Fable - Ask Men at arms

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Diedrick

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He looked forward, knowing that the weather didn't fancy him. In truth, Diedrick hated rain with every fiber of his being. It was wet, unwelcoming. It created mud everywhere and painted his beloved skies a moldy grey. Despite wearing a waterproof jacket, the exposed parts of Diedrick's body grew wet. In retrospect, perhaps he should've brought an umbrella, but it was too late to turn heel.

"Ah, fuck it, gotta keep going," muttered the man, seemingly referring to some unseen crowd. Or was it perhaps that he talked to himself? It was hard to tell. "Hopefully, the tavern isn't far off. Otherwise, I'll be soaking wet, and people might assume I have pissed myself on the way over, ha!" Diedrick strung his words together with belicious positivity, finding humor in the unlikeliest of places. His desire to marble every event with a degree of amusement stung a nerve of some people, yet he seldom found himself caring.

Soon enough, the place he was looking for came in sight. Squinting his eyes, Diedrick saw past the rapidly worsening torrent of water that had all but rendered him blind. He made out the basic features. A red, tiled roof, ornamented with two chimneys; mahogany-colored walls, presumably made out of sturdy hardwood and doors upon which hung a sign saying "Thorfinn's tavern."

Diedrick crept closer, enticed by the homey exterior and the promise of shelter. Gods knew that a nasty storm was building up. The longer he stayed outside, the further he risked catching a cold, if not something worse.

He laid his dish-plate-sized hand upon the door's ornately crafted surface. Diedrick's brow arched, taken aback by the smooth surface. The male wondered if the entrance was waxed, as everything pointed to that possibility, yet such costs proved expensive. How could an owner of a remote inn located in the middle of bum-fuck-nowhere afford such services? Diedrick found himself perplexed at the notion, despite banishing it in mere seconds. He pushed against the frame, unsure of how effortful his entry would be.

The tavern's doors opened ever so slightly, their creak barely above a whisper. Much to Diedrick's relief, they were heavy, meaning that he didn't swing them open with excessive force. Oddly enough, he struggled to enter, his body far too tall and wide for the relatively minor doors. In truth, they were perfectly normal and the problem laid within Diedrick's overwhelming size. It was no secret that he towered over most men to a varying degree. Such was the occurrence that he could come off as a frightening presence even when he had no intention of doing so.

A handful of strangers glanced at him, equally suspicious of Diedrick's arrival. They were a few, a clear indication that the tavern's remote nature had its pros and cons. On the one hand, it rarely had to deal with rowdy crowds. On the other, its budget took a hit due to the relatively low population density of the area surrounding it.

Tarathrieal

 
Askaris was rarely a tavern goer, the wide eared elf never had much taste for drink and even less for the loss of wits that followed it. Torrential downpours had ways of making even the natural roughneck seek shelter, and few places offered respite as cheap the cost of a few drinks. Askaris had made the weathers turn long before most had, and had holed up early in the afternoon to avoid it.

He had sat at the same upper left corner table, back to the wall body facing the door that he always did when in a building alone. Keep the knives out of your back and the only entrance in view, it wasn't a revolutionary idea - but it was one Askaris was insistent on. Most comers and goers were hardly worth the battle worn elf's attention; this backwater was safe and safety rarely created the kind of men Askaris needed.

It had been only weeks since his entire company had died on the Blightlands, and Askaris himself was still feeling the after effects of some common ailment or another that had played it's hand at the destruction of what took a hundred years for him to build. A hundred years; lost in a few short weeks at damned Blightlands!

So lost in his anger and self pity at his failure Askaris almost didn't notice exactly the sort of man he wanted - of course, even a blind man would struggle to miss what squeezed its way through the door. Bigger then any orc Askaris had ever seen, and so thickly muscled he bordered on statuesque the giant of a human was obviously not a soft man.

His size alone precluded such things, but his bearing told Askaris far more. His movements weren't the clumsy, brutish footfalls so common of large men. No, he was predatory - a tiger entering a den of men with soft underbellies.

Askaris was not a shy man, and so he wasted little time.

"Oi, big man. Come sit." Askaris called out over the silence of the sparsely populated tavern. His tone was friendly and upright, his cadence aristocratic. Askaris was a soldier, not a warrior, and he knew how to play diplomacy to get what he wanted. "Drinks on me." He added, the cocksure smirk on his face and the tip of his blonde head his only greeting.

Diedrick
 
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Diedrick was taken aback by the man's offer. He squinted at first, his soaked brows coming together to form a thoughtful expression. The one offering him a drink was an elf. He had to be one, judging by the pointy ears and fair skin, yet it was the sideburns that appeared uncanny. Seldom did elven men grow facial hair, much less an elaborate type like sideburns. Diedrick had no desire to come off as rude. Refusing the stranger's offer would be seen as most uncouth. In light of that, he slid to the table, disposing of his raincoat to reveal a simple cotton shirt. There was no elaborate design to it, but it proved exceptionally flexible, effortlessly clinging to Diedrick's frame while hugging him in all the right spots.

The overwhelmingly tall male rolled his round, accented shoulders, hearing them creak from the long day of walking. Finally, he slumped into a chair, making sure to pick the sturdiest one around, lest he risked breaking its frame and falling right onto his arse. Once sufficiently adjusted, Diedrick planted his fists onto the table, both of which were, for the lack of better words, the size of a small anvil.

It was at that point that the tavern's owner brought them their drunks. He was an aging man, half bald and already in his mid-fifties. Despite his advanced age, he didn't struggle to carry two comically sized tankards of ale, slamming them into the table's smooth surface with a dull thud. Diedrick grasped his cup, fingers wrapping around the container's width. Leering forward, he took a sniff at the golden liquid, feeling its sweet aroma besiege his senses. Satisfied with the result, he tipped it to his mouth, taking a reserved gulp, much to everyone's surprise. They saw Diedrick as a brutish barbarian and expected him to act accordingly, which probably entailed downing nearly a liter of alcohol in one swing.

"To who do I owe the pleasure of a free drink?" Diedrick finally piped up, his voice cheerful and slightly energetic, revitalized from the previously unpleasant experience concerning the weather. "I seldom find people ready to share their money so willingly." A smile followed his words, but not an intimidating or mocking one. No, it was nothing short of genuine, undiluted honesty on his part.

Tarathrieal

 
Askaris slid a hand into the leather pouch at his hip, drawing from it a long pale wood pipe and a small handful of some dried leaf or another. As the drinks arrived and Diedrick settled himself the elf packed the pipe, tapping it's end on the table before doing so - the candle which served as the tables lighting was used as an unwieldy match, and soon the elf was puffing away.

It was his one true vice, an addiction he had no desire to beat. The thick, white smoke which poured from the far corner of his mouth had a strong but pleasant smell and it filled the little corner of the tavern with a subtle haze.

"The soft bellied men around here make poor company; you see a man whom you might share a kinship with when lost you reach out." Askaris said as answer to the question at hand, at least in part. "As for the cost." The elf flashed a grin. Askaris was wealthy, absurdly so - his inheritance was substantial and his own earnings as a mercenary were considerable. A soldier of gentry, he could buy the tavern of it's entire liquor storage and not even notice the dent on his ledger.

Of course, even a rich man wouldn't waste his money for idle conversation. Askaris had a motive - Diedrick was far too large to be recruited into his mounted mercenary company; but that didn't mean his services weren't useful. "My name is Tarathrieal Hychinth, Commander of the Fusilier Dragoons. Most just call me Askaris." The elf said, inclining his head as a way of formal greeting. He did not wait for a response.

"I'm looking for a few elite men, for a "suicide" mission as they say. I pay well." Askaris said with a sheer predatory tone, the hard look on his face showing the severity of his intentions. "Though I have not yet determined if you are right for the job. So lets consider this an unrequested interview." He added, this time said with mirth and a grin.

Askaris had not intended when he took shelter in this tavern to recruit for the vengeance brewing in his mind, but if nothing else the battle hardened elf was an opportunist first and foremost.

Diedrick
 
"Pleasure is all mine," chuckled the musclebound man, lips folding into a light-hearted grin. "I am Diedrick, Diedrick Rivendare. I am not sure how much you know about me, but I come from a family of scholars." Diedrick was about to extend his arm for a handshake just as he noticed Askaris lighting up a pipe. Not wanting to bother the elf, he merely slid his frame deeper into the chair's cozy embrace. "Friends call me Didi. And before you say it, I know it's an unbecoming name for a man of my stature. Alas, many find it comical."

Diedrick's eyebrow arched at the mention of soft-bellied people. He faintly turned his head, scanning the room for any signs of extraordinary individuals. Much to Diedrick's dismay, he found no one. For the most part, they were merchants and middle-to-upper class folk. The kind of people who could afford to dione well, drink well, and have fun without necessarily being rich. He envied them at times. Them and the faucets of their life responsible for enabling such tranquility, yet Diedrick couldn't deny his love of action.

Diedrich caught a few undereye stares from less-than-likable locals. They saw his massive proportions and assumed him to be a criminal of some sort, if not a violent ruffian. He could only shrug at their addled minds, returning his attention to the long-eared elf before him. "Suppose you have a point. I am not above judging people based on their appearance. It's both a curse and a blessing, all things considered."

Diedrick morphed into an ear as Askaris brought out his case. He would've already assumed the elf to be of a military rank based on superficial inspection, but not a high-ranked commander. Those were the big shots. Diedrick took a moment to consider the implications, thoughtfully humming. In truth, he only did so to make himself look quick-witted. "Suicide squad, you say?" Diedrick's question came as something of a rhetorical inquiry. He already had the basic idea of what Askaris meant.

The man's humongous hand rent the air, dispersing some of the smoke produced by the elf's pipe. To this day, Diedrick couldn't wrap his mind around the concept of smoking. "I just came back from a job concerning illegal substances. You know, drugs and similar related stuff. But please, do enlighten me on your planned undertaking. I'd love to hear more before bringing a final judgment."

Tarathrieal

 
Askaris slid a hand once more into his leather pouch, pulling out a tightly wound parchment. He quickly untied the string binding it tight and spread the parchment out, using the edge of his untouched drink and the candle holder to flatten it out. It took up about a quarter of the table, and on it's surface was a beautifully hand drawn map - the tell tale scribbles in the margin likely notes in the harsh, square lettering of Tundra Elvish.

"This is a field drawn map of The Blightlands, in particular the north eastern area." Askaris pointed to a spot near the eastern most edge, a shallow out cropping into the Blighted Sea. "This is a semi-safe landing point which I intend to infiltrate a small team into from Eretejva. From there we would attack this." Askaris pointed to a series of dotted lines which marked a path between a little icon that looked like a pick axe and another which looked like a castle turret. "A caravan which makes daily shipments of materials from this mine to a border outpost which eventually sends this metal to Molthal to be made into weapons. I intend to disrupt this supply frequently enough to draw out the fortress defenders." Askaris pointed at the castle turret symbol.

"Once the savages pour from their hovel we ambush them in small, quick attacks and then we flee. We do this until they grow frustrated and chase us into pre-designated retreat points, which of course are further ambushes. Once their numbers are reduced sufficiently I mean to raid the mine itself, destroying it." The why left hanging in the air, Askaris leaned back into his seat and puffed at his pipe.

"The Blight Orcs and their puppet master King lack the organizational structure to send a quick response force from Molthal; even if they rush on mount it would take weeks to traverse from the western edge to the eastern. Are only true concerns are the smelting furnaces to the south, and a small border outpost which watches the sea for invasion." The predatory Elven soldier eyed the mountain of a man as he spoke, gauging his reaction to the idea. Encroaching on Menalus's territory wasn't entirely uncommon for adventurers - but actively disrupting supply lines and dealing infrastructure damage was rarely the goal. Only guesses could be made on the political fallout of the unsanctioned raid; luckily for Askaris it seemed Diedrick was not opposed to criminal activity.

"I ain't gonna liE to you; this is personal for me. I don't have grandiose dreams of destroying the Blight Orcs Empire and seeing Menalus grovel at my feet - but if I can make him and his damned savages feel my presence even vaguely then I mean to do it. But ignore my personal feelings on the matter, the pay is one years salary for the average craftsmen. Enough to buy a nice house in Alliria, and a hell of a lot more then you'd make smuggling drugs." Askaris let his preposition sit in the open, he knew it was a gamble to lay his cards on the table so openly; but better his goals and motivations laid bare where they could be discussed then discovered on the field where his command would be questioned.

Diedrick
 
Diedrick's eyes scanned the parchment with great interest. He couldn't speak elven, but that didn't prevent him from admiring their framework. "Orcs, you say?" Diedrick's voice arose, laced with supreme curiosity. It had been a while since anyone mentioned orcs in his presence. Those foul, uncivilized, violent creatures that he enjoyed slaying with little to no remorse. "I like where this is going." A hundred thoughts swirled in his mind, forming a whirlpool of endless possibilities. He dared not interrupt the elf, for Askaris had much to say and Diedrick much to hear. It would've been a pity to let a stellar opportunity such as this one slide under his radar, but Diedrick knew better than to throw himself into uncharted waters.


"Molthal, Molthal..." drawled the mountain of a man. The place sounded oddly familiar to him. Only he couldn't quite place his finger onto why. Then the realization dawned on him, enlightening Diedrick with some much-needed historical recollection. "Molthal, the land of orcs, slavery and," Diedrick's lips pursed, halting his words for mere seconds, "giants. I might've killed one or two, but I can't seem to remember the details." Diedrick was not above forgetting things. In truth, he could be quite absentminded when it came to sporadic details. Nonetheless, Askaris did more than merely tickle his interest. He set it ablaze much the same way a man might ignite a gasoline-soaked piece of cloth.


"Let me get this straight. You want us to disrupt the orcish trade routes, and consequentially their economy by destroying caravans?" He gazed at Askaris, retaining unbroken eye contact. Diedrick's eyes flashed golden as if something had stirred deep within him. The muscle-clad humanoid reached out, his massive hand falling onto Tarathrieal's shoulder before firmly squeezing it. "If so, then I am most interested in your plan, sir." Diedrick still felt the need to say more. He'd never allow the seeds of doubt to corrupt his heart, which didn't prevent him from having a rooted dislike of massed combat.

"I'll wholeheartedly admit to disliking war, especially skirmishes," Diedrick's nostrils flared up, signifying a nonchalant snort that was about to come. He found the premise comical, fighting side by side with a group of elves, or even one for that matter. "War is an ugly thing. There's something particularly foul about having to face people who got coerced into fighting through the weight of circumstances."

"But same doesn't apply to orcs!"
exclaimed a little overly-enthusiastic Diedrick, slapping his knees with such force that a handful of residents turned their heads, fearing that a heavy object had fallen somewhere within the tavern's confines. "Their entire fucking culture revolves around violence, hence why I have no moral qualms about killing 'em."

"That said, you mentioned a suicide squad. So where are you going to find the other members?"


Tarathrieal

 
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Askaris nodded along with the rhetorical questions Diedrick asked, allowing the large warrior to mull over his own thoughts and come to the conclusion he eventually reached. It wasn't an uncommon opinion, the dislike of war, even among those who lived in violence the particular brand of horrific carnage only massed men could inflict was rarely enjoyed.

It was hard to say if Askaris truly enjoyed war, he loved tactics and pitting his strategy against his opponents - but the actual fighting was not the glamourous meeting of knights and chivalry children were raised on. Internally he decided he did love it as Diedrick spoke; his mind recalling the smells and sounds of the battlefield and feeling only a thrill at the thought.

Eventually a question that needed more then a nod was brought forth.

"I mean to recruit some men, mostly young and brave hunters sons which I will train for this very mission. The key pieces will be filled by men and women of exception whom don't mind getting their hands dirty. I have a few such in mind, you were merely a pleasant opportunity this town set on me." Askaris quipped, knowing the man must have been wondering if the strange elf had been planning this meeting ahead of time to recruit him.

There was no such arrangement, it was merely the twisted yarn of fate which had sent the two in the same backwater town at the same time.

"With that in mind I don't truly know your skill set. You are large, but that is hardly a skill - you are subtle, at least enough to work in the drug trade as stated by your own admission. That is unusual for a big man, so I know you are skilled - I simply do not know how. I find there is only one true way to make the measure of a warrior." Askaris rolled his neck around his shoulders as he spoke, the cracking of tired bones audible over the relative quiet of the sparsely filled tavern.

"And that is under true pressure, with wet blades and dying men." Askaris motioned to the barkeep, who came over with an exasperated expression. "Tell the big man what you told me when I first sat down." Askaris demanded off handedly, puffing at his pipe and looking on with bemusement.

"Well if you insist." The barkeep nearly stammered, rubbing his sweaty hands on his beer stained smock. "This is a safe town, ya understand; none of us much for a fight and any fight that does show it's self is handled by them Allirian patrols and all. But ya see, Mr. Plinkett says he got a group of angry bandits hiding out in his barn and threatening his family. I asked the haughty elf fella to handle it, but he said he didn't work for pennies. Seein as he askin I'm hope he changed his mind and you fellas can run um off for the town." His manner of speech was slow and he struggled to convey the true severity of the situation with his awkward speech patterns.

"Oh for God's sake Micah, just tell say it! Bandits done ran from the patrols, hiding in the Plinkett ranch barn and apparently been killing his cattle and taking his crops. They ain't hard men, buncha thin necked peasants thinking themselves bandit kings cause they got a few crossbows." A woman suddenly yelled from behind the bar, presumably Barkeep Micah's wife.

"So, how do you want to handle this, Diedrick?" Askaris asked with a mischievous smirk on his face. It was a test, Askaris didn't need mindless drones who'd follow his every command. Askaris was recruiting squad leaders, men who could act on their own and who could lead small teams of other men well enough to achieve goals without supervision. Being big had it's advantages, but if Diedrick chose to just crush them with his might Askaris was unlikely to be impressed.

Diedrick
 
Diedrick thought about it, prying word after word from Askaris. It was a while before the elf laid out his plans, nudging Diedrick into a light-hearted mission with the intent of testing the man's might. "That so?" He inquired, flicking his beefy index finger against the mug's glassy exterior. He gripped it firmly, feeling his heat leech off into the cool material. Diedrick's digits slid across the condensation, bringing the amber-colored liquid into a drinking range. He flinched involuntarily as the alcohol slid down his esophagus, bringing an all-too-familiar burning sensation. It reminded him of the youthful days when he was still unaccustomed to the taste of ale, much less sharper spirits.

"Hahaha!" chortled the mountain of rolling muscle, eyes bobbing up in down in the rhythm of his bouncy head. He couldn't hide the stream of merriment washing over him the moment his eardrums received Tarathrial's offer. Every fiber of Diedrick's body appeared as if positively animated. The entirety of Diedrick's overwhelmingly inflated frame slid forward, his hands seizing the elf by the shoulder blades. He gently rocked Tarathrial, exerting insignificant force in an effort not to injure the smaller man. "How could I refuse your offer? An adventure, exhilarating one at that, is just ahead of me. Ain't no way that a hot-blooded human like me is going to slip by such an opportunity without at least considering it."

"Plus,"
he leaned in, pulling Askaris awkwardly close to his sternum. Diedrick's head spun as if gazing into the unknown, unperturbed by the shortage of eye contact between his soon-to-be business partner and himself, "you are a likable fellow. A bit of charm goes a long way, and your bubbling resentment for those bugger-eating, slave-owning, shit-skinned orcs has me preeminently enlivened. I feel that revenge drives you as much if not more than material earnings."

His ears perked upon hearing of the previously-mentioned bandits. He believed the woman when she called them a little more than a group of jumped-up peasants. Diedrick presumed them cattle thieves, small fry compared to the kind of people a full-time criminal would be dealing with. Yet Diedrick drifted between the two worlds, neither a law-abiding citizen nor a reprehensible brute, a fact that brought much solace to his mind since he rarely dealt with authorities.

"Eh, sounds like a plan to me. Didn't have much on my to-do list anyways. You might as well butt in and give me an exciting afternoon, general." Diedrick winked at the last part, referring to Tarathrial's military background. It wouldn't be Diedrick if he didn't tease people from time to time.

Tarathrieal
 
Diedrick's boisterous, almost goofy nature was an undeniable infectious character trait. It was the type of free standing charisma that Askaris did not have, and from Askaris own experience these types of people either made great leaders who inspired confidence and lead with action or horrific demagogues whom had a pathological need for acceptance.

Askaris would find out which soon enough. "Consider me a man under your able command, you give an order I'll follow." Askaris said as he stood up, snuffing out his pipe by plugging the cup with his thumb. A few quick taps on the table and scrape with his finger and it was returned to his pack. Now standing Askaris size and shape were clear.

He was short and stocky, especially for an elf, with unusually large hands and ears making him look somewhat disproportionate. At his hip was a basket hilted saber, the curved blade lacking in any adornment and exuding a utilitarian air that didn't match with his flamboyant dress outfit.

"So you can better use my skills I'll explain what I excel at as an individual warrior - I am capable duelist and swordsman, but am no sword master. My bow, which is held in a saddle on my mount, is of Abtati origin and I feel it is no exaggeration to say I am among the most elite battlefield archers alive. I am a highly skilled tracker and scout, able to track the Abtati in the desert and corner them. I am also a skilled light cavalryman, but I doubt such skills will find much use in this operation. Make use of my skills as you see fit, I do have some intel to share." Askaris pulled another note from his pack, this one written on the rough cloth used as a napkin in this very tavern.

"The locals who gossip in this bar say there are seven of these 'bandits', they have no obvious command structure and argue with each other frequently. At least two of them have been seen with 'crossbows' of some kind and one man claims he saw them bringing something in crates into the barn. The crates had the symbol of the Allirian Guard on them, I'd wager that is bad intel but take it for what you will." Askaris said, his voice monotone as he was clearly reading off the napkin. A peak at the notes would show it was written in Tundra Elven.

"So what would you like to do about this, Commander?" Askaris poked fun back with his final words, showing that despite how rigid and professional he represented himself as he was still a life long mercenary whom spent years amongst men who used humor to escape the horrors of war.

Diedrick
 
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"Lead?" Diedrick's brain froze up, mulling over the word of familiar yet also alien meaning. He knew that the word carried a certain number of connotations that hadn't quite stuck on him throughout the years. "I...never lead people in my life, not as a military commander at least." His voice betrayed a hint of surprise, like Tarathrieal's words caught him off guard, and he was taking time to recover. "Even during the drug heist, I was the one taking orders, not the one issuing them. You ought to understand how alien the entire concept seems to me."

"But I digress."
Diedrick rose, pushing away the chair that he found all-too-uncomfortable, courtesy of its constrictive frame that proved incapable of containing his herculean physique. Being built like a Greek god had its downsides, namely the amount of space one required to move freely, something that Diedrick woefully yearned.
"Wouldn't feel like a real-life without some struggle, amirite? I can't just hole up while sticking to one way of existing and avoiding everything new that comes my way."

A few of the tavern's patrons threw him odd glances, keenly observing the interaction between the pair of men, one elf and the other a hulking behemoth. Diedrick felt inclined to turn around and stick out his tongue at them, slightly annoyed by the likelihood of being ogled by half-a-dozen curious strangers. To him, they were a rude bunch, lacking basic manners. Diedrick found it hilarious that, for once, he wasn't the one accused of uncouth barbarity or excessive violence.

He lurched towards the exit, urging Askaris to follow while simultaneously offering a friendly goodbye wave to the pair of elderly owners. They were decent folk, and Diedrick made a mental note to pay their tavern another visit when the travels took him to Alliria. Once outside, he stared at the sky, grinning triumphantly at the satisfying absence of clouds and the absolute scarcity of rain. God, he fucking hated rain with a burning passion. Diedrick basked in the sun's rays, offering his tanned skin to its eternal glory. His relishing came to an end when he took a whiff of air and noted its abnormal humidity, which soured Diedrick's mood approximately immediately. More rain was to come, waiting just around the corner.

Diedrick's gaze fell on Askaris, eyes half-lidded, a slight smirk playing at the very edge of his ruggedly handsome features. "I am impressed. You know a handful of things that most warriors forget about, such as ranged warfare. I mean, when was the last time you saw an ordinary footman using a bow? It's almost as if people treat it like a peasantly weapon." The male chuckled, amused at the irony of it all. "Which is dumb as fuck. Knights readily use bows. Hell, archery is considered to be one of the core chivalric disciplines among some orders."

Tarathrieal
 
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Askaris followed the hulking man outside, his hands clasped behind his back and his posture perfect.

"Worry not about leading with great dignity or tactics, I merely need to witness if you can think." Askaris said with a friendly tone, in truth he knew Diedrick was intelligent; but intelligence and rational judgement were not the same thing; as the leadership of well educated gentry often proved.

Askaris nearly chuckled at the big man's disdain for the concept of some human cultures; of the idea that Noble Knights fought exclusively from horseback at the front. "It is a fool whom discards tactics for asinine etiquette, and I have watched many such men curse my cowardice with their final breaths." Askaris said with a predatory smile, likely briefly reliving some particular event.

"I was educated at Annukat Mercenary Officer's Academy; but in truth I learned the most from my enemies. The Abtati, the orcs and the like. Never discredit the savage, for his victories carry far more weight when they are gained against a 'superior force'. Imagine what that 'superior' force could do if they fought as the savages fought?" Askaris said, almost giving a lesson on the mindset which had given such success as he followed the big man.

Diedrick
OOC: I apologize for the delay, UFC weekend was a little wilder then I intended.
 
"Eh? Savagery is such a subjective term. I know many who wouldn't refer to a systemic genocide as savagery merely due to the cold and calculated ruthlessness preceding the affair." The road head grew more narrow by the minute, signifying the duo that they were heading in the right direction. Wherever the farm was, Diedrick trusted Askaris to find it without unnecessary delay. He kicked a stray pebble out of his path, hands pocketed and carefree. He looked no less relaxed than a student awaiting his ride, apply in grasp and cheerfulness on the mind.

"It's plenty smart to be ruthless, but I wouldn't go as far as to call myself immoral. It wouldn't do me justice."

"Loot, murder, pillage, enslave, and so on, but even then, there's nothing less entertaining than dominating weak foes. It makes me feel like a spineless mollusk."
Diedrick's knuckles cracked abruptly as the male folded and unfolded his fingers beyond what should be achievable by human joints. The crackling was a signal, telling Diedrick that he needed a warm-up. And what better preparation could he get than combat?

"If I am already in the thick of slaughter, wouldn't it make sense to face off against increasingly stronger foes? The kind of people who can offer a non-insignificant amount of resistance," Diedrick's tongue traced the outlines of his dry lips, covering them with a thin coat of fresh saliva. Anticipating made him all giddy on the inside, not unlike the sensation a child would experience when presented with a new toy. "Something along the lines of...strength training, weightlifting even? A similar principle where one progressively increases the payload after a while so that their body doesn't sink into complacency."

"If you only combat a specific type of adversary, with uniform might and comparable characteristics, then I am of a firm belief that it'll hinder you in the long run. Much the same way that consistently sticking to a simplistic physical conditioning would."


Diedrick's pacing suddenly came to a halt, head rolling sideways to meet Askaris, brow slightly arched, eyes wide, beaming. "You said something about army crates, correct?" A sentence uttered with relish and followed by an unmoving pair of eyes, their hunger, and curiosity showing evidently for all to see.
 
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Askaris followed slightly behind the large man on the narrow, poorly maintained roads of the rural village. He listened to Diedrick opine about nature of culture and how each should be viewed through a lens. Askaris did not respond, while he was certainly able to dabble in the discussion at hand it wasn't one which the imperialist mercenary had much desire to do so.

Askaris was, at his core, a hypocrisy. He spoke many 'tribal' peoples languages, learned their tactics and venerated their ideas to the more traditionally 'civilized' militaries that employed him. Inevitably he would be hired for a single purpose - to crush tribal uprisings, to bring an end to any resistance; brutality was something Askaris delivered without even a flinch.

He was a villain to some, and a hero to others. History, as it often did, would likely paint the efficient commander as little more then a monster; and perhaps that was true.

Eventually the pair arrived at vantage point to view the barn the men were reported to be hiding out in, sitting openly across a budding field of some crop or another. Diedrick had turned to Askaris, eyes wild in anticipation of some what Askaris believed to be erroneous intel. It was highly unlikely some backwater peasants turned bandit could steal Allirian Guard equipment.

"So the rumor says; I'd wager it's bad information - but if they do have Allirian Guard supplies I'd wager on armor and arms." While Askaris did not expect to be facing peasants in full plate, it was possible.

Askaris was so lost in the thought he almost didn't notice the movement in time. Suddenly from the budding field just thirty yards from the pair of warriors emerged a single man. He was dressed poorly, with dirty wet clothing covering his frail form and with a cheap, poorly mad pot iron helmet on his head.

In his hands was an object Askaris had never seen before. It looked like a crossbow, with a pair of arms jutting out from the sides bent heavy under deep tension. The arms were metal, signifying immense draw weight - but the length of pull was short, suggesting it was more an effort to make up for the design and was likely no more powerful then a traditional crossbow.

Where it got strange was it's other features. It had no open top, no visible bolt - along the track where the bolt should be was instead metal tube. While Askaris had never seen or heard of such a weapon, it's name was known to the Allirian Guard.

The experimental Slurbow was an attempt to allow cavalry to use crossbows while mounted, without risk of bolt flying off or a need to slowly load a bolt while on the move. While it was not 'repeating', as it still required the user to manual pull the string it was magazine fed; meaning it loaded a new projectile with the pull of the string.

Haphazardly the bandit fired, and the projectile loosed whizzed in between the pair. Askaris quickly took retreated a few steps, taking cover behind nearby building edge. The hardened soldier had only gotten a brief glimpse at the fired projectile. It was superficially a bolt, with an armor piercing head but was made entirely of metal with four built in stabilizing wings at the rear.

Stranger still was the 'sabot' of leather which had been stripped away from the projectile as it fired from the slurbow; imparting a 'spin' on the projectile which kept it's flighting terrifyingly stable. Askaris was about to warn Diedrick of the potential for accuracy the weapon had when the peasant screamed out.

"We got enemies! BRING THE POLYBOLOS, ONE IS HUGE!" The peasant roared, desperation in his voice.

Askaris openly shivered at the mention of the poloybolos! That was a rare, expensive piece of field artillery - a chain and gear driven ballista with a gravity fed magazine it could fire four to five foot bolts at a rate of three to five a minute depending on the skill of the team using it. Askaris had never faced one in battle, but he had seen a pair of them shred a cavalry charge like wheat as an observer.

At this moment, Askaris desperately wished he had brought his bow.
 
The male lowered himself, knees bent, head dipping forward. "You are about to see something good," he exclaimed, mustering quicksilver speed before lunging forward. Diedrick moved with impeccable grace, accelerating beyond what should've been humanely achievable. His form flickered and weaved, neutralizing the distance within seconds. He paid no mind to the bolts bouncing off him, each unable to penetrate his selectively hardened flesh. To them, Diedrick might as well have been a heap of solid iron.

Once in range, he struck the first man, crushing his lower jaw with an ungodly uppercut. The fellow had little time to react as his body became airborne under the effects of obscene force. Little did the bandit know of his unsightly fate, for he was not dead, not yet. Diedrick grasped him by the ankle before he could fly too far,
lurching his weight to slam the barely-conscious bandit into one of his comrades.

*CRACK*

An unsettling echo tore through the humid air like a proverbial knife, signaling the breaking of one, if not multiple, bones. Diedrick confirmed as much, briefly glancing towards the man he used as a makeshift weapon a second's fraction ago. Diedrick assumed the thigh bone to be broken, judging by the body's unnatural movements. The adversary laid limp in his grasp, bones shattered and frame held together by nothing more than soft tissues and sinew. The one he struck prior to the inspection looked no better.

He was, for the lack of better words, half-buried in the loose soil. The hillbilly remained unmoving, resting face down as his body left a not-so-insignificant imprint upon the ground. Diedrick wasted no time in hurling the lifeless form towards the polybolos. It struck true, knocking the contraption back by a few pegs, enough so to temporarily offset its aim while he worked on the remaining enemies.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Diedrick saw a figure gaining ground on him. A tall man, possibly in his late thirties, wielding a lance with the intent of perforating him. Of the bunch, he seemed most skilled, carefully putting his weight behind the attack to maximize its speed and power. It was hard to fathom the despair on his face when Diedrick, instead of dodging, literally bent his lower torso out of the way as if it were devoid of bones and internal organs.

There was no time for recovery as Diedrick's fist bore through his steel chest plate, meeting minimal resistance on its trajectory. It tore through the sternum, crushing the ribcage and consequentially doing irreparable damage to the heart and lungs. Instead of stopping there, his blow followed through, exiting through the man's back with a burst of blood. At first, it came thick and strong, flowing through his fingers as they clasped the ripped flesh. Diedrick felt the blood move over his hand, the thick fluid no warmer or cooler than his own skin.

The man was long gone, but his body had enough strength left in it to reflexively spit some of its precious bodily fluids onto Diedrick's forehead. Surprised by his own Strength, Diedrick rattled the corpse still attached to his forearm.

"Woopsie daisy," came the words, spoken with utter, possibly clueless, nonchalance.

Tarathrieal