We Mighty Few

[Sir Mir]

Closed to Elijah Morendale, Eher Moi, and redford.

Sir Arnau Mir's day started well before dawn, as it always did. He scampered around his family's home, which was made from a small box and a piece of tin that some humans had discarded shortly before he'd married his wife. It had been filled with bottles of some foul-smelling liquid at the time, but with some ingenuity and work, the mice had moved it to within a quick scurry of both the King's residence, where Arnau reported to his superior, and the Aerie, where Arnau reported each morning for work. Since he'd received his owl, he'd usually been sent out into the fields to keep an eye over the rural mice in the kingdom, attack snakes, and keep away feral cats, voles, rats, foxes, and any other creature that thought a mouse might be a delicious snack.

On this day, however, he and two others were to fly out to an abandoned human graveyard. Rather, they were being sent to some catacombs beneath them. More than ten years ago, a group of brave mice had fought a valiant, desperate battle against undead rats and demonic vipers, while humans had faced the corrupted corpses of their own kind. Every mousling with its ears open knew the story of their mighty ancestors, despite it being ancient history. There had been no rumors of movement from it since.

Until now.

"Arnau!" Magola's musical voice called down to him from the nursery; he must have disturbed one of the babies when grabbing the night's soiled linens. "Arnau!"

"On my way, dearest," he called back, putting the shaken sheet in with the laundry and sweeping up the mess for later disposal. He washed his paws in the kitchen, where Maggie ran a larder of cold meats, fresh and dried fruits and vegetables, as well as grains and nuts. He grabbed her a generous piece of walnut before scampering up a twig and turning into the sleeping quarters. They comprised the entire top third of the box, with six chambers - each fully five inches square - reserved for children, a four inch square nursery, and a gigantic, nine inch square master chamber for himself and his wife, at her insistence. Naturally, furniture and a closet for her dresses filled a lot of the space, but sometimes, the modestly-born Arnau found it a little overwhelming. But such were the requirements of his position.

He squeezed into the nursery, where Maggie was nursing their five day old litter, and handed off her breakfast before gently nuzzling the top of her head. Maggie was descended from pet mice who had escaped only a few years ago, and she still had the coloration to show for it - a bright white coat that nearly glowed. "Is there anything I can do for you before I have to leave the burrow?"

"You could not go, Arnau." Maggie looked up at him, whiskers trembling. "It's so far, and who knows what you might find. You have a family to think about. What will become of us if you never return?"

Arnau sighed. Usually, Magola was fine with his excursions, even if they took him from the burrow for a night or two. Of course, usually he was traveling with four or five other members of his company, instead of with a mercenary and a member of the Black Talons.

"Maggie, if I am struck down in the line of duty, you and our children will be well provided for, and perhaps your second husband will have the good sense to keep his paws on the ground." He reached down and ran a hand over his second litter's only male infant, smiling a little at the feeling of soft fuzz that was only starting to grow in. "Our Isobel and Gabriella will be over while I'm gone to help you with the babies, and at the latest, I swear to you I will be back to you by dawn tomorrow."

Arnau bent down to rub noses with his wife, briefly but passionately. "I love you, and I will return."

With that, he had to leave urgently, so he hurried to his room, where his armor hung, squeezed into it, and rushed out the door, dropping the trash at the dump on his way out. He took more than a minute to reach the Aerie, dawn chasing him all the way. It an old chicken coop that the mice had repurposed for the owls they kept, and so far it seemed to suit them well. He arrived only just in time to meet with his compatriots.

"Good morn, gentlemen. Any more news before we must be off?"

[Eher Moi]

Gliding gracefully through the clouds and open air of Corone’s beautiful blue sky line, a lone Pigeon flaps effortlessly in the cool breeze as it makes its way across the lush green fields of Corone. Unnoticed in the mornings solace as mile after mile disappeared behind it, yet this was no solitary journey.

Sat upon the Pigeons back, in a makeshift string harness, a small brown mouse clings on for its life. Unnoticed and hidden from view between the feathers and flapping wings, the swooping bird would seem completely alone, yet it was not ignorant of its passenger.

“Hang on Eher Moi!” The Pigeon shouted out to the mouse. “Were almost there!”

The ride was rather relaxed for the grey Pigeon, long slow swoops with brief flaps to rise once again into the wind, he couldn’t have a slowed any further. Yet for such a small field mouse, it was like riding a hurricane, every swoop threatening to lift him out of his makeshift harness and sending him falling down to the land below. There was only ever one ending that way.

“Oh gosh I hope it comes soon!” Eher Moi bravely replied, his tiny ears tucked in and his dinky black eyes scrunched up shut as he tried not to look down. He had done this many times, but he had failed to get used to it. Maybe it was the height, or maybe it was how poor his harness was, but he never felt safe.

Taking a little peek through the windswept grey features of his flying chariot, Eher Moi could see his destination ahead. An somewhat wrecked old abandoned farm, showing its age and heavily over grown by nature itself. Perfect for the meeting of mice.

They swooped down one final time, arching around their planned landing spot, a small bald clearing to the side of an old stone wall.

"Heading for the wall." The Pigeon cooed moments for the landing.

Eher had his eyes closed again, he was yet to experience a bad landing, but the back of his mind was always fraught with nerves. He felt the cushioned landing, the Pigeon a master at his craft as his tough feet gripped the wall edge with great precision. Wings now folded back, Eher became visible on his back, clinging on rather awkwardly.

"Okay, I can walk to the coop from here."

"No no, let us just fly in!"

Eher clung on again, he wanted to argue but he had no time to untie his harness as the his friend, John the Pigeon, often leapt to his decisions before thinking them through, or waiting for a reply from his comrade. They lifted off, gliding low from the wall without fear or concern of danger, then landed within an old chicken coop.

The old chicken coop, left along with the rest of the farm, was now converted and used by the Mice regularly, and featuring their own Owl friends inside. It was always odd being stared at by Owl's but even now they appeared to be confused by Eher's arrival. It wasn't every day a mouse arrived on the back of a Pigeon.

He untied his string, unhooked his belt, and dropped to the straw covered floor. It often felt disconcerting to be watched by the Owl's regardless of their big black eyes and white faces, Eher was a mouse, and he felt like food to them. Eher dusted himself off, stroking down his hair and returned himself to his clean mix of colourful browns. His little ears sprang back up, and his nose twitched with excitement.

He was here for another job, and he always looked forward to a challenge. Noe loose from John the Pigeon, he re-buckled his belt and checked his belongings.

Pouch with food...Check! Weapons...Double Check! Myself...Triple Check!

Turning around, he stepped to the edge of his ledge, nodded to John, and then hung over the edge. Dropping down to the next level, he skipped through the straw and approached his destination.

The grouping mice gathered a little further in the hay littered coop, whispers of excitement and adventure reached his ears, and Eher proudly stepped forward.

He always enjoyed an adventure, and the rewards were always worth the challenge. He quickly did one final check of himself, ensuring he was neatly presented an then stepped into the group.

"Good morn, gentlemen. Any more news before we must be off?"

They were certainly smarter talking than Eher, but while that could be a little intimidating, he wouldn't be fazed by it, and when the going got tough, Eher most certainly held his own.

[redford]

“Light, sir?”

John looked down at the well-dressed servant and shook his head a little, snapping his fingers. As he did, the end of his cigar began to glow, and the giant sucked the rich aroma into his mouth, casting his gaze around the room again. Gilded furniture sat in an anteroom, padded with finery and pillows whose price John could only guess at. A tapestry hung on one wall depicting some old family patriarch, his stern brow constantly disapproving. John’s look glided lazily across the room until it came to rest on a sword, out of sheath, hung above a hearth. It was a finely made hand-and-a-half sword, with steel polished to a mirror shine, and soft leather around the handguard.

The metal giant had not forgotten a single piece that left his forge, and this one was no different. He admired the beauty and the lines, but a sword always looked better in battle, or with a few nicks in the blade. The steel was good, but it was not a sword for display, it was a sword for battle.

The voice of the servant jerked him from his thoughts.

“My Lord will see you now,” he said curtly, holding an open door into an office. John stepped through, ducking his head so as not to hit it on the doorframe. Before he could get his bearings in the new room though, he heard another voice.

“By the gods! Look at you, just like they said you were!”

A portly man was quickly rising from his large and ornate desk, walking quickly around to the half-giant, beaming with excitement. He was large for a man, perhaps a little older than John himself, and his beard packed dense with closely-cropped black hair. His face was rounder than most as well, the food afforded by his station was seldom lacking.

“They said you were….but I didn’t realize…” he balked for a moment before gathering himself quickly, extending a hand.

“Eli Marks, at your service,” he said as John took his hand. John had once heard that when people shook his hand, it was like watching their hand disappear into a golem’s fist.

He responded, the old Salvarian greeting coming to his lips unbidden. “Sir John Cromwell, at yours and your family’s,” he said, nodding.

There was no fear in the other man’s voice as he spoke, nor any hesitation in his step as he pointed out a bench for John to sit on.

“You are just the man I needed to see, Sir Cromwell.”

John mentally noted that he would be refusing any offer of coin for a sword. He had a perfectly good one sitting a room away, though it was unlikely that said lord even knew of the skill that went into his blade. An old teacher had once told him, ‘tools for battle are not trinkets’.

“I need someone to take care of a nasty problem with undead that’s been developing in the catacombs to the south of the city. I’m told you do good work, if the coin is right, yes?”

John arched an eyebrow, looking up from his cigar. Not many things piqued his interest as much as mercenary work. The work of blacksmithing was good, but it was tedious and repetitive, regardless of the extravagance of the work. Adventuring was, for lack of a better term, fun.

The half-giant formed an ashtray from his armor, tapping the spent portion of his cigar into it. If the dead were rising, then someone or something was raising them.

“Hmmmmm. Do you know the source?”

“We think it’s due to the recent burial of Madrogh. He was known to practice evil magics, and we think he’s got himself turned into a lich.”

A lich. Even people who knew how to kill them (Which were few in the first place) avoided conflict with their lot.

But, John didn’t take to mercenary work because it was safe. That and he knew how to kill them.

“Killing a lich is risky business.”

The lord opposite John smirked. “Killing a lich is lucrative business, Cromwell, and killing this one will make you rich,” he said, punctuating the end of his statement by jangling a purse of coin he had sitting on the desk. By the sound, it was quite a bit, and it captured the half-giant’s attention for a moment before the lord spoke again.

“That’s half, you’ll get the other half once the lich is dead.”

John grunted, a little in surprise, a little in disbelief, before speaking again.

“I don’t suppose you know what its phylactery is?”

“In fact, we do,” the lord said, rifling through papers on his desk before sliding one over. Upon it was a drawing of an amulet, with a ruby the size of his thumb (which is an incredibly large thumb) set in an engraved golden setting on a silver chain.

“That, is his phylactery. I have it on good report that this was his prized possession, and most likely is his phylactery.”

A pendant indeed.

As much as liches were powerful in magic, they were usually haughty and prone to the hubris that befell them in life.

“Hmmm. So be it.”

The lord’s eyes brightened and he smiled broadly. “Splendid!” He tossed the bag of coin. “I shall have a horse brought round for you.”

John smirked a little. “No good, I’ll walk.”

“You refuse my hospitality?” The lord looked genuinely surprised.

His smirk widened as he stood. “Unless you like your horses crushed to death, I’ll walk.”