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[h1][b][u]Gerick[/u][/b][/h1]
[h3][color=slategray]The Grey[/color][/h3]
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The clop of hooves, the rattle of wagons on a beaten overgrown road, the plop of animal defecation, and the occasional chatter.

These were the sounds that accompanied a caravan on the move. 

There were three wagons in total; two loaded with crates and barrels of supply, and one with a dozen or so passengers - primarily the young and the old. Each wagon had a driver and a guard sitting upfront, steering the mules or oxen that pulled the old, rickety things along the road. More than a dozen people traveled alongside on foot, most of them armed, while others only had the clothes on their back. None were happy to be here; Gerick included.

It was a journey he had taken more times than he could count. The caravan passed through roughly the same area on a semi-regular schedule, only occasionally changing its in ordinary route to throw off aspiring brigands. But the Filth was an even greater danger, and against such a threat there was safety in numbers. So, anyone was welcome so long as they could pull their weight one way or another, along with the weight of any 'baggage' they might bring with them.

Gerick glanced at one of the children, and the child stared back. There was no joy on that malnourished face. Gerick shifted his gaze to the child's father, who limped alongside the caravan with an axe at his belt. With a sigh, he shifted his gaze forward. Most of the people here were lost; they left their home behind, or were driven out, and now sought a better - or a the very least different - life elsewhere. The caravan would pass through village after village, and some of the passengers or guards would depart while others would sign on.

The caravan's final destination was Kendles. What salvation they were hoping to find there, Gerick did not know. A short, bittersweet life followed by an even bitterer end was all that awaited anyone there.

Which is why Gerick had no intention of staying. He never did. He followed the caravan because in exchange for his protection, they offered him a meal and possibly even a bonus at the end. Although the owner - a toothless baldheaded merchant by the name of Edgar - and many of the other regular guards did not like him, they could respect Gerick's skill with a blade and trust him not to cut their throats at night. Out here, away from civilization, that was more important than anything else. Quite a few had signed on only to attempt to betray them or make away with some of their goods, and that rarely ended well for them.

He wondered if any such people were with them now. To say that it happened [i]every[/i] time would be hyperbole. But there were plenty of stupid or desperate people out there.

Then Gerick began to consider the item in his pack. The crown...

He had heard stories of the crowns. How they had been used to mark leaders. How they granted power and authority. Had it been an accident that he found one? Or something... more. He recalled his vision. Had that simply been the result of a mind driven mad by mushrooms? Or was there a deeper meaning to it?

In the months since that discovery, he had given in and partaken of the strange fungus on a few occasions, hoping for further revelation, to see [i]them[/i] again... but nothing. Just the usual mix - a random amount of ecstasy or suffering; sometimes both. He shuddered in recollection at some of the more... jarring experiences, and considered once more that maybe he should stop. But maybe... just one more...

He shook the thought off. Whether he would ultimately quit the habit or not, he would not do it here. Too much could go wrong for him. He clenched a fist. [i]Stop thinking about it...[/i] But telling himself to stop thinking about it only made him think about it [i]more.[/i] The child was still staring at him, he realized.

With a sigh, he fell out of place, quickened his speed, and soon came upon the lead wagon, where Edgar sat. Though the man was a merchant, he had the build of a warrior - his steely gaze was set forward, and a formidable mace rested at his belt. [color=slategray]"We shouldn't be too far from the next village. I'm going to scout ahead,"[/color] Gerick offered.

Edgar grunted. "Volunteering? What's gotten into you?"

[color=slategray]"Might be I'm possessed by a malevolent spirit. A terrifying thought. Maybe I should rest instead..."[/color] Gerick offered thoughtfully.

"Or benevolent," Edgar muttered. "Ivan! Go with Gerick here and scout forward. Make sure he doesn't cut loose."

Ivan, a plain looking brown-haired man with a battered longbow and a steel shortsword, nodded and stepped up next to Gerick, looking just as displeased as Gerick himself. "Let's get this over with..." the young man muttered.

[color=slategray]"I wish I had your enthusiasm..."[/color] Gerick spoke in a wistful tone, before distant growls were heard from the woods on the right hand side of the road.

"Filth! To the right!" someone shouted out.

The caravan scrambled into action immediately. Those with weapons fell into a rough formation between the cart and the attackers. Half of them wielded spears, while the rest had a varied assortment of swords, axes, maces, bows, and hammers. Those who could not fight - the children and the camp followers - took cover behind the wagons. Gerick and Ivan took positions on the leftmost flank, while Edgar pushed his way to the center. "Hold your ground!" he yelled.

[color=slategray]"And just when I was looking for something to do with my day..."[/color] Gerick muttered, before eight Grunts came thundering out of the woods. The four or so bowmen accompanying the caravan loosed their arrows, causing one grunt to fall dead as his puss-filled 'head' was popped, while a second stumbled and tripped from an arrow that lodged in its knee, smashing and popping its own head on the firm ground, before a final arrow finished him off. But the remainder carried on their charge, intent on smashing through the center, where the bulk of the spearmen still stood firm.

And smash they did. Although the spears provided a reach advantage, allowing two of the creatures to be impaled, the other Grunts simply grabbed the spears below the point and turned them away or snapped them in one hand, while the other hand lunged forward for a punch. One spearmen was flung several feet back into the wagon by an exceptionally hard punch that caught him square in the chest, ruining his ribcage while his spine broke against the hardwood. He fell to the ground, blood fountaining from his mouth, the ruined shaft of his spear still clutched in his hand. One man on the right flank saw this and fled, with the others soon following his example.

While the center backpedaled, dodged, and lunged to keep the creatures at bay, and the right flank abandoned the skirmish, the left flank did not stand idle. With battered sword in hand, Gerick charged forward, the others at his heels, and they wheeled about to catch the beasts in the side and rear. They raked their weapons across the monsters' backs, Gerick himself scoring a cut so vicious that the beast wheeled around to face him, swinging a wild fist. Gerick ducked underneath the strike, avoiding it by a hair's width, and then capitalized by plunging his blade deep into the monster's vulnerable chest.

Another grunt fell nearby, having sustained too much damage. Now only two remained; they all bled heavily, and they were surrounded on all sides. One lunged a fist at Gerick in an attempt to rectify that, but the greycloaked warrior sidestepped the attack, and suddenly there was a flash of steel in his hand and he stabbed a dagger down into the monster's wrist. In the end, the two remaining Filth creatures were brought down by sheer numbers, hacked and stabbed to pieces.

Gerick flicked the remaining traces of Filth off his sword with an expression of distaste, and then began to take in their losses. Five fighters had died in the clash. Four more fighters had fled, but already two had returned to beg forgiveness and ask to be taken back in. One was beaten senseless, stripped naked, and left to rot on the dirt. The other had a family to care for, and so he got off lightly - a swift punch to the gut, followed by being quite literally tied to the cart by a tight length of rope.

The punishments had always seemed a bit excessive to Gerick. Then again, they had left the caravan to die, and abandoning your comrades without warning in the middle of a fight was almost as good as stabbing them in the back.

For once Gerick didn't have a quip. The civilians who had taken shelter now wept over the bodies of lost friends and family members. He remembered his own losses, and realized the luxury of having a body to weep over was something not even he had received, but he did not allow himself to appear any more melancholic than usual.

Edgar allowed everyone a few minutes to rest or grieve, before putting them all to work. Weapons and supplies were recovered, while shallow graves were dug for the deceased. A priest of Parrel who was accompanying them glanced at the graves with disapproval, but gave them their last rites anyway. They could not linger any longer, for fear that there might be more Filth in the area. The sun was low, and the village was close, so it was time to get moving. One woman refused to go, staying by her husband's grave with tears in her eyes, and only after Edgar told her he would leave her behind did she get back on the wagon.

As for Gerick, he wearily fell back into the same routine, made somewhat more tense by their significantly diminished numbers. A few attempted to approach him, and congratulate him for his role in the battle, but he brushed them off. That child went back to staring at him.

Gerick sighed. If only he could be alone with his thoughts...