The Price of Freedom...

[Letho]

FOREWORD

In its present state and form, the Corone Republic had existed for over a millennia. With no significant conflicts ravaging its soil since the Demon Wars and with relatively scarce internal tumults, the Corone Republic prospered and grew into one of the most powerful realms of the known world. With its dominion over the naval trade routes and wise foreign policy that formed neither allies nor enemies, it became the cornerstone of culture and a haven for all that sought justice and peace. The Assembly – a quintet of governing people chosen by the citizens, all experts in different areas – was a ruling body that successfully maintained the sovereignty and never led the Republic astray. And for that, they were loved by the people.

It is because of this that the death of two members of The Assembly threw the Republic in an upheaval. The Steward of Corone – Arno Erriades – and the Grand Marshal – Aidan Johnston – were assassinated in their homes, and according to intelligence gathered, it was the doing of local criminals. The remaining members of The Assembly reacted instantaneously, ordering the apprehension of any and all suspects that might’ve been related with the treacherous deed.

[Letho]

PROLOGUE


The autumn was gentle in Willowtown. Despite the fact that Willowtown was relatively close to the Comb Mountains, the wintry winds that descended from the hills decided not to do so yet, sparing the locals a bitter harvest this year. Unlike the winds, the rest of the nature knew full well what time of the year was. The corn was ripe, the trees heavy with fruit, the grapevines offering their product in abundance and spreading the aroma that Letho adored. Nothing was quite as pleasant for the olfactory senses like the smell of ripe grapes. In general, the green started to give way to the less vivid and more dreary colors ranging from light tans to dark browns. Letho didn’t mind. He liked the browns.

What he didn’t like about the autumn, however, was the fact that those dying leaves had a bad tendency to break away from their mother trees and spread all over his lawn. And while he didn’t particularly mind having a leaf-covered soil instead of the one covered with grass, Myrhia thought otherwise. She liked the greens more then the browns and she liked to say that there’s no point in maintaining the lawn if you’re going to allow it to disappear in the sea of willow leaves. Letho tried to defend himself with the rather obvious fact that said it was natural for leaves to fall during the fall and that the grass probably got used to it, but the redhead would have none of it. So his browns were being removed to make way for her greens.

Letho was raking the goddamn leaves for over an hour now and he was barely finished with one half of the lawn. The willow trees that stood by the road that descended from their house on Willow Hill looked pretty enough during the remaining three seasons, forming a canopy over the road, but during autumn he hated all fifty-four of them. Willow leaves were thin and many, often evading the teeth of the rake, thus making him comb the same area multiple times. At least the day was one of his days as Myrhia liked to put it, gray and colorless, with rainless clouds creeping over the sky in one big nondescript mush.

He was just about done with the right side of the lawn – which got him almost halfway down the hillside – when he spotted a threesome of riders galloping down the main road. Two of them were clad in equal uniforms, pitch black tunic with matching pants and a scarlet cloak fluttering behind them like a flag in a stormy wind. The third member of this trio was clad in a dark blue military uniform, with an accompanying cloak that floated sideways as the three made a turn and started ascending up the gentle slope of the Willow Hill. Letho couldn’t discern their faces from this distance, but nonetheless he knew who they were. The two with scarlet cloaks had no names because the members of the Scarlet Brigade had no name, no history, no face, just a purpose. They were the elite, the best warriors in the realm, and today they were guarding a familiar face. There was only one person who had a red feather sticking from his hat.

“Leeahn Festian.” Letho said, leant on his rake and looking up at the middle rider. The man in the saddle was both a gentleman and a warrior, his attire almost without a crease, his face cleanly shaved, his saber tucked in the ornamental scabbards. Compared to him, the Corone Marshal looked almost like a peasant in his dusty brown denim pants and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. “You’re not welcome here. Last time you visited, I had to go in that tar pit of a realm and fight a bunch of demons just to realize it was a dead end.”

The face above seemed to reflect the fact that its owner didn’t get the jest. “Haidia is full of dead ends, Letho Ravenheart. It’s something you should’ve expected from a kingdom that’s stuck in a cave.” It was only after this that both the mounted captain of Radasanth Guard and the raking Marshal below agreed to a smirk. Leeahn dismounted slowly, royal-looking even in this insignificant task, before he placed his gloved hand on Letho’s shoulder, making the bulky ranger do the same. “It’s been a while, my friend. But I fear the news is worse then the last time.”

“I figured as much, with all the commotion up in Radasanth.” Letho responded, placing the rake on his shoulder. “You better come in, though I don’t know how pleased Myrhia will be to see you.”

Several minutes later, they were sitting in the pair of armchairs covered with worn leather, with fire crackling in the hearth and wine in their glasses. Neither of them seemed to be interested in drinking it. Outside the front door, the two soldiers in scarlet cloaks stood watch as still as if they were petrified. Myrhia was as cordial as usual, disregarding the fact that she almost died on the last mission Leeahn sent Letho on and putting on her shy reluctant smile. It wasn’t the man’s fault after all; he was just a messenger. Sadly, always a messenger of grave tidings.

“I reckon you heard about the assassination of the Steward and the Grand Marshal; there are few in the realm that haven’t.” The captain began, his brow furrowed worriedly as his blue eyes looked first at Myrhia who sat timidly at an armrest, then at her husband. “I don’t have to tell you that the brass is furious about it. The Assembly wants to deal with this swiftly and efficiently. If we don’t find those responsible, we look weak, and if we look weak, it won’t be long before somebody brings war to out shores. Strangely enough, all the clues so far point to someone local.”

“The Syndicate?” Letho asked.

“A dead end at first. They were the first one we struck. You’d be surprised how many ministers they have on their payroll though.” Leeahn said with a lifeless smirk, taking a sip of the wine and directing his glare at the fireplace. Above it, glittering in a tawny color, the gigantic, six-foot Lawmaker gunblade stood. “We have acquired a list of possible suspects from them. You see, the Syndicate has list of all the people that might work in certain areas, but are not affiliated with them. They keep them under surveillance, just in case they get too greedy. The Assembly wants them all brought in for interrogation.” the captain said, pulling out a rolled parchment from the insides of his uniform and handing it over to Letho. The marshal unrolled it and started reading the names. A few caught his eye.

“Gordon Fishbane, Feris Veert, Mance Haftworth... Edonas Partridge! Come on, I know these people. They maybe cause a brawl or two every fortnight or so, but they’re not murderers.” Letho spoke, appalled by the names he read. Some of them he didn’t know, but those that he did were mostly hard-working folk that simply tried to make a living. Edonas Partridge helped him throw out the Lawmen from Willowtown, for gods sakes!

“Then they have nothing to fear for. All we need you to do is apprehend them and take them to Gisela for questioning.” Leeahn said, unfazed by Letho’s surprise. He knew the headstrong marshal wouldn’t be terribly pleased with the deal. That was one of the reasons he wanted to make him the leader of one of these groups that would arrest the suspects. “I came to you with this because I know you know these people and they will see you as less of a threat. They trust you, so they won’t be prone to any violence.”

“Tearing somebody from their home always results in violence. Especially during the harvest.”

“I think national security is a bit more important then a few cornfields. Either way, the platoon of soldiers is arriving in Yarborough in two days. I told them that their commanding officer will be waiting in Willowtown. I hope I wasn’t wrong.” Leeahn concluded with a bland smile. Leaving his wine unfinished, the captain of Radasanth Guard put his feathered hat on and thanked Myrhia for her hospitality, kissing her hand and exiting the house. Once he was mounted together with his two guards, he turned to the pair that stood on the porch, Letho leant on a wooden column and Myrhia holding for his forearm. “I know you’re not a native Coronian, Letho, but Corone was a home to you all these years. Can you turn your back on it now when it needs you the most?”

Of course he couldn’t. Two days later, with the sun still too lazy to peek over the hills in the east, Letho Ravenheart was sitting beneath the awning in front of the Willowtown’s Marshal’s Office, oiling the gunblade that sat in his lap.

[Christina Bredith]

Once again the crisp of autumn was upon Corone, descending upon the plains and forests of the island like a colourful veil. The group was approaching a small burg known as Willowtown, and to the south, Christina could see the famous Concordia forest’s greenery being quickly replaced by the vibrant colours of the turning season. The weather was mercifully warm for that time of year, and it was not lost on the blonde-haired warrior: mild temperatures invariably meant less cracking of the skin and no need for hampering bundles of bulky clothing. Then again, the last thing a soldier could afford was to hamper himself with layers of winter wear, so it was just as well that the weather did not call for it. Even so, the approaching season and their proximity to the snow-capped Comb Mountains meant that precautions were a prudent measure, and so the troupe found itself in possession of several bundles of supplies, at least enough to last it to Willowtown.

Christina, of course, was not among the many whose horse carried most of the supplies. About half the male soldiers in the dozen all but tripped over themselves to assure her that they would take care of it and that she should not burden herself with such an uncomfortable ride. The other, less-gallant half didn’t dare ask her to pitch in; they were still learning from the mistake of one Private Jordan Phillips, who was the first to do so and received a piercing glare that (one man swore) shook a dozen leaves off a nearby tree.

Instead, Christina rode along at the right flank of the group, which was surrounding the chariot-borne cage at their center. Her left hand gently holding the horse's reins and her other hand held out in front of her; the woman examined her polished nails carefully while she cleansed them of the unavoidable filth of travel. This all-important sort of hygiene was so hard to maintain out here in the wilderness! Oh, but Christina was doing her fair share: she had some satchels strung to the horse, carrying some non-perishable foods for the journey. As well, the longsword with the chipped pommel that hung from her waist was not just for show: the young mercenary was tasked with keeping watch over her flank of the group. The more desperate among the country’s brigands tended to get adventurous and ruthless at this time of the year; with winter fast approaching, they were often willing to go to great lengths to obtain whatever food and supplies they could.

The soldiers had broken camp some time before daybreak, and as they continued to advance, the sun was just now peeking through the jagged white caps of the Comb Mountains, so the day was still quite young. With the light of day finally breathing upon the vast plains, houses and their smoking chimneys could be seen on the horizon, against the stone-grey backdrop of the mountain chain. “We’re approaching Willowtown,” the commanding officer of the group called back, gesturing with his hand to get everyone’s attention. They would be at their destination in under an hour at this rate. Christina couldn’t help but smile. The joy at the thought of a half-decent meal and a warm bed after days travelling through ‘this wretched, barren wasteland’ (as it had come to be known when the chill of the night was upon them) was too much to contain.

It was with disappointment, then, that Christina heard that same commanding officer remind them of their task. They were to find one Letho Ravenheart at the Willowtown Marshal’s Office and speak with him immediately about the apprehension of the suspected murderers. Christina rolled her eyes and muttered quietly, “You couldn’t even let us dream, could you?” However, despite her outward distaste for the pleasant thoughts being dangled and then ripped away again, Christina was well-prepared to do what needed to be done. Beneath that blonde, manicured, fashionable exterior beat the heart of a woman whose blood was in the army and in Corone. While she herself was not presently an official soldier – at least, nothing but a soldier of fortune – she loved this country. It was better than ratty little Scara Brae, and its citizens on the whole were nowhere near as stuffy and arrogant as the long-eared Raiaerans, nor were they as insidious as those bastard Drow. And Fallien? Don’t even get Christina started on what the dry heat does to her hair.

Not surprisingly, then, Christina was anxious to see whoever had committed this terrible crime brought to justice. An attack on the Assembly was like an attack on the stability of the republic itself, and that was simply unacceptable. She was not about to let this country fall into a state of disorder. The people needed strong role models and leaders at this time, did they not? They needed to know that crime would not go unpunished. That, then, was Christina’s resolve – and gods help any who might stand in her way.

[Izvilvin]

It took all of Izvilvin's willpower to keep his eyes focused ahead. While he'd at first enjoyed the beauty of Corone's Autumn, the current morning had rapidly degenerated into an experience he loathed. From atop his mount, he sat back and looked about languidly.

Not that the leaves and the color had lost their enchanting hold on his spirit, but he had to work alongside humans. Humans who, every few moments, would look back at him and sneer. Typically, he did not encounter many problems with that sort of thing, but it seemed that when bolstered by their kin, the Corone military men did not shy away from open racism. In all honesty, Izvilvin couldn't find the capacity to fault them for it. He knew what his people were like, even if he hadn't been to Alerar in years.

If he'd been placed in a leadership position, it would not have been such an issue. As it were, he was a mere hired gun, or rather, was playing the role of one. It was being said that some of Radasanth's citizens were betraying the country, and Step, being a secret Corone organization, could not ignore such an occurance. Rather than simply allow the open government to deal with the problem and deliver whatever information they liked, Izvilvin was present to get the truth on it. He'd have to pay careful attention, and he knew it.

Despite the great pack he carried, the Drow rode with a strangely graceful swagger. He stayed behind the wagon that was in the center of the group, atop which stood a grand iron cage. Icicle's scabbard bounced against his leg with every trot of his horse. It felt like so long ago that Laix had died, and even longer yet since Izvilvin had first gone to Fallien. It was cooler in Corone, more serene.

The trees grew more sparse and the ground less soft, and soon the convoy found themselves at a large wooden archway, atop which was written in great block letters, Willowtown. Though he couldn't read it, Izvilvin recognized the pattern of letters, and heaved a great sigh of relief. The sound got the attention of a few nearby men, who looked at the lithe Drow in a mixture of disgust and annoyance, before they turned back.

He produced an envelope from within his tight cloth shirt, and even tried to read the writing on it. He brushed a whisp of stark white hair from his eyes and tried, desperately, to read the name, but to no avail. He looked up and about the town as they entered, trying to get a sense of the place.

"Why we gave the Drow the damned envelope, I don't know," mumbled a guard as Izvilvin dismounted and walked calmly by, toward a prominent-looking wooden building with a man sitting on its porch.

"Just to keep 'im satisfied and quiet, I guess," a nearby human replied. "Less work for us."

Dropping his pack to the grass, Izvilvin straightened and walked briskly to the Marshal's Office, his eyes straight and bright in the mid-morning sun. The man awaiting him was taller than the elf, but not necessarily large for a human. His hair was short and brown, his eyes nearly the same, and he polished a wicked-looking blade with a strange design, or contruction, at its base. A thick beard covered his chin and half of his face, and Izvilvin thought he wore it better than any human he'd seen with one.

Truly, if there was any human male Izvilvin could consider striking, this was him. He seemed to radiate power and balance, as if he could stand, pivot, and strike at the warrior all in one smooth movement. For him to give the Drow such an impression while merely sitting and polishing a sword spoke for his strength.

He tossed the envelope into the man's lap, atop the sword, and never moved his eyes from Letho's face. A hint of a smile crept up on him.

"Lil Corone zasimartek. F'sarn sae'uth tlu a dosst suul," he said, and didn't quite care whether or not he was understood.

[Letho]

CHAPTER I
~
For you the bell tolls



His gut was tightening more with each inch of the rising sun. It had been doing so gradually ever since Leehan left two days ago and he talked to Myrhia about this new assignment that landed in his lap like a brick. Usually, the gut feeling was a bad omen, a harbinger of something awry beyond the horizon, but today Letho believed there was a different reason for the queer disconcerting feeling. It was Myrhia. The tender redhead didn’t want him to go, of course. “Let others do it, Letho.” she said. “If there’s one thing Corone has in abundance, it’s warriors in search of fame.” And she was right. Anybody could collect the folk from the list, plucking them from their families as if they too became ripe with the coming of the autumn. But few of them would do it justly, lawfully. Patriotism was both a gift and a curse during dire times and it had a nasty habit of making people go an extra mile to get their message across. In this case, it would probably mean some pompous prick from Radasanth knocking some patriotism in a bunch of peasants just because their name was on the list. No, he had to lead this platoon, stop it from turning into an inquisition, a witch-hunt. Myrhia eventually understood, though the comprehension failed to influence her dislike, and she kissed him goodbye as if she was kissing him for the last time. If that was not enough to usurp his gut, nothing probably ever would.

Luckily for the marshal, he didn’t have to wait for his troops for long. Less then an hour after the sun strategically changed position - jumping from mountain cover to one made out of hoary clouds – the riders entered the town from the northwest, arousing both a hefty amount of dirt and the drowsy townsfolk. Inquiring eyes peered from the windows, following the dozen that rode in their backwater town with their fancy armaments and a forbidding cage resting on top of the carriage. Willowtown folk didn’t fancy the northerners a whole lot, especially not the members of the Corone Armed Forces. Rangers were the law out here, in the less urbane areas, and their marshals were both respected and feared. The heavy clink of armor and weaponry that the CAF usually brought in tow inspired only fear, and fear eventually gave birth to suspicion and retribution. And that was something Letho didn’t want to see in his county.

The lot that came to a halt in front of his office didn’t seem too impressive. Half of them had the money-hungry looks of sellswords and the other half didn’t seem like Radasanth’s finest. Three figures stood out like sore fingers. The man that rode at the front of the column had a battle-worn look around him, a veteran that was probably given temporary command over the mission. From the frowned look the gray eyes fired Letho’s way, he probably hoped to assume full command over the unit. The second figure was hard not to notice; after all, she was the only woman in the pack. With her golden hair cascading down her shoulders, a contrasting visage – that had both the stunning beauty and the hard strictness – and a rather admirable uniform, the dame was more of a warrior then the majority of those present. Except maybe the drow that delivered the envelope. The silver-haired man threw the paper in Letho’s lap, muttering some words that Letho barely caught. Back in his wandering days, he smattered drow, but by now most of that limited knowledge got too abraded by the domestic life. His deductive skills were as sharp as ever though. There was no doubt that the envelope contained official orders from above.

“Right. Let’s see what we have here.” the marshal said, taking out the paper from the envelope and skimming over what was written. It was mostly just names and ranks of those present, together with the orders Leeahn already conveyed. The names of the three most prominent members weren’t hard to locate. The only captain in the bunch was Elijah Marran, the only woman name was Christina Bredith and he doubted that any Corone mother named her child Izvilvin Kaz’izzrym. Not if she liked the child, that’s for certain. Returning the paper back in the envelope, Letho tucked it in the inside pocket of his black leather trench coat before he stood up and approached his chestnut mount. Half of the eyes present followed him, awaiting for some word of introduction, while the other half followed the large tawny gunblade that the bulky swordsman tucked into a saddle holster. Only when Letho mounted his steed, he addressed those gathered.

“As most of you probably know, I am Marshal Letho Ravenheart, and from henceforth I’m assuming command of this mission.” he started, his voice gallant and firm, a voice of a king that got stuck in a ranger outfit. “You also know what our task is. However, I will remind you that these people are suspects and Coronians – your kin – and as such are not guilty until proven otherwise. If I find anyone act unfitting or needlessly violent towards any of them, I will personally make certain you return home inside a cage instead of guarding it. You’re soldiers, not swashbucklers. Act like soldiers.” Letho concluded, his gauntleted hands holding the reins tight and his mount calm beneath him. The reactions were divided amongst the dozen that stood before him. Some found his preaching annoying, trying to hide their contempt behind emotionless faces. Some found it redundant, thinking they were soldiers long enough to know how to act. Some nodded in agreement, adding a reluctant ‘yes, sir’. It was something that Letho expected from such a colorful bunch just as he expected them to follow orders.

“Our first stop is just around the corner. Let’s get to it.” the brooding marshal said, lightly spurring the flanks of his horse and setting a slow, walking pace down the stretch of the dust-smothered main street. Willowtown maybe was a quaint place, but compared to the magnificence of Radasanth or Gisela, it was a crummy place. Wooden houses with thatched roofs and dusty porches stretched down the length of the street, and only when they neared the square, several two-story houses made out of unmortared stone stood out from the usual. The square itself was the only surface in the town that was covered with cobbles with nothing of importance adorning the center of it. Just a rather large well that dried up centuries ago. To the left was the town hall, a three-story edifice with a flat roof and a long row of square windows. Straight ahead was a church with its slightly slanted bell tower, its wooden walls losing more and more of the white paint each day. To the right stood several smaller houses, mostly shops and the Cloven Shield, the modest forge of Edonas Partridge.

Letho lifted his right hand, bringing the procession to a halt before he turned to them. “Captain Marran, I assume?” he asked the grizzly uniform that merely nodded in acknowledgment. “You’ll find mayor Mance Haftowrth in the town hall. Take six men and bring him in. The rest of you, follow me.” the marshal spoke strictly, tugging on the reins and clucking his mount towards the forge. A burly man with a bald head and a pair of arms as thick as stone columns stood leant on the frame of his front door, expecting his captors with a mild smirk. Letho informed Edonas yesterday on what’s going to happen, giving his friend at least some time prepare for departure. On the first floor’s window, a seventeen year-old daughter of the blacksmith was looking down on the people that came to arrest her father. She begged Letho not to take her father away yesterday, but regardless of how tempting her pleas were, duty overruled them. That was why the young lass looked down on the marshal and his soldiers not with sadness or anger, but with disappointment.

“You’re late. I expected you at daybreak.” Edonas said once the mounted riders surrounded him, unconcerned with the fact that he was to be confined to a cage on wheels.

“I guess it’s better to be late then early this time.” Letho replied.

“Dunno. The sooner we leave, the sooner we’ll return.” the blacksmith said, taking several steps forward. One of the younger soldiers, a greenhorn as twitchy as a hare with a blonde mop of a hair, probably saw this as an act of hostility, reaching for his blade. “Easy, laddie. I don’t want no trouble.”

“And you’ll find none. But we have to restrain you. You...” Letho said, pointing towards the blonde woman. “Bind his hands and take him into the cage.” He chose Christina partially because she stood out and those that stand out from the crowd are those that are usually the easiest to remember. But there was also a curiosity within him that instigated him to see how she would handle herself. Besides, she seemed a much better choice then the itchy-fingered rookie.

[Christina Bredith]

If Christina was harbouring any fanciful visions about a quick vacation dripping with hunky attendants waiting on her hand and foot, that veil was quickly pulled away. The woman’s face practically sank, her dreamy smile replaced with an incredulous curling of her lip and wide eyes, as they neared their dusty, sleepy destination. “Oh god,” she whispered, wrinkling her nose and scanning the villa up and down, “it’s like stepping into a pamphlet about poverty.”

In and of itself, Willowtown could probably not be described in such harsh terms. Christina, however, was one who saw things a little differently from many others. She had come from a life of prosperity in the south, to a brief period of homelessness, and then right back into the lap of relative luxury in the grandiose capital of Radasanth. Willowtown, by comparison, was like a dreary suburb to a downtown socialite. It didn’t help that villagers were gawking at the soldiers as they entered the town. To Christina, it conjured up an image of dirty peasants gaping with hopeless awe and jealousy at a royal procession – and since she loved to fancy herself a princess, this dream brought that smile right back to her face.

It was an unfortunate truth that she was not a princess and this was not a royal procession, but rather a group of soldiers sent south from that grand capital to shake up their rural lives a little bit. So far, it looked like they were succeeding. As Christina placidly swung her gaze from side to side, she could see the masses gathering around them, peeking out from windows and gathering in front of restaurants and bars to see what all the commotion was about. The group of twelve northern soldiers accompanied by a horse-drawn cage fell far from eliciting welcome from the populace. From the dull chorus of mumbles, Christina could pick out some very choice phrases used to describe them. Ah, these bumpkins, she thought with that same quiet smile. They’re almost kinda cute!

It wasn’t long before the platoon reached the marshal’s office, but that short time was long enough for the burning stares of the villagers to get more than a little annoying – Christina was forced to actively remind herself that it would not be a good idea to lash out at any of them right now. The man they met there seemed a good deal more sophisticated than anyone they had seen so far, though – and a good deal more menacing. Christina couldn’t help but be swept up in those dark eyes as he glanced in her direction. It wasn’t surprising that she stood out from the crowd: not only was she the only woman present, but she was quite a specimen at that. She was not the plain, frumpy type of woman you might expect to wear a soldier’s uniform and a sword; instead Christina was curvy and voluptuous, and the way she dressed and held herself blended cold professionalism with what might almost be termed passive seductiveness.

It wasn’t just Letho’s eyes that had the ability to set her heart aflutter. His voice was so regal, so… out of place for such a dusty little burg, she caught herself thinking. Christina’s response to Letho’s speech – and, surprisingly, this was in no way a response to his voice or his rugged good looks – was a proud smile, coupled with a straightening of her body and a raising of her head. While the others may have heard words like that a thousand times before, they were fresh and pleasant to Christina. She loved Corone as much as she loved a good manicure and seaweed wrap, and it didn’t hurt to hear it once in a while. She was a soldier. At least, she was for the duration of this mission. Damned if she wasn’t going to be a better one than anyone else here.

The ride to the town square was, somehow, even more uneventful than the entire trip here. Christina found herself longing for the sweeping plains of Corone, as even their emptiness was beginning to seem like the lesser of two evils compared to these dusty houses and their residents’ prying eyes. Normally Christina loved attention, but this was a step too far in the wrong direction. Luckily, their first stop was just around the corner as their new commander had promised. It didn’t mean the staring would stop, but it did bring them one step closer to getting the hell out of this place.

Half the group broke off to the left, advancing on the… comparatively grand building that must have been the town hall, while Christina’s half made its way towards a shop on the opposite side of the square where a human rhino of a blacksmith stood waiting for them. It was pleasing to realize that this was Edonas Partridge, one of the men they were here to apprehend; as long as he cooperated, there would be no need to risk doing anything unprofessional. Unfortunately, not everyone among the half-dozen soldiers was as convinced of his support: one of the greener novices apparently saw it as a threat that Edonas – heaven forbid – stepped forward!

“You always this uppity, kiddo?” Christina said quietly over to him. Her voice was sweet with an appropriate measure of sauciness, accompanied by a slight tilt of the head. It was difficult to tell whether she was serious, sympathetic, or mocking. Perhaps there was a small degree of everything in her words. If nothing else, Christina Bredith could be a difficult woman to read.

Obvious enough, though, was her snap back to attention when Letho singled her out and told her what to do. Nodding slowly, the woman swung one leg over the thick neck of her steed and then hopped down to the cobbled ground. The pointed heels of her boots, thick enough for stability of movement, clacked against the stones as she approached the cooperative Edonas. It was hard to miss the natural swagger of her hips as she moved, or the way the tail of her crimson uniform swayed from side to side in response. Even the way she held the rope, pulling it until it was taut as the willing prisoner held out his wrists, seemed playfully seductive in a natural, unintentional kind of way. There was nothing to suggest incompetence on her part, though: she was able to bind Edonas’ wrists with ease and skill, and placing one hand firmly but gently against the small of his back, she led him toward the cage that awaited him in the center of the square.

“Kind of a hole, isn’t it?” she sighed with what apparent sincerity as she ushered him into the steel contraption. “But we’ll take good care of you.” That part was sincere. A playful smile crinkled her nose in punctuation. Christina turned and headed back for the group again, and she gave Letho a two-fingered salute as she approached. Her use of military protocols was decidedly less orthodox than the other soldiers, and perhaps Letho, were accustomed to, but it was easy enough to see that her heart was in the right place. “Where to next, boss?”

[Izvilvin]

Mounting his horse, Izvilvin took up the rear of the pack, as was becoming customary of him. He watched Letho carefully as the man moved, so confidently, to his own vacant mount and spoke to them. The Drow, as usual, could understand none of his words, but he didn't quite care. There was something oddly fascinating about this human, the way he carried himself unlike anyone else Izvilvin had ever seen.

The group steadily made their way through the small town, bringing more than just a few casual glances their way as the horses noisily trotted through. They soon came to a building, where a man revealed himself and took half of the soldiers with him. After a quick count of how many were remaining, the Drow decided to follow him.

Approaching a long building, Captain Marran turned to take inventory of the guards, and reeled as he seemed to notice Izvilvin for the first time. Immediately he bent a finger, calling the Drow over as he approached the door to the hall. Dismounting easily, he followed the human.

The inside of the hall was cool and dry, dim in the midmorning sun. Rows of tables and chairs flanked the red carpet that ran down the center of the room, though very few of them were occupied so early in the morning. The walls were wooden and decorated with red velvety material which hung in waves from the ceiling. Izvilvin looked around curiously at it all while Captain Marran walked determinedly to a man who stood deeper within.

"Mayor Haftworth," Marran called, clearing his throat.

Turning, mayor Haftworth, a round man dressed in clothes far too fine for Izvilvin's tastes, put his eyes on the Captain... Then at the Drow.

"What are you doing, bringing a Drow into this town?" the mayor demanded. Recognizing his race's title, Izvilvin turned from his observations to look at the mayor. "The creature could kill us all, for heaven's sakes!"

"Mayor, we need you to come along for some questioning." Marran bluntly stated.

Shocked, almost hurt, the mayor tore his eyes from the Drow long enough to look at Marran. Izvilvin thought he looked ghastly at that moment. "Are you talking about those assassinations, Marran? You can't possibly be serious."

The mayor's eyes flashed right back at the Drow. Marran knew, then, that he'd made the right decision in bringing the warrior into the hall with him. He seemed to lend a weight of realism to what was happening, even if the mayor himself wasn't quite aware of it.

"Don't worry, mayor Haftworth, they are merely questions, and you are not the only one who will be asked. We do need to bind your hands."

Reluctantly, he bowed his head and turned about, wrists crossed. The captain quickly bound them and turned, nodding his head upward to signal Izvilvin to lead the way out. The three exited and walked brisky to their waiting soldiers, and Izvilvin once again mounted his horse.

They reached Letho and the others in mere moments, and mayor Haftworth stopped dead in his tracks. "A... A cage?" he blustered, no longer so cooperative. "You will parade me around my own town within a cage reserved for criminals? How will my town's people look at me after this?"

"Marshall!" he pleaded, his eyes on Letho. "You can't expect me to follow through with something like this!"

[Letho]

Myrhia would’ve liked Christina Bredith. The blonde was a valkyrie, embodying both the sonsy femininity and warrior demeanor. Beautiful and lethal, she was every man’s bane and every man’s dream. And there was little doubt in Letho that she had battle prowess to clarify the reason for carrying that longsword at her hip. When a person made dueling his profession, his best asset, his perception could read between the lines and beyond the exterior. Christina maybe glued every male eye to her tail when she walked, but there was a more then just curves to this woman. That’s why Myrhia would’ve liked her, because the golden-haired femme fatale was everything she dreamed of becoming, this perfect vision of an independent woman that could slay with a swing of one hand and seduce with the twirl of the other. She would’ve liked her because she was a better match for a mighty man such as Letho.

The marshal, though, barely allowed for this beauty to swirl his head and cloud his reasoning. Yes, she was a knockout, and yes, she had just that intriguing impudence that women ought to have, but Letho Ravenheart wasn’t a Willowtown yahoo. In his twenty-seven years, the imposing swordsman attended high courts of Savion as a rightful prince, traveled most of the known (and some of the unknown) lands of Althanas, and met about a dozen women of all types. And only in Myrhia he found what he needed, this missing link to a happy, fulfilling life, an up for all of his downs... a sanctuary. It was more then enough to end his search. So the fact that Christina was quite a jewel was acknowledged and placed on an undetermined shelve in his mind, as both an asset and a distraction. A soldier staring at bosoms and butts was more often then not a soldier that falls from a horse and onto his own blade.

Besides, Letho wasn’t in a mood for ogling and daydreams. Seeing Edonas restrained and thrown in the mobile prison like a felon was enough to fortify the cryptic frown that never seemed to leave his brow. The hearty blacksmith was his friend, and friend was a title that the marshal seldom handed out. When Myrhia and Letho first came to Willowtown, Edonas employed the currently jobless wanderer in his forge, and when the Lawmen came to extort the money from the locals and Letho rebelled against them, Edonas followed the marshal until the very end, when the law and order was reestablished. Such a man didn’t belong in the cage. But orders were relentless, just like Letho’s duty. It didn’t mean he had to like it, though.

“The next town. And the next. Collecting people like taxmen collect coins.” he replied to Christina, pensiveness revealing itself in his tone just enough to get noticed as his eyes observed the blacksmith through the web of iron bars. He snapped out of it soon enough though, reminding himself that he was an authority figure now and such thoughts were rather inappropriate. Reluctance and doubt would only undermine his leadership. “Pinetown. A day’s ride westwards.” Letho added, meeting the blonde’s pale eyes briefly before captain Marran approached with his captive. The marshal gave the reins a measure tug, turning his mount around in order to face the six and the restrained mayor that didn’t seem terribly pleased with the traveling arrangements.

“What’s a parade without our mayor?” Edonas commented from within the cage, his homely face with a rugged two-day beard seemingly careless and jovial. The plump man didn’t seem to even notice the blacksmith’s remark, looking up at Letho.

Truth be told, there was never much love between the marshal and the mayor. There was no enmity either; Myrhia made sure that the swordsman made more friends then enemies with her amiable demeanor. However, a certain tension always existed, especially once Letho became the marshal of the Four Towns county, thus getting in the position of some power and authority that was formerly reserved only for the mayor. So even though their jurisdictions never overlapped, Mance Haftworth saw somewhat of a threat in Letho, especially once the burly swordsman started gaining some respect amidst the townsfolk. Today he tried to play the card of peer equality.

“I like this no more then you do, mayor.” Letho said, using the man’s title even though cordiality was usually wasted in these rural areas. “But orders are clear and I shall bend them for no man. If you worry for the folk’s opinion on you, worry about what their opinion would be if their mayor didn’t adhere to the law.”

Words were always the best weapons against diplomats, and that went thrice if you wanted to preserve the peace. Forcing the displeased mayor into the cage was a viable, even justifiable solution, but there was no need to blow into the embers and turn them into open flames. After several seconds of consideration and eyeing the mounted marshal, mayor Haftworth saw the wisdom in those words and made his way to the cage, albeit in an off-putting manner. Once the cage door was secured and the six were mounted, Letho spoke again in his commandeering voice.

“Our business in Willowtown is done. We ride west. You...” he pointed a gauntleted finger on the greenhorn that was so eager to draw his blade moments ago. The youth was as surprised with being singled out just as he was when Edonas stepped from the door of his shop. “You ride with me in front. The rest of you fall in and keep it tight.”

Letho led the column at an easy trot, the loud clicking of horseshoes on the stone of the square soon replaced by the dusty beat muffled by the less solid pavement. Willowtowners still watched with silent fascination and fear, holding their breath while the marshal and his troops passed by and praying that the procession wouldn’t stop before their doorstep. However, soon enough the cage bearing their mayor and their blacksmith passed the last house on the stretch of the main street and the tension gave way to relief, unofficially allowing them to return to their everyday work. It was rather clear by their suspicious looks, though, that there would be a new topic to debate on during the evening drinks at the tavern.

Meanwhile, the trigger-happy fellow that rode with Letho in front of the convoy started to feel mighty apprehensive in his saddle, waiting for the grizzly marshal to reprimand him for his overzealousness. Instead, what came from his commanding officer was a question: “What’s your name, lad?” Letho inquired, his hawk-like eyes centered on the road ahead.

“Howard Deline, sir.” the overstrung youth replied, straightening his posture in the saddle.

“How old are you?” the second question, in the same, strict voice that demanded an answer. The clangor of horse hooves and carriage wheels prevented their voices to be heard by the rest of the group, unless some of them had elven hearing.

“Twenty-one.” Howard replied, priding himself with the number. The pride was cut in half with Letho’s sideways glance.

“Right. You probably said the same at Radasanth’s recruitment office. I’m a bit more perceptive that an office clerk though. So how old are you really?” Letho asked, returning his eyes on the rode. The blonde lad swallowed dry and hard.

“Eighteen.” and then, after there was no reaction from the marshal: “Sixteen... this spring. But I’m a man grown. And I know my way with the blade. My father...” he quickly added, desperately trying to justify himself and ensure Letho that he was worthy to ride with the group.

“I’m certain your father is a good man that taught you how to handle yourself in combat. But you know full well the prerequisites for being in the Armed Forces. Dishonesty isn’t one of them.”

“I know, but I am a good soldier.” Howard insisted. Once no reply came from Letho, whose stone-chiseled face faced the road instead of the eager youth, the lad spoke again. “Are you going to send me back to Radasanth?”

And still the marshal was silent, distant, his eyes directed at the landscape but peering through it. After what seemed like an eternity for the beardless aspiring soldier, Letho spoke. “No. I’ll give you a word of advice though. Never reach for your weapon unless you mean to use it.”

“Younglings. Always running for fame and thinking themselves immortal.”

[Christina Bredith]

There was a time, once, when Christina cared about attracting the attention of the lesser sex. There may even have been a time when she would be disappointed at failing to catch the rugged country marshal’s eye, too. In those days she would have made it her pursuit, her goal, even her hobby to turn heads and unravel tongues. But life was simpler back then; Christina had a family, a love, a home, friends… everything a girl could ever want. She even had a home-grown talent for swordplay, the secret passion her parents forbade her. And then, in one horrible day, all of that was taken away from her. All of it except one thing: her sword. That was what Christina lived for now. Any seduction on her part was mostly involuntary, when it didn’t directly benefit her, an old habit impossible to break after so many years of practice.

In that, perhaps, Christina was the perfect femme fatale. She could bat her eyelashes and twirl her hair when necessary, and it would always work to her advantage in some way. Then, where a silver tongue behind ruby lips failed, an iron sword with a leather grip would step to the fore. It was never something Christina gave particular thought to, despite the fact that it was the credo by which she lived her life.

Other descriptors aside, Christina was still a woman, and perhaps it took a female’s soft eyes, tempered with the experience of a warrior, to notice the near reluctance in her commander’s voice as he gazed through the bars of the cage at who must no doubt have been an old friend. The woman turned over her shoulder to look at Edonas, and by the time her gaze returned to Letho, the man had snapped out of whatever reverie had taken him in. The edges of her eyes crinkled ever so slightly before she turned and mounted her chocolate steed once more.

Christina waited for some time after Letho began his trot before she followed suit, allowing the group to fall into formation and thereby assuming her place in it, once again at the right of the cage. From this position she would be among the last defenders if they were attacked (though in practice it would scarcely work out that way, to be sure); and as an aside, she found that she was rather well positioned to chat with their so-called prisoners if the mood struck them.

It was Edonas who did so first. Christina was gently edging her horse forward with the rest of the caravan, filing her nails rather placidly with an emery board. Riding with no hands was a trick she had learned during their journey here; while she was nowhere near accomplished enough to do it at anything faster, it was easy enough at their present speed. The young Howard Deline was still at the front with the marshal, a fact which Christina took passing note of. Otherwise, however, she seemed rather lost in her own world, and might have been taken for such if not for the stoic, silent expression on her face as she examined the polished manicure, and the way her silvery eyes occasionally flicked to one side or the other, deep toward the horizon.

“How’d you get caught up in all this?” the blacksmith asked abruptly, distracting Christina’s attention. It was clear that he was making needless small talk, but she didn’t mind. She wasn’t unsympathetic to his situation and so if it made him more comfortable in that ratty little cage, she would oblige him.

“Nowhere else to go,” she admitted honestly. There was a measure of seriousness in her voice that suggested these were not the words of some flighty young lass who couldn’t make up her mind about anything. Edonas was smart enough to know not to dig too much deeper; a less observant man might have continued with something like, ‘Wouldn’t a pretty girl like you be more comfortable at home than out here in the wilderness?’, and then he would undoubtedly have struck a nerve and insulted her pride. Christina couldn’t help but smirk a little, then, when his line of questioning immediately shifted.

“Do you think any of us did what they said?”

Christina’s hands paused dead-still for a moment. It was a question she had honestly not pondered yet. Edonas and the mayor seemed like perfectly upstanding citizens; even as jaded as she had become over the past months, she had a tough time imagining that either of them were capable assassins. Of course, that didn’t rule out the whole list of others that they had yet to apprehend. In truth, Christina was not entirely sure what to tell Edonas, so she resorted to the first line of defense of the femme fatale:

“I know you two are too sweet to be assassins,” she told him with a grin and a wink, ignoring the irony of her own words. Many might have said that about her, too, if she put on the proper façade. Mask or not, her words were sincere enough to satisfy Edonas, though the sugary-sweet assurance may not have been quite the answer he was expecting.

Her part of the ride was silent from that point on, so Christina returned to buffing her nails and occasionally scanning the countryside for suspicious movement. The land of Corone was as silent as the grave today, however. Aside from one traveling merchant caravan they passed heading the other way, Christina couldn’t recall seeing a single soul. Either there were none, or the ride was just so long that “I can hardly even remember my own name anymore,” as the woman saw fit to blurt out quietly to those around her about three-quarters of the way to Pinetown.

As the hours passed, the only thing of interest that Christina did notice was that Letho was changing his riding companion every couple of hours or so. With twelve soldiers to barrel through and two hours between them, she knew it wasn’t likely that he would get through many of them before they reached their destination. Even so, she could admire his choice to get to know his comrades-at-arms. She could tell that he was not in complete support of this endeavour, and a lesser man might opt to simmer in his own juices instead of making the best of it.

It wasn’t until Pinetown was just on the horizon and the sun was low in the sky that it was Christina’s turn to be called. Though she was tired, she knew they’d be making camp soon, and besides, she could hardly turn down the opportunity to get to know their commander a little better. Catching someone else’s attention to take her place in the formation, the woman took the reins of her horse and gently increased pace to catch up with the head of the pack.

[Izvilvin]

Izvilvin was fascinated with what they were doing, often turning his eyes to the blacksmith and the mayor, who stirred within the cage in the center of the group. The blacksmith often held his eye contact for several moments, but the mayor always looked away almost immediately. Strangly enough, whenever the Drow looked from elsewhere back to the cage, he always caught the mayor studying him. He must have been fascinated to see a dark elf, perhaps fearful of something he didn't understand.

The ride was necessarily slow due to the heavy cage they were bringing along, but Izvilvin hardly minded. It was refreshing to be on horseback somewhere where the sun did not drive him mad. He could enjoy the careful trot of his mount as he languidly held the reigns in a single hand, leaning back just slightly as the occasional breeze tossed his long threads of hair about.

Here he was, on his first mission from Step in months, and for what? This was a simple observation mission; a strange task to set about to a drow who did not speak the common tongue. Izvilvin was usually set to assassination or item retrieval, for Step well understood his lack of ability to easily transfer information. Was the organization lacking in available agents? Or was there something else to this vaguely described mission?

The organization had become an afterthought in comparison to his new life in Fallien, living by the Jya's side in the Keep as a soldier. When he'd first left Alerar, an agent from Step, a secretive Corone government section designed to covertly do military business, recruited him. Izvilvin didn't know what his life would be had he not been swallowed up by the agency.

Of course, once you knew about Step you were not allowed to leave other than by death. By that logic, Izvilvin had another few hundred years to serve. Realizing it brought a sigh from his lips.

A human riding ahead of him turned and looked at him impassively, but the Drow could see the sneer that he hid below the emotionless stare. Izvilvin kept his gaze within his until the man got the nerve to turn around again. Shaking his head, the elf looked back at the cage, to once again see the mayor turn his eyes away a quarter-second after.

The leader of the group, the large man with the aura of strength, cycled riding partners every so often. Though Izvilvin could hear the conversations they had, he could only understand a few words of what was said. The stares his way were more and more rare, but when they came, he never failed to notice the hatred in them.

After the day's riding, Izvilvin could see Pinetown on the horizon, and naturally assumed it to be their destination. The company slowed and came to a halt among a vast clearing with a used fire pit, several logs lain around it for seating purposes. It was a campsite frequently used by travelers, and evidently the group he now traveled with intended to use it. The Drow gracefully dismounted and adjusted his belt before tying his horse's reigns to a nearby metal pole that might have been placed there for that very purpose.

He averted his eyes from the others, knowing that at least a few of them were likely still eyeing him, and moved away from the others to sit upon a tree stump facing the open fields of the west. A cool breeze came in and he sucked in the crisp air, removing his weapon-covered belt and lying it aside -- still very much within reach.

Izvilvin dismissed the urge to turn and observe the others, merely sitting in thought. He already missed Fallien, his morning routine of two slow perimeter walks about the Keep, and his bed. He hoped the mission would be over with soon, and his business with Step would once again be finished for a few months.

[Letho]

Though exchanging trivial information while riding horseback wasn’t a feasible way to get truly familiarized with people – regardless of how shallow they might be – Letho learned quite a lot during his interrogations at the van of their assemblage. He learned that Ilynn Arimetis - a stout heap of muscles with a low forehead a battleaxe strapped to his back - was a farmer until a little over two months ago, and that he joined the Armed Forces because he got tired of the horse and cow shit. He learned that Rowan Dannen – a closemouthed man with a bald head, soldier’s stick-up-the-ass posture and a badge of CAF - pulled the shortest straw in his platoon and got this voyage and suspect-foraging as a reward, instead of staying on wall duty back in Radasanth. He learned that Jordan Phillips was once – and to an extent still was – a bard that sought to write a song of his own endeavors instead of just replaying the old stories of old heroes and old deeds. Letho thought that joining watchmen during peaceful times wasn’t prone to net him the kind of result he expected, but didn’t voice that thought. Everybody had a right to wishful thinking. He also learned that captain Elijah Marran was a veteran of many a battle, one of them claiming his ear and leaving a nasty mar on the side of his neck which his unruly black hair failed to conceal completely. That and a whole assortment of other information the marshal either heard from his comrades or read from their visages, and though it failed to properly acquaint him with them, it was a good start.

The most intriguing pair of the congregation that followed him – the confident blonde and the cryptic dark elf – he left out for the time being. With Izvilvin, it was because he was certain that the communication was bound to be a torment for both of them, made of smattered words accompanied by hand gestures that would hopefully clarify what was being said. And that was something that Letho wanted to leave for another day. Like the morrow, when they concluded their work in Pinetown. As for Christina, regardless of the fact that she seemed every inch a soldier, she looked every inch a woman as well, and the marshal always had a soft spot for females. So he intended to entrust her with the first watch over their camp, during which there was always much commotion in the camp that disallowed proper rest.

They already detoured from the main road and arrived on the location that seemed to be a common campsite when the blonde approached on her steed. Letho paid no heed to her at first, but rather brought the company to a halt and surveyed the site with a passing glance. “We’ll make camp here. Ilynn, Jordan, get a fire going. Rowan, get Edonas and mayor Haftworth out of the cage. They had enough of iron one day. We’re riding into Pinetown tomorrow at dawn, and not a moment sooner.” he spoke, emphasizing the last part. There was no doubt in the marshal’s mind that at least half of his subordinates wanted to remedy their riding sores with some of the local ale, but he wanted to postpone their business until the morning. The morning was always wiser then the evening, for the heads were sober and eyes clear. And this way, all those names on the list would get another night in their own bed at the very least.

Noticing some grumbling and solitary murmurs of displeasure along with the almost instant execution of his orders, Letho finally turned to Christina. “Christina Bredith.” he said, his look a perpetual slight frown that hardened his face, made it seem almost twice his age. “You’ll join me on the first watch tonight. There’s nothing but farmers and farmsteads for miles around, but I don’t like to play with dice. Better to be overly cautious then dead.”

The dark-attired swordsman dismounted casually and tied his horse to one of the poles, picking the one where there was some grass on the animal to feed. Patting the chestnut stallion on the neck lightly, Letho took out his bastard sword from one of the saddle holsters, leaving the heavy gunblade behind. Nowadays, he didn’t use the Lawmaker anyways, since, with the loss of his supernatural strength, the massive weapon became too heavy to be properly wielded. Still, it was his hallmark, something that spoke louder then his voice filled with kingly might, and the marshal preferred to keep it at his side whenever trouble brewed. Scarce were the ones that gave him sass when he brandished the six-foot dehlar hybrid of a weapon.

The grassless opening that, basked in the orange rays of dusking sun, seemed even more barren was brought to life with the activity of his platoon. The firewood that was gathered from the nearby forest was turned into a lively blaze that sent about the fragrance of the prominent pine trees that flanked the small town. Annon the Carriage Driver was also the cook and even as the fire was lit, he had his pot out, chopping onions and turnips and dry meat into what was bound to soon become a barley stew. Edonas and Mance were brought near the fire, their hands still bound, but there seemed to be no apparent hostility between them and the soldiers. In fact, if it weren’t for the fact that his hands were bound, Edonas could pass as one of them, laughing at the cracked jokes and commenting with the rest of them. By the time the sun was completely effaced from the sky above together with its burning light and the moonless dome gave birth to the first silver sparkles, there was also a merry tune rising together with the vivid flame tongues. Jordan tried to lead in a correct tonality, but after the others joined it, the song sounded so terribly distorted that the words were barely comprehensible. It caused quite a few laughs though, and laughs were good. Better then drawn swords at any case.

Letho didn’t stick around the fire for too long. Taking a bowl of the warm stew, he gestured towards Christina to follow him. “Sitting close to the fire makes you see nothing but the fire.” he told her, leading the way towards one of the more secluded logs that stood nestled beneath a dying pine tree. Beyond the fire, where those gathered quieted down once warm meals were in their hands, timid town lights could be seen, yellow and fragile, piercing the windows of the crude wooden houses. Letho thought that he heard a musician play a tune in the local tavern, but it might’ve been just the wind playing tricks on his audition. With his sheathed adamantine sword in one hand and a wooden bowl in the other, the marshal lowered himself on the makeshift half-decayed seat. He didn’t eat immediately; he liked his stew lukewarm.

“They’ll drop like flies with warm food in their bellies.” he commented, his eyes lingering shortly on the figures huddled around the fire and the elongated dancing shadows that they cast in a circular manner. After a pause, he moved both the topic and his gaze at the blonde warrior woman, more specifically to the item that hung at her hip. “That sword of yours... It’s by no means CAF issue, if you don’t mind my noticing. I’m guessing you’re either a sword for hire or a soldier with a rather wealthy background. You mind if I take a look?”

Letho hoped the sword would be a good starting point of the conversation, more so because he wasn’t an avid fan of meaningless small talk. What he was an avid fan of were weapons, however, so he picked up his own blade and offered it to Christina. It was a Savion custom, unrecognized in Corone or any other land for that matter, to offer your own blade when you’re taking one from your peer. It showed mutual respect and trust, and that was something that Letho hoped to establish within his platoon.

[Christina Bredith]

Christina had taken some time to get to know her comrades as well, at least to a larger degree than she already knew them from the ride to Willowtown. To a large extent the conversations were uninteresting; on their part about half of them made veiled passes at her, while on her part she was particularly interested in what the marshal was talking about with them. In that sense her interactions with them might have been termed adolescent – it was not unlike watching one’s friend come out of a private evaluation with a teacher and asking him what the questions were like. Even so, it provided a bond between them, a camaraderie, however infantile it might have been. That would be important if worst came to worst.

It was good that such an outcome was achieved, because as it turned out, Letho’s private meetings with the rest of the soldiers seemed fairly uninteresting. Casual small talk about pasts, families, hopes. It was exactly the type of conversation Christina was not exactly excited about. She would answer truthfully if it came to that, she supposed, as she had nothing to hide; but that portion of her life was not one she wished to revisit any time in the near future.

For that reason, the woman worked hard to hide her apprehension as she rode up to the front of the group. Letho merely told her that she would be taking the first watch with him tonight, though. She immediately experienced a mixture of relief and offense, in a typical female bout of fickleness: while she didn’t really want to talk about those things, it was like he didn’t want to hear them, either, and she could hardly tell which would have been worse! It was irrational, yes, but being irrational was the privilege of being a woman.

Letho’s order was, nevertheless, met with acknowledgement. Christina nodded her head slowly, giving the casual-yet-respectful two-finger salute that was quickly becoming her signature, before slowing her horse to a stop and dismounting. Her chocolate mare found herself tied up somewhere near Letho’s steed, simply because the distance was convenient. Before the horse could lean down to start her grazing, Christina hugged her softly around her thick neck. She was so gentle with the animal, and any sharpness that was displayed for many of the people she was less than fond of melted away before it. The golden-haired woman whispered something to the horse, eliciting a quiet snort, before she pulled away and let her munch casually on the fresh grass.

The night’s events were very much up Christina’s alley, and she seemed to blend in with the rest of the group with such fluidity. Perhaps it served to further her unpredictable personality: it had already been seen that she was at times flirtatious and at others ice cold, but now she was displaying a chummy, fun-loving side as well. In that regard she was the perfect blend of woman and soldier, possessing the best (and worst) elements of both.

The evening was a splendid one. Christina constantly complimented Annon’s cooking, only in part because she hoped it would net her a larger serving later; this was coupled with friendly, nagging inquiries about when the damn stew would be finished. A fair portion of the jokes told around the fire that night were hers, though they were almost entirely of the tasteful variety. Christina particularly revelled in the singing portion of the evening. It happened that the woman was quite an accomplished singer; while it was nothing of the calibre you would find in a famous Coronian opera house, her voice had an unpolished, natural harmony that rang above the throng of deep, male voices and complimented them. While everyone else was laughing amiably at the lack of tone many of the group possessed, though, Christina sat with a quiet, peaceful smile on her face.

It was during that time that Letho broke away from the group and gestured for her to follow. She nodded quietly and stood, passing unnoticed through the laughter which began to fade gradually behind her as she retreated. Letho was making his way toward a quiet log underneath a dying pine, some distance away from the camp. Christina noted that the entire scene could be viewed from there quite easily. To a degree that felt strange to her, she felt a little bit like a guardian watching over her charges when she stood so disjointed from their fun and games.

When the marshal pointed out Christina’s sword, she looked down at the weapon slowly and nodded her head. Sheathed, the weapon was not particularly spectacular to behold; the hilt was wrapped in leather and the pommel was decorated with the fragmented remains of what seemed to have been a red gemstone. The scabbard itself was plain leather, decorated with a rose vine design. Rosebite hadn’t seen the light of day in quite some time now, Christina realized. She wasn’t sure whether she liked the peace and quiet, or whether she was itching for something more exciting. Either way, her superstitious side led her to believe that something special was around the corner – things had simply gone too smoothly so far.

At Letho’s observation, Christina nodded. “You’d be at least half right on both counts,” she admitted, tossing back some hair that had draped over her face and shoulders when she looked down. The implications of that were, perhaps, too subtle to notice – but suffice it to say that anyone who is currently wealthy would not need to sell her abilities as a swordswoman. It was obvious, almost too obvious, that she came from privileged roots, and yet at the same time she now found herself in an entirely different station in life.

The marshal asked if he could take a look at her sword, and the question immediately filled Christina with worry. She thought back to the first time Rosebite had displayed its abilities – her cousin had attempted to take the sword from her by force, and was mercilessly burned by its hilt when she grabbed it. Christina did not wish the same fate upon Letho. But in her time with the weapon, Rosebite seemed almost too… Christina hesitated to use the word to describe a sword, but intelligent for such a thing. As such, she drew the blade without any further hesitation, and presented it to Letho.

Even before the steel saber was liberated from its sheath, it was obvious that it was unique. Along the flat edge of the blade were five flat gemstones; another five decorated the other side as well. Each gem was a different colour, and into each was carved a different rune, perhaps part of an ancient language understood only by the most investigative scholars. Three of the rune stones glowed faintly, stronger than the rest, illuminated by something other than the moonlight.

“That’s Rosebite,” she told her commander when he gripped the sword. Her moment of apprehension passed quickly, as the weapon would not harm its new wielder. Why, she didn’t know – perhaps it could distinguish ill intent from good, or perhaps it was the fact that Christina had offered it to him. It was a relief either way. Although not understanding the reason why, Christina took Letho’s sword in return – and she immediately underestimates it. While the marshal had been able to hold it with such ease, it was bigger and made of a heavier stuff than her own weapon. After a little experimenting, Christina found that she could lift the sword, but it took both hands (for which the sword was designed anyway) and an unusually large amount of effort (for which it was not).

“If you don’t mind my noticing,” she chimed in after huffing and hawing with the adamantine blade for a few minutes (in which time she had managed to swing it at wide open air, ungracefully, twice), “your other weapon doesn’t exactly seem run-of-the-mill, either. Mind if I ask what it is? I’ve never seen anything like it.” Christina jerked her head in the direction of Letho’s horse, where the Lawmaker hung in its holster. The gunblade was like an exotic monstrosity to her: bulky, menacing, and decidedly foreign. She’d never even actually seen a gun before, let alone one merged with such a frightening blade. Letho was certainly right about one thing: even Christina’s trademark sass would find itself against a brick wall in the face of that dehlar beast.

[Izvilvin]

The sun fell fast below the horizon, treating the watching Drow to an orange sunset he so enjoyed witnessing. In his time outside of Alerar, he had missed only two sunsets -- one while he was in the underground cavern of adamantine, where Laix and Palmer had been killed by the wizard Sasarai, and one on the day after that, where the Drow could not muster up the will to get to his window.

Behind him, the sounds of song and joy were abound. The humans were celebrating the brief time they had together, a celebration Izvilvin could scarcely understand, yet somehow still related with it. They had a kindredness his people never did, a kind of mutual understanding that life was short, and when the opportunity presented itself, passing up an opportunity for drink and palaver was a great waste. He could imagine that sort of enjoyment alongside Laix and Palmer, but few people besides them could ever make him feel comfortable enough to get drunk, let alone sing.

But they were dead. Time to move on.

Annon came to him to over stew after some time, but Izvilvin turned it down with a dismissive wave of his hand and a pallid smile. He could sense the burning eyes in his back, and imagined the heads of many of the humans turning as Annon approached, bowl in hand. He didn't seem to share the same open hostility many of the other ones did, particularly the youngest, but the Drow could sense some tension from him even during their brief encounter.

It wasn't that he wasn't hungry, but that he could imagine the resentment coming his way if some of the more ridiculous humans saw him eating a portion of their food. He dismissed the nagging growl of his stomach with a thought, sighing and looking up to the first signs of stars in the sky. He couldn't wait to get out of this situation.

Time passed and Izvilvin drifted into deep thought, considering everything and nothing all at once. In a moment he snapped out of it, as if realizing he'd been daydreaming for some time. It was quiet now, but he could hear faint sounds behind him. Turning, he observed a trio of guards sneaking away from the light of the fire. The rest of the humans slept soundly, save for Christina and Letho who sat far away on a log with their backs turned.

Izvilvin eyed the two as they talked, considering the best course of action to take. Deciding, he rose, snatching up his belt and tightening it around his waist until it could support to weight of his weapons. Then, silently, he snuck off behind the other guards who had left, keeping to the edge of the path where there was cover.

"No harm in a drink or two," one of the guards said to the others, a grin on his face. "Or three."

Rowan Dannen chuckled at that and led the others into town, with Izvilvin far behind and watching from the shadows. The bald man led his comrades into the first building he saw, a tavern at the edge of town with muffled noise coming from within. The three humans called out excitedly as they entered, ordering a mug of ale each.

Moving carefully to a side window, the Drow observed the goings-on within the populated tavern with a purposeful stare. Despite not knowing the language, Izvilvin was fairly sure Letho had not wanted anyone to head off from the group. That meant he was in violation as well, he realized, but shrugged it off.

"Ah, a good ale," muttered one of the guards after taking a deep swallow of the bitter amber liquid. "Too early for sleeping, anyhow."

The trio hardly seemed to notice at first, but the patrons of the bar were eyeing them uneasily. Izvilvin supressed a chuckle. It was the same kind of look he'd been recieving all day. How the three guards hadn't noticed yet, he didn't know, for he saw it as clearly as he saw the lanterns on the surface of each table.

Moments passed before the lack of conversation got to Rowan, who began to look about in curiousity. All three of them seemed to realize it at once -- they were't wanted there.

"Well what's the silence about?" he demanded. "We came here for a good time, not to sit and mull around our drinks!"

"Ye came here to take away our folk," someone mustered up the courage to say, and a general murmur around the others confirmed it to be the collective thought. "Lock 'em in a cage and take 'em to prison fer nothin'!"

One of the guards growled and slammed down his mug. "We're acting under the orders of Letho Ravenheart and the Corone government, and not doing a thing wrong. We just need to question some folk."

"Aye, question them while they're locked in a cage or in some underground prison," scoffed someone.

"Even if they're innocent you'll keep 'em held until ye find who yer lookin' for," another remarked, confidence bolstered as he saw the others were of the same mindset.

One of the guards growled and dared reach for his blade. A loud bang toward the entrance halted him in mid-movement, however, and the people of the tavern turned to see Izvilvin there, a sheathed Icicle against the frame of the door and a piece of the wood at his feet. His eyes were strong and set, his jaw firm. He had no authority over the troops, but knew the idea of being reported to Letho was not something they liked.

"Fuckin' Drow," cursed Rowan, his voice venomous.

The Drow didn't move. The tavern was at a standstill. If something was going to happen, it would happen now. The reactions to whomever moved first would decide the choices of each man, and there were too many possibilities for Izvilvin to consider. So he waited, ready to break into movement at the slightest hint of aggression.

[Letho]

Letho’s interrogation of Christina was no different then half-a-dozen of others that he already had with the rest of his troops, meaning it was essentially not an interrogation at all. The marshal knew that you couldn’t browbeat somebody into sincerity no more then you could make water sip itself into a cup. What he did instead of querying was simply providing an opportunity for his companion to speak of what he (or, in this particular case, she) was most comfortable with. It was a simple method, a bit indifferent perhaps, but oddly effective on occasions. Like with those he conversed with earlier that day. Silence irked people, Letho knew, and usually when people had a hatful of it, they spoke on their own accord. True, sometimes they needed an incentive, a nudge in the right direction, but most of the time, amidst all the nervous yapping there would be a valuable piece of information or two.

However, with Christina that was not the case. The marshal left an opening for the lovely swordswoman in a form of a subtle inquiry about the history of her sword, but she brushed it off just as subtly, leaving him with a relatively uninformative response. It was enough, though, for Letho to acknowledge that she was indeed blue-blooded and a sellsword, while her silence filled the blank with an assumption as to why she wasn’t prancing around in silks and velvets on some autocratic parties up in the Government District of the capitol. It was the same reason why he wasn’t sitting on his father’s throne in Savion; because things happened. Because everybody had a sad story nowadays, a tale that tightened their lips and clenched to their hearts when past came to present in a form of memories. Such things were seldom shared with mere acquaintances. Christina would tell her tale in her own time, or she wouldn’t. It wouldn’t be the first time Letho was setting an unopened book on a shelf.

With that out of the way, the Corone marshal shifted his focus to the ornamented longsword that the blonde dubbed Rosebite. Personally, Letho never fancied weapons that looked like something that might’ve been a king’s crown once upon a time. Jewels and rubies and diamonds, they all radiated with splendor, but magnificence of the decorations and the deftness of the goldworker that put the finishing touch on the blade meant squat when somebody swung an axe into your face. But just like it was the case with its owner, there was more then just looks to this blade. Letho let his callous fingers run over the mysterious runes, following them as they outlined the cutting edge that was aglow in the faint orange light of the distant fire.

“Somebody put a lot of work in this sword.” he spoke in the wistful tone she might’ve noticed before. This time, though, there was no acrimony present, only the distant reverie. “A lot of heart, a lot of love. Whoever made this blade, made it for himself.” and, after breaking his eyes away from the length of the saber, Letho added with a rare visitor on his visage; a smirk: “Or herself.” He didn’t know if Christina forged the sword – in all truth, he doubted it – but it was irrelevant in the end. Rosebite was undoubtedly a masterful piece of work. His right continued the inspection, found the balance point of the weapon and proceeded to lift it poised and horizontal with just his forefinger and his middle finger. With a swift jerk he flipped the sword in mid air, making it spin and land into his hand. “A fine sword.” the marshal concluded.

It was then that she inquired about the goddamn monstrosity that lay dormant at the flank of his steed. “Oh, that ungainly thing?” Letho said, offering Rosebite back to Christina hilt first. “You know how people always remember you for the wrong things? Well, when I first became a Corone ranger, I lugged it around with me. Needless to say, people noticed it. In fact, I think most of them noticed nothing but it. So now, whenever I’m on duty, going on a ranging or a patrol, they expect Letho and his Lawmaker.”

Getting up, the marshal sheathed the adamantine sword and made a quick trip to his mount, removing the gunblade from the unique leather holster. Formerly, Letho Ravenheart was able to wield the six-foot weapon single-handedly, but recently his strength significantly decreased, so he had to lumber it back to the dead pine on his shoulder like a timber. He didn’t mind much. There maybe was little to no exchange of personal information between Christina and he, but her interest in weaponry gave birth to respect in the grumpy marshal. Myrhia never liked to talk about blades and techniques and battle tactics. For her, they were just a necessary evil, something that should be used only when all other peaceful means were depleted. Discoursing with a woman that so resolutely deviated from the housemaid archetype was a refreshment that Letho embraced.

“At first it was a hunting rifle.” he explained, his voice deviating from the typical impassivity ever so slightly as he sat down close enough to the blonde that the weapon stretched over both their knees. His fingers pointed at the titanium barrel that stood for a dull edge of the blade, leading to the Winchester reloading mechanism. “I’m not a big fan of long ranged weaponry, though. What good is a rifle when somebody gets within the reach of a sword? As good as a staff, I say, and twice as clunky. Besides, the damn thing has a bad tendency to dislocate shoulders with the recoil. So I had this blade attached.” he tapped on the dehlar, the tawny, rather unattractive hue of the metal somehow gaining an eerily brutal magnificence in the luminosity of the flames.

Letho was contemplating on whether or not to elaborate further of the mechanics of the Lawmaker – of which he knew precious little, truth be told – when a sharp sound cut through the placidity of the almost idyllic eve. Letho’s head perked up reflexively, his face hardening in an instant as the brown eyes surveyed the surroundings for the origin of the sound. Christina tried to utter something, but he shushed her strictly. “Something’s amiss.” he whispered, counting the bodies sprawled around the fire. Edonas was present, lying casually on his back with his bound hands forming a makeshift pillow, while mayor Haftowrth fidgeted on the hard soil. Somewhat secluded from the prisoners were the soldier’s bedrolls, one missing completely and three either filled with thinnest men Letho ever saw or just empty. Another sound confirmed the latter, a forceful crash of glass against a solid surface. “The tavern. The bastards went to the tavern. We need to go!”

Rising abruptly with vexation apparent on his facial features, the Corone marshal picked the gunblade by the strap and shouldered it in one fluid motion. “Captain Marran!” he called out the seasoned warrior who rolled off his bunk almost before Letho finished pronouncing his last name. “We have some turncoats on our hands. Keep watch while we take care of it.” Not sparing a moment to dilate the order or clarify that we meant Christina and he, the bulky swordsman made a run towards the first line of the shabby houses, Lawmaker bobbing on his back.

[Christina Bredith]

It turned out that Christina was merely waiting for Letho to examine her sword before she spoke of it at all. To a large degree she was apprehensive about giving it to him at all – she was worried that Rosebite would harm him as it had Bianca, and then she would be put in quite a rough situation. That explained her initial silence. There was another factor, though, that took over after Letho had begun to look over the weapon: Christina found that this was the first time she had ever had to talk about the weapon to someone else, and there was so little to say!

“I wish I could tell you more about that sword,” she said with a chuckle when Letho addressed her again. She didn’t seem nervous anymore, but rather spoke quite sweetly and casually. “I guess a lot of people can probably give you a whole background on their weapons and where they came from. I guess my story is pretty boring by comparison.” Christina shrugged again. “I just don’t know much about Rosebite. I think it must be a family heirloom. I found it in my attic after…” The woman’s voice trailed off into uncomfortable silence, providing perhaps the slightest hint of what it was she hadn’t divulged earlier, and clarity on the fact that there must have been some unfortunate happening in her past that she couldn’t handle very well. Realizing the awkward silence, Christina shrugged and smiled. “Well, anyway, I know there’s more to it than meets the eye, at least.” A wink accompanied her cryptic words. That was definitely something she wanted to demonstrate, rather than talk about.

Impressed and amazed by Letho’s ability to balance her sword on his finger the way he did before flipping it up and catching it again, Christina attempted the same thing when he handed it back to her and began explaining what his gunblade was all about. She was surprisingly inept at the task, and it took her several tries to realize that she needed to find the point of balance of the sword and that it wasn’t directly in the center. That might have explained why she wasn’t very good at swinging Letho’s bastard sword: she was not classically trained in the art of swordplay, and therefore knew more about the movements and manoeuvres with her brand of sword than she did about the theories and mechanics of sword fighting in general.

The marshal’s explanation of the gunblade’s effects on others made perfect sense to Christina. She could see why people took strict notice of such a weapon, and why Letho would be attributed with it in their minds. His explanation of the weapon itself, however, fell on deafer ears. She tilted her head, listening to him attentively, eager to learn and absorbing his explanation like a sponge. Though she had never seen a rifle up close before, much less used one, she accepted his reasoning for why one would have such a blade attached to it. The weapon didn’t look like much of a beat-stick if it came to close-quarters fighting, though she had to wonder if the blade wouldn’t just make it that much heavier. It certainly felt like it, draped across their laps as it was. Letho must have been a real bear back when he used this weapon.

“But you don’t use it anymore, huh?” Christina had intuited that from two facts: one was that Letho left the weapon holstered in his saddlebag, and the other was that he seemed to have trouble carrying it without hoisting it over his shoulder as he had just now. “Did you just favour something a little lighter—” she gestured at the sword at his waist – “or was it something else?” Perhaps without realizing it, Christina was getting a little more into personal details. She didn’t figure, or intend, that it was anything too deep or uncomfortable, but simply thought it would be good to get to know her commander as something other than just that.

Letho seemed to be distracted by the time she finished the question, though, as he was looking off into the distance and focusing on something. Christina had no idea what he was on about, though, as she had previously been examining the weapon and then asking her question when he heard the sound. When she began to ask if something was on his mind, Letho hushed her and continued to listen before gravely pointing out that something was wrong.

When the marshal revealed his realization that some of the soldiers had snuck away to the Pinetown bar, Christina was up and running like a shot. Even she knew what a bad idea that was. They hadn’t been received well in Willowtown; what made the idiots think they’d have a peaceful drink in Pinetown? While Letho was (briefly) informing the captain of the sudden change in plans, Christina was already darting across the field like a crimson streak. She might not have been as strong as Letho, nor was her weapon as imposing, but that freed her lithe form up for speed.

It was no surprise, then, that she reached the tavern first, luckily in time to catch the stand-off while it was still in its infantile stages. Through the window as she passed she could see that everyone in the establishment was stock-still; several of them held blades, while others had thrown together more make-shift weapons. The soldiers were still the best-dressed (and likely the best-trained) of the group. The Drow was there as well, with his own short sword ready – nobody looked particularly happy to see him, but Christina hoped he would be the voice of reason here.

The soldiers definitely did not look happy. Izvilvin’s presence meant one thing: one way or the other, they were going to be reported to the marshal. Perhaps that was why indecision was rampant among them. Their contempt for the Drow was obvious, but on the other hand they had a room full of angry Pinetownians out for their blood as well. In any event, it was pretty obvious to Christina that bloodshed was imminent if something wasn’t done. That was where she came in.

It was an unfortunate and unavoidable fact that her presence would not ease the tension of the situation. In fact, it rather added to it: when she entered the room, brushing past Izvilvin and giving him a faint smile as she did, she held herself with an air of dignity and authority. As she was not a registered member of the CAF, she was not bound to their dress code, and therefore the uniform she wore distinguished her from their ranks while still making her look very much like a soldier. For the townsmen, that was enough to arouse their ire; the soldiers, on the other hand, knew that she had been on the first watch with Letho when they left, and that meant that their marshal couldn’t be far behind.

“My, my,” she said in a mock-exasperated voice as she looked at the tense scene. extended her hand, gesturing at the three soldiers who had snuck away from the camp. “Sorry for the trouble, gentlemen,” the woman said politely to the citizens. “These three are out past their bed time.”

While the soldiers just grimaced, their displeasure evident (as was the fact that they were near their breaking point), the townsmen were a little more vocal. “You think we’re going to just let them walk out of here?” one of them asked. He stepped forward from somewhere near the back of the room, and was met with mutters of agreement from his comrades. Christina raised an eyebrow.

“Come on, boys; we don’t mean you any harm,” she implored. Immediately she knew it was like swimming through thin air, though. If tensions had escalated to this point, talking would do no more good. Sure enough, a lanky, mop-headed townsman interrupted her.

“Quiet, bitch! We know exactly what you’re here to do!” The word caused Christina’s eye to twitch, and she fixed her cold glare on the outspoken young drunk who had directed it at her. “You’re just a bunch of criminals!” She took a deep breath as if fighting back a biting retort – which would have been her normal response in a less diplomatically-sensitive situation, assuredly – and beamed a shaky smile.

“I’m sorry; I’m not sure I heard you correctly.” She attempted so hard to be diplomatic about this, but it seemed the angry townsfolk would have nothing of it.

“I said we don’t want you here!!” The sword-wielding man lunged for her from the middle of the room, but Christina barely flinched. She withdrew her own weapon from its scabbard and held it out to her right. The second of the rune stones on one of its flat edges, a blue one, began to shine, and the rune within it flared to life.

“Extend, Rosebite!”

Without a single movement from Christina, her sword split into five separate sections, each one carrying a rune stone on either side. The sections were joined by tethers of blue energy and overall the weapon was now as flexible as a whip. Christina’s aggressor continued to charge – then, when he was in range, she stepped aside and lashed out with the whip-like Rosebite, which wrapped tightly around his brandished sword. With one swift jerk, the blonde warrior pulled the townsman forward, causing him to stumble as he retained his grip on his weapon. He was angled towards her right side, and as he fell forward, he was met with a powerful thrust knee to the face, after which Christina flicked her wrist and caused Rosebite to release his weapon and allow him to fall onto his back.

The woman hadn’t deviated from her straight-backed posture the entire time, lending her an air of authority and danger. Her whip-like weapon was still at her side, draped against the ground, energy crackling quietly. Christina certainly seemed the type of woman you didn’t want to mess with. Unfortunately, as is the case with mob mentality, the brief fight had only gotten them riled up even more. A storm was brewing, and Christina had every intention of putting an end to it – it seemed that she’d just have to do it the fun way.

[Izvilvin]

The tension in the air was like a veil, both in its thickness and its effect. Brethren were about to kill one another over nothing but mixed perceptions. It was petty enough to disgust the warrior Drow, but as sickening as it was, he couldn't bring himself to completely fault them. Humans, for all their shortcomings, were passionate and true to themselves. Compared to the stoic elves Izvilvin had known in his lifetime, humans embraced life and did not hesitate to defend their standpoint. Perhaps because of how short their lives were.

But before that moment came, the tension would continue to mount. Nobody spoke, but rather the eyes of each tavern dweller darted around toward the others, searching for a sign to begin the fight.

So focused was Izvilvin, he didn't hear Christina as she walked in. Rather, he saw her pass by him, a slight smile on her face. The Drow didn't return it, but saw it as some sign of good faith. Perhaps the human woman would do a better job at cooling the heads of these men than he. It wouldn't be a hard thing to do.

Izvilvin watched the unfolding drama before him, as Christina spoke in a light, strong voice to the men in the tavern. She was confident. The Drow didn't need to understand her words to know that. Even as she made efforts to cool the mounting anger, however, Izvilvin could see the locked jaws of many men grow even firmer. She was buying some time, but the would-be fighters in the tavern were simply bolstering their resolve before assaulting the guards.

The Drow slid Icicle out of its sheath, just a bit, exposing the blue blade and allowing a cool mist to seep out of the leather scabbard. He flinched during the first attack, but didn't hop into action just yet, watching with interest as Christina's unique sword extended to twist about the attacker's, disarming him easily.

It was the final straw for many in the tavern. Those who were not members of Letho's company drew blades from anywhere they could, and a collective roar accompanied them as they rushed toward the five Corone guards, including Christina and Izvilvin. Rowan and the others drew their weapons in response and parried the attacks that came at them.

The one approaching Izvilvin looked all too eager. Young and equipped with a short iron sword, he grinned as he approached, foolishly not wary of the many weapons the warrior wore nor the prepared, balanced stance he stood in. As the human came in, the Drow tore Icicle from its scabbard, revealing it not as a typical short sword, but a Damascus blade enchanted with ice. The blue blade was light in the elf's hand, and mist drifted off it like smoke from a flame.

The boy hesitated, and Izvilvin swept his sword across the air between them, willing the blade to leave a thick wall of mist behind it. He then darted around it, coming across the side with a fast hook of his fist, catching the jaw of the human and sending him down.

Not pausing, the Drow ran into the melee, where the three guards who had run off from the group originally were fending off more than they could handle. Swiping Icicle between the leftmost guard, he left a wall of mist there to slow down the civilians before standing by the side of his allies. Allies who, Izvilvin saw, either did not have the time to scowl at him, or were willing to take any help they could get.

Behind him, Rowan was parrying a sword while the guard on his flank blocked another. Neither seemed able to counterattack, not that they would have if it were possible. They'd gotten themselves into a no-win situation. Either they could kill the people attacking them, and thereby condemning themselves to prison, or they could play defensively until they were eventually overrun.

[Letho]

“I’m getting too old for these late-night capers.” Letho thought as he traversed the distance between the camp and the raucous tavern. He started of in a dash, struggling to keep the pace with the flying blonde, but the dash rapidly degraded to a trot which, in turn, gave way to a hasty march. The reason wasn’t his age though. One of the reasons was on his back, weighed about a hundred pounds and insisted on functioning as an effective anchor as well as a gun-sword. Another – the one that he never got a chance to disclose to Christina – was that until recently Letho Ravenheart was as strong as a pair of oxen. And then he was turned into a vampire which added a speed of a galloping horse to the titanic strength. And then he sought the end to the vampiric curse and it came at the price of his supernatural abilities. And suddenly easy as cake wasn’t a term that the marshal could use all too often. He was still substantially stronger then everymen, but the legendary might that enabled him the execution of impossible was resected from his body. He was just a man now, and he had a hunk of metal that was worrying at his shoulders every time his foot struck the soil.

It was a small wonder that he was huffing and gasping by the time he reached the Needle and the ruckus within that grew in magnitude with every passing second. Agitated voices came through the batwing doors in an incomprehensible blare checkered with the sound of splintered wood and shattered glass, with an occasional juicy curse rising above the rest unashamedly. Despite the escalating conflict, the harried marshal took a moment to equalize his breathing and double-check the Lawmaker. Once satisfied with his physical serenity and the status of the dehlar gunblade, Letho stepped into the tavern as nerveless as if he came in for a stein of ale.

One glance was all he spared on the common room and one glance was all he needed. The riffraff was out for blood, swords and chair legs and broken bottles and even forks in their hands as they pressured the fivesome of his soldiers in one of the corners. Christina and Izvilvin were hard not to notice; the crimson-attired vixen wielded an odd whip-like weapon with the calm en par to his own while Izvilvin held the mob at bay with a blade made out of ice. The rowdy trio behind them was – unsurprisingly – led by Rowan Dannen, the Radasanth guard whose laconic attitude obviously concealed contempt towards his superior officer. He was probably the brain behind the four’s excursion, though Letho was determined to prove that there was little or no brain in that particular idea. First things first, though; he had to halt this wrangle before it turned into a bloodbath.

KA-BLAM!!!

Lawmaker spewed fire and smoke like an awoken dragon, the fireworks followed by an earsplitting thunder and a detonation of splinters as the bullet struck the pine-wood wall. Every motion was stopped instantaneously, as if a wizard cast a spell that stopped the course of time, and dismayed eyes turned to the entrance of the crummy establishment. Letho was a statue of granite at the end of their glares, the gunblade’s handle pressed against his shoulder as the gun mouth still expelled tendrils of evanescing gun smoke. The pair of incisive brown orbs peered over the length of a weapon in an ominous frown. What was more imposing – the spears in his eyes or the dominant presence of the Lawmaker – few in the room could discern.

“That’s quite enough nonsense for one night, gentlemen!” the marshal spoke, his voice booming through the new-formed silence effortlessly. “There’s only two things I want to see; weapons on the floor and all of you getting the hell out of here.” he commanded, his tone leaving no room for rebuttals. The muzzle of the gunblade turned towards the drow and his drinking pals as the hotheaded townsfolk started to cool down and discard their shabby weaponry. “That goes for the four of you as well.”

Rowan had that half-stubborn, half-stupid and all irritating look on his cleanly shaven face, embodying the fabled hostility that the members of the Corone Armed Forces had towards their fellow Rangers. Letho would have none of it. His right tugged on the reloading mechanism, the gun part of his weapon expelling the spent cartridge and loading a fresh one with a dull metallic click. “Do not test me! Christina, collect their weapons and take them to the cage. If you four cannot act as soldiers, you do not deserve to be treated as soldiers. And if you give her any trouble, I swear I will put you to blade myself.” Nothing got his goat more then disobedient soldiers. Coming from a realm where duty and honor were the very meat and mead of the society, Letho couldn’t stomach those that rebelled against the rightful authority.

The more reluctant amidst the mob that was moments ago ready to lynch the five seemed encouraged by the harsh treatment, a steady stream of them now constantly passing by the weapon-ready marshal before disappearing into the night. Once the Needle was free of the locals – all save the rather frightened barmaid that held the daily output in one hand and a spatula in the other – Christina led the four to their prison for the night. By then, Letho’s gunblade was down and he escorted them out with a look that would’ve cut their skulls in half if only they were watermelons. What was left after the departure were the hollow silence of the aftermath and the demolished interior of once decent common room.

“Lock this place tight tonight and if anybody asks for their possessions, tell them that Marshal Letho Ravenheart confiscated them until morning.” he said to the blonde wench who recoiled as his hand descended towards his belt. She was relieved, however, when Letho produced a small gold pouch and threw it on the counter. “That ought to cover the damages.” the bulky gun-totting ranger added, slinging the Lawmaker back across his shoulders. “I apologize for the inconvenience, ma’am. Good night.”

The gawky barmaid scuttled to the counter only when Letho was already at the door, pocketing the small bag beneath her soiled apron in a panicked manner. His large hands already pushed away one of the swinging wings when she spoke in a coy voice: “The black one...”

He stopped, firing a glance and a word over his broad shoulder: “The drow?”

“Aye. H-He wasn’t with the other three... He came afterwards. I think he wanted to stop them...” she said, fear making her voice quiver and her eyes barely brave enough to look into his own. Whether it was the fight, his brooding appearance or the possible scorn of the actual owner that caused that effect on the girl, Letho couldn’t say. He acknowledged the information with a courteous nod though.

“Thank you and farewell.”

[Christina Bredith]

The fight that ensued was just what Christina needed to loosen up. While she was not the type of girl who went looking for fights just because, she was also a far cry from the type of innocent blonde poppet who ran at the first sight of trouble. Besides, as an aspiring soldier with little experience, the woman thirsted for whatever she could get and therefore welcomed it whenever it showed itself.

It was fortunate, then, that most of her opponents tonight were fairly uneducated in the ways of combat – worse yet for them, none of them had ever experienced a weapon quite like hers. Even those that had obviously spent a winter or two on the battlefield were thrown into disarray when faced with her unorthodox whip-like contraption. When combined with her own natural agility, Christina’s fighting could have been likened to that of a graceful dancer more than a powerful fighter. When a sword came at her, she would catch it with her whip-sword, drag it low, spin her body, and bring the assailant’s feet out from under him from behind with a swift kick. In the thick of it her body moved like a spinning top, no sooner dodging one attack than using the momentum to smash into that same foe.

The shot that was finally able to stop her momentum was the thunderous roar of the Lawmaker: it brought the blonde to an abrupt stop after which she glanced only briefly at the door to see what was the matter. As expected, the marshal was bringing up the rear and putting a stop to the battle in ways Christina and Izvilvin could not have matched on their own. At the very least, any wounds were superficial and mostly limited to the less-experienced citizens. It was not something Pinetown would thank them for later, but it was what it was.

As soon as the commotion died down, Christina snapped her whip to the side and barked a quick command; immediately the blue energy tethers retracted and the blade snapped back into one piece with such speed that it could have torn off a stray finger. She sheathed the steel blade and went around the room at Letho’s command, collecting the weapons of the three drunkards and the drow – she knew he, at least, was innocent of involvement, but the marshal did not appear in the mood to be trifled with or contradicted at the moment. She would choose her words at a more appropriate time. Two of the soldiers’ swords found themselves thrust between her skin and her belt; it was uncomfortable but would do at least until they got back to camp. The other sword and Izvilvin’s ice blade were wielded one in each hand.

“Come on, boys, you heard the man,” she said after Letho’s orders. Christina jerked her head roughly at them to get them moving, though she showed considerably more compassion to Izvilvin than the rest. In fact, when she got close enough, she smiled and spoke softly at him. “Don’t worry, I know you were trying to stop them,” she told him, having seen that much when she arrived at the Needle. “I’ll tell him.” She was pretty sure that Izvilvin didn’t speak the common tongue; he had never used it in her presence if he did. But maybe the tone, the warmth in her words would get through still?

That warmth shivered and snapped with cold as she barked back at the other three. “Eyes forward and hands where I can see ‘em, boys!” If nothing else, she needed to retain her place of superiority over them in this situation, second only to Letho, and certainly the lesser of two evils in their eyes. Izvilvin, though, received a quick wink after the other three were turned and before she ushered him forward.

The trek back to the camp was, thankfully, uneventful. The four “prisoners” didn’t have a single weapon between them and Christina had five, a full two of which were magically enchanted. There was no chance at her knowing how to wield two of those blades at once very effectively, but she could sure as hell take out a few totally unarmed men easily enough. Besides, they all know that the Lawmaker – more frightening perhaps than the man who wielded it – was just a few minutes behind them. Even Christina still had lingering shivers when she thought of the smoke billowing from that steel dragon’s maw.

She had a few minutes after the incarceration to get it out of her system. It had certainly caused quite a stir among anyone who was awake at the camp, but Christina ignored their murmurs and questions – except at anyone who made the inevitable comments about the Drow’s presence there. They were met with a glare that, while not quite as frightening as Letho’s own trademark skull-splitter, possessed a bullet-stopping force which only a woman could ever achieve.

When the marshal returned to the camp several minutes afterwards, Christina stood up from her seat near the cage and approached, moving more smartly than she usually did as if in the presence of a mighty, vengeful dragon. “Marshal,” she began carefully, gauging his response before continuing, “about Izzy–” The nickname was, to her, much easier to remember than his unwieldy Drow name and so she found herself using it without even thinking—“I just thought I should tell you I don’t think he was with the rest of them. When I arrived it looked like he was trying to stop the fight.”

Christina glanced over her shoulder at the four of them locked up in their cage. Truth be told, aside from the fact that he was innocent, she was worried about how the other three would treat Izvilvin, now that he had essentially been thrown to the wolves, whether Letho realized it or not at the time. The decision rested ultimately in the hands of the marshal, though, and Christina wasn’t even sure how well her own nerves could fare against him.

[Izvilvin]

Icicle came up high to parry the sloppy strike of a half-drunken human. It was a simply pull back of the weapon and a slight shift of his own weight into the attacker that caused him to fall forward, dropping the iron short sword and stumbling awkwardly to the dirty tavern floor, eating dirt and humble pie at the same time.

Izvilvin was bringing the blade about to block another incoming attack, but a crashing boom as loud as heavenly thunder made his blood turn cold, for just a moment. His eyes wide with surprise, he turned his head to see the human marshal standing there, a smoking blade in his hand and a look that promised punishment on his face. The Drow sheathed Icicle immediately, knowing the threat was over, and immediately he felt warmer again.

The human spoke, and though his voice was solid and demanding, Izvilvin could feel the contempt in the room thin and waver, before giving way to acceptance of whatever it was he was saying. Christina began to gather the weapons of the soldiers, and though he didn't like the idea of parting ways with Icicle, even temporarily, he handed it over to her without complaint. He also removed his belt and handed it to her, along with the seven short-ranged weapons that were strapped to it.

It felt strange to be without the weight of his sai, and to a lesser extent, his kukris, which he'd only had for a few weeks, but it also made him feel lighter.

Indeed, as Christina spoke to him, he could easily detect the softness of her tone and the caring, slow rhythm of her words. When you couldn't communicate well with the people around you, you learned to sense intentions based on tone of voice. The human woman understood he was not at fault, but also understood her position. It was either disobey the marshal or try to fight for Izvilvin's case. He understood the lack of logic needed in order to choose the latter option.

The walk back to camp seemed far longer than Izvilvin thought it would. Perhaps it was the shame of being punished for disobeying orders, even if it was done in the best interest of the group. For the first time, he thought he knew how embarassed the two men in the cage must be.

Christina, in a decision that shocked Izvilvin, seemed to throw angry glares at everyone who made a remark concerning him. Her icy stare silenced every man whom witnessed it, and despite the situation, it brought a grin to the Drow's face. She was surprisingly skilled at the practice.

Still, when they reached the cage and Izvilvin grudgingly climbed inside next to the others, any joy he'd taken in her defending him was lost. He didn't fear abuse inside, but the thought of standing within the moving prison while others looked on frustrated him.

He stood in the corner with his back to the others, looking once again to the moon as he'd been doing earlier, before any of this trouble had begun. He was angry with the others for running off, surely breaking the orders given to them by Letho, and angry at himself for bothering himself with trying to still the fighting. The smarter, more Drow thing to do would have been to hide at the side of the tavern and watch them die. That, or simply stay by the fire and watch the moon float in the sky.

For the first time since living in Alerar, the first time in a hundred years, perhaps, Izvilvin cursed the part of him that bothered to care for others.

[Letho]

He should’ve sent the unruly trio back to Radasanth afoot. He would’ve probably done it too – acting in accord with his usual rigor – if he hadn’t needed them. Not specifically them perhaps, but Letho needed bodies, numbers. Whether they were aware of it or not, they were executing an assignment that brought nothing but discontent and disarray in the communities they visited, the barroom brawl from moments ago just a glimpse of what could be expected the closer they got to Gisela and the fuller their cage was. And if – when his pessimistic mind corrected – that happened, twelve was a more redoubtable number then eight. People were less likely to stand against a dozen then against less then they could count on the digits of their own two hands.

On the flip side, the marshal couldn’t just let the three – four with the semi-guilty Izvilvin – stew on their actions during the night and let them continue unpunished on the morrow. After Pinetown they were to visit Birchtown, and Birchtown had a whorehouse. If a night in the cage was the only reprimand threatening them, Letho was relatively certain that all of them save Christina would consider it a rather satisfactory tradeoff. No, he had to come up with something more stringent, something that would keep them all in line. And it had to be subtle enough as to not elicit silent the retribution of the guilty that would lead to further segregation within his already slim numbers. He hoped that a solution would come to him while he ambled back to the campsite, but the current situation was a knot that refused to be untied in such a short time, especially by an undiplomatic, unyielding mind such as Letho’s.

The camp was caught in unrest, those left behind inquiring those involved about what transpired while they caught a wink. Letho sent them all back to their bunks without an explanation, leaving no room for debating. Only Christina dared to approach him, the blonde almost tiptoeing like a doe beneath his peeved glare, offering information he already knew. “I know.” he responded, allowing his eyes to slip from her lovely face and over her shoulder, where the four sat trapped in an iron box. With his coal-black skin and similarly hued attire, Izvilvin was near invisible, only his long hair revealing his presence with its contrasting silver. “But he left the camp same as them. If he noticed something amiss, he should’ve informed me. He maybe isn’t at fault as the rest of them, but neither is he faultless. I’ll deal with them in the morning. Morning is smarter then the evening, people like to say where I come from.”

Slipping the Lawmaker off his shoulders, the marshal made his way to the secluded dying pine. His stew went from tepid to cold while he was dealing with the Needle incident, so Letho lost all interest in it. Instead, the gunblade found its way into his lap, his fingers working deftly on disassembling and cleaning both the firearm and the blade. It wasn’t necessary at this time – after all, he fired it only once – but Letho’s train of thought always ran more clearly when his fingers were busy with some inane task. As such, he wasn’t the most talkative of partners. The only thing he said to Christina – without averting his eyes from his lap – was: “Good job back there. It seems there is more then meets the eye to both Rosebite and its wielder.”

***

He didn’t know about Christina or the rest of his troops, but not much sleep came to Letho that night. Even though he was rather confident in captain Marran who took the second watch, restlessness insisted on keeping him awake, making a myriad of thoughts roam through his mind the way they used to when he was homeless wanderer. He thought of the four in the cage and deliberated on their reactions. He thought of Myrhia and how, after a long while, he was riding without her at his side. He thought of Sienna, Edonas’ daughter, and the accusation in her eyes that stormed down from the window above the Cloven Shield. He thought how all those things, combined with the rotten feeling in his gut, couldn’t be a harbinger of good tidings.

The morning was pale and sunless, the day making its presence known with an icy dew and the agonizingly slow dissolving of the blackness into the dour grey hues. Letho was probably the first one to awake, his thin shallow slumber chased away with a yawn and a sigh, but Annen was the first one to arise. The stocky carriage driver was already poking at the ashy embers, feeding them some straw and thin branches and hoping they would catch flame. By the time the marshal shook off the damp from his hair and neatly rolled up his bedroll, a whisper of a crackle could be heard from where Annen was squatting next to a charcoaled kettle.

“Coffee will be ready in a couple of minutes, Marshal.” the cook said, speaking in a hushed tone and scratching his shaggy beard. It was enough to arouse the several light sleepers throughout the camp, but most didn’t even roll over at the sound of commotion.

“Take your time. We won’t be heading out for at least an hour. I don’t want to snatch people from their beds.” Letho responded, collecting the perfect cylinder that was his bedroll and his weapons. The time the rest wasted on yawning and mumbling and scratching their crotches and whining how weak the brown sludge was, the marshal spent on securing the equipment on his mount and subsequent grooming. There was little or no emotion involved in this action; Letho was neither an animal lover nor did he sweet-talk the beasts the way Myrhia liked to. It was merely something that ought to be done in order to establish a mutual respect between the man and the beast, and unsurprisingly he was the only one doing it. “It’s a Ranger thing.” one of the soldiers said. “It’s a nice thing to do.” Myrhia would’ve retorted if she wasn’t miles away, her scrawny body wrapped in silky sheets, her hands reaching out for the grumpy that wasn’t there.

The thought of the doe-eyed redhead managed to lure a smile on the deadly serious face of the marshal, though with his back turned to the camp, it was a deviation in his personality that none got a chance to witness. The same thought also succeeded in contributing to Letho’s leniency, so when he approached the cage where the four didn’t seem like a lot that had a terribly pleasurable night, he wasn’t trying to murder them with his eyes anymore. Rowan stood up first, his head nearly hitting the grated ceiling, his visage hard but not nearly as opponent as last night. “I need soldiers behind me. You either obey orders or you go back in a cage and I make sure that High Captain Festian hears about your failure to comply. So what’s it going to be?” the marshal concluded, unlocking the cage and pushing the creaking door open.

Out of the four, only Rowan paused when he exited, mistaking the lack of harsh treatment as an invitation to an argument. “We were just trying to get a drink, Marshal. Nothing wrong with some fun and loosening up.” the man said, trying to match Letho’s relentless gaze and failing to do so.

“Have fun at your own damn time.” was the brusque reply, the marshal ushering the man away from the iron prison with his eyes and a minute motion of his head. Izvilvin was the last to exit, the white-haired drow seemingly unharmed despite being stowed with the trio that wasn’t particularly fond of him. From the look in the peculiar purple eyes, he probably didn’t understand a whole lot of what was being said. Letho figured now was as good time as any for an attempt to communicate with the dark elf.

“Izvilvin.” he said, pointing at himself, at the dark-skinned elf and then at the horse. “You ride with me.”

It took the camp quite a while to mobilize, and while usually Letho would frown upon such lack of efficiency, today it wasn’t a thorn in his side as it usually would’ve been. He wasn’t in any hurry to tear people away from their homes and it made little difference if they did it at daybreak or after breaking fast. And besides, it gave him ample time to inform the captain of the two people that were to be brought in and their whereabouts within Pinetown. So, a little over an hour after the pale dawn, the marshal was atop of his chestnut steed, moving the beast at walk speed as the sea of eyes bombarded him and his drow companion from beyond the curtains and ajar doors. Captain Marran and the rest of the troops went about their business, locating Altmar Severin and Teague Fossoway, leaving the ranger and the dark elf with enough time to break the language barrier. Letho reckoned he should go first, so he reached deep inside his memory, rummaging through all the info in search for the scarce knowledge of drow language.

“Mufiga.” he said, certain his accent was all wrong, but continuing without a single sign of embarrassment. “Dos tlu doer ussna” It was supposed to mean that Izvilvin should’ve reported to him, but Letho wasn’t certain if he even got the words right, not to mention the syntax and the grammar.

[Izvilvin]

If Izvilvin got any sleep that night, he didn't know it. After an hour or two of standing, staring listlessly at the moon and the stars about it and making no move to avert his gaze elsewhere, he finally gave in and slumped to the bottom of the cage. The humans with him didn't say anything toward him, at least not to his knowledge, and that was fortunate for all of them.

Inside, he was seething. For his efforts, he was being rewarded with a night in a cage. It reminded him of the prison in Scara Brae, where he'd been placed after being found guilty of murdering several guards, alongside the demon-blooded Khalxaen. Remembering her brought a smile to his face, and he briefly wondered where she was at that very moment. The grinning girl had been his first friend in over a hundred years, and by her side he'd done brief work for the Scara Scourge, a group he'd not been proud to represent.

That was also his first Step mission, he recalled, and he opened his eyes, noticing they'd slid shut during his thoughts. Reluctantly, he closed them again, knowing he'd need at least a solid hour's rest to be good to go in the morning.

He opened his eyes when he detected movement, like an alert scout would while even in the deepest of sleeps. It was morning, he saw, and Letho was walking about the camp. Izvilvin followed him with his eyes, making no move to ge up from his seated position against the bars of the cage, where one hand draped lazily over a bent knee. The three others in the cage didn't even notice his awakening, if he'd indeed been asleep at all.

Exiting last, the Drow made no effort to avert his eyes from the leader of the troupe. Letho spoke and made some hand gestures, and fortunately Izvilvin understood. After all, only yesterday was the marshal switching up who was riding up front with him.

The Drow retrieved his weapons, strapped his belt on tightly so that it was comfortable, and untied his horse, climbing up into the saddle and adjusting his position. He tried to put aside the night's events as he trotted up front to where Letho waited, but found that it was impossible.

All the same, the slightest of smiles came from him when Letho spoke Drow. It was indeed broken, no better than the words of a young child in his land, but it was something. It was better Drow than he could speak common, anyhow. Despite not using correct words, Letho still got his point across -- Izvilvin should have reported to him, not ran off after the humans. He saw this, but didn't agree with the result.

At length, he responded, paying little attention to the would-be stealthed stares of the townfolk from their windows.

"Ol zhahus qeeh ulu flohlu lu' kyorl vel'bol orn'la sha'nalt. Usstan xunus naut zhaun dos telanth ussta xanalress, ji lu'oh zhahus Usstan ulu tesso dos?" the response was quick, as if he was talking to one of his own. From the perplexed look on Letho's face, Izvilvin saw that he'd been much too quick.

He reiterated slowly, explaining that he didn't know Letho spoke the Drow tongue, and any other attempt to inform him of what had been happening would have taken up too much time.

If Izvilvin had even made a scathing comment, this was it. "Usstan tlun nau l'thi mri'kul phor, rivvil." I am no animal to cage, human.

He didn't bother to guage the marshal's reaction. If anyone else could understand them, Izvilvin would understand any biting retort. But this was a private conversation, whether the people behind them could actually hear their words or not.

It was clear, if nothing else, that Izvilvin was not happy with being placed in a cage when his intentions were easy enough to surmise. The politics of leadership and equal treatment to all of those in the company did not concern him, nor would they ever. It was the difference in worlds, perhaps, that made it so difficult for him to understand.

[Christina Bredith]

Christina flinched when Letho pointed out the mistake that Izvilvin did make despite his intentions. The marshal was right, of course, but even so she couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for the Drow. She knew he had such trouble communicating with the rest of the men as it was; trying to tell Letho what was going on would have been about as complicated (and perhaps entertaining) as a certain border collie trying to inform its master of a problem. Izvilvin probably realized it and acted in the way that would have been most efficient. Christina had to admit – silently, of course – that his timing may have been crucial. If those soldiers and the townsmen had been left to their own devices a few minutes longer, who knew what might have happened? All it would have taken was one wound, one injured – dead – citizen of Pinetown and their entire mission would have become significantly more difficult.

But these things, Christina reminded herself, were not for her to question, to think about, to decide. This was the domain of her commander and she was just a soldier. After her moment of silence, the blonde inclined her head to Letho and moved past him. She was not yet out of earshot when he complimented her, and the words gave her pause. Christina made a quick “mm” of acknowledgement, smiled, and nodded her head once more before continuing to where she would spend the night.

It was, perhaps, disconcerting how easily sleep came to Christina that night. A normal person might have taken against the day’s events. The people of Pinetown clearly saw this brigade of jailers as beasts, monsters, disrupters of peace around which the walls of a mighty storm raged. It was worse than their treatment in Willowtown. A normal person might wonder – Are they right? A normal person might wonder – Why were they willing to risk themselves against us? A normal person might wonder – Are we even doing the right thing?

It was disconcerting how easily sleep came to Christina that night…

*

Christina’s usual beauty sleep required her to be among the last to awaken the next morning. She awoke with less wild a hairstyle than usual as a result of the dampness of the morning, which gave her quite a chill as she rose from her bed roll. The woman found herself reaching for a blanket to wrap around herself from her pack, which was thankfully waterproof enough to resist the morning dew. Setting herself on a nearby log, she also withdrew a hairbrush and began to delicately and meticulously smooth out the soaked tangles that had accumulated over the night.

When the order came to move out, Christina petted her horse on the neck and climbed up into the saddle, swiftly and quietly as usual. Her hair was a little wetter than she would have liked, but the dampness in the air itself prevented her doing much about that. That might have been part of why the woman was so quiet – she hated dull mornings like this, when you could practically taste the rain in the air. She hated the rain for so many reasons.

For her part, the trip into Pinetown was pretty quiet. She stayed on her side of the cage, eyes forward, humming quietly to herself in a vain attempt to ward off the gloomy feeling given off by this horrid morning. Passing into the city limits did nothing to help this, however; the looks they received from the townsfolk may as well have frozen the morning dew into spears and lobbed them at the group. There was no doubt that the ruckus at the tavern the night before had not helped their cause. Christina only hoped it was an isolated incident and they would meet with no harsher resistance this morning.

Eventually the party reached a fork in the road and came to a halt. Letho and Izvilvin, conversing in the (to Christina’s ears) grating Drow language, remained with the cage while Captain Marran called for the rest of the group to split up. He and four of the remaining soldiers took down one of the branching paths in search of Altmar Severin, a local alchemist and healer, and Christina’s group, consisting of the other half, tracked down Teague Fossoway, a butcher infamous for his short temper and tempered liver – it appeared that he was quite the beggar for the bottle. Christina supposed it was wise of the captain to send as large forces as possible. The citizenry would not welcome them here, after all. To ease matters a little, though, the three culprits of last night’s brawl were separated, two to Christina’s team and one to Marran’s.

They found the butcher standing outside his shop setting up a sign whose contents were of little consequence to Christina. He was a lean man, obviously quite strong but lacking in the butch department, with thin, wild brown hair and what appeared to be a permanent grimace on his face. Hearing the hooves of their horses approaching, Teague paused and turned, crossing his wiry arms and staring across the distance at the blonde who rode ahead of them. She stopped several meters from his position and dismounted, approaching with her usual nonchalant swagger.

“Finally come for me, eh?” the butcher asked gruffly. He spat onto the floor beside him afterwards. It did not seem as much an insulting gesture as a force of habit.

“We realize it puts you out,” Christina began diplomatically, trying to make her smile as genuine as possible, “but we promise to have you back safe and sound as soon as possible.”

The butcher spat again, and this time it was meant as an insult. “Bah. You ‘realize it puts me out,’ do you?” The mocking tone of his voice was all too evident, and Christina tried to ignore it as much as possible. “And while you’re prancing me around the countryside like some kind of savage, what’ll happen to my business, eh?” The blonde had no desire to answer, as he had expected. “It goes to the dogs, that’s what.”

Christina was silent for a long moment before continuing. She actually did sympathize with this man – it wasn’t just a forced act, a mask to hide her real self. Last night opened her eyes to the kind of work they were really doing, to its effects on the populace. And yet she forged onward, because it was her duty.

“I really am sorry about this. I don’t like it any more than you do,” she began – and somewhere deep inside her, maybe it was true. Her unhappy prey was not quite as convinced by her story.

“Spare me your big-city patronizing sympathy.” Teague spat again and stepped forward slowly. After the minor incident in Willowtown, the soldiers knew better than to see this as a threat and draw their weapons. “Let’s just get this over with.” Christina nodded and complied, a mixture of confusing emotions running through her.

“It’s just this way,” she told him in a distracted tone, gesturing him up the path. Now that Teague had stepped out of the way, she could see the sign he had placed in his window: Closed Until Further Notice, it read. She felt a twinge of something as she read the sign, but finally turned and gently nudged him forward, walking beside him and her horse back to where Letho and Izvilvin were talking. All four soldiers with her noticed her unnerving, unusual silence the entire way back.

[Letho]

Trying to fully comprehend the meaning of Izvilvin’s words was a little bit like trying to complete a jigsaw puzzle. The words were the pieces, some overturned, some with vague meanings, some unique enough to be fetched from the memory and deciphered, serving as an equivalent of the corner piece. Due to Letho’s limited mental lexicon of the drow language, however, some were missing, but their number wasn’t sufficient to bedim the clarity of the big picture. The big picture that, by the marshal’s reckoning, was nothing but a flimsy excuse. They were on the opposite side of the camp last evening, not the opposite sides of the county; crossing that distance and gesturing that something was amiss would hardly produce a more disastrous result then going on his own did. Either way, it wasn’t Izvilvin’s call to make.

“Xal xa.” Letho responded, his gruff voice sounding rather indifferent. “Xal nau. Usstan talinth.” He kept the spoken sentences as short and simple as possible, trying to explain the conclusion of the whole situation, but he was unsure whether or not he used the correct words. Whenever a pronoun was being used or there was a viable way to support the word with some pantomime, Letho’s hands reflexively tried to aid him, moving, pointing, drawing invisible shapes, but so far there was little they could do to make the communication easier. The grim ranger could only hope that the elf was as good at solving puzzles as he was.

The last bit that Izvilvin spoke was the detail that’s been gnawing at the marshal’s train of thought ever since yesterday morning, when the mismatched dozen and their cage rolled into Willowtown. The untimely death of the two members of The Assembly made for perilous times – it was a point that Letho got even without Leeahn’s emphasizing – but they were escorting people for questioning, not persecution. When observed from that angle, the cage seemed a bit extreme, seemed a bit like gathering people for a good old fashioned witch-hunt. One detail was amiss though. If the government of Corone felt that their stability was so significantly shaken that they indeed opted for a series of public lynches, they wouldn’t pick the names from the list he was given. That’s not how witch-hunts worked. You took the shady people, those with questionable pasts that stood on that thin line between legality and outlawry, those that the public looked at with a scorn. The unwanted. But instead, there were mayors on the lists, and shopkeepers, tavern owners, widows, respectable members of respectable communities. No, it was just his paranoia, his resistive pessimism that whispered into his ear, overblown by his dislike for this mission.

It was because of this contemplation that Letho responded to Izvilvin’s caustic follow-up in a rather well-meaning manner, just as Christina and her squad appeared with lanky Teague and his crabby visage. “They nau l’thi either.” The retort was a combination of two languages – and an unintentional one at that – but the hand gesture and a bob of the head towards the mobile prison that Annen brought to a halt was probably enough of an association to the meaning of his words. There was also a thought in Letho’s head that dealt with how it was the men that built the cages to trap things that were free by nature, so naturally it was men who ought to be in them from time to time, but it was a thought far too complex for the marshal’s drow vocabulary, so he let it rest.

“Teague! Well, I’ll be damned! If I knew you’re joining this joyride, I’d bring a pack of cards.” Edonas spoke, his ever-jocund demeanor and booming voice slicing through the gray dullness of the morning. The butcher failed to match the blacksmith’s mood, grumbling something about losing enough money already and launching a glob of dark spittle into the dust before climbing into the cage. He spared a moment to launch an abrasive keen glare at Letho before he planted himself in the vacant corner of the cage. The thin butcher did remark something about the shabby cleaver that the bulky smithy sold him and once mayor Swatsworth joined the argument, the trilateral conversation put the chink into the armor of the morning silence. The awakening town and the approaching of captain Marran and his captive erased it almost completely.

“Marshal.” the conservative soldier said, pausing at Letho’s flank with his right halting the restrained prisoner and his left holding what seemed like a worn leather coffer. He handed the latter to the mounted ranger. “He insisted on bringing this along.”

“I seriously hope you won’t be holed in Gisela long enough to need a change of clothes, mister Severin.” Letho said, picking the case and giving it a minute shake. Inside, glass chinked against glass and metal objects run rampant, making an altogether peculiar rattling sound of something that ought to be broken. Below him was a callous face and a pair of ancient eyes that peered below the bushy gray eyebrows. Altmar Severin was a tiny man with beady eyes, sparse silvery hair and a long braided beard. He also happened to be the only healer in the Four Towns area.

“Not clothes, Marshal, but my precious medications.” the healer said defensively. “I have a condition, you see, Itchy Mary I like to call it, and if I don’t take my concoctions I get this rash that spreads all over. Then I grow red in the face and bloat and my ingestion goes haywire. And then...”

“Alright, alright.” Letho replied, allowing a slight smirk on his face as he rummaged through the contents of the coffer that smelled like a really bad mixture of spices. “As long as you don’t have anything funny in all these vials and bottles.”

“I beg your pardon! There’s nothing funny about health, Marshal.” Altmar said, accepting his workbag and clutching it to his chest. Captain Marran ushered him towards the cage, but the diminutive healer kept rambling. “Speaking of health, you look a bit pallid, captain. I have a salve here that...”

While the loquacious healer was taken to the cage by his rather reticent escort, Letho double-checked the list that Leeahn provided several days ago. It was by no means a long list – less then a dozen names written on a smooth parchment – but it was better to be certain then to prolong this foolish assignment with some needless backtracking. Four names he could cross, six remained and one jumped from the paper and stabbed him in the eye now just as it did the first time he read it. It was the only female name on the list, and even though there might be a faint shadow of a doubt above others, Letho was absolutely certain that this one was unblemished.

“Amelia Swansea.”

“We’re done here.” he announced to his troopers, the first raindrop landing on the paper in his hand, sliding down it like a tear.

***

Birchtown was less then half a day of riding south by southwest and it was the largest of the four Woodtowns as Letho like to call them, though, given the size of the other three settlements, that wasn’t saying much. It was a miserable ride to say the least. The singular drop that slid down his parchment multiplied into a real autumn rain by the time they left the last house of Pinetown behind their back. It was an irritating rain, the kind that fell at an angle, sending wind-driven drops into your face, into your eyes. The only time the it didn’t fall in such an awkward manner was when it descended upon them in a shower, the big fat thick drops too heavy to move anywhere but down. There was little or no talking between the members of his little brigade, mostly curses directed at the gods, the sky, the smelly horses and pretty much anything else that came to mind and tongue of the sopped soldiers. Strangely, the four prisoners were the ones with the most comfortable accommodations despite being locked up in an iron cage. The tent canvas that Annen had stowed away was tied at the top of the cage, creating a waterproof canopy over their heads. And suddenly the ominous metal confinement was a subject of envy instead of shame.

The farther they rode from the Comb Mountains in the north, the thinner the dark green of the pine forests became, the evergreen trees fading out like teeth of an overused hairbrush. Instead, the gentle-looking birches started to appear, with their smooth alabaster barks and tiny leaves fluttering like amber jewels. They were still in Yarborough though, so the groves around them were sporadic, filling out the space between rain-soaked prairie between the towns and long, often uneven squares of tiled crops in the vicinity of inhabited areas. Little of this was seen by the riders though. All of it was currently filtered through an unseen veil of grey brought on by the rain and the only thing that really mattered was the muddy snake of a road that cut through the landscape like a crevasse.

When Birchtown finally appeared at the end of that long sloughy line, a collective sigh could almost be heard throughout the ranks. They all knew that Letho wouldn’t allow them to spend the night in the inn – or the whorehouse – but at least they would be able to put up their tents and hide from the rain at least for the duration of the night. Birchtown was scarcely different then the previous two; there was just a bit more of it. More shabby houses, more smoky taverns, more tough people, more mud and horse dung and rain. More of the same. A small wonder. Most backwater towns were similar, huddled around the roads like vagrants around fire, more often then not stretching in length instead of breadth.

Letho didn’t share the relief with the rest though. For him the hardest part was yet ahead and it made the rainy ride seem like a camping trip.

[Izvilvin]

Izvilvin carried a grimace into Birchtown, having stopped the conversation with Letho before it got too out of hand. Going too far in his disproval of the marshal's way of dealing with him could lead to a bad confrontation, and that was something the Drow wanted to avoid. As much as he disliked being punished for heading off away from camp, he understood the logic behind it. Letho couldn't show favor of him over the others, and couldn't be sympathetic. To do so would invite insubordination.

The rain had slapped his hair to his head, soaking him all the way through, but Izvilvin didn't utter a complaint. In some ways, it was refreshing. Regardless of how heavy the drops were, the rain relaxed him and helped him forget the anger he'd been feeling toward the marshal.

Birchtown, then, seemed to carry around it a soothing, constant sound of rain against mud, stone and brick. The land was bleak and grey, veiled by the rain to look colorless and solemn. Izvilvin found it serene, and found his spirit lifted by it all.

Letho gave quick orders to the soldiers, telling them to split up and apprehend two more people to lock up for questioning. Izvilvin didn't understand, but he followed half the crowd when they split up, heading off toward the East side of town. They passed directly by the whorehouse, and though Izvilvin couldn't read the sign, what little he could see of the inside as he passed by clued him in as to what it was.

"Markus Palmer," one of the guards said aloud. "Wasn't he the one who took down Wes last year?"

"Yep," another answered, a smirk on his face. "Got into a brawl over that bitch down at the whorehouse. Wes wanted to marry 'er, and Markus needed to step in cuz he was a bit too insistent."

The original guard nodded, then seemed to stare off at nothing for a little while. "Hope he doesn't put up a fight," he mumbled. "Wes was a big guy."

They directed their horses to a home smaller than most, which was, considering the size of the other houses in the Birchtown, a very tiny place. The door was shut, but Izvilvin spotted people in the nearby buildings peering from their windows, as if expecting something.

"Markus Palmer!" called one of the guards. "We must take you for questioning!"

Someone snickered, and the guard turned an angry gaze backward. He wasn't quite as diplomatic as Letho Ravenheart, and it showed.

Still, his voice had been booming, yet noone exited the tiny house they waiting outside of. The guard called again with a similar declaration, and the group waited several moments this time. Still there was no indication of someone being outside. It was likely Markus was simply out of his home at the time, but the group didn't exactly have all day to wait for him.

The guard waved Izvilvin forward and pointed at the door. The Drow nodded and dismounted, moving to the small wooden frame and knocking on the portal. When nobody answered, he reached out and turned the knob, surprised to see it was unlocked.

Inside, Izvilvin could hardly see a thing. His eyes registered a table, and a bed at the far end of the room illuminated by the outside light, but that was about it. He caught sight of movement to his right, just out of the corner of his eye. A lesser warrior would have been caught by it, but acting purely on instinct, Izvilvin threw himself forward in a roll as Markus' club slammed down into the floor, cracking and splintering the wood.

The Drow was on his feet immediately, but Markus was upon him as well, impossibly agile given him immense size. With a roar more primal than Izvilvin would have thought a human could make, the club was swiped horizontally at him. Still off-balance from his desperate roll, Izvilvin could only give up his footing and fall onto his back to avoid taking a hit.

He rolled desperately under the table, but it was split by Markus' club. Luck alone saved Izvilvin from the follow through of the swing, which missed his head by a small margin. Unable to roll away, the Drow lashed out at the man's ankles with his own feet, kicking as hard as he could in an attempt to knock the human down. Markus held his ground well and roared again, lifting his club to strike down once more.

From behind him came the cavalry, as one of the guards siezed the club while it was held behind the massive man's head. Another took him at the hip, breaking Markus' stance and twisting him roughly to the ground. The rest piled in, and together the group was able to tie his hands behind his back.

"Let me go!" he pleaded, roughly struggling to pull his arms free. "I know what you're doing! Everyone does! Just screw yerselves off and leave me be!"

None of them seemed to pay Markus any mind as they dragged him through the mud, unwilling to lift him from the degrading position until they were back where the cage was left. It wasn't a long ride, but it was one the human was unlikely to ever forget.

Izvilvin took some solace in knowing the guards were angry with Markus for attacking him, at least, as he left the tiny house and mounted his horse.

Still, he had to wonder why he'd been the one chosen to approach the door in the first place.

[Christina Bredith]

It was always in Christina’s nature to be annoyed by rain, but as such, it was also a habit of hers to defend against it whenever possible. Camping provisions to the Bredith mind did not just include rations and a tent, but an umbrella when the situation provided for it and other defensive measures if they did not. In this case, Christina was hardly capable of controlling her horse with one hand and wielding her umbrella with the other; on a perfectly sunny day, ironically enough, this would have been easier, when the horse was not so aggravated as to require her constant attention. Muck and slush, it seemed, were no more amenable to the equine senses than they were to a human’s.

Plan B, then, was a feeble but mostly-effective wrap of plastic placed over her head and tied underneath her chin with a string. While it made her look not unlike a young babushka, it was effective enough at least at keeping her hair (which naturally was done up above her head in a bun-like fashion) dry, and as it was pulled out slightly over her face, it guarded her eyes as well. In doing this, Christina traded one annoyance for another: instead of wetting her hair and giving herself the appearance of a bedraggled dog, she had to listen to the grating pitter-patter of raindrops on the plastic bonnet mere inches from her ears.

After a half-day’s worth of this, it was understandable that Christina was a woman possessed with fury. Though she kept it admirably sealed deep inside, mainly because it was nothing more than pointless anger directed at the sky, she felt the need to – at the very least – get out of the damn storm and – if she was lucky – release some of that pent-up rage. With great delight she accepted Letho’s orders upon their arrival in Birchtown to track down one Feris Veert. It would, perhaps, be more accurate to say that she merely accepted his order at first; the great delight came upon questioning some of the locals as to Mr. Veert’s location, when she found that he was spending time at The Flower Garden, the local whore house (quite offensively-named to flowers in general, she thought to herself). The revelation meant not only that she had a chance to slip out of the pouring rain, but also that she would get to completely emasculate some poor soul in front of his truffy wench.

Two of the soldiers in the brigade accompanied Christina for the apprehension, in part because the teenagers could barely contain their delight in their trousers; still, Letho thought it would be a good idea to travel in numbers after the group’s unimpressive welcome to Pinetown. Christina had no call to disagree with him, and so the trio set off, but the sudden, barely-controllable cheeriness of her two companions grated her nerves terribly as they traveled.

The Flower Garden was a surprisingly large and well-dressed establishment unlike what one might expect for a small-town brothel; then again, in a piddling little burg such as those found in Yarborough, it wasn’t a tall order for a building to appear impressive. Christina dismounted and tied her horse up to the railing of the Garden’s porch, and her eager colleagues did the same. They nearly beat her to the door when she grabbed them by their collars, one hand to each, and pulled them back.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she questioned without looking at them, stepping up to the door.

“I—inside,” the younger of the two replied, stunned. The disheartenment and desperation were obviously growing within him and, later, when the weather was better, Christina would feel guilty for enjoying it.

The woman scoffed and removed her plastic kerchief, shaking out her hair so that it fell, somewhat messily, over her shoulders again. “There’s a reason I came along, boys.” She glanced over her shoulder at them and resisted the urge to smirk at their wide eyes and frowns. Christina turned and opened the door, but said one more thing before stepping inside: “You don’t want women like these anyway. They’re too slutty.” Those final words had, on some level, been an attempt to reassure her two compatriots, but for a reason not beyond Christina’s understanding it only fired their anguish even further.

The main hallway of the Garden was plain but dark, obviously lit for mood more than function. Christina had barely traveled twenty feet along when she was approached from behind by a grotty young man with willow-tufts for hair, rubbing his hands like a disgusting human fly. “Ah, is the pretty lady looking for a cli—”

Before he could get half the word out of his mouth, Christina spun around to face him and latched onto the source of his masculinity – and his greatest weakness – with an iron grip that threatened to compress coal into diamond. “If you finish that sentence,” she announced sternly, “so help me, I will make sure you never enjoy the company of one of your whores again.” The words came out harsher than she had intended, but she was already in a terrible mood and being insinuated as a prostitute did nothing to help matters.

It was clear after just a second that her position was well understood. Then she realized that she had a very vulnerable, and therefore very cooperative, little hostage in her hand – as it were. The man froze, afraid even to move, and looked up at her with wide eyes. Christina tilted her head. “Feris Veert, please.” Her impromptu informant was in no position to deny her or follow protocol right now, so he pointed a shaky finger in the direction of a room down the hall.

“Number 10…”

Christina’s dagger-like expression melted away to a satisfied smile. Her eyes crinkled around the edges to maintain her annoyance, however, as she released him and stepped back. The man seemed almost as if he was waiting for permission to leave, but when his only reply was a sterner stare from the blonde, he turned tail and ran into the adjacent common area.

Christina turned towards the tenth room and approached. When she arrived, she knocked firmly on the door and called out, annoyance still obvious in her voice, but this time tempered with protocol. “Feris Veert, the Corone Armed Forces have arrived to apprehend you for questioning. Please submit yourself willingly.” There was a slight shuffling within the room, but no reply. “Feris Veert,” Christina repeated with agitation, “you have thirty seconds to comply!” Suddenly willing submission was not on the agenda anymore.

There was more rustling, but this time it sounded to Christina like a scramble. Having had more than enough of this little game, she stepped back to the opposite end of the hallway and drew her steel sword. The silver gem near its tip glowed violently in response to her anger. “Scream, Rosebite!”

A loud burst of blue energy screamed out of the tip of her sword, nearly unbalancing its wielder if not for the bracing stance she had taken. The door before her was knocked clean off its hinges and splintered in several places as if it had just been smashed in with a battering ram. Christina stepped in briskly over the wreckage and found a half-naked twenty-something on the floor near the window while his bare-skinned brunette covered her modesty with the bed sheets. Both looked at her and the shattered wood with wide eyes. Rosebite was trained on the blonde Feris as was Christina’s unflinching gaze.

“Maybe you didn’t hear me very well the first time,” she ceded with obvious fury. “Move!”

[Letho]

“Amelia Swansea.”

The house that stood before the Marshal was an unremarkable edifice, a simple wooden cottage in a long line of simple wooden cottages stretched down the length of one of the few narrower alleys that branched off the main road. The terracotta tiling of the roof was weatherworn with sporadic patches of newer tiles, but the gray overcast and the thick curtain of raindrops nearly succeeded in erasing any differences in the shades of tawny. The front porch was in sync with the general modesty of the building, a mere offshoot of the roof supported by two pair of thick columns of which the last one to the right started to sink, slanting the very edge of the truss unnaturally. The foundation was degenerating, Letho knew, just as he knew that there was nobody who could fix this defect. Because Amelia Swansea was a widow and it were the consequences of his actions that made it so.

A little less then a year ago, Birchtown was a lawless land, sweating under the tyranny of a man that had a nasty habit to cross the paths with the Marshal at all the wrong intersections. Storm Veritas was the self-promoted mayor, marshal, judge, executioner, spilling trinkets from the sleeve of one hand and strangling the community with the other. Letho and his deputies, aided by a dozen of local insurgents, rose against the mischievous rogue and cast him out. Frank Swansea was one of these rebels, one of the three that lost their lives during the charge on the mayor’s manor. The Marshal remembered the man and his reluctance, the hard words spoken in a harder voice that made Frank join the fight. “Easy for you to say, Marshal. I have a wife, two kids. I... I don’t know what will become of them if I die tomorrow.” Frank said, to which he got a verbal slap in the face. “You’re no good to me if you’re not willing to fight. That goes for the rest of you. If you don’t want to oppose this oppressor tomorrow in order to get your freedom back, then stay home. If you want to live under his boot for the rest of your life then, by all means, stay home. An unwilling man is just a nuisance on the battlefield.”

In the end, Frank wasn’t a nuisance. He fought bravely, fought well, saved the life of Sanoë, Letho’s deputy, before taking a bullet through the forehead from the traitorous Stephen Daigle. And what had become of his family stood before his onetime ally; a crumbling home without a father and a husband. Was freedom worth the sacrifice? Back when the hard words were spoken, Letho thought so. But when Amelia looked into his eyes with those limitless black irises of hers, when she offered all the sorrow and the pain in a single glance as she followed the procession, he wasn’t so certain anymore. Now, he had to look into those accusing eyes again and tell the woman behind them that she was to be torn from her children. It would’ve been easier if he made captain Marran to do this, but easy and right were seldom one and the same.

He didn’t know how long he stood out in the rain, but by the time he rapped on the wooden surface of the door, Letho was soaked all the way down to his boots. He stood weaponless, an irresponsible thing to do, but the tidings were grim enough without his arsenal making it even more grievous. The woman that answered the door was gaunt and pale, with a sallow face and thin lips. Clad all in black, she could easily be mistaken for a crone that wobbled around with a walking stick, and yet she was a woman that was yet to set foot in her forties. Nothing revealed her true age though. Even her eyes, once as black as polished obsidian, seemed dim, jaded. Only her hair remained unchanged, the silky auburn that seemed so out of place on her figure that she collected it all in a bun and covered her hair with a scarf. She spoke no words of greeting.

“Amelia, I...” Letho started, softening his voice as much as his vocal cords allowed, but for once he found himself at a loss of words. Those eyes, the faded blacks, accused him even still. He consolidated himself after several seconds of the staring game, retrieving his stoic composure. What was done couldn’t be undone. “I’m afraid you are wanted for questioning by the Corone Government. I have to take you to Gisela immediately.”

If the news came as a shock to her, not a single line of her visage revealed. The dead eyes peered at him blankly before they went out of focus, and for a second there he thought she would faint. Instead she spoke in a thin, raspy voice: “Do I have the time to say goodbye to my children?”

“Of course. As long as you need.”

“As long as I need?” She chuckled bitterly, a hint of a wry smirk appearing in the corner of her dry lips. “I need hours, Marshal, days and months and years. Can you grant those to me?”

“This in only temporary, several days at worst. I could send for Myrhia if you need somebody to watch over...” Letho tried to justify himself and even offer help, but she cut him short curtly, the smirk vanishing to give way to the frown that rivaled his own.

“I need nothing from you. Especially not empty promises. I’ll be out shortly.”

He expected her to slam the door into his face, but she merely let the lock click as she pushed them back to a close, the sound of her feet on the hardwood flour evanescing in the perpetual tapping of the raindrops. This was wrong, he realized then as he propped his back against one of the porch pillars. Whatever doubts he had about this mission struck back with renewed vigor, and he felt the fist in his gut tightening, squeezing, warning him that evil things happened when good men failed to act. But good people were also bound by law, by duty, bound to obey and execute what was ordered. That wasn’t something that was stated in his contract, it wasn’t something that he owed to the Corone Republic. It was something that he learned years before, when Savion was his kingdom and his father was his king. Good people obeyed. Honorable people obeyed. They were damned if they did, but they obeyed.

“It’s just a questioning.” It was a thought that was supposed to ease his mind and allay some of the concern, but it failed to do so. A small wonder that, when Amelia stepped out of the door, their frowns collided head on before the woman stepped down from the porch and into the muck of the street. They walked in silence, two figures captured in the same thoughts with different points of view, two shadows trudging through the downpour. By the time they reached the rest of the group, a quick recount made it clear that the other two have been apprehended. One of them was in naught by his shorts and the other was covered in a layer of mud, but Letho cared for neither. He saw Amelia inside the cage and locked it up once again.

“Marshal!” young Howard Deline spoke, eager to give his report despite being sopped and looking miserable. “Markus Palmer gave us...”

“I don’t care.” the bearded swordsman almost growled, climbing onto his horse and declaring to the rest. “We’ll camp at the first suitable place. Now, move it!”

[Izvilvin]

The rain was unrelenting, merciless in its punishing cold as the group marched diligently onward. Letho, as was typical, led the pack. Izvilvin took up the rear as he preferred, looking backward on occasion to search for any sign of pursuit. They were unlikely to be followed, but after the Drow's experience with Markus Palmer, he could not be sure of anything.

In time the sky grew dark, and the group had made their way to a muddy rest stop that was frequently used by travelers. Izvilvin didn't imagine a fire was possible during such a downpour, shivering as he realized he'd be spending the night cold.

The clearing was unremarkable and much like the one they'd used the night before. A fire pit sat soaked in the center, and long logs used as benches lay about. The space was surrounded by thick trees, but they did little to keep the area dry.

He dismounted and tied his horse up under a tree, hoping that at the least, it would protect the animal from some discomfort. He looked quickly to Christina, trying to get a sense for how she was dealing with the weather. She didn't appear happy, but she was strong. To the warrior woman, it was just rain.

The Drow headed off away from the pack, turning his back to the clearing and staring up into the sky, water splashing down on his face. Before them was another night of dreary boredom, and after that another day's journey of apprehending citizens. Izvilvin sighed and closed his eyes. It was a short job, tame compared to what Step would usually have him do. Perhaps they were testing his loyalties, to see if he would remain in Fallien even as they called him elsewhere.

What would have happened if he'd ignored the call?

Izvilvin shuddered and opened his eyes, looking to the grey sky.

[Letho]

Reclusive, alienated from the rest of the men, Letho sat on a secluded stump in the nearby grove of birch saplings with naught but thoughts for company. The lissome trees and their sparse crowns provided little protection from the incessant trickle of the raindrops, but the ranger found no additional discomfort in the saturation. His clothes were soaked already and his body got used to the chafing of the sopped material and the clingy sensation as it glued to his skin. It wasn’t like it was the worst irritation he ever experienced on his travels. Times when the Marshal wasn’t a marshal but a wanderer that tried – and succeeded in – crossing the Windlancer Peaks offered a plethora of worse pickles then some soreness due to the precipitation. But even though that was then and this was now, it seemed that Letho was just as much at a loss in the Four Towns County as he was in the mountains of Scara Brae.

And it wasn’t just the wordless accusal of Amelia Swansea that made him feel so. It wasn’t the fact that the sky seemed to open its dams above their heads, pouring rain and misery. It wasn’t even the ever-twisting, ever-turning gut that reminded him of Myrhia’s words. It was this intangible notion that kept poking at him like a pebble in his boot, the kind that wouldn’t go away even if you took off your shoes and turned them upside down in order to cast it out. It didn’t urge him to defy, to turn around and release these innocent people, to lead in an opposite direction of the one intended. It was just there, poking at the sole of his soul.

But like all irritations, the body either rid itself of it or adapted to the vexation. Letho adapted. Following the right course of action didn’t necessarily have to feel good.

***

Oaktown was the last of the Four Towns and it welcomed the Marshal and his regiment with closed doors. Literally. Shabby wooden palisades – that were erected around the rural town during the time when the vampire succubus terrorized the locals – still stood, despite the fact that Letho liberated the place of all its ails during his last visit. And just like the last time that he visited, the main gates were closed shut, leaving only a pair of sentries to welcome the lawman and his entourage. The rain was pelting down again, but by now all of the riders got used to it, the damn thing following them throughout the entire day of riding like a bad habit. Of Oaktown, only a church tower could be seen, the rest of the buildings hiding behind some twenty feet of oaken barrier together with its denizens.

The wall was quite an obstacle, Letho knew. He hoped that it would’ve been razed since the time Molotov and he saved the town from the succubus and her bloodthirsty mistress, but it seemed that the townsfolk grew a liking to the false safety the fence provided. However, it wasn’t the physical aspect of the barrier that concerned the ranger. No, he was rather certain that there were enough holes along the perimeter to march a small army through. But the fact that the locals decided to close their gates and set their watch right now, when the collectors of people rode through the land, meant that they were ready to oppose and resist. And resistance usually meant more arrests, more anger... more blood. That was why, when they finally reached the gates of the walled town, Letho decided to try opening them with words rather then swords.

“What kind of trouble plagues Oaktown that its gates are once again closed shut?” the bulky ranger raised his voice from his position ahorse, looking up through the curtain of raindrops and towards the pair of militiamen with improvised spears.

“The kind you bring with you, Ranger,” the voice from some twenty feet above answered. It was hard to distinguish the facial features through the downpour, but Letho was rather certain that he did not know the man. It wasn’t Molotov at any case; the mutant and his unique hairdo were rather apparent in any kind of weather.

“I bring nothing but official orders and an intention to carry them out. Some people are wanted for questioning...”

“We know what you’re here for. News travel faster then a man horseback, especially the bad kind.” The tone of the watchman was becoming rather abrasive, despite the fact that Letho did his best to keep the conversation rather unhostile. The mount and the man were both growing restless because of it, the beast snorting as its rider wiped the wetness from his eyes. “We’re not letting you take any of us.”

Behind the walls, a great commotion could heard, the frantic pitter-patter of feet scuttling through the puddles, voices young and old murmuring, disagreeing, arguing, threatening even. Oaktown was caught in an upheaval, it seemed, a doubt that their name was on Letho’s list hanging over their heads like the blade of a guillotine.

“Then you are obstructing the enforcement of the law and I can arrest you.”

“Not unless you can walk through wood, Marshal.”

Letho couldn’t walk through wood, but luckily he didn’t have to in order to penetrate the crummy defenses of Oaktown. The palisades maybe looked mighty intimidating for an untrained eye, but it was rather clear that carpenters and farmers constructed it, not military folk with prowess in fortification. And while the walls would have to take some serious punishment to be brought down, the gates were a different story. The two massive wings didn’t overlap each other, leaving a thin empty strip between them. The Marshal eyed this detail for several seconds, noticing the spot where the supporting beam held the gates sealed on the other side, before dismounting calmly. They wouldn’t attack him, he knew; it was one thing to oppose the law and another thing to attack it. His adamantine bastard sword was drawn from the saddle holster and before another word was spoken, Letho lifted it and brought it down through the crack in the gates in a single ferocious slice. On the other side, two halves of the wooden beam splashed in the mud. The swordsman pulled the door open.

“Captain Marran. Let’s take the suspects into custody.”

They were reluctant, they were stubborn, a rain-soaked mob that gathered before the gates to show that they had teeth and that they could bite. They were all Gaius Mallory and Brandon Eles, all and none of them, refusing to give up their own, standing on the main street with stoic resolve. Only when Letho said that they would take as many as possible to Gisela instead of the cowardly two that decided not to reveal themselves did the pair of aforementioned men step forward. Not because the law ordered them to, not because they were afraid, but out of consideration for their neighbors.

“And it’s only a questioning,” the Marshal thought as he led the dozen of riders and an accompanying carriage out of Oaktown and down the road that led towards the city of Gisela.

[Izvilvin]

Oaktown presented to Izvilvin something he'd yet to experience in Corone: open mutiny. The resistance of the small community against their abrasive, powerful governors was something to admire, but moreso, it was something to laugh at. The Drow hadn't experienced a small community rising against the demands of their commanders, but he found it interesting if nothing else. Did the people of Oaktown really think they could fend off their government when something of this nature needed to be investigated? Perhaps they were willing to die to protect their fellow folk, a thought Izvilvin had only experienced when fighting against Sasarai by the side of Laix and Palmer.

Letho's swiftness in dealing with Oaktown amused Izvilvin, but even more so, it further bolstered his belief that the human was not to be trifled with. His power was almost frightening, so much so that the Drow was thankful they were on the same side.

The road to Gisela was long, uneventful and somewhat taxing to the patience of the guards. With a cage full of potential convicts in tow, the going was slow, for the wheels of the carriage which carried them rolled with difficulty in the mud. The rain never let up as their horses walked obediently onward, and many of the men were sneezing regularly.

Throughout their journey, trees had been present, either sparsely or inches apart. As they made their way toward Gisela the ground became flat and the forest became plains, giving the group a much wider range of sight. It reminded Izvilvin of Fallien, in that he could see until his eyesight narrowed and the horizon blurred, but no objects obscured it.

The ride lasted two days, and the rain thinned out to a fine mist as they approached the gates of Gisela. Compared to Oaktown and the three similar forest villages, Gisela was an iron palace comparable to a Kingdom. Izvilvin's hair had been matted to his skull for days, but he showed no signs of complaint or discomfort.

His journey had come to an end, now. He'd done little by way of helping, and had a bruise to show for it, but the payment would be good. More importantly, he'd likely pleased Step, and would not be bothered by them for some time.

[Letho]

Despite its disconsolate daubed fortifications that seemed in perfect sync with the autumn weather, Gisela was a welcome sight for every member of the convoy. The riders were growing galls and coughs, obviously unprepared for this kind of weather. It was a small wonder given the fact that they were mostly grunts, used to four hour shifts, manning some stretch of a wall that needed no defending. The prisoners were sniveling and whining as well, sick and tired of trucking down the bumpy roads and getting out in the rain every time Annen bogged the carriage in the muck. The half-naked lad from Birchtown was – unsurprisingly – the loudest in these protests. Even the beasts grew a strong dislike for this task, their spindly legs constantly caked in layers of sticky mud, their whinnies and nickers more then just an occasional gesture of disagreement. United, these telltale signs were transmitting a rather clear message; they all wanted this ordeal to reach its conclusion and soon.

Letho assumed his thoughts and feelings would be different and that he wanted to postpone this inevitable interrogation as soon as possible, but in all truth, he wanted to be done with this just as much as the rest. More and more his thoughts drifted back to Willowtown, to the house on the Willow Hill, where the fire was crackling in the hearth as well as in the heart of the redhead that waited for his return. There was salvation in those thoughts, salvation from tapping in the dark while trying to find a way out of the labyrinth in which this mission threw him. The Marshal wasted quite a lot of thoughts on that particular hot piece of coal. He tossed it and flipped it, and regardless of how he turned it, there were only two options: proceed down the road to Gisela or turn around the other way. And Letho wasn’t the type that fled when the heat was turned up.

Though, once they rode into the capitol of the Yarborough Barony, the ranger almost wished that he chose the second option. Gisela’s outer gates were wide open, but there was no welcome awaiting them on the other side of the wall. From the outer ramparts to the significantly higher inner walls stretched the residential area, a circle of shacks, houses and multi-storey buildings erected with little or no urban planning. The five main roads cut through them in lines straight and wide enough, but every other alley and passage seemed like a portion of a maze with multiple entrances and just as many exits. Even though the rain finally ceased and gave way to a semi-translucent fog, there were few locals going by their business, scuttling this way and that in attires just as gloomy as the general hue of the day. These rare unfortunates looked with shifty eyes and whispered just beyond the edge of hearing as Letho and his miserable dozen rode to the inner gates at walk pace. It was like riding in a ghost time where the specters were unafraid to make their presence known.

The inner gates were open as well, but the portcullis was lowered, the guards in front of it not nearly as lethargic as the ones by the outer wall that seemed ready to doze off. Archers above held their bows at the ready, though no arrows were knocked into their weapons yet. The soldier that halted Letho and his group was a sergeant, one hand splayed as a gesture and the other on the hilt of his blade. “Halt and identify yourselves!” his voice echoed through the lifeless streets, his stringent visage half-concealed behind the metal of his helmet (with a plume that looked more like a wet mop) and the bushy facial hair.

“Marshal Letho Ravenheart, bringing in folk from the Four Towns for questioning,” Letho responded, his own gallant voice defeating the sergeant’s easily as his raised hand brought the twelve riders to a halt. Annen did the same with the carriage with a couple of calm whoas. “Rather tight security for a simple questioning, sergeant.”

“Just following orders,” the man responded, uninterested in any further argument as he walked closer to properly identify the rider and his escort. “Took you a while. The rest already brought in their lot.”

“We stopped along the way to enjoy the weather,” the Marshal responded, not overly curtly, but not terribly benevolent either. There was never much love between the Rangers and their city-bound brothers in arms. The sergeant’s already strict face hardened a bit more, sporting a deep frown now.

“Right. Well, we’ll take over the parcel now. The master-at-arms at the barracks has your salary. And if you hurry, there might be a warm meal for you as well.” The news of gold pieces and cooked food beneath an actual roof seemed to alleviate some of the irritation from the faces of the sopped soldiers. For them the mission was successfully accomplished and this was the end of this wretched road. Letho’s interests, however, were into more then just the currency.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll come along with them.”

“I do mind, Marshal. Your orders were to bring them to Gisela and my orders are to let nobody inside the inner city if their name is not on the list. Yours isn’t,” the man said, unyielding sharpness prominent in his voice, the kind that said that this could be done in two ways, on only one of them didn’t involve the usage of swords. It was the kind of sharpness that Letho recognized, for it often painted his tone as well.

“Fine. Can I stay in the barracks until the interrogations are over, or is that not a part of the procedure either?”

“That’s up for the master-at-arms to decide. Now move along and let the wagon through.”

Letho didn’t mind the garlic on the man’s tongue a whole lot; it wasn’t unusual for these subtle instigations to be tossed back and forth between soldiers, especially if they were in different branches of the law enforcement. What he did mind, however, was the rigor with which this matter was dealt with. “As if they’re guilty already.” It was a rather common occurrence though. When it came to people, all you had to do is cast the first stone or piece of mud or rotten vegetable and most were more then ready to join, playing both the judge and the executioner. It was always easier to point the finger at someone else then actually concern yourself with the probable innocence. Luckily, it wasn’t the soldiers or the people whose voice mattered in this instance. Whoever they sent from Radasanth was bound to be just and objective.

Conciliated with this conclusion, Letho rallied his troops and led them towards the nearby barracks, leaving the nine and the cage to the sergeant and his grunts.

[Izvilvin]

Letho's posse went with the cage only so far as the other side of the gate, where it was dropped off and the group was free to go pick up their pay. Despite having done very little, Izvilvin felt he earned the money that was coming his way, and was anxious to use some of it to purchase a good meal. Whatever they thought of Drow, tavern folk never seemed to turn down his gold.

It was obvious from the get-go that most of the guards were relieved. There had been some resistence, but they had rallied up those needed for questioning without too much difficulty, save for the elements that they'd been forced to endure. Even now, a thick fog lingered in the grey streets of Gisela, making each passerby a spectre until they got close enough. Izvilvin was fascinated by it, so much so that he'd often turn and watch a man or woman fade back into a shadow once they'd passed.

The barracks were not far from the front gate, but Izvilvin could practically feel the weight lift off from everybody's shoulders when they arrived. The stable was more than large enough to take the horses of those who planned to stay for a while, and soon the group was inside, lined up in front of some kind of posting board with a large desk next to it, from behind which a scrutinizing man counted out the money and handed it to each man.

200 gold for a few days' work. The Drow frowned, but didn't, couldn't, respond to whatever the man said to him upon seeing his expression. It was a meager payment, but Izvilvin was also being paid twice, so he couldn't quite complain.

But something seemed wrong, he noticed, as he gazed down into his pouch. Letho had been met with some kind of hostility at the gate, despite his being in charge of this task they'd been set at. Was that the kind of treatment all human soldiers were subject to? Perhaps it was just the mounting tension due to the assassination.

Regardless, Izvilvin's role was finished. It was time to go back to Fallien, to his home and his few friends. Quickly looking toward Letho, then Christina, the Drow considered taking a moment to say goodbye to them. In the end he did not, and merely turned to leave the barracks and make his way to the tavern next door, where he could grab a hot meal before heading home.

[Christina Bredith]

With every passing day, the journey seemed to get longer for Christina, despite the fact that they were steadily marching towards it conclusion. Even Oaktown was over and done with now, despite its less-than-hospitable welcome, and they were on their way to Gisela where they would receive their payment and be on their way. Perhaps for the first time in a long time – or ever – Christina was not looking forward to the finale. What would happen to these poor souls they had uprooted when the interrogators were done with them? Would they be booted out the front gates with a meagre compensation and a pocketful of dreams? Would they be left to find their own way back, amidst bandit and beast? No matter how much rain poured, it couldn’t wash away the dirty feeling that they were breaking up families here. Whatever the reason, whatever the justification, that just struck too closely to home for Christina.

Still, she was a soldier, in heart if not in title, and so she would see this task through to its completion – if for no reason other than to satisfy her own conscience and cleanse her mind of all doubt. It’s just a questioning. The mantra had kept her going for days now, ever since they had plucked that poor butcher from his homestead. In just a few days the questioning would be over and she’d be able to breathe a little easier, knowing that everything went just as planned. All the suspects would be back at home, their families would be as happy as could be expected under the circumstances, and Christina could return to Radasanth with lighter shoulders.

Why, then, did Gisela’s solemn battlements on the horizon look so much like the dark bars of a cage to her? The outer gate was open, like the maw of some deceptive beast luring them in with promises of warmth and shelter, only to devour them whole once inside. The rain had stopped now – it would, inside the belly of a beast, wouldn’t it? – but Gisela somehow seemed even gloomier without it. Its citizens went about their business drearily, looking at the entourage as though they saw them as executioners; and yet, Christina had to seriously check any suspicion that the Giselans actually cared for the plights of the people in this cage. Why should they? Would she, in their situation, if a band of such suspected brigands was brought through Radasanth?

The only good thing about their arrival so far seemed to be the promise of shelter and a warm meal at the end of the day, as promised to them by the soldier at the gate. But in doing so, they were to be separated from the prisoners, at which point their safety could not be guaranteed. That did not immediately sit well with Christina. This was what they were getting paid for, wasn’t it? To escort them and protect them? But they were here now, she supposed; there was nothing to protect them from anymore.

It’s just a questioning.

* * *

Admittedly, having a warm meal in her stomach went quite a way towards cheering Christina from her foul mood. Indeed, when she was with the rest of the group she kept her usual appearance up – cheerful, sarcastic, full of acerbic wit, and with a tongue that could bite through solid bone. It was only a mask to a small degree; she had, for the most part, managed to convince herself that everything would go smoothly from now on, that the prisoners would be treated fairly, that they’d be sent on their way in the morning and life would go back to its usual droning again. In light of such conviction it was easy to enjoy their success, especially when it was topped with what seemed (to them) a banquet and a warm, dry place to sleep.

Ironically enough, it was the money that Christina took issue with. As the master-at-arms handed it to her, she took the pouch and strung it to her waist, laughing quietly to herself. Blood money, she thought with some degree of that acridness. Uprooted a few families? Here, have 200 gold to cleanse your conscience. Well, at least it wasn’t more. She might have felt really guilty for taking it then. But whatever guilt Christina felt, she wasn’t crazy or stupid, so she wasn’t about to pass up 200 gold – the entire reason she came on this mission in the first place. This was her job. She was a soldier. And it’s just a questioning.

As the night wore on, the rest of the group began to talk about what they would be doing now that the mission was complete, and Christina found herself surprised because she had no answer to that question. At first it had always been obvious: head back to Radasanth, do a little shopping, take a break, and eventually find another daring, life-threatening mission to go on. Why did she feel like she wasn’t quite finished here yet? There wasn’t anything more to be done; they weren’t even allowed to see the prisoners.

Still, Christina couldn’t shake the feeling no matter how hard she tried. She convinced herself that it was the weather, that she simply didn’t want to try and get back to Radasanth while it was all foggy and rainy, but whatever the reason she felt as though she just couldn’t leave Gisela yet. At a break in the festivities, Christina snuck away from the rest of the group and approached Letho.

“Marshal,” she said quietly to get his attention. “Ah… so you’re staying behind until the interrogations are over? Do you mind if I join you?”

[Letho]

The mess hall of the Gisela barracks was in tune with the rest of the city; it offered little welcome to the Marshal. His posse was sundered to pieces, each member finding comfort in the recently acquired money and the company of their fellow comrades at arms. It was mercenary work that they did, Letho concluded now; the only exception was the set of orders with the official seal of the Corone Government. Those same orders that were forgotten once they had warm repast wallowing in their bellies and a pint or two of ale that seemed to cure all the aches with its alcohol-induced heat. Another task done, another wage collected... Wrapped up, pushed back and archived in oblivion – such was the mindset of these grunts.

That was primarily the reason why Letho found little abatement once the humid, melancholic setting of the exterior was exchanged with the warm room that smelled of sweat, cheap booze and bad cooking. He dissented from them; Rangers often did. People said it was because they were solitary units, the so called isolated platoons-of-one that worked on their own, but in reality there was a much simpler reason. Rangers – not all of them, but the majority – looked past the present, they dwelled on issues for more then just until those same issues fleeted from their short term memory. And it was one of the reasons why regulars of the Corone Armed Forces weren’t particularly fond of them. That was why, even though he was seated with the rest of the jolly squad, Letho found little fellowship within the walls of the barracks. They maybe were all brothers of the sword; it’s just that the Marshal actually spared a thought on why he wielded his blade.

There were scarce few that deviated from this archetype though. Captain Marran was one of them, the aversion on his face even more prominent then on Letho’s once tipsiness spread around the spacious room like poison. It was discipline that the veteran respected, Letho cogitated, the kind that came through experience and either killed you or made you more of a man then you ever were. Christina didn’t seem to deviate from the rest at first sight, but after careful deliberation, the Marshal concluded it was due to the fact that the blonde could be quite duplicitous. She had one face for dealing with her soldier peers, and a significantly different, much more heedful, much more tactful one when the jests grew bland and ill-timed. He was glad to see the latter when she approached him.

“Somebody has to get them back home once they’re acquitted,” he responded, overly grim and thoughtful as he explored the tawny borsch with his spoon, trying to extract something edible from it. “Some of those people are my friends, others mere acquaintances, but they all deserve to make it back home safely.”

“I’d prepare for quite a wait though,” Letho added, finally giving up on the meal and looking towards the formidable blonde. “If I know Corone bureaucracy, this could drag on for quite a while, a week at least. But if you don’t mind the wait, I don’t mind the company.”

The moody ranger wouldn’t have minded company right then and there; he hadn’t had a sensible conversation since their first stop and the talk of armaments. But all those sleepless rainy nights and late-night watches finally accumulated enough to overcome his seemingly tireless system. He captured a wide yawn in his hand, dropped the spoon back into the half-empty plate and got up from the bench. “I’m going to get some sleep though. I hope their beds are better then their stew.”

***

They were, but it might’ve been just his tired mind that enhanced the coziness of the cot. Because as soon as he made it to the sleeping chambers – which were actually just another large hall filled with rows upon rows of similar beds – and discarded his weapons, his boots and his dampish overcoat, the Marshal succumbed to slumber like seldom in his life. There was reprieve in sleep, both physical and mental, and he welcomed the latter because the former broke down like a tower of cards. Not so long ago, such jadedness was unknown to him, his body able to brave whatever obstacle over and over again for days. But those times were gone now and Letho had to face his vulnerable humanity.

It was that same vulnerable humanity that made him ignorant towards the bustle and the voice that tried to snap him out of sleep. It was only when a hand grasped his shoulder and gave it a coy shake that the Marshal was snatched out of the becalming embrace of slumber and thrown into reality. The beardless face of Howard Deline was standing above him, once again overly tense, even fearful as he repeated Letho’s last name and his rank.

“Marshal Ravenheart,” the youth repeated for who-knew-what time. “I’m sorry to wake you, but I thought you might want to know the ruling of the Tribunal.”

“The ruling? They reached a decision already?” It wasn’t completely unexpected, especially once Letho knuckled the crust out of his eyes and spared a glance towards one of the windows. The sun wasn’t peeking through the clouds, but its outline could be seen through the grim overcast, announcing it was near noon. It was more then enough time to establish the innocence of the suspicious common folk. The bulky swordsman swung his legs down from his cot, got to his feet and started collecting his apparel.

“Aye. They’re guilty.”

At first, the Marshal thought that he misheard what was spoken. But once his keen eyes met the ones of the greenhorn, he knew that there was nothing wrong with his ears. “Guilty? Who is found guilty?”

“All of them, sir.” The words were a spear that passed straight through his forehead. “They are all to be hanged on the morrow. There is talk of riot in the city, people gathering in the marketplace, protesting. The master-at-arms is commanded to deal with them. I thought you should be notified...”

But by then, Letho was storming out of the vacant room, striding down the hallways in search of the armory. “All of them!? What in the god’s name is going on here? No, there must be some sort of a mistake,” he mulled, slinging the gunblade over his shoulders and keeping a hold on the sheath of his bastard sword. They are simpletons, yahoos, slow-witted and good-natured folk; they couldn’t be responsible for a conspiracy against the very leaders of the Republic. It made no logic. Unless they were looking for scapegoats, of course. But that was something the Marshal would disallow, with words if possible, or with swords if necessary.

The armory was half-empty by the time he reached it, the grouchy master-at-arms lining up his troops in front of the barracks. The fog had lifted its veil from the streets and the grayish clouds held back the precipitation for now, but the exterior still looked lifeless, bland, like a picture of a painter that knew only to work with shades of gray. Three platoons already formed a rather decent square, the fourth one in the process of being filled with the less prompt grunts that scurried through the door, still in the process of donning their armors.

“Sergeant, what’s going on here?” Letho asked, Howard exiting the barracks behind him and falling in with the last squad.

“Crowd control, Marshal,” the man in enamled armor riposted sharply, not sparing even a glance on the ranger, but rather spending it on his troops. “Some of the locals are gathering on the marketplace ground, protesting against the ruling. We’re sent to put them down.”

“Put them down? You mean calm them down?”

“Use of force is authorized. Should they push, we are allowed to shove back.”

The Marshal couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Was the Republic replaced with a tyrannical regime overnight? He was never one for rebellion, but there was a significant difference between dousing the fire and tearing down the forest to prevent it. His hand rifled from his side, snatching a spear from the commander. Before the man managed to react, Letho snapped the shaft of the weapon on his knee, handing the bladeless part back to the sergeant. “They’re simple folk, your kin. You can beat the spirit out of them with a stick better then cut it out of their chest.”

“You have no authority here, ranger!” the man growled through is teeth, chagrined by the fact that his weapon was taken away from him so easily.

“To hell with authority! They are your people, Coronians, just as each and every one of you! I want no blade drawn unless absolutely necessary.” By now, he was facing some two hundred soldiers, his voice booming through the eerily silence of the drowsy day. He eyed Christina in one of the lines, thought he saw recognition in her eyes, and then proceeded. “Just keep them calm. They’ll disperse once they blow off some steam. I’ll go straighten this out with this Tribunal.”

“They won’t admit you,” master-at-arm spoke almost with spite. “The inner city is closed shut because of the riots.”

“Oh, they’ll admit me. Whether they like it or not.”

[Izvilvin]

As much as he'd wanted to make the journey back to Fallien the night before, by the time Izvilvin was done eating, the sky was dark and the air was frigid. He stayed the night in the upstairs portion of the tavern, one of the many inns of Gisela.

The morning seemed dark at first, as clouds still lingered in the sky. Izvilvin made his way downstairs and paid his tab, feeling refreshed and strong again, ready to move on. He missed his bed and the familiar warmth of the desert.

However, when he left the tavern and went outside, something was clearly off. The townfolk nearby seemed on edge, if they weren't already rushing off in no particular direction. Izvilvin let a hand instinctively drop to the hilt of Icicle, and he scoured the horizon with his eyes, looking past buildings and people to look for any kind of commotion. As much as he wanted to get home, he didn't feel right leaving when something was going on. Not before knowing what it was, anyway.

He walked briskly toward the inner sections of town, bypassing a blockade by stealthily dancing around the guards. The people grew more and more tense the further he went. Eventually he got to a wall of humans, their backs to him. Beyond them were more and more of Gisela's inhabitants, seeming to bustle in front of a wall of armed soldiers that stood at the northern end of the marketplace.

Izvilvin couldn't hope to push through the people and meet up with the guards, and he wasn't sure that's what he wanted to do anyway. He could see a man up front pushing against a guard. He recieved a gauntleted hand to his chest in response, and the man fell back into the waiting arms of his comrades.

"The execution's a sham!" cried someone from the crowd, his voice somehow louder than the collective complaints of the group. "Hang the executors for their murders, then hang us for hanging them, then hang who hanged us! This isn't the proper way!"

Izvilvin managed to get the attention of a long-haired citizen nearby. He shrugged and pointed to the commotion to try and convery his confusion, and it seemed to work. The citizen thought for a moment, spotted the empty cage nearby and pointed to it. Izvilvin recalled the men that had been placed in there, and the time he, too, had spent inside. Thinking of it made him angry, but not enough so to show it. The citizen then made a throat-cutting gesture with his thumb, and understanding dawned on the Drow.

That didn't explain the riot, though. He understood that the humans that he'd helped rally up were all subject to some kind of trial, and were all suspected of taking part in an assassination. The Drow didn't realize that none of them were involved in it; after all, the least assuming of people always made the best killers.

The pushing got more violent, so he tried to join up with the guards. He went about the edge of the crowd, gently taking people's shoulders and trying to reassure them, but with his lack of ability to speak with them, it was hard. Most just pushed him aside or ignored him completely. A few even cringed away from his charcoal face, unable to tolerate him even though his eyes and features were gentle.

[Christina Bredith]

Christina was tugged from her deep sleep quite apprehensively by one of the lean young men she had served with during their trip to the four towns to round up the murder suspects. He knew all too well that the vivacious blonde was far from it in the mornings; if her tongue was a knife and her mood an acid, then they were sharper and burned harder in the first hours of consciousness. Still, the boy had his orders. He gently nudged Christina’s shoulder and called her name.

The woman was sleeping with her back to him, curled up in what resembled a fetal position as if desperately attempting to escape the cold, despite her covers (which were a mess, as she was not a dainty sleeper). It took several tries before the boy finally elicited a response – simply a grunt at first – and then another one or two before that response approached coherency.

“Bugger off,” came the dreary words. He didn’t let them scathe him too hard. After all, Christina was hardly aware of his presence and so the insult was hardly meant for him specifically – yet.

“But Christina, you have to get up, please,” he insisted. The woman let out a tired groan and rolled over, squinting at the sunlight filtering through the window and looking up at him.

“What for?” she whined.

“The master-at-arms wants everybody to form up to quell the riot.”

If she was more lucid, Christina would display confusion or surprise at such a sudden remark, but instead the only words that came out of her lips were, “It’s too early for that. Give me ten more minutes.” She yawned. “Mmm, no, make it twenty.” With that, she rolled over and attempted to get back to sleep.

It was then that one of the master-at-arms’ higher-ranking subordinates entered the room, making his rounds to ensure that everyone was up and about. At the sight of the young soldier desperately trying to wake the sleeping beauty, the scruffy-faced gentleman cleared his throat loudly. “What’s going on here?”

Christina let out an exasperated sigh and rolled over again. “I’m trying to get a little sleep. Do you mind?”

“Yes, actually,” the lieutenant responded. “You will get up and help calm the rioting, soldier.”

Raising her polished brow ever so high, Christina swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up. Her silver eyes burned brightly now as she looked across the room at the lieutenant. “You’ve got some gumption, fuzz-face.” Her response was scorching, and indeed very unfitting a soldier. It was fortunate, then, that she wasn’t one. Technicalities proved a very useful thing for Christina Bredith.

The man’s eyes narrowed. “Who’s your superior, soldier?”

Christina stretched her arms over her head and yawned with a dainty indifference. Her words didn’t match the mood. “You’re looking at her, Fluffy.”

“Ah,” the soldier replied with sudden realization, “you’re one of Marshal Ravenheart’s men. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to hear about your attitude regarding this situ—”

The woman rose from her seat at the edge of the bed and held up her hand to stifle the lecture. “God, your voice is giving me hives.” The lieutenant stared, somewhat flabbergasted. Christina chuckled. “Oh, unclench, please. I’ll be out in a minute. Seems I won’t get a lick more of sleep in this hellhole anyway.”

The soldiers must have been satisfied, because they both turned and exited the room, heading down the hallway towards the front of the barracks where even now Christina could hear the sounds of everyone gathering. She quickly donned her mother’s army uniform, the same red coat with gold trim that she always wore, and strapped Rosebite to her waist before heading out a few feet behind them.

* * *

The morning proved to be considerably more interesting than Christina had anticipated. Gathering at the barracks, she had learned that the Tribunal had made its ruling on the suspects, and it had found each and every one of them guilty. The woman didn’t know what to think. On the one hand there was a small measure of relief – she didn’t need to feel bad about uprooting the lives of murderers and anarchists! But at the same time there was a huge Bullshit Alarm going off in her head, constantly blaring. How could all of them be responsible? How could they be responsible?

Apparently, most of the citizens of Gisela agreed with her. The riot at whose edge she now stood was proof enough of that. There was screaming enough to drown out even her own thoughts, and with every push she was forced to shove right back. Some of the master-at-arms’ men were less restrained in their use of force, but Christina was doing her best to heed Marshal Ravenheart’s orders: no drawing of blades unless necessary. After all, how could she harm these citizens for defending their beliefs? Without realizing it, they were defending her beliefs. And yet, she had her orders…

None of the rioters nearby saw her that way, though; to them she was just a soldier defending the faulty ruling of a corrupt Tribunal. One man, who had been particularly forceful during her time here, had finally had enough and grabbed a lock of Christina’s hair, using it to yank her towards him, bringing her eye-to-eye with him. He opened his mouth to say something, but Christina’s eyes burned and she interrupted.

“Sir, I’m going to say this as politely as possible, but if you touch my hair ever again I will beat your ass so fast and so hard that they’ll need a chronomancer just to identify the body.”

Those words were enough to silence him without doubt, and two or three of his friends close by backed off as well. Christina may not have drawn a weapon yet, but her words cut just as hard. She found herself hoping that was the only cutting that would need to be done.

I hope you had four-leaf clovers for breakfast this morning, Marshal, she thought, wondering how Letho was faring with the Tribunal. We’ll need a miracle to get to the bottom of this one…

[Letho]

“OPEN THE GATES!” Letho’s voice rang clear in the unnatural calm of the noontide. On any given day (Sunday included) the streets would’ve been crowded with people, throbbing like arteries of a living being, channeling the voices and the footsteps of the locals, but today they were emptied, leaving an almost spooky hollowness. Those that woke up with some rebellious inclinations went to the marketplace gathering, and those that didn’t obviously found staying within the confines of their homes to be a wise choice. It was no surprise then that there were few eyes observing the armed man that banged on the massive gates. The Marshal was a grim figure, a solitary assailant that repeatedly struck his gauntleted fist against the iron plating of the wooden gates, making the streets din with both the sound of his voice and the impact of his fists.

For nearly a minute, no reply descended from the crown of the fortifications that towered some fifty feet above him, but it wasn’t because his request wasn’t heard. He could see men even from his inferior position, archers with their bows at the ready peeking through the gaps in the stone, but it seemed none of them had the authority to neither yield nor decline his command. It was only after fifth or sixth reiteration that more then just a glimpse of a face appeared, and it was a familiar one to boot.

“Go away, Ranger. The Inner City is sealed by orders of both Inquisitor Lockhen and Colonel Claith,” the sergeant responded from above, using the same scornful voice that he used yesterday, when Letho brought in the suspects with his sortie.

“I am ordering you to open the gates, sergeant!” The swordsman took several steps away from the gates, just enough to be able to raise his frowned face and eye the man above.

“You cannot order me, Marshal. My superior officer...”

“Your superior officer is right here,” Letho insisted, cutting the solider short before slapping him with bureaucratic technicality. “You should’ve studied your CAF manual more extensively, sergeant. If you did, you would know that in case of death of the Grand Marshal, the command of Corone Rangers is temporarily transferred to the Master General, thus merging the two forces. And in such instances, marshal is a higher rank then sergeant. Now open these gates or bring me the commander of the garrison.”

The article that Letho dictated was genuine enough, an excerpt from the manual given to every officer of Corone military forces. However, due to the fact that never since the establishment of the Corone Republic in its current form such an event occurred, it wasn’t a surprise that a lowly ranked officer such as one in command of the gates hadn’t known of its existence. The face above seemed to deliberate for several seconds before disappearing from sight. It took about two minutes of soundless waiting and another minute of rusty creaking of the cogs before the gates were opened and the portcullis was raised high enough for Letho to pass under it.

On the other side, a squad of ten waited, together with a familiar sergeant and an unfamiliar soldier with a rank of a major. The higher ranked officer distinguished himself from the rest quite well due to the fact that he was the only one not wearing any armor. Instead, his pressed attire was a gallant one, almost lofty in its dark blue color with stripes and details weaved with golden yellow thread. It was common for higher officers of the Corone Armed Forces to don such silly looking outfits, Letho knew, making themselves look like they were ready for a ball instead of a battle. Even the saber that hanged at his hip seemed too spiffy to be used for anything but show with its sleek argent scabbards decorated with countless motifs.

“Where’s the fire, Marshal?” the Major asked, his voice and his beardless face revealing the youth that his posture tried to conceal. “Probably a son of a general or something,” Letho thought once he ascertained the man’s youth and rank. No greenhorn got to be a major unless he had some heavy brass behind his back.

“I demand an audience with this Tribunal regarding the sentences said to the folk that were brought in,” the bulky ranger said.

“Is that so? Interesting. So do the folk that gathered at the marketplace,” the black-haired major responded in a quasi-thoughtful voice. “Well, the Tribunal is admitting nobody at this time. And I’m afraid those orders come from way higher then you or me, Marshal.”

“I don’t care if they came down from as high as the gods. Tribunal ruling is wrong and I’m going to set it right.” Letho’s words didn’t seem to surprise the young major, but when the peeved ranger stepped forward and pushed past him, the stoic mask of the clotheshorse deteriorated, giving way to a smarmy smirk.

“Oh really? You know better then the Tribunal? You, a lowly ranger, have a better insight then a committee formed specifically to take into account all of the information about these criminals?” Even though it was spoken in an almost mocking voice, it was not the tone of the major’s voice that made him turn around.

“Information?” Letho said, anger that he struggled to control seeping out of his eyes. “It’s just words on a piece of paper, words that someone said, someone misinterpreted and someone wrote down. I know these people, I’ve been living alongside them, and I know that they had nothing to do with the assassinations.”

“Maybe,” was the nonchalant response. “Be that as it may, the orders still stand; I cannot allow you to proceed.”

“What if I don’t ask for your permission?” The question went through the gathered soldiers like a chill, making some shiver and other freeze in their boots. Few were the ones who wanted to test their mettle against the legendary Marshal Ravenheart. The major didn’t seem concerned, his fingers plucking an alien white piece of string from the sleeve of his uniform.

“Then we’ll have to use force to stop you, Marshal,”

“Then you’ll have to use the force.” Letho responded. The bastard sword slid out of the scabbards with a prominent metallic sound, the magnificent blade brandished and pointed towards the prissy leader of the grunts. “Because I’m not letting those people hang.”

[Izvilvin]

Izvilvin wasn't quite sure when, or how, it had began. His eyes had been washing over the crowd from the top of a merchant's stand next to a group of guards, trying to identify faces and movements. Then the crowd seemed to move like a wave, pushed by some invisible force to rock against the guards who served as walls.

Screams rang out and Izvilvin smelled blood. By then the entire marketplace had become a bedlam, a single unit of chaos moving haphazardly and violently. The voices of the men and women rose up in unison, in a confusing, woeful shriek. He could hear the clang of metal on metal, loud in his sensitive ears.

Then he had to rise and leap to the ground, as the structure he was standing on got toppled. He landed nimbly and could see the faces of the humans around him, looks of anger and of sorrow. They'd been betrayed, but he could not understand it. Their beloved Corone had become a lawless mockery on this day, but he could not understand.

The guards drew their blades as the citizens approached, using makeshift weapons, some even using shoes. A man was able to pry a guard's sword away and use that. The Drow stood back as the guards fended off the aggressive citizens, not bothering to spare lives.

His hand went to Icicle's hilt, but he didn't draw the deadly blade. Izvilvin wasn't sure if he wanted to slay townspeople, even if they were the ones attacking. He was no longer under Corone contract, after all, and he had no obligation to do so.

Fortunately, nobody approached him. He could wait it out and watch the events unfold. The way the citizens were being quickly slaughtered, however, he could likely predict the outcome.

[Christina Bredith]

Christina wasn’t sure exactly how or when it happened, but whatever the case it sure didn’t take long. One minute she was looking at an unhappy but orderly mob, and the next, the gates of hell had opened and it was like she was staring into the eyes of demons. The crowd was crazed now, brandishing whatever makeshift weapons they could find and using them to forcibly break through the barricades set up by the Coronian soldiers. Shoes, bits of wood, copper kettles, stolen swords; whatever the Giselans could get their hands on suddenly became a weapon.

For the most part, though, Christina knew that they were hardly a threat – the Coronian Armed Forces were well armed, even on such short notice, and they had the training necessary to subdue even the sword-wielding citizens who came at them. This was an unexpected and bothersome turn of events, but hardly crippling. She drew Rosebite and prepared to delve into the fray.

But just then, she saw something out of the corner of her eye that made her blood run cold. A soldier, nothing more than an ensign, lifted his blade and brought it down on a portly woman that had been slapping him with her sandal. Her body was severed from the shoulder down towards the heart for several inches, and red blood matted her clothes. The woman let out a strangled cry – her lungs had been shredded, too – before falling forward. Christina’s eyes widened in horror and she lunged toward the soldier.

“You wretch!” she cried, driving the heel of her stiletto boot into his chest and shoving him to the ground. Rosebite found its place at his throat before he could even react. “You are a soldier of the Coronian army! She wasn’t even armed!” The soldier just looked up at her defensively, saying nothing. A moment later his gaze averted, and Christina’s did as well. That’s when things became truly horrific.

The same scene was being replayed all around her. CAF uniforms were stained a ghastly shade of red. The wooden barriers erected by the soldiers had been trashed, but they were now replaced by a natural barrier of corpses, one dead Giselan atop another. Blackening blood was pooled underneath them like a sickening stain upon the cobbled path. The woman’s silver eyes were wide with terror. This couldn’t be Corone… these couldn’t be her countrymen! They were… they were savages!

“I can’t… believe…” Christina’s brow furrowed, and her expression became terribly pained. It soon made way, however, for determination mixed with unbridled anger. “Son of a bitch.” A swift kick met the young soldier’s cheek as she withdrew her blade, cracking bone and slamming the other side of his head into the ground. He was unconscious before he knew what had happened.

What the hell do I do now? The blonde’s mind was racing as she stepped away from the fallen ensign. Should she find the master-at-arms? He probably wouldn’t stop this savagery… but she could make him answer for it! Damn it, what good will that do? The only outcome of beating the crap out of the master-at-arms was that she’d feel good about it – at least until she got arrested for it. In the meanwhile, more and more citizens would die.

With that though, Christina knew exactly what she needed to do. Oh, someone would pay for their crimes alright – every single soldier there with blade drawn against his countrymen would find himself at the barrel-end of her wrath. People often said Christina was like a loaded pistol. Today she was going to prove them very right.

As she was already at the threshold of the chaos, where the teeming mass of citizens met with the ranks of soldiers, Christina fixed a nearby soldier as her target. The man was ready to hack his way through a middle-aged Giselan with a wooden pole in hand, but Christina was there first. With a single command, Rosebite extended into its whip-like form, and she coiled it around the soldier’s weapon. With a swift jerk, she yanked the weapon and its bearer downwards, lifted her leg straight up, and then brought her heel down against the back of his accessible neck. There was a slight crack and the man fell to the floor, unconscious or dead, she wasn’t sure which.

The woman uncoiled her weapon and glared at the man whose life she just saved. “Get the hell out of here,” she ordered, not sure whether she was trying to scold him or save him. “Save everyone you can.”

He watched her, stunned, as she ran into the fray once more, but then nodded once she had gone and turned back to run through the crowd. Christina set out disabling even more of her former comrades, doing everything in her power to stop the massacre that was unfolding before her very eyes. Where are you, Marshal? she thought frantically, eyes welling up from her fear and frustration. Why is this happening…?

[Letho]

The squad fell into the position in a schooled, military manner, forming a circle made of armored bodies and brandished spears mere seconds after Letho revealed his intentions. Their postures were soldierly, stoic, but their resolve was just a mask that fell apart once the Marshal established eye contact with each and everyone of them. The keen browns of the solitary freedom fighter scanned the grunts, sparing a glance on every guard present, estimating their battle prowess, their determination. For an observant eye, there were plenty of details that disclosed the true state of a person, tiny inadvertent mistakes that people were prone to making. Rapid blinking, held breath, clenched teeth, white knuckles of the fingers that held the weapon, feet positioned too wide or too narrow or just completely inefficient, they all served as snitches that spilled the beans to the skilled beholder.

“Think about what you’re doing, Marshal. Even if you get to the Tribunal, you’ll achieve nothing but sealing your own fate,” the neat Major said, withdrawing several steps, clearly uninterested in joining the soldiers in the inevitable strife with the surrounded ranger. Unlike his higher ranked comrade, the battle-hardened sergeant had his longsword out, waiting outside the circle to jump in should his assistance be needed. “Why waste your life on this?”

“For something you clearly know nothing of,” Letho replied offhandedly, focusing on the fidgeting infantrymen instead of explaining some of the basics of the Old Code to the Major. It would take a lot more then just dictated words to show the young man what honor was all about, what kind of duty transcended the orders jotted down on a piece of papyrus, and that valor wasn’t just a colorful banner that heroes carried around to appease the masses. No, he would have to show it by example, even if it wound up squandered.

“Enough talk. Take him down, boys!” The voice of the sergeant was commanding, relentless, and yet none of the soldiers pursued the order instantaneously, every member of the platoon waiting for his neighbor to move first. This standstill lasted for several seconds until the soldier that was behind Letho’s back thought he had the best opportunity to take the famous Marshal down and reap the glory. Unfortunately for him, he wound up reaping his teeth. His spear was thrust at Letho’s back, but it was a cowardly move that was easily predicted. Turning sharply and rotating his upper torso, the bulky swordsman not only evaded the piercing attack, but proceeded to grab the shaft of the weapon and, using an already existing momentum, pull the soldier after his spear. The movement ended when the face of the spearman collided with Letho’s elbow. Robbed of a few front teeth, with his nose oozing blood into his mouth, the man collapsed on the ground.

Mayhem ensued. Sergeant joined his soldiers, and they attacked the Marshal in unison, utilizing their numbers against the lonesome rebel. They lunged their spears, swung them as if they were quarterstaffs, used them as sticks once Letho cut their shafts with his adamantine sword, threw punches, kicks, headbutts. But in the eye of this whirlwind, with wood and metal clashing all around him, the dark knight was untouchable. He parried two, three weapons in a single blow, using his blade, his gauntlets, intercepting the slices before they even came to pass, rendering soldiers unconscious one by one. In the end, only the sergeant stood. Peeved by the inability of his troops, his attacks were unhinged, each clash with Letho’s bastard sword putting a new chip into the edge of his blade, but it was all for naught. The Marshal remained defensive, bouncing off attacks single-handedly, and when he finally ricocheted one of them upwards, he buried his shoulder in the torso of the sergeant, knocking the air out of his lungs. The unnamed Major seemed unconcerned, even amused, but he made no move towards his weapon.

“You won’t try to stop me, Major?” Letho asked, his breathing a bit hasty, but his stance serene as he pointed his blade at the only person that remained standing in the proximity.

“Why bother? There’s more then you can handle at the Hall of Justice anyways. Hell, I’ll even escort you to it.” The Marshal didn’t buy this sudden benevolence no more then he bought the complete indifference.

“Sure. I hope you don’t mind if I insist you walk in front of me.”

“I do mind. I’m not your captive. I’ll walk beside you,” he said, strolling past the unconscious soldiers with hands joined behind his back. “I’m afraid we weren’t properly introduced. I am Major Killian Jahaad.” The graceful Major extended his gloved hand to the ranger, but Letho refused to take it, holding his blade at the ready and his eyes at both the man and the surroundings as they walked.

“Why this sudden change of heart? A minute ago you were determined to stop me,” he asked instead as they walked down the cobbled roads. Beside them, the majestic estates of government officials seemed groggy, caught in the gray slumber brought on by the gloomy weather. Multi-stories manors surrounded by meticulous gardens rested behind the stone-and-iron fences, forming a rather monotonous background in which only a several figures moved.

“I still am. But I’m not much of a fighter, I’m afraid. Consider me somewhat of a facilitator.”

“A facilitator? Of what?”

Killian Jahaad merely smirked, his beardless face sporting one of those wiseass smiles that always irked Letho to the point where he wanted to erase it with his fist. “We are here,” the Major merely said, stopping and directing his eyes forwards.

Before them was a long stretch of stairs that were at least several hundred paces wide, leading upwards to a series of ivory columns that supported the offshoot of a roof of the Hall of Justice. The structure itself wasn’t weighed down with an overabundance of details, but even in its cold, gray frigidity it was imposing, towering above them as if it was the house of the gods. To Letho’s surprise, there seemed to be no guards present, and yet he was still rather reluctant to take that first step. Once he finally did, steeling his own resolution and assuring himself once again that he was doing the right thing, each next step was easier, taking a load off his shoulder. At half-point up the stairs he almost felt as if he could dash to the entrance. It was then that his soaring spirits were brought down.

From behind one of the columns a ghastly figure appeared, a specter clad all in crimson with no distinguishable face in the abysmal depths of his hood. He – or rather it – walked with utmost equilibrium, each step the same as the next one, each motion serene. But even if Letho hadn’t noticed the inhumane tranquility of the red-attired man, he was still positive that he was about to face the member of the Scarlet Brigade.

The Scarlet Brigade. The goddamn Scarlet Brigade. The Marshal dealt with their members once already, but he was fortunate enough to be allied with the pair of these mystic warriors. They were unlike anything he ever witnessed on a battlefield, machines set on destruction that designated each and every weakness of their enemies and exploited it in the most efficient manner. They were the crème de la crème that Corone had to offer in means of warfare, nameless warriors of immeasurable might. Goddamn gods.

“Bull. Beneath all that fame and telltales cloaked in that scarlet cloak, there is flesh and bone and muscle. And flesh can be killed.” Letho fortified his courage with these words, his feet taking him up the stairs tentatively now, making him circle around the Scarlet Warrior. He flanked the crimson-attired man and he didn’t even move. He completed the half-circle, coming on top and behind him and still there was no movement. By standing still, this speechless wight of a man allowed the Marshal to take a superior, elevated position. “He’s either a cocky bastard or an insane one. Only one way to find out the truth.”

It was supposed to be easy.

It was supposed to be simple.

And it was.

Letho’s heavy sword came in a diagonal downwards slice, but the Marshal executed his attack with the flat of his blade, aiming to knock his foe out instead of killing him, although ultimately it didn’t matter. The hooded man didn’t even move; he shimmered, fading out of existence for that fraction of a second that took for Letho’s blade to pass through the vague scarlet outline. And even as he did so, the Scarlet Warrior materialized again, his hands grabbing Letho by the wrists and, using his own weight against him, twisted it in a manner that sent the Marshal in an uncontrolled forwards somersault. The bulky swordsman landed on his back roughly, still holding to his sword, but the bastard did his vanishing act again. And before Letho had a chance to react, he could hear the sound of the bone cracking. Only when the impulse from his forearm reached his brain did he realize that it was his own bone that snapped under the foot of his foe. The pain was unthinkable, overcoming his entire body with a cold shiver, exploding in his open fracture and rippling through his nervous system, making him clench his teeth so hard that he thought his jaw would snap. Stubborn as he was, Letho endured, insisting on the movement of his left hand that fished the dagger from the scabbard at his belt before lunging one final attack.

This time he managed to make a long tear in the crimson cloak of his opponent. And then his face detonated with pain and he neither saw nor felt anymore.

“Too fast,” were his last thoughts. “The bastard is just...”

[Christina Bredith]

Christina continued to fight her so-called brothers-in-arms, subduing as many as she possibly could to end the massacre. They did, of course, far outnumber her and so the going was slow, but she was making progress. None of her attacks were kill-strikes, though; she meant to subdue them quite literally. That didn’t make the going any easier, but it was the only thing she could bring herself to do. Even if the soldiers were committing one of the most heinous crimes she had ever seen in all her years as a Coronian, which were indeed all her years of life, they didn’t deserve death. There had to be some kind of misunderstanding at work. Surely they were just following orders, right? That didn’t endear them to her, but at least it would be an explanation…

Some minutes later, after Christina had made her way to a new area of the crowd in order to stem some of the bloodlust, she felt a sharp shove from behind and fell forward on the ground, just barely catching herself with her hands. A sharp wave of discomfort rode up her arms, but she shrugged it off out of necessity and prepared to roll over. Whoever had pushed her had other plans. A boot met her right side, and its owner shoved her onto her back. Christina expected to see a Coronian soldier ready to aerate her neck, so she prepared to swing the flat of her blade at his leg and throw him off balance.

However, her attack fell short as she found herself looking up into the eyes of a ragged young man whose outfit was far from CAF standard. He was dressed in a white cotton shirt and brown pants, and held a farmer’s pitchfork in his hand, which was reared back to strike at her. Her eyebrows furrowed at first, and then her eyes widened as the realization dawned on her.

“Wh—what are you doing?” she demanded, unable to even move because she was paralyzed with shock. Why was she being attacked by this Giselan? She was helping them! She was subduing the soldiers that were massacring them!

“Army bitch! Those people were innocent!” the boy shouted. Christina could see the muscles in his arms tensing as he prepared to strike.

“No, you don’t understand—!” But apparently, her choice of words was not the best, for they meant something entirely different to the Giselan than they were meant by her. The boy’s eyes hardened and he reared back one final distance. She knew he would strike in just another second. Her body took over for a moment, allowing reflex to command her where thought could not. Letting out a scream and closing her eyes, she leaned back, pressing her back entirely against the floor, and then pushed the lower half of her body up with one leg while driving the other one directly upwards. Her high heeled boot slammed into the boy’s chin, and there was an eerie crack before the boy fell backwards. His head was now twisted at a disgusting angle and Christina was somehow sure he was dead.

Regaining consciousness and control, Christina stood up slowly, muscles tense and shaking. She couldn’t believe what she was seeing. That boy was not the only one with hungry eyes aimed at her. The citizens of Gisela were just as bloodthirsty as the soldiers were! Had she not seen it before? Perhaps it had been viewed as self defence… the Giselans had that right, did they not? But now that she had seen their real desires, what was really behind those weary eyes… this was far beyond excuse, even for them.

Now the woman was thrown into a fury, and everyone was her enemy. A soldier preparing to deal a deathblow to an unarmed citizen would receive a swift, disarming kick, while a Giselan brutalizing a soldier beyond necessity obtained no greater mercy. Anyone fighting, anyone at all, may as well have been wearing a cloak of scarlet before an enraged bull. Christina was going to put a stop to this riot, and she didn’t care whose ass she had to beat to do it.

For the next several minutes, the red-clad woman danced like a whirling dervish, using Rosebite’s whip form to subdue anyone she saw. She was easily more talented at combat than any of the Giselans, and was at least a match for any of the CAF grunts that had been deployed here. Only if they really teamed up on her would they offer much resistance, but none of them could afford such a sacrifice in the midst of this chaos.

Now that her fury was unleashed, Christina found that the going was much easier. There was only one hold barred: the death grip. She didn’t kill anyone if it could be reasonably avoided, because she was trying to end the bloodbath, not exacerbate it. In a normal situation, her enemies would receive no such courtesy, but today, her enemies were also her countrymen, and she had faith that Letho would yet put things to rights. She was counting on him to do what she could not.

The minutes turned to hours and the fighting continued, but it was visibly dwindling. The crowd was thinning; rioters and soldiers alike were retreating. Some had woken up from unconsciousness and found themselves in no condition to fight; others retreated to nurse their wounds. And yet there were still so many corpses to step over and fight around. So many men and women that would never wake up again. Too many, Christina knew. Was this the extent of what she could do? Even with her best intentions, it had come to nothing. It was unreasonable for her to think that she could stop this on her own, but even so, the thought remained: Why am I so weak?

Finally, the blonde had had enough. She faced a large group of rioters, fire burning in her eyes, and brandished Rosebite. Many of them had seen her furious fighting earlier and paused, only momentarily; but it was enough. “Scream!” Christina swung the blade in a wide arc, and her opponents had given her the necessary berth, but it was not enough for their sakes. A familiar burst of blue energy erupted from the tip of the sword, tracing a path through the air exactly symmetrical to the one she had drawn. It screamed like a sonic boom, deafening those unfortunate enough to be its prey as it barrelled them over.

The damage, and perhaps the intent, was done. When those rioters that could still walk got up, they ran. Those that could not showed no more sign of resistance. And then, having released most of her energy, her fury, her will to fight, Christina faltered. She fell to one knee, holding herself up with Rosebite. She knew she couldn’t rest yet, and yet she was so tired. So tired of the chaos. So tired of her own inability to stop it. So tired…

[Izvilvin]

The scene degenerated quickly. Izvilvin had witnessed the beginnings of the battle, the first signs of blood and anger, but all too soon it became more than that. Humans fought so savagely, he thought, almost like primal beasts, looking to tear into their foes with tooth and claw. The ground was stained.

The citizens were nowhere near helpless, but despite their great number, Izvilvin could see they were outmatched. The guards were armored and gripped steel swords, with which they smacked aside the makeshift weapons of the Giselans. One after another, the humans fell, and the Drow could feel conflicting emotions raging inside of him. The citizens needed help or they'd all be cut down, but at the same time, they were out of line.

He couldn't stand alone for long, however. A lone Drow standing at the side of a huge battle was an inviting target for all, especially considering how uncomfortable most people were with Dark Elves in their city.

Surprisingly, it was a guard, not a citizen, who attacked him. Izvilvin couldn't fathom why, but didn't worry himself over it. The human was clad in heavy iron armor, including a helmet, greaves and gauntlets. Two green eyes peered through the shadow of his helmet to peer at Izvilvin, who drew a sai into each hand as the human came in.

The human said something. Though Izvilvin obviously couldn't understand it, the tone surprised him. It was angry, almost vengeful, though he hadn't done anything to bring on that kind of emotion. Before he could contemplate it, the human rushed him with his sword.

It came from up high, dipping down in a deceptive stab that could have easily fooled a lesser warrior. Izvilvin dealt with it easily, almost playfully, catching the blade between the main prongs of each sai and directing it far aside. He could have followed through, but didn't, and the guard collected his blade to try again. A slash, this time, and high. The Drow ducked and smoothly drifted past the human, dragging one of his sai along the flesh just inside his greave. The guard gasped and fell to the ground, trying to stand on a leg that would no longer support him.

That event alone decided his side in the struggle. Any guards who weren't already occupied came at him.

The first slid left and came at him with a sword. Izvilvin dodged easily and thought to counterattack, but the human had brought his blade back too quickly. A second guard came to his right, and the Drow found himself flanked. He kept his cool, backing up so that his behind touched against the fallen merchant stand.

Communicating amongst each other, the humans sprung at once, one attacking low and one attacking high. With the stand behind him, it should have been impossible for Izvilvin to dodge, impossible for him to avoid his legs or head being severed.

And yet it was not.

Somehow he managed to duck one blade and parry the second, lining both sai up so that the heavy sword was stopped by his small weapons. He then somersaulted over it, breaking away from both guards to stand ready a few feet away. It all happened in a moment's time, and put a look of surprise on each of the humans' faces.

They came on strong again, and he was ready. This attack was not quite as unified, but still left him little opening. What opening there was, though, he seized. The Drow smoothly avoided both attacks by a half inch, one blade soaring past his ear and one across his midsection, and both sai flashed. One dipped into the pit of an arm, and one cut a deep gash along the other man's side. Both men were injured, and he did not stay around to deal with them any further.

Time passed and Izvilvin fought for the citizens, though it was only because of circumstance. Eventually the fighting dwindled and the marketplace's population thinned. People were dead all around him. Blood ran through the cracks in the pavement.

It was over before he'd even noticed it was diminishing, and only then did he notice the scratches he'd recieved, none of them serious. The marketplace was almost empty, and those who had remained were leaving now. Izvilvin hadn't seen where the guards had gone, but as he looked over the many corpses, he imagined they didn't want to stick around and push their luck.

He looked among the dead, scanning their ranks with his lavender eyes. Eventually he spotted a figure in the distance, crouching rather than laying among the others. He recognized it as Christina, and a big part of him was happy to see her alive.

A slow walk brought him to her side, and he collapsed to his knees, sliding his bloodied sai into his belt. He let out a deep breath and sucked a new one in.

"Good?" he asked, looking at his bloodied hands. It was one of few words he knew how to say in common, but when turned into a question, he made some sense of it. They couldn't have been doing good, he knew. He desperately wanted some word, some reassurance from Christina, though he was fairly certain she couldn't give him either.

[Letho]

“How many dead?” Letho asked, his back turned to the door of his cell while his eyes gazed though the barred window that overlooked the main square of Gisela’s inner city. After his duel – if it could even be called that – with the man in scarlet, the Marshal was taken to the citadel of Gisela, to be confined in one of its towers and wait his day of reckoning with the Tribunal. A healer tended to his wound, set the open fracture back in place and immobilized it with a wooden arm-shaped contraption, but the ache of the broken bones was still very much present. Sometimes it throbbed like a living, breathing thing, an entity bent on bringing him misery in spasms; other times it was a constant ache that seemed to spear through the marrow of his entire arm, climbing up like a serpent all the way up to his temple, forcing him to close his eyes and brace himself.

And pain wasn’t even the worst of his troubles right now.

“We counted over four hundred so far,” Captain Marran responded. The weatherworn soldier was the only one who deemed important to visit the apprehended ranger and update him on the events that unfolded at the marketplace. There was even a tinge of regret and compassion in the veteran - the former for the lives lost and the latter for Letho’s which was bound to be lost as well – but the Captain of the Radasanth Guard hid it well. “Thirty-seven of our own, the rest are mostly locals.”

“So many...” And it wasn’t even the final tally. Even now, as the Marshal looked through the window of his modest prison cell, a number of carpenters were working on the wide wooden gallows, their work further expedited by the stern eyes of the armed guards. They were preparing the venue for even more meaningless life taking, setting it up for those found guilty by the Tribunal for the assassination of the members of The Assembly. Unlike them, Letho Ravenheart wasn’t bound to meet his end at the Gisela gibbet. Because he was employed by the Government of Corone Republic, his Tribunal would be the military one up in Radasanth, but he doubted that the final judgment would differ from the one said to the folk that were to be executed in Gisela. Treason was treason, regardless of the rank, class or the justifiably of the committed acts.

“How did it come to this?” the dark knight ruminated, clutching to one of the bars as his right arm seized up with violent pain again. It was too dire too be a coincidence, too awry to be just a glitch in the system, and too wrong to be right. And regardless of how much he dwelled on the facts, Letho couldn’t come up with an explanation fur such rigorous processing. Eventually, he always harked back to Myrhia and the concern in her words that tried to dissuade him from taking this mission. She knew that something would go wrong; maybe she didn’t even know that she foresaw it, but in some unfathomable way the redhead knew. And he failed to heed her warning. Now people were dead, more had the meeting with Death pending, and he was bound to join them once he was delivered to Radasanth.

Did the he regret his decision? Yes. Not because he failed to make a difference in the end, winding up utterly obliterated by the soldier of the Scarlet Brigade. Not even because he would die like a traitor despite the fact that he only ever fought for both law and freedom. Those were the things Letho would’ve done regardless of the odds, regardless of the outcome; it was his job, his duty... his creed. The only regret was that, when Myrhia kissed him goodbye back in Willowtown, when she pressed her timid lips against his own and held them there for a lasting kiss filled with yearning and desperation, the Marshal didn’t return it with the same ardor. It was supposed to be a routine mission after all; what could go so terribly wrong to keep him from reuniting with his lover? It was a silly notion, a selfish way of looking at the current development of the events, but it was the only manner in which the Marshal could think right now. Stripped of rank, with his honor tarnished and all his effort lost to the official brand of lawlessness, what was left for Letho Ravenheart but to cling to the only source of purity that remained in the begrimed Republic of Corone?

That afternoon, with the sun outlawed from the cloudy sky, the condemned suspects from all around Yarborough were hanged, the act slamming a final nail in the coffin of the liberty that was always so prominent in Corone. It was an unceremonious act, as silent as a dagger in the night. Even when the levers were pulled and the necks snapped at the weight of the bodies, the modest crowd of locals remained speechless, witnessing the slaying with a wide variety of expressions. Some were angry, stifling the fire that wanted to burst out of them. Some were sorrowful, weeping their eyes out as their fathers, mothers, sons, friends twitched as the noose squeezed the last bit of life from them. Some were indifferent, out to watch the show before hitting some of the local taverns to hear the latest gossip. But somewhere beyond their exterior, somewhere within each and every citizen of Gisela, there was a profound feeling of disappointment. Because for once, in the realm known for its heroes, there was nobody to right the wrong.

[Christina Bredith]

By the time Izvilvin reached Christina, she was kneeling on the cold, bloodstained ground with Rosebite across her lap, and she looked serene; in fact, almost meditative. The placidity of her features belied the turmoil within, though. No matter how hard she tried, she could not make sense of the day’s events. There was no way it was just coincidence. There was no way it had turned into this purely by chance… was there? And yet, grasping at that thread proved only to confuse the tangled web even further, for indeed it answered little.

When Izvilvin crouched beside her and spoke his singular word, Christina could only chuckle. It was little more than a puff of breath through her nose, but there was amusement there. Amusement tempered strongly with disbelief and confusion. The woman looked at her dark elven companion, silver eyes a tumultuous maelstrom, and she shook her head slowly, serenely. “I wish I knew.”

The woman faced forward again, staring off into the horizon. Somehow, when she looked northward at the snow-tipped mountains with the sun shining high in the sky to her left, Christina could almost forget the pits between the cobblestones on which she sat, which were now crusted over with blackened blood. Somehow, she thought, she could sit like this forever. If she never moved, she would never have to remember. The future was a valley where angels themselves feared to tread, descending further and further, she knew, into the bowels of hell. Here, at least, she could find some semblance of peace.

But through all the chaos, she knew one thing: she felt no real regret for what she had done. She had lifted her sword against her countrymen, but it had all been for the sake of that country. The fate that awaited her now was set in stone, but at least she would face the noose with no remorse. That would have only come if she had stood by and done nothing. There comes a time when everyone must face a choice between death for one’s ideals and a life of shame; Christina now knew the answer.

By the time the major and his crimson-clad companion arrived with their battalion of loyal knights, her resolve was steeled. “Christina Bredith. Izvilvin Kazizzrym.” Major Jahaad’s voice was mechanical and proper, and perhaps there was a measure of delight in those scripted words. “You are hereby placed under arrest for treason against the republic of Corone.”

Christina turned to Izvilvin with a soft smile and leaned in to whisper in his ear. “Don’t resist them. It’ll be all right. We’ll get through this.” She knew he wouldn’t understand her words, but perhaps the intent, sealed with a phantom kiss on the cheek for one whom she now felt was a loyal friend, would mean enough. The woman took a breath and stood up slowly, grasping Rosebite in her right hand. As she turned, though, she made no aggressive move, but simply returned the sword slowly to its leather scabbard. Admittedly, Christina hid a measure of surprise at seeing the Major’s companion. “The Scarlet Brigade,” she said, impressed and quirking a brow at the silent death-machine. “I guess I should be honoured.”

“There is no honour in what you’ve done,” Jahaad responded, lifting his chin and fixing his eyes on hers with steely determination.

Christina’s own narrowed. “And who are you to talk of honour, major?” She spat the last word with such contempt that one might think it burned her tongue. “You shouldn’t use words you don’t understand. It makes you look stupid,” the woman continued. One corner of her upper lip tugged upwards in a satisfied but loathsome smirk. “Well. Stupider.”

Major Jahaad grimaced at the verbal blow, but otherwise retained his composure admirably. He knew he had the upper hand here. The words of some traitorous wench would change nothing in the end, so he would let her have her little laugh.

“Where’s the marshal?” Christina inquired after his silence.

“Serving out his last days,” the major replied with a satisfied smirk. He expected to get a reaction out of Christina with that, but received none. She had already guessed as much. If anything, there was a twinge of happiness, of pride, inside her, because now she at least knew that he had fought too. She had expected nothing less. “Would you care to join him?”

Christina let out another puff of amusement. “Even the rats of a jail cell make better company than I’ve got now,” she said bitingly, and then added as an afterthought, “Drow excluded.” The major chuckled at the double insult and glanced at a pair of soldiers behind him, who stepped around their commanders to apprehend the convicts.

“You might choose your words more carefully, Miss Bredith,” Jahaad cautioned haughtily as his subordinates reached Christina. “That tongue will not serve you well in Radasanth.”

“Funny,” Christina responded, “I didn’t realize the executioner would care. And you’ve obviously done away with the judge and jury already.” One of the soldiers reached out to take her arm, and Christina slapped his hand away, smiling sarcastically at the boy. “Thanks, but I’m a bit old for a chaperone.”

As the blonde proceeded to move forward slowly and deliberately, folding her arms placidly in front of her stomach, the soldiers saw no further need to subdue her. She marched quietly in the midst of the CAF squad, led by the ominous Scarlet Brigadier, and offered no further resistance, nor words of wit and insult. If today was her last day, and those were the last words she would ever get to say, she was satisfied with them just as they were.

I suppose it’s a good day to die. But this humidity does nothing for my hair…

[Izvilvin]

Christina's response was strange, Izvilvin thought, and yet it wasn't. How else could she react, considering the events of the last two or so hours? He almost chuckled too, but could only bring a slight smile to his face.

He heard the Major and his squad coming long before they arrived, but he didn't bother to turn and look at them. Christina leaned in and whispered something he couldn't understand, but a slight brush against his cheek reassured him somewhat. However they handled those who were approaching, they'd be doing it together. Finally, he stood and turned, his arms crossing his chest.

More than himself, he was worried about Christina. He owed no allegiance to Letho, who despite his attempt to put Izvilvin's anger to rest, had put him in a cage for keeping the interest of the group at heart. The blonde was a capable warrior, and her sword-whip was a devastating weapon, but there were several foes before them. Izvilvin could always use his Icarus Ring to escape, if he desperately needed to. Where would that leave Christina?

Still, as he looked at her, Izvilvin couldn't help but feel confident. She was capable and strong, and even the tone of her voice put strength in him. The woman had no fear of death, he saw, and it inspired the Drow.

The red-clad one stood out to him the most, and it was easy to see why. The figure moved with a strange grace Izvilvin had never identified with a human. The Drow's keen eyes could almost pierce the darkness of the Scarlet Brigade's hood, but all he could make out was a faint outline. For no real reason, he let an inviting grin cross his face. The hooded figure didn't respond in any way.

Finally Christina moved forward, after just a bit of prodding. Izvilvin put both hands near his weapons, but she continued without any aggression from either party.

The soldier who'd grabbed at her arm looked away from her and to the Drow, whose strong lavender eyes merely stared back. He didn't want to follow along without a fight, and didn't understand why Christina would go along. It was for her safety, and that reason alone, that Izvilvin let his hands slide away from his sai.

As final as the walk through town felt, especially as he watched the steaming corpses drop past them, Izvilvin had the lingering feeling that he wouldn't be leaving Corone for some time even though his contract was up.

((Spoils: Gold!?))

[INDK]

First of all, let me apologize for the delay. I really have no defense, other than that the thread is really long and I’m a busy guy. I hope the comments make up for some of this. In general, I can’t say I really liked this thread. It felt like a lead in to something else, but unlike an intro such as The Phantom Menace, it wasn’t all that strong as a story in and of itself.

And the total is 76!

Storyline

Continuity: 9.5. A very strong area for you guys, though this largely came at the expense of pacing.
Setting: 8. The forward here was an excellent way of creating setting. The fact that it reminded me of the text in a Star Wars movie had me hooked on this thread from the beginning. In general, this was a very strong area for you guys.
Pacing: 5. Some of the forshadowing was a bit heavy handed in the forward. Also, while I really liked how much information you gave me about your characters, at times less is more. To an extent, you can leave certain things to the imagination, and I felt at times you could have just as well done that with your characters. Christina was particularly guilty of this, though the fact that Christina is such a wonderful character must make it particularly hard to resist sometimes. Another problem I had was, I felt that you all could have played off each others posts a bit better. A lot of times one of you would start to raise the tension in the thread, only to be hurt by someone else starting at a slightly earlier period in time. Izvilvin was a bit less guilty of this mistake than the other two of you, but it was a problem all around.
Most of all, I have to say that this thread didn’t really feel paced well at all. To an extent, this felt like the first chapter of a novel, where the big payoff is yet to come. There was far too much exposition given the plot. The only reason I didn’t go lower is that you all have such wonderful characters and that managed to entertain me.

Character

Dialogue: 8. I find Christina’s dialogue to be particularly entertaining, because you do such a wonderful job at making it so unique to her. Izvilvin and Letho were certainly no slouch in this category themselves, but Christina really took the cake.
Action: 7. I would have scored you a bit higher in this category, but I couldn’t help but feel that a character like Christina Bredith didn’t have a plausible reason to be there during any of this adventure. In most other instances, I had few problems, and I was particularly pleased with the way that Letho thought through being a commander. Izvilvin did a really good job in battle, because the strategy employed seemed a good match for his skills.

Persona: 9. One thing that I really liked about Letho’s writing here was how well he was able to tell the reader about other people’s characters while he was talking about his own. All of you did a good job in giving me details, but I found this ability of Letho’s to be particularly worthy of praise.
Writing Style

Mechanics: 9. Very strong all around. No real comments or problems.

Techniques: 7. All three of you have your own techniques and favorite literary devices. The only thing I can really recommend is trying to move a bit out of your comfort zones and use techniques that help you tackle some of your weak areas. Letho, you could benefit from using more metaphor in your imagery, especially if that helps you with brevity. I’ll give you an example, this isn’t from one of your posts, and is intentionally exaggerated;

Bad: The ground was really hard, the frost had been there for quite some time, and it seemed like the ground was as solid as a rock. Children could no longer go out to play, because the frozen dirt would often puncture a child’s toe. Bob found it to be a really bad day
Good: Bob hated days like this, when the ground was as cold and sharp as a frozen razor.
A few less details, but it may be more effective. Keep in mind an author is guiding the reader in a story and letting his or her imagination do the rest.
Christina, you could benefit from alliteration or consonance, as long as they are not overdone. Izvilvin, in your case, I would recommend a bit more imagery, especially from Izvilvin’s perspective in battle. This can often be overdone, but when done correctly can serve as an important metaphor for a character’s motivation in battle.

Clarity: 6. The main reason I’m taking points away here is because there was no real sense of the important in this thread. I didn’t have trouble understanding what you said, but I had trouble trying to figure out what I should take away.

Wild Card: 8. I really want to mention that I was quite impressed with how well two males played such strong female characters in this thread. Myrrhia has always been a favorite of mine to read, and Christina is approaching that territory now too.

Spoils
Izvilvin receives 5225 EXP and 600 GP
Letho receives 5600 EXP and 600 GP
Christina Bredith receives 2300 EXP and 500 GP

[Cyrus the virus]

EXP added!

Letho levels up!

Thanks Shyam!