A Stitch in Time

[Saxon]

(Closed and all Bunnying has been approved)

The sound of heavy hail grating against the roof caused a man sitting in a lotus position to lose focus again," Fuck," the man muttered as he toyed with forsaking the idea of meditation. Cold azure eyes probed the wide room once used as a meeting hall. A sea of candles surrounded the pale stranger, the jolt in sweltering heat steady until a swift breeze slipping through the cracks of the doorway behind him cascading the illumination into flickering chaos. Stifling a breath, the man felt his mind slowly drift away as the herbs he had taken slowly begin to take affect. It'd been this way for over four days, and frankly, Saxon was growing tired of the alleged tradition.

Learned from some pang of realization, the eldritch had rushed across the face of the world into the frigid reaches of Salvar and smack dab in the middle of the Salvarian civil war. In due time, the weird had come more then prepared and was waiting promptly for the ritual to begin. But it wasn't the circumstances that bothered him; not the lack of food that had not touched his stomach since he walked into the room almost a week ago, to the creaking migraine that drummed his patience. It was the city. Never before had Saxon gotten the feeling he had had since he first stepped into a place like this that was over halfway across the globe. But little of it matter, life goes on.

Fathulsaar was a rather bustling town compared to the other city-states that dotted the surrounding area, and it seemed as if word from the conflict between Church and State had not yet reached this quiet community. When the weird had first arrived, he had brought with him enough stolen gold to fill a duke's ransom, and it wasn't until Saxon had paid off most of the town to rent this forsaken hall that it's residents began to grow suspicious. Word spread faster than fanned flames across the city and the eldritch had to pull drapes across the windows in order to keep the secret of his fasting meditation to and only to himself.

Feeling his stomach growl menacingly, the weird gripped his pale flesh and groaned as he pulled a skin of water from nearby and plucked the cork, the cool, nourishing water meeting his hungry lips. Can't go on for much longer, the weird mused, but he already knew the answer. Strange words from thoughts not his own slipped into Saxon's mind from memory for the thousandth time, its' mantra slowly soothing the weird's grief:

O, Strange One, animal flesh must not pass your lips, nor shall

You drift into Sleep's idle hands until it is upon the witching hour.

Only shall the Speaker arise once more when the Stranger is upon

The threshold of Death's door and the way to hallowed Tsep shall

Call out and then and only then shall it be mended.

" Whatever the Hell that means," the eldritch growled sardonically. Almost had his patience ran out several times before this, and if it hadn't been for the fear that if he got up that a candle would tip over, Saxon would've quit this place long ago. What did it matter to him if something knew of Tsep? What did it matter that this city was one of the few places in the world that hinted of the realm of darkness? Slowly letting out a hissing sigh between clenched teeth, the weird already knew the answer.

It meant everything.

Being an eldritch didn't come with a guide book, and rarely did Saxon ever get thrown a bone such as this without having to finagle some mythical being into enlightening him. Surely anybody could see the signs were there. A war was being waged outside these very doors; the eldritch hadn't rid himself of a recurring nightmare ever since the months slowly drifted into annual decay. No matter how long it took, the eldritch had to wait for this thing to show up, and as a show of good faith he had bought himself a genuine sword for such an occasion.

Slowly bobbing his head downward to glance at the bastardized sword, the weird's long, ashen beard scraped gingerly across his hungry chest and the blade seemed to respond in kind. Made from common steel, the sword didn't look like much, but after some necessary enchantments had been placed upon the weapon did Saxon feel slightly safe. Feeling his eyes begin to grow heavy, the eldritch began to feel his mind slowly drift as some dark, erotic desire taunted him with sleep. Feeling the sound of the pelting hail grow faint, the only sound that escaped the eldritch's lips was a methodical hum as his mind wavered on the brink of slumber.

It wasn't time yet.

~*~

[Saxon]

Lithe fingers drummed across a tabletop as Fibonacchi slowly tried to stave off insomnia, almost half a world away from his alter ego. Sitting quietly in a one-room apartment that he had rented for the month for only a week's worth of stories and odd-jobs, it felt as if storyteller's sanity was slowly slipping away. Never had he cared too much about the falling months into another Coronian winter, but it never normally seemed to matter.

The link between himself and Saxon felt strained, as if the symbiotic relationship was being pulled apart by some unknown force. Regardless, heavy eyes probed the room as the peddler felt his insomnia continue on strong and a sickness begin to fester within him. What would it take?, Fibonacchi thought idly, and it wasn't until a soft voice from across the room spoke to him that he jumped.

" Ya'll gonna untie me now, aintcha?", a feminine voice cooed seductively as sleep decided to play tricks with him. Turning to the old hay mattress that sat stubbornly upon the bed, Fibonacchi saw the tall, enigmatic beauty that was his wife, ropes catching her hands to either side of the banister, her pale naked form causing old temptations to become aroused.

But it was a ruse, or so Fibonacchi thought. Suddenly words left his lips that were not of his own volition," A minute Daliya, just a minute longer.". Thrusting his hand upon his mouth with a smack, the frightened eyes of the storyteller taking in the lush brown hair of his wife to the seductive gaze as she licked her lips longingly to him.

" Com'n, baby, hurry up! I didn't put the kids to bed early for nothing!", she called out. Old passions mused as his eyes slowly creased into slits as memories of sexual adventure crossed his supple mind. The hallucination was vivid, and slowly the storyteller knew when it was from. It was their seventh wedding anniversary. It had been a long, long night, he recalled, and it was the first memory Fibonacchi could remember of his wife that he truly, wholeheartedly loved her.

Tugging on his beard be musingly he felt the hallucination take it's wanton course as a younger, naked figure similar to himself roused from the chair and jogged over to the bed, the pair giggling and cackling as they caught each other in their loving embrace. Slowly turning away to leave the couple to their own passions, Fibonacchi glanced back down into the leather-bound tome that sat in front of him. It was a package that had been delivered to him with no return address, and the storyteller was hesitant to open such things with such a link between him and a danger that had often threatened to take everything from him.

" Oh, Oh! Fuck," his wife's voice called from behind him, the squeaking springs trailing into the answer of Fibonacchi's immediate question.

With mirth, the peddler examined the books subtle edges, to the worn leather finish that told of it's subtle ancient background. Fibonacchi had once worked for a library when he was younger, and it wasn't until his memories drifted to it that the idea of such a book coming into his possession was ludicrous. He had heard of such tales from his employer of traveling books that appeared upon his doorstep desiring to be read and drifting away once the deed had been done. But it wasn't all good.

" Fuck! Fuck!", his younger self chanted as the burning passion between the two lovers conformed, and they both became one in the erotic dance they had made hundreds of times before. The memories still beginning to drift across his glazed expression, for some reason a peck of irritation roused his anger as the sound of flesh upon flesh caused him to turn around and roar," Stop it!".

Just like that the images faded from view as his younger self thrusted while his wife struggled to keep her grip upon either banister. It had been a year since he had last seen Daliya and his kids, and these thoughts of idle sex and memories of things long past truly bugged him.

Returning his train of thought to the traveling book, the storyteller felt himself slowly recant the old twisted horror stories that followed such things. Sometimes these books were benevolent, whatever making them find new owners granted them earthly wisdom and a better understanding of the world around them. But, not all were like that. Not at all. Attendents used to whisper the rumors behind closed doors of books that would drive a man insane and cause him to turn upon his loved ones, of books that held such dangerous ideas that people were executed upon the spot for owning up to them.

Which one was this?

Only reading the first page, the storyteller had felt the incantation to be a bit sublime for his tastes, and the prophetic words were not something he wanted to take lightly. But then it happened. The visions had stopped and the link that nourished the eldritch and the storyteller began to wither. It had been almost a week since Fibonacchi had touched the book, something about it was just ominous. What if the stories were true? What if the incantations were correct? Slowly grazing his finger across the hard cover, the peddler thought aloud," And who the fuck is this Strange One?".

Before getting his answer, the sound of writhing passionate cries filled his ears as the lovers came back into view, the lovemaking causing Fibonacchi's nerves to dance on edge. Not turning to look, the storyteller chose to ignore it. The idea was preposterous, the hallucination was a hallucination! But suddenly the sounds of passionate sex and smacking thrusts turned into a gag and a stifled cry as the sound of something wet being sawed stubbornly through caused the storyteller to grip his ears.

Again and again the sound came through as wet liquid spattered over the area. Unable to take it any longer, the peddler turned with a look of anger fixed upon his face that turned instantly into revolting horror. Straddling his wife, the younger man forced his hand against the woman's mouth as a jagged saw blade came down upon her thin neck, blood spurting and gushing upon the hay mattress. A look of inextricable rage was masked upon Fibonacchi's double, and Daliya couldn't help herself as her head slowly lolled to the side as her flesh parted and her brainstem snapping like a twig.

" What the fuck are you doing?!", the storyteller roared as he jumped to his feet, his eyes pooled with tears of anger. Never in his life had he seen such a revolting image, and it shook him to his very core.

Slowly coming to a stop, the man's naked form began to cackle as he pulled Daliya's head from her body with a sickening pop and wrenched it upward to inspect his work carefully," Ah, yes. How about it now, Daliya?". Pulling himself out and off of the corpse, the pale, emaciated figure of himself was spattered in blood, his face stretched into a wicked smile.

Backing away in black terror, the storyteller watched as the man slowly stole upon him, his doppelganger encompassing the room and slowly everything began to fade from view. Holding the head by the hair, the murderer spun it carelessly until it twisted and quickly began to turn the other way," Funny, isn't it?".

" W-who are you?!", Fibonacchi managed to whisper.

Watching the man's expression quickly turn from sadistic glee to savage anger nearly caused the storyteller to jump as the man's familiar voice spoke out," You know damn well who I am. What gives you the fucking right to ask that question? What?!".

Feeling the sleep snap away as realization dawned on him, the storyteller whispered," No..".

The man nodded, grinning like a child as he idly played with his new toy. The peddler didn't know what was worse, staring at his wife's head, or looking at his naked double covered in his lover's blood. Pulling himself away the storyteller whispered," Why?".

The man dropped the head to the side and mused carefully, pushing the dull end of the saw against his chin," Hm, I'm sure you know, you fucking coward. You're no saint, you know nothing of what is in that book!", pulling himself forward, the storyteller began to catch onto the game, his fear slowly beginning to evaporate.

" I haven't slept in four fucking nights ever since I picked up that stupid book, and I can't get in touch with Saxon either. Tell me?! What is so damn important about it," he growled while turning on his heel, but the storyteller instantly knew his mistake as his double crossed the gap between them in a bound and the warm, rusty saw that was supposed to be an illusion grazed across his neck. Caught in his grasp, the storyteller couldn't even let out a whimper.

" It means everything, little one. And only by reading it shall you rid yourself of me and perhaps save that poor family of yours," the double said with a twinge of finality. Starting to pull away, Fibonacchi was held immediately tight as he felt the hot breath of his doppelganger breathe into his right ear," Read the fucking book, and you won't have to find out the price for disobeying your nightmares. Don't make me come back again!".

In an instant the grip was relinquished and the fear-stricken storyteller felt the figment fade into nothingness. He had gotten off easy this time, nobody in the tales the peddler had heard of had ever escaped with their life when beings such as these were involved. Quickly turning to the sight of an empty bed and to the table where the strange book laid, Fibonacchi stormed to it and scooped it up into his arms, his eyes panic-stricken as he remembered the threat upon his family. Pulling the olive-green duster off the rack, the peddler growled menacingly as he wrenched upon the door and didn't dare turn off the lights. Superstition absorbing him, the peddler slammed the door shut and ran down the hallway toward the stairs to the lower half of the inn.

Radasanth was only a few miles inland, and if Fibonacchi calculated correctly, he'd be on Daliya's doorstep by morning. Something told him however, that if he didn't start reading, the idea of protecting his family was moot. Pulling a lantern from off the wall and tossing silver onto the bar as he weaved his way to the door, the storyteller wasn't going to be taking any chances.

Setting the book gently down upon the corner, he pulled a match from his pocket and opened the rusted hinge to the lantern stubbornly to light the candle. Without waiting to watch the flickering ember roar into flame, the storyteller quickly shut the hinge and pulled the heavy lantern off the bar. Looking up for the first time in ages since he cleared the staircase, Fibonacchi saw the perplexed look upon the patron's faces. Not willing to stop to relieve them of their suspicions, he began to walk away when he turned and pounced back on the book.

Picking it up and out the door, the sound of rain hit his lazy fedora, the peddler moved forward, cracked the tome open and growled," Saxon you'd better have got a good reason for this.". Slowly his eyes scanned line after line as he worked his way out of the abandoned hamlet and into the dark road ahead, surrounded on either side with suspiciously high corn stalks. Feeling his mind begin to drift, Fibonacchi felt the power of the mysterious book take affect. From out of the corner of his eye, a tall figure shadowed his window and the peddler could hear a faint sound of maniacal laughter.

It left the peddler to wonder as he made his way down the dark winding road what exactly it was he pissed off to recieve such a cruel punishment.

~*~

[Saxon]

A wiry man stood bunched up in a coat as thick as a mammoth's wool at the mouth of a gaping abyss. Under the fur cap that cradled his pate, the old explorer was reaching his pique. Graying hairs gave him a daily reminder that his days were numbered, but it wasn't that that had pressed him to do this. It was the hunt for treasure. Feeling his thoughts drift into nostalgia, the man began to remember a passage from the journal that had brought him here. Lazy brown eyes glazed over as they stared into the darkness, the trip upon memory lane holding his entire attention.

~*~

The Road to El Camora, Entry 8

1483 CP, the 7th of Y'edda's Guile with Kurept & Company

The face of the city was beautiful, and its glorious golden sheen was awe-inspiring. Upon the bejeweled walls of every edifice lay encrusted diamonds, emeralds, and rubies that shined like tears of the sun. Spires and towers stretched over the mist that enshrouded the sky above the city, they were like fingers trying to touch the face of Y'edda and my colleagues and I were ecstatic to see that we have finally found it. It was true from the language of the natives who dwelled within this city that Camora roughly translated into Coronian as "Paradise".

We had finally found El Camora.

As I and the expedition carried onward to the city, we were on our guard. The tracker, Salwe, said that blood had sullied the trail upon this city and that made our captain of the guard uneasy. Three score men had accompanied us, about a third of which were armed to Hromagh's teeth with the finest steel, so the more scholarly of us were held in ease. With the gold supplied from the coffers by the Church, we had the best of everything. Water and food to last us for months, weapons to fend off any Evil beset upon us and even tools for excavation when we had reached the city. But, I had my own suspicions.

As I had said before to my fellow explorer, Faust, the day before; why in the world would the Church hire those of us who were devout to the Thayne and not their hypocritical religion? It was the time of the great Purge after all, and if anything, I had expected the lot of us to be hauled off and tortured by inquisitors in the hope we might export our beliefs else where and adopt their silly faith. But, as before, Faust explained in his earthly wisdom that such fortune does not rain upon fellows such as us every day, and we'd best take off our boots and wallow in it while it’s still good for the taking.

Alas, I shall never speak again of such heresy while I dwell within those hallowed walls, and never again shall I whisper behind Father Gulseppi's back. They had been right, and with Fate finally dealing a hand of fortune, I'm eager to lap it up. Having spent most of the day traveling across the jagged foothills, however, I'm exhausted. Setting behind my own prejudices I began to feel the spark of knowledge alight like that of a torch within a dark cavern as a gazed upon the ruin around the city.

For such enigmatic beauty, El Camora's surroundings didn't look much better. All around us jagged rocks and fissures stuck from the broken earth like that of an open wound, the scorched face of those that I could see were only shown away from the city. Whatever had happened here all those thousands of years ago had caused El Camora's descent was a mystery, and the pool of ugly ruin it now drowned in perplexed me. Had a mysterious titan swept it's hand across the land and spared the city from annihilation? Was it so lucky? Or was their Evil at work?

I'm afraid either way; I'll have to wait to inspect the pictographs upon the gilded walls within the beloved city. I myself cannot wait, but I shall retire once more and dream the dreams of kings, for this is truly a blessing handed down from the Thaynes themselves.

~*~

Gerrad Van Heim had read the journal of the legendary explorer Ulysses Kurept a thousand times, and in its burnt pages laid a mystery of its own. This entry had been his favorite part as a student of exploration. Not for the wealth it contained, or the musings of a fellow explorer. The reason was simple.

They were the pages with the least blood upon them.

“Professor, three minutes until we begin, loosen up!", an enforcer had called, but the explorer simply ignored him.

Whatever had caused this journal to fall from Ulysses' hands and into that of the Church was a mystery, but Gerrad wasn't paid to spelunk the depths of his employer's pockets. The Ethereal Sway had paid handsomely, by the pound in fact. And as the treasure-hunter recalled, the priest who had spoken to him had called him the best. And it was true, he was. Whenever something needed to be found, Van Heim stumbled upon it. Whatever exotic treasure needed to be dug up from the bowels of the earth, Gerrad had supervised the excavation. It transcended skill, it had took a step above Fate; It was luck.

The same could not be said for the rest of his team, however, for any exploration Gerrad Van Heim had participated in had succeeded in spades and that was the only reason the explorer's terrible losses had been dwarfed. Any explorer could tell you that Gerrad was world renowned for having the greatest luck, but only to himself. They called him the one that inexperienced fools were encouraged to rush to because they'd never be seen again. Save one colleague, Van Heim has never successfully returned with his fellow treasure-hunters alive.

But as the explorer gazed into the wide gaping mouth of the cavern ahead of him, Gerrad could only smile. A sea of light bathed him and the steep entry way under the inky dark that engulfed the frigid tundra, and a team of over a hundred people accompanied him. Guards, students of the arts, fellow explorers, all had been hired by the Church to help Van Heim in his quest for El Camor. It wouldn't be all for nothing, nobody would leave home empty handed. And it had been guaranteed by the Church itself that Gerrad would be rewarded tenfold for finding what they were looking for.

A simple bauble they had put it.

Bullshit, he thought. Even Van Heim wasn't ignorant enough to believe a lie as convenient as that. Every expedition he had gone on, the explorer had never heard the word 'Simple' and applied it to his profession. Whatever was down there was savage, dangerous, and would be used for slaughter as depicted by Kurept's failed expedition. But turning away from a mountain of gold and a new, untarnished reputation was hard to do considering he had found it.

El Camor.

There wasn't a lot anybody could do about it, but as the guards began to suit up and mount the caravan, the treasure-hunter could feel the familiar tingle run up his spine. The same tingle he got on every expedition, and it either led to fortune or death to one of his many colleagues. Whichever came first.

" Van Heim, lets go!", roared Sylvester, the head enforcer, over the blizzard. Reluctantly stepping away from the cave, the explorer began to make his way back through the knee-high snow again and into the carriage of the main excavation machine, it's boring drill dripping with greasy oil. As the machine began to roar as the engine reheated the entire compartment, the trak that looked similar to conveyer belts found in a factory began to turn over the slick ice across the freshly dug trenches, giving a succession of satisfying crunches. Peering out the window as the world became eclipsed in darkness and the wide cavern swallowing the exploration team whole caused excitement the old treasure-hunter's fingers to twitch longingly. It wasn't going to be like last time. There would be no deaths. No mistakes. No fumbles. Only glory.

~*~

[Saxon]

Clutching the steel cover to an elongated tube tangled in a wild mess of machinery, the engineer gave it a hard twist and heard a satisfying pop as the air rushed into the greasy depths of the engine. Pulling the cover up until it was at eye level, the man saw the flimsy dip attached to it almost bone dry," Shit," he muttered.

Standing nearby, a young woman barely into her twenties gazed at the dip curiously, clad in a denim overalls fit for a mechanic, she looked like a fish out of water," How bad is it?", the woman yelled over the roar of the hissing pistons of the machinery.

" Pushing the limit here," the engineer shouted as he shoved the dip defiantly back into the canister. Grabbing his crutches, the man shoved them under his arm pits and began to hobble away, the woman following closely by. Standing a head shorter than most people, Norman Gates was a man that seemed larger than life after you first met him. His face grizzled with scars and pock marks from childhood illnesses were hidden under a haggard, graying beard and bifocals. Crippled at a young age by polio, the engineer had managed to carve a life out for himself in mechanics and engineering and had winded up here for no better reason then the above-average pay and the chance to tinker with some of the finest machinery he had ever seen.

Ducking over a low pipe, the crippled mechanic growled under his breath, there wasn't going to be enough time to make it, and he knew it," I fucking told Paulus that we should've refueled three days ago, but no, there is no turning back. If I can't find a way to water down the fuel and get us to the next supply cache, we might as well go out into the wastes and dig our own graves.". The engineer hadn't been lying, either, the caravan had become more and more careless as of late, and for some reason the merchant, Paulus, who led the entire operation didn't seem to care what happened to them just as long as they maintained the supply line. But whatever the case was, Norman knew he wasn't paid to sit and sulk over spilled milk.

" What about if we mix water into the fuel, think we can stretch it?", Ktaya shouted in mid-thought, her naivety governed only by her limited experience. To her credit, she was the only apprentice Norman was given that he had actually liked. Pulling random citizens out of the oppressed Salvarian states was bad enough, but the engineer hated training them. They didn't know the first thing about machinery, had no faith or trust in mathematics, and contributed the lot of it to their whimsical magic. Ktaya was a different story. The salvarian was obedient and willing to learn in many of the ways that her fellow countrymen seemed to despise. She was fit enough to crawl through the labyrinth of pipes to fix any leak or release any valve, and the engineer knew she had saved them from disaster more times than he could count. But the fact she was also eye-candy was a bonus of the job, and Norman always appreciated the good looks of any woman who wasn't shocked by his condition.

Shaking his head he turned and shouted," No way, we'd flood the engine and lose what little fuel we have left. By my count we have a day-and-a-half left before we're sitting ducks, so you better make sure Paulus knows that we're traveling on thin ice. I'll get back to my office and try to figure a way out of this shit we dug ourselves into.".

Nodding obediently, the woman's brown bangs clumsily hit her brow. She'd do as she was told, with room and board being paid for and the threat of starvation no longer a real possibility, the apprentice had no reason to defy the engineer. Without another word the woman gave one last curt nod and rushed forward, expertly jumping over the mess of pipes that fueled the heart of the machinery and disappeared over the next bend. Slowly hobbling after her, Norman couldn't help but feel that they had bitten off more than they could chew this time.

~*~

[Saxon]

Standing in a room filled with the captains from the other vehicles of the convoy, a man in his fifties stood clutching a cigar stubbornly as he looked over the carefully gauged map of Salvar, his hooded eyes turning to see his crew huddled about him," Well, let’s have it.".

A bald, stocky man dressed in Kevlar and armed to the teeth, known simply as 'Smitty', coughed and pointed to the map," Rig Three has about half a day left in fuel and we're almost out of food and ammunition, what about here?"

Another man shook his head, his curly black bangs bouncing off his brow," No can do, Rig Two has about a quarter of a tank left, but the peasants of Gulsan have already revolted against their master, it'd be suicide to go there.". The other captains nodded and muttered with hesitation, knowing they were all in dire straits.

Now annoyed, Smitty pointed to another the location under the watchful eye of the merchant," And here? Dolas has three of our supply caches and word of the civil war probably hasn't hit it yet.”

" Too far," another captain called Nick muttered, his single eye unable to gaze at the map. They all knew it by now; Salvar was a bad place to be in to begin with, it was much worse knowing you were about to be stranded in the middle of nowhere.

Unable to give up, the bald man angrily poked at the nearby city that stood off the coast near the frigid seas and said," Rkam? Its only two clicks east." The atmosphere grew uneasily quiet at the suggestion, and Smitty felt as if he had made a critical error as even Paulus widened his eyes at the prospect," What?"

The leader of Rig Two spoke up, his voice hesitant," Rkam was the site of one of the first revolts, Smitty. The only people who go there now are the ones trying to join Wkigi's militant army," The entire compartment knew all too well of the deranged salvarian, his track record extended to the start of the civil war. Once a farmer attempting to support a family of twelve, Fateus Wkigi was the leader of the local militia and had been one of the first peasants persuaded by the Church to overthrow their masters. He had started a mob that tore through the town and butchered the entire port of Rkam, throwing nobles; men, women, and children alike screaming into the rumbling, cold seas. The only language Wkigi spoke nowadays started and ended with bloodshed.

" What other choice do we have," a female captain known as Zaya spoke from behind the crowd. Leaning against the far wall of the war room, the woman had been the only captain Paulus had picked solely because of her fierce determination in situations such as these," We can't go anywhere else, and if we do, we're fucked. We still have to deliver supplies to Fathulsaar before they blink out, and half a dozen other states."

Nodding in agreement the leaders of the various members of the convoy turned to the merchant. Taking a long draw on his cigar, he rubbed it into the desk, his brown eyes carefully gazing across the room. Now balding, the old man had a natural presence of leadership about him. Still fit even in his age, the merchant often included himself in the meetings between his convoy and the states gripped by attrition, it was a tireless job, but somebody had to do it. He was often terse and to-the-point when it came to issuing orders, and his sole leadership in this ordeal was the only reason most of the people standing in this room were still alive. Stuffing his hand into the pocket of his leather vest, he sighed," Well-"

Stopping as he saw Norman's attendant rush into the room, the merchant waited until she made her way to him and said," Yes?"

Leaning over to him she whispered a couple things in the keen salvarian dialect. Nodding carefully as she finished, the merchant watched her backed away and stand at attention. Addressing the entire compartment, Paulus looked irritated," Alright, gentlemen. We're in the thick of it now, I've just gotten word that Rig One has a day-and-a-half left before we're dry. It's settled, plot the course to Rkam and prep the mercs, we're going into hostile territory and we ain't coming out until we've refueled. Wkigi be damned."

A murmur of uneasy acceptance flooded the merchant's ears, he knew their spirits were low, but if they didn't make it to Rkam it didn't matter what they thought, the savage tundra would wipe them off the face of Althanas as it had done to countless others. Paulus made a mental note never to make the same mistake twice, and as he guided Ktaya out of the room he spoke under his breath in salvarian so only she could hear him," Tell Norman not to worry, and that we've found a destination. Should keep the old fart from stroking out, eh?" Watching the young woman smile he patted her shoulder," Get to it!"

Watching the mechanic-in-training run off to do her master's bidding, Paulus continued down the narrow hallway and into his room, closing the door. Unable to keep up with the charade, the man toppled over to the side of his bed and gripped his stomach as the same sickness that chewed on his innards came back in full force. Quickly scrambling towards the nightstand, the man felt his pride get the better of him as he wrenched upon the drawer and pulled a glass bottle from the mess of his belongings. Unscrewing the cap, the merchant watched three large, plump pills tumble out of the bottle.

Reaching over the stand for a crystal bottle, Paulus spinned the top and tossed it to the side, the brown, fermented liquid wafting in his nostrils. Throwing each pill in succession with a swag of scotch, the merchant felt the growling pain slowly subside. Staring at the closed door as his mind began to drift over how long he kept his crew in the dark, the merchant knew he was now out of time in more ways than one. It wouldn't be long until the pain came back, and it always did. The merchant felt a pang of regret for what he was putting his crew through. He needed to find what he was looking for, and if it meant racing against time and Death themselves to reach it, so be it. Throwing the glass bottle into the drawer, the man crawled into bed as he felt the medicine do its work, the roaring sound of the blizzard outside caused him to forget and slowly drift into quiet slumber.

~*~

[Osato]

Osato felt the warmth travel tersely through his body. It warmed him, but it was a false comfort to take part in. He could not help it; things had gone sour for the young, handsome mercenary far too quickly. ‘The lands of Salvar!’ they had all cried ‘Promise, prestige, money to be had!’ The false promises had lured him to the cursed lands of the frozen tundra. Initially he had found a little work, enough to keep him housed in a reputable in. As the money dwindled so had the ‘reputable’ state of the inns, leaving him in little more than trash heaps. They quickly became less and less interesting, much less clean, till he was eventually just another random vagabond sleeping on the streets and wandering through the markets during the day.

The only difference that set him apart, drew the eyes and attention of passing people, were his distinctive features. He was attractive no matter what. His heavy set face never paled and black blurs never streaked the underside of his deep blue eyes. His body never lost its perfection. The toned muscles remained firm, despite a copious amount of alcohol and little work to further build on top of the solid foundation. His hair remained in near perfection, a few loose strand of the dull brown and blonde streaked crown were out of place. A steady hand was all it required to replace them, though any later in the day and a steady hand would not be found on the mercenary.

Atop that, no random bum was nearly so well strapped as the man. At his side, on twin hooks were two unloaded and unstrung crossbows. They hung effortlessly, dangling at his side and tapping against his firm legs when he walked. In a cross-slung leather sheath he kept his weapon of choice, the heavy longsword that he had come to love. It was three feet in length, in the shape of a diamond. Just below the handle it extended to three inches from the center point, to form a cross shaped diamond. It was raised at the center, roughly three inches thick, and tapered down to a point from there to the edge of the blade. In battle, and indeed in its sheath, it had the appearance of a thin kite shield, with a handle and bladed edge.

It was early in the day. Barely noon. The sun hung high overhead, beaming down but offering little warmth. He could feel the chill of the night before, only barely fought off with a pit fire, shaking loose from him. A coating of soft melting frost dripped from his steel breastplate, pauldrons, and plated gauntlets. In Corone, the haphazardly assembled suit of armor was interesting and set him apart from the other mercenaries and the city guard as well. In Salvar, the banded steel made him look like a fresh recruit to the warrior trade. It was a false façade, which he could do little to escape.

He took another swig as a mob of angry citizens walked by. Resting against the warming bricks of a random inn, as he was accustomed to at night, he watched the men and women pass. Their faces were streaked with anger, torn with civil unrest. It was like that all across the tundra, city to city it would seem no different. The Church of the Ethereal Sway had denied the right of the king to his thrown. They had cast him down, but the movement had not been without conflict. The conflict was very bloody as well. Osato thought, that with the world reducing itself to mindless violence, there would be profit to be made more so than before.

It was not the case.

A couple of the people towards the rear, wielding blood stained butchers knives and sap strewn woodsman’s axes turned towards him. They were in a frenzied state, roaring and angry. He smiled at them, lazily. They slowed to a stuttering stop, one bumping into the back of the other. “Good day chaps,” the mercenary called out with a laugh. “Off to kill the monarchy? Or perhaps you are opposed to the decadence of the Church and the outcry that’s risen from their… rather unpatriotic appeals? Hell, you’re probably out for a bit of blood… don’t even know where you’re going… just following the leader…”

“What are you doing here?” One of the men responded, ignoring the questions but obviously taking note of the mocking tone. They were both men of labor, worn and haggard from years of service to society. One was heavy set, with a gut that gave little imagination as to the fact that he ate half of the meats – or more – that he cut and served. The other was older, with a scraggly beard. Wrinkles of age streaked his face, worn lines sagged in rows under his eye… much like the extra chins the other had. “You should be helpin’ us, or at least doing something!”

Instead of paying attention, Osato was focused on the woodsman’s beard. It was streaked with white, and long enough to touch his upper pecks if he nodded. He stroked his own hairless chin with his gloved hands, pondering over what it would be like to have one of his own. “What?” he said as he looked at the butcher. “Oh… yes, well it would be just peachy if I was hired to do work. But why waste my time on pointless, and in all honesty, rather trivial arguments over state affairs?”

“Fuckin’ merc’s,” the other, ‘Mr. Woodsman’, responded in a low growl. “Good for nothing. Your only interested in your money, your fame… if people see you do something or if they pay you to do it. Others like you are helping, others that give a fuck.”

“Well,” Osato said. He placed his hand on the bricks behind him and pushed himself up, spilling a little of the amber alcohol on the ground. “Oops,” he said with a snicker and took another quick sip. “You should count yourselves lucky that I don’t give a shit. Why would I waste my life trying to fight the power? Why would I put my future on the line for something that would give me no satisfaction, and isn’t bothering me in any way?”

“Money,” the woodsman grunted again. “Yeah, all you care about is your own profit… it’s pathetic,” the butcher chimed in.

Osato just laughed. He could not help it. “So I should be like you two, prime fucking examples of how societies should be run. Civil matters go to hell, why not riot? Run the streets yourself with a bloody hand and a stupidly ignorant view on everything, right?” The man placed his bottle on the ground before continuing on. He slowly slid his blade up enough for the light to catch its steel face and glint. “Instead of working for money you riot? I take it you don’t have families, children sitting at home and crying because their fathers are roaming the streets with their fucking work tools? Instead of making money, keeping society in a state of piece, you tear things apart and give your family little more to look forward to when the months come and you have no income, much less a town of people to sell it to.”

One of them took a step back as he continued to slowly remove the blade from the leather sheath. “Now,” he said with a sigh. “Don’t you have some mob to be running around stupidly with? I have a drink waiting for me…”

And with that the two moved on, giving sidelong glances at the mercenary as he sat back down and took another grimacing swig. Rkam was in no better a state of affairs as the rest of the realm, broken, shattered, and pathetic in every sense of the word. To have men and women abandoning their occupations for little more than screaming and idle threats, it was little more than a harbinger for the downfall of a society already hard pressed to survive. Osato could only wonder how long it would last, and how long the embargo on ships would last. Without any passenger transports leaving, or being allowed to leave, it was getting quite annoying.

He didn’t really know how much longer he could deal with sleeping on the ground and not working. Pretty soon he would be starting his own faction to riot, one against the Church, government, and the other rioters. At least he would be able to get some food from the riots, while the rest just acted the fool.

[Camella]

Lately, Camella didn't feel satisfied. She had resorted to squeezing her sources to lure her bounties out, and it usually just seemed to leave a bad taste in her mouth. But as an after thought, the bounty hunter was left to wonder what exactly it was that she was doing wrong. She didn't seem to be able to hit her mark and at the end of the day, all it did was leave the blood of the innocent on her hands. Not to say that everyone she had tortured or killed was completely innocent, but it made little difference. Blood was blood.

Because of this, she started to notice a new bounty everywhere she went. It was the first bounty that had frightened her in a long time. She had fought some losing battles before, but nothing scared her as much as the picture on the latest wanted posters.

It was her. She was now a wanted woman.

Now, for a wholesome sum, Camella could find herself on half the wanted posters in the lands to the south, but that wasn't what truly frightened her. The true scare came from how quickly the word of her bounty had spread.

The snowy reaches of Salvar had it's price, and the solitude she longed for had been marked with the spatters of blood. Word seemed to travel fast, even in the tundra, and now the bounty hunter had to run from her fellow compatriots and the marks she hadn't been able to catch. Both were eager to end her, and they seemed to come about in spades.

After a year of running away from both sides of the law, Camella finally managed to slip away. She had managed to put enough distance between the bounty hunter and the mobs hunting her that they were just three days behind. If Camella kept up this pace, however, she'd be able to get to the frozen seas first and find a way to circle back to the south while she left her hunters scratching their heads.

It was around sunset when she had reached the city of Rkam, and she could already tell something was wrong. Chaos lined the streets wherever she looked. The port seemed to be the punchline to some sick joke. Everything from the dead bodies strewn across the avenues to the mobs rioting seemed to give Camella the chills, yet at the same time, she felt strangely at home. Somehow, though, when she thought about it. Being hunted in a town like this was at the bottom of the list of things she'd have to worry about.

Feeling a presence behind her, Camella sidestepped, narrowly avoiding a punch thrown at her by a man in a red shirt and ripped, denim pants as she entered the town.

The fuck?, she thought to herself, Why am I being attacked?. Camella was willing to let the attack on her pass without much of a thought, since it could have been just a wild punch from some drunk rioters in the middle of a fight, but when she saw the man barreling toward her, the bounty hunter became enraged.

"Don't piss me off!", Camella hissed, just before the 'welcoming committee' had landed a right hook to the jaw. "Fuck you then!", she growled as a spittle of blood dripped from the corner of her mouth. Grabbing for her weapons, the bounty hunter was pushed to the side as someone else swooped down and swiped her daggers from her.

"I got her knives," A kid clad in rags said from behind her. Trying to recover from the surprise of the pickpocket, Camella didn't even have time to react to the drunk who slammed his fist into her gut, causing her to double over.


Delivering a savage kick to the side of the rioter's left knee, the mercenary hopped to her feet only to catch the thief as he tried to rush by. Holding him by the scruff of the neck, she wrenched the daggers from his hands and threw him aside, "If you do that again, don't expect to leave unscathed." Camella threatened

Whirling around just a few seconds too late, the mercenary caught another blow to the chest, knocking her to the ground. "Fuck you, cripple!", she spat as air rushed into her bruised lungs.

"I'm not a crip-", the drunk had managed to sputter before the bounty hunter lunged forward and shoved her daggers into his knees. Standing in a state of shock, the rioter let out an agonizing scream as she plucked them from him just as savagely as she had put them there.

"You are now.", Camella said with a sneer as she watched him fall.

Camella leaned on the wooden sign that said "Welcome to Rkam". She was going to fit in with the crowd here just fine. She wiped herself off, and moved toward the inn. After that little skirmish she just had, all she really wanted to do was nap.

"Excuse me," Camella said to the innkeeper. "I need a room for the night."

"I doubt you have enough money, Missy. Do to the damage that all these ruffians have caused, our cheapest rooms are 1000 gold. I could, however sell you a blanket for 50 gold if you wanted."

"Fine, I'll take the blanket." Camella said, realizing that she would likely not want to sleep in a shack that was full of dried blood spatters and broken windows after all.

Camella placed 50 gold on the table, grabbed her blanket, and headed to the back of the inn and attempted to sleep against the back wall. As she was drifting off, she heard the scream of a girl, who was likely being raped.

"Shut up! I'm trying to get some sleep over here!" Camella yelled out and then closed her eyes again, ready to nod off despite the frigid air hitting her face.

[Saxon]

Plumes of smoke hung in the distance as greedy flames ate at the smoldering buildings of Rkam, the sounds of screams from the population similar to that of people trying to escape a capsized ship. Cresting waves from the rolling, frigid seas bit and tore at the edge of the city as streaks of fierce, booming lightning ripped through the dark sky. Nature obviously wasn't too concerned with the state's well being, and seemed eager to wipe the stain of it off the face of the continent. It was unfortunate for such an important piece of Salvar to fall in such an indignified way. The port-city had been constructed long ago by a group of Coronian nobles that had trade interests in their southern homes and in the frigid wastes, so they had spared no expense fortifying and pouring money into the city to ensure it could survive anything they could think of.

They had constructed high, sheer walls made of the finest stone that had weathered many an attack by both foreign states and barbarian raids from the hostile tribes that dotted the unforgiving tundra. A barracks had been constructed in the center of the town with choke points along the narrow streets to ensure the guards that had been employed would have full control in times of crisis. Buildings were built to code and their roofs were insulated with the finest materials so the citizens could endure the harsh, bitter salvic storms. Ships had been built at great expense as soon as the fledgling town first erected its towering buildings, sailors hired from across Althanas to navigate and tame the wild, howling seas of the north. Farmers had set out throughout the state and bought up acres of land to plant and harvest whatever food that took in the uncultured soil during the short summer months. The city had survived for over three centuries. The families who held it in their grip prospered and had succeeded in protecting and nurturing their foothold on Salvar. It was unfortunate, however, that they had not considered one thing during their long, long rule. They had forgotten of nations that had fallen even after longer, more savage reigns, and all seemed to follow the same pattern.

Their leaders grew careless.

But, as time reclaims all things, Rkam was of no exception. Eventually when the savage raids had stopped after the city had proved its dominance in the tundra; the guards began to grow lazy and corrupt. The walls were not kept up with, and eventually were on the verge of crumbling in another bitter winter or an attack from a foreign nation. Buildings became dilapidated and decrepit with age, the citizens steamrolled under a crushing poverty that seemed to trickle down to every social class save those rich enough to stave off the heavy taxes.

Ships and sailors were both claimed by the savage seas as the captains grew ludicrous and poisoned with greed, their shortcuts to make an extra profit often ending them before they had reached either port, until all but the oldest of trading companies had abandoned the town for good. The land around the port became harsh and barren as farmers were slowly enslaved by debtors and the taxmen in labor camps that mined iron and precious metals despite Rkam's withering grip as famine and disease slowly began to take hold.

The nobles ignored these problems as their concerns turned to other exotic continents that proved to have more promising trade. These problems compounded each other and eventually any citizen who lived past the age of thirty would've been lucky to have been claimed in their sleep, the alternatives far, far worse. Who could've known that after braving three hundred years of attacks from both rival nations and the tundra itself that Rkam would fall to its own people. All it took was for someone to speak up, someone to say that this state had grown lazy and was on the brink of collapse. That person was Fateus Wkigi. The farmer had taken to the city like fire to kindling, and his voice was the only one that people seemed to listen to. He gave them hope. He gave them a reason to fight. He had raised his army of farmers and peasants like taking a stick to a hornet's nest and had razed the city in a matter of hours.

As night slowly began to creep towards its resting place, a group of gargantuan metal behemoths that rivaled mammoths rolled across the wastes one right after another. The roar of the engines had always managed to scare off the wildlife, and under the careful guidance of Paulus' captains, they had managed to reach their way to the city in the throes of death. The four huge vehicles that dominated the landscape were fitted for the harsh climates, things the merchant had called APCs that had once been able to carry soldiers across hostile territory at a moment's notice. Now it was so much more. Built over five times their original size, the newly dubbed Rigs were mobile fortresses that protected and housed both its shipments and the crews that piloted them. However, it wasn't the only thing Paulus had brought with him, the mysterious trader had three smaller, armored vehicles called hummers that followed in the Rig's wake, acting as scouts and the cavalry in case of battle.

But with technology like this, mercenaries that had been employed by Paulus were left to wonder why they had so much trouble crossing the tundra on fuel called gasoline and the only explanation had been provided by Norman. Who, like them, had been learned by Paulus and knew that the bitter climate gelled the fuel that wasn't already in the engine. But other things didn't sit well with the crew, questions they couldn't possibly have known the answers to. Where had the merchant gotten technology like this? Who was Paulus really and why was he so bent on trading with these cities that had almost nothing to offer in return? As the screams of Rkam's citizens grew louder, these glaring questions became harder and harder to ignore.

[Saxon]

A blinding sea of fluorescent light poured from the headlights of Rig One and into the frozen, gloomy wastes as it lumbered forward into the outskirts of Rkam. Slamming a clip into a sleek, black submachine gun she had heard Paulus call a 'Scorpion' and a bunch of numbers and letters rattled off what she thought to be 'SA 361'. Zaya flicked the greased safety back on out of habit; it hadn't mattered what the weapon was called after witnessing first hand the number the weapon could do on the human body. The handheld weapon could fit comfortably in either hand, quickly becoming the captain's favorite due to how often she had used it on the field. Standing about as tall as Norman, the woman was intimidating in both voice and appearance. Decked in kevlar and banded leather, the woman was approaching her early thirties, but looked to have weathered far more. Laced combat boots clacked against the metallic floor as she moved across the cabin, her thick, woolen duster hung to her ankles, swaying gently. Locks of raven black hair hung over the mercenary's pale face, hiding the eye patch that covered a grisly scar and her missing eye. Aside from that oversight, she was in excellent shape, her lithe body chiseled in muscle and covered with a fair share of 'battle scars', most having occurred before the war had broken out. Born and raised in Salvar, Zaya was as tough as the forsaken tundra, and had the drive and ferocity to get things done.

Recruited like almost everybody aboard the convoy, the captain had worked her way up the ranks and had a hand in almost every fire fight between now and the day she had joined. Nostalgia caused her to grin as the mercenary recalled a younger self in torn garments, clutching a weapon alien to her and listening to the old man and his second-in-command, Darrel barked orders at her," I was so naive," she muttered under her breath.

Glancing out of the wired window and into the twilight, the captain gave a grunt as she saw another explosion erupt near the docks of the city. This is beyond stupid, the mercenary had thought as she watched black specks against the fiery backdrop run about wildly. Normally, the Zaya wouldn't have given it a second thought, but she knew Paulus far too well to not be able to connect the dots. He was desperate, and he was preparing to put everything at risk for this, but the thoughts of mutiny seemed to flicker and snuff out when the mercenary realized she had fought for this plan.

Slipping her trusty kukri into its scabbard, the captain latched it to the side of her hip, a brief flash of the armory concealed away in the lining of her coat. She was prepared, probably even rivaling Smitty, the resident survivalist who didn't know the meaning of 'too much ammo'. Holstering the scorpion, the mercenary gave one last look at the flickering torrent of chaos they had approached, and she had an inkling that when it was all said and done that not everybody would be walking out of this virtual Hell alive. Grabbing her fur cap and her fingerless gloves, the mercenary shoved open the door to her cabin and slipped outside," Time to go to work."

~*~

" Alright!", Paulus roared over the pulsing engine and at the rest of the mercenaries assembled before him in the docking bay. Gripping the silver-steel barrel of a Remington 870 in one hand and decked in kevlar of his own, the merchant shoved his hand inside his pocket and pulled out several dull, red plastic cartridges and shoved them in hastily," Wkigi has probably sent the bulk of his kill squads over in our vicinity, and by now they're probably almost here. With the streets too narrow to fit the Rigs or the hummers, we're goin' on foot. His men will probably be on horseback and equipped with anything, so don’t be fooled. We’re goin’ to the warehouse across the city, and since I’m the only one who knows the codes to the door and how to work the damn keypad, I’m taggin’ along too.

Now, don't think for a second that just because this town has gone to shit that it's open season on everybody and anybody. There are still innocents out there, and I don't want that kinda blood sullying my caravan, so shoot hostiles only. Any failure to cooperate with this order and you'll soon find my shells in your chest. We have a lot of ground to cover between here and the warehouse at the docks, so we're splitting up, and the less of the men I have to kill to get there the better."

There was a murmur of anxiety as men and women armed to the teeth glanced at each other warily. Staring at the old man, the crew quickly fell silent when a giant of a man glared down at them from under red, bushy eyebrows. Boxes and crates sat in rows, strapped securely to the hull of the Rig, their contents almost depleted. Paulus glowered," Gonna have Four teams of three. Chuck, Vince, your with Darrel. Harry, Olivia, yer with Smitty. Sam, Eustus, your with Zaya," a bunch of wolf-whistles erupted across the deck but were quickly stifled as a single green eye leveled them with an icy stare," Alright, alright. Finally, Stan and Dya, your with me," the merchant said, a smug look upon his face.

As the crew shuffled about to their perspective party members, Paulus' hand disappeared inside his gray, water-stained duster and tugged out a fat cigar. Match in hand, he waited for them to fall into rank before he dragged a match across the hull and covered his mouth, cinders erupting as smoke plumed from his vice. Suddenly the entire cabin lurched as the Rig came to a stop and the engine whirred into silence," Ladies," the merchant said as he held his hand above the large red button that would open the hatch and release them into the city," You wanna eat? You wanna live in my house to fight another day? It's time to fucking earn it! Go! Go!". Pounding the button, the trader had barely gotten his goggles over his eyes after juggling with his shotgun when an icy chill burrowed deep into his bones. A roar of approval flooded the cabin and into the city as the mercenaries pounded down the ramp and into Rkam, soon lost in the heavy blizzard that had begun to pelt the city.

[Camella]

Between the noise and the cold, it was nigh impossible for Camella to get any sleep. She had to find a better place to rest, but there seemed to be a bit more discord than usual. This made it rather hard to sleep since in a town full of hell, this much noise was usually bad. She kept trying to convince herself that it was nothing to lose sleep over, but in the end there was only one way she could do so.

Camella checked to make sure she had all her daggers. At first she only counted three, but she was soon to realize one fell into the snow. After picking her dagger up, Camella decided to check to see what all the fuss was about.

Turning invisible would have been a wasted effort since she was leaving footprints in the snow. There was a way she could make it work, though. Camella headed back inside the inn and spoke to the innkeeper again.

"Do you have a bathroom I could use? I really have to go." Camella lied.

"Sure, upstairs and to your left, Ma'am."

Camella rushed up the stairs and kept going until she got to the roof. When she arrived she went invisible. This way, no one could see her or her footprints in the snow unless they came from behind her. What she saw shocked her beyond belief.

There was a convoy parked just outside the city and soldiers holding personal items she didn't recognize. Camella was pretty sure that what each of the mercenaries held was a weapon, but she had no clue how it worked. Suddenly, she realized that with all the snow falling on her, she was likely to be spotted. A chill ran down her spine when she thought about this. For some reason, this thought scared her stiff.

Camella went back to her visible self and ran down the stairs and into the bathroom. Even the bathroom reeked of havoc. The mirrors were broken, the walls had blood on them, it looked like a bar fight had taken place in there. Any hopes she had of holding fear inside her were now gone. Camella turned on the faucet and splashed some water on her face to try to calm her nerves. It didn't work.

"What the hell is going on with this place!" Camella yelled out in a panic. Soon realizing that this wasn't a good idea since it likely woke some criminals sleeping there, Camella hurried out of the inn and ran as far away from it and the caravan as she could while still staying within the city walls. Eventually she lay down behind a house to catch her breath. She had never been so afraid in her life. From her perspective, this was definitely worth losing sleep over.