Willem Gedore, the leader of the deserters, revelled in luxury and control. He had his fingers in every single ugly pie in the capital, from protection fees that offered anything but, to so-called 'high class' brothels that serviced the elite. The man was the son of a famous tailor, and lived every day helping his father construct wearable works of art with country-wide renown. As Willem grew older, he flaunted his father's wealth at bars and pubs, and grew accustomed to the fineries of the wealthy clients he bumped arms with. When he was 19, his father passed, and the inheritance was his. He was young and stupid, and utterly drained his father's fortunes on gifts to win women's affections or impress his friends, and two years later the man was broke. He couldn't take losing the good life.

He turned to opportunistic thievery, at first, and found himself quite good at it, swiping expensive jewelry and trinkets from the houses of the elite he was invited to. He also discovered his talent for magic, pursuing skilled teachers to aid him in learning the more impressive, flashier spells to raise his pedigree. Eventually, he branched out, roping the poor and destitute into his employ, forming his own gang. Five years of protection rackets, robbery and drug pedalling later, he decided to go big, and formed a criminal organisation catering to the more private needs of the elite. He was a perfect gentleman, being used to flattery and pandering, and he found himself liked by the clients he used to service as a tailor's assistant.

It didn't save him from being targeted by the authorities, however. The Guard, slowed down from Willem's meddling high profile clients, kept any successful raids and arrests happening for 10 years. The impetus for his arrest came from the loss of the noble's protection when the first son of a particularly notable family died in one of his establishments, supposedly from asphyxiation resulting from the drugs they sold on premises. A drawn out trial proceeded, and Willem knew he could not avoid punishment entirely. It was quite easy to blackmail and coerce his clients to send him to the Pass, hanging their own tastes and sexual proclivities over their heads.

Willem was a people person, and attempted to curry favour with the criminals and outcasts of the Pass, only to realise his sweet coersion fell on flat ears, and that he had no riches to offer to win their loyalty either. A few fights with the convicts, and close shaves with the wildlife showed him violence was more effective here than his honeyed words. Willem wasn't a violent man, but he would do anything to hold power in his hands. His talent for violence grew, and his rotund stomach and flabby cheeks fell, making way for sharp cheekbones and an athletic body. He cultivated a following throughout the years, mostly of disgraced sons and daughters of the nobility or elite, and forged himself from the lovable rogue he once was to a fearsome warlord.

The defeated agitators slumped to the ground, sitting on their knees facing the gathering crowd. They knew they would be punished, and that they had to take it. The boss' word was law, after all. Willem's learned harsh gaze fell to his subjects, his recessed eyes beading over the surroundings in his best show of force. He knew his people were unhappy. If it were the capital, he'd offer a night with a courtesan, or something to smoke or swallow to all of his unsatisfied employees. The forest however, had none of these things, and thus Willem enforced the law of the jungle; Overwhelming violence and intimidation.

"I asked you all for one thing. No infighting. You can rape, you can pillage, you can kill any you want, just keep it outside of the walls. And yet, you can't keep a single promise. I'm disappointed." He placed a firm hand on each of the troublemaker's shoulders. They shook. The crowd looked on.

"One month. One fucking month until we move out of this shithole and back to booze, shagging and drugs, and you start beating eachother when we're so close to the finishing line." Willem coiled his hands gently around the back of the men's necks.

"If you wanted to kill each other, you should have done it back at the Pass. Do NOT make it my problem now, in MY camp." The warlord's voice raised. His hands began to glow his trademark purple, and the crowd flinched. The two guards stood vigil, ever emotionless and silent.

"I am not unfair, however. These two want each other dead, that's plain to see, but which one's wish is more valid, I wonder?" Willem shed a bloody grin. "I say, equality for all."

A twinkling purple and black miasma surrounded the necks of the two fighters, confiscating the air in their lungs and the bloodflow in their veins. It didn't stop. The noose closed in further, breaking skin and cracking bone, slowly severing the men's throats as they begged noiseless mercies. Eyes turned bloodshot. Hands scraped at their throats with no result, the veil remaining unpierced. The life left their eyes, and their strings were cut, but Willem still held them aloft. The visceral pops and squelches seemed to carry further than they should have. The circles closed in still, rending the remaining flesh and muscle into a fine paste as their lifeblood sprayed and dribbled into the cracks of the granite below them. A final snap. Their heads dropped to the ground, the foul miasma sundering the spines and fading into black, to dissipate entirely.

Willem felt nothing. Violence was a means to an end, and he did not revel in it. He was just the conductor. The songs of power had always been abominable, and who was Willem to deviate from tradition?

As the men and women gathered, Cameron went into action, capitalising on the events and steadying his breath. He rested his rifle on the remains of the top floor's wall, holding the advantage of a sight picture across the whole camp. The nearest sentries on the wall were 200 metres away, leaning on the poorly secured fences of the watchtower, chatting to each other and debating the probable outcomes of the gathering.

Cameron's gun stood slightly protruding out of the tower, and trained on the orcish man on the left. Cameron exhaled. The whisper of the round cutting wind and descending to the wall did nothing to alert the orc. The round carried itself through his spine, the angle forcing the bullet townwards, the adam's apple catching the mass like a baseball glove outstretched. The orc slumped on the wall he was leaning over, and fell on the other side of the palisade. Cameron couldn't wish for a better outcome.

The nose of the machine led itself to the orc's co-conspirator, and begged for the smell of propellant to fill it's senses. The second deserter dropped, her heart leaking blood from the puncture of the 9mm round, carrying forward through the left lung before reaching a stop. The woman died on impact, collapsing like a broken puppet onto the watchtower's floor. Cameron could not rest on his laurels. The other watchtowers had limited visibility to each other, but all it took was a glance in the wrong direction for the alarms to ring. Next target.

He fought to maintain his steady breath, heart beating faster in response to the adrenaline creeping through his ventricles. A solo archer, streching his head to and fro to catch a glimpse of the proceedings, nested in the furthest tower, behind the stone command post. His bobbing was a problem. His head and chest moved constantly, and Cameron didn't want to chance a painful, but non lethal gut shot to the peeping tom. He waited, biding his time by reexamining the proceedings and anything else that moved.

The commander's voice didn't carry to the stone overlook, but Cameron could tell the man had venom in his voice. The gathered crowd recoiled at his words. He moved his sight to the last watchtower, an uninterested older man puffing on whatever mix of stimulants he could get his hands on stood lazily, facing outside of the camp. At the base of the wooden supports, a second, bumpy horned young man was reaching inside his pack, taking out a long wooden flask with a cork stopper, and emptying the contents into his mouth. His satisfaction was as good an end to his life than he should have expected. Two rounds flew into the man's forehead and brow, and another couple sailed soon after at the older sentry enjoying the smoke filling his lungs. The pair's vices saluted to them in a farewell. Cameron exhaled heavily yet again.

The last obstacle, fed up of crooning his neck to catch a glimpse of the courtyard, settled down. The man turned to his watch once again, flexing the taught bowstring, drawing it pound by pound and releasing. The last draw fell from his limp fingers with a twang. Cameron found his opportunity, and the bullets found their mark in the bowman's upper chest. Time for phase two.

"Dastilan, come in. Come in, man, I need some advice."

Dastilan sat to attention. The now cold cup of tea in his hands was hastily put to the side, spilling onto the table, and the Cervidian stabbed the intercom's button with his index finger.

"I'm here. I'm glad you're still there. How can I help?"

"I need to be quick. You remember the demonstration? The shoulder mounted launcher I showed you? What's the chance they have passsive shields or something running that stops it?"

Dastilan laughed out loud. "You must be joking. Passive shields are for the stray arrow or dagger in a dark alleyway. There's no way that anyone who knows the spell is wasting their mana on it in their own camp, behind their defenses. Regardless of it's use, nothing short of strong active physical-type shields or body fortifications would stand up to that monstrosity you have in your employ."

"Thanks. Wish me luck. This is going to be messy. Cameron out."

Cameron scaled the broken wall of the tower's highest room yet again. He laid prone, looking over the weapon in his hands; An M2 Carl Gustav, loaded with an anti-personnel round accurate to 400 metres, a reaper sowing death by fire at the behest of it's partner. The proceedings reached their apex. Cameron peered from the lip of the roof, halfway through his sortie preperations, utilising his rangefinder to see the limp bodies of the pugilists fall, joining their severed heads at their final rest. The commander's face was engulfed in rage, but his eyes were vacant. Cameron paled. He was a bunny caught in the headlights of an 18 wheeler. He forced his emotions down, refocusing on the task at hand. His eyes narrowed. The preperations were complete, and the stage was set. Do or die.

The open air of the roof allowed him ample space to operate the Gustav, the considerable backblast unrestrained by it's surroundings to offset the recoil of the high-explosive payload on it's journey into the dense crowd. Cameron swallowed, and rose to his feet. His hands supported the weight of the launcher on his shoulder, and his eyes glanced through the side mounted sight pointed towards the enemy. The trigger was compressed, and the ignition of the rocket sounded with a roar and left the main body of the M2. An array of eyes swung round in their owners heads in shocked realisation of the sound, and the object sailing towards them. Most stood, gormless, but some reacted with panicked haste, raising blue and orange walls of mana-repelling light towards the magicks aimed at them, and it must have been magic, surely? Nothing manaless could achieve this.

Unfortunately for them, that sentiment didn't save them. All of them, the weak to the strong, their expressions frozen in horror for all of time as the round flew to the ground and impacted, detonating the fire and concussive explosion of the warhead. Shrapnel from the rocket's shell ripped and teared into it's host's bodies, sending arms, legs, torsos and heads flying, propelled by the detonation and carried into the walls and tents of the camp. The eruption burst eardrums and scattered entrails. A lucky few on the edge of the crowd were spared the brunt of the force, a living bulwark of flesh between them and the warhead. They still suffered, peppered with fragments of bone from their allies propelled from the remaining impact of the payload. Cameron reigned victorious, and stood there in stunned silence. I.. won.

The courtyard was a fount of gore. Nothing was unscathed, and nothing escaped injury. The lifeblood and organs of the former soldiers adorned the ground and canvas of the tents in a foul painting of desolation. Cameron's boots turned from red to black, as he forced down his breakfast to take care of the leftovers. An initial survivor breathed his last raspy breath, lungs filling with his own blood, leaving no room for oxygen. Two others wailed quietly, holding their hands to their new orifices and attempting to cast whatever magic that could close them. In Cameron's hands, he held the as yet unused Five Seven, taking some amount of pity for the murderers and rapists on their deathbeds. He let two shots fly into each of the survivor's heads, bringing the graveyard to a peaceful state. He stood there for a while, vacant eyes glossing over nothing in particular. The silence broke with a heave. Cameron had lost his breakfast.

"Dasti-Dastilan, you there? Can you come?" Cameron sat slumped at the entrance of the command building, occupying the spearmen's former post. He rinsed his mouth with the contents of his waterskin, and raised his head to the sky. He felt faint. He removed the balaclava from his face, feeling restricted by it's material, and unclasped the bandolier across his chest. The M2 and VSS were unsummoned before descending the tower, and all Cameron held in his employ was the pistol in his right hand. The professional thing to do was suck it up, and clear the surroundings before taking stock of the camp's inventory and checking for traps, but the outworlder felt drained. He needed Dastilan here.

"I'm here. Are you injured? You sound injured." Dastilan spoke quickly, fraught with worry. He fully expected the man to succeed, but if he had failed, then what sort of powers did those bastards employ?

"I'm fine. I just need some help. The battle... took more out of me than I had expected." Cameron fought against his fleeting consciousness to stay awake.

"Ah. Of course. I'll be there in half an hour. Keep your eyes open, for God's sake. Don't fail now." Dastilan knew the emotion in Cameron's voice. The man had single-handedly wiped out what he presumed was a 20 man-strong group by himself. He himself had been in vicious battlefields. He was used to suffering, but the knowledge that you've killed so many will always take it's toll. He left his chair, pulling a brown leather jacket over his arms, and bolted out of the cabin, locking the building with a glyph-adorned light eminating from his hands, and his lower body glowing a vibrant green. His speed was unnatural, even amongst mobility magic users. I'm on my way, outworlder.

Cameron awoke, bleary eyed, to a high pitched siren, a rotary sound eminating from the building he had passed out against. He forced his eyes open and forward to surveil the area, but all he saw was the fruits of his own labour. He peeled his gaze from it, and stood up shakily to investigate the noise. The stone of the building was an excellent insulator for the roaring fire inside, and the boarded up windows darkened the firelit room well. The thick smell of incense hit Cameron's nose, shifting his senses from the dense iron fog of the blood outside to a sharp, lavender-like scent floating from a stick suspended on a wooden base. Brightly patterned carpets hung from iron pitons hammered into the wall, adding to the insulation and injecting a home-like atmosphere to the large room. It was filled with wooden crates and barrels of food, weapons, concoctions and miscellaneous plunder seperated from their owner presumably at the edge of a blade.

At the end, several feet away from the fireplace behind it, stood several planks of wood nailed together in an attempt at a desk. It was covered in parchments and scrolls, missives and maps of the surrounding areas along with the deserter's patrol routes. The source of the loud whine was apparent, a long, golden staff resting against the back corner glowed pink and red consecutively, sending forth it's warning cry. Cameron had no idea how to turn it off, or what the object even did. He presumed it was a warning device of some kind due to the obnoxiousness of the sound, but why did it activate? Because of his slaughter, or a border alarm?

"Can you shut that bloody thing up ple... ah, you can't use Magitech, can you. Right." Cameron couldn't hear the heavy steps of the man in the doorframe, and was alerted to his existence when he shouted towards him pleading for him to silence the infernal staff. Dastilan walked to the object, and interacted with it through direct contact, a show of glyphs cascading from the top of the orb on the staff ceasing the drone of the detection device. The two of them exhaled happily. Their ears were spared.

"You really should have been keeping an eye out. What are you doing in here? Is everyone dealt with?" Dastilan scolded Cameron, who was recovering his hearing slowly and bracing himself against the wall with a grimace.

"I'm sorry, man. I've... killed people before, but not like that." He took a deep breath, and held out his hand towards Dastilan in a signal to let him continue. "I know it was the most effective option I had, but I didn't realise just how much it would terrify me to be responsible for so many people's deaths at once." He straighted himself up with no small effort, and looked into Dastilan's pity filled eyes.

"Okay. I can move now." He reaffirmed himself. "Let's sack the place."