The first conflict has concluded.
Gather information before deciding how to proceed forward.
Hunting . of. the . Fae “Send fifteen footmen into the forest, the Archmage claims that a tribe of whimsy heretics were located there with his scrying orb.” A short bronze-haired knight barked to one of the leading soldiers in his company. The bucket-helmed man standing almost a foot taller than the knight stood in attention and saluted his commanding officer, speaking back in a curt and respectful tone. “Yes Knight-Lieutenant.” Before turning and marching towards the ramshackle barracks that had been swiftly assembled for the number of men deployed to this location. The knight watched for a moment to inspect the men assembled with the direction he’d given. Once they were on horseback and making their way north towards the forestline far off in the distance, he’d make his way back to a much more lavishly constructed tent placed for him. The magically constructed living space was far larger within that it would appear from the outside, boasting a wooden bathing area, food stores with a stove, and even a small fireplace that spewed plumes of woodsmoke out from a chimney that seemed to trail down to the floor before diminishing out from small gaps in the walls. He sat at a large wooden table with a transparent white crystal set at its center, and once the chair was slid forward the gem glowed alight. Aura hummed in the atmosphere, thick carrying the scent of ozone as a powerful mage very far away attuned himself to the relic. “Have the troops been dispatched?” The crackly voice of an elderly man spoke through the crystal to the knight, and the moment that his tone filled the room, this knight sat straight up. The knight was both alert, and visibly frightened. “Yes Archmage, and I’ve sent an eagle to deliver the encrypted letter for Lord Lumi as well.” There was a strain to the knight’s voice, almost as if a dagger was pointed to the back of his neck. “Swell, I suppose once the young lord receives it he will be sending word to Brunwick. If that failure of a mage knows what’s good for him, he’ll keep Fenris in check while we find what we’re looking for.” A number of coughs and chuckles reverberated through the crystal, followed by a deep and painful inhale from the Archmage on the other end. “While you’re stationed on the border, I’d also like you to keep a lookout for a gray haired man with soft azure eyes.” The Archmage’s words were left with some pause, as if he were about to say more, but then silenced himself. “Are there any more details about him other than that, Archmage? Gray hair, while not all that common— is seen in some dogbloods here and in the north.” The knight’s question was latent with careful precision, not wanting to pry too deeply but simply seek more information to better serve the Lord Archmage. “If you happen upon him, he will try to kill you. There won’t be much issue in discovering him, I assure you.” This grim response was followed by the aura slowly diminishing from the air, as the light from the crystal set upon the table flickered before extinguishing, marking the Archmage’s conclusion to this conversation. The knight-lieutenant was left with mixed emotions, alone in this region for the time being, and with more on his plate than he bargained for. A number of gold dishes and silverware were swatted from the table as he lashed out in a nervous fit before raising his gloves up into his messy bronze hair, gripped into his scalp and groaned. Just what had he accepted when he had taken his orders to lead the woodcutters and frontiermen on the northern border? Siegfried crouched in the upper branches of a massive, ancient spruce, his breath slow and controlled, watching the procession of Luxun footmen march into the treeline below. Fifteen of them, armed and moving. He didn’t move as they passed beneath him. His ice-blue eyes tracked their progress, counting heads, noting the weaponry. They were hunting. That much he knew. It was the same old story. Mages deciding a piece of land held something they wanted, and sending men with steel to clear out whatever inconvenient life currently occupied it. It was exactly the kind of rumor that had drawn Siegfried here to the border in the first place. It felt too familiar. It felt like the night he had been ripped from his bed as a boy, the sky glowing orange and the air thick with the smell of burning thatch and arcane power. A few weeks prior, in a tavern, a well-dressed northerner, who pointedly refused to give his name but whose coin purse clinked with the heavy, undeniable sound of gold, had offered a contract. Scout the western border. Find out what the Luxun are building. Do not engage. The more information you bring back, the heavier the purse. Siegfried wasn't known for his stealth. He was known for leaving trails painted in blood. The promise of gold, however, combined with the opportunity to spy on the people who had tortured him? That was a contract he couldn't refuse. Once the footmen were out of earshot, moving deeper into the woods, Siegfried began his descent. He moved with a practiced, predatory silence that belied his size, his leather armor carefully oiled to prevent squeaks, his weapons secured tightly to avoid any clatter. He slipped from branch to branch, dropping the last ten feet to the forest floor with barely a whisper of disturbed snow. His target wasn't the footmen. It was the encampment they had just left. He ghosted through the underbrush, keeping the wind in his face so the camp's dogs wouldn't catch his scent. The lumber camp, Rivestire, he had heard the locals call it, was larger than he expected. It was the large tent near the center of the camp that drew his eye. It practically hummed with latent aura, a distortion in the air that made Siegfried's teeth ache and the draconic slits of his pupils narrow in revulsion. He skirted the edge of the camp, using the shadows of the stacked timber as cover. Two guards walked a lazy perimeter, their attention more on the biting cold than their surroundings. Siegfried waited for them to pass, then slipped between two massive logs, moving closer to the command tent. The fabric of the tent was thick, but not soundproof. As he pressed his back against the rough canvas, careful to avoid any magical wards that might be woven into the material, he heard the crash of metal from within, the unmistakable sound of plates and silverware being swept off a table in a fit of rage. Siegfried remained perfectly still, his ear pressed near a seam in the canvas. He had seen the footmen leave; he knew this camp was lightly defended at the moment. The man inside, a commander, judging by the size of the tent and the tantrum, was alone. He didn't have the full context of the conversation that had just occurred, but the scent of aura was still fresh in the air, meaning a magical communication had just taken place. The tent was warm to the touch almost as if the heat from within was insulating the cold from having any entree into the structure itself. There was also a thin, almost imperceptible rolling of smoke that spilled out from every nook and cranny where you’d be able to peek inside the tent. Stranger than that though, was the fact that when you tried to peek through one of these small openings— there would appear to be nothing but an empty unoccupied space within. Illusory magic wasn’t all that uncommon, especially when it came to enchanted goods meant to conceal their truth from outsiders. But where this spellcraft seemed to hide vision, it lacked in the matter of other senses; the smell of smoked meat, burning firewood, the crackling fire were all present. “This was a suicide mission, sun be damned if I end up some disposable pawn for the Archmage’s machinations. Once my men find the village and burn it down, I’m getting my ass out of here.” The Knight-Lieutenant snorted before grabbing a pastry that remained on his table and began to stomp his way towards the entrance of the tent. Siegfried heard the heavy, frustrated stomp of the Knight-Lieutenant’s boots moving toward the tent flap. It was enough. He didn't wait to see the officer's face. Siegfried pushed away from the canvas, melting backwards into the deep shadows cast by the stacked timber. The trick to moving unseen in a camp wasn't just silence; it was moving in the spaces people didn't want to look at. The biting cold of the north wind made men tuck their chins and narrow their eyes, their attention shrinking to the immediate miserable circle around them. Siegfried used that misery. He ghosted between the lumber piles, his footfalls perfectly timed with the gusting wind that rattled the loose canvas of the nearby tents. The forest swallowed him whole. Here, away from the unnatural heat of the illusory tent and the stink of unwashed soldiers, his senses sharpened to a razor's edge. He paused for a moment, letting his ice-blue eyes adjust to the dappled, snow-glaring light filtering through the ancient spruce canopy. The trail they left was embarrassingly obvious to anyone who knew how to look. Broken twigs hung limply from low branches, stripped of bark where mail hauberks had scraped past. Deep, sloppy boot prints churned the pristine snow into a muddy, slushy path, entirely lacking the discipline of a proper ranger unit. They were noisy, arrogant, and entirely focused on what lay ahead, assuming their numbers made them safe. Siegfried slowed his pace, dropping into a predatory crouch as he crested a small rise. Below him, in a shallow valley choked with old-growth pines, the fifteen footmen were navigating a frozen creek bed. They were bunched too close together, their polearms catching on low-hanging branches, their shields banging against their armored thighs. He watched them for a long moment, his hand resting instinctively on the cold iron pommel of his axe. The contract was strictly for information. Do not engage, the northerner had said. Find out what they are building. Bring back the intelligence. Siegfried's jaw tightened. He had the intelligence. He knew they were hunting a whimsy village under orders from an Archmage. He could turn back now, collect his heavy purse of gold, and wash the stench of the Luxun from his throat with a barrel of cheap mead. Siegfried let out a slow, silent breath, the frost pluming from his lips. He released his grip on the axe, his eyes tracking the soldiers as they disappeared deeper into the valley. He wouldn't engage them here. He continued to follow them. Deeper into the growth the footmen traveled, once the branches crisscrossed low they slid from the backs of their horses to advance with their steeds behind them. Even if Siegfried were not hunting them, other things would surely be. The forests were filled with animals and beasts hungry for fresh meat to keep them topped off until the next foolish traveler had to make their way through; but strangely enough— this part of the forest seemed to lack anything of the sort. Sparse birds perched along the canopy above, some snow jackalopes burrowed into their hovels at the sight of humans making their way through, but other than that?.. nothing large enough to raise an alarm. “We’re looking for fae.” Said the captain of the footmen, drawing his sword and pointing up to the branches above. “When you do see them, don’t alarm them.. just follow the direction they are traveling quietly from a distance. Understood?” The question of clarity was answered unanimously. “Yessir!” There wasn’t any sign of fae though, no fluttering of sylphs in the air, no sprites, not even the sputter of elemental energy. But fae were quite good at hiding their presence, so it wouldn’t be surprising that if they were around it would just be difficult to find them. The leading footman came to a halt when a small glade of flat frosted grass opened up before them. It was large enough for the horses to be saddled again, and a stream of water trailed through for them to drink from— but northmen knew what a clearing like this usually was, a hunting ground for wyrms. Larger wyrms would take down trees with their hind legs, slowly forming a clearing where deer or moose might gather to sip from the streams so they could swoop down from above for an easy meal. “Take a moment to check the map, it may do us well to set our camp here, we can return at dusk if none of us find any trails that lead us to these whimsy fucks.” The captain jumped back onto his horse and trailed off ahead of the other footmen, from his side he drew a spyglass and brought it to his eye. In the distance he scanned the treeline for anything that might catch his attention, but yet again, nothing but trees and snow. He was beginning to think that this Archmage was simply sending them out to hunt ghosts, so he simply grunted and returned it to hoop at his belt. Siegfried settled into the crook of a massive, snow-dusted oak, the bark rough against his leather jerkin. From his vantage point, the clearing below was laid out like a crude map, the fifteen Luxun footmen fanning out with a complete lack of urgency. The captain's words drifted up to him, sharp in the cold air. Fae. They were looking for the little folk. Siegfried didn't move. He was a patient predator. Waiting was nothing to him. The sun began its slow, bruised descent toward the horizon, painting the snow in long, violent streaks of orange and purple. If there were whimsies here, they were smart enough to stay hidden from this loud, blundering patrol. Or perhaps the Archmage’s plan was flawed. Or perhaps the fae had already moved on, sensing the approaching steel. He would give them the night. He would watch the sky for wyrms, and the treeline for fae. If something happened, if the forest revealed its secrets, he would observe and report as contracted. He would give them the night. He would watch the sky for wyrms, and the treeline for fae. If something happened, if the forest revealed its secrets, he would observe and report as contracted. If the sun rose on this clearing and nothing had changed, if these fifteen Luxun soldiers were still just waiting to bring fire and steel to people who had never harmed them, then the contract was void. He would descend from the canopy when the fire burned low and the watch grew heavy-eyed. He would move through their camp like the bitter north wind, and he would leave fifteen corpses bleeding out in the snow before the first light of dawn broke over the mountains. | . |  Northeastern Border of Luxu, Lumber Encampment Rivestire Three Years Ago The Luxun forces press into the North, hunting something in the woods Siegfried is hired to gather information ................................................................. |
Planning Ahead @Yankee@xAlter@13org@Theyra@Taka@Exit@Andreyich The battle, brief and intense, had given the eclectic group a common short term goal. Now that it was over, and their long term goal still far off, it wasn't surprising that the band of strangers would rub their personalities together awkwardly. They had different quirks, different morals, and most certain of all, different priorities. Which sparked some wide-eyed confusion with all of the chaos that followed after the death of their last combatant, Brig looked like she’d suddenly developed a stomachache, squinted eyes and pursed lips as she stared out into the distance. “Tarak, what d’that mean?” Brig questioned Aslan out loud as her attention diverted from Nika, first to the pair of strangers that she’d landed next to in the snow as they exchanged words with her pact knight. “The men w’ just slew had my family’s colors. But ‘ts not a good sign that I’m out here with th’ tough and tumble rather than my father’s men.” The words that were spoken held the subtlest tone of sarcasm, and Brig’s head dipped down as a few pained chuckles escaped her lips. It wasn’t physical pain that stretched and strained the shrill chirps that bubbled out from her lungs. It was emotional, mental, but they’ve weathered this storm and a new one would surely approach. As for the tense conversation between Sieg and Soren, she projected her voice so that everyone around her could hear; “My stance ‘s that I don’t care what happens t’ the dead. Carrion birds ‘ll take’em into th’ Weald if we don’t burn them— and ‘f we do, we’ll be sending a smoke signal t’ any of their allies. Chop ‘em up, eat ‘em, bury ‘em, just make sure there’s no evidence.” Brig paused after that. Frozen, she stared at Nika, a tense expression pulling at her face and forcing her to squint her eyes. He’d heard her words and purposefully had not looked over at them as his feelings were normally quite easy to read. It was the weight of her stare though that dragged his attention from staring at the alien looking horned woman who’d appeared back to Brigitte. “I’m worried.. th’ nearest outpost was manned by our knights, three uniforms stolen or ripped from our men’s bodies?.. S’a days trip out, so we’ll probably have ta’ camp in th’ woods when we get closer.” She then looked towards Eirun off tending to her wounds with what looked like tree’s moss. “We’ll prob’ly need t’ scout ahead too, not yet, but when we get closer.” "Aye," he agreed, growing a little more serious at the statement. The colorful group was a distraction, and the road ahead the somber reality. His eyes flickered from Brig’s face to the still body of the corpse knight. "We won’t know for sure ‘til we get there, an’ we should assume th’worst, but… we can see now, whether this lot visited th’post an’ took one of ours with ‘em." Its chestplate removed, the aura connected to it severed, and its possessions relinquished to the victors, all that was left for the draugr was the unmasking. The body itself had started the decaying process, but it could still be possible to see who he was in life. If it was a Northman, let alone someone that Brig and Nika knew, then they’d know for sure that the outpost had been compromised. Nika held his hand out to help Brig to her feet, then approached the body that was the odd man out of the four. Thankfully the wind had taken the worst of the stench away. Carefully, Nika knelt next to the man’s head. If the poor soul really was born of Fenris, they would at least burn him as a proper send off, smoke signal be damned. Nika reached out and took the helmet in his hands, hope squirming weakly in his chest. He pulled it off without much ceremony. Slowly it was lifted up and off of the silent knight’s head, which took some force with the large dent connecting the iron to the inner skull. But sure enough it was peeled off with a metallic ring as it detached to reveal the visage hidden beneath it. The armor was northern, the weapon too, but the man within the helm was not— tanned skin with slightly pointed ears, dusty brown hair, middle-aged, and a southernborn man from distant elvish lineage nonetheless. Brig and Nika had only met with one of these tribesmen once before, that one very much alive, heavily tattooed with artful beads of numerous colors strung through their hair. This one... was a shade of what their impression of southern natives could be. Sunken bloodshot eyes with dulled pupils stared forward, vessels bursted around the rims of his lids. His lips were non-existent, either cut from the man’s face or lost in combat somewhere along the way from a grisly face wound. His tongue as well was cut from his mouth, hollowed out with blood-stained and dried out teeth clenched tightly together. And the strangest and most concerning thing was a faint violet rune in the shape of stitching pulsating around his neck. The rimeglass might have dispersed all of the aura keeping the man’s body animate, but perhaps something else was fueling the enchantment that bound this man’s soul to his body?.. they weren’t mages so it would be difficult to determine. “Sieg! When you’re not pickin’ fights with th’ strangers— come to take a look at this!”Brig barked out before looking back to Nika with a very tense look on her face. “Ma’ told me ‘bout southern magic b’fore— curses, nasty shit. But ‘ve got no idea what ‘m looking at. What th’ fuck ‘s going on?.. Why ‘re so many weird mages showin’ their faces in th’ North right now? Makes no sense.” He didn't have an answer for her, at least not a helpful one. "It's nothin' good," he said, pressing his mouth into a tight line. After a moment Nika stood back up, casting his gaze back at the rest of the assembled group. They landed on one person in particular. Perhaps they'd be able to shed some light on this. "Aslan. You're Southern, yea? Come over here too." He made some space around the corpse, stepping back to stand beside Brig again. Despite the night's rest, and the adrenaline of the scuffle, there was a tired line forming beneath his eyes. "What should we do now?" the pact knight asked. There were of course the bodies to dispose of, and the survivor to interrogate, but after that... "D'you wanna continue down this road, chance the outpost...?" ”I suppose w’ don’t have t’ actually take th’ road. But th’ issue with goin’ into th’ Weald for th’ remainder of our trip ‘s that while w’ won’t be fighting enemy knights.. It’ll be wyrms ‘nd gryphons, maybe worse.” Brig grunted as she stared down to the southern man, a deep and depressive frown dripping from her lips. She’d sigh outward before raising her arms overhead to stretch before making her way back to the cart with the sole objective of grabbing a skin of whisky to sip from. Upon finding one with a little hammer and horseshoe marking branded into the leather, Brig flipped open the metallic cap’s cover and began to drink the liquor. The burn of alcohol against her tongue and gums helped take the edge off, alleviated some of her anxiety, and traveling down her throat into her stomach was this warming sensation. It wasn’t surprising that a good majority of northern soldiers ended up alcoholics, drinking their ailments away until the next battle came. With the skin in hand, she hobbled back over to the deceased southern man whilst continuing to sip from the Fire & Ferrier whisky. ”Can ya’ handle lookin’ this over with th’ two of them while I ‘eh.. Display some leadership ‘er some shit?” It wasn't the time, but Nika couldn't help the laugh that bubbled out of him. Short, sharp, and brittle. "Yea, I can do that," he said. He also mentioned that he'd handle the disposal, so long as shallow snow burials sufficed. It would be a long time yet before it would be warm enough to melt, and the crew would be gone by the time the evidence was discovered. It couldn't be said that Nika was in a good mood, but he sported a small, fond smile that would linger until he turned back to the task at hand. Or not even that long, as heavy footsteps barely cushioned by the snow approached. The barbarian woman. She looked at Nika like she wanted to swallow him whole, which he only took to mean that she'd only just realized his ancestry now that her head was clearer. The combative edge hadn't left her, and as she stalked straight towards Brig the lady wolf's pact knight stepped forward to put himself between them, one arm stretched in front of Brig to warn the red head not to get any closer to her. Thankfully, it wasn't Brigitte or her band that the barbarian's ire was aimed at. Nika blinked up at the giantess as she requested -demanded- to accompany the heir of Fenris on her quest. Then he let out a disbelieving snort and patted Brig on the shoulder. His hand slipped to her back as he gave her a light push towards the rest of the group. "Well go on, leader. Y'got this." He turned back to the remains of the cursed knight. The stalwart march of the giant-blooded berserker who caved a man’s chest in with her punch caught Brig off-guard, the largest figure she’d come in contact with was Lord Surt; but she’d heard rumors of the nomad barbarians. Though those rumors came with the knowledge that in the past they had betrayed the north; something that would spell scrutiny from Brig, but not to such a degree that she would deny the fact that she had helped them in battle. ”Killing th’ mage king?... that’s quite th’ endeavor.” Brig would bust out laughing. Tears formed along the rims of her eyes and crystallized after a gust of wintery air blew past her face. ”We’re not on a mission t’ kill th’ Mage King big gal, we’re heading t’ Haldr and if ‘n there’s some Luxun fucks on th’ way— they’re just bonuses t’ be honest.” She then stepped past the giant of a woman to look at the pair that was hidden in the snow and pointed straight at them. A furrowed brow and a deadpan flattened her expression, bolstered only by the glint in her eye as that scrutinizing finger ever so slightly pointed towards the vibrant blue haired individual seemingly called Illaria; ”You seem t’ be th’ warrior of th' two of ya’ … what’re you doing out here?” | . |  Eastruin Road Noon Someone should secure the unconscious Goldtooth and prep him for Interrogation ................................................................. |
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