"Woul' nay worry 'bout 'er. Youn'in 'ill be up an' at 'em soon," Chef Lumpy said as he gestured with an attempt at clearing the awkward air between Galliard and Liza, sliding bowls of boiled potatoes under them. It was just past sunrise, so the chef had about an hour left of soberness left to his day. "I'll give 'er a bow' 'ater laddy an' lady."

"I thought the girl did pretty well, that spell was pretty fucking awesome," Galliard replied, picking up the hot potato and bouncing it around in his hands to cool it. "At the very least, Adendé didn't have to burn all her shit before he left last night."

"You're just a meathead. That spell could've killed the both of us. According to Mikey, that's not even, like, the first time either. I don't know, I just think that maybe… well maybe Gisla should leave the magic to the ones who won't blow Lady up," Liza replied, shaking her head lightly at the situation. She pulled out her dagger and began cutting up the potatoes into small cubes - eating them off of the tip of the blade.

"The Princess is an Echoer, the lowest class of mage," Lady spoke out, appearing from the ceiling and floating down to join the three of them by the table.

"An Echoer? That sounds pretty spooky, I'd like a title like that - wouldn't that suit me?" Galliard raised a brow, squiggling his fingers back and forth. Liza rolled her eyes, patiently waiting for Lady to elaborate.

"An Echoer is a mage completely reliant on the recordings of those that came before. The Captain is similar in a few regards, but an Echoer is unable to cast a spell they or someone else hasn't recorded - this includes even that which they've cast before. The Captain learns. Gisla recites." Lady continued as she dramatically circled the table.

"So without the scrolls and books, Gisla is… ordinary?" Liza asked.

Adjacent to the entrance, Gisla stood with her back to the wall. She was silently listening, balling her fist in frustration by their willingness to be so brutally honest.

"Correct. Completely ordinary."

Mikey found himself staring into an endless plane of white. It should've been blinding, but more so felt comfortably familiar. He glanced around, but chose not to speak - something within him told him to be patient.

With a blink, Mikey found himself staring into a old wooden cabin. Snow fell past the windowpanes, forming a blanket of white over the pine forest that surrounded it.

A cry came from the corner of the room where there was a toddler standing against the railing of a crib. Old enough to walk, the little boy was seeing his second winter within the warmth of the cabin.

Mikey took a concerned few steps towards the toddler, slowly reaching out his arms to pick him up as he continued to cry.

Slam!

Mikey turned his attention to the abrupt sound, looking back to the cabin door where a woman barged in. Wrapped in a heavy fur coat, blood was splattered and stained through her sleeves and torso. The winter wind rushed in after her, blowing out the few candles that lit the room.

The woman stumbled weakly toward the baby and picked him up, turning and sitting against the crib. She quivered in fear.

Two axe wielding men stormed through the door, both of them laughing hysterically. The same blood that stained the woman could be found dripping from each of their axes, splattering against the dry floorboards.

The men took only two steps each towards the woman, before she extended her hands out towards the raiders - holding her baby firmly between them.

"This is where it began. I lived free for only two winters before my own mother offered me up. A sacrifice to spare her own life, a sacrifice on my behalf," the old spirit's voice echoed through the wooden cabin as Mikey watched the tears streaming down the baby's cheeks, whilst the woman seemed to allow for a smile of relief. "A sacrifice that was not hers to make."

Mikey blinked and was transported once more. The wooden winter cabin was replaced with the golden plains of the North, dry grasses in every direction.

He observed a series of iron chains rattling against heavy shackles, each of them locked onto the ankles of young, emaciated boys. Many of the boys limped or wandered forward without any apparent speed, however one continued to pull.

Crack!

A whip lashed at the leading boy in the chain, his sweat and blood drenching a leather strap that tore into the skin on his shoulders. He was seemingly the only boy with the strength to pull, though the other boys lacked the same tearing on their skin.

Single handedly, the boy pulled a large sled of iron weapons, armour and even corpses. A savage stood on the sled, armed with the whip that licked the boys back.

"Even as a slave. Even... as a slave. I was pushed to the front, made to bare the whip's fang. It struck. Never ceasing," the voice spoke out in a pained tone, almost trembling in wrath or terror. "Sacrifices made. Again and again - but always on my behalf."

Another blink followed the spirit's words, transporting Mikey through the grassy plains and into a small, tribal hut. Small holes in the leather coverings of the tent allowed delicate rays of glittering light to pass through. A calm warmth filled the quaint interior.

There, kneeling on a grass woven mat, was both an older and younger man. Their foreheads were pressed together, a hand wrapped tightly behind the other's head.

A profound sense of admiration streamed from the younger man's eyes, as they locked their gaze with one another.

The older man more so embraced a great amount of pride, his eyes almost welling up with tears at the joy of what he was seeing.

In a mere moment, the light darkened into a berserking red.

Their gazes of admiration and pride flickered into terror and despair. The older man, with blood smeared over his forehead, held the young man in his arms - his tears streaming into the crimson smudges on his cheek. He shook in anguish, a final exhale escaping from the young man's body before he went cold.

"I was forced to sacrifice the only redeeming quality of my life - the only gift I'd ever received. Years of pain. Years of sorrow. Years of submission. Nothing compared to the sacrifice of my son's life. Nothing."

"But you understand that, don't you? The anguish of being left behind," the spirit asked Mikey, his aged, spectral form emerging from the body of the older man. It turned to face Mikey, the bloodied hut expanding into an open dining room. The spectral figure stood at the opposing end of a wooden table as figures slowly manifested from thin air around it.

"Your own parents left you. Left you to wield a power you understood nothing about," the spirit continued, as Mikey saw the faces of his adoptive brothers and sisters appearing around the table. Rolin, Dyno… Liam.

"What would you do, Mikhail? What would you sacrifice for them? What would you sacrifice to protect them?" the spirit began to ask as a fire sparked beneath the wooden table, embers spreading throughout the floors - engulfing Mikey's family in flames.

"Would you let them die, Mikhail? Let them burn in the horror of the world's greatest irony? We were given away by the ones that were supposed to protect us, Mikhail. Would you let the world sacrifice the ones we found instead?" the spirit bombarded Mikey with questions, interrogating him as he stood in the ashes of his old home. The ceiling had already begun to collapse above him, however his eyes were locked on Liam's.

"Wouldn't you sacrifice everything?" the spirit asked, reappearing behind Mikey and placing its wrickled hand over his shoulder. The ceiling collapsed over top of them, Mikey's vision being consumed in a gluttonous inferno.

Boff!

A monstrous right uppercut from an iron pierced green skin slammed straight into Lazarus' abdominals. The dirt below him was loose, leaving him skating back as he lost his footing.

His white singlet was stained in brown and red, drenched in sweat.

Adendé stood at the ledge of the dirt pit Lazarus and the orc inhabited, watching with his arms crossed tightly. Around him, cheering with bloodthirst, was a crowd of tribesmen all wanting a winner.

"While 'es down! Com' on Bluckwak! Hit 'em!" one of the fighter's kin bellowed infuriatingly.

The orc fighter rushed Lazarus with his crooked toes digging deep into the dirt. Each bulky arm was opened wide as he planned on catching Lazarus with a bear hug.

Lazarus, steadying his back forward, also launched toward the orc. However, as he got close he slipped under one of his arms and spun around behind the orc.

The green skin slowed his stampede, turning with a back fisted swing at Lazarus. Forced to block, he threw up an improvised guard against the swing - which was promptly shattered.

Sent flying back with a grunt as he slammed against the pit wall, enormous bruises lay on both of Lazarus' forearms - already spotting blood.

"Wherez tha fancy trickz pink skin? No magic?" the orc taunted, slapping his arms against his thighs in a challenge.

"Thought you'd have a cry about it like the others did," Lazarus spat on the ground, stretching his arms. After loosening up his stance both his arms from the elbow down had become a blur; each one was generating a devastating vibration.

"Unfit pigz, barely orc enough to be Ironheadz," he replied with a grin, baring the full size of his yellowed tusks. "I'll teach them."

Lazarus dashed towards the orc and, just as he reached him, planted his lead foot into the ground - transferring all the power through his hips and whipping his arm around for a devastating cross hook.

The arrogant orc raised a nonchalant block with one arm, cocking back the other one to counter-attack.

Crunch!

Released all at once, the vibration from Lazarus’ attack was unleashed just as his fist made contact. The energy stored in the punch travelled through the orc’s forearm and completely shattered its bones.

With his guard now utterly destroyed, the green skin was left open for another attack. Taking the moment of hesitation from the awestruck orc, Lazarus' lead foot shifted back. He continued the momentum from the last attack, this time using his opposing hand for a lead uppercut.

Krackoom!

Lazarus' fist stopped right under the orc's chin, the vibrational energy being released in the form of a thunderclap. The force kicked up a small dust storm around the pit - clouding the vision of the crowd. They went silent.

Once it had cleared, Lazarus could be seen standing over the green body of the orc. Blood streamed from the green skin's ears; he was out cold and barely breathing, but left alive by the mercy of Lazarus.

“Well, that makes four,” Lazarus smugly commented, his arms falling dead as he sighed in exhaustion. The orcs around him all erupted into applause and cheer, each of them spitting into the pit and onto the unconscious orc within.

“Why the fuck do they keep doing that, it’s disgusting,” Lazarus said with his tongue out, mildly disgusted as Adendé took his wrist and pulled him up.

“A tradition they’ve forgotten the meaning of themselves,” Adendé replied before turning his attention toward the gate. “Hmm.”

“Hmmmmm?” Lazarus echoed as he rubbed his arms lightly. “What kind of ‘hm’ is that?”

Adendé didn’t reply. Instead, he began on his way towards the Eastern gate, joining the savage traffic moving around camp.

“Why do you always do that? Wouldn’t hurt to talk a little more, you know?” Lazarus said as he trailed behind Adendé, grimacing each time a tribesman with a lack of care bumped into him - which was just about every time he passed somebody.

“Because I’m not sure. Wouldn’t hurt to shut up a little more,” Adendé replied. When the pair of them arrived at the foot of the Eastern gate, both Adendé and Lazarus stared out into the surrounding plains. Two silhouettes approached from the horizon, both of which were riders atop mounts.

"Mikey and Buggro? Looks like they made it back, eh?" Lazarus chuffed, grinning at the return of his captain.

"Not quite," Adendé replied, moving his hand out to block Lazarus from following him. "Wait here."

Four violet luminescent gazes greeted Adendé as he drew near. They were eyes that spelled a corruption that he seemed to recognise instantly.

"Sorry I took so long, Adendé," the leading silhouette called out once it was close enough. It was in Mikey's voice, but the tone was of no match.

"Is this the path you've chosen, Mikhail?" Adendé questioned, glaring up at Mikey as he sat atop Bat, Buggro and Rib standing in his shadow behind him.

"We must all. Make. Sacrifices."