The Price of Freedom ~ Part II

[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.

Tribunals were formed specifically for the process of questioning these suspects. Governed by the inscrutable Inquisitors, these relentless courts presided in all the major Corone cities. Many were brought before the justice of the tribunals, commoners and royalty alike, wheeled in like brigands in steely cages. In an unforeseeable turn of events, each and every one of them was found guilty for treason and sentenced to death by hanging. Some communities rebelled, others submitted silently, but no insurrection was more sanguineous then the one in the city of Gisela, where the outcry of the public was quietened by the blood of over three hundred rioters in an incident that would later be known as the “Gisela Massacre”.

Seeing these outbursts of violence as a direct assault at the stability of Corone, the remaining three members of the Assembly decreed that the current democratic government was too weak to fight the domestic enemies. The current system was abolished to make way for the uprising of the new power; The Corone Empire.

But there were some who resisted...

[Letho]

PROLOGUE


There was irony in the way things turned out in the end. Letho Ravenheart, Marshal of the Corone Rangers, who but a week ago led one of the convoys that escorted the suspects, now found himself on the other side of the iron bars. Confined to a cage with a handful of other military personnel that refused to take part in the Gisela carnage, the legendary swordsman was being transported to the Corone capitol. The unappeasable Tribunal would’ve roped him up with the rest of the condemned, but unfortunately for them and their insatiable thirst for retribution, Letho was an officer of Corone Rangers. As such, the only court who had the right to decide on the repercussions of his infractions was the military one in Radasanth. Not that there was an actual chance that they would be any more lenient then the Inquisitors and their burlesque courts. Not after what he had done.

“Yeah, like it did any good.” It certainly felt like the dark knight squandered his valor in this particular case. He rushed into the inner city the very moment he heard the verdict, cutting through a squad of infantrymen, gullible enough to believe that he could make a difference. Reality struck him at the stairs of the Hall of Justice, where the man-demon from the Scarlet Brigade defeated him with remarkable ease. Letho wound up with a broken arm and a two-by-two cell, watching the folk he fought for lose their lives, believing that everybody abandoned them, the Marshal included. It was a thought that devastated him over and over again, haunting him with those moments of doubt which he had disregarded, with those decisive points where he could’ve made a different decision. Where he shouldn’t have chosen duty.

It was this blind, unheeding duty that led him where he was now, trucking down some road on the brink of Concordia forest, trapped in what the locals dubbed the “Death Coop”. The rain pelted down from the gloomy sky in annoying fat drops, but by now they were all so used to being drenched to their skin that Letho noticed it no more then he noticed those who shared his fate. He recognized most of them though; Howard Deline, the jittery greenhorn that constantly looked at the bulky swordmaster with questions seeping from his eyes, trying and failing to track down the reason for what was happening; Christina Bredith, a rambunctious Valkyrie who managed to maintain her distinctive foible despite their current situation; Ilynn Arimetis, his broad shoulders slumped, looking like he wouldn’t mind being back at his father’s farm right about now, shoveling manure. The rest Letho didn’t know by name, but they all sought answers in one way or the other, and he had none to spare.

Shifting slightly in his uncomfortable spot within the cage, the ranger winced at the pain in his immobilized arm. Back in Gisela, the prison healer was kind enough to make him a tea that doused the ache, but they’ve been on the road for three days now and the pain was coming back with a vengeance. It was mind-wrecking, robbing him of what little sleep he’d been able to get within the cage, draining him of strength both physical and mental. It was like a toothache, always present, always pulsing through his nerves, and thrice as fierce. Letho did a good job at concealing it though; he put on his brooding mask and tried to distract himself with other thoughts. But those always led to that point beyond the horizon where his eyes fled even now.

North by northwest, that was where Myrhia was. Currently, he couldn’t see farther then the next grassy knoll, the rest of the scenery evanescing beyond the radius or some two hundred paces. But he knew that she was there, in their house on Willow Hill, sitting by the window perhaps, watching the melancholic rain drool down the glass while she waited for his return. Or perhaps the news reached her already, the news of her man being a traitor, and her stunning emeralds were wet with tears. Those were just some of the scenarios Letho’s mind cerebrated, generating a series of images that anesthetized the pain in his arm, but brought on the one in his chest, the obscure kind that no healer could remedy.

However, eventually the Marshal’s mind would complete a full circle and return to the issue around which every head in the cage was currently wrapped, bringing acrimony in tow. They were the ones who were betrayed here, by their comrades at arms, by the system, by the bureaucrats up in Radasanth that formed these wretched tribunals. They were the ones paying the price for following duty that transcended the orders written by some politician. And yet, all their efforts amounted to nothing; hundreds had died in Gisela, thousands across the entire realm. Liberty was murdered in its sleep.

And they were just whispers in the wind.

[Christina Bredith]

Christina may have looked as calm and at ease as someone who was not about to be judged by a corrupt Tribunal and ultimately put to death, but her mind was not quite so placid. While she sat on the floor of the cold cage, leaning her back against the bars and crossing one leg over the other with her arms folded across her lap, she looked off into the great beyond and thought hard on how their world was changing.

Did the woman really regret the fact that she was going to die? She was torn on that matter: half of her did not want to live to see the ultimate spread of the corruption that was even now infecting Corone, and the other half had an insatiable urge to correct it, no matter the cost. The Corone Empire, they were calling it now. Christina’s response the first time she heard that news was an amused snort. From republic to autocracy in the span of one bloody day. Liberty really was murdered in its sleep.

It all seemed so surprising. Then again, perhaps with a little hindsight, the events of the past few weeks sounded a clear and ominous death knell for freedom and democracy. The tribunal responsible for the executions of the so-called murder suspects made their decision regardless of public outcry. The army was allowed – probably instructed – to put down the rioters instead of subduing them. It was almost like the former republic had anticipated what would happen. But the Gisela Massacre had gone too smoothly, hadn’t it? Letho and the few others in this cage were among the only soldiers that actually took issue with those orders. Why hadn’t any of the others questioned their actions? How could they follow their commanders so blindly?

It was a big question, but Christina eventually realized that there was no point in pondering it now. From this “Death Coop,” as the locals so lovingly dubbed it, she wasn’t going to get any answers. Even Letho didn’t seem to have any, and if that was the case, there was little hope for the rest of them. Perhaps, then, there was one regret that was tied to her impending doom: leaving this world in ignorance of the big picture. But they say that in death all life’s questions are answered; at least the woman had something to look forward to, then.

As Christina’s silver eyes flitted from prisoner to prisoner, she couldn’t help occasionally shaking her head and looking quietly toward the ground outside over her shoulder. Her own death was something she freely accepted; she had fought to defend something, and she failed, but at least she had made the effort. But some of these people were just children. They had probably been taken from their family farms to earn a little extra money from the army before returning home, and now they would never get that chance. While part of her tried to justify matters and ease her discomfort by thinking that these greenhorns were better off not seeing what Corone was about to become, the rest of her couldn’t come to grips with that. She wasn’t sure she could come to grips with it for herself, either. There was still much that needed doing. If they died, who would put things to rights? Who would make this “Corone Empire” a mere page in future history texts rather than a full chapter? No; the men and women in this cage were the only ones who possessed the desire, let alone the ability, to change things.

In that same manner, Christina’s thoughts tottered back and forth like a mental see-saw for long portions of their trip through the rainy forest. So very often she didn’t know whether she wanted to live or die, correct or ignore, fight or surrender. On the one side they were presented with the almost insurmountable wall that was the futility of their actions – nothing they had done and nothing they could do seemed to amount to anything. But on the other was the gaping chasm into which the whole of Corone would fall if all remained apathetic to this wolf in sheep’s clothing.

And so, the blonde warrior finally grew restless. She uncrossed her legs and stood up, beginning to pace from end to end of the cage while supporting herself on its bars, as much as free space would allow. Occasionally she mumbled quietly, though not quite often enough to suggest insanity; vocalizing one’s thoughts is a good way of sorting them out. She couldn’t give up now. None of them could afford to. They were dead anyway – why not go out in a blaze of glory? If their deaths could at least inspire a generation of change, instead of being suffocated in obscurity, then wouldn’t that be worth it? I don’t know about you, Christina thought, eyes shining, as she glanced at the others, but I’d sure as hell like to be remembered for something.

The only question that remained was what could be done. What opportunity could they exploit, what steps did they need to take? Was she alone in this – were the rest of them resigned to death, like she had been not long ago? It didn’t matter. She would do what she needed to do one way or the other. But without her weapon and trapped inside an iron cage, the blonde’s choices were few. She couldn’t even rally her comrades into action, not with their armed escort within breathing distance. Still, she had confidence. Something would rear its head and she’d take advantage of it.

There was a fire burning now in this soul that an execution and a little rain weren’t going to douse.

[Izvilvin]

Izvilvin's stay in Gisela's prison was remarkably short, lasting less than an hour. He, like Christina and Letho, had been thrown inside for fighting against the Giselan guards during the marketplace riot. Izvilvin's choice had been one of circumstance; he attacked the guards because they had assaulted him before the civilians had. He, unlike the others, was under the impression that the hung humans were guilty, but the Giselan population disapproved of the punishment. If he'd known that they were innocent, things would have been different.

He'd been pulled from the prison by a guard and set free, as if someone had paid his bail. Izvilvin knew that prisoners locked up for treason didn't get bail, so only one answer was clear to him. The letter in his hand confirmed it, as his eyes ran carefully over the Drow text.

Letho Ravenheart dies.

The letter said more with the words that weren't written. If the ranger escaped or somehow lived, Izvilvin needed to finish the job.

It was blunt, the Drow thought. Of course, it made perfect sense to read. Step was a Corone organization, perfectly suited to the whims of an empire more than it was to a gentle republic. The group was always used by Corone's more stronghanded leaders, so it was clear where Step would remain in the new empire.

Letho needed to die, and Izvilvin understood. It was that or Izvilvin himself would be killed. The Drow was watching him now, his keen eyes piercing the rain and observing the cage as it moved along the dirt road. Perhaps Letho was off to the gallows now, Izvilvin thought, in which case all he'd need to do was make sure the human was hung. An easy enough solution, except for one thing: he didn't want Christina to die too.

She'd been kind to him, considerate even. Humans rarely showed anything but coldness to the Drow, so when he was shown some kind of warmth, especially from a woman, Izvilvin felt a need to return the favor somehow. Beyond that, she had an air about her that he admired. It'd be nothing but a shame to let her die.

Now he was faced with somewhat of a dilemma. If he wanted to save her, he needed to make his presence known. If he wanted to let Letho die without exposing himself, he needed to keep his distance.

He was out of the sight of human eyes, he knew, but all the same he steered his black mount down the ledge he was on. He'd watch, for now, and make a move only when he had a clear picture of what was going down.

Behind him, the shredded remains of the letter were pummeled by the rain.

[Letho]

CHAPTER II
~
The Highwaymen


“Help! Please help!” a desperate voice rose above the perpetual sound of the pelting rain. The owner of the voice looked like a local yokel, a lanky farmer caked in mud almost from head to toe as he and his raggedy mule struggled to pull a cart that got bogged in the mud beside the road. The cart itself was covered with a tarpaulin, but from a single glance that Letho spared on the mishap of the farmer, he assumed it was empty because there were no goods falling out of it. Lethargic and melancholic as he currently was, that single look was all that the Marshal spent on the accident in front of the convoy before returning to his thoughts that went back and forth between remorseful and angry.

The leader of the assemblage that escorted the prisoners – the suave young Major that introduced himself as Killian Jahaad back in Gisela – seemed reluctant to bring the convoy to a halt. But once the mucky man stepped in the middle of the road, flailing his arms like a crazy person while his voice repeated the plea, the Major lifted one of his hands and brought the procession to a halt. “What’s going on here?” the mounted soldier asked, looking down at the unfortunate peasant.

“A revolution,” the man said in a hushed tone, his smirk concealed by the grime on his face as he reached for the headgear of the Major’s horse.

What unfolded after those two words was a genuine blitz that caught the two dozen of Corone Armed Forces with their pants down. The awning of the slanted cart was yanked off to introduce half a dozen benighted archers, their figures rising up with arrows knocked in their bows. Another ten seemed to sprout from the sopped earth beside the road, five on each side, all of them camouflaged with grass threads and moss that formed a green suit made out of flora. They all loosed their missiles at the same time, in sync with the muddy yahoo that tugged on the reins and forced the horse to neigh and get on his hind legs, effectively unsaddling Major Jahaad. More then a dozen were mowed down with the first salvo. The rest of the CAF troops tried to brandish their weapons and rally around the cage, but the second volley was just as relentless as the first one, downing them before they even got a chance to react properly. And in a matter of seconds, the ominous outlook that led towards a ceremonious hanging in Radasanth didn’t seem so grim.

“This is not the work of locals,” Letho thought, rising up from his seat and approaching the bars to scour the aftermath. No, these men were too efficient, too skillful to be some random villagers that decided to stand up against the newly formed Empire. His suspicions were confirmed once the dirty peasant approached the cage, wiping the filth off his face to reveal a hard, callous face of a middle-aged man with a crew cut and a two-day, salt-and-pepper beard.

“Marshal Ravenheart!” the man said, fishing the keys from the pocket of the dead carriage driver and unlocking the cage. “I am Edward Stormcrow, one of the leaders of the Underwood Contingent. I have to admit that we expected more soldiers guarding such a famous man.”

The puzzle started to piece itself together in Letho’s head. Of course, they were Rangers, that would explain the fancy shooting and the presence of Edward Stormcrow. The Marshal didn’t know the man personally, but he heard of his endeavors just as Edward probably heard of his. “Fame is overrated,” Letho said, jumping out of the cage and landing with a muddy splash and a jolt of pain in his immobilized arm. “Underwood Contingent?”

“Aye. We managed to stop the Tribunal from doing their bloodwork in Underwood,” the veteran ranger said as the rest of his troops gathered around the cage. “They made a mistake of staging this during our annual meeting up in the headquarters. Now we hold Underwood, several other towns in Concordia as well. But there will be time for talk later. We need too...”

“Damn you, Edward!” a shout interrupted the gray-haired ranger. Behind the man’s back, Major Killian Jahaad regained his footing, looking genuinely peeved. “You just had to throw me down in the mud.”

“It had to look real. Besides, you were in the line of fire,” Edward said, not taking his eyes off Letho, but nodding towards the CAF soldier. “I believe you already met Major Jahaad. He was the one that got us the information about this convoy.”

“A traitor?” Letho said, not necessarily as a question, not with the acrimony that was prominent in those words. Regardless of which side they were on, the Marshal couldn’t stand people who sat on two chairs, changing sides with absolutely no faith in any cause except the one that would serve their own ends. They were the lowest of the low for him, even if they deflected to his side.

“Such an ugly word.”

“But a fitting one nonetheless,” Letho insisted. “You could’ve helped me in Gisela and you didn’t.”

“I could’ve helped you do what? Get yourself killed? We were outnumbered in Gisela. It was a lost cause,” Killian said.

“We?”

“Enough!” the aged Marshal put an end to the bickering, his rugged voice adding weight to his exclamation. “We need to get out of the clear and into the forest. Arin, Gandes, gather the horses,” he called a pair of camouflaged rangers before turning to the bulky Marshal again. “We hoped you would be joining our rebellion.”

It was such a simple proposition, and yet Letho didn’t give an answer immediately. Rebellion. By its very definition, it was an opposition against the authority, and authority, regardless if it was corrupt or not, always had numbers on their side. For every rebellion that gave birth to freedom there was a dozen that was extinguished in blood, a dozen that burned to the ground together with their ideals. It was like swimming against the current of a fast river; sometimes you managed to reach the shore, but more often then not you wound up plummeting down some waterfall. And Letho was done with plummeting. He was done with fighting the losing battles and taking others in consideration before himself. Before Myrhia. All they wanted was a quiet life, a simple life, and if Corone couldn’t offer that to them, there were other lands that could. Raiaera was supposedly fair during this time of the year.

Climbing into the saddle of a chestnut steed, Letho Ravenheart looked over those gathered before muttering: “To hell with your rebellion,” and spurring his horse, sending it in a trot across the field. One of the archers automatically knocked an arrow into his bow, aiming to shoot the Marshal down before he was out of range, but Edward’s hand steadied the man.

“Let him go,” he commanded. “He has some business to take care of first.”

“What about the rest of you?” the ranger then addressed the liberated soldiers from the cage. “You can ride into Underwood either horseback or within that cage over there. The choice is yours.”

[Christina Bredith]

As the ride dragged on, Christina found herself critically short of ideas. The major problem was that she lacked the one thing that had even gotten her this far: her special runesword, Rosebite. Without it – hell, without at least something blade-like in hand – she was about as useless as the horses dragging the cage, though at least they were serving a purpose. It wasn’t that she was surprised or cursed her luck to find herself disarmed; the fact that they would strip the group of their weapons was a given. That didn’t change the fact that she had precious few options without it.

Sitting back against the bars of the cage, near one of the younger male escorts, Christina stretched out her body in a very obvious display and yawned in a way that melded cuteness and allure in a way that only a woman can. Punctuating it with an almost-squeak, she murmured, “I feel just about naked without my sword.” Christina turned over her shoulder to catch the young man’s eye, pouting out her lower lip. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And maybe… that could be arranged if I had it back?”

Much to the blonde’s chagrin, the hardened escort did not take the bait. He merely glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, raised an eyebrow – whether for interest or amusement she couldn’t tell – and resumed his duty. Miffed, the woman turned back around, plopped herself down on the cold, hard steel floor, and crossed her arms. “Tch. Your loss, pipsqueak.” But now she was back at square one, a rusted sword encased in stone - good to no one.

The first crack in that stone broke with the cries of a helpless old farmer flailing his arms as he attempted to stop the caravan. Of course, Christina didn’t know it yet, but at least, she figured, the old coot would provide some entertainment. The oh-so-valiant major stepped up to demand what was the matter, and then… Crack. All hell broke loose. The blonde hardly knew what was going on by the time the CAF escort was downed, turned into barely-breathing pincushions by the arrows of an unseen force. Bandits? Christina thought, wondering whether this was good news or if they were about to be smoked out of this moderately-cozy frying pan they were already in.

In the lull that followed, the men introduced themselves as Corone Rangers, and Christina’s spirits brightened considerably. Rangers! she thought with delight. The Marshal’s men have come to save us! Just as she thought, an opportunity had presented itself. They had allies now. The odds may have still been stacked against them, but what fun is the game if there’s not a little challenge?

It was one magic word, for good or ill, that swept the blonde’s mind clean: rebellion. This was what she was hoping for, wasn’t it? This was what she had been planning for in that rotten cage. Even so, she could feel her heart leap into her throat. Was it anticipation or fear? Well, it was natural for it to be both, wasn’t it? It was a risky venture, after all! A little fear was to be expected – and besides, it would only add to the excitement! Christina was prepped to raise her hand and delightedly squeal her acceptance, but –

“To hell with your rebellion,” Letho muttered before cantering off on his horse. With those five words, Christina could swear she felt something shattering in her heart, something that had once been vibrant and colourful like stained glass: her resolve.

“M—Marshal…?” she whispered, turning to where he was already fading from view. The woman extended her hand slowly, but retracted it with a pained expression as if bitten by a snake. Letho… was running? The man who had guided her, taught her… inspired her? It seemed impossible to come to grips with the fact that she might not be fighting alongside the Marshal in this. As he faded beyond the barrier of trees on the outskirts of the clearing, Christina suddenly felt uncomfortably alone.

Edward’s question resounded like a clear bell in the emptiness of the woman’s mind, drawing her back slowly to coherency. “I…” For seconds, Christina wavered back and forth. Her enthusiasm felt like it had been fed to hungry wolves. And then her inner fire roared. Wah wah wah! it mocked. The big bad Marshal ran away, so you’re going to turn tail too, huh? That all you can do? Follow in Mommy’s and Daddy’s and Letho’s footsteps?

No, Christina knew that wasn’t what she wanted. Just as Letho was done fighting the losing battle, she was done fighting it only because someone else was too. It was time to take a step forward on her own two feet – not just in the simplistic, every-day sense, but in a very real one. Her faltering resolve stiffened, and her face was its mirror.

“I’ve had enough of cages for one lifetime, thanks,” she spoke with renewed confidence, stepping forward into the group of strangers. “Got room for me up there? I prefer chestnut, and nothing too ballsy.” Spare horses were at a premium, but Christina found room sharing a chocolate-brown steed with one of their less-grimy saviours, while the other death-row-escapees saddled themselves up as well.

“To Underwood, then,” Edward announced, nodding his head upwards once everyone was strapped in. “You’ll be briefed and re-supplied once you’re there.” The rangers took off at a quick trot, heading east to the bustling little forest-town.

Thanks for the party, Marshal, Christina thought as she clung to her ranger companion and rode off into the Concordian darkness. Smiling quietly to herself, the woman hadn’t even noticed Edward Stormcrow breaking off from the group and heading in the same direction in which Letho had vanished. Perhaps they would see each other again sooner than she dared imagine.

[Izvilvin]

The rain had become something of a white noise for the Drow, who relied on it to calm his heart. If only Fallien had provided such a thing, a cleansing shower from the sky that helped keep the spirit strong, Izvilvin could stay there forever and not feel the need to return to Alerar. Here he was, though, away from the land that had become his home, with no choice but to kill a man because he opposed an empire.

The Drow was a half-hour's trot behind the company, but could still see them perfectly well, his eyes piercing distances a human could not hope to see across. His horse, black as midnight, didn't seem bothered by the rain either, though occasionally Izvilvin would wipe the water from its brow. It was slow going in the mud, especially since he was not on the road, but he needed the high ground to follow the humans with his eyes.

Something about the appearance of the rangers, before they were revealed to be rangers, that was, put him off. When the expert archers took down the guards in two quick waves, Izvilvin halted his horse and focused on watching. The figures in the distance were tiny, but he could still make out details such as the movement of an arm.

Eventually Letho broke off from the group, bringing an interesting expression to Izvilvin's face. If the mark went off on his own, the Drow would have a much easier, and hopefully quicker, time dealing with him. Afterward he might even be able to persue Christina again and make sure she was safe. Izvilvin suspected she was already in good hands, especially when she willingly mounted a horse and set off after them, but he wanted to be certain.

He spurred his horse into movement again, directing it carefully down the edge of the high knoll and onto the road. Just beforehand, he noticed one of the archers, the one who had spoke, he recalled, heading across the plain in the same direction Letho had gone. Edward might end up being a problem, but Izvilvin knew that he and Letho, on the surface, were still allies. Using that could save him from a bad situation.

The black horse pounded across the road, its hooves slinging mud as Izvilvin closed to distance between himself and the direction Letho had gone. In a few moments he reached the empty cage, the fallen horses, and the fake caravan. From there he looked across the plain where Letho had gone, took a deep breath, and got his horse to charge in that direction.

[Letho]

Letho was positive that he made the right decision... or at least those were the words that he kept reiterating in his mind in hope to allay the rotten feeling that crept into his gut like a snake. But the ride to Willowtown was long and the words that were supposed to justify his action were losing power with each pound of the hooves against the boggy soil. Was it guilt that was eating him? Or was it just the pride that reared its head and pounded on the Marshal’s chest from the inside, desperate to come out and do what it thought was right? Perhaps it was a bit of both. However, every time he would juxtapose this shadow that crept over him to what waited for him in Willow Manor, the result made him proceed down the same road.

He was no true hero, nobody was. Regardless of what the fairytales said, nobody sacrificed himself for somebody out of sheer benevolence of their heart. There was always an agenda, a reason, a drive that made that person persevere and rise against the odds. Sometimes it was patriotism, other times fame... or love. Letho was running a bit short on the first – Corone, after all, wasn’t even his true home – he was pretty damn sick of the second and the third waited for him in Willowtown. Perhaps it was a selfish way to look at the current situation, but selflessness seemed futile at this moment. This little revolution that the Rangers were staging wasn’t to be long-lived if the Marshal got his facts straight, and he was pretty sure he did. Even if Edward managed to rally all Rangers to his cause – which was impossible – they were still vastly outnumbered, sitting in the middle of the woods with military threats from three sides. Perhaps the CAF and the Empire would have a tough time conquering the Concordia Forest, but they would conquer it eventually. This rebellion was on shaky feet from the get-go; all the Empire needed to do is lean on it until it crumbled.

So maybe Letho Ravenheart wasn’t selfish at all, just rigorously realistic.

It was a notion that kept him from changing his mind, that kept him riding northwards in spite of the pain in his arm and the disquieting feeling in his gut. Once he struck the road again, his advancement was faster, taking him through the curtain of thick drops and edging him closer to Willowtown. It was a miserable ride, filled with doubts and deliberations, but eventually, just as the gray twilight started to descend onto the sopped world, he could see the Willow Hill cresting over the quaint town. The town itself hasn’t succumbed to slumber yet, but it was definitely getting there. The streets were utterly vacant save for an occasional scurrying peasant that tried to get from one porch to the next without getting too soaked. It came as no surprise then that sparse were the ones who noticed a solitary dark rider trotting down the stretch of the main street and proceeding up the slope of the hillock on top of which a rather modest manor stood.

A burnt-out manor.

At first he thought it was just the lack of illumination that painted the house with the grim black colors, but the closer he got, the more obvious it became that there was something terribly amiss. By the time he noticed that his home was incinerated and barely withholding structural integrity, he was forcing his steed into a ferocious gallop. “No,” was the only thing his mind came up with. “No, no, no, no, NO!” The arc that the weeping willows formed over his head was like a tunnel at whose end there was nothing but darkness. The manor was a ruin, its wooden façade charred, its windows broken inwards, its wraparound porch crumbling on several places. But the house was not what Letho was worried about.

The bulky Marshal nearly fell out of the saddle and into the mud as he dismounted, sprinting towards the front door. He looked clumsy running with one of his arms immobilized, but that didn’t stop him from crashing through the slanted doors, bawling a name. “MYRHIA! MYRHIA!!” he called, trudging through the incinerated interior, tripping on the debris, falling, cringing at the pain, but proceeding to explore the rooms. He would find her, he feared, crumbled in some corner, burned beyond recognition, and it made his heart leap into his throat. Thrice he searched every room, and the fact that he found no trace of her brought neither dread nor relief to his mind. Still, it was enough for Letho to realize that it would be best to search somewhere else. But when he stepped out through the front door, he found himself looking down the barrel of a rifle.

“You came back,” the hooded gun-wielder said, her voice familiar to the Marshal. “I knew you would.”

“Where is she? Where is Myrhianna?” he asked, heedless towards both the identity of his attacker and the threat that the rifle posed.

“Why should I tell you? Why should I do anything except put a bullet in your head after you killed my father?” It was then that the figure drew its hood back, but Letho knew what face was hidden beneath it. Sienna was the daughter of Edonas, a perky blonde lass with an eternal crush on the bulky swordsman. All affection seemed effaced from the lineaments of her face though, for once she revealed her visage, there was little doubt that she was ready to pull the trigger. Her father was the only family she had, Letho knew, and now the teen was robbed even of that.

“Because I didn’t know that they would hang him, or any of them for that matter.” The Marshal knew that the mission and the Gisela incident would come to haunt him. Except for a handful of people, everybody believed that he too was a part of those that extinguished the riot in blood after delivering the innocents into the hands of the relentless Tribunal. And he knew that there was probably nothing he could say to prove that he fought against the stringent orders.

“Well, forgive me if I don’t believe you, Marshal,” the youth growled, taking a step closer and bringing her hunting rifle at point-blank range.

“Believe me or shoot me. Either way, I’m not wasting any more time here, I have to find...”

“...your precious Myri?” Sienna finished for him, her blue eyes stabbing at him down the barrel of the gun like stingers. “You should try looking in that hellhole of a city you just came from. Not that you’re getting away from here alive. I will have my vengeance.”

“You should point your vengeance in a right direction then,” a gruff voice introduced that face that Letho knew by now. Edward Stormcrow swung around the corner of the manor, still half-covered in wet grime, with his bow at the ready, aimed at the blonde. “If it’s retribution you seek, it’s towards the Empire you need to point your gun. They killed your father.”

“But Letho...”

“Letho delivered him into their hands, yes, just like a great number of my comrades that had no knowledge of what was to unfold. Blame him for duty, blame him for shortsightedness, but not for murder.” The veteran ranger spoke wisdom, but it seemed to be wasted on Sienna. The resolve in her eyes was like adamantine, unyielding, indestructible, making her look much older then her seventeen years of age. Her gaze went from the man she grew to hate to the man who tried to reason with her, her fury negotiating with her intellect. Ultimately, the two seemed to find some common ground, making her lower her rifle. “Good. Now we can talk like civil people.”

“Did you do this?” Letho asked the blonde, gesturing towards the ruinous manor.

“No. The townsfolk did, led by major’s son. Your Myrhia left for Gisela before it happened,” Sienna responded, bitterness eating away her youth and making her sound like a grown-up.

“Then that’s where I need to go.”

“I wouldn’t advise that,” Edward said, returning the arrow into the quiver on his back before swinging the bow over his shoulder. “Gisela is in lockdown. All gates are closed or under watch, and anybody who wants to enter has to pass a rather thorough inspection. I don’t have to say that they’re not too fond of us rangers.”

“There has to be a way in.” Letho said, though he wasn’t too certain in the truthfulness of his own words. Even if he managed to sneak into the city, he still had to find Myrhia and get her out, and that seemed like an impossible endeavor even for him.

“There is. Join our campaign. Once we establish control over Concordia, we’re turning our eyes on Gisela.”

The dark Marshal allowed a muffled chuckle. “Join your campaign? I may be rather young, Marshal Stormcrow, but I’m not stupid. You need manpower to wage a war. You don’t have any. This new Empire is in control of the CAF and the Navy. You need fundings. You don’t have any. The main treasury is locked in Radasanth and you’ll get little help from Tylmerande barony. You need tactical position. You don’t have any. Concordia is surrounded from all sides.”

“Perhaps. But you still stand better chances with us then you do on your own.”

Of course. It just simply couldn’t be easy. Even when he opted to evade the conflict, the conflict tracked him down and started dragging him right back in like a whirlpool. It seemed that the war that coursed through the blood of his ancestors served as a curse, forever forcing him towards the next big clash. It was becoming more and more clear to Letho that, regardless of how much he tried, he would never get a chance to play the role of the pacifist. With Myrhia locked away behind those high walls, he was left with no other choice but to fight. He nodded reluctantly, regretfully, wishing that Myrhia was with him. The world seemed more clear, more simple with her at his side.

[Izvilvin]

Thick as the mud was, it did not slow the powerful, determined bullet that was Izvilvin's horse. It was a gift from Step itself, a rare token from an organization that did not need to give presents, and it was of high quality. Driving through the mud was not unlike streaking across the desert of Fallien, but this horse was something different from the excellent steeds Suravani's Oasis bred, though he couldn't pinpoint why.

His hair, heavy and grey from the rain, bounced endlessly on his shoulders. His eyes were focused ahead and below, able to pick out the tracks of Letho's horse even among the mess of twigs and dirt. They were fresh and simple to follow.

He arrived at the burned manor and saw two horses outside. He could very faintly smell the charred wood, but knew it could be his imagination. Izvilvin could take mild guesses at who had done it, but they would all be far off from the truth. He simply didn't have anything beyond a basic sense of what occured back in Gisela, despite having been right in the middle of it.

Dismounting, the nimble Drow landed hard in the mud and swiveled to face the manor. He took light steps through the slushy ground, fighting the urge to draw a weapon. He was to kill Ravenheart, he knew, but even from so far away he could hear multiple voices. There was Letho's, which he recognized, and then one of a man and one of a woman. He couldn't kill the Marshal now, not when he was among others, but he needed to make contact.

The door bent easily to his touch and fell stiffly back into a half-closed position. Before him was Letho and the others, but the blackness of the furtniture, of the walls, struck him. Perhaps it was the same way humans were struck by his appearance, he thought, and gained a bit of understanding.

"Letho," he spoke aloud, not sure what emotion he should put behind the word. This was a man he needed to kill, a man who held a look in his eye that showed some kind of emotional vulnerability, something Izvilvin had not seen in him before. It was strange to look into the eyes of a man whose fate held one's own destiny.

"You are safe," he said, the usually soft syllables given a hard edge by his melodic voice. Drow was a rough language with jagged consonants, and Izvilvin hadn't yet learned to remove that from Common's soft s's. "Good."

His eyes moved from Letho to Edward to Sienna, paying them little mind, though he did find the woman beautiful somehow. She had a weapon he couldn't put a name to, though he'd seen things like it before.

Then, in Drow, not sure how to express it otherwise. "Is Christina safe?" It was a dual question, meant to get information on both Letho's stance with her and where she had gone. "It was hard to find your home, Marshal, but I'm glad you are here."

[Christina Bredith]

Corone was at war, but by the brightness in Christina Bredith’s eyes and the mirth on her lips, you could never tell.

In the short time since they had reached the Rangers’ outpost in Underwood, Christina had proven herself to be a beacon of light piercing through the dark times that surrounded all of them. Any fellow soldier who was sullen or grimly contemplated his fate was hard pressed not to be infected by the woman’s charm and good cheer. She had even made quite good friends with the elf, Lenwë – Coronian born and raised of course – whose horse she shared on the way here. The man, who was probably twice her age but didn’t look a day older than she did, had taken to calling her “amin lote areva” – my flower of sunlight, in the tongue of his people – in homage to her high spirits. High Elves were not as stuck up as she once thought, Christina had decided.

And for all her good cheer, it was obvious that she was moving on quite admirably despite the abandonment of her admired commander and the disappearance of a certain Drow she had become rather fond of in their weeks together. Though she missed the both of them, she was determined to keep her chin up, eyes forward, and spirits high. Already the woman had begun to integrate herself into the Ranger collective, making friends, telling stories, singing songs – these were the things at which a woman like her truly excelled.

This did have one unfortunate side-effect: her fellow men, whose only previous knowledge of her was that she worked with Marshal Ravenheart, had no particular reason to believe she was anything but a jolly, flaky blonde vixen. However, at their first meeting upon arrival in Underwood, she proved them wrong yet again with her sudden transition into dead seriousness. Most of them had never met a woman quite as enigmatic as she was. Full of mirth one minute and almost drained of it the next. There were indeed few women like her in the world.

“How long before the empire comes knocking at our doors?” she inquired near the end of the meeting, responding to a comment about their plans to eventually take back Gisela. Defending Concordia came first, after all.

Arin, one of the senior rangers but still beneath Edward Stormcrow, shook his head. “It’s difficult to say. At best, it will be several days before the Empire,” he spat that word viciously, “realizes that you’re all missing. By that point you will be several days late for your tribunal. Either way, though, our presence is well known to them. No doubt we’re little more than a thorn in their side at the moment, but we may have as little as a few days before they come… knocking, as you say. We can’t be sure who in Concordia was willing to brown-nose our new government. At any rate, we have a large power base in Concordia now and will be well-informed of any military advances.”

“Oh, good,” Christina said with a smile. “I hate when people are late for a party.”

Yes; full of mirth one moment and almost drained of it the next.

The meeting – more a council of war, really – had dragged on for some time about various minor tactical details, and now it was at last dissipating. Christina remained seated at the long, mahogany table while the rest of the rangers paced out of the room. Lenwë, brushing back his shoulder-length brown hair and fixing his silver eyes on the woman, approached and put his pale hand on her shoulder. “You should get some rest,” he advised. Christina at once loved and hated the way elves could sound young and positively ancient at the same time, no matter what they were saying. “We’ve a long day ahead.”

The woman smiled and nodded her head. “Right you are. Now take your own advice, you geezer,” she retorted with a wry, friendly grin. Before Lenwë was gone, she tilted her head and added: “64?”

Lenwë laughed jovially and shook his head. “Incorrect once again, lote areva. Our age cannot be as easily read as the rings of a great tree.” He smiled and nodded his head. “Quel esta.” And then he was gone.

But Christina would not sleep that night, not for many hours at least. In the darkness of the surrounding forest she practiced her art, witnessed only by the pale quarter moon, familiarizing herself with the steel longsword the Underwood Contingent had provided her. Each swing, each stab, each parry felt like an affront to Rosebite, as if she were cheating on the runeblade with some inferior harlot. It was only now, with her treasured blade in Giselan clutches, that she realized how connected she was with her old weapon. It was something greater, in an inexplicable way, than just the bond between a swordsman and her weapon.

But I have no choice, she reminded herself, redoubling her efforts. She wondered that the tree before her shouldn’t fall right down with its innumerable proofs of her practice. I’ll get you back. I’ll get Corone back. For Mama, for Papa, for Letho, and Izzy… for everyone.

Perhaps, Christina thought, she would train just a little longer.

[Letho]

By the time Izvilvin made his sudden reappearance, the trio was back inside the singed house, scavenging for anything that might’ve remained usable after the arson. Sienna and Edward were mostly bystanders though, loitering around the depressive interior while Letho sifted through the ashes. Primarily, the Marshal searched for some weapons – his entire arsenal was confiscated in Gisela after he was decimated by the Scarlet Brigade soldier – and so far he found only the heavyset composite bow. It was stashed away in a massive iron chest, where Myrhia’s weapons should’ve rested as well, but her spear, her twin daggers and her leather bracers were missing. His full plate mail, forged out of tough Cillu glass from the land of Fallien, was there though, but Letho couldn’t don it, not with a broken arm. Instead, he stuffed it in a rather large duffel bag, together with some extra clothes and a peculiar, ancient-looking key that he didn’t recollect acquiring anywhere. He was in the process of inspecting the unfamiliar key under the faint light of a petroleum lamp when the Drow uttered his name.

All three of them recoiled at the voice of the intruder, but only Sienna was jittery and wary enough to brandish her rifle, lining it up with the man as dark as the night that swallowed the landscape. She remembered the dark elf as a member of Letho’s posse, and needless to say, there was little fondness in her eyes. “You know this Drow?” Edward asked, examining Izvilvin suspiciously and keeping his hands at his belt, ready to draw metal if need be. There were many who wanted the Rangers dead and not all of them wore an Empire patch on their arms.

The tension was prominent, but only for the duration of several seconds that Letho needed to acknowledge the identity of the grim elf. Izvilvin maybe wasn’t a best friend – or a friend at all – but the Marshal heard the full report regarding the “Gisela Massacre” from Christina and others that had the misfortune of being caught up in it. And he knew that the Drow sided with the rioters, that he was one of the good guys. How he managed to escape imprisonment was quite a mystery, but it wasn’t one that Letho was keen on solving at this particular moment.

“Yes, he’s alright. He fought with the rioters back in Gisela,” Letho said, lowering Sienna’s rifle gently before approaching the dark elf. There was still some old beef between them, he knew, that drew roots from that one time when the Marshal locked Izvilvin in the cage for insubordination. But according to the Drow’s words and tone, it was water under a bridge. Letho’s mobile left hand clamped the shoulder of the dark elf in a gesture of greeting. “Good to see you make it, Izvilvin.”

Realizing that the white-haired elf probably couldn’t understand him, Letho continued in what he hoped was comprehensible Drow. “Christina in Underwood,” he spoke, letting go of the elf’s shoulder before gesturing to himself and the callous-faced Edward. “We go there now. Fight the...uhm...” The word for the empire or bastards or anything else that befitted their current enemies evaded the Marshal. Luckily for him, his veteran companion seemed to have much more experience in speaking foreign languages.

“...those responsible for the deaths of the innocents. Our headquarters are in Underwood. You are welcome to join our cause,” Edward spoke, his face tough and stern, still pertaining a portion of incredulity.

“Yes. Come on, there are many miles to Underwood.”

A gale welcomed them as they stepped out of the manor, slapping their faces with the combination of chill and moisture, but aside from its whistling sound and the tapping of the rain drops on any coherent surface, the night seemed dead. Farther down the road, the crowns of the weeping willows danced to the tune of the wind, their long thin branches moving in wavelike fashion. Their horses were restless, miserable, as tired as their riders of being sodden and ridden down the mushy roads. But once the trio climbed into the saddles, they snorted and lifted their heads readily, as if on some subconscious level they too knew that there was still a lot of ground to cover. The acrimonious teen blonde, whose inner child fell victim to the devices of the Empire, looked up towards the man that was once the embodiment of everything good in the world.

“You coming?” Letho asked her.

“Can you promise me vengeance?” she retorted with a question of her own, her pale face drenched by the torrent of fat drops that slipped down her cheeks like tears.

“No. I can promise you a fight, not its outcome. Will that give you satiation?” the Marshal asked, extending his healthy arm towards Sienna. She didn’t accept it instantly; her once beautiful face was contorted in a frown that made her both less and more attractive somehow.

“It will suffice,” she finally decided, shouldering her rifle and climbing into the saddle behind Letho.

***

It took them the entire night and most of the following day to reach Underwood. Edward took them down the paths that even Letho had no knowledge of, navigating through the dense forest unerringly, but it was still a lengthy and utterly uncomfortable journey. The rain found it appropriate to lower its intensity to a mild drizzle, but by then the four already had a thick canopy of leaves above their heads as protection against the elements. Twice they encountered rangers that kept to the trees and remained invisible until the very last moment, but the middle-aged ranger took them past unharmed by speaking the password to his comrades. They seemed better organized then Letho originally anticipated, and it was almost enough to spark optimism within his negative mind.

Almost. Because the deeper they ventured into Concordia, the stronger was the pull in the opposite direction. He was distancing himself from Myrhia, and even though he practically didn’t have a say in the matter, it didn’t prevent him from feeling like he was abandoning her. Tormented by this treachery, Letho, who was never the most talkative man, remained withdrawn into himself even further. Luckily for him, none of his companions seemed too eager to palaver. Izvilvin had a language barrier that he preferred not to cross too often. Edward was focused on getting them through the forest. Even Sienna, usually chatty and filled with questions, was locked in her own world. For a long while now she wanted to get close to Letho, she dreamed of being the position she was right now, her hands embracing him, his body pressed against her. She couldn’t even imagine that now that the moment finally occurred, she had to restrain herself from stabbing him in the back.

The double wooden palisades of the Concordia capitol were a welcome sight. They were just the first line of defense, standing before and after a deep moat. Last time the Marshal visited Underwood, the moat was as dry as gunpowder, but the last time he visited, Corone wasn’t caught in a civil war. Beyond the outer fence were mostly homesteads and small farms, but instead of farmers and stock, armed men patrolled the proximity. Windows were boarded up, fences reinforced with wooden spikes, turning the once quaint suburb into a warzone waiting for the assailants. Beyond this first defensive ring were the first and only real stone walls of the city, encompassing the core of Underwood. The ramparts themselves were rather unremarkable, twice as short and thrice as thin as those of Gisela, with most of the mortar falling off. It was rather clear the protecting Underwood wasn’t nearly as important as preventing the troops from actually reaching the heart of the forest. It was a viable tactic, Letho thought; in this war, Concordia was their greatest ally.

[Izvilvin]

Izvilvin didn't try to hide his relief when Letho said Christina was in Underwood. He'd been confident enough that she was among allies, but it was good to get some confirmation. The Drow would not have felt comfortable leaving the supportive blonde in the hands of men who would harm her.

When Edward spoke, his dialect a very accurate take on Drow, Izvilvin let a small smile creep onto his face. A simple nod sufficed to show his support, and soon they were outside. The warrior climbed up on his horse and rode off after the others, he and his midnight steed nearly invisible if not for his shock of white hair.

Over the night and into the next day, it occured to him how easily he had gained such admiration for the woman, and it made him feel foolish. How many times had he felt the cold sting of a woman's scorn? Only thrice since leaving Alerar had he helt an attraction to a human female, and all of those times, he'd been hurt. Once, with Rheawien, he'd been killed. Izvilvin recalled the feel of cold iron in his belly quite well, but no more than he did the uncaring glare in the half-elf's brown eyes.

It was a lesson he should never forget, but it pained Izvilvin to think that he'd have to shut himself off completely. After all, sometimes things ended up well. He had a good friend in Ira Shinkara, and they would have never come so far if he hadn't made the decision to trust her.

Christina was a trustworthy woman. The Drow had seen it in her eyes, heard it in her voice, but he had felt the exact same way about Rheawien. He would be natural and follow his instincts, Izvilvin decided, for that was as well as he could do.

He was able to spot the rangers as they grew closer, his eyes piercing the darkness. Edward seemed to have the situation well in hand, however, so Izvilvin said nothing. The night seemed to crawl into day, and he found himself eyeing Letho far too often. It seemed odd to have to kill a man he otherwise would fight alongside, but Izvilvin knew it had to be done.

*******

Their horses slowed to a trot and then to a stop when the group reached Underwood's wooden gates. Edward approached as Izvilvin looked carefully along the thick brown planks, looking for gleaming eyes in the cracks. The bridge that allowed passage over the moat was down, and likely only rose when enemies were approaching. He appreciated the simple, effective types of defense.

"Hail," Edward called when a face peered out from up top, a stern look painted upon it that did not go away even when Edward was recognized. The human's eyes went to Izvilvin, but showed to outrageous surprise. He then nodded and disappeared again.

A moment passed before the wooden gates creaked slowly open, and Izvilvin could see inside the town. It was populated even in the rain, even in the midst of an empire's rise. Something in the Drow's heart stirred, but it disappeared as quickly as it had come.

They made their way toward the heart of Underwood, where the warrior figured that they would meet with the leaders of the insurgants. Izvilvin felt like he was surrounded by enemies, which was probably truer than he thought. He put himself in the mind of a rebel.

[Christina Bredith]

A burst of morning light through the window of her room burned at Christina’s eyelids and roused her from her deep sleep, causing her to crinkle the bridge of her nose and draw her arm over her face to protect herself from the sun’s unrelenting gaze. When she was finally cogent enough to get a sense of her bearings, she realized that it was not an early morning sun that greeted her, but indeed a late one; it looked to be almost noon by her reckoning. She could also not remember why she was in this bedroom, wrapped in blankets – particularly because this was the first night she had spent in Underwood, and she didn’t even know her way to the bedchambers even now.

I guess I fell asleep outside, she thought with knot-browed embarrassment. She was still dressed, so that supported that theory. The woman pressed a neatly-polished hand to her forehead and winced again to fight off the last remnants of drowse. She was alone in the room, though it was clearly made for more than one person; as the only woman present among the congregation of Rangers right now, she had the cozy wooden space to herself.

Languidly, Christina swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat up, pulling herself out from beneath the woollen blanket in the process. She had that icky feeling one gets from sleeping in one’s clothes, but there was little she could do about it, since the only other clothes available to her were nightclothes purchased in town. She would just have to struggle through. I wonder if any of the boys made coffee.

But Christina had no sooner grabbed her sword-belt from the nearby dresser than one of the Rangers trotted up the hallway to catch her. “Marshal Stormcrow’s returned,” the man announced. His black hair was just long enough to rustle as he jerked his head in the direction of the main street. “I was told to come see if you were awake. Everyone’s to assemble to greet him.”

The blonde tilted her head and looked away, arbitrarily focusing on a corner of the room while she fastened her belt and searched her mind. Stormcrow. He was the one who led the group that saved them. Now that she thought of it, he had disappeared on the way back. She had just been too busy to notice. “No time to pamper myse~lf?” she complained sweetly before degrading into a yawn. While she covered her mouth, Christina nodded slowly. “Okay, okay, I’m coming.”

Well, at least the good Marshal had the courtesy to let me sleep, she thought jovially as she proceeded down the narrow hallway, a few steps behind her Ranger companion. She paid little thought to where Edward had run off to in the first place; he was the leader of this group so no doubt he was checking on one of the other Concordian villages. Now their bold leader had returned, and as an honorary Ranger Christina had to follow protocol and all that. If there was one thing she could do well, it was stand still and look pretty.

It turned out that the shaft of sunlight that woke her up came by chance alone – outside a dull drizzle fell, and the golden orb made its presence known only in small patches where the clouds mercifully relented. As much as Christina hated the rain, she had not had the chance to even brush her hair that morning, so a little natural styling would suffice. The raven-haired Ranger – who she noted was built like a stallion, and very good for the riding, if-you-know-what-she-means – led her through the lifeless crowd. Not one of Underwood’s citizens wore a smile; then again, why should they? The day was dark, for more reasons than just the weather.

But a few minutes later, when he and Christina arrived at the gathering site, at least one cheerful voice parted the rainy skies. “Izzy! Letho!” The voice was heard before her form was seen, quite easily amidst the town’s silence, and she had to slither through the front line of Rangers to get to them. The gathering was not large, as most of the Rangers in Underwood were patrolling and had more important things to do than this, but those that didn’t had assembled to greet their leader. The men had formed ranks on either side of the main street leading into the city; it looked like a procession fit for a prince. Christina could hardly have cared less about Edward, to be honest, but his traveling companions were a sight for sore eyes.

The woman rushed up to both of them, smiling brightly; if she could have leaped up onto their horses and hugged them, it’s likely that she would have done just that. She even had to refrain from jumping around too much for fear of frightening their steeds. Still, body language aside, her excitement was evident. “Oh, I thought I should never see you again!” The comment was obviously directed at both of them from the way her silver eyes danced between. Izvilvin probably still couldn’t understand a word she was saying, for all Christina knew, but that had never stopped her from conversing with him before.

“Enough,” the rusty-haired Arin spoke. He and two other leaders of the Underwood Contingent were standing front and center to greet Edward and his traveling companions. The man’s voice was quiet, almost fatherly but not reprimanding, and yet bulged with importance. “There is much to discuss.” He stepped aside to allow them passage. “Do you bring any news from the north? And who…” Arin fixed his forest-green eyes on Izvilvin and Sienna, looking perhaps a bit sceptical – “are your companions?”

It was only then that Christina noticed the gun-toting chicky riding at the group’s rear. She looked vaguely familiar, perhaps, but the bell didn’t ring clearly enough to sharpen the blonde’s memory. In either case, she had to admit that Arin was right. There was an unfortunate amount of bore to be muddled through that day, but at least the presence of Christina’s former companions would make it a little more bearable.

((So, I suppose it's best left to Letho to carry us through such discussions. He knows what's going on best of all, after all. ^^))

[Letho]

After practically spitting his rejection into the face of his liberators a day ago, Letho didn’t expect a warm welcome in the den of the rebellious Rangers. Such harsh words had a way of spreading through the ranks like a bad odor and they became particularly potent when there was some truth behind them. By now, the Marshal was fairly certain that he’d be portrayed as both a coward and an ingrate, but if there were some who thought of him as such, they concealed their disdain rather well. Not that Letho particularly cared about their heart’s content. The fact of the matter was that if Myrhia didn’t get locked behind Gisela walls and if his home hadn’t been burned down, Letho would be on his way for the closest port, hoping for fair winds that would take him and his beloved away from the tumultuous Corone. It was easy to play the heedless hero when you had nothing to lose. But when your life started to gain worth not only in your own eyes but also in the eyes of the others, chivalry took the back seat for survival.

However, once Christina came running towards them, all smiling and beamy, Letho couldn’t fight off the guilt that awoke within him. She was with him since the beginning of this madness, obeying his orders, finding reliance in him, sometimes even looking at him with those peculiar argent eyes of hers with a touch of admiration. And in the end she got to witness the selfish side of him. But just like the rest of the troops that lined up to greet them, there was no scorn on her face.

“You did?” Letho responded, ignoring the rigorous bronze-haired ranger and waiting for Sienna to dismount before he did the same. His fractured arm contributed to making the simple motion look almost clumsy. “This is the gathering place of outcasts. Where else would people like us go?” He spiced his words up with a smirk, a barely noticeable one that creased his hard face as his good hand touched her shoulder in a gesture of greeting. “It’s good to see you.”

“Marshal Ravenheart, I think we wasted enough time waiting for you,” Arin spoke, eager to cut this reunion short and get back to dealing with much more important issues. Edward agreed with him, but perhaps not with his manners. He was known to be a hard man, but Arin took hard to a whole new level where there seemed to be nothing but duty. That’s why Edward decided to give the stern ranger a short debriefing before proceeding.

“There are no news to bring from the north but the ill ones, Arin, you should’ve known that by now,” Edward responded to his comrade, patting the neck of his mount before it was led away towards the stables. “I have brought reinforcements. We ran into these two while...” The man paused, obviously reluctant to disclose what truly happened at the Willow Manor, looking towards the uncanny trio and the blonde misfit. “Well, suffice to say that we ran into them and they have joined our cause.”

“It’s a sad day when we get to call a black-skin and a green lass reinforcements,” Arin said. There wasn’t much to be read from his conservative, soldier-like posture, but his eyes spoke out, portraying both doubt and dislike, as they always did. “Come, others are waiting in the meeting room.”

“Good,” Edward said before turning to Letho. “The rest of the Marshals are waiting for us.”

Never an avid fan of reunifications, the bearded swordsman broke away from his companions with a nod before proceeding after the two imposing rangers. Compared to him, both looked so callous, so much more experienced, that it made him feel younger then his actual age. And that was quite a feat given the fact that most things and occurrences nowadays made Letho feel dreadfully old. He followed the pair through the tall double doors that led into the keep’s foyer. Unlike Radasanth’s or even Gisela’s citadels, Underwood’s seemed much more rustic, with simple floor tiles made of unhewn stone covered with simple greenish carpets that lacked the meticulous ornaments. The walls were mostly bare, their dull gray color looking even more gloomy under the natural illumination of the cloudy day that entered through the high arched windows.

“You three wait here. This meeting is for Marshals only,” Arin said to Letho’s comrades as they reached the end of the long hallway, once again finding subtlety unnecessary and speaking his words as an order. It took the strength of both arms of the pair of lightly-armored guards to open another set of massive doors, letting the three rangers enter what Letho reckoned was a ball room once upon a time. However, instead of prancing royalty with powdered faces and gay musicians with frolicky tunes, only grim faces greeted them, gathered around a heavyset table made of polished wood. There were eight of them standing around the collection of unfurled maps, snapped out of their debate by the entry of the trio. Most of them Letho didn’t know, but then again, chances were that most of them haven’t known about each other until just recently. Each Marshal was in charge of his own county and it took something drastic to cross the boundaries of their allotted region. Like a war.

Distinguishing himself from the rest by being the tallest and probably the fairest was Tenniel, an elf with golden hair dangling around his face in a series of tiny braids. He was the only one not dressed in shades of dark green and black, his ornate robes weaved with gold looking like something that befitted a wizard, and one from a wealthy family no less. “Ah, nice to see the three of you finally decided to join us. Perfect timing, if I do say so myself. We were just discussing the definition of a forlorn situation,” the pale-faced elf said with a smarmy smile that seemed unbecoming given the current situation.

“You should be discussing how to get out of one instead,” Edward said, approaching the table and pouring himself a cup of wine.

“But that’s what the predicament is all about. If it’s a forlorn situation, then there is no way out,” Tenniel said, his smug smile still on, annoying all present. Not Edward though; the two were a tandem long enough now for the veteran ranger to realize that his comrade would probably go to his grave jesting.

“Enough of these antics,” Arin put an end to the exchange. “We’re all here. It’s time to decide what we ought to do.”

“That’s just it; there isn’t much that we can do. We barely have enough troops to hold Concordia, let alone campaign towards the rest of Corone,” Tenniel said, his tone sinking towards more serious notes. “A good number of our rangers are still scattered throughout the realm, unaware of what is going on. Even if our birds reach them, it would take them weeks to rendezvous with us here. And by then the Empire will press us from all sides.”

“Then we’ll just have to stop them,” Edward said after downing his cup.

“Stopping them is just the first step. Even if we manage to do that, what then? We don’t have the manpower to pose a constant threat and no supplies to hold our ground for too long.”

“Can we hire some swords?”

“We all saw just how much coinage is there in the treasury. We wouldn’t be able to hire enough to hold one of the outer towns, not against the CAF.”

“We don’t have to pay them,” Arin finally interjected. “We could just draft the locals.”

“No, that is bound to backfire at us,” Edward shook his head. “People are still divided. Hell, most of them don’t care whether Corone is an Empire or a Republic as long as the taxes remain the same.”

“What about Gisela?” Letho’s voice was finally heard. The master swordsman felt rather lost in the company of those that seemed more experienced then him, but he deemed it was time to join the debate.

“What about it?” Arin asked after a period of silence and glances. Edward cast a curious eye towards Letho, thinking he knew why Gisela was mentioned.

“I think we should take it,” he said, rousing a throng of murmurs amongst the Marshals. “Listen, we’re looking at this situation the wrong way. Yes, we have threats from three sides.”

“Four. Jadet is still under the control of the Empire,” Tenniel pointed out.

“Fine, four sides. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing. We’re in a way of all their supply lines. They cannot move troops from, let’s say...” Leaning over the surface of the table, Letho made a line across the map, from north to south. “...Radasanth to Serenti without marching through Concordia. They could use ships, yes, but troops moving by sea aren’t a threat to us. It’s just pouring from one cup into the other. Now, we all know that Gisela is the treasury of Corone when it comes to supplies...”

“It also has the highest walls after Radasanth,” Arin pointed out.

“It doesn’t matter. We don’t have to climb the walls. Ever since the massacre, Gisela is a fire waiting to be kindled. All we have to do is rally the locals to our cause and they’ll eat Gisela from the inside. With Gisela under our control, we gain not only the supplies, but we gain the favor of the locals. Not to mention that we effectively break the Empire into two pieces.”

Silence ensued. Edward, who throughout Letho’s speech remained silent with his thinking cap on, was the first one to break it. “Are you proposing this plan because you think it can work or because you want to save your woman from Gisela?”

“Both,” Letho was determined.

“I see,” the experient ranger said, turning to his elf partner. “Tenniel?”

“I don’t know. There are a lot of ifs, a lot of assumptions, a lot of maybes. We need to stop them from overrunning Concordia first.”

“We will.”

[Izvilvin]

((Where's this 'crappy' again?))

Izvilvin was taken aback by how pleased he was to see Christina again, unable to keep a smile from crossing his youthful face. Her silver eyes, enchanting and full of delight from the reunion with her friends, danced back and forth between Izvilvin and the man he needed to kill. The Drow suddenly forgot the weariness of the road and couldn't keep his eyes off her, until a moment went by and he caught himself staring.

A hundred twenty-eight years, and he still couldn't keep himself from eyeing a youthful human blonde. Izvilvin felt he should chastise himself, but then again, Christina Bredith was no mere blonde. She had a magnificence to her that he couldn't describe, an aura that promised an eternity of surprises. The thought made Izvilvin feel a bit too romantic for an assassin, so he tried his best to forget it.

He dismounted the charcoal steed provided by Step, landing nimbly on his feet as if he'd slept twelve hours, strapped on his weapons and gathered the creature's reigns in his hand. He made no strong attempt to hide his joy at seeing Christina -- never had he done such a thing in the first place -- as he approached her.

Izvilvin was at her just as Letho was called away, mimicking the Marshal's physical gesture. He could feel Christina's shoulder under his hand, but did his best not to focus too hard on it before pulling back. "Doing well, Christina," he said, not knowing that to actually make it a question, he needed to pronounce the end of her name higher than he did. The result was a slightly awkward pause, before he nodded forward and followed Letho and the others. His eyes lingered on the man who took his horse, watched his path to see where the stables were, just in case.

The inside of the keep was dark and gloomy, but perhaps it was just the heavy emotion of the place. This was not always a building where war was constantly discussed, Izvilvin knew, and the troubling times had already turned it into the sad place it was. His eyes saw the cracks in every brick, even the hard dirt in between each of those. They pierced the darkness easily and he found it hard to adjust, for his eyes had only recently grown so keen.

When Letho walked through the pair of heavy doors, Izvilvin made after him. Arin's commanding voice hadn't been enough to hammer the information into the Drow. Thankfully, someone grasped him and pulled him back before he got too far inside. Turning he saw Christina, who seemed somewhat amused.

"I'm not going to wait here for him, not when I hunger so," Sienna spoke from behind them both. Izvilvin caught a single word, hunger, and knew what it meant. He looked curiously to Christina.

Sienna headed off in a quick walk before the blonde could add her own input. Izvilvin was somewhat hesitant to let Letho be anywhere beyond earshot, and the Drow was sure he could hear the conversation inside if he strained it, but the rumble of his stomach made up his mind for him.

It was then he noticed the sword at her hip. Even in its scabbard, he could see it was not Rosebite. The warrior realized then that she had not yet claimed it back from the Giselan jail. On a whim, perhaps foolishly, he undid the sheathed Icicle from his hip and held it out to her, feeling the slightest of chills even through the thick leather. It was a beautifully sculpted thing, balanced as well as a dwarven masterworked blade. For her benefit, he could do without it for a time.

"Borrow," he said with a serious smile, before heading off after Sienna.

((Figured the awesome Christina Bredith could handle the food and perhaps some light conversation :p Feel free to bunny, just try not to make it too obvious Izvilvin has a crush on her, haha.))

[Christina Bredith]

It would take more than a grumpy, steely-jawed Arin to rain on Christina’s parade, and although she was a bit put off by the man’s rough attempt to cut short their reunion, she responded with what could be interpreted as good humour. “Oh, boooo,” she complained, sticking out her tongue at the red-head as he marched off. She had yet to acclimatize to the marshal’s stiff-necked attitude about all things, but Christina was not the type of woman to let such things faze her for long.

Regardless of what boring administrative duties the marshals had ahead of them, Christina was determined to accompany them for as long as she could. Somewhat surprised to have heard Izvilvin speak to her in Common when he greeted her, and evidently without realizing that she might still have been going over his head, she spent the next few minutes regaling him with the events of the last few days which, while not terribly exciting in and of themselves (except for the escape from the iron cage), were the most communication she had had with him in as long. It was good to see her comrades again, even if Letho seemed a bit too distracted to want to talk much.

Unfortunately, the proverbial buck stopped at the doors of a large room in the keep that had been transformed at least temporarily into a base of operations for the Rangers and their resistance. Marshals only, they said. Christina screwed up her lips and rolled her eyes with disdain as the three marshals vanished, and as soon as the doors closed, she was pressing herself up against them with one ear to listen in.

One of the guards at the door was not thrilled about her eavesdropping attempt. “Excuse me, miss, but you can’t—”

Unsurprisingly, Christina silenced him with a furious wave of her hand, loudly whispering, “Shh! It’s not polite to interrupt a lady when she’s having a conversation!” Having, listening in on; the difference was subtle at best to the blonde. But after a few more moments of nothing but barely-audible muffles, she pursed her lips, crinkled her nose in defeat, and pulled away. “Bah. Who makes doors this thick anymore? No consideration for the little people, none at all!”

Christina put her hands on her hips and let out an exasperated sigh. She was about to say something else when Izvilvin noticed her distinct lack of Rosebite, and much to her surprise, handed him his unique short sword as a replacement. She took the blade with wide-eyed shock. “For me…?” His singular instruction confirmed it. The woman smiled and nodded. “Thank you.”

As Sienna was already complaining about her stomach, Christina waved at Izvilvin to follow and then raced after their new companion. When she caught up, Christina beamed over at her. “My name’s Christina, by the way! What’s yours?” Sienna raised a rough eyebrow and looked over at the cheerful warrior without moving her head. She huffed and said nothing.

This did not sit well with Christina. She stopped moving, staring at her blonde counterpart. Her right eyebrow twitched like a little metronome. And... had the air become thicker somehow? Before Sienna had gotten more than a few feet further, Christina straightened her neck and cleared her throat. “My name’s Christina, by the way. What’s yours?”

If a clap of thunder had split the skies at that very moment, it would have paled in comparison to the sudden change in Christina’s tone. It was enough to give pause even to Sienna, who stopped, turned her head over her shoulder, and furrowed her brow. “Sienna,” she said sullenly.

Immediately brightening up again, Christina clapped her hands together and skipped forward to catch up. “Pleased to meet you!” she said with a cheerfully-tilted head, and then skipped forward yet again. When she reached the keep’s entrance, she turned back to face them and ushered them forward. “Come on, let’s go to the Fiddling Fox! They love us there!”

It may not have been evident that Christina should have said, “They love Rangers there,” but once inside the bustling tavern it was impossible to tell the difference. It seemed to be quite the hot spot for Rangers off-duty, and the atmosphere was suitably lively. Plainly-dressed waitresses flitted from table to table like hummingbirds while a house band fiddled in the background, quietly enough to avoid drowning out conversation.

Once they had found a table – Sienna was grudgingly forced to sit with them as the room was too crowded to find a separate sitting – a waitress came around to inquire about their orders. Sienna was impartial, and Izvilvin hadn’t a clue how to read what was even on the menu, so Christina ordered the Ranger’s Special for all three of them: a hearty meal of steak and mixed veggies, with just a touch of beer, perfect for the sturdy Ranger! Christina took the lack of objections for agreement, and the deed was done.

While they waited for their food, Christina made a few attempts at striking up some conversation. The sullen Sienna deflected every one like a pro, often opting to rest her chin in one propped-up hand, roll her eyes, and look away. Christina, who took no real offense, mocked her playfully behind her back, wagging her head haughtily from side to side and sticking out her tongue, and then focused her attention on Izvilvin instead. What a dilemma: one companion who wouldn’t talk to her, and another who couldn’t.

“So… what happened to you after Gisela?” Christina figured she’d at least give it a try. She spoke slowly, enunciating her words and trying at hand gestures when she could think of one that might help clarify what she was saying. Izvilvin had been arrested along with her, but he had been set free long before they were carted off. The blonde didn’t expect much, but she was interested in knowing something of what had become of the Drow.

((One day I'll make a short post, I swear it! I cut it off there for that reason, and because I don't know what Izvilvin would actually (be able to?) tell her, so I'll leave that to you.))

[Letho]

The meeting of Marshals went on for another fifteen minutes and Letho and his ever-aching arm were grateful for the conciseness. Most of that brief time was spent on allotting certain names with platoons and specific assignments, Letho winding up with constantly cross Arin and the mission to make a foothold in the passage through the Comb Mountains. Neither of them was happy with the decision, but the South Passage was too strategically important for disgruntlement and possible dislike to take precedence. The other three sides of the vast Concordia forest also got their pair of Marshals with an exception of Tenniel who was heading out for Akashima as an emissary. Supposedly, Akashima closed its borders once the schism occurred and all present agreed that it was currently a bomb with a short fuse. Tenniel was supposed to make sure that it wouldn’t explode in their laps.

While he still had the full attention from all present, Edward unfurled another set of maps. These seemed to lack the intricate panache of the carpet-sized one that already covered the table, but the details added after the initial draft made them something the Empire would kill for. Secret paths, topography information, wood density, important and unimportant data all jotted down on these personalized charts during the long years of ranging. This was their edge, this advantage of the home turf that was the one thing they would have going for them once the Empire came knocking. But still, even with this additional insight that allowed them to determine the perfect ambush spots, they were about to clash on four fronts, and according to what Letho was taught about military tactics, that was three fronts too many.

Once the meeting adjourned, it didn’t take long for Marshals to scatter and go about their business. Some used the preparations as an excuse, others weariness, but the truth was that despite the fact that they were pursuing the same goal, none of the Marshals was too fond of taking orders from anyone but themselves. They were hardy warriors, their warfare prowess rivaled only by their stubborn pride that was a double edged sword that cut both themselves and their enemies. That pride could be the foundations of their ultimate victory... or it could be their downfall.

The stuffy, monotonous hallways were just as unwitting once Letho stepped out of the meeting room as they were when he first entered the fortress, staring at him with their lifeless walls and gray windows. It was as if the citadel itself frowned upon this war that was being planned within its walls. That was why it was quite a relief to step out of it and into the muddy courtyard. The rain ceased its constant trickle by now, but the skies were still far from clear of the stormy grayness, fading to the darker shades as this long day neared its end. It set the perfect mood for what was unfolding, Letho thought. Wars and battles weren’t as heroic and vivid as the stories made them. They were gray and dirty and painful, nightmares to behold.

The swordsman’s broken arm advised rest until morning with another throb of exquisite pain, but Letho decided against it for now regardless of how alluring it sounded. Christina, Izvilvin and Sienna maybe didn’t form the most impressive squad, but they were the few that the Marshal trusted right about now. That was why Letho found it fitting to debrief them on what was decided behind closed doors. He told himself that was the only reason why he made to the local gathering place of the rangers, but whether he wanted to admit it or not, there was another. He desired some company, any company. It was a strange emotion for a chronic loner such as him and it was all Myrhia’s fault. With her, he got so used to not being alone that he couldn’t bear the clamorous silence of solitude anymore.

Fiddling Fox was a poor attempt at trying to compete with the grandeur of the Peaceful Promenade, but because of that it had a more homey feeling to it. The waitresses weren’t as grumpy, the barkeep wasn’t as tight-assed and the prices weren’t as high as in its more renowned counterpart. Perhaps that was why it was so tightly packed with people that Letho had to squeeze through the crowd in order to reach the table where the only three familiar people sat. Christina was the loudest of the three as per usual, the blonde doing her utmost to animate her two companions and lure them into a conversation. She had a peculiar air around her, as if this whole mess didn’t take its toll on her, but Letho reckoned it was just a clever mask. Some people defended themselves with silence, some with laughter, some with liquor. To each their own. Sienna was one that utilized the silent treatment, the blonde teenager satisfied with nibbling on her meal and listening to Christina’s (mostly failed) attempts to communicate with Izvilvin. She looked up only when Letho approached, but the mix of what emotions swept over her face the bearded swordsman couldn’t say. It made him feel both unwanted and welcome in her presence.

“So, what’s the verdict?” Sienna said, sporting an undecipherable facial expression and scooting over to make room for Letho on the wooden bench. Letho, still uncertain whether he should stay or go, slid into the seat and placed his immobilized arm on the table surface, alleviating at least some of the pain.

“Come dawn, we ride north. Well, I ride north anyways. Arin and I were assigned to seize the South Pass in the Comb Mountains and hold it against the Empire. The rocky terrain and the mountain passages are perfect for an ambush. Since you three are technically not under my command, it’s up to you whether you want to join me or not,” Letho said, his healthy hand passing over the cast in a failed attempt to cure the itch beneath it. His eyes were on his companions though, first meeting Christina’s peculiar silvers, exchanging them for the lilac ones of the Drow that probably didn’t understand him and finishing on Sienna copper-browns. They probably didn’t know it, but aside from his trust, they were the few that had his respect as well. They maybe didn’t go through thick and thin with him yet, but they made a good start at doing just that. And he wasn’t ready to part with them.

“North, south, east, it doesn’t matter to me. I just want to kill some Empire scum. Count me in,” the blonde teenager said, discarding the bread crust into her half-finished meal. She concealed her emotions well from the rest, but the truth was that despite what happened, she still wanted to be around Letho. At least until she decided whether she loved him or wanted to kill him. Letho considered lecturing the youth on the dangers of revenge, but figured the timing was wrong. Sienna’s wounds were still too fresh to be touched.

And even if wanted to lecture, an intruding waitress temporarily sliced through their conversation. “Can I take your order, Marshal?” she said, hiding her fatigue behind a fake smile.

“I’ll have what they’re having. Sans the ale,” Letho said before the girl disappeared into the ever-moving, ever-chattering mass with a nod and a wink. He then spoke to his companions again. “The South Pass is one of the key entrances into Concordia from the North, the only passage wide enough for a large army, and we’re pretty damn sure that the Empire knows it as well. So it’s bound to be pretty ugly up there, and that’s if we get there before them. So if you two don’t want to go, I’ll understand.”

Finding little or no recognition in the eyes of the black-skinned elf, Letho reiterated what he said in a much more brief manner in Drow. “Tomorrow we ride north. You come with us?” he said, hoping he ended the second sentence with enough accent to make it clear it was a question and not an order.

[Izvilvin]

Izvilvin spent the moments between leaving the keep and reaching the Fiddling Fox with his mind racing. He had reached a crossroads, a single avenue that forked into three possible paths he could take, none of which looked more appealing than the others.

He could join the resistance and fight the risen Corone Empire like his heart told him he should. He’d fight alongside Christina, the beautiful warrior with such a strong spirit, and Letho, whom he dreaded having to stand off against. How much more beneficial it’d be to be on the human’s side, Izvilvin thought, for his mind and his sanity. He had no desire to support this new Empire that he’d only just begun to understand. But if he followed that road, Step’s leering hand would follow until it had the opportunity to crush him.

He could join the resistance until the best opportunity to kill Letho arose, then flee after the deed was done. The thought made him upset, for the Drow knew that to accomplish such a thing he would need to mislead Christina and the others, not to mention slay a man who was fighting for his home and his livelihood. Anything else would get Izvilvin killed, however, and he was not so in love with Corone that he was willing to die for it. He still had too much to live for.

Lastly, he could leave now and run for Fallien. His horse was as fast as any, and he knew safe routes to reach Radasanth. Step couldn’t use him as the inside man in such a case, and his moral dilemma would be void. Izvilvin could go underground again for a number of years, until Step thought him dead.

He looked to Christina, who sat across from him. She was talking to Sienna at the time, seemingly oblivious to his eyes as they explored her face. She was so animated. Izvilvin knew he didn’t want to abandon her and the others, regardless of the risk to both himself and his friends.

She turned to him, speaking and making gestures with her hands. The Drow smiled and nodded, then considered how to respond. He could try to play innocent and pretend he didn’t understand, but something else occurred to him.

“Released,” he said, and wasn’t sure how to elaborate. He wanted to say that they had let him go to return to Alerar, not realizing that wasn’t where he was from. “Mercenary, go home. Relations.” It made sense, if Christina could decipher it, that as a means of keeping good relations between Alerar and Corone, the Empire would release him and have him deported.

So captivated by her as he was, Izvilvin only noticed then that their food had arrived. He looked down at it and smiled approvingly to the blonde, before he began to eat, eyes up and examining the room.

Letho arrived shortly, looking far more ragged than Izvilvin had noticed earlier. For an instant the Drow was worried for him, but he quickly realized it was for his benefit. For the first time in recent memory, he didn’t stare curiously at the man, but rather focused on his food. He ate quickly but stopped halfway through his steak, unable to finish it. His ale was gone almost as fast as it had been poured.

He was about to rise when Letho spoke to him. Izvilvin hadn’t been following his conversations with the others, and couldn’t even if he wanted to, but he appreciated the swordsman’s desire to have him along, as much as it tore him.

He offered a nod in response. "Yes. I have not had rest in days, so I will take my chance now to claim some. I will see you in the morning."

Leaving a gold piece next to his half-full plate, Izvilvin whirled about the table, resting a hand on Christina's shoulder as he passed, and made his way through the crowd toward the innkeeper's counter. He managed to get a room by inflating the asking price a bit, and took the key upstairs. It had been two days since he'd slept at all, and it was beginning to catch up to him.

He hoped his mind would be clear again come morning, and his decisions would once again seem simple. As long as Christina held Icicle, though, he knew they wouldn't be easy.

((Feel free to skip my round if you guys want some dialogue, I'm fine with Izvilvin being out of the picture if you want some character development.))

[Christina Bredith]

Christina spent a few long moments trying to decipher the exact meaning of Izvilvin’s explanation. He had been released – she was with him so far! Mercenary, go home… well, he’s the mercenary… relations? Perhaps she was spending more time than she should have deciphering what was an otherwise trivial thing, but this was the most lively conversation she had had all day and damned if she was going to give it up without a fight. “Oh! Your family came to get you out! Aww, that’s so nice, Izzy.” A stunning miss – past the bull’s eye and into the bushes behind the target. And as a result of that miss, she found herself missing her own family. Would her father and mother have gotten her out of prison if they were still—?

No! Christina dug into her meal to avoid thinking about that or them. The past was as dead as the fashions in last month’s Coronian Glamour Monthly, or so Christina kept telling herself. That was just the way it had to be. Besides, there was an exciting future ahead of them, wasn’t there? Oh, sure, Corone had turned into an oppressive empire overnight, but that just meant they got to kick a few asses and bash a few heads before getting all the fame and prestige associated with saving the country. What fun that would be!

Or so she kept telling herself.

Letho appeared not long after, and Christina was a bit surprised to see him, having been certain those other marshals would keep him in their stuffy meeting all day long. But he was here, and apparently looking for them; if he wasn’t, then Christina’s cheerful waving managed to change his mind anyway. The fact that he had gotten Sienna talking was another point in his favour – she would have to find out how the man managed it, despite not being a fountain of sociability himself.

But there were more important things at hand than that. Letho explained the situation and what his orders were, and Christina suddenly switched from bubbly twenty-something to attentive soldier. She leaned her cheek on her closed fist and watched him intently with burning eyes. Capture the South Pass, defend it against the empire… all this talk of ambush and strategic choke points was invigorating to Christina. It was the goal she had long since set for herself – to be a real soldier. Now was her chance! But why was there this feeling in the pit of her heart whenever she thought of what lay ahead? Was it fear...?

It melted away rather quickly as the onus was once again on her to speak. She twirled a lock of hair around her finger and tilted her head from side to side as if considering the proposition. “Well, I don’t know…” Christina let the idea that she might not come along dangle for a tantalizing moment, just long enough for her to notice the slightest hint of hope in Sienna’s eyes, and then she yanked it all away. The woman lightly slammed her fists on the table. “Ha ha! As if there’s any way I wouldn’t come!”

As the blonde spoke, her eyes burned with conviction and passion so rare that one hardly ever saw them in any real soldier. They were at once the eyes of someone who still could not fully comprehend the crushing gravity of battle and yet also the eyes of someone who would, whether through a thousand battles or a hundred thousand battles, never lose that fire. To some it was an inspiration – even, perhaps grudgingly, to Sienna, though on the surface she would view it with little else but contempt. Regardless of the eyes of her peers, though, Christina was excited, strong, and determined.

But somewhere within that fire beat the heart of an anxious young girl who wondered what she was getting herself into.

[Letho]

Even though neither of them owed Letho allegiance, both Christina and Izvilvin agreed to join him in his mission up north. The blonde even managed to make a jest out of it, and while the Marshal appreciated the boldness she portrayed, all her antics managed to elicit on his visage was a faint smirk. It was pretty obvious to him that she didn’t know what she was getting into. The Gisela incident perhaps was pretty heated, but it was just the initial drop of the first blood that was drawn on that day, an interlude for the more gory things that awaited for them. If she knew the toll that wars took on a person, she would’ve probably stifled that laughter. She would learn, Letho knew, she would learn how the worst moments were those after the battle, when your body finally allows your mind to comprehend what just occurred. Battles were usually a blur, a step-by-step walkthrough where the only thing you were allowed to do was choose between the right and the wrong course of action. The right one allowed you to take another step. The wrong one led to death.

Letho knew all of this as a fact because, even though only twenty-seven years of age, he had been through a war already. The venue was not Corone but Savion, his home, but the story was the same... always the same. The innocent perish, the courageous fight, and in the end everybody loses. There were no victors in wars, only those that lost less then their adversaries.

The brooding swordsman didn’t utter any of these thoughts and frankly never got a chance to. By the time Christina accepted and Izvilvin departed, the barmaid was back with his meal, presenting a decent-sized steak with some greens on the side. It smelled nothing like Myrhia’s cooking – and probably didn’t taste like it either – but the day’s ride combined with a broken arm sapped Letho of pickiness as well as energy, so he decided to dig in. Of course, that turned out to be slightly more complicated then he had initially anticipated. The bones of his right forearm were still a far cry from being healed, thus rendering the fingers unusable. Unfortunately for him and his rumbling stomach, his left was nowhere near as deft as his right and trying to utilize it felt as if he was trying to eat with a hand that didn’t belong to him. It was a rather comical scene, but if either Christina or Sienna found it humorous, neither allowed their amused natures to surface. Sienna even went a step farther.

“I can cut it for you,” she offered her aid, placing her hand on Letho’s cast gently. There was kindness in her eyes, the soft innocent kind that a girl her age was supposed to have, but it broke against his hard shell like thin glass. He yanked his arm from her grasp, wincing at the pain the sudden movement evoked.

“I’m fine,” was the only thing the Marshal said grudgingly, dropping the fork and pushing the plate away. “I’m not hungry anyways,” he lied, stuffing his operative hand into his pocket and producing several coins that he dropped on the table surface.

“There are a long couple of days ahead of us. It would be best that we all do as Izvilvin did and go get some rest,” Letho spoke to the two females. He made a move to leave their presence, but stopped after only a couple of steps. Half-turning towards the pair, he added: “I’m glad that you’ll be joining us... Both of you.”

It was debatable how much of that statement was true. Yes, he was grateful for having somebody to rely on, somebody to whom he could turn his back without worrying that he would get a knife lodged in his kidneys. But a part of him wished that it wasn’t these two. Christina and Sienna didn’t belong in a war, they didn’t fit in the picture where they were supposed to swing an axe into somebody’s face. They both deserved a better fate then that, a gentler fate, a story that had a good chance to conclude happily. But that was what war did. It sucked everybody in like a whirlpool, giving you only two options; fight the current and let yourself go. And these two weren’t of the kind that let go easily.

These thoughts followed Letho out of the Fiddling Fox and into the apathetic streets of Underwood. The afternoon was drawing to a close, leaving only the moderate, damp chill and the diminishing light in its wake. Letho felt like walking a bit - it was what he usually did to clear his head and calm the clamoring voices in his head – but his arm thought otherwise. It sent a cold ache through the very marrow of his bones, making the man feel cold sweat on the back of his neck and forcing him to find a resting place in the nearby barracks. The entire compound was a miniature fort that used to belong to the CAF, together with its wooden fence that still dripped tree sap and smelled of pine and teak. Beyond it, most of the buildings looked the same with their wooden facades and thatched roofs, with a burn mark here and there to remind the beholder of the insurrection and spoil the grim idyll.

***

It didn’t take long for the Marshal to find a cot. Finding sleep, however, turned out to be a much more grueling task. It was still early evening when he laid his head to rest, so there was still a lot of activity around and within the barracks. To a person that usually woke up when a rabbit farted in the woods, it was almost impossible to fall asleep. And then, when the night finally descended upon them and silenced most of the soldiers, Letho’s arm found it appropriate to awaken. The point where the broken bones met was like an epicenter of concentrated pain, making every motion feel as if somebody was pushing an ice-cold dagger into his arm and then trying to tear his arm off his body.

Somewhere around midnight, Letho finally came to terms with the fact that, if he wanted to get some shuteye and not go insane, he would have to track down a healer or chop his arm off. Seeing that he would still need his arm in the future, the Marshal untangled himself from the rumpled bed sheets and moved past the snoring troops. He envied most of them for being able to sleep so soundly, envied them like a poor man would’ve envied a rich merchant that pranced down the street. Unfortunately, he couldn’t steal sleep from these men. The best he could do was to get his own.

Outside, the night injected refreshment with the first breath Letho took into his lungs. The mud of the courtyard smelled of earth and horse dung, but there was still enough of Concordia’s freshness in the night’s breeze to soothe the restless Marshal. He would’ve looked at the stars, would’ve wondered where Myrhia was, what she was doing, was she alright, but the pain overruled all cerebrations.

He probably would’ve roamed the streets like a boozer in search of his remedy, but there was something alive in an otherwise dead courtyard that drew his attention. At the far end Letho’s eyes were able to distinguish a diminutive human figure caught in some sort of the struggle. The drawn steel twinkled and danced under the faintest of moonlight that squeezed past the moving clouds. As he approached, the Marshal was able to pick up the sound of metal hitting wood, over and over again, at an almost frantic pace, disrupted only by the shallow breathing of the attacker. The attacker was Sienna, her foe a wooden training column with all sorts of weapons sticking out of it. Usually, it was a contraption that turned and forced a person to dodge the wide array of weapons, but right now it was stationary and the blonde girl was attacking it with vehemence.

“You should leave something for tomorrow,” Letho spoke, his voice barely more then a whisper, and yet it seemed to echo across the benighted yard. The girl snapped her head towards the voice, half-startled, half-annoyed that somebody interrupted her training. The thin linen shift was damp with sweat and air moisture, clinging to her body shamelessly, ending at her knees where her muddy legs began. Her left spun one of her twin daggers while her right pointed the other towards the intruder.

“I have plenty for tomorrow. And for every day after tomorrow as long as there’s Empire vermin to fight.” As if to prove those words true, the blonde teenager turned towards her wooden adversary, slicing first with her right, then her left, knocking off a pair of splinters.

“Do you now?” Letho said in an enigmatic tone that attracted her angry eyes once again. “Your eagerness is commendable, Sienna, but perhaps it is misdirected. The Empire is responsible for your father’s death, but the majority of people we’re going to fight are not. They’re soldiers, not so much different from us.”

“I don’t care. They know what the Empire did and they still fight under its banner. They don’t deserve mercy,” Sienna spat, slowly catching her breath and staring at Letho with piercing eyes.

“No, perhaps not mercy. Perhaps not even honor. But they do deserve respect, every solider does. For most soldiers the difference between right and wrong is blurred by the obedience trained unto them. It is something that is not easily cast away,” the Marshal said, calm and stoic before the frontal assault of her glare.

“And yet so many here threw it away so easily.”

“Rangers are different. We’re not too fond of somebody sitting on top of our heads. But we do respect each other and our enemies.” They were both speechless for several moments, the flare in Sienna’s eyes refusing to yield in front of Letho’s words. “What I’m trying to say is that you shouldn’t fight every single person as if he or she was the murderer of your father. It takes a lot of hate for that, a lot of anger. Save it for when we march against Gisela.”

She looked up at him with stubbornness at first, the kind that a young teenager might’ve had if her father forbade her to go out with a boy, but the calm in Letho’s eyes managed to quell her raging fire. Sienna’s head might’ve nodded in compliance, but in the darkness of the night it was a barely noticeable movement. Satisfied with the result, the Marshal squatted with a grunt and picked up a wooden stick that somebody detached from the column.

“What are you doing?” the blonde asked. Letho merely smirked and brought the stick in a defensive position.

“If you want to reach Gisela alive, you’ll need to work on your skills. Come on, give me your best shot. Keep in mind, unlike that thing over there, I can hit back.”

[Izvilvin]

The sun rose early that morning, creeping out from behind the mountains in the distance to shed light across Underwood. The rain was gone but the mist was still floating about, thinner than it had been, yet still obvious in the early light.

Izvilvin awoke as he did every other morning, in a bed and thankful to be there. The Drow would never in his life complain about an uncomfortable mattress, for he recalled too keenly the feel of rocks under his back during his stay in the Kachuck mines. He felt refreshed after a good night’s sleep, especially because it had been so long since he’d taken any rest.

A light breakfast of fruit and berry juice ensured he would have energy for the day. Izvilvin thanked the innkeeper with an extra piece of gold, readied his weapons, and retrieved his horse from the stable. By the time he managed to communicate to the stablehand which steed belonged to him, convinced the boy that he was not lying, and mounted up, it was time to meet.

His horse carried him to the center of town, which happened to be a mere forty feet from the inn. He recognized most of the soldiers gathered, including one from last night that he didn’t remember the name of. To his surprise only one look of disgust came his way, and even that ended quickly as the man who shot it seemed to catch himself.

The smell of mud seemed to drift all around him, but Izvilvin enjoyed the scent. It was the sense of early morning, promising a day of production ahead.

He let out a deep, slow breath through his nostrils. Would today be the day that he stabbed Letho in the back?

Izvilvin’s long fingers dropped to grip Icicle’s hilt, but found nothing. He looked to his hip and recalled that he no longer held the blade, had given it to Christina just yesterday so that she had a suitable weapon with which to fight. The Drow remembered thinking it would be difficult for her to transition from Rosebite to a normal sword, and giving her his own to try and ease the change.

One of the men gathered said something in a commanding voice, so he sat up and looked ahead. Christina and Letho had yet to arrive, but Izvilvin doubted that they were late. It was unlike two soldiers of such caliber.

Soldiers of caliber, and he needed to make sure one of them never made it to Gisela. The thought made his stomach turn.

[Christina Bredith]

As the sun rose, it greeted a pretty blonde woman who had already been awake for some time. She was sitting on a cheerful little wooden chair just outside the building in which the Rangers made their headquarters, but the look on her face was stoic and silent. It was a strained expression, filled with concentration and foresight, all of the type not often displayed on her features. When the sun finally bathed her in its glow over the nearby rooftops, she squinted to keep it away, and that was the first real motion she had made in an hour; apart from it, a passer-by might think she was dead.

In a nutshell, Christina was afraid. She may have always put on the mask of a woman who feared nothing and saw the silver lining to every thunderhead, but a mask only counts for something when there are those around to see it. Time was marching slowly forward, and with each tick of the clock in the living area behind her, she knew she was one second closer to war.

Images flashed through her mind of the invasion of the city in which she grew up. It had been ravaged by orcs, a swarm of seemingly unending numbers, each more merciless than the last. Occasionally her face would twitch slightly, remembering their dull faces and yellowed teeth and eyes. She thought back on the way they shattered windows and snatched defenceless, innocent people away from their own lives, only to crush them like insects. She remembered the screams of the frightened women and children as the army advanced and defeat seemed imminent.

But most of all, she remembered the loved ones she lost that day. Jeremy, who she saw die with her own eyes, and her parents, whose screams she heard as she ran from the carnage. If only she could have protected them. But she was too weak… she was nothing compared to her aggressors. They were so powerful, hardened by war and battle. A little girl was no match.

Would things turn out the same today? Would she fight and fight, but to no avail, only to watch the people she cared about get torn apart by blade and arrow? She had become good friends with the Rangers since she had come here… and then there were Letho and Izvilvin, too. She didn’t think she could bear to watch them fall like her parents had. But what choice did she have? She had to fight… she had to win – to protect them. Nothing else was important, not even her own life. The alternative was worse than death.

Christina only became aware of the time when snapped back to attention as a few fully-suited Rangers started filing out of the building, ready to assemble at the town square before riding north. Lenwë was among them and, seeing her sitting there with a blank expression on her face, he paused to ask if anything was the matter.

“The matter?” Christina turned up to him, looking for only a moment like a deer in the headlights. She then scratched the back of her head and laughed brightly. “Nothing’s the matter! Let’s go kick some imperial behind!” Lenwë paused for a minute, and laughed quietly, though he didn’t seem particularly amused. Christina felt as naked as though he could see right through her mask; but if he did, he made no mention of it.

“Yes. Let us do just that, my little rosebud.” The elf’s slender brows furrowed ever so slightly, and he marched toward the nearby town center to join with the rest of the Rangers. Christina lagged behind for a minute longer, wondering how much longer she could keep this up. But she knew she had to… for the sake of all the brave men and women gathering there with their horses and weapons. And for all the people in Concordia – in Corone – who had no means to fight for themselves. With that resolve firmly entrenched, Christina followed the group to the now-bustling village square and, at the beckoning of the Marshal in charge, she fell into place with the rest of them.

She had to be brave, too. The alternative, she repeated, was worse than death.

[Letho]

The morning was as eventful and bustling as it was to be expected before a large offensive, but for Letho it was merely an extension of an already drudging night. After the training session with Sienna, the Marshal proceeded with his initial intention, seeking out a cleric that was willing to offer him more then a curse in the dead hour of the night. Unfortunately, none of them had the razzle-dazzle magic capability to mend his broken bone, so the swordsman wound up with some sort of concoction that smelled like sewage, tasted worse and made his head woozy. Luckily, balance wasn’t needed for collapsing back into the bed, but by the time Letho managed to do that, he was left with about two hours worth of slumber before the bugles blasted out their waking fanfares. But even before the irritating call of the trumpeter, everybody seemed to be awake. There was tension in the air, the edgy kind that made people keep their mouths shut and their thoughtful eyes focused.

Letho and the Marshals weren’t immune to this sensation either, but in manifested differently in their case. Their sternness went up a notch, their conversation limited to only that which had to be said. That made the final briefing somewhat foreboding, but that was to be expected; they weren’t about to march into a field of daises, but into an open confrontation against a vastly superior opponent. It was more then enough to make each and every one of them acknowledge the possibility that they wouldn’t see Underwood ever again.

Even though the Ranger’s offensive seemed across-the-board, it actually couldn’t have been called a large one, not with the numbers they had at their disposal. With the latest batch of troops that arrived during the night, they had a little under a thousand of able Rangers, and about half that much of voluntaries. A hundred and fifty Rangers were given to each tandem of Marshals as well as some fifty-odd conscripts, while the rest of the troops took strategic positions throughout Concordia, mostly fortifying themselves in some larger towns and villages. They were trying to secure the fort, the fort being the green expanse of one of the largest forest in the known realms. It looked like a ludicrous plan, especially when it was laid out on the map, but it was the only one they had. Sitting in Underwood, behind its weak wooden walls and shallow moats, would be like keeping your eyes shut and hoping that your enemy didn’t see you.

Once the briefing was done, it was time for final preparations, and in Letho’s case that meant arming himself. Except his composite bow – which was useless to him due to his broken arm – the brooding Marshal had no equipment, and even though his rank and his injury were bound to keep him away from open conflict, Letho simply felt naked without armaments. The Underwood armory offered neither a wide assortment of weapons nor some exceptional quality – most of the quality weapons were checked out by the time Letho got to the armory. Luckily, the master-at-arms who was assigned to the defense of Underwood provided the Marshal with his own spear.

“If you fail, my spear and my creaking bones won’t be able to stop them anyways,” the man with a bushy white beard said. The spear itself was of extraordinary craftsmanship, its shaft made of carved nihon wood, its prevalida tip glistening in a strange hue of light azure. Compared to the magnificent spear, the eklan shield with the emblem of Corone Rangers – the mounted archer – looked almost unsightly. There was no need for armor; they were supposed to be light and mobile. Not to mention that donning armor with a broken arm would prove to be quite difficult. He did, however, pick up a rather plain longsword from a barrel filled with them and scooped up about a dozen throwing daggers.

Unlike with weapons, the squires at the stables had a horse prepared for Letho. A white charger looked genuinely mighty and royal, muscles rippling even as he was walked in front of the Marshal. After some trouble while mounting the ivory beast – due to his useless right arm – the swordsman clucked it forward to join the others at the main square. He was followed by a fair number of stablemen that led horses for those that couldn’t provide their own.

With his shield strapped across his back and his spear held in his left, Letho stood before his platoon, his half of what was designated on the maps as the ‘North Company’, with his horse snorting restlessly beneath, almost craving to break into a gallop. Except for the trio of people that he was familiar with, the rest were merely nameless faces to the Marshal, and amongst them he was supposed to pick two deputies. Izvilvin was ineligible due to his language barrier, Sienna was too young and only Christina looked like somebody who could effectively command troops in battle. Finally, after his keen eyes got satisfied with what they saw in the congregation, Letho spoke, his voice rising over the commotion.

“Most of you know by now where we are heading and what our mission is, but for those of you who don’t know what north from the ‘North Company’ stands for, let me repeat,” the Marshal spoke, his voice kinglike, dominant, eliciting a chuckle or three from the congregation. “We are not supposed to take command over the North Passage. We are not supposed to hold it for a week or two and then return to our homes. We are going to take the North Passage and hold it for as long as it takes. Have no doubt; the Empire is going to throw everything it has on us. But this is our territory. We are Corone Rangers and we guard the borders of freedom!” A round of cheers and shield-striking ensued, but Letho’s voice rose over it still.

“We are the Highwaymen and whoever crosses out path is going to pay a heavy toll!”

Letho was unaware of this, but the troops of all companies seemed to be listening in to his speech, and soon the entire square was joined in one brutish choir of hoots and sounds of metal striking against metal. It became so loud that the horses became to neigh and grow restless, breaking the neatly formed lines of gathered soldiers. After about a half a minute of this, the Marshals calmed their platoons down, each in their own way.

“Alright, quiet down!” Letho ultimately said to his men in a more down-to-earth tone. “Now, which one of you knows the Comb Mountains and the North Expanse best?” Unsurprisingly, at least half of the rangers raised their hands and swords and bows. Their cockiness made the Marshal smirk one of his cryptic smirks. “And which one of you is the meanest bastard around?” Most of them laughed. Amongst those that didn’t, Letho noted a rather barbaric-looking mountain of muscles whose bow seemed almost too thick to be usable.

“You. What’s your name?” the spear-wielding Marshal asked, tucking the spear beneath his armpit and fishing for something in the pocket of his leather overcoat.

“Aldeir, sir!” the man replied, straightening his back and pushing out his muscled chest which made him even more impressive.

“You’re my new deputy,” Letho said, throwing a silver badge of a mounted archer towards the man. “Take the first three columns and lead out our van.”

“The center three columns are with me, you included,” the Marshal continued, pointing towards Sienna who was sitting in the first row on a rather skinny-looking chestnut mare. If the young blonde had some objections – and given the fact that he didn’t include her in the vanguard, she probably did – Sienna kept it to herself. With another badge in his hand, Letho spurred his horse’s flanks lightly and approached the remaining three columns of mounted Highwaymen.

“The rest of you will be in charge of our rear. You will respond to Christina Bredith. You give her lip, I tear those lips off your face myself,” he said, flicking the last badge towards the blonde with a reassuring smile.

“Now, let’s move out!”

[Christina Bredith]

While Christina normally saw it as her job to ease the tension when it was in abundance, today it just didn’t seem appropriate somehow. Even the light-hearted, bubbly blonde couldn’t really see a way to defuse a situation like this. Truth be told, she was in need of a little soothing herself. There was a chaotic mix of determination and nervousness broiling within her, and her concentration was so fixed on seeing which side would win that she couldn’t bring herself to pay attention to what was going on around her.

It wasn’t until Letho called her name that she snapped back to attention – just in time to gather what he was saying, and catch the silver badge tossed at her. She was in charge…? The badge was reflected in her glistening, wide eyes, camouflaged against their own natural colour. She tilted her head slightly and twirled the thing in her hand, stroking its contours with her fingers. Such a small thing exuded so much confidence! The Marshal has faith in me, she concluded, knowing that there were any number of others here he could have chosen as a deputy. Then I’d better not let him down.

Christina may not have had much experience on the field, but if nothing else, she had genes on her side – both her parents were army commanders, and so she soon found that she too could exude an aura of confidence as would be expected of someone in her position. Perhaps that little badge awoke something in her that she barely even knew was there.

Christina pinned the silver archer to the breast of her red jacket and spun around her steed, a beautiful black mare called Shadowmere, to face the columns she would be responsible for. The stoic, strained expression on her face was all but gone now: instead there was a pretty, confident smirk tugging at those ruby-reds. Her golden locks rolled down her shoulders and the piercing silvers of her eyes scanned the men assembled. Except for the neatness of her uniform and the blade at her waist, she might have looked more the part of a noble taking a riding lesson than a deputy marshal. It was enough of an absurdity to make some of the volunteers scoff – and even some of the Rangers, too – despite Letho’s threats (which, of course, Christina would have much more fun backing up on her own).

“Well, boys,” she called as the vanguard took off northward through the forest, “you heard the man. Let’s watch their little behinds, shall we?” The woman slowly began turning Shadowmere around, but she passed a glance at Izvilvin on the way, and smiled briefly. When she was facing northward again, she jested, “I guess I’ll be the only one appreciating the view.”

The second van was preparing to move away, and soon it would be their turn. Christina turned her head over her shoulder, ran her hand along the base of her neck, and then tossed a shower of hair backwards over her shoulder. “Let’s go remind those imperial bastards who really owns this country!”

* * *

The ride northward through the forest was uneventful enough, and except for the galloping of a couple hundred horses the picture was almost serene. The sun shone down between the trees in scattered rays like something out of an oil painting, and although they were generally scampering away to avoid being trampled, there were many forest creatures hovering about. Concordia was still a safe haven for those allied against the new Corone Empire, of course – the mighty watchful eye of imperialism had not yet set its sights on the piddling little Rangers and their toothpick army. They would soon come to regret it.

Escaping the forest took as long as it did because of the necessary drop in speed that came with having to manoeuvre such a large contingent along so winding and narrow a path. The vast plains of Corone would spread out before them to the north, beyond the Comb Mountains, when they finally escaped, and Christina couldn’t help but remember the last time she had seen them – it was only a matter of weeks ago, and yet it felt like a different era. Corone was a republic, then, not an empire; Gisela was not yet the site of a bloody massacre; the world was just different.

The mountains were just barely visible on the horizon from Christina’s position at the head of the third van, and so she knew it would be a long journey. They were no longer safely behind the veil of secrecy that Concordia afforded them, either; these plains were patrolled by the no-doubt-powerful imperial army, and they were under the empire’s watchful eye.

Sure enough, just a few hours from their final destination, Christina detected a touch of chaos at the head of the Ranger army, and she knew that they must have been engaged by an opposing force. There was a shadow riding toward the gap between the first and second vans from the west. It was, she suspected, nothing they couldn’t handle but, even so, it was her job to bring up the rear and make sure they weren’t ambushed, surprised, or flanked. Drawing her borrowed blade and signalling wide, the woman began to manoeuvre her van along an arcing path, to catch the hapless opposition unawares and, if it came to it, cut off any chance of their escape.

((The battle's all yours, Cy. I guess it'll be dealt with easily enough like he said. ^^ And then we'll be at the mountains! Or something.))

[Izvilvin]

The official breakdown of the group’s hierarchy passed without any attention from Izvilvin, whose eyes were trained beyond Underwood’s gates and on the distant Comb Mountains, mountains he could only see because his eyes could travel the miles.

They were off toward those mountains before he knew it, traversing the wilderness once more. Their reprieve from travel had been short but sweet, and Izvilvin once again felt strong of body. His heart, however, was weak.

Whomever he fought, whether physically or in any other sense, the Drow always fought for the light. As twisted as his past might have been, Izvilvin had an innate sense of good in his heart that guided him, a mute pledge that dictated who he was and what he stood for. Even while he was a Step lackey, he’d done nothing in cold blood. Now he was expected to kill a man who also fought for the light, who, despite Izvilvin’s inability to understand his words, projected strength of heart that matched – perhaps surpassed – his own. Perhaps he still was a lackey.

The night had been long and restful, and Izvilvin carried with him today a clear head. He wanted to defend this land, now that he had a bit of an understanding for what was happening; wanted it more than just about anything. As much as he wanted to lead forth and charge headlong into Gisela, slay whomever was in charge of the Corone Empire and set things right again, Izvilvin knew there was only one man who was leading, here. Letho’s resolve was positively infectious, seeming to radiate from him at times. Izvilvin had seen the swelling of human chests when Letho spoke.

The Drow painfully reminded himself that he had no options. As easy as it would be to run away and let Corone sort itself out, he had a mission to accomplish. Step was more of an entity than it was an organization, sometimes, able to find Izvilvin wherever and whenever he was needed. Even if he were to go underground in the mines of Kachuck again, he would be found. As selfish as it felt at that moment, the Drow knew he had things to accomplish ahead, and couldn’t sacrifice himself for the good of a nation that wasn’t his own.

Step would kill Christina as well, he knew. Izvilvin killing Letho would spare her, if she could escape Gisela.

As cruelly as these thoughts plagued him, the ride through Concordia was still pleasant. The forest was safe from war, at least for the time being, and the bit of sunshine that poked through the thin mist made him feel peaceful. He caught himself glancing at Christina more than once.

The three vans, seventy-five men (and a woman) strong, took three days to break out of Concordia. Their nights were no more than six hours of rest long, and sometimes less. It would have been grueling to typical men, but these were warriors, soldiers of legend who fought for more than just themselves and their families. They fought for the future of the continent, and would be remembered until the day Corone died. Izvilvin wondered if anybody realized just how important the impending struggle would be.

The plains were different. It was windier. The mist was gone now but the chill was not, so Izvilvin wrapped himself in a light blanket. He kept his eyes sharp, and on their second day of travel across the plains, it paid off.

The landscape was not completely flat. Hills were common as they neared the Comb Mountains, which seemed to grow every moment. Izvilvin spotted the imperial army, some fifty strong, before they even knew the vans were approaching. He had to wonder why they didn’t keep him in mind, especially if Step was on their side.

“Humans waiting for us,” Izvilvin announced to the company ahead of him, led by Christina Bredith. It was the longest string of words he’d put together in days, and easily the longest in Common since any of the soldiers had seen him. As they looked back in shock, he was seen pointing Northwest, where the imperial soldiers were.

Christina nodded in trust and began to organize movement. Rather than charge toward the hill, the company carried on ahead, bows at their side. Izvilvin, meanwhile, had his midnight steed trot just a bit faster to pass into the second caravan, for he had no ranged weapon.

They played into the ‘trap’ that was set for them. A tall hill on their side, the group would have been completely blindsided by the fifty soldiers as they charged downward, white steeds galloping with haste. Instead, as the imperial soldiers revealed themselves, they were shot down mercilessly by wave after wave of arrows, notched as quickly as they were fired. The skill of the Rangers was something bewildering to Izvilvin, who had a sai in each hand and was ready to leap from his mount at any given moment. He never got the chance.

As the imperials witnessed their front lines being wiped out, they tried to turn and flee. But their horses couldn’t handle changing direction while on the downward slope. Some fell, few managed to actually turn and run. Those who remained were mowed down by arrows that, like hawks diving at their defenseless prey, found vital points.

The battle was not a battle at all. It was a rout.

The company enjoyed a brief celebration, a moment of joy during their struggle against the newfound Empire. They had defeated the imperials without taking a hit to anything but their arrow supply. A victory for the resistance! Those who’d been doubting their chances were beginning to sway.

And yet among the bolstered men (and woman), Izvilvin found he could not even crack a smile.

The next morning, the road became harder, littered with pebbles and boulders. By the time noon came, they were approaching the pass. Everywhere he went, death seemed to follow. It would not stop anytime soon.

[Letho]

With his spear idle at his side and his squinted eyes on the hillock, Marshal Ravenheart observed the aftermath of the short-lived skirmish. Both man and horse covered the grassy knoll - the riders lifeless, the wounded beasts twitching and struggling to get back on their hoofs – serving as a gory proof of the Rangers’ efficiency. It wasn’t a slaughter, just a very one-sided battle. A little over two score of riders came down the hillside and descended on their flank, catching the Rangers unaware, but their formation was non-existent, their attack looking more like a stampede then a charge of a military outfit. With Aldair’s van breaking right and Christina’s platoon circling around the hill to get behind the attackers, the element of surprise was snuffed out by no more then three volleys of arrows before it ever got a chance to cause some serious damage.

Dismounted and walking amidst the corpses, Letho ascertained the reason for the feebleness of the charge. Short swords, chain mails, maces, spur-less boots... They weren’t cavalryman, but footsoldiers, probably on a retreat back to Radasanthia from some of the nearby settlements. They wanted to turn this clash into a melee, but they weren’t fast enough. Few were faster then a fired arrow.

“Gather the unharmed horses,” the bearded Marshal commanded to Aldeir and Christina, stabbing his spear through the throat of a steed that neighed in anguish the pair of arrows imbedded in his belly caused. The merciful deathblow was the only time Letho had to utilize his spear today due to the effectiveness of his Rangers. Yanking it out single-handedly, he added: “Bury the dead.”

“We had no casualties, Marshal,” Aldair was quick to report, his voice rumbling as it came out of his muscled chest.

“They did,” was the short response, coming in sync with the relentless pair of brown eyes. The huge Deputy had a rebuttal, calm in the saddle of his horse and looking down at the Marshal.

“It will take us most of the day to bury them and we’re in the open.”

“Then you better work fast,” Letho said with a tone that made it clear his word was the final one here. To further accentuate this fact, the spear-wielding leader of the Ranger company turned away from the pair, proceeding deeper into the battlefield. It was disquieting how quickly hostility took root in people. Several weeks ago, some of these Rangers might’ve drank at the same table in the same inn as these fallen soldiers, they might’ve argued and chided each other, and now they were ready to leave their corpses for the crows. They all seemed to be in need of a lesson that he gave Sienna last night. They hated soldiers for being soldiers. It was like hating the water for being wet.

***

It turned out that Aldair’s prediction was rather pessimistic, because the Highwaymen were on the move about an hour after the sun reached its zenith on the sky, leaving behind a batch of fresh graves. There was no more cover to be found between what the men started to call the Second-Blood Hill – the First Blood being the one drawn in Gisela – and the Comb Mountains, so they crossed the distance mostly in a steady trot, riding their mounts at a continuous pace and keeping their ranks in formation. Unlike on previous days, there were no rain-bearing clouds looming threateningly above their heads, but the breeze that swept down from the dull peaks of Comb Mountains was cold enough to remind most of them that autumn of the north wasn’t as mild as one in the southern regions.

This became doubly apparent when the plains started breaking by the seams, making the terrain more craggy with each mile they crossed. First, the plains gave way to a series of hills covered with coarse grass and thicket between which the procession swiveled like a snake cut in three equal pieces, but soon the grass evanesced and the soldier pines began to stand watch on the steeper rocky hillsides. To the left of them, the South Road cut through the relatively flat terrain, with mountains flanking it on both sides. Though Letho’s eyesight couldn’t reach that far, he was certain that on the west side of the pass, Arin was climbing his way into the hills as well, heading towards Fort Eli. This left Marshal Ravenheart and his troops with the east side and Old Eli, a forgotten citadel abandoned and crumbling ever since the Age of Dawn.

Even though the Comb Mountains were considerably less extreme then the Jagged Mountains farther north, its passages and valleys were still too treacherous for horses to handle, especially the concealed ones that were charted only on the Ranger maps. That was why the entire company came to a halt in one of the secluded vales. To the west, the vale rose and fell in a series of rugged hillocks, shielding them from the eyes of those that traveled down the South road. To the east and upstream of the bubbly creek that cut through the valley rose a smooth, impassable cliffside. The only safe routes out of the valley were north and higher into the Comb Mountains or south and back to the Concordia plains. This was where Letho halted his troops, just as the sun abandoned the sky and left them with the fading twilight and its accompanying coldness.

“We’ll proceed on foot from here,” the Marshal commanded, dismounting from the saddle of his pearly charger and waiting for his deputies to approach him. “Aldeir and I will continue towards Old Eli as soon as we set up a camp here. Christina, I want you to stay here with your men and make sure the horses are ready in case we need a quick retreat. Post a sentry on the west hills to look over the road, but not Izvilvin.” Even though they spent most of the time riding and the thundering of the hoofs failed to provide a good background for conversations, Letho had heard how good the drow’s eyes were. Good enough to notice those fifty men from all the way back of their lines. “I need him and at least one more to go northwards before us and scout the path.”

“I’ll go,” a female voice intruded. The bearded Marshal didn’t have to turn towards the origin of the voice to acknowledge that it belonged to Sienna. The blonde teenager was standing confidently within an earshot of the three, her rifle slung over her shoulder, her posture almost firm enough to be soldierly.

“No, you’ll stay here with Christina,”

“I did not join you to watch over the damned horses!” her voice was almost a growl, her usually pretty face crumpled into an expression of anger.

“Perhaps, but you did join, and therefore you are under my command.” It wasn’t an explanation enough for Sienna, who stood there with her hands on her curvy hips, demanding a better one. The resolve, though rebellious, made Letho snicker. “I can’t have you revealing our position with that rifle of yours.”

“I’ll go get Delios. Perhaps his eyesight isn’t as good as the blackskin’s, but he can hit a running hare from a hundred yards,” Aldeir spoke, shouldering his massive bow and disappearing from sight. That left the Marshal with Christina, but Izvilvin wasn’t too far away; it seemed to Letho that the drow was never too far away from the blonde. But before he spoke to the dark-elf, he turned towards his female deputy once again.

“You did well today,” was all that he found fit to say, his hand clasping her shoulder briefly, perhaps saying more then his words, saying that he was glad that he found somebody to rely on. His communication with Izvilvin, however, was a bit more troublesome, as per usual.

“You certainly have a good pair of eyes on you,” Letho began, speaking in Common and realizing a bit too late that the drow probably didn’t understand him. “Your eyes see far,” he added, struggling with the rough pronunciation that probably massacred his words. “Go north with Delios. Scout. Report.” the Marshal dictated, pointing towards the Ranger that Aldeir picked from his squad.

[Izvilvin]

Izvilvin accepted Letho’s observation with a nod, and his order with another. He would gladly contribute as much as he could until the opportunity to betray his comrades came. He’d finally come to grips with the reality of the situation, so it was with a business-like determination that he left his horse behind, met up with Delios, and headed up the slope northward.

Delios himself with a broad human crowned with a mop of sloppy brown hair. His shoulders were high and his chest projected, as if he were constantly trying to show up his follow rangers. A forest-green cloak covered him, and had Izvilvin not known otherwise, he’d have thought the man was wearing a full or half plate of armor beneath it.

The two walked in silence for some time, and Delios took more than a few quick peeks at Izvilvin out of the corner of his eye. If the human thought Izvilvin wouldn’t notice, he was a fool. They walked for some time, rising higher and higher, until they eventually came to the remains of a ruined citadel. Beyond that was a spire-like jetting rock, which Izvilvin slowly crept toward and cautiously mounted.

Over the crest of the pillar, he could see the distant plains and the remains of a ruined citadel. More importantly, he noticed with alarm, was the sight of several hundred armed infantrymen, marching toward them from the north. He didn’t know whether or not they were Empire Soldiers, but they weren’t more than four hours away.

The Drow slid down the rock and landed hard. “Soldiers,” he said to Delios, enunciating as carefully as he could. “Many. Many.”

Delios made his way to the top of the path, which gaze him a view not as clear as Izvilvin’s had been. Even if the human had climbed the same vertical stone, he wouldn’t have been able to make out even a sign of the approaching squad.

Together they made their way back southward, Delios lagging behind a few steps as Izvilvin tried to explain the numbers to him. Night was falling, but Izvilvin’s eyes shifted to allow him night vision, as useful a trait as any his heritage gave him. By the time they arrived back at the valley, it was full-blown nighttime. With any luck, the coming soldiers were stopping for rest as well.

Izvilvin wasn’t greeted with any response, but that was typical. It was Delios who stepped forward to deliver the report. “The Drow says there are hundreds of soldiers approaching, but he couldn’t make out any emblem or sign. They carried no banner, so we don’t know if they’re friend or foe.”

Meanwhile, the Drow was moving through the camp. He’d spotted Christina when he arrived, and spotted a sheathed Icicle with her, which was good. As he awaited Letho’s response to their report, he snatched up a small remainder of bread that was left out, the only bit of food he’d had in a while. Something told him he’d be needing the energy.

[Letho]

‘Hundreds of soldiers’ was a definition that covered too broad of a spectrum of numbers for Letho’s liking. It could mean two hundred. It could mean seven. Vagueness was a variable and Letho wasn’t too fond of working with them. Either way, it meant trouble. It meant that the Empire wasn’t foolish enough to disregard the importance of the South Passage and let them peacefully plant their behinds in the Comb Mountains. It also meant that another skirmish was approaching, and chances were that it would be neither one-sided nor benevolent towards his Rangers. But at least they had the upper hand now. Given the range of Izvilvin’s eyes, the incoming soldiers were still many a mile away, and by the time they reached Old Eli fort that sat perched high on the mountainside, they would have a bunch arrows welcoming them from an elevated position. Their numbers wouldn’t account for nothing, but they wouldn’t stay high for long either.

“They are most likely trying to reach Old Eli as well,” Letho said once Delios was done with his report. Producing the detailed map from the breast pocket of his leather overcoat, the Marshal beckoned his Deputies closer before he unrolled the parchment. It would’ve been impossible to acknowledge the contents of the fully detailed map of the funnel-like South Passage in the darkness of the chilly night, but by then there were a couple of fires crackling throughout their campsite, and one of them was close enough to shed some light on the parchment.

“I think we’re going to get to the fortress before them, but that doesn’t account for too much,” Letho spoke, pointing towards the tiny picture of a fort that represented Old Eli. He wished that the actual citadel was as sturdy as the drawn one on the map, but the truth was far from it. All that was left from the original Eli fort were decrepit walls as treacherous for defenders as they were for the attackers. “We’re going to position ourselves around the fort, use its walls as cover and push them back with arrows. If they move back north, we’ll let them go. If they try to push southwards and past us, towards Concordia, however, I want you to lead your platoon out of the valley and into the passage,” he concluded, looking into Christina’s argent eyes.

“But it probably won’t come to that. Once you bloody someone’s face, chances are they’ll turn tail and run,” Letho concluded, rolling the map into a narrow cylinder with small, rapid movements. It was only then that he noticed that amongst the eyes and ears that were ascertaining his plan, Sienna’s eager and curious blue ones were severely missing. He didn’t voice his concern though. Instead, once the map was safely tucked away and his equipment was settled in his gauntleted hands, he gave an order to his troops.

“Let’s move out!”

***

Sienna had disobeyed a direct order, but she didn’t feel the guilt a soldier usually would when she went against the words of their superior. This was mostly because her superior was none other then Letho, a person she knew before this hell broke loose and threw them all into the chaotic sea of war, a dreamy hero that lived up to his fame as he rode into her little town to save the day the heroes usually did. But her lack of obedience also had roots in spite and anger. Letho got her father killed. Maybe he didn’t exactly put Edonas to the blade, but he delivered him to the executioners and sat on the sidelines as others did and that made him responsible. She couldn’t listen to such a man, not until he redeemed himself for the crime he committed in her eyes.

That was why, when she had been ordered to stay behind, Sienna had no intention to follow that command. She waited for the night to descend, bided her time with dismantling her rifle for the umpteenth time, antsy to finally put it to work. And once the time was ripe and her companions were inattentive, she snuck out of the camp instead and made her way northwards. The night thickened by then, making the darkness inky enough to camouflage her departure, and since she seldom fraternized with the rest of the troops, none noticed that the brooding teenager wasn’t around anymore. She couldn’t stay behind, not when the Empire vermin was drawing near. She had to see them. She had to kill them, to get her several pounds of flesh.

As it turned out, her lack of navigational skills prevented her from getting that which she coveted. The path up the mountain was easy to follow at first, but once it started to wind this way and that, Sienna slowly started to lose her sense of direction. The stars above offered no help. They were sparkly and magnificent with their gentle glows, jewels on the black velvet, but they were a code that she didn’t know how to decipher. Cliffs rose around her. Fear overtook her. She felt so alone in the abysmal darkness that she could almost taste her loneliness, feel it clamp her gut and send a shiver down the base of her neck and further down her spine. How could’ve she been so foolish?

Her wandering eventually led her to a grove of evergreen trees and it was in this seemingly unremarkable batch of trees that smelled of fresh pine sap that she stumbled upon that which she was searching for. They weren’t the soldiers Izvilvin saw, Sienna knew. No, the terrain here was too rocky and elevated to be the South Passage in the west. If anything, she had ventured eastwards, in the opposite direction of the Old Eli fort, and here she found over a hundred soldiers huddled in the darkness, suffering the cold touch of the night without the fire that would’ve surely revealed their location. Logic told her to make her way back to the camp and alert the others, but her logic failed to take into account the fact that she had no idea how she got here. A blind man would have more luck at retracing his steps. No, she was on her own and she had to do as much damage as she could. Taking cover behind one of the pines, Sienna took the rifle off her shoulder. Her fingers worked the loading mechanism with agonizing slowness, opening it, placing the bullet it, fastening it with a muffled click. She could probably take down three or four of them before they located her. It wasn’t enough to sate her anger, but it was a good start. The young lass brought the rifle to her shoulder. She lined up her sights with one of the sentries.

But she never got a shot off. A hand made of metal grabbed her from behind, almost bruising her face as it covered her mouth completely. She didn’t try to scream. She didn’t even struggle against the grasp. She knew death came for her and it froze the very core of her being. The words that crawled into her ear, however, thawed her just as fast.

“Shhh. Calm down. It’s me.” Letho’s voice didn’t need an official introduction; she knew its sound even when it was spoken in a mere whisper like right now. Once his hand was off of her face, allowing a barely audible sigh of relief to sneak past her lips, speechless Sienna turned towards to face that Marshal that stood inches away from her. Even in a hazardous moment such as this one, her juvenile, hormone-plagued mind acknowledged that this was the closest she ever got to him. The fate had a weird sense of humor when it decided for this moment to take place about fifty paces away from people that would gladly kill them. “We need to get away from here now.”

They shared a glance filled with mutual understanding. And then the tranquility came to an end.

In that short second that it took for Letho’s and Sienna’s eyes to meet, a human figure almost materialized in their proximity. This specter seemed as dark as the night that enveloped it, and below its hood, where its face was supposed to be, the blackness was darker still. It was like staring into the nothingness and find that, even though you couldn’t see a thing, you felt that it was smirking right back at you. It took Sienna a couple of seconds to note that something was wrong with Letho, and once she saw what he beheld, the dread swept over her. Behind the back of this creepy, faceless figure, the rest of the soldiers were stirring from their slumber.

“Go,” the Marshal ordered her, picking up his shield, keeping his eyes on the unmoving wraith. “Alert the others. They shouldn’t be far.” The response from the blonde was something he failed to predict.

“Bull. We’ll alert them together.”

And with that said, Sienna’s rifle was on the move. The girl lined it up with the apparition in less then a second and pulled the trigger. The thundering gunshot was a good announcement for a night depraved of silence.

[Christina Bredith]

Christina had been on pins and needles for hours since Letho had departed following their meeting. She had alerted him about Sienna’s absence because, as surly and unfriendly as the blonde teenager was, there was one soldier who had missed her. Perhaps it was the fact that the two of them made up the only women in the whole unit; it might have been the girl’s inexperience in these matters; maybe Sienna even reminded Christina somewhat of a younger version of herself (though she was admittedly friendlier back then!). Whatever it was, the warrior felt the need to look out for Sienna, more so than the other soldiers.

She wasn’t quite ready to put all the blame on herself, though. She had been busy preparing the horses for a quick departure and making sure the Rangers under her command were at once suitably-rested and ready for the same. Sienna was a big girl, and it was her own fault if she got herself into messes like this. She was impetuous, stubborn, and headstrong. Hell, it was one of the things Christina liked most about her! Really, the prime source of Christina’s troubled mood was the fact that Letho was the one who had gone after her. This, she knew, would not be the last time Sienna’s blood lust would cause trouble for them. It was the thing Christina hated most about her.

The blonde was standing at the northern edge of the campsite some time after midnight, biting anxiously at her thumb nail, a nervous habit she had exhibited often since this journey began. She was as still as if she were frozen by the bitter chill of the mountain night’s wind. The rest of the camp was also in a lull. The horses were either dozing or grazing as they pleased, but all were suited up and leashed to keep them from wandering off. An artist could have painted the scene as easily as if he was working with statues.

Suddenly, a gun shot tore through the empty night, and it was followed by a cacophony of ravens and other mountain birds voicing their distaste. Christina’s heart leapt full force into her throat. “Sienna! Letho!” She glanced northwest, in the direction of the shot’s source, and her body tensed. What happened? Did Letho manage to find Sienna before the shot was fired?

There were too many questions to mobilize the camp just yet. The shot would obviously have drawn enemy attention as well, but Christina didn’t even know where it had come from yet! Besides, if Letho and his men were able to escape through the dark hills afterward, then riding out with a full platoon of rangers would only make a mountain out of a molehill. At the very least, the gunshot had roused anyone who was awake into action, as well as some that were asleep, so she would be able to mobilize them more quickly if needed.

Less than half an hour later, the camp was in a mild frenzy over what to do and Christina was doing her best to get those who were awake prepared for the eventuality of riding out. It was then that a wounded ranger – Christina recognized him as one of Letho’s men – hobbled into the campsite clutching an arrow wound. Breathily and through many fits of coughing, the messenger quickly recalled the events that were transpiring, and Christina’s blood immediately ran cold. She stood straighter and spun toward the rest of the camp, where half of the rangers were still asleep. Her voice rang out with urgency and command.

“I want everybody up and ready to move, now!”

She strode into the center of the camp filled with a sense of determination. There was a table with a map laid out, pinned down at its corners to defend against the wind. Although they couldn’t light much by way of fire under these circumstances to avoid being seen, Christina had a lit torch brought to her to examine the situation.

Old Eli was a good march directly northwest of them, but the most direct route there was far too cumbersome to traverse on horseback due to the surrounding mountains. According to the messenger, Letho and his company had not quite reached the old fort yet; they had stumbled across a brigade of enemy troops in the mountains, and were retreating westward onto the South Passage when they were assailed by a second force that was likely attracted by the gunshot. Sandwiched in between a rock, a hard place, and two armies, Christina knew the only thing keeping them alive was the rangers’ home-field advantage. I just hope it’ll hold them until the cavalry arrives.

It didn’t take ten full minutes before the vast majority of the company was up and ready to ride, and that was all Christina needed now. The very few that were left behind would be ready to ride before the full group was out of the campsite anyway, and she had personally instructed a couple more to stay behind, tend to the messenger’s wounds, and make sure the campsite would not be seen by any stray enemies.

Christina swung onto her steed and raced westward out of the camp, down a gentle slope and onto the sweeping path that was the South Passage. The company immediately swerved north, hugging the feet of the mountains as closely as they could while still safely maintaining formation. If there was one thing Christina knew, it was horses, and how to treat them – years of privilege and dotage had exposed her to just about every aspect of the equestrian arts known to man. There wasn’t a ranger on staff more suited to pampering these horses than Christina Bredith, and it showed now, for they were moving with speed unmatched.

Before long, the right flank of the opposing army could be seen on the horizon; the passage was wide and clear enough for the moonlight to cast a solemn glow on the soldiers and their armour. Made up primarily of archers, they were facing the mountains to the east and firing up into the foothills, where Sienna, Letho, and his men must have been. Christina drew Icicle from its scabbard at her waist; the air around it immediately frosted over from its bitter chill. The blade was still a bit foreign to her, but it reminded her once more that Izvilvin was not far away, and if nothing else, that was of comfort to her. She lifted the sword up over her head and cried, “Alright boys, do what you do best!”

Like an executioner’s axe, the sword fell, and the first volley of arrows whistled through the night.

[Izvilvin]

The gunshot was an announcement clearer than any other Izvilvin had ever heard, proclaiming that once more, battle had begun. He’d been leaning stoically against the face of a dark boulder, bread in his hand as he tried to grab some rest, thinking his duties done for the night. If nothing else, perhaps, he figured they’d need to move to avoid the oncoming army. Someone had evidently decided otherwise.

Everything was a blur as the contingent saddled up, readying bows, arrows and blades, mounting their horses and forming positions. Izvilvin found himself lost in it all, with nothing to do but keep himself ready. Like so many times during this journey, he felt like he didn’t belong.

He waited several minutes atop his mighty, black horse before the group was ready. Leading the way, Christina brought them down from the mountain path, then set a raging pace along the base of the range. Izvilvin pulled himself low and spurred his horse onward as best as he could, amazed that the rangers could keep up such a speed without running into one another. He could see mountains across the plains, and realized they were in a wide field between two groups of mountains.

A barreling, messy horde of hooves and steel, the cavalry arrived to witness the flank of the opposite army showering the mountains with arrows. Izvilvin was caught between two thoughts, one which supported the idea of Letho being killed here and now, and one that opposed the Corone Empire.

Whatever his thoughts were, his sense of duty overrode his heart and he ploughed forth. He was one of few who did not have a bow, so he stopped midway between the armies, several others joining him. The arrows from Christina’s group rained down, bringing screams from the imperials. Before they could fully react or change their strategy, they were bombarded once more by the expert archers.

They would not stay and be mowed down, however. Raising tower shields of a silverish metal, glowing in the clear moonlight, the imperials swapped their bows for swords and charged. Among them screamed a voice, commanding and strong.

Izvilvin heard a voice from behind him, as well, and those who had charged up with him began to pull back to join the others. The Drow imagined they were going to switch to a melee battle, given they were being charged – he wasn’t sure how secure he felt with only short-ranged weapons. Mounted fighting was suited to those with polearms, or at the least, swords.

Looking back as his horse returned him to the others, Izvilvin scanned the ranks with his lavender eyes. A cloaked figure stood out the most, somehow radiating less heat to his infrared vision. The Drow pegged him as the leader, and reasoned that if he were to die the soldiers would lose heart. Perhaps even the soldiers on the opposite side of where he thought Letho and the others were.

[Letho]

Nighttime warfare was a fool’s errand. In many ways, it was like making a pair of blind people joust. They couldn’t see each other, they barely knew in which direction they had to go, but there was always an off chance that one of the lances stabs the other in the undefended face. One of these off chance lances was stuck in Letho’s left shoulder blade, making his already crippled left arm practically useless. Ever since Sienna’s gunshot, the pair was running with the beast made of footsteps and clanking weapons and whistling crossbow bolts snapping its jaws at their heels. Sienna’s shot was true. It was also completely ineffective. The bullet tore a hole in the black specter big enough to let a beam of moonlight through, but it failed to bring down the bastard. Even though there was not enough light for colors to be acknowledged, the Marshal knew it was one of those Scarlet Brigade members that she shot. He witnessed the similar hooded blackness back in Gisela.

However, while the last time one of these elite soldiers gifted Letho with a broken arm, this time he allowed the pair to flee. The soldiers that accompanied him, on the other hand, had different intentions. They mobilized as fast as they could, and before long the gun-totting blonde and the bearded swordsman had quite a suite following them. Somewhere from this pursuing commotion, one of the bolts was lucky enough to find Letho’s broad back. It made the man stumble and drop his shield, but that was all he had time for before they were on the run again. Down the shadowed rocky paths they went, huffing and panting, jumping over some obstacles, tripping over others. The night was both their ally and their enemy, giving and taking with each step they made. It gave enough for them to rendezvous with Aldair and the rest of the troops.

“We have to flee south,” Letho said to his Deputy, his words barely eligible due to the heavy breathing. The Marshal was a strong man, but long distance running was never his cup of tea. Around him, the Rangers instantly formed a perimeter, staring into the darkness and keeping their ears on both the approaching enemy and the words of their leader. “There’s another contingent to the east and they’re closing in on us.”

“South is closed off too,” the muscular Ranger shook his head. He pointed towards the three corpses some of his troopers lugged on an improvised stretcher. “I left five men to guard our back. Only one reported to me alive. Three dead, one missing. It seems that the force you discovered split into two, pressing us from both south and northeast.”

“And there’s nothing but bare rock and more soldiers to the west,” Letho said more to himself, reaching with his right hand and yanking the bolt out of his back. The wet, meaty sound and the subsequent gush of blood changed Sienna’s face into a disconcerted grimace. “We have no choice. We have to proceed to Old Eli. There at least we’ll have some cover.”

***

They found cover amidst the abraded walls of the Old Eli fort. They also found those ‘hundreds of soldiers’ that Izvilvin and Delios noticed during the day. Climbing the jagged slope that stretched from the fort to the South Passage would’ve been a suicide, but the Empire’s soldiers weren’t dense enough to march uphill. Instead they dug themselves at the foot of the hillside, firing volley after volley of arrows towards the fortress. They weren’t precise, they weren’t patient, they weren’t even firing with a distinct intent to kill some Rangers. They didn’t have to. They had time working for them, time and several hundred of their pals that were edging closer to the crumbling citadel from east and south. It was only a matter of time before they flushed the vermin out and sent them plummeting onto the rocky slope.

They probably would’ve done that too if Christina didn’t ride in to save the night from being a total disaster. Even though he was standing on a vantage point atop of a broken tower, Letho couldn’t see a thing in any direction. It was night; there was never much to be seen during the night, just fragments of some godforsaken ramparts, a face or two of his comrades and the inevitable blackness. But he could hear things. He could hear the heavy marching boots coming from the east, the incessant thwumps of bow strings, the zooming sounds of bolts and arrows that cut through the air. But more importantly, he could hear the thunder of horse hoofs. And though he couldn’t see his Deputy in action, he had a rather good idea what was going on. Christina was a soldier through and through; she did what soldiers did. She intervened. She fought.

“It’s Christina. She engaged their right flank,” Letho shouted, scurrying down the winding stairs of the tower. Most didn’t perceive this as too important of a fact. They still had quite a formidable force moving in on them and they still couldn’t flee south. Actually, even as the Marshal conveyed the news to his troops, that force was on top of them, approaching with their tower shields lined up, their metal glistening in the moonlight, making the infantry look like a large, square, scaly tortoise. There was at least two hundred of them, one hundred per this metal turtle that crept closer. Letho couldn’t see the shadowy invulnerable character from earlier that night, but he was certain that the damn wight was there, overseeing the assault, ready to leap out of the darkness like a nocturnal beast.

“We have other things to worry about now.” Sienna’s voice was almost patronizing, followed by the roar of her rifle. Unlike the arrows that failed to penetrate this man-made moving fortress, the bullet cut through the shield with ease, putting a chink in the armor of the first line. The blonde was right, though. They had to push the attackers back before they could utilize the opening that Christina was making for them.

“We need to push them back just enough to buy ourselves time to rendezvous with Christina,” Letho said to the troops gathered in what was probably the fort’s courtyard once. There was nothing left of the South Gate; the watchtowers were eaten away by time and the moat was knee-deep and as dry as gunpowder. However, within the outer walls there were more then enough ruins and rubble piles to serve as a cover. “We’ll let them come in and then attack from all sides. With any luck, they’ll fall back and regroup.”

“And once they do? We don’t have wings to fly down to the Passage,” one of the soldiers said, the one that didn’t have the weathered mask of a veteran ranger on. He was one of the militia that joined the Rangers before they rode out of Underwood and his posture showed it. It seemed that the prospect of heroism didn’t seem so prospective to him right now; it seemed he’d rather be anywhere else except this little tight spot.

“That we don’t,” Letho responded, taking a length of rope that stood wrapped around his shoulder. If there was one thing that ranging taught him, it was never to leave home with a length of rope. He tossed it to the young conscript. “But we have wits and ropes. We’ll climb down.”

[Christina Bredith]

Christina had fallen back to the rest of the group once their flustered targets had regrouped and formed a tattered but effective anti-bombardment formation. Although not every soldier in the opposing force was equipped with a tower shield, they had set themselves up in a way efficient enough that any more firing of arrows would prove to be little more than a waste of resources overall. Until their own rangers were prepared for the melee combat ahead, it would be foolhardy to rush headlong into the fray and assume one would come out alive.

“Drive them away!” Christina commanded, reminding her unit of their priority here. “We’re not looking for a slaughter.” Aside from the fact that this was what Letho and his deputies had agreed earlier, it would also be inefficient to expect a complete eradication of the soldiers at this point. They needed to create an opening through which Letho and his men could escape, or at least so that they could somehow get up to him. Besides, the enemy unit was already in tatters – the surprise attack by hardened, expert archers had meant hardly any arrows missed their mark, even in the dusky gloom. It was not an overwhelming rout as the previous battle was further south in the passage, but it was enough, Christina reckoned, to guarantee a speedy victory.

Fighting from horseback with swords was obviously not an ideal way to go, at least not for Christina, but she was as comfortable on the back of her mare as she was on foot – she had grown up with horses and lived a significant portion of her life with sword in hand (even if her parents didn’t know about it), so it was only natural for her to have combined the two at some point in her training. Besides, they just needed to drive away the foe, and this would be efficient enough for that.

When her rangers were ready, Christina gave the order, and their own charge began. Two mighty waves bore down on each other, one rigid and silver, the other fluid and earth-toned with the crimson Christina at its head. Moments later they met head on, crashing against each other in a mighty symphony of steel and pain.

Since horses were used for their speed, the tactic was essentially for her warriors to streak through the enemy ranks, taking as many heads as possible and not staying in one place long enough to risk being overwhelmed. They strictly avoided charging straight through the opposing force, however – if they were to place themselves on the opposite side of their foe, they would either sandwich them in and prevent their escape entirely (a move which would still compromise Letho’s position), or force them to escape in the opposite direction, which would much later undoubtedly prove to be a mistake for the rangers.

Everything was going as well as could be expected. Their opponents were hardened soldiers of the empire, but their tire from the late hour was obvious, and they had been taken by surprise by the assault from the south. Christina’s troops, on the other hand, were for the vast majority well-rested, and they had the element of surprise on their side, which boosted their morale. But of course, battle is never quite clean; neither was it so for Christina.

During the battle, a stray arrow grazed her mare’s right shoulder and startled the beast, causing it to rear up and whinny frightfully. Despite being used to battle, pain was a strong motivator, and the horse proved to be beyond Christina’s control. It kicked its front legs powerfully and threw back a couple of nearby soldiers, crunching nice dents in their armour, but it also caused Christina to lose her seat in the saddle. Her grip on the reins was firm enough that she didn’t fall straight onto her back, but as there was no way to regain control like this, she let herself fall ungracefully onto her feet, stumbling to her knees shortly thereafter. Her horse, frightened and in pain, ran back the way it had come, away from the battle. Wounded as it was, she knew it would not stray too far, so she would find it and tend its injury later.

The blonde soldier’s legs were now in pain, but it was decidedly better than having jarred her spine by landing flat on her back as she came dangerously close to doing. She tightened her grip on Icicle, ran her free hand through her hair to toss it back and clear it from her vision, and re-entered the fray.

It was unfortunate for her opponents, though, that Christina was a true dervish on foot. Her self-taught style of combat combined what little she originally knew of the sword with her years of gymnastic training, so she was agile, powerful, and unpredictable to the average soldier. She spun her body with almost every other swing, allowing her frosty blade to find an unguarded point under her target’s arm or along their ribs, striking at an angle they were not used to defending against.

Icicle was still a slightly unfamiliar weapon to the woman, though; Rosebite was all she knew, and there were times when it showed. At one point she had cried, "Scream, Rosebi-" and then caught herself midway, remembering that it was Icicle in her hand, not her familiar weapon, which was held somewhere in Gisela right now. Her opponent had laughed patronizingly. "Something wrong, girly?" he admonished. Christina responded by spinning her body low and sweeping a leg underneath her opponent’s, stealing his feet out from under him and knocking him flat onto his back. Then, positioned with her back to him, she leaned fully backwards, curved her body, and plunged Icicle into the fallen soldier’s neck. A frozen crystal of blood halted from spurting was all that was left of the wound as she pulled out.

The unusual movements combined with Icicle’s tendency to leave a cool blue mist wherever it went made Christina a beautiful and bewitching force to behold, and, when she soon became enshrouded in a stream of the blue fog as a result of her dance-like movements, a mystifying one. But despite it all, she was able to keep her head and her wits about her. This was an unusual style of fighting for many, but for her, it was the only thing she knew. It was thus that she was able to catch a glimpse of some rangers propelling down the western mountainside using long ropes. She couldn’t see their faces from this distance, but she knew they had to be Letho’s men.

“They’re starting to make their escape!” she called out to those who were close enough to hear her over the roar of combat. “Let’s kick it into high gear!”

Boosted by the knowledge that her efforts were not going to be in vain, Christina resumed her dance, weaving in and out of the fray like a hummingbird. Everything was going smoothly. Yes, she reminded herself – victory was all but guaranteed.

It was unfortunate that she hadn’t yet noticed the red-cloaked figure that could single-handedly turn this crushing tide against them.

[Izvilvin]

The two armies clashed like opposing waves of water, coming together in a chaotic meeting of steel and flesh. At the front lines of the resistance was Izvilvin, a sai in each hand and fire burning bright in his eyes.

To his ears the ringing of metal on metal was painfully loud, but the surge of adrenaline pumping through him made it tolerable. His horse halted suddenly as he came face-to-face with a mounted imperial, and the dance began.

Armed with a pike, the human had a distinct advantage and seemed to realize it. He struck quickly, the metal tip of the polearm gleaming hungrily in the moonlight. Izvilvin caught the razor tip in between the prongs of both weapons, and knowing he wasn’t strong enough to overpower the strike, directed the weapon away with both arms. He had an opening, but his weapons were too short to take advantage – until he threw one, taking the soldier’s throat with a well-aimed whip of his sai.

The Drow beckoned his horse inward, among the chaos, and replaced his lost sai with one of the other three in his belt. Two soldiers replaced the one he’d killed, each wielding a steel blade. Izvilvin parried two slashes, deflecting the weight of each strike so each sai did not break. Knowing he was outmatched and at a range disadvantage, the warrior stayed on the defensive, slowly bidding his black horse to back up.

Quickly formulating a strike pattern, the two humans attacked aggressively, one slashing from high while the other tried to hack at Izvilvin’s leg, then both alternating angles to mix up the fight. Impossibly, frustratingly, the Drow parried each attack, using his lightweight weapons to not only avoid each sword, but buy himself enough time to continue backing up. Were he to block a sword full-on the shock would snap a sai apart and possibly break his arm, but the angle of each parry was so perfect that he didn’t need to do so.

From his left came help in the form of a ranger’s arrow, which whizzed by Izvilvin’s form and took one of the guards in the throat, knocking him from his mount. The Drow didn’t have a moment to turn and investigate the source, as the human on his other side took the opportunity to strike. The steel blade didn’t dive for Izvilvin this time, but for the throat of his horse. Suddenly it was bucking, struggling desperately against its inevitable death. An experienced rider, the Drow was, but not enough so to keep from tumbling backward and landing flat on his back.

He could feel the air rush from his lungs, could see his vision twist with the confusion of his mind. Figures danced around him in their desperate fight, and his horse fell to the ground next to him, only inches from the Drow’s lithe body.

No time was given to him for recovery. The guard that had felled him dismounted and rushed to the ebony figure’s prone body, lifting his sword to drive downward. Izvilvin’s mind cleared and focused on the coming threat, and he rolled over just as the sword pierced the dirt.

Getting to his knees, once again ready for battle, the Drow struck back. He stabbed twice into the exposed parts of the human’s body. The target, too, was full of adrenaline, and only a pained grunt escaped him. A wide cleave followed, one that Izvilvin had to dive backward to avoid. Bloodlust overcoming him, the imperial soldier crawled forward in pursuit of the acrobatic elf.

The two figures clashed, Izvilvin dodging and deflecting the sword strikes as they came. Came they did, but slower with time. Blood dripped from beneath the man’s armor, and his eyes lost their intensity. When a blow came in too slowly, Izvilvin directed the blade up and over his head, roughly sending the attacking limbs wide. Both sai came in simultaneously on either side of the human’s neck, killing him.

Time had passed – too much time. Rising, Izvilvin tried to take inventory of the soldiers and rangers, to get a sense of the struggle. What caught his attention was the mountain slope, where figures in the night were descending rapidly from a single stretch of cord. He could pick Sienna out as she hit the ground, turning and rushing for the melee. The rope fell as the last of the troops made it down, but Izvilvin didn’t see Letho anywhere in sight. Sienna, however, was yelling something the Drow could not understand. Whatever it was, it was frantic.

Izvilvin got the sense that this needed to end quickly, both by Sienna’s apparent desperation and the swaying tide of the fight. He recalled, vividly, the vision of the cloaked figure.

With all speed, the Drow rushed to one of the fallen imperials, picking up a barbed spear from the corpse. Taking the reigns of the dead man’s horse, Izvilvin mounted it with a single movement. He spun the creature, scanning the opposing force with his keen, lavender eyes, and spotted the crimson man not far away.

Like a bolt of lightning he was off, spurring the white horse as hard as he could. Dodging soldiers, Izvilvin tightened his grip on the spear. Like a beacon of death something flashed toward him. Ducking, the Drow saved everything but a few strands of his own hair from being severed.

The figure was looking right at him, that much Izvilvin could tell. He let the spear fly with a pump of his arm, but the throw was off by a few feet. Like a reckless performer the Drow straddled the back of his horse, which made no indication of slowing, and leapt from the creatures back as he came close to the imperial leader. A sai in each hand, Izvilvin struck – and suddenly, his world exploded.

He did not know what happened, but Izvilvin found himself conscious upon the ground. Immediately he knew his ribs were broken, as each breath brought a world of firey pain to his chest and gut. Unable to rise, the Drow struggled against his body, trying desperately to force it to react to his commands.

Heavy steps accompanied the crimson figure as it approached the fallen Drow. Izvilvin saw him when he was very close, his eyes piercing the darkness of the hood. Suddenly shocked and fearful, Izvilvin did the only thing he could think to do, pumping his fist over his head and enacting the Icarus Ring. Two magical, blue wings spawned from the ring and dragged him away from his doom, carrying him back the way he came. He realized, then, that he was no longer holding his sai.

[Letho]

Once again Marshal Ravenheart stood before a scarlet brigadier, and once again he had no choice but to fight the accursed demon.

The courtyard of the Old Eli fort was oddly vacant, a haunting sight covered with fresh corpses and the scent of death. Most of those sprawled on the stringy grass were the Empire’s infantry, the double-headed wave made of shields and spears that had been shattered and pushed back with little difficulty and few losses. It had been a textbook maneuver of the Rangers, drawing their foes in and then closing a circle once they had ventured deep enough into the courtyard. Less then half of the invading force managed to retreat with their lives; the rest made a fleshy, gory carpet for the ruined fortress. This little victory had bought the Rangers enough time to extract themselves from the pickle they had gotten themselves into. Almost all of them made it down the hill to rendezvous with Christina. But one still remained.

Letho Ravenheart wasn’t left behind by choice. Sure, courage and honor and duty resounded well in the ears of those who liked to listen to the wartime stories, but the reason why the Marshal stood against an abysmal foe was much simpler. He was supposed to be the last one to take the downhill escape route, but before he got a chance to follow his comrades, the scarlet-clad demon made an appearance, severing the rope. Letho expected for the remaining troops to come pouring in to support their leader, but no such thing happened. For some reason the mysterious hooded figure just stood at the edge, as if waiting for some cue to make its next move. Letho didn’t wait long to make his. One-on-one seemed much more promising then one-on-hundred and one. And besides, he had a score to settle with one of these faceless demons.

With his left rendered unusable by both the unhealed fracture and the bolt wound on his back, the Marshal used only his right to thrust his spear at his scarlet opponent. His aim was good, his speed admirable. His result was the same as back in Gisela. The figure before him became a blur, the tip of the spear hitting nothing but dark red mist. And before Letho had a chance to even pull his polearm back, a bony hand latched onto his windpipe with a steely grasp. A fraction of a second later his eyes acknowledged the shadowed body attached to the hand and the blackness that peered back at him from below the hood. The demon lifted the Marshal off the ground and swung his body over the chasm, holding him as if he was weightless.

“This thing... it isn’t human...” Letho’s mind cerebrated as its owner struggled against his attacker. His decrepit left tried and failed to yank the hand off his throat. His right, still holding on to the spear, was much more dangerous. It fired another jab with the spear, this time aiming the prevalida tip at the chest of his opponent. But the wight was simply too agile, too fast, constantly keeping the Marshal three steps behind. Its free hand intercepted the spear thrust, then proceeded to toss the bulky Ranger against the wall of the Citadel. The ancient stone gave way before the collision, but it still knocked enough air out of Letho’s lungs to make the man gasp for air as he tried to rise from the rubble.

“What are you?” the Marshal asked in between coughs, and when there was no reply, “What do you want?”

The trooper of the Scarlet Brigade turned to lifeless stone again, impassive and unfazed by the questions, a sentry with endless patience. And yet when Letho came at him again, the impossible mobility was back with a vengeance. The Marshal fired another thrust, but pulled it back at the last moment, swinging his spear like a halberd instead and trying to slice at his foe’s calves instead. The demon did the disappearing act again, but this time Letho followed up with a wide horizontal swing, rotating his body and making a full circle with his long weapon. Once again, he struck nothing, but at least this time around he kept his adversary at bay. If only he could actually see...

A kick came from out of nowhere, striking Letho in the back and propelling him forward uncontrollably, forcing him to kiss the wall once again and make another pile of debris. Blood and dust filled his face, hindering his vision. His nose was broken, leaking his life liquid profusely. The wound on his back throbbed as if it was set on fire. He couldn’t muscle it out with this thing, the Marshal realized then. He had to outsmart it instead.

When he got up again, Letho didn’t opt for his usual headlong approach; it would earn him nothing but another set of bruises and fractures. Instead he made for the crumbling set of stairs, climbing the broken tower with as much haste as his legs allowed. He knew that his foe would follow. For some reason the bastard didn’t want him dead, but he wasn’t keen on letting him go either. A confirmation of this came halfway through the climb, when what seemed like a gust of wind overtook the Marshal and proceeded to the round plateau above. By now it became quite clear to Letho that that was no draft passing him by.

On top of the broken watchtower the invincible figure waited with its uncanny stolidity. There was no escape from it. If the Marshal were to make a run in the opposite direction, he was certain that the same wretched figure would wait him at the foot of the tower. Waiting. Observing from behind that veil of shadows. Ready to make another one of its blistering moves. But up here there was no room for finesse, no crummy obstacles against which Letho could be flung. Up here it was bound to be up close and personal, just the way the Marshal wanted it.

“You are really starting to aggravate me,” the bearded Ranger said, single-handedly pointing his spear towards the hooded specter. Unsurprisingly, there was no reaction, not that Letho expected one anyways.

The battle recommenced, if such a duel could even be called a battle. The Marshal let his spear fly, thrusting, swinging, swirling it around like an trainee doing his best to impress his mentor, covering as much ground as possible with his strikes just to keep the distance. The scarlet wraith did its thing, fading in and out of sight, untouchable and unconcerned, almost heedless. It was that superiority that was eventually its downfall. With every strike Letho launched his heavy feet slammed against the wooden floor, abrading the structural integrity, making the wood groan and crackle in discontent. One of these stomps eventually cracked the floor and sent it plummeting through the core of the tower. The spook made a run down the winding stairs. The gravity was faster.

Letho, the scarlet warrior and several metric tons of wood and stone came down with a resounding crash that sent the dust puffing out of every possible orifice of the watchtower. Debris attacked the Marshal as he freefell, assailing every part of his body with both tiny cuts from wood splinters and massive bludgeon trauma from the hefty pieces of rock. And once they were done, he wound up buried somewhere in the middle of the heap, feeling as if he was in a vise that somebody tightened a bit too tight for him to breathe. He started to dig his way up, his healthy arm paddling with some difficulty as if he was swimming through molasses. Eventually, the dust his lungs rebelled against gave way to the fresh air and the stones stabbing at his face opened up to the clarity of the night’s sky.

For minutes Letho just lay there on the top of the pile, breathing, staring at the sky through the giant stone tube that was the tower around him. But those minutes were the only reprieve he was allowed. Soon enough voices could be heard, sounds of metal clinking against metal, feet stomping on the uneven gravel. They were all telltale signs of trouble approaching, the remaining infantry making their way into the Old Eli fort. He was no more out of the woods then he was out of the damn citadel. There was still work to be done.

Getting up was the hardest. His bruised body felt like a giant wound, reminding him of all the wall-crushing and face-smashing and debris-wrestling he had already done. Once he was up, however, a getaway plan presented itself. The scarlet attire of his dexterous opponent was lying on the ground, half buried beneath the rock near Letho’s spear and missing a body that once inhabited it. Letho didn’t contemplate much on this peculiarity; he didn’t have the time to do so. Instead he dug the cape out of the debris, swung it over his shoulders and put the hood on. For a moment he expected for something magical to happen, some transformation that would give him the same powers that the members of the Scarlet Brigade had, but the cape was just a piece of cloth, nothing more. Apparently, whatever was usually beneath it had the immense power.

Cloaked in scarlet and carrying his spear, Marshal Letho Ravenheart walked out of the tower with as much dignity and calmness as he could muster. His impersonation must’ve been a rather good one since none of the Empire’s troopers dared to cast even a questioning glance in his direction. Whoever – or rather whatever – these scarlet-clad warriors were, they clearly struck dread in friend and foe alike.

[Christina Bredith]

Christina found herself at the fore of the battle along with a handful of the contingent’s most talented rangers. They were putting their all into holding the enemy’s front line as far back as possible while Letho’s men scaled down the mountainside and made their escape to the south. Most of them were in bad shape – apparently the battle at Old Eli had not been friendly to them, but they were fortunate that any of them had survived at all. At the very least, her fight here would not have been in vain.

Luckily, the opposing force wasn’t putting up much of a fight anymore. It was already quite late, most of them had probably been roused from their sleep to engage Letho’s forces, and the battle had been dragging on for some time besides. The rangers were tiring, too, but they were used to far rougher conditions than the soldiers of the empire could boast. Just a little longer, boys, Christina willed.

She, too, was growing tired: her muscles screamed, the taste of fire was in her mouth, and her movements were becoming gradually more sluggish. Unfortunately she couldn’t boast even the same battle experience as the empire’s soldiers could. However, she had one thing in enough abundance to make up for it: an unwavering determination to succeed. With that alone she would push herself well past death and disintegration if she had to.

With every passing moment she had to play it smarter than before, playing against her opponent’s fatigue to counteract the danger of her own. It was a tricky little game, but a valuable learning experience nevertheless. One opponent swung his blade at her from above at an angle, but because of his fatigue, it was slow and Christina was able to analyze it. Her own reaction was slower than it should have been, too, but the foresight alone allowed her to duck under his arm, spin, slash Icicle across his lower spine, and put an end to him. Her next opponent was sluggish as well, coming up behind the first; but with her back to him, Christina merely flipped Icicle around, pushed her body backwards, and ran the blade through his stomach.

It was from that position that she saw the unmistakable form of Sienna rushing through the crowd. Most of the enemy soldiers were too tired to engage her or were otherwise occupied, so she had an easy, albeit risky, dash towards Christina. Because she was shouting a retreat order to all the soldiers she passed along the way, she was practically out of breath when she arrived, and there was urgency in her voice.

“Letho says to—” She was interrupted when Christina reached forward and grappled her head with one hand, forcing her down into a bow. A silver streak sliced the air where she had just been standing. Christina’s frozen blade parried it in mid-strike, followed by a thrust into the aggressor’s chest and a spray of chilled blood from the open wound.

“Sorry, sweetie,” she apologized as she righted Sienna again. “You were saying?”

Sienna curled her lip at the affront, but there was no time for the women to scratch each other’s eyes out just now. “The men are down. Letho says to retreat.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so?” Christina beamed cheerfully, ushering her companion into the crowd of rangers behind her, where she would be safe from enemy blows. “You heard her, boys! Let’s haul ass!”

When she turned to watch her back as they retreated, Christina saw that the enemy was all too willing to follow suit – the battle had taken its toll on both sides and letting a few enemy rangers escape was a small price to pay for a temporary ceasefire. As soon as the rangers started retreating to their horses and then swarming towards the south, the imperial army returned to its camp in the north. Christina continued to hop backwards until she was sure the battle’s two lines had truly separated. The last thing she saw before she turned and fled was the cloaked figure patiently gliding away like a blood-soaked ghost. That was when she knew they had gotten lucky, and things were soon to get a whole lot dicier.

[Izvilvin]

The Icarus Ring’s ability gave out after a solid ten seconds, bringing the near-witness Izvilvin to a grinding halt against the rough ground a good distance from the scarlet figure. He writhed in pain, his extended arm only aiding in the tremendous trauma received from his shattered ribs. Despite this he managed to flip onto his stomach, a feat that sent waves of paralyzing pain through his body and faintness to his head. His legs slid up, and with a monumental effort, Izvilvin rose into a kneel and then finally to a standing position.

Retreat was already underway, a fact that made the Drow’s escape significantly easier. With each step heavy, invisible punches knocked his head, sometimes making his steps crooked.

He was falling behind, he knew, and didn’t expect anyone – not even Christina – to come back for him. Thankfully, there was more than a fair share of newly-free horses standing dumbfounded in the battleground. Izvilvin approached the first one he could, a white mane danced in his confused, blurred vision. He grasped the reigns and tried to climb up, roaring fire in his sides refusing to give him the needed strength. With a colossal effort and a primal scream, the Drow forced himself up and into the saddle, directing the horse to turn, then ride off after the rangers – each bouncing step was horribly painful, but Izvilvin knew he had no other options.

Darkness cloaked the figures as they reached the edge of the forest, penetrating the treeline and huddling close together, coming to a stop only when they had found a clearing with a small stream. Morale was non-existent. Whatever boost the resistance’s spirits had received had been shot down in the wake of the missing Letho, despite that they had been able to rescue the entirety of the Marshall’s unit. Letho was not much for talking, really, but with him gone, the group adopted a profound, complete silence.

First priority was tending to the wounded, a job that would have been easier if supplies were not so low. Izvilvin tended to his own, removing his shirt, tearing it into layers, and wrapping his torso tightly in them. The makeshift bandage muffled the pain and gave him some support, but the Drow knew they wouldn’t be very helpful in healing – and even if they were, his ribs would not heal properly. He needed actual care from a doctor or a healer, but didn’t bother to air the need. With Letho assumed to be dead or captured, Izvilvin’s role in the fight was complete. The Rangers would lose their heart or would adopt a new leader, but Izvilvin didn’t think anyone had a chance to replace Ravenheart. Christina, perhaps, but for all the faith he had in her, Bredith didn’t command the same respect that Letho did.

It was time for him to leave, but not without Icicle.

He approached Christina silently as she knelt by the stream. He would have knelt with her if not for his injuries. “It is over,” he said, “If Letho is dead.”

The Drow’s lavender eyes looked pensively into the water, piercing the darkness of the forest to watch the moonlight reflect. “I will go.”

[Letho]

What started as an easy escape soon turned into a toilsome march southwards. Back in the Old Eli fort, with bolts whistling and swords clashing and spears thrusting, his adrenaline was at its peak, holding the Marshal in sort of half-conscious trance where he thought only of surviving the next attack. But once the blood ceased to boil and the heart slowed down to a steadier pace, the battle frenzy departed and the reality came knocking. It brought back throbs of marrow-deep pain that reminded Letho that his arm was still broken. It poked at his back wound with every stride, making him remember the crossbow bolt that was lodged in his flesh up until recently. And above all else, the lack of adrenaline brought fatigue. Some of it was blood loss, some of it was simply tiredness from battle, but together they wound up making the bulky ranger drag himself like a living corpse. His feet were too heavy, his head too light, his hands too weak, his spear a walking staff. Collapsing seemed like a possibility every time he stepped forward.

Yet somehow he managed to reach their little camp in the valley. The place was abandoned now, the fires burning so low that most were little more then smoldering embers. For a moment there was hope that Christina left a ranger or two behind to guard the camp, but only the tethered horses welcomed the Marshal with their nervous whinnies and snorts. They were simple beasts, but they could smell the blood in the air and it brought them naught but unrest. Letho untied most of them, shooing them away as much as his derelict state allowed. A few were left behind, just in case he wasn’t the only one who wound up detached from the rest and returned to the camp. He mounted one of the remaining beasts gracelessly. He wasn’t sure whether it was his white charger or someone else’s, but at that moment he didn’t care much. He heeled the horse into a steady trot and set his course south.

At first it seemed impossible to sniff out the trail of his comrades. The night was dense with darkness beneath the crowns of Concordia’s trees, the forest was vast and the Marshal was too tired to be overly perceptive. There was even a doubt that Sienna never lived long enough to deliver his orders, the poor young thing. She was the last one to descend and there was a chance that she never reached the foot of the hill before the rope was severed. But after Letho shifted his course to the west, it wasn’t long before he came upon a trail. It was obviously a very hasty, very sloppy retreat. Broken branches and stomped shrubs were everywhere, victims of the horse hooves and reckless feet that passed through recently. The longer he followed them, the more apparent the proof of ranger presence was. Some left behind their bloodied suits of studded leather, some broken swords, others snapped bows. Soon screams of pain could be heard, wails of those less fortunate who found themselves on the pointy end of a sword or two.

Without him around to issue an order, nobody saw it fit to post sentries around the temporary encampment. Needless to say, once a mounted cowled figure rode into the camp attired in scarlet, quite a few were caught with more then just their pants down. Some of them knew of the Scarlet Brigade just from tales, others had the rotten luck of witnessing their ruthlessness tonight. Swords twinkled in an almost non-existent starlight, blistered, weary hands notched arrows into their bows. But before any of them had a chance to attack, the figure pulled the hood back.

“Is that how you greet your Marshal?” Letho said, his voice dry and lacking the vibrant, booming effect. The brandished weapons weren’t lowered immediately; most were either surprised by the fact that he was alive or wary of the possibility that it was some kind of trickery of the Scarlet Brigade. It was Sienna that stepped forward first, shouldering her rifle and getting close enough for her lithe figure to become distinguishable.

“Letho?” the young blonde spoke, approaching closer then others had dared. Beyond the tufts of sweaty bangs that clung to her face, her blue eyes were studious. Her voice, that always seemed wroth with him, radiated with concern. “We thought you captured or dead. When that last rope came tumbling down without you, we were certain the Empire overwhelmed you.”

“They did in a way,” the Marshal said in a weary sigh, doing his best to dismount without falling down on his face. He probably wouldn’t have made it if Sienna didn’t hold the horse’s reins, steadying the beast. “They sent one of their Redcloaks first.”

“You slew one of the red wraiths?” someone asked from the motley bunch. It could’ve been Aldeir who came forth with his blade sheathed and his bushy eyebrows frowned. Most others still had their weapons at the ready, though few looked like they were about to use them. They seemed more interested in the story behind the scarlet robes that Letho wore. He could’ve served them the true story, how he got overpowered by the demon, how he got lucky when the tower came crumbling down, crushing his enemy but not him. But that wasn’t what his men needed right now. They’ve lost the battle tonight. More importantly, they failed their mission tonight, surrendering the South Passage to the Empire. Though Letho couldn’t see their eyes, he knew that despair crept into them, their morale hitting the rock bottom. Seeing friends perish had an awful habit of doing that to a person, regardless of how battle-hardened he or she was. So he gave them the sugar-coated, morale-boosting version.

“Aye. I’m wearing his skin, am I not?” the Marshal said. He couldn’t see the effect of his words, but he could hear a few hoots and Aldair clapped him on the shoulder with one of his huge, callous hands. Unfortunately, the friendly appraisal was more hardy then Letho’s current constitution, so it sent him to one knee. The only things that saved him from winding up prone were his spear and Sienna’s feeble hands.

“You’re wounded,” the youth said, her tiny body struggling to help him up. Letho wanted to say that it was just a scratch, that it would pass, but he knew better. He left the wound unclean for too long already and there was danger of it festering and making him feverish. So he allowed the blonde to seat him on the ground and treat his wound. She undressed him diligently, tentatively, as if she no longer brooded over the fact that he delivered her father to death. Perhaps she chose to forget it just this once. Or perhaps she found some satisfaction in the fact that Letho fought this time. Either way, her hands worked with as much care as possible.

“We need to regroup and organize,” the Marshal didn’t waste his time as he beckoned the remnants of his Highwaymen closer. When he saw Christina and Izvilvin alive and rather well, it brought a smallest of smirks on his harsh visage. He knew that the drow was as tough as shoe soles, but he feared for the blonde warrior the way he always worried when women fought. Battlefield was no place for a woman, his father once told him, but Christina certainly did well to rebuke old Agraus. There wasn’t a scratch on her, an admirable feat after a night filled with cloven shields and broken swords.

“Ah, so both of my Deputies survived. That’s good. We’ll have to split up. Aldeir, I want you to stay behind with those still fit to fight. Send some scouts up to Fort Eli. If Arin perchance seized the fort, you should try to reach him and join forces. Hopefully we’ll still be able to hold the half of the Passage. Christina and I will take the wounded back to Underwood with daybreak.”

It was a hard decision, abandoning his troops. But a good leader had to know when he’s more of a burden then an asset to his company. And right now, with one of his arms dysfunctional and his body weak, he was more apt to be an obstacle then their commander.

“I... I’m fit. I’ll stay as well,” Sienna said, but not without uncertainty, wiping the congealed blood with strips of textile that might’ve been her cloak once. Letho shook his head.

“With my arm broken and a hole in my back, I’ll need somebody to assist me back in Underwood. You’re coming with me.” The girl wanted to object, but for once she bit her lip and continued her work. Because this was Letho that she heard about, that she believed in, the moody, hardy warrior that braved the odds and righted the wrongs. And she wanted to be around that Letho.

“Christina, Aldeir, do you have the count?” the Marshal finally asked. It was the hardest part of every battle; the aftermath with its numbers and names and dead faces. “How many did we lose tonight?”

[Christina Bredith]

Christina would later take the blame for any errors in judgment on her part as to the state of the camp upon Letho’s arrival. No sentries posted – a rookie mistake (though she was indeed just that), brought about by her own worry for Letho. In fact, when Izvilvin found her kneeling by the campside stream, she was running an old, tattered rag along Icicle’s blade to scrape away the dried – rather, frozen – blood. A thin film of ice was forming on the surface of the water as she dipped in and then removed Icicle, and then breaking up as the stream’s motion overcame it.

What had happened to Letho, she wondered? How long had it been since any of the rangers in his company had last seen him? She considered the option of sending someone out to look for him, in the event that he was too wounded to travel, but it would have been a fruitless effort until the first light of day was upon them. One thing was perfectly certain, though: Letho was alive. There was not the slightest hint of doubt in her soul about that. The only question was just how alive.

When Izvilvin approached, Christina lifted her head slightly, but continued the slow motions of her hands within the now ice-cold stream. The only break in her rhythm came when Izvilvin first spoke. She turned her face an inch or two and tugged the corner of her mouth into a smirk. “Dead? You must not know our Marshal very well, hun.” She shook her head and turned back to her polishing. “A man like him isn’t going to die like this. His story isn’t over yet.”

Izvilvin’s next words initiated another pause, but this was not one of amusement. It was a moment she had known was coming for a long time, but never wished to acknowledge. What would happen when this was all over? She had grown very close to some of these men over the past few weeks. Would they all even survive to the bitter end? For some of them, that was already an impossibility…

Christina finally lifted Icicle from the water for good and wiped away the droplets with a separate rag before they could freeze too deeply. The freshly-cleaned blade shimmered in the moonlight, and the blonde examined it from several angles to ensure it met her standards. She then rose to her feet, completely silent, and handed the weapon back to Izvilvin with a sad smile.

The next words out of her mouth were a complete surprise – for they were in Drow. “Then be strong and survive, until next we meet.” Expecting this farewell as an inevitability, Christina had learned the phrase, apparently a common dark elven farewell, from one of the rangers in her company; one would have been surprised at how many of them spoke at least snippets of the language, and how useful it could be in the right situations. The dark elven tongue was a rough and guttural one, but through Christina’s mellifluous voice, it sounded much softer, and even tantalizing in its own way.

She didn’t really know what to say after that. Izvilvin wasn’t the type to go for the mushy goodbye she would normally give a good friend, and besides, it wasn’t even likely he’d understand half of it anyway. Luckily, Sienna, without realizing it, did the talking for her: “Letho?” she had said, tentatively and with disbelief. Christina looked up suddenly, with an unsurprised smile.

“Told ya!” She beamed brightly at Izvilvin and her entire mood took a turn for the better. Letho was back, and perhaps now her dark-skinned friend wouldn’t have to leave either! She skipped and dashed over to where the crimson-clad Letho was standing, and motioned joyously for Izvilvin to follow.

The rangers were rightly surprised that Letho had slain one of the Empire’s finest, but Christina could only laugh as she burrowed to the front of the crowd. “You sound surprised. For shame,” she playfully admonished. “The Empire obviously doesn’t know who it’s messing with. But, eh, Marshal –” the blonde wrinkled her nose and chuckled – “take that stuff off. Gives me the willies.”

Truth be told, Christina was surprised as well. She never doubted Letho’s abilities, but this was the Scarlet Brigade! The stories that circulated about them were enough to put the fright in even the oldest hand at battle. But their ever-important morale was low right now – one of the reasons the encampment was so unguarded – and if Christina only knew how to do one thing, it was spread her infectious good cheer.

While Sienna dressed Letho’s wounds, Christina lowered herself with courtly elegance onto a smoothed log nearby. A nod acknowledged the Marshal’s plan, reluctant to turn back so soon, but realizing that they had no other recourse. The weight of the Empire was truly crushing indeed, and the rangers had paid for their underestimation – a mistake that would not be repeated.

Letho requested the death count, and the warrior looked up, her argent eyes suddenly serious. “Thirty-two,” she announced immediately. A polished eyebrow quirked slightly, as if discovering the silver lining to a very dark cloud. “We were worried it was going to be thirty-three.” There were a few dull smiles nearby in response. Thirty-two deaths was far too many to be stomached by any account, but that the Marshal had survived was at least some recompense.

For the remainder of the early morning, Christina set about getting the rangers ready for the retreat to Underwood. Though most of the wounded had been tended to already in what meagre ways were available to the encampment, the deputy set about getting as many ready for riding as she could, and setting up methods of transporting those who were not fit to do so. She also helped Aldeir oversee the preparations of the soldiers who would remain behind and, displaying matronly care, turned back some who were not fit to fight but were too stubborn to admit it. She wasn’t about to send anyone else to their deaths tonight.

By the time the sun crept over the eastern horizon and peaked through the crests of the surrounding mountains, the encampment was already much smaller: that which was no longer needed was stripped down either in preparation for the return to Underwood or the possible march to Old Eli, and everyone in Christina’s charge was saddled up on their own or with a partner for the retreat. She had formed up the ranks in such a way as to keep an eye out for the enemy as efficiently as possible, while protecting the gravest cases – they were in no condition to fight, so they needed the earliest notice they could get of any trouble. Bathed in the dawn’s golden glow, the company marched easily southward, back towards Underwood to lick their wounds.

[Izvilvin]

Christina’s confidence, as evident in her voice as it was in her knowing smile, was either a blessing or a curse. It shattered Izvilvin’s idea that Letho was dead, which would have made him free to leave and resume his life – but it also gave him some hope for Corone, a land that had earned his admiration.

Icicle felt as home in his hands, perfectly weighted to his limbs. Like a long-lost friend, he savored his reunion with the blade, strapping it carefully to his belt. He was going to say a few more words, was even struggling with discovering what he wanted to say, when Christina’s phrase caught him off-guard. He smiled brightly, unable to suppress it, and thanked her deeply with an old saying.

“Dro natha verve dro, jabbress, lu' dro ol xuileb jiv'undus.”

He knew she wouldn’t understand, which was part of the fun. He threw her a wink and was readying himself to leave, when the arrival of Letho threw the camp into motion. Christina, excited, rushed toward the Marshall and encouraged Izvilvin to do the same. Shirtless, but with his own ripped shirt wrapped about his torso, he followed.

His greeting was sincere – as sincere as it could be, given the circumstances. A wave of his hand and a smile, a quick nod along with it, and that was all that was needed. They were warriors, Letho and Izvilvin, and needed no more than that. The Drow found himself torn again, but was avoiding his feelings easier as time went on. So many repetitions of the same dilemma were making his decision more solid.

He spent his time sitting against a tree until it was time to go, grabbing a few moments of rest before the road demanded his attention once more. When it did, Izvilvin was as calm and strong as he’d been a day ago, as focused as he ever was. Each step burned his insides, but his mind ignored the pain better as time wore on. The sun set quickly, and the company moved under the cover of night.

Something in him had changed, Izvilvin realized. He’d been bested in battle for the first time since his childhood, by a cloaked figure that stood for something he loathed. Each wave of pain in his ribs reminded him of his frustration, of his quick loss to the Scarlet Brigade figure. It was shocking, something he had a hard time grasping.

Time passed as the company moved in silence, solemn from their losses, but proud of their ability to stand up to the Empire. The sun was especially bright when morning came, and Izvilvin looked up, jostled from his respite by a rough patch in the ground. Far off in the distance, he saw smoke rising toward the sky, and he cried out. “Fire!”

The company broke into a gallop, pounding the dirt road as they rushed toward Underwood. Parts of the village were already reduced to ash and rubble, but the citizens were working hard to extinguish the flames that still burned. Buckets of water splashed harmlessly against roaring infernos, unable to aid the buildings as they were consumed by fire.

Izvilvin dismounted and drew Icicle. As a test, he ran the blade through flames on a nearby building, watching as the fire withdrew from the intense cold. It was working, but there was only so much he could do. Seeing no point in continuing on, the Drow hung his head.

The remainders of the garrison, fewer than even a pessimistic Izvilvin would have thought, fought to fight the flames. The scene sucked the life from the Drow. He sheathed Icicle and sucked his teeth, wondering, exactly, why he was letting himself get pulled deeper into this fight.

He looked to Letho, then to Christina, his gaze lingering on her face for much longer than anyone would have deemed necessary. Where did they go from here?

[Letho]

“Underwood... It burns!” one of the Highwaymen exclaimed, spurring his mount so hard the beast nearly unhorsed its own rider before it scurried away in a reckless gallop. Letho didn’t know the man by name, but he wasn’t a ranger, that much was clear by his posture and his equipment. Probably a conscript, he thought, a volunteer, somebody who had a home in the City of Wood. Had a home. From what the Marshal could see, the parts of Underwood that weren’t charcoaled already were slowly getting there, losing the battle to the devouring flames. The smoke fumed skywards in billowy cones which joined each other to form a dirty gray mist above the ruinous city. The distinctive, rejuvenating scent of freshness that was always tangible in Concordia was gone, chased away by the bitter, eye-watering scent of burnt wood.

Townsfolk were everywhere, running and shouting and wailing and struggling to salvage whatever they could from the hungry flames. But it was a futile battle. Underwood was all wood and sap and thatch and straw; the only thing that could save it was some heavy precipitation but the gods didn’t favor them today. Above the dense smoky mist, the sky was mockingly clear, with the fool of a sun shining down on them as if nothing was wrong. Everybody fought their own little war here, some to save their valuables, some to save their families, some to save their own lives. Nobody even noticed the sundry remnants of the North Company as it cantered through the smoldering palisades. Letho brought his troops to a halt at one of the main avenues, summoning one of the commoners to his side.

“You! What happened here? Who put the city to torch?” the Marshal said in a voice that the smoke made twice as hoarse as usual. The ash-covered face of a teenager looked up at him through curly locks that might’ve been golden once. Now they were in tune with the environment, covered with a film of pale gray.

“I don’t rightly know, sir Marshal,” the young man said, fidgeting under the gaze from above. “Some say it was the Empire, but the fires spread from the center, while Rangers still held the walls. Some say they started at the citadel. Magical fire too. It went through wood and stone alike.” Somebody shouted from the skeletal remains of one of the houses and the boy bowed and skittered away.

“Go,” Letho commanded to what was left of his Highwaymen. “Save who and what you can. Find your families if you have them.” Though most of his men were in a rather deplorable condition – a few of them barely had the strength to stay ahorse – they obeyed the order readily enough. They weren’t all Underwood born and Underwood bred, but chances were each and every one of them had some relatives in the Concordian metropolis. The Marshal had neither the heart nor the reason to keep them away. Only three remained with him, three for whom Underwood was little more then just another town crushed by the heavy blows of the war. To them he said: “You three, come with me.”

Sorrow and anguish were all around them as they rode, grimaces painted over the defeated faces that were smiling and cheerful on the day they rode out of the town. And there was anger too, simple and undirected, anger against the Empire and the Rangers and the Gods and the Devils and the world. Every look was a question why, an accusation unspoken. And Letho couldn’t blame them. If the rumor was correct and the Empire brought the inferno to Underwood, it was only because the Rangers headquartered there. If it weren’t for them and their feud with the Government, most commoners would’ve lived out their days chopping wood and hunting game and raising little toddling woodcutters and forest maidens of their own. For the first time, this battle for justice didn’t seem all that just to the Marshal.

The main garrison of the Corone Rangers got the worst of the flames; that much became apparent once Letho and his three companions came to the main gate. Or rather, where the main gate used to be. The tall ramparts made of sturdy wood were blown outwards, as if some explosion of unthinkable magnitude detonated in the courtyard and demolished the walls as if they were made of plywood. The entire compound looked like a huge house of cards torn down by the draft. The sleeping quarters were reduced to a heap of ash and half-burned wooden debris, as were the mess hall, the armory and the stables, all obliterated by the fire. Only the keep still stood, its once gray and dull walls black all the way up to where the roof used to be. Its windows were the dark, abysmal eyes that gazed down at the four riders, and the wide front entrance was the gapping maw of a hungering beast.

“What magic could’ve brought such destruction?” Letho muttered to himself, dismounting once his steed reached what looked like the center of the detonation. Only then his eyes took heed of some debris that weren’t just charcoaled wood fragments. Human bones and horse bones could be seen in the ash; on some spots it was just a femur or a pelvis bone or a skull, but there were also complete skeletons, their bony fingers still clutching to blackened metal of their weapons. The freshness of the woods was just a vague memory now; the putrid smell of brimstone and sulfur encroaching up their nostrils.

“Evil magic,” a voice answered the question from the blackness of the main keep. The words were harbingers of a man who had donned more bandages then clothes. His torso was covered with layers upon layers of them, half of his head was white from it and his left thigh was bandaged as well. His right leg was gone below the knee, forcing the man to lean heavily on the wooden crutch. One leg and one eye short, Edward Stormcrow hobbled out of the fortress. “Empire’s magic,” he added.

A couple of moments later, Letho, his three comrades and the decrepit Marshal were in a room that had been reserved only for marshals the last time. This time around there were no thick doors to keep anybody out, no guards posted before the entrance to bar their entrance, and most importantly no marshals save for Edward and Letho. The heavy, polished slab of the oaken table was an unsightly black thing now that smelled of a roast forgotten in some oven. Only two chairs were left in a usable condition – all agreed that Edward should claim one due to his condition and Christina the other due to propriety. Sienna settled herself down on the windowsill beyond which there was no window anymore, Izvilvin stood solemnly in the corner with his back against the wall and Letho peered through the window and at the smoking city, his arms folded over his ample chest. Marshal Stormcrow told the tale behind the flames.

“Three of them came,” he began. His voice was as strong as ever, but his current state made him sound the way he looked; hapless and weak. “Three against our whole garrison. Two of them were the Scarlet Brigade, but the third one... He wore the white robes of a priest, the sparkly kind that shimmered in all colors of the rainbow. They came to our front gate, crying out that we should surrender. We laughed, of course. There were only three of them and they were on the other side of the wall. Even the Scarlet Brigade can’t tear the walls down.”

Edward shifted in his seat, trying to find a position in which his wounds hurt the least. He scratched at the bandage that covered his right eye and continued. “I like to think that we paid a price for underestimating them, but I think the result would’ve been the same regardless of what we did. That damn priest raised his hands and chanted something, as if he was praying for to the skies to open the gate for him. And for once the sky answered.” The gray-haired veteran turned to Letho. “It rained fire, Ravenheart. I couldn’t believe it, but it did. The sky went black and pelted fire at us. Some of us barricaded ourselves here in the keep, but then the thunder struck and the palisades were no more. What fire didn’t consume, those red devils finished. I fought one of them, but it flung me through the window. The damn thing probably took me for dead.”

Marshal Ravenheart listened to Edward’s story, but all the words led to a singular conclusion. The resistance was finished. The Empire had struck at the heart of them and made the kill. And if other companies had the same rotten luck in the west and east and south that his contingent did in the north, there would be only a fistful of them remaining. A fistful against the Empire that could make the sky weep fiery tears. It was as Letho had predicted it’d be way back in Willowtown, when Edward Stormcrow recruited him for this lost cause.

“So it is over,” the bearded Marshal said, turning away from the window. It was not a question, but even his fellow Ranger nodded his head in response.

“I’ve received no word from Tenniel, which means that Akashima is either reluctant or unwilling to join us. The South Company is lost. In the east, Lord Bane rode out of Jadet with a force of knights, forcing us to retreat. Gandes holds the west, though, from Cathedral Hill, but he has less then a hundred men. Even if we joined forces, we have no fort to hold and no numbers to hold it even if we had one. Most of the folk have forgotten about Gisela and the executions. Nobody wants justice anymore.”

[Christina Bredith]

The whole event had turned out to be little more than a blur for Christina. As soon as Underwood was in their sights, smoke billowing through the treetops as if from a massive Alerian factory, the blonde felt her body go numb. The flames were still roaring, and as they neared, she could feel their heat pounding against her, merciless and unsympathetic to the lives claimed and memories destroyed.

For her, though, no memories were destroyed – rather, those of the most unfortunate kind resurfaced. Today Underwood was, though painted with slightly different colours, a chilling replica of Laricia, the city of birth she watched ravaged by orcs years ago. Each woman that wailed as she watched the very foundations of her home wither away and crumble as if it was a thousand years old sounded eerily familiar to Christina: it was frightening how those screams were no different from those of women watching their families die around them.

The party soon found themselves in the decrepit remains of the rangers’ garrison. Christina had been given one of the two usable chairs, which she sat in numbly with her hands folded in her lap and her legs crossed at the ankle – in this time of strife, she ironically looked much the part of the dainty socialite, because that was how she was born and raised, and her mind was too preoccupied at the moment to care what her body was doing. She would normally have protested the offer of the seat to begin with, insisting that Sienna take it instead – the poor girl, how hard this must have been for her – but the warrior’s fiery spirit was now somewhat dampened by these flames of war.

What killed her the most was that there was nothing, nothing, she could do to help. The houses would not stop burning unless the sky saw fit to mourn Concordia’s loss and weep – curse its sardonic good cheer! Those who could be saved already had been, but what sort of a life was it that they had saved? They had no place to go in an empire likely to persecute them simply for their relations with the rangers. D…did we do this?

“So it is over,” Letho announced grimly. Unlike most of the rest of what had been said, those words resounded like a crystal bell, shattering the dullness of Christina’s thoughts. Her blood ran cold instantly, and her heart and a sharp breath met in her throat. They couldn’t have lost! Not so easily! Not like this!

But… what could they do? Maybe it really was over. The rangers were such a small force now, and most of those that remained were wounded and scattered to the four winds. “Nobody wants justice anymore,” the Stormcrow cawed grimly – and with that, Christina’s heart fell back to her chest and then straight on to her stomach.

While the Marshals were agreeing with each other’s ominous assessments, however, Christina’s ears, finally regaining their sharpness, picked up a growing commotion outside in the village square. She looked up for a moment, and turned her head toward the window, momentarily breaking her perfect posture. The men and women there, they were speaking of—!

For the first time in what must have been hours, warmth returned to Christina’s body. She turned to Edward Stormcrow and spoke; her voice was subdued, but careful and tempered like the sharp edge of a knife. “You speak too soon, sir,” she cautioned respectfully. Her grey eyes were beginning to sparkle with a zeal that had been missing for altogether too long now. Christina rose and marched through the empty arch where a pair of thick oak doors once afforded the room much privacy. Without even turning to look back at them, her steely voice rose above the hollow sound of her boots drumming against the floor.

“There’s blood left in the heart of Corone yet.”

*

Outside, a congregation of many of Underwood’s survivors had formed - man and woman, ranger and civilian alike. It was an unlikely gathering, but one that filled Christina’s veins with warmth. Some still wept for their losses, and others merely overflowed with rage that could not yet be directed, but these villagers shared one thing in common: a resolution for revenge.

Some of them stepped aside when Christina approached, recognizing her as one of Marshal Ravenheart’s deputies. She stood among them, examining their faces and feeding on the determination that they displayed even in the midst of such tragedy. She realized then that this truly was a re-enactment of Laricia’s destruction, for these people reminded her, quite frankly, of herself.

“We want to join you,” a burly man near the front of the crowd told her. He was one of the civilians drafted into the rangers’ forces, but who had remained in Underwood to defend it. “Those imperial bastards might think they can just walk all over us, but they’re wrong.” There was a murmur of approval from the crowd.

“We want to help,” a fifty-something woman added. “Any way we are able to.”

“Is it true?” a younger woman asked next, peeking her head out from the throng. “That the Marshal killed one of those red-cloaked fiends?”

By now, Christina’s face had regained a lot of the life that had been drained from it when she set her eyes on the burning city, but it was a serious, appreciative energy that flowed through her now, opposed to her usual flighty, flamboyant energy. “That’s what he told me,” she answered seriously and with a reassuring smile.

“If he can do it, they’re not invincible after all!” one voice cried out. “They’re just big bullies,” admonished another. “Bu~llies! Bu~llies!” sang some children who were too young, too innocent to grasp the gravity of the situation around them.

Christina could only laugh, brightly and seriously. She looked over her shoulder at her companions who were now approaching. “You see, Marshals?” The woman was speaking not only to them, but also to and on behalf of the villagers gathered around her. “These are the people who have borne the brunt of our miscalculation, and yet they stand before us with resolve and strength in their hearts. The grim odds are not enough to sink their hearts or dull their hunger for justice. This…” Her smile widened and she gestured at the congregation with open arms. “This is the indomitable spirit of the Republic of Corone!”

[Izvilvin]

The darkness of the corner felt comforting to the Drow, who stood with arms crossed and his head lowered. Recent events had rendered him unable to fully grasp the situation he was in, but he was learning through thought, one detail at a time.

To those who knew him, Izvilvin projected a wholesome and kind image, the impression of an elf who used his abilities for good and the benefit of the innocent. For two years, he had defended Fallien and the Jya, a woman whose debt toward he had long since overpaid. His decision to remain in the desert for so long was not solely due to comfort, for although he enjoyed a life of safety and friendship, Izvilvin’s duties were not easy. He had sweat buckets and bled seas for Irrakam, and all for the people within – many of which would never accept him.

This image of honor did not reflect what he had become. He was a warrior doing what he was told, that was for certain, but even the most loyal of swords must turn against its wielder if the leader becomes unfit. As many times as the Drow came to this conclusion, the end result was always the same: Step would kill him before he could make a single move against them. Suppressing his sigh was nearly impossible.

Christina’s movement stirred him. Ears twitching, Izvilvin only then became aware of the sounds of conversation from outside the window. She left the room, drawing curious looks from those who stood within, each becoming aware of the commotion.

By the time he and the others joined her, Christina was proclaiming the continuing life of what Corone used to be. It brought cheers, most of which were shocking in their enthusiasm considering where they stood. To his surprise, Izvilvin found himself within the celebration, as he was patted several times on his shoulders. He didn’t feel excluded then, didn’t feel the slightest bit separated from these rangers, these Coronians, these humans. It felt like Fallien again, like the rally just before the harpies were vanquished. It was bolstering, profoundly so, and Izvilvin liked the feeling of confidence more than the feeling of dread.

He used the commotion to draw near to Christina, leaning in to her ear – it was remarkable that even after so many battles, he could find her scent so tempting.

“Letho lives, but I must go for a time. I will find you again.”

He backed away from her then, but didn’t try to leave immediately. She would understand, he thought, and not try to keep him there. Instead he blended back in with the crowd.

Step no longer had his allegiance nor his fear. It was, after all, simply an organization of people just like him. As long as they still thought he was one of them, Izvilvin held an advantage – and in turn, so did the resistance. He planned to use that advantage for as long as he could.

It was time to stop being afraid, to regain his pride.

((Acknowledgment: -2 sai for me.))

[Letho]

They weren’t an army. They weren’t even a motley militia. This mélange of the too green and the too elderly, of feeble women and beardless children, of farmstead armaments and sagging muscles, they couldn’t hold their ground against a single battalion of fairly trained men. Their zeal was commendable, but it was bound to make them nothing more then a heap of zealous corpses. Their numbers, great though they might’ve been for it seemed half of Underwood tried to find their place in the ruins of the Rangers headquarters, would account for nothing but the size of the mass tomb. Letho knew that. He received military training in Savion years ago, but the important lessons weren’t lost to forgetfulness. And one of them said that when training and discipline clashed with chaos and bloodlust, the latter always lost. He couldn’t use them. Not in their current state.

“Is it revenge you seek?” the Marshal finally spoke, his voice first silencing the crowd, then eliciting a murmuring din filled with ‘yeas’ and ‘ayes’. His stringent eyes chased away any delusions and elation from them, quieting them once again as he took a step forward. “Payback for the loss of your homes, for deaths of your loved ones? Do you want those responsible beheaded for their misdeeds? Soak the soil with their blood? Do you want to crush the Empire for what they did to you?”

Every question seemed to bring the collective spirit up a notch until they finally raised their arms and pitchforks and scythes and roared in confirmation. Edward Stormcrow was the only one who shook his head; he knew where his fellow Ranger was going with this. Letho raised one of his large hands in a gesture to stop the commotion. Once it did, he spoke the words that quenched the spark that seemed ready to turn into a roaring flame.

“If that is the only reason, then I cannot use you,” he stated. The consequent silence was total, as if the entire mass of people perished in a second. The Marshal continued in a solemn, dignified voice. His eyes went from one ash-covered face to another, clashed with every questioning gaze and refused to yield. “If you are here only to chase some personal revenge, fight a personal war, then I cannot use you. This war is bigger then us, ladies and gentlemen, more important then each and every one of us.”

He moved towards the free folk of Corone and they parted as he walked amidst them. He touched a shoulder of a widow here, a messy head of hair of a child there, examining the assortment of faces around him. “You have lost so much these last few weeks, I know. Your blood boils and cries for satisfaction. But there is a voice that cries louder still. The voice of freedom, the voice of the Republic on its death bed. It needs soldiers to fight for her. If you believe that you can be men of war, then I will teach you how to become the tools of the Republic. But if you want only blood, then you are walking an awry path, for this war cannot be won by brute force.”

He came to his horse at last and swung into the saddle with ease, as if the speech somehow reenergized him and made him immune to his injuries. “Revenge will not bring back that which you have lost. But victory could regain you the most important thing of all: your freedom. If you follow me, then follow me as brothers and sisters in arms, as soldiers of the Republic of Corone. If not, then go seek your revenge elsewhere.”

It wasn’t a speech that they wanted to hear, Letho knew. It was too harsh, too hard to digest at a time like this. They wanted inspiring words and promises how all the wrongs would be righted and all villains brought to justice. But that wasn’t how wars operated. They were gruesome, loathsome things that attacked you from the inside just as your enemies attacked you from the outside. If your only fuel was lust for revenge, it burned out like oil, leaving a black patch where your heart used to be. But if there was a higher cause, a common goal that brought unity amidst the ranks, then they were more then just louts with swords. Then they were soldiers.

The silence lingered. The Marshal could read the faces around him; they reflected the battle that occurred in the minds beyond them. His words had struck the vengeful cord within them for which they all clutched when they stepped forward, trying to sever it, trying to open their eyes to something bigger then just the scorched remnants of Underwood. Letho knew this urge quite well. Even now, as he was preaching them about the Republic and freedom, a part of him desired for this gathering to disband right then and there. He could leave them to their own devices, sneak into Gisela, find Myrhia, flee, settle in some place forgotten by the world and just watch as the Empire stomps on everything with its iron boot. But he had a duty to the land that had given him so much and that duty was bigger then his personal cravings.

“I will follow you, Marshal!” a female voice called out. At the edge of this pool of begrimed faces and soiled clothes, Sienna stood with her rifle at her side. Her right hand saluted the mounted man in a military fashion, her clutched right fist pressed against her heart. Her lips, always unsmiling and pulled tight, were smirking ever so gently. And it was the snowball that started an avalanche, for no sooner then her salute was done, two more pledged their allegiance to Letho Ravanheart. And then three more, five, dozens and dozens, all trying – and mostly failing – to salute the Marshal properly. And soon enough most were standing in attention – or some semblance of it – holding their hands to their chests.

They didn’t know what they were enlisting for, Letho knew. Nobody knew what war was all about until they landed right in the bloody middle of one. But they would learn. And soon.


((SPOILS:

A spear with a shaft made of nihon and a tip made of prevalida.

A scarlet cloak made of vlince with the emblem of the Scarlet Brigade.))

[AdventWings]

For what I've done...
I start again
And whatever pain may come
Today this ends
I'm forgiving what I've done...

What I've Done ~ Linkin Park

Heehee. I was listening to this line while reading the last half of Letho's post. Seems fitting for a closing credit roll, I might say.

*ahem*

Sorry, got side-tracked.

Anyways~! Time to hear the Judgment!

Story

Continuity - 8

You all had a reason to be where you were and you used that to your advantage.

Setting - 8

There was more of this during the front half of the thread, but big battles tend to be messy and adding bits of visual layout would just be too much. You played this well and only noted the important things. Immediate things that needed noting, anyway, but it was generally very well-placed.

Pacing - 7

If you can work on how to flow into each other's posts a bit more, especially finding a way to make it all seem like you're all writing off each other's post instead of having the overlap the posts. It's hard, I know, but can be done with some effort. From what I see here, one or two attempts worked. The transition from Post #25 into Post #26 was what I was looking for. Have fun figuring that out, Nya~! :p

Writing Style

Mechanics - 8

Nothing terrible or too wordy, but large paragraphs are sometimes tiresome to the eyeballs. If you found a way to break it up into manageable sizes - without compromising writing structure and pacing - then you're as good as gold. Some (un?)intentional misspells from Izzy around Posts #36 (and maybe one before?) but that was all that I caught. With the misspell so close to the start of the post, however, it was glaringly obvious.

Techniques - 8

Yes, good techniques and all that jazz. None of them stood out like a big bright diamond, though. Then again, maybe it was because there were so many back-to-back in your posts? Go easy on them if you have to - too much of it can really crowd out the posts and bore the readers.

Clarity - 8

Some stuff were still a bit crazy-lookin' and did not quite make sense, like how many Scarlet Brigade units were present. It served well in creating the "wtf" effect on the readers, so I guess it served its purpose.

Character

Dialogue - 8

I was tempted to give you a 9, but some of the stuff Sienna said conflicted with her nature. I could imagine her saying "It'll do" more than "It will suffice" in such a circumstances, but that's just me. Christina's words were... Wow. I'd be surprised with all that commander blood in her, but she is a talkative and lovable character. Like I said, I'm tempted, but you get an 8 for now. ;)

Action - 7

Some of the stuff that went down did not quite make sense, but I blame that on the general turmoil that unfolded. Some of it had to do with troop movement and strategic deployment, but that goes to show my understanding of medieval-level warfare. Good job overall.

Persona - 9

A wonderful caste of characters with... characters! Every single person portrayed here. With the exception of the Scarlet Brigade, of course, since they are supposed to be mysterious. I cannot say more than give you a 9. Great job.

Miscellaneous

Wild Card - 10

Hmm... What to say... Well, I think there are a few factors that played into giving you the elusive 10.

One: The story was engaging and not focused on merely the battle, in the literal sense. It also wove three stories together, almost seamless to a casual reader's eyes. One is about a Ranger Marshall who just wanted to get away from it all but sooner or later got dragged back to doing his stuff. One is about a young and impressionable soldier looking to live her dreams in the army. And one about an assassin and an outlander who was forced to decide between doing his job and doing what's right.

Two: ...Well, I would have to hand it to the interplay of personalities. It made a battle of this scale... An affair so epic... seem all the more personal.

In short... I might have been different if the parties involved were not these three.

Total Score - 81!

If that doesn't make this eligible for a JC, I don't know what will. (By the way, Letho, ya really need to go easy on the JCs. :p)

Letho receives 5,910 EXP and the Nihon spear with Prevalida blade. He also got the vlince cloak of the Scarlet Brigade, albiet quite tattered as it is.

Christina Bredith receives 2,575 EXP and some gifts from the Concordian kids, totaling 436 GP.

Izvilvin receives 4,450 EXP and 460 GP. He lost two of his sai in the skirmish at South Pass, however. It looks like he would have to buy some to replenish his stock. ;)

I'll be waiting to see what you have in store for The Price of Freedom ~ Part III as well. Rock on, Soldiers!

[Letho]

EXP/GP added! Christina Bredith, welcome to the next level.