POOHEAD189

Sails and Spells

Malcador climbed down the rocky decline and knelt by the water, just beside a few of the women of his 'new crew.' He was a bit surprised at Runa's thanks, and he wasn't too big headed to not acknowledge it. He gave her a small, polite nod as he kept a ghost of a smile on his face. "Of course," he told her, and then he turned to Trish and gave her a bigger smile, a glint in his dark eyes.

He had not quite forgotten they had murdered an entire crew worth of men just an hour or two ago. However, just like most groups, no matter what horrendous things they did, they were at least loyal to each other. It showed they were not complete psychopaths, and given time he would be 'one of the crew' which meant he was also not a target. He hoped he could trust the Captain's deal in general.

Malcador slipped into the water, the coins following suit slowly. One of the girls poked a floating coin and it merely bounced back into place, following Malcador as if he had a powerful magnetic pull. One by one the gold pieces dropped into the water after him as he swam through the tunnel, very glad the sun was still up outside. He would hate to swim through even this short tunnel at night. He knew the spell was still active, but it was up to the girls to pluck whatever fallen coins there were on the rocky bottom.

Malcador surfaced, taking in a lungful of air and whipping his hair so he could see. The mage found the Captain there, waiting expactantly, along with the other members of the crew. There was still some blood in the water, but he had ascended in an area where it was less covered. Behind him, coins began to float out of the water before the crew's waiting eyes.

"Captain, lovely to see you. I heard you were looking for some treasure. I happened to find some when I was gallivanting around."

The Hyborian Chronicles: Of Sword and Sorcery

Amal looked at the Priestess, and then at the door. It's bejeweled finery was enchanting, and had he been anywhere else, he would have pried the rubies and opals off with his knife without so much as a second thought on what lay behind the door itself until he required more money after much food and women. But as it were, the prize within was worth far more. Or so Sythemis said. He remembered Antiachus's words and was still uncertain of the woman. But, she had saved his life and promised him great wealth. He wouldn't throw such a promising future away, and so he crept forward.

His movements were controlled and yet feral, stepping like a stalking wolf in the brush. Every lower of his foot, a new spring to jump, every lifting of the leg, a new weight to throw forward or back. Luck was on his side, for there were no pressured traps, and so he stood before the lock and retrieved his sharpened bone from the folds of his sash. He crouched and began to slide it into the hole, twiddling with it, almost being able to see the bars that had to be lifted at the precise place and time to open the door. Seconds passed as he carefully operated on it, and a smile spread across his face once he heard a 'click.'

VWHCRKRKRKRKRK

Amal sprang backwards as the floor he stood upon shot up with the speed of a diving hawk. He threw his legs into a clockwise kick, turning his body sideways and parallel to the ground, his form spinning thrice in mid-air as sixteen square meters of stone slammed into the ceiling with the surety of an anvil's fall. It slowly lowered after he landed in a crouch, watching the mechanism reset. Amal had moved quickly, a testament to his superb reflexes. Once the slab was back and even with the rest of the floor, he saw his fallen bone key now turned to naught but pale dust. Amal breathed deeply, trying to slow his quickened heart.

"Bel, save me." He said, and let his mind linger on what he might have done wrong. The second bar had been stubborn, and the fifth one had been slow moving with the order of his pattern. But the bone hadn't served as a great tool, the mechanism of this door far more complicated than the manacles in his cell. He looked at the Priestess, who watched him like a raised cobra. Amal's eyes fell upon the armlet of the serpent she bore, and he reached toward her, the woman flinching.

"I will not hurt you," Amal said, and she relaxed as he gingerly took the armlet from her slender limb and examined it. Amal tapped the bronze three times, and a small sharpened point erupted from the end of the serpent's tale. He gave her a wink, having already seen such an item be used before during his time in Stygia. He went back to work, stepping tentatively on the slab, who looked wholly unified with the rest of the stone floor to the untrained eye, before crouching at the lock once more, reapplying his approach to the lock. Up, up, down, up, down, down, he wiggled when he needed to, yes, yes he had it...

Click.

There was another rumbling, but not of some dreadful trap. The heavy doors began to slide across the floor, sending old dust and stale air from the chamber within. Amal stepped back, set the blade back within the serpent, and carefully placed the armlet back on Sythemis' limb.

"You see how profitable it is when we work together?" He asked her, strong arms crossed as they stood before the opening portal to the prize they both eagerly awaited.

Damned to the Depths

"Sir, madam, the party is being held in the governor's mansion down Aubrey Road. I could have one of my men escort you if you so wish."

A bright line of red spread across the provincial militia's neck. His backsword cleaned and back in his scabbard before the militia knew he was dead, Markus walked past him as Calliope coagulated the blood and kept it from soiling the man's burgundy uniform, buffed over a sturdy gambeson. Unlike the professional soldiers, who wore breast and back-plates and morion helms along with their arqeubus and sideswords, the militia did not wear any iron or steel save for the helmet. He suffocated to death on the floor, and the last thing he ever saw was the darkly enchanting Calliope looking past him with a raised brow, her fingers curling as his blood seeped into the air, collecting into an undulating ball of crimson.

"I was going to have him take us past the next sentries," Calliope said, bemused.

"We need three uniforms. If this town is like any of the others I've been in, there should only be another two or three men between us and the cells." Markus explained.

"Yes Captain," She sighed, standing up. The ebon haired woman stepped past the corpse but pointed behind her with her thumb. "But you're carrying him."

5 minutes later...

Markus had been correct, both here and onboard the Weather Witch. There really wasn't much in the way of guards at the jail. The two patrols they killed with little effort, and the gaoler himself was put to sleep with a simple spell by Calliope. Not out of any pity for his life, but she wished to cause chaos. Falling asleep on the job when it cost the lives of your fellows was a capital offense, after all. Markus let her have her fun, taking the keys from the snoring local and stepping past the desk laden with half-eaten cheese and walked into the walkway between the cells. Dirtied men roused and grabbed the cell bars or banged the heels of their hands against the iron, hooting and calling to be let out. Markus ignored all of them, though he cut the hand off an overzealous thug who reached out and tried to grab his carefully smoothed, dark coat. Blood spurted, but neither the blood or the grimy hand fell on the swordmage. He still needed to be presentable to the dinner, after all.

Sketti made his debut by banging his bronze stump of an arm against the iron bars of his cell as he roared. "Quiet ye louts, or I'll kill every last one o' ye!"

His voice was unmistakable, and if Markus had been unsure before, he knew just where his crew was now. The dark man approached, holding aloft a lantern that squeaked as it gingerly swung back and forth from the motion of the captain's stride, its hinges having gone un-oiled for many weeks. Sketti didn't need the light, as Dwarves were easily able to see in the dark. But the brightness of the light itself kept Markus' face hidden from him until he stood before the cell.

"Captain!" Sketti exclaimed, hopping up and giving a laugh. The big man Halvar looked up from his stupor, and when he recognized Markus, he grinned and shook Jim awake. Jax, as ever, was perched high up. They had been lucky enough to get a small window in their cell, Jax perched seven feet up like a bird. The half-elf gave a big smile when he saw the swordmage, hopping down into the stones with the rest of them. He spoke in his signature accent, quick and whimsical.

"I knew you'd come back, Cap'n! Sketti said it was a load of blarney, he says. Not so, says I. Stall the ball, I says." Jax said impishly as he hopped, his hair blazingly red even in the gloom. The crew mostly saw him at the morning and evening and in the mess hall, spending most of his duty swinging on the ropes or perched in the crows nest. One almost forgot how he liked to talk so much. "We goin' back to the ship or are we acting the maggot?"

"The latter," Markus explained as Calliope materialized behind him from the darkness of the corridor. The captain searched for the right key as they gave the first mate their greetings, and when the door was opened, Markus explained to them the plan...

---

It had been years, but he was finally in the midst of nobility again. His father had never liked bringing him around his friends in the gentry, but as a bastard-but-home-raised son he had been duty bound to go to such events as he matured. The food was nice, the men were often boring, and the women he could never tell. Some were bored and wanted to knock boots, as he was a rakishly handsome man with at least half of his foot in the aristocracy, but none of them ever wished to take it further than that. He was always embarrassed to try, anyway. He didn't even live in his father's estate once he reached puberty, but lived in a glorified guest house and kept the stables in check when he wasn't pursuing his own interests and attending to his duties as a member of the family.

"I believe this is Andalgo Vivaldi Concerto," Markus said as he stepped into the foyer with Calliope, looking particularly thoughtful. The music danced off the walls and oil paintings with a pleasant rhythm. He seemed both lost in his mind and yet very aware of everything going around them all at once. The orchestra brought back many memories.

Calliope looked at him with a raised brow. "That's correct, how did you know that?" She asked, and he could not tell if she was impressed or merely curious. He realized he had spoken very little of his past to her over the months and months of travel and the hair-raising dangers. She had been a very public, if regional, figure. He had certainly known her when she had first introduced herself in that dark alley of Calaverde over half a year ago. He must seem shrouded in mystery, not only to her but the crew. Perhaps that worked to his advantage.

"I'm a complicated man," He told her, his voice sly though his face was stoic as the chamberlain opened the door for them, letting them view into the large banquet hall where at least seventy men and women of means prattled on and drank their fill of wine. Three chandeliers hung above them, glimmering in the various lights as an orchestra played at the corner of the far end of the room. Every door had trained a soldier, as did every wall.

"The Lord Markus and Lady Calypsa Haukenbrook." He announced to the assembled party. Calliope's name probably did not reach so far, but it did well to be careful, regardless. They did not want to raise any eyebrows until it was time.

The Hyborian Chronicles: Of Sword and Sorcery

Amal loathed sorcery. Somehow he had become engrossed with cabals of rival mystics, and he wanted nothing more to be gone from here. Or, nothing more save the jewel, and perhaps even the woman still if she proved faithful and as useful as she just was. By Bel, he would find the truth of this! The daring thief ran forward as the blackness spread, some of the liquid pouring down creases in the tiling but remained off the face of the tiles for the moment, giving him small islands to hop on. He leaped like a puncing jackal, and with the black quickly encircling him, he made a desperate jump to the left.

A normal man of comfortable living would have hit the wall and broken bone, but Amal landed on the sandstone and planted his feet as if he were right-side up, and launched himself off the wall like the spring of a lock. He spun mid-air and landed roughly against the solid surface of the ground at Sythemis's feet. He bled from a small wound on his leg, naught but a scrape but he grunted from the pain and rose before her.

Beside them, Antiachus's body lay still and bleeding uncontrollably, and the two thieves fled the room into the following tunnel. It was a dark corridor of dim torches and the screaming faces of demons carved into the walls.

"This way," Sythemis said, but she did not make it two steps before her slender throat was grabbed and she was shoved into the wall. Amal's eyes were not cold like they had been at the tower. Here they blazed with wrath, the torch-light dancing along his rippling muscles that were even now poised to snap her neck if she made a move.

"Using me, I can understand. Even respect. But throwing me into this pit without warning me first would have been your death had you not just saved me there." He told her, his voice like iron. Amal was clearly not a wizard or sorcerer of any kind, for if he could manifest his will, she would have burst into flame. "It will not save you again."

He let her go, and gestured with a small tilt of his head for her to continue. Bel curse him, he did enjoy seeing her walk before him, despite his rage.

The Hyborian Chronicles: Of Sword and Sorcery

What he had initially taken as a carnal endeavor had turned into somehow both a fitful and yet deep sleep. He had let his guard down, and while he hadn't paid the ultimate price, it was a hefty one. His body ached, but he still had strength in him. He spat venomous curses at the woman, wanting nothing more than to get his hands on her, and not for anything pleasant. He had gotten out of worse, though this one had particularly caught him off-guard. Amal swore he would get out of here, and when he did he would do as he said and opened her belly with his knife.

Amal looked at the man as he casually tossed him a chicken bone, seeing the sneer and watching him walk away into the dank halls of the dreaded cells. As the moments passed, he felt his wrath go from overwhelming to a distant simmer, and he could think more clearly. The fat gaoler had a point. He slid his foot out of its sandal, and he felt around on the floor until his heel bumped into the chicken bone. Sliding the object between his big toe and secondary one, he lifted his leg up by its side and bit into the bone a dozen times with his molars until it snapped in half. He coughed and spat out the lesser side, and arched his back to reach his foot above his head, limber as the apes that lurked south of Kush. He did not know precisely how long he worked at the lock, but he knew the usual shemite mechanisms, and eventually the sharpened bone served as a suitable lock-pick.

He felt success flood into him as the manacle snapped open, and he grinned evilly.

He placed the bone in his freed hand and picked the lock of the other, and it was during this that he smelled something rotten and awful, followed by a raspy voice of one who seemed on the brink of dehydration.

"What know you of the Serpent woman?" It asked. Amal looked to where he heard the voice. A lean, gangly old man with a wispy beard gripped the bars and looked at him with sullen eyes. He looked so malnourished and weaselly, Amal felt a strong breeze would break his bones and rip the beard off his pointed chin. He looked at Amal as if he was the key to the world's redemption, and it both disturbed and confused the cutthroat. The smell, he realized, was from the old man's mouth. "Know you the secret of what she seeks?"

"What I know is she will die," Amal promised softly as his next manacle popped open. The bone was still sharp, and so he kept it in his hand as he got to his feet, the thews of his limbs were as ready as the day he had first murdered a man. "Do not get in my way, elder, or you will be first."

"All die, thief." He croaked, reaching for Amal as if he could touch him from across the cells. "But there is more to you and the priestess. More you have yet to finish. But my task is done, though my spirit yearns for life." His last word ended in a long breath, and to Amal's horror, snakes began to slither out of the aged vagabond, his mouth, nostrils, and ears like venom pits, and his form went from lean to naught but bones and skin like rags. Amal stepped away from the spent corpse, and to his left he suddenly noticed the door to his cell was open.

The old man was not reaching for Amal, but the door. He had opened it, somehow. The serpents coiled away into the darkness as Amal felt a chill run up his spine.

There's Always a Price: Sci Fi Bounty Hunters

Dirk's punches were nothing to scoff at in the most generous of terms, but when he was armored and encased in his expensive laminate steel, they were like hammer blows. The first punch broke through the brawling man's visor, the next bloodied his nose, and the third knocked him out or potentially killed him. Dirk hit him once more for good measure, all the while keeping a hold on the third man that Jocasta was now shooting at. The blue projectiles bounced harmlessly off Dirk's form, but the man he held wasn't so lucky. Multiple burns covered his body, and Dirk snapped his neck so he stopped screaming.

"Clear," Jocasta began to say as her drone fluttered out, but footsteps past the open door told otherwise. Dirk, still prone, looked up to see six men turn the corner. Four held slug thrower assault rifles, one held another Mark47 Ripper, and the sixth had a guass gun which worried Dirk the most. Depending on the projectile, it could punch through his armor, not merely harm its integrity and grind it down. He didn't get up, but rolled, grabbing the gun of the man who's neck he had snapped, apparently a DP-18 triple barrel shotgun. He pumped it and fired center mass of the crowd even as they raised their guns. The shards from the shot hit two of them, blinding one of them and felling the guass-user. Another pump and he killed a third man and hit the one that grabbed at his eyes, taking them both out.

Four bullets punched into him, and one even pierced his armor. He grunted as he felt the missile go through one of the lesser plates, and inside his armor he felt a cold wetness. He didn't roll away or relent, as his back would be exposed. He merely pumped the weapon again and fired three more times until the gun was empty, sending the remaining three scattering behind walls and a thick, overturned desk. He threw the gun and pulled himself back, leaning against the wall and checking his wound as the old man fired into the room, his capacitor laser cutting the desk in half but missing the merc behind it, though he likely had a terrible fright.

He reached for his belt, uncorking a utility compartment and taking out a syringe of blue liquid, which Jocasta would likely recognize as a medi-fix. It was a limited, temporary first aid gel with small nano-machines, one of the only items in the universe that could still utilize the technology, that found compromised damages to the body and sealed them up before the organic machines died from natural bacteria a few hours later. Good to help keep combat going or to keep someone stable before they made it to a real medical facility.

He could slowly feel the wound stitching up, and he pulled himself to his feet and unholstered his heavy blasters as shots were returned, ricocheting as brass shells cluttered on the ground.

"Cover me," Dirk said before either of them could argue, and he stepped out into the doorway after the latest wave of fire, his trained eyes and thermal sensors showing which merc was closest and which left themselves the most exposed. Fully powered, he fired both of his guns into the overturned desk thrice, the second lashots blowing a hole in it and the last shots hitting the merc, dropping him. Both men on opposite sides of the walls apparently coordinated through hand motions or sensors, and they both sprang out to fire at Dirk. They each got a shot off, and only one hit Dirk (and harmlessly bounced off his breastplate) before Dirk pulled his guns apart and shot both men down, simultaneously. One had his groin punctured and the other's head snapped back from a forehead hit, and they fell dead to the floor.

Dirk took a long breath.

"Clear."

The Hyborian Chronicles: Of Sword and Sorcery

There was no dark magic in her voice, and yet Amal could see the jewels of the outer void. Their glimmer in the light of the moon and the mesmerizing glint that begged for his fingers to grasp it. The thief almost reached out as if waking from a dream. He had never been one for histories, but the rise and fall of nations were in her tale, and even the sand beneath their feet seemed to stir as if in awe of the majesty of ages past. Amal was a reaver, slayer, murderer, and thief, but the last was the greatest of his talents. What manner of thief would he be if he did not steal the greatest jewel of the land?

His eyes snapped back to reality and regarded the pythoness, realizing he had almost fallen for her honeyed words. Stygians were ever a danger to those they put into their schemes or portents, and he did not trust her. He considered his options, and realized it would be far wiser to heed his perspicacity and cut her throat here, letting this legend die with her black blood spilled in this loney tower. And yet greed was too great of a seductress to him, and he was hungry for her despite his misgivings.

"My wont is to enter places I cannot go and and stand in places no man can. I have seen the serpent temples of your country, sorceress, though your kind did not know it. I saw what lay there, though I dare not speak it. I have been to the Scarlet Citadel of Koth, and escaped its clutches unscathed, though it nearly took my life." He looked at the blade of his knife as he spoke, the steel gleaming in the light of the moon. The light illuminated his dread eyes, the orbs as sharp as his whalebone dagger.

Beneath them, men had come out to bandy and drink, shouting to one another in their differing tongues and laughing with great mirth. Even the most remote places in Xarames had men stumble upon it, when taken to drink. The only dangers in the city were of Amal's ilk. A knife in the dark or poison in your cup. But beneath the Emir's palace, perhaps there were more dangers than those that men could pose. He would find out, he knew.

"I will play the role of what you say I am. I will take the jewel and more besides, but if you betray me, I will open your belly and leave you to bleed." He warned. Amal knew the Witch-Priestess knew the price for betrayal regardless, but he wished to make it clear. He stood up from his menacing crouch, and with a deft twist imperceptible to the eye his knife was sheathed within his shagreen belt, swathed within a softer sash that no doubt hid further dangers.

"Does your prophecy tell us of an entrance, or must I find one?"

There's Always a Price: Sci Fi Bounty Hunters

Dirk knelt down and picked up one of the assault weapons he hadn't recognized. Most of the men had slug-throwers, but a few of them had streamlined battle-rifles that he recognized from the Iolian-Death Gang back on New-Mecca. It was a shard-shooter. An assault rifle that used a micro-accelerator, using mass-reduce fields and the magnetic force of the lorentz system to propel shards the size of grains of sand at high speeds to literally rip through a target. Extremely potent against unarmored opponents and relatively moderate against armored foes.

"These are Mark47 Rippers." Dirk remarked, more to himself than Jocasta, though doubtless she heard him. The effectiveness of the gun wasn't entirely the problem, but they used technology that was hard to replicate, which made it stomach-churningly expensive. He grabbed the three that were on the ground and rolled them up in a small duffle bag he had stowed away inside the back compartment of his armor, and walked up to Amber, stepping over smoking corpses until he reached her.

"Keep these safe for me. Good money in 'em." He told her.

"Right. Just be careful." She said. "I'll let Sarah and the others know you're on it."

Dirk turned and walked back to Jocasta and the old man, who was using some sort of ventilator for a moment, as if he had breathing troubles. He seemed to stand up a bit straighter once he took a minute to collect himself, but Dirk didn't need his thermal or gaseous scanner to be able to tell it was some sort of steroid or enhancement, rather than serving as a medicinal salve. The elderly man must either still be working in his advanced age or he saved it for just such an occasion.

"The east wing is next. We'll move in room by room, but once we get past the first two halls we need someone watching out flank." Dirk stated, but even as he finished a buzzing drone landed on his visor. Dirk didn't move, but one could tell he wasn't amused. Slowly, he plucked the thing off and let it fly away as if it were embarrassed. "Right."

The three of them entered the next corridor, the huge glass doors sliding open with a satisfying 'psst,' and that plus Amber's PA announcement showed the auxiliary power was online. Dirk walked brusquely but with his two DMX blasters out, not hearing or scanning any threats yet but knowing that there had to be at least another batch of men numbered like the ones in the front lobby.

Rise to The Top: Medieval Intrigue RP

Galt considered her offer for a moment, glancing at her as he stroked his chin. He didn't need to think long, he had already made up his mind to accept her proposal, but he also didn't want to seem too eager. After faux deliberation, he gave her a grin and held his hand out for her to accept. He was never much of a religious man, but for some reason the universe seemed to be watching out for him, recently. Escaping with his life, becoming a count, and now having a trustworthy, attractive friend to help him navigate this strange world. He held out his hand to shake.

"We have an accord, it seems. Happy to work with you, Silke." He said, and his horse, though not entirely under his control, stepped closer to her steed as if it sensed a connection and wished to help.

---

They had agreed to meet three days hence at the cusp of dusk, and Galt had to survive with his wit and his propensity for bullshitting his way through most things until the appointed time.

His estate was needing to be furnished and the west wing was still being built. It had originally meant to be built for the late Count Malgerton, who had died during a battle across the border 5 years ago. It was still set to be made and had been paid for before his untimely death, and it had been set to be inherited by the late Count's wife, the Countess Tildenfathen, if for no other reason than because it could go nowhere else save the King. But as Galt Harrowmark had been newly anointed, he was given 'leave' to take it, which the Duke took as it being his right to grant it to his new favorite vassal.

And so Galt spent his time at court, which consisted of a lot of sleeping in, being present at meals but otherwise trying to stay out of people's eyesight, which was thankfully something he excelled at considering his previous 'occupation,' and searching the palace for things to do. Now, it was after lunch on the third day, and Galt had just fled the grand hall with a full belly and three of the ministers seeking his attention. Luckily, he had found a small nook on the 'Silver Tower,' a keep at the end of the palace grounds mostly manned by the royal guard and the occasional high-borne visitor. Stacked with three of the latest ballista designs, overlooking the curtain wall of the capital palace.

Galt had become fast friends with a few of the lieutenants of the guard, playing cards with them and teaching them a thing or two on how to 'tell' in a game, as they were honorable men and not used to such subtle manipulations. As he laughed and played and drank, even if some of the guards eschewed since their breaks did not last long enough to warrant drunkenness, he thought of Silke's arrival later that day. His chambers had been expanded slightly, to give him an air of importance. He not only had a room but an outer lobby and a few adjoining rooms where his 'things' were to be place, though those were mainly gifts and trappings of office he needed to eventually be moved to his estate.

At least they would have a private place to speak.

Dogs of War: Old World Mercenaries

The snow had ceased, but the rain had set in. Not entirely freezing rain. Likely from clouds having drifted in from the south. But it did little to warm the place. As soon as the droplets had hit the earth, they began to cool rapidly and much of the ground was cracked from thinned ice. It was a truly miserable evening, and Cyrdic pulled his cloak closer and kept his hood above his head, the steam from his lips puffing out of his veiled face as he waited for Camilla, who was just now coming closer.

The Dwarfs, Thor and Gunir, wore their regular garb. Dwarfs always seemed slightly miserable, at least when they weren't drinking or counting coins, or slaying things they wanted dead. But they were made of sterner stuff than men and could weather cold and wet better than anyone. They flexed their meaty hands and kept to themselves other than the occasional khazalid muttering, though to each other, their gods, or to themselves, Cyrdic didn't know.

Camilla made it to the tree line, wearing a furred coat that somehow fit her form whilst simultaneously obscuring most of it in a warm bulk. She had two hand-axes that bounced against her hips as she walked, bringing a bundle of provisions, covered torches, and the piece of wood in question they were bound to return. Cyrdic had a few torches in his pack as well, but they would be next to useless if the rain did not stop. Instead of fretting, they had changed tactics.

Cyrdic kept his broadsword in their room, and had taken a large, thick hafted battleaxe they had found being held by a piece of armor in one of the ruined rooms of the manor. They had multiple pistols and gas lanterns to light and keep lighted, and coils of rope to keep connected to one another if one split from the group in the murk. The trees that loomed above them looked inanimate, but their limbs were still gangly and gave the impression of grasping and reaching for their throats.

"Right, I'm ready to put some trees to the axe." Gunir said, hopping off the stump and smiling wickedly.

Camilla placed a finger to her lips, but Cyrdic spoke. "Might want to keep that to yourself unless we need that sort of action." He said. "We want this to stop, remember? That's how we get paid."

Ordinarily they would get continually paid defending the Graf, but it was a losing prospect and soon he would run out of money. But if they halted the threat here, they would get a bonus once he reached his other holdings. Once Camilla stepped past Cyrdic and gave him a wink, the muscled Ostlander shoved off the dead tree he leaned against and followed her, the Dwarfs moving with him into the dark of the forest.