Fable - Ask The Burning of the Borderlands

[Mordred]

"I'm not a soldier."

Captain Malark gave a heavy sigh and looked up from his desk. Mordred stood before him with his arms folded and a scowl on his face that would have sent even a few of his bravest Vanguard scuttling away due to the silly rumours that surrounded the stone. Malark preferred to make his opinion about a man on his own. He hadn't been Captain back when Mordred had joined the junior division of the Vanguard and he had only encountered the young lad a few times in passing. Based on what he had seen then he would have to agree with his assessment that he wasn't a soldier. However, what he had seen was a type of leadership that was rare in a man as young as he had been. And his quick thinking with a wound, well...

"I have plenty of soldiers, Fórn," he huffed and patted himself down for his pipe and tabac. "Not least some of your other Guardians who don't seem to be running so hard from the abilities their stones offer," Mordred flinched as though he had been slapped. Good, thought the Captain. "What I need is a healer who is used to battlefields. Those I have here in the city are too soft; they'll be spending more time throwing up than tending to those who need help and people need help." Eventually he found what he was looking for and carefully lit his pipe then took a long drag.

"You wouldn't deny your help to innocent people, would you lad?"

---

Mordred couldn't help but feel as though he had been played in some way.

Before entering Captain Malark's quarters he had been determined to get out of the ridiculous mission to the borders. Staying as far away from fighting was one of several tight restrictions he put upon himself to keep the blood lust in check and he would make the Captain see the error of his ways. Yet an hour later he was leaving to tack up his elk with his surgery equipment in tow. What a scary guardian he turned out to be.

A horn blew up ahead of the column announcing the town had been sited over the crest of the hill and Mor dug in his heels to spurn his mount up to have a look.

The town of Illarog was of substantial enough size that it had attracted a decent amount of trade from those within the protection of the Guardians lands and outside. Mordred had last passed through almost a year ago now and it had been a bustling, thriving community he had enjoyed imposing upon for a day or two to rest. What lay before them showed no signs of that bright and colourful town. Fires still burned in parts though the raid had happened almost two days ago now and other homes - that with walls still remaining - still smouldered. Even from this distance he could pick out people stumbling through the streets like reanimated corpses, attempting to help whatever poor souls still survived.

"... From here we should be able to pick up a trail and track the band that did this. The survivors say some of their people were rounded up and-- Mordred!"

The blood guardian didn't pay attention to the soldier as he cursed behind him. His elk had picked up a steady canter and was pressing on towards the town; the others could deal with the missing, he was here to help those left behind.

 

[Villam Regis]

A bandit raid was usually the type of thing that Villam was able to avoid getting roped into as well, but as he'd been in town and they were shorthanded, he'd found himself dragged along to assist. Not that he was a healer, or even some combat mastermind. No, when he was sent in for 'support', it meant twisting the minds of those left, inspiring them to stand their ground and not give in.

A walking propaganda campaign was Villam Regis. A smile, and he could have them eating out of his hand, doing anything he asked of them, so long as some small piece of them believed it to be the right thing. Such was the nature of Passion, blind and burning. It was a task he'd grown accustomed to, even if he still found it unsavory.

Whereas most rode their own mounts to Illarog, Villam had instead climbed into the back of the soldier's equipment wagon, granting himself a small piece of sleep while he waited for the smell of ember and ash to fill his nostrils. There would be no sleep for him until the town was extinguished, far too much work to be done for that. It was in his best interest to find rest while he still could.

He awoke to angered shouts of Mordred's name by those driving the wagon, and his eyes slid open slowly. It wasn't nearly as much rest as he'd thought, but they were close; he could smell the charred flesh and burning wood from here.

"Let him go."

Villam spoke as he climbed from his spot in the back, dusting himself. The soldiers looked at him now, less angry and more quizzical. They didn't have to follow a thing he said, technically, but his last name tended to give him a bit of sway.

"Fórn knows what he's here to do, and he'll do it well. Wasting your time bickering with him will only end poorly. Come, let's gather survivors and paint a picture of what's happened here. If there are any hostages, we will find them in due time. They won't kill them for nothing."

 

[Mabbon Dreierg]

It was a good day for a hunt. Overcast, with a little bit of a breeze to accommodate for the smell of burnt lumbers and flesh. 'Must have been one hell of a warband,' one of the soldiers from Mabbon's scouting party spoke. They had been among the first warriors to reach the town, and despite having played outrider for most of their journey, Mabbon was glad for the company.

The people of Illarog seemed less than happy to see them. Sooty, blood-stained faces regarded them from the shadows as they ghosted by, cautious in the half-light. The Enemy did not fight fairly. They used surprise and guerrilla tactics, slaughtered innocents by the wagon-load. To send a message. To inspire fear amongst a populace that thought themselves safe. And they should have been.

Safe, secure in the knowledge that something or someone powerful was watching over them, always.

And yet, we have failed them, thought the half-orc, stopping to speak to a man sat in the middle of the street. Badly burned, he flinched at Mabbon's touch, but did not cry out. 'Someone get this man some water,' the Guardian instructed, 'and send for the medicaes. There are people left in need of aid, and I would not have them suffer any longer than they already have.'

Nodding, one of the soldiers disappeared back the way they had come. Mabbon could hear horns blowing in the distance as another passed him a canteen full of fresh water. Tentatively, Mabbon began to pour.

The old-timer shied away, and Mabbon hushed him gently. 'Forgive me,' he whispered, tending to the man's wounds as best he could. Suddenly, a commotion broke out further up the street. Mabbon heard boots pounding on stone, saw as three men ran headlong into the street after a half-naked woman.

Dishevelled, drunk on looted wine and spilt blood, they stopped dead when they noticed Mabbon, the soldiers he was with. 'Inform Captain Malark,' Mabbon paused to draw his sword, 'that contact has been made.'

 

[Mordred]

It didn't take long to find the central hub for the wounded. It had once been the church, Mordred thought. It was hard to tell with half the thatched roof missing but its good solid stone walls had survived unscathed. Even some of the stained glass had survived the blind ransacking of the town around them. Perhaps even heathens knew when not to touch something sacred they did not understand. He peered up at the scene set into the glass as his elk trotted up to the large doors flung open so people could rush in and out. It depicted the scene of the original guardian holding all thirteen stones.

Ignoring the sweet call of the runestone that sat within the amulet tucked into his satchel, he dismounted the red elk and gave it a absentminded pat before grabbing his satchel and striding inside.

Some of those less injured had attempted to bring a semblance of order to the chaos by organising patients in order of severity of wounds. There were some with entrails spilling from their wounds right down to broken wrists and badly bruised faces.

"Look! I've told the lot of ye before, if you're not injured get out of my--" She stopped when Mordred held up the satchel from which obvious surgical knives poked.

"I've come to help."

 

[Villam Regis]

While his compatriots splintered off into the flaming belly of Illarog, Villam now led the lion's share of their men down the main road into the burning city, ensuring that his face was what those wounded and needy souls saw first, before that of the armed soldiers.

Of course, Regis was no Vanguard commander. His position at the point was not born of authority but of necessity. Illarog's remaining people would not trust armed forces, especially not after what they'd just withstood. Were the wagons of soldiers ahead of him, their reception would be... less than welcoming. That was, after all, why they'd brought Villam.

He sat in the front of the old wooden wagon, riding down the cracked cobble road lined with bodies both living, dead, and riding the line in between. Those beaten and tattered view who had the faculties to look up at him saw not a pale, stone-faced, and tired guardian atop a dirty cart. No, for the magic of the runestone in Villam's possession reached within each and every one of them, grasping their passion, and pulling it to the forefront of their minds. In the eyes of the gawking needy and weak, he was a golden god atop a chariot aflame with heavenly light.

Villam stood in his seat, spreading his arms and calling out to any within earshot.

"Those who can walk, do so. There is no time to grieve, so rise and help your fellow man or woman. Those who wish to fight, take up your arms and follow me. We will purge this filth from Illarog together."

Quickly, those able began to move. Villam's weary gaze traveled over the affected as they doubled efforts to stabilize the wounded. A large rack of weapons was soon pulled from a half-collapsed smithy, and the few with minimal injuries armed themselves. "These men will help you, if you allow them. I beg you all to allow us to save your city. We can only do so with your hands." Regis continued to indoctrinate them, but it was not true manipulation; these people wanted to fight for their homes. They wanted to be saved, to help however they could. The issue was always the ego, pride, and anger that clouded their emotions, suppressing the passion needed to act.

Villam merely told them what they already knew.

"I'll leave you now." Villam spoke back to the Vanguards. "They will do as you ask now, so take this time to gather your information and help who you can. I will return when I've consulted with Mabbon and his party, they should be around here somewhere..." The Guardian of Darkness could be a slippery one to catch, but Villam needed to touch base with him, and see if he knew where their raiders were hiding.

Luckily, this time the answers came to him. A scout, likely one who'd arrived with Mabbon, scampering down the charred road panting for breath and nearly falling on his face several times.

"Captain! Mabbon's made contact with the enemy! Several streets down!"

Villam smiled, perhaps a bit of pity for whatever poor bastards had come afoul of the Orcish Guardian, and without waiting for the Captain's response, began to briskly walk down the street the messenger had come from.

 

[Mabbon Dreierg]

The three men turned to run away even before Mabbon had taken his first step. Taking off after them, the Guardian of Darkness began to draw ahead of the accompanying scouts. Swift as they were, the half-orc was swifter. 'Get back here!' He bellowed, rounding the corner from which the three marauders had appeared.

To find a half-dozen more coming the other way.

Oh, shit. Shortening his strides, Mabbon slowed down just enough to avoid the first blow aimed at him. 'Bastard!' The bruiser cursed him, bringing his club around for another go. A second man made to attack Mabbon from his left, but the fool was flustered from a night's heavy drinking. Clumsy, too.

Which pretty much meant dead.

One down, thought Mabbon, his blade running red and wet. The bruiser took another go, missed. Two down.

It was then the rest of the scouting party reached him. With a rallying cry, the lightly-armoured warriors charged into the marauders a moment before they could bring their numbers to bear on Mabbon. Caught by surprise, they shrank from the sudden violence like the cowards they were. Most still died, but a few possessed enough sense to throw down their weapons and surrender.

Not that it would do them any good in the long run. They would still hang for what they had done here. When the time came to execute them, Mabbon would fetch the rope.

 

[Mordred]

The screams from outside brought silence to the small healing den. The untrained or the young looked up from whatever task they were doing towards the windows and the doors, their faces pale and fear shining in the whites of their eyes. Even the elder, more experienced healers clutched at amulets around their necks or made the sign of the runes across their foreheads and begged for protection. Mordreds voice cut through the tension like the crack of a whip.

"Stop staring and bring me that water, now," the young girl he had sent who had frozen half way across the room suddenly leapt into action. "You and you, clear more room. We're going to have more people in here soon and we're going to need space. I don't want to see anyone with broken bones lazing around in here. Unless something is hanging off, or they can't walk, move them to the next room. Go!" the two young lads nodded and hurried off to begin moving the less severe patients out of the way.

Mordred nodded to the healer who had been in charge before his arrival and the woman nodded back her grim thanks. Healers didn't have time for fear.

 

[Villam Regis]

"A bit rude of you, Mab, not saving any fun for me."

It wasn't a real complaint, and Mabbon likely knew it. Villam wasn't entirely fond of combat, at least not in a head-to-head sense. He much preferred trapping and outsmarting his foes, giving him the advantage from the outset. From the show Regis had gotten while catching up alongside the rest of the scouting party, The Guardian of Darkness had things well in hand without any backup.

Stepping in front of his fellow Guardian to look over the few that had surrendered to Mabbon's might with a stiff lip... A sniveling bunch, no wonder they picked out a defenseless town without much in the way of Guards. Sending three Guardians and a squad of Vanguard had been overkill.

"Keep them alive, for now." He asked of Mabbon, turning his head to watch the Half-Orc from the corner of his eye. "With a little quality time with them, I can probably get some answers out of their mouths." He doubted this was the entirety of their group, just as much as he doubted Mabbon would be against paying wherever they were headquartered a little visit.

Walking up to the few remaining Marauders, Villam gazed down at the kneeling sods with eyes of ice.

"Hear that, boys? You and I are going to have a little chat...

 

[Mabbon Dreierg]

'You have a strange definition of fun, Villam.' Mabbon greeted the other Guardian with a nod before turning back to the prisoners they had taken. 'Three men, all told. The rest did not fare as well as those you see before you now.' No, the rest had gotten what was coming to them.

The scouts had already searched the marauders, both living and dead. They had taken weapons, wealth and anything else that might prove useful once the interrogations began. Indeed, the three still had secrets worth divulging, and Villam had a knack for wheedling information out of people, willing or otherwise.

'By all means. I'll go find some shadows to lurk in.' There was no shortage of dark places in Illarog, and it was always a pleasure, watching a professional at work. Mordred was probably busy, too. Helping the wounded, saving lives. And not taking them, thought Mabbon, crossing from the light and into the dark.

The place I belong. Gods, do I hate it.

 

[Mordred]

"G-guardian Fórn, Sir?"

Mordred glanced up at the soldier standing nervously in the doorway with his hat clutched in a white knuckled grip. He looked back to the leg he had in his hands, ignoring the soldier entirely.

"This is going to hurt," he informed the elderly man who was being pinned by two of the medics on hand, a piece of leather set between his teeth. There was a grim set to his jaw and just as he was about to nod, Mordred pushed the bone back into place. The man screamed around his gag, thrashing in Mordreds grip as he quickly began to splint and bandage it. At some point the man must have passed out for the medics let him go warily and Mordred was able to finish without the chance of being kicked in the face. When he was done he stood up, washing the blood away on a rag covered in the blood of many there tonight. The soldier looked at it and paled.

"I'm a bit busy here," Mordred said in that soft matter of fact tone and moved away to his next patient. The soldier followed.

"I-I was sent to fetch you Sir, there's captives you see and... and well they thought perhaps you might be of h-help in the... questioning."

"I'm not interested in torturing, soldier," he stooped by a young crying girl whose face was badly swollen with her arm hanging at a horrific angle. "Vill and Mabs can handle things I'm sure."

"B-but Sir, it was mentioned with your rune you can tell when a person is lying... And.. and there's villagers still missing sir. You might be able to help us find them."

"You're going to find my mummy?" the little girl piped up through sniffles, looking to Mordred with round, hopeful eyes. "T-they took her. She didn't want to go..." Mordred shot the soldier a dark look and the man had the decency to look a little ashamed. Most people here had lost someone and would want them found or avenged. Waiting for a child to guilt him... He huffed.

"We're going to try," he said softly to the girl and with a touch of magic eased the swelling on her face, dulling the pain. His reward was a smile so bright it hurt him in a place he didn't want to think about. With a sigh he stood and motioned for the soldier to lead on.

 

[Villam Regis]

Villam had no intention of waiting to see if Mordred wished to be involved in the interrogation. If asked, he would have said much the same that the Blood Guardian had-- his place was helping the wounded, something he and Mabbon weren't specialized in. Still, just because he intended to draw what he needed out of the whimpering sods kneeling in front of him didn't mean he thought Mabbon should have nothing to do.

"If you need to keep yourself busy..." He called back to Mabbon as he slinked away. "I'd keep eyes on the perimeter of the city. Wouldn't be shocked if they have lookouts posted outside, and we don't need word of our arrival coming in advance, should we decide to pay them a visit." If they had Kon or Ingrid here, he'd be more confident in a head-on attack. While Mabbon was powerful, his strength could be situational.

Regardless of Mabbon's response, Villam reached down and grabbed the pair of marauders by their collars, dragging them to the side of the road and tossing them to their backs against a pile of rubble collected on the walkway. They whimpered, and groaned, fearing a vicious and painful bout of torture.

Villam didn't do torture, per se.

"Now listen, boys... I don't want to hurt either of you. So I'm going to make this very simple for the three of us, understand?" Villam lowered to sit between them, his arms reaching out to grab them by their arms and pull them in close so that they were nearly in his lap. The glances they stole of him when their nerves allowed them were of horror, of terror, hate, and loathing. "The two of you don't seem like bad men. I think, actually, that you don't believe in this sort of violence. I don't think you two had a say in this, did you?"

Of course, they shook their heads, agreeing with anything that might have gotten them out of this predicament. Villam would change that though, he would make them believe it through the power of the stone pressed against his chest.

"I think... you would tell me what I need to know, where to find your boss... so that I could do the right thing, and not have to use you as an example. Am I correct?"

Villam could feel their gazes changing from fear and horror to respect and admiration. No, they couldn't abide by this behavior! This man was right, what they did was abhorrent, and they must atone, in any way possible! Villam listened to them as they apologized in both of his ears, offering locations, names, plans, and even past transgressions, as though he were some confessional.