Soldiers of Fortune (IC/FanT/Signups Required)

[Phaenix]

Tyras, in the Terynir of Pheofhanver

The smell of manure and the filth of the peasantry permeated the air in Tyras. The entire population of the small village, all twenty unwashed peasants, gathered in the small village square to hear what Bann Kasigam aep Lanwyll had to say. Dressed in a fine, woolen tunic and a wolf-skin cloak, the bann read from a scroll.
"Here ye, here ye! By order of His Grace and rightful King of Cynfeltch, Teryn Ralvit aep Mudloll, all able bodied men must report to the nearest military encampment for equipment and training! Any mercenaries who wish to support the rightful King of Cynfeltch should report to the nearest noble, in this case me. That is all! Be about your business!"
As the peasants dispersed, a few of the older men complaining about being conscripted while the younger ones chatted about how much glory they'd win and how many maidens they'd deflower, Bann Kasigam turned and entered the wooden longhouse that was his as Bann of Tyras. The only other wood structure was the Lazy Mule Inn, frequented by travelers and wanderers passing through on their way to larger towns.
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Rykad, Capital of the Rykalan Empire

The busy streets of Rykad bustled with activity. Merchants hawking their wares in the Great Market and on the sides of streets, knights and nobles riding on large warhorses, rough looking mercenaries striking deals with the wealthy, anything one could desire could be found in Rykad. Stormwatch Harbor, filled with taverns, drunken sailors, and brothels, was even busier then the market. Ships from every nation on Farin were in the harbor, with some from as far as Lapyrus and Dao Wu. Hundreds of languages floated through the air, and thousands of people of every color and creed thronged the streets. One of these people was a Rykalan crier, who stood atop a box and shouted.
"A message from His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Earlon I of House Balkor! Mercenaries, sell-swords, and the average man can find steady pay, good food, and camaraderie in the service of the Empire! Join today, and sign on with a caravan heading to the Gryfort to earn fame and glory!"
Few paid the crier any mind, as they earned enough as traders or sailors, but a small group of men immediately set out to the nearest caravan station, hoping to earn enough loot to live decadent lives for the rest of their days.
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On the Royal Road, the Kingdom of Edithar

The band of bandits had been watching the lone figure for quite some time now. The bandits could not determine their gender, as the person was short and wore a cloak, but the bandits could see that they wore a sword on their hip. The three bandits stepped out of the tree line and blocked the person's way.
"Oi! This ere's a toll road, an we're the toll collectors! Pay us, say, everything ye hiv, an we'll lat ye gae freely."
The lead bandit pulled out a large ax while his two pals drew short swords.
"If ye don't feel like paying, we can always kill ye."

[Bolslania]

Malcus strolled by the man pitching the caravan job, he signed up with a group of men. He tagged along with them, but he didn't speak much. The caravan was set to roll in 45 minutes, striking towards Edithar. Hopefully the war would go on for a while, so that there could be the most profits could be made.

[Zedeshia]

The sound of hoof-steps against dirt and gravel could be heard echoing across the empty lands of Eastern Pheonhanver. Aval Irykan tightened his cloak as a unexpected and bitter wind began to blow through the hills and plains of the landscape around him. He glanced ahead, staring at the sun as it made it's slow descent under the horizon. He had been traveling for some time now, but did not realize that time had passed as quickly as it did, and that dusk was soon approaching.
After considering his options, Irykan willed his steed forwards with much speed up the path, and quickly rushed towards the crest of a large hill. He sighed in relief, seeing what appeared to be a small village in the distance. Perhaps that is the Tyras that he had heard about before beginning his journey to Pheofhanver? There was only one way to find out...

Irykan grew nearer to the village, the last rays of the sun barely shining over the distant horizon. Surrounding the small group of hovels and fields of crops was a wooden fence, appearing so old and destitute in the little light that it would not have been surprising if the entire structure would collapse under the slightest amount of pressure. As Irykan on horseback made his way through what he supposed was the entrance gate, he caught sight of three young men sitting near a lantern, discussing among themselves. He approached the men and cleared his throat, it had been some time since he had last spoken.
"Greetings, strangers. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. If you may be so willing, could you direct me to the home of the lord of this place? I had heard news that there was... work to be done on behalf of your ruler."
The men looked up at Irykan with surprise. Perhaps they somehow did not notice him approach? The eldest of the three quickly collected himself and answered:
"Er- I see! If you must, you may speak with Bann Lanwyll in his longhouse, over 'ere.”
The young man nodded towards a large wooden structure directly to his right. Irykan followed his gaze and smiled.
"My thanks, strangers..."
Without another word he brought his steed into a small stable nearby, and entered the longhouse.

[Phaenix]

The sound of hoof-steps against dirt and gravel could be heard echoing across the empty lands of Eastern Pheonhanver. Aval Irykan tightened his cloak as a unexpected and bitter wind began to blow through the hills and plains of the landscape around him. He glanced ahead, staring at the sun as it made it's slow descent under the horizon. He had been traveling for some time now, but did not realize that time had passed as quickly as it did, and that dusk was soon approaching.
After considering his options, Irykan willed his steed forwards with much speed up the path, and quickly rushed towards the crest of a large hill. He sighed in relief, seeing what appeared to be a small village in the distance. Perhaps that is the Tyras that he had heard about before beginning his journey to Pheofhanver? There was only one way to find out...

Irykan grew nearer to the village, the last rays of the sun barely shining over the distant horizon. Surrounding the small group of hovels and fields of crops was a wooden fence, appearing so old and destitute in the little light that it would not have been surprising if the entire structure would collapse under the slightest amount of pressure. As Irykan on horseback made his way through what he supposed was the entrance gate, he caught sight of three young men sitting near a lantern, discussing among themselves. He approached the men and cleared his throat, it had been some time since he had last spoken.
"Greetings, strangers. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. If you may be so willing, could you direct me to the home of the lord of this place? I had heard news that there was... work to be done on behalf of your ruler."
The men looked up at Irykan with surprise. Perhaps they somehow did not notice him approach? The eldest of the three quickly collected himself and answered:
"Er- I see! If you must, you may speak with Bann Lanwyll in his longhouse, over 'ere.”
The young man nodded towards a large wooden structure directly to his right. Irykan followed his gaze and smiled.
"My thanks, strangers..."
Without another word he brought his steed into a small stable nearby, and entered the longhouse.

Bann Lanwyll's Longhouse, Tyras

Bann Lanwyll was enjoying a warm meal of pheasant and wine when he heard the door to his longhouse open. Grumbling the bann looked up to see a tall, pale man with brown hair and a thin beard.
"What the bloody hells do you want? Can't you see I'm trying to eat?"
The bann then noticed the man's weapons, and realized he was speaking to a mercenary.
"Ah, you're here about the Teryn's job offer, eh? Well, I believe I have a job for you," The bann motioned towards Irykan with his hand, "whatever your name is."
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Rykad Caravan Station, Rykad

The caravan master, a portly Scormishman with a blond goatee, walked towards the carriage carrying Malcus and five other men. He stopped at the back of the carriage, and spoke.
"I am Lionel Desjardins, your caravan master. First things first; this ride isn't free. I don't care if you're going off to war, you'll have to pay ten copper for the ride."
The young men in the carriage grumbled and handed Lionel the money. Lionel then turned to Malcus.
"So, are you paying, or will I have Adolphe here," Lionel pointed to a large man in plate armor, "throw you onto the streets?"

[Bolslania]

The sound of hoof-steps against dirt and gravel could be heard echoing across the empty lands of Eastern Pheonhanver. Aval Irykan tightened his cloak as a unexpected and bitter wind began to blow through the hills and plains of the landscape around him. He glanced ahead, staring at the sun as it made it's slow descent under the horizon. He had been traveling for some time now, but did not realize that time had passed as quickly as it did, and that dusk was soon approaching.
After considering his options, Irykan willed his steed forwards with much speed up the path, and quickly rushed towards the crest of a large hill. He sighed in relief, seeing what appeared to be a small village in the distance. Perhaps that is the Tyras that he had heard about before beginning his journey to Pheofhanver? There was only one way to find out...

Irykan grew nearer to the village, the last rays of the sun barely shining over the distant horizon. Surrounding the small group of hovels and fields of crops was a wooden fence, appearing so old and destitute in the little light that it would not have been surprising if the entire structure would collapse under the slightest amount of pressure. As Irykan on horseback made his way through what he supposed was the entrance gate, he caught sight of three young men sitting near a lantern, discussing among themselves. He approached the men and cleared his throat, it had been some time since he had last spoken.
"Greetings, strangers. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. If you may be so willing, could you direct me to the home of the lord of this place? I had heard news that there was... work to be done on behalf of your ruler."
The men looked up at Irykan with surprise. Perhaps they somehow did not notice him approach? The eldest of the three quickly collected himself and answered:
"Er- I see! If you must, you may speak with Bann Lanwyll in his longhouse, over 'ere.”
The young man nodded towards a large wooden structure directly to his right. Irykan followed his gaze and smiled.
"My thanks, strangers..."
Without another word he brought his steed into a small stable nearby, and entered the longhouse.

Bann Lanwyll's Longhouse, Tyras

Bann Lanwyll was enjoying a warm meal of pheasant and wine when he heard the door to his longhouse open. Grumbling the bann looked up to see a tall, pale man with brown hair and a thin beard.
"What the bloody hells do you want? Can't you see I'm trying to eat?"
The bann then noticed the man's weapons, and realized he was speaking to a mercenary.
"Ah, you're here about the Teryn's job offer, eh? Well, I believe I have a job for you," The bann motioned towards Irykan with his hand, "whatever your name is."
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Rykad Caravan Station, Rykad

The caravan master, a portly Scormishman with a blond goatee, walked towards the carriage carrying Malcus and five other men. He stopped at the back of the carriage, and spoke.
"I am Lionel Desjardins, your caravan master. First things first; this ride isn't free. I don't care if you're going off to war, you'll have to pay ten copper for the ride."
The young men in the carriage grumbled and handed Lionel the money. Lionel then turned to Malcus.
"So, are you paying, or will I have Adolphe here," Lionel pointed to a large man in plate armor, "throw you onto the streets?"

Malcus forked over the ten silver,

"That won't be necessary sir." He said politely to the man. He was used to this horseshite from caravaneers.

Malcus, having secured passage, took off his haversack, with his crossbow, bolts, and thicker parts of his armor, and laid it under the bench. He kept the pauldrons and top of the breastpeice on, and the 16 inch hunting knife was attached firmly to his belt.

[Offer Erapia]

Abigail, Edithar

Abigail had been walking for quite some time. Her feet ached and her stomach churned with hunger. She kept her cloak wrapped tightly around her, the dark brown hood hung low over her red eyes. As she walked down the road Abigail couldn't help but get the distinct impression someone was watching her. Though she soon shrugged it off blaming her weariness for her suspicions. But as soon as she pushed away the thought, came a sudden rustling of bushes and muffled thumping of feet.

Abigail stopped abruptly looking up at the three burly men standing before her. Before the man even spoke Abigail knew what was going on. It was a classic shakedown the hairs stood on the back of her neck and she raised her small slender hands innocently. She quickly thought of a way to get out of her predicament not wanting to resort to violence.

"You wouldn't harm a small girl, would you!?"

She purposefully cracked her voice making it as though she was on the verge of tears. Abigail hoped that she could appeal to the mens sympathy, if they had any left.

"Ive been traveling for days with barely any food let alone something worth stealing"

The last part was true indeed. Abigail didnt have any items that were much of value. If she could guess her sword would probably go for a few tens of silver but she was not going to give that up. Underneath her cloak she slowly moved her hand behind her back her delicate fingers grasping the hilt of her dagger. If the men decided to advance she could probably use the element of surprise to throw her dagger and would one. That would give her enough time to draw her sword as well. But for now she just waited to see what the men would do next.

[Phaenix]

Abigail, Edithar

Abigail had been walking for quite some time. Her feet ached and her stomach churned with hunger. She kept her cloak wrapped tightly around her, the dark brown hood hung low over her red eyes. As she walked down the road Abigail couldn't help but get the distinct impression someone was watching her. Though she soon shrugged it off blaming her weariness for her suspicions. But as soon as she pushed away the thought, came a sudden rustling of bushes and muffled thumping of feet.

Abigail stopped abruptly looking up at the three burly men standing before her. Before the man even spoke Abigail knew what was going on. It was a classic shakedown the hairs stood on the back of her neck and she raised her small slender hands innocently. She quickly thought of a way to get out of her predicament not wanting to resort to violence.

"You wouldn't harm a small girl, would you!?"

She purposefully cracked her voice making it as though she was on the verge of tears. Abigail hoped that she could appeal to the mens sympathy, if they had any left.

"Ive been traveling for days with barely any food let alone something worth stealing"

The last part was true indeed. Abigail didnt have any items that were much of value. If she could guess her sword would probably go for a few tens of silver but she was not going to give that up. Underneath her cloak she slowly moved her hand behind her back her delicate fingers grasping the hilt of her dagger. If the men decided to advance she could probably use the element of surprise to throw her dagger and would one. That would give her enough time to draw her sword as well. But for now she just waited to see what the men would do next.

The Royal Road, Edithar

The lead man looked down at Abigail and laughed.
"What's a little lassie doing wi a sword? Don't ye ken war's a man's wark?"
One of the other robbers laughed, but another looked concerned.
"I don't ken, Ulfyr. What if she knows how te use that blade? Why else wad she be traveling alone during a war?"
Ulfyr groaned and looked back at his friend.
"Dammit, Rolfand! Will ye shut yer mouth? She probably doesn't ken the difference atween the handle an the blade!"
Rolfand skulked, but the other robber brayed wildly, earning a shout from Ulfyr.
"Ye shut up tae, Hragar! Ye yinlie just learned no te haud yer sword by the blade!"
Hragar quieted down, but not before speaking up.
"Ulfyr, didn't that auld Lapyr we spoke wi in Halsted say he wis looking for women?"
Ulfyr leaned on his axe and stroked his beard.
"He did, didn't he? He forbye offered guid coin for any 'workers' we bring him."
Ulfyr hefted his axe and motioned for Rolfand and Hragar to surround Abigail.
"Well, since ye can't pay the toll, I guess ye can come wi us. We ken someone who can hiv ye 'work' for him. In a Lapyri pleasure hoose!"
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Comreux, on the Imperial Highway

Lionel greedily counted the copper and walked to the lead wagon, Adolphe close behind. With a crack of his whip, the caravan soon was off. The clatter of wheels and horse hoofs echoed on the cobble road. A few of the other men chatted about the war, and after ten hours the caravan made a quick stop in the Scormish town of Comreux. Lionel hopped out of the lead wagon and shouted to Malcus' wagon.
"We'll spend the night here, then continue forward in the morning. I'm warning you; if you aren't in the wagons at the crack of dawn, we'll leave you in Comreux!"
The men in Malcus' wagon jumped out and went to shop, drink, or whore until the morning.

[Zedeshia]

Bann Lanwyll's Longhouse, Tyras

Bann Lanwyll was enjoying a warm meal of pheasant and wine when he heard the door to his longhouse open. Grumbling the bann looked up to see a tall, pale man with brown hair and a thin beard.
"What the bloody hells do you want? Can't you see I'm trying to eat?"
The bann then noticed the man's weapons, and realized he was speaking to a mercenary.
"Ah, you're here about the Teryn's job offer, eh? Well, I believe I have a job for you," The bann motioned towards Irykan with his hand, "whatever your name is."

Irykan was quiet. It was clear to him that the man speaking was the lord of this place, his fine clothing and grandiose longhouse contrasting sharply with the rest of the village. After a moments hestitation he made a small bow, and nodded his head silently. He had never fully adjusted to how the nobility of the lands outside of his former home seemed to always demand absolute honor and respect. Such things did not seem to be the greatest concern with the bann of a place like Tyras however. Still, he reminded himself that he should proceed carefully, he was unfamiliar with the exact customs of these lands. The bann seemed to notice Irykan's reluctance.
"Ah, a quiet one, I see. Well that is no concern of mine as long as you can do your work well. You would be handsomely rewarded, of course. Follow me..."
The bann motioned Irykan to follow him, and began to make his way to another section of the longhouse.
The sudden thought of the coin that could be made cleared away any doubts in Irykans mind, and he followed Bann Lanwyll without a second thought.

[Offer Erapia]

Abigail, Edithar


Abigail frowned. Her attempts at escape seemed to dwindle as the men began to surround her. She widened her stance and placed a hand on her swords hilt. Her eyes looked at the burly brute in front of her. She set her sights on his legs, more specifically his knees. A dagger there would surely drop him long enough for her to deal with the man behind her. Her heart raced in her chest as she formed her plan. The adrenaline made her breath rigid and heavy her fingers twitched on her hidden daggers hilt. She waited as they slowly began to close in.

As they closed the moment to strike presented itself. The small framed mercenary suddenly drew her dagger and threw it at her aggressors knee in one fluid motion. She didn't dare waist a second to see if it landed she trusted her aim well enough. She took a precautionary side step and pivoted drawing her sword as she came to face the man behind her. She suddenly lunged forward keeping her body low to the ground. Abigail flashed out her hand, slashing at her opponents legs. If her attacks struck true she would follow up with a quick thrust to the bandits chest eliminating the threat.

If all goes according to plan Abigail guessed the third man would be already attacking. So she'd have to either block or dodge the attack. And given the mens hefty weapons the second option seemed much more plausible.

[Western Fardelshufflestein]

Maksym Kozak
Losiec, Dzeka

The street was abuzz with swarms of merchants, criers, storefronts, and, most notably, soldiers. Maksym's trained eye detected them even if they were clad in plainclothes, what with their muscular builds and wary eyes. He wore a similar expression, he knew, but it often came off as more calculating and predatory.

There were soldiers in uniform milling about, too, their faces hard with the bitterness of war. Whether they had seen battle, Maksym could not determine, though he sensed the tension emanating from their attentive forms. The conflict against Midzya, which had been inevitable for years but was only now becoming their reality, had been instigated when a Midzya attendee allegedly insulted Prince Mislav at his birthday feast. Some said it was intentional; others claimed it was a misunderstanding. Whatever the reason, their two principalities were now embroiled in violence.

Maksym's newly expired contract had been under Midzya's army in the now bygone era of false peace. He had been sent to spy on military affairs primarily in Dzeka, which, though he had been enlisted as a mercenary, made him feel that he was a traitor. Not so much so that he would return to the ranks of Midzya and fight his own countrymen, but enough so that he was uncomfortable with the notion of joining the side of Dzeka.

Reaching a sizable square, Maksym paused, scanning the vicinity for any obvious foreign soldiers. He doubted any would be present, no one appeared to be part of an outside military at first glance. What was he to expect, though, in a square near the center Loswiec? If he hoped to secure a mission for a foreign army, he would have to lurk in the kinds places one would expect to find unemployed mercenaries: the taverns.

He adjusted his satchel, swallowed, shut his eyes, and breathed in slowly. He was drawing too much attention to himself. Find a mercenary recruiter and hope for decent pay. Or leave. You cannot join Dzeka's army, because then you will prove your loyalties lie only where there is money.

Slightly disgusted with himself, he made his way toward the center of the square.

[Phaenix]

Maksym Kozak
Losiec, Dzeka

The street was abuzz with swarms of merchants, criers, storefronts, and, most notably, soldiers. Maksym's trained eye detected them even if they were clad in plainclothes, what with their muscular builds and wary eyes. He wore a similar expression, he knew, but it often came off as more calculating and predatory.

There were soldiers in uniform milling about, too, their faces hard with the bitterness of war. Whether they had seen battle, Maksym could not determine, though he sensed the tension emanating from their attentive forms. The conflict against Midzya, which had been inevitable for years but was only now becoming their reality, had been instigated when a Midzya attendee allegedly insulted Prince Mislav at his birthday feast. Some said it was intentional; others claimed it was a misunderstanding. Whatever the reason, their two principalities were now embroiled in violence.

Maksym's newly expired contract had been under Midzya's army in the now bygone era of false peace. He had been sent to spy on military affairs primarily in Dzeka, which, though he had been enlisted as a mercenary, made him feel that he was a traitor. Not so much so that he would return to the ranks of Midzya and fight his own countrymen, but enough so that he was uncomfortable with the notion of joining the side of Dzeka.

Reaching a sizable square, Maksym paused, scanning the vicinity for any obvious foreign soldiers. He doubted any would be present, no one appeared to be part of an outside military at first glance. What was he to expect, though, in a square near the center Loswiec? If he hoped to secure a mission for a foreign army, he would have to lurk in the kinds places one would expect to find unemployed mercenaries: the taverns.

He adjusted his satchel, swallowed, shut his eyes, and breathed in slowly. He was drawing too much attention to himself. Find a mercenary recruiter and hope for decent pay. Or leave. You cannot join Dzeka's army, because then you will prove your loyalties lie only where there is money.

Slightly disgusted with himself, he made his way toward the center of the square.

Loswiec, Capital of Dzeka

Over the noise of the marketplace and the general citizenry, a trumpet announced the arrival of a herald. The crowd quieted, and looked towards a raised platform at the center of the square. The herald, dressed in pantaloons and a cavalier hat, stepped onto the platform and opened an absurdly large scroll.
"His Serenity, Prince Mislav of the glorious House Volansky, by the grace of the gods Prince of Dzeka, Marquess of Kiskun, Count of Markenyezoc. and Lord of Tetmik and Pustonia, declares that all who wish to defend the Prince's impeccable honor report to Junker Lyuboslav Sokolov. His Serenity also declares that our most noble army will face the armies of the despicable Prince Boleslaw Vinogradov of Midzya at Kisalok! Glory to the House of Volansky!"
The gathered crowd cheered before returning to business. Few actually enlisted, as Loswiec was a trading city first and foremost, with most of the crowd being well to do merchants and minor nobility. One of these nobles, escorted by a guard in leather and chain armor wielding a halberd, approached Maksym.
"I do not recognize you, and I know everyone in Loswiec. Are you a mercenary perchance? If so, come with me."
The noble and his guard turned and went down a quiet alley, waiting to see if Maksym would follow.
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Bann Lanwyll's Longhouse, Tyras

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

Ulfyr screamed as the dagger broke his kneecap. Falling to the ground and grasping his knee, he screamed at his friends.
"That bitch broke my leg! KILL HER!"
Rolfand, startled by her agility, failed to dodge the blows to his leg, falling to his knees before being killed.
Hragar, enraged at the death of his friend, yelled and charged forward slicing at Abigail and managing to land a hit to her shoulder, but the blade only slid off due to her armor. Turning to Abigail, Hragar hefted his sword once more and yelled.
"Ye killed my friend. Put him doun like a dog. Sae I'll kill ye like a dog!"

[Phaenix]

Karharth, Capital of the Terynir of Cailhad

The city of Cailhad is louder then cities twice its size. Merchants hollered from side streets while drunken Cynfeltchers stumbled out of taverns. Visitors to the city complained as their boots were sucked into the dirt-turned-mud roads, while locals laughed and continued walking. Knights and sell-swords drank ale together, as Cynfeltch was famous for an incredibly loose nobility, due to the fact nobles lived only marginally better then normal citizens. Karharth was surrounded by a high, stone wall, and lining the streets were wood houses, inns, taverns, and brothels. Farther into the city was Rhavereld Square, a large park where all citizens could relax and do business under the watchful gaze of the bronze statue of King Rhavereld, uniter of the Cynfeltch tribes. And at the heart of the city is Rhavholt, formerly the castle of the Rykalan Imperial Governors, after the great King Pirwarr IV pushed the Empire out of Cynfeltch it has been the seat of the Cynfeltch kings and the teryns of Cailhad. At the gates of the city, however, guards interrogate any leaving or entering to ensure they are not spies from the rival terynirs or the Empire. From the top of the wall a guard shouts.
"Attention all those who wish to enter Karharth! State your name and business, and pay a tax of five copper to enter! All those who refuse will be turned away!"
A long line of merchants and travelers stretch out from the gate, slowly moving forward at a snail's pace. Occasionally, mercenaries who wish to risk an attack from other travelers cut the line and enter quicker, while nobles and knights bypass the line altogether. One, a man with fiery red hair and an equally fiery beard, attempts to run past a Cynfeltch merchant, who knocks the man on his feet and begins kicking him.
"Mārrburroghan scum! I should tan your mongrel hide! I worship the true god, not some strange demons!"
The merchant continued kicking the Mārrburroghan, with no one batting an eye.
(OOC: This isn't Foánnachaedh that's being kicked, just an NPC)

[Barragha]

The road to Karharth was a long and rocky one. Foánnachaedh and Peippînhe had crossed the darkest of forests and the tallest of mountain peaks. Wherever they went, they were greeted by the sights, sounds and smells of nature. Waking to a sparrow‘s gentle song, seeing that fresh morning dew in the valley below. To think that most other people were condemned to live their lives in one place, to be born and to die in the same godforsaken corner of the globe was a fate most dire, a curse he would not dare wish upon any man he knew.

The mercenary could feel his eyes slowly closing, and felt despair as he recognized that he would lose this battle against his sleepiness. Karharth was there, before him. He could see the rows of foreigners hoping to get in, he could hear the chatter and lively atmosphere within the city, he could smell the dung and foul city stench from a mile away. Oh, this was Cynfeltch alright.

Just as he clenched his hands around his cloak to shield him from the unpleasant breeze, he was awoken by something far more unpleasant than a gust of wind; one person had assaulted the other, and was shouting a plethora of discriminatory remarks their way.

Foánnachaedh fixed his gaze upon the guards above, who did not seem to mind whatever was going on below. They wanted their coins, they could not care for the poor fellow at the gates.

The young Mārrburran’s stomach turned. What was he to do? His kind was not welcome in this stretch of the country, he knew that, but to witness this amount of violence with no opposition, to remain silent in the face of such evil seemed averse to him. He straightened the bronze torc, a ceremonial neck ring used by his people, so that the breached ends were clearly visible. Unsure of what was to happen to the fellow on the ground, unsure of what was to happen to himself, CárrComaighæhàrr mumbled a short prayer to Párrænnatuás in his own language, hoping that the god of war could protect him.

It must have been a strange sight - moose were uncommon so far south, and to see a strange redhead in an ugly coat of different stitched-up furs riding a colossal 6-foot beast would likely have been something these Cynfeltch were all but used to.

Foánnachaedh looked about him one last time, eyeing the guards on the stone walls, hoping that they would not interfere.

“Cease, ingrate.”

It was clear from the start that the moose rider was no native speaker. His control of the “Réiîckællánaszœūngaighà”, or “The Rykalan Tongue”, as his people called it, was incredibly limited. He’d never been taught its vocabulary all that well, and often made grammatical mistakes. The truth about the religious class system was that one had to be selected into the academic group to learn several languages. Foánnachaedh was a Mœchánnōuánoglaich, and so he’d only received so much training in things that a warrior did not need.

Yet, he tried to remain calm and confident, hoping that the merchant would leave the other man alone, that this conflict could be resolved peacefully, and with honour.

[Phaenix]

The road to Karharth was a long and rocky one. Foánnachaedh and Peippînhe had crossed the darkest of forests and the tallest of mountain peaks. Wherever they went, they were greeted by the sights, sounds and smells of nature. Waking to a sparrow‘s gentle song, seeing that fresh morning dew in the valley below. To think that most other people were condemned to live their lives in one place, to be born and to die in the same godforsaken corner of the globe was a fate most dire, a curse he would not dare wish upon any man he knew.

The mercenary could feel his eyes slowly closing, and felt despair as he recognized that he would lose this battle against his sleepiness. Karharth was there, before him. He could see the rows of foreigners hoping to get in, he could hear the chatter and lively atmosphere within the city, he could smell the dung and foul city stench from a mile away. Oh, this was Cynfeltch alright.

Just as he clenched his hands around his cloak to shield him from the unpleasant breeze, he was awoken by something far more unpleasant than a gust of wind; one person had assaulted the other, and was shouting a plethora of discriminatory remarks their way.

Foánnachaedh fixed his gaze upon the guards above, who did not seem to mind whatever was going on below. They wanted their coins, they could not care for the poor fellow at the gates.

The young Mārrburran’s stomach turned. What was he to do? His kind was not welcome in this stretch of the country, he knew that, but to witness this amount of violence with no opposition, to remain silent in the face of such evil seemed averse to him. He straightened the bronze torc, a ceremonial neck ring used by his people, so that the breached ends were clearly visible. Unsure of what was to happen to the fellow on the ground, unsure of what was to happen to himself, CárrComaighæhàrr mumbled a short prayer to Párrænnatuás in his own language, hoping that the god of war could protect him.

It must have been a strange sight - moose were uncommon so far south, and to see a strange redhead in an ugly coat of different stitched-up furs riding a colossal 6-foot beast would likely have been something these Cynfeltch were all but used to.

Foánnachaedh looked about him one last time, eyeing the guards on the stone walls, hoping that they would not interfere.

“Cease, ingrate.”

It was clear from the start that the moose rider was no native speaker. His control of the “Réiîckællánaszœūngaighà”, or “The Rykalan Tongue”, as his people called it, was incredibly limited. He’d never been taught its vocabulary all that well, and often made grammatical mistakes. The truth about the religious class system was that one had to be selected into the academic group to learn several languages. Foánnachaedh was a Mœchánnōuánoglaich, and so he’d only received so much training in things that a warrior did not need.

Yet, he tried to remain calm and confident, hoping that the merchant would leave the other man alone, that this conflict could be resolved peacefully, and with honour.

Karharth Gates

The merchant stopped his relentless assault on the man, who by now was covered in bruises and blood, but not seriously harmed, and looked behind him.
"What did you just call-!?"
The merchant stopped when he saw the moose, and the size of Foánnachaedh, but soon regained his composure and clapped his hands. At the sound of his clap, two thugs in leather armor and armed with clubs, stepped out from the front of the merchant's cart. The merchant sneered at Foánnachaedh, before speaking in a disgusted tone.
"So they just let any heathens into Karharth now, don't they? When the Empire ruled this land, you barbarians knew your place!"
The two thugs stepped forward, either brave or stupid as to show no fear, and brandished their clubs. Nearby travelers backed away or ran to the guards, but the guards themselves were exchanging bags of coin and pointing at Foánnachaedh. It was obvious to them who would win, and a few had decided to make a bet of it. The merchant stepped back, a confident smirk on his face, and spoke once more.
"But as the Empire is not here, it seems I'll have to put you in your place myself. Get him!"
With that, the guards charged forward.

[Western Fardelshufflestein]

Loswiec, Capital of Dzeka

Over the noise of the marketplace and the general citizenry, a trumpet announced the arrival of a herald. The crowd quieted, and looked towards a raised platform at the center of the square. The herald, dressed in pantaloons and a cavalier hat, stepped onto the platform and opened an absurdly large scroll.
"His Serenity, Prince Mislav of the glorious House Volansky, by the grace of the gods Prince of Dzeka, Marquess of Kiskun, Count of Markenyezoc. and Lord of Tetmik and Pustonia, declares that all who wish to defend the Prince's impeccable honor report to Junker Lyuboslav Sokolov. His Serenity also declares that our most noble army will face the armies of the despicable Prince Boleslaw Vinogradov of Midzya at Kisalok! Glory to the House of Volansky!"
The gathered crowd cheered before returning to business. Few actually enlisted, as Loswiec was a trading city first and foremost, with most of the crowd being well to do merchants and minor nobility. One of these nobles, escorted by a guard in leather and chain armor wielding a halberd, approached Maksym.
"I do not recognize you, and I know everyone in Loswiec. Are you a mercenary perchance? If so, come with me."
The noble and his guard turned and went down a quiet alley, waiting to see if Maksym would follow.

[/quote]
Maksym blinked, slightly surprised by the nobleman's approach. He made an attempt to make a light bow, perhaps utter the word "mylord," but the noble turned his back and hastened down an alley before he could speak.

Strange, he observed, unease creeping into his mind. A nobleman leading a lowly mercenary away from a crowded square was not usually a good sign; however, given the situation and his prowess in combat, he figured he had a decent chance of not dying. His main worry was not the noble himself but his guard. The other man was armed with a halberd that gleamed viciously, even in the dusk of the alleyway, and had muscles that rippled beneath his armor. Maksym knew his jerkin and two daggers would likely be no match against the guard. The little magic he knew meant nothing against a trained soldier, which the guard evidently was.

Maksym hardly considered himself a warrior. He fought only for the noble offering the highest reward, and even then, he had never seen a real battle. His time brawling in the streets of his home village were brutal, yes, but they were over basic, gritty matters, not feuds that involved multiple kingdoms.

Perhaps this was his chance to become more than a dirty street fighter. He could be a soldier, a knight. Someone with power and wealth.

As he silently trekked behind the enigmatic noble, his stomach growled with hunger. He had not eaten since the evening last, and it was nearly high noon. But his rations were too low for him to give in.

[Bolslania]

Malcus, after dinner was served and eaten, stepped out into the cool night air. He took a deep breath of it. It was pleasant to escape the stuffy common room. During the days travels they had seen evidence of the war, injured soldiers headed back to friendly territory, prisoners marching to jails, and other military caravans passing through. He thought on his future. He tended to work solo or in small groups, staying to the edge of the battles, picking off generals and skirmishers with his crossbow and knife. But who knew what kind of war this was going to be.

[Phaenix]

Loswiec, Capital of Dzeka

Over the noise of the marketplace and the general citizenry, a trumpet announced the arrival of a herald. The crowd quieted, and looked towards a raised platform at the center of the square. The herald, dressed in pantaloons and a cavalier hat, stepped onto the platform and opened an absurdly large scroll.
"His Serenity, Prince Mislav of the glorious House Volansky, by the grace of the gods Prince of Dzeka, Marquess of Kiskun, Count of Markenyezoc. and Lord of Tetmik and Pustonia, declares that all who wish to defend the Prince's impeccable honor report to Junker Lyuboslav Sokolov. His Serenity also declares that our most noble army will face the armies of the despicable Prince Boleslaw Vinogradov of Midzya at Kisalok! Glory to the House of Volansky!"
The gathered crowd cheered before returning to business. Few actually enlisted, as Loswiec was a trading city first and foremost, with most of the crowd being well to do merchants and minor nobility. One of these nobles, escorted by a guard in leather and chain armor wielding a halberd, approached Maksym.
"I do not recognize you, and I know everyone in Loswiec. Are you a mercenary perchance? If so, come with me."
The noble and his guard turned and went down a quiet alley, waiting to see if Maksym would follow.

Maksym blinked, slightly surprised by the nobleman's approach. He made an attempt to make a light bow, perhaps utter the word "mylord," but the noble turned his back and hastened down an alley before he could speak.

Strange, he observed, unease creeping into his mind. A nobleman leading a lowly mercenary away from a crowded square was not usually a good sign; however, given the situation and his prowess in combat, he figured he had a decent chance of not dying. His main worry was not the noble himself but his guard. The other man was armed with a halberd that gleamed viciously, even in the dusk of the alleyway, and had muscles that rippled beneath his armor. Maksym knew his jerkin and two daggers would likely be no match against the guard. The little magic he knew meant nothing against a trained soldier, which the guard evidently was.

Maksym hardly considered himself a warrior. He fought only for the noble offering the highest reward, and even then, he had never seen a real battle. His time brawling in the streets of his home village were brutal, yes, but they were over basic, gritty matters, not feuds that involved multiple kingdoms.

Perhaps this was his chance to become more than a dirty street fighter. He could be a soldier, a knight. Someone with power and wealth.

As he silently trekked behind the enigmatic noble, his stomach growled with hunger. He had not eaten since the evening last, and it was nearly high noon. But his rations were too low for him to give in.[/quote]

Loswiec, Dzeka

Once Maksym had entered the alley, the noble nodded to his guard, who stepped out of the alley and watched for any eavesdroppers. The noble then turned to Maksym and gave a small bow.
"I am Lord Casimir Nikraski, and from the way you examined my guard, you are someone proficient in, say, making problems disappear."
Lord Nikraski made a poof sound after the word disappear. Not waiting for a response, Nikraski pulled out a scroll with a man's face sketched on it. The man was pale, with a blond mustache and hair. He had piercing blue eyes, and a small scar on his cheek. Nikraski pointed to the man and spoke once more.
"As you can see, this was incredibly expensive to have drawn, but it was worth every coin. This man is Gerolf val Ainthurn, a suspected Rykalan spy. With the Prince's silly war, us noblemen have had the unique honor of flushing out these Rykalan rats wherever we find them. I am currently tied up at the moment, what with Prince Boleslaw's army raiding my estates, but it is imperative that you find and kill this man. I will pay you handsomely for it."
Lord Nikraski jingled a bag of coins for effect.
"So, what say you?"
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Comreux, on the Imperial Highway

As Malcus was standing outside, a pair of drunken Athelingi mercenaries approached him. One, leaning on his friend, laughed and pointed.
"Butcher's at this wahn, Merewald. Aw 'rmored up and garn Frank Bough ter war! Brings a tear ter me mince pie."
Merewald, slightly less drunk then his friend, clarified for Malcus.
"Herrig say's it brings a tear to his eye to see such a small child all armored up and going to war."
Herrig let out another laugh, before vomiting, and spoke.
"Ya kna, maybe 'e's got sum coin on 'im. I'd loike ter take wahn of the bloomin' Lapyri pleasure ocean pearls for a Charlie Pride, if ya kna wot I mean."
Merewald burped and spoke up.
"He say's that we need your coin to go give those beautiful Lapyri girls the times of their lives."
Herrig straightened up and drunkenly drew his sword, while Merewald pulled out his axe. Herrig laughed once more.
"Ain't nuffin' gonna stop me from takin' wahn of them beautiful ocean pearls ter Uncle Ned tonight!"

[Western Fardelshufflestein]

Loswiec, Dzeka

Once Maksym had entered the alley, the noble nodded to his guard, who stepped out of the alley and watched for any eavesdroppers. The noble then turned to Maksym and gave a small bow.
"I am Lord Casimir Nikraski, and from the way you examined my guard, you are someone proficient in, say, making problems disappear."
Lord Nikraski made a poof sound after the word disappear. Not waiting for a response, Nikraski pulled out a scroll with a man's face sketched on it. The man was pale, with a blond mustache and hair. He had piercing blue eyes, and a small scar on his cheek. Nikraski pointed to the man and spoke once more.
"As you can see, this was incredibly expensive to have drawn, but it was worth every coin. This man is Gerolf val Ainthurn, a suspected Rykalan spy. With the Prince's silly war, us noblemen have had the unique honor of flushing out these Rykalan rats wherever we find them. I am currently tied up at the moment, what with Prince Boleslaw's army raiding my estates, but it is imperative that you find and kill this man. I will pay you handsomely for it."
Lord Nikraski jingled a bag of coins for effect.
"So, what say you?"

Maksym Kozak
Loswiec, Dzeka

Maksym leaned forward, squinting so he could better make out the image of the man in the dimness. He did his best to hide an eager smile at the thought of the bag of coins being dropped into his hands. Admittedly, he had imagined his recruitment to be for an army as opposed to an individual nobleman, but mercenary work was mercenary work, was it not?

"A Rykalan spy, you say." His brow furrowed. "Mylord, do you know where I may find this...Gerolf? I will gladly offer my service if you find me suitable for this mission."

[Phaenix]

Loswiec, Dzeka

Once Maksym had entered the alley, the noble nodded to his guard, who stepped out of the alley and watched for any eavesdroppers. The noble then turned to Maksym and gave a small bow.
"I am Lord Casimir Nikraski, and from the way you examined my guard, you are someone proficient in, say, making problems disappear."
Lord Nikraski made a poof sound after the word disappear. Not waiting for a response, Nikraski pulled out a scroll with a man's face sketched on it. The man was pale, with a blond mustache and hair. He had piercing blue eyes, and a small scar on his cheek. Nikraski pointed to the man and spoke once more.
"As you can see, this was incredibly expensive to have drawn, but it was worth every coin. This man is Gerolf val Ainthurn, a suspected Rykalan spy. With the Prince's silly war, us noblemen have had the unique honor of flushing out these Rykalan rats wherever we find them. I am currently tied up at the moment, what with Prince Boleslaw's army raiding my estates, but it is imperative that you find and kill this man. I will pay you handsomely for it."
Lord Nikraski jingled a bag of coins for effect.
"So, what say you?"

Maksym Kozak
Loswiec, Dzeka

Maksym leaned forward, squinting so he could better make out the image of the man in the dimness. He did his best to hide an eager smile at the thought of the bag of coins being dropped into his hands. Admittedly, he had imagined his recruitment to be for an army as opposed to an individual nobleman, but mercenary work was mercenary work, was it not?

"A Rykalan spy, you say." His brow furrowed. "Mylord, do you know where I may find this...Gerolf? I will gladly offer my service if you find me suitable for this mission."

Loswiec, Dzeka

Lord Nikraski clapped his hands and smiled.
"Yes, I do. My men trailed him to Jastemecsat, a port town a few hours south from here on horseback. My men are watching the town's exits as we speak in case Gerolf makes a run for it. You can go in the morning, as it is nearing night and it is foolish to travel alone in the dark, especially in wartime."
Nikraski counted out ten silvers, equivalent to a thousand copper, and placed them along with the scroll depicting Gerolf in Maksym's hand.
"I will give you the other half of your pay once you return with Gerolf's head. Stanik here," Nikraski pointed to the guard, "will see you to the Fabled Steer Inn and buy you a room. Food, you'll have to pay for yourself."
Nikraski put his hand on Maksym's shoulder and looked into his eyes.
"If you do this, I will put a good word in with the Prince for you."

[Bolslania]

Maksym blinked, slightly surprised by the nobleman's approach. He made an attempt to make a light bow, perhaps utter the word "mylord," but the noble turned his back and hastened down an alley before he could speak.

Strange, he observed, unease creeping into his mind. A nobleman leading a lowly mercenary away from a crowded square was not usually a good sign; however, given the situation and his prowess in combat, he figured he had a decent chance of not dying. His main worry was not the noble himself but his guard. The other man was armed with a halberd that gleamed viciously, even in the dusk of the alleyway, and had muscles that rippled beneath his armor. Maksym knew his jerkin and two daggers would likely be no match against the guard. The little magic he knew meant nothing against a trained soldier, which the guard evidently was.

Maksym hardly considered himself a warrior. He fought only for the noble offering the highest reward, and even then, he had never seen a real battle. His time brawling in the streets of his home village were brutal, yes, but they were over basic, gritty matters, not feuds that involved multiple kingdoms.

Perhaps this was his chance to become more than a dirty street fighter. He could be a soldier, a knight. Someone with power and wealth.

As he silently trekked behind the enigmatic noble, his stomach growled with hunger. He had not eaten since the evening last, and it was nearly high noon. But his rations were too low for him to give in.

Loswiec, Dzeka

Once Maksym had entered the alley, the noble nodded to his guard, who stepped out of the alley and watched for any eavesdroppers. The noble then turned to Maksym and gave a small bow.
"I am Lord Casimir Nikraski, and from the way you examined my guard, you are someone proficient in, say, making problems disappear."
Lord Nikraski made a poof sound after the word disappear. Not waiting for a response, Nikraski pulled out a scroll with a man's face sketched on it. The man was pale, with a blond mustache and hair. He had piercing blue eyes, and a small scar on his cheek. Nikraski pointed to the man and spoke once more.
"As you can see, this was incredibly expensive to have drawn, but it was worth every coin. This man is Gerolf val Ainthurn, a suspected Rykalan spy. With the Prince's silly war, us noblemen have had the unique honor of flushing out these Rykalan rats wherever we find them. I am currently tied up at the moment, what with Prince Boleslaw's army raiding my estates, but it is imperative that you find and kill this man. I will pay you handsomely for it."
Lord Nikraski jingled a bag of coins for effect.
"So, what say you?"
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Comreux, on the Imperial Highway

As Malcus was standing outside, a pair of drunken Athelingi mercenaries approached him. One, leaning on his friend, laughed and pointed.
"Butcher's at this wahn, Merewald. Aw 'rmored up and garn Frank Bough ter war! Brings a tear ter me mince pie."
Merewald, slightly less drunk then his friend, clarified for Malcus.
"Herrig say's it brings a tear to his eye to see such a small child all armored up and going to war."
Herrig let out another laugh, before vomiting, and spoke.
"Ya kna, maybe 'e's got sum coin on 'im. I'd loike ter take wahn of the bloomin' Lapyri pleasure ocean pearls for a Charlie Pride, if ya kna wot I mean."
Merewald burped and spoke up.
"He say's that we need your coin to go give those beautiful Lapyri girls the times of their lives."
Herrig straightened up and drunkenly drew his sword, while Merewald pulled out his axe. Herrig laughed once more.
"Ain't nuffin' gonna stop me from takin' wahn of them beautiful ocean pearls ter Uncle Ned tonight!"[/quote]



Malcus sighed at the two men, they had just made a very, very fatal mistake. His hunting knife was hanging from his belt, and he could get it out before they could get to him he reckoned. He readied himself to move. If diplomacy failed, he would be ready to kill both of them in a heartbeat.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" He said, his voice flat

[Phaenix]

Malcus sighed at the two men, they had just made a very, very fatal mistake. His hunting knife was hanging from his belt, and he could get it out before they could get to him he reckoned. He readied himself to move. If diplomacy failed, he would be ready to kill both of them in a heartbeat.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" He said, his voice flat

Comreux, on the Imperial Highway

Merewald laughed.
"It's two on one, mate. Just hand over the coin, and we'll go on our merry way."
Herrig stepped forward, however, and brandished his blade.
"Actually, this one's Brahms and Liszt me Frank Bough. Nuffin' better ter get the bloomin' Claret flowin' then ter spill someone else's Claret!"
Merewald shrugged his shoulders and translated what Herrig said.
"Actually, you've pissed Herrig off. He says there's nothing better to get the blood flowing then to spill someone else's."
The two Athelingi drunkenly advanced on Malcus, weapons raised.

[Western Fardelshufflestein]

Loswiec, Dzeka

Lord Nikraski clapped his hands and smiled.
"Yes, I do. My men trailed him to Jastemecsat, a port town a few hours south from here on horseback. My men are watching the town's exits as we speak in case Gerolf makes a run for it. You can go in the morning, as it is nearing night and it is foolish to travel alone in the dark, especially in wartime."
Nikraski counted out ten silvers, equivalent to a thousand copper, and placed them along with the scroll depicting Gerolf in Maksym's hand.
"I will give you the other half of your pay once you return with Gerolf's head. Stanik here," Nikraski pointed to the guard, "will see you to the Fabled Steer Inn and buy you a room. Food, you'll have to pay for yourself."
Nikraski put his hand on Maksym's shoulder and looked into his eyes.
"If you do this, I will put a good word in with the Prince for you."

Maksym Kozak
Losiec, Dzeka

Maksym knew of Jastemecsat; he'd been there twice or thrice in his lifetime, but he would not stand out too much in a port city. He studied the ten silvers in the nobleman--Nikraski's--hand.

"I will give you the other half of the pay once you return with Gerolf's head. Stanik here," the nobleman gestured at his guard, who remained stolid, "Will see you to the Fabled Steer Inn and buy you a room. Food, you'll have to pay for yourself."

Maksym gave a nod, stifling his uneasiness at the prospect of decapitating another man. He was by no means squeamish, and he had killed before, but he had never needed to take a trophy. Still, twenty silver was highly tempting.

Nikraski put a hand on Maksym's shoulder. Maksym remained respectful, neutral, the way he always did around those of rank.

The noble peered into Maksym's eyes, murmuring, "If you do this, I will put a good word in with the Prince for you."

"Is there a specific way you want me to do it? Any connections he might have, or any weaknesses? I am willing to help you, Lord Nikraski, and I want to make sure I can do this in a way that will not imperil or inconvenience you." He met the other man's gaze without breaking. "I do hope I am not being too forward, milord. I simply do not want to incidentally catastrophic error so that I can carry out this mission to your satisfaction."

[Bolslania]

Malcus sighed at the two men, they had just made a very, very fatal mistake. His hunting knife was hanging from his belt, and he could get it out before they could get to him he reckoned. He readied himself to move. If diplomacy failed, he would be ready to kill both of them in a heartbeat.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" He said, his voice flat

Comreux, on the Imperial Highway

Merewald laughed.
"It's two on one, mate. Just hand over the coin, and we'll go on our merry way."
Herrig stepped forward, however, and brandished his blade.
"Actually, this one's Brahms and Liszt me Frank Bough. Nuffin' better ter get the bloomin' Claret flowin' then ter spill someone else's Claret!"
Merewald shrugged his shoulders and translated what Herrig said.
"Actually, you've pissed Herrig off. He says there's nothing better to get the blood flowing then to spill someone else's."
The two Athelingi drunkenly advanced on Malcus, weapons raised.

"True that" Malcus said. He dashed left, pulling his dagger, his plan was to jam it up through Herrig' s exposed armpit, up into his throat and base of the brain, then kick Herrig' s corpse off, preferably in the direction of Merewald, from where he would cut Merewald's throat.

[Barragha]

Foánnachaedh CárrComaighæhàrr
Gates of Karharth

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

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

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

[Phaenix]

Foánnachaedh CárrComaighæhàrr
Gates of Karharth

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

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

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

Karharth, Cailhad

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

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

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

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