Evanescent Genesis (Chapter One)

[Garron]

(Closed storyline)



Garron slowly strode along, pondering the abrupt and deceitful changes that suddenly erupted in their lives. He was trying relentlessly to tackle these chaotic thoughts and come to some sort of logical terms of how people could be so dishonorable. No conclusions were being reached. It was something the personal code he had chosen to base his life on would never allow him to completely understand. Garron wanted to stay behind and face the preposterous charges blossomed against him and his lovely Medeia, brought on by her malicious and motivated siblings to rid themselves of their sister. It did indeed work--for now.

It always amazed him just how much strength she held within such a dainty body, and how it was that she was able to pull him so easily out and away from her siblings malevolent crosshairs. Medeia accomplished it with a fluid grace, though. She simply amazed Garron; she always had since they were children. Always close best friends, it wasn't until before his confession to her that day that he felt such depths of fear; a fear that bore through his bones viciously enough to bring the alpine man to his knees; much like the wicked omnipotent lightning that greedily tears through the heavens to claim some wandering soul, and this with Garron spending most of his childhood life trying to survive within the dense and dangerous forest of Concordia to please his mother's hope for his future. Medeia somehow understood his heartfelt words through his fearfully shy mumbling, when even he himself couldn't. There was nothing those that shared Medeia's bloodline could ever do to him that would place him in a state of fear that Garron knew well, though he did worry about the woman he loved more than life and he'd give his own up if it would protect her from her foes; be they physical or of mental state.

With such little time, all Garron managed to flee with successfully were the clothes on his back and choice weapons he favored for the dawning adventure before him. A dark boiled leather tunic formed the rugged contours of his upper body much like a second skin. Black breeches the hue of midnight, tailored to compensate his long stride, intricate and loose, covered his lower half. A tanned leather double strap belt wrapped the waist, top band molded giving way to a thick shoulder strap hoisted over right shoulder, and a pair of worn out black field boots to protect his feet from unforgiving terrain. Hoisted over his right shoulder kept a simple warhammer of complete iron forging for both head and haft, offering a massive punch to anything standing against a full, heavy leather gripped swing. Two double-bit iron throwing axes were shoved with wooden hafts down into his belt at either hip.

Decrulitlul had been the name passing whispers wafted within the sharp and fragrant gusts careening in over the coast. There was something oddly familiar dancing in the breeze, and it wasn't the mouth-watering roasting meat or the defined smells of the ocean; it was something that bore deeply into Garron's subconscious. He was helplessly lost in the vast array of his mind when a sharp stabbing numbness spread hot tendrils throughout his midsection, dulled naught behind formed boiled leather. A small heel jarring into his sinewy chest was enough to snap him out of the condemnation of secrets taunting him, boiling within blood that Garron has yet to uncover. He found himself rubbing the rhomboid birthmark claiming his inner right wrist; much like he always seemed to do during the expeditions of mind. Sun-bleached and salt-pitted oak planks screeched out their protests underfoot with each step along their elevated wooden path, and Garron couldn't help himself but to mockingly look up over his shoulder, verbally teasing Medeia that she needed to lose some weight before she caused them both to sink through the planet and throw off its rotation. It earned him a meaty slap, swift and precise, to the side of the head from her towered perch upon his shoulders. Garron chuckled, returning viridian eyes back out over the pitifully tattered village.

They entered from the south after a trying fortnight of would-be assassins and sellswords seeking to make quick coin, cautiously treading along the low rocky crag overlooking the coast. One taut trail hardly wide enough to support two men abreast guided them twisting down to the mouth of the docks, greeting travelers meekly into the ragged Decrulitlul. A small diving village nearly hidden along the coast of Tylmerande. Poorly constructed wooden framed thatched hovels stood regally in their own prideful way against the low cradle of the crag, dotting the rocky shoreline to the left, hosting several smokey tendrils billowing like grey banners mystically claiming their birthrights proudly over lordly cook fires. Lapping heavy against dark rotting barnacle laden support logs of the slightly uneven dock-line bathed in lichen, the majestic great ocean sent in her white-capped sentinels in waves of battle-lines, forever battering into the shields of her eternal landmass enemy under late morning, vastly clouded azure skies. Hunched sun riddled bare-backs skimmed the blue waters, belonging to divers of all shapes and sizes spread out wide, fighting with all their might against the churning surf for some sort of payday to bring home to their families. Straight ahead of the couple set another set of open-faced hovels hugging the inner residential shoulder of the dock, housing the quick witted traders and boasting vendors tainting the air with their haughty screams of purchase over the sparse population. Garron strode on, his energetic Medeia perched upon his shoulders worrying his shoulder-length hair, the toasted color of chestnut, between lithe and nimble fingers, thrumming her light heels against his chest rhythmically in her anxiety. They pressed on over the docks toward the beckoning sellers. Garron hardly felt Medeia's jerking movement bearing down over his left flank…

[Medeia]

Decrulitlul? The builders may as well have named it Derelict and been done with it. Call a wand a wand, lest it have false dreams of grandeur.

Decrulitlul was a coastal village, slowly sinking into the soft earth that tended to run more to the sandy nature the closer one got to the lip of the sea. Fine spray that smelled strongly of salt and aquatic life moistened the air in a thick blanket of humidity, which kinked up Medeia's normally straight locks into an unruly lion's mane.

Her clothes were damp and stuck to her skin uncomfortably, and the wooden shaft of her crossbow was digging uncomfortably into the small of her back with each step Garron took. Her feet kept falling asleep, and to keep the pins and needles away, she drummed her feet against Garron's chest. They both were in sore need of a bath, and she was almost certain that her clothes could keep on walking without her even being in them at this point.

Most women who found themselves in a similar situation, trudging through such a dreary location would be miserable and irritable, but Medeia was having the time of her life. For the first time since being legitimized, she was doing what she wanted to do, simply because she wanted to do it. She and Garron were alive and they were together; that was all that mattered to her. Eventually, when she and Garron had made a name and fortune for themselves, she would come back and whisk her mother away from all of those simpering, back-stabbing lords and ladies. A frown drew full lips into thin, pale lines at the thought of her mother.

Tying off the last braid with a strip of gherkin, Medeia sat back and judged her work with a critical eye. Garron's shoulder-length chestnut hair was braided in neatly sectioned braids close to his scalp, each individual braid tied off with a matching bit of leather, as was the style along this area of the coast. They'd passed few enough travelers in the hours before this little trail they were on had deposited them in this quaintly deteriorating village, but the men had mostly had their hair braided in the same style Garron's was currently. It was best to blend in with the locals, and not draw attention to themselves. Brehmen had been evidence enough of that. Four nights past, and the memory of it was still fresh in her mind.

Four days ago,(Brehmen)...

The Prancing Pony had been a lively and fun little tavern, the men deep in their cups and the women loose with their tongues. Medeia had spent most of the afternoon running a faro game while Garron was dickering with the blacksmith and fletcher for extra bolts and a quick run of his axe over the grindstone.

Feeling more alive than she had in ages, Medeia was eight gold nicks up, and maybe a little tipsy. Running the bank for the tiger's cell, Medeia's deft hands and glib tongue ensured that for every nick she paid in, she got a return, plus her investment. During a run towards afternoon's end, Medeia began to note two hooded figures were becoming more and more interested in her. Maybe her luck had run out already. Begging off the game, and losing two nicks in the process, Medeia excused herself from the game and slipped out the tavern door into Lower Brehmen.

As she suspected, two long shadows followed a few moments behind her. Weaving in and out of the crowd of people going about daily routine, she slipped into the shadows offered by the fletcher's display. Making herself dim, she waited, eyes never wavering from the two hooded figures. As they moved by, peering in every nook and cranny, she noticed the flash of steel beneath one of the cloaks. They passed, making their way uphill towards Brehmen Proper. So intent was she on watching them, that she didn't note the burly man who snuck up behind her, a crooked grin on his face.

A large hand settled on her left shoulder and she let out a yelp of surprise. Twisting quickly to the right, one hand had dipped down to her thigh, drawing a single slender throwing knife in a practiced motion. If she'd not recognized that mop of chestnut hair, Garron would have had one extra hole in his body.

"On edge, are you, love?", Garron chuckled, gathering Medeia into his arms and placing a kiss atop her head. "Did you liberate them of so much coin they are after you already?"

Swatting at him playfully, Medeia shook her head. "I don't think they even lost a nick, but they followed me out into the street." She nestled up against him and whispered softly. "They wore steel and looked far too interested in me for comfort."

This wiped Garron's grin from his face, and he looked up the street in the direction Medeia's gaze had wandered. His grip on her tightened, and he bent down to speak softly.

"Do you think they are your father's men?", he asked apprehensively. "We've met little enough resistance so far, but I am not dull enough to think that he would not send someone after you."

She shook her head in puzzlement. "I don't think so, love. Why send men with blades, if all he wanted was his daughter back? He knows if something happens to you, I'll never return." She studied the ground, her teeth worrying at her bottom lip. "If there is no you, there is no me."

With a chuckle, Garron's hand reached out to tousle her locks lovingly, before dipping to cup her chin and tip her eyes up to gaze into his.

"Then we'll be careful, love. No one will take you from me, this I swear," he said, no humor in his features now.

Leaning up on tiptoe, Medeia stole a kiss from him, and growled protectively.

"Since we know they are looking, perhaps we should use the element of surprise and find out what they want," she suggested, waving a hand in the direction the men had wandered off in. Garron nodded and the two stole after the others in stealth.

Near an old, derelict cannery, they caught up with Medeia's tailers. A couple of twin thumps, an indignant squawk that cut off, and Garron had incapacitated the larger one, who dropped like a sack of potatoes to the muddy ground below. The other turned and drew a thin, dangerous blade, intent to stab into the flesh of Garron's open back.

A single step, and a ball of fury collided into him, small hands wrenching the knife away in the tumble and confusion. It all ended in a matter of moments, with Medeia sat straddling the slighter man, his own knife pressed close enough to the soft flesh of his neck to draw a single bead of blood.

"What do you want from us, and why do you follow me?" she growled, choking up on the blade enough to let him answer. Shifting, she had pinned his arms beside him with her thighs, and a after a moment of struggling, the man lay still.

Anger and disgust warred for a moment on the man's face as his cowl slipped back to show features Medeia knew well enough. Ser Bartrend had after all, been one of her father's most trusted chevaliers, and had served as Medeia's protector for several years after her legitimization. That calm face that had so often been the last she saw before falling asleep now gazed up at her with unveiled hate.

"You destroyed your father, and all of us with what you did," Bartrend hissed, "and now he lies on his deathbed, shattered by your brazen betrayal. How could you do such a thing to one who loved you so?" This last almost ended in a yell, as his voice picked up timbre in his ire.

"Betrayed?!", Medeia was incredulous at this accusation. "How is running off with Garron betrayal? Was my 'marriage' to that old ninny so very vital?"

Ser Barry's gaze narrowed, and he very nearly spat his next words out, each clipped and charged with anger.

"You know that is not of what I speak!", he sputtered angrily. "You stole an entire ship and its holds! The money from that shipment is vital to Tylmerande and the well-being of its citizens. How could you take food from the mouths of widows and orphans, just to run off? You could have left and none would have said a word, but to leave with so much? You were a fool if you thought no one would find out!"

Medeia's grip on his cloak lessened, and she chanced a glance at Garron. What in the seven worlds was Ser Barry going on about? Theft? A shipment? True, she'd taken all of her own coin with her, but she hardly thought that would feed many, much less the widowed and orphaned of Tylmerande. There were far too many of them in number for her little coinpurse to support.

Garron only offered a confused shrug, as he was fairly busy trussing up the other with a length of thick cord. She turned back to him, some of the venom gone from her voice as she spoke.

"I have no idea what you're talking about. All I did was leave with Garron in the middle of the night, and if my father wants me back, spreading lies about me is not at ALL the way to go about it," she said with contempt.

"So you claim you had nothing to do with the disappearance of the Amnity? That someone else did it, and pinned it on you? We all know you, Medeia," Bartrend said, dripping with derision. "Your eyes see something and your fingers just have to take it. Your mother will pay for your lies, with her life, if your siblings have a say in it."

Medeia's eyes went wide, and her grip again tightened, the knife pressing hard enough to bring a thin line of crimson in its wake. "My mother?! What have you done with my mother? I swear I took no ship, no pearls, and no great some of money. Look at me. Does it look as if I have great wealth to you?! If I had stole the Amnity, no one would have been the wiser. This you should know from personal experience."

She had a point. Though fairly clean at the moment, thanks to the Dancing Pony's bath and washtub, she still looked the part of any conventional traveler. Yes, perhaps Ser Barry and a few of the other chevalier had dragged Medeia several times to return little items like a necklace or other shiny thing when caught, but that had been years ago. She'd since gotten much better at her little snickings, and hadn't been caught taking anything since she reached her teens.

"She's in the dungeon, where she has been since the day after you left. Truly, child, do you say you had nothing to do with the Amnity?" Ser Barry looked confused, and deeply troubled. "Vivica demanded her imprisonment, saying that if anyone knew where you had gone, it would be the Lady LeFonte. She's been accused of conspiring with you and Garron. Death may be eventual, but for the moment, it is only imprisonment."

It was all too much for Ser Barry, apparently, as he slipped under the grayness of unconsciousness.

With the older man's vehemence abated, Medeia relaxed, the knife fallling from her fingertips.

"Vivica... that scamming troglodite. I smell her and Vincient's hand all over this," she growled. "I knew she looked just a little too happy to see me go. And Mama is... oh hells."

Tears welled in her eyes, making everything wavery and blurry. Finished with his own trussing, Garron hunkered down by her, placing both large hands to the sides of her face and holding her gaze with his own. He had not heard everything, surely, but he'd heard enough.

"Don't worry, my little Raven. No harm will come to her, and we will rescue her," Garron told her soothingly. He chanced a glance around quickly. Though the part of Brehmen they were in was mostly deserted, it was silly to think that no one would wander by if they lingered.

"We need to get moving though. We'll make for my mother in the woods. She'll know what to do."

Tears fell, Medeia brushing off the stubborn stragglers with the back of her hand as she rose and dusted off her knees.

"And when I get my hands on Vivica, I'll wring her pretty neck!"

Present day...

Four days ago, that had been, and now they were in the forgotten bellybutton of nowhere: Decrulitlul. The forest was closer now; she could smell the pine and woody musk beneath the alkaline smell of the sea that permeated everything. She smelled something else, too..FOOD!

Peddlers and vendors harried the pair with warm voices, offering everything from meaty pies filled with fish and venison to the little popkins stuffed with meat and pineapple. Fruits, breads, all were stacked one against another in this small port town, and Medeia's belly rumbled noisily.

She reached down, and worried Garron's shoulder. He missed a step coming to a halt, and she slipped down from his shoulders without a sound, landing nimbly on the balls of her feet. Reaching back, she grabbed his hand, pulling him in tow towards one of the vendors who had several meat pies cooling on metal sheets in the early morning sun.

Slender little tendrils of steam rose from the little slits in their crusts, and the smell was maddening. Hot food, thank the gods, she thought happily. She was so tired of hard jerky and that odd sort of bread that the elderly woman in Brehmen had given them. It most certainly wasn't the tastiest of fare, but she had to admit that it did keep well on the road.

"Hungry, are you?", Garron asked innocently, engulfing her with an arm slung around her shoulder. "You eat any more, and I'll have to roll you to the woods, you know?", he finished, lips twitching in an effort not to laugh.

"Quiet you," she chided, gifting him an elbow in the gut, "and get me a pie. Get one for you too, cause I'm not sharing mine with you, you lummox!"

[Garron]

Tempered senses tossed Garron into an immediate awareness more-so than usual. Something was amiss, and oddly familiar, but what could it possibly be? His blood was singing a song he thought he should know, and his perceptions were nagging at him with each passing second. One thing Garron couldn't stand was not having the ability to calculate an equation of life quickly. His mind was always so sharp and disciplined; he had no choice in the matter with being raised by one such as his mother. Life was a precious thing, quickly extinguished by stupidity.

Tough love was a much different thing when a child did wrong during adolescence years with most other parents and their children within the world. Maybe a heated verbal scalding, or some token the child loved was taken away for a matter of time. Not Garron... he become used to the warm sensation of his own plasma rolling down near every inch of his body, and large purple bruises that yellowed with time. Pain had grown to be a well known companion of his; that is until Medeia blessed his life so many years ago. He was determined to make his mother proud, but by walking his own path in life, not walking one laid out for him. The time had come on the dawn of his 20th year and the two loving companions were ignorant to what trying adventures toggle mysteriously over their expansive horizon.

Decrulitlul's villagers looked like an undead bunch. One would think being in the sun for so much of their lives would appear somewhat healthier. It had been obvious the saltine spray of the ocean mingling with the breath-stealing humidity had taken their atmospheric tolls on these people. Their skin was like old yellowed parchment, seemingly about to peel or split at any moment with the wrong ping of movement, and their repellent body odor was something that could choke a worm. Garron wondered if any of these villagers knew what a bath was, but he knocked the thought off with the repulsive smell of his own days old unsavory spice wafting up striking his nostrils. He definitely needed a bath himself, and he hoped he could find one here, but he wasn't going to stake it feasible. Faded grey and brown burlap wrapped most of Decrulitlul's inhabitants, and their hair looked as if it were brittle and wired to their heads in tight scalp binding braids the length of their skulls, much like the irritating style Medeia braided his hair to fit in. It amazed Garron that once entered into the cool embrace of the parent ocean, the paper-like plebeians of Decrulitlul sprang to life.

It was clear who belonged to this decrepit little coastal village, and whom was passing through to peddle wares and stomach pleasing morsels, or landing here in hopes of lodging with a clean bath and option to resupply. Visitors looked like a blazing beacon against a drab backdrop along the straining dock planks. One in particular stood out among the rest. Robes of the brightest yellow Garron had ever laid eyes on blinded him every time the stocky man shifted outside of thatch shade into the unforgiving Tylmerande sun. The smoothest silk flowed like hot caramel from neck to ankle, plastered against moist skin in areas perspiration dominated. He had a barrel of a belly, and Garron couldn't determine if the breeze had been the culprit of the butter silk jiggling over the large humped outline, or if it was the man's enormous girth dancing in waves every time he moved. Rings cast in gold and silver, with jewels Garron didn't recognize twinkled brightly on doughy fingers appearing like keg castings. Chubby feet were bare against rotting wood, as was the custom in Decrulitlul for merchants proving to be genuine, and a violet lace scarf lightly wrapped his face and head; a simple facade hiding expression and identity.

Steaming meat and vegetable pies of various textures and sizes set in rows of three over the rough center serving sil of textured oak; lemon cakes, apricot rolls and other flaky sweets drawing the senses set to the right, and freshly baked bread loaves and heels perfect for trenchers hugged the sil's left side lining the open-faced merchants hovel. "Come, big man! The most savory beef, mutton and black pudding hearty enough to satisfy giant such as self! Sweets for your little sweet to make nice to like more of you", the chubby merchant sang out to Garron in seductive tones practiced and charmed, arms wide and flailing wild to further gain Garron's attention as if his obnoxious yellow sail of clothing wasn't enough to stop a rainstorm. "Come! Two hot pies directly out fire!"

Garron rubbed off Medeia's playful elbow and bumped her with a hip, settling squinting viridian eyes over the round merchant taking visual inventory of him and his hovel. "Where do you hail from, peddler? Your accent doesn't appeal me to be of Corone", Garron asked, gently pulling Medeia closer to him, an index finger tapping her as a signal of cautiousness.

The merchant shimmied a bit backwards, quickly shooting out a barrage of words while showcasing his wares with pasty fingers of gold and silver. "Aye. I not of this island originally, but many time I sail here as lad. Grew on me, it did and now frequent Serenti between travel sell. Now, now, you buy delicious morsels from me!"

There was something curious between words and octave, leaving Garron to suspect this merchant was avoiding his direct question. He took a step forward by way of the wide sil, setting a large palm atop its nearest rough grain edge; his other hand releasing Medeia and swinging towards his coin purse tucked away in his belt near a double bit throwing ax.

Sil planted palm raised and suspended stiffened index finger motioning to two beef pies toasted flaky brown and still steaming through crust slits. "Take a bite of each, peddler," his voice peppered with a hint of malice.

Yellow silks quivered at Garron's direct command, composing himself posthaste with smoothing out silks at sides and squaring chest. "Ahem... good merchant not taste own stock. Bad for business, yes, yes. But for big man such as self, I do now. Happy, happy, you be and buy!"

The merchant engulfed a wooden spoon between fingers like sausages about to burst out their casing. His hand methodically moved the spoon closer to one of the pies Garron signaled to. As crust was broken, the merchant twisted his wrist catching the hot Tylmerande sun in jewels adorning rings, reflecting a beam of light to catch Garron full in the eyes, blinding him with a band of white flash. Rebounding from his calculated endeavor, he flipped another pie into the stunned face of Garron and shot back faster than would be believed of such a fat man fleeing his post.

Garron cursed and stumbled over unsure footing back and away from the open-faced hovel. He noticed Medeia was no longer stationed behind him when his left arm shot back instinctive, seeking out any sort of bracing sightless and struggling for breath...

[Medeia]

Medeia fancied herself a thief, and all who knew her for more than a day doubted this not in the slightest. Perhaps years spent trying not to fall asleep during study and daily routine had dulled those sharp senses. Or, more likely, she was just so hungry that her attention never wavered once from the food, even when Garron began to stride towards the porcine fellow. If not for the soft press of fingertips against her waist, she probably would have eaten without even waiting for the dickering to begin.

It became apparent to her after a moment's study that Garron suspected something in the obese man's mannerisms, so she forced herself to drag her gaze away from the food to study him closer, though the tempting little pie wafted its delectable odor almost teasingly under her nostrils.

The man spoke to Garron, and yet his eyes never settled on Garron's own. It was as if he were afraid that a prolonged exposure to that cool, blue stare might bring to light every fault within him for the world to see. A finger on his right hand ticked nervously against its neighbor, and she knew that for what it was: a tell. Garron was right; there was something amiss here. What it was, she had no idea. Had Vivica sent more soldiers after them already, or were these a different group altogether?

Her introspection was cut short of sudden, her focus drawn back to the here and now by the acidity in Garron's tone. As spoon broke crust, she slipped unnoticed around the side of the stall. She had no idea what was really going on, but it would probably help to flank the fat man's booth.

It was bordered on the other side by the sea-washed building behind it, tucked securely into an obscure corner of the market. Placing herself outside the little curtain that led into a back alley, she waited, assured that if the man took off running, (as funny a sight as that might be), he would come this way. A soft whisper of metal against leather accompanied a slender, haft-less blade that she let drop into a loose grip between her first and third fingers, resting the blunt side flush against the pad of her thumb.

A moment later, Garron uttered a loud curse, followed by a sputter. The curtain drew back roughly, ripping fabric from the rotting little ringlets that secured it to the stall roof with the force of its motion. Bright yellow for a moment filled her vision, and her hand rose back and to the side before she brought it flying up and forward in a calculated uppercut stab to the flabby folds of the man's unprotected neck.

The strike was true, and tubby squawked in surprise. So wide and ample were the folds, however, that the blade was lost in their quivering depths, the blood flow steeped by this protective layer of blubber. A ham of a hand rose up to enclose about her neck, pressing down like an iron vice.

"Filthy cull of lass, you make to kill me? But Strong Jazeer is too much for you. You bite more than can chew, yes?", he spat at her, grip tightening with every word.

Spots began to dance before Medeia's vision as she clawed furiously at the pudgy hand of her doom. Where was Garron? Why was he still not here? Had the man done something horrible to him in so little time? She kicked with her feet, finally finding purchase in an ample belly, straining backwards with all her might.

Something collided with her back roughly; it felt like a small foot landing on her before pressing off almost immediately. A small compact form launched itself up and over her head, a warbling war-cry exploding out from behind a many-braided and flowing beard.

Light glanced off metal, as the fat man before her suddenly sprouted a great-ax out of the center of his skull. Blood spurted in crimson sheets, and the grip around her throat slowly went lax. Great, rheumy eyes rolled back in their sockets, and the fat man fell with a resounding crash. Medeia somehow managed to land in messy sort of sprawl lain sideways over the mountain of the dying man's belly, and thus evaded an embarrassing end.

A small, sturdy foot encased in worn, soft leather boots studded with iron planted itself on the dead man's cheek, as the dwarf twisted and tugged at the axe in annoyance.

"Comfounded lummox of a great galloping ape's arse...", Torgrin Oarhell muttered, apparently speaking to the deceased. "Will'e let go of my axe already? Splintery maggoty sack of horse dung..."

More of the same colorful language that had once made Medeia blush as a young girl flowed from the dwarf like water from a tap. Finally, the axe pulled free and the dwarf tumbled away with a grunt. Rising and adjusting himself, he squinted at Medeia before looking around.

"Missing someone aren't ye?," he rumbled, pausing a moment to scratch at his beard. "Where is he? Usually you two be thick as thieves, no offense meant."

[Garron]

The warm tainted contents of the meat pie spread quickly over copper skin like the gripping tentacles of a kraken pulling a laden ship down into the sea, searing its bane into open pores. An unknown poison within its contents not only seared like napalm, but numbed and culled Garron into a spinning vortex of involuntary hallucination. Viridian eyes glazed over, pupils dilating, and the mercenary was tossed into an adolescent memory; back into Concordia, when trying times and a hunger to prove himself as a young man had taken precedence, as it does with every growing boy looking for approval from their idols.

Torgrin gazed down over him with a sly look in eyes that were as dark and sharp as obsidian. A piercing gaze was bordered by a face red and rough with healed scars collected over many a year of battle, and long wild scarlet hair drenched in curls looked as if it rarely ever met a brush or comb. The halfling smiled, parting his bushy facial hair like a stage curtain with a row of crooked teeth and offered his large hand down to muss up Garron's hair, as he always did when the young man accomplished something for the first time. Pride sparkled in Torgrin's ebon eyes. Those sparks didn't come easily putting flint to steel. Garron spent a great deal of time scarring the dagger, and chipping chunks of flint into nothingness within fingers nicked and bleeding. Finally a blue spark fell over the dry bark and broken branches piled for a cook fire that Torgrin had taught him to find under brush and tree, then stack squarely to optimize burn. A meager stream of white smoke arose signaling Garron's long awaited billowing banner of victory while his mother stood in the copse backdrop watching over the two; a slight glimmer of pride formed in her own judging eyes.

As far as Garron was concerned, Torgin Oarhell was his father, and Torgrin would forever see Garron as a son. Being a significant role-model since Garron drew his first breath and met the crisp clear night with shrill wales from blossoming lungs, Torgrin felt a paternal connection with the child, dubbing himself a life-long protector and teacher. To this day, Garron knew little about his birth-father, for his mother had felt it best to keep her son in the dark about the Salvarian bloodline, detouring Garron's attention elsewhere when his questions arose. And they did indeed arise often. Through the formative years of youth, Garron had sought out the halfling for advice and direction when answers could not be found in his own way.

The dwarf hailed from northern Alerar, having spent his early years underground overseeing his family pound away relentlessly at stone for some sort of asset beneath mountains millennial solid. Long sweltering days and nights seemed an endless damnation for such little shards of metals for some ridiculous Lord to fondle away, adding to his own riches and leaving those that actually put the exhausting labor in to keel over with rumbling bellies. Not at all wishing to follow in his family's doomed footsteps, Torgrin played the stowaway on the first supply cog southeast to Corone where he met Garron's pregnant mother in Underwood. The two became quick friends after his introduction to not only her, but yet another chapter written with drunken foolishness. His vulgar obnoxiousness had been a refreshing release from the normal routines for Nuana, and he too was attracted to her personality and drive to be the best at anything she attempted. Torgrin valued a tough woman, more-so than Nuana could probably imagine at that time.

Gruff and rough as the stone itself, the voice of Torgrin lightly tugged at the frayed strings of Garron's hallucination, fizzling out the throes of intoxicated purgatory. A dull white to a blank darkness, Garron grasped at the outer edges of his mind trying to scrabble back to reality from the visions to which he was falling. His voice echoed from a distance, barely discernable on the saltine wind. Falling was more of a reality than he had hoped, watching the wonderment of crumbling wood pulling away as he crashed back-first through muffling rotted deck and sped dead-weight to the sharp earthly daggers of the crag below through cool, blue-green eyes. Salt-stained stone smoothed with centuries of wind and water honing rushed up and plowed into his back, tearing leather and flesh like burning meteorites plummeting into atmosphere and branding the ancient soil of Althanas with no discrimination of where it chose to land in mind. Craters dug into muscle and muscle sheared against bone, and Garron met the ground with a resounding thud and an ear-shattering protest of iron under the entirety of his weight. Solid forging of Garron's simplistic warhammer thankfully saved him from a future of eating meals through hallowed bamboo, protecting his spine and rear skull from a crippling fate.

Dancing on the feeble brim of consciousness, Garron focused away from the pain, garnished heavily with an intoxicated reprieve. Shifting silhouettes darted between the splintered pilings bracing the dock above, and poured over stone like liquid snakes. It was difficult to focus on to even one of the distorted blackened silk ribbons streaming in shells of lithe bodies. Spinning circular portals just large enough to transport a peculiar individual glazed in wickedly hypnotic violet static, branching out and blooming randomly, black as the void and just as relentless. He witnessed long, slender ears wrapped inward against the skull as soon as new bodies emerged through nothingness, marking them as some sort of Elven ancestry, but their pigment and garb flagged a far more sinister kinship exotic to him.

Several slithered quickly into position around the broken man, flashing a dull gleam from each individual's ring finger and the shrill flash of steel that was as cold as ice to the touch, while a second group moved up the embankment. Garron's flooding emotions welled up; vehemence bristled into a crimson cyclone all its own. Feeling as if he were experiencing an astral projection out of flesh, the Son of Winter felt himself look down over his own riddled body gushing life-blood and let loose the gates of self-control, releasing his rage to limb and iron. A tsunami of heightened energy and strength burst forth, he found the haft of his warhammer snug at home in hungry palms; worn leather beneath boots bit into the terrain, and Garron dove into the fray amid the dancing, flitting shadows…

[Medeia]

Blegh…,” Medeia groaned, as she wiped blood and gore that had spattered her cheek in the tumble with the dying fat man.

“No offense taken, Tor! Man, I’m sure glad to see you!”, she said brightly, as Torgrin offered her a hand up. She moved to dust off her backside, squinting down at the porcine fellow with a snort.

“What do you think this guy wanted? He doesn’t really look like the sort of man my father would send after me, does he?”, poking at him curiously with a leather-bound toe.

“Hells if I be knowing, lass,” Torgrin muttered, turning the deceased's cheek aside with the flat of his ax. He spotted an odd sort of mark, like that branded into a slave at birth, seared into the flesh just below the porcine man's left ear. It looked like an eye within a side-turned square, and the dwarf pointed it out to Medeia with a thick fingertip. “Whata’ye ken about this mark? Ever seen the like of it, Med?”

She bent to inspect the mark, and though Medeia couldn’t recalling ever seeing it before in her life, she couldn’t help feeling that it was somehow familiar to her all the same. She shook her head in negation, deciding to keep this small tidbit to herself, at least until they caught up with Garron. He was always reading some tome or another whenever he could, so perhaps he knew what the mark meant, and from whence it came.

Thinking of him brought his absence back to mind in a hurry, and she skittered around the side of the vendor’s booth. The pie she’d so desired was lain in waste, its crust bespeckled with dirt and grime from its unceremonious tumble to the ground. There were scuff marks bored into the soft earth, as if Garron had backpedaled quickly in an attempt to evade something, probably the pie.

Following Garron’s tracks was easy enough; the man was no sneak, and his passage left plenty of evidence. Blood spatters peppered the ground, running off into the slender pools formed by the furrows rent in the soft, wet soil. Slung like a sack of potatoes against a crumbling shack, a cloaked body lay, its head a bloody ruin. Turning to Torgrin, Medeia couldn’t mask the worry that had crept unbidden into her face.

“Looks like he met with some resistance, doesn’t it?”, she asked worriedly. ”I’m really starting to hate this ‘Decrulitlul’. First, no pie, and now someone’s made off with my man.”

“Well, it be not like he’s a slip of a—“

Whatever Torgrin had been about to say was cut off, as four beings unveiled themselves from the shadows. Dressed in silvery armor overlain by dark travelling cloaks, Medeia’s sharp eyes noted the same crest emblazoned on the breast of the armor as on the recently deceased vendor’s neck. Again, the eye in the side-turned square turned up. The sound of metal sliding against metal rang out, as the attackers drew oddly shaped blades from below their cloaks.

“Oho! Methinks they want not to chit and chat, eh?,"grinned the dwarf darkly, flicking a bit of brain matter from the honed edge of his blade, his gaze settling on the closest assailant.

"Well, that be fine, as it be my ax what prefers to do the talking!” With a thundering roar, he lit off in a fit of steel and beard.

As was the case in any fight, time seemed to slow for Medeia. Drawing her own blade from its sheath in her right hand, her left dipped down to her thigh, slipping a throwing knife into its grip. “Time for talk has abated, my friend,” she muttered, and lunged at the blade-thin man before her. Quick as silver, he parried the strike, and blade struck blade in a shower of sparks. A well-timed duck and north-eastern lunge stabbed the throwing knife deep into the unprotected meat of his underarm. Blood flowed like a river, the man offering a pained cry as he stumbled back. Before he'd backpedaled further, Medeia’s knife slipped out from the parry and she used this unguarded opportunity to lodge it hilt-deep into his left eye-socket. Planting a foot into his chest, she freed the knife and blade with a meaty squelch, flicking off gore and ruin with a practiced spin of the blades.

Hardly missing a beat, the other man’s arm locked around her neck, trying to topple her over backwards. An oddly accented voice hissed into her ear, “Forget my blade and taste its sting.” As the man’s companion slashed heatedly at her arm, she twisted, and white-hot pain flared in her tricep. Leather offered little in the way of protection, but still it and her movement saved her from being one limb the less. A smarting cut showed through the armor, though Medeia paid this no heed. Her thoughts stayed ahead of her, with Garron.

Dropping down and driving back into the second attacker with a pointy elbow thrown into the groin, she twisted out of his grip. Pivoting on the balls of her feet, she brought the hunting knife around with her, using her own twisting motion as a rotor in a centrifuge. Forward propulsion and an upwards tilt to the knife’s path brought the blade hacking into the less guarded gullet of the man, slicing so deep into the flesh of his neck that the white tendons beneath showed through the rush of blood. His blade dropped with a metallic clang to the earth as his hands strove to keep his head attached to his torso. A shove to the sternum brought him crashing down in a dying heap easily enough. Still, he tried to speak, mouth agape like a fish out of water. His windpipe was well and truly severed, and thus all he got for his trouble was a quicker death by choking on his own blood.

Turning to gauge how Torgrin was fairing with his twin assailants, it came as no surprise to Medeia that the dwarf was already done. His two attackers were lain out prone at his feet, one’s armor breastplate hewn near in two by a strong frontal blow from the broadax. The other had earned a madman’s shave, the head only barely held to the body by a thin flap of skin. The ax had cut it nearly in twain. The dwarf looked none the worse for wear, save for a fresh ding on his curaiss.

“Ye be hurt, lass”, Torgrin noted, pointing the axhead at her arm. “Be their blades poisoned? Let me look it over.”

Medeia grudgingly allowed him to poke and prod at the cut, until he was satisfied that no poison had been used.

“I don’t really give a fig if it is or not, Tor,” she replied after a moment. “I don’t like this, not one bit. We need to find Garron, and we need to do so now!”

“Alright, alright, ye wee lass. I hear ye plain without the yelling, ye ken.” Careful to mind the wake of bodies now strewn behind them, they made for the docks, in the direction Garron’s tracks led off. Someone’s day would be ruined, unless the villagers often left their dead for the terns and gulls to feed.

[Garron]

There comes a time in life when the awakening fraction buried deeply within every soul begins yearning to claw instinctively to the surface of everyday norms applied by restrictive upbringings provided by guardians, teachers, associates and the influential aura of the surrounding world around us.’

‘Be it a Baron’s solar, an assassin's safehouse, a warrior's mainstay, a favored campsite of a Ranger tucked away deep within the comforting vegetative drip-lines of Concordia, or a quaint cabin of a content family simmering in ignorance of particular happenings of those risking life and limb to keep peace within village and Continent. Our vicious instinctive cycles dance dangerously at the ends of frayed strings, and the bound monsters raging deep within our souls have little choice but to erupt in magnificent cadence whether we wish them to, or not, when heightened emotions run rampant...’

‘Albeit, only fools rush in.’


The crushing tide of battle erupted under the screeching wail of iron against dark alien steel and rumbling primal roars extracted from deep within Garron’s chest. Dull iron crescents tore through the air, attempting to hone in on what may as well had been shadows, for connecting the head of his warhammer to inflict bodily harm against these wretched elves was only gaining a few crippling blows against the mass of elven foes washing over him. That was the problem when he lost himself to utter rage; focus and calculation was pretty much lost, and the eager pull of his blood lust blinded Garron more-so as the seconds birthed moments in his vision of red.

Lifting his head from the charge, Garron squared his shoulders and leveled his warhammer to lay in line with his hips, readying himself for the oncoming barrage forming at either side of his flank over water-beaten rocks. Uneven stance over the rigid terrain only provided one direct path. Garron unexpectedly charged to his right, directing his warhammer, the iron head laying low by way of his left hand, and dropped his right shoulder darting for the closest elf slinking towards him. A wide arcing blow from the elf exploded into a shrill scream of iron and dark steel as Garron raised his iron to meet. Sparks raged as the dagger dragged along the haft of the hammer, spraying bright scorching rain into Garron’s eyes before the lively blade sipped its purchase of the warm flesh of his right hand.

Garron stumbled, releasing the tight grip he had held over his weapon and was left no option but to drop it at his feet. His hand burned, and the unfathomable pain he felt rush through his arm was like no other he had ever experienced in his lifetime. The Son of Winter felt the chilling kiss of blades countless times before, but something was entirely sinister with what was gifted by this dark blade. Blood didn’t spill from the wound, but instead bubbled like a boiling cauldron of molten mud. The slice of the cut started smoothly surgical in nature, but every second, the cut grew more ridged as the crippled flesh rotted around the wound. He fell to a knee and waited for the elf to charge in again, catching the assailant by the throat with one hand, and the other snapping behind the small head of the elf.

He twisted his body, holding a tight grip about the neck of the elf, and flipped the creature to land hard on its back before Garron snapped its neck as easily as a twig crunches under his boot. No sooner that his hand released, he felt yet another hot blade bite through hardened leather and flesh, burrowing deeply into his back. Garron winced in a horrible wash of pain and euphoria as his energy levels neared complete depletion and the new blade jerked mercilessly between ribs. With his last spurt of energy, snatched up the dagger that the dead elf dropped at his knee, and whirled around, catching the plunged wrist of the elf that stood behind him, slicing clean through flesh and bone, leaving the buried dagger in his own back, and the hand of the elf to fall beside him.

Garron’s breathing wheezed heavily with each fall and rise of his chest as blood flooded his lung, with gurgling and curses pouring from shivering bluish lips. He caught a flashing glimpse of a maleficent jewel wrapped around the finger of the severed hand, and glanced up helplessly as a black wave of elves splashed over him murmuring a language unknown to his ears. His last thought was of his beloved Medeia before a relieving blackness devoured conciseness and his broken body crashed lifelessly over the rocky terrain to the dismal sound of lapping water drumming a solemn ballad along the shoreline.

[Medeia]

Medeia and Torgrin rounded the bend at a full run, Medeia’s longer legs and lither frame assuring that Torgrin lagged behind just a moment. Into a scene of chaos the two were plunged, Garron visible up ahead for a moment before he collapsed within the shifting shades flitting about him.

A warcry of incredulous timber errupted from Medeia as she vaulted over an overturned cart that lay not far from the wharf and its tumultuous host, fishing spears and hooks spilling out of the neglected baskets that had kept them orderly until Garron’s recent bull’s rush. The shout had the effect Medeia had hoped, and Garron’s assailants turned to face this new threat, small though she may be. Little blades held in a slicing grip, she tore through the throng without hesitation, hacking here and there in an almost panicked frenzy.

Torgrin paused by the cart, studying its contents with a keen eye, leaving Medeia to fend for herself for the moment. There were too many assailants for them to take on head to head, and the spilled fishing tools had given him an idea.

Oddly curving blades met Medeia’s, and answered with the same fury of slicing and dicing. Most of the stabs and swipes were turned aside, most likely by the boiled leather cuirass, but not all. None of these were of the fatal variety, however, and she pressed through the din, trying to get to Garron. It was almost as if the blades couldn’t really touch her. The throng pressed in on her, and she twisted and turned, ducked and dodged, pausing only long enough to yell back over her shoulder.

“Anytime now, Torgrin!!”, she thundered, digging a knee into an assailant’s groin, his answering groan bringing a dark grin into play on her lips. “I don’t fancy turning into a porcupine!”

“I’m working on it,” Torgrin shouted back, splaying the fingers of both hands out prone before him. The staves, spears and hooks seemed to shiver and clatter against the muddied ground, as if some invisible force had invaded their metallic workings. Dry snaps echoed as the metal freed itself from their wooden entrapment, rising up into a swirling vortex of blades, spearheads and hooks.

Torgrin’s face was a mask of concentration, sweat dripping unnoticed from the tip of his nose to be lost in the tangled braids of his beard. With an almost imperceptible flick of his fingertips, the swirling mass of metal arranged itself around Medeia and her foes.

“Duck, woman!”, he thundered, leaving Medeia but a moment to fall to the ground, the knives forgotten in an instant as her hands reached up to shield the back of her head. In unison, the metallic host shot inwards, spearing, skewering, and hacking through the unwitting foes above.

Shaded though they might be, even they could not evade each and every assault. In moments, almost all fell shuddering, the prong of a trebled hook caught securely in one’s lip after a bloody pass through the back of his head. Only one remained aright, though he too was pierced through several times with spearheads and assorted shrapnel.

The dark-skinned man looked spooked, like he could not understand what was going on. He uttered something in a tongue Medeia had never heard, and the air before him was split by a blinding strip of white. This widened, elongating into a perfect circle, the surface of the air within its constraints shimmering in a peculiar manner. The shimmers waned, revealing the dark recesses of some foreign soil, and the injured man flung himself through it without a backwards glance. It shut behind him, waning to a pinpoint before vanishing entirely, as if it had never been there at all.

Torgrin watched this all with an air of incredulity. Medeia might have taken the opportunity to watch as well, if she were not now at the bottom of a pile of the dead and dying. His hands dropped to his sides like lead, as if he had not the strength to hold them in stasis any longer. He watched the mountain of bodies worriedly, until he heard muffled grumbling issuing from the bottom. Movement, a dainty little hand shoving an death-stilled leg out of the way followed but a moment afterwards. With a relieved sigh, he plopped to the ground and sprawled like a starfish, his beer gut rising and falling with each breath.

“Had me worried for a wee moment, lass,” he panted, eyes squinted against the noonday sun breaking through the clouds overhead.

A couple of muttered curses and stumbles later, Medeia tumbled free of the dog-pile of death. She glanced at Torgrin’s prone form for a moment, determining if he was injured or not. Most likely, he was only worn out. She’d known Torgrin since she was small as well, and she knew Garron looked to him as a son would a father. “You alright there, Tor?”, she called out anxiously.

“...Be fine lass...”, he puffed, waving a hand weakly. “Nothing a stout pint of ale won’t cure. Now go ahead and check on that lummox of yours over there and see how bad off he is.”

She didn’t need him to tell her that, for as soon as he’d confirmed he was alright, Medeia’s attention had immediately diverted to her love’s unconscious form. Picking her way carefully over to Garron, she settled on her haunches by his right flank. He was bruised and there was a malicious looking cut on his right hand, but she saw no sign of life-threatening wounds or an explanation for his leaden state.

His breathing was shallow but steady, and his heartbeat did not flutter or skip. She picked up his right hand, meaning to study the wound closer, but as she did, she noticed the cut began to worsen, turning an alarming shade of purple around the edges, as if the cut was rotting away from within.

With a yelp, Medeia dropped his hand, and watched with astonishment as the terrible purple began to fade. As a test, she tweezed his wrist with her thumb and forefinger, lifting the cut hand again. Again, the cut began to darken along its contours, and again its return staved off the rotting.

“What in the seven bloody hells?”, Medeia mumbled to herself. She noted the prone body’s hand, which had fallen close to Garron’s own when they fell. A silvery gleam caught her eye, a ring of odd design, a design she easily recognized. Hadn’t that same mark been branded into the fat man’s neck just a few minutes ago? It was pretty enough in its own right, and it didn’t really look as if its owner would be needing it anytime soon. Well, she was a thief, and old habits die hard..

She twisted and tugged at the ring until it finally slipped free with an audible squelch, and brought it closer to her face so she could study the design in detail. Perhaps it was just dumb luck that caused her to glance down at Garron’s hand again, and that glance explained quite a bit. The wound was again festering, and Medeia quickly lowered the ring so that it was close again to his hand. Again, it abated.

Whatever the cut was, whatever poison was used in its crafting, the ring appeared to negate the affects. Ripping a strap of cloth from the dead man’s cloak, Medeia slipped the ring through the strap and wound it around the cut, leaving the ring to rest against the wound.

“Is he still breathing, lass?,” Torgrin queried from behind her, still a bit out of breath, but appearing none worse for the wear.

“He is, but I don’t dare question how long he will remain so.” Fear and worry dominated her features as she turned to Torgrin and continued. “There’s evil in this cut, some sort of poison I’ve never seen the like of before. You’ve some skill in this area, Tor. Can you make out its source, or what we should do?”

“Lemme see, lass. Lemme see.”

Medeia moved back so Torgrin could examine him, showing him the cut, and the affect of the ring upon it. After a few moments of poking and prodding, Torgrin shook his head.

“We’ll have to make haste to Nuana, lass. Learned as I might be, there’s things aplenty she knows to which I am ignorant.”

[Torgrin]

His mind was swimming in exhaustion and sorrow. His always determined vision not really focused on the now, but off in some far away place; a blurred place deeply tucked away in memory. His stout balance faltered, and his knees buckled, meeting the ground beside Garron heavily. Torgrin was devastated at what lay before him, and the powerless feeling that he had been moments too late. “If only...,” he told himself in a whisper. His chin hung low, and weary eyelids fell over misting ebon eyes.

It was a promise he swore long ago. A silent vow to protect a boy; a boy that had grown into a young man--a boy he loved as if he was bore of his own flesh. Torgrin was a man that prided himself on honor...and that a man is only as good as his word. What set before him was in fact a failure on his part to him, and his heart was heavy. Blood and corruption clung to Garron like a heady incense: sickly sweet and nauseating.

He failed Garron... He failed Medeia... He failed Nuana...

He failed.

The dwarf grabbed hold of Garron’s weakened wrist, and he felt the cold slip of death in the young man’s flesh, the shadowed silhouette galloping up on his dark steed to reap away ‘his boy’. Torgrin let loose a rumbling growl as if to ward away the darkness a little longer when he felt a small hand on his wide shoulder, kindly pulling him out of his tormented prison. “Sorry,” he said in a small voice directed towards them all. “We’ll get ye to ye mum soon, me boy.”

“Shut your mead hole, old man,” Medeia snapped, and popped him swiftly in the back of the head with the strength and fury of a woman worried deeply about her love. “Stop with the self loathing and help me, damn you! We need to get going now!”

“Right, lass,” he pleaded, shaking away the ringing in his head. A muffled chuckle split through thick twists of matted crimson beard. For a tiny woman, Medeia sure packed a wallop behind her fury. “Quite a backhand, woman! ‘Nuff to rattle a mountain out ‘er place.”

Torgrin let loose Garron’s wrist and found his feet again with a slight stumble back. Manipulation of metals was always a straining deed, but it was a dull scraping sound under a boot that snagged his attention. He picked up the dagger, and felt a warm, vibrating wave travel up his thick arm. He turned the foreign blade in the sunlight, captivated by its craftsmanship and the way it seemed almost alive in his hand. Something was indeed sinister about this weapon, and with the way the ripples in the black blade danced with veins of red, startled him to the bones. He shoved the dagger in his belt, knowing Garron would want it later. Garron did enjoy keeping a trinket after a battle he knew; especially when it came to weapons. Plus Nuana may have need of it for her son’s sake.

Lofty voices carried down on the sea breeze like a Lords procession over the shoreline. Villagers were starting to gather a bit of courage when they realized the worse had passed, and they began filtering out of hiding to survey what had just happened. The chatter didn’t sound friendly among their flaring and pointing expressions. Destruction and lifeless bodies met them, and it was clear... time had come for the three to make their exit.

Medeia grew tired of the dwarf, cursed and yanked him back by the collar towards the collection of broken wood shafts, fabrics and leathers she’d been collecting while he was lost in his depression. “Get your head out of your stumpy bum and get moving”, she exclaimed with a booming voice that reminded him of a too much of a Queen belting orders from her dias. Torgrin blinked his eyes and finally got the hint.

Together they worked quickly to fabricate a make-shift skid out of what was available. It looked a ragged little contraption, but it would have to do. Time was running out, and already Medeia was trying to heave Garron atop their skid, but the large man hardly budged. Her boots dug deeply into sand and rock, yanking and strained, worrying her man’s arm; her cheeks flushed and tight. Mid her final pull, she put all of her strength behind it. Her grip slipped from Garron’s arm and she landed flat on her butt. “Grrrahhhh!!! Why must you be difficult!!,” blasted from her mouth, while her palms pounded angrily at the ground.

Torgrin chuckled watching her, figuring lending a hand would be a smart move. The dwarf slid the blade of his battleaxe under Garron’s back, putting the strength of both arms under the haft and lifted. Medeia seen what he was doing, and slid the skid under her beloved's lifted side, starring daggers at the dwarf for laughing at her plight. Torgrin grabbed hold of the extended skid handles while cursing the large man's size, teasing Medeia about putting him on a damnable diet. She presented him another slap to the back of the head, urging him on down the shoreline like a draft horse. As soon as the dwarf was plowing forward, she snagged the opportunity, hopping light as the summer breeze on the skid with Garron as if it were her chariot. Torgrin cursed aloud.

[Philomel]

Name of Judgement: Evanescent Genesis (Chapter One)
Type of Judgement: No Judgement

Rewards:

Garron receives:
325 EXP
45 GP

Medeia receives:
325 EXP
45 GP

Torgrin receives:
75 EXP
11 GP

“Looters become looted, while time and tide make us mercenaries all.”
― Patrick Rothfuss, The Wise Man's Fear

“When you optimize your talents very well, you can pick money from people's pockets and nobody will ever get the guts to call you a thief.”
― Israelmore Ayivor

“We'll loot the bodies and be on our way." "The words that start every great adventure," Gabrielle quipped sarcastically. She might have been surprised to discover how accurate that statement truly was.”
― Drew Hayes, NPCs