[IC] Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

[Penny]

Emmaline lifted her face from Amal's lap as the rug settled onto the grassy hillside. Sir Brenly hopped from the carpet with evident relief, nearly tripping in the ankle length grass of the stony hillside. Emmaline stepped off somewhat more gracefully as the rug settled to the ground in what they had come to recognize as exhaustion. The elegant decant was somewhat spoiled by the assemblage of small twigs and leaves that had tangled in her hair and the sudden gust of wind that momentarily lifted the tails of her stolen silk shirt up around her waist. Fortunately Sir Brenly was still scanning the nearby treeline for any sign of imminent giant attack, a reasonable concern as far Emmaline was concerned.

"Do you have any idea where we are Sir Brenly?" Emmaline asked as Amal rolled up the carpet. The knight turned and started to see that Emmaline was holding her staff in her hand.

"Where in the name of the Lady were you hiding that?" the knight demanded incredulously, having spent the past several hours watching her unconscious body. Emmaline shrugged uncomfortably, explaining about her strange connection with a foreign Goddess and the staff she had found in forgotten shrine in the Arabyian desert, especially when she didn't understand it herself. Sir Brenly regarded her for a moment then seemed to put it down to yet another oddity with the two foreigners. Like most inhabitants of the Old World the Knight had exaggerated ideas about the capabilities of wizards. Emmaline had learned early on in her career of scamming the gullible that almost no claim was so outlandish as to be completely dismissed.

"I'm afraid I do know My Lady," the knight said with an axious glance back at the trees.

"I'm old enough to remember the last Errantry War, and unless I am very much mistaken..." the knight paused and sighed mournfully.

"Unless I am very much mistaken, we are in Albion."

[POOHEAD189]

"Albion?..." Amal echoed, clearly at a loss as to what land that was. Never having formal education would do that to someone. Luckily for the moment the rain had subsided, but Amal had a feeling it would come back momentarily. Hopefully the Giant didn't follow in its wake. That thing had been as large as the statues overlooking the Pyramid of Settra the Imperishable. Amal had seen an Ogre once or twice on the market-coasts of Araby, not to mention the one they had stumbled upon when he had first met Emmaline, and those brutes likely reached only that thing's knee!

"It's an island," Emmaline explained once she regained her composure. The confirmation of where they were had shocked her for a brief moment. "Large enough to be a small country, off the coast of the Empire. I think it's below Norsca though?"

"Close enough, my lady." Sir Brenly said, stalking over to them. He stepped lightly for one so stout and old. Satisfied the giant wouldn't return, he seemed now afraid of ghosts or an imagined threat looming all around them. "Tis a land of savage men and Orcs, and a haunt of...well giants. There might be more giants here than even the Drakwald, I dare say!"

"The what?" Amal asked incredulously. "I am sorry, but your northern lands are very strange and foreign to me. Lustria was more homey than here."

"The Drakwald is a big forest. I had the privilege of escorting the Queen to Middenhiem on a diplomatic mission in my youth." He explained, blushing slightly at what must have been a good memory. Their small reverie was interrupted by a sound of stamping hooves not a dozen meters away, the sound having been muted from the boggy, moist earth. A horse whinnied loudly and four horsemen made it over a crest of land past the nearest copse of trees.

The men looked savage, but there was intelligence in their eyes. Despite the cold they had bare torsos save for wolfskin pelts that clung to their heads and backs. Odd tattoos in blue marked their face, arms, and chest, and the tattoos danced rhythmically as the horses trotted. They each bore spears and shields, with leaf shaped broadswords sheathed at their sides. One of the men cried "Airm réidh!" and the spears were leveled at the three foreigners. Luckily the carpet had rolled itself up onto the ground.

"Och! Who the bloody 'ell are you and wha' are ye doin' 'ere?"
@Penny

[Penny]

Emmaline exchanged glances with Amal as the savage looking horsemen approached. The craftsmen ship on their weapons and saddlery was crude but looked effective. The fact the men spoke Riekspiel in addition to what was apparently their native dialect meant they must have come into contact with the men of the Empire at some point and that buoyed Emmaline's spirits considerably.

"We were ship wrecked," Emmaline called to them, I am Emmaline and these are my friends Amal and ... Brenly," she said, omitting his knighthood after a slight hesitation. She didn't know what an Errantry War was, but if Brettonian's were enemies of these people there was little point in drawing attention to it.

"Shipwrecked? How did you climb the cliffs?" the leader asked suspicously.

"We came ashore..." Emmaline made a vauge guesture but all directions were essentially the same with the fog and the trees.

"That way somewhere? We wandered after that, we don't have any notion of where we are," she explained. The leader said something in his own language and his companions roared with laughter. Though she couldn't understand the jest Emmaline's face colored slightly.

"You will come with us, you will be in a giants belly before morning if you are out here when the sun goes down," the leader pronounced patting his horse. Emmaline exchanged looks with her companions and then climbed up into the saddle, sitting forward of the leader so she could grip the horses neck with her arms. Her companions did the same with the other horsemen and a moment later they were cantering off the grassland and onto a well worn trail into the woods.

"Best to be behind warding stones before the sun goes down," the leader said, seemingly watching in all directions as they rode.

[POOHEAD189]

The three of them were escorted northeast out of the forest bog and passed a land of fens, finding ground along encroaching low hills where rocks dotted the ground ubiquitously. Amal was so used to sand, it was difficult for him to tell one green from another, but after a long time of riding he found to his susprise they were on a beaten trail leading up into the hills, where another wooded area grew. Across their path they passed a cairn of piled stones, with a strange magical symbol writ in blood on its face.

"Are those the waystones?" Brenly asked, on his haunches at the sight of it.

"Noo, these are th' restin' places of oor dead." The lead woad raider answered. "The waystones are no' close to ar village, but we live behind the line of one. I cannae tell ye moor. Ahm no' supposed tae know such things. The truthsayers are the ones we speak tae."

A fog had fallen over them once more and behind them Amal could hear rain, but it soon disappeared to his relief. It didn't seem to be chasing them, or it seemed to have been but gave up once they passed the cairns. The thought was not pleasing to him, as if the very rain had a mind of its own. He still felt some relief, as he couldn't handle such cold much longer. He couldn't understand how these men, if they truly were men, could ride upon a horse shirtless among such chill and wet.

A palisade wall of well carved timber rose before them over the next rise, the fog giving way to reveal the large village that lay across a rough, green plateau amid the rolling landscape. Gnarled trees clung together in copses without and within the wall and a small moat had been dug around the entire perimeter save the entrance walkway. The lead rider barked a command in his tongue, raising his spear and the two large timber doors swung open for the scouts.

"If the stones keep giants out, why do you build walls?" Amal asked. It was a sensible question but truthfully he never did like being enclosed in anywhere.

"They keep th' giants oot aye. But no' the greenskins, or other clans fer tha' matter, ye ken?" The horseman in front of him said.

The group cantered into the rustic village, an utterly alien place to Amal but something somewhat like what Emmaline might have seen before in poor Imperial villages. Children played or clung to their mother's skirts as the women walked along with baskets on their heads filled with fruit or vegetables. Some women chatted among themselves and their husbands or brothers chopped wood or fixed roofs that looked in disrepair. Looking further, it did differ from the Empire manner in a plethora of ways. Various stones were dotted about, and they along with the sides of homes had weird symbols of nature and trees, entwined in a way where Amal couldn't tell where the symbol began or ended. Very few homes were made of timber in any fashion that resembled your average house. Most homes were low huts of stone, their roofs skinned branches and hay and clay mixed together. Warriors similar to the horsemen watched them warily, armed with stone clubs and spears with heads of brittle iron.

The villagers watched with open curiosity and some didn't hide their distrust. Amal had never seen so many pale people. Perhaps that was what happened when there was little to no sun, or maybe it was because of how wet the land was. Either way, they seemed even more fascinated with him. He hoped they didn't see his skin as a sorcerous sign of corruption. A few women of red and blonde hair boldly admired him, smiling slyly and smoothing their wool skirts.

A flap was shoved away from a hut across the center of town and out strode a large man, red bearded and adorned with a strange skirt-robe of red, green, and brown colors. Behind his back, a massive axe was strapped to him. He had a bulbous nose that grew even wider when he scrutinized the newcomers, who had just dismounted with the riders.

"Laird Mcdougal..." A rider said.

"Who 'ave ye brought 'ere Douglas? Ye do remember we're in the midst of a bloody invasion, aye!?"
@Penny

[Penny]

“Who’d bloody heel are yae?” the pugnacious looking man, apparent Laird McDougal, demanded without waiting for his underling to answer. He was a well muscled man, ruddy and vital looking despite the fact he looked to be in his forties.

“We were shipwrecked,” Emmaline explained and McDougal’s head swiveld to her, clearly surprised that she had spoken.

“Ah lassie among ye too I see,” he said, giving her a deliberate glance up and down. Though he was clearly noting her sex, it seemed more like the kind of glance a herdsman gives a promising looking cow.

“M’perial’s by the sound of ya,” he noted. Emmaline decided that exact geographic distinctions were unimportant and nodded.

“Yes I’m from Altdorf,” she said, nodding her had.

“Whaeva the bloody heel that is,” McDougal grumped. He made a dismissive gesture with his hand and the riders melted away to their own business, some dismounting and leading their horses into low stables built as lean-tos against the side of their rude houses.

“I take it from the fact that you speak Reikspiel that you have met other Imperials, is there somewhere we can find a ship?” she asked hopefully. Emmalne had heard only vague rumors of Albion, and what little she had heard was both lurid and unpleasant.

“Oh aye, they show up every year to cheat us with trinkets and baubles,” McDougal said. He sounded disgusted, but Emmaline was forming the opinion that he always sounded disgusted.

“They maeke good steel I gran ya,” he conceded, patting the battle axe slung over his shoulder. Even an indifferent alchemist like Emmaline could tell that the axe was not made of good steel. It was little more than pig iron with far too much coke added, brittle and likely to shatter. No soldier of the Empire would be comfortable with such a shoddy weapon but there seemed little reason to contradict the man and it was likely far better than anything locally produced.

“So we could find a ship?” Emmaline pressed. McDougal shook his head and a calculating look and sly smile seemed to cross his face for an instant before it returned to its normal scowl of disapproval.

“Nay lassie, the fancy men dinae show themselves till the season turns, and any ships will be scared off by the greenskin invasion fleet dinna you ken.”

[POOHEAD189]

"Greenskin invasion!?" Sir Brenly ejaculated, reaching for what was a nonexistent sword at his side. When he found no blade, he became even grumpier. "The riders never told us that! They just said you might seen some."

"Oh aye, they're no strangers tae the land." Laird McDougal replied, crossing his hairy arms. "We've had Orcs and wee gobbos fer generations in the southern ends o' the isle. But sometimes they explode in number and ferocity, and even intelligence every few decades. I remember my gran told me aboot such a time back in their dey."

"Give me some good steel and a steed to ride and I'll fight the bastards." the Elder boasted, trying to raise himself up. Perhaps he was tall once, but age had shrunken him down considerably. "I am a Knight!"

"Night? But its dey," one of the Woad Raider interjected.

As the elder began to lecture the Albion-man on the ranking of Knight, Amal and Emmaline began to speak earnestly with Douglas and Laird McDougal. Apparently this clan had more contact than most with the Empire, and all of the other clans were even more primitive, lead by leaders called Chiefs rather than Lairds. He was still technically a chief himself, but insisted on Laird to better trade with the land across the channel. After a fair conversation where the Laird told them he would take them to the Truthsayer the next day, Emmaline pointed out that she was still barely wearing anything and she and Amal were very cold. McDougal gave them entry into one of two normal looking wooden cottages where southern merchants or mercenaries stayed when they arrived as guests.

Emmaline went over to start a fire in the fireplace with a quick spark of her magic, and once she finished she would see Amal hugging the wall of timber, glancing out into the village suspiciously. He even had an Albion-style dirk in his hand, though where he got it, it was impossible to say. He looked very much like how he was when she first met him, sly and dangerous to everyone around the woman except Emmaline herself. If anyone burst through the door just now, they would be dead within a moment through sheer muscle memory, borne of years on the harsh city streets of Al-Hiekk.

"Glad for the warmth, but I feel like I'm in one of those ships again." He breathed in Arabyan, knocking one hand on the wooden wall. He decided to turn it into a joke though, grinning at her. "Here's hoping we don't crash yes?"
@Penny

[Penny]

“I think the term is wreck,” Emmaline pointed out pedantically, leaning close to the smokey fire to warm her hands. The fuel of choice seemed to be peat rather than wood and neatly chopped cubes were piled in one of the corners of the hut. There was considerable relief to be had in the mere presence of men even if they were of a wild and strange sort but while she was relieved to be free of the murderous elves, being stuck in another distant land did not fill her with enthusiasm.

“Cam git ye in a dris tha tae not make ye look li’ a whorr,” declared a fearsome looking woman whose pudgy jowls shook to emphasise her evident disapproval. She wore a grey dress that was a few sizes too small and stained with smoke and cooking grease besides, giving her the aspect of an ornery boar.

“I’m sorry what?” Emmaline asked, completely defeated by the heavy accent.

“Cam wit mae,” the woman declared, seizing Emmaline by the elbow and dragging her bodily from the hut. The hut across the seat was of a better sort, still a hovel by civilized standards but tidy and well kept. A pair of girls, younger and slimmer but of unfortunate resemblance to their mother stood gawping slack jawed.

“Lits ga ye in tae a dacent driss,” the woman declared unintelligibly and reached to take off Emmaline’s silken shirt.

“Get your hands off me,” Emmaline snapped, swatting the woman’s meaty paw away from her. The shirt of elven silk was the only thing she owned in the world other than her staff and she was unwilling to be parted with it. The woman glowered at her and seemed to consider forcing the issue.

“Ah wael sate yeaself, ba yae be putin on a draes,” the woman glowered and then picked up one of the dresses of grey homespun wool and all but hurling it at Emmaline. The alchemist snatched it out of the air and regarded it with distaste for a moment before pulling the garment on over her silk. The weave was scratchy and it smelled faintly of mold but she had to admit it was warm.

“There are you happy?” she asked the woman.

“Ael be happy wheen ye and ya sae traesh be gain,” the woman declared truculently.

“Ahhh… well the same to you I guess,” Emmaline returned, completely at sea as to what the woman was on about before retreating into the street. It was fully dark now and watch fires were burning in concave copper sheets attop the parapet. Emmaline couldn’t imagine that was much help, especially given that the omnipresent fog had shown no signs of lifting, but she imagined the clansmen knew their business. She crossed the street to the original hut and stepped inside only to find Amal gone.

“Now what?” she asked the empty hut irritably, she couldn’t imagine there was anything in this dung heap worth stealing.

[POOHEAD189]

Meanwhile...
Amal glided silently behind the huts, not trying to be inconspicuous but unable to help himself after so long lurking in the shadows. His feet, even in shoddily made shoes given to him by the locals, were as silent as a whisper. Even if they weren't, he was certain no one would have heard him. There was a throaty melody in the air, hanging upon the night. Amal, ever curious, followed the song until he found himself atop one of the homes, watching a woman standing amid the firelight.

It was jaunty and hearty, yet haunting in its own way. She was picking up fallen jugs, no doubt thrown by the woad raiders from celebrating past victories or...simply celebrating. Amal simply sat and listened, wondering what she said as she sung. She was singing in Emmaline's language, but her accent was so strange he couldn't pinpoint what she was saying. She spun during the crescendo of her melody, only for her eyes to widen when she saw Amal in the firelight.

She gasped, but didn't squeal like he thought she would. Instead she smoothed her hair and cleared her throat. Amal leaped down nimbly and gave her a guilty smile. "Sorry, I didn't know what you were singing but it was very lovely." He told her. She held the basket at her hip with all the jugs in it, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Och, ye sure knoo how tae make a girl feel special. You're the handsome newcomer, aye?" She asked, looking at him boldly. Amal blinked, and then laughed. Perhaps not all northern women flirted similarly. Emmaline had certainly blushed when he caught her bragging at his sexual exploits. Granted it wasn't a criticism as he wouldn't trade Emmaline for any woman, but it was still a weird experience to be so hit on.

"Thank you," He said with a bow. "I am at that. You wouldn't happen to know anything here worth stealing would you?"

The proclamation and easy smile made it her turn to pause incredulously. "Yer a funny one, aye? Why don't-"

"Oi!" A strong voice roared, and Amal could almost feel the heavy footsteps. A great bearded bear of a man approached out of the darkness, holding a club and glaring at Amal like he was a daemon spawned from the Chaos Wastes themselves. "Are ye hittin' on ma lass there ye wee coont?" He asked, stepping closer to begin circling Amal like a shark. The Arabyan had not been flirting obviously, merely talking. But he also knew it was pointless to argue that likely.

Amal just looked at him while the girl stepped up. She did seem embarrassed at being caught herself. "That's noo fair Gerard, I was the one tae-"

"Shut up Bonnie!" He cried and swung his club at Amal. Both Gerard and Bonnie were surprised to see his club had hit nothing but air. The large one looked around stupidly just as Bonnie spotted Amal reclining on a barrel; one of many stacked beside Gerard. Amal tapped him on the shoulder, but didn't wait for Gerard, flipping over the man as he turned. The very moment Gerard had spun about, Amal was behind him, idly leaning against his back with his hand as if Gerard was a wall. Bonnie caught herself smiling, but she also saw Gerard's face go red. The Albionman swung savagely while Amal simultaneously slid between his legs and yanked down his trousers, leaving him in nothing but his skivvies. The man, now off balance with his legs caught in his own pants, froze so as not to topple.

Amal decided to help him with a push. Gerard gave a very unmanly squeal as he toppled to the ground with an audible 'boof,' his shirt and legs covered in mud. Bonnie shook her head, placing her hands on her hips. "The whoole toon will hear abou' this."

"What do you mean?"

"Gerard is th' strongest man in the clan!"

Amal could guess strongest didn't equal best warrior, but he was so large he could tell how he got the moniker. Gerard hastily tried to get up, but he tripped over himself again and cursed in his native language. Amal couldn't help but laugh. "Well, it was nice meeting the both of you. If you'll excuse me, I have a beautiful woman to go and see."

Amal took no time to make it back to Emmaline, wishing to spend the rest of the night counting what treasures they had accrued, preferably naked on the bed.

[Penny]

Emmaline paced around the small but trying to decide if she should go and look for Amal. I totally she was dissuaded by the thought that he has likely just ducked out to answer the call of nature. As the minutes dragged on a less hostile but also less understandable woman came to the Hutt with some crusty bread and two earthenware pots containing a steaming stew of venison and barley. After a few minutes of increasingly fruitless effort to penetrate the girls dialect Emmaline sent her away with a smile and a wave.

These people clearly had very little, at least by Imperial standards but they seemed willing to share it freely, at least so Emmaline hoped. Her suspicious nature worried that they might be incurring some sort of debt but there was little she could do about it if so. Just as she finally resolved to go in search of Amal, the thief appeared out of the mixture of fog and peat smoke that shrouded the village. He looked very pleased with himself for some reason.

"There you are!" She called in Araybian, scratching at the coause wollen dress with irritation. She was extremely pleased at the decision to keep the elven silk as a shift.

"We have food," she reported as Amal came through the door. Impulsively she threw her arms around him and kissed him.

"And for once no one is trying to kill us!"

[POOHEAD189]

Amal's stomach rumbled loudly just as she mentioned the food. Being hungry was almost second nature to him by now, but eating was a far better experience to being without. He held her and kissed her, and smiled slyly. "You know how much I like danger, but I feel as if we deserve a small break." The scent of the food wafted into his nose and the two of them were inexorably drawn to the steaming stews, both helping themselves to the bowls. Even the bread was as a delicacy to Amal. He took the last bit of stew and dipped the bowl back to finish it, almost collapsing into Emmaline, both sitting on the cushions they had stripped and placed on the floor as if they were back in Araby.

Amal chuckled guiltily. "Sorry Emm," and places the bowl down to slide it across the floor to the edge of the room. The fire was hot on their skin and the night was still relatively young, though most would be asleep by now. The agile thief slid his foot out to tug the loop of their pack towards him. Once he had ahold of it, he opened it up to fish for what they had collected. Of course most of their treasure was lost, but they had managed to keep a bit of everything they had gained on their adventures.

"Let's take stock, shall we?" He said to her, winking. The smoothness of his voice was lost in his broken reikspeil, but he tried. "We can't really sell these to the villagers, but once we're in your country we'll be living well I think." Rummaging through the pack, he pulls out a golden saurus, a large sack of gold coins, a sphynx of bronze with two ruby eyes, the three golden torques they had taken from the Lizardmen, the gilded ornamental jeweled dagger, and a large diamond the size of Emmaline's fist.

"I'd um...I'd forgotten we still had so much." Emmaline remarked, biting her lip.

"There is nothing more ravishing than gold, but I think the diamond is my favorite." Amal declared, and presented it to Emmaline to show her reflection in the large jewel. Past it she would see Amal grinning devilishly.

[POOHEAD189]

"Well for now, let us just enjoy the night." Amal whispered, and he pulled her closer to kiss her again. There was something about holding Emmaline in his arms and kissing her that thrilled him, even so soon after making love. The two lovers snuggled and kissed atop the mound of cushions for another undetermined amount of time before nature called. A less pleasurable but still very relevant side of nature, causing Amal to untangle himself from his girlfriend. "I'll be right back." he told her, only for her to give him a look. "I said I will be one moment! I must have chugged the flagon a bit too much before we had our fun. Hold on, my love."

The tanned thief stood up, making his way over to the door, naked. There was only two ways out of the house, and since the night was dark and the torches were lit far off he didn't see the harm in taking a leak out in front. Amal opened the door, only to hear a 'thwump' and a scattering of things. His keen eyes caught four women gaping at him.

"Och! Sorry we er, we 'eard some noises that well..." the lead one gulped, looking to the others. "Goodbye!"

They scrambled away like starved dogs, and Amal shook his head with a smirk. At Emmaline's curious call, he called back to her. "Just a few lost villagers," he said to her. Were they really that curious, and had they been watching? He glanced back at Emmaline, her naked curves evident and her chest thrust out as she stretched. You know, Amal could not blame them on second thought. It was very nippy out so he closed the door just for a moment so he could go and finish his business.

"Allah, I am not certain what I did to please you. But in the matter of a companion, you did not disappoint." He said into the night air.

[Penny]

Emmaline lounged on the cushions draping herself across them as provocative as possible. She was confident that Amal’s sudden appearance would have scattered the idly curious and voyeuristic. If anyone had seen anything rumors would certainly spread in such a small village, but Emmaline didn’t see how that could be a problem. It was even a little enjoyable to think of the outrage it might spark with the pinch faced women who had all but forced her into the scratchy grey dress. That point encouraged her to exaggerate her pose even further, rolling onto her stomach and propping her chin in her hands, framing her breasts with her elbows and crossing her feet coquettishly. Intent on surprising Amal when he returned. There was a sound from the rear door of the hutt and she pouted slightly. Amal must have circled around the building and come in from the rear, obviating her display.

“Welcome back,” she purred in a sultry tone and then looked back over her shoulder just in time to see the biggest man she had ever seen swinging a short length of timber in a short vicious arch. It slammed into the side of her head and the world exploded in stars and fell into darkness.

The headache hammered at her temples as Emmaline awoke. The world seemed to bob and roll as though she was on the sea and the stink of canvas stained with mould filled her nostrils. For a moment the sensations cosnpired to make her think she was still on a ship but then the memory of the last few hours came back to her. She was still naked and someone was carrying her over a shoulder, there was something, probably a canvas sack, over her head. She had been kidnapped!

“Help!” she tried to yell, though in her groggy state the worlds came out as a generalized slurred yelp. A powerful hand slapped over her mouth, choking off the cry.

“Shut it lass!” snapped a deep male voice, “these woods are teeming with Orcs! Keep your mouth shut and by tomorrow you will be a clan wife of the O’Callahans. That will show your fancy man to stick his nose in where it dosen’t belong!” Emmaline responded with a knee aimed roughly in the area she imagined her abductors groin could be located. Her captor grunted as she connected with his thigh and then her head rocked back from an open handed slap.

“I said shut…” the unnamed man started to snarl but Emmaline snapped a few syllables in the arcane language of wizards. There was a flash of golden light and the man yowled in pain and staggered back blind and cursing. Emmaline turned and ran blindly into the woods, ignoring the shouts of her temporarily blinded captor.

[POOHEAD189]

The next few hours were a blur to Amal. His heart pounded and his head burned from fear and worry. The thief didn't remember putting on clothing, but somehow he was both closed and armed with a leaf shaped blade. He leaped over gnarled roots and tore past thickets, with no thought to his skin being cut and pricked at. All he knew was that Emmaline had been taken. The thief had found two droplets of blood on the floor and Emmaline missing when he returned, as well as muddied tracks leading in from the back of the house. He vowed he would gut the man who dared touch his woman.

Sir Brenly trailed behind him, mustache covered in leaves and his northman outfit much more accommadating to his stature compared to the incongruous way Amal wore the wool garb he'd been given. Sir Brenly had insisted upon joining Amal, even after the Arabyan refused the aid of the village or chief, not trusting any of the islanders at the current moment (save Douglas, who offered to track). He did not say that to the Laird, as he truly didn't expect that the people of the village had decided to kidnap her together. But he worked better alone, or with a smaller retinue.

Douglas McCabe, his red hair wild and his mustache even thicker than Brenly's stalked through the woods as if born to it. He likely was, in all due reality. He bore his spear before him, having lent Sir Brenly his hide shield and bearded axe. He followed the big man's tracks easily, guiding Amal and Brenly deeper and deeper into the woodlands, passing glens and moors in what seemed to be an almost erratic way to travel.

"Whoever gnabbed yer lassie is a complete fool." Douglas marveled, shaking his head at the latest sign of passing. They were getting very close, Amal knew. Just another hour and they'd be on them. "It's probably Gerard, that bastard."

"He'll be dead soon." Amal uttered, sending a chill through the other men's spines. He had such a will to kill, it was almost tangible. Sir Brenly patted the thief's back, calming him somewhat. The Knight had been through many campaigns and various situations like this one, it was good to have him around.

"Aye, like as not from Orcs. We've passed a doozen Greenskin tracks the las' mile." He said. "But we're gainin', I sey. Just another few-"

There was a rumble in the brush across the small glade they now found themselves in, and out stepped Gerard. The great man looked angry and frustrated, grumbling until he noticed he stood before three people he more or less knew. All four men looked at one another, confused. There was a brief pause where no one moved until Gerard went for his club. His hand made it to his lower stomach when Amal's thrown dirk impaled it to his belly. His face reddened in pain and he whined like a dog as Amal approached, his leaf shaped blade now pressed to his throat.

"If you don't tell me where she is, I will take your tongue, and follow with your fingers. Your penis will be last." He promised.
@Penny

[Penny]

Emmaline sat on a log trying to catch her breath. Her captor, whomever he had been, had not bound her hands and it had been no great trick to get the bag off her head once she had opened some distance. At this point fleeing seemed like it might have been a mistake. She was alone and naked in a wood that she had no way of finding her way out of. If her abductor was to be believed it was teeming with orcs to boot. Emmaline had grown up in the Empire where orcish invasions were no joke and she didn't doubt, given the Laird had also spoken of orcs, that the claim was true. That ruled out calling for help even if there was someone in ear shot. The omnipresent mist concealed the stars although without any land marks or idea which direction they had headed from the village even that would be a dubious help. She supposed she might use magic to send up a beacon but there was no telling who or what would find her if she called attention to herself. The best option, and the one that appealed to her nature, was to find somewhere safe to hide until day light and then see if she could figure out where she was.

"Feed all o'mies to Mork!" a gutural voice exclaimed nearby. Emmaline froze and then, when she realised freezing wasn't a good instinct, she slipped down behind the mossy log, peering underneath a small gap where the curvature of the trunk lifted away from the ground. Across the clearing she saw two brutal, heavily muscled greenskined figures slouch out of the treeline.

"Feed the painted ones to Gork, their women to Mork!" one of the creatures added. Emmaline felt unaccountably embarrassed that she could understand the orks, for that must be what these brutes were, better than she could understand the men and women in the village from which she had been snatched. Both creatures wore armor of a sort, bits and pieces of cast off steel tied together with leather and links of chainmail and both carried axes that looked like they were probably heavier than she was. Emmaline had seen orcish skeletons and the renderings of various Imperial artists, but somehow found herself unprepared for just how big the brutes really were.

"Galzeez says we feed them soon!" one of the orcs said with a guttural chuckle, running his thumb, almost the width of Emmaline's wrist, over his axe blade, drawing a bead of blood.

"No trust gobbo scum 'ike 'im, even if he does have the big waaaagh magik," the other orc snarled, spitting a gobbet of spit that hit the other side of the log from where Emmalime was concealed with a sound like a custard pie hitting a clown at the fair.

"Galzeez is cunnin' even for a gobbo," the other orc rejoined with a grunt. Their voices were so similar in tone and timbre that Emmaline could not tell them appart and she had the momentary sensation she was listening in on a single orcs internal monologue rather than a conversation.

"Yeah well cunnin' or..." the first orc said before lifting his fist into the air and silencing his companion. Both greenskins became as immobile as tree-trunks.

"I smell 'ommies," the orc snarled, fat lips drawing back from rotted and yellowed fangs that glinted like chisel faces in the moonlight. Emmaline willed her heart to beat less noisily and resisted the urge to duck back from her improvised view point. Any movement now would certainly give her away.

"Where..." one of the orcs grunted, turning slowly in a circle like a hunting dog seeking a scent.

"Da'know but fresh, lets get the lads out and hunt us some pink skins," the first orc snarled. The both turned and jogged out of the clearing, surprisingly quietly given their improvised armor. Emmaline let out a terrified breath and counted to thirty. Then she stood up and headed off in the opposite direction to that the orcs had taken. That was no certainty of safety, but it seemed like the best decision she could make under the circumstance.

[POOHEAD189]

After much pressing from Douglas and Sir Brenly, Amal had not butchered Gerard yet. Their interference was needed, as Amal had already taken three of his fingers by the time they had halted him. He would have made good on his threat about Gerard's tongue, but he needed the man to speak. Amal wiped his dirk against the cool morning tufts of grass. Douglas was almost sweating, looking at Gerard's figure in the fetal position, shaking his shaggy heard.

"This is no' good. I thought ye were jus' bluster. If Gerard's father finds out there'll be a blood fued. They don't take kindly tae men hurtin' their own." He told Amal, causing Sir Brenly to sigh. The Knight had heard such feuds before in Brettonia all too often.

"Do you think I care?" Amal asked coldly, still watching Gerard crying on the ground; a soft pool of blood seeping into the soft earth. "I've angered a demi-god, dark elves, and teeming hordes of rat-men. Gerard's kin will need to get in a long line if they think my head is theirs." Had Emmaline not been lost, he would have been smiling viciously.

"I'll kill ye, bastard!" Gerard wheezed, rage mixing with fear when he looked up at the dangerous Arabyan. The sun had just began to peek over the horizon, giving the air a grey palour. The air was thick and wet with fog, and Amal wondered if this was all a long game by Settra or even Nagash himself to curse him for any transgressions he might have given either in Araby. It was just when he decided he would cut out another finger that he heard an all-too familiar "oof!" Amal snapped immediately, head raised like a hound on the hunt.

At the edge of the clear, having tripped over an ornately carved rock was Emmaline, golden hair scattered and body covered in miniature cuts and blades of grass. Amal's heart suddenly thumped, and he knew it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

"Emm!" He called happily, not spending any time dawdling as Sir Brenly might say. He sprinted over to her, expertly dropping to his knees to slid up and scoop her up in his arms. "Emm..." he murmured far more gently, slipping his fingers under her blonde hair to whisk it out of her eyes. He next spoke in Arabyan. "My love, are you hurt?" The thief did not care about the cold on his own skin. He immediately covered her in his jacket. He saw her glance at the ground, before meeting his eyes.

"It's not silk sheets, but it'll do."

Amal smiled fiercely.
@Penny

[Penny]

Emmaline sagged against Amal, wrapping the coat around her naked body. It still barely reached the top of her thighs but it was far better than nothing. None of the men in the clearing appeared to be paying much attention to the spectacle however. Brenly looked grim and Douglas even more so. To her shock the last man was her abductor who was cradling a bloodied hand, now missing several digits in the tail of his undershirt. Emmaline still had no idea why he had abducted her or why he had been taking her to another clan's holdfast but now was certainly not the time to discuss it. The sun was begining to rise and a soft wind was blowing from the south east. They were standing on a low hill top and around them were ancient stones each carved with strange designs which Emmaline didn't recognize. The wind gusted suddenly and the fog seemed to slide away like a rain drop on a glass pane. For the first time since they had reached Albion Emmaline saw the blue sky above them. The fog below them was not yet dispersed, giving the landscape an eerie aspect, as though they stood on an island in a sea of clouds broken only occasionally by the tops of particularly ancient trees or the crest of distant hilltops.

"Amal, there are greenskins we shoud...."

"Waaaaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrgh!" came an ear shattering bellow. An orc burst from the fog, appearing for a moment to be trailing mist like smoke as it rushed forward into the stone circle brandishing its cleaver like axe. Emmaline shrieked in terror and Amal shouted a curse in Araybian. Sir Brenly stepped towards the thing and ducked under a wild axe blow with surprising dexterity before driving the elven sword they had recovered from the corsairs into the things throat. The orc tried to bellow in fury but succeded only in spraying Brenly in a wet mist of blood from its ruined neck. It stepped back and took another unsteady swing, far short of the knight who was now back peadling away. The orc looked momentarily petulant before taking a step towards the Brettonian. It's knees buckled and the brute crashed to the ground with the finality of a felled oak. For a moment there was silence save for the soft rustle of trees in the wind.

"Waaaaargh!"

"Waaaaaargh!"

"WAAAAAARRRRGH!"

The cry echoed from the mist obscured woods below, coming seemingly from all directions. Greenskins began to burst from the fog, scrambling up over trees, roots and rocks to reach the hilltop on which the humans sheltered. A hissing sound warned Emmaline a moment before Asp slithered from concealment and coiled his way up her leg, over her hip and under her borrowed coat, emerging from the sleeve to become her staff. Right at the moment, it didn't seem like the weapon to take on dozens of murderous greenskins.

[POOHEAD189]

The brutes lugged up the hill, shouldering past saplings that broke apart at their bulk. Some Orcs halted to chop at trees they bumped into, angered the beechwoods would dare impede its charge toward potential enemies. A large 'WAAAGH' was still being screamed even as the men and woman at the center of the circle prepared themselves. The greenskins that had made it past the stones paid the strange rocks no mind. They leaped with their stubby legs and swung wildly with their arms; simian in proportion and nearly as thick as Amal's waist.

Sir Brenly wasn't as young as he once was, but he kept the Orc on him at a distance, ducking under a burly swing and hacking at its leg. It howled but seemed undaunted, advancing and nearly taking the Knight's head had his shield not lifted, though the brute's cleaver-like sword nearly chopped through the crude protection. Sir Brenly cried out with "For the Lady!" and ran the thing through the stomach, spilling its guts onto the brightly green grass. Even then it didn't die immediately, stupidly dropping its axe and trying to put its innards back into its stomach before it collapsed.

"These things die hard!" Amal pipped in, leaping over an orc's low swing and subsequently ducking under a second Orc's stab. The rogue had never seen a greenskin before, much less fought one. He'd heard tale of tribes in the southern jungles and the badlands, but nothing that told him they would keep fighting after having an arm chopped off. He twisted his body and lifted his leg just in time to keep it from being hacked off by a wild axe swing, staying one step ahead of both Orcs and cutting them were applicable. The truth was he could do this all day, but if he became surrounded, he wasn't perfect. There was also Emmaline and the others to think about.

Gerard was being ignored, at least for the moment. It looked like the Orcs only really wanted to fight people who could fight back, though it was doubtful they would let him live once the others were taken care of. Whether by proximity or kinship, Douglas kept an Orc at bay, guarding Gerard as best he could. His spear moved like the swipes of a great hunting cat, taking the Orc in the chest before driving it through its thick neck. The thing coughed up blood and stumbled forward, trying to overwhelm Douglas and kill him with it. Douglas easily leaped back and ran it through again, only to get a boot in the back and sent stumbling as another Orc waded into the fray.

The group was getting desperate, barely holding off the first wave of greenskins and being unable to finish them all before the next wave rolled in, screaming their bestial cries with morbid excitement. As Amal cut down one of the Orcs that had been trying to butcher him, the second Orc swung and cut into Amal's bag. The contents, mostly food as the gold was stashed in another fold of the cloth, fell onto the ground along with the rolled up carpet. The sentient rub 'popped' in excitement before it had even hit the ground, vibrating as if pulsed by lightning. Emmaline's vision could see it was glowing with magical strength, likely from the stone circle they found themselves in.

[Penny]

Emmaline glanced from the carpet and back to the orcs. Even Gerald was on his feet now, swinging a captured orc cleaver in his good hand, his ox like strength shattering a rusted coat of mail with a sound like a million pennies being hurled against flagstones.

"The gold!" Emmaline wailed, momentarily unable to control her own gold lust even as she ducked a thrust by a spear tipped with what might have been the blade of a shovel. She lifted her hands and chanted a spell aiming it at a nearby orc. Charmon rushed in on her like a crashing tsunami and she sqeaked in terror a heart beat before a golden beam of light six feet in diameter erupted from her hands, leaving nothing of the greenskin save a pair of smouldering shoes. To her horror she couldn't disengage the spell and she swept her arms around drawing the beam like a great sycthe.

"Down!" Amal shouted, tackling Sir Brenly and yanking Douglas by the ankle so hard he lost his footing and toppled to the ground. Gerald gaped in wide eyed horror and managed to dive into the leaf mold a moment before the wildly swinging beam of golden light would have decapitated him. The spell fire burned across the stones like a blast from a steam tank, singing the grime and lichen away in a streak and leaving the stone undamaged. The wild arc cleared the hilltop of orcs in a few seconds but Emmaline continued to blaze with power as she frantically tried to close the tap to Charmon she had opened. At last she cut the spell and the golden beam vanished, leaving her shaking little motes of golden light from her hands like water droplets.

"She is a mighty sorceress!" Douglas declared making a sign to ward off evil.

"No it isn't that I'm really not... I mean its this place... you know what forget it," Emmaline stammered dropping to her knees and begining to gather up gold coins into the folded hem of her borrowed jacket. Brenly pushed himself to his feet, using the elven sword to lever himself upright. His eyes were wild and he glanced around. There were still orcish shouts in the fog beneath them but none appeared eager to rush the hilltop again.

"We need to get out of here," Emmaline stated, completely unnecesarily. Everyone already agreed on that point but any direction they wen't they were likely to met with greenskins.

"Can't you use your magic?" Douglas asked. Emmaline scowled at how quickly people went from 'beware the witch' to 'save us witch!' but now was hardly the time.

"It doesn't work like that," she said "We need to..."

There was a shout from the fog below and then another. More and more voices took up the cry until it echoed across the valley.

"Galzeez! Galzeez ! Galzeez!"

"Ummm," Emmaline temporized her face draining of color as the fragments of orcish conversation came back to her.

"Do you know what they are saying?" Gerald asked, his eyes still half glazed with battle lust, "What is this Galzeez?" Emmaline shook her head and stuffed the remaining gold into her jacket, knoting the corner to serve as a makeshift pouch.

"Not a what, a who, he is a..."

There was a sudden surge of unfamiliar magic and a wind rose from nowhere with the force of a spring gale. The fog fled up the valley like the retreating tide revealing the forest below. Three score of orcs stood crouching behind rocks and trees roughly encircling the small rocky hill. On another large rock stood a small twisted figure in dark robes. It lifted a staff hung with what might have been human skulls and a variety of unfamiliar objects and shook it angrily towards the circle. Emmaline was familiar enough to recognize a goblin and a shaman besides.

"This might be a problem," she admitted, licking her lips nervously.

[POOHEAD189]

"Wot you finkin'?" Ugrek muttered to Kroga, burly hands clutching one of the large rocks they hid behind. Pig-like yellow eyes focusing intently on the Goblin shaman and the circle he had stepped within. Ugrek was the second largest Orc in the mob, just behind Bolg the Warchief, who was out on the sea at the moment. His best mate Kroga was just behind him, and though he'd butcher him if Kroga were to challenge his position, until that day he'd eat and sit next to the nob.

"Dunno," Kroga said, shaking his thick skull. Their shoulders were so broad it was hard to keep them both fully within the six feet of clustered rocks. The rest of the lads were huddled behind the trees, cheering the shaman on. Kroga glanced at the circle. "I dunno who dem humies dere up on dat circle is either. Whoever dey is, dey strong. Too bad we didn't get dere before ol' Galzeez, but rulez is rulez eh?"

Meanwhile within the circle, Amal was unsure of exactly what was transpiring. All he could deduce was Emmaline's powers had been jumpstarted and likely the same was about to happen to this strange goblin mystic. He quickly attempted to try and formulate a plan, his mind racing with a plausible scenario of survival. If nothing else, he knew how to get out of situations alive. He was brought out of his thoughts by the screeching of the Galzeez creature.

"Galzeez!" It cried out, before giving a chant in its foul tongue. The only word Amal caught that he recognized was 'Gork.' The Arabyan did not know the significance of the word, but he wished he had, as he saw a spell more terrible than anything Emmaline had ever wrought materialize before his eyes. It came in the form of a greenish light coalescing in the form of a humongous Orc. So large in fact that it dwarfed even the Giant that had nearly taken them out of the sky! He didn't know what it was made of other than 'magic'. Damn, he wish he knew more about that shit!

"By the Lady!" Sir Brenly exclaimed as Gerard and Douglas called to their own pagan gods.

The towering Orc aberration rose its arms the size of sea worthy ships in the air as if it were hooting and hollering, and without warning it lifted its ginormous foot thirty feet high in the air, the massive appendage now hovering above the rock formation. Amal's eyes widened and Emmaline squeaked in fear. The thief moved on instinct, crouching and spinning, his hand grabbing the handle of a fallen axe. At the outset of his spin, he let it fly to cut across the air.

As the axe flew, he scooped up Emmaline as if she were a sack of flour and leaped on the carpet. "Brenly! Everyone!" He called, and thank Allah the elder Knight was close enough to leap on as well. Douglas leaped and grabbed ahold of the carpet's rungs, but Gerard tripped over a fallen Orc. The next second was the longest second Amal had in weeks. Turning he saw the Galzeez Goblin now crying out, its arm severed from the thrown axe. The foot didn't stop falling, and Amal did not keep Emmaline nor the others from flying out of harm for Gerard's sake. In his heart of hearts, the thief didn't care what happened to the bastard.

The last sound Gerard ever made was a cry of helplessness, and it was cut out by the sound of powerful wind as the carpet sped off like a lightning bolt. Behind them, the foot landed upon the ground, everything within the circle crushed to a bloody pulp. Amal paid it only a moment's notice before he realized just how powered the carpet had become. It thrummed with energy beneath his feet, and he kept himself from openly grinning.

"Douglas, I am sorry for your friend. We will go and drop you off at your village and never bother your people again! Emm, let's make it to the mainland, yes? Brenly?"
@Penny

[Penny]

The Brettonian was staring down through the fog as though transfixed. Emmaline gripped the carpet with one hand and shook the Knight's shoulder with the other. She sneezed so violently that her eyes watered generating a puff of gold dust as the magical overcharge worked it's way through her system. The sneeze seemed to penetrate the trancelike state that had settled over the Knight and he blinked his eyes.

"Set down," he commanded in a strange tone. By now their flight had carried them several miles from the wounded shaman but that still wasn't far enough for Emmaline's taste.

"We can make it to the village and probably to the mainland," she began but Brenly was shaking his head. Emmaline wasn't sure what has happened but it seemed the circle of ancient stones had somehow acted as a magical amplifier. She had heard of such places though in the stories they were usually associated with horror and Dark magic.

"Set down, there," Brenly insisted, stretching forth a finger to point to a patch of rolling fog that, to Emmaline, looked no different to any other. Emmaline glanced at Amal who shrugged and banked the carpet down towards the mist. As they sank through the fog they found themselves on the sandy shore of a small lake fringed with oak and beech trees. A small island could be seen in the center though it was hard to make out details through the mist. A soft light was moving on the water and Emmaline's eyes widened as she realized it was a woman wreathed in gossamer silk. She stepped across the water as though it was solid ground, her bare feet raising no ripples as she glided toward the shore.

"Asaph's tits!" Emmaline blurted in shock though if anyone heard her they didn't take their eyes from the woman approaching. She seemed to glow with a sourcless inner light as she stepped on to the pale sand if the beach and made a graceful beckoning motion to Brenly. The old knight took a step forward and sank to one knee lifting his stolen elven sword in ritualistic submission. The glowing woman reached out her hand and touched him on the forehead in benediction. The scene seemed to freeze for a moment and then she was gone.

"Asaph's tits," Emmaline repeated in shock. She had not sensed even a breath of magic though what had transpired had to be sorcery of the highest order. This time her words seemed to jolt the men from the reverie that held them. Amal and Douglas both voiced variations of 'what was that's in their own languages. Brenly stood seeming somehow to have lost the stiffness of age and weeks of imprisonment and hardship.

"It is the Grail quest," he said his voice filled with wonder. Amal looked blank but Emmaline had read enough salacious Brettonian literature, or at least literature set in Brettonia to understand.

"Ummm, I'm not sure if I should be congratulations you or not," Emmaline admitted ,"but we should get going before the magic dissapates."

Brenly shook his head firmly.

"I won't be going with you, I must stay till the goblin sorcerer is defeated," he declared his eyes shining with certainty. That sounded very noble but also a good way to get flattened by a giant green foot.

"You go," Brenly told them, "your path lays elsewhere. Douglas can take me back to his village from here."

"Aye," Douglas agreed ,"fir ta beest ya dinna show her faces after Gerald anaway." He glanced nervously at Brenly and then at the fog from which at any moment greenskins might burst. Emmaline nodded.

"Farewell then sir Knight," she told Brenly and performed a creditable curtsey, somewhat spoiled by the fact the borrowed coat rode up over get hips as she did so.