Song of Heroes IC

[Zarkenis Ultima]

Having addressed the stranger that had come to the party's aid, Sylanna waited patiently and listened as he began to formulate an answer, but it was one she would not hear, as before he could speak more than a single word, a bright light from nearby caught her attention. Alarmed, the Snow Elf turned around just in time to see the glowing magical orb shooting straight towards her. With little else she could do, she braced for the impact, and though the projectile didn't actually reach her, it still exploded right in front of her with enough force to send her flying down the alley until she slammed into an old stone wall with a loud crash.

"Damn it all..." The purple-cloak growled as she picked herself off the ground. Sore from the impact and not knowing the extent of the damage caused by the magical attack, she nonetheless was able to stand up, and for her that was more than enough. Casting a look at the battlefield, she noticed that Arialista had been struck with the spell too. I hope she manages to recover from that. She thought. More importantly, Corven and Arden had engaged the leader of the mercenaries, and though the latter looked a little roughed up, the flow of the battle seemed to be turning in their favor.

Good. That means I can focus on more pressing matters.

Without wasting another second, the elven knight began sprinting down the alley with surprising speed for someone saddled with full metal armor. In a few moments, she reached the side of the man she had crippled earlier and tore her spear free from his leg, causing his cries of pain to fill the alley once again. Glancing back at the red-cloaks and the struggling mercenary, she heard Arden's comment.

"Just try not to kill him! We'll need him if we want to find out who's going after Red Hill and why." The Snow Elf said to her fellow legionnaires before taking off yet again, headed straight towards the exit to the alley, where the remaining brigands were making their escape on the Red Hill caravan's wagons. From where she was, she could see that one of the wagons, the last one in the line, had ground to a halt. Perfect. She smirked, a plan forming on her head as she ran.

Quickly enough, Sylanna caught up to the wagon and made her way to the front, sword drawn. But as she moved aside the cloth that separated the back of the wagon from the spot occupied by the coach, she saw that the only person there wasn't one of the bandits, but a familiar Wood Elf.

"Vul?" She mumbled in surprise, sheathing her sword. Then she grinned. "Thank the ancestors you're here! I hope you're good at using that bow of yours while in movement. We've got to get back at those thieves." The Snow Elf said as she took the reins in her hands and began spurring the horses, preparing to chase after the remaining wagons.

[Confederation of the Equator]

[minecraft villager sound]

[Solisian Union]

Arialista the Battle Mage

After that magical orb hit her and forcefully threw her against the alley, along its walls as her body finally rested against a wall. But as she was thrown, she was screaming as loudly as a monstrous engine of life, her limbs trashing, attempting to stop her flight. And along the way that she was tossed and pushed, she had shattered her left wrist and forearm. That pain caused her to cry out, tears emerging from her eyes. That ended, all of it ended, when she felt her back smash against the wall.

From there, she gasped, the air in her lungs hammered out of her nose and mouth. She felt her eyes roll up back into her head and her body, abused by the force of that magic, fell down on the ground.

And just like that, she was forced to take this mission aside. Black surroundings engulfed her. She would wake up but not right now. She is unconscious now. Living but unable to fight any longer.

[Absolon-7]

Simion Valerin, the marksman from Nur!

Roxana Ma'gonid
The single shot rang throughout the room. That single shot rang throughout the hallway leading to the room. The split second cacophony shattered the unnatural silence of the grave of ancients and so too did it ring the ears of the young group of Legionnaires fighting for their life. Byron in his strange state clutched at his heart or the black pit in his chest where his heart used to be. The swarm of tentacles that emanated from the spot instantaneously collapsed into piles of black oil on the stone floors. Byron staggered back one step, and the another. He leaned on a fallen slab of stone and desperately scratched at the side before he slumped downwards pathetically. Gurgling could be heard from his mouth as black ichor seeped from his maw.

Roxana got up from behind the slab where she was using as cover along with Simion. The elf staggered out with her knives out as if she would be ready to dash forward and slice and dice their fallen foe. But that didn't happen. Instead she saw how Byron seemed to reach out to her in a feeble manner. Tentatively she inched forward step by step ready to strike if the need arose but otherwise she aimed to get some answers before he kicked the bucket. She frowned in disgust at how much oil there was everywhere. It would take forever to get the stains out or she might even have to throw her current outfit away.

"Byron's afflicted with Oleum Sanctum," said a tired Roxana to her group, "It's some sort of old cursed power. A bead cursed with it is inserted into their heart and it takes root corrupting them. Its a sort of black magic meant to torture someone as they remain fully conscious and are puppeted by-!"

Roxana did not have a chance to finish her revelation as a blue and grey cloud of dust teleported erupted from the currently forgotten heirloom. It swirled and glittered in waves ad spirals before coalescing into an ominous figure and the figure settled onto the stone room's floor and if her eyes were to be trusted his feet repelled the oil away from himself. Blue light shone from its eyes before it settled on Byron. It tilted its head almost as if to mock the old man.

"Ah you must be your father's son. How I wish I could have seen his face when he found out I cursed you since birth but alas not all things are meant to be. Shame you must die here. I would have preferred not leaving in this weakened state" The strangers voice could be heard as if was echoing within itself and reverberating in the room. Its ice cold tone betraying no sense of mercy. It turned to face Roxana and the other Legionnaires. "Now all of you must be the poor whelps this fool hired to throw away at this place's dangers. How marvelous, how pristine, how ideal to be so young. I shall show mercy this one time only and do tell the Paean Legion this: Borcuse shall have an encore."

In the same sudden manner Borcuse disappeared in a flash from the room. Thus he left the Legionnaires in a state of confusion and bewilderment. Roxana most of all racked her mind of any sort of Legion information concerning a "Borcuse" but nothing came up. She just wanted to collapse into a soft warm bed and forget the backstabbing, forget the disgusting oil, and forget whoever this Borcuse was but alas she was in a desolate stone room with several Redcloaks. She turned to Byron who weakly spoke up.

"I'm....so..sorry," he mewled. He took out a key with his other hand and appeared to offer it to Roxana, "Take...this. It's the special rewards in my dwelling. The only thing..I can do to apologize..."

The old man suddenly went out cold but he did not die right away for a faint few breaths escaped his mouth. His previously pitch black mouth and chest had returned to the normal scarred and withered chest of a veteran of decades of adventure. Roxana bent down to take the key and solemnly she saw the old adventurer slip to the hands of death.

"Luca and Oberon. Can either of you take his body up with us. We should bury him, he wasn't in control of what he did," with forlorn exhaustion in her voice she spoke, "Let's go everyone. I've had it up to here with this damn contract."

Roxana ran her hand through her hair in a showing of frustration but it all ended up doing was smudging oil in her hair. The elf yelped in surprise and begrudgingly tried to recompose her dignity. She lead the team through the barrow once again and the blinding light of the surface. What greeted their eyes of nearly the entire group of worker's packing up. Roxana spoke to a foreman and he explained that Byron had given them all severance pay along with what was supposed to be this month's wages. Now it was simply time for all the men to pack up and return to their homes. They were confused yes but they were paid what they were promised. Not amused Roxana lead the group further into camp to where Byron's luxurious tent stood buffeted by wind.

Once inside it was obvious something drastic had taken place as the entire room was drenched in black oil from the bed, to maps and tables, and even what they were looking for: an ornate wooden chest. Roxana stepped forward and inserted the key into the chest and inside once she opened it where several treasure that just astounded her. She reached in took out small encrusted jewel and gazed at it. It was a strong deep green like her mother's hair.

City of Velathri, Republic of Velathri

One week later
Roxana Ma'gonid
"BAAH," sloppily shouted a quite blushed and teary Roxana, "Stupid higher ups and their stupid regulations and loopholes!" Roxana slammed a glass of frothy beer on the wooden table spilling a few droplets on the wooden surface. Roxana bent over forward and rested her head on the table. her cheek squished against the glossy masterfully crafted furniture and a pile of drool leaked out. If one were to notice her beer, they would have seen she got drunk from just half the glass. The elf girl had been drinking her sorrows away the past week after Legion HQ refused to pay the enormous price for the contract involving Byron seeing as they didn't fulfill completion requirements and once Roxana told them what happened they simply gave everyone a small compensation pay of 90 Ducats. At least they still got to keep the advanced pay of 500 Ducats however but the wound in her record still stung

"Stupid bureaucracy! Stupid higher ups..." angrily mumbled the high elf oblivious to the bustling activity of HQ's tavern and to anyone else that might come by.

[Finland SSR]

Roxana Ma'gonid

Simion Valerin, the marksman from Nur!

---

Simion lowered his weapon immediately after firing to inspect the damage left by his shot - thankfully, not only had it not been blocked by one of the many oily tentacles pinned across the room, but also struck Byron directly in his weakpoint, as it seems. The tentacles lost their integrity and turned into pools of oil, while Byron himself weakly stumbled away. Roxana opted to check up on him.

That may be a mistake. Simion had not fought this type of monster before, he didn't know if a single shot was enough to take it down or if it was merely feigning damage to strike while their guard is down. Just in case it was the latter, Simion remained behind cover and swiftly reloaded his weapon. If that bastard gets back up again and swats Roxana aside, he's popping a second shot in his torso before he generates enough tentacles to block it, that's the plan.

Thankfully, he did not get to put it to use, as Byron was truly, undoubtedly defeated. And most likely attacking them against his will. The details were blurry at this point, as thing after thing kept happening out of nowhere with not enough explanation for Simion to make sense of it all, but from what he could gather, this mysterious spirit seemed to have possessed or cursed Byron since birth and manifested itself in this heated moment - and its name was Borcuse, or it was serving someone named Borcuse, the details were still quite iffy at this point. Instead of fighting and slaughtering this group of tired adventurers, the spirit chose to let them go for the time being and warned the entire Paean legion that Borcuse will have his encore. Whatever that meant.

Simion really just wanted to go home, wash his oily and dirty clothes and collapse to the nearest bed-like thing to forget everything that happened here. But, alas, there was still one more thing to deal with,

Carrying Byron's corpse with them - hopefully, nobody will question that he has a bullet-shaped hole in his chest and the only person with a gun nearby is Simion - the adventurers followed Roxana's lead and departed from the dungeon, passing by all of the departing workers who had apparently been let go, most likely while Byron was still under Borcuse's influence, and headed straight to the legend's luxurious tent. There, the promised reward for their adventure was held, inside a chest. And it was certainly at least shiny enough to make up for all the shit they just went through. Somewhat make up for it.

Since Roxana was first and promptly picked up an encrusted jewel, the options they had were two weapons, a sword and a dagger, and two accessories, a wristband and a pendant. In his mind, Simion quickly counted how many people they had in their little crew - him, Roxana, Frey, Oberon and Luca... five. And five gifts. Perfect, so each one of them gets one with nobody winning or losing too much. Melee weapons didn't fancy Simion at all, so instead, he picked up the bracelet - a silver-encrusted one, something he would imagine the wealthy merchants and guild masters of Nur to wear, and not a lowly adventurer like him.

But hey, it was pretty. And a gut feeling told him that there was something more behind that pretty look.

---

One week later...

---

"By gods!"

The sudden shout and table smack from a nearby table just as Simion was walking by startled the marksman, almost making him splash and drop the glass of beer in his hand before he calmed down. Turning to the source of the shout, he saw Roxana, her head lying on the table, mouth muttering incomprehensible insults towards the bureaucracy and higher-ups, and a half-finished pint in her hand - completely different from what Simion had seen of her during their mission together, but not completely unprecedented in his eyes.

What she was mad about was obvious. All of their reaction to the Paean Legion ripping them off and paying them only a small consolation reward instead of what was promised was the same. Hell, knowing what happened there, maybe Simion shouldn't be spending precious coins on beer and instead go out there to find any job which he can get his hands on? Maybe... but even he needs to calm down and relax a little.

"Oh, don't sweat it, Roxana," the marksman spoke, rubbing the lying Elven archer's messy head a little before sitting down on the other side of the table, cracking a smile. "You're still not doing as bad as me. I kind of spent my last coins stocking up for this mission expecting a good reward, so I'm not sure how I'm gonna be getting out of this rut now."

Simion downed half of his glass and looked down on his right arm, a precious silver band attached to his wrist. "I've been considering selling this thing, it's expensive enough that it should fetch a few hundred ducats. I'm not sure if I want to go this desperate, though - it's the only thing I have from Byron and I feel like I should keep it, considering that I... you know...." The marksman's voice went a little quieter, to make sure that nobody nearby who might be listening in hears him. "...killed him."

[The Republic of Atria]

Aayla pulled a slightly larger than normal pair of wicked looking knives out from under her cloak. Both looked identical, being about 8 inches long each, held in each hand. One facing forward and the other behind her. "A big ole hobbo with a big axe! I know you dunderbrains aren't too good at math, but you're outnumbered. If you just lie down, we'll make it nice and-" The hobgoblin let out a loud "WAAAAGH" and swung his massive axe at the green cloaked human who dodged and rolled to the side. Oh wow, he's much quicker than he looks... She thought as she quickly recomposed herself.

Her pyromancer friend wasn't too keen on being left out of the action either. His sword swathed in bright orange flames. He swung at the large goblin, who blocked with his shield, sparked shooting from the impact of metal. Valan swung twice more, the Goblin holding strong, and while Valan wound up for a third strike, he smacked the pyromancer in the face plate with his shield, knocking Valan off his feet and sending him rolling on the ground. "Stupid 'umie. I'mz gonna snuff that lil' fire out!" He swung his axe down at the pyromancer, who rolled sideways. "OI! Stop rollin'! Come 'ere!"

"Valan!" Aayla hissed, charging behind the large goblin and leaping onto his back. Immediately, the massive goblin thrashed around, trying to pull and throw the woman off of him. "You stupid 'umie! Git off!" He snarled, swinging his hand behind his back to get a hold of her. Aayla had to focus all her efforts just to remain on the goblin's back. Stabbing him was out of the question, but hopefully she could buy the few vital seconds that Valan needed to get back on his feet.

"Ugh..." Valan muttered, a little dizzy from all the rolling to avoid getting chopped in half and the ringing in his head from getting hit in the face. He grit his teeth, summoning a quick fireball. He wanted to throw it, but he was thrashing so much that it was just as likely to hit the goblin as it was her. Against his better judgement, he charged, fireball still in hand, and slammed it against the massive goblin.

The goblin managed to grab some of Aayla's cloak, pulling it and by extension, her, off his back, just in time to feel the immense, searing pain from a small magic fireball being forced onto his side. The Hobgoblin thrashed even more violently, than previously, throwing the human woman against the wall of the pit and swinging his massive axe around in an attempt to strike either of the attacking humans. Valan pulled up his sword to defend, but even with the strength from his boon, it was not enough to stop the axe completely. The two weapons collided, and the sword was flung and impaled the side of the wall. The pyromancer jumped back and landed on his back, quickly crawling away from the livid goblin.

Aayla hit the wall to the pit, gasping as some of the air was forced from her lungs from the impact. She took several deep breaths as she hit the ground and staggered back to her feet. "Damn... Gob... Goblin." She gasped, picking up her two knives. This time, instead of charging in, she took another deep breath, her heart rate relaxing a little as she took aim with one of the knives. She had just a few seconds but she couldn't hesitate. One more breath and she threw the knife at as much precision as should could muster.

The knife sailed through the air, almost in slow motion as the goblin raised his axe against a cornered Valan. He geared up to bring the axe down and end the pyromancer, only to feel the knife sink into his flesh. He screamed, dropping the axe and pulled out the knife that was stuck in his hip, losing his balance in the process.

Valan pulled himself together, fire swelling around his fists. The goblin was injured and without a weapon, but he still had his fire magic. He struck the goblin with a fiery fist, leaving a painful burn and staggering him back. Valan struck again, and again, each blow leaving a visible burn on the goblin's body.

The goblin was on his last legs, gasping for breath and in ever growing pain from the numerous burns and stab wound. He wildly swung his shield at the pyromancer, it connected, but the pyormancer was bracing. Instead of trying to hit again, the hobgoblin instead pressed the attack, pushing the pyromancer off his feet and onto the ground, intending to simply crush it. Valan fought back, pushing the shield with all his might, it began to glow brightly from all the magic heat coming off of Valan's hands.

Aayla saw the flaming sword stick into the wall and dashed over to pull it out. She grabbed the handle and recoiled at the immense heat coming off of it. She quickly pulled off her cloak, wrapping it around her hands. She grabbed the handle again, this time not burning her hands. It took two solid pulls, but the blade came free. It was heavier than it looked. The heat was starting to penetrate the cloth of her cloak so she knew she had to work quickly. She turned to see the goblin attempting to crush her friend and sprung into action. She charged over to the side of the fighting pair, raised the sword and brought it down on the back of the goblin's neck.

The sword didn't cut completely through, instead stopping about halfway. The Goblin went mostly limp after that, with Valan worming his way out from under the body. The pair were both gasping for breath, sweating, and had a pretty big grin. "That... That could've gone worse I suppose." Aayla started. "You mind uh. Cutting the head off for me?" She asked and she threw her cloak back on. "That sword of yours is hot."

"Thank you for finishing it off." He spoke rather intensely. He could feel the early stages of fire madness, but the fight was over and he could calm down. "Give me a moment to calm myself, and I'll get you your head."

[Auropa]

Corven Roche, Arden Rooke
Red Hill Caravan

‘Well, this could be going better-’

Corven thought to himself as he deflected another of the mercenary leader’s attacks and backpedaled to safety as a second more wild strike hissed past the air where he once stood.
‘-Then again, it could be going a lot worse.’

Despite taking a nasty looking blow, the legionnaire Rooke was quick to recover his footing and now held his ground against their foe as he synced his blows to Corven’s own and steadily worked to break down his defences. It was then when a familiar, albeit slightly daunting voice rang out.

"Just try not to kill him! We'll need him if we want to find out who's going after Red Hill and why.” The purple cloaked elf called out as she ran off and towards the runaway carts.

“Sure! want him grrft wrrped too?!” Corven grunted out from clenched teeth as he put his strength into blocking a heavy blow brought down from above. Thankfully, he wasn’t fighting alone and when the leader mistakenly put his full weight against him, even just for the briefest of moments, Rooke took the opportunity and launched a sudden, vicious strike into his exposed side. Wincing at the unmistakable sound of ribs giving way, Corven saw his own chance with the mercenary now forced off balance. Raising one hand from his blade, he reached out to grab the mercenary’s gauntlet covered wrist then, with an iron grip, forced both the duo’s weapons up into the air. As he moved in close, he slammed his elbow into the man’s exposed jaw before shoving their arms and weapons back down towards the earth.
In the half second it took for the events to unfold, Rooke caught onto the newcomer’s intentions and after landing his own strike, took his axe in both hands and swung down hard.

A sharp ‘Clanck!’ rang out above the chaotic battlefield, the noise echoing across the packed street as it travelled across the buildings. With the heavy blow, the steel axe had hit its mark and snapped the mercenary’s blade free from his gauntlet.

Before any of the trio could get a word in, Rooke, with both hands still ready on his weapon, swung the flat side of his axe directly into the mercenary’s exposed face knocking him backwards and sending an arc of blood as it went.

“Oooohhh.” Corven practically whistled as he twirled his blade and slowly closed back in on the wounded mercenary “And right on the nose too! Now, that is definitely going to leave a ma-.”

Mid speech Corven saw his chance and darted forward to launch a strike into the man's gut from the pommel of his sword. But like one too many straws on a camel’s back, the leader’s defence finally started to give way and for a moment was left wide open. Rushing in, ready to bring the bout to a violent close, Rooke swung his axe wide and hard before bringing it in and hooking it around the back of the mercenary’s neck.

“Aww sh-” He began to mutter through cracked lips as an unfortunate realization dawned on him.

Cutting him off, Rooke flipped his grip on the axe, freed one of his arms and pulled back hard. When the man was in reach, Rooke took a practiced step forward and swung his fist forward with enough force to put any battering ram to shame. With no where to go and no chance to block, the mercenary closed his eyes and braced as best he could.

The sound Rooke’s blow made was one Corven has since realised he will never forget. And when knuckle met flesh, the mercenary’s head snapped back against the axe’s cold flat steel as his body spun in place from the sudden change in momentum. Then, with disturbing ease, Rooke withdrew his axe and let the now very unconscious warrior fall hard onto the cobblestone floor.

“Well.” Corven began as he took the chance to regain his breath and prod the fighter with his boot “I doubt it’s possible for anyone to be more knocked out than that.”

[Absolon-7]

Simion Valerin, the marksman from Nur!

Roxana Ma'gonid
Roxana's loudly aired grievances mixed into the general banter and background noise of the reasonably busy tavern and eventually she began to mumble along quietly. The alcohol had entrenched itself for the time being in her system and she did not dare to get up for the room already looked wobbly just from where she was laying down her head. Faintly she could she her breath forming a thin layer of condensation on her beer glass. Keeping the advance pay was swell and that jewel was really pretty but she couldn't help but feel a knot in her stomach over what happened. Her thoughts would've continued down this rabbithole had it not been for the efforts of a certain marksmen petting her head. Once he joined her in sitting down she immediately rose up indignant to the petting.

She would have wanted to yell at him for being a dummy and not seeing all the easy jobs for redcloaks like walking someone's dog or hunting quail for some old lady but him mentioning his reward from their first contract together made her reconsider. The chap said he was considering selling it but the the background to it was held him back. Roxana ears wiggled once she picked up Simion mentioning how he put Byron out of his misery.

"You dummy when did you start being so sentimental it's too coo-," quietly responded Roxana cutting herself off at the last second. She brought up her hand to wipe away a line of drool falling down a corner of her mouth but missed completely. The blushing elf was about to respond again but let out two high pitched hiccups instead however she seemed oblivious to it as her drunken self seemed to wobble around. "Anyways, you shouldn't sell it if you're going to regret it. It'll mean a lot to you a long time from now I think. Would be silly for old man Simion to get fussy over losing a silver band in his youth aight?"

Roxana grabbed her glass of beer by the handle and chugged a mouthful before harshly setting it down again. "hiccup I've always thought humans looked quite funny the older they get with all those wrinkles. hiccup We elves don't really age that much like I had a relative that was 60 but might as well have looked 30. Bitch always made me test out her horrible cooking."

[Zarkenis Ultima]

---

The fifth wagon suddenly began slowing down to a halt, and as the carriage reclaimed by the legionnaires sped past it, Sylanna was able to see the one of the bandits that had stolen off with the caravan dead where he sat, three arrows sticking out of his back. "Nice job, Vul, you sure are a great shot with that bow of yours. Can't wait to see what else you can do." The Snow Elf winked at him before turning her gaze back to the road ahead. "Let's not do that again, though. We're about to break into a crowded street." She added afterwards, a bit more seriously. After all, even if their goal as legionnaires was to finish the contract, which implied getting the wagons back, she did not want the civilians of Alius to suffer for it. Her honor as a knight would not allow it.

The two elves continued riding, their vehicle drawing closer and closer to the fourth wagon, where Sylanna could see the only member of the party that was not a fellow legionnaire, the paladin Yvonne, facing off against one of the bandits without any armor or weapons of her. A smirk fugaciously crossed the elven knight's face, though it vanished just as quickly - this was a life or death situation for Yvonne, after all. So that's where you were, taking a nap in the middle of the job, huh?

"I've got this, Vul." She said to the Wood Elf before reaching for her winged spear, rearing her arm back and taking aim at the mercenary. "YVONNE, DUCK!" She shouted at the paladin; she did her best to make sure that she wouldn't hit Yvonne by accident, but it would still be safer if the girl took heed of her advice.

Fortunately, the agonized screams of a man soon revealed to her that her lance had hit its mark. Letting out a sigh of relief, she spurred the horses on to catch up with the fourth wagon, which was already beginning to slow down with no one to drive it. Sylanna's carriage gained on it fairly quickly, and as she approached, she began to slow down the pace a little, so that Yvonne could jump over. It wouldn't do to leave an unarmed comrade out there on her own, after all. She patiently waited for the paladin to board the wagon before continuing, almost immediately moving into the larger street the other three commandeered wagons had fled to.

Damn it, where are you... She thought as her eyes swept the area, struggling to find the stolen vehicles amidst the hustle and bustle of the capital city of Aliala. Before long, however, she spotted the second and third wagon in close proximity: it seemed as if the former had tipped over right on the entrance of an alley, while the latter had abruptly stopped right behind in order to avoid crashing, and was struggling to redirect the horses in the middle of such a crowded street. Blinking in disbelief at her fortune, Sylanna rushed on towards the entrance to the alley before stopping the wagon.

"Vul, Yvonne, the remaining wagon went down that alley, I'm sure of it. Since it's a dead end, you'll have no trouble catching up to it and dealing with the bandits that stole it. I'll take care of this one." She said, prompting the two red-cloaks to go on ahead while she stayed back to address the brigand that rode the third wagon... and put him down, if need be.

Of course, it turned out she actually didn't need to put him down. Just seeing her approach menacingly with sword in hand was enough for the mercenary to realize he was well and truly screwed. Rather than try to put up a fight against the purple-cloak, the man threw himself to the floor, begging for mercy. Perplexed by his sudden change of heart, the Snow Elf raised an eyebrow, then let out a sigh, sheathing her sword and resting a hand on her hip as she looked down at the begging bandit.

"Now what am I going to do with you?"

[Finland SSR]

Roxana Ma'gonid

Simion Valerin, the marksman from Nur!

---

Roxana's drunken attempt to respond to Simion's headpats, first by perking up and clearly getting angry, then mumbling something under her breath about not expecting the marksman to be this sentimental, then releasing a few hiccups, before she finally managed to form a coherent sentence, was amusing enough to Simion that he had to slightly cover his mouth to not break into laughter in the middle of a bar. It was certainly enough to put a wide smile on his face.

Oh, here's an easy way to calm himself down, he brought a glass of it with himself to the table. While downing his glass of beer, Simion listened to Roxana explain that he shouldn't sell the wristband if he thinks he's going to regret it, and later her amusement with human aging. Tsk.

"I don't know about you, but I'd say it's a positive, not a negative, for humans as a whole," Simion commented as he removed the glass of beer from his mouth. "Elves can work for a century or two perfecting one trinket, while us humans don't have the time to waste time and rush to make and achieve as much as we can before they turn old. I'd say the Great Cities are a perfect example of our efficiency at work."

Finishing his glass after the statement, Simion placed it on the table and wiped away the foam gathered on his lips, before speaking again:

"I assume you haven't ever tried alcohol to heighten your shooting accuracy, since you can't even finish a glass."

[The Republic of Atria]

Heading Back

The group climbed out of the pit the goblins forced them into and went out to loot the camp. Which yielded nothing but rusted chunks of dull metal tied to the end of sticks, armor that could barely be called that, and other worthless goblin trash. Valan was quite through in burning everything to ensure that not only would none of the goblin spores survive, but to further send the message to any other goblins that come with intent to settle: The only thing that awaited them was being scorched. Not that it would work for any length of time. Goblins were stupid and large in number.

Well, they got almost nothing. Aayla seemed perfectly content with the head of the hobgoblin that she had tied around her hip. Thankfully, the flamesword cauterized it, so it didn't leak goblin blood all over her. Not that she would've minded too much. The head would be the proof of completion and she'd be able to make a few potions with some of the parts. A win for her. A bit rough around the edges, and despite supposedly having a guy who was very good at exterminating goblins, he did very little to help against the horrible creature. Something she would be bringing up when she got back.

Valan was just happy to got to burn things. He had an ear-to-ear smile hidden by his metal mask all the while he burned down anything that the goblins might be able to even think using. If the head of the hobgoblin wasn't proof enough, then anyone sent to investigate and found a camp filled with naught but ashes, would be more than enough proof. Sure, he would've appreciated a little more assistance from his team, but he and Aayla got to prove that they were more than capable of at handling themselves. That was his reward. That and the fat stack of ducats that awaited the pair when they got back.

The return trip was uneventful, with the only thing interesting that happened was Aayla pulling the eyes out of her prize's head and putting them into some airtight flasks for later use. Valan looked away, again wondering how she managed to do that with such a straight face. It unnerved him how bloody it was. Though she did take her green cloak off for the process. Probably to keep blood from staining it. He shuddered and went back to meditating.

When they arrived back home, the dark skinned woman wasted no time in heading back into the Legion, decapitated and eyeless, albeit cleaned, to show off their work. "One Goblin encampment exterminated and torched. Head of the Hobgoblin as proof." She proudly boasted as Valan walked in, though choosing to remain silent.

"Couldn't have done it without him." She pointed her thumb back at Valan. "Though SOME people pulled more weight than others. Letting two fresh faces face off against a hobgoblin alone, who DOES that?"

[Solisian Union]

Arialista

The wounded Eastern lady of war rose from the ground. She whimpered as she touched the parts of her body that were harmed. The tiny ball of flame still orbited around her body. At least she has some magic. Some. She sat up and looked for a potion to drink. She found one half full and emptied it all into her system. Slowly, she looked around, trying to understand her situation, to remember where she was. She had no weapons so she had to make use of her magic to create one. Or perhaps the sword she bought from that merchant before will help. She still had it. She grabbed it and pulled it out of its sheath and stood on shaking legs.

Arialista collapsed to her knees. She couldn't take walking or standing. She groaned again as she raised her head and called out

"H-Hello? Anyone? Where are you?!"

[New Finnish Republic]

Edward Brunwulf
Paen Legion Headquarters

---

One week later...

Sitting inside the humid interior of the blacksmith shop, a man much older than the usual residents of the headquarters let out a loud sigh as he stroked his fingers through his long white beard. "You know, you could afford to upgrade your armor. You've been using the same stuff ever since you got here, and I think I've made so many repairs to the thing I could practically craft an identical suit of it with my eyes closed," he said with a small hint of annoyance on his voice. "Or at least let me do something better with that sword of yours," he said as his eyes glanced over from the freshly repaired armor to the sharpened sword that lay next to it.

"What I have is enough," Edward replied, causing the blacksmith to merely shake his head in resignation. The two had had this conversation many times, and every time the legionary's answer was the same. For as frustrating as it was for him to accept, the blacksmith knew however that it wasn't a matter of him not being trusted to make him something better. It was the opposite, in fact, as the blue cloaked legionary had often complimented on the work he had done for others, albeit these compliments often took less time to speak out than an average person took to introduce themselves. No, the blacksmith knew that it was a matter that Edward was a simple man, one who only requested what he needed and nothing more. To some extent, the older man envied him for this, but at times he simply couldn't wrap his head around the absurd logic.

"Fine, if that's what you wish. The armor needs to still be oiled, and I'd like to go over the sword a bit more if you're willing to wait until the morning," the blacksmith answered with. "It may be a simple as the sun is bright, but I'll be damned if I don't do it the justice it deserves," he said, a small confident smile appearing on his lips.

"That is fine. Thank you," Edward said with a grateful nod, which only caused the blacksmith to roll his eyes before shooing him away with a wave of his hands. As the red haired legionary walked out of the shop, he could hear the old blacksmith muttering something about "That damn kid", but he paid no attention and instead made his way out to the tavern.

While not a huge drinker himself, Edward was no different than the majority of the legion in which at the end of the day he would enjoy a warm mug of ale to help him relax after a long day's worth of training. Considering how disappointed he had been in himself after the events of his last quest, the tavern was a much needed break from his otherwise negative thoughts.

When they had returned, Edward couldn't help but feel ashamed at how little he had done in the final battle against the leader of the goblin encampment, the hobgoblin. While he had certainly done the bare minimum, considering his rank within the party he knew he should have displayed better leadership. That was something he soon began to harshly realize upon his promotion to a blue cloak, one that both humbled him and frustrated him immensely. He missed the days where he simply accepted the orders of whomever was above him and from there acted independently, instead of how things were now where he was in charge of ensuring the safety of those below him.

Better, was the only thing he could think of as he entered through the doors of the rowdy tavern. He first made his way over to the bar, where after handing over the required costs was rewarded with a warm foamy mug of ale. After thanking the barmaid with a curt nod, he made his way over to the dining area. Glancing over the drunken shenanigans of the patrons inside, Edward glanced over to find the face of someone he knew. She's already drunk, Edward thought with a slight shake of his head as Roxana's slurred words rang in his ears.

"It would be better she didn't. Carrying her back to her room is too much work," Edward said as he sat down at the table with Roxana and the man he recognized as Simion.

[Turmenista]

Luca Greyfoot
Heirloom Quest
__________________________________

Ceasing his assault on Byron after, once fucking again, Simion didn't alert him before he fired, Luca dove back, covering his ringing ears in pain. Thankfully, Simion's shot seemed to have been used to its highest efficiency, striking the former Legionnaire right in his weak spot. The tentacles dissolved into the oily mess that surrounded him, whereas Byron himself weakly fell back, clenching his chest. Hesitant at first, Luca slowly lowered Illumina, unsure if Simion had hit Byron, or simply the monster around him...

He stepped beside Simion, Frey, and Roxana, still keeping his greatsword in a ready position as the events played out. Instead of retaliating, however, Byron reached out to them weakly, and it quickly became evident that the elderly Legionnaire wasn't attacking them on his own accord, but, rather, he was being controlled like a puppet by someone... or something. Roxana revealed it to be something called Oleum Sanctum—which Luca immediately knew he didn't know what it was. Then, Roxana went further to explain it as some sort of cursed power that takes control of someone in their heart in the form of a bead, much like the old stories that he heard of terrible forces like The Blight.

Suddenly, a cloud of cust came forth from the heirloom, swirling around them before it collected into a humanoid form on the stone floor. Mocking Byron, it teased him as Luca immediately raised his sword in a defensive manner, growling. "I think we found out what's been controlling our guy."

The spirit said something about Byron's curse, before turning to the Legionnaires. "Now, all of you must be the poor whelps this fool hired to throw away at this place's dangers. How marvelous, how pristine, how ideal to be so young. I shall show mercy this one time only and do tell the Paean Legion this: Borcuse shall have an encore."

What? By the Gods, are you.. "HEY! Get back here!" Luca shouted as Borcuse disappeared in a flash right as he charged, leaving him skidding across the floor in confusion and anger. A sense of tiredness fell over Luca as he sheathed his sword, whipping his head around to Byron and the others. Byron, in his weakened state, apologized to them, holding out a key with his hand and offering it to their elven leader. "Take.. this. It's the specal rewards in my dwelling. The only thing..I can do to apologize..." After Luca heard a few more breaths escape his mouth, his heightened hearing picked up one last breath as Byron, the famed adventurer and veteran of the Legon, died right there.

Luca dipped his head in silence. This whole mission was messy, full of miscommunication and backstabbing, but, in the end, Byron was just like them—played from the start like a piece of fine Elven music. Roxana asked for his body to be taken up and buried, to which Luca nodded, gingerly picking up the fallen Legionnaire veteran in his arms. It was customary for Lycans to do the same to fallen of their own kind, after giving tribute to their fallen comrades.

I won't let your legacy fade away like whispers in the wind, Byron. You'll be a shining light to all of your comrades in the future. Following his comrades out, Luca left the barrow into the surface, buffeted with the wind and the eyes of all the workers packing up. Byron had paid for all the workers and now they had begun to return to their homes, confused, albeit happy that they were being paid. Towards the man's elaborate tent, Luca received a shovel and one of Byron's swords, the latter of which would be used to top off his memorial once he and Oberon were finished burying him.

Setting down Byron and heading inside, Luca saw that the tent was a mess, covered in the same black oil from before, including the chest they were looking for. Roxana opened the chest in question with the key, where several treasure greeted them: Roxana took a small, green jewel and gazed at it; Simion a wrist band, Frey a sword (Luca secretly wanted the sword), and a dagger, completed with a black gemstone in the center. Luca took up the dagger in his hand: it was an old one, but heavy enough to be considered comfortable in his hands. He figured he could get a blacksmith to merge whatever magical abilities that would undoubtedly be found with the dagger with his Illumina... but, for some reason, the dagger seemed special.. as if it had a bit of nostalgia to it. He couldn't figure out why.

---

Luca Greyfoot
One Week Later
Velathri, Paean Legion HQ
__________________________________

Sunset had come quickly over Velathri, and Luca had spent his day... productively, all trying to forget about that mission from earlier. He was pissed off about that mission—everyone in the heirloom group was, since the Legion only gave them a small reward instead of what was promised. For all he cared, taking those measly little coins that he earned and going on a spending spree throughout Velathri was the best thing he did since that mission. All he needed from that horrendous mission was some good R&R—and others seemed to be doing the same.

Earlier that day, he had treated himself to a new set of medium armor—which wouldn't sacrifice mobility and protectiveness from the weight, as well as a green cloak for aesthetic purposes. He had also taken that dagger in to the blacksmith at the Paean Legion HQ. Unfortunately, she wasn't willing to do anything with it, so his best alternative was to just go into city looking for another Smith. Once he saw the blacksmith in question, and the costs of such an upgrade, Luca made a deal with him, promising to the blacksmith that he would pay for all of their drinking excursions that would happen later that night out of his own pocket.

Suffice to say, Luca was now left with half of his money that he had learned from the quest (plus his own change of Ducats), his sword was being worked on by some of the most skilled of dwarven blacksmiths in the city, and, finally, he was drunk. Apparently, when upgrading the dagger with his greatsword, Luca found that the abilities in the dagger were transferred over to Illumina. The runic greatsword could now mask its user in a cloud of black dust which could be used to blind opponents or, conversely, mask one's movements, in addition to powering up its slashes with the Lycan runes. If something like the Illumina truly could become a stealth weapon as much as it was an oversized, sharpened slab of metal, Luca was sure that anything could be.

Now accompanied by his new friend and a growing host of others, they made their way into the tavern, which was very packed tonight: Luca could see Simion, Roxana, and even Edward, all faces that he recognized. Strangely, they seemed to have a few more faces to them: probably some strange effect of some strange sickness that he continued to drink off. Luca was a mess: his fur was matted as if he were covered in alcohol or something sticky and smelly—the ambiguity of whatever this substance happened to be was probably the most frightening thing about him. His senses were all thrown off from the drinking, especially his sense of balance, as he stumbled around the bar, mug of Lycan mead in one hand, his other arm around some woman he'd never see in his life.

"Hey-*hic*, hey ever'yone!" Luca waved his mug-wielding hand around, as if he was trying to grab everyone's attention. Evidently, he was doing a good job at doing so: a drunken Lycan was something practically unheard of here. "I'd like to make a *hic* toast to my team, the gr'eatest band in the Legion! Long live my team!"

The cacophony of shouting and laughing and cheering in response to his toast was followed by a swig of his mead. "BARD! Play that *hic*.. play that Lycan drinkin' song!"

The bard began to play the song in question on his lute, beginning to sing the song. Unbeknownst to him, Luca had also begun to sing the song, being the only other person in the bar to know the lyrics by heart. Many of the other patrons, in their drunken stupor, also chimed in to sing.

"OH, You’re a bunch of weak-livered milk drinkers,
But we’ll never let these throats run dry!
We’ll keep on drinking our Lycan mead
Until the day we die!

Drinking mead in the halls of Lycanmire
The tavern's full of all the maidens and men!
We’ll fill up our mugs when they’re dry,
And then, we’ll drink again!

You can keep your filthy elven wine,
It makes our bellies turn! And there’s only one thing we Lycans need
That one thing is...
More MEAD!"

Then, came the great part of the song, the chanting, usually accompanied by drinking.

"MORE MEAD!
MORE MEAD!
MORE MEAD!
MORE MEAD!

Lycan's Mead is the one thing we Lycans need!
Chug a mug of mead," Luca did so as the others sang in the background.
"And another mug of mead,
And another mug of mead,
Till you fall down, Warrior!"

"AGAIN!" He shouted. Of course, this part of the song would continue until one passed out, vomited, or if they were out of mead.

"Chug a mug of mead,
And another mug of mead,
And another mug of mead,
Till you fall down, Warrio—"

Evidently, in his drunken state, Luca was in no position to continue singing. He fell over, onto the floor, amid all the drunken cries and laughing. Despite being in this state, he felt content with that loss—about Byron's demise, and about his lack of a promotion. After all, there was still much more mead that was to be passed around.

[Bentus]

Yvonne

---

Yvonne felt the blade swing tantalising close to her neck, having only just put enough distance between herself and her opponent to keep her throat from being sliced open by the strike. The amount of force that the mercenary had put behind the blow forced him to follow through, his body twisting as he left himself open for the briefest of moments. Seeing the opportunity - and realising that it was probably the best chance that she was going to get - Yvonne wasted no time rushing forward to slam her shoulder into the man’s belly. She winced as the impact into his armour sent a sharp pain shooting up her arm, but the adrenaline coursing through the Paladin’s veins allowed her to easily ignore it.

Winded from the attack, the mercenary’s eyes widened in surprise as he felt the force behind the woman’s blow. Suddenly realising that this was a more serious fight than he’d bargained for, he swiftly brought his elbow down repeatedly on the small of her back as she carried him across the wagon before slamming him into its wooden frame. A stab of pain tore into the man’s back as he felt his muscles cry out at the abuse, but he simply grimaced his teeth as he tried to regain the advantage. Inwardly, he felt a wave of panic beginning to rise in his chest. This was meant to be a simple job, something quick and easy that only called for him to look tough to scare off a few merchants. It was just a quick payday to get the sharks off his back, but now he found himself desperately fighting for his life.

Swinging his sword downwards in a dazed attempt to catch the Paladin by surprise, the mercenary felt Yvonne’s hand grip tight around his wrist. Having stepped in close to her opponent, she could strike and react more quickly in the confined space than he ever could with his weapon. The thug didn’t know it, but the fight had ended as soon as he had allowed Yvonne to get in close. With a sharp twist, the mercenary let out a scream as a sharp crack echoed from his wrist - the sword clattering to the floor as he lost his grip on it. Capitalising on her position, Yvonne twisted herself round to deliver a merciless blow with her elbow to the man’s jaw. The impact silenced his cry as his mouth was slammed shut and his head sent backwards to collide with the wagon’s frame. Dazed, the man’s eyes widened as he felt a pair of hands clamp firmly down on his throat.

Starting to choke as he found the air to his lungs cut off by the pressure being applied by Yvonne, the mercenary desperately tried to free himself with what little strength he had left but the blood trickling down into his eyes meant that he couldn’t even see his opponent. Pressing tighter, Yvonne ignored the man’s croaked pleas for mercy as she felt her heart pounding calmly in her chest. Slowly, surely, she felt his flailing efforts to free himself grow weaker until his eyes rolled back into his head and his body fell limp. Holding herself for a few more seconds, Yvonne let out a sigh before she stepped back to allow the body to crumple to the floor. Trying to ignore the aches and bruises from the scuffle, the Paladin leant down to feel for a pulse when she heard a shout from beside her. Unable to react in time, Yvonne felt a boot slam into her unprotected side, vacating her lungs and sending her sprawling out on the floor of the wagon.

Groaning as she tried to recover from the surprise attack, Yvonne looked up to see the second mercenary about to plunge his sword downward and into her chest. Letting out a gasp of surprise, Yvonne just managed to roll to the side as the blade stabbed into the wooden floorboards. The second mercenary let out a curse as he worked to free his weapon, giving Yvonne enough time to slowly pull herself back to her feet. Feeling the strain of the fight weighing down on her shoulders, as well as the lingering fatigue from her use of healing magic the night before, Yvonne felt her movements becoming increasingly sluggish.

“Shit, Caleb are you ok?” The mercenary called out, still tugging at the hilt of his sword as he did so. He’d been concentrating on driving the wagon and managing the horses, having figured that his friend would have easily dealt with the stowaway. Instead, he’d heard Caleb’s chilling scream and had tossed the reigns aside to see the other man crumpled up in a growing pool of his own blood. “Shit, shit, shit. Hang in there Caleb, I’ll get you out of this.” With a final heave, he felt a surge of triumph as he felt the sword pull free. Turning to look at where Yvonne was trying to catch her breath, the man’s gaze narrowed as it met the Paladin’s.

Seeing the fire burning in his eyes, Yvonne forced her tired body to dodge another attack. Raising her arms defensively, she focused on her opponent’s movements as she desperately tried to keep one step ahead of his frenzied onslaught. Sidestepping one jab, Yvonne could do nothing to avoid the fist that quickly followed it up. The connection caused her head to twist to the side, and the world seemed to grow quiet as a ringing reverberated between Yvonne’s ears. Shaking her head to try and clear the daze as she saw the mercenary about to press his advantage, the Paladin heard a familiar voice call out from behind her.

“YVONNE, DUCK!”

Complying with the instruction, Yvonne hit the deck as Sylanna’s spear flew over her head and plunged itself into the unsuspecting mercenary’s chest. Letting out a cry of pain, the man reached down to try and pull at the weapon that had easily pierced his armour, but his shaking arm seemed to suddenly lack even the strength to hold itself up. The man’s mouth opened in surprise as it looked like he was trying to process the wooden shaft that was protruding from his torso. Taking a few stumbling steps backward, the life seemed to fade from his expression as he fell backwards to lie motionless on the floor.

Remaining still for a moment herself, Yvonne found herself alone in the wagon with what were likely two corpses. She glanced over towards the first mercenary that had attacked her, looking at the blood that had pooled around his head as she scolded herself for forgetting about his comrade. I had intended to heal him, but now...how long have I left him lying there?

Hearing the sound of another carriage pulling alongside her own, Yvonne shook her head to clear it of such thoughts. She was no stranger to death, even that which was unnecessary, and she couldn’t allow such things to get in the way of her duties to her allies. Ignoring the pained protests of her limbs, Yvonne rushed to the rear of the carriage just as Sylanna and Vul made their closest approach. Ignoring the air that was rushing past her hair or the sight of the ground racing by underneath her, Yvonne stepped onto the other wagon as it passed by - grabbing onto Vul’s offered hand to help pull her aboard.

“Lady Sylanna, you have my thanks for your assistance!” She called out over the wind, before realising that the snow elf may have been unable to hear her. As the trio continued to gain on the other wagons, Sylanna pulled them to a stop before instructing Vul and her to go after the one remaining wagon. Nodding firmly in response, Yvonne took the reigns and whipped the horses into motion once more, trusting that the purple cloak would be able to deal with the remaining mercenary herself.

“Vul, do you have any plans on how to deal with the last wagon? I don’t have any weapons, but if I bring us up close do you think that you could pick them off with your bow?” Yvonne hesitated for a moment, wondering if her next words were entirely necessarily, before continuing. “If you could, please try to make the wounds be non-lethal.”

[Union Princes]

Witch Hunter Wilhard

Strauch ran as fast as his old legs could carry him, weaving between crowds of pedestrians as he chased after the wagons. Cursing and grumbling towards the gods he worshipped, the old man had to dodge men carrying crates of fruits and veggies, panels of glass, and barrels of beer and wine. There was no time to enjoy myriad of colors and smells that filled the street with life as a very big crowd was fleeing from the runaway caravans. Wilhard was swept up by the tidal wave of people fleeing the wake of those wagons. Gritting his teeth together, Strauch squeezed his way through shouting the civilians to make way. This was supposed to be a simple quest but rarely does the gods grant simple things in life.

---

He finally manage to see the wagons again after tearing through the crowd and he finally felt some level of relief when he saw his comrades taking chase as well. Unfortunately, they were speeding up the horses pulling the carts leaving him in the dust. He was getting pretty annoyed now at this whole attempt of thievery.

"HEY!" Strauch roared on top of his lungs as he ran behind Yvonne's and Vul's wagon, a roar of echoing cave. "I CAN ONLY SPRINT FOR SO LONG HERE! NOW FOR THE GODS' SAKE, PULL ME UP!"

[Segral]

Oberon Klask

He couldn't believe he was here. In a tavern with a glass of rum, surrounded by an elf who had somehow gotten drunk off of half a beer, a gunman with a silvery tongue, a completely wasted Lycan who expressed his cries for drinking with a very loud drinking song about mead, a very confused bard, and several drunken patrons.

May God have mercy on him.

The heirloom mission had taken its toll on everyone, including Oberon. Byron's death was etched into Oberon's memory. The way he clutched at his chest like a bruised cuckold, staggered around and fell with swan's grace, the slab of stone his crypt, the gurgles his youth, and his weakness his final testament to the birth of life. The oil stank, and Roxana explaining it's nature; an Oleitus Sanctitus or some other, did not help the stench. Roxana looked afraid as well, something that shook Oberon even more than the sudden ambush, the betrayal had. Deep down, he had a creeping feeling that things would go badly, but watching an experienced general tremble in fear was the worst sign for a lowly foot soldier. Especially when said soldier could barely maintain his own footing in the slick ichor.

And the spirit, the mysterious spirit. Borcruse. The one with ice-cold eyes of blue, of dark hooded nature, of invisible smirk and tough condescension, the one that had come out of the heirloom in swirls and waves. Who had cursed Byron as a child, who had mocked and pitied both the dying man and the Legionnaires, who seemed to pity them with feeble declarations of mercy. It had made him angry, despite his efforts to control his breathing and mediate his thoughts. He hadn't known then what to make of the sudden events, the modern dancer's grace of Byron, the tumble off the cliff of life, Borcruse, and the warning signs like stars in the night sky. He still did not know what to make of them now. He had focused on the trivial. Burying Byron. Sending the workers home. Reclaiming his pendant, the treasure given to him by Byron, one he would soon have to sell if his next contract failed. Finding a new contract. And drinking rum after rum.

For god's sakes, what was giving him such philosophical ruminations? Was it the drinks? Were they spiked with a curious poison?

Oberon simply sighed as the off-key chorus of "MEAD!" continued to chant, bowing his head to the counter and pressing his forehead against the cool wooden surface. He felt tired, unwashed, unclean, despite having slept, bathed, and groomed as well as he could. He was clean-shaven, fully-bathed, he was even fully clothed. But he did not feel right. So the table gave him some relief, bore some heavy weight off of Oberon's massive shoulders.

[Solisian Union]

Arialista

---

The wounded but very much living battle mage of the East struggled out of the alley. She tried to follow the other legionnaires. The pain, though, in her upper body was becoming sharper and sharper. She felt her heart boom at every time it pumped her life in and out of it. Arialista was groaning at every step, going as quickly as she could, fighting the pain. Her legs worked but one of her arms was screwed. Tears blurred her vision as she tried to go after the rest by hearing and by reason.

But on she went and she did not mind whatever man or woman or child thought of her as she was injured. She didn't even notice that her ulna was sticking out of the middle of her forearm and that she had dislocated her shoulder and lost control of her entire left hand. The shattering of her forearm and wrist was the consequence of such a spell and of impacting against a wall. One that really was painful to impact against.

Eventually, she reached the wagons, groaning loudly that it might attract the attention of the snow elf and of Yvonne. Arialista was reduced to holding her sword in her intact hand like a newborn. Her legs were beginning to give way as she lost her breath and fell to her knees. She didn't feel right. Her lungs were acting oddly. Her heart continued to thunder behind her ribs. She still didn't notice the fractured forearm and---

The pain came hard. The adrenaline was wearing off.

"H-Help.. Fuck, please help." She wondered why her potion didn't heal her as much as she expected it to. She made those potions. She tested them. Why were they taking so long? Did she screw up when she made that one? Arialista tried to get up but could not as she let out a damned cry and tightly wrapped her fingers around the handle of her sword, holding on for dear life as she felt for any injury to her back or chest, realizing that she had broken one...no, two of her ribs. She closed her eyes and stood with all her might, saying through teeth grinding against themselves

"That son of a bitch scored a disgusting hit against me..."

[The Rebel Alliances]

Scitha Rivers-Velathri, Paean Legion Mead Hall

The sun had already set over the horizon as the warm night air filled my lungs. Estralla, my steed gave a snort as I approached what was referred to me as the mead hall for the Legion, which as of some hours ago I had just joined. The fresh and crisp red cloak flowing gently behind me, spotless of any blemish would no doubt mark me as a new adddition to this band of adventurerers. We had been riding through the nation of Velathri for weeks now and I had long grown used to the looks of the human and elf residents of the nation. I know exactly what I look like. A 6'1 and 249 lbs Orc woman with the green skin, pointed ears and fangs with war paint and long scar which ran across my right cheek bone. Most do not look further than those. But if you happened to be among the fewer who bothered to look past that, you would see that my face is softer than an orcs, that my eyes are rounder, my lips not as wide, my nose far too small, my hands and feet not big enough. Yes, if you looked past the skin the ears and the fangs you could see something, many things. Human about me. But it mattered not. In the years since I was forced to leave the Tejis Desert and run from Va'Kaar Hold I had learned that I am either one of two things depending on who sees me. Either I am a savage or barbarian as humans would like to spit or I am a whelp as Orcs never fail to point out. Usually, I am treated with a mild neglect though, like a stray dog or some unwelcomed guest. But, there was the occasional moments, after treating a nasty wound or curing some ailment, that I would receive something resembling gratitude. But, those moments were rare ones.

Finally allowing my horse to stp outside the tavern I gave Estrella a light pat on the side. "We made it." I congratulated her. I had heard of the Legion some time ago. A guild of adventerers where men and women from all corners of the world would gather and live, work and fight alongside each other. After hearing about it I at first passed it up, after all I am a doctor by trade and I did not think that I would make much of a living working as a mercenary. At least not the kind of living I had hoped to live.

But as the months passed the Legion rested in the back of my mind. Until finally I decided that I had had enough of living in solitide and that maybe, in a guild where warriors, tradesmen and mages from all across the world have gathered. I would find a place that would not mind looking at someone such as myself. And if the reception from the front desk was any indication, maybe there was a chance. As the two women of the front desk after getting over a mild bout of surprise, quickly sped me through the induction process. It seems that they do not see many Orcs here, and fairly, I am half human. But they must have assumed that someone of my...stature would have something to contribute.

Dropping to Estralla's side I proceeded to give her some water. She had after all endured the same journey I had, and if I was about to satiate my own thirst, it was only fair to do the same for her. It was then that I focused on the welcoming sounds of boisterous laughter and jolly music from inside the hall. No doubt a clanging of mugs and a sharing of stories from all of the bands inside. Following the glow of light which escaped from the windows I made my way to the entrance, dressed in the fresh red cloak, my armor and leather clothing with my large shield slung across my back with my father's blade hanging from my side. Extending a hand I pushed the door open and took only a moment to examine the contents of the hall. Which included a inebriated High Elf, many humans and a...

Is that a wasted Lycan passed sprawled across the floor? I had never actually seen a Lycan before. But from the rumors and hearsay they were among the few races which could compete with an Orc physically. Upon a second inspection I noticed a man who seemed to stand out as he was among the few who did not seem to be enjoying his time of liesure here. A bald human male resting his head against a table. With a shrug I made my way over to the bar and sat down on a stool as I placed my arms on the counter top as the man to my left gave me a slight glance, as if to confirm that he was seeing what he believed he saw and then immediately went back to his drink.

The bar tender however seemed to not be phased in the slightest as I dropped several Ducats on the counter and ordered a bottle of Tejis Ale. He was about to pour it into a glass when I shook my head and pointed at the bottle itself. He eyed it for a moment and then handed it over.

"Let me know if you need anymore, I know that your kind have a high tolerance for the stuff." I gave him a curt nod and took my first drink. Not so much minding 'your kind' in this situation. Not sensing any distaste in his tone, but after all, he is a barkeep. As long as the Ducats flow from my own purse and into his own, there will be no problems. It's why I often found myself in taverns after jobs. Seemed to be the only estabishment which did not much care for where the money came. And of course, the festive atmospheres are sometimes contagious.

[Tomia]

Annabelle
It had been a week since her impromptu participation in the goblin contract had come to an end. It had mostly been a run of the mill operation, though she had been annoyed at being forced to show more of her true abilities than she would have liked. Every time she reveals the depth and nature of her skills she risks being found and discovered by Kal. Annabelle had no idea how her former brethren would react if they found her, but she had no desire to find out. As she ruminated on these thoughts, she sat alone in the popular and rowdy tavern within the grounds of the legion. Annabelle wasn't much of a drinker, as she liked to keep her senses and wits sharp, but the atmosphere of the tavern reminded her a lot of her past life. So, she sat quietly, sipping on some wine that she remembered from her home country, not interacting with or even looking at anyone in particular. Though she was a member of the legion, Annabelle was hesitant to form any kind of familiar or social bonds with its members. Her departure from the Kal still haunted her and she had no desire to repeat her mistakes. No, it was much simpler for her to keep to herself, it was the only way she could guarantee no one else would be hurt for her sins. When her glass of wine was empty she reluctantly headed up to the bar to have it refilled, gracefully moving past the crowd of drunken patrons without a word.

[Confederation of the Equator]

[minecraft villager sound]

[Radea]

Arden Rooke
Red Hill Company Caravan -- Back Alley Brawl
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“Well, I doubt it’s possible for anyone to be more knocked out than that.”

The new arrival wise-cracked, checking the unconscious mercenary with his foot. Arden knelt down, seemingly to look into the face of his defeated opponent before he suddenly gripped his wrist and began shaking his hand.

“Damn it! That’s guy face is a hard as he is hard-headed! Son of a... “ The young human began blowing on his reddened knuckles. He winced and then grunted, accepting the temporary discomfort. Using his unharmed hand, he undid the chin-strap on the mercenaries helmet and chucked it across the alleyway into a small puddle. Less protection made him more vulnerable and less heavy to carry. Continuing the clumsy process of unbuckling the armor of the fast asleep merc, Rooke was able to get a better look at his aid. He wasn’t physically imposing but certainly was quick on his feet and with his mouth.

“Corven… right?” Arden began, chucking an iron knee-guard over his shoulder, “I don’t remember you signing on for this contract but you have a red cloak. Dumb luck or trailing us?”

It was blunt, but Rooke was more peasant than eloquent. Wiping his face with his forearm, the lad noticed the wet and caked blood flake off onto his skin. “Ah… damn. He got me good.” It was then that the Heartlander heard the cries of another of their party. With his skull still recovering from a blunted steel fist to the face, he hadn’t even noticed the bleeding girl shuffle by. She was swaying through the crowd, bleeding, and loosely gripping a sword.

“Oh… no.” Arden took no time and grabbed the knocked-out mercenary by his arms and hoisted him over his shoulder. Nodding to Corven, he gestured for him to follow, “If you’ve got rope, we’ll time him up on the way. Arialista needs our help.”

He made sure to carry the arrogant bandit with his head facing forward, so if Arden needed to clock his face again, he could. Despite her condition, the eastern woman had seemingly blended into the crowd. Hoisting an unconscious man over one’s shoulder also draws attention, making getting through the market crowds harder than usual.

“He’s drunk. Yes, excuse me, he’s drunk. Pardon me, drank too much. What!? Never seen a man too deep in his cups before!? Move it!” The excuse seemed to work for some; enough for Arden to push through and see the wounded Arialsta talking to a wagon of folks. She seemed to be calling for someone she knew, but Rooke was too out of earshot to hear. “Arial!” He shouted, shrugging the body on his shoulder to adjust it, before advancing on her. “It’s gonna be alright… Just sit down, right there.” He gestured with his chin to a nearby wall. His eyes immediately went to the exposed bone coming from her arm. “Gods… We’ll get you some help.”

[Auropa]

Corven Roche
Red hill Caravan

After a few more pokes for good measure, Corven took a step back from the unconscious captain, tore some fabric from his coat and set to wrapping the wound on his shoulder. The fight for the caravans still went on in the distance but he figured that by the time he could reach them, if he even could, the battle would be long over. Instead he decided that he’d be better off resting and watching the group’s prisoner with the other legion as he nursed his injured arm and set about removing their fallen foe’s armour.
“I’m not surprised.” Corven said in response to Rooke’s pained complaints “The man looks like a brick, moved pretty well though, he nearly got me with that spear of his too.” Then as he saw the mercenary’s helmet fly off into the alley he continued “You know, normally I’d buy someone dinner or take them off to a show before stripping them. But, well to each their own I guess.” He joked with a small smirk before hearing Rooke question regarding his timely arrival.

‘Forward one aren’t we?’ he thought to himself “I like to think of my arrival as more akin to divine intervention.” He said as he puffed out his chest, then, after a slight pause and a shrug, he went on “Dumb luck. I had a courier job in the city and caught sight of this one’s group. Figured I’d follow them and see what needed so many weapons inside a town”
It was then that Rooke hoisted up the mercenary leader and started towards the crowd, gesturing for Corven to follow.
“Right behind you, let me just ahah!” He called out as he scooped up the merc leader’s gauntlet and its snapped sword piece. He didn’t know its condition, but he figured it could still be worth a few gold to the right person. sliding the blade into his belt and carrying the gauntlet under his arm, he broke into a jog and followed the other red cloak.
“Of course, Arialista! Gods forbid they become injured or worse.” He called out as he caught up “Why it would be unforgivable for us to sit around and wait when one such as them, a being so… so… Yeah I don’t know who that is.” He admitted as they reached the crowd. Not wasting a moment, Corven followed Rooke’s lead, tucked his blades beneath his cloak and played the drunk’s friend.

“No no, just a few too many drinks.”
“Bad case of big eyes and a small gut”
“Please, the guard have enough to deal with, no need to dump another drunkard on them”
“Why would I talk about him when I could talk about one so beautiful as you?”
“That’s right, hit the tavern a bit too hard, we’ll get him home”

Though soon enough, the group made it through to the other side as Corven rubbed a freshly slapped cheek “So apparently compliments are offensive nowadays. Though thinking about it, she might have been marr… oh. Arialista I presume?” He asked as he saw Rooke move to help an injured woman donning a familiar red cloak.
“Now I’m no expert but I really don’t think arms should bend that way.” He muttered as he tried to take stock of the wounded legionnaire. He didn’t know much about healing or medicine but he had a good understanding of people and the unfortunate luck of witnessing more than a few injuries in his time. From his admittedly focused experiences, pain and fear induced shock caused just as many deaths as any infection could.
“Well, that’s a bone.” He said trying to sound cheerfully upbeat “But it shouldn’t be too much for a healer or priest to patch you up. For now, take it easy and try not to move. Do either of you know any priests or medics nearby?”

[Segral]

Oberon Klask

Oberon looked up as he heard a chair rattle near him, a new stranger sitting at the bar. Much to his surprise, when he looked up from the counter, he saw two things of notice. One was Luca, completely unconscious and alcohol-sodden on the cold floor, most likely having lost his balance and fallen out of his chair, and a tall woman with green skin. This was interesting. Raising his head further, he observed the woman's pointed ears, some painted marking similar to the ones on his own body, and what appeared to be a gash, a thick ribbed scar. An Orc! But something felt...strange about her appearance. She clearly had the makings of an orc, but it was heavily disfigured. She did not have the flat face, the sharp eyes, or the broad nose of an Orc, and she moved with a nimbleness no Orc possessed. She must be a hybrid. Half-human, perhaps? Probably the most likely answer, given her face and figure. He had never seen her before, and he had been at the Legion for some time. It was most likely that she was a new recruit.

The woman spilled several Ducats onto the counter, Ducats that Oberon wished he had. Ducats that could've been earned if that contract hadn't spoiled like rotting cheese. However, upon gesture, the Orc woman took the entire bottle of Tejis Ale, with the barkeep raising no objection besides a raised eyebrow. It was impressive. Oberon held his drinks well due to his size, but never could he drink an entire bottle of ale in a single sitting. Perhaps it was her Orcish nature.

"Welcome to the Legion." Oberon said gruffly, turning to face the woman. "Trust me, we are usually not this rowdy or uncivilized. The last round of contracts had...varying results, and many want to drink away their sorrows. I am Oberon, it's a pleasure to meet you."

[Solisian Union]

Arialista Sejangec Cyneberg the Battle Mage

Arialista was starting to get used to her wounds. She was breathing harder, struggling to remain awake as the pain was consuming her body and mind. She no longer whimpered or cried out but instead was reduced to leaning on her comrades, upon Corven and Arden. She had dropped her sword and her head bowed, her voice as miserable as any other

“My ribs….My arm is not the only thing that hurts now...I need a potion right now. Someone has to heal me..” She was reaching for her belt, trying to tell them, to make them do something

“You have to get my potions. You have to…..You have to…”

And again, she groaned out, giving up her sight and the control of her body as she fell towards them, her lungs straining, her heart unable to supply the air the rest of her body so needed. The broken ribs were pushing against her organs and her arm was shaking badly as her knees failed her.

She was pushing her entire self to speak again, this time, with a rougher manner

“Come on, you fucking….I really need….”

Sieglind Datarrok the Sorceress

The stranger had spent her first days quietly within the walls of the Legion’s headquarters. She did not complain and she did not praise. She did not oppose and she did not just obey.

Her name was Sieglind. She preferred to be called Streuen or Sieg.

She carried long, red hair. Her body was decorated by bright, magical tattoos. Her skin was like the deserts of the world and her face was lit by her eyes. She wore her fresh cloak that shared the color of human blood as gently and beautifully as any fit woman would. That hid most of her skin as she had not disguised her body that much. For beneath that loose garment, she simply wore armor that protected her legs and feet, her arms and her hands, her breasts, the top of her shoulders and the lower region of her body.

As she spent her time within the headquarters, she was browsing through the clothes that someone was selling just outside. There, she chose a cinturón, a common blouse, a loose camiseta and a falda that would not tear if she moved her legs up or violently. She paid for these items and returned to the headquarters with them. After this, she retired to her room to put these away but came out wearing the falda that shared the color of the living sky and the camiseta that carried the colors of the sun. She made her way to a kitchen and there, she began to make some khubz or round leavened flat bread. That was for her own consumption for she was hungry. As for water, she satisfied herself with what was allowed to be distributed. Then when she felt good, she retired to her room to rest and wait for other Legionnaires to return. Apparently, she was told, an interesting woman from the East came to the Legion before her and to Sieg, she wanted to see this woman for herself.