[b]Night of April 10th, in the Year 3650 of the Tolosi Calendar[/b]

[b][center]A lovely sunset.
Words. Waiting. The Warfather.
Marching with the dawn.[/center][/b]
Myranda Tavellan sat at a table on the top floor of the watchtower, her brown eyes staring out at the setting sun through a large hole in the side of the building. A beautiful conflagration of searing oranges, sultry reds, and gloomy blues surrounded the sun as it dropped towards the horizon. The elf leaned back in her chair, which groaned beneath her weight, and returned her attention to the map of Etruscia spread across the table. Despite the deaths of every Etruscan soldier in the tower, this map remained pristine and unsullied. Well, unsullied by blood and viscera, though Myranda felt the handwriting marking the various landmarks and points of interest was a bit much. Why did the 'r' in 'Lyvresse' need so many ridiculous flourishes and swirls? Evidently, the old sayings about Etruscans and their obsession with all things gaudy and ornate were still true. 

Snorting loudly, Myra picked up the map and smirked as she considered her position. Not bad, not bad at all. No doubt everything was proceeding according to General Astra's grand design.

Roughly an hour after reaching the smuggler's beach, the Forlorn Hope platoon, accompanied by three penal battalions, had been commanded by Captain Elias to ride south and take control of several watchtowers known as the "Four Sisters." These towers not only provided the Etruscans with a charming view of the sea but also allowed them to see potential threats coming from the north and south. There was a good chance the soldiers manning the Four Sisters had already sent a runner to the City of Kings to tell their masters about the fleet of ships sailing south, apparently heading straight for Tolos. Unbeknownst to the Etruscans, however, this was only one part of Oromis' army. While the God-King's diversion kept the enemy occupied, General Astra's forces continued disembarking and, if Trooper Pyral's gossip was to be believed, certain platoons were already harassing the Etruscan army. Supposedly, Colonel Laurence and Captain Calib had attacked an Etruscan training camp in a nearby valley, which the map referred to as the "Broken Cleft," less than an hour after the Gray Winds made landfall. Myranda wasn't sure if this was anything more than the boasting of eager soldiers, though Larius was quite excited about it. The elf seemed to recall Trooper Mogdan mentioning Trooper Pyral's obsession with Captain Calib during their journey across the Gap. The old sellsword's ardor notwithstanding, if General Astra's troops had struck a blow against the Prophet so soon after arriving it was a testament to the fiery-haired woman's efficiency and planning skills. 

Meanwhile, the Forlorn Hope platoon, riding alongside their allies in the Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh Penal Battalions, reached the Four Sisters a few hours past midday. The captains leading the red sashes had received orders while still aboard the [i]Blade of God[/i] to take down the two northern towers, which left Myra and her mercenaries to deal with the ones further south. After listening to Trooper Pyral's suggestions and taking her own observations into account, Myranda had ordered Troopers Stantus "The Shank" Folant, a boisterous Tolosi lancer, and Vashara Maladar, sister of Tlaloc Maladar, to lead a group of ten Gray Winds each to slaughter the Etruscan soldiers stationed at the southern towers. Considering how ramshackle and unkempt the Four Sisters looked, Myra had been confident there wouldn't be much resistance. For the love of the gods above and below, the southernmost watchtower, the one she was sitting in at this very moment, had a giant hole in it! Obviously, the maintenance and protection of the Four Sisters wasn't high on the Prophet's list of priorities, and Myranda intended to make these soldiers pay for his negligence. Still, knowing how quickly a battle could turn from an assured victory to a brutal rout, the elven berserker had hidden herself and five other Forlorn Hope members behind a nearby sand dune to act as reinforcements if necessary. She needn't have bothered. Twenty Etruscan soldiers were sent screaming into the afterlife and not a single convict or hired blade was wounded. Sadly, and unsurprisingly given the condition of the watchtowers and the lack of men occupying them, there hadn't been much in the way of plunder. There had been a few choice items, however.

Like the black silk bag Myranda was currently pulling out of her orange belt pouch.

Grinning as she laid the map back on the table with one hand and upended the bag with the other, the elf whistled appreciatively as a full set of highly polished playing tiles clattered onto the wooden tabletop. These tiles weren't anything like her badly carved, handmade shale set. Oh no, these had obviously been given as a gift to one of the dead Etruscans because not only were these tiles made of whalebone but the images painted on them were wonderfully detailed. Few mercenaries would have thought to look behind a chamber pot for dropped valuables, and Myra knew if Dagmar Colwen hadn't found a bottle of [i]wotka[/i] in the same place back on the Hamrock Isles she wouldn't have bothered. She was certainly glad she had. Glancing once more at the breathtaking sunset, Myranda decided it was high time to see how her platoon was settling in. Apart from the men the elf tasked with watching the horses and keeping the area around the Four Sisters free of enemies, the other members of the Forlorn Hope were trying to sleep on the watchtower's lower level.

Maybe somebody would be awake enough for one game of tiles?

Myranda started collecting her new tiles and was nearly finished when she heard the sound of someone clearing their throat coming from the nearby stairwell. The elf turned and saw Trooper Tlaloc Maladar, his mismatched eyes shining in the dying light of the sun, standing at the top of the rickety wooden stairs leading to the watchtower's bottom floor. Unexpected. Frowning and picking up the last tile, which was adorned with the image of a roaring white lion, Myranda watched as the southern elf strolled towards her and stopped when he reached the table. Some people might claim the wiry mercenary was standing a "respectful distance" away. Myra would just call it "standin' far enough away that I can't hit him with me sword if he pisses me off." 

Trooper Maladar smiled, the expression surprisingly lacking in scorn and disdain for once, and said, "Hail and well met, Lieutenant Tavellan. How does the evening find you, hm? Well, I trust?" Definitely an unexpected way for the tattooed sellsword to start a conversation. Myra knew Trooper Maladar despised her almost as much as Trooper Rommath did. Maybe more.

After deliberately putting the bag of tiles into the appropriate pouch, the hulking elf folded her arms across her chest and said, "Well enough, I s'pose, Trooper Maladar. I'd thank ye fer askin', but I'm tryin' ter unnerstand why yer even talkin' ter me. We both know ye hate me 'cause I don't come from Xohic...Xichic...from the southlands like yerself and yer sister. Ye said as much while we was crossin' the Gap. So, what do ye want, aye?"

The other elf brushed a strand of dark hair away from his angular face and frowned at his commanding officer like he was trying to decide what to say next. Myranda honestly couldn't care less. The sooner this was over with, the sooner she could check on the others and go to sleep.

"I...I wanted to thank you, lieutenant," Trooper Maladar said as he leaned against the table and bowed his head, the red tree tattooed across his face shifting visibly as his smirk gradually faded. "During our attack today, you gave my sister a chance to lead men into battle. You're the first one in the Gray Winds to do that. Vashara is a gifted tactician and a competent fighter just like our father was. But we were recruited by General Astra less than six months ago. Nobody trusts us because they don't know us or our customs. We ended up getting moved from platoon to platoon until we finally found ourselves in the Forlorn Hope. So...thank you, thank you for giving Vashara a chance to prove herself. I doubt she'd ever tell you herself, but I know she is grateful for this gift. You will not regret it." The southern elf paused for a moment, and then he slowly held out his hand to Myra as the corners of his lips twitched upwards. It was the closest thing to a genuine smile Myranda had ever seen on Trooper Maladar's face. Tonight was definitely a night for the unexpected.

Considering how well the fighting had gone today, the elven warrior decided she could bring herself to clasp Tlaloc's hand. The tattooed sword-for-hire might be an arrogant bastard, but he was an arrogant bastard under her command. The least she could do was try to be civil with him. "Well, yer welcome, Trooper Maladar," Myranda said as she shook the other elf's hand. "But ye shouldn't be thankin' me fer what yer sister did. She not only did her job but she did it well. I couldn't have asked fer a better assault on these towers. Now I know I can rely on her if'n I got somethin' important that needs ter get done right. Say, I don't suppose they teach ye how to play tiles down in the southlands, eh? Me father taught me how ter play when I was young so I'm sure I can explain all the rules an' such ter ye."

Tlaloc dropped Myra's hand so fast it was insulting. Shaking his head slowly, even as that obnoxious grin slithered across his face once more, the southern elf said, "Ahhh, no. No. Thank you, lieutenant, but I don't think I could do anything of the sort with a northblood elf. Forgive a proud southblood for having prejudices, but one well-coordinated attack against twenty poorly-equipped humans does not impress me. It certainly won't bring down the Sun Gates of mighty Tolos. You did well today for a weak and coddled northblood yet do not assume this makes us equals. And it certainly does not make us friends. Besides, we are in the middle of enemy territory and you want to play games? That seems...foolish, Lieutenant Tavellan. Very foolish." With a proud toss of his head and an immaculate salute, Tlaloc turned and stalked down the stairs, leaving an annoyed and thoroughly exasperated Myranda behind him. Like every "northblood" elf, Myra had heard tales about the haughty and bloodthirsty elves found in the kingdom of Xochimilco to the south. The stories detailing how rude and unpleasant they were apparently contained more truth than fiction. 

Yawning widely, Myra followed Trooper Maladar down to the watchtower's circular lower level. The Forlorn Hope platoon was scattered everywhere in various positions of repose, each soldier snoring contentedly and drooling all over their bed rolls. One man, Trooper Viator Tabex, was using a pile of wadded up and bloodied Etruscan tabards as a pillow. It was faintly hilarious seeing the golden sun of Oromis shining brightly amidst a white field while a sellsword slobbered all over it. Another Gray Wind, whose snores were so violent it was a miracle the entire watchtower hadn't collapsed, was using an unpleasantly yellow cloak as a makeshift blanket. Myra was certain she'd seen the leader of the Etruscan soldiers stationed at the Four Sisters wearing that cloak right before Vashara Maladar threw him out a window. As she watched Trooper Maladar lie down on his bed roll and curl into a ball, Myranda grinned crookedly. Although there hadn't been much looting after the attack, the Gray Winds had apparently found some useful odds and ends once they'd dragged the last Etruscan corpses out to sea. Myra had amassed a variety of "tokens of war" since she first joined Kurdan's Sabers and, while she'd been forced to leave many behind over the years, most weren't nearly as useful as a cloak or a pile of discarded tabards. Still, they were mementos that reminded her of the countless battles she'd witnessed over the course of her long, bloody life. At the moment, apart from her brand new tiles, Myra was carrying a scrimshaw carving of a kraken, a child's rattle, and a small wooden elk figurine with a missing antler. That last one had come from Mervyn's Crossing.

Grimacing at the thought of her betrayal, the elf scratched at her right ear and began to walk cautiously towards the door, trying not to step on anyone with her sabatons. She'd nearly made it when she heard a rustling sound coming from somewhere to her left. Looking in the direction of the noise, Myranda found herself gazing into the pale green eyes of Vashara Maladar, who'd propped herself up on her bed roll to get a better look at her superior. 

Swiping a few blonde dreadlocks away from her round face, Vashara smiled groggily and said, "I thought I heard someone stumbling around in the dark. Someone besides my fool brother, that is. Did he speak to you, Lieutenant Tavellan?" Not wanting to make any more noise than she already had, Myra nodded and Vashara rolled her eyes. "Then he has stolen my words from me like a wretched red-tailed monkey steals fruit. He can be such an annoyance at times. Well, I shall speak as I wish no matter what he has or has not said. Thank you for allowing me to lead part of the assault today, lieutenant. You will not regret it. May all the gods look upon you favorably, northblood." 

Before Myra could thank the heavyset elf, however, Vashara lay back down and began snoring as if she hadn't woken up at all. Tlaloc apparently hadn't heard anything since he was still dozing on his own bedroll. Pinching the bridge of her nose as she pushed open the door and stepped out into the warm, balmy night, Myra tried to recall if any of the stories about southbloods mentioned how insane they were. Because the Maladars were clearly out of their minds.

Myranda took a deep breath, inhaling the salty tang of the sea and the scent of grass crushed underfoot, and allowed her gaze to wander across the slope where the Four Sisters stood. Even though she hadn't participated in the attack on the watchtowers, the elf was glad the Forlorn Hope's first battle had gone so well. Morale was a tricky thing when it came to hired blades, and Myra was becoming more and more aware of how precarious her position was. While she knew it was highly unlikely any of these mercenaries could best her in battle, the last thing Myranda wanted was to end up standing before General Astra while men like Typhus Rommath and Aliden Bayaz bayed for her execution. She needed more allies like Vashara Maladar, Vladimir Mogdan, and Larius Pyral to avoid getting court marshaled for any perceived, or actual, slight. Especially actual slights. As her eyes darted up to the starry sky overhead and then out towards the water, the elven warrior saw something moving down by the shoreline. What was that all about? Could it be the enemy? A flush of joy, anger, and something almost like need colored Myra's scarred face as she hunkered down and crept towards the place where the waves met the sand. She was just about to draw her longsword when she recognized the squat, bearded form of Vladimir Mogdan standing over what was obviously a corpse.

Blinking in shock, Myranda let go of her blade and stood up to her full height so she could see this bizarre scene in its entirety. The dwarf was chanting in a guttural language the elf didn't recognize with his eyes closed while straddling the body of an Etruscan soldier. The dead human's throat had been torn out. Pieces of sharpened driftwood were driven through the man's hands, anchoring him securely to the beach, and Vladimir's heavy bearded axe lay atop the carcass. It was a little surprising to see the weapon's iron blade dripping with blood, because the dwarf was one of the Gray Winds Myra held in reserve during the assault on the Four Sisters. What in the name of the First Emperor's hairy balls was going on?

The dwarf's eyes snapped open and he smiled up at his concerned lieutenant. "Ahhh, Lieutenant Tavellan, have you come to join me in my prayers to the Warfather? I was just about to ask Geishra to bestow his gifts upon my old, tired eyes. I am certain the Eternal Fire would rather hear the pleas of a lieutenant than the whining of a weary soldier," he said cheerfully as if he wasn't standing over a staked corpse in the middle of the night.

"Is that what this is, Trooper Mogdan? Some kind o' ritual or sommat?" Myranda asked, though the gray-haired dwarf scoffed and waved his hands at her like a teacher chastising a dimwitted pupil. The gesture also showed the hired blade's fingers were red up to the knuckle. Was he dipping his fingers into the blood oozing out of the dead Etruscan soldier's throat? Or was he doing something worse? Was there anything worse than that? Unfortunately, Myra could think of a few things. She'd done several of them.

"Please, please, call me Vladimir or Vlad, lieutenant. And yes, I'm calling down the blessings of Geishra upon myself and my weapon. You need the blood of a slain human to entice the God of Gods, and I just happened to find this runt lying out here all alone. I guess someone forgot to drag him all the way out into the water. By the way, I wanted to thank you for keeping me out of the battle today because I haven't spoken to Geishra in some time. I must have the favor of the Flame God if we are going to attack the City of Kings. Now, are you certain I cannot tempt you to join me? Geishra is always looking for more warriors to join his congregation," Vladimir said and he shrugged when Myranda shook her head before closing his eyes tightly. 

Myra, curious about this mysterious and bloody religion she knew nothing about, sat down a few feet away from the dwarf to watch. While the elf claimed to worship the Tolosi gods, the truth was Myranda didn't even know the names of half the elven deities apart from Grim Bardolon, the Tolosi divinity of warriors and violence. Not that she actually believed praying to a god or goddess did anything. There were times when she wondered if they existed at all. It would certainly explain the state of the world.

"Oh Geishra, Warfather, Eternal Fire, and God of Flame, I paint the blood of my enemies upon my eyes," Vladimir intoned, now speaking in Common since he had an audience, and he drew a single bloody line across his eyelids. By the dim light of the stars and the crescent moon, Myra could see the gore dripping down the dwarf's face as he continued to commune with his god. "Let me see the weaknesses of my foes so I might send them howling to your great pyre. Let me see their strikes before they make them so I might offer up their souls to your endless glory. Let me see paths and ways to victory my adversaries cannot so I might rend them limb from limb!" 

For the second time that night, the old dwarf's eyes opened and Myranda let out a startled squawk as she stumbled to her feet. Vladimir's eyes were blood red and his pupils were black as pitch! The elven warrior reached for her sword, but Trooper Mogdan said, his voice deadpan and soft, "The orders you are waiting for have arrived, lieutenant. Go forth and bring death and sorrow to these foolish humans. I know you will not disappoint." The elderly mercenary slowly raised one arm and pointed at a spot behind Myra, and she glanced over her shoulder as the sound of someone shouting her name reached her ears. "Lieutenant Tavellan! Where is Lieutenant Tavellan?! I must speak to Lieutenant Tavellan at once!" the voice cried out over and over again in the darkness. 

Wondering how Vladimir heard the shouts before she had, Myranda turned ...to find absolutely nothing. The old dwarf was gone and there was no sign he'd ever been there. Even the slain Etruscan soldier had vanished.

While not as strange as vanishing dwarves and foul rituals, seeing Sweet Thond hobbling towards her with two sheets of parchment in one hand and a wad of glow moss in the other wasn't something Myra saw every night either. The pinkish glow moss, which gave off a faint light of the same color, was an essential ingredient in many Etruscan ales so Myra knew it by sight. And it tended to grow near saltwater and the sea was the biggest body of saltwater in Tverios. It also made sense to use it instead of wasting precious lantern oil. At any rate, watching the balding Jadisi man scurrying along made Myranda smile despite the night's strangeness. She'd been certain Sweet Thond and the other convicts in his battalion were working with the Mardochians responsible for coordinating Oromis' diversion. Most of the other penal battalions were. Yet, as the two friends shook hands, Myra noticed Sweet Thond didn't look well. His face was drawn and every move he made seemed sluggish and uncoordinated while his eyes never seemed to settle.

Wheezing as he released Myra's hand, Sweet Thond offered the pieces of parchment in his left hand and the elf took them gently as she said, "Sweet Thond! It's great ter see ye, me friend! Are ye alright? Do ye need ter sit down? Ye look like yer about to keel over."

Despite the obvious agony wracking his scrawny frame, the perspiring Jadisi grinned and said, "I don't need to sit down, Myranda. I mean, Lieutenant Tavellan, but thank you for the offer. I should probably return to my battalion now that I've delivered your orders. The captain of the Seventh Penal Battalion, Patrice Tressida, was commanded by Captain Elias to ensure you received these papers once the Four Sisters were under our control. Thanks to you, we accomplished the task faster than anyone could have anticipated. It would seem..." The Jadisi man paused and swallowed, his eyes narrowing, as he said, "It would seem fortune has favored you at last, my friend. I'm glad, lieutenant, truly. You deserve this." He didn't sound glad and Myra's brows drew together as she watched Sweet Thond struggle to regain some semblance of composure. Was he ill? And why did he stink of shit? Before she could ask, however, he snapped to attention and said, "I should return to my captain, lieutenant, before she sends someone out to retrieve me. That would...that would not be good. I shall see you in the morning." He turned around and shuffled away in the direction of the northernmost watchtower without another word.

Wondering what in the name of the gods above and below was wrong with everyone tonight, Myranda looked down at the two pieces of parchment and began to read aloud to herself. One of the sheets detailed what Captain Elias expected the Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh Penal Battalions to do once the [i]Blade of God[/i] reached Etruscia's western coast. They were to aid the Forlorn Hope platoon in claiming the Four Sisters for the God-King, which is exactly what they'd done. The other sheet, however, contained the following message:

[i]Lieutenant Tavellan,

If you are reading this then congratulations are in order. The Four Sisters have fallen, and I'm sure you were instrumental in bringing them down. Make certain your troops rest tonight, because I want them alert and ready to ride at dawn. Your platoon, and the three penal battalions who assisted you, will be moving south into the forest of Lyvresse. It will take most of the day to travel through the woods, but you must reach the southernmost thickets by nightfall. Once you have arrived, I want you and your battalion to prepare yourselves for combat. The red sashes accompanying you, who will obey your orders as if they were my own, should do the same. I intend to begin our attack on the Sun Gates the following day so it is imperative that everyone's weapons and armor are in order. I shall send further instructions as soon as I am able. We shall be victorious, lieutenant. The Sun Gates of Tolos will fall.

Sincerely,

Claes Astra
General of the God-King's Armies
Captain of the Gray Winds[/i]

Frowning and shoving the two pieces of parchment into one of her pouches, Myranda lumbered back towards the watchtower occupied by her platoon. So much for a friendly game of tiles. The elf was concerned about Thond, though. Something was wrong with the gaunt southerner, and he was obviously in a great deal of pain. Myra didn't have many friends so she felt compelled to look after the few she had. Maybe Captain Patrice Tressida would know more about what was happening? The convicts and sellswords had been so busy preparing for their respective assaults on the Four Sisters that they hadn't spoken to each other much. Proper introductions had been set aside for after the Four Sisters fell, though Myra had made the effort to learn the names of the three captains prior to the attack. Deciding to speak with Captain Tressida during their trek through Lyvresse, Myranda opened the watchtower's wooden door and immediately spotted Vladimir Mogdan sleeping at the bottom of the staircase. At least the confounding sellsword hadn't gotten himself lost.

"Thank the gods fer small favors, I s'pose," Myra muttered as she trudged towards the stairwell, her thoughts whirling about in a storm of annoyance, exhaustion, and concern. Gods above and below but she needed to get into a proper battle soon or she was going to go mad. Everything was so much simpler when she was fighting.