[IC] Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

[Penny]

Camilla’s blade chopped through the spinal column of another of the undead, dropping the bones and dessicated tendons to the cobblestones in a clatter. The howl in the distance chilled her blood, but there were more immediate terrors to be dealt with. The necromancer, or whatever he was, had chosen his stronghold well. The ancient graveyards that ringed the half ruined convent rippled as fresh corpses clawed their way free, shaking of the dark soil to begin clawing at her rag tag force. The river also prevented the knights from employing their horses, putting them at a considerable disadvantage, but perhaps the fiend had been a little two clever…

“vers l'avant! dans le couvent! She shouted in Brettonian. Renard and a band of peasants rushed forward, and she led them at a charge though half collapsed archway that seperated the convent building from the cloister. Matais followed in their wake, his sword cutting down any that tried to strike the band from behind.

“Hold the gate,” she told Renard and the peasants. The narrow stone archway provided a good defensive position, and the undead outside could only attack a few at a time. Given long enough they would eventually wear down the defenders, but hopefully there were no burials inside and they wouldn’t have to worry about attack from the rear. Camilla could only hope that would give her time enough to deal with whatever monster was at the center.

The interior of the convent was in somewhat better condition than the ruin outside, ancient stone had slumped, but the architecture was sound and the interior arches still supported each other. Mathis followed in her wake, and though she would have preferred he stay with Renard and his band, there was little chance he would listen to her, and no time to have the argument.

“Vhere are ve going fraulein?” Matis demanded, his long legs allowing him to keep pace easily with the shorter Tilean. Camilla didn’t know, though the building sense of unease was as good a guide as any.

“There should be a crypt beneath the cloister,” she explained, though her only information on this came from the tacky romances which had been popular the last time she and Cydric had been in Altdorf. It was a fairly safe bet however, in the past half decade she had fought enough unwholesome things to know they usually preferred to avoid sunlight. The sword in her hands seemed to quiver and she let it guide her, following its subtle pull. They passed through another ruined courtyard and then came to a set of stairs leading down into the earth. A greenish glow pulsed in the opening, seeming to provide little actual illumination.

“It is a burden being so right all the time,” she admitted to Mathis.

The interior of the crypt reeked of death. Row after row of stone coffins lined the walls, each surmounted by a leaden effigy. Camilla didn’t know enough about Brettonia to guess who the tombs were for, but she watched them warily as she passed. The crypt was a long hall with a nave at one end. The stonework there mounted up into a small diaz atop which a figure could be made out. It’s hands were raised and evil sounding words spilled from its lips. Camilla felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise with the familiar tingle of magic. She exchanged a look with Matis and then, in the same heartbeat, they both drew their pistols and fired. The figure reeled back and spun to face them, its robes revealing a gaunt and skeletal face, hardly more than a skull. Two holes smoked and smouldered in its black robes.

“Ah, we meet at last Contessa,” the litch thing, hissed its voice like a serpent. Matis, uninclined to listen to heretics of any kind drew his second pistol and fired. The flash of powder bright in the dank crypt. A third smoking hole appeared in the things chest, but it seemed not to be discomforted.

“I am afraid you are two late, we have recovered the masters bones already, he shall be born again in Mousslin despite your pathetic efforts.” Camilla stepped forward, gripping her elven blade in both hands but as she did so the creature made a contemptuous gesture. White translucent forms seemed to flow forth from the ancient tombs, their faces that of the decayed dead within.

“But I suppose you are in time to add a few more corpses to his army…”

[POOHEAD189]

The lich's cackle reached even the ears of the normal men fighting above, but it only served to dishearten them as the Undead tide began to turn the fortunes of the battle. Knights and Men-at-arms grouped together in small islands of resistance among the slaughter of the less disciplined and lesser equipped troops. Ghouls, skeletons, zombies, and aberrations made of sewn corpses wielding crude cleavers waded among the once bolstered peasantry, carving every man and woman up they could find.

Renard's blessed longsword still stemmed the tide of the onslaught, and any man who could make it to his side did so. But it seemed now that it only delayed the inevitable, with these newly risen monstrosities and their Enchantress now suddenly missing; dead for all they knew. And now an insane laughter, the one that had haunted the hills of the Aquitaine for months on end was now so close they could hear it reverberating off of their shields.

"Reste ferme!" Renard called, his sword igniting in light as he summoned what power he could. His chainmail hauberk and knightly helm gleamed silver, the man the envy of any Knightly pretender in the Empire. Brettonia was the land of gallantry and the grail, and he was valor in living form. Unfortunately for the Undead, Renard was not the only empowered being that had been set loose upon them. Ulric would not be denied, and the desperate men saw glimpses of a wolf-like shape amid the Lich's horde. A shadow of a presence among them.

One of the columns of Knights fought against a sweeping tide of zombies and ghouls, men being torn down by talons as their fellows hacked the monsters to pieces. "Pour Moi~" The lead Knight called, only to be overwhelmed by nearly a dozen ghouls mere moments later. He kicked and stabbed, but the ghouls bloodied his torso, their long claws piercing the mail in less padded areas.

A hard hacking and an undeniably powerful force suddenly brought respite to the Knight, and when he gazed through his crucifix helm he beheld a strange...thing. A sculpted man, somehow part wolf and yet unmistakably as noble as Renard the Grail Knight. "Qui êtes vous!" the Knight asked, aghast.

Broken and decrepit ghoul parts were strewn across the grass, all torn apart by the newcomer who sensed something no one else did. Moments later, his twitching ears proved true when a great mound of earth suddenly erupted from just beyond the line of men. A grotesque skull of what looked to be some draconic beast, smaller than a true dragon but still massive in size.

It's bones were like a cage that encased writhing earth. To the men's horror, one of the peasants found themselves caught in the earth, the monster having risen just below where the man had been standing. He was caught up to his hips, and the wild look in his eyes showed there was something within that frightened him beyond reason. He let out a cry of help as some unseen force pulled him deeper into the monster's wet earthy ribcage, only for his calls to be suddenly silenced as his head was lost within the mass of soil and worms.

Cyrdic had only a limited knowledge of Brettonian, but he recalled how they said 'retreat' and the word was shouted a multitude of times as they gave ground to the draconic nightmare. Cyrdic did not give ground, and his Ulrican sword suddenly materialized in his hands, as if it had heeded its master's call.
@Penny

[Penny]

“Ware!” Mattis shouted unnecessarily as the spectres flowed from their sarcphaougai, “Sigmar Lord of Men, Abjure the darkness!” The familiar Sigmarite battle prayer seemed to have little effect on the oncoming wraiths but Camilla felt the supernatural dread that had seized her abate slightly. With a running leap she vaulted onto one of the now empty tombs and launched herself towards the litch. A wraith reached out with its insubstantial arms but she flexed her body to avoid its touch. The Litch’s skeletal maw widened in what might have been amusement or surprise as she landed on the platform beside in, breaking the fall with both feet and one palm, keeping her sword arm straight and swept back behind her. The creature lifted one hand and an orb of darkness gathered around its fist before streaking towards the Tilean. Stone exploded from the ancient floor as Camila rolled away from the blast, turning the momentum into a savage upward flash that bought her to her feet, a long stilleto appearing in her off hand. The litch staggered backwards, barely avoiding the point of the elven blade as a sword of obsidian seemed to appear in its taloned fist.

“As ze fire burns the brush let my faith burn…” Mattis chanted his sword whistling through the thick air. Camilla put the Templar out of her mind, focusing instead on parrying the ebony blade that thrust at her. She pivoted inside the Litch’s guard and raked its belly with the point of her dagger, but it seemed to pass through the thing like a bullet through smoke.

“Foolish mortal,” the Litch mocked as it cut viciously at Camilla’s head. She ducked the blow and lashed out with her elven blade, aiming for the creatures legs. An invisible force struck her and hurled her back against one of the stone wall, shaking aged grave dust from the ancient mortar and driving the breath from her lungs. Gasping in pain she leaped to her feet, elven sword hot in her hand, the oddly curved runes on the blade seemed to gleam with some faint inner light as she gathered herself for another assault.

“Where did you find the blade girl,” the Litch sneered, tentacles of black smoke seeming to erupt from its back like great feathery wings.

“What gives you the right to wield the flame of the Asur?”

Rather than answering Camilla let out a string of invective that would have made Cydric proud and charged. She flicked the stiletto at the thing mid rush and than leaped, putting the full weight of her body behind the razored point of her sword. Black tentacles snapped out grabbing for the weapon but they exploded in showers of purplish sparks. The Litch shouted something in a foul language she didn't comprehend and time seemed to slow down until it seemed she hung in mid air, the tip of her blade a foot shy of her foe. The tip of her sword blazed against the reaching tentacles etching harsh shadows across the ancient crypt. The foul taste of sorcery filled her mouth as she struggled to force the point of the sword home. For a moment it seemed like she might hang in an endless moment forever, unable to break the dead lock and then, with the majesty of a comet a ball of silvered lead swept lazily across her field of vision, the twin tailed comet of Sigmar wreathed in a trail of powder smoke. The pistol ball struck the Litch in the hip and suddenly her frozen form seemed to leap forward, finishing the thrust. The tip of her blade punched through the creatures sternum like a lance, the Litch toppled backwards shrieking vile imprecations but before it could hit the floor its form exploded into a million specks of inky black darkness, revealing a wizened aged skeleton beneath. Camilla crashed atop of the bones, snaping them to powder beneath her slight weight.

[Penny]

Book 2

A freed slave is like a loosed viper ~ Arabyian Proverb

“Yazmina!” Omar Nadeer Al’Nekarri croaked, through his blackening and swollen lips. Despite his white silken robes, golden jewelry and impeccable pedigree, The Emir of Keshram did not make an imposing sight as his ankle ankles drummed on the polished golden floor of his bed chamber and his face slowly turned purple.

“My … name… is…. Emmaline!” the woman sitting atop his chest, twisting a red silk shift around his neck with both hands. It was the first time she had spoken her name in over a year and it felt, really, really good. Naked from the waist up, her shift currently being put to more profitable use than concealing her considerable assets, she was a statuesque woman, with long blonde hair and pale skin that marked her as hailing from the distant and fog shrouded Empire. Arab corsairs, may Mannan rupture their bowels, had captured her ship of the coast of Estalia and sold her into slavery. She had been taken to the great port city of Lashiek, where among its stinking slave pens, she had been sold off to Emir Omar Nadeer. Blonde pale women were a rarity in these lands, and the Emir had crowed with delight to add such a beauty to his harem. Emmaline imagined he was regretting that choice right about now.

“Please!” the Emir gasped, his fingers clawing at the silken garrote she was tightening around his neck by means of turning a length of stout metal she had taken from an ornamental iron gateway. He had tried hitting her at first, and though she would have bruises to show for it tomorrow, he hadn’t been able to dislodge her before she began to close his airway. Greenish light streamed down from the twin moons as Mannslieb and Morrslieb blazed in the clear desert night, illuminating the balcony atop which the, very nearly, former slave girl asphyxiated her master. The south balcony was a favorite of the Emir’s, with large palms growing from white washed pots providing shade from all but the fiercest of the desert sun. In the distance the lights of the city glittered against the backdrop of the great ocean and a cool breeze carried the gentle sounds of distant waves against the shore. Against the wall of the palace stood pedestals and display cases holding curios and artefacts for the amusement of its master.

“Please?” she mocked, straining till her pulse throbbed in her temples to turn the iron bar another quarter turn. Omar Nadeer’s face was nearly black in the greenish moonlight though his fingers still scrabbled at the improvised garrote, cutting deep into his flabby neck. She felt the bulge of his manhood beneath her, a biological reaction to the asphyxiation and nothing to do with desire, but she laughed none the less, the indignanty and humiliation of a year in the Emir harem filling her with hatred so pure she could taste it like copper on the tongue. Deliberately she writhed her hips back and forth grotesquely. The Emir had voided his bowels and the warm wetness of his trousers showed he had lost control of his bladder as well. There was a banging on the large wooden doors now, the strangled cries of the Emir having finally alarmed his deliberately incurious guards. They wouldn’t be in time.

“One... more.. for... old... times ...sake?” she mocked, turning the bar a quarter turn as she bit out each syllable. Then, with a scream of determination, she gave the bar a final twist. There was a sudden snapp of collapsing cartilage and the Emir coughed a spray of blood from his grotesquely swollen lips, spraying her naked chest and face with blood. He spasmed once more, and then was still.

The heavy wooden door, locked from the inside by the late Emir, splinted as the two guards finally managed to split the ancient timbers. Emmaline stood up, spattered with gore and half naked above the body of their dead master. The stars blazed piteously behind her, their cold light almost washed out by the green radiance of the Chaos moon. The men paused for a moment in horror and then leveled their spears at the harem girl. Emmaline slipped the iron rod from her ruined shift and opened up her inner eye. Charmon whirled in a tempest around her. She wasn’t much of a wizard, hardly more than an apprentice, and the Emir’s palace, unbeknownst to him, was built on a foundation that had been laid with ancient wards in the time of Nagash, proof against all but the mightiest of enchantments. They had held her in bondage for almost a year now, but no longer, not now, not on Geheimnistag. In the Empire people would be inside, door bolted against the nameless terrors of the night, in Araby it seemed, people had forgotten that wisdom.

Her green eyes flashed gold and, with a screamed incantation, the metal rod dissolved into a ball of white hot light and then lashed out like forked lightning burning through the hearts of both guardsman in less time than it took their ears to register the sound. Emmaline sagged with the effort, fighting through the wards was no trivial task, and it had been so long since she had used her powers she had been half afraid they would fail her. Moving as quickly as she could she stripped the Emir of his jewelry, and one of the guards of his tunic and heavy scimitar. There were other shouts now and it was time and past time she was away. Emmaline headed for the balcony, but paused, her eyes drawn to a piece of papyrus preserved beneath glass. It was a map of some kind, though of no land she could readily identify. The arcane symbols inked around its borders drew her attention, demonstrating that it was valuable, and no mere travellers curiosity. Drawing back the scimitar she smashed the case and seized the map, hastily rolling it and tucking it within her stolen tunic. Pausing for a final moment to spit on the corpse of the Most Honored Emir Omar Nadeer Al’Nekarri, she leaped over the balcony and vanished into the hot desert night.

[POOHEAD189]

Lashiek was shrouded in darkness at this time of the evening. Only the wealthy or foolhardy used open lights in the city, of fear of attack or fear of discovery before they themselves thieved upon someone. T'was true, Lashiek was known more for its Corsairs than it's bandits, but there was still no shortage of scoundrels within the bowels of the deceivingly opulent city. And of course, even if a light would make you a target, it still brought comfort to those unused to such settings. This was what Amal ibn Has'raikk had counted on, and he was not disappointed.

Even without the sun, the lands of Araby still lingered from the day's heat. Amal steadied his breathing, calming himself as the footsteps became audible to his ears. He suppressed the urge to smile at his fortune. He had spent too many nights going to sleep hungry to count his throats before they're slit. He padded the hilt of his dagger with his nimble fingers, the blade sharp enough to shave a scorpion's ass. The footfalls grew louder, and even a non thief would be able to hear it now as it approached closer. Three men, which met the headcount he had made earlier.

The Satrap and his two guards moved at a steady pace, soon entering the light in the street to walk past Amal's hiding place. The light would disorient them for but a moment, and they would feel safer within.

Two moments passed, and the men entered the light and continued past Amal, unbeknownst of his whereabouts. The Satrap wore an elaborate headpiece ringed with ivory and royal purple atop a flowing golden robe. The guards were nearly as impressive, with sweeping armoy of bronze filigree, and red capes that kissed the sand as they walked. As soon as they had passed the alley, Amal rolled out into the open of the light as their eyes attempted to adjust to darkness once more.

Under the flow of their crimson cloaks, his dagger shop out and severed the rope that held the Satrap's coinpurse. Amal held out his offhand, and let it fall with the coins so as to catch them with as little noise as possible. As soon as he had the purse in his possession, he slipped out of the light at their backs and gave a triumphant grin. Greedily, he pulled the thread to open the coinpurse, letting the coins spill into his strong hands.

It was no King's fortune, and it was even less than he had hoped from a Satrap. But it was gold, and it would last him for many nights. Perhaps he could even afford a bath and try his luck seducing one of the local Pasha's voluptuous dancers with a display of wealth. The possibilities were wide and varied. He nearly did not notice the steel being drawn, glinting in the light he had just been within.

"Serpent's teeth, my money! By Allah, find the bandit who took my gold!" The Satrap roared. He wouldn't ever get it back, for Amal was already traversing the towering building next to him. His arms were long and strong, almost simian in appearance. They needed to be in order for him to climb as effectively as he did. With a tug and a shift of his hips, he swung his legs into an archwindow and landed nimbly. "Allah will give you no fortune today," he whispered to himself, referring to the Satrap's cries. The room he found himself in was adorned with tapestries of the old kingdom under Sultan Jaffar.

He did not know much history, having been sold into slavery by his mother as a small boy. He recalled her glee at giving him away so she could afford another breadloaf for dinner to appease his father's ire. He had worked in a quarry for six years before he had escaped and entered a life of banditry. Over a dozen years later, he had become one of the most infamous rogues in the city, though he had crossed far too many people to be in one of the infamous thief guilds. He had to make do with small scores.

On the other side of the tower, he peered out of another window opening, breathing in the hot air of the evening. Moving his wavy, dark hair out of his eyes, he could see lights dotting the undulating skyline of Lashiek. In one window, a man smoked a hookah with an oddly clad stranger, and in another building there was a group of Arabyans performing the Dance of Many Sabers. Smirking, he stepped onto the sill of the window and checked the alley below to where he would make further his escape to see... a wave of light without a light?

He blinked, and realized what he looked at. A woman with hair like gold and arms around her buxom chest. He leaned out further, wondering by what reason a foreign woman of such beauty was wandering the street. Even in simple starlight, her hair was an alarm to anyone who saw her pass by. He felt his fingers slip an inch and his heart thundered in his chest for a single, terrifying moment as he caught himself. "Allah's mercy!" he cursed. An ironic curse, because if the great God was aware of him, he'd sooner smite him than give aid. Amal really felt a fool once he established he was safe. One look at this strange woman and he nearly fell four stories! But he was nothing if not curious, and as silent as a hunting cat, he leaped over the alley to the other building with a lower roof. If she had looked up, the woman would have seen the silhouette of a man pass straight through the distant moon.

[Penny]

Emmaline, moved furtively through the streets of Lashiek. It was the first time she had been in the city, save for when she had been auctioned off to the Emir but fortunately most port cities shared a number of similarities. Her stolen clothing didn’t make her particularly inconspicuous and her pale skin and golden hair were a problem as well. It was doubtful that the Emir’s guards would pursue her, right now the Emir’s several sons were no doubt fighting for their father's inheritance, and though they might eventually seek out their father’s murderess she intended to be long gone by then.

Like most of the night shrouded city the Goldsmith’s quarter was not particularly busy at this late hour. Stoney faced guards holding spears and vicious looking cudgels stood at street corners, each bearing an armband of deep green that identified them as belonging to the Goldsmith’s guild. It was easier to dissuade thieves with a community effort it seemed. A few of the shops, either more enterprising or working late to finish particular contract, remained opened, the light streaming from their white washes doorways and curtain shrouded windows giving them away. Picking one at random she stepped inside, pleased and surprised at how much cooler it was. The store was a single large room, filled with tables atop which a variety of jewellery mostly brass and copper but with occasional pieces of gold, were laid out on rather moth eaten fabric trays. A dripping clay urn hung from the ceiling suspended by slime slickend ropes, acting to cool the room. A seedy looking shop keeper in a red fez looked up from behind the counter where he was working on a pendant of some kind, a cracked monocular on one eye.

“Can I help you?” he asked in a voice as dry as the desert wind.

“I’d like to sell a piece of jewelry,” she said, they shopkeeper looked surprised at her arabic, but a year as a slave had given her plenty of time to master the language. She withdrew the ruby ring, the smallest of the pieces she had taken from the body of her former owner and held it out for inspection. A crafty look crossed the old man’s face and he glanced out towards the guards on the street.

“I wouldn’t,” Emmaline warned, “I might be a forgiener, but im not stupid.” She drew back her cloak to reveal the hilt of the stolen scimitar.

“If you call out to the guards to claim I stole it from you, I might be in trouble, but you WILL be dead,” she promised. The shopkeeper looked a little sulky at that.

“No need for threats mistress,” he whined.

“Not if you deal fairly with me at any rate, it will be much easier for both of us,” she returned. It took about a quarter hour, and she allowed the man to cheat her slightly to salve his pride, but she emerged from the store with a bag of coins and a satisfied expression. Now if only she could find some local clothes that fit her a little better than the stolen guard uniform.

“Stop in the name of the Satrap!” a voice barked from the end of the street. A guard, this one dressed much more grandly than the bored looking mercenaries, stalked towards her with a scimitar in his hand.

“Uhh…” Emmaline temporised.

“Is there a problem?” she asked, edging back away from the man. Surely he wasn’t from the Emir.

“The satrap was robbed, we are rounding up suspicious people, such as Godless foregin whores abroad in the middle of the night,” he snarled. Emmaline resisted the urge to scream in frustration and forced herself to stand very still.
“I see,” she said in Riekspiel, “and may Ranald take your bloody balls.”

The guard clearly didn't understand the words but seeing she intended no resistance, stepped towards her and reached for her with a gauntleted hand. With a scream she bought her knee up and drove it into the Arabyian’s crotch with all her might. He let out a scream of agony and doubled over. Without a second thought she turned and bolted down the nearest alleyway as fast as her legs could carry her.

[POOHEAD189]

Watching from above, Amal had taken out a sackcloth of dates and had begun to eat gingerly, watching this woman haggle with the goldsmith as his men leered at her from behind. Amal had all the gold he needed for a tenday, and so he thought he get some free entertainment. Fortunately for the woman, she managed to get out of the predicament scot free. Amal would have applauded her if it wouldn't have announced his perch, so he simply continued to watch, wondering why the Goldsmith's men did not simply rob her after.

He got his answer when a royal guard in a familiar garb approached from the east, pointed nose poking out of his proudly, uniformly trimmed beard. He could already tell what was about to transpire before the threats had begun, and he did laugh aloud when she kicked the guard in the groin. If only everyone in Araby had such daring! She ran as if her life depended on it, and it certainly did. Two more royal guards saw her fleeing form escape down the alley, and they drew their swords, running past their downed comrade.

Normally, Amal would have simply let it go there. In fact this was the perfect scenario. Having someone fall for the crime he committed. The thief would have laughed and bragged about such a thing for days after. But something made him second guess himself. An old friend of his had once told him, A tree that affords thee shade, do not allow it to be cut down. For you see, there were only three things Amal truly appreciated. Beautiful women, treasure, and a sense of danger. This woman represented all three in spades, and he knew something else. She had been running from the law even before they had accused her of stealing from the Satrap. Her manner and stolen clothes confessed to it.

He downed the last of the dates, hopping to his feet and scaled down the building to the second floor, strong fingers gripping the sandstone of the walls. Kicking off, he made it to the lower rooftop and raced across the buildings. Having traversed these streets for over ten years, he could adequately guess where the foreigner was going, seeing her golden hair turning a corner not a moment later as he crossed a gap between the seammaster's residence and the shoe maker shop. He readied a rope, tying it to the pillar of the top pavillion of the following building.

"I will take your mane as a trophy, whore!" One of the guards cried out, echoing into the night. Emmaline turned at the sound of the voices behind her just as Amal landed right before her path. Her eyes spotted him as she turned back just in time not to run into him. The thief, breathing heavily from the acrobatics, didn't have time to explain he was not here to gut her before she kicked at his groin on instinct. He had already seen her use the move though, and he blocked it with his hands.

He waded back, holding his arms up to show he meant no harm. "Wait, wait! I am not here to cut your pretty throat, though I am curious on the color of foreigner blood." He said with an open mouthed grin. "I am here to help, or would you like to take your chances with the Satrap's men?" Not a moment later, he was already grabbing the rope he had laid down with one, strong hand as he held the other out for her to take.

If she took his hand, he would pull her on his back and used his considerable strength to haul them both up atop the roof, pulling the rope up just as the Satrap's men would turn the corner. In a small gesture of bravado, Amal would blow them a kiss and wave them farewell as the men on the ground cursed their luck. "Now that they have lost you, you might get your wish," he said in heavily accented Reikspeil, and looked at her with a devilish smirk. "Their balls may well be removed."
@Penny

[Penny]

Emmaline smiled down at the guards who were shaking their fists in consternation. One of the men raise his spear as though to cast it, but obviously recognized the effort a futile and settled for shouting a curse.

“One can only hope,” she responded in Riekspiel, it felt curious and stilting to speak it again after so long. The Emir had a handful of slaves from Tilea or Estalia, and had routinely had them beaten for speaking in their own tongues. Emmaline had learned the lesson quickly and in any case there had been no other Imperials to talk to.

A dog began to bark and and lights began to appear as the denizens of the building around the jewelers square woke to the racket. Though she had no idea who this strange man was, it was at least certain that he wasn't working with the guards. He was handsome in a rugged looking way and dressed in little better than rags. That did beg the question of who he was and why he had helped her.

During her so called apprenticeship her master, a lecherous and avaricious wizard named Willhelm Grafton, had introduced her to many of Altdorf’s thieves. Among the other various scams he ran, he provided enchanted lockpicks, vanishing powders, and other alchemical substances that could be used for less than honest purposes, always with the stern warning that if they were caught they never heard of him. This man had the same lean hungry look as they and she unconsciously checked to make sure her small store of loot was still in place. If he was a thief though, it begged the question of why he had risked his neck. She supposed that would have to wait till the threat of imminent capture had passed. If she was caught she doubted that it would escape anyone's notice that Emir Omar had been murdered by a blonde slave.

“Thank you,” she told the stranger, “Is there somewhere safe we can go?”

[POOHEAD189]

As the men below began to debate on whether they should admit defeat and go gather reinforcements and archers, or to continue and try to regain their honor by climbing the precarious building, Amal tossed the rope down to the men to dangle in front of them. Up at the top, he took out his dagger and cut the rope's outer weaves, making it dangerously thin. "No, you fool!" Amal cried, feigning an argument with Emmaline. "You cannot give yourself up! They'll simply sell you into slavery!"

Motioning her to follow him as the men below began to bumble over one another, trying to grab the rope that would certainly break from their weight halfway up the climb, Amal opened a raggedly cut curtain that led into a small entryway, cutting through the edge of the ruined building to reach a thick scaffold that lay across this structure and the next. "Do not thank me yet, Imraah" he said, using the polite Arabyan nomenclature for woman. He held a hand out for her to take. "We'll celebrate once we make it back to the den."

The two traversed the scaffolding, Amal stalking over it as if he were born to the heights. The blonde woman seemed competent and dangerous, but those not used to such things glanced to the ground nervously. He heard her sigh audibly once they made it to the next building. With that, Amal unsheathed his curved blade once again and stuck it into a lock, immaculately carved into a stone with a flower at its base. With two simple twists, he opened the door that led into darkness.

Their journey went downwards until they were where Emmaline would be certain were the sewers, passing within catacombs where the moonlight shined only sparingly through the strange Arabyan archwindows, passiong pillars that led to even further below into unknown bodies of water. Even as barefoot as they were, the stones were smooth and soon she would see lit torches and huddled men. Some actively stared at them both, curled up within rags inside of strange chambers below ground. There were makeshift shanty houses within abandoned scaffolding and men who played strange games with finger bones. A large thug was pulling a body toward the sewer line, tossing the cadaver into the muck to sink within.

It seemed to last eternity, before Amal led the woman up rougher carved steps past the insence smoke, winding and winding until they were on a sudden plateau. A broken roof and a ladder lead upwards into an opening that brought them in a small, comfortable room with surprisingly expensive pillows and red curtains, though both were very aged and ragged after constant use over what was probably decades. The roof was only tangentially there, leaving nearly two quarters of the room exposed to the elements if not for the tarps Amal had likely placed above. The chamber looked attached to an abandoned building, and as Emmaline strode through, Amal tied up what looked to be a stone interwoven within a trip wire, smiling as if he relished what would happen if someone were foolish enough to trip whatever hidden trap he had laid.

Outside, Lashiek shone in the moonlight. It was a prison, but it was a gilded prison, the sloping towers and outset architecture pleasing to any eye. "Welcome to the Kawmat Alsamad," Amal said wryly. Emmaline would be able to translate that as "dung heap." Looking straight below the curtain, she could see why. The streets were covered in sand and muck, and there was even two corpses and a living man rifling through their belongings in the starlight. Every building looked in disrepair in some way.

"Impressive, I know," he said, falling atop a cushion with confidences, as if he was ruler of all of Araby. The scoundrel reached into his pack, taking out a grapefruit to toss to her. Along the cracks in the walls, Emmaline would see he used them as shelves, with dried beef, thieving tools, rope, and various fruits and nuts arrayed within easy reach. "What is more impressive was how you handled the Goldsmith and the guards. I thought all northerners had skulls thicker than an Ogre. It seems only the Satrap did, going after the wrong thief." Amal produced the gold he had stolen, letting the realization sink in to Emmaline. He tossed the bag onto one of the jutting wall cracks as he had a thousand times before. He retrieved another grapefruit for himself, cutting it open with his dagger and biting into it.

He had a devilishly handsome look to him, but he lacked manners and spoke as he ate. "I did not save you for that, however. I will not lie, I enjoy ruining the high-born's nights, but you also piqued my curiosity. You are running from something, and not because my doing. You may sleep here tonight, but before you do, tell me what a foreigner such as yourself is doing in stolen clothes in the City of Corsairs?" He watched her with eyes that glinted in the moonlight, and though he made no threatening moves toward her, nor seemed unfriendly, he said nothing as he measured what she would say next, his dagger still in his off-hand.

"You may have forgotten, but your Hammer-God does not live here."
@Penny

[Penny]

"I am certain his priests would assure me that Sigmar is everywhere," she responded ironically.

Emmaline sank gratefully onto one of the worn cushions. It had been a long and grueling day and her muscles felt like they were turning to water. Charmon still raged around her under the malign influence of the Chaos Moon and there was more than one scream or strange cry that carried to her ears alone. She knew that right now Araybian cults to the Dark Gods must be meeting and that strange and fell things might stalk the sandy wastes, but it seemed somehow less threatening without the tall ramparts of mighty forests closing in all around.

“Well, whatever your motives, I thank you,” she told the handsome stranger truthfully. Running through a strange city at night was an excellent way to get cornered and there was no guarantee she could have escaped the Satrap’s guards and while she might have used magic, she was less confident in her abilities after a year of disuse. Taking a plain knife from the top of a table she cut the grapefruit into four quarters, then sliced the half moon of pinkish red flesh away from one section and began popping sections into her mouth.

“My name is Emmaline Elspeth Von Morganstern,” she told her rescuer, the Arabic preamble clashing with the guttural consonants the Imperial name. She ignored his comment about all Imperials having thick skulls, particularly as the Imperial sterotype of all Araybians being unwashed thieves was being demonstrated at this very moment. During her apprenticeship she had seen the tools of this particular trade often enough to recognize them

The fruit was tart and delicious and the citrus burned her sinuses slightly. She finished one piece and began on the next, pondering whether there was any advantage into lying to her rescuer. Eventually she decided there was not.

“I was a slave to Emir Omar until this evening,” she admitted, wiping juice from her chin with the sleeve of her stolen garment.

“I killed him and fled his palace,” she went on, a slight smile crossing her lips at the feeling of his neck cracking beneath her silken garotte. She didn’t consider herself to be brave and tried to live her life by the maxim that she who fought and ran away, lived to run away another day, but a certain satisfaction was undeniable.

[POOHEAD189]

While there was a certain fluidity to his motions, Amal being rather debonair for an unwashed thief. But the slyness dissipated when she had spoken, his brows raising. "You killed the Emir?" he echoed, too stunned to speak in Riekspeil at the moment. Her admission and her smile set his heart racing. He stood up, and gave her an extravagant bow. He had learned to step correctly in order to mock the aristocracy, but in this case he was being sincere. "Forgive me, a woman has never told me something so beautiful."

Truth be told he was actually somewhat aroused, but he held himself in check. He might be an amoral thief, but he had once been a slave. Women were third class citizens in Araby more often then not, behind men and eunuchs. This woman had just been a slavery to a lecher for a year. It would be cruel to make an advance on her. He was simply happy to hear the news. Most men would kill to meet an Emir, but Amal would rather meet an Emir killer. He didn't enjoy murder, being a thief by trade rather than an assassin. But he made exceptions for Emirs, Sultans, and Satraps. If they didn't hire him, that is.

"The most I can boast of is stealing from a Satrap." He said with a wink. His eyes looked down as he remembered something. "I have killed an official of an Emir before." Crossing his strong arms, he shrugged. "He did not like me impersonating the son of his master. But his mistress had a jeweled necklace and I couldn't resist." It sounded unnecessarily low of him, and it was to an extent. But everyone with power in Araby had gained it through being ruthless. He had seen the official he'd killed cut off children's arms without hesitation, at the Emir (whom he had stolen from) behest.

With a sigh, he sat down on the pillow again and sank into it. "Now let's get some sleep. We have a lot of coin to spend tomorrow. Or I do."

---

The sun was bright and scorching, and the wind nipped at the nose and stung the eyes if one found themselves in a more deserted street. Even the milling crowds were used as protection against the elements. To Amal and Emmaline, however, it wasn't a problem. First, they stopped at a fabric shop where Amal bought Emmaline a hooded sari to hide her skin and her hair from prying eyes. Afterwards, Amal had gone straight to the bathhouse, Emmaline following close behind him through another low-way beneath the greater city. Amal had hopped up out of a faux sewer drain, and reached down to help her up before entering the bathhouse, named the Verdant Spring in Arabyan.

It wasn't particularly immaculate, but to Amal it was a luxury. He found himself lounging in a square pool of water within one curtained section of the steamed interior, sharing his bath with another guest. A dark skinned man named Bungalo (the name tattooed on his chest), so rotund that his stomach reaching the water had not yet begin to curve inward, giving him the look of a swelling ball. Various gold trinkets adorned his fat fingers, and his hair was tied in a braided, rythmic style Amal could never hope to match.

Emmaline had received her own private bath chamber, more to keep her hair color and eyes hidden than any modesty. Amal might be a wanted man in his daily life, but she stood out like a flower in the sand. The thief was focused on the moment, however. He relaxed, leaning back and his lower torso and legs soaked in the warm water. Amal lazily smoked a midwakh pipe filled with Dokha, giving him a very nice buzz and making him comfortably light headed. He had already washed his hair, turning it from a worn mane into lush, dark waves. Across the pool, Bungalo had three veiled women massaging his temples and shoulders. Their pantaloons clung to their legs, a slit at the side showing off their hips.

Amal envied the man, but not for what one might think. He would be too worried one of the women would steal from him. Bungalo was apparently powerful enough to where he needn't worry. He took a hit from the midwakh, smoking pouring out of his nostrils like a dragon. Letting out a grunt as he shifted, Amal reached up and felt his chin. He had a rough fuzz on his neck and lower face, the hot water on it feeling particularly nice. He grabbed the gold sack he held beneath the pit of his rested arm and dangled a gold piece, whistling for the girls to see. All three of them popped up to look at Amal, watching the gold coin and then looking to the young thief.

As one, they sauntered over to him, and he gave each a gold piece to give him a nice shave. His eyes stayed half open to keep his wits about him, but as their slender hands spread the cream on his chin and massaged his neck, he nearly fell asleep. Bungalo opened his eyes, seeing the women now on Amal, and the large man growled. His rumbling shook his belly, sending shudders across the water. Amal took it as him passing gas.

"Happens to the best of us," the thief said, his chin nearly free of the facial hair. Bungalo waved and gestured to someone unseen. The women's hands suddenly disappeared, and Amal felt his chin and clutched his coinpurse, to his surprise realizing they had neither stolen from him and they had given him a clean shave. Amal leaned his head back to see if the girls were still there, only to find he was looking up the towel of a large man. "Allah," he coughed, retching. Three more men appeared beside him, holding cruel axes and thick bladed knives.

"Stealing my women?" Bungalo said, his accent heavy. He had to have come from the Great Desert, at least in his thinner days. Judging by his physique he hadn't been a desert nomad since the time of Nagash. The men over Amal sneered and took a step forward. The one he had taken an uncomfortably close look at was a northerner whp wore a forked beard, nearly as jeweled as Bungalo's fingers. Amal backed away from the edge, holding up his hands, one of them holding his coinpurse.

"Bungalo please, here take what gold I have. I don't wish to fight."

"Fight!?" the man chuckled. "You are too much."

"Coming from you?" Amal retorted. Bungalo's eyes blazed once he took in the meaning. He slammed his meaty fist on the wooden edge. "Take his balls and his gold! He will work for me to pay off the debt of ruining my bath." Amal heard metal on metal behind him, and he took that as his cue. Instead of trying to flee by awkwardly trying to run out of the water, Amal dived into the scented pool. Bungalo tried to stand up, but his ogre-like girth kept him from even sitting up too quickly.

The thief, having used the side of the pool's steps to yank himself through the water, had launched himself across the pool over to Bungalo's side. The hefty man had placed his hands in the water to push himself up to rise, and when he pulled his right hand out of the water, it was devoid of rings or gold. A quick jerk caused Bungalo to stumble, and his henchmen saw Amal's head rise from behind Bungalo, his dagger slicing a neat line across the fat man's third chin. Eyes widening, Bungalo stumbled forward, before his leg buckled and he fell face first into the pool, the waves of water tossed out of the bath hampered his men from pursuing. One slipped and hit the ground hard, falling into the reddening water with his boss.

Emmaline's bath tarp would open for but a moment, and Amal, soaking and bare from the waist up and wrapped in a drenched towel spoke six words. "Meet me across the courtyard soon." Before he disappeared again, familiar cries of pursuit passing by her relatively quiet and serene bath chambers.

---

The back alley the woman entered was somewhat cool compared to what she would have expected, but then again she was still somewhat glistening from the bath. There was no sign of Amal as of yet.

Amal had given them the slip, and his roguish luck having not run out yet, he made it to the otherside of the marketplace and hastily bought a handsome, open vest with red trim to wear rather than the rags he had left behind, loose fitting pants coming with it. The older man in the Dastar didn't question why a naked man was buying clothes, knowing the bathhouse was across the way and that many unruly activities occurred within.

Now on the north side of the marketplace, Amal had snuck his way behind many of the fabric vendors to a very well known spot he frequented. His back pressed to the wall, he knelt down and picked up a broken shard of glass. To any passerby, it would look like debris. But it had been placed their for any thieves willing to speak to the most infamous broker in Lashiek, Salim Dalib. The rogue angled the glass shard thrice to flash the sunlight into the alleyway.

A conical basket within, set beside a dung heap, suddenly sprang to life. A man who was as short as most Dwarfs stood up from within, the top of the basket actuall his hat, a vast beehive like headdress of white fabric swirls. "Who comes to see the illustrious Salim Dalib?" he asked ceremoniously, his voice snake-like. Amal stepped into the alleyway, holding his hands out with a great smile. They both erupted into "My friend!" as they approached and embraced.

Salim Dalib laughed. "Aha, tis good to see you my fine young friend. Look at you! You look as clean as a Sultan! Do you plan on entertaining anyone tonight?" He asked with a suggestive wink. "If not, I can arrange it for you. I have a few girls who-"

Amal held up a hand. "Not exactly. I simply recently came into some money I thought I could use a change, but if you please we need to talk business. I am on a schedule." He raised an eyebrow and gestured, as if to say 'of course I am a busy man.' Salim nodded, smiling like a rat.

"Of course, of course!" he said, rubbing his scrawny hands together within his wide sleeves, eager to see what Amal had gotten with his wiles. "What do you have?" Amal reached into his pocket and presented the rings that had been on Bungalo, all gold and glinting. Salim Dalib's eyes bored into them with an infatuation, and he reached forward to grab, before hesitating. "These will fetch a high price. Except for one. May I?"

Amal allowed the broker to reach within and grab a trinket. A ring with the likeness of a grinning skull upon it. "The others will make you rich, my friend. But this? It is worthless. It's not even gold!" He held it up to Amal, quickly flashing it. "See the texture? Fool's gold! Worry not, I will take it off your hands." He pulled the ring back to place it in his pocket, but Amal was on him in a flash. Within the time it took for Salim Dalib's heart to beat, he was pressed against the wall with Amal's dagger to his throat, feet dangling in the air.

"You wouldn't be lying to me, would you?" Amal asked, staring right into the brokers eyes. Salim Dalib shook his head. "My friend, would I ever-" His neck was pricked by the dagger blade. "Ok, ok! Wait! Yes, I know what the ring is...Only Corsair Captain Lords may wear one! This is one that belonged to the Abyssal Skulls!" Vainly, Salim Dalib tried to squeeze out of Amal's grip, but the thief was too busy assessing what this meant.

He had killed a Corsair Lord.

Salim Dalib dropped to the ground, gasping. "W-Wait! Where do you go!? Amal!" But Amal had already vanished into the crowd, finding his way where he said he would meet Emmaline. The cloaked woman was there, blue eyes gazing out of the shadows of her hood as he approached. He looked a bit bewildered, and he pulled her closer by the arm to whisper. "I have decided I will leave the city. If you want to live, you should as well. I will travel with you on one condition...let us go by a land route."
@Penny

[Penny]

Emmaline felt clean for the first time since she had been dragged into Emir Omar’s bed chamber a year ago. Some dirt didn’t come off no matter how many rose scented baths you took. Idly she wondered if the Emir’s blood had been what made her feel clean again, realising such thoughts might verge on heretical she closed her eyes and allowed the hot water to relax her muscles and her mind. She was the only woman in the bath house and she had two servants to herself. The conservatively garbed women washed her hair and scrubbed her body with practiced care, whispering softly to each other in Arabic that she pretended not to understand. As her lecherous old master had told her, allowing people to underestimate you never failed to pay off. The conversation largely revolved around her golden hair and the petty jealousy the bath maids held for those who could afford to use their services so she tuned them out. She was so relaxed she might have fallen asleep when Amal suddenly stuck his head through the tarp that partitioned the bath, catching a full view of her naked body in the calm hot water. She had just enough time to gasp and attempt to cover herself with her hands before he told her to meet him outside and then vanished, followed by heavy footfalls and angry shouts.

“The rogue!” one of the dancing girls exclaimed, seeming outraged.

“A handsome rogue though,” the other responded with a titter. Emmaline rose from the bath, allowing the hot water to stream over her generous form for a moment before sticking her head out between the two pieces of tarp, careful to keep herself concealed. She caught the familiar whiff of blood on the air. Retracting her head she snatched up a towel and quickly began to dry herself off. The two attendants stepped to her and took over the job.

“Shall we brush your hair mistress?” the first one asked in halting Riekspiel in an abominable accent. Emmaline could only presume she had picked it up from passing sailors and Imperial merchants. She was about to refuse, when she realised that Amal obviously didn’t intend her to rush after him. Worse yet doing so might make her an accomplice in whatever mayhem he had just committed.

“Ja,” she ordered the serving girl, shaking her sodden hair away from her back and taking a seat on a carven three legged stool provided for the purpose. The girls began to brush her hair with a comb made of some kind of ivory and within a quarter hour it was shining with the full lustore of spun gold. The practice also gave her body time to dry in the hot desert air and by the time she had dressed in her sari she had almost forgotten about Amal’s sudden disappearance.

It was almost another half hour later when Amal returned to deliver his surprising offer. She had been on the verge of simply abandoning the thief, especially as a number of armed barefoot Arabyians had come in and out of the bath house, sailors judging by their calloused palms and rolling gates, and appeared to be growing increasingly agitated by something they found inside.

“I wish to travel to Copher,” she told him as they hurried away through a side alley. While she had intended to take a ship, it might well be a better choice to take the land route, though that meant weeks of travel across

“If you wish to come with me, I won't object, you are the only person I know in this Sigmar blighted country.”

“What is in Copher?” Amal asked. Emmaline gave him a side long look. Copher was the closest major city, but it was also a seat of learning and sorcerous knowledge. She wanted to consult the scholars there about the strange map she had taken from the Emir.

“When I…” she glanced around as they hurried down a narrow street, there were too many people for her to speak openly so she changed her words.

“When I did what I did, I also stole an ancient map that was on display,” she explained, opting for the truth as the simplest and most expidient choices.

“I want to ask a historian in Copher about it.”

“A map to what?” Amal asked, his eyes narrowing speculatively.

“Well if I knew, I wouldn’t need to consult anyone would I,” she replied tartly.

“I need to pick up a few things before we leave town,” she told him. Amal looked nervously over his shoulder.

“So long as its quick…”

The Street of Wonder was located on the southern side of the city, only a few blocks from where the ancient city walls sectioned of the desert with is limestone ramparts. In mid afternoon it was a busy place filled with sound and confusion. Students of various philosophers stood at opposing street corners, shouting insults and arguments back and forth at each other. Brightly dressed merchants cried the virtues of wares from a dozen kingdoms, promised miracles, offered immortality and various other such persuasions. There were even peddlers selling relics of lost Khemri, or so they claimed, as far as Emmaline could tell there was nothing on display that might not have as easily been a fake produced this very week.

There were more substantial shops also, some claiming to be the domains of wizards and seers. Emmaline could detect a spark of genuine magic in but a few and she angled quickly towards one located in a large white washed building. A sign hung out front depicting a stylized eye within a pyramid. The interior of the shop was dark and cool and smelled strongly of incense. Books lay piled in more or less random, many in languages Emmaline didn’t recognise. There were Khemrian papyri and even Cathayan writings all piled up without any rhyme nor reason she could detect. On the other side of the store stood a variety of oddly assorted items. Paws of some creature she didn't recognise, bundles of incense, and flasks and alchemical equipment. An exceedingly tall man hunched behind a counter in front of a wall filled with jars and bottles of unknown content. Amal glanced around suspiciously, Emmaline dearly hoped he was too smart to attempt to steal anything.

“Hexe,” the tall man said in an oddly serpentine voice, bowing from the waist to her.

“What can I do for you?” he asked in flawless Reikspiel. She reached into her pocket and drew out a handful of gold coins. The fellow smile grew broader.

A little while later Emmaline and Amal emerged from the store. In a leather backpack she now carried a large case filled with the basic tools of her trade. Alchemical equipment, ungents and ingredients, a small rod of magnetic gold, and a variety of ingredients that one rarely found in the wild. She had also purchased a tome on Charmon, as well as a lexicon for translating Khemri and the other ancient languages of the desert. It had cost most of her coin, but she hoped it would prove a worthy investment.

“Shall we be on our way?” she asked.

[POOHEAD189]

"Yes, lets." Amal replied.

It took them an hour or so to make it to the northern gate of the city, arriving just in time for the noonday Caravan to embark. It wasn't the most common thing for two travelers on foot to accompany one of the spice caravans, but it wasn't rare by any stretch either. Amal remembered when he was younger, when the mad Sultan Ibn Alfar had poisoned the water supply to a portion of the city to punish them for their transgressions. He had watched from the walls as hundreds of people had left the city in a great migration, the vultures encircling them before they had even left the horizon line.

They approached as a man with charred skin and a contrasting white beard tossed woven bags onto a cart, working contentedly before it was time to go. He had merely four left to stack on as the trumpet blared from the gate, signalling it was time to embark. Amal knelt down beside the trader, picking up the heavy sacks with more ease than the older man, helping him pack as the first merchants stepped onto the road.

"Thank you, my friend." The trader said, his smile warm from the help. "Is a fine day for travel, yes?"

"Yes yes," Amal agreed. "We were looking to travel with your troupe today. You could bear two more bodies?"

The trader lifted himself up and squinted at Emmaline, her hood covering all but her chin. She was just a cloaked woman with a bag that jingled and clacked as she stood, waiting for him to speak. "Yes, I do not mind..." he said finally. "You and your...?"

"My wife." Amal explained, sliding between them. "She has had a rough night. The sun hurts her eyes."

The man laughed. "She must be a foreign woman," he joked. "The sun never sleeps in Araby."

---

Amal juggled the balls one of the travelers had given him on a dare. So far, even with the cart bumping along the desert road, Amal had kept track with the five. He seemed entirely in a joking mood now that they were out of Lashiek, the city now gone from their sight, disappearing behind the heat haze of the winding path. Amal's smile and bright eyes made him seem far less dangerous than Emmaline would know him to be, and as he finished his trick, each ball fell into his awaiting hand, the hand simultaneously tossing them back to one of the women watching.

Amal and Emmaline shared the wagon with an older man, who looked to be the trader's brother, so alike were they in appearance, and two women, likely his daughter and wife. It was lucky there was room, as there were only a handful of wagons on the road. The rest of the goods were being transported atop Camels, the lumbering beasts bobbing up and down in their strange, two step fashion.

The next day was much the same, though Amal and Emmaline kept to themselves moreso than the previous, as they had begun to ask questions on who they were and why they sought to travel to Copher.

On this day they walked. Thirty miles away from Lashiek, with another seventy to go before they reached Copher.
@Penny

[Penny]

They traveled steadily west under the cool evening sky. The heat of the Araybian sun was such that no one traveled by day if they could manage it. As the days passed and Lashiek sank behind them Emmaline gradually felt the tension lift from her. If Emir Omar’s heirs were looking for her, she had clearly slipped the city before they were able to organise a search. Perhaps a caravan had simply been too unorthodox a choice to bear watching, or perhaps the heirs were more interested in fighting over their father's inheritance than in tracking down the slave girl who had slain him.

She attracted more than her fair shair of looks from the caravans various denizens. Her pale skin and eyes would have been obvious even if her blond hair did not give her away as a foreigner. At least Amal’s assertion that she was his wife kept anyone from getting too curious. The thief had the look of a bad man to cross, especially if you planned on sleeping at any point. She kept her books and equipment in her pack, though she was eager read them, she didn’t want to raise any more suspicion than she had too. Wizards were more tolerated in Araby than was the case in the Empire but it wasn't a cultural difference she was keen to explore.

Amal had been vague about his sudden decision to leave Lashiek but his frequent glances over his shoulder told her that he was even more concerned about pursuit than she was. Whatever had happened in the bath house had clearly left him spooked, but she hadn’t chosen to press him on the topic. They had talked surprisingly little, pretending to be husband and wife meant that they both, in theory already knew each other and both of their minds were occupied with the possibility of pursuit.

“It is a still night,” Emmaline observed, pulling her shawl closely about her as they made their way through a shallow defile. The landscape around them grew craggy as they moved westward, while they were not far from the coast the inland mountains ran down to the sea and to a treacherous series of reefs and shoals beyond. The camels seemed more restive than usual as they picked their way across the broken ground. A sudden scream split the night and a caravan guard toppled to the ground clawing at an arrow in his belly. Another thwacked into the wooden bench on which Emmaline was sitting. A half dozen more arced through the air, one striking a camel which screamed and bolted. The caravan drivers tried to stir their beasts to a sprint but already horseman could be seen riding across the skyline at the far end of the defile.

“AaiiiiIe!” came a great shout and a dozen shabbily dressed bandits leaped from the low scrub and rushed forward,the archers too, having lossed their missiles, burst into view as they rushed down the shallow walls of the defile. Steel rang against steel and sparks flew where scimitars clashed as the caravan guards tried to give battle. Emmaline looked around wildly only to spot more bandits coming down from behind them. One of the bandits leaped onto the wagon. Emmaline managed to shrieked and dodged as his scimitar bit into the timber she had just vacated. She punched at his head but he caught her wrist and grinned at her with hideous blackened teeth as he drew back his blade. The panicked Imperial shrieked a word in the arcane tongue and the bandit shrieked and dropped his sword, his hand was blackened and smoking and his filthy sleeve was on fire. Emmaline snatched up the sword that her spell had momentarily imbued with the heat of its forging, now cool to her hand, and hacked inexpertly at the screaming bandit. The heavy blade bit into the flesh between neck and collarbone with a sound like a cleaver severing a joint of beef. Bright arterial blood sparkled in the moonlight as the bandit tumbled out of the wagon. The blade hung and the unexpected jolt yanked Emmaline off balance. She made a desperate grab for the edge of the wagon but toppled out after the bandit landing on her rear with a thump in the rocky sand.

[POOHEAD189]

More bandits streamed in from the hills, swords in the air as they screamed into the night. It was difficult to decipher where the arrows came from in the darkness, but a lone arrow still scythed by every few seconds despite the raiders now in the midst of attacking the caravan in melee. Amal grabbed a rope from the cart, uncoiling it until he had about 10 feet of rope to play with. He was a passable swordsman, and he was no slouch to combat, but he had never had formal training. In the middle of a maelstrom of swordsmen when he had naught but his dagger? He trusted his wiles and his agility.

Tying the end of the rope in a thick, mace-like knot, he twirled it above his head, standing atop the cart as the scene unfolded before him. Like a viper, he lashed out at a swordsman with his back turned. The weighted head of the rope coiling about his neck, Amal yanking the rope back and ripping the bandit off his feet. The man gagged and clawed at the rope as he was dragged behind the cart for Amal to finish him with a quick dagger thrust.

A cry from the north had him raise his head, and he watched in surprise and horror as Emmaline performed what had to be sorcery! It seemed she hadn't told him everything. Not that he blamed her, being a liar himself. Watching, she hit the ground with an 'oof' and dust lifted into the air, nearly obscuring the dervish with a shamshir running at Emmaline from behind. Amal leaped, sand flying as he landed behind Emmaline. He grabbed her arms and yanked her back as the shamshir struck the ground she had been on not a moment before.

"Worm!" the bandit snarled.

"Dead man," Amal promised, stepping over Emmaline. He nearly lost his innards as the man cut across Amal's midsection, but the nimble thief shifted his hips to dodge, ducking the next swing and stepping forward into the third to disembowel the bandit. By the way he jerked, Emmaline could see Amal's cuts were not clean and quick, probably on purpose. He dropped his shamshir into the sand, and fell unmoving into death.

Amal knelt down to pick up the sword, weighing it in his hands. "I would offer this one to you, but I see you have one." He observed with a dark humor. Behind him, the bandits were cutting through all but the guardsmen, who wouldn't last much longer. The screaming daughter of the merchant was dragged back into the waiting loins of the hungry bandits, and another trader was beheaded without ceremony, the head flying into the dirt.

The rare camel riding bandit chased down those who tried to flee into the desert. All but one, who saw that among Amal and Emmaline, three of his comrades had lost their lives. His head was covered by a dark turban, and his unclad upperbody was herculean. Amal looked at his shamshir, then to his dagger, wondering what to do as the man rode towards them. Perhaps wait for Emmaline to obliterate him with a spell? No, he couldn't count on it.

Oh.

The Camel brayed and loped forward, nearly at the speed of an Arabnyan horse. It was too bad Amal picked up the head of the trader and chucked it at the dark mamluk, striking him in the face. He flipped backwards, off the beast which suddenly slowed. The thief sprinted to the side where the Camel trotted to, grabbing its reins with a snort and a huff. He grinned and gave a hand to Emmaline, helping her up atop the hump before he vaulted up behind her.

"Get them!"

"I will take your tongue!"

The world now far taller to both of them, Amal slapped the reins and sent the camel gallopping towards the hills, north of where the bandits originated. They needed to make good speed, but the other camel riders were busy and with luck they would lose them. Emmaline looked back as the last vestiges of the caravan was cut down. "Ugh, why do they always wish to cut out your tongue?" She asked.

Amal gave her a wink as she looked to him. "I cannot speak for the rest of Araby, but they often wish for my tongue out of jealousy." He remarked with a suggestive eyebrow.
@Penny

[Penny]

They raced off into the rocky hills, the camel scrabbling up the shallow slopes at the best speed the beast could manage. A few arrows sped in their direction but the range was too long and they fell short. While the other camel riders might have ridden them down, burdened only by one rider, few of the bandits seemed inclined to miss out on their share of loot in the caravan in order to chase after the fleeing fugitives. Emmaline herself might have fetched a fine price at the slave market but few of the bandits had gotten a look at her and the certainty of wealth now was worth more than the possibility of wealth later, particularly if this meant haring off into the desert.

The sounds of the dying caravan faded as they exited the valley and raced across the rocky desert towards the east. Bitterly Emmaline realised that her alchemical supplies and her books, both purchased and considerable expense had been left behind in the confusion.

“May Ranald rot their cocks,” she muttered through gritted teeth. Amal glanced at her with an arched eyebrow. Given the fact that curse words were among the first most people learned he likely understood the last part of the sentence.

“Ranald is the God of Thieves,” she explained tersely. Amal nodded his understanding and allowed the camel, already huffing with exhaustion to slow. The eastern sky was already beginning to lighten with the coming of dawn and the brutal heat of the day. Under ordinary circumstances people would seek cover from the sun, but at least for the moment they needed to open the distance between themselves and the bandits. They pushed on for another hour or so into the blistering sunrise before they came to another shallow canyon. The camel, not the healthiest beast, was already blowing hard and quivering with the strain. In the distance lay the shadow of a shallow canyon.

“We are still days from Coppher,” Emmaline observed, “With no water and no food. We should take shelter.”

Amal glanced back over his shoulder, looking for signs of pursuit from the bandits, but there was nothing in sight. They could at least hope that their enemies were not following.

“If we don’t let the camel rest we will be walking before too long,” she observed.

“By Allah, alright!” Amal agreed and guided the camel into the ravine. The temperature dropped almost immediately as the canyon walls blocked the blistering sun.

“What is that?” Emmaline asked pointing towards what appeared to be an ancient stone doorway carved into one of the canyons small branches.

[POOHEAD189]

The Camel's hooves padded against the soft sand as they approached what Emmaline had spotted. She had fine eyes, Amal observed. It looked little more than an impression in the wall, though he could tell it was a door, being a thief accustomed to finding entrances and exits. The boulder at their back left looked like it was ever bursting out of the ground, and after a moment Amal noticed it wasn't the sand flowing that did it. It looked as if it had been speared into the ground many years ago, and the rock around the door having eroded by water or sandfall.

Speaking of, there was a small area in the rock to their right that seemed to perpetually leak a stream of sand. The small grains filtered into what looked to be a hole that led deep underground.

"Help me off," Emmaline said. Amal obliged, smirking at her curt manner as he eased her down to the ground. Amal hopped off with her, keeping the reins of the Camel close. They would be dead without the beast, or close to it. He reached into the straps on the saddle and pulled out the Shamshir he had taken, just in case. Emmaline meanwhile ran her hands over the strange doorway, trying to find a way to open it.

"This could be an old tomb," she reasoned.

"Or the bandits hideout, and it could be an unwitting trap." Amal replied, but he doubted it. There were no tracks leading here, and the bandits would likely have guards posted. Guiding the Camel, Amal approached the beautiful woman as she knelt down to take a handful of sand in her palm. She seemed to have deliberated a bit, before intoning words he had never heard before, waving her free hand above her outstretched palm as the sand began to gleam.

Taking in a deep breath, she blew upon her palm, and the grains of sand brushed into the stone. Suddenly, glyphs and runes, crimson as the sun flared. The Camel grunted and reared back as Amal watched in fear and awe as the likeness of a cobra surrounded the strange archaric writings. Even Emmaline seemed disturbed, and she hopped back to absent-mindedly clutch Amal's arm for a moment, though she never looked away from the door, as if daring it to harm her.

"What does it say?" She asked. Amal laughed, surprised. "You don't know? I thought you knew Arabyan."

"I do, that is not Arabyan." the blonde woman said. "Or not any I am familiar with."

Amal nodded, realizing his bravado at recognizing some of it while she didn't, caught him off guard. "I cannot read all of it, but when I was younger, my master had a mistress...She studied ancient scriptures of Nehekara, and I would see things she had read or written. She would perform these rituals..."

He shook his head, clearly trying to forget a morbid memory. The thief pointed at a symbol. "Asaph, Goddess of beauty, magic, and snakes." He said, and then he pointed at another two. "Tomb...Sanctuary..." His voice carried in the air as the wind suddenly died down, and suddenly both of them realized the sand that had been flowing had run out, and the stone doorway slid upwards as the rock foundations rumbled.
@Penny

[Penny]

Emmaline swallowed as the ground rumbled and the doorway to the tomb, or sanctuary or whatever it was slid open. Dust puffed from the opening and she pulled her veil over her eyes to shield them from the grit. She could sense ancient magics deep within the tomb, like distant rains through the forest of the Riekwald. She was unsure whether her spell, or Amal speaking the name of Asaph had caused the change but it seemed to her that the best thing to do was to leave and quickly. She turned to say as much to Amal when the sound of men shouting reached her ears. Glancing back along the canyon she saw men, probably bandits, on camelback silhouetted against the horizon. The rising sun was full in their faces and it would take them a few seconds to notice the interlopers.

“In!” she snapped grabbing the camel by the reigns and pulling it towards the door,” the beast whickered and struggled until Amal touched his hand to its face and it relented allowing itself to be lead between the stone lintels. The interior of the tomb was cool with the smell of ancient decay heavy on the air. Impressive panels framed a long hallway, carvings of strange pictorial designs covered the walls, snakes featured heavily in the iconography, leading some credence to Amal’s assertions about the Goddess. At the end of the corridor large carven columns flanked the entryway to a chamber. It was perhaps twenty feet wide and thirty feet deep. Decorative pots and vases lined the walls, some of them sealed with ancient dust covered wax. In the center of room was a sunken rectangle from which more columns rose. Emmaline guessed that it might once have been a pool, but it was long dried up now so the carefully fitted limestone blocks on the bottom were easily visible. A statue, ten feet high stood at the far end of the chamber, though in the dark it was hard to make out the details. They had no torches or lanterns so Emmaline took a gold piece from her purse and lifted it into the air, whispering an incantation as she did so. The gold Arabyian coin began to glow, casting a soft golden light through the chamber, throwing the carvings into sharp relief. The statue was of a beautiful woman, though from the waste down she appeared to be a serpent with her tail coiled around her body. Emeralds the size of Emmaline’s fists glinted in the statues eye sockets and the scales appeared to be carved not of sandstone, as the rest of the statue was, but of overlapping plates of jade. An altar of simple stone stood at the foot of the statue.

“I don’t see any other way out,” Emmaline fretted. It was certain that the brigands would spot the entrance to the subterranean structure as certainly as they had, and probably would investigate. While they might hope for the element of surprise she was far from certain that she and Amal could overcome a half dozen battle hardened cut throats, certainly if the bandits had supplies they could wait them out. She peered at the strange hieroglyphics on the walls but without the lexicon she had purchased they remained impenetrable to her other than the frequent repetition of the name Asaph.

[POOHEAD189]

Amal was no stranger to tombs. He had plundered them before, back when there had been a city wide search for him in Al-Hiekk. But most of them had open entrances one could find if they were clever enough, and whenever he found himself against something otherworldly, he had the good sense to flee from whence he came. That caution, however, fled when he saw the emeralds the size of small apples embedded in the beautiful woman's eyes.

Emmaline saw the hunger in Amal's eyes after a moment, and shook her head emphatically. The thief had looked as if he was about to scale the statue and pry them out with his dagger. The thought had certainly crossed his mind...

"You're right," he sighed, clearly annoyed at the misfortune of seeing a jewel he couldn't take. There would have to be consequences, yes? That was how all of the tales worked. There was also the small detail Amal, and Emmaline likely, knew of. Asaph was also the goddess of vengeance. Amal had enough bad luck at the moment. He wouldn't stir the wrath of an ancient pagan deity. Not without good cause at least, he thought as he gazed at the emeralds.

"Is there no way to close the entrance to outsiders?" Amal asked, hoping they could at least protect themselves from the bandits. His lovely companion shook her head, explaining that even if there was, there was no gauruntee of opening it again later. Amal cursed in Arabyan, and decided he needed to be pragmatic in a different way. If they couldn't escape readily, they might as well start to get in Asaph's good graces.

He nimbly leaped over the sunken pool, Emmaline watching as he casually made a jump most men would be fearful of. Landing easily, he made his way over to the simple stone altar, a square with the carving of a Cobra on its head. Amal tried to press down on it, but there was no pressure point under it. After a moment, he decided to beseech Asaph, giving a prayer to the Goddess with a dramatic air so as to draw her attention.

Nothing happened as he invoked her name, Emmaline approaching with her lit coin to provide light on if they missed anything. The stone around the large, odd statue looked as if it might be a door, perhaps. But it still looked solid enough to not budge, and Amal felt it was fruitless. "We are getting nowhere with this. We-..." he stopped, his eyes falling onto the coin. Inching his hand forward, he asked Emmaline. "May I?"

Questionably, she gave him the coin. He gingerly let it drop onto his palm, gripping it so the entire chamber was now pitch black. Whispering, he invoked her name once more, and opening his palm to bathe the room in light again, he dropped it atop the central altar. There was a loud thud, as if the coin weighed ten times it's normal amount, and the light was sucked out of the coin instantly. Amal stepped back, guarding Emmaline until the emerald of the statue shined like beacons in the darkness, lighting the entire room up.

As the room was filled with light, eerily there was now clear, pristine water in the pool they had passed. Amal shrugged, giving Emmaline a handsome smile. "I think all she needed was a little magic." he explained, but the moment of debonairness dissipated as a shout was heard down the corridor, and something heavy dropped against stone. They needed to act, and quickly. As the northern woman said, there was no way out. What to do...

Amal grabbed the rope he had kept coiled around his arm. "Pray to your Sigmah, or whoever it is. Your Renald? Either way." He remarked, and tossed a length of the rope around one of the pillars, having the majority of the rope clinging to his midsection. "Tie yourself to me and hold onto me."

"What?"

"Do it, golden one!" he snapped, referring to her hair. She did so immediately, realizing he had a plan that would likely help keep them alive, though it seemed like a longshot in such dire straits. Once she was tightly pressed to him, he began to climb the snake-like pillar, using the rope to help keep him steady and to use the friction to keep them stable. Up and up Amal went, his hard muscles like marble beneath Emmaline's hands.

"Do you know what you're doing?" She asked.

"If I know thieves," Amal whispered. "And I do. These men will not be able to help themselves..." As the scene below unfolded.
@Penny

[Penny]

“Come out come out where ever you hide!,” a brutish voice called as torchlight cast harsh shadows down the entrance passage. Emmaline opened her mouth to scream but Amal’s hand clamped over her mouth. A moment later a brutal looking bandit with an eye patch stepped into the chamber below them. In one hand he clutched a scimitar and in the other a burning torch. The camel they had led into the chamber snorted nervously as several more bandits spilled into the room.

“Hand her over boy, we will give you some of the gold we sell her for and let you keep your balls,” the bandit went on in a wheedling tone.

“By Allah’s beard,” one of his underlings exclaimed as torch light played across the facets of the emeralds in the statues eyes, making them glint and shimmer. There was a collective intake of breath as the bandits realised the value of the stones and then a general disorganized rush towards the statue.

“We should run,” Emmaline whispered urgently as the boot falls of the freebooters covered her words.

“There might be more outside,” Amal conseled, “let us wait a moment more.”

The bandits realised the stones were too high to reach and began dragging one of the heavy ceramic amphorae closer to the statue to use as a step. As the lip of it bumped the statue Emmaline felt a stirring of magic both ancient and powerful.

“Let us go,” Amal hissed urgently, but Emmaline couldn’t move, only stare transfixed at the unfolding scene. The one eyed bandit climbed up onto the amphora and, at full extension pressed his knife into the statues eye socket, preparatory to removing it. There was a sudden howling wind that seemed to carry with it not only the dry heat of the desert but the distant and perfumed reek of southern jungles. An arm burst from the statue in a shower of rock dust and seized the bandit by the neck. Emmaline realised in horrified fascination that it wasn’t an arm inside the statue, it was the statue itself, cracks ran down the limestone facing and the avatar of Asaph stepped free. The things body was composed of carved ivory and gold above the waist and interlocking plates of jade to form its serpentine lower quarters. The bandits fled screaming before the avatar but Asaph, it seemed, was no merciful goddess. The avatar crushed the bandit in her grip with a negligent gesture, the tomb echoing with the crack of the man's ribs before pitching like a missile at the remainder, driving them to a ground in a sprawl. With a seductive swish of her hips that echoed mesmerizingly through her tail she closed the distance and fell on the survivors, each hand jerking a long silvery blade from what had appeared to be carven sheaths.