The Reluctant: Vla'toros

Zieg dil’ Tulfried stood atop a large grassy knoll in a region unknown to most to the southwest of Alerar. He looked down upon the vast sea of tents that sat at the mouth of an incredibly large cave. Behind the demon knight, ten platoons of the Demon Army, two-thousand men a piece, were going through training exercises under the supervision of Zieg’s two generals.

The past three weeks had been incredibly difficult for all of the Haidians. Once Zieg had made the decision to leave the caves and return to the surface, he had been faced with challenge after challenge. First was the route to take. He knew the portals were out of the question. Taking the entire demon population through Corone, or Raiaera, or Alerar would not be taken well. So, he decided that he could find a way up through the caves. He sent several scouts out to find a path to the surface and they hadn’t let him down.

Next he had to determine the best way to move everyone. He decided it would be best to go in shifts, each under the protection of a group of soldiers. Zieg, Kaza, and Xeppa had gone with the first group while Dera’losta’nofa took those from Vla’toros back to their homes to pack and gather things to help build the new nation. So the first came up and built tents with the materials at hand, a small village springing up just outside the cave. As the groups came up, the put up more tents and now roads were beginning to develop and the small village was becoming a town.

The final challenge was getting word to the various platoons of the Demon Army scattered around Haidia. He needed them to come aid the people of Haidia. He sent out scouts to find them, and he was beginning to see results. Slowly, the Demon Army was growing back to a respectable size. The loss of the troops in Vainta was a blow to the force, but Zieg hoped the around fifty thousand that should be remaining would be sufficient.

Voices behind the demon forced him to turn to see who was approaching. He saw the young king and his advisor as well as Kaza and Xeppa running up the hill. Zieg smiled at the fun the two children were having. “Enjoying yourself, your Majesty?” he asked.

“Yeah, but that’s not why I’m here. I was wondering what you had planned for the name of this new Haidia.” Aidos kar’ Atron asked. Zieg smiled and patted the small boy on the head. “Of course. I thought Haide ((Hayd)) would be a perfect name for it. A new Haidia.”

“I like it. That’s the name then. Gillaos, please spread the word to the people that this place is to be known as Haide.” The king looked over to his friend. “C’mon, Kaza. Let’s go play.” The two of them ran off, Xeppa and Gillaos close behind.

Zieg found himself with more problems than before. New towns had to be built, so he was sending out several groups, each accompanied by the Demon Army, to build them. He had one group heading west toward the sea to build the new capital. Zieg felt a seaport would be a valuable asset for the new region and decided it needed to be built as soon as possible. He also knew relations with Alerar would be important, so he had another group heading northeast toward Alerar to establish a border town. There was a third town he hoped to establish somewhere in the middle of the two towns for the Demon Army, with a final town growing up right inside the cave for the few people who were up to leaving Haidia.

The demon knight had a broad goal of making Haide more diverse, so he sent bulletins out requesting aid from anyone that wanted to help. He hoped this new region would be more willing to accept others if they helped build the town around them.

There was one last problem Zieg had. There were rumors that Deimis had made their way up to these plains with everyone else. He knew they would try to establish their own base here. He had no way of stopping them though, there were too many other things he had to worry about. The High General simply had to hope that things would work out.

((The Reluctant: Vla'toros
Several of the citizens of the new Haide are too set in their ways to leave the caves of Haidia, so Dera'losta'nofa decided to rebuild Vla'toros within the caves that they escaped from Haidia in. You have limited space to work in, but with elven leadership, it is likely to be the most beautiful.

NPC: Dera'losta'nofa, Dera for short, one of the Elven Weaponsmiths of lore.

Lead: Letho
Roscar Palidyne
Vampiric Angel))

It was an amazing sight.

After a long trek from the land of Alerar through basically empty fields of grass bending to the will of the wind, Roscar hadn't expected to be rewarded with a sight that truly embodied the essence of silent determination. It filled the air. He could taste it on he tongue when he yawned; he could hear it in the wind when it blew through his whisps of curly grey hair; he could feel it in the very ground he stood on, which held him up just as defiantly as gravity pushed him down; he could smell it in the condensing air which demanded a rain shower to fall upon Roscar's dry head; but most of all, the sight of thousands of tents dotting the plains below while thousands more soldiers showed their unshakable discipline in stylised training exercises told a true tale of the demon race and the fire that resided in their hearts. Unlike the grass that they stood on, the wind was going to have to do better than a simple gust to make them bend in body, will, or spirit. This was where Roscar needed to be. A place where he could truly make a difference.

Roscar takes another look at the flyer that he had found while traveling in the strict and unforgiving city of Ettermire. After another job done, he had found his way here to the capital of Alerar, attempting to find some ties to his previously known existence. He ended up browsing through the pubs of the more destitute sections of Ettermire, and on one of the most out of the way bulletin boards of the shotty place, there was a parchment there. It looked rather official, but had been desecreted by crude markings of sexual depictations and pictures of horned people being whipped. Able to wipe off most of the ink that had been in the way, the bulletin began to detail the ailings of the demon race, forced out of the home that they had lived in for centuries by dwarves. They were now requesting help from any who were able.

And there Roscar was, overlooking the new settlement in utter awe. Knowing he was wasting time with this fascination, he made his way down to the sea of tents. Roscar could honestly say that he had never met anyone from the demon race before, and he couldn't help but find himself watching the many peoples going about their diligent work, whether it be carving materials up to lay foundation for more permanent homes, or sitting in front of a simmering pot, throwing in pieces of chicken and who knows what else. Roscar immediately stopped that though, because once the demons noticed him, they gave him somewhat dirty glares, as if Roscar didn't belong, and Roscar hurried on his way, grasping the bulletin in his hand.

Come to think of it....I haven't seen a single human yet. Something tells me some of these demons haven't even SEEN a human before.

Very soon, Roscar found himself among a group of many types of travelers, soldiers, magicians, traders, and what else could be thrown into the mix. A line had formed behind a desk where a demon sat, checking each person, all having flyers in hand. Roscar took his place in line.

About 30 minutes later, Roscar got to the front of the line, his face meeting the demon who had been giving everyone their assignments. He had a gruff voice, which contrasted with his scrawnly body type.

"Name."

"Roscar Palidyne."

The demon looks up from his work, giving Roscar a quick glance over before putting his pen down, crossing his arms.

"How old are you, grandpa? You sure you're up to aiding us at your age?"

Roscar had slightly expected this. In every job he had been given, his age had become an issue at some point. But he hadn't found himself dead because of it yet.

"I'm not as old as I seem. Let's just leave it at that."

Truth is, I don't know how old I seem, let alone how old I AM.

Apparently heard all he needed to, the demon scribe picks up his pen, inscribing some unreadable characters (Roscar assumed it was in the demon language) onto a small scroll, before he rolls it up and seals it with black hot wax.

"You'll be assisting us with the rebuilding of Vla'toros. Go in there..." the demon says, pointing behind himself to the huge gaping cavern, "....and ask for Dera'losta'nofa. Glory and everlasting to Haide. Next!"

With that, the demon shoved the scroll into the hand of Roscar and with that, forgot the human's existence all together. Roscar looked at the scroll, and then at the huge cave that lay before him. Roscar wasn't a small guy himself, but he felt himself intimidated by the gaping maw of darkness that was his path, swallowing the light of day that dared to trespass in it. Roscar looked around to see if anyone else was about to enter the cave, hoping that he wasn't going to be forced to go in alone.

Letho was bestowed a great honor. Or so he was told repeatedly back in Corone at least. The news of the good he did in the Four Towns area spread through the realm quite fast and before long, his name was a theme in the afternoon palavers of the brass that sat in their lofty chairs in Radasanth Government District from which these Corone officials seemed to rule the republic. True, he was somewhat of a vigilante, his actions often ruthless and followed a set of scruples that deviated from the written law, but his results were undisputable. Ever since he was appointed the Marshal of the Four Towns county, the crime rate became almost non-existent and he still found time to run occasional tasks for the Corone Government. In short, he was a star on the rise, and with the mandate of the Grand Marshal Aidan Johnston coming to an end next year, he suddenly became one of the candidates for that highly esteemed spot. Of course, Letho knew none of this, oblivious to the politicking as per usual, and he had no idea that his mission to the Tular Plains was his final test before the decision.

The news of Haidia crumbling and its citizens migrating to a surface realm – whose new name Haide unsurprisingly failed to deviate from the old one – was bittersweet for the Corone Government. Sweet because of the two thousand years old grudge between the demons and the Coronians and bitter because of the relocation, new diplomatic relations now had to be formed. That was why The Assembly decided to send a group of emissaries to the sites where the Haidians planned to rebuild their kingdom. They were to make contact with the local officials, arrange erection of embassies throughout the Tular Plains and generally establish good relations with the newly formed realm. There was little benevolence in their intentions though. The grudge because of the millennia old conquest was still there. But unlike when the demons were in the great Haidia cave, now they were on Tular Plains and Tular Plains were packed with resources. Friendly relations, even rater superficial ones, seemed like a smart move.

Letho Ravenheart was an escort for one of the emissary groups, the one that was to make contact and aid the more conservative group of demons that decided to segregate themselves from the others. Apparently, fresh air and natural light weren’t to their preferences, so they opted to rebuild Vla’toros, one of the major Haidian cities, within the cave mouth that led from Haidia to Tular Plains. Led by one of the legendary Elven Weaponsmiths, Dera’losta’nofa, they begun the work on reconstruction of their home. The bulk of the Corone emissary group was consisted of Chrysanth Otello, a rather young looking Minister of Trade and Commerce, Paige Relvest, a prissy baroness of Radasanthia, their pages, three bookworms that were actually some of the best Corone architects, and of course their armed escort, Letho Ravenheart and Myrhianna Bastillien.

The trip to Tular Plains was so irksome for Letho that he was almost ready to turn in his badge and send them all to hell. Between Chrysanth’s attempts to woo Myrhia, the constant nagging of the baroness and the hot weather, the Marshal was certain that he would either lose his mind or his job. Needless to say, once they arrived to the site of the new Vla’toros and were admitted with somewhat of a cold courtesy, Letho was relieved to see that the royal pricks got their own tents and armed escort. So while the baroness and the minister lazed around and held meeting after meeting with the locals, Myrhia, he and the architects were ordered to aid in the actual construction of the city.

***

“No. That is unacceptable.” an elven figure spoke, pointing to the corrections that the architects did on the blueprints that stood unfolded on a large wooden table. The elf was a figure of majestic beauty, stern in his posture and yet fair of face as he moved his long braids out of the way to lean closer towards the drawing. The elf was Dera’losta’nofa, and he was in charge of coordination and pretty much everything else in the new Vla’toros. The architects, the three Coronian ones included, listened attentively. Around them, the entire area was in a state of organized commotion, with masons and plasterers and carpenters moving over the scaffoldings with what seemed like eerily dexterity. The building that was barely a little more then foundations, was bound to be either a palace or a fort, with outer walls several feet thick.

“The arch above the gate is supposed to have a small inwards inclination because of the angle of the outer walls.” the elf explained to those gathered around him, his deft fingers redrawing the portion of the blueprint and scribbling several numbers on the side. “Now go tell the stonecutters to redo it.”

Once the architects and the gaffers were gone, discussing something amidst themselves fierily, Letho was finally able to approach Dera. “Master elf.” he said, bowing his head mildly in respect. Myrhia, who stood at Letho’s side, bowed a lot deeper then her beau.

“Yes?” Dera replied, regarding the two with his piercing azure eyes.

“I am Marshal Letho Ravenheart and this is Myrhia Bastillien. We have come with the Corone emissaries and are here to help you with the construction. Is there something we could help you with?” the Marshal spoke, handing over the papers sealed with the official seal of The Assembly, clarifying Letho's rank and his reasons for coming to Vla'toros. The elf tore through the seal, skimmed it rather swiftly, and set it aside on the table.

“Marshal Letho Ravenheart?” the elf replied, a touch of intrigue appearing on your face. “I heard of your endeavors, Marshal. Your expertise might just come in handy. While the site is quite well secured, we’ve had several... Let’s say suspicious setbacks, especially in the prison section. If some construction work isn’t below you, I need a supervisor on the prison building. Most of the workers and architects there are outside contractors, so they might respond to you better.”

“A man who finds physical work below him is not a man in my book.” Letho responded, eliciting a smile at both the elf’s and Myrhia’s face.

“Fair enough. Here are the blueprints. It’s in the west outskirts.”

With a large tube of rolled up paper, Letho and Myrhia started to make their way through the beehive, where the clicking of the stonecutters’ hammer was the buzz that spread through the entire city that was slowly remerging from a heap of dust. With the natural light shyly creeping in from the one side and the dim, scarlet illumination of the Haidia cave from the other, the new Vla'toros was built to represent both a melancholic reminisce of the old world, and yet to give a peak at the new one as well.

What struck Roscar as odd about this cave was the warmth that seemed to rise in temperature the further he got in, but it wasn't a stuffy, trapped heat. It was more like it was eminated from some source further in the cave. Roscar ignored this thought, official scroll in hand, and proceeded further in the red-lit interior.

The sporatic sounds of hammers clanging, cracking and shaping rock filled the air. Workers were all around, fulfilling each of their individual but equally important jobs. An elven figure, who he assumed was this Dera'losta'nofa, sat at a table, overlooking some papers that were spread all across an oak table. Roscar prepared to approach him, but a demon stepped in front of him, looking him down.

"Master elf Dera'losta'nofa is busy."

Without waiting for Roscar to offer, the demon foreman tugs the scroll out of Roscar's hand and rips the seal apart without hesitance. After a quick eye-over, he tosses the scroll back carelessly, and points over to another section of the cave.

"Head over there, you'll be lifting and transporting in the prison section. Don't get lost, don't dally, and do what you're told."

As the demon started to walk away rather urgently, he stopped and pointed to a pile of freshly cut lumber.

"And take that with you."

Roscar felt his heart sink a little at this idea. Coming to Haide, Roscar had expected some kind of grand work to be done. Lifting a bunch of ordinary stones wasn't exactly part of the romantic fantasy his mind had made for him on the incredibly long journey here. But, he was a man of his word. Roscar sighed a bit and toiled his way to the prison sector, hoping there would be more than menial construction work waiting for him.

Apparently, this section was the least worked on so far. The carpenters had barely the first stages of the basic foundation done. Scaffoldings lined the walls of the cave, layered every 6 feet or so with men building at every layer. Each scaffolding had its own pulley system to bring materials up to the different levels as needed.

"Hey! Bring that over here!"

Roscar turned to his left to see a rather burly man, sporting a shaved head, a pair of dusted up work pants, and not much else, calling to him from the top of a scaffolding. Obliging, Roscar drops his load of wood upon the pulley platform, pulling up the wood to the top level with a few huffs. The man nods in acknowledgement and thanks as Roscar lowers the platform back to the ground easily. Roscar felt that much of this was in store for him, and he wasn't pleased with the idea, but work was work. Suddenly a voice rang throughout the cave with a harsh and snake-like quality to it.

"YOU'RE A BUNCH OF FOOLS! FOOLS, I SAYS! ALL OF YA!"

It had come back from near the entrance, so Roscar couldn't see who had claimed the voice for his own, but nonetheless it didn't stop him from looking that way. "That's one of those anti-Vla'toros nuts." That came the burly guy who had wanted the wood earlier. "The reason this place is being built is because a good bit of the demon population isn't ready to live outside. They've been living in the ground for a millenia, so can't blame them."

Roscar nodded, somewhat agreeing, though he couldn't see how anyone would pick the drab, dark interior of a cave over the rich expanse of the outside world. It was about that time that Roscar began to notice the scaffolding start to shake, as if one of the lower joints were not nailed in enough. It seemed benign at first, but soon the shaking was becoming more violent. Roscar points his head up to the top of the scaffolding, hoping to get the worker's attention. "Clear the scaffolding, it's falling!" Roscar yelled, loud with urgency. The men on the lower levels were able to clear it quickly, one of them rolling as he touched the ground that had been more than 10 feet below him. The top guy, however, hesitated, as the height was much too high to jump off of. But in the midst of the platforms collapsing, he had no choice but to jump, and he did. A few of the men were able to catch him, however, and they helped him to his feet. All of them turned around to the wooden rubble that had been their scaffolding and all the work they had done so far. Lots of murmuring occurred. The guy who was on top, who had apparently been in lead of that little section, turns to Roscar. "Good call, saved a few lives. Must've just got here, huh?"

Roscar nodded, introducing himself to the guy. The man's name was Leridien, a human contractor who hailed from Salvar. The man wiped off some sweat on his forehead and pursed his lips, as if in deep thought. "That was the third collapse in the last four days. Something's not right." His head turned to the center of the cave section, and turned back to Roscar with a stern look. "Hey, do me a favor, Roscar, go over there, I think that's our new foreman. Tell him what just happened."

Roscar nodded once more and headed over there with a quick stride. When he got over to the new foreman, however, he was quite surprised that this man was, indeed, a foreman. With the bastard sword that he had strapped on his back, he seemed more like a soldier, but it was the way he carried himself that made Roscar believe this man to be of a high status. The beautiful girl that this man had at his side, with her mahogany red hair and light green eyes, was a sight he would not mind seeing every day. Roscar approaches them in a brisk manner.

"Excuse me, you're the foreman right? We've just lost one of our scaffoldings over here, and it hasn't been the first time. Maybe you should take a look."

A smile broadened on the half-elf's face. Looking down from a high hill, he barely held his excitement. Tents and camps as far as the eye could see. From his vantage point he could notice the beginnings of roads throughout the mass of green and tan. He could see the faint blue outline to the east, the ocean no doubt. What a wonderful sight it was. The wind was blowing, wistfully sending his red scarf behind him like a pair of scarlet rivers. And how beautiful the sun was! Shining down brightly from high in the sky it left his light brown hair with a glow. His eyes were a purer green than before, and his skin, being paler than most, gave him an almost ghostly visage.

Step by step he made his way down the large hill, a very welcome contrast to the gray and dirty brown of the Alerarian Mountains. He had been traveling more and more frequently since he left the diverse country of Corone. First, he made his way to Ettermire, after finding a ship suitable to take him. Upon reaching the city, he received work from the Alerarian government to save one of their agents deep in the mountains. And with his companion, a man by the name of Torin, they set out to save the stranded agent. After finding the agent and securing his rescue - while fighting their way out of the mountains - he took some much needed rest.

But while staying with the humble and grateful dark elves, the first real elves he had ever met aside from his father, he heard rumors from the hushed lips of the dark race. The Demons, he had discerned, were driven out of their homeland and forced to retreat to the Tular Plains just south of Alerar, where they had begun vigorous construction all over the empty grassland. They called for aid, any and all that were willing to help, to come immediately. The tremendous curiosity of the half-elf got the better of him it seemed, wanting to absorb as much knowledge of the Althanian races as he could.

So after parting with Torin, a new friend, he set out to help the Demons in their most desperate hour. The journey itself nearly took four days from Ettermire, yet the half-elf knew it could have been much shorter. After his heroic deeds in saving the drow agent, the government offered to give him one of their best horses, to which he declined. Apart from the promised reward, Anenfel desired nothing. He had never ridden a horse before, so he knew the kind gesture would be lost on him. Though now he wished he had taken the animal, even if it costed him larger bruises than his head from being constantly tossed off the saddle. His feet were sore, his legs ached, and was all together worn out.

It seemed the excitement of finally reaching his destination was dwindling and he was returning to the grumpy, on-edge half-elf Wayfarer. He was not always so. The mission in the mountains took a minor toll on him. He learned to never lower your guard when in an unfamiliar location. A lesson he was not about to toss aside freely. So while walking through the large mass of tents and campfires he kept a wary eye on his surroundings and his left hand fell to the hilt of Dawntracker. He had heard of the infamous treachery of demons. Whether it was based in prejudice or fact, the half-elf cared little; he would protect himself from any threat.

With the wind whistling in his ear it made it difficult for the half-elf to keep his senses attuned to danger. The demonic creatures scurried about, each one seeming to have a purpose specifically made just for them; he never saw two demons doing the same thing. They hardly noticed him, treating him with a mild neglect. He understood the treatment. If they were as mean-spirited as the other races hinted at, then it must have taken every ounce of their control to hold from attacking their 'guests'. Which led Anenfel to think of the reason why the other races lended their help in the first place. But the half-elf did not know the world of politics, and that in some situations sacrifices needed to be made.

He felt a rough tugging at his scarf, and before he had the chance to register it in his mind, Dawntracker was already drawn and held deftly at the creature's neck. It was a child, and a demon by the looks of her. She stood stiff and wide-eyed as the blade was at her neck. The small ball in her left hand shook tremendously. Quickly remembering himself, Anenfel removed the blade and looked into the child's fearful eyes. Realizing that the blade was no longer endangering her life, she screamed and ran away from the half-elf, leaving her ball behind rolling on the ground.

The half-elf tried to call out to her, to tell her how sorry he was but he could not. He stood there silent and motionless as his green orbs watched the poor child melt into the crowds. He could not believe what had happened. His gaze fell to the small leather ball on the ground. How could he have done that? He felt a rough grip on his shoulder, and he truned his head just in time to see a blackened fist rushing towards his face.

All went black.

* * * * *

Anenfel awoke to the rough ground grinding into his legs and lower back as he was being slowly dragged by two guards. The half-elf glanced through blurry eyes to his two captors. Both were demons, and both were two times his size. Each one held a shackled wrist while dragging Anenfel with minimum effort. Although he looked at them upside down, he could make out the immediate features. The guard to his right held Dawntracker, fully sheathed and free of the half-elf's side. He didn't know where they were taking him, but he assumed the reason why they were taking him pertained to a demon child's near death experience. One that he had full blame.

The pain slowly came back to his face. He had an extreme headache, though jugding from where the pain came from, he guessed it was nothing too serious. The demon must have been holding back. The half-elf also heard of a demons true strength. It could have killed him with that punch alone. But it didn't. It decided to take him prisoner and do gods know what to him. Anenfel guessed that a bloody nose and a headache wouldn't be the only injuries he would sustain.

His vision changed as his surroundings transformed from a large bright blur, into a large dark blur. He faintly made out torches that lined the walls, although the immediate light from the outside had not yet diminished. The grinding slowly stopped as his captors stopped. They were standing before a superior, he thought, from their posture and stiff forms. Anenfel rubbed his eyes against his left sleeve so he could get a better look at the matter before him.

"Master Dera," one of the demon guards exclaimed. "This elf" - he almost spat the word - "attempted to murder an innocent child. We thought you could use him to better construct the city." The half-elf winced as he heard the accusations; they sounded much worse when spoken aloud.

The one known as Dera turned slowly from his bent position over the table covered in blueprints. He was a slender man, with angular features and piercing azure eyes. Everything Anenfel saw in an elf. Though the elf looked strange when upside down, the half-elf knew that he was perfect when looked upon right side up. With an incredulous look the elf responded.

"Take him to Marshal Letho Ravenheart, he is the foreman of the prison building." The elf turned back to the table and quickly added, "I have no time for criminals."

Letho hoped for a rather slow introduction to his new duties. Perhaps he was a leader born and raised, but despite his royal upbringing, he didn’t have a stick up his ass. It was always his desire to get properly acquainted not only with the task at hand, but also with the folk who executed the commands he issued. A sense of unity and companionship raised the morale and as every leader knew, it was morale that usually made the impossible things doable.

However, today the whole familiarization process was jumpstarted and skipped the very second the pair reached the designated construction site. With the blueprints still rolled in his hand, his first sight was that of a system of scaffoldings tumbling down on the far side of the site. The wooden contraption fell with a crash, uplifted ample amounts of dirt and wound up as a heap of firewood. Luckily, given the fact that all of the workers either cursed the gods or sat down on the ground and took a breather, it seemed that none of them got caught by the collapsed rubble.

One of them, a rather elderly gent, scurried towards the Corone Marshal and the redhead, notifying him what just occurred. With hair weathered to almost complete grayness and a visage that bore an assortment of scars that could’ve only come from a fair share of battles, the man looked like a war veteran down on his luck. Still, there was a touch of former glory in the man, mostly in his musculature and his posture, and it was this little fragment of idiosyncrasy that reminded Letho of another gray elderly gent that died in the battle for Savion. Agraus, his father.

Suppressing the instinct to call the man “sir”, the swordsman-turned-foreman passed the blueprints over to Myrhia before he started to make his way to the crash site. “Somebody certainly doesn’t want this place built.” he spoke as they started their walk towards the fresh rubble. “Can’t really blame them though. This is going to be a prison after all.”

Myrhia, who unfortunately didn’t get a good hold over the tube of prints, first dropped one of the rolls, then another when she tried to bend over to pick up the first one, and then, when she finally collected both, she scampered after Letho and the gray-haired man. Given the fact that her lover was in a usually brooding mood, she thought it would be best if she did the introductions. “Uhm... Hi. I believe Letho forgot to introduce both of us.” she interjected, holding the tube and two semi-unrolled blueprints between her left hand and her chin as she tried to extend her hand towards their new acquaintance. “I’m Myrhia and grumpy over here is Letho. We came with the Corone emissaries... Ouh!”

Once again, the pair of blueprints went renegade on the redhead and fell into the dirt. Luckily, by now the trio reached the heap of debris, so she had time to plop down on the ground and collect them properly.

“You say this isn’t the first time this happened?” the Marshal asked his father look-alike. One of the workers, a rather burly, shirtless cueball responded instead.

“Aye, this is the third time. Luckily, Roscar here warned us so nobody got hurt this time. But the last time one of the lads wound up in the infirmary with a fist-sized splinter in his gut. No offence to these demons and that prissy elf, but if this continues, they’ll have to look for another crew.” the man said, and then added with the kind of warmth that you really can experience only from the blue-collar people. “The name’s Leridien.”

“Letho.” the swordsman replied, shaking the man’s hand firmly before adding: “I just got here from Corone. Dera told me you need a foreman.”

“Aye. We had one until the day before yesterday, but then he simply vanished. It probably got too hot for him. He came here with me, from Salvar. I told him: ‘Deren, if you can’t handle the heat, don’t go into the furnace’ but he came with us anyways.” the man continued, but Letho’s eyes drifted away from him and towards where the foundation of the scaffolding stood. The remnants of the foothold still remained, bolted into the dirt below, but it was not them that gave way it seemed. Several inches above the place where the sturdy wood entered the soil, where the jagged tear in the wood should’ve been, stood a clean, smooth cut. Letho moved towards it, removed several of the larger planks and found three more of these clean cuts at the bottom of the former scaffolding.

“Come here. Look at this.” he said to the men, sitting on his hunkers and inspecting the wood that jutted out of the ground. “That looks like foul play to me. Somebody definitely doesn’t want this place up and running.”

It was in this moment that a pair of guards approached, carrying what seemed like an elven prisoner that seemed pitiful between their muscular figures. The elf wasn’t terribly impressive looking to Letho, but his natural, elvish beauty didn’t go unnoticed in Myrhia’s eyes. She hurried to Letho’s side, trying to find out what was going on.

“Master Dera sent this lad to you, Marshal Ravenheart.”

“Why is he restrained?” the swordsman inquired with a dominant, curt voice.

“He attacked one of the local children.” the seven feet of muscle spoke.

“Well, the prison obviously isn’t done yet, so there are no vacant cells.” Letho spoke, half in jest, before adding. “Alright, I’ll give him something to do.”

“His papers and possessions.” the other demon, very similar in both posture and physique to his comrade, spoke, handing over an unsealed scroll and the longsword before releasing the elf. The Marshal unfolded the yellowish paper, skimmed over the info, noted the “swung his blade at a girl” part, and fired a frowned gaze at the felon.

“Is this true? If so, while there are no operational cells yet, I’m rather certain that we could procure some shackles for you.”

((Both of you can bunny Myrhia if you want to, just let me know beforehand.))

There it was. That look again. The foreman's eyes had flickered it for a second, as soon as he laid eyes on Roscar. He had first noticed it back at Anteria, when dealing with people had been key to the job he was on. It was hard to explain, the look, but for some reason it bothered Roscar. It was the kind of look one would give to an elder, a show of outward respect and knowing patience. Roscar knew that he was an elder himself, but this fact always seemed to slip his mind. Occasionally he would have to put his hand to his face and feel the many scars and rough edges that populated it to remember exactly how old he was.

The two, Letho and Myrhia, were quite a team, by Roscar's observations. Perhaps even an item, though Letho, stiff and to the point, didn't seem to show it. The airy innocence of the red-headed beauty was refreshing though, and her demeanor seemed to make up for any of the failings that Letho's personality might show. Making her aquaintance for the both of them with a friendly attempt of a handshake with her hands full, Roscar smiles and meets her hand with his own. It almost felt mystical, her skin, unlike any human he had ever shook his hand with before. She seemed human enough, though. Realizing that he had held her hand a little too long for comfort, Roscar pulled his hand back awkwardly. An embarassed smile inches across his face, which may come across as a very unseemly manner for a man his age. The girl started to fumble the scrolls she carried, and though a valiant effort was made, they all went hurtling to the ground. Roscar felt unable to watch this without lending a hand, and he bent over, reaching an arm over to the dropped parchments.

"Here, let me...."

But the colliding of his head with Myrhia's stops his sentence short. Roscar gets bumped back a little, and he looks immediately at Myrhia to see if she was alright. During the collision, Myrhia's hair that had been convering part of her face had been brushed aside from the impact, and Roscar was able to see for a split second a faint scar that seemed to start at the corner of her lip. The sight of it had disappeared just as quickly as it had appeared. Not wanting to seem like he was oogling her, Roscar rushed to pick up two of the scrolls, which he rises to his feet and hands them over carefully to make sure they wouldn't escape her grasp again.

"Sorry.....here you go," Roscar said, apologetically. He then realized that the distractions had caused him to not introduce himself to her properly,so he redoubled his efforts. "I'm Roscar. Nice to meet you, Myrhia."

Roscar helped her just in time to turn back to the men and see Letho make his observations. Apparently, someone had sabotaged the scaffolding. Roscar started to attribute it to one of those "Anti-Vla'toros nuts" that Leridien had mentioned earlier, and was going to bring it to Letho's attention, until the interruption of the prisoner elf. The elf, who seemed like a half-breed at second glance (his ears weren't as pointed as the other elves that Roscar knew), was a pitiful sight, restrained without any sort of physical or emotional resistance.

Watching Letho's actions, Roscar started to like the newly-appointed Coronian foreman more and more. His hand was firm, but rightfully just. He gave even the lowest entities a first chance to show themselves up properly. He did everything personally, and without a pompous glance that seemed to be an annoying trademark for many of those in leadership positions. Roscar could see that Letho was a man that had been respected in many places, this demon's cave not being the first one.

However, the manner of the captive elf was not that of loathing for his captors, which was the normal manner for most prisoners. Rather, he seemed to direct these feelings on himself, which seemed to be the reason he wasn't fighting the guards that restrained his arms with oppressing force. This elf was in full regret of a mistake he had committed. Roscar, strangely, empathized, but why, he couldn't be sure. He just knew that he was a firm believer in second chances, and spreading this notion to the world wasn't a shameful position. Roscar cleared his throat and spoke up to the Coronian.

"There won't be any need for that. I'll watch him myself. If he even so happens to attempt an attack or make a break for it, I'll see to the restraints personally."

Roscar looked to Letho, hoping that he would make the order to release the half-elf. Roscar's heart was a little torn by this act, thinking that it could very well kick him in the ass later, but he shrugs off this paranoia. Even at his age, a man could dream. Suddenly the idea of what could be happening with the foul play came back to him, and Roscar spoke once more.

"Leridien told me earlier that there had been a few people who were against the building of Vla'toros before. Maybe we could search these guys out?"

((Just a note: You don't really have to interact with me if you don't wish to, I'll be in and out of this thread, in one or two posts. Just trying to link all the threads together a bit. Do be sure to read it, as it may uncover some knowledge that you may want to know.))

After all of the parties had left their seperate ways to begin building Haide, the demon knight found himself searching out his friend and companion, Dera. The elf had helped him out in more ways than one, especially being the crafter of both of his fine osmium blades. Making his way through the sea of tents back toward the massive mouth of the cave, Zieg, Kaza, and Xeppa found Dera in the very middle of the commotion.

"Friend, you seem to be incredibly overwhelmed," Zieg said as he stepped forward and placed a hand on the shoulder of his companion. Dera looked to him and smiled, shaking his head. "It seems that your plans are coming along nicely. Anything I should be made aware of?"

"You do not even know the half of it, General. Apparantly, there are a great number of people who detest the fact that there are those who which to stay in the caves. They have been making it very difficult for the workers to get their work finished."

"Well, if it is not one form of discrimination, it is another. I'll order a security detail to try and keep the rabble rousers away from the building sites."

Dera turned Zieg away from the cave and began to walk, speaking in confidence. "There have also been heavy rumors that Deimis has been sabotaging the work at the prison site to free their companions. No one is actually in the prison yet, but several prisoners are involved in the building process. I do not need the people fretting over this, so I have done my best to keep the knowledge from them."

"I will be sure to inform the security detail of that as welll," Zieg replied coldly. "I will not allow Trakos vlor' Kinron to dampen this truly magnificent event. Deimis needs to be snuffed out now." Dera nodded and turned back to the newborn city.

"I have to make rounds about all of the Tular Plains." Zieg picked Kaza up into his arms. "Goodbye, Dera, and good luck." Dera nodded in return and Zieg turned back toward his men. There he ordered a contigent of men back into the building area to make sure that neither Deimis nor anyone else disturbed the process.

Handing over an able-looking elf that was possibly a felon into the custody of a rather old looking man didn’t seem like the smartest move to Letho, but his gut was telling him otherwise. His gut was reading the elf’s face before he got a chance to reply and made a motion that he wasn’t responsible for the mentioned crimes. And his gut was also telling him that there was more then met the eye when it came to Roscar. He maybe looked a bit over-the-hill, but what he didn’t look like was a pushover. Given the fact that the elderly were always held in high regards back in Savion - especially since Savion men reached their full physical potential at the age of fifty - the Corone Marshal decided to accept Roscar’s offer. His gut was seldom wrong.

“Very well. Anenfel is under your watch from now, Roscar.” Letho said, giving the scar-faced man the elf’s longsword, but tucking the papers into the inner pocket of his own coat. “We have more pressing matters to attend to anyways.”

“You can say that again. We have to rebuild those blasted scaffoldings all over again.” Leridien said, doing his best to wipe the dust off his bald head with an already dusty rag.

“Leave the scaffoldings for now. Until we track these insurgents down, I don’t want to risk with something so easily sabotaged.” the Marshal said, finally relieving Myrhia as the carrier of the blueprints. He took one of the rolled prints, stuffed the rest beneath his arm before he unrolled the piece of paper. He set it down on the ground carefully, then put four stones at each corner to prevent it from furling. “Now, I want you to work on finalizing the ground level. I can see that most of the bearing walls are up, but there is a lot of these separating walls that need to be done. I know it’s a bit tricky to put them up before the ceiling is done because they might come off uneven, but it’s better to live and patch the mistakes then to break your neck if one of those scaffoldings comes crashing down again. I’ll do my best to get some additional security here.”

Most – including Myrhia – were rather stunned by the fact that Letho wasn’t a regular brute that was proficient at sword-wielding and nothing else. But most didn’t know that of the Seven Kingdoms of Audelas, Savion was most famous for its advanced architecture. It came as no surprise that during his upbringing, Letho Ravenheart heard a fair share of classes on structural integrities and stone construction. Leridien looked at the blueprints over Letho’s shoulders, studying the sections that the swordsman was pointing at with his finger and doing his best to memorize most of it. In the end, Letho rolled up the drawing and handed it over to the burly construction worker.

“Alright. I suggested that to that Dera fellow, you know, but he seemed in the world of his own, saying that he doesn’t want to fall behind.” Leridien said, taking the rest of the prints from Letho.

“Well, he would think differently if instead of falling behind he was falling down.” the Marshal said with a smirk and the gathered workers laughed heartily at his jest. It lasted for a couple of seconds before Leridien started to get them back in line and back to work.

Letho was about to address Roscar’s proposition next, but the two demon guards that brought Anenfel were replaced by half-a-dozen more, all armed with large halberds as they came to a full stop before the Marshal. Unlike the pair, the six that now stood before them seemed much more imposing, eyes front, uniforms spic-and-span and shimmering in scarlet hues, their posture soldier-strict. “Marshal Letho Ravenheart?” the leader of the small platoon said and Letho nodded. “High General Tulfried appointed us as security for this site.”

“Excellent.” the dark swordsman said, thinking this was probably the first intrusion that didn’t mean that something terrible happened. “Two of you should patrol the east and west stretch of the building, one should patrol within the compound. After two hours, the other three replace the current sentries on their posts. I believe you can arrange the rotation amidst yourselves, gentlemen?”

Instead of a reply, the leader of the six struck the shaft of his weapon against his armor before he moved out his troops. Letho sighed before he turned to Roscar and Myrhia. This was all a bit too eventful for his rather steady, slow-pace-loving mind. But it wasn’t like he had a say in the matter. The obstacles came charging at him and he had to do his best to stay on top of them. For Corone, for the Haidians and most importantly for his own pride. Letho Ravenheart wasn’t the kind of a person that called it quits after hitting a bump or two. He gestured to Myrhia and Roscar to come closer before he started in a more hushed tone.

“Alright, this is how I see it. It’s of no use for us to go nosing around because these scallywags are obviously rather deft at keeping a low profile. In fact, I expect that most of them are just posing as workers, doing their jobs and lurking for the opportunity to put their plan in motion. So this is my plan. You need to punch me in the face.” he said to the gray man and to Myrhia’s surprise, he said it with a deadly serious expression on his visage. “Not here though. These men already saw you save their ass. Well move to the next site, then get in a bit of hassle. I assure you, after you punch the foreman’s light out, they’ll be out to draft you in their ranks.”

He concluded with a stern, but respectful look towards Roscar. “So, are you up to for some counterintelligence work?”

It was a foolish plan. It risked life and limb of Roscar. There was no guarantee of the wanted results of the opposing faction letting Roscar in. In fact, it was possible that one of the men who had saw him help out Leridian and the rest could be part of the faction and disregard Roscar's reliability. Most of all, the entire plan to protect the restoration of Vla'toros relied on the shoulders of an old amnesiac without a degree of espionage training. At least, none he could remember.

Well, now I know that things aren't going to be boring.

But it was the only plan to go on. Reluctant to have to punch his new leader in the face, Roscar nods in affirmment that he was ready to undertake the drastic deed. Roscar takes the sword that had been just given to him, the elf's sword, and hands it back to Letho, knowing that he'd be unable to take care of him under such circumstances, and he didn't want to risk betrayal. The stakes were too shaky.

"Guess I won't be taking care of the elf after all. But do me a favor, Letho, don't lock up the guy unless he crosses the line. I don't sense malice in his gaze, he may not be what he has been appointed as."

Looking around, Roscar proceeds to head to the next area with the couple following him. It seemed this area was to be the residential section. Still walking, he observed the section to make sure it had everything they needed to make this little fight as theatrical as possible. One requirement met. No guards. Another requirement. Big and open to allow everyone around to see. Good. And they were approaching the center, right in view for all. This would be suitable for the job. Roscar stops without turning to face Letho. His voice becomes cold, calculated, and drenched with serious intent, as he speaks to Letho loud enough for only him to hear.

"Sorry, but it has to look dramatic."

With surprising speed, Roscar turns, using his pivotal force to deliver a gut-blowing punch to Letho's sternum. Once the ranger had doubled over, Roscar bent down to his ear to deliver one last message.

"I'll try to keep in touch some way. Keep your eyes open."

Roscar's left hand grasps onto the collar of Letho's clothing, while his right hand reaches down to the waistband of his pants. Firmly holding the articles of clothing, Roscar releases a piercing yell of battle as he hurls Letho's body to the ground. Then an idea occurs to him, something to finish the deal and ensure that as many people see that he had just conquered one of the Vla'toros foremen.

"Why don't you take your filthy whore and get the hell outta here while you're at it!!" Roscar exclaims in a taunting manner to the ground-ridden Letho. Looking around, it was obvious that everyone had stopped what they were doing immediately to gaze at the occurence. Roscar assumes a triumphant pose, and it was about then that two pairs of arms had grabbed his own arms from behind, pulling him some good ways away from Letho before one gets in front of Roscar, leaving the other arm to the one in the back. Roscar had expected it to be two guards, but they were in fact a couple of normal demon workers seeming rather disgrunted. The one in front looks back to Letho, saluting him.

"Don't worry, foreman, we'll take care of this trouble maker."

The man then turns back to Roscar and lands a painful left hook on Roscar's chin. The one from behind began to speak in Roscar's ear as the one in front continued to wail on the helpless Roscar. "You are one crazy guy. That's Letho Ravenheart you just decked." A couple of punches to Roscar's stomach brings him a little out of breath. "Sorry, old man, but we gotta rough you up a little," The one in back continues, "so we don't blow our cover." Roscar attempts to catch his breathe to continue to take the punishment, but the man in back nods his head slightly. Stopping his next shot, the guy in front takes Roscar's arm again and they both pull him far away from the scene. Roscar hoped this was a good sign, that they were going to stop their little charade soon, because it was a painful one.

Once behind a partially built structure where no one could see in, the two demons let go of Roscar, who lands on his back, breathing deeply for the air that had been consecutively been knocked out of his lungs. The two men stand over him, giving Roscar a quick look-over as if admiring their handiwork. One of them grins and offers him a towel for his blood, which Roscar grudgingly accepts.

"Great work back there, old man. I can't say I've seen anyone who had the balls to lay out the great Letho Ravenheart like that."

After wiping off the sweat and blood that had been leaking down his face, Roscar hurls the towl back at the towel-giving one, hitting him in the face with it. Roscar sits up, feeling his face for bruises.

"I have a name. It's R-" Roscar catches himself, knowing someone might have heard his name from before, "Race. Race Baron." He couldn't figure out why he chose such a name, but a feeling inside him felt it was appropriate. With the present circumstances, Roscar wasn't one to fight with instinctual intuition, and so he internally shrugs off the weird feeling. The other demon, grinning, offers his hand to Roscar to help him up. Roscar takes it, and as he is forced upright it becomes clear to him that the other one had shoved something into Roscar's hand. Once successfully helped up, the other two begin to walk away. One of them speaks as he goes.

"We could sure use your help, Race. If you're interested, come after the day shift. Think about it."

They exit out of view, cracking their knuckles and laughing loudly as if a job well done. Roscar gazes at the parchment that had been stuck in his hand, unrolling it quickly so he could gaze at it. On the parchment was a map of the entire cave system, crude but still readable. On the map was an X placed past one of the Vla'toros cave walls. To get to the X, there was a massive twisting of passages that one could easily get lost in....if one didn't have the map. A guess lead Roscar to believe that this was the place where the guerilla group would meet up to discuss plans. As gigantic of a cave as Vla'toros was, surely there were many hidden passages and tunnels that existed where one would least expect. Step one of the plan to expose the enemy was complete. Was that all they needed? But there was no guarantee that this was what Roscar thought it was. He couldn't just go waltzing up to the foreman now, either. More than likely, enemy and ally eyes would be upon him now, and any obvious move to treachery would certainly lead to death. They would only get one shot at this, so Roscar had to be extremely careful not to get caught as a spy.

Finally catching his breath, Roscar could only hope that Letho was alright. Roscar feared he might have gone too far with his theatrics, but the foreman could certainly handle himself. In fact, he could picture Myrhia being more wrathful than Letho. Either didn't seem like the best prospect, but thoughts like those had to wait. Now, Roscar had to wait til nightfall. Then was when he would see if his spilt blood had payed off.

Given the weather-worn exterior and the fact that their fight was supposed to be a mere pretense, Letho expected a rather mellow strike from Roscar. That was probably the reason why the punch caught him completely off guard and unprepared, the muscles of his abdomen rather loose instead flexed in order to dampen the impact. So while the attack itself was rather harmless, the element of surprise was genuine and in a flash the Corone Marshal was sprawled in the dry dirt. Myrhia screamed at this outcome, her wide-eyed concern playing an essential part in the whole charade as she bounded to Letho’s fallen form.

“Oh my god! Letho, are you alright?” she asked, trying to help him up. Roscar’s victorious bawl came like insult to injury, and while Letho appreciated the acting, the fact that Myrhia was addressed as a whore nearly made him give the old man a taste of real battle. There was no vileness behind those words, of course, but there was a difference between playing a role and an overkill. So when he got up and dusted of – the redhead’s tiny hands aiding him in this process – the frown on his face was not something he put on just for show. Unluckily for his anger – and luckily for their mission – a pair of workers was eager to give a helping hand at dealing with Roscar, capturing the rebellious man and taking him away. Maybe one of them read Letho’s frown and the emotions behind it because the demon punched the gray-haired man straight in the jaw. Letho grinned. It was a double victory. The insurgents swallowed the bait and Roscar got popped in the jaw.

“Yeah, I’m good. He’s quite spry for a graybeard.” the Marshal said, watching as the two potential saboteurs disappeared behind the corner of a half-built house, dragging Roscar fiercely. “We should get back to the construction site. It’s up to him now.”

“Is he’s going to be alright?” Myrhia asked, seriously worried as they started walking forward and away from the prison complex. It would be too obvious if they just returned the way they came.

“I don’t know. But he’s the only one we could use as a double agent.” Letho spoke, leading the way in a random direction, then taking two right turns and setting them on a route back to their site. “I wouldn’t worry too much about Roscar. He seems like he’s been around the block a couple of times. I think he knows how to handle himself behind enemy lines. He’ll play his part and we have to play ours, which means doing some actual work around here.”

He was serious about the work too. As soon as the pair returned to the unfinished prison, Letho took off first his weapons holster from his back, then his overcoat and his dark green shirt which left him in a sleeveless linen undershirt that hid little of his bulk. He hated having idle hands, even if he was supposed to have just that while being a foreman. But instead of sitting on his ass and shouting orders, the Corone Marshal accepted the manual labor with no scruples whatsoever. Carrying wooden beams, large building stones, working shoulder to shoulder with the rest of the workers and issuing strict orders when orders were due. Needless to say, Myrhia was rather overjoyed by this, seeing her man flex and stretch and sweat, especially once he took off his undershirt and was left in just his pants. He didn’t allow her to laze around and ogle though. Instead, she was the watermaiden, walking around with a large bucket and a spatula, preventing dehydration of the laborers. Still, her eyes seldom left Letho’s imposing figure and she walked with a permanent blush caused by a desire that the two of them get private quarters at the end of the day.

After what seemed like endless hours to Myrhia whose arms and shoulders ached from lumbering the heavy bucket, a sound of a distant bell resounded through the entire city in the making, declaring the end of another day. Despite a rather rough start, it has been a good day. Letho got acquainted with most of the workers, gaining their respect, becoming one of the guys just enough to share a laugh with them, but not so much that they wouldn’t take his orders seriously. However, the construction work was just half of the job that the Marshal did. His eyes were open all the time, singling out individuals that seemed suspicious, catching every glance and gesture that seemed out of place or seemed to have more then one meaning. So in the end, it was a rather fruitful day for Letho Ravenheart.

To Myrhia’s hidden joy, there was a secluded tent that was meant to be used by the foreman. Compared to the large rotund one where the workers slept, it seemed in a significantly better shape, though obviously meant for just one person. Behind it, patched up from what seemed like jagged wooden boards that were extra in the construction, was a makeshift outdoors shower with a tin container above filled with cool water. It was under the calm torrent of artificially created drops that Letho and Myrhia stood, both naked as the day they were born, washing down the sweat of each other’s bodies. Myrhia’s back were turned to the massive Marshal, her tiny form hunched slightly forward as he massaged her shoulders. Each time his fingers passed over the knots below her skin, she whimpered a little bit.

“Oh, that’s good. I forgot how hard it was working the entire day.” she said, closing her eyes and reveling in both the touch of his fingers and the myriad of cold drops.

“I kind of like it. It’s simple and yet fulfilling. Just seeing something growing one brick at the time...” he said, his thumb passing over her shoulder blade, eliciting another audible sigh. He loved her back, loved massaging it, caressing it, loved every scar on her pale skin. At first, she was too coy, too ashamed of this imperfection caused by the whips of her former slave master, but months of Letho’s constant reassuring eased her mind.

“Easy for you.” Myrhia retorted, rinsing her long, mahogany hair that fell over her modest chest. “Unlike you, I can’t like lift a live bull above my head without breaking a sweat.”

“And even if you could, what would you do with a bull?” he teased, nipping at her shoulder with his lips.

“Oh, shut up. You know what I mean.” she responded, her lips smiling widely at his intimate touch. She sighed and leant backwards, allowing him to envelop her with his muscular arms. “I wonder how’s Roscar doing.”

Taking a deep breath, and waiting a while after the two demons had left, Roscar emerged himself from the safespot that he and the other two had spoken their words. Roscar wondered where he should go to continue working. Not back to the prison area, he couldn't be seen by Letho or that could compromise his position with them. Suddenly a coarse voice called to him.

"Hey you old dreg! Git your ass over here."

Roscar, warily, proceeds to the man who called him, who happened to be giving him appraising looks. He had seen the scene with him and Letho, and he could see the bruise starting to develop on the chin of Roscar's battle-worn face. This caused a grin to come over the man.

"Enjoy your beatin', ya old bastard?"

Roscar doesn't say anything. Even though it was a charade, the whole blasted thing, it still didn't do much to save his pride.

"Well we won't have none of that insubordination crap here. One pipe outta you and we'll have the guards run ya through, get me gramps? Now grab those stones. You're our new liftin' boy."

What followed was a long and tedious day of blistering menial labor, ear-aching orders from a overzealous foreman, and harrowing glares from his work crew. Not a one of them said anything to him, but he didn't have to watch them to feel the prickly stares and the cold comments that his coworkers threw at him behind his back. Roscar could only imagine that these men had respect for Letho Ravenheart, and Roscar had pushed the wrong buttons. He wasn't against hard work, but he was against social walls being put up against him, especially when it wasn't his direct choices which caused it. The situation was frustrating, but he guessed this was the world of being a spy: carefully setting up a lie and accepting the given consequences.

As night finally and thankfully fell, Roscar's old and aching body only wanted to reach the comfort of his single bed amongst the cramped workmen's quarters. But his mission had to come before his weariness, and instead of exiting the cave when the work whistle blew he inconspicuously made his way towards the branched off caves. The spaces got more narrow as he proceeded further in, and there existed more forks and turns in the path to further confuse and dismay those unlucky enough to not have a map. This space would definitely make a good secret hide-out for a guerilla group, this was certain.

Many minutes of navigating the twisted crimson-filmed caverns finally leads to a new area. This one was obviously special because of the crates and barrels, not to mention the men who were sifting through them. Most of the people were demons, but there were some humans and elves as well, sifting through the storage items and making marks to checklists. Roscar was in the midst of some organized project, though what their plans were was uncertain. In the back of the room, Roscar could vaguely make out the shapes of the same demons he had encountered earlier that day. One other demon was with them, conversing about something, and as Roscar came closer he began to make out the words moving from their mouths.

"......So that's how much we've gathered."

"Excellent. Soon we will make it happen. Great work, gentlemen."

The one who Roscar didn't know lifts his head as he notices Roscar, gauging the old man. Without a word, he looks back at the two demon "workers", who turn to Roscar and nod back to the other demon. He smiles and walks over to Roscar, who had stopped in his tracks as soon as he was noticed. There was a confidence about this demon. His voice was somewhat raspy, but the quality and projection of his voice was the quality of a smooth talking leader. This very well was the brain of this organization. His eyes meet Roscar's as if a challenge was being made.

"Race Baron, right? One of your hobbies is knocking out famed warriors like the ranger Letho Ravenheart, or so I've heard. But you seem a little too far gone for such acts."

Alright, don't wanna mess this up. Be the man who knocked out Letho.

Roscar meets the demon's thrown gauntlet with his own flash of self-assurance and a grin to match it. He cracks his knuckles, looking reminiscent of the said events with a look of slight nostalgia.

"The young little punk is just a bunch of hot air, in my opinion. Mere seconds was all it took for him to be eating the dirt my boots had just tread on. It was a good thing those two interfered in time," Roscar extends his finger to the two familiar demons who were watching from the back, "Otherwise, we might not have had a Ravenheart to talk about."

This caused the demon to laugh heartily, his raspy guffaws echoing through the entirety of the cave section. The other two in the back snickered a little. Roscar maintained a slight chuckle to go along with the mood, but otherwise stayed stand-offish and cocky. Once the charismatic demon leader had regained his senses, his slitted yellow eyes looked straight into Roscar's with his hand extended, which is accepted with a firm, stiff shake.

"Oh, I think you'll fit in fine, Race. Just fine. I am Duros vlor' Sharack, and I am the overseer of everything you see before you. Do you know what we are?"

Roscar didn't know. However, he was not about to relay that, but at the same time he did not want to say he did, just in case he got caught in his own lie. By the passionate gleam that was starting to develop in Duros's eyes, it was clear that the demon leader was working himself up to a long-winded speech, and Roscar wasn't about to stop him. So, in response, Roscar maintained his silence, only slightly nodding.

"Visionaries. Revolutionaries. Prophets. We are dreamers, Race, but we're the kind of dreamers who are willing to get out of their beds and make that portrait a reality. What we see is a bright future for the demon race. Not one deep below the earth, shamefully hidden under countless miles of earth. No, we want one where our the peaks of our towers reach high into the sky, shadowing the rest of the world under its glory!"

His words were full of impassioned gestures and movements. He wasn't lying....and if he was, he was fooling himself too. It would take a lot of alcohol in Roscar's system to call Duros a fool or a liar. Roscar continued listening.

"But to do this, we must wipe the slate clean. We must forget about the rest of our history. We must accept that we have been driven from the place we used to call home. In fact, I think it was a blessing, the dwarven invasion. But it's thoughts like these that shower constant criticism over me, a constant torrent of resentment over my idealisms because of close-minded ignorant pigs. Why anyone would ever want to live in that red-glazed prison Haidia is beyond me, but that's over now. The only sensical step is to move on. Or, so you'd think."

Duro's eyes move to look around the very walls that surrounded him. A slight disgust roams over his visage, and his fists clench.

"However, these.....fools won't let go of the past. Vla'toros is dead, and yet they scrounge to revive it. It's pathetic. Why can't they see? The demons must unite together, not separate themselves into "old" and "new". So that's where we come in, Race. We're going to save the demon race, and you're going to help us. And don't worry.....you will be compensated for your work. We have many connections."

With this, Duros stops and turns back to Roscar. It seemed he was awaiting some sort of confirmation. Roscar obliged as soon as he realized, smiling as if the sound of "compensation" was a revitalizing sentiment.

"Sounds good."

With this, another laugh erupts out of Duros. Even without the long-winded speech of an insane life pursuit, the laughs alone could give off that this Duros was an absolutely insane individual. He wondered why wackos could never laugh at things that were supposed to be laughable.

"Well Race, I don't want to take up too much of your time. You look tired and beat anyway, and we'll need all our men one hundred percent. Go on, get your rest, old warrior. We'll have a job for you to do tomorrow."

Roscar turns without a word to start his way back through the winding tunnels, but a last remark by Duros stops Roscar in his tracks and sends a slight shiver down his spine. He just hoped it didn't show.

"Oh, and don't try anything. I like you, and I like your spunk for an old guy, but that doesn't mean I fully trust you either. Just a friendly warning, Race."

Roscar whips back around with an evil grin.

"Yeah, I'll be sure to tell my good friend and foreman Letho about ya."

The sounds of demons cracking up in laughter is the last sound that Roscar hears echo through the cave as he makes his way out of the "visionary" hideout. By the time he got out to breathe full fresh night air, it had to be at least midnight. Dragging his body, weary from work and from the stress that spying was having on him, Roscar makes his way through the tents, his eyes laying upon a single tent. It was big for a single lodging, so it could very well be where Letho was staying. Roscar could make his way in, shove out a few key words, and be out within the span of a couple minutes, and surely nobody could be the wiser. Surely. Roscar looks around the starlit blackness around him, and isn't able to make out any figures among the countless rows of tents. Roscar sighs, and with some effort finds his way to the cramped crews quarters instead. He wasn't willing to risk it all yet. He didn't know enough to stop these guys, not really. He wasn't even truly sure of what they were up to. An early morning was awaiting for Roscar's sore body. He would just have to see what the next day brought, and what "work" they'd have him do.

Even though under the showers Myrhia seemed to be in the mood for fooling around, when she was finally freshly bathed, massaged and cuddled in Letho’s arms, she fell asleep in a matter of minutes. Heavy manual labor was not something she was equipped for – and something she shouldn’t be doing anyways – with her scrawny constitution so when they finally called it a day, her aching muscles felt like they were cooling down after the work got them red hot. Letho didn’t mind. Even though all the hoisting and carrying and bending was a mere light workout for him, he didn’t fail to notice how much she tried during the entire day to do her utmost. The redhead was doing her share the best she could and she deserved a sound slumber. Besides, a half-open tent in the middle of a construction yard wasn’t exactly a proper location for some rolling in the hay.

***

It was hard to determine when the night ended and the morning occurred this deep in the caves. The scarlet illumination that the crystal of the Haidia cave still emanated was a constant and the cave entrance was faced westwards which meant that the first rays of sun penetrated the dimness of the cave only in the afternoon. This turned a regular day in Vla’toros a rather peculiar event, where during the first half the scarlet color dominated the scenery only to get some real, natural opposition after the sun passed its zenith and started dipping towards the west, peeking inside the cave mouth. That was why a large bell was installed in the center of the future city, large enough for its sound to resound through the entire site.

Letho was up before the bell though. He had an internal watch, honed unto him by years of wandering, and it was correct even while he resided in the bowels of the earth. So when the bell rang and echoed in the gigantic cave, the Corone Marshal was already fully clothed and on his feet, carrying a tray with some scrambled eggs and milk back to the tent where Myrhia stubbornly refused to get up at the bell call. Her tiny body rolled over, her hands clutching the pillow and pulling in it over her ears as she grunted in discontent. This always made the grumpy swordsman smile, this desire of hers for five more minutes that made him regret that he wasn’t in the sack with her. But it was a new workday and it wasn’t keen on catering to her sleeping habits.

“Myri, time to get up.” he said, squatting in front of the tent and moving the flap away with the tray balanced in his free hand. At first she didn’t seem like she heard him, static with the covers snuggled close. He decided to give her another wake up call. Tucking the flap over the top of the tent side, he moved his hand to the sole of her foot, passing over it as gently as she could. Her toes wriggled at first, but when his caress continued she abruptly pulled foot back. From the pillow that covered her face a giggle could be heard.

“Stop that! You know I’m ticklish.” she finally said, pulling the pillow away from her face and propping herself on her elbows, her sleepy eyes looking at him.

“I had to wake you up somehow.” Letho said, extending his laden hand and offering her the breakfast he procured from the mess hall. “Here, I brought you some breakfast. I have to go and talk with Dera, but when I get back, I want to see you fully clothed.”

“When you say it like that, I’ll start to think you don’t like what’s below those clothes.” she jested, taking the tray and placing it on her lap. He didn’t reply with words, but rather just pinched one of her toes, nearly making her spill the contents of the tray, before he stood up and walked away.

Vla’toros in the making was waking up lethargically, like a bear after the winter hibernation period. It wasn’t a surprising occurrence given the work that was being done. Regardless of how used you were to construction work, muscles and joints ached and felt reluctant to obey in the morning. Most chased this feeling away with a splash of coffee, some opted for something with a little bit more kick, some just needed some time to get the momentum. But generally, after the breakfast was done, the usual clamor was prominent and everybody seemed to be in the right mood to earn some money.

Dera’s tent was so luxurious and tastily furnished that Letho could almost swear that it wasn’t actually a tent and that somehow, against the laws of physics, it was larger on the inside then it was from the outside. The first room in the large tent was where he found the elf, sitting behind a lacquered wooden table carved with multiple motifs, sipping on what seemed like tea and looking over some documents. There were several shelves filled with books and tomes carefully lined up by size, another several on the other side with furled blueprints and what seemed like a large chalkboard. Everything spic-and-span, of course.

“Marshal Ravenheart.” Dera said without taking his eyes off the documents as Letho entered. “You’re certainly an early starter.”

“I wanted to talk to you before you get too busy, master elf. It’s about these ‘accidents’ that keep happening in the prison construction site.” the Marshal started, approaching the table and taking a seat. “I don’t think they are accidents at all. I think there is something bigger going on and that these minor sabotages are just a diversion to keep us busy.”

“Interesting theory. Also, quite possibly true, Marshal.” the elf said, lowering the cup to the small porcelain plate and eyeing his visitor. “There have been reports of missing gunpowder and explosives from the main warehouse.”

“Explosives? Why do you even keep those?”

“With careful, calculated usage of explosives, we can carve holes in stone faster then a throng of stonemasons.”

“You can also collapse a building if you place them in the right spot.” Letho added, more to himself then to Dera. “Do you have any clues as to who is stealing these explosives?”

“No, not really. The warehouse sentries all said it didn’t happen during their watch, but I don’t think they’re all trustworthy. I made the guards sweep all the buildings during the night, but they found nothing but a handful of vagrants squatting in the basement of the Royal Palace.” Dera said, his voice as indifferent as ever, as if they didn’t speak of substances that could bring down whole buildings.

“I’ll take a closer look into this.” Letho said, lifting himself up from the comfy chair and making a move towards the exit.

“Fine. But remember that you’re not the official law enforcer here, Marshal. Don’t neglect your real job. This could be the work of some rogues trying to earn some extra currency by selling the explosives in the black market.” the elf said, dropping his eyes back to the papers and picking up the teacup.

“Yeah. And then again, it could be some rogues trying to crash this place down before it’s even built.”

As another morning comes around to bring Althanas to another glorious beginning, Roscar was not among those privelaged few. His bones ached more than ever and all of his shoulder and back muscles were so stiff that to lift his arms over his head was a chore in itself. Naturally, getting up from bed was not something Roscar was looking forward to, but he was at least getting one step closer to their goal. The road to it, however, seemed to be a twisted one veiled by the intentions of madmen bent in revolutionary ideals. What these men would have Roscar do now was uncertain, but he hoped it wouldn't end in him being killed by the wrong side or his cover being blown and being killed by the enemies he was posing among.

Stepping outside the tent, the sound of grumpy loud men in the morning trailed behind him. The mess area of the cave was alive and clattering with workers of all types, builds, and personalities. Standing in an extremely long and loud line was all it took for Roscar to get his piece of bread, water, and some mystery meat to go with it. Looking around, Roscar saw a pair of hands that seemed to be waving him over. As he passed the many rows of tables, all which consisted of a box with a slab of board on top of it and boxes for seats, Roscar began to notice that those hands actually belonged to those same two demons who had accosted him. Roscar took a seat across from them, watching them and their constant grins with a slight indignancy. It wasn't an act either, their smiles were getting on his nerves. He felt like they were constantly reliving the moment they were bashing his face in, and Roscar had planned on returning the favor sometime.

"Race. Good sleep?"

Roscar rolls his shoulder, slightly wincing. "Yeah, sure. Putting aside the snores and the coughs and the occasional guy mumbling about crab cakes.......I'm totally refreshed."

"That's great. The boss's got you a great task today. You'll be with us today, the boss arranged that we'll be workin' the prison sector."

"What's so great about that? Don't tell me it's more scaffolding sabot-"

But before he has a chance to finish his sentence a demon hand is shoved into his face, covering his mouth. The demons melt their grins away for the first time.

"Watch it. We've come too far to mess up now."

The other one jumps in the conversation, making sure that no one really noticed the excursion. "No, we're working there because the warehouse is right past it."

Warehouse? Petty theft of materials? Doesn't sound like something that crazy revolutionaries would be interested in.....

"Don't worry about it, Race. Just do what you're told, alright? Now hurry up and eat, the shift's starting."

The slightly unsatisfying meal was enough to fuel Roscar for the day's work ahead of him. This time the work was hard, but not nearly as degrading. Inversely to the day previous, he was actually among company who was all part of the revolutionaries, and they had all heard of Roscar's exploits by word of mouth. Some were slightly skeptical, especially with Letho's prestige and Roscar's age both factors, but otherwise he was treated rather well, and jokes went back and forth to make the time pass pretty quick. Letho, who mainly worked on the opposite side of the prison section, was more than likely fairly oblivious to Roscar's presence, but Roscar was able to glance at him occasionally, doing loads and loads of work among his workers. One would think he wasn't a foreman at all, doing his share like that instead of standing back and barking commands. He was truly sorry he had hit him earlier. Not out of fear of his rippling muscles or his reputation, but out of honest respect.

As time passes and the end of the day drew near, the two demons, who were named Servlak and Uthos tapped Roscar on the shoulder, who turns and sees them beckoning him towards the warehouse area. Roscar lays down his board and follows closely, looking as inconspicuous as the other two. However, as they went ahead, Roscar tended to slow his pace, looking towards Letho. For a breif second, he catches the Coronian's eyes, and Roscar signals his eyes over to the demon duo, a gesture hoping to get the ranger to follow them. Perhaps he could stop this theft, he thinks, as he briskly walks to catch up to the demons

Once they travel down a slightly tunneled passage, they arrive at a single guard at an entrance to another part of the cave, assumedly the warehouse. Roscar stops, wondering what Servlak and Uthos were going to do, but they don't stop for a wink. They turn to Roscar, motioning him to continue with their cocky grins. The guard sees them and brings his halberd down from attention, smiling to them.

"Uthos, Servlak! Just in time. The day's just about over, so hurry up and get the last bit we need."

The guard hastily moves out of their way, and they walk past him. Roscar had certainly underestimated the power of this group, and it had not occurred to him that they had guys inside the guard too. Previously only a little worried about these wackos, now Roscar knew that they were a force to be reckoned with. He hoped Letho would hurry, but he would certainly be stalled by that guard.

His prospecting for clues turned out to be an utterly fruitless endeavor. He spent most of the forenoon striding from one construction site to the other, asking questions and getting either cold or shrugged shoulders from workers and foremen alike. Some didn’t have a clue what he spoke of while others simply didn’t want to trouble themselves with anything aside the work assigned to them. The handful of genuinely suspicious was the most polite of the bunch, answering with false kindness and fraudulent smiles that stood like a mask on their faces, deceitful and unbreakable. The warehouse sentries were a story of their own. Sticking to some honor code that prevented them from ratting on their colleagues, the good and the bad and the treacherous all gave him the same uninterested I-didn’t-see-anything ballyhoo. They all had their eyes open and they were all blind for one reason or the next. Sometimes it was apathy that he saw in their eyes. Sometimes it was fear. Sometimes it was that wretched gleam that reminded Letho of a hawker that just sold you a shoddy weapon for the price of the adamantine one. Whoever ran this hoax had eyes and ears and helping hands everywhere, all masked in the casualty of blue-collar society.

So when the Marshal returned to the prison complex – where the workers did their jobs under the temporary foremanship of Leridien and Myrhia sat on a huge block of smooth stone with her legs and water bucket tangling over the edge – his frustration was prominently shaped into a thick, ominous frown. Nothing irked him more then a puzzle that stood within arms reach, and yet he just couldn’t make the pieces fit into a complete picture. Those that knew something, wouldn’t talk. Those that didn’t know anything, didn’t care. He hoped that Roscar was doing a better job behind enemy lines. Unless they saw through his guise and walled him up in one of the ramparts.

A quick survey of the site he was supposed to ordinate at least chased away that doubt. The old geezer was there, working and fraternizing with the rest of the construction squad, including the pair that was so eager to “take care of him” yesterday. That was good news, but it failed to change his brooding expression as he approached Myrhia. She greeted him with a smile, as she always did, slipping down from her sitting position and lowering the half-empty bucket. “Whoa, look at that frown! I bet you found something you didn’t like a whole lot during your inspection.” she said, cocking her head minutely and looking into his strict eyes.

“On the contrary.” Letho replied, leaving Roscar to his gang and diverting his eyes to the timid redhead. “Everything seems to be going perfect in the entire town. Too perfect.” He proceeded to take off his cumbersome overcoat before removing his shirt and throwing them on the piece of stone that they generally used as everything from a table to a sitting bench.

“Maybe there’s nothing to be found. Maybe they’re just trying to make their mark with these petty sabotages.” Myrhia asked, picking up the discarded cloth and folding it diligently.

“No, there’s something. I can feel it in...”

“...your gut? Maybe you should visit a cleric about that gut. It could be just indigestion.” she said, half in jest, slipping a smile underneath his radar just subtle enough to crack his serious face ever so slightly. He shook his head in surrender.

“I hope so, Myri. I hope so.”

But it wasn’t just indigestion. Letho gut wasn’t the most precise instrument that ever foresaw the future, but it had some limited insight into what went on around the corners. And the more he observed the workers that moved around him and worked with him, the more he could see a pattern on their faces, involuntary giveaways that they tried to make inconspicuous on their faces when they made eye contact with their comrades. He kept his observing subtle, cordial even, but his gloomy gaze was like a survey of a hawk, seeing all that occurred in his little realm. And it culminated near the end of the shift. Most of the workers were too tired to care, biding their time until the bell rang again, doing some less physical work like polishing the stone or putting some finishing touches on the iron gates. But there was a trio that moved with a different purpose. It wasn’t unusual for the workers to retrieve the supplies from the warehouses, but when Roscar shot him with one of those elderly glances, the Marshal knew something was going down.

Letho didn’t follow immediately. If he intervened now, he could apprehend two of the insurgents red-handed and the chances were that they were mere errand boys. True, he could question them and question them hard, but whatever they knew was bound to be only a portion of the master plan. However, if he played dumb and oblivious to whatever happened in the warehouse and then tail them after they came out, he was bound to stumble upon some big fishes.

“Letho, is something going on?” Myrhia asked, but before she could take a peek at whatever captured his attention, his hand caught her by the elbow and turned her away from the trio that disappeared in one of the tunnels that led towards the storage area.

“I think the warehouse is getting mugged.” he whispered, keeping a corner of his eye on the passageway in which Roscar and his escort entered.

“Are you going to arrest them?”

“No. I’ll let them think everything is running smoothly. And when they exit and make way to their headquarters, I’ll follow.” Letho replied, keeping a suspicious eye on the workers that passed by them.

“Well, that won’t work.” the redhead said, her hands on her slim hips and her face trying to capture his attention. “Everybody knows you, Letho. You’re not exactly Sir Inconspicuous.” Her hand moved to tap on his bulky chest as if to prove her point. “You can’t send a bear on a stealth trek, but you can send a lark.”

He knew what she was referring to. To the public she was Myrhia and he was Letho, but behind closed door she was the Lark and he was the Oak. And the Bear. And several other names that made it clear just how much of a bludgeoner he was. But he shook his head even as she subtly offered to help. “No.” he said curtly. “It’s too dangerous.”

“It’s not dangerous. How can it be dangerous if they don’t notice me?”

“And if they notice you?”

“Then I’ll run back to the brooding bear.” the redhead said with a teasing smile. The swordsman wasn’t in jesting mood. “It’s not like you have a choice anyways. You can either get the two of them or all of them. So what’s it going to be?”

This was why he didn’t want to bring her along, why he avoided taking her on any of his official missions. When he was alone he could push the envelope, take risks without putting in danger somebody as innocent as her, put his own life on the line and no one else’s. But she was right; he was running out of options. When it came to stealth, he was as invisible as a banana in a barrel of apples.

“Fine.” Letho finally gave up. “But as soon as you see something amiss, you run like the wind. I’ll keep myself busy here.”

Boxes stacked upon boxes and still more boxes. The warehouse was a hap-hazard job, materials basically flung into whatever position they landed in. Lumber, ropes, hammers, wheels, pullies, and who knows what else lay inside this isolated cave, sprawled all over the cavern floor and boxes all around With the building of Vla'toros, no one really had time to organize these supplies, which proved for a difficult process for the two demons to sift through. Roscar helped by moving some crates here and there, but beyond that was no use. They hadn't even told him what they were there for yet. Roscar was just going along with the motions, but he felt now would be the best time to ask.

"So, what's the plan, anyway? What're we going through this hellhole for?"

The two demons, still searching, ignore him for the moment until one of them finally finds the section they had toiled for. Uthos lifts the box up, that cocky grin on his face, and shows it to Servlak, apparently both of them confirming their find with widening eyes. They both turn to Roscar before placing it back on the ground so Roscar could see the top of it in full view. Roscar bends himself over to get a better look at the text implanted on the box. In big, bright letters, he read "Explosives".

A feeling of alarm spreads over Roscar, an ice-cold fear sends a shiver to his spine. Sudden realization begins to settle in, questions begin to come together. All this while, Roscar had been wondering what this little group had been after. They hadn't told him much, only what he needed to know at the time he needed to know it, and nothing further. Roscar had spent all of the walk home last night trying to piece together all the puzzles. It all seemed too elaborate for a heist, and too organized to be black-market work, but it didn't seem like some kind of plans for invasion, either. But now he knew how absolutely insane these men were, and to what extent they would go to prove their point that the past was dead and gone.

They were going to blow up Vla'toros.

"That's right. Great plan, ain't it?" Uthos replies. To Roscar's utter surprise, he realizes that he had actually said those last three words out loud. "The boss has the entire plan mapped out, which he's going to give to us tonight." "This last bit we didn't actually NEED, per say," Servlak intervenes, carrying two boxes in front of him, "All the other explosive is already in place, all around the outer caves, and right now, only HE knows where it all is."

Those thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a tussling going on outside. As Roscar began to approach the entrance to the warehouse, a few feminine grunts are heard like a kind of wild wrestling. Through the warehouse entrance, Roscar could see what he thought was red hair thrashing about, and his heart began to race as he prayed what he saw was not what he thought it was.

But it was Myrhia, trying to escape the grip of the much stronger demon 'guard', but to no avail. "Let me go!" She screams loudly with bitter defiance, driving her foot into the demon's, making him whelp in pain somewhat. She might have followed up with another maneuver, but the sight of Roscar makes her freeze with surprise, costing her that extra second that might have been spent dodging the demon's gauntleted fist. The attack smacks her right in the side of the head, just above her temple, and sends her fragile frame collapsing to the ground. She no longer moved.

"What the hell are you doing?!" Roscar roars frantically at the demon guard, bending down to check Myrhia, laying his hand to her neck. He could still feel a pulse, so she was surely still alive. He sighed with relief, but soon realized what position he had just put himself in by showing her compassion. Standing up, he recomposed himself and looked back at the guard, who was gazing at Roscar rather suspiciously now. "What I meant was," Roscar clarifies, "is that she is no use to us dead. That's Letho's girl, see?"

The other two demons, boxes in hand, had arrived out to wonder about the commotion, and both put down their boxes to get a better look at the girl. "Well, well, Race's right! Looks like we have ourselves a bargaining chip, boys!" Uthos exclaims. "Yevlid, get her. Oh, but be gentle," Uthos says with a snide smile aiming right at Roscar.

As if things hadn't gotten complicated enough, the insertion of Myrhia as a hostage wasn't going to make things any easier. Roscar wanted to save her, but he couldn't. Not yet. He couldn't risk his position because too many other lives depended on it. But he had a feeling Letho wouldn't see it that way. In his shoes, Roscar probably wouldn't see it that way either. That last scream of Myrhia's was very loud, loud enough to perhaps echo to the prison sector. Letho might come running at any moment, which meant they had to get out of there. Now.

The "guard", a lot less gentle than Roscar would have been, lifts Myrhia's limp body and lugs her over his shoulder. "Heh, little girl thought she could hide behind some of those rocks over there. This nose never lies," Yevlid says triumphantly, tapping his huge sniffer with his free hand. With that, he takes himself and Myrhia down a small little tunnel, a detour that wasn't large enough to accompany their crates but enough to fit one person, or at least, one person and a body. Yevlid and Myrhia disappear as they make a turn in the tunnel.

Roscar couldn't help but notice the pale crimson light of the cave. It seemed to be getting more red, as red as blood even. Maybe this was a precursor, an omen of the many lives that would have to be shed before this was all over. He just hoped, dearly, that the fragile young redhead was not going to be one of the casualties.

Letho tried to keep busy with rearranging some of the material on the site – doing what his old mentor Lothirgan liked to call pouring from one empty cup into another and then back again – but he wound up doing more damage then good. He was too tense, too annoyed by all these shadow games, too disturbed by the gut that keep churning like a millstone. And above all, he was too concerned for Myrhia’s wellbeing. She was his lark, but he took her beneath his wing and turned the ex-slave redhead into everything that mattered to him. Countless times the Marshal promised both himself and the frail redhead that he wouldn’t allow any harm to come to her. And yet now once again he put her in harm’s way. The fact that he did so only after she insisted failed to ease his mind. He could’ve insisted as well, and if that didn’t work, he could’ve put up an ultimatum. But instead he opted for a compromise – her way – and it made his gut go haywire.

“LET ME GO!!!”

Letho’s head snatched in the direction of an outcry like a head of a carnal beast that caught a misstep of the prey. He hated when his gut was right, especially in situations where he knew that he should’ve decided differently. And now that he thought about it, he realized how much of a nitwit he was for yielding to her request. He maybe wasn't Sir Inconspicuous as she teasingly put it, but a redhead on a site packed with burly male workers wasn’t exactly Miss Invisibility either. In fact, chances were that most of these lonely sods remembered her sweet smiles and cute little behind just as much as his frowning mug. And yet, at the same time, Myrhia was right; he didn’t have a choice. And not only because he would be recognized faster then a Lavinian in a thief lineup, but because of the look she gave him when she asked to do this. It was the look of longing that he learned to know by now, the look that begged him to cut her some slack and let her prove herself to him. They were a tandem, that was true, but in that due Letho was the brawn, he was the one that took all the risks, he was the hero and she was the sidekick. And even though she was content with that role, sometimes the lark liked to fly. Unfortunately, it seemed that her timing was always the worst possible.

The echo of the scream didn’t even evanesce yet and the nearby carpenters and stonemasons only started to turn their heads towards the origin of the scream and Letho Ravenheart was already on the move. He ran as fast as his feet could carry his immense bulk, dodging the perturbed workers and even pushing a few away from his path doggedly. A half-built portion of the prison section stood between him and the warehouse entrance, but the Marshal didn’t go around it. Instead he climbed up the half the flight of stairs that was completed before leaping onto the edge of the outer wall. He paused for only a second, crouched and observing the area below like a panther. Two figures stood next to the warehouse entrance, one a familiar gray-haired one and the other belonging to one of the treacherous demons that tried to do its best to lumber several wooden boxes away as fast as possible.

Letho didn’t care if the king’s jewels were in the crate. However, Myrhia was nowhere in sight and both him and Roscar were bound to know where she was taken. He leapt down with a vehemence of a wolverine, freefalling some twenty feet before landing in a crouch and launching himself in a sprint towards the two. In mid dash his bulk exploded, his advance preceded by a sonic boom that uplifted the dirt and announced the sickly growth of his muscles. Enveloped in an ivory aura with his eyes completely blank, the beast of a man came at the pair at blistering speed, shooting past the old geezer and tacking the demon down.

“Where is she?” the Marshal uttered in a growling voice, holding the demon pinned to he ground with his knee and a hand that seemed eager to squeeze the life out of the bastard, starting with his throat.

“You... You shouldn’t... have sent... a girl... to do a man’s...” and he spoke no more. Letho’s fist slammed against the demon’s face, breaking his nose and rendering him unconscious with a single blow. It took every iota of restraint not to tear the man apart right there, but he needed him alive if Roscar refused to reveal the headquarters of his new chums. Blinded by his worry for Myrhia and completely consumed by rage, Letho stood up from the kayoed demon and came at the overaged man. Marshal’s moves were incredibly fast and in less then a second his hand caught the man by the neck and pinned him to the cave wall.

“Where is she?” he repeated, his blank white eyes ready to scorch the old man with the pure flames. All the respect he had for the elderly, all the thoughts about blowing Roscar’s cover and thus completely jeopardizing their plan faded away, disappeared the moment he heard the scream of that familiar voice.

Never would Roscar underestimate this ranger, Letho. Never.

Even cheetahs would fail in comparison to the speed and ferocity that Letho had as he rushed towards the sound of his dearly beloved's wail. Roscar had barely any time to blink twice before the Coronian had layed out Roscar's demon "compadre" and set his sights upon Roscar's surprised mass. The old sailor barely had any to prepare himself for man, no, the beast that was now Letho. Now a flesh-tingling hand layed upon Roscar's neck, and its grip was ever getting tighter. Those eyes could no longer be human, the feeling of regret, guilt, fear, and yet absolute rage filled Letho's irises and quivering pupils. Couldn't think, all happening too fast, but he had to make of some way to avoid the Marshal's wrath.

"Letho!......she......they....ha.......ggghh...... ."

But reasoning wasn't working. Roscar barely had enough air left in him to make coherent sounds, let alone syllables. Letho wasn't giving him any leeway at all, and Roscar couldn't blame the incensed warrior for it. What an idiot I've been Roscar thought to himself, as his body began to starve for oxygen. So important to stay in character, so necessary to keep up appearances....and for what? Some silly notion that Roscar could perhaps play hero in his little game of being behind enemy lines, relaying information as he could? Because of it, Myhria was now in the hands of these madmen bent on destroying many people's lives for the sake of an ideal. It was Roscar's fault. All his fault. He should have just killed those demons and got her back to safety while still having the ability to protect her. Who knows what they'd do to her.

Maybe....having his trachaea crushed was for the best.....his body was aching for sleep.....an eternal respite.....a long journey of no real goal, no accomplishment, and no hope, finally coming to an end.

Don't be a fool! You don't have the skills to take on three demons by yourself! And you have your eyes on the whole picture, not one singular little girl's life! This was a decision you had to make, and you made the right one, you senile old idiot.

I don't know. Maybe-

No "maybe". YES. Now get off your ass. It was this rage-o-holic's idea in the first place, so you sure as hell aren't gonna die for it. EYES OPEN.

Roscar obeyed. Willpower starting to well up inside him, the will and need and hope and want of staying alive blanketing Roscar's consciousness. His mind was in overdrive now, and now there was a goal: To continue living. But first, to get this maniac off of him.

It was clear that words alone weren't going to stop this juggernaught. Pleas from an old man would fall onto the deaf ears of a soldier scared out of his wits for a love that he very well may lose, so another plan had to be concocted in about 2 seconds. Roscar's desperate gaze fell upon one of the explosives boxes right next to his feet, and within it he saw a way of breathing again. Stretching out one of his legs to the side of the angered Lethos, Roscar is able to get an underpowered kick in on the box. The initial impact of his foot on the box makes it splinter a little, but the landing of it against the partially built prison section behind them was enough friction and impact to ignite the contents of the package.

The explosives that was in the box didn't amount to much. It was the smallest crate of all the others, but it had enough to make an explosion. Bigger in magnitude than a firecracker, but nothing ever near to a bomb or dynamite. This caused a distraction in the chaos of the moment, almost as time deemed everything to stop upon the boom for a brief few milliseconds, but it was enough for Roscar to clear himself of the grasp of Letho's hand and duck his head down into a tackling position, throwing the both of their bodies away from the cave wall and bashing the cavern floor. Roscar had the advantage now. But the motions didn't stop there. His hand immediately whipped to his belt and grasped a now familiar hilt and pulled his knife out. The knife's edge rushes up to its target and stays itself less than an inch from Letho's vulnerable neck, as Roscar wheezed trying to regain the oxygen he had just been deprived of for that time. It was now his eyes that quivered with unwavering determination, meeting the beast's soul mirrors with no faint heart. The only way to tame the wild is to show you are the crazier. Roscar's words spat out through the gaps that his breathing allowed him, keeping his knife steady and his body bearing down upon the ranger's grounded vessel.

"Calm DOWN! You fool! Yes they have her, yes I know where she's going, but rushing in gung-ho and laying out everyone who gets in your way isn't going to work! These guys are maniacs!! They won't hesitate to kill her if you come close! Is that how you want it all to end?! The fighter braving all odds, smashing his obstacles with reckless abandon, ignoring the facts and disregarding the world aorund him?! Is that what burns inside you?! I'll tell you where that fairytale with end:her blood will be on your hands! Now calm down! Calm the FUCK down or you're not getting up, GET ME????"

Deep down inside, Roscar wanted to say sorry for all this, but there was a fire inside of him ordering him not to, keeping his tongue and his conscience at bay. This was no time for them to be fighting each other like this, that was for certain.

((Terribly sorry about the delay and the rustiness.))

Yes, he wanted to brave all odds. Yes, he wanted to smash all obstacles with reckless abandon. Yes, he wanted to ignore the facts and disregard the world around him. That was his way, head-on collision with a hope that at the end of the ordeal he was the last man standing and all his foes were sprawled at his feet, as lifeless as dead man’s bones. And it could be seen in his eyes. His brown irises were engulfed by the whiteness, giving him the looks of a deranged blind man that saw nothing but the redhead that was in the clutches of his enemies. The knife at his throat, the angered old man towering above him, the words that should’ve broken through blockade that his wrath put up, it was all irrelevant, out of sight and out of mind. But the blood... The blood on his hands. That was what struck the heart.

But not enough to calm the awoken beast completely. “Don’t pull out a weapon if you don’t mean to use it, old man.” Letho spoke almost through his clenched teeth, his empty eyes peering with their nothingness towards Roscar that still struggled with his breathing. He knew that the gray-haired man wouldn’t strike. And even if he would, the Corone Marshal was at the point where he didn’t care. His right hand caught Roscar by the shoulder, pulling him off of him effortlessly, throwing him aside like a weightless nuisance. Respect gave way to anger. Wisdom gave way to anger. Reasoning gave way to anger. And only when he saw the aged man scrambling back to his feet Letho realized that the all-encompassing fury was directed at the wrong target. He gained nothing by crushing Roscar, regardless of whether or not the man could’ve done something to save Myrhia. And while going after the perpetrators of the kidnapping might’ve saved the redhead within minutes, it could’ve also resulted in her death if the old man was right and this lot played hardball.

“Fine.” Letho finally said, his body still unhealthily muscled, his eyes still disturbingly empty as they stood locked on the man that was supposed to be his ally. “We’ll play it your way. But if something happens to Myrhianna, your blood will be on my hands. And a lot of it.”

It was unfair to Roscar. After all, the old man was just trying to do what he thought was best in the situation that had gone sour in a hurry. But Letho needed insurance, something that would keep the man in line, something that would remind him that Myrhia’s wellbeing will reflect on his own. With the threat (promise) spoken, the aura around the swordsman died down like a fire without a fuel, his muscles shrinking to their natural size. The madness in the white eyes was replaced by the stoic firmness in the brown ones that were almost an official seal on everything that was spoken.

“So what have you found out so far? What are they planning to do with all these explosives? Blowing up a bunch of buildings? Do they have a place where they usually meet? Where did they take Myrhia? I need details, Roscar, and I need them as soon as possible.” Letho tried not to sound impatient, but regardless of how much he equalized his voice to make it sound serene, the combination of anger and worry for Myrhia was forced to surface. It betrayed the commotion that tore through his insides like a buzz saw, reminding him each and every second that the frail, timid redhead was in the clutches of a bunch of maniacs that were set on mischief in the name of what they thought was patriotism. And each second he had to subdue the urge to just do what he usually did.

A part of him didn’t even care about Haidia or Haide or whatever the hell they called these lands nowadays anymore. Vla’toros could burn and disappear under tons of rubble. Tular Plains could become nothing but an empty, uninhabited wasteland. But it was the hasty part of him, the instinctive part, the part that acted before it thought. The other part – that contained what little wisdom was left in him – reminded him that there was more then just one life at stake right now. Whatever mischief these people are planning to execute is bound to take its toll in even more innocent lives. And that second part – the knightly part of him – couldn’t sacrifice hundreds, not even to get Myrhia out of captivity.

In the end, it was a gamble. If the insurgents were smart – and all their previous actions supported that conclusion – then they would know that the redhead was a bargaining chip and if they squandered it away, they would have one pissed of hound on their tails. If they weren’t and Myrhia is already dead... He didn’t want to think of that scenario. Because if that was the case, the scarlet crystal that enlightened the interior of the Haidia cave wouldn’t be the only thing spilling the scarlet color over the bare stone.

((So, give Letho some info and get back to wherever the base is to keep Myrhia safe. I’ll post then, getting us through the night, and then in the morning you can get back to Letho with some coherent info. Maybe the insurgents want to trade for Myrhia?))

Due to inactivity, this quest willl be closed and put into the Haide Archive. I thank all of you for your participation in Zieg's FQ and though you will not receive full rewards as the quest was not complete, you will be given a small amount of experience for your writing thus far.

Letho receives 300 experience!

Roscar Paladyne receives 300 experience!

EXP added!