[h1][u]Act Two: Scattered to the Winds[/u]____ __ _ _[/h1] [h2][u]Chapter Two: Smoke and Fire[/u]______ __ _ _[/h2] [hr][hr] [center][img]https://i.imgur.com/3CCYbok.png[/img][/center] [hr][hr] The Nashorn was both in a foul temper and paradoxically placated. He set the gold–haired woman on a bed of straw in a stable that the Eskandr had claimed. Near to all of the village’s residents were dead, off to either join their strange gods in the afterlife or else beg of the Visitor’s mercy for being non-believers. The Nashorn did not know too much of the Gods and there was little point in trying to decipher the unknowable. What he knew was fighting and gold and, normally, that was enough. He looked at the small woman for a time, remembering how she had felt slung across his shoulder, thinking of how her voice had sounded. He remembered her words too, however, and her dire warnings. He furrowed his brow, now ensconced firmly beneath his helm once more. Turning and leaving – she was lame and would not go anywhere - he set off to find Ulfhild, who might know what to do or, more appropriately, what to [i]say[/i] to the captive. Ulfhild was tired, truly. Of what? She had not grasped yet. Perhaps the constant purging of Parrench was starting to lose the flair it once had. Or maybe the tides of war were more of a match than a village full of civilians on the verge of senescence. Either way, she found herself sat on a bed of furs and hay thinking of the wounds Eleanor had left as a mercy. There was no treasure anywhere, just useless cutlery and ragged clothes. The sand began to collect in her eyes, her eyelids slowly tugging shut. For a newly anointed Æresvaktr, this felt somewhat beneath her. Yet the king trusted her, the Nashorn…and Hildr. She wondered how she was faring until the crunch of dirt that could only be from the hulk known as the Nashorn echoed near the small hut. She stood up with a surge of adrenaline wet with fear and exited the hut. “Ah there you are, find the gold yet?” The Nashorn simply shook his head. He had not found gold. It angered him. Ulfhild did not know this. Nor could she see that he was scowling deeply beneath his helm. He placed a heavy hand on her shoulder, gripping it at the verge of ungentleness, and motioned with his free hand for her to follow. A sigh left her lungs, she had expected as much. The Parrench were tedious with how well they hid their gold, something akin to squirrels or other rodents. The weight of his hand tore through her flesh like an axe. Her shoulder gave out immediately as she was not nearly prepared for his ironclad grip. She felt the urgency run across her body with a clear message. Straightening back up, she followed him closely, while massaging her arm. It was kind of strange how everyone kind of just spoke Nashorn’s language despite him being almost completely mute. The Nashorn said nothing. He could feel Ulfhild flinch. He would try harder to be gentle. Women were small: breakable. He did not [i]want[/i] to break them, though… unless they forced him to. Making his way through the remains of the village, it still bothered him how intact it all was, aside from a few ruined walls and roofs. It was supposed to be burnt. That was what you did to villages like this one. It was supposed to inspire fear and make the place unreclaimable. Sweyn had ordered it, though, and Sweyn was a better Æresvaktr than he was. They reached the place and the Nashorn pointed inside where the girl was. Reaching out with the Gift, he could sense that she was not sleeping anymore, though she was pretending to be. He strode over to the bucket of water that he had left her, grabbed it, and threw its contents across her. She bolted upright with a yelp and her eyes fluttered rudely open. He pointed to Ulfhild, he pointed to the girl, and he moved to plant himself in the doorway. It was strange, but Ulfhild’s sense of smell teetered on the edge of the supernatural. She was confident she could [i]smell[/i] the emotions evaporating off the skin. As much as Nashorn could disguise his discontent under helm and armor, she could smell it. That or she was just excellent at fabricating another [i]gift[/i]. She would hold her tongue for the time being, keeping a watchful eye. Another instruction led the two into a stable devoid of any horses. What was left was a girl with hair that rivaled the sun in terms of gold, perhaps the treasure was on her scalp instead of a chest. Her eyes’ search was halted by the Nashorn’s deluge of water on the young girl. Still dry as a bone she was just as surprised as the girl. “Uh..well” she moved over to the girl and knelt down, “What’s your name?” Adelaide coughed and spat, sweeping sopping wet locks of hair from eyes. “It’s Fuck Off, Eskandr Cunt!” She grinned toothily, seeming to relish the chance to do any sort of harm - even this meagre - to her enemies. She tilted her head and the smile became poisonously sweet. “How about yours?” she chirped. The smile eroded from her face, leaving nothing but slits for eyes and furrowed brows. A fake laugh left her lips at the cute insult. She unhooked a rabbit pelt she had skinned just earlier in the day that was drying on her belt. “How rude of me, you can dry off with this” tossing the pelt at the girls sopping wet hair. She turned to the Nashorn, silently communicating her wishes for him to do it again. “I’m Ulfhild Ulven. So how about you tell us where the gold is and we can make this as painless as possible.” It took the Nashorn only a moment to grasp Ulfhild’s meaning. He grinned. It was fun and Fuck You Eskandr Cunt was being difficult, just like everyone else. Besides, it was only water. Using Force, he gathered the water back into the bucket and emptied it on her head once again. Only, this time, the bucket was wrenched free of his loosened grip and hurtled straight for Ulfhild’s head from only a foot or two away. It was easily dealt with. The patience in her snapped like a skinny twig. Why had she even tried to be diplomatic with these people, they were awful. She reverted back to the pride of Eskand which was somewhat or mostly feral. A backhand flew across the face of the peasant girl. Before she could snap her neck back, Ulfhild was already to her feet picking her up by the neck of her dress. Her hand opened to reveal a flame growing in size. She held it up to her face, “this will warm you up. Now speak or I’ll invite our friend over there to help.” The girl's eyes went to the fire and then back to Ulfhild and she did something strange: she laughed. It was tinged with the unmistakable notes of madness and, for it, the Nashorn stepped forward once again and punched her in the stomach. “Your true colours!” she coughed, spitting up blood. “How wonderful they are! How much more ‘you’, Eskandr vermin! What are you gonna do? Burn me? Gouge out my eyes? It’s nothing compared to what [i]he[/i] will do, and to all of us: Every. Single. One.” she spat. “Kindness is wasted on you and your people. You rather talk in circles than protect yourself or the others” the girl did however give up one interesting kernel of knowledge that the Nashorn was unable to express to her. “Who is [i]he[/i]? Bring us to him and we’ll see who compares to who” almost certain that is where the gold lies. “There is no protection, you [i]idiot![/i] There is no [i]survival![/i] We were the only thing stopping him. The only thing he might listen to. Oh the poetic justice! In your bloodthirst for elders and [i]children[/i],” she spat, “You’ve called doom down upon us all!” Again, she began with the maddened laughter. Her patience was gone at this point, the laughter was a grate on her ears. She found a cloth in her satchel and shoved it in the girl’s mouth as a temporary gag. “Whoever *he* is, he's going to listen to you or us as your audience. Now tell us where he is!” She removed the gag waiting for her response. The prisoner grinned mirthlessly. “You’re a shitty interrogator,” she sneered. “So I’ll have some sympathy. You’ll find him soon enough, or he’ll find you. All that precious gold is up on the mountain, though, in a nice little cave where we hid it!” She giggled, head lolling to one side and her eyes staring almost blankly up at the ceiling. Finally, she spoke something of worth. The mountain seemed a strange place to safeguard gold against Eskand or other raiders, but perhaps it worked. “Now go be with your gods” Ulfhild commanded, retrieving her sword from her sheathe and quickly passing it across her exposed neck. It was a surprise her blood wasn’t black with the madness that possessed her. Her body fell limp, her blood pooling with the water that doused her earlier. Ulfhild turned to the Nashorn and nodded. “Looks like we’re going up that mountain. We best not daly and find Hildr, there’s gold to be won.” The Nashorn merely nodded and uncrossed his arms. The gold woman lay there: red, white, and gold now, and the way she lay was beautiful too, in a strange sort of way. Outside, he had felt the energies of people listening in, but it was no matter. He would go and get his gold. If someone got there before him, he would kill them. [hr][hr] There was a faint difference between the smoke and sky at night. While both were dark, the former had an unpredictable quality to it. Sweyn had burnt five villages now and butchered their people and he felt not a shred of pride or glory. Yet, it was necessity and it was inescapable. His king had ordered it and all others followed the king. So, he too must. What would happen to him were he to turn away? Surely, it would be the end of him. They would send that animal Thorunn after him and she would destroy him and take not only his head but his place as first among the Aeresvaktr. With it would go any semblance of honour or dignity that the storied group had left. Yet, the lifeless body of a little girl lay on the ground before him, staring blankly at a world that her soul had left. She spat on his notions of honour and made a mockery of them. Sweyn stumbled back and had to avert his eyes for a moment. [i]An innocent child,[/i] his conscience cried out. It had been gaining ground as of late. She was no more than nine or ten: in the final throes of girlhood, but he just stared at her tiny body, unnerved in a way that he hadn’t thought possible. [i]You bloody murderer![/i] his inner voice screamed. [i]You ended this child’s life without a thought. She will never grow up. This tiny person who had never hurt you, never even seen you before: the one time that she did, she ran and screamed and died.[/i] He thought, then, of his students over the years, how he had loved some of them almost as a father loves his child, how he had watched them grow from these luminous little things into men and women of poise and power and how wondrous it had been. [i]This one, though: she will never laugh or smile again. She will not know the satisfaction of watching herself grow into a woman, of contributing to her village or excelling in a pursuit. She will never experience adventure, loss, or wonder. She will have no late nights under the stars, no tender moments with friends, family, or lovers. This girl will rot in the ground while others born on the same day as her will know all of these things, and it will happen this way because of you, Sweyn.[/i] It did not matter that these people were Parrench. It was such an arbitrary distinction of men. Did not they have the same feelings as Eskandr? Did not they sleep and wake under the same sun? Breathe the same air? Hold many of the same hopes and dreams? Nobody was watching him. He was alone, as he’d insisted on being for reasons that had been, at the time, unclear to him. The Thunderspear called forth some fire and he let the mound of bodies burn and blacken. There were no living people here to see his face, but the girl stared back at him to the very end, until her bones came apart and were indistinguishable from the mass. [i]I’m sorry,[/i] he promised. [i]So sorry. Gods, I am![/i] Nobody was watching him, or so he thought, so they could not see Sweyn Thunderspear, first among the Aeresvaktr, take his face in his hands and weep bitter tears. [hr] In truth, of course, Sweyn was far from alone. A small but well-armed scouting force, led by the Drudgunzean Arsene, had been approaching for some time, following the trail of burned villages that he’d left. Their goal had been to either discover the main Eskandr force and report its position back to Queen Eleanor’s substantial army or to pounce upon and rout a smaller party of raiders opportunistically. It was, of course, a surprise when they found that they could sense only a single figure by a fire. A cascade of further surprises followed. Firstly, that the figure did not sense them back, secondly, that it did not flee or take some sort of action, and thirdly that, when that figure came into view, it was none other than Sweyn Thunderspear, by his lonesome. Arsene, as leader of the group, found himself faced with a decision: how to approach what was perhaps a major opportunity, perhaps a trap, or perhaps something else entirely. [hr][hr] For the Parrench force, some ways away, there was a similar figurative darkness to contend with alongside its literal peer. Thankfully, it was joined by a degree of light as well. The efforts of Sirs Maerec and Caelum made the heroic knights heroes yet again. The maiden Camille saved a great many from the fire, though seeming undeniably distraught towards the end of her efforts. Arsene of Avalona, a Drudgunzean passionate in his faith and cause, had given chase to the Eskandr raiders with a scoutiing force of perhaps two dozen men, not giving the enemy any breathing room. Most importantly of all, however, a great majority of the people of Port Morilles had been saved. More than half of the town had proven salvageable as well and, should the Eskandr be defeated and banished from these lands once and for all time, the settlement would almost certainly recover. There were losses, however. Many of the brave knights and frontline defenders of Port Morilles had gone into Aun-Echeran’s cold embrace. Still others had been eagerly captured by the raiders for use as slaves, chattel, or ransom. Among these were many known to members of the Queen’s army, including Dame Camille herself. Still more were left maimed, crippled, or destitute. Truly, the Eskandr scourge knew no limits of normal human empathy or decency. They struck viciously and wantonly, and the scars might take generations to heal. Yet, sometimes, an imperfect strike from a merciless enemy - one at least partially defended - can serve not to weaken but to strengthen the resolve of the struck. So Parrence remained unbroken, unbowed, and unbent. That same night, in the shadow of the ruined roof of the Cathédrale des Cinq Flammes, the bishop of Port Morilles delivered a sermon under the stars. There had been no golden Pentact or chalice after the raiders had come, so Eleanor de Perpignan, Queen of the Parrench, had led by example, giving up her jewellery so that it might be melted to make new ones. She was joined eagerly by much of the town’s nobility. Great and common alike, they knelt before the Bishop and their gods and received the blessed sacrament of communion with the Pentad. Fervent prayers rang out to Oraphe and Echeran. Roofs were repaired, orders for grain stores made to the capital and dispatched, and healing hands laid upon the wounded. The moons hung high and low in their colours. By their light, the dead were given proper burials. Work continued on shoring up the cliffs until they were judged stable. Swords were sharpened as the sun rose. A final blessing was provided by the bishop and Queen Eleanor mounted her horse, hair rippling down her shoulders, back and chest, stirring in the brisk coastal wind. “People of Parrence!” she called, cantering before the now fully-gathered army in the morning’s light on her white stallion, Fidèle. “Yesterday, we suffered a blow at the hands of the Eskandr scourge. Many of you lost homes, friends, and loved ones. I know that the wound is deep and that it may be hard to imagine ever healing from, but I promise that there is a future. I promise that the Gods are ever at our backs.” “Yesterday, my subjects and my friends, we took back Port Morilles from their vile grasp. We prized the lives of innocent children and elders from them. See how they flew and scattered before us as vermin might before a noble wolf. Were not the flames they had set quelled by our endeavours? Were not the stones of this very cliff secured through our ingenuity and our might?” “Yesterday should have been a resounding victory for the heathens, yet it was not! So this is why I say to you, [i]today[/i], my friends and allies, that the Gods yet smile upon the people of Green Parrence, and I [i]know[/i], by Chune’s light, that I speak with irrevocable truth!” She reached across her shoulder and, pulling upon the Gift of Force, grasped the handle of her mighty warhammer. “So let us set forth beneath our banners and our shields and the strength of our faith. Let us sharpen our resolve as we do our swords and senses and, [i]tomorrow[/i], my people, we shall crush the vile invaders who would make a pyre of our houses and fields. We shall cut them down with fire and steel where they stand, and we shall make this land ever safe and green for ourselves and our kin.” With that, Queen Eleanor drew forth her weapon and thrust it into the air. “Vive la Parrence!” [h3][i]“Vive la Parrence!”[/i][/h3] they thundered as one, and then “Vive la Parrence!” three more times. The Grande Armée gathered its might and set off in pursuit of its enemy. [hr][hr] [hider=Afterword]It was near to the end of the day. The late afternoon sun was hovering low in the sky, bathing its surroundings in tarnished golden light, when the small party of Eskandr made it to the top of Mont Errant. Disconcertingly, a ribbon of smoke had started to trickle from the cone of the supposedly dormant volcano. Brambles and tall grasses swayed in the cooling breeze and the hum of cicadas gave way to the first few exploratory chirps of crickets. The half-barren branches of Stresian trees whispered and mud squelched beneath their feet. “Ragnar!” prodded one of the raiders, grabbing hold of a man beside him, “look there! It’s a cave! You were right, you old bastard!” He made to step ahead. “We’ll get there before those Æresvaktr arse kissers.” Ragnar, senior among the group and wishing for little more than to join his long-departed brothers in Gronhalle, pulled him gently back. “Steady, Ubba. It is indeed a cave. It may be where they have hidden the gold. But it may also be a trap.” “Then we should go together!” cried Ingrid, the youngest of the four and the only woman. She was always perched on the edge of excitement and anxiety, eager and red-faced. Ragnar shook his head, though. “They could be many.” The lines on his face hardened. “I will go ahead and scout. You spring pups will watch and learn.” He managed a playful wink. Arne, a rangy youth, crossed his arms and snorted. “More like you will pocket some of the gold for yourself, grandpa.” Rangar merely shrugged “Such are the privileges of age.” His smile faded into an expression of alertness as he slunk past the others in an ever-lowering crouch, and crept up to the mouth of the cave. It was an unusually wide one. In fact, he had seen many caves in his time, but this one gave him an uneasy feeling. From inside, over the rustling of the sparse vegetation, he could hear noises. In more than one place, the ground was blackened as if from fires. Nerves tingling, he drew out his sword. It was a fine instrument for one of common birth, bestowed upon his great–grandfather by Jarl Borg. Ragnar's pulse began to fill his ears. He muffled his steps as he drew closer, deciding that just a peek would be good enough. Then he would know whether to run or to fight. The gold was guarded, for certain, but by how many? He had just made it to where a wall of stone jutted out, ready to peer round the edge, when a massive gust billowed forth from the cave’s mouth. Instinctively, he looked out to see what it was and he had only a moment to realize that it had been a terrible mistake. The others could see him from their angle, but not what he [i]saw[/i]. He was glad they could not. “Run!” he screamed, unwelcome shrillness creeping into his voice. “But Ragnar-” started Ubba. “Run!” he commanded, half twisting their way. The hulking black form of a Vulkansk Drage emerged from the depths, its emberlike eyes fixed upon the interloper, its great maw sliding open and fire glowing in the back of its throat. Faintly, Ranar could register the wolf pups running. Faintly, he could see the dragon’s hoard of gold in the cave. He tightened his grip on his sword and charged toward it. “Til Gronhalle!” That day, his wish was granted and he joined his brothers.[/hider] [hr][hr] [hider=Action Opportunities]1) Arsene needs to play out how he approaches Sweyn next, and also, what he's found. If he was following the fires, he hasn't found the main Eskandr force. 2) For Ulfhild and Hildr, there is an opportunity to go and investigate the mountain and act upon what you find there, along with the Nashorn. Ragnar and his party will be ahead of you. If you have any questions, please consult me! 3) For Camille, Maerec, and Caelum, free to summarize how the rescue worked out, outline what you're doing in the cleanup and repair of Port Morilles, and how he sermon went down. You'll then be joining the army as it makes its way towards the burning villages, to reconnect with Arsene's small force. Perhaps, that night, in a direction you did not expect, you will see smoke, fire, and the silhouette of something [i]massive[/i] in the sky.[/hider]