Private Tales Not my Job

[Cato]

"I thought you said it was going to be a a handful of fucking bandits," the mercenary exclaimed to the other man who remained standing. A pair of corpses lay at Cato's feet and the same for his white-haired companion. Cato was told that they were going to be dealing with a very small band of assholes. The dead four were only a scouting party. Simple arithmetic dictated that the pair of mercenaries were outnumbered by more than just a few. Cato tended to avoid contracts that were likely to see him skewered about seven times over.

He should have fucking known better when the job asked for two mercs. This was the last Cato would gamble away almost everything he had. Turns out even a learned gentleman like himself would go thrice-fucking-stupid if it meant paying back a debt. The blood on Cato's sword told him that there was no going back at this point. Cocky bastards like this would make a point of hunting him down even if they didn't know any better.

"Ten, maybe a few more," Cato muttered more to himself than to the other man. "At least these shits were half useless. Better hope the rest are just the same."

The mercenaries' eyes glowed a dull-blue to echo his skepticism.

 

[Garrod Arlette]

Leave it to a bloody baron's man to send them on a suicide mission.

"That's what the fucking pig told me, alright?" Garrod growled as he kicked the freshly made corpse off the length of his greatsword. Piss on this job, and piss on this other merc for all the rounds he'd bought them the night before. He was a monster hunter, not a soldier for hire.

Yet here you are, dear Garrod. Slaying men for coin. How delightful.

"Piss on you too..." he grumbled beneath gritted teeth.

The town of Arden Vale had been caught in a land squabble for some time now. The townsfolk clung to their homes, and did what they could to appease the two warring nobles. Paying tribute to one of them at the beginning of the month, only to find themselves owing tribute to the other at the end of it. They were being bled dry. And they cared not who won the squabble, only that it came to an end. For both barons were rightful shits, and both men were of no major import to the world beyond Arden Vale.

Which meant, there would be no King's justice delivered to this petty barony.

This month, Garrod and Cato found themselves gambling in a tavern that owed tribute to Baron Oakford. Whose banner was an acorn upon a field of red. Drink after drink was poured. Toss after toss was won, and in a drunken hoorah, both Garrod, and his new compatriot, had bet it all on even. It turned up odd. The Baron's man, one Seargent Winniefred, smiled wide and greasy, and offered the pair of sell-swords a job. Simple.

Scout the lands beyond, and report back with the enemies positions. Kill any patrols that may be milling about. Sounded simple enough.

Here they were, four bodies deep, with a raiding party just beyond the brush. The horn blast had come too quick before the bastards chest was run through, and now the enemies, men of Baron Pinewood. baring the standard of a pinecone on a blue field. readied their arms and loosed arrows in their direction.

Garrod cursed, and canted his spell. A swell of magick focused in his stomach, and he let out a gale wind that led the arrows off target.

"You got magick, yes?" Garrod growled as he hacked the first fool who rushed at him. "Fucking blast these bastards!"

 

[Cato]

"Course you wouldn't want any foreplay," Cato barked back at the other mercenary. This was about as far as Cato's appreciation went for saving them being riddled by arrows. The mercenary had a particular hatred of archers, any swordsman worth their salt did. Fucking hells, was there anyone who liked a bloody arrow slinger? Cowards who are used to sitting the shadows would eventually get what was coming to them. It just so happened that they lived longer lives than most of the dumb bastards who used a sword. Cato was now cursing the cunt that had taught him the sword instead of the bow.

Cato focused inward as his companion deflected the initial barrow of projectiles. He sensed the earth around him and all the detritus that had been strewn about. Sharpened pieces of bark and rocks slowly began to rise from the ground. The mercenary thrust his hands forward as his heaving a massive burden.

"Cunts," he said with a grim smile.

He didn't even bother looking back at the white-haired bastard as he sprinted towards the rest of Pinewood's men.

 

[Garrod Arlette]

A shot of earth careened across the field and smashed into a man. Broke him. Crumpled. Left limp legged and broken boned.

The other sellsword ran ahead, as if the liquor was still coursing through his veins. "Bloody lunatic!" He spat, and hefted his sword up and gave into the chase. Another slew of arrows struck towards them, wide of their marks as panic began to set into the men wearing the Pinewood blue.

As Cato crashed into a group, Garrod cast a jet of fire out from the palm of his gauntleted hand, he raised his great-sword up with the other arm as men were washed in fire. Their screams ran high. Two painted gold and licked up by the flames. It twisted Garrod's gut, but he pressed on. Greatsword raised up and caught an oncoming strike, longsword steel pinged across the flat of his weapon.

A shove, hard and fast, saw the Pinewood man in a barbut helm. He stumbled back, and Garrod swung his weapon across his chest.

"That's three!" He called out, a wild grin on his face.

 

[Cato]

Cato's blade had already found the collar of his first foe before he heard the screams of those being burned alive. The smell would have been revolting to most but it was just another day to the mercenary. He had not even seen his fortieth nameday and he had seen enough death to mark five lifetimes. Still, there were few things else than dying by fire.

He did not waste another thought as he pivoted to his left, blade finding purchase. The mercenary yanked the blade out, planting his foot on the dying soldier's chest for emphasis. Cato quickly drew his shortsword and rammed it under the neck of his approaching enemy. Sensing movement out of the corner of his eye, he raised his blade just in time to block the attack of another foe. The ferocity of the strike, however, left him off-balance and he fell the the ground.

Experience is what kept him alive. Cato rolled to the right just as a blade crashed into the ground beside him. The mercenary swung out haphazardly and was rewarded with the cry of his opponent. He watched as the other man's body slammed into the dirt. Cato wasted little time in raising his steel once more and driving it into the fools face. The mercenary came to his feet, retrieving his other blade as he did so. A number still remained but the odds had slowly begun to tilt towards the mercenaries favor.

"Glad you had some teachin', but best focus," he responded as he pointed off towards Garrod's left. A soldier in noticeably more expensive plate was closing in on the other man. Cato's grin lasted about as long as it took him to hear the similar clanging of armor off to his right.

"Fuck."

 

[Garrod Arlette]

The one archer left pulled back his bow once more, took aim, and let loose. The arrow streaked toward Garrod and struck against the bone white of his demonic armor. The steel head bit, but found no purchase in its bite. The force of the arrow knocking Garrod back, and sending pain up through his shoulder.

A snarl curled his lips, and he found the archer with his eye. A spell cant spilled from his lips, and he willed his magick through his arm, pointer and middle finger rigid as he traced a seal through the air, and jabbed his fingers out towards the archer. A bolt of lightning streaked across the space and zapped the man. Alive or dead, he fell to the ground limp.

Armor clanked in his periphery, and his ally called out.

Garrod turned and saw the source of the sound. "Fuck," he agreed.

The man in the full suit of armor hid behind a sturdy kite shield, and wielded a mace, and shout as he bulled towards Garrod.

Distance was his only advantage. So, the spell-sword stayed on his back foot, sword held forward, point low to make use of most of its length. But the armored man held his shield close, left nary an opening as he tried to burst forward. Garrod slipped back with a long step as he stabbed out with the tip of his sword, aiming to go under the shield's guard.

But the Pinewood man was no chump. A quick adjustment saw his guard meet the challenge. He turned the greatsword away and charged through. He rammed Garrod with shield, dashed him back. Raised his mace up high. Garrod recovered his footing. Bulled forward, gored the man and tackled him to the ground. Armor clanked against armor and the two rolled around the dirt, kicking and punching and smashing against one another. Garrod took a shield to the face, felt his nose flair with pain, and saw stars in his eyes. Somehow, his instincts saw him win the scrum, he was mounted over the Pinewood man, and he pulled out the long dagger that was sheathed at his hip. The narrowly tapered blade raised up and was brought down with a jerk. The tip slipped under plated armor, as it was designed to do, and the man gurgled as he drowned in his own blood, a dagger in his neck.

 

[Cato]

Cato eyed his new opponent with an equal mix of menace and caution. Those who favored heavy armor tended to be clumsy foes but they could still be a proper pain in the ass. The other man held what could only be described as a massive fucking blade. One wrong move and Cato would certainly hit the ground in more pieces than he began. A rather worrying prospect for even a seasoned fighter such as himself. Well, his life was just one stupid gamble anyways, so what was one more?

The mercenary lowered his shoulders as he measured up the approaching knight. Surprisingly, his opponent seemed to be doing exactly the same. Cato had a habit of being underestimated. This may or may not be related to him often looking like a corpse that just climbed out of a sewer. A flurry of steps saw the two engage and disengage just as quickly. The knight was annoyingly more nimble than Cato would have preferred. Cato pushed with another quick flurry but was left frustrated once again.

A subtle shift in the knight's stance was the only warning Cato got before his head nearly got taken off. The mercenary stumbled backwards just in time to avoid the decapitating slash. He decided to use that backward momentum to let himself fall. The knight, seeing this as an opportune moment to strike, quickly pressed forward. Cato hit the ground with the roll and noticeably came to his feet without his short-sword. His arm glowed azure as telekinetic energy surged through it. He pulled his left hand back and the knight's body was yanked towards Cato. The mercenary thrust his longsword straight into the neck of his opponent. Cato stared into the knight's dumbfounded eyes for a few moments before finally pulling his blade free.

He watched as the remaining soldiers began to scatter, their captains now fallen. It seemed the one-eyed mercenary had been worth his salt. That was more than Cato could say of most of the dumb bastards in this profession.

"Think we've earned our coin, fucking more and then some," growled the mercenary as he went to retrieve his other sword. He was ready to hit the nearest tavern and this time, one not owned by a baron at war.

 

[Garrod Arlette]

Mounted upon the dead man, Garrod panted, hot and heavy breaths, and sweat ran down his face. Mingled with blood that trickled out of his nose and across his lip. He yanked the dagger out of the knight's throat, and stood up to his feet.

"Fucking hate murder work," he growled, and wiped his dagger on the fabric of the deadman's tunic before he sheathed it. "I'm a bloody monster hunter, not a soldier for hire, damn it." he went on grumbling. He turned to see the other man chasing after his sword. From the rear of the field from whence they had come, came the blast of trumpets and the thunder of hooves.

"Tally ho!" called out an armored knight, banner flapping brazen in the wind as he raced his steed after the routing men.

"For house Oakford!" Called out some other shining hero, lance couched and ready to skewer many a fleeing peasant.

A contingent of armored riders raced behind them, blood boiling as they screamed for death and victory. Behind them ran the footmen. Squires and men at arms, along with whatever rabble the lord had promised coin enough to take up spear and plank.

The Sergeant, Winniefred, Came plodding behind the formation, no rush in his stride. A heavy mace rested on his shoulder, a large shield strapped to his arm. "Ha! Good work you miserable lot. Consider your debt paid," he stopped between them, and Garrod glared at the man. "If you lot want any more coin, there is a bounty on Pinewood heads," he grinned wide and toothless beneath the shade of his kettle helm, though the scuffed steel of his bevor hid the hideous grin. "A gold coin a head, so says me good lord, Monteford Oakford, and a whole ten coins for the head of any officers." Winniefred looked down at the men dead on the ground, at their armor and the emblems emblazoned there-upon their tabards. "Minus those two of course."

Ahead came the sounds of battle. Death screams and the crash and crunch of bodies coming to blows. Above that still came the shriek of some great creature.

"Its Ser Taladus and his Gryphon!" Some sap cried out. From the treeline emerged the great winged beast, a knight in its clutches, talons sheared through the metal of his armor, and the man screamed bloody murder as each beat of the gryphon's wings saw more and more of his flesh give way.

"Hark ye Oakford mongrels! Bare witness to the glory of my steed, know that on this day, you face Taladus and Galphanon!" The gryphon screamed with pride, and flew overhead, letting go of the oakford man who crashed between Garrod and Cato as the winged creatures' shadow passed them by.

"30 gold if you kill that bastard!" Winniefred shouted as he ran for cover.