POOHEAD189

Fortune & Glory: Grimdark Pulp RP

"She favors her left," Beren whispered conspiratorially in Jocasta's ear. Jo placed her hand against her mouth to hide her sudden laugh, but the redhead looked stricken in horror. He felt regretful the Baron was getting displeased, but the 'lady' had attacked Jocasta and pissed him off, and her indignation only egged Beren on. He spoke to Jocasta again. "Her hammer's bigger than her anvil. Horses might be good, but she's clumsy on her feet. You'd kill her in axes and shields."

"Anvil?" Jocasta asked, and lady Giroux took it with an entirely different meaning, trying to make her backside as small as possible. Earlier she had been flaunting it, but when things weren't going her way she seemed to fall apart. Beren had just said a common dwarven saying, and he tried to explain it to Jo in human terms. "Uh... her bark is bigger than her bite."

"I already apologized!" She said breathlessly. The crowd looked on with wide eyes, and the Baron seemed about to step in and order the guards to come with him. Giroux flushed at all the attention from how things were developing. Maybe not all publicity was good publicity, after all. Beren stood to his full height and crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow at her. Jocasta stood in a similar fashion, her eyes wild to act the part she meant every word of the knightly duel. Maybe she did? Beren wasn't entirely sure this was a farce.

"You're a few hairs short of a beard-" He started. Lady Giroux gently gasped and grabbed at her chin in fear as he spoke, again misreading his words. "You come in here, try to separate us, then try and frame me and ruin the good baron's party, and then come out here to assault my g- uh..." He looked at Jocasta and she glanced at him. They hadn't even had the time to talk about it. "-assault Jocasta and now you want to back out scot-free? I don't think so sister. Honor demands she meet you on the field."

"I can call for a champion!" She stated, though she sounded very unsure at her initial statement. As the words left her, the developing thought did bring some fire back to her eyes, however. Beren guessed she would be happy to have any win over Beren and Jo. The monk just grinned.

"Sure, and I'll step in for her. Choose your man, but we'll use fists." He said confidently.

That dropped her down a peg yet again. She had been as close as anyone in the party when Beren had nearly wrestled himself through four thugs, and it was clear he hadn't been trying to really harm anyone. She lifted her chin, trying to form words of retort, but Jocasta suddenly lurched forward like a dog on a leash. Lady Giroux screamed in surprise. "No stand-ins! She's mine! We'll meet at dawn!"

"Hold!" Baron Marius said with a stern countenance. He fixed his suit and stepped out of the crowd, joining Lady Giroux though not deigning to take her offered hand. She awkwardly dropped it and smoothed her dress, glaring at Beren and Jocasta with an air of what she thought was superiority. The Baron seemed as if he had taken their jibes as a respite so he might think of a way to solve this, and he had regrettably come up short. "Surely there's a way we can come to an agreement without coming to blows?"

Beren and Jocasta slowly looked at one another. Beren raised an inquisitive eyebrow, and Jocasta nodded in acquiescence.

"There is one thing, if the Lady Giroux would be so gracious..."

Swords and Silver: The Southern Contracts

Palona wasn't in a state of panic, but the movements of the mercenaries weren't doing the townsfolk any favors. Torm cantered through rushing men on Lycurgus, his hand gripping the hilt of his arming sword, the knight's knuckles white. What were the bastards thinking? He knew there were zealots in the army, but he didn't think the commanders were lunatics. Why would Palona be worth losing thousands of men without powder or shot? Torm seethed with indignation, but he knew he had no one to blame but himself. The wolf should have known better than to poke the bear. This entire debacle was his fault. If they made it out alive, he would answer to the Gods if not the other officers.

Behind him, forty five of his men followed in his wake on their horses. Six had been slain last night, overwhelmed by the enemy. Twenty had been wounded, but only half that had been harmed enough to severely limit their combat capabilities. Torm felt the patched wound in his side flare up again with a stabbing pain, aching something fierce consistently throughout the day. The Knights saw Cadger and Bianca arguing over something in the distance as the dwarves suited up around them, likely expostulating over strategy. Torm and his men made it to the vicinity of the tunnel, a large cleft in the earth at the mouth of an old aqueduct. Torm had heard the town had once been the site of a great city, and these conduits of rainwater were the last remnants of it.

His shadow and those of his men loomed over the entrance, and he sniffed amusedly at the irony. The dwarf that had been digging to bite them in the ass had instead crawled up their ass to ask for help. It was a short lived mirth, however. The dwarves did not deserve that.

Across the small channel that fed into the underground, the Captain and his retinue awaited. Black Ryann, along with a few of the captain's special honorguard stood at the ready. Torm had heard the mage would accompany him at the fore. The idea did not enthuse him. He felt much the same about the spymaster as Bianca felt about Torm. He was certain the feeling was mutual. Aeon and his men were standing in formation just beyond, their column reaching down the street out of Torm's field of vision.

"Are we ready, Captain?" Torm called, reining Lycurgus in. The steed stamped with impatience.

"We are," a woman's voice replied. Torm turned to see Bianca and her scouts approaching. Cadger and his lads were in tow, though they didn't seem pleased with the end of their previous discussion.

"It's not right!" The Dwarf complained, as irate as Torm had ever seen him. The dwarf usually seemed detatched at worst and usually amused at any current events. Evidently, he had just been told something that went against every fiber of his being. They passed the Knights without even looking their way, but as Bianca and her men hopped into the tunnels, Cadger stopped at the lip with Thossack and the other dwarves.

"Their legs are longer, Cad." The Captain replied, motioning for Black Ryann to move forward with his steed. "We'll get them back, don't you worry." The wizard seemed unenthused at the command, but he did as he was bid. His roan was as black as the wizard's robes, but of good stock if Torm was any judge. Thank the gods the man hadn't enchanted good horseflesh. His eyes met Torms and the Knight whipped his horse to the left, giving the wizard room to follow as he and his men walked their horses down the incline to splash into the shallow water of the aqueduct. Thossack had assured them the tunnel was big enough for mounted men, and so they would go first. The war steeds had been well trained, stepping down carefully and entering the darkness of the channels behind Bianca.

Swords and Silver: The Southern Contracts

The knights had regrouped, and to Torm's relief, they were now reinforced with Aeon's infantry that had spread out and marched through the camp, sticking spears into corpses and looting what foodstuffs and armaments they could as they marched. Torm had just killed another Priest-Queen's soldier with the spike of his weapon, and he turned to see Aeon striding through the smoke to his back, a rhythmic, howling chant lifting over the burning ground as his men pressed forward in a rough wave. The dwarves had managed to make it back to their position as well, moving in a tight unit. A few were wounded, but none dead. He couldn't tell with his own men yet.

"The captain calls for a retreat." Aeon said, the tall man's long face was as solemn as always. His assega was already bloodied from some unseen foe. Torm opened his mouth to argue, but closed it. No, the captain was right, of course. They had pressed forward further than he could have hoped, but no doubt the rest of the enemy would be swarming around the sides of the camp's perimeter in the matter of an hour. Maybe even less.

"Bianca?" Torm asked. They weren't friends necessarily, but she was a comrade at the end of the day. Plus she had a number of good men and women under her.

"We'll hold as long as we can," He replied, but even as he spoke his dark eyes fixed on the ground past Torm. The knight of the wolf turned, planting his poleaxe on the ground as he saw forms begin to shape amongst the smoke and debris. Multitudes of the enemy gathered. It had to be. The entire company of the Silver Swords wasn't that large, if his eyes weren't deceived. Aeon called out for his men to form up with a long hoot. Torm wasn't familiar with the order, but the infantry had been drilled in the manner of Aeon's distant homeland so their western foes weren't privvy to any commands he might make on the battlefield.

"Square up!" Torm called, pulling his weapon up and catching it mid-haft to use as a standard. What men he had left jogged to his position, armor tarnished and bleeding. They formed into a rough square over the span of a minute, bolstering themselves into an rotund, squat formation that was meant to whether an assault rather than aid in one. Spear's bristled along the knight's flanks, shields raised and helms lowered. Torm and Aeon needn't have bothered, however. Through the haze of night and smog, it wasn't the enemy that appeared first.

Bianca and her scouts raced into view, their slim horses galloping for all their worth towards the line.

Aeon howled twice, and gave a whistle. The line opened up like a parting sea, and Bianca's scouts moved through the ranks with only a nod in acknowledgement. Their skin was covered in soot and what wounds they had looked inflicted by wood and weather more than enemy swords. Torm moved his men to block the gaping hole in the infantry column, and at that moment, the Priest-Queen's forces arrived in their field of vision. They weren't as organized as Torm had feared, but they still quadrupled Aeon, Torm, and Gunir's combined forces. Twice the enemy hit them with a charge, their swings and cries that of desperate, sleep deprived men. But as the night drew to a close, the Silver Swords had managed to back up towards the gun trenches Grimi's boys had fashioned, and make a full withdrawal into Palona.

Rise to The Top: Medieval Intrigue RP

Galt wasn't unimpressed. He had seen King Heraclad III's castle and the Duke's manor, and yet somehow he was continually startled at the well furnished carpets and the artistry hanging on the walls like common furnishings. And yet there was somehow a hominess to the place, as if he could imagine waking up here and thinking of it as a comfortable place to reside. He didn't know what gave it that quality, but perhaps it was the fact it did not have vast swathes of unneeded space like the palace or the duke's home. This was made for a family; a large home for one to be sure, but people would meet here in adequate rooms, not a great hall or a dining area fit for a banquet.

The chamberlain seemed friendly enough. He was the kind of man who would scowl at someone like Galt a mere month ago and shout at him, but when one had money he was all smiles and even charismatic to a point. It sounded pessimistic, but truthfully Galt didn't blame him. Franz was in charge of the family's affairs and served them at their pleasure. Had it been a month ago, Galt would only be here to steal or to plead his innocence on any other number of crimes. Still, it was strange being on the other side of the coin. Nice, though.

They made it to the office, having passed various vases of flowers Galt did not recognize. The house had a sweet, pleasant scent to it he quite liked. Halting at the door, Franz and he went still when they heard voices. Galt immediately recognized Silke, and he had a good ear for voices and could tell she spoke to her brother even before her familiarity became apparent. The chamberlain's lips quirked into a smile as the conversation went on, and Galt felt a smile of his own blooming on his face.

He wished he had grown up with siblings, or at least remembered the ones he had. He felt a bit envious of the conversation, as frustrating as it was for the two involved. Silke was as forthright and clever as ever. Galt liked her being sweet and smiles with him, but he somehow found it compellingly attractive when she was verbally trouncing someone within earshot. There was a fire to her and a whip-like wit that he admired. Maybe someday she would be familiar enough with him to speak so, though he didn't expect them to ever get on one another's nerves quite like her brother did.

Her brother was boorish and every bit like Galt remembered from the dinner when he had been presented before the aristocracy, though it was something he had mentally prepared for. He almost felt bad for the fellow. Galt was sure he could run circles around the man with his own mental games, but it probably wouldn't do to try and it really served no likely purpose. He was just here to learn the bow and to keep up appearances. That would keep Galt busy enough. Gods knew he had fretted over it with anxious trepidation these past days.

Galt lifted his hand to the door and made the knocking gesture with two curled fingers, raising an eyebrow to Franz. The man snickered and looked down for a moment, before nodding and knocking on the door himself. When they were called to come in, Franz pulled the door open and gave a bow, clearing his throat and announcing Galt with a loud and clear: "Allow me to present Count Harrowmark, here for the appointed meeting." The chamberlain then stepped to the side so Galt might step in.

The thief did so, smiling easily. "I wasn't interrupting, was I my lord and lady? I can wait downstairs if you'd like?"

Poo's Particular Interests

Hi, you probably know me. I'm looking for a partner who is an advanced writer, loves to bounce ideas on an RP, and isn't afraid to write some great action, pulpy scenes, and getting their hands dirty with the dark side of life and humor. I'm big on fantasy and sci fi and while I'm partial to added romance, it's not needed.

Mass Effect/Star Wars Roleplay: Not entirely sure of the plot of this one, but I'm looking for someone who wants to write in these universes and explore the galaxy. If it's star wars, I'm partial to the Old Republic and doing odd jobs in the outer and mid rims. If we're doing ME, neither of us are shepard, though one of us could be a specter if you'd like.

Pirate RP: I'm looking for someone who wants to play as a cutthroat Pirate Captain, and I'll play a thief who is shanghai'd into service. It could be set in warhammer fantasy, the conan universe, or in a custom world.

Bandit/Cabal RP: Trapped under the tower by an evil wizard because we were exiles and criminals, we escape his slums, recruit men or allies to our cause, and raid, pillage, plunder and otherwise pilfer our weasely black guts out. Essentially the land version of the pirate one.

Swords and Silver: The Southern Contracts

All around Torm was screaming and fire and death. Knights knocked standing torches into tents and pummeled aside the haphazard resistance they had been greeted with so far, elbowing into pavillions and slaying half-dressed men as they hurriedly attempted to arm themselves. Torm knew a few scholars and noble men who would call the slaughter dishonorable, and perhaps they were right. A man had to follow his Captain's orders and fight alongside his brothers, to refuse that would also call for disgrace. Better to choose the shame that ensured victory than that of defeat. Better to paint the tent canvases with the blood of their enemies than stain the ground with your own. It had to be done, and they did it with brutal efficiency.

The sentries that had been posted had fought bravely, having run forward to defend the camp at the first charge, but they were spread too thin to form a line or any organized resistance. The Knights and dwarves had run through them, shattering spear hafts and breaking skulls. Torm had grappled a spear with a horizontal shove of his own polearm and impaled the first patrol through his chest, the watchman's padded jack unable to repel the spike at the head of his poleaxe. Another sentry fell to the right, his leg cut off from a clean chop of Gunir's axe. It took only half a minute for the remainder of them to flee to gather help, leaving this section of the camp undefended save for its bewildered inhabitants.

Torm and his men had scattered to wreak havoc as the dwarves took a different approach. The dwarves now walked together, no longer needing to guide the cavaliers through the gloom of night. The stout folk had formed a shield wall and moved with a slow, methodical march, shouting 'hoo! hoo!' with every heavy step. Torm watched them press forward three 'lanes' away from him, seeing them move like they were a great turtle. Their shields stuck with quarrels and arrows, the dwarves lifted them at regular intervals by a call from Gunir, donderbus gun barrels bare and discharging into the handfuls of men who had the bravado to rush them before the shields closed again as the riflemen reloaded. Torm marveled at the precision of their drill for a brief moment, almost missing the movement to his left. He flinched and turned, a man decked out in a brigandine and an open faced sallet running at him with a flanged mace raised over his head, having hoped to catch him by surprise.

Torm raised his left arm, striking the haft of the mace with his armguard to halt the percussive force of the head mid-swing. He swung with his poleaxe in his right, but it was an awkward blow, doing little but banging into the side of his enemy's chestplate with the haft of the weapon. Likely it stung, but left no wound. "Silver Sword bastard!" His opponent spat, drawing back the mace for another strike. On instinct, Torm threw his head forward, the front of his greathelm smashing into the bare face of the soldier. Blood spattered from his broken nose, Torm using the pause to hook the fellow's leg with the hammer of his weapon and yanked back powerfully. The soldier fell onto his back, concussed. Torm moved his weapon in a circuitous movement, whipping it around to lift over his own head with a great swing, and the last thing the soldier saw in this world was Torm's axehead chopping down at his exposed face. Alongside him, sir Rennek of Waterwood with his longsword and a ferocious Mamluk of their outfit named Suleman fought a furious duel against three heavily armored soldiers armed with halberds. Torm tried to pull his poleaxe free, but the blade had bit into the steel of the man's sallet.

"Fuck," He breathed, pulling at it yet again. It wrenched, but not free. He let go of the weapon and pulled out his rondel dagger as he moved in to aid them. Suleman's macework was like a dance, sundering the helm of a man even as Sir Rennek was himself wounded by the axeblade of a halberd biting into the mail on his arm. He cried out and thrust his sword in defense, trying to find a weak spot in his foe's armor. More men came from around the burning tents past the melee, figures half obscured by smoke and flame. Torm had limited vision in his helmet as was-

Sparks suddenly filled his eyes, and he felt a pressure below his visor-line. He glanced down to see a new dent in his breastplate where his liver was, raising his head to see the source was a pistolier scowling at him, moving to reload. He thanked the gods for his many near-misses tonight, and asked for their continual favor. Torm picked up the pace, charging not at the pistolier past the men, but the melee itself. The enemy men saw him coming to aid and flinched, Suleman laughing and taking the chance to press his advantage, weaving his mace around his defenses to splinter the shaft of the halberd. Torm was satisfied with his feint, subtly altering his bullish course to swerve right and rush the gunman. He wouldn't wear his armor if it wasn't bullet proof. Every breastplate was tested with a pistol shot from twenty yards away. But a bullet, a bolt, even an arrow could potentially pierce the thinner parts of his armor, and sometimes armor simply failed. He didn't give the pistolier a chance to fully reload, dropping the powder in his barrel just as Torm stabbed him through the eye with his rondel dagger. Juices and blood ran down the fops face as his legs gave way and he hit the dirt.

His victory was short-lived, however. Crossbow quarrels began to fly sporadically across the narrow streets of the camp and more of the enemy began to appear, stabbing and hacking at his men exiting tents or making their way across the battleground, vainly trying to group up with their brethren. Torm ran back to his poleaxe, placing his foot on the ruined face of the mace-man and finally pulling it free after another two tugs. Small measure it was. He watched with shock as Hugh of Auvergne was killed by an arrow to the neck on his first glance up, and across the tents he saw the body of what he guessed was once Frankfurt Swordhand, an axe having pierced his breastplate and his helmet sundered by the blow of some blunt weapon. He suddenly felt a sharp, stabbing pain at his hip. An arrow hung loosely from his chainmail between the gaps of plate. Gently he closed his hand around the arrow haft and pulled it free, but a warm, wet sensation told him he was bleeding freely. Idly he realized they needed to gather together. Their momentum was fading.

"To me!" Torm cried as shadows moved just outside his vision, certain it was troops gathering to repel their advance. He did something risky and pulled off his greathelm, raising his voice over the din. "To me! Silver Swords to me!"

Suleman and the wounded Rennek approached, having just slayed their couple of soldiers. He saw sir William the Brave and Gascony Broadfellow, Rudi the Broad with his great hammer and Sir Brace, Knight of Thunder move into his field of vision from out of the smoke. John Hangman approached, bloodied but alive with Dimitris the Cataphract with his feathered helm and his doubled headed axe. As the moments passed, more and more of his cavaliers joined him as he continued to shout. Two dozen had gathered by the time his voice was hoarse, and he set them to form a line before placing his helm back on. A few scattered knights continued to appear, but Torm's eyes were on the enemy before them, who had now appeared within his eyeline. He felt fear grip him when he bore witness to the numberless ranks of halberdiers and crossbowmen marching with iron breastplates and grim faces toward their position. Torm couldn't see the end of the line from the left or the right. There must have been hundreds of them, roughly set in the size of a company. Even with the flames and the death toll they had wrought on the enemy, Torm and his men were still heavily outnumbered. Where the dwarves were, he didn't know, but they had as good a chance of surviving as any. The cavaliers needed to worry about themselves.

"Weapons forward!" He called, raising his poleaxe and lowering it as a lance. The men around him followed his movements, helms closed and heads down. A few of them gave great, wet coughs, but none of them fled.

"We are with you, sir! To the death!" Gregor the Bold yelled.

"We will hit them at the center and break them!" Torm called, knowing what he said was not possible. The line before them was growing stronger and more thick with men by the moment. All they would do would pierce the line just to get surrounded. But this entire escapade was his idea, and none of the men would run if he did not. He clenched his jaw, preparing to order the advance.

A huge explosion suddenly erupted from behind the enemy line like an awakened volcano. The shockwave flew across the camp, wavering flames and whipping tent flaps in unison. It caused the enemy to stumble, and even Torm felt the breeze fly through his visor to kiss his skin. The halberdiers and crossbowmen and what swordsmen they had began to falter, heads turning back to look at the destruction. Wood fell in splintered heaps and even a cracked bronze lamp struck the ground from the dark sky, clattering across the camp floor to roll at a stop at Torm's feet.

"Now." Torm said, and realized this was their one chance. He began to move forward, his march transforming into a run. "Now! Go!"

"For glory!" Someone cried, and the armored mass of thirty cavaliers charged headlong toward the now confused and uncertain enemy. Torm raised his hand and the men formed a wedge, as if they were on their bardic warhorses. With smoke around them, hiding their low numbers, the enemy who still gazed forward flinched with apprehension. From the sky, it would look like a great arrowhead flying towards the faltering ripples of a cloth. Torm and his men hit the line and broke it in seconds, shoving aside their polearms and shouldering the enemy to the dirt. It would take minutes of hard battle, but Torm and his men slew thrice their number in the clamor and confusion. Now thinking they were surrounded on all sides and seeing the audacity of the bloodied knights, the Priest-Queen's company brokw, scattering across the camp in small, frightened herds as the knights continued to trash the camp and take what hostages they could, finding three lieutenants and their entourage amongst the rubble.

Ill Met in Ostland

"Quite." He strained, shaking from the pain and weakly gripping his arm. He had very little left in his emotional reserves, and so he rested his laurels on his usual snark. "W-why did not I think of that?"

It was plain from his voice he was ghastly tired and had nearly passed out from the pain. Even now his eyes were listless and half closed, the merchant's breathing ragged. He nearly pitched over onto the ground, but Natasha caught him by his shoulders and helped lower him to the ground. He did his best not to yelp and actually managed it for the duration of her aid. Where they were, he couldn't say. It wasn't dreadfully cold, but the rain hadn't helped and he felt goosebumps on his limbs from the lack of heat. Marius must have passed out for a few moments, because one moment he saw Natasha looked at him and the next moment she had teleported a few feet to the left, now laying down a bundle of relatively dry sticks to start a fire. He groaned, pressing his good shoulder against the barrel to help him sit up a bit straighter.

"What next?" He asked her sluggishly.

"Now we make fiyer." She told him, pragmatic as ever. The woman had pulled out a box of tinder and flint and began to chip it together, small sparks flying into the dead limbs. Seconds passed and she cursed, evidently unsatisfied with how it was going. Lazily he looked away from her slender form to around the rundown stone bower they found themselves in. The windows no longer held glass, but despite the cold he found he liked the scent of the rain. Small bits of dirt and leaves had been strewn across the ground, likely from the winds, and huge cobwebs formed along the ceiling and the corners that met the walls. A sizeable and strangely shaped shadow clung on the opposite end of the room, colored slightly darker than the drab stone. He squinted, and realized to his horror it was no shadow. It was a bloody spider the size of a hound!

"N-Natasha!" He stammered, and pointed at it when he had her attention. She swung her eyes to the corner and uttered something in her native language, followed by "shit!" The woman grabbed her carbine, knelt on a knee and aimed right at its center thorax, before firing. There was a large squelching sound, followed by an alien scream as purple ichor oozed out of the wound. Only then did the spider begin to move, scuttling across the wall with an uneasy gait due to the wound. Natasha unsheathed her sword, but another gunshot rang out. She looked back at the merchant, Marius dropping his smoking pistol to clatter to the floor. The bullet had hit the beast but had still failed to kill it. The spider had fallen to the ground, now on its back, its multitude of legs furiously gnashing all around it as it made a terrible whine.

Natasha didn't let it right itself, leaping over to the monster and piercing it between each of its set of eyes with her saber. It shuddered in its death throws before closing up into a ball and remaining very still. She stabbed it again for good measure, but it made no moves or sounds after she pulled out her sword.

"I'm not eating that thing," Marius told her, coughing. He felt ill, though whether from the cold or just a side effect of his wounds, he couldn't say.

"Too bed, I maek meen spider stew." She quipped, wiping her blade on a handcloth she had ready. He smiled despite himself. The woman was starting to grow on him. She was as tough as any ostland halberdier and could drink a dwarf to a stand still, but past her rustic nature, she was clever. Not to mention she had saved his life multiple times by now.

"What I meant earlier was, 'what do we do once we make it back'?" Marius corrected, wincing at a small jab of pain that flared up. Even after an hour of riding in the rain, he couldn't get the smell of smoke and burning human flesh out of his nostrils. It was quite dreadful. "But I think I know. Pay that bastard back for trying to get us killed."

Swords and Silver: The Southern Contracts

The captain has taken his advice, though not enthusiastically. Torm couldn't blame him, as he had spoken under duress and had only thought of the plan that would give them the best chance of winning without capitulating. And so now they would live or die based on Torm's idea. Ultimately it was the Captain's decision to make, but if this failed and Torm somehow lived, he might actually think Bianca some sort of seeress and take away all blame of her hating him. He would hate himself right enough. A stone's throw behind the commander, the men and women of Palona on the palisade walls whispered worriedly, casting glances at the Silver Swords or out into the darkness as they made their 'rounds' with the torches. Some of them shook like wet dogs, it was a wonder they could hold the blazing instruments aloft. But if this saved their town from the butchery and depravity of a sacking, they would do it, if only for their children's sake.

Torm stood at the head of an unruly mass of knights in full plate, armed with heavy weapons of steel and iron. Sir Draufkrieg himself held a sturdy poleaxe in one hand, its spiked butt piercing into the earth. Helms and accents from all nationalities and fiefdoms had gathered together to form a conglomerate of warriors before him, ready to spearhead into the enemy or die in the attempt. It was juxtaposed by a score of grim, battle-hardened dwarves armed with surcoats over finely wrought mail, each armored like the last. Eleven of them sported dwarf forged axes and shields of iron, and the remaining nine held smoothbore, muzzle-loading donderbus rifles. The Captain had taken what he could spare from the sappers and ordered them to help in the initial charge to kill two birds with one proverbial stone. The dwarves could see in the dark, and their presence would deter Grimgi's boys from getting overzealous. While it wasn't unknown for a dwarf to kill another in mercenary work, kinslaying was a grave crime in dwarvish society, and even when it was lawful they felt their gods would disapprove. Now the had nearly a hundred in the vanguard, with Aeon given orders to sweep in from behind as soon as Torm and his men had broken through.

"No enemy movements sir!" A voice called from a rise at the wall, one of the few men they kept stationed as their patrol. Clad in a kettle helm and a brigandine, he stood there with a dwarf sharpshooter, resting a long rifle on a fashioned hole in the curtain wall, keeping an eye on the battle line. Torm drew in a deep breath, as it was just about time. He turned to the men, clearing his throat to hush their restless murmuring. Out of the crowd stepped a burly dwarf named Gunir. An ex-soldier of a dwarfish citadel Torm couldn't recall the name of, he usually worked as security detail for the sappers or one of its chief diggers. He was clad in a suit of lamellar, overlapping plates of steel, riveted together atop a thick coat to add padding. He bore the typical squat, brazen helm of the dwarves, with cheek and nose guard. Gunir found a place beside Torm, as the knight addressed the men.

"Knights of the Silver Sword! Tonight we break the enemy before they can even begin to assault us!" The men gave roars and laughs of approval. It was good the enemy wasn't close enough to hear. Silence was key very soon. "When we step over this wall, you will move with me. We will walk and be as silent as our honored dead until the horns sound. If you see a dwarf, do not attack him. Ignore them unless they truly wish you dead. Our goal is beyond their earthworks. Tonight, we drive them out of these plains with their tails between their legs!"

"We cannot hope to kill them all, sir!" Called sir Ector of Lanebridge in his hounskull helm. Torm recognized him immediately for the shield he bore, a rarity among fully armored cavaliers in this day and age.

"We don't need to. I know every man and dwarf here will kill three of the enemy, or more. But our goal is to break their center, ruin their camp, and split the siege down the middle." Torm responded. "That, we can do. And we will. Now who is with me!?"

"We'll slay the bastards!"

"Keep yer heads about ye. Rifledwarfs in the back, and the other lads stay astride the manlings." Gunri said to his boys, and he patted the horn at his hip. A horn every axe-wielding dwarf held at their belt. "No unit tactics, too few of us. We're going with the buddy system, at least until we make it to the camp. Pick a group of manlings and keep them in yer sights. Ye know the tune to sing, so do it when I give the signal."

"Aye! Aye." The bearded folk responded, nodding. A few of them grinned or gripped their weapons tightly in anticipation. They might be sappers, but every dwarf male was taught how to soldier unless they were born in a human settlement. The stout folk had a martial tradition past human memory.

Suddenly a loud cranking was heard, the gathered throng turning to the gate as it began to swing open. Two Palona men pulled at the wheel mechanism as the five dwarf sappers left began to push the arbalest out, the fifth one gently cradling the barrel of phosphorus that was pivotal to the plot. Torm had seen this sort of munition fail before. All it needed was to be exposed to air and it would combust like a steam engine rupturing. Any chink in the barrel or sudden, unexpected nick might make it go sky high and potentially destroy their only artillery piece. As they moved, the patrols walked in practiced unison, coincidentally moving away from a small portion of the palisade, leaving room for Torm and the dwarves to approach it and get over, stepping on the pre-planted crates and hauling themselves above and past the palisade. Every curse was met with a whisper of silence, every grumble was smacked out of their mouths.

As Torm landed in the dirt and turned to help his fellows over, there below the wall in the gloom of the night, he wondered if the scouts were doing well. Bianca was savvy, but she was a firecracker. The knights and the infantry can drive the enemy off, but if the scouts didn't hit them at their weakest, the plan might go from victory to absolutely nothing. Jon Hangman reached over and Torm took his arm to help haul him across, the man-at-arms holding his curious eastern sword in his off-hand and using his elbow to help shove his weight up and around. The dwarves hit the ground the hardest, but they kept as quiet as they could and made only the barest grunts. Only one dwarf tripped, bouncing off the earth, but his fellows silenced his groans. Once all of them were over, they waited a minute, still as statues.

"Anything?" Torm breathed quietly to the dwarf at his side. It wasn't Gunir, but it didn't matter. A gruff cadence replied with. "Nay, no' a sound."

With that, Torm moved forward. Small commands from the dwarves were issued, and in an uneven wave, the contingent waded through no-mans-land, their armor making soft bumps and scraping noises, and though Torm knew it was just his nerves, it sounded like right clangor to his ears. He himself nearly fell first into a hole, quickly using the poleaxe like a walking stick to keep himself from pitching face first into it. He felt sweat beading on his chest and back, but taking solace in the fact the plan hadn't yet ended in disaster. The merciful lady would watch over them, this had to work.

"My bloody leg!" Someone cried. Torm's breath caught, and the next yell was muffled by unseen hands in the dark. He tried to squint, looking at the silhouette of the uneven ground to see the cause of it, but all he could ascertain were vague shapes moving. He glanced back at the well lit palisade walls, the patrols marching their torches this way and that, save for the gate. He needed to keep moving, the Knight Lieutenant stepping past the pothole and keeping his poleaxe before him, bumping the earth with it like a blind man.

"Oi! Who's that!"

"Enemies! Fuckin' attackers!"

The voices came from up ahead, and a few spans to the left a dwarf spoke in his native tongue to them. Damn, they still had another ten yards! Torm began to run in a trot, pulling every man he came across to join him. Now that they neared the earthworks, they could see the gleam of dwarvish eyes in the soft moonlight and the embers on their cigars. A few gunshots rang out from the ditches, flashes in the dark, but more shouts came in dwarvish by Torm, pleading and calling for what was no doubt a reassurance. A clamor of voices began to rise from the trench at the front, but it was drowned out by a sudden, powerful hornblow that shook every eardrum within two hundred yards. A mere second later it was joined by nearly a dozen more horns of similar quality.

"KIG'VOREN!" Torm heard Gunir cry in the din, a common dwarvish warcry that roughly translated to 'hew their necks.' Torm was no expert, but the Captain had every commander learn certain dwarvish calls so there was no confusion when battle began.

"Death and glory!" Torm roared, hefting his poleaxe into the air like a beacon as night suddenly turned to day. Above the battle line, an explosion of hot white illuminated the battlefield like a miniature sun. Torm could see the trench just in front of him and the cannon barrel he was looking straight into. The knight ducked and rolled, but the next thought he recalled was he saw no dwarf at its station and he felt the fool. Streams of fiery brilliance cascaded like missiles of flames into the front of the camp, piercing tents and scattering on the ground like burning sand. He saw Priest Queen patrols, close and with their spears leveled, suddenly turned and look in shock and horror at their own pavillions. The curs had no doubt heard some of their cursing and had been told to investigate, no doubt the commander having thought Grimri's boys having run into a few Silver Sword scouts or deserters. Torm smiled grimly, knowing they wouldn't expect a full scale attack until it had already come.

And it had.

Dwarf rifles fired across the trenches, cutting down three of the twelve or so spearmen and sending the others in a panic. Torm could see the camp clearly now, and all the shapes of the men that had tried to have a go at his knights. He vaulted over the trench, his men following suit. Heavy footfalls and crunched earth audible in their ears as they clambered past Grimri's battery line to start running, charging through the last stretch of ground before they hit the enemy camp with fury and bloodlust.

Swords and Silver: The Southern Contracts

"Well, the men are ready for a fight. In fact, they're getting so restless we might have a problem soon." Torm reported, though that wasn't precisely answering the Captain's question. Torm crossed his arms and looked at the map on the table, small black and silver blocks set up along the perimeter of the town to showcase the positions of the enemy and their own troops. A few had been knocked over due to the uneven table and the constant setting down of varying flagons of drinks, but it was as accurate is it could be thanks to Bianca and her scouts. "Do you think they'll just let us walk away?"

"We could choose the first of three." The Captain reminded him, watching Torm. The knight seemed very far away, eyes glued on the table as he considered the question. "Would be easier."

"The men wouldn't like it, and I don't think I'm only speaking for my lads. And it might tarnish our reputation." Torm reasoned. Perhaps 'tarnish' was a strong word, but victory brought loot, fame, and a potential bonus. This last year had been very lean for them, having fought wars of maneuvering more often than any real fighting. It served Torm just fine, but he didn't want to do this forever. He tried to think, but something wouldn't come to him. He couldn't...

Torm gave a start, his eyes darting around which betrayed his developing thoughts. He opened and closed his mouth, and shook his head.

"Out with it, boy." Cadger rumbled, smoke wafting with every word. He shoved off the wall and stomped over to the table, crossing his burly arms, the dwarf's beard now hugged to his barrel chest. Torm saw the Captain was of agreement, and he sighed, placing a hand on the desk and drawing a line over the front gate of the town with his index finger.

"A night attack." He said, and the words fell out of his mouth like lead. He felt the idea would be accepted by no one, but he continued. "We could take them tonight, a few hours before sunrise. That would neutralize their crossbowmen and hit them before the cannons fired."

Bianca looked at him like he had given the dumbest suggestion imaginable. He had expected that. The woman didn't seem to like him, though likely because of his role rather than anything he had done to her. For Torm's part, he barely paid attention to the First of the Scouts. As long as she did her job, he didn't give two shits. Cadger and the Captain's opinion he valued, and they remained quiet for the moment.

"It's not exactly my field of expertise, but a night attack only works if we have an advantage in the dark." Black Ryann remarked. There was no love lost between he and Torm, but they could at least work together professionally.

"Cadger, dwarves can see in the dark, right?" The Cavalry commander asked.

"For the most part, aye. Wouldn't be good sapping tunnels, otherwise."

"Then why doesn't Grimgi hit us at night?" Torm asked, knowing the answer but wanting to relay it simply to everyone else.

"Because his artillery is meant to support an attack from the manling infantry." Cadger replied, brow furrowed. "Without the army he's with, it'll only be a half-assed measure to fire at us. But his boys are right up front, they'll see us and tell the camp before he made it fifty yards out of the palisades."

"And you wouldn't even be in the attack. Convenient." Bianca quipped at Torm's expense, trying to keep herself from speaking like she was talking to a particularly slow five year old. "Unless you want forty of your precious horses to get a broken leg or three."

"The good thing about heavy cavalry is they can be repurposed into heavy infantry at a pinch." The Captain said. "But I still don't see how this would end in anything but a slog all night, and they have the numbers."

"We use the arbalest." Torm explained, placing a finger on the entrenched siege engine. "Once we hit twilight, the sun will be behind us. We pull it down from its position and bring it to the gate. We load it with one of our last barrels of phosphorus. Once it's time, we get some of the townsfolk to hold torches up by the walls to make the illusion our patrols are still moving, and we use the glare to get us over the wall. Once we're on the ground, we move forward fifty yards, and that's when we blow the horn. The gate opens, Cadger and his boys fire the arbalest. At its longest range, it should make it into the front of their camp, right?" Cadger considered the question, then nodded. "The light will give us something to see, but every man in their army still can't see us. Then my men and I spearhead into them, followed by Aeon to hit them hard once we force our way through."

"The Dwarves will be right in front of you. They might not be specialists in close combat, but they're tough. They might hold you back long enough to keep you." The Captain said.

"They're not even being paid. Will they really try and fight us?"

"They'll keep to their word, no matter what." Cadger assured him.

"Was it their word to fight in a melee, or to do dig and fire the cannon?" Torm asked, and Cadger mulled it over in his head, and then shrugged. "I think they'll keep to themselves as long as we don't attack them directly."

"They don't have any love for the Priest-Queen, you might be right." The Dwarf conceded.

"Once we're in, we'll have them. Bianca and her scouts can go round and once we have the main force bogged down, she can hit the camp from behind and take whatever commander and reserves they have. Worst case scenario, she retreats to the hill the crossbow sit at when morning comes and slip away at her convenience. Even if we fail, we can pull back into the town and ruined the bulk of their progress."

"And we could also lose half our forces." Ryann said, weighing the consequences.

"I don't think that will happen, but it's the Captain's decision. It's the only idea I have. Hit them at night, set their camp on fire, use it to see and help our charge, and make them run into Bianca and maybe a few of Aeon's men he can spare. We'll surround them." Torm said with finality, raising an eyebrow as he considered the room.

Swords and Silver: The Southern Contracts

"Forget it. Even with the river bed, it's suicide." Torm said dismissively, trudging along the banks of uplifted dirt that served for battlements in this small patch of land at the edge of the Shimmering Sea. The western wind carried the scent of smoke and death to waft into the Palona streets as if to remind the citizens they were a mere two hundred paces from a thousand men who's only goal to kill them and relieve them of all their mortal belongings. Even if they survived the siege, it was going to be a hard winter for Palona. The Knight wanted to help, but his duty was to his company first, and that dictated he not make foolish decisions because his subordinates were overeager.

"But-"

"I'm not giving that order, Carston." He said with a tone of finality. "It's not my decision to make."

The contingent of Knights and their war-steeds had been the most restless of the Silver Swords since their encirclement by the soldiers of the Priest-Queen a month ago. They were men trained to fight from adolescence, that is to say, at least the 'real' knights among them. Out of their number of five dozen, Torm was one of only sixteen that had actually been knighted by a lord and granted a title. Most of the others were men-at-arms, Cataphraktoi, and even a few Mamluks from the warrings states of the endless sun. It didn't matter, at least. They had been trained together, practiced drills, and fought together in over eighteen pitched battles and skirmishes. They were all Knights of the Silver Sword to sir Torm Draufkrieg, the Grey Wolf.

"But The Captain listens to you." Sir Carston argued, having not bothered to fully remove his bascinet helm, likely in case of stray projectiles. Torm recalled he had been raised in far Wildevalt, over the Karkasson Mountains across the sea. He was one of the deadliest with a lance, but he lacked strategy and still had more than his fair share of useless fretting from his time at court, before his long exile that led him into the mercenary life. On his tabard, a red flower was being cut in twain by a silver blade. He had insisted one be made for him to. Torm's had been gifted to him, with twin silver swords behind the head of a snarling wolf. Once the Knights had seen the embroidery, all of them had wanted their own personalized tabards. Of course, the Captain didn't deigned to gift any others, and so those that cared enough paid for it out of their own pockets.

"The Captain listens to everyone. That's why he's a good Captain." Torm said with a tone that warned this was the end of the conversation. The two walked past a group of sentries playing cards, their eyes widening when they saw Torm regard them sternly. They hastily pulled away the dice and the cards and stood back up, trying to appear as if it never happened. Torm remembered his time as a page, scrambling to erase away whatever he had just done wrong as if it could just cause it all to disappear. The commander turned to Sir Carston. "We'll speak no more of this. The Captain says we wait, we wait."

"Yes, sir. It was only an idea, is all." He said by way of retreat. The problem with anointed knights was their arrogance. Even an errant had a hard time keeping his pride in check, making them dangerously close to believing they were above their superior officer in certain matters. No one knew where the Captain was from, but he had never introduced himself as an aristocrat or one of the gentry. Some openly whispered Torm should lead, but sir Draufkrieg had punished any who suggested it in his presence.

The two stepped over a small embankment where the Silver Swords only real artillery piece lay. A siege arbalest they had obtained a year ago in at the Battle of Belhold. It was as large as two horses and had to be drawn by three oxen. Tough it couldn't effectively crush a stone wall like a trebuchet or a cannon, it had a simple loading system that allowed the company to arm it with a number of different alchemical concoctions or explosives, or even a bag of the heads of a besieged city's dead men. Whatever worked. More than once Torm had watched, amazed, as a slow fuse in a barrel of phosphorous powder had exploded over an enemy line, showing them in flames.

Passing it by, the sappers saluted Torm and Castor who gave curt, returning gestures before they stepped up the slope and into the first tent, one of the many that had been pitched up near the edge of town. Some of the men had been given quarters provided by Palona, but Torm had insisted his men live outside of them and make their own dwellings, to remind them they were apart of a team. He followed his own advice as well, his tent just half a mile up the road. Shoving aside the flap, he and Castor stood before two of their number, on their knees and bound. Both sported bruises and dried blood. The man on the left was Sir Montague Blakeny, and it looked like stitches were in order. He had a nasty black eye that swelled like an unwanted pregnancy. The right man was Aeneas Mirkanto, a Cataphract with a penchant for womanizing and screaming his own name in combat. His nose had been reset, but his jaw had seen better days.

Sir Robert Longfellow and a Man-At-Arms named Brightshot, dubbed so for his shiny white teeth, stood behind them, waiting patiently with their arms crossed. Torm was glad Longfellow was there, he always had a way of mediating between the boys. He was surprised to see Brightshot there, but then again he didn't know much about the man other than he liked to dance any moment he could and was a good saber fencer. Apparently having been raised and trained in both in one of the Free Cities along the coast to the east.

"What happened?" Torm asked.

"What do you think sir? It was over a woman." Brightshot remarked. Torm was already planting a palm on his face when Sir Longfellow began speaking. "A local girl named Clarissa promised she would meet Blakeny behind the tavern for some fun, but he found her and Mirkanto in the act. By the time I got there a few tables had already been broken. I got them off each other, but they had already roughed each other up something fierce."

"I let him get his pants on first, sir," sir Montague remarked. He couldn't look his commander in the eyes, just glancing Mirkanto's way. "Wouldn't have been decent otherwise, even if he is a cur."

"Thee would have had a thad night with you, quithquilian." The Cataphract managed to say with a noticeable lisp.

"Shut up!" Torm ordered, and all four of the men snapped to attention. Even Castor seemed perturbed. "Over a woman?" Torm asked incredulously, slowly shaking his head. They both opened their mouths but Torm held up a hand, his grey eyes wintry in their disdain. "No, stop. I don't care what your reasonings were. If this was over some expensive booze or a game of cards I might get it. If one of you had stolen some money, sure. Though you should come to me for such things, but a woman? There's millions of them. You cannot throw a stone without landing in the lap of some farm girl who sees a coat of mail and thinks you're from the legends. You two, you're both taking double shifts in the stables for three months. I want to be able to see myself in the shine of those horseshoes. And the tables you broke are coming our of your pay. I would reduce your rations but we need every man at peak fighting strength."

"Do you know when we'll be fighting, sir?" Robert Longfellow interjected. Torm looked at Castor as if daring him to speak, and then regarded sir Robert.

"I don't know. Any day now, I'm sure."

"Sir!" A voice rang out, the tent flap billowing open. A courier from Palona, one of the men the master of the town had given to the service of the mercs. "The Captain wants to see you. Now, sir."