Open None to point

[Bakromanser]

Lekander Barony
Southeastern borderlands​

The snow lingered this year. Sumu lay cradled between sodden fields and barren woods to whom spring still owed the green. Slumped at the edge of the marshes yet undrained. The place held together by stubbornness more than stone. Even the smoke from the chimneys looked embarrassed as it struggled with the wind. Houses huddled close to the ground. Snow melted, but the weight remained. Fences leaning like merry men, wetlands offering little in the form of spine. Even at distance, Sumu had seen better days. A scar many times patched over with great care, but a scar upon the land nonetheless.

The road in was messed up by too many boots. Too many hooves. Soldiers maybe. Hard to say. But the shape of it was wrong. This wasn't rank and file. These were men moving in small packs.

Near the fields, the first farm sat open to the elements, unattended door banged with the breathing of the breeze. Repeatedly. No dogs barked. No children ran. No animals to complain. Just the thin moan of the wind between empty fences.

Something wrong. Something coming.

*​

Meanwhile.

At the treeline, downwind, a dozen figures moved bannerless. No armor or order. Scarves tied across their faces like it mattered, old blades at the hip. Rust setting in slightly at the unclean edge. The man in front wore a battered chestplate clearly made for a smaller man, scratchy in all the wrong places. Spat before he spoke.

„Two barns.“ Voice heavy with liquid and worse. „Couple carts. We take it fast. Burn if we have to.“
„Won't the lords com' lookin'?“ a younger voice hesitated.
„Only ash left by then. No one left to point a finger.“ Mouth twisted in what could resemble a smile. But the job was unfinished.

The entire group advanced in a loose line. Sickly snake rolling on its side. Creeping towards the village. Some were sneaking, while the others half jogged. Their metal catching the last bits of light.

*​

At the clearing overlooking Sumu, you see it unfold. Children and the old being ushered inside a larger building. Looked like a once granary. Stronger hands pulled the doors shut. Gathering at the front. A man staring into the woods. Feet steady and sinking into the mud. Pitchfork in hand. Hands trembling. Hard to judge fear from cold at a distance. A single shape against a dozen shadows. Bad was the only news the wind chose to carry. Sumu was still standing. For the moment. But the night was coming.

And so were they.

 

[Etain d'Aramond]

The knightess pulled the rains to her horse. The big destrier with the roan coat halted just beyond the first leaning fence. The road here was wrecked, trampled to ruin by too many boots, too many hooves. She smelled churned earth and the sour bite of old smoke. The horse snorting at the stink.

No one came out. Doors bolted tight. Not even a mutt to bark at her passing. The only movement was the banging of a shutter in the wind. Over and over, a hollow, tired sound. She shifted in the saddle. Etain clicked her tongue and the horse moved forward at a careful walk. Etain frowned, glancing around again. The village of Sumu looked like it had given up days ago.

There! Movement!
A cluster of villagers, limping old men, crying women, a scattering of children rushing down the road, dragging each other toward a big building. A granary, judging by the thick beams and the old stone foundation. They slammed the doors shut behind them. She caught a few pale faces peeking through cracks.

Etain sat a moment longer in the saddle, one hand resting lazily on her sword. She didn't need anyone to spell it out. She had seen enough burned farmsteads and mass graves to know the pattern. Near the tree line, shadows moved. Etain smirked. "Ah," she said aloud. "There you are..."

Without hesitation, she turned her horse and rode a few steps closer to the line of trees, just enough that they'd hear her without mistaking her intent. The muscles on the big warhorse twitched as it sensed the tension. It started to chew restlessly on the bit.

"I see you, bastards!" she barked "You’ve got no right to these people, to this land! Turn your sorry arses back to the woods.. Or I’ll carve you into pieces so fucking small, your mothers won’t recognize you. Your choice!!" She gave her warhorse a slight nudge with a heel, the horse's muscles rippled as it shifted it's weight, ready to charge at command. With a fluid motion, Etain drew her sword. The steel's quiet whisper as it slid from the scabbard was no more than a breath. The blade caught the dying daylight with a glint.

 

[Hector]

The stink of armonium laden paint stung the nose. Buzzed buzzed between the ears, so thick it was behind the grimace of Hector's bevor. But that was the price one paid for steel that drank in the dying light of day. Amor that looked more shadow than flame forged plate. No shine to be seen. Secrets of the Monastery, crafted for such dishonorable purposes. Runes engraved there upon each band and plane of metal, to dampen steel's eager song. Branches and rocks clinked soft, almost silent.

"I count near a dozen," Hector whispered, from his place hunkered down in the copse, at the edge of the clearing.

"Right near that, aye," Edwynna hushed back. The two were out on a long patrol, going west from Lehtoja.

"They are moving toward Sumu,"

"I can see that, Syr," she thought the numbers over in her head. "Best we let them go by, we come back with others,"

"They are like to burn the place to the ground by then," Hector said, almost too loud.

"Stay your tongue, Dawnling," Edwynna cut as she looked back at him sharp. "We are not out here to help Sumu, we are out here, because of that colossus of yours,"

The half elf shift in the dirt. Rose to a knee, the white feather pinned to the side of his kettle helm a stir in the dank air. "I will not leave them,"

Edwynna grumbled, and got up her self. "Set the flare over them, then, and call down the blade, I'll-" she said, saw the line of brigands fan wide as they neared the outskirts of the farmland. "Hold on a tick, is that a courser?"

I see you bastards!

Hector studied the sight a moment. "A proper destrier,"

Edwynna grinned wide beneath the raised visor of her armet. "Make's our rouncies look like right ponies," she laughed. "Well shit, flare up then, Hec, I'll hit them from here if they press their numbers," braver now with a proper distraction on the field.

Hector drew in his breath, took gauntleted hand. Set thumb and index to ring. Three fingers bladed as he set the sight high in the air. Pushed his breath out. Felt the heat swirl there beyond pursed lips.

Edwynna grabbed up her bow, got behind cover, and knocked an arrow.

A spiral of sparks spat to life there in the darkening space betwixt. That line of brigands, and the lone knight with shining blade. A show of shroud work that boiled and steamed the cold spring air. Popped, crackled, flashed with a bang! The field washed in light, as a white flame burned there above them. Hung like a bright standard in the air. Hector's mind full on its shape, his eyes alight with a forge's glow.

 

[Bakromanser]

„'s a girl, innit?“
„Aye!“
„We could use a 'orse.“
Nods of agreement before a younger boy in the back spoke: „Ain't she the one that dusted the Ox?“
It seemed like that would get some consideration, but it only got grunts and laughs.
„Aye, and she's got rocks in 'er tits, I'm sure. Get up! We've been made.“ The yell rang out as the group started straightening up. The younger in the back making sure he was behind someone. With their backs straight, the weapons started coming out. No need for stealth or guile, if they wanted to fight, they could well burn for it. They only wanted some loot.

Why did these fuckers always have to make everything so difficult.

„Aight, don't kill the 'orse!“ The man in front tapped his ill-fitting plate, raising up a sword as if to signal a charge. It was taken up with a middling response, as a couple guys passed him by. He half swung at one, unhappy with the speed he was obeyed.

That's when the sky lit up.

*​

Behind the rider, Sumu was in panic. The man she rode ahead of had since dropped his pitchfork. Bent down gingerly to pick it back up, stuck between running and pulling down his top linens. His true feelings dripping down his pants. She was gonna save 'em for sure! Mean she had to. Had a flashing sword and all. And the sky lit up! Surely that was a sign.

Further down, able bodies were trying to barricade the entrance to the granary. Armed with ax and hoe, duty and fear. Some of them decided it was better to hide inside than face the theivin' bastards. Another, inside, decided to make a break for it and join the defense effort. The elder was quickly picked up and pulled back in. A small boy had grabbed a kitchen knife, longer than his arm, and ducked behind a low fence – ready to give 'em a thrashing. An older man up front kept hissing at him to go back inside.

*​

What little morale the men had got cut even shorter.

„Akmal's crack, das one of 'em shrouds!“

The commander turned around and slapped the wrong man. They couldn't falter now. They've come too far.

„Oi!, shroud or no, all it takes is one good thunk to the 'ed!“ His free hand waved over two of the men.
„Jab get yer bow and shoot the bitch! Tam, get yer ass here and watch our flank!“
The two men moved, one to front and one to the side.
Jab drew his bow back, it took but a moment to loose. He hoped he wouldn't hit the 'orse. Cap'n would put an arrow in him for that.
Tam got his own shortbow ready, staring at where he thought them shrouds could be hiding. If any of 'em fuckers so much as peeked out, he was gonna pepper them real good.

„Rest of ya! Get Runnin'!“ All but the two bowmen took the momentum. Too quick to be called cowards, but far too slow to be called brave.

 

[Etain d'Aramond]

Etain watched the spark-light curl up above them. The warhorse shifted under her, unbothered by the noise or show, trained for worse. Her sword caught the flare and flared back tenfold, burning silver in the glow. The bowman loosed his shot. Etain twisted her shoulder, and the arrow skipped harmlessly off her pauldron. Etain’s eyes didn’t leave them, not when the first arrows soared. She reached back, slow and deliberate, and pulled the helm from the saddle hook and set it on her head.

“Right then. You had your chance.”

She lowered the visor with a sharp clank. Drew her sword back, firm in one hand, the reins coiled tight in the other. The warhorse quivered beneath her, muscle, steel, and fury bred for nothing but this. Then she kicked. The charge hit like thunder. Arrows skipped off her breastplate with sharp rings and clinks.

Mud sprayed, hooves pounding, the sound like an earthquake cracking frozen earth. The ground vibrated slightly under the warhorse’s weight, the hoves churning sod and snow. Etain leaned into it, blade drawn back, every inch of her leaning toward violence.

She aimed for the first man who did not run fast enough. He raised his weapon far too late. He yelled something she didn’t bother to hear. Because that’s when she leaned in, shifted her weight, and with a vicious swing took his head at his neck as she passed. Steel, bone, and red mist. One thousand pounds of trained muscle and iron trampled the next man down without breaking stride. There was a crunch, a wet snap, and then nothing but red in the frozen slush of mud.

Then... thwip. A kiss of wind, a snap of pain. Etain grunted, both in annoyance and agony. The arrow buried itself deep into the joint of her greave and cuisse, just above the knee. Right where the plate gave for movement. Dirty little maggot got lucky. Without letting go of the reins her hand yanked the shaft, snapped it off with a crack. The head stayed buried, iron biting meat. Blood running down into the stirrup.

 

[Hector]

A break of branch and twig. Leaves rustle and fall as one knight of Anatheaum broke through what cover hid him.

Willosteel blade ripped free from scabbard. Breath hot in helmet, mixed with the rush of cold air sucked in. Armored legs pumped across uneven earth. Bladed hand still held its signs, up to the chest. Fingers pointed to the flair.

"Fucking piss on Ghanga's drum," Edwynna growled through her teeth. She took aim.

An arrow shot back and plunked across breastplate. Shaft rattled against bevor. Hector kept moving.

Edwynna loosed in turn. Knocked again, loosed at the archers.

To a stop, Hector raised his sword, aimed its point forward, feet sunk into mud and frost. Still meters that needed closing between himself and the line of shadows that danced beneath the flare's pale glow. Another arrow struck the earth infront of him. He ran his weaving hand along the blade. Dug feet into the earth as he thrust the incandescent blade up. Shaped fingers ran down across steel and bone.

The spark in the sky turned technicolor. Beat, after beat, like hammers blows against red hot steel, sent sparks spraying about that mass of shroud. Gave it shape. A sword of dawn's fire. Bright as the sun, peering over darkened clouds.

Hector cut the sword in his hand down. Aimed its point to the man who'd run furthest from the line and crush. Neared the posts. The sword of fire struck down from where it hung in the sky. Like a horrible bird, beaks point set to prey, it crashed unto the man in a plume of golds and whites.

Another arrow plinked against armored shoulder. Knocked the mage-knight a step back. Hector's eyes went wide. Head swivvled and saw a man running toward him.

Crow's beak cocked back. It fell toward Hector. Short after distance was made. Hector gave a practiced cut for the hand. Drew blood. But grit and adrenaline kept the brigand's hand strong. A second man there behind the crow's beak, rusty blade swiped out and clattered against well fitted plate.

An arrow snikt into unarmored neck. The swordsman's eyes wide with fletching sprout from vitals.

 

[Bakromanser]

The ignition came too quick for screams, perhaps there was some mercy in that. The smell of burnt pork and housefire tainted the air. The bandits were in chaos, there was no chain of command stronger than dawnfire.
Fuck the Cap'n!
Each man for himself – survival was the name of the game.

*​

In the village, those in the street dropped their tools. Sky had just killed a man. What can men do against such evil? Inside the granary, multiple voices were crying out. One came ahead:

„Get us out, gods damn ya! Get us out! We'll burn alive in here!“ It wasn't a cry of battle, but it did serve as a battering ram for the door. The crowd poured out into the street. Running in all directions. Some fell and got trampled. Luckily, the ground was soft and swampy enough for it not to be fatal. The few that got stepped on squirmed in the open.

It was never good to wish ill upon your neighbor, but more than a single prayer went out:
If the fire had to take someone, let it be them.
They were nearly gone anyway. Those who lived would carry the shame forever, but they would live.
It was a fair trade.

*​

They had been reduced by a third in a span of two claps, and no amount of loot was worth what came next.
The two archers surprised even themselves by moving in unison. No man can outrun a war'orse. Adrenaline in their veins steadied the tremble of their hands as they loosed repeated shots at the 'orse, one from the back and another from the side.
They could take being chewed out later if it meant they'd live.
If the beast went down, they could likely outrun the rest.
All poachers knew good legs were half the job.

*​

The Captain and two closest to him still moved together. Pushed further into the village, and the rabble that just provided opportunity. He grabbed a kid in each hand and thunked them together like sacks of potatoes to stop the squirming briefly. Dropped his sword without a doubt. Was a rusty piece of shit anyway. And, as the knife at his belt knew well, you didn't need a larger blade to peel potatoes.
„Dis one!“
His boot kicked in the door of the closest hut. It simply snapped away, unlocked – but there was no time for brains or gentle.
The two behind had grudges of their own, the one who deserved the slap and the one who got it. Didn't stop them from working together in this moment, as one smacked the old guy in the face with his own pitchfork, and the other dragged them into the commandeered lodging.
The half busted door swung shut behind them.
No screams were heard inside. Yet.

*​

The last two looked to each other like they had a plan and ran up the hill to the knight on foot. No one could escape skyfire. No! There was but one choice.
„One good thunk to the 'ed.“ One of them even murmured it as he charged up to meet the longear.
Arrows be damned, he wasn't getting cooked like Dax!

As they pulled closer to the knight, they were almost connected at the hip. One swung his axe heavy on the right, forcing a response. It should've created an opening, but the left man simply threw away his sword and knife. Attempting a kneel with arms raised, but the force of the charge had him planting face first into the frost ridden surface.
„I give u....ghhh.“ voice muffled as the arms stayed spread ahead.
The one who kept fighting became wide-eyed following the swing. His back fully exposed.
Without proper support, he was fucked.
„You mother...“ A line he'd never get to finish.

 

[Etain d'Aramond]

For a moment, she twisted in the saddle, horrified. Not because of the fire. But because those poor idiots had locked themselves inside it. The granary was aflame. Flames rose high. Screams clawed at the edges of her hearing. Human, panicked, and shrill like dying pigs.

A moment’s distraction, and it cost her. The first arrow struck her mount in the flank. The beast grunted, shuddering. The second, closer to the chest, made it stumble, hooves kicking up black earth as it reeled beneath her. Etain cursed and clamped tight with her knees. The destrier didn’t go down, it bucked and faltered, lurching sideways in pain. Etain swung her leg over and dropped with a metallic thud. She hit the earth hard. Blood pooled hot in her boot. The warhorse huffed, flared its nose and sidestepped away, whinnying with rage and fear. It would kick and bite anyone who tried to go near it.

The burning houses reflected on her polished helm and plates. The world was narrowed to steel and shadow. Etain walked through pain like it was a shallow stream. She knew the sound of men running for his life, knew it better than most. And she could smell them, even over the smoke. Piss. Fear. Blood.

“Come on then,” she growled at the bowfuckers, “... don’t make me chase you!” A dull thock against her breastplate, an arrow ricocheting off. She adjusted her grip around her sword, then began her slow, deliberate walk toward one archer.

 

[Hector]

Eyes traced by flame's light, Hector could feel the fires spread. Distant as they were across the cold earth. Hungry and ravenous for being fed blood. No cold would stop them. No ice, nor melt.

A hammer whirred by, a miss caused by misstep. Hector held stance. Jammed boot there at the man's knee. Slapped knuckle and wrist with flat of blade and worked the edge up to neck as off hand grabbed hairs upon scalp. Growl hot through his teeth as his mind thought only of the needs that pressed.

Gauntlet and pommel butt smacked hard against the side of skull and the crowsbeak fell from broken and cut hands. Gauntlet loosed and the man fell limp to the mud. What came of him mattered less now.

Shroud lit eyes turned to the one who had surrendered. Swordspoint sharp cut to aim down at him. Ready to thrust as he rose from the the mud. "Leave then," he rasped like hot smoke.

Weak nods. Mud covered and cold. At least one fucker ran free from the band.

Edywnna eyed the archers. "Bloody fucking bowman," she hissed as she measured the range. Knocked arrow to bow and took breath before pull.

Loosed.

Hector turned to see the village. Aflame. People in panic. Turned more to see the knight upon the field. Cursed as he spied the archers beyond. Willosteel blade sliced to point to the flames that licked along the rooftops and spread across the granery. Breath spilled out from lungs, and with free hand, his fingers spread out towards those ravenous tongues.

They would not go out. But they knew greed.

"I have more to feed you," he whispered. Felt their heat jump at the promise. He pulled. And from the flames turned daggers and knives. Held there above the houses and granary.

Hector turned his eyes toward the archers. His mouth full of ash.

 

[Bakromanser]

As soon as the knight was off the 'orse and still moving, the archers broke in opposite directions.
As the fuckin' shithole burned behind them, they weren't going to mess with people who were not only setting them on fire, but the village too.
Jab slid behind a building and out of sight of the longear, confident in his belief that he could outrun the wounded woman. It was no longer important where he was going. Just away. As far as his legs would carry him.

I'm comin' home!

Tam took the opposite approach, running between the girl and them firefuckers on the hill.
He was always quicker of the two, but he did run in a very straight line.

Fuck this! No plunder was worth getting burned alive. Why couldn't they just let 'em have some?

*​

The boy on the hill next to the longear didn't take the time to pick the mud and worse from his teeth. Simply scrambled up slowly and nodded to the the elf creature that no longer paid him any mind. Looked down to Robby and his caved in skull, form limp, but the left arm wouldn't stop twitching. Almost thought of helping the poor wretch.

No! He didn't come here to be buddies. Came here so his folks could eat. And they'd eat better with him alive.
Moved towards the woods, catching a brief glimpse of another woman behind a tree.
Ghanga's tits! Was there no end to them?
But he had no time to think, becoming a creature of mud and shadow he saw the forest as his way out.

Alive another day. Alive. That's all that mattered.

*​

Inside Sumu proper, panic was the only thing that remained organized.
Children screamed as parents covered them in coats and blankets and patted out the sparks.
Some were seen in time, others stopped screaming on their own.
Smoky little piles of flesh and cloth fusing together. Dinner and burnt wool. People who found them lost what little their stomach still held.

Someone was yelling for Adam.
But Adam wasn't comin'.

Too many people ran for the fire to be stopped, and those who remained were too consumed with action to consider plans.

A young man took the well bucket and filled it with mud, tried to slosh the fires he could reach with the sludge, but the unexpected weight of it tore the bucket from his hands.
The silly thing became part of the very fire it was trying to fight.

A shovel! Yes, a shovel, surely!

A man with soot on his cheeks tried to calm the others, but no one was listening. He needed more hands to fight the fire, but there were none left. All anyone had was legs and stamina.
Kept yelling about cutting off air. Wasn't sure what that meant, but he'd heard it somewhere.

Two brave kids had an idea that matched the quickness of their feet. Carrying along a sack of flour. No hesitation. Until it burst mid run. The white cloud spread violently, before turning orange – feeding a different kind of fire. One of them got his hand singed, the other's hair was on fire. He flailed like a mad dandelion before someone smothered him in fabric.

Someone saw where the bastards dragged the children. A woman with mud in her hair and blood on her sleeves ran for the hut, fire iron in hand. Two others came along, one shouting something that couldn't be heard over the commotion.
They slammed against the door. But the damn thing held! For now.
Inside, one of the kids began crying again.
Outside, the leftover villagers were gathering stones, tools, anything really – as long as you could throw or swing it, it was good enough.
No one knew who was in charge. No one cared.

They were done waiting.

And beyond the smoke and screams, the knight was still coming.
Leg bleeding and horse relinquished.
Wounded, but not stopped.
It wasn't the village's fire burning in her eyes.

*​

Three men inside the hut were scared shitless, but none would admit it to the other.
When the whelp cried, it was met with a good smack to the back of his head.
„None o' dat!“

Would everyone just be quiet for a second?! He needed brains time, not this screaming shitshow.

He couldn't show weakness in front of the other two, they'd sell him out the moment they weren't afraid of him.
More noise came from the outside, as his two remaining men did their best to hold the door against the rampant villagers outside.
The roof was smoking. The three of them were fit enough to have a chance at not choking.
Kids and the old fuck – not so lucky. If they died, the leverage was gone.
But opening the door meant fighting, and he'd had enough of that for today.

He could still smell Dax in the air.

 

[Etain d'Aramond]

Etain screamed after the running bowfuckers with everything left in her lungs.

“COWARDS! FUCKING COWAAAAAHRDS!!”

She watched them vanish, one swallowed by smoke, the other by trees. Her breath ragged and raw. For a moment, her sword hand twitched, eager to chase. Her blade still slick with someone else's last breath. She knew damn well she couldn’t catch either of them. Not with an arrow in her leg and iron weighing down every inch of her body.

Behind her, Sumu burned. She pushed the visor up, let out a sharp breath, and spat into the dirt, tasting ash. The screaming, real screaming, dragged her attention back to the village. Etain turned. The burning remains of Sumu twisted in smoke and red light. Sparks whirled up toward the sky.

Etain reached the village. The smell of smoke was thick in the air, and the heat pressed on her. She could hear the children inside a burning hut, their cries barely cutting through the chaos. She stepped over the corpse of a man who’d died with an axe still in his hands. Took it. One hand. No hesitation. Like it had always been hers.

Etain stomped up to the hut, sweat and ash fresh in her mouth.

The villagers parted.

The door was solid, but Etain’s resolve was harder. Without hesitation, she raised the ax and swung it down in a heavy arc. Steel met wood. CRACK. Wood split and screamed. With a growl, she swung the ax at the door again, again and again wood splintering beneath the steel. The heat from the fire swelled, biting at her exposed face and burning her eyebrows.

“Open the godsdamn thing!” someone shouted behind her.

She gritted her teeth, ignoring the sting in her leg, the weight of her armor. One more strike. The next blow split a jagged hole near the latch. She dropped the axe with a grunt and shoved her gauntleted arm into the hole, fingers groping past hot wood and smoke until...

She found the latch.

 

[Hector]

Fire in his veins, smoke hot in his throat. Hector saw the line in which the archers had ran. One away, into the cold. One toward. Into the heat. Smoke swirled around him as he slunk and he hid.

Fire's whispers and hisses, crackles and spits, all chattered in his ears beneath the shade of his kettle helm. They would not listen. They would go on. Dancing and prancing, and eating. Until they were no more.

Who was he to will them? Who was he to call them?

But a lowly thing of flesh and bone.

Teeth grit like clamp around iron, glowing white hot in the forge. He would make them listen. He would shape them. Hand still out stretched, fingers still woven to the threads of shroud that pulled and danced at the end of their tips. Blood felt to boil. Bone felt to cook. He could smell it. Hear his own skin crackle beneath the armor.

A scream of his own to join the chorus of death. He ripped the flames from the rooftops. From the granery. Where the sword was pure dawnfire, this was a spout of fire's storm. A blazing wind whipped to shape and stole all the heat from the flames that spread.

The fires leapt from their tinder and flame. Drawn to the call. What clang to straw and hot stone was left shroudless. Cold wet frozen spring air there to smother it as the torrent of flame snaked across the air. Almost a bolt. Willed by a weaver.

It struck out. Away from Sumu. Across the field. Hungry. It blazed toward Hector. Who called it. Who shaped it. Who flung it in a straight line.

It roared like a wyrm. Chased and snarled. Crashed into the fleeing bowfucker who had run between the firefucker and the girl. So much of Sumu's fire whipped and trailed there into that measely morsel. Ate him to cinders in wash that danced angry and gleeful and mad in the mud that kept it from growing.

Edwynna gawked. Only a moment. Clicked her teeth, and shouldered her bow. Made for the Dawnling. Bumped into the idiot made of mud and forest. "What in the bloody fuck?!"

The idiot gawked hands up and quivering.

She kicked him in the gut with her boot and hurried past him toward Hector who wavered where he stood. Steam rising from the cracks in his armor before he fell to the mud in a heap that hissed.

"Hec!" she cried out and hurried over. Hands quick to find vials stashed in belts and pouches.

Sumu smoldered and hissed in the cold spring morning. Much of the fire gone. Set to dance in the field alone like vicious mockery.

 

[Bakromanser]

Smoke was thickening inside the hut. Roof timbers hissed and cried, popping out of place, embers dancing in the suffocating air. One of the kids whimpered again and, for once, no one struck him.
No. Crying was correct.
The fuck are they to do?

Lemm, his cheek still red from before, paced like a caged dog. His eyes kept going up to line of the roof and tar tears mixing with the stuffing. Caught between Cap'n and the door.
Hoped to get out of here and see more world, more days – but the world felt smaller with each step.

Ewan was still on task, holding the door. These fuckers won't be getting past him! Each thud felt like a heartbeat of panicked beast. He knew beasts, so he knew to brace when the beat grew steady – preparing to pounce.
That instinct was the only thing that kept him off his ass as a much harder strike came.

*​

Outside, Etain hammered the creaky door. It was no anvil, only bones under pressure. Each thump loosened the more wood, strained more hinges.
The ax dug like salvation.
The final strike came, and it was no longer a question of whether the door would give, but whether it would be the latch, the planks, or the whole damned frame.
The more she worked it, the more smoke came from the growing gap.
Kindling opened wide and her hand shoved inside.

Got the latch. Like pulling a rotten tooth.

*​

„Fuck's sake, Lemm! 'Elp me!“ Ewan yelled, as the door struggled to push back.
Lemm grabbed the nearest damn thing – a three legged wooden stool. As he turned, the swing went from the balls of his feet all the way down to the wrist. A cudgel with extra bits.
A gauntleted hand made for an easy target.
But he never asked whether easy meant soft.
It was unclear what he struck in the cloudy smoke, but he knew the sound of wood splintering.

Only coughs inside after.

Except the kids – who wailed like the damned.

---

The spared bandit always knew them elf types were all shrouds. Half'un or not, it made no difference.
Shroudfiends the lot of 'em.
Who else looked at people and thought fire?

The man who'd run past the knight to check on his house hit the ground when the sky lit up with judgement. He followed the flame to the hill, and the lone figure. The Bandit never turned. Nothing left. Not even the boots.
His voice cracked as he whispered what he already knew. „Skykiller.“

A mother holding her babe further afield felt her legs give out just before the blaze cracked the sky. Clutched her child tighter and remembered the stories from when she was little.
About Sumu's dragon.
She believed now.

The elder, still wept half stomped in the granary. Didn't even see the flame. Just the moment the fire stopped.

*​

Hector, hands still twisted in invocation, smelled his own flesh cooking beneath the plate.
Skin dried and limbs stiff – smoke left him through every gap it could find.
Lesser men would scream, but lesser men did not have mouths full of ash.
He fed the fire. Taught it to eat. Now it wanted more.
And in the claustrophobia of heat, the armor began to tighten

Edwynna saw him fall before she felt the gust of heat.
Each step closer, hotter.
Grass wilted where he went down. The air around him danced like a mirage.

Because not all fire came from flame.

 

[Etain d'Aramond]

The blow came suddenly, a crunch of cheap wood and splinters on steel. Etain grunted, more from insult than pain. The gauntlet took it, but her temper didn’t. Smoke coiled around her face, sweat already beading at her brow. She yanked her arm back through the hole, flexed her fingers. The hole showed a black and bitter inside of a hut, and she could just barely make out shapes flinching behind it. One of them had tried her.

“Alright,” she snarled. “Let’s do it your way.” Etain lifted her sword. Without a warning, she stabbed the blade into the gap. No finesse. Just rage and steel. Once. Twice. Thrice... fast, brutal jabs through the split boards. Each thrust a wordless fuck you to whatever coward was on the other side swinging chairs on her.

Then she lowered her shoulder. “Move,” she growled, unclear whether she meant the children or the door. Sword in one hand, she threw her full weight into it. Armor crashed against the wood. The weakened planks groaned like wounded beasts, the latch half-torn from her earlier work. Etain hurled herself at the door again. Shoulder down, rage up. The wood cracked loud this time. She sucked in smoke and bared her teeth, readying for a third strike...

And the world lit up. A scream, not hers, rose as fire peeled from the rooftops. Etain staggered a step back, eyes wide. The inferno howled past her. Heat slammed her face, lit her helm red, sucked all the air out of her throat. "Fuck..." Etain staggered, dazzled against the flash of that big flame.

But Etain rammed the door again, hard enough to rattle her own bones. The hinges screamed and the whole thing burst inward with a wooden groan. She shouldered through. She stumbled forward with the force of her own weight, half-blind in the smoke, boots skidding on scorched floors.

 

[Hector]

Edwynna reared back from the heat that swirled and shimmered about her Sworn Kin. Armored hands her shielding her as armonium laden paint cracked and pealed away from the sweltering kiss of shroud-lash.

A grunt through grit teeth as she saw the mud about him roil and whisper. Pop and bubble.

"Fucking dawn-brained idiot," she hissed. Stashed the vial back into her pouch, and took two steps back in the wet earth. Her eyes looked to the mud that met her boots. Eyes wide, she fell to her knees dropped her hands in the mud. Scooped and smeared it across the painted plate.

She was no weaver, like the Half-Ear, but she had been taught the ways of her sanctum. Dusk. The silver twilight that bore the star's secrets, and with them, some knowledge of the Shroud and how it worked.

Best she could, she drew what signs she remembered. Cold. Ice. Winter. Rain. Mist. A pattern, like stitching. Like numbers and rhythms. Those things she knew. Poetry too. She traced lines and scripts down the side of her armet

Maybe it was just in her head. Maybe that old ghost of a master knew more than he let on. But she could feel the cold wrap around her like a cloak. Pushed out a breath and Looked up at the sizzling mess that was Hector. "There in, the twice lit flame, nary the two shall lone," she remembered words long learned. Brought her visor shut, wet earth fell from gauntleted fingers, and she set forth.

A thing of mud, ice, and steel.