2 - 2 [Magus] Omens O’ Doom, A Shadow ‘Ere Looms The Mercenary II - 16th of Last Frost, Year 1125 A.E.

Stregor, arms master and scout, had gone alone to spy the location of the ruins proper. He went in the morning, and gave word for them to follow his trail should he not return upon nightfall.

First it was noon, then it was the afternoon, then dusk, and finally night. On the morrow, the Red Sparrows marched onto the Ruins of Tregthekkar’s Keep.

The walk was uneventful. Deoch, the Red Sparrows’ first-in-command, led their merry band of bastards through the forest. The two best hunters, Rodrick and Ethelden, scouted ahead to the left and right for any markings. Stregor had left behind hunter’s marks on the trees with his own cipher, detailing his pathing and direction. Since the man was the best game tracker of them all, he had ample experience, enough so that he plotted his steps ahead and left them upon bark.

Barry was a bit of a rogue himself, with some middling expertise in the tracking of game, be they man or beast. So he went ahead after Rodrick, his closest bandmate.

A shrill whistle, natural as birdsong, called out into the ether. Another whistle responded back and Barry went towards where the call originated. He found Rodrick, his back to a tree, twirling a piece of straw in his mouth.

The lad was the same age as himself, nineteen winters and all. And though Barry enjoyed his company, the nine-damned fool had taken a liking to picking up every single bad sellsword habit there was. Gambling, threatening, roughhousing, strong drink, and druggae.

“Roddy.” He said, giving his friend a nod.

“Barry.” Rodrick responded back.

Both charged each other, with Barry lifting Rodrick into the air for a bear hug.

“I missed ya.” Barry said, lightly kissing Rodrick’s cheek. It reeked of cheap ale, watered down yet still pungent. The mercenary choked back a scowl at the smell.

“Com’on. It’s only been a half day. We met afternoon yesterday.”

“Too long already.”

Rodrick let out a sultry chuckle in response as their lips touched, the moment seeming both an eternity and far too short.

“Now, com’on. Ya can’t hold onta me for the rest o’ time.”

Barry extricated himself apprehensively from the embrace. His companion’s scent, the real thing hidden behind all the smoke-leaf and cheap booze, lingered. It was a comforting thing, beckoning him to put an arm around Rodrick’s shoulder.

“Aye. Though it ain’t gonna stop me from tryin’.” Barry said, a grin spreading over his mouth as he gave Rodrick an affectionate slap on the back.

“Wouldn’t want it any other way.” Said Rodrick, stretching out his limbs. “Let’s go then. We got the scouting whatcha-ma-thingy.”

Barry gave him a nod, trodding forward with his axe a comforting weight on his hip. Rodrick followed suit, his warhammer a familiar presence in its holster on his side. Both had shortbows strapped to their backs with a half dozen arrows each.

Gone was the exterior display of affection, their gazes turning to steel. A battle was coming, and they would spill the blood of bandits and black-hearts.

There would be a slaughter.

The Red Sparrow - 16th of Last Frost, Year 1125 A.E.

Deoch trodded along, his step sure as stone and pace fast as wind. His sentries reported back to him at noon when a sheen of sweat had layered itself upon his tanned skin. His naturally pale skin and reddish hair were of no use in protection against the harsh kiss of Solaria.

At the start of his path as a sellsword, his name had been apt. His skin burned bright, angry red together with his already ginger mop atop his head. It started as a mock and jest until Deoch had earned himself fame and a middling fortune in another’s band.

Then, when he could climb no longer, he and his closest friend Stregor left and started their own gang of bastards.

Rodrick, Ethelden and Barry approached him, worry on their faces.

“The ruins are smoked and charred with flame.” Said Ethelden. “Bodies lay everywhere, strewn about like chicken feed.”

Deoch’s gaze tightened, and he responded with a grunt. His eyes were narrow and dangerous slits, hellbent on retribution. And yet, underneath the exterior of cold and sharp steel lay an uneasy mind.

Damnit, what happened to ya Streggie? Did you find your way to the grave a’fore me? Did the Ashen God bring ya to heel without allowin’ us a proper farewell?

“We march onto the Keep.” Deoch said, his voice like gravel and the felling of tree. “Bowmen go first and wait for the Sparrow’s call. Then, we all charge in with sword and axe.”

Ethelden, Rodrick, and Barry nodded going forward into the dead, wintry forest. Their thick cloths kept the cold without at bay.

Yet the cold claw of fear and nerve wore away at them just the same from the pit of their stomachs.

Fire thrummed in their chests, their blood heeding the call of battle.

There would be a slaughter.

The Arms Master II - 15th of Last Frost, Year 1125 A.E.

Stregor was both the band’s arms master and their lead scout. His head had already been fully turned silver by Aetheon’s beckoning. Scars lined his white-haired limbs, the distinction between old wound and neveian fur practically impossible as both reflected argent in the light. The White Wolf, they called him. He wielded twin blades, his style more akin to a rabid and cornered animal than a skilled swordsman. But such was the vision of novices to the path of the sword. In his flurry and dance of steel was practiced and channeled chaos. He had lamellar armor donned on himself—a custom piece he had commissioned. It was silent as the dead and did not shackle his range of movement when he spun and twisted.

Stregor made his way through the Mortus-claimed foliage alone, following his intuition. The wind was in his favor, bringing all the necessary trails for him to track. Smoke-leaf. The brigands seemed to be having their fill of druggae. If only they knew it would be their downfall. And yet, Stregor caught wind of something else that gave him pause.

The burnin’ o’ flesh. It’s gotta be.

Stregor’s nose knew the difference between the savory smell of a roast, and the burning of flesh. When one burned flesh without proper preparation, the arduous odor of singed hair was exhumed into the air. Man was quick to skin its prey, so the smell of singed hide could mean only one thing.

Burnt. Human. Flesh.

The waters of the old sellsword’s mind start to churn—A dusty contract that no one dared to pick up. And the smell of burnt flesh. The Elder that fixed the band with the bounty had assured them that no one else got wind nor interest in it. Can’t be other sellswords then—the details added up to an unpleasant realization.

Man-eaters. Monsters. Necrophages. It could be any class of boogeyman. Stregor would have to confirm and report back before nightfall, lest the band be caught unprepared.

Stregor quickly picked up his pace, not caring for leaving any tracks himself. They wouldn’t be obvious at first glance. He didn’t go barging and sprinting to wherever the smell originated from. Yet he dared not take his time. Aetheon could be patient, but he could not when the lives of his people hung in the balance.

The trunks and branches and naked shrubbery slowly faded away as he approached. Multiple times, the wind eluded him as it blew in another direction, costing him valuable pace. The map the Elder had given him was poorly drafted, not using a proper Kedweni league for measurement and instead just comparing landmarks and cardinal directions.

That was fine, his sense of smell was all he needed.

Stregor crouched as he reached the treeline that divided the dense forest and a clearing. Blackened columns of ardent smoke wafted from stone ruins. Bodies lay scattered throughout the clearing like ancient standing stones, each one as immovable and unliving as rock. He couldn’t parse much more detail from them so far away.

Stregor felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He let the instinct flow over him and dove to the side. The tree to his left exploded in a shower of splinters. He finished his roll and turned with the momentum.

As he came to stand, he unsheathed his blade from his right hip. They were, in fact, two half-blades that could be stored as one in the scabbard. Stregor assumed the Wolfguard, his body to the side, a blade over his shoulder and another at his lap. It was a mixture of the Wrath and Foolsguard, only this stance took advantage of both, making it as though one was fighting more than one foe.

To Stregor’s horror, what he was to fight was decidedly not what he was paid for.

A giant made of interconnected corpses towered above him. Their skin flayed and red, scarlet mold stitching them together. Mouths and eyes were agape in frozen horror on the macabre tapestry that was its skin. It had no orbs, instead only possessing hollows where the eyes were plucked out from. The undead’s form was a mockery of man, possessing humanoid proportions. Yet, it had no head, only a mound of flesh with limbs.

The undead dragged behind it a slab of sharpened metal as thick as Stregor’s wrist. The undead wielded a weapon that most beasts of burden could not carry. The monstrous blade’s length was the full height of a tall man. An enormous pommel, larger than Stregor’s head, served to balance the inhuman sword. No, not sword, for it was more akin to iron Shillings welded together than weapon proper.

Damnit. We aren’t paid for this shit. None of us brought silver or a priest.

The undead monstrosity charged him, dragging the blade behind its stride. Each of its steps caused tremors. Stregor swore that he could hear Mother Gaia’s wails of pain as the beast dug into the earth.

Not willing to let it out of his sight, Stregor charged with a high posture in response, baiting a cut.

Got me a redback carp on the line, the White Wolf thought with a grim chuckle.

The undead hauled its blade up to its shoulder before bringing it down and to the side in a horizontal cut.

Stregor ducked. The blade wooshed over his head in a tempest of wind.

As the blade cut the air above him, Stregor dashed into the monstrosity’s guard. As it was still winding its inhuman blade back, Stregor was safe.

The Wolf fell into a slide as he slashed his blade at the undead’s “ankles.” They were as thick as a man’s trunk and made from several different limbs and people. When the slide started to lose strength and speed, Stregor smoothly sheathed his blades. He brought the twin-blades together before plunging them into their scabbard. The winters of practice having given him the ability to do so without sight.

Stregor planted his feet into the earth, stopping his slide and bringing him up. He used the momentum to transition into a roll that brought him far from the undead. He reckoned it was so as he felt the earthly tremors were quite far.

He slowly turned, the exertion having taken its toll. His breaths came in shudders and his heart pounded against his ribcage, sending blood to course through his body like a surging monsoon upon a river system. He could feel the vessels in his limbs burst like overripe grapes.

He might’ve been the Wolf when he was young, but now his title had changed. His body was weaker than it used to be, and his bones were starting to become brittle. If it weren’t for a bit of illegal alchemy procured on the side and body-strengthening drills, he would’ve long since become old and infirm. But, he was no Old Wolf. He was the White Wolf.

The undead hadn’t been idle as Stregor made his escape. It had brought its steel slab over its “shoulder” in preparation for another attack. The slashing at its ankles were for naught. The monster lumbered unimpeded by the slashes, only its ungainly weight seeming to have an effect on its gait.

Stregor kept his blades in their sheathes as he sauntered back into battle. It best if he kept his stamina high and whittled down his foe like a woodshaper.

The White Wolf circled the ambling corpser, yet he found no easy weakness to exploit. The monster didn’t even keep up with his pace as it’s limbs could bend this way and that without pause. Its sight was all-encompassing.

When the undead had enough of waiting, it dragged its monstrous weapon up onto its shoulder and charged Stregor with surprising speed.

The White Wolf deftly dodged to the left from the guillotine-like cut, yet the beast simply swatted him with the flat of the weapon. Stregor was sent flying, his ribs cracked and splintered like rotten wood.

The sellsword got up with some effort, his cycles of battle and bloodshed together with the fire in his veins endowing him with second wind. Good thing too as the monster brought down its foot upon the Wolf.

Stregor rolled away and then charged back into the creature’s guard. He unsheathed his blades and separated them with alacrity, slicing this way and that in a flurry of cuts.

Stregor backed away, his muscles exhausted and his bones creaking. The monster stood still, yet the mold that bound held its corprus together did not. The fungal growth surged, reknitting the myriad limbs and flayed muscle back into place.

Blind Mother’s wrinkly arse, Stregor cursed under his breath as he slowly backpedaled a further span-and-a-half. He had over-exerted himself without even managing an effective wound on his foe. He felt his blood chill as the shadow of his death loomed over him, blocking the sun. Grey clouds produced a veil over Solaria, plunging Terra into darkness.

Stregor had been right. The omen had been a herald of death. If only he knew it was to be his.

There would be a slaughter if his band came after him as he had told them to. The White Wolf held only the regret in not returning sooner and abandoning the contract.

There would be a slaughter.

He knew no more.