Demortris

"Hrrrgh..."
The bandit grunted as he crumpled to the ground, bleeding heavily from his chest. Around him lay three others, all apparently dead.
"You'll pay for that, girl!"
Another bandit ran up, holding an axe in his hands, and prepared to swing it. Before he could, there was a loud slashing noise, and he fell back with a great gash in his stomach.
Above him stood a young woman in silver armour and tunic; a greatsword was gripped in her pale hand. Her beautiful face, ever drawn back in sorrow, scanned over the area around her. The sound of water indicated she was near a stream; a stream that was the 'headquarters' for a group of bandits who preyed upon small villages around the stream's region. Having heard of this motley group, Selvaria had journeyed here to finally rid the countryside of their menace, and though they were putting up a good fight, they were simply outmatched.
A few yards away were another three bandits, advancing on Selvaria with menacing glares and crude weapons and armour, preparing for another fight.

Patience, they say, is a virtue. Luckily, patience was a virtue she had in abundance. It had been three stifling hours since she and her posse had nestled themselves among the forest brush along a slim dirt path a fortnight's ride from Genova's border. The Cult of Grovel had taken quick and solid footholds in the flatter farmlands to the north and east of their position, but the peace of the wood villages wasn't going to last long.

Finally, Calypso Charka heard the sound of soft, distant hooves. The lesser lord of a nearby village had told her that the Cult had converted a couple of stable hands, who had turned around and stolen a couple of his horses. It was their task to return the horses intact, and the stable hands....dead or alive.

The hoof beats drew closer. Two...three...four horses total. Against the five of her and her unit. She liked those odds. Finally she could hear the chatter of the riders. As they drew on her position, she quickly reached for the steel-tipped whip that hung at her side, snapping it out into the open air with a thunderous *CRACK!*

The horses whinnied and reared, throwing one of the riders down to the dirt. It was their cue to strike, and Calypso leapt from the brush, swinging her whip toward the neck of the fallen rider. Once, twice, it wrapped itself around a fleshy throat, a satisfying gasp coming from the choking...boy?

She paused then, her eyes bugging slightly at the sight of him. No more than twelve years old, this one, grasping at the leather claw that was sucking the life from him. Something clicked inside her head and she moved towards him, quickly unwrapping the tendril from his neck.

There was still one loose horse, another which tried to bolt along the path, screeching rider still in tow, and two rearing and prancing in discombobulated fear at the sudden ruckus.

Bataar was used to waiting. At one time the stalkers had made him hang by one hand from a tree branch for three nights straight, over a bed of spikes. He shivered at the cruel memory. Now he merely crouched on top of a tree branch, something much less difficult. Horus, his constant companion, perched on a branch above him eyes scanning the horizon for any sign of the cult, or their intended targets.

It was easy enough to fool this company into thinking he was Mordecai. They'd only requested his master's assistance based on reputation, not on past contact. As long as Bataar kept his hood pulled up, and his voice low he would be able to keep up the charade. Still, he tried to speak as little as possible to this group's leader. She seemed the cold calculating type. If he were to make but one misstep in front of her she'd most likely tear his guise to pieces. For now, he waited above them cloaking himself with just enough shadow to blend into the dark. The only person sure of his position was Horus.

Then, the horses made themselves heard. Their targets approached. Suddenly, the crack of the whip, the fight had begun. Bataar dropped from the tree without a sound. His stalker power muffling the sound, he appeared as a living shadow before them. He unsheathed his blade and made to attack. But before he could bring down his blade the sound of a child's gasps reached his ears. Bataar's blade dropped from his hands, the eyes of a forgotten young girl boring into his mind.

The long haired, green eyed man sat at the table with his legs propped up and his drink in his hand. There were fifteen empty glasses in front of him with several bar patrons looking on in amazement. He waved his empty glass in the air and took a heavy sigh, "Can I get another round?" The barmaid quickly snapped out and brought another over. "How can you drink that many and be fine." Alta took a sip and dried his lips with his sleeve. "For fifty years I've been trying, still haven't felt a thing." The barmaid looked at him like he was nuts and walked away. Alta finished the drink and dropped his feet, moving his finger along the brim of the glass. "This place is already boring. I need to find a new play." As he spoke a small gust of wind came through one of the windows. Making him stand up and take a deep breath. "A new play?" Smiling to himself he went for the door. "Hey! Ya gonna pay for dem' drinks!?" Alta palmed his face and reached into his pocket, only to find a lump of iron and lint.

Can't be helped. He held the iron as it separated into fifteen identical pieces and then molded in the shape of coins. Walking back and putting it on the table, he hoped no one could tell that it was just iron and not bronze or copper. Hurrying out the door he felt he was in the clear and took off down the street as the door to the bar busted open and the owner stood there gripping the fake coins. Alta looked back with a scared face and took off out of town. He ran into the woods and hide behind a tree, half-laughing and half-panting. He sat down and looked around the area. "Now, which way was that play?"

Alta stretched out and pulled out a blade of grass, resting it in between his lips. Smiling even more widely then he did in the bar, he closed his eyes and pulled out the grass, laying it back down on the ground. "It seems there are quite a few actors in this one. I'd hate to miss a second of it." Stuffing his hands into his pockets he began walking through the woods towards the group, deciding to not miss a second of the first act.

Waiting, patience, silence. The three things Hythro hated about doing ambushes. Patience was a key, which he had. Waiting for three hours, is something he can't handle. Silence, just wasn't his forte. His training had always taught him, patience can kill the strongest warrior, being who he is, anger was the most common thing that came with patience over long time.

Sounds of horse hooves peaked his ears, grabbing his sword he thought, By the sound of the noises, there are at least four horses. Which means one of us will have no fun. The horses were closer now, nearly to Vanora. A few moments later, they bolted past her, and soon after him. They were barely a few feet away, when Calypso's whip and it's trademark thunderous crack, cause the horses to lose control and knocked one rider off.

He walked up behind one of the horses, grabbing the back of the rider, he threw the rider to the ground. The rider nearly got up, put Hythro shoved his freshly sharped sword into the person's face, stopping all movement. He slowly grabbed the horses reins, and pulled it so it was looking at him. Softly he said, "Calm down, you're safe here. You are safe." The horse showed no sign that it understood, but it calmed down slightly.

He looked at his companions, and was puzzled by what he saw. Calypso was untying her whip from the throat of someone on the ground, and Bataar dropped his weapon. Bataar was looking at something, and from his vantage point, he could tell who it was, a girl and her face looked slightly familiar.

Good old Calypso, always straight to the point. Pulling the horse forward, he picked up the person he had under his sword with his free hand, pushing to make the rider sit down at a tree.

Pulling his horse along, he handed the reins to Vanora. "Good work," patting her on the shoulder, he followed Calypso. Though the kids weren't a real threat, he wanted to make sure Calypso didn't do anything hasty.

Walking up to her he whispered, "Don't go doing anything you'll regret. They are just children after all, they also might have some information that could prove useful." Walking away, he went to help get the horses under control.

*sorry, posted in the wrong area.*

Duste frowned slightly as he considered his comrades explanation. Hunting dogs were a problem and the mercenary captain had no doubt that they would soon be beset by them. He nodded slowly forming his reply, and the plan that could quite possibly lead them to life or death.

"There is a stream off to the east a short distance away that supplies the castle with their water." Duste began, "We can travel south in the stream until we reach known cultist land." His mind had a model of the path they would taking as he explained. "I'd perfer not to use the stream due to the lack of firm ground, but i don't want it known that we have a mage." He winked at Cynoc as he said that, "It'll take us a day to travel upstream but it's for the best."

he pushed off the tree he had been leaning against during their break and adjusted the mottled cloak he wore during missions. "Time's up, let's get moving again." He said moving east.

Huffing and puffing, Hythro tried to keep up with Mordecai. He wasn't doing a good job, due to his older age and heavier armor. The best he could do was keep him in his sights, and he nearly failed at that. Off in the distance he could see smoke rising, and screams.

He arrived shortly after, and bent over putting his hands on his knees to catch his breath. "I'm not as young as I used to be, this proves it." After his quick rest, he put his left hand on his right shoulder and twisting to stretch it, he was good to go. Drawing his sword, he approached some cultists that were walking out of a burning house, holding various items and sacks. "You know, stealing isn't right. And, it makes he mad." Before they could get an attack ready, Hythro sliced their one's left and the other one's right arm. "It's a slightly more severe punishment for a common thief, but at least you have another arm." Holding their arms with their last hand, they ran away.

Sorana surged to her feet and leaned over to grab Starfire’s reins as soon as Duste stopped talking and turned away. Vesper flapped at her sudden movement but calmed as she and the horse behind her jogged towards Duste. As she passed Cynoc, she smiled at him, showing that she had no hurt feeling with his disagreement of her plan. She rather liked Cynoc – almost as much as Duste, and maybe more, in a different way. The girl’s feet slowed as she drew next to Duste – Starfire huffing at the unexpected but disappointingly short exercise.

“Duste, I have an idea that could make our job easier – with yours and the Princess’s permission. I know that sometimes, when nobles or royals travel to places they are unsure about, they bring a similar looking bodyguard to stand in their place. That way, if an ambush or attack does happen, the enemy often attacks the body guard, thinking that they are the real target.” She looked up at him, her brown eyes dead serious. “The princess and I are the same general height and as for the other differences… I don’t think most know what Her Highness actually looks like. It could end up saving the Princess’s life.”

The girl looked back at the Princess and pursed her lips. “She could pose as myself – no one knows or cares what a ‘hand-maiden’ looks like. She would be more likely to be passed over as unimportant. Vesper would stay with her to complete the look and act as a guard, if the Princess is comfortable with him and knows how to handle birds.”

The hand holding the reins reached up to brush escaped hair out of her face.

Monngus

The beast sat at the head seat of the long table, flanked on either side by the silent shadow of a figure in grey robes. Similar grey robes lined each side of the table, five on each, and several more standing across the room. No faces were visible, save for the monstrous visage that sat at the head of the table.

The beast towered over everyone else in the room, even when seated. Slender ears came to points, nearly lost amonst the three gnarled pairs of horns that decorated the top of its head. The skin of the creature was sickly pallid, with the coursing of blood tainting the white with a pink undertone. Long white hairs formed into a beard at the chin, more like that of a billygoat than a human. His body was a strange hybrid of human and beast, covered in white hair but bipedal. In one hand he held the most enormous, wicked double-head axe mortals had ever laid eyes on, the blades stained with old and crusted blood of countless battles.

The eyes of the beast were a solid blue, but they seemed distant, unfocused. He stared at nothing as those around him spoke.

"The king has called in his forces from all over the land. The outlying villages will fall easily into our control," a voice announced from one of the various robes.

"I have dispatched messengers to the Nevorgi high council. We should recieve their reply within a turn of the moon," came another.

"What of the princess?" The voice of the beast was low and appropriately animalistic, gravelly and rasping slightly. The room practically shook when he spoke, so voluminous was his vociferation.

Hooded faces turned to look at each other, a fruitless activity, to be sure. Finally, one spoke. "She has not yet been located. But our control of the land grows daily, she will not make it out of Demortris."

Monngus drew in a deep breath, and with what seemed like great strain rose from the iron seat. "Come before me," he commanded simply, and the last robe to have spoken did just that, bringing himself closer to the great beast that called himself High Priest of Grovel. The robed figure knelt on the ground before the creature, head bowed.

No warning, hardly time to react, certainly no time to scream. Monngus the High Priest raised the great war-axe and brought it across the robe's shoulder's, cleaving the head cleanly from the neck. A burst of blood sprayed out, staining the white hair, but blending perfectly into armor that was already blood-red. The head rolled twice, landing at the foot of the beast, the hood falling away to reveal a face contorted in permanent agony.

"Find the princess."

Selvaria had been just about to cut down the bandit before her when an arrow suddenly thudded into his chest. The bandit gave a last wheezing groan, and then fell to the ground. Then the two bandits behind their fallen comrade joined him, falling to the ground, the hilt of a knife protruding from each of their throat, leaving two bandits left, looks of shock and utter bewilderment across their faces. However, they quickly regained their posture, and while one of them went for the direction which the knives had left, across the shallow river, the other attempted to attack Selvaria. As quick as a flash, Selvaria's hand flew to her waist, withdrew a dagger, and threw it, directing the blade towards the back of the fleeing bandit. It struck right in the small of his back, and he collapsed into the river. Returning her attention to her attacker, she parried the bandit's attack and stabbed him in the gut, pushing him back down to the ground.

Selvaria calmly strode over to the other bandit's body, and retrieved her dagger from his back, slipping it into her belt. Then she turned back towards the newcomers, her blade still drawn in case they were also bandits.

When Selvaria approached the newcomer group, one man stepped forward; apparently the leader--the words that followed seemed to reinforce this impression. They were apparently some kind of mercenary group; Selvaria had fought quite a few mercenaries in the past, but she had never heard of this 'Steel Wolves'. What they were doing, Selvaria would hardly know.

She very briefly considered his offer, but then she looked back over the trees. She had always felt a duty, an obligation, to defending the tiny villages and hamlets that dotted this countryside from the many bandits who would love nothing better than to burn down the houses, kill the families, and take the money of those who tried to make a living here. If she was gone, who would be left to stop the bandits from carrying this out? Perhaps it was time the villages defended themselves...she wouldn't be able to stop the bandits forever. And anyway, the villagers could always pay some mercenaries to do what Selvaria had done for years without appreciation.

"I don't want your money..." Selvaria turned her eyes back from the trees to look at the leader of the group. "But I'll tag along with you and your group."

((OOC: Meant to post in genova campaign. The site isnt working for me very well at the moment.))

Iron eyes flashed red for a moment, the rooms temperature rose drastically for a second. Men's skin peeled as though their skins were dried and exposed to the brightest of suns. Sweat beaded off their skin and beneath their armor their padding soaked. The walls paint boiled for a moment. Irons armor glowed a bright orange around the trim. Then the moment was gone and moisture steamed and whistled off of objects around them. Some of the men the younger ones less experienced with the legion itself were shuttering with fear while others held strong having experienced one of Irons hot flashes before. It gave the men a peak at his abilities. "Pledge?" He said after staring around the room. Then a rough laughter came from the bellows of the man that echoed throughout the whole estate.

"If you wish to pledge you will start as a recruit within the legion, you will be allowed what you own. But you have to earn what you wish for and if that is respect then you will lead by example and follow those above you" As he finished he turned, bodyguards surrounded him in a column their weapons unsheathed and ready. He was heading back to camp and had left a lieutenant to keep an eye on Gurag the Orc who may have a future within the legion. Not all were confident in front of him most pissed themselves. He had a lot ahead of the legion many campaigns to conquer after this one.

~Crimson Legion Forward Camp~

It was about dawn, the sun was just peaking over the horizon the air was still filled with the smell of smoke and blood. The sky was thick with vultures off in the distance, hovering over the ruined village, the estate was set ablaze a hill of pure flames created by his men not by his ability. A column of soldiers followed behind him none wore white tabards or cloaks any longer all were stained red with the blood of their enemies. As he entered the camp he met silence. The soldiers who were here except for the sentries were asleep, some were working on their early morning chores. The area was warm thanks to hearth fires spread throughout the camp and a scent lay beneath the familiar one of battle, barley soup and some meat. Possibly loot from the village itself, its cattle.

The camp was set up in six levels of which were circular formations. First level were outskirt sentries, scouts hidden in the area or patrolling squadrons. The second is a quickly built wooden palisade following that is an earthen wall leading up to it about 4 or so feet before the tips of the logs laid in the ground. Acting as a battlement. At every third hour looking from an over head view was a small makeshift gate that could be easily reinforced. The third level was enlisted housing or temporary housing in this case which were pack tents. The fourth were supplies and other necessities such as grazing for horses and cattle, camp followers also stayed amongst this area within wagons. The fifth was the officers and elite guards quarters, large tents carried by wagons to fit multiple instead of the pack tents which slept one or two men at a time these can fit 3-10 men at a time. The sixth which was a protected by a barrier created by Iron himself if he were to be there. Only those he allowed in were untouched by the thick fatal fog. What laid inside was not seen by anyone for it was always covered but what men usually saw was just a normal officers tent not something grand and luxurious like a king would have.

The column broke away as officers gave orders to non-commissioned officers and so on. As they approached the fifth level none were given permission to go past unless ordered otherwise by Iron, in this case none were at the moment not even the Orc. He was to be directed by the lieutenant assigned to him to an enlisted quarters with a uniform of a white tabard. So that he may later prove himself to the legion in the next campaign. As he approached the sixth the deadly fog he had left behind engulfed him and his horse and he vanished behind the veil of white.