Character: Curly Butterfly

The Ironbelle stood its ground against the smaller creature’s weight, its fans held up like dual shields the beast’s maw bit on fine steel.
Curly pushed the creature back, the sound of gears turning within the machine faintly biting against the icy winds.

Within the Ironbelle, Curly gritted his teeth, watching the creature work its way against his defences. Up close, it was even more ghastly; rotting skin and flesh, exposed bone and teeth, empty sockets where eyes should’ve been. And the smell, gods…
It looked like bad taxidermy, or a mad scientist’s attempt at reanimating lost life. Even the smallest wind felt like it could pull this beast apart at the seams.
Yet it attacked with a fierce ferocity, moving against the Ironbelle with great brunt.

While Curly had his sympathies for these beasts, he thought them beyond saving.
Knowing that his defences would eventually fail if he remained a sitting duck in the cold, Curly pushed forward to meet it, ice parting easily beneath the bell of his mecha. It moved with a smooth grace utterly foreign to its bulky design.
He noticed an arrow lodged into the dry, withered skin of the creature, belonging to Bromann. Wary of another attack, Curly raised his shields once more, having faith they’ll hold out until he could retaliate.

Actions:
1. Moves closer to the smaller creature
2. Ability: Ironclad (defensive)(Hardening F - Fighting Style [Tessenjutsu] [Fans] F)
3. Prepare for another incoming attack

Andrea ripped her silent blade from the creature’s neck, the steel leaving the flesh with a soft, almost reverent hiss. She moved with ethereal elegance, stepping back from the fallen beast as though gliding on a breath of winter wind. Her gaze locked onto the unnatural and stubbornly pulsing heart inside its ruined chest, an aberrant rhythm that made her frown crease deeper across her lips. Her lone emerald eye, sharp and bright against the pallor of her face, held the creature in a sorrowful, unreadable stare.
She circled it slowly, carefully, with the instinctive grace of a predator studying another predator. The snowfall muffled her steps, yet every rustle of her cloak sounded strangely loud in the stillness. Frosted breath escaped her parted lips, mingling with the drifting flakes as she traced her path around the dying thing.

Andrea halted. Her fingers curled tightly around the hilt of her cursed weapon, the runes carved along its spine whispering faintly against her palm. Tilting her head just slightly as though listening to something only she could hear she exhaled a soft, mournful sigh. “I am sorry that you serve a cruel master,” she murmured, voice hushed with an ache far older than the wound she wore behind her eye. “You do not deserve this.”

The words left her like a promise, or perhaps a confession. She spoke to them with the tenderness of a mother soothing a frightened child, a gentleness that stood in stark contrast to the violence staining the snow. Her eye shifted fully back to emerald, bright and alive, before she stepped toward the beast once more. With practiced care she wiped the black ichor from her blade, each stroke deliberate, almost ceremonial.

Then, with a quick, decisive motion, she drew the edge across her own palm. Blood welled up instantly, dark, warm, eager. The runes along her dagger flared to life, glowing with a hungry, unnatural brilliance as they drank in her offering.
Her voice began to rise in a whisper, soft as falling snow, weaving ancient cadence with the rhythm of her heartbeat. The words came from deep within her, each syllable gathering power, shaping the air around her.
“Tear the soil… bow to my voice… take shape once more…”

The incantation crescendo, the whisper swelling into something sharp and commanding. With a final breath she drove the glowing dagger into the frozen earth. The impact sent a shock of power through the ground, a pulse of necrotic energy radiating outward in a slow, rippling wave.

Snow scattered. The earth trembled beneath her boots. Darkness seeped from the soil like smoke rising in reverse, curling in twisting tendrils as something old, something bound by her will, answered the call. Andrea stepped back, watching with calm certainty as the world itself seemed to stir at her feet. The dead were listening.

Actions:
1: Moved away
2: Animate the Dead. Magic F-7 points, Animate the Dead F-21 points
3: Moved away

Axol watched, his brows narrowed and hooding observant eyes, more observant than he had ever shown to his companions. This was battle; his profession and passion. And before him were warriors, rusty and honed alike, dancing to his favorite tune. The fear still bites at him, fearing he won't make it out of this, fearing he won't see his son again. Yet the excitement was too palpable, a selfish drive that he feels he owes to himself. After all, he only keeps enough money to eat and drink for a week in spite of scarce work, while the rest went to the boy. Being a father is a fight he can't really seem to grasp just yet, but this fight he can do just fine.

He stood not too far from the rest, waiting for the right moment to jump in. "Six feet of heavy steel, they're bound to get caught in it, reckless as I am." He kept his weapon over his shoulder, yet he paced impatiently. Heart beating against his chest, mind slowly blanking, and his soul adjusting to the symphony of violence that needed no beat. "The misshapen dog should be worth while." He mutters to himself. Axol did not really know that bears were called bears, he had always just assumed they were very big dogs... And this big dog's frosty mange was unlike anything he had seen.

Axol watches as the new-addition (who he hopes is charitable like the archer) uses his mechanical companion to protect himself from the beasts' attack, wondering what other tricks the it could do, like brewing ale, maybe? Hopefully. The sellsword also took note of Bromann's almost manic state, sending arrows flying toward the ungodly elk which reacts in a foreign gore of rot fumes and sharp shrieks. Rachel, whose name he had just now overheard, enchants the arrows, empowering the next volley and causing some satisfying damage to the larger target. Axol enjoys the surprising spirit the young archer has, never-mind the lack of composure. "First battle, lad?" He calls out to Bromman, not really assessing that now is not a good time to engage in small-talk. "Let the fight steer you," he lets the greatsword leave a trail through the snow as he dragged it, walking toward the huge hound. "Thinking will come naturally."

But before he could tackle the big dog, Andrea pounces on the beast with admirable ferocity. Instinctively, a strong jolt of annoyance shot through his veins seeing someone else take on his target before even asking. The mischief in the pointy-eared woman's voice spoke out again, one he is now considered to be a prick on his behind. "Again with that bloody voice." He turns his attention toward the elk, the creature still adamant on tearing away at their new companion's flesh despite the mechanic defenses he had put up. He gripped his greatsword tightly, rushing toward the skinny beast and ready to swing the width of the blade in hopes of knocking it away. "Brace, whoever you are!" He announced with the excitement of a child as he steps a foot forward, holding the blade high like a bat before spinning once to earn momentum, then again to deliver the blow, meeting his target's empty eyes with a blood-thirsty grin, a small part of him hoping that the machine-wearer would not be hit, a bigger part of him hoping he could take the blow if it did...

Actions:
1. Move towards the elk.
2. Use "Be Humble" ability on the elk.

Character: Bromann dudemeister

Status: Getting his head in the game.

The battlefield was pure chaos, yet for whatever reason it all seemed to click in that chaos. He saw the smaller creature take the arrow to the side, then back, while the third was a miss. Ironbelle Managed to get in between them, Rachaels attack didnt go as planned, and Both Andrea and seemed to be thriving. It was the words of the latter that cut through his musings. “Let the fight steer me…” he would repeat to himself, in that very instant his mind seemed to empty and his body handled business on its own. Stepping about three paces to the left and backing away from the approaching beasts he would nock an arrow. He would line his shot up just above Ironbelle’s, over the Shields top, awaiting the pattern in the creatures flailings before letting his arrow fly.

Wasting no time he would quickly nock a second arrow and turn to aim at the larger creature, choosing the leg opposite to Andrea’s position and zeroing in on the Knee he would let fly another shot. Turning slightly he would call out to Rachel “Stay close. Keep that flame thing you just did at the ready.” He would say flatly, his usual jovial tone replaced with a firmer and equally confident tone.

Actions

1. Moving left & backwards about 10-12ft
2. Ability Selective firing, Aiming above Ironbelles shoulder at the smaller creature,
3. Fired Basic attack aiming at Larger creatures Knee.

Rachel nodded to Bromann, having already settled on her current footing and remaining on guard. The torch has been lit, the harsh incense of flesh burning seeping through the cold air even as the hellish flame dies out quickly. It did not matter that the fire did not last, blood was spilled onto the snow from wounds carved by blade and arrows of companions. It has officially begun. Her first ritual.

Her grip on her dagger tightened even more, taking a deep intake of breath as her own bodily warmth grew stronger for the first time.

1) Remain in position
2) Prepare to attack the monsters when they get into melee range

The clearing erupted into violent motion.

Ironbelle hit the smaller creature first.
The mecha’s shields slammed forward like twin iron walls, driving the aberration backward through the snow. Steel screamed against bone as the monster bit down on the fans, sparks skittering across metal. But Curly’s machine held, pushing the creature several paces off its original line before its limbs scraped desperately for purchase.

The impact sent shockwaves through its malformed body—joints popping, ribs grinding, viscous frost sloughing off in sheets.

Then Axol’s blade carved through the fray.

The greatsword swung wide, the momentum of his turn carrying the strike through the smaller beast’s side with devastating force. The creature spun out from the blow, its entire frame shuddering before it crashed bodily into the ruins of the old wooden barricade. Bone and ice splintered on impact. A warped shriek rattled from its hollow chest as black vapor vented from the cracks forming across its back.

The creature wasn’t dead—yet—but it was hurt, badly, and furious.

Across the road, the larger bear-wraith staggered under mounting injuries. A steaming gouge marred its flank, and its half-sludge jaw hung unevenly from Andrea’s earlier strike. Ichor dripped steadily into the snow, each droplet sizzling like acid.

The earth trembled.

Andrea’s blood-fed ritual sent ripples through the frozen ground, the snow shifting as tendrils of dark energy seeped upward. The bear-thing recoiled, as if recognizing the threat that pulsed from the soil.

The snow bulged. Then cracked. Dark veins of necrotic energy pulsed outward like roots seeking purchase.

Hands broke the surface first.

Skeletal. Frostbitten.
Still wearing tatters of armor that might have once belonged to Rotian scouts.

More followed.
Half-buried torsos.
Wolf skulls with green ember-eyes.
A spine dragging itself like a centipede.
Three full humanoid forms clawed free of the ground, steam rising from their joints as undeath re-knit movement into their frozen limbs.

They moved without hesitation—
not toward the travelers,
not toward the ritual’s caster—

—but toward the bear-wraith.

The creature sensed it a moment too late.

The first undead slammed into its wounded leg, clamping skeletal fingers around exposed tendons and dragging with unnatural strength. Another leapt onto its back, driving a rusted sword between jutting ribs where the corpse-heart pulsed its sickly green glow. The third crawled beneath its torso, hooking clawed hands into the creature’s exposed viscera.

Bromann’s second shot landed home as well.
The arrow buried itself deep in the larger monster’s opposite knee. The corrupted joint buckled at once, dragging the monstrosity into an uneven crouch. Snow blasted upward as its massive hand braced into the ground to keep from collapsing entirely.

A rumbling growl vibrated through its broken frame.

Rachel’s presence shifted the air—a gathering heat that contrasted sharply with the frozen world around her. Though she had yet to strike, the monsters reacted to the pressure of her aura, the smaller one twitching in agitated jerks, the larger one’s pulse-flame hiccupping as if sensing an approaching burn.

The battlefield moved again.

The elk-aberration heaved itself upright with an unnatural snap of bone against bone.
Chittering in fury, it skittered sideways, attempting to flank Ironbelle rather than clash with the metal shield again. Steam poured from the ring of teeth where its face should have been, melting small pits in the snow as it lunged.

The larger creature made its choice.

Drawing on whatever strength still animated its ruined flesh, it dragged its bulk upright on three limbs. The chest-light guttered, then flared. With a guttural, bubbling roar, it swept its massive forelimb in a wide arc straight toward Andrea—toward the ritual, toward the power stirring beneath the soil.

The blow ripped through the air with the force of a falling tree.

Snow exploded outward in a blinding spray as the limb descended.

---

[/hr]

Ooc: Everyones attack landed, the undead were succesfully summoned. The larger monster is near defeat the smaller one might need a bit more whacking. so far no one has lost any hp. Andrea will need to dodge.

The impact of his blade hitting the pitiable creature sent a subtle shockwave from the greatsword's handle to Axol's arms, a much longed-for itch that now demanded more scratching. He watched as it flew, spinning in the air before hitting some barricades. A satisfied smile was plastered on his usually hardened face. Though to his surprise, the gross elk lives, writhing from pain, yes, but still moving unnaturally. The blackness obscuring its body and its ungodly noises aside, Axol finds himself scrunching his nose in annoyance and confusion. "What the hell is that thing, even?" He growls, ready to throw another attack as he marched past Ironbelle.

In the corner of his eye, he saw Andrea, tempting him to turn and witness something he can only describe as profound. Dead men raised from the ground, attacking the agitated dog (bear) at the pointy-eared woman's behest. "Is this the forbidden practice you spoke of?" Axol thought to himself, now fully understanding why villages would cast her out, why she was the Exiled. Then a dangerous thought crossed his mind, putting his advances to a halt. He watched the unwilling corpses attack the beast, their flesh and skin taken away, their movements mindless yet obedient to Andrea's will. "How much of someone could this woman bring back..?"

Axol shook his head, recovering his arrogant resolve. "No. Aena would kill me. She rests. Let her be." He turns his attention back to the elk who is now moving to flank their sides, its eyeless sights still on Ironbelle. "Got an appetite for steel, do you?!" He taunts as he strode towards it, hoping to intercept the small creature's advance. "Well, here's a bite that'll keep you full!" He picks up his pace, now rushing boldly, ready to sweep with the greatsword's dulled edges. It didn't matter if it got up again- In fact, he would rather the fight last longer.

Actions:

1. Move 20ft towards the elk
2. If the elk meets him halfway, will use basic heavy attack

With gentle eyes Andrea watched as the dead arose to her command, immediately her regal gaze commanded her dead subjects to tear apart the bear. Crimson wine dripped from her palm and drenched the snow below; she gripped her blood-stated dagger as she commanded the ritual while her subjects tore into the bear. “Tear the soil, bow to my voice, take shape once more!” She barked out while her emerald gaze stayed with the bear, watching the creature’s desperate fight against her servants while the earth continued move trying to bring more servants. However, her incantation was interrupted, the bear making one last charge against her, moving with furious speed and brutal strength.

A little scoff escaped her lips as her lips went still, waiting for a moment in time for the beast then dashed away from the vengeful swipe. Her dagger raised to her chest found where her servants tore into and plunged her dagger into its chest. Growling impatiently while she continued to command the servants to tear into the bear no matter what.

Actions:
Dodge=Speed E
Basic attack on wound

Watching as the elk-like monster tried–and failed–to break through the Ironbelle’s clad defences, as the sound of its bones and ribs cracked and popped, as vomit-like rime frothed from its bony jaw… it all made his stomach churn. “Guhh…” He groaned to himself, feeling that bile threatening to rise up.
Relief only came once Axol’s sword threw the creature across the field and into a ruined barricade. But its cries were haunting.

It was a gruelling sight, an impressive feat given this creature’s appalling existence already. Black smoke and ungodly heat erupting from where its face was, like a bad engine.
Although its bones cracked and broke against each other, it moved at breakneck speed. Like a demon, or a monster only a nightmare could conjure up.
By now, it really did look like some taxidermied puppet having its strings pulled despite its broken conditions.

“This thing just won’t quit!” Curly growled in frustration.

It wasn’t an entirely brainless creature either, Curly quickly deduced, as it attempted to get at his side once realizing a frontward attack wouldn’t work.
The Ironbelle tried to twist itself in time with the creature’s impending attack, one of its fan shields to try and defend itself.
He watched as Axol tried to close the gap between him and the smaller beast, and attempted to take that opportunity to work in tandem with his sword sweep, raising the Ironbelle’s other hand to try and attack the creature at the right moment.

Actions:
1. Ironbelle attempts to defend itself from the smaller creature’s flanking with one fan shield
2. Ironbelle attempts a basic heavy attack when the smaller creature is in close range

Character: Bromann Dudemiester
Status: Thoroughly Unnerved.

As the dead began to rise Bromanns face would pale a bit, the unnatural movements and way they surged forward as one just felt…wrong. Yet he quickly shook himself from his initial discomfort and pressed on, tossing a quick “come on” over his shoulder at Rachel as he began to move closer. Nocking another two arrows he would take his time Aiming for the Elk creature and trying to put this shot right in its forehead. He would move to the left of Ironbelle still behind the mechanical construct but off to its left about fifteen feet waiting for the perfect shot alignmen.

He had waited for Axol to take his swing, noting Ironbelle Striking in tandem with him so that he was sure neither of them would be either his backstop or in interception of his shot. Finally he would exhale, holding his breath to keep steady and let fly the twin arrows. “Go back to being dead please.” He would say quietly as the shots sailed side by side through the air.

Actions

Move into position
Carefully take aim.
Ability use: Double tap

Rachel bolted towards the bear, gripping hard on her dagger. It wasn't just that she had to do something, there was an opportunity, one she couldn't miss. Her relatively small stature would not do to overpower the bear even in its weakened state at all. The creature was large and hulking, but she knows that one well-placed cut can loose all its essence on the ground and kill it.

When she found an opening, she wrapped her arm around the nape of the bear to restrain it and exposed its decayed throat, the loose connections between its head and its body. To cut open an animal's neck was one way to slaughter it, but she had other plans. A better way to appease this mysterious entity who had been guiding her all this time.

The blade aimed directly for the flame that pulses in its core and jabbed straight into it, and upon making contact with it, it attempts to draw it in, use it as fuel for its own fire to erupt from the beast as her mouth began to open, mutter something, a prayer or a declaration all the while the blade slowly carved up its flesh.

"O Lightbane, I make this sacrifice to you and beseech for your power. Bring us day in night, bring us warmth in winter, accept my offering and cast flame to my soul."

Actions:
1) Run towards the bear
2) Basic attack on the bear
3) Blessing of Lightbane [E]

The battle reached its breaking point.

The smaller elk-aberration lunged again, intent on tearing into Ironbelle’s unarmored flank. Its limbs clattered across the ice, joints snapping with every unnerving step—

—and the mecha met it head-on.

Ironbelle’s fan-shield slammed sideways into the creature’s face just as Axol barreled in.
Steel and brute strength worked in tandem: the mercenary’s greatsword swept low, catching the creature mid-charge and hurling it upward toward the shield’s rising arc.

The two impacts collided into one devastating blow.

The elk-thing hit the ground in a twisted heap, ribs shuddering, legs twitching in spasms that no living beast should make. Steam belched from its jawless maw as it tried to rise—

—and Bromann’s arrows found their mark.

Two shafts punched cleanly into what passed for its skull, sinking deep until the fletching kissed rotten bone. The creature froze in place. The greenish vapor leaking from its wounds flickered—

—and then its entire frame collapsed into the snow with a soft, anticlimactic whump.

The smaller beast was down.

Across the clearing, the larger bear-wraith strained against the swarm of undead tearing at its exposed flesh. Andrea’s risen dead clung to it with relentless purpose—skeleton fingers raking through sinew, rusted blades driving repeatedly toward the open wounds already carved along its ribs.

The monster heaved upward in one last violent surge—

—only to swipe into empty air.

Andrea’s dodge carried her clear of the blow, snow spraying beneath her weight. She struck back immediately, her blade plunging into the same ravaged cavity her undead had already weakened. The impact drove deep into corrupted tissue; the wraith’s massive frame lurched sideways, a guttural gurgle rattling through its half-sludge throat.

The wound pulsed violently, green light stuttering inside the creature’s ruined chest.

And then Rachel reached it.

Her dagger—wreathed in newly summoned flame—drove directly toward that failing heart-glow. Fire met envy-light with a sickening, warping sound. The corrupted energy recoiled—then destabilized entirely. Heat flared outward from the point of contact, not burning the bear’s flesh so much as unraveling it.

The monster buckled.

Its chest collapsed inward as if the fire were eating it from the inside out. Andrea’s undead seized upon the failing structure—pulling, tearing, dragging with mindless precision. The envy-tainted glow flickered…hissed…
and finally went dark.

The bear-wraith crashed to the ground in a spray of deadened frost, its bulk sinking into the snow as its animating force extinguished completely.

For a heartbeat, only the wind moved.

Then Andrea’s undead began to crumble—bone turning brittle, flesh collapsing into slush. One by one they slumped back into the frozen earth, claimed again by the cold that had once preserved them.

The clearing returned to its unnatural quiet, broken only by the hiss of settling frost and the distant rumble of siege engines battering the Bastion behind them. The air tasted of iron and smoke and something older, something sour—envy rotting at the edges of the world.

For a long moment, nothing moved.

Then the wind shifted, brushing snow over the fallen creatures as though eager to bury them and whatever foulness had animated them.

The ascent toward the western outpost carried the travelers through a narrowing ravine where the wind whistled low, threading between stone and snow like a muted warning. The storm had left drifts piled high along the road’s edges, softening every footprint behind them but preserving the ones ahead—scattered, frantic, pointing toward the hilltop structure.

Near the first rise, the snow told a story.

Bootprints overlapped in chaotic patterns.
A shield lay half-buried.
A snapped spear lay discarded like a broken limb.

But there were no monster trails.

Only human ones.

As the outpost came into fuller view, its state became unmistakable.

The wooden gate hung crooked on its hinges, forced outward as if someone inside had pushed desperately to flee. Splinters lay scattered across the frost, the exposed break still sharp—recent, not weathered.

Inside the courtyard, silence ruled.

Tools remained where they’d fallen: an overturned bucket frozen mid-spill, a lantern left burning until the oil ran dry and the frost claimed its glass in a sheet of rime. Snow drifted lazily through an open shutter, settling over everything like a burial cloth.

Then the bodies appeared.

The first scout slumped against the barrack wall, head bowed as though in exhausted sleep—but the deep crimson at his collar told otherwise. His skin carried the pallor of cold, not corruption. His gloves were torn, his knuckles scraped raw. Signs of a struggle, but not against beasts.

The second scout lay half-hidden beside an overturned bench, a dagger still gripped in one stiffened hand. A shallow cut marred his cheek; the far deeper wound under his ribs explained the rest. Snow had only just begun to gather over him.

Bootprints led in all directions from the scene, some ending abruptly, others doubling back, many smeared into the telltale chaos of close-quarters fighting. A fight had occurred here—among soldiers, not against outside forces.

The barracks door stirred in the wind, creaking open to expose a sliver of darkness.

---

Ooc: We are out of combat. Feel free to have your characters inspect the bodies or look around for things that might seem to point towards how this mess happened. Or head towards the barracks.

As bodies, snow and silence fell in the aftermath of the battle, Rachel's eyes looked down at her dagger blazing with the flame, reflecting its amber-like glow as she stared in awe. Flesh caught by its blade now reduced to ash blew away in the cold wind, along with it the remaining embers slowly fading.

Despite the danger, her breathing was calm and steady albeit heavy. The fact that those words came out of her mouth almost subconsciously, as if she was overtaken by something else, and brought upon the destruction of the physical form of the abomination that was just hulking about in front of her just a minute before. The ritual tool in her hand had undoubtedly responded to her prayer and as she took a long intake of air, new warmth enveloping her body, it had undoubtedly accepted her offering and in turn gave back.

As Rachel looked at the remains of the monsters on the ground, a feeling of clarity regarding everything came to her. The ritual has officially concluded. She mouthed with a quick nod 'thank you.' to this disembodied voice that had been helping her thus far. Hands once more pressed into a praying motion on the hilt of the weapon, she then finally put it away under her cloak.

She looked around to her companions, walking in their general direction away from the bear that had just been disposed of. "Is anyone okay? No bad wounds?" She asked with a hint of concern, the encounter was still scary to her, someone who once lived in a safe place isolated from dangers such as this. She wanted to make sure they all could continue without issue.

When it's time to continue regardless, she was once more quiet. But not the kind that keeps the group on the edge, but one of focus. Her steps once light and prone to falling back behind the group now sped up to the more consistent pace of a march, her once smaller form having also opened up a little more, arms down to the side.

Axol approaches the fallen elk, unsheathing a small blade from his belt. However rotten its flesh was, cooking it would surely make it safer to eat, he'd just have to power through the excruciating torture of stomach aches. Before he could even get near it, however, the creature dissolves into the snow, leaving Axol visibly confused and his stomach displeased. "...Perhaps the Gods are trying to dissuade us from harming you further." He says to himself as he patted an apology to his belly. He then turns to where Rachel and Bromann stood, and is quickly discouraged when he finds no signs of a bread basket on the former's person, but thought it odd that she was very transfixed at her dagger. "Everyone here's odd... Thankfully, I am of sound mind."

The sellsword, hungry and dissatisfied with the small battle they had, now bears a scowl on his face, walking towards the rest to regroup. "Seems everyone is fine, I don't know about the one with the mechanical friend, though." He says, responding to Rachel's query as he nodded towards Curly. "It was a good fight, though. You. Bromann. Rachel." He gives each one of them a small nod in spite of his sour mood, but makes no effort to make eye-contact with any. Then, his eyes land on Andrea, remembering the ritual she used and how the dead rose and fought at her command. He ponders quietly for a while, though his brows furrowed with great effort as he thought back on the creatures they slew.

He turns to Bromann beside him. "Weren't they undead, those creatures? Like the ones Andrea summoned?" Axol asked, not necessarily accusing the pointy-eared woman of further suspicion, but curious on how the others think of her abilities. He still doesn't fully grasp the concept of keeping his voice down, but unlike before, he recognizes that he probably shouldn't have spoken that so loudly, and behind her back. "Forgive me. I'm just hungry..." He then lowers his head, placing one foot after the other as he kept himself quiet, not wanting to provoke the pointy-eared woman with his brash behavior. Though his mind kept bickering questions at him... "Could she bring Aena back? Should she be brought back? What would she say to me... What would I even say to her?"

Suddenly, he sprints. The snow on his boots flying as he ran with a speed that seemed unfit for his size. He quickly crouches down in front of a fallen soldier, whose body is eaten away by snow and time. "Ale!" Axol screamed at the top of his lungs, turning to his companions with a smile so wide it seemed uncanny. Without a second to lose, he snatches the flask from the corpse's belt and removes the cap, then chugs it down like it was water. He then got up and walked back to the others, still drinking from the stolen treasure. The sellsword withdraws his lips momentarily from the cold metal to speak. "Not ale. Wine. Good enough." Then he dove back down, slower this time, relishing the taste and warmth it brought to his belly.

Steam rolled off the Ironbelle's exterior like morning mist, its combative measures reverting back into its metal shell. The machine indeed had been built to withstand, and yet, there would always be room for improvement.
It hummed in delight at their victory.
Within the mecha, Curly sighed deeply. For such a small creature, it took the combined force of multiple attackers just to take it down.
Even as it melted away into oblivion, the lingering smell of rotting meat still lingered within the ice and snow.

For a moment, there is respite. But it is quickly snuffed when Curly catches the sight of arisen corpses from the corner of his eyes.
With a bland expression of disgust, he watches as the undead tear away at flesh and bone while attacking the giant beast. A hard watch indeed, but one that was difficult to look away from. Grimacing, the head of the Mecha tilted away–even machinery found necromancy barbaric. But his silent judgement faded at Rachel’s question, reminding him of the mission at hand. “Yeah, all fine ‘ere. I'll be right once this is done though.” Curly replied, followed by positive humming from the Ironbelle.
He doesn’t respond to Axol’s question regarding the reanimation of the dead, but the head of the Ironbelle does turn in Andrea’s direction, curious more than anything, not too dissimilar from its co-creator.

As the team moved as one unit, they reached the outpost. But any hopes of finding life seemed slim to none now.
Signs of a struggle littered the area–not from a fight between man and beast, but between man and man. Corpses of fallen humankind are scattered about, death now becoming a familiar presence in this mission.
But there is no time for grief, as Axol sprints with surprising haste to grab old liquor from one of the corpses and chugs it down like a man dying of thirst. Again, there are no words from the pilot or his mech, but the air of judgement surrounding him spoke louder than any words could.

“...Let’s just... get this over with.” Curly spoke flatly, the bell of his mecha pushing through the snow and uneven terrain.
Despite the bodies around them, the broken and discarded tools and defences here and there, the one thing that felt truly oppressive to him was the barracks itself. The door slightly opened, revealing only the darkness… who knew what gruelling scene was hidden in there, maybe something was still inside. waiting.
It felt like insects were crawling beneath the skin of his left arm, making the veins bulge and throb. And yet, this reaction did not deter him.
It spurred him on.

Andrea’s emerald eyes, cold and unblinking, swept over the field. Her servants lay shattered around her, their forms dissolving into dust. Her runic dagger, still slick with the blackened ichor of the great bear, felt heavy in her hand. "Not enough," she whispered, the words a wisp of frost in the frigid air. She crouched, prodding the beast's steaming remains with the tip of her blade before scoffing in disgust. With a fluid motion, she rose, wiping the dagger clean on a scrap of fur before sheathing it in the hidden scabbard at the small of her back.

Her ear twitched at the mercenary's accusation, a sharp sound in the sudden silence. Most eyes were on her now. A flicker of calculation crossed her features before she answered, her ethereal voice carrying an undercurrent of ancient authority. "Yes, mercenary. They were." She offered a slight, enigmatic smile, her gaze drifting back to the fallen bear. "No need for forgiveness. It is a fine question. Though their animation lasted far longer than mine. Curious."

As she rejoined the group, she hung back slightly, her hand resting over her heart. Beneath her fingers, a faint green light pulsed, synchronized with a soft murmur only she could hear. "One shard down." Her gaze swept over her new companions: the quiet girl, the mech-suited warrior, the archer tasting the bitterness of his first kill, and of course, her favorite mercenary. Each one would make a lovely servant. A part of her was glad she was traveling with them. They would be useful.

The thought was shattered by a sudden, violent shiver. The faint green light in her chest flared, and for a terrifying moment, her emerald eyes bled to a piercing ruby. She crossed her arms, a semblance of warmth against an inner cold. "Great… almost forgot where we were," she mumbled, shaking her head to clear it.

Her attention was snagged by the charging brute, who was now celebrating by draining a wineskin. Andrea sighed, shaking her head. "You know you could always save that for later?" she remarked, her voice laced with lazy amusement, knowing full well he wouldn't listen. Her eyes, however, lingered on the scattered corpses. "We could continue your practice," a voice whispered in her mind. "After all, He won't go easy on you." She scoffed at the thought and, ignoring the coppery stench of death, began methodically searching the bodies, stripping them of scarves and gloves. Anything to ward off the biting cold.

Rachel looked at the bodies, still disturbed but had braced for the sight after experiencing the walking corpses they had to put an end to. In her mind, despite evidence saying otherwise, she told herself in her mind that a beast mauled them to death somehow. She was however more taken aback when Axol rushed to pick up a bottle from one of them and gulped it down, her face glowering with visible disgust at how easily he fell to the temptation of the drink.

Seeing that Curly, having picked up on his unease, had moved to the barracks by himself, she would follow along without another word.

The outpost offered no answers beyond what the snow had already told.

Inside the barracks, the signs became impossible to ignore. There were no claw marks on the walls. No scorch marks or unnatural residue. Only overturned tables, broken stools, and dried blood frozen into the grain of the wood. Bedrolls were torn apart. Lockers stood open and emptied in haste, not looted with care.

It had not been a monster attack.

It had been panic.

One room bore the worst of it. A cluster of footprints circled the center floor, overlapping again and again as if the occupants had turned on one another in close quarters. Scratches marked the doorframe from the inside. The wood was split by repeated blows, not strong enough to break through in time.

The scouts had not fled together. They had scattered.

Outside, the remaining bodies told the same story. Shallow wounds. Defensive cuts. Blows struck too close, too frantic, too personal. None of the discipline expected of trained soldiers remained in their final moments. The cold had finished what fear began.

Whatever they had seen, whatever had taken hold of them, it had not been a creature with teeth and claws.

It had been something quieter.

Madness. Paranoia. A sense of being watched when nothing was there. Of betrayal where there was none. The sort of fear that convinces a man his brother is already lost.

By the time silence reclaimed the outpost, there had been no one left to defend it.

The conclusion was unavoidable, even if no one wished to voice it aloud.

The scouts had gone mad.

That would be the report. No monsters at the outpost. No breach from the west. No evidence of an outside assault. Only an internal collapse that ended in blood and cold.

The trail ended here.

Whatever larger horrors stalked the frozen land had not claimed these soldiers directly. But something had brushed close enough to unravel them all the same.

With nothing left to secure and nothing to save, there was no reason to linger. The wind already worked to erase the last signs of struggle, snow drifting into footprints and softening the edges of broken things.

The outpost would become another quiet marker on the map. Another place Rotia would avoid speaking of too closely.

When the group turned back toward the Bastion, the distant thunder of battle still echoed faintly across the plains. The walls still stood. The city still fought.

And the knowledge they carried back was simple, grim, and final.

The western scouts were dead.
They had killed each other.
Whatever touched their minds did not leave a mark that steel could answer.

The road back to the Bastion passed without incident. The main fighting had drawn the bulk of the roaming horrors elsewhere, leaving the western approach quiet once more. Smoke still rose from the walls in the distance, but the siege had not broken them.

Upon arrival, the report was delivered directly to Lord Roderic.

The findings were brief and grim. The outpost had not fallen to monsters. The scouts had succumbed to panic and internal violence. No survivors remained. The western route was clear of immediate threats, but the loss of the post meant Rotia would have to rethink how far it could safely extend its watch.

The lord received the news in silence.

There were no accusations. No punishment to assign. Only the heavy understanding that something unseen had already begun to erode his defenses, not through force, but through fear.

The task was marked complete.

The travelers were released from duty, their involvement formally concluded. Whatever awaited Rotia next would require planning, reinforcements, and time. For now, the western road was closed, the outpost abandoned, and the dead left to the snow.