The Spectre of Silverglen

[Kovalai]

Closed to Kryos and Earthwalker.

~Two weeks prior~

Kimad sneezed, then cursed. By the gods it was cold! He breathed into his hands, trying to keep his warmth in. He would be glad to get out of these mountains. No amount of coin is worth this trip again, he reflected bitterly. He had signed on to guard these miners three months ago, and he was sure it was the worst decision of his life. No, decent, civilized men aren’t made for the cold. Or the smell. Gods, He wasn’t the sort of man to complain, he could deal with animals, he could deal with people. But if he had learned one thing on this trip, it was that nothing smelled as bad as rocks. Call him crazy, but you stick enough rocks full of enough metal in one place, and the smell’s strong enough to kill a lesser man. Shaking his head, he took a long drought from his flask, and the liquor burned like a week in the sun. He sighed with relief, and looked around glumly. It was midmorning already, but the sun hadn’t burned the fog off of the foothills they had finally reached. Something eerie about mists like that. A few more hours, and they’d be off this blasted mountain pass, and good riddance.

Ten guards seemed a bit much to guard a sad three wagons, Kimad thought, but he wasn’t about to complain about a couple extra bodies. Couldn’t be too many men at your back when the swords came out, he always said. Or in front of you, depending on how things looked. Nothing kept a blade out of your gut like being jammed up in someone else’s. Nothing had come up though. They’d sat on the top of the mountain freezing their asses off for months guarding a hole in the ground, and hadn’t seen a single fellow they hadn’t gone up with.

Some of the younger mercenaries had been disappointed, but Kimad was no fool. No trouble meant free money, and you weren’t likely to get yourself killed over someone else’s goods. You didn't get to be Kimad's age as a sellsword by picking fights, that's for sure. He could see one of the brash ones now, Bretennal Kal something-or-other, sitting high and mighty on his horse up next to the front wagon. Kimad called him Brat.

Contemplating Brat as he was, Kimad had a rather good view when the crossbow bolt blossomed in the man’s shoulder. The lad looked rather surprised, and apparently his horse was too. The beast spooked, throwing off his now one armed rider. Brat landed with a sickening crunch as his head collided with the ground and, cursing, Kimad threw himself behind the nearest wagon. Damn fool beasts were no good when the fighting came, Kimad knew. That’s why he never took to the animals himself.

Then there was the shouting. There always was. He could hear the miners and the other guards trying to pull themselves together. He could hear the thunk of more crossbow bolts hitting wood and dirt. Amazing they managed to hit the Brat in all this fog. The boy’s ego might’ve been the size of a barn, but his side surely wasn’t.

There were also cries from the attackers. They shouted all the regular things, of course, but one thing stuck to him like a bad itch. “For the Spectre!” They shouted. Sent chills down his spine, a cry like that. He wasn’t sure why exactly, something about it besides the obvious. He took another drought from his flask, and pulled out a crossbow of his own. Didn’t keep a career as a sellsword by hiding behind wagons when the time for fighting did come, but nothing wrong with taking a few shots before the blades were out. Glancing over the wagon, he surveyed the scene. Miners and guards had lined themselves up in front of the wagons; swords, axes and picks were in hand, and shields were raised.

And then the bandits came running out of the mist. There were twelve of them, each and every one in a steel breastplate, gray pants and shirt. Gray boots, gloves, cloak, hood, and mask. Each of them brandishing a sword, keeping exact pace with each other. Now, Kimad had seen a lot, done a lot, and lived through it ‘cause he didn’t get jumped up. Those men, all the same, mist swirling across them as they shouted, he felt fear clutch her cold bitter hand around his insides. No bandits he had ever seen in all his years looked like that. Bandits wore mismatched leathers, had rusted swords. Maybe a scrap of armor here and there. Bandits didn’t wear blasted uniforms.

In that instant, Kimad considered running. But no, a man didn’t run from a fight he’d been payed good coin to fight. ‘Least not when it was thirty to twelve, minus the few with bolts sticking outta places that ain’t healthy. He lined up his crossbow at the attackers, and took a bandit in the gut. The man dropped, but the rest kept going, clustered near the back wagon. It was a good plan. The defenders couldn’t concentrate on them without worrying about more bandits coming from the other side. He winched back his crossbow, and got off one more shot, but it missed, and then they were in the fray, too close for crossbows.

Kimad sighed. They never made it easy. Drawing his sword, he charged forward, and lost himself in the blood and guts of battle. Jump in and cut, block, dodge back, kick dirt. It was a familiar routine to Kimad. Time ran together, and conscious thought stopped. The battle was going well. The attackers fought like demons, well trained demons, but they were being overwhelmed. Like Kimad always said, a good sword was worth a man’s weight in gold over a plain one, but one good sword was no match for three plain ones, and plain was certainly cheaper.

Kimad had stepped back from the fight, a close call left him with a nick across the ribs for his trouble. And that was when he arrived. He sat on a silver roan, and was dressed much the same as the others, with the exception of a hood and mask. He didn’t look like anything special, but something in Kimad’s gut told him he wasn’t just another bandit. Maybe it was his horse, maybe it was when he drew his sword, and the blade flashed like liquid silver. Kimad also knew his intestines were wiser than any man on the field. Whatever it was he felt, he found out a moment later, for surely the second the attackers noticed the rider, cheers exploded from them. “For the Spectre!” They cried. “The Lord of Mists rides!”

He now knew what that shiver in his insides was when he heard that cry. It was loyalty. And not just any run-of-the-mill, good-for-a-day loyalty. That was the sound of men who would die at a word. If they fought like demons before, now they fought like, well, Kimad didn’t have words for what they fought like, but it certainly left him feeling uneasy.

The man on the horse, the Spectre, Kimad knew, was thundering toward them. Kimad found himself the only one unengaged. He felt a twisting eel of panic squirm inside of him. That liquid sword came down, swinging across at Kimad, who stepped to the side and deflected it with his own blade. But the Spectre was good, his sword spun around, and bit deep into Kimad’s thigh. Kimad dove to the ground out of the man’s path.

The defenders had dropped to fifteen men, and three more fell while Kimad watched. The enemy had only lost four. This battle was over. Kimad crawled away as quickly as he could, and when he felt he was far enough, climbed to his feet and hobbled down the road as fast as his injured leg would carry him. He had no thoughts about the men he left behind, nor about his own possessions still stowed on the wagons. After all, a man didn’t get to Kimad’s age by being a hero, he always said.


******

It was shortly after noon when Mirena crested the ridge of hills that surrounded Silverglen. Her first sight of the town matched the image its smell had suggested a mile back. The town was bordered by an uneven wall of rough timber, fifteen feet high, and was set in a basin between a ring of foothills. Greasy black smoke poured from the northern end of the town, the source of the sooty smell of burning metal. The town looked to consist of mostly small houses, thatch roofed and dingy. She could hear faintly the sounds of hammer against anvil drifting to her on a breath of wind.

Just north of the town, a squat stone tower sat darkly on a rocky bluff and still further north the mountains loomed, slashes of gray and brown in the sun. It wasn’t a pretty town, but Mirena had slept on the road the last two nights, and would be glad for a bed to sleep in. And she wasn’t here for pretty. Adjusting her grip of the haft of her axe, Mirena started down the road that wound down the slope into the dubiously named Silverglen.

The road to the Citygate was surprisingly populated, she thought. Most people avoided this hard path between Scara Brae and the western ports. Only those with specific business came here, or those with no where better to be. Mirena reflected on her own reasons for coming here, and decided that she needed to visit a place like this. To witness what people became on the edge of a nation, far from justice.

As she dropped off the hill into the valley and approached the town, she allowed her pace to slow, and took to watching those on their way in and out of the town. Mostly it seemed to be merchants and miners, a mercenary here, a craftsmen there. She looked at them, their posture, their clothes, their face, and tried to read in them who they were, what they were like. What they had done, and were going to do.

[Earthwalker]

The rhythmic thumping of Leander’s boots measured out his breaths, his legs moving in practiced patterns to propel him along the road at a slightly-more-than-modest pace. His cape was currently folded in his pack – he had no need of its warmth while he ran. Still, the cold that lay about the low hills here was not so slight that he could ignore it completely – his hands were clenched against the nip of the wind, though the sleeves of his clothes protected the rest of his arms from its cooling caress. His face was ruddy in the chill air blowing down from the mountains, but he could see smoke curling up above the hilltops like an inviting hand, beckoning lazily with its promise of a warm rest. Without pause, he began to ascend the last set of hills between himself and the town proper, his breathing hardly changing as he began the climb. The run, with its unending motion, was Leander’s home – on his feet, moving forward, not lightning fast, but at a steady jog, tireless and consistent. There was no greater source of contentment for Leander.

Passing a grumbling merchant with a wagon and ox, Leander called a cheery greeting, glad to spread his happiness around. The merchant, preoccupied with the stubbornness of his ox, simply hemmed and hawed at the stubborn beast of burden, ignoring Leander completely. The ox gave the running lad a slow look, silent and stoic, before flicking its ears and continuing on its slow path upward, despite the urgings of its driver to move faster. This lack of acknowledgement did nothing to Leander’s mood – hardly noticing their less-than-enthusiastic response, he pressed his way up further still, putting on just a little speed to reach the top a few moments sooner.

Cresting the hill, the town sprung forth beneath him, throwing itself upward from the valley below. The thatched roofs of the houses beneath him seemed almost an open invitation, the buildings homely and organic, meshing together to form the single, living entity that was the village as a whole. Leander loved these small towns, large enough to contain their own wonders – like the large manor that reared up on the close end of town, towering over the nearby buildings, with great trees and bushes growing in its yard, or the powerful stone tower that stood a proud watch, its eyes fixed to the north – while still small enough not to house the bustling masses of humanity that choked cities, drowning individuals in their numbers. The scents and sounds of a forge blew about in the air, so reminiscent of his fathers own establishment nestled within a similar mountain-shadowed community. The outer wall of the community was perhaps the most distasteful aspect of it, cutting off the town inside from the world around it. He could only wonder at the will of most folk to live behind walls their whole life, when the world around them was so large.

His gazed fixed on the town, Leander almost ran headlong into the cloak of a mercenary just beginning to trudge his own way down the hill, dodging to the side at the last minute, and turning what would have been a full-on collision into a glancing blow. Both the older mercenary and Leander stumbled, though Leander recovered first, and shouted an apology behind him as he continued his run down the hillside. The older man shook a gloved fist into the air, shouting a vague and noncommittal threat before continuing on in the opposite direction. Sparing the mercenary one last glace over his shoulder, Leander turned back to the town, the incident quickly forgotten. The number of travelers on the road was astounding.

His jogging led him down the hill, where a woman dressed in a red wool cloak. As he passed her, he called out another greeting, "Hello, ma'am! Busy day on the road, isn't it?"

Unexpectedly, the woman called after him, her voice slow and melodic. "Hold on, young man, do you always give such hasty greetings?" she asked, a tinge of amusement in her stern tone.

Leander turned and began to jog backwards so that he could respond, his expression cheery and honest. "Not always - most people just don’t want to talk. Name's Leander - nice to meet you." Holding out a friendly hand, he slowed to let the woman catch up, eyeing the symbol on her breastplate as she did. It was some strange collection of lines and triangle, unlike any that he had seen before. The woman as a whole, though, was not so unfamiliar - though he had never seen her before, her stance reminder him strongly of the tough and powerful stance of his own mother, confident and uncompromising. Her armor was burnished and well kept, and the axe she carried in her right hand showed similar signs of care. His father would approve.

"Well Leander, my name is Mirena Ritale, I'm happy to meet you as well." Mirena returned his smile, though her voice retained its sternness, "Do you mind if I ask your business out here Leander? I don't see very many youths running down country roads."

Leander fell in beside Mirena, his strides trusting and comfortable. "Well, I'm actually a messenger," he indicated faded red sash and black bag at his side "I got hired to take a message from the city watch in Sess-Terria Hold to the captain of the guard here."

"Ah, I didn't realize you held such an important position, forgive me. To be seeing the world at such a young age, your mother must be proud"

Leander laughed, half at the implications of importance, and half at his memories of his mother, "My mum's the one who came up with the idea of me leaving. She told me I had to see the world at least once before I came back again." He stared off past the town in front of them, his mind on his own home, small but inviting in his thoughts. "I do miss her, and I'll make my way back there someday, but this was the best thing she'd ever done for me."

"You’re a good son, I’m sure she’ll be glad at your return." Her eyes glanced across Leander’s cheeks briefly, and a sterner tone returned to her words. "Assuming you aren't frozen to death when you get there."

Leander gave another grin, hoping that her expression didn’t mean what he thought it did. "I should be alright, Miss Ritale - I've got a cloak I can put on if I get too cold, and I'm almost to the inn anyways."

There was a brief pause and an even briefer staring contest before Leander sheepishly pulled his cloak from his pack, throwing the warm cloth over his back and shoulders. A satisfied expression settled over Mirena’s face, softening its sternness slightly. “Hear now though, I heard enough of 'Lady Ritale,' call me Mirena please."

[Kryos]

The Golden Oak Inn was very slow in the morning. Few customers occupied the worn, pine chairs, and only one waiter and a barman were stationed behind the counter. But even they were relaxed; every now and again making a small preparation for the bustle of customers that accompanied the night. That being said, the Golden Oak was spotlessly clean. The tables and bar were polished, and the only dirt and grim that could be found on the floor were by the entryway, and here and there about the spare patron’s feet. If anything, it could be called cozy. In the corner right beside the stairs that led to the sleeping cabins, a small fireplace merrily burned, keeping the room warm. Sunlight filtered in through slowly disappearing fog and windows, casting orange light on the benches and chairs that lived close to the walls. The smell of various drinks also permeated the room, tantalizing many a person’s nose with its intricate banquet of flavors. And the few guests which were in this sanctuary, were lost in their individual thoughts, occasionally blowing on their hot drinks, and taking a sip. Everyone here was perfectly content.

Kryos slowly drank from his hot apple cider, letting the warm, tangy fluid linger in his mouth, relishing the taste, before letting it slide down his throat and warm his body. He contemplated his purpose here as his eyes wandered the room for the thousandth time. He was growing irritated. After a week of unsuccessful time trying to find the mysterious rider that was rumored to have taken harbor in the mountains to the north of here, he had changed his tactics. If any news of the shadowy band were to arise, it would end up here within a day. But still, waiting for something to happen was extremely boring, and Kryos was growing tired. If something didn’t come up today or tomorrow, he would go back to searching on his own.

Kryos was interrupted from his musings by the door to the inn opening, and a tall woman walked in. It was Lieutenant Cerray, a strong woman who held a minor position in the town guard. She slowly made her way to the bar, her fatigue clearly showing. She must have had a long night. When she reached the bar, she ordered something, then slowly moved to a secluded table, and slumped down into a chair. Her brown hair fell on the sides of her face, and down a little of her shoulders. Her light armor was dulled by the orange light, and her brown clothes were worn. She leaned her head back, and closed her eyes. As she did so, Kryos looked away, and took another drink of his cider.

[Kovalai]

As they walked down the path toward the town, Leander told Mirena about his life as a courier, about growing up in his small town in Salvar, about his parents, about whatever drew his attention for the moment. Mirena smiled to herself. Though Leander was almost an adult, he was still in many was a sweet child. In the past few months of travel, she hadn’t had any contact with children, and it was months before that before they had thought of her as someone other than ‘Lady Ritale.’ It was refreshing to spend time with a child who didn’t expect anything of her.

His expressions were open and honest, and she found herself worrying about him being a place like this. This was a harsh place, much like Vaeril had been. She was afraid that Leander might be too kindhearted to deal with the hard edges of civilization. Hard places made hard people.

The gate into Silverglen was made of sharpened logs bolted together and attached to a pulley system. It hung over their heads ominously as they entered the town, ready to swing downwards at a moment’s notice. She was surprised at the guards standing at the entrance. They were crisp and disciplined, not at all like the town they guarded. She gave them an approving nod, and with an eye toward her axe and armor, they nodded back.

Leander had fallen silent as they passed through the gate, but after entering the town, he picked up again. He has the same color hair as Samyar, she thought. He had said that pushing him into the wider world had been the best thing she had ever done for him, and Mirena found herself believing it. She admired the woman who could give up her son to the world, for his own sake. But it would do him no good if he died. Mirena resolved to herself, Leander would survive this place, perhaps not unchanged, but unharmed.

As they walked down the main road of the town, following the path leading toward the trader’s square, Mirena watched the people of Silverglen, more than the place itself. It occurred to her immediately that they were not the same as the people of Vaeril had been. In the people of Silverglen, their walk, their eyes, she saw an edge her home had lacked.

She tightened her grip on her axe. Sharp was better than hopeless, but here, it wasn’t going to be the state that was the danger, it would be the people themselves. And these people could be dangerous. Maybe not all of them, but she could read it in the way a man would look at another down the street, hand falling to touch the hilt of his sword briefly, or the way another would eye a traveler, appraising their worth.

The cobblestone path lead almost immediately between a decrepit manor house and a small ring of houses, then split off toward the trader’s ring. The trader’s ring itself was full of several dozen locals and travelers alike. In the center of the ring stood a small spire lined with documents, laws and advertisements, most likely. There was a small merchant caravan arcing around the ring, and several inns and shops lining it. Just to their right was an inn, three stories high, with large windows, a stable, and a gilded sign depicting an oak tree. Sharing a nod with Leander, they entered the homey comfort of the Golden Oak.

[Earthwalker]

Though he had been busy speaking for most of the walk to the inn - Mirena had seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say, and it was a rare occasion when someone was more interested in the messenger than the message he carried - what few glances of the locals he had gathered seemed to him more like scenes from a large city than a small town of this size. There was a sense of exclusion, like each person was isolated in their own world, and for him to intrude upon it - for him so much as to view it - was a grave insult. He had been briefly silent, saddened by this realization, but then had remembered an anecdote about his mother had told him once about a trip of hers to the city, and spoke up again, continuing his one-sided conversation with Mirena. As they reached the inn, Leander noted the message board off to the side - he would have to check that later, to see if there were any notes or packages to deliver elsewhere. He glanced at Mirena; she nodded at the inn, and he returned the gesture. Following behind her, the two of them pushed open the door and walked inside.

The atmosphere of the Golden Oak was amazing - clean tables, splashes of sunlight, and scents of food and drink that left him watering at the mouth. There was no question about it - as soon as he got paid, he was buying himself a good meal here. It was a bit of a splurge, sure, but his nose told him that the money would not be wasted. Though much of the room was obscured by Mirena's back, the patrons he could see seemed calm and satisfied. Hopefully, he would soon have a chance to join them - but first... he dodged around Mirena, moving towards the bar at a brisk pace. "The message calls," he laughed, excusing himself as he brushed past her.

"Hello, Barkeep?" Having reached the counter, the barkeep was not evident - a young woman wearing an apron answered his call, walking up behind the counter. She looked to be Leander's age, or perhaps a few years younger, with elegant dark brown hair pulled into a long braid behind her head. Her clothes were slightly rumpled, and stained with the wear of work, but those were minor, discardable details. Her manner was beautiful, in a common sort of way - she seemed normal, not extraordinary in any identifiable fashion, but still, possessed something that elevated her above the norm. Leander was unsure of what exactly that quality was, but knew it, somehow, to be there. Though it did not make him uneasy or uncomfortable, the strangeness of it caused in him some curiosity - what was it about her that tickled him so?

"Markus is busy in the back for a moment - can I get you something?" Her voice was slightly horse, as if recovering from a cold, but still fair, even beneath the faint rasp.

"Uh... Aye. I'm looking to get in contact with the captain of the guard - I have a message for him. Would you know how to find him?" Job first, Leander reminded himself. Figure out this strange, mysteriously different woman later.

"Well, Lieutenant Cerray over there is in the guard." She indicated a tall woman, hunched sleepily over her drink in the corner. "I'm sure she wouldn't mind if you woke her, assuming its important."

Looking briefly behind him, Leander noted that Mirena was still about - he wondered briefly what her business here was, but then put those thoughts aside - her business was none of his. Moving his eyes off her, if only to not catch her eye, his gaze settled upon the sword of one of the patrons - long and dangerous in appearance, even when sheathed, it stood out in the bar, where the only other such obvious large weapons were Lieutenant Cerray's sword and Mirena's axe. The blade had a good deal to tell about its bearer, a pale man in dark blue clothes - the weapon itself was almost a guarantee of mercenary status, though his lack of obvious armor didn't necessarily lend itself to that stereotype. However, generally, the only folk who carried such large and obvious weapons were those of a mercenary bent - and a glimpse of scar tissue along his lower arms was an almost certain cincher. To see such a man about town was ominous, even bored over his drink as he was - Leander could hope he was only passing through, but there always remained the possibility that trouble was afoot.

It took a second, in which he had already begun to move towards the Lieutenant's table, to realize that Mirena's weapon and appearance was likewise ominous. Perhaps she was mercenary as well? If so, it only increased the chances that something was about. Combined with the fact that he carried a message to the Captain of the Guard from the City Watch in Sess-Terria, it did not paint a pleasant picture. He could only imagine what kinds of things might be occurring that necessitated not only the presence of freelancers, but also involved the Guard itself. It gave him pause in his trip to the table - his face, quite visibly worried for a moment, before he considered things more clearly. He was always seeing trouble where there was none - his mind had been inventing prophecies of doom since childhood, and on the majority of occasions, his sense of danger was wildly exaggerated.

As Leander reached Cerray's table, the guardswoman looked up from her drink, her expression dulled with fatigue. Seeing his sash, she pulled herself together, assuming a polite stance, "A messenger? Can I help you with something?"

"I've actually got something for your Captain - from Sess-Terria - but I don't know where to find him. Would you mind giving me a few direction?”

The Lieutenant perked up at the mention of Sess-Terria, moving from polite exhaustion to eager alertness as she forced the lethargy from her posture. “News from Sess-Terria? Is it about the reinforcements? Pass it here!” Leander had been pulling the letter from his pouch, intending to show her as proof of his words, when she snatched it out of his hands, reading over the letter, occasionally mouthing out words to sound out the unfamiliar letters. As she continued down the page, her face darkened, illustrating her disappointed with the message’s contents. Leander stood by, unsure of what to do – his orders had been vague enough that she was technically a recipient of the letter, but Leander hated to get anything wrong – “Never make another man’s job harder, if you can help it,” his father had relayed, often using the adage while hammering out a particularly stubborn section of metal.

Reaching the end of the letter, the Lieutenant threw the paper down to the table in disgust. “There’s no way we’re going to catch this guy without additional backup!” she exclaimed. “We’re hard pressed to keep everything running as is!” She sat down, frustrated, and sipped at her drink, while Leander stood by, unsure of what to do.

[Kryos]

As the messenger made his way to the Lieutenant’s table, more than one pair of eyes followed him. But most of them returned to empty space once he began talking to the Lieutenant. Kryos didn’t even bother looking. Instead, he scrutinized the woman who had arrived with the messenger. But she had nothing that held interest with him. He took another drink of his cider.

Gazing into the amber glow of the liquid, Kryos remembered the sight of his home in autumn. The trees becoming an exquisite display of reds, oranges, and gold, with stone paths and houses nestled in the spaces between them. He remembered a time during his training, when he was left alone a whole week in the woods, just by himself. He had loved every minute of it.

Lieutenant Cerray interrupted his musings. His head snapped up and turned when she spoke about catching some guy. A letter was lying on the table, and Cerray was glowering darkly into her drink. And behind her, with no drink at all, was a man who was listening with too much interest to be natural. He was small, and wore expensive clothes. His black hair was oiled, and his eyes had the look of greed in them. He was probably a local merchant. But he was totally out of place here. Kryos was amazed that he hadn’t noticed him before. He must have come in after the messenger arrived. Kryos abruptly stood when the man began trying to make out the contents of the letter. He grabbed his sword by the sheath, and began making his way toward the two tables, eyes narrowed. When Kryos had crossed half the distance, the little vermin became aware of his advance. His eyes widened in surprise, and the next moment, was dodging through the tables and stools toward the door. Kryos’ eyes shone darkly, and he approached the Lieutenant.

“I would move such conversations about your orders elsewhere, Lieutenant.” He said with a low voice. “There are some who could hurt your operations if certain knowledge became known to them.” He nodded to the closing door.

[Kovalai]

Mirena took a step forward when Leander bolted off, then shook her head slightly. If the lad wants to starve himself, she thought, it was his choice to make. He wasn’t actually doing himself harm, of course, and she supposed his hurry stemmed from a youthful sense of responsibility.

To her eyes, the room was large, but not spacious, packed with as many tables as possible. Though it was clean, to a woman whose life was spent with carpenters the tables and chairs were shoddy, the wood cheap. It reminded her, unpleasantly, of her husband’s work, when he had worked at all.

She had expected worse though, and her duty was with folk, not things. Silently she offered a prayer to the Dreamer, and it was with duty in mind that she examined the patrons of the inn. There were maybe half a dozen merchants, sitting in twos and threes, either doing business or just taking a break from the outside world. Nothing about them stood out to Mirena, though, so she disregarded them for the moment. It was, of course, quite possible for evil to find the hearts of any man, so she couldn’t ignore such people. However, the few other patrons in the room looked to be miners or sellswords, and in a place such as this, they seemed a much more likely source of evil than simple craftsmen.

So it was with eyes turned toward the hearts and minds of men that several things happened all at once. She was keeping an eye on Leander, in case he tried to slip off, and had been offhandedly aware of his progress across the room. It was during his conversation with the guardswoman that the sellsword started making his way toward them. She took a step forward, wary of his intentions, but only a moment later, one of the merchants sitting near the lieutenant got up and started towards the door. With a start she realized that she had completely disregarded him before, despite his obviously suspect nature.

Suspicion replaced confusion, and as the fat merchant brushed past her, clarity struck Mirena like the church bell tolling. It was as if the world, the city, and the room were just wrappings. The man, his clothes, his skin, his face were all just a shell, a slick of oil on a pool. And for an instant she saw a ripple; the shadow of something dark beneath the surface. The moment was gone in a flash, and though a less devout woman might have wondered if the feeling had even been real, Mirena didn’t waste time questioning the will of the gods.

The man had left the room, and Mirena saw the guardswoman looking from the door to her. She gave the woman a nod and swiftly turned and left the inn behind her, to the sounds of a quick discussion. It took her a moment to spot her target, who was heading toward the east part of town with haste. She started after him, sweeping through the flock of locals populating the street, but it was only a few moments before he turned to check his progress and spotted her. His bulbous eyes widened with fear, and he took off in his best attempt at a run. She sped after him, and though it is not easy to run with a pole-axe, the crowd scattered in front of her, and the merchant himself was not a fast runner.

Her quarry quickly lead her from wide thoroughfares into streets that shrank to little more than wide alleys. She lost sight of him several times, but she could still hear the sound of his heavy footsteps and labored breathing beneath the pounding of her own boots. It was one such instance when he turned a corner right in front of her, and the sound of his footsteps ending was her only warning as a blade swung up towards her throat the moment she turned. Her hands slid up her axe haft, and as she stopped she spun the three foot end-section of her weapon, forcing the blade away from her as she chopped toward the man’s hip. He leapt back and deflected the edge with his sword, as a second brand collided with her shoulder, but was stopped by her armor. Surprised but unfazed she quickly retreated a few steps, keeping bother her attackers in front of her. Her grip remained high, her reach compromised in the close quarters regardless. Both men were ragged, with dirty leathers and bruises beneath their eyes. Their swords matched themselves, rusted and harsh, and behind them stood her target, a slim dagger in hand and disgustingly satisfied grin on his face.

Behind her she heard the footsteps of at least one more attacker. She smiled, without humor or mercy, and began singing. Evil was to be destroyed.

[Earthwalker]

Leander's brain whirled as a number of things happened all at once - the blue-clothed mercenary from earlier had just approached the table and begun speaking to Lieutenant Cerray in a low tone. The Lieutenant had listened for a moment, then glanced over towards the door, where she had met Mirena's gaze as the older woman ran out of the tavern, her axe brandished. He felt as if there was a great deal about the situation he was missing, and stood, confused, as Cerray dashed out the door after Mirena, the guardswoman's leather armor creaking as she ran.

Well, Leander thought, his legs already moving him towards the door, if everyone's leaving, there must be a reason. It probably wouldn't be a bad idea to see if he could help, he concluded, pushing the door open for the third time in about as many seconds. A quick glance showed the mercenary behind him, and Cerray directly ahead, with Mirena a good ways ahead of both of them.

He was barely past the door frame when he caught up with Cerray - his legs, practiced from long hours of tireless running on the road, fell easily into a steady, ground-devouring pace that began to narrow the distance between himself and Mirena. The older woman, however, showed a speed and agility almost beyond her years, dodging around corners and into alleyways in pursuit of something he couldn't quite make out.

Suddenly, there was a ring of metal ahead, and the clank of a sword striking armor. Mirena had engaged someone around the corner from him - Leander couldn't make out how many Mirena was up against, but it sounded like a fight. More importantly, a man with a raised hatchet in one hand and a dagger in another was stepping out from an open doorway in the alley, intent on the fight ahead. It was obvious that he intended to strike from the rear, cutting down the fiercely fighting woman from behind.

Leander never even slowed his run. "Mirena!" he called, hoping both to warn her and attract the attention of the second assailant. In his second goal, he was most definitely successful - the man had half-turned to face Leander when the young lad barreled into him, sending the both of them tumbling to the ground, each moderately winded. To Leander's benefit, the man lost the hatchet somewhere during their fall, but had maintained a hold on the dagger.

Even as the two of them fell, the Lieutenant rushed past them both, her sword ringing from its sheath to join Mirena's blade on the front lines, engaging one of the swordsmen with a series of blade-on-blade clangs. As she fought, she shouted, calling for the assailants to lay down their arms and surrender to the guard. Even as she cried out, a fourth combatant, similar in dress to the first three, stepped out of the doorway that Leander and his target had just vacated, brandishing a worn and dented spear. Leander was unaware of this development - blissfully ignorant of the fact that he was about to suffer the same fate that he had saved Mirena from.

[Kryos]

((Note to judge. All bunnying has been approved by all players for the entire thread.))

The cool air ripped past Kryos as he ran, causing his cloak to billow out behind him. He and the Lieutenant were a little way behind the messenger, trying to follow the trail that he took as the buildings began to get closer and closer together, as they entered what the locals called, the “Rat Trap.” The place was well named. The paths between the buildings became so narrow, and so numerous, that the only way to get out was to pick a direction, and keep going that way until you found a place you recognized. Suddenly, they heard the sounds of fighting around the corner. A moment later, the messenger tackled a goon, disarming him of his hatchet, but not the knife. In that brief moment, another thug emerged from a doorway, carrying a large, steel-tipped spear. The man looked at the two people struggling beneath him, and adjusted his position. Kryos’ eyes widened, the crimson that filled them glimmering in the light. He changed course, yelling to Cerray as he did.

“I’ll take care of the guy with the spear! You go help the woman!” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Cerray nod and move to enter the ally where they first heard the scuffle.

Meanwhile, his shout had alerted the spear man to their presence, and had now moved to engage him by leaping over the scuffling pair on the ground. The carrier would have to hold his own while Kryos took care of the opponent in front of him. He slowed to a stop, and pulled his muandrian from his sheath, which he had thrown on his back before running out of the inn. The blade shone in the light, eager to dance with another weapon. He held his sword in front of him, ready to move at a moment’s notice. The man in front of him grinned, and leapt forward with his spear.

The Dwiilar moved to parry the blow, but the instant before their weapons met, the attacker shifted his weight, and spun his spear with surprising agility. Caught of guard, Kryos tried to adjust as well, but wasn’t quick enough. The back end of the wooden pole connected with the back of his right shoulder, spinning him as he fell to the ground. His sword when flying out of his hands, to land five feet away, the metal clanging against the hard, cold ground. Disoriented, he tried to get his bearings, cursing himself for his carelessness. When he had managed to clear his head, he looked up the length of the spear. His attacker stood above him, glorying in his victory. Kryos’ eyes widened yet again, as he desperately tried to figure a way out of this situation. An idea sparked, and he waited for the man to move his arms to destroy him.

“Die, scum!” the man yelled, pulling back his arms to thrust the blade through Kryos’ throat.

His eyes narrowed at the insult, and tightened his stomach muscles. His legs swung around, and connected with the backs of the opponents calves. The brute stumbled, off balance, but it was enough for Kryos to use the momentum he already had and roll away toward his sword. He grabbed the hilt, and rose to his feet, anger clear in his eyes. The man glowered at him, in his ready stance yet again. Hate consumed Kryos. He harnessed that emotion, and used it. His eyes became stained with crimson as deep as fresh-spilt blood. His now activated Shrodeye picked up everything that the man did, from blinking, to shifting his grip on his weapon. They analyzed him, storing the information away to be called upon later. He then called upon his soul, and compressed it into the midnight flames that created the Bane spell. He spread that energy, now rippling with life, along the length of his blade, grasped in his right hand, and halfway up his left arm to his elbow. The power, if the man came into contact with it, would temporarily wound the man’s soul. He would still fight, but not like before. Kryos grinned at the now shocked looking man in front of him. Arm and sword blazing, he rushed forward, bringing his flaming muandrian up in front of his chest.

[Kovalai]

The hymn of Avinar tore its way violently from Mirena’s throat, and filled the air with a terrible beauty. Light from the Skylord’s sun burned down into Mirena and ignited within her the flame of righteous fury. Boiling blood surged threw her veins, she leapt forward, axe swirling to take the throat of her attacker. Though he seemed surprised by both her song and the force of her attack, he danced back out of the way of her strike clearly expecting her to be impaled on the sword of his companion. He was disappointed when Mirena’s allies arrived on the scene, distracting her other foes.

She stepped in again, chopping at his forearm and elbow. He dodged, quickly beginning a series of attacks, and the fight began in earnest. Mirena used the head and haft of her axe to deflect his strikes, and responded with quick swipes and thrusts. Her opponent parried and dodged her attacks, but her body was strengthened by her faith. Each cycle of give and take left him further off balance as he was forced to give ground under her righteous onslaught.

Some part of her was aware of the arrival of reinforcements, she knew she heard the sounds of conflict, and knew that she had come here with a purpose. But the fire within her demanded the destruction of her foe, and it was to that fire that she owed her allegiance.

The man lunged, repeating his first attack with a unsettled look in his eyes. With the haft of her axe she pushed his thrust down and to the right. The only real option left to him was to circle his blade up for another slash, but by the time it had come around, Mirena had already reversed her axe, and catching his sword between the axe’s blade and the spiked tip, she drove his sword into the ground. Using her whole body, she crushed the man’s nose with the end of her weapon’s haft.
Her voice rose triumphantly with the glory of the Changer as she spun the axe up, and brought the full force of the weapon into the swordsman’s shoulder. The sickening crunch of bone went unnoticed by Mirena as the axe head went through the shoulder partially into the ribcage. With a jerk, she wrenched the axe from it’s place, sending the man, and his newly liberated arm, spinning to the ground on his way to Endlord.

[Earthwalker]

Leander's world blurred for a moment as he and his foe impacted the ground, the harsh jolt causing the both of them to gasp (though his foe's response was more like that of a grunt), and leaving both of them slightly stunned. His opponent recovered from the impact first, rolling atop the younger man and sitting up, his dagger already bitting for Leander's flesh. Luck, more than anything else, saved Leander a grievous wound - the leather bracer he wore on his arm took the brunt of the strike, leaving a long gash in his armor but doing no serious harm. His enemy paused briefly, his eyes flashing angrily as he spat at Leander through his ragged beard.

Leander was almost to shocked to react, but instincts ground into him by his father's training took over, and he threw a solid, if somewhat sloppy, right hook that prevented the larger man from reading a second blow. As his foe reeled back, Leander quickly pushed his opponent over, placing him on top. Somewhere in the roll, Leander grabbed the man's arms, preventing any sort of retaliation with the dagger, but his foe was still both larger and stronger, and the blow to the face did not seem to have done anything more than distract and irritate him. There was a brief struggle before a quick surge of muscles, accompanied by a roar from behind the ragged beard, spelled the end of Leander's brief advantage, with his foe back on the top of the grapple. Leander's only saving grace was that he still held the arms of his opponent, but even that was a fast-disappearing advantage - Leander's strength was not enough to maintain his hold for much longer.

Wait a second, Leander thought. What am I doing? If his hands had been free, he would have slapped himself for his foolishness. His mother had trained him better than this. He brought his knee quickly up into the man's groin, receiving a grunt of surprise and pain in return, before quickly shoving both the man's arms to one side - incidentally pulling the man strait into the backhand he had launched from that direction. A firm and sudden strike from the heel of his palm forced his foe to relinquish his grip on the dagger, and a nice shove to his foe's shoulder sent the man rolling off of him. Dodging away in the opposate direction, Leander grabbed the man's dagger in passing, holding it to menace his opponent - only to find that the man had snatched up the hatchet that had been dropped in their initial tumble. Leander was disappointed to see that he had still failed to do any real sort of damage to his foe, but hardly had time to muse as his enemy came in again, swinging his axe and shouting.

[Kryos]

Kryos rushed the man, who in turn brought up the spear and lunged it at him. He spun out of the way and brought his flaming sword up to block. The metal hit half way up the length of the spear. Kryos then slid the blade down the length toward the man. Just as the blade reached the thug’s fingers, he let go of the spear and backtracked to the wall. Kryos wouldn’t let him escape and he followed, right on his trail. He swung his sword out at the man’s running legs. The blade cut through a retreating limb. A yelp sounded as he fell to the ground. Kryos followed the man down and kicked him over. He brought up his arm and plunged his blade through the cretin’s shoulder socket, pinning the man to the ground. The man screamed and the flickering flames slowly burned at the man’s soul. Soon, Kryos could see a look of hopelessness fill the man’s face. He reached down and placed his hand on the chest to make sure that the man wouldn’t be a threat. The thug stilled and Kryos let the magic subside. He yanked on his muandrian and it came out of the man with a sucking sound. But the man didn’t move. He just lay on the ground, breathing deeply.

Kryos turned from the man and turned to the rest of the battle. He walked forward, looking for places that he could help his allies. His eyes gleamed crimson as he advanced.

[Taskmienster]

This thread has been sitting for a full year. Since no response has been made to create activity I am going to be moving this. If you would like it to be reopened please feel free to PM myself or another staff member and they will be able to move it for you back to Scara Brae.