Huntress

[Aeron Ktrenna]

Daylight found Aeron on her way toward Myrkentown yet again. She had several things of her own she wished to accomplish, or more like, this is what she told herself. Lies. Liar, whispered her mind. You deceive yourself into believing what you will, but you know the truth. Her jaw line tightened, her teeth were grinding together, and her shoulders were hunched forward with the effort of control. This posture caused the blade across her back to be an inflexible, hard line against her spine.
She had left her newly purchased horse behind, having rigged up a temporary holding area for him. He was not one of her own, and therefore needed to be contained. The horse did show potential, and quite a bit of it, so she was pleased with him, overall, despite being gelded. It was wiser to leave him behind though, she’d lost one too many horses in the last year, and was not prepared to lose this one so soon.

By the afternoon, she’d viewed several properties for sale, and fallen in love with one of them, though of course the agent representing the buyer had not caught wind of this infatuation on her part. It was an old place, long abandoned and run down, and would need a great deal of work to restore the house and grounds to their former state. But, she knew, with time and work it would be magnificent, plus the run-down estate was far enough removed from the main road to suit her purposes. Besides, there were the once elaborate gardens, now gone wild, but gardens nonetheless. Bringing those gardens back from the tangled mess of weeds and brambles would be quite the project, but it would be something to give Aeron some balance. And if there was one thing Aeron desperately needed it was a sense of balance, for she knew all too well what could happen if the pendulum swung too far one way.
Having haggled with the agent over the asking price for the estate, they at last came to an agreement on the offer he would present to the seller. The agent had been reasonably sure the seller would take her offer, for no others had been made, and the seller was anxious to be rid of the property. Aeron did not ask why and the agent did not volunteer the information, which seemed to suit them both just fine.
Aeron had come to terms with the possibility she might not be able to return home. Ever. This place seemed as good as any to stay, the currency exchange rate for her gold and jewels had been far more than she had hoped, and she could live comfortably here. Picking up and occasional job now and then would suffice.

This last need was what found her currently in a seedier part of town. By agreement with a young vampire, she was currently scouting for members of the clan intent upon taking his head. Part of her had recoiled violently at the very idea of this sort of action, and part of her seethed and writhed, anxious for it. Perhaps her situation had made her feel impotent, and in the act of spilling blood, she thus regained some of the control she’d lost months ago on the fated night she stepped into the malfunctioning gate.
The young male Donovan had mentioned a fellow named Brand, but Aeron had not even tried to locate him. Nor had she made any such promises she would. The woman worked better alone. Currently, she was standing at the corner of a building, observing another building across the darkening street, in particular watching a doorway. No one had entered or exited yet, but she was reasonably certain come nightfall, someone would. The mark by which these creatures could be identified had been memorized, and now she had but to wait.

Unbeknownst to Aeron, she was trembling, but not with fear. It was the anticipation of the act, and a lust for the fight working together, warming her blood, which made her body tremble so.

[Donovan]

... And with a gentle creaking, the door was opened.

Six hooded figures stepped out, muttering to one another in some strange tongue. It was a conversation, undoubtedly, but what to make of it?

The tallest of the six stepped out in front of the pack in the midst of the dimly lit street... raising his hand to call silence to his company.

"Two moons since the death of Drake. And still... the exile walks freely among Myrken. This is unacceptable!". His voice boomed, and with a upward flail of his hands the other members cringed away in terror.

One of the hooded figures crept forward, though hesitantly... lowering the hood on his cloak and bowing his head. "Sire, he is a kindred wise beyond his years. The task is great... but you have our pledge. The prize will be delivered."

Tossing his head back with roaring laughter, the one who seemed to lead the pack suddenly broke, bringing a powerful strike down onto the back of the knelt Bloodhawk, causing him to collapse in a heap. He hissed, eyes snapping up to the rest of the group as he stalked toward them.

"Donovan was NEVER kindred. He was Drake's greatest foul. One that I intend to eradicate. To call him one of us is a disgrace, and should I hear you speak his name as kindred again... I personally will remove your tongue." Each of them stood there, staring with eyes wide. They were terrified of this man. But why? Who was he?

"He has struck a deal with the Lady of the Aethyr, and chosen a mortal soul in Exchange for Drake's life. A foolish deal, indeed... one that will ensure his demise." A wicked grin twisted on the figure's pale face, and he knelt down beside the collapsed vampire, gripping him by the hair and jerking him upward to his feet.

"But congratulations are in order for our little friend, yes? After all, he did -earn- his part of the bargain." Chuckling dryly, he extended a gloved hand toward a dark alley where a female figure stepped into view. "The very least we could do is provide him with a little... gift."

"Selene... come closer, my dear. Let me see your face."

The female figure stepped closer. Her face was set into a neutral position and her movements were guided - as if the figure had some sort of control over her entirety.

"Very nice...", he mused.

The hooded men looked between eachother, seemingly in a state of confusion... until one of them inquired. "But sire, Drake ..."

He was interrupted by the taller figure. "Silence, fool."

"Donovan is weak. He is vulnerable. And if I know my son, he'll come running home the moment he sets eyes on this beautiful... creature." A gesture was given toward the female who stood there, statue-like and silent.

"And waiting for him... will be death."

And suddenly, it seemed to click. They joined eachother in a chorus of laughter.

[Aeron Ktrenna]

Clearly not even the leader of this rabble realized they were being watched by another figure, one not yet noticed. And the one watching was mildly amused, to say the least. Whereas they were but still young, she was old, ancient beyond what any single one of them might be able to imagine. Nor was she of their kind, but something else, something far more complex, an abomination of nature designed by a madman and made for but one purpose. Destruction. Aeron watched in silence; a smirk appeared before long upon her face. Why was it these creatures always spent so much time in posturing? In the last years of her life, Aeron had watched this same occurrence over and over, this grandiose scheming and bragging, always counting the chickens before they hatched, so to speak. Fools. The urge to spit in disgust was nigh unto overpowering.

It was simple, cut off the head of the snake; the clan would fall apart and scatter. She watched and listened closely, already sizing up an opponent, discerning his weaknesses and strengths. His greatest weakness was obvious and the same as so many others like him. His ego. With the right words hurled at him, he would rise to whatever bait she tossed his way. He would of course, make the same fatal mistake so many had made before him. He would assume, by Aeron’s size and stature, she was an easy kill, or perhaps even a new toy he could bend or break to amuse himself.
What was not so simple was the timing. She could not kill him without his sycophants watching, such an action could very well turn him into a martyr. The clan might go seeking vengeance in the wrong place. No, they had to see it happen, had to know exactly who killed their leader.
But Donovan also had to be warned of their plans. For a moment, she remained hesitant. She could challenge the arrogant bastard now, or go back and warn Donovan, then come back tomorrow evening and wait for the inevitable nightfall. On the other hand, if she killed the girl now, they’d have no weapon to use against Donovan. A dark smile slowly formed upon her lips. Indeed, this was an option, one that seemed rather much like a plan. Not to mention, it would definitely piss off the big guy there. But the captive woman might be of some value to Donovan. Aeron sighed quietly, things used to be so much simpler.

A few moments later, Aeron turned aside to leave her watch for now. Had this been her homeland, it would have been oh so simple. The order would have been given to kill the woman, and the male would have died not long after. The clan would have been informed of their options, and that would have ended that.
She slipped back into the deeper shadows of the building and made her way quietly along the side street, her intent to inform Donovan, and ask him point blank, did he desire this arrogant creature dead or not.

[Donovan]

A slim figure stood partially hidden in an alleyway... watching Aeron in silence as she walked away. A sidelong glance toward the tallest of the men in the street, and his eyes narrowed. He recognized the woman standing next to him --- but she'd been long dead.

Grey eyes shifted upward, making contact with a hooded bowman who'd been perched atop a nearby wall... then to each side of him where two more men had been crouched behind barrels, arrows loaded and aimed. His hand slid back to remove a single arrow from his quiver... nocking it with a soft grunt from his bowstring. His gaze narrowed in on his target... pulling back a bit further. Suddenly, an arrow's scream pierced the eerie silence of the night... finding its mark in one of the Vampire's chests. A loud shriek that may even be caught by the departing Aeron, followed by three more as the Rogues executed a carefully planned assault on the unsuspecting kindred. It was not but a few seconds later that all was silent again... except for the muffled sounds of men shouting orders.

"Burn the corpses. Let us not give the townsfolk anything more to gossip about, mm?"

"Aye sir."

"And find the girl. She took the east road. Hurry!"



... But it was far from over. At least for the hired assassin.

Three heavily tatooed men stood in the middle of her path... each wielding a painful looking Scourge. They'd appear to be no more than a pack of thugs... if not for the fangs which protruded from their crimson lips.

A soft hiss, and a dark figure lept from above her.... its blade poised to impale her from behind. For Aeron, the battle had just begun...

[Aeron Ktrenna]

The commotion back at the alley reached her ears, bringing Aeron's steps to a halt. She felt the familiar tingle along her skin, the first warming sensations of her blood as her heart jumped within the confines of her chest, the beat quickening everything into perfect clarity. So, she'd not been the only watcher present this evening. That might mean . .

The three who blocked her path were met with little more than a cool, calculating look from the woman. But it was the soft hiss which gave away the one who was foolish enough to try and land behind her. He would never have the chance to impale this one, for her body reacted with the motions of a trained and skilled warrior, not a woman. Her right arm lifted, her wrist contracted and a dagger shot out from the hidden wrist sheathe on her arm, traveling with all the speed of an arrow released from a tightly drawn crossbow. It was aimed at the center male of the three, a swift aiming for his throat.
She never stopped to see if her dagger hit the mark, for she was already moving, spinning off to her right as Aeron's right hand flashed upward to her right shoulder, the blade across her back was freed and then swept downward. The arm weilding the blade came about as the woman continued, both hands gripped the hilt, her movement took her away from being a target, motion which was little more than a blur even to immortal vision. Sparks flew to the alley beneath her feet as steel edge met steel edge with driving force behind her upward swing; both hands grasped the hilt and the sword was knocked from her would-be-killer's hand. Had it been his arm, he'd have been armless. She did not even hesitate a moment or pause, with her momentum pushing her on, she continued to spin along the same line, the movement taking her off to his side. In that passing motion, she pulled her arms and sword inward, close along the line of her body the tip pointed down toward the ground and slightly angled, both serving to protect her and be used to hurt. The edge bit deeply into his arm just above the elbow as she drew past him. It slid through flesh and muscle, nearly touching bone in its passing; such a strike often rendered an opponent's arm useless . .

All that was bright and good within her heart, all that was dark and savage within her soul, merged and howled together in a triumphant song of release.

[Donovan]

And while the war raged on the streets...

Donovan pulled with every bit of his strength to try to sever himself from the chains that bound him against the cold, brick floor. The crackling and spitting of the large flames just a few feet away made him squint ... struggling to focus. His knees were raw from having been forced to kneel for so long in front of his captor.

"Daddy!", a little girl shrieked... reaching out toward the chained man. "Daddy, make him stop!"

"Quiet, you snot-nosed little brat...", the Vampire hissed, dragging the back of his hand across the little girl's face, causing her to scream again, followed by tears. This was quickly followed by shouts of protest from a woman who'd been neutralized by two men pinning both arms behind her. The sound alone chilled Donovan to the bone, teeth gritted together tightly as he yanked mercilessly at those chains... bringing blood to his bound wrists.

"And as for you...", the man turned toward the woman... drawing a hot dagger from a pile of seething coals. Panicked cries, accompanied by whimpering were soon met with an agonized scream as he pressed the blade against her cheek. Flesh bubbled, a disfigurement in the works...

"You will burn for your trespasses...", he grinned wickedly... tongue trailing over his lips in pure satisfaction as he watched her wail in such agony.

The little girl looked toward her father with pleading eyes. "Please Daddy, help her! Daddy, he's hurting her!"... She began to cry, until she was silenced by a rough placement of a hand over her mouth.

"Get rid of her.", was the command... bloodshot eyes narrowed on the little girl, still gripping the woman by her throat.

The child was carried off with a protest of kicking and screaming... dropping her doll on the floor not several feet from her chained father. Stinging tears began to stream down the man's face... jerking at the chains even harder now until the bone was nearly exposed on his wrist.

"LET HER GO!", he snarled... trying to make his way toward the hooded Vampire. "I'll have your head, Drake!"

The vampire laughed... walking toward Donovan. He stood there, arms crossed. He was indeed pleased with the amount of suffering this man was enduring.

"You are in no position to make threats, traitor." This was spoken as a gauntleted hand was brought down across the chained man's brow, causing crimson to ooze freely into his visage... blinding him as it mixed with his own tears.

Turning away from Donovan, the Vampire moved toward the woman... grasping her by the hair and pulling backward. A feral look took his features, fangs bared with a loud hiss.

"I will find much pleasure in your tortured death."

He looked between both of the guards holding her, turning toward the flames.

"Slowly she burns... I want him to feel it. I want him to smell it."

They followed orders, pushing the screaming woman's head toward the fire until it lashed out against her flesh. A bloodcurdling scream escaped the woman's throat... her body convulsing in the hands of the guards...

"Selene!", Donovan again stood to his feet... yanking at the chains. One ring had snapped, and his hand free... but not before another guard had struck him from behind with a blunt weapon, causing him to collapse onto his front. He soon found himself pinned face down with a foot in his back. It seemed all at once that he was haunted by the screams of both his wife and his daughter. It seemed to last forever...

He closed his eyes tightly, screaming aloud in a mixture of rage and suffering...

... And he suddenly found himself bolting straight up in his bed, a cold sweat pouring over his body. Another nightmare. He would never erase these visions from his mind, so long as he walked this Earth. A soft, hiccuped cry, and his head fell downward... raven hair hanging in front of his tear-streaked face.

"... Selene, Ayla... I am so... s... sorry..."

[Aeron Ktrenna]

Deep within the hearts and souls of all creatures, there resides both the dark and the light; side by side, they co-exist. One of the two opposite natures will always hold sway over the other, choices and decisions made based upon whichever side is currently ruling the creature. Some strive to walk for all their lives between the two, seeking the impossible balance of harmony, the perfect blend of dark and light, clinging to the delusions of neutrality. One must wonder, which is the greater evil? Those who walk in the darkness and revel in it, those who seek the annihilation of all things rooted in darkness, or those who strive to achieve the impossible, walking the perfect line? To have as a most intimate companion, the whispering, sibilant voices of the damned, while seeking absolution with an offering of murderous actions done in the name of the greater good, this struggle must come to be a burden on any soul; surely the weight of a thousand worlds upon their shoulders.

Aeron hesitated a split second or two after she cut into the male's arm, long enough for him to turn and face her, pain and anger waging a war on his face. Whichever one might have been the victor, she would never know, nor would he. The short gap between them was closed with all due speed, and he aided by rushing forward to meet her. The business end of her blade sank deep into his flesh, piercing his midsection and came close to exiting out the other side of his back. A look of shock replaced the anger, and his lips formed the words he wished to spit at her. She gave him no chance, pulling her sword upward, the sharp edge of steel buried in his gut, ripped into his upper cavity. Not one word, not a taunt for him, her expression conveying nothing which resembled human regret when the blade was yanked free of his body. He could not help but groan, whether with pain or the relief of steel leaving his body, who knew? A breath later, his head fell to the street with a sickening thud, and Aeron turned to face the three still some distance behind her.
Two of them looked a bit unsure, for it was one thing to chase down an opponent they assumed was easy prey, quite another to face a skilled and well armed fighter. Fools. They would die in this street today, their bodies left for the carrion birds, and serve as a warning for whoever had sent them her way.

"Get her!" The tallest of the three roared at the other two, taking a step or two forward himself. Aeron allowed them a thin smile, and side-stepped more toward the middle of the street, giving herself plenty of room to manuver. Before she went, her foot slide beneath the sword of the fallen male, flipped the weapon upward, far enough for her left hand to pluck it from the air. She now held two swords, and switched hands, while watching the relunctant approach of the other two males. The big one moved slower, hanging back from the other two. Obviously, they were more expendable. She bided her time, the seconds ticking by as the two closed in. At the inevitable point where they split apart to attempt to encircle her, she threw the fallen male's sword, hurled it at the vampire approaching on her right. He screamed in agony and doubled over, his own sword falling as both hands clutched at the sword imbedded in his groin. True enough, it most likely would not kill him, but it would certainly keep him occupied while she dealt with the other two. Besides, she wanted one of them alive.
His partner gaped at the stricken male, then looked back at her, choosing to hurl crude, expletory oaths her way. Aeron gave him no reply, the cold, neutral expression on her face never shifted, she did not flinch or quail under the barrage of insults. After all, they were just words, barbed or not. The two circled one another with Aeron keeping one eye on the big vampire, expecting him to try and make his move from her blind side. She had patience in abundance. Question was, did they?

Apparently not, for the smaller one rushed her from one side, and the bigger one pulled the same move from the other. She waited, waited till the last possible second and dropped flat on the ground, let them collide with each other, for this would give her a precious few seconds of time. Swiftly the woman pushed up to crouch cat-like on fingertips and the balls of her feet. She rose upward swift and fluid as a wave, and the steel in her hand was driven forward as if she needed no sight to guide her arm. It pierced the ribcage of the bigger male, causing him to roar in fury and turn her way, his hand reaching to grasp her blade. But Aeron was so much faster, her instinct honed for thousands of years longer than he'd even existed. Steel flashed in the dim moonlight, yanked back with a strength he could never have estimated she had within that slender frame. Several of his fingers fell to the street below, which only served to infuriate him more. He pressed forward, determined to wring the life from her body, one way or another. She let him come, slid to her left and pressed forward in a rush of speed, her sword edge aligned with his midsection. Too late he saw his folly, and made his death all the more painful in an attempt to evade the sword by dropping to the ground. Instead of slicing into his middle, the edge caught him just below his nose, traveling nearly all the way through his head before she pushed him off with a booted foot.

The last one left standing, dropped his own weapon to the ground, and choose an act of self-preservation; he ran. Aeron let him go, the other one might lose conciousness before she could question him. And that would simply not due.
The scent of blood was thick in the air, the taste of it on her tongue, bitter to swallow; she felt the bile rising upward in her throat. Granted, they most likely deserved this, someone, somewhere would have surely felt justice served for some wrong these creatures had vistited upon some hapless victim. Still. With each life she took, Aeron could hear the sibilant voices of the damned conspiring and plotting, seeking, seeking the way and the means to bring her back to them. For every death, justified or not, brought her that much closer to darkness.

Not many moments later, Aeron left the scene of carnage, and the only other one left alive, watched from a safe distance. When he was certain she was gone, the vampire went back to view the dismembered bodies of his companions. He torched them and left as well, for someone had to be told.

[Donovan]

Another restless night. His spirit began to wear. As did his will to resist the pangs of war.

It was early evening, however... when the man rose from his bed. Attempting to sleep was an exercise in futility for Donovan. Sitting on the edge, feet placed firmly on the floor... his eyes shifted to the Long Bow that was rested on a nearby chair. Emerald eyes narrowed in thought...

... Several minutes later, he was making his way down the stairs into the Tavern. Strapped across his back was a quiver of silver-tipped arrows... bow gripped tightly within gloved fingers. Bloodreign was securely held within the black scabbard at his right side... the golden, dragon-clawed hilt glistening. His body tensed, however.... as he felt a pair of eyes studying his every move.

A female voice called to Donovan,

"Lucky for you that I'm on my way to the washhouse to do some cleaning.. otherwise I might have revealed you in your disguise."

Eyes raised to view the ever smirking chambermaid, Dulcie... one he'd grown fond of over the past several weeks here in Myrken. A ghost of a smile crossed his features, albeit unnoticed as she turned and departed... bucket and mop in hand. He frowned, turning to view the doorway a moment as he considered persuing her. But it was like always... too little, too late. Hastily making his way to the door, he trotted off the porch toward a horse that was steadied by a stablehand. Offering a soft thanks to the young man... he easily mounted himself atop the mare, reaching down to exchange posession of a silver-edged javelin that had been held by the boy.

"Safe travels, sir...", the young stablehand said nervously. He wasn't sure why the man was going where he was. And recent events considered... he knew it couldn't be anything good. Without so much as a word, he lifted the javelin to rest across the animal's back... riding in a steady gallop toward the woods.

As his horse galloped through the beginning shadows of nightfall... he heard them. Voices... just like the ones in his dream. Those mocking faces flashed in his mind, over and over again. His jaw tightened, hand clutching around the grip of his javelin. The voices became clearer, until he saw the dark outline of three figures just in the distance... none making any effort to be silent. Obviously, they hadn't noticed him yet. He overheard them talking. One of them was practically shouting in utter panic. Something about an ambush. Twice. Apparently, Aeron and Brand were a busy pair...

Leaning over to pat the armored faceplate of the horse, he whispered... "Ride steady, Mati. She will grant us safe passage."

With a soft grunt, he pulled back on the reigns. The horse reared and shrieked its battle cry, and the javelin was raised. The men turned to view the chest of the massive black beast before its feet were firmly planted and charging at them.

"It's him!", one shouted... charging head on toward the horse. An uneducated move, indeed... as the javelin was hurled with great force toward his exposed chest. It landed with a sickening thud, causing him to go toppling onto his back with a barely audible squeal. As the hooded rider galloped past, he reached his hand out to grasp at the unsharpened end of the javelin which was protruding upward from the vampire's chest. Jerking it free with a sickening tear, he held it in an underhand position as he charged forward to meet another head on. The crimson edge of the javelin spiked the kindred's shoulder... causing him to gasp in shock, falling back against a tree with hands clutching chest.

It was in that same fluid motion that his hand let go... sweeping upward to fetch an arrow from his quiver as the horse powered its way through the small pack of undead. Turning slightly to face those who were now behind him... he nocked his bow, eyes darkening on the form of one particularly vulnerable target. With a twang, the arrow sizzled toward its target... planting itself deeply within the vampire's heart.

It was all very sudden. A blinding pain shot through his body as he was hurled off. With a shriek of fear, the horse suddenly reared backward... tossing him into the dirt. The Long Bow spilled away from the man's fingertips... and he groaned, bridging upward slightly as he grimaced. His heartbeat quickened. There was another... and now he was left in a very compromising position. Struggling to get to his feet... he fumbled with the handle of his sword, emerald gaze shooting left to right. He heard the last hoofbeats of his horse until all went silent.

... Nothing.

He backed against a tree, finally drawing the sword from its scabbard cleanly. His breathing was heavy... face dirty and scraped from the fall he'd just taken. Where was the other one? He could feel his heart pounding as if it were going to burst through his chest.

The grass rustled, and a small form stepped into the path. He squinted, trying to catch a view of the creature's face. A female? He questioned it... but the outline of the figure alone seemed to indicate a female build. And then she spoke...

"Donovan.", the woman's voice called.

He felt a chill erupt along his spine. Every hair on his body stood up. That voice. It was also one he'd heard in his dream. But....

"... Selene?", his eyes widened, and the man lowered his blade... stepping gradually closer. As he did, the features of the woman's face became clearer. Was this another nightmare come to taunt him into insanity?

"Donovan...", her voice quivered a bit... one small, pale hand reaching out to him. "Please come home..."

He stopped, head turning away slightly. Shutting his eyes tightly for several seconds, he tried to make it go away. If this were a nightmare, surely he had some control over this. Emerald orbs opened again and turned in the direction of the female who remained there... hand outstretched.

"How? I watched you..."

"I saw you with her...", she interrupted.

One eyebrow lifted, the sword lowering even more now. He was staring at the woman who... for all he could tell, appeared to be his wife whom he'd thought long dead. "With who?"

"Mystra...", she smiled. A small flicker in her eyes went unnoticed by the man.

"But..."

"Do not question that which we can never understand, Donovan. Come closer... let me show you. Don't you believe...?", her eyes were pleading, a single tear curving along her ivory cheek.

Her intentions were foul, but invisible to Donovan. Quietly, the kindred crept from the shadows behind him... his pale hand gripping the handle of a Kris... reared to backstab. It would be a fitting demise for one who defied their laws...

[Donovan]

The small fire crackled as the Rogues sat quietly around it. They seemed to be in a bit more solemn state this night. It was time for this battle to come to an end... and silently, they hoped it would not be their own blood spilled this night. Each man with his own reasons... whether it be money, or glory... began to assess whether or not this was truly worth it. Brand stood against a nearby tree, watching the approaching pathway with squinted eyes. He'd been informed that the Bloodhawks were making a beeline for the border. Were they coming to meet someone, or was it a hasty retreat to regain their wits after the several assaults they'd encountered? Noone knew, but his objective was to make sure this didn't happen either way.


He smiled to himself, knowing full well what was in store this night. They'd strike the rushing horde just before sunrise from the front... and when they tried to retreat, death would be arriving from their heels. He remembered his conversation with the hooded man, Araishan earlier. While he still wasn't sure whether or not he could trust him, he gave the man the benefit of the doubt. Only time would tell. Turning to view his men, his lips curved into a small frown. He could smell their fear... this was not good.

Walking to stand next to the fire, he looked at each of them squarely.

"We have come this far together. I do not intend to walk away. I do not ask you to go any further than you will. But I ask you to make that choice now."

They looked amongst eachother quietly... their murmurings were a soft buzz against the cool air. It seemed several minutes before one man of great physical stature stood up slowly, looking toward Brand.

"I feel I speak for us all when I say... we will not abandon you. We will fight until the last drop of blood has been spilled.", Wolfgar calmly stated, whilst glancing to the faces of each of the Rogues that were present. None seemed to disagree.

A small smile curved on Brand's lips, and he bowed his head in the man's direction.

"Then it is done.... this night, the Bloodhawks shall meet their end."

[Araishan]

The Dagger was a pleasant place to spend an evening, a near-constantly changing environment backdropped by the crackle of the fire, the smells of sawdust and ale, and the sounds of murmured conversation sometimes broken by bursts of laughter. A table of no particular situation in the room being the preferred point of vantage also made it possible to enjoy this peacefully chaotic atmosphere with a minimum of notice. After all, someone always notices the man who sits in the shadowed corner or near the door - who ever noticed one out of a dozen lounging at the bar or a lone patron who sat in the middle of the room?

It was because of this deliberately fostered anonymity, and a propensity to step out to the porch for a smoke of the pipe, that the comings and goings of the man called Araishan went largely unnoticed by those around him. He lived upstairs, he drank honeyed wine, and though he was sparing of his gold he never seemed to come quite to his last crown. That was all anyone need know. He had taken his tankard of meade with him when he left the tavern just after midnight, the same one he had been nursing since his brief conversation with the tatooed rogue around twilight, and he left the half-tankard of wine sitting on a treestump just far enough from the Inn that it was unlikely anyone would stumble across it.

Once so far distant, he affixed his eyes on the landmark given him by the man called Brand and he broke into an easy, loping run which might have surprised a few of those who had seen him lounging lazily about the tavern. He went swiftly through the night air, legs stretching far out ahead of him and cloak blowing behind his shoulders as if by the force of a headwind, until something brought him suddenly to slow and even more abruptly to a halt.

The hooded head was raised toward the sky so that the breeze could flood into his nostrils. Minutes passed while he reached up with two hands to flick back his cowl, turning his head first to the left and then to the right as if in some attempt to overhear a conversation very distant or to revel in some aroma both pleasing and pure.

Touching his booted feet lightly to the earth, he crept around a cropping of stone which stood between him and the source of whatever it was he sensed in the night. Not a stone's throw away were fifteen mounted men - but that they were not men he knew by the dry rasp of the air that gave them voice, by what he saw when he looked upon them with his naked eyes, and by that faintest scent of their flesh which carried by the breeze.

Four of their number lay dead on the ground and there was a great uncertainty among them as they argued whether to turn back or push forward. They could not be allowed to turn back the way they had come.

The cloaked man stood to his feet, hunched his shoulders, allowed the reflexive action in his lungs to cease, and then dug his toes into the earth and rushed toward a horse whose rider lay dead on the ground. Catching the pommel in one hand he lunged into the saddle and cried, "Fly, my brethren! Death approaches from behind!" He punctuated with an urgent snap of his heels into the animal's ribs to urge it into a startled gallop away.

"Who was that?" someone shouted from behind.

"I've not seen his face!" another called back, but they were following. The pounding hoofbeats raced along behind, churning a cloud of dust into the air that could be seen for miles in either direction.

"Ey!" a horse faster than the one the hired blade rode was pulling slowly forward and alongside of him. He knew the look of his own face in the mirror, and had no doubt that a glance - or even a few minutes of inspection - could pass him as one of the parasites who now rode hard at his heels. He also had no doubt that there was more than this at their disposal. "Who are you, then, brother?" the last came with a hard edge that showed there was no mind so simple as to accept a pale face and a shouted warning as the gospel of the gods.

"I was with a pack of four come up from the southlands," Araishan shouted back, turning in his saddle to eye the group behind but letting it appear he was looking over the trail behind. "We were beset by a score of Hunters in the Myrkenwood. They took my brethren, killed my steed, and follow my trail with dogs."

Did it sound believable? Having never, himself, been put in the shoes of the Hunted - at least not as these were accustomed - he did not know.

"If we can make the border," he added, "my Lord awaits with his retinue."

The horses galloped on, the earth was pounded hard beneath them, and Araishan knew well enough that even if he could keep this group on his heels, he would have another problem when they reached the point where Brand lay in wait with his rogues: Even if he were recognized at the head of the straggled formation, he might be mistaken for a traitor and shot anyway.

[Aeron Ktrenna]

Draal. The name echoed inside her mind, made the whispering that hovered just on the edge of her hearing louder, and even less coherent. Aeron’s hasty exit from the tavern after speaking with Donovan, was covered with some nonsensical excuse about rest. Thin, most probably transparent at best, it was the most viable reason she could come up with to cover her strange, abrupt actions. A bladesinger, he had said, as if this was something to fear. She was wise enough to respect the abilities, but fear? No. At least not to the point of reconsidering this entire venture.

Well hidden within a thick copse of tall brush was an impatient horse, unaccustomed to this habit of Aeron’s. Once, long ago, she’d been attacked by five assassins while enjoying an evening out in a local tavern in her own homelands. Her son had been born only days before, and Aeron was still feeling the effects of his birth. Her only recourse had been to dive out a window and run for her life, an act that still did not sit well with her to this day. But, it had taught her a valuable lesson. It was indeed better to be prepared for just about anything, including the possibility of retreat.

Moments later she was mounted; horse and rider were moving away from the tavern, but not moving in the direction of her newly purchased home. No. The voices would never allow her to sleep, she would be denied such peace tonight. Why this was happening, Aeron had no solid understanding, only theory based upon the events of the last year.
A year? Was it really an entire year? So much time had passed, and Aeron was no closer to finding her son and stopping him now, then on that fateful night she’d stepped through the gate. For the first time since she was very young, Aeron was struggling with the possibility she might not be able to win this battle. Elendil might succeed, all that she knew and loved might come to a catastrophic end, and all Aeron might accomplish is being witness to his duplicitous act.

Such morbid thoughts were forcibly pushed to the back of her mind for now, her heels dug into the sides of the horse and urged him from a walk into a slow canter. The woman took a small bit of comfort in the unbending line of metal across her back, for she knew it would be sorely needed before this was all over.

Unknown to Aeron, her line of travel would carry her inevitably toward the thick of the battle, or maybe, on some deeper level, she knew exactly where she was going. All that mattered was her survival, her son and keeping the whispering darkness at bay long enough to see this all through to the end.

[Donovan]

Brand crouched low behind a set of bushes, ice-blue eyes narrowed on the approaching pack. The sun was rising. Strong hands nocked an arrow in his bow, squaring in on the lead rider. It was but a moment later that they widened, and he mouthed a few curse words. Araishan was leading the pack!

It seemed all at once, a hundred different scenarios would fill his mind. Had he been deceived? Or was Araishan leading them into the trap? If he were a traitor, then why would he arrive head on? His lips snarled, and the arrow was let go with blazing speed toward the knee joint of Araishan's horse in attempts to topple it, and its rider. He knew the fall could very well be painful. But the alternative was worse for the man. Several twangs, accompanied by hissing arrows that soared through the trees and bushes to land upon the chests of the approaching kindred. The trap was sprung. From the trees above, men dropped from the darkness onto the shoulders of their foes, blades drawn to impale... whilst the archers would assault them from every side. Care had to be taken to not impale their own with an arrow in such close proximity.

Brand was searching for one in particular. He nocked back another arrow, quietly examining the pack. Where was he? The Elder, Draal. Brand knew that he needed to be taken out as quickly as possible. This was critical to their success.

He was interrupted by the feeling of pain washed with a cool sensation as he took a powerful blow to the side of his head, blood filling his visage. The man's eyes tightly shut, and he groaned in pain before doubling over. It was enough to put him down, but hardly enough to keep him on the ground. As his attacker lept upon his form, Brand's hand swiped to the dagger sheathed at his leg... driving it upward into the ribcage of the Vampire. With a shrill cry, it fell off to the side... trying to gain some sort of distance to structure another attack. It was mere seconds before an arrow flew directly over the Rogue's shoulder, piercing the heart of his opponent. Eyes quickly shifted over his shoulder, to view the surprised looking face of Wolfgar... who'd been able to get off one shot before crumbling to the ground, ran through from behind with a blade. Brand shouted, reaching out towards the man... laying himself over a rock.

"Wolfgar!", he shouted... trying to crawl toward the man's lifeless body, the cut on his temple blinding him as crimson washed his gaze.

"Wolfgar! Get up!", another shout as he crawled over to the man, turning him halfway on his side to look at him. Eyes of the Rogue's comrade shifted upward to Brand... but then stilled in his death. The man's blood soaked Brand's clothing and hands, and he lifted his head... letting out an ear-piercing shout of fury, which would most likely be heard from quite a distance away. Blood-stained gaze lowered to the battle which had gone sour, the Bloodhawks having left many of the Rogues dead in their tracks. He pulled his hands away from the man's body, standing as his entire body shook. Tattooed arms were smeared with crimson, and blue eyes were barely visible beneath the river of blood. He drew the black-bladed Longsword from its scabbard, charging into the pack of remaining undead. He cared little of pain or death now. It was entirely irrelevant. It was time to kill or be killed. And he would be the victor. With a savage blow, he forced his blade through the jawbone of one of his enemies, causing a spray of crimson that would engulf him. He bared his teeth akin to that of a feral wolf, spotting the Elder and his female company retreating West.

"Draal!", he roared, as he began to persue the two of them. In his fit of rage, he hadn't bothered to assess the situation at hand. As he broke into a sprint through the woodland paths in persuit, he left Araishan ... wherever he was, and the Rogues behind to deal with the remaining Vampires. But if any good came out of it, it was that he was chasing them right into the nets of the approaching Aeron.

[Donovan]

Steel rang, and fell to the floor of the Dagger. Donovan sat beside the hearth, staring at a whetstone that had been laid across his palm. His eyes fell closed, head turning away from the blade. Selfishness. Foolish pride. He'd already lost this battle. Luckily, he hadn't lost his life. Draal left him for dead in the midst of the woods... and by the grace of Mystra, he'd been plucked from his precarious spot amongst the wild. And then there was Aeron. When he'd first met the woman, he knew that involving her was not the right thing to do. Each passing day he saw her, he could see her growing further from herself... battling something within her own conscience that seemed to be on the verge of exploding.

Eventhough brutal and fierce with a sword... he'd been able to spot something within the woman that wasn't quite what her hard exterior suggested. Or at least he thought he saw something. There was a certain tenderness within her being, but it had been long hidden away in the dark passages of her soul. He recalled her face from the night before... the haunted expression that took her over before she hastily made her exit. He hadn't a clue what it was...

All he knew is that it was too late...

It's always too late.

"Aeron...", he murmured softly against the wind, eyes turning toward the window. A sudden tide of self loathing overcame the man as he sat there, watching the hills afar.

[Aeron Ktrenna]

Aeron’s ears picked up the echoes of the battle while still nearly a half-mile distant from the melee. She had no idea who was winning, but that really did not matter, now did it? Both heels were clapped to the sides of her horse, causing the startled animal to dance sideways before he leapt forward. His lengthening strides extended into a full gallop, and the pair seemed to fly over the ground, little thought given to what she might be riding into at headlong speed.
He was pulled up abruptly at the edge of the battle; Aeron’s gaze was cast over the combatants, searching methodically for one face in particular. His height would also help to give away his position. But it was Brand’s scream of fury that caught her undivided attention; she spun her horse on his haunches in order to face that direction. She watched Brand rise from the body of his fallen comrade, watched as he began to run west, cutting down anything that stood in his path. Her gaze traveled further, dark eyes narrowing to study the figures fleeing the scene. There. It was Draal and the woman, the thing created for the purpose of baiting Donovan.
A vampire rose up from the ground to block her path; the hard shoulder of her fast moving horse struck him down; another was beheaded by the sharp edge of her blade as they raced through the battlefield. Nothing was going to stand between her and the pair fleeing the battle, not now. Absolution is, at best, an elusive and deceptive ideal, forever taunting the seeker, leading them onward in false hopes, born of false promises uttered by desolate souls.
She pushed the horse forward, ruthlessly whipping his neck on both sides with the reins in an effort to gain more speed. In this moment, Aeron did not care if he fell, pulled a tendon or even shattered a fetlock. All that mattered was the vampire up ahead and the thing riding by his side. She flew past Brand, not even pausing turning her head to glance his way. Strands of her hair whipped out behind her like a worn and tattered banner of war streaming in the wind, defiant to the bitter end. Her lips moved and she screamed out his name, but that same wind stole the word and threw it back to echo in the ears of those still left fighting in the battlefield behind.
They were riding hard, but Aeron would not relent, she would not give up. Ever. Her blood burned with an abnormal heat, her skin was on fire, and all the fevered rage carried within her soul roiled and writhed its way to the surface; she merely a vessel, one far too fragile to contain such raw, potent fury. Brand became smaller and smaller until his forlorn figure was long gone from sight. Foam and sweat covered the barrel and chest of her horse, his nostrils were wide open, his breathing sounded like the bellows in a blacksmith’s forge, and still she would not relent. Closer and closer she drew, the gap of distance between Aeron and her prey was closing, she was gaining ground. Twice Draal glanced over his shoulder at their pursuer, each time whipping his own horse in an effort to gain more speed from it’s irregular, floundering strides.

It happened so fast. Aeron flashed past them, and the woman-like thing aside of him grunted a gutteral sound, one that ended in a gurgle of blood. The upper half of her body simply slid loose midway at her torso and fell to the ground, rolling a few feet before coming to a halt to lay in a depression in the earth. Her horse went insane with fear from the sudden and overpowering scent of blood permeating the air all around him and bolted to the left, smashing into Draal’s horse. That horse too went wild with fear, and bolted the opposite way, all of it working together to unseat Draal, who tumbled to the ground beneath the hooves of two terrified, crazed horses.
When he finally rolled clear and stood up, he was alone, his clan and the battlefield left far behind. He was utterly alone, save for the woman patiently waiting for him, still astride the blowing, snorting, foam-flecked, horse. The wicked looking length of bloody steel held by her hand spoke for her; words were not needed, he understood her silent challenge perfectly.

[Araishan]

The moment's approach was expected long before the moment, itself, finally arrived. As Brand's first arrow soared, the cloaked rider at the head of the pack of kindred flung himself to the left, caught the rider next to him about the shoulders with both arms, and dragged him from the saddle. The two men struck the ground and rolled at the same time that the horse Araishan had ridden was struck and plunged headlong into the dust of the trail. Those behind had pulled suddenly up, taken as much by the surprise of one among them lunging at another as by the volley of arrows whistling from the brush and the ridges to either side of the trail.

By the time the men had fallen upon the vampires from the trees, the one dragged from his mount lay dead and the stranger was in the thick of the fight. He saw two rush by him, charging a position held by the archers, and turned away from his live opponent to fling a haftless blade at their backs. The weapon did not find the heart but did bite cleanly into the spine, and with a shrill scream that one went down while the hired swordsman turned back to the fight before him. The one who'd gotten by troubled his mind, but he forced it away and went on with the business at hand.

These parasites were fast and they were strong, and their resilience was startling as they tended to rise up from the earth after even felling blows from the rogues. Sometimes it seemed that two of the vampires would rise for each of the rogues that fell before them, but Brand's people were no weaklings and it did not take long for the battle to ebb. When it did, the cloaked man stepped back to look over the field.

Two of the enemy had gone, and he cursed himself softly for having gone among them rather than bring up the rear as he and the rogue leader had discussed - it could be his own fault that the pair had escaped. Another moment of observation brought the realization that Brand, himself, was not among the rogues. Nor was he among the dead who were being carried or dragged from the field, separated so that the kindred could be burned and the men dealt with however these rogues dealt with their own kind.

Araishan was kneeling to extract his haftless throwing blade from the spine of one of the fallen when he heard the grate of gravel beneath booted feet and looked up to see one of the enemy had risen and was sprinting toward a riderless horse which stood cropping grass nearby.

He chased, the two leapt for the back of the animal at the same moment, and that handle-less blade entered the vampire's back just aside of the shoulderblade to emerge streaked with blood from the front of the chest. The dead thing was toppled from the saddle as Araishan tore his weapon free and shifted himself forward into the seat. He was gathering the reins in one hand when he heard one of the rough rogues call out, "Who is that, then?" from behind him.

Two vampires had gone missing, and had either taken the leader with them or the leader had gone in pursuit. All it would take was one among these fighting men to decide he did not care to wait for Brand's return, and a pale-faced stranger might find himself in a fight for his life for which he had not been paid.

He flipped up his cowl with his free hand and gave his mount a vicious kick with both heels to start it galloping back down the trail toward Myrken. Let Brand's underlings do the work of finishing the dead, and let Brand himself explain the presence of the cloaked stranger on the field of battle. Araishan had half a mug of honey wine waiting along the way back home, and did not care to fight his way toward it.