Renata "Ren" Kotko's Story

Few things annoyed Ren more than escort jobs. If you wanted her to go take care of some bandits that were getting uppity, she'd do so with gusto. You wanted her to bolster guard patrols and look for problems through the moonless night, she'd keep her hand on her sword's hilt till the first rays of morning came, but if you wanted her to keep a bunch of townsfolk safe from the wilderness at large...

The job was simple enough. There was a caravan of refugees trying to flee the March, who had food but little money. Ren, who had plenty of money but also wanted to travel north to avoid fighting the undead hordes, had taken the job in exchange for meals. Ten families, a few merchants, and all their worldly possessions secured in five wagons. The caravan leader was a grandfather in one of the families, an important figure in whatever life they'd just abandoned. He was used to people listening to his every word. He and Ren had not gotten along at all during the last month.

"Merc! Clemmons wandered off again!"

Her shoulder's sagged in exasperation at the old man's words before glancing behind her at the waddling form of Mr. Clemmons wading into the shrubbery at the forest's edge a half mile back. This was the third such trip in so many days, and Ren being the only person with any apparent combat or survival skills had had to drag the nincompoop back to the caravan before he hurt himself. If he was making her work harder just because he couldn't wait to piss again Ren was going to throttle him and strap him to one of the wagons.

She cast one last scowl at the caravan leader before taking the reigns of her horse and taking off at a light trot. The refugees stared at her as she passed, giving her a wide berth until she left the group to fetch the straggler. Ren could make out a few of the whispers, but so long as she made it to that checkpoint at the southern walls she could care less about if her clients liked her or not. They were wanting someone reputable to answer their call, some guard passing through from one of the bigger cities, not a drifter looking for easy work. She'd long since became accustomed to such looks.

It only took a few minutes for Ren to reach the spot Clemmons had begun his foray into the woods, her look of annoyance deepening as she heard the sounds of snapping twigs and the crunch of dead leaves betray his direction and pace. The woods lined a clearing that led to the checkpoint that was their destination, and was the local hunters grounds to harvest meat. The local predators like bears and wolves had efficient competition, and as a result were not as well fed as they'd like. If Ren could track the bumbling idiot from the wood's edge, she had no doubt anything hungry nearby was already studying him and contemplating how much effort his blood would cost them.

Ren dismounted and kept a hand on her sword hilt as she slowly and carefully stepped in after Clemmons, meticulously following his clumsy path through the woods. From the looks of the rummaged bushes and broken , he had been foraging for berries and herbs, apparently unsatisfied with the rations he had been given not three hours ago. Fortunately his lack of grace and white shirt made him easy to spot among all the dead limbs. He was indeed foraging, greedily stuffing berries into a pouch at his side. She quietly stalked Clemmons until she was just behind him, placing a hand over his mouth with one hand and used the other to put him in a half nelson.

"You're a cruel man, Clemmons, taunting the wolves with so much meat. You should get back to the caravan before they decide to take it," Ren growled, wanting the man to know of her aggravation with his actions. He protested, his words muffled by her hands as he struggled in vain to get free of her grip, but it merely tightened in response. He dropped the berries he still had clutched in his hands and tried to pry off her arms, but as his struggles continued, the snapping of a branch behind them drew Ren's full attention. A black bear, one barely out of its adolescence, slowly approached the two humans occupying its forest and regarded them with curiosity. Tilting its head as it debated what to do about their presence, Ren's grip on Clemmons tightened still as she grabbed hold of the pouch containing Clemmons ill gotten berries.

"Do not run," she whispered, yanking the pouch from his belt and gently tossing it to the bear behind them. Clemmons made muffled protests, but they were ignored as the pouch landed and a portion of its contents spilled. The bear's focus shifted to the easier meal, mostly ignoring the duo as it sat down and began to casually eat the berries. Ren dragged Clemmons slowly away, not wanting to make any sudden or aggressive moves until they were back in the clearing where Ren's mount patiently waited for their return. Then and only then did Ren let go of the man.

"Get your hands off of me! I refuse to be man handled by the likes of you!" He spat, though his words were mostly ignored as Ren mounted her horse and took hold of the reigns. Clemmons scowled but seemed confused by her actions until her horse began to walk away from the man. "Hey! You expect me to walk back to the others?"

"I expect my horse's back would not survive you. Besides, you walked away from the caravan easily enough, right?" she said coldly, taking off in a trot to regain the ground lost by her detour. They were almost at the end of her leg of their journey anyway, and the pay was not so great that she would starve if the caravan leader was dissatisfied with her services. She was away from the ambling hordes and had a months worth of food given to her. The look on Clemmons face as she galloped away was a welcomed bonus, though.

When she did catch back up, the group was within sight of the southern walls and was nearing a checkpoint. Scouts were coming for inspections to make sure the group were not merely well dressed bandits or unsavory types. They'd find little cause to turn them away, but even if they did, Ren's contract with the group was now over. She had no reason whatsoever to tell the caravan leader of Clemmon's whereabouts, so his fate was now his own. She hoped the bear craved meat over the berries.

She dismounted as soon as she caught up with the group proper, the horse belonging to her former clients, and as she dismounted one of the scouts from the checkpoint approached her.

"You there! You're no villager. State your business," he barked. Ren regarded him coldly for a moment, looking him over with a look of disinterest.

"I was hired to guard the refugees during their trip, though I'm also looking to pass through myself," she replied, making sure to fight the instinct to put a hand to her sword. She didn't like it when authority figures questioned her. Fights usually broke out.

"Fucking mercs. You're to sit tight until we've got the sick and injured sorted and see that any dead in need of burial are properly prepared. Cause any trouble and an archer'll pin you to a tree without hesitation, understood?"

"How could I not? You're such an eloquent speaker, sir," Ren shot back, a snarl spreading on the scout's face as he spat in her direction and stomped off. Her gaze followed him as he reported back to the checkpoint proper, focus shifting from him to his superiors. They seemed annoyed about something. She was good at dealing with annoyances. She decided to move closer to the checkpoint before sitting, eavesdropping on the scouts and guards as they searched the refugees. The purpose with which they conducted their sweeps betrayed an ulterior motive, but what possible reason it could be Ren had no clue. She'd have to coax the info out of whoever came to search the lowly mercenary.

Officer Warde didn't like mercenaries, never have, never will.

They'll do anything for money. Cal has seen many a simple merc turn bandit. Some were more patient than others. They would paint themselves decent folk low on coin, a skill had and a service needed. They would dutifully do their job and gauge the capabilities of their charge. When it came time for payment they would hold their employer at sword point demanding double or even all they had. Some worked with the bandits themselves, handing over the ones they were supposed to protect. Some were simple cowards who had no right to hold a sword. Every damn one of them has the worse attitude. They lacked disipline and refused to follow any chain of command without them on top. Cal didn't like mercenaries one bit.

He had already talked to the caravan leader, some grandpa who held himself with an air of importance. He seemed to respect the officer well enough and gladly told him a lengthy and boring story of how they came to be here. There were no complaints about the mercenary they called Ren, nor did it seem that he had been threatened to stay quiet about her. In fact he seemed quite inpressed with her skills, professing she did an exceptional job.

Cal wasn't fully convinced about her though. A woman merc? Something just wasn't right about that. Shouldn't a woman be the one protected not protecting? How ever did she convince them to bring her along, and feed her to boot? Warde suspected that her services were not what they claimed.

As he approached the woman, he studied her closely. As he had thought she was a rather pretty woman if a bit rough. Obviously not the typical prostitute though. This one seemed to use the face of a mercenary to cover her sins in bed. She even carried a blade with her, the costume was well executed. Officer Warde was rather impressed with the effort with which she expended in order to cover up her services. Though a mercenary would still cause suspicion asking admittance to the city, a prostitute would find herself selling her services for free to convince the city guard to let her in.

Once he arrived to where the woman stood, Warde dismounted his horse and passed the reins to one of his nearby soldiers. "I am Infantry Officer Cal Warde, commander of the men you see here, protecting the South Gate." He declared confidently. "You must be Ren, the mercenary in charge of this caravan's well being. What business do you have here in Dyrlyn City?" He couldn't help but sneer at his own cleverness. She really was quite the looker, after all Cal wasn't convinced yet that she should enter the city.

Ren glared as the man on horseback began to approach her, wanting information but not particularly wanting this much attention. She could tell just by the expression on his face that he was smug, whether it be his general demeanor or he believed he had something over someone she wasn't sure. He rode like a man that led from the back, his men having twice the discipline and posture that he had. She wondered when the last time he'd drawn blood outside of shaving had been. Must have been a long time if he had a guard position in somewhat safe lands. She wouldn't be surprised if his position of power would soon be given to a more grizzled veteran, given the turmoil that was to come in the spring. Tradition always gave way to survival.

He dismounted and didn't even look at the man who was to take his reigns, so he had little regard for those under his command. Ren may dislike authority, but she hated the abuses of it. She got the feeling whatever this man wished to say to her would do little to improve her mood.

"I am Infantry Officer Cal Warde, commander of the men you see here, protecting the South Gate," he declared with all the confidence of a man who'd never had his words questioned. Her glaring eyes narrowed in disdain as he continued talking.

"You must be Ren, the mercenary in charge of this caravan's well being. What business do you have here in Dyrlyn City?"

Ren raised an eyebrow as the blood in her veins began to boil. He doubted her skills? Who did he think she was?

Ren had been wearing a fur lined coat for warmth during the trip, but at the insinuation that she was a liar she grabbed it by the collar and yanked it off, casually tossing it off to the side. Her armor was mostly leather, hardened pieces on her chest and stomach but metal bracers and grieves to protect her extremities. One could also see the small bit of chainmail poking out of her sleeves. She rolled her shoulders once to pump herself up, before stepping forward towards the man.

"My business is to find more work once in the city. Solve problems plaguing those with too much to lose to risk their own necks. If you've any doubts of this, I'd be glad to demonstrate my combat proficiency on the target of your choice. Won't even charge for the labor," Ren replied, locking eyes with the man as she growled her response. She was nearly a head shorter than him, but her posture was that of aggression and defiance. She hoped he was the type of idiot that would want to test her himself. She wanted to break his teeth so that he couldn't make that smug little grin again without pain. A merc's reputation was their livelihood, and she couldn't abide by slander or doubt.

Officer Warde's muscles tensed and his hand twitched, ready to draw his sword off his back at a moment's notice. She wore a stance full of openings, practically begging him to cut her down. Her over aggressiveness would be her own downfall and all it would take is a single slash of his sword.

He gave her another look. The coat he thought covered her more risqué garments was one used to thwart the cold and the armor it was concealing was good, worn from use but still good. What's more, the hilt of her sword looked just as well used, it's leather grip discolored from years of sweat and friction.

“You really are a merc, huh?” Of course, he thought, they could be stolen. But her posture spoke of a readiness born of years fighting.

There's no way he could lose this fight, not to a lowly mercenary, not to a simple woman. He was no fool. She could probably hold her own, he could see that much, but he could probably take her down. The difference was in their armor. Warde stepped back and yanked off his cloak to reveal the steel half-plate armor he wore underneath. The problem is that neither of them would go down without a fight.

“Then let us make a wager” he spat out the words, “dual to first blood. You win, you can enter the city and do your business however you like. But if I win,” he sneered, “You join the City Guard.”

Slowly, Warde drew his sword from his back, “So, what do you say, girl?”

After seeing her for what she was, a sick grin spread on Ren's face as she rolled her shoulder's and chuckled under her breath. She fed on the intimidation, watching as the man's motions lost fluidity and his hand twitched, afraid to be near her without a weapon in its grip. She was glad that her outward demeanor had not lost any of its edge, playing into her savage persona as she continued to study the Captain of the Guard or whatever he had said he was. She'd gotten in his head enough that he'd accepted her challenge, stepping back and removing his own cloak to reveal half plate armor. He'd be quick and his vitals still safely shelled in steel, but any weakness to the legs and he'd be dead on his feet. Nothing like a gash to the calf to make you feel the weight of all that metal on your torso. This was assuming she could get through his guard, but that was where the mind games were coming in. A savage only knows how to charge.

“Then let us make a wager” he spat out the words, “dual to first blood. You win, you can enter the city and do your business however you like. But if I win,” he sneered, “You join the City Guard. So, what do you say, girl?”

Ren spit off to the side before drawing her longsword, gracefully twirling it once before casually propping the flat of her blade on her shoulder as she looked from Warde to the men behind him. She made it a point to look bored.

"This how you lot got conscripted?" She asked, grinning as she glanced back at Warde to let him know she was trying to raise his ire.

"Ass backwards way of screening but if I get to shove my pommel up your ass I've got no complaints. I accept your terms!" Ren said with as much smug as only a former criminal could muster, still resting her blade on her shoulder as she watched the man draw his own blade from his back.

They were about four or five paces apart, which would be just enough room for her to charge if she so desired, but instead she kept her relaxed pose and watched the man for just a moment. He struck her as the type to take pride in his armor and would relish for her to go on the offensive, bouncing her blade off his chest and leaving herself open. True, her pommel was pointed and made of dense steel itself, but trying to dent that breastplate would be too labor intensive for a duel such as this, and the same strategy any higher might make this match a murder. Forcing him into the offensive would most likely throw him off of his game and draw a mistake out of his technique, but putting herself in his sword's reach was a gutsy gamble.

"I'm waiting Guardsman! Surely you don't make it a habit of leaving women this disappointed," She said, winking and widening her stance, sword readied in front of her. If he was a smart man he'd ignore her words and see through her bluff, but the men under his command were watching and she was betting his pride wouldn't allow him to take such insults lying down. If and when he charged her, she'd roll towards him but just to the left where she'd settle behind him, and put the momentum into a swing towards her right at his legs. Even a nick would slow him down and diminish his armors advantage, but if not, there was one advantage she had over the man he might not have yet considered.

Mercenaries could care less about honor in combat.

Cal Warde's ears burned red.

His authority had been ignored for the second time that day. He was losing his composure, he could see it in his men's eyes.

Some had seen The Order's dog commanding him like he was some recruit wet behind the ears. He had had no choice but to grit his teeth in his presence and had lost face in front of those soldiers. They were looking at him like they were ashamed to be under his command, like he were weak. The soldiers that had been down on the ground inspecting the refugees had either finished their task or paused to watch their superior. They were forgetting themselves. Warde wouldn't tolerate such lack of discipline. Very well, let them watch. Let them see their commander squash a noisy bug. They will be reminded of their place.

Now here he stood, goaded into a duel with a female mercenary and she was taunting him no less. She too needed to be reminded of her place. This mercenary was getting on his last nerve.

Warde did indeed deal with his more rowdy men by way of duel. If they best him, he releases them from their service. If not, they shut up and follow his command. The practice itself kept his men in line. Most didn't dare challenge him. He wasn't some top notch swordsman or anything but then again, neither were the men under his command.

There was just enough room between them for him to take a few good steps and the foolish merc would easily be within his sword's reach. Warde hefted his big sword with both hands and shifted his muscular frame forward to charge. He thought he saw the damn merc smile. After closing the gap he swung from left to right across his body at her shoulder height with enough force that when she blocked it she would be thrown aside. She dropped. His sword found only air. He missed!

Before he knew what happened Warde felt a hit against his right calf and stumbled a few paces before he gained his footing again. Despite his years wearing the heavy plate armor it was still an effort to slow his momentum enough to stop and turn facing his opponent yet again. He quickly checked his calf. His leather vambrace was sliced but the cut only just missed his skin. It was just pure luck that the merc didn't win with a single strike.

Warde pulled his sword up into a ready position in front of his body. She was fast. Her light armor afforded her more freedom of movement than his own and it nearly cost him the duel. He should have seen it before. He may have the stronger armor but she clearly had more speed. Warde waited. This time he would let her charge so that he might make better use of his defense. He smiled despite himself. He refused to lose.

There was something innately satisfying about reading an opponent at a glance well enough to control him during combat. She could see after the words left her mouth that they dug deep into Warde's skin and refused to dislodge. His men who weren't already busy had stopped to watch, and they seemed to enjoy the sight of their superior being taken down a peg. No one seemed indignant at their Captain being insulted, and no one was rooting for their superior to win this friendly bout. Good things to know.

Warde's muscles tensed just before he lurched forward into a hard run, sword raised over his shoulder for a horizontal strike. Aiming for the shoulders? Seems first blood were mere words if the Captain was going to try to cleave her head from her shoulders right out of the gate. Despite the unnecessary escalation, Ren still smiled before ducking the blow and rolling forward, swinging at Warde's legs as soon as she was righted. She felt the leather strap slice in two from the swing, but didn't feel the familiar tension of cutting through skin and braces. She looked disappointed as she stood and watched as Warde slowed to a stop and realized what sort of battle he was in for, checking his calf in a panic to see if he'd lost their duel in a single strike. Warde readied his blade but the near loss had shaken him and put him on the defensive. Had he lost all that bravado already? Ren let out a laugh before spitting off to the side and readying her blade again.

"That sword is impressive. A cleaver meant for the necks of cavalry horses and polished to an immaculate shine. That you wield it in a duel on foot betrays your ignorance. I might not have been able to dodge were you wielding a proper broadsword," Ren called out, making sure Warde and the men around them could clearly hear her. Truth be told, she was having fun playing this man for an idiot, but she'd prove nothing by just mocking him until he made a mistake of charging her again.

So instead she charged him, going into a hard run and raising her blade above her head, swinging down with every ounce of muscle she had. With that claymore in his grip he'd be remiss to wield it with anything besides two hands, which meant he'd need two hands to block her. Blocking the downward strike would bring his attention upwards at her blade, leaving her free to bring up a leg and slam the sole of her boot into his knee cap. There was no plate to absorb the blow, and even if she did not break the leg outright, it would make movement burdensome for the man on his turns, making it easier to flank him. Regardless of if the blow landed or not, Ren planned to move back out of reach of Warde's blade before coming in low again to slice at the leg she'd kicked.

Warde had no intention of merely wounding her, so she had every intention to cripple the little bastard if she could manage.