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Zugos 'Rune' Velarium

A small tent near Srohl Lake

41st Trydir, Aullum 

 He did dream, sometimes, when his guarded mind allowed it. More often than not though, he couldn’t tell when he was dreaming. This time, he did. 

 It started with darkness, like all things. He was trudging through knee-deep water. It was murky and warm and bright red. The color of fresh spilled blood. But it shouldn’t stay that way. In open air, blood would dry up, darken ever slowly, until it became specks that crumbled between fingers. He stood and waited, but it kept its color. Maybe he didn’t wait long enough? How long had he been waiting? In the realm of the mind, time collapsed onto itself and stretched out for an eternity. He wouldn’t have known. So he waited. He would wake up eventually. All dreams ended, once they had run their course. 

 He was moving again, the water made walking a chore, but he managed. Up in his mind, exhaustion had no meaning. So he kept at it, or at least his body did. He wasn’t in control here. His march ended at the tip of a blade. He looked at the assailant. A familiar face. Hair as white as fresh snow. Square jaws, with stubble. A jagged scar that ran from the bridge of crooked nose to defined jaw line. Crimson eyes that mirrored his own. Ah. It was one of those times when memories bled into dreams, and he found himself playing the same scene over and over again, as if it hadn’t been etched deep enough into his mind. 

 It started with an overhead strike. He was fast, so his opponent didn’t turn it into a contest of speed. Wise move. Each slash was harder and faster than the last, each and every one of them intended to end the fight. It felt like a carpenter driving nails into wood, a consummate professional at work, brutally effective when it came to his chosen art. He stayed ahead with guile and smarts, but it only got him so far. The sharpened blade found purchase in his flesh. It hurt. Or at least, he remembered the pain. And there was more to come. He lashed out against the flurry of attacks with the desperation of a cornered beast. His left hand felt limp at his side, leaking red and useless. The two-hander felt heavy in his grip, slippery with blood. Thunder sounded in his veins as steel clashed, again and again. He pushed. His opponent pushed back harder. It was a vicious tug-of-war, and he remembered losing. He remembered dying. A single moment of clarity when his guard broke and the blade cleaved its way through his ceremonial shirt.

 Beyond that point, darkness held dominion. The dream should have ended then, because that was when his memories did. Yet, it persisted. He saw his arm raised, and with a flick of his wrist, the opponent staggered backward. The air around them crackled with magic, its stench tasted metallic on the tip of his tongue. His ruined arm moved again, sending the swordsman flying. Hot blood splattered everywhere. It was uncomfortably warm. He blinked and looked around. More blood in the pool now. Whose? His? Theirs? He was standing, yet the crimson liquid reached his chest. It was rising, still. But did it really matter? He could swim. He would keep up, always. But the temperature was disconcerting. It was warm before, barely enough to remind him of human touch. Now, he swore it was boiling. He forced himself to move faster, struggling against the current. A wave of red slammed against his face, thickened blood got into his gaping mouth. He coughed and sputtered, splitting out the offending gunk. 

 It tasted wrong.

 The dream ended abruptly. 

 He lay very still in the darkness of his tent, eyes opened and alerted, but the only movement was the rapid rising and falling of his chest. It was a simple motion, breathing, and yet it helped immensely. Slowly, with each breath, he calmed the swirling chaos of his mind; memories rearranging themselves. Gradually, the dream melted away, leaving behind unearthed memories and a bad taste in his mouth. Yet, it was still unbearably hot. He shifted, scrambling to sit up, only to grab onto a soft, fuzzy object on his chest. With more force than necessary, he flung it off the mattress while his other hand groping for the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword. The weapon came to him easy enough, but as soon as it did, he realized the furry thing for what it was: a goddamned cloak. One he most definitely did not own. 

 Realization set in, then the white knuckle grip on his sword loosened. He pressed a hand to his forehead, wiping off sweat as best as he could. It must be those sellswords next door. He had been out here for almost three weeks, hunting down a list of names given to him by his current employer. The forest between Srohl and Mor had been a hotspot for bandit activity for months now. It wasn’t rare for thugs and highwayman to turn up near borders of adjoining territories where law enforcers from both side treaded lightly, but their number had risen significantly these last few months. No one knew where they came from; some blamed the drug traffickers of Mor, while others criticised the lax security in Srohl’s clay pits that led to slaves escaping and taking up unsavory professions around the region. Still, all that mattered that the caravans were robbed; the cargos picked clean, any profit thus forfeited. A wealthy Freyman wanted it taken care of by the time his shipment of fine silk and exotic pelts came through. And so it would. 

  He had been prowling these dark woods ever since. Alone, of course, he worked better on his own. The bandits were dangerous, but they were far from organized. They spread thin among the dense vegetations, each group with its own leader and beliefs, and they barely tolerated each other. He broke the smaller ones first. Armed with looted weapons and patchwork armors, they didn’t put up much of a fight. The larger ones though, he had been struggling with those for weeks now. He did what he could; he slaughtered their patrols, he harassed their hunting parties, he foiled their operations. One broke on its own. Two others he personally eliminated. Only one remained. With the deadline approaching, he was doing his best to claim the head of the remaining bandit lord.

Then a company of mercenary came along. They camped out in the edge of woods; a little too close to his own humble tent, but they didn’t bother him. He returned the gesture in kind. They never told him why they were out here though. He never cared enough to ask. But whatever they were sent out here to do, they hadn’t been doing a very good job. The mercs devoted themselves to various recreational activities, often seen heading into the nearby towns as soon as their wages came in. Booze, wrenches, wooden pipes of sweet smoke, tiny vials of purple liquid…he had seen them indulge in almost every sin known to mortals. And yet, some of them still managed to get bored. That was when one of them tried raiding his place. Unfortunately, he came back right at that moment, still seething after a failed kill. He would have strangled the poor sod there and then, had his comrades not intervened. 

 That was one week ago. They must have got braver since, sneaking into his tent again and pulling this kind of trick. Granted, he was not his best last night. Three straight days of cat and mouse would do that to you, especially when he couldn’t really tell which one was the mouse here, him or the bandits. He returned to his hideout to recuperate, only to have a shitty cloak thrown on top of him. 

 Such challenge could not be left unanswered. 

 It didn’t take long to identify the perpetrator, especially when the man in question didn’t even attempt to hide. 

 “Heya, bunnyboy.”- Lazy Eye greeted him as soon as he set foot into the squalid campsite the mercs called home. Naturally, it was not the hired sword’s birth name, but it was the one everyone used, for good reasons.-“Want sumthing?”- The man asked in heavily accented common, rows of yellowed teeth behind chapped lips. It also seemed like he had been drinking, and lacked the decency to rinse out his mouth first before starting conversations. 

 He just stared down into the mercenary’s steel blue eyes at first, suppressing the urge to introduce Lazy Eye’s rough face to his fist. But it wouldn’t do. Not on his own turf, when the wretched man had the advantage. Then again, it took a good uphill battle to get your blood pumping. He hadn’t got a good fight in a while. Out here, he only hunted. His kills felt unearned. 

 “Yours?”- He lifted the mess of fur and cloth, holding it up in Lazy’s field of vision, while keeping his tone neutral and his expression blank. It wasn’t hard. He had practice.

 “Of course, has been lookin’ for days."-The mercenary grinned widely, all jagged teeth and inappropriate glee.-“So kind of yo-“

 He thrust the bundled up cloak into its owner arms with enough force to send the older man staggering backward. In hindsight, he shouldn’t have done that. Mercenaries were an odd breed; their hierarchy was like a wolf pack’s. Meaning, they hunted together, they fought together, and he had just provoke the whole pack. Eyes snapped to him that instant, hands reached for their weapons. Somewhere behind him, he could hear the distinct sound of a sword leaving its scabbard. 

 Tension ran high in an instant. His own hand felt twitchy. Then Lazy laughed. 

 “Don’t go get your pants all twisted up for such a small thing, Rune. Just a joke man. All good fun.” 

 “You have a shitty sense of humor, asshole.”-He finally let a smile graced his lips. Not one of his best smiles though. This one just looked like he stepped on something unpleasant and was silently berating himself for it.-“Don’t bother me again.”

 He turned to leave then. The mercs seemed contented to let him. They were still watching, but their weapons stayed where they should. 

 “Hey now, wait up bunnyboy.”- Lazy called out. He kept walking. –“I know about yer little bounty.”

 That got his attention, if only briefly. His contract was supposed to be private; he would complete the bounty in a pre-determined amount of time and receive the payment afterward. Failing to do so, and his employer would hire someone else, who then opened the jar he had loosened and received his payment. It was a risky venture, but the hefty reward made everything worth it. Or so he thought. With the way things were going, he didn’t think he would make the deadline. 

 “And?”

 “Let’s wager.”- The mercenary took out  a folded piece of paper and held it up. The man wielded his grin like a scythe; it was unnerving. 

 He should have just walked away then. No one was going to stop him. No one could. But he didn’t. Snowkin had always carried madness in their blood, in the end. 

 A few hours and a conversation later, Zugos found himself standing in a dirt-packed ring, face-to-face with a mountain of a man, all scars and muscles and unbridled bloodlust glinting in amber eyes. Hell, the guy must have orc blood in him or something; he never knew humans could grow this large. In a sword fight, he would have taken the giant on, no problem, but without the reach of his blade, he felt oddly vulnerable. 

 Besides him, Lazy Eye snickered.-“Or we can play chess?” 

 That offer seemed nice. They taught him that back in Klonia, claiming it ‘encourage logical thinking and critical decision-making’. He was certain he could beat a backwater merc if he wanted to. But because he was stupid and suicidal, he shook his head. Lazy gave the ‘I tried’ shrug, before backing off.

 Around the ring, men gathered, laughing, cheering, joking and cursing. An orchestra of chaos, with him and his opponent as conductors. He saw them passing a helmet around; it jingled with coins. For a brief moment, he wondered how many would bet for him. Should he bet on himself? That was probably not allowed, but he wouldn’t anyway, even if he could. The odds weren’t in his favor. Across the ring, the giant stretched, his massive fists were wrapped in thick bandages. Zugos wore his gloves instead, with the metal plates removed, of course. 

 His opponent lowered himself into a stance, like a coiled snake. He took a deep breath, tuning out the noise, dropping into a stance of his own. Right. Nothing like a good uphill battle. 

I know where the Jackals are hiding, Lazy had said, yer outta time right?

And I know you’re not lying because?

Suck it, bunnyboy. We don’t know if ya’d keep up yer end of the bargain either. We can’t exactly chain ya up and drag ya with us, how’s a brother gonna fight with his arms tied up like a trapped hog? Lazy spat, venom in his voice. It seemed he wasn’t the only one taking risk here. ‘side, it’s six months. Ya even get paid. 

 He stayed ahead through guile and clever footwork, but the giant was catching up. A fist sailed toward his face. He ducked and went low with knee to the stomach, only for his opponent to block with an open palm. He panicked, dashing back. 

 Too late. A left hook found its way to his face. If it caught him on the side, chances were he would be eating through a tube for the rest of the month. He tipped his head back slightly, out of the way, but there was no saving the nose. He felt it cracked with a sickening crunch, and tasted copper. Pain bloomed. The force sent him tumbling sideway, until the ground soared up to meet him. 

 Ouch. 

 “You all talk, eh freak?”-He could basically hear the sneer in his opponent’s tone from across the ring. Then again, he wouldn’t know. He was too busy crouching in the dirt like some camp whore, painting the packed earth with droplets of red. The giant didn’t make a move to finish the fight though. He half-expected a kick to his side, just enough force to crack ribs. He knew he wouldn’t get up from that. 

 But nothing happened. Heh. It seemed he wasn’t the only one enjoying himself. 

 Struggling to his feet, he leveled a gaze at the giant, ready for the next attack. The man only grinned. So he used the time to recover, shaking the worst of the pain from his muscles. He hadn’t been doing well; his specialty was with a sword, not hand-to-hand combat in some dusty ditch. Still, he managed to get some good hit in. The giant’s left eye was slightly swollen, and his lips were bleeding from a cut. That was something, right? He mentally gave himself a pat on the back. Well done. However, it would take more than that to win. After all, he was betting his own freedom here. Well, technically, it was more like his employment. Lazy’s company was getting conscripted into the Paedatorian army soon, and Lazy, being the rascal he was, didn’t like it. He couldn’t leave though, his contract with the company still had six months left, so he couldn’t just run off in fear of being beaten into a pulp for ‘gross misconduct’. The gist was, if he won, Lazy would hand over the bandit’s location and help him with their elimination, free of charge. But if he lost, he would have to take Lazy’s place in Paedator ranks. And from what he heard, their post would be at the Corhall mines. Up there, in the blazing sun, staring at some half-dressed slave for hours on end.  He would rather die drowning in a mud pool; the stench was probably more pleasant.  

 So losing was not an option. He wanted this to be a fair fight, but it didn’t feel like he could win fairly. So be it. He could have his fun some other time. 

 The giant neared. He inhaled, and was rewarded with a mouth full of blood. It seemed his nose didn’t plan to stop bleeding any time soon. They were locked in heated combat a few heartbeats later. The larger man threw punches that hurt like sledgehammer even when he blocked them with his forearm. No wonder they called him Shatterjaw. One strike flew under his guard and landed in his gut. There was no saving it now, so he let the force threw him backward, going for distance. The giant charged, relentless. He waited, just right, before tugging at his opponent’s belt buckle, with his magic of course. Would be weird otherwise. It came undone easy enough, then with another firm tug, the giant’s pants pooled at his feet. Wide-eyed, he tripped, sprawling on the packed dirt. Zugos seized his chance, delivering a brutal kick to his downed opponent’s temple. And it was over. 

 The hunt was over soon enough, with sufficient help. They cleared out the bandit camp, its inhabitants put up minimal resistance before disappearing into the woods. Lazy and his friends left the following day, heading toward Corhall mines. He stayed, moping up the survivors. A week passed and as promised, the Paedatorian came through with his caravans. They parted ways soon after, the merchant promised more works should Zugos ever find himself in the Corhall mines; the man was going to stay there for the next few days. A tempting offer. 

2 hours after the Corhall riot

 He found himself at the battered gate house at noon, when the tyrant sun reigned. The ground before him was littered with bodies, slaves and soldiers alike, strewn about like broken dolls. It reeked. Soldiers milling about, minding their own bussiness. When he approached, they took one look at his wrists, then left him alone with directions to the pit master’s office. There, he found the Paedatorian merchant, looking like he had a jagged dagger in his gut. The man complained about some ‘lost assets’, which he tuned out while helping himself to the wine served by some slave girl. She regarded him with curious eyes, probably seeing a snowkin for the first time. Eventually, a new contract was formed, discussed and signed, all done under an hour. The merchant must really, really worry about his ‘assets’. Complications with other shareholders and some other business jargons he didn’t care enough to remember. The new bounty was all that mattered now. His prime target was a half-orc named Rook, grey-washed skin and mean eyes from what the guards told him, and his fire mage companion. His employer wanted them retrieved before the Paedatorian army moved in, claiming that they did not know how to handle ‘delicate cargo’ and was liable to damage his ‘expensive merchandise’. Paedatorians and their dubious practices. Regardless, he got his next target, one that promised a better fight than some half-starved bandit. 

 Time to hunt. The trail of blood and broken branches was still fresh. He had no intention of letting it run cold.
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