The Bloodletters

[The Kolat]

Ex-Colonel Marcus Malficious sighed his dismay. "What flaming hell-hole of a province have we ridden into?" He thought as he wiped the sweat from his brow. "There had better be pickings worth this unbearable heat." He glanced back at his men who went about setting up the days base camp. He had to keep them busy else the heat would flare their tempers and they would soon become rowdy. The last thing he needed right now was a tightening of tensions amongst his raiders.

And raiders they were. Marcus had been kicked out of the Royal Army of Thessilane for disorderly conduct, assault of a superior offcider, and gross misconduct with relation to prisoners. It was lucky the corps had not seen what happened to those he deigned ill-useful as prisoners or he would have hanged on the spot. A good portion of his men, some 50 strong now, had chosen to follow their disreputable leader into his "new endeavors" and deserted the army. After seeing the death and destruction wrought at the hands of Marcus some wished they had chosen otherwise but if they returned now it would surely mean an extended neck and so their purpose was clear: Follow Marcus on his trek of pillage and plunder and very likely on through the gates of hell. At least the money was good. They had been forced to leave Derry, their first land of prey, on account of the militias and civil forces putting too much heat on their operations, but they had milked the province for enough. His men were now outfitted in all the finest gear and weaponry a commander could hope for through the use of Marcus' remaining military connections.

Each man was a hardened soldier, and Marcus could not have been happier with the crew at his command. He had even christened them a name--The Bloodletters--and had been the first to have a tattoo of a crimson crescent dripping with blood engraved onto his right shoulder. Marcus knew well the power of symbols and tradition.

He took another pull from his wineskin while he watched on as a few of his men finished raising his command tent. "Double time boys, dusk isnt far off and I expect to be ready to operate." The men knew better than to argue.

Marcus then spied a young man approaching at a jog from mid-clearing, looking anything but the battle-hardened soldier the rest of the men here were. "Lonnie, the useless mutt. What's he want now?" Thought Marcus. He despised his cousin for his innocence and naivete but could not deny the boon he had been for his band.

It was Lonnie who gave them a new direction to go in when the well dried up in derry. Lonnies parents owned a farm somewhere in this god-forsaken place and had come calling to his cousin talking of the unfair and unscrupulous dealings the nearby town had with his people. Lonnie kept referring to them as "Pritchies," whatever the hell that meant. He wanted revenge and thought ol' Cousin Marcus would be the best bet to have at it.

"Cousin Marcus, Cousin Marcus! I found a water hole down the hill just like I remembered it. It's gone a little shallow but there should be plenty to load up on!" Yelled out Lonnie as he approached.

"Thats great, Lonnie, now why arent you telling this to Murien so he can deal with it?" Replied Marcus in a dry tone that bellied his agitation at having to converse with the boy.

"I already told him, but I thought you would want to know too."

"Yes, Yes, it's right up there at the top of my list of priorities Lonnie." Was the dismissive reply.

"We're gonna get those Myrkentowners and everyone who ever said a bad thing about the good Pritchies, arent we Marcus? Their gonna get whats comin to 'em". I cant wait to see the look on all their faces when we take em for all they got." Lonnie had the look of awe on his face when regarding his military cousin. He thought Marcus' being kicked out of the army was a great big mistake and that they were surely missing out on one of the greatest military minds ever. Marcus could do no wrong in his eyes. That would surely change soon.

"Yes, Yes...all in its due time, Lonnie. Now why don't you go help the other men set up the camp. There's plenty to do around here before nightfall." Marcus replied after barely registering a word spoken by the young man.

"You bet cousin Marcus, anything I can do to help." Lonnie turned and all but ran back down the gently sloping hillside to aid a hand.

Marcus could care less about the nature of the "Pritchies" troubles and who was screwing who over in Myrken Wood. He wanted gold, jewels, and supplies, and he wanted them from everyone. He had decided to leave Lonnies family out of it, but if things came to a head between him and his little cousin the decision would be easy. He would kill him and leave him hanging from a tree without a second thought, family or no family.

He smiled a thin smile as his tents construction became complete. He passed the wineskin to one of the men after a heavy drink for himself.

"Pass it around. Good job, lads. And when you've had a couple start bringing my load in. I'll expect it in 15 minutes." Marcus took a gaze inside his tent then turned to walk through the small camp. His presence always picked up the pace of things and today, with the hellish heat, it would be even more needed. Tommorrow they would have to do it all over again but that did not mean one could be lazy about it. Marcus' Bloodletters were always on the move, ever watchful of the shadow of a scout on their trail.

As he walked he could not help but notice the bad mood of his company endeared by the stinging heat. "Oh yes, we will certainly be raiding the roads and a few secluded farmhouses tonight." He thought. One or more of the non-"Pritchie" (he still couldnt get over that title) farms would make as good a starting target as any and hopefully it would shut that dolt Lonnie up for awhile. He didnt like it, but he still needed him. The lad knew the land and the people, but he had better be right about the chaos between the militia, the straka, and the council. Marcus would need that chaos to create the opportunities he hoped for. The last thing he wanted was another concerted effort against his operations like the one in Derry. At any rate, there would be the loss of goods and gold by some unlucky bastards tonight, and if Marcus was lucky, the loss of life if someone turned out obstinate and unwilling to part with their worldly goods. Had to keep the man happy after all...

(if anyone wishes to post as a victim of the raiders or as part of the membership, as well as anything else you think of, feel free)

[The Kolat]

Marcus was smiling his satisfaction. The days camp had been set up in record time that morning, when the heat was not so damned pervasive, and Lonnie had actually been able to find them another waterhole, through it was damn near evaporated into nothingness.

"Very good job, gentlemen, very good job indeed." Marcus was running his hands through a trunk of coins and jewels lifted off a fairly well off merchant who had made the mistake of moving to Myrken Town just a few days too late. His guards were overtaken easily and those not dead were tied off in a tent somewhere. They kept the merchant and his family separate and burned the carriage they road in on to the ground. The horses, however, were too fine to let go. They had been tied up in a line with the others. Marcus was waiting now for Murien to finish detailing the information they would need to pursue a ransom. The guards he would deal with in his own special way.

Two merchants and a piddly little farmhouse had been raided the previous night. The other merchant had been no great catch, seeing as he was travelling from town to meet family in Foggy Bottom and to peddle his wares he had but a days sales worth of coin on him, but the goods--general housewares--would come in handy enough at the camp and Marcus' cook had seemed quite happy with the new pots and pans. What they didnt use they could sell. The farm had offered next to nothing in the way of crop or valuables and Marcus would have to go for bigger and better next time. All in all, though, it had been a very fine night.

Still, there was something nagging at him. Aldias and his crew had not met up at the Bloodletter's old camp that dawn. Normally he would have regrouped along with the others at first light, Aldius being one of his most dependable men, but perhaps they were simply bringing in a large haul. Marcus would have words with him when he returned with the scout he left at the old camp. It would not do to have Bloodletters scrounging through the roads and forests during the daylight hours. It was then that Nicklaus and Beckert came stumbling through the treeling along the camp's perimeter with Johann the scout leading atop his mount. A scowl rested on Marcus' lips as he stood, hands resting on his hips, watching them approach. Something was definately amiss.

"Where are the others, and where are your horses?" Demanded Marcus as Nick and Beckert neared, haggard and drenched with sweat.

Beckert was the first to speak. "Their all dead, sir. We were attacked unawares by a ghost of a man, sir, a real professional.

Marcus' scowl deepened. "One man, you say, just one?"

"Yes, sir." Quipped Nick hurriedly. "We were hiding in the treeline waiting for our target and he just appeared out of nowhere." Nick saw the look on Marcus' face. "Maybe it was'nt even a man, sir, it coulda been a monster of some sort, it was hard to tell out there..."

"Shut up. Both of you, get cleaned up and meet me at my tent in 30 minutes, I want to hear everything about this man and exactly what happened." Marcus then turned towards one of his men who stood near. "Grant, get two men together and prepare to go retrieve the bodies when I'm through questioning these men." He did'nt want the Straka or any other civil order finding them first. "And make yourselves look inconspicuous. No armor, and cover your tattoos." He added before turning his back on men already moving to execute their orders. Five of his men dead. It was not a loss he had not felt before. Their numbers had dwindled in some in Derry.

If it was a real top tier professional they had encountered, it was no great surprise to Marcus that they had fallen. But Nick and Beckert had been lying about how the attack went down, of that he was almost sure of. He had seen it in their eyes. Every soldier lies to their commander with that same look. Marcus had a good memory of what it was like. His final thought before entering his tent: "Five dead Bloodletters and not more than two days in this inferno blasted province. The spoils make up for it, and we can handle the losses, but I'll be damned if I let one man get away with it. The Bloodletter's will have their revenge."

[Vanidor]

They came up upon the scene before the arrival of the Bloodletters. There were three of them here, dressed like common mercenaries and investigating the scene before them. Not much to it, really. The fight had been fast. Direct and deadly, that's there was to say about it. Whomever had done the deed had made sure make the kills clean, if brutal.

The man in nominal command frowned, turning in his saddle and glancing at the men with him. "Looks familar, doesn't he? Kinda like Jonst, in Captain Turan's company back home. Maybe he be kin?" The rest of the patrol shifted uneasily. It wasn't something these men really wanted to think about. "Close kin. Didn' he have a brother? Counsin or something, eh."

"Not sure, sarge. Not sure a'tall. I'm down from Almark, like the Cap'n. Ne'er serve'd up'a that way t'all. But if ya says so, then y'says so." The Sergeant mused a moment, then simply grumbled.

"No doubt 'bout it. There're Thessilane men. We're gunna 'ave t'tell the Captain 'bout this." The rest of the men nodded in agreement. They knew that it wouldn't do to have anyone else from back home recognize them. Especially since they weren't supposed to be here at all. "Get ready. We're gettin' outta here. Leave the bodies."

And so the trio turned, wheeling their warhorses in the dusty ground. Within moments they would be kicking up a dusty trail through the withered farmland.

[The Kolat]

(continued from "The Return of the Kolat")

The Bloodletter's new prisoner was brought into camp dragged behind Marcus' cream colored mare. The ruse had been easy enough to pull off; they had used the merchant's daughter as bait to reel in the prize with her screams for help while they waited in ambush. Everything had gone as planned.

Marcus turned in his saddle and twisted his torso to get another look at the man who had killed five of his men and let loose another of his taunts. "Bet you feel real good about killing those men about now, don’t you? Me and the boys are going to have some good old fashioned fun with you come morning, son.â€

[The Kolat]

The Kolat hung still as a sleeping bat. The pain stung and coursed through his body as a throbbing avalanche that never ended but his mind was somewhere else then, away from the aftermath of the vicious whipping. It was not his resilience to pain that kept him from crying out through the strikes and cracks of the whip, but rather this place. It was the small room he had grown up sleeping, eating, reading, and living in as a boy. The outside world was still there but existed as shadows beyond the curtain of mind, fleeting images of feelings and sounds at the corner of the eyes. He was aware of the guards who mulled about and spewed insults and spittle on his hanging form and yet those sensations were far away, like a line of ships gliding along the horizon of the mind. He sat in that small cell now, legs crossed, focusing inward while blocking everything—all thought, all emotion—from the slate of his mind.

“Hello again, boyâ€

[The Kolat]

Some hours later, after the novelty of cursing the new prisoner had worn off, Baelus and the camps night guard set up a table to play cards. The colonel like the camp dark at night, so they sat close enough to the lone small fire to use its light but far enough away to keep as cool as possible. They wiped the sweat from their bros as they eyed their cards and measured their chances at the hand. Baelus won this one in the end, taking a large pot from Cronius who thought his hand was a shoe in.

Baelus laughed mightily, “Better luck tomorrow, Cronius, now why don’t you go check on the prisoners, it might cool ya’ off some,â€

[The Kolat]

The one-time colonel was furious. He was never happy whenever he got less than he expected but this was unbelievabe. "How could this have happened to me, how could he have escaped! Those idiots, what were they thinking playing gods be damned cards!" Thought Marcus' when the Bloodletters rode in on the scene left behind by what could have only been the now ex-prisoner. To top things off, the night's pickings had been slim; nothing but a couple of merchants, not nearly wealthy, and a pair of travellers not worth their weight in gold.

Marcus sat atop his mare scowling his disdain at everything his gaze showed before him. "Get moving, now!" His gaze turned to the silent men who flanked him. "Get these dead maggots out of my sight," he said before dismounting to the clatter of men's boots thudding to the ground.

One of the men came to his side and asked in a solemn voice, "Cap'n, what should we do with the stores of food we looted from the first catch?" The moment he asked his eyes went wide with recognition of the title he had chosen.

Marcus' scowl somehow transformed into something depicting a worse rage as he spun and decked the man full force in the jaw, laying him out flat to the ground as he yelled, "What the hell did you just call me?!" The question was apparently rhetorical as he immediately went on, "Never use that term with me again or you'll find yourself in a tree." He was standing over the man now, looking down at him as if he were the bile of the earth, "And where the hell do you think it goes? With the rest of our stockpile, you imbecile!"

Marcus' detested being called Captain. It was an insult when the Thessilayne ranks were restructured and he became a "Regimental Captain" and Marcus would never abide the title, not out here and now, with his men.

"I'm sorry sir, it'll never happen again," yammered the man as he scrambled back out of the way.

This was all too much. Marcus retired to his tent immediately. He needed wine. He needed time to think, time to figure out how he was going to attain revenge and regain a portion of his dignity.