Mordwythe took in the social exchanges transpiring all about him, the various Knights about their routines and usual casual chatter, excited now at the prospect of progress, and Kira at the side of the horses with Buliwyf, talking just quite enough that Mordwythe could not overhear.
"Senseless prattle, the lot of it," he both spat and whispered to himself as he stowed Elemental Planar Theory in his traveling sack. "A waste of time."
Notwithstanding, he was ready and eager to go by the hour's end at the dawn of the new day.
"What standard would you raise? We're not an army, we're a rag-tag bundle of mishaps that happened upon each other by chance, and we're mercenaries. It will not be necessary."
Mordwythe thinks for a moment. "Although... Buliwyf did say that we are trying to make a name for ourselves, so, maybe it would be a good idea."
Mordwythe turns his gaze round, looking for the current leader. "Buliwyf, I crave your indulgence. Where would it be best for me to come in to this picture?"
"In addition at least 2 score of us will be waiting in the woods by the western gate for those of you in disguise to secure the western gate to allow the others through before opening the main gate for the rest of us."
Mordwythe regarded the plan momentarily, mulling it over in his mind, massaging his chin as he thought. "Well, stealth has never been my forte, I would prefer a position in the woods beyond the west gate, I believe."
"In order to keep the Knights of the Burning Blade going, we need a war chest. If we cannot add to it via payment, we must add to it with the spoils of war." Buliwyf replied. "Secondly, building a reputation is never a bad thing, it can lead others to look more favourably towards us, and offer more generous rewards."
Mordwythe regarded Buliwyf silently for a moment. "Fair enough." He then turned to the door, "Then the tacticians can plan their play, and I, not being so, will retire to a rather welcoming-looking cushioned chair on the dais of the church."
"We have stealth on our side during darkness so I belive this can work. So I believe we are settled then?"
"No, I do not believe we are. Is there further pay for this ends? Do we have anything to compel us to continue to kill, which, in turn, will require more of the same? If we are going to be propagators of the endless plight of humanity, we might as well have pay for it."
The night had finally come, hazy smoke slowly diluting in to the crisp night air and the last glowing embers of destruction fading in to cool darkness. The sky was pockmarked with bursts of color and light, a grand display of nature's elderly fireworks- stars of all shades and sizes caught up in great glowing clouds.
The night air hinted the aroma of quivering deciduous trees in the slight breeze ever so lightly. All was calm. And so it is that every great calamity will be followed at the heels by peace, however much it may have cost.
His temper soothed by a leisurely walk through the woods just outside the ruin of Tappas, Mordwythe returned to the church, as monolithic and darkly set against the sky as ever, but now with its stained glass windows filled with candle light dispersed in to a symphony of colors.
It was a symbol of stability, warmth, and comfort. Healing was in its walls. He noticed that Jamis was no longer slumped upon the threshold, saw some of the Knights trudging in for the night, and followed suit.
Upon entering, a priest told him the way his companions had gone in a soft-spoken voice, sorrow still lingering to his eyes, though he showed all the signs of mending, emotionally and otherwise, after the slaughter. The gift of humanity- to learn to live again.
He entered a small side chamber, dimly lit but cozy, and saw some of the Order surrounding a table with Buliwyf at the head. They were planning a return strike against the Riddians- Mordwythe discerned that in moments.
"Buliwyf, why are we returning the fire? What have the Tappans paid us to do? Fight their battle! The battle is over, we are not entitled to continue with this."
Mordwythe had just arrived at the stone-block steps, worn, battered, and lightly coated with lichen, when Jamis collapsed to the floor in a surge of pain.
The fool, he thought to himself, he should have known better than to belittle injuries incurred in battle. Foolhardiness does not befit a leader. Hopefully he will display an attitude more becoming of a budding commander in the future, or all of us may well be doomed.
Mordwythe nearly came to offer help to him, but then thought better of it. If he wants to lead men and women in to battle, possibly to their deaths, he thought, then he must learn to stand on his own strength. We do not have the time or resources to cover-up for everyone's blunders.
With that he turned from the scene, his robes whipping in a growing wind, and headed back to the village. "As for these people, this village- It is a sad thing, yes, but we are not getting paid to rescue and care for widows and orphans. We were paid for the battle, which we won. It is Tappas' own fault that she left her own gates wide open to destruction."
Before, Mordwythe had been somewhat sympathetic with the scene of misery, but both unease and impatience were now gnawing at him that they should be getting on with whatever else they must do.
The blazing orange sphere of the sun began to sink below the cloud level of a sky quickening to dusk. The clouds were a mix of dark, cold hues contrasted starkly with the iridescent flaming outline cast on them from the setting sun.
Thick masses of pines twisted with small vines and shrubs were left behind as the wagon and the rest of the Knights of the Burning Blade entered Desolation, a humble but (previously) growing town of thatched roofs and stone walls, all bearing previous traces of fine ivy playing along the grooves and cracks and small wildflowers bursting through the scattered bits of foliage that crowded between masses of barrels, crates, wagon wheels, and farming equipment.
High pillars of smoke held up the blazing sky, as if preventing the heavens from crashing to Sanctuary and blotting out all the remainders of the bloody slaughter and destruction of the hamlet. Sinking window frames had been smashed through, scorch marks bordering their absence, partially-dried blood stained the walls and padded, earthen roads. The nature-made rooftops were occasionally missing whole chunks of material, some were even still smoldering in leu of the attack.
Bits of ash floated on a slight breeze putrid with the distinct and loathsome aroma of death. About the base of the demolished buildings were the mangled and oddly-bent remains of men (scarcely), women, and children who had remained behind in the hour of war, perhaps for their own futile and ignorant protection.
Buliwyf and Jamis, as well as a few others, headed toward a small hillock occupied by the only still-inhabitable structure left in Tappas, a huge, ancient, stone-block church that rose with the columns of smoke, emissary of mortal man against the inevitibility of death and loss. A man was crumpled against the wall adjoining the front door, a heavyset wooden portal, beaten and tired. He mumbled a few words to Buliwyf before falling to sleep eternal.
As Buliwyf stood back to his feet, Mordwythe could distinctly make out the man's detesting and anger-laden voice struggle to allow the words to form from his mouth. "They played us all for fools. Riddia will pay for this!"
It makes one wonder, Mordwythe thought, how mankind can allow itself to consume itself when we stand alone against our mortal weakness and in the face of the eternal demons and angels of old. How could this have happened? How could we have let the Riddians pass us by without notice to wreak havoc against the weak and helpless?
The thought was, admittedly, less of a caring so much as a statement of disbelief. Mordwythe had never been particularly fond of his parents in any way, although they had been, he supposed, homely enough. Even of his master Drognan he had never felt a fondness. Perhaps that emptiness was his payment for his ambition.
He shuffled his boot against a frail, lifeless, and bloody arm of a small child. So many futures, so many hopes... The progression of mankind is once more stymied.
He dusted bits of ash and nature from his robe and headed for the church.
Mordwythe had made to move in to the medical tent of Jamis, but before he had parted the canvas to admit himself, he heard a wizened voice trail out in to the night.
"...we will need to get you to a proper bed soon enough. I am but an herbalist. It will take skill beyond my own to fix this. Do not worry, there are several of great skill in Tappas. I am sure they will be willing to help after your victory against the Riddians..."
Perhaps we will be going to the village after all, he thought to himself. All the better.
He then slipped aside the tent flap and quietly stepped in to the lee of the marquee, carefully rounding the edge of the tent to find a seat among the stores within the medical tent. Sliding down beside a heavy barrel, he began to nod off in to his own deep thoughts, listening to the subdued grunts of Jamis as his stitches did their work to his wounded body.
Mordwythe casually flicked his hand about in the fire, watching as the bandages about his palm and handback singed and smoked, allowing the intoxicating heat to consume his mind for precious few moments. After some time, he pulled his hand away, covered in fresh burns.
If only, if only, he thought to himself, If only my mother had not been of mankind.
He then heard the sound of a man he had not heard or seen before, another of the Burning Blade, and watched from the corner of his eye as he took out his crossbow and seemed to focus his being on it, perhaps reminiscing, perhaps dreaming of another time, another battle. That was not Mordwythe's world, however- battle and the brave of death. Although competent, he did not particularly excel with the weapons many of the mercenaries brought with them., and barely knew how to bring his own short staff to melee combat.
The fire will be enough, he continually encouraged himself. When the time comes, the flame will conquer the sword and shield. It was, perhaps, a desperate hope in the face of his own misgivings.
Their leaders, the man Buliwyf and the brave but young warrior Jamis, were being tended to, valiant combatants suffering the reward for their bravery.
Until they are ready, I suppose I will remain where my element resides, beside this fire. Perhaps when they are recuperated, we will all know where we are off to, next. I would like to stop in a town, however- I am in need of new bandages for these mortal, scarred, and burned hands.
Mordwythe had almost reached the spot of Jamis' suffering body when he caught a brief flare from his peripheral vision. The man named Jethera had started a fire, and Mordwythe was drawn instinctively towards it. As he entered its warming and welcoming glow, he heard and saw the oddity that was Kifu displaying his peculiar, yet engaging, story-telling talent and, as the story was brought to a close and the punch line was given, noticed him looking thoughtfully in Mordwythe's own direction. He quickly averted his gaze and crouched before the fire, staring unabashedly into its stirring and billowing depths where the hottest and brightest power was surging forthwith.
In much the same way, he thought to himself, humanity is caught in a paradox, a mortal, unspectacular shell to house a brilliant mind, spirit, soul, and strength.
He glanced over at Jamis' form for but a moment, now being slowly eclipsed by some of the more caring and loyal members of the Burning Blade, and then looked away once more. Although, some men mistake their own strength for invulnerability and a shield from death. I am not a healer, but one should not be quite so foolish with one's injuries, even if they are not, indeed, fatal.
The scene before him was a strange paradox of terms. Mordwythe had expected a stampede of armory and weaponry as the opposing forces charged to battle in all gallantry and haste that would befit such a common thing in a troublesome time of death and sorrow. Mordwythe had not anticipated, however, that the battle would be little more than a bloody skirmish, men and women that were barely clad for battle falling before the sword, bow, and staff, seeing horrors that no quiet villager should ever have seen.
He checked left, then right, and then gave the landscape before him another broad sweep- the field of Phillipassus, dense grasses interspersed with tiny bits of natural refuse and stubble, all christened and laden with the unfortunate child begotten of battle- gore, misery, pain, and death. Sorrow and confusion.
"This," he whispered to himself safely behind the fringe of trees, "could only be the beginning for many of them. No doubt the hatred and anguish birthed by this massacre will engender more of the same in an uncertain future."
He then stowed his short staff on his back, not old enough yet to need its support for anything but bashing the skulls of his enemies and channeling his birthright's fiery power. I wonder what our role is in all of this chaos? I wonder what the Knights of the Burning Blade came to this for? Mercenaries need pay, yes, but how could Jamis have accepted the terms with such a hopeless and inglorious battle to fight- peasants versus armed men?
He stepped from the cover of the trees on to the nearly silent and motionless bleak field before him and mentally shrugged the thought off. Perhaps that is simply how mercenaries work in this world- a handsome pay forgives the job. Oh, how little I know about such things.
His eyes shone brilliantly for just a moment, flaring a deep, burning orange and then subsiding. Glory, however, is not what I embarked on this further path of life for, however. Understanding, always, has been my forefront. Father, where ever you are, grant your son strength so that he may grow.
His eyes focused on the valiant leader, a shock of scarlet bursting from his body. He saw near him a growing number of the Burning Blade. Kifu, eccentric yet skilled in his own way, gandered over the dead. Warick, a bit off and still fending off combatants, seeming to quickly come to companionship with the odd Witch DoctorKifu, Mordwythe still knew little about. He saw Ignis, a whir of speed and blade as his katana continued to pierce his foes.
Buti, young yet promising, viewed the horrors of brutal killing about her and its costs with the curiosity mingled with slight fear that should always be in the heart of the young (although Mordwythe, himself, was not particularly old). Kari was there, too, scavenging missiles from the dead to use in her unique, precise, and effective choice of combat.
The Knights of the Burning Blade numbered many so far, but looking at what had just transpired, how many of them could hope to come out in the end of things? He nudged his sack over his shoulder in to a more comfortable position, keeper of a few books of magical curiosity from his prot?g?, Drognan.
This is only the beginning. He strode over the grasses and rocks toward his leader.
"Senseless prattle, the lot of it," he both spat and whispered to himself as he stowed Elemental Planar Theory in his traveling sack. "A waste of time."
Notwithstanding, he was ready and eager to go by the hour's end at the dawn of the new day.
Mordwythe thinks for a moment. "Although... Buliwyf did say that we are trying to make a name for ourselves, so, maybe it would be a good idea."
Mordwythe turns his gaze round, looking for the current leader. "Buliwyf, I crave your indulgence. Where would it be best for me to come in to this picture?"
Mordwythe regarded the plan momentarily, mulling it over in his mind, massaging his chin as he thought. "Well, stealth has never been my forte, I would prefer a position in the woods beyond the west gate, I believe."
His curiosity piqued and he stopped in his tracks, "Will this have to be one single person?"
Mordwythe regarded Buliwyf silently for a moment. "Fair enough." He then turned to the door, "Then the tacticians can plan their play, and I, not being so, will retire to a rather welcoming-looking cushioned chair on the dais of the church."
"No, I do not believe we are. Is there further pay for this ends? Do we have anything to compel us to continue to kill, which, in turn, will require more of the same? If we are going to be propagators of the endless plight of humanity, we might as well have pay for it."
The night air hinted the aroma of quivering deciduous trees in the slight breeze ever so lightly. All was calm. And so it is that every great calamity will be followed at the heels by peace, however much it may have cost.
His temper soothed by a leisurely walk through the woods just outside the ruin of Tappas, Mordwythe returned to the church, as monolithic and darkly set against the sky as ever, but now with its stained glass windows filled with candle light dispersed in to a symphony of colors.
It was a symbol of stability, warmth, and comfort. Healing was in its walls. He noticed that Jamis was no longer slumped upon the threshold, saw some of the Knights trudging in for the night, and followed suit.
Upon entering, a priest told him the way his companions had gone in a soft-spoken voice, sorrow still lingering to his eyes, though he showed all the signs of mending, emotionally and otherwise, after the slaughter. The gift of humanity- to learn to live again.
He entered a small side chamber, dimly lit but cozy, and saw some of the Order surrounding a table with Buliwyf at the head. They were planning a return strike against the Riddians- Mordwythe discerned that in moments.
"Buliwyf, why are we returning the fire? What have the Tappans paid us to do? Fight their battle! The battle is over, we are not entitled to continue with this."
The fool, he thought to himself, he should have known better than to belittle injuries incurred in battle. Foolhardiness does not befit a leader. Hopefully he will display an attitude more becoming of a budding commander in the future, or all of us may well be doomed.
Mordwythe nearly came to offer help to him, but then thought better of it. If he wants to lead men and women in to battle, possibly to their deaths, he thought, then he must learn to stand on his own strength. We do not have the time or resources to cover-up for everyone's blunders.
With that he turned from the scene, his robes whipping in a growing wind, and headed back to the village. "As for these people, this village- It is a sad thing, yes, but we are not getting paid to rescue and care for widows and orphans. We were paid for the battle, which we won. It is Tappas' own fault that she left her own gates wide open to destruction."
Before, Mordwythe had been somewhat sympathetic with the scene of misery, but both unease and impatience were now gnawing at him that they should be getting on with whatever else they must do.
Thick masses of pines twisted with small vines and shrubs were left behind as the wagon and the rest of the Knights of the Burning Blade entered Desolation, a humble but (previously) growing town of thatched roofs and stone walls, all bearing previous traces of fine ivy playing along the grooves and cracks and small wildflowers bursting through the scattered bits of foliage that crowded between masses of barrels, crates, wagon wheels, and farming equipment.
High pillars of smoke held up the blazing sky, as if preventing the heavens from crashing to Sanctuary and blotting out all the remainders of the bloody slaughter and destruction of the hamlet. Sinking window frames had been smashed through, scorch marks bordering their absence, partially-dried blood stained the walls and padded, earthen roads. The nature-made rooftops were occasionally missing whole chunks of material, some were even still smoldering in leu of the attack.
Bits of ash floated on a slight breeze putrid with the distinct and loathsome aroma of death. About the base of the demolished buildings were the mangled and oddly-bent remains of men (scarcely), women, and children who had remained behind in the hour of war, perhaps for their own futile and ignorant protection.
Buliwyf and Jamis, as well as a few others, headed toward a small hillock occupied by the only still-inhabitable structure left in Tappas, a huge, ancient, stone-block church that rose with the columns of smoke, emissary of mortal man against the inevitibility of death and loss. A man was crumpled against the wall adjoining the front door, a heavyset wooden portal, beaten and tired. He mumbled a few words to Buliwyf before falling to sleep eternal.
As Buliwyf stood back to his feet, Mordwythe could distinctly make out the man's detesting and anger-laden voice struggle to allow the words to form from his mouth. "They played us all for fools. Riddia will pay for this!"
It makes one wonder, Mordwythe thought, how mankind can allow itself to consume itself when we stand alone against our mortal weakness and in the face of the eternal demons and angels of old. How could this have happened? How could we have let the Riddians pass us by without notice to wreak havoc against the weak and helpless?
The thought was, admittedly, less of a caring so much as a statement of disbelief. Mordwythe had never been particularly fond of his parents in any way, although they had been, he supposed, homely enough. Even of his master Drognan he had never felt a fondness. Perhaps that emptiness was his payment for his ambition.
He shuffled his boot against a frail, lifeless, and bloody arm of a small child. So many futures, so many hopes... The progression of mankind is once more stymied.
He dusted bits of ash and nature from his robe and headed for the church.
"...we will need to get you to a proper bed soon enough. I am but an herbalist. It will take skill beyond my own to fix this. Do not worry, there are several of great skill in Tappas. I am sure they will be willing to help after your victory against the Riddians..."
Perhaps we will be going to the village after all, he thought to himself. All the better.
He then slipped aside the tent flap and quietly stepped in to the lee of the marquee, carefully rounding the edge of the tent to find a seat among the stores within the medical tent. Sliding down beside a heavy barrel, he began to nod off in to his own deep thoughts, listening to the subdued grunts of Jamis as his stitches did their work to his wounded body.
If only, if only, he thought to himself, If only my mother had not been of mankind.
He then heard the sound of a man he had not heard or seen before, another of the Burning Blade, and watched from the corner of his eye as he took out his crossbow and seemed to focus his being on it, perhaps reminiscing, perhaps dreaming of another time, another battle. That was not Mordwythe's world, however- battle and the brave of death. Although competent, he did not particularly excel with the weapons many of the mercenaries brought with them., and barely knew how to bring his own short staff to melee combat.
The fire will be enough, he continually encouraged himself. When the time comes, the flame will conquer the sword and shield. It was, perhaps, a desperate hope in the face of his own misgivings.
Their leaders, the man Buliwyf and the brave but young warrior Jamis, were being tended to, valiant combatants suffering the reward for their bravery.
Until they are ready, I suppose I will remain where my element resides, beside this fire. Perhaps when they are recuperated, we will all know where we are off to, next. I would like to stop in a town, however- I am in need of new bandages for these mortal, scarred, and burned hands.
In much the same way, he thought to himself, humanity is caught in a paradox, a mortal, unspectacular shell to house a brilliant mind, spirit, soul, and strength.
He glanced over at Jamis' form for but a moment, now being slowly eclipsed by some of the more caring and loyal members of the Burning Blade, and then looked away once more. Although, some men mistake their own strength for invulnerability and a shield from death. I am not a healer, but one should not be quite so foolish with one's injuries, even if they are not, indeed, fatal.
He checked left, then right, and then gave the landscape before him another broad sweep- the field of Phillipassus, dense grasses interspersed with tiny bits of natural refuse and stubble, all christened and laden with the unfortunate child begotten of battle- gore, misery, pain, and death. Sorrow and confusion.
"This," he whispered to himself safely behind the fringe of trees, "could only be the beginning for many of them. No doubt the hatred and anguish birthed by this massacre will engender more of the same in an uncertain future."
He then stowed his short staff on his back, not old enough yet to need its support for anything but bashing the skulls of his enemies and channeling his birthright's fiery power. I wonder what our role is in all of this chaos? I wonder what the Knights of the Burning Blade came to this for? Mercenaries need pay, yes, but how could Jamis have accepted the terms with such a hopeless and inglorious battle to fight- peasants versus armed men?
He stepped from the cover of the trees on to the nearly silent and motionless bleak field before him and mentally shrugged the thought off. Perhaps that is simply how mercenaries work in this world- a handsome pay forgives the job. Oh, how little I know about such things.
His eyes shone brilliantly for just a moment, flaring a deep, burning orange and then subsiding. Glory, however, is not what I embarked on this further path of life for, however. Understanding, always, has been my forefront. Father, where ever you are, grant your son strength so that he may grow.
His eyes focused on the valiant leader, a shock of scarlet bursting from his body. He saw near him a growing number of the Burning Blade. Kifu, eccentric yet skilled in his own way, gandered over the dead. Warick, a bit off and still fending off combatants, seeming to quickly come to companionship with the odd Witch DoctorKifu, Mordwythe still knew little about. He saw Ignis, a whir of speed and blade as his katana continued to pierce his foes.
Buti, young yet promising, viewed the horrors of brutal killing about her and its costs with the curiosity mingled with slight fear that should always be in the heart of the young (although Mordwythe, himself, was not particularly old). Kari was there, too, scavenging missiles from the dead to use in her unique, precise, and effective choice of combat.
The Knights of the Burning Blade numbered many so far, but looking at what had just transpired, how many of them could hope to come out in the end of things? He nudged his sack over his shoulder in to a more comfortable position, keeper of a few books of magical curiosity from his prot?g?, Drognan.
This is only the beginning. He strode over the grasses and rocks toward his leader.