though my stomach yearns for something strong after spilling a little blood,” Covell stated as he sheathed his sabers, then looked over towards Darian. Locking eyes with the assassin. ”Fine job there.”

The assassin grunted in response as he shoved a muddy boot into the torso of the magician holding his soliferrum hostage, and callously yanked it out.

Darian feared not the dark, nor the beats who prowled within it. He’d spent the better part of his life living in the Wildlands, taking whatever it savagely threw at whoever dare reside within her bosom. Yet not all were cut from the same cloth he was, such was pity, he’d expected some more backbone from members of the great Black Lily Guild. Despite that, fear was good, it atleast meant they were smart. One must always be aware of their limitations.

He regarded the pirate as he wiped the blood of the damned upon there couture. “Oh, having tummy troubles after happening upon a little blood, huh? I never took you as the hemophobic-type.”

“Nah, it has been too long since I’ve had a drink,” Covell replied with a smirk, it had been roughly a day since his last bit of liquor. “In my humble opinion, few things top that post slaughter sip of whiskey or rum. That in hand with a busty tavern wench, well it sounds like a good time indeed. I’m sure we’ll give these simple village folk a fun night.”

A quick laugh emitted from his mouth, the pirate was in a better mood than he had been before. Dots of blood marked his face, remnants of the recent magicians he had cut down. He’d clean it off when they got to their destination. He didn’t fear the wild out here, but sleeping in a warm bed was more comfortable than on the dirt floor. Of course nothing would ever top a gently rocking bed in his quarters on the Drowned Rose, as the ocean waves softly motioned underneath the vessel.

”A pirate who’s gone too long without a drink? Either the stories are untrue or life on land has made you less of an alcoholic.” Darian iotoned dryly as he sheathed his weapons.

He regarded the corpses for a moment then glanced at the setting sun and back at his compatriots. It would be foolhardy to bring bloody corpses into town, attracting every Drake within a twenty mile radius to their location. In one smooth motion he lifted one of the cadavers, removed his satchel, then dumped the body out of the cart and onto the road. The others would catch on soon enough.

Darian snickered under his helm as he worked. “Fun night you say? That or we’ll kill them smelling like a full course meal for any predator out in the Green.”

“Oh don’t you worry, I’m going to make up for lost time.” The pirate replied as he watched the man dump one of the bodies out of the cart. A wise move, they didn’t need more strange looks showing up to the town with a stash of dead, mutilated corpses. He knelt down, then grasped the one nearest to him. With a quick lift and drop he tossed it over the side, the dirt road staining with blood.

“Fun is fun, more killing could be fun. If any of the creatures out here want to come after us looking for a snack then they’ll end up with more than just an empty stomach,” Covell added with another smile, he did need a new belt. The hide of whatever monstrosity in that scenario decided to mess with them would do just fine.

“You can take that bravado up with the next mutant we meet. Be sure to have that same energy.” Darian breathed as he tossed the last body overboard and lounged on the cart floor. He examined the two satchels he swiped off the bodies of the magicians, no doubt filled with assets valuable to a magician, making it not only a great for sale in the Disk, but perfect bait.

“I have the same energy for whichever fight. Nothing frightens me anymore with all the things I’ve seen in my life. If you think the beasts in the woods are disturbing, just see the ones underneath the waters,” Covell said as he crossed his arms and looked at the now lounging assassin. “It may get dark and eerie out here, but there it’s a whole different thing. Watching your first mate get dragged into pitch black waters by unseen monstrosities tends to hurt the ease of sleep a bit, or it used to.”

“These are troubling times, the most a man can do is to make the most of it and enjoy it.” The pirate stated, rambling slightly.

Darian grunted in response. He could only take the pirates word for it. ”Well, if that’s the case I suppose a drink would be enjoyable. You wanna steer us clear of the Green? he suggested.

“A drink is always enjoyable. We’ll try not to flip the tavern upside down. Then we might actually have a mutant looking for us.” Covell said with another, more obvious smile. As he spoke his hands went up to grasp his hat, as he gently flicked dirt and grim off of it.

After firmly placing it upon the top of his head he figured it was time for them to get moving. He walked to the front of the cart, and seated himself in the driver's seat as he swiftly grasped the reins. The horses didn’t pay him much attention, whoever held their reins was of little concerns to them. One gently munched on grass, but paused as he motioned for the horses to start following Gabriel’s carriage.

“If you spot any of those beasts creeping up on us during our trip to Braven do let me know. I’m sure all the carnage might’ve drawn some curious monstrosities.” He stated with a turned head and another smile towards Darian as the horses followed the others.