River Deep was a near desolute Elven town. If there was anything that told the story of this smaller city, was the blood that applied a fresh coat of paint to the walls of it’s residences. It happened to be unfortunate that this city did not bare any sort of protective wall. And instead relied heavily on rangers roaming it’s forests and nearby jungle to keep many attackers at bay.

The recent war between the Sergals and Elves had brought a massacre to this gem, and severely reduced it’s population. Reeva, whom looked on to the ruined city thoughtfully, was riding with an air of caution. She remembered this city well. She had been among the “savages” that had slained many of it’s town folk and the soldiers stationed there in the war. Burned a good deal of the city to the ground as well. But she didn’t recall seeing the complete aftermath.

The splendid city was only a shell of what it used to be. Graves lined the outskirts of town honoring all those who had fallen. But something had been digging up the graves. The air smelt faintly of rotting flesh. Ghouls most likely. But there were also boddies lineing the fields as well. Reeva frowned.

The city was already crippled enough, now more recent demonic assaults had basically rendered this city under the threat of total failure. Still… it was not her problem. And most likely any effort of approaching the city would likely end with her having to kill what remains. She’s made quite a name for herself here. But… that was a different time and a different girl all together. She was far less blood thirsty now, and a retired soldier at that.

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The large sergal continued to bob gently while she kept her eyes on the shrinking city in the horizon. Memories crossed her head. Each kill, each spray of blood on the walls. How she pounced on her enemies after taking advantage of the city’s verticality. The sergal empire’s Mistings and Hazekillers systematically working their way through the chaos, killing the Elven snipers and mages.

Oh how interesting of specialty units they were. Mostly imprisoned but professional criminals who committed grand heists, and assassinations. Hazekillers were for the mages, trained to disrupt and kill those pesky bastards. And Mistings for the sneaky elves. They were mostly thieves and a few assassins, and rarely ever do their poor victims see them coming.

She began to contemplate what Leon and Thadlyn were up to now. Both were mistings, and both were guild thieves convicted of high crimes. But both proved to be surprisingly loyal, and stated in the war long after their sentence was up. She’d grown to be friends with them… laughing and telling jokes before the fighting….

Something approachs.

Once again… Reeva felt a strange tug on her body. She’d grown accustomed to his strange instinct, and quickly learned that it was often attributed with something near her. She can’t quite understand why… but she always knows exactly what it was… be it a man, a child, or a rabbit. And this… were many men.

The sergal sighed and lifted her two handed sword out of the cradle on the side of the horse. A moment later she hopped off, and gave the mare’s rear a hard smack to send her dashing off to safety.

She slowly strolled forward as a man gracefully slid out of the underbrush. He was a tall handsome elf. Who knows how young he was, as they tend to live much longer than most sentient creatures. But if there was ever one thing that was common among Elves, were the pedastools they placed themselves on.

“You’re a long way from home, Tribune Pewterarm,” He spoke calmly in common. Each word pronounced perfectly. Each word made with malice. His eyes already speaking a world of stories about what he intends to do to her.

“Sorry… do Reeva do not know you,” The sergal sighed. She hefted the two handed sword up and rested the blade on her shoulder. “Also. It is just Reeva. Reeva’s no longer soldier.”

The elf raised a brow and spoke dryly.

“Fascinating” he waved a hand. And he was joined by several more men who stepped out in unison. They displayed their discipline with each marching step they made as they surrounded her. All of whom were dressed in armor with their weapons drawn.  “Let me remind you whom I am then.”

Reeva adjusted her footing, and then lazily gestured to the man to continue.

“I am Lord Gormar Rovalur,” The elf began. Though he soon stopped when Reeva showed a gesture of apprehension. “I see you’re starting to remember.”

“Yes. Yes. Reeva knows this one. You are child of dead man.”

“My father whom you personally beheaded.”

“Yes, and he was given chance to fight – he would have been prisoner of war if he lost. He was coward. He ran and bleated like goat. So he was cut down like a coward should be. Stabbed in the back and head removed.”

If the lordling was agitated by Reeva’s words he did not show it. The sergal studied his reaction and then looked to the armed men. “Now what is this about?”

“I am sure you’re already aware,” Gormar quipped. His hand now slowly moving to the long sword at his side.

Reeva chuckled softly. “Sweetie. Two things will happen. You send more men to die, or you go home. Because when Reeva kills living nightmare,” She now dropped down to a fighting stance. She wielded the great sword high in a defensive ward. She gave it a bit of a wave, letting it roll in the air in a metronome manner.

“She is only getting started.”