What in Sam Hill...

Jared Hill, Confederate States Army, has just emerged from a wizards tower into a very cold land. Jared Hill has absolutely no idea where or when he is. To him, it is the year 1865, and he should be in Virginia, defending the capitol against inevitable Yankee assault. Jared Hill immediately turned around and reentered the tower.

Muttering to himself in shock, he began to take stock of his surroundings. He was in a tower, check. He had no idea where the tower was, check. The tower demonstrably was not in Virginia, 1865, therefore he was not in Virginia, or very likely, 1865, check. If he was not in Virginia, and it was not 1865, he must be somewhere else, and somewhen else for that matter. Is somewhen even a word? "Damnall, Focuhs. It don't matter, jest gotta figure where I am, and when it is, and what's goin on and....aww shit." The crackling sound he had taken for stone settling in the cold revealed itself. It was massive, a skeleton(maybe) nearly seven feet tall. It towered over the shocked soldier, and he was sure, he didn't know how he was sure, but he was sure it wanted him dead. The Bowie was in his hand in a flash. Whatever this beast was, it was going to be breakable, and the heavy blade of his knife would be the weapon of choice. He would have snatched up his rifle, but he had set it down in the doorway. Its clubbed butt would be a wonderful choice, but it was just too far.

The thing lashed out with its skeletal hand, and he thought he'd just take the hit, and snap its arm off with his knife when it rebounded off his chest. It didn't quite work that way. The arm hit him, he went flying, and by sheer luck managed to break a couple of fingers off. On the other hand, his luck kept getting better. He landed within arms reach of his rifle, and he snatched it up immediately, letting the knife drop without a second thought. He came up from the ground with a wince, but he came up swinging, and he caught the creature in the ribcage as it was coming at him, shattering yet more of its bones, which it turned out were actually ice. The fingers he had removed had already turned into water again, and the cracks in its skeleton had spiderwebbed like glass. Bone didn't break like that. He'd seen enough men hit by cannon to know that it splintered and shattered when struck. He swung again, and the ribs broke off. The best let out a keening wail that rattled the windows of this lowest room of the three story tower, and shook Jared to his bones. He didn't give up though. He came on after the beast, letting loose his own battlecry, the terrible yipping howl of the rebel yell filled the room, and the beast faltered. It wasn't intelligent, but it knew what its creator had commanded. Defend the keep, do not disturb anyone leaving, but slay any who entered without the proper password. Its creator had not had any details on what to do when it was damaged and facing destruction. That slight shudder in its movement was all the opening Jared needed. He wasn't very tall, but he jumped slightly as he charged, and swung the rifle butt with incredible force. The impact shook his arms, and the rifle dropped from his numb fingers, as cracks spread across the surface of the crystaline skull, and chunks began to fall to the ground. His rifle butt had taken some damage in the fight, but it could be repaired with a little bit of time and some tools. The deep crack in its solid oak butt testified to the toughness of the beasts head. The beasts head no longer being attached to itys body testified to the toughness of solid oak. Hardwood one, ice thing zero.

Jared stood there shaking his numbed hands, trying to restore feeling after the wicked vibration that had shuddered all the way up his arms and into his shoulders. He winced again, the impact on the wall had bruised him pretty badly, all down his back, and he might have broken something. He took a deep breath, testing his ribs to make sure they were intact. It hurt, but it wasn't the stabbing pain of a broken rib, it hurt in his back as he stretched it with his breathing. "I been all ovah hell and creashun, and nevah seen nuthin lahk that. What in sam hill..." He was nearly in shock trying to proccess what had happened. Nothing like that happened outside of childrens stories, or the Good Book. And he didn't remember anything like that at all outside of The Revalation. Jared wasn't proud of many things in his life. He was a small farmer, he didn't have no slaves, no wife, no real family, nothin much to speak of, but he could read. He knew he could speak this language, whatever it was, it wasn't English. Maybe he could read it. He'd seen a library on his way out. He needed to know what he was getting in to here.

He traveled back up the tairs, finally noticing the peculiar warmth of the building. He changed his priorities almost immediately. This was a stone building, if it was warm in here, and he had seen no fireplaces, this place must have some central method of heating. He went back to the third floor of this squat tower, and examined the body of the dead mage, confirming his suspicions. The man had no winter clothing. A further check of the floor revealed many things. Tomes with words in languages that Jared couldn't speak or read by some magic, staves, concoctions labeled in a language he could read. Some said they were for the healing of injuries,one said it created fire, another aided in the sight of things...magical. "Aww shit." He seemed to be saying that alot recently. He went back to the dead body, noting his location in the upper floor(it wasn't very hard, it was some three, maybe four rooms off a central landing), and searched it for anything strange, a wand was the first thing that came to mind, he knew it was asinine. Magic didn't work, he knew it in his bones. Then he found the wand. It was a simple stick with a handle, he thought. It didn't seem to have any effect when he waved it, but maybe he couldn't use it. He riffled through the body again, pulling off all of his rings, jewelry, and similar accoutrements. The man had worn a prodigous amount of things that were obviously valuable(to a man of the 19th century at east), his rings and amulets were more than worth the trouble of removing them.

As he was stripping the body, things began to sink in, especially when he found the journal. He flipped through it, noting dates and location names. He was apparently in a land called Salvar, in the keep of a "loyalist mage" by the name of Kerowyn. Apparently he had fallen out of one losing war, into another. Jared wsn't a stupid man. The entire time he had been searching the tower, he had been thinking. The man who owned the tower was dead. Jared had as good a claim as any other. It was well stocked with more than enough food to keep him through the winter, and it was warm. His decision was made. This tower was his now. Barring any other occurence, he was the man that owned the property now.

It was a squat thing, only three stories high, solid stone and mortar construction, with a crenellated roof. He could see a small town off in the distance from the rooftop, but otherwise the landscape was bare. A few trees dotted the area, mostly sturdy pines and a few leafless oaks, or something that looked like an oak at least. It was obviously winter. The tower's insides were almost as unassuming as its outside. A sleeping chamber, a small selection of the same light garments the mage had worn when alive, a bath chamber, and the workshop dominated the top floor. The second floor had a solid book lined room with runes graven on the floor, Jared had no idea what they meant, but he intended to remove the floor and have it replaced to get them out of his new home. The other two rooms seemed to be very similar. One had a small work bench and some tools one might use for carving wood. Perhaps the mage had carved those staves he saw upstairs. The other had another small work bench, and jewelers tools, leading Jared to believe that the mage had crafted all of his own pieces of jewelry. The first floor was the next most useful to him, having a kitchen and dining area, the main entry way, and what looked like a cellar access. In the cellar he found food in plenty, as well as wine(which was a write off, he had no traste for fancy liquors), and a well. "Naow I wish I coulda learnt t'make whiskey. The man heah has no taste in likker."

Jared set about makinghimself at home, and cleaning up the mess he had made. Most men woud have gotten out as soon as possiblem, having just murdered the former owner, but he was dammed if he was going to abandon this place so easily, especially after being stolen from his home and his army.

“Why?”

The dark-skinned desert warrior shivered in the brisk evening air even though he wore enough clothing to keep three men warm during this season. Bhakti’mat Zu’ura hailed from Fallien; the icy lands of Salvar made him feel as though he were slowly dying. “Why?” he muttered again, rhetorically questioning his presence in the cold region. He practically shook where he sat in the guard shack, the frigid winds halted only temporarily by the hastily constructed walls.

A shout from the outside shook Bhakti’mat from his reverie, alerting him to the possibility of danger. Rising to his full seven foot one inch height, the half-gigas prayed for trouble. Combat would get the adrenaline and blood coursing strongly through his veins, hopefully enough to shake Salvar’s tenacious grip on his muscles. He moved stiffly to the door and ducked before forcing his way through.

Once outside, the Fallien native scanned the surrounding streets, searching for the source of the sound he had heard earlier. Turning about to look behind him, he heard the shout again and immediately struck out toward it. Two blocks away, a man was racing down the street, heading for the guard station near the center of town. Bhakti’mat intercepted him on the way, asking the man what troubled him.

“Royalist forces!” he stammered, clearly out of breath. “They’re attacking the tower!” Helping the man quickly to the nearest tavern, the bundled behemoth returned to the chill streets once again to assess the situation. Upon reaching the edge of the small Salvar village, Bhakti’mat saw the frontrunners of a small royalist faction marching on the mage’s tower not too far away.

His heart began to pump harder merely from the anticipation of battle to come. Bhakti’mat was a simple man, but when he devoted himself to a cause, he defended that cause to the death. Even though he had only come to Salvar a few short months ago, the desert warrior was prepared to die defending this village and its inhabitants.

The warning bell sounded from the town square, likely rung by someone from the tavern where he had left the scout. Grinning as he counted the enemy’s numbers, the half-gigas didn’t bother waiting for reinforcements; the town’s militia was clumsy and unorganized. He stood a better chance fighting by himself and clearing a path for the volunteer army to follow after they had assembled.

His long legs and powerful muscles sent him quickly across the frozen ground, his heavy boots thudding rhythmically as he closed the distance to the mage’s tower. Without the mage to scry for incoming attackers, the village would be left nearly defenseless. The royalist forces would be quick in running the outpost into the ground; one more victory in their indomitable march against the Church.

So focused was the brute on the impeding carnage that he didn’t bother wondering why the local mage hadn’t alerted anyone about the very forces that threatened his stronghold. The half-gigas’ mind was too simple for more than one thought; all his energy was devoted to finding an opening in the encroaching forces and exploiting it as best he could. Although his maneuverability was limited by the amount of clothing he had on, Bhakti’mat would still give the royalist force a reckoning.

His leg muscles coiled beneath him and then exploded upward as he leapt at the frontlines. Massive fist cocked back and ready, time seemed to slow as he soared through the icy air. As soon as his feet hit the ground, his arm whipped forward propelled by the momentum of his jump straight into the face of the nearest soldier. As the man’s nose was crushed back into his head, instantly killing him, the colossal fighter felt the first rush of adrenaline course into his bloodstream.

This is why he had come to Salvar.

Jared struggled to lift the body. It was weighted down with clothes, but he had no reason to steal them, so he left them on the mage. Finally it went over the side of the tower, and he turned his attention to other things, like the sudden clamor of combat from the other side of his building. About twenty men seemed to be hammering on his door, until a man that was simply gigantic jumped into their midst and smashed ones face in with a single punch. "Aww SHEEYIT!" He said it again. He knew the Good Lord frowned on profanity, but he didn't know what else to say. It was the only phrase he'd found so far that adequately described his feelings on current events. Apparently he'd killed someone important, maybe, or he was under attack by someone these "loyslists" were at war with. Either way, he was cursing to himself as he sprinted down the stairs and out of the cold. He stopped for a moment, being a superstitious man, and put on the jewelry he hadtaken from the dead man. The amulet being shaped very similar to a cross helped him make up his mind about wearing it. He didn't know what this "magic" might do, and it obviously hadn't helped the mage, but it was magic, so he'd be safer, right? The healing potions went into his pack, the one for viewing magic went in after it, and the one for making fire followed shortly. He wasn't sure what exactly any of them would do, but he figured it'd be best to try them, assuming the labels weren't lying.

He sprinted down the remaining stairs, pack in hand, weapons sheathed, and headed straight for the door. He stopped long enough to fix his bayonet, and then he was out the door, flinging his pack ahead of him to free his hands, and bringing his weapon up to skewer the fist man he saw. Therein lay the first complication. Jared was a fairly strong man, to the point of being nothing but lean muscle and bone after his long service with the army. These men were wearing armor. The steel in his bayonet was good, strong, 19th century steel. When it met medieval armor, two things happened. Firstly, the light armor of the guardsmen shredded under the impact of the man in a full bore charge, secondly, the bayonet got stuck. Jared yanked on it once, before deciding to leave it for easier to use weapons, whipping out Saber and Bowie to engage the next foe.

The second man was nearly as luckless as the first, his attention having been drawn by the attacking giant. His head left his shoulders with a sudden, and sodden, thump. The third man was less ill prepared. The spear he carried blocked the attack of the saber, and lunged for Jareds chest, forcing him to leap back from the wicked leaf blade, and lash out with his knife to deflect it at the last second. The razor edge whiffed past his chest, and left a crease in the cotton shirt, showing just how close he'd come to death in that instant. Jared was no fool though. He'd fought men with bayonets before with just his knife, and this was no different. The saber came up, and struck at the solid spear shaft, not with the intent of breaking it, but to simply push it farther along its outbound path, while he ducked inside the point of the weapon, and used the momentum of his rush to bear the man to the ground and punch his knife through the mans armor. He jumped to his feet and looked around, noticing for the first time that he wasn't cold in this bitter landscape, and that the bolld on his weapons wasn't steaming in the frosty air, while the dead bodies certainly were. He could smell the iron reek of blood and fear, both his own and his enemies. His enemies... He realized with a start that he had just attacked a group of nearly twenty men for what? Attacking a tower where he'd murdered the current resident? Were they allies of this mage or enemies with very bad timing? He didn't know enough about this situation. At that point his thoughts cut off as a fourth soldier finally noticed him, standing there among the bodies of his slain companions. And then it was back to the killing. This man had a sword, and he knew how to use it, driving Jared back towards the tower with a flurry of well placed blows that the inexperienced(when it came to this type of pig sticker at least) soldier struggled to block. The knife showed its usefulness here, being thicker and an overall bigger blade than the saber, blocking blow after blow that would have slipped past his saber's guard and cut him open, not even a day into what was apparently going to be his new life. The thought of dieing so soon after escaping death not once but twice today offended, and he used the same trick he had used on the spearman, knocking the sword wide with his saber after setting it up with his Bowie, and charging into the man's arc before he could recover. The knife punched brutally through lacking defenses, and another man fell to his blade. 4 down, 14 to go. He slipped the sword and kife back into their respective sheathes, and snatched up a weapon that he was closer to being familiar with, grabbing the dropped spear of the second man he had killed. It was going to be a long day, and he needed to be armed accordingly.

As the battle raged on, Bhakti’mat began to feel more and more comfortable with his surroundings. Slipping on the icy sections of dirt startled him nearly every time, but he was learning to give a portion of his attention to scanning the ground. It hampered his fighting style, of course, but it was better than ending up flat on his back with the wind knocked out of him.

The desert warrior stayed in a crouch, allowing better reaction time to his enemies’ attacks. At his full height, the half-gigas stood nearly three heads taller than any of the others; he had to crouch to avoid presenting an unavoidable target. Still, the royalists saw one man attacking them and they quickly surged around him to close him off from any reinforcements that would arrive. The dark-skinned titan smiled cruelly; that had been there first mistake.

Using the momentum from his punch, Bhakti’mat tucked into a somersault, springing up just in front of another man. He lowered his head and he came up from the ground, headbutting the man in the jaw. The soldier screamed as his teeth shattered on each other, the pain nearly crippling him for a moment. He had the idea of countering the attack, but the behemoth was on him before he could bring his weapon to bear.

One heavy boot swept the man’s legs from under him and then the titan switched his stance. Putting all his weight on that foot, he raised the other and stomped on the man’s throat. Blood gushed from under the boot and Bhakti’mat pivoted to face his next adversary.

Three men came charging toward him, their rapiers drawn and slashing the air wildly. It was a wonder they didn’t slice into one another, so fast were their blades whipping through the Salvar air. The half-gigas dropped to the ground, landing on his side, and kicked out with his protected feet. His left foot caught one of the men in the wrist as he lunged forward, sending his blade flying through the air. His efforts were rewarded with a scream as the blade pierced an ally’s flesh farther away. Gritting his teeth, the desert warrior planted his foot and pushed himself mightily off the ground.

The two remaining rapiers sliced into his skin, leaving red lines as they danced away. Seeing their prey rise so swiftly from his prone position, the swordsmen tried to halt their forward progress. But it was too late. Massive fists grabbed their heads, Bhakti’mat’s muscles rippled as he tensed for his retaliation. Even as the two soldiers attempted to break the man’s hold on them, the dark-skinned titan smashed their heads together as hard as he could. With a great crunch, their craniums broke, sending shards of bone into their brains. They were dead instantly.

Bhakti’mat let one drop to the ground, but gripped the other by the shoulders. Turning about, he used the man’s dead body like a flail, lashing out at any that came near. Eventually, he carved a path through the attackers so that he stood near the tower. With his back protected by the massive stone column, the behemoth turned his attention to the strangely dressed man fighting not too far away.

He wore tattered grey clothes with strange designs sewn into them. The ornamentation reminded the desert warrior of some of the expensive robes that the dignitaries in Irrakam wore. He had only been to the Fallien capital once, but the things he had seen would remain forever engrained on his mind. However, the man’s demeanor seemed off; almost as if he were on the verge of madness. Bhakti’mat saw the bodies lying behind him and concluded that his guess might not be too far off. He didn’t know where the man had come from, but if he was killing these royalists, he was likely an ally.

His attention was stolen by two large soldiers closing in on his position; his mind returning instantly to the battle at hand. Bhakti’mat backed up until one foot rested vertically on the smooth wall of the mage’s tower behind him. “By Hellsgate,” one of them cursed, “What kind of beastie are ye?” The two men shared a wicked laugh that made the desert warrior’s blood boil. He was no ‘beastie’. “Looks like a dwarf, ‘cept he’s nearly thrice the size o’ one.” Bhakti’mat had no clue what a dwarf was, but the man’s tone angered him. “Look at the freak, fellas,” the second man called to the remaining royalist forces. The few men who had gathered behind the two monstrous fighters chuckled in appreciation. Anger raging in his eyes, the half-gigas waited until the two men walked into his range… two steps… one step…

Bhakti’mat shot from the tower’s base, sweeping his arms up from his sides to angle out in front of him. The two men widened their eyes in surprise and brought their axes around to bear on the flying fighter. The dark-skinned warrior smashed one arm into a man’s throat, gripping his coat with the other hand and shifting his weight suddenly. His feet collided with the second brute, sending him careening into his fellows as Bhakti’mat and the first man hit the frozen ground.

The air left the hulking soldier’s lungs with a loud whoosh and the Fallien fugitive struggled to his knees. Straddling the man, Bhakti’mat let loose with a flurry of punishing blows aimed at the man’s face. Dazed as he was, the fighter couldn’t defend himself and so the fists of the half-gigas rained death on him. After only four punches, Bhakti’mat could see that his victim was dead. Staggering to his feet, the towering titan glowered at the second axe-wielding royalist.

The man’s cocksure attitude was gone, replaced by open fear for the dark-skinned warrior. Bhakti’mat kept one eye trained on the brute, but surveyed the battlefield to record the casualties. Eleven dead littered the tundra; six by his hand. The grey-clad fighter stalked toward the collection of soldiers surrounding Bhakti’mat and the half-gigas couldn’t help but smile. Here was a capable fighter.

Roaring a battlecry, Bhakti’mat Zu’ura charged into the midst of the remaining royalist forces, intent on dealing death wherever he could. This is what he had been born to do.

"That is the biggest damn negro I have ever seen." He said it quietly, because he didn't know anything else to say. He was so distracted, he didn't see the next attack coming until it was nearly too late. The first blade had creased his shirt it was so close. This attack sliced the sleeve open, and stained the butternut cloth with a crimson torrent. Jared responded with incredible brutality, lashing out with the butt of the spear, smashing the the mans jaw before he recovered from his own swing, and following up to bury the wide blade deep in the man's throat. He dropped his polearm again, drawing his knife and batting aside the incoming strike to his head. These loons in armor were going to make his life difficult if they kept up like this. He stopped for a moment and noticed that there were only ten enemies left on the scene, and that they were mostly concentrated around the larger fighter now. His moment ended almost immediately, and the quick flash of blades, rapier against heavy knife, left a soldier holding a stump of shattered steel, and a second later, left a gaping wound in the mans chest where the knife smashed in and out through his armor.

"I'm gettin too old fer this shit." He muttered various obscenities as he threw down his latest opponent, and picked up his heels, moving in on the rear of the unknowns that were assaulting the giant. "9 left." He repeated it to himself as he moved the short distance, perhaps tn yards, between himself and the growing furball nearby.

A rapier tore into the bestial fighter’s flesh and snapped off as the man twisted about. One of the soldiers on his other side lunged forward too, imbedding his own blade in the dark hide of his opponent. Bhakti’mat’s battlecry turned into a grunt of pain as he wrenched the second sword from his side. Blood flowed freely from both wounds, crystallizing as it hit the frigid air. Knowing the blood loss would slow him down, the titan redoubled his efforts to decimate the royalist forces.

He tossed the rapier to the ground and lashed out with both fists. Weighted like rocks, his hands smashed into the faces of two soldiers, laying them low before they could block. He followed with two swift kicks, wrenching their necks at odd angles. Their lifeless bodies would turn cold faster in the Salvar air.

Whirling about with his foot raised high, the fugitive knocked an approaching brute back a few steps. He planted the foot at the end of its arch and hurled himself at the stunned soldier. His axe was too slow in coming around the block and the dark form of the Zalkhein plowed into him. They tumbled across the tundra and Bhakti’mat gripped the man’s head. With a quick twist, he was dead.

Rising to his feet, the behemoth saw his grey-clad ally jumping into the fray. All six soldiers turned their attention to the easier target. Six on one was hardly fair and so Bhakti’mat dove in to cover the man’s back. As he fought off another rapier-wielding soldier, a spearman moved into position beside him. Huge fists pummeled through the first man’s defenses, stopping his heart with their ferocity. When Bhakti’mat dropped the soldier’s lifeless form, the spearman struck.

The steel tip punctured flesh and Bhakti’mat roared in pain and anger. His hands grabbed the attacker roughly by the shoulders and raised him into the air. The movement sent new pain raging through the deep wound, but the desert warrior’s rage had been stirred. Pulling the spearman close, he headbutted the man in the nose. Blood gushed everywhere; some of it royalist and some of it Fallien. Bhakti’mat Zu’ura fell to the ground with one thought, I could’ve taken the last four.

The huge man was down. "Aww shit." There it was again, he was alone, 4 soldiers, him, no handy stabby objects but the ones in his hands. "Well, let's get this done with I reckon." The soldiers were charging across the short stretch of ground that separated them. Jared figured he'd return the favor. The saber came up high, hilt slightly above the top of his head, with the massive bowie held low and canted slightly inward.

The first man met him with a slash from his blade, blocked by the bowie, and the struggle was halted with a hammering thrust from the saber, splitting his face open, and stealing his heavy weapon. The second soldier actually passed him by, surprised by the near suicidal rush of the confederate veteran. He didn't get a chance to be surprised about anything else, the massive bowie tearing his side open and dropping him like a stone. The two remaining opponents squared off with the gray clad soldier, their backs to the tower, his to the village. The first man thrust for his chest, but the sword suffered the same fate as the last one that had met with his bowie, leaving a shattered stump in his hand. The second blade left a searing line on his arm as it tore his shirt once more, and stained it with yet another wash of crimson.

With the fight nearly over, and one man effectively out of the battle, he was still slightly surprised when the two soldiers turned tail and started to run. He took off after them. A fleeing enemy was a weak enemy, and he had learned fast that you had to, as he had heard the General quote another of Uncle Robert's subordinates, "keep up the skeer", which was exactly what he did, bearing the man to the ground and pressing the wicked point of his knife into the mans neck. "I reckon you oughta jes lay theah real quiet lahk boy. You, me, that big negruh, and..." He trailed off as he finally realized why the men had been running. The shouting militia surrounded him and his prisoner, while a few shots from bows followed the survivor of the troop that had attacked him. "Oh... Gentlemen. I believe that youh hero is dying ovuh theah if you'd lahk to see to his health and check after his keepin on livin. I don't reckon this heah prisonah gonna run too far with mah knaf in his back." He really hoped they could understand him, and decided that he wasn't the one that had so injured their apparent commander/hero/something. He couldn't tell if the man was just a maverick, or if he was actually a respected figure in the community.

The self-proclaimed leader of the ragtag militia stepped forward and nodded toward the drawling, grey-clad soldier. Turning his head to the side, he kept his eyes on the man and shouted back to his fellows, “Take him back to the village. Don’t let him outta yer sights.” While he appreciated the man’s summary of the situation, he didn’t trust the stranger. He could very well be one of the royalist forces who had turned traitor in the hopes of saving his own skin. “You three,” he motioned to the largest in his force, “Drag the giant back.” They nodded and the militia moved into action. Their leader grabbed his second-in-command by the arm and led him toward the mage’s tower. “We’ve got other work to do,” he explained.

~~

“Not now!” the dark-skinned titan screamed in his delirium. He shot straight up in his bed, sweat cascading from his face in a spray of moisture. The wool sheets scratched at his skin; he felt as if he were crawling with bugs… or on fire. His breathing came shallow and fast; he was dying.

“Bhakti’mat!” the woman looking after him scolded. “You gave me a fright!” She snapped her towel in his direction playfully and pushed him back down into the bed. Straightening the sheets, she leaned over him and poured icy water over his forehead. “You had some pretty bad injuries,” she explained. “If the menfolk hadn’t arrived when they had, you might not be with us any longer.” Her voice lost in playful tone and the mood of the room became much more somber.

“What happened?” the Fallien asked. He had no recollection of the past few hours.

“You went to the mage's tower and fought off near twenty royalists!” she exclaimed. “You don’t remember?”

Blurry images came back to the half-gigas, but when he strained to remember, he was rocked by a massive pain in his temples. “I’m sorry,” he groaned, holding his head in his heads. “I need rest.”

“Yes you do,” she consoled him, patting his broad chest with a small, slender hand. “I’ll wake you when your friend comes in.”

Friend? But then he was asleep.

Jared hung around a moment longer, walking back towards his first kill to recover his rifle, and snatching up his saber as he went. He walked a bit more back towards the tower and hauled his pack off of the ground, before finally turning towards the strange villagers. He fished a cloth from his pack as he spoke with them, and began wiping down his blades, cleaning away the blood and checking the various pieces of steel for damage. "Naow we kin head foh you'alls village. I ain't leaving without mah rahfle, and damn ifn I'll leave mah saber."

~~

The whipcord lean soldier stepped into the room almost as soon as the woman mentioned him. He hadn't been listening, it was just when he'd managed to get loose of his keepers and step in. "So. Y'all still alive. Ifn they hadn't used the botha them likkers ahd kept in the pack, I reckon y'all'd be dead raght naow." The gray clad soldier still had his weapons on him, and the rifle, with its bayonet at his hip with his other equipment, was a testament to just what being the apparent ally of this giant meant. "Jared Hill, by the by, right pleased to meety'all."

It seemed like only minutes later when someone nudged the dark-skinned titan and told him to sit up. A grey-clad stranger walked into the room, speaking a language that Bhakti’mat couldn’t understand. His vision swam and it took a concerted effort to stop to small room from spinning too wildly. What had happened to him?

As he returned his attention to the strange man walking toward him, the Fallien fugitive realized that the language being spoken was actually Common. A very distorted Common to be sure, but Common nonetheless. He gave his name, that much the wounded warrior could tell, and waited for a reply.

“Oh,” the behemoth’s mind drew a blank before he found the words he needed. “Zalkhein Bhakti’mat Vana’diel Zu’ura.” The use of his full title seemed to jog his memory and visions of the battle came flooding back. As a headache wracked through his brain, the desert warrior extended a hand. This stranger had likely saved his life. At the very least, the oddly dressed man had helped him kill royalists. “Thank you,” he offered simply.

"Well Zak, ahm raight pleased tuh meetcha." He hadn't really understood most of what the man said, but he rendedered the name down into something approaching what he knew. He let himself fall down into a chair next to the bed, the aged wood creaking in protest to his rough treatment, but not collapsing under his slight weight either. "Ah reckon we's stuck tugetha for a while longer heah. I have ever'than I own rightyea in mah pack." He patted the bag for emphasis, before continuing. "I reckon ahm in youh debt. Ahll be around heah a mite longer, but ahll have to leave out from here eventual. Reckon I ought ta get back where I'm after belongin anyhow." He had no idea how he'd manage it, but he fully attempted to get back to Virginia at some point, if it killed him, which though often hyperbolic, was in this case an all too accurate measure of the man involved. He was a soldier with a duty to his land, and he would discharge it, to the last full measure.