Fable - Ask Torches Mandatory, Pitchforks . . . Optional?

[Riven Seawraithe]

The sounds of camp echoed through the clearing at the edge of the Ixchel Wilds. Horses, the clank and clatter of armor, blades, and hammers, the smell of roasting game all blended together beneath the numerous pennants that flapped atop the pavilions. Each was colored in the insignia of their respected Templar Order or coat of arms, giving the entire affair a carnival-like atmosphere. The sun stood high in the afternoon sky. Knights, soldiers, and squires were stirring, having been adjusting to a nighttime schedule for the last few days. They began to gather their belongings and make final checks of their gear. Tonight would be the night.

Amongst it all, strode the thick yet supple master of the Order of The Sundered Shield, Sir Riven Seawraithe. Already clad in armor, with his weapons expertly affixed at his side, the imposing Templar was anxious for nightfall. Not that it showed on his face. Rumor was that the man never smiled, hence the deep set lines in his face. While not entirely true, it was not a rumor the man sought to dispel. He had bigger problems, like the magics that plagued these wilds. Magics that he knew needed purged. It was the price to purge these sins that occupied the Master’s mind.

It had been two whole months since a travel-worn vagabond had stumbled upon their fortress home speaking of a tribe of men that could transform into monstrous wolves beneath the night of the full moon. It had been weeks of journeying, carting men, horses, and supplies this far from their keep. The call had been put out for any Templar, regardless of order, who sought to begin purging the wilds, to muster themselves and rendezvous in this very glade.

Riven could not have been more pleased with the turnout. In addition to a healthy muster of men from The Sundered Shield, there were many others. Some had come from different Templar Orders. Others were rogue wanderers of justice. They all had paid heed to the call to drive the sinful magicians and those accursed by their poison from this place. With them came rumors. Rumors of even more powerful magics that inhabited the wilds. They were said to birthed from the so called Elder Tree itself and to inhabit these very woods. Whatever these beasts were, they too would not be spared. They too would fall. Their sins purged from their bodies in death and fire. Riven Seawraithe was anxious to begin. All they need do was wait until sundown.

Pausing at a shout for his attention, Riven turned. Nearby a band of dwarves were guffawing heartily waiving the Master over and offering a tankard of warm mead.

Diverting his path, Riven made his way to the dwarves with a stoic countenance. “Well met brothers. Are you prepared for the night’s work?” He had time before they mustered the troops for final inspection. He was prepared. A moment with some of the men going into battle with him was time well spent before the fight commenced.

 

[Ferev Irongutt]

Ferev laughed heartily as he was about complete his joke to the other dwarves.

"And so then she said 'that's no dwarven pickaxe. That's a halfling's spade." And so I couldn't help but say 'isn't that what you told him the other night?"

All the dwarves broke into a laughter, with the exception of one who gave Ferev a solid punch on the shoulder. While he was smiling and chuckling, his red cheeks revealed Ferev's joke did make a jab at his pride. However, all of the dwarves began to straighten up at the approach of the master.

"Ah sir..." Ferev bowed slightly. "Excuse our crudeness, we were just talking about Gilgo's meeting his wife... a little humor always helps us get ready."

With a nod, Ferev passed some mead towards his superior. "Please take a drink sir. It helps soothe the nerves. And it doesn't have any of that ground up silver dust."

It had been an open rumor that some Templars believed that a little silver dust swallowed could help prevent a werewolf infection, but Ferev had forbidden all of his men from doing that. Still, the superstitions ran deep in some of the people around, especially in the mercenaries who had tagged along. Their hearts were in the right place but their minds weren't.

"Erm, pardon my doubt captain..." Ferev started. "Some of the men and I were talking. Why are we doing this at night? If it were up to me, I say attack now, burn down what we find, and by the nine, we call it a good day."

 

[Riven Seawraithe]

Riven took the mead with bow of his head in respectful thanks before tipping it back and taking a deep draw from the tankard. A smile twisted across the face of the Order’s leader at the question. It was a smile that did not quite stretch all the way to his eyes. It was a fair question. The wolfmen were known to morph under the light of the moon. Riven was counting on it. As brutal as their work seemed to those who did not understand the righteousness of their calling, so too were the same people to gloss over the good wrought by the Templars. Did the werewolves present a greater threat at night? Yes, they did. The Templars were no strangers to danger. Attacking at night was simple, it allowed for the preservation of innocence where it might be found. Under the light of the sun, innocent victims might be put to the sword; innocents thst might be spared and nurtured back to righteousness. These thoughts passed through Riven’s mind, but his answer was simple and succinct, “Holy work wrought in darkness, brings about a greater light brothers.” Hefting his tankard, Riven took another deep drink before adding, “whilst the dogs howl, their fellow sinners slumber.”

Riven set the tankard on a table nearby, eying the men’s exquisite armor and massive weapons. He nodded his head in agreement with their form and status. There was something about dwarves that he liked aside from their massive weapons and dislike of magics. They were practical and straightforward. No games or gimmicks. With dwarves you knew what you got and if you didn’t they would tell you.

“We are Templars. I have the utmost confidence in each of you to do your duty. Any who fall, dies knowing that he does so serving the greatest good of all Arethil. He will be rewarded in and with death and greater glory in the life to come.”

Riven clapped a closed fist against his metal-clad chest with a thud in a salute of respect for the dwarves. “Spread the word, after the evening meal, we all assemble to the north. From there, we ride.”

 

[Alaric]

Alaric hadn't said much since joining the camp.

It was typical of the Pariah of course, their name alone marked them out for what they were after all. His chapter had never worked well with any of the others, but this time they had seen opportunity. That was why Alaric was here.

There were few times when one knew what sort of foe they would face.

Pariah tended not to hunt werewolves. The beasts were a problem for others, and his Chapter preferred prey like the Necromancer or the dark mages that wrought the undead. Yet this time his The Exarch had sent him to aid anyway.

There was a growing interest in the Lycans, a question that had been a curiosity for the Pariah for a long time. Did their...gifts, what made a Pariah what they were, render them immune to the plague that turned these beasts?

Alaric had been charged not with finding out himself, but bringing one of the beasts back to the Chapter.

He would do so gladly.

Riven Seawraithe | Ferev Irongutt

 

[Ferev Irongutt]

Ferev nodded at the answer from the Master. He was right, of course. Still, Ferev didn't like the answer.

"True true sir. Though I hardly know anyone innocent enough to stick around a werewolf longer then one full moon. But maybe some fire will wake them up in time to leave."

Ferev' subtle jab didn't go unnoticed by the other dwarves, who quickly let their eyes look away. Two even made a few gruff comments about something and wandered off. It was widely known that Ferev was a dwarf who spoke his mind a lot. The fact that he was one of the youngest dwarves here was not lost on anyone.

"Very well sir. I will spread the word. By the nine, we will hunt well tonight."

Out of the corner of his eye, Ferev noticed something. A young human, striding around quietly. Something about the man made Ferev curious. Was he a Templar of one of the more werewolf hunter orders? No, something about that didn't seem correct.

"Excuse me gentlemen..." Ferev excused himself, grabbing an extra mug of mead and quickly tried to catch up with the young man.

"Hail and well met Templar!" Ferev grinned, imitating the energy that the Master had given him a moment ago. "It's good to see a fellow, young, face here! I feel like I'm a child with all of these old slayers."

 

[Riven Seawraithe]

The Templar Master allowed the subtle jab to pass. Many hunters of of the profane and arcane saw all magics as evil and any who associated with them just as much so. It was the price of their single-minded zealotry. Riven knew it, had dealt with it almost daily. He knew though, at least it was a hope he held in the deepest recesses of his soul, that there was still good to be found amongst the dark shadows that magic cast.

As the dwarf hurried off, Riven offered a slight bow, taking his leave as well. As soon as the sun began to set, they would ride for battle.

Making his way though the camp, Riven paused for a moment to admire the muscled warhorses, their coats sleek as they stamped the ground. Even they sensed the tide to come and were anxious to undertake the night’s tasks.

Returning to his pavilion, Riven supped in silence, taking some time to sharpen his blades once again. Did they need it? Probably not. It did not matter, the weapons would be pristine for the night’s work.

____________________

As the first rays of the sun began to kiss the horizon, Riven finished donning the last of his platemail. Stalking through the camp to where the mass of men, troops, and steeds had assembled, Riven mounted a dais to look out over the sea of glimmering oranges, yellows and reds as they reflected from armor and blades. On either side, the Templar Master was flanked by two thick Templars, one a blue orc and the other a grizzled human with a missing eye; each were commanders within the order. Their exploits spoke for themselves.

Raising his hands, a hush fell over the small army. “Brothers. Sisters.” Riven Seawraithe called, his voice carrying across the clearing.Tonight. Tonight we purge this accursed wood from darkness. Tonight their sins are sanctified. Wolfmen will seek to tear your hearts out. Shades and specters will surely grasp for your soul. Who knows what other demons and temptresses will claw for your body, mind and spirit tonight. Be strong. Guard one another. Strike down the enemy where they stand. Rescue any innocents we might save. Ride for the sanctification of these lands. Ride so that your sins will be washed away in the blood of the beasts that bring despair and destruction to our world. Ride for your brother. Ride for your family. Ride for truth, life, and all that is good!” Riven hefted his sword in the air as he completed his rousing speech, his words stirring war cries across the troops as they thrust their weapons into the sky.

In minutes, torches had been lit and distributed across the horde. Grabbing one for himself, Riven left from the platform atop a charcoal warhorse. It rose up in it’s hind legs, a snort of seeming rage escaping it’s nostrils. “Forward!”

The mount surged forward from the camp, the ground trembling beneath it as the mounted troops surged into the woods against the setting sun. In the distance, a wolf howled mournfully.

-Alaric
-Ferev Irongutt

 

[Ferev Irongutt]

As the master began to look over the rather large group of people that had gathered, Ferev had been inspecting his and his men's equipment for the fifth time in the last half hour. While his men's equipment varied from person to person depending on their role and preference, Ferev's stayed the same every campaign.

The armor always was the most prominent feature of the dwarf. While not the most handsomely made, it was certainly a work of skill and care. Steel forged and pressed tightly to provide maximum protection with as much mobility as possible. For a human, it would've been a bit limiting, but Ferev always believed that Dwarves were bred to wear metal. However, even he wasn't too dumb to realize that anti-magics were needed, and so a few runes of inscription had been carved on the insides of each piece.

On his back, Ferev strapped his crossbow, and at his right side was a bag of bolts. Normally he would've used his own, but this mission required something a bit more silver. At his left side was strapped a short sword, which complimented the buckler on his forearm.

Finally, in his hands was his prized weapon. Nicknamed the dwarven hammer, the polearm was tipped with a spearpoint, a hook just below it, and a blunt metal sledge. Some called it a Lucerne hammer. Ferev preferred it as the monster-slayer. Perfect for big and small beasts as well as witches alike. While it wasn't coated in silver, Ferev was sure it could still kill a werewolf where it stood.

Before the master talked, Ferev had turned to his own men and women. 3 dwarven men besides himself, 1 dwarven woman, 3 human men, one half orc and half man, and one elf. Each one of them were young, but had earned their place with the hag-hunters by proving themselves in battle.

"Now I shouldn't need to remind you..." Ferev began. "...but werewolves are no joke. We've faced monsters before, but these things are something else. You may have seen them as men in the day. But trust me, there is nothing human about them anymore. They bare a disease. A disease worse than the black boils, the burning scars, and Fae Fever. And that...is pure magic."

This brought some grunts and growls from the group. Their hatred for magic was a given. Possibly more so then some of the other groups in this wild hunt.

"But we are the hag-hunters. So we will kill and exterminate every single one of them. Just remember. Don't get bit, and watch your brothers and sister's backs. Gang up when you can, and never let your brothers and sisters out of sight. If you get bit, go out swinging and burning, and ring the bells for us to follow. And by the nine, we will follow"

The group nodded and smiled at their leader's small speech and encouragement for a glorious death. Each one of them believed that when they died, the victory bells of the afterlife would be rang by their comrades. If they continued to ring them, then victory would always be around the corner, and they could always reunite in the afterlife.

As the master spoke, Ferev checked his equipment again. It was no secret he was a little nervous. Werewolves, while monstrous, were a different breed from mages. This hunt would require perception, and carefulness. But if worse came to worse, each man had a torch with them to light. If they had to, then by the nine, they would burn the whole forest down to kill these monsters.

"Alright Hag-Hunters! Let's move out!" Ferev shouted, and his men gave a hoozah and double-timed behind their leader. The Hag-Hunters weren't lucky enough to get horses, but they didn't need them. If the cavalry could attack the town, then Ferev and his men would follow shortly and provide reinforcements, while killing any of the stragglers the cavalry missed.

 

[Riven Seawraithe]

The shadows were long and deep beneath the sprawling trees overhead. Between their trunks, the Templar army surged, trampling saplings and undergrowth underfoot. Their approach was not stealthy, it was the opposite; meant to drive out any who were hidden within the depths of shadow. Deer, rabbit, bird, and all manner of woodland creature fled before the tidal wave of steel power. The sounds of wolves in the distance grew closer, howls that spoke of invaders and threats to the attuned ear. Coordinated yips and cries that slowly cinched the ever lying noose of magic and nature, calling forth their children, the werewolves.

Still, Riven and company thundered on. The village of the were-men was nestled deep in the ancient wood and it would take time to get there; time enough, Riven hoped, to allow the most innocent to be whisked away to safety. The light of Riven’s torch mingled with the jostling light of his fellows’ torches, casting eerie evermoving tendrils of dark and light before and around them.

And then, it happened, the forces of righteousness slammed into the first walls of resistance. The packs of magical guardians surged forth from the underbrush, leaping from the trees and hiding places to tear at the armored Templars. Howls and growls mingled with the clash of steel and shouts of war. Bolts of magic illuminated the dimness of the night overcast by the leafy boughs above.

A large feral beast fell from above tearing the rider to Riven’s left from his mount and slamming the warrior to the ground. Still, he pushed on; nothing would stop their charge.

Materializing in the light of the torches, ahead of him, a hulking muscle-bound beast came into view. It’s fur stood on end in thick patches. It’s eyes glowed red in the flickering light. It’s jagged razor-filled maw oozed a thick saliva that ran along it’s guns and clung to the snouted jaw as it snarled venomously.

With one hand holding the reigns of his massive mount, Riven brought his torch low, swinging it like a war mace towards the chest of the wolfish being as it leapt towards the Master of the Sundered Shield. Riven’s Kivren heritage was manifested in his seemingly super-human strength as his flaming weapon cracked in a flurry of flame and sparks against the werewolf’s chest.

The monster was swept off it’s feet as it best at the fire that licked at it’s fur. Riven’s mount turned slightly into the blow, forced into a curve by the force of it’s charge and collision of flame and fur at it’s side.

Without missing a moment, Riven dropped the torch and drew Seastrike, his silver-based sword, and swung the thin metal blade in an arc towards the accursed beast.

 

[Ferev Irongutt]

The sounds of battle was easily heard in the night air. Ferev glared behind his helmet deeper into the woods towards the lights of his fellow Templars. Roars of beasts echoed as blades and torches fought back against the wild animals.

Ferev chuckled. The first kills were always the most exciting.

"Alright men! Move forward! Don't let a single..."

The Captain's words were cut short as a warning shout was made by Timothy, one of the humans. Ferev turned his head to see a humanoid beast leaping out of the thicket. A surprise attack!

Ferev brought his Lucerne up just in time to block the beasts teeth with the pole. The force of the beast sent the two rolling backwards. Armor and muscle bashed into each other as each fought for control of the grapple. Ferev could feel the thing's claws rake his armor, searching for any kind of a weak point, while Ferev focused on just keeping his weapon in the beast's mouth.

The werewolf won the grapple in the end, but only momentarily. As Ferev was on his back, the werewolf brought up both arms and began to pound down on the dwarf. The blows were powerful, but his armor and hatred was greater. Then the beast howled in pain as two crossbow bolts riddled its back.

Seizing the moment of surprise, Ferev shoved the thing off and got up. Dropping his hammer, Ferev brought a gauntlet over the things head, placed his heavy weight on its chest, and held it down. His free hand drew his short sword, glowing with runic enhancements . With rapid and fatal stabs, Ferev pierced the thing's neck and shoulder. Soon it was lifeless, bleeding all over.

Ferev looked up. There were more werewolves attacking. Two more. But to his delight, his men reacted accordingly. Each man with armor and a polearm or shield acted as a wall, while the others fought with silver-tipped crossbows. The two who had helped Ferev already had turned their attention to one of the other beasts.

Ferev sheathed his sword, grabbed his hammer, and charged towards Galheart, the oldest dwarf in the company. He had his beast on the edge of his spear, but was struggling to keep it there. The others were having a hard time getting a clear shot.

"Galheart! Dwarven Eggs! Dwarven Eggs!" Ferev commanded as he rushed forward. With trained precision, he lunged his weapon into the beasts side. Hearing the phrase, the older dwarf grunted, and the two began to lift the thing in the air.

Having a clear shot, bolt after bolt was fired into the suspended beast. It howled and flailed to get loose, but to no avail. Blood dripped onto Ferev's face. It was difficult to resist the liquid out of his eyes, but Ferev resisted, focusing entirely on keeping the beast suspended.

In less then a minute later, the thing was lifeless. The two dwarves chucked the thing to the side.

"Gregory, report!" Ferev demanded as he wiped his eyes of the hot blood.

The Half-Orc panted a bit, his armor stained from having to get close with his sword. "No injuries sir!"

Ferev nodded in confirmation and pleasure. "Good! Move forward! Support our brothers with crossbows!"

If this little attack was any indication, there may be some wolves sneaking around to attack the main force's backside. Odd, since flanking isn't exactly a tactic of wild beasts. But then again, wild wolves were expert hunters, so why wouldn't werewolves?

"Lets go!" Ferev shouted and led the charge towards the torches, hammer in hand. As he got close, he could see the Master fighting his own beast. Ferev gave a signal to the others. They would open fire when they saw an opening that wouldn't endanger the master.


Riven Seawraithe

 

[Riven Seawraithe]

Riven swung his blade with the full force that he could muster. The silvery blade cleaved the wolfman’s head from his body in a spray of blood, catching as it impacted the creatures spine. The neck cracked and the blade wrenched free, but not before toppling Riven’s mount and throwing his weapon free from his hand.

The Templar warrior’s highly polished armor was streaked with dirt from the earth and spattered with the blood of his first kill. He wiped at the blood that clung to his visor, dangling before his eyes. Righting himself, Riven lunged for his sword, grabbing it and rolling to a seated position looking for any other would be attackers. The cavalry continued to thunder forward, men turning to the left and right to combat the magical creatures of the forest where they might be found.

Overhead, the full moon was almost blotted out by the dense foliage. It did not matter. The were-people knew it, felt it by the curse that flowed through their veins.

Seeing the approaching squadron of heavy-clad dwarven Templars, Riven righted himself, calling out to them; “Swallow not the blood, lest the curse of the wolf overcome you!”

Glancing about for his mount, Riven could not see it. It had disappeared amongst the undergrowth, the charge, and the dark. Perhaps it would survive, perhaps it would fall to the cursed inhabitants of this place. It mattered little. A horse was but a tool to the Master, valued less than his armor or blades. Drawing his second blade, the Templar fell in with the rush of footmen as they moved forward. The village was still a ways in the distance. Without him at the lead, Riven could only hope the Templars fell upon it and were not drawn into the timbered expanse.

Moving forward, a swarm of angry fae erupted from the dense undergrowth about them; small flitting being with wings. They looked to be frail, but they bellied a strength imposed within them by their extra-planar origins. They began to pepper the group with bolts of glowing blues and greens and yellows; fairy magic.

The spells fizzled against the Kriven’s armor as he swung his blades at the swarm of angrily buzzing pixies. They were quick. Their claws and teeth as deadly as their magics. There were dozens of them. Those that he struck with Seastrike seemed to rebound in an instant or deflect the blow outright, making Riven adjust his momentum time and time again. These fae were immune to all but the coldest of iron. It was the way of their kind, to be protected by their demonic countenance against all worldly harms but that of the most holy.

Zeal was a fraction heavier than Seastrike, but her cold iron base sent pixie’s screaming and clutching their exposed skin even from a glancing blow; their skin burning and blistering on impact.

Like a whirling dervish, Riven moved, his steps as close to in tandem with the dwarves as he could be against the chaotic movements of the fairy folk that hampered them now.

 

[Ferev Irongutt]

Ferev smiled at the sight of his master beheading the beast in one fell swoop. His master was a skilled Templar through and through in battle. He only wished he himself could be as half as skilled as the man was.

"We'd only eat blood cause of the mess you make sir!" Ferev laughed as he signaled his men. The began to fall in formation.

However, their efforts were interrupted by the explosion of colorful magics. Ferev cried for cover as he brought his bucklered arm up to cover his most vulnerable spot: his eyes. He felt the magics sparked and fizzled momentarily. Ferev growled slightly. To be so close to magic was sickening.

Ferev regripped his hammer and swung it at the new creatures. As he swung at each of the tiny things, each swing was like trying to smack a fly with a hammer. They were too small and agile for his swings.

A zap hit Ferev's eyes, blinding him momentarily. Dropping his hammer, Ferev began to wipe at his eyes. More zaps hit his armor harmlessly. Ferev grinned as he realized he needed a bigger weapon. A dropping of his weapon, a slip of his buckler, and soon Ferev felt the little curses being smacked around with each swing. Ferev couldn't help but laugh, despite the stinging of his eyes.

"By the nine, we need cold iron!" Ferev demanded.

"Our armor sir! Our armor!" A shout from somewhere.

Ferev realized that the shout was true. He had made each piece of his armor himself. Each member of his squad had armor made by him as well. And each piece was crafted perfectly with a small amount of cold iron.

Ferev dropped his shield and reached out and plucked from the air one of the pixies. In his time training with the other Templars, one of the activities he had was crushing apples to train his hands and to make juice.

The pixie was much easier then apples.

While it wasn't graceful, honorable, or pleasant, it was effective. Each pixie that came close to him. was either smacked away, squashed in his hands, or crushed under a boot.

"Report!" As he demanded, Ferev picked up and restrapped his buckler as well as his hammer.

The Half-Orc looked grim. "No injuries sure. But sir..." He gave a look at the others and then leaned in to whisper. "It's Galheart sir. He's...I'm not sure, he's off..."

Ferev nodded. "Understood. Keep an eye on him"

Ferev was worried at this info. He was the other dwarf who had helped hold the werewolf up. And he didn't wear a face-plate like Ferev did. Did the oldest dwarf in his regiment swallow a bit of blood? If so, the consequences...

"Alright men, move forward!" Ferev shouted. The men got in formation and, with the addition of the master, and moved, protecting themselves from the pixies and swatting or smashing them when possible.

"Not exactly what we expected...." Ferev commented aloud. "Figures the damnable werewolves would align themselves with accursed druids."

 

[Riven Seawraithe]

Riven cringed as the dwarf and his comrades crushed the pixies with their armored hands. Cold and brutal, yet it was equally effective. The Templar Master’s blade practically sung as he sliced through the air, reaching out to touch the onslaught of buzzing magical insect-like pests. Any that made it past were swiftly crushed to death.

Within minutes, the fae were retreating into the undergrowth throwing bolts of cursed magic towards them. The retreat did not stop them. Surging forward, Riven scooped up a torch that had been dropped by one of the other Templars and three it into the brush after the fairies. It began to smoke as the long dead fallen leaves and limbs began to crack and split in the heat, their gases igniting as the light of flames began to flicker sending the fae even further into retreat.

Riven surged forward. All around them, seen and unseen, the sounds of combat filled the night. Smoke and fire mingled with the clash of metal and animalistic cries of combat. Magic and mundane fell upon one another with unholy vigor as the forest churned in the warm night air. Over it all, a strange presence seemed to take it all in, almost grieving as it felt the tranquility of the forest’s untouched glades violated by the onslaught.

Rushing forward, Riven swung his duel blades both in unison and individually striking at the underbrush if it moved, swirling to bring both blades down together against anything that was driven out of hiding. In the distance, the cries of savagery and pain rose from village of the wolfmen in the clearing ahead.

Looking at his comrades, Riven nodded towards the village, pointing his cold iron blade towards it. “Find the innocent. Kill the rest. Scorch the earth.”

 

[Ferev Irongutt]

The young dwarf captain nodded at the Master's orders. With a cry and a hand signal, he and his squad moved towards the rudimentary buildings of wood and leaves. Already a few of them had caught on fire. Ferev figured those would be safe to not investigate.

"Come on men! I want to burn the rest of these as soon as possible!" Ferev's metal covered body moved forward like a boulder, unable to stop for anything. When given a task, nothing could stop a dwarf, and Ferev was no exception.

The smoke and fire gave the squad an almost demonic appearance. Metal glinting in the firelight did that. It also made them incredibly warm. Ferev could feel the sweat dripping down his back and shoulders. After tonight, he would be out of commission for a day from heat exhaustion alone.

"You four!" Ferev commanded, pointing out four of his members, including the half-orc. "Start looking into those buildings for survivors, then burn them down! You four! Same for those buildings. Galheart, you're with me."

With his partner, Ferev went towards the nearest building, the only one with a wooden roof. It was already beginning to catch on fire. But the dwarf swore he could hear screaming and roaring inside. With a solid kick, Ferev attacked the door once, then twice.

A roaring mess of hair and teeth greeted Ferev's efforts. With practiced skill, Ferev brought his hammer up in a blocking position. The two skidded back a short distance out of the make-shift building, The beast, smaller than the last one, was certainly just as ferocious. It also had a much more silver color to it's fur as well as red eyes.

"Witch-wolf" Ferev grinned under his helmet as the two wrestled. Witch-wolves were a rare sub-breed of werewolves. Smaller, but faster and smarter, these creatures weren't meant to be taken lightly. While werewolf lore was more-or-less unknown to Ferev, he knew legends that witches had made witch-wolves to be slaves to their machinations. "All the more to kill you, you damned creature!"

The monster's teeth and claws were wrapped around the hammer. Ferev held his grip and wrestled with the monster, slinging the beast back and forth like wrestling with a dog's rope. The thing was stronger though and eventually tore the hammer away from Ferev's hands and threw it to the side.

As the two fought, Galhert ducked into the building to grab the people the two dwarves heard screaming earlier.

Seeing an opening, Ferev drew his sword and slashed forward, cutting across the thing's chest. Blood spurted out momentarily, only for the wound to reseal over itself. Still, the pain made the beast back off momentarily, only for it to lunge forward . Ferev brought his left arm back, then forward. The metal coated buckler made a thwang as it whacked the rapid head away. Ferev followed suit with another slash towards its neck.

Again, the slash did very little. The silver witch-wolf backed a step and crouched, getting ready for another strike. Ferev backed a step as well, waiting. The two circled each other, measuring each other up, trying to anticipate the next strike. Two hunters, one of order and civilization, the other of magic and chaos. Only one would survive.

"Come on ugly...let's dance" Ferev growled. The witch-wolf snarled in reply. Then the two rushed each other.

Riven Seawraithe