It was too quiet. Gerd turned in his bundle of cloaks and blankets restlessly. His head was pounding, as often happened when he awoke. His body was getting old. His arm ached from sleeping funny on it as he twisted in his laying position, reaching for his canteen. He shook it but found that it was empty. He sat up in his makeshift bed and found that Fintan was nowhere to be seen in the tent. He released a large yawn and stretched out his limbs. His belly protruded from his garments as he stretched. A cool breeze swept by and caused the flaps of the tent to blow inward wildly. It was still night, but it must have been early morning because he could still make out small shapes outside the blowing tent flaps. Gerd eased himself to his feet and rose to get a better look outside the tent.

He frowned as he noted the empty coals of the fire pit. Whoever had been sitting around the fire had left all their belongings right where they were. Animal furs, pots, pans, axes, sax knives, clay jars, and other fine specimens lay out in the open. Gerd thought it odd, surely the group must have simply retreated to their quarters at a late hour and been too tired to put away their belongings. Gerd moved past the coals of the fire now, the heat was still radiating from the fire pit—they couldn't have been done here for long. Gerd eyed the tent that he knew he had seen Vince enter with that one lady of his. He debated peaking inside and decided against it at first, but he couldn't help himself. If he could just get one quick peak to know that at least someone was still here.

Gerd slowly swung the flap open at first, and then he ripped open the tent. No one was there. Furs and blankets were scattered around the base of the tent's interior. As he exited the tent and made his way back through the center of the camp, he noted a peculiar trail of blood across the ground right through the middle of camp. He followed its trail to the largest tent of the camp. The headquarters where Magnar the Madman resided.

Gerd burst into the tent with no regard for manners or welcoming, he would gladly take a beating for intruding at this point as his heart raced. The tent rang hollow. Parchment, quill, and ink littered the ground and multiple jars had shattered on the ground. Gerd felt the cold air at his back from outside the tent as it drifted inside the tent of Magnar the Madman.

He stepped back slowly, and suddenly he found himself falling to the ground onto his back. He grunted as his back slammed the ground. He rose to his feet and knelt to study what had caused his fall. A large lump covered up in a wad of blankets lie against the wall of the tent by the flaps. He leaned over it and began to remove the coverings. This must be a person, but I pray not. His prayers were either not heard, or not answered. It was a person, in fact, it was an Ulthraki. Gerd jerked away quickly, repulsed by the smell and the sight of the pale, crusted face. The body appeared fresh however, and as he touched his finger to the corpse he noticed the skin was not completely cold yet despite the freezing temperatures.

Gerd felt uneasy and made for his tent quickly now. He dug for his belt and scabbard that he left by his bedside. When he did not feel the usual grip of his sword's hilt his heart began to jump a beat faster. His hand closed around thin air again, and he rubbed his eyes once before staring into an empty bundle of cloaks and cloth. Curse those Ulthraki's! One of them took my sword with them! Gerd growled angrily, but his anger was soon replaced by fear. He froze, paralyzed to the spot. He could hear feet scuffling carelessly from outside. Gerd emerged from his tent once again, eyes wide with fear. His hand went to grasp the hilt of his sword, but nothing was there, and he cursed his breath. He knew that sound from the tales. Isk, isk, isk. The sound of talons scratching against chainmail, echoed by the sound of boots crunching over the frozen ground. Why have they left me to die? Fintan and Vince both—those selfish traitors. They brought me along for my sword! So that is how they treat a former Knight of the Order?

Gerd saw them coming now. About a hundred yards away came the synchronized walk of a hoard of Deranged Men. Their silhouettes filled the air with dread. Gerd did the only thing he could do. He ran—as fast as his stubby legs could carry. His belly bounced up and down, up and down. He grabbed one of the crude axes from the ground by the fire pit and almost stumbled over his own legs as he reached down to grab mid-stride.

He didn't dare look back. He tried to breath loud enough to tune out their cries, but it was no use. He stopped running. He didn't dare turn to face the Deranged Men. He felt naked without his sword, his all-powerful companion, now belonging to that young mess of a boy.

The last thing Gerd heard as he dropped to his knees was the slobber of one of their mouths. Talons closed over his shoulders. Searing pain surged through his body as the talons melted him like a candle. He felt his entrails pour out of his stomach as talons cut through his backside and out of his stomach. Hungry growls pierced the night as the creatures crowded around to feast on their meal.

His last thought reminded him of why he had joined Fintan and Vince in the first place. He remembered back to the last thing Fintan had whispered to him in a low voice before they departed Wepstwur. "You have what Vince needs. He's just missing that extra edge to help him find his abilities." Gerd smiled as his final breath left his lungs, he was smart not to ask; a Magi Knight never departs from his blade...willingly, at least.