Rivulets
 

For the moment this is a "closed" thread, so invitation only. If you'd still like to join and think you have something to add, send me a PM.

Current participants are Calaethis and myself. This is more a co-written story than a roleplay.

Re: Rivulets
 

Re: Rivulets
 

Downstream, another sighed. Past his prime, he had once been called a ‘prince among men’, but nothing could have prevented this. The Gerry had been dammed by the sheer weight of the bodies; now, only the dead drifted down, and the fish – what remained – gnawed on them. A terrible fate. The guild of fisheries would collapse under this latest setback. It would cripple the docks entirely. Sadly shaking his head, he steered his barge away and thought upon his daughter…

Elsewhere, a young red haired woman jostled and ducked within the crowded cobblestone street. Snatching a purse as she did, her deft fingers revealed its contents: a bare few coppers and a single silver. Practically nothing. It wasn’t even worth having; it took more to dye her hair red. Muttering under her breath, she hollered a cry, “Excuse me – sir, sir, I think you dropped this.” Pressing the leather purse – worth more than its contents – into the startled man’s hands, she ducked away as he swore an oath at his stupidity and thanked her. Shaking her head, she disappeared into the crowd. Glancing up at the bastille upon the hill, she decided that Queen Meliesse and the Prince Regent would get them through this. No matter how tense the atmosphere in streets were, they had weathered worse. After all, this was the capital of the region, and unlike the last few towns that burned, the city walls here were made of stouter stuff then mere wood and brick. No, they were safe here, for now. Only a madman would march on the city. Gerrifordale had never fallen in a hundred and fifty years.
She wondered how her father was doing, stuck out on that pathetic barge, and saw the frightened people rabbiting about. At least the trade routes hadn’t closed yet. As long as the Three Roads remained open, all would be well. It would have to be. Ducking under a set of cellar stairs, she disappeared into the familiar tavern – as much home as she had.

Even further elsewhere, Queen Meliesse stood behind a long window, staring out at her city. “How bad is it?” she asked quietly.
“Bad, majesty. That’s the seventh band of refugees to enter within the week.”
“Have we the supplies?”
“Not to hold for a prolonged siege. If the Roads and Waterway close, the people will riot.”
“Then let us hope they do not. Increase stockpiling at once.”
“My lady… the prices at market have already tripled; if we begin to buy up what’s left of the grain, that will cause a riot as surely as if we were besieged.”
“We have to do something, chancellor. Have the grain imports arrived yet?”
“No, my lady. I have sent out scouts, but I suspect the worse. War has come to Gerriford, even before a single enemy soldier has been sighted.”
“I know old friend… I know.” Sighing, she turned away and strode back to her high-backed throne, “Where is the Prince?”
“Out with the cavalry. He insists on leading them.”
“At least that will give the people some hope. Unfurl the banners, m’lord. It’s time the people saw that their Queen is in residence. And fetch me the River Admiral; we need to see to our defences. I fear we must embank the docks and place a chokehold on free trade.” She rubbed her brow tiredly, “Why now? Why did this have to happen now?”
“I do not know, majesty, but your orders shall be carried out. We are loyal to the crown.”
“I know… I know, and I appreciate it. But now, I need to see to the preparations – while we still have time. Ready the eighth battalion and throw open the draft; we’ll need every man, and boy of fifteen to learn how to bear arms. If all else fails, perhaps a city militia will stall the invasion, even if the army fails. The people will fight to defend their homes; they have a right to. It is only just I enable them. I know I risk empowering riots, but what else can I do? We must rely on the people, as we always have. I prayed this day would never come.”
“Aye ma’am… all of us did.”
“Thank you. Now go.”

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The inn door slammed open halfway through the dirge. The wind threw sheets of rain in through the open door, almost drowning the words of the soldier.
"Riders crossing the bridge!" and with that he was gone, sword already in his hand, rushing to defensive positions. Weapons laid to rest for the night were quickly gathered up, bits and pieces of armour hastily strapped on. Within a minute the inn was almost empty. The faint clash of steel drifted over the sounds of the ever growing storm.
The traveler went to stand at the door, half-finished mug of sweet wine in his right hand. The drink had helped return some of his strength, but he still held on to the door frame with his other hand.
Sporadic flashes of lightning lighted the lower village. The figures on horseback, no more than a dozen were riding hard towards the picket lines, their steeds clearly close to exhaustion. Barely discernible in the distance, still on the far side of the bridge, footsoldiers could be made out.
The lead rider, almost forty paces ahead of his comrades reached the picket lines first. He jumped from his horse, and both hands raised high made his way across to the defenders. Words were exchanged, and the man was welcomed with open arms.
A massive bolt of lightning hit the old oak tree on the far side of the bridge, bathing the area in incandescent light. The Gerry river was covered in corpses, more than when the traveler had crossed the river just a few hours ago. And on the far side of the river a battle raged. The line of footsoldiers was retreating in an orderly manner from an enemy that outnumbered them at least ten to one, their numbers stretching farther than the eye could see.
Heathdale's current defenders were slowly drifting forth from their picket lines, reinforcing the failing front line covering the retreat.



Polt was one the few survivors of the long flight from the siege of Three Hills. The ancient fortress, built by a long forgotten civilization centuries past had been an impregnable defensive position for as long as memory went back, but severely undermanned and outnumbered the defenders had stood no chance. Less than one in twenty had made it out alive of the flaming ruins. Pursued league upon league and week after week they had made their way south, following the meandering course of the Gerry river.
The enemy had never been far behind. They had fought dozens of skirmishes and many pitched battles, leaving scores of dead after each engagement. The main body of pursuers had caught up with them half a day's walk from Heathdale. Less than five score had made it out alive of the battle. It had been a fighting retreat ever since.
They did not know who held Heathdale. The ownership of the small village had changed so often in the past months...
Finding their own their had been a relief and yet...So many more would die. The enemy numbered thousands and they were just over three hundred. They had no chance.
Polt wiped the rain water from his eyes, blinking hard in the sudden light of the burning oak tree. His arm ached. He had swung his sword so many times he felt he couldn't even lift it again. But when his life depended on it, he managed a weak parry and made another step backwards. Just a few hundred more left to the other side of the bridge.
And then? Then they could make the enemy pay dearly for passage. The bridge was long and narrow, an almost perfect defensive position. But failure was inevitable. He swung again, felt the blade connect with flesh and get snagged in the chain mail covering that flesh. The sword was torn from his grasp.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, signalling the arrival of one of Heathdale's defenders just as the spear tore into his gut, burying itself deep. Everything went black.



Fincar swore. The line looked close to crumbling. They were so close to this side of the river. There was only one thing left that he could do, but with all those men on the bridge...
"Fincar!" the commander called from behind him. The man was barely recognisable with all the mud covering him, the sling on his arm giving away who he was. "Don't leave it late."
Commander Kerip Dawn rushed forth, his good arm holding a curved scimitar.


The traveler took another sip of wine. Dozens had already died on the bridge, yet soldiers of the other side kept coming. And then, without warning, all hell broke loose.
Sections of the bridge seemed to lift dozens of feet in the air, the bodies of soldiers flying in all directions. Suddenly undammed, the mass of bodies beyond the bridge started drifting down, only to have broken sections of the bridge smash into them as they fell back in the river. The sickening sound of tearing stone only reached the inn as the first chunks of stone rained down.

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Word had reached them. Another village - some pitiful hamlet had fallen. So be it. Unimpressed and impassive past the point of disdainful, Kul Gildun cared less for the village than he did for the bug he had just crushed beneath his boots. The flies were rampant here. At the very edge of the realm, on the border, he and his horde watched with ever-growing anticipation as the news the Queendom along the Gerry was falling. His horsemen were born from the stuff of legend, and they would take this land by storm. But he was patient. He would wait as the armies of this realm battled it out amongst themselves, and while they were weakened, in chaos, then the storm would truly arrive. He was its herald. Behind him, the nomads began to chant, cheering him. Their dark banners held high in their hands, only a raven pierced by a spear could be made out, against a lightbolt lit field of black.
The first riders would be sent out soon. This land was ripe for picking. Only the slaves, in their camp, twenty miles behind, and their booty, were testament to the lands that came before. Slaves from all different lands. And he, Kul Gildun, was Kul of the entire Stormflyer nation. That is what they were, after all: Children of the Storm. All would learn to fear and despise their name. Behind him, the five hundred thousand strong host would follow. Fifty were with him; the rest would come. Every stone would be levelled, every road razed.

Turning his steed, he held up his palm. They would not be assaulting the realm this day. Five hundred horse turned and wheeled as one, retreating back into the mountains.

Above them, the storm clouds began to gather.

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Filth was twelve and had acquired his name from the conditions he had lived in most of his short life. He had been born the son of a whore. His father could have been anyone. He had been more a nuisance to his mother than joy, after all which hooker wanted to have a burden that reduced their rates

The horse riders had disappeared on the other side of the pass thousands of heartbeats ago, yet Filth still lay under the overhang, not yet daring to move. He was still shaking with fear. Had the lead rider come but a dozen paces closer, he would have been silhouetted against the setting sun. But Lady Luck had smiled on him.
He waited until night stole across the skies, bringing with it a veil of stars. Out here, far from the great cities along the Gerry river thousands upon thousands of starts could be seen on a cloudless night. Luckily for Filth, this particular night was cloudy and he was able to leave his hiding spot at a crawl, then a low run.
He had found paying work about a year ago, enlisting with the Satal Trade Guild. Initially hailing from the harbour of Satal and then moving their headquarters to Gerridale after the sack of Satal forty years ago, the guild had started out as nothing more than a band of mercenaries. Over the decades they had expanded and were nowadays considered as a guild which dabbled in nearly everything. Whatever desire you have, we can get it for you - so went their slogan.
And everyone desired something. The guild could get it, if the price was right. Civil war had seen prices of everything skyrocket. If the smugglers and the black markets could not deliver certain goods, people went to see the Satal Trade Guild. The only reason the authorities still tolerated the growing power of the guild was that without its services they would have already been hard pressed during this war.
Of course the guild did not choose sides in this civil war, they did not choose the crown or one of the many warlords. They did business with everyone. No deal was too small, no deal was too big. If they were unable to fulfill a request they would just set a price that no sane man would be willing to pay.

Filth was a messenger for the Satal Trade Guild. A rich merchant had wanted a message to be taken to a town far across the mountains and had paid handsomely. Now the guild knew why. If the hordes were gathering, it would impact much more than this simple message. Filth knew he had to return the way he had come and deliver the news about the horsemen to his masters. It would make them lose money on the current contract, but the long term gains were desireable indeed.
His pouch was still heavy with coin in preparation for the long journey. He would have to buy a horse and make all haste back east. Three Hills was probably closer than Gerridale, he would make his way there. The local guildmaster would then know what to do.

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Rivet smirked to himself. Today was turning out to be a good day. The bounty had been less plentiful than the last, but he had acquired something far more valuable then mere silver. Perhaps not as valuable as gold, but definitely worth the cost of silver - silver he would have spent on whoring or wine anyway.
The potter's daughter shied back; he smiled. He liked that. Not the most buxom of wenches, but she was young. Not so young she couldn't be considered a woman, but she had been inexperienced. Was inexperienced. Her old man shrank back into the corner after steel had been drawn, after he had burst into their house, and faced with the offer of losing his life, his home and his daughter, or simply his daughter... her pleas to spare her father's life won over any fatherly attention. After all, the old man could do little anyway. And so, he had stayed, hidden away, while the rest of the village burned - those that resisted, at least, and he, Rivet, had his first woman of the war. She would remain with him until he tired of her, or someone else took him. No one was likely to mess with him; he had a mean reputation after all. She was a pretty enough thing; dark hair, dark eyes... slight. She'd been too scared even to scream. He might have liked a little resistance, but submission held its own allure. He might even spare her old man for it. Licking his maws, he turned back to his prize.
Pulling the woollen blanket to her chin, she pressed back against the stone hut. The hunger in his eyes only increased as he reached for her. As he raised his hand, the scream died before it could begin. His smile widened, and he seized her.


Outside, the lieutenant shook his head. What a wasteful day. They had lost more men than they should have, and had only inflicted near equal damage. They would win, eventually, but his squad had taken serious causalities and claimed few heads for their own. Still, they obeyed, and as long as they did, they were spared the Commander's wrath. No one in their right mind would challenge him, or his elite guard. He had the most vicious, brutal thugs in the entire army. Worse than even the mercenaries he had been forced to associate with. Still, at least the men were loyal... until the fear, gold or plunder ran out. At least now they had women. He might have pitied the villagers, once. Once. That was before he himself had seen war reach his own town. After being recruited, everything changed. The strong ruled the weak. That was the way of the world. Wheeling his steed, he nudged it across the broken cobblestones of the square towards the tavern. His men would be have their fun, and he was expected to join them - or join the other officers. There would be time for both. He heard that the men had saved a comely wench for him. If he didn't like her, or grew tired of her, he would hand them over to them - as they hoped. He had taught them it was best to tithe the cream of the spoils. After all, that was his due - and his men knew to appease him. As long as he was happy, he would ensure they were happy. A mirthless smile touched his lips. Despite the recent setbacks, the war was going well. The men had not grown fat on the spoils yet - and as long as he kept their appetite wet, they would not.
His horse neighed its agreement. It too, desired only the best. Tonight, it would have oats. Oats and barley mead alike. He would drink wine. Absently, he wondered if the mayor's daughter was the beauty the men claimed. If she was, he may just keep her; trophies always inspired his followers. Trophies and glory. He would add this town's banner to their collection. Huzzah for the Commander.

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The last few survivors who trickled in had that blank look in their eyes. The rain had washed most of the blood and gore from armour and clothing, but there were things that even such a torrential deluge could not wash away. Only fourteen survivors from Three Hills had made it, and of those fourteen only two were fit enough to stand.
The common room of the inn had been transformed into a makeshift infirmary with blood making the floor slick and slippery. Of the two dozen wounded, only six would live to see the morning. Fincar was one of them. A flying cobblestone from the conflagration at the bridge hat struck his head, taking an eye with it. He did not remember much since then, except waiting to die. But death's sweet embrace had not come to relieve the pain. He remembered the hands of that mysterious traveller, healing hands. They could not give his eye back, but they had stopped the bleeding. And now the man was gone, as suddenly as he had arrived.
His commander was dead, and now everyone expected Fincar to lead them. He did not know whether he was capable of doing so...

The shaft of a broken spear now served as a makeshift walking stick, taking most of the weight off his injured leg as he slowly made his way south along the river. The night that he had stayed at the inn had helped recover some of the strength that he had lost, but he feared that he had lost too much time. He had to reach his order's headquarters in Gerrifordale before the army that would no doubt lay waste to the city.
"Damn this leg," he repeated for what seemed like the hundredth time. His horse had died a fortnight ago, many leagues to the north. A faithful companion, pushed one too many times too hard.
He had spent most of the night doing what he had been trained to do, healing wounds. His god had not been generous, granting him only fractions of healing power. There had been so many that he could not save...

The small scouting party had crossed the river a league under Heathdale, leaving heavy armour behind and swimming across. Surprisingly none of them had drowned.
At first Dein had hated this war. A peasant boy, conscripted three years ago at the age of thirteen, he had riled against the life he had been thrust into. His first battle had changed him. His first kill, a youth about his own age had brought a moment of perverse extasy, as his knife plunged again and again into the blonde-haired youth's chest. Many more had followed. While still only a youth, most in his company feared Dein and the look which came in his eyes when he killed. The youth had developed quite a talent with his twin knives and enjoyed inflicting pain before delivering the killing blow.
They had been tracking the solitary figure for half an hour and from his expression Dein seemed to have decided that it was enough. Besides, the commander had told them not to leave any witnesses to their passage...

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Rylvira paced. Hands balled into fists, the reflection from the mirror was as grim as her thoughts. Her long dress trailed behind her, its train sliding noiselessly across the castle’s flagstones. She had just received news; her father and brother dead, an ambush. The serpent she was due to wed had not even waited until they said vows. As soon as he had acquired her, lulling his ‘long time ally’ with assurances of new prosperity, he had shown his true nature. His guile sickened her; she always knew he wasn’t to be trusted, this minor lord of this wretched fief. She had expected poison, but no – ‘raiders’; borderland bandits. On the way here, to her wedding. A wedding she did not even want, a wedding arranged by her father to this – this …there were no words harsh enough.
There was no one left now – except perhaps a distant young cousin, one whom this bastard could manipulate. Her father, her brother – gone. Her mother dead – eight years to the next moon, and now? Now this – this vile snake would inherit her family’s lands, adding to his estates her father’s soldiers, his people and doubling his realm. She had seen the ‘peasants’ of this fief, seen the cruelty and oppression. She would not stand for it.

But what could she do? She was trapped in here, locked away in these wretched chambers; <i>he</i> wished to ‘civilise’ her, to ‘educate’ and ‘train’ her; she wasn’t a dog, a mere hound! She was the daughter of a chieftain! Her brother should have ruled after her father, her young, strong proud Rylen. He would have been a master of the horse, had he five more years. With seven, he would have been as formidable as her father’s most loyal swordbearers. And now? Now he was dead.

She shrieked and cursed. She would have cut his throat, poisoned his wine and drank from the same cup on their wedding night, had she not a duty to her forebears. They would want her to be strong, proud; not to take the coward’s way out. Her kinsmans’ shed blood called out to her own, and fire stirred within. She would have vengeance.

But how? How to get away from here… how to smuggle a message. She would have to be willing to fight, to be a warrior like her brother and father. To cast off this ‘civilised’ dress, to invoke the ancient blood rites. She was a maiden, dedicated to the man her father had chosen for her. Obedience for her father meant she would suffer so their line could continue. Now – she would have to use all the tools at her disposal. No longer would she be above using her body. It was her greatest weapon, along with her wits. This fief would burn in blood and fire. But with guile she must move, wearing subterfuge as a cloak, becoming as sly and as cunning as the serpent she was to wed. She could not be caught; adultery would be punished severely. The snake might choose any number of ways, from depriving her of light, food and water, or flogging, or by burning. She could be tied to a stake and left exposed to the elements. No, she did not fear death, but she was the last; she must preserve the bloodline, not contaminate and taint it with <i>his</i> seed, but what good were hollow promises if she was dead? She had to move; there was little time. The wedding would take place in two days. Any number of ‘hunting accidents’ would be suffered before, during or after the feasting; she was sure of it. But who to trust? All the maids here were in <i>his</i> service; she was permitted none of her own. She was a ‘barbarian’ after all.

She would teach them why barbarians were feared; she would raze all of this, stone by stone. Nothing would be left unscorched. Death would reign in fire and blood; vengeance would be hers.

Her reflection nodded back at her, silent in its grim agreement. Something had to be done. Perhaps… the soothsayer? A barbarian custom, but time honoured; to prepare her for her wedding night, to see if the omens were fit for child. Perhaps a potion to disguise herself? With bindings, rags and her face washed of the paints she was forced to wear, paints not of her own. Yes; that might work. If she could not take poison, perhaps she could be smuggled back to her people. It galled her to be a ‘hostage’, no better than a slave, to live or die at <i>his</i> whim.

The snake would regret ever crossing the Ilrenci.

Re: Rivulets
 

The squirrel gently hopped down the length of the branch, high in the canopy of the oak tree. It had found a gorgeous nut just a few minutes ago and now rushed to its favourite hiding place to add it to all the other gorgeous nuts. It was getting close to winter and food would soon become scarce. But the squirrel knew nothing about seasons, it was generations-old instincts that urged it to stockpile and not to consume everything as soon as it was found.
A few dozen feet from its goal it suddenly stopped, ears pricked up as if listening to a distant sound. Something had perturbed the otherwise calm animal and it looked around like a frightened beast. Crossing the last stretch of canopy in a rush the squirrel jumped into the hole in the trunk of the tree, a nest made by some bird years past and trembling hid in there.

Forty feet below the horse stopped right under the tree, steam rising from its nostrils in the cold morning air. It was a majestic steed, taller than most horses, yet still graceful in its posture. If not the size of the horse then the fact that it carried a man in full armour would have betrayed that this was no simple destrier. It was a horse bred and used for war.
In a clink of metal plates shifting against each other the rider dismounted, crouching down in the mud as the full weight of his armour settled on his shoulders after the jump from the horse. The rain had stopped sometime during the night, finally allowing the drenched soil time to suck down the water into its depths.
A gentle hand on the mane of the horse calmed it from the fear that was slowly starting to rise at the sight of the dead body barely a dozen paces away.
The back of the figure was a criss-crossing tattoo of bloody wounds, barely a strip of skin left untouched. The clothes hung in tatters. Armoured glove was removed and an almost pitch black skinned hand pressed against the mangled throat to confirm the worst.
Two hands turned over the body and then an audible gasp came from the knight. Whether the gasp was directed at the mutilated features or the small leather pouch which rolled from the clenched fist of one hand of the dead man, no one could guess.

Fuorlan had taken to talking to his steed in his long journey. It served more to organise his own thoughts than to actually communicate with the beast. "So a priest of Sellor gets killed in a forest more than ten leagues distant of any monastery of Sellor. Strange thing that in itself. What could the priest have been doing out in this god-forsaken forest? And what the hell was he doing with the most important relic of the goddess clutched among his fingers as he died?" The power emanating from the brown leather pouch, even buried well beneath the contents of his pack, made Fuorlan uneasy. Such relics were not meant for him. Then again, if not him, then who would have been the next figure to happen onto it?

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Javid the Pitiless frowned thoughtfully, his stare reaching beyond the trees and hills where the tents were pitched. Even beyond the river passing through the land below, beyond the edge of his sight, past towns and villages, forests and fields, roads and sky.
He had been dubbed ‘Javid’ as a jape, after the champion he had slain. He must have been fifteen at the time, and the very ones he had resisted had drafted him into their ranks. Who he was before had not mattered; they had adopted him and he had left his old life behind. He barely remembered who that boy used to be; had it been a village, or town, or farmstead? He had seen so many, so many like him, all recruited, their home becoming the company. None of them really remembered who they were, only who they became – who they are.
Awarded the ‘Pitiless’ after sparing a cellar filled with frightened children, that too had been a jape. Discovering them as he hefted his halberd in one hand, and axe in the other, few who have slain them, but the imposing figure he struck had convinced all nearby that he would not. His fellows never let him forget it. That had been three years ago, and since then, he was even more scarred and potmarked than before. A common jest was he had been run over by a wagon, trampled by a horse, and then sat on by an overly large woman. In turn, he grunted and pointed out some of the lewder escapades of his companions. They all roared with laughter, and turned to pick on another. Such was life in the company.

He rose, his heavy mail more normal to him than the shirt on his back. It needed repairing again; a few links were beginning to rust. Ordinary enough, it served him well. The chausses had taken him longer to get used to, but it saved his thighs as much as the coif saved his neck. Heavily armoured soldiers did better than more lightly armoured ones – or so the company motif claimed: ‘The heavy, the riders, the storm of steel’. Swords, shields, lances, halberds, axes, maces and crossbows; the standard issue of the company. They were successful, more successful than other companies he knew of. It was their reputation that stood out the most; their loyalty remained purchased until the coin ran out, neither breaking nor defecting: they stayed until the job was done. They were dependable.
He glanced around; they were two hundred strong in this camp, and soon would meet with their fellows – who had served another job. Sometimes, they would even find themselves on opposing sides, but they would never fight each other. That was the risk that was run by any employer. The three hundred mix of foot and horse – two hundred, one hundred, respectively – would be a much needed boost. The general would issue their orders soon; this brief rest before they marched out again was welcome. Pulling on his Spangenhelm, he fixed it down mechanically. He preferred not to use a shield but understood the necessity. Looping said kite shield over one shoulder, he pulled the other arm through and secured the straps. Better to wear it on his back. The single edged axe that hung from his belt was the final addition. Any moment, he expected they would march out. All over the camp, others were doing the same.


Overseeing his men from the command tent, the general considered his next step. Three offers for their service, each carrying equal risk, and more or less the same pay. One involved storming the castle; the other defending it. There was more loot and pillage to be gained from storming, but would the invaders succeed? Both sides needed them, and both made outrageous promises. Could he trust either of them? Doubtful. His mercenary legion was only welcomed when it was needed, and even then, they were never really welcomed. Distrusted, despised – he could hardly blame them. Before the company was formed, they too had fought for a land. That had been a long time ago then, and the kingdom had since fallen. Now all they had left was their banner, the standard that had been with the few originals as they prepared to make their last stand. Fate had spared them, and those few survivors retained the banner and set out to make a new life, rather than serve under the rule of their conquerors. Unwilling to put down the sword, they had sought employment elsewhere, and somehow, the honour of their company remained. Their numbers had grown, with recruitment – voluntary and drafting, and with their successes, wealth had poured in. Not enough to make them rich, but enough to provide decent weapons and equipment. Most of their spoils went on training and gear; that was the rule. Excellence. That was what made them different, set them apart. They were a professional force, as good as any standing army. That was why they were alive; that was why they succeeded. Now they served no king; only the company.

He considered the third offer; his heavy lancers would be at a disadvantage, but horse was also pivotal to victory – even if only for morale. Their horse was feared as much as their foot; but did he choose any of them? He had no qualms about laying an ambush in a forest, but the knowledge that it might be a trap to rid a potentially ‘rogue threat’ from the lands left a bitter taste in his mouth. That was how the nearby fiefs saw them as; a threat to their power. And so they were. They could not oppose all of them, but any minor lord that hired them tipped the balance in his favour. The trouble was, they could not secure their services for long. Success and fame had made them dangerous – as much as they were needed, were used, secretly, all the lords wished them gone. He understood that. So. Did he invade, defend, or lay an ambush in a forest? Or neither. The men were spoiling for battle though; weary as they were, the promise of plunder kept them going. Their identity was in the company, and that company was steadfast. There was little point in that unless they exercised their skills though; sooner or later, they would have to stand in battle, or he risked losing them. None of them would desert him yet, but that was always the fear of any commander, any general. Soldiers needed occupying, but how to keep them alive and keep them from revolting or deserting? A tricky one. He might just lay it out before the men and see what they thought. Ultimately, it was his choice though. They followed him because he brought them victory; they trusted him to give them that. No; they trusted him to give them the opportunity: the rest was in their hands. That was the unspoken agreement between them. So far it had worked, even when they – the side they served – had suffered defeat. They trusted him to protect them, but something about this wasn’t right. The climate was optimum for war; they would grow rich, nay, fat from the profits. Their spoils would be legendary. Yet with each encounter, the risk grew. How long would it be before they were betrayed? He had been around long enough to know, survived enough battles to know when something was wrong. No, they would be betrayed soon. He could feel it coming.

The only question was when, where and who.

Re: Rivulets
 

It was by the light of the small fire that Fuorlan finally withdrew the contents of the pouch. Two bronze coins, old, older by far than him and a small, oval-shaped vial. The vial could wait. What it represented and what it contained were not considered lightly.
The coins were of different make and era. If not for the same motif on the back they could have been considered from two different times, or two kingdoms. One of the coins was almost flawless as though it had never seen use during the centuries since it had been minted, and the other, the more recent one, barely a century old was badly worn at the edges. Both bore the mark of the empire of Derul, a kingdom destroyed by a barbaric invasion almost a century ago.
How they had gotten into the possession of a priest of Sellor was a mystery likely never to be solved. The fact that the priest had actually kept the coins was even more of a mystery. Derul had never been known of its love for Sellor and her acolytes.

The plumed full helm had been withdrawn, revealing skin the hue of ebony. A pipe rested among parched lips, basking the face in a soft orange glow. The hair and beard were equally unkempt and facial hair sprawled in every possible way. The eyes were as black as the face framing them.
More than one scar gave solemn evidence to battles in years past, the biggest of them crossing from left ear to right eye. The blow must have come close to taking the left eye with it.
It was never easy to tell the age of those from the sun-baked lands of the south, but if one were to hasard a guess the warrior's age would have been in the late forties. Few knew that he was barely past his thirtieth year. Time and his profession had not been kind to him and the years weighed heavily on him.

Fuorlan sighed and put down the pipe. His journey had been long and arduous and, it now seemed, futile. War had swept across this part of the world and held it in its grip. War was where he flourished, what he had been born to, yet it was the last thing that he desired. All he had wanted when he had set out on his journey was to find peace, an existence away from...away from a life he did not want to remember.
Yet here he was, in a world so unlike his own and humans were still the same.

His father had been the ruler of his small desert tribe, content with the pitiful existence they had lived in, raising a herd of camels in the desert, moving from oasis to oasis. Greed and betrayal had changed all that, and by the age of seven Fuorlan had been orphaned and lived in the city of Akkarta as a slave to a rich merchant.

Ever to this day he thought back to those first years, the camel dung fires he used to sit around, listening to his father's stories along with his twin sister. No...he did not want to think of the past, the past was too painful.
"So, Sandstorm, what do you think?" he asked, directing the question at the horse, who by now was sleeping a dozen feet away. "What should a man like me do with his life?"
It was a question he had asked himself many times over the last few months as he crossed mountain ranges, forests and rivers, running from a past he did not want to relive. He had no answer.
He put down the coins and lifted up the vial. On a first glance it seemed to contain nothing. Yet, even as he had gotten near to the corpse of the unfortunate priest, Fuorlan had known that there was something that was much more.
Rumour had it that upon dying and ascending to the pantheon of gods, the woman who became known as Sellor, goddess of joy and healing, had breathed a last breath that a young thief, once her lover enclosed her last breath in a vial. As all rumour and all legends, this one also had a grain of truth in it. Whether the vial actually contained a goddess' breath or not was actually irrelevant, the fact was that Sellor's Breath, as the relic was known, was one of the most powerful healing artifacts ever known.
It was supposed to heal any wounds the wearer suffered instantly. But then, how had the priest died? Something felt terribly wrong...

Re: Rivulets
 

Portentous questions never had easy answers. Besides, he knew little of magic and magical objects. All he knew was that he now had something in his possession that many would be willing to kill for. It was not a comfortable thought. He replaced the vial and the two coins in their pouch and placed the pouch in his saddlebag.
Keeping his sword close at hand, he slowly drifted off into a fitful sleep, waking at the lightest of sounds during the night.

Inbetween periods of wakefullness he dreamt. Disjointed, disturbing dreams, that always kept coming back to that fateful night and those frenzied seconds as the raider's struck.

He woke up covered in sweat despite the chilly morning air. Cursing he threw a few twigs on the dying embers of the fire. Strips of dried meat were all he had left. He would have to hunt soon. An hour before the sun set he was already on his way, Sandstorm walking as he had done for the past months.
The poor beast was a long time past his prime. That he had kept carrying Fuorlan for so long was a miracle in itself. He was barely capable of a charge now and needed more and more breaks each day. The last faithful companion from the past the desert warrior was fleeing from would soon leave him. It was another subject he did not want to think about. He let the aged horse drink long from the waters of the river as he refilled his waterskins.
There was an army camped on the other side of the river, he could see that from the cookfires and the sentries on the far side of the river. A river that had countless corpses floating on its surface as gruesome evidence to some past battle.
The sentries had seen him of course and were excitedly discussing, pointing often at him. He gave them no heed. The river was too wide for a bowshot and they visibly had no boats. Besides, from the way the bodies sped past, the current seemed treacherous. This army would need to find a passable ford or bridge if it wanted to cross the river.

Sandstorm finished drinking and his master's familiar hands and legs guided him away from the river and into the forest again. The ground rose ever so slightly under his hooves as they made their way upstream.

Re: Rivulets
 

Elsewhere, a robed figure stood over a burial mound; upon it lay a stone slab, a stone slab that carried a bloody carcass. Animal or man was unimportant; what was important was its lifeblood - lifeblood that ran in rivulets into the mound. Around the burial chamber stood a copse, scattered trees sprouting their leafy buds here and there. Their fragrance filled the air, mingling with the scent of fresh blood and the air's breath brought by rain. Life. Life was what was important; life that could only be bought from death. Death was a constant reminder of what it meant to have life, to live. Only fools would discard death's warning so causally. Those that lay here had not; but others? Yes, they were callous. It was their undoing, their folly. Damned by their own fate. Such was the doom of the ignorant.

Even as the rain fell, in this idyllic, serene place, spoilt only by blood, the figure chanted. There was no bitterness within it; those within the cities had all but forgotten the ancient lore, bar for a few. Warlock, druid; magi; the titles were meaningless. Man, woman; it did not matter. The coming storm did not care; nor did it await mankind's pleasure. Such distinctions mattered only on a base level; for reproduction, cycles, life. Variety, strength, weakness, characteristics; all these seemed muted before the passage of time, the passing of aeons stretching endlessly into the ether. What man, what woman, could stand before such and gaze into the depths? Who could stand and not be fogged, their vision clouded by the eternal mists? Who could portray the future, or comprehend the past? Only the twin constants remained: life, and death. Time marched on. But here, in this age, this time, would the currents of life ebb and flow? Would death grip the age, gorging on life before its time? There was no balance, not truly; perhaps in the most abstract sense, but never were the twin forces equal. Who could say if death had claimed more than life would spawn. 'Had' and 'would', past and future; it was the present that mattered. This present. This age. But for a glimpse; a glimpse of the past, the present, the future. What had come might come again; assuming another guise, another host. Would it be different, or something new entirely? When life met death, those with knowledge, knowledge lost to time, might know but a glimpse. Life and Death; neither were truly master, yet both ruled the world. Primordial forces, stronger than the sun itself. Life and Death, the truths of this world... if one was creator, the other was destroyer: both as destructive, as creative as the other. If there was a master greater than these, the figure had yet to know it. For what could be greater than these, these twin forces that drove all. Nothing could be greater, surely? If there was meaning to be had... it was found in blood: the river of life, contained; the channel of death, shed.

The blood flowed, soaking into the mound.

Re: Rivulets
 

The early morning mist had been late to lift its secretive veil from the hills around the fortress of Three Hills and the sun had climbed already high by that time. It had been raining on and off for the past two weeks and to finally have the rain stop and the sun creep out from behind the clouds gave the lone traveller a moment's pause. He lifted his head towards the skies, allowing the sunlight to bathe his features.

He had left the ruins behind a day ago. Blackened walls and tumbled towers were all that was left of the once proud fortress. Scavengers, both human and non-human had been through the ruins, stripping the corpses of valuables and of rotting flesh. The Shatal Guild building in the fort had suffered the same fate as the fort itself, gutted and ransacked it had been burnt to the ground.

Filth urged his horse ahead, eager to get as far away from the massacre as possible. The attackers had even found the hidden storage rooms beneath the guild and some of the worst scenes had been in there. He shuddered at the vivid images creeping back in his mind and tried thinking happier thoughts. None came.



The band of makeshift bandits, preying on the survivors of Three Hills had been following the lone traveller for the best part of a day. And now the trap was set. Another corpse would be added to the list of dead at Three Hills and they would be a few coins richer.

Re: Rivulets
 

The whirling blade came to a halt, just short of splitting his brow in twain. Sweat beaded, forming rivulets as it ran down his temples. Already on his knees, he stared up at her, his clear, blue eyes unwavering. His thighs trembled, and his hands clutched the dirt, but he met her gaze. She loomed over him, then just as suddenly relaxed, laughing as she set her boardsword aside and held out her hand.
His own lay several feet away, and begrudgingly, he accepted, letting her pull him to his feet, but away wary of her sword. It wouldn't be the first time she had swatted him with it.

Sighing, he tried not to study his feet - unsuccessfully. "I know, I know," he began, before she could speak, "I misstepped again. I should keep my footing, focus on what you're doing, and not let you disarm me."
"Well, if you know," she smiled and reached to pat his cheek with a leather-clad hand, "then you should do it."
"I try!"
"Try harder," her smile remained, but her eyes were serious, "we may not get time to practice again, and when the war reaches us... I want you as ready as you can be. We can't run forever, you know. We've retreated too far already."
"Yes..." Reaching for his blade, he muted her lecture as fast as he could. "You're right."
"Then let's go again."

This time, he blocked six times, and even caused her to block twice before she tripped him. Forgetting to slap the ground as he fell, the wind went out of him and he found her blade at his throat. She was not at all impressed. They had stopped using practice blades some time ago; now they used actual steel, sharpened for war. She had told him that the time for playing was over; that he had to grow up. His senior by seven years, she was in her second-and-a-half decade. He might as well be militia, 'citizen levy', given how she treated him - that, or a brat brother. He was no longer sure. It didn't matter. They had been thrust together and she had saved his life more then once. Blushing more to do with his thoughts than his failure, he watched her tuck her golden hair back in its tail. Mostly, the tie kept it out of her eyes, but not always.
Pulling him to his feet, she met his eyes and said firmly that he'd done better this time, and they'd practice more later. It was always the same; at least six drills a day, sometimes more if she could manage it. He was sick of it, but appreciated it anyway. Not many had one-to-one tuition. Maybe it was because of his father? He didn't think so; he wasn't sure if his father was alive or dead. Wealthy merchant more than landowner, his family had some small ancestral holdings, but not much. The family 'keep' was more a pile of loose stones held thinly together by mortar. Cold, damp, it was outdated. It didn't even have a motte-and-bailey, nor a gatehouse. At least, it had been. That was before he was sent away. His mother and sisters had left also, but they were sent on a different caravan towards his uncle. His father was supposed to meet him at the last town, but never did. Why he was separated from his mother and sisters... he suspected but couldn't confirm. He shrugged mentally. Since his father hadn't shown, they had moved on to the next designated meeting place; if that failed, they would go to the port town several days ride from here, unless it was hit.

He examined his guardian-cum-tutor. In a leather jerkin, the same riverbank-brown as her gloves and boots, she certainly looked the part of a militia sergeant, even if she was a woman. She had soon proved that she could hold her own, disavowing him of any comments about her sex. Blade, knife, staff or even a crossbow she could use with ease. There were six others who had travelled with them, but two of them had fallen to bandits, another in a tavern brawl, and somehow, he was left only with her. He suspected that one might have quit, deserting that 'bastard whelp [...] after Gojornk bit it' if his ears had heard correctly, but he knew better than to ask. She had given him a look that warned him not to, and since she was all he had left between him, his blade and the world, he wasn't about to cross her. He strongly suspected she wouldn't hesitate to cuff him if he stepped even a toe over the line, and he didn't intend to give her any reason to. As to the last one - he didn't know. Everyone seemed in a panic at the last town, and this town, while being a little better, a little more out of the way; barely more than a large village, hardly what he would class as a 'market town', but he wasn't complaining. Not really. The ale was good - the mead was even better, and the beer was awful, but at least they had beer. The wine wasn't bad either. There were less wagons around then he would have liked, but there was a war going on. It seemed distant here, but every day he heard news, whispers and gossip, that armies were converging on cities, strongholds, and sooner or later, even this quiet, out of the way, backwater 'town' would be ravaged. If not by armies, then by bandits. He wasn't sure that some of the townsfolk - those not merchants or militia - hadn't turned bandit.
He glanced at his tutor again. He wasn't even sure why she was still here. Gold? The promise of more? He would have to ask - before it was too late, even if she did cuff him for it. He certainly deserved it after today's performance. He was so clad they were away from the town's centre; to be seen this way would be something he'd find hard to live down. Of course, she also gave lessons to the militia youth, when the others were on patrol - it was how they earned their keep, in part - so he wasn't the only one. She insisted he join in with some of those lessons too. Sometimes he did. One day, she might even tell him her name.

Following her steady stare, he looked up and felt his heart sink; was that a column of smoke from the village they had passed through only days earlier? Silently, she placed a hand on his shoulder. Both knew it was time to move on.

Re: Rivulets
 

Raindrops lazily trickling down in rivulets from the scorched farm house utterly failed to catch Finger's attention. He only had eyes for the young boy making his slow way up the winding path on the hillside. So young and so... he heard nothing and saw nothing of the blade which slipped down between his shoulderblades, ending his life before he even knew it. He joined his seven companions in the afterlife.

Three hundred feet away the youth still climbed along the road, unaware of his life ever having been in danger. Another pair of eyes now tracked him, dark eyes from underneath a hood, raised against the drumming rain. The figure turned and disappeared behind the farm house.

Filth reached the ruins an hour later, after a climb that had taken four hours up the slippery slopes of one of the hills after which Three Hills had been named. Its name had been long lost and for as long as anyone remembered, it had always been called West Hill. It was the tallest of the three hills and offered a commanding view of the surrounding plains. The myriad of burial chambers dozens of feet under its surface had lain undisturbed for milennia.

The rain slowly evened off and the sun even decided to leave the cover of clouds and come out for a peek. Filth shook the rain from his hair and put down his pack. A pair of eyes still tracked him half an hour later when, having finished his meal, he set off down the other side of the hill.