Strange Bedfellows

[Letho]

((Closed to Shinsou Vaan Osiris and Storm Vertias))

Absentmindedly dunking the quill into the inkpot, Letho Ravenheart studied a pair of letters under the light of a solitary candle, liking the contents of neither. The first one was a plea for assistance from a hedge mage of a coastal town of Azore, written on an unevenly torn piece of in barely discernible scribbles characteristic of the wizard folk who always seemed to have no time to spare on proper typography.

URGENT HELP REQUIRED!

Tower overtaken by malevolent force. Town of Azore in danger! Calling out for any experienced hands to help deal with this threat. Sizeable rewards guaranteed!

For further details, please see Fareem, the Master Illusionist.

Normally, Letho would’ve ignored such notices because he disliked mages, their haughty attitudes and their skewed views on just about any topic. They had a bad habit of meddling with things that wound up smacking them in the nose, and any calamity that came from such tinkering was usually just deserts as far as he was concerned. Their quests for knowledge usually toed the blurry line that divided it from quests for power, and they regularly wound up paying a dear price for it. Sometimes it was their residence, sometimes their sanity, and oftentimes it was their very lives. There were some good apples amongst them, sure – his own daughter was a sorceress and he was quite fond of her – but there were also spiders that wouldn’t bite a man. That didn’t mean Letho was eager to stick his hands in a sack full of them.

Yet it was the title of this Fareem that made Letho consider the notice in spite of his intense dislike of mages. Though he couldn’t be in any way certain that this man was actually a master of anything – from his experience, magicians more than any other liked to append bombastic titles to their names – an illusionist was something he could use in the near future. One of his plans for Menel Govannen was bound to involve some dicey trickery, and having an illusionist who owed him a favor was an ace Letho wanted in his sleeve. Hence he had decided to at least visit the town of Azore and its troublesome magician. There was the township to consider as well, after all.

Which brought him to the second letter, and yet another thing he utterly disliked. Written in Letho’s measured cursive on a parchment that carried the emblem of Menel Govannen, it stood as a stark contrast to the mage’s scribbled missive.

Mr. Osiris

Foremost, I feel obligated to reflect on the regrettable event that occurred in Radasanth several months ago. As my daughter might have explained at the time, the creature causing the mayhem on that day was a simulacrum created in my image. It had been unleashed by a demon called Maledoch of the realm of Tar’Shak, but both the demon and its forces have since been dealt with. It was unfortunate that Radasanthians had to suffer such malice, and that you got caught in it as well, but I assure you that such mindless belligerence represents the complete opposite of why I personally stand for.

In fact, such threats to the public are the reason why I am in the process of forming a group strictly dedicated to extermination and prevention of any such occurrences. Though our members are free to pursue or support any faction in the current Civil War, Menel Govannen itself has no political affiliations and aims to play no part whatsoever in this futile struggle for power. Seeing as your Brotherhood of the Castigars seems intent to help Corone through these trying times, I hereby extend a formal invitation to any member of your group interested in doing a good deed to join one of our hunts.

If you wish to further discuss the relationship between our groups, I will be on an investigation in the town of Azore by the end of the week.


Regards,

Letho Ravenheart
Master of the Hunt

Rereading the contents of the letter did nothing to enhance Letho’s mood or assuage his dislike of the situation. Addressing the events of his troubled past to a complete stranger was an affront to his stoic nature, even if he intentionally failed to divulge any details. And he knew so little of this Shinsou and his Brotherhood that he wasn’t certain how much of his assertion of their intentions was actually true. Was the Brotherhood really dedicated to the task of bettering Corone? Letho had his doubts. It was more likely that they were just one of the new buzzards rising in the pecking order as they squabbled over the corpse of once proud nation. They all proclaimed they would make Corone great again, these self-proclaimed saviors, yet whenever they came into power they used it to further empower themselves rather than the populace of the realm they claimed to protect.

But as much as he might’ve disliked the Brotherhood, Letho was aware of their influence. Though they officially claimed no lands as far as he knew, their name was rising in prominence in North Corone, and with Whitevale being less than a day of eastward riding from Azore, it seemed inappropriate to trudge on their doorstep without at least a proper introduction. Thus he sealed the letter with the dual wings seal of the Menel Govannen and hoped that the Castigars opt to send an envoy rather than a posse. Azore had enough troubles on their own and didn’t need another pissing contest.

[Shinsou Vaan Osiris]

The township of Whitevale was where the road from Radasanth split. It came from the great Imperial city, through the frontier of the Brotherhood's territories and then plunged down through the hills where the overthrown Castigar Council made every journey hell for Shinsou's men. There was always relief from ambush at the crests, and then the road went back down into the valley again, going ever south until it came to the wide plains where Whitevale itself lay.

It was not a large fortress, yet in the last days of summer it had withstood a siege from Ducos and his men. The walls of the perimeter were still scarred by the marks of cannon balls and magical residue. This fortification had kept the Castigar Council from chasing the Brotherhood out of Corone, and this summer the men feared it might be called on again to do the same work against a different threat entirely. News of the assault on Radasanth had spread quickly around the Brotherhood command, with rumblings within the ranks that Shinsou Vaan Osiris and Storm Veritas had become personally embroiled in a battle against the legendary Letho Ravenheart. With neither man confirming or denying the rumour, speculation began to manifest that the Brotherhood was now interested in taking a somewhat different "direction"; a confrontation with the famous ranger, this famous protector of Corone, in a bid to nip any sort of 'problem' in the bud.

Shinsou knew that the speculation building up within was wide of the mark. He was a man who paid attention to all the details and his first meeting with Letho revealed very little that he was prepared to act upon. His intentions, his strengths and weaknesses, his motives for the attack and his links in Corone would require time and patience to analyse. Shinsou's inquisitor, back in Whitevale for the first time in months after being deployed to Salvar, had promised the Telgradian he would deliver, within the month, a full report on Ravenheart. Records that had been sealed away in the Brotherhood's vast archives were even now being collected and collated for Osiris's perusal. Once gathered and combed, these documents would convince Shinsou one way or the other of the type of threat the ranger posed to both the organisation and their interests, if any. Whatever the archives didn't throw up about the armor clad warrior, the Telgradian would find out from his partner, Storm.

Until then, there was little to do other than to maintain a keen eye and to keep an ear to the ground, so to speak. That was the case until Ravenheart's letter unfurled upon Shinsou's mahogany desk.

Mr. Osiris

Foremost, I feel obligated to reflect on the regrettable event that occurred in Radasanth several months ago. As my daughter might have explained at the time, the creature causing the mayhem on that day was a simulacrum created in my image. It had been unleashed by a demon called Maledoch of the realm of Tar’Shak, but both the demon and its forces have since been dealt with. It was unfortunate that Radasanthians had to suffer such malice, and that you got caught in it as well, but I assure you that such mindless belligerence represents the complete opposite of why I personally stand for.

In fact, such threats to the public are the reason why I am in the process of forming a group strictly dedicated to extermination and prevention of any such occurrences. Though our members are free to pursue or support any faction in the current Civil War, Menel Govannen itself has no political affiliations and aims to play no part whatsoever in this futile struggle for power. Seeing as your Brotherhood of the Castigars seems intent to help Corone through these trying times, I hereby extend a formal invitation to any member of your group interested in doing a good deed to join one of our hunts.

If you wish to further discuss the relationship between our groups, I will be on an investigation in the town of Azore by the end of the week.


Regards,

Letho Ravenheart
Master of the Hunt

The correspondance came as a surprise to the Telgradian, who immediately sent word to Veritas that they should meet and to treat the request as a priority. The two men met, not in the Whitevale complex, but in one of the town's gloomy, abandoned houses in an effort to stunt the growth of any further rumours.

Shinsou winced as a pair of reading glasses rubbed his sore skin. On the advice of the Brotherhood surgeon, he had put axel grease behind his ears to protect against the chafing wire, but still the earpieces irritated him. Turning to his partner, placing the letter in front of the finely dessed man for him to read with his own eyes, Shinsou held his chin in his hand.

"What do we make of this? You probably know him better than anyone, could this be a trap? Or is this sincere? In either case, it is plainly obvious he recognises the shape of the political landscape in Corone has changed. My first instinct is to say he's on a fishing trip and wants to gauge us and our reactions. That's what I'd do."

[Storm Veritas]

You’ve GOT to be shitting me…

Letho Ravenheart haunted Storm like a bad case of what was known as “Radasanth Rot”, a special leave-behind offered him by a few unscrupulous ladies who chose to join him following a night of drinking and similar bad choices. In truth, he suspected he was patient zero in the whole business, between his travels, hedonism, and peculiar healing capabilities. One way or the other, the symptoms distilled down into common enough annoyances.

Pain in the balls. Never really goes away. Flares up at the least convenient possible time. Everyone hates.

Storm examined the letter as these thoughts filled his head, his fingers combing through his thick, graying hair as he stalked about the living room of the dusty place. Shinsou remained markedly calm in the whole affair, which may have annoyed the wizard more than the letter itself. Shinsou had seen what the sadistic bastard was capable of; he’d seen the indifference for humanity that coupled with the legendary “hero”. That Letho Ravenheart was a hero in this land and Storm Veritas, liberator of Whitevale a villain burned the magician with the fire of a thousand suns. This was a word of brazen hypocrites; how could he remain straight and narrow in the face of such injustice?!

“Gee, Shin, you F*CKING THINK it might be a trap?” Storm angrily crumbled the note and fired it furiously into the air. When the paper began to unfold and fall harmlessly toward the wood floor, the magician fired a venomous bolt of white-blue lightning from his fingertip at the damned thing, incinerating it in mid-flight. A lifeless handful of dust fluttered to the floorboards below as the vile statesman turned his back. He was steaming, folding both hands behind his head and eyes glowing white with rage.

“Listen, this cocksucker has haunted me since I was knee high to a f*cking grasshopper. Always the nice guy, always the hero, always the gunslinger, always the Marshall.” Nostrils flared as he inhaled the smoky odors of burned paper, the iron heels of his three-hundred crown dress shoes clicking about the room with the steady beat of a metronome. Storm was borderline manic.

Monster hunting now? I wonder how many regal officials in the town of dunderheaded idiots pay “The Marshall” triple time to hunt glorified f*cking gophers. Meanwhile I knock out two of their most corrupt Senators and it’s borderline regicide…

His brain spun like wheels in the casino machines, trying to process the note he now wished he hadn’t vaporized. Letho had been so articulate, so formal; what was the play? Flush out the powerful ones, lure them into a trap, and wipe them out? Why? What was the impetus for this whole thing? Even Letho couldn’t run Whitevale solo.

“Yes, I think it’s a trap. Letho wakes up with a hard-on trying to collect my scalp. Shit eats at him, and eats at me. Haven’t been able to kill him.”

Inquisitively, an idea percolated between the ears of the wizard, who rubbed at his chin. The fresh morning shave still left the cleft flesh smooth.

Does he know that I am a part of the Brotherhood? Shin is the front-man these days. Maybe I can get the jump on that pious prick when he’s only expecting the swordsman.

A devilish grin spun across the long, aquiline face of the wizard, and his partner in crime recognized it immediately. Shin’s intuition was excellent; he likely already understood the idea which had begun to marinade in Storm’s mind. Sometimes the cat really doesn’t fare so well catching the mouse.

Shinsou was still donned in a blend of traveler’s gear and combat armor. It was a fine façade; he appeared casual to the normal citizen but was in fact ready for anything. In the eyes of the diplomat Veritas, it was practical, albeit horrifically devoid of style.

It would have to do.

“How well do you fit in suits?”

[Letho]

The two-day journey to the coastal town of Azore was uneventful to the point that the veteran hunter such a Letho almost hoped for something to waylay him, if only to get his mind off the monotonous trotting of his mount's hooves and stubborn thoughts drifting, ever drifting to the past regrets. But ever since the bubbling cauldron of the Corone Civil War quieted down to a simmer, the realm entered a post-wartime lull, where homes were rebuilt, families were reunited and bandits remained in their hiding holes, counting their own spoils from the war. The only thing that had really opposed his advance through the countryside was the fickle late autumn weather that was getting progressively worse the father east he went. When he had started his journey, the Bradbury Lake bid him farewell with a mild dewy breeze, but now the east coast of Corone assaulted him with sharp gusts that made Letho pull up the high collar of his gambeson in an attempt to shield from the dust blown into his face. He had seen the storm on the horizon on his first day, a dark bruise against the azure sky, but he expected that the wind would blow it off his course by the next. Instead, he seemed to be riding straight into the heart of it.

At least it's not raining yet, he thought as he spurred his spotty brown destrier up another hillock, but it was a convenience that was not bound to last. The air was thick with static and the chances of precipitation grew proportionally to the darkening of the skies. Given that it was still barely midday and it looked like the dusk, Letho anticipated a solid drenching lest he reached Aozre in the next half an hour. Luckily, as he gained the top of the hill, his final destination unraveled before him.

This doesn't look good, the mounted hunter thought, pulling on the reins and coming to a halt at the top of the rise. Nestled in a crescent-shaped bay, with its bright white stone buildings and vibrant red terracotta roofs, the town stood as a stark contrast to the storm that was gathering above it and the large dun fort that stood on the small island a little way off the shore. But it wasn't the township that concerned Letho, but rather a stream of carts and wagons that was milling uphill. Gently tapping the heels against his horse's flank, Letho trotted down to meet the head of the departing snake of people.

“Hail!” he greeted the aged stick-thin grandfather that led the convoy as he reined up next to his wagon. The old man gave his own reins a sharp pull, then raised his hand to signal the others to halt as well. He checked on the bundled up tyke sleeping at his side before he addressed the newcomer.

“Hail yourself, stranger,” he simply replied, casting a measuring glare at Letho.

“What is this? Where is everyone going?”

“Away. And if you're smart, you'll do the same,” the old man said. “Azore is cursed.”

“Would you say so?” Letho responded. He tried to keep his tone respectful when conversing with one older than himself, but a sliver of condescension crept into his voice all the same as he let his eyes drift away from the aging man and scan the vacant town. People always liked to use the wide brush of of The Curse over just about anything that didn't understand or didn't want to understand. Nine times out of ten it boiled down to something much more mundane. Like a meddling mage firing off one spell too many.

“I know so, son,” the old man bristled. “Go ahead, try spending a night over yon. The wizard's specters will be the end of you.”

“Specters. And this wizard... Fareem, I reckon?” Letho queried, giving his beard a thoughtful tug. The old man hocked a gob at the dirt below at the name.

“Aye, him. Used to be a nice enough fellow. Helped around, tended the lighthouse, even cured my Loren here of the pox.” His leathery hand passed over the blonde hair of the sleeping boy with affection. “And then one day he comes from his lighthouse, muttering like a madman. The next day, the lighthouse is gone and that damned castle is there in its place. Now, I don't know much about building, son, but things like that don't sprout from nowhere overnight.”

“And the specters?”

“Came the very next night. A few at first, shrieking and banging on the doors. Didn't bother us that much. You latch the doors and close the shutters, and they go away. But then more came, and soon enough doors weren't able to hold them anymore. And people started dying.” The gray-haired man paused, swallowing with some difficulty. “They got Larn, my boy, last night. Tore him apart before my very eyes. His wife, too. I managed to get Loren away.”

Seeing the old man hastily wipe the brimming tears from the wrinkled corners of his eyes made Letho feel bad for looking down on him and his initial opinion of the situation. Though a curse was still unlikely cause of this whole ordeal – from his experience, genuine curses usually focused on a single person or bloodline – something sinister was undoubtedly occurring in Azore. Getting away from such things was a natural reaction, regardless of what label is stitched to it, and unworthy of any kind of critique. Just because Letho's life consisted of wading waist-deep through any and every kind of supernatural danger didn't give the hunter the right to silently judge anyone.

From somewhere down in the line of overfilled carts, someone was shouting to get moving. The old man raised his hand again in response, then turned once again the Letho.

“I'd tell you to leave again, stranger, but you don't have the look of one who lets matters like this lie,” he said.

“I am not. I am here to put an end to it.” It was a bold statement, and one Letho was uncertain if he could actually live up to. There were far to many unknowns yet for any degree of certainty. “This Fareem. You know where I can find him?”

“I don't. The bastard went into hiding. The specters should lead you to him, though. They are his, after all.”

And with that the old man restarted the movement of the caravan up the small hillock and away from Azore. Behind them the storm reigned supreme, seemingly getting ready to swallow the town, the black clouds bearing down on it like a tainted aura. As Letho rode in the opposite direction of the convoy, much to the dismay of the departing townsfolk, the first drops of rain descended on the town. The light patter gradually rose to a drizzle as the hunter entered the ghost town, and by the time he tied his horse, picked up his weaponry and ducked under the porch of the nearby abandoned constabulary, it increased in intensity until coin-sized droplets came down in a downpour.

Guess I'm waiting for the night of the living dead, then, Letho thought as he sat crosslegged on the dusty wooden floor of the porch. Loosening the buckles of his burgundy gambeson for some additional comfort, the hunter unrolled the canvas that held the tools of his trade protected and started the serene process of maintenance.