Quest The Siege of Belgrath Part 2: Battle of Irithul

[Douglas Haley]

______________________

“Who da’ yuh think ya’ callin’ WEE?”, Grudgebearer screamed back, furrowing his heavy brow and bulging what massive chest he held, held back only by the heavy breastplate he wore now. Surprisingly, the commander who would likely not see much battle, wore some of the heaviest, best armor in the city's defense.

“Ah’ll not ‘av some cock come intuh Belgrath, demandin’ muh tribute! Wha’ yuh want next, uh fuckin’ footrub?”, he said, equal amount of spit and hot air flying from his harry, gingery maw.

Douglas looked on in slight amazement. Is this how dwarves often settled their differences? He’d only seen humans engage in conflict, and most didn’t come down to ‘footrubs’ and ‘cocks’. Most, that is; most being settled in court under the guiding hand of the Merchant Council. An uncomfortable sensation washed over him as he dragged his thoughts away from Elbion, and Eimur.

“Belgrath has stood thousan’ o’ years without yuh Khazak arses comin’ tuh help. Unlike ye’, ah ‘aven’t lost mah city yet, an' ah certainly do'n fuckin' intend tuh.”, his finished with his face turning a blemished shade of red.

As he said that, many of the dwarves nearby suddenly stopped what they were doing, peering towards what their commander might say next, and with them the Mage known as Douglas. His expression was a bit more open, already understanding the weight of the Commander’s words, and his intended implications.

Haelen Blacklocks​

 

[Haelen Blacklocks]

"Some cock, eh? Ah'tleast ah got one!" Haelen grabbed his groin and gave it a firm shake, his men around him laughed at the insult. Haelen may be prince but he spent nearly his entire life beyond the realms of Dwarves, living with all races. He was an adventurer and that crude nature showed itself now more than ever.

"Bettah' we lost Khazar than let et' turn tah shite," Haelen said, his blood boiled at such a lowly insult. The Dwarves of the Iron Legion bristled at the remark and the militia outside watched in fury. As quick as a cat, far quicker than one would expect for a Dwarf, Haelen lunged forward. He launched a fist at Grudgebearer's chin, and as his fist sailed past he'd bring that arm back, elbow cocked for a crack against the Arragoths forehead. All of Haelens kin were silent, none smiled.

 

[Douglas Haley]

______________________

Anger between dwarves was something fierce, and two aggressively insulting one anothers manhood was something else entirely. Douglas couldn’t help but be moderately entertained as the two went about their pettiness in their own ways.

And then the fists flew. The first throw came to Grudgebearer with speed, but the commander had earned his position somewhat rightfully. He certainly didn’t have the experience Haelen did, but the young dwarf was one of the best warriors in Belgrath; though that wasn’t saying much, considering how few were left. His head nigh instantly ducked, forcing the hit to land square in the center of the commander’s forehead, a portion so hard it wouldn’t have been difficult for Blacklocks to have fractures the delicate fingers in his hand.

However, as he roared to life in confidence, a bit of his overzealous folly came forth;

“Ah told yuh, ah ain’t off-”, but before he could finish, Blacklocks had already landed his hardened elbow straight into Grudgebearer’s nose, the cartilage within crunching under the immense force of the strike.

The commander faltered and took a few steps back, a hand outstretched as if to brace himself, but didn’t grab anything despite his wobbling. As he recovered, he blew his nose a nostril a piece, forcing blood from each, but a wicked grin formed on his face.

“Good hit, ya ‘ol’ lively bastard.”, he said, anger still prevalent in his tone.

“When weh done ‘ere, weh can finish ‘his. Save ‘ih for da orcs.”, the commander, still dripping blood, glanced around to the members of the Iron Legion still looking on.

“Well?! Git back tuh work, ya’ sick pups!”, he scowled before giving Blacklocks another, final, look of displeasure.

Douglas sat quiet for a moment as the ginger bearded commander made haste in some foreign direction. He himself was suprised he didn’t strike back, speaking softly as though he shouldn’t;

“This happen often among dwarves?”

Haelen Blacklocks​

 

[Haelen Blacklocks]

There was a crack in Haelens knuckles, then another from Grudgebearers nose. The venerable Dwarf stood back and shook his fist, flexing his fingers in pain. "Crap," Haelen muttered and looked at the commander who was reeling from the blow to his nose. The older Arragoth of the Iron Legion nodded their satisfaction while the militia outside watched on curiously, unsure if this should continue. Their kin were known for their debates and when words failed they were quick to decide who was right by way of physical conflict.

The commander was bleeding and he gracefully seceded to Haelen, but not without barking at the dwarves of the Iron Legion before departing. They remained rooted where they stood, they only took orders from the prince of Khazar. When Douglas spoke up as the commander retreated from the pavilion Haelen smiled, "Aye, we'n yeh can't agree yah just show 'em yer' right." Haelen then demonstrated a bashing motion with his fist, suggesting this wasn't as out of the ordinary as it seemed.

 

[Douglas Haley]

______________________

“I’ll keep that in mind.”, he said, trying to internalize dwarven culture.

Such and odd concept, he thought, that they settle disputes so openly, so violently. Though, the longer the thought on it, the more he realized humans were much the same creature; though on a more macro level. Vel Anir had hundreds of petty wars amongst its nobles over the last thousand years, and even his own master Agron had been apart of such deplorable systems. It was how he had gotten his name, killing in the episodal massacres the Vel Anirian’s committed on each other daily.

With a small sigh, he glanced in the direction of the wall, pausing in thought as he considered how close they were to the first charge of the battle. It was these moments before the end that seemed to take the longest, where everyone held tight to their lives, but adrenal told them the end was coming. Even Douglas felt this, never before seeing combat, his stomach rolled with anxiety.

“How bad does it get?”, he asked almost timidly.

“War. Battle, I mean.”, the fear and novice nature of the mage becoming more prevalent as he glanced down to Haelen’s stature for some guidance. Despite the height difference, Haelen stood taller than anyone around; and it forced Douglas to ask for some sense of security, somehow that things wouldn’t be as bad as they actually were.

Haelen Blacklocks​

 

[Haelen Blacklocks]

Haelen moved to the pavilions entrance and gazed out. The militia were back to work now, crude formations assembling but more akin in nature to small war parties than what the humans may call a formation. The Iron Legion veterans departed the tent and moved among the militia, directing the flow of forces towards the walls and side tunnels around the city. Haelen watched the wall with Douglas, his mind far away. He wondered if the feeling of helplessness is what his father, his brother and his people felt in the twilight hours of their life.

"How bad does it get?" Douglas asked and Haelen remained quiet for a time, recalling the events of Kal'Bryst. It was the first siege he had been in, over a hundred years ago now. The devastation had been madness. He had seen giants turned to undeath tear down walls and buildings, the howling screams of frightened women and children. He had been young and reckless, with his brother Dolgan they had blindly jumped into the fray without thinking of anyone or themselves. Two young stupid dwarves.

"Bad," Haelen confirmed ominously, "Very bad."

The prince in exile turned from the entrance and retreated into the pavilion where two attendants awaited him with a set of black steel armour. He disrobed and stood quietly as they placed chainmail and plate over him, slowly covering him from head to toe. They took the locks of his hair and bundled them up as they slid the helmet over his head. Haelen took it upon himself to adorn his gloves, his fingers dancing to test his flexibility.

By the last finishing touches he appeared far more the warrior prince than before. His half helm allowed his beard to fall unrestricted, the heavy nose ring could be seen but his eyes were shadowed in darkness. "Magi," Haelen called as a final attendant approached, handing the Dwarf a mighty hammer. Haelen Blacklocks took up the weapon and heaved it into his hands, "Eh'm going tah need yeh' help if weh plan tah win."

 

[Douglas Haley]

______________________

Douglas considered his words, mulling them over as they put armor on the Dwarven prince.

“Very bad.”, he had offered him, and it wasn’t what Douglas wanted to hear.

The job of Battle Mage was one his unknown father had done before him, a job a Kavoshian Monster such as himself was best at. The intensity of their magic, the fear they brought to a battlefield was unmatched by anything but a giant or brigade of ogres charge a line; but it was often this reputation that made dwarves, humans, and all manner of mortal being forget that Kavoshians were people, with thoughts and feelings just as they. Where they saw a monster, Douglas knew only the coming fear he knew he had to swallow if he was to survive.

Money was the long term goal, but the pit in his stomach wished there was another way.

"Eh'm going tah need yeh' help if weh plan tah win.", Haelen offered, breaking Douglas from his entombed monologue.

“Oh, uh, sure of course.”, he stammered out, quickly adjusting his mask as he moved to follow the dwarven prince. Just before however, another dwarf came up, shoving him for his attention. Douglas glanced down, only to be offered a heart protector from the dwarf, before the quartermaster walked off.

Douglas dawned his new piece of equipment on the move, a heavy dwarven steel heart protector that would at least stop him from catching a blade on his otherwise unprotected torso. It didn’t nullify his fear, but it certainly helped him.

"What's your plan?"

Haelen Blacklocks​

 

[Haelen Blacklocks]

Haelen stepped out from the tent and the militia turned to appraise him, but their silence was telling. They too were scared. Douglas was not alone. "Tha Horned Aegis," Haelen muttered, "It's 'ere. In tah city." The legendary shield was unwieldy and bulky, only capable of being held by the strongest of dwarves. It was said that being on the other end of that shield during a charge was a death sentence. It was able to multiply the force used, sending whoever is hit by such a charge thrown into the air, bones breaking and shattering.

"Eh know t'ey keep eht guarded, tis anotha' clans heirloom," Haelen explained. The Horned Aegis had remained dormant, more a museum piece than a weapon of war these days. If Belgrath was set to fall they needed the best weapons on their side, the Horned Aegis was only half the equation in Haelens mind. Another was not so much a weapon as a person. A Magi from his distant past. He knew not whether the man was living or dead but he could only hope for the best, lest he too fell into despair. "Weh ah going tah' steal it," Haelen said about the shield.

He began to explain the layout of the inner city, more specifically the manor in which the Horned Aegis was said to reside. Clan Guards protected the building and they would need more than a distraction if they wanted to slip in. These dwarves werent just going to hand over the shield willy-nilly to a bygone prince from a bygone kingdom. As he spoke the camp fell behind them and the city dawned closer. The hustle and bustle was greater than usual, every dwarf capable of fighting was present and rushing about to fulfil final orders before the siege began.

"Eh 'ave ah parchment, too," Haelen said strangely as he squirmed, his hand shimmying between the plates around his hips as he fetched something from the inner gambeson. When his hand returned and reached out outstretched it was empty. A practical joke on Douglas? Not very amusing, but then something glittered, a thousand microscopic stars on his palm and a parchment appeared in his hand. The paper was of ethereal nature and Haelen surely had not just conjured the parchment of his own doing. It had traces of someone else's magical matrix. The spell was foreign and old yet incredibly complex and sophisticated.

Haelen handed the parchment over to Douglas and it would seem that it weighed nothing at all. Letters were written down in an unknown language, at least unknown to Haelen. "Eh don't know magic," Haelen said and gestured to Douglas, "Ah old friend told meh once if eh ever were desperate eh need only ask fer help." The parchment detailed a spell that would have to be spoken. It was a spell of a nature similar to the magic of summoners. A call into the void.

 

[Douglas Haley]

______________________

The inner city, a place where Douglas had a surprising amount of room to move about. Humans had begun to live in Belgrath to escape the carnage of the Blight Orcs, forming slums of interracial motley crews commanded by the ancestral leads of Dwarves. More often, it was the dwarves who held the money here, as they were some of the only one hardy enough to work the Belgrath-Akkar, the forge at the center of the city.

That didn’t stop him from having to duck under a few doorways and passages the two maneuvered through however, one specific low hanging ceiling formed a small bulge on the top of Douglas’s head.

Rubbing his wound, he watched as Haelen handed him the magical parchment. An odd thing, really, but not magic he hadn’t seen prior. When Mages wanted to be secretive, they often used these on crows and the like to transfer messages others shouldn’t see, and even high level mages were known to teleport these ethereal messages off thousands of miles. It seemed far easier for quick transportation of the information, than waiting weeks for a passerby to move them.

Touching it, he could feel the prickles of magic wafting to him, a natural occurrence when mana was intensely put in one area. He idled for a second before opening the letter, looking at the intricate runes, sigils, and ancient languages used to bind it with magic. He furrowed his brow as he understood its intent.

“Its a summoning spell, or at least looks like one. Did your friend say what it was supposed to summon?”, he asked questioningly, watching as the two neared the vaults of the city that held its most glamourous treasures.

Haelen Blacklocks​

 

[Haelen Blacklocks]

"Nay, did'ent sah much 'bout it, but eh am tah believe et do summon somethen.. just not ehre," Haelen replied in his thick accent, eluding to the fact that the scroll was indeed a summoning spell but the location of such a summon was not nearby. Further study into the language of the spell would show the summoned object or being was at a fixed location, rather than wherever the magician chose. Perhaps such a spell would summon something at the home of the magician when the parchment was recited, alerting such a being that Haelen was in need.

Up head the manor came into sight. At the entrance stood a ramshackle crew of guards. They were well armoured but looking like they lacked experience. Surely the more hardened warriors were sent to the front while the weakest were left to guard the manor. Haelen pointed to the entrance and explained that the manor was abandoned by the clan, having long since vanished but the dwarves sworn to service still kept guard as per their oath. Once inside it was merely a matter of taking the shield and getting out unscathed.

 

[Gerra]

“I see,” he muttered, “and what of Astyanax. Is he merely a sycophant, or does he conspire in some manner? Sparhawk trusts your judgment and you have already given me a castle through your efforts. Perhaps I should learn to heed your counsel.” The young warlord smiled wanly and without teeth. “What is the cause of enmity between you and he?"

 

[Telemachus]

"Astyanax has a poor reputation among my people," Telemachus droned. "It stems primarily from his occasional desecration of the Antikathri dead."

That necromancer had once pillaged several burial grounds on the outskirts of Theaos in order to procure enough corpses for... What was the term that had been used? Skeleton mages? A ghastly practice, and Astyanax had been paid handsomely by the Orc Warlord he had raised them for.

It went without saying that Astyanax was no longer welcome in that settlement and several more. Not that it ever stopped him.

"I distrust all necromancers and their practice. It is an unclean and impure path. Astyanax is merely more depraved than most... And additionally insufferable in conversation. To my knowledge, however, he has never betrayed those who employ him."

 

[Gerra]

The half-giant nodded slowly. "Interesting. Well, let us dally no longer. I have kept you overlong. Thank you for your sagacity, Master Telemachus."

A clear dismissal.

Gerra reached for a pitcher of plundered dwarven toadstool ale and poured himself a horn. He drank deeply, pondering what he had been told. Telemachus gave nothing away, stones had easier flaw lines to read than him. But Astyanax, for all his simpering, let far too much of his emotions crawl into his eyes and lips. He would be far easier to read.

After Telemachus departed, Gerra stepped from his tent and spoken in Blight-tongue to one of the iron-clad orcs who stood watch. "Find the life-weaver elf, the one called Astyanax. Tell him I wish to speak to him alone in my tent."

Returning to his war table, the half-giant examined the various scribblings he had made upon the map. It would not do well to incite infighting among his sorcerers, but he would not be caught mid-battle by the tightening of long laid plots. Best to sort these matters into their proper place, the good metal from the bad.

 

[Douglas Haley]

______________________

“How do you expect us to get inside?”, he said as he glanced to Haelen, taking care to not draw too much attention to them. The letter he had given Douglas went slowly into his shirts inner pockets, taking care not to crumple the magical letter out of habit than requirement, as just as quickly it dissolved into nothing once more.

“As much as I realize the shield is important, it won’t do us well to go head on.”, Douglas offered the warrior prince.

It wasn’t that Douglas didn’t have an outright idea on how to go about it, but he didn’t know just how Haelen expected to approach the situation. Hurting either of the dwarves likely wouldn’t sit well with the dwarves as a whole, unless they outright blamed Douglas for it in the long run; but that wouldn’t excuse the fact Haelen had the shield.

He sighed deeply, waiting for the dwarf to offer some guidance.

Haelen Blacklocks​

 

[Colborn Maciver]

Colborn was tossed roughly onto the ground from the horse causing him to swear. Some blood had seeped into his eye making him close it as he tried to rub it out of it. The orc hopped off the horse and dragged him over to ring and tied his rope around it. The orc would gruff some rolling him over with a kick before moving on to do whatever else he did as his duties.


Grumpling and trying to look around with his usable eye Colborn sees Verys before sighing, “Oh for fucks sake.” He’d grumble, “Even more of us.” He’d rasp some his head swimming from the headache and injury. He’d look around some more, “Wanna get out of here?” He’d ask the woman rolling himself up to a more comfortable position.


“He’d shake his head some laying back down when another orc passed by promting Colborm to smile some and flip him the bird under his nose.

It was a good day of travelling when the bastard who needed a shower got a hold of him. But he didn’t go down without a fight like usual. I was also looking forward to that nice piece of rabbit stew when I went hunting but that is going to need to be saved for later. Colborn sighs a bit his stomach rubbling, it was always hungry even here! “If you are can you help. Im kinda shit faced right now.” He’d ask the woman with a smile.

 

[Verys Synsere]

It was with a rather impressive thump! that the new person was dumped on the ground next to her. Verys kept her head bent forward, shoulders slumped, as if she was trying to make herself the smallest person in existence -- in reality, it was the best she could do to hide the fact that there was no knot keeping her tied to the pole in front of her. She winced in sympathy at the impact of the person -- the man, it turned out -- next to her, following the orc’s path towards the building near the far end of the rough little camp out of her peripheral vision.

It took her a moment to realize that the man in question had addressed her and not the world at large with his sentiment, turning those big emerald eyes to him with a surprised arch to her eyebrows.

“Me? Oh! Hello! I mean -- well, yes. You do have stuff on your face, but it looks like blood, not offal matter,” she replied helpfully, tilting her head back slightly so she could keep track of where the other slaver had gone. A quick and furtive once-over of the camp around them; there were some various individuals either in their own preparations or, in the case of one, contemplating the large mountain that hovered like an ominous gargoyle behind them. She’d never been this close to the Spine -- assuming, of course, she wasn’t wrong about that, but, really, where else could they be.

“Just wait,” she instructed the man next to her, pulling her hands away from the ring and wriggling her fingers at him to show that she was, actually, unbound. Well, not completely. She was still shackled around the wrists, but not tied to the pole. Returning her hands to their position, she turned her attention back to the hut where the slavers had disappeared into. They just need a convenient distraction, something to get the attention away from them, but she’d been wracking her brain for a while now on how to cause something with no luck.

Luck, however, seemed to be exactly what they were going to get.

No more than a few minutes after the orc who’d brought Colborn had disappeared into the small shack, there was the sharp crack of the door flying open and banging into the far wall, one of the men -- the greasy blonde one -- being tossed out into the dirt.

The orc was just after him, but he wasn’t alone. The bearded man was quite literally hanging on to him, arms around the orc’s neck as he attempted to choke the taller being out from behind. All three were yelling loudly, profanities mostly, but from what Verys gathered it likely had something to do with the fact that the orc was irate that he’d come to find his partners high off their arses on illicit substances, before the job was done.

Verys jerked her hands free from the ring, quickly moving to the knot that held the young man to his pole.

“Here’s hoping your depth perception hasn’t been compromised by your inability to use both eyes,” the redhead muttered, to him but also in this way that insinuated that she was used to either talking to herself or talking and not being paid attention to. Knot tossed to the side, she offered him a hand to help him to his feet… though, really, she was tiny, petite of frame, without much muscle on her at all. She wasn’t getting him anywhere unless he did most of the work.

“Time to run!” she chirped, then held one finger up. “Wait! My satchel.”

Then, instead of running towards the exit of the camp, she ran back further in, to where the wagon that the other men had brought her in was resting. Still hampered by the shackles around her wrists, she rummaged around the back until she found what she wanted -- a large bag with what seemed like awkward angles inside, and certainly too big for a reasonable person to consider “a satchel”. Still, she gripped it with a victorious smile. “All here!”

Right about then, the orc looked up from where he was grappling the other two (the bearded man still clinging to his back trying his best to maintain the chokehold and the greasy blonde man held at arm’s length but still taking wild swings at the orc).

“Hey! Stop!” he barked.

 

[Jame Hawthorne]

With a small picture of Douglas Haley in his hand, James looked towards the rising kerfuffle of the prisoners Colborn Maciver and Verys Synsere had caused. Orcs fighting blonde haired men, blonde haired men desperately swinging at someone he wouldn’t win against; a whole mess taking place right under the Commander’s nose. Strange.

He furrowed his brow, but didn’t move in their direction. Why? He simply wasn’t paid to, and doing so would likely harm his chances at a thirty thousand gold bounty already planned for. At least, that's what he told himself, knowing that if he risked his chance at the bounty then he’d be in a bit of debt to some harsh loan sharks back in Alliria.

In truth, he couldn’t afford to be amiable, or of good morality. Not right now.

James let his hand rest on his swords hilt, balancing his weight on it as he made a very obvious effort to turn away from the group, as though he’d never seen them, walking off in any direction that wouldn’t implicate him in apathy to the escapees. In the distance he’d make a new perch to stick with, hopefully one where he’d see the distant mug of Mr. Haley.

Before he could find the perch he was hoping for, the distracted bounty hunter bumped into Maho Sparhawk, quickly moving to apologize in a vaguely dull tone;

“Oh, shit, sorry man. Wasn’t paying attention.”, he said as he brushed off his armor, as though something had gotten on it.

“You alright?”​

 

[Colborn Maciver]

Colborn watches the orc being wrestled by the other men while taking the womans hand before getting up and rubbing his eyes, “Its just the one eye.” He’d nutter before taking the girls wrist and sneaking away keeping low. “This is gonna be a sticky situation thats for sure.”

He’d walk away from the orc and his adversaries with somewhat of a chuckle as he snuck behind the tents, careful to avoid confrontation. “There’s no running from this. I need a weapon.” He’d tell the woman leaving her for a moment to sneak behind a orc and withdraw his sword from his sheath. Just as he slept on watch.


In a few moment he’d return triumphant. The two of them would find a small path and start making there way up it, having a few close calls along the way. Orcs are too stupid for their own goods. He’d comment to himself looking back for a moment.

With a squint he’d widden his eye, “Fucking run!” He’d yell now in full sprint up the hill as a patrol of orcs came running up grumbling about their orders.

 

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

If i can't prove myself a capable leader, i will prove myself a capable warrior...

He wouldn't gain his peers' respect by sitting around and waiting for orders. Ever since he'd made it to that outpost several months ago, all he'd been good at was taking orders and waiting around on others. No. He refused to keep being a pawn forever. If he didn't decide to take his own path, how was he any better than any other Mage? How was he going to have any individuality if he was not to express himself?

Sparhawk picked himself up, deciding he better prepare himself for the battle he was to face ahead; the prospect of fighting at the Vanguard of the battle presumably meaning one was asking for death. But today wasn't going to be remembered as the day Sparhawk died. This day, will be remembered as the day Sparhawk grew a spine.

Throwing his over-sized, dark cloak about him, he left his tent, to be presented with a brawl going on outside. It seemed to be between a few guarding orcs, and a blonde man who had just escaped from their captivity. Christ.

Someone had better do something... you'd think it'd be easy to keep a few maimed and weak soldiers in lin-

Without warning, Sparhawk was knocked by something cold and dense. He lost his footing slightly, but it wasn't anything major.

"Excu-" He was about to say "excuse me" but was more than a little shocked at the figure that stood before him;

A great tower of a man. A truly terrifying image. He stood several inches higher than Sparhawk, peering over him, like a farmer overseeing his crop. He wore a suit of hard leather and steel, probably weighing about the same as Sparhawk himself. The sword he carried on his back was more-or-less as intimidating as he was, looking like it held a great gravity when swung, most-likely capable of cleaving Sparhawk from his legs.

Even the way he apologised held a terror; the dull and mono-tone emphasising his oppressive atmosphere.

"Oh, no- uh, it's fine! I'm fine!" He gave him a smile, but on-guard.

"I'm not- uh, sure we're acquainted, but i have a battle to prepare for, fighting at the front is a little diff-"

Sparhawk, why did you tell him you're planning to fight at the front.

You fucking idiot.

 

[Jame Hawthorne]

James looked at the mage with a lost expression, seeing him stammer over himself in odd ways. Did James forget to bath last time he crossed a creek? No, and one certainly couldn’t smell him over the nearby festering Blight Orcs. They weren’t just called that for their habitual razing of villages, after all.

“Fighting on the front?”, he said inquisitively.

“Happen chance we might be looking for the same thing then.”, James offered without giving Maho a chance to skitter off.

Just as quickly, James turned the bounty around to show him, offering the intrinsic detail of a mage known as Douglas Haley. His Kavoshian features were well regarded, and it was obvious the mage was a youthful member running for Elbion. Where it listed his crimes, the predominant ones that stood out were ‘High Treason’ and ‘Murder’.

“The ol’ Dwarves hired this lad a few weeks back, as per some contacts I have back in Alliria. Lookin’ to capture him alive, bring him back to Elbion for the price on his head. A Kavoshian, even novice, isn’t exactly a safe thing to hunt so I imagine having a mage along with me would help.”, he said as he stuffed the piece of paper back behind his breastplate.

“Besides, getting rid of a mage like that could help the war effort. Would you mind helping me?”, he said, his voice rarely rising from a deadpan monotone.

Maho Sparhawk​

 

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

Funny. He had heard that a Kavoshian Mage was around, but didn't believe the rumours; a race gifted extraordinary magical abilities. Adept Kavosh mages have been known to topple even the greatest of Sorcerers. Although, their race was very rare, uncommon in Arethil for many centuries. He'd only met 1 in person, and that was his Instructor, Jerik.

Sparhawk would be a fool to refuse such an offer. If he were to go to the front-lines with another, his chances of survival would dramatically increase. And a Bounty-Hunter, not neccessarily a great warrior, but definitely a great killer.

His goal wasn't to kill a Kavosh mage, or help someone else do the deed, but if he were to, they'd be the first to kill a Kavosh in battle for quite a long time. It would not be easy though, and could become a complication if push were to come to shove.

"... My name is Sparhawk. If you help me fight at the front, i promise to help you in- in whatever way i can." He kept his voice low, hoping that no one else in the vicinity would hear of their plan.

He held out his hand to Shake Hawthorne's.

 

[Jame Hawthorne]

James hesitated as Sparhawk stuck out his hand, asking for an exchange of pleasantries. Somehow, James wasn’t all that interested in shaking anyone’s hand, a notable quip that had caused issues before when accepting a job. Instead he simply nodded with a soft grunt as if to acknowledge the hand, but made no move to touch it.

“They call me ‘The Wolf.’, he said, knowing already introducing himself as ‘James’ on the battlefield would take away what intimidation factor he carried.

Sometimes he wondered why he couldn’t have an intimidating name like some of the legends of Arethil did. Furrowing his brow, he considered what sort of name would suit him, and be equally as intimidating…

Gerra. That’d be a nice name, he thought to himself.

“Well, I suppose its important to consider if we intend to charge when the lines do, or try and sneak in beforehand. Not exactly a smart move if we get caught, but hey; at least there was an attempt.”, he said with a shrug of his pauldrons.

Maho Sparhawk​

 

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

He's got a good point.

Shut it.

It was something Sparhawk had to think on. If they were to go with the crowd, yes, they'd be protected, but their cover could be blown, and their true intentions revealed. Well, his true intentions.

'The Wolf '. Man, i need to get myself a name like that.

"I think it might be best if we sneak in, before the rest of the legion make their way into the Tunnel. That way we can find the Kavoshian you're looking for, and i can- uh, you know. Fight..." Never been the greatest Orator, but even Sparhawk had to admit, he could've worded 'for respect' better.

"We best make our way sooner rather than later. If you're ready, i am."

 

[Jame Hawthorne]

“Then lets be on our way.”, he said, motioning the mage to follow.

However, only three steps away from where he started, he suddenly stopped and stood silent for a moment, stuck in thought. Only after another second of silence did he turn to Maho and speak;

“Do you happen to have a map of Belgrath’s tunnels? Just realized it might do us well to have some idea of where we’re going before just diving knob deep in dwarven ruins.”

Maho Sparhawk​

 

[Maho 'Jerik' Sparhawk]

A map. Of course. Sparhawk would've been a fool to think they could navigate their way throughout the tunnels without the aid of a Map. Without it, they would be lost in it's great tunnels, most likely to starve alone in the putrid darkness of the deep. However, he knew only one with such a map...

Gerra...

This was the time he had to choose; to lie to Gerra, or to put an end to his intended plans.

...

"Wolf, I can get us a map. Just- " He hesitated, saying the words making the situation too real.

"Just give me a little while." He gave a small nod towards Hawthorne, and made his way to the Commander's tents, throwing back his hood to once again reveal his face to the harsh daylight.

Pushing past the draped cloth, there stood Gerra, peering over the battle plans. When you look at some people, you see a determination in their eye, when they're truly in their element; when they percieve all details, and are completely focused on their craft. That was the look Gerra had written on his face.

"G-" He stuttered again. Come on! Stop pausing Stop Pausing! Stop Pausing!

"Gerra, i have need of the Tunnel Map." He said it as clear as day. He was tired of tumbling and stuttering over his words, a habit developed from his lack of confidence no doubt. But no more.

He looked Gerra straight in the eye as he said it. From now on, he wouldn't act like he was stepping on eggshells. Not now. Not when he's staring someone he respects in the eyes.