Step: The Fields of Fire

[Izvilvin]

((Open to Step members Anenfel, Rakh and Banda))

A powerful wind blew through the field of the fallen, setting the tall rows of grain to dancing. To any who visited the land, the field was not unlike any other in the world. In truth, this was a wasteland of corpses who were not worthy of life.

The two warriors had been in the field for hours, perhaps a full day, without ever once seeing or hearing one another. Still, their blades were always at the ready before them, for they each knew that a single lapse in concentration was what stood between victory and defeat.

A single step was remarkably slow, as a warrior would look and listen carefully for any sign of their opponent. Considering that the plains were as large as a Radasanth-sized chunk of land, this test of endurance and stealth was the culture's greatest. Suddenly, one of them stopped, his leather armor creaking ever-so-audibly as he took careful heed. Some kind of had made him aware, or perhaps it was merely a sense.

Then he spun, as quickly as he could, the katana he held whisking about to take his opponent across the gut as the warrior fell to a knee. The attacker gasped, dropping his blade, as he felt the cold steel slash cleanly through him. He'd been so sure that he was going to strike the opposite warrior from behind, that he hadn't prepared for the possible counter attack. This was a mistake he would not live to regret.

The victor sheathed his sword as his opponent's blood spread along the ground. Around him, the grain began to turn a red tint, soaking up the blood like sponges. Eventually the entire field had become crimson. The change signified the end of the duel, and the winner's right to his prize.

----

Grains were not in shortage in Corone. At least not typical ones. The continent's government had tapped into a well-established rumor that the grains, when enhanced by blood, could be used to create a very flammable, yet stable liquid. Obviously, such a commodity could equip the military to make them an even more formidable force, using fire spears or other unpredictable weapons.

The only organization set to the task was Step, Corone's elite military force. Step had hundreds of agents, but a core group had been compiled in recent times, to deal with such difficult tasks. After all, one or two agents could not always get the job done. For this, three were needed. Two to infiltrate the lands and find a time when it would be most plausible to steal the goods, and one single agent to find a means of bringing the goods back, before meeting up with the infiltration team to carry out the actual plan.

Anenfel was teamed up with Izvilvin, an unlikely pairing if there ever was one. Anenfel was half-elven, so it would make sense if half of him was hated by Izvilvin, or vice-versa. The two had met in the Citadel two months or so prior, where Izvilvin had eventually bested the warrior. They'd left on good terms, which the Drow figured was fortunate, given their current situation.

In the distance, Izvilvin could already make out the massive field, which had grown white once again. He had no idea what the culture of the people here was, and wasn't sure whether or not avoiding them completely was the best course of action. He looked over to Anenfel, who walked beside him, and wondered what he thought.

((Suikoden references rule))

[Vampiric Angel]

The half-elf's heart beat with a fury this day as a tingling sensation was set in his limbs. There was nothing wrong with being nervous, he assured himself. Being nervous made him more cautious, and both himself and his drow partner would agree that caution was a necessity. It was his first mission, after all, since joining the elite Coronian band known as Step. An organization that works and strikes from the shadows, uses deceit and manipulation as their greatest tool, and serves a higher purpose. If he was told otherwise when confronted with the proposition, he likely would have refused.

If you were to tell him four months ago that he would be standing at the base of a gigantic crimson field of wheat next to a drow, a drow he had fought against, in order to fufill his duty as a secret operative, he merely would have laughed and been on his way. Yet, oddly enough, that was exactly how it came about. After their battle in the citadel, Izvilvin came to him and presented a plain white letter sealed with dark brown wax. The half-elf took the letter kindly, for he had no ill will against the dark elf, someone he considered to be a friend.

Upon opening it and reading it's contents, Anenfel stood with a slowly drooping mouth and a widening gaze. Never had he known that the Corone government kept in secret an elite force to deal with any "national entanglements", but of course he understood why they were kept secret. He understood that if any of the powers in Althanas learned of Step and their doings, it would likely ignite a massive war. Trust would be thrown aside as carelessly as an enemy's corpse, not knowing if the neighboring lands had also used such methods to gain information.

The danger of taking on such a life would be tremendous, he knew. But he also found it strangely alluring, a life on the edge, something that he admired. He had left Scara Brae, his home of many years, to set out and seek adventure, yet adventure had sought him. Knowing fully that this chance for a new life would not come again, he took it and went with Izvilvin on the path to a life of grandeur.

So there he stood with his drow friend, the large white field in the distance and a soft breeze blowing. His mission slowly came back to him when gazing upon the field. Being extremely proficient in stealth, Anenfel and Izvilvin both, they were chosen to be the ones to infiltrate the residing culture and find an opening for the other members accompanying them. The others were assigned to find a way of harvesting the fields. And so, the wayfarer knew, without completion from both groups, they would likely fail.

He looked over to Izvilvin who, thinking the same, was already looking at him. Anenfel gave a crooked smile to his friend and partner.

"I'm a little nervous," the half-elf commented.

He knew that when looking into the drow's lavender orbs, he didn't understand a word of what he had just said. But still, being able to openly admit his feelings left him comforted all the same.

[Ithermoss]

The half-elf wasn't the only one who was nervous. Rakh hadn't actually ever met his associates in Step before. They slipped anonymous letters under his door, and sometimes he followed up on them to some meager fortune. This day, apart from most others, was rife with tension. Perhaps it was the weather. Perhaps, as the tribal's talking skull pointed out, it was all the bad energy rising off the tall, thick grasses in the rolling hills. Settlements dotted the horizon near and far, but standing amidst the quiet fields, the serenity was almost a thing of anger - restrained to the precipice, struggling to break free.

"We should not be here." Rakh said firmly to his familiar. "This is tribal land. "

"But the order's were to-"

"I know what the paper said. I'm not happy with doing it. These people are like me. They won't understand."

"They'll have to. They're innocents in a greater battle," Todd said, a Bal-Cadan cigar pinched between his yellowed teeth. The smoke was rolling through his empty eye-sockets rather eerily - could have made a great anti-smoking campaign. As odd as most found it that Rakh traveled with an ancient skull hung in a satchel at his waist, he found it much more peculiar that the talking skull had a taste for cigars and fine drink.

"That doesn't mean that I like it," Rakh sighed. He'd managed to get into bed with the likes of Step. Cautiously as he did it, he still questioned whether or not he'd made a good decision. "Good and evil are so blurred in this day and age. The Radasanthian government seems intent on using this stuff as mettle for defending its borders," he went on, letting the tall grasses tickle his downturned palm, "but the people here won't understand it. They'll see it as the government taking the land they've had for centuries, under the guise of what's in their best interest. I don't know, Todd. This world is a very confusing one."

The weregoyle had camped in the fields all night. He had sat under the clear sky and smoked his mullroot, drinking in the ancient spirits in the very ground. He feared for his every step, that a desecrated ancient would swallow him up where his foot landed. Such legends have been heard before. Rakh knew he already recieved his orders, but he wasn't about to go trespass on tribal land without the reasoning of the leader. The hawk's feather bound to his calf tickled, not through the sensation of feather to flesh, but rather through the innate powers coursing through the discarded bristle of reds, browns, and white. The warrior's iris flattened, stretched, and flexxed itself to a thick goldenrod hue as he zeroed in on the pair of approaching compatriots. He stood his ground, both physically and morally, unless given reason to think otherwise.

[Izvilvin]

Deep purple eyes took in Anenfel as he spoke, and though Izvilvin could hear him just fine, he could only respond with a smile. It was the curse of not being able to communicate which bothered him so, but there was nothing the Drow could do about it for now. As long as he saw the glint of friendship in the eyes of his companion, he wouldn't lose sleep over his inability to speak with him.

They passed over a shallow hill that led them to a field, though it was not the one in the distance that Izvilvin could still see. This was where Rakh was waiting. Indeed, the Drow could spot him not far away, standing in wait with his head turned to them.

Izvilvin raised a hand in salute as the two closed the distance. He wasn't smiling anymore, knowing that it was nearing the time for them to begin their mission.

He'd leave the talking to Rakh and Anenfel, for he could not enter the conversation regardless of how much he wished to. While they spoke, he'd scan the horizon for any sign of the life said to be here.

[Ithermoss]

(sorry for the mixup)

The gesture was returned, Rakh's hand sailing up over his head, then dropping back down to his side. His shoulders were hung low. He'd never seen any other members in Step before. Granted, when you're in a faction whose members are known by their iconic weapon, it was enough to hear of the specific weapon's use in battle. As far as he knew, he was the only warrior who carried a pair of J'mphada and a dagger made entirely of salt. The J'mphada, ancient ankh-hammers used for close-combat, were strange weapons. Atop the forearm-length handle was an oblong loop of metal, a spiked bar crossing the handle just below the circular end. The destroyer's spirit kept them wrapped in a bright blue cloth, removing it only for reasons either ceremonial or martial. The dagger, Archus, was a fiendish thing that Rakh had made in a previous life. Originally a tool for cleansing the hide of a fresh kill, each cut burns as it cleanses. For what flesh is torn, comes waves of agony for the victim. The tribal felt it was a piece of mercy to take a life soon after inflicting a mortal wound with the weapon. Sometimes. Some people were beyond mercy. Some couldn't learn, or wouldn't. For these, Rakh spared nothing - he neither gave quarter, nor accepted none should he fail.

"Hail!" he called out. Not wanting to betray the mission to the wrong ears, he made no mention of his intentions. "What's on the horizon?" He pretended to squint at the 'V' of waterfowl skimming their way over the hills, smoothing a bit of dirt over his thumb and forefinger as if it had some sort of significance. He wasn't used to this kind of work, and was much less concerned with his attempts at confidentiality appearing sophomoric, so much as he was with keeping his mouth shut when he wasn't quite sure of his company. Propping his J'mphada over his shoulder, he took a quick glance down at Todd, and murmured through his teeth with a sigh.

"This is it. Can't turn back now."

[Izvilvin]

Izvilvin looked at the man with a kind of pallid curiousity. His eyes held the glimmer of intelligence the Drow so rarely saw among people, and he spoke in a tone that dripped of confidence. At least, that's how he saw it.

"Telanth l'inth," he spoke aloud, on the off chance Rakh could understand him, and he moved past the man to look upon the area beyond. They were so very close to the fields, yet he knew they could not approach so boldly out in the open.

The idea of stealing wheat for the purpose of war did not confuse him, for empires at war often concerned themselves with such tactics. But this was different. When aflame, these grains apparently burned so intensely they could be harnessed to shoot fire from weapons. Strange, if nothing else, the Drow thought.

He didn't quite like the idea, but it was impossible to argue with whomever sent him the order to involve himself. Step had no hideout, no definitive leader of any sort, and the letters each agent recieved for their missions came from an invisible sender. An invisible sender who, Izvilvin mused with some nervousness, always seemed to know where his agents were. Unnerving, to say the least.

Thankful that a thick brush seperated them from the view of the natives ahead, the Drow looked at the layout of the huts and the people, trying to discern a possible path they could take, though seeing none. Banda, a boomerang slinger Izvilvin had only recently heard of, was supposed to meet them within.

A thoughtful hum escaped him as he learned a pattern they could follow, to keep out of sight until they could reach the field. Within they'd find their ally, and move from there. With a nod he returned to Anenfel and Rakh, ready to begin their movement.