[IC] The Wolven Storm

[Hexaflexagon]

Part One: The Coming Storm

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Farday 22, 1172 IC
The Village of Honlay, The North

Bran watched as the sun had just begun to crest the mountains to the east. Specks of yellow and orange danced among a clear blue sky cold and unfeeling. Bran had awakened hours earlier before the first signs of the sun to begin stoking the fires of his forge. It was a process that his father had taught him and his father before him. It was a task of balance being able to coax and play with the fire in just the right way to produce the required heat; too hot and the metal would heat and cool too quickly become brittle, too cold and you give air pockets the chance to form tampering with the blades integrity. Bran enjoyed his work as a smith as much as one could. It was a part of his life as much as the skin on his body or the hair on his head was, it was integral to him. An old ancestor had been one of the small party that first founded Honlay almost two hundred years ago, travelers moving north to harvest the valued lumber and ore in the surrounding mountains. A smith was always needed in these kinds of ventures somebody to mend the horseshoes or craft an axe or hoe. You'd always find work his father used to tell him proudly.

Grumbling to himself, he shrugged on his coat of hide and fur stepping outside of his relatively warm home. He closed the door behind him as gently as he could, but the old wood still creaked in protest as it moved. He prayed silently to the Spirits that Agrid or the kids wouldn't be woken up. He didn't need any distractions from his work. The wind swayed and playful danced about it pressing a hand against the bare skin of his face instantly making it twitch in the early morning. The harvest season had come and gone and with it the first touches of winter had begun to set in. Winter, it was something you put in the back of your head until it happened. But as soon as the first morning chills began to set in it got you to think. Did you store enough food? Have you chopped all the wood you are going to need? Do you have enough coin to pay where you yourself fell flat? It was a grim time, where the already grim state in the realms became ever darker with the longer nights. But at the same time, Bran was almost glad for its coming. The snows would mean a slowdown of the war, it meant that King Jaython's collectors wouldn't come and take their foodstuffs and other supplies for awhile too bundle in their cities and camps to bother simple peasants. Besides too many young men from Honlay had gone marching off due to the King's orders and have never returned.

Some would accuse Bran of being a liar. A supporter of the war and all the death it had brought. Why else would he continue to crafts swords and armor for the requesiton officers that came once every span? While it was true in a way that he has gained the most business he had in years due to the war it wasn't his choice. He didn't support Jaython, an ambitious young fool who killed their king and then left to starve while he took all their food to feed his armies. He would like nothing but to return to the days before, back when the Lysteria's ruled the lands. But he was no fool and he didn't say these things aloud. Besides at least Jaython was a Northern and the only chance they had to repulse the bruteish Vorstagians from destroying their land and eradicating their culture. So he made swords and other armaments for his army, armor too if they asked. He did it because like many others he had no choice. Beside if he refused the soldiers would proabably just burn down his forge anyway. Still it was hard for some of the others in the village to look at the man giving the soldiers who conscripted their sons and raped their daughters the same looks they had before. He didn't blame them. He would proabably do the same in his own shoes.

After checking to make sure that the forge was ready he began to go to work. Today was a good day though, he had no orders to fulfill for the soldiers and instead could do honest work. Gilford needed a new logging axe, something strong and sturdy enough to survive the coming winter. It was a simple thing but it was nice to know that it was to be cutting in trees and the occasional beast. But Bran would be the same level of patience and attention to detail as he did in all his pieces. He felt the heat rise and warm his body as the metal he had placed on the fire began to glow. Moving it from the forge to the anvil, he began to go to work with his hammer. The thudding crescendos of metal on metal echoed through the quiet morning as Bran continued to work. Body beginning to sweat despite the chill in the ear as his massive arm muscles tightened on each blow. As he continued to work he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. A flash of white, something moving on the road ahead of him. Four legged and moving quickly, some sort of large animal. Wolves were common around these parts and some even got courageous enough to try and venture into the village. Not wanting to take any chases, Bran stopped his work and drew his small sword from the sheath at his hip.

He moved off of his own property and onto the dirt path that constituted the main road, the ground sinking beneath his feet still wet from the rains last night. As the disturbance grew close enough to make out with his eyes, Bran took a step back. They were indeed wolves, white as snow but larger and bigger than anything he had ever seen before in his life. He wanted to call out but to who? His house was on the outskirts of the village and Agrid had to stay with the kids to keep them safe. Digging into his own personal resolve he steadied himself and waited for the beasts to come his sword in hand. He had been a soldier in his youth and fought in the wars but that was long ago and he hadn't swung a blade at anything in years. Than much to his surprises and to a response of a rather loud exclamation and curse from Bran, as the wolves drew closer to him at about ten feet away they transformed. Their great white furry forms shrinking and morphing until in their place now walking at a leisure pace were five individuals dressed in long black cloaks that seemed to shift and move like living shadow, that concealed their forms.

"Ah suggest ye turn aroond. We dornt much loch wizards roon these parts." He yelled out to the five individuals his voice shaking as he did. He had never met somebody that could use magic before. The closest thing he had was talking to the village herbalist and she just grounded leaves and roots together. But his mother had told him stories, stories of angry wizards destroying entire villages and flaying people alive. Magic users also brought bad luck wherever they went, plagues, failed crops. They didn't need anything like that round these parts. But it seemed that the figures were undeterred, the figure in the front continued his approach about the same size as Bran if a bit thinner he casually walked up to the smith his feet almost appearing to glide across the ground. Bran still had his sword out shaking as he did as the man draw close but as he was about to swing the man brought a hand to his face and his entire body froze. No matter how hard he flexed or tried to move he was rooted into place.

"Oh relax smith. We are just simple travelers passing through these parts." The man spoke his voice sing songy almost as if it filled the air around him. Then with a chuckle he drew back the hood of his cloak with a free hand. The man looked nothing like Bran had ever seen before. His skin was alabaster white and his eyes were as dark as the night sky above. His hair was also white and cut short and jagged atop his head and posed no signs of eyebrows. His ears were that of an els but instead of putting upward they curved downward. But most unsettling of all was his mouth each tooth was curved and sharpened to a point. Teeth meant for ripping and sundering flesh. The man pulled Bran's head until their eyes met. Then suddenly sharp pain as if somebody had smashed a spear into the back of Bran's head. He could feel as the man began to root around in his Bran peering through all his memories and emotions in less than an instant. And then it was over and the cassams of black seemed to twinkle.

"Oh that was delicious Bran. Such a simple life. Such a shame it has to end here." The man stated more matter of factly than actually sad. Bran watched helplessly as the man removed his sword from his still unmoving hands. He examined it for a time running his gloved hands of the blade, examining the metalwork and the forgery skill. Seemingly content he nodded at Bran and then a moment later plunged the blade through his gut. Pain flared through his body as suddenly he could move again but all his body did instead was collapse to the ground. He'd been stabbed once before but the pain still felt as fresh as the first time. The man left him alone to bleed to death as he turned back to address his companions. Bran managed to force his head up to see what was going on.

"Oh what a waste. They know nothing like the rest of them.... Kill them all and start with the Smith's house. His wife and children are still inside." The man spoke to his companions sounding content and happy. Bran's heart jumped as he heard them speak of his children and Agrid. He tried to will his body to stand, to do anything but the pain was too much and he could already feel his life slipping away from him. One of the robed figures pointed a arm in the direction of Bran's house. For a moment a great chill seemed to be cast over the area as if all the hate had been drawn out of it and then a moment later with a thunderous boom Bran's house erupted into a giant pillar of fire. Bran tried to yell but his mouth was gurgled and filled with blood. Then the mysterious figures moved on leaving Bran to die slowly as the ashes of his family soon drafted about him. Soon afterwards the screams began to engulf the surrounding area of Honlay as the slaughter began.

---

Farday 24, 1172 IC
On the road to Orvston

The Company had left the Imperial Capital three weeks ago and have been on the road ever since. It was as slow moving as was expected of a force of their size and their journey was only further happened by the distortion in the roads as they moved further north. Moving from the meticulous placed stone road systems of the Empire to the mud and dirt roads of their northern brethren. Most of the company was growing restless as was common on long trips such as these. They had run into only minimal trouble along the way, a group of marauders here, some monster attacks here and there. But beside that they had not been in combat for days and their swords were itching for blood. The nature of their continual march meant they only stopped in towns if only for a few hours at the most and that was no amount of time to drown your drinks in a tavern or screw your days away in a brothel. But of course they never spoke of these complaints aloud keeping their grumbling to a minimum and out of earshot of Odran or worse the Captain. They were bored but not suicidal.

Though they were less quiet about their complaints about a certain individual that had recently "joined them". The Sorceress, Lyssa Asteraceae. A lot of the members of the company where either from the North or soldiers of the armies in the South that Vorstag had crushed before the Treaty of the Golden Sun was shined. They hold no true love for the Vorstagian Empire and especially for the women that had brought entire cities to her knees and decimated their armies. Rumors surrounded her that her mother was a succubus and that she was one of the fabled Willborn those rare magic users born of great power that could destroy the realms, that she consorted with demons and other creatures. But to break it down simply they detested the idea of having an Imperial lapdog watching over them to make sure they did their work in a way that was considerable favorable to Katovier eld Kovari. They didn't need a bureaucrat to make sure they did a job that they were hired to do. Though despite this nd their many attempts to get a rise out of her, she remained cold like the coming Winter.

Even now she rode at the head of their formation to the right of the Captain, a spot where traditionally Odran would ride but who was now riding closely behind them. The Sorceress and the Captain spoke in little spurts along their journey. The Captain wasn't all too fond of her riding with him either as magic users generally just give him the chills but unlike some he at least had the maturity to deal with it. They were speaking now of simple things as the continued down the road to Orvston where they would arrive within the hour.

"I wonder Captain. Your men are on this mission because they have no choice in the matter, but you are another story. I can tell from your accent that you yourself were born in the North. So why would you help the man who is threatening your lands sovereignty? You could of turned down the offer and went back to fighting somewhere else. There are certainly more men in the world like the late Lord Van that would gladly hire you and your men for your services." Lyssa asked the Captain in her normal cool and passive tone. It was an innocent enough question to ask of course, but the Captain knew how people like her worked every question a sort of probe and disarming blow to see how you ticked and worked. The prying back of the cold exterior to stab at the meaty flesh underneath. But he did not care, either too proud or just crazy enough to play in her games unafraid.

"The same reason I reckon that you aren't a village witch healing rashes that young John got from sleeping with the village whore... It pays well. You know what the north did for me Sorceress? Nothing. It spit me out onto the streets what out a care in the world. I hold no strong feelings of patriotism towards King Jaython's cause or hatred towards Vorstag and your Emperor. Whoever wins this war? Well there will always be more wars after that, you see our business is not one that goes out easily." The Captain explained in a rough rumbling tone in his characterisation matter of fact fashion. His words were true though, the Captain held no allegiance towards any nation and considered himself no longer a man of the North a long time ago. He was a man of the Company and that was all and that was all he be until they day he died.

They both continued on in silence for a time considering the words spoken. Behind them though the world was filled with sounds as the members of the Company talked to one another in idle conversation that one had along the road, occasionally disturbed by the sounds of laughter or the snorting of a horse or an ox. In these moments of peace they sometimes seemed less like one of the fiercest armies in the Realms and more like a goddamn bunch of hooligans walking down the path to the next village to grab a pint. But the Captain allowed it, their was no use in forcing silence or strict marching orders all it did was continue to bring troop morale down and allow them to fall into the dreary state of routine and boredom. They only had to put up an air of professionalism when the public was viewing then if one man spoke out of turn or stepped off on the wrong foot, then they were to expect at least a good beating. It didn't matter where they were in the formation, the Captain always knew when somebody was up to no good. He called it intuition, the troops called it bloody unfair.

As they marched on their surroundings began to change. They went from lonely woods and hills to more flattened land where the trees began to disappear in their entirety having been chopped down long ago. Tall grassess were placed with bare soil intent on farming. But these farms were quiet and the occasional dwellings they passed had long since been abandoned showing signs of raiders and war parties having come through. The dirt road showed more signs of heavy footprints of load bearing horses and soldiers in mail and plate. And then they rounded a hill. And there below they could see the city of Orvston. Situated on a large island in the middle of the tumultuous and ever rough Zerrakan River. Orvston was one of the only safe crossing an army could use to cross the Zerrakan and had been fought over feveriously throughout the war and yet throughout it all King Jaython's men had held the city and it served as one of his many attacking points to launch his many armies southward. The signs of this combat could been all about them as they rode closer to City. Siege towers and catapults left when the attackers retreated, swords and shields littered the body but the worst was the smell. The smell of an innumerable amount of corpses filled the air and clung to the lungs and nostrils as it wafted by.

He rose his hand signaled as he pulled to the left going off of the road and moving towards the shores of the river where the stench was more bearable. They couldn't just march the entire Company into Orvston even if they wanted to. The soldiers in the garrison weren't stupid and a force of their size could wreak havoc and open the gates for a larger Imperial Invasion force. No they would have to send in a smaller party to at least secure passage for the Company through the city. The rest would have to wait outside in an encampment until then. At least though it would give them a chance to ask around. Orvston was a gateway of sorts a lot of people came in and out of the city. Maybe some of them had heard any of the rumors of the magical happenings they had been sent to investigate.

As everyone began to set up their tents and their encampments, The Captain sent out a runner - a young girl, an orphan war they had picked up along the way - to go search for seven individuals and to bring them back to him. He had already had has party for going to Orvston arranged in his head. He only hoped that he was not wrong in the group he had picked. He handed the little girl messages to go along with her as she went on these messages were a few simple words. But words that could strike the fear into any man or women in the entirety of the Company.

My Tent. Now.

[Terminal]

The Captain was not the only one lamenting the company's disarray as they marched along the Southern Zerrakan road.

Nearly twenty meters distant from the road, a lone man trailed through the forest. The sparse underbrush and fallen leaves of the light forest greeted his tread with only fell silence, as though the twigs and rotten plant matter were made of unyielding stone beneath the man's feet. The only hint of his passage was the faint whorl of leaves as his passing body stirred the air about the ground. Few individuals, even amongst the mettlesome number of the Company of Wolves, would normally stray so far. Attacks by marauding bandits and clots of monsters earlier in the march had all come from the sides of the road, out from the woods or from the concealment of cliff-side passages. To stray too far was to risk being the first victim.

The man had a tall and lean build, though the layers of clothing he wore underneath his darkened overcoat lent him a deceitfully broad appearance. His face was slightly gaunt and drawn with rounded edges, his complexion that of sullied wheat. His head was shaved wholly, his dark and balanced eyebrows being the only break in color upon his face other than his eyes - a dull and empty shade of orange, slightly protruded and with lods of a peculiarly soft definition. The man's expression was flat and apathetic, the visage of one who was bored with the entire universe and everything in it.

He was known amongst the Company as No-Quarter Kuro, and were he asked why he kept such a distance apart from them he would have answered, truthfully,

"So that once the enemy fires their first volley at you, I will not be amongst your number."

Kuro

Those who only knew of him by reputation took that sort of answer as a sign of cowardice, the words of a turncoat. Those few who had fought alongside him knew that it was simply a normal expression of the man's pragmatic nature - and had been the ones to give him his newest appellation.

"One time, a sellsword tried to surrender to us, yeah? The sorry bastard was scared shitless though and was waving his sword around, so Kuro shoots him dead with one of his fiddly little gadget crossbows. This other time, a warlock came up to us while we were killing time in a tavern, and starts to say we have three seconds to throw down our arms - ha! Kuro shot him right in the mouth before he even gets the fifth word out. Then a few weeks later, an elf gets the drop on me while I'm takin' a piss. Kuro wanders over and I guess the elf thought I had a knife, 'cus he points his bow at Kuro and tries to start a standoff sort of deal and, yeah. The man has got to have ice in his veins. He just pulled out a crossbow and shot the elf like he was buying cabbages at the market. Didn't care that he was in their sight - the fin-eared git looked like he couldn't believe it.

It's actually kind of a double edged sword though. He keeps killing bounties we need alive if they so much as say boo at him. If he could only be a little less fuckin' cutthroat all the time he'd be a treat."

Nailtooth

Kuro was not one to leave anything to chance. He trusted his eyes and ears to warn him in advance if a brigand or fiend approached him from deeper within the forest. He did not trust the same senses to warn him of a band of archers in the treeline a distance away, about to fire a volley of arrows at his marching column. His way, he could at least warn the company in advance.

Spotting a break in the treeline up ahead, Kuro hurried forward and emerged from the underbrush. He took a moment to examine the hills and riverbank before heading any further out and indulging an examination of Orvston. It had been several years since Kuro had seen the city, but even then it had been well defended with heavy siege engines mounted along the outer walls. If there was anything Kuro had cause to be leery of, it was those - from what he knew of the different forms and variations of siege engines, their ranges and capabilities could vary drastically. Without being able to examine them up close, there was no real way to determine what their effective range was.

He cast an idle glance at a nearby boulder, resting in a groove of gouged-out earth and soil that stretched out towards the city by more than ten meters. The lack of any mosses and the shattered chunks of jagged rock littering the area around it told of its foreign nature. Almost no way.

He let out a silent noncommittal huff and started heading back towards the road, where the remainder of the company had begun erecting tents and establishing the perimeter of their encampment. If it had been up to him, he would have had everyone set up camp back around the side of the hill, just out of sight from the city walls - and their catapults. He presumed the Captain was going out of his way to make sure the Orvston militia didn't become too cross with the company's presence - being out of range of their siege engines might have been safer in the tactical sense, but it certainly would not have made the guard any more inclined to open the gates, or to take the Captain and his Imperial watchdog for their word. Striding past an insufferably foul corpse that still hadn't even been picked halfway clean by the vultures yet, Kuro still decided it would be best if he cast his own bedding away from the encampment. Although the battlefield had doubtlessly already been scoured for valuables by thieves and grave-robbers, the temptation to do the same would be strong for many amongst the company - especially those stuck with patrol duty amongst the field of charnel. The watch would not be sound for as long as the company remained camped in the plains of such a recent battle.

Upon reaching the encampment, it did not take Kuro long to find his squad's tent. It had already been set up and Nailtooth was lounging on a bedroll, massaging his doubtlessly stiff legs. A particularly mousey boy by the name of Iikka was also present, securing the squad's lockbox inside the jaws of a bear trap (a lax precuation, given the kinds of people who gravitated to the company). The other two members of the squad were absent - presumably off haggling with the quartermasters or other soldiers by now.

"There you are. The courier girl came by just a second ago - had a slip for you from the Captain." He flashed a gap-filled smile at Kuro as he swiped the aforementioned slip of parchment from the ground and waved it in the air gently. "Feeling nervous?"

"If there was a problem he would have sent his enforcers instead." Kuro said simply, lightly pinching the slip from Nailtooth's grip without so much as glancing at the man in favor of looking about the tent to ensure that his stored bedroll's clasp was still secure, and therefore probably untampered with.

"You're not even a little curious?" Iikka asked as he carefully poised the lockbox atop the bear trap's tension trigger.

"Merely unconcerned. The Captain has little reason to be aware of me even peripherally. Doubtlessly our platoon officer has just requested my presence for some modest purpose. Probably for my advice on the possible range of those engines, if it has been confirmed that they are dwarven designs."

"Eh, about that." Nailtooth said, scratching at his chin with a faint squint. "He, uh, might be a bit more aware of you than you think. I told plat about that small hiccup during the Waxwane job with the baron you stabbed in the arm, so..."

Kuro did not react, opting to finally look at the message. He suppressed the urge to raise an eyebrow - he never let his mask slip - and placed the message down on the small keg of ale Nailtooth insisted on hauling everywhere. "Whatever the matter, it cannot wait. I will be back for my bedroll later." He ducked out of the tent and immediately began making his way through the rapidly erecting encampment, heading for the raised banners of the company the Captain's aides had set to demark his personal tent.

[Littlefinger]

Connor was absolutely glad that they had left Imperial City behind, he still felt someone there might recognize him and brand him a deserter. Another part of his mind suggested that no one at all cared or noticed, more likely they were glad to be rid of his troublesome nature. Yet, during the Company's stay in the Imperial City he stayed hooded most of the time when doing errands and preferring to remain in closed quarters rather than stroll through the busy capital of the Empire. His relief of leaving behind Imperial City was abrubtly cut short as the island bearing the city of Orvston came in view.

It was February and the winter's grip felt tighter in the air as the Company went further and further North. The mentalist despised the cold even though he was born in a village bordering the North, it was something that his childhood friends mocked him about. Unfortunately for him, having put on a fur cloak with the hood on his head to prevent as much as he could the winter cold, did not prevent him from the lingering stench of carrion. He had been in just a few skirmishes in his life, and in none did he stay long enough in the aftermath to smell the horrible stench of corpses. Knowing that he was one of the least experienced in warfare from the whole company, Connor maintained a grimaced face to look as if he wasn't taken aback by the smell.

The company marched on a little while before orders came to stop and prepare an encampment. Connor noticed a few groups of men spraying out of the company into the surroundings.

Watch and I am not called ?

He thought that to himself with a raised eyebrow but greeted the news happily as he would have time infront of a fire and be able to meditate a bit. Connor hated meditating as much as he hated anything that made him stay in one place and do nothing but understood its importance in developing his skill in magic while he was being tutored by an old hermit - Dreadtalon - in a community of believers of the Old Ways, same as the community in which he was born in.

The adventurous youth reined in his horse and went off it giving the reins to a young boy who had a responsibility for the horses. Connor nodded to a few men of his platoon who were waiting for him to pitch the tents. As his relief faded earlier from leaving the Imperial City, his relief of having time to meditate was cut short by a shout.

"'Ey, Cub! Git ova' here! Got some erran's fer ya to do."

Bloody Spirits, I am getting tired of this. Connor muttered to himself then shouted back. Can't you get someone else do this sort of shit, Meirick?

Connor barely heard some loud rambling from the man and realized surprisingly that Meirick, that old crook, had given up. Such an occassion was very rare considering that man's stubborness, one comparable to Connor's. With a smile, he helped his comrades to pitch some tents up and start a few fires around the encampment.

Feeling free of responsibility for now, Connor knew well that he had a short amount of time to meditate before he would be called to stand watch. With a graceful step he entered the tent and knew well there was no one inside, his squad were either on watch or chattering over the flames with their comrades. The mentalist was glad that the smell of food was beginning to take ground over the disgusting stench of carrion. He sat down and closed his eyes inhaling a vast amount of air, the first thought that crossed his mind was his desire to join men around the fires and entertain them with jokes and sarcastic remarks. Connor waved away that thought and lunged himself in the flow of the Will.

Connor was well aware and taught of the dangers of the Will, especially for mentalists, as the Will came in the shape of a strong stream where all conciousness was flowing in and if not careful one could 'drown' there. He felt the 'noise' of hundreds of thoughts and decided to go through different minds. Connor could pick out those magically potent and 'visualize' their strength in the Will, they glowed like crystals underwater shone by the summer sun, the more they glowed the stronger their current mastery of the Will. The mentalist was reluctant to wander in the thoughts of those magically potent as his presence was often noted. He could conceal his presence in the minds of those not magically potent or not possessing a strong will but his skill in concealing his presence when touching the minds of magically potent was ridiculously weak. There were a more than a dozen men in the Company who were not magically potent but had barries of steel guarding their thoughts, some of them like the Captain who's barries would only leave a hole when he expected a message from Connor, the mentalist did not know how he did it that and presumed it was subconciously done, moreover he was unsure if the Captain could detect him and his presence if he attempted to break the man's barriers and Vaelis was more than sure that he did not want to try to experiment. Another such man was the Sarge - Odran Tarlach, he had very mere capabilities in the Will but had barries in his mind that were not as strong as the Captain's but were definitely endurable at least to Connor's skill level of Mentalism. He once attempted to pry on the sergeant and was harshly disciplined which resulted in Connor not trying to pry on the sergeant again.

His magically potent comrades, despite his reluctance, were usually his target of prying on as that way he became more experienced on attempting to conceal his presence in the mind of mages. As such he let his mind guide him to those that gleamed with magical potency, Connor was suddenly 'blinded' and quickly grasped his control over his flowing in the stream of the Will, even in his current state he knew his heart was currently racing in his body. The mentalist knew immediately that was the mind of the Imperial sorceress that was accompanying the Company, Connor realized the mastery of that woman. His adventurous spirit told him to jump straight in and see what he could find out, probably pillars of flame guarding her thoughts and mind, but even the brave bordering stupid mentalist knew that such attempt might end up negative for the whole Company and as such he was once again in the flow finding others with skill in the Will amongst his company. The first mind Connor 'saw' was Trialas', the alcoholic eccentric red-haired elf, he liked pulling pranks on Triala and often he'd influence her to trip while drunk. Those pranks halted the day his tent caught blue fire and he barely escaped with a few burns from the wrath of the pyromaniac. It was Odran's duty to stop the whole cat and mouse chase as flames were obliterating everything in their path while Connor was fleeing, his laugh echoing and contaminating the whole company until Odran, out of simply nowhere, bust a hilt in Connor's gut and knocked him out cold. This whole situation resulted in a week of dirty errand work and double shifts on watch and patrols, additionally he had a word with the Captain whose presence was enough for Connor to cease such attempts on the temeperament elf and generally.

The two other elves, Colette and Kaerun, were the next Connor saw. The latter gleaming less than the former. Kaerun having walls that were quite strong but seemed unaware when the mentalist was trying his skill to dig through them, or at least if he was aware he never made any comment on that. Colette, on the other hand, was more skilled in the Will than Kaerun and was the newest member, to his knowledge, of the Company. The mentalist does not believe she has ever caught his presence in her mind, but his touch on her mind was very reluctant and Connor was barely able to hear some thoughts and feelings which resulted in him knowing that she had a distate towards humans.
Moreover, Connor rarely has the time or the desire to enter in his comrades' minds, as the results of being caught was very harsh discipline and Connor did not find it worthy doing such things on those he deemed on his side without purpose.

The mentalist dropped himself in the flow again, hearing hundreds of thoughts of those that were easiest targets to Connor's magic but this broad listening resulted in hearing only a cacaphony. Connor's mind wandered for a bit until he caught one of those that he called 'unorthodox', due to their minds taking the shape of a mix of colors and having a 'feeling' of something different. The first was a dwarven women that he always forgot her name, finding it hard to pronounce, Connor could describe the feeling of her mind as that of the safety one feels around his guard dog. It was very hard to describe it differently and it was most likely Connor's skill in the Will that could not let him comprehend it otherwise. The mentalist never remembers having any word with her, only a few orders adressed to him and another group of men.

Connor 'glanced' at the other 'unorthodox' presence of mind and he easily realized who it was as he was struck with horror that made a chill run through his body. The stories he heard about this man were quite disturbing and his presence of mind described it, it felt as death. It emitted a certain coldness that always made Connor stay away from his mind, it was uninviting and the thought of going there felt as if jumping in an endless pit. As much as he was brave, Connor knew the results of prying on comrades' minds. And No-Quarter Kuro was not the most hospitable mind he would like to venture in.

He was again on the flow of hundreds of thoughts and the cacaphony of it, when his mind 'glanced' at another 'unorthodox' presence of mind and one which he felt most awkward. It emitted the feeling of a stalking predator ready to lunge at its prey and Connor imagined the smell of canine coming from that mind. It was a man who was renown for his tracking skills and often he was part of the parties that were sent for scouting missions along with Connor, but never did both of them end up in the same group so he never remembered the name he was called.

Connor left himself in flow of the river and made out in the cacaphony a thought about himself, stubbornly he filtered the cacaphony looking for that mind. His mind ended up prying on a young girl that's thoughts were focused as a needle at finding Connor. He preferred not to barge in her mind and attempt on hearing her surroundings to find out her exact location as he feared her age might not withstand Connor's erratic skill and result in her fainting. The mentalist left himself go just a moment before the young girl ventured in his tent holding a letter.

She hastily gave him the letter and left without uttering a single word. Connor raised an eyebrow, quite surprised at receiving a letter. He wondered if this was part of a prank someone was pulling on him. Inspecting the letter on all sides as if it might contain something dangerous, he opened it and three words drained the blood from his brain.

His mind and heart raced as he thought of anything he might've done lately that would bring him to the Captain. Connor could not make out any reason to go the Captain and now was the least moment he would attempt to even go near the Captain's mind, especially with the slight headache received from lingering for long in the flow of the Will.

Had the sorceress found out who he was and the Empire still aimed to deal with deserters, despite how lesser, as they do - with death ? No, it could not be so, he would've just been assasinated, or does the sorceress seek to make an example of him in Imperial City?

All these thoughts raced through his mind as he headed towards the fated tent of the Captain, deep inside he smiled. Whatever it was, it would prove adventure, if it resulted in his death. Somehow this made him feel more calm.

[FantasyChic]

Trotting along, a lone horse near the back, Colette rode in silence. Truth be told, she did most things in silence. It was better to contemplate life when things were silent. The other members riding along with her, however; weren't so keen on being quiet, laughing, cracking jokes, and mentioning women they saw and their...attributes and abilities in bed. Colette would have loved kicking them in their manhood for disrespect for the supreme gender, but she reeled it in. She had to remember, she was part of a team now. A team with mostly humans.

Humans.

What a cruel trick fate played on her. She left one cruel human master only to be placed under another one. The Captain, as he wanted to be known and made sure you called him such (as her shoulder scar was evidence of) was cruel, but it took every ounce she could muster to say that he wasn't without cause. Here she was, a young, elf woman hoping to be a part of his forces. She couldn't imagine the things running through his head as he saw her.

She remembered when she was tasked to show off her skills. How she hit the targets in front of her with her arrows. She remembered the human man that laughed it up, making jokes about her as she shot. It took one placed arrow to shut him up.

She didn't kill him, but she took small satisfaction in him going to the healers to get an arrow taken out of his arse.

One month has passed since she joined. As the company stopped and began setting up their tents, she took a brief look around.

One particular man caught her attention. Connor was his name. He looked at her and their eyes met. She felt a small twinge, but let it go. She noted the other humans that were with her. There was one with an odd name. He seemed to punch first, ask questions never. She could get behind that. Gideon caught her eye as well. She noted nothing special about him, though she had an uncomfortable feeling in her gut when she looked into his eyes. Lastly, she noted Odran, an old man and one that didn't mean much to her. A typical swordsman, and an old fool. Humans were all like.

She paid little attention to the dwarf woman. She had no strong feelings against or for the dwarves, but she couldn't be sure the woman was someone she'd care to know. There were two other elves part of the regiment, but in her opinion, they were quite different than she expected elves to be like. The first was Triala. The red haired elf liked to drink and joke around. Colette could feel herself probably getting along with her eventually. The other was Kaerun. He was largely different than most elves she's seen. He was an outcast, if she had to give her say. She felt connected to him for that alone.

A young girl came running forward and handed her a note. Colette gave her a cold, stare before she retreated. She opened the note and rolled her eyes. A simple message, a vague threat. The undertone of the note suggested she should be afraid. She wasn't. She finished setting up her tend and made her way over.

Maybe she wouldn't be bored anymore.

[DontCallMeZelda]

With a low grunt Gideon threw the last of his things on the ground in the small tent that he had erected for himself. The Company had set up a large camp in the area so it was his duty to see to his own tent setup and upkeep in order for him to have a place to sleep and rest in between whatever it was they would be doing. The man looked up and fixed a small knot that seemed to almost be untied before giving himself a small pat on the back for successfully setting up a tent. It was a small feat. No need for celebration. But, he wanted the pat on the back by himself.
Gideon moved the flap to his tent back and stepped outside of it.

As he looked out at the encampment he could only smile as he was rather happy about the change of scenery and pace the Company was moving at. He had only been with the Company for a few years now or so, but he was very happy the Company decided to leave the Imperial City. He never much care for cites of that stature. Too stuffy and crowded for him. He preferred living this way. Or in a small village of some kind. To him, this was right at home. Some were upset with the change, but others like him seemed to be getting along just fine. The Company was his home and he was happy about that.

The hustle of Company members here and there was enough to give the weak willed person a headache of some kind. Gideon had grown up with hustle so to him, this was nothing.
Humans of all shapes and sizes trotted along down dirt roads and grassy areas as they were all trying to set up their tents too. Elves and Dwarves were here too. Gideon was not one to discriminate either. Even though the common notion to believe was that humans were superior to the other races, he had spent enough years in this Realm to know that that was most certainly not true. But, he kept that opinion to himself. He was just as much a freak as anyone else in this crazy world.

Gideon let the tent flap close with a small flapping sound and he moved into his tent and sat down on the small cushion he had in the middle of his tent. He closed his eyes for a few seconds and took in a deep breath. As he did this his thoughts started to fly by at light speed as he stayed in this meditative state. He knew things were about to pick up as the Company was here setting up a camp like this. Gideon had a feeling they would not be fighting monsters of any kind, but he was preparing himself for anything. In his line of work, you never know what to expect.
Tid bits of information and facts of things he had learned started to fly through his head as he seemed to lose himself on the ground in his tent.
As he sat there the information seemed to flow away and it was all replaced by the image of his wife. He awoke from the trance with a small gasp and almost fell backwards. Luckily he caught himself.

Right when he came to, he noticed a small orphan girl holding the flap of his tent back and staring at him. He stared back and without any words being exchanged she handed him a note and then took off.
Gideon sat up and read the note. It was from the captain. Now that was man Gideon respected. The note was short and sweet and instructed him to seek the captain at his tent.
So, Gideon grabbed his armor and weapons and got himself ready before heading out his tent and walking down the path to the Captain's tent.

As Gideon cowered the encampment for the Captain's tent, he realized that he was not the only one heading towards the same place. Other members were heading the same way. Whatever their reasons, he believe they were all going to be connected some how.
Gideon pushed forward to the large tent that was the Captain's. He was prepared for whatever and ready to get this show on the road. Whatever it may be.
As he pushed towards the Captain's tent, Gideon was really able to take in the smell of war and death that had surrounded and engulfed the encampment. Not his choice of things to experience with his nose, but it didn't repulse him.
Whatever the Company was planning, nay, whatever the Captain was planning for he was the Company, was going to be big.

[Lexicon]

Surprises

Triala glared at the slack-jawed mercenary, her amber eyes narrowing into angry slits.

The human smiled back, displaying an impressive array of rotten teeth, and shifted from one foot to another.

A chill wind, laden with the scents and sounds of sellswords making camp, tousled Triala's red hair and caused a few stray locks to fall across her face.

"I don't...what the fuck are you even asking me, Arno?" Triala demanded as she slowly leaned forward, causing the wooden seat beneath her to creak ominously. Gods in the Beyond, Osric's wagon was making more noise these days than a Cygnari noblewoman trying to use a chamber pot after gorging herself on white peppers. The elf sighed heavily, knowing it would rain gold coins and naked virgins before Osric "The Mad Mage" Weaver let anyone touch his precious "wizard's wagon." The man believed all wainwrights were thieves, drunkards, or some unspeakable combination of the two. As if he could hear her thoughts, Osric's high-pitched laughter drifted out from the wagon's covered interior, and Triala shot a caustic glare over her shoulder at the gaunt man reclining against a pile of burlap sacks. The talented spellcaster only laughed harder, his bony shoulders shaking beneath his velvet robes, and gestured for his apprentice to pay attention to the simpleton standing before her.

Flicking a strand of hair away from her face, the elf took a breath in through her nose and let it out slowly. Osric was enjoying every moment of this, and she couldn't blame him. Arno Fossey might be a moron, but it was Triala's responsibility to help him. Riding in the wizard's wagon meant you were dutybound to distribute any alchemical or magical solutions the Company of the Wolf's members needed. The garishly painted purple wagon, a gift from the Captain to Osric for his thirty years of exemplary service, contained some of the band's most valuable reagents, poultices, and arcane curiosities. Some of the mercenaries were convinced Osric even had a scrying orb hidden amongst all the crates, sacks, and barrels. Rumors notwithstanding, the fiery-haired elf would probably be killed on the spot if she lost her temper and accidentally incinerated the wizard's wagon with her pyromancy.

Pursing her lips and setting the wagon's reins on her lap, the she-elf asked, "How long have we known each other, Arno? You joined the Company before the Battle over Silver Lake, right?"

Arno's round, greasy face scrunched up for a moment beneath his lobster-tailed helmet as he tried to remember. Grunting and shrugging his broad shoulders, he finally said, "Uhhh...sure, sounds about right, Ala. The Battle over Silver Lake was...mmm...oh wait...when was that again?"

Triala wanted to scream. Or at least throw something at this buffoon. Whenever the Company of the Wolf stopped marching for the day, Triala had an opportunity to race over to the band's finest cook, an elven woman named Lanriel "Sweetsong" Valtir, and ask for a freshly baked honey roll. Of course, Lanriel also had to feed a mob of unruly sellswords so the red-haired elf needed to put in her request before work began on the evening meal. And Triala wouldn't reach Lanriel's wagon in time if she couldn't get rid of Arno Fossey. This was one of the difficulties with what Osric called "walk-alongs," a term he'd created to describe the men and women who came to the wizard's wagon for help. You never knew how long it would take to solve somebody's problems. Neither "The Mad Mage" nor Triala minded handing out a pouch of sirrac seeds to a hired blade that needed extra energy to endure a long day of marching. If they showed signs of addiction, however, they were cut off. Occasionally, someone would succumb to a minor illness, like lover's pox or lockjoint, and they'd need a potion or ungent brewed. Osric prided himself on having almost every alchemical ingredient known to man stored somewhere in the wizard's wagon. It was just a matter of navigating the disorganized interior and finding what you needed. Still, requests for sirrac seeds and various poultices were typical for a mercenary company.

But morons like Arno Fossey believed the reagents in Osric's wagon could do the impossible. And if they failed then the mage and his apprentice undoubtedly had a miracle or two up their sleeves. These ignorant clods annoyed Triala and her mentor so much they'd actually started taking turns dealing with them. It was the elf's turn now, and Arno was her first walk-along of the day. The Company had stopped marching less than half an hour ago, and the flabby hired blade was already asking for something the elven mage couldn't provide.

Baring her teeth in a furious grimace, the elf said, "The Battle over Silver fucking Lake happened in 1170 IC. It was two years ago! Two! You have known me for two years now, Arno. Have you ever seen me cast a spell in those two years that, and these are your words not mine, would make someone's teeth less shitty? Think about it for a moment."

In a revelation worthy of someone possessed by the Spirits, Arno suddenly realized something was annoying Triala. He didn't know what it could be, though. He also didn't particularly care. Wiping his filthy hands on his leather cuirass, the sellsword said, "Uhhh...no, I don't think I remember seeing you do nothing like that, Ala. Well...no, no I don't think I have."

"No. Never. Now, if I remember our last discussion correctly, I asked you to stop chewing so many damned zenolia leaves. I know they taste fucking wonderful, but they also turn your teeth to mush if you chew more than one or two a day. I told you this and you told me to, and these are your words once again, 'Piss off, you fucking ugly long-ear,'" Triala said and, despite her rapidly diminishing chances of getting a honey roll, a cruel smile spread across her pale visage. The expression stopped abruptly when it reached the scar tissue covering the right side of her face, creating an unnatural-looking half grin that made most people recoil in disgust.

"So, does that mean you can help me?! My teeth are hurting something awful," Arno said, his voice brimming with hope and excitement.

"I...Angharad's flaming cock, man, what did I say to make you think I...?" Triala started to say before stopping and taking one last deep breath. Osric was always telling her to calm down and breathe before she acted. If she couldn't make Arno leave after this final attempt then she would just set him on fire. Nobody would miss the obnoxious whoreson. "Listen to me closely, asshole. I...cannot...help...you. Now, piss off, you fat, greasy pile of horse turds. Oh, and thank you for visiting the wizard's wagon. Have a Light blessed day and please come see us again."

Arno's face went slack for a moment and then he took a step towards the wagon, his puffy features twisting into an expression of unbridled rage and hatred. The cut-throat reached for the rusty knife dangling from the rope belt around his waist. He wasn't going to let this elven bitch talk to him like that! He was Arno fucking Fossey! He'd fought in the Battle over Silver Lake in...in...whatever year IC Ala had said! As soon as the bloated sellsword's fingers touched the hilt of his pigsticker, however, Triala's eyes turned dark blue and the air around the wizard's wagon suddenly became still and warm. And it was getting warmer by the second. The lone black-furred ox yoked to the purple wagon let out a grunt and shook his horned head, obviously disturbed by the sensation of someone reaching for the Will.

"This is your last chance, Arno," Triala snarled as she hopped down from her seat and stood tall in front of the overweight mercenary. "Fuck off or I will make you fuck off. With fire." Thankfully, Arno Fossey didn't have any intention of dying today, and he promptly ran off into the crowd of Company members erecting tents near the wizard's wagon. Nobody seemed to have witnessed the confrontation or they'd all decided to ignore it. Sighing in relief, the she-elf allowed the Will to drain from her like water through a sieve and stroked the terrified ox's dark fur. An expression of distaste and irritation flittered across Triala's scarred face. She hated using her abilities to scare people, but some folks were just too stubborn and foolish. They wouldn't respond to anything less than blatant intimidation or excessive force. Or both. Wiping her sweaty brow and giving the ox one last pat, the red-haired elf turned to get back into the wagon...only to find Osric standing behind her, his grey eyes glittering with disapproval and concern. Triala held up her hands and said, "Osric, you know I wouldn't actually-"

"I'm not mad at you for scaring that shit stain, my temperamental apprentice," the human mage said as he reached into the wagon and pulled out the thornwood quarterstaff he'd purchased for Triala nearly ten years ago. After handing the weathered stave to his pupil, Osric held up a scrap of parchment and said, "No, I am worried about this. One of those brats we picked up in the last town came by the wagon while you were educating our fat friend. She looked scared for some reason so I got out of the wagon, and she shoved this into my hands. The Captain wants to see you in his tent. Immediately. Perhaps you'd like to tell me what this is all about, hm?"

Triala's mouth fell open into a silent 'O' of surprise. In truth, she'd done her best to avoid antagonizing or even interacting with the Captain after that whole incident involving his flynska hat and Blackheart, her beloved Vorstagian Charger. Before the First Battle for Redstone Village in 1162 IC, one of the other mercenaries had decided to take a basket they'd found near the makeshift forge the band used to make repairs in the field. The man or woman in question apparently wanted to use the basket to gather pearl berries from a nearby thicket. It turned out that basket was given to the Captain as a gift by one of the village woman, who was unspeakably grateful for the Company of the Wolf's protection from the Vorstagian menace. It also wasn't a basket, but a hat made of woven fronds that happened to be shaped like a basket. A traditional northern basket hat or flynska. Not only did Redstone Village eventually fall to the Empire, but Blackheart, who loved pearl berries more than anything, found the hat full of fruit beside the ramshackle smithy. Whoever picked the berries evidently decided to do something else after putting enough fruit in the flynska to feed an army. Or to satisfy one hungry Vorstagian Charger.

The Captain hadn't looked pleased when he'd emerged from the forge to find his half-eaten hat dangling from Blackheart's mouth. Triala, who'd tied the stallion to a low-hanging branch while she went to run a few errands in Redstone Village proper, arrived just in time to see her horse devour the rest of the flynska. The elf apologized profusely and promised to make the Captain a new basket hat, but the man just grunted and said all was well in a tone that indicated the exact opposite. Later that evening, the Company of the Wolf lost the First Battle for Redstone Village and, almost one year later, they were defeated again at the Second Battle for Redstone Village. Triala's memories of that quaint northern settlement weren't exactly positive.

Could this message be about that? It seemed preposterous. Almost ten years had passed since the basket hat affair took place.

Seeing the horrified expression on his apprentice's face, Osric said, "Oh, calm down, Triala, or you'll soil those lovely calfskin breeches. I'm sure the Captain just wants to know if we acquired anything noteworthy during our visit to the Imperial City. Which we didn't because everything was so damned expensive! Vorstagian dogs! Erhem, you should head towards the Captain's tent now. He may have dwarven blood in his veins, but our fearless leader is not a patient man. Or a talkative man. Or a hygienic man. Or...well, you get the idea." Osric paused and tugged at the remnants of his once impressive white mustache a few times. Clearing his throat, he said, "I expect you to be refreshed and ready to continue our discussion about pyrite ore when you return. Perhaps we could find a way to create pyrite powder? Or pyrite-tipped arrows? Hmmm...oh, and you might want to send someone to check on that orphan girl. I blew her away from the wagon with a gust of magical wind after she handed me the note. I think she might have landed on her head. Poor dear."

Triala stared at Osric, her mouth hanging open slightly. He'd done what to who now?!

"Why are you looking at me like I just said I eat babies in my spare time?" the skeletal mage asked when he saw the she-elf gaping up at him. "The little wretch was staring at me! Well, she was staring at my mustache. I know I blew half of it off when we were experimenting with dwarven blackpowder the other night, but I will not be gawked at. I am not some animal in the Imperial Zoo, thank you very much. I would think you of all people would understand, Triala."

"I do understand, Osric," the elf said, the corners of her lips turning up as she spoke. "I also don't go around blowing children over with magic for staring at me. Usually."

Waving his hands as if he was shooing away an annoying insect, "The Mad Mage" said, "Oh, don't be so particular, Triala. It's a most tiresome quality. Now, get yourself gone before I do something unpleasant."

"You're insane, you old fool," the red-haired elf said in an exasperated, gently teasing tone as she turned to leave.

"And you're hideous, you pointy-eared wench," Osric said affectionately, completing the bizarre farewell ritual they'd developed over the years.

As her teacher started to unhook the weary ox from the wagon's yoke, Triala pulled up the hood of her black cloak and walked into the swirling madness of Company sellswords trying to complete the numerous tasks essential to establishing a proper encampment. A few mercenaries, apparently too hungry to wait for "Sweetsong" to make supper, were chewing on strips of dried meat while setting up their tents. By this point, however, most of the hired blades were busy cleaning or repairing their clothes, armor, and weapons. Others were setting up a ring of sharpened wooden stakes around the slowly expanding cluster of canvas tents. Triala even heard a few hired blades bawling out old tavern songs as they worked, though their off-key singing made it impossible to tell if they were singing "Bread, Blades, and Blood" or "The Lion and the Lying Lady." The whole area seethed with barely controlled chaos, but somehow a well-defended camp was starting to take shape.

Luckily for the plump Triala, whenever the band of sellswords marched from one place to another, each person's position in line was determined by how many years they'd been with the Company. Since Osric was one of the older members, his wagon was permitted to ramble along in the middle of the throng, and this put him within spitting distance of the Company's highest-ranking officers. It also made sense to have the valuable wizard's wagon near the front of the column. As she walked towards the Captain's large, and strangely foreboding, tent, Triala wondered why the Company of the Wolf's leader wanted to see her. The whole situation made her nervous. The only other time she'd truly made an ass of herself was when Connor Vaelis had provoked her into nearly setting the entire Company on fire. The sack of shit had paid for it in the end, but the damage to her reputation was irreversible. She was considered dangerous and extremely unreliable thanks to Connor's prank. Was that what this was about? Or did it have something to do with the Imperial Sorceress' presence and the Company's abrupt departure from the Imperial City? Shaking her head and frowning, the she-elf stepped aside to let a mercenary carrying a heavy crate totter past only to find herself standing before the Captain's tent. There were several people already pushing their way through the entry flap. And one of them was Connor Vaelis.

Triala clenched her fists and entered the tent, though she stood a few paces away from the rest of the group. She didn't want to talk to Connor unless she had no other choice. Gods in the Beyond, what was the Captain hoping to accomplish? Was all this secrecy necessary? And why was Connor fucking Vaelis involved?

[Lucky Knight]

Blueberries. Blueberries, and … peaches?

No, that can't be right.

Kaerun sipped at his flask again, keeping more of the whiskey on his tongue this time to try to parse through what it was he was tasting. Definitely blueberries amidst the incredibly sharp tang of homemade swill, but that second strain, that echo of fruit beneath it … he couldn't place it. Right on the tip of his tongue. So to speak.

He let the slow, easy movement of the horse beneath him soothe his thoughts in an effort to lull himself into an unconscious revelation, though he held out no hope of it working. Instead he tapped one of the arms that encircled his waist and pressed the flask into the first hand that freed itself from its grip.

“Try this.”

The voice of his companion was soft and distant. “Mm? What is it?”

Slow. Slurred. Had she been sleeping?

“I think you'll like it. Take a swig.”

The flask and the hand of its bearer disappeared. Moments later he felt a splash on the back of his neck and a sputtering dose of words that would've made a sailor blush. “Asshole! What is this? Pure alcohol?”

Not asleep anymore. Kaerun fought down a grin. “Blueberries and what else?”

“Blue … there are flavors in this?” He felt her move in the saddle behind him, and in his mind's eye he could see the raven-haired girl signing a ward against evil and chaos. A true believer? Or just someone with bad habits? “May the Lady defend me from the insanity of men.”

A pause, then: “Where are we?”

Kaerun reigned his horse in as they approached the main campsite. A few dozen Company soldiers had already begun clearing the ground and erecting tents. A couple of them had been set to work constructing rough fortifications – a bristling wall of wooden spikes that wouldn't do much to actually protect them beyond frightening would-be thieves – and Kaerun could practically feel the resentment and boredom radiating off of them.

That's why it always paid to arrive late, especially if it was seniority that dictated camp hierarchy like it was amongst the Wolves. A lesson crucial to attaining a modicum of happiness in the life of a dog of war.

Or … wait. Should he should be thinking himself less a 'dog' and more a 'wolf of war' now? Such things mattered to some. Ah, well. It would come in time, he supposed, if not necessarily the sort of time the Company had left in it. After all, he'd been one of the Captain's sword-arms for a barely decade and now they were riding into the jaws of annihilation.

This might be a very short stint indeed.

“We're a stone's throw from Orvston,” he answered, dismounting.

Once he was clear of the saddle he turned back to his companion and offered a hand. She accepted and descended from her seat as gracefully as she could. Which, truth be told, wasn't all that graceful. It was difficult to maintain dignity when it came to traveling; in his long life it had proven to be one of the great equalizers.

A cold breeze gripped the pair of them as she gained her balance on the pack earth beneath them. “Do you think it'll snow soon? I haven't seen any snow in ages.”

“Ages?” Kaerun asked, bemused.

She grinned. “Ages and ages.” Her smile was all teeth, and either through virtue of her youth or a vestige of the clean living she once adhered to, those teeth were still quite pretty. Odds were against her keeping them in the long run, though. Poor girl. In just a few decades she'd fall apart; he could already see the faintness of lines wearing into the edges of her eyes, and could spot where her skin would begin to sag.

What was that pity Old Tongue quip? “Such is the beauty of a human – a ray of candlelight upon rough waters.”

A quip that actually didn't sound nearly as cruel in the language of those it insulted as it did in the language of those who were assholes enough to immortalize it. What did that say of the elves? Nothing he didn't already know. Monsters, the lot of us, and there's the truest truth I know.

He put a hand upon his companion's shoulder. “Annah-”

“Arabella,” she said, correcting him.

“Sure. You've paid me to take you this far, and I'll try to get you to Orvston before sundown, but I can't make any promises. I'll have to check in with with the Captain before I can break camp and take you to town.”

She smiled again. “That's fine. Probably wouldn't have made it this far on my own, so waiting a little while longer won't kill me. And … it's been nice, having someone to watch over me, like this.” Something passed through her expression, an intensity that spoke of layers beneath her words. Was she honestly this thankful? “Anyway, I just wanted to say...”

A shadow fell across Kaerun's mind, a gentle presence that had an air of timidity about it. It was the soft probing of Will through the surface of his thoughts, hesitant to sift through what it found but never quite shying away from the deed. Connor.

He's getting better, Kaerun mused. A much lighter touch this time.

If nothing else he'd reached a point where his sending was stronger than anything Kaerun could manage himself. There was a glimmer of something like pride in that, that he could have served to witness the growth of one of their number in strength of Will. It kept people like the Cub alive when things got grim and bloody; the toothless ones who never bothered to improve or experiment were always the first to fall and the easiest to forget.

Sometimes he remembered the ones who tried.

Sometimes.

“... talked to them in years, but I just know they will.” Arabella met his eyes as he turned his attention away from the world within. “You know?”

“Sure.”

It took them only a few minutes to pull their supplies from the saddle bags. Once he was assured that everything had made the trip in intact – not that he had much in the way of possessions, nor did his companion – he dispatched Arabella to go house the horse while he set about erecting his tent. Muscle memory did the work for him – centuries of tentmaking left little room for conscious thought – while he let himself relax.

As he finished the sound of footsteps drew his attention to a young girl with a scrap of paper in her hand. She passed it off wordlessly and departed right after.

My Tent. Now.

Terse, tense, ominous. It suited the aura of … whatever it was that the Captain tried to project.

A strange young man, their Captain. But one worthy of respect in the few direct exchanges he'd had with the Company's illustrious leader. Most who led soldiers into battle had little regard for those that perished under their command; the Captain was different. Or as different as one could be … war was hardly a new profession, and there were certain immutable necessities and dark decisions that couldn't ever be avoided.

But he tried. And he imposed a code of honor to try to shape others the way he shaped himself, and that was commendable.

Taking only a few more moments to gather up his blade and a warm coat – he'd begun to feel the chill at last – he left for the Captain's tent, falling in with the others who were similarly summoned. Seeing them reassured a nagging doubt that he hadn't quite been able to articulate.

Did I ever inform the Captain I'd taken on a side job as an escort?

He could not for the life of him remember if he'd asked or not, but he supposed it didn't matter.

If this was a broad summons then whatever it was the Captain needed him for, it wasn't to berate him for his absent-mindedness (or worse, breaking codes of conduct … was this against their oath, or in violation of a bylaw?). It was hard to keep up with the rules of mercenary companies – most of them were ground into dust by the time he even memorized their symbols and company name, though this one might prove to the be the exception.

There was one more thing in the back of his mind … something else he couldn't quite …

Blackcurrant! Blueberries and a hint of blackcurrant! Where in the name of all the thrice-damned gods did the whiskeymaker get their hands on blackcurrant?

Now utterly untroubled, Kaerun followed the others into their commander's tent.

Arabella returned shortly after he departed and found herself abandoned, without explanation or apology, in the midst of a camp of cutthroat mercenaries and professional killers.

At least she'd held on to the whiskey.

[vietmyke]

Odran paced around the interior of the Captain's tent, his permanently furrowed brow more furrowed than usual. Here they were, a stone's throw away from Orvston- a mere 200 some-odd fighters tasked with investigating some strange happenings or other further up north, the superstitious kind that Odran was loathe to believe in. Moving north was difficult, getting past Orvston was another issue entirely, it was highly unlikely the fortress would be willing to let the Company just march on through, especially in these times of war. The logistics behind such a task was already hell as it was already- they had lost the majority of their non-combative support members lost defending the late King Van of the northern kingdoms, and they had not recruited nearly enough replacements in their trek down south and back up north again- none of the Imperials seemed to want to leave their cushy lives for a career with a bunch of blackguards, and few northmen would be willing to join a campaign against their own people.

Typically, Odran would be out and about, roaming the encampment, making sure that all the jobs were being done, and the men were properly preparing themselves for the coming battle. Setting up wooden walls to deter enemy scouts and cavalry, sentry posts to watch over the camp and its perimeter, as well as the distribution of food and supplies for the men. Now that they were a mere quarter of their number, such a task was rather easy, and Odran had delegated the task to several of his sergeants- older veterans of the company that went around enforcing his will and ensuring the troops in the company were up to snuff.

This meant that Odran had time to sit with the Captain in his tent and groan over the Captain's next greatest battle plan. To be completely honest, Odran wasn't too surprised when the Captain started discussing his plans, the Captain's career was built on a series of unorthodox, yet successful maneuvers, and even in his heightened age, Odran was still learning tricks from the old man. Still, with his mind grounded with the reality of the state and capabilities with most of their troops- as well as his somewhat pessimistic outlook on things, Odran always had misgivings about the Captain's plans.

"I know I always say this my old friend, but this time, I'm almost certain you're going to get the lot of us killed." Odran sighed as he continued pacing around the tent.

Not long ago, the Captain dispatched a runner- the young orphan girl they had picked up along the border, to deliver messages to several individual members of the Company. Odran hated to admit it, but he had taken a liking to the young orphan, she was timid and mousey, and refused to speak to almost anyone, other than the Captain of course, but her eyes sparkled with some sort of incredible intelligence. Perhaps when she was older, he'd send her to Osric the Mage, to see if she had any magical potential about her.

It was the people in particular that the Captain wished to bring for his plan that had Odran worried. Odran held dossiers for them in his hands, but had no need of them to know who these particular individuals were. Each of them was known in the Company for something or other. There was Gideon the monster hunter who was reliable with a blade, and for the most part kept his head down and under Odran's radar. Kuro, was a sort of jack-of-all-trades, preferring to stick out of sight, but handy in almost any situation. Kuro did have the tendency of shooting before analyzing with those damned crossbows of his, but sometimes it was best to diffuse a potential situation before it could even begin. Odran had no problem with these two.

It was the recruitment of Connor and Triala that had Odran worried. The Cub had only been with them for 10 months and he was already causing more trouble than many of their regular members- his constant pranks and childishness had earned him countless disciplinary actions, to the point where Odran had to devote a single man of his small team of sergeants for purely disciplining the Connor in particular. The sheer amount of disciplinary action seemed to have bounced right off the man, and Odran had been coming up with an alternative way to punish him.

Then there was Triala- she was as hot headed as the red hair on her head. She was without a doubt an incredibly talented mage- Osric himself believed that she would someday succeed him- no small compliment from a man like Osric. The problem was she had difficulty keeping her temper in check- she had set nearly half the camp ablaze once- all because Conner had been antagonizing her. On the one hand, Odran sympathized with the elf- if he had her magical prowess, he too probably would've burned the camp down by now, but on the other hand, her hot headedness often times overrode any sense of discipline she possessed and made her a danger to herself as well as the rest of the Company- Which Odran did not tolerate.

The others were of little note to him, there was the archer elf they had picked up a month back. She had a bad attitude and lacked respect for anyone that was human it seemed, but that was typical for new recruits, and more likely than not she'd straighten up. Either that or she'd desert and prove Odran right, or just die like the rest of the newcomers that thought they were too good for the rest of the Company on their first battle. Whether they liked it or not- the Company fought as a unit, and if your squad didn't have your back, you'd probably end up with an arrow in it. No matter how powerful a man or woman thought they were, no one was a one man army.

Well, no one but perhaps the elf Kaerun. Few elves lived as long as he did- and Odran had yet to see anyone come close to defeating the elf in single combat.

[Rockette]

There was one luxury that Thdris Tholyr would never grow weary or out of love for: the aroma of the Realm.

It was plethora of scents and particular perfumes of foliage, soil, that was interwoven with a tang conceived on the rituals of villages and towns, each heralding their own traditions that bathed their streets in conceptual colognes. It was a particular fondness that was incapable of being thoroughly explained, unless one held a fancy and notion to explore the depths of her consciousness. A simper laced with amusement towards her brief self-reflection carved eager dimples through the finest hairs shadowing the strong ridge of her jaw, lifting up towards the edges of her perpetual smirk cradling the constant presence of her bitter oakwood pipe. Smoke of pallid indulgence hazed in front of wine eyes fringed in bruised skin and creases barely forming into the ecru of her complexion, the whiff of the herb laden in the pocket of her pipe inducing a cloud of spice that nearly stung the occulus if not cautious. Thdris knew very well the notions to keep such from occurring, but it did nothing against the fluttering in the back of her throat that eventually swelled to a burn, she coughed — one, twice — clacked her pipe against the polished armour of her mount and sealed it off with another hacking of her smoke—pattered lungs much to the distressful whine of one gargantuan canine. His beady eyes of polished marble spoke legions to Thdris as they trudged along, only some odd—leagues ahead of the main contingent of the Company.

“No worries Tormalk, just enjoying this delicious herb from the Imperial City.” She quipped, unlacing the depths of her fond, greedily endowed pouch and proffering the contents to her four-legged companion to take a gander at. The ebonette dog eagerly thrust his snout into the sack, only to let out a sharp yelp and immediately retreat, his irritated nose twitching madly with sneezes and huffing rebuttal that caused the Dwarva woman to bark in a round of boisterous laughter.

“Good, in’it? Can’t find this outside the Imperial pomposity. What did that she-wolf call it, Drakeweed?” She spoke aloud, her voice eclipsing over Tormalk’s continuous sneezing as he loped at her side, always to her right and two paces behind Durduum.

It was a commonality that the trio of woman and beasts trailed ahead, often scouting out the roads intersecting through the plains and forestry and relaying missives of information usually bound in the quick succession of barks from Tormalk’s lolling tongue. It was a code of quick interchanges to one, or two bays that equated to: “clear” and “unsafe.” Of course, a quick eye to the spanning of wood revealed that another was making sure to examine the country side, and she did nothing to deter his scouting. Thdris long knew better than to disturb the man and Tormalk’s unease around him was enough testimony for the two to keep their distances. Durduum seemed unfazed by such, but often he was ignorant of most of the Company, utterly endorsed in Thdris’ fondness and spoiling inclination on a daily basis. She tended to deny being persuaded by the Dire Boar’s.. charm, but who could perceive the exact routine of a Ranger and her mount’s relationship.

Thdris smiled fondly and leaned to with her leather-bound fingers parting through course hair and scraping against tough flesh laced with scars and looped with copper rings. Durduum squealed in delight as a jealous yip piped up at her hip, earning an affectionate grace of her opposite hand to appease Tormalk. She glanced up, hands upon the crowns of her companions, and eyed sparse of greenery plagued with remains of destruction and chaos. Such visionary stations were familiar to her, by origins and years sworn into the Company, but the representation of raids since past still swathed Thdris in a cocoon of silence and respect for the dead pocketing the soil as macabre fertilizer.

Tormalk let out a loose peel of whines, each accentuated with his displeasure from the odor of rot and decay that assaulted his leathery snout. The Dwarva’s glamour faltered just, a brief glimpse to the quiet sadness that enveloped her countenance in privacy before masking over into a facade of stone — unmovable and chiseled with a purposeful tilt of her mouth. Further across the smell that violated the previous aromas she had been appreciating was the familiar bank of the river and cradled by the waters was Orvston. She had been in the city once before, moons ago, and not much had altered by the fringe of the wall, aside from the woe located just beyond such in these fields. Thdris glanced over the fur blanketed over her shoulder, knowing that the rest of the Company would soon crest over the hill by the vibrations carried through the soil. She churned one thick leg, digging her heel into Durduum’s heaving flank to encourage the Dire Boar to turn about and join the numbers at the ready.

Heavy trudges signaled Thdris’ return accompanied by Tormalk’s gaping jowls as he panted, still visibly bothered by the stench of death. She gave her war—hound an apologetic glance as the mercenary troupe traveled ahead just a bit farther before inducing the functions of setting up the encampment. Thdris’ dismounted, landing with a quiet ‘oof’ with knees bent and giving full comparison to her standing beside both Dire Boar and hound — the differences were staggering, but not much a surprise. She barely crested four feet, much to the constant amusement of her pack mates that earned a thick hand against their back sides or a cleverly placed herb in their bedrolls. The latter was much easier to peg on some of the younger whelps, much to Thdris’ following amusement — no regrets. Although she often made up for her whimsical indulgences, it still garnered exasperated sighs or barely—there chortles of equal hilarity.

Ah well. . .

Thdris carefully escorted Durduum between those dismounting from their own charges, mindful of his tusk range and whistled for Tormalk to follow suit before he could indulge in his own antics and ease through knapsacks and saddle bags. She often pitched up her own tent far enough for the sake of both Durduum and Tormalk’s peculiar habits of.. Roaming. The Dire Boar was nearly impossible to pen and the war—hound was just as difficult to contain. At least, she claimed such, the reality was that anxiety cored the two animals thick when in the presence of the Elves wreathed in the taint of the Will. It was only by Thdris’ often persuasion to keep them corralled long enough through the night until the next sun before their traditional morning scouting; to shake off the peculiar waves she received from the magically inclined. Pitching up the tent next was a chore enough, utilizing both of her companions’ strengths and heights to loop rope around their battle adornments whilst she guided them and pulled taut on the materials until satisfied.

It was in the final processes of shedding Durduum’s battle gear and armour that a familiar face peeked around, eyes immediately falling on Tormalk who barked, immediately bounding up to the orphan child and sniffing around her eagerly. She was silent through his greeting, well familiar with the gargantuan dog and Thdris’ could glimpse the smallest of smiles etched there, making one of much larger proportions to eclipse across her face.

“Hello deary, got something for me?” The Dwarf inquired, stomping up close and nearly meeting the orphan on eye-level. Tormalk quieted and reclined to his hocks, the hammer of his tail eagerly thumping the ground as small hands passed over the missive and immediately occupied themselves by clasping over the black hound’s head, returning affections.

The words were of a cryptic intention, pulling an arched brow from Thdris as her leather twined hand smoothed over the prickle of facial hair before sweeping into a thick fringe tangled from the journey. It was ominous, that was for certain, but comforting in that lack of explanation — she expected none else from the Captain, and that consistency was a balm and comfort to the Dwarva.

“Well, I’ll be off. Keep them company will you? Tormalk loves company — apples in the packs.” Thdris supplied, leaving the runner to her companions and immediately making head to the Captain’s tent per the summoning. Her arrival was announced by her footfalls, heavy and akin to a stomp, much to the disparity of those of silence and shadow, but Thdris minded not as she slipped inside, finding that most had already gathered. Figuring herself to be the final arrival, she crossed thick arms at her breast and notched her chin up, indicating to the entire lot of them.

“What’s all this then, ey, Captain?”

[Hexaflexagon]

“You worry too much Odran. It’s bad for the soul.” The Captain replied to his lieutenant with a hearty laugh that seemed to fill the tent. He was currently hunched over a small table, a map of the realms kept snug against the wood by two long hunting knives. He traced a large and calloused finger over the fine parchment to the city of Orvston. The last time he had been here was maybe twenty years ago. Back then it was still a Free City before King Jaython marched his armies in to “protect” the city from the Vorstagian Invaders. The Company makes a point to avoid any stops through any major cities, too many unpredictable scenarios as somebody like the Lieutenant might of put it. At least from the outside nothing much had changed. The city stood on an isolated island between the two sides of the large and ever unpredictable Zerrakan River. With its towering walls and ever constant patrols there was no wonder it was considered one of the true gateways into the North.

“Beside’s my friend was it not I that killed the Barbarian King Rutgurd Bearbane in single combat? Was it not me that successfully sieged Kalthos whose walls stood undamaged for a thousand years? Was it not me that has saved your hide too many times to count? We will be fine as we always are.” He explained to Odran, eyes strong and filled with a conviction that made you rightfully believe that he had full confidence in himself and more importantly the Company. And it was at this moment that the girl came back into the tent, her big eyes looking up at the pair as she slipped inside. The Captain upon seeing her moved away from his map and taking two large strides to cross the space of the tent kneeled down in front of her so that the pair were at eye level with one another.

“Ah, the job’s done lass?” He asked, the girl nodded in response almost automatically as if part of some routine. “Good! Well then I guess you earned this. Now go easy on the Quartermaster girl.” The captain reached into the coin purse that hung at his waist and produced a single gold coin from within. He passed it over to her dirt encrusted hands. The girl eyed the coin, her eyes bright and filled with a new life as she pulled it close to her chest. The Captain let out a deep laugh as he brought up one hand to her hair and ruffled it about. He stood as the girl made her way out of the tent, no doubt to go buy some sweet from the Quartermaster. Too many orphans like her stalked the North these days do to account of the war. The Company couldn’t take all of them in even if they wanted to. But for some reason the Captain had taken in that girl as his newest little protege. Maybe it was true, maybe he was going soft in his old age.

“Oh how the mighty have fallen! One of the greatest warriors in the realms, the Blood God of the Wolf himself showing compassion. What the nobles back at the courts would think of this.” A voice sounded out as the entrance to the tent was pulled back. In stepped Ms. Asteraceae, her blue eyes twinkling with mischief as she entered the room. She was dressed in standard traveling clothes, dark brown leathers and a long forest green cloak the hood currently pulled back. If it weren't for her otherwise almost unnatural beauty it would of been hard to tell her from any of the other soldiers in the Company’s encampment.

“Sorceress.”

“Captain..... Lieutenant Odran” She responded her voice cold as ice as she regarded the lieutenant dismissively. She knew well enough that the Lieutenant did not appreciate her all that much. In return Lyssa regarded him as little more than a more intrusive brute than the rest. And there was nothing that she hated more than intrusive hedge mages with the magical talent of small children. But, she didn't resort to open warfare. No that would be too easy, she would just keep on playing her little games and keep on with her passive aggressive comments. “I’m a busy woman and I wonder what this is all about. If it’s the force protecting Orvston, I’m sure a strong man of your calibre could easily crush these brutish northerners.”

“Flattery ain’t gonna work with me Sorceress. No offense, but I prefer my female companions to not be able to drop a fireball on my head. Just wait a moment for the others to get here and all will be explained in time.” Lyssa shrugged but respectfully moved to one side of the tent examining her hands as she waited. And as each of the respective members began to filter in she regarded them remembering names. First there was Kuro, a man of few words he remained her of many of the Vorstagian generals that she had the “pleasure” of talking to. But he was skilled in battle or at least that was what the others soldiers whispered about him. He was interesting, strong willed not that useful as a pawn or a puppet. Too independent. He needed to be watched. After that came the boy known as Connor Vaelis. Now he was an interesting one, strong magical potential in him she could practically taste in the air, but he seemed to lake reservation in things. He could be useful.... if only tampered a bit. Next came Colette. Another magic user, She could sense the characteristic Elven pride in her buried beneath her quiet exterior like a small fire waiting to be let loose. Another one that could have her uses, though considering her disdain for humans.... not likely. After that came Gideon, the monster hunter. A curious case indeed, there was a darkness surrounding him. Something unseen by the natural eye but if poked at through a magical gaze it was large and foreboding seemingly threatening to swallow the man whole. Though besides that he seemed to be a good soldier to keep around. Maybe another with some uses, it was all too easy to exploit such darkness. After that came Triala, another elf, a pyromancer at that. Her and Gideon were actually surprisingly similar to one another. She too possessed a darkness something that hung over her but as Gideon seemed to be at war with it, Triala accepted it used it fuel her proverbial fire if you may. Another interesting case. Next came Kaerun, yet another elf. Though he was more interesting at least to Lyssa then the two others. He was old, old even for an elf reaching an age of maturity where most of their kind would retreat to their small communities to guide and lead. Yet here he was with the Company. He was an enigma, a puzzle, an oddity. And finally came Thdris, the dwarf. Gruff and confident in herself, a woman after Lyssa’s own heart. Though admittedly she had little real experience with dwarves, as the upper classes in the Empire rarely talked to such creatures expect to have armor or weapons made. It was then with everyone assembled in the small tent, so close that shoulders were brushing against one another that the captain spoke.

“You are probably wonder why all of you are here. Well it’s simple we have a job to do.” The Captain explained as he brought a hand down to the map pointing it at the little circle that marked Orvston. “As you all know we are on a mission to go investigate the strange happenings in the far north. Far flung from our normal duties but I always wanted to play Inquisitor. Only problem is we ain’t going north any farther unless we cross the Zerrakan. Normally we would just cross it at one of the low points but with winter upon us the river has begun to run too rapid even for the most adventurous individuals to cross and I’m not about loose my man to a dammed river. So here we are outside of the lovely gateway to the North itself. Problem is we can’t just march the entire company up to the front gates and politely ask for passage through the city, promising not to burn the place down if we do. The guards aren't that stupid especially with the war going on. So we need to secure passage through the city. Preferably without having to lay siege to it. Something a smaller party will be able to do without much issue. Which is why you are all here.” The Captain explained looking at each and every member in the tent as he let them process his words before continuing.

“Now some of you may be asking why I picked the group I did. As well you aren’t the most traditional bunch of soldiers here, or the best well anything really. You are oddities and strangers even among our little family here. Well consider this a trial run if you may. For you see the one thing that will end a man before he even marches his army off to war is predictability. If he see’s where you coming from and can predict your next move easily, your dead before you can even wage a war. But if you use some “unorthodox” methods well things become much more interesting, That’s you folks, a little bundle of unpredictably. And now I’m going to see if you can actually work like a team.” The Captain spoke having full confidence in his rather odd explanation but sometimes it was best not to argue with the man’s thinking. No matter how odd it was sometimes, he got results.

“I can’t lead you all personally of course. I got to make sure the rabble here stays in line. So that’s why Lieutenant Odran going with you all, to serve as my replacement.” He explained nodding towards Odran before he gestured towards Lyssa with a thumb. “Oh and she’s going with you all as well. As the Imperial watchdog, I figured she would like a chance to watch how we work and get results. So you all better be on your best behavior. No matter what you think of our Vorstagian friends.” The Captain explained watching as their faces, eyes lit with confusion.

“So any questions before you all set out? Or are you all just gonna stare at me like a doe that just came out of it’s mother's womb.... No? Good then because you don’t get paid to ask questions and talkback you get paid to do your bloody job. Dismissed.” And with that everyone except the Captain began to filter out of the tent. Lyssa being among the last of the group to move leave. She examined the rest of the group as they all stood about muttering among themselves as they took in the current state of affairs.

“Well I know you mercenary types are slow and all. Getting hit in the head enough times will do that to you. But shouldn't be heading out? Time's awasting after all. And the sooner we get the northern barbarians to open the gates for us. The sooner we all get the pleasure of not having to deal with one another again.”

[Lucky Knight]

The Captain spoke, and Kaerun did not listen.

It was not out of malice, nor any sense of disloyalty; rather he'd had his fill of imperious speeches and the justifications that commanders made to their soldiers. Those around him might allow themselves to be convinced or cajoled into believing that what they did mattered, or that their actions might somehow tip the scales or bring some good to the Company, or whatever it was the Captain needed them to believe.

Kaerun only anticipated the coin. Or perhaps the grave, at long last.

What else was there?

Around him the others paid varying degrees of attention to their leader. He knew them all by sight and by reputation, though he could not always remember one or the other in any given moment. He knew that one of them reminded him of a lover who'd spurned him in his youth, and that another had the same grimace as a man he'd killed in the alley of a city long since fallen to ruin.

His attention caught for a moment on the elves, for he could remember their faces more clearly: Triala, the foul one with a savage temper. Colette, the toddler who by all rights should not be wandering unaccompanied. Despite himself he grinned; he had no right to decide such things, nor even think them. Some habits, some beliefs, were engraved too deeply in the mind to be worn away even after so much time.

And a very long time had passed since he'd felt himself worthy to make such judgments. A very long time indeed.

But then his attention fell to the crimson-haired sorceress in their midst, bearing a staff of dragonbone and an aura of command equal to that of the Captain himself. She was swathed in the clothes of a traveler and would have blended in with the Company's … finest … had it not been for the way she carried herself. The way she commanded the attention of the space around her, daring any to refuse their obedience on pain of her terrible wrath.

His first thought was that she was older than she appeared, and that tricking the world into believing her lie showed a degree of animal cunning that bordered on vanity.

Vanity, or a brazen and irresponsible display of power.

A desperate bid to show the world that she was a master, that in her hand was the beating heart of mortality itself. Arrogance rode her like a storm; thunder and lightning scarce-restrained, a force that pushed her forward and might one day claim her life. He'd met many like her. Served with some, fought against others; seen them rise and fall and sometimes rise again, and never once did it end well.

Kaerun knew her by reputation. Knew that she was considered a serious player in the games of the court, that she had a grip on the beating heart of the Vorstagian Emperor … and by extension the heart of the Empire itself. How she'd ensnared the Empire's master Kaerun could only guess, but the power she wielded – physical and arcane – couldn't be denied.

A bloodhound? Perhaps. But he felt it was something more. She would not be the one held to heel; she'd be the one with the leash in her hand. And it would only mean trouble for them. People like this were temperamental. They were used to being in charge and obeying no order but their own. Should worse come to worse it would be difficult to protect her, and doing so might cost many of the Wolves their lives.

It wasn't a fair thought. He didn't really know her. But he knew others like her, knew what they were capable of, and awoke some nights to nightmares born of their works and deeds. Better a cynic than a fool, he mused.

Yet for all of this, for all the thoughts that swam in him and the distant, echoing concern he held for how badly she might screw this up for the Company, he couldn't help but be drawn in by the crimson of her hair and the blue of her eyes.

Once, long ago, he'd seen a forest set aflame and wandered into its heat, drunk on the smoke and the sweat and the fear that pounded in his chest. All around him burned the world, the air itself carrying the licking flame from branch to branch in great sweeping arcs. As death stole upon him and the strength fled his body he'd stumbled, tripping blind through the chaos that consumed his mind, and found himself plunging deep into a river that cut through the ancient wood.

From beneath the water he'd looked up at the sky and saw a clear, cutting blue so deep it made his heart ache, framed in roiling flame, soon lost in a howling blast of smoke that ate the sun and doused the world in darkness.

She was that moment.

That fear, that power, that crystal-clear thunder of beauty in the midst of terror. Crimson and azure in counter balance, placidity and tumult in a dance against one another, caged in mortal flesh.

A ray of candlelight upon rough waters … but she's the stone that's been cast. She is the heart of the water's ripples.

Was there a stirring of attraction there? Did an ember smolder in him for this sorceress?

Or was it just the whiskey settling in, bringing warmth to the ice in his bones?

Time would tell. Or he would soon forget, or lose interest. Perhaps. Would that he could claim to know himself well enough to predict his future, or read his own mind. How long ago had he given up the arrogant claim to self-knowledge? He was well rid of it, whatever the answer.

Kaerun's attention snapped back to the world at once, his thoughts catching and stopping dead on something the Captain had said. What was it?

...the one thing that will end a man before he even marches his army off to war is predictability...

It struck a nerve. He could hear the Captain's words in his own voice, a younger voice than the one he now possessed. A voice that would tell all who heard it that it knew all the answers. That it spoke the truth – immutable truth – and that any who would seek wisdom would do well to listen.

Not that the Captain was wrong. There was something to be said for cleverness and craftiness on the field of battle. Some wars were won and lost on tactics too unique and eclectic for the enemy to counter.

Yet, another immutable truth was often thus: The largest army usually won. The superior force under a competent commander stood a better chance at victory than the small, clever band of rebels. Though it might slaughter the innocent vision that some held of heroic warfare, though it might crush the dreams of those who dreamt of impossible victories, the truth was often cruel that way.

Without thinking Kae's hand fell to one of the pouches at his belt, and he fished about until his fingers closed on one of the precious items within. A quick debate began on the propriety of using it here, or if he should wait until it really became necessary. Perhaps the whiskey would suffice for the time being … better to wait and see.

The Captain's voice had deepened into a growl, the weight of his words told Kaerun that their briefing was at an end.

“So any questions before you all set out? Or are you all just gonna stare at me like a doe that just came out of its mother's womb? No?”

None of his soldiers answered, naturally. Would it not be a gesture of disrespect to speak out in the midst of a monologue? “Good, then, because you don’t get paid to ask questions and talk back; you get paid to do your bloody job. Dismissed.”

They gave their perfunctory (or heartfelt) salutes.

As they began to filter towards the entrance of the Captain's tent the sorceress spoke up, her voice like smoke and embers: “Well I know you mercenary types are slow and all – getting hit in the head enough times will do that to you – but shouldn't we be heading out? Time's a-wasting after all. And the sooner we get the northern barbarians to open the gates for us, the sooner we all get the pleasure of not having to deal with one another again.”

Oh, he liked the sound of her voice alright. She'd be trouble, yeah, but sometimes trouble was more fun.

Unpredictable, the Captain had said, and that echo came back to Kaerun as he finally pulled the smoke out from the pouch at his side. He sniffed it briefly before putting it between his lips, making sure it was one of the strong ones. It was, and it hadn't yet gone bad. Harder and harder to find the right herbs as they traveled further north – would be a pain to replace his supply, but ultimately this whole endeavor called for at least a little relief before the proverbial boulder started rolling downhill.

One way or another this whole mess would shake out in strange and unusual ways, and he found he was actually looking forward to seeing how it all wound up. A smile took him in full force as he struck a match and set flame to his smoke.

Though even as he steeled himself to make smalltalk with his fellow soldiers and tried to remember who all of them were, one small nagging thought rose up in the shadows of his mind. Was there something else he was forgetting? Something he wanted to talk to the Captain about?

Well, whatever it was, it would probably keep. It fell back into the darkness and was forgotten again.

He took a deep breath.

And exhaled.

[Terminal]

As Kuro entered the tent, he was greeted by two familiar acquaintances. Two beings he had met many times before, even if he had only known these two instances for a short time.

The first was the heavy, faintly oppressive and damp presence of the Captain. The silvery-haired half-breed was no stranger. Not his demeanor, at least. An abyssal pit of memory and brutal, sanguine calculus that dragged itself through the world like a knife through sinew. An implacable glacier, built up by countless bonds of camaraderie and hatred alike as forged on battlefields and in the halls of petty lordlings. As intimidating as the Captain's presence was, there were plenty of other glaciers in the North, and plenty of men and women just like him had led, conquered, and died in the Northern Succession Crisis.

Well. Perhaps not wholly like him. Even as man more familiar with Dwarven-kind than most, the Captain was the only Terraphenge Kuro had ever even heard of. From what he understood, before the succession wars Dwarven steadings would rarely take in Human laborers, artisans, and apprentices, and had war not fallen upon his own township that would have been Kuro's own fate. Such steadings tended to be driven more by desperation rather than good-will though, and even such reluctant cohabitation had only come about after hundreds of years of harshly enforced segregation by both races. The Captain though, was so ancient that one versed in history was left with the suspicion that he had come about during or even before the War of Human Aggression. Perhaps his substance was of the same reckoning as any other leader of men...but there was simply more of it there.

The second was the glistery, bristling intensity of the sorceress, alarming in precisely the same fashion as a spiny-haired boar that had caught alight whilst in full charge, bellowing both dare and challenge at anybody and everybody that had the temerity to stand before it. An unstable miser that may as well have held the whole of the land in their palm, yet seemed to be consumed by an obsession to prove everything of themselves. Though Kuro had seen her kind before in many allegedly refined noble courts, his greatest experience with her ilk had come from earlier in his life. Back when he had only disdainfully been called Cutthroat Kuro, a youth just starting to enter into true manhood.

"Sometimes it don't matter how careful or smart you are. Sometimes, the people who get to call the shots got there because there were born powerful. Not necessarily nobles or mages - even mundane ruthlessness will do. People who managed to claw their way to the top not because of any ingenuity on their part, but because of chance applications of power at just the right time. But the seeming difficulty and the vast rewards will make them feel, ha! Supernaturally entitled because of it! The sort of people who learnt the right lessons - but not all of them, and not in the right order. You'll see their type in a lot of highborn courts. There's a reason royal mages and viziers and spymasters never really live past five-score years. They make too many enemies and either finally slip up and get stabbed in the back, or else get usurped by some other new flame.

"No. Long as you don't antagonize them, though that's harder to avoid than it might seem, they will poison themselves to death with their own hubris - and to the likes of all you scamps are inconsequential in the scheme of getting work done. They make for damn lousy retainers. Always try to stiff you or kill you once the job is done, so don't even bother. You can always see them coming from the next range over though, cause they stink like corpses at subtlety when they have to leave their little bubbles of intrigue. The ones you really need to look out for..."

Chalarensis

The warlock's words had proven right, too. The few times he had been offered jobs as Blackguard Kuro by sorcerers of Lyssa's ilk he had just let the opportunity pass by, and inevitably learnt two weeks later that some obscure mythical tower of catastrophic portent had lit up like the sun and then exploded after a band of plucky adventurers had defeated the very same mage in question. Powerful, ruthless, self-aggrandizing, exceedingly dangerous...and boringly predictable.

After making a polite, if superficial effort to afford the Imperial Sorceress the seeming of an appraisal in order to appease her disputatious pride, Kuro backed away from the center of the tent and lingered just behind one of its flaps, permitting him to view those who entered behind him whilst remaining out of view and staying proximal to the enclosure's exit.

His eyes were first drawn to the dossiers Sergeant Odran clung to. Unread and unopened their contents could not be surmised, but the disparate individuals who began entering the tent gave Kuro a faint idea of what the contents might have been, though for what particular purpose the Captain had assembled them he could not fathom. The dwarf he recognized by scent, as the malodorous fumes of some alien Southern herb lay about her person like lamplight. One of the company's advance scouts, though he knew not her name and had made no prior efforts to acquaint himself with her despite their infrequent crossing. Triala he knew from her position with the Wizard's Wagon quartermaster, though they had only ever spoken briefly as they were in separate platoons...and of course from the night when she had nearly burnt the whole of the camp to the ground. Then of course, was Kaerun. Though he had never spoken with the old elf, Kuro had deliberately tracked him down as the most skilled swordsman in the camp as a contingency the moment he learned Tribal had also joined the Company.

The others were strangers to him, but from the nature of those he did he could divine that they were probably of curious and unusual quality.

Once the Captain began to speak, Kuro's suspicions were confirmed - and his apprehension mounted as he learned that Lyssa would be accompanying them. The assignment had the signs of a setup written all over it. Though he was not wholly certain of the Captain's true character even after five years, he could easily envision the man sending word several days in advance to Orvston to have the first band of riders to approach the city gates be struck down by a volley of arrows and magefire...a few of the looser bowstrings and the insufferable imperial watchdog amongst their number before heading North to greener pastures at the behest of King Jaython. While the more professional side of his reasoning all but ruled out that possibility, Kuro was not one to leave even remote and inexplicable possibilities unchecked.

'Perhaps...perhaps not. Though there is no question. He would kill all of us without hesitation if the need was present.' Kuro thought with utter certainty, his gaze settling almost lazily at some point in space behind the Captain's head as the half-breed spoke. Kuro's flat expression of nonnegotiable apathy did not falter. He never let his mask slip.

Kuro dismissed the Captain's presented explanation for the assignment off-hand, tuning most of his words out beyond the broad parameters of what the group was expected to do. Double-guessing his intentions or else overthinking the contrivance of his plan would merely be counter-productive, and while close examination of any given plan might normally allow for perception of otherwise unforeseen challenges in practice it was usually better to simply plan on the assumption that absolutely nothing would go according to plan (including the plan for that assumption). His foremost skill as a Blackguard had been his ability to profit from the conspiracies by would-be-collaborators whilst also escaping unscathed. This assignment would prove no different even if the Captain did want all of them dead.

Once the Captain had dismissed them, Kuro immediately approached Triala soundlessly from behind, stepping into her vision a faint distance from the side in order not to surprise her overly-much in case those longer ears of hers did not do her any favors.

“Well I know you mercenary types are slow and all. Getting...”

Lyssa

"Hail Firestarter." Kuro said to Triala, his tone neutral and unaffected despite his choice of address for the fiery elf. His words neither interrupted nor occluded the sorceress' words significantly, and it was apparent that he was not attempting to impede her speech. The man simply did not appear to care that she was speaking.

"Our approach to Orvston should not worry the militia overmuch. You and one other amongst us should ride your charger to the gates in order to formally announce the approach of an envoy. Ease their nerves, get them talking even if they don't want to. I have a respectable sum of regional Marks local to the area from my prior life in the North that I will lend you if you think greasing their palms might help, but you should select one of us to ride with you in order to dissuade any temptation on their part and...keep things civil." He paused for a moment, and if one of his eyebrows seemed to raise ever-so-faintly in reproach, it was gone in a breath. "I myself will be unable to accompany you. Would any other here think they would be suited to the task?"

The most disconcerting aspect of Kuro's address of Triala was neither his silent approach, nor his disregard for Lyssa's words nor even his contentious address - but how he looked at her. Or did not look at her. His eyes were low-lidded and unfocused, lazy and relaxed - settled in a fashion that suggested he was staring at some point in space behind her head, and she just happened to be in the way. As though she were not even there.

[Littlefinger]

The specific people the Captain gathered in his tent made Connor block his total access to the flow of the Will. Most of them, he was reluctant to touch their minds, let alone be so close to all in one place. It would've been such a chaos that he would've probably fainted. Probably.

He looked around the group, slightly opening his mind to the flow just enough that he could feel the presences and emotions of those around him. The cacaphony of thoughts and emotions all seemed as a battle of wits. A battle gainst the sorceress. Before closing his mind once again, he noted one key theme amongst his companions. No one seemed to be glad to have the Imperial sorceress with them. Especially Connor. He preferred being as far as he could from her presence.

“Oh and she’s going with you all as well. As the Imperial watchdog, I figured she would like a chance to watch how we work and get results. So you all better be on your best behavior. No matter what you think of our Vorstagian friends.”

The Captain

Great. Just great.

Connor looked around the group that the Captain had mustered to venture forth in Orvston, most were brilliant at hiding their displeasure but his skills in mentalism told him otherwise. Connor glanced at Lieutenant Odran, the man who had knocked him out a few months ago after the unforgetable night when Triala's flames lit the whole camp up. The veteran did not look one bit happy with the Sorceress meddling in their work or her supervision. The mentalist's glance went towards No-quarter Kuro - his face expressed absolutely no emotion and that unnerved him. Even without tapping the flow of the Will, the man emitted intimidation. On the other side of the tent, Kaerun stood thoughtful and to the mentalist it seemed that the old elf's thoughts were probably somewhere else. The young adventurer was not sure though, he did not posess much knowledge about elven facial expressions. The only expression he was sure that was similiar to those of humans was anger, recalling his 'showdowns' with Triala.

Connor did not have the time to observe the others as the Captain dismissed everyone to leave. Hurriedly, the mentalist left the tent trying to keep a distance from the sorceress. He was worried she might be a mentalist like him, read him like a book and exploit his weaknesses during their mission for some sort of personal pleasure. Back in the Imperial capital, while studying in the capital's magic college, he had heard rumours about wizards employed by nobles that utilized their position to satisfy their personal sadistic needs. Her comment on mercenaries further proved the rumors of how arrogant mages of such position were. Only ones had the young man noticed a wizard of such position abuse his appointment. It was a very disturbing memory that Connor recalled, it was during his last few months in the college before abandoning it. A mage, who served a higher noble in the South, had randomly visited a tavern Connor enjoyed visiting for drinks and occassional intimate meetings with women. The mentalist at that time was chit-chatting with a blacksmith's daughter of pale blonde hair and crystal blue eyes with a very sweet perfume that even till now the mentalist remembered. The mage had entered the doors parading with his skills by simply carrying a ball of lightning in his hands. As he approached the bar, the man suddenly stopped - his gaze focused on a little baby that belonged to the tavern's owner. The mage proclaimed he would be taking the baby while the tavern owner obviously refused. Connor recalled how he had sent the blacksmith's daughter to move aside as he grabbed the hilt of his sword. His mind tapped on the mage's faintly and the intent to slaughter almost had thrown him off his chair. The mage had glanced at Connor and simply left the establishment with a smirk. Never did Connor find out why the mage had left at the time rather than committing his eventual atrocious act, the mentalist was sure that the mage was definitely not afraid of the erratic skills that Connor possesed. The next day, the young man had found the tavern burned black with the tavern owners' bodies pierced on the wall with burns that one could barely recognize them. A month after he had heard that a mage had adopted a child to raise. Quite disturbing and weird.

Connor concluded that most mages of such position were driven with vengeance against the commoners due to the high disregard towards wizardry that existed in the lands.

Outside, the smell of food being cooked brought Connor to the realization he was hungry. He opened one pouch hanging on his belt and began chewing on a piece of dried meat. While gnawing on the food he overheard Kuro's conversation with Triala. The mentalist's face was painted with a sneer as mischief began dashing through his blood. He couldn't miss such a golden opportunity.

"Hail Firestarter." Connor spoke imitating the voice of a noble as he looked at the pyromancer. "I would like to volunteer to such a journey, m'lady my expertise in understanding people would be quite useful."

"Also you'd need someone to stop you from burning every damn thing after the first negative response you receive." His sneer still on his face. Connor was so ready for an adventure, he had been bored to death this last two weeks. It was time for a refreshment and Connor looked eagerly to it.

[Lexicon]

Adventure

Triala wanted the Captain to like her. She needed him to like her. Was it a little pathetic? Absolutely, but life often forced people, especially non-humans, to make tough decisions based on logic and pragmatism instead of desire. Above all else, the elven mage intended to survive whatever challenges life threw at her, but her rank within the Company presented an opportunity to do so much more. It gave her a chance to thrive and get what she wanted. And she desperately wanted to rescue her mother from High Lord Ulster Howe of Estermont, her former master. To that end, she'd hidden two thousand Vorstagian gold pieces in various places throughout the wizard's wagon and on her person. Unfortunately, the elf knew it wasn't enough. According to Osric, who knew more about the Company of the Wolf than most, she'd need at least four thousand gold coins to convince the Captain to lead an assault on the Howe Estate. The amount seemed ridiculously high, but Triala's mentor assured her other mercenary companies would ask for more. Attacking a noble family's mansion always had far-reaching consequences and could cause trouble for even the most respected hired blades. Triala didn't mind waiting a little longer to gather the necessary payment, but all her efforts would be for nothing if the Company's leader hated her.

Between Blackheart eating the Captain's flynska hat and her skirmishes with Connor, Triala had a feeling she wasn't the terrophenge's favorite person. It was definitely in the elf's best interests to pay attention to what the grizzled mercenary had to say.

Besides, the she-elf wanted to know why the Captain had called this diverse group into his tent in the first place. A band like the Company of the Wolf tended to be rife with rumors and gossip about current assignments, though this job felt different. Triala knew the Company was bound for the farthest reaches of the north to investigate strange happenings, but even the veteran sellswords weren't privy to any specifics. Osric himself swore he didn't know what the Captain's intentions were. As the band's leader explained why the Company was making camp near the renowned "gateway to the north," however, Triala thanked the gods she'd pulled her hood up. Nobody could see the expression of confusion and shock spreading across her scarred face. The Captain had lost his mind! It sounded like he needed a skilled group of negotiators to persuade the Orvston militia to let the Company pass through the city. Instead, he wanted to send eight hired blades and Lyssa Asteracae, the fucking Imperial Sorceress herself, because nobody would expect it. The whole scenario sounded like the beginning of a play written by reviled Vorstagian playwright Albrecht "The Annoying" Baum. Except some of the protagonists in this particular farce could easily double as fools. Or villains.

No-Quarter Kuro was a perfect example. The human swordsman scared Triala more than most of the people standing in the Captain's tent. His reputation as a vicious killer who gutted people first and asked questions never clung to him like a bloody shroud. Kuro's hooded eyes brought to mind an old woodcarving Triala's mother had shown her many years ago. It depicted Sindarin, the elven goddess of death, standing in the midst of a war-torn battlefield with a serene smile on her face. Kuro's gaze, shining with the promise of an agonizing death to all who opposed him, matched the expression the artist gave Sindarin. While the elf could certainly appreciate someone so dangerous and powerful, she felt more than a little uncomfortable whenever the lean sellsword was around.

Gideon Wryder, on the other hand, looked like he could easily be the hero of a play. Despite his cynical worldview, the rugged monster hunter was a kind man who'd clearly suffered a great deal. Triala could completely empathize with him, though she knew her own experiences were vastly different from whatever Gideon had endured. The two mercenaries had spent many nights together drinking tankards of lukewarm Solovian ale, and they always swapped stories during these memorable occasions. The human tended to be a bit tight-lipped when it came to his past, and the elf couldn't blame him. The past wasn't a happy place for many people in the Realms. Nevertheless, Triala didn't know any bards or minstrels who could tell a story with Gideon's consummate skill and passion. Maybe he should announce the arrival of the Company's envoys to the soldiers of Orvston?

The thought of Gideon making a flowery proclamation to a group of bewildered city guards made Triala smile. Her grin vanished immediately, however, when her wandering gaze fell on Connor Vaelis. Connor fucking Vaelis.

Truth to tell, the "cub's" constant mockery wasn't the main reason why Triala hated him so much. Most humans viewed elves and dwarves as being only a step or two above cattle. The elven mage just felt like Connor focused on her despite the numerous other easy targets in the Company of the Wolf. Triala certainly never shied away from making jokes at someone else's expense, but she also knew when to shut her mouth. There were certain lines that shouldn't be crossed, and people tended to lash out when these boundaries weren't respected. The childish human didn't understand that. At times, when he was really laying into her, Connor actually reminded Triala of a young Ulster Howe. The only son of the late High Lord Wilcott had been a quiet lad before marching off to war, but he'd never missed an opportunity to humiliate his family's servants. Whether it was pulling their ears while they scrubbed the floors or spitting on them when nobody was looking, the nobleman took a perverse pleasure in making the elves in his household miserable. It only got worse when he became High Lord of Estermont. And Connor Vaelis, especially after the burning camp incident, was starting to act more and more like Triala's old master. If he didn't move on to other victims soon then the she-elf planned to take action. Decisive, irreversible, and possibly flammable action.

The red-haired elf abruptly returned to the present when the Captain mentioned Lieutenant Odran Tarlach would be leading the ragtag group. Triala was relieved to hear she wouldn't be taking orders from someone like No-Quarter Kuro or the infamous Imperial Sorceress. The Lieutenant might be hard-headed, but he was intelligent and dedicated to completing the task at hand. The memory of the lecture he'd given her after she nearly set the camp on fire still stung, but Triala couldn't think of anyone she'd rather have in charge. Nodding to show her agreement with the Captain's choice, the elven mage looked to her right to see how Colette was handling all this. The youngest elf in the tent was a brilliant archer, and quite pretty, but her hatred of humans often proved problematic. Especially in a mercenary company mainly comprised of humans. Triala didn't disagree with the reasons behind Colette's rage, but she knew how divisive it could be. In all honesty, the elven archer and Connor seemed out of place amongst the more experienced Company members. Would they be an asset to this expedition or would their involvement ultimately lead to disaster? Triala had no idea.

Luckily, there were people like Thdris Tholyr to keep everyone calm and focused. Grounded, insightful, and smelling of some kind of delectable pipe-weed, the dwarven ranger always put Triala at ease. She also knew a great deal about animals and herb lore, which could only help out in the wilderness. Several months ago, Blackheart had contracted a nasty case of hoof rot, and Thdris suggested mixing together a poultice of crushed sweet thistle, river mud, and ragveil weed. After applying the foul-smelling compress to the afflicted hoof, Triala was stunned to see the rot fading rapidly. It vanished completely in less than two days. Actually, Thdris seemed like an excellent candidate to discuss the Company's intentions with the guards of Orvston. The air of wisdom and determination she exuded would be a tremendous asset during the negotiations.

The final Company member in the tent, besides the Captain himself, was Kaerun. He might have been a decent herald for the group if he didn't behave like an elf of such advanced years that he no longer cared about anything. Or anyone. Triala found herself both drawn to and repulsed by the incomparable elven warrior. She wanted to ask him so many questions about their peoples' history, but his overall demeanor was extremely off-putting. There were times when the she-elf honestly wondered if Kaerun enjoyed being alive anymore. Would she become like that when she was his age? Triala ferverently hoped not.

"Dismissed."

The elf nearly swallowed her tongue. She'd missed the rest of the damned speech! Saluting impeccably out of pure instinct, the she-elf hurried after her fellow mercenaries as they exited the tent. The Imperial Sorceress, her beautiful green cloak swishing around her, led the way and proceeded to address the group. Triala bared her teeth and resisted the urge to start an argument with one of the most formidable spellcasters in the southlands. Connor Vaelis may have reminded the elf of how the young High Lord Howe behaved, but Lyssa Asteracae reminded her of how the fully-grown High Lord Howe spoke to those he considered inferior. And yet there was an opportunity here as well. Osric constantly told Triala that magic was as much about stealing as anything else. Why did mages guard their techniques so carefully? Because there was always another caster hoping to improve their spellcraft by learning the secrets and methods of their peers. It was entirely possible to study the way a specific mage went through the steps required to cast a spell. These observations, once they were properly analyzed and applied, could improve one's understanding of the mystical arts tenfold. Lyssa was a gifted mage, and Triala didn't need her limited magic-sensing abilities to appreciate this. The Imperial Sorceress was a treasure trove of knowledge just waiting to be explored.

Abruptly, Kuro said, "Hail Firestarter. Our approach to Orvston should not worry the militia overmuch. You and one other amongst us should ride your charger to the gates in order to formally announce the approach of an envoy. Ease their nerves, get them talking even if they don't want to. I have a respectable sum of regional marks local to the area from my prior life in the North that I will lend you if you think greasing their palms might help, but you should select one of us to ride with you in order to dissuade any temptation on their part and...keep things civil." The disconcerting hired blade paused and, looking at something behind Triala's head, eventually said, "I myself will be unable to accompany you. Would any other here think they would be suited to the task?"

It took the she-elf a full minute to realize she was the 'firestarter.' Delightful. Blinking and pushing her hood back, revealing her scarred face, Triala said, "I don't think having a scarred elf leading the way is a wise idea..." However, she was cut off when Arno Fossey shouldered his way through a gaggle of mercenaries playing dice and stood before the group. He was leading an all too familiar Vorstagian Charger through the crowd, and the way he was gripping the horse's reins suggested Blackheart wasn't feeling cooperative today. Grinning widely, Triala reached out and took the reins from the heavyset sellsword. Gods in the Beyond, it was good to have Blackheart back. The horse had come down with hoof rot, a common ailment of his breed, a few days ago. He'd been given light duty until Thdris' ointment could work its magic once again. Neighing happily, the beast nuzzled Triala's face as Arno said something that sounded like, "Osric said the horse was ready to be ridden again. He also wanted me to say sorry about what happened earlier so...you know, you're welcome." He snorted and, after giving the Imperial Sorceress a blatant once-over, trudged back into the bustling encampment.

And then Connor Vaelis decided to open his mouth. What a surprise. "Hail Firestarter. I would like to volunteer to such a journey, milady, my expertise in understanding people would be quite useful. Also you'd need someone to stop you from burning every damn thing after the first negative response you receive," the new recruit said, clearly trying to be funny despite the topic under discussion.

Triala took a deep breath. In and out. In and fucking out. Blackheart was finally feeling better, which was a blessing from the gods themselves. She wasn't going to let this immature asshole ruin that. The elf shot the Imperial Sorceress a sideways glance and said, "I think we should let the Lieutenant decide who should announce our arrival, honestly. Blackheart is a bit unruly unless I'm riding him, and he's only just recovered from another bout of hoof rot. He might not be capable of galloping away if anything unfortunate happens. Considering my...past mistakes and heritage, I don't think I should be heavily involved in the negotiations. I think the Lieutenant and Thdris would be the best choices to talk with the Orvston guards. Not me and certainly not our wet-behind-the-ears cub here." Sneering at Connor, the elf stroked Blackheart's neck and reached into one of the bags dangling from his burnished leather saddle. Pulling out a wizened apple, she offered it to the stallion, who whickered and ate the morsel in one bite. No matter what happened next, Triala felt like she could take on the world as long as her cantankerous steed was nearby.

[DontCallMeZelda]

As the seconds crawled with broken arms the suspense in the tent reached an all time high. Gideon watched as the Captain and Odran scanned over the lot that had organized themselves in the tent. What they were here for was the question of the day. It had to be for something interesting, at least Gideon hoped it would be.
The human crossed his arms over his chest and shifted his gear on his back to reach a more comfortable state. Eventually, the time came and the Captain opened his mouth and started to speak to them. It was time.

Their orders seemed simple enough. They were to secure safe passage for the company so they could continue their journey. This seemed like a minor block in the road as to what the Company had been used to going through, but it would prove to be interesting to handle. The guards would certainly be hesitant to let this large group just stroll on through the city. Gideon just hoped the talents the others would bring to the group would prove useful. The Captain told them that their group would be a certain batch of unpredictable. Unpredictable was something you did not want in the monster hunting business. But, Gideon knew that being unpredictable could also prove very useful.
Gideon only knew one of the other members and he had not told her much either. Come to think of it, why was he included in this mission anyways? His expertise was based on monster hunting. Well, the Captain had his reasons Gideon was sure of that. Gideon could handle himself in any situation. Or so he told himself.

Maybe the city could have a Botchling problem and he could help them with that. Heh... Gideon laughed under his breath. He had a funny thought.

Now then, who was he paired up with for this escapade? The entire group was stationed outside now so it was easy to take a head count. The silent human stood vigilante with his arms still crossed over his chest. The fur on his armor catching whatever wind it could.
First, the man of the hour, the group head was Lieutenant Odran. Gideon knew of him, he had worked with him before. The man silently demanded a large amount of respect just like the Captain did. He was a masterful warrior and tactician. Gideon felt honored to be under his command. That was just enough for Gideon to give this man his respect.
Next, Triala. The hot headed elf mage. Gideon did have a rather "interesting" past with magic types. He always preferred using cold steel or silver to vanquish his enemies. Now, he trusted Triala. The two had spent numerous nights drinking themselves dumb and swapping stories. Nothing came of those nights as they were both able to handle their drink. There was something about her that Gideon felt he could connect to. Even though he felt like that, he had a filling their pasts were extremely different. Elf or not, she had his silent respect.

Then there was Conner Vaelis. The new recruit as some had come to calling him. Gideon knew next to nothing about him save his name and his reputation. He had heard some say this lad said what he wanted and let his actions talk for themselves. Gideon wasn't sure how to feel about that. He seemed like an unpredictable one. However, that was what the Captain wanted. It would be best to let the heat of battle tell Gideon what to think about the boy. For now, he was certainly neutral to him.
Then, No-Quarter Kuro came into Gideon's eye. Was his name actually "No Quarter Kuro"? Or just "Kuro?" Gideon had heard his name as both so he was unsure. Gideon would call him Kuro.
Now, this one was certainly interesting. Gideon had heard of his past. The human swordsman who killed those who talked back to him in any way. He was the perfect example of a person who acted first and then asked the questions. Though, his actions were usually rather bloody. Gideon was unsure of how to feel about him.

The other elf of the bunch, Kaerun. His age wanted to demand respect but his demeanor said otherwise. It was a constant state of confusion for Gideon with him even though he was just seeing him for the fist time. He seemed to have certainly endured quite a bit given his age. Gideon cared not for his elven heritage. He saw no superior race. He wanted to respect the elf, but that might take some convincing. For now, he would remain quiet about him as he had nothing to say.
The dwarf of the bunch, Thdis, was one to make sure she was on your side. Her prowess as a ranger was known throughout the Company and was well respected by Gideon. Anyone who could fight like that was alright in his book. Her companions are fierce looking as well.

The last member, Colette, seemed to be not just the youngest elf of the group, but the youngest member. For her age, she had made her name was a prominent archer that was true to her aim. She was certainly a good member to have around. Young age could mean a plethora of things. Gideon just hoped they would bring honor to the Company. She had not been with the Company for very long. But that was no matter.
-------------------
The words spoken by the others brought Gideon out of his trance that he had put himself in. He had been staring at each other the members like some Godling who had just woken up in the morning so the man felt rather awkward. He hoped he hadn't been staring at any one of them for too long for them to notice. He was sure the others were doing the same as well.
The talk of the group was about who would meander up to the gate and express interest in passing through. This was their only option as the Captain had said before.
Gideon looked to each person that spoke up and remained silent and just listened.

The last one to speak before it went quiet was Triala. She suggested Odran and Thdris be the two to come off the the Company's envoy. Gideon had no problem with that. Triala seemed to just be saying that as to not end up being paired up with Conner.
Gideon unfolded his arms and let them fall down to his sides as the group seemed to stay quiet now. Gideon was all for letting the Lieutenant decide who would go to the guards at the gate.
Another funny thought popped in Gideon's head that almost made him laugh but he was able to suppress his emotion.

The human popped his knuckles and looked to the Lieutenant to see what he would have to say.

[vietmyke]

"I worry too much because you never seem to worry enough." Odran grumbled in reply. There was a bit more back and forth between the two old men before the young orphan returned. The Captain visibly softened at her appearance, it seemed he was just as fond of the orphan as the rest of them were- it was odd, having such a young child in a private army of cutthroats and scarred veterans, but she was a sort of bright light in an otherwise dreary camp. However, when the sorceress entered the tent, the old veteran immediately soured, a harsh scowl returning to his face as it always did.

He pushed the sorceress from his mind as the rest of the gathered individuals entered the tent. With a sigh, he took an attentive stance at the head of the table next to the Captain as he began his shpeel, describing their mission and how they needed to cross through Orvston. He justified the ragtag group's commission as unorthodox and unpredictable- something he had built his career on. Odran still had his misgivings about the group, but would trust in the Captain's judgement. Well, for all their haphazardness, at least he wouldn't have to-

"So that’s why Lieutenant Odran going with you all, to serve as my replacement.”

Odran blinked. He blinked a second time, managing to keep his face neutral. His self control stopped him from bursting out in the middle of The Captain's speech- for not even the Captain's second in command was immune to disciplinary actions, not that Odran had received disciplining since his younger years, but this was not something he had expected- nor was he looking forward to. Odran internally sighed- he supposed it was because the Captain trusted him to get the job done, which he appreciated, but not overly much. The Captain dismissed them, and Odran was the last to leave, offering the Captain a kurt nod and an audible sigh before he too exited the tent. He was getting to old for this.

Exiting the tent, he found the others discussing their approach to Orvston. Kuro- surprisingly enough, was the first one among them to vocalize his thoughts. He suggested that Triala, the firemage and one other approach the gates first to announce the arrival of an envoy, giving her the apt nickname 'firestarter'. It made sense- Triala was among the most experienced riders in the Company, and her horse, for all its bad mannerisms was fast and strong. Next to call out was Connor- to which Odran almost audibly groaned at, almost immediately picking up an opportunity to jab at the elven mage.

"Mind your tongue, cub." Odran said to the young man, his gravelly voice low and gruff. His armor clinked slightly as he shifted his weight, his hand now resting on the pommel of his sword. "You're no use to us unconscious, and I'd rather you not provoke your fellow apprentice into setting the lot of us on fire again."

However, for all of his impudence, Connor was right- his ability to tap into the minds of others would doubtlessly prove useful for negotiations and initially dealing with the door guards. However, his inability to shut up would doubtlessly be his failing. Triala was right in that she should not go, she was too hot headed, and disagreed with Connor too much to risk sending the two of them up there by themselves- that would be asking for the city to begin launching boulders and arrows at them. Thdris the dwarf was a potentially good choice. The dwarf was generally calm and level headed, and had plenty of connections- it was she who put him in contact with the blacksmith Dalgen, who forged his arms. However, she was a woman of the wilderness at heart- she seemed to value her beasts more than people, and there was no telling how well guards at the gate would react to a dwarf on boarback with a massive hound.

Colette was definitely a no- her derisive silence towards humans would only anger the guards if anything- combining that with Connor was just asking for trouble. The other elf, Kaerun, was similarly too detached from the world, to be of any use negotiating, despite his vast wisdom. Which left only...

"Gideon." Odran called. "You and Connor will be the first ones to approach the gate. You will take the marks that Kuro offered and use them to gain us entry if necessary."

Gideon Wryder was a reliable one. Trustworthy, calm in demeanor, a capable swordsman, and large enough to intimidate without overtly threatening the guards at the door. He would be able to represent the quality and strength of the Company without causing them to strike first out of fear. At the same time, he was generally calm and collected, and Odran did not fear the man bursting into rage at the sound of an insult. Also, unlike Thdris, he was human, and had no massive beasts following him. Knowing northerners, they'd be most responsive to a pair of humans approaching them, rather than a "barbarous dwarf or impudent elf".

"Connor. You will use your magic to read their minds and aid Gideon in negotiations. I've felt you trying to tap into my mind before- You shall do so again, in order to maintain contact between our two groups."

At this, Odran paused, staring at Connor with a scowl that could shatter stone. "Be careful how deep you pry into my mind, Vaelis, or this may be the last mission you ever partake in." He said this not as a threat, but more as a factual statement.

"Go now, we shall wait for you on the far side of the bridge."

[Rockette]

Years with the Company had integrated a near second nature into gathering the particular specs and intonations of the Captain's speech, pinpointing the importance of his spoken terms and the details laden within his gruff timbre that had her crossing her short arms at her ample bust. She possessed her original skepticism, wonders, and inquires to the exact specifications of what oddities they were going to investigate, playing the role of Inquisitor was all fun and dandy, and she could champion that, but it still left her with pursed lips and drawn shoulders. She had participated on missions and jobs with far less information and details than what was currently given to them, of course, and dared not to speak aloud with her... concerns. Twenty years garnered flawless trust and execution, they would not disappoint her now, right?

Thdris slowly rocked back onto her heels, her attention severed prematurely at the mention pertaining to the intentions of his missive and the particular troupe gathered by the delivery. This was a teeming pot luck of individuality and skill, and whilst diverse in ability and time spent with the Company, she had only minor doubts to their formalities to working in unison. Thdris knew those who had been with the company nearly as long as she, sprinkling differences of years here and there, but able to surmise a basic opinion with the initial troupe easily enough. She had faith in the veteran crew, they were efficient and experienced, well oiled methods that came with many quests lining their records.

She trusted Odran with fathomless fondness and admiration, more associated with his tact in working with The Captain for so long, her servitude only spanned to twenty years — and had it really been that long? — and she doubted she could ever parallel in second command to him. Thdris’s lips gnashed together in a chortle, sealed behind a smile wreathed with mirth. Whilst the former had her respect in spades, she could testify little to the amount of trust she had in one particular scout: Kuro. It wasn’t so much his deposition, or the disturbingly haunting breadth that cloaked him entirely as an enigma, or the way he appeared to barely make a sound in every execution of his body. More so that she knew nothing of him, nothing to pin his familiarization despite working with the man on several occlusions. Be it on natural distance, or the demeanor Tormalk displayed around the human male, it left Thdris off put and nearly disappointed in the lack of camaraderie.

Thdris glanced and slid her gaze sidelong, pinning scarlet tresses with ease in the whorl of swarthy colours. The anxiety exhibited in her beasts had sprouted seeds and vines of encroaching doubt when it came to those magically inclined. Those wine coloured eyes passed elsewhere into comparison, landing on emerald oculi framed in brunette locks hacked by the edge of a blade from self-hand fluidity. Or not, Thdris thought with a crooked tilt of her mouth, angling her plane of observation and panning over the Kaerun fellow with a flicker of her gaze passing between him and Triala. Both betrayed the typical Elvish constitution, but were similarly bound and twined in the Will that pinged her companions in discomfort located on a tier they could not understand. It was only by the saving grace of one particular Vorstagian Charger that the Dwarva woman absolutely adored that wove a tapestry of kinship with the pyromancer. On that sliver of thought, she reminded herself to inquire after Blackheart’s condition, and thus fixated her attention else where.

The whelps and pups, as many of the Company had alluded to them as, she had yet to develop a sense of admiration, respect, and much less any foundation of trust. Gideon — she cannot for the life of her figure out how to pronounce it, so in her mind she calls him Geo — had proved himself on few circumstances, but was belied on the peculiar way Tormalk responded to him. In close proximity, the trustworthy hound stood erect and compacted, tail straight and head high in sheer displays of defiance, as if interacting with another canine in the midst. Thdris had reprimanded Tormalk on numerous occasions, but naught could alleviate her beast from his unease and disposition around the man — even after two years.

The youngest of the troupe, the babes who had yet to garner their fangs and claws, Thdris could not gather evidence to how she felt about them. More taint of the Will laced them both tight, and both Durduum and Tormalk had spent little time around the two for that reason alone. Nights of witnessing the two lope back and forth along posts, tugging on leads, and expressing clear distress when banked so close to their tents. It pegged the Dwarva with a deliberate notion to avoid them, and as much as she despised her actions, the overall psychological displays of her companions was enough to cement her belief in that it just had to be done for their own, individual, sanity.

But, none effected her, or the two beasts, as much as she did. Taller than her by many heads, and wispy in muscle tone and overall appeal. She was dangerously beautiful, the serpentine lady in the midst of wolves, with fangs in the materialization of her gaze; perceptible shades of azure that reminded her of swollen thunder heads that interchanged with strikes of lightning. Defying to her appearance was the magic she felt off of her in waves, purely unrestrained power gilded in finery and grace, Thdris found her appealing in that confidence, but also left her wary of the Sorceress in close quarters.

Thdris’ focus came to from her mental exchange of opinions, barely catching the dregs of conversation and quips as her body moved on a literal auto mode until their provided observer spoke aloud, voice ringing her abundance of disfavour that caused the Dwarva to bark in her laughter. Amusement laced her tight as she vacated the tent, approaching the company members in the last clips of her chortle, a gloved hand rising to swipe at her ecru cheek feathered in fine hairs.

“Quite a mouth on that one.” She commented to none in particular, lips eternally lifted in a charming simper in the midst of bantering for those who would handle the negotiations. Her smile broadened graciously on the tones of a recommendation, and whole heartedly agreed with a firm clap against Triala’s hip as she stomped up beside her, mindful of Blackheart’s massive, velvet nose looming above her short head.

“Oh, how’s the hoof rot? Gone I suspect?” She ducked down, briefly, examining the previous site of infection and finding most of it cleared for travel. The herbal concoction was an experimental wonder when she had to treat Durduum out in the wilderness once with limited herb supply to use. It was a near miracle in the healing process of it, and applied monthly, it left the Dire Boar with hardly ever contracting the lame swelling. Her broad, thick-lipped smile seemed to ooze her pleasure as she glanced to Blackheart, keeping respect to his usual temperament and his awful penchant to attempt in snatching the bronze trinkets from the thicket of her hair.

She was ultimately prepared to embark, making note that she’d have to retrieve Tormalk for the journey and even considered borrowing a pony from the hands who managed and groomed the mounts of the Company. Thdris carefully constructed a basic plan within her mind whilst she pondered over her manner of speech to address the Guard when Odran effectively banished her calculations. Her brow furrowed, displaying her obvious disagreement with the final selection. Why send pups to perform to the will of the pack? Surely others were better suited to the task, she herself being among them. However, the slang term of “too much dwarf” immediately broadcast to her frontal lobe, glaringly harsh in the reminder that some — well, most — considered Dwarva to be nothing but barbaric drunks and as thick and dense as the stone that they lived in.

Broad, rounded shoulders shrugged and slumped beneath her leathers, visibly defeated as she drawled a sigh and stomped past their replacement of a captain and waved her hand in a flag of dismissal.

“I’ll fetch Tormalk, his nose will provide helpfullness to anything amiss. This means I’ll be leaving Durduum behind, so if shit goes south, you bet I’m riding on your back.” She flippantly stated, thick digits scratching through the prickle of facial hair as a sigh slid past those parted lips.

“Guess I’ll leave Durduum with the Kennel Master then. Oh Peton!” She cried, hands cupping around her exclamation to project her voice outward to the encampment in a sing—song tone. “I need your wonderful assistance!”

And somewhere in the encampment, hiding behind a herd of ponies, the Kennel Master Peton hid.