Ferelith had had better jobs. She was a bandit when times were lean and a mercenary when times were leaner. A bandit was subject to attack from other gangs, and the law of whatever land they operated in, while a mercenary was mostly protected by the people who had enough coin to keep them around.
The pay was guaranteed, the living comfortable, and yet she preferred being a bandit. The answer as to why was simple. She could make her own choices. If you didnt want to kill women and children so be it. If you would rather loot rich caravans funded by even richer merchants so be it. In Mercenary work such choices were not offered you were muscle, and muscles didnt make choices..... They obeyed.
Her gang had been caught robbing a caravan of iron from the mine earlier that month. It had taken quite a few people to take her down, and after hearing how many men she had killed..Well the ones who needed to be impressed were. However murder was murder despite how impressive and the executioner's block had awaited her and her gang. One by one she watched them leave the cell never to return. Finally after a few months it was her turn. Then by some stroke of luck or some accursed misfortune the rebellion had occurred, and suddenly every man that could swing a blade was needed. The story of her combat prowess resurfaced once again as she was hauled out of her cell and given a choice. Enlist her services for a good bit of gold, or pay her debt with her head. Though posed as a choice it hadn't been much of one. Needless to say she hadnt enjoyed clearing the mine.
The innocents had deserved better than being slaughtered, but the job was a job and she had preformed well. In the coming weeks she had continued to prove herself a shrewd fighter, and tough as dragon scales. No one could match her skill with her claymore and in hand to hand she proved just as tenacious. She had grown up fighting tribes of grown
orcs and these men were nothing like those from
the spine. The fires of loss, and the pounding hammer of hardship had forged her into a blade of death before most men could crawl. So when the group sent to the village hadnt returned...She was the one sent to find out why. It didnt take her long to see something was up even from a distance.
Guardsmen and some knights. Full platoon at least. Enough to easily wipe a village like this from the map. Then the screams of agony reached her ears. It was faint. In fact if it wasnt for the combination of the village being deathly quiet and her ears not being exceptional she may not have heard it at all. She had heard all she needed. A force like that would only be led by one type of person. A type of person that Ferelith did not want to meet here, alone. A dreadlord. She heard a shout. Realizing she had stayed still to long she turned her mount around as a bolt from a crossbow sank into her shoulder.
A guardsmen no doubt tasked with making sure none escaped the village had seen her and fired. He didn't appear to have anyone with him yet..Yet being the keyword. Ferelith drew her bow and lined up a shot before loosing the shaft.
It hit the man squarely in the chest. Hitting him hard enough to punch through his chest plate like paper and knocking him from his horse. For her bow wasnt just any bow. It held wheels on either end allowing a strings strength to be compounded.
Her sister being the clever smith she was had long wanted to make her smaller sister a bow that fit her size. But smaller bows lacked the power needed to be as effective as the long bows Ferelith was far to short to use. Thus her idea had come to light, and had worked almost too well.
She yanked the bolt from her shoulder. It was bleeding badly. It dripped to the ground like red rain as she sprinted to the fallen solider. She immediately began rummaging through his bags. Some food...a small flask, a few potions that had gone rancid, a single rolled up bandage and a few fire starting rune rocks.
The rocks would conjure a small flame about the size of a mans thumb for a few moments when activated and usually made building fires a breeze.
Blood was already pooling around her knees and she was beginning to feel light headed as she heard the sound of more riders approaching. her disturbance drawing their unwanted attention. She had a few moments at best.
Ferelith cursed every god she knew as she realized the mans bag only had the single bandage and enough wrapping to keep it in place. She would bleed through it in seconds....She then looked to the fire rocks...
Ferelith let out a small whimper as she pressed the burning stone into her wound burning it closed. She then dropped the spent rocks in the pool of her blood she had left on the ground and ran for her horse. Her scarlet footprints writing a weaving trail as she hopped on her horse and rode for all she was worth. The guardsmen followed her for a moment, but she was too far ahead, and their mission was to make sure no one left. Leaving after this rebel meant the possibility of failure in that respect so they eventually stopped. One going back to his post. The other riding to inform their superior.
She herself rode back clutching her aching shoulder in its haphazard bandaging to the castle with word.
A dreadlord was coming.
