• Graded • Mercenary Misadventures

[Noth]

Saun 18, 717

Criminals seldom seemed to think of the consequences of their actions. Their ignorance to the potential for negative outcomes had long since led to many incarcerations and executions at the hand of whatever government reigned over them. They committed terrible deeds, and then expected that the mistakes they had made would not come back to bite them whenever they turned their backs on their endeavors. The twilight hybrid could scarcely contemplate the idea of committing such an act of stupidity, or of subjecting those who he led to such ridiculously unplanned schemes. To that end, he had made it rather clear to those under his employ that so long as they acted with malevolent purpose towards others, they would need to be careful not to leave loose ends that might be traced to them.

Admittedly, it didn’t help him sleep to contemplate murders that he would commit in the future, or to imagine differing scenarios wherein he would have to exterminate potential problems with prejudice unbefitting his apathy towards them. Still, he had found in the past several trials that he was becoming more and more attuned to the activity, and the prospect of suffering a restless night after an act of slaying was rapidly becoming something attributed to the past, and not the present.

He cast a glance over his shoulder, taking in the sight of the necromancer who stood before him. His face had grown far paler since their first meeting, and the hint of the arcane seemed to paint itself upon his flesh, appearing in the form of blackened veins. He questioned briefly whether the necromancer had ever had any qualms with the act of murder, but quickly answered his own question with a recollection of their misadventures together. It seemed far more likely that Ron was a sociopath or psychopath at heart, and that he cared little for the lives of the cattle he slew.

Those same crimson eyes cast themselves over the only other living member of their party, the man he had brought along for his first raid upon a caravan, though to say that he was inexperienced in such matters would have been a lie of the highest caliber. Thane had worked with him in the robbing of Parren in the past, and had assisted him in the occasional scuffle, but he would finally be blooded in the eyes of the hybrid the instant that the caravan passed by them. The remainder of the motley crew he had assembled had remained in their respective places; none of them truly qualified as combatants except perhaps Oxy who had the moral fault of needing to be convinced to commit evil deeds. He had his uses, however, and he made a spectacular bodyguard, but the idea of sending the kind-hearted Aukari against a caravan of innocents simply reeked of disaster.

He had introduced his cohorts to one another, using Ron’s moniker of Marrow to identify him. He was far more protective of his identity than Noth was, but then again, whilst Noth was a serial killer, he wasn’t a necromancer, and history had painted them in an absolutely dreadful light. He wouldn’t be altogether surprised if bands of adventurers and heroic sorts would rally to the flag of their enemies if it were ever revealed that such a powerful necromancer was working with them.

Several more members hung around the party, though their tendency of avoiding life like the plague made them poor conversationalists and poorer targets of observation. Despite their poor social skills, the undead were spectacular at moving their mouths, typically in biting motions, and that made them rather useful for the prospect ahead.

The hybrid felt the soil beneath his form slide slightly as he knelt down, pressing his armored knee against it. He had covered himself entirely in the armor they had stolen from the blacksmith so long ago, and he felt a genuine hint of joy at finally getting to use it in a battle. It had been quite some time since he had managed to fight a skirmish in such a magnitude as the one which awaited them, and anxious energy made him grin underneath his armet.

The clatter of horse hooves and the slight creak of an old wagon wheel shutdown his thoughts in a heartbeat, and he observed as the portion of the caravan came into sight. Two horsemen walked alongside the pair of wagons; one on each side, and they were flanked by a guard on foot each. A final guardsman walked ahead of the wagon, a crossbow clasped in his hand and an observant tilt to his head as he scanned the woods.

The guard in front raised his hand, and the caravan ground to a halt. The feathered fiend tensed at the motion, casting a glance back towards his necromantic ally in questioning. None of the undead had stirred in such a way as to alert the caravan below, and the guard had not even glanced in their direction.

More trotting noises erupted forth from the forest path, and realization suddenly flicked into Noth’s mind. Was the caravan being assaulted by another group of bandits? If so, then their work would probably be made much easier. Alternatively, it could be that the city guard had been dispatched to escort them to their destination, but that only really made sense if the person or objects in the caravan were of some importance, which meant that the twilight hybrid would order an attack nonetheless.

For now though, he raised his own hand towards his allies, palm outward in the universal sign for halt, and promptly reinforced that statement by lifting a single finger.

[Neronin]

Neronin stood in the shadow of a large oak. He had his cloak wrapped about him. His eyes flickered from the caravan movements ahead to where Noth was similarly hidden in front of him. They had planned to his the caravan because it had seemed reasonably lightly guarded. If they had to contend with newcomers, that might make this whole event a fiasco. The necromancer did not gather his ether about him, despite Noth raising his hand in the signal for stand-by. Neronin’s magic ignited his witchbrand in a less that subtle way. They had decided that he should save any spell for after engagement. Neronin could hear it also, the reason Noth had halted them. Horses approached down the trail.

He felt the burning hunger of the seven Marrows he had brought with them. The Maimers were to valuable to risk damage on such a mundane mission as this. He had instead raided a familial cemetery and animated the skeletons of a few generations of farmers to do his bidding here. They lurked in bush and behind trees, a few lay in tall grass. All silently watched the living approaching. Neronin kept his eyes on Noth. The half-avriel was the tactical brains of the operation, after all. Neronin was able to plan and strategize, but Noth was a natural combatant. The mage had learned to allow the dark monster full reign when it came to battlefield decisions and the like. He preferred to focus on the arcane.

The riders arrived. A group of more guards were arriving and Neronin sneered at the sight. This might have appeared as bad news, but every beating heart was just a soldier waiting to be made for him. When Noth gave the signal Neronin unleashed the tether of will that had been keeping his undead from attacking. They rose up as one from their various hiding places and sprinted forward. Their bones creaking as they ran was the only sound they made. Their eyes, however, burned with a vile green glow as they came at the caravan from three sides, a testament to their creator.

The first of the seven Marrows sprinted headlong into one of the guardsmen before any could muster a defense. It gnawed and lashed at him, and bright blood was flung in arcs overhead. The others accosted their targets only heartbeats after the first had. Neronin stepped out from his tree as they moved forward to better see where the threats would come from. Neronin walked amongst the shadows, confident that his distance and the chaos of the undead would keep any of the guards from noticing a black figure shifting amongst the far trees.

The fight was getting much bloodier now that his undead had all engaged with the unsuspecting guardsmen. The mercenaries were spread out on either side of the wagons and the Marrows were worming their way in between them, to spread them thinner. Neronin watched as one man attempted to stab one of his skeletal minions. The blade became stuck between its ribs, having done no damage. The Marrow swiped at him, opening two vicious gashed on his sword arm and making him relinquish the weapon. The undead moved forward to pursue him, the sword still wedged in it’s torso.

Neronin thought the time was right. He gathered his power and began walking forward. He felt the familiar rush of elation as the necrotic spark surged with ether and pulsed the stuff through his body. Neronin raised his hands and a black, smoky could substance burst from his fingers as his witchbrand ignited. Green light shot across the surrounding area where he stood apart from the fighting. The dark Sap spell shot towards the chaos in fist sized balls, raining down on the combatants indiscriminately.

[Rocan]

The sun had drowned the plains of Idalos with the colour of vermillion and by the break of dusk each blade of grass glittered like a newly decorated ruby; all the while a pastoral, scented breeze made the distant hillocks sway in a narcotic langour. The forest's trees rose up with the colour of matted oak and their knotted branches harboured leaves in a palette of ruddy tresses. The path snaked around a comfortable bend and the clicking of trailing horse shoes was a melodic, rhythmic spell as the sinking rays of the falling sunlight numbingly caressed the cortege passing through from the city.

They had left not so long ago but had put enough distance between themselves and Etzos to know that the last patrol of Black Guards they'd last seen was so far from them that it hardly even concerned them now. They were six of them in total though excluding the little girl with bright, cherry-blonde hair, wide inquiring eyes of a burning cerulean and a baby pink dress, frilled just about the hem to denote her early Arcs; they were five in total. All – expect the bald headed, wide shouldered man – were on horseback.

“Argh, damned Varlis, why can't he just come to the city and stop with this nonsense. Every blighted season it's the same routine! And Blackwell is the only one who gets to leave the damned city while we're stuck babysitting!” Bradok, whose shaven head glistened with pearls of sweat, grunted as he wiped his brow.

A soft chuckle rang beside him as a black horse trotted playfully alongside the large man, “Why Bradok, don't tell me you're already tired? Are the years finally catching up with you? Does your hip hurt or are you just grumpy because you recently found out your favourite son is about to marry some courtesan in Rharne?”

Bradok huffed, clinching the pommel of his mace as he spat, “Whore, Altanis, she's a blighted whore! And there's no reason to sugarcoat it, I've been with too many to know what they are...”

For all its musical and feminine aspects, the youthful giggle from the rider beside Bradok, Altanis, it was still hard to believe that the voice actually belonged to that of a young man – much to the surprise of the two riders behind them. “Hahaha!, Born of a whore and now married to one, my, my, my old man, you surely had high hopes for your boy.” Altanis said as he delicately tucked loose a strand of silvery hair behind his ear.

Altanis, who was lithe and wispy, was a soft, girlishly faced youth with small, thin lips of a garden pink, his eyes were an envious green that curved exquisitely and his skin was a pale that almost lent him the ability of translucence if he were any shade lighter. He wore relatively light, black armour that, at first glance, hardly seemed expensive, though upon a closer inspection showed a level of craftmanship only a few could boost to having ownership. Strapped to his back was a finely made bow that hung loosely, while the quiver, stacked with arrows, was nestled to his slim waist.

Altanis, who most confused for a young woman at first glance, had been in service to Varlis for a few Arcs now, a position he comfortably shared with Bradok and someone called Blackwell, from the looks of it. Cheery, elusive and blantantly flirtatious, the youth was a melodramatic engima, even more so when the question rose up about how he got his hair to look the way it does.

“He could have done better with his sorry excuse of a life,” Bradok snarled, rubbing the bridge of his crooked nose, “Now I'll just have to look to one of my other bastards roaming the world to feel like the Immortals haven't yet cursed me. Maybe that girl, Valerie, she said she wanted to open her own bakery in Ivorian, perhaps sh---”

“Valerie? The one we went to go visit three Arcs ago?” Altanis asked, musing with a snake-like grin on his face,

“Aye, the very same...” Bradok said with a turn of his head, his brown eyes turning dark as he eyed the youth, “Altanis... what did you do?”

“Hmmm, my, Valerie. She had the softest skin and that thing she does with her tougue...” Altanis said with a shudder, closing his eyes and moaning softly. Bradok fumed, his eyes turned to bloody murder as he unhooked his mace, “Altanis!” he sneered angrily! Altanis laughed pridefully and slapped the reins of his steed, making the horse gallop forward a little, leaving Bradok behind with the two newcomers that had been listening this entire time.

Behind Altanis, a string of curses rang out loudly but the youth only chuckled as his horse came up to the vanguard, trailing behind the two horses easing their way across the bend. On one of the horses, a well groomed mare of dark brown, was the little girl, Malyssa, and upon the other, another mare, white in colour; adorned with a large ruddy-black coat, was the third newcomer that had joined their retinue. Rocan Garvias, as he'd so eloquently introduced himself just two nights ago.

From the looks of it, young Malyssa, whose wide, bright eyes were looking at Rocan intentively, almost fondly, seemed enraptured by whatever the young man was telling her. In fact, since the morning, the little girl had yet to leave the mercenary's side, especially since she, and admittedly everyone in the entourage, had thought he was a noble at first. Malyssa still found it hard to believe and regardless of how Rocan had tried his best to convince her otherwise, it seemed futile at first. Though somehow, during the morning and now, he quickly found himself telling her bits and pieces of his life story, of his time in Yaralon, of his small campaigns with various other mercenaries such as this and things even he'd thus far been able to see in his adventures.

Though he did admittedly water down the gory, violent things he'd come across as he felt it unneccessary to share such details with someone so young.

“I was taught how to fight by the various other freelancers back in Yaralon, milady Malyssa. I have to admit that they were often very harsh in their methods, one could even say it's a miracle I still have all of my teeth.” Rocan said softly, he turned to Malyssa and let a small smile leave him. The girl blushed a rosy pink and giggled.

“It's so nice to hear about the outside world, there's just so much out there that it sometimes feels like a fairytale.” Malyssa said solemnly, swaying in rhythm with the elegant gait of her horse, “Papa is just so worried that something will ever happen to me that some time's I think I'll never be able to leave Etzos.” she said.

Rocan looked at her as she cupped the reins closely to her and turned her eyes away. For a moment, the words brought a little bit of self-reflection and the sellsword couldn't help but let a sad smile line his features. How he knew that feeling, that hopelessness of believing that perhaps you'll never get to leave home and go explore the world. He was lucky to have escaped it, but that luck was only brought upon by impulse. But with the years behind him now as only embers of a flame in the uncertain dark, with the Arcs he'd lived and with the things he'd seen, could he subject her to that very feeling?

“You know,” Rocan began, gently. Malyssa slowly turned and looked at him, his gaze wasn't on her nor was it on the road, it was somewhere, distant. He paused for little longer, and seemed to smile slightly, so slight that it seemed ghostly, “When I was still a boy, back in Hiladrith, I lived relatively unconcerned about the outside the world until I was about 13 or so, my friends and my imagination were the only things I needed to envision what the world outside the gates of the city was like but then something happened that made me yearn to experience it for myself.

“ I was compelled to leave because if I had choosen to stay any longer, I'd have been so sad that I don't know what I'd have been able to do with myself. I see now, milady Malyssa, that you are compelled by the same feelings that compelled me – perhaps, even, your feelings maybe even stronger. So I'll tell you this, since nobody ever told me, be strong and believe, believe that one day, you will leave and find your wings and once you do, fly and never stop. Fly like an Avirel if you must, and never stop, because when you finally leave, you are free.”

With an incline, Rocan looked at the girl and saw some tears well up in her eyes. He smiled, “Alright?” he asked and she nodded, wiping them away with the back of her palm. “Alright!” she said, her cheeks puffing up slimly as a blush of abashment flaked her skin.

“My, my, my, Rocan Garvias! Quite the inspiring bit of wisdom you conjured up there.” Altanis said as he strode beside Malyssa, who turned to the youth and watched his smile widen as he regarded Rocan just a little more.

“Ser Altanis,” Rocan started, “I was just imparting some valuble knowledge to the young mistress. As a freelancer... no, better I say, as a free man, you would understand what it is like to feel hopelessness.”

Altanis raised a brow and chuckled softly, “Perhaps, perhaps not...” he replied. With a shrug of his shoulders he continued, “We should be coming to the rendezvous point any moment no-- oh, hear that! Sounds like horses!”

In the distant, just around the bend, Rocan heard it; the neigh of few horses and the voices of a few men rustling through the gaps between the trees. It took them a few more steps before they saw the wagon, a man standing in front of it. “Who goes there?!” the man asked abruptly, his crossbow lining up with the oncoming riders.

“Oh, put it down, put it down!” Altanis said with a laugh, “You newbies Blackwell always brings with him are always so jumpy! You know what you need? A woman, that's what! Luckily, Bradok has a daughter that just suits the bi–”

“Altanis, quiet!” A voice rang out from the behind the wagons.

As Rocan and the rest came up, a rider strode around the carts., trotting toward them. At first glance, Rocan saw that the rider was well over 30 Arcs; he was ruggard and handsome, his hair was black, cut short and trimmed and his skin was bronzed by the sun. His features were hard and angular and exuded nothing short of self-confidence. He wore light armour of a dark brown but by the looks of it it had seen better days – though Rocan could appreciate the level of maintainance the owner had kept it in. The man strode up and with one look, his features only hardened. For a moment, it seemed like he was going to draw the longsword at his side.

“What is Malyssa doing here?” his voice was clear even though anger rang in each syllable, “Do you know that Varlis could have your heads for this? She was meant to stay within the city where she would be safe!”

A look toward Altanis made Rocan's features harden, “Are you telling me she wasn't supposed to be here?” he asked flatly.

“And who are you?” The rider asked with a sharp turn of his head. His horse swayed side to side uneasily, and for a moment, Chestnut, Rocan's mare, did the same.

“Rocan. And I assume you're Blackwell?” the mercenary asked. Blackwell eyed Rocan intently, “Ergon, no one calls me by my last name. Especially nobles I hardly know.” Ergon Blackwell said.

“Ergon! Please, stop! I asked them if I could come! It's my fault, please don't be mad! I just wanted... to meet papa.” Malyssa said softly. “Where is he, by the way?” she asked as she peered over to the wagons, yet all she saw was a bunch of tired, nervous men and horses. She turned back to Ergon and saw that he and Rocan were still locked in a dark gaze.

“Guys, please. Stop!” Her words made the two men look away, sneering at one another.

“Oh, my, oh, my! Such drama! Such tension! Two men, fighting for the young mistress's favour! Malyssa, you sly little cat, you! We should bring you out little more often, getting Blackwell all worked up like this.” Altanis said with a caddish squeal. Malyssa turned to the young man and flushed, looking away – chagrined.

“Bradok!” Ergon started.

“Yea, what is it, you constipated hard-ass?” Bradok snarled. Ergon growled a little and began to rear his horse back to the wagons. “Varlis is a bit delayed back in Hiladrith, so he sent me and these men a few days ahead. We're tired, so I want you and the rest of your lot to take over from us. We'll ride behin–“

It was so sudden that it took a few moments for everyone to find their equilibrium, and even then it was too late! While Blackwell was explaining, it came, springing from the long, dusk-lightened grass, and ripping through the throat of the first guard! All they heard was a scream and their heads turned forward to see the guard in front of the wagons being torn asunder!

A thing, not wholly a man but bearing the visage of dead one came rushing toward them and in an instant, a brigade of them sprang from three sides and clamoured violently into the pathway! Rocan heard a scream beside him and a violent neigh as Chestnut, startled by the commotion, swung to the side and slammed into Malyssa's mare. The latter started suddenly, and in a flash, the beast bolted through the din and vanished into the surrounding trees!

“Malyssa!” Erogan rasped! His sword was already drawn and a swarm came pulsating toward him and the mercenaries behind him!

“Ha! Now this is interesting! This is why we're paid!” Altanis jeered happily as he unfurled his bow! The undead horde came, mouldy bones jangling dementedly. In a flash, with speed like light itself, two arrows blistered through the skulls of the first two fiends, bursting their heads apart into flakes of ash!

Altanis moved again, curling his lissome economy as he drew back the bow and let the arrows sing their melody. He knew, that with too little power in a draw, the shots wouldn't be effective – so he made every one count, each arrow screeched and whistled from each pull and each one hit its mark!

“By the blighted Immortals! Where did they come from?!” Bradok scoured madly, his large body and massive arms lurching with each swing. The mace in his hands sent three undead back to whatever pit they'd been spawned in, blasting through them like dust. He spat and roared when one of the things came and him grazed across his arm with its teeth! Snarling, he drew back and swung in an arch the split its skull open, grey, mouldy brain matter splattered from the husk and Bradok threw his body into an oncoming wave of the things!

“Bandits?, Or just a crazed mage wanting to test his mantle!” Ergon hissed upon his steed, the horse charged through a few skeletons and reared up, crushing them under its weight. Upon it, its rider loosened his sword and slashed into the fray, a cleaving across their heads.

They heard a scream, and suddenly another, as the two men guarding the rear were dragged down by the horde. One, the first to be pulled down was lashed savagely and his friend began to wail as the undead encircled him! The sounds of gurgling filled the air and blood, sweat and death drenched the sweet rustic scent. Bludgeonings rang and the sounds of snapping bones surmounted the entire scene abruptly!

Rocan reined in Chestnut and used her like a wild, battering ram. Her hard, sinewy limbs knocked back whatever came their way and Rocan pulled her back whenever they were a little too close to danger. His cutlass was drawn but he scarcely found use for it. All he did was weave through the skeletons and use Chestnut to finish the work! His head whipped when he heard the scream and he suddenly tudged on Chestnut's reins, pulling her back and toward the sound! Somehow, the scream had sparked an idea, and Rocan wasn't going to lose the opportunity.

As the horde came into view, the freelancer dipped his head and charged! Chestnut's rammed through the din and scattered their bones across the floor instantly. Reining the mare back, he found what he was looking for. It was the guard, the last one to be attacked. He was gnawed and slashed, bleedly heavily, but he was still alive.

“Are you still breathing?” Rocan asked. The guard nodded frantically, flinching grimly. “Can you stand?” another question and Rocan watched as the man staggered drunkenly to his feet. He was wheezing and his once blue eyes were now bloodshot.

“Listen, listen to me! I want you to ride back, go back through the path we came with and find the Black Guard we rode by when we came here. Do you remember where they were?!” Rocan asked, trying his best to draw Chestnut back. The man nodded slowly, he turned and staggered toward his horse, before falling onto his knees.

“Damnit,” Rocan cursed. He took a quick glance around and saw that the fight had now condensed behind him. The only people left now were Altanis, Bradok, Blackwell and one guard who seemed more experienced than the most of them. The battle was a splash of shadows and corpses, of horses and men!

The sellsword quickly leapt off his mount and ran toward the fallen guard. A few steps forward and they got to the startled horse. Rocan grabbed the man and began to push him onto the horse before it hit him! A wave of energy that made his limbs sluggish, taking his breath away from him. A slow, encumbered look around and he saw, a light, pulsing, green, not far off between the trees.

In that moment he'd even forgotten about the man now saddled up onto the horse, however it was its gait down the path they'd come that brought him back to his senses.

He took a breath and found it difficult, though he moved to Chestnut and grabbed her reins.

“Al... Altanis... Altanis!” the young freelancer rasped through hoarse breath. The archer moved and swayed, hitting each target that came into his sight, but now, as Rocan could clearly see, each draw from his bow was significantly weaker. “Altanis!” the latter heard his name and turned his head, he saw Rocan, who moved his palm in a gesture toward the trees.

The archer looked, his vision sluggish, until he saw something. A figure... there...!

His draw and release was quick but his aim failed him. He struck the oak and two more arrows glanced passed the figure an instant after! He cursed but gasped roughly when a shadow came skirting beside him, it was Rocan's horse, Chestnut, and the rider himself.

“Scatter!... the spell... will probably.... lose effect!” Rocan wheezed as he slapped Chestnut's reins. “Come... back... when... you … can... breath!” The horse charged, dipped into the trees suddenly, albeit sluggishly.

Altanis nodded and gestured toward the rest of the entourage, and besides the horseless Bradok, who lumbered through the woods, they all took flight into the surrounding trees.

[Noth]

It was true that the trial had been an altogether pleasant one. The suns in the sky had lit up the area quite nicely, and the effect of dancing shadows formed by swaying leaves overhead was quite peaceful. On trials such as these, one only needed to step outside of their homes to succumb to the tranquility and peace of the forest. The hybrid listened intently, hearing the sounds of songbirds as they chirped their merry songs, and the occasional crackle of twigs and sticks which always accompanied small animals; squirrels, hares, and birds, as they attempted to locate their nesting places or a quick meal.

Noth, however, was not listening so intently just so that he could hear the normal noises of the vibrant forest. Instead, he had attuned himself so as to listen for the gentle clopping of horses plodding along the trail, hearing as they drew ever closer to the caravan being observed, until finally they came into view. The twilight hybrid immediately began to analyze the newcomers, taking note of the equipment which they displayed rather openly. The guard with the crossbow in front of the caravan immediately hefted it, taking aim at the newcomers, but it was lowered a few moments after the fact, and the distant voices of conversation echoed throughout the otherwise quiet area.

Analytical eyes quickly began to break down the presence of the newcomers, identifying minor facets of their attire and body language in order to determine why they had arrived. They wore armor and carried weapons, which meant they were soldiers of some variety, however, what armor they wore was often seemingly patched together, which meant that they were not regulars of a military unit. Clearly, they were from Etzos given the destination of the path before them, which meant that they were unlikely to be a scouting party from a foreign land, and the tone of their voices carried a hint of familiarity even with the distance between them.

There weren’t meant to be any patrols of Black Guard passing through this particular stretch of highway for quite some time, and the nature of their appearance and dress seemed to rather blatantly state that they were not members of that particular organization. The hybrid’s best guess as to the nature of the newcomers then was that they were mercenaries, likely hired to assist in the protection of the caravan. Only a singular item seemed to hint at potentially different reasonings; the young girl atop her steed riding along with the group. Perhaps she was the child of one of the traders in the caravan, or perhaps she was actually some manner of shapeshifter, only taking the form of a young girl for the sake of throwing off potential assailants. In the mad world that they lived in, either was a potential possibility, and Noth made a mental note to keep a close eye on the girl once they began their assault.

With the potential newcomers identified, and their added presence deemed unworthy of changing their plan of attack, the Prince raised his hand once more, directing it in a pointed gesture towards the caravan in the universal signal for ‘Go’. There was no palpable binding holding the undead back, nor any hint that they had been let loose from their mental leash at all until they had already arisen from their positions, and begun to bound down the hill. They were not nearly as powerful as the ‘Maimers’ as Marrow was inclined to call them, but they held both the element of surprise, and an odd physiology that would likely present issues with the defenders of the caravan.

The battle began with a start and a cry as one of the skeletal undead rammed directly into the side of an unsuspecting guardsman; his attention having been taken up almost entirely by the conversation ensuing before him, and promptly tore into him with savage abandon. The others of its charge quickly caught up with it, and nearly every person in the caravan was suddenly wrapped into the throes of brutal combat. The horses in the defending party responded to the violence with neighs and whinnies, and the hybrid observed as one of them crashed into the mare of the young girl, frightening her beast with the excess sensory intake, and sending it and the girl atop it into the woods.

Good, that particular moral conundrum had been relieved, the hybrid considered as feathered fingers settled upon his longbow, slowly notching an arrow to the taut string there. One of the guardsman in the back of the caravan was holding back the gnawing jaws of a skeleton there, though, a moment later an arrow pierced through the side of his neck, silencing him with a gurgle and allowing his arms to fall limply as the skeleton thrust forward, pressing its advantage and tearing into his face with unnatural hunger. In the commotion, the gentle twang of an arrow such as his was either unnoticed, or uncared for, because it likely seemed that any arrow flying at all would be on the side of the defending party given that the skeletons wielded no weapons.

“Marrow. Do raise the dead when they fall. They have armor upon them.” He commanded, though his tone made it rather clear that he was simply reminding the necromancer as opposed to instructing him of some new idea or tactic.

Once more, the hybrid looked upon the battle, somewhat unaccustomed to simply observing from afar, but it would be an unnecessary risk for him to get involved in the thick of the combat, and he was not willing to risk himself so pointlessly for the sake of the adrenaline high which accompanied acts of warfare. A young woman… or was it a man? A person whose gender was irrelevant to the hybrid notched his bow, and promptly dispatched a pair of the skeletons, shattering their skulls with well-placed arrows.

The battle had all but been won, though there were still a band of five survivors who protected the caravan. Marrow released his energy down upon the field, shelling the battleground with Sapping powers which lessened the ability of, and exhausted their opponents. As a rather frustrating side-effect, it also revealed the position of the necromancer, and the hybrid observed with mild trepidation as one of the mercenaries called out their position to his archery-inclined ally. The arrow zipped through the air, whistling as it slipped gently past them and into the trunk of a nearby tree, snapping as it made impact with the large arboreal entity.

The murderous Avriel locked onto the targets as they began to disperse into the woods, evidently choosing to abandon the fight and the wagons of the caravan to the forces of the undead. Skeletal figures crept into the halted wagon, and the piercing shrieks and splatters of blood upon their cloth walls were evidence enough of the effect they formulated when engaged with civilians.

With a calm breath and an anxious desire in his limbs to contribute, the archer notched another arrow, and took aim at his target: A man with black hair, and bronze skin, riding atop his mount as he prepared to retreat from the fight.

The longbow sounded its death knell with a quiet twang, and an instant later, the man collapsed atop his mount, gently sliding down the side of it, one of his feet still caught in the stirrups as the arrow in the back of his neck rustled against the ground. He had wielded a crossbow, which meant that the only other ranged opponent remaining in the fight was the androgynous figure whose speed had been lessened through Marrow’s efforts.

He raised the longbow once more, notching another arrow and taking aim at the retreating figure. There were only a couple of trills remaining wherein the group would stay in his line of sight, and the hybrid determined rather quickly not to waste them. He released half of his breath in gentle exhalation, and fired once more; though his shot had been aimed far less lethally than the last, the projectile burying itself into the shoulder of the retreating fellow and sending him hurtling to the ground with the force of the missile.

“Give chase. Leave the wounded alive unless they try to run.” He ordered quickly, already tossing his longbow to the side and releasing the quiver from his back.

“Thane. Prisoner.” He commanded simply, pointing towards the downed androgynous figure across the way, who know crept slowly across the ground, evidently attempting to hide himself from view.

Promptly, the hybrid raced towards the caravan, ignoring the spoils within, and instead deigning to chase after the remaining survivors of the group, accompanied by a few of the undead monstrosities that Marrow had created. He cast a passing glance at the dead corpses, taking notice of their particular brutish wounds at the hands of the skeletal abominations, and he genuinely questioned whether there would be any survivors other than the ones he was going to personally take.

Admittedly, probably not many, but thankfully, Noth had never been cursed with a moral dilemma over such things. Without a second thought, he raced through the woods after the survivors, still vigorous and full of energy, wearing the heavy plate and chainmail combination that he preferred, and wielding his adamantite mace in hand.

[Neronin]

“Damn!” Neronin yelped as he leapt aside, far too late to dodge the arrows aimed his way. They missed however, probably because the archer had been under the Sap. Neronin laid flat behind a bush as he peered out at the fray. Noth was loosing arrows into one guardsman and his people were moving forward. The oaf with the mace had destroyed three of his seven marrows, and another had been downed by an arrow. Neronin waited until Noth was charging the wagons before getting back to his feet and moving forward as well. Combat was all well and good, but he preferred to let the undead do his fighting when he could. He approached the caravan with the necrotic energy rippling through his body, ready for anything. The bloody scene made his nostrils flare as the harsh smell of iron accosted them. He watched Noth give short orders and leap into pursuit of the survivors. Neronin invoked the three surviving marrows to follow, their skeletal limbs clacking as they ran after Noth.

The necromancer bent as Thane went to retrieve the wounded man. He picked up the skull of the marrow felled by the arrow. It had a large crack and the shaft of the projectile was still lodged in the dark eye orbit. Neronin sighed and pulled it out, examining the slightly dulled tip of the arrow before tossing it aside and raising his hand over the skeleton. His witchbrand flickered and his form briefly turned into the pallid corpse-like form it took on whenever he used his necrotic magic. The skeleton, headless, set bones hands against the road and pushed itself up to stand before him. Neronin placed the skull on it’s head and touched the crack with a single finger. The bone began to mend itself, albeit slowly. As the restore finished the Etzori mage walked over to the prisoner and Thane.

“Hello.” He said to the prisoner, tilting his head and appraising the wounded man. Then he turned to Thane. He hadn’t interacted with the man much, except in a few Al’Angyryl endeavors in which Noth called upon his services. “You think there are any more of them?” He asked and turned his gaze down the winding road in the direction they had come.

Thane gave a half shrug, keeping an eye on the wounded man. “I suppose there might be. This shit was riding that way when he saw us.” The swordsman said, also turning his hard gaze in that direction. Neronin nodded, and turned his attention back to the scene at hand.

The necromancer raised his hands and with them the bodies of the fallen guardsmen were raised. The magic flickered through the necromancer and burned through the newly lit eyes of the corpse warriors. They lumbered about, taking positions at the flanks of the caravan. Neronin turned back to the prisoner after ensuring their defenses were up.

“You were riding that way when you were defeated. Why? Who is down that road?” Neronin asked without inflection. The necromancer stood on the road before the man, his white dead hair framing a pallid face lined and broken with black veins. The necromancer watched the prisoner with slightly narrowed eyes, searching for lies.

“May the Immortals chew on your bones, necromancer!” He said in a valiant attempt at bravery. The wound in his shoulder bled a dark sticky stain across his armor. His breathing came ragged and worn, but his eyes were sharp in their defiance. He then gathered his spittle to spit on Neronin, but the necromancer saw the defiance coming and lazily slapped his face away to avoid the spit. It dribbled down the man’s chin instead and he winced at the pain the movement caused his shoulder.

“We’ll kill you, and desecrate your body like I did these others.” Neronin told him softly. It had no relish, no emotion in it. It was just an obligatory fact the mage stated. “Your defiance here does nothing for you or your compatriots. If resistance is your choice you will die and so will they, and in death you are mine.” Neronin pushed a tendril of magic into his with his mind, sapping his energy a bit before standing up. “So, who is down that road?”

“Eat shit.” The man mumbled, his rasp weaker now because of the spell. Neronin’s face flickered with annoyance as the man’s attitude remained defiant. He glanced at Thane.

“Idiot, fine.” Neronin muttered, staring disdainfully down at the prisoner. “Thane, keep your eyes peeled. I’m going to talk to Mongrel.” He said, walking over to the nearest wagon in the caravan. Neronin climbed up into the wagon and slumped sideways, seemingly unconscious.

* * *

The burning green embers in the marrow’s eyes flared as the necromancer’s mind invaded the form of his minion. It took him a moment to orient himself within the thrall. Then he caught sight of Noth running through the trees, a shifting shadow in front of him. Neronin urged the thrall on, spurring more speed.

He willed his voice through the thrall. When it came it echoed with an odd, far flung rasp. “Mongrel, it’s Marrow.” Neronin voiced through the magical connection, catching up to the half-avriel. “This imbecile we captured isn’t being very helpful. Thane and I think there might be Etzori regulars down the road. What do you want me to do?” The marrow and its compatriots chinked and clattered subtly as they ran alongside Noth.

The marrows faded between the darkness of shade in the forest and the columns of light. When the undead moved through the light their pearly bones gleamed and the shining of their eyes dulled to a darker green. The things clawed at the vegetation around them vengefully as they passed. Neronin turned his focus to the forest around the thrall, hunting the living. Eventually he let the Link dissipate, returning to his body and leaving the marrows to follow Noth in the hunt. He had never been a hunter.

* * *

Neronin raised himself up, returning to his own form in a disoriented haze. The mage stood and turned to Thane and the prisoner. Neronin hopped down from the wagon again. Neronin looked at the nearest undead, a recently animated husk of the dead guardsman. The thrall lumbered over to the prisoner and reached down, pressing cold fingers into the man’s wound. The archer screamed and snarled insults as he thrashed away from the undead. Thane backed off a few steps, distancing himself from both the prisoner and the undead thrall and looking weary.

“So, you’re the one who nearly shot me eh?” Neronin asked, once again reining in the undead. The thrall gazed down at the prisoner, its eyes burning with a hunger.

“Yea, I’m good with my fingers.” The man said, his face breaking into a weak grin. “Just ask your mother.” Neronin’s surprise graced his features. The man seemed truly unswayed by his vile magic, even in this heavily weakened state. The mage chose to ignore the obvious provocation. It was easy, since he bore no love for his long dead mother. Instead he continued as though it had not happened.

“Well, Fingers, why resist us? Do you care for your fellows so much that you are willing to die for them? For this caravan?” Neronin asked, sewing doubt into his words to make the concept seem more ridiculous.

“It’s more I just don’t like your stench, corpse man.” The archer said in a bark. “Besides you can’t kill me before your boss gets back.” That was indeed true. Noth would be upset if Neronin sucked the life from their prisoner before his return. But on the other hand…

“Yes, but I think such a feat of survival against such a prestigious opponent ought to be marked with a trophy. What do you think, Fingers?” Neronin hissed, his voice lowering and his pallid face breaking into a slight grin. His top lip curled back to reveal blackened gums and white teeth. In that moment the thrall grasped the archer’s draw hand in its own. It reached up and bit down on the four fingers. When it released the hand, four bloody stubs remained. The thrall turned and Neronin willed the thing to let the fingers fall from its mouth into his hand. “Yes, these skilled fingers will do nicely. I’ll have to keep these to remind myself of my good fortune.” He tucked the fingers into the pouch at his belt.

[Rocan]

Altanis bent over, his eyes bloodshot and his scream – silent. He kicked the dirt up like an injured dog and whimpered, his mangled hand sputtered jets of liquid carmine and painted the verdigris canvas beneath him in a portrait of blood and pain! He cried, and snarled venomously; his silver locks were matted and sweat glistened over his soft, tender skin.

“Bastard!” he erupted with a grim moan as pain writhed its way up his taut muscles, “You... bastard,” he groaned, sniffled and looked at his stumps; flexing his palm, to see shattered bone move under the severed digits.

Rasping darkly, Altanis began to sit up. Proping himself with a hiss as he turned and locked his gaze onto the necromancer. He gulped for breath and pushed back a strand of hair with his other hand, sighing through ragged breath. “You could have at least taken me out to dinner first before you got so rough! Argh, bandits nowadays; it's all loot, loot, loot! Not even a, “Hey Altanis, nice little ass you've got there, mind if I rob your wagons while I'm at it?”, anymore.” he hissed, looking at his captors with a leer.

“I really liked those fingers too, you know? You could say they came in handy when I needed them.” he chuckled laconically. “ Now how's poor ol' Altanis going to impress the boys and girls, eh? I do, however, have to hand it to you lot for your little stunt; we hardly saw it coming.

“The name's Altanis, by the way. And,” the archer indicated with a slight nod toward the road, his eyes however, moved from the necromancer, his thrall and guard, toward the trees; where something shifted. “If you wanna know who's down the road, I tell ya... however, Since your pal Altanis here is a little underhanded, haha, I'll give you a few clues as to it may be.”

Once again, a thing between the foliage moved and Altanis' gaze darted between it and his captors “First, it's big! And trust me this time, it's not in my pants.” he chortled with a wince. “Secondly, it's got red hair.

And thirdly, it's got some of the biggest breasts you'll ever lay your pretty little eyes on.”

“Care to guess what it is? No? Oh well... Bradok! Rush em!” the archer snarled, kicking up the dirt his boot! A spray of dust blew up and flushed over the necromancer and his guard and suddenly, the archer leapt up, throwing his entire body at the necromancer with a vicious tackle! He cared not to see how the latter faired from the attack as he bolted in the direction of the trees, where a massive shadow came hurtling down the brush with a savage swing of his powerful mace!
“Eat shit, magic boy!” Altanis growled as his lithe body darted into the woods. Bradok corraded firecely down the path. His mace thirsty for blood!

“C'mon here you two and give Bradok a good fight!” he rapped as he came charging for the necromancer!

Meanwhile, through the trees, there came a tumult of footfalls, skirting through the dirt and vegetation, snapping the twigs and dead branches with a rattle of bloodlust. And cold eyes followed its trek through the brush as they came nearer.

From the looks of it, the large one wasn't human just like its three companions. That didn't matter to the observer, a bigger opponent just meant one more story to add to an already impressive list of tales. He heard, something in the distance. A scream... soft, and pleading. Very familiar...

“Malyssa?” he drew a breath, thankful that whatever spell had been cast no longer had a hold on him.

His eyes darted to his horse, which he'd dismounted after coming this far into the woods. It wasn't that far away but was relatively well hidden among a glade of thickly knotted trees. The distance between them was enough so that he could see the beast but not even hear it. After last seeing the old man fall dead from an arrow he was sure didn't belong to Altanis, he was now wary. It was sad to see the old man go, the silent watcher thought drearily; before they left Hiladrith, the veteran did tell him that this would be his last freelancing job, 'Something simple but with good pay; it's be going to my granddaughter's tuition fee since she's busting her butt with her studies up there in Viden Academy. She's a smart girl, and I'm only one she's got left in the world.' he'd said.

A snapping twigs brought back his attention!

Blackwell breathed through grit teeth and girt his longsword listlessly. He closed his eyes and crouched, counting the footsteps passing through the trees, listening for the heaviest ones. He wasn't particularly good at it but he still listened. The first rustle came, with the rattling of mouldy bones; the second and third were the same. The fourth, which was loud and spry, came and the mercenary pouced! Behind the tree, he came swinging like an executioner!

And he was sure he missed since he swore loudly and jumped back, taking a guarded stance! His sights locked on the large, dark creature before him and he snorted ferociously. “I'm not one for introductions, so how about but I kill you instead?” he snapped, his sword arching as he attacked!...


Through the woods Chestnut's frame galloped and from the looks of it her strength had returned. So Rocan took a breath and manoeuvred her reins carefully through the brush. They were charging forward because he'd heard it, perhaps he was even the only one who did – a littl girl's scream.


“Help! Somebody!” he heard it again and spurred his mount west adruptly! Chestnut's frame cut into the foliage and Rocan was flung into a small clearing suddenly. “Help me, Rocan, please! I-- my leg hurts! I-- wanna go home! I--”Malyssa's voice filled the tract. Her eyes were red and puffy from the tears she'd cried and her face was caked in flora and dirt. Her pink, frilly dress, was now dirty and tattered.

“Lady Malyssa, are you okay?” Rocan asked as he started off the horse, he strode toward with a small gait and crouched beside her. “What happened? And, where's your horse?” he asked, his gaze went from her dainty, scarred face to one of her legs. The limb was bent awkwardly, violently at that, to the point the young freelancer even saw bone jut out under the skin.

“I... “ she began with a stammer, her hand pointed toward the south and she began to cry, “That way! It... went! It... got... scared again and,” her small arms reached out for him as he nodded slowly. He understood her well enough, the mare had ridden into the glade initially, and something must have frightened it, causing it to panic and throw Malyssa off. The panic must have been so sudden that when Malyssa fell, she did so without knowing and was thus unable to prepare for it – resulting in her leg snapping up upon impact.

“Rocan... it, hurts!” Malyssa whimpered as Rocan, who began to pick her as delicately as he could. “I'm scared! I wanna go home! I want Papa! I--”

“It's okay, it's okay,” Rocan answered softly, “I'll get you out of here and we'll go back to the city where you can wait for your father,” the mercenary replied with a small smile. Malyssa eyed him, doubt in her eyes. Rocan continued, gently saying, “And all of this, when you wake up tomorrow, will seem like a dream.”

“A dream?” she asked with a sniffle. The mercenary nodded. He was sure that he was craddling her carefully before she gasped, her eyes growing wider. She began to tremble in his arms and tears began to roll down her face. She wanted to scream but somehow could not. Rocan, who's back was still facing forest, turned and saw them. Three in total... fleshless, rattling husks under the influence of necromancy. He felt a lump in this throat as he watched them grind their jaws and make odd, snapping sounds with their teeth.
He shook his head and held Malyssa tight before turning to look at her. “Lady Malyssa,” he said as he began to lower her softly into the grass, her palms were biting at the fabric of his ruddy-black coat as her head shook defiantly. “No, don't!” she whimpered as he settled her down. It took a small smile before she finally let go and the mercenary could stand up again.

“This will only take a moment;” he said with a curt bow. He turned let a soft whistle leave his lips, Chestnut, who'd took to strutting defensively in front of the things, turned her frame obediently toward her master. She was often a little mischievous, and sometimes even outright obstreperous with Rocan, but never did her loyalty and abidance weaver in a battle. She came forward, trotting gallantly. “Guard the child,” Rocan said flatly, brushing her mane as she sauntered by. The mare snorted and continued her brisk walk.

Beneath the cloak, cold, scored iron was drawn as the mercenary treaded a monotous walk to the centre of the clearing. The cutlass felt heavy in his palm as he watched the things lumber toward him; slowly at first, then into a small jog and suddenly a full, blundering assault! The blade revealed itself, in the rays of setting sun, it shone with radiance of newly drawn blood as Rocan's lean body suddenly lurched forward; starting toward his undead foes!

[Noth]

His black heart thrummed its gentle rhythm in his chest, the blood pulsing throughout his body in a harsh tempo, ringing in his ears with each step through the woods, drowning out the sound of foliage and loose debris snapping and being trodden upon. Behind him, the skeletal abominations followed their chief fiend, slashing and raking through intrusions with ferocious abandon, allowing branches and twigs to lash out in return, striking them where once there had been eyes and flesh with open disregard. They were excellent hunters in that way, an unstoppable force who would exhaust an enemy far before they themselves ever fell to that point; if that was even something possible for undead.

One distinguished itself from the others, halting for an instant before shooting forward faster than its peers, keeping in step with him as they continued sprinting after the routed mercenaries. Its unnatural mouth opened, and the thing spoke with a recognizable voice, but one that seemed almost distant in nature. It identified itself as Marrow, and alerted the Avriel to a potential issue, informing him that the prisoner he had taken was being uncooperative; an issue which could be resolved after the fighting had concluded, and that there were potentially Etzori regulars approaching their position; that could not be rectified quite as simply. The hybrid slowed to a stop, feeling his breath heaving in his chest, but forcing himself to speak given the potential urgency of the situation. He was a vicious warrior, possessed of some talent for war and battle, but even he could not simultaneously run after a foe in plate armor, and hold a conversation without exhausting himself.

His mind worked rapidly, the cogs within it churning out a plan mechanically, and he rapidly vocalized his idea. “Wait until they can see you. Put the most human undead in the front of the caravan towards them. Have them fight with one another. Hide the skeletons inside of the wagons. Make it look like a bandit raid, then, when they get close, pounce.” He didn’t elaborate on why he had chosen that particular plan, though the reason for it was quite simply that the regulars would almost certainly see that something was wrong, and so presenting them with what they wanted to see; in this case a semblance of the truth, even, was likely to lure them in where the trap could be sprung upon them. He granted the corpse a single nod, a silent command to utter his will, and promptly resumed his hunt through the woods, noting that the skeletons had long since abandoned him to his conversation, and the one with which he spoke quickly reverted to its unnatural savagery, zipping through the foliage in pursuit of its ivory brethren.

Perhaps it was the rush of adrenaline surging through his veins, or the thoughts plaguing his mind as he now considered the chance of an Etzori patrol assailing them at the caravan, or perhaps it was simply that the foliage was dense and he did not expect the enemy to turn from their retreat and rally together for a sally against him, but when the mercenary sprang forth from the bushes, the hybrid was caught unawares. He jerked to the side, his feet carrying him nimbly even in the heavy plate armor which he wore, and he listened to the slight clink of metal as it dragged across his right pauldron, sliding weightlessly off of his form after it reached the end of the armor. In a heartbeat, Noth had recomposed himself, and regained his breath, helped in that matter by the opening sentence of the mercenary. It was well and good to state things such as it, but in reality, even brief statements asserting one’s displeasure in conversing during conflict allowed an opponent to better ready themselves to an assault; a novice mistake taken by someone who in appearance seemed rather experienced.

The mercenary did not possess quite the amount of armor which the hybrid did, though he did appear to wear a coat of chainmail for protection, and it seemed as though it had been wrapped around a fair amount of his body, though it did not fall quite so far as to protect the bottoms of his feet or the ends of his hands. Admittedly, given that the Prince of Eternal Mercies was wielding a mace, a weapon specifically designed to make armor obsolete, it wasn’t as if though his lack of protection would affect the battle quite as much as it could have if he had chosen to wield a sword.

The older man attacked, his blade arcing through the air, speaking for itself where the next blow would land by means of how… choreographed it appeared. It slid through the space between them, and the hybrid retaliated instantly, parrying the blade with a hefty blow of his mace, using the weightier tool to smack away the sword’s edge. Despite the sword being lighter than his own mace, the hybrid could still feel the force of the blow jolt through his limbs, snaking along his muscle until it was finally withdrawn from him.

He danced away from the hybrid, clearly attempting to reform his stance so that he could go for another strike against him, but Noth saw an opportunity in that retreat and pounced, his predator’s mind identifying the falling back for a moment of weakness. He didn’t bother to swing with his mace, realizing that the motion would either be too soft, or that it would take too long to complete properly, and likely just be dodged or parried by the swordsman. Instead, the Avriel simply twisted his entire form, snapping his wing outward to grant him additional force, and promptly slammed his shoulder into the fellow’s sternum, throwing him roughly into the trunk of a nearby tree.

His opponent was dazed, and the Prince lurched forward once more, shrugging away the slight sting of impact from his body as he raised his mace to deliver a killing blow, slamming it forward in an attempt at caving in his face, and sending his nasal bones into his brain. Perhaps it was simply a reflex earned from fighting in one too many losing battles, or perhaps it was simply a natural toughness that snapped the man out of the daze, but he dove to the ground, sacrificing his footing and going prone upon the floor as the blunt instrument clubbed against the trunk of the tree, spraying loose bark and wooden splinters with the impact.

Noth yanked on the weapon, but found that it had been placed quite deeply by the force of his blow, and he rapidly abandoned it to its resting place as his foe half-heartedly swung a blade towards its hilt, nearly catching him in the gauntlet. Though he had lost his weapon, the hybrid now held the advantage against his prone opponent, because his enemy did not have the room to maneuver his sword properly from the ground, which meant that he could close the distance rather easily between them. The fellow picked himself up onto his knees, thrusting his blade forward in an attempt to catch the Avriel in the chest, and though it scraped along his side, his chainmail protected him from much harm. He quickly snapped his arm downwards over the blade, allowing it to rest in the pit of his arm, and pressing it tight and flat against his body to prevent the mercenary from taking another swing. It was a somewhat precarious position given the lack of protection inherent in most armor under the armpit, but there was little time for the older soldier to make use of that, especially with his blade now just as caught as Noth’s mace had been.

The Prince moved forward, lashing out with his vicious talons and carving a wicked line of crimson across the veteran’s arm, forcing him to release hold of his weapon or else risk losing the limb entirely to the cruel claws. He yelped in that instinctual way that all people do when they are hurt, and then attempted a hunchbacked tackle against the bird, pushing him backwards with all of his weight, his talons raking uncomfortably in the dirt before a loose stone managed to break the end off of one of them, eliciting a low-voiced swear.

Both parties fell to the ground, striking and lashing out at one another, but once again, Noth held the advantage; his armor protected him from true damage, and the mercenary was forced into making careful blows so as not to risk shattering his hands. The twilight hybrid continued his kicks, attempting to rake the man to pieces with his talons, though each successful blow caused him some pain given the state of his now broken claw. He ran the predatory implements down the mercenary’s thighs, streaking them with flowing red rivulets which began to pour out onto the ground, birthed into the world with the song of another scream.

The mercenary took hold of a nearby stone about the size of his palm, and promptly rammed the item harshly against the side of the hybrid’s armet, painfully twisting his head to the side, and managing to cut his eyebrow with the force of the blow. He raised himself above the avian, and proceeded to hammer down at him once more, though this time his arm was caught in a grapple by the Avriel, who proceeded to twist the captured limb until there was a sickening pop of dislocation. He retreated backwards from the Prince, acquiescing defeat though he never uttered a word, standing true and brave to the end.

The hybrid picked himself up from the ground, shaking his head in order to wipe away the blood dripping into his eye, and promptly marched over to the battered fellow, raising a final vicious talon and wordlessly bringing it down onto his head.

And then, like a flash of lightning in the night, he was snuffed out, leaving only a gentle thunder as his corpse struck the ground to act as his remembrance.

[Neronin]

This damn caravan was more trouble than it was worth. That’s what Neronin thought as the blithering idiot identified himself as Altanis. He listened to the man as he made some glib remark intended to provoke Neronin. The situation called for a level head however, and taking the fingers had been an adequate repayment for the man’s cheek. He would not draw a bow with that hand ever again. In truth, Neronin expected to kill all the survivors anyway when they had taken what they wanted. He didn’t like the idea of vengeful soldiers who could identify them to other soldiers.

Neronin’s attention flickered back to the imbecile as he began to speak again. This time he was talking about whoever lay down the road. Neronin could tell the wounded man was still posturing, still remaining defiantly brash. The mage felt the spark ignite within him. He twisted the necrotic energy within, wondering which was the best way to rip the life from the pestilential man. He really didn’t know when to shut his mouth. Perhaps if he withered the tongue, or the jaw, the man would learn his lesson.

“Your petty words mean noth-“ Then the mercenary lunged at him, knocking his bloodied shoulder into him. Neronin was knocked back onto the ground as the man made to lumber into the woods. “Thane!” Neronin rasped as he struggled to his feet again. The necromancer actually had a slight flush of red anger in his cheeks. But Neronin’s shout was overshadowed by another battlecry as a huge figure raising a mace burst from the underbrush near them. He came charging straight for Neronin. He was a massive man, and Neronin felt a fear burst forth deep in his gut as the man charged, clearly aiming to kill. His eyes were wide with a sort of human ferocity that reminded Neronin of the undead in a way. It was an insatiability.

But Neronin had power built up in him. He had been expecting to use the ether on Altanis, the blithering idiot. But this huge mace-wielder was clearly the more pressing threat. As he charged Neronin stepped to the side, through a crackling green portal. In the blink of an eye he reappeared through an identical portal behind the man. Neronin raised his hand with vicious intent. As the leaves rustled in the trees around them everything seemed to pause in that brief moment. Then the black ether crackled forth in a wave of twisting power. It hit the man in the back, the Sap spell pouring completely into him. The massive warrior was spent instantly. His great charge came crumbling to the dirt as he toppled, suddenly exhausted and frigid. The touch of the dead had stolen the power from his very body, his very bones.

Neronin smirked as his power transformed the huge man from a predator into a victim. He felt his body shift back from the undead visage into his normal grey pallor. He could feel the sluggish tug of his body’s energy as his power began to blur the sides of his vision. But Neronin’s spark could handle more now than it could before, even seasons before. He felt, once again, as if he stood upon a path into oblivion and the end was so close.

He reached his hand out, as if to sap the last of the man’s energy. To make him pay for his friend’s idiocy. “You would die for the man who has just now abandoned you?” Neronin said, his voice cold and full of power. “You are far better than he, indeed. You will make a much better vassal in your death.”

Then the mace swung around. The weapon was not propelled with it’s full strength through the air, but still connected. The thing caught Neronin’s last two fingers as it passed and he screamed in pain as they shattered. His pale hand dripped blood and he could see bone poking from the knuckles. Neronin stumbled back and hissed with fury. The man had struggled against and partially overcame his sap spell. That alone spoke to a level of endurance or strength of which Neronin had not expected from him.

Neronin watched with his lips curled back into a silent snarl of pain as the man turned over and pushed himself up. The massive Bradok seemed to take heart that the necromancer did bleed. He hefted his mace once again, looking pale and exhausted. They stared at each other as the warrior’s chest heaved and Neronin’s bloodied, broken hand dripped slowly. There were no words to be said as they both appraised the other. Kill or be killed, it was understood. Thane was standing on the peripheral with his own sword raised amongst the undead guards. He was worried, Neronin knew, about interceding and being caught in the vile necromancy.

The warrior finally charged and Neronin unleashed the second bout of necrotic energy he had been saving up. The black tendrils which lashed out from his mangled fingers shot at Bradok like striking snakes. Neronin felt his spark surge as he poured his energy into the sap. He felt it twist as the spark sought to lace the spell with a pull of life-force from Bradok. Neronin let the spell take on the Siphoning, pulling the very life-essence from Bradok to heal his wounds. The flesh of his hand stopped bleeding and the mangled fingered slowly slid back into their original shape. They closed up where the mace had ripped them and they popped back into place.

Bradok was on his hands and knees. He was watching Neronin’s hand with a look of nearly defeated horror. Neronin did not trust it though. He could see the hatred and and defiant anger still smoldering in that gaze. Instead he glanced at Thane. “Thane, do it.”

The swordsman stepped forward without a word. He raised his sword and slid it into the man’s massive back. The tip pushed through Bradok’s chest and he rasped, his eyes losing their focus. As Neronin let the spell fall the man slid forward onto his face in the dirt, sliding off Thane’s blade as he did so.

“Oi!” Came a cry from the road. Neronin looked up in time to see four men clad in Etzori regular armor. The one who had made the informal cry had raised a crossbow with both hands. In the moment Neronin realized what he was doing. The necromancer willed one of the undead guards to dive forward. The bolt that was meant for Thane lodged into the undead’s chest instead and it toppled from the force. Neronin dove off the road, slamming into a tree and rolling around it as a second bolt sent bark flying. He could see Thane crouched behind the wagon, sword drawn. Neronin was becoming very irritated with this caravan indeed.

The soldiers were spreading across the road when the bright green portal flashed in their midst. Neronin appeared and spread his arms. The wave of black necrotic ether pulsed outward from him, slamming into all four of them. The four were no match for the power of the sap. Their strength seemed to not be at the level of massive Bradok. The soldiers fell before his necrotic onslaught, dropping their crossbows and spears. As Neronin maintained the spell he felt the tendrils of weakness snaking their way through him. “Thane! Kill!” Neronin gasped, his face contorting slightly with the spell. He knew he was reaching the end of his capability, or at least to repercussion.

Thane sprinted forward with his sword gleaming in hand. The man made no ceremony in the slaying of the enemy. Thane’s blade cut and slashed across throat and through chests. Each man gave a weak gasp as he died, but none provided the resistance that Bradok had. At the end of the grisly task Thane stood staring at Neronin, his chest heaving.

* * *

Elsewhere, the three Marrows stared at the lone mercenary, their hungry green eyes flickering past him to the girl and the horse. They all attacked with a ferocity that held no fear or hesitation, and at once. The three skeletal undead hungered for the flesh of the living, hungered for revenge against their beating hearts. With each Marrow, the others seemed to understand tactics. They would lunge and swipe with clawed skeletal hands. The undead would capitalize on the motions of their brethren, dividing the swordsman’s attention. Simple slashes against the bones of the Marrows would have little effect.

[Rocan]

Malyssa watched with glassy green eyes as crimson flashed like scarlet tendrils lashing wildly in a forest of guttering, mouldy limbs. The gloam-light fell on the curvature of his cutlass like lintels of smouldering blood and disappeared as he sprang back, his cloak melding with his body like an extension of the elongating shadows, as he landed on his feet and swept with the sword at that the trio of things chattering violently toward him.

A bead of sweat streamed down the lines of his face as he parried a vicious swipe from one of the fiends before he sidestepped the lunge and gaping jaws of another. The third cluttered its creaking jaws together and flung its body at the mercenary in an unbridled attack he dodged a second before contact! With a spin on his booted heel his cloak fluttered with a wide, shadowy arc and everything came to sudden halt in the glade as it glided down the with a beat of fabric brushing intimately against fabric.

Over his shoulders, hiding everything in shadow, the burgundy cloak rested and Rocan drew a breath, then sighed as he relaxed his tense frame. Beneath the covering, however, he felt the viscid dribble of blood run down the length of his arm, where one of the undead had slashed at him a while ago. The cut was minor – though irately, it made the grip on the hilt on his sword quite difficult now.

Cool, brown eyes opened with a pedantic recrudescence and quick, ruminative glances between the three undead; who began to righten their bony frames in odd gangly contortions while turning their fiery dark-green, necromantic eyes back to their prey, began to think of ways of dispatching them effectively.

They were clearly immune to derisory slashing attacks and for the past few minutes now all Rocan had truly done was fight back with a series of parries and ripostes but that only held them at bay. Their stamina, from Rocan's perception, seemed nigh-limitless and they always attacked as a pack, somehow like wolves or rabid dogs. Though this was no horde he was up against and they were definitely weaker as compared to when they'd first attacked the party. And, Rocan knew that they were weak against blunt force, as he had quickly realized while he was on Chestnut when this whole affair had started back on the pathway.

Smoky, infernal glimmers flashed in their eyes like emeralds in a newly awoken furnace instantly and Rocan watched as their joints snapped and creaked with each step they took toward him. At that moment, an idea came to him and he put it into immediate action as the first of the fiends came charging toward him! With no discernible throats, it made the youth uneasy at how disgusting, gnashing sounds rattled out their hollowed skulls phantasmally – with all the ghastly endowment of forbidden sorcery!

His body bent down quickly as the Marrow sprang and he started with a quick, phantom-like sweep at its legs; more precisely, at its knees! The blade arced horizontally out his cloak with the viperous hiss that split the bone with a snap! The thing tumbled suddenly and Rocan dipped his lean body even further before leapt to the side like a panther to evade the oncoming charge of its comrades.


The Marrows spewed forth suddenly, roaring down like demons summoned from some sacred pit and Rocan receded with an uncomfortable circumvent and parry that rattled the cutlass savagely in his hand! His other hand shot up and held his shaking wrist and as he hissed madly.

“Rocan!” Malyssa cried out as the mercenary screamed suddenly from the sharp pain thundering up his arm! A Marrow got him! Its teeth bit down on his forearm with unhinged jaws that gaped over his now soaking shirt!
More pressure was applied and the sellsword howled before he pivoted on his passive side with sudden jerk, twist and arch that flung the thing that had its muzzle locked into his forearm off him suddenly! He flexed his arm and hissed painfully before his spun on his heels, his cutlass arched in wide, sweeping arch over the neck of the Marrow that had bit him. Throwing his weight behind the broad, fanning slash, the blade blasted the thing's skull apart with enough force to render its fragments as fluttering glittering pearls in the rising moonlight.

Without the head, the Marrow's skeletal frame slumped and fell softly into the grass at Rocan's feet. Though the latter, who cared little for it, now moved to the side to evade the frantic strokes of the third and last Marrow, his arm swept up and down in an overhead cleave the rocked the scalp of the undead in diagonal sideswipe! He drew back when the attack proved ineffective, bit down on his lower lip as a murmur of pain abstracted the length of both his arms before he ducked down, arched the cutlass in an upward angular-sweep, riving between the ribcage and pelvis, and cutting into two of the interlocking bones of the spine.

Rocan heard a small crunch! And started forward when the Marrow turned abruptly to match him, however, with the cut disrupting the thing's structural anatomy, its upper body immediately crumbled into its lower portion, like a stack of blocks into a non-existent foundation. The mercenary fell to a knee and and balanced him with the length of his sword. Both his arms were aching, blood dribbled down his sleeves and matted the grass in small truculent rubies.

By now, the moonlight was slowly brightening and cutting through the trees with javelins of light that mended the shadows all around him in crooked silhouettes.

“Ro-- Rocan, help!” the mercenary heard through his ringing ears. He opened his eyes and saw it! The first Marrow, whose leg he'd only removed – never truly killing it. It crawled, clawing forward toward the little girl, its eyes ablaze in the dark with a phantasmal bloodlust!

Rocan snarled, “Chestnut! Kill it!: he ordered with an unbalanced rock to his feet. The mare, that hard just a moment ago been feigning retreat, neighed and huffed. Her powerfully knotted frame started with a gait and her quoits charged into the crawling Marrow. In sudden stampede, Chestnut's horseshoes crushed the undead into a stomping, almost drum-like, beat. Ash rose up like drifting sawdust under her feet and Rocan, as if hearing its death, heard the necromantic hiss that lingered in the air.
“Behind you!” Malyssa's suddenly roared up from where she was seated. Rocan, who dashed aside instinctively, watched the Marrow he'd just disassembled, leap up and almost grab the hem of his cloak! It fell to the earth with a rattle of bones and Rocan, who'd just about raised his sword to strike, followed his mount's example and dashed, he realized his booted foot and the thing opened its mouth, screeching into sole before a vicious, snapping crack! – filled the glade.

Repeating the uncouth skull-stomping until only fragments remained, Rocan preceded to whittle down the rest of its frame with the action. He blasted mouldy ribs and broke the reminder of its spine in equal, brutal fashion, until, at his feet, was nothing but a pile of scattered, formless bones. With a cold, callous snarl, he moved to the headless Marrow, the second and very same one responsible for almost breaking his arm, and proceeded, without much thought, to repeat the action, until formless, shapeless, white splinters, muddled the earth.

The mercenary sighed a long while after the act and sheathed his cutlass painfully. He closed his eyes to think but heard Chestnut and remembered then that he was not only. “I think I'm starting to hate Etzos...” he said to no one in particular.

A short stride toward her and Rocan was once again kneeling before the girl. Her eyes were redder now and the tears along her cheeks were still wet; Rocan brought up his hand to wipe them away but pulled back when he realized how much blood was upon it. In the moonlight, he looked at his hand and saw a mire of undeserved pain and stupidity. And he asked himself... 'Why?'

Why was he here? At this moment? At this time? Why was he bleeding? To protect her? Who? This girl, this Malyssa, who he'd just met not so long ago... why was she crying? Why was she hurting? Is this... what life entailed?

“Why?” he whispered to nobody but himself. Where were these questions coming from all of sudden? Why now?

“I-- I'm scared...” Malyssa replied, evidently she'd heard him and thought he was asking her. “I... wanna go home.” she sniffled suddenly. Rocan, whose gaze had turned all but glassy in his spurt of existentialism, look at her and for a moment, flushed with abashment. He took a clout of his cloak and looked at Malyssa, smiling as he wiped away her tears.
“Alright, let me take you home. And when you wake up tomorrow, it will all be over.” he said as he held onto her...

Through the pain, Rocan muscled through until he had safely secured the little girl on the horse. Chestnut hardly complained and for that, Rocan was more than thankful. He took a while to mount up and find enough strength to begin steering Chestnut through the trees. With Malyssa as a passenger, Rocan knew it would be foolish to ride back to the caravan, it was not only dangerous for him but her as well. Besides if his initial idea had come to fruition, by now, Altanis, Bradok and Blackwell had probably secured the wagons – they seemed more than capable.

If not, however, Rocan could rely on the messenger he sent to find the Black Guard he'd seen patrolling. In truth, the man wouldn't and couldn't have survived that long and that was all Rocan truly needed. One look at the man's mangled body was more than enough to put anyone on high alert. By now, Rocan was certain word would have spread out and more of the Etzosi regulars were swarming the pathway or coming dangerously close toward it.

And indeed, he was right. For the Etzosi captain, who'd sent out a scouting group to go see what was happening not so long ago, spat incredulously. Something was wrong, he thought to himself. The men were meant to be back by now. His hand drifted instinctively to his medium sword and he cast one last glance back at the mutilated man who had found them patrolling the area. The poor bastard was now slumping over the neck of his mount, dead.

With a look back he turned to the rest of his band and whistled, “Get ready, the lot of you milk suckling peasants! Spread out and flank the path, this way and that,” he pointed mechanically toward the left and right. “Archers, with me. And the rest of you, move forward and if you see anything suspicious, poke it with your sword until it ain't! Move! Move!” the man barked as he and handful of archers took the right of the flank, with the rest of those following the plan...

Altanis snarled through the foliage, collapsing into an underbrush with a tumble and cry of pain. His thighs were aching and he'd ran for so long he wasn't sure where he was anymore. All he knew what that he had ran so far and so fast, that it became dark when he stopped!


He cursed that necromancer, cursed it with all his soul and all even those the foul thing would reap! He looked at the mangled stump of his hand and felt a few tears well up in his eyes. He sniffled and wiped them after a small, sorrowful cry. “No, no, no... I won't cry. Not again! Not anymore! Not ever! I'm not child and I deserve better! I deserve vengeance for this! – I'll show them, just like I did that bitch, Ralena... I'll show that damned necromancer and anyone who sides with him what happens when you hurt Altanis!

“Ralena knows... oh, she knows... I'll show them! I show them all... just like I showed my damned mother!” he vented with a hissed.

A snap in the distance made his silver man stand up with the rest of his body and when he thought he saw a shadow between the cleft of two sagging trees; he ran!

Chestnut's body rocked as she came up the path and Rocan tiredly steered her forward. Malyssa, who, for some time now, had fallen asleep from exhaustion, shifted slightly under the warmth of his cloak. She murmured something and then opened her eyes a second later; her breathing had normalized from wheezing that first overcome her and even though Rocan knew she still in pain, she feigned that she wasn't pretty convincingly.

It took a while before they saw the swarm of dim city lights in the distance and a relative silence flew with the melancholic breeze. A moment past by and Rocan heard the guffaw of a nocturnal bird fly over the scene.
“Ro.. Rocan?” the girl's voice pierced over the clatter of Chestnut's horseshoes.

“Yes, milady?” replied the youth, moving his cloak further forward to cover her bundled up form. A pregnant silence lingered over them before she spoke again, her voice low, uncertain: “Is... the rest of the world... this scary? Is Papa right... when he says I should stay in Etzos?”


The questions hung uncomfortably. Rocan, after a short pause of ruminative silence, spoke, saying: “Yeah...” somewhere that one, ineloquent word seemed like all he could say. What else was there to say? Would lies make it better? Would half-truths do any good when Rocan, who'd seen far worse than she could know, knew the fullest of truths? The world was a terrifying place and each day that unbridled, maddening reality was what he and countless others like him woke up too.

This odd bandit raid, in Rocan's eyes, now seemed like a paltry affair compared to the grander things out there. Wars, plagues, monsters, men... all of them, insufferable drops of water in a grander ocean of terrifying reality. Countless drowned in those very waters he now saw in his eyes and the few that escaped were either lucky or proved to be the strongest among the creatures of the world... what a sombre reality, life truly is – Rocan thought grimly.

“Yeah... I guess so,” he mused lowly, as he neared the city, with each ruminative step...

[Noth]

The hybrid gazed upon the mercenaries’ horse for several moments, questioning whether or not to attempt to mount it in order to reach the wagon at a faster rate. If what Marrow had said regarding the presence of Etzori regulars was true, then they would likely need him there to help orchestrate either a defense of their position, or else a rapid withdrawal from the scenario. The options there were based mostly upon how many Etzori were actually coming to see them, because if it was only a single block, they might be capable of holding out for themselves with the help of the undead constructs, but if it were something like a wingblock, then they would almost certainly need to retreat. Whilst it was true that the archers of a wing would do little to harm the undead marrows or their recently raised compatriots, they would have far less trouble piercing through the hide of Thane and Marrow. Even he was in danger if they wielded longbows or crossbows capable of piercing through his chainmail hauberk; the cost of wearing lighter and weaker armor than the plate which covered the remainder of his body.

Crimson eyes settled upon the horse, and it neighed and trotted a few steps away from him, likely unnerved by his inhuman gaze. Despite its training, he seriously doubted that it would allow him to actually mount it. Mercenaries were fickle and selfish sorts, which meant that they were more likely to train a horse to react only to themselves than to anyone requiring a ride as opposed to the horses trained by the assorted militaries of the world. Still, a horse was only a horse, and he truly had no reason to kill it; though, if he had been capable of carting its meat away, he would certainly have bashed the things snout through its brain, and thusly he abandoned it to its own desires, turning instead towards the downed mercenary.

His pockets were rifled through as quickly as possible, the payment from the trial’s operation taken from his corpse with little care for desecrating the fleshy mass. He might have attempted to retrieve the man’s armor as well, but once again he lacked the ability to properly carry it. Instead, he settled for taking the sword which had fought against him, holding the blade up to his analytical eye to see if he could notice anything odd about it. He unlatched the sheathe from the mercenary, attaching it to himself and sliding the blade into it, and with his almost ritualistic looting having been completed, he abandoned the body to the whims of the woods.

It was at least mildly more difficult to traverse the forest with blood seeping into his eye, and more than once he had to remove his helmet entirely simply to wipe away at the intruding substance, but eventually the bleeding resigned itself to a more casual position, leaking only slightly when the helmet chafed against the irritated flesh.

The caravan came into sight, remarkably under their control given the undead still roaming around it, though it seemed as though a fair few corpses had been added to the scene. These were covered in the armor of the Etzori, and the insignias of the local city-state had been inscribed upon the metallic pieces. The twilight hybrid passed by their bodies, taking notice of the way their throats had all been slashed. The garish uniformity of the wounds upon their necks were evidence enough that Marrow had not performed the actual killing. In fact, Noth could not remember a single time that the man had actually wielded a weapon against a foe, instead relying upon his hound-like undead to rip and tear, but it had proved an effective strategy thus far. Another body lay nearby as well, though this one was notably one of those who had fled through the woods, apparently having valiantly sallied forth only to die like a pig, his back coated in coagulated blood.

Crimson eyes spun about, locating the necromancer and his lieutenant in an instant, and propelling his feet towards them. He nodded his greetings to Thane before directing his attention entirely upon Marrow, noting the flecks of dirt and vegetation which had latched onto him from his fall. It was growing gradually more difficult to actually tell the man’s physical state given the mild disfiguration he suffered for his power, but Noth thought he could sense a sort of tiredness about him, perhaps it was a laxness in his movements, or something else entirely, but it was there nonetheless.

“Marrow. You look like death.” He uttered with humor, reaching out a gauntlet-covered hand and sweeping away a few of the fragments from his ally’s shoulder. He took notice as Thane rolled his eyes at the comment, just barely within view of his peripheral vision.

“Situation?” Immediately he had returned back to business, casting another glance around the battlefield in search of something he had left behind. “I see the hostage has escaped.” That was unfortunate, because it meant they would not get the information they desired, and beyond that they would unable to prevent the man from alerting the Etzori patrol if they had not already been warned.

“We need to leave. Thane, turn the wagon around. We’ll head further back along the road, and deal with getting the loot back to base when we can actually spare a moment’s breath.” The lieutenant nodded his assent to the orders, and promptly turned upon his heel to begin spinning the horse-drawn wagon around, much to the dismay of the attached horses.