The Sixth

The Sixth

Bladedancer
Character Profile
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"We're taking a break for a short spell!" barked the man at the front of the caravan. The Sixth could almost taste the collective groan of the accompanying mercenaries, members of the Half-Horned Bull. This was the third time already and the sun was barely past midpoint. At this rate the dead wave would've washed over them three times over. One might consider it a mercy at this point. With practiced movements the members of the escort began to secure the perimeter while others carried noticeably less weight.

This was the problem with nobles, couldn't even undo their own trousers when taking a piss. No surprise that their personal guards weren't worth the armor they stood in. The loud bastard before said something about being a Khastri in the Legion. Dancer had his doubts but he also wouldn't be the first to fail into a lucky position. All the mercenary knew was the pompous ass would be next to useless if it came down to it.

The Sixth placed a consoling hand on the nearest Bull as he made his way down the line, stopping when he found another familiar face. "Odds of us making Cat's Eye by nightfall...well let's just say that even I wouldn't take them," he explained to the Boneknitter. The presence of the mender left the mercenary with at least a little peace of mind. 'Bulls may know their business but there wasn't a steady hand among them.

He leaned casually against the nearest wagon, letting out a sigh. "Apparently that prim is from the Magisterium. Something about needing evidence for his thesis. You ever do anything like this?" And by 'this' he meant drag a bunch of sellswords around while having shit-for-brains.
 
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When the company had stopped for the break, Moina had slid from the bench of the wagon she'd been riding in. Moving around a bit to stretch her legs, her ride being none too comfortable. She'd prefer the back of a horse, but her supplies were in the back of this wagon and she didn't particularly care to leave them in the care of some unknown soldier. It wasn't the Half-Horned Bull that she was worried about, but whomever these others were that followed this Khastri.

A figure moved down the line, a hand on a shoulder here and there as the mercenaries nearby almost parted for him. One of the Eight. She was familiar enough with them now from various other jobs that they no longer held that initial awe that she felt the first time she'd worked alongside one. Still, there were none stronger in Crorefell and it gave her at least a little hope that this adventure might turn out ... relatively okay. Should the worse happen, she'd make a fair amount of coin thanks to the extraneous clauses in her contract. When this Khastri lead them into disaster, her fees would increase.

The Sixth stopped beside her leaning against the wagon. "Him from the Magisterium?" She nodded her chin in the direction of the man who'd hired them. "They must be taking just anyone in now." The words half mumbled under her breath, but loud enough for the man beside her to hear. She'd been largely hanging toward the back of the caravan, not really wanting to deal with the Imperials, having once been one herself and having left in circumstances that she'd rather not draw attention to.

"Not like this." She finally responded to his initial question. "I knew what I was doing. He ..." Her blue eyes tracked after the Imperial again. "has no idea what he's doing." It was clear enough to her and she was sure someone of the Sixth's caliber could see it too. She was positive that she'd have a lot of work to do before the end of this little adventure. "Whatever you do, don't fall asleep." She said tapping her nose. She certainly would keep an eye at her own back, but perhaps for other reasons aside from their employers ineptitude.
 
"Well I can't say for sure. Seeing as the scholar he's assigned to is from there, I can only assume," added the Sixth with a shrug. It was only natural that the Magisterium hired members of the Legion as guards. This one just happened to exceptionally useless. The mercenary hadn't seen much of the scholar since they started the journey. Probably cause the prim wanted nothing to do with any sellswords.

He suspected that suited most of the other mercenaries just fine. This was a bit of an odd contract on the surface. The cadres of Crorefell and the Empire had a history, and a bloody one at that. A few fools may have shivved this lot right here and been done with it. There was however an unspoken rule when it came to the Magisterium. A sort of begrudging respect for how absolutely wanton they could be in the pursuit of knowledge. More importantly, they paid well, very well. So occasionally cadres took contracts for those who were heading into northern Illica.

"Small chance of that," he said with a cynical smirk. The frequent stops were actually preventing him from lulling into any sort of rhythm. Would almost be a fair tactic for keeping the group on its toes. Yet there wasn't a cock-hair's chance this was intentional.

Not long after, the caravan set in motion again and this time they made decent progress. The Sixth was about to go confer with the other cadre when he caught a glimpse of steel in the fading light. "Like I said, small chance..." A volley from the treeline first, those hit crying out in pain. Then a roar as armed figures broke through the treeline, malice in their wake.

"We're in it now lads!" the leader of the Half-horned Bulls roared back in challenge.

The Sixth smiled to himself as he hopped down from the wagon. A dance at dusk didn't sound all that bad.
 
Moina returned the smirk. She wasn't going to let her guard down either. Couldn't, not with the constant start and stop of the caravan. There was absolutely no rhyme or reason to the decisions being made. If this continued for too long, she'd go put her foot down on giving the marching troops some rest. Being tired would certainly benefit no one should they face an attack, but they weren't there yet. Her eyes narrowed as the caravan started to move again. The Boneknitter sighed as the caravan started moving again, pulling herself back up in the wagon, the Sixth choosing to share the ride at least for a moment.

They had traveled along at a good pace, but nothing was bound to stay in their favor it seemed. "So it would seem." She said as he leaped from the wagon, his shoulder set and ready for the skirmish. Moina reached behind the seat where she'd stored her bow and quiver originally. Her boneknitting skills wouldn't be needed until later, so at the very least she could put the rest of her training to use. Jumping down to the other side of the wagon, using it as partial cover. She knocked an arrow and drew the string back to her cheek. She took but a few seconds to find a target among the armed figures charging the group before letting it fly. The arrow soared toward the enemy before catching one in the gap below their helm. The body dropping like a sack.

The wagons were circling up around them, forming a temporary fortification as the mercenaries reacted with practiced easy. The others, the Legion, seemed to hold waiting for some kind of order. For a moment, she couldn't help but wonder how she'd once believed that the Legions were the best military in the word. Perhaps they might have been when lead by someone competent. This one, and she was sure others, were not. As the Legion scrambled to get into formation, she turned her attention back to the charging enemy and the Half-horned Bulls as she drew another arrow placing it against the string. Shouts and groans echoed around her from those injured in the first volley. "Those archers need to be taken care of. Or we're sitting ducks." She said as she drew back the arrow and loosed again moments later.
 
Confident in the success of their ambush, a pair of overzealous attackers had run ahead of their formation. The mercenary was half-expecting them to get shot in the back by their own allies. Either way, they'd rushed to an early death. The Sixth quickly closed the remaining distance and cut the first down with the draw of his blade. He spun round, bringing his blade up to parry the other's strike. He batted aside the sword at the last possible moment, leaving his opponent's guard open. There would be no second bout. Such was the nature of his family's teachings, ever playing on the most precarious of margins. For that is where the deepest connection to Kitakha could be found.

An arrow just about sent the mercenary to his goddess a moment later. He quickly retreated back to the defensive perimeter setup by the Half-horns.

"A fair assessment," agreed the mercenary as a man went down with an arrow in his eye not twenty feet away. The Sixth took a moment to consider his options as everything was going to shit around him. Ranged combat was hardly his strength. "Guess I'll have to take cue from our bullish brothers..." When all else fails, simply lower your head and charge.

The blessing of Chkech hardened around the mercenary, the desert spirit often known to take the form of a Kaikian scarab. He tossed a glance back to the 'knitter, "A bit of cover would not go unappreciated."

With that he sprang from safety and charged towards the treeline. He struggled not to flinch as a pair of arrows ricocheted off the translucent shield which protected him. Another volley, but this one ended with an audible crack; the shell could not withstand anymore.

Fortunately it was not needed. The mercenary leapt forward and clove the archer's head twain. He drew his dagger in a swift motion and flung it at the next closest bastard. The Sixth had sown chaos among the back-line, he could only hope his remaining allies were quick to take advantage.
 
The Boneknitter didn't even flinch as a man died not far from them. Healing may have been her specialty, but death was also an ever constant companion. She never believed it could be any different. She wasn't a god capable of saving everyone. Just a mortal who could maybe save a few. She nodded at The Sixth's request. He didn't have to ask, but she was glad to grant the request. As he charged toward the enemy line, she drew her bow back again. This time following his movement, holding the arrow taut against her cheek. Losing arrows with no target would not help to protect the man risking his life for the rest.

There.

She released the shaft, the arrow flying straight and true as if guided there by the shroud. Embedding through the back of the throat of an ambusher who'd turned to attack The Sixth from his back. Intending to forcefully press the mercenary into a deadly circle of steel. Instead, he fell to the ground, sounds gurgling from his throat as blood pooled at fingertips as they uselessly clawed at the steel tipped arrow head. Moina had drawn a second arrow the moment the first had been loosed. Again waiting for that perfect moment to ensure the mercenary returned hale and whole, or at least not dead. She could heal the rest.

There was a roar as the Half-Horned Bulls took inspiration from the flowing movements of The Sixth, following him into battle. The second arrow was released. The wooden weapon zipping with deadly precision past the right ear of the Sixth, close enough that he surely heard it as it found it's birth in this enemy's heart right through the gap in armor in his armpit as he was raising his ax to swing it down in the other mercenary's blind spot. That was the last arrow that she was able to fire, the field to crowded with the Bulls. A risk of hitting friend as much as foe.

"May the moons keep you." She whispered a quick blessing to those who'd raced into the sharp weapons of their enemy. Leaving her bow, she grabbed her first aid bag and began to move through the fortified circle of wagons to being to deal with the injured. Sorting the injured with her own system of colored strips of cloth tied about their wrists, the ones who could wait and the ones who were already lost passed over so she could focus on those where her pull of the shroud would do the most. A limited resource, she had to focus her work in the most beneficial way who knew how long this fight would last. Kneeling next to her first patient, a woman struggling to breath around an arrow puncturing her side, Moina focused on the power in her hands.
 
He ran to the fallen corpse, retrieving dagger in stride. A whole gaggle of bastards still remained scattered about the treeline and the mercenary was not keen on leaving them be. The Sixth ducked behind a tree and let oak bear the brunt of the ensuing projectile. Ten breaths is what it took the enemy archer to draw and knock under duress. The mercenary only needed nine to close the distance, his blade descending without hesitation.

Naturally he expected to be turned into a pincushion but the inevitable skewering never arrived. Instead the mercenary was met with panicked screams. True to their name, the Half-Horned Bulls had bouldered directly into the ambusher's line. Even the best plans could be ruined by sheer idiocy. The shaft-slingers had lost their mettle and Dancer was quick to take advantage. He closed the distance on another distracted foe and dispatched them quickly.

Cries of retreat resounded through the fading light. Mercy was not afforded to those who were slow cede ground. A blade spared could always shiv you down the road.

The Sixth knelt down at the nearest corpse and wiped his blade clean on the dead man's tunic before returning it to sheathe. He quickly spotted the red-haired healer, glad to she survived the ordeal. Any Fool knew a 'Knitter was worth their salt. "What's the count?" he asked the mender. How many able bodies still remained after this particularly inane fuckery. Any decision could only be made after taking proper stock of the damage inflicted.
 
The 'Knitter knelt on the ground next to a Half-Horned Bull with an arrow piercing a long. The breath came in ragged, rough breaths. Wheezes echoing in the air as the woman struggled to breath. Someone had dragged her back behind the lines and had called for the her. Hands placed on either side of the entry wound shaft quivering with each labored breath. Blood bubbled, staining her hands further as she concentrated. She pulled from the shroud that lingered in air, stealing the wind as it blew by channeling it into the delicate tissues. When ready, she moved one hand to the shaft and began to pull it out, centimeter by torturous centimeter as she knitted back the muscles, vessels, and skin until the arrow came out fully.

The mercenary under her hands was lucky that she was unconscious, mending wasn't the gentlest of tasks. Moina could use the shroud to dull the pain, but in situations like these even that little bit could mean the death of another. The mercenaries of Crorefell were no cowards to pain and most seemed to understand the proper distribution of her limited resources.

Moina dropped the arrow to the ground, wiping the spot with the cloth at her belt observing the fresh flesh bright and new. She leaned down pressing her ear against the woman's rising chest. Listening carefully to make sure that she'd healed everything appropriately. Satisfied she leaned back, closing her eyes and taking a breath, wishing for the breeze that she'd stolen to cool her shroud heated skin. Words echoed around her and it took a moment before she realized it was her being addressed.

"It's over?" She asked her own question. The end of the fighting meant there was now time to find the wounded and bring them to her. Things were going to get more strenuous before it her burden would ease. "Ten dead so far. Mostly from the arrows and mostly the Imperials. I don't know if the Bulls have brought in all their injured yet." She leaned back pointing down the line of groaning bodies. "Still some that I need to tend to, but most of those aren't critical injuries. I'll get to them as I can, or I can give supplies to those that might know how to sew cuts." She'd run into plenty of others who had some basic skill with stitching wounds.
 
Near a dozen dead wasn't good any way you looked at it and yet the Sixth was feeling lucky. He'd been about a cunt's hair from sleeping with the worms. A poorly planned ambush was still an ambush. You rarely got a second chance in this business. The moment someone got the better of you...well suffice to say second chances weren't common.

The Sixth only needed a glance to see that most had been from the scholar's personal guard. Seems the Magisterium would need to be a little more discerning if they wanted anyone to present their touted thesis. Still, swords were swords; even the useless ones. These weren't the usual rabble but numbers could often dissuade the most fervent aggressors. Considering their losses, it very much might end up being a rather long night.

"Bulls wont cry foul but do what you can. We'll be moving in fifteen." His words echoed with promise. He knew the other cadre and they were tough bastards. If the Sixth offered respite they'd shove steel so deep he'd be shitting shards.

Best to just get on with it.
 
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She brought herself to her feet, stumbling slightly as her head swam. Shroud-sickness washing over her a moment before clearing. She'd saved more than a few so far and was starting to feel the drain. Giving a shake of her head, she clears away the fog. There wouldn't be much more that she could do before she got to the point of being drained for the moment. Food and rest would help her recharge, but she was already pulling bits from the environment. A dangerous risk.

"Fifteen minutes." She confirmed. She would have to get some Bulls to help her load the injured into the wagons where she would continue to work. There were more than a few that still needed care that she wouldn't be able to cover in fifteen minutes, but she understood the need to get on the move before backup could arrive or worse.

A Bull walked nearby and she reached out to catch their arm. "We need able bodies to put the injured into the wagons." She ordered, while not a Bull, there was enough respect among the Storied that they followed without question. No one wanted to get on the bad side of a mender. Moina turned back to The Sixth. "I'll have everything in order to be able to move by then." With a slight nod of her head in respect, she returned to her work directing the Bulls that came to assist with those that could be moved while she healed the few who couldn't.

Those lost were laid orderly at the side of the road for the earth weavers to sink them into the ground. Those fifteen minutes passed quicker than she realized and soon it was time for the column to start moving again. She took a moment to pay her respect to those that gave their lives. Moving near to the wagon, it feeling higher than it was in her exhaustion, she leaned against the wood briefly taking a breath before she made the attempt to pull herself into the back.
 
"Back in the carriage, scholar," ordered the Sixth, lacking even the slightest hint of jest.

"Render honorifics you witless dirtfuck," the former, now-bloodied Khastri shot back in a vain attempt to defend his patron's honor.

The Sixth leveled a hard gaze, murder all but given in his eyes. Neither reached for their blade but for the opposite reason. A dangerous moment hung between the two but eventually culminated in shit-all. This was dance he was all too familiar with and properly despised. It was a waste of time, which was an all too critical resource in these situations. He wasn't keen ending this jaunt with an arrow in the throat. That's how things ended when you let the other bastards get a step ahead.

They set off not a few moments later. Dancer had them moving at-speed, reducing the odds of them being pinned down by another hail of arrows.

He borrowed a Bull's horse and fell back to one of the trailing wagons. There he found the mender, exhausted but spirit remaining strong. "We're still half a moon's spell from the Eye. Will our injured make it if we keep pace?" asked the Sixth of the other Storied. A decision had to be made. Death for some and maybe not all, or life for now and maybe the death of many.
 
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The caravan started moving again quick and she was certain it was thanks to the sixth and the Bulls. Their employers were exactly giving her faith in the leadership department, much less in their ability to appropriately respond to such a thing like an ambush. As the wagon she was in jerked forward in movement, she braced herself grabbing ahold of the back of the seat of the wagon to not fall over. She was starting to feel the drain of the knitting that she had done. Yet there was still more to do before she could afford a break. However, she was getting to the point of stabilization over full healing.

Moina was just finishing stabilizing a Bull who'd taken a deep wound to the thigh. She'd not been able to fully close the wound, instead focusing on healing enough to stop the bleeding and then manually stitching the wound back together and wrapping it tightly. The Bull wouldn't bleed out, but neither would he be able to fight again until she was able to finish her work later. Standing, Moina swayed as her vision blurred before everything focused again. Not able to stop yet, she hopped down lightly from the moving wagon and to the second that held the injured. The driver reached down to give her a hand up. It was here that the sixth found her, needle threading through a wound on a man's side the bleeding having been stopped.

The boneknitter glanced up. "These should all make it. The ones at risk were either already saved or given rites." Her face was drawn, exhaustion clear, but still she pressed on needle flashing in the waning sunlight as her fingers deftly pulled at the thread the two sides of the wound pulling together neatly. "Better to find a safer place to make it to the Eye then stop now." A decision perhaps seen as cruel as the groans of pain echoed around her, but Moina held no compunction to make decisions that others might view as callous. There had been two of the Legion beyond saving that she'd chosen to end their lives than let them continue to suffer until the Dark Moon came for them on her own.
 
Exhaustion was written all over the healer's face and yet her words had been steady. That was enough for the Sixth. He'd never been keen on stopping in any case but needed to know the cost. He was a bastard but not all dead were the same to him. The 'Bulls were an honest sort and that was tough to find in this business. Dancer knew they'd have his back if he asked it. He hated to admit it, but the Sixth would lose some sleep if these stubborn fools died on his watch.

"A straight shot to the Eye then, or as near as we can get." He hopped back onto the borrowed steed and signaled to the other wagons to keep moving. There was nothing for it now. With any luck, they'd bump into some other travelers as well. There was a loose agreement between the Free States to patrol roads near the actual cities but between them there was little in the way of protection in most cases.

They only stopped for the briefest of moments to rest the horses, otherwise using magic to keep the steeds fresh.

The city was almost in sight when an alternating sound of hooves caught the mercenary's attention. "Last call!" He yelled out, letting the Bulls know an attack was incoming. Mounted foes burst from the shadows, fewer in number but deadly all the same. If the lead wagon was stopped, a quick-end would follow.
 
She didn't look up as the Sixth rode back toward the front to continue leading the column toward the Eye. She knew that he'd consider her words against the rest of the information that he held as the decision was made. Moina was much too focused on torn flesh in her hands as she worked steadily, yet quickly before moving onto the next. No longer able to mend as she might with the shroud at her fingertips, but she was way since drained. Now was about triage. The hours seemed to fly as she worked. She was vaguely aware of someone shoving a skin of water into her hand at some point and demanding she take a short break. A quick swig and sip, cleaned her mouth of the dust of travel before she drank deeply quenching a thirst that she didn't know that she had. Before she dove back into the work.

She was nearing the end of the wounded, when the shout of warning came. Moina looked up, hearing the sound of hooves now as they thundered on the ground in their direction. More? "Moon shadowed bastards." She cursed as the horses barreled down at them. The wagons were the slowest of the company and she grabbed her bow jumping down to the ground stumbling on her feet a moment. She wasn't really fit to be standing, but she was still standing where as there were many wounded unable to fight. The small calvary that their party had charged past, the wind catching against her hair and clothing, causing them to whip and snap. "Keep on to the Eye." She shouted to the wagon drivers. "As quickly as you can." If they could keep going they can used the structures as cover.

Despite her exhaustion, she drew the bow string back. Her years of training with the intention of joining a legion helping to keep her muscles strained enough that the string wouldn't loosen dangerously. She loosed the string and the arrow flew and embedded in the neck of the first rider charging toward the mercenary company as they turned to face their enemy head on.
 
The Sixth readied his reins as he prepared to turn around but held off at the last moment. Many of the Bulls had already pivoted to meet the incoming attackers. This front of the caravan was exposed, either through design or incompetence. The mercenary didn't care much why as he pushed to keep pace with the lead wagon, notably acting as a buffer for the scholar's carriage.

Two mounted foes bounded towards them from the front as if in response to the Sixth's paranoia. The mercenary urged his horse forward as to close the distance. His hand fell to his sash and then shot out, dagger slicing through the air and into one rider's chest. He drew his longblade next as the gap between his remaining foe left no other option.

He struggled to maintain his balance and his steed barrelled forward. The Sixth was no damned Selvari. It was a wonder they preferred to fight from horseback. His opponent however had ridden hard to overtake the caravan and it showed. The mercenary's blade was quicker by a breadth, and that difference was deadly. He didn't bother to watch the other man fall from his mount.

They were close to the Eye now and the path ahead was clear. He could only hope that there were some in the rearguard still alive to see it.
 
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