Soldiers of Fortune (IC/FanT/Signups Required)

[Western Fardelshufflestein]

Foánnachaedh CárrComaighæhàrr
Gates of Karharth

Loswiec, Dzeka

Lord Nikraski shook his head.
"As long as that bastard dies, I couldn't care less how you end his miserable life. He hangs around a local Rykalan owned tavern, most likely using it as a front to send back reports to the Emperor."
Nikraski thought for a moment and then resumed talking.
"He's guarded by two large Rykalan thugs for the entire day. The only time he's alone is when he visits a brothel called the Garden."
Nikraski scowled.
"He has a habit of...playing with the workers, but he takes his sweet time with them, so that would be the perfect time to strike."

Maksym Kozak
Loswiec, Dzeka

"Thank you for the information, Lork Nikraski." Maksym inclined his head in a gesture of respect, heedful of the other man's status and power. The last thing he needed was to insult a noble, especially since he was offering Maksym a mission, no less. "That is extremely helpful. Though I do not have a horse, I can ride, or I could go on foot if you would prefer. Whichever will better suit you." In his mind, he was already plotting a way to sneak into the Garden undetected, since he could obviously not approach Gerolf whilst he was in the tavern.

"The biggest trouble, really, will be disposing properly of him, but that I can do." Again, his tone was even, respectful. "I do trust that 'twill be easier in the cover of night, when he is thinking only of the pleasure he can gain from prostitutes."

[Zedeshia]

Bann Lanwyll's Longhouse, Tyras

As Bann Lanwyll entered a large room covered in maps, he smiled. While not the most powerful noble, his bannorn was one of the smallest in Cynfeltch, he was one of the wealthiest. Few knew about the secret silver mines in the hills surrounding Tyras, and fewer still knew that he was wealthy beyond belief, but apparently someone had blabbed their mouth. Standing in front of a map that showed Tyras and its surrounding territory, Lanwyll pointed to one of the larger hills and spoke.
"This hill, known as Madanach's Folly, holds a mine that is vital to the survival of Tyras. However, a mere two days ago, bandits attacked the mine and killed all of my-I mean the town's miners. This will kill Tyras, and harm the war effort, if those bandits are not removed. I'll pay you five silver per head you bring back, and an extra ten if you manage to kill all those bastards."
Lanwyll smiled.
"So, what'll it be?"

Irykan looked up in suprise. He had never expected that a place as small as Tyras could be home to a mine such as the Bann had described to him, and the pay for doing what the Bann asked was quite reasonable. Irykan stared at the map of Tyras and the lands surrounding the village. The mine in question appeared to be connected to a small path that led out of Tyras. From what he could determine, there were many forested hills on each side of this path, a perfect place for a group of bandits to ambush any traveling to and from Madanach's Folly and Tyras. If he could find where the bandits were operating and cause chaos there...
A slight smile slowly appeared on Irykan's face. Yes, this job, if handled correctly, could be very profitable.

With another small bow Irykan responded: "It would be an honor to do such a task in the service of Tyras, lord. I will set out to this Madanach's Folly early in the morrow. If I may dare to ask lord, how many bandits are there currently believed to be?"

Irykan hoped that his conduct seemed reasonable to the customs of these lands. The Bann seemed to be not angered by him, so that at least appeared to be the case.

[Bolslania]

Foánnachaedh CárrComaighæhàrr
Gates of Karharth

And so the conflict intensified. Just as the two guardsmen increased their step and came rushing for the eighteen-year-old, Foánnachaedh slowly drew his axe, looking at the guards one last time, hoping they would not interfere.

When CárrComaighæhàrr reaffirmed his gaze on his attackers, who were, by now, quite close, he took a deep breath, and slammed his feet into Peippînhe’s stirrups. The moose bolted forward, in a speed unmatched for something that weighed about 110 stone in total, and no man armed with a wooden club could dream of collecting the stopping power to bring down old Peippînhe. Whilst the moose brought down its antlers, hoping to bury them in the unfortunate guardsman, or at least use them as a blunted weapon to momentarily neutralize him. Foánnachaedh concentrated himself on the other man, who stood by quite closely. He lunged at him with his axe, though awkwardly not with its blade. He had used the battleaxe’s poll, the flat piece of dull metal at the opposite end of the blade for his attack on the thug, hoping to incapacitate him but refrain from killing the poor man. He’d had no gripes with the merchant’s guards, it was the merchant that had insulted him and his people. They did not have to die for another man’s faults, so Foánnachaedh thought.

And thus, the moose and Foánnachaedh’s axe were simultaneously close to striking both the guards at once, and it was in this split second of serenity and relative quietness before impact, before those fateful blows, that the Mārrburran hoped that they would give up, that they would simply drop their arms and try to run.

Karharth, Cailhad

One of the caravan hands, seeing the giant moose about to brain him, jumped out of the way. The other man, forgetting he had not worn a helmet, took the axe blow straight to the head, cracking his skull and killing him. This caused the surviving guard to panic, and retreat. The merchant, seeing one of his guards dead, turned to the Karharth gate guards.
"Someone help! This savage just killed my worker!"
The guards did not move, merely exchange coin as one of them had bet all on Foánnachaedh, and had won. The merchant kept yelling, and one guard reluctantly trotted over.
"What seems to be the problem, gentlemen?"
The merchant stared at the guard in disbelief before furiously pointing at Foánnachaedh.
"He killed one of my workers and scared the other off! Have him arrested already!"
The guard shrugged his shoulders and spat on the ground.
"Seems you started the whole thing, what with you assaulting a defenseless man and all. So I'll give you the count of ten to leave my sight before I drag you to Understone Prison myself."
The merchant stared at the guard in disbelief, before turning and walking away, muttering about 'barbarian heathens,' the whole way. The guard watched him go then turned to Foánnachaedh.
"Apologies for that whole display. Those Rykalan bastards are right ruthless to us 'barbarians.' Anyway, that merchant left a whole cart full of goodies, and as thanks for dealing with him, take this."
The guard handed Foánnachaedh a small, wooden chest, filled with copper.
(+4 Silver)
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Comreux, on the Imperial Highway

Malcus' dagger punched into Herrig's armpit, but the mercenary, drunk and used to be stabbed, pushed him off and looked at the dagger in his armpit.
"Oh Tom Brad Pitt. I fin' 'e's killed me."
The blood gushing from the wound caused Herrig to fall down, and die a short while later. Merewald, seeing his friend die, turned to Malcus enraged.
"You'll pay for that, you bastard!"
Luckily for Malcus, Merewald was drunker than he looked, and stumbled halfway through his charge, but still closing in on Malcus.
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Loswiec, Dzeka

Lord Nikraski shook his head.
"As long as that bastard dies, I couldn't care less how you end his miserable life. He hangs around a local Rykalan owned tavern, most likely using it as a front to send back reports to the Emperor."
Nikraski thought for a moment and then resumed talking.
"He's guarded by two large Rykalan thugs for the entire day. The only time he's alone is when he visits a brothel called the Garden."
Nikraski scowled.
"He has a habit of...playing with the workers, but he takes his sweet time with them, so that would be the perfect time to strike."
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Tianxia, Capital of the Celestial Empire

Millions crowded the wide avenue of Dìguó Dàdào to witness the Celestial Emperor's passing. The size of his retinue was breathtaking. Millions of soldiers in golden armor marched perfectly down the avenue, entire bands played. and in the middle was Sho Han's own carriage. Of course, no one was permitted to see inside the carriage, but the crowds screamed when they saw it. A few members of the Imperial Bodyguard had to subdue a few citizens who attempted to see inside the carriage. The golden carriage was drawn not by horses, but carried by Sho Han's concubines, all of whom were fiercely loyal and deadly in battle, as befits the lovers of a warrior. Inside, Sho Han had stripped out of his armor and was in his ceremonial Chángpáo, threaded with golden lace with the image of a red dragon on the center. Sitting in his armor had been unbearable, mainly due to the extreme heat. As Sho Han read over a report on the subjugation of another Steppa horde, he drank a cup of iced water. Even from outside the city, one could hear the procession and the cheers of the crowd.

"Shit" Malcus muttered. His father was stuck in Herrig, and he didn't have the time to pull it out. Luckily Merewald was drunk. Malcus feigned right, coming back to the left throwing a punch at Merwald's temple, pushing him down, reaching for Herrig's dropped weapon

[Phaenix]

Bann Lanwyll's Longhouse, Tyras

As Bann Lanwyll entered a large room covered in maps, he smiled. While not the most powerful noble, his bannorn was one of the smallest in Cynfeltch, he was one of the wealthiest. Few knew about the secret silver mines in the hills surrounding Tyras, and fewer still knew that he was wealthy beyond belief, but apparently someone had blabbed their mouth. Standing in front of a map that showed Tyras and its surrounding territory, Lanwyll pointed to one of the larger hills and spoke.
"This hill, known as Madanach's Folly, holds a mine that is vital to the survival of Tyras. However, a mere two days ago, bandits attacked the mine and killed all of my-I mean the town's miners. This will kill Tyras, and harm the war effort, if those bandits are not removed. I'll pay you five silver per head you bring back, and an extra ten if you manage to kill all those bastards."
Lanwyll smiled.
"So, what'll it be?"

Irykan looked up in suprise. He had never expected that a place as small as Tyras could be home to a mine such as the Bann had described to him, and the pay for doing what the Bann asked was quite reasonable. Irykan stared at the map of Tyras and the lands surrounding the village. The mine in question appeared to be connected to a small path that lead out of Tyras. From what he could determine, there were many forested hills on each side of this path, a perfect place for a group of bandits to ambush any traveling to and from Madanach's Folly and Tyras. If he could find where the bandits were operating and cause chaos there...
A slight smile slowly appeared on Irykan's face. Yes, this job, if handled correctly, could be very profitable.

With another small bow Irykan responded: "It would be an honor to do such a task in the service of Tyras, lord. I will set out to this Madanach's Folly early in the morrow. If I may dare to ask lord, how many bandits are there currently believed to be?"

Irykan hoped that his conduct seemed reasonable to the customs of these lands. The Bann seemed to be unconcerned and not angered by him, so that at least appeared to be the case.

Bann Lanwyll's Longhouse, Tyras

Bann Lanwyll smiled.
"Good, good. My scouts say that there are at least five bandits, but there are most likely more inside the mine itself."
The bann pointed to another map that showed the inside of the mine.
"Their leader is most likely holed up here, in the overseer's office at the center of the mine. If you would feel so inclined, the armory is here, in the eastern wing, and the silver reserves are here, in the western wing."
The bann then pointed out his window at the inn, the only other wooden structure in the village.
"You can get a room there, at the inn. Tell them I sent you, and they'll give you one for free."
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Loswiec, Dzeka

Lord Nikraski nodded and looked up at the sky. The sun was almost gone behind the horizon. He looked back down at Maksym.
"I will provide you with a horse. But that can be done tommorrow. Follow Stanik and he will buy you a room at the inn, and you can buy yourself a meal. Tomorrow, head to the stables and ask for 'a quiet steed.' My man will give you a horse that you can keep if you finish this mission."
Stanik made a grunting noise and Nikraski nodded.
"I must go. May the One look favorably upon you."
With that, Nikraski turned and left.

[Barragha]

Foánnachaedh CárrComaighæhàrr
Gates of Karharth

When Foánnachaedh brought down the butt of his axe, he expected to merely incapacitate his opponent, to knock him out. Instead, the loud “crack” that left what had remained of the guardsman’s head after his Bœrránnæscœiaghállè made impact immediately sent shivers down the boy’s spine. Despite being chosen to join the warrior class, Foánnachaedh had never killed a man before. His lessons consisted of combatting armoured opponents in glorious, long-lasting one-on-one engagements, where parry after parry, riposte after riposte granted victory to the most formidable fighter. This was nothing like the stories scalds had sung of, or the texts he had read. This was murder, the killing of an innocent man. He had never intended to murder the guard, had he not tried to use the blunt end of his weapon? It made no difference, the corpse lied in the mud, face-first. The longer he stared at what remained of the man he had just killed, the stronger his ears started to rung. He could hardly hear a thing, and the sharp, piercing sound became so persistent, that, even when he looked up to face the merchant, whose face had turned bright red after he started throwing a fit, he could not hear a thing.

Despite the fact that he felt legitimate sorrow and regret, his muscles had relaxed, his expression remained neutral, and his skin colour was no paler than it had been before. He watched as the merchant stormed off, and as he forced his eyes off the corpse, which was so hard to do that Foánnachaedh was convinced that Bārnámæl himself was forcing him to stare at the mess he had made, the lad rapidly regained his composure. As he balanced himself out, he felt himself settling down, his breath slowing down, and his heartbeat dimming away. The moment he started to calm down, the ringing became fainter, dissappearing a second or two after the merchant had been shoo-ed off by the Karharth guard.

"Apologies for that whole display. Those Rykalan bastards are right ruthless to us 'barbarians.' Anyway, that merchant left a whole cart full of goodies, and as thanks for dealing with him, take this."

Foánnachaedh could hear the man clearly, and could feel him planting the wooden box in his hands. Timidly, he shook it around, and heard the metal clinging within. He opened the tiny steel lock to see that the box was filled with coins, and, without skipping a heartbeat, turned himself to the guard, who had already set himself on all the loot in the merchant’s cart.

“Æí cænnūdh ték. ‘S blœūd-mònnái.” (“I cannot take (it). It’s blood money.”) He proclaimed, calmly. His thick accent showed, and he found it increasingly difficult to speak a foreign language with all that emotional weight on him. Before the guardsman could say a thing, the CárrComaighæhàrr put the box in his hands again, and cautiously closed it, to ensure that it stayed in pristine condition. The Mārrburran people handled their property with graciously and conservatively. In that barren land, anything you could get your hands on was a treasury in itself, and only a fool would treat his equipment oh so recklessly and without any care whatsoever.

“Dū wid’dit wh’t yū wann’. Jūss gîf me ann’ my kinnsmœànn œntranns tū Cárrhærdh.” (Do with it what you want. Just give me and my kinsman entrance to Karharth.)

Too busy to deal with the guardsman whom he had most likely perplexed with his strange customs and beliefs, Foánnachaedh turned himself to the corpse, and cursed: “Ú Párrænnatuás, hæddaigh da’ jūnnc stærrába muséah?” (“By Párrænnatuás, did the boy have to die?”) he bowed himself over, picked the corpse from the mud, slinging whatever remained of that poor caravaneer over his shoulder, and carried him to his moose Peippînhe. With great respect for the man’s body, he laid him over his steed, so that his face was clearly visible. The thug’s cold, lifeless eyes peered into the bright blue sky, and Foánnachaedh could not help feel sorrow for single-handedly ending all this man had ever been with the stroke of his axe.

Once he’d finished strapping the corpse to his mount, he turned himself to the bearded man from Mārrburroghan. Still lying on the ground, bruised black and blue, his mercenary compatriot treaded his way, placed his hand on his coat, and pulled him from the ground.
“Cœámm mæddh, lāséann vāhirr jæudáirr u’ Mæîsétáirr záighælœssár.” (“Right then. Let’s have a physician take a look at you.”) he said, determined and focused, not wanting to take no for an answer. Hospitality was a big part of Mārrburran culture, and it would be strange for Foánnachaedh to simply turn his back on the man he risked his life for.

He walked up to his moose and got on the saddle, before turning his head towards the bearded man, expecting him to climb the mount as well. Walking with wounds and bruises from head to toe seemed difficult enough, Foánnachaedh could at least offer him a ride.

-4 Silver

[Zedeshia]

Bann Lanwyll's Longhouse, Tyras

Bann Lanwyll smiled.
"Good, good. My scouts say that there are at least five bandits, but there are most likely more inside the mine itself."
The bann pointed to another map that showed the inside of the mine.
"Their leader is most likely holed up here, in the overseer's office at the center of the mine. If you would feel so inclined, the armory is here, in the eastern wing, and the silver reserves are here, in the western wing."
The bann then pointed out his window at the inn, the only other wooden structure in the village.
"You can get a room there, at the inn. Tell them I sent you, and they'll give you one for free."

Irykan nodded his head, and exited the bann's longhouse. During his time speaking with the bann, the last few rays of light had disappeared under the horizon, and night had arrived. He glanced to his left, and saw the three men who he had spoken with earlier had left, the light of the lantern they were sitting near slowly dying out. He was undoubtedly fortunate coming across Tyras, and even more so finding mercenary work as quickly as he did. He supposed that such a thing should not have been so suprising, in a place torn apart by war like Cynfeltch. Irykan took a deep breath of the cool night air, trying to clear his thoughts. He then walked to the inn Bann Lanwyll informed him of, ready for a night's rest before what must be done early in the morning.

[Western Fardelshufflestein]

Loswiec, Dzeka

Lord Nikraski nodded and looked up at the sky. The sun was almost gone behind the horizon. He looked back down at Maksym.
"I will provide you with a horse. But that can be done tommorrow. Follow Stanik and he will buy you a room at the inn, and you can buy yourself a meal. Tomorrow, head to the stables and ask for 'a quiet steed.' My man will give you a horse that you can keep if you finish this mission."
Stanik made a grunting noise and Nikraski nodded.
"I must go. May the One look favorably upon you."
With that, Nikraski turned and left.

Maksym Kozak
Loswiec, Dzeka

Maksym thanked Nikraski as the other man turned and disappeared, then nodded to Stanik. "Would you care to go to the inn now, Stanik? I am ready, though it is only just now evening." He squared his shoulders and clenched his teeth. It was all he could do to ignore his spy training and keep himself from sizing the other man up.

Stanik, like Maksym, had a role to play, a job to carry out. He was the personal soldier of the nobleman by the name of Nikraski, a man whom Maksym was unsure he should trust.

Maksym slid the rolled-up picture of Gerolf into his satchel and closed the flap. He adjusted his cloak slightly, met Stanik's gaze, inclined his head. It was imperative he show Stanik the same level of respect he gave to Nikraski, for Stanik directly reported to the nobleman; one error could cost Maksym this mission and potentially his life.

Stanik began walking, not saying anything, an Maksym forced himself to relax as he trailed behind.

[Offer Erapia]

Abigail, road to Edithar


Abigail's tactic had gone, mostly, according to plan. Her swift speed and agility had given her the upper hand. Her dagger had embedded itself right under the brutes knee, taking him out of the fight. She'd draw her sword in the same motion delivering two deep slashes to the other bandits legs. His scream echoed through the trees as he fell backwards.

The small mercenary couldn't waste anytime. She quickly raised her sword and lunged forward. Her point pierced the mans chest center mass. It sunk in deep and with it a gush of bright crimson blood gushed out. Red droplets splattered on her face and cloak, the man gave one last gurgled groan before falling limp.

Abigail pulled out her sword. She pivoted to face the last remaining man. She guessed hed already be attacking by now. But what she saw made her blood run cold. She had underestimated the speed of the remaining thief. He was already on top of her bearing down his sword. She could block it in time the only thing she could do in the mere instant before impact was to move her body slightly. The sword came crashing down on her shoulder instead of her head. She cried out at the pain that exploded throughout her arm.

She quickly regained herself and backed up out of his reach. She forcefully spared a few moments to look at the damage. Upon further investigation it appeared to he that the blade cut through her cloak but not her leather armor beneath. Although she was not mortally wounded her left arm was tingly and numb like static filled her aching limb. She turned her head to face her attacker once more, raising her sword as she did.

"Thats going to cost you dearly"

She hissed her voice filled with venom. She began to formulate another plan while she had the chance. Since the bandit was faster than the others and the fact that he wouldn't underestimate her shed have to play this smart. She'd let him attack again but instead of dodging she'd take the attack head on. But instead of a block Abigail would deflect it which in turn would leave him open for an attack. Finally deciding on what to do she firmly planted her feet, raised her sword, and waited.

[Phaenix]

Abigail, road to Edithar


Abigail's tactic had gone, mostly, according to plan. Her swift speed and agility had given her the upper hand. Her dagger had embedded itself right under the brutes knee, taking him out of the fight. She'd draw her sword in the same motion delivering two deep slashes to the other bandits legs. His scream echoed through the trees as he fell backwards.

The small mercenary couldn't waste anytime. She quickly raised her sword and lunged forward. Her point pierced the mans chest center mass. It sunk in deep and with it a gush of bright crimson blood gushed out. Red droplets splattered on her face and cloak, the man gave one last gurgled groan before falling limp.

Abigail pulled out her sword. She pivoted to face the last remaining man. She guessed hed already be attacking by now. But what she saw made her blood run cold. She had underestimated the speed of the remaining thief. He was already on top of her bearing down his sword. She could block it in time the only thing she could do in the mere instant before impact was to move her body slightly. The sword came crashing down on her shoulder instead of her head. She cried out at the pain that exploded throughout her arm.

She quickly regained herself and backed up out of his reach. She forcefully spared a few moments to look at the damage. Upon further investigation it appeared to he that the blade cut through her cloak but not her leather armor beneath. Although she was not mortally wounded her left arm was tingly and numb like static filled her aching limb. She turned her head to face her attacker once more, raising her sword as she did.

"Thats going to cost you dearly"

She hissed her voice filled with venom. She began to formulate another plan while she had the chance. Since the bandit was faster than the others and the fact that he wouldn't underestimate her shed have to play this smart. She'd let him attack again but instead of dodging she'd take the attack head on. But instead of a block Abigail would deflect it which in turn would leave him open for an attack. Finally deciding on what to do she firmly planted her feet, raised her sword, and waited.

Royal Road, Edithar

Hragar charged, expecting to overwhelm Abigail with his strength, but was surprised when she deflected his blow. Off balance, Hragar was open to attack.
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Fabled Steer Inn, Dzeka

Stanik opened the door the to inn and stepped inside. The inn patrons went quiet for a moment before returning to their conversations. Stanik walked up to the innkeeper, a portly man with a bald head, and handed him a silver.
"Give this one a room for the night."
Stanik pointed behind him to Maksym. The innkeeper nodded and spoke to Maksym.
"That way, friend. Your rooms on the top floor, all the way at the end. If you need food or drink, ask any of the servants."
With that taken care of, Stanik left to return to Lord Nikraski.
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Tyras Inn, Tyras

Vreed Flongrevran looked up as he heard the door to his inn open. Smiling, he stepped out from behind the bar and strode forward to Irykan.
"Welcome, welcome! What can I do for you? We have food, drink, and rooms. All for a fair price, of course."
The well built Cynfeltcher idly flexed his muscles, less to intimidate and more to relieve the cramps in his arms.
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Karharth Gates, Karharth

The guard merely nodded his head at Foánnachaedh before pilfering the merchant's cart. The Mārrburroghan man who was being beaten looked up and, seeing the torc, bowed his head.
"Oi tanks, me lord, but I'll be gran'. De name's Muadhán Talmhach, an' me da owns an apothecary in de city. cum, oi'm sure 'e'd loike ter repay yer for savin' me from bein' beaten ter a pulp."
Muadhán chuckled a little.
"As yer can tell from me name, oi'm a born an' raised Cynfeltcher on me dad's side. Me mom wus a Mārrburroghan who saved me dad's life, an' den they 'ad me."
Muadhán motioned for Foánnachaedh to follow him.
"Cum on, you'll nade a guide so yer don't git lost in Karharth."

[Phaenix]

Karharth, Cailhad

One of the caravan hands, seeing the giant moose about to brain him, jumped out of the way. The other man, forgetting he had not worn a helmet, took the axe blow straight to the head, cracking his skull and killing him. This caused the surviving guard to panic, and retreat. The merchant, seeing one of his guards dead, turned to the Karharth gate guards.
"Someone help! This savage just killed my worker!"
The guards did not move, merely exchange coin as one of them had bet all on Foánnachaedh, and had won. The merchant kept yelling, and one guard reluctantly trotted over.
"What seems to be the problem, gentlemen?"
The merchant stared at the guard in disbelief before furiously pointing at Foánnachaedh.
"He killed one of my workers and scared the other off! Have him arrested already!"
The guard shrugged his shoulders and spat on the ground.
"Seems you started the whole thing, what with you assaulting a defenseless man and all. So I'll give you the count of ten to leave my sight before I drag you to Understone Prison myself."
The merchant stared at the guard in disbelief, before turning and walking away, muttering about 'barbarian heathens,' the whole way. The guard watched him go then turned to Foánnachaedh.
"Apologies for that whole display. Those Rykalan bastards are right ruthless to us 'barbarians.' Anyway, that merchant left a whole cart full of goodies, and as thanks for dealing with him, take this."
The guard handed Foánnachaedh a small, wooden chest, filled with copper.
(+4 Silver)
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Comreux, on the Imperial Highway

Malcus' dagger punched into Herrig's armpit, but the mercenary, drunk and used to be stabbed, pushed him off and looked at the dagger in his armpit.
"Oh Tom Brad Pitt. I fin' 'e's killed me."
The blood gushing from the wound caused Herrig to fall down, and die a short while later. Merewald, seeing his friend die, turned to Malcus enraged.
"You'll pay for that, you bastard!"
Luckily for Malcus, Merewald was drunker than he looked, and stumbled halfway through his charge, but still closing in on Malcus.
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Loswiec, Dzeka

Lord Nikraski shook his head.
"As long as that bastard dies, I couldn't care less how you end his miserable life. He hangs around a local Rykalan owned tavern, most likely using it as a front to send back reports to the Emperor."
Nikraski thought for a moment and then resumed talking.
"He's guarded by two large Rykalan thugs for the entire day. The only time he's alone is when he visits a brothel called the Garden."
Nikraski scowled.
"He has a habit of...playing with the workers, but he takes his sweet time with them, so that would be the perfect time to strike."
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Tianxia, Capital of the Celestial Empire

Millions crowded the wide avenue of Dìguó Dàdào to witness the Celestial Emperor's passing. The size of his retinue was breathtaking. Millions of soldiers in golden armor marched perfectly down the avenue, entire bands played. and in the middle was Sho Han's own carriage. Of course, no one was permitted to see inside the carriage, but the crowds screamed when they saw it. A few members of the Imperial Bodyguard had to subdue a few citizens who attempted to see inside the carriage. The golden carriage was drawn not by horses, but carried by Sho Han's concubines, all of whom were fiercely loyal and deadly in battle, as befits the lovers of a warrior. Inside, Sho Han had stripped out of his armor and was in his ceremonial Chángpáo, threaded with golden lace with the image of a red dragon on the center. Sitting in his armor had been unbearable, mainly due to the extreme heat. As Sho Han read over a report on the subjugation of another Steppa horde, he drank a cup of iced water. Even from outside the city, one could hear the procession and the cheers of the crowd.

"Shit" Malcus muttered. His father was stuck in Herrig, and he didn't have the time to pull it out. Luckily Merewald was drunk. Malcus feigned right, coming back to the left throwing a punch at Merwald's temple, pushing him down, reaching for Herrig's dropped weapon

Comreux, on the Imperial Highway

Just as Merewald stood up and prepared to skewer Malcus, his head was removed from his body. Standing behind the dead mercenary was Adolphe, the caravan guard, wielding a large two-handed axe. Wiping the blood off his axe, Adolphe turned to Malcus.
"You go inside now. Adolphe will clean up the bodies."
Pulling Malcus' dagger out of Herrig and handing it to him, Adolphe picked up both of the bodies and walked off, presumably to throw them by the side of the road.

[Bolslania]

"Shit" Malcus muttered. His father was stuck in Herrig, and he didn't have the time to pull it out. Luckily Merewald was drunk. Malcus feigned right, coming back to the left throwing a punch at Merwald's temple, pushing him down, reaching for Herrig's dropped weapon

Comreux, on the Imperial Highway

Just as Merewald stood up and prepared to skewer Malcus, his head was removed from his body. Standing behind the dead mercenary was Adolphe, the caravan guard, wielding a large two-handed axe. Wiping the blood off his axe, Adolphe turned to Malcus.
"You go inside now. Adolphe will clean up the bodies."
Pulling Malcus' dagger out of Herrig and handing it to him, Adolphe picked up both of the bodies and walked off, presumably to throw them by the side of the road.

Malcus blinked twice at Adolphe, he was a hit surprised by the mans sudden appearance. He walked back inside, wiping his dagger off on a rag before settling in for the night

[Western Fardelshufflestein]

Fabled Steer Inn, Dzeka

Stanik opened the door the to inn and stepped inside. The inn patrons went quiet for a moment before returning to their conversations. Stanik walked up to the innkeeper, a portly man with a bald head, and handed him a silver.
"Give this one a room for the night."
Stanik pointed behind him to Maksym. The innkeeper nodded and spoke to Maksym.
"That way, friend. Your rooms on the top floor, all the way at the end. If you need food or drink, ask any of the servants."
With that taken care of, Stanik left to return to Lord Nikraski.

Maksym Kozak
Fabled Steer Inn, Dzeka

After Stanik left, Maksym made his way to the top floor of the inn. He found himself standing on worn floorboards that formed a hallway spanning the length of the building, with walls that were bare save for sconces of light. Many doors were closed, save for the one at the far end, which he approached with a bit of caution.

Maksym had never wanted to be an assassin-for-hire. But he needed to earn enough to put food in his stomach and clothing on his back, and this was the only opportunity that had presented itself.

He pushed the oaken door with his fingertips and stepped into the room, his heart clenched with dread. This man, Gerolf, lecherous though he seemed, had taken a similar career path to Maksym. For all Maksym knew, Gerolf was the better man, but the standard seemed fairly low. A Dzekan boy who spend his formative years brawling in village alleyways was hardly the pinnacle of society, especially a Dzekan boy who often used others to get what he wanted. Maksym teetered on the verge of being a criminal. Were he to be captured, he'd almost certainly be imprisoned and executed, and then his very existence might as well never have happened.

He stepped into his lodgings and surveyed the space. There were two windows, one on the far wall and one to the right, and a narrow bed tucked into the corner. A wooden desk and chair sat below the far window, roughly hewn, with an inkwell and parchment set out should he feel the need to write. Near the bed was a cabinet of sorts, presumably for him to store items like books or extra cloaks. The room came with a wooden bucket of water he could use to bathe, as well.

Maksym set his satchel down on the bed and removed his map and picture of Gerolf. Fortunately, there was enough light for him to see by, since the room also had a candle; it was there, in the eerie yellow glow, that he traced his route to Jastemecsat.

When he felt comfortable enough with his rudimentary travel plan, he hastily unpacked some of the less incriminating items of his satchel and stuffed the bag itself under the bed, keeping his pouch of money on his person. He then ventured out of his room to summon a servant and acquire food, as the provisions he had would be necessary for tomorrow's journey. I hope the food is not too pricey, he prayed, wringing his hands.

[Barragha]

Foánnachaedh CárrComaighæhàrr
Karharth

The longer his new accomplice spoke, the greater the cultural thresholds between the Mārburroghan and Cynfeltcher societies seemed to Foánnachaedh. It was considered improper etiquette to refuse a nobleman’s offer where he was from, especially if it was quite comfortably more comfortable to simply take the ride. Moreso than his decision not to ride with him, the boy was disturbed by the fact that his countryman answered him in Rykalan, when he had previously spoken his native tongue. Not wanting to be rude or obnoxious, he obliged, and tried his best at this modern, imperial language.

“Ænnáigh gūod mann hèdd dûnn t’ sæm.” (“Any good man had(would have) done the same.”) he replied to the physician’s thanks compassionately. His mind quickly drifted off to the fact that the poor fellow had to walk to his shop, instead of just hitching the ride.

Yet, upon trying to put himself in Muadhán’s shoes, the young Mārburroghan quickly noticed that it might not be so attractive to hitchhike up to the apothecary; doing so would force you to ride besides a corpse, on a beast taller and fiercer than any other being in the city. The CárrComaighæhàrr chose not to hold the bloke’s decision against him, and obliged, softly treading in Peippînhe’s stirrups, and letting out a quiet: “Læ’s bē ‘n œrr wæ dènn.” (Let’s be on our way then.)

As they passed under the city gates, Foánnachaedh failed to pay Muadhán’s story the attention it required. The lad kept getting distracted by the strange looks townsfolk shot his way. He imagined that moose, domesticated or savage, were far less common in these urban areas than they were up north in the Mārrburroghan tundra.

When the men, one on foot, one on mooseback, entered the tall gate at the end of the city wall’s barbican, they were greeted by the blooming city of Karharth. The first thing that caught Foánnachaedh’s eye were those picturesque, colourful cottages, that rose like tall, mighty isles in the sea of lengthy stretches of dried-out grass, dead dirt and the occasional squiggly, narrow cobblestone pathway. It was evident to the Mārrburroghan that this city had never been planned or engineered appropriately; people built their houses with whatever material they could use, which meant that architectural styles differed from building to building. What united all the tiny houses of this shabby city street was that none of them looked considerably comfortable to live in. The mass of people that flocked through the streets, like livestock at an Augustan milk farm, produced a great amount of noise. Indeed, the sounds of the town were so strong and bolstrous that Foánnachaedh had difficulties hearing what his compatriot was saying, which proved to be a great problem, as that meant that he hardly absorbed a word of what the man said.

Beyond the masses of people, mud-filled city streets and tiny roadside cottages, the eighteen-year-old could make out a large fortification of sorts, standing proudly on a hill about three hundred yards away. It seemed to be the largest structure about, dwarfing any and all other buildings, houses, pubs, palaces, anything. Foánnachaedh had never seen a castle before, and immediately expected the king, or some other important person, to have taken up their residence there.

Then, finally, he noticed the abundance trees, bursting through the dung-filled city streets like swords and spears. Cynfelth was a nation renowned for its timber and woodlog mills, where the industrial classes toiled to produce wood, which could be sold to local artisans or even exported abroad. The pleasant smell of oakwood lingered in the air, unfortunately mixing itself into a toxic cocktail with the stenches of booze, dung and vomit. Attempting to distract himself from the filth around him, the Mārburroghan looked up as he felt the leaves blocking the sun from his face. He didn’t much like standing out in the blistering heat, for his skin was pale, and he could easily get a sunburn. And so he rode forward, discovering more of the city every step Peippînhe took.

When it became clear to him that Muadhán wanted to give him a tour of the city, Foánnachaedh courteously thanked him for his efforts, but reassured him that he was only out for the nearest cemetary to bury the man he had killed on accident, saying:
“Tænck’yu fo’ y’r, uhhh, ahhm, æfforts t’ lēuod m’ thrū t’ town, bæddh-ähmm, uhh, I wàshn’t t’ usœrp yūárr time æny lonckaighr. Pōinn’ m’ tuá d’ nærássèd, æhèmm, umm, reástáin-tæhaighámpœll? fœr’ d’n Rykalan-gúádd f’r ôrr guess’, ann I’ll be ‘n m’ wæ.” (Thank you for your efforts to lead me through the town, but I wish not to usurp your time any longer. Point me to the nearest resting-temple of the Rykalan god for our guest, and I’ll be on my way.)

He started to continually trip over his words, choosing an increasingly strange choice of words, which was clearly more comparable to his own language. Perhaps he profited off some rest, maybe he just needed a purpose to steer him in the right direction. Anyhow, he looked to his compatriot, expecting him to point him in the right direction.

[Phaenix]

Foánnachaedh CárrComaighæhàrr
Karharth

The longer his new accomplice spoke, the greater the cultural thresholds between the Mārburroghan and Cynfeltcher societies seemed to Foánnachaedh. It was considered improper etiquette to refuse a nobleman’s offer where he was from, especially if it was quite comfortably more comfortable to simply take the ride. Moreso than his decision not to ride with him, the boy was disturbed by the fact that his countryman answered him in Rykalan, when he had previously spoken his native tongue. Not wanting to be rude or obnoxious, he obliged, and tried his best at this modern, imperial language.

“Ænnáigh gūod mann hèdd dûnn t’ sæm.” (“Any good man had(would have) done the same.”) he replied to the physician’s thanks compassionately. His mind quickly drifted off to the fact that the poor fellow had to walk to his shop, instead of just hitching the ride.

Yet, upon trying to put himself in Muadhán’s shoes, the young Mārburroghan quickly noticed that it might not be so attractive to hitchhike up to the apothecary; doing so would force you to ride besides a corpse, on a beast taller and fiercer than any other being in the city. The CárrComaighæhàrr chose not to hold the bloke’s decision against him, and obliged, softly treading in Peippînhe’s stirrups, and letting out a quiet: “Læ’s bē ‘n œrr wæ dènn.” (Let’s be on our way then.)

As they passed under the city gates, Foánnachaedh failed to pay Muadhán’s story the attention it required. The lad kept getting distracted by the strange looks townsfolk shot his way. He imagined that moose, domesticated or savage, were far less common in these urban areas than they were up north in the Mārrburroghan tundra.

When the men, one on foot, one on mooseback, entered the tall gate at the end of the city wall’s barbican, they were greeted by the blooming city of Karharth. The first thing that caught Foánnachaedh’s eye were those picturesque, colourful cottages, that rose like tall, mighty isles in the sea of lengthy stretches of dried-out grass, dead dirt and the occasional squiggly, narrow cobblestone pathway. It was evident to the Mārrburroghan that this city had never been planned or engineered appropriately; people built their houses with whatever material they could use, which meant that architectural styles differed from building to building. What united all the tiny houses of this shabby city street was that none of them looked considerably comfortable to live in. The mass of people that flocked through the streets, like livestock at an Augustan milk farm, produced a great amount of noise. Indeed, the sounds of the town were so strong and bolstrous that Foánnachaedh had difficulties hearing what his compatriot was saying, which proved to be a great problem, as that meant that he hardly absorbed a word of what the man said.

Beyond the masses of people, mud-filled city streets and tiny roadside cottages, the eighteen-year-old could make out a large fortification of sorts, standing proudly on a hill about three hundred yards away. It seemed to be the largest structure about, dwarfing any and all other buildings, houses, pubs, palaces, anything. Foánnachaedh had never seen a castle before, and immediately expected the king, or some other important person, to have taken up their residence there.

Then, finally, he noticed the abundance trees, bursting through the dung-filled city streets like swords and spears. Cynfelth was a nation renowned for its timber and woodlog mills, where the industrial classes toiled to produce wood, which could be sold to local artisans or even exported abroad. The pleasant smell of oakwood lingered in the air, unfortunately mixing itself into a toxic cocktail with the stenches of booze, dung and vomit. Attempting to distract himself from the filth around him, the Mārburroghan looked up as he felt the leaves blocking the sun from his face. He didn’t much like standing out in the blistering heat, for his skin was pale, and he could easily get a sunburn. And so he rode forward, discovering more of the city every step Peippînhe took.

When it became clear to him that Muadhán wanted to give him a tour of the city, Foánnachaedh courteously thanked him for his efforts, but reassured him that he was only out for the nearest cemetary to bury the man he had killed on accident, saying:
“Tænck’yu fo’ y’r, uhhh, ahhm, æfforts t’ lēuod m’ thrū t’ town, bæddh-ähmm, uhh, I wàshn’t t’ usœrp yūárr time æny lonckaighr. Pōinn’ m’ tuá d’ nærássèd, æhèmm, umm, reástáin-tæhaighámpœll? fœr’ d’n Rykalan-gúádd f’r ôrr guess’, ann I’ll be ‘n m’ wæ.” (Thank you for your efforts to lead me through the town, but I wish not to usurp your time any longer. Point me to the nearest resting-temple of the Rykalan god for our guest, and I’ll be on my way.)

He started to continually trip over his words, choosing an increasingly strange choice of words, which was clearly more comparable to his own language. Perhaps he profited off some rest, maybe he just needed a purpose to steer him in the right direction. Anyhow, he looked to his compatriot, expecting him to point him in the right direction.

Temple of Helinar, Karharth

Muadhán smiled and responded to Foánnachaedh.
"A cemetery for dat Rykalan, aye? While it jist so 'appens dat de Temple av 'elinar is roi 'ere!"
Muadhán swept his arm towards a large, white granite temple, with a golden statue of Helinar, God of the Empire, out front. Helinar was dressed in resplendent plate armor, and held aloft the great sword Kyserliich. The temple itself was massive, almost the size of the castle, and was attended to by a great many priests in steel armor. Muadhán laughed.
"Dem priests av 'elinar are sum av master fighters in de realm! Oi once saw wan scrap aff cock an' 'en brigands by 'imself!"
With that, Muadhán bowed to Foánnachaedh and spoke once more.
"If ever yer are in nade av gaff or 'ealin', ask for Drahed Talmhach's Pharmaceuticals. We'll fix yer up roi queck, an' for free too!"
Muadhán bowed once more and left, presumably to return to his father. As soon as Muadhán left, however, a priest dressed in red robes with a eye on his chest charged towards Foánnachaedh, shouting.
"REPENT! GIVE UP YOU PAGAN WAYS, AND EMBRACE THE ONE! REPENT, OR SUFFER FOR ETERNITY IN THE DEMON-LORD'S HELL!"
Hearing the commotion, several of the Priests of Helinar came to Foánnachaedh's aid, pushing the red-robed priest away.
"Go back to your church, Father Alcuin. See if anyone actually wants to join you and your zealots."
The priest, Father Alcuin, spat at the priest who had spoken.
"YOU WILL BURN IN THE ETERNAL FIRE FOR YOUR BLASPHEMY, VINCENT DURAND OF THE FALSE GOD! MY CONGREGATION WILL HEAR ABOUT THIS!"
Durand scoffed and brandished an axe.
"Sure, Father Alcuin. I hope I can stand against those bald freaks you call monks."
The Priests of Helinar laughed as Alcuin stormed off, shouting for all to repent. After Alcuin was gone, Durand turned to Foánnachaedh.
"My apologies for Father Alcuin. His sect of the Church of Mercy is a bit...overzealous. I've complained to Teryn Ralvit aep Mudloll about it, but I fear he sympathizes with Father Alcuin's fanatics."
Durand shrugged his shoulders, his plate clanking.
"Anyway, I am Kampfpriester Durand of the Imperial Church."
Peering at Foánnachaedh's mount, Durand saw the body.
"It appears you have brought us a body. May I inquire how that man became a corpse?"
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Fabled Steer Inn, Dzeka

As Makysm ordered for a servant to take his order, a curvaceous Lapyri servant approached him, her hips swaying seductively. Leaning down so that her tan cleavage was mere inches from Maksym's eyes, she purred.
"What does the big, strong man want? Some meat, ale, or something more...intimate?"
With that last word, the woman leaned closer and whispered in his ear.
"My name is Haqikah. For a mere four silver, I can be yours for a night."
Nearby patrons snickered, obviously amused by the encounter.
"Or," Haqikah pouted, "you can just order some food."

[Barragha]

Karharth

“Mænnáighthánaichks, frænnád. Go’n Bārnámæl’âs light.” His face presented a tired smile. Truthfully, he would have done more to make his time with his countryman more pleasant, but Foánnachaedh could feel himself getting increasingly weary. Yet, it was very important to him that the man he killed could be buried, lest he wanted his soul to stalk him ‘round for the end of days.

When the red-cloaked priest approached him, the mercenary recoiled, instinctively placing his hand on his axe. He did not concentrate on what the man was saying, and was instead keen on defending himself if the need arose. Then, men in white approached, backing Foánnachaedh against the preacher.

His hand slid off his sheath, and when the priest asked him to state his business, he raised his right hand from his axe to his moose, standing about three feet behind him.

“Wæll mæddh, sèrr.” (Well met, sir) he spoke, his accent getting thicker and his voice slowing down exponentially. He twisted his right hand round, and stuck out his thumb, pointing it in his own direction. “Foánnachaedh, deáscânnàd o’ t’ græt Comaigh, sōn o’ Lóārrd Éighōnnahhan o’ Bálmannah, gárannsōn o’ Æídūábairràddh o’ t’ Mērocáighann o’ Mārrburrogh.” (Foánnachaedh, descended of the great Comaigh, son of Lord Éighōnnahan of the Bálmannah, grandson of Æídūábairràddh of the Mērocáighann tribe of Mārrburrogh.)

Once he’d introduced himself in a Mērocaighann fashion, he turned himself to Peippînhe, and spoke: “I ‘æd t’ mîslūkk o’ kællin’ d’s maighann todæigh. He ‘ás u’ carrávæn-gáirrdh t’-a Rychalann, thudd’ he mi-yát belœnc t’ y’r seccaidh.”(I had the misfortune of killing this man today. He was a caravan guard to a Rykalan, thought he might have belonged to your sect.)
Foánnachaedh had no intention of insulting the man by calling his religion a sect. The truth was that his religion had no seperate word for sect, religion or belief, a fact that could easily lead this conversation down a path that the Mārrburroghan did not want to tread.

“To-dæy, my folk sal’ute Hœrrágūarrán, god o’ t’ woods ‘n rivárs. Hæ is t’ god of wisdom, an’ son o’ t’ mighty Bārnámæl. ‘Lowe mæh t’ t’ke ‘e æyès ‘s ‘n offár tu’ mæ god. Ræsét o’ córraipse, I leave t’ yūo.” (“Today, my folk salute Hœrrágūarrán, god of woods and rivers. Allow me to take the (dead man’s) eyes as an offer to my god. Rest of the corpse, I leave to you.”)

Wanting to find some stables that he and his moose could sleep in, Foánnachaedh drew his ceremonial bronze dagger, hoping to end this mess quickly so that he and Peippînhe could get some shut-eye. The castle seemed so far away from here, perhaps they would go up there now, perhaps they’d go for a rest. The boy felt tired and weak after the fight, and could not make up his mind yet.

[Phaenix]

Karharth

“Mænnáighthánaichks, frænnád. Go’n Bārnámæl’âs light.” His face presented a tired smile. Truthfully, he would have done more to make his time with his countryman more pleasant, but Foánnachaedh could feel himself getting increasingly weary. Yet, it was very important to him that the man he killed could be buried, lest he wanted his soul to stalk him ‘round for the end of days.

When the red-cloaked priest approached him, the mercenary recoiled, instinctively placing his hand on his axe. He did not concentrate on what the man was saying, and was instead keen on defending himself if the need arose. Then, men in white approached, backing Foánnachaedh against the preacher.

His hand slid off his sheath, and when the priest asked him to state his business, he raised his right hand from his axe to his moose, standing about three feet behind him.

“Wæll mæddh, sèrr.” (Well met, sir) he spoke, his accent getting thicker and his voice slowing down exponentially. He twisted his right hand round, and stuck out his thumb, pointing it in his own direction. “Foánnachaedh, deáscânnàd o’ t’ græt Comaigh, sōn o’ Lóārrd Éighōnnahhan o’ Bálmannah, gárannsōn o’ Æídūábairràddh o’ t’ Mērocáighann o’ Mārrburrogh.” (Foánnachaedh, descended of the great Comaigh, son of Lord Éighōnnahan of the Bálmannah, grandson of Æídūábairràddh of the Mērocáighann tribe of Mārrburrogh.)

Once he’d introduced himself in a Mērocaighann fashion, he turned himself to Peippînhe, and spoke: “I ‘æd t’ mîslūkk o’ kællin’ d’s maighann todæigh. He ‘ás u’ carrávæn-gáirrdh t’-a Rychalann, thudd’ he mi-yát belœnc t’ y’r seccaidh.”(I had the misfortune of killing this man today. He was a caravan guard to a Rykalan, thought he might have belonged to your sect.)
Foánnachaedh had no intention of insulting the man by calling his religion a sect. The truth was that his religion had no seperate word for sect, religion or belief, a fact that could easily lead this conversation down a path that the Mārrburroghan did not want to tread.

“To-dæy, my folk sal’ute Hœrrágūarrán, god o’ t’ woods ‘n rivárs. Hæ is t’ god of wisdom, an’ son o’ t’ mighty Bārnámæl. ‘Lowe mæh t’ t’ke ‘e æyès ‘s ‘n offár tu’ mæ god. Ræsét o’ córraipse, I leave t’ yūo.” (“Today, my folk salute Hœrrágūarrán, god of woods and rivers. Allow me to take the (dead man’s) eyes as an offer to my god. Rest of the corpse, I leave to you.”)

Wanting to find some stables that he and his moose could sleep in, Foánnachaedh drew his ceremonial bronze dagger, hoping to end this mess quickly so that he and Peippînhe could get some shut-eye. The castle seemed so far away from here, perhaps they would go up there now, perhaps they’d go for a rest. The boy felt tired and weak after the fight, and could not make up his mind yet.

Temple of Helinar, Karharth

When Kampfpriester Durand saw the bronze dagger, he reached for his axe, but a Cynfletcher Kampfpriester explained what Foánnachaedh had said, and Durand looked up at the boy and smiled.
"Sure, take as many bits of the body as you want. Helinar claimed his soul as soon as he died, an honorable death of you must know. But I'm sure we can find a place for him in the Haus des Todes."
Durand motioned for a few Kampfpriesters to take the body once Foánnachaedh took the eyes. Looking back at Foánnachaedh, Durand handed him a silver coin.
(+1 Silver)
"Here boy. Get yourself a room and a meal at one of the inns around here. You look as if Entehren itself battled with you."
With that, Durand turned and entered the Temple of Helinar.

[Western Fardelshufflestein]

Fabled Steer Inn, Dzeka

As Makysm ordered for a servant to take his order, a curvaceous Lapyri servant approached him, her hips swaying seductively. Leaning down so that her tan cleavage was mere inches from Maksym's eyes, she purred.
"What does the big, strong man want? Some meat, ale, or something more...intimate?"
With that last word, the woman leaned closer and whispered in his ear.
"My name is Haqikah. For a mere four silver, I can be yours for a night."
Nearby patrons snickered, obviously amused by the encounter.
"Or," Haqikah pouted, "you can just order some food."

Maksym Kozak
Fabled Steer Inn, Dzeka

Maksym pulled away from the servant, his mouth dry. "An evening meal is all I seek tonight, but thank you." After having spent the good part of an hour judging Gerolf for his frequenting the Garden, he would be a hypocrite to accept this offer. Furthermore, he could not risk becoming distracted by pleasure.

Spending the night with Haqikah would, among other things, deprive him of the rest he needed to make tomorrow's journey. It was imperative he remained alert so he could carry out this mission to the best of his abilities. Nikaski had entrusted him to assassinate Gerolf, and Maksym could not afford to botch this opportunity.

He had no desire to find love, not tonight, not for the foreseeable future. Gerolf's impending murder loomed bitterly over him in an all-consuming pall. He was to be the reaper that spelled the Rykalan man's demise for twenty pieces of silver, and Haqikah was trying to lure him into doing something that would only trigger regret. Were something to go amiss, he was unprepared to handle the long-term consequences.

Maksym was not sure his conscience could tolerate the killing of a Rykalan spy just to put food in his own stomach. If he succeeded, he'd have to live with the guilt that Gerolf's blood had been spilled by his hands for the remainder of his life. There would be shame, nightmares, a stain on his soul that would certainly mark him as damned.

"What food are you offering tonight, Haqikah?" His voice was tight, wavering. "A piece of beef or perhaps some stew would suffice." Drinking ale would be foolish, as well, for he could not risk a headache.

[Phaenix]

Fabled Steer Inn, Dzeka

As Makysm ordered for a servant to take his order, a curvaceous Lapyri servant approached him, her hips swaying seductively. Leaning down so that her tan cleavage was mere inches from Maksym's eyes, she purred.
"What does the big, strong man want? Some meat, ale, or something more...intimate?"
With that last word, the woman leaned closer and whispered in his ear.
"My name is Haqikah. For a mere four silver, I can be yours for a night."
Nearby patrons snickered, obviously amused by the encounter.
"Or," Haqikah pouted, "you can just order some food."

Maksym Kozak
Fabled Steer Inn, Dzeka

Maksym pulled away from the servant, his mouth dry. "An evening meal is all I seek tonight, but thank you." After having spent the good part of an hour judging Gerolf for his frequenting the Garden, he would be a hypocrite to accept this offer. Furthermore, he could not risk becoming distracted by pleasure.

Spending the night with Haqikah would, among other things, deprive him of the rest he needed to make tomorrow's journey. It was imperative he remained alert so he could carry out this mission to the best of his abilities. Nikaski had entrusted him to assassinate Gerolf, and Maksym could not afford to botch this opportunity.

He had no desire to find love, not tonight, not for the foreseeable future. Gerolf's impending murder loomed bitterly over him in an all-consuming pall. He was to be the reaper that spelled the Rykalan man's demise for twenty pieces of silver, and Haqikah was trying to lure him into doing something that would only trigger regret. Were something to go amiss, he was unprepared to handle the long-term consequences.

Maksym was not sure his conscience could tolerate the killing of a Rykalan spy just to put food in his own stomach. If he succeeded, he'd have to live with the guilt that Gerolf's blood had been spilled by his hands for the remainder of his life. There would be shame, nightmares, a stain on his soul that would certainly mark him as damned.

"What food are you offering tonight, Haqikah?" His voice was tight, wavering. "A piece of beef or perhaps some stew would suffice." Drinking ale would be foolish, as well, for he could not risk a headache.

Fabled Steer Inn, Dzeka

Haqikah sighed and stood up.
"We have beef stew for ten copper, steak for twelve copper, broth for one copper, and beef and potato stew for fifteen copper. We also have wine for ten copper, ale for five copper, and water for three copper."
Haqikah looked disappointed in Maksym, but made no further attempts to sleep with him. One of the patrons waved at Haqikah, but she paid him no mind since he was old enough to be her father, and had more worts then the usual peasant. The door opened once more, and the innkeeper looked up, about to greet them, when he saw their faces. They were all pale and had blond hair. One of them had piercing blue eyes, a blond mustache and hair, and a scar on his cheek. He had two guards, each six feet tall and armored in chain. Their swords were sheathed at their sides, but they each held kite shields. The lead one spoke first.
"Vell, vo runs zis schoddy excuze for ein taffern?"
His Rykalan accent was thick, but the innkeeper stepped forward.
"Welcome to the Fabled Steer Inn, friend! Can I-"
The innkeeper was cut off by the man, who placed his finger on the innkeeper's lips to silence him.
"Do vu zink I, Gerolf fal Ainzurn, raized in Rykad, cannot read? I cannot zuffer vu to sbeak hanymore, zo zimbly get me und mein friends here your pest vine und zome vomen, und ve'll pe as kood as ve can pe in zis schizole."
The innkeeper nodded and motioned for several servants to bring in wine for the Rykalans. Haqikah smiled at Maksym and walked over to Gerolf, who soon had her sitting on his lap while spilling wine all over himself. Servants kept refilling their cups, and the innkeeper nervously stared at the Rykalans. The chatting in the tavern stopped, and soon patrons began finishing their drinks and leaving, emptying the tavern of all except the Rykalans, the staff, and Maksym.

[Western Fardelshufflestein]

Fabled Steer Inn, Dzeka

Haqikah sighed and stood up.
"We have beef stew for ten copper, steak for twelve copper, broth for one copper, and beef and potato stew for fifteen copper. We also have wine for ten copper, ale for five copper, and water for three copper."
Haqikah looked disappointed in Maksym, but made no further attempts to sleep with him. One of the patrons waved at Haqikah, but she paid him no mind since he was old enough to be her father, and had more worts then the usual peasant. The door opened once more, and the innkeeper looked up, about to greet them, when he saw their faces. They were all pale and had blond hair. One of them had piercing blue eyes, a blond mustache and hair, and a scar on his cheek. He had two guards, each six feet tall and armored in chain. Their swords were sheathed at their sides, but they each held kite shields. The lead one spoke first.
"Vell, vo runs zis schoddy excuze for ein taffern?"
His Rykalan accent was thick, but the innkeeper stepped forward.
"Welcome to the Fabled Steer Inn, friend! Can I-"
The innkeeper was cut off by the man, who placed his finger on the innkeeper's lips to silence him.
"Do vu zink I, Gerolf fal Ainzurn, raized in Rykad, cannot read? I cannot zuffer vu to sbeak hanymore, zo zimbly get me und mein friends here your pest vine und zome vomen, und ve'll pe as kood as ve can pe in zis schizole."
The innkeeper nodded and motioned for several servants to bring in wine for the Rykalans. Haqikah smiled at Maksym and walked over to Gerolf, who soon had her sitting on his lap while spilling wine all over himself. Servants kept refilling their cups, and the innkeeper nervously stared at the Rykalans. The chatting in the tavern stopped, and soon patrons began finishing their drinks and leaving, emptying the tavern of all except the Rykalans, the staff, and Maksym.

Maksym Kozak
Fabled Steer Inn, Dzeka

Maksym ordered the beef stew for ten copper and found a table at the inn that was relatively near the center of the action. He would be less noticeable as an outsider if he was lost in the hubbub.

However, his plan of being ignored was shattered when the man he was supposed to kill walked through the inn door.

Maksym's hand tightened around his spoon. This was too perfect; he was given a task from a nobleman to kill a Rykalan spy, and that same man just so happened to show up at the inn he was staying at. He had no evidence that Gerolf was more than a foreigner who had somehow rubbed Nikraski the wrong way. But asking too many questions was a rapid way to become Nikraski's next inconvenience.

Maksym savored his beef stew, which rapidly became tepid, and listened as best he could to Gerolf's words. The man's thick accent occasionally made him difficult to understand, but he spoke the local tongue quite well. Eventually, Haqika wound up on an inebriated Gerolf's lap, and the patrons gradually stumbled up to their respective rooms, leaving the inn's communal space practically vacant.

Maksym finished his beef stew, then nodded toward the understandably anxious innkeeper. "Thank you," he told the man, refraining from giving him a tip unprompted so as not to be particularly memorable.

The Rykalan guards were notably drunk, as well, which suited Maksym just fine. It actually worked in his favor. They would be lethargic and uncoordinated, which would make defeating them rather effortless. Maksym's main issue was getting Gerolf alone and disposing of him discreetly, a detail that was complicated by Haqika's presence. She was an innocent, and, worse, a potential witness. Haqika could have already memorized Maksym's features, his voice, the way he walked. And if she refused to leaved Gerolf's side--

Maksym's job was to kill Gerolf. Nobody else. The guilt of taking one person's life, even the life of someone who was possibly detestable, was enough to crush him. Killing a bystander was cruelty. Maksym was haunted by the two men he had killed during his time as a mercenary for Midzya; he would never sleep again if Haqika died. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath, then fixed his gaze on Gerolf, wondering if he would indeed have to tip the innkeeper to keep him silent.

[Offer Erapia]

Abigail, road to Edithar

Abigail watched as the man charged. She held fast not letting her instincts to run overtake her. In a classic and expected maneuver the enraged brute raised his weapon above his head to strike down. Abigail suddenly jolted into action she raised her bloody weapon to meet his. At the last second she tensed her body to absorb the shock of the blow. The two blades connected with a loud metallic ting. The force went down her wrists and into her shoulders where new found pain suddenly sprung up and spreaded out.

She bit back the pain letting her adrenaline and stubbornness force it down. As the initial force subsided, Abigail suddenly angled her weapon down slightly. The brutes own weapon suddenly slid down and off hers where it hit the ground. Now was abigail's time to strike, she raised her weapon her natural speed and light frame allowing her to ready her weapon before his. She tensed her body again as she brought it down on the bandits thick neck. The sickening squelch his flesh made as her blade cut through it made Abigail's spine shiver. This only worsened as the thief dropped to the ground his head separated from his body, blood poured out of the open wound.

After all the threats had been eliminated she turned to the bandit leader whom she kept alive. She walked up to him and snickered she bent down and grasped her daggers hilt.

"You have something of mine, mind if i have it back?"

She didn't give him time to recognize the sarcasm. She ripped out her weapon and ignored his screams. She wiped of the blood and sheathed it behind her cloak once more. After which she raised her weapon, its fine point facing her weakened assailant.

"Any last words?"

[Barragha]

Temple of Helinar, Karharth

Foánnachaedh felt most relieved when he found out that his request to remove the man’s eyes had been granted. These religious types could make a fuss over just about anything, so he thought. With laziness and an increasing need to sleep creeping ever closer, he found it straining to cut the man’s eyes out of his head, but once he had done so, he simply buried them in one of his fur pockets. Those eyes would have to be burnt tonight, lest he wanted to upset the gods of his pantheon.

He helped undo the straps about the corpse, and took him from his moose, handing him to the brethren of the religious order.

Once he’d done so, Durand gave him a silver coin for his troubles. He inspected it, observing that it had indeed been minted in the empire of Rykala, the place where these men seemed to have hailed from. With a heavy head and a tired look in his eyes, he bowed himself slightly forward, to thank the priest for his support. He did not know if he was paying him for the corpse, or if he just wanted to help him get by. Hell, his acolytes might have just gotten spooked by the sheer size of Peippînhe, and there’s a decent chance that Durand just wanted this “foreign savage”, as his countryman put it, to leave his temple.

Whatever the reason might have been, Foánnachaedh understood that he was no longer needed here, and gave the warrior priest a nod of his head, showing that he was leaving.

Luckily for the Mārrburroghan and his mount, opposite the temple stood an inn. It was a fairly simple-looking structure, made of stone and timber. The prevalence of drunkards and whoremongers around the medieval structure was far more prominent than its architecture, however, and the tall lad avoided eye contact with those around him, knowing that his lack of sleep and energy made it so that he could easily be taken advantage of.

Sleezily, he got off Peippînhe, letting his feet fall to the ground as he looked about him. He took his moose by the reins, and brought him forward, leaving him by a concealed, somewhat cozy spot not too far from the entrance to the inn. Foánnachaedh gave his friend a gentle pat over the head, and then turned around, walking towards the inn.

He placed his cold hands on the copper doorknob, pulling it towards himself. Immediately, the boy was welcomed by the pleasant coziness of a good public house. The walls, made primarily made of stone, adorned with woodworks and logs meant to stabilize the structure, were dimly lit with candles and oil lamps. A quick breath of air told any man that the whiff of oil and wax were not the only smells that one could expect: Ale, beer and meat could also be smelt clearly, and as Foánnachaedh closed the door, not wanting to let out the heat of the room, his eyes fell upon a wooden bowl of roasted chicken and bread, which immediately made his mouth water.

Aside from the homely ambiance and good smells, the pub featured loud chatter, the occasional drunk chanting, and the sound of wood burning in the fireplace besides the young Mārrburroghan. He could feel the ray of heat fall over him, and thanked Bārnámæl for giving him shelter in this dark night.

“Oi, git awt’ d’way, would’ya!?” A voice boomed in his head. He’d been standing in the middle of the entrance of the inn this entire time, not at all minding the fact that he might have been holding others up. A small queue had formed behind the large man, as many found it difficult to pass around him. Struck by the sheer embarassment of it all, Foánnachaedh quickly marched forward, stepping up to the bar.

“Gœád evæighn’nīnck, I, wass, ahmm...” the boy stuttered, trying to find his words. He had never expected to find Rykalan so challenging, having excelled at speaking it as a child, but ever since his fourteenth birthday, when combat and religious duties forced themselves to the forefront of his academic studies, his Rykalan had very clearly deteroriated.

He sighed, trying his best to pull himself together and think of something to say. In a moment of illuminating clarity in the sleepy dark, he felt the silver coin in his hands, and immediately seized the initiative.

He slammed the piece of silver on the bar before him, and spoke up, loudly, telling the barkeep:

“I shléāp. Stæbáillēs. Ônn’áighit.” (“I sleep. Stables. Tonight.”) as a Mārrburroghan, Foánnachaedh was completely alien to the very idea of currency. People paid their taxes in cows, chickens and grain. His father managed some finances, but never involved his children in those affairs. The younging could not say whether a silver coin was sufficient for a lodge in the hay, and he did not care whether he under- or overpaid. All he cared for the sweet salvation of sleep.

Unfazed by anything the barkeep might have said or done, he ignored just about everyone around him, and left the inn to get to Peippînhe.

[Zedeshia]

Tyras Inn, Tyras

Vreed Flongrevran looked up as he heard the door to his inn open. Smiling, he stepped out from behind the bar and strode forward to Irykan.
"Welcome, welcome! What can I do for you? We have food, drink, and rooms. All for a fair price, of course."
The well built Cynfeltcher idly flexed his muscles, less to intimidate and more to relieve the cramps in his arms.

Irykan opened the inn's door, and observed his surroundings. The Lazy Mule Inn was a humble place, with simple wooden walls and a floor made of slabs of stone, hewed together without any apparent pattern or order. Across the main floor of the inn were many wooden tables and chairs, scattered about haphazardly. To Irykan's right a there was a fireplace, lit aflame. The sound of the crackling fire brought a familiar, calming feeling to Irykan. The inn seemed to not be that lively this night; along the bar there was an elderly man, rapped in an old travelers cloak, drinking from a mug of ale and speaking with the bartender. Near the fireplace there was a pair of young musicians, their instruments at their sides, discussing quietly with one another. Irykan stepped forward, unsure of what to do next.

He would not have to wait for long however, as the bartender soon took notice, and approached him. The man was heavily tanned and muscular, seemingly after many years of constant work. With a nod of his head and slight smile he greeted Irykan. Irykan sighed in relief. This must be the person who the bann had instructed him to speak to. He cleared his throat and responded:

"Yes, a meal and a place to stay would be quite nice. You see, I am here to take care of some... business on behalf of Bann Lanwyll."

The man seemed to be surprised at first, but then nodded his head once more.

"I see... Do excuse me for one moment."

The bartender walked away and entered a small room behind the bar. He would not return until many minutes later. Irykan took a seat along the bar, and waited patiently. The musicians began to play a slow, soft tune, one with a colorful lute, the other with a viol. Irykan enjoyed the music for some time before the bartender returned, and gestured Irykan to follow him.

"You may call me Vreed Flongrevran, traveler. Please, follow me as I show you to your quarters for the night."

[Bolslania]

The mercenaries were kicked awake at about 6 in the morning, having last night's stews for breakfast. Malcus thought on last night. It was something, killing someone. He shook himself awake and ate his breakfast. After he finished he stepped outside with his pack. The oxen had been attached to the carts, and the caravan was getting ready to move. He slung his bag up, and sat down on tge bench along with several other mercenaries

[Phaenix]

Croixière, by the River of Scorm

As the sun began to set on the horizon, a young man with a bookish disposition and a thick Scormish accent gasps as the caravan comes upon a walled city on the banks of the River of Scorm.
"By le un, eet eez Croixière! La last bastshe-on of civilizashe-on until ze Gryfairt!"
The man turned to Malcus and practically bounced in his seat.
"Eet eez said zat ze walls of Croixière 'avé nevair fallen to ze Steppa nomads who roam le plains! Lét us 'ope ur jurney nairthward eez wivoot troubuhl from thosé savajes."
Another man, dressed in a leather brigandine and holding a steel halfhelm, laughed at his fellow traveler.
"I hope one of those travelling hordes descends upon the caravan, so I can show them the might of Korzhev the Strong!"
Korzhev laughed and brandished his warhammer, while the young Scormishman gasped.
"You cannot be sairious! If a 'airde should descend upon us, zey would eivair keehl us all air sell us as slaves!"
The Scormishman's statement caused several other passengers to quiet down, but Korzhev merely laughed.
"They do not wear armor, and I have killed many horsemen before. Without their mounts, they will be like ants beneath my feet!"
Before the Scormishman could retort, the caravan had entered Croixière and Lionel was walking towards them, having already spoken to the other passengers.
"Alright you louts, make any final arrangements you need. After Croixière, there won't be another town for one-thousand miles. I've already sent for the wagons to be filled with food and wine, but there won't be good, warm food and lodgings until the Gryfort."
Looking at the coat-of-arms of Croixière, blue and black with crossbones, Lionel spoke once more.
"I'd also be on your best behavior. Croixière hasn't fallen to the nomads ever, and they're a prickly sort here."
As the other passengers began to leave, Korzhev turned to Malcus.
"You look like you know how to use that blade. It's said there's an underground fighting pit here, and I was planning to test my metal there. You wanna join me?"
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tyras Inn, Tyras

A few of the customers glanced at Irykan as Vreed walked the Steppa mercenary to his room.
"Here it is, the royal suite!"
The 'royal suite' was a small room with a bed, a small table to eat at, dirt floors, and holes in the walls as windows.
"Dinner's in an hour. You're not there, you don't eat."
Vreed said with a smile before walking back to the bar.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Karl Prusheim's Inn, Karharth

As Foánnachaedh turned to leave, a large man blocked his way. A voice from behind him spoke up.
"You wish to sleep in my stables after what you did this morning?"
The voice would've sounded familiar to Foánnachaedh, considering it had insulted him and his countryman at the gates. The large man was also familiar, being the other guard of the merchant/innkeeper. The guard spoke up.
"That man you killed was my brother. Blood must pay for blood."
Indeed, the man's features were identical to the other guard, minus the missing eyes. The merchant/innkeeper spoke up once more.
"I am Karl Prusheim, son of Koner Prusheim, and great-grandson of Graf Donner Prusheim, Lord of Prushold, and I will have my recompense!"
The guard drew his blade and prepared to battle, the patrons of the inn moving out of the way, but none of them interfering as they were excited for a good show.
"Kill 'im, Red-Hair! Show that pompous prick good old Northern strength!"
Came a shout from the crowd. Karl turned to glare at whoever was cheering Foánnachaedh on, but could not single them out over the noise of the crowd.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On the Royal Road, Edithar

Before Ulfyr could speak, a crossbow bolt planted itself in his head.
"Well now, what do we have here?"
A voice came from behind Abigail, before twenty well armed Rykalan soldiers came out of the woods. The man speaking was tall, pale, and blond, with a velvet halfcloak on his right shoulder and intricate plate armor. In his hand was a small crossbow, which he was now reloading.
"Seems you've dealt with our little bandit problem. Thing is though, I planted them there to disrupt trade on the Royal Road. Took me a while, too."
Now pointing a loaded crossbow at Abigail, the Rykalan introduced himself.
"I am Margraf Gerwin val Gardmann, Kaiserlicher Befehlshaber der Marken, and Reichskanzler of the Reich der Glorreichen Söhne, or for you barbarians, the Rykalan Empire."
Stepping towards Abigail, Margraf Gerwin spoke once more.
"Now, I should kill you for ruining my whole operation here, but given how effectively you dispatched of these fools, how about I offer you a job instead?"
Momentarily lowering his crossbow, Gerwin offered her his hand.
"An exclusive contract to work with the Reichsarmee, with good pay, food, and possibly even a permanent station in the Kaiserliche Militärische Besatzungsmacht once we bring this rebellious province to heel, in exchange for your life. It is a good deal, no?"
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Fabled Steer Inn, Loswiec

A drunken Gerolf val Ainthrun stood, Haqikah in his arm and turned to his guards, speaking in Rykalan.
"Ich werde mich in mein Zimmer zurückziehen. Stören Sie mich nicht während meiner...Unterhaltung, wenn Sie Ihr Leben schätzen."
One of his guards was asleep, but the other, almost as drunk as Gerolf, responded in kind.
"Wie willst du mit diesem spielen, mein Herr? Schälen oder Stacheln?"
Gerolf laughed. Haqikah laughed also, but only thinking that the guard had told a joke. If she realized what he had said, she would have at least tried to run. Gerolf replied to his guard's comment.
"Ich denke, ich werde etwas Neues ausprobieren. Kann sie nicht mit so vielen Zeugen schreien, kann ich jetzt?"
The guard nodded his head, and as soon as Gerolf entered his room with Haqikah, the guard looked into his drink.
"Widerlich. Wie findet er Freude daran?"
As soon as Gerolf entered his room with Haqikah, he grabbed her by the throat and threw her against the wall.
"W-what are you doing, my lord!?"
Gerolf covered her mouth and with his other hand pulled out a flaying dagger, its rounded tip gleaming in the torchlight. Gerolf smiled and gently ran it against her skin, causing a small amount of blood to drip down her forehead.
"Vy mein dear, I am haffing fun! Zadly, zis vill haffe to pe guick, as zat fellow in zee corner has peen eyeing me all night."
Haqikah visibly shook, but relaxed when she heard it would be quick. Gerolf slapped her, then held her down once more.
"I did not zay it vould pe bainless! Vere vould pe zee choy in zat?"
The thuds could be heard through the wall, and the innkeeper visibly jumped at each of them. He knew what was happening, as Gerolf would occasionally visit his inn, but was too frightened to do anything.

[Bolslania]

Croixière, by the River of Scorm

As the sun began to set on the horizon, a young man with a bookish disposition and a thick Scormish accent gasps as the caravan comes upon a walled city on the banks of the River of Scorm.
"By le un, eet eez Croixière! La last bastshe-on of civilizashe-on until ze Gryfairt!"
The man turned to Malcus and practically bounced in his seat.
"Eet eez said zat ze walls of Croixière 'avé nevair fallen to ze Steppa nomads who roam le plains! Lét us 'ope ur jurney nairthward eez wivoot troubuhl from thosé savajes."
Another man, dressed in a leather brigandine and holding a steel halfhelm, laughed at his fellow traveler.
"I hope one of those travelling hordes descends upon the caravan, so I can show them the might of Korzhev the Strong!"
Korzhev laughed and brandished his warhammer, while the young Scormishman gasped.
"You cannot be sairious! If a 'airde should descend upon us, zey would eivair keehl us all air sell us as slaves!"
The Scormishman's statement caused several other passengers to quiet down, but Korzhev merely laughed.
"They do not wear armor, and I have killed many horsemen before. Without their mounts, they will be like ants beneath my feet!"
Before the Scormishman could retort, the caravan had entered Croixière and Lionel was walking towards them, having already spoken to the other passengers.
"Alright you louts, make any final arrangements you need. After Croixière, there won't be another town for one-thousand miles. I've already sent for the wagons to be filled with food and wine, but there won't be good, warm food and lodgings until the Gryfort."
Looking at the coat-of-arms of Croixière, blue and black with crossbones, Lionel spoke once more.
"I'd also be on your best behavior. Croixière hasn't fallen to the nomads ever, and they're a prickly sort here."
As the other passengers began to leave, Korzhev turned to Malcus.
"You look like you know how to use that blade. It's said there's an underground fighting pit here, and I was planning to test my metal there. You wanna join me?"
.

Malcus made himself more comfortable
He looked up at the offer from the big, cocky guy

"Sure thing, of there is good pay to he had" Malcus said. He was an excellent fighter, and getting good pay always made the wheels spin better