Completed The Battle of Ninagal

[Smiling One]

Willis stumbled around the empty field attempting to get to the burning stables. Other than some faint sounds of swords clashing and people screaming in the distance, the battlefield was eerily quiet at least from Willis place. Guilt took over the young man, it was very dumb of him to punch a Shah a King. He was a dead man for sure, the Shah will send every bounty hunter available to hunt him down. Willis wondered what would be his price. Depending on how high it was, Willis might as well just turn himself in and collect the bounty.

Corpses littered with the Shah and Gerra's soldiers decorated the ground. Willis was careful to step over them though his already bloodied boot landed on the sticky spilt blood. There were some soldiers who groaned in pain clutching their broken body parts. A young man was seen crying out for his mother as he struggled to place loose intestines back into his body. From Willis' right a Sand Elf was seen wondering around holding his severed right arm screaming for a medic before disappearing in the sandy dune.

Willis began to wonder if it was even worth it to go to the stables at all. Have they lost? Most likely. Willis was already dead man anyway, if there was one thing that a sellsword should NEVER do is to strike a noble especially a King. What the fuck was he even thinking? Sure he did something stupid but one thing Willis has trained himself on was to never disagree with a King at least not openly. Willis sighed heavily, there was no point he needed to get out of the Savannah. Possibly away from Arethirl. He'll have to change his name and live in a different place. Willis is a Kingslayer now a man with no honor not that he didn't have any in the first place.

Just then a figure approached him, Willis eyes narrowed as he raised his bloodied longsword. The young man held the sword close ignoring the pain in his thigh and charged towards the figure screaming loudly. He wasn't taking any chances, if he was going to get Willis needed to kill this person.

Achates

 

[Ashieron]

Ash looked at Trah for a second then nodded in agreement, "Fine but we need to get away from those guys first. And find a horse or something.” He was about to say something else when a huge fiery beam came flying at them! “Shit!” Ash yells ducking to avoid it, wincing a bit but it was worth it as the hest of the fire flew over him, “Dude, come on!” He’d yell at the giant who was now... cradling Maho’s body. His eye twitched in dumbfoundness along with his left ear.

His moment of confusion and wonder was snapped by the sound of someone rushing st him. He’d barely manage to turn around and raise his arm to take on the blow instead of his vital region. The sword plunged through his hand and into his collarbone. Not the most ideal of place for the blade to have sunken into, but it was alot better than his neck!

“Just leave us be!” He’d yell at the mercenary feeling some blood trickling down his free arm. He was sure that the mercenary would not listen, he could not move in the risk of the blade going deeper snd hitting something major, not to mention his hand was impaled by the sword as well. “Nox.” He would say to the mercenary, grabbing the sword and trying to lift it with his only good hand, using his other hand to help even it out.

 

[Gerra]

The camp of the Shah had become a scene from the Pit of the Accursed. Everywhere, tents burned beneath plumes of smoke. Some with the red-orange flame of naptha, but most with the strange purple hue of the black dragon’s fiery breath. In the sky above, the burning ordinance of the mangonels continued to rain down upon the camp in explosions that lit up the night. Soldiers ran to and fro, colliding with one another in confusion amidst screamed orders of frantic captains. Chaos reigned king.

Gerra trudged out from the smoldering remains of the stable and into this hellscape, Sparhawk’s body in his arms. Gray flakes of falling ash drifted from the sky like snow and soon covered the two of them.

The Bronze Claws who had remained outside still stood, Grozkalla at their head, fending off any counter-assaults by enemy forces. From the golden-furred shapes that littered their feet, Gerra saw that the Ngonya beastmen had attacked while he had been inside the stables.

No matter.

A chariot wheeled past, driven by a Marya noble.

“Mago,” Gerra roared and the charioteer reined in his golden steeds.

“Sultan,” nodded the nobleman, his armor all of gold, “Who do you carry?”

“One who is not allowed to die. Find a lector-priest of Narmaka. He must be saved. Whatever is necessary, Mago.”

“It will be done.”

Gerra gently set Sparhawk into the bed of the chariot, then watched as Mago and his charioteer turned around and sped back toward the camp of Annuakat’s forces. He stood there until they were out of sight, lost in the midst of the chaos.

His attention then turned to Kalla and he found that the rage in his heart had not departed, clinging there like the fiery oil that burned this camp. But even as he gave orders to his forces, he heard a cry go up through the camp, carried on the throats of enemy soldiers.

“The Shah is dead!”

“Annuk preserve us, Shah Bardya is slain.”

“Pray mercy, Annuakati, pray mercy, the Shah is dead.”

The already fragile will of the enemy broke, like a string stretched beyond its limit. Soldiers tossed down sword and spear and begged for their lives, or fled at speed, hoping to outrun pursuers.

“Victory is yours,” Kalla nodded approvingly, his tiny, deepset eyes watching Gerra as though wondering what would come next.

“All surrendered are to be spared. There has been enough death. You, Ragashan,” he pointed to a surrendered man, “Bring me to the body of the Shah. I would pay my respects.”

Then he stared at Kalla, “Find Achates and Telenar and bring them to me.”

The first fingers of dawn’s light began to creep upon the horizon.

 

[Halul]

Uvogin heard celebratory cries. The stoic, cold mask peered at the elf in front of him, and he quickly drew his sword out of the elf. He stared at the two for a moment, his emotions and thoughts a mystery behind a fake face. They did not seem to be of any importance.

“Go,” He rasped, and turned on his heels to regroup with the Bronze Claw. He had thoughts to hunt down fleeing kings and generals, but decided it would be best to gather with the group he split from.

He arrived from around the corner of the stable and silently stood near Grozkalla, with the other Bronze Claw mercenaries.

 

[White Swallow]

Zakariyya cursed on the Shah. First, he hid from the battle, and now he lies dead?

To surrender like the watered-down men of the Shah was out of the option. His men were still a coherent unit, albeit worn and tired.
With a holler and wave of his green banner, the forces of Nariman and Swallow began to listen solely to him now.
The forces behind Gerra, worn, whittled and tattered as they were left behind, finally got their rest from the onslaught of arrows and lances from the armoured cavalry.

At a steady pace, they exited to the east, bows readied and aimed at the aggressors if they dared to attack. Along with his force came some of the Shah's footmen and other scrambled units that wished not to surrender. Those that were routing, there was no saving them.

 

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

"Mago, who do you bring with you?"

"A man the Sultan wishes not dead."

"Oh- By Annuk... Who could heal such wounds...?"

"I need a Lector-priest, Brother."

"The Sultan wants a Narmaka to heal him? He must be important."

"It sounded that way, Brother."

"Well, come with me."
​

Do you remember Myles, when we walked to the Falwood? When I taught you the laws of magic; the laws that governed this world? The day was so hot. I remember how I found us water by the river, and built a boat from the wood there. The greatest time of my life, when everything made sense.

I remember the farm I lived on. It was so green there. I hated the long, dark, grey days of the Slave bay. Feeling the soft soil, the ground beneath my feet. When I was called back to the house i'd built, eating food with my family. I remember the nights there, where the stars shot clear, and the moon sang it's symphony across the sky.

Why did I leave?

I can't remember.

Now I have nothing left. My family. My friends. My body.

Not even my soul is my own.

Why am I alive?

His eyes shot open as he lay on the cold, stone table. His eye-sight was very blurry, smogged over by the ash that had ingrained itself into his retina. He could feel the rawness of his muscles as they made contact with the slab's cool surface. A figure stood above him; he could not make out who they were however, not that'd he care anyhow. As far as he was concerned, it was only a matter of time.

"Whhh- Ghar- hahagh-" He tried to utter the words 'where am I?', but his vocal chords had been so damaged by the Naptha fumes, that the words could not escape his lips without being twisted and chewed up.

"Quiet." The figure said, with a dead-pan voice, as cold as the tablet he was sprawled on.

The figure raised their arms above Sparhawk's broken body, and began speaking in an unfamiliar tongue to Sparhawk. But as the figure spoke, a glow of green emitted from their hands, and spread like fingers across his body, almost as if they were grabbing him. They then began to weave around him, knotting his body up; he felt his back raise off of the table he was laying on, and float ever so slightly.

He was soon writhing however, when the magic did it's work; the gaps in bone from where the acidic concoction had melted through willed themselves and bonded back together, skin that had all but abandoned his body began to reform, covering the sinews that were laid bare. He could feel his vocal-folds work once more. He felt his legs regain some of their lost function.

His arms, however, were not regrown. He looked from side-to-side, and saw nothing but stubs.

As he looked down at his body, the sight was something out of a nightmare; a litany of different scar types decorating his entire body, naked and broken. His scars were still glowing red - so were his eyes, from what he could tell. They only seemed to give that reddish glow when Imamu were siphoning him his abilities but... something was different. Very different.

The figure said another few, simpler words, and a cloth formed around him, shawling him. The figure telekinetically lifted him, and placed him in a corner, where a small bed lay. He began to walk away from him.

"Wh-whaait..." He said, his voice feeling very unfamiliar, taking a gravel-filled, rough tone. He didn't sound like himself.

"Mah- Ma... My Face..." The figure looked back at him, almost a sign of pity in his eye. He raised his arm again, and without saying word, a mirror formed in front of him.

"M... I.... I ca..." He could not construct words, in his shock. Words could not put into justice the sheer horror of what he saw looking back at him. It wasn't Sparhawk. It was some... thing staring at him. Something that begged for death. Something beyond life.

He felt such an indescribable anger. He could feel every fibre of his being scream in a furious rage. Every atom that composed his body writhed in suffering. Yet, he could do nothing. A useless man.

He rolled towards the wall that the bed was placed on, and curled up tightly, a shocked expression written across his face, faced with a harsh reality; now, not only was he a monster,

He looked like one.

 

[Achates]

Instinct kicked in and Achates looked up at the right moment to see a figure swinging a large sword towards her. Cursing under her breath, she stepped forward and avoided the wobbly attack from the man. This gave the elf a moment to look up and see it was her old childhood friend. The years hadn’t been as kind to him, she wondered if she looked as tired as well.

He was wounded, which meant he wasn’t going to last much longer. There were two things she could do – wear him out then find a medic or kill him. Both would be merciful, but a part of her wondered if she could even do the latter. Sighing softly, she dodged again and watched him. She was tired and she could feel her movements sluggish. Not saying a word, she used the crossbow as a guard and moved forward. As she moved, she quickly kicked his inner leg hard enough to throw off his balance, but to avoid a break or strain.

“Willis! Stop it, it’s me – it’s me Achates.”

If he didn’t stop, she would have to take matters into her own hands, despite their history if he was determined to kill her – she would do what was necessary to survive.

Smiling One

 

[Traecon Maxwell]

The elephant crashed down a distance from the elf Achates and Willis, Traecon leaping off the lifeless trunk with a glare to murder the two, and a mood just as foul.

Thrice he had attempted to breach the mists as ordered. Three times he had hijacked the elephants, to use them as a moving shield and pray their resilience could withstand the decaying touch. No avail. The animals rot on the spot, and from the last dying elephant the mercenary had leapt, Dreamsbane brandished and reflecting the dawn light. Even the blade seemed useless against the mist, despite not receiving so much as rust from the corrosive air.

He looked from the elf to her would-be attacker, seemingly paused and looking at him in confusion. It was... acceptable. He had leapt in out of virtually nowhere.

"Move that blade an inch further, warrior, and I'll be taking the arm that holds it."

Achates Smiling One

((Apologies for the delay! Work and drawing out the plotline of my own quest!))

 

[Niyu Temuha]

In all honesty, Niyu had thought the front of the boys robes coloured a dark red to be some awfully mismatched pattern. She was just about to mentally judge and criticise the lack of sense that had gone into the mind of whoever had made the clothing when she realised that the red portions were in fact not a pattern or a design, but actually areas soaked in blood. As she overcame her own surprise of her near mistake, she began to feel bad about the unintentional judgement of the boy’s dressing. Unlike her, he did not reflect her question with another question, instead introducing himself as Alistair Wren, a mage from Elbion College.

She’d once heard about someone mentioning Elbion College, but had no clue about what or where it really was. She knew what a mage is though. Although magic wasn’t all that common back home, they did have a good number of mages who specialised in several different areas.

When Alistair once again asked who she was, Niyu provided him with her answer. “I’m Niyu Temuha, third daughter of the Great Prince, ruler of all the Steppe human tribes. I came with my brother and the war host to fight for the Sultan of Annuakat.” She’d barely finished speaking when the small dragon resting on the boy’s shoulder puffed out smoke as she took a step forward. Recoiling, she took a step backward, all the while staring warily at the creature. The sound of a fireball crashing nearby brought her back to her senses and made her realise where she was. Alistair offered a suggestion for them to get out of the camp and without waiting for her, started making his way towards the entrance of the camp. Torn between wanting to follow him, and heading deeper into the camp to find her brother and the others, she stood and waited. A minute or two passed before she made the decision to head in the direction of Alistair.

She could already start to imagine the look of disappointment on her family’s faces.

Alistair Wren

 

[Alistair Wren]

The young woman gave Alistair her name and revealed that she had been sent to fight for Gerra. Withdrawing, he stared at her, eyes wide, his chest tightening in anger. He stroked Alzros, the feeling of his smooth scales comforting him slightly as he thought about what to say. She was an enemy, who fought for the man who had killed his master, but at the end of the day, what did it matter? She was only a soldier, she hadn't personally ordered the attack.

She was just another young person caught in the fire, no different to Alistair or anybody on the side of the Shah.

He had little time to think, as a fireball hurled towards them and crashed into the camp. Throwing up his hands, he shielded himself from the flames, debris spraying the plain where Niyu and himself stood. He grabbed Maho's staff and ran forward, taking Niyu's wrist.

"Come on!" He called.

Yanking the young warrior's wrist, he sprinted towards the front of the camp as flames poured behind them. They ran for their lives, a mage from the Elbion college and a warrior from the Taagi Baara Steppes, both with the entrance of the camp in sight. Pounding the sand with his feet, Alistair sprinted out of the Shah's camp and into the desert, Niyu's hand in his own.

Niyu Temuha

 

[Smiling One]

"Shit Achates!" Willis stopped wildly swinging his sword as he recognized the Half-Elf in front of him his childhood friend. The young man's heart sored to the point where he nearly dropped his weapon, Achates is here! Which side though? It didn't matter she is a sellsword like Willis is but they were friends and they promised not to hurt each other as children.

Instinctively Willis pulled the Half Elf in a brief hug before smirking. "It's been a while Achates," Willis said. "So who's side you fighting for? Any updates on the battle?" Achates was usually resourceful on these kind of things. She was the one who got Willis into Monster Hunting after all.

Just then a man held up his sword towards Willis as the young man turned to face him. He had long silvery hair and looked like he came from storybook. "Step aside Knight in Shining Armor" Willis said bluntly. "She's my friend go find some damsel to rescue all right?"

Achates , Traecon Maxwell

 

[Gerra]

As the rays of dawn began to permeate the sky, they cast light upon the grim visage

Bodies littered a burned and blackened plain, forming mounds of the dead where the fighting had been thickest. Corpses of elephants and rhinos rose above the rest, their great carcasses becoming a feast for fast descending carrion, whose number steadily grew as daylight progressed, a gathering storm of circling feathers overhead. The camp proper was a scene of absolute carnage, with most of it nothing more than scorched wreckage and still smoldering embers around victims so charred by flame that they crumbled at the touch like charcoal and were utterly unrecognizable. Many were curled in on themselves, huddled and alone when a dragon’s blast burnt them to cinders. Over all of this, there was a fine layer of gray ash like snow.

In the midst of the scene of slaughter, at the camp of the Shah, Gerra stood before an assembled mass of his captains. They brought forth the body of the Shah and laid it at his feet.

Mago, the noble from Annuakat, spoke for the others. “Dead, Sultan. His guards say a man struck him in the face. When he fell, he hit his head and did not wake.”

The features of Gerra appeared impassive and unmoved by the announcement of the death of a sovereign, yet his oiled words carried an undercurrent of anger as he spoke.

“We will give him the burial of a king when we reach Ragash, befitting his station. What of the royal guards who stood by while their Shah was struck?”

“They have surrendered, Sultan, as have all the other kings save the Lugal of Tel-Madu, who escaped with the bulk of his army.”

“Aqra,” Gerra mused, but the scorpion lord would need to be dealt with another day. “Be it so. The kings shall be spared, so long as they swear fealty to me in Ragash. But I will not honor the surrender of the Shah’s royal guards. They should have died for their Shah before letting him come to harm. Execute them.”

“It will be done, Sultan.”

“Tell me, Mago, why do I still hear the ring of swords?”

“While the majority of the city-states and their armies have surrendered, there are still pockets of resistance amid the camp who have not heard the call to surrender and refuse to give in.”

“Take those warriors alive, if you can. We need those of valor in defense of Amol-Kalit.”

“Yes, Sultan.” Mago bowed low.

“Tally the dead, bury all, and then we will make for Ragash. I have another matter to attend in the meantime.”

***

“Maho? Maho Sparhawk. Can you hear me?”

Gerra stood over the slab in the hospital tent that held the horribly mutilated body of his once and future friend.

 

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

"As long as a mind is steadfast, a broken body will be willed onward. This is the sign of an immortal warrior."
- Miyamoto Musashi​

Why did the College send me here?

Why didn't they know he would attack earlier than intended...

They should've known.

Maybe they did.

But, why wouldn't they tell me?

Why would they send Alistair?

Why...

These were the few clear thoughts he could command himself to imagine as he laid on the hospital-bed, in terrible, ceaseless agony. Although the Lector-priest had saved him from the brink of death, there was little he could do about the burns, submerging Sparhawk's whole body in it's hot barrage of sharp pain, like a plethora of daggers, hot by the forge, prodding him all at once.

No matter how long he thought, lying on that bed alone, he could not understand the situation. Why was he fated to be here? Hadn't he suffered enough? The little he had left to give had been stripped away from him, in a matter of moments. He could not understand.

And he was pretty sure, he'd never understand.

Surely the College didn't want me dead...

No, of course not...

They'll probably send a search party within the month.

They will...

And Alistair has escaped. That's all that matters.

That's all that matters.

All that matters.

He could feel his fragile mind tearing itself apart, not much give left in him. The only thing he was left clinging onto, the one, minute detail which kept his mind from finally dropping over the brink, the perverbial edge of reason, was the knowledge that, somewhere, Alistair would thrive. He would return to the College, and live his life, long and true. He'd find a wife one day, have kids of his own perhaps. He'd go onto become a great, great Sorcerer.

This, was the only warmth left in Sparhawk's heart.

He heard those familiar footsteps thud into the tent. He didn't even have to look. He knew it was him.

“Maho? Maho Sparhawk. Can you hear me?”

He didn't move from his position, his face still looking at the wall, his nearly limbless body laying there, still.

"Ah-A-Ai cahn, heear you, Gherrra." He managed to force out through his injured vocal-cords, his sly-tone managing to make it through into the word 'Gerra'.

"You may haf- ha... have broken me... but my Apppp... Apprentice Alistair musst be miles away, now. He's es-escaped you. He'll come... back... for... me..." The pain was apparent in his voice, as he turned to face Gerra, a single tear edging it's way down his scarred, distorted face.

"You... won't, break him..." If he was able, his legs not burnt terribly, and his arms gone, he felt he could have strangled Gerra, futile of course, but it would've satisfied him.

 

[Gerra]

“Oh Maho,” fathomless sorrow in the half-giant’s rich timbre.

“You think I wanted this?”

A great weight seemed to bow Gerra’s shoulders.

“We were brothers who swore to forge a brighter future. Together.”

He swallowed, then looked away, unable to gaze upon the wreckage of the man in all its horror.

“After Belgrath... I did not even know you still lived.”

The question he had so wanted to ask burned upon his lips. Gerra forced himself to look back at Sparhawk’s hideous visage and met his eyes.

“Why didn’t you come to me?”

 

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

"Bright future... Gerra... we, we've destroyed so many innocents..."

"Gerra... Gerra..." He could feel an anger build in him. He'd suffered so harshly due to his involvement in the Siege. So much personal turmoil. So much pain.

"LOOK AT ME!" He screamed.

"I've... I've killed... Oh god, soh-s-so many..." He was coughing through his words.

"I di-dd-didn't come to you, because you... you are a..."

He desperately wanted to call him a monster. He so, so wanted to call him what he felt he was. But, unfortunately, Imamu's words rang true. If anything, Sparhawk was a bigger monster than Gerra.

"As long as Alistair lives... even you can't kill me..."

"Maho died a long time ago."

 

[Gerra]

He did not need to speak the word. Gerra knew what he meant and seemed to flinch, as if from a slap.

“No, he is on the table in front of me.”

The words were quiet and soft.

“Do you think I enjoy it when innocents die? No, don’t speak. I can see that you do. Maybe you are right. Maybe I am a... monster.”

Gerra looked at his hands, holding them out before him. Hands which had slain dozens, and written orders to slay thousands more.

“But how can I stand by and watch while this land of Amol-Kalit rips itself apart over and over again? Did you know that the orcs of Kherkhana must kill five Abtati elves before they are considered to have come of age? Did you know that Shah Bardya organized hunts of slaves who he would set free and then chase down with bow and chariot? A merchant cannot go from the Seret to Cortos without hiring fifty mercenaries and a guide just to prevent him from having everything he owns taken and his throat slit.” He gestured vehemently as he spoke, growing in passion. “Would you have me sit by and watch, as your college does? I know hundreds of innocents die in my wars, Maho, but thousands of innocents die every day from the oppression of their masters in the city-states.”

 

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

"D... Don't talk to me of facts. I... was born into slavery. And yes, I wish their suffering would end. But everyone of these... the-these civilisations, were founded by conquerers, who thought they could change the world for the better."

"Look at Belgrath, Gerra. Don't pretend we we-were changing the world then. All those poor... god... the screaming." He wanted to curl up into a ball and cry, but there was no time for that. There was no time for tears.

"Who gave us the right to take their lives, Gerra? What did they... what did they do wrong?" He hoped Gerra would answer. Because he certainly didn't have one.

"You know why I left that... that day? It's because I realised something. Something I didn't want to admit. Something I haven't admitted to anyone. My whole life, i've been mediocre. A failure. I couldn't be a father. I couldn't be a teacher. I couldn't be a leader."

"But that day, as blood pooled beneath me, and I felt their lives weighing on me, I knew, I was finally good at something." His face was wet with tears.

"Killing. I just wish someone would do the same for me. And no matter how much I beg, n-n... No matter how much I wish for it, I wake up. I've tried... but I can't..." There was an emptiness in his eyes. His tearful whimpers were the symphony of his soul.

"So do it. Please." He said, calmly.

"DO IT!" He screamed, a lot less calmly.

 

[Gerra]

So, he thought him a monster and wished him dead. Indeed, his fears seemed true. Sparhawk had betrayed him.

“No.” Gerra said, clenching and unclenching his jaw.

“I am not going to hurt you. I’ve never wished to see you come to harm. If I’d known you had been at the camp...”

The half-giant sighed and shook his head.

“I am sorry, old friend.”

Again, he met those tortured eyes.

“Belgrath was a mistake. You know the threat I faced from the Ash King. I should have run, but I thought I could conquer it and make my own kingdom, free from his tyranny. You were right and it grieves me to see how that battle wracks your soul, even as this one wracks your body. But I am building something new here, something better. I wish you could see that.”

Gerra turned to go, then paused at the mouth of the tent.

“The Lectors will continue to heal you until you are well.” He said over his shoulder. “It will likely take many weeks. After, you may leave if you wish.”

And then Gerra departed. As the tent flap closed behind him and he set off to find a scribe, there was a look of undisguised fury and betrayal on his face.

 

[Achates]

Achates exhaled a sigh of relief when Willis seemed to have fallen out of whatever daze he was in. She was pulled briefly into a hug, but as soon as she could the half elf pulled away. This was a battlefield and she didn’t remember seeing Willis on their side when it happened. Despite their friendship, she remained on guard with the man. At this moment, another familiar face showed. Traecon Maxwell interrupted the small reunion and Achates nodded towards the other mercenary.

“Don’t be rude Willis.” She scolded the other man as she gestured towards Traecon, letting him know that she was okay. “I’m okay, he’s a friend.” A hand waved and she pulled away from Willis and brushed strands of hair from her face. Looking over she noticed the moments of retreat and the surrendering of the opposing side. “I think it’s over. Sounds like the Shah is dead?” She did her best to listen to the shouts and the rumbles of the men around them.

“Not sure, you know anything Traecon?” Looking towards the silvered haired man she smiled and shrugged. It was then she remembered another important question from Willis, she turned to him and answered, “I fought for the Sultan.” A smile pulled at the corner of her lips, but she refused to show it. Like Willis, she could be bought – but in this case she had other reasons to fight for Gerra. “What about you?”

Smiling One

 

[Smiling One]

Willis rolled his eyes when Achates told him not to be rude to Traecon. She knew Willis since he was 7 years old when he was a different person, the Half-Elf should know how Willis rolls when it came to meeting strangers especially ones who randomly show up in the middle of a corpse ridden battlefield. "I'm sorry Achates," Willis said in a mocking tone. It seemed that she knew Traecon and in Willis' case those who are a friend to the people he's close with are his friends as well.

"Name's Willis Reede," the young man kept his hands to his sides. "Normally I offer you to shake my hand but they're pretty cut up right now."

And by "cut up" it mean having two huge fucking gashes across the palm. It was said that catching a sword with your hand was viable idea. Well after his little tussle with the solider, that rumor can be safely put in the bullshit file. "It seems that it is over," Willis said to Achates observing the battle field. Other than the howl of the wind and the grains of sand being blown away, the battlefield was silent. Looks like there aren't any soldiers left to rendezvous to.

Of course Achates fought for the Sultan it was the life of a Mercenary you're drunkenly singing songs with a fellow sellsword in a tavern one day only to find yourself on the opposite sides of the battlefield in the next. Willis fought against some people he considered to be friends before but he didn't know what he would do if he met Achates fighting for the opposite side. "Probably what I almost did," Willis thought. "War can muddy up the mind."

"I fought for the Shah," Willis shrugged frowning the Shah died? Well that was a relief, the young man didn't have to worry about having a price on his head for punching the Shah for stupidly unleashing an Oracle. Willis hoped that this rumor was true it would be a fucking Castle off his shoulders.

"If the Shah is dead," Willis muttered. "Then I don't get any pay, I tagged with our mercenary unit and didn't seem to survive either. Remember Jerry? He always takes the payout and divides it among the survivors after the battle."

Willis always suspected that Jerry killed wounded mercenaries in order to get a bigger payout. But that usually meant that the rest get a bigger payout as well but still..... "Fucking hell," Willis said. "Perhaps I can look through the tents and take the chest. If Jerry survives he'll suspect that it's the Sultan's soldiers who pillaged it. Meanwhile, I'll be in Elbion drinking, gambling and whoring my troubles away."

The young smirked there were still some soldiers on both sides lumbering around the battlefield bleeding heavily. One poor lad had a spear sticking on his right side the shaft broken. He muttered something in a language that Willis didn't understand possibly a curse before collapsing. "Right," Willis said. "I'm pretty sure this Sultan doesn't take prisoners? I'd best be getting that treasure and getting the hell outta before I end up like these corpses piled up around us."

Achates