"I told you! Didn't I tell you, Fyrg? I told you!--"

" Shut up…!"

"--Just going deeper in the forest, doesn't mean the monsters get stronger."

"Not helpful!"

The sounds of multiple rocks crashing into metal rings out like dinner bells. Angry cries and the guttural speech of goblin profanities also hammer on the group of adventures. Three identical women wearing a head to toe mixture of metal and leather armor including full helmets with visors, wielding shields as thick as doors and almost as tall keep the little, green monsters at bay. But, without a weapon they're just prolonging the inevitable.

A man in similar armor is laying in the dirt behind two of them, a gruesome dent near the top of a helmet tossed aside and head bleeding profusely. His breathing is shallow and troubled. The only damage dealer, a spear wielder, can't hide the nervousness in his voice as it continues to spill out his thoughts.

"I hope Vine gets back soon. You think she'll find both herbs in time?" This man also has the same mix matched set of protection, but he wears no helmet, choosing instead to control his shoulder length black hair with a dark blue bandana. He thrusts the dagger-like tip of his spear past the middle woman's right side and into the chest of a goblin, stopping a furious, overhead strike. With a wet sucking sound he uses the end cap to pull back his weapon, training it for another strike.

The three women are identical in form and technique, but the one in the center is the only one who speaks. "I hope so. I just got Phalanx to level two this morning and it won't last much longer. Also, I didn't say the monsters get stronger, I said it gets more dangerous. I'm still right."

"They're just goblins," the spearman argues.

"Tell that to Sarge."

"I will as soon as Vine gets back with those damn herbs."

"Should've bought more potions… Shit, time's up. I'm gonna swing!"

The phrase triggers a deep rooted instinct carved into the recesses of the spearman's brain through hours of training together. He drops into a deep squat, making sure his spear is low and parallel to the ground.

A heartbeat later, Fyrg hefts her massive shield's handle with both hands and puts her entire weight into spinning it around. The two identical shield bearers to her sides vanish in a puff of lavender smoke while the goblins pressing forward are knocked back several body lengths away. She completes the three-sixty degree turn facing them once more and drives the bottom of the shield firmly into the dirt.

Normally, there would be more attacks accompanying this maneuver, but with one member of the team lying prone on the ground and the aforementioned Vine nowhere to be seen, the only one to follow up is the spearman. He grips his spear near the end cap, lunges forward just to Fyrg's side, and sends a rapid succession of spear thrusts at two of the goblins on the ground. Neither survives the onslaught.

"You should've stabbed all of them!" Fyrg laments as the remaining goblins begin to right themselves.

The spearman jumps back a couple of steps, but keeps his spear leveled for more action. "Two dead goblins are better than six wounded. Didn't Sarge give you a mace?"

"I can't wield a mace and this friggin shield! I'd be totally off balanced! How many more times can you do Flurry?"

"Uh… one, but I'll black out from going negative. Can you give me thirty seconds to recover Stamina?"

"I'll give you a boot in the ass if we live through this!"

Fyrg unleashes a primal yell, sending a wave of red energy through out the clearing. Each of the four remaining goblins' eyes burn red with fury and they all focus their attention on trying to bash her into a fine powder. As the group's main tanker, it was essential that she acquired a taunt ability for her to draw in the attackers' attention.

Her shield quickly deforms, however, as the enraged goblins and their untethered strength overpower the metal on wood piece of equipment.

"Wren!"

Her shout marks the halfway point of the skill cooldown, but there's no way the shield is going to hold up for another fifteen seconds. Unfortunately for the trio, withstanding such a barrage also saps Fyrg's Stamina so she won't be able to perfom another Shield Bash.

Her companion would attack the goblins, but the low level taunt's affects would dispell from a single act of aggression by anyone but the user of the skill.

Wren's eyes dart from goblin to Fyrg to goblin. There must be something they could do. If only they had a healer, or at least someone who could use some kind of healing abilities. If only they had a caster who could attack multiple targets. If only Sarge hadn't taken that hit meant for him, maybe…

The shield's durability bottoms out in the form of splintered wood and bent, pitted metal. Fyrg has just enough spare stamina to hurl the hunk of scrap at one of the goblins, but they dodge it by inches.

She puts her fists up in defiance, growling with menace from under her helmet's visor. Just five more seconds. Wren just needs five more seconds and he can kill two of the goblins, pass out if he needs to, and she can beat the last one's face in with her bare hands.

She stares for what seems like an hour at the snarling, rabid face of a heartless monster. It's a face that grins at the lamentations of victims, that howls with pleasure when causing tears of despair.

She knows what happens to girls like her and Vine if they're captured. If they're lucky, Wren and Sarge will get off easy with a quick death. But the girls…

Her fists and jaw clench all the tighter with her thoughts. She draws back one of those fists, ready to swing at the first, little, green prick that gets within range. Fyrg may not be a brawler, but she won't go down without a fight. She won't let the others be killed or worse while she could still draw breath.

One of the goblins leaps into the air, stone club raised for a two handed, overhead strike.

Something whistles past Fyrg's head, knocking the airborne goblin back. It hits the ground with a sickly crunch, neck snapping from the landing. Something long and thin is buried in the goblin's face.

"Vine!"

Another arrow zips by, missing the goblins but causing them to flinch for a second to see where the attack came from, the red haze evaporating from their eyes. That moment of hesitation is the whole world and more for Fyrg as Wren's spear appears beside her once again before flashing forward in a flurry of quick strikes. Two more dead goblins hit the ground.

Her arms flop to her sides, and she hunches forward. Light headed and exhausted, she takes in a deep breath and turns to see a young, elven girl kneeling next to Sarge on the ground. She brushes a strand of blonde hair like spun gold behind a long and bloody, tapered ear.

"Vine…" Her voice feels as beaten and bruised as her arms. She watches as the elf chews up two pinches of two different kinds leaves and applies the poultice directly to the wound on Sarge's head before wrapping it in a cloth bandage.

While the elf works, Fyrg takes stock of her friend. Her exposed arms and face the color of cream are covered in scrapes and scratches, most likely from running top speed through the forest. Her brown leather, thigh high boots are covered in mud up to the knees. Three shallow gashes across her back from some beast type creature are just beginning to clot.

It wasn't easy for her either, but she did what she had to do and she made it back just in time.

Fyrg stands next to her friend, removing her headgear and revealing pixie-cut hair that is dark green to the point of almost being black. Her skin has a light, but noticeably grey tint to it and ears that come to a point, but are nowhere near as long as the elf's. Her slight underbite lends to her bottom canines that are a bit long peaking up from her plump lips.

With her helmet now off, her orcish heritage is easier to see and strength at such a young age is much more understandable, though the features on her face are still soft.

Her hair is sweaty and a bit flat from her helmet, but she runs a gloved hand through it. She places the other, trembling hand on her friend's shoulder, "Thanks, Vine. I knew you could do it."

The pale skinned elf with the golden hair tied back in a practical bun smiles back at her friend, beaming with pride, "Shit, girl, ain't no thing for a wood elf like me. I may been raised in the city, but folks like me got the sticks in our blood."

Vine's rural accent never fails to shock Fyrg, but it made sense. Essentially, she was an elf from the country side who moved to the city with her parents and lived in the notoriously poorer side. Schooling wasn't as important as working in her family and it eventually lead her to the life of adventuring.

"Better than being a thief," she would always say, "And cleaner than working in a brothel."

Sarge groans from the ground and the two let out relieved sighs. Fyrg squats to get a closer look and Wren plops down between them, arms wrapped around their shoulders.

"Damn good fight, eh ladies? Maybe next time we can do it as a whole team?"

The two girls give each other a look before Fyrg pushes him off balance. He lands flat on his backside.

"Wha--- what was that for?"

The two stand, dusting themselves off. While looking over Sarge once more, Vine retorts, "Maybe next time y'all pay attention to the world around you and not let others take hits meant for your dumb ass."

Wren grins sheepishly, a gloved hand reaching down to help him up. He takes it and is momentarily surprised by the power behind it.

"Come on," Fyrg says, "Before more of those little green bastards come around. If Sarge isn't going to get up, we're gonna have to make a stretcher."

"What about your phalanx ability?" Wren asks.

"They can't take more than a step in any direction. They're essentially rooted to the spot."

"Duh, Wrenny. Want a travelin' shield wall? Hide behind a dragon's ass."

Their laughter fills the clearing, a welcome exchange of what was present moments ago.

Vine glances over at some nearby shrubs, checking to see if the presence she noticed earlier is still there.

"Who in the hell…?"

Fyrg turns to her, "Hm? What is it?"

"I dunno. Thought I saw someone. Creepy ass woods. Forget it, I'll just loot the gobs."

Wren walks up to them, dragging behind a makeshift stretcher from long branches and rope, "Give me a hand, Fyrg? I wanna get back to the guild before dark."

She nods and helps move Sarge. He begins to stir again, but his eyes remain closed.

"First… rounds… on… me…"

River watched the last part of the battle, wondering briefly if he should jump in to help. When two of the people suddenly vanished he even jerked forward, but the shield swing and subsequent spear attack froze him in his tracks.

Were these people what they called, adventures? Was Agmus Mak an adventurer once, too? It looked dangerous, not unlike hunting, but hunting for things that hunted you back.

Speaking of hunting, it's been long enough. Maybe he should go back to the tower soon.

He noticed a blonde elf racing up from behind the group, slowing down just a little to nock and fire two arrows, one after the other. At this point River knew the group didn't need his help. Out of curiosity, however, he moved a bit closer to make sure.

When the one who wielded the shield took off their helmet and ran her hand through her hair, his jaw dropped. He had never seen anyone like her before. Sure, he considered Signa beautiful, but there was something about her that made her feel unapproachable.

His heart raced and his breathing quickened, but before he would do anything hasty, he stepped back. He had a job to do and he would see it through to the end. Hoping he would come across them again someday, he turned and jogged back to the tower.

River walks through the entryway, ignoring its grandeur and heads directly for the kitchen. To his surprise, it appears to be unchanged from the first time he'd ever seen it.

Upon walking into the third floor he half expected it to have returned to the original messy state. Instead, he spots Agmus Mak, lying on the day bed. A short stack of books on the floor and one spread open over his face. Soft snoring from under the pages draws River closer to him.

He contemplates the situation for only a moment, before returning with a blanket, covering the sleepy man, and removing the book. Using a piece of parchment to save the old man's place, the boy sets the book atop the others.

Pleased with this, River makes his way to the red velvet couch. The kitchen requires his attention, but not before he finds the cooking essence he's sure he'd seen the other day.