Soldiers of Fortune (IC/FanT/Signups Required)

[Offer Erapia]

Abigail, an untimely offer


The man didnt have time to speak as the bolt silenced him forever. Abigail suddenly turned a sudden wave of fear washed over her. There, before her, stood twenty burly men adorned in steel armor. She instinctively jumped back, there was no way she could fight them all off. The leader of the group stepped forward he spoke of his goons she had killed and how they were used to disrupt trade. It was a dirty tactic but they were at war, after speaking, the man proposed an offer in place of her life.

Given her position it would be foolish to say no. She sighed and sheathed her short sword."Your really putting me on the spot here" She said walking forward towards the man in charge."But given my place i cant really say no, now can i" She exclaimed grabbing his outstretched hand and shaking it, accepting his offer. Soon after abigail reached up and pulled down her hood. She untucked her long jet black hair the suns rays shined off her eyes which glinted like rubies. "My names Abigail, humble mercenary at your service".

[Zedeshia]

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.

Irykan looked around the room. It was certainly not the most comfortable place to stay, but that was to be expected in a small inn such as this one. He sat on his bed, and placed his small pack of belongings on the table. He had faced much worse before, back in his homeland. There was no doubt that he could make do with this as well. The sound of music could be heard in the distance, the musicians still playing their soft, slow tune. Irykan sighed. He supposed that he should formulate a plan on what to do the next day.

From what he could see from the map at Bann Lanwyll's longhouse, there was a small dirt path that connected Tyras and the mine at Madanach's Folly. Along both sides of this path there were many hills which were perfect to ambush traveling carts of goods from. As well as any bandits hiding inside the mine, there was likely a few based somewhere among those hills, carefully watching for any passing. Before he could go to the mine itself, it was imperative that he searched the area and find the location of such a place, if it indeed did exist. But on which side of the road would they be along? Irykan attempted to recall the exact topography of the landscape. If he remembered correctly, there was a substantially larger amount of trees and cover along the western side of the road. If someone was trying to ambush those passing through the area, they would do it there. Irykan considered this for some time. Eventually he decided that early in the morning he would set out and travel through the trees along the western side of the path on horseback. If he encountered any bandits waiting there, he would dispatch them quickly, and continue onto the mines. Yes, that could work...

Irykan stared out at the room's "windows". While he was lost in thought time had passed more quickly than he had anticipated. In fact, it would not be surprising if an hour had already gone by.

He retrieved the pack which he had put on the table and returned to the main section of the inn. A peculiar smell lingered in the air. The musicians and elderly man were sitting at the bar, eating slices of stale bread and some type of pungent stew while speaking with Vreed.

[Western Fardelshufflestein]

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.

Maksym Kozak
Fabled Steer Inn, Dzeka

Maksym headed up to his room, taking note of which room Gerolf staggered into, and hastily threw his cloak over his shoulders. There was no seamless way to do this; Haqikah, the innkeeper, and Gerolf's two guards already knew who he was. He would be the prime suspect when Gerolf disappeared, and, if they came to the conclusion he was dead, a possible murderer.

He silently dashed out of his room, a blur in the hallway of shadows. His twin daggers hung at his belt, accessible at a moment's notice, no longer hidden but glimmering dimly in the darkness. He hardly made any sound as he hurried down stairs to the floor directly above ground level, where Gerolf's room was, and slowed to a soft pad.

Instinctively, he gripped the hilts of his daggers. His breathing was soundless as he approached Gerolf's quarters. Neither guard appeared to be present outside his door, making Maksym wonder if they were waiting for an ambush, or if they were downstairs so as to acquire alibis.

It was the second possibility that gave Maksym pause. That would mean Gerolf's intentions were as lethal as his own, and that Haqikah...Haqikah was his target.

He stopped just beside the doorway, pressed himself against the wall, listened. He could hear the labored breaths of the server, the thick accent of the spy, but the words were difficult to decipher. Wait, he reminded himself, wait until you are certain he is harming her. Three years of spying for the Midzyans had taught him how and when to sense when someone was in danger, and, alternately, when someone was a danger. Judging by Gerolf's tone alone, the Rykalan was thirsting for blood.

"I did not zay it vould pe bainless! Vere vould pe zee choy in zat?" The sadistic glee in Gerolf's voice was tangible.

Maksym steeled himself and lunged forward, his twin knives sailing from his hands and thudding softly into Gerolf's back. He reached out and grabbed the Rykalan by the shoulders to haul him away before either he or Haqikah had any awareness of what was happening. The dying man jerked spastically in Maksym's grip, and he tightened his arms around Gerolf's torso.

Struggling under Gerolf's weight, Maksym made his way to the back stairwell of the inn. Gerolf gasped and gurgled as his punctured lungs fought for air, and blood-blackened saliva trickled from his mouth, but he continued to twist feebly against the muscled clamps that were Maksym's arms. The back of his clothing was becoming soaked with blood. Maksym had neglected to remove the knives, for their remaining embedded in Gerolf's flesh would reduce the crimson flow and would make for a more difficult trail to follow, but they made transporting him awkward.

When he reached a wooded area, he stopped and tossed Gerolf onto the ground. The other man hardly reacted, though pain flashed across his face when Maksym removed the knives. Maksym gritted his teeth and slit Gerolf's throat and stifled a sob as he watched the life fade from his eyes; this was the third life he had taken, and it was over twenty pieces of silver. The first two deaths, at least, had meant more than that.

Maksym sucked in a breath as he set to work on erasing the evidence. This involved lugging Gerolf's body to the river that ran through this region and obtaining what Nikraski had requested. It was disgusting work, and it involved the sacrifice of his cloak, but it was all he had. There would be questions if he entered the inn with a cloak and exited without, but this could be explained away depending on the weather.

Focus, Maksym. See if there is anything of value on his person, then do with him what you must. He took what appeared to be of value before stripping Gerolf of his clothing. These he would burn, as they were too Rykalan in fashion to be anything a Dzekan son of blacksmiths would dare to own. However, locating a bonfire was not nearly as tricky as what he had to do to make sure the remains of Gerolf would never be found.

---

Ninety minutes later, Maksym returned to the Fabled Steer Inn, a blood-soaked bundle tucked under his right arm. He entered through the back door, taking care to remove any dried drops of garnet as well as he could, and returned to his room before removing everything from his satchel. From there, he wrapped his nightshirt round the bundle, then rearranged his materials in such a manner to provide the illusion the contents of his satchel remained the same.

He had done it. He had completed the task, much earlier than intended, but it was done. The number of lives he had taken was now three.

Maksym removed his clothes, then washed them in the basin that had been provided, surprised he was able to clean them at all for his shaking.

[Phaenix]

Fabled Steer Inn, Loswiec

Helmer woke to the sound of armored boots. Placing his hand on his head in a futile attempt to block the pain of his hangover, Helmer looked up to see the point of a spear leveled at his face. The blood drained from his already pale face, and he turned to his partner.
"Volkmar! Volkmar, wach auf!"
Volkmar woke, and upon seeing the Dzekan spearmen, went for his sword. An arrow landed with a thud inches from his face. Looking up, Volkmar saw the face of Stanik, wielding a bow.
"I would not do that if I were you."
The two Rykalans sat in silence for a short while, until a Dzekan nobleman walked into the tavern. The noble laughed upon seeing the two hungover guards, who winced at the loud sound.
"Ah, have I caught you at a bad time? My apologies. If you could just tell us where your lord is, we'll be on our merry way."
Volkmar was about to shout at the noble to be quiet, but Helmer raised his hand. Speaking broken and heavily accented Common.
"In fazerland, it is tradizion to giffe name. Arh! I am Helmer far Lodeingen. Vu are vo?"
The noble laughed and spoke perferct Rykalan.
"Ich bin Lord Casimir Nikraski, ein treuer Diener des Prinzen und derjenige, der Gerolf's Schädel an meinen Kaminsims hängen will."
One of Nikraski's guards had entered Maksym's room and spoke.
"His lordship has your pay, if you have the rat's head."
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Lazy Mule Inn, Tyras

Vreed looked up when he heard Irykan enter. Handing him a bowl of soup with some kind of meat in it and a slice of bread, Vreed spoke.
"Good thing you awoke, mercenary. You almost missed my fine cuisine! Meat and bread soup!"
The old man laughed and spoke in Cynfeltcher.
"Ni fyddai fy nghi dall yn bwyta'ch llethr, Vreed."
Scowling, Vreed responded to the old man.
"Gwyliwch eich tafod, Mwut. Nid wyf yn poeni bod y gwaharddiad ei hun wedi gofyn imi eich gwylio, os byddwch yn fy sarhau eto byddaf yn rhwygo'ch tafod!"
There was a moment of silence, until both Vreed and Mwut burst into laughter. Vreed spoke through tears once more.
"Yr olwg ar eich wyneb, Gwallter! Hoffwn pe bai peintiwr wrth law, fel y gallai baentio portread o hwnnw i mi i'w hongian ar fy wal!"
The musician he had spoken to, Gwallter, sulked and went back to playing music. Mwut then looked at Irykan.
"Ta Chono ovgiin gishüün üü? Ügüi ee, magadgüi avgaigüi yumuu?" (Are you a member of the Wolf Clan? No, clanless, perhaps?)
Mwut asked Irykan in perfect Kheeriin Khel, the language of the Steppa nomads.
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On the Royal Road, Edithar

Gerwin smiled wolfishly and shook Abigail's hand. Motioning with his other hand for the soldiers to move out, Gerwin looked back at Abigail.
"Well, Abigail, I do hope our business will be profitable. To the Gryfort!"
With that, the soldiers turned northward, towards the towering citadel of the Gryfort.
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Arène de la Vaillance, Croixière

Korzhev laughed when Malcus asked if there'd be pay.
"Yes, my friend! Besides whatever you loot from your opponent's corpse, the lords of Croixière will be sure to rain coins on you for your troubles. Come, follow me."
Without waiting to see if Malcus was behind him, Korzhev walked towards an ordinary building with a man outside of it. The man drew a blade and spoke.
"Stop. Who are you, and what eez yur businez een lé Arène de la Vaillance?"
Korzhev put his halfhelm on his head and brandished his warhammer.
"I am Korzhev the Strong, and me and my friend here," he motioned to Malcus, "wish to test our might in the arena!"
The man nodded, and opened the door, which led down a flight of steps and into a crowded arena, filled with bloodthirsty spectators.
"Zen entair lé pit, and die wéll."

[Bolslania]

Fabled Steer Inn, Loswiec

Helmer woke to the sound of armored boots. Placing his hand on his head in a futile attempt to block the pain of his hangover, Helmer looked up to see the point of a spear leveled at his face. The blood drained from his already pale face, and he turned to his partner.
"Volkmar! Volkmar, wach auf!"
Volkmar woke, and upon seeing the Dzekan spearmen, went for his sword. An arrow landed with a thud inches from his face. Looking up, Volkmar saw the face of Stanik, wielding a bow.
"I would not do that if I were you."
The two Rykalans sat in silence for a short while, until a Dzekan nobleman walked into the tavern. The noble laughed upon seeing the two hungover guards, who winced at the loud sound.
"Ah, have I caught you at a bad time? My apologies. If you could just tell us where your lord is, we'll be on our merry way."
Volkmar was about to shout at the noble to be quiet, but Helmer raised his hand. Speaking broken and heavily accented Common.
"In fazerland, it is tradizion to giffe name. Arh! I am Helmer far Lodeingen. Vu are vo?"
The noble laughed and spoke perferct Rykalan.
"Ich bin Lord Casimir Nikraski, ein treuer Diener des Prinzen und derjenige, der Gerolf's Schädel an meinen Kaminsims hängen will."
One of Nikraski's guards had entered Maksym's room and spoke.
"His lordship has your pay, if you have the rat's head."
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Lazy Mule Inn, Tyras

Vreed looked up when he heard Irykan enter. Handing him a bowl of soup with some kind of meat in it and a slice of bread, Vreed spoke.
"Good thing you awoke, mercenary. You almost missed my fine cuisine! Meat and bread soup!"
The old man laughed and spoke in Cynfeltcher.
"Ni fyddai fy nghi dall yn bwyta'ch llethr, Vreed."
Scowling, Vreed responded to the old man.
"Gwyliwch eich tafod, Mwut. Nid wyf yn poeni bod y gwaharddiad ei hun wedi gofyn imi eich gwylio, os byddwch yn fy sarhau eto byddaf yn rhwygo'ch tafod!"
There was a moment of silence, until both Vreed and Mwut burst into laughter. Vreed spoke through tears once more.
"Yr olwg ar eich wyneb, Gwallter! Hoffwn pe bai peintiwr wrth law, fel y gallai baentio portread o hwnnw i mi i'w hongian ar fy wal!"
The musician he had spoken to, Gwallter, sulked and went back to playing music. Mwut then looked at Irykan.
"Ta Chono ovgiin gishüün üü? Ügüi ee, magadgüi avgaigüi yumuu?" (Are you a member of the Wolf Clan? No, clanless, perhaps?)
Mwut asked Irykan in perfect Kheeriin Khel, the language of the Steppa nomads.
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On the Royal Road, Edithar

Gerwin smiled wolfishly and shook Abigail's hand. Motioning with his other hand for the soldiers to move out, Gerwin looked back at Abigail.
"Well, Abigail, I do hope our business will be profitable. To the Gryfort!"
With that, the soldiers turned northward, towards the towering citadel of the Gryfort.
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Arène de la Vaillance, Croixière

Korzhev laughed when Malcus asked if there'd be pay.
"Yes, my friend! Besides whatever you loot from your opponent's corpse, the lords of Croixière will be sure to rain coins on you for your troubles. Come, follow me."
Without waiting to see if Malcus was behind him, Korzhev walked towards an ordinary building with a man outside of it. The man drew a blade and spoke.
"Stop. Who are you, and what eez yur businez een lé Arène de la Vaillance?"
Korzhev put his halfhelm on his head and brandished his warhammer.
"I am Korzhev the Strong, and me and my friend here," he motioned to Malcus, "wish to test our might in the arena!"
The man nodded, and opened the door, which led down a flight of steps and into a crowded arena, filled with bloodthirsty spectators.
"Zen entair lé pit, and die wéll."

Malcus followed Korzhev into the building, fastening the last bits of the armor on. He stepped into the pit and prepared to win some coin for himself. He waited for his opponent to come forward to meet him in combat.

[Western Fardelshufflestein]

Fabled Steer Inn, Loswiec

Helmer woke to the sound of armored boots. Placing his hand on his head in a futile attempt to block the pain of his hangover, Helmer looked up to see the point of a spear leveled at his face. The blood drained from his already pale face, and he turned to his partner.
"Volkmar! Volkmar, wach auf!"
Volkmar woke, and upon seeing the Dzekan spearmen, went for his sword. An arrow landed with a thud inches from his face. Looking up, Volkmar saw the face of Stanik, wielding a bow.
"I would not do that if I were you."
The two Rykalans sat in silence for a short while, until a Dzekan nobleman walked into the tavern. The noble laughed upon seeing the two hungover guards, who winced at the loud sound.
"Ah, have I caught you at a bad time? My apologies. If you could just tell us where your lord is, we'll be on our merry way."
Volkmar was about to shout at the noble to be quiet, but Helmer raised his hand. Speaking broken and heavily accented Common.
"In fazerland, it is tradizion to giffe name. Arh! I am Helmer far Lodeingen. Vu are vo?"
The noble laughed and spoke perferct Rykalan.
"Ich bin Lord Casimir Nikraski, ein treuer Diener des Prinzen und derjenige, der Gerolf's Schädel an meinen Kaminsims hängen will."
One of Nikraski's guards had entered Maksym's room and spoke.
"His lordship has your pay, if you have the rat's head."

Maksym Kozak
Fabled Steer Inn, Dzeka

Maksym was aroused by an incursion of an armed guard.

Startled, he sat up blearily, blinking the sleep away from his eyes and shoving aside the sweat-dampened blanket. Was the soldier coming to arrest him? Had he, despite all of the measures he had taken, made a crucial error that had proven his guilt?

"His lordship has your pay, if you have the rat's head."

Maksym gaped at the soldier for several seconds ere he recalled exactly who the other man was referring to and why. "Yes, yes, I have it," he replied hastily, voice husky with fatigue. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and yanked his boots over his feet, eyes on the guard. "It is in my satchel. I will deliver it to your lord myself if that is what he wishes."

He stood, then grabbed his satchel and gingerly slung it over his shoulder. The weight of Gerolf's head made him want to gag.

Fortunately, no redness had seeped through enough to stain his satchel, but the added bulge was surely unmistakable. He was going to kill her, he reminded himself, as if Gerolf was somehow more depraved than he.

He approached the guard, wary that Nikraski's men had raided the inn on such short notice. Part of him assumed it was because Stanik must have realized that Gerolf was missing and concluded the job was done, or because someone had seen--

"I am ready to speak to Lord Nikraski," he informed the guard, walking out of the room of the inn.

[Phaenix]

Fabled Steer Inn, Loswiec

The guard nodded and motioned for Maksym to follow him. Walking down the corridor, the pair could see patrons, awoken by the noise, begin to leave their rooms, but the guard barked at them to stay put. Finally entering the common area, Nikraski turned from Helmer and Volkmar and walked towards Maksym.
"Ah, my friend, is the job accomplished? Is that snake dead?"
Seeing the lump in Maksym's hands, Nikraski practically squealed.
"Finally, that depraved murderer is dead! Oh, Anya, how I wish you could see me when I mount that sick bastard's head on the mantle!"
Turning to Stanik, who held a small chest full of silver, Nikraski motioned for Maksym to be paid.
(+20 Silver)
As Stanik passed the chest to Maksym, Nikraski clapped his hands, and the two Rykalan guards were dragged out of the inn, presumably to the Prince's dungeons.
"Thank you, my friend. This good deed will not go unrewarded. Keep your ears open for jobs from the Prince in the future, as he may give you a hefty bonus."
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Arène de la Vaillance, Croixière

As Malcus stepped into the pit, Korzhev stepped in beside him. Smiling, the big man hefted his warhammer.
"It seems they wish for the pit's walls to be painted with blood, having us two here together!"
As he said this, a wall in the pit opened to reveal a basilisk, though one unable to spit acid. A round man stood near the Lords of Croixière, and boomed.
"Ladies and gentlemen, commoners and noblefolk alike! Today we witness two outsiders, Korzhev the Strong and Malcus the Murderous, battle a feared beast from the forests of Cavleon!"
Korzhev grinned wildly when he heard Malcus' nickname.
"I felt that a little alliteration would be fun, no?"
The announcer continued as the basilisk slowly approached the pair.
"This beast has slain twelve other challengers, and has earned the name 'The Emerald Terror!'"
The name was well deserved, as the twelve foot long beast's scales glimmered green like emeralds, while it's spiked head opened to reveal rows upon rows of teeth. The creature lunged at Korzhev, but the mountain of a man easily dodged it and smashed his massive warhammer into its side.
Basilisk Health -20 (80/100)
The basilisk screamed in pain, but then turned on Malcus, charging forward, intent on crushing the mercenary in it's massive jaws.

[Bolslania]

Malcus grinned back at Korzhev as the Basilisk stepped in to the ring


Malcus readied to pounce, as the Basilisk charged forward at him, he sprung up, turning in air, stabbing for the base of the Basilisks skull

[Western Fardelshufflestein]

Fabled Steer Inn, Loswiec

The guard nodded and motioned for Maksym to follow him. Walking down the corridor, the pair could see patrons, awoken by the noise, begin to leave their rooms, but the guard barked at them to stay put. Finally entering the common area, Nikraski turned from Helmer and Volkmar and walked towards Maksym.
"Ah, my friend, is the job accomplished? Is that snake dead?"
Seeing the lump in Maksym's hands, Nikraski practically squealed.
"Finally, that depraved murderer is dead! Oh, Anya, how I wish you could see me when I mount that sick bastard's head on the mantle!"
Turning to Stanik, who held a small chest full of silver, Nikraski motioned for Maksym to be paid.
(+20 Silver)
As Stanik passed the chest to Maksym, Nikraski clapped his hands, and the two Rykalan guards were dragged out of the inn, presumably to the Prince's dungeons.
"Thank you, my friend. This good deed will not go unrewarded. Keep your ears open for jobs from the Prince in the future, as he may give you a hefty bonus."

Maksym Kozak
Fabled Steer Inn, Dzeka

Maksym thanked Nikraski profusely, then pocketed the money, shuddering. He scanned the throng for the innkeeper, and, upon spotting him, made his way toward the man. One silver piece in his palm, he extended his arm, figuring the innkeeper at least deserved some compensation for all that had occurred. He then bowed his head and slipped out the door and back into the chaotic city of Loswiec.

Without his cloak, he appeared less menacing at first glance. But the way his muscles rippled beneath his gave away his brute strength, and he had perhaps not done as well a job of cleaning his garments as he initially thought. In short, Maksym exuded every bit of his street fighter past, with the addition of something more sinister that lurked behind his eyes, and a shuddering, hunched posture that betrayed his fear, marked him as a wounded man.

There was no shortage of pain in the Dzekan capital. Fear and regret and pain hung in the atmosphere with a tang almost stronger than those of sweat and alcohol. Homeless men, women, children lined the sides of buildings, their dirt-caked hands outstretched in desperate pleas that they might be able to afford a rotten apple to last them the day. Some were deaf, lame, blind, unable to care for themselves and abandoned as though they were worth less than the grime on the streets, while others stank of infection and their own filth as they stared at the pedestrians with their dying eyes.

Some of those who lay prone on the ground were passed out drunk, others still swilling from their bottles, while still more were moaning and vomiting from what was likely the result of too much alcohol. Many probably had families somewhere, whether estranged or waiting anxiously for their return. Perhaps enough had roofs over their heads.

Absently, Maksym wondered if any of them had ever been mercenaries, and, if so, who they had fought for. How many they had killed. Whether they used the bottle to drown out their nightmares, or to run away from their guilt.

He eventually found a relatively deserted place that he deemed adequate for taking a break. He sat down, opened his satchel, and retrieved a pear that was beginning to brown. Ideally, he'd save it for at least another day, but letting it go to waste would be a costly mistake.

As he chewed, he wondered what in the world was wrong with him that he had agreed to kill another man for twenty silver coins. Nineteen. You gave one to that poor inkeeper. Was he really that desperate? Yes, he decided, for he had no steady income of food, no permanent lodgings, no real career, nothing to really call his own other than what was contained in his satchel. And he had his three kills.

Suppressing a sob, Maksym rested his head on his knees and tightened his grip around his half-eaten pear. He was lowly. An assassin-for-hire. He did the dirty work so that Nikraski could sleep at night knowing that one less vagrant roamed his principality. Yet he needed to make money for himself so he could survive. That was what had brought him to Loswiec: the hope that he would find work as a soldier. What he had gotten instead was an assassination assignment.

He rose to his feet and angrily bit off a chunk of the pear. If all he was to do at this present time was wait, then he at least needed to explore the city and do something other than feel sorry for himself. The time for that was at night, when he was all alone and huddled near the shadow of an inn.

He first retraced his steps to the square where he had initially run into Nikraski, then went north from there. He soon found himself in the city center, an overwhelming clash of voices, neighs, odors, cultures, and the foot traffic made navigation difficult; fortunately, he could use the palace of Mislav as a steady point. Maksym circuited round the palace, memorizing routes that connected and doubled back on themselves, until he felt he had a general idea of the layout of central Loswiec.

By then, it was midafternoon. He had been in the city for just under a day, and he had already gotten a mission from a noble and taken a Rykalan's life. He was a stranger who swooped in and killed. Very little about his persona made him approachable, he knew, but at least Nikraski knew who he was. Nikraski, whom Maksym was not sure he should trust in the least.

Maksym squinted at the nearest storefront: a shop that appeared to be selling cloaks. He was in desperate need of a new one now that his own cloak had become the perfect concealing of a dead man's head. However, he was rather uncertain that he could afford even the cheapest made cloak that fit. He shook his head furiously and pressed onward before anyone within the store got any ideas that he was a potential customer, which he had been, for a fleeting moment.

Soon, he found himself not far from the gates of the palace. He was, truthfully, unaware that his feet had led him here, but perhaps it was just so. For he thought he could see movement on the other side of the gates--yes, that was a carriage worth a thousand times more than what was within his satchel. Perhaps it carried a noble like Nikraski, or a foreign general, or no one at all.

Maksym took cues from the people around him and retreated away from the main path leading to the palace. Thus, he was lost in a smallish crowd. This suited him just fine, for it would make him more difficult to spot at first, though he would surely be unmistakable in a multitude he stood head and, in some cases, shoulders over.

[Phaenix]

Prince's Palace, Loswiec

The carriage halted before the white walls of the palace. Over the screams of the crowd, a large, portly man in a green tunic with a fur mantle stepped out of the carriage, his cavalier hat almost comically oversized. Raising his hands to silence the crowd, the man spoke.
"All hail his Serenity, Prince Mislav of the glorious House Volansky!"
Stepping out after the man was a tall, lanky youth, only nineteen with fuzz on his chin and cheeks, the attempts at a beard. The crowd went wild when the prince, luxurious in his velvet doublet and black leggings, put up his hand to quiet the crowd before speaking.
"My loyal subjects! As you know, we are at war with the despicable Prince Boleslaw Vinogradov of Midzya!"
At the mention of their mortal enemy, the crowds booed and hissed. Raising his hand again for silence, the prince continued.
"Well, since Prince Boleslaw has acted as a bandit, raiding farmsteads and villages, then we have had no choice but to treat him as one! Please welcome, Dvoryanin Zivadin of the House Kral, former bandit!"
The crowd became confused when the tall, well built former bandit stepped out of the carriage. Dressed in chain and leather brigandine, most would assume he was still a bandit, were it not for his coat-of-arms, a white skull surrounded by swords. Sensing the crowd's confusion, Prince Mislav spoke once more.
"Dvoryanin Zivadin, being a former bandit, has agreed to assist us in exchange for noble status, and a pardon to all of his crimes. Many of you know him as Black-Heart, and we are sure that Zivadin will help turn the tides in the war."
Zivadin then stepped forward and pulled on a rope in his hand, forcing a man to stumble out of the carriage. Though covered in cuts and bruises, one could tell that this man was highborn by the way he carried himself. Zivadin smiled.
"Meet the honorable Lord Zelicek Wach, Lord of Kisalok. My men and I snuck into the city and took him from his bed."
Still smiling, Zivadin slit Lord Zelicek's throat. The crowd, horrified, began to scream, until Zivadin spoke up once more.
"The honorable Lord Zelicek was the one who suggesseted razing your farms and villages. If we are to defeat the Midzyans, we must be Black-Hearted."
Looking around at the crowd, Zivadin spoke once more.
"If any of you wish to test you steel in combat, step forward, and we will hire you on the spot, be you noble, commoner, mercenary, or bandit. All crimes are forgiven in battle."
A few stepped forward, then a convicted murderer, a known cutpurse, a deserter, and many more.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Arène de la Vaillance, Comreux

The basilisk, off balance from its injury, was unable to turn in time and screamed in pain once more, before slashing out with its claw at Malcus, catching him and scratching his chest, but only inflicting minor bruising.
Basilisk Health -15 (75/100)
Malcus Health -2 (18/20)
The crowd roared, eager to see blood, as the basilisk drew itself up to its full height, twelve feet in all.

[Bolslania]

Comreux,

Malcus rolled away from the Basilisk, he heard the crowd roar, rolling his eyes at their cowardly bloodlust, he has no respect for those who likes to watch, but didn't want to participate in, violence.

He got to his feet, letting Korzhev distract it, as soon as Korzhev attacked he would leap at the Basilisk as well

[Western Fardelshufflestein]

Prince's Palace, Loswiec

The carriage halted before the white walls of the palace. Over the screams of the crowd, a large, portly man in a green tunic with a fur mantle stepped out of the carriage, his cavalier hat almost comically oversized. Raising his hands to silence the crowd, the man spoke.
"All hail his Serenity, Prince Mislav of the glorious House Volansky!"
Stepping out after the man was a tall, lanky youth, only nineteen with fuzz on his chin and cheeks, the attempts at a beard. The crowd went wild when the prince, luxurious in his velvet doublet and black leggings, put up his hand to quiet the crowd before speaking.
"My loyal subjects! As you know, we are at war with the despicable Prince Boleslaw Vinogradov of Midzya!"
At the mention of their mortal enemy, the crowds booed and hissed. Raising his hand again for silence, the prince continued.
"Well, since Prince Boleslaw has acted as a bandit, raiding farmsteads and villages, then we have had no choice but to treat him as one! Please welcome, Dvoryanin Zivadin of the House Kral, former bandit!"
The crowd became confused when the tall, well built former bandit stepped out of the carriage. Dressed in chain and leather brigandine, most would assume he was still a bandit, were it not for his coat-of-arms, a white skull surrounded by swords. Sensing the crowd's confusion, Prince Mislav spoke once more.
"Dvoryanin Zivadin, being a former bandit, has agreed to assist us in exchange for noble status, and a pardon to all of his crimes. Many of you know him as Black-Heart, and we are sure that Zivadin will help turn the tides in the war."
Zivadin then stepped forward and pulled on a rope in his hand, forcing a man to stumble out of the carriage. Though covered in cuts and bruises, one could tell that this man was highborn by the way he carried himself. Zivadin smiled.
"Meet the honorable Lord Zelicek Wach, Lord of Kisalok. My men and I snuck into the city and took him from his bed."
Still smiling, Zivadin slit Lord Zelicek's throat. The crowd, horrified, began to scream, until Zivadin spoke up once more.
"The honorable Lord Zelicek was the one who suggesseted razing your farms and villages. If we are to defeat the Midzyans, we must be Black-Hearted."
Looking around at the crowd, Zivadin spoke once more.
"If any of you wish to test you steel in combat, step forward, and we will hire you on the spot, be you noble, commoner, mercenary, or bandit. All crimes are forgiven in battle."
A few stepped forward, then a convicted murderer, a known cutpurse, a deserter, and many more.

Maksym Kozak
Prince's Palace, Loswiec, Dzeka

He cheered and shouted along with the crowd, knowing that he would attract too much attention by blending in. But there was nothing he could do to conceal his shock when the boy Prince announced that he was hiring known criminals to be used in the war.

"If any of you wish to test you steel in combat, step forward, and we will hire you on the spot, be you noble, commoner, mercenary, or bandit. All crimes are forgiven in battle." Mislav, looking every bit of his regal heritage in his luxurious doublet, surveyed the crowd as though his announcement was a challenge.

What had Nikraski said...keep his ears open for jobs from the Prince? Was this what he had meant?

Ducking awkwardly, he made his way to the front of the crowd, then stopped a reasonable distance from the carriage in line with individuals who were surely criminals. Why would they join a crowd of commoners and risk being caught like that baffled Maksym, for he knew that the bald-pated meathead over there had wanted posters of his likeness plastered all over the city.

He genuflected in a way that was appropriate when in the presence of royalty. Truthfully, he had never laid his eyes on someone with princely lineage, and he was not fully sure how to act, but this seemed to suffice. When he rose, he noticed that three more had joined the ranks.

His throat constricted at the wrongness of it all. The assassinations, the use of criminals against Midzya, even the war itself. Mislav, like he, was just a boy who had gotten his hands on too much power. For Mislav, it was the reigns of the principality; for Maksym, it was weaponry. He imagined that there was a brutal streak buried somewhere in this kid, for there was no way he would propose an ultimatum such as this if he was even only a little bit ruthless.

Maksym was conscious of the fact that Maksym was likely rounding up the criminals so they could be sent to their deaths in a most convenient manner. He, and those who stood with him, would be given the deadliest assignments that a regular soldier wouldn't dare risk, and their positions could easily be filled by another murderer or petty thief. Perhaps this was what he deserved for a lifetime of brawling and manipulation. He was, in the eyes of Mislav, a traitor, and he was not sure his previous service could quite be forgiven.

But he opted to join nonetheless, for he really had no other option, and his satchel was still lacking in sufficient funds. His family would scorn him if they truly knew what he was up to, but had they ever--had they ever been aware of his capabilities? Not even Jaromir, the sibling with whom he was closest, knew.

It was best that way. The less he knew about Maksym's shady career choices, the more blissfully ignorant he would be. He might be in less danger by knowing almost nothing. Maksym prayed to the Supreme Deity that this was true, for if anybody harmed someone he cared about unjustly, there would be hell to pay.

And he might have just gained the connection to ensure that any aggressor would immediately see death.

[Zedeshia]

Lazy Mule Inn, Tyras

Vreed looked up when he heard Irykan enter. Handing him a bowl of soup with some kind of meat in it and a slice of bread, Vreed spoke.
"Good thing you awoke, mercenary. You almost missed my fine cuisine! Meat and bread soup!"
The old man laughed and spoke in Cynfeltcher.
"Ni fyddai fy nghi dall yn bwyta'ch llethr, Vreed."
Scowling, Vreed responded to the old man.
"Gwyliwch eich tafod, Mwut. Nid wyf yn poeni bod y gwaharddiad ei hun wedi gofyn imi eich gwylio, os byddwch yn fy sarhau eto byddaf yn rhwygo'ch tafod!"
There was a moment of silence, until both Vreed and Mwut burst into laughter. Vreed spoke through tears once more.
"Yr olwg ar eich wyneb, Gwallter! Hoffwn pe bai peintiwr wrth law, fel y gallai baentio portread o hwnnw i mi i'w hongian ar fy wal!"
The musician he had spoken to, Gwallter, sulked and went back to playing music. Mwut then looked at Irykan.
"Ta Chono ovgiin gishüün üü? Ügüi ee, magadgüi avgaigüi yumuu?" (Are you a member of the Wolf Clan? No, clanless, perhaps?)
Mwut asked Irykan in perfect Kheeriin Khel, the language of the Steppa nomads."

Irykan nodded his head towards Kreed with silent appreciation and accepted the food. He took a seat along the bar, and began to eat. The soup had a dark green, bitter broth and was releasing a smell that Irykan had never even known was possible for food to make. The few pieces of bread and shredded meat floating in this broth were gray and tasteless, it was impossible for him to determine what exactly they were. Still, a free meal was not something one should let up lightly, so Irykan continued, ignoring the chatter of those around him. That was until the old man to his right did something quite unexpected: he questioned Irykan which clan he belonged to in flawless Kheeriin Khel.

Upon hearing Mwut's question, Irykan looked up in surprise. It had been a very long time since he had heard someone speak his home tongue, let alone as well as this man did. Who exactly was this Cynfeltch stranger?
After considering if he should answer or not for a short moment he responded:
"I was of a small clan to the north, their name is of no importance. At least not any longer, they are no more."

[Phaenix]

Prince's Palace, Loswiec

The carriage halted before the white walls of the palace. Over the screams of the crowd, a large, portly man in a green tunic with a fur mantle stepped out of the carriage, his cavalier hat almost comically oversized. Raising his hands to silence the crowd, the man spoke.
"All hail his Serenity, Prince Mislav of the glorious House Volansky!"
Stepping out after the man was a tall, lanky youth, only nineteen with fuzz on his chin and cheeks, the attempts at a beard. The crowd went wild when the prince, luxurious in his velvet doublet and black leggings, put up his hand to quiet the crowd before speaking.
"My loyal subjects! As you know, we are at war with the despicable Prince Boleslaw Vinogradov of Midzya!"
At the mention of their mortal enemy, the crowds booed and hissed. Raising his hand again for silence, the prince continued.
"Well, since Prince Boleslaw has acted as a bandit, raiding farmsteads and villages, then we have had no choice but to treat him as one! Please welcome, Dvoryanin Zivadin of the House Kral, former bandit!"
The crowd became confused when the tall, well built former bandit stepped out of the carriage. Dressed in chain and leather brigandine, most would assume he was still a bandit, were it not for his coat-of-arms, a white skull surrounded by swords. Sensing the crowd's confusion, Prince Mislav spoke once more.
"Dvoryanin Zivadin, being a former bandit, has agreed to assist us in exchange for noble status, and a pardon to all of his crimes. Many of you know him as Black-Heart, and we are sure that Zivadin will help turn the tides in the war."
Zivadin then stepped forward and pulled on a rope in his hand, forcing a man to stumble out of the carriage. Though covered in cuts and bruises, one could tell that this man was highborn by the way he carried himself. Zivadin smiled.
"Meet the honorable Lord Zelicek Wach, Lord of Kisalok. My men and I snuck into the city and took him from his bed."
Still smiling, Zivadin slit Lord Zelicek's throat. The crowd, horrified, began to scream, until Zivadin spoke up once more.
"The honorable Lord Zelicek was the one who suggesseted razing your farms and villages. If we are to defeat the Midzyans, we must be Black-Hearted."
Looking around at the crowd, Zivadin spoke once more.
"If any of you wish to test you steel in combat, step forward, and we will hire you on the spot, be you noble, commoner, mercenary, or bandit. All crimes are forgiven in battle."
A few stepped forward, then a convicted murderer, a known cutpurse, a deserter, and many more.

Maksym Kozak
Prince's Palace, Loswiec, Dzeka

He cheered and shouted along with the crowd, knowing that he would attract too much attention by blending in. But there was nothing he could do to conceal his shock when the boy Prince announced that he was hiring known criminals to be used in the war.

"If any of you wish to test you steel in combat, step forward, and we will hire you on the spot, be you noble, commoner, mercenary, or bandit. All crimes are forgiven in battle." Mislav, looking every bit of his regal heritage in his luxurious doublet, surveyed the crowd as though his announcement was a challenge.

What had Nikraski said...keep his ears open for jobs from the Prince? Was this what he had meant?

Ducking awkwardly, he made his way to the front of the crowd, then stopped a reasonable distance from the carriage in line with individuals who were surely criminals. Why would they join a crowd of commoners and risk being caught like that baffled Maksym, for he knew that the bald-pated meathead over there had wanted posters of his likeness plastered all over the city.

He genuflected in a way that was appropriate when in the presence of royalty. Truthfully, he had never laid his eyes on someone with princely lineage, and he was not fully sure how to act, but this seemed to suffice. When he rose, he noticed that three more had joined the ranks.

His throat constricted at the wrongness of it all. The assassinations, the use of criminals against Midzya, even the war itself. Mislav, like he, was just a boy who had gotten his hands on too much power. For Mislav, it was the reigns of the principality; for Maksym, it was weaponry. He imagined that there was a brutal streak buried somewhere in this kid, for there was no way he would propose an ultimatum such as this if he was even only a little bit ruthless.

Maksym was conscious of the fact that Maksym was likely rounding up the criminals so they could be sent to their deaths in a most convenient manner. He, and those who stood with him, would be given the deadliest assignments that a regular soldier wouldn't dare risk, and their positions could easily be filled by another murderer or petty thief. Perhaps this was what he deserved for a lifetime of brawling and manipulation. He was, in the eyes of Mislav, a traitor, and he was not sure his previous service could quite be forgiven.

But he opted to join nonetheless, for he really had no other option, and his satchel was still lacking in sufficient funds. His family would scorn him if they truly knew what he was up to, but had they ever--had they ever been aware of his capabilities? Not Jaromir, the sibling with whom he was closest, knew.

It was best that way. The less he knew about Maksym's shady career choices, the more blissfully ignorant he would be. He might be in less danger by knowing almost nothing. Maksym prayed to the Supreme Deity that this was true, for if anybody harmed someone he cared about unjustly, there would be hell to pay.

And he might have just gained the connection to ensure that any aggressor would immediately see death.

Prince's Palace, Loswiec

Prince Mislav laughed upon seeing Maksym genuflect. Motioning towards Dvoryanin Zivadin, Mislav spoke.
"Ah, it seems this one knows how to act before nobility! Tell me, Zivadin, this Company of Black-Hearts needs a commander, does it not?"
Zivadin nodded, and threw a sword to the bald murderer, who deftly grabbed it. Throwing a sword at Maksym's feet, Zivadin spoke.
"Whichever one of you lives will be my poručík, my Right Hand. Whichever one of you loses, dies."
The murderer grinned wildly. He was known as Red Gregor, for he had slain twenty men before this, and he intended for Maksym to be his twenty-first. Mislav nodded his head.
"Begin!"
The crowd, now with a show, began to cheer on, surprisingly, Red Gregor, who showed off to the crowd before advancing on Maksym. He bared his teeth at Maksym.
"Give up now, boy, and I'll not flay your corpse and use your skin for a hat."
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Arène de la Vaillance, Comreux

Korzhev smiled and shouted at the basilisk.
"Come, you overgrown snake! Come meet your doom!"
The basilisk turned and roared, its emerald scales darkened by its blood. Charging forward with a yell, Korzhev smashed his warhammer into the beast's neck. A sickening crack could be heard, and the arena quieted.
Basilisk Health -65 (5/100)
The basilisk's head was almost completely detached from its body, but it still thrashed and hissed. Korzhev laughed and turned to Malcus.
"Well, friend, I'll let you have the honors."
Motioning for Malcus to finish the beast, Korzhev stepped back, admiring his handiwork.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lazy Mule Inn, Tyras

Mwut nodded sadly, and placed an intricatey decorated saber sheath on the table. Speaking in Kheeriin Khel once more, Mwut began his tale.
"My name was once Altan Taichar, but you may know me as Ezent Gürniig Agnasan Chono, the Wolf who Hunts the Empire. My clan, the Direwolf Clan, were at the forefront of the Rykalan advance. I was out on a raid of an Imperial farmstead with my Blood Brothers when a rider, arrow in his arm and horse nearly dead, rode towards us. I recognized him as Bashimur Zalgikh, the lame fletcher of our village. He told us that the Empire had massacred all in our clan, even the women and children, slain the horses, and then burned their bodies so that they may not ride with Khal, the Khan of Khans."
Mwut took a swig of his ale before continuing.
"I was young, as were my Blood Brothers, and we wanted revenge. After giving Bashimur, who died shortly after telling the tale, a good burial, I, Tolun, Ogodei, and Ukilen, the finest raiders in the Steppes, descended on the Imperial camp. We slew perhaps a thousand before their generals regained order and surrounded us. Tolun went first, surrounded by dead Imperials and with a curse on his lips. Then Ogodei, who was slain by a giant of a man, but managed to kill his killer before dying. Then it was just Ukilen and me. Being the brash youth I was, I intended to die with my brothers then and there, but Ukilen spurred my horse, sending me flying out of the camp. The last I saw of Ukilen, he had six pikes shoved into his chest."
Mwut paused for a moment and looked at Irykan.
"You look just like him, come to think of it. Sain barildaarai, akh mini. Anyways, after that I was a wolf on the hunt. I burned towns, slew travelers, turned back entire armies single-handedly for five decades, until I finally grew tired. My sword arm slowed, and I could no longer ride for days on end. So, young warrior, I give you this blade, Chono Shüd, the Wolf's Tooth."
The saber's sheath was decorated with scenes of mounted combat, and when Mwut handed it to Irykan, it seemed to glow with an ethereal light.
Gained Chono Shüd (1Handed Saber, Legendary)
Mwut smiled seeing the glow.
"It has accepted you, young warrior. Feed it often with Imperial blood."
With that, Mwut returned to his food before heading to his room. Once Mwut was out of earshot, Vreed turned to Irykan.
"He must see something in you, boy, to give you his sword. I've never once seen a speck of dust on that blade, and it's easily sharp enough to cut a man in two. Use that gift well."

[Bolslania]

Cromeux,

Malcus made a tipping of the hat motion to Korzhev, and stepped forward and swung his knife at the last strings of the Basilisks neck

[Western Fardelshufflestein]

Prince's Palace, Loswiec

Prince Mislav laughed upon seeing Maksym genuflect. Motioning towards Dvoryanin Zivadin, Mislav spoke.
"Ah, it seems this one knows how to act before nobility! Tell me, Zivadin, this Company of Black-Hearts needs a commander, does it not?"
Zivadin nodded, and threw a sword to the bald murderer, who deftly grabbed it. Throwing a sword at Maksym's feet, Zivadin spoke.
"Whichever one of you lives will be my poručík, my Right Hand. Whichever one of you loses, dies."
The murderer grinned wildly. He was known as Red Gregor, for he had slain twenty men before this, and he intended for Maksym to be his twenty-first. Mislav nodded his head.
"Begin!"
The crowd, now with a show, began to cheer on, surprisingly, Red Gregor, who showed off to the crowd before advancing on Maksym. He bared his teeth at Maksym.
"Give up now, boy, and I'll not flay your corpse and use your skin for a hat."

Maksym Kozak
Prince's Palace, Loswiec, Dzeka

Maksym set down his satchel and scooped the sword off the ground, hefting it, and studied the murderer. Gregor, the posters had said his name was. How had he ended up in this situation....

"Begin!"

Maksym shifted into a fighting stance, his blade at the ready. All thoughts of guilt and self-doubt washed away as his mind shifted its concentration to the duel at hand. His life was a series of battles, usually two or three against one; the only thing different about this one was that the only options would be a top commanding position and death.

Apparently, his groveling had been too extreme.

"Give up now, boy, and I'll not flay your corpse and use your skin for a hat." Red Gregor snarled, revealed brown, cracked teeth that likely accompanied a horrific breath.

"I'll give up when your teeth become white."

As the audience ooooohed in response, Maksym lunged for Gregor's fleshy chest.

Metal clanged viciously against metal as their blades slammed into one another, and Maksym swung his body to the side, the sword held aloft in both his hands. Gregor jabbed at him, and he parried almost subconsciously. His body was operating almost on its own accord, ducking, twisting, leaping, his powerful muscles providing him with a distinct advantage. There was no need to use his magic, yet, for he had settled into a routine, all distractions fading away as his most primal survival instincts kicked in--

Blood. Blood pouring from his left cheek, a slashing of the enemy's sword, a dodge. The point glancing off his face. He couldn't allow himself to succumb to the pain. Instead, he lashed out with greater fervor, his sword singing as it made its way toward an exposed bit of skin above Gergor's hip.

His jab was parried, albeit sloppily. The sword managed to sink maybe an inch into Gregor before the other pushed his sword away, and now the two were circling each other, their ferocity almost feral. Maksym felt his heart throbbing, felt the sweat drenching him, but he had to ignore it. Had to direct every ounce of his attention at Gregor. At killing him for the sake of his surviving.

Gregor noticed the brief moment of heistation in Maksym. He dove for what should have been a killing blow, but Maksym sidestepped and brutally smacked the butt of his sword into Gregor's shoulder. Gregor yelled, giving Maksym the chance to disarm the man, guarding his body in case this was a feint on Gregor's part.

[Zedeshia]

Lazy Mule Inn, Tyras

Mwut nodded sadly, and placed an intricatey decorated saber sheath on the table. Speaking in Kheeriin Khel once more, Mwut began his tale.
"My name was once Altan Taichar, but you may know me as Ezent Gürniig Agnasan Chono, the Wolf who Hunts the Empire. My clan, the Direwolf Clan, were at the forefront of the Rykalan advance. Some even said that he was the spirit of battle, Quanli I was out on a raid of an Imperial farmstead with my Blood Brothers when a rider, arrow in his arm and horse nearly dead, rode towards us. I recognized him as Bashimur Zalgikh, the lame fletcher of our village. He told us that the Empire had massacred all in our clan, even the women and children, slain the horses, and then burned their bodies so that they may not ride with Khal, the Khan of Khans."
Mwut took a swig of his ale before continuing.
"I was young, as were my Blood Brothers, and we wanted revenge. After giving Bashimur, who died shortly after telling the tale, a good burial, I, Tolun, Ogodei, and Ukilen, the finest raiders in the Steppes, descended on the Imperial camp. We slew perhaps a thousand before their generals regained order and surrounded us. Tolun went first, surrounded by dead Imperials and with a curse on his lips. Then Ogodei, who was slain by a giant of a man, but managed to kill his killer before dying. Then it was just Ukilen and me. Being the brash youth I was, I intended to die with my brothers then and there, but Ukilen spurred my horse, sending me flying out of the camp. The last I saw of Ukilen, he had six pikes shoved into his chest."
Mwut paused for a moment and looked at Irykan.
"You look just like him, come to think of it. Sain barildaarai, akh mini. Anyways, after that I was a wolf on the hunt. I burned towns, slew travelers, turned back entire armies single-handedly for five decades, until I finally grew tired. My sword arm slowed, and I could no longer ride for days on end. So, young warrior, I give you this blade, Chono Shüd, the Wolf's Tooth."
The saber's sheath was decorated with scenes of mounted combat, and when Mwut handed it to Irykan, it seemed to glow with an ethereal light.
Gained Chono Shüd (1Handed Saber, Legendary)
Mwut smiled seeing the glow.
"It has accepted you, young warrior. Feed it often with Imperial blood."
With that, Mwut returned to his food before heading to his room. Once Mwut was out of earshot, Vreed turned to Irykan.
"He must see something in you, boy, to give you his sword. I've never once seen a speck of dust on that blade, and it's easily sharp enough to cut a man in two. Use that gift well."

Irykan watched in shock as the man left.
"By the spirits..."
The stories of Ezent Gürniig Agnasan Chono and his exploits were a thing of legend among the Steppa people. The great warrior who for countless years fought valiantly against the Rykalan invaders to the southwest. Some even said that he was the spirit of war, Tulaldaan, incarnated into human form. From an early age Irykan had heard of him, as did many Steppa children at the time. But Irykan had never truly believed in such stories. He had thought them to be myths, mere legends used to inspire bold young warriors to fight against the Rykalan and Celestial Empires. Yet here he stood, holding the hero's great saber at this very moment. The blade seemed to gleam and pulse with light in his hand. Irykan brought the weapon's sheath closer to his face, carefully observing every fine detail. Yet something did not seem quite right...

Irykan searched his memories, trying to remember the later stories of the famous fighter. After spending some time thinking, he realized what appeared to be out of place. According to the many Steppa legends based around the great warrior, he died gloriously in battle, carving one last devastating path through his enemies after being surrounded by Rykalan forces. So how exactly did he survive to live another day, and eventually arrive at a place like Tyras? Irykan was so lost in thought that he barely payed attention to Vreed's comments. Whether the one who gave it to him was Ezent Gürniig Agnasan Chono or not, this saber could clearly be used as a deadly weapon. He would keep it at his side, always.

Irykan quickly finished the soup, and after thanking Vreed returned to his room. Countless thoughts rushed through his mind. Before, he had only been traveling place to place and working as a mercenary because he had no other choice. He was only trying to survive. But perhaps there was more for him in the future. Perhaps he may have a greater purpose in life. After winning gold and glory through his work, he could find others like him. Others of the Steppa Nomads, skilled in combat and wishing to retake their homeland with a vicious zeal. If he did, who knows what could happen?

He sighed, and attempted to clear his mind of such thoughts. There was much work to be done early in the next morning. He must focus on doing that before anything else. Irykan rested himself on the bed. Darkness swallowed his last thoughts as he fell asleep.

[Offer Erapia]

Abigail, with soldiers

She nodded and walked with them as they moved out. Abigail stuck to the captains side as he spoke of promising fortune and business.

"So, how do you think the war will play out?"

It was a simple question and at the same time a difficult one. A question that was asked by many far and wide. As Abigail awaited an answer she pulled out a small ration she had been saving. It consisted no more than bread and a few pieces of meat she cooked on the way. She took a chunk of the loaf and ate it diligently. It was bland in taste and was dry enough to choke a fish but it was all she had. After a few moments she tore a chunk off and offered it to the captain.

"Not sure how good your kingdom feeds you but here"

[Phaenix]

Royal Road, near the Gryfort

Margraf Gerwin scoffed when Abigail presented him her food.
"Madam, the Empire will when this war and bring order to this false kingdom. Emperor Earlon, may Helinar grant him strength, has already crushed the Scormish duchies, appointing his cousin, Freidrich Wentersung, Archduke Freidrich IV of Scorm. He subdued the Steppa nomads in a similar fashion, and soon we will take Ruskya and Cavleon, though I fear little will be left of Cavleon with every power on Farin warring for the kingdom."
Gerwin shook his head and pulled out a flask. After taking a sip he returned it to his belt.
"Why everyone who matters is suddenly interested in Cavleon is beyond me. The only thing I know of that blasted kingdom is that once a warlord named Merlibur Andragon, founder of the House Andragon, conquered most of Farin with his legendary blade, Exalin, before disappearing without a trace."
Gerwin then pointed ahead, to a gigantic citadel carved into a mountainside. The mountain range seemed to stretch on forever, and the black rock towers of the Gryfort loomed ominously over the surrounding terrain.
"Welcome to the Gryfort, the last stop before the Steppa nomads' territory, and the only entrance into the Kingdom of Edithar from the South, and the Empire from the North."
The creak of the gates opening could be heard for miles, and the line of soldiers began entering the Gryfort.
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Lazy Mule Inn, Tyras

Vreed stood behind the bar, idly washing a mug, when a young boy burst through the door. Vreed scowled.
"Cynnyrch Carwyn, how many times have I told you!? If your old man wants booze, he has to come himself!"
Cynnyrch was about to speak, but an arrow in his back silenced him. Looking past the dead Cynnyrch, Vreed gasped. Tyras was burning. Bandits on horseback rode through the village, slaying all they saw. The bann's longhouse was burning, and the bann himself had been strung up outside of it. A giant of a man, dressed in plate and chain and wielding a massive sword, led the bandits in sacking the town. Vreed turned to Irykan's room and burst through the door.
"Wake the bloody hell up! The village is under attack! Quick, on your fe-"
Another arrow went through the innkeeper's windpipe, killing him.
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Prince's Palace, Loswiec

Red Gregor, though a brutal man, was all bark no bite. He wielded his sword marginally better than a butcher, but when faced with actual talent he failed. Maksym had called Gregor's bluff, and the big man began to sob.
"Please, mercy milord! Mercy!"
Prince Mislav scowled and drew a decorative longsword. Advancing on the murderer, Mislav visibly began to shake.
"Did I say there would be mercy!? Did I!? This fight is to the DEATH! And I will see someone die!"
Red Gregor raised his hands to protect his face, but Mislav simply cut through them. The bald head of Gregor, along with his hands, hit the ground with a meaty slap. Still huffing with rage, Mislav turned to Maksym.
"Rise, Poručík Maksym. Nikraski spoke well of your abilities, so know that if you fall, then so does Nikraski."
Turning back to his carriage, the Prince entered without another word and rode off. The crowd, now silent, also began to disperse. Dvoryanin Zivadin approached Maksym and offered him a hand.
"Welcome to the Company of Black-Hearts, Poručík Maksym."
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Arène de la Vaillance, Comreux

Malcus must have had a lucky hit, as the basilisk's head came flying off. The crowd cheered and rained coin upon the victors.
+14 Silver
Korzhev raised his warhammer and roared, causing a few women in the crowd to faint. After picking up the basilisk's head, he handed it to Malcus.
Gained Basilisk's Head, Item
"Here friend, take this to an armorer here in town. He should be able to make you a nice headpiece, no?"
With that, Korzhev walked off, pockets full of coin and two women on his arms.

[Zedeshia]

Lazy Mule Inn, Tyras

Vreed stood behind the bar, idly washing a mug, when a young boy burst through the door. Vreed scowled.
"Cynnyrch Carwyn, how many times have I told you!? If your old man wants booze, he has to come himself!"
Cynnyrch was about to speak, but an arrow in his back silenced him. Looking past the dead Cynnyrch, Vreed gasped. Tyras was burning. Bandits on horseback rode through the village, slaying all they saw. The bann's longhouse was burning, and the bann himself had been strung up outside of it. A giant of a man, dressed in plate and chain and wielding a massive sword, led the bandits in sacking the town. Vreed turned to Irykan's room and burst through the door.
"Wake the bloody hell up! The village is under attack! Quick, on your fe-"
Another arrow went through the innkeeper's windpipe, killing him.

Irykan awoke from his slumber, a dreadful feeling for some strange reason clinging onto his chest. Through his room's open windows there was the intense smell of smoke, so strong that it as if an entire forest was in flame around him. He sat up and tried to clear his mind of exhaustion. Who in a place like Tyras would be burning something at a time like this? Irykan was reflecting on this when suddenly a blood-chilling scream rang out across the village. Suprised, he bolted upwards and armed himself with his bow and new saber. Something was clearly not right.
Was the village being attacked by raiders? Perhaps the bandits who had struck at the mine had traveled southwards, wishing to finish off an already weak Tyras...
His worst fears were confirmed when Vreed burst through the door to his quarters and fell onto the ground, an arrow lodged into his throat.

Irykan glanced down at Vreed's body. Blood was beginning to pool around his wounds. When he had first arrived at this place, he had never suspected that something like this would happen.
The Steppa mercenary notched an arrow on his bowstring, and entered the hallway leading into his room. A pair of dark figures were in the main section of the inn, kneeling over the body of a young boy. One held a longbow at his side, the other was armed with simply a club. Those must be the ones who murdered Vreed. Without a moment's hesitation Irykan quickly fired multiple shots down the hall with a deadly proficiency.

[Western Fardelshufflestein]

[align=center]Prince's Palace, Loswiec

Red Gregor, though a brutal man, was all bark no bite. He wielded his sword marginally better than a butcher, but when faced with actual talent he failed. Maksym had called Gregor's bluff, and the big man began to sob.
"Please, mercy milord! Mercy!"
Prince Mislav scowled and drew a decorative longsword. Advancing on the murderer, Mislav visibly began to shake.
"Did I say there would be mercy!? Did I!? This fight is to the DEATH! And I will see someone die!"
Red Gregor raised his hands to protect his face, but Mislav simply cut through them. The bald head of Gregor, along with his hands, hit the ground with a meaty slap. Still huffing with rage, Mislav turned to Maksym.
"Rise, Poručík Maksym. Nikraski spoke well of your abilities, so know that if you fall, then so does Nikraski."
Turning back to his carriage, the Prince entered without another word and rode off. The crowd, now silent, also began to disperse. Dvoryanin Zivadin approached Maksym and offered him a hand.
"Welcome to the Company of Black-Hearts, Poručík Maksym."

Maksym Kozak
Prince's Palace, Loswiec, Dzeka

Rather than lunge for Maksym, as he had expected, Gregor suddenly burst into tears. Fat drops welled in his eyes before pouring down his cheeks, causing Maksym to freeze, his blade still outstretched toward the other man.

"Please, mercy milord! Mercy!"

Gregor didn't deserve mercy; he was a murderer worse than Maksym, a hunk of furious flesh, and, at the center of it all, a coward. Yet Maksym, for a brief moment, considered offering his hand in a gesture of peace regardless. Perhaps Gregor would have snapped his neck had he done so, but at least he'd die in the midst of an attempted act of kindness.

Prince Mislav, on the other hand, was adamant about witnessing bloodshed. He drew a longsword that hung from a decorative scabbard and approached Red Gregor. His body, Maksym noted, was trembling, but he was unsure whether it was from rage, terror, or perhaps insanity.

"Did I say there would be mercy!? Did I!? This fight is to the DEATH! And I will see someone die!" The Prince brought the sword down on Gregor just as he raised his hands in self-defence, slicing them from his wrists and his head from the rest of his body in one powerful stroke.

Maksym gaped at the boy prince, who was hardly older than his brother Leonard, but kept his expression neutral. Gregor was now lying dead at Maksym's feet, his blank eyes tinged with desperation, blood fountaining from the severed areas.

Prince Mislav then turned to Maksym. "Rise, Poručík Maksym. Nikraski spoke well of your abilities, so know that if you fall, then so does Nikraski." Numbly, Maksym straightened, taking several steps away from the carnage. He watched as Mislav pivoted around on his heel and returned to his carriage, leaving Maksym standing before a chopped-up man and dispersing crowd. They had evidently been satisfied with today's circus and were likely wandering off to collect their bread.

Dvoryanin Zivadin, the bandit-turned-nobleman, came up to Maksym and extended his hand. Maksym, unsure quite how to process everything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours, took it. "Welcome to the Company of Black-Hearts, Poručík Maksym."

"Thank you, Lord Zivadin." Maksym's reply was stiff, awkward. He studied the word still in his hands and looked in the direction of his satchel, which sat untouched. "I am going to grab my bag, if that is alright--and...what should I do with the sword?"

The left side of his face stung badly from the cut Gregor had given him. Gregor--who was now dead from the fury of Mislav.

As he retrieved his satchel, he dimly wondered if Nikraski was aware that his life and title were now tied to Maksym's performance. The thought of someone else's survival resting in his own hands was daunting to Maksym, especially someone who had been responsible for giving him work. Maksym had yet to put his trust in Nikraski, but he had no intention of seeing him dead.

"Where would you like me to report?" he asked Zivadin. "Shall I go to the apothecary for this cut? Or is there--is there somewhere else where my presence is needed?"

[Phaenix]

Prince's Palace, Loswiec

Zivadin scratched the stubble on his chin before responding to Maksym.
"You can grab your bag, and keep the sword. You earned it. As for when you'll report, this is your last day in Loswiec. Either you'll survive this war and have enough loot and coin to retire in a palace twice the size of the Prince's, or you'll die."
Gained Longsword
Zivadin turned on his heel, but stopped.
"Oh, and one more thing," looking over his shoulder, the former bandit smiled, "take this."
Zivadin threw a small medallion over his shoulder. The metal medallion was black and in the shape of a heart.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lazy Mule Inn, Tyras

The bandit with the longbow never knew what hit him, as he fell dead when one of Arval's arrows struck his brain. His friend, however, managed to duck out of the way of a few arrows, however one caught him in the shoulder and he slumped down. Looking at Arval, the man shouted.
"Farkin' nomad trash! Ye shot me in me arm! Wait till the chief hears about this!"
The bandit then rose, making for the door, before falling dead. Standing in front of the dead bandit was Mwut, who merely nodded at Arval before disappearing.

[Western Fardelshufflestein]

Prince's Palace, Loswiec

Zivadin scratched the stubble on his chin before responding to Maksym.
"You can grab your bag, and keep the sword. You earned it. As for when you'll report, this is your last day in Loswiec. Either you'll survive this war and have enough loot and coin to retire in a palace twice the size of the Prince's, or you'll die."
Gained Longsword
Zivadin turned on his heel, but stopped.
"Oh, and one more thing," looking over his shoulder, the former bandit smiled, "take this."
Zivadin threw a small medallion over his shoulder. The metal medallion was black and in the shape of a heart.

Maksym Kozak
Prince's Palace, Loswiec, Dzeka

Maksym caught the medallion in midair, then brought it close to his face, studying it. A black heart. How...fitting. He slipped the medallion into his satchel and peered up at the palace gates as the reality of his situation set in.

He, Maksym Kozak, a village boy with two blacksmiths as parents, was the commander of an elite set of forces for the Prince.

Not wanting to appear too needy, he scampered after Zivadin. "I hate to bother you, Lord Zivadin, but do you have any recommendation as to where I should lodge for the evening? I am afraid I am not from around here." The longsword was unwieldy in his hand, especially without a proper sheath, and the fact that his palm was sweaty did not help. But dropping the sword would surely be a sign of incompetence.

The prospect of becoming wealthy from a war felt both exhilerating and terribly, terribly wrong. He was to profit from violence and death if he outlived the war; even then, there was always the chance Dzeka could lose.

Where did he stand in rank compared to Zivadin? He really was not sure; he had not been given a title of nobility, which meant he should address the lord the way his parents had instructed him, but if he was Mislav's right hand.... No. He had to project reverence unless directed otherwise.

[Strala]

It had been years since Liu Bao Rui had visited the Imperial Capital. The last time he had entered these venerable walls, was when he had left his home to become a mercenary. Now it was ironic that he would once again enter this city due to his job as a mercenary. Around him were the mercenaries, farmers, merchants, and generally any and everyone who was entering the city. The mercenaries no doubt driven by the payment the emperor was offering along with the helmet and weapon he was offering. Weapons from the Imperial smithery were on a whole different level compared to common steel and iron weapons. Only the best smiths could create weapons and armor of similar quality. A weapon from a master smith, however, was expensive and was rare. Very few had weapons of that quality. This was evident in this group of mercenaries as most of them wore leather lamellar armor and had common steel or iron weapons. Some of the wealthier ones had iron lamellar and maybe a bow or finely crafted blade. Those with magical ones, he could count on one hand.

He could see the people staring at him and his horse, no doubt wondering who he was and how he had managed to get such an expensive horse and weapon. One of the braver mercenaries came up and asked him. "Good sir, may I ask who you are and why and how you managed to procure such a sought after horse? I heard that Heavenly Horses were only available to the nobility, extremely wealthy merchants, and the officials of major cities and towns due to their price."

Seeing no reason to lie, Liu Bao Rui answered truthfully. "Good sir, I am Liu Bao Rui of the acclaimed Liu family. My eldest brother is a captain within the renowned Imperial Guard and my second brother is a city official of high standings. My family has served the Emperor and the Empire faithfully ever since the founding of the dynasty. My horse, Shadow Runner was a gift from my father when I was fourteen. He has survived me well and will continue to serve me well as long as I live." He could see the surprise and greed within the eyes of many that were looking at him and his horse. House Liu ever since it's founding has been a well known noble family within the Empire. There were stories told around the empire about his ancestors and currently, both of his brothers were quickly becoming one of the most famous and well-known people within the Imperial Capital. His second brother is expected to become at least a minister within the Royal Court while his eldest brother is already being considered for a promotion.

"Now excuse me, gentlemen, I have a family to meet and hopefully an emperor that I will meet." With that said, he urged his horse forward and sped towards his family compound. The streets and buildings of the city haven't changed much since his departure. The only real change that was happening was the current Imperial procession and crowd gathering near the plaza watching the Emperor and his armies marching. If this had happened when he was younger, he would have watched the procession, but now that he has grown older, he had more important things to deal with. One of them was reuniting with his family.

Reaching the family compound, he knocked on the door, waiting for a servant to answer. The door slowly opened and one of the family's servants asked who he was.

"I am Liu Bao Rui. I have returned to visit my family and hopefully gain an audience with the Emperor himself. I have my badge proving who I am on me right now." He took that badge and sliced his palm and let some of that blood drip on the item. The badge would then use that blood to show if he was of the Liu family or if he was a pretender. If he was a pretender, the badge would turn black. If he was really from the Liu family, the badge would stain red. As expected, the badge stained red. The servant upon seeing this invited him inside and hurried to get his father and mother. Liu Bao Rui sat around when he waited for his parents. He immediately stood up after seeing them entering the front courtyard.

He bowed to his parents, before saying, "Honored Father and Mother, this lowly son has finally returned home after so many years. He hopes that your honored selves will forgive this lowly child's insolence for not returning sooner. He has been busy earning money and building the reputation of House Liu far and wide."

His father beckoned for him to stand straight before hugging him. "Son, you have finally returned home. Your mother and I have been worried about you. I am proud of what you have done for yourself and the family as a whole. Come and please join us for a cup of tea and let us chat. We have much to catch up on"

"This lowly child begs his father to forgive him for refusing. He must meet the emperor as soon as possible to secure a spot for him in the upcoming campaign. This is a chance for this lowly child to gain real merit and acclaim for the family. When he secures this contract, he will return to have tea and talk with your honored selves as much as you please. Now please excuse this lowly child for now. I must hurry to the Imperial Palace before the other mercenaries swarm it." Liu Bao Rui gave both his parents one last hug before mounting Shadow Runner and riding towards the Imperial Palace. When he arrived, he dismounted and walked up to the gates.

"This lowly servant humbly requests an audience with the Emperor or the Guard Capitan Liu Jia Jian. This lowly servant wishes to join the Emperor on his subjugation of the barbarians in the north along with the wish to visit his Elder Brother. If you do not trust this lowly servant, please send the guard captain here to verify who I am and if I'm trustworthy or not."

[Bolslania]

Malcus strolled out of the arena, he walked in the general direction of the Smith, but not quickly. He had never been to Comreux before, and wanted to examine the city. The Basilisks head was in a large sack, which he had slung over his shoulder.