Open Chronicles Through Blood and Blight

[Sarah Lindwell]

*Sarah is a Human, just haven't yet found an adequate picture for her yet. The current picture does a good job of showing the extent of her injuries.*

Two Leagues East of the Blighted Plateau

The sheer cliffs of the plateau loomed far in the distance. Trails of orcs, just black dots against the pale rock, marched up and down the rigid switchbacks. The wind, so cold and heartless, carried the faintest echoes of their squeels and shouts. The smell of dirt and cold, like a small knife to the inside of a nostril, whipped through the air. The dried, dead bushes crunched. Their browned leaves cracking and falling in the wind. The rusted carcasses of blade and plate dotted the ground. Poked through the dirt like the most tenacious of weeds and grasses. In the distance sat trebuchets, catapults, and lost siege towers. They, too, were rotting. Their purpose long since lost.

In the distance, still farther eastwards, roamed the travelling packs of Blighted Orcs. Followers and adherents to the flaming city of Molthal. That twisted and damned place. They would come after any who walked the dead plains. Just more groups seeking slaves to sell to the miner's pits.

Dust kicked up from the ground. The glint of silver steel shone through the small cloud of dirt. A pointed sabaton tied to a leather boot. Greaves strapped over crimson padding covered the figure's shins. Small fan-plates jutted out from the side of the poleyns, and sturdy cuisses traveled up and under a thick, black brigandine. Studs of steel poked through the armor's cloth covering. But the left leg was stuck in a permanent bent. The left foot pointed inwards towards the right, and rolled slightly onto its outward edge. The figure, undoubtedly female on account of the unscarred half of her face, dragged the lame leg through the dirt. Her right leg, constantly bent, slammed against the hard ground with each of her labored steps.

A tattered cloak, made of thick wool and black in color, hung around her shoulders. Its hood was pulled low over her head. Her ears and ruined flesh thus protected from the biting chill of the Blightland's winds. While it was mostly covered up by the billowing shape of the cloak, the twist in her back that forced her to bend over and to the left was still noticeable to any who paid enough attention.

Sarah, which was the ruined woman's name, slowed her already slow pace. The rhythmic pounding of hooves carried over the wind. She knew, as they slowly grew louder, that they were coming towards her. Turning slowly, her brows and lips scrunched tightly in protest of her movements. In the distance, towards Molthal, rode a lone rider. The figure and horse were no farther than a thousand feet. Her gauntleted hand reached up between the folds of her cloak, revealing the harness securing her right arm. Pushing back the hood over her head, thick locks of golden blonde hair spilled out into the wind. Though they were covered in dirt and grime from the last few days. Her face, pale and fair on all but the ruined mess of scars, had streaks of dirt on it as well. Pale lips pursed together in preparation of what was to come. Burning blue eyes stared at the encroaching figure.

She could see his rudimentary armour, and the glint of a greatsword strapped to his mount's side. He was a mercenary. She knew it in her bones. She had led a company of them enough times in the past to know when she looked upon another of her ilk. It was a small mercy that the man was not charging her down. His mount moved at a sedate pace. One designed for travelling over the course of weeks rather than hunting down a known quarry. A small mercy, perhaps. It meant that he was most likely not sent to hunt her down. Just one last cruel game for Urrut, the Son of Menalus that had thrown her in the gladiator pits.

But still, she let her good hand rest upon the pommel of her blade. She knew that in the Blightlands strangers were just as likely to run someone down for no other reason than boredom as they were to share the warmth of their fires during the night.

 

[Charlemagne]

(Wrote this post on my phone. Ignore the ugly bits)

The clopping of the mare’s hooves did well to drown out the distant cries that echoed from the plateau, though the occasional shriek broke through his private peace. In times past such anguished noise might have driven him toward some form of rage, but exposure and experience had hardened his heart toward the plight of strangers.

Anyone foolish enough to wander a place such as this without the ability to defend themselves deserved whatever fate befell them. It was the natural order of things so far as he was concerned. The lands beyond civilization were cruel and unforgiving; if one could not make his way by the strength of his arm, then his only path was to rely upon his wits and steer far clear of them. Anything lesser was folly.

“By god we’ll have our home again,” he half-mumbled, half-sung the old tune under his breath, “Oh by god we’ll have our home.” Another shriek from the plateau, this one feminine in its cadence. For but a moment he fell silent as his heartstrings twitched against his greater judgement. The brief flash of anxiety intermingled with righteous indignation simmered in his chest as the hills grew quiet once again. The mare drew in a heavy breath, her nostrils flaring as some alien scent wafted in from the east. Her pace picked up of her own accord; whatever she’d smelled was some source of distress.

“Keep it slow girl,” he muttered, running a plate-bound hand over her blonde mane. He was rather unfamiliar with her, having only come into her possession two nights ago after a tussle with her former owner. The Orc who’d used her as a pack mule lay rotting in the two pieces several leagues west now; he would not make the mistake of trying to rob Charlemagne again.

The distant cacophony grew far in Charlemagne’s mind as he focused upon the thud of the mare’s hooves and the crunching of dead leaves. He was unfamiliar with what had become of this place, though he supposed the name was self-explanatory enough. In his twenty-five years, this was his first venture beyond the relative safety of The Spine’s shrouded forests. It had not been a matter of coin or want that drew him here, but rather a far more primal motivation. A little halfling that had sought to be Charlemagne’s squire - a silly notion in itself, the mercenary was far too ignoble to be something so high-and-mighty as a knight - had been slain in a skirmish with a warband hailing from Molthal.

In truth, Charlemagne had never invited the halfling’s company, and the little wretch had only ever carried his things and sung his halfling tunes during their brief time together. Charlemagne was never such a deceived as to pretend to entertain the prospect of enjoying the halfling’s company, and yet the creature followed him all the same: followed Charlemagne to his death truly.

Pip he’d called him. Pip, who was too foolhardy and brave to hide when the Orcs fell upon their camp. Pip, who’d stolen their attackers attentions long enough for Charlemagne to reach his sword. Pip, whose skull was caved in by the Mohawk-Orc’s massive fist.

The image of the halfling’s shattered face and the sound of his whimsical songs echoed through Charlemagne’s mind. The laughter of the Orcs too thundered like phantoms in his ears, though when he looked up from the mare’s mane, he was alone.

Was he here to avenge little Pip, or to challenge the Orc that had nearly bested him in combat? Was it vengeance, compassion, or a selfish desire to test himself that drove him so far from home?

He gazed upward toward the heavens in hopes of divining the answer, and instead met the eyes of something far more wild than Pip’s ruined image.

Emerald contempt met seas of blue: momentary confusion flashing across his visage. It was a cripple that stood before him now; a woman far from any place a woman should dare to walk. The mare huffed at her, annoyed at halting here.

He noticed the glimmer of iron next, and an instinctive, amused little smirk split his otherwise stony face. A crippled woman clad in armor, clinging to a sword just large enough to perhaps pick his teeth.

Out of place indeed.

“This hellish land is no place for a woman playing soldier,” came his greeting. His voice was like a waterfall crashing over jagged rocks: deep, ragged, and utterly uncompromising. “If you draw that sword I’ll have to take it from you girl.” The smirk was replaced with an all-too-serious, tight-lipped frown.

He ran a plate-bound hand over his naked scalp and jerked his head off toward the plateau. “You runnin’ from the Orcs?”

 

[Singar]

Never before had such alien lands been under the watchful eyes of the learned Orc traveler. Unfortunately, though it was true, the man was amidst his first journey to Epressa. This of course he did not divulge to his 'companions'. The vast, warm lands of Liadain were his home.

He'd arrived first in the Allirian Reach via the steppes on the back of a greying, aged stallion of which he'd assumed possession, by way of killing its former highwayman owner. Rumours abound on the roads west to Maraan had assured him there were Orcs ravaging those lands, and his own eyes had confirmed it.

Morbid curiosity, of all things, had led him here. In the reach he had found few villages populated, and of course none would give pause to an Orc. Not that he had asked, or required anything of civilized folk.

Just as his features had warned humans of his nature, it was taken as a sign of friendship by the Orc left over from the horde. Where the rest had gone he couldn't say, nor did he care. Singar had grown up among civilized Orcs, and even the wild Orcs of the plains were not as blatantly barbaric as the Orcs of Molthal.

When it came down to it, passage through these lands was not a right or a choice. It was a privilege, granted by the blighted reavers.

Now, weeks later of travel through the Spine and the Blighted Lands, grueling even by his standards, they were at Molthal. He had not had the chance to enter the city, for the warband he'd essentially joined were ready to head out again at a moments notice.

What was there in the blasted landscape worth raiding? Perhaps nothing more than a shiny trinket in the hands of another warband, equally savage and wholly unworthy of possessing finery.

The raiding troupe was comprised of five stout and stocky Orcs, including himself. He looked out of place among the blighted Orcs, but they cared only that he could swing an axe and fell an enemy with arrow from great distances. He was just a tool to them.

They'd seen signs of absolutely nothing for miles as they had trekked eastward into the increasingly desolate region. That was until the leader of the warband, a short, dark, and built Orc named Marushk got a scent under his nose. As silently as they could, which rather surprised Singar after weeks of travel with the raucous bunch, they mounted a rocky outcropping.

The fat rocks grew jutting upwards to the sky like something had blasted them in its direction. Singar knew such things were possible. Camouflaged against the dark rocks, hunter's eyes pierced into the distance at a road. Two figures, one mounted on horseback, were a slight drop below them and within range of Sin's bow, though it would not have been a shot he'd like to attempt.

As Marushk stepped forward, Singar threw up a firm fist in front of him to keep him back. A challenge to Marushk's leadership for sure, but to maintain the absolute quiet among them there was nothing the lead Orc could say or do.

And so they waited for the best chance to strike...

 

[Sarah Lindwell]

Silence. It began to stretch. First, five seconds, then thirty. Sarah's eyes were locked onto the mounted rider's own green eyes. Unmoving, unblinking. The two engaged in a silent contest of wills. This man was unlike the dregs and half-starved orcs she fought in the pits. He would be a challenge. She knew from that bladed glint in his eyes. A challenge that she would not win and would be lucky to escape alive from.

After another half-minute of silent contemplation from both sides her tightened lips loosened. "Are you an imbecile?" The question was mumbled halfway under her breath. She slowly, painfully, turned her ruined flesh back towards the east, taking a closer look at the man as she did so.

He was a mercenary, a blade-for-hire. That much was obvious. The other thing that was obvious was that he was also out of his element. He was a newcomer to the Blightlands. The horse wasn't. She was a midnight black mare with white tufts on the back of her legs. Built like a warhorse, just a half-times again as large. She was obviously meant to be ridden by orcs, not men. The animal was restless. Her nostrils flared and her ears twitched despite the lack of flies. The mare never stopped moving her hind legs either. She wanted to be gone. Though that was probably from the rotting battlefield. Molthal horses tended to get skittish around them, just like their orcish riders.

Sarah bit down on her tongue. The sharp pain distracting her from the dull groan of her body. Slowly, with a heavy footfall, she continued her snail's pace. Her armored boot left a furrow in the cold, dry dirt. Her armor clinked and clacked as she moved, and small gasps of breath blew between her half-clenched teeth.

"Does it look like I'm running," She caught his eyes again from the corner of her own, "Oh Mister boy-who's-playing-soldier?" She let out a laugh then. Short and ugly. A barking, hacking thing though it had the whisper of something else in it.

"No, I'm not running," Her laugh quickly turned, her mouth twisting in disgust. "I'm just hobbling away from them. I have probably a week before Urrut sends a hunter after me." A weary sigh slipped between her pale lips. The unscarred side of her face obscured from the rider's view by her windswept mane. Though he could still see the corner of a soft smile. It was as if the thought of being hunted down had brought back pleasant memories.

"What about you?" Her voice grew just a tad louder as she threw over her still good shoulder. "Are you running away or towards them?" She did not turn back to look at him. Her eyes were locked on that far horizons. Upon the turn of the world where she knew she would no longer be able to see the plateau's walls and would finally be able to put Molthal behind her.

 

[Charlemagne]

Of all the things he expected from the wretch of a woman, snarking humor was not among them. His fingers tightened about the reigns as his frown melted away to a surprised half-grin. "Figure I'm the definition of one really," he agreed. Wasn't much else by ways of explanation for his being here beyond blind emotion, the very markings of mental vacancy.

A chill breeze whistled in from the east, carrying with it the sickly scent of Molthal's detritus. It reminded Charlemagne of the working girls' tents that tended to spring up at the edge of mercenary encampments, which in turn brought a momentary nostalgia of his mother's old conditions.

The strange wistfulness of it distracted him for a moment, so much so that he did not notice the quiet crunch of an Orcish foot stepping over the leaves just beyond their field of view. "It certainly looks to be a hobble, yes. I'd even venture to call it a trundle." The mare whinnied quietly as she continued to bounce her forelimbs. She'd been doing that a lot since crossing into the blightlands, though her agitation seemed a bit more urgent now.

Perhaps it was the scent of the girl, or worse, an unseen predator?

The girl's question was a vexxing one. He chewed it over for a few moments, gaze darting about the hillhead and vague treelines in search of the source of the mare's agitation. "Toward," came his answer. "I've no intention of visiting their city, if you can call it that, but there is a particular Orc that stole a particular something from me."

It was difficult to relay his feelings on the matter as he was not entirely sure of them himself. In a primal sense, he understood Pip's life as an object under his possession; like a child misunderstanding the equality of a friendship.

"It's ruined now, but I intended on ruining the Orc in turn," his lips parted to speak further, but the words died in his throat. The evening air died to stillness, and it seemed as if all nearby sound too went with it. His gaze wandered the landscape like a hawk's now, his tone far less cordial. "I've not heard of anyone escaping Molthal. Not alive anyway, and even then, not with their sanity intact." Stranger things had happened he supposed. " - and you certainly don't have the look of one of the ash king's concubines, not with those wounds..."

He threw himself from the mare's back with the ease of an athlete, the dust and vegetation crackling beneath his feet as he placed a hand upon the greatsword hanging from the horde's saddle. Suspicion had far overtaken good will now.

"Are you able to get yourself up on the horse?" He asked mindlessly, deft fingers undoing the latches that held the blade in its place, eyes glued to the countryside. Something brief throbbed in his chest, quiet affirmation marking the certainty of his movements. He'd never been one to keep pets anyway.

Sarah Lindwell, Singar

 

[Singar]

The Orcs held the silence of dead men as they watched from the distance. Glancing eyes toward Marushk told Singar he was being scrutinized likewise. Subtle handsigns, a battle language Singar was unfamiliar with, passed between the blighted Orcs. Singar suspicions raised, but before he could register, one of the Orcs from behind lunged into him, wrapping his arms around Singar's waist and tackling them both over the side of the rocks.

The drop was only a few feet before the two were sprawled out onto the flat plains, yet a dust cloud befitting their combined size plumed high into the air. Singar was flat on his back, attempting to buck the iron-skinned Orc who now wrapped his sandpaper hands tightly around Singar's windpipe. Brute fury and a killer's desire lit up in his subjugators eyes, only to be replaced by pure shock. The head of Singar's axe lodged itself halfway into the blighted Orc's throat, spewing blood all over both of them.

Singar wrenched the other Orc to the ground and stood as the rest of the warband began to howl. The jig was up. Sin wiped the blood away from his orifices the best he could with his bare forearm. The pack of mad Orcs revealed themselves from behind the stones. Their insane howling was second only to a pack of Gnolls.

Waving their crude weapons the descended after Singar. The preyed upon Orc broke into a sprint towards the Humans.

"No one leads this crew but me, Singar!" Marushk yelled after him. "Run to those outlanders where you belong! I will hunt you like wilds curs!"

Sarah Lindwell Charlemagne

 

[Sarah Lindwell]

The crash was unmistakable. Sarah knew exactly where it came from. Behind and to the right of her. No more than a couple hundred feet. She could hear the grunts and the scrabbling of legs against loose rocks. Orcs. She had spent enough time in their company to know the make of their sounds. She wanted to look. To see exactly what was happening, but her body wouldn't move. The pain only adding to the adrenaline that began to flow.

It felt like a cold tide in her veins. The anticipation, the wait of battle. It was coming, and all she could do was watch it. Like it was boat away from the pier. That incapability, the utter uselessness, enraged her. She had thought she came to terms with her enslavement in Molthal. She had not.

The grunts of orcs echoed in her ears. The whimpered moans of men and women stacked upon each other assaulted her mind. The cloying thickness of the sack over her head suffocated her. She could not breath. The dust and dirt flew in the air. She could see it there, in her mind's eye. The black, tendriled shadows of the mines. The burning dust of iron and coal invaded her lungs. The copper taste of blood rose up.

Sarah hacked and coughed. Nary a sound of pain came out as thick red blood splattered on the ground in front of her. It dribbled down her chin and the smell of the coal mines permeated the air. Her arm shook. She was free. After four bloody years of the orcs butchery she was free. And here they are, again, to lay their tainted paws upon her.

"I am free..." Her voice came out quiet. It cracked like a too wet twig in the flames. Her charred skin darkened. Her blood was stirring. Cold and aflame. Her vision of the present returning to her. But it was a different type of beast that looked out of them now. The outlines of everything around her sharpened. The sounds becoming clearer. The feel of her blade's corded grip undeterred by the leather over her fingers. Her twisted body straightening just a bit. A modicum of strength returning to her limp arm.

Turning easier now, her eyes scanned over the horse. It sniffed at her, its lips pulled back in a snarl. More sights, more memories. Lor Holdram. Its high walls and low tunnels. The horses had snarled there too. Comforted by human and dwarf hands. There are no more horses in Lor Holdram. The flames swallowed them all up. Just like how they had swallowed her up. Cracks splintered through her ruined flesh. The sound echoing around her. Blood continued to dribble out of her mouth. Slow, but constant.

She saw him now. An orc rushing towards them. Enemy? No. Her eyes shot to his hands, empty as they were. Then to his eyes. She found fear there. Surprise too. More sounds came from behind him. Grey-skinned beasts sprinted after him. Blighted Orcs. They would take her back. Her limbs shook more. She bit down on her tongue. It bled. It tasted not of copper but of smoke. They would not take her again.

She turned her head to the horse-rider. Easier now, more fluidly. Her blood was waking up, and with it came control. She would have to pay the cost. She always had to pay it. But that would come later. No longer did blue oceans meet steadfast green. Rings of fiery gold and red, flames given form, peered at the man.

"I will need help after this." The corner of her mouth quirked up. A false smile. A hungry smile. Her left hand pulled up on her blade. It did not grasp the handle, but the ricasso. Limp fingers twitched.

Charlemagne Singar

 

[Charlemagne]

It was not magic or any particular extraordinary talent that had kept Charlemagne alive this long. A string of campaigns and a spattering of skirmishes left the majority of those he’d called companions long dead, and yet he’d survived where greater men were left in the dirt. They might have carried decades of wisdom, libraries of spells within their heads, techniques passed down by the greatest of warrior in all The Spine, but they lacked a singular crucial quality.

The nomad peered searchingly into the jagged metal of his great sword as it lingered there in its sheathe. His own reflection, distorted and formless in the angles of the metal, stared back at him. It was that quality that had resigned him to setting the girl upon the horse and testing fate once again. That quality that erected impassable walls between himself and those he might call comrades.

Others fought for dreams. They chased flames of purpose; hopes for greater things than the lot life had saddled them with. Those dreams, be they heavenly or hellish, allowed men to become something more than just their flesh. To chase a dream was to ascend beyond mortality. There was nothing closer to god than that all-consuming chase.

Charlemagne carried no such flame. He sought no purpose beyond his next breath, and whatever embers of ambition that might have flickered in his heart had long since been left to freeze over in their negligence. That quality, Charlemagne’s tool, was apathy. In a primal, animalistic sense, he sought to live by whatever means, and yet in his private thoughts and musings there was no reason to strive toward it. He could fight without a care for himself or anyone else: he was a blade sharper than any physical weapon. There was no weakness or impurity, nothing to stay his hand or inflict him with the fear that crippled other men.

So it was that he’d intended to send the girl on her way and test himself once again. He was a weapon, and his purpose was to be honest or to be broken.

Surprised splayed across his otherwise stony visage as some form of magic infected the girl. He peered at her with an intermingling of curiosity and caution. Far from a magician, Charlemagne could only recognize the magic as simply what it was: its effects or the dangers it posed were immaterial to him. It was, in and of itself, an explanation to date his curiosity. How else could a woman have survived Molthal with, even as broken as she was.

The howl of the Blighted Orcs stirred him from his silent observations. He watched through narrowed eyes as two of the warriors contested one another at the base of a hill. Several others descended from the hillcrest from the way he’d come. It seemed the mare’s irritation was meritous.

His gaze darted from one to the next, a momentary surprise stealing his attentions as one of the Orcs slammed his weapon through his attacker’s skull. The beast wasted little time in bolting to his feet, clouds of dust kicking up behind the warrior. His green skin stood in stark contrast to the lightning-gray of his pursuers, so much so that Charlemagne recognized him instantly.

It has been a moonless night during the raid that had seen Pip slain, but the raiders skin was easy enough to make out in the firelight. “Singar,” Charlemagne muttered under his breath upon hearing the Orc’s name. This was the one he’d come to kill.

White hot-fury thundered through his veins. The momentary resignation that had filled him smoldered against its fire. His greatsword whistled he drew it from its sheathe in a long practiced stroke, the blade hanging toward his side and down into the dirt at the ready. Singar was close now. A few steps, a single powerful swing, and Singar would be little more than two halves of a corpse left to rot in his terrible place.

Green eyes peered past the orc toward his three pursuers. They were larger creatures, each equipped well enough to serve properly in a warband, and likely twice as heavy as Charlemagne was. Were he alone, he might’ve been able to take all three of them, though not without great cost, possibly even his life. As things were, with their obvious enmity toward his target, and the half-dead girl and her dubiously effective magic, the choice was obvious.

He couldn’t ensure she’d live if he struck the green orc down. His own victory, yes, but he couldn’t rightly protect her from three armed and seemingly experienced orcish warriors. In other circumstances that wouldn’t have bothered him, but a woman couldn’t be expected to protect herself here: if he walked away, or simply killed as he wished, then he’d death would be his responsibility.

“I’ve got enough shit on my conscience,” the mercenary grumbled to himself. He marched forward, and despite his instincts, did not raise his sword as he walked past Singar.

“I’ll use your bones as toothpicks when I’m done with you pinkskin,” the quickest and subsequently the smallest of the Orcs snarled. He charged toward Charlemagne with two axes raised high above his head, his grey lips pressed in a murderous scowl.

Charlemagne’s sword sailed forward in a horizontal slice. To his surprise, the Orc jumped clean over the blade, one of his axes singing down toward the mercenary’s right arm. Surprised but adaptable as ever, Charlemagne stepped into the weight of his swing, rendering the axe slice a deep flesh wound in his right bicep rather than the delimbing it was intended to be. The muscles in his arms screamed in protest as he course corrected, the heavy blade swinging back the way it had come. The orc, to his credit, angled both axe blades well enough to catch the edge of the sword. Were it a normal weighted weapon, that maneuver would’ve left Charlemagne entirely open. Unfortunately for his opponent, the greatsword had been forged to cleave through steel plate if it had to, and it shattered both brittle axe blades upon impact, careening further until is crashed clean through the warrior’s breastplate.

Charlemagne’s opponent screamed as the greatsword bit into flesh and bones, shrapnel from the Orc’s axes piercing their owner’s face and Charlemagne’s exposed forearms. Bits of blood dribbled from the fresh wounds, though they did not register to the mercenary. He pressed a boot into the Orc’s flailing body, wrenching his weapon from the creature’s chest with a think and a sickening hiss as air was sucked into the massive gaping hole in the Orc’s torso.

Charlemagne turned his gaze toward his erstwhile allies, blood thundering in his ears as he paused to assess the situation.

 

[Singar]

As Charlemagne stepped into his path, Singar broke down into an instinctive roll away. His shoulder impacted against the cool, dry dirt, feeling the stinging of tiny gravels in his skin. He stopped and asserted himself on one knee, ready to meet death, as it were. Yet he saw Charlemagne instead engaged with a blighted orc.

Singar was a few feet away from the girl now, but he paid her no heed. She didn't look to be in any condition to assault him from behind. Singar took his bow from his back. It had luckily been undamaged, thanks to the sturdy old oak he'd fashioned it from. He was not as lucky for want of an arrow. All but a couple of the missiles from his quiver had been strewn around in the distance.

He nocked one, his biceps rippling as his right arm drew slowly back the bowstring. The orcs were down to two. A fair fight.

The one closer, yet still hesitantly far from Charlemagne, bore a club of poorly wrought iron. Few ever saw fear in the eyes of an orc. They blighted orcs had not expected to be overcome in their own lands, or they would have journeyed in greater numbers.

In its stupor, it watched, entranced, the blood dripping from Charlemagne's sword onto the mangled corpse of its fallen brother. It scarcely registered the arrow which lodged halfway into his chest.

Slowly but surely, Marushk approached. Contrary to popular belief, Orcs were not stupid. Marushk especially. Though his height did not reach that of Singar or Charlemagne, his form was brutally muscular, and his mind was sharp. From the great sheath on his back the orc leader drew cautiously his falchion.

"Look at that. The Human helps the Orc. And the Orc helps the Human. That's proof enough that you don't belong in Molthal." Marushk mocked.

Singar drew his final arrow from his quiver, but kept his bow lowered as he yelled back,

"It's over Marushk. I'll let you start running."

"Oh ho! So straight to the point. You killed Hadwul and Burguk quickly. I would prefer to kill you slow and painful, Singar. But you're right. Fighting this pink-skin would be bloody for all of us. How about you give me that girl and we part ways."

Marushk's furious eyes belied his speech as they landed on Charlemagne. A human far from home. A buck worth far more than the impaling he was asking for. And the girl. She was the likely prize once the blades began to fly. Good loot in returning a slave, and good fun to be had on the way back to Molthal.

"Or we could start swinging, and I'll have my way with all of you when we're done." the blighted chuckled.

Those were fighting words. As Singar finally drew back his shot, Marushk was aware they did not intend to deal...

Sarah Lindwell Charlemagne

 

[Sarah Lindwell]

"I am free..." A mumbled phrase from chapped lips. Vision narrowed and the darkness encroached on the edges. She saw the horse-rider strike down the fastest of the grey-skinned beasts. One down. The green orc shot down the second. Two down.

The third stood there. Coward and weakling. The darkness encroached more. Cold seeped through her limbs, but a fire stoked in her gut. The cripple's body moved fluidly. Strength returned to her useless arm. Black-scaled charred flesh cracked. The dull yellow glow of dimming coals dripped through them. Her lips twisted into a snarl, half-white and half-bloodied teeth bared to the world. Her nostrils flared up and out. The copper smell of the orcs' life assualted her nose. The burnt flavor of steel sparks followed after.

The scent of battle. To which she followed like a bloodhound on the hunt. Her steps were light and confident. Her twisted leg moved without impediment. Her forehead creased as she focused in on the last remaining orc. Her right hand grasped the handle of her blade, pulling it completely from its leather scabbard. With a deft flick of her left thumb the pin binding her cloak came undone and it fluttered to the ground. Her armour clear in the bright northern sun.

Marushk knew what this armor was. It was not the scrabbling together pieces of dented metal that wanderers and scavengers wore. It was not the old, used plate of Molthal's armies. The silvered steel shone bright. Her arms and legs covered completely. Spiked poleyns and couters slid effortlessly over the smooth cuisses and rerebraces. Pointed sabatons bent smoothly as they dug into the hard ground. Thick black cloth hid plates of metal in her brigandine, and blood red cloth laid underneath it all, obscured in the gaps by chainmail.

The last orc had seen this armour only once before. He had been a young orc then, travelling with his father's war band. They had seen a Son of Menalus. The half-giant standing proud in armor of the exact make. Though she bore no symbols or signs, Garushk was certain that she was allied to one of them.

Sarah saw her prey's eyes widen. He knew her armour. It was good he did not notice it sooner. Her steps took her past the green orc. He stood just barely shorter than her, his bow at the ready. She stepped in front of him. The woman did not fear his arrow in her back. It would merely give her an excuse. Her left hand twitched as it came up to grasp the pommel of her blade. The darkness encroached further. Now all she could see was the grey orc.

Her pace picked up. Sound charged from her throat. A war cry, loud and deep. Her stance shifted in her movement. The point of her blade trailed along behind her. The crossguard parallel, but away from her thigh. The pommel facing her opponent. The Iron Gate as her grandfather called it.

Her muscles tightened. Corded strength rippling with every breath. Ten feet. The orc raised his own blade. Six feet. He swung down from his shoulder. Three feet. She swung up from her right thigh. Her grandfather's words streamed through her addled mind.

"Follow your Blade. It knows where it's going. Follow it true and it will guide you true."

She followed. Pivoting on her left foot, Sarah's right foot slammed into the ground under her moving blade. It impacted with the orc's. Strong against strong, but surprise won out. The creature had not expected any strength to come from the scarred women. Her strength followed through and she pushed his blade far enough to lock her elbows. In his stunned surprise she moved again.

Her blade slipped along his. The edge of orcish metal meeting her crossguards. She stepped. Her left foot going forward and to the side, twisting her around the creature's weapon. Then she pushed the pommel using her right hand as the focul point. The false edge came swinging back down, unhindered by the enemy's blade. Lack of armor became his downfall as the sharpened edge bit into his neck. The thick orcish skin and overgrown muscles provided as much protection as warm butter. The look of surprise still plastered to the damned thing's face as its head rolled to the ground. Sarah's blade, blood running in minor rivulets down the fuller, came to a stop only inches away from her thigh.

A thin spray of blood mixed with the thick dirt and grime that covered her face and hair. Her heart pounded as she felt it touch her skin. It was merely the beginning. She turned slowly, her gaze refocusing. There was another orc. How did she miss it? Her mind scrambled for a response. The thing must have slipped up behind her. It was trying to ambush her. Take her back.

It was trying to take her back to the burning pits. The scorched bodies. The blood filled arena. To the hands of the guards and the eyes of the giants. She would not go back. She would not.

"I am free..." Her mumbled words tumbled out again. The yellow-red cracks of her charred skin widened. The sound like popping coals. Her eyes darkened to orange. Her flaxen hair tumbled in the breeze. Thin wisps of smoke trailed from her scarred scalp.

She moved. Her sword held high. Her arms crossed over each other and her right thumb upon the flat of the ricasso. The point titled 45 degrees and pointed straight at the throat of the remaining orc. She would not be taken today.

Spoiler: The Sword Guards Described

The Iron Gate (Right hand side), Guard used against Garushk

The Ox Guard (Right hand side), Guard being used against Singar

 

[Charlemagne]

The near-silence that followed at the climax of their violence was disconcerting. It seemed as if Arethil itself was holding its breath in anticipation of what was to come. The groans of the dying Orcs ceased quickly as their souls parted from their mortal coils. All that remained was the snapping of coals one might associate with a campfire, only these smoldering flames were coming from the girl rather than anything natural.

Sentient thought was secondary to his more animalistic instincts. The last Orc was the reason for his coming to this terrible place, and it seemed the girl was far from what she seemed. She had the smell of fel magic about her, and given the way her flesh split and emitted its foul light, that magic was far more potent than the hedgewizards he'd dealt with back in the spine.

Uncertainty stole his words and stayed his feet. His greatsword hung limply from his left hand, green eyes darting from the girl to the orc and back again. He understood now how she'd escaped Molthal, but why had the orc's comrades turned on him? There was clearly an ethnic difference between this greenskin and the gray marauders, but was it so simple as racial tension?

Confusion slowly gave way to malignance. The girl might well kill the orc, and given her hidden talents, perhaps she'd try to kill him too. Mages couldn't be trusted, and magic in and of itself was the antithesis to the tiny handful of values Charlemagne clung to. It was the easy path, and one that had seen countless civilizations rendered as naught but ash. Millions of corpses lined the steps mages marched upon in search of knowledge and greatness.

The hubris of mortals could not be trusted with such unnatural power.

His gauntleted fingers squeezed tighter around the pommel of his greatsword. He could kill them both now, of that he was certain. The orc seemed more or less resigned to his fate, and the girl keen on seeing the greenskin dead before she likely turned her violent attentions on Charlemagne. The both of them were well distracted.

The wind whispered a quiet howling as the mercenary contemplated murder. It was dilemmas like this that he despised so much: how he yearned for the hollow simplicity of the mindless warring between clans and tribes back in the spine.

"Why did they turn on you Singar?" He finally asked, breaking the mounting tension and uncomfortable stillness with the weighted and melancholic question. He'd come here exclusively to kill this orc just as Signar had murdered Pip, yet something within him felt off. It was as if his natural instincts were waging a war with the last vestiges of his higher self, and the feeling was so uncomfortable and alien that he found himself holding back the urge to vomit.

Would it be right to kill this one without knowing why he'd done what he did? To slay the girl he'd just moments before intended to risk his own life to protect because she made him uneasy? Did something as banal as this moral struggle even matter to him?

The mercenary's expression darkened in reflection of his thoughts, a quiet violence stirring in his eyes as he continued to look from the orc to the girl. These musings were so distracting that he'd not even noticed the mare had absconded down the path as the fighting started, taking his medical supplies, food, and clothing with her.

Blood seeped freely from the gash in his bicep and the small cuts carved along the curve of his jaw. The pain was sharp as most flesh wounds were, but Charlemagne had long since learned to compartmentalize such mortal sensations. The quiet agony failed to seep into his voice as he spoke; rather he spoke with a graveness that failed to belie his moral quandary.

"And you girl, what sort of demons have you consorted with?" He demanded, the prospect that her evident power could be the result of anything other than communion with devils senseless to him.

Singar, Sarah Lindwell

 

[Singar]

Singar did not feel the relief of having felled the blighted Orcs. His quiver was empty. His axe was yards away buried in jugular of the Orc called Burguk. A distance both of the Humans could have stopped him from crossing. If they wanted to kill him, they could have. They were all animals, and this was the natural law that Singar lived by.

Yet instead Charlemagne parleyed. Any man wronged by Singar like Charlemagne had would devolve to base instincts. Like a mother bear grieving its cubs. Perhaps he misjudged humans on that account.

Finally the brooding green man spoke clearer and aloud, letting his harsh accent of his native plains roll freely.

"I know you. From the mountains. Should've figured we were the only two fools heading east into this hellscape. Would've been three I suppose." he recalled the nasty business of ending the man's companion. But after all, to live, to kill, to die... was the way of the beast, of nature. There were no hard feelings.

Sin slung his bow back over his shoulders, looking Charlemagne up and down. His question went unanswered, for Singar scarcely knew for sure what had sent Marushk into a frenzy. Surely it not been one minor dereliction of perceived duty?

And this warrior. Had this knight errant really come to kill him? It felt like more than the off-chance of fate that they had met again. A quest of vengeance into the blighted lands would take guts he'd rarely seen before. The fact those guts were not spilled by the fight into the auburn dust was a testament to the man's strength.

"I've got no arms. If you want vengeance we can make it quick. All the more time to deal with the witch."

The appellation of the woman stung the air as it left Singar's lips. The wilds he knew had always been home to witchy women, perverting nature with their dark magics. The same was probably true for this terrible land. They came in all shapes, sizes, and motivations. Yet, one thing was always clear. A wise man left them alone. Charlemagne had the rare chance to kill one where it stood.

Whatever the man was going to do, Singar waited for it with the cool, steel readiness with which he always stared at death.

Sarah Lindwell Charlemagne