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

[center][b]A pleasant landing.
Foes both near and far away.
Waiting for orders.[/b][/center]
Myranda drained the last few gulps of Coromic pale ale from her wineskin as the [i]Blade of God[/i] beached itself on a stretch of sandy coastline. Discovering the cask of dwarven brew within the ship's hold was the most exciting thing that happened during the five day crossing from the Hamrock Isles to Etruscia. The whimpering, cringing Captain Angus Dimbick, self-proclaimed "finest sailor in the God-King's fleet" and eldest son of Lord Osmund Dimbick, was nearly weeping with joy as he watched his crew toss rope ladders over the sides of the ship. Sailing across the Gap, and presiding over something more dangerous than a banquet in his father's castle, had completely unmanned the Mardochian. Clearly, he was eager to feel solid ground beneath his calfskin boots again.

Shaking her head at the man's blubbering and putting her wineskin back in its place, Myra thanked the gods above and below that the rest of the [i]Blade of God's[/i] crew was more competent than their captain. Otherwise, Oromis' precious army might have ended up on the bottom of the sea. As she trudged through the pandemonium spreading across the fore-deck, Myranda made sure to nod gratefully at the captain's elven helmsman, a bitter old sea-dog named Sheldras "The Dour" Farnath, and he gave her a half-hearted wave before putting a clay horn to his lips. He blew three long blasts, and four dozen sailors stopped what they were doing to pick up the two gangplanks laying on the ship's poop deck. Myranda didn't envy the elf his task. He was trying to coordinate the disembarkation of gods knew how many people without any assistance. Myra took a deep breath, pausing for a moment to bask in the feeling of the midday sun on her skin, even as something her deceitful ex-lover, Pajaan Farimi, told her drifted into her thoughts.

"There ain't no such thing as an easy disem...dismem...ehhh, what was it again? It was a damn mouthful. Oh, that's right. Ain't no such thing as an easy landin' or sommat," she muttered to herself, and Myra's mud-colored eyes drifted up to the cloudless blue sky overhead. Was Pajaan looking up at this same sky from Clan Miridon's holdings in the kingdom of Nerwains? Was he thinking about her? About whether or not she was alive somewhere and plotting her revenge? Part of Myranda hoped he wasn't. The surprise of her sword punching through his traitorous guts would be all the sweeter that way.

Putting that delightful thought aside, the elven warrior pushed a few sailors out of her way and waited for the group of [i]Blade of God[/i] crew-members struggling with the wider of the two gangplanks to set it down. [i]The Blade of God[/i] was an old ship, but it was unique in that it had not one, but two gangplanks. One was wide enough for three men to walk down side-by-side while the other was substantially wider. This larger ramp was specifically designed to bear the weight of soldiers accompanied by their mounts, which is why Myra and the rest of the Forlorn Hope were gathering around it. They might be a "last resort" platoon but they were still Gray Winds. That meant they'd be spending a fair amount of time on horseback. Truth be told, Myranda hadn't ridden a horse in many years, and she was more than a little concerned about the prospect of getting back in the saddle. 

When she'd been captain of the White Hands, the elf had viewed horses as both a luxury and a burden. They could carry a wounded mercenary and a great deal of loot, but they also required constant attention and pooped everywhere. If the orders she'd received last night were any indication, however, Captain Elias expected his new lieutenant and her platoon to remain in the saddle until they reached the watchtowers near Tolos. The mere thought of clumsily bumping her horse into someone important and making a spectacle of herself made Myra wince. 

Still, orders were orders.

Thankfully, Captain Elias hadn't told her when or how she'd be getting her valiant steed so she could continue walking on her own two feet for now. Leaning over the ship's railing while the sailors continued fighting with the gangplank, Myra took a closer look at the white sand beach spread out before her. According to Sheldras' grumbling, this place was once a smuggler's hideout, though how Captain Dimbick knew about it was a mystery. What wasn't a mystery was its strategic importance. This beach was about a day and a half to the north of the Widow's Tears, the river straddled by the city of Tolos, and the army would move south as soon as everyone was off the ships. The only other remarkable feature this beach possessed was the scattered pieces of what looked like a statue made of bluish-gray granite. A colossal elf's head, which glared at the rowdy sailors swarming around it, lay on the far side of the beach while a single arm pointed uselessly at the sky a few feet away. There was no sign of the rest of the statue or any indication as to who who might have built it.

As she stood there staring at the frowning elf head, a polite cough from behind made Myra turn around...and she let out an uncharacteristic squeak as a huge black horse with a white diamond-shaped mark on its forehead stuck its muzzle into her face. The smell of horse was overpowering and pungent.

A humorless, unpleasant chuckle came from somewhere to the horse's right.

"Me apologies, lieutenant. I thought ye was payin' attention," the slender, fair-haired man holding the horse's reins drawled in a southern Tolosi accent as he walked around the beast. "I didn't think the bastard would be that strong after all the fightin' he did down in the hold. Big bastard nearly kicked two o' the other horses in the head, he did. Anyways, he's yers now, compliments o' General Astra. A proper imperial grayhoof this one, and ye couldn't find a better warhorse in all o' Tverios. The General didn't think any o' our smaller, lighter horses would be able ter carry ye inter battle, ye see. Oh, and Captain Elias told me ter tell ye that the Forlorn Hope is gettin' off the ship first since we're one o' the smaller platoons." Scratching the back of his long neck, the man spat over the side of the ship as the sailors finally set the larger gangplank down with a loud [i]bang[/i] and said, "Also, I've been wantin' ter talk ter ye about something, if'n ye have a moment...lieutenant."

If she was being completely honest, which she typically was, Myranda wasn't fond of Trooper Typhus Rommath. At all. He was rumored to be one of the finest riders in the entire platoon, and she knew he'd be needed when it came to assaulting the City of Kings. Still, she didn't like the wiry, soft-spoken mercenary. There had been several moments aboard the [i]Blade of God[/i] when she'd caught him looking at her like he was trying to find the perfect place to stick her with his fat-bladed skinning knife. Myranda would see him whispering furtively to other platoon members, but the man would shut his mouth and move away when he saw her approaching. And there was something about the Tolosi sellsword's pale gray eyes that reminded Myra of a monstrous crocodile she'd seen in an Etruscan lord's menagerie shortly after the Battle of the Celebron Fields. At least Trooper Maladar, the elven man with the mismatched eyes, was open about his disdain for Myranda. She was used to that. Typhus, on the other hand, did his best to conceal his feelings and simply gave off an air of unpleasantness and indifference whenever she spoke to him. Frowning and taking the horse's reins from Trooper Rommath, Myranda gestured towards the gangplank before leading her new mount towards it while Typhus and his horse followed.

Glancing behind her at the crush of people trying to gather their personal effects before disembarking, Myra called out as loudly as she could, "Oi, Forlorn Hope platoon, let's get off this fuckin' boat an' onto dry land! Meet me at the giant elf head an' wait fer further orders!" Myranda hoped they could hear her over the din of the busy ship, though she knew there was little else she could do. Where was Trooper Pyral when you needed him? Gripping her horse's reins tightly, Myra urged the massive warhorse onto the gangplank and started making her way down as slowly and carefully as possible.

As she walked, Myranda wondered what Typhus could possibly have to say to her. Was he having second thoughts about following an elf with a reputation as dark and bloody as hers? Or was it something else? The two mercenaries led their horses cautiously down the ramp for awhile when Captain Dimbick, his beautiful silk sailor's jacket streaming after him, rushed past them and flung himself bodily onto the beach. "Oh, Most Holy and Divine Oromis, God-King and Emperor of All, thank you for granting us safe passage across the treacherous sea! You are truly the most wondrous and forgiving of all..." the Mardochian howled, though the rest of his fevered prayer was drowned out as several people began arguing with the [i]Blade of God's[/i] crew about why they, and not the Forlorn Hope, deserved to be first off the ship. Still, as Myra and Typhus continued plodding towards the shoreline, the elven warrior could see Captain Dimbick's eyes darting to and fro as if waiting for someone to applaud his display of faith. Some people would do anything for a little attention.

"The good captain seems ter think we had a rough time out on the water, eh?" Trooper Rommath said in his bland, inoffensive voice and Myranda grunted her accord. The "good captain" was ridiculous and about as useful as a tankard of Hamrock Isle's beer. The elf held her tongue, however, until the twosome managed to persuade their horses to wade out into the shallow water surrounding the boat.

"I've been thinkin' that Captain Dimbick missed his true callin'. He should've been a minstrel or a member o' some mummer's troupe. I ain't never seen actin' so good in me entire life. Ye'd almost think he was a ship's captain until he opened his fool mouth," she said, and Typhus' eyes narrowed slightly as if he was suddenly offended. Myra stuck her tongue through one of the gaps in her teeth as she watched an expression of pure hatred trickle across the human's lean face. Wonderful.

The two swords-for-hire finally made it to the shore, streams of warm saltwater running off their soaked clothes, and they paused for a moment to get their bearings. Thankfully, the massive stone head wasn't hard to spot. As they reached the rendezvous point, however, Typhus said, "True, true. Still, it could've been worse fer the stupid sod. He could've been born a stinkin' long-ear, eh?"

And there it was. Like stepping in a pile of horse shit while wearing your new boots. The ugliness was finally out in the open. This man, who hailed from the southern reaches of Tolos just like Myranda, was racist against elves. Baring her teeth in a strained grin and leading her reluctant mount into the shadow of the statue's head, Myranda said, "I see. So, that's it then, eh, Trooper Rommath? Ye got yerself a problem with me kind. An' here I thought ye'd have a bit more origi...orginal...here I thought it wouldn't be anythin' so fuckin' predictable. I guess the next question is what are ye gonna do about it, hm? Are ye gonna keep makin' yer little comments an' starin' daggers at me until I finally decide to beat the crap out o' ye? If'n ye can't stomach servin' under me then go talk to Captain Elias. I'm sure he'd be happy ter send ye ter another platoon." Personally, Myranda would be immensely happy to see Trooper Rommath become another lieutenant's problem. She was a new officer in a company of veteran sellswords. Things were going to be hard enough without her own men making life more difficult.

Typhus just shrugged his shoulders as if they were arguing over nothing and said, "I ain't got no quarrel with ye personally, lieutenant. Ye should be glad fer that. But I need ye ter know the truth. Like ye said back in Taranidorn, it ain't no good startin' a relationship with lies an' all that. An' the truth is ye made yerself some enemies with that little speech. Some folks, an' I ain't about ter name names so don't ask, think it was a little high-handed fer a long-ear. Especially one with yer reputation. Yer kind ain't in charge anymore except in the fuckin' Empire. Besides..." The man paused for a moment, his gray eyes wandering lazily over to the other Forlorn Hope soldiers struggling down the gangplank with their mounts, and finally said, "Ye laid a hand on me good friend Major Bayaz. I grew up with Aliden in the south o' Tolos an' he's always looked out fer me. What kinda man would I be if'n I didn't do the same, eh? He's the one that got me inter the Gray Winds in the first damned place. So know this, elf, if'n ye fuck with him again there's gonna be trouble." 

Trooper Rommath snapped to attention and, after tying his horse to a nearby tree stump, walked towards the other members of his platoon to help them with their steeds. And, as if he'd been summoned by the faint sound of drums beating in the back of Myra's head, the first soldier to reach the stone head was none other than Trooper Larius Pyral, his jowly face turning a nasty shade of red as he fought to control his horse.

"Is everything well, lieutenant? Typhus looked upset when he came to help me off that accursed boat, and he said something about 'keeping that damned elf away from me.' I...erhem, well, that is to say...you must forgive him, Lieutenant Tavellan. He's a capital man, truly. Capital, I say!" Larius said breathlessly before he was forced to stop talking in order to focus on keeping his steed from yanking him off his feet. His horse, a spirited beige mare with bronze-colored hooves, seemed amused by her elderly rider's distress. 

Myranda grimaced and took the reins out of Larius' trembling hands before tying his horse to the same stump as Trooper Rommath's mount. She wordlessly did the same with her own steed. Running a hand through her unkempt hair, the elf said, her voice as cold and deadly as a winter storm, "I'm sure Trooper Rommath is a great man, Trooper Pyral, but what he said ter me wasn't what I'd call 'capital.' It was insubordinate an' I'm tempted ter make an' example o' the racist fuck. I can unnerstand hatin' someone, believe me. Especially if'n they've caused as much pain an' sufferin' as me. But hatin' someone just 'cause of what they are is somethin' else. I need this bastard ter follow me orders or it might cost the whole bloody lot of us our lives. Maybe I should talk ter Captain Elias once he comes ashore about gettin' Trooper Rommath set up in another platoon. Let someone else deal with him."

Larius wiped one gnarled hand across his sweaty brow and said, "Oh dear, oh dear, Lieutenant Tavellan, you don't need to do that. I'm sure I can convince Typhus to calm down if you just give me a little time. The thing is...oh dear, well, I'm afraid this is Typhus' last chance. He's been moved from platoon to platoon over the last few years, but none of the other lieutenants want him. His temper, not to mention his tendency to uhhh...erhem, "make free" with captive women, has gotten him into a great deal of trouble over the years. Even Major Bayaz, his childhood friend, is getting tired of his behavior. Listen, lieutenant, I agree that his opinion of your people is terribly narrow-minded, but I can understand where he's coming from. You see, both Trooper Rommath and Major Bayaz grew up in a small town in the southernmost province of Tolos. I believe the town was called Halfhill or something. Anyways, the Margrave of the South, whose name escapes me at the moment, was given a trio of cannons by the Emperor many years ago. They hadn't been tested yet, and his Imperial Majesty wanted the margrave to see if they could be used safely by the Imperial Legions. Well, the margrave decided to kill two birds with one cannon. Halfhill had an unfortunate reputation for providing succor to those who sought to undermine the Emperor's rule, especially the group known as the Headsmen. These vagrants would ride into Halfhill, hold the townsfolk hostage until they resupplied themselves, and then leave. Every now and again one of the villagers would join them, but..." Larius stuttered to a halt as Myranda held up one scarred hand and fixed him with a stony, emotionless gaze.

Taking a deep breath, Myranda said, "Let me guess, Trooper Pyral. The cannons worked an' blew up Halfhill, but Trooper Rommath an' the delightful Major Bayaz managed ter escape somehow. Is that about right? Now, they hate elves an' blame us all fer the loss of their families an' homes." The elven warrior didn't need to see Larius' rapid nodding to know she was correct. Pinching the bridge of her crooked nose and clenching her teeth, Myranda valiantly resisted the urge to punch something or someone. This was just like being back in the bloody White Hands. You knew the betrayal would come, but you didn't know from what direction. Would it be the major whose grandfather you were partly responsible for killing? Or maybe the soldier you ordered to watch your back would instead decide to gut you with his skinning knife? 

Glaring up at the granite head looming over her, Myranda said, "Is there anythin' else I should know, Trooper Pyral, since yer feelin' so talkative this afternoon, eh? Maybe one o' the others is actually an Etruscan spy with orders ter kill me afore we even reach fuckin' Tolos? Or maybe one is an orc wearin' a really fuckin' good disguise? Hm?" The fact that Larius nervously plucked at his mustache and looked at the ground made Myra want to smack him. 

"May I speak freely, Lieutenant Tavellan?" Larius asked quietly, and Myranda nodded.

"During our last campaign, we...well, we were headed for Parthage, you see. The captain knew some wealthy nobles in the City of Silver, and we were all looking forward to laying down our weapons for a week or two. We, erhem, we stopped at the ruins of Fort Liburnum on the way to Parthage to purchase more supplies from the caravans gathered there. As we were preparing to continue to the city, however, a she-dwarf pimp named Svetlana asked Captain Astra if she could travel with us because she was also going to Parthage. The captain agreed and Svetlana, along with her seven whores, joined us for the remainder of the journey. The thing is...these women were all elves, lieutenant. Beautiful elven whores. They called themselves Svetlana's Seven Sugars. Their whole gimmick was to dress up like margraves, high priestesses, and noblewomen so a man might feel like he was...well, like he was fucking some influential political or religious figure. It was surprisingly effective. I must admit I found them..." Larius said, though he stopped and cleared his throat awkwardly when he saw the grim expression settling on Myranda's face.

"I suppose I won't bore you with the details, Lieutenant Tavellan, but Svetlana was making a great deal of gold by servicing our company. About halfway to Parthage, however, one of the dwarf's most popular girls disappeared and nobody could find her. The last two men to enjoy this particular whore were none other than Aliden Bayaz and Typhus Rommath, according to Svetlana's ledgers," Larius said and, despite herself, Myranda felt her blood run cold. She wasn't the most intelligent woman in the world, but it didn't take a scholar to realize two plus two made four. Or that two elf-hating men plus one elven whore was the perfect recipe for one dead, missing whore.

"Captain Astra told Svetlana she had no proof of foul play by Major Bayaz or Trooper Rommath so nothing was done. Besides, whores run away all the time," Larius said, and he scratched at his balding head before looking over his shoulder. The rest of the platoon was almost to the stone head, and Typhus was strutting along at the front of the group. "By the time we reached Parthage, however, only two of Svetlana's girls remained and they were terrified. The she-dwarf demanded that Captain Astra take action, though the captain refused to do anything without evidence. Svetlana left the next day after swearing to avenge her missing girls. I think...I'm afraid it's entirely possible that-"

"That I got me an elf-killer in me platoon. Gods above an' below, Larius. It's true, innit? Nothin' is ever fuckin' easy. Guess I'll jest have ter keep both eyes open, won't I? Now, I want ye ter keep this quiet and see if ye can find Captain Elias. I want ter see if he's got any orders fer us now that we're ashore. Go," Myra snarled and Larius saluted before dashing off into the gathering crowd. As soon as he was gone, the elf sat down and leaned against the comforting bulk of the fallen statue's head. Despite everything she'd learned, a wolfish grin spread slowly across Myranda's gaunt face. It [i]was[/i] just like being back in the White Hands. It was just like being home.