Location: Northfields
The mercenaries gathered in a small, secluded area just outside the village, where the thick maple trees offered cover and concealment. The afternoon sun filtered through the leaves, casting dappled patterns of light on the ground as Knight One, the squad leader, addressed his team.
"Alright, listen up,” his voice was low but firm. "We’ve got a job to do, and we need to be smart about it. Knight Two, I want you down the road, just outside the village perimeter. Keep your eyes peeled for any sign of the Coalition. If you see them coming, signal us, but stay out of sight. The last thing we need is to tip them off that something’s not right here."
Two nodded, already moving to grab his gear.
Knight Two watched Two disappear into the woods, his figure quickly blending into the foliage. Once he was sure Two was in position, Knight One turned back to the rest of the team.
"The rest of you, stay alert and keep an eye on the villagers. Something’s off here, and I want to know exactly what we’re dealing with. We’re meeting with the mages soon. Stick to the plan."
With that, Knight One headed toward the modest building where the employer had set up their temporary base. The structure was simple, a small farmhouse that had been cleared out and repurposed for their needs. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of incense and something else—something faintly metallic that Knight One couldn’t quite place.
The leader of the mages, the woman with the glowing eyes, gestured for Knight to sit. "What have you found?" she asked, her tone calm but with an edge of expectation.
Knight One didn’t sit. "The village doesn’t look right," he said bluntly. "And if it doesn’t look right to me, it sure as hell won’t look right to a Coalition patrol that’s staying the night—or even just passing through."
The female Shifter arched an eyebrow. "In what way does it not look right, Knight One?"
He leaned forward, planting his hands on the table. "For starters, the crops are dying, and the livestock are barely holding on. That’s not normal for a place like this, especially not one so close to the Coalition’s heart. I counted 36 kids, but they’re all scared out of their minds. Something’s happened here, something that’s got everyone on edge. If a Coalition patrol sees this, they’ll start asking questions. And we both know that’s the last thing any of us need."
The Shifter, who had been silent up until now, leaned forward slightly. "And what would you suggest? We cannot simply conjure a solution to make the village appear... normal."
Knight One glanced at the whispering Shifter. "My squad medic thinks the animals can be saved, and we have a platoon who have the strength and endurance to do farm work. We can get the crops back on track, at least enough to pass a cursory inspection. But that still leaves the bigger issue—why did the locals stop doing the work in the first place? What’s got them so spooked that they’re not even bothering to keep up appearances?"
The female Shifter spoke, her voice carefully measured. "The villagers... are under a certain influence, one that compels them to act in ways that may seem unusual to you. It is a necessary precaution, one that ensures their compliance and our security."
Knight One narrowed his eyes. "An influence? You mean possession, don’t you?"
The Shifter didn’t deny it. "Yes, possession. It is the only way to guarantee their loyalty. But it appears that the entities controlling them have perhaps... grown lax in maintaining the village’s outward appearance."
Knight one’s jaw tightened. "Lax? They look like they’re out to lunch, and the kids are terrified. If the Coalition sees that, they’re going to start asking questions and looking for answers."
The Shifter spoke again, his voice a soft hiss. "What would you have us do? We cannot simply release them. The entities serve their purpose, and they must remain until our task is complete."
Knight One took a deep breath, his mind racing. He knew better than to push the mages too far, but he also knew that if they didn’t address this problem, they’d all be in serious trouble.
"I get that you need to keep control, but you also need to make sure this village looks normal. My team can help—revive the crops, feed the animals, and put the villagers to work on something, anything, that makes this place look like it’s alive. But you need to rein in those entities. They can’t be scaring the locals into submission so badly that they stop functioning."
The Shifter was silent for a long moment, considering his words. Finally, the female mage nodded.
"Very well. We will see to it that the entities adjust their methods. The villagers will resume their tasks, and your team may assist in restoring the village’s appearance. But remember, this arrangement is delicate. Tread carefully."
Knight One nodded, relief mingling with the tension that still gripped him. "Understood. We’ll do what we can. But if the Coalition comes knocking, I want to make sure they don’t find anything that gives them a reason to dig deeper."
The female Shifter offered a thin, enigmatic smile. "Then let us both ensure that they have no reason to look beyond the surface."
With that, Knight One turned to leave, already planning how to get his team working on the village’s revival. He knew they were walking a tightrope, balancing between the mages demands and the ever-present threat of discovery by the Coalition. But for now, at least, they had a plan—a fragile one, but a plan nonetheless.
---
The sun was dipping low in the sky, casting long shadows over the village of Northfields. The maple trees, once symbols of life and prosperity, now stood like silent sentinels over a place that had become a twisted reflection of itself. In the quiet of the approaching evening, only a few lights flickered in the windows of the houses, and the streets were eerily empty.
Inside the small, weathered farmhouse on the edge of the village, old Mr. Wick sat in a worn armchair, his frail hands shaking slightly as he sipped from a chipped mug. The house was dimly lit, the curtains drawn tight, as if to keep the outside world at bay. His once strong frame had withered with age, and the weight of the situation bore down on him, making him feel even older than his years. His eyes, though clouded with age, still held a sharpness, a desperate determination to protect what little he could.
Across the room, the Dombrowski family huddled together. John Dombrowski, a man once known for his broad shoulders and booming laugh, now sat with his face lined with worry. His wife, Mary, clutched their two little girls close, whispering reassurances that she didn’t quite believe herself. The girls, no older than five and seven, stared at the floor, their small hands gripping their mother’s dress as if she were the only thing keeping them from drifting away.
Scattered around the room were three dozen children—boys and girls ranging from toddlers to teens. Their faces were pale, eyes wide with fear and confusion. They didn’t understand why their parents, their brothers and sisters, their neighbors—people they had trusted and loved—had suddenly turned cold, distant, and dangerous. The village that had once been a safe haven had become a place of nightmares.
Mr. Wick cleared his throat, the sound dry and rasping, drawing the attention of the Dombrowskis.
"We need to keep them quiet," he said, his voice trembling but resolute. "If they hear us... if they see us..."
His voice trailed off, but they all knew what he meant. The others—those who had been possessed—were unpredictable. And though the Dombrowskis and Mr. Wick had somehow escaped the fate that had befallen the rest of the village, they knew their luck could run out at any moment.
John nodded, his jaw clenched tight. "I know, Mr. Wick. But what do we do? We can’t keep hiding like this forever. The kids... they’re scared, hungry. We can’t even go out to get food without risking running into... them."
Mary tightened her hold on her daughters, her voice shaking with barely suppressed fear.
"And the soldiers... I heard the screams last night, John. They got another patrol. Those poor men never stood a chance."
She looked at her husband, her eyes pleading. "This isn’t right. This isn’t our home anymore."
John swallowed hard, his eyes flickering to the window as if expecting to see one of the possessed villagers peering in.
"I don’t know what’s happened here, but we have to keep the kids safe. They don’t understand what’s going on. Heck, we don’t even understand it. But we can’t let them get caught up in this madness."
A small voice piped up from the corner of the room. It was one of the older boys, his face streaked with dirt and tears.
"Why won’t my mom talk to me anymore? She just looks at me like she doesn’t know me... I don’t know what I did wrong."
Mary’s heart broke at the sight of him. She wanted to tell him everything would be alright, that his mother still loved him and that this was just a bad dream. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t lie to him when she didn’t even know if they’d survive the night.
Mr. Wick set down his mug with a shaky hand and slowly stood up, using his cane for support.
"Listen to me, all of you," he said, his voice stronger than before. "We’re in a bad spot, and I won’t lie to you—it’s going to get worse before it gets better. But we’re not giving up. We’re going to stick together and do what we can to keep each other safe. And maybe, just maybe, we’ll find a way out of this."
John stood as well, squaring his shoulders as if preparing to face down an unseen enemy. "Mr. Wick’s right. We’ll keep our heads down, stay out of sight, and keep the kids safe. We’ll ration what food we have left and take turns keeping watch. If anyone tries to come for us, we’ll be ready."
The children looked up at him with wide, fearful eyes, but there was a flicker of hope, faint as it was. They didn’t fully understand the danger, but they knew they weren’t alone. And for now, that was enough.
Outside, the sun dipped below the horizon, and the village of Northfields was swallowed by the dark. The trees rustled in the wind, their golden leaves whispering secrets to the night. In the distance, a dog howled, a mournful sound that echoed through the empty streets.
As the Dombrowskis and Mr. Wick settled in for another long night of fear and uncertainty.
For now, all the Dombrowskis, Mr. Wick, and the children could do was wait—and pray that when the time came, they’d be ready to face whatever came through the door.
---
Suddenly, a knock echoed through the small farmhouse, startling everyone inside. John immediately tensed, motioning for everyone to stay quiet. Mary clutched her daughters tightly, her eyes wide with fear. The knock came again, firm and deliberate, followed by a voice.
“I’ve come with an offer.”
John exchanged a wary glance with Mr. Wick, who nodded slightly, giving his silent approval. With a deep breath, John stood and slowly approached the door, his heart pounding in his chest. He hesitated for a moment before pulling it open just enough to see the man standing on the other side.
Knight One stood there, his expression unreadable, flanked by two of his men. They each held five-gallon coolers—one marked with a crude drawing of a cow, the other with a droplet of water. Beside them, another mercenary held a box filled with MREs. The smell of packaged food, familiar and oddly comforting, wafted into the room.
“Evening,” Knight One said, his tone calm and businesslike. “I’ve brought some supplies, food, milk, and water. Enough to keep everyone fed for a while.”
John eyed the supplies warily, then looked back at Knight One, trying to gauge the man’s intentions. “Why?” he asked, his voice low, filled with suspicion.
Knight One met his gaze steadily.
“Because I know what you’re dealing with. I’ve seen the kids, seen how scared they are. I know you’re trying to keep them safe. And right now, the best way to do that is to keep quiet and stay out of sight.”
John’s grip on the door tightened. “And what’s the catch? What do you want from us?”
“No catch,” Knight replied, holding up his hands. “I just want to make sure things stay calm. If you stay quiet and don’t make any trouble, you’ll be fed, and no one will get hurt. Simple as that.”
John studied the mercenary leader’s face, searching for any sign of deception. His expression remained steady, giving nothing away. Finally, John nodded slowly. “Alright. We’ll take the food. But what about tomorrow? What happens then?”
Knight One’s eyes flickered with something—maybe concern, maybe calculation. “Tomorrow, I hope to see you all at the place of worship. The choice is yours, but if you come, you’ll get some explanations, and you’ll be fed lunch. It’s up to you.”
John hesitated, glancing back at Mary and the children. The promise of a meal, of answers, was tempting, but the risk... He turned back to Knight One, still uncertain. “We’ll think about it.”
Knight One nodded, seeming to understand the unspoken fears. “That’s all I can ask. Just think it over, and take care of the kids. They need you.”
With that, Knight One gestured to his men, who set the coolers and box of MREs down just inside the door. The mercenaries stepped back, giving John space as he cautiously pulled the supplies inside.
“If you need anything else, you can find me at the tavern,” Knight One said before turning to leave. “Stay safe.”
John watched as the mercenaries disappeared into the darkness, their footsteps fading into the night. He closed the door and locked it, then turned to the others, who were watching him with a mixture of hope and fear.
“Food,” he said simply, gesturing to the supplies. “We’ve got food.”
Mary’s eyes filled with tears of relief, and the children, sensing the shift in the mood, began to move toward the coolers, curiosity and hunger overcoming their fear.
Mr. Wick looked at John, his old eyes sharp with questions. “What did he say?”
John sighed, running a hand through his hair. “He said if we stay quiet, they’ll keep us fed and won’t hurt us. Tomorrow, they want us to come to the church. Said we’d get some answers and a meal.”
Mr. Wick nodded slowly, processing the information. “Do you believe him?”
“I don’t know,” John admitted. “But right now, we don’t have many options. We’ll keep our heads down tonight, see how things go in the morning.”
Mary opened one of the MREs, handing portions to the children, who eagerly accepted the food. The sight of them eating, their small faces lighting up with the simple joy of a meal, brought a momentary sense of peace to the room.
“Let’s just get through tonight,” John said, his voice firm but weary. “Tomorrow... we’ll figure out tomorrow when it comes.”
Mr. Wick nodded in agreement, his frail hand resting on his cane. “One day at a time, son. We’ll get through this—somehow.”
The night stretched on, but for the first time in days, there was a glimmer of hope, however faint. They had food, they had water, and they had each other. Tomorrow might bring more danger, more uncertainty, but tonight, at least, they could rest, knowing they had made it through another day.
---
The next morning, as the first rays of sunlight filtered through the trees, John sat quietly in the small farmhouse, his mind weighed down by the decision before him. The children were still asleep, scattered on blankets and makeshift beds around the room. Mary watched over them, her eyes shadowed with fatigue and worry. Mr. Wick sat in his usual chair, staring into the distance, lost in thought.
John knew they couldn't keep hiding forever. The mercenaries had been clear—if they stayed quiet, they’d be fed and left unharmed. But there was something unsettling about the invitation to the church. The promise of explanations and a meal sounded too convenient, too easy. Yet, curiosity gnawed at him. If they didn’t go, they might never know what was really happening in the village—or what the mercenaries had planned.
“We should go,” Mr. Wick finally said, his voice a rough whisper in the stillness. “If we don’t, we’ll just be sitting ducks, waiting for the next thing to happen. Maybe they’ll tell us something useful.”
Mary looked at John, concern etched on her face. “But what if it’s a trap? What if they’re planning something worse?”
John rubbed his hands over his face, torn. “I don’t know, Mary. But if we stay here, we’ll just be guessing at what’s coming. If we go... maybe we’ll learn something that can help us. We can’t protect the kids if we don’t know what we’re up against.”
Mary hesitated, then nodded. “Alright. But we stay together. If something feels off, we leave.”
John stood, his decision made. “We’ll go to the church. We’ll hear them out. But we won’t let our guard down.”
The children were roused, their faces filled with confusion and quiet fear as they were told they’d be going to the church. The idea of returning to a place that once held safety now felt like stepping into the unknown. But with no other clear options, the Dombrowskis and Mr. Wick gathered the children, preparing to face whatever awaited them.
As they approached the church, the air was heavy with tension. The village seemed eerily still, the familiar faces of neighbors now mere shadows of what they once were. John could feel the eyes of the possessed villagers watching from behind doors and windows, their cold gazes following their every step. The mercenaries were scattered around the village, standing guard but not interfering as John and his small group made their way to the place of worship.
The church loomed ahead, its simple wooden structure now carrying an ominous weight. The door creaked open, and inside, Knight stood waiting, along with several of his men. There were no mages in sight, but the atmosphere was thick with unspoken tension.
Knight One met John’s gaze, nodding slightly in acknowledgment. “Glad you came,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “Have a seat. You’ll get your explanations—and your meal. We’ll answer what we can.”
John looked at Mary, then at Mr. Wick. They exchanged a silent nod and entered the church, taking their places among the pews. The children clung close to them, their fear palpable, but they followed without protest.
The room grew quiet as they settled in, waiting for the explanations that would either offer clarity—or deepen the mystery.
---
The alien device sat in the center of the table, glowing softly as it began its work. Without warning, a digital projection sprang to life on the wall—a video feed, clear and unnervingly vivid. The image flickered for a moment before settling on a scene that immediately captured everyone's attention.
Emperor Prosek stood at a podium, draped in the imposing black of the Coalition States. His voice, stern and commanding, echoed through the room as he delivered his declaration of war.
"Citizens of the Coalition, today we face a grave threat to our future. The Kingdom of Tolkeen, a bastion of sorcery and chaos, has defied the natural order of humanity. They harbor magic-users, psychics, and non-human entities that seek to corrupt and destroy everything we hold dear. As of today, I declare war on Tolkeen. The full might of the Coalition Army will be brought down upon them until they are purged from the Earth."
The image shifted abruptly to a tranquil village nestled in the rolling hills. Small, peaceful, but unmistakably in the crosshairs of something terrible. The village was alive with activity—alien-looking humanoids moved about, their faces alien but unmistakably filled with fear and confusion. Coalition Army grunts, clad in their black Dead Boy armor, marched into view, their boots thudding heavily on the dirt path. Without hesitation, they raised their rifles, firing bursts of energy into the alien villagers. The humanoids fell one by one, their bodies crumpling under the weight of the Coalition's brutal efficiency.
A sickening tension filled the room as the video progressed toward inevitable bloodshed. Then, with a sharp flick of his wrist, the mercenary leader stopped the video just before the massacre began in full. The projection vanished, leaving only the dim light of the room and the lingering dread hanging in the air.
Knight One, stepped forward, his expression hardened but not without a trace of empathy. He let the silence sink in for a moment, the weight of what everyone had just seen pressing down on the room.
"This," he said, gesturing toward where the projection had been, "is war. The way Emperor Prosek fights it. This is what he’s willing to do—to anyone, anywhere—if they get in his way. You saw the village. The civilians. They weren't soldiers. They weren't a threat. But to him, to his machine, they were nothing but obstacles."
He paused, looking around the room at the faces of the frightened villagers, Mr. Wick, and John. His voice softened just slightly, his tone shifting from that of a hardened mercenary to someone trying to explain a difficult truth.
"I feed children," he said, his words deliberate. "I don't kill them. The laws of war allow me to sequester civilians, both for their protection and for military secrecy. That's what I'm doing here—keeping you safe. Emperor Prosek and his Coalition soldiers don't care about your lives. When they roll through, they burn everything down. Scorched Earth policy—no exceptions. And that's if you're lucky."
He stepped closer to them, his eyes hard but earnest.
"We will leave, eventually. And when we do, your families will be released. You’ll be together again. You won’t be abandoned like those villagers in the video. Unlike Prosek, I don't burn villages down to send a message. I don’t kill indiscriminately."
There was a quiet tension in the room as his words settled over them. For the Dombrowskis, for Mr. Wick, and especially for the children, it was a cold comfort. The mercenaries, as dangerous and ruthless as they were, had thus far kept them alive.
"Just remember," he continued, his voice low and firm, "this war—this fight—it’s far bigger than your village. But when it comes down to it, I’ll make sure you get through it without losing everything. That’s more than Prosek will ever promise."
He turned and made his way to the door, his soldiers falling into step behind him, leaving the room in silence once again. He had made his point: survival, in this war, came at a price. And for now, at least, that price was being paid by those caught in the crossfire.
Next Knight Four came forward.
The air inside was stale, heavy with the scent of unwashed clothes and bodies. The stress of days without proper care had taken its toll on the children—dirty faces, matted hair, and stained clothes told the story of their ordeal.
Walking over to where the children sat. His gaze softened as he saw the state they were in—frightened, dirty, and vulnerable. He knelt down in front of them, his demeanor calm and gentle.
Knight Four said quietly, his voice soothing. "I’m not here to hurt you. I just want to help, okay?"
A few of the children glanced nervously at Mr. Wick, who gave them a small, reassuring nod from his chair. Though he was old and frail, the kids trusted him, and if he wasn’t alarmed by Lyle, then maybe they didn’t need to be either.
Knight Four gave the children a soft smile and held out his hands. "I’ve got a little magic trick for you. It’s called 'Cleanse.' It’s not going to hurt—it’ll just make you feel a lot better. I promise. You don’t have to be afraid."
He reached out gently and touched the shoulders of two children sitting closest to him, a young boy with dirt-streaked cheeks and a girl whose hair was tangled and greasy. They tensed at first, but when they felt nothing more than the warmth of his touch, they relaxed.
Knight Four closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on the spell. A faint, shimmering energy began to swirl around his hands, like wisps of light and air gathering between his fingers. The magic was soft and calm, not the kind of dangerous power the children had heard about in their stories of the Coalition’s witch hunts. This was something different—something good.
With a gentle pulse, the energy flowed over the two children, starting at their shoulders and spreading outward like a warm breeze. Their skin glowed faintly as the magic worked, washing away days of grime and filth in an instant. The boy’s tangled hair became smooth and clean, his face spotless, as if he’d just stepped out of a warm bath. The girl’s clothes, which had been stained and dirty, now looked fresh and pressed, as if they’d just come from the laundry. Their hair shimmered with cleanliness, dry but glossy, as if freshly brushed.
The transformation was immediate and astonishing. The two children blinked in surprise, looking down at themselves in awe, their fingers brushing over their now-clean clothes and smooth skin.
Knight Four smiled at their reaction. "Told you it was a good trick," he said softly.
A murmur of excitement rippled through the other children, who had been watching with wide eyes. For the first time in days, a spark of hope lit up their faces. They shuffled closer, hesitant but clearly intrigued.
"Who’s next?" he asked, his smile widening as he held out his hands to the next pair of children.
Two by Two, the children came forward, two at a time, and he worked his magic again and again. Each time, the energy flowed over them, washing away the dirt, the stains, and the grime that had clung to them for far too long. Their clothes became clean, their hair untangled and fresh. The once-dingy room began to fill with the sight of clean, smiling children, their spirits lifting with each pulse of magic.
Mary, watching from the corner of the room with her two daughters, wiped a tear from her eye. The sight of the children, who had been so scared and broken, now looking bright and clean again, was more than she had hoped for. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, things seemed... normal, if only for a brief moment.
Mr. Wick gave Lyle an approving nod from his chair, his old eyes softened with gratitude. "Thank you," he rasped quietly. "They needed this."
Knight Four finished with the last two children, standing up and wiping his hands on his trousers as if brushing off the last bits of magic. He looked around the room, now filled with bright, clean faces, and gave a small, satisfied nod. "It’s not much," he said, his voice gentle, "but sometimes a little thing like this can make a big difference."
The children, now refreshed and clean, looked at each other, their eyes bright with a new sense of comfort. It wasn’t just the physical cleanliness—it was the feeling of being cared for, of being seen, in a world that had turned so frightening and unpredictable.
As Knight Four turned to leave, he gave them one last, soft smile. "I’ll see you tomorrow, alright."
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving the children with a sense of quiet relief. For the first time since their world had turned upside down, they felt a little less scared, a little more like themselves. And though they still didn’t understand the war, the magic, or the dangers lurking outside, for now, at least, they felt safe.
Mystic Knight Merc Squad
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darthauthor
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Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Last edited by darthauthor on Sun Sep 15, 2024 9:15 pm, edited 3 times in total.
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darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
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Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
The sun dipped low behind the towering maple trees as the squad of twelve Coalition soldiers marched into the village of Northfields. The sound of their boots crunching on the dirt path was accompanied by the mechanical clank of two Skelebots, their robotic frames gleaming in the fading light. The Skelebots, designed to resemble skeletal machines of war, pulled a wagon filled with essential supplies for the village: crop seeds, coffee, salt, soap, and other basics. It was a routine drop, but the air was thick with something else—an underlying tension that seemed to cling to the shadows.
At the head of the squad, Sergeant Briggs scanned the village with a practiced eye. His face, stern and battle-hardened, was partially obscured by the visor of his Dead Boy helmet. He was flanked by Dog Boys, canine-human hybrids bred by the Coalition for their heightened senses and ability to detect supernatural entities. Their muzzles twitched, their ears perked, ever vigilant as they approached the heart of the village. The squad was rounded out by six foot soldiers—grunts in black Coalition armor—and a lone scout, who was busy scanning the perimeter through a pair of binoculars.
As the squad entered the village, Sergeant Briggs waved a hand, signaling the troops to halt. The wagon creaked to a stop, and the Skelebots, silent and efficient, stood like metal statues. Villagers—humans, or at least those who appeared to be human—peeked out from their homes, their faces betraying a mix of curiosity and unease.
"Alright, listen up," Briggs barked. "We’ve got some missing soldiers—men who were supposed to check in but haven’t been seen in days. If anyone here knows anything about that, I suggest you speak up now."
There was a long, uncomfortable pause. The disguised mages, posing as the local villagers, exchanged glances, their expressions perfectly crafted to seem innocent, though behind their eyes lurked something far darker.
A woman stepped forward, her face calm but her hands slightly trembling. She was one of the mages. "We haven’t seen any soldiers come through recently," she said, her voice steady. "Maybe they took a different route? There’s been talk of bandits in the area."
Sergeant Briggs narrowed his eyes, his instincts telling him that something was off. "We’ll see about that," he muttered. Turning to the Dog Boys, he gestured for them to do a sweep. "Santos, Tanner—do your thing. I want a full sweep of this place. Report anything unusual."
The Dog Boys nodded, their hackles already raised. As they began to move through the village, sniffing the air and sensing for the telltale signs of supernatural beings, the possessed villagers watched them with veiled apprehension. They knew the Dog Boys were dangerous—not just because of their ability to fight, but because of their unique talent: the ability to detect entities like them.
---
The Plan Unfolds
Deep within the minds of the possessed villagers, the possessing entities were already plotting. They knew the Dog Boys posed a threat, but they also saw an opportunity. One of the entities, lurking within the village, whispered telepathically to the others.
"We cannot allow them to expose us. If they detect us, they'll raise the alarm. But if we can take control of those Dog Boys..."
Another entity, hidden in the body of a young man by the well, responded. "We must act."
The entities knew desperation had always been their greatest motivator. The plan was simple: they would leave their current human hosts, flooding the village with confused, newly freed people. Then, they would attempt to overwhelm the Dog Boys and take control of their powerful, supernatural-detecting bodies.
---
As the Dog Boys moved closer, sniffing around the villagers, the entities made their move.
Suddenly, the woman who had spoken to Sergeant Briggs stumbled forward, her face contorting in confusion as if waking from a long dream. Her eyes darted around wildly, bewilderment clear on her face. "What... what?" she stammered, backing away toward her home.
An arborist, a burly man who had been calmly handling his tools moments before, dropped his tools and clutched his head. "How did I get here?"
One by one, several villagers fell into similar states of confusion, stumbling around as if they had no idea how they had come to be in their current situations. The Dog Boys immediately sensed the change. Their ears twitched, and their lips curled back, baring sharp teeth.
"Something’s off, Sarge!" Santos growled, his eyes narrowing.
Tanner, the other Dog Boy, tilted his head, sniffing the air with intense focus. "There’s something..."
Sergeant Briggs frowned, his hand drifting toward his energy pistol.
But it was already too late.
---
As the sun dipped lower behind the maple trees of Northfields, casting long shadows over the dirt roads, the Coalition squad marched steadily into the village. Led by Sergeant Briggs, the squad consisted of two Skelebots, two Dog Boys (Santos and Tanner) a Coalition scout, six grunts, and the Sergeant himself. The Skelebots clanked forward, pulling a wagon filled with crop seeds and supplies, but the real focus was the tension in the air.
The villagers—many of whom were recently freed from possession—stumbled in confusion. The mages, still disguised as normal villagers, watched nervously from the shadows. The Dog Boys heightened senses had already detected something unnatural, and Sergeant Briggs wasn’t one to ignore the warnings.
As the squad moved forward to inspect the village, the unseen possessing entities made their move. Twelve of them, invisible and intangible, had abandoned their former human hosts. They floated silently through the air, biding their time, waiting for the right moment.
Santos and Tanner, focused on detecting the supernatural, didn’t realize they had become the targets.
---
The first entity, sensing an opportunity, slithered through the air toward Tanner. In an instant, it struck, pushing its way into the Dog Boy’s mind. Tanner growled, his body stiffening as he instinctively resisted, but the entity was relentless. Despite Tanner’s best efforts, the entity overwhelmed him, seizing control of his body. Tanner’s eyes flickered, his snarl fading as the entity settled into its new host.
At the same time, a second entity targeted Santos. The battle inside his mind was fierce, his senses flaring as he fought to shake off the invading force. But this entity was stronger, and with a final psychic push, it broke through. Santos staggered for a moment before his posture straightened, his eyes now calm, his true self submerged under the control of the possessing entity.
The other ten entities, sensing success, wasted no time. They divided and spread out, seeking new hosts among the squad. Three of the foot soldiers, hard-bitten grunts with little idea of the danger they were in, fell victim to the entities silent invasion. Each soldier felt a momentary shiver as the entities slid into their minds, but before they could react, the possessions were complete. The foot soldiers, now inhabited by the entities, glanced at each other subtly, making no obvious movements that would reveal the takeover.
The final entity, more ambitious than the rest, made its move toward Sergeant Briggs. The Sergeant, experienced and battle-hardened, felt a brief surge of unease but had no time to react before the entity overwhelmed his defenses. His face remained impassive, but inside, the Sergeant’s mind went dark, his will drowned by the possessing force.
Now, with the Dog Boys, three foot soldiers, and the Sergeant all under the control of the possessing entities, the new hosts took a moment to look at one another. There was a brief, unspoken understanding between them—a silent confirmation that they had succeeded in their takeover. Yet, they knew the time to reveal their control hadn’t come. For now, they had to act like everything was normal.
Sergeant Briggs, now fully possessed, glanced at the saloon, then pointed toward it with a crisp nod. "Saloon," he said simply, his voice steady and authoritative.
Without another word, the squad moved to follow. The remaining foot soldiers and scout, still oblivious to the fate of their comrades, fell into line behind the Sergeant, unaware of the possession that had taken place.
---
The saloon was dimly lit, its wooden tables and chairs arranged haphazardly in the main room. The air smelled of ale and stale smoke, the remnants of a quieter time when Northfields had been a peaceful stop for Coalition patrols. The possessed soldiers entered first, their movements casual but controlled, masking the darker reality beneath the surface. The Skelebots remained outside with the wagon, guarding the supplies.
Sergeant Briggs took a seat at the bar, his posture relaxed but his mind entirely under the control of the entity inside him. The other possessed soldiers scattered across the room, taking seats but keeping close to one another, their every move deliberate.
The saloon’s bartender. "What can I get for you, Sergeant?"
"Just water for now," Briggs replied, his voice even. The bartender nodded and moved away, unaware that he was serving a man no longer in control of himself.
The Dog Boys, Santos and Tanner, positioned themselves near the door, their expressions unreadable but their minds no longer their own. They had always been the Coalition’s first line of defense against the supernatural, but now they had become victims.
As the possessed Coalition soldiers sat in silence, the entities within them observed each other through their new hosts eyes. They would bide their time, acting as the perfect soldiers, until the moment came to strike. For now, they blended in seamlessly, waiting for the next move.
But the village of Northfields was no longer just a quiet stop for the Coalition.
---
The morning sun had barely risen over the village of Northfields, casting a pale, amber light across the still streets. The cool air hung heavy with an unnatural silence, broken only by the occasional creak of the old wooden buildings. Inside the saloon, where the Coalition squad had spent the night, the atmosphere was eerily calm, the soft shuffle of boots on the floorboards echoing in the empty room.
Sergeant Briggs sat at one of the tables, his black Dead Boy armor gleaming faintly in the early light. His posture was relaxed—too relaxed for a man who had spent the night on an unfamiliar patrol and gotten no answers. His hands rested casually on the table, fingers tapping in a slow, almost idle rhythm.
Across from him stood Knight One. His arms were crossed over his chest, a knowing smirk on his face as he looked down at the Sergeant. It was not the usual deference one might show a Coalition Sergeant. He knew exactly who he was speaking to—and more importantly, who he wasn't.
"Well," Knight One began, his voice low but carrying a note of amusement, "how do you like the new body, Sergeant? Any better than the last?"
For a moment, there was silence. Then, slowly, Sergeant Briggs turned his head to look up. His eyes, once sharp and calculating, were now cold and devoid of human warmth—replaced by something far older. A thin smile tugged at the corners of his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
"It has its advantages," the entity inside Briggs replied, the Sergeant’s voice sounding just slightly off, like a well-rehearsed mimicry of human speech. "This body is strong. Far better than the weaker hosts was in before."
Knight One chuckled, pulling out a chair and sitting down across from the possessed Sergeant. "That’s the beauty of Coalition soldiers. They come with all the muscle you could want. And the best part?" He leaned in slightly, his grin widening. "They're expendable."
The entity controlling Briggs let out a dry chuckle. "Indeed. Their minds are easy to suppress—rigid, trained for obedience. Once you break through that initial defense, it’s like handling a well trained dog. And now, they are ours without firing a single shot."
Knight One leaned back, his fingers drumming lightly on the table. "Good. My employers will be pleased. The Coalition’s so focused on their war with Tolkeen that they’ll never notice what’s happening out here, not until it’s too late."
The foot soldiers, scout, and Dog Boys had all been taken over during the night. After they had fallen asleep, the entities slipped into their minds with ease, submerging their original consciousnesses under layers. Now, they moved to the orchestrated control of the entities that inhabited them. There were no longer any curious glances, no questions about the missing soldiers or strange occurrences in the village.
Knight One’s eyes flicked over to the two Dog Boys, Santos and Tanner, who stood near the entrance. The irony wasn’t lost on Knight One—these soldiers had been bred to hunt and detect supernatural beings, and now they were nothing more than tools for the very forces they had been trained to fight.
"So," he continued, turning back to the entity inside Briggs, "what’s the next move? You’ve got control of them all now. The mages have their eyes on the prize, but I’m curious—what’s your endgame?"
Briggs—or rather, the entity inside him—smiled again, this time with more confidence. "For now, we continue as if nothing’s changed. We leave the village today, just as the Sergeant had planned. Once we’re beyond Coalition territory, we’ll regroup with our own forces. The mages’ goals are clear, and we will support them... for now."
Knight One raised an eyebrow at the last part, catching the subtle hint of independence in the entity’s words. "For now, huh?"
The entity's smile widened. "Our alliance with the mages is convenient, but we are not their eternal servants. When the time is right, we will pursue our own objectives. For now, though, we are content to play along. It’s fun to play with the Coalition."
Knight One chuckled softly, clearly entertained by the entity's bravado. "Fair enough. As long as we get paid and stay out of the crossfire, what do I care?"
Briggs stood, his movements fluid instead of the rigid motions Sergeant Briggs used to make, the entity fully in control of every muscle. "When the time comes..." He paused, his eyes gleaming with something dark and unreadable. "Well, let’s just say the Coalition will have more than Tolkeen to worry about."
Knight One stood as well, giving a casual salute, though there was no real respect in the gesture. "Glad to hear it. I’ll let the mages know things are going smoothly."
As Knight One walked toward the door, the possessed Sergeant watched him with calculating eyes. The plan was in motion, and for now, everything was under control. But the entity inside Briggs knew that this was only the beginning. Soon, there would be more to claim—more soldiers, more territory, more power.
And the Coalition, arrogant in its belief that it ruled this part of the world, would never see it coming.
The sun was now fully risen, casting long shadows over the quiet village of Northfields. The air was cool and still, the calm before the day truly began. In the clearing outside the saloon, Kane stood casually with Tanner, the Dog Boy who had been possessed the previous night. Tanner, or rather the entity controlling him, had been silent up until now, performing his duties as if nothing had changed.
Knight One, ever curious and unbothered by the darkness of the situation, leaned against the wall of the saloon, his arms crossed with an amused smirk on his face.
"I have to ask," He said, breaking the silence, his tone light but probing. "What’s it like now that you’ve got the nose of a Dog Boy? Must be quite the upgrade."
Tanner—still wearing the armor of a Coalition Dog Boy, his muzzle covered by the standard helmet visor—turned to face Kane. The entity inside him flickered with amusement at the question, its control over the body seamless. Tanner's sharp eyes glinted with a predatory intelligence that hadn’t been there before the possession.
"It’s... fascinating," Tanner responded, his voice carrying the slightest hint of something otherworldly beneath the surface. He inhaled deeply through his sensitive nose, and for a moment, his expression became thoughtful. "Everything is sharper. The world is a symphony of smells. It’s not just about what’s here in front of you—it’s layers upon layers of scents, each one telling its own story."
Kane raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Oh yeah? What kind of stories?"
Tanner—or rather, the entity—smirked, its lips curling in a way that almost looked unnatural on the Dog Boy’s face. "The earth beneath us carries the scent of moisture from last night’s dew. The air is crisp, carrying the faint smell of your sweat, though you’ve been standing still for a while. The wood of this building..." Tanner tapped the wall behind Kane with his clawed fingers, "smells like it’s been cut recently, maybe a few months ago. It’s seasoned now, but there’s still a trace of sap if you know how to find it."
Kane chuckled softly, impressed. "Not bad. I take it the Coalition’s use of Dog Boys makes more sense now?"
The entity inside Tanner nodded, though there was something predatory in the gesture. "Indeed. They are... useful tools. Their senses make it easier to detect threats, even the ones that try to hide." His eyes narrowed slightly, and his voice took on a darker tone. "But now, this body serves a far greater purpose. It allows me to see the world in ways I never could before. It’s... intoxicating."
Kane’s smile widened, clearly enjoying the conversation. "So, you like it then? Being in a Dog Boy’s skin?"
Tanner’s eyes gleamed with a sinister light. "Like it? No. I love it. The power, the awareness—it’s almost overwhelming. Every scent is a new experience, every shift in the wind brings something fresh. And the body itself—strong, fast, instinctive. Far superior to most human hosts."
Kane nodded thoughtfully. "I suppose it’s a nice step up from your previous vessels. Dog Boys were bred for war, after all."
Tanner chuckled, a low, almost menacing sound. "Yes, bred to hunt and destroy creatures like me. The irony is not lost on me."
Knight One tilted his head, intrigued by the entity’s perspective. "I’ve always wondered what it’s like, slipping into someone else’s skin. How do you make it work so well?"
Tanner’s grin grew wider, his canines flashing beneath his muzzle. "It’s like dressing in human clothes. Some are too small so you can’t fit. Others are easy to get on. The ‘clothes’ are nothing more than a vessel, a shell to be worn. But in this case, it’s different. Dog Boys are... more like… every muscle, every sense, responds superbly. I can smell. I mean SMELL. It is like I was blind before."
Knight One gave a slow nod, watching Tanner closely. "And how about the downside? Any drawbacks to being in a body designed to sniff out beings like you?"
The entity inside Tanner paused for a moment, considering the question. "It’s strange, feeling the instincts of the Dog Boy. But the body is mine now."
Knight One smirked. "Good to hear. The Coalition’s not going to wait forever before they send another squad to investigate."
Tanner straightened, his eyes gleaming with that strange, otherworldly intelligence. "This body is mine now, and it will serve until the time comes to discard it."
Knight One pushed off the wall and gave Tanner a playful clap on the shoulder.
Tanner nodded, and as he turned to follow Knight One, he sniffed the air one last time. The world was alive with sensations, far more vivid than anything he had experienced before. And for now, he reveled in the new power that came with his taken skin.
The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting golden light over the village of Northfields. The long shadows of the maple trees stretched across the dirt paths, and the air was cool with the promise of evening.
For Derek Marston, today had been strange. He’d gone to work that morning, tending to his small plot of land as he always did.
But somehow, he’d wandered off.
Time slipped away from him, and by the time he came to his senses, the sun was already beginning to set.
Derek furrowed his brow as he walked back home, confusion clouding his mind. He couldn’t quite place what had happened earlier. Maybe he’d gotten distracted, lost in thought about the coming harvest, or just tired from the hard work. He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that when he returned to his small, tidy house, something felt... off.
The door creaked as he stepped inside, calling out into the quiet.
"Simon? You here, son?"
No answer. Derek’s eyes scanned the room, noting the empty bed and the absence of his boy’s usual mess. His son, Simon, often left things scattered everywhere—little Coalition soldiers, a ball he liked to kick around. But today, the house was too still, too neat.
A flicker of worry gnawed at him. Simon wasn’t here, and that was unusual. His boy was always home by the time Derek returned from the fields, eager to help with supper or tell him about whatever adventure he’d had that day.
Derek scratched his head, feeling uneasy. How long had he been gone? He didn’t have a watch or his calendar.
He stepped outside again, his gaze sweeping over the village, and a familiar thought crept into his mind: Maybe Simon’s over at John's barn.
It wasn’t uncommon for Simon and the other village kids to sleep over at the barn. A night out in the straw with his friends. They’d done it dozens of times before, especially in the warmer months. Simon always came back the next morning, full of stories about chasing fireflies or making up games with the other boys.
With that in mind, Derek set off down the road, his pace quickening as the soft evening light began to fade into twilight.
The walk to John’s barn was short, but it felt longer today. Something about the quiet in the village made his skin crawl. The streets were empty, and though Derek had always known Northfields to be a peaceful place, the silence seemed deeper now, more unsettling. He tried to shake off the feeling as he approached the large, familiar barn at the edge of John’s property.
He pushed open the heavy wooden door, the familiar scent of hay and earth filling his senses. Inside, scattered across the floor, were several sleeping children, nestled in the hay as they always did. Derek’s heart finally eased when he spotted his son, Simon, curled up near the back, his small chest rising and falling with the peaceful rhythm of sleep.
A wave of relief washed over him, but it was tinged with something else—an odd sense of things not quite lining up the way they should.
“Simon,” Derek called softly, walking over and kneeling beside his boy. “Come on, son. Time to head home.”
Simon stirred, rubbing his eyes groggily. "Dad? What time is it?"
“It’s late, buddy. Time to get home for supper," Derek said, reaching out to ruffle Simon’s messy hair. He smiled, but there was a tightness in his chest he couldn’t explain. Something still wasn’t right.
Simon blinked up at him, then yawned and stood up, shaking the hay from his clothes. “I had a dream, Dad. About... about people forgetting stuff.”
Derek frowned at the odd statement, but he pushed it aside. “Just a dream, son. Let’s get you home.”
They walked back to the house in silence, the soft crunch of their footsteps the only sound in the still village. As they neared the house, Derek glanced down at Simon, something about his son’s quietness unsettling him further. Simon usually had so much to say after nights like these, but tonight he seemed... distracted.
"How long have you been out there?" Derek asked, his voice casual but probing.
Simon shrugged, not looking up. "Not sure. Maybe a couple of days."
Derek stopped in his tracks, his heart skipping a beat. "A couple of days?"
Simon looked up at him, his face innocent but tired. "Yeah, I think. It feels like... it’s been a while."
Derek felt the world tilt beneath him. Days? He didn’t have a calendar, and he wasn’t one to keep track of every little detail, but it couldn’t have been more than a day since he last saw Simon—could it?
They reached the house, and Derek ushered Simon inside, his mind racing with questions he couldn’t quite put into words. As Simon curled up in bed, Derek stood by the door, staring at the darkening sky outside. The village was still quiet.
He pushed the thought aside.
Simon was safe, back where he belonged, and that was all that mattered. Maybe in the morning, things would make more sense.
At the head of the squad, Sergeant Briggs scanned the village with a practiced eye. His face, stern and battle-hardened, was partially obscured by the visor of his Dead Boy helmet. He was flanked by Dog Boys, canine-human hybrids bred by the Coalition for their heightened senses and ability to detect supernatural entities. Their muzzles twitched, their ears perked, ever vigilant as they approached the heart of the village. The squad was rounded out by six foot soldiers—grunts in black Coalition armor—and a lone scout, who was busy scanning the perimeter through a pair of binoculars.
As the squad entered the village, Sergeant Briggs waved a hand, signaling the troops to halt. The wagon creaked to a stop, and the Skelebots, silent and efficient, stood like metal statues. Villagers—humans, or at least those who appeared to be human—peeked out from their homes, their faces betraying a mix of curiosity and unease.
"Alright, listen up," Briggs barked. "We’ve got some missing soldiers—men who were supposed to check in but haven’t been seen in days. If anyone here knows anything about that, I suggest you speak up now."
There was a long, uncomfortable pause. The disguised mages, posing as the local villagers, exchanged glances, their expressions perfectly crafted to seem innocent, though behind their eyes lurked something far darker.
A woman stepped forward, her face calm but her hands slightly trembling. She was one of the mages. "We haven’t seen any soldiers come through recently," she said, her voice steady. "Maybe they took a different route? There’s been talk of bandits in the area."
Sergeant Briggs narrowed his eyes, his instincts telling him that something was off. "We’ll see about that," he muttered. Turning to the Dog Boys, he gestured for them to do a sweep. "Santos, Tanner—do your thing. I want a full sweep of this place. Report anything unusual."
The Dog Boys nodded, their hackles already raised. As they began to move through the village, sniffing the air and sensing for the telltale signs of supernatural beings, the possessed villagers watched them with veiled apprehension. They knew the Dog Boys were dangerous—not just because of their ability to fight, but because of their unique talent: the ability to detect entities like them.
---
The Plan Unfolds
Deep within the minds of the possessed villagers, the possessing entities were already plotting. They knew the Dog Boys posed a threat, but they also saw an opportunity. One of the entities, lurking within the village, whispered telepathically to the others.
"We cannot allow them to expose us. If they detect us, they'll raise the alarm. But if we can take control of those Dog Boys..."
Another entity, hidden in the body of a young man by the well, responded. "We must act."
The entities knew desperation had always been their greatest motivator. The plan was simple: they would leave their current human hosts, flooding the village with confused, newly freed people. Then, they would attempt to overwhelm the Dog Boys and take control of their powerful, supernatural-detecting bodies.
---
As the Dog Boys moved closer, sniffing around the villagers, the entities made their move.
Suddenly, the woman who had spoken to Sergeant Briggs stumbled forward, her face contorting in confusion as if waking from a long dream. Her eyes darted around wildly, bewilderment clear on her face. "What... what?" she stammered, backing away toward her home.
An arborist, a burly man who had been calmly handling his tools moments before, dropped his tools and clutched his head. "How did I get here?"
One by one, several villagers fell into similar states of confusion, stumbling around as if they had no idea how they had come to be in their current situations. The Dog Boys immediately sensed the change. Their ears twitched, and their lips curled back, baring sharp teeth.
"Something’s off, Sarge!" Santos growled, his eyes narrowing.
Tanner, the other Dog Boy, tilted his head, sniffing the air with intense focus. "There’s something..."
Sergeant Briggs frowned, his hand drifting toward his energy pistol.
But it was already too late.
---
As the sun dipped lower behind the maple trees of Northfields, casting long shadows over the dirt roads, the Coalition squad marched steadily into the village. Led by Sergeant Briggs, the squad consisted of two Skelebots, two Dog Boys (Santos and Tanner) a Coalition scout, six grunts, and the Sergeant himself. The Skelebots clanked forward, pulling a wagon filled with crop seeds and supplies, but the real focus was the tension in the air.
The villagers—many of whom were recently freed from possession—stumbled in confusion. The mages, still disguised as normal villagers, watched nervously from the shadows. The Dog Boys heightened senses had already detected something unnatural, and Sergeant Briggs wasn’t one to ignore the warnings.
As the squad moved forward to inspect the village, the unseen possessing entities made their move. Twelve of them, invisible and intangible, had abandoned their former human hosts. They floated silently through the air, biding their time, waiting for the right moment.
Santos and Tanner, focused on detecting the supernatural, didn’t realize they had become the targets.
---
The first entity, sensing an opportunity, slithered through the air toward Tanner. In an instant, it struck, pushing its way into the Dog Boy’s mind. Tanner growled, his body stiffening as he instinctively resisted, but the entity was relentless. Despite Tanner’s best efforts, the entity overwhelmed him, seizing control of his body. Tanner’s eyes flickered, his snarl fading as the entity settled into its new host.
At the same time, a second entity targeted Santos. The battle inside his mind was fierce, his senses flaring as he fought to shake off the invading force. But this entity was stronger, and with a final psychic push, it broke through. Santos staggered for a moment before his posture straightened, his eyes now calm, his true self submerged under the control of the possessing entity.
The other ten entities, sensing success, wasted no time. They divided and spread out, seeking new hosts among the squad. Three of the foot soldiers, hard-bitten grunts with little idea of the danger they were in, fell victim to the entities silent invasion. Each soldier felt a momentary shiver as the entities slid into their minds, but before they could react, the possessions were complete. The foot soldiers, now inhabited by the entities, glanced at each other subtly, making no obvious movements that would reveal the takeover.
The final entity, more ambitious than the rest, made its move toward Sergeant Briggs. The Sergeant, experienced and battle-hardened, felt a brief surge of unease but had no time to react before the entity overwhelmed his defenses. His face remained impassive, but inside, the Sergeant’s mind went dark, his will drowned by the possessing force.
Now, with the Dog Boys, three foot soldiers, and the Sergeant all under the control of the possessing entities, the new hosts took a moment to look at one another. There was a brief, unspoken understanding between them—a silent confirmation that they had succeeded in their takeover. Yet, they knew the time to reveal their control hadn’t come. For now, they had to act like everything was normal.
Sergeant Briggs, now fully possessed, glanced at the saloon, then pointed toward it with a crisp nod. "Saloon," he said simply, his voice steady and authoritative.
Without another word, the squad moved to follow. The remaining foot soldiers and scout, still oblivious to the fate of their comrades, fell into line behind the Sergeant, unaware of the possession that had taken place.
---
The saloon was dimly lit, its wooden tables and chairs arranged haphazardly in the main room. The air smelled of ale and stale smoke, the remnants of a quieter time when Northfields had been a peaceful stop for Coalition patrols. The possessed soldiers entered first, their movements casual but controlled, masking the darker reality beneath the surface. The Skelebots remained outside with the wagon, guarding the supplies.
Sergeant Briggs took a seat at the bar, his posture relaxed but his mind entirely under the control of the entity inside him. The other possessed soldiers scattered across the room, taking seats but keeping close to one another, their every move deliberate.
The saloon’s bartender. "What can I get for you, Sergeant?"
"Just water for now," Briggs replied, his voice even. The bartender nodded and moved away, unaware that he was serving a man no longer in control of himself.
The Dog Boys, Santos and Tanner, positioned themselves near the door, their expressions unreadable but their minds no longer their own. They had always been the Coalition’s first line of defense against the supernatural, but now they had become victims.
As the possessed Coalition soldiers sat in silence, the entities within them observed each other through their new hosts eyes. They would bide their time, acting as the perfect soldiers, until the moment came to strike. For now, they blended in seamlessly, waiting for the next move.
But the village of Northfields was no longer just a quiet stop for the Coalition.
---
The morning sun had barely risen over the village of Northfields, casting a pale, amber light across the still streets. The cool air hung heavy with an unnatural silence, broken only by the occasional creak of the old wooden buildings. Inside the saloon, where the Coalition squad had spent the night, the atmosphere was eerily calm, the soft shuffle of boots on the floorboards echoing in the empty room.
Sergeant Briggs sat at one of the tables, his black Dead Boy armor gleaming faintly in the early light. His posture was relaxed—too relaxed for a man who had spent the night on an unfamiliar patrol and gotten no answers. His hands rested casually on the table, fingers tapping in a slow, almost idle rhythm.
Across from him stood Knight One. His arms were crossed over his chest, a knowing smirk on his face as he looked down at the Sergeant. It was not the usual deference one might show a Coalition Sergeant. He knew exactly who he was speaking to—and more importantly, who he wasn't.
"Well," Knight One began, his voice low but carrying a note of amusement, "how do you like the new body, Sergeant? Any better than the last?"
For a moment, there was silence. Then, slowly, Sergeant Briggs turned his head to look up. His eyes, once sharp and calculating, were now cold and devoid of human warmth—replaced by something far older. A thin smile tugged at the corners of his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
"It has its advantages," the entity inside Briggs replied, the Sergeant’s voice sounding just slightly off, like a well-rehearsed mimicry of human speech. "This body is strong. Far better than the weaker hosts was in before."
Knight One chuckled, pulling out a chair and sitting down across from the possessed Sergeant. "That’s the beauty of Coalition soldiers. They come with all the muscle you could want. And the best part?" He leaned in slightly, his grin widening. "They're expendable."
The entity controlling Briggs let out a dry chuckle. "Indeed. Their minds are easy to suppress—rigid, trained for obedience. Once you break through that initial defense, it’s like handling a well trained dog. And now, they are ours without firing a single shot."
Knight One leaned back, his fingers drumming lightly on the table. "Good. My employers will be pleased. The Coalition’s so focused on their war with Tolkeen that they’ll never notice what’s happening out here, not until it’s too late."
The foot soldiers, scout, and Dog Boys had all been taken over during the night. After they had fallen asleep, the entities slipped into their minds with ease, submerging their original consciousnesses under layers. Now, they moved to the orchestrated control of the entities that inhabited them. There were no longer any curious glances, no questions about the missing soldiers or strange occurrences in the village.
Knight One’s eyes flicked over to the two Dog Boys, Santos and Tanner, who stood near the entrance. The irony wasn’t lost on Knight One—these soldiers had been bred to hunt and detect supernatural beings, and now they were nothing more than tools for the very forces they had been trained to fight.
"So," he continued, turning back to the entity inside Briggs, "what’s the next move? You’ve got control of them all now. The mages have their eyes on the prize, but I’m curious—what’s your endgame?"
Briggs—or rather, the entity inside him—smiled again, this time with more confidence. "For now, we continue as if nothing’s changed. We leave the village today, just as the Sergeant had planned. Once we’re beyond Coalition territory, we’ll regroup with our own forces. The mages’ goals are clear, and we will support them... for now."
Knight One raised an eyebrow at the last part, catching the subtle hint of independence in the entity’s words. "For now, huh?"
The entity's smile widened. "Our alliance with the mages is convenient, but we are not their eternal servants. When the time is right, we will pursue our own objectives. For now, though, we are content to play along. It’s fun to play with the Coalition."
Knight One chuckled softly, clearly entertained by the entity's bravado. "Fair enough. As long as we get paid and stay out of the crossfire, what do I care?"
Briggs stood, his movements fluid instead of the rigid motions Sergeant Briggs used to make, the entity fully in control of every muscle. "When the time comes..." He paused, his eyes gleaming with something dark and unreadable. "Well, let’s just say the Coalition will have more than Tolkeen to worry about."
Knight One stood as well, giving a casual salute, though there was no real respect in the gesture. "Glad to hear it. I’ll let the mages know things are going smoothly."
As Knight One walked toward the door, the possessed Sergeant watched him with calculating eyes. The plan was in motion, and for now, everything was under control. But the entity inside Briggs knew that this was only the beginning. Soon, there would be more to claim—more soldiers, more territory, more power.
And the Coalition, arrogant in its belief that it ruled this part of the world, would never see it coming.
The sun was now fully risen, casting long shadows over the quiet village of Northfields. The air was cool and still, the calm before the day truly began. In the clearing outside the saloon, Kane stood casually with Tanner, the Dog Boy who had been possessed the previous night. Tanner, or rather the entity controlling him, had been silent up until now, performing his duties as if nothing had changed.
Knight One, ever curious and unbothered by the darkness of the situation, leaned against the wall of the saloon, his arms crossed with an amused smirk on his face.
"I have to ask," He said, breaking the silence, his tone light but probing. "What’s it like now that you’ve got the nose of a Dog Boy? Must be quite the upgrade."
Tanner—still wearing the armor of a Coalition Dog Boy, his muzzle covered by the standard helmet visor—turned to face Kane. The entity inside him flickered with amusement at the question, its control over the body seamless. Tanner's sharp eyes glinted with a predatory intelligence that hadn’t been there before the possession.
"It’s... fascinating," Tanner responded, his voice carrying the slightest hint of something otherworldly beneath the surface. He inhaled deeply through his sensitive nose, and for a moment, his expression became thoughtful. "Everything is sharper. The world is a symphony of smells. It’s not just about what’s here in front of you—it’s layers upon layers of scents, each one telling its own story."
Kane raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Oh yeah? What kind of stories?"
Tanner—or rather, the entity—smirked, its lips curling in a way that almost looked unnatural on the Dog Boy’s face. "The earth beneath us carries the scent of moisture from last night’s dew. The air is crisp, carrying the faint smell of your sweat, though you’ve been standing still for a while. The wood of this building..." Tanner tapped the wall behind Kane with his clawed fingers, "smells like it’s been cut recently, maybe a few months ago. It’s seasoned now, but there’s still a trace of sap if you know how to find it."
Kane chuckled softly, impressed. "Not bad. I take it the Coalition’s use of Dog Boys makes more sense now?"
The entity inside Tanner nodded, though there was something predatory in the gesture. "Indeed. They are... useful tools. Their senses make it easier to detect threats, even the ones that try to hide." His eyes narrowed slightly, and his voice took on a darker tone. "But now, this body serves a far greater purpose. It allows me to see the world in ways I never could before. It’s... intoxicating."
Kane’s smile widened, clearly enjoying the conversation. "So, you like it then? Being in a Dog Boy’s skin?"
Tanner’s eyes gleamed with a sinister light. "Like it? No. I love it. The power, the awareness—it’s almost overwhelming. Every scent is a new experience, every shift in the wind brings something fresh. And the body itself—strong, fast, instinctive. Far superior to most human hosts."
Kane nodded thoughtfully. "I suppose it’s a nice step up from your previous vessels. Dog Boys were bred for war, after all."
Tanner chuckled, a low, almost menacing sound. "Yes, bred to hunt and destroy creatures like me. The irony is not lost on me."
Knight One tilted his head, intrigued by the entity’s perspective. "I’ve always wondered what it’s like, slipping into someone else’s skin. How do you make it work so well?"
Tanner’s grin grew wider, his canines flashing beneath his muzzle. "It’s like dressing in human clothes. Some are too small so you can’t fit. Others are easy to get on. The ‘clothes’ are nothing more than a vessel, a shell to be worn. But in this case, it’s different. Dog Boys are... more like… every muscle, every sense, responds superbly. I can smell. I mean SMELL. It is like I was blind before."
Knight One gave a slow nod, watching Tanner closely. "And how about the downside? Any drawbacks to being in a body designed to sniff out beings like you?"
The entity inside Tanner paused for a moment, considering the question. "It’s strange, feeling the instincts of the Dog Boy. But the body is mine now."
Knight One smirked. "Good to hear. The Coalition’s not going to wait forever before they send another squad to investigate."
Tanner straightened, his eyes gleaming with that strange, otherworldly intelligence. "This body is mine now, and it will serve until the time comes to discard it."
Knight One pushed off the wall and gave Tanner a playful clap on the shoulder.
Tanner nodded, and as he turned to follow Knight One, he sniffed the air one last time. The world was alive with sensations, far more vivid than anything he had experienced before. And for now, he reveled in the new power that came with his taken skin.
The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting golden light over the village of Northfields. The long shadows of the maple trees stretched across the dirt paths, and the air was cool with the promise of evening.
For Derek Marston, today had been strange. He’d gone to work that morning, tending to his small plot of land as he always did.
But somehow, he’d wandered off.
Time slipped away from him, and by the time he came to his senses, the sun was already beginning to set.
Derek furrowed his brow as he walked back home, confusion clouding his mind. He couldn’t quite place what had happened earlier. Maybe he’d gotten distracted, lost in thought about the coming harvest, or just tired from the hard work. He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that when he returned to his small, tidy house, something felt... off.
The door creaked as he stepped inside, calling out into the quiet.
"Simon? You here, son?"
No answer. Derek’s eyes scanned the room, noting the empty bed and the absence of his boy’s usual mess. His son, Simon, often left things scattered everywhere—little Coalition soldiers, a ball he liked to kick around. But today, the house was too still, too neat.
A flicker of worry gnawed at him. Simon wasn’t here, and that was unusual. His boy was always home by the time Derek returned from the fields, eager to help with supper or tell him about whatever adventure he’d had that day.
Derek scratched his head, feeling uneasy. How long had he been gone? He didn’t have a watch or his calendar.
He stepped outside again, his gaze sweeping over the village, and a familiar thought crept into his mind: Maybe Simon’s over at John's barn.
It wasn’t uncommon for Simon and the other village kids to sleep over at the barn. A night out in the straw with his friends. They’d done it dozens of times before, especially in the warmer months. Simon always came back the next morning, full of stories about chasing fireflies or making up games with the other boys.
With that in mind, Derek set off down the road, his pace quickening as the soft evening light began to fade into twilight.
The walk to John’s barn was short, but it felt longer today. Something about the quiet in the village made his skin crawl. The streets were empty, and though Derek had always known Northfields to be a peaceful place, the silence seemed deeper now, more unsettling. He tried to shake off the feeling as he approached the large, familiar barn at the edge of John’s property.
He pushed open the heavy wooden door, the familiar scent of hay and earth filling his senses. Inside, scattered across the floor, were several sleeping children, nestled in the hay as they always did. Derek’s heart finally eased when he spotted his son, Simon, curled up near the back, his small chest rising and falling with the peaceful rhythm of sleep.
A wave of relief washed over him, but it was tinged with something else—an odd sense of things not quite lining up the way they should.
“Simon,” Derek called softly, walking over and kneeling beside his boy. “Come on, son. Time to head home.”
Simon stirred, rubbing his eyes groggily. "Dad? What time is it?"
“It’s late, buddy. Time to get home for supper," Derek said, reaching out to ruffle Simon’s messy hair. He smiled, but there was a tightness in his chest he couldn’t explain. Something still wasn’t right.
Simon blinked up at him, then yawned and stood up, shaking the hay from his clothes. “I had a dream, Dad. About... about people forgetting stuff.”
Derek frowned at the odd statement, but he pushed it aside. “Just a dream, son. Let’s get you home.”
They walked back to the house in silence, the soft crunch of their footsteps the only sound in the still village. As they neared the house, Derek glanced down at Simon, something about his son’s quietness unsettling him further. Simon usually had so much to say after nights like these, but tonight he seemed... distracted.
"How long have you been out there?" Derek asked, his voice casual but probing.
Simon shrugged, not looking up. "Not sure. Maybe a couple of days."
Derek stopped in his tracks, his heart skipping a beat. "A couple of days?"
Simon looked up at him, his face innocent but tired. "Yeah, I think. It feels like... it’s been a while."
Derek felt the world tilt beneath him. Days? He didn’t have a calendar, and he wasn’t one to keep track of every little detail, but it couldn’t have been more than a day since he last saw Simon—could it?
They reached the house, and Derek ushered Simon inside, his mind racing with questions he couldn’t quite put into words. As Simon curled up in bed, Derek stood by the door, staring at the darkening sky outside. The village was still quiet.
He pushed the thought aside.
Simon was safe, back where he belonged, and that was all that mattered. Maybe in the morning, things would make more sense.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Elara Ravenshade is the leader of the Shifters. Standing at a poised height with piercing green eyes and auburn hair that falls in waves past her shoulders, Elara carries an air of quiet authority tempered by years of experience and personal transformation.
Educational Background and Skills:
Anthropology, having spent years studying human societies, cultures, and their interactions with the supernatural. Her deep understanding of people behavior and social structures makes her a keen strategist, capable of anticipating the actions of both allies and enemies. This academic background allows her to navigate complex social situations and manipulate them to her advantage, especially in the delicate balance of controlling the village while evading Coalition detection.
Her magical abilities are both practical and formidable. She is adept at spells that provide shelter, protection, and invisibility, allowing her and her companions to move unseen and create safe havens in the most inhospitable environments. These spells have been honed during her years living in the wilderness, where she learned to survive and thrive far from the comforts of civilization.
Personality and Transformation:
However, the outbreak of war against Tolkeen—a city she holds dear and where many of her loved ones reside—ignited a profound change within her. Witnessing the devastation and injustice inflicted upon her people transformed her, became more focused, disciplined, and assertive, taking on the mantle of leadership with a resolve that brooked no opposition.
Elara is now a commanding presence, her decisions swift and her strategies calculated. She expects excellence from those around her and does not tolerate failure. Yet, beneath her stern exterior lies a deep well of passion and a lingering trace of the adventurous spirit she once was.
Perception of Possessing Entities:
Elara views the possessing entities with a certain kinship to her former self: they are thrill-seekers who live in the moment, driven by sensory experiences and the desire for immediate gratification. They are pragmatic and adaptable but also impulsive and prone to boredom with routine tasks.
Understanding their nature, Elara approaches them with a mixture of caution and strategic manipulation. She knows that to maintain their cooperation, she must cater to their need for new and exciting experiences. By providing them with opportunities to indulge their senses and curiosities, she keeps them engaged in her plans, all while maintaining control over their actions through her magic.
Elara is acutely aware of the moral ambiguities of her actions. While she is willing to make hard decisions for the greater good, she does not take them lightly. The well-being of the innocent weighs on her, particularly the children of Northfields, and she struggles internally with the consequences of her strategies.
With the villagers, Elara maintains a façade of normalcy when necessary but generally operates from the shadows to avoid unnecessary complications. She is careful to manage the possessing entities delicately, leveraging her understanding of their traits to keep them aligned with her goals.
Her ultimate motivation is the preservation of Tolkeen and the people she loves. Every action she takes is measured against this goal.
In her early years, she was known for her playful and adventurous spirit, embodying the curious, spontaneous, and constantly seeking excitement. She has a deep love for exploring cultures and learning from those around her. Her studies took her to the exotic enclaves of Tolkeen and beyond, where she thrived in the wilderness of many different worlds, living among nature for years and developing a deep connection with the land and its people.
But the war changed her.
As the Coalition’s relentless march on Tolkeen intensified, Elara’s carefree nature began to harden. She had once been driven by the pursuit of adventure and discovery, but with her escalating fear and the violence of the CS she began to embrace a new side of herself.
Now, she is dominating, driven, and fiercely focused on winning the war at any cost. Elara has taken on the role of a decisive and authoritative leader, unafraid to make the hard choices necessary for survival. Her natural curiosity and love for life have been replaced by a cold determination to protect Tolkeen and destroy those who threaten her people.
Her leadership is uncompromising, and she expects the same from those who serve under her. The softness that once characterized her has been replaced by the sharp edge of someone who has seen too much loss to ever return to the person she once was. Elara commands respect, not by fear, but by her unwavering commitment to the cause and her ability to stay calm in the face of danger. Her knowledge of the land and her magical abilities make her a formidable tactician, using both strategy and force to strike at the Coalition whenever possible.
Elara Ravenshade’s transformation from a free-spirited scholar to a hardened war leader reflects the changing world around her. She is no longer just a Shifter; she is a Captain in a conflict that has forced her to confront the darkest parts of herself. Her ability to navigate the complexities of both magic and human nature makes her a dangerous force, a woman who will stop at nothing to protect the city she loves—even if it means forging pacts with forces far darker than she ever imagined.
6th Level Shifter
Attributes:
I.Q.: 15
M.E.: 12
M.A.: 21 (65% trust)
P.S.: 11
P.P.: 12
P.E.: 15
P.B.: 16 (30%)
SPD: 19
Hit Points: 33
S.D.C.: 28
P.P.E.: 140
Language: American at 98%.
Language: Other: Dragonese & Spanish
Literacy: American: 98%
Literacy: Other: Dragonese
Astronomy & Navigation: 75%
Math: Basic: 85%
Lore: Demons & Monsters: 75%
Lore: Dimensions: 65%
Lore: Faeries & Creatures of Magic: 70%
Lore: Magic: 70%
Land Navigation: 66%
Wilderness Survival: 60%
Hand to Hand: Basic 6th Level
5 Attacks per round
+1 to strike
+2 to dodge and parry
O.C.C. Related Skills:
Anthropology: 60%
Find Contraband: 48%
Intelligence: 57%
Paramedic: 70%
Seduction: 37%
Xenology: 60%
3rd Level:
I.D. Undercover Agent: 64%
Streetwise: 34%
6th Level:
Outdoorsmanship
Secondary Skills:
Appraise Goods: 55%
Lore: D-Bees: 55%
3rd Level:
Identify Plants & Fruits: 40%
W.P. Energy Pistol
6th Level:
Appraise Good (Pro): 70%
Horsemanship: Exotic Animals: 40% / 20%
Spells Starting:
Combat
Call Lightning (15),
Energy Bolt (5),
Calling (8), Compulsion (20), Constrain Being (20), Dimensional Portal (1,000), Energy Field (10), Exorcism (30), Repel Animals (7), Re-Open Gateway (180), Sense Evil (2), Sense Magic (4), Trance (10), Shadow Meld (10), Summon and Control Canines (50), Summon and Control Rodents (70), Sustain (12), Time Slip (20), Turn Dead (6), and Tongues (10).
2nd Level:
Charm (12),
Protection or Summoning spell: Protection Circle: Simple (45)
+Plus+: Cleanse (6)
-
3rd Level:
Magic Pigeon (20)
Protection or Summoning spell: Protection Circle: Superior (300)
+Plus+: Armor of Ithan (10)
-
4th Level:
Energy Sphere (120)
Protection or Summoning spell: Summon Shadow Beast (140)
+Plus+: Invisibility: Simple (6)
-
5th Level:
Sheltering Force (20)
Protection or Summoning spell: Summon Lesser Being (425)
+Plus+: Superhuman Endurance (12)
-
6th Level:
Control and Enslave Entity (80)
Protection or Summoning spell: Summon Greater Familiar (80)
+Plus+: Impervious to Energy (20)
Educational Background and Skills:
Anthropology, having spent years studying human societies, cultures, and their interactions with the supernatural. Her deep understanding of people behavior and social structures makes her a keen strategist, capable of anticipating the actions of both allies and enemies. This academic background allows her to navigate complex social situations and manipulate them to her advantage, especially in the delicate balance of controlling the village while evading Coalition detection.
Her magical abilities are both practical and formidable. She is adept at spells that provide shelter, protection, and invisibility, allowing her and her companions to move unseen and create safe havens in the most inhospitable environments. These spells have been honed during her years living in the wilderness, where she learned to survive and thrive far from the comforts of civilization.
Personality and Transformation:
However, the outbreak of war against Tolkeen—a city she holds dear and where many of her loved ones reside—ignited a profound change within her. Witnessing the devastation and injustice inflicted upon her people transformed her, became more focused, disciplined, and assertive, taking on the mantle of leadership with a resolve that brooked no opposition.
Elara is now a commanding presence, her decisions swift and her strategies calculated. She expects excellence from those around her and does not tolerate failure. Yet, beneath her stern exterior lies a deep well of passion and a lingering trace of the adventurous spirit she once was.
Perception of Possessing Entities:
Elara views the possessing entities with a certain kinship to her former self: they are thrill-seekers who live in the moment, driven by sensory experiences and the desire for immediate gratification. They are pragmatic and adaptable but also impulsive and prone to boredom with routine tasks.
Understanding their nature, Elara approaches them with a mixture of caution and strategic manipulation. She knows that to maintain their cooperation, she must cater to their need for new and exciting experiences. By providing them with opportunities to indulge their senses and curiosities, she keeps them engaged in her plans, all while maintaining control over their actions through her magic.
Elara is acutely aware of the moral ambiguities of her actions. While she is willing to make hard decisions for the greater good, she does not take them lightly. The well-being of the innocent weighs on her, particularly the children of Northfields, and she struggles internally with the consequences of her strategies.
With the villagers, Elara maintains a façade of normalcy when necessary but generally operates from the shadows to avoid unnecessary complications. She is careful to manage the possessing entities delicately, leveraging her understanding of their traits to keep them aligned with her goals.
Her ultimate motivation is the preservation of Tolkeen and the people she loves. Every action she takes is measured against this goal.
In her early years, she was known for her playful and adventurous spirit, embodying the curious, spontaneous, and constantly seeking excitement. She has a deep love for exploring cultures and learning from those around her. Her studies took her to the exotic enclaves of Tolkeen and beyond, where she thrived in the wilderness of many different worlds, living among nature for years and developing a deep connection with the land and its people.
But the war changed her.
As the Coalition’s relentless march on Tolkeen intensified, Elara’s carefree nature began to harden. She had once been driven by the pursuit of adventure and discovery, but with her escalating fear and the violence of the CS she began to embrace a new side of herself.
Now, she is dominating, driven, and fiercely focused on winning the war at any cost. Elara has taken on the role of a decisive and authoritative leader, unafraid to make the hard choices necessary for survival. Her natural curiosity and love for life have been replaced by a cold determination to protect Tolkeen and destroy those who threaten her people.
Her leadership is uncompromising, and she expects the same from those who serve under her. The softness that once characterized her has been replaced by the sharp edge of someone who has seen too much loss to ever return to the person she once was. Elara commands respect, not by fear, but by her unwavering commitment to the cause and her ability to stay calm in the face of danger. Her knowledge of the land and her magical abilities make her a formidable tactician, using both strategy and force to strike at the Coalition whenever possible.
Elara Ravenshade’s transformation from a free-spirited scholar to a hardened war leader reflects the changing world around her. She is no longer just a Shifter; she is a Captain in a conflict that has forced her to confront the darkest parts of herself. Her ability to navigate the complexities of both magic and human nature makes her a dangerous force, a woman who will stop at nothing to protect the city she loves—even if it means forging pacts with forces far darker than she ever imagined.
6th Level Shifter
Attributes:
I.Q.: 15
M.E.: 12
M.A.: 21 (65% trust)
P.S.: 11
P.P.: 12
P.E.: 15
P.B.: 16 (30%)
SPD: 19
Hit Points: 33
S.D.C.: 28
P.P.E.: 140
Language: American at 98%.
Language: Other: Dragonese & Spanish
Literacy: American: 98%
Literacy: Other: Dragonese
Astronomy & Navigation: 75%
Math: Basic: 85%
Lore: Demons & Monsters: 75%
Lore: Dimensions: 65%
Lore: Faeries & Creatures of Magic: 70%
Lore: Magic: 70%
Land Navigation: 66%
Wilderness Survival: 60%
Hand to Hand: Basic 6th Level
5 Attacks per round
+1 to strike
+2 to dodge and parry
O.C.C. Related Skills:
Anthropology: 60%
Find Contraband: 48%
Intelligence: 57%
Paramedic: 70%
Seduction: 37%
Xenology: 60%
3rd Level:
I.D. Undercover Agent: 64%
Streetwise: 34%
6th Level:
Outdoorsmanship
Secondary Skills:
Appraise Goods: 55%
Lore: D-Bees: 55%
3rd Level:
Identify Plants & Fruits: 40%
W.P. Energy Pistol
6th Level:
Appraise Good (Pro): 70%
Horsemanship: Exotic Animals: 40% / 20%
Spells Starting:
Combat
Call Lightning (15),
Energy Bolt (5),
Calling (8), Compulsion (20), Constrain Being (20), Dimensional Portal (1,000), Energy Field (10), Exorcism (30), Repel Animals (7), Re-Open Gateway (180), Sense Evil (2), Sense Magic (4), Trance (10), Shadow Meld (10), Summon and Control Canines (50), Summon and Control Rodents (70), Sustain (12), Time Slip (20), Turn Dead (6), and Tongues (10).
2nd Level:
Charm (12),
Protection or Summoning spell: Protection Circle: Simple (45)
+Plus+: Cleanse (6)
-
3rd Level:
Magic Pigeon (20)
Protection or Summoning spell: Protection Circle: Superior (300)
+Plus+: Armor of Ithan (10)
-
4th Level:
Energy Sphere (120)
Protection or Summoning spell: Summon Shadow Beast (140)
+Plus+: Invisibility: Simple (6)
-
5th Level:
Sheltering Force (20)
Protection or Summoning spell: Summon Lesser Being (425)
+Plus+: Superhuman Endurance (12)
-
6th Level:
Control and Enslave Entity (80)
Protection or Summoning spell: Summon Greater Familiar (80)
+Plus+: Impervious to Energy (20)
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Northfields
The towering maple trees swayed gently in the breeze, their leaves rustling softly as the village prepared for the day ahead.
A small group of free villagers gathered quickly, their eyes scanning the wagon with a mix of anticipation. Among them a few curious children, all eager to see what the Coalition States had sent this time. The supply wagon, emblazoned with the CS emblem, was well used and a welcome sight.
The CS squad had left it behind after they left.
The farmers, led by Thomas, a broad-shouldered man with weathered hands and a steady gaze, stepped forward. They knew the drill. Every season, the Coalition States sent seeds—special crops seed designed to resist the diseases and insect predators that plagued the region. These seeds promised bigger, healthier yields, crops that could withstand even the harshest droughts.
But there was a catch, one that gnawed at the back of every farmer’s mind: the seeds were sterile in the second generation.
(With some persuading, the possessing entities traded bodies with the 12 newly freed ones so that 12 farmers would be free to do the work the entities did not want to do. The Entities don't like doing boring dirty work.)
As the farmers began to unload the wagon, bags of seeds were passed from hand to hand. The sacks were marked with bold lettering and a CS insignia, a reminder of where they came from and what they represented.
"Careful with those," Thomas muttered to the men as they lifted the heavy bags. "These seeds are our lifeline, but don’t forget—they’ve got strings attached."
One of the younger farmers, Caleb, paused as he hoisted a sack onto his shoulder. "What do you mean, Thomas?" he asked, a note of curiosity in his voice.
Thomas gestured to the bag. "These seeds will grow us the best crops we’ve ever seen—resistant to pests, disease, drought, everything. They are a miracle. But they won’t produce anything after the first harvest. We can’t save seeds for next year, Caleb. We have to go back to the Coalition States every season for more. They make sure of that."
Caleb’s brow furrowed as he thought about the implications. "So… we’re dependent on them, every year."
"Exactly," Thomas replied, his voice low. "It’s how they keep us under their thumb. Their technology, their superior knowledge—it’s all about control. They give us the means to grow, but they take away our independence. Every season, we’re back at their door, asking for more."
The villagers continued to unload the wagon, their movements slow but steady. The atmosphere had shifted, the realization settling in. While the seeds promised a bountiful harvest, they were also a reminder of the power the Coalition States held over them. For all their loyalty and support of CS troops, Northfields was still bound by the iron grip of the Coalition's superior technology and manipulation.
As the last of the seed bags were set down near the storage barn, Caleb leaned against the wagon, watching the villagers work. He lit a cigarette, taking a long drag before speaking up.
"We're lucky, you know," Caleb said, his voice casual but carrying an edge. "Most places don't get these seeds. Only the loyal ones, the ones that do their part."
Thomas glanced at him, his expression hard. "We do our part. But I know what this is. We can grow all the crops we want, but at the end of the day, we’re still gonna need the CS to make sure we can do it again next season."
A silence fell over the group. The truth hung heavy in the air. The Coalition States had given them the tools to thrive, but they had also ensured that the village would never truly be self-sufficient.
As they pulled the wagon away, the villagers stood around the piles of seeds, their expressions a mix of hope and resignation. They knew they were dependent on the Coalition’s supply, but they also knew that without it, their crops would wither, and their livelihoods would crumble.
Thomas clapped a hand on Caleb’s shoulder. "Let’s get these seeds ready," he said, his tone firm. "We may not like it, but we’ve got a harvest to prepare for. And we’ll make the best of it, just like always."
The continued unpacking crates in the back of the wagon. Fertilizers and pesticides, this time.
Thomas said, "We’ll need this to keep those new seeds healthy."
Thomas exchanged a quick look with Caleb, who stood beside him. They both knew what he wasn’t saying. These fertilizers and pesticides weren’t just enhancements—they were necessities. The special seeds the Coalition sent were designed to thrive only with these chemical treatments, a subtle trap that ensured the village would always need the Coalition’s handouts.
"Alright," Thomas grunted. "Let’s get this unloaded."
They quiet and efficient moved the heavy crates down from the wagon. Each one was marked with the Coalition States insignia, a clear reminder of who was really in control here. The labels on the sides read things like ‘CS Fertilizer - Batch 042’ and ‘Pesticide Treatment – Type Z7.’
As the crates were unloaded, another smaller batch of items caught the farmers’ attention. Salt, spices, and other preserved essentials were neatly packed into wooden boxes. The scent of dried herbs wafted from one as a lid was pried open.
“Salt’s always useful,” he muttered. “We’ll need this to preserve meat, especially come winter.”
The spices were another rarity. They weren’t essential, but they helped add a touch of flavor to the otherwise simple meals prepared in the village. A luxury the Coalition doled out in just enough quantities to remind the villagers that their palates, too, were under the CS’s control.
There is also a large stack of leaflets and small pamphlets, each one printed with the familiar Coalition State propaganda. Bold slogans in stark black ink demanded loyalty to the Coalition, touting their superiority in technology, security, and governance. The pamphlets depicted images of soldiers in pristine uniforms standing tall, rifles gleaming, as they gazed out over lush fields of crops—crops that eerily resembled the ones growing in Northfields now.
Turning another fold (like a greeting card) activated a tiny speaker spouted,
"Loyalty to the Coalition is loyalty to your future.”
Thomas gave a humorless chuckle. "Our future, huh?"
Caleb, catching the tone, shrugged. "They’re keeping us alive, aren’t they? That fancy corn and soybeans seed… None of it grows without THEM."
The silence that followed was heavy. The farmers continued to unload the last few crates in quiet determination, but the truth hung in the air between them all. The Coalition States had woven their influence into every corner of the village—its crops, its tools, even the salt that seasoned their food. And now, the words spoken aloud by their pamphlets were part of that control, a control that wasn’t just about what the villagers could do, but what they could think and feel.
With the last crate finally set down and the sun now high in the sky.
They stowed the wagon in one of their barns.
"Hold up," Caleb. “Look at that! Fresh shirts—courtesy of the Coalition States.”
A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd. Clothes, especially new ones, were hard to come by in Northfields. Shirts were mended and passed down, often becoming threadbare before they were replaced. The idea of a brand new shirt, free of charge, was a gift most couldn’t refuse.
One by one, the children were called forward, each given a shirt in their size. The fabric was soft and new, the vivid colors a stark contrast to the usual muted tones the villagers wore. The Coalition logo, black and imposing, was printed on the front of every shirt, the familiar insignia of the iron fist that held sway over their lives.
As each child received their shirt, the adults began to notice the other detail, one that sent a cold ripple through the crowd. Below the logo, printed neatly in black ink, was a small image of the child’s own face, along with their name in bold letters. It was not a simple handout. This was something far more deliberate.
Little Emma, her eyes wide with excitement, looked down at her shirt and giggled. "Look. It’s me!" she exclaimed, pointing to the tiny likeness of herself on the fabric.
Thomas jaw clenched, his brow furrowed in deep thought.
Caleb, who stood beside him, glanced at the children running around, excitedly showing off their new clothes. “It’s a good shirt,” Caleb muttered. “They’ll be happy to have it.”
Thomas nodded slowly but didn’t take his eyes off the driver. “Sure. But there’s more to it than that.”
Caleb frowned. “What do you mean? Free clothes for the kids, it’s generous, right?”
“Generous,” Thomas said, his voice low and edged with tension, “and a message.”
The words hung in the air for a moment. Thomas nodded toward the children, now scattered around the square, their new shirts on full display. "Every one of those shirts has their face. Their name. It’s not just generosity, Caleb. It’s the Coalition showing us that they know exactly who our children are. Where they live. Who they belong to."
Caleb’s face darkened as he followed Thomas gaze. The realization dawned slowly. The Coalition States weren’t just giving the kids new clothes—they were reminding every parent in Northfields that they had a tight grip on the village’s future. The message was clear: We know your children. We know their names, their faces, where they live, and where to find them.
Some bureaucrat miles away in the Coalition States got their kids picture from a platoon or squad who passed through. The knowledge that their children had been cataloged, that their faces were known to the very people who controlled the village’s food, and livelihood, weighed heavy.
Thomas took a step forward, his voice steady but hard. "Why the faces?"
"The faces," Thomas repeated. "On the shirts. Why put their faces and names on them?"
Caleb shrugged, unconcerned. "It’s so the shirts don’t get mixed up, I guess. Personalized. Nice touch, don’t you think?"
Thomas didn’t answer, but his gaze remained sharp and unforgiving. They hadn’t fooled him, nor did it ease the knot in his stomach. He turned and walked back toward the group of other farmers, who had gathered their children close as they began to filter back toward their homes.
Sam, holding Emma’s hand, approached Thomas. "What do we do?" he asked softly, his eyes full of worry as he glanced down at the Coalition-emblazoned shirt her daughter wore proudly.
Thomas sighed, his hand running through his hair as he watched the children, oblivious to the tension, still laughing and playing in their new clothes. "We let them wear the shirts," he said quietly. "It’s a free shirt, and it’ll keep them warm. But we don’t forget what it means."
He paused, his voice hardening. "The Coalition’s telling us they know everything about us. And they want us to remember it."
Thomas turned to Caleb, his voice low but resolute. "Let’s get back to work. There’s still a lot to do before the harvest."
And so, they did what they always did—made the best of what they had, even as they were reminded that every seed, every crop, and every breath they took was tied to the Coalition’s will.
The weight of their situation settled deep within their bones. They were farmers, yes—but they were also bound to the whims of the Coalition States, their future harvests as dependent on politics as they were on the soil beneath their feet and the rain that fell from the sky.
---
As the sun sank lower in the sky, casting long shadows over the village, the children’s laughter seemed to fade into the background. The new shirts, bright and cheerful, fluttered in the breeze, but the unease that settled over the village remained.
The towering maple trees swayed gently in the breeze, their leaves rustling softly as the village prepared for the day ahead.
A small group of free villagers gathered quickly, their eyes scanning the wagon with a mix of anticipation. Among them a few curious children, all eager to see what the Coalition States had sent this time. The supply wagon, emblazoned with the CS emblem, was well used and a welcome sight.
The CS squad had left it behind after they left.
The farmers, led by Thomas, a broad-shouldered man with weathered hands and a steady gaze, stepped forward. They knew the drill. Every season, the Coalition States sent seeds—special crops seed designed to resist the diseases and insect predators that plagued the region. These seeds promised bigger, healthier yields, crops that could withstand even the harshest droughts.
But there was a catch, one that gnawed at the back of every farmer’s mind: the seeds were sterile in the second generation.
(With some persuading, the possessing entities traded bodies with the 12 newly freed ones so that 12 farmers would be free to do the work the entities did not want to do. The Entities don't like doing boring dirty work.)
As the farmers began to unload the wagon, bags of seeds were passed from hand to hand. The sacks were marked with bold lettering and a CS insignia, a reminder of where they came from and what they represented.
"Careful with those," Thomas muttered to the men as they lifted the heavy bags. "These seeds are our lifeline, but don’t forget—they’ve got strings attached."
One of the younger farmers, Caleb, paused as he hoisted a sack onto his shoulder. "What do you mean, Thomas?" he asked, a note of curiosity in his voice.
Thomas gestured to the bag. "These seeds will grow us the best crops we’ve ever seen—resistant to pests, disease, drought, everything. They are a miracle. But they won’t produce anything after the first harvest. We can’t save seeds for next year, Caleb. We have to go back to the Coalition States every season for more. They make sure of that."
Caleb’s brow furrowed as he thought about the implications. "So… we’re dependent on them, every year."
"Exactly," Thomas replied, his voice low. "It’s how they keep us under their thumb. Their technology, their superior knowledge—it’s all about control. They give us the means to grow, but they take away our independence. Every season, we’re back at their door, asking for more."
The villagers continued to unload the wagon, their movements slow but steady. The atmosphere had shifted, the realization settling in. While the seeds promised a bountiful harvest, they were also a reminder of the power the Coalition States held over them. For all their loyalty and support of CS troops, Northfields was still bound by the iron grip of the Coalition's superior technology and manipulation.
As the last of the seed bags were set down near the storage barn, Caleb leaned against the wagon, watching the villagers work. He lit a cigarette, taking a long drag before speaking up.
"We're lucky, you know," Caleb said, his voice casual but carrying an edge. "Most places don't get these seeds. Only the loyal ones, the ones that do their part."
Thomas glanced at him, his expression hard. "We do our part. But I know what this is. We can grow all the crops we want, but at the end of the day, we’re still gonna need the CS to make sure we can do it again next season."
A silence fell over the group. The truth hung heavy in the air. The Coalition States had given them the tools to thrive, but they had also ensured that the village would never truly be self-sufficient.
As they pulled the wagon away, the villagers stood around the piles of seeds, their expressions a mix of hope and resignation. They knew they were dependent on the Coalition’s supply, but they also knew that without it, their crops would wither, and their livelihoods would crumble.
Thomas clapped a hand on Caleb’s shoulder. "Let’s get these seeds ready," he said, his tone firm. "We may not like it, but we’ve got a harvest to prepare for. And we’ll make the best of it, just like always."
The continued unpacking crates in the back of the wagon. Fertilizers and pesticides, this time.
Thomas said, "We’ll need this to keep those new seeds healthy."
Thomas exchanged a quick look with Caleb, who stood beside him. They both knew what he wasn’t saying. These fertilizers and pesticides weren’t just enhancements—they were necessities. The special seeds the Coalition sent were designed to thrive only with these chemical treatments, a subtle trap that ensured the village would always need the Coalition’s handouts.
"Alright," Thomas grunted. "Let’s get this unloaded."
They quiet and efficient moved the heavy crates down from the wagon. Each one was marked with the Coalition States insignia, a clear reminder of who was really in control here. The labels on the sides read things like ‘CS Fertilizer - Batch 042’ and ‘Pesticide Treatment – Type Z7.’
As the crates were unloaded, another smaller batch of items caught the farmers’ attention. Salt, spices, and other preserved essentials were neatly packed into wooden boxes. The scent of dried herbs wafted from one as a lid was pried open.
“Salt’s always useful,” he muttered. “We’ll need this to preserve meat, especially come winter.”
The spices were another rarity. They weren’t essential, but they helped add a touch of flavor to the otherwise simple meals prepared in the village. A luxury the Coalition doled out in just enough quantities to remind the villagers that their palates, too, were under the CS’s control.
There is also a large stack of leaflets and small pamphlets, each one printed with the familiar Coalition State propaganda. Bold slogans in stark black ink demanded loyalty to the Coalition, touting their superiority in technology, security, and governance. The pamphlets depicted images of soldiers in pristine uniforms standing tall, rifles gleaming, as they gazed out over lush fields of crops—crops that eerily resembled the ones growing in Northfields now.
Turning another fold (like a greeting card) activated a tiny speaker spouted,
"Loyalty to the Coalition is loyalty to your future.”
Thomas gave a humorless chuckle. "Our future, huh?"
Caleb, catching the tone, shrugged. "They’re keeping us alive, aren’t they? That fancy corn and soybeans seed… None of it grows without THEM."
The silence that followed was heavy. The farmers continued to unload the last few crates in quiet determination, but the truth hung in the air between them all. The Coalition States had woven their influence into every corner of the village—its crops, its tools, even the salt that seasoned their food. And now, the words spoken aloud by their pamphlets were part of that control, a control that wasn’t just about what the villagers could do, but what they could think and feel.
With the last crate finally set down and the sun now high in the sky.
They stowed the wagon in one of their barns.
"Hold up," Caleb. “Look at that! Fresh shirts—courtesy of the Coalition States.”
A murmur of approval rippled through the crowd. Clothes, especially new ones, were hard to come by in Northfields. Shirts were mended and passed down, often becoming threadbare before they were replaced. The idea of a brand new shirt, free of charge, was a gift most couldn’t refuse.
One by one, the children were called forward, each given a shirt in their size. The fabric was soft and new, the vivid colors a stark contrast to the usual muted tones the villagers wore. The Coalition logo, black and imposing, was printed on the front of every shirt, the familiar insignia of the iron fist that held sway over their lives.
As each child received their shirt, the adults began to notice the other detail, one that sent a cold ripple through the crowd. Below the logo, printed neatly in black ink, was a small image of the child’s own face, along with their name in bold letters. It was not a simple handout. This was something far more deliberate.
Little Emma, her eyes wide with excitement, looked down at her shirt and giggled. "Look. It’s me!" she exclaimed, pointing to the tiny likeness of herself on the fabric.
Thomas jaw clenched, his brow furrowed in deep thought.
Caleb, who stood beside him, glanced at the children running around, excitedly showing off their new clothes. “It’s a good shirt,” Caleb muttered. “They’ll be happy to have it.”
Thomas nodded slowly but didn’t take his eyes off the driver. “Sure. But there’s more to it than that.”
Caleb frowned. “What do you mean? Free clothes for the kids, it’s generous, right?”
“Generous,” Thomas said, his voice low and edged with tension, “and a message.”
The words hung in the air for a moment. Thomas nodded toward the children, now scattered around the square, their new shirts on full display. "Every one of those shirts has their face. Their name. It’s not just generosity, Caleb. It’s the Coalition showing us that they know exactly who our children are. Where they live. Who they belong to."
Caleb’s face darkened as he followed Thomas gaze. The realization dawned slowly. The Coalition States weren’t just giving the kids new clothes—they were reminding every parent in Northfields that they had a tight grip on the village’s future. The message was clear: We know your children. We know their names, their faces, where they live, and where to find them.
Some bureaucrat miles away in the Coalition States got their kids picture from a platoon or squad who passed through. The knowledge that their children had been cataloged, that their faces were known to the very people who controlled the village’s food, and livelihood, weighed heavy.
Thomas took a step forward, his voice steady but hard. "Why the faces?"
"The faces," Thomas repeated. "On the shirts. Why put their faces and names on them?"
Caleb shrugged, unconcerned. "It’s so the shirts don’t get mixed up, I guess. Personalized. Nice touch, don’t you think?"
Thomas didn’t answer, but his gaze remained sharp and unforgiving. They hadn’t fooled him, nor did it ease the knot in his stomach. He turned and walked back toward the group of other farmers, who had gathered their children close as they began to filter back toward their homes.
Sam, holding Emma’s hand, approached Thomas. "What do we do?" he asked softly, his eyes full of worry as he glanced down at the Coalition-emblazoned shirt her daughter wore proudly.
Thomas sighed, his hand running through his hair as he watched the children, oblivious to the tension, still laughing and playing in their new clothes. "We let them wear the shirts," he said quietly. "It’s a free shirt, and it’ll keep them warm. But we don’t forget what it means."
He paused, his voice hardening. "The Coalition’s telling us they know everything about us. And they want us to remember it."
Thomas turned to Caleb, his voice low but resolute. "Let’s get back to work. There’s still a lot to do before the harvest."
And so, they did what they always did—made the best of what they had, even as they were reminded that every seed, every crop, and every breath they took was tied to the Coalition’s will.
The weight of their situation settled deep within their bones. They were farmers, yes—but they were also bound to the whims of the Coalition States, their future harvests as dependent on politics as they were on the soil beneath their feet and the rain that fell from the sky.
---
As the sun sank lower in the sky, casting long shadows over the village, the children’s laughter seemed to fade into the background. The new shirts, bright and cheerful, fluttered in the breeze, but the unease that settled over the village remained.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Northfields
The sun filtered through the cracked windows of the village’s communal hall, casting warm light on the worn wooden floors. Inside, a group of children sat in a semi-circle, their faces a mix of curiosity and apprehension. Some fidgeted nervously, still unsure about their new routine, while others sat wide-eyed, wondering what would happen next. It had been strange the last 2 days for them, with everything around them shifting in ways they couldn’t fully understand. Their parents still acted different except for a dozen of their fathers. (Knight One had explained that there was a sort of medical problems and things would be back to normal soon.)
At the front of the room, Knight One stood, his usual air of casual authority softened by the fact that he was dealing with children now, not mercenaries or mages. He had a habit of folding his arms across his chest when thinking, and he did so now as he looked down at them. For a man who usually dealt in life-or-death situations, speaking to a room full of kids was something of a challenge. But he had made a promise, and it was time to follow through.
He cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the group. "Alright, listen up, kids," he said, his voice calm but carrying just enough authority to quiet the room. "I’ve got an announcement."
The children looked up at him, expectant.
"Starting today," Knight One continued, "you’re going to be learning a few things—things your parents haven’t told you yet. Each day, at least once, you’ll get a lesson about magic, psionics, and beings from other dimensions, often called D-Bees."
There were a few murmurs among the children, confused and curious. Some of them had heard about magic and D-Bees in hushed tones from their parents, but none of them had ever been taught directly about these things. Magic was something that existed on the fringes of their understanding, and D-Bees were the subject of rumors and fear.
Knight One paced a little, sensing their unease. "I know some of you might have heard things. Maybe you’ve heard that they’re dangerous or strange. Well, you’re going to learn the truth. And you’re going to learn how to protect yourselves if you ever run into situations where magic or psionics are involved."
One of the older boys, sitting near the front, raised his hand. "But why? Why do we have to learn this now?"
Knight One stopped pacing and looked directly at the boy. His voice softened, though it still held its typical no-nonsense tone. "Because the world’s changed and it's changing more everyday. You’ve probably noticed by now that things aren’t the same as they were a few weeks ago. You deserve to know what’s going on, and more importantly, how to deal with it."
A girl with messy blonde hair, sitting toward the back, spoke up next, her voice small. "What’s a D-Bee?"
Knight One allowed a small smile to touch his face. "D-Bees—short for Dimensional Beings, are creatures or people who’ve come from other dimensions. Some of them are friendly. Some aren’t. But the point is, they exist, and they’re here, and knowing how to deal with them is important. Just like magic or psionics. Not everyone who uses magic is bad, and not every D-Bee is an enemy. But you need to know the difference."
He paused, letting his words sink in. The children were quiet now, watching him closely. Knight One had expected resistance, maybe even fear, but what he saw in their faces was the same thing he’d seen in hardened soldiers: the desire to understand, to survive.
"And one more thing," He said, glancing around the room. "Every day, I’m going to read to you. One hour, no less. It might be a story, it might be something that helps you understand all this crazy stuff, but we’ll do it every day. You need to keep your minds sharp, and sometimes, a good story is the best way to do that."
The kids exchanged glances, some more intrigued now. The prospect of magic lessons was strange enough, but the idea of being read to every day added an air of normalcy that they hadn’t felt in weeks. Knight One had a way of making things seem both serious and manageable, and for the first time since everything had changed, the children felt a flicker of stability.
"So," Knight One concluded, clapping his hands together, "get ready. Today, we’ll start the first lesson on magic. We’ll talk about what it is, how it works, and what you need to know. Then, we’ll read. Sound good?"
There were a few nods, some murmured yeses, but mostly, the children just watched him, processing the strange new world they were about to step into.
The quiet communal hall was filled with the soft rustle of children settling in as Knight One, seated at the front of the room, flipped open his datapad of “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.” The children of Northfields, most of them seated on the floor with blankets and pillows, watched him with a mix of anticipation and curiosity. Knight One wasn’t the type they expected to read stories, but here he was, holding the book, about to transport them to another world—one of magic, something they had only just begun to understand.
Clearing his throat, Knight One gave them a small nod. “Alright, here we go. Chapter One: The Boy Who Lived,” he read, his voice steady and strong, drawing the children in almost immediately.
He continued reading, his rough voice turning smoother as he got into the rhythm of the story. He read about the strange happenings around Privet Drive, the mysterious appearance of Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore, and finally, the arrival of Hagrid with baby Harry Potter. As Knight One described the night Harry was left on the Dursleys' doorstep, the children sat wide-eyed, some hugging their knees, others leaning forward to catch every word.
An hour passed, and then two. He didn’t stop. He kept reading, weaving through each chapter with surprising ease, his gravelly voice softening when needed and growing more animated during moments of tension. When Harry received his letter to Hogwarts, the children gasped. When Hagrid knocked down the door and revealed Harry’s true identity, the room erupted in whispers.
"You're a wizard, Harry," Knight One read with a hint of amusement, imitating Hagrid’s booming voice, causing a few of the younger kids to giggle.
The magic of the story unfolded around them, the familiar world of their small village fading away as they were pulled deeper into Harry’s journey. It wasn’t until one of the smaller kids, a girl sitting near the back, raised her hand that Knight One realized how much time had passed.
A little girl timidly raised her hand, her voice breaking the spell of the story. “Are we gonna eat soon?”
Knight One glanced at his digital watch and raised his eyebrows. He had been reading for nearly three hours straight. The children were clearly entranced, but their hunger was starting to tug at their focus. He closed the book for a moment, resting it on his lap.
“Yeah, I suppose we should break for breakfast,” he said, standing up and stretching. "Go eat, get something in your stomachs, and use the bathroom. We’ll pick up right where we left off."
The children scrambled to their feet, excitedly talking about what had just happened in the story as they rushed out of the hall. Knight One smiled to himself, watching them with amusement. He wasn’t used to being around kids, but seeing their reactions to the book—seeing them so engrossed in a world of magic—made it worth it. They needed this, he thought. They needed a break from the fear and confusion of their lives.
---
After breakfast, the children returned, buzzing with excitement. Knight One wasted no time, picking up where he had left off, and continued to read through Harry’s introduction to the wizarding world—the journey to Diagon Alley, the wand, the letters, the wonder of it all. The children were mesmerized, some hanging on his every word, others sitting quietly, their imaginations painting vivid pictures in their minds.
Time slipped by again. They stopped only when the sun had climbed high in the sky, and the grumbling of stomachs interrupted Knight One mid-sentence.
“All right, all right,” he said with a chuckle. “Let’s take a break for lunch.”
They ate quickly, some of the older kids discussing the different characters in the book—wondering aloud what it would be like to go to Hogwarts, or what it would feel like to ride a broomstick. The younger ones were still amazed at the idea of an owl delivering mail or a giant like Hagrid existing in Harry’s world.
---
The afternoon stretched on, and Knight One, true to his word, didn’t stop. They delved deeper into the story, reaching the part where Harry, Ron, and Hermione faced the challenges guarding the Sorcerer’s Stone. His voice lowered as the tension in the story rose, his words drawing them in like a spell.
The children gasped and whispered as they learned more about Hogwarts and the magic that filled its halls. Even those who had been wary of magic after what had happened in their own village found themselves intrigued by the idea of Harry’s world. Magic in the book seemed wondrous, full of possibility, unlike the darker experiences they had faced in real life.
---
By the time the sun began to set, they had reached the final chapters. Knight One paused only once more, his voice slightly hoarse, to announce, “Dinner break. Eat quick, and we’ll finish this story tonight.”
The children, now fully immersed in the world of Harry Potter, hurried through their evening meal, eager to hear how the story ended. They returned to the hall, the room lit by lanterns and the glow of the setting sun, settling back into their spots, eyes wide with anticipation.
Knight One picked up the book once more, and with a steady voice, he led them through the final chapters. The trio’s adventure through the trapdoor, the face-off with Professor Quirrell, and the reveal of Voldemort left the children on the edges of their seats.
Finally, as he read the last line—“I'm going to have a lot of fun with Dudley this summer…” Knight One closed the book, his voice softening as he glanced at the tired but thoroughly captivated faces of the children.
There was a long, quiet pause before one of the younger kids spoke, voice filled with wonder. “What happens next?”
Knight One chuckled softly, his eyes tired but warm. “Well, that’s the end of this book. But Harry’s story doesn’t stop here. There are more adventures—more books.”
The children stirred, excitement buzzing in the air despite their exhaustion. Knight One stood up, stretching after hours of reading, and nodded toward the door. “But for tonight, that’s enough. Go get some sleep.”
As the children stayed up, their whispers filling the hall, Knight One watched them with a sense of satisfaction. For just a day, he had given them a world where magic wasn’t something to be feared, where adventure and friendship were the center of the story. For the first time in weeks, the children of Northfields felt something close to normal, and he knew that he’d be reading to them again—tomorrow and the next day, too.
As the last child left the room, Knight One sat back down, looking at the closed book in his hands. “Not bad for a day’s work,” he muttered to himself, a small smile playing on his lips before he stood and headed out, leaving the empty hall in peace.
---
The moon hung low in the sky, casting long, silvery shadows over the village of Northfields. The night was quiet, save for the faint rustling of wind through the trees and the occasional distant cry of an animal. In the dimly lit barn that had become Knight One’s unofficial meeting place, the atmosphere was tense but oddly calm. Seated in front of him, on simple wooden stools, were twelve women—the mothers of the children he had been reading to earlier.
But Knight One knew better than to see them as just the village mothers. Inside each of these women was a powerful, restless possessing entity, and tonight, he needed to have a conversation with them.
He leaned back against a bale of hay, his arms crossed, observing the women in front of him. Their bodies, once animated by maternal love and care, now moved with a strange detachment—smooth, almost predatory. There was a slight glimmer in their eyes, the unmistakable sign that something other than the mothers themselves was in control.
The entities watched Knight One with mild interest, but it was clear that boredom had already set in. The novelty of being in a human body had worn off weeks ago, and now they sat restlessly, waiting for something new.
Knight One broke the silence, his voice low and direct. “I’ve got an offer for you.”
The women tilted their heads slightly, their eyes gleaming with curiosity, though they said nothing.
“I know you’re tired of these bodies,” Knight One continued, his gaze sweeping over them. “They’re not what you signed up for. I get it. These women—they’re older than you’d like, weaker than what you’re used to. And the village life? Let’s be honest, it’s boring you, isn’t it?”
One of the entities, wearing the body of a woman named Marla, smiled thinly. “You have our attention. Continue.”
Knight One nodded. “Good. Here’s the deal. I’m bringing in another group of Coalition soldiers—young, fit. All of them are under thirty. Strong, fast. You want a new body? Swap out of these tired old shells and into something... more to your liking.”
The women exchanged glances, their smiles widening slightly as the idea settled in. The thought of leaving behind the mundane bodies of the village mothers for younger, stronger hosts clearly appealed to them. He could sense their interest growing.
Marla’s entity leaned forward, her voice a purr. “A tempting offer. But what’s in it for you? We know you don’t do anything without a reason.”
Knight One chuckled softly, pushing himself off the hay and taking a step toward the group. “What’s in it for me? Simple. I need you to keep playing your part here in the village—at least for a little longer. While the bodies you have now will go back to doing what they did before, the work around the village you no longer have any desire to do. No more strange looks from others who don’t know you don’t want to be bothered with their needs. This deal gives you new bodies, and it keeps the village going, which means fewer questions from the outside world.”
The entity inside Lorraine, another woman, spoke up, her tone thoughtful. “And what do you expect us to do in these new bodies?”
Knight One shrugged, a small smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "I know you’re getting bored. And I need you to keep playing your part. Same as you’re doing now. Ambush the soldiers, lure them in, whatever’s necessary. But with the added bonus of getting to use stronger, more capable bodies. You want something better? I can give it to you. It’s a win-win."
The room fell silent for a moment, the entities clearly considering the offer. He knew they couldn’t resist. The chance to possess younger, stronger bodies was too good to pass up.
After a long pause, Marla’s entity spoke again, her voice filled with amusement. “You’ve thought this through. Very well. We’ll take your offer. The old bodies... have served their purpose. We’re ready for something new.”
Knight One smiled, satisfied. “Good.”
Then, almost as if an afterthought, he asked, “So, how do you feel about being in these women’s bodies? And the idea of moving to one that’s close to half its age?”
The question hung in the air for a moment, and for the first time, a ripple of genuine emotion flickered across the faces of the possessed women. They are beings of sensation, of experience, and he knew their current situation was likely starting to grate on them.
Lorraine’s entity was the first to speak, her lips curling into a sly smile. “The bodies of these women... they’ve been interesting. We’ve felt things we hadn’t before. It was novel at first, but... it’s grown tiresome. They’re slow and tired.”
Marla’s entity nodded in agreement. “It was fun while it lasted. But we crave vitality, and these bodies... well, they lack the vigor we desire. Moving into younger hosts—stronger bodies—that’s where we thrive. That’s what excites us.”
The other entities murmured their agreement, their smiles widening as they imagined the power they would wield in the younger Coalition soldiers bodies. The thought of leaving the aging mothers behind, of shedding the weight of domesticity, was thrilling to them.
His expression remained calm, but inside he was pleased. This was exactly what he had counted on—the entities inherent need for excitement. The offer of new bodies had been an easy way to keep them engaged, to ensure their loyalty for a little longer.
“Then it’s settled,” he said, his voice firm. “I’ll bring new bodies, and you’ll make the swap. Young, strong bodies—just like you want. Just keep things looking normal.”
The entities nodded, their eyes gleaming with anticipation. He knew that for now, they were on board. But he also knew their nature—they were unpredictable, driven by pleasure and novelty. Keeping them entertained was key.
As he turned to leave, Marla’s entity called out after him, her voice lilting with amusement. “You always know how to keep things interesting. We’ll be ready.”
He glanced back with a smirk. “I’ll make sure of it.”
And with that, he stepped out of the barn, leaving the entities behind to revel in the thought of their new, younger hosts. The plan was in motion, and for now, the village—and the war—would continue as he intended.
---
The sun hung high in the sky over Northfields, casting a soft golden light over the village square. The children of the village suddenly found themselves gathered in small groups, playing or sitting in the shade of the tall maple trees. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the village seemed a little more alive, a little less eerie.
Then came a change, subtle at first, but unmistakable—a shift in the air as the recently freed mothers of the village began to step out of their dazed confusion. Their minds still adjusting to the sudden freedom from the entities that had controlled them for weeks. But as they blinked and looked around, something familiar caught their eyes: their children.
"Simon?" one of the mothers called out, her voice tentative at first, but growing stronger as recognition set in. She stepped forward, her face softening into a mix of relief and worry as she spotted her son.
Simon, a boy of about ten, looked up from the group of boys he’d been playing with, confusion crossing his face as he saw his mother approaching. He had barely seen her in recent weeks, and when he had, she had been distant, cold. But now, her eyes were bright with familiarity, and her steps quickened as she hurried toward him.
"Simon, where have you been? Look at you!" his mother exclaimed, rushing over to him and pulling him into a tight hug before stepping back to look him over. "Your hair's a mess, and those clothes—have you been running around in those same pants for days? What have you been eating? You look so thin!"
Simon, caught off guard, mumbled, "I... I was fine, Mom. We were just playing."
"Playing? You need a bath and some real food!" she chided, shaking her head as she straightened his shirt. "And don’t think you’re getting out of your chores just because things have been strange around here. You’re going to help me clean up the house. It’s been a mess since—"
Nearby, another scene played out. A little girl, Molly, had been picking wildflowers near the square when her mother spotted her. The woman’s eyes widened, and she rushed over, calling out, "Molly!"
Molly stood up, her hands full of flowers, and blinked as her mother approached. She didn’t even have time to respond before her mother started fussing over her.
"Look at your face! It’s filthy—have you been running around like this? And these clothes!" her mother cried, brushing off dirt from Molly’s dress and trying to smooth her tangled hair. "You can’t just wander around like this! We’re going straight home, young lady, and you’re going to wash up. Honestly, what would people think if they saw you like this?"
Molly, still clutching her flowers, sighed. "But, Mom, I was just picking flowers..."
Her mother shook her head. "Flowers can wait. You’re going to help me clean up the garden. You can’t leave everything to me, you know. There’s so much to do—don’t think I’m letting you off just because everything’s been... strange."
All around the square, similar scenes unfolded. The children, long neglected during the village’s dark days, were suddenly recognized and called by their names. Moms seemed to immediately shift into familiar patterns—nagging, worrying, and fussing over their children’s appearance and responsibilities.
"Tommy! Come here!" called another mother, her voice sharp but loving. "Your face is all dirty, and you’ve got holes in your shoes! What have you been doing out here? We need to go home and get you cleaned up. And then you can help me with the laundry. There’s piles of it waiting!"
Tommy groaned, but followed obediently as his mother fussed over him, brushing dirt from his pants and muttering about the state of his hair.
Another mother found her twin daughters playing near the well. "Emma! Sophie! Get over here right now! You both look like you’ve rolled through a mud pit. Have you even brushed your hair this week?"
The twins exchanged sheepish looks but obediently walked over to their mother, who immediately started smoothing their hair and checking their faces for dirt. "You’re not going anywhere else until you’re both clean. And then you’re helping me in the kitchen—we’ve got so much work to catch up on. Honestly, what have you been doing all this time?"
The children, though initially surprised by the sudden return of their mothers attentiveness, soon found themselves falling back into the familiar routines of everyday life. They were fussed over, nagged, and given chores, just as they had been before everything had gone wrong.
The mothers, relieved to have their children back in their care, seemed to take comfort in the normalcy of it all—even if their voices were filled with exasperation.
As the mothers called their children home, the village square slowly emptied, the air filled with the sounds of scolding and affectionate nagging.
For the first time in weeks, Northfields felt like a real village again—messy, loud, and full of life. The magic and possession that had cast a shadow over everything had started to fade, replaced by the simple, everyday concerns of mothers and their children.
It wasn’t perfect, and the village still had a long way to go, but for now, the children were safe, their mothers were back, and life, in its own way, was beginning to return to normal.
The sun filtered through the cracked windows of the village’s communal hall, casting warm light on the worn wooden floors. Inside, a group of children sat in a semi-circle, their faces a mix of curiosity and apprehension. Some fidgeted nervously, still unsure about their new routine, while others sat wide-eyed, wondering what would happen next. It had been strange the last 2 days for them, with everything around them shifting in ways they couldn’t fully understand. Their parents still acted different except for a dozen of their fathers. (Knight One had explained that there was a sort of medical problems and things would be back to normal soon.)
At the front of the room, Knight One stood, his usual air of casual authority softened by the fact that he was dealing with children now, not mercenaries or mages. He had a habit of folding his arms across his chest when thinking, and he did so now as he looked down at them. For a man who usually dealt in life-or-death situations, speaking to a room full of kids was something of a challenge. But he had made a promise, and it was time to follow through.
He cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the group. "Alright, listen up, kids," he said, his voice calm but carrying just enough authority to quiet the room. "I’ve got an announcement."
The children looked up at him, expectant.
"Starting today," Knight One continued, "you’re going to be learning a few things—things your parents haven’t told you yet. Each day, at least once, you’ll get a lesson about magic, psionics, and beings from other dimensions, often called D-Bees."
There were a few murmurs among the children, confused and curious. Some of them had heard about magic and D-Bees in hushed tones from their parents, but none of them had ever been taught directly about these things. Magic was something that existed on the fringes of their understanding, and D-Bees were the subject of rumors and fear.
Knight One paced a little, sensing their unease. "I know some of you might have heard things. Maybe you’ve heard that they’re dangerous or strange. Well, you’re going to learn the truth. And you’re going to learn how to protect yourselves if you ever run into situations where magic or psionics are involved."
One of the older boys, sitting near the front, raised his hand. "But why? Why do we have to learn this now?"
Knight One stopped pacing and looked directly at the boy. His voice softened, though it still held its typical no-nonsense tone. "Because the world’s changed and it's changing more everyday. You’ve probably noticed by now that things aren’t the same as they were a few weeks ago. You deserve to know what’s going on, and more importantly, how to deal with it."
A girl with messy blonde hair, sitting toward the back, spoke up next, her voice small. "What’s a D-Bee?"
Knight One allowed a small smile to touch his face. "D-Bees—short for Dimensional Beings, are creatures or people who’ve come from other dimensions. Some of them are friendly. Some aren’t. But the point is, they exist, and they’re here, and knowing how to deal with them is important. Just like magic or psionics. Not everyone who uses magic is bad, and not every D-Bee is an enemy. But you need to know the difference."
He paused, letting his words sink in. The children were quiet now, watching him closely. Knight One had expected resistance, maybe even fear, but what he saw in their faces was the same thing he’d seen in hardened soldiers: the desire to understand, to survive.
"And one more thing," He said, glancing around the room. "Every day, I’m going to read to you. One hour, no less. It might be a story, it might be something that helps you understand all this crazy stuff, but we’ll do it every day. You need to keep your minds sharp, and sometimes, a good story is the best way to do that."
The kids exchanged glances, some more intrigued now. The prospect of magic lessons was strange enough, but the idea of being read to every day added an air of normalcy that they hadn’t felt in weeks. Knight One had a way of making things seem both serious and manageable, and for the first time since everything had changed, the children felt a flicker of stability.
"So," Knight One concluded, clapping his hands together, "get ready. Today, we’ll start the first lesson on magic. We’ll talk about what it is, how it works, and what you need to know. Then, we’ll read. Sound good?"
There were a few nods, some murmured yeses, but mostly, the children just watched him, processing the strange new world they were about to step into.
The quiet communal hall was filled with the soft rustle of children settling in as Knight One, seated at the front of the room, flipped open his datapad of “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.” The children of Northfields, most of them seated on the floor with blankets and pillows, watched him with a mix of anticipation and curiosity. Knight One wasn’t the type they expected to read stories, but here he was, holding the book, about to transport them to another world—one of magic, something they had only just begun to understand.
Clearing his throat, Knight One gave them a small nod. “Alright, here we go. Chapter One: The Boy Who Lived,” he read, his voice steady and strong, drawing the children in almost immediately.
He continued reading, his rough voice turning smoother as he got into the rhythm of the story. He read about the strange happenings around Privet Drive, the mysterious appearance of Professor McGonagall and Dumbledore, and finally, the arrival of Hagrid with baby Harry Potter. As Knight One described the night Harry was left on the Dursleys' doorstep, the children sat wide-eyed, some hugging their knees, others leaning forward to catch every word.
An hour passed, and then two. He didn’t stop. He kept reading, weaving through each chapter with surprising ease, his gravelly voice softening when needed and growing more animated during moments of tension. When Harry received his letter to Hogwarts, the children gasped. When Hagrid knocked down the door and revealed Harry’s true identity, the room erupted in whispers.
"You're a wizard, Harry," Knight One read with a hint of amusement, imitating Hagrid’s booming voice, causing a few of the younger kids to giggle.
The magic of the story unfolded around them, the familiar world of their small village fading away as they were pulled deeper into Harry’s journey. It wasn’t until one of the smaller kids, a girl sitting near the back, raised her hand that Knight One realized how much time had passed.
A little girl timidly raised her hand, her voice breaking the spell of the story. “Are we gonna eat soon?”
Knight One glanced at his digital watch and raised his eyebrows. He had been reading for nearly three hours straight. The children were clearly entranced, but their hunger was starting to tug at their focus. He closed the book for a moment, resting it on his lap.
“Yeah, I suppose we should break for breakfast,” he said, standing up and stretching. "Go eat, get something in your stomachs, and use the bathroom. We’ll pick up right where we left off."
The children scrambled to their feet, excitedly talking about what had just happened in the story as they rushed out of the hall. Knight One smiled to himself, watching them with amusement. He wasn’t used to being around kids, but seeing their reactions to the book—seeing them so engrossed in a world of magic—made it worth it. They needed this, he thought. They needed a break from the fear and confusion of their lives.
---
After breakfast, the children returned, buzzing with excitement. Knight One wasted no time, picking up where he had left off, and continued to read through Harry’s introduction to the wizarding world—the journey to Diagon Alley, the wand, the letters, the wonder of it all. The children were mesmerized, some hanging on his every word, others sitting quietly, their imaginations painting vivid pictures in their minds.
Time slipped by again. They stopped only when the sun had climbed high in the sky, and the grumbling of stomachs interrupted Knight One mid-sentence.
“All right, all right,” he said with a chuckle. “Let’s take a break for lunch.”
They ate quickly, some of the older kids discussing the different characters in the book—wondering aloud what it would be like to go to Hogwarts, or what it would feel like to ride a broomstick. The younger ones were still amazed at the idea of an owl delivering mail or a giant like Hagrid existing in Harry’s world.
---
The afternoon stretched on, and Knight One, true to his word, didn’t stop. They delved deeper into the story, reaching the part where Harry, Ron, and Hermione faced the challenges guarding the Sorcerer’s Stone. His voice lowered as the tension in the story rose, his words drawing them in like a spell.
The children gasped and whispered as they learned more about Hogwarts and the magic that filled its halls. Even those who had been wary of magic after what had happened in their own village found themselves intrigued by the idea of Harry’s world. Magic in the book seemed wondrous, full of possibility, unlike the darker experiences they had faced in real life.
---
By the time the sun began to set, they had reached the final chapters. Knight One paused only once more, his voice slightly hoarse, to announce, “Dinner break. Eat quick, and we’ll finish this story tonight.”
The children, now fully immersed in the world of Harry Potter, hurried through their evening meal, eager to hear how the story ended. They returned to the hall, the room lit by lanterns and the glow of the setting sun, settling back into their spots, eyes wide with anticipation.
Knight One picked up the book once more, and with a steady voice, he led them through the final chapters. The trio’s adventure through the trapdoor, the face-off with Professor Quirrell, and the reveal of Voldemort left the children on the edges of their seats.
Finally, as he read the last line—“I'm going to have a lot of fun with Dudley this summer…” Knight One closed the book, his voice softening as he glanced at the tired but thoroughly captivated faces of the children.
There was a long, quiet pause before one of the younger kids spoke, voice filled with wonder. “What happens next?”
Knight One chuckled softly, his eyes tired but warm. “Well, that’s the end of this book. But Harry’s story doesn’t stop here. There are more adventures—more books.”
The children stirred, excitement buzzing in the air despite their exhaustion. Knight One stood up, stretching after hours of reading, and nodded toward the door. “But for tonight, that’s enough. Go get some sleep.”
As the children stayed up, their whispers filling the hall, Knight One watched them with a sense of satisfaction. For just a day, he had given them a world where magic wasn’t something to be feared, where adventure and friendship were the center of the story. For the first time in weeks, the children of Northfields felt something close to normal, and he knew that he’d be reading to them again—tomorrow and the next day, too.
As the last child left the room, Knight One sat back down, looking at the closed book in his hands. “Not bad for a day’s work,” he muttered to himself, a small smile playing on his lips before he stood and headed out, leaving the empty hall in peace.
---
The moon hung low in the sky, casting long, silvery shadows over the village of Northfields. The night was quiet, save for the faint rustling of wind through the trees and the occasional distant cry of an animal. In the dimly lit barn that had become Knight One’s unofficial meeting place, the atmosphere was tense but oddly calm. Seated in front of him, on simple wooden stools, were twelve women—the mothers of the children he had been reading to earlier.
But Knight One knew better than to see them as just the village mothers. Inside each of these women was a powerful, restless possessing entity, and tonight, he needed to have a conversation with them.
He leaned back against a bale of hay, his arms crossed, observing the women in front of him. Their bodies, once animated by maternal love and care, now moved with a strange detachment—smooth, almost predatory. There was a slight glimmer in their eyes, the unmistakable sign that something other than the mothers themselves was in control.
The entities watched Knight One with mild interest, but it was clear that boredom had already set in. The novelty of being in a human body had worn off weeks ago, and now they sat restlessly, waiting for something new.
Knight One broke the silence, his voice low and direct. “I’ve got an offer for you.”
The women tilted their heads slightly, their eyes gleaming with curiosity, though they said nothing.
“I know you’re tired of these bodies,” Knight One continued, his gaze sweeping over them. “They’re not what you signed up for. I get it. These women—they’re older than you’d like, weaker than what you’re used to. And the village life? Let’s be honest, it’s boring you, isn’t it?”
One of the entities, wearing the body of a woman named Marla, smiled thinly. “You have our attention. Continue.”
Knight One nodded. “Good. Here’s the deal. I’m bringing in another group of Coalition soldiers—young, fit. All of them are under thirty. Strong, fast. You want a new body? Swap out of these tired old shells and into something... more to your liking.”
The women exchanged glances, their smiles widening slightly as the idea settled in. The thought of leaving behind the mundane bodies of the village mothers for younger, stronger hosts clearly appealed to them. He could sense their interest growing.
Marla’s entity leaned forward, her voice a purr. “A tempting offer. But what’s in it for you? We know you don’t do anything without a reason.”
Knight One chuckled softly, pushing himself off the hay and taking a step toward the group. “What’s in it for me? Simple. I need you to keep playing your part here in the village—at least for a little longer. While the bodies you have now will go back to doing what they did before, the work around the village you no longer have any desire to do. No more strange looks from others who don’t know you don’t want to be bothered with their needs. This deal gives you new bodies, and it keeps the village going, which means fewer questions from the outside world.”
The entity inside Lorraine, another woman, spoke up, her tone thoughtful. “And what do you expect us to do in these new bodies?”
Knight One shrugged, a small smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "I know you’re getting bored. And I need you to keep playing your part. Same as you’re doing now. Ambush the soldiers, lure them in, whatever’s necessary. But with the added bonus of getting to use stronger, more capable bodies. You want something better? I can give it to you. It’s a win-win."
The room fell silent for a moment, the entities clearly considering the offer. He knew they couldn’t resist. The chance to possess younger, stronger bodies was too good to pass up.
After a long pause, Marla’s entity spoke again, her voice filled with amusement. “You’ve thought this through. Very well. We’ll take your offer. The old bodies... have served their purpose. We’re ready for something new.”
Knight One smiled, satisfied. “Good.”
Then, almost as if an afterthought, he asked, “So, how do you feel about being in these women’s bodies? And the idea of moving to one that’s close to half its age?”
The question hung in the air for a moment, and for the first time, a ripple of genuine emotion flickered across the faces of the possessed women. They are beings of sensation, of experience, and he knew their current situation was likely starting to grate on them.
Lorraine’s entity was the first to speak, her lips curling into a sly smile. “The bodies of these women... they’ve been interesting. We’ve felt things we hadn’t before. It was novel at first, but... it’s grown tiresome. They’re slow and tired.”
Marla’s entity nodded in agreement. “It was fun while it lasted. But we crave vitality, and these bodies... well, they lack the vigor we desire. Moving into younger hosts—stronger bodies—that’s where we thrive. That’s what excites us.”
The other entities murmured their agreement, their smiles widening as they imagined the power they would wield in the younger Coalition soldiers bodies. The thought of leaving the aging mothers behind, of shedding the weight of domesticity, was thrilling to them.
His expression remained calm, but inside he was pleased. This was exactly what he had counted on—the entities inherent need for excitement. The offer of new bodies had been an easy way to keep them engaged, to ensure their loyalty for a little longer.
“Then it’s settled,” he said, his voice firm. “I’ll bring new bodies, and you’ll make the swap. Young, strong bodies—just like you want. Just keep things looking normal.”
The entities nodded, their eyes gleaming with anticipation. He knew that for now, they were on board. But he also knew their nature—they were unpredictable, driven by pleasure and novelty. Keeping them entertained was key.
As he turned to leave, Marla’s entity called out after him, her voice lilting with amusement. “You always know how to keep things interesting. We’ll be ready.”
He glanced back with a smirk. “I’ll make sure of it.”
And with that, he stepped out of the barn, leaving the entities behind to revel in the thought of their new, younger hosts. The plan was in motion, and for now, the village—and the war—would continue as he intended.
---
The sun hung high in the sky over Northfields, casting a soft golden light over the village square. The children of the village suddenly found themselves gathered in small groups, playing or sitting in the shade of the tall maple trees. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, the village seemed a little more alive, a little less eerie.
Then came a change, subtle at first, but unmistakable—a shift in the air as the recently freed mothers of the village began to step out of their dazed confusion. Their minds still adjusting to the sudden freedom from the entities that had controlled them for weeks. But as they blinked and looked around, something familiar caught their eyes: their children.
"Simon?" one of the mothers called out, her voice tentative at first, but growing stronger as recognition set in. She stepped forward, her face softening into a mix of relief and worry as she spotted her son.
Simon, a boy of about ten, looked up from the group of boys he’d been playing with, confusion crossing his face as he saw his mother approaching. He had barely seen her in recent weeks, and when he had, she had been distant, cold. But now, her eyes were bright with familiarity, and her steps quickened as she hurried toward him.
"Simon, where have you been? Look at you!" his mother exclaimed, rushing over to him and pulling him into a tight hug before stepping back to look him over. "Your hair's a mess, and those clothes—have you been running around in those same pants for days? What have you been eating? You look so thin!"
Simon, caught off guard, mumbled, "I... I was fine, Mom. We were just playing."
"Playing? You need a bath and some real food!" she chided, shaking her head as she straightened his shirt. "And don’t think you’re getting out of your chores just because things have been strange around here. You’re going to help me clean up the house. It’s been a mess since—"
Nearby, another scene played out. A little girl, Molly, had been picking wildflowers near the square when her mother spotted her. The woman’s eyes widened, and she rushed over, calling out, "Molly!"
Molly stood up, her hands full of flowers, and blinked as her mother approached. She didn’t even have time to respond before her mother started fussing over her.
"Look at your face! It’s filthy—have you been running around like this? And these clothes!" her mother cried, brushing off dirt from Molly’s dress and trying to smooth her tangled hair. "You can’t just wander around like this! We’re going straight home, young lady, and you’re going to wash up. Honestly, what would people think if they saw you like this?"
Molly, still clutching her flowers, sighed. "But, Mom, I was just picking flowers..."
Her mother shook her head. "Flowers can wait. You’re going to help me clean up the garden. You can’t leave everything to me, you know. There’s so much to do—don’t think I’m letting you off just because everything’s been... strange."
All around the square, similar scenes unfolded. The children, long neglected during the village’s dark days, were suddenly recognized and called by their names. Moms seemed to immediately shift into familiar patterns—nagging, worrying, and fussing over their children’s appearance and responsibilities.
"Tommy! Come here!" called another mother, her voice sharp but loving. "Your face is all dirty, and you’ve got holes in your shoes! What have you been doing out here? We need to go home and get you cleaned up. And then you can help me with the laundry. There’s piles of it waiting!"
Tommy groaned, but followed obediently as his mother fussed over him, brushing dirt from his pants and muttering about the state of his hair.
Another mother found her twin daughters playing near the well. "Emma! Sophie! Get over here right now! You both look like you’ve rolled through a mud pit. Have you even brushed your hair this week?"
The twins exchanged sheepish looks but obediently walked over to their mother, who immediately started smoothing their hair and checking their faces for dirt. "You’re not going anywhere else until you’re both clean. And then you’re helping me in the kitchen—we’ve got so much work to catch up on. Honestly, what have you been doing all this time?"
The children, though initially surprised by the sudden return of their mothers attentiveness, soon found themselves falling back into the familiar routines of everyday life. They were fussed over, nagged, and given chores, just as they had been before everything had gone wrong.
The mothers, relieved to have their children back in their care, seemed to take comfort in the normalcy of it all—even if their voices were filled with exasperation.
As the mothers called their children home, the village square slowly emptied, the air filled with the sounds of scolding and affectionate nagging.
For the first time in weeks, Northfields felt like a real village again—messy, loud, and full of life. The magic and possession that had cast a shadow over everything had started to fade, replaced by the simple, everyday concerns of mothers and their children.
It wasn’t perfect, and the village still had a long way to go, but for now, the children were safe, their mothers were back, and life, in its own way, was beginning to return to normal.
Last edited by darthauthor on Sat Sep 07, 2024 1:08 am, edited 1 time in total.
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darthauthor
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Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Coalition Army Mission Report
From: Lieutenant Hirt, Coalition Army
Subject: Missing Coalition Army Squads - Status and Recovery Operation
To: Coalition Military Command
Location: Village of Northfields and Surrounding Areas
---
Summary
Over the past month, 27 Coalition Army soldiers from various squads have failed to report in, raising concerns about their status. Coalition military intelligence conducted an investigation using psychics capable of Remote Viewing to determine their whereabouts and status.
Findings
Through psychic inquiry, it was confirmed that all 27 soldiers are deceased. The psychics, when asked the specific questions as per standard Coalition protocol, were able to provide valuable insights into the situation:
Question 1: Is the person alive?
The psychics confirmed that none of the soldiers are alive.
Question 2: Show me an image of where they died.
The psychic impressions show vague images of the village of Northfields, specifically indicating areas in and around the village as the locations where the soldiers died.
Given the psychics descriptions and their expertise in remote viewing, we believe the soldiers were killed by hostile forces in or near Northfields. Further investigation is required to confirm the exact cause of death and prevent future occurrences.
---
Mission Objectives
1. Recover or Destroy the Bodies of the Dead Soldiers
The bodies of the deceased must be retrieved or incinerated to prevent them from being used against the Coalition States (CS). This operation is crucial to maintaining military integrity and preventing supernatural or magical forces from exploiting our fallen.
2. Identify and Eliminate the Killers
We suspect that there are hostile forces in Northfields and that they are responsible for the deaths of the 27 soldiers. Our task is to identify and destroy the perpetrators.
3. Determine the Cause of Death
A detailed investigation must be carried out to understand how the soldiers were killed. This information will be critical in formulating strategies to prevent further losses in similar engagements. Understanding the threat will allow us to adapt and fortify our operations in hostile environments like Northfields.
---
Mission Plan
The mission to Northfields will consist of multiple phases, with specific roles assigned to specialized units:
1. Dog Boys Deployment for Body Recovery
A squad of Dog Boys will be dispatched to Northfields with articles of dirty clothing belonging to the deceased soldiers to track their bodies using scent. Their primary task is to locate and identify the dead bodies so that they can either be recovered or destroyed to prevent enemy use.
Dog Boy Assignment: In addition to body recovery, the Dog Boys will be responsible for detecting any supernatural or magical individuals in the vicinity.
2. Investigator Assignment
An investigator will be deployed to determine the exact cause of death of each soldier. This investigator will work closely with the Dog Boys and psychics, examining any clues from the scene that may reveal how these deaths occurred and whether specific persons or entities are responsible.
Objective: Compile a detailed report on the cause of death and identities of the perpetrators.
3. Military Platoon for Combat Engagement
A platoon of 40 Coalition Army soldiers will accompany the operation to provide firepower and combat support. The platoon will be fully armed with heavy weapons and advanced combat gear to deal with any hostiles that may still be present.
Objective: Engage and eliminate any supernatural or hostile forces responsible for the deaths of our soldiers. Ensure that all threats are neutralized to prevent further losses.
4. Incineration and Clean-Up Operations
If the bodies of the deceased cannot be recovered intact, incineration will be carried out by the platoon to ensure the remains are destroyed and cannot be used by enemy forces. This will also prevent any potential reanimation or exploitation of the bodies by magic.
---
Resources and Personnel Required
1. Dog Boy Squad: Responsible for tracking the bodies and detecting supernatural threats.
2. Investigator: A specialized individual tasked with determining the cause of death and identifying the perpetrators.
3. Platoon of 40 Soldiers: Armed for combat with heavy firepower, tasked with eliminating hostiles.
4. Master Psychics: On standby for any further inquiries regarding enemy movements or potential ambushes during the mission.
5. Transportation
---
Mission Directives
1. Locate and recover or incinerate the bodies of the 27 dead soldiers.
2. Eliminate any hostile forces responsible for the deaths of the soldiers.
3. Investigate and determine the exact cause of death to prevent future losses.
4. Return to base with full intelligence on the situation and neutralize all remaining threats in the area.
---
Conclusion
This mission is critical to avenging the deaths of Coalition soldiers and ensuring that they do not become a strategic disadvantage. By recovering or destroying the bodies and eliminating the hostile forces responsible, we will prevent the enemy from exploiting our losses and ensure that our operations in and around Northfields can continue without further casualties.
Lieutenant Hirt
Coalition Army
From: Lieutenant Hirt, Coalition Army
Subject: Missing Coalition Army Squads - Status and Recovery Operation
To: Coalition Military Command
Location: Village of Northfields and Surrounding Areas
---
Summary
Over the past month, 27 Coalition Army soldiers from various squads have failed to report in, raising concerns about their status. Coalition military intelligence conducted an investigation using psychics capable of Remote Viewing to determine their whereabouts and status.
Findings
Through psychic inquiry, it was confirmed that all 27 soldiers are deceased. The psychics, when asked the specific questions as per standard Coalition protocol, were able to provide valuable insights into the situation:
Question 1: Is the person alive?
The psychics confirmed that none of the soldiers are alive.
Question 2: Show me an image of where they died.
The psychic impressions show vague images of the village of Northfields, specifically indicating areas in and around the village as the locations where the soldiers died.
Given the psychics descriptions and their expertise in remote viewing, we believe the soldiers were killed by hostile forces in or near Northfields. Further investigation is required to confirm the exact cause of death and prevent future occurrences.
---
Mission Objectives
1. Recover or Destroy the Bodies of the Dead Soldiers
The bodies of the deceased must be retrieved or incinerated to prevent them from being used against the Coalition States (CS). This operation is crucial to maintaining military integrity and preventing supernatural or magical forces from exploiting our fallen.
2. Identify and Eliminate the Killers
We suspect that there are hostile forces in Northfields and that they are responsible for the deaths of the 27 soldiers. Our task is to identify and destroy the perpetrators.
3. Determine the Cause of Death
A detailed investigation must be carried out to understand how the soldiers were killed. This information will be critical in formulating strategies to prevent further losses in similar engagements. Understanding the threat will allow us to adapt and fortify our operations in hostile environments like Northfields.
---
Mission Plan
The mission to Northfields will consist of multiple phases, with specific roles assigned to specialized units:
1. Dog Boys Deployment for Body Recovery
A squad of Dog Boys will be dispatched to Northfields with articles of dirty clothing belonging to the deceased soldiers to track their bodies using scent. Their primary task is to locate and identify the dead bodies so that they can either be recovered or destroyed to prevent enemy use.
Dog Boy Assignment: In addition to body recovery, the Dog Boys will be responsible for detecting any supernatural or magical individuals in the vicinity.
2. Investigator Assignment
An investigator will be deployed to determine the exact cause of death of each soldier. This investigator will work closely with the Dog Boys and psychics, examining any clues from the scene that may reveal how these deaths occurred and whether specific persons or entities are responsible.
Objective: Compile a detailed report on the cause of death and identities of the perpetrators.
3. Military Platoon for Combat Engagement
A platoon of 40 Coalition Army soldiers will accompany the operation to provide firepower and combat support. The platoon will be fully armed with heavy weapons and advanced combat gear to deal with any hostiles that may still be present.
Objective: Engage and eliminate any supernatural or hostile forces responsible for the deaths of our soldiers. Ensure that all threats are neutralized to prevent further losses.
4. Incineration and Clean-Up Operations
If the bodies of the deceased cannot be recovered intact, incineration will be carried out by the platoon to ensure the remains are destroyed and cannot be used by enemy forces. This will also prevent any potential reanimation or exploitation of the bodies by magic.
---
Resources and Personnel Required
1. Dog Boy Squad: Responsible for tracking the bodies and detecting supernatural threats.
2. Investigator: A specialized individual tasked with determining the cause of death and identifying the perpetrators.
3. Platoon of 40 Soldiers: Armed for combat with heavy firepower, tasked with eliminating hostiles.
4. Master Psychics: On standby for any further inquiries regarding enemy movements or potential ambushes during the mission.
5. Transportation
---
Mission Directives
1. Locate and recover or incinerate the bodies of the 27 dead soldiers.
2. Eliminate any hostile forces responsible for the deaths of the soldiers.
3. Investigate and determine the exact cause of death to prevent future losses.
4. Return to base with full intelligence on the situation and neutralize all remaining threats in the area.
---
Conclusion
This mission is critical to avenging the deaths of Coalition soldiers and ensuring that they do not become a strategic disadvantage. By recovering or destroying the bodies and eliminating the hostile forces responsible, we will prevent the enemy from exploiting our losses and ensure that our operations in and around Northfields can continue without further casualties.
Lieutenant Hirt
Coalition Army
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Northfields
The sound came first—a deep, distant rumble that rolled across the plains, cutting through the quiet morning air of Northfields. The villagers paused in their work, heads turning toward the horizon, where the tremor grew louder. It wasn’t the usual supply wagon or the faint hum of Coalition patrols. This was something heavier, something more powerful.
From the dirt road leading into the village, four massive, black-and-white Coalition Mark V Armored Personnel Carriers (APCs) appeared, their hulking forms rising like steel titans against the peaceful backdrop of the village. The ground vibrated with each turn of their massive treads, and the villagers instinctively took a step back, their eyes wide with a mixture of awe and fear.
Each APC stood nearly 17 feet tall, its heavily armored body reflecting the harsh morning light. The sides of the vehicles were emblazoned with the Coalition insignia, the black skull logo stark against the white plating. These machines were not built for subtlety or diplomacy—they were designed for war, for cutting through enemies and plowing through battlefields with deadly efficiency.
Thomas, standing near the center of the village square, narrowed his eyes as the lead APC rolled forward, its engines growling like a caged beast. At 33 feet long and 9 feet wide, the APCs dwarfed everything in the village.
The massive vehicles stopped with a hiss of hydraulic brakes, and the air seemed to freeze for a moment, thick with tension. The village, usually buzzing with quiet activity, fell eerily silent.
The lead APC's front hatch opened with a clang, and the pilot stepped out first, dressed in the full black combat armor of a Coalition trooper. His visor reflected the village like a black mirror, cold and unreadable. Behind him, the copilot and communications officer disembarked, followed by two gunners armed with heavy laser rifles slung across their backs.
A squad of ten soldiers, their armor pristine and their movements crisp, followed quickly, fanning out from the vehicles with military precision.
More hatches opened on the other three APCs, and soon 40 Coalition soldiers were standing in the heart of Northfields, their faces obscured by dark helmets, their weapons held at the ready. They didn’t aim at anyone—but the threat was palpable, a silent reminder of the power they wielded. The Mark V APCs, with their thick armor plating and bristling armaments, loomed behind them like sentinels.
Each APC was armed with laser turrets and missile launchers, their barrels sweeping slowly as if scanning the area.
Thomas, ever the leader, stepped forward, trying to keep his voice steady.
"What brings you to Northfields?"
His eyes flicked between the soldiers and the APCs, a muscle twitching in his jaw.
The lead soldier, the pilot of the first APC, stepped forward, his voice modulated and amplified through his helmet’s comms system. “Routine patrol. Resupply. You’ve got nothing to worry about, civilian. But we’ll be conducting some operations nearby.”
Thomas’s fists tightened at the word civilian. He knew better than to push back against Coalition soldiers, but the sight of four APCs in their peaceful village set his nerves on edge.
“Is there something specific you need here?” Thomas asked, careful to keep his tone respectful but firm. Behind him, other villagers watched, their hands still, eyes wide, knowing full well the destructive power standing before them.
The pilot’s helmet tilted slightly, as though he were scanning the area, evaluating the villagers and their homes. “This is just a stop. We’ll be moving on shortly. You can assist by staying out of our way.”
Another soldier stepped forward, this one clearly in charge of the squad inside the APCs. “We’ll need access to your water supply, and we’ll be setting up perimeter checks. You’ll also ensure that no one leaves or enters the village until we’re done. Clear?”
Thomas’s jaw tightened further, but he nodded. “Understood.”
Without another word, the soldiers began moving, their boots thudding heavily on the packed earth as they spread out across the village. The enormous APCs sat like mechanical beasts in the center of Northfields, their armored shells gleaming in the morning light. Villagers stepped aside, watching in uneasy silence as the soldiers moved through their town like a cold, efficient machine.
One of the gunners from the lead APC stood near the vehicle, his eyes tracking every movement around him. On the side of the vehicle, a large turret mounted on the roof turned slowly, scanning the horizon as if ready to open fire at any threat that might appear. The sheer size and weight of the APC, nearly 18 tons, made the ground feel as if it might buckle under the strain.
The villagers knew what these machines were capable of. Designed to cut through combat zones, these APCs could plow through enemy lines, decimate anything in their path, and whisk soldiers in and out of battle with brutal efficiency. They were built for war—not for places like Northfields, where peace and quiet ruled the day.
Caleb, standing near Thomas, muttered under his breath, “Why would they bring these here? We’re no threat. Not to them.”
Thomas didn’t answer, his eyes still locked on the soldiers. He knew that the Coalition operated on their own terms, and whatever reason they had for showing such force in Northfields, it wasn’t something they were likely to share.
From each APC, two Dog Boys leaped to the ground, their enhanced senses immediately on alert. They sniffed the air, their pointed ears twitching as they fanned out across the village square. The villagers stiffened, some stepping back as the Dog Boys moved through the crowd with uncanny speed, sniffing the ground and the air with an intensity that made the atmosphere tense. The Dog Boys could sense something, something hidden.
The eyes of those beings possessing 24 of the villagers widened. Their internal danger sense flared like a wildfire. They could feel the Dog Boys closing in, their presence now unmistakable to these supernatural entities who had been lying dormant within human hosts.
As the Dog Boys scanned the area, their heads snapped toward the maple tree forest that edged the village. There, too, something stirred—a presence. Six powerful mages, disguised among the villagers, were detected by the Dog Boys' acute senses. They could feel the flow of magic in the air, a whisper of energy that the ordinary soldiers would never notice. The mages exchanged nervous glances, realizing they had been found.
The lead Dog Boy raised his hand, signaling the Coalition troops. “We’ve got something here.”
The soldiers moved with military precision. Half of them flicked a switch on their helmets, activating their infra-red vision. Instantly, their world turned into a heat map, scanning for anyone who might be hiding under the cloak of invisibility. The village felt smaller now, as the APCs loomed like silent predators, and the soldiers swept their gaze across the crowd and the nearby tree line.
Then, the mood shifted again. The back hatch of each APC opened, and a figure stepped out from each one. Dressed in black, these men moved with eerie calm, their presence radiating something darker, more dangerous. They were Master Psychics, warriors trained to do battle with magic and supernatural predators. The air around them seemed to ripple as, with a single thought, each man mentally willed a weapon into existence. Swords of pure psychic energy shimmered into being, broad and glowing, like blades forged from light itself.
The villagers watched in horror as the psychics, now armed, turned their attention to the crowd.
Without warning a wave of psychic power swept over the square. In an instant, 36 of the Coalition soldiers collapsed, their bodies paralyzed an overwhelming force. They fell to the ground, motionless, their weapons clattering uselessly beside them.
But not all were affected.
The four soldiers who remained unaffected moved into action without hesitation, raising their rifles. They opened fire on the crowd of 52 villagers, blasts tearing through the air. Chaos erupted as villagers screamed and scattered, trying to avoid the deadly hail of fire.
At the same time, the eight Dog Boys, now fully aware of who among the villagers was possessed, sprinted toward their targets with terrifying speed. Each one tackled a possessed human to the ground, growling and snarling as they wrestled their prey into submission. The entities inside the possessed villagers fought back, but the Dog Boys were relentless, their teeth bared, their eyes glowing with predatory intent.
In the midst of the chaos, the men with the glowing swords charged forward, their psychic weapons raised high. They could sense the rest of the possessed—a pulsing energy that guided their steps. As they closed in, some of the possessed drew their own weapons, shimmering blades of steel clashing against the glowing psychic swords in a deadly dance. The battle was fierce and fast, the air filled with the sharp clang of metal against psychic energy.
The villagers, those who were neither possessed nor magical, could do nothing but watch in horror as the once-peaceful square turned into a battlefield. The possessed fought back with everything they had, but the Master Psychics were relentless. Their swords sliced through the air with deadly precision, cutting down any who stood in their path.
But then, something shifted. A sudden, eerie stillness washed over the square, as though the very air had thickened with tension. The villagers, the few who still stood on the outskirts, could feel it too.
And then, in an instant, the change came. One by one, the entities possessing the eight villagers slipped free from their human hosts.
The Dog Boys, momentarily confused, felt the bodies beneath them go slack. The villagers' eyes, once filled with unnatural malice, now looke bewildered. The entities, now invisible and intangible, swirled out of their human prisons like wraiths. For a heartbeat, they seemed to hover in the air, and then they struck.
Three of the entities, moving with terrifying speed, lunged straight for the Dog Boys subduing them.
The first Dog Boy, an experienced hunter with gray fur streaked with black, suddenly stiffened, his claws retracting as his body jerked unnaturally. His snarl twisted into something grotesque as his eyes, once sharp and alert, glazed over with a strange, cold light. The entity had taken control.
The second and third Dog Boys didn’t fare any better. Their strong, lupine bodies convulsed as they fought against the sudden invasion, but within moments, their muscles locked, and they slumped forward, possessed by the entities. The other Dog Boys, still crouched over helpless villagers, sensed the shift immediately, their heads snapping up to witness their comrades fall under control of the malevolent forces. Their growls turned to snarls of confusion and aggression, the once-coordinated unit now divided.
The other two entities, now free, fled the scene with lightning speed, becoming intangible and invisible, leaving no trace as they zipped toward the safety of the forest.
The three entities previously subdued found new prey. They latched onto three of the CS soldiers who were not paralyzed, their ethereal forms slipping into the bodies of the men. The soldiers had barely a moment to react before their bodies were no longer their own.
The Master Psychics, who had been battling other threats just moments ago, sensed the shift immediately. Their glowing psychic swords shimmered in the air as they turned toward the newly possessed soldiers and Dog Boys, their eyes narrowing. This was a different kind of battle now.
The Dog Boys that were still unaffected—those not possessed—snarled and crouched low, their senses now fully attuned to their compromised comrades. They could smell the change, the malevolent force now controlling the minds and bodies of their packmates. But Dog Boys were trained to deal with the supernatural, and though the situation had become dangerously unpredictable, they were ready to fight their own if need be.
The three possessed soldiers, raised their rifles and began firing on the men with Psi-swords.
Energy rifle fire erupted and struck the Master psychics. From out of nowhere lightning came down from the sky and struck them.
The Dog Boys attacked each other in a scramble.
The unpossessed soldiers scrambled for cover, barking orders into their comms as they struggled to contain the situation. The remaining Dog Boys howled as they leapt.
The Master Psychics, swords still gleaming with psychic energy, moved with deadly precision. They targeted the possessed.
The village of Northfields, once a place of peace and quiet, had become a battleground for forces that none of them fully understood.
A Master Psychic fell dead to the combined energy fire and magical energy attacks.
The chaos in Northfields had already spiraled out of control, but when the remaining crew inside the Coalition APCs saw what was happening, fear gripped them like a vice.
The commander inside the lead APC shouted into his comms, his voice trembling with the realization of what they were up against.
"Command, we have a situation! Some of our own have been… possessed! Repeat, our soldiers and Dog Boys have been compromised!"
The sound of energy weapons fire and snarling Dog Boys echoed through the comms. The three possessed soldiers now controlled by entities moved with deadly purpose, their rifles raised and pointed toward their comrades. The possessed Dog Boys, growling with a new, twisted fury, paced in the square, their eyes glowing with the same eerie light as the soldiers.
Inside the APCs, the remaining crew could see the infrared signatures of their once-allied soldiers glowing on their screens, but they were no longer acting like friends. The APC gunner, sweating beneath his helmet, shouted back to his commander, "They're turning on us! What do we do?!"
"Open fire!" the commander barked, panic clear in his voice. "Take them down! Shoot anything that looks compromised!"
The words barely left his mouth before the twin laser turrets on the roof of the lead APC hummed to life. The sound of high-powered energy weapons cut through the air as bright red laser beams lanced out, aimed directly at the possessed soldiers and Dog Boys. The heat of the lasers crackled against the cool morning air, instantly vaporizing parts of the village square where they hit the ground.
One of the possessed soldiers jerked violently as the laser struck his side, burning through his armor and flesh. The entity inside him screamed silently through its host’s mouth, the soldier’s body convulsing as it crumbled to the ground, smoke rising from the charred wound. But the others didn’t stop—they turned their weapons toward the APCs now, fully aware they were being targeted.
The remaining APC crews, trapped inside their heavily armored vehicles, unleashed hell. More laser fire rained down from the turrets, and the gunners inside the APCs fired blindly into the possessed, their fear overwhelming their training. Every turret swiveled and belched firepower into the village square, sending villagers and soldiers alike scrambling for cover.
One of the possessed Dog Boys, now fully in the entity’s control, leaped at the closest APC, snarling as its claws tore into the side of the vehicle. The armored plating held firm, but the sight of the Dog Boy attacking the very thing it had been trained to protect sent the gunners into further panic.
"Kill them all!" a soldier inside one of the APCs screamed as he pulled the trigger on his energy rifle again and again, firing through the side port of the vehicle. The energy bolts seared through the air, striking the possessed Dog Boy in the chest. The Dog Boy let out a hideous cry as the laser tore through its fur and flesh, falling to the ground in a smoking heap.
But the entities didn’t stop. The remaining two possessed Dog Boys, faster than their human counterparts, evaded the laser fire with terrifying agility. They darted through the square, their bodies almost a blur as they closed in on their next targets—more soldiers, still scrambling to react.
The three possessed soldiers, undeterred by their comrades deaths, fired back at the APCs. They were easy targets but it was heavly armored, but the zaps against the metal hull only fueled the panic inside the vehicles. Another laser blast struck one of the possessed soldiers in the shoulder, the force spinning him around before he hit the ground, his body twitching uncontrollably as the entity within him tried to hold on. But the laser damage was too severe, and with a final convulsion, the entity released the body, leaving the soldier lifeless on the ground.
The Master Psychics, standing in the center of the square, moved quickly through the carnage. One of the psychics, sword raised high, swept toward a possessed soldier with lightning speed, his blade crackling with energy as it slashed through the air.
The psychic sword struck true, and the entity within the soldier shrieked as it was torn from its host. The soldier collapsed, his body crumpling like a puppet with its strings cut. But before the Master Psychics could turn their attention to the remaining Dog Boys, one of the APC gunners, caught in a frenzy of fear, turned the turret toward them.
"Wait! No!" one of the psychics shouted, raising his hand to stop the crew. But it was too late.
The APC turret fired again, this time striking the psychics directly. Two of them were hit, their bodies thrown backward by the force of the laser blast, their energy swords flickering out of existence as they fell to the ground. The surviving psychics looked on in shock, realizing that the panic among the Coalition crew had made everyone a target.
Thomas, still watching from the edge of the square, felt the weight of the entire situation crashing down on him. The village was in flames—literally and figuratively. The Coalition forces, supposed protectors, had descended into chaos, firing wildly at anything they deemed a threat. The villagers were caught in the crossfire, running for their lives as lasers sliced through the air, and the once proud Dog Boys, twisted by possession, fought against their own.
With a final, desperate burst of energy, the last possessed Dog Boy lunged toward the nearest group of soldiers. But before it could reach them, the lead APC’s turret swiveled one last time, unleashing a deadly stream of fire. The laser hit the Dog Boy square in the chest, incinerating it in mid-air. The entity inside it shrieked in frustration as it felt an instant of excrutiating pain before it was freed from its host. It flew away as fast as it could go.
The Mayhem Continued.
---
As the dust finally began to settle, the remaining Coalition APC crews stood frozen in the aftermath, their eyes wide with disbelief at the destruction they had caused.
The few villagers who had survived huddled in the corners of the square, staring in shock at the carnage before them. The possessed had been dealt with—but at what cost?
Northfields lay in ruins.
The Coalition soldiers, Dog Boys, and villagers had all paid the price for the panic and fear that had taken hold.
As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows over the wreckage, one thing was clear: Northfields would never be the same again.
The sound came first—a deep, distant rumble that rolled across the plains, cutting through the quiet morning air of Northfields. The villagers paused in their work, heads turning toward the horizon, where the tremor grew louder. It wasn’t the usual supply wagon or the faint hum of Coalition patrols. This was something heavier, something more powerful.
From the dirt road leading into the village, four massive, black-and-white Coalition Mark V Armored Personnel Carriers (APCs) appeared, their hulking forms rising like steel titans against the peaceful backdrop of the village. The ground vibrated with each turn of their massive treads, and the villagers instinctively took a step back, their eyes wide with a mixture of awe and fear.
Each APC stood nearly 17 feet tall, its heavily armored body reflecting the harsh morning light. The sides of the vehicles were emblazoned with the Coalition insignia, the black skull logo stark against the white plating. These machines were not built for subtlety or diplomacy—they were designed for war, for cutting through enemies and plowing through battlefields with deadly efficiency.
Thomas, standing near the center of the village square, narrowed his eyes as the lead APC rolled forward, its engines growling like a caged beast. At 33 feet long and 9 feet wide, the APCs dwarfed everything in the village.
The massive vehicles stopped with a hiss of hydraulic brakes, and the air seemed to freeze for a moment, thick with tension. The village, usually buzzing with quiet activity, fell eerily silent.
The lead APC's front hatch opened with a clang, and the pilot stepped out first, dressed in the full black combat armor of a Coalition trooper. His visor reflected the village like a black mirror, cold and unreadable. Behind him, the copilot and communications officer disembarked, followed by two gunners armed with heavy laser rifles slung across their backs.
A squad of ten soldiers, their armor pristine and their movements crisp, followed quickly, fanning out from the vehicles with military precision.
More hatches opened on the other three APCs, and soon 40 Coalition soldiers were standing in the heart of Northfields, their faces obscured by dark helmets, their weapons held at the ready. They didn’t aim at anyone—but the threat was palpable, a silent reminder of the power they wielded. The Mark V APCs, with their thick armor plating and bristling armaments, loomed behind them like sentinels.
Each APC was armed with laser turrets and missile launchers, their barrels sweeping slowly as if scanning the area.
Thomas, ever the leader, stepped forward, trying to keep his voice steady.
"What brings you to Northfields?"
His eyes flicked between the soldiers and the APCs, a muscle twitching in his jaw.
The lead soldier, the pilot of the first APC, stepped forward, his voice modulated and amplified through his helmet’s comms system. “Routine patrol. Resupply. You’ve got nothing to worry about, civilian. But we’ll be conducting some operations nearby.”
Thomas’s fists tightened at the word civilian. He knew better than to push back against Coalition soldiers, but the sight of four APCs in their peaceful village set his nerves on edge.
“Is there something specific you need here?” Thomas asked, careful to keep his tone respectful but firm. Behind him, other villagers watched, their hands still, eyes wide, knowing full well the destructive power standing before them.
The pilot’s helmet tilted slightly, as though he were scanning the area, evaluating the villagers and their homes. “This is just a stop. We’ll be moving on shortly. You can assist by staying out of our way.”
Another soldier stepped forward, this one clearly in charge of the squad inside the APCs. “We’ll need access to your water supply, and we’ll be setting up perimeter checks. You’ll also ensure that no one leaves or enters the village until we’re done. Clear?”
Thomas’s jaw tightened further, but he nodded. “Understood.”
Without another word, the soldiers began moving, their boots thudding heavily on the packed earth as they spread out across the village. The enormous APCs sat like mechanical beasts in the center of Northfields, their armored shells gleaming in the morning light. Villagers stepped aside, watching in uneasy silence as the soldiers moved through their town like a cold, efficient machine.
One of the gunners from the lead APC stood near the vehicle, his eyes tracking every movement around him. On the side of the vehicle, a large turret mounted on the roof turned slowly, scanning the horizon as if ready to open fire at any threat that might appear. The sheer size and weight of the APC, nearly 18 tons, made the ground feel as if it might buckle under the strain.
The villagers knew what these machines were capable of. Designed to cut through combat zones, these APCs could plow through enemy lines, decimate anything in their path, and whisk soldiers in and out of battle with brutal efficiency. They were built for war—not for places like Northfields, where peace and quiet ruled the day.
Caleb, standing near Thomas, muttered under his breath, “Why would they bring these here? We’re no threat. Not to them.”
Thomas didn’t answer, his eyes still locked on the soldiers. He knew that the Coalition operated on their own terms, and whatever reason they had for showing such force in Northfields, it wasn’t something they were likely to share.
From each APC, two Dog Boys leaped to the ground, their enhanced senses immediately on alert. They sniffed the air, their pointed ears twitching as they fanned out across the village square. The villagers stiffened, some stepping back as the Dog Boys moved through the crowd with uncanny speed, sniffing the ground and the air with an intensity that made the atmosphere tense. The Dog Boys could sense something, something hidden.
The eyes of those beings possessing 24 of the villagers widened. Their internal danger sense flared like a wildfire. They could feel the Dog Boys closing in, their presence now unmistakable to these supernatural entities who had been lying dormant within human hosts.
As the Dog Boys scanned the area, their heads snapped toward the maple tree forest that edged the village. There, too, something stirred—a presence. Six powerful mages, disguised among the villagers, were detected by the Dog Boys' acute senses. They could feel the flow of magic in the air, a whisper of energy that the ordinary soldiers would never notice. The mages exchanged nervous glances, realizing they had been found.
The lead Dog Boy raised his hand, signaling the Coalition troops. “We’ve got something here.”
The soldiers moved with military precision. Half of them flicked a switch on their helmets, activating their infra-red vision. Instantly, their world turned into a heat map, scanning for anyone who might be hiding under the cloak of invisibility. The village felt smaller now, as the APCs loomed like silent predators, and the soldiers swept their gaze across the crowd and the nearby tree line.
Then, the mood shifted again. The back hatch of each APC opened, and a figure stepped out from each one. Dressed in black, these men moved with eerie calm, their presence radiating something darker, more dangerous. They were Master Psychics, warriors trained to do battle with magic and supernatural predators. The air around them seemed to ripple as, with a single thought, each man mentally willed a weapon into existence. Swords of pure psychic energy shimmered into being, broad and glowing, like blades forged from light itself.
The villagers watched in horror as the psychics, now armed, turned their attention to the crowd.
Without warning a wave of psychic power swept over the square. In an instant, 36 of the Coalition soldiers collapsed, their bodies paralyzed an overwhelming force. They fell to the ground, motionless, their weapons clattering uselessly beside them.
But not all were affected.
The four soldiers who remained unaffected moved into action without hesitation, raising their rifles. They opened fire on the crowd of 52 villagers, blasts tearing through the air. Chaos erupted as villagers screamed and scattered, trying to avoid the deadly hail of fire.
At the same time, the eight Dog Boys, now fully aware of who among the villagers was possessed, sprinted toward their targets with terrifying speed. Each one tackled a possessed human to the ground, growling and snarling as they wrestled their prey into submission. The entities inside the possessed villagers fought back, but the Dog Boys were relentless, their teeth bared, their eyes glowing with predatory intent.
In the midst of the chaos, the men with the glowing swords charged forward, their psychic weapons raised high. They could sense the rest of the possessed—a pulsing energy that guided their steps. As they closed in, some of the possessed drew their own weapons, shimmering blades of steel clashing against the glowing psychic swords in a deadly dance. The battle was fierce and fast, the air filled with the sharp clang of metal against psychic energy.
The villagers, those who were neither possessed nor magical, could do nothing but watch in horror as the once-peaceful square turned into a battlefield. The possessed fought back with everything they had, but the Master Psychics were relentless. Their swords sliced through the air with deadly precision, cutting down any who stood in their path.
But then, something shifted. A sudden, eerie stillness washed over the square, as though the very air had thickened with tension. The villagers, the few who still stood on the outskirts, could feel it too.
And then, in an instant, the change came. One by one, the entities possessing the eight villagers slipped free from their human hosts.
The Dog Boys, momentarily confused, felt the bodies beneath them go slack. The villagers' eyes, once filled with unnatural malice, now looke bewildered. The entities, now invisible and intangible, swirled out of their human prisons like wraiths. For a heartbeat, they seemed to hover in the air, and then they struck.
Three of the entities, moving with terrifying speed, lunged straight for the Dog Boys subduing them.
The first Dog Boy, an experienced hunter with gray fur streaked with black, suddenly stiffened, his claws retracting as his body jerked unnaturally. His snarl twisted into something grotesque as his eyes, once sharp and alert, glazed over with a strange, cold light. The entity had taken control.
The second and third Dog Boys didn’t fare any better. Their strong, lupine bodies convulsed as they fought against the sudden invasion, but within moments, their muscles locked, and they slumped forward, possessed by the entities. The other Dog Boys, still crouched over helpless villagers, sensed the shift immediately, their heads snapping up to witness their comrades fall under control of the malevolent forces. Their growls turned to snarls of confusion and aggression, the once-coordinated unit now divided.
The other two entities, now free, fled the scene with lightning speed, becoming intangible and invisible, leaving no trace as they zipped toward the safety of the forest.
The three entities previously subdued found new prey. They latched onto three of the CS soldiers who were not paralyzed, their ethereal forms slipping into the bodies of the men. The soldiers had barely a moment to react before their bodies were no longer their own.
The Master Psychics, who had been battling other threats just moments ago, sensed the shift immediately. Their glowing psychic swords shimmered in the air as they turned toward the newly possessed soldiers and Dog Boys, their eyes narrowing. This was a different kind of battle now.
The Dog Boys that were still unaffected—those not possessed—snarled and crouched low, their senses now fully attuned to their compromised comrades. They could smell the change, the malevolent force now controlling the minds and bodies of their packmates. But Dog Boys were trained to deal with the supernatural, and though the situation had become dangerously unpredictable, they were ready to fight their own if need be.
The three possessed soldiers, raised their rifles and began firing on the men with Psi-swords.
Energy rifle fire erupted and struck the Master psychics. From out of nowhere lightning came down from the sky and struck them.
The Dog Boys attacked each other in a scramble.
The unpossessed soldiers scrambled for cover, barking orders into their comms as they struggled to contain the situation. The remaining Dog Boys howled as they leapt.
The Master Psychics, swords still gleaming with psychic energy, moved with deadly precision. They targeted the possessed.
The village of Northfields, once a place of peace and quiet, had become a battleground for forces that none of them fully understood.
A Master Psychic fell dead to the combined energy fire and magical energy attacks.
The chaos in Northfields had already spiraled out of control, but when the remaining crew inside the Coalition APCs saw what was happening, fear gripped them like a vice.
The commander inside the lead APC shouted into his comms, his voice trembling with the realization of what they were up against.
"Command, we have a situation! Some of our own have been… possessed! Repeat, our soldiers and Dog Boys have been compromised!"
The sound of energy weapons fire and snarling Dog Boys echoed through the comms. The three possessed soldiers now controlled by entities moved with deadly purpose, their rifles raised and pointed toward their comrades. The possessed Dog Boys, growling with a new, twisted fury, paced in the square, their eyes glowing with the same eerie light as the soldiers.
Inside the APCs, the remaining crew could see the infrared signatures of their once-allied soldiers glowing on their screens, but they were no longer acting like friends. The APC gunner, sweating beneath his helmet, shouted back to his commander, "They're turning on us! What do we do?!"
"Open fire!" the commander barked, panic clear in his voice. "Take them down! Shoot anything that looks compromised!"
The words barely left his mouth before the twin laser turrets on the roof of the lead APC hummed to life. The sound of high-powered energy weapons cut through the air as bright red laser beams lanced out, aimed directly at the possessed soldiers and Dog Boys. The heat of the lasers crackled against the cool morning air, instantly vaporizing parts of the village square where they hit the ground.
One of the possessed soldiers jerked violently as the laser struck his side, burning through his armor and flesh. The entity inside him screamed silently through its host’s mouth, the soldier’s body convulsing as it crumbled to the ground, smoke rising from the charred wound. But the others didn’t stop—they turned their weapons toward the APCs now, fully aware they were being targeted.
The remaining APC crews, trapped inside their heavily armored vehicles, unleashed hell. More laser fire rained down from the turrets, and the gunners inside the APCs fired blindly into the possessed, their fear overwhelming their training. Every turret swiveled and belched firepower into the village square, sending villagers and soldiers alike scrambling for cover.
One of the possessed Dog Boys, now fully in the entity’s control, leaped at the closest APC, snarling as its claws tore into the side of the vehicle. The armored plating held firm, but the sight of the Dog Boy attacking the very thing it had been trained to protect sent the gunners into further panic.
"Kill them all!" a soldier inside one of the APCs screamed as he pulled the trigger on his energy rifle again and again, firing through the side port of the vehicle. The energy bolts seared through the air, striking the possessed Dog Boy in the chest. The Dog Boy let out a hideous cry as the laser tore through its fur and flesh, falling to the ground in a smoking heap.
But the entities didn’t stop. The remaining two possessed Dog Boys, faster than their human counterparts, evaded the laser fire with terrifying agility. They darted through the square, their bodies almost a blur as they closed in on their next targets—more soldiers, still scrambling to react.
The three possessed soldiers, undeterred by their comrades deaths, fired back at the APCs. They were easy targets but it was heavly armored, but the zaps against the metal hull only fueled the panic inside the vehicles. Another laser blast struck one of the possessed soldiers in the shoulder, the force spinning him around before he hit the ground, his body twitching uncontrollably as the entity within him tried to hold on. But the laser damage was too severe, and with a final convulsion, the entity released the body, leaving the soldier lifeless on the ground.
The Master Psychics, standing in the center of the square, moved quickly through the carnage. One of the psychics, sword raised high, swept toward a possessed soldier with lightning speed, his blade crackling with energy as it slashed through the air.
The psychic sword struck true, and the entity within the soldier shrieked as it was torn from its host. The soldier collapsed, his body crumpling like a puppet with its strings cut. But before the Master Psychics could turn their attention to the remaining Dog Boys, one of the APC gunners, caught in a frenzy of fear, turned the turret toward them.
"Wait! No!" one of the psychics shouted, raising his hand to stop the crew. But it was too late.
The APC turret fired again, this time striking the psychics directly. Two of them were hit, their bodies thrown backward by the force of the laser blast, their energy swords flickering out of existence as they fell to the ground. The surviving psychics looked on in shock, realizing that the panic among the Coalition crew had made everyone a target.
Thomas, still watching from the edge of the square, felt the weight of the entire situation crashing down on him. The village was in flames—literally and figuratively. The Coalition forces, supposed protectors, had descended into chaos, firing wildly at anything they deemed a threat. The villagers were caught in the crossfire, running for their lives as lasers sliced through the air, and the once proud Dog Boys, twisted by possession, fought against their own.
With a final, desperate burst of energy, the last possessed Dog Boy lunged toward the nearest group of soldiers. But before it could reach them, the lead APC’s turret swiveled one last time, unleashing a deadly stream of fire. The laser hit the Dog Boy square in the chest, incinerating it in mid-air. The entity inside it shrieked in frustration as it felt an instant of excrutiating pain before it was freed from its host. It flew away as fast as it could go.
The Mayhem Continued.
---
As the dust finally began to settle, the remaining Coalition APC crews stood frozen in the aftermath, their eyes wide with disbelief at the destruction they had caused.
The few villagers who had survived huddled in the corners of the square, staring in shock at the carnage before them. The possessed had been dealt with—but at what cost?
Northfields lay in ruins.
The Coalition soldiers, Dog Boys, and villagers had all paid the price for the panic and fear that had taken hold.
As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows over the wreckage, one thing was clear: Northfields would never be the same again.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: The Road
The lone APC sped down the narrow, winding road, its massive wheels kicking up dust and dirt in its wake. Inside the steel behemoth, the low hum of its nuclear engine vibrated through the armored hull, a constant reminder of the power it carried. The Coalition’s black-and-white colors adorned its exterior, but this APC no longer served its former masters.
Within the cramped confines of the vehicle, the atmosphere was tense but controlled. The Mystic Knights sat in discussion while Knight Three drove the APC using his Super-Psionic power of Telemechanics.
Across from them, the six Shifters. They are all dressed in the civilian camouflage.
The APC’s interior was stark and utilitarian.
The steel walls were lined with racks for weapons and equipment.
The road ahead is treacherous, winding through dense forests and uneven terrain. The APC’s speedometer hovered near its maximum safe limit, the massive engine pushing the vehicle as fast as it could go without risking a deadly crash. The trees outside blurred past, their dark shapes flashing like specters in the night.
Knight Three, one of the four Mystic Knights, broke the silence. His voice, modulated through his helmet, was calm but filled with a sense of grim satisfaction.
"I’ve disabled the transponder," he said, his tone as smooth as it was cold. "They won’t be able to track us. This APC’s off the grid now."
The others remained silent, though a few of the Shifters glanced up from their hushed conversations, nodding slightly in acknowledgment. Knight Two leaned back against the cold steel wall of the APC, his hand tapping lightly against his sniper rifle.
"This thing should fetch a pretty penny on the black market," Knight Three continued, his voice tinged with amusement. "Coalition tech is always in demand, especially something like this. Fully loaded, nuclear-powered, and armed to the teeth. Hogswaller’s the next stop, and they’ll pay well for it. Especially the weapons and equipment we looted off the CS troops we finished off everyone in CS armor or uniform before we left. No pursuers. No call for air strikes. No witnesses."
One of the Shifters, a woman with piercing green eyes that seemed to glow even in the dim light, looked up from her seat. Her voice, though soft, carried a sharp edge. "Let’s just hope the town’s as welcoming as you think. They’ve got a reputation for double-crossing their customers."
Knight One, seated at the far end of the APC, leaned forward slightly. His presence was commanding, even in silence. "We’ll handle them if they try," he said, his voice deep and authoritative. "We’re not defenseless."
The platoon of soldiers, seated along the sides of the APC, remained quiet, their eyes focused on the floor or on their weapons. They are a combination of CS service members possessed by the unwilling and the willing hosts from the Mystic Knighs mercenary platoon. An insurance precaution to keep the few remaining possessing entities so they would not be thrown back to their native dimension. In another 24 hours they should be good to possess another. Amongst them included to tectonic entities possessing Skele-bots.
The APC hit a rough patch of road, jolting slightly, and one of the mages muttered a curse under his breath as he braced himself against the steel wall.
"Careful," Knight Four grumbled from his seat. "We can’t afford to roll this thing. Not with everything inside."
The pilot, Knight Three, his hands steady on the controls, glanced back. "I’ve got it under control," he said. "But this road’s not built for speed."
The APC’s cabin was tight, every inch of space accounted for. Small windows near the roof let in just enough light to see the dense forest outside, but they were little more than slits, designed to keep the occupants safe from enemy fire. The flickering lights overhead barely illuminated the faces of the soldiers and mages, casting long shadows that danced across the walls as the vehicle rumbled on.
Knight Three shifted in his seat. "We’ll be in Hogswaller soon enough. Then we get rid of this thing, make our trade, and disappear."
He glanced over at Knight One, who nodded in agreement. "Stay alert. The Coalition is still out there, and Hogswaller’s not exactly friendly. If things go wrong, we need to be ready to fight."
The Shifters exchanged uneasy glances. They were powerful in their own right, but they knew Hogswaller’s reputation as well as anyone. The town was a den of criminals and smugglers, a place where loyalty could be bought and sold.
Knight Four spoke up, "Look when it comes to stealing things, you have to either hide the loot or unload it real fast before someone destroys it or takes it from you. Besides, we are just as likely to be shot by Tolkeen Defense forces or just a powerful something-something who thinks we are the CS out to kill them first.
The APC continued its breakneck pace down the road, its massive bulk shaking slightly with each turn. Inside, the passengers prepared for whatever lay ahead, their thoughts on the deal to come and the uncertain future that awaited them in Hogswaller.
---
The lone APC sped down the narrow, winding road, its massive wheels kicking up dust and dirt in its wake. Inside the steel behemoth, the low hum of its nuclear engine vibrated through the armored hull, a constant reminder of the power it carried. The Coalition’s black-and-white colors adorned its exterior, but this APC no longer served its former masters.
Within the cramped confines of the vehicle, the atmosphere was tense but controlled. The Mystic Knights sat in discussion while Knight Three drove the APC using his Super-Psionic power of Telemechanics.
Across from them, the six Shifters. They are all dressed in the civilian camouflage.
The APC’s interior was stark and utilitarian.
The steel walls were lined with racks for weapons and equipment.
The road ahead is treacherous, winding through dense forests and uneven terrain. The APC’s speedometer hovered near its maximum safe limit, the massive engine pushing the vehicle as fast as it could go without risking a deadly crash. The trees outside blurred past, their dark shapes flashing like specters in the night.
Knight Three, one of the four Mystic Knights, broke the silence. His voice, modulated through his helmet, was calm but filled with a sense of grim satisfaction.
"I’ve disabled the transponder," he said, his tone as smooth as it was cold. "They won’t be able to track us. This APC’s off the grid now."
The others remained silent, though a few of the Shifters glanced up from their hushed conversations, nodding slightly in acknowledgment. Knight Two leaned back against the cold steel wall of the APC, his hand tapping lightly against his sniper rifle.
"This thing should fetch a pretty penny on the black market," Knight Three continued, his voice tinged with amusement. "Coalition tech is always in demand, especially something like this. Fully loaded, nuclear-powered, and armed to the teeth. Hogswaller’s the next stop, and they’ll pay well for it. Especially the weapons and equipment we looted off the CS troops we finished off everyone in CS armor or uniform before we left. No pursuers. No call for air strikes. No witnesses."
One of the Shifters, a woman with piercing green eyes that seemed to glow even in the dim light, looked up from her seat. Her voice, though soft, carried a sharp edge. "Let’s just hope the town’s as welcoming as you think. They’ve got a reputation for double-crossing their customers."
Knight One, seated at the far end of the APC, leaned forward slightly. His presence was commanding, even in silence. "We’ll handle them if they try," he said, his voice deep and authoritative. "We’re not defenseless."
The platoon of soldiers, seated along the sides of the APC, remained quiet, their eyes focused on the floor or on their weapons. They are a combination of CS service members possessed by the unwilling and the willing hosts from the Mystic Knighs mercenary platoon. An insurance precaution to keep the few remaining possessing entities so they would not be thrown back to their native dimension. In another 24 hours they should be good to possess another. Amongst them included to tectonic entities possessing Skele-bots.
The APC hit a rough patch of road, jolting slightly, and one of the mages muttered a curse under his breath as he braced himself against the steel wall.
"Careful," Knight Four grumbled from his seat. "We can’t afford to roll this thing. Not with everything inside."
The pilot, Knight Three, his hands steady on the controls, glanced back. "I’ve got it under control," he said. "But this road’s not built for speed."
The APC’s cabin was tight, every inch of space accounted for. Small windows near the roof let in just enough light to see the dense forest outside, but they were little more than slits, designed to keep the occupants safe from enemy fire. The flickering lights overhead barely illuminated the faces of the soldiers and mages, casting long shadows that danced across the walls as the vehicle rumbled on.
Knight Three shifted in his seat. "We’ll be in Hogswaller soon enough. Then we get rid of this thing, make our trade, and disappear."
He glanced over at Knight One, who nodded in agreement. "Stay alert. The Coalition is still out there, and Hogswaller’s not exactly friendly. If things go wrong, we need to be ready to fight."
The Shifters exchanged uneasy glances. They were powerful in their own right, but they knew Hogswaller’s reputation as well as anyone. The town was a den of criminals and smugglers, a place where loyalty could be bought and sold.
Knight Four spoke up, "Look when it comes to stealing things, you have to either hide the loot or unload it real fast before someone destroys it or takes it from you. Besides, we are just as likely to be shot by Tolkeen Defense forces or just a powerful something-something who thinks we are the CS out to kill them first.
The APC continued its breakneck pace down the road, its massive bulk shaking slightly with each turn. Inside, the passengers prepared for whatever lay ahead, their thoughts on the deal to come and the uncertain future that awaited them in Hogswaller.
---
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
The dirt road into Hogswaller was usually a quiet, dusty stretch—just wide enough for the occasional wagon or a couple of pack animals. Today, however, the sound of approaching machinery filled the air, the deep rumble of treads stirring the loose earth and sending birds scattering into the sky.
From the horizon, the unmistakable bulk of a Coalition Mark V Armored Personnel Carrier (APC) came into view, followed by three more, their forms dominating the landscape.
These steel behemoths looked like titans rising from the earth, cutting an imposing silhouette against the morning sun. The once peaceful village felt the ground beneath it tremble with each turn of their massive, armored treads.
The villagers, many of whom had been tending to their morning chores, froze in place. Eyes widened, and some instinctively backed away from the approaching APCs, a mix of awe, fear, and unease spreading like wildfire through the tiny population. Mothers pulled their children closer, pig farmers paused mid-step, and traders stood stock-still, unsure whether to retreat to the safety of their homes or watch the mechanical giants roll into town.
The Coalition insignia, a stark black skull against the white, pristine plating, gleamed in the light of day, a clear reminder of who owned these machines and what they were capable of.
Location: Hogswaller
The APC ground to a halt at the very edge of town, its towering form casting a long shadow over the nearest structures.
The villagers watched, waiting for a sign, half-expecting Coalition soldiers to pour out and begin interrogations or worse. But nothing happened at first. No ramp lowered, no soldiers appeared. The engines idled ominously.
Inside the lead APC, the Mystic Knights sat tensely, their hearts pounding as they exchanged nervous glances. Knight Three, the driver, tightened his grip on the controls, beads of sweat forming on his brow.
He flicked his eyes to the village square through the APC's narrow viewport, half-expecting to see some kid dart out into the street. The machine beneath them groaned as it settled, its weight compressing the dirt below.
"Keep it slow," Knight Four, muttered, leaning forward to look over his’s shoulder. His voice was edged with tension. "Last thing we need is to flatten some local or tip ‘em off that we’re not the CS."
Knight Three, his knuckles white against the control stick. "We’ll be lucky if no one starts shooting. You know these towns—they’re jumpy, especially if they figure out we’re not legit Coalition."
In the back, Knight Two adjusted his rifle nervously, his eyes darting between the open hatch and the quiet village beyond. The others were silent, aware of the high-stakes situation they’d driven into.
Stealing a Coalition APC was one thing. Driving it into a town, trying to sell it—well, that was a different beast entirely.
"We need to offload this thing fast," said Knight Four, a rugged man with an eye for profit. "Either whole or in parts, I don’t care. But we’re sitting ducks here. Every second we’re in this thing is a second someone could decide to blow us to hell."
Their plan had been simple:
Roll into some remote trading post, sell off the APC for a tidy profit, and disappear before anyone got wise. But now, seeing the villagers wary eyes and the subtle shift in the air, the plan felt far more precarious.
Outside, one of the braver villagers, a young man with dirt-streaked overalls, cautiously stepped closer to the edge of the road, curiosity overcoming his fear. His wide eyes flicked up at the Coalition insignia, and then to the massive barrels of the railguns perched atop the APCs. For a moment, he seemed to hesitate, as if deciding whether to greet the newcomers or run for cover.
Knight One, "Let's suit up and play the part. This close to the border it is safer to play it CS and see what we see than to announce we stole our ride. From the look of the place I've got some doubts about anybody giving us much of anything for this APC.
Knight One’s lips pressed into a thin line. "We blend in for now. Let’s get the lay of the land. Find someone shady. This place isn’t clean—they’ll have someone willing to deal."
The quiet hum of the APC filled the cabin as they stared out at the unsuspecting town. For now, they were just shadows behind reinforced steel, trying to pass off as part of the very war machine they’d stolen, with everything riding on making a quick profit and getting out alive.
The door of the Coalition APC hissed open, the heavy ramp descending with a metallic groan, and the four Mystic Knights, clad head-to-toe in black-and-white CS armor, stepped out in unison.
They moved with the precision of soldiers, their helmets hiding the calculating eyes beneath. Behind them, shackled in chains but walking with feigned reluctance, was their supposed "prisoner"—a Shifter dressed in tattered robes, head bowed as if broken, though in truth, he was very much in control.
Knight One (Sir Marcus), the leader of the group, was the first to take in the scene, his helmet’s HUD flickering to life, scanning the surroundings. He found himself standing at the edge of the Hogswaller town square.
The square was little more than a patch of worn dirt surrounded by mismatched structures. At its center was the Town Well, an ancient stone structure with a rusted bucket and a stagnant duck pond that had more mud than water. Nearby, a few scrawny ducks pecked at the dirt, oblivious to the newcomers.
The square was framed by weather-beaten buildings, each more dilapidated than the last. On one corner stood “Hogs Heaven”, its wooden sign swaying lazily in the breeze, the paint chipped and faded. A rough-looking crowd of locals loitered outside, their expressions dull but suspicious, some nursing drinks, others squinting at the imposing APC parked at the edge of town. The smell of cheap moonshine and stale beer wafted from the open door, mingling with the faint scent of cooking meat.
Knight One’s eyes flicked to his right, where “Manheim’s Trading Depot” sat like a bloated tick on the edge of the square. Its windows were grimy, and the sign above the door had a slick, oily sheen.
From here, he could see Manheim himself, lounging in the shade of his doorway, eyes narrowed as he sized up the armored newcomers. There was a glint of recognition—or perhaps opportunity—in the merchant’s gaze. This could be the contact they needed, Knight One mused.
The rest of the square was filled with small-time traders hawking their wares from ramshackle stalls, each of them worn down by the weight of survival in a town this remote. Pigs squealed in the distance, their cries mixing with the low murmur of conversation. The villagers seemed anxious but cautiously curious, their eyes darting between the Knights and the mage they led in chains.
From behind his visor, he scanned the faces of the townsfolk, each of them a potential threat. This place was a den of drifters, he could feel it in the air—a place on the fringes of civilization, where law was little more than a suggestion.
He focused on the Jailhouse, where the local constable and barber, leaned against the doorway, chewing on a toothpick. His eyes were hard, appraising. Two deputies—drunken louts by the look of them—slouched near the entrance, one of them nursing a bottle, the other lazily scratching his belly. Jake didn't seem rattled by the APC or the armored soldiers. Instead, he squinted, looking like a man who had seen enough war to know trouble when it came rolling in on metal treads.
"These people aren’t Coalition fans," Knight Four muttered under his breath, his voice crackling through the helmet comms. "But they’re used to seeing them. Look how they’re not scattering."
Knight One nodded slightly, still surveying. This place was a patchwork of scrap and survival, the buildings cobbled together from what seemed to be generations of refuse.
Worchefski’s Boarding House loomed over the square, a tired structure with peeling paint and broken shutters, likely filled with the desperate and the dangerous. Beyond it, “Billy Bob’s Garage” stood out, a metal structure that resembled a barn more than a repair shop. Mechanics were working on a rusted-out hover bike outside, their hands black with grease, while a line of patched-up vehicles stood waiting for repairs.
To Knight One, the place reeked of desperation, but he knew better than to dismiss it as just another backwater. Hogswaller had a reputation for illicit dealings, and somewhere within these crumbling walls was someone who could help them unload the APC—or its parts—for a hefty profit. The key was finding the right contact without attracting unwanted attention.
As they marched into the square, the mage staggered a little in his chains, playing the role of a prisoner well. Behind them, the APC engines hummed ominously, an ever-present reminder of the stolen Coalition tech that could blow their cover in an instant.
"Where to?" Knight One whispered, keeping his tone low.
"Manheim’s," Knight Three replied without hesitation, his voice firm. "He’ll know where we can start. But don’t trust him. He’d sell his own mother for the right price."
As they moved toward the trading depot, Knight One couldn’t help but feel the eyes of the town on them—hungry, suspicious, and calculating. Hogswaller was a place that thrived on secrets, and for now, their disguise as Coalition soldiers seemed to be holding. But the real test was coming.
Their mission was simple:
Get the lay of the land,
Make contact with someone who dealt in stolen goods, and
Sell off the APC without raising suspicion.
But in a place like this, where everyone had something to hide and loyalties shifted with the wind, things were never simple for long.
Knight Three, a master of finding contraband, looked at Hogswaller with the practiced gaze of someone who had spent years navigating the underworld. To most, this town looked like a backwater pit—crumbling buildings, dirt streets, and a mishmash of rough-hewn locals scraping by. But to Knight Three, it was something far more familiar: a hive of illicit trade and hidden opportunity.
He could already feel the pulse of the black market here. The subtle exchanges happening in the shadows, the knowing glances between traders, the worn-out signs that didn’t quite say what they were selling but offered more to those who knew how to ask.
Places like Hogswaller thrived on unspoken deals and invisible networks. Knight Three's skill with Finding Contraband was more than just knowing where to look; it was about reading the scene, understanding the hidden layers beneath the surface of a town like this. And Hogswaller? It was practically screaming with hidden activity.
His eyes drifted to Manheim's Trading Depot first. Manheim, with his slick smile and oily demeanor, was exactly the kind of person Knight Three had encountered a thousand times before. A Fence, no doubt. The kind who made his money off desperate souls trying to offload whatever they could find—stolen weapons, rare items, or tech they didn’t want traced. Manheim’s eyes were constantly flickering, sizing people up. He'd deal with the Coalition one minute and turn around to sell the very same stolen gear to some outlaw group the next. Knight Three recognized that type immediately: a man who knew how to straddle both sides of the law, always keeping one foot in the shadows.
As they moved through the square, Knight Three's gaze passed over “Billy Bob's Garage.” On the surface, it looked like a repair shop, a place for fixing up old hover bikes and beat-up vehicles. But the tell-tale signs were all there. “A chop shop,” without a doubt. The way the mechanics were working with a bit too much urgency, the patchwork of vehicles outside—all scavenged and pieced together with whatever could be found—spoke volumes. Billy Bob and his crew weren't just fixing vehicles; they were dismantling them, rebuilding them, and passing them off under false pretenses. Knight Three would bet his last credit that illegal mods were happening in that barn-like garage, whether it was tampered engine cores or concealed compartments for smuggling.
Next, his focus turned to the shadier corners of the square—the half-hidden alleys behind “Worchefski's Boarding House,” the dilapidated sheds that leaned haphazardly behind the busier structures. Places like these were usually where the REAL trade happened. Out of sight, away from the prying eyes of locals who pretended not to see the more dangerous deals going on right under their noses. If there was a slaver operating in Hogswaller, or a black market arms dealer, they’d be working from one of those dark, forgotten spaces.
Knight Three was well aware that places like this operated under a code of conduct—unspoken but universally understood by those who trafficked in illegal goods.
Even the way some of the locals watched them told him all he needed to know. They weren’t terrified of Coalition soldiers rolling into town—they were calculating, wondering if there was an angle they could play. If Knight Three had to guess, half the people in Hogswaller would be more than willing to deal in contraband, provided the price was right. The war between the Coalition and Tolkeen had made places like this rich with opportunity, where every scrap of tech or weaponry was worth a fortune to the right buyer.
Still, there are dangers. If their cover slipped, or if they were caught dealing with the wrong people, the penalty for possessing stolen Coalition property was harsh, even in a town as lawless as Hogswaller. The Coalition didn’t take kindly to deserters or thieves, and the black market knew better than to draw too much attention. Knight Three had seen entire operations wiped out because someone got greedy or careless.
He turned slightly toward Knight One, who was leading the group toward Manheim’s.
"This place is crawling with the black market," Knight Three muttered through his helmet comms. "Weapons, tech, stolen goods—it’s all here. Manheim’s definitely our first stop. But keep an eye on that garage. They’re running something dirty in there, I can feel it."
Knight Four cast a quick glance toward the garage as they passed, her brow furrowing behind his visor. "You think they can move the APC?"
"Maybe," Knight Three replied. "But it’ll be in pieces by the time they’re done with it."
As they neared Manheim’s depot, Knight Three gut instincts kicked in. The pawn shops, the shady stalls, the rough traders—they were all connected in a web of crime, and Knight Three could navigate it like second nature. He could almost feel the weight of contraband weapons in the back rooms, the bundles of illegal goods hidden beneath false floors, the side-glances of traders wondering if they’d just found their next big score. It was all there, right beneath the surface, waiting to be found.
Now, it was just a matter of making the right move.
---
Knight One, their usual leader, glanced at Knight Three. His voice was steady, but there was an edge to it, a recognition that they were in deeper waters than he was comfortable with.
"You’ve got the experience with this kind of underworld stuff," he said quietly, his visor angled toward Knight Three. "This place is crawling with criminal activity, and you know this 'song and dance' better than any of us. We need you to take point on this one."
The others nodded in agreement, both watching Knight Three closely.
Knight Three shifted, his eyes scanning the town once more, taking in every detail. He’d known places like this his whole life. Hogswaller wasn’t just a trading post for outlaws—it was a living market of illicit goods and shady deals. Every person here had an angle, and every business was a front for something deeper.
"Alright," Knight Three said, breaking the silence, his voice low but firm.
"I’ll take the lead. We stick to the plan but we do it my way." He looked each of them in the eye, making sure they understood the gravity of the situation.
"We need to move like we belong here."
Knight One gave a short nod of approval, stepping back to let Knight Three take charge.
"First things first," he continued. "We’ll start with Manheim. He’s the type who deals in everything—contraband weapons, stolen tech, and more. But he’s not trustworthy. He’ll try to fleece us the moment he sees a crack. So when we go in, let me do the talking."
He smirked under his helmet. "He’s a snake, and snakes love easy prey. We go in acting like we’ve got Coalition clearance and the upper hand. He won’t be able to resist sniffing out what we’ve got. But he won’t be the only one. Places like this are crawling with eyes and ears. The moment we make a move, others will start asking questions—so we need to stay ahead of them."
He turned to Knight Four. "You’re our eyes. While I’m working Manheim, I want you keeping watch. Look for anyone who’s paying too much attention. If someone starts hovering or asking questions, we’ll need to know about it fast."
Knight Four nodded, his posture shifting slightly as he prepared to take on his role. He had a sharp eye for details and would spot any threat before it even emerged.
"Two," Knight Three said, focusing on the youngest member of the group. "You’re our muscle. Stay close, keep your hand on your weapon, but don’t make a scene unless I say so. If things go south, I’ll need you ready to clear us a way out. No hesitation."
Two gave a sharp nod.
Finally, Knight Three turned back to One. "You and I will handle the negotiations. We’ll let Manheim think he’s got control of the situation, but the moment he makes his move, we’re going to turn it around on him. We’ll show him just enough of the APC to make him salivate, but not enough to give him the full picture. If he bites, great. If not, we move to plan B."
"And plan B?" One asked.
Knight Three’s eyes flickered toward Billy Bob’s Garage. "We start tearing the APC apart, selling it in pieces. The garage is dirty—probably running chop-shop work for the Coalition or worse. We’ll sell the parts as ‘scrap’ and disappear before anyone realizes what we’ve done."
The team absorbed the plan in silence for a moment, the weight of the task ahead of them hanging in the air. The stakes were high, but they had a clear path. Knight Three had laid out a plan, and now they had to execute.
"One more thing," Knight Three said, his tone dropping an octave. "If anything goes wrong—if Manheim gets suspicious, if we’re cornered—we cut the deal and get out. No one tries to play hero. We regroup and figure out another way. Understood?"
"Understood," One said, his voice firm.
"Let’s move, then."
Knight Three turned and led them toward Manheim’s depot, his mind already running through the possible outcomes. He could feel the undercurrent of danger in this town, the way everyone was sizing them up as potential marks or threats. But Knight Three was used to that. This was his domain—the world of secret deals and illicit trade. He could navigate it as naturally as breathing.
As they approached the depot, Knight Three’s eyes narrowed. It was time to make the first move. Inside the cramped and cluttered trading post, Manheim stood, watching them with that oily smile of his, already calculating how to bleed them dry.
But Knight Three had no intention of being anyone’s mark.
He stepped inside, his boots thudding softly on the creaky wooden floor. "Manheim," he said smoothly, his voice carrying just enough authority to make the trader blink. "We’ve got something you’re going to want to see."
---
The air inside Manheim's Trading Depot was thick with the scent of oil, old leather, and the faint tang of metal. Shelves crammed with oddities, rusted tools, and secondhand gear lined the walls, and the light was dim, filtering through grimy windows covered with years of dust.
Franklin P. Manheim stood behind his counter, arms crossed, watching the four armored figures as they entered. His slicked-back hair gleamed under the low light, and his thin mustache twitched as he smiled, a snake sizing up its prey.
"Coalition troopers, huh?" he said, voice as oily as the rest of him. "And here I thought this was gonna be a quiet day."
Knight Three, still in his CS armor, stepped forward, his gait steady and controlled. "We’re here on business, Manheim. Nothing more." His voice came out cold, authoritative. He needed to play the part—an officer of the Coalition States, a man who gave orders and expected them to be followed. For now, that’s exactly who he was.
Manheim’s eyes flicked over the group, lingering on the “prisoner” they had in chains—the Shifter they were pretending to escort. A spark of interest flashed in the merchant’s eyes. He was already thinking of how he could use that. "I see you’ve brought yourself a little magic trouble," he said, nodding toward the robed figure. "Not too many of those wandering around these parts. Dangerous company to keep."
Knight Three didn’t respond, instead taking a step closer, cutting off Manheim’s view of the "prisoner." He needed to keep the focus on their real business. "We’ve got something that needs to be moved—quickly and quietly. You’re going to help us with that."
Manheim’s thin smile widened. "Oh, am I? And what exactly is it that you’re looking to ‘move,’ officer?" He practically dripped with mock courtesy.
Knight Three leaned in slightly, his voice low, but not so low that Manheim couldn’t hear the promise of danger in it. "A Coalition Mark V Armored Personnel Carrier."
Manheim blinked. That wasn’t something he’d expected to hear. His slick confidence faltered for a split second, but he quickly masked it with a feigned casualness.
"An APC, huh? Those are rare… very rare. I might know a few people who’d be interested." His fingers twitched as though he were already calculating his cut. "But they don’t exactly sell themselves, you know. What’s wrong with it?"
Knight Three smiled behind his visor, keeping his voice calm. "Nothing’s wrong with it. Fully functional. We even left the railguns and missile systems intact."
That got Manheim’s full attention. His eyes gleamed with greed as he leaned forward slightly. "Now that’s a big score, friend. But… moving a full APC, that’s a lot of risk. Not to mention, how do I know it’s really yours to sell?"
Knight Three straightened, letting the tension build for a moment. He had expected this. In the world of contraband, trust was rare, and Manheim would never go for a deal without first testing the waters. The real trick here was to make Manheim believe the APC was theirs to sell without giving him too much leverage.
"Check it yourself if you want," Knight Three said, his voice still cold. "It’s parked just outside town, ready to move. But you don’t get anything until we see your buyers and your cut is clear."
Manheim’s grin returned, wider this time. "You really came prepared, didn’t you? Fine, I’ll take a look. But if I’m going to be risking my neck to sell off Coalition property, I’m gonna need more than your word and a shiny railgun to make it worth my while."
Knight Three nodded slightly. "You’ll get 15% of the sale. But we don’t have time to haggle. Either you move it now, or we find someone else who will."
Manheim's eyes narrowed. 15% wasn’t much in the grand scheme of things, but the chance to move a fully armed Coalition APC was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. He couldn’t pass it up. "Alright, alright," he said, raising his hands as though in surrender. "Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’ll make some calls, see who’s interested. But, uh, I’ll need a little more assurance than just your word."
Knight Three glanced back at Knight Two, who stood silently near the doorway, his hand resting casually on his weapon. Knight Three kept his tone steady. "You don’t get more until we see the money."
Manheim chuckled. "Fair enough. How about this—let me make some arrangements, get my people lined up. You boys relax for a bit. I’ve got a room in the back where we can talk things over more… privately."
Knight Three stiffened slightly. A room in the back was almost never a good sign in places like this. It meant isolation, separation from the rest of the team, and, most likely, some kind of trap. But they needed to play the game for now, and Knight Three knew exactly how to handle it.
"We’ll stay here," Knight Three replied, his voice clipped. "You can make your calls from the back. When you’ve got a buyer, we’ll talk."
Manheim’s smile faltered, just for a heartbeat, but then he shrugged, all fake nonchalance. "Suit yourself, trooper. I’ll be right back."
He turned and disappeared into a door behind the counter, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the cluttered shop.
As soon as he was gone, Knight Four moved closer, her voice barely a whisper. "He’s going to try something. I can feel it."
Knight Three nodded. "Of course he is. But he’s also greedy. He won’t throw away a deal this big without testing the waters first."
Knight One stepped forward. "Do we go with him if he calls us back there?"
Knight Three shook his head. "No. We stay here. This is the safest position—public. If anything goes wrong, we can control the situation. He won’t risk blowing his cover in front of the whole town."
Knight Four scanned the room, his hand still on his weapon. "But if he brings someone here? What if it’s a setup?"
Knight Three turned to him, his tone calm but firm. "If he brings someone, we’re ready. We stick together, and we don’t let him split us up."
He glanced toward the door where Manheim had disappeared, his instincts firing on all cylinders. This was a delicate balance—showing enough of their hand to keep Manheim interested, but keeping control of the situation so they didn’t get caught in a double-cross.
"He’ll be back soon," Knight Three said, turning to the others. "Get ready. We’re going to finish this fast, and we’re going to stay alive."
They all nodded, their stances tightening, preparing for whatever came next.
In the dim light of the trading post, the tension hung heavy, as if the walls themselves were watching. Outside, the sun was starting to dip, casting long shadows over the village. Time was running short, and in places like Hogswaller, trust was as fragile as glass.
Knight Three took a breath and steadied himself. One wrong move, and this town would turn into a war zone. But he had been in worse spots before, and he had no intention of losing today.
The minutes ticked by slowly as the team waited in the cluttered trading post, the air thick with the smell of old metal and dust. Knight Three stood near the counter, his mind working over every possibility. He kept his posture relaxed, but his eyes flickered from object to object in the room, assessing the space. The others were tense but silent, their trust in Knight Three clear. They knew he could navigate this better than anyone.
From the back room, the faint sound of Manheim’s voice drifted out—muffled, quick. He was making his calls.
Knight Three had no doubt that the slimy trader was weighing his options, looking for any angle to turn this deal into a bigger score.
Finally, the door to the back room creaked open, and Manheim emerged, his face a mask of calm, but his eyes glinting with barely contained excitement. He wiped his hands on his pants, like he’d just closed the deal of a lifetime, and sauntered back to the counter.
"Well," Manheim said, his voice smooth, "you’re in luck. I’ve got a buyer. But he’s not in town—wants to stay anonymous, of course. These things can be tricky, you know?"
Knight Three didn't move. "How long?"
Manheim leaned against the counter, pretending to be at ease. "He’ll send a runner. Be here in an hour, maybe less."
The others shifted slightly at the news, but Knight Three remained still. One hour. It wasn’t unreasonable, but in a place like this, one hour could mean all the difference.
"One hour," Knight Three repeated, his tone neutral. "And where does this ‘buyer’ want to do the exchange?"
Manheim grinned. "Oh, not far. Just outside town, by the old abandoned mine. You know the place—quiet, out of the way. No interruptions."
Knight Three’s instincts flared. The mine was too far, too remote. The perfect place for an ambush. He had been in enough shady deals to know that if Manheim had arranged a meeting there, it was likely because the buyer had no intention of leaving them alive—or with their stolen APC.
But Knight Three played it cool, leaning forward slightly. "Outside town," he said thoughtfully, tapping his armored fingers on the counter. "That could work. But I’m not dragging the APC out there until I see some credits on the table."
Manheim raised an eyebrow, his smile faltering. "Now, now," he said, his tone dripping with fake reassurance. "We both know how these deals work. My buyer isn’t going to hand over that kind of money without seeing the merchandise. You’ll get your credits once he confirms the APC is real."
Knight Three gave a slow nod, as if considering it. "And you’ll be there to make sure everything goes smooth?"
Manheim’s grin returned, wider this time. "Of course. I always take care of my clients."
Knight Three allowed the silence to stretch between them, long enough for Manheim to start feeling uncomfortable, then said, "Fine. We’ll bring the APC. But you make sure your buyer knows that we’re not here to be played. Any tricks, and we take the APC back, with interest."
Manheim chuckled, but Knight Three could hear the nervousness in the sound. "Oh, I’m sure everything will go smoothly. Just a simple exchange."
Behind him, Knight Four shifted, his eyes still on the room. "You sure about this?" he muttered over the comms, his voice barely a whisper in Knight Three’s earpiece.
Knight Three didn’t respond immediately, keeping his focus on Manheim. "We’re on our way," he said aloud, turning to the others. "Let’s get the APC ready."
As the team moved to leave, Manheim called after them. "I’ll be along shortly—just need to finish a few things here. You know how it is."
Knight Three didn’t answer, merely giving a curt nod as they stepped back out into the sweltering sun of Hogswaller’s square. The moment they were outside, Knight Three let out a breath, turning to his team.
"That mine’s a setup," he said quietly, his voice hard. "They’re not planning to pay—they’re planning to take the APC, and likely leave us in the dirt."
Knight One scowled, his hand already on his weapon. "So what’s the play?"
Knight Three glanced around the town, keeping his voice low.
"We don’t give them the chance. We’re going to the mine, but we’re not walking into that trap. Two, I want you on the ridge near the mine. If anyone tries to come up on us from the side, you take them out."
Knight Two’s eyes flicked up, scanning the distant hills. He nodded.
"Four," Knight Three continued, "you stick with me at the front. We’ll play along until we see the buyer, but if anything seems off, we get out of there fast. No hesitation."
"And what about Manheim?" One asked, his jaw tight. "He’s going to try and screw us, you know that."
Knight Three nodded. "Manheim’s just a middleman. He doesn’t want to get his hands dirty, but he’s part of the problem. When this goes south, we make sure he doesn’t walk away with anything. But for now, we play nice."
The team moved quickly back toward the APC, their boots kicking up dust as they crossed the square. The town’s eyes were still on them, but the Knights moved with purpose, blending the careful discipline of their training with the ruthless pragmatism they’d learned from years of survival.
Once they reached the APC, Knight Three took a moment to check the systems, his fingers moving deftly over the controls. The hum of the engine was a low, familiar sound, grounding him as he thought through their next move.
"Let’s get to the mine," Knight Three said, turning to the others. "We’ll spring the trap before they even know it’s set."
As the APC roared to life, the armored hulk once again cut through the village, leaving a cloud of dust and tension in its wake. The sun was dipping lower in the sky, casting long shadows over the dusty buildings, and the feeling of danger was thick in the air.
Knight Three’s mind was already racing ahead, calculating every move, every possible outcome. The mine was a death trap waiting to spring—but it would be the last mistake Manheim’s buyer ever made.
As the APC rumbled toward the edge of town, Knight Three tightened his grip on the controls. He was in his element now, navigating a world of betrayal, deals, and deception. And when the dust finally settled, they’d be the ones walking away—rich and alive.
At least, if everything went according to plan.
From the horizon, the unmistakable bulk of a Coalition Mark V Armored Personnel Carrier (APC) came into view, followed by three more, their forms dominating the landscape.
These steel behemoths looked like titans rising from the earth, cutting an imposing silhouette against the morning sun. The once peaceful village felt the ground beneath it tremble with each turn of their massive, armored treads.
The villagers, many of whom had been tending to their morning chores, froze in place. Eyes widened, and some instinctively backed away from the approaching APCs, a mix of awe, fear, and unease spreading like wildfire through the tiny population. Mothers pulled their children closer, pig farmers paused mid-step, and traders stood stock-still, unsure whether to retreat to the safety of their homes or watch the mechanical giants roll into town.
The Coalition insignia, a stark black skull against the white, pristine plating, gleamed in the light of day, a clear reminder of who owned these machines and what they were capable of.
Location: Hogswaller
The APC ground to a halt at the very edge of town, its towering form casting a long shadow over the nearest structures.
The villagers watched, waiting for a sign, half-expecting Coalition soldiers to pour out and begin interrogations or worse. But nothing happened at first. No ramp lowered, no soldiers appeared. The engines idled ominously.
Inside the lead APC, the Mystic Knights sat tensely, their hearts pounding as they exchanged nervous glances. Knight Three, the driver, tightened his grip on the controls, beads of sweat forming on his brow.
He flicked his eyes to the village square through the APC's narrow viewport, half-expecting to see some kid dart out into the street. The machine beneath them groaned as it settled, its weight compressing the dirt below.
"Keep it slow," Knight Four, muttered, leaning forward to look over his’s shoulder. His voice was edged with tension. "Last thing we need is to flatten some local or tip ‘em off that we’re not the CS."
Knight Three, his knuckles white against the control stick. "We’ll be lucky if no one starts shooting. You know these towns—they’re jumpy, especially if they figure out we’re not legit Coalition."
In the back, Knight Two adjusted his rifle nervously, his eyes darting between the open hatch and the quiet village beyond. The others were silent, aware of the high-stakes situation they’d driven into.
Stealing a Coalition APC was one thing. Driving it into a town, trying to sell it—well, that was a different beast entirely.
"We need to offload this thing fast," said Knight Four, a rugged man with an eye for profit. "Either whole or in parts, I don’t care. But we’re sitting ducks here. Every second we’re in this thing is a second someone could decide to blow us to hell."
Their plan had been simple:
Roll into some remote trading post, sell off the APC for a tidy profit, and disappear before anyone got wise. But now, seeing the villagers wary eyes and the subtle shift in the air, the plan felt far more precarious.
Outside, one of the braver villagers, a young man with dirt-streaked overalls, cautiously stepped closer to the edge of the road, curiosity overcoming his fear. His wide eyes flicked up at the Coalition insignia, and then to the massive barrels of the railguns perched atop the APCs. For a moment, he seemed to hesitate, as if deciding whether to greet the newcomers or run for cover.
Knight One, "Let's suit up and play the part. This close to the border it is safer to play it CS and see what we see than to announce we stole our ride. From the look of the place I've got some doubts about anybody giving us much of anything for this APC.
Knight One’s lips pressed into a thin line. "We blend in for now. Let’s get the lay of the land. Find someone shady. This place isn’t clean—they’ll have someone willing to deal."
The quiet hum of the APC filled the cabin as they stared out at the unsuspecting town. For now, they were just shadows behind reinforced steel, trying to pass off as part of the very war machine they’d stolen, with everything riding on making a quick profit and getting out alive.
The door of the Coalition APC hissed open, the heavy ramp descending with a metallic groan, and the four Mystic Knights, clad head-to-toe in black-and-white CS armor, stepped out in unison.
They moved with the precision of soldiers, their helmets hiding the calculating eyes beneath. Behind them, shackled in chains but walking with feigned reluctance, was their supposed "prisoner"—a Shifter dressed in tattered robes, head bowed as if broken, though in truth, he was very much in control.
Knight One (Sir Marcus), the leader of the group, was the first to take in the scene, his helmet’s HUD flickering to life, scanning the surroundings. He found himself standing at the edge of the Hogswaller town square.
The square was little more than a patch of worn dirt surrounded by mismatched structures. At its center was the Town Well, an ancient stone structure with a rusted bucket and a stagnant duck pond that had more mud than water. Nearby, a few scrawny ducks pecked at the dirt, oblivious to the newcomers.
The square was framed by weather-beaten buildings, each more dilapidated than the last. On one corner stood “Hogs Heaven”, its wooden sign swaying lazily in the breeze, the paint chipped and faded. A rough-looking crowd of locals loitered outside, their expressions dull but suspicious, some nursing drinks, others squinting at the imposing APC parked at the edge of town. The smell of cheap moonshine and stale beer wafted from the open door, mingling with the faint scent of cooking meat.
Knight One’s eyes flicked to his right, where “Manheim’s Trading Depot” sat like a bloated tick on the edge of the square. Its windows were grimy, and the sign above the door had a slick, oily sheen.
From here, he could see Manheim himself, lounging in the shade of his doorway, eyes narrowed as he sized up the armored newcomers. There was a glint of recognition—or perhaps opportunity—in the merchant’s gaze. This could be the contact they needed, Knight One mused.
The rest of the square was filled with small-time traders hawking their wares from ramshackle stalls, each of them worn down by the weight of survival in a town this remote. Pigs squealed in the distance, their cries mixing with the low murmur of conversation. The villagers seemed anxious but cautiously curious, their eyes darting between the Knights and the mage they led in chains.
From behind his visor, he scanned the faces of the townsfolk, each of them a potential threat. This place was a den of drifters, he could feel it in the air—a place on the fringes of civilization, where law was little more than a suggestion.
He focused on the Jailhouse, where the local constable and barber, leaned against the doorway, chewing on a toothpick. His eyes were hard, appraising. Two deputies—drunken louts by the look of them—slouched near the entrance, one of them nursing a bottle, the other lazily scratching his belly. Jake didn't seem rattled by the APC or the armored soldiers. Instead, he squinted, looking like a man who had seen enough war to know trouble when it came rolling in on metal treads.
"These people aren’t Coalition fans," Knight Four muttered under his breath, his voice crackling through the helmet comms. "But they’re used to seeing them. Look how they’re not scattering."
Knight One nodded slightly, still surveying. This place was a patchwork of scrap and survival, the buildings cobbled together from what seemed to be generations of refuse.
Worchefski’s Boarding House loomed over the square, a tired structure with peeling paint and broken shutters, likely filled with the desperate and the dangerous. Beyond it, “Billy Bob’s Garage” stood out, a metal structure that resembled a barn more than a repair shop. Mechanics were working on a rusted-out hover bike outside, their hands black with grease, while a line of patched-up vehicles stood waiting for repairs.
To Knight One, the place reeked of desperation, but he knew better than to dismiss it as just another backwater. Hogswaller had a reputation for illicit dealings, and somewhere within these crumbling walls was someone who could help them unload the APC—or its parts—for a hefty profit. The key was finding the right contact without attracting unwanted attention.
As they marched into the square, the mage staggered a little in his chains, playing the role of a prisoner well. Behind them, the APC engines hummed ominously, an ever-present reminder of the stolen Coalition tech that could blow their cover in an instant.
"Where to?" Knight One whispered, keeping his tone low.
"Manheim’s," Knight Three replied without hesitation, his voice firm. "He’ll know where we can start. But don’t trust him. He’d sell his own mother for the right price."
As they moved toward the trading depot, Knight One couldn’t help but feel the eyes of the town on them—hungry, suspicious, and calculating. Hogswaller was a place that thrived on secrets, and for now, their disguise as Coalition soldiers seemed to be holding. But the real test was coming.
Their mission was simple:
Get the lay of the land,
Make contact with someone who dealt in stolen goods, and
Sell off the APC without raising suspicion.
But in a place like this, where everyone had something to hide and loyalties shifted with the wind, things were never simple for long.
Knight Three, a master of finding contraband, looked at Hogswaller with the practiced gaze of someone who had spent years navigating the underworld. To most, this town looked like a backwater pit—crumbling buildings, dirt streets, and a mishmash of rough-hewn locals scraping by. But to Knight Three, it was something far more familiar: a hive of illicit trade and hidden opportunity.
He could already feel the pulse of the black market here. The subtle exchanges happening in the shadows, the knowing glances between traders, the worn-out signs that didn’t quite say what they were selling but offered more to those who knew how to ask.
Places like Hogswaller thrived on unspoken deals and invisible networks. Knight Three's skill with Finding Contraband was more than just knowing where to look; it was about reading the scene, understanding the hidden layers beneath the surface of a town like this. And Hogswaller? It was practically screaming with hidden activity.
His eyes drifted to Manheim's Trading Depot first. Manheim, with his slick smile and oily demeanor, was exactly the kind of person Knight Three had encountered a thousand times before. A Fence, no doubt. The kind who made his money off desperate souls trying to offload whatever they could find—stolen weapons, rare items, or tech they didn’t want traced. Manheim’s eyes were constantly flickering, sizing people up. He'd deal with the Coalition one minute and turn around to sell the very same stolen gear to some outlaw group the next. Knight Three recognized that type immediately: a man who knew how to straddle both sides of the law, always keeping one foot in the shadows.
As they moved through the square, Knight Three's gaze passed over “Billy Bob's Garage.” On the surface, it looked like a repair shop, a place for fixing up old hover bikes and beat-up vehicles. But the tell-tale signs were all there. “A chop shop,” without a doubt. The way the mechanics were working with a bit too much urgency, the patchwork of vehicles outside—all scavenged and pieced together with whatever could be found—spoke volumes. Billy Bob and his crew weren't just fixing vehicles; they were dismantling them, rebuilding them, and passing them off under false pretenses. Knight Three would bet his last credit that illegal mods were happening in that barn-like garage, whether it was tampered engine cores or concealed compartments for smuggling.
Next, his focus turned to the shadier corners of the square—the half-hidden alleys behind “Worchefski's Boarding House,” the dilapidated sheds that leaned haphazardly behind the busier structures. Places like these were usually where the REAL trade happened. Out of sight, away from the prying eyes of locals who pretended not to see the more dangerous deals going on right under their noses. If there was a slaver operating in Hogswaller, or a black market arms dealer, they’d be working from one of those dark, forgotten spaces.
Knight Three was well aware that places like this operated under a code of conduct—unspoken but universally understood by those who trafficked in illegal goods.
Even the way some of the locals watched them told him all he needed to know. They weren’t terrified of Coalition soldiers rolling into town—they were calculating, wondering if there was an angle they could play. If Knight Three had to guess, half the people in Hogswaller would be more than willing to deal in contraband, provided the price was right. The war between the Coalition and Tolkeen had made places like this rich with opportunity, where every scrap of tech or weaponry was worth a fortune to the right buyer.
Still, there are dangers. If their cover slipped, or if they were caught dealing with the wrong people, the penalty for possessing stolen Coalition property was harsh, even in a town as lawless as Hogswaller. The Coalition didn’t take kindly to deserters or thieves, and the black market knew better than to draw too much attention. Knight Three had seen entire operations wiped out because someone got greedy or careless.
He turned slightly toward Knight One, who was leading the group toward Manheim’s.
"This place is crawling with the black market," Knight Three muttered through his helmet comms. "Weapons, tech, stolen goods—it’s all here. Manheim’s definitely our first stop. But keep an eye on that garage. They’re running something dirty in there, I can feel it."
Knight Four cast a quick glance toward the garage as they passed, her brow furrowing behind his visor. "You think they can move the APC?"
"Maybe," Knight Three replied. "But it’ll be in pieces by the time they’re done with it."
As they neared Manheim’s depot, Knight Three gut instincts kicked in. The pawn shops, the shady stalls, the rough traders—they were all connected in a web of crime, and Knight Three could navigate it like second nature. He could almost feel the weight of contraband weapons in the back rooms, the bundles of illegal goods hidden beneath false floors, the side-glances of traders wondering if they’d just found their next big score. It was all there, right beneath the surface, waiting to be found.
Now, it was just a matter of making the right move.
---
Knight One, their usual leader, glanced at Knight Three. His voice was steady, but there was an edge to it, a recognition that they were in deeper waters than he was comfortable with.
"You’ve got the experience with this kind of underworld stuff," he said quietly, his visor angled toward Knight Three. "This place is crawling with criminal activity, and you know this 'song and dance' better than any of us. We need you to take point on this one."
The others nodded in agreement, both watching Knight Three closely.
Knight Three shifted, his eyes scanning the town once more, taking in every detail. He’d known places like this his whole life. Hogswaller wasn’t just a trading post for outlaws—it was a living market of illicit goods and shady deals. Every person here had an angle, and every business was a front for something deeper.
"Alright," Knight Three said, breaking the silence, his voice low but firm.
"I’ll take the lead. We stick to the plan but we do it my way." He looked each of them in the eye, making sure they understood the gravity of the situation.
"We need to move like we belong here."
Knight One gave a short nod of approval, stepping back to let Knight Three take charge.
"First things first," he continued. "We’ll start with Manheim. He’s the type who deals in everything—contraband weapons, stolen tech, and more. But he’s not trustworthy. He’ll try to fleece us the moment he sees a crack. So when we go in, let me do the talking."
He smirked under his helmet. "He’s a snake, and snakes love easy prey. We go in acting like we’ve got Coalition clearance and the upper hand. He won’t be able to resist sniffing out what we’ve got. But he won’t be the only one. Places like this are crawling with eyes and ears. The moment we make a move, others will start asking questions—so we need to stay ahead of them."
He turned to Knight Four. "You’re our eyes. While I’m working Manheim, I want you keeping watch. Look for anyone who’s paying too much attention. If someone starts hovering or asking questions, we’ll need to know about it fast."
Knight Four nodded, his posture shifting slightly as he prepared to take on his role. He had a sharp eye for details and would spot any threat before it even emerged.
"Two," Knight Three said, focusing on the youngest member of the group. "You’re our muscle. Stay close, keep your hand on your weapon, but don’t make a scene unless I say so. If things go south, I’ll need you ready to clear us a way out. No hesitation."
Two gave a sharp nod.
Finally, Knight Three turned back to One. "You and I will handle the negotiations. We’ll let Manheim think he’s got control of the situation, but the moment he makes his move, we’re going to turn it around on him. We’ll show him just enough of the APC to make him salivate, but not enough to give him the full picture. If he bites, great. If not, we move to plan B."
"And plan B?" One asked.
Knight Three’s eyes flickered toward Billy Bob’s Garage. "We start tearing the APC apart, selling it in pieces. The garage is dirty—probably running chop-shop work for the Coalition or worse. We’ll sell the parts as ‘scrap’ and disappear before anyone realizes what we’ve done."
The team absorbed the plan in silence for a moment, the weight of the task ahead of them hanging in the air. The stakes were high, but they had a clear path. Knight Three had laid out a plan, and now they had to execute.
"One more thing," Knight Three said, his tone dropping an octave. "If anything goes wrong—if Manheim gets suspicious, if we’re cornered—we cut the deal and get out. No one tries to play hero. We regroup and figure out another way. Understood?"
"Understood," One said, his voice firm.
"Let’s move, then."
Knight Three turned and led them toward Manheim’s depot, his mind already running through the possible outcomes. He could feel the undercurrent of danger in this town, the way everyone was sizing them up as potential marks or threats. But Knight Three was used to that. This was his domain—the world of secret deals and illicit trade. He could navigate it as naturally as breathing.
As they approached the depot, Knight Three’s eyes narrowed. It was time to make the first move. Inside the cramped and cluttered trading post, Manheim stood, watching them with that oily smile of his, already calculating how to bleed them dry.
But Knight Three had no intention of being anyone’s mark.
He stepped inside, his boots thudding softly on the creaky wooden floor. "Manheim," he said smoothly, his voice carrying just enough authority to make the trader blink. "We’ve got something you’re going to want to see."
---
The air inside Manheim's Trading Depot was thick with the scent of oil, old leather, and the faint tang of metal. Shelves crammed with oddities, rusted tools, and secondhand gear lined the walls, and the light was dim, filtering through grimy windows covered with years of dust.
Franklin P. Manheim stood behind his counter, arms crossed, watching the four armored figures as they entered. His slicked-back hair gleamed under the low light, and his thin mustache twitched as he smiled, a snake sizing up its prey.
"Coalition troopers, huh?" he said, voice as oily as the rest of him. "And here I thought this was gonna be a quiet day."
Knight Three, still in his CS armor, stepped forward, his gait steady and controlled. "We’re here on business, Manheim. Nothing more." His voice came out cold, authoritative. He needed to play the part—an officer of the Coalition States, a man who gave orders and expected them to be followed. For now, that’s exactly who he was.
Manheim’s eyes flicked over the group, lingering on the “prisoner” they had in chains—the Shifter they were pretending to escort. A spark of interest flashed in the merchant’s eyes. He was already thinking of how he could use that. "I see you’ve brought yourself a little magic trouble," he said, nodding toward the robed figure. "Not too many of those wandering around these parts. Dangerous company to keep."
Knight Three didn’t respond, instead taking a step closer, cutting off Manheim’s view of the "prisoner." He needed to keep the focus on their real business. "We’ve got something that needs to be moved—quickly and quietly. You’re going to help us with that."
Manheim’s thin smile widened. "Oh, am I? And what exactly is it that you’re looking to ‘move,’ officer?" He practically dripped with mock courtesy.
Knight Three leaned in slightly, his voice low, but not so low that Manheim couldn’t hear the promise of danger in it. "A Coalition Mark V Armored Personnel Carrier."
Manheim blinked. That wasn’t something he’d expected to hear. His slick confidence faltered for a split second, but he quickly masked it with a feigned casualness.
"An APC, huh? Those are rare… very rare. I might know a few people who’d be interested." His fingers twitched as though he were already calculating his cut. "But they don’t exactly sell themselves, you know. What’s wrong with it?"
Knight Three smiled behind his visor, keeping his voice calm. "Nothing’s wrong with it. Fully functional. We even left the railguns and missile systems intact."
That got Manheim’s full attention. His eyes gleamed with greed as he leaned forward slightly. "Now that’s a big score, friend. But… moving a full APC, that’s a lot of risk. Not to mention, how do I know it’s really yours to sell?"
Knight Three straightened, letting the tension build for a moment. He had expected this. In the world of contraband, trust was rare, and Manheim would never go for a deal without first testing the waters. The real trick here was to make Manheim believe the APC was theirs to sell without giving him too much leverage.
"Check it yourself if you want," Knight Three said, his voice still cold. "It’s parked just outside town, ready to move. But you don’t get anything until we see your buyers and your cut is clear."
Manheim’s grin returned, wider this time. "You really came prepared, didn’t you? Fine, I’ll take a look. But if I’m going to be risking my neck to sell off Coalition property, I’m gonna need more than your word and a shiny railgun to make it worth my while."
Knight Three nodded slightly. "You’ll get 15% of the sale. But we don’t have time to haggle. Either you move it now, or we find someone else who will."
Manheim's eyes narrowed. 15% wasn’t much in the grand scheme of things, but the chance to move a fully armed Coalition APC was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. He couldn’t pass it up. "Alright, alright," he said, raising his hands as though in surrender. "Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. I’ll make some calls, see who’s interested. But, uh, I’ll need a little more assurance than just your word."
Knight Three glanced back at Knight Two, who stood silently near the doorway, his hand resting casually on his weapon. Knight Three kept his tone steady. "You don’t get more until we see the money."
Manheim chuckled. "Fair enough. How about this—let me make some arrangements, get my people lined up. You boys relax for a bit. I’ve got a room in the back where we can talk things over more… privately."
Knight Three stiffened slightly. A room in the back was almost never a good sign in places like this. It meant isolation, separation from the rest of the team, and, most likely, some kind of trap. But they needed to play the game for now, and Knight Three knew exactly how to handle it.
"We’ll stay here," Knight Three replied, his voice clipped. "You can make your calls from the back. When you’ve got a buyer, we’ll talk."
Manheim’s smile faltered, just for a heartbeat, but then he shrugged, all fake nonchalance. "Suit yourself, trooper. I’ll be right back."
He turned and disappeared into a door behind the counter, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the cluttered shop.
As soon as he was gone, Knight Four moved closer, her voice barely a whisper. "He’s going to try something. I can feel it."
Knight Three nodded. "Of course he is. But he’s also greedy. He won’t throw away a deal this big without testing the waters first."
Knight One stepped forward. "Do we go with him if he calls us back there?"
Knight Three shook his head. "No. We stay here. This is the safest position—public. If anything goes wrong, we can control the situation. He won’t risk blowing his cover in front of the whole town."
Knight Four scanned the room, his hand still on his weapon. "But if he brings someone here? What if it’s a setup?"
Knight Three turned to him, his tone calm but firm. "If he brings someone, we’re ready. We stick together, and we don’t let him split us up."
He glanced toward the door where Manheim had disappeared, his instincts firing on all cylinders. This was a delicate balance—showing enough of their hand to keep Manheim interested, but keeping control of the situation so they didn’t get caught in a double-cross.
"He’ll be back soon," Knight Three said, turning to the others. "Get ready. We’re going to finish this fast, and we’re going to stay alive."
They all nodded, their stances tightening, preparing for whatever came next.
In the dim light of the trading post, the tension hung heavy, as if the walls themselves were watching. Outside, the sun was starting to dip, casting long shadows over the village. Time was running short, and in places like Hogswaller, trust was as fragile as glass.
Knight Three took a breath and steadied himself. One wrong move, and this town would turn into a war zone. But he had been in worse spots before, and he had no intention of losing today.
The minutes ticked by slowly as the team waited in the cluttered trading post, the air thick with the smell of old metal and dust. Knight Three stood near the counter, his mind working over every possibility. He kept his posture relaxed, but his eyes flickered from object to object in the room, assessing the space. The others were tense but silent, their trust in Knight Three clear. They knew he could navigate this better than anyone.
From the back room, the faint sound of Manheim’s voice drifted out—muffled, quick. He was making his calls.
Knight Three had no doubt that the slimy trader was weighing his options, looking for any angle to turn this deal into a bigger score.
Finally, the door to the back room creaked open, and Manheim emerged, his face a mask of calm, but his eyes glinting with barely contained excitement. He wiped his hands on his pants, like he’d just closed the deal of a lifetime, and sauntered back to the counter.
"Well," Manheim said, his voice smooth, "you’re in luck. I’ve got a buyer. But he’s not in town—wants to stay anonymous, of course. These things can be tricky, you know?"
Knight Three didn't move. "How long?"
Manheim leaned against the counter, pretending to be at ease. "He’ll send a runner. Be here in an hour, maybe less."
The others shifted slightly at the news, but Knight Three remained still. One hour. It wasn’t unreasonable, but in a place like this, one hour could mean all the difference.
"One hour," Knight Three repeated, his tone neutral. "And where does this ‘buyer’ want to do the exchange?"
Manheim grinned. "Oh, not far. Just outside town, by the old abandoned mine. You know the place—quiet, out of the way. No interruptions."
Knight Three’s instincts flared. The mine was too far, too remote. The perfect place for an ambush. He had been in enough shady deals to know that if Manheim had arranged a meeting there, it was likely because the buyer had no intention of leaving them alive—or with their stolen APC.
But Knight Three played it cool, leaning forward slightly. "Outside town," he said thoughtfully, tapping his armored fingers on the counter. "That could work. But I’m not dragging the APC out there until I see some credits on the table."
Manheim raised an eyebrow, his smile faltering. "Now, now," he said, his tone dripping with fake reassurance. "We both know how these deals work. My buyer isn’t going to hand over that kind of money without seeing the merchandise. You’ll get your credits once he confirms the APC is real."
Knight Three gave a slow nod, as if considering it. "And you’ll be there to make sure everything goes smooth?"
Manheim’s grin returned, wider this time. "Of course. I always take care of my clients."
Knight Three allowed the silence to stretch between them, long enough for Manheim to start feeling uncomfortable, then said, "Fine. We’ll bring the APC. But you make sure your buyer knows that we’re not here to be played. Any tricks, and we take the APC back, with interest."
Manheim chuckled, but Knight Three could hear the nervousness in the sound. "Oh, I’m sure everything will go smoothly. Just a simple exchange."
Behind him, Knight Four shifted, his eyes still on the room. "You sure about this?" he muttered over the comms, his voice barely a whisper in Knight Three’s earpiece.
Knight Three didn’t respond immediately, keeping his focus on Manheim. "We’re on our way," he said aloud, turning to the others. "Let’s get the APC ready."
As the team moved to leave, Manheim called after them. "I’ll be along shortly—just need to finish a few things here. You know how it is."
Knight Three didn’t answer, merely giving a curt nod as they stepped back out into the sweltering sun of Hogswaller’s square. The moment they were outside, Knight Three let out a breath, turning to his team.
"That mine’s a setup," he said quietly, his voice hard. "They’re not planning to pay—they’re planning to take the APC, and likely leave us in the dirt."
Knight One scowled, his hand already on his weapon. "So what’s the play?"
Knight Three glanced around the town, keeping his voice low.
"We don’t give them the chance. We’re going to the mine, but we’re not walking into that trap. Two, I want you on the ridge near the mine. If anyone tries to come up on us from the side, you take them out."
Knight Two’s eyes flicked up, scanning the distant hills. He nodded.
"Four," Knight Three continued, "you stick with me at the front. We’ll play along until we see the buyer, but if anything seems off, we get out of there fast. No hesitation."
"And what about Manheim?" One asked, his jaw tight. "He’s going to try and screw us, you know that."
Knight Three nodded. "Manheim’s just a middleman. He doesn’t want to get his hands dirty, but he’s part of the problem. When this goes south, we make sure he doesn’t walk away with anything. But for now, we play nice."
The team moved quickly back toward the APC, their boots kicking up dust as they crossed the square. The town’s eyes were still on them, but the Knights moved with purpose, blending the careful discipline of their training with the ruthless pragmatism they’d learned from years of survival.
Once they reached the APC, Knight Three took a moment to check the systems, his fingers moving deftly over the controls. The hum of the engine was a low, familiar sound, grounding him as he thought through their next move.
"Let’s get to the mine," Knight Three said, turning to the others. "We’ll spring the trap before they even know it’s set."
As the APC roared to life, the armored hulk once again cut through the village, leaving a cloud of dust and tension in its wake. The sun was dipping lower in the sky, casting long shadows over the dusty buildings, and the feeling of danger was thick in the air.
Knight Three’s mind was already racing ahead, calculating every move, every possible outcome. The mine was a death trap waiting to spring—but it would be the last mistake Manheim’s buyer ever made.
As the APC rumbled toward the edge of town, Knight Three tightened his grip on the controls. He was in his element now, navigating a world of betrayal, deals, and deception. And when the dust finally settled, they’d be the ones walking away—rich and alive.
At least, if everything went according to plan.
Last edited by darthauthor on Sun Sep 08, 2024 4:20 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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darthauthor
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Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
As the APC rumbled along the dirt road toward the abandoned mine, Knight Three’s mind was focused on the plan. They were walking into a trap, but with the right moves, they could spring it before the enemy even realized what had hit them.
He trusted his team, but most of all, he trusted Knight Two. He had saved their lives more times than he could count with his sharp eyes, his steady hands, and his knack to place explosives or a perfectly timed shot.
"Two," Knight Three said over the comms, his voice steady, "I need you in position before we get to the mine. We both know this is a setup, and they’re expecting us to walk right into it. I need you to make sure they don’t get that chance."
There was a moment of silence on the line before Two’s voice came through, calm and confident. "On it."
Knight Three allowed a small smile to touch his lips behind the visor. "Good. If this goes south, we’ll need you to cover our exit. Keep your head down and your eyes sharp. We’re counting on you."
"I’ve got this," Two replied, his voice carrying that unshakable confidence that had earned him the team’s trust time and time again. He was already making his plans, thinking through the angles, the best places to set up his sniper’s perch, and where to place explosives if things got messy.
As the APC neared the mine, Knight Three slowed the vehicle, pulling it off the main road and into a small clearing just outside the approach. The old abandoned mine was just ahead, the mouth of it looming like a dark scar on the landscape. Dust and dried scrub surrounded it, and the broken remains of old mining equipment littered the area, half-buried in the dirt. It was the perfect place for an ambush—isolated, hidden from view, and filled with potential hiding spots for anyone who wanted to get the drop on them.
"Alright," Knight Three said, addressing the team through the comms. "Two, get into position. One, Four—you stay with me. We play this cool, but the moment something feels off, we don’t hesitate. Move fast, strike first."
Two gave a quick "Copy that" before quietly slipping out of the APC, his CS armor off, replaced with a stealth suit to conceal his heat signature and camouflaged with the local colors to blend with the rocky terrain as he moved quickly and silently toward her perch.
Knight Three watched him go, trusting in his ability to disappear into the landscape, to become a ghost that no one would see until it was too late.
As he ascended the ridge, Two’s sharp eyes took in the terrain. The ridge overlooked the mine entrance perfectly. He spotted several likely positions where someone might set up an ambush—behind the rusted-out mining carts, near the crumbling stone walls that had once housed miners, and along the edges of the cliffside. He paused, crouching low and pulling out his sniper rifle, the scope glinting briefly in the fading light. He scanned the area, looking for any signs of movement.
His heart rate was steady, his breathing calm. This was his element: recon, demolitions, and sniping. He’d done it a hundred times before, and this time would be no different. After a few moments, he spotted something. A flicker of movement—a shadow just beyond one of the old mining structures.
"Three," Two’s voice came through the comms, "I’ve got movement near the west side of the mine entrance. One, maybe two figures."
Knight Three’s voice crackled back, calm but with an edge of readiness. "Copy that. Keep watching. We’ll proceed slowly. Let me know if more show up."
Knight Two settled in, positioning himself perfectly behind a rock, his sniper rifle trained on the figures. If they moved, he would see it. And if they made any wrong moves, they wouldn’t get a second chance.
Back at the APC, Knight Three looked to Knight One and Knight Four. "Looks like they’ve got at least a couple of people waiting for us. Nothing we didn’t expect, but we’ll need to stay sharp. Let’s move up slowly, make it look like we’re following the plan. Keep your weapons close, but don’t draw unless I say so."
They nodded, their helmets obscuring their expressions, but he knew they were ready. They had done this before—moved through dangerous negotiations, played their cards close until the time was right.
As they approached the mine, Knight Three kept his steps measured, his eyes scanning every shadow, every movement. He could feel the tension in the air, like the calm before a storm. His gut told him this was more than just a simple exchange. Manheim’s buyer wasn’t planning to leave any loose ends. But Three had no intention of being one of them.
Two’s voice crackled in his ear again. "Three more approaching from the south. They’re trying to flank. We’ve got five confirmed."
Knight Three’s jaw tightened. "Keep your scope on them. If they move closer, take them out. Quietly."
"Affirmative," Two said, his voice clipped and professional.
Knight Three could see the mine entrance now, a gaping black hole surrounded by crumbling stone and rusted-out beams. It was eerily quiet, too quiet, but he could sense the presence of those waiting just out of sight, poised to strike.
Suddenly, a figure emerged from behind one of the old mining carts—a man dressed in ragged armor, holding an energy rifle casually at his side. His eyes were sharp, and his posture spoke of someone used to violence. Behind him, more figures started to appear, weapons in hand but not yet raised.
Knight Three didn’t miss a beat. He called out, his voice loud and authoritative. "We’re here to make a deal. Let’s see your buyer."
The man smirked, but his eyes were hard. "The buyer’s on his way. Just wanted to make sure everything was in place first. You bring the APC?"
Knight Three gave a slight nod. "It’s nearby. But I want to see some credits before we go any further."
The man took a slow step forward, but he never got a chance to respond.
Crack. A single shot echoed through the canyon, and the man dropped instantly, a perfect round through his skull.
Two’s voice came over the comms, calm and steady. "One down. Two more on the ridge moving in."
Knight Three didn’t hesitate. "Now!" he barked to his team.
They started firing off a burst at the approaching figures, while One moved in close, covering Knight Three as they advanced on the rest of the group.
"Two," Knight Three shouted through the comms, "set off your surprise. Now."
From his perch on the ridge, Two grinned. He’d rigged the explosives when he’d first scouted the area. Without hesitation, he triggered the detonator.
The ridge to the south erupted in a cloud of dust and rock, cutting off the remaining attackers escape route and sending the flanking group into disarray. Two more shots rang out from Two’s sniper rifle, clean and precise, taking down two of the remaining figures before they could even react.
Knight Three and his team moved quickly, sweeping through the mine entrance, clearing out the last of the ambushers. Within minutes, the scene was silent again, the only sound the faint ringing of debris settling from the explosion.
Two’s voice came through the comms, steady as always. "Area clear."
Knight Three breathed out slowly, holstering his weapon but keeping his guard up. He knew better than to let his guard down too soon. The enemy may have underestimated them, but that didn’t mean they were out of danger yet.
"Good work," Knight Two replied, his voice steady. "Stay in position for now. I want eyes on the area in case anyone else decides to join the party."
"Copy that," Two said, his voice fading back into the calm professionalism he always maintained under pressure.
One approached Knight Three, his eyes scanning the scattered bodies of the ambushers. "That was too close," Knight One muttered. "We knew it was a trap, but they were ready for more than just a quick deal. This wasn’t some small-time operation."
Knight Three nodded, his mind already racing. "You're right. They knew we were coming. Someone tipped them off—maybe even Manheim himself."
Knight One cursed under his breath, kicking at the dust. "So what now? We track down Manheim and make him pay for setting us up?"
Knight Three thought for a moment, weighing their options. It was tempting to storm back into Hogswaller and make an example out of the slimy trader, but they needed to be smart. If Manheim had already made his move, he could be gone by the time they got back to town. And even if he wasn’t, they were still in hostile territory. Hogswaller might seem like a sleepy village on the surface, but it was filled with cutthroats, informants, and CS sympathizers who would gladly sell them out for a quick credit.
"No," Knight Three said finally. "Manheim’s small-time. He set us up, but there’s a bigger game at play here. We don’t know who the buyer was supposed to be or what they were really after. We stick to the plan—we move the APC, sell it, and get out clean. But we stay one step ahead."
Knight Four, who had been quietly observing the area, stepped forward. "If Manheim’s not the target, where do we go from here? The buyer’s not showing up, that’s for sure. And the longer we hang around, the more attention we’re going to attract."
Knight Three glanced toward the ridge where Two was still perched, his sniper rifle trained on the area. He’d taken care of the immediate threat, but this operation had gone from risky to dangerous. They needed to shift their approach—and fast.
"First, we need to find out if Manheim is still in town," Knight Three said, turning to Knight One. "If he’s there, we make him talk. He’ll know who the buyer was, or at least who they were working for."
"And if he’s gone?" One asked, a hard edge to his voice.
"Then we cut our losses and sell the APC somewhere else," One replied. "There are other buyers—places we can move it in pieces if we have to. But I want to know who’s hunting us first."
He opened the comms channel again. "Two, I need you back here. We’re heading back to Hogswaller to find Manheim. If he’s still there, we’ll get the information we need. If not, we leave and regroup."
"On my way," Two responded, already packing up his gear and descending from the ridge.
As Knight Two joined the team at the mine entrance, Knight Three could see the glint of focus in his eyes. He was ready for whatever came next, and that gave him confidence. They’d weathered worse than this together, and as long as they stayed sharp, they could still come out ahead.
"Let’s move," Knight Three ordered, leading the way back to the APC. The heavy vehicle was parked just beyond the clearing, its engines still quietly humming. They climbed aboard, the steel beast groaning under their weight as they took their positions inside.
The APC rumbled to life once again, kicking up dust as it began to roll back toward Hogswaller. The drive was tense, the familiar hum of the engine underscored by the unspoken urgency of the situation.
Knight Three sat at the controls, his mind already working through how this confrontation with Manheim might go. If the trader was still in town, they’d need to play it carefully. He was slippery, but if they applied the right pressure, they could get him to talk. If he had already bolted, it would confirm that they were up against something bigger than just a botched deal.
As they neared the outskirts of the town, the sun had dipped lower, casting long shadows over the buildings. Hogswaller seemed peaceful, almost indifferent to the danger that had just unfolded at the mine. But Knight Three knew better. This place was a powder keg, and they were about to light the fuse.
Knight Three pulled the APC into a side alley, away from prying eyes. "We go in quiet," he said, turning to his team. "If Manheim’s there, we corner him. If he’s gone, we don’t waste time—search his place and find anything that tells us who he’s working with. We don’t want to attract too much attention."
Two, ever watchful, scanned the surroundings as they exited the APC. He said quietly. "I’ll cover you."
Knight Three nodded. "Good. Let’s move."
They approached Manheim’s Trading Depot cautiously, the building looking just as run-down as it had when they first arrived. The glow from inside indicated the place was still open for business. Knight Three signaled to One and Four to flank the sides of the building, while he and Two moved toward the front entrance.
As they stepped inside, Knight Three’s eyes immediately scanned the room. Manheim was there, standing behind the counter, his slick grin gone, replaced with a look of thinly veiled nervousness. He was clearly shaken, but trying to keep his composure.
"Back so soon?" Manheim said, trying to sound casual but failing miserably. "The buyer must’ve been a no-show, huh? Shame, really."
Knight Three didn’t waste time. He strode forward, his armored boots echoing ominously on the floor. "Cut the act, Manheim. You knew exactly what was waiting for us out there. Now you’re going to tell us who set us up, or we’re going to make sure you never do business in this town—or anywhere else—again."
Manheim’s eyes darted toward the back door, but Knight One was already there, blocking his escape. The trader swallowed hard, realizing his usual charm wasn’t going to save him this time.
"Look, look," Manheim stammered, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. "It wasn’t me, alright? I didn’t set you up! The buyer—he’s bad news, alright? Some big player, way bigger than what I usually deal with. He was paying top credits to take you out, but I didn’t know it was going to be a hit! I thought it was just a standard deal."
Knight Three’s voice was cold. "Who is he?"
"I don’t know!" Manheim said quickly, sweat beading on his forehead. "He doesn’t go by a name, just a code. But he’s connected to something bigger—Coalition black market or maybe even Tolkeen remnants. Whatever he’s involved in, it’s heavy. You weren’t supposed to leave that mine alive."
Knight Three leaned in, his voice low and dangerous. "You better hope for your sake that you're telling the truth."
Manheim gulped, nodding vigorously. "I swear! I didn’t want any part of it. I just facilitated the deal."
Knight Three stood back, exchanging a glance with his team. They had their answer—this wasn’t just about a stolen APC. They were caught with bigger players, and whoever was behind it, they were still out there.
"Get rid of him," Knight Three said quietly to Knight One. "We’re done here."
As Knight One stepped forward, Manheim’s face drained of color. "Wait, wait! I can help! I can—"
But it was too late. Knight Three had already turned and walked out the door, his mind racing with the implications of what they’d just learned.
The game had just gotten bigger. Much bigger.
He trusted his team, but most of all, he trusted Knight Two. He had saved their lives more times than he could count with his sharp eyes, his steady hands, and his knack to place explosives or a perfectly timed shot.
"Two," Knight Three said over the comms, his voice steady, "I need you in position before we get to the mine. We both know this is a setup, and they’re expecting us to walk right into it. I need you to make sure they don’t get that chance."
There was a moment of silence on the line before Two’s voice came through, calm and confident. "On it."
Knight Three allowed a small smile to touch his lips behind the visor. "Good. If this goes south, we’ll need you to cover our exit. Keep your head down and your eyes sharp. We’re counting on you."
"I’ve got this," Two replied, his voice carrying that unshakable confidence that had earned him the team’s trust time and time again. He was already making his plans, thinking through the angles, the best places to set up his sniper’s perch, and where to place explosives if things got messy.
As the APC neared the mine, Knight Three slowed the vehicle, pulling it off the main road and into a small clearing just outside the approach. The old abandoned mine was just ahead, the mouth of it looming like a dark scar on the landscape. Dust and dried scrub surrounded it, and the broken remains of old mining equipment littered the area, half-buried in the dirt. It was the perfect place for an ambush—isolated, hidden from view, and filled with potential hiding spots for anyone who wanted to get the drop on them.
"Alright," Knight Three said, addressing the team through the comms. "Two, get into position. One, Four—you stay with me. We play this cool, but the moment something feels off, we don’t hesitate. Move fast, strike first."
Two gave a quick "Copy that" before quietly slipping out of the APC, his CS armor off, replaced with a stealth suit to conceal his heat signature and camouflaged with the local colors to blend with the rocky terrain as he moved quickly and silently toward her perch.
Knight Three watched him go, trusting in his ability to disappear into the landscape, to become a ghost that no one would see until it was too late.
As he ascended the ridge, Two’s sharp eyes took in the terrain. The ridge overlooked the mine entrance perfectly. He spotted several likely positions where someone might set up an ambush—behind the rusted-out mining carts, near the crumbling stone walls that had once housed miners, and along the edges of the cliffside. He paused, crouching low and pulling out his sniper rifle, the scope glinting briefly in the fading light. He scanned the area, looking for any signs of movement.
His heart rate was steady, his breathing calm. This was his element: recon, demolitions, and sniping. He’d done it a hundred times before, and this time would be no different. After a few moments, he spotted something. A flicker of movement—a shadow just beyond one of the old mining structures.
"Three," Two’s voice came through the comms, "I’ve got movement near the west side of the mine entrance. One, maybe two figures."
Knight Three’s voice crackled back, calm but with an edge of readiness. "Copy that. Keep watching. We’ll proceed slowly. Let me know if more show up."
Knight Two settled in, positioning himself perfectly behind a rock, his sniper rifle trained on the figures. If they moved, he would see it. And if they made any wrong moves, they wouldn’t get a second chance.
Back at the APC, Knight Three looked to Knight One and Knight Four. "Looks like they’ve got at least a couple of people waiting for us. Nothing we didn’t expect, but we’ll need to stay sharp. Let’s move up slowly, make it look like we’re following the plan. Keep your weapons close, but don’t draw unless I say so."
They nodded, their helmets obscuring their expressions, but he knew they were ready. They had done this before—moved through dangerous negotiations, played their cards close until the time was right.
As they approached the mine, Knight Three kept his steps measured, his eyes scanning every shadow, every movement. He could feel the tension in the air, like the calm before a storm. His gut told him this was more than just a simple exchange. Manheim’s buyer wasn’t planning to leave any loose ends. But Three had no intention of being one of them.
Two’s voice crackled in his ear again. "Three more approaching from the south. They’re trying to flank. We’ve got five confirmed."
Knight Three’s jaw tightened. "Keep your scope on them. If they move closer, take them out. Quietly."
"Affirmative," Two said, his voice clipped and professional.
Knight Three could see the mine entrance now, a gaping black hole surrounded by crumbling stone and rusted-out beams. It was eerily quiet, too quiet, but he could sense the presence of those waiting just out of sight, poised to strike.
Suddenly, a figure emerged from behind one of the old mining carts—a man dressed in ragged armor, holding an energy rifle casually at his side. His eyes were sharp, and his posture spoke of someone used to violence. Behind him, more figures started to appear, weapons in hand but not yet raised.
Knight Three didn’t miss a beat. He called out, his voice loud and authoritative. "We’re here to make a deal. Let’s see your buyer."
The man smirked, but his eyes were hard. "The buyer’s on his way. Just wanted to make sure everything was in place first. You bring the APC?"
Knight Three gave a slight nod. "It’s nearby. But I want to see some credits before we go any further."
The man took a slow step forward, but he never got a chance to respond.
Crack. A single shot echoed through the canyon, and the man dropped instantly, a perfect round through his skull.
Two’s voice came over the comms, calm and steady. "One down. Two more on the ridge moving in."
Knight Three didn’t hesitate. "Now!" he barked to his team.
They started firing off a burst at the approaching figures, while One moved in close, covering Knight Three as they advanced on the rest of the group.
"Two," Knight Three shouted through the comms, "set off your surprise. Now."
From his perch on the ridge, Two grinned. He’d rigged the explosives when he’d first scouted the area. Without hesitation, he triggered the detonator.
The ridge to the south erupted in a cloud of dust and rock, cutting off the remaining attackers escape route and sending the flanking group into disarray. Two more shots rang out from Two’s sniper rifle, clean and precise, taking down two of the remaining figures before they could even react.
Knight Three and his team moved quickly, sweeping through the mine entrance, clearing out the last of the ambushers. Within minutes, the scene was silent again, the only sound the faint ringing of debris settling from the explosion.
Two’s voice came through the comms, steady as always. "Area clear."
Knight Three breathed out slowly, holstering his weapon but keeping his guard up. He knew better than to let his guard down too soon. The enemy may have underestimated them, but that didn’t mean they were out of danger yet.
"Good work," Knight Two replied, his voice steady. "Stay in position for now. I want eyes on the area in case anyone else decides to join the party."
"Copy that," Two said, his voice fading back into the calm professionalism he always maintained under pressure.
One approached Knight Three, his eyes scanning the scattered bodies of the ambushers. "That was too close," Knight One muttered. "We knew it was a trap, but they were ready for more than just a quick deal. This wasn’t some small-time operation."
Knight Three nodded, his mind already racing. "You're right. They knew we were coming. Someone tipped them off—maybe even Manheim himself."
Knight One cursed under his breath, kicking at the dust. "So what now? We track down Manheim and make him pay for setting us up?"
Knight Three thought for a moment, weighing their options. It was tempting to storm back into Hogswaller and make an example out of the slimy trader, but they needed to be smart. If Manheim had already made his move, he could be gone by the time they got back to town. And even if he wasn’t, they were still in hostile territory. Hogswaller might seem like a sleepy village on the surface, but it was filled with cutthroats, informants, and CS sympathizers who would gladly sell them out for a quick credit.
"No," Knight Three said finally. "Manheim’s small-time. He set us up, but there’s a bigger game at play here. We don’t know who the buyer was supposed to be or what they were really after. We stick to the plan—we move the APC, sell it, and get out clean. But we stay one step ahead."
Knight Four, who had been quietly observing the area, stepped forward. "If Manheim’s not the target, where do we go from here? The buyer’s not showing up, that’s for sure. And the longer we hang around, the more attention we’re going to attract."
Knight Three glanced toward the ridge where Two was still perched, his sniper rifle trained on the area. He’d taken care of the immediate threat, but this operation had gone from risky to dangerous. They needed to shift their approach—and fast.
"First, we need to find out if Manheim is still in town," Knight Three said, turning to Knight One. "If he’s there, we make him talk. He’ll know who the buyer was, or at least who they were working for."
"And if he’s gone?" One asked, a hard edge to his voice.
"Then we cut our losses and sell the APC somewhere else," One replied. "There are other buyers—places we can move it in pieces if we have to. But I want to know who’s hunting us first."
He opened the comms channel again. "Two, I need you back here. We’re heading back to Hogswaller to find Manheim. If he’s still there, we’ll get the information we need. If not, we leave and regroup."
"On my way," Two responded, already packing up his gear and descending from the ridge.
As Knight Two joined the team at the mine entrance, Knight Three could see the glint of focus in his eyes. He was ready for whatever came next, and that gave him confidence. They’d weathered worse than this together, and as long as they stayed sharp, they could still come out ahead.
"Let’s move," Knight Three ordered, leading the way back to the APC. The heavy vehicle was parked just beyond the clearing, its engines still quietly humming. They climbed aboard, the steel beast groaning under their weight as they took their positions inside.
The APC rumbled to life once again, kicking up dust as it began to roll back toward Hogswaller. The drive was tense, the familiar hum of the engine underscored by the unspoken urgency of the situation.
Knight Three sat at the controls, his mind already working through how this confrontation with Manheim might go. If the trader was still in town, they’d need to play it carefully. He was slippery, but if they applied the right pressure, they could get him to talk. If he had already bolted, it would confirm that they were up against something bigger than just a botched deal.
As they neared the outskirts of the town, the sun had dipped lower, casting long shadows over the buildings. Hogswaller seemed peaceful, almost indifferent to the danger that had just unfolded at the mine. But Knight Three knew better. This place was a powder keg, and they were about to light the fuse.
Knight Three pulled the APC into a side alley, away from prying eyes. "We go in quiet," he said, turning to his team. "If Manheim’s there, we corner him. If he’s gone, we don’t waste time—search his place and find anything that tells us who he’s working with. We don’t want to attract too much attention."
Two, ever watchful, scanned the surroundings as they exited the APC. He said quietly. "I’ll cover you."
Knight Three nodded. "Good. Let’s move."
They approached Manheim’s Trading Depot cautiously, the building looking just as run-down as it had when they first arrived. The glow from inside indicated the place was still open for business. Knight Three signaled to One and Four to flank the sides of the building, while he and Two moved toward the front entrance.
As they stepped inside, Knight Three’s eyes immediately scanned the room. Manheim was there, standing behind the counter, his slick grin gone, replaced with a look of thinly veiled nervousness. He was clearly shaken, but trying to keep his composure.
"Back so soon?" Manheim said, trying to sound casual but failing miserably. "The buyer must’ve been a no-show, huh? Shame, really."
Knight Three didn’t waste time. He strode forward, his armored boots echoing ominously on the floor. "Cut the act, Manheim. You knew exactly what was waiting for us out there. Now you’re going to tell us who set us up, or we’re going to make sure you never do business in this town—or anywhere else—again."
Manheim’s eyes darted toward the back door, but Knight One was already there, blocking his escape. The trader swallowed hard, realizing his usual charm wasn’t going to save him this time.
"Look, look," Manheim stammered, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. "It wasn’t me, alright? I didn’t set you up! The buyer—he’s bad news, alright? Some big player, way bigger than what I usually deal with. He was paying top credits to take you out, but I didn’t know it was going to be a hit! I thought it was just a standard deal."
Knight Three’s voice was cold. "Who is he?"
"I don’t know!" Manheim said quickly, sweat beading on his forehead. "He doesn’t go by a name, just a code. But he’s connected to something bigger—Coalition black market or maybe even Tolkeen remnants. Whatever he’s involved in, it’s heavy. You weren’t supposed to leave that mine alive."
Knight Three leaned in, his voice low and dangerous. "You better hope for your sake that you're telling the truth."
Manheim gulped, nodding vigorously. "I swear! I didn’t want any part of it. I just facilitated the deal."
Knight Three stood back, exchanging a glance with his team. They had their answer—this wasn’t just about a stolen APC. They were caught with bigger players, and whoever was behind it, they were still out there.
"Get rid of him," Knight Three said quietly to Knight One. "We’re done here."
As Knight One stepped forward, Manheim’s face drained of color. "Wait, wait! I can help! I can—"
But it was too late. Knight Three had already turned and walked out the door, his mind racing with the implications of what they’d just learned.
The game had just gotten bigger. Much bigger.
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darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Hogswaller
The heavy door to Manheim’s Trading Depot slammed shut behind them as the Mystic Knights gathered just outside in the dim light of Hogswaller’s fading evening. The tension in the air had eased, but frustration still simmered beneath the surface.
Knight One leaned against a rusted-out barrel, catching his breath after the tense encounter with Manheim. "You were right about everything," he said, shaking his head. "That mine was a setup, and you called it from the start. If we’d gone in blind, we’d all be dead by now."
Knight Four nodded in agreement, his arms crossed. "You had the right instincts the whole time—spotting the trap, keeping us cool. We’d have walked right into an ambush if it weren’t for your call to let Knight Two take position on the ridge." He gave a slight smile. "You’re an expert at reading people like Manheim. I don’t know how you keep doing it."
Knight Two, perched on the edge of an overturned crate, wiped dust from his sniper rifle. "That was clean work back there." he paused, looking up at him. "But now what?"
The question hung in the air as all eyes turned to Knight Three. He could feel the weight of their expectations pressing down on him. They had walked into a trap, killed several men, and set off explosives, but so far, they were no richer for it.
"We came here to sell that APC," Knight One said, pushing off the barrel and standing upright again. "That’s what we’re here for. Credits or something valuable, something we can use. We're not here for fun or to blow up every ambush thrown our way. We’re Mystic Knights, not some band of amateurs. We kill for pay, not just because."
Knight Four let out a long breath, frustration creeping into his voice. "We’ve risked our necks, taken out the guys trying to kill us, and blown half a canyon apart. But what do we have to show for it? We could’ve stayed away from that mine entirely and saved ourselves the danger. We haven’t made a single credit on this job."
Knight Two, always the sharpest with tactics, added, "If we walk away now, we’ve done all this for free. Not a single credit. No one pays us for killing ambushers. We’re professionals. We get paid for what we do, and so far, we’re working for nothing."
The team fell silent for a moment, each one weighing the situation. They were killers for hire, mercenaries, Mystic Knights who lived by a simple code: they got paid to do their work, and they didn’t risk their lives unless there was something to gain. But tonight, they had walked into danger, killed without compensation, and blown up explosives with no financial reward in sight.
Knight Four glanced back at Manheim’s Trading Depot, his eyes narrowing. "Manheim’s still in there, probably shaking in his boots. We already know he set us up. He might not have paid us, but I’d bet my last credit he’s got a safe in there. And I’ll bet it’s full of credits, valuables—everything we’ve been missing out on so far."
Knight One grinned, the idea sparking something in him. "Manheim’s doesn’t need those credits anymore. After all the trouble he’s put us through, looting that place sounds like fair compensation to me."
Knight Two stood up, his sniper rifle slung over his shoulder. "We’ve earned it," he said firmly.
Everyone turned to Knight Three, waiting for his decision. It was clear they all agreed, Manheim had crossed them, and they deserved payment for the risk they’d taken. But they agreed to follow Knight Three’s lead, they needed him to have the last word on this. He had led them this far, and they trusted him to make the right call.
Knight Three took a moment, looking at each of them. They were right—everything they had done tonight had been for nothing so far. No credits. No reward. Just danger and the smell of explosives in the air. They had killed and risked their lives, and they had nothing to show for it. And the one person responsible for that was Manheim.
"He has a safe," Knight Two said, his voice low and firm. "And I guarantee you it’s full of credits, weapons, and everything else he’s been hoarding. We deserve payment for what we’ve done. If Manheim thought he could set us up and walk away richer, he was wrong."
The team straightened, their focus sharpening. This was what they had been waiting for, Knight Two’s call.
"We keep it quiet," Knight Three continued, his eyes scanning the faces of his team. "Manheim isn’t going anywhere, but we’re not making this messy. We take what’s in the safe, anything of value. No unnecessary noise. We’re out of here with what we’re owed before the town even knows what happened. Like we have said, we don’t like working for free."
Knight One gave a curt nod. "I’ll handle the front. Make sure no one gets in or out without us knowing."
Knight Four cracked his knuckles. "I’ll find that safe. He’ll have hidden it, but not well enough."
Knight Two, always ready, checked her gear one last time. "I’ll keep watch outside, make sure no one gets the jump on us."
Knight Three nodded, satisfied with the plan. "Let’s move."
They moved swiftly, each step silent as they reentered Manheim’s Trading Depot. The door creaked open under the pressure of Knight Three’s boot, and the familiar scent of dust and oil filled the room once more. Manheim was behind the counter, pale and dead.
Knight Four slipped past the counter, his sharp eyes scanning the room for any signs of a hidden compartment or a safe. It didn’t take long before he spotted a rug covering a section of the wooden floor that looked slightly off. He pulled the rug aside, revealing a trapdoor.
"Found it," he said, a smirk on his lips.
Knight One stood near the entrance, his arms crossed, keeping an eye on the door while Knight Two moved outside to secure the perimeter.
Knight Four opened the trapdoor, revealing a small vault. He trades positions with Knight Two.
Knight Two expertly works the lock, his fingers moving quickly as he cracked it open. Inside, the gleam of credits, gemstones, and a few high-end weapons glinted in the dim light.
Knight Three stepped forward, his eyes cold as he surveyed the loot. "This is what we came for."
They gathered the valuables quickly, packing them away into their bags. The entire operation took minutes, and when they were done.
Without another word, Knight Three and the team turned and walked out of Manheim’s depot. They had what they came for. Now, they would leave Hogswaller—richer, alive, and ready for their next job.
As they climbed back into the APC, Knight Three looked over at his team, satisfaction etched on each of their faces.
"We don’t work for free," Knight Three said, his voice steady as the APC rumbled to life. "And now, we don’t leave empty-handed."
The Mystic Knights drove into the night, the gleam of credits in their pockets and the promise of their next mission on the horizon.
---
Town of Hogswaller:
Total Population: 132 permanent residents.
Transient Population: Averaging 35 transient population.
Type & Size of Community: Small Shanty Town
Population Breakdown:
103 humans
21 Psi-Stalkers (human mutants)
6 Bursters (human mutants)
2 Zappers (human mutants)
A. Weapons and Armor: Limited. 5 points.
B. Medicine: Very Good. 15 points.
C. Agriculture and Natural Resources: Good 15 points
D. Real Estate / Land: Fine 5 points.
E. Vehicles & Fuel: Live Animals. 2 points
F. Administration: Slight. 5 points.
G. Alignment: Mixed: Anarchist & Unprincipled. 4 points.
H. Magic: None. 0 points.
I. Racial Tolerance: Disapproving & Suspicious. 1 points.
J. Trade: Established Trade. 10 points.
K. Threats: Relatively Safe. 20 points.
L. Professionalism: Law & Defense: Sheriff & Deputy 12 points
M. The Community Overall: Skilled. 10 points.
N. Shelter: Good. 7 points.
O. Security: None.
P. Power: Low. 6 points.
Q. Special Features: Roads 4 points.
Town Layout:
The town is laid out around the central square where the well sits. Most of the key establishments are within walking distance of each other, making the town compact and easy to navigate, even for a first-time visitor. The roads are little more than dirt paths, often muddy and rutted from the wagons and foot traffic, giving the whole town a rough, uncivilized feel.
Places of Note:
1. The Town Well (Town Square)
Located at the town’s center, this well provides an unlimited supply of fresh water free of charge to both residents and visitors. The well is situated in a shabby park that doubles as the town square, with a small, stagnant duck pond beside it. Many of Hogswaller’s prominent establishments line the square, making it the social and commercial heart of the town.
2. Hogs Heaven: The Rowdiest Bar in Hogswaller
Hogs Heaven is the beating heart of Hogswaller’s. It is a raucous, smoky dive where both locals and travelers gather to drink, trade stories, and blow off steam. Situated just off the main square, the bar’s rough-hewn exterior is a familiar sight to anyone passing through town. A faded wooden sign above the entrance depicts a laughing hog holding a bottle of moonshine, hinting at the chaotic energy that awaits inside.
Though far from fancy, Hogs Heaven has a certain charm that appeals to the rough-and-tumble crowd that frequents Hogswaller. Whether you're a mercenary looking to spend your newly earned credits, a trader wrapping up a deal, or a drifter passing through, Hogs Heaven offers cheap, strong drinks and a lively atmosphere that’s equal parts rowdy and welcoming; as long as you know how to handle yourself.
The outside of Hogs Heaven is simple, almost unremarkable, except for the weather-beaten sign swinging in the breeze. The building itself is constructed from aged timber, its gray planks weathered by years of desert winds and storms. A few broken windows have been patched with cloth or wood, and the door creaks loudly as patrons come and go.
At night, a dim glow spills out from the windows, accompanied by the loud, muffled sound of shouting, laughter, and clinking glasses. Those familiar with the bar know that once inside, the rules of decorum are loose at best, Hogs Heaven is a place for hard drinks and hard talk.
Stepping inside Hogs Heaven is like entering a different world. The interior is dimly lit, with low-hanging oil lamps casting a flickering glow over the mismatched tables and chairs. The walls are grimy from years of smoke and neglect, adorned with old wanted posters, makeshift signs advertising prices, and a few crooked shelves holding dusty bottles. The air is thick with the smell of alcohol, sweat, and fried food.
The Bar: The long, wooden bar dominates one side of the room, its surface stained with spilled drinks and chipped from countless bar fights. Behind the bar, a motley assortment of bottles sits on crude shelves—most of them filled with moonshine, corn whiskey, and a few imported beers from the Chi-Town 'Burbs.
The bartender, a burly man with a scar running across his cheek, serves drinks with a gruff efficiency, his thick arms moving with practiced ease as he pours shots or fills mugs. A couple of barmaids move between tables, dodging outstretched hands and dealing out drinks to rowdy customers.
The Seating: The tables and chairs are a mismatched collection of furniture—some are solid, while others look like they could fall apart with one good shove. Most are stained with old beer and grease, and the chairs creak dangerously under the weight of patrons. At any given time, half of the tables are covered in spilled drinks and scattered cards from games of chance. It’s not uncommon for patrons to start gambling over a hand of cards or to arm wrestle for a few extra credits.
The Stage: In one corner, a small, uneven stage sits unused most nights, though occasionally a wandering musician or performer will entertain the crowd for a drink or two. More often than not, the stage serves as an impromptu platform for bar fights or impassioned speeches from inebriated adventurers.
The primary draw of Hogs Heaven is it's cheap but potent alcohol. The bar offers a variety of local brews, including the infamous moonshine and corn whiskey that has become a staple of Hogswaller.
Moonshine: The moonshine served at Hogs Heaven is locally made and known for its strength. It’s not for the faint of heart—one sip is enough to burn a hole through even the most seasoned drinker’s throat. Patrons come for the moonshine when they want to forget their troubles, even if only for a night.
Price: 1-2 credits per shot
Corn Whiskey: A bit smoother than the moonshine, but still packing a punch, corn whiskey is another local favorite. Served in small mugs, it’s the drink of choice for those looking to relax without immediately blacking out.
Price: 2-3 credits per mug
Imported Beer: For those who prefer something lighter, Hogs Heaven carries imported beer—a rare treat in these parts, brought in from the Chi-Town 'Burbs. The beer is far more expensive than the local liquor, but travelers from afar tend to splurge on it.
Price: 3-4 credits per pint
Though alcohol is the main attraction, Hogs Heaven also offers a small menu of simple bar food, most of which is designed to keep patrons drinking for longer. The food is greasy, spicy, and heavily salted, perfect for pairing with strong liquor.
Spicy Jerked Meats: The bar’s most famous food offering is its Spicy jerked meats—thin strips of pork or beef, dried and heavily seasoned. The spice hits hard, prompting patrons to order more drinks to quench their burning tongues.
Price: 3-5 credits per serving
Potato Skins: A local favorite, the potato skins are fried to a crisp and loaded with a salty blend of cheese, bacon, and green onions. They’re cheap and filling, a perfect snack for hungry adventurers.
Price: 2-4 credits per plate
Popcorn: For those looking for something light, popcorn is served in small bowls, often over-salted to encourage more drinking. The crunch of popcorn can be heard between gulps of whiskey and bursts of laughter.
Price: 2 credits per bowl
Clientele:
The crowd at Hogs Heaven is as rough as the bar itself. It’s a rowdy mix of locals, mercenaries, drifters, and adventurers, most of whom come looking to unwind after a long day of dangerous work or travel. The bar attracts those who thrive on risk and chaos, and the clientele reflects this. There’s a constant hum of tension in the air, as if a fight could break out at any moment—and often, it does.
Locals: Many of Hogswaller’s farmers, woodsmen, and pig farmers frequent Hogs Heaven after a hard day’s work. They sit at the bar nursing moonshine or whiskey, their conversation blending into the general din of the room. While they tend to keep to themselves, they’re not above throwing a punch if someone gets too rowdy.
Mercenaries and Drifters: Mercenaries and adventurers passing through Hogswaller often find their way to Hogs Heaven, seeking a cheap drink and a rowdy atmosphere. These patrons are usually the ones instigating trouble, whether it’s through gambling, fistfights, or loud boasts about their exploits. For them, Hogs Heaven offers a brief reprieve from the dangerous work that waits outside the town.
Gangs and Smugglers: Hogswaller’s reputation as a haven for bandits, smugglers, and fugitives ensures that more than a few unsavory characters frequent Hogs Heaven. Deals are often made in the shadowy corners of the bar, where black market traders and criminals can conduct their business away from prying eyes.
The atmosphere inside is always tense but lively. The bar’s rough clientele keeps things unpredictable—one moment, there’s laughter and storytelling, and the next, a brawl might break out over a spilled drink or a cheating hand of cards.
Noise: The sound of raised voices, clinking glasses, and shouts from the card tables fills the room. The occasional sound of a chair being knocked over or a bottle smashing against the wall is just part of the ambiance at Hogs Heaven. On particularly busy nights, the noise level is almost deafening.
Fights: Fights are common. The place is no stranger to the occasional bar brawl. The bar’s regulars know that any fight is usually allowed to play out for a few minutes before the bartender steps in—though he’s only concerned if property gets damaged or someone’s about to get seriously hurt. Most nights, the brawls end with bruised egos and a few lost credits, though occasionally, more serious violence breaks out.
Bartender’s Authority: The bartender, Big George, is a towering figure who doesn’t tolerate nonsense for long. While fights are a regular occurrence, anyone who takes it too far—breaking furniture, damaging the bar, or drawing a weapon—finds themselves on the receiving end of George’s fist or thrown out into the street. For all its roughness, Hogs Heaven has a code of conduct, and Big George makes sure it’s followed.
3. The Shower House
A much-needed facility for weary, dusty travelers looking to freshen up. For only 2 credits or a fair trade, visitors can enjoy a quick wash, making it an essential stop for anyone who’s been on the road or in the wilderness for too long.
4. Miss Sally’s Brothel
Miss Sally’s is the town brothel, housing a dozen women who offer their services at reasonable prices. Though the establishment is a bit rundown, half of the ladies have a reputation for their looks, making it a frequent stop for adventurers looking for some comfort.
5. Doc Summers Clinic
From the outside, the 2 story building’s modest charm and simple construction create a sense of familiarity and trust that fits seamlessly into the town. Positioned on the edge of the town square, it occupies a place that is both central enough to be easily accessible and slightly tucked away, giving it a sense of quiet dignity amid the town’s chaos.
The clinic’s wooden facade is worn and weather-beaten, the once-vibrant timber now faded to a muted, grayish-brown from years of exposure to the elements. The planks creak softly in the wind, adding to the building's rustic charm. The wood is interspersed with patches of rough-hewn stone, a mix of local materials used to reinforce the structure. The stones have become darkened over time, their surfaces chipped and cracked, but they lend a certain solidity to the otherwise simple structure, making the clinic feel sturdy despite its modest appearance.
The roof is pitched at a steep angle, covered in rusted tin panels that clatter slightly in the wind. In places, moss and lichen have taken root, giving the roof an earthy, aged look. The tin is speckled with signs of wear—small dents, patches of rust, and a few missing or hastily patched spots where the roof has been damaged by storms or falling debris.
The windows are small and simple, with thin glass panes that are slightly warped from age. The frames are made of weathered wood, with several coats of paint now flaking off, revealing layers of pale blue, gray, and white beneath. The clinic’s front windows are often kept half-open, allowing fresh air to flow in, though simple wooden shutters can be drawn to close them during heavy rains or cold nights.
A small front porch extends from the entrance, its wooden planks scuffed and uneven from years of foot traffic. The porch is sheltered by a sloping overhang, providing shade during the hotter months and protection from rain. A few rough-hewn wooden benches line the porch, offering a place for patients to wait when the clinic is busy. The porch posts, though worn and rough to the touch, are still solid and sturdy, marked with the nicks and scratches of passing boots and bags.
Shingle Sign: Hanging above the porch entrance is a small, wooden shingle sign, swaying slightly in the breeze.
It reads “Doc Summers – Medical Services” in faded black lettering, its edges softened by time.
Behind the clinic, a narrow side yard opens up to a small shed where additional medical supplies and tools are stored. The shed is built from the same weathered wood and stone as the main building, with a sagging roof and crooked door. Beyond the shed is a small garden, where Amelia grows herbs used in her treatments. The plants, though modest, are carefully tended, their medicinal properties hidden beneath their simple appearances.
The front door opens into the clinic, visitors find themselves in a cozy, low-lit waiting room that smells faintly of herbs and disinfectant. Upon entering the clinic a bell rings softly, a subtle, calming sound that contrasts with the wooden floors creak underfoot.
The room is furnished with a few rough-hewn chairs are positioned along the walls for patients to sit on while they wait. The furniture is simple but functional: sturdy tables hold stacks of old medical journals, herbal remedies, and bandages.
A small reception desk sits near the entrance, where either Doc Summers or his wife Amelia can often be found organizing patient records or speaking with those waiting for treatment. The desk is cluttered with worn papers and medical logs, though everything is surprisingly well-organized despite the clinic’s humble appearance.
To the right of the waiting room is the examination room, where the Doc treats his patients. The room is small but well-stocked, containing a mixture of modern medical tools and salvaged supplies. A sturdy wooden examination table sits in the center, while shelves along the walls hold jars of herbs, salves, and medical supplies. Some of these items are common in any frontier town, but others, especially the advanced medical equipment.
The main examination room is located just off the waiting area, accessible through a narrow wooden door. This room, though small, is the heart of the clinic. It houses a central examination table, along with shelves filled with medical supplies, everything from bandages and salves to more advanced Coalition medical equipment, cleverly disguised among the more primitive tools. The room is always kept neat, though the surfaces show the wear of countless treatments, the wood scarred from sharp instruments and the occasional bloodstain.
A set of narrow, well-worn stairs lead up to the second floor, which contains the family’s two small bedrooms and a common area. These rooms are modest and functional, with just enough space for Doc Summers, Amelia, and their “nephew” and his wife to live comfortably. Each of the rooms is sparsely furnished, with simple beds, wooden trunks for clothing, and a few personal items carefully placed to give the appearance of a typical small-town family. The second floor is private and off-limits to patients.
At first glance, Doc Summers is the picture of a small-town doctor. Fit and strong for a man in his fifties, his salt-and-pepper beard gives him a distinguished appearance, and his piercing blue eyes convey a mixture of wisdom and experience. He’s soft-spoken and calm under pressure, his voice soothing to those who come to him for care. Locals and travelers alike respect him, grateful for his medical expertise and willingness to help anyone who walks through his door.
Doc Summers wife plays the role of a dutiful healer and assistant. She moves through the clinic with quiet efficiency, always calm and composed, even in the face of the worst injuries. Her reputation as a healer is unmatched, and while she tends to the sick and injured, she’s constantly gathering information, overheard conversations, whispered rumors, and any stray words.
Amelia Summers is a striking woman in her early forties, though her composed and serene demeanor makes her appear ageless. Her appearance is one of understated elegance, carefully cultivated to blend in with the rugged town while still maintaining an air of quiet authority. Her hair is a deep auburn, falling just past her shoulders in soft, controlled waves. She often keeps it tied back in a neat bun or braid while working in the clinic, though a few loose strands tend to escape, framing her face. When down, it shimmers in the light, reflecting hints of red.
Her eyes are a captivating shade of hazel, shifting between green and brown depending on the light. There’s a quiet intensity in her gaze, as if she’s always reading between the lines, sensing more than what’s said aloud. Her complexion is fair, with a few faint freckles across her cheeks and nose. Her skin is smooth but shows subtle signs of her age and experience, such as fine lines around her eyes and mouth, which only add to her air of wisdom and maturity. She is of average height and has a slender build, though she carries herself with confidence. Years of working in the field and honing her psychic abilities have given her a graceful, controlled poise, and there’s a subtle strength to her movements that belies her delicate frame. Amelia dresses in simple, practical clothing suited to her role in the clinic. She often wears skirts with blouses, paired with a long apron during her work hours. Her clothing is always neat and well-kept, though not overly fashionable—designed to be both functional and non-intrusive. Despite this simplicity, there’s something elegant about the way she carries herself.
Her voice is soft and measured, with a calming quality that instantly puts patients at ease. There’s a quiet confidence in the way she speaks, and she can convey authority without ever raising her voice. Amelia rarely needs to speak much to command respect; her presence alone tends to do that.
The “Nephew”
Living upstairs with Doc and Amelia is their "nephew," William, and his "wife," Glenna. On the surface, they appear to be a young couple who moved in with the doctor to help with the clinic’s workload. William often assists Doc Summers with medical procedures and clinic management, while Glenna helps Amelia with the more mundane aspects of running a medical practice, such as cleaning and tending to minor injuries.
6. Worchefski’s Boarding House: The Heart of Hogswaller’s Hospitality
Worchefski’s Boarding House is the largest building in Hogswaller and stands as a central hub for travelers, drifters, and traders who find themselves staying in the town for more than just a quick stop. This sprawling structure dominates one side of the town square, its wooden facade weathered but sturdy. The building is a bit ramshackle, a product of years of patchwork repairs and additions, but it’s one of the few places in Hogswaller that offers an actual roof over your head for the night.
The boarding house has 30 rooms for rent, each available at 40 credits per night, though the proprietor, Mrs. Irina Worchefski, is known to accept fair trade in the form of goods, labor, or information if credits are hard to come by.
Despite its well-used appearance, Worchefski’s is a bustling hub of activity, serving as a meeting place for travelers passing through, mercenaries looking for jobs, and adventurers needing a temporary base. Its high occupancy makes it a natural gathering point for those looking to lay low, gather information, or make deals.
The Building:
Worchefski’s Boarding House is a three-story wooden structure, built in a haphazard fashion over the years. It looks as though parts of the building were added as needed, with mismatched sections jutting out at odd angles. The paint has long since faded, leaving the wood a dull, weathered gray. The windows are small and often covered with mismatched curtains, and the roof is patched with a variety of materials, from old tin sheets to wooden planks.
The front porch is wide, with a few creaky rocking chairs and an old bench where locals and visitors alike can sit and watch the daily happenings in the square. A large, faded sign hangs above the front door, reading “Worchefski’s Boarding House” in crooked letters, with the price—40 credits per night—painted beneath it.
Inside, the boarding house has a rough but cozy feel. The floors are made of worn wooden planks, and the walls are adorned with faded wallpaper that’s peeling in places. The air smells faintly of dust, old wood, and cooking from the kitchen. Despite the building's age and the obvious wear and tear, there’s a sense of comfort in its well-used furniture and the friendly bustle of its guests.
Rooms:
The rooms at Worchefski’s Boarding House are simple and basic, but they provide what most travelers need—shelter, privacy, and a bed to sleep in.
Size and Layout: Each room is small, typically just large enough for a single bed, a small dresser, and a rough-hewn wooden chair. A narrow window in each room lets in a little light during the day, though the glass is often cloudy with age. The walls are thin, and guests can sometimes hear the movements and conversations of their neighbors, though most people at the boarding house aren’t looking for luxury or quiet—just a place to rest.
Amenities: The furnishings are simple but sturdy, with a thin mattress on the bed and a couple of well-worn blankets provided. A small basin of water for washing is placed in each room, along with a chipped mirror hanging on the wall. There’s no running water, but the boarding house has a communal washroom on each floor, equipped with a bucket and a ladle for guests who need more than a quick rinse.
Security: There’s little in the way of security beyond a basic lock on each door, which is more symbolic than effective. Most guests know better than to leave anything valuable unattended, as the boarding house sees a steady stream of visitors, some less trustworthy than others. Mrs. Worchefski does, however, offer a small lockbox service behind the front desk for guests to store valuables—though even this service comes with a degree of risk in a town like Hogswaller.
The Common Area:
The common room of the boarding house is a large, open space on the ground floor, complete with a mismatched collection of chairs, tables, and benches where travelers can sit, eat, or talk. A large stone fireplace dominates one wall, and though it only sees use in the colder months, the hearth is a favorite spot for visitors looking to dry off or warm up after a long journey.
Social Hub: The common area is where most of the boarding house’s action takes place. It’s where dealings are made, rumors are shared, and connections are forged. At any given time, there might be adventurers, mercenaries, traders, and even a few drifters lingering here, sharing stories of the road or negotiating their next job. Mrs. Worchefski tolerates most activities as long as they don’t involve outright violence in her establishment.
Food and Drink: Worchefski’s Boarding House doesn’t offer a full kitchen, but Mrs. Worchefski is known to prepare a simple stew or bread and cheese for guests in the evening for a small fee or trade. Most travelers bring their own provisions, but the smell of cooking often draws a crowd to the common room at night. Mrs. Worchefski also keeps a stash of moonshine and cheap corn whiskey, which she’ll sell in small quantities to those who ask—though she’s quick to warn patrons not to get too rowdy.
Mrs. Irina Worchefski:
The boarding house is run by Mrs. Irina Worchefski, a tough, no-nonsense woman in her late fifties. She’s tall and broad-shouldered, with graying hair tied back in a tight bun and sharp, hawk-like eyes that miss nothing. Mrs. Worchefski has been running the boarding house for years, and in that time, she’s seen all manner of travelers come through her doors.
Personality: Mrs. Worchefski is stern but fair. She expects her guests to pay their way, whether it’s with credits, trade goods, or services. She doesn’t tolerate freeloaders or troublemakers in her establishment and has been known to throw out those who cross her. That said, she’s willing to strike a deal with almost anyone, and those who treat her fairly find that she’s loyal and discreet, never one to gossip about what happens within the walls of her boarding house.
Negotiations: While 40 credits is the standard rate for a room, Mrs. Worchefski is open to bartering. Travelers without credits often strike deals with her, offering to repair the building, help with chores, or trade weapons, ammo, or gear in exchange for their stay. She has a keen eye for value and knows when someone is trying to cheat her—most who try find themselves sleeping in the streets.
Clientele:
Worchefski’s Boarding House draws a wide variety of visitors. It’s the only place in town where you can reliably rent a room for more than a night, making it popular with mercenaries, traders, and adventurers who are staying for extended periods to rest, resupply, or conduct business.
Mercenaries and Adventurers: Many of the long-term guests at the boarding house are mercenaries or adventurers who use Hogswaller as a staging ground for their next job. They come and go as they please, often discussing potential contracts or trading information in the common room.
Traders and Drifters: Traders who stop in Hogswaller to barter their goods frequently stay at Worchefski’s, as it offers them the space they need to store their wares while they work out deals in town. Drifters also pass through, though they tend to stay only for a night or two, paying with whatever goods or services they can muster before moving on.
Travelers of All Kinds: The boarding house sees its fair share of questionable characters as well—bandits, smugglers, and black market dealers who use Hogswaller’s reputation as a frontier town to hide in plain sight. Mrs. Worchefski doesn’t ask too many questions, but she’s always aware of the dangers these types bring with them.
Reputation:
Worchefski’s Boarding House has a reputation as the best—and only—long-term lodging in Hogswaller. Though the rooms are basic and the amenities few, travelers know that Mrs. Worchefski’s discretion is worth the price. Guests can conduct their business without fear of prying eyes or gossip, making it an ideal place for low-profile dealings and underground transactions.
Unspoken Rules: While Worchefski’s is generally peaceful, there are unspoken rules among its guests—don’t start trouble inside, mind your business, and respect Mrs. Worchefski’s authority. Those who break these rules quickly find themselves on the street, often with more than just a bruised ego to show for it.
7. The Jailhouse and Barbershop of Hogswaller is an unassuming, modest building nestled along the main road that runs through the center of town. It’s a dual-purpose structure—part jailhouse, part barbershop—reflecting the rustic, no-nonsense nature of Hogswaller itself. The squat wooden building leans slightly, its planks weathered by years of harsh elements. A faded sign hangs above the door, reading "Jail & Barber," with a rusty pair of scissors painted beneath. To an outsider, it’s a strange combination, but to the locals, it’s just part of the town’s charm.
The building is small and simple, with a porch out front where a few mismatched chairs sit, offering a place for the town’s elders or loafers to watch the comings and goings. Dust collects on the wooden steps, and the door creaks ominously when pushed open, leading into the combined space of law enforcement and grooming.
Constable Jake McFadden, the man responsible for both running the jail and cutting hair, has made this strange arrangement work for years.
The Barbershop:
The barbershop occupies the front of the building, nearest the street. It’s a rough and ready operation, more functional than stylish. A single barber’s chair stands in the center of the room, upholstered in worn leather that’s cracked with age. The chair looks like it’s been there as long as the building itself, with a footrest that squeaks when adjusted and armrests polished smooth by years of use.
Barber’s Tools: The tools of Jake’s trade are hung neatly on the wall—a straight razor, shears, a few battered combs, and a strop for sharpening the blade. They’re old and well-worn, much like Jake himself, but they get the job done. A small cracked mirror hangs above the chair, and a rough wooden shelf holds a few bottles of cheap aftershave and tonic. The floor is covered in sawdust, a traditional method for absorbing the loose hairs that Jake sweeps up at the end of each day.
Jake McFadden at Work: When not tending to the jailhouse’s rare inmates, Jake McFadden can often be found trimming hair in this part of the building. He’s a grizzled, ornery old man in his early sixties, with wiry gray hair that sticks out from beneath a battered hat. His face is lined with the wear of years spent in the sun and wind, and he always seems to have a toothpick or unlit cigar clamped between his teeth. He’s not particularly talkative when working, preferring the steady snip of the shears and the sound of his blade against the strop to conversation.
Jake has a reputation for being intimidating, especially with younger men or drifters passing through town. He enjoys making visitors and cocky young adventurers nervous, whether by offering a particularly close shave with his straight razor or by fixing them with a hard stare during a haircut. Locals know to keep things civil when sitting in Jake’s chair—his hands are as steady as they come, but no one wants to test how steady they’ll stay if provoked.
Clientele: Jake’s customers are a mix of locals and travelers. Locals come in for a quick trim or shave, knowing that Jake’s work is reliable if not fancy. Travelers, especially the more young and reckless types, often find themselves unsettled by Jake’s gruff manner and sharp tools, particularly when they realize that the man cutting their hair is also the town’s lawman.
The Jailhouse occupies the back half of the building, a modest space with only a few cells that are used primarily for drunkards, troublemakers, or anyone passing through who needs to cool off for a night. The jail is not built for long-term incarceration—it’s more of a holding area, a place for Jake to keep the peace without too much hassle.
The Cells: There are three iron-barred cells, each barely large enough to hold a person comfortably. The bars are slightly rusted, but still solid. The wooden floors creak, and the small windows high up on the walls let in very little light, giving the space a dim, claustrophobic feel. The cells are often occupied by local drunks or brawlers who’ve gotten out of hand after a night at Hogs Heaven. If someone causes a serious enough disturbance, Jake will toss them in a cell for the night to sober up. He’ll let them out the next morning with a gruff warning, but rarely has to deal with more serious offenses.
Lawkeeping: Jake is more than just the town’s barber—he’s also the Constable and the de facto "keeper of order" in Hogswaller. Though semi-retired from a long life of chasing bounties and enforcing the law, Jake still has a sharp eye for trouble. His time working for the Coalition States as a bounty hunter has given him an edge, and while he’s slower now, his reputation keeps most people in line.
Jake’s law enforcement style is rough around the edges—he’s not above intimidating visitors or young toughs who think they can waltz into Hogswaller and stir up trouble. He has a low tolerance for nonsense and prefers to handle problems with a glare and a few well-chosen threats before it comes to actual arrest.
The Deputies: Assisting Jake are his two "deputies," though calling them deputies is generous. They are little more than saloon bums, locals who spend most of their time in Hogs Heaven or lounging around town. Jake keeps them around more as informants than actual lawmen. They help him keep an ear to the ground, listening for gossip, potential trouble, or anything that might interest Jake. While not particularly reliable in a crisis, they know enough to pass on useful information, and Jake uses them to keep tabs on drifters or mercenaries passing through town.
Interrogations and Intimidation: Jake’s approach to law enforcement often blurs the lines between justice and intimidation. He’s not above throwing a troublemaker into a cell for the night just to scare them into behaving. The fact that his barbershop is right next to the jailhouse allows him to maintain a constant presence, casually reminding people of the consequences of stepping out of line. Sometimes, as he trims a visitor’s hair, he’ll casually mention the nearby cells or recount a violent story from his bounty hunting days, letting the implication hang in the air.
The Atmosphere: The dual-purpose nature of the jailhouse and barbershop gives the place a strange but fitting ambiance for a town like Hogswaller. The juxtaposition of cutting hair and maintaining the law speaks to the rough practicality of the place. Visitors often feel uneasy as they sit in the barber chair, aware that just a few feet away are the cells where Jake might throw them if they step out of line.
The sound of snipping shears blends with the occasional clink of iron bars, creating an atmosphere of tension and order. Jake runs the place with a firm hand, and the townsfolk know better than to cause too much trouble within its walls. The combination of grooming and lawkeeping reflects the town’s overall ethos—survival and civility coexist, but just barely.
Jake’s Past:
Though Jake McFadden doesn’t talk about it much, his past as a Coalition bounty hunter is well known around town. He’s a man who’s seen a lot of violence, and while he’s semi-retired, he’s not fully out of the game. There are rumors that Jake sometimes still takes contracts on the side, using his barbershop as a front for Coalition Military work or bounty hunting gigs. His ties to the Coalition States give him a certain authority in town, and though most people respect him, there are those who steer clear, knowing that Jake’s loyalty ultimately lies with himself and his old employers.
Jake (The Constable)
Bounty Hunter O.C.C.:
Basic Math: 98%
Radio: Basic: 98%
Surveillance Systems: 75%
Intelligence: 83%
Tracking: 80%
Land Navigation: 78%
Wilderness Survival: 85%
Detect Ambush: 80%
Climbing: 80% / 70%
Running
W.P. Energy Pistol: +5
W.P. Energy Rifle: +4
W.P. Handgun: +4
Hand to Hand: Expert
6 attacks/actions per melee
Karate Kick 2D6 damage.
+2 to strike
+3 to parry and dodge
+3 to disarm
Critical Strike on an unmodified roll of 18+
W.P. Paired Weapons
Body flip/throw
Even a bad apple pie is tolerable but a good one is heaven
O.C.C. Related Skills:
Detect Concealment: 70%
Field Armorer: 85%
Basic: Mechanics: 75%
Interrogation: 75%
Pilot: Hover-vehicles
Pilot: Motorcycles
Prowl: 65%
Streetwise: 60%
3rd Level:
Find Contraband: 50%
Recognise Weapon Quality: 60%
6th Level:
Whittling & Sculpting (hair Pro): 60%
9th Level:
Roadwise (Hogswaller): 26%
Secondary Skills:
Horsemanship: General: 72%/52%
Law: 75%
Lore: Demons and Monsters: 65%
Lore: Magic: 65%
8. Manheim's Trading Depot: Manheim specializes in used weapons, ammunition, electronics, and various adventuring gear. The depot also doubles as a hub for gambling, and he's known to coordinate high-stakes card games for the town’s visitors, particularly Coalition troopers, whom he deceives and fleeces at every opportunity.
9. Billy Bob's Garage: The town’s main mechanical and repair shop, looks more like a dilapidated barn than a professional repair facility.
10. Miller's Farm: The Backbone of Hogswaller's Agriculture
Located on the outskirts of Hogswaller, Miller’s Farm is by far the largest and most productive farm in the region, covering several acres of fertile land. The sprawling farm compound is a patchwork of fields, barns, and pens where pigs, chickens, cows, sheep, and even a few horses are raised alongside a variety of crops. The farm is essential to the town’s economy, supplying a large portion of fresh meat, produce, and preserved goods that are sold or traded in Hogswaller.
Despite the seemingly idyllic pastoral setting, the farm hides a dark truth: it is worked by 30 D-Bee slaves, who are treated as little more than tools to be used and discarded. The Miller family—a powerful, well-established clan in the region—runs the farm with an iron fist, showing outward friendliness to visitors, especially Coalition soldiers, but harboring a deep allegiance to the Coalition States' human supremacist ideologies.
The Farm Compound:
Miller’s Farm is a sprawling compound, divided into various sections, each dedicated to a different aspect of the farm’s operation. While the buildings and structures are practical and functional, there is an air of oppression that lingers over the property, particularly when it comes to the treatment of the workers.
Main Farmhouse: The main farmhouse sits at the center of the compound. It’s a large, sturdy structure built from heavy timbers, with a wraparound porch that overlooks the fields and animal pens. The house is well-kept, a testament to the Miller family's wealth and influence in the town. Visitors, especially Coalition sympathizers and officials, are often invited to stay for meals, where the Millers play the part of gracious hosts.
Fields and Animal Pens: The land surrounding the farmhouse is divided into crop fields and animal pens. The fields grow a variety of staple crops—corn, wheat, and vegetables—which are worked by the D-Bee slaves. The animal pens are filled with livestock: pigs snorting in the dirt, cows grazing in the nearby pastures, and chickens pecking at the ground. These animals are raised both for the farm’s own use and for trade or sale in Hogswaller.
The Barns: Several large barns dot the landscape, their red paint faded by years of sun and rain. These barns serve as storage for tools, hay, and farming equipment, as well as shelter for the farm's livestock during harsh weather. The barns are also where much of the manual labor occurs, with the D-Bees often forced to work late into the night feeding animals, cleaning stalls, and repairing equipment.
Slaughterhouse and Smokehouse: At the edge of the compound lies the slaughterhouse and smokehouse, the heart of the farm’s meat production. The slaughterhouse is a grim building, reeking of blood and death, where pigs and other livestock are butchered. The smokehouse, located nearby, is used to preserve the meat, with thick slabs of pork and beef hung on hooks, slowly cured over smoky fires. These preserved meats are a major source of income for the farm, traded frequently in town or sold to passing traders and visitors.
Miller’s Farm prides itself on its self-sufficiency and diversity of production. The farm raises a wide range of livestock and grows several crops, ensuring that the Millers can provide for themselves and supply a significant portion of Hogswaller’s food supply.
Pigs: The farm’s largest source of income comes from its pig population. Dozens of pigs roam the muddy pens, fattened up for eventual slaughter. The pork produced on the farm is a local staple, known for its quality and often sold or traded in Hogswaller’s trading post.
Chickens: The farm raises chickens, both for meat and eggs. The chicken coops are crowded and poorly maintained, but they produce a steady supply of eggs that are sold to local traders and families. Chickens are also butchered regularly and used for the farm’s own consumption or sold for a quick profit.
Cows and Sheep: The farm also raises a small number of cows and sheep. The cows are used for milk and beef, while the sheep provide wool and mutton. These animals are grazed in the pastures surrounding the farm, though they too are often subjected to harsh treatment at the hands of the Millers and the D-Bee slaves tasked with caring for them.
Horses: Though primarily a livestock farm, the Millers also keep a few horses, which are used for both transportation and occasional trading. The horses are treated better than most of the other animals on the farm, as the Millers see them as valuable assets.
Crops: The fields around the farm grow a variety of crops, mostly basic staples like corn, wheat, and vegetables. These crops are harvested by the D-Bee slaves, often under brutal conditions, and much of the produce is used to feed both the farm’s animals and the Miller family itself. The surplus is traded in town or sold to passing merchants.
The farm’s dark secret is its reliance on D-Bee slaves, who make up the bulk of the labor force. These non-human beings are captured or purchased from slavers, forced to work the fields, tend to the livestock, and maintain the farm under brutal conditions. The Millers treat their D-Bee workers as disposable tools, punishing them harshly for even the smallest mistakes.
Conditions: The D-Bees on Miller’s Farm live in squalid conditions. They sleep in cramped shacks near the fields, with little protection from the elements. Their clothing is ragged, and they are fed just enough to keep them alive and working. The Millers believe that fear and pain are the best motivators, and they enforce their authority with whips, chains, and constant threats.
Workload: The D-Bees are forced to work from sunrise to sunset, toiling in the fields, caring for the animals, and processing meat in the slaughterhouse. The most grueling tasks—plowing the fields, slaughtering the livestock, and hauling heavy loads—are reserved for the D-Bees, who receive no thanks or respite for their efforts.
Harsh Treatment: The Millers are cruel and ruthless in their treatment of the D-Bees. If a worker slows down or makes a mistake, they are beaten without hesitation. Escaping is nearly impossible, as the D-Bees are closely watched by the family and their Coalition sympathizer friends. Over time, the D-Bees have become broken, resigned to their fate as little more than livestock themselves.
Coalition Ties: The Millers are staunch supporters of the Coalition States, aligning themselves with the human supremacist ideologies that dominate the Coalition’s philosophy. They view the D-Bees as subhuman, treating them with disdain and cruelty. Coalition soldiers and visitors who pass through Hogswaller often stop by Miller’s Farm, where the Millers proudly show off their operation. Many Coalition sympathizers turn a blind eye to the slave labor, either out of shared beliefs or simple indifference.
The Miller family is one of the most powerful families in Hogswaller, thanks to their wealth and connections with the Coalition States. They are outwardly friendly to visitors, always putting on a welcoming face for travelers and Coalition soldiers, but behind their smiles lies a ruthless drive for control and profit.
Jebediah Miller: The patriarch of the family, Jebediah is a tall, imposing man in his fifties. His face is weathered by years of working the farm, but his eyes are sharp and calculating. He runs the farm with an iron fist, overseeing both the D-Bee slaves and the farm’s operations with equal parts efficiency and cruelty. Jebediah is a shrewd businessman, always looking for ways to expand his influence, particularly with the Coalition military.
Martha Miller: Jebediah’s wife, Martha, is just as ruthless as her husband, though she hides it behind a veneer of charm and hospitality. She is the one who often entertains Coalition visitors, offering them hearty meals and pleasant conversation while maintaining the appearance of a proper farmwife. Behind closed doors, however, she is just as willing as Jebediah to enforce brutal punishments on the D-Bee slaves.
The Miller Children: The Millers have three children, all raised to carry on the family’s supremacist views and harsh management of the farm. The oldest, Isaac, is already heavily involved in running the farm alongside his father, learning how to control the workers and maximize profits. The younger siblings, Lydia and Caleb, are still teenagers but have been indoctrinated into the family’s belief system, showing little empathy for the D-Bees or anyone they see as beneath them.
Visitors and Trade:
Despite the dark undercurrent of the farm’s operation, Miller’s Farm is a major hub for trade in Hogswaller. Visitors often stop by to purchase fresh produce or preserved meats, and traders frequently strike deals with Jebediah to buy large quantities of pork, beef, or wool for transport to other towns.
Coalition Soldiers: Coalition soldiers and officials frequently visit the farm, finding common ground with the Millers due to their shared anti-D-Bee sentiment. These visits are often treated as opportunities for the Millers to strengthen their ties with the Coalition, offering food, hospitality, and sometimes even information in exchange for favor or protection.
Town Trade: The farm supplies much of Hogswaller’s food, especially preserved meats like bacon, smoked pork, and jerky, which are staples in the town’s trading post. The Millers also trade crops like corn and wheat, as well as eggs, milk, and wool. Their products are generally well-regarded for their quality, though locals tend to ignore or accept the cruel methods by which the farm operates.
Reputation:
Miller’s Farm is seen as both a necessity and a curse by the people of Hogswaller. While the farm provides much-needed food and resources, its reliance on D-Bee slave labor and the Miller family’s brutality cast a dark shadow over its success. Most of the town’s residents look the other way when it comes to the treatment of the D-Bees, knowing that the Miller family’s power and influence are too great to challenge.
Those passing through Hogswaller often leave with mixed impressions—admiring the size and productivity of the farm but haunted by the knowledge of what lies beneath its surface.
11. General Store: Deals with more common day-to-day goods such as clothing, basic tools, preserved foods, simple supplies (like cordage, lantern oil, rope, and firewood), and some household items. This store caters to both residents and travelers who don't need high-end or niche goods.
A family-run business, focusing on non-weaponry items.
12. Blacksmith and Farrier: Being a rural town, especially with a population of trapper-woodsmen and pig farmers, this smithie is essential. The blacksmith maintains tools, horseshoes, plows, weapons, and various metal items for the community. They also function as a Farrier to take care of horse-related needs, such as shoeing and minor veterinary work for equine travelers and locals. Services include repairing tools, making weapons, horseshoes, plow blades, and other essential metal items.
13. Butcher & Tanner: While the Millers have their own farm-based slaughterhouse, the town itself benefits from this central butcher, serving both hunters and farmers, where meat can be processed and skins can be sold for tanning. Services include processing animals into meat for local consumption and trade, tanning hides for clothing, leather goods, and trading.
14. Livery Stable and Wagonwright of Hogswaller
The Livery Stable and Wagonwright stands on the southern edge of Hogswaller, just off the main dirt road that leads into the village. A sprawling, weathered structure, it serves as a crucial stop for the many travelers, drifters, mercenaries, and adventurers passing through the town. Its weather-beaten wooden exterior tells the story of years spent providing for the diverse and often rough clientele that frequent Hogswaller. Faded signage sways gently in the wind, marked with old paint that simply reads: Livery & Wagons – Board, Repair, & Trade.
Despite its rustic appearance, the stable bustles with activity most days, its worn but functional stalls constantly filled with horses, oxen, and other pack animals. The Wagonwright portion of the business hums with the sound of hammering, sawing, and the constant fixing and patching of wagons that have been battered by the rough trails leading into and out of town.
The Livery Stable: The Livery Stable is the lifeblood of the establishment. The central barn is a wide, two-story structure, built from sturdy timber, though age and the elements have left their mark. Its high, peaked roof is stained with years of mud, rain, and dust, and the large double doors at the entrance creak loudly when pushed open, revealing the dark, cool interior.
Stalls: The stable has 12 stalls, each large enough to comfortably house a horse or ox. The stalls are divided by wooden slats, and though the structure is old, it is well-maintained. Each stall is fitted with hay racks, water troughs, and fresh bedding, regularly cleaned by the stable hands. The stable’s patrons often board their animals here for a night or two while they handle their business in town.
Feed and Care: For a small fee, the livery offers feed primarily hay, grain, and water. Travelers can rest assured that their animals will be well cared for, with regular feeding and grooming. The stable hands, though rough around the edges, know their way around horses, mules, and other pack animals. They also provide basic veterinary services, treating wounds or ailments that the beasts of burden may have sustained on the long roads.
Tack and Gear: Inside the stable, there is a small storage area where travelers can store saddles, harnesses, and packs. Hooks on the walls hold bridles, reins, and bits of leather gear, while wooden racks display old but serviceable tack. The stable also sells basic supplies such as saddle soap, bridles, and other necessities for the upkeep of the animals.
Smell and Sounds: The scent of hay, manure, and horses is heavy in the air, giving the place an earthy, lived-in feel. There is a constant low sound of snorting animals, hooves shifting on straw, and the occasional rough shout from a stable hand.
The Wagonwright:
Adjacent to the stable is the Wagonwright, where travelers can have their wagons repaired or trade in broken-down rigs for something more functional. The wagon yard is a dusty, open lot scattered with the remains of old wagons, carts, and various vehicle parts.
Workshop: The wagonwright’s workshop is a noisy, cluttered space where tools of the trade hang from walls and workbenches are covered in half-finished projects. There are forges and anvils for working metal, as well as carpentry tools for repairing wheels, axles, and wagon bodies. The wagonwright and his assistants are a grizzled team of craftsmen, adept at quick repairs, patching broken wheels, reinforcing axles, or even building entire new wagon beds from scratch. They can also outfit wagons with modifications, like reinforced armor or hidden compartments for smuggling, though this service is only offered to those who ask discreetly.
Wagon Repair: The repair services offered are affordable, but not luxurious. The focus is on function over form, meaning that while the repairs may not look pretty, they’re reliable enough to get travelers through the next leg of their journey. Broken wheels are repaired with mismatched wood, axles are reinforced with whatever metal can be salvaged, and wagon covers are stitched together with whatever fabric is on hand.
Wagon Trade: Travelers with broken-down carts or wagons can often trade their old rig for a new one, with the wagonwright offering credit for the condition of their vehicle. However, the trades are usually lopsided in favor of the wagonwright, who takes advantage of desperate travelers needing quick replacements.
Notable Staff:
Old Jeb: The livery stable master, Old Jeb, is a grizzled man with skin leathery from the sun and years spent on the road himself before settling in Hogswaller. He has a deep understanding of horses and oxen, and though his speech is gruff and clipped, he has a reputation for being one of the most reliable men in town when it comes to the care of animals.
Martha: Jeb’s wife, Martha, helps manage the stable, overseeing the stable hands and ensuring that the boarding animals are well-fed and cared for. She’s a tough woman, known to scold both the stable boys and patrons if she catches them mistreating the animals.
Griff and Ron: The wagonwright’s assistants, these two brothers are as grizzled as they come, with calloused hands from years of working wood and metal. They handle most of the repairs and will haggle mercilessly with travelers trying to trade their wagons.
Clientele:
The stable is often frequented by mercenaries, drifters, and traders, all of whom stop in Hogswaller to rest, resupply, and get their animals fed and cared for.
The atmosphere is always bustling, with animals coming and going, the hammering of tools in the wagon yard, and the constant chatter of travelers haggling with Old Jeb or Griff about prices. There’s a roughness to the clientele, with many of them being seasoned wanderers who have seen their fair share of trouble, and the stable serves as a temporary refuge for those who need to regroup before heading back out into the wilderness.
Reputation:
Though not luxurious, but dependable and affordable. Word has spread that while the repairs and boarding here are basic, they’re trustworthy enough to get you back on the road, which makes it a key stop for adventurers and traders alike. The lack of questions asked by the staff makes it a favored stop for those looking to keep a low profile.
In the town of Hogswaller, where danger and opportunity go hand in hand, the Livery Stable and Wagonwright is a critical asset for anyone passing through, ensuring that both horses and wagons are ready to face the next leg of the journey.
15. Feed Store: For both the crop farmers and those raising livestock, this feed store mills and stores feed for farmers to grind their grains into flour or animal feed. The feed store sells hay, grain, and other necessities for those raising animals. Services include: Grinding grain into flour or feed for pigs, chickens, and cows; selling seed and farming supplies.
16. Place of Worship: Like in most rural and frontier towns, even if religion isn’t a central aspect, there is a place to provide for the spiritual needs of the residents and travelers. This simple structure, run by a traveling preacher, serving multiple spiritual practices common to the region. Offers services, blessings for travelers, marriages, funerals, and a place of refuge and reflection.
17. Apothecary: While Doc Summers handles medical needs, this small place is for more basic remedies and natural medicines. The Holistic medicine woman sells herbs, potions, and simple remedies, catering to those who can't afford or don't need to see a doctor. An elderly who’s well-versed in the use of local herbs and plants for healing.
18. Town Hall: A central place for the town's administration and decision-making. A basic structure where the local constable, Jake McFadden, could hold meetings or enforce the law. It could double as a meeting spot for any local disputes, courthouse, or to manage dealings with the Coalition or visiting mercenaries.
19. Saloon: Given the frequency of adventurers and drifters passing through town, Hogswaller has a second Saloon, separate from Hogs Heaven. This one might cater to a slightly different crowd or offer more in the way of gambling, brawling, and entertainment. They feature live music, card games, or a different brand of alcohol than what Hogs Heaven serves.
The Hidden Coalition Bunker
20. The Hidden Coalition Bunker
The bunker is cleverly hidden beneath one of the unassuming buildings in Hogswaller—possibly Doc Summers' Clinic or Billy Bob's Garage both of which serve as fronts for Coalition activities. The entrance is concealed, perhaps behind a false wall or hidden trapdoor, only accessible by Coalition operatives.
Description: The bunker is a small, cramped multipurpose space used by Coalition spies for a variety of clandestine activities. Although its appearance is utilitarian and sparse, the room is carefully outfitted for espionage, interrogation, and covert communication.
Features:
Interrogation Wall: One wall is fitted with heavy iron manacles for detaining and interrogating prisoners. This adds a dungeon-like feel to the otherwise sterile room, and it's used to secure anyone considered a threat to Coalition interests or valuable for intelligence gathering.
Old Mechanical Safe: There’s a solid, old-school safe with a mechanical lock, used to store sensitive documents, weapons, and other tools of the trade. The safe is difficult to break into, designed to protect valuable Coalition secrets.
Cot and Portable Bucket Toilet: For longer operations or when a spy needs to stay hidden for an extended period, there is a basic folding cot and a portable bucket toilet. These allow a Coalition operative to lay low for days if necessary without leaving the bunker.
Cooler with Clean Water and boxes of MREs: A five-gallon cooler of clean water is stored in the bunker, ensuring operatives have a safe water supply during their time in hiding. There are three boxes of 12 MREs.
Folding Desk and Chair: A simple folding desk and chair are provided for any administrative work or covert record-keeping.
Laptop Computer: The bunker contains a laptop computer equipped with encryption software to maintain records, communicate with Coalition higher-ups, and track intelligence gathered from both Hogswaller locals and passersby. The computer is a critical tool for sending encrypted reports to the Coalition command.
Purpose:
1. Storage: The bunker serves as a secure place to store spy gear, weapons, and sensitive documents. It’s also used to hide any incriminating materials that would expose the Coalition spies' activities in town.
2. Interrogation: The manacles and prison-like setup make it ideal for covert interrogations of anyone suspected of being a threat to the Coalition’s interests. The confined space is perfect for keeping prisoners isolated and hidden.
3. Covert Communications Hub: With the laptop and secure connection, the bunker is also a communication hub, allowing Coalition operatives to report on local developments without drawing attention.
4. Safehouse: If a spy needs to go into hiding, the bunker can serve as a temporary safehouse. The cot and water supply provide the basic necessities for a short-term stay.
Security:
The bunker is heavily secured to prevent unauthorized access. Only Coalition agents, such as Doc Summers or Billy Bob’s crew, are aware of its existence. The entrance is carefully concealed, and the safe's mechanical lock adds another layer of protection for the items stored within.
Atmosphere:
The bunker’s cold, unwelcoming feel contrasts with the rustic charm of the town above. It’s a stark reminder of the town’s hidden underbelly and the larger geopolitical struggle that’s taking place in the region. Despite its small size, the bunker represents a key asset for Coalition operatives trying to maintain control over the area and gather intelligence on any potential threats.
This hidden bunker adds an extra layer of intrigue to Hogswaller, showing that beneath the rough, small-town surface lies a more sinister network of espionage and power plays, with the Coalition's eyes and ears constantly watching from the shadows.
The heavy door to Manheim’s Trading Depot slammed shut behind them as the Mystic Knights gathered just outside in the dim light of Hogswaller’s fading evening. The tension in the air had eased, but frustration still simmered beneath the surface.
Knight One leaned against a rusted-out barrel, catching his breath after the tense encounter with Manheim. "You were right about everything," he said, shaking his head. "That mine was a setup, and you called it from the start. If we’d gone in blind, we’d all be dead by now."
Knight Four nodded in agreement, his arms crossed. "You had the right instincts the whole time—spotting the trap, keeping us cool. We’d have walked right into an ambush if it weren’t for your call to let Knight Two take position on the ridge." He gave a slight smile. "You’re an expert at reading people like Manheim. I don’t know how you keep doing it."
Knight Two, perched on the edge of an overturned crate, wiped dust from his sniper rifle. "That was clean work back there." he paused, looking up at him. "But now what?"
The question hung in the air as all eyes turned to Knight Three. He could feel the weight of their expectations pressing down on him. They had walked into a trap, killed several men, and set off explosives, but so far, they were no richer for it.
"We came here to sell that APC," Knight One said, pushing off the barrel and standing upright again. "That’s what we’re here for. Credits or something valuable, something we can use. We're not here for fun or to blow up every ambush thrown our way. We’re Mystic Knights, not some band of amateurs. We kill for pay, not just because."
Knight Four let out a long breath, frustration creeping into his voice. "We’ve risked our necks, taken out the guys trying to kill us, and blown half a canyon apart. But what do we have to show for it? We could’ve stayed away from that mine entirely and saved ourselves the danger. We haven’t made a single credit on this job."
Knight Two, always the sharpest with tactics, added, "If we walk away now, we’ve done all this for free. Not a single credit. No one pays us for killing ambushers. We’re professionals. We get paid for what we do, and so far, we’re working for nothing."
The team fell silent for a moment, each one weighing the situation. They were killers for hire, mercenaries, Mystic Knights who lived by a simple code: they got paid to do their work, and they didn’t risk their lives unless there was something to gain. But tonight, they had walked into danger, killed without compensation, and blown up explosives with no financial reward in sight.
Knight Four glanced back at Manheim’s Trading Depot, his eyes narrowing. "Manheim’s still in there, probably shaking in his boots. We already know he set us up. He might not have paid us, but I’d bet my last credit he’s got a safe in there. And I’ll bet it’s full of credits, valuables—everything we’ve been missing out on so far."
Knight One grinned, the idea sparking something in him. "Manheim’s doesn’t need those credits anymore. After all the trouble he’s put us through, looting that place sounds like fair compensation to me."
Knight Two stood up, his sniper rifle slung over his shoulder. "We’ve earned it," he said firmly.
Everyone turned to Knight Three, waiting for his decision. It was clear they all agreed, Manheim had crossed them, and they deserved payment for the risk they’d taken. But they agreed to follow Knight Three’s lead, they needed him to have the last word on this. He had led them this far, and they trusted him to make the right call.
Knight Three took a moment, looking at each of them. They were right—everything they had done tonight had been for nothing so far. No credits. No reward. Just danger and the smell of explosives in the air. They had killed and risked their lives, and they had nothing to show for it. And the one person responsible for that was Manheim.
"He has a safe," Knight Two said, his voice low and firm. "And I guarantee you it’s full of credits, weapons, and everything else he’s been hoarding. We deserve payment for what we’ve done. If Manheim thought he could set us up and walk away richer, he was wrong."
The team straightened, their focus sharpening. This was what they had been waiting for, Knight Two’s call.
"We keep it quiet," Knight Three continued, his eyes scanning the faces of his team. "Manheim isn’t going anywhere, but we’re not making this messy. We take what’s in the safe, anything of value. No unnecessary noise. We’re out of here with what we’re owed before the town even knows what happened. Like we have said, we don’t like working for free."
Knight One gave a curt nod. "I’ll handle the front. Make sure no one gets in or out without us knowing."
Knight Four cracked his knuckles. "I’ll find that safe. He’ll have hidden it, but not well enough."
Knight Two, always ready, checked her gear one last time. "I’ll keep watch outside, make sure no one gets the jump on us."
Knight Three nodded, satisfied with the plan. "Let’s move."
They moved swiftly, each step silent as they reentered Manheim’s Trading Depot. The door creaked open under the pressure of Knight Three’s boot, and the familiar scent of dust and oil filled the room once more. Manheim was behind the counter, pale and dead.
Knight Four slipped past the counter, his sharp eyes scanning the room for any signs of a hidden compartment or a safe. It didn’t take long before he spotted a rug covering a section of the wooden floor that looked slightly off. He pulled the rug aside, revealing a trapdoor.
"Found it," he said, a smirk on his lips.
Knight One stood near the entrance, his arms crossed, keeping an eye on the door while Knight Two moved outside to secure the perimeter.
Knight Four opened the trapdoor, revealing a small vault. He trades positions with Knight Two.
Knight Two expertly works the lock, his fingers moving quickly as he cracked it open. Inside, the gleam of credits, gemstones, and a few high-end weapons glinted in the dim light.
Knight Three stepped forward, his eyes cold as he surveyed the loot. "This is what we came for."
They gathered the valuables quickly, packing them away into their bags. The entire operation took minutes, and when they were done.
Without another word, Knight Three and the team turned and walked out of Manheim’s depot. They had what they came for. Now, they would leave Hogswaller—richer, alive, and ready for their next job.
As they climbed back into the APC, Knight Three looked over at his team, satisfaction etched on each of their faces.
"We don’t work for free," Knight Three said, his voice steady as the APC rumbled to life. "And now, we don’t leave empty-handed."
The Mystic Knights drove into the night, the gleam of credits in their pockets and the promise of their next mission on the horizon.
---
Town of Hogswaller:
Total Population: 132 permanent residents.
Transient Population: Averaging 35 transient population.
Type & Size of Community: Small Shanty Town
Population Breakdown:
103 humans
21 Psi-Stalkers (human mutants)
6 Bursters (human mutants)
2 Zappers (human mutants)
A. Weapons and Armor: Limited. 5 points.
B. Medicine: Very Good. 15 points.
C. Agriculture and Natural Resources: Good 15 points
D. Real Estate / Land: Fine 5 points.
E. Vehicles & Fuel: Live Animals. 2 points
F. Administration: Slight. 5 points.
G. Alignment: Mixed: Anarchist & Unprincipled. 4 points.
H. Magic: None. 0 points.
I. Racial Tolerance: Disapproving & Suspicious. 1 points.
J. Trade: Established Trade. 10 points.
K. Threats: Relatively Safe. 20 points.
L. Professionalism: Law & Defense: Sheriff & Deputy 12 points
M. The Community Overall: Skilled. 10 points.
N. Shelter: Good. 7 points.
O. Security: None.
P. Power: Low. 6 points.
Q. Special Features: Roads 4 points.
Town Layout:
The town is laid out around the central square where the well sits. Most of the key establishments are within walking distance of each other, making the town compact and easy to navigate, even for a first-time visitor. The roads are little more than dirt paths, often muddy and rutted from the wagons and foot traffic, giving the whole town a rough, uncivilized feel.
Places of Note:
1. The Town Well (Town Square)
Located at the town’s center, this well provides an unlimited supply of fresh water free of charge to both residents and visitors. The well is situated in a shabby park that doubles as the town square, with a small, stagnant duck pond beside it. Many of Hogswaller’s prominent establishments line the square, making it the social and commercial heart of the town.
2. Hogs Heaven: The Rowdiest Bar in Hogswaller
Hogs Heaven is the beating heart of Hogswaller’s. It is a raucous, smoky dive where both locals and travelers gather to drink, trade stories, and blow off steam. Situated just off the main square, the bar’s rough-hewn exterior is a familiar sight to anyone passing through town. A faded wooden sign above the entrance depicts a laughing hog holding a bottle of moonshine, hinting at the chaotic energy that awaits inside.
Though far from fancy, Hogs Heaven has a certain charm that appeals to the rough-and-tumble crowd that frequents Hogswaller. Whether you're a mercenary looking to spend your newly earned credits, a trader wrapping up a deal, or a drifter passing through, Hogs Heaven offers cheap, strong drinks and a lively atmosphere that’s equal parts rowdy and welcoming; as long as you know how to handle yourself.
The outside of Hogs Heaven is simple, almost unremarkable, except for the weather-beaten sign swinging in the breeze. The building itself is constructed from aged timber, its gray planks weathered by years of desert winds and storms. A few broken windows have been patched with cloth or wood, and the door creaks loudly as patrons come and go.
At night, a dim glow spills out from the windows, accompanied by the loud, muffled sound of shouting, laughter, and clinking glasses. Those familiar with the bar know that once inside, the rules of decorum are loose at best, Hogs Heaven is a place for hard drinks and hard talk.
Stepping inside Hogs Heaven is like entering a different world. The interior is dimly lit, with low-hanging oil lamps casting a flickering glow over the mismatched tables and chairs. The walls are grimy from years of smoke and neglect, adorned with old wanted posters, makeshift signs advertising prices, and a few crooked shelves holding dusty bottles. The air is thick with the smell of alcohol, sweat, and fried food.
The Bar: The long, wooden bar dominates one side of the room, its surface stained with spilled drinks and chipped from countless bar fights. Behind the bar, a motley assortment of bottles sits on crude shelves—most of them filled with moonshine, corn whiskey, and a few imported beers from the Chi-Town 'Burbs.
The bartender, a burly man with a scar running across his cheek, serves drinks with a gruff efficiency, his thick arms moving with practiced ease as he pours shots or fills mugs. A couple of barmaids move between tables, dodging outstretched hands and dealing out drinks to rowdy customers.
The Seating: The tables and chairs are a mismatched collection of furniture—some are solid, while others look like they could fall apart with one good shove. Most are stained with old beer and grease, and the chairs creak dangerously under the weight of patrons. At any given time, half of the tables are covered in spilled drinks and scattered cards from games of chance. It’s not uncommon for patrons to start gambling over a hand of cards or to arm wrestle for a few extra credits.
The Stage: In one corner, a small, uneven stage sits unused most nights, though occasionally a wandering musician or performer will entertain the crowd for a drink or two. More often than not, the stage serves as an impromptu platform for bar fights or impassioned speeches from inebriated adventurers.
The primary draw of Hogs Heaven is it's cheap but potent alcohol. The bar offers a variety of local brews, including the infamous moonshine and corn whiskey that has become a staple of Hogswaller.
Moonshine: The moonshine served at Hogs Heaven is locally made and known for its strength. It’s not for the faint of heart—one sip is enough to burn a hole through even the most seasoned drinker’s throat. Patrons come for the moonshine when they want to forget their troubles, even if only for a night.
Price: 1-2 credits per shot
Corn Whiskey: A bit smoother than the moonshine, but still packing a punch, corn whiskey is another local favorite. Served in small mugs, it’s the drink of choice for those looking to relax without immediately blacking out.
Price: 2-3 credits per mug
Imported Beer: For those who prefer something lighter, Hogs Heaven carries imported beer—a rare treat in these parts, brought in from the Chi-Town 'Burbs. The beer is far more expensive than the local liquor, but travelers from afar tend to splurge on it.
Price: 3-4 credits per pint
Though alcohol is the main attraction, Hogs Heaven also offers a small menu of simple bar food, most of which is designed to keep patrons drinking for longer. The food is greasy, spicy, and heavily salted, perfect for pairing with strong liquor.
Spicy Jerked Meats: The bar’s most famous food offering is its Spicy jerked meats—thin strips of pork or beef, dried and heavily seasoned. The spice hits hard, prompting patrons to order more drinks to quench their burning tongues.
Price: 3-5 credits per serving
Potato Skins: A local favorite, the potato skins are fried to a crisp and loaded with a salty blend of cheese, bacon, and green onions. They’re cheap and filling, a perfect snack for hungry adventurers.
Price: 2-4 credits per plate
Popcorn: For those looking for something light, popcorn is served in small bowls, often over-salted to encourage more drinking. The crunch of popcorn can be heard between gulps of whiskey and bursts of laughter.
Price: 2 credits per bowl
Clientele:
The crowd at Hogs Heaven is as rough as the bar itself. It’s a rowdy mix of locals, mercenaries, drifters, and adventurers, most of whom come looking to unwind after a long day of dangerous work or travel. The bar attracts those who thrive on risk and chaos, and the clientele reflects this. There’s a constant hum of tension in the air, as if a fight could break out at any moment—and often, it does.
Locals: Many of Hogswaller’s farmers, woodsmen, and pig farmers frequent Hogs Heaven after a hard day’s work. They sit at the bar nursing moonshine or whiskey, their conversation blending into the general din of the room. While they tend to keep to themselves, they’re not above throwing a punch if someone gets too rowdy.
Mercenaries and Drifters: Mercenaries and adventurers passing through Hogswaller often find their way to Hogs Heaven, seeking a cheap drink and a rowdy atmosphere. These patrons are usually the ones instigating trouble, whether it’s through gambling, fistfights, or loud boasts about their exploits. For them, Hogs Heaven offers a brief reprieve from the dangerous work that waits outside the town.
Gangs and Smugglers: Hogswaller’s reputation as a haven for bandits, smugglers, and fugitives ensures that more than a few unsavory characters frequent Hogs Heaven. Deals are often made in the shadowy corners of the bar, where black market traders and criminals can conduct their business away from prying eyes.
The atmosphere inside is always tense but lively. The bar’s rough clientele keeps things unpredictable—one moment, there’s laughter and storytelling, and the next, a brawl might break out over a spilled drink or a cheating hand of cards.
Noise: The sound of raised voices, clinking glasses, and shouts from the card tables fills the room. The occasional sound of a chair being knocked over or a bottle smashing against the wall is just part of the ambiance at Hogs Heaven. On particularly busy nights, the noise level is almost deafening.
Fights: Fights are common. The place is no stranger to the occasional bar brawl. The bar’s regulars know that any fight is usually allowed to play out for a few minutes before the bartender steps in—though he’s only concerned if property gets damaged or someone’s about to get seriously hurt. Most nights, the brawls end with bruised egos and a few lost credits, though occasionally, more serious violence breaks out.
Bartender’s Authority: The bartender, Big George, is a towering figure who doesn’t tolerate nonsense for long. While fights are a regular occurrence, anyone who takes it too far—breaking furniture, damaging the bar, or drawing a weapon—finds themselves on the receiving end of George’s fist or thrown out into the street. For all its roughness, Hogs Heaven has a code of conduct, and Big George makes sure it’s followed.
3. The Shower House
A much-needed facility for weary, dusty travelers looking to freshen up. For only 2 credits or a fair trade, visitors can enjoy a quick wash, making it an essential stop for anyone who’s been on the road or in the wilderness for too long.
4. Miss Sally’s Brothel
Miss Sally’s is the town brothel, housing a dozen women who offer their services at reasonable prices. Though the establishment is a bit rundown, half of the ladies have a reputation for their looks, making it a frequent stop for adventurers looking for some comfort.
5. Doc Summers Clinic
From the outside, the 2 story building’s modest charm and simple construction create a sense of familiarity and trust that fits seamlessly into the town. Positioned on the edge of the town square, it occupies a place that is both central enough to be easily accessible and slightly tucked away, giving it a sense of quiet dignity amid the town’s chaos.
The clinic’s wooden facade is worn and weather-beaten, the once-vibrant timber now faded to a muted, grayish-brown from years of exposure to the elements. The planks creak softly in the wind, adding to the building's rustic charm. The wood is interspersed with patches of rough-hewn stone, a mix of local materials used to reinforce the structure. The stones have become darkened over time, their surfaces chipped and cracked, but they lend a certain solidity to the otherwise simple structure, making the clinic feel sturdy despite its modest appearance.
The roof is pitched at a steep angle, covered in rusted tin panels that clatter slightly in the wind. In places, moss and lichen have taken root, giving the roof an earthy, aged look. The tin is speckled with signs of wear—small dents, patches of rust, and a few missing or hastily patched spots where the roof has been damaged by storms or falling debris.
The windows are small and simple, with thin glass panes that are slightly warped from age. The frames are made of weathered wood, with several coats of paint now flaking off, revealing layers of pale blue, gray, and white beneath. The clinic’s front windows are often kept half-open, allowing fresh air to flow in, though simple wooden shutters can be drawn to close them during heavy rains or cold nights.
A small front porch extends from the entrance, its wooden planks scuffed and uneven from years of foot traffic. The porch is sheltered by a sloping overhang, providing shade during the hotter months and protection from rain. A few rough-hewn wooden benches line the porch, offering a place for patients to wait when the clinic is busy. The porch posts, though worn and rough to the touch, are still solid and sturdy, marked with the nicks and scratches of passing boots and bags.
Shingle Sign: Hanging above the porch entrance is a small, wooden shingle sign, swaying slightly in the breeze.
It reads “Doc Summers – Medical Services” in faded black lettering, its edges softened by time.
Behind the clinic, a narrow side yard opens up to a small shed where additional medical supplies and tools are stored. The shed is built from the same weathered wood and stone as the main building, with a sagging roof and crooked door. Beyond the shed is a small garden, where Amelia grows herbs used in her treatments. The plants, though modest, are carefully tended, their medicinal properties hidden beneath their simple appearances.
The front door opens into the clinic, visitors find themselves in a cozy, low-lit waiting room that smells faintly of herbs and disinfectant. Upon entering the clinic a bell rings softly, a subtle, calming sound that contrasts with the wooden floors creak underfoot.
The room is furnished with a few rough-hewn chairs are positioned along the walls for patients to sit on while they wait. The furniture is simple but functional: sturdy tables hold stacks of old medical journals, herbal remedies, and bandages.
A small reception desk sits near the entrance, where either Doc Summers or his wife Amelia can often be found organizing patient records or speaking with those waiting for treatment. The desk is cluttered with worn papers and medical logs, though everything is surprisingly well-organized despite the clinic’s humble appearance.
To the right of the waiting room is the examination room, where the Doc treats his patients. The room is small but well-stocked, containing a mixture of modern medical tools and salvaged supplies. A sturdy wooden examination table sits in the center, while shelves along the walls hold jars of herbs, salves, and medical supplies. Some of these items are common in any frontier town, but others, especially the advanced medical equipment.
The main examination room is located just off the waiting area, accessible through a narrow wooden door. This room, though small, is the heart of the clinic. It houses a central examination table, along with shelves filled with medical supplies, everything from bandages and salves to more advanced Coalition medical equipment, cleverly disguised among the more primitive tools. The room is always kept neat, though the surfaces show the wear of countless treatments, the wood scarred from sharp instruments and the occasional bloodstain.
A set of narrow, well-worn stairs lead up to the second floor, which contains the family’s two small bedrooms and a common area. These rooms are modest and functional, with just enough space for Doc Summers, Amelia, and their “nephew” and his wife to live comfortably. Each of the rooms is sparsely furnished, with simple beds, wooden trunks for clothing, and a few personal items carefully placed to give the appearance of a typical small-town family. The second floor is private and off-limits to patients.
At first glance, Doc Summers is the picture of a small-town doctor. Fit and strong for a man in his fifties, his salt-and-pepper beard gives him a distinguished appearance, and his piercing blue eyes convey a mixture of wisdom and experience. He’s soft-spoken and calm under pressure, his voice soothing to those who come to him for care. Locals and travelers alike respect him, grateful for his medical expertise and willingness to help anyone who walks through his door.
Doc Summers wife plays the role of a dutiful healer and assistant. She moves through the clinic with quiet efficiency, always calm and composed, even in the face of the worst injuries. Her reputation as a healer is unmatched, and while she tends to the sick and injured, she’s constantly gathering information, overheard conversations, whispered rumors, and any stray words.
Amelia Summers is a striking woman in her early forties, though her composed and serene demeanor makes her appear ageless. Her appearance is one of understated elegance, carefully cultivated to blend in with the rugged town while still maintaining an air of quiet authority. Her hair is a deep auburn, falling just past her shoulders in soft, controlled waves. She often keeps it tied back in a neat bun or braid while working in the clinic, though a few loose strands tend to escape, framing her face. When down, it shimmers in the light, reflecting hints of red.
Her eyes are a captivating shade of hazel, shifting between green and brown depending on the light. There’s a quiet intensity in her gaze, as if she’s always reading between the lines, sensing more than what’s said aloud. Her complexion is fair, with a few faint freckles across her cheeks and nose. Her skin is smooth but shows subtle signs of her age and experience, such as fine lines around her eyes and mouth, which only add to her air of wisdom and maturity. She is of average height and has a slender build, though she carries herself with confidence. Years of working in the field and honing her psychic abilities have given her a graceful, controlled poise, and there’s a subtle strength to her movements that belies her delicate frame. Amelia dresses in simple, practical clothing suited to her role in the clinic. She often wears skirts with blouses, paired with a long apron during her work hours. Her clothing is always neat and well-kept, though not overly fashionable—designed to be both functional and non-intrusive. Despite this simplicity, there’s something elegant about the way she carries herself.
Her voice is soft and measured, with a calming quality that instantly puts patients at ease. There’s a quiet confidence in the way she speaks, and she can convey authority without ever raising her voice. Amelia rarely needs to speak much to command respect; her presence alone tends to do that.
The “Nephew”
Living upstairs with Doc and Amelia is their "nephew," William, and his "wife," Glenna. On the surface, they appear to be a young couple who moved in with the doctor to help with the clinic’s workload. William often assists Doc Summers with medical procedures and clinic management, while Glenna helps Amelia with the more mundane aspects of running a medical practice, such as cleaning and tending to minor injuries.
6. Worchefski’s Boarding House: The Heart of Hogswaller’s Hospitality
Worchefski’s Boarding House is the largest building in Hogswaller and stands as a central hub for travelers, drifters, and traders who find themselves staying in the town for more than just a quick stop. This sprawling structure dominates one side of the town square, its wooden facade weathered but sturdy. The building is a bit ramshackle, a product of years of patchwork repairs and additions, but it’s one of the few places in Hogswaller that offers an actual roof over your head for the night.
The boarding house has 30 rooms for rent, each available at 40 credits per night, though the proprietor, Mrs. Irina Worchefski, is known to accept fair trade in the form of goods, labor, or information if credits are hard to come by.
Despite its well-used appearance, Worchefski’s is a bustling hub of activity, serving as a meeting place for travelers passing through, mercenaries looking for jobs, and adventurers needing a temporary base. Its high occupancy makes it a natural gathering point for those looking to lay low, gather information, or make deals.
The Building:
Worchefski’s Boarding House is a three-story wooden structure, built in a haphazard fashion over the years. It looks as though parts of the building were added as needed, with mismatched sections jutting out at odd angles. The paint has long since faded, leaving the wood a dull, weathered gray. The windows are small and often covered with mismatched curtains, and the roof is patched with a variety of materials, from old tin sheets to wooden planks.
The front porch is wide, with a few creaky rocking chairs and an old bench where locals and visitors alike can sit and watch the daily happenings in the square. A large, faded sign hangs above the front door, reading “Worchefski’s Boarding House” in crooked letters, with the price—40 credits per night—painted beneath it.
Inside, the boarding house has a rough but cozy feel. The floors are made of worn wooden planks, and the walls are adorned with faded wallpaper that’s peeling in places. The air smells faintly of dust, old wood, and cooking from the kitchen. Despite the building's age and the obvious wear and tear, there’s a sense of comfort in its well-used furniture and the friendly bustle of its guests.
Rooms:
The rooms at Worchefski’s Boarding House are simple and basic, but they provide what most travelers need—shelter, privacy, and a bed to sleep in.
Size and Layout: Each room is small, typically just large enough for a single bed, a small dresser, and a rough-hewn wooden chair. A narrow window in each room lets in a little light during the day, though the glass is often cloudy with age. The walls are thin, and guests can sometimes hear the movements and conversations of their neighbors, though most people at the boarding house aren’t looking for luxury or quiet—just a place to rest.
Amenities: The furnishings are simple but sturdy, with a thin mattress on the bed and a couple of well-worn blankets provided. A small basin of water for washing is placed in each room, along with a chipped mirror hanging on the wall. There’s no running water, but the boarding house has a communal washroom on each floor, equipped with a bucket and a ladle for guests who need more than a quick rinse.
Security: There’s little in the way of security beyond a basic lock on each door, which is more symbolic than effective. Most guests know better than to leave anything valuable unattended, as the boarding house sees a steady stream of visitors, some less trustworthy than others. Mrs. Worchefski does, however, offer a small lockbox service behind the front desk for guests to store valuables—though even this service comes with a degree of risk in a town like Hogswaller.
The Common Area:
The common room of the boarding house is a large, open space on the ground floor, complete with a mismatched collection of chairs, tables, and benches where travelers can sit, eat, or talk. A large stone fireplace dominates one wall, and though it only sees use in the colder months, the hearth is a favorite spot for visitors looking to dry off or warm up after a long journey.
Social Hub: The common area is where most of the boarding house’s action takes place. It’s where dealings are made, rumors are shared, and connections are forged. At any given time, there might be adventurers, mercenaries, traders, and even a few drifters lingering here, sharing stories of the road or negotiating their next job. Mrs. Worchefski tolerates most activities as long as they don’t involve outright violence in her establishment.
Food and Drink: Worchefski’s Boarding House doesn’t offer a full kitchen, but Mrs. Worchefski is known to prepare a simple stew or bread and cheese for guests in the evening for a small fee or trade. Most travelers bring their own provisions, but the smell of cooking often draws a crowd to the common room at night. Mrs. Worchefski also keeps a stash of moonshine and cheap corn whiskey, which she’ll sell in small quantities to those who ask—though she’s quick to warn patrons not to get too rowdy.
Mrs. Irina Worchefski:
The boarding house is run by Mrs. Irina Worchefski, a tough, no-nonsense woman in her late fifties. She’s tall and broad-shouldered, with graying hair tied back in a tight bun and sharp, hawk-like eyes that miss nothing. Mrs. Worchefski has been running the boarding house for years, and in that time, she’s seen all manner of travelers come through her doors.
Personality: Mrs. Worchefski is stern but fair. She expects her guests to pay their way, whether it’s with credits, trade goods, or services. She doesn’t tolerate freeloaders or troublemakers in her establishment and has been known to throw out those who cross her. That said, she’s willing to strike a deal with almost anyone, and those who treat her fairly find that she’s loyal and discreet, never one to gossip about what happens within the walls of her boarding house.
Negotiations: While 40 credits is the standard rate for a room, Mrs. Worchefski is open to bartering. Travelers without credits often strike deals with her, offering to repair the building, help with chores, or trade weapons, ammo, or gear in exchange for their stay. She has a keen eye for value and knows when someone is trying to cheat her—most who try find themselves sleeping in the streets.
Clientele:
Worchefski’s Boarding House draws a wide variety of visitors. It’s the only place in town where you can reliably rent a room for more than a night, making it popular with mercenaries, traders, and adventurers who are staying for extended periods to rest, resupply, or conduct business.
Mercenaries and Adventurers: Many of the long-term guests at the boarding house are mercenaries or adventurers who use Hogswaller as a staging ground for their next job. They come and go as they please, often discussing potential contracts or trading information in the common room.
Traders and Drifters: Traders who stop in Hogswaller to barter their goods frequently stay at Worchefski’s, as it offers them the space they need to store their wares while they work out deals in town. Drifters also pass through, though they tend to stay only for a night or two, paying with whatever goods or services they can muster before moving on.
Travelers of All Kinds: The boarding house sees its fair share of questionable characters as well—bandits, smugglers, and black market dealers who use Hogswaller’s reputation as a frontier town to hide in plain sight. Mrs. Worchefski doesn’t ask too many questions, but she’s always aware of the dangers these types bring with them.
Reputation:
Worchefski’s Boarding House has a reputation as the best—and only—long-term lodging in Hogswaller. Though the rooms are basic and the amenities few, travelers know that Mrs. Worchefski’s discretion is worth the price. Guests can conduct their business without fear of prying eyes or gossip, making it an ideal place for low-profile dealings and underground transactions.
Unspoken Rules: While Worchefski’s is generally peaceful, there are unspoken rules among its guests—don’t start trouble inside, mind your business, and respect Mrs. Worchefski’s authority. Those who break these rules quickly find themselves on the street, often with more than just a bruised ego to show for it.
7. The Jailhouse and Barbershop of Hogswaller is an unassuming, modest building nestled along the main road that runs through the center of town. It’s a dual-purpose structure—part jailhouse, part barbershop—reflecting the rustic, no-nonsense nature of Hogswaller itself. The squat wooden building leans slightly, its planks weathered by years of harsh elements. A faded sign hangs above the door, reading "Jail & Barber," with a rusty pair of scissors painted beneath. To an outsider, it’s a strange combination, but to the locals, it’s just part of the town’s charm.
The building is small and simple, with a porch out front where a few mismatched chairs sit, offering a place for the town’s elders or loafers to watch the comings and goings. Dust collects on the wooden steps, and the door creaks ominously when pushed open, leading into the combined space of law enforcement and grooming.
Constable Jake McFadden, the man responsible for both running the jail and cutting hair, has made this strange arrangement work for years.
The Barbershop:
The barbershop occupies the front of the building, nearest the street. It’s a rough and ready operation, more functional than stylish. A single barber’s chair stands in the center of the room, upholstered in worn leather that’s cracked with age. The chair looks like it’s been there as long as the building itself, with a footrest that squeaks when adjusted and armrests polished smooth by years of use.
Barber’s Tools: The tools of Jake’s trade are hung neatly on the wall—a straight razor, shears, a few battered combs, and a strop for sharpening the blade. They’re old and well-worn, much like Jake himself, but they get the job done. A small cracked mirror hangs above the chair, and a rough wooden shelf holds a few bottles of cheap aftershave and tonic. The floor is covered in sawdust, a traditional method for absorbing the loose hairs that Jake sweeps up at the end of each day.
Jake McFadden at Work: When not tending to the jailhouse’s rare inmates, Jake McFadden can often be found trimming hair in this part of the building. He’s a grizzled, ornery old man in his early sixties, with wiry gray hair that sticks out from beneath a battered hat. His face is lined with the wear of years spent in the sun and wind, and he always seems to have a toothpick or unlit cigar clamped between his teeth. He’s not particularly talkative when working, preferring the steady snip of the shears and the sound of his blade against the strop to conversation.
Jake has a reputation for being intimidating, especially with younger men or drifters passing through town. He enjoys making visitors and cocky young adventurers nervous, whether by offering a particularly close shave with his straight razor or by fixing them with a hard stare during a haircut. Locals know to keep things civil when sitting in Jake’s chair—his hands are as steady as they come, but no one wants to test how steady they’ll stay if provoked.
Clientele: Jake’s customers are a mix of locals and travelers. Locals come in for a quick trim or shave, knowing that Jake’s work is reliable if not fancy. Travelers, especially the more young and reckless types, often find themselves unsettled by Jake’s gruff manner and sharp tools, particularly when they realize that the man cutting their hair is also the town’s lawman.
The Jailhouse occupies the back half of the building, a modest space with only a few cells that are used primarily for drunkards, troublemakers, or anyone passing through who needs to cool off for a night. The jail is not built for long-term incarceration—it’s more of a holding area, a place for Jake to keep the peace without too much hassle.
The Cells: There are three iron-barred cells, each barely large enough to hold a person comfortably. The bars are slightly rusted, but still solid. The wooden floors creak, and the small windows high up on the walls let in very little light, giving the space a dim, claustrophobic feel. The cells are often occupied by local drunks or brawlers who’ve gotten out of hand after a night at Hogs Heaven. If someone causes a serious enough disturbance, Jake will toss them in a cell for the night to sober up. He’ll let them out the next morning with a gruff warning, but rarely has to deal with more serious offenses.
Lawkeeping: Jake is more than just the town’s barber—he’s also the Constable and the de facto "keeper of order" in Hogswaller. Though semi-retired from a long life of chasing bounties and enforcing the law, Jake still has a sharp eye for trouble. His time working for the Coalition States as a bounty hunter has given him an edge, and while he’s slower now, his reputation keeps most people in line.
Jake’s law enforcement style is rough around the edges—he’s not above intimidating visitors or young toughs who think they can waltz into Hogswaller and stir up trouble. He has a low tolerance for nonsense and prefers to handle problems with a glare and a few well-chosen threats before it comes to actual arrest.
The Deputies: Assisting Jake are his two "deputies," though calling them deputies is generous. They are little more than saloon bums, locals who spend most of their time in Hogs Heaven or lounging around town. Jake keeps them around more as informants than actual lawmen. They help him keep an ear to the ground, listening for gossip, potential trouble, or anything that might interest Jake. While not particularly reliable in a crisis, they know enough to pass on useful information, and Jake uses them to keep tabs on drifters or mercenaries passing through town.
Interrogations and Intimidation: Jake’s approach to law enforcement often blurs the lines between justice and intimidation. He’s not above throwing a troublemaker into a cell for the night just to scare them into behaving. The fact that his barbershop is right next to the jailhouse allows him to maintain a constant presence, casually reminding people of the consequences of stepping out of line. Sometimes, as he trims a visitor’s hair, he’ll casually mention the nearby cells or recount a violent story from his bounty hunting days, letting the implication hang in the air.
The Atmosphere: The dual-purpose nature of the jailhouse and barbershop gives the place a strange but fitting ambiance for a town like Hogswaller. The juxtaposition of cutting hair and maintaining the law speaks to the rough practicality of the place. Visitors often feel uneasy as they sit in the barber chair, aware that just a few feet away are the cells where Jake might throw them if they step out of line.
The sound of snipping shears blends with the occasional clink of iron bars, creating an atmosphere of tension and order. Jake runs the place with a firm hand, and the townsfolk know better than to cause too much trouble within its walls. The combination of grooming and lawkeeping reflects the town’s overall ethos—survival and civility coexist, but just barely.
Jake’s Past:
Though Jake McFadden doesn’t talk about it much, his past as a Coalition bounty hunter is well known around town. He’s a man who’s seen a lot of violence, and while he’s semi-retired, he’s not fully out of the game. There are rumors that Jake sometimes still takes contracts on the side, using his barbershop as a front for Coalition Military work or bounty hunting gigs. His ties to the Coalition States give him a certain authority in town, and though most people respect him, there are those who steer clear, knowing that Jake’s loyalty ultimately lies with himself and his old employers.
Jake (The Constable)
Bounty Hunter O.C.C.:
Basic Math: 98%
Radio: Basic: 98%
Surveillance Systems: 75%
Intelligence: 83%
Tracking: 80%
Land Navigation: 78%
Wilderness Survival: 85%
Detect Ambush: 80%
Climbing: 80% / 70%
Running
W.P. Energy Pistol: +5
W.P. Energy Rifle: +4
W.P. Handgun: +4
Hand to Hand: Expert
6 attacks/actions per melee
Karate Kick 2D6 damage.
+2 to strike
+3 to parry and dodge
+3 to disarm
Critical Strike on an unmodified roll of 18+
W.P. Paired Weapons
Body flip/throw
Even a bad apple pie is tolerable but a good one is heaven
O.C.C. Related Skills:
Detect Concealment: 70%
Field Armorer: 85%
Basic: Mechanics: 75%
Interrogation: 75%
Pilot: Hover-vehicles
Pilot: Motorcycles
Prowl: 65%
Streetwise: 60%
3rd Level:
Find Contraband: 50%
Recognise Weapon Quality: 60%
6th Level:
Whittling & Sculpting (hair Pro): 60%
9th Level:
Roadwise (Hogswaller): 26%
Secondary Skills:
Horsemanship: General: 72%/52%
Law: 75%
Lore: Demons and Monsters: 65%
Lore: Magic: 65%
8. Manheim's Trading Depot: Manheim specializes in used weapons, ammunition, electronics, and various adventuring gear. The depot also doubles as a hub for gambling, and he's known to coordinate high-stakes card games for the town’s visitors, particularly Coalition troopers, whom he deceives and fleeces at every opportunity.
9. Billy Bob's Garage: The town’s main mechanical and repair shop, looks more like a dilapidated barn than a professional repair facility.
10. Miller's Farm: The Backbone of Hogswaller's Agriculture
Located on the outskirts of Hogswaller, Miller’s Farm is by far the largest and most productive farm in the region, covering several acres of fertile land. The sprawling farm compound is a patchwork of fields, barns, and pens where pigs, chickens, cows, sheep, and even a few horses are raised alongside a variety of crops. The farm is essential to the town’s economy, supplying a large portion of fresh meat, produce, and preserved goods that are sold or traded in Hogswaller.
Despite the seemingly idyllic pastoral setting, the farm hides a dark truth: it is worked by 30 D-Bee slaves, who are treated as little more than tools to be used and discarded. The Miller family—a powerful, well-established clan in the region—runs the farm with an iron fist, showing outward friendliness to visitors, especially Coalition soldiers, but harboring a deep allegiance to the Coalition States' human supremacist ideologies.
The Farm Compound:
Miller’s Farm is a sprawling compound, divided into various sections, each dedicated to a different aspect of the farm’s operation. While the buildings and structures are practical and functional, there is an air of oppression that lingers over the property, particularly when it comes to the treatment of the workers.
Main Farmhouse: The main farmhouse sits at the center of the compound. It’s a large, sturdy structure built from heavy timbers, with a wraparound porch that overlooks the fields and animal pens. The house is well-kept, a testament to the Miller family's wealth and influence in the town. Visitors, especially Coalition sympathizers and officials, are often invited to stay for meals, where the Millers play the part of gracious hosts.
Fields and Animal Pens: The land surrounding the farmhouse is divided into crop fields and animal pens. The fields grow a variety of staple crops—corn, wheat, and vegetables—which are worked by the D-Bee slaves. The animal pens are filled with livestock: pigs snorting in the dirt, cows grazing in the nearby pastures, and chickens pecking at the ground. These animals are raised both for the farm’s own use and for trade or sale in Hogswaller.
The Barns: Several large barns dot the landscape, their red paint faded by years of sun and rain. These barns serve as storage for tools, hay, and farming equipment, as well as shelter for the farm's livestock during harsh weather. The barns are also where much of the manual labor occurs, with the D-Bees often forced to work late into the night feeding animals, cleaning stalls, and repairing equipment.
Slaughterhouse and Smokehouse: At the edge of the compound lies the slaughterhouse and smokehouse, the heart of the farm’s meat production. The slaughterhouse is a grim building, reeking of blood and death, where pigs and other livestock are butchered. The smokehouse, located nearby, is used to preserve the meat, with thick slabs of pork and beef hung on hooks, slowly cured over smoky fires. These preserved meats are a major source of income for the farm, traded frequently in town or sold to passing traders and visitors.
Miller’s Farm prides itself on its self-sufficiency and diversity of production. The farm raises a wide range of livestock and grows several crops, ensuring that the Millers can provide for themselves and supply a significant portion of Hogswaller’s food supply.
Pigs: The farm’s largest source of income comes from its pig population. Dozens of pigs roam the muddy pens, fattened up for eventual slaughter. The pork produced on the farm is a local staple, known for its quality and often sold or traded in Hogswaller’s trading post.
Chickens: The farm raises chickens, both for meat and eggs. The chicken coops are crowded and poorly maintained, but they produce a steady supply of eggs that are sold to local traders and families. Chickens are also butchered regularly and used for the farm’s own consumption or sold for a quick profit.
Cows and Sheep: The farm also raises a small number of cows and sheep. The cows are used for milk and beef, while the sheep provide wool and mutton. These animals are grazed in the pastures surrounding the farm, though they too are often subjected to harsh treatment at the hands of the Millers and the D-Bee slaves tasked with caring for them.
Horses: Though primarily a livestock farm, the Millers also keep a few horses, which are used for both transportation and occasional trading. The horses are treated better than most of the other animals on the farm, as the Millers see them as valuable assets.
Crops: The fields around the farm grow a variety of crops, mostly basic staples like corn, wheat, and vegetables. These crops are harvested by the D-Bee slaves, often under brutal conditions, and much of the produce is used to feed both the farm’s animals and the Miller family itself. The surplus is traded in town or sold to passing merchants.
The farm’s dark secret is its reliance on D-Bee slaves, who make up the bulk of the labor force. These non-human beings are captured or purchased from slavers, forced to work the fields, tend to the livestock, and maintain the farm under brutal conditions. The Millers treat their D-Bee workers as disposable tools, punishing them harshly for even the smallest mistakes.
Conditions: The D-Bees on Miller’s Farm live in squalid conditions. They sleep in cramped shacks near the fields, with little protection from the elements. Their clothing is ragged, and they are fed just enough to keep them alive and working. The Millers believe that fear and pain are the best motivators, and they enforce their authority with whips, chains, and constant threats.
Workload: The D-Bees are forced to work from sunrise to sunset, toiling in the fields, caring for the animals, and processing meat in the slaughterhouse. The most grueling tasks—plowing the fields, slaughtering the livestock, and hauling heavy loads—are reserved for the D-Bees, who receive no thanks or respite for their efforts.
Harsh Treatment: The Millers are cruel and ruthless in their treatment of the D-Bees. If a worker slows down or makes a mistake, they are beaten without hesitation. Escaping is nearly impossible, as the D-Bees are closely watched by the family and their Coalition sympathizer friends. Over time, the D-Bees have become broken, resigned to their fate as little more than livestock themselves.
Coalition Ties: The Millers are staunch supporters of the Coalition States, aligning themselves with the human supremacist ideologies that dominate the Coalition’s philosophy. They view the D-Bees as subhuman, treating them with disdain and cruelty. Coalition soldiers and visitors who pass through Hogswaller often stop by Miller’s Farm, where the Millers proudly show off their operation. Many Coalition sympathizers turn a blind eye to the slave labor, either out of shared beliefs or simple indifference.
The Miller family is one of the most powerful families in Hogswaller, thanks to their wealth and connections with the Coalition States. They are outwardly friendly to visitors, always putting on a welcoming face for travelers and Coalition soldiers, but behind their smiles lies a ruthless drive for control and profit.
Jebediah Miller: The patriarch of the family, Jebediah is a tall, imposing man in his fifties. His face is weathered by years of working the farm, but his eyes are sharp and calculating. He runs the farm with an iron fist, overseeing both the D-Bee slaves and the farm’s operations with equal parts efficiency and cruelty. Jebediah is a shrewd businessman, always looking for ways to expand his influence, particularly with the Coalition military.
Martha Miller: Jebediah’s wife, Martha, is just as ruthless as her husband, though she hides it behind a veneer of charm and hospitality. She is the one who often entertains Coalition visitors, offering them hearty meals and pleasant conversation while maintaining the appearance of a proper farmwife. Behind closed doors, however, she is just as willing as Jebediah to enforce brutal punishments on the D-Bee slaves.
The Miller Children: The Millers have three children, all raised to carry on the family’s supremacist views and harsh management of the farm. The oldest, Isaac, is already heavily involved in running the farm alongside his father, learning how to control the workers and maximize profits. The younger siblings, Lydia and Caleb, are still teenagers but have been indoctrinated into the family’s belief system, showing little empathy for the D-Bees or anyone they see as beneath them.
Visitors and Trade:
Despite the dark undercurrent of the farm’s operation, Miller’s Farm is a major hub for trade in Hogswaller. Visitors often stop by to purchase fresh produce or preserved meats, and traders frequently strike deals with Jebediah to buy large quantities of pork, beef, or wool for transport to other towns.
Coalition Soldiers: Coalition soldiers and officials frequently visit the farm, finding common ground with the Millers due to their shared anti-D-Bee sentiment. These visits are often treated as opportunities for the Millers to strengthen their ties with the Coalition, offering food, hospitality, and sometimes even information in exchange for favor or protection.
Town Trade: The farm supplies much of Hogswaller’s food, especially preserved meats like bacon, smoked pork, and jerky, which are staples in the town’s trading post. The Millers also trade crops like corn and wheat, as well as eggs, milk, and wool. Their products are generally well-regarded for their quality, though locals tend to ignore or accept the cruel methods by which the farm operates.
Reputation:
Miller’s Farm is seen as both a necessity and a curse by the people of Hogswaller. While the farm provides much-needed food and resources, its reliance on D-Bee slave labor and the Miller family’s brutality cast a dark shadow over its success. Most of the town’s residents look the other way when it comes to the treatment of the D-Bees, knowing that the Miller family’s power and influence are too great to challenge.
Those passing through Hogswaller often leave with mixed impressions—admiring the size and productivity of the farm but haunted by the knowledge of what lies beneath its surface.
11. General Store: Deals with more common day-to-day goods such as clothing, basic tools, preserved foods, simple supplies (like cordage, lantern oil, rope, and firewood), and some household items. This store caters to both residents and travelers who don't need high-end or niche goods.
A family-run business, focusing on non-weaponry items.
12. Blacksmith and Farrier: Being a rural town, especially with a population of trapper-woodsmen and pig farmers, this smithie is essential. The blacksmith maintains tools, horseshoes, plows, weapons, and various metal items for the community. They also function as a Farrier to take care of horse-related needs, such as shoeing and minor veterinary work for equine travelers and locals. Services include repairing tools, making weapons, horseshoes, plow blades, and other essential metal items.
13. Butcher & Tanner: While the Millers have their own farm-based slaughterhouse, the town itself benefits from this central butcher, serving both hunters and farmers, where meat can be processed and skins can be sold for tanning. Services include processing animals into meat for local consumption and trade, tanning hides for clothing, leather goods, and trading.
14. Livery Stable and Wagonwright of Hogswaller
The Livery Stable and Wagonwright stands on the southern edge of Hogswaller, just off the main dirt road that leads into the village. A sprawling, weathered structure, it serves as a crucial stop for the many travelers, drifters, mercenaries, and adventurers passing through the town. Its weather-beaten wooden exterior tells the story of years spent providing for the diverse and often rough clientele that frequent Hogswaller. Faded signage sways gently in the wind, marked with old paint that simply reads: Livery & Wagons – Board, Repair, & Trade.
Despite its rustic appearance, the stable bustles with activity most days, its worn but functional stalls constantly filled with horses, oxen, and other pack animals. The Wagonwright portion of the business hums with the sound of hammering, sawing, and the constant fixing and patching of wagons that have been battered by the rough trails leading into and out of town.
The Livery Stable: The Livery Stable is the lifeblood of the establishment. The central barn is a wide, two-story structure, built from sturdy timber, though age and the elements have left their mark. Its high, peaked roof is stained with years of mud, rain, and dust, and the large double doors at the entrance creak loudly when pushed open, revealing the dark, cool interior.
Stalls: The stable has 12 stalls, each large enough to comfortably house a horse or ox. The stalls are divided by wooden slats, and though the structure is old, it is well-maintained. Each stall is fitted with hay racks, water troughs, and fresh bedding, regularly cleaned by the stable hands. The stable’s patrons often board their animals here for a night or two while they handle their business in town.
Feed and Care: For a small fee, the livery offers feed primarily hay, grain, and water. Travelers can rest assured that their animals will be well cared for, with regular feeding and grooming. The stable hands, though rough around the edges, know their way around horses, mules, and other pack animals. They also provide basic veterinary services, treating wounds or ailments that the beasts of burden may have sustained on the long roads.
Tack and Gear: Inside the stable, there is a small storage area where travelers can store saddles, harnesses, and packs. Hooks on the walls hold bridles, reins, and bits of leather gear, while wooden racks display old but serviceable tack. The stable also sells basic supplies such as saddle soap, bridles, and other necessities for the upkeep of the animals.
Smell and Sounds: The scent of hay, manure, and horses is heavy in the air, giving the place an earthy, lived-in feel. There is a constant low sound of snorting animals, hooves shifting on straw, and the occasional rough shout from a stable hand.
The Wagonwright:
Adjacent to the stable is the Wagonwright, where travelers can have their wagons repaired or trade in broken-down rigs for something more functional. The wagon yard is a dusty, open lot scattered with the remains of old wagons, carts, and various vehicle parts.
Workshop: The wagonwright’s workshop is a noisy, cluttered space where tools of the trade hang from walls and workbenches are covered in half-finished projects. There are forges and anvils for working metal, as well as carpentry tools for repairing wheels, axles, and wagon bodies. The wagonwright and his assistants are a grizzled team of craftsmen, adept at quick repairs, patching broken wheels, reinforcing axles, or even building entire new wagon beds from scratch. They can also outfit wagons with modifications, like reinforced armor or hidden compartments for smuggling, though this service is only offered to those who ask discreetly.
Wagon Repair: The repair services offered are affordable, but not luxurious. The focus is on function over form, meaning that while the repairs may not look pretty, they’re reliable enough to get travelers through the next leg of their journey. Broken wheels are repaired with mismatched wood, axles are reinforced with whatever metal can be salvaged, and wagon covers are stitched together with whatever fabric is on hand.
Wagon Trade: Travelers with broken-down carts or wagons can often trade their old rig for a new one, with the wagonwright offering credit for the condition of their vehicle. However, the trades are usually lopsided in favor of the wagonwright, who takes advantage of desperate travelers needing quick replacements.
Notable Staff:
Old Jeb: The livery stable master, Old Jeb, is a grizzled man with skin leathery from the sun and years spent on the road himself before settling in Hogswaller. He has a deep understanding of horses and oxen, and though his speech is gruff and clipped, he has a reputation for being one of the most reliable men in town when it comes to the care of animals.
Martha: Jeb’s wife, Martha, helps manage the stable, overseeing the stable hands and ensuring that the boarding animals are well-fed and cared for. She’s a tough woman, known to scold both the stable boys and patrons if she catches them mistreating the animals.
Griff and Ron: The wagonwright’s assistants, these two brothers are as grizzled as they come, with calloused hands from years of working wood and metal. They handle most of the repairs and will haggle mercilessly with travelers trying to trade their wagons.
Clientele:
The stable is often frequented by mercenaries, drifters, and traders, all of whom stop in Hogswaller to rest, resupply, and get their animals fed and cared for.
The atmosphere is always bustling, with animals coming and going, the hammering of tools in the wagon yard, and the constant chatter of travelers haggling with Old Jeb or Griff about prices. There’s a roughness to the clientele, with many of them being seasoned wanderers who have seen their fair share of trouble, and the stable serves as a temporary refuge for those who need to regroup before heading back out into the wilderness.
Reputation:
Though not luxurious, but dependable and affordable. Word has spread that while the repairs and boarding here are basic, they’re trustworthy enough to get you back on the road, which makes it a key stop for adventurers and traders alike. The lack of questions asked by the staff makes it a favored stop for those looking to keep a low profile.
In the town of Hogswaller, where danger and opportunity go hand in hand, the Livery Stable and Wagonwright is a critical asset for anyone passing through, ensuring that both horses and wagons are ready to face the next leg of the journey.
15. Feed Store: For both the crop farmers and those raising livestock, this feed store mills and stores feed for farmers to grind their grains into flour or animal feed. The feed store sells hay, grain, and other necessities for those raising animals. Services include: Grinding grain into flour or feed for pigs, chickens, and cows; selling seed and farming supplies.
16. Place of Worship: Like in most rural and frontier towns, even if religion isn’t a central aspect, there is a place to provide for the spiritual needs of the residents and travelers. This simple structure, run by a traveling preacher, serving multiple spiritual practices common to the region. Offers services, blessings for travelers, marriages, funerals, and a place of refuge and reflection.
17. Apothecary: While Doc Summers handles medical needs, this small place is for more basic remedies and natural medicines. The Holistic medicine woman sells herbs, potions, and simple remedies, catering to those who can't afford or don't need to see a doctor. An elderly who’s well-versed in the use of local herbs and plants for healing.
18. Town Hall: A central place for the town's administration and decision-making. A basic structure where the local constable, Jake McFadden, could hold meetings or enforce the law. It could double as a meeting spot for any local disputes, courthouse, or to manage dealings with the Coalition or visiting mercenaries.
19. Saloon: Given the frequency of adventurers and drifters passing through town, Hogswaller has a second Saloon, separate from Hogs Heaven. This one might cater to a slightly different crowd or offer more in the way of gambling, brawling, and entertainment. They feature live music, card games, or a different brand of alcohol than what Hogs Heaven serves.
The Hidden Coalition Bunker
20. The Hidden Coalition Bunker
The bunker is cleverly hidden beneath one of the unassuming buildings in Hogswaller—possibly Doc Summers' Clinic or Billy Bob's Garage both of which serve as fronts for Coalition activities. The entrance is concealed, perhaps behind a false wall or hidden trapdoor, only accessible by Coalition operatives.
Description: The bunker is a small, cramped multipurpose space used by Coalition spies for a variety of clandestine activities. Although its appearance is utilitarian and sparse, the room is carefully outfitted for espionage, interrogation, and covert communication.
Features:
Interrogation Wall: One wall is fitted with heavy iron manacles for detaining and interrogating prisoners. This adds a dungeon-like feel to the otherwise sterile room, and it's used to secure anyone considered a threat to Coalition interests or valuable for intelligence gathering.
Old Mechanical Safe: There’s a solid, old-school safe with a mechanical lock, used to store sensitive documents, weapons, and other tools of the trade. The safe is difficult to break into, designed to protect valuable Coalition secrets.
Cot and Portable Bucket Toilet: For longer operations or when a spy needs to stay hidden for an extended period, there is a basic folding cot and a portable bucket toilet. These allow a Coalition operative to lay low for days if necessary without leaving the bunker.
Cooler with Clean Water and boxes of MREs: A five-gallon cooler of clean water is stored in the bunker, ensuring operatives have a safe water supply during their time in hiding. There are three boxes of 12 MREs.
Folding Desk and Chair: A simple folding desk and chair are provided for any administrative work or covert record-keeping.
Laptop Computer: The bunker contains a laptop computer equipped with encryption software to maintain records, communicate with Coalition higher-ups, and track intelligence gathered from both Hogswaller locals and passersby. The computer is a critical tool for sending encrypted reports to the Coalition command.
Purpose:
1. Storage: The bunker serves as a secure place to store spy gear, weapons, and sensitive documents. It’s also used to hide any incriminating materials that would expose the Coalition spies' activities in town.
2. Interrogation: The manacles and prison-like setup make it ideal for covert interrogations of anyone suspected of being a threat to the Coalition’s interests. The confined space is perfect for keeping prisoners isolated and hidden.
3. Covert Communications Hub: With the laptop and secure connection, the bunker is also a communication hub, allowing Coalition operatives to report on local developments without drawing attention.
4. Safehouse: If a spy needs to go into hiding, the bunker can serve as a temporary safehouse. The cot and water supply provide the basic necessities for a short-term stay.
Security:
The bunker is heavily secured to prevent unauthorized access. Only Coalition agents, such as Doc Summers or Billy Bob’s crew, are aware of its existence. The entrance is carefully concealed, and the safe's mechanical lock adds another layer of protection for the items stored within.
Atmosphere:
The bunker’s cold, unwelcoming feel contrasts with the rustic charm of the town above. It’s a stark reminder of the town’s hidden underbelly and the larger geopolitical struggle that’s taking place in the region. Despite its small size, the bunker represents a key asset for Coalition operatives trying to maintain control over the area and gather intelligence on any potential threats.
This hidden bunker adds an extra layer of intrigue to Hogswaller, showing that beneath the rough, small-town surface lies a more sinister network of espionage and power plays, with the Coalition's eyes and ears constantly watching from the shadows.
Last edited by darthauthor on Sun Sep 08, 2024 10:03 pm, edited 3 times in total.
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darthauthor
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Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
The Encounter with Camp Fatale
The Kingdom of Tolkeen had become a war-torn land of haunted forests and broken fields, where the desperate and the dangerous wandered alike. Amidst this chaos, bands of refugees, mercenaries, and adventurers moved like shadows. Among them was the ragged group known as Camp Fatale—a seemingly innocuous band of weary travelers with innocent faces hiding a lethal secret.
On the outskirts of a dark, twisted forest along the border of what was once Minnesota and Iowa, a Coalition States Armored Personnel Carrier rolled up a dirt path. The stolen vehicle, its armor still bearing the marks of CS insignia, hummed along like a ghost of its former masters. Inside sat four mercenaries—Mystic Knights, clad in their stolen CS armor. Their leader, Knight One, adjusted his helmet as they neared the edge of a small clearing.
Ahead of them, the scene was eerily familiar: a camp of human refugees, huddled around dim fires, surrounded by battered tents. Their worn faces spoke of hardship, but something about the way they moved unsettled Knight One. The camp looked too perfect—like bait.
Knight Four, a tall man with jet-black hair cut in a military style, tapped the edge of the APC’s console with growing impatience. “We’re close to CS patrol territory. You really think stopping here is wise?”
Knight One glanced at her, then at the viewport showing the camp ahead. “It’s good to get information from the locals. Besides, the children look hungry. Coalition patrols wouldn’t suspect a band of knights feeding starving children.”
Knight Three, hunched in his seat, chuckled darkly. “Harmless or not, let’s not stay too long. Word is Coalition squads have been getting wiped out mysteriously. Maybe we’ve run into one of those bands of ghosts.”
“Ghosts don’t kill,” Knight Two, the stoic one of the group, finally said.
The APC’s treads crunched over loose gravel as it came to a stop near the camp. The Mystic Knights disembarked slowly, cautiously. The refugees turned to watch them, many of the women feigning fear and surprise at the sight of the armored mercenaries.
Knight One, following his usual routine, approached a group of children huddled near a fire. He reached into his pack and pulled out a tin of porridge, kneeling to stir the contents over the flame.
A small girl with wide, innocent eyes peered up at him, and Knight One gave her a soft smile beneath his helmet. He poured some water from his canteen into a battered metal bowl and handed it to her. "Eat," he said. "You’ll need your strength."
The girl blinked, her lips parting slightly as if she was about to speak, but then she simply nodded and took the bowl in silence.
Behind him, the rest of the mercenaries began moving among the camp, exchanging wary glances with the women and older men. The atmosphere felt wrong. Knight Four tensed, his hand brushing the handle of his energy rifle. He leaned in closer to Knight One. “Something’s off here.”
“I feel it too,” Knight One whispered. “But no sudden moves. We need to keep the Coalition disguise intact.”
Across the camp, a soldier in Coalition gear approached a cluster of young women. One of them, a stunning redhead with wild curls and dirt smudged across her cheeks, batted her lashes as she addressed the man. "You look tired, soldier. You’ve been fighting the good fight, haven’t you?"
The soldier grinned beneath his helmet. “Just keeping the peace, miss. You’ve nothing to worry about with us here.” He leaned in, his tone growing suggestive. "Maybe you’d like to sit and talk awhile?"
The redhead smiled, a dangerous glint in her eye. Without breaking eye contact, she extended her hand, and for a brief moment, her fingers brushed against the soldier’s arm. In an instant, the man’s expression went blank. His body stiffened, and he straightened like a puppet pulled by invisible strings.
Knight Four noticed the shift first. "Hold on… something’s not right!"
Before he could react, the soldier’s rifle swung up, turning toward his comrades. The soldiers dropped like stones, their own comrades firing upon each other without warning or hesitation.
The camp had come alive with death. Men and women who had appeared weak and broken now moved with deadly precision. The “refugees” spread out among the soldiers like wolves in sheep’s clothing, using their psychic abilities to mentally dominate the CS troopers. Screams filled the clearing as guns misfired, and soldiers were mowed down by their own possessed brethren.
Knight One stood frozen, watching in horror as Coalition men dropped all around him, their bodies crumpling under volleys of friendly fire. Then, as if awakening from a dream, he shook himself and shouted, "Fall back! It’s a trap!"
Knight Four drew his rifle. "We need to fall back!" he roared, shooting down one of the possessed soldiers who had turned on them. Knight Three unleashed an energy blast from his rifle, burning a hole through a CS grunt as he advanced toward the APC.
Psychic energy crackled in the air like static, distorting the battlefield as Coalition soldiers, now little more than tools of their captors, turned their guns on the Mystic Knights.
Knights One and Four were fried and would have been killed if it were not for his immunity to energy attacks.
He shouts to the others. "Let’s get out of here!"
But as they retreated, the redhead—the leader of Camp Fatale—stood tall among the mayhem. Her eyes smiled coldly at Knight Four. "Leaving so soon?" she asked, her voice laced with mockery. "We haven’t even introduced ourselves properly."
Knight One yanking open the hatch to the APC.
“WE ARE NOT CS!”
Then he could NOT move.
He could see Knight Four was paralyzed also.
Knight Three could not start the APC; it was paralyzed also.
---
The paralysis timed out.
He raised his voice, loud and clear, but without aggression. “I am a Mystic! A man of magic and psychic power!” He took another step forward, his hands still high in the air. “The Coalition States are my enemy. I am no ally of theirs, and I mean you no harm!”
The redheaded woman—the leader of Camp Fatalie. Noticed him for what seemed like the first time. Her green eyes piercing. She did not smile this time. The playful facade from earlier was gone, replaced by something much more dangerous.
“Bold of you to stick around,” she said, her voice smooth but sharp, like a blade wrapped in silk. “Most men would have fled and never returned.”
Knight Four (playfully), "You say that to all the guys?"
Her gaze turns to Knight Four. Since he was paralyzed first his must have worn off first.
Knight Four (confident), "But I'm not most men."
"That APC is stolen. The armor, the uniforms—those were disguises.”
The redhead studied him, her eyes narrowing slightly. Her group began to gather behind her, the so-called refugees, now fully revealed for what they truly were—psychic assassins, their calm faces betraying nothing of the ruthlessness they carried within. Some of the younger women and older men joined her, watching the Mystic Knights with thinly veiled suspicion.
“And why should we believe you?” she asked, tilting her head. “You wear their armor. You ride in their vehicles. You look like Coalition filth.”
Knight Four, taking a step closer. “I fight for myself. For my people. The Coalition would burn us all if they could.”
The woman’s expression softened—just barely, but enough for Knight Four to catch it. “Your words mean little. Many people hate the Coalition, but few have the stomach for what we do.”
Knight Four hesitated, then spoke carefully. “We are what the Coalition fears. Power beyond their control. We horrify them so they try to eliminate us; what they fear.”
She studied him in silence, her sharp eyes narrowing as if she were probing his mind. Knight Four felt the familiar tingle of psychic energy brushing against his consciousness, like fingers testing the edges of his thoughts. He did not resist. He let her probe, let her see the truth of what he had said.
After what felt like an eternity, she spoke again, this time with a faint edge of curiosity. “Prove yourself.”
Knight Four, "You haven't noticed? Was lit me up with shots from energy rifles. How do you explain it if NOT magic?"
The redhead watched, her lips curving into a slight smile. “Impressive. But tricks won’t save you if you’re lying.”
“I’m not lying,” Knight Four said firmly. “We can help each other. The Coalition hunts you. They hunt us too. Together, we can do more than either of us could alone.”
The woman’s eyes glinted with interest now. She stepped closer, and the tension in the air grew thick. “What’s to stop us from killing you right here? We could take that APC for ourselves.”
Knight Four kept his voice steady. “Because killing us won’t get you anything you can’t already take. But an alliance? It gives us both something valuable—strength.”
For a long moment, the redhead said nothing, simply studying him. Then, she glanced back at her people, as if silently consulting them.
Finally, she nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Perhaps you’re smarter than you look.” She turned, signaling for her people to stand down. “We’ll talk. But understand this—you betray us, and your death will be slower than you can imagine.”
Knight Four breathed a quiet sigh of relief. I’ve heard that before.
As she walked past him, her voice dropped to a near whisper, her words cutting through the tension like a knife. “Welcome to Camp Fatale. Let’s see if you live long enough to regret this decision.”
---
The campfire crackled between them, casting flickering shadows on the worn faces of those gathered around. The leader of Camp Fatale, the redheaded woman with eyes as sharp as a blade, sat across from Knight Four. She was flanked by a few of her trusted psychics, all of whom eyed the Mystic Knight warily. Around the camp, the "refugees" busied themselves with their usual tasks, but the tension was palpable.
Knight Four rested his arms on his knees, his helmet beside him, revealing his tired but determined face. He glanced at the redhead, then spoke, his voice even but with an edge of candor.
“You play the part of the damsel in distress to lure them in,” he said, his tone direct. “You get them to drop their guard, make them think they’re in control. Then, you use your psychic powers to kill them all. I understand why you do it. You’re not the first to create an ambush to take out Coalition troops.”
The redhead’s eyes remained fixed on him, unblinking.
Knight Four continued, his voice steady. “In my own way, I’m doing the same thing when I put on this CS armor and ride around in a stolen Coalition APC. The Coalition is my enemy too, but unlike you, I’m a mercenary. I fight for profit and the spoils of war. Sometimes, that includes alliances.”
The woman raised an eyebrow, but remained silent, letting him speak.
Knight Four gestured toward the camp. “I’ve learned that, more than credits or loot, having useful people—people you can trust, people who will be there for you when you need them—is worth far more. So, if we’re going to be part of each other’s networks, we need to earn each other’s trust and prove our usefulness. You’ll want to know I’m worth keeping around, and I need to know the same about you.”
She leaned forward slightly, her interest piqued, but her expression remained guarded.
“So,” Knight Four asked, meeting her gaze, “What do you need?”
A moment passed as she considered his words. She could sense his genuine intent, the openness in his mind. He wasn’t like the Coalition. He wasn’t bound by dogma or orders. He was a man who had chosen survival through adaptability. But still, she had seen men like him before—opportunists who could betray just as easily as they could make alliances.
He continued, breaking her train of thought. “Or, I can randomly start showing off my powers and hope you see something you like. But I figured I wouldn’t waste our time and just ask.”
At this, the redhead finally smirked. It was a small, almost imperceptible shift in her demeanor, but it was there. She leaned back in her chair, arms crossing.
“Direct,” she remarked, her voice smooth. “I appreciate that.”
Knight Four nodded, taking it as a sign to push forward. “Speaking for myself, I could use the services of a Psi-Tech. I know you’ve got a few in your camp. Someone who can keep the APC running, maybe even enhance it. Eventually, I’m going to need the services of a psychic with healing abilities. You’ve got those too, and my crew… we get banged up a lot.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly, but not in suspicion—more in curiosity.
Knight Four pressed on. “In return, I can offer my own skills and those of my crew. We’ve got magic. For one, I can give you the equivalent of a hot shower and clean clothes—something I bet doesn’t come easy out here. I’ve got a spell that can give you a tent for the night, good for twelve hours. Another spell, ‘Sustain,’ will keep you from needing food or water for a full week.”
The redhead raised an eyebrow at that.
“And,” Knight Four added, “My team can magically mend clothes and some broken things. Not everything, but he’s got a knack for fixing stuff that others would toss aside.”
The camp fell quiet for a moment as the woman stared at him, weighing the offer. Behind her, the other psychics exchanged glances, their own thoughts buzzing with the possibilities. Finally, she stood and paced around the fire, her arms behind her back as she circled Knight Four like a predator assessing prey.
“You seem to know what we need,” she said thoughtfully. “Psi-Techs, healers… those aren’t requests we get from just anyone. So, let me ask you, mercenary—why should I trust you? Why should I let you anywhere near my people?”
Knight Four looked up at her, unflinching. “Because you and I have the same enemy. The Coalition hunts people like me. They hunt people like you. We both know what it’s like to be on the run. If you wanted me dead, I’d be dead already. So maybe, just maybe, we’re not so different.”
The redhead stopped, her green eyes locking onto his. “And what’s to stop me from taking your APC and your services without this little ‘alliance’ you’re proposing?”
Knight Four smirked slightly. “Because you need more than just another vehicle or a few spells. You need people who can think, who can adapt, who can be there when things go sideways. And I need the same. If we work together, we’re stronger. You know that as well as I do.”
The woman was silent again for a moment, then finally, she spoke. “You’re right. We are stronger together.”
She walked back to her seat, but her gaze never left Knight Four. “I’ll agree to this… tentative alliance. I’ll give you a Psi-Tech. You can have access to a healer if you need it. But trust? Trust takes time. You’ll have to earn it.”
Knight Four nodded. “That’s TRUE!”
The redhead leaned in, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. “But if you cross us, Mystic, no magic spell will save you. We’ll tear your mind apart before your body even hits the ground.”
Knight Four met her threat without blinking. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
The tension finally eased as she leaned back, the dangerous glint in her eyes fading slightly. “Then it’s settled. For now, you and your crew have a place here. Tonight. Don’t make us regret it.”
Knight Four smiled, the weight of the moment lifting slightly. “RED. IF I could MAKE you do anything you wouldn't regret it.”
As the flames of the campfire flickered between them, tension filled the air until it had burned down to embers, casting a faint glow over the scattered remains of the Coalition squad. Their bodies, once the proud soldiers of the Coalition States, now lay stripped of their weapons and armor—just another victim of Camp Fatale’s ruthless efficiency.
The Fatales moved quietly, packing up the loot they had taken from the dead. Energy rifles, pistols, pieces of the grunts armor, equipment—all of it now piled together, ready to be dealt with. But carrying it around was a problem; it made them look anything but defenseless refugees.
The redheaded leader of Camp Fatalie stood over the pile of Coalition gear, her face set in a thoughtful frown. The spoils were valuable, but they couldn’t keep them, not without blowing their disguise. They had no use for Coalition armor and weapons, at least not here. But it was wealth waiting to be traded, and credits were always needed to keep their operations running.
Knight Four stood nearby, watching the Fatales sort through their spoils. His eyes flicked from the weapons to the armor, his mind working through possibilities. After a long silence, he spoke, his voice calm but with a hint of opportunity in it.
“You’ve got quite a haul there,” Knight Four said, stepping closer. “But you can’t exactly walk around looking like Coalition soldiers, can you?”
The redhead glanced up, her sharp green eyes narrowing. “We know what we’re doing, mercenary. The Coalition’s armor doesn’t suit our look.”
Knight Four smiled, just slightly. “Exactly. Carrying those rifles, that armor—makes you look more like a threat than a group of defenseless war refugees. It’s not the kind of thing you want drawing attention.”
A young man with sandy hair and a nervous energy, glanced up from the pile. “We usually sell it for credits or donate it to freedom fighters,” he said quietly. “But this time, we’re stuck out here.”
Knight Four saw his chance. “Then let me make you a proposition. You’ve got loot that’ll get you noticed, but we don’t. My crew and I, we’re used to carrying around Coalition gear. We can take it off your hands, sell it for you—or better yet, donate it to the right people.”
The redhead crossed her arms, her eyes flicking back to the pile of loot, then to Knight Four. “What’s in it for you?”
Knight Four shrugged, keeping his tone casual. “We take a small cut for transport and the risk involved. You get credits, or your freedom fighters get weapons to keep fighting the Coalition. Either way, we make sure the gear gets to where it needs to go. And in exchange, you keep your cover intact.”
The leader of Camp Fatale stared at him, her mind clearly weighing the risk. “You expect us to trust you with all this? What’s stopping you from running off with it and selling it all for yourselves?”
Knight Four smiled, anticipating the concern. “I thought about that. Here’s my offer: you send three of your people with us—three witnesses. That way, you know exactly what we’re doing, and they make sure we don’t pocket the loot for ourselves.”
Her interest piqued, but she wasn’t sold yet. “Three people?”
Knight Four nodded. “One Psi-Tech, someone who can service everything Coalition equipment wise in case we have any trouble with it. One psychic healer—because we both know things can go wrong out there, and we’ll all need someone to patch us up if they do. And one warrior, someone you trust to defend them and, if necessary, avenge you if we try anything.”
At that, the redhead smiled, a cold and calculating grin. “A warrior to defend them—and to keep you in line. Sounds good to me.”
She glanced over her shoulder, scanning her people. “Jessa,” she called out, and an attractive woman with a predatory air about her stepped forward. The woman had the look of a huntress, her dark hair tied back, her piercing eyes scanning Knight Four like a wolf sizing up prey.
“This is Jessa.” the redhead said, her tone one of pride. “She’ll watch you.”
“Sounds good to me,” Knight Four replied back.
Jessa scoffed, almost laughing at how flirty Knight Four was but angry that she was not feared.
The redhead pointed to another woman, this one more subdued but with a gentle strength about her. “That’s Malen, our healer. She’ll go too.”
A woman in her early twenties stepped forward next. She wore a mix of Coalition parts and scavenged tech, and the glint in her eye told Knight Four that this woman had a talent with machines. “And that’s Cora,” the redhead finished. “Our Psi-Tech. He’ll make sure the Coalition gear doesn’t fall apart on you.”
With a playful smile Knight Four nodded at the trio. Then says, “I’m sure these three women can satisfy me.”
The redhead stepped closer, her voice dropping lower. “But make no mistake. If you try to cross us—if anything happens to my girls—you won’t make it far before we hunt you down. And trust me, we’re very good at making people disappear.”
Knight Four met her gaze, his expression calm but unwavering. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
She held his stare for a moment longer before nodding. “Good. Then we have a deal.”
Knight Four extended his hand, and after a brief pause, she shook it—firm, strong, but with a silent promise of consequences if he dared to betray them.
As the Mystic Knights prepared the APC, loading the loot with the help of the Fatales, Jessa, Malen, and Cora stepped up to join them. Jessa slung an energy rifle over her shoulder, her eyes still sharp and alert. Malen carried a small pouch of herbs and crystals, her aura calm and healing. Cora gave a small nod to the APC, already assessing the condition of the vehicle.
Knight Four looked at his crew, then back to the trio. “Alright, we head out at dawn. You’ll see firsthand that we keep our word. Let’s make this trade work—for both of us.”
The night had settled in, thick and heavy, but the embers of the campfire continued to flicker as the Fatales quietly went about their business. The deal had been struck, and though tension still lingered in the air, there was a subtle shift—an unspoken agreement to coexist, for now.
Knight Four stood beside the APC, his crew gathered around him. Jessa, Malen, and Cora—the three chosen Fatales—watched closely, their expressions mixed with curiosity and skepticism. Red, as Knight Four had taken to calling the redheaded leader of Camp Fatale, remained at a distance. She stood in the shadows beyond the firelight, her arms crossed and her eyes sharp as she observed the Mystic Knights preparing their next move.
"We agreed to help each other," Knight Four said, raising his hand, preparing for his demonstration. "And part of that means making your lives a little easier while we’re on this journey together. No sense walking around covered in grime and looking like you just crawled out of a ditch."
Jessa raised an eyebrow, still doubtful. “You think a little magic will change anything?”
Knight Four chuckled softly. “Sometimes, a little magic can make all the difference.”
With a deep breath, he focused his mind, channeling the energies that coursed through him. His hands began to glow faintly as he cast the spell, Cleanse. The magical energy swirled around him, coalescing into a soft, shimmering light that expanded outward, enveloping Jessa, Malen, and Cora in its radiant embrace.
At first, they flinched—uncertain of what to expect—but the warmth of the spell was gentle, soothing, like a breeze on a summer day. The glow shimmered over their bodies and clothes, sweeping away every speck of dirt, every smudge of grime. The transformation was instant. Their hair, previously tangled and matted from days of travel, now gleamed as if freshly washed. Their skin, once marred by dust and sweat, looked clean, glowing with a healthy sheen. Their clothes—previously worn and stained from battle—looked as if they had just come from the wash, spotless and bright.
Jessa blinked, looking down at herself in mild astonishment. "I… feel clean," she said, running her fingers through her now silky hair.
Malen let out a small, incredulous laugh, lifting the hem of her robe to inspect it. “It’s like I just stepped out of a bath.”
Knight Four smiled, satisfied with the result. “The spell takes care of the surface filth. It’s not going to heal wounds or cure sickness, but it’ll make you feel human again.”
Cora, ever the practical one, gave a nod of approval. “Useful. Especially out here.”
Knight Two, standing off to the side, grinned. “We’re not done yet.”
With a wave of his hand, Knight Two began casting the next spell, Mend the Broken. A soft green light radiated from his fingers as he focused on the torn and tattered sections of Jessa’s leather vest and Malen’s robe. The magic swirled around the fabric, knitting it back together in smooth, flowing motions. The holes in Jessa’s clothes—worn from battle and travel—began to close, the threads weaving themselves back together seamlessly. Malen’s robe, once frayed at the edges, looked like it had been newly tailored, its soft wool glowing faintly as the spell restored it to perfect condition.
The magic even removed impossible stains—blood, mud, and grime vanished as if they had never existed. When the spell was complete, their clothes looked as if they had just stepped out of a tailor’s shop.
Jessa examined her now-pristine vest, her hard expression softened by genuine surprise. “Impressive,” she admitted, though her tone was still cautious.
Malen smiled, touching the newly mended fabric. “I could get used to this.”
Knight Four nodded, stepping back to give them space. "And if you ever find yourselves needing something mended while we’re on the road, just let us know."
Red, still standing in the shadows, finally stepped closer. Her eyes flicked from Jessa’s restored clothes to the now-spotless group. “Your magic does have its uses,” she said, her tone neutral but thoughtful. “But you’re still going to need a place to rest.”
Knight Four exchanged a glance with the others before raising his hand once more. “One last spell for the night,” he said, his voice low as he prepared the incantation.
With a simple motion, he cast “Sheltering Force.” A faint bluish-white light bloomed from his hands, expanding outward in a dome of semi-opaque energy. The force field shimmered like a bubble, growing until it formed a protective dome large enough to fit six people comfortably. The light was soft, and though those outside could only see blurred outlines of the figures within, the interior was calm and dry, insulated against the cool night air.
The Fatales watched in quiet awe as the shelter materialized, its magical energy crackling faintly in the air. Inside, the temperature was perfectly regulated—cooler than the warm night outside but far more comfortable than the damp, chilled air that typically settled after dark.
“It’ll keep the insects at bay,” Knight Four explained, stepping inside the shelter. “But it won’t stop anyone from coming in or going out, just like a regular tent.” He winks at her.
Jessa and Malen exchanged a glance, both clearly impressed. Even Cora, usually more concerned with technology, gave a small nod of approval.
Red stepped up to the edge of the shelter, her arms still crossed but her expression more neutral than it had been all night. She studied the semi-opaque dome, watching how the bluish light rippled and held firm. “It’s a good spell,” she admitted. “But it won’t protect you from everything.”
Knight Four smiled slightly. “No spell can. But it’s enough to make the night easier.”
Red met his gaze, her calculating expression returning. “We’ll see if your magic is enough, Mystic Knight. For now, you’ve earned some good faith. Let’s hope it lasts.”
As she turned and walked away, Knight Four exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of her words. The alliance between the Mystic Knights and Camp Fatale was fragile—built on convenience and necessity. Trust would take time, but for now, magic had bought them another night of peace.
Inside the shelter, Jessa and the others settled down, feeling the comfort of their newly cleaned bodies and repaired clothes. Outside, the night pressed in, but within the dome, there was warmth, safety, and—at least for a moment—a fragile sense of trust.
As the night settled over the camp, the uneasy alliance between the Mystic Knights and Camp Fatalie had begun—a tenuous partnership forged in the fires of war, where survival and trust were luxuries few could afford.
The camp stirred with an air of quiet anticipation as the Mystic Knights prepared to cast their spells for the rest of Camp Fatale. Red, still watching from a distance, had allowed the magic to be performed for her people after seeing the results firsthand. Slowly, more of the 48 members of the camp gathered around, their faces a mixture of curiosity and guarded hope.
Knight One stood at the center of the camp, his gaze sweeping over the group. Most were young women, a few older men, and children—each of them marked by the hardships of war. Dirt and grime covered their clothes and skin, their hair tangled from days, perhaps weeks, without proper care. They looked like refugees, but beneath the surface, Knight One knew these were no ordinary civilians. These were assassins, hidden in plain sight, each one a powerful psychic in their own right.
Knight One nodded to his crew, signaling them to begin. “Let’s make this quick.”
The Mystic Knights split up, each of them preparing to cast the Cleanse spell. One by one, the magic spread through the camp, shimmering over the bodies of the Fatales like a gentle wave of light. Each time the spell was cast, it removed every speck of dirt and grime from the recipient, leaving them spotless, as if they had just stepped out of a shower. The women who had been covered in the dust of battle now stood clean, their hair shining, their clothes as fresh as if they had been washed and dried by hand.
Even the children, who had watched with wide eyes as the magic enveloped them, giggled with delight as they looked down at their newly clean clothes and wiped their hands over their now-smooth faces. The older members of the camp, though less outwardly expressive, nodded in appreciation as the grime of travel was lifted from their skin.
Knight Two moved through a group of women whose clothes had been torn and damaged, his hands glowing faintly as he cast Mend the Broken. The fabric shimmered under his touch, knitting back together seamlessly, restoring tattered shirts and worn cloaks to perfect condition. The Fatales looked on, some in awe, others still cautious, but there was no denying the effect of the magic.
One of the older men, who had been watching with a skeptical eye, finally spoke up. “I’ve seen magic in my day, but this is… different. You’re good at what you do, I’ll give you that.”
Knight Four smiled slightly as he continued casting. “We’ve had a LOT of practice.”
By the time the last spell was cast, all 48 members of Camp Fatalie stood clean, their clothes repaired, their bodies free from the dust and dirt of the road. The camp had transformed, and while they still carried the aura of weary travelers, there was a renewed energy among them. Even Red, who had stayed in the shadows for most of the spellcasting, now stepped forward, inspecting her people.
She didn’t say anything, but Knight Four could see the faintest glimmer of approval in her eyes.
With the magic done, Knight Four motioned to his crew. “Let’s break out the food.”
From the APC, Knight Three and Four began pulling out Coalition State MREs (Meals Ready-to-Eat), small, vacuum-sealed packages of sustenance that were a staple for soldiers in the field.
All the Knights, who had spent time in the Coalition, knew how to prepare the MREs properly. He handed out packets to the Fatales, explaining how to use the included flameless heaters to warm the meals.
“These are MREs,” Knight Three said, holding up a package. “Standard issue for Coalition troops. Not the best tasting food in the world, but it’ll keep you going.”
The Fatales hesitated at first, eyeing the food that had once belonged to their enemy, but hunger won out, and soon enough, they were following Knight Three’s instructions. The small chemical heaters in the MREs activated with water, creating a faint hiss of steam as they warmed the food inside.
Knight Four sat beside Jessa, Cora, and Malen, who were already eating their meals. The others from the camp slowly gathered around, finding places to sit and share the meal. There was an odd sense of camaraderie in the air, as if the simple act of eating together had brought down some of the barriers between them.
Jessa, always the skeptic, poked at her food with a fork, sniffing it cautiously. “Tastes like cardboard,” she muttered, though she took a bite anyway.
Knight Three laughed, tearing into his own meal. “Yeah, but cardboard that fills your stomach.”
Cora, who had opted for a protein-heavy option, chewed thoughtfully. “I’ve eaten worse.”
Across the fire, Knight Four glanced at Red, who had finally joined them, sitting at the edge of the group. She hadn’t spoken much since the magic had been cast, but she accepted an MRE and followed the process of heating it up. She tore into the package with practiced hands and took a bite, her face betraying nothing.
After a few minutes, she spoke, her voice low but clear. “You’re making a good impression.”
Knight Four raised an eyebrow, wiping his hands on a cloth. “Glad to hear it.”
Red’s eyes flicked to him, still calculating, still cautious. “You’ve got skills—useful ones. But don’t mistake this for trust. We’re not allies yet.”
Knight Four nodded, understanding. “Trust takes time. But for now, we have a deal. And that’s a start.”
She didn’t respond, only gave a small nod before returning to her meal.
As the camp settled into an uneasy peace, the Mystic Knights and the Fatales ate together, the crackling fire and soft conversation creating a fragile sense of unity. The night was still thick with tension, but for now, the magic had worked.
---
The first light of dawn filtered through the trees, casting long shadows across the camp. The air was cool, heavy with the moisture of the night, and the ground beneath the camp’s feet was damp with dew. The camp stirred slowly, the 48 members of Camp Fatale waking to the soft sounds of morning. Despite the uneasy alliance between the Mystic Knights and the Fatales, the tension from the previous night had settled into a fragile calm.
Knight Two stood at the edge of the camp, his focus deep as he began casting his spell. He raised his hands slowly, the air around him shimmering faintly as magical energy pulsed through the atmosphere. The spell, one he had used many times before, began to draw in the tiny droplets of dew clinging to the leaves, grass, and air itself. The moisture moved like a faint mist, gathering in an invisible current toward him.
Slowly, droplets coalesced into streams of water, condensing into a swirling, transparent sphere that hovered in front of Knight Two. He guided the water with his hands, dividing it evenly as it flowed into the group’s waiting waterskins and canteens. As the water filled the containers, he smiled slightly, pleased with the simplicity of the spell and how efficiently it could provide fresh water without drawing from nearby rivers or wells.
The Fatales watched quietly, impressed by the practicality of the spell. It wasn’t flashy, but it solved a problem—one they faced constantly in their wandering life. The youngest among them, a girl with tangled hair, stepped forward and held out her canteen, eyes wide as Knight Two directed the last of the gathered water into it.
“Thank you,” she whispered, clutching the canteen like a treasure.
Knight Two gave her a nod, a faint smile on his lips.
Across the camp, Knight Three sat near the fire, stirring a large, battered pot. The smell of something warm and comforting filled the air, a stark contrast to the cold of the morning. It looked like porridge, thick and hearty, but those who knew him well would recognize the faint glimmer of magic in the pot. He was casting Harvest, a spell that turned the wild, inedible plants and scraps around them into something nourishing.
Grass, leaves, flowers, and even a few crushed insects were transformed in the pot, their natural magic-infused essence becoming a thick, nutritious paste. The spell took the useless or unappetizing and made it not only edible but surprisingly tasty. Knight Three stirred the mixture carefully, letting the spell do its work, the contents slowly thickening into what appeared to be a porridge packed with protein, vitamins, and fiber. It smelled faintly sweet, a pleasant aroma that wafted through the camp.
He ladled a small spoonful, tasting it, then nodded in approval. “Good as ever,” he muttered to himself before setting the spoon aside.
As the rest of the Fatales began to wake, Knight Three called out to them. “Breakfast is ready. Help yourselves.”
Jessa, still looking half-asleep, wandered over to the pot, eyeing the porridge with suspicion. “What’s in this?”
Knight Three smirked, his eyes twinkling. “Just some grass, leaves, a few roots… and maybe a bug or two.”
Jessa gave him a look, but her stomach grumbled in betrayal. She grabbed a bowl and ladled a generous portion of the porridge into it. After taking a bite, her eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You know… it’s actually good.”
“It’s magic,” Knight Three said with a grin. “Harvest turns anything into a meal fit for a king—well, almost anything.”
Nearby, Knight Four kept a quiet watch, his eyes scanning the perimeter of the camp. He and his crew had stayed up all night, keeping guard while the Fatales slept.
The Mystic Knights had taken turns, always vigilant, ensuring that no Coalition patrols or wandering threats approached during the night. The camp had remained safe, but Knight Four knew their situation. Trust was fragile, and out here, danger was constant.
Red emerged from her tent, her sharp green eyes immediately locking onto Knight Four. She approached slowly, her posture as tense as ever, though she couldn’t help but notice the efficiency with which the Mystic Knights operated. The camp was cleaner, the people fed, and even the air felt fresher after the magical water had been gathered.
“You and your crew stayed up all night,” Red said, her voice low but not unkind. It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact.
Knight Four glanced at her, then nodded. “Figured you’d need the rest.”
Red’s lips pressed into a thin line as she glanced toward the pot of porridge where the others were gathering to eat. “And now you’ve fed them.”
Knight Four shrugged. “You need us, we need you. We keep each other going.”
She studied him for a long moment, her mind still calculating, always looking for the angle. “You’re doing more than I expected. But you haven’t asked for anything in return.”
Knight Four met her gaze, his expression steady. “That’s because we know this is about more than just trades. You’ll get your return soon enough. For now, we’re all still alive and moving forward.”
Red said nothing for a moment, then gave a small nod. “Fair enough.”
She turned, watching as the rest of the Fatales gathered around the pot, eating the warm porridge and drinking from their newly filled waterskins. There was a noticeable shift in the camp—a quiet appreciation for the Mystic Knights magic and the practical ways it was being used. But the underlying tension remained, a reminder that, though they had shared food and magic, trust was still an elusive thing.
Knight Four looked back toward Red as she walked away, knowing that, despite their uneasy alliance, they had bought themselves another day. For now, the morning was calm, the camp was fed, and the road ahead seemed just a little more manageable.
---
The camp was quiet now, the sounds of morning settling into a calm rhythm as the Fatales and Mystic Knights went about their tasks. The spells of the previous night had done their job, and the Sheltering Force tents still shimmered faintly in the distance, casting their soft bluish-white glow over the camp.
Knight Four found himself alone by the fire, his gaze drifting toward Red, who stood a few feet away, surveying her people with her usual sharp, calculating expression. He admired the way she carried herself—always on guard, always in control, with an edge that made her both dangerous and compelling.
He couldn’t help but feel drawn to her, and after a moment of watching, he stood and approached her, his smile teasing at the corners of his lips.
“You know,” he said casually, coming to stand beside her, “for someone who spends most of her time plotting and killing Coalition soldiers, you’re quite... handsome.”
Red’s eyes flicked to him, one eyebrow raising slightly. “Handsome?”
Knight Four chuckled. “Yeah, handsome. Striking. Fierce.” He tilted his head, meeting her gaze more directly. “You’re not like most people I meet out here.”
Red’s lips twitched, as if she was fighting off a smile. “Flattery’s not going to get you anywhere.”
He shrugged, unfazed. “Maybe. But we’ve both been in this war long enough to know we don’t have a lot of time to waste.” He nodded toward the Sheltering Force tents still glowing faintly in the background. “Those tents will last for a few more hours, and…” He lowered his voice just slightly, leaning in, his tone playful but sincere. “I love to snuggle.”
Red let out a soft, incredulous laugh, shaking her head. “You’re not serious.”
“Oh, I’m very serious,” Knight Four replied, his expression both bold and teasing. “We both put ourselves in danger every day. There isn’t a moment that goes by where we don’t face death. It’s always there, just a heartbeat away.” His voice softened, his flirtation carrying a hint of vulnerability. “If I didn’t at least ask for what I wanted, I’d regret it. It’d be like you saying no without me ever giving it a shot.”
Red turned to face him fully now, her arms still crossed but her posture less defensive. Her eyes scanned his face, searching for any hint of insincerity, but all she found was that strange, reckless charm he carried with him everywhere.
“And what exactly is it you want?” she asked, her voice low, testing him.
He stepped closer, closing the space between them just slightly. “I’m asking you to snuggle with me. Just for a little while.” His voice dropped to almost a whisper, as if sharing a secret. “We both deserve to relax for a bit. Some companionship might help with that.”
Red’s expression didn’t soften entirely, but there was a flicker of consideration in her eyes. She tilted her head, studying him. “You really think I’d just agree to that?”
He gave her a soft, lopsided grin. “I’m not expecting anything. But we’re both alive today, and that’s not guaranteed tomorrow. So, yeah… I’d regret not at least asking.” He held her gaze a moment longer before adding, more earnestly, “Please.”
The camp seemed to still for a moment, the weight of his words hanging in the air between them. Red looked at him, her sharp, calculating mind still clearly working through the implications. But then, ever so slowly, the guardedness in her expression eased, just a little.
“You’re persistent, I’ll give you that,” she said, her voice quieter now, but with a glint of amusement in her eyes.
Knight Four raised an eyebrow, taking it as a small victory. “I’ve had to be. Comes with the territory.”
For a long moment, Red seemed to weigh her options. Then, with a sigh that seemed to carry a mix of exasperation and reluctant acceptance, she gestured toward one of the glowing Sheltering Force tents. “Alright. But don’t get used to it.”
Knight Four grinned, not pushing his luck any further. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
They walked together toward the tent, the faint light casting soft shadows around them as they entered. Inside, the temperature was comfortable, the magical barrier keeping out the coolness of the morning. Knight Four lay back against the ground as he settled in.
Red hesitated for just a moment before sitting beside him, her posture still stiff, but the tension slowly unwinding as the minutes passed.
They didn’t speak much after that. There wasn’t a need to. The quiet between them felt surprisingly natural, a rare moment of peace in a world filled with chaos and violence.
For a while, they simply lay there, side by side, neither completely letting down their guard, but both allowing themselves to relax in each other’s presence. It was enough for now.
And for Knight Four, the fact that he’d asked—and that she’d agreed—was more than enough.
---
The soft glow of the Sheltering Force tent enveloped them in a world of quiet warmth. The camp outside was stirring, but inside the tent, time seemed to slow. After a two-hour power nap, he awoke, his body stiff from the rigors of battle and constant vigilance. He blinked, stretching out completely, muscles rippling under his skin as he let out a low groan of satisfaction. The cool, magical air felt good against his bare skin.
Red stirred beside him, her eyes fluttering open just as he rolled over and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her in closer. She could feel the heat of his body, and when she looked up, she was struck by the sight of him shirtless—his chest broad and muscled, his form tall and powerful. His physique was a blend of raw strength and the honed body of a seasoned warrior, each movement fluid and deliberate.
He grinned down at her, a lazy, satisfied smile. “You know, I like the way you smell,” he murmured, his voice thick with the grogginess of sleep but laced with the playfulness she had come to expect from him.
Red blinked, still coming to her senses, but there was no denying the faint heat that spread through her at his words. She wasn’t used to this—a man who could disarm her not with battle, but with simple, honest desire. Her eyes roamed his body without meaning to, taking in the sharp definition of his muscles, the scars that told stories of countless battles fought, and the relaxed power he seemed to radiate effortlessly.
Before she could respond, he lifted his hand, and with a simple gesture, cast Cleanse. A soft shimmer of magic washed over both of their bodies at the same time. The effect was instant—the dirt, grime, and the sweat of battle were wiped away, leaving their skin smooth, refreshed, and clean. Red’s hair, once tangled from the night’s rest, now fell in soft waves around her shoulders, her body feeling as if she had just stepped out of a luxurious bath.
He leaned closer, his lips hovering near her ear. “I’m incredibly attracted to you,” he whispered, his voice deep, sending a shiver down her spine. His tone was confident, but there was an underlying honesty to it. “And that attraction? It doesn’t depend on trust.”
Red stiffened slightly, the words stirring something deep within her. He continued, his hand gently running down her arm, his touch both bold and careful.
“Excitement, passion,” he said softly, “those live in the realm of uncertainty. That space where anything can happen, where nothing is guaranteed… that’s where the fire comes from.”
His breath was warm against her skin, and Red found herself caught between instinct and desire. She knew she should stay on guard, should keep her distance from a man like him. But his words, his touch—they ignited something inside her she hadn’t felt in a long time.
Before she could protest or even fully think through what was happening, He tilted her chin up toward him, his lips brushing against hers in a teasing kiss. The brief contact sent a jolt through her, and without even realizing it, she leaned into him, her body responding to the raw energy between them.
Knight Four took that as his cue. His kiss deepened, his lips pressing against hers with more urgency now. One hand slid up to the back of her neck, pulling her closer, while the other stayed at her waist, holding her tightly against him. His body was warm and solid, and Red could feel the strength in his arms as he embraced her.
She responded in kind, her hands gripping his shoulders, her own desire taking over. The kiss was hot, filled with the tension and uncertainty he had spoken of—the passion of two people who didn’t fully trust each other but couldn’t deny the attraction between them. It was a kiss borne from the thrill of danger, the knowledge that in their world, nothing was certain, and every moment could be their last.
Their bodies pressed together, skin to skin, the magic from the Cleanse spell making everything feel electric. Knight Four’s hands roamed over her back, his lips never leaving hers, the heat between them growing with each passing second.
Red broke away for a moment, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps, her eyes wide with both desire and hesitation. She stared up at him, searching for something—maybe a reason to stop, maybe a reason to keep going.
He looked back at her, his gaze steady, his lips curling into a small smile. “See?” he whispered. “This… this is the realm of uncertainty. Where anything can happen.”
Red swallowed, her heart pounding in her chest. And then, without another word, she leaned back in, capturing his lips with her own once more, letting herself get lost in the heat and the passion of the moment.
In that small, magical tent, hidden away from the chaos of the world outside, they allowed themselves to forget, just for a little while, the war that raged beyond their walls. The danger, the uncertainty—it fueled their desire, and in that moment, it was enough.
---
The soft, bluish glow of the Sheltering Force tent was beginning to fade, signaling the end of its duration. Inside, the air was warm. Knight Four lay on his back, his arm draped over Red, pulling her close to his chest as they both lay in a comfortable silence. His breathing was steady, his body relaxed, the heat of their shared moment still lingering in the air.
Red rested her head against his shoulder, her breath calm but her mind racing. Her body, though still tingling from the intensity of their connection, was beginning to tense again, her thoughts already shifting back to the realities of their situation. Outside, the camp is stirring with the activities of the day. What was between them was private, and in her world, privacy was a luxury she could ill afford.
Knight Four broke the silence first, his voice soft but urgent. "The spell is almost up."
Red tensed slightly, her thoughts snapping back to the present. She could feel the magic in the tent beginning to wane, the bluish hue flickering like the dying light of a candle.
He shifted slightly, turning his head to look at her. "Look," he began, his tone gentle, “I get it. You’ve got your reputation, your people to think about. The tent will disappear soon, and if you don’t want anyone knowing about this, I can make myself invisible. No one will see me leave.”
Red raised her head, her sharp green eyes meeting his. She didn’t respond immediately, her mind racing through the implications of what he was offering. For all his playful flirting, Knight Four was giving her an out—a chance to keep what had just happened between them secret, to protect her from any potential fallout with her people.
He continued, his voice low and calm. “You can leave the tent, or wait for it to disappear and they won’t see me leave. I’ll make sure of it. We can always tell them later if we want to, but I won’t say anything or do anything that risks embarrassing you in front of those you lead.”
He gently brushed a strand of hair from her face, his touch soft. “I’m saying this because we don’t have a lot of time. Any minute now, the shelter will vanish, and I want you to be comfortable with how we handle things.”
Red swallowed, her throat tight as she processed his words. She wasn’t used to vulnerability, not in herself, not in anyone around her. She led with strength, with sharp edges and careful control. But in the quiet of the tent, she had let those walls down, even if just for a moment. Now, with the spell fading and reality closing in, the old instinct to shield herself—her feelings, her position—came rushing back.
But there was something about the way Knight Four was offering her this choice that made her pause. He wasn’t pressing, and wasn't trying to manipulate her into a decision. He was just… giving her control. Something she had rarely experienced in moments like these.
She glanced at the faint shimmer of the tent’s magic, now barely visible. She could hear the distant sounds of her people outside, going about their morning routine. The tent would vanish soon, and with it, the moment they had shared.
Red turned back to him, her eyes searching his face. “You’d really do that? Just disappear and pretend this never happened?”
He smiled softly, brushing his thumb across her cheek. “This stays between us—unless you want it out in the open. It’s your call, Red. I’m not going to risk making things difficult for you.”
Red’s gaze softened, the tension in her shoulders easing, if only slightly. She knew he meant it. For all his flirtation and boldness, there was an honesty in him that she couldn’t ignore. He had been right about one thing: in a world where death was always near, holding back on something as simple as desire seemed foolish. But her people? They were a different story.
For a moment, Red considered her options, the flickering light of the tent signaling that the decision had to be made now.
“I don’t regret this,” she said quietly, her voice firm but low. “But for now, I think it’s better if no one knows. It’ll make things… easier.”
He nodded, understanding. “Then I’ll go invisible. No one will see a thing.”
He sat up slightly, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead before rising to his feet. The magic in the air was barely holding now, and Red watched as Knight Four whispered a quick spell. His body shimmered for a brief second, and then he vanished from sight, leaving nothing but the faint rustle of movement as he made his way to the tent’s entrance.
“I’ll be around,” his voice said quietly, though his form was nowhere to be seen.
Red stood, adjusting her clothes quickly before the magic barrier dissolved completely. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the day ahead. Just as the Sheltering Force spell finally dissipated, the bluish dome vanishing into the morning light, Red stepped out into the camp, her expression as unreadable and commanding as ever.
No one knew what had transpired. And for now, that was exactly how she wanted it.
The Kingdom of Tolkeen had become a war-torn land of haunted forests and broken fields, where the desperate and the dangerous wandered alike. Amidst this chaos, bands of refugees, mercenaries, and adventurers moved like shadows. Among them was the ragged group known as Camp Fatale—a seemingly innocuous band of weary travelers with innocent faces hiding a lethal secret.
On the outskirts of a dark, twisted forest along the border of what was once Minnesota and Iowa, a Coalition States Armored Personnel Carrier rolled up a dirt path. The stolen vehicle, its armor still bearing the marks of CS insignia, hummed along like a ghost of its former masters. Inside sat four mercenaries—Mystic Knights, clad in their stolen CS armor. Their leader, Knight One, adjusted his helmet as they neared the edge of a small clearing.
Ahead of them, the scene was eerily familiar: a camp of human refugees, huddled around dim fires, surrounded by battered tents. Their worn faces spoke of hardship, but something about the way they moved unsettled Knight One. The camp looked too perfect—like bait.
Knight Four, a tall man with jet-black hair cut in a military style, tapped the edge of the APC’s console with growing impatience. “We’re close to CS patrol territory. You really think stopping here is wise?”
Knight One glanced at her, then at the viewport showing the camp ahead. “It’s good to get information from the locals. Besides, the children look hungry. Coalition patrols wouldn’t suspect a band of knights feeding starving children.”
Knight Three, hunched in his seat, chuckled darkly. “Harmless or not, let’s not stay too long. Word is Coalition squads have been getting wiped out mysteriously. Maybe we’ve run into one of those bands of ghosts.”
“Ghosts don’t kill,” Knight Two, the stoic one of the group, finally said.
The APC’s treads crunched over loose gravel as it came to a stop near the camp. The Mystic Knights disembarked slowly, cautiously. The refugees turned to watch them, many of the women feigning fear and surprise at the sight of the armored mercenaries.
Knight One, following his usual routine, approached a group of children huddled near a fire. He reached into his pack and pulled out a tin of porridge, kneeling to stir the contents over the flame.
A small girl with wide, innocent eyes peered up at him, and Knight One gave her a soft smile beneath his helmet. He poured some water from his canteen into a battered metal bowl and handed it to her. "Eat," he said. "You’ll need your strength."
The girl blinked, her lips parting slightly as if she was about to speak, but then she simply nodded and took the bowl in silence.
Behind him, the rest of the mercenaries began moving among the camp, exchanging wary glances with the women and older men. The atmosphere felt wrong. Knight Four tensed, his hand brushing the handle of his energy rifle. He leaned in closer to Knight One. “Something’s off here.”
“I feel it too,” Knight One whispered. “But no sudden moves. We need to keep the Coalition disguise intact.”
Across the camp, a soldier in Coalition gear approached a cluster of young women. One of them, a stunning redhead with wild curls and dirt smudged across her cheeks, batted her lashes as she addressed the man. "You look tired, soldier. You’ve been fighting the good fight, haven’t you?"
The soldier grinned beneath his helmet. “Just keeping the peace, miss. You’ve nothing to worry about with us here.” He leaned in, his tone growing suggestive. "Maybe you’d like to sit and talk awhile?"
The redhead smiled, a dangerous glint in her eye. Without breaking eye contact, she extended her hand, and for a brief moment, her fingers brushed against the soldier’s arm. In an instant, the man’s expression went blank. His body stiffened, and he straightened like a puppet pulled by invisible strings.
Knight Four noticed the shift first. "Hold on… something’s not right!"
Before he could react, the soldier’s rifle swung up, turning toward his comrades. The soldiers dropped like stones, their own comrades firing upon each other without warning or hesitation.
The camp had come alive with death. Men and women who had appeared weak and broken now moved with deadly precision. The “refugees” spread out among the soldiers like wolves in sheep’s clothing, using their psychic abilities to mentally dominate the CS troopers. Screams filled the clearing as guns misfired, and soldiers were mowed down by their own possessed brethren.
Knight One stood frozen, watching in horror as Coalition men dropped all around him, their bodies crumpling under volleys of friendly fire. Then, as if awakening from a dream, he shook himself and shouted, "Fall back! It’s a trap!"
Knight Four drew his rifle. "We need to fall back!" he roared, shooting down one of the possessed soldiers who had turned on them. Knight Three unleashed an energy blast from his rifle, burning a hole through a CS grunt as he advanced toward the APC.
Psychic energy crackled in the air like static, distorting the battlefield as Coalition soldiers, now little more than tools of their captors, turned their guns on the Mystic Knights.
Knights One and Four were fried and would have been killed if it were not for his immunity to energy attacks.
He shouts to the others. "Let’s get out of here!"
But as they retreated, the redhead—the leader of Camp Fatale—stood tall among the mayhem. Her eyes smiled coldly at Knight Four. "Leaving so soon?" she asked, her voice laced with mockery. "We haven’t even introduced ourselves properly."
Knight One yanking open the hatch to the APC.
“WE ARE NOT CS!”
Then he could NOT move.
He could see Knight Four was paralyzed also.
Knight Three could not start the APC; it was paralyzed also.
---
The paralysis timed out.
He raised his voice, loud and clear, but without aggression. “I am a Mystic! A man of magic and psychic power!” He took another step forward, his hands still high in the air. “The Coalition States are my enemy. I am no ally of theirs, and I mean you no harm!”
The redheaded woman—the leader of Camp Fatalie. Noticed him for what seemed like the first time. Her green eyes piercing. She did not smile this time. The playful facade from earlier was gone, replaced by something much more dangerous.
“Bold of you to stick around,” she said, her voice smooth but sharp, like a blade wrapped in silk. “Most men would have fled and never returned.”
Knight Four (playfully), "You say that to all the guys?"
Her gaze turns to Knight Four. Since he was paralyzed first his must have worn off first.
Knight Four (confident), "But I'm not most men."
"That APC is stolen. The armor, the uniforms—those were disguises.”
The redhead studied him, her eyes narrowing slightly. Her group began to gather behind her, the so-called refugees, now fully revealed for what they truly were—psychic assassins, their calm faces betraying nothing of the ruthlessness they carried within. Some of the younger women and older men joined her, watching the Mystic Knights with thinly veiled suspicion.
“And why should we believe you?” she asked, tilting her head. “You wear their armor. You ride in their vehicles. You look like Coalition filth.”
Knight Four, taking a step closer. “I fight for myself. For my people. The Coalition would burn us all if they could.”
The woman’s expression softened—just barely, but enough for Knight Four to catch it. “Your words mean little. Many people hate the Coalition, but few have the stomach for what we do.”
Knight Four hesitated, then spoke carefully. “We are what the Coalition fears. Power beyond their control. We horrify them so they try to eliminate us; what they fear.”
She studied him in silence, her sharp eyes narrowing as if she were probing his mind. Knight Four felt the familiar tingle of psychic energy brushing against his consciousness, like fingers testing the edges of his thoughts. He did not resist. He let her probe, let her see the truth of what he had said.
After what felt like an eternity, she spoke again, this time with a faint edge of curiosity. “Prove yourself.”
Knight Four, "You haven't noticed? Was lit me up with shots from energy rifles. How do you explain it if NOT magic?"
The redhead watched, her lips curving into a slight smile. “Impressive. But tricks won’t save you if you’re lying.”
“I’m not lying,” Knight Four said firmly. “We can help each other. The Coalition hunts you. They hunt us too. Together, we can do more than either of us could alone.”
The woman’s eyes glinted with interest now. She stepped closer, and the tension in the air grew thick. “What’s to stop us from killing you right here? We could take that APC for ourselves.”
Knight Four kept his voice steady. “Because killing us won’t get you anything you can’t already take. But an alliance? It gives us both something valuable—strength.”
For a long moment, the redhead said nothing, simply studying him. Then, she glanced back at her people, as if silently consulting them.
Finally, she nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Perhaps you’re smarter than you look.” She turned, signaling for her people to stand down. “We’ll talk. But understand this—you betray us, and your death will be slower than you can imagine.”
Knight Four breathed a quiet sigh of relief. I’ve heard that before.
As she walked past him, her voice dropped to a near whisper, her words cutting through the tension like a knife. “Welcome to Camp Fatale. Let’s see if you live long enough to regret this decision.”
---
The campfire crackled between them, casting flickering shadows on the worn faces of those gathered around. The leader of Camp Fatale, the redheaded woman with eyes as sharp as a blade, sat across from Knight Four. She was flanked by a few of her trusted psychics, all of whom eyed the Mystic Knight warily. Around the camp, the "refugees" busied themselves with their usual tasks, but the tension was palpable.
Knight Four rested his arms on his knees, his helmet beside him, revealing his tired but determined face. He glanced at the redhead, then spoke, his voice even but with an edge of candor.
“You play the part of the damsel in distress to lure them in,” he said, his tone direct. “You get them to drop their guard, make them think they’re in control. Then, you use your psychic powers to kill them all. I understand why you do it. You’re not the first to create an ambush to take out Coalition troops.”
The redhead’s eyes remained fixed on him, unblinking.
Knight Four continued, his voice steady. “In my own way, I’m doing the same thing when I put on this CS armor and ride around in a stolen Coalition APC. The Coalition is my enemy too, but unlike you, I’m a mercenary. I fight for profit and the spoils of war. Sometimes, that includes alliances.”
The woman raised an eyebrow, but remained silent, letting him speak.
Knight Four gestured toward the camp. “I’ve learned that, more than credits or loot, having useful people—people you can trust, people who will be there for you when you need them—is worth far more. So, if we’re going to be part of each other’s networks, we need to earn each other’s trust and prove our usefulness. You’ll want to know I’m worth keeping around, and I need to know the same about you.”
She leaned forward slightly, her interest piqued, but her expression remained guarded.
“So,” Knight Four asked, meeting her gaze, “What do you need?”
A moment passed as she considered his words. She could sense his genuine intent, the openness in his mind. He wasn’t like the Coalition. He wasn’t bound by dogma or orders. He was a man who had chosen survival through adaptability. But still, she had seen men like him before—opportunists who could betray just as easily as they could make alliances.
He continued, breaking her train of thought. “Or, I can randomly start showing off my powers and hope you see something you like. But I figured I wouldn’t waste our time and just ask.”
At this, the redhead finally smirked. It was a small, almost imperceptible shift in her demeanor, but it was there. She leaned back in her chair, arms crossing.
“Direct,” she remarked, her voice smooth. “I appreciate that.”
Knight Four nodded, taking it as a sign to push forward. “Speaking for myself, I could use the services of a Psi-Tech. I know you’ve got a few in your camp. Someone who can keep the APC running, maybe even enhance it. Eventually, I’m going to need the services of a psychic with healing abilities. You’ve got those too, and my crew… we get banged up a lot.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly, but not in suspicion—more in curiosity.
Knight Four pressed on. “In return, I can offer my own skills and those of my crew. We’ve got magic. For one, I can give you the equivalent of a hot shower and clean clothes—something I bet doesn’t come easy out here. I’ve got a spell that can give you a tent for the night, good for twelve hours. Another spell, ‘Sustain,’ will keep you from needing food or water for a full week.”
The redhead raised an eyebrow at that.
“And,” Knight Four added, “My team can magically mend clothes and some broken things. Not everything, but he’s got a knack for fixing stuff that others would toss aside.”
The camp fell quiet for a moment as the woman stared at him, weighing the offer. Behind her, the other psychics exchanged glances, their own thoughts buzzing with the possibilities. Finally, she stood and paced around the fire, her arms behind her back as she circled Knight Four like a predator assessing prey.
“You seem to know what we need,” she said thoughtfully. “Psi-Techs, healers… those aren’t requests we get from just anyone. So, let me ask you, mercenary—why should I trust you? Why should I let you anywhere near my people?”
Knight Four looked up at her, unflinching. “Because you and I have the same enemy. The Coalition hunts people like me. They hunt people like you. We both know what it’s like to be on the run. If you wanted me dead, I’d be dead already. So maybe, just maybe, we’re not so different.”
The redhead stopped, her green eyes locking onto his. “And what’s to stop me from taking your APC and your services without this little ‘alliance’ you’re proposing?”
Knight Four smirked slightly. “Because you need more than just another vehicle or a few spells. You need people who can think, who can adapt, who can be there when things go sideways. And I need the same. If we work together, we’re stronger. You know that as well as I do.”
The woman was silent again for a moment, then finally, she spoke. “You’re right. We are stronger together.”
She walked back to her seat, but her gaze never left Knight Four. “I’ll agree to this… tentative alliance. I’ll give you a Psi-Tech. You can have access to a healer if you need it. But trust? Trust takes time. You’ll have to earn it.”
Knight Four nodded. “That’s TRUE!”
The redhead leaned in, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous whisper. “But if you cross us, Mystic, no magic spell will save you. We’ll tear your mind apart before your body even hits the ground.”
Knight Four met her threat without blinking. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
The tension finally eased as she leaned back, the dangerous glint in her eyes fading slightly. “Then it’s settled. For now, you and your crew have a place here. Tonight. Don’t make us regret it.”
Knight Four smiled, the weight of the moment lifting slightly. “RED. IF I could MAKE you do anything you wouldn't regret it.”
As the flames of the campfire flickered between them, tension filled the air until it had burned down to embers, casting a faint glow over the scattered remains of the Coalition squad. Their bodies, once the proud soldiers of the Coalition States, now lay stripped of their weapons and armor—just another victim of Camp Fatale’s ruthless efficiency.
The Fatales moved quietly, packing up the loot they had taken from the dead. Energy rifles, pistols, pieces of the grunts armor, equipment—all of it now piled together, ready to be dealt with. But carrying it around was a problem; it made them look anything but defenseless refugees.
The redheaded leader of Camp Fatalie stood over the pile of Coalition gear, her face set in a thoughtful frown. The spoils were valuable, but they couldn’t keep them, not without blowing their disguise. They had no use for Coalition armor and weapons, at least not here. But it was wealth waiting to be traded, and credits were always needed to keep their operations running.
Knight Four stood nearby, watching the Fatales sort through their spoils. His eyes flicked from the weapons to the armor, his mind working through possibilities. After a long silence, he spoke, his voice calm but with a hint of opportunity in it.
“You’ve got quite a haul there,” Knight Four said, stepping closer. “But you can’t exactly walk around looking like Coalition soldiers, can you?”
The redhead glanced up, her sharp green eyes narrowing. “We know what we’re doing, mercenary. The Coalition’s armor doesn’t suit our look.”
Knight Four smiled, just slightly. “Exactly. Carrying those rifles, that armor—makes you look more like a threat than a group of defenseless war refugees. It’s not the kind of thing you want drawing attention.”
A young man with sandy hair and a nervous energy, glanced up from the pile. “We usually sell it for credits or donate it to freedom fighters,” he said quietly. “But this time, we’re stuck out here.”
Knight Four saw his chance. “Then let me make you a proposition. You’ve got loot that’ll get you noticed, but we don’t. My crew and I, we’re used to carrying around Coalition gear. We can take it off your hands, sell it for you—or better yet, donate it to the right people.”
The redhead crossed her arms, her eyes flicking back to the pile of loot, then to Knight Four. “What’s in it for you?”
Knight Four shrugged, keeping his tone casual. “We take a small cut for transport and the risk involved. You get credits, or your freedom fighters get weapons to keep fighting the Coalition. Either way, we make sure the gear gets to where it needs to go. And in exchange, you keep your cover intact.”
The leader of Camp Fatale stared at him, her mind clearly weighing the risk. “You expect us to trust you with all this? What’s stopping you from running off with it and selling it all for yourselves?”
Knight Four smiled, anticipating the concern. “I thought about that. Here’s my offer: you send three of your people with us—three witnesses. That way, you know exactly what we’re doing, and they make sure we don’t pocket the loot for ourselves.”
Her interest piqued, but she wasn’t sold yet. “Three people?”
Knight Four nodded. “One Psi-Tech, someone who can service everything Coalition equipment wise in case we have any trouble with it. One psychic healer—because we both know things can go wrong out there, and we’ll all need someone to patch us up if they do. And one warrior, someone you trust to defend them and, if necessary, avenge you if we try anything.”
At that, the redhead smiled, a cold and calculating grin. “A warrior to defend them—and to keep you in line. Sounds good to me.”
She glanced over her shoulder, scanning her people. “Jessa,” she called out, and an attractive woman with a predatory air about her stepped forward. The woman had the look of a huntress, her dark hair tied back, her piercing eyes scanning Knight Four like a wolf sizing up prey.
“This is Jessa.” the redhead said, her tone one of pride. “She’ll watch you.”
“Sounds good to me,” Knight Four replied back.
Jessa scoffed, almost laughing at how flirty Knight Four was but angry that she was not feared.
The redhead pointed to another woman, this one more subdued but with a gentle strength about her. “That’s Malen, our healer. She’ll go too.”
A woman in her early twenties stepped forward next. She wore a mix of Coalition parts and scavenged tech, and the glint in her eye told Knight Four that this woman had a talent with machines. “And that’s Cora,” the redhead finished. “Our Psi-Tech. He’ll make sure the Coalition gear doesn’t fall apart on you.”
With a playful smile Knight Four nodded at the trio. Then says, “I’m sure these three women can satisfy me.”
The redhead stepped closer, her voice dropping lower. “But make no mistake. If you try to cross us—if anything happens to my girls—you won’t make it far before we hunt you down. And trust me, we’re very good at making people disappear.”
Knight Four met her gaze, his expression calm but unwavering. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
She held his stare for a moment longer before nodding. “Good. Then we have a deal.”
Knight Four extended his hand, and after a brief pause, she shook it—firm, strong, but with a silent promise of consequences if he dared to betray them.
As the Mystic Knights prepared the APC, loading the loot with the help of the Fatales, Jessa, Malen, and Cora stepped up to join them. Jessa slung an energy rifle over her shoulder, her eyes still sharp and alert. Malen carried a small pouch of herbs and crystals, her aura calm and healing. Cora gave a small nod to the APC, already assessing the condition of the vehicle.
Knight Four looked at his crew, then back to the trio. “Alright, we head out at dawn. You’ll see firsthand that we keep our word. Let’s make this trade work—for both of us.”
The night had settled in, thick and heavy, but the embers of the campfire continued to flicker as the Fatales quietly went about their business. The deal had been struck, and though tension still lingered in the air, there was a subtle shift—an unspoken agreement to coexist, for now.
Knight Four stood beside the APC, his crew gathered around him. Jessa, Malen, and Cora—the three chosen Fatales—watched closely, their expressions mixed with curiosity and skepticism. Red, as Knight Four had taken to calling the redheaded leader of Camp Fatale, remained at a distance. She stood in the shadows beyond the firelight, her arms crossed and her eyes sharp as she observed the Mystic Knights preparing their next move.
"We agreed to help each other," Knight Four said, raising his hand, preparing for his demonstration. "And part of that means making your lives a little easier while we’re on this journey together. No sense walking around covered in grime and looking like you just crawled out of a ditch."
Jessa raised an eyebrow, still doubtful. “You think a little magic will change anything?”
Knight Four chuckled softly. “Sometimes, a little magic can make all the difference.”
With a deep breath, he focused his mind, channeling the energies that coursed through him. His hands began to glow faintly as he cast the spell, Cleanse. The magical energy swirled around him, coalescing into a soft, shimmering light that expanded outward, enveloping Jessa, Malen, and Cora in its radiant embrace.
At first, they flinched—uncertain of what to expect—but the warmth of the spell was gentle, soothing, like a breeze on a summer day. The glow shimmered over their bodies and clothes, sweeping away every speck of dirt, every smudge of grime. The transformation was instant. Their hair, previously tangled and matted from days of travel, now gleamed as if freshly washed. Their skin, once marred by dust and sweat, looked clean, glowing with a healthy sheen. Their clothes—previously worn and stained from battle—looked as if they had just come from the wash, spotless and bright.
Jessa blinked, looking down at herself in mild astonishment. "I… feel clean," she said, running her fingers through her now silky hair.
Malen let out a small, incredulous laugh, lifting the hem of her robe to inspect it. “It’s like I just stepped out of a bath.”
Knight Four smiled, satisfied with the result. “The spell takes care of the surface filth. It’s not going to heal wounds or cure sickness, but it’ll make you feel human again.”
Cora, ever the practical one, gave a nod of approval. “Useful. Especially out here.”
Knight Two, standing off to the side, grinned. “We’re not done yet.”
With a wave of his hand, Knight Two began casting the next spell, Mend the Broken. A soft green light radiated from his fingers as he focused on the torn and tattered sections of Jessa’s leather vest and Malen’s robe. The magic swirled around the fabric, knitting it back together in smooth, flowing motions. The holes in Jessa’s clothes—worn from battle and travel—began to close, the threads weaving themselves back together seamlessly. Malen’s robe, once frayed at the edges, looked like it had been newly tailored, its soft wool glowing faintly as the spell restored it to perfect condition.
The magic even removed impossible stains—blood, mud, and grime vanished as if they had never existed. When the spell was complete, their clothes looked as if they had just stepped out of a tailor’s shop.
Jessa examined her now-pristine vest, her hard expression softened by genuine surprise. “Impressive,” she admitted, though her tone was still cautious.
Malen smiled, touching the newly mended fabric. “I could get used to this.”
Knight Four nodded, stepping back to give them space. "And if you ever find yourselves needing something mended while we’re on the road, just let us know."
Red, still standing in the shadows, finally stepped closer. Her eyes flicked from Jessa’s restored clothes to the now-spotless group. “Your magic does have its uses,” she said, her tone neutral but thoughtful. “But you’re still going to need a place to rest.”
Knight Four exchanged a glance with the others before raising his hand once more. “One last spell for the night,” he said, his voice low as he prepared the incantation.
With a simple motion, he cast “Sheltering Force.” A faint bluish-white light bloomed from his hands, expanding outward in a dome of semi-opaque energy. The force field shimmered like a bubble, growing until it formed a protective dome large enough to fit six people comfortably. The light was soft, and though those outside could only see blurred outlines of the figures within, the interior was calm and dry, insulated against the cool night air.
The Fatales watched in quiet awe as the shelter materialized, its magical energy crackling faintly in the air. Inside, the temperature was perfectly regulated—cooler than the warm night outside but far more comfortable than the damp, chilled air that typically settled after dark.
“It’ll keep the insects at bay,” Knight Four explained, stepping inside the shelter. “But it won’t stop anyone from coming in or going out, just like a regular tent.” He winks at her.
Jessa and Malen exchanged a glance, both clearly impressed. Even Cora, usually more concerned with technology, gave a small nod of approval.
Red stepped up to the edge of the shelter, her arms still crossed but her expression more neutral than it had been all night. She studied the semi-opaque dome, watching how the bluish light rippled and held firm. “It’s a good spell,” she admitted. “But it won’t protect you from everything.”
Knight Four smiled slightly. “No spell can. But it’s enough to make the night easier.”
Red met his gaze, her calculating expression returning. “We’ll see if your magic is enough, Mystic Knight. For now, you’ve earned some good faith. Let’s hope it lasts.”
As she turned and walked away, Knight Four exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of her words. The alliance between the Mystic Knights and Camp Fatale was fragile—built on convenience and necessity. Trust would take time, but for now, magic had bought them another night of peace.
Inside the shelter, Jessa and the others settled down, feeling the comfort of their newly cleaned bodies and repaired clothes. Outside, the night pressed in, but within the dome, there was warmth, safety, and—at least for a moment—a fragile sense of trust.
As the night settled over the camp, the uneasy alliance between the Mystic Knights and Camp Fatalie had begun—a tenuous partnership forged in the fires of war, where survival and trust were luxuries few could afford.
The camp stirred with an air of quiet anticipation as the Mystic Knights prepared to cast their spells for the rest of Camp Fatale. Red, still watching from a distance, had allowed the magic to be performed for her people after seeing the results firsthand. Slowly, more of the 48 members of the camp gathered around, their faces a mixture of curiosity and guarded hope.
Knight One stood at the center of the camp, his gaze sweeping over the group. Most were young women, a few older men, and children—each of them marked by the hardships of war. Dirt and grime covered their clothes and skin, their hair tangled from days, perhaps weeks, without proper care. They looked like refugees, but beneath the surface, Knight One knew these were no ordinary civilians. These were assassins, hidden in plain sight, each one a powerful psychic in their own right.
Knight One nodded to his crew, signaling them to begin. “Let’s make this quick.”
The Mystic Knights split up, each of them preparing to cast the Cleanse spell. One by one, the magic spread through the camp, shimmering over the bodies of the Fatales like a gentle wave of light. Each time the spell was cast, it removed every speck of dirt and grime from the recipient, leaving them spotless, as if they had just stepped out of a shower. The women who had been covered in the dust of battle now stood clean, their hair shining, their clothes as fresh as if they had been washed and dried by hand.
Even the children, who had watched with wide eyes as the magic enveloped them, giggled with delight as they looked down at their newly clean clothes and wiped their hands over their now-smooth faces. The older members of the camp, though less outwardly expressive, nodded in appreciation as the grime of travel was lifted from their skin.
Knight Two moved through a group of women whose clothes had been torn and damaged, his hands glowing faintly as he cast Mend the Broken. The fabric shimmered under his touch, knitting back together seamlessly, restoring tattered shirts and worn cloaks to perfect condition. The Fatales looked on, some in awe, others still cautious, but there was no denying the effect of the magic.
One of the older men, who had been watching with a skeptical eye, finally spoke up. “I’ve seen magic in my day, but this is… different. You’re good at what you do, I’ll give you that.”
Knight Four smiled slightly as he continued casting. “We’ve had a LOT of practice.”
By the time the last spell was cast, all 48 members of Camp Fatalie stood clean, their clothes repaired, their bodies free from the dust and dirt of the road. The camp had transformed, and while they still carried the aura of weary travelers, there was a renewed energy among them. Even Red, who had stayed in the shadows for most of the spellcasting, now stepped forward, inspecting her people.
She didn’t say anything, but Knight Four could see the faintest glimmer of approval in her eyes.
With the magic done, Knight Four motioned to his crew. “Let’s break out the food.”
From the APC, Knight Three and Four began pulling out Coalition State MREs (Meals Ready-to-Eat), small, vacuum-sealed packages of sustenance that were a staple for soldiers in the field.
All the Knights, who had spent time in the Coalition, knew how to prepare the MREs properly. He handed out packets to the Fatales, explaining how to use the included flameless heaters to warm the meals.
“These are MREs,” Knight Three said, holding up a package. “Standard issue for Coalition troops. Not the best tasting food in the world, but it’ll keep you going.”
The Fatales hesitated at first, eyeing the food that had once belonged to their enemy, but hunger won out, and soon enough, they were following Knight Three’s instructions. The small chemical heaters in the MREs activated with water, creating a faint hiss of steam as they warmed the food inside.
Knight Four sat beside Jessa, Cora, and Malen, who were already eating their meals. The others from the camp slowly gathered around, finding places to sit and share the meal. There was an odd sense of camaraderie in the air, as if the simple act of eating together had brought down some of the barriers between them.
Jessa, always the skeptic, poked at her food with a fork, sniffing it cautiously. “Tastes like cardboard,” she muttered, though she took a bite anyway.
Knight Three laughed, tearing into his own meal. “Yeah, but cardboard that fills your stomach.”
Cora, who had opted for a protein-heavy option, chewed thoughtfully. “I’ve eaten worse.”
Across the fire, Knight Four glanced at Red, who had finally joined them, sitting at the edge of the group. She hadn’t spoken much since the magic had been cast, but she accepted an MRE and followed the process of heating it up. She tore into the package with practiced hands and took a bite, her face betraying nothing.
After a few minutes, she spoke, her voice low but clear. “You’re making a good impression.”
Knight Four raised an eyebrow, wiping his hands on a cloth. “Glad to hear it.”
Red’s eyes flicked to him, still calculating, still cautious. “You’ve got skills—useful ones. But don’t mistake this for trust. We’re not allies yet.”
Knight Four nodded, understanding. “Trust takes time. But for now, we have a deal. And that’s a start.”
She didn’t respond, only gave a small nod before returning to her meal.
As the camp settled into an uneasy peace, the Mystic Knights and the Fatales ate together, the crackling fire and soft conversation creating a fragile sense of unity. The night was still thick with tension, but for now, the magic had worked.
---
The first light of dawn filtered through the trees, casting long shadows across the camp. The air was cool, heavy with the moisture of the night, and the ground beneath the camp’s feet was damp with dew. The camp stirred slowly, the 48 members of Camp Fatale waking to the soft sounds of morning. Despite the uneasy alliance between the Mystic Knights and the Fatales, the tension from the previous night had settled into a fragile calm.
Knight Two stood at the edge of the camp, his focus deep as he began casting his spell. He raised his hands slowly, the air around him shimmering faintly as magical energy pulsed through the atmosphere. The spell, one he had used many times before, began to draw in the tiny droplets of dew clinging to the leaves, grass, and air itself. The moisture moved like a faint mist, gathering in an invisible current toward him.
Slowly, droplets coalesced into streams of water, condensing into a swirling, transparent sphere that hovered in front of Knight Two. He guided the water with his hands, dividing it evenly as it flowed into the group’s waiting waterskins and canteens. As the water filled the containers, he smiled slightly, pleased with the simplicity of the spell and how efficiently it could provide fresh water without drawing from nearby rivers or wells.
The Fatales watched quietly, impressed by the practicality of the spell. It wasn’t flashy, but it solved a problem—one they faced constantly in their wandering life. The youngest among them, a girl with tangled hair, stepped forward and held out her canteen, eyes wide as Knight Two directed the last of the gathered water into it.
“Thank you,” she whispered, clutching the canteen like a treasure.
Knight Two gave her a nod, a faint smile on his lips.
Across the camp, Knight Three sat near the fire, stirring a large, battered pot. The smell of something warm and comforting filled the air, a stark contrast to the cold of the morning. It looked like porridge, thick and hearty, but those who knew him well would recognize the faint glimmer of magic in the pot. He was casting Harvest, a spell that turned the wild, inedible plants and scraps around them into something nourishing.
Grass, leaves, flowers, and even a few crushed insects were transformed in the pot, their natural magic-infused essence becoming a thick, nutritious paste. The spell took the useless or unappetizing and made it not only edible but surprisingly tasty. Knight Three stirred the mixture carefully, letting the spell do its work, the contents slowly thickening into what appeared to be a porridge packed with protein, vitamins, and fiber. It smelled faintly sweet, a pleasant aroma that wafted through the camp.
He ladled a small spoonful, tasting it, then nodded in approval. “Good as ever,” he muttered to himself before setting the spoon aside.
As the rest of the Fatales began to wake, Knight Three called out to them. “Breakfast is ready. Help yourselves.”
Jessa, still looking half-asleep, wandered over to the pot, eyeing the porridge with suspicion. “What’s in this?”
Knight Three smirked, his eyes twinkling. “Just some grass, leaves, a few roots… and maybe a bug or two.”
Jessa gave him a look, but her stomach grumbled in betrayal. She grabbed a bowl and ladled a generous portion of the porridge into it. After taking a bite, her eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You know… it’s actually good.”
“It’s magic,” Knight Three said with a grin. “Harvest turns anything into a meal fit for a king—well, almost anything.”
Nearby, Knight Four kept a quiet watch, his eyes scanning the perimeter of the camp. He and his crew had stayed up all night, keeping guard while the Fatales slept.
The Mystic Knights had taken turns, always vigilant, ensuring that no Coalition patrols or wandering threats approached during the night. The camp had remained safe, but Knight Four knew their situation. Trust was fragile, and out here, danger was constant.
Red emerged from her tent, her sharp green eyes immediately locking onto Knight Four. She approached slowly, her posture as tense as ever, though she couldn’t help but notice the efficiency with which the Mystic Knights operated. The camp was cleaner, the people fed, and even the air felt fresher after the magical water had been gathered.
“You and your crew stayed up all night,” Red said, her voice low but not unkind. It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact.
Knight Four glanced at her, then nodded. “Figured you’d need the rest.”
Red’s lips pressed into a thin line as she glanced toward the pot of porridge where the others were gathering to eat. “And now you’ve fed them.”
Knight Four shrugged. “You need us, we need you. We keep each other going.”
She studied him for a long moment, her mind still calculating, always looking for the angle. “You’re doing more than I expected. But you haven’t asked for anything in return.”
Knight Four met her gaze, his expression steady. “That’s because we know this is about more than just trades. You’ll get your return soon enough. For now, we’re all still alive and moving forward.”
Red said nothing for a moment, then gave a small nod. “Fair enough.”
She turned, watching as the rest of the Fatales gathered around the pot, eating the warm porridge and drinking from their newly filled waterskins. There was a noticeable shift in the camp—a quiet appreciation for the Mystic Knights magic and the practical ways it was being used. But the underlying tension remained, a reminder that, though they had shared food and magic, trust was still an elusive thing.
Knight Four looked back toward Red as she walked away, knowing that, despite their uneasy alliance, they had bought themselves another day. For now, the morning was calm, the camp was fed, and the road ahead seemed just a little more manageable.
---
The camp was quiet now, the sounds of morning settling into a calm rhythm as the Fatales and Mystic Knights went about their tasks. The spells of the previous night had done their job, and the Sheltering Force tents still shimmered faintly in the distance, casting their soft bluish-white glow over the camp.
Knight Four found himself alone by the fire, his gaze drifting toward Red, who stood a few feet away, surveying her people with her usual sharp, calculating expression. He admired the way she carried herself—always on guard, always in control, with an edge that made her both dangerous and compelling.
He couldn’t help but feel drawn to her, and after a moment of watching, he stood and approached her, his smile teasing at the corners of his lips.
“You know,” he said casually, coming to stand beside her, “for someone who spends most of her time plotting and killing Coalition soldiers, you’re quite... handsome.”
Red’s eyes flicked to him, one eyebrow raising slightly. “Handsome?”
Knight Four chuckled. “Yeah, handsome. Striking. Fierce.” He tilted his head, meeting her gaze more directly. “You’re not like most people I meet out here.”
Red’s lips twitched, as if she was fighting off a smile. “Flattery’s not going to get you anywhere.”
He shrugged, unfazed. “Maybe. But we’ve both been in this war long enough to know we don’t have a lot of time to waste.” He nodded toward the Sheltering Force tents still glowing faintly in the background. “Those tents will last for a few more hours, and…” He lowered his voice just slightly, leaning in, his tone playful but sincere. “I love to snuggle.”
Red let out a soft, incredulous laugh, shaking her head. “You’re not serious.”
“Oh, I’m very serious,” Knight Four replied, his expression both bold and teasing. “We both put ourselves in danger every day. There isn’t a moment that goes by where we don’t face death. It’s always there, just a heartbeat away.” His voice softened, his flirtation carrying a hint of vulnerability. “If I didn’t at least ask for what I wanted, I’d regret it. It’d be like you saying no without me ever giving it a shot.”
Red turned to face him fully now, her arms still crossed but her posture less defensive. Her eyes scanned his face, searching for any hint of insincerity, but all she found was that strange, reckless charm he carried with him everywhere.
“And what exactly is it you want?” she asked, her voice low, testing him.
He stepped closer, closing the space between them just slightly. “I’m asking you to snuggle with me. Just for a little while.” His voice dropped to almost a whisper, as if sharing a secret. “We both deserve to relax for a bit. Some companionship might help with that.”
Red’s expression didn’t soften entirely, but there was a flicker of consideration in her eyes. She tilted her head, studying him. “You really think I’d just agree to that?”
He gave her a soft, lopsided grin. “I’m not expecting anything. But we’re both alive today, and that’s not guaranteed tomorrow. So, yeah… I’d regret not at least asking.” He held her gaze a moment longer before adding, more earnestly, “Please.”
The camp seemed to still for a moment, the weight of his words hanging in the air between them. Red looked at him, her sharp, calculating mind still clearly working through the implications. But then, ever so slowly, the guardedness in her expression eased, just a little.
“You’re persistent, I’ll give you that,” she said, her voice quieter now, but with a glint of amusement in her eyes.
Knight Four raised an eyebrow, taking it as a small victory. “I’ve had to be. Comes with the territory.”
For a long moment, Red seemed to weigh her options. Then, with a sigh that seemed to carry a mix of exasperation and reluctant acceptance, she gestured toward one of the glowing Sheltering Force tents. “Alright. But don’t get used to it.”
Knight Four grinned, not pushing his luck any further. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”
They walked together toward the tent, the faint light casting soft shadows around them as they entered. Inside, the temperature was comfortable, the magical barrier keeping out the coolness of the morning. Knight Four lay back against the ground as he settled in.
Red hesitated for just a moment before sitting beside him, her posture still stiff, but the tension slowly unwinding as the minutes passed.
They didn’t speak much after that. There wasn’t a need to. The quiet between them felt surprisingly natural, a rare moment of peace in a world filled with chaos and violence.
For a while, they simply lay there, side by side, neither completely letting down their guard, but both allowing themselves to relax in each other’s presence. It was enough for now.
And for Knight Four, the fact that he’d asked—and that she’d agreed—was more than enough.
---
The soft glow of the Sheltering Force tent enveloped them in a world of quiet warmth. The camp outside was stirring, but inside the tent, time seemed to slow. After a two-hour power nap, he awoke, his body stiff from the rigors of battle and constant vigilance. He blinked, stretching out completely, muscles rippling under his skin as he let out a low groan of satisfaction. The cool, magical air felt good against his bare skin.
Red stirred beside him, her eyes fluttering open just as he rolled over and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her in closer. She could feel the heat of his body, and when she looked up, she was struck by the sight of him shirtless—his chest broad and muscled, his form tall and powerful. His physique was a blend of raw strength and the honed body of a seasoned warrior, each movement fluid and deliberate.
He grinned down at her, a lazy, satisfied smile. “You know, I like the way you smell,” he murmured, his voice thick with the grogginess of sleep but laced with the playfulness she had come to expect from him.
Red blinked, still coming to her senses, but there was no denying the faint heat that spread through her at his words. She wasn’t used to this—a man who could disarm her not with battle, but with simple, honest desire. Her eyes roamed his body without meaning to, taking in the sharp definition of his muscles, the scars that told stories of countless battles fought, and the relaxed power he seemed to radiate effortlessly.
Before she could respond, he lifted his hand, and with a simple gesture, cast Cleanse. A soft shimmer of magic washed over both of their bodies at the same time. The effect was instant—the dirt, grime, and the sweat of battle were wiped away, leaving their skin smooth, refreshed, and clean. Red’s hair, once tangled from the night’s rest, now fell in soft waves around her shoulders, her body feeling as if she had just stepped out of a luxurious bath.
He leaned closer, his lips hovering near her ear. “I’m incredibly attracted to you,” he whispered, his voice deep, sending a shiver down her spine. His tone was confident, but there was an underlying honesty to it. “And that attraction? It doesn’t depend on trust.”
Red stiffened slightly, the words stirring something deep within her. He continued, his hand gently running down her arm, his touch both bold and careful.
“Excitement, passion,” he said softly, “those live in the realm of uncertainty. That space where anything can happen, where nothing is guaranteed… that’s where the fire comes from.”
His breath was warm against her skin, and Red found herself caught between instinct and desire. She knew she should stay on guard, should keep her distance from a man like him. But his words, his touch—they ignited something inside her she hadn’t felt in a long time.
Before she could protest or even fully think through what was happening, He tilted her chin up toward him, his lips brushing against hers in a teasing kiss. The brief contact sent a jolt through her, and without even realizing it, she leaned into him, her body responding to the raw energy between them.
Knight Four took that as his cue. His kiss deepened, his lips pressing against hers with more urgency now. One hand slid up to the back of her neck, pulling her closer, while the other stayed at her waist, holding her tightly against him. His body was warm and solid, and Red could feel the strength in his arms as he embraced her.
She responded in kind, her hands gripping his shoulders, her own desire taking over. The kiss was hot, filled with the tension and uncertainty he had spoken of—the passion of two people who didn’t fully trust each other but couldn’t deny the attraction between them. It was a kiss borne from the thrill of danger, the knowledge that in their world, nothing was certain, and every moment could be their last.
Their bodies pressed together, skin to skin, the magic from the Cleanse spell making everything feel electric. Knight Four’s hands roamed over her back, his lips never leaving hers, the heat between them growing with each passing second.
Red broke away for a moment, her breath coming in short, ragged gasps, her eyes wide with both desire and hesitation. She stared up at him, searching for something—maybe a reason to stop, maybe a reason to keep going.
He looked back at her, his gaze steady, his lips curling into a small smile. “See?” he whispered. “This… this is the realm of uncertainty. Where anything can happen.”
Red swallowed, her heart pounding in her chest. And then, without another word, she leaned back in, capturing his lips with her own once more, letting herself get lost in the heat and the passion of the moment.
In that small, magical tent, hidden away from the chaos of the world outside, they allowed themselves to forget, just for a little while, the war that raged beyond their walls. The danger, the uncertainty—it fueled their desire, and in that moment, it was enough.
---
The soft, bluish glow of the Sheltering Force tent was beginning to fade, signaling the end of its duration. Inside, the air was warm. Knight Four lay on his back, his arm draped over Red, pulling her close to his chest as they both lay in a comfortable silence. His breathing was steady, his body relaxed, the heat of their shared moment still lingering in the air.
Red rested her head against his shoulder, her breath calm but her mind racing. Her body, though still tingling from the intensity of their connection, was beginning to tense again, her thoughts already shifting back to the realities of their situation. Outside, the camp is stirring with the activities of the day. What was between them was private, and in her world, privacy was a luxury she could ill afford.
Knight Four broke the silence first, his voice soft but urgent. "The spell is almost up."
Red tensed slightly, her thoughts snapping back to the present. She could feel the magic in the tent beginning to wane, the bluish hue flickering like the dying light of a candle.
He shifted slightly, turning his head to look at her. "Look," he began, his tone gentle, “I get it. You’ve got your reputation, your people to think about. The tent will disappear soon, and if you don’t want anyone knowing about this, I can make myself invisible. No one will see me leave.”
Red raised her head, her sharp green eyes meeting his. She didn’t respond immediately, her mind racing through the implications of what he was offering. For all his playful flirting, Knight Four was giving her an out—a chance to keep what had just happened between them secret, to protect her from any potential fallout with her people.
He continued, his voice low and calm. “You can leave the tent, or wait for it to disappear and they won’t see me leave. I’ll make sure of it. We can always tell them later if we want to, but I won’t say anything or do anything that risks embarrassing you in front of those you lead.”
He gently brushed a strand of hair from her face, his touch soft. “I’m saying this because we don’t have a lot of time. Any minute now, the shelter will vanish, and I want you to be comfortable with how we handle things.”
Red swallowed, her throat tight as she processed his words. She wasn’t used to vulnerability, not in herself, not in anyone around her. She led with strength, with sharp edges and careful control. But in the quiet of the tent, she had let those walls down, even if just for a moment. Now, with the spell fading and reality closing in, the old instinct to shield herself—her feelings, her position—came rushing back.
But there was something about the way Knight Four was offering her this choice that made her pause. He wasn’t pressing, and wasn't trying to manipulate her into a decision. He was just… giving her control. Something she had rarely experienced in moments like these.
She glanced at the faint shimmer of the tent’s magic, now barely visible. She could hear the distant sounds of her people outside, going about their morning routine. The tent would vanish soon, and with it, the moment they had shared.
Red turned back to him, her eyes searching his face. “You’d really do that? Just disappear and pretend this never happened?”
He smiled softly, brushing his thumb across her cheek. “This stays between us—unless you want it out in the open. It’s your call, Red. I’m not going to risk making things difficult for you.”
Red’s gaze softened, the tension in her shoulders easing, if only slightly. She knew he meant it. For all his flirtation and boldness, there was an honesty in him that she couldn’t ignore. He had been right about one thing: in a world where death was always near, holding back on something as simple as desire seemed foolish. But her people? They were a different story.
For a moment, Red considered her options, the flickering light of the tent signaling that the decision had to be made now.
“I don’t regret this,” she said quietly, her voice firm but low. “But for now, I think it’s better if no one knows. It’ll make things… easier.”
He nodded, understanding. “Then I’ll go invisible. No one will see a thing.”
He sat up slightly, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead before rising to his feet. The magic in the air was barely holding now, and Red watched as Knight Four whispered a quick spell. His body shimmered for a brief second, and then he vanished from sight, leaving nothing but the faint rustle of movement as he made his way to the tent’s entrance.
“I’ll be around,” his voice said quietly, though his form was nowhere to be seen.
Red stood, adjusting her clothes quickly before the magic barrier dissolved completely. She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the day ahead. Just as the Sheltering Force spell finally dissipated, the bluish dome vanishing into the morning light, Red stepped out into the camp, her expression as unreadable and commanding as ever.
No one knew what had transpired. And for now, that was exactly how she wanted it.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
The Mystic Knights sat around their small campfire, the faint glow of the embers barely cutting through the heavy dusk. The hulking silhouette of the stolen APC loomed in the background, its black-and-white Coalition markings a constant reminder of their predicament. The smell of smoke and worn leather filled the air as they exchanged uneasy glances.
Knight One was the first to speak, breaking the heavy silence. His voice was gruff, but beneath it, frustration simmered. “Look, we need to talk about the APC. It’s not as simple as we thought. We’re sitting on a mountain of credits, sure, but finding a buyer is proving to be harder than we expected.”
Knight Three leaned back against a rock, arms crossed, watching the fire dance in front of him. He hadn’t said much since the last job went south, but he’d been thinking.
Knight Four “He’s right. We’ve already tried selling it as a whole, and that led to a setup. Nearly got us killed. We’ve been lucky so far, but how long before the wrong people catch wind of what we’ve got?” He glanced over at the APC, the weight of the situation heavy in his eyes. “Even if we found another buyer, we’d have to travel hundreds of miles, and chances are good we’d be attacked or the thing would get damaged along the way. Every trip risks losing it—or our lives.”
Knight Three, always the most pragmatic of the group, rubbed her hands together near the fire’s warmth. “Finding someone who can pay the full price—or even half—isn’t easy. And that’s assuming they’re willing to deal with something as high-profile as a Coalition APC. No one in their right mind wants to keep one of those things intact. It’s too big, too obvious. If Coalition patrols get wind of it, they’ll come down on us hard. And we’re not exactly in a position to defend this thing long term.”
Knight One leaned forward, his tone more urgent. “The way I see it, our best bet is to strip it—take it to a chop-shop, sell it off in pieces. It’s less risky, and we’d be dealing in smaller amounts that won’t attract as much attention. It won’t be the payday we hoped for, but it’s a guaranteed payout, and we can walk away without having to look over our shoulders every time a Coalition patrol passes by.”
Knight Two nodded, agreeing.
Knight Four turned his gaze toward Three, the firelight flickering in his eyes. “What do you think? You’re the one who usually comes up with the better ideas. Is there a smarter way out of this? Or are we stuck cutting our losses and selling it off piece by piece?”
All eyes turned to Knight Three now. The weight of their predicament settled on his shoulders, but he was used to that. He stayed quiet for a moment, considering their options. They were right about the risks of moving the APC whole. Even if they found a buyer, traveling hundreds of miles through hostile territory was a gamble. And they’d already seen how things could go sideways, like with that setup at the mine.
Finally, he spoke, his voice low but clear. “You’re not wrong about the risks. Moving the APC in one piece is like carrying a target on our backs. Every bandit, merc, and Coalition patrol from here to the border will know what we’ve got, and they’ll come gunning for it. The longer we hold onto it, the more dangerous it gets.”
He leaned forward, his sharp eyes catching the flicker of the fire. “But selling it off piece by piece has its risks, too. Sure, it’s quieter, but that doesn’t mean it’s safe. We’ll need to find a chop-shop we can trust, and that’s not easy. Most places that deal in black market parts aren’t exactly known for being honest. They’ll try to undercut us, steal what they can, maybe even sell us out to the highest bidder.”
One frowned, but nodded in understanding. “So you think it’s too risky?”
Three shook his head. “I think it’s an option, but not one we jump into without preparation. If we go that route, we need to control the situation. We find a chop-shop far enough from Coalition influence, run by people who are more interested in credits than loyalty to any faction. We take it in stages—don’t bring the whole APC at once. We sell off parts bit by bit, and we make sure we’re the ones holding the cards.”
Four leaned in, eyes focused. “And if we don’t go that route? Do you have a better idea?”
Three rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “There’s another option. We could use the APC as leverage. Not necessarily to sell, but to trade for something more valuable to us. Information, tech, weapons, or even alliances. Someone out there—maybe a rogue faction or a black market group—might want it not for cash but for strategic reasons. They’ll pay in other ways, maybe offer us more protection or a safe route out of here.”
Four raised an eyebrow. “You think we can find someone who’ll take it like that?”
Two leaned back, considering his words.
Knight Three, “No. At least, not anytime soon.”
Knight Four, spoke up. "What about Hogswaller's chop-shop? It’s the closest option, and we’ve already been there. Is it any riskier than going somewhere new?"
All eyes turned to Knight Three, who sat still, arms resting on his knees as he contemplated the question. His face remained calm, though the hint of a frown creased his brow.
Knight Three sighed softly, rubbing his chin as he gathered his thoughts. "Hogswaller’s chop-shop... Billy Bob's Garage, right? It’s a risk, no doubt. But you’re right about one thing—it’s close, and we know where it is. That counts for something."
One nodded. "Exactly. We’ve already been in town, and no one came for us. Why not try it?"
Knight Three’s eyes flicked up to meet One’s, the firelight reflecting in them. "Because Billy Bob and his sons are known Coalition sympathizers. They gladly work with the CS, and they’ve probably got their eyes and ears open for any unusual activity. The Coalition patrols through that town, and if Billy Bob gets even a whiff that we’ve got a stolen APC, he’ll be the first to tip them off. He won’t care about us. He’ll care about the credits he can make by handing us over."
One frowned, crossing her arms. "But is it any worse than some other chop-shop we’d find in a new town? We could walk into a place we’ve never been before and get double-crossed just the same. What’s the difference?"
Knight Three took a deep breath. "The difference is, Hogswaller is already a powder keg. We nearly got burned there once already with the setup at the mine. They’re friendly to Coalition troops. We’d be walking into a town that already sees us as outsiders. And if someone puts two and two together and figures out we’re moving an APC, that news will spread faster than wildfire."
Knight Four, "But... no one, alive, has ‘seen’ our faces there. We also know the layout of Hogswaller. We know how to get in and out without drawing attention. They also would not suspect that we would unload it there and with CS coming there every so often they are in need of parts. We could play it smart—do it quietly, approach Billy Bob with small parts at first, see if he bites. We don’t have to bring him the whole APC right away."
Knight Three nodded slowly. "That’s true. We don’t have to put everything on the table at once. But even then, we’re taking a risk. Billy Bob’s crew might do the job for us—chop it up, no questions asked—but the moment they see how valuable the parts are, they could turn on us. Either to keep it for themselves or to sell us out to the Coalition."
One looked frustrated. "So we’re stuck then? We don’t trust Hogswaller, and anywhere new is just as risky. What do you suggest?"
Three leaned back, his eyes narrowing as he stared into the fire. "I’m not saying we can’t use Hogswaller’s chop-shop. I’m just saying we have to go in with our eyes open. Billy Bob is a Coalition sympathizer, but he’s also a businessman. If we approach him the right way—quietly, carefully, and with leverage—we might be able to get what we want. But we don’t let him know, not outright. We drip feed him parts, gauge his reaction, and keep the rest of the APC hidden. We never show him the whole picture. That way, if he turns on us, we don’t lose everything."
Four, "So, we go back to Hogswaller then? Test the waters?"
Three gave a firm nod.
The group exchanged glances, each weighing the risks, but the decision had been made. Hogswaller’s chop-shop was their best chance, but they’d go in with their eyes wide open, ready for anything.
---
The midday sun hung high over Hogswaller, casting long shadows across the worn, dirt streets. The town bustled with its usual mix of locals, traders, and travelers, all caught up in the rhythm of everyday life. People drifted through constantly so the presence of newcomers was a common sight, drawing little more than a second glance.
Among the scattered figures walking into town were four figures, clad in the simple clothes of country folk loose, faded shirts, patched trousers, and wide-brimmed hats pulled low over their eyes. They carried themselves like any other wanderers, blending in with the steady flow of foot traffic. But beneath the surface, these four were far from ordinary.
Their real prize, the stolen APC, was hidden deep in the woods outside town, expertly camouflaged and guarded by their men. The Knights had decided to test the waters first, carrying a single piece of valuable tech from the APC: a missile, small enough to transport without arousing suspicion but valuable enough to gauge the town's black market.
As they made their way down the street, the smell of dust, sweat, and old wood filled the air. Around them, people went about their business, paying little mind to the four newcomers.
Knight One, walking next to Four, shifted the bundle on his shoulder—a rough canvas sack wrapped tightly around the missile, giving the impression of simple goods or farming equipment. He glanced sideways at Knight Three. “We blend in, test the waters. But let’s keep this quick. The sooner we know what Billy Bob or anyone else is willing to offer, the better.”
Four nodded slightly, his eyes scanning the street ahead. “We find the right person, sell it, and move on. But we play it slow—no mention of where it came from or how much more we’ve got.”
Four walked a pace behind, his eyes sharp beneath the brim of his hat, scanning for any signs of trouble. “Let’s see if they bite,” he murmured.
As they approached Billy Bob’s Garage, the ragged barn-like structure stood out against the backdrop of the town. The building had seen better days, but the sound of metal being worked echoed from inside, a reminder of its purpose. Wagons, scrap metal, and the scattered remains of old vehicles lay in piles around the garage, a testament to the steady business of patching up and dismantling anything brought in from the roads.
Knight Four leaned toward Three as they neared the garage’s entrance. “You think Billy Bob’s boys will go for it?”
Knight Four kept his expression neutral. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
The group stepped into the shadow of the garage. Inside, Billy Bob, a hulking figure with grease-stained hands and a permanent scowl, was overseeing his sons—Junior, Dale, and Marvin—as they worked on a beat-up transport vehicle. The moment the Knights entered, Billy Bob glanced up, his eyes narrowing at the sight of new faces.
“Y’all looking for repairs, or something else?” Billy Bob’s voice was rough, tinged with suspicion, though not uncommon for strangers passing through.
Knight One, his voice a low, drawling tone that matched the simple guise they wore. “Not repairs, friend. We’re looking to sell. Got something that might interest you.”
Billy Bob crossed his arms, his sons slowing their work to glance over at the newcomers. “That so? What kinda ‘something’ we talkin’?”
One stepped forward, setting down the canvas bundle with a casual grunt. He slowly unwrapped the fabric, revealing the sleek, dark metal of a mini-missile—a sight that immediately drew the attention of everyone in the garage. The missile gleamed faintly in the dim light, its deadly purpose unmistakable.
For a moment, the air was thick with tension as Billy Bob’s eyes flicked from the missile to the Knights.
“Coalition gear,” he muttered, stepping closer, his voice lower now, almost impressed. “Where’d you get this?”
Knight Four gave a slow, casual shrug, his tone dismissive. “Found it along the way. Figured it might be worth something to the right person. Thought you might be interested.”
Billy Bob’s gaze lingered on the missile, calculating. His sons exchanged a glance, clearly interested, but waiting for their father to speak. After a moment, Billy Bob wiped his hands on a rag, considering the offer.
“It’s worth something, alright. Question is, what are you asking for it?” He looked up at Knight Three, trying to gauge how desperate—or savvy—these newcomers were.
Three kept his face neutral, speaking with a slow, deliberate drawl. “We’re looking for credits or something else of equal value. Could be trade goods, could be supplies—things we can use or move on to someone else. We’re flexible.”
Billy Bob grunted, rubbing his chin. “Credits are tight ‘round here, but we could work something out. Might not get full value in credits, but I could offer you some vouchers for the boarding house. You'd have a place to stay for the night and a meal. How ‘bout that?”
Three didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
The deal was made, and as they gathered the goods and prepared to leave, Billy Bob called after them, a curious glint in his eyes. “If y’all got more, you come see me. I’ll pay better for bigger stuff, just make sure it’s quiet.”
Three gave him a curt nod. “We’ll see.”
As they walked out of the garage, the Knights exchanged quick, satisfied glances. The transaction had gone smoothly, and now they had a foothold.
“We play this right, we’ll bleed them slowly. Small pieces, no one gets wise.”
With their first deal sealed, they blend in like any other traveler—just another group passing through. But they knew they had more to trade, and with the right moves, they’d turn that APC into the fortune they were after.
---
The Mystic Knights had learned long ago that information was just as valuable as firepower. After selling the single mini-missile to Billy Bob, they couldn’t afford to leave things to chance. If Billy Bob or his sons ran to the Coalition informers in town or tipped off local authorities, the Knights carefully laid plans could crumble before they even got started. That’s why they decided to take turns, in pairs of two, conducting surveillance on the garage from the shadows of Hogswaller.
---
First Shift: Knights Two and Three
It was late afternoon, and the shadows had begun to stretch across the streets of Hogswaller. They moved through the alleyways behind the trading post, keeping out of sight. Dressed in their plain, country folk disguises, they blended in with the ebb and flow of the town’s routine.
They took up positions behind an old, weather-beaten grain silo that offered a clear line of sight to the side of Billy Bob’s Garage. From here, they could see the comings and goings of the garage without being seen themselves.
“Anything yet?” Knight Three whispered, his voice barely audible as his keen eyes scanned the area.
Knight Two, crouched beside him, his sharp gaze fixed on the garage, shook his head.
The garage was a hive of activity. Billy Bob’s sons moved about, working on various vehicles, while Billy Bob himself remained inside the garage, probably haggling over the price of some parts with a client. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary—yet.
As the minutes ticked by, Three’s eyes narrowed as he spotted Junior walking toward town square, talking to one of the locals. He kept his distance, his casual demeanor not betraying any urgency. “Junior’s talking to a guy near the square,” he murmured. “Could be nothing, could be him spreading word.”
Knight Two kept his focus, calm and steady.
They waited another fifteen minutes, watching as Junior eventually returned to the garage, but he didn’t appear to be in a hurry, nor did he visit the Constable.
Three nodded. “Alright, we’ll rotate. Keep the watch going. Let’s pull back.”
They slipped out of their position quietly, blending into the town’s evening bustle as they headed to swap out with the next pair.
---
Second Shift: Knight One and Four
Taking their place behind a stack of wooden crates piled near an abandoned blacksmith shop just across from Billy Bob’s Garage. The setting sun bathed the town in deep red hues, casting long shadows across the yard where the sons of Billy Bob continued to work.
One’s jaw was tense as he scanned the surroundings, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his concealed blade. “You think he’s gonna run his mouth?” he asked under his breath.
Four shook his head, his eyes never leaving the garage entrance. “Billy Bob’s smart. He won’t make a move right away. But he’s a Coalition sympathizer. Sooner or later, he’ll try to make a profit off this information, one way or another.”
As they watched, Billy Bob finally stepped out of the garage, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. He spoke briefly to one of his sons—Dale, judging by the bulk of him—and then lit a cigarette, leaning against the side of the building.
One watched intently. “If he’s going to sell us out, now’s a good time. Town’s starting to settle for the evening, but enough people are still moving around for him to blend in.”
Four glanced to the side, checking the alleys leading out of the garage. “If anyone’s going to report what happened, they’ll head toward the constable's office or maybe even Doc Summers’ clinic. Both are Coalition-aligned. We’ll know something’s up if we see one of Billy Bob’s boys heading that way.”
The two stayed vigilant, waiting for any sign of betrayal. As the night crept in, Junior left the garage again, walking casually toward the square. Knight One tensed.
“There he goes,” he muttered. “Keep an eye on him.”
Four’s gaze followed Junior as he stopped to talk with another man, this one carrying a bundle of goods toward the trading post. The conversation seemed brief, nothing out of the ordinary. Junior lingered for a while, smoking a cigarette before heading back to the garage.
“No law enforcement,” Four noted. “He’s not making any moves. Not yet, anyway.”
Knight One frowned, but kept his voice low. “We’ll give it another twenty minutes. If nothing happens, we’ll report back to Three.”
---
Third Shift: Knights Two and Three
This time shifting positions to get a better view of the back entrance to the garage. The two of them crouched behind an old, dilapidated wagon, watching for any backdoor dealings or movements that would suggest Billy Bob was trying to keep things quiet.
Minutes turned into an hour, and though the garage slowly wound down for the night, nothing suspicious caught their eye. Billy Bob and his sons continued their work, eventually closing up the garage as the last light of day disappeared.
“I don’t like this,” Three murmured. “No one’s that quiet after buying Coalition-grade tech. Either he’s waiting for something, or he’s smarter than we gave him credit for.”
Two’s eyes remained on the garage, unblinking. “Too quiet.”
Three considered this, then spoke. “We’ll pull out. Keep an eye on the constable’s office and the trading post over the next few days. If Billy Bob tries to move that missile, we’ll hear about it.”
They rose from their position and slipped into the shadows of Hogswaller, making their way back to the small hideout where the other two were waiting.
---
The Decision
Back at their temporary camp on the outskirts of the town, the four Mystic Knights regrouped to share what they’d observed.
“Nothing concrete,” Knight One said, crossing his arms. “Junior went into town a couple of times, but nothing pointed. No one went to the constable, and no obvious chatter about us.”
“Too quiet, if you ask me,” Knight Four added. “It feels like he’s either playing us or waiting for the right moment.”
He nodded, sitting back in thought. “We can’t assume we’re in the clear. Billy Bob might still be figuring out how to profit from this without drawing attention. But for now, it looks like he’s playing it close to the vest.”
Knight Four leaned forward. “What’s the next move? We can’t keep watching him forever.”
Three’s eyes narrowed. “We lay low for a day or two, keeping our ears open for any rumors. If Billy Bob makes a move, we’ll know. But if things stay quiet, we’ll go back with a bigger deal. This was just a test. If he’s not running to the Coalition after one mini-missile, he might be willing to take on more.”
The others nodded in agreement. The game had just begun, and Billy Bob was playing it slow—but so were they.
For now, they would wait, and watch.
Three Days Later in Hogswaller
They had been keeping close watch, careful not to raise suspicion while waiting to see if Billy Bob or his sons made any moves.
They had split their time between observing the garage from various vantage points and listening to the gossip around town, but so far, there had been no mention of the mini-missile or their deal.
Knight Three leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his eyes narrowing as he spoke. “It’s been three days. No one’s reported anything to the constable. No word from the Coalition. Either Billy Bob’s playing it smart, or he’s planning something big.”
Knight One, sitting across from him, nodded. “He’s too quiet for my liking. I’ve been watching him, and his sons haven’t made any unusual trips. If they’ve sold the missile or moved it, they’re doing it under the radar.”
Knight Two, who had been standing near the window keeping an eye on the street.
Knight Four chimed in, “That’s what worries me. He could be holding off, waiting for the right moment to make his move. Or he could be stringing us along, hoping to bait us into bringing more.”
Leaning over the makeshift map they had drawn, tapped his finger on Billy Bob’s Garage. “He hasn’t tipped his hand yet, but we can’t wait forever. The longer we sit, the higher the risk he finds a way to double-cross us. We need to figure out our next move.”
Three rubbed his chin, deep in thought. “We’re not hearing anything in the tavern or the market, and no one’s made a play at the mini-missile. If Billy Bob’s planning to sell it off, he’s either found a buyer who’s staying quiet, or he’s holding it as leverage. Either way, we need to push him.”
Knight One raised an eyebrow. “You thinking we should go back and deal with him directly?”
Knight Three shook his head. “Not yet. We go in there now, he’ll know we’re watching him. If he’s keeping it quiet, it’s because he doesn’t want to draw too much attention—so we’ll use that to our advantage.”
Knight Two crossed his arms.
Knight Three’s eyes sharpened as he turned to him “We test him again, but this time, we bring a bigger deal. If he’s hesitant, we’ll know he’s waiting for something else. If he goes for it, we’ll have our answer. Either way, we’ll be one step closer to figuring out what game he’s playing.”
Four glanced at Three, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “You’re thinking we push him to see if he folds?”
Three nodded. “Exactly. He’s too quiet for comfort, but we’ll give him the chance to show his hand. If he’s waiting for backup, or if he’s planning to sell us out, we’ll know soon enough.”
Two sighed, his eyes still on the street outside.
Knight One stood up, his expression determined. “So we make the next move. We go in tomorrow, offer him more, and see if he takes the bait.”
Three nodded, his voice low but firm. “That’s the plan. Keep eyes on the garage tonight—no mistakes. If anything shifts, we need to know.”
---
Notes on Billy Bob's Garage:
The garage is known for affordable but reliable repairs, and Billy Bob and his crew are skilled enough to handle work on high-tech Coalition vehicles.
The garage’s exterior is a patchwork of old and new, with the main structure looking like an overgrown barn that has been expanded and reinforced over the years to accommodate larger vehicles and more sophisticated equipment. Large sliding doors dominate the front of the building, often left open to allow a clear view of the bustling activity inside. The yard around the garage is littered with scrap metal, old vehicle parts, and half-assembled machines. Several rusted-out cars, trucks, and APCs in varying states of disrepair sit out front, waiting for their turn under Billy Bob’s wrench.
A simple wooden sign, weathered by years of sun and rain, hangs near the entrance. It reads: “Billy Bob’s Garage – Repairs, Parts, & Trade” in fading white paint.
Behind the main building, there’s a lean-to where additional storage is kept, and beyond that, a small junkyard where the boys scavenge parts from old machines.
The Yard: The yard around the garage is a mess of clutter, but it’s organized chaos. Half-repaired vehicles, and scrap piles create a landscape of machinery that might seem like junk to the untrained eye, but to Billy Bob and his sons, it’s all potential profit. The garage doesn’t just serve the locals; it’s become a hotspot for drifters, adventurers, and mercenaries looking to fix up their rigs or trade for rare parts.
Repair Bays: There are several workstations outside the garage, set up for quick fixes or minor repairs. Tools hang from makeshift racks, and fuel drums and spare tires lie scattered around. Hammers clang, and the whirr of drills and welding torches can often be heard well into the night, making Billy Bob’s Garage a constant hub of activity.
Inside, Billy Bob’s Garage is a functional but cluttered workspace. Tools of all kinds hang from the walls, from basic wrenches and hammers to more advanced gear, like scanners and diagnostic equipment. The main garage floor is divided into several work bays, each one equipped with lifting equipment and the necessary tools to work on anything from ground vehicles to hovercraft. The smell of oil, grease, and burning metal permeates the air, and the constant clang of metal on metal creates a steady backdrop of noise.
The Workstations: Each of the garage’s workstations is manned by either Billy Bob or one of his sons, all of whom are trained mechanics. The boys are always busy with repairs, whether it’s patching up a broken-down APC or salvaging parts from old broken down things. They work quickly and efficiently, their hands and clothes perpetually stained with oil and grease.
The Office: Tucked in the corner of the garage is a small makeshift office, cluttered with papers, old repair logs, and trade records. The office is where Billy Bob does most of his business dealings, often haggling with clients over prices or working out trade agreements. The office itself is nothing fancy—just a small, cramped room with a rickety desk, a few chairs, and a cluttered corkboard pinned with notes and IOUs. However, this is where Billy Bob also conducts his more secretive dealings.
Parts Storage: The back of the garage is reserved for storage, where shelves are stacked high with parts, tools, and equipment—some salvaged, some bought through Coalition contacts. This storage area is often off-limits to casual customers and serves as a stash point for valuable parts and Coalition part that Billy Bob doesn’t want falling into the wrong hands.
Billy Bob and His Sons:
Billy Bob runs the garage with the help of his three sons, all of whom have inherited their father’s skill with machines, as well as his loyalty to the Coalition. Though outwardly gruff and unfriendly, the family business thrives on its reputation for competent repairs and fair prices, at least for those Billy Bob considers trustworthy.
Billy Bob: A grizzled, hulking figure in his mid-fifties, Billy Bob is a no-nonsense man who prefers the sound of wrenches to conversation. He’s built like a tank, with arms thick from years of hard labor, and his gray hair and beard are perpetually streaked with grease. Billy Bob is fiercely loyal to the Coalition States, having long held the belief that the CS’s human supremacy agenda is the best way to restore order to the world.
Junior, Dale, and Marvin: Billy Bob’s sons are carbon copies of their father—tough, hard-working, and equally committed to the Coalition cause. Junior, the eldest, handles the more delicate repairs and keeps the books when Billy Bob’s not around. Dale and Marvin are more hands-on, usually working with the heavy machinery or managing the salvaging operations in the junkyard behind the garage. All three sons share their father’s Coalition sympathies.
Secret Repairs: The garage also serves as a discreet repair stop for Coalition vehicles, including APCs and hovercraft. Coalition patrols passing through Hogswaller often make unannounced visits to the garage for quick fixes or to refuel before heading back out into the field. Billy Bob keeps these visits quiet, knowing that attracting too much attention could lead to trouble.
---
The Next Morning
The following day, the Mystic Knights moved through the streets of Hogswaller once again, dressed in the same plain country garb they had worn before. The town was just as busy as it had been three days ago, with traders and locals milling about.
They made their way to Billy Bob’s Garage, the familiar sight of rusted-out vehicles and scattered parts greeting them as they approached. Billy Bob was outside, wiping his hands on a rag, his sons nearby working on a dilapidated transport.
As they approached, Billy Bob looked up, his eyes narrowing slightly but showing no sign of surprise. “Back so soon?” he grunted, his voice rough as ever.
Knight Three stepped forward, keeping his expression neutral. “Thought you might be interested.”
Billy Bob wiped the sweat from his brow and gave a small grunt, signaling for them to step inside the garage. The Knights followed him through the large doors, the familiar scent of oil and grease filling the air as they entered the dimly lit space.
Billy Bob’s sons, Junior, Dale, and Marvin, watched from a distance as their father turned to face the visitors. “What you got this time?”
Knight Three, “I noticed that you have a salvage yard in the back. I imagine you use it for previously owned parts. I bet, if you let me, I could find some parts for you, in your own backyard. IF you know what I mean. Figured it might be worth something to you.”
“Same deal is not going to work for us this time. Someone’s got to go first. So we provide today. On consignment. You charge your customers their repair bill. Then we come around and collect.”
He wasn’t jumping on the deal as eagerly as he had with the missile, but he wasn’t backing out either.
“If you’re interested, is it a deal?”
Billy Bob paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. “How big we talkin’?”
Knight Three kept his expression neutral. “Let’s just say it’ll be worth your time. But we need to know you’re in for the long haul. No surprises.”
Billy Bob stared at him for a long moment, then gave a slow nod. “I can handle it.”
Three’s eyes glinted, and he nodded in agreement.
The deal was in motion, but there was still something off—Billy Bob was playing along, but the hesitation was there. Whether he was planning to sell them out or simply waiting for a better opportunity, they would need to stay sharp.
---
The Mystic Knights had been planning this for days. Their stolen Coalition APC—a hulking behemoth of steel and tech—was now hidden in plain sight, tucked away in the yard just behind Billy Bob’s Garage, camouflaged among the rusting shells of old vehicles and scrap piles. The Knights men stood guard around it, ensuring no one wandered too close while a few of their people worked quietly to disassemble the vehicle piece by piece. The goal was simple: sell the parts off discreetly, using Billy Bob’s Garage as the front, and split the profits fifty-fifty.
Today marked the first day of their deal with Billy Bob. Inside the garage, the Knights moved about the shop in disguise, blending in as common laborers, doing menial tasks like sweeping the floors and moving scrap metal. But their eyes were always on Billy Bob and his sons, who were busy with customers, quietly selling off the first wave of disassembled APC parts.
---
Three leaned on a broom near the back of the garage, his gaze flicking to the accounting book that lay open on the counter beside Junior, who was scratching down numbers with a grimy pencil. His face showed little emotion, but he knew that every sale was critical today. It was their first test—Billy Bob had to account for each part sold, and the fifty-fifty split the Knights insisted on was non-negotiable.
Nearby, Knight One was hauling a box of old scrap to the back of the garage, but his sharp eyes were focused on Billy Bob, who was in the middle of a conversation with a customer, showing off what appeared to be a high-tech regulator—one of the first pieces stripped from the APC. It was Coalition quality, and even used, the part still fetched a hefty price.
“Half off, like we agreed,” Billy Bob grunted, showing the customer the part. “It’s used, but still top-notch. You won’t find better around here.”
The customer, a trader, eyed the part, clearly impressed. After a few moments of haggling, they agreed on a price, and Billy Bob nodded to Marvin, who wrapped the part in a cloth and handed it over. As soon as the deal was done, Billy Bob glanced toward the counter where Junior sat, making sure the sale was logged.
Knight Four, quietly cleaning around a pile of broken-down engines, noted the exchange and whispered under her breath, her voice low enough for only Knight Two, who was nearby, to hear. “That’s two sales in the last hour. Looks like they’re moving faster than I thought.”
Knight Two gave a slight nod, his hands busy with a wrench as he tightened bolts on an old hovercraft, his eyes never leaving Dale, who was in charge of pulling parts from the back.
---
As the day wore on, more customers came through, each leaving with various parts that had once belonged to the APC. The parts were sold under the guise of being salvaged, marked down as used goods. The advantage for Billy Bob’s Garage was clear—quality parts that were hard to come by in Hogswaller, now available at a fraction of the price. For the Mystic Knights, it was a way to offload the APC without raising suspicions, turning the massive vehicle into a steady stream of income.
At one point, Junior called out from the counter, “Pa, that’s another three thousand credits,” as he logged the sale of a converter. Billy Bob gave a grunt of approval, casting a glance toward Knight Three, who was still sweeping near the back.
Three caught his eye but didn’t say a word, simply nodding.
---
As the sun began to sink lower in the sky, the pace of the day slowed. Most of the customers had left, and the garage was quieter now. Billy Bob, wiping sweat from his brow, finally stepped away from the front counter and approached Knight Three, who had now moved to work on organizing a stack of tools.
“Good day’s work,” Billy Bob said gruffly, his voice low enough that only Knight Three could hear. “Parts are movin’ quicker than I thought.”
Knight Three looked up, his expression neutral. “Good.”
Billy Bob nodded, though there was a slight twitch in his jaw, betraying his annoyance at being monitored so closely. “Ain’t no problem with that. We both make out well if we keep it goin’. I’ll have Junior bring the book to you at the end of the day.”
Knight Three gave a slow nod, but his eyes remained sharp. “Make sure he does.”
Billy Bob grunted in agreement, then turned back to his sons, who were finishing up for the day. As he walked away, Four approached Three, wiping grease from his hands.
“We’re keeping track too,” he murmured, glancing over at the counter where Junior was finishing up the accounting for the day. “So far, it looks like they’re playing by the rules. But we’ll see.”
Three nodded, his voice low. “First day went well enough. If they’re smart, they’ll keep to the deal. If not... well, we’ve got options.”
---
By the time the sun had set, the Knights gathered outside the garage, back in the shadows near the Yard where their men still worked quietly to disassemble the rest of the APC. Knight One leaned against the wall, arms crossed, while Two lit a small lantern, casting a faint glow over the group.
“Day one’s in the books,” One said. “Parts are moving faster than I expected.”
Knight Four nodded. “But let’s not get too comfortable. Bob… he’s no fool, and he’ll try to squeeze more out of this if he can.”
Three looked around at his team, his eyes steely. “We keep watching. Today went smoothly, but we need to make sure every part sold is accounted for. We’ve still got plenty more to sell, and the last thing we need is for them to start getting greedy.”
Knight Two smirked, his eyes gleaming in the lantern light. “If they do, I’ll remind them who’s in charge.”
Knight Thee nodded, his voice firm. “Exactly. We hold the cards, and we keep it that way. Let’s see how far we can take this.”
---
Inside Billy Bob’s Garage, the clanging of metal had quieted down as the last few customers filtered out. The garage, now dimly lit by a couple of flickering oil lamps, had turned into a place of quiet calculation. Billy Bob stood at his counter, leaning over the accounting book, adding up the day's earnings.
Behind them, in the shadows of the garage, the Mystic Knights watched.
They had been careful all day, maintaining their disguises as common laborers, but their sharp eyes had never left the sales and transactions taking place.
Billy Bob wiped his forehead with a greasy rag as he finished his tally for the day, glancing over at Junior, who had just finished wrapping up another sale. His sons were still working, but he could see the gleam in their eyes—this deal was going to change their lives.
Turning, Billy Bob saw them standing near the back of the garage, watching quietly. He gave them a nod, beckoning them over. Knight Three approached first, his expression unreadable.
Billy Bob grunted, his voice low but satisfied. “Sales moved faster than I expected. We’re already looking at some serious credits.”
Knight Three gave a slow nod, glancing at the accounting book on the counter. “It’s a good start. You keep logging every sale, and we’ll keep supplying the parts. We both walk away rich.”
Billy Bob wiped his hands on his rag, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He knew what they had. “This APC you brought me—it's the real deal. They’ll pay real credits for parts like these.”
Three’s eyes narrowed slightly, his voice firm but calm. “That’s why you need to keep this quiet. You’re making 3 million credits, Billy. Don’t forget that. If the Coalition catches wind of this, they’ll come down hard, and you’ll lose everything.”
Billy Bob nodded slowly, understanding. “I know. No need to worry. I ain’t sayin’ a word to nobody. I know what’s at stake.” He glanced around at his garage, at the stacks of parts ready for sale. “Hell, this is the biggest payday I’ve ever seen. I ain’t stupid enough to throw it away.”
Knight One, who had been quiet up to this point, leaned forward, his voice cold and steady. “It’s a smart play. You don’t have to deal with the Black Market, and you don’t have to worry about getting robbed or caught. If you stay quiet, everyone wins.”
Billy Bob chuckled darkly. “Yeah, I’ve been thinkin’ about that. Movin’ the whole APC would’ve been a nightmare. Moving it as parts is easier and safer. Keeps things under the radar. Coalition troops comin’ through here won’t even know they’re buying their own part back.”
Knight Three crossed his arms, watching Billy Bob carefully. “Just remember—if you make a mistake, you’re not just giving up your share. You’ll be inviting the Coalition into your garage. You’ll lose more than credits. Your whole operation could go down.”
Billy Bob’s grin faded slightly, and he nodded more seriously. “I get it. Ain’t nobody stupid enough to give up millions just to make a quick report to the Coalition. Besides, a firefight in my garage? That’s bad for business.”
Knight Four, who had been watching from the shadows, stepped forward. “Today was easy. Tomorrow, and the next day—same thing. But we’re watching every move you make. Any sign that you’re planning something else, and this deal is done.”
Billy Bob looked between the four of them, the gravity of their words sinking in. He wasn’t a fool. These “customers” weren’t just partners in this; they were the ones holding the cards. As long as he kept things running smoothly, he’d make his first million credits faster than he ever thought possible. If he betrayed them, he’d be out more than just money—he’d be giving up his garage, his reputation, maybe even his life.
Billy Bob muttered, wiping his hands on his rag again. “I ain’t lookin’ to mess this up. I like making money. I like it a lot. And I figure, with the way things went today, I’ll be lookin’ at my first million in no time.”
Knight Three gave a final nod. “Good. We’ll be back tomorrow with more parts. Keep up the pace, and we’ll all be walking away with millions.”
Billy Bob chuckled again, this time more confidently. “You got it. We keep this going, and Hogswaller’s gonna be the richest dump in the region.”
With that, the Mystic Knights turned and walked out of the garage, slipping back into the dark streets of Hogswaller.
Knight Three, “He’s in for now. But we keep a close watch. Greed has a way of turning men.”
Knight Four nodded, his eyes sharp as ever. “We’ll see if he keeps his word. For his sake, I hope he does.”
---
The atmosphere around Billy Bob’s Garage had changed dramatically in just a few short days. What was once a cluttered, greasy haven for rusted vehicles and half-done repairs had become something else entirely. The garage now operated like a well-oiled machine, a far cry from its previous state of organized chaos.
---
Knight Three, standing in the doorway, surveyed the changes with a critical eye. The Mystic Knights had been working quietly, but relentlessly, transforming Billy Bob’s Garage into a secure, profitable, and clean operation. The air no longer smelled of oil and sweat alone; now it had an edge of discipline, the hum of a more organized system.
Several of Billy Bob’s employees were milling about, dressed in new uniform—a dark gray material that looked professional, practical, and distinctly Coalition-esque. The uniforms had been made quickly, a rush job that involved buying clothes right off the backs of people passing through Hogswaller, and then magically mending them to pristine condition.
The tailor, now stationed in one of the back offices, was finishing up his work with a few last-minute measurements for the remaining garage workers. His presence had been necessary to ensure that all employees looked the part, but the Mystic Knights' magic had done most of the heavy lifting, mending the garments far faster than needle and thread ever could.
---
Knight One, dressed in one of the newly fitted uniforms, was supervising the installation of security cameras outside the garage. The cameras were subtle, placed strategically to monitor every approach and exit from the building. They were linked to a small computer system in the office that now housed the accounting books.
The office itself had been transformed. What was once a cluttered mess of paper receipts, old ledgers, and half-finished accounting was now a clean, organized space. A computer sat on Billy Bob’s desk, its screen flickering with numbers and transactions. The Knights had insisted on two sets of books—one for Billy Bob’s personal use and another to track the split profits from their ongoing sale of Coalition parts. Only Billy Bob and the Knights knew the password to access the system, ensuring security and transparency in the deal.
Junior, Billy Bob’s eldest son, was busy inputting the day’s sales into the system. He wasn’t used to using computers, but Knight Four had taught him enough to keep the records in line with the Knights' expectations. The accounts were more organized than they had ever been, with every credit accounted for and every sale meticulously logged.
Billy Bob himself sat in the office, staring at the screen, still somewhat awestruck by the changes. His garage—once a backwater repair shop—now looked like a professional operation. The profit margins were tighter than ever, but they were also cleaner, and the garage was on track to make millions.
He glanced out the window, watching as one of them, still dressed in his uniform—directed the welding of a new metal safe in the corner of the garage. It was a crude thing, welded together by two of Billy Bob’s more skilled mechanics, but it would do the job. Inside, they’d store the day's earnings and whatever high-value parts remained from the stolen APC. One of the Mystic Knights was always on guard by the safe, combat armor on, rifle slung over their shoulder, ensuring no one got any ideas about making off with their profits.
The garage had never been more secure.
---
As the day wore on, Three and Four stepped into the office, meeting with Billy Bob to discuss the progress. Two was in his new uniform, but his sharp eyes and confident demeanor made it clear she was much more than a simple worker.
“How’s the new system working for you?” Three asked, his tone businesslike as he glanced at the computer screen.
Billy Bob leaned back in his chair, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Never thought I’d see the day where my shop had a computer running the books, but I gotta admit—it’s working better than I ever thought.” He glanced at the screen, still not entirely comfortable with the technology, but trusting that it was keeping everything in line. “Sales are lookin’ good. You boys were right—Coalition parts move fast. Faster than anything else I’ve sold.”
Knight Three nodded, satisfied. “We’re just getting started. Keep things running smoothly, and this garage is going to make you a fortune. Just don’t forget to keep things quiet.”
Billy Bob chuckled darkly, his eyes darting to the safe in the corner. “Trust me. I’m not about to mess this up. I’ve never seen credits roll in this fast. Ain’t no reason to rock the boat.”
Knight Four leaned forward, his tone serious. “Just remember—this only works as long as everyone stays in line. That includes your workers, your customers, and especially the Coalition. If anyone starts asking questions, you tell us first.”
Billy Bob nodded slowly, understanding the gravity of the situation. “I get it. Ain’t nobody findin’ out what we’re doin’ here. I like makin’ money too much to let it slip.”
Two, stepping into the office with his rifle slung over his shoulder.
Billy Bob’s grin returned, his confidence building as the day’s profits tallied up on the screen. “Hell, I ain’t never had it this good. You folks know what you’re doin’. Let’s just keep it goin’.”
Knight Three exchanged a glance with the others, the unspoken agreement clear between them. The deal was running smoothly for now, but they were ready for any signs of trouble. If Billy Bob or anyone else tried to jeopardize the operation, they wouldn’t hesitate to shut it down.
---
Outside, as the garage workers finished up for the day, Two stood by the safe, watching over the welding process as it neared completion. He knew that keeping the profits secure was just as important as keeping Billy Bob in line. The Knights had gone to great lengths to make sure everything was organized, secure, and under their control.
The garage looked cleaner, the workers more professional, and the money was flowing like never before. But the Mystic Knights knew better than to let their guard down.
As the last of the daylight faded, Knight Three gave a final look around the garage, satisfied with the day’s work.
Tomorrow, they’d push for more.
---
The sun had barely risen over Hogswaller, casting its first light on a town already buzzing with rumors and fear. The night before, 20 transients had attempted to break into Billy Bob’s Garage, no doubt drawn by the recent changes and the influx of business and parts. But their plan had failed spectacularly. The Mystic Knight on guard duty had dealt with them swiftly and mercilessly—all 20 lay dead by morning.
Now, the town was in an uproar. Word of the massacre spread like wildfire, whispers of a bloodbath in the night reaching every corner of Hogswaller. The locals were frightened, the transients who often drifted in and out of town were enraged, and tensions were high.
Inside Billy Bob’s office, Knight Two sat across from the grizzled mechanic. Billy Bob’s face was tense, and the lines of worry had deepened around his eyes. He was used to trouble in Hogswaller, but 20 dead bodies was something different entirely.
Knight Two demeanor, on the other hand, was calm, calculated. He had dealt with worse before, and he was already several steps ahead of the town’s reaction.
“We’ve got a problem, Billy,” Knight Twot said quietly, his voice steady. “Twenty bodies, all dead, right outside your garage. The town’s spooked, and people are asking questions. But we can control this.”
Billy Bob wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, his hands trembling slightly. “Control it? Hell, the whole damn town’s talking. They’re scared. Ain’t never had a slaughter like that here. They’ll want answers.”
He leaned forward, his gaze sharp but calm. “And they’ll get them. But not in the way they’re expecting.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “Here’s what we do: I’ll pay for a cemetery, bury the transients quickly and quietly. No memorials, no graves that anyone can visit. We dump them in a mass grave, and we make sure the town forgets this ever happened.”
Billy Bob stared at him for a moment, swallowing hard. “And you think that’ll work? People ain’t gonna forget twenty bodies overnight.”
He smirked slightly. “No, but they’ll forget if we give them a reason to look the other way. I’ll make sure of that. First off, I’ll go to the gambling establishments in town and lose a few hands. Maybe more than a few. The people in town who like money? They’ll understand real quick that if they keep quiet, they’ll be making a lot more of it. I’ll gamble, I’ll lose, and I’ll make sure the important people in town are on our side. And I’ll pay for a round of drinks—one hundred people. The more they drink, the more they’ll forget what happened.”
Billy Bob’s tension eased slightly as he listened, starting to see the shape of the plan. “Gambling and drinks will keep the tavern folk quiet. What about the brothel? They talk more than anyone.”
He gave a nod. “I’ve already thought of that. I’ll visit Miss Sally’s, spend a few credits there too, and tip the right people. They’ll get the message. Money talks louder than dead bodies.”
Billy Bob chuckled darkly, though his voice was still laced with worry. “That’ll handle some of ‘em. But what about the constable? You know Jake McFadden—he’s an old coot, but he’s smart enough to know when something’s wrong. He’ll be poking his nose around here before the day’s done.”
Knight Three's smiled. “That’s why I’m paying a visit to Jake. I’ll explain everything. Make it clear that the transients were robbing the place and that we acted in self-defense. I’ll make it known that if he’s worried, he can even place a deputy here to keep an eye on things, if he feels it’s necessary. And while we’re at it, I’ll have the whole crew get haircuts and shaves at his shop. We’ll charm him, remind him we’re good for business in this town.”
Billy Bob raised an eyebrow. “You think Jake’s gonna let this go?”
Knight Three’s expression didn’t falter. “He will if he’s bought in. I’ll pay for answers to any questions he has, make sure he knows we’ve got nothing to hide. And if it comes down to it, we’ll bribe him indirectly through the right channels. Jake’s not above looking the other way if the money’s good.”
Billy Bob sat back in his chair, rubbing his face. “Alright, but what about the rest of the town? There’s a lot of talk, and not everyone’s swayed by gambling or booze.”
Knight Two nodded, leaning back. “I’ve thought of that too. I’ll make an offer to buy a few of the local slaves—the ones in the worst condition. That’ll get the attention of the slave owners, and they’ll see we’re willing to do business, which means more profit for them. It’s all about shifting the focus from the dead to what they can gain. And once I’ve got the right people invested in making money, they’ll silence the others.”
Billy Bob let out a slow breath, nodding slowly. “Alright. You’ve thought it through. You can make this work.”
Knight Two stood, his presence commanding as he walked toward the door. “I’ll head into town now and set everything in motion. By tonight, this will be nothing more than a bad memory. You keep running the garage like normal. By the end of the week, the town will be talking about how much money they’re making—not the transients we buried.”
Billy Bob nodded, a flicker of confidence returning to his eyes. “I trust you. Just don’t let this get outta hand.”
Knight Two smiled, his voice calm. “It won’t. We’ve got this under control.”
---
By mid-morning, the Mystic Knight are already making the rounds. They started at the local tavern, losing hand after hand at the gambling tables, the pile of credits disappearing into the pockets of local gamblers. His losses were deliberate, calculated, and generous. Word spread quickly among the town's more influential people—they were good for business.
After losing enough to make a few key individuals very happy, they paid the barkeep to offer a round of drinks to the first 100 patrons, sending the message that money was flowing and there was no need to look deeper into the events of the previous night.
From there, they made their way to Miss Sally’s brothel and left a few thousand lighter.
Visit the local slave owners, they offer to purchase a few slaves in the worst condition, subtly suggesting that more business could follow if things went smoothly. The slave owners quickly understood the unspoken agreement: stay quiet and profit from our business’s continued generosity. They got rid of the most worthless slave for the price of a new one.
Finally, they made their way to Jake McFadden’s barbershop, the Constable himself trimming their hair and giving them shaves while Knight One explained what had happened. The transients had tried to rob the garage, he said, and the Knights had acted in self-defense. Knight Three was charming, straightforward, and made it clear that the garage was good for business—bringing in business, money, and jobs to Hogswaller.
Jake listened carefully, and by the end of their conversation, they made a simple offer. “If you think it’s necessary, you can place a deputy at the garage. We’ve got nothing to hide, and I’d rather have you on our side than chasing rumors.”
Jake thought it over, and in the end, nodded. “I’ll think about it. But for now, I’ll keep an eye on things from a distance. You keep your business clean, and we won’t have any problems.”
Knight Two smiled as he stood to leave, his men freshly shaven and ready to return to the garage. “You’ve got my word, Jake. Anything else, you come to me first.”
As they left the barbershop, the town of Hogswaller was slowly returning to its normal rhythm, the uproar of the night before beginning to fade. Money, after all, had a way of quieting even the loudest voices.
By the end of the day, the transients were buried in a small cemetery outside town, forgotten. The gamblers, the slave owners, the brothel, and even the constable were all invested in keeping the peace. And just as Knight Two had planned, the Mystic Knights could continue their business without interruption.
For now, Hogswaller would remain silent.
Knight One was the first to speak, breaking the heavy silence. His voice was gruff, but beneath it, frustration simmered. “Look, we need to talk about the APC. It’s not as simple as we thought. We’re sitting on a mountain of credits, sure, but finding a buyer is proving to be harder than we expected.”
Knight Three leaned back against a rock, arms crossed, watching the fire dance in front of him. He hadn’t said much since the last job went south, but he’d been thinking.
Knight Four “He’s right. We’ve already tried selling it as a whole, and that led to a setup. Nearly got us killed. We’ve been lucky so far, but how long before the wrong people catch wind of what we’ve got?” He glanced over at the APC, the weight of the situation heavy in his eyes. “Even if we found another buyer, we’d have to travel hundreds of miles, and chances are good we’d be attacked or the thing would get damaged along the way. Every trip risks losing it—or our lives.”
Knight Three, always the most pragmatic of the group, rubbed her hands together near the fire’s warmth. “Finding someone who can pay the full price—or even half—isn’t easy. And that’s assuming they’re willing to deal with something as high-profile as a Coalition APC. No one in their right mind wants to keep one of those things intact. It’s too big, too obvious. If Coalition patrols get wind of it, they’ll come down on us hard. And we’re not exactly in a position to defend this thing long term.”
Knight One leaned forward, his tone more urgent. “The way I see it, our best bet is to strip it—take it to a chop-shop, sell it off in pieces. It’s less risky, and we’d be dealing in smaller amounts that won’t attract as much attention. It won’t be the payday we hoped for, but it’s a guaranteed payout, and we can walk away without having to look over our shoulders every time a Coalition patrol passes by.”
Knight Two nodded, agreeing.
Knight Four turned his gaze toward Three, the firelight flickering in his eyes. “What do you think? You’re the one who usually comes up with the better ideas. Is there a smarter way out of this? Or are we stuck cutting our losses and selling it off piece by piece?”
All eyes turned to Knight Three now. The weight of their predicament settled on his shoulders, but he was used to that. He stayed quiet for a moment, considering their options. They were right about the risks of moving the APC whole. Even if they found a buyer, traveling hundreds of miles through hostile territory was a gamble. And they’d already seen how things could go sideways, like with that setup at the mine.
Finally, he spoke, his voice low but clear. “You’re not wrong about the risks. Moving the APC in one piece is like carrying a target on our backs. Every bandit, merc, and Coalition patrol from here to the border will know what we’ve got, and they’ll come gunning for it. The longer we hold onto it, the more dangerous it gets.”
He leaned forward, his sharp eyes catching the flicker of the fire. “But selling it off piece by piece has its risks, too. Sure, it’s quieter, but that doesn’t mean it’s safe. We’ll need to find a chop-shop we can trust, and that’s not easy. Most places that deal in black market parts aren’t exactly known for being honest. They’ll try to undercut us, steal what they can, maybe even sell us out to the highest bidder.”
One frowned, but nodded in understanding. “So you think it’s too risky?”
Three shook his head. “I think it’s an option, but not one we jump into without preparation. If we go that route, we need to control the situation. We find a chop-shop far enough from Coalition influence, run by people who are more interested in credits than loyalty to any faction. We take it in stages—don’t bring the whole APC at once. We sell off parts bit by bit, and we make sure we’re the ones holding the cards.”
Four leaned in, eyes focused. “And if we don’t go that route? Do you have a better idea?”
Three rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “There’s another option. We could use the APC as leverage. Not necessarily to sell, but to trade for something more valuable to us. Information, tech, weapons, or even alliances. Someone out there—maybe a rogue faction or a black market group—might want it not for cash but for strategic reasons. They’ll pay in other ways, maybe offer us more protection or a safe route out of here.”
Four raised an eyebrow. “You think we can find someone who’ll take it like that?”
Two leaned back, considering his words.
Knight Three, “No. At least, not anytime soon.”
Knight Four, spoke up. "What about Hogswaller's chop-shop? It’s the closest option, and we’ve already been there. Is it any riskier than going somewhere new?"
All eyes turned to Knight Three, who sat still, arms resting on his knees as he contemplated the question. His face remained calm, though the hint of a frown creased his brow.
Knight Three sighed softly, rubbing his chin as he gathered his thoughts. "Hogswaller’s chop-shop... Billy Bob's Garage, right? It’s a risk, no doubt. But you’re right about one thing—it’s close, and we know where it is. That counts for something."
One nodded. "Exactly. We’ve already been in town, and no one came for us. Why not try it?"
Knight Three’s eyes flicked up to meet One’s, the firelight reflecting in them. "Because Billy Bob and his sons are known Coalition sympathizers. They gladly work with the CS, and they’ve probably got their eyes and ears open for any unusual activity. The Coalition patrols through that town, and if Billy Bob gets even a whiff that we’ve got a stolen APC, he’ll be the first to tip them off. He won’t care about us. He’ll care about the credits he can make by handing us over."
One frowned, crossing her arms. "But is it any worse than some other chop-shop we’d find in a new town? We could walk into a place we’ve never been before and get double-crossed just the same. What’s the difference?"
Knight Three took a deep breath. "The difference is, Hogswaller is already a powder keg. We nearly got burned there once already with the setup at the mine. They’re friendly to Coalition troops. We’d be walking into a town that already sees us as outsiders. And if someone puts two and two together and figures out we’re moving an APC, that news will spread faster than wildfire."
Knight Four, "But... no one, alive, has ‘seen’ our faces there. We also know the layout of Hogswaller. We know how to get in and out without drawing attention. They also would not suspect that we would unload it there and with CS coming there every so often they are in need of parts. We could play it smart—do it quietly, approach Billy Bob with small parts at first, see if he bites. We don’t have to bring him the whole APC right away."
Knight Three nodded slowly. "That’s true. We don’t have to put everything on the table at once. But even then, we’re taking a risk. Billy Bob’s crew might do the job for us—chop it up, no questions asked—but the moment they see how valuable the parts are, they could turn on us. Either to keep it for themselves or to sell us out to the Coalition."
One looked frustrated. "So we’re stuck then? We don’t trust Hogswaller, and anywhere new is just as risky. What do you suggest?"
Three leaned back, his eyes narrowing as he stared into the fire. "I’m not saying we can’t use Hogswaller’s chop-shop. I’m just saying we have to go in with our eyes open. Billy Bob is a Coalition sympathizer, but he’s also a businessman. If we approach him the right way—quietly, carefully, and with leverage—we might be able to get what we want. But we don’t let him know, not outright. We drip feed him parts, gauge his reaction, and keep the rest of the APC hidden. We never show him the whole picture. That way, if he turns on us, we don’t lose everything."
Four, "So, we go back to Hogswaller then? Test the waters?"
Three gave a firm nod.
The group exchanged glances, each weighing the risks, but the decision had been made. Hogswaller’s chop-shop was their best chance, but they’d go in with their eyes wide open, ready for anything.
---
The midday sun hung high over Hogswaller, casting long shadows across the worn, dirt streets. The town bustled with its usual mix of locals, traders, and travelers, all caught up in the rhythm of everyday life. People drifted through constantly so the presence of newcomers was a common sight, drawing little more than a second glance.
Among the scattered figures walking into town were four figures, clad in the simple clothes of country folk loose, faded shirts, patched trousers, and wide-brimmed hats pulled low over their eyes. They carried themselves like any other wanderers, blending in with the steady flow of foot traffic. But beneath the surface, these four were far from ordinary.
Their real prize, the stolen APC, was hidden deep in the woods outside town, expertly camouflaged and guarded by their men. The Knights had decided to test the waters first, carrying a single piece of valuable tech from the APC: a missile, small enough to transport without arousing suspicion but valuable enough to gauge the town's black market.
As they made their way down the street, the smell of dust, sweat, and old wood filled the air. Around them, people went about their business, paying little mind to the four newcomers.
Knight One, walking next to Four, shifted the bundle on his shoulder—a rough canvas sack wrapped tightly around the missile, giving the impression of simple goods or farming equipment. He glanced sideways at Knight Three. “We blend in, test the waters. But let’s keep this quick. The sooner we know what Billy Bob or anyone else is willing to offer, the better.”
Four nodded slightly, his eyes scanning the street ahead. “We find the right person, sell it, and move on. But we play it slow—no mention of where it came from or how much more we’ve got.”
Four walked a pace behind, his eyes sharp beneath the brim of his hat, scanning for any signs of trouble. “Let’s see if they bite,” he murmured.
As they approached Billy Bob’s Garage, the ragged barn-like structure stood out against the backdrop of the town. The building had seen better days, but the sound of metal being worked echoed from inside, a reminder of its purpose. Wagons, scrap metal, and the scattered remains of old vehicles lay in piles around the garage, a testament to the steady business of patching up and dismantling anything brought in from the roads.
Knight Four leaned toward Three as they neared the garage’s entrance. “You think Billy Bob’s boys will go for it?”
Knight Four kept his expression neutral. “We’ll find out soon enough.”
The group stepped into the shadow of the garage. Inside, Billy Bob, a hulking figure with grease-stained hands and a permanent scowl, was overseeing his sons—Junior, Dale, and Marvin—as they worked on a beat-up transport vehicle. The moment the Knights entered, Billy Bob glanced up, his eyes narrowing at the sight of new faces.
“Y’all looking for repairs, or something else?” Billy Bob’s voice was rough, tinged with suspicion, though not uncommon for strangers passing through.
Knight One, his voice a low, drawling tone that matched the simple guise they wore. “Not repairs, friend. We’re looking to sell. Got something that might interest you.”
Billy Bob crossed his arms, his sons slowing their work to glance over at the newcomers. “That so? What kinda ‘something’ we talkin’?”
One stepped forward, setting down the canvas bundle with a casual grunt. He slowly unwrapped the fabric, revealing the sleek, dark metal of a mini-missile—a sight that immediately drew the attention of everyone in the garage. The missile gleamed faintly in the dim light, its deadly purpose unmistakable.
For a moment, the air was thick with tension as Billy Bob’s eyes flicked from the missile to the Knights.
“Coalition gear,” he muttered, stepping closer, his voice lower now, almost impressed. “Where’d you get this?”
Knight Four gave a slow, casual shrug, his tone dismissive. “Found it along the way. Figured it might be worth something to the right person. Thought you might be interested.”
Billy Bob’s gaze lingered on the missile, calculating. His sons exchanged a glance, clearly interested, but waiting for their father to speak. After a moment, Billy Bob wiped his hands on a rag, considering the offer.
“It’s worth something, alright. Question is, what are you asking for it?” He looked up at Knight Three, trying to gauge how desperate—or savvy—these newcomers were.
Three kept his face neutral, speaking with a slow, deliberate drawl. “We’re looking for credits or something else of equal value. Could be trade goods, could be supplies—things we can use or move on to someone else. We’re flexible.”
Billy Bob grunted, rubbing his chin. “Credits are tight ‘round here, but we could work something out. Might not get full value in credits, but I could offer you some vouchers for the boarding house. You'd have a place to stay for the night and a meal. How ‘bout that?”
Three didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
The deal was made, and as they gathered the goods and prepared to leave, Billy Bob called after them, a curious glint in his eyes. “If y’all got more, you come see me. I’ll pay better for bigger stuff, just make sure it’s quiet.”
Three gave him a curt nod. “We’ll see.”
As they walked out of the garage, the Knights exchanged quick, satisfied glances. The transaction had gone smoothly, and now they had a foothold.
“We play this right, we’ll bleed them slowly. Small pieces, no one gets wise.”
With their first deal sealed, they blend in like any other traveler—just another group passing through. But they knew they had more to trade, and with the right moves, they’d turn that APC into the fortune they were after.
---
The Mystic Knights had learned long ago that information was just as valuable as firepower. After selling the single mini-missile to Billy Bob, they couldn’t afford to leave things to chance. If Billy Bob or his sons ran to the Coalition informers in town or tipped off local authorities, the Knights carefully laid plans could crumble before they even got started. That’s why they decided to take turns, in pairs of two, conducting surveillance on the garage from the shadows of Hogswaller.
---
First Shift: Knights Two and Three
It was late afternoon, and the shadows had begun to stretch across the streets of Hogswaller. They moved through the alleyways behind the trading post, keeping out of sight. Dressed in their plain, country folk disguises, they blended in with the ebb and flow of the town’s routine.
They took up positions behind an old, weather-beaten grain silo that offered a clear line of sight to the side of Billy Bob’s Garage. From here, they could see the comings and goings of the garage without being seen themselves.
“Anything yet?” Knight Three whispered, his voice barely audible as his keen eyes scanned the area.
Knight Two, crouched beside him, his sharp gaze fixed on the garage, shook his head.
The garage was a hive of activity. Billy Bob’s sons moved about, working on various vehicles, while Billy Bob himself remained inside the garage, probably haggling over the price of some parts with a client. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary—yet.
As the minutes ticked by, Three’s eyes narrowed as he spotted Junior walking toward town square, talking to one of the locals. He kept his distance, his casual demeanor not betraying any urgency. “Junior’s talking to a guy near the square,” he murmured. “Could be nothing, could be him spreading word.”
Knight Two kept his focus, calm and steady.
They waited another fifteen minutes, watching as Junior eventually returned to the garage, but he didn’t appear to be in a hurry, nor did he visit the Constable.
Three nodded. “Alright, we’ll rotate. Keep the watch going. Let’s pull back.”
They slipped out of their position quietly, blending into the town’s evening bustle as they headed to swap out with the next pair.
---
Second Shift: Knight One and Four
Taking their place behind a stack of wooden crates piled near an abandoned blacksmith shop just across from Billy Bob’s Garage. The setting sun bathed the town in deep red hues, casting long shadows across the yard where the sons of Billy Bob continued to work.
One’s jaw was tense as he scanned the surroundings, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his concealed blade. “You think he’s gonna run his mouth?” he asked under his breath.
Four shook his head, his eyes never leaving the garage entrance. “Billy Bob’s smart. He won’t make a move right away. But he’s a Coalition sympathizer. Sooner or later, he’ll try to make a profit off this information, one way or another.”
As they watched, Billy Bob finally stepped out of the garage, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. He spoke briefly to one of his sons—Dale, judging by the bulk of him—and then lit a cigarette, leaning against the side of the building.
One watched intently. “If he’s going to sell us out, now’s a good time. Town’s starting to settle for the evening, but enough people are still moving around for him to blend in.”
Four glanced to the side, checking the alleys leading out of the garage. “If anyone’s going to report what happened, they’ll head toward the constable's office or maybe even Doc Summers’ clinic. Both are Coalition-aligned. We’ll know something’s up if we see one of Billy Bob’s boys heading that way.”
The two stayed vigilant, waiting for any sign of betrayal. As the night crept in, Junior left the garage again, walking casually toward the square. Knight One tensed.
“There he goes,” he muttered. “Keep an eye on him.”
Four’s gaze followed Junior as he stopped to talk with another man, this one carrying a bundle of goods toward the trading post. The conversation seemed brief, nothing out of the ordinary. Junior lingered for a while, smoking a cigarette before heading back to the garage.
“No law enforcement,” Four noted. “He’s not making any moves. Not yet, anyway.”
Knight One frowned, but kept his voice low. “We’ll give it another twenty minutes. If nothing happens, we’ll report back to Three.”
---
Third Shift: Knights Two and Three
This time shifting positions to get a better view of the back entrance to the garage. The two of them crouched behind an old, dilapidated wagon, watching for any backdoor dealings or movements that would suggest Billy Bob was trying to keep things quiet.
Minutes turned into an hour, and though the garage slowly wound down for the night, nothing suspicious caught their eye. Billy Bob and his sons continued their work, eventually closing up the garage as the last light of day disappeared.
“I don’t like this,” Three murmured. “No one’s that quiet after buying Coalition-grade tech. Either he’s waiting for something, or he’s smarter than we gave him credit for.”
Two’s eyes remained on the garage, unblinking. “Too quiet.”
Three considered this, then spoke. “We’ll pull out. Keep an eye on the constable’s office and the trading post over the next few days. If Billy Bob tries to move that missile, we’ll hear about it.”
They rose from their position and slipped into the shadows of Hogswaller, making their way back to the small hideout where the other two were waiting.
---
The Decision
Back at their temporary camp on the outskirts of the town, the four Mystic Knights regrouped to share what they’d observed.
“Nothing concrete,” Knight One said, crossing his arms. “Junior went into town a couple of times, but nothing pointed. No one went to the constable, and no obvious chatter about us.”
“Too quiet, if you ask me,” Knight Four added. “It feels like he’s either playing us or waiting for the right moment.”
He nodded, sitting back in thought. “We can’t assume we’re in the clear. Billy Bob might still be figuring out how to profit from this without drawing attention. But for now, it looks like he’s playing it close to the vest.”
Knight Four leaned forward. “What’s the next move? We can’t keep watching him forever.”
Three’s eyes narrowed. “We lay low for a day or two, keeping our ears open for any rumors. If Billy Bob makes a move, we’ll know. But if things stay quiet, we’ll go back with a bigger deal. This was just a test. If he’s not running to the Coalition after one mini-missile, he might be willing to take on more.”
The others nodded in agreement. The game had just begun, and Billy Bob was playing it slow—but so were they.
For now, they would wait, and watch.
Three Days Later in Hogswaller
They had been keeping close watch, careful not to raise suspicion while waiting to see if Billy Bob or his sons made any moves.
They had split their time between observing the garage from various vantage points and listening to the gossip around town, but so far, there had been no mention of the mini-missile or their deal.
Knight Three leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his eyes narrowing as he spoke. “It’s been three days. No one’s reported anything to the constable. No word from the Coalition. Either Billy Bob’s playing it smart, or he’s planning something big.”
Knight One, sitting across from him, nodded. “He’s too quiet for my liking. I’ve been watching him, and his sons haven’t made any unusual trips. If they’ve sold the missile or moved it, they’re doing it under the radar.”
Knight Two, who had been standing near the window keeping an eye on the street.
Knight Four chimed in, “That’s what worries me. He could be holding off, waiting for the right moment to make his move. Or he could be stringing us along, hoping to bait us into bringing more.”
Leaning over the makeshift map they had drawn, tapped his finger on Billy Bob’s Garage. “He hasn’t tipped his hand yet, but we can’t wait forever. The longer we sit, the higher the risk he finds a way to double-cross us. We need to figure out our next move.”
Three rubbed his chin, deep in thought. “We’re not hearing anything in the tavern or the market, and no one’s made a play at the mini-missile. If Billy Bob’s planning to sell it off, he’s either found a buyer who’s staying quiet, or he’s holding it as leverage. Either way, we need to push him.”
Knight One raised an eyebrow. “You thinking we should go back and deal with him directly?”
Knight Three shook his head. “Not yet. We go in there now, he’ll know we’re watching him. If he’s keeping it quiet, it’s because he doesn’t want to draw too much attention—so we’ll use that to our advantage.”
Knight Two crossed his arms.
Knight Three’s eyes sharpened as he turned to him “We test him again, but this time, we bring a bigger deal. If he’s hesitant, we’ll know he’s waiting for something else. If he goes for it, we’ll have our answer. Either way, we’ll be one step closer to figuring out what game he’s playing.”
Four glanced at Three, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “You’re thinking we push him to see if he folds?”
Three nodded. “Exactly. He’s too quiet for comfort, but we’ll give him the chance to show his hand. If he’s waiting for backup, or if he’s planning to sell us out, we’ll know soon enough.”
Two sighed, his eyes still on the street outside.
Knight One stood up, his expression determined. “So we make the next move. We go in tomorrow, offer him more, and see if he takes the bait.”
Three nodded, his voice low but firm. “That’s the plan. Keep eyes on the garage tonight—no mistakes. If anything shifts, we need to know.”
---
Notes on Billy Bob's Garage:
The garage is known for affordable but reliable repairs, and Billy Bob and his crew are skilled enough to handle work on high-tech Coalition vehicles.
The garage’s exterior is a patchwork of old and new, with the main structure looking like an overgrown barn that has been expanded and reinforced over the years to accommodate larger vehicles and more sophisticated equipment. Large sliding doors dominate the front of the building, often left open to allow a clear view of the bustling activity inside. The yard around the garage is littered with scrap metal, old vehicle parts, and half-assembled machines. Several rusted-out cars, trucks, and APCs in varying states of disrepair sit out front, waiting for their turn under Billy Bob’s wrench.
A simple wooden sign, weathered by years of sun and rain, hangs near the entrance. It reads: “Billy Bob’s Garage – Repairs, Parts, & Trade” in fading white paint.
Behind the main building, there’s a lean-to where additional storage is kept, and beyond that, a small junkyard where the boys scavenge parts from old machines.
The Yard: The yard around the garage is a mess of clutter, but it’s organized chaos. Half-repaired vehicles, and scrap piles create a landscape of machinery that might seem like junk to the untrained eye, but to Billy Bob and his sons, it’s all potential profit. The garage doesn’t just serve the locals; it’s become a hotspot for drifters, adventurers, and mercenaries looking to fix up their rigs or trade for rare parts.
Repair Bays: There are several workstations outside the garage, set up for quick fixes or minor repairs. Tools hang from makeshift racks, and fuel drums and spare tires lie scattered around. Hammers clang, and the whirr of drills and welding torches can often be heard well into the night, making Billy Bob’s Garage a constant hub of activity.
Inside, Billy Bob’s Garage is a functional but cluttered workspace. Tools of all kinds hang from the walls, from basic wrenches and hammers to more advanced gear, like scanners and diagnostic equipment. The main garage floor is divided into several work bays, each one equipped with lifting equipment and the necessary tools to work on anything from ground vehicles to hovercraft. The smell of oil, grease, and burning metal permeates the air, and the constant clang of metal on metal creates a steady backdrop of noise.
The Workstations: Each of the garage’s workstations is manned by either Billy Bob or one of his sons, all of whom are trained mechanics. The boys are always busy with repairs, whether it’s patching up a broken-down APC or salvaging parts from old broken down things. They work quickly and efficiently, their hands and clothes perpetually stained with oil and grease.
The Office: Tucked in the corner of the garage is a small makeshift office, cluttered with papers, old repair logs, and trade records. The office is where Billy Bob does most of his business dealings, often haggling with clients over prices or working out trade agreements. The office itself is nothing fancy—just a small, cramped room with a rickety desk, a few chairs, and a cluttered corkboard pinned with notes and IOUs. However, this is where Billy Bob also conducts his more secretive dealings.
Parts Storage: The back of the garage is reserved for storage, where shelves are stacked high with parts, tools, and equipment—some salvaged, some bought through Coalition contacts. This storage area is often off-limits to casual customers and serves as a stash point for valuable parts and Coalition part that Billy Bob doesn’t want falling into the wrong hands.
Billy Bob and His Sons:
Billy Bob runs the garage with the help of his three sons, all of whom have inherited their father’s skill with machines, as well as his loyalty to the Coalition. Though outwardly gruff and unfriendly, the family business thrives on its reputation for competent repairs and fair prices, at least for those Billy Bob considers trustworthy.
Billy Bob: A grizzled, hulking figure in his mid-fifties, Billy Bob is a no-nonsense man who prefers the sound of wrenches to conversation. He’s built like a tank, with arms thick from years of hard labor, and his gray hair and beard are perpetually streaked with grease. Billy Bob is fiercely loyal to the Coalition States, having long held the belief that the CS’s human supremacy agenda is the best way to restore order to the world.
Junior, Dale, and Marvin: Billy Bob’s sons are carbon copies of their father—tough, hard-working, and equally committed to the Coalition cause. Junior, the eldest, handles the more delicate repairs and keeps the books when Billy Bob’s not around. Dale and Marvin are more hands-on, usually working with the heavy machinery or managing the salvaging operations in the junkyard behind the garage. All three sons share their father’s Coalition sympathies.
Secret Repairs: The garage also serves as a discreet repair stop for Coalition vehicles, including APCs and hovercraft. Coalition patrols passing through Hogswaller often make unannounced visits to the garage for quick fixes or to refuel before heading back out into the field. Billy Bob keeps these visits quiet, knowing that attracting too much attention could lead to trouble.
---
The Next Morning
The following day, the Mystic Knights moved through the streets of Hogswaller once again, dressed in the same plain country garb they had worn before. The town was just as busy as it had been three days ago, with traders and locals milling about.
They made their way to Billy Bob’s Garage, the familiar sight of rusted-out vehicles and scattered parts greeting them as they approached. Billy Bob was outside, wiping his hands on a rag, his sons nearby working on a dilapidated transport.
As they approached, Billy Bob looked up, his eyes narrowing slightly but showing no sign of surprise. “Back so soon?” he grunted, his voice rough as ever.
Knight Three stepped forward, keeping his expression neutral. “Thought you might be interested.”
Billy Bob wiped the sweat from his brow and gave a small grunt, signaling for them to step inside the garage. The Knights followed him through the large doors, the familiar scent of oil and grease filling the air as they entered the dimly lit space.
Billy Bob’s sons, Junior, Dale, and Marvin, watched from a distance as their father turned to face the visitors. “What you got this time?”
Knight Three, “I noticed that you have a salvage yard in the back. I imagine you use it for previously owned parts. I bet, if you let me, I could find some parts for you, in your own backyard. IF you know what I mean. Figured it might be worth something to you.”
“Same deal is not going to work for us this time. Someone’s got to go first. So we provide today. On consignment. You charge your customers their repair bill. Then we come around and collect.”
He wasn’t jumping on the deal as eagerly as he had with the missile, but he wasn’t backing out either.
“If you’re interested, is it a deal?”
Billy Bob paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. “How big we talkin’?”
Knight Three kept his expression neutral. “Let’s just say it’ll be worth your time. But we need to know you’re in for the long haul. No surprises.”
Billy Bob stared at him for a long moment, then gave a slow nod. “I can handle it.”
Three’s eyes glinted, and he nodded in agreement.
The deal was in motion, but there was still something off—Billy Bob was playing along, but the hesitation was there. Whether he was planning to sell them out or simply waiting for a better opportunity, they would need to stay sharp.
---
The Mystic Knights had been planning this for days. Their stolen Coalition APC—a hulking behemoth of steel and tech—was now hidden in plain sight, tucked away in the yard just behind Billy Bob’s Garage, camouflaged among the rusting shells of old vehicles and scrap piles. The Knights men stood guard around it, ensuring no one wandered too close while a few of their people worked quietly to disassemble the vehicle piece by piece. The goal was simple: sell the parts off discreetly, using Billy Bob’s Garage as the front, and split the profits fifty-fifty.
Today marked the first day of their deal with Billy Bob. Inside the garage, the Knights moved about the shop in disguise, blending in as common laborers, doing menial tasks like sweeping the floors and moving scrap metal. But their eyes were always on Billy Bob and his sons, who were busy with customers, quietly selling off the first wave of disassembled APC parts.
---
Three leaned on a broom near the back of the garage, his gaze flicking to the accounting book that lay open on the counter beside Junior, who was scratching down numbers with a grimy pencil. His face showed little emotion, but he knew that every sale was critical today. It was their first test—Billy Bob had to account for each part sold, and the fifty-fifty split the Knights insisted on was non-negotiable.
Nearby, Knight One was hauling a box of old scrap to the back of the garage, but his sharp eyes were focused on Billy Bob, who was in the middle of a conversation with a customer, showing off what appeared to be a high-tech regulator—one of the first pieces stripped from the APC. It was Coalition quality, and even used, the part still fetched a hefty price.
“Half off, like we agreed,” Billy Bob grunted, showing the customer the part. “It’s used, but still top-notch. You won’t find better around here.”
The customer, a trader, eyed the part, clearly impressed. After a few moments of haggling, they agreed on a price, and Billy Bob nodded to Marvin, who wrapped the part in a cloth and handed it over. As soon as the deal was done, Billy Bob glanced toward the counter where Junior sat, making sure the sale was logged.
Knight Four, quietly cleaning around a pile of broken-down engines, noted the exchange and whispered under her breath, her voice low enough for only Knight Two, who was nearby, to hear. “That’s two sales in the last hour. Looks like they’re moving faster than I thought.”
Knight Two gave a slight nod, his hands busy with a wrench as he tightened bolts on an old hovercraft, his eyes never leaving Dale, who was in charge of pulling parts from the back.
---
As the day wore on, more customers came through, each leaving with various parts that had once belonged to the APC. The parts were sold under the guise of being salvaged, marked down as used goods. The advantage for Billy Bob’s Garage was clear—quality parts that were hard to come by in Hogswaller, now available at a fraction of the price. For the Mystic Knights, it was a way to offload the APC without raising suspicions, turning the massive vehicle into a steady stream of income.
At one point, Junior called out from the counter, “Pa, that’s another three thousand credits,” as he logged the sale of a converter. Billy Bob gave a grunt of approval, casting a glance toward Knight Three, who was still sweeping near the back.
Three caught his eye but didn’t say a word, simply nodding.
---
As the sun began to sink lower in the sky, the pace of the day slowed. Most of the customers had left, and the garage was quieter now. Billy Bob, wiping sweat from his brow, finally stepped away from the front counter and approached Knight Three, who had now moved to work on organizing a stack of tools.
“Good day’s work,” Billy Bob said gruffly, his voice low enough that only Knight Three could hear. “Parts are movin’ quicker than I thought.”
Knight Three looked up, his expression neutral. “Good.”
Billy Bob nodded, though there was a slight twitch in his jaw, betraying his annoyance at being monitored so closely. “Ain’t no problem with that. We both make out well if we keep it goin’. I’ll have Junior bring the book to you at the end of the day.”
Knight Three gave a slow nod, but his eyes remained sharp. “Make sure he does.”
Billy Bob grunted in agreement, then turned back to his sons, who were finishing up for the day. As he walked away, Four approached Three, wiping grease from his hands.
“We’re keeping track too,” he murmured, glancing over at the counter where Junior was finishing up the accounting for the day. “So far, it looks like they’re playing by the rules. But we’ll see.”
Three nodded, his voice low. “First day went well enough. If they’re smart, they’ll keep to the deal. If not... well, we’ve got options.”
---
By the time the sun had set, the Knights gathered outside the garage, back in the shadows near the Yard where their men still worked quietly to disassemble the rest of the APC. Knight One leaned against the wall, arms crossed, while Two lit a small lantern, casting a faint glow over the group.
“Day one’s in the books,” One said. “Parts are moving faster than I expected.”
Knight Four nodded. “But let’s not get too comfortable. Bob… he’s no fool, and he’ll try to squeeze more out of this if he can.”
Three looked around at his team, his eyes steely. “We keep watching. Today went smoothly, but we need to make sure every part sold is accounted for. We’ve still got plenty more to sell, and the last thing we need is for them to start getting greedy.”
Knight Two smirked, his eyes gleaming in the lantern light. “If they do, I’ll remind them who’s in charge.”
Knight Thee nodded, his voice firm. “Exactly. We hold the cards, and we keep it that way. Let’s see how far we can take this.”
---
Inside Billy Bob’s Garage, the clanging of metal had quieted down as the last few customers filtered out. The garage, now dimly lit by a couple of flickering oil lamps, had turned into a place of quiet calculation. Billy Bob stood at his counter, leaning over the accounting book, adding up the day's earnings.
Behind them, in the shadows of the garage, the Mystic Knights watched.
They had been careful all day, maintaining their disguises as common laborers, but their sharp eyes had never left the sales and transactions taking place.
Billy Bob wiped his forehead with a greasy rag as he finished his tally for the day, glancing over at Junior, who had just finished wrapping up another sale. His sons were still working, but he could see the gleam in their eyes—this deal was going to change their lives.
Turning, Billy Bob saw them standing near the back of the garage, watching quietly. He gave them a nod, beckoning them over. Knight Three approached first, his expression unreadable.
Billy Bob grunted, his voice low but satisfied. “Sales moved faster than I expected. We’re already looking at some serious credits.”
Knight Three gave a slow nod, glancing at the accounting book on the counter. “It’s a good start. You keep logging every sale, and we’ll keep supplying the parts. We both walk away rich.”
Billy Bob wiped his hands on his rag, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. He knew what they had. “This APC you brought me—it's the real deal. They’ll pay real credits for parts like these.”
Three’s eyes narrowed slightly, his voice firm but calm. “That’s why you need to keep this quiet. You’re making 3 million credits, Billy. Don’t forget that. If the Coalition catches wind of this, they’ll come down hard, and you’ll lose everything.”
Billy Bob nodded slowly, understanding. “I know. No need to worry. I ain’t sayin’ a word to nobody. I know what’s at stake.” He glanced around at his garage, at the stacks of parts ready for sale. “Hell, this is the biggest payday I’ve ever seen. I ain’t stupid enough to throw it away.”
Knight One, who had been quiet up to this point, leaned forward, his voice cold and steady. “It’s a smart play. You don’t have to deal with the Black Market, and you don’t have to worry about getting robbed or caught. If you stay quiet, everyone wins.”
Billy Bob chuckled darkly. “Yeah, I’ve been thinkin’ about that. Movin’ the whole APC would’ve been a nightmare. Moving it as parts is easier and safer. Keeps things under the radar. Coalition troops comin’ through here won’t even know they’re buying their own part back.”
Knight Three crossed his arms, watching Billy Bob carefully. “Just remember—if you make a mistake, you’re not just giving up your share. You’ll be inviting the Coalition into your garage. You’ll lose more than credits. Your whole operation could go down.”
Billy Bob’s grin faded slightly, and he nodded more seriously. “I get it. Ain’t nobody stupid enough to give up millions just to make a quick report to the Coalition. Besides, a firefight in my garage? That’s bad for business.”
Knight Four, who had been watching from the shadows, stepped forward. “Today was easy. Tomorrow, and the next day—same thing. But we’re watching every move you make. Any sign that you’re planning something else, and this deal is done.”
Billy Bob looked between the four of them, the gravity of their words sinking in. He wasn’t a fool. These “customers” weren’t just partners in this; they were the ones holding the cards. As long as he kept things running smoothly, he’d make his first million credits faster than he ever thought possible. If he betrayed them, he’d be out more than just money—he’d be giving up his garage, his reputation, maybe even his life.
Billy Bob muttered, wiping his hands on his rag again. “I ain’t lookin’ to mess this up. I like making money. I like it a lot. And I figure, with the way things went today, I’ll be lookin’ at my first million in no time.”
Knight Three gave a final nod. “Good. We’ll be back tomorrow with more parts. Keep up the pace, and we’ll all be walking away with millions.”
Billy Bob chuckled again, this time more confidently. “You got it. We keep this going, and Hogswaller’s gonna be the richest dump in the region.”
With that, the Mystic Knights turned and walked out of the garage, slipping back into the dark streets of Hogswaller.
Knight Three, “He’s in for now. But we keep a close watch. Greed has a way of turning men.”
Knight Four nodded, his eyes sharp as ever. “We’ll see if he keeps his word. For his sake, I hope he does.”
---
The atmosphere around Billy Bob’s Garage had changed dramatically in just a few short days. What was once a cluttered, greasy haven for rusted vehicles and half-done repairs had become something else entirely. The garage now operated like a well-oiled machine, a far cry from its previous state of organized chaos.
---
Knight Three, standing in the doorway, surveyed the changes with a critical eye. The Mystic Knights had been working quietly, but relentlessly, transforming Billy Bob’s Garage into a secure, profitable, and clean operation. The air no longer smelled of oil and sweat alone; now it had an edge of discipline, the hum of a more organized system.
Several of Billy Bob’s employees were milling about, dressed in new uniform—a dark gray material that looked professional, practical, and distinctly Coalition-esque. The uniforms had been made quickly, a rush job that involved buying clothes right off the backs of people passing through Hogswaller, and then magically mending them to pristine condition.
The tailor, now stationed in one of the back offices, was finishing up his work with a few last-minute measurements for the remaining garage workers. His presence had been necessary to ensure that all employees looked the part, but the Mystic Knights' magic had done most of the heavy lifting, mending the garments far faster than needle and thread ever could.
---
Knight One, dressed in one of the newly fitted uniforms, was supervising the installation of security cameras outside the garage. The cameras were subtle, placed strategically to monitor every approach and exit from the building. They were linked to a small computer system in the office that now housed the accounting books.
The office itself had been transformed. What was once a cluttered mess of paper receipts, old ledgers, and half-finished accounting was now a clean, organized space. A computer sat on Billy Bob’s desk, its screen flickering with numbers and transactions. The Knights had insisted on two sets of books—one for Billy Bob’s personal use and another to track the split profits from their ongoing sale of Coalition parts. Only Billy Bob and the Knights knew the password to access the system, ensuring security and transparency in the deal.
Junior, Billy Bob’s eldest son, was busy inputting the day’s sales into the system. He wasn’t used to using computers, but Knight Four had taught him enough to keep the records in line with the Knights' expectations. The accounts were more organized than they had ever been, with every credit accounted for and every sale meticulously logged.
Billy Bob himself sat in the office, staring at the screen, still somewhat awestruck by the changes. His garage—once a backwater repair shop—now looked like a professional operation. The profit margins were tighter than ever, but they were also cleaner, and the garage was on track to make millions.
He glanced out the window, watching as one of them, still dressed in his uniform—directed the welding of a new metal safe in the corner of the garage. It was a crude thing, welded together by two of Billy Bob’s more skilled mechanics, but it would do the job. Inside, they’d store the day's earnings and whatever high-value parts remained from the stolen APC. One of the Mystic Knights was always on guard by the safe, combat armor on, rifle slung over their shoulder, ensuring no one got any ideas about making off with their profits.
The garage had never been more secure.
---
As the day wore on, Three and Four stepped into the office, meeting with Billy Bob to discuss the progress. Two was in his new uniform, but his sharp eyes and confident demeanor made it clear she was much more than a simple worker.
“How’s the new system working for you?” Three asked, his tone businesslike as he glanced at the computer screen.
Billy Bob leaned back in his chair, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Never thought I’d see the day where my shop had a computer running the books, but I gotta admit—it’s working better than I ever thought.” He glanced at the screen, still not entirely comfortable with the technology, but trusting that it was keeping everything in line. “Sales are lookin’ good. You boys were right—Coalition parts move fast. Faster than anything else I’ve sold.”
Knight Three nodded, satisfied. “We’re just getting started. Keep things running smoothly, and this garage is going to make you a fortune. Just don’t forget to keep things quiet.”
Billy Bob chuckled darkly, his eyes darting to the safe in the corner. “Trust me. I’m not about to mess this up. I’ve never seen credits roll in this fast. Ain’t no reason to rock the boat.”
Knight Four leaned forward, his tone serious. “Just remember—this only works as long as everyone stays in line. That includes your workers, your customers, and especially the Coalition. If anyone starts asking questions, you tell us first.”
Billy Bob nodded slowly, understanding the gravity of the situation. “I get it. Ain’t nobody findin’ out what we’re doin’ here. I like makin’ money too much to let it slip.”
Two, stepping into the office with his rifle slung over his shoulder.
Billy Bob’s grin returned, his confidence building as the day’s profits tallied up on the screen. “Hell, I ain’t never had it this good. You folks know what you’re doin’. Let’s just keep it goin’.”
Knight Three exchanged a glance with the others, the unspoken agreement clear between them. The deal was running smoothly for now, but they were ready for any signs of trouble. If Billy Bob or anyone else tried to jeopardize the operation, they wouldn’t hesitate to shut it down.
---
Outside, as the garage workers finished up for the day, Two stood by the safe, watching over the welding process as it neared completion. He knew that keeping the profits secure was just as important as keeping Billy Bob in line. The Knights had gone to great lengths to make sure everything was organized, secure, and under their control.
The garage looked cleaner, the workers more professional, and the money was flowing like never before. But the Mystic Knights knew better than to let their guard down.
As the last of the daylight faded, Knight Three gave a final look around the garage, satisfied with the day’s work.
Tomorrow, they’d push for more.
---
The sun had barely risen over Hogswaller, casting its first light on a town already buzzing with rumors and fear. The night before, 20 transients had attempted to break into Billy Bob’s Garage, no doubt drawn by the recent changes and the influx of business and parts. But their plan had failed spectacularly. The Mystic Knight on guard duty had dealt with them swiftly and mercilessly—all 20 lay dead by morning.
Now, the town was in an uproar. Word of the massacre spread like wildfire, whispers of a bloodbath in the night reaching every corner of Hogswaller. The locals were frightened, the transients who often drifted in and out of town were enraged, and tensions were high.
Inside Billy Bob’s office, Knight Two sat across from the grizzled mechanic. Billy Bob’s face was tense, and the lines of worry had deepened around his eyes. He was used to trouble in Hogswaller, but 20 dead bodies was something different entirely.
Knight Two demeanor, on the other hand, was calm, calculated. He had dealt with worse before, and he was already several steps ahead of the town’s reaction.
“We’ve got a problem, Billy,” Knight Twot said quietly, his voice steady. “Twenty bodies, all dead, right outside your garage. The town’s spooked, and people are asking questions. But we can control this.”
Billy Bob wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, his hands trembling slightly. “Control it? Hell, the whole damn town’s talking. They’re scared. Ain’t never had a slaughter like that here. They’ll want answers.”
He leaned forward, his gaze sharp but calm. “And they’ll get them. But not in the way they’re expecting.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “Here’s what we do: I’ll pay for a cemetery, bury the transients quickly and quietly. No memorials, no graves that anyone can visit. We dump them in a mass grave, and we make sure the town forgets this ever happened.”
Billy Bob stared at him for a moment, swallowing hard. “And you think that’ll work? People ain’t gonna forget twenty bodies overnight.”
He smirked slightly. “No, but they’ll forget if we give them a reason to look the other way. I’ll make sure of that. First off, I’ll go to the gambling establishments in town and lose a few hands. Maybe more than a few. The people in town who like money? They’ll understand real quick that if they keep quiet, they’ll be making a lot more of it. I’ll gamble, I’ll lose, and I’ll make sure the important people in town are on our side. And I’ll pay for a round of drinks—one hundred people. The more they drink, the more they’ll forget what happened.”
Billy Bob’s tension eased slightly as he listened, starting to see the shape of the plan. “Gambling and drinks will keep the tavern folk quiet. What about the brothel? They talk more than anyone.”
He gave a nod. “I’ve already thought of that. I’ll visit Miss Sally’s, spend a few credits there too, and tip the right people. They’ll get the message. Money talks louder than dead bodies.”
Billy Bob chuckled darkly, though his voice was still laced with worry. “That’ll handle some of ‘em. But what about the constable? You know Jake McFadden—he’s an old coot, but he’s smart enough to know when something’s wrong. He’ll be poking his nose around here before the day’s done.”
Knight Three's smiled. “That’s why I’m paying a visit to Jake. I’ll explain everything. Make it clear that the transients were robbing the place and that we acted in self-defense. I’ll make it known that if he’s worried, he can even place a deputy here to keep an eye on things, if he feels it’s necessary. And while we’re at it, I’ll have the whole crew get haircuts and shaves at his shop. We’ll charm him, remind him we’re good for business in this town.”
Billy Bob raised an eyebrow. “You think Jake’s gonna let this go?”
Knight Three’s expression didn’t falter. “He will if he’s bought in. I’ll pay for answers to any questions he has, make sure he knows we’ve got nothing to hide. And if it comes down to it, we’ll bribe him indirectly through the right channels. Jake’s not above looking the other way if the money’s good.”
Billy Bob sat back in his chair, rubbing his face. “Alright, but what about the rest of the town? There’s a lot of talk, and not everyone’s swayed by gambling or booze.”
Knight Two nodded, leaning back. “I’ve thought of that too. I’ll make an offer to buy a few of the local slaves—the ones in the worst condition. That’ll get the attention of the slave owners, and they’ll see we’re willing to do business, which means more profit for them. It’s all about shifting the focus from the dead to what they can gain. And once I’ve got the right people invested in making money, they’ll silence the others.”
Billy Bob let out a slow breath, nodding slowly. “Alright. You’ve thought it through. You can make this work.”
Knight Two stood, his presence commanding as he walked toward the door. “I’ll head into town now and set everything in motion. By tonight, this will be nothing more than a bad memory. You keep running the garage like normal. By the end of the week, the town will be talking about how much money they’re making—not the transients we buried.”
Billy Bob nodded, a flicker of confidence returning to his eyes. “I trust you. Just don’t let this get outta hand.”
Knight Two smiled, his voice calm. “It won’t. We’ve got this under control.”
---
By mid-morning, the Mystic Knight are already making the rounds. They started at the local tavern, losing hand after hand at the gambling tables, the pile of credits disappearing into the pockets of local gamblers. His losses were deliberate, calculated, and generous. Word spread quickly among the town's more influential people—they were good for business.
After losing enough to make a few key individuals very happy, they paid the barkeep to offer a round of drinks to the first 100 patrons, sending the message that money was flowing and there was no need to look deeper into the events of the previous night.
From there, they made their way to Miss Sally’s brothel and left a few thousand lighter.
Visit the local slave owners, they offer to purchase a few slaves in the worst condition, subtly suggesting that more business could follow if things went smoothly. The slave owners quickly understood the unspoken agreement: stay quiet and profit from our business’s continued generosity. They got rid of the most worthless slave for the price of a new one.
Finally, they made their way to Jake McFadden’s barbershop, the Constable himself trimming their hair and giving them shaves while Knight One explained what had happened. The transients had tried to rob the garage, he said, and the Knights had acted in self-defense. Knight Three was charming, straightforward, and made it clear that the garage was good for business—bringing in business, money, and jobs to Hogswaller.
Jake listened carefully, and by the end of their conversation, they made a simple offer. “If you think it’s necessary, you can place a deputy at the garage. We’ve got nothing to hide, and I’d rather have you on our side than chasing rumors.”
Jake thought it over, and in the end, nodded. “I’ll think about it. But for now, I’ll keep an eye on things from a distance. You keep your business clean, and we won’t have any problems.”
Knight Two smiled as he stood to leave, his men freshly shaven and ready to return to the garage. “You’ve got my word, Jake. Anything else, you come to me first.”
As they left the barbershop, the town of Hogswaller was slowly returning to its normal rhythm, the uproar of the night before beginning to fade. Money, after all, had a way of quieting even the loudest voices.
By the end of the day, the transients were buried in a small cemetery outside town, forgotten. The gamblers, the slave owners, the brothel, and even the constable were all invested in keeping the peace. And just as Knight Two had planned, the Mystic Knights could continue their business without interruption.
For now, Hogswaller would remain silent.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Knight Three walked up the weathered wooden steps of Doc Summers Clinic, his boots scuffing lightly against the well-trodden boards. The small wooden sign swayed slightly in the morning breeze, creaking faintly as it announced “Doc Summers – Medical Services.”
With a steady breath, he pushed open the door, a soft bell ringing overhead as he stepped into the waiting room. He scanned the space briefly—the worn chairs, the small desk cluttered with papers, and the sound of quiet activity. It looked like any other small-town clinic, but Three had learned long ago not to trust appearances.
Behind the reception desk sat a woman, no doubt the Doc’s wife. Her eyes were calm and professional, hands moving with efficient grace as she sorted through a pile of patient notes. She looked up as Threw approached, offering a polite, welcoming smile.
"Good morning," she said, her voice smooth and measured. "How can we help you today?"
Knight Three offered a small smile in return, keeping his tone casual. "Morning. I’m looking for a check-up, nothing serious. Just passing through, but figured I could use a once-over."
Amelia gave a slight nod, tapping a few things on the desk before standing. "Of course. Doc Summers is free now, so we can get you in right away."
Knight Three followed her as she led him to the examination room. He was careful to take in every detail as they walked—the quiet activity upstairs, the old wooden floors creaking softly beneath his boots, and the faint scent of herbal salves mixed with something more sterile. Every detail, every sound, was stored in his mind.
The examination room was small but tidy, with shelves of medical supplies lining the walls—everything from bandages to small vials that could have contained anything. On the examination table sat Doc Summers, a tall, fit man in his fifties, his salt-and-pepper beard giving him a look of rugged wisdom. He was wiping his hands with a clean towel when he looked up, his eyes sharp beneath a veneer of calm friendliness.
"Morning," Doc Summers greeted with a firm handshake. "What brings you in today?"
Knight Three offered a half-smile, leaning casually against the table. "Just a check-up. Been on the road for a while and thought I should have things looked over. You know how it is—better to catch something early than deal with it later."
Summers nodded in agreement, gesturing for Knight Three to take a seat on the examination table. As Summers began the routine medical examination, checking his vitals and asking a few basic questions, Three kept the conversation flowing naturally, all while sizing up the doctor.
"So," Three began, his tone casual, "I hear you’ve been in Hogswaller for a while now. But I don’t think I ever asked—where are you from?"
Doc Summers hands didn’t pause in their work as he checked Three’s pulse, his expression calm but guarded. "I spent a good number of years in the Lone Star State," he said smoothly. "But life out there got complicated, and I figured Hogswaller was a good place to settle down."
"Lone Star, huh?" Three nodded thoughtfully. "Must be quite the change, coming all the way out here. Do you have kids? A pet, maybe?"
Summers chuckled softly, though his eyes remained sharp. "No kids, just my wife and I. And our nephew moved in a while back to help with the clinic. No pets—don’t have much time for them with all the work we do here. But I keep busy."
Knight Three took in the answer, noting the doctor’s well-practiced delivery. No hesitation, but also no unnecessary details. Smart. Too smart, maybe. Three had a keen sense for when people were holding something back, and Summers, for all his calm, was hiding something. He just didn’t know what yet.
Changing the subject, he let out a sigh and leaned back against the table, his tone dropping to something more serious. "Strange times, though, huh? I heard about that break-in at Billy Bob’s Garage. Twenty men—poor, desperate bastards trying to steal their way out of misery. Two of them were D-Bees, you know." He paused, watching Summers’ reaction carefully. "Had a Psychic in town incinerate the bodies after the poor took everything off ‘em. Didn’t leave much behind but ash."
Doc Summers didn’t miss a beat, though his eyes flickered with interest. "Yes, I heard about that. Terrible thing, really. But folks around here are always on edge, especially with that many desperate men and D-Bees trying their luck. The clinic’s seen its share of people getting caught up in something they shouldn’t have. Greed drives men to do reckless things."
Knight Three nodded slowly, folding his arms. "Greed does that. People will do anything when they’ve got nothing left to lose." He locked eyes with Doc Summers. "That’s why it’s good to know there’s a man like you in town, keeping folks alive and well."
Doc Summers met his gaze, his calm smile never wavering. "Just doing my part. It’s what I’ve always done."
The tension hung between them, subtle but unmistakable. He had gotten what he came for—confirmation that Doc Summers was no ordinary town doctor. His responses were too smooth, too practiced, for a man with no hidden agenda. And the clinic? It was clean, well-stocked, and orderly in a way that didn’t fit the ramshackle town of Hogswaller.
Knight Three smiled, standing up from the examination table as Doc Summers finished the check-up. "Looks like I’m in good shape. Appreciate you taking the time."
Summers nodded. "Happy to help. And if you ever need anything else, you know where to find me."
As Three left the reception desk, he moved with purpose, approaching the desk with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Slipping his hand into his coat he pulled out credits and set them down on the desk in front of Amelia. An astronomical sum for a simple check-up. Easily 10 times what any doctor might charge in a place like Hogswaller. He watched closely, his sharp eyes gauging Amelia’s reaction, every twitch of her facial muscles, every subtle flicker in her eyes.
Amelia glanced at the credits, her expression momentarily still before she smiled politely, nodding as if nothing unusual had occurred. There was no breathless moment of excitement or gratitude. She handled the situation as though it were a perfectly reasonable amount to pay for a routine check-up. Her hands moved with calm precision as she picked up the credit chip and set it to the side without hesitation.
Three noted the lack of reaction. Most people in this town—farmers, vagabonds, traders—would have been wide-eyed and stammering with disbelief. They would have reached for the credit, unsure if it was real or if they’d misunderstood the amount or make change. The poor would have been relieved, overwhelmed by the sudden fortune. But Amelia? She didn’t even blink.
"Thank you for your generosity," she said smoothly, her voice even, betraying nothing. "We appreciate your support of the clinic."
He studied her carefully. There was no greed in her tone, no eagerness to claim the credits. She was polite, professional, but clearly unimpressed. It wasn’t the reaction of someone who had just been handed a small fortune. She handled it as though it were routine, like she’d done this before.
He turned his gaze to the door of the examination room, where Doc Summers emerged quietly, drawn to the front by the sound of Three’s voice. The doctor’s eyes flicked to the credits on the desk, then back to Three. He didn’t react with surprise either, just a faint arch of his eyebrow, his expression one of mild curiosity.
"Everything alright?" Summers asked, his tone casual.
Knight Three smiled, nodding. "Just wanted to make sure I took care of things. Don't want to owe anyone anything."
Summers glanced again at the credits; for a simple check-up. There was no hesitation, no moment of awkwardness. He handled the situation with the same calm professionalism as his wife. There was no excitement, no talk of what they might do with the money. It was clear that the Summers family didn’t need the credits.
Knight Three could tell a lot about a person by how they handled money. The poor would be excited, grateful, surprised, something but these two? They didn’t even flinch. That kind of detachment wasn’t normal in a place like Hogswaller. It wasn’t that they didn’t like the money—anyone would appreciate a windfall—but there was something going on that made it almost irrelevant.
Everywhere else in town people lapped up his indirect brides. Why are these two so different; so indifferent.
He leaned slightly, watching them closely. "Must be nice to have things in order here," he said, his tone casual. "Most folks I’ve met around here would be planning out their next big dream with a sum like that. Fixing up the place, getting a new roof, maybe expanding the clinic. But you don’t seem to have money problems."
Amelia exchanged a glance with Doc Summers, both of them maintaining their composed expressions. Doc Summers gave a slight smile, his voice measured. "We’ve always kept things simple. The clinic meets the needs of the people here, and we don’t have any ambitions beyond that. Helping others is what we came here to do."
Three nodded, though his mind was working through the implications. Their lack of reaction confirmed his suspicions. The Summers family didn’t need the money because this clinic wasn’t their real business. The lack of ambition, not wanting to expand, improve, or build more was unnatural. Most people dreamed of more, but not these two. They weren’t here for the clinic or the credits.
This wasn’t about financial gain. It was something else—something they were hiding. Either they were covering up something that would embarrass them, or they were involved in something unethical but not for profit nor neede money, something that couldn’t see the light of day. People who didn’t dream about spending credits usually had other, more dangerous motives.
He smiled, keeping his tone light as he gave a small nod. "Well, I suppose it’s good to have everything you need. Not everyone can say that."
Doc Summers returned the smile, though his eyes were watchful. "We’ve been fortunate. But we’re always here to help those who need it."
Three straightened, taking a step back from the desk. "I’ll keep that in mind, Doc." His smile broadened slightly. "And thanks for the check-up. I’ll be sure to send more business your way if anyone asks."
With a nod, he turned and made his way toward the door. As he stepped out into the sunlight, the pieces were coming together in his mind. The Summers family wasn’t motivated by money, and they weren’t here for the clinic.
This place was a front, and whatever their real purpose was, it wasn’t as simple as healing the sick. The Summers family was hiding something. He was more certain than ever that they had another agenda, one that had nothing to do with the people of Hogswaller.
As the door closed behind him, his smile faded, replaced by a look of quiet determination. He had seen enough. The Summers family has something going on, and soon enough, he would find out exactly what they were hiding.
---
The moon hung low, casting long shadows across the quiet town. A faint breeze stirred the dust along the streets, but otherwise, the night was still.
The Mystic Knights are prepared for their mission. They had donned their dark cloaks, each of them moving with quiet precision. Their eyes gleamed with purpose, and their movements were deliberate, almost ritualistic as they prepared for the night’s work.
Tonight, they would infiltrate Doc Summers Clinic. The visit earlier that day had raised too many questions.
They needed answers, but the town needed a doctor, after all. The Knights were there to uncover a potential threat, not to hurt anyone. They had to meditate on NOT killing the Summers. They consciously chose NOT to kill the Summers. They would disappear if they had to and come back the next day. This exercise was essential in ensuring they don't set off a Psychic Clarivoyanc or Sixth Sense. They had to commit to is and believe it or if there were a version of the future where they killed the Summers tonight the wife Amelia (they know to be a psychic) might get a psychic forewarning.
---
The Knights moved through the darkness like shadows, their bodies blending into the night. The spell that Knight Two had cast before they left ensured that their movements were silent and that they left no trace, no matter how creaky the floorboards or heavy their steps. Not a whisper of sound would betray their presence. Even their footsteps on the dirt outside the clinic were muted, like ghosts treading the earth.
The clinic loomed ahead of them, the weather-beaten wood of its walls faintly illuminated by the moonlight. The porch, where earlier that day Knight Three had spoken with the doctor, now seemed eerily empty. The small wooden sign that swung lazily in the breeze seemed almost like a warning. But the Knights were undeterred.
Knight Two led the way, his hand raised in a silent signal for the others to follow. They approached the back door of the clinic, a narrow entrance used for staff and deliveries. It was locked, of course, but Knight Four stepped forward and cast his spell of “Escape.” No ordinary lock can bar his passage.
The others flanked the door, their eyes scanning the dark corners of the yard, ensuring there were no unexpected watchers. With the lock disengaged, Four pushed the door open, and the Knights slipped inside, one by one.
---
The interior of the clinic was just as quiet as the night outside. The small reception area was dimly lit by the faint glow of the moon filtering through the windows. The shelves of medical supplies and patient logs stood undisturbed, the faint scent of herbs lingering in the air. The Knights moved in complete silence, thanks to their magic, their steps on the wooden floorboards as soundless as a shadow passing over a wall.
Knight Three led them deeper into the clinic. He had noted the layout earlier that day, making sure to memorize every door, every turn, every potential hiding spot. The first room they passed through was the examination room, neat and orderly, with the shelves still stocked with medical tools and bandages. Nothing here seemed out of the ordinary.
But this wasn’t what they were looking for. The real secrets would be upstairs, where the Summers family lived.
---
The staircase would have creaked faintly as the Knights ascended, but the sound was lost in the spell’s effect, turning every noise into nothing.
Knight Two, ever alert, took point, his night-vision active, allowing him to see the faintest glimmers of movement or traps in the dark. He reached the top of the stairs, pausing only briefly before signaling the others forward.
The upper floor was more personal, more private. bedrooms, a common area, and a small storage room lined the narrow hallway. This was where the Summers family lived. If they were hiding something, it would be here.
Knight One moved quickly, heading toward the common area and rifling through what looked like innocuous paperwork on the desk.
Knight Two, always cautious, kept an eye on the hallway, his senses alert for any sign of the family stirring from their sleep.
Meanwhile, Three and Four moved toward the storage room, knowing that this was the most likely place for hidden secrets.
The door to the storage room was locked, but Knight Four made quick work of it. The Knights entered, their eyes scanning the room. Shelves lined the walls, filled with medical supplies and other everyday items, but it was the back wall that caught Knight Three’s attention.
There, hidden behind a layer of old blankets, was a false wall panel. The Knights had seen enough secret compartments to recognize one when they saw it.
"Jackpot," Four whispered, though his voice was as silent as the rest of their movements. "Here," he whispered, pointing to the floorboards.
Knight Three moved beside him, crouching low and running his hand over the uneven surface. It was subtle, but there was a trapdoor here, hidden beneath a layer of dust and deliberately placed debris. He motioned for Knight One to step forward, and within moments, One’s deft fingers had found the latch and opened it. The door creaked open, revealing a dark staircase leading down into what appeared to be a bunker.
Without a word, the Knights descended into the darkness, their night vision illuminating the space around them. The air grew colder as they reached the bottom, the scent of damp stone and metal filling the narrow hallway that stretched ahead. It was clear now—they had stumbled upon a hidden bunker, likely used by the Summers family for their covert operations. The Summers were spies.
As they moved deeper into the bunker, Knight Two suddenly held up his hand, signaling for them to stop. Ahead, in the dim glow of their night vision, they saw it: a prisoner, chained to the wall, slumped over and asleep. His wrists were bound by heavy manacles, his face partially obscured by a ball gag mask designed to keep him silent.
The Knights exchanged glances. This was something they hadn’t expected.
Knight Three motioned for them to move forward cautiously. As they approached the prisoner, they could see that he was bruised, his clothes tattered and stained with sweat. His face twitched as if caught in a nightmare, but when he heard their footsteps, his eyes fluttered open. For a moment, there was confusion, then fear.
“Mmph—” He struggled against the mask, his muffled cries barely audible.
Knight Three knelt before him, eyes narrowing as he reached forward and carefully removed the ball gag from the prisoner’s face. The man gasped for breath, his eyes wide with desperation.
“Please,” the man whispered, his voice hoarse from disuse. “Please… help me. I’m not a criminal. I’m an agent for Tolkeen. They’ve kept me here for days… maybe weeks. I don’t know anymore. You have to set me free.”
The Mystic Knights stood around him, their expressions unreadable. The air in the bunker grew thick with tension as the gravity of the situation settled on them. They were in the heart of a Coalition operation, and this prisoner was the key to something much larger than they had anticipated.
Knight Four crossed his arms, his tone measured but cold. “And if we let you go, what’s to stop you from giving yourself away, getting caught again, then telling them or anyone else we were here?”
The prisoner shook his head frantically, his eyes pleading. “I wouldn’t! I swear! I just want to get out of here! I have information that could help Tolkeen—I’m valuable to them. You have to believe me!”
Knight One frowned, glancing at Knight Three. “He’s telling the truth, or at least he believes he is. But if we free him and he runs, the Summers will know we were down here.”
Knight Two narrowed his eyes. “Kill him."
Knight Four, "It’ll be obvious. It’ll look like an execution. The Summers will know their bunker is as exposed as they are, and we’ll lose our advantage.”
Knight Three remained silent, his mind racing through the possibilities. They were in a delicate situation—too many outcomes, each with its own risks. If they did nothing, the prisoner might tell the Summers that the Knights had found the bunker. If they killed him, the Summers would know someone had been down here. Letting him go was an option, but it would have to look like he escaped on his own.
“We don’t have the key,” Four reminded them. “If we leave him like this, he’s as good as dead. IF we don't help him, he's go no reason not to help himself and snitch about us. We've got two options, kill him or help him escape.”
Silence fell over the group, the weight of the decision pressing down on them. The prisoner, now trembling, looked up at Knight Three with desperation in his eyes. “Please,” he whispered. “Just give me the chance. I’ll be gone before anyone knows. You’ll never see me again.”
Knight One smirked slightly, glancing at the others. “If he’s a real agent, he should be able to get himself out.”
It was the youngest among them, Four, who stepped forward and made the decision. With a quiet nod, he reached into his pouch and pulled out a small set of lock picks, handing them to the prisoner. “If you’re really who you say you are, you’ll know how to use these.”
The prisoner looked at the lock picks in disbelief, his hands shaking as he took them. “Thank you… thank you.” He fumbled with the tools, his hands still bound in the manacles, but he quickly regained his composure, beginning to work at the locks.
The Mystic Knights stood back, their eyes sharp, watching him carefully. They were ready for anything. If the prisoner tried to double-cross them or call for help, they wouldn’t hesitate to silence him. But as the minutes passed, the sound of metal clicking against metal filled the bunker, and the prisoner managed to free himself from the chains.
He stood, his legs weak, but his eyes filled with gratitude. “I’ll disappear,” he promised. “You’ll never hear from me again.”
Knight Three, arms crossed, looked him over carefully. “No. (taking his picture). You owe us your freedom. Besides, what if you get caught again. Or just don’t make it back to the network you send intelligence through. For all we know you could just be a thief who is good at picking locks. No. You are coming with us. We will escort you to a safe house or something. It is the only way we can make sure you can’t sell us out, or worse, Tolkeen.”
The prisoner nodded fervently. They gave him water as they had given the man a chance to prove himself. Whether it was the right choice remained to be seen.
The Hidden Coalition Bunker – Discovery and New Mission
As the Mystic Knights continued their careful search of the hidden Coalition bunker, Three’s sharp eyes landed on a laptop computer tucked away in a corner of the storage room. It was small, unassuming, but in a place like this, it stood out as something far more valuable than any pile of medical supplies. His instincts told him this laptop held the real secrets.
Knight Three knelt down, his fingers brushing over the smooth surface of the laptop. He closed his eyes and focused, calling upon his super psionic power—Telemechanics. In an instant, he connected with the machine, his mind melding with the intricate circuits and pathways inside. The computer turned on, and within seconds, he had discovered the password. His eyes snapped open, and with a quick tap of his fingers, he unlocked the computer.
"Got it," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper as the screen flickered to life.
The team stood close by, their eyes scanning the room as Knight Three focused on the laptop. They trusted him to find what they needed.
Without wasting a moment, he activated his psionic power of Machine Ghost, Total Recall, and Speed Reading his eyes darting across the screen as files, documents, and video logs flashed in front of him. He was reading everything in seconds, absorbing the information as though it had been stored in his mind for years. And then, he found it.
The file labeled "Billy Bob’s Garage" opened, revealing digital video recordings of the Mystic Knights—not just images, but voice prints, fingerprints, and hair samples meticulously gathered from their time in the garage. There were covert surveillance recordings of them interacting with Billy Bob. They had somehow gotten into the video cameras they had install in the Billy Bob’s Garage. The Summers family had been watching them for a while.
"Dammit," Knight Three muttered, his face tightening as he scrolled through the files.
"What is it?" Knight Four asked, his tone sharp.
"They’ve got everything on us," he replied, still scanning the files. "Video recordings, voice prints, even DNA samples. And it’s not just on this laptop. They’ve backed it up on a memory drive. They don’t have wi-fi here and even if they did, CS memory storage mediums are encrypted. The drive with evidence on us was given to a courier. He left tonight."
The room fell into a tense silence as the weight of the discovery hit them all. If that drive reached the Coalition, they’d be compromised. The Coalition would know who they were, and their every move could be tracked.
"We need to find that courier," Knight One said, his eyes narrowing.
Knight Three nodded, his mind already working. He focused again, this time using his psionic power of Remote Viewing, his consciousness extending out into the distance, searching for the courier. Images flickered in his mind—first vague, then clearer, until finally, he saw the courier’s face and the place where they were staying.
The courier was in the brothel, unaware of the danger coming.
"I’ve got him," Knight One said, pulling himself out of the vision. "He’s in the brothel."
Knight Four’s expression hardened. "We have to move now. If we let him, they might pass that memory drive to another and it will be in Coalition hands by morning."
Knight Three quickly went back to the laptop and deleted all of the files related to the Mystic Knights. But the memory drive was still out there, and they couldn’t risk the data reaching its destination.
He stood, shutting the laptop and turning to his team. "New mission. We intercept the courier tonight. Destroy the memory drive or edit it. Either way, we can’t let that information get to the Coalition."
Knight Four grinned, the prospect of a hunt lighting up his eyes. "Sounds like fun."
With a steady breath, he pushed open the door, a soft bell ringing overhead as he stepped into the waiting room. He scanned the space briefly—the worn chairs, the small desk cluttered with papers, and the sound of quiet activity. It looked like any other small-town clinic, but Three had learned long ago not to trust appearances.
Behind the reception desk sat a woman, no doubt the Doc’s wife. Her eyes were calm and professional, hands moving with efficient grace as she sorted through a pile of patient notes. She looked up as Threw approached, offering a polite, welcoming smile.
"Good morning," she said, her voice smooth and measured. "How can we help you today?"
Knight Three offered a small smile in return, keeping his tone casual. "Morning. I’m looking for a check-up, nothing serious. Just passing through, but figured I could use a once-over."
Amelia gave a slight nod, tapping a few things on the desk before standing. "Of course. Doc Summers is free now, so we can get you in right away."
Knight Three followed her as she led him to the examination room. He was careful to take in every detail as they walked—the quiet activity upstairs, the old wooden floors creaking softly beneath his boots, and the faint scent of herbal salves mixed with something more sterile. Every detail, every sound, was stored in his mind.
The examination room was small but tidy, with shelves of medical supplies lining the walls—everything from bandages to small vials that could have contained anything. On the examination table sat Doc Summers, a tall, fit man in his fifties, his salt-and-pepper beard giving him a look of rugged wisdom. He was wiping his hands with a clean towel when he looked up, his eyes sharp beneath a veneer of calm friendliness.
"Morning," Doc Summers greeted with a firm handshake. "What brings you in today?"
Knight Three offered a half-smile, leaning casually against the table. "Just a check-up. Been on the road for a while and thought I should have things looked over. You know how it is—better to catch something early than deal with it later."
Summers nodded in agreement, gesturing for Knight Three to take a seat on the examination table. As Summers began the routine medical examination, checking his vitals and asking a few basic questions, Three kept the conversation flowing naturally, all while sizing up the doctor.
"So," Three began, his tone casual, "I hear you’ve been in Hogswaller for a while now. But I don’t think I ever asked—where are you from?"
Doc Summers hands didn’t pause in their work as he checked Three’s pulse, his expression calm but guarded. "I spent a good number of years in the Lone Star State," he said smoothly. "But life out there got complicated, and I figured Hogswaller was a good place to settle down."
"Lone Star, huh?" Three nodded thoughtfully. "Must be quite the change, coming all the way out here. Do you have kids? A pet, maybe?"
Summers chuckled softly, though his eyes remained sharp. "No kids, just my wife and I. And our nephew moved in a while back to help with the clinic. No pets—don’t have much time for them with all the work we do here. But I keep busy."
Knight Three took in the answer, noting the doctor’s well-practiced delivery. No hesitation, but also no unnecessary details. Smart. Too smart, maybe. Three had a keen sense for when people were holding something back, and Summers, for all his calm, was hiding something. He just didn’t know what yet.
Changing the subject, he let out a sigh and leaned back against the table, his tone dropping to something more serious. "Strange times, though, huh? I heard about that break-in at Billy Bob’s Garage. Twenty men—poor, desperate bastards trying to steal their way out of misery. Two of them were D-Bees, you know." He paused, watching Summers’ reaction carefully. "Had a Psychic in town incinerate the bodies after the poor took everything off ‘em. Didn’t leave much behind but ash."
Doc Summers didn’t miss a beat, though his eyes flickered with interest. "Yes, I heard about that. Terrible thing, really. But folks around here are always on edge, especially with that many desperate men and D-Bees trying their luck. The clinic’s seen its share of people getting caught up in something they shouldn’t have. Greed drives men to do reckless things."
Knight Three nodded slowly, folding his arms. "Greed does that. People will do anything when they’ve got nothing left to lose." He locked eyes with Doc Summers. "That’s why it’s good to know there’s a man like you in town, keeping folks alive and well."
Doc Summers met his gaze, his calm smile never wavering. "Just doing my part. It’s what I’ve always done."
The tension hung between them, subtle but unmistakable. He had gotten what he came for—confirmation that Doc Summers was no ordinary town doctor. His responses were too smooth, too practiced, for a man with no hidden agenda. And the clinic? It was clean, well-stocked, and orderly in a way that didn’t fit the ramshackle town of Hogswaller.
Knight Three smiled, standing up from the examination table as Doc Summers finished the check-up. "Looks like I’m in good shape. Appreciate you taking the time."
Summers nodded. "Happy to help. And if you ever need anything else, you know where to find me."
As Three left the reception desk, he moved with purpose, approaching the desk with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. Slipping his hand into his coat he pulled out credits and set them down on the desk in front of Amelia. An astronomical sum for a simple check-up. Easily 10 times what any doctor might charge in a place like Hogswaller. He watched closely, his sharp eyes gauging Amelia’s reaction, every twitch of her facial muscles, every subtle flicker in her eyes.
Amelia glanced at the credits, her expression momentarily still before she smiled politely, nodding as if nothing unusual had occurred. There was no breathless moment of excitement or gratitude. She handled the situation as though it were a perfectly reasonable amount to pay for a routine check-up. Her hands moved with calm precision as she picked up the credit chip and set it to the side without hesitation.
Three noted the lack of reaction. Most people in this town—farmers, vagabonds, traders—would have been wide-eyed and stammering with disbelief. They would have reached for the credit, unsure if it was real or if they’d misunderstood the amount or make change. The poor would have been relieved, overwhelmed by the sudden fortune. But Amelia? She didn’t even blink.
"Thank you for your generosity," she said smoothly, her voice even, betraying nothing. "We appreciate your support of the clinic."
He studied her carefully. There was no greed in her tone, no eagerness to claim the credits. She was polite, professional, but clearly unimpressed. It wasn’t the reaction of someone who had just been handed a small fortune. She handled it as though it were routine, like she’d done this before.
He turned his gaze to the door of the examination room, where Doc Summers emerged quietly, drawn to the front by the sound of Three’s voice. The doctor’s eyes flicked to the credits on the desk, then back to Three. He didn’t react with surprise either, just a faint arch of his eyebrow, his expression one of mild curiosity.
"Everything alright?" Summers asked, his tone casual.
Knight Three smiled, nodding. "Just wanted to make sure I took care of things. Don't want to owe anyone anything."
Summers glanced again at the credits; for a simple check-up. There was no hesitation, no moment of awkwardness. He handled the situation with the same calm professionalism as his wife. There was no excitement, no talk of what they might do with the money. It was clear that the Summers family didn’t need the credits.
Knight Three could tell a lot about a person by how they handled money. The poor would be excited, grateful, surprised, something but these two? They didn’t even flinch. That kind of detachment wasn’t normal in a place like Hogswaller. It wasn’t that they didn’t like the money—anyone would appreciate a windfall—but there was something going on that made it almost irrelevant.
Everywhere else in town people lapped up his indirect brides. Why are these two so different; so indifferent.
He leaned slightly, watching them closely. "Must be nice to have things in order here," he said, his tone casual. "Most folks I’ve met around here would be planning out their next big dream with a sum like that. Fixing up the place, getting a new roof, maybe expanding the clinic. But you don’t seem to have money problems."
Amelia exchanged a glance with Doc Summers, both of them maintaining their composed expressions. Doc Summers gave a slight smile, his voice measured. "We’ve always kept things simple. The clinic meets the needs of the people here, and we don’t have any ambitions beyond that. Helping others is what we came here to do."
Three nodded, though his mind was working through the implications. Their lack of reaction confirmed his suspicions. The Summers family didn’t need the money because this clinic wasn’t their real business. The lack of ambition, not wanting to expand, improve, or build more was unnatural. Most people dreamed of more, but not these two. They weren’t here for the clinic or the credits.
This wasn’t about financial gain. It was something else—something they were hiding. Either they were covering up something that would embarrass them, or they were involved in something unethical but not for profit nor neede money, something that couldn’t see the light of day. People who didn’t dream about spending credits usually had other, more dangerous motives.
He smiled, keeping his tone light as he gave a small nod. "Well, I suppose it’s good to have everything you need. Not everyone can say that."
Doc Summers returned the smile, though his eyes were watchful. "We’ve been fortunate. But we’re always here to help those who need it."
Three straightened, taking a step back from the desk. "I’ll keep that in mind, Doc." His smile broadened slightly. "And thanks for the check-up. I’ll be sure to send more business your way if anyone asks."
With a nod, he turned and made his way toward the door. As he stepped out into the sunlight, the pieces were coming together in his mind. The Summers family wasn’t motivated by money, and they weren’t here for the clinic.
This place was a front, and whatever their real purpose was, it wasn’t as simple as healing the sick. The Summers family was hiding something. He was more certain than ever that they had another agenda, one that had nothing to do with the people of Hogswaller.
As the door closed behind him, his smile faded, replaced by a look of quiet determination. He had seen enough. The Summers family has something going on, and soon enough, he would find out exactly what they were hiding.
---
The moon hung low, casting long shadows across the quiet town. A faint breeze stirred the dust along the streets, but otherwise, the night was still.
The Mystic Knights are prepared for their mission. They had donned their dark cloaks, each of them moving with quiet precision. Their eyes gleamed with purpose, and their movements were deliberate, almost ritualistic as they prepared for the night’s work.
Tonight, they would infiltrate Doc Summers Clinic. The visit earlier that day had raised too many questions.
They needed answers, but the town needed a doctor, after all. The Knights were there to uncover a potential threat, not to hurt anyone. They had to meditate on NOT killing the Summers. They consciously chose NOT to kill the Summers. They would disappear if they had to and come back the next day. This exercise was essential in ensuring they don't set off a Psychic Clarivoyanc or Sixth Sense. They had to commit to is and believe it or if there were a version of the future where they killed the Summers tonight the wife Amelia (they know to be a psychic) might get a psychic forewarning.
---
The Knights moved through the darkness like shadows, their bodies blending into the night. The spell that Knight Two had cast before they left ensured that their movements were silent and that they left no trace, no matter how creaky the floorboards or heavy their steps. Not a whisper of sound would betray their presence. Even their footsteps on the dirt outside the clinic were muted, like ghosts treading the earth.
The clinic loomed ahead of them, the weather-beaten wood of its walls faintly illuminated by the moonlight. The porch, where earlier that day Knight Three had spoken with the doctor, now seemed eerily empty. The small wooden sign that swung lazily in the breeze seemed almost like a warning. But the Knights were undeterred.
Knight Two led the way, his hand raised in a silent signal for the others to follow. They approached the back door of the clinic, a narrow entrance used for staff and deliveries. It was locked, of course, but Knight Four stepped forward and cast his spell of “Escape.” No ordinary lock can bar his passage.
The others flanked the door, their eyes scanning the dark corners of the yard, ensuring there were no unexpected watchers. With the lock disengaged, Four pushed the door open, and the Knights slipped inside, one by one.
---
The interior of the clinic was just as quiet as the night outside. The small reception area was dimly lit by the faint glow of the moon filtering through the windows. The shelves of medical supplies and patient logs stood undisturbed, the faint scent of herbs lingering in the air. The Knights moved in complete silence, thanks to their magic, their steps on the wooden floorboards as soundless as a shadow passing over a wall.
Knight Three led them deeper into the clinic. He had noted the layout earlier that day, making sure to memorize every door, every turn, every potential hiding spot. The first room they passed through was the examination room, neat and orderly, with the shelves still stocked with medical tools and bandages. Nothing here seemed out of the ordinary.
But this wasn’t what they were looking for. The real secrets would be upstairs, where the Summers family lived.
---
The staircase would have creaked faintly as the Knights ascended, but the sound was lost in the spell’s effect, turning every noise into nothing.
Knight Two, ever alert, took point, his night-vision active, allowing him to see the faintest glimmers of movement or traps in the dark. He reached the top of the stairs, pausing only briefly before signaling the others forward.
The upper floor was more personal, more private. bedrooms, a common area, and a small storage room lined the narrow hallway. This was where the Summers family lived. If they were hiding something, it would be here.
Knight One moved quickly, heading toward the common area and rifling through what looked like innocuous paperwork on the desk.
Knight Two, always cautious, kept an eye on the hallway, his senses alert for any sign of the family stirring from their sleep.
Meanwhile, Three and Four moved toward the storage room, knowing that this was the most likely place for hidden secrets.
The door to the storage room was locked, but Knight Four made quick work of it. The Knights entered, their eyes scanning the room. Shelves lined the walls, filled with medical supplies and other everyday items, but it was the back wall that caught Knight Three’s attention.
There, hidden behind a layer of old blankets, was a false wall panel. The Knights had seen enough secret compartments to recognize one when they saw it.
"Jackpot," Four whispered, though his voice was as silent as the rest of their movements. "Here," he whispered, pointing to the floorboards.
Knight Three moved beside him, crouching low and running his hand over the uneven surface. It was subtle, but there was a trapdoor here, hidden beneath a layer of dust and deliberately placed debris. He motioned for Knight One to step forward, and within moments, One’s deft fingers had found the latch and opened it. The door creaked open, revealing a dark staircase leading down into what appeared to be a bunker.
Without a word, the Knights descended into the darkness, their night vision illuminating the space around them. The air grew colder as they reached the bottom, the scent of damp stone and metal filling the narrow hallway that stretched ahead. It was clear now—they had stumbled upon a hidden bunker, likely used by the Summers family for their covert operations. The Summers were spies.
As they moved deeper into the bunker, Knight Two suddenly held up his hand, signaling for them to stop. Ahead, in the dim glow of their night vision, they saw it: a prisoner, chained to the wall, slumped over and asleep. His wrists were bound by heavy manacles, his face partially obscured by a ball gag mask designed to keep him silent.
The Knights exchanged glances. This was something they hadn’t expected.
Knight Three motioned for them to move forward cautiously. As they approached the prisoner, they could see that he was bruised, his clothes tattered and stained with sweat. His face twitched as if caught in a nightmare, but when he heard their footsteps, his eyes fluttered open. For a moment, there was confusion, then fear.
“Mmph—” He struggled against the mask, his muffled cries barely audible.
Knight Three knelt before him, eyes narrowing as he reached forward and carefully removed the ball gag from the prisoner’s face. The man gasped for breath, his eyes wide with desperation.
“Please,” the man whispered, his voice hoarse from disuse. “Please… help me. I’m not a criminal. I’m an agent for Tolkeen. They’ve kept me here for days… maybe weeks. I don’t know anymore. You have to set me free.”
The Mystic Knights stood around him, their expressions unreadable. The air in the bunker grew thick with tension as the gravity of the situation settled on them. They were in the heart of a Coalition operation, and this prisoner was the key to something much larger than they had anticipated.
Knight Four crossed his arms, his tone measured but cold. “And if we let you go, what’s to stop you from giving yourself away, getting caught again, then telling them or anyone else we were here?”
The prisoner shook his head frantically, his eyes pleading. “I wouldn’t! I swear! I just want to get out of here! I have information that could help Tolkeen—I’m valuable to them. You have to believe me!”
Knight One frowned, glancing at Knight Three. “He’s telling the truth, or at least he believes he is. But if we free him and he runs, the Summers will know we were down here.”
Knight Two narrowed his eyes. “Kill him."
Knight Four, "It’ll be obvious. It’ll look like an execution. The Summers will know their bunker is as exposed as they are, and we’ll lose our advantage.”
Knight Three remained silent, his mind racing through the possibilities. They were in a delicate situation—too many outcomes, each with its own risks. If they did nothing, the prisoner might tell the Summers that the Knights had found the bunker. If they killed him, the Summers would know someone had been down here. Letting him go was an option, but it would have to look like he escaped on his own.
“We don’t have the key,” Four reminded them. “If we leave him like this, he’s as good as dead. IF we don't help him, he's go no reason not to help himself and snitch about us. We've got two options, kill him or help him escape.”
Silence fell over the group, the weight of the decision pressing down on them. The prisoner, now trembling, looked up at Knight Three with desperation in his eyes. “Please,” he whispered. “Just give me the chance. I’ll be gone before anyone knows. You’ll never see me again.”
Knight One smirked slightly, glancing at the others. “If he’s a real agent, he should be able to get himself out.”
It was the youngest among them, Four, who stepped forward and made the decision. With a quiet nod, he reached into his pouch and pulled out a small set of lock picks, handing them to the prisoner. “If you’re really who you say you are, you’ll know how to use these.”
The prisoner looked at the lock picks in disbelief, his hands shaking as he took them. “Thank you… thank you.” He fumbled with the tools, his hands still bound in the manacles, but he quickly regained his composure, beginning to work at the locks.
The Mystic Knights stood back, their eyes sharp, watching him carefully. They were ready for anything. If the prisoner tried to double-cross them or call for help, they wouldn’t hesitate to silence him. But as the minutes passed, the sound of metal clicking against metal filled the bunker, and the prisoner managed to free himself from the chains.
He stood, his legs weak, but his eyes filled with gratitude. “I’ll disappear,” he promised. “You’ll never hear from me again.”
Knight Three, arms crossed, looked him over carefully. “No. (taking his picture). You owe us your freedom. Besides, what if you get caught again. Or just don’t make it back to the network you send intelligence through. For all we know you could just be a thief who is good at picking locks. No. You are coming with us. We will escort you to a safe house or something. It is the only way we can make sure you can’t sell us out, or worse, Tolkeen.”
The prisoner nodded fervently. They gave him water as they had given the man a chance to prove himself. Whether it was the right choice remained to be seen.
The Hidden Coalition Bunker – Discovery and New Mission
As the Mystic Knights continued their careful search of the hidden Coalition bunker, Three’s sharp eyes landed on a laptop computer tucked away in a corner of the storage room. It was small, unassuming, but in a place like this, it stood out as something far more valuable than any pile of medical supplies. His instincts told him this laptop held the real secrets.
Knight Three knelt down, his fingers brushing over the smooth surface of the laptop. He closed his eyes and focused, calling upon his super psionic power—Telemechanics. In an instant, he connected with the machine, his mind melding with the intricate circuits and pathways inside. The computer turned on, and within seconds, he had discovered the password. His eyes snapped open, and with a quick tap of his fingers, he unlocked the computer.
"Got it," he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper as the screen flickered to life.
The team stood close by, their eyes scanning the room as Knight Three focused on the laptop. They trusted him to find what they needed.
Without wasting a moment, he activated his psionic power of Machine Ghost, Total Recall, and Speed Reading his eyes darting across the screen as files, documents, and video logs flashed in front of him. He was reading everything in seconds, absorbing the information as though it had been stored in his mind for years. And then, he found it.
The file labeled "Billy Bob’s Garage" opened, revealing digital video recordings of the Mystic Knights—not just images, but voice prints, fingerprints, and hair samples meticulously gathered from their time in the garage. There were covert surveillance recordings of them interacting with Billy Bob. They had somehow gotten into the video cameras they had install in the Billy Bob’s Garage. The Summers family had been watching them for a while.
"Dammit," Knight Three muttered, his face tightening as he scrolled through the files.
"What is it?" Knight Four asked, his tone sharp.
"They’ve got everything on us," he replied, still scanning the files. "Video recordings, voice prints, even DNA samples. And it’s not just on this laptop. They’ve backed it up on a memory drive. They don’t have wi-fi here and even if they did, CS memory storage mediums are encrypted. The drive with evidence on us was given to a courier. He left tonight."
The room fell into a tense silence as the weight of the discovery hit them all. If that drive reached the Coalition, they’d be compromised. The Coalition would know who they were, and their every move could be tracked.
"We need to find that courier," Knight One said, his eyes narrowing.
Knight Three nodded, his mind already working. He focused again, this time using his psionic power of Remote Viewing, his consciousness extending out into the distance, searching for the courier. Images flickered in his mind—first vague, then clearer, until finally, he saw the courier’s face and the place where they were staying.
The courier was in the brothel, unaware of the danger coming.
"I’ve got him," Knight One said, pulling himself out of the vision. "He’s in the brothel."
Knight Four’s expression hardened. "We have to move now. If we let him, they might pass that memory drive to another and it will be in Coalition hands by morning."
Knight Three quickly went back to the laptop and deleted all of the files related to the Mystic Knights. But the memory drive was still out there, and they couldn’t risk the data reaching its destination.
He stood, shutting the laptop and turning to his team. "New mission. We intercept the courier tonight. Destroy the memory drive or edit it. Either way, we can’t let that information get to the Coalition."
Knight Four grinned, the prospect of a hunt lighting up his eyes. "Sounds like fun."
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
The Mystic Knights at Miss Sally’s Brothel
The night air was thick with dust and the distant sounds of drunken laughter. The brothel stood at the edge of the town square, its dim lanterns offering those seeking comfort and escape. The Mystic Knights stood in the shadows just across the street, their forms hidden in the deep gloom as they prepared for their mission.
They had been here before, the brothel’s layout familiar to them from when they had indirectly bribed the staff. But this time, they were here with a different purpose: to find the Coalition’s courier who had a copy of the memory drive containing incriminating data about them.
Dressed in rough, workman’s clothing that would blend in with the brothel’s usual clientele, they went over their mission one last time. They knew they couldn’t make their intentions obvious. If they were caught searching for the courier, they would need to look like thieves, not spies. But they also couldn’t afford to wait outside for him to leave—too many witnesses, and the courier could pass the memory drive to someone inside the brothel at any moment.
Knight Three checked the knife tucked into his boot and glanced at his comrades. They were ready, each of them calm and focused. They knew what was at stake. The courier could be a psychic, if he was he would sense their approach if they had lethal or even just violent intentions; that meant.
Knight Three gave a short nod, signaling for them to move.
---
Inside Miss Sally’s Brothel
The interior of Miss Sally’s was dimly lit, filled with the warm, hazy glow of lanterns and the muted clink of tin cups on tables. Men lounged in the parlor, their faces flushed from drink and smoke. The girls, dressed in revealing clothes, drifted from group to group, laughing and flirting as they went about their work. The air was thick with the scent of cheap perfume, whiskey, and tobacco.
The Knights slipped in as casually as any other group of drifters, their presence unremarkable amidst the usual patrons. They spread out, moving toward different parts of the room without drawing attention to themselves. Knight Three headed toward the bar, Two lingered by the parlor’s edge, while One and Four made their way upstairs where the private rooms were located.
They scanned the faces of the men around them, looking for a new face in a town where most men knew each other.
As Three leaned against the bar, pretending to be interested in a drink, he caught sight of a man at the far end of the room. He was seated in the corner, half-hidden by the shadows, a woman draped over his arm, laughing at something he whispered in her ear. His clothes were just a little too clean for Hogswaller, his posture a little too stiff. That’s him, Knight Three thought (I.D. Undercover Agents)
He signaled subtly to the others.
---
The Plan in Motion
The Knights had agreed that the safest way to retrieve the memory drive was to search the courier’s clothes. Second to that was picking his pocket. If he was distracted, his guard down, the drive would likely be hidden in his belongings. The trick was to get to his things without alerting him—or anyone else.
Knight Three moved through the room, sliding closer to the table where the courier sat. He made herself look like just another brothel patron, laughing at the drunken banter around him, but his sharp eyes never left the courier’s jacket draped over the back of his chair.
One and Two had already gone upstairs, where they knew the private rooms were located. If the courier headed that way with the girl, they’d be in position to see which room he went in and search his clothes; once they were invisible and he was distracted. For now, they would wait, unseen, in the shadows of the hallway.
Knight Three stayed by the bar, watching the situation unfold, ready to act if anything went wrong. His eyes flicked toward the staircase—the courier was starting to rise, laughing as he whispered something to the woman on his arm.
The moment was coming.
---
The Move Upstairs
The courier, still wrapped in an apparent haze of liquor and flirtation, began to make his way up the stairs with the woman. His steps were unsteady, his attention fully on the woman, who led him toward one of the private rooms.
Three nodded to Two, who cast his spell of invisibility. He followed the courier into the room he entered.
"Do we destroy it or edit it?" he thought to himself.
His eyes narrowing. "If we destroy it, the Coalition might suspect something. But if we edit it, they’ll be none the wiser, and they’ll think the data is complete."
Using telemechanics Two worked quickly, his fingers flying across the device as he erased any mention of the Mystic Knights from the drive. He left the rest of the information intact, making it look like nothing had been tampered with. It took only moments, but every second felt like an eternity.
When he was done, he tucked the drive back into the courier’s clothes.
Then he had to wait for them to open the door so there would be no suspicion about how or why the door opened.
Then he found out. The girl is an informant.
This was no chance encounter or undisciplined member of an intelligence agency.
---
Mission Complete
As they slipped back down the stairs and out into the night, their movements still casual and unremarkable, Three couldn’t help but glance back at the brothel. They had avoided a direct confrontation—there was no need for bloodshed tonight.
After Action Review:
Their cover story at the brothel was another indirect bribe.
Knight Two reports that the girl is an informant.
Knight Three uses his psionic Total Recall to enter what he remembers from the CS laptop into their own computer.
There appears to be a network of CS spies, informants, and sympathizers in every town of strategic importance.
There are also a great many spies in the city of Tolkeen.
The files refer to the spies by codenames.
---
Miss Sally’s Brothel: A Rough Gem in the Heart of Hogswaller
Miss Sally’s Brothel is a well-known establishment in Hogswaller, frequented by both locals and travelers who pass through the town. It stands near the town square, nestled among the other ramshackle buildings, yet it commands a certain authority. While not luxurious, it’s a place where men come to unwind, forget their troubles, and indulge in vices. The brothel is a rough gem, its exterior simple but unmistakable, and its interior a mix of faded elegance and functional comfort.
Exterior: Rugged Yet Inviting
From the outside, Miss Sally’s Brothel looks like any other building in Hogswaller—weathered, worn, but with a touch of charm that makes it stand out from the more utilitarian structures around it. The wooden facade, once painted a vibrant red, has faded with time, the sun and dust of the frontier softening the color into a muted, earthy hue. The planks are worn smooth, and while some of the wood has begun to crack and splinter, the building remains sturdy.
Signage: Above the entrance, a hand-painted wooden sign hangs from rusted metal hooks, swaying slightly in the breeze. It reads "Miss Sally’s" in bold, looping letters, the paint chipped and peeling. Below, a smaller sign offers the establishment’s services, though it is deliberately vague. Lanterns hang on either side of the door, flickering dimly in the evening, casting a warm, enticing glow over the entrance. At night, these lanterns serve as a beacon for those looking to indulge in the brothel’s offerings.
Porch: The front porch is wide and low, its wooden boards scuffed and marked by the boots of countless visitors. A few mismatched chairs and a rickety bench line the porch, where patrons sometimes sit to smoke or chat before heading inside. The porch posts, though weathered, are carved with intricate patterns, remnants of a time when the brothel’s appearance was more well-kept. Now, the rough edges of the carvings reflect the hard life of the town.
Windows: The windows on the ground floor are covered by thin curtains, shielding the activities inside from prying eyes but allowing the faint glow of candlelight to spill out onto the street. The upper windows are larger, hinting at the private rooms where business is conducted, though they are usually shuttered or obscured by heavier drapes.
Interior: Faded Elegance Meets Frontier Practicality
Stepping inside Miss Sally’s is like stepping into a world caught between the past and present. The interior still holds traces of faded elegance, reminders of a time when the brothel likely aspired to greater sophistication. Now, it serves its purpose as a place of indulgence and escape, functional yet charming in its own way.
Foyer and Reception: Upon entering, visitors are greeted by a small foyer, where Miss Sally herself or one of her girls sits behind a wooden counter. The counter is worn, its once-polished surface now dulled by years of use. Behind the counter, a chalkboard lists the available ladies of the evening, along with their prices. Candelabras placed on the counter and along the walls provide soft lighting, casting long shadows that add to the sense of mystery and allure.
Main Parlor: The main parlor serves as the heart of the brothel, a large, open room with a few threadbare sofas and armchairs arranged around a central fireplace. The fireplace is a centerpiece, its stone hearth cracked but still functional, and during colder nights, it’s often lit to provide warmth to both patrons and staff. The furniture is mismatched, with some pieces showing signs of better days—velvet upholstery now faded and fraying at the edges. The parlor is where patrons gather for drinks, conversation, and sometimes gambling before moving on to more private pursuits. A few small tables are scattered around, each hosting groups of men drinking from tin cups or bottles of whiskey, discussing the night’s pleasures.
Decor: Faded wallpaper peels in places, revealing the wooden walls beneath, but in others, it clings on, showcasing patterns that hint at the brothel’s more ambitious past. Portraits of glamorous women—likely former workers—hang on the walls, their once-bright colors now dimmed by time and smoke. The air is thick with the scent of cheap perfume, whiskey, and tobacco smoke, creating a heady atmosphere.
Bar: To one side of the main parlor, a small bar offers patrons drinks—mostly moonshine, corn whiskey, and occasionally imported beer from far-off towns. The bar is crude, just a long slab of wood with a few shelves behind it holding bottles of various quality. The drinks are served in tin cups or glass bottles, and the prices are cheap, adding to the brothel’s reputation as a place to let loose without breaking the bank.
Private Rooms: Intimate, Yet Worn
Beyond the parlor, a set of stairs leads to the private rooms on the upper floor, where the business of the brothel truly takes place. These rooms are simple, functional spaces, each designed for privacy but with little in the way of luxury.
Upstairs Hallway: The narrow hallway upstairs is dimly lit by flickering candles, their flames casting uneven light on the rough wooden walls. The floor creaks beneath the weight of footsteps, adding to the sense that the building has seen better days. Doors line the hallway, each one leading to a small private room.
Private Rooms: The rooms themselves are furnished with low beds covered in thin sheets, the mattresses soft from overuse but still comfortable enough for the brothel’s purpose. Each room has a small dresser with a cracked mirror, a few candles, and occasionally a wash basin for the workers. The decor in these rooms is minimal, with only the occasional painting or frayed rug to add any sense of comfort. The curtains are heavy and dark, ensuring that the rooms are shielded from prying eyes both inside and out.
Soundproofing: While the walls are thin, they are surprisingly well-insulated, muting the sounds from one room to the next. The privacy of the patrons and workers is paramount, and while the brothel lacks modern amenities, Miss Sally has ensured that discretion is maintained at all costs.
The Staff: Miss Sally and Her Girls
Miss Sally: Miss Sally herself is a formidable woman, known for her no-nonsense approach to running the brothel. She’s in her late forties, with a presence that commands respect from both patrons and her girls. Despite the rough exterior of her establishment, she ensures that the business runs smoothly and fairly. Her girls are loyal to her, knowing that she looks out for them, even if the work is hard and the town is tougher.
The Girls: The ladies of the evening who work at Miss Sally’s are a diverse group, each with their own story of how they ended up in Hogswaller. Some are here by choice, others by necessity, but all of them know how to handle themselves. They range in age and appearance, catering to the various tastes of the brothel’s clientele. Half of them are fairly attractive, though the years and the harsh life of the frontier have left their marks. They wear simple, revealing dresses, often in deep reds and purples, their makeup heavy and their eyes sharp.
Atmosphere: Rough but Lively
Despite the worn appearance, there’s a lively atmosphere in Miss Sally’s most nights. The rowdy clientele, combined with the dim lighting and the haze of tobacco smoke, creates an environment where people can let their inhibitions fall away. It’s a place of escape, where mercenaries, adventurers, and vagabonds rub shoulders with locals, all in search of a brief respite from the hardships of their lives.
The night air was thick with dust and the distant sounds of drunken laughter. The brothel stood at the edge of the town square, its dim lanterns offering those seeking comfort and escape. The Mystic Knights stood in the shadows just across the street, their forms hidden in the deep gloom as they prepared for their mission.
They had been here before, the brothel’s layout familiar to them from when they had indirectly bribed the staff. But this time, they were here with a different purpose: to find the Coalition’s courier who had a copy of the memory drive containing incriminating data about them.
Dressed in rough, workman’s clothing that would blend in with the brothel’s usual clientele, they went over their mission one last time. They knew they couldn’t make their intentions obvious. If they were caught searching for the courier, they would need to look like thieves, not spies. But they also couldn’t afford to wait outside for him to leave—too many witnesses, and the courier could pass the memory drive to someone inside the brothel at any moment.
Knight Three checked the knife tucked into his boot and glanced at his comrades. They were ready, each of them calm and focused. They knew what was at stake. The courier could be a psychic, if he was he would sense their approach if they had lethal or even just violent intentions; that meant.
Knight Three gave a short nod, signaling for them to move.
---
Inside Miss Sally’s Brothel
The interior of Miss Sally’s was dimly lit, filled with the warm, hazy glow of lanterns and the muted clink of tin cups on tables. Men lounged in the parlor, their faces flushed from drink and smoke. The girls, dressed in revealing clothes, drifted from group to group, laughing and flirting as they went about their work. The air was thick with the scent of cheap perfume, whiskey, and tobacco.
The Knights slipped in as casually as any other group of drifters, their presence unremarkable amidst the usual patrons. They spread out, moving toward different parts of the room without drawing attention to themselves. Knight Three headed toward the bar, Two lingered by the parlor’s edge, while One and Four made their way upstairs where the private rooms were located.
They scanned the faces of the men around them, looking for a new face in a town where most men knew each other.
As Three leaned against the bar, pretending to be interested in a drink, he caught sight of a man at the far end of the room. He was seated in the corner, half-hidden by the shadows, a woman draped over his arm, laughing at something he whispered in her ear. His clothes were just a little too clean for Hogswaller, his posture a little too stiff. That’s him, Knight Three thought (I.D. Undercover Agents)
He signaled subtly to the others.
---
The Plan in Motion
The Knights had agreed that the safest way to retrieve the memory drive was to search the courier’s clothes. Second to that was picking his pocket. If he was distracted, his guard down, the drive would likely be hidden in his belongings. The trick was to get to his things without alerting him—or anyone else.
Knight Three moved through the room, sliding closer to the table where the courier sat. He made herself look like just another brothel patron, laughing at the drunken banter around him, but his sharp eyes never left the courier’s jacket draped over the back of his chair.
One and Two had already gone upstairs, where they knew the private rooms were located. If the courier headed that way with the girl, they’d be in position to see which room he went in and search his clothes; once they were invisible and he was distracted. For now, they would wait, unseen, in the shadows of the hallway.
Knight Three stayed by the bar, watching the situation unfold, ready to act if anything went wrong. His eyes flicked toward the staircase—the courier was starting to rise, laughing as he whispered something to the woman on his arm.
The moment was coming.
---
The Move Upstairs
The courier, still wrapped in an apparent haze of liquor and flirtation, began to make his way up the stairs with the woman. His steps were unsteady, his attention fully on the woman, who led him toward one of the private rooms.
Three nodded to Two, who cast his spell of invisibility. He followed the courier into the room he entered.
"Do we destroy it or edit it?" he thought to himself.
His eyes narrowing. "If we destroy it, the Coalition might suspect something. But if we edit it, they’ll be none the wiser, and they’ll think the data is complete."
Using telemechanics Two worked quickly, his fingers flying across the device as he erased any mention of the Mystic Knights from the drive. He left the rest of the information intact, making it look like nothing had been tampered with. It took only moments, but every second felt like an eternity.
When he was done, he tucked the drive back into the courier’s clothes.
Then he had to wait for them to open the door so there would be no suspicion about how or why the door opened.
Then he found out. The girl is an informant.
This was no chance encounter or undisciplined member of an intelligence agency.
---
Mission Complete
As they slipped back down the stairs and out into the night, their movements still casual and unremarkable, Three couldn’t help but glance back at the brothel. They had avoided a direct confrontation—there was no need for bloodshed tonight.
After Action Review:
Their cover story at the brothel was another indirect bribe.
Knight Two reports that the girl is an informant.
Knight Three uses his psionic Total Recall to enter what he remembers from the CS laptop into their own computer.
There appears to be a network of CS spies, informants, and sympathizers in every town of strategic importance.
There are also a great many spies in the city of Tolkeen.
The files refer to the spies by codenames.
---
Miss Sally’s Brothel: A Rough Gem in the Heart of Hogswaller
Miss Sally’s Brothel is a well-known establishment in Hogswaller, frequented by both locals and travelers who pass through the town. It stands near the town square, nestled among the other ramshackle buildings, yet it commands a certain authority. While not luxurious, it’s a place where men come to unwind, forget their troubles, and indulge in vices. The brothel is a rough gem, its exterior simple but unmistakable, and its interior a mix of faded elegance and functional comfort.
Exterior: Rugged Yet Inviting
From the outside, Miss Sally’s Brothel looks like any other building in Hogswaller—weathered, worn, but with a touch of charm that makes it stand out from the more utilitarian structures around it. The wooden facade, once painted a vibrant red, has faded with time, the sun and dust of the frontier softening the color into a muted, earthy hue. The planks are worn smooth, and while some of the wood has begun to crack and splinter, the building remains sturdy.
Signage: Above the entrance, a hand-painted wooden sign hangs from rusted metal hooks, swaying slightly in the breeze. It reads "Miss Sally’s" in bold, looping letters, the paint chipped and peeling. Below, a smaller sign offers the establishment’s services, though it is deliberately vague. Lanterns hang on either side of the door, flickering dimly in the evening, casting a warm, enticing glow over the entrance. At night, these lanterns serve as a beacon for those looking to indulge in the brothel’s offerings.
Porch: The front porch is wide and low, its wooden boards scuffed and marked by the boots of countless visitors. A few mismatched chairs and a rickety bench line the porch, where patrons sometimes sit to smoke or chat before heading inside. The porch posts, though weathered, are carved with intricate patterns, remnants of a time when the brothel’s appearance was more well-kept. Now, the rough edges of the carvings reflect the hard life of the town.
Windows: The windows on the ground floor are covered by thin curtains, shielding the activities inside from prying eyes but allowing the faint glow of candlelight to spill out onto the street. The upper windows are larger, hinting at the private rooms where business is conducted, though they are usually shuttered or obscured by heavier drapes.
Interior: Faded Elegance Meets Frontier Practicality
Stepping inside Miss Sally’s is like stepping into a world caught between the past and present. The interior still holds traces of faded elegance, reminders of a time when the brothel likely aspired to greater sophistication. Now, it serves its purpose as a place of indulgence and escape, functional yet charming in its own way.
Foyer and Reception: Upon entering, visitors are greeted by a small foyer, where Miss Sally herself or one of her girls sits behind a wooden counter. The counter is worn, its once-polished surface now dulled by years of use. Behind the counter, a chalkboard lists the available ladies of the evening, along with their prices. Candelabras placed on the counter and along the walls provide soft lighting, casting long shadows that add to the sense of mystery and allure.
Main Parlor: The main parlor serves as the heart of the brothel, a large, open room with a few threadbare sofas and armchairs arranged around a central fireplace. The fireplace is a centerpiece, its stone hearth cracked but still functional, and during colder nights, it’s often lit to provide warmth to both patrons and staff. The furniture is mismatched, with some pieces showing signs of better days—velvet upholstery now faded and fraying at the edges. The parlor is where patrons gather for drinks, conversation, and sometimes gambling before moving on to more private pursuits. A few small tables are scattered around, each hosting groups of men drinking from tin cups or bottles of whiskey, discussing the night’s pleasures.
Decor: Faded wallpaper peels in places, revealing the wooden walls beneath, but in others, it clings on, showcasing patterns that hint at the brothel’s more ambitious past. Portraits of glamorous women—likely former workers—hang on the walls, their once-bright colors now dimmed by time and smoke. The air is thick with the scent of cheap perfume, whiskey, and tobacco smoke, creating a heady atmosphere.
Bar: To one side of the main parlor, a small bar offers patrons drinks—mostly moonshine, corn whiskey, and occasionally imported beer from far-off towns. The bar is crude, just a long slab of wood with a few shelves behind it holding bottles of various quality. The drinks are served in tin cups or glass bottles, and the prices are cheap, adding to the brothel’s reputation as a place to let loose without breaking the bank.
Private Rooms: Intimate, Yet Worn
Beyond the parlor, a set of stairs leads to the private rooms on the upper floor, where the business of the brothel truly takes place. These rooms are simple, functional spaces, each designed for privacy but with little in the way of luxury.
Upstairs Hallway: The narrow hallway upstairs is dimly lit by flickering candles, their flames casting uneven light on the rough wooden walls. The floor creaks beneath the weight of footsteps, adding to the sense that the building has seen better days. Doors line the hallway, each one leading to a small private room.
Private Rooms: The rooms themselves are furnished with low beds covered in thin sheets, the mattresses soft from overuse but still comfortable enough for the brothel’s purpose. Each room has a small dresser with a cracked mirror, a few candles, and occasionally a wash basin for the workers. The decor in these rooms is minimal, with only the occasional painting or frayed rug to add any sense of comfort. The curtains are heavy and dark, ensuring that the rooms are shielded from prying eyes both inside and out.
Soundproofing: While the walls are thin, they are surprisingly well-insulated, muting the sounds from one room to the next. The privacy of the patrons and workers is paramount, and while the brothel lacks modern amenities, Miss Sally has ensured that discretion is maintained at all costs.
The Staff: Miss Sally and Her Girls
Miss Sally: Miss Sally herself is a formidable woman, known for her no-nonsense approach to running the brothel. She’s in her late forties, with a presence that commands respect from both patrons and her girls. Despite the rough exterior of her establishment, she ensures that the business runs smoothly and fairly. Her girls are loyal to her, knowing that she looks out for them, even if the work is hard and the town is tougher.
The Girls: The ladies of the evening who work at Miss Sally’s are a diverse group, each with their own story of how they ended up in Hogswaller. Some are here by choice, others by necessity, but all of them know how to handle themselves. They range in age and appearance, catering to the various tastes of the brothel’s clientele. Half of them are fairly attractive, though the years and the harsh life of the frontier have left their marks. They wear simple, revealing dresses, often in deep reds and purples, their makeup heavy and their eyes sharp.
Atmosphere: Rough but Lively
Despite the worn appearance, there’s a lively atmosphere in Miss Sally’s most nights. The rowdy clientele, combined with the dim lighting and the haze of tobacco smoke, creates an environment where people can let their inhibitions fall away. It’s a place of escape, where mercenaries, adventurers, and vagabonds rub shoulders with locals, all in search of a brief respite from the hardships of their lives.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Hogswaller
The Mystic Knights gathered on the outskirts of Hogswaller, away from prying eyes and ears. The flickering light of a single lantern cast long shadows on the worn wooden walls, and the tension in the air was palpable as they sat around, discussing the Summers family and the hidden Coalition bunker they had discovered.
Knight One leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, his face etched with thought. "We know the Summers family is spying on us. They’ve got video, voice prints, fingerprints… everything. But it’s not just about us. They’re spying on the whole town and anyone who passess through, and more importantly, Tolkeen’s allies."
Knight Four, ever sharp and pragmatic. "They’re spies, no doubt about it. But we need to ask ourselves: Is killing or exposing them the right move?"
There was silence for a moment, each of them considering the implications.
Knight Three broke the silence, her tone measured. "The town is better for having a doctor. We’ve seen how people rely on him—how they line up outside the clinic. If we reveal what he and his family are doing, either they’ll flee or get lynched, and we know that no one in Hogswaller is going to replace him. This is the frontier—doctors don’t just grow on trees."
Knight Two nodded in agreement, leaning forward.
Knight One, "If Doc Summers is exposed, he’ll either run or get killed, and we lose the town’s only decent medical care. It’s unlikely another doctor will show up, especially in a place like this. Even worse, the Coalition could send someone to replace him—a spy we don’t know, someone who could be even more dangerous."
Knight Three’s brow furrowed as he considered their options. "As long as we know they’re spies and can get in and out of their home, we have control. We can spy on the spies. Learn what they’re reporting and possibly feed them false information. That gives us an advantage, and we keep the town’s medical support intact."
Knight One sighed, his voice carrying a tone of caution. "There’s also the matter of laws of war. Technically, killing an unarmed doctor—even one working for the enemy—is a war crime. Summers could just be a doctor, with the rest of his family running the spying operation. There’s a slim chance he’s not directly involved. We can’t prove his level of involvement without tipping them off."
Knight Four nodded thoughtfully. "If we confront them, they’ll likely run or attack us, and that blows any chance we have of keeping tabs on what they’re doing. If they bolt, we lose the one infiltration point we have into the Coalition’s operations in this area."
Knight Three grimaced, scratching his chin. "There’s no profit in killing or exposing them. We’re not going to make any credits from it, and all it’ll do is make the town suspicious. Plus, we’ll lose a source of intel. As long as we can access their computer and tap into what they’re doing, we stay ahead."
Knight One nodded, his decision slowly forming. "So, we agree then. For the greater good, we keep the Summers family in place. The town gets its doctor, and we keep spying on the spies. If we’re smart, we can use their operation against them."
Knight Four added, his eyes narrowing. "We should get out of town before they take more pictures of us or gather more data. The last thing we need is another memory drive with our faces on it being sent to the Coalition."
Knight Three smirked, leaning back in her chair. "Agreed. We’ve overstayed our welcome. We’ll come back when we need something, but for now, it’s time to disappear."
Knight One rose from his chair, his voice firm. "We leave tonight. We keep tabs on them from a distance, and if they become a threat, we’ll handle it. But for now, we let them continue their work… and we have someone keep tabs on them."
The group nodded in silent agreement, the decision made.
---
Location: Rendevous with Camp Fatale
The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the landscape as the Mystic Knights approached Camp Fatale once again. This time, their arrival wasn’t marked by tension or unease, but by the sight of heavily loaded packs strapped to the backs of their supernaturally strong and virtually tireless mercs.
Knight One led the group, his steps sure and confident as they rolled into the camp. Behind him, the mercs unloaded crates and packs filled with goods—fresh food, processed supplies, spices, and survival gear. The Mystic Knights had managed to purchase their way through various settlements, using the CS weapons and gear for sale and trade. The price or trade value of everything is high. It is a sellers market since the CS started their war.
Red and her inner circle stood watching from the center of the camp, her arms crossed, her sharp green eyes scanning the crates and packs with a mix of interest and suspicion. Though their uneasy alliance had held, she was never one to let her guard down completely. Still, the sight of the food and supplies was enough to soften the wary look on her face—if only slightly.
Knight Four approached her first, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he nodded toward the haul. “Brought back a little something for your people,” he said, his voice casual but with an edge of pride. “Fresh food, processed stuff, first aid kits, fresh clothes, spices, survival gear… and credits. Enough to keep you going for a while.”
Red raised an eyebrow, stepping closer to inspect the goods. She reached out and grabbed a bundle of fresh clothes, running her fingers over the fabric. It was clean, well-made, and practical for the harsh conditions they lived in. She turned her gaze to the processed food—a variety of dried meats, grains, and packaged meals that would last even in rough terrain. The spices were a surprise—small jars filled with things like sea salt, and even a few herbs that would make their usual rations far more bearable.
“This is… more than I expected,” Red admitted, though her tone remained neutral. “Where did you get all of this?”
Knight Four shrugged. “We get around. And when you’re a mercenary, you learn to find the right people to trade with. Credits and weapons can get you a lot if you know where to look and how to use them.”
Knight Three, busy unloading more crates, chimed in from behind them. “We also picked up some survival gear—extra tents, fire starters. The kind of stuff that makes life on the road a bit easier.”
Red’s eyes flicked over to him, then back to Knight One. “What’s the catch?”
Knight Four chuckled softly, knowing she would ask. “No catch. Just a deal. We’re mercenaries, after all—we don’t do anything for free. But it’s a fair one.”
Red’s gaze hardened slightly. “Go on.”
Knight Four held up his hands, palms open in a gesture of honesty. “We’re offering a backup squad. In case you run into trouble—Coalition troops, rival factions, anyone giving you a hard time—you’ll have a team of our mercenaries ready to back you up. Trained fighters, well-equipped, and loyal to the contract.”
Red’s arms uncrossed as she considered his words, her mind already working through the implications. A backup squad would give her camp much-needed muscle in dangerous situations, but she knew there was always more to these deals.
“In return for what?” she asked, her voice calm but direct.
Knight Four’s expression didn’t change. “We’ll keep supplying you with the essentials, even a safe house or cabin in the woods to keep you off their radar for a few days; if you need it. In exchange, you cut us in on whatever Coalition loot you get from your raids. We’ll sell it through our people, get you the credits or trade goods, and take a small cut for the service.”
Red narrowed her eyes. “How small?”
“Half,” Knight Four replied smoothly. “We are partners afterall. More than fair, considering the risk we take getting the supplies and handling the loot.”
Red glanced at her people, the Fatales watching the exchange closely. There was a murmur of quiet approval as they eyed the fresh food and supplies. Life on the road had made them desperate at times, and having a reliable supply line was something they could hardly afford to pass up.
“You’re offering a squad of fighters,” Red said, her eyes locked with his. “What makes you think I need your backup? We’ve been doing fine on our own.”
Knight Four nodded, acknowledging her strength. “You’re good at what you do. But the Coalition’s not letting up. We’ve all seen what they’re capable of. Having extra muscle at your back, especially when things get rough, might make the difference between survival and getting wiped out.”
Red crossed her arms again, her expression unreadable. She knew he was right. As skilled as her psychics were, there were times when brute force was needed—times when sheer numbers and firepower could turn the tide of a battle. And despite her natural distrust of outsiders, she couldn’t deny the value of what he was offering.
After a long moment of silence, Red finally nodded. “Alright. We’ll take your backup. And the supply line.”
Knight Four grinned, extending his hand. “Deal?”
Red hesitated for a fraction of a second before taking his hand, shaking it firmly. “Deal.”
As their hands clasped, the rest of the Mystic Knights continued unloading the supplies, setting up crates of food and gear around the camp. The Fatalies moved in to inspect the goods, their wary expressions giving way to quiet relief as they realized the Knights had delivered on their promise.
Knight Four glanced at Red, lowering his voice just slightly. “You’ve got a good crew, Red. This deal—it’ll keep them safer than they would be alone.”
Red looked at him, her sharp gaze softening just enough to show that she understood. “We’ll see about that,” she said quietly, though there was no malice in her voice.
The camp slowly came alive with the sounds of people preparing meals with the fresh food, packing away the new gear, and tending to the first aid kits. The Mystic Knights moved among them, helping where they could, but always keeping a respectful distance.
As the sun dipped lower in the sky, Red stood watching the camp with Knight Four beside her. She didn’t say anything, but there was a quiet understanding between them now—a partnership born of mutual benefits.
For now, the elimination of the CS squads and survival were her goals. And with the merc company backing them up, Camp Fatalie had just become a little bit stronger.
---
Mercenary Company - Camp Fatale
Independent (10 points anywhere)
Outfits: None.
Equipment: None.
Vehicles: None.
Weapons (They are weapons but they look vulnerable): None
Communications: None.
Internal Security: None.
Permanent Base: None.
Intelligence Resources: None.
Special Budget: None.
Alignment: Evil. Cost: None.
Criminal Activity:
- Con Woman (1): 5 points.
- Prostitutes (3): 5 points.
- Smugglers and Sellers of Contraband: 15 points
- Special Forces: 4 Tattoo Men who follow behind Camp Fatale. 40 points
Reputation: Unknown. 5 points.
Salary: None.
The Mystic Knights gathered on the outskirts of Hogswaller, away from prying eyes and ears. The flickering light of a single lantern cast long shadows on the worn wooden walls, and the tension in the air was palpable as they sat around, discussing the Summers family and the hidden Coalition bunker they had discovered.
Knight One leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, his face etched with thought. "We know the Summers family is spying on us. They’ve got video, voice prints, fingerprints… everything. But it’s not just about us. They’re spying on the whole town and anyone who passess through, and more importantly, Tolkeen’s allies."
Knight Four, ever sharp and pragmatic. "They’re spies, no doubt about it. But we need to ask ourselves: Is killing or exposing them the right move?"
There was silence for a moment, each of them considering the implications.
Knight Three broke the silence, her tone measured. "The town is better for having a doctor. We’ve seen how people rely on him—how they line up outside the clinic. If we reveal what he and his family are doing, either they’ll flee or get lynched, and we know that no one in Hogswaller is going to replace him. This is the frontier—doctors don’t just grow on trees."
Knight Two nodded in agreement, leaning forward.
Knight One, "If Doc Summers is exposed, he’ll either run or get killed, and we lose the town’s only decent medical care. It’s unlikely another doctor will show up, especially in a place like this. Even worse, the Coalition could send someone to replace him—a spy we don’t know, someone who could be even more dangerous."
Knight Three’s brow furrowed as he considered their options. "As long as we know they’re spies and can get in and out of their home, we have control. We can spy on the spies. Learn what they’re reporting and possibly feed them false information. That gives us an advantage, and we keep the town’s medical support intact."
Knight One sighed, his voice carrying a tone of caution. "There’s also the matter of laws of war. Technically, killing an unarmed doctor—even one working for the enemy—is a war crime. Summers could just be a doctor, with the rest of his family running the spying operation. There’s a slim chance he’s not directly involved. We can’t prove his level of involvement without tipping them off."
Knight Four nodded thoughtfully. "If we confront them, they’ll likely run or attack us, and that blows any chance we have of keeping tabs on what they’re doing. If they bolt, we lose the one infiltration point we have into the Coalition’s operations in this area."
Knight Three grimaced, scratching his chin. "There’s no profit in killing or exposing them. We’re not going to make any credits from it, and all it’ll do is make the town suspicious. Plus, we’ll lose a source of intel. As long as we can access their computer and tap into what they’re doing, we stay ahead."
Knight One nodded, his decision slowly forming. "So, we agree then. For the greater good, we keep the Summers family in place. The town gets its doctor, and we keep spying on the spies. If we’re smart, we can use their operation against them."
Knight Four added, his eyes narrowing. "We should get out of town before they take more pictures of us or gather more data. The last thing we need is another memory drive with our faces on it being sent to the Coalition."
Knight Three smirked, leaning back in her chair. "Agreed. We’ve overstayed our welcome. We’ll come back when we need something, but for now, it’s time to disappear."
Knight One rose from his chair, his voice firm. "We leave tonight. We keep tabs on them from a distance, and if they become a threat, we’ll handle it. But for now, we let them continue their work… and we have someone keep tabs on them."
The group nodded in silent agreement, the decision made.
---
Location: Rendevous with Camp Fatale
The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the landscape as the Mystic Knights approached Camp Fatale once again. This time, their arrival wasn’t marked by tension or unease, but by the sight of heavily loaded packs strapped to the backs of their supernaturally strong and virtually tireless mercs.
Knight One led the group, his steps sure and confident as they rolled into the camp. Behind him, the mercs unloaded crates and packs filled with goods—fresh food, processed supplies, spices, and survival gear. The Mystic Knights had managed to purchase their way through various settlements, using the CS weapons and gear for sale and trade. The price or trade value of everything is high. It is a sellers market since the CS started their war.
Red and her inner circle stood watching from the center of the camp, her arms crossed, her sharp green eyes scanning the crates and packs with a mix of interest and suspicion. Though their uneasy alliance had held, she was never one to let her guard down completely. Still, the sight of the food and supplies was enough to soften the wary look on her face—if only slightly.
Knight Four approached her first, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he nodded toward the haul. “Brought back a little something for your people,” he said, his voice casual but with an edge of pride. “Fresh food, processed stuff, first aid kits, fresh clothes, spices, survival gear… and credits. Enough to keep you going for a while.”
Red raised an eyebrow, stepping closer to inspect the goods. She reached out and grabbed a bundle of fresh clothes, running her fingers over the fabric. It was clean, well-made, and practical for the harsh conditions they lived in. She turned her gaze to the processed food—a variety of dried meats, grains, and packaged meals that would last even in rough terrain. The spices were a surprise—small jars filled with things like sea salt, and even a few herbs that would make their usual rations far more bearable.
“This is… more than I expected,” Red admitted, though her tone remained neutral. “Where did you get all of this?”
Knight Four shrugged. “We get around. And when you’re a mercenary, you learn to find the right people to trade with. Credits and weapons can get you a lot if you know where to look and how to use them.”
Knight Three, busy unloading more crates, chimed in from behind them. “We also picked up some survival gear—extra tents, fire starters. The kind of stuff that makes life on the road a bit easier.”
Red’s eyes flicked over to him, then back to Knight One. “What’s the catch?”
Knight Four chuckled softly, knowing she would ask. “No catch. Just a deal. We’re mercenaries, after all—we don’t do anything for free. But it’s a fair one.”
Red’s gaze hardened slightly. “Go on.”
Knight Four held up his hands, palms open in a gesture of honesty. “We’re offering a backup squad. In case you run into trouble—Coalition troops, rival factions, anyone giving you a hard time—you’ll have a team of our mercenaries ready to back you up. Trained fighters, well-equipped, and loyal to the contract.”
Red’s arms uncrossed as she considered his words, her mind already working through the implications. A backup squad would give her camp much-needed muscle in dangerous situations, but she knew there was always more to these deals.
“In return for what?” she asked, her voice calm but direct.
Knight Four’s expression didn’t change. “We’ll keep supplying you with the essentials, even a safe house or cabin in the woods to keep you off their radar for a few days; if you need it. In exchange, you cut us in on whatever Coalition loot you get from your raids. We’ll sell it through our people, get you the credits or trade goods, and take a small cut for the service.”
Red narrowed her eyes. “How small?”
“Half,” Knight Four replied smoothly. “We are partners afterall. More than fair, considering the risk we take getting the supplies and handling the loot.”
Red glanced at her people, the Fatales watching the exchange closely. There was a murmur of quiet approval as they eyed the fresh food and supplies. Life on the road had made them desperate at times, and having a reliable supply line was something they could hardly afford to pass up.
“You’re offering a squad of fighters,” Red said, her eyes locked with his. “What makes you think I need your backup? We’ve been doing fine on our own.”
Knight Four nodded, acknowledging her strength. “You’re good at what you do. But the Coalition’s not letting up. We’ve all seen what they’re capable of. Having extra muscle at your back, especially when things get rough, might make the difference between survival and getting wiped out.”
Red crossed her arms again, her expression unreadable. She knew he was right. As skilled as her psychics were, there were times when brute force was needed—times when sheer numbers and firepower could turn the tide of a battle. And despite her natural distrust of outsiders, she couldn’t deny the value of what he was offering.
After a long moment of silence, Red finally nodded. “Alright. We’ll take your backup. And the supply line.”
Knight Four grinned, extending his hand. “Deal?”
Red hesitated for a fraction of a second before taking his hand, shaking it firmly. “Deal.”
As their hands clasped, the rest of the Mystic Knights continued unloading the supplies, setting up crates of food and gear around the camp. The Fatalies moved in to inspect the goods, their wary expressions giving way to quiet relief as they realized the Knights had delivered on their promise.
Knight Four glanced at Red, lowering his voice just slightly. “You’ve got a good crew, Red. This deal—it’ll keep them safer than they would be alone.”
Red looked at him, her sharp gaze softening just enough to show that she understood. “We’ll see about that,” she said quietly, though there was no malice in her voice.
The camp slowly came alive with the sounds of people preparing meals with the fresh food, packing away the new gear, and tending to the first aid kits. The Mystic Knights moved among them, helping where they could, but always keeping a respectful distance.
As the sun dipped lower in the sky, Red stood watching the camp with Knight Four beside her. She didn’t say anything, but there was a quiet understanding between them now—a partnership born of mutual benefits.
For now, the elimination of the CS squads and survival were her goals. And with the merc company backing them up, Camp Fatalie had just become a little bit stronger.
---
Mercenary Company - Camp Fatale
Independent (10 points anywhere)
Outfits: None.
Equipment: None.
Vehicles: None.
Weapons (They are weapons but they look vulnerable): None
Communications: None.
Internal Security: None.
Permanent Base: None.
Intelligence Resources: None.
Special Budget: None.
Alignment: Evil. Cost: None.
Criminal Activity:
- Con Woman (1): 5 points.
- Prostitutes (3): 5 points.
- Smugglers and Sellers of Contraband: 15 points
- Special Forces: 4 Tattoo Men who follow behind Camp Fatale. 40 points
Reputation: Unknown. 5 points.
Salary: None.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
The Coalition Patrol
The forest surrounding the Kingdom of Tolkeen was a sprawling tangle of tall, ancient trees and thick underbrush. Once peaceful and verdant, it now echoed with the sound of distant battle, a constant reminder of the war slowly consuming the land. Scattered throughout the fields and woodlands were small bands of refugees, aimlessly wandering as they sought refuge from the escalating conflict. Skattered throughout the region are ragtag group of weary and displaced souls.
One such camp itself was a pitiful sight: makeshift tents crafted from torn clothing and canvas, hastily tied to branches or stuck in the muddy ground. A few small fires burned in the center, their thin trails of smoke rising into the overcast sky. The refugees huddled close, clutching what little belongings they had salvaged from their former lives.
The refugee camp, like many was predominately women (the men being involved in the war), their faces marred with exhaustion and fear. Some sat quietly, cradling small, crying infants wrapped in blankets as old grandmothers whispered soothing words to calm them. Nearby, a group of elderly men tried to fix a torn cart, their hands trembling with the stiffness of age and the cold bite of the wind. A handful of younger men, ragged and gaunt, kept watch at the perimeter of the camp, though they bore no weapons, only the helpless determination of people with nowhere to go.
In the distance, the low, mechanical rumble of Coalition hovercraft broke the uneasy quiet. The sleek black machines glided over the rough terrain, their movements precise, ominous. From one of the crafts, a squad of soldiers disembarked—a unit of the Coalition clad in heavy black body armor, their helmets concealing their faces, making them faceless enforcers of the regime. Accompanying them were Dog Boys, psychic hounds sniffing the air, ears twitching as they scanned the surroundings.
The lieutenant leading the squad signaled to the grunts to approach. His eyes lingered on the camp below, particularly on the young women, their clothing tattered and revealing. There was a flicker of amusement in his cold gaze. With a curt nod, he sent two grunts forward to "question" the refugees.
The two Coalition soldiers strode forward with a swagger, their weapons held loosely at their sides. They scanned the refugees, eyes lingering too long on the frightened women huddled together. One of them—a tall, imposing figure—stepped up to the nearest group of girls, his voice casual but with an edge of menace.
“State your business here.”
One of the girls, no older than twenty, looked up at him with wide, terrified eyes. She held a small bundle—an infant—closely to her chest. Her lips trembled as she spoke.
“Please. We...we’re just trying to get away from the fighting. We mean no harm. Please, we have nothing.”
The soldier’s eyes swept over her, and he smirked, making no attempt to hide his interest. His companion nudged him, a low chuckle escaping his lips.
“Nothing, huh? Looks like you’ve got plenty to offer.”
The girls shrank back, the fear in their eyes deepening. One of the older men, bent with age and hardship, stepped forward, his voice shaking with barely restrained anger.
“Leave them alone! They’ve done nothing wrong!”
The lieutenant, still observing from a distance, gave a bored glance toward the old man but made no move to intervene. To the Coalition, these people were just another group of displaced souls—irrelevant to the larger war effort. Humans. Non-combatants. The old man’s defiance was met with a hard shove from one of the soldiers, sending him sprawling into the mud.
“Shut up, old man. You don’t get to tell us what to do.”
The Dog Boys stood at the edge of the camp, noses twitching, but they gave no sign of any magical or supernatural presence. The squad leader knew they wouldn’t find anything of value here—no D-Bees, no mages, no threats. But still, they lingered. His eyes returned to the women, and he adjusted his helmet as though preparing to give a more direct order.
The air in the camp grew thick with tension. The refugees, powerless to resist the soldiers, huddled closer together. The women stared down at the ground, hoping to escape the soldiers' gaze, while the old men could do little but watch, helpless and seething, as the soldiers circled like predators.
After what felt like an eternity, the lieutenant sighed, finally raising his hand to call off the grunts. “Enough. Let them be. They’re no use to us.”
The soldiers exchanged disappointed glances but relented. With a final leer at the frightened women, they turned away, moving back toward their lieutenant.
Before leaving, one of the grunts looked over his shoulder and issued a warning, his voice flat and devoid of sympathy. “This is a war zone. Get out while you can. We won’t be so nice next time.”
The hovercraft engines roared to life, and the soldiers boarded, leaving the camp behind in a cloud of dust and tension. The refugees remained motionless for a few moments, silent except for the distant wails of a baby.
As the noise of the Coalition patrol faded into the distance, the refugees of Camp Fatale slowly began to move again, faces etched with exhaustion and fear. They knew this encounter was only the beginning of their trials in the war-torn land of Tolkeen. The war would show them no mercy, and neither would those who claimed to protect humanity.
---
The Psychic Ambush
The hovercraft glided to a halt on the forest's edge, its black, sleek frame blending into the shadows of the towering trees. The lieutenant stood near the craft’s exit, signaling for the driver to depart. His orders were clear: the hover vehicle was too valuable to risk being stolen or ambushed while they were on foot. The plan was simple—a moving target was harder to hit, and they had a designated rendezvous point in four hours. If things went sideways, the radios would bring the hovercraft back within minutes.
The hovercraft engines roared back to life, kicking up dust and leaves as it lifted off, leaving the ten-person patrol alone on the forest floor. At the center of their formation stood a towering black figure—a Skele-bot, its 7-foot frame all sharp angles and gleaming, pitch-black armor. It moved silently, following behind the patrol like a mechanical shadow, waiting for orders but programmed not to fire unless commanded by the lieutenant or sergeant. Its cold, mechanical gaze swept the area, analyzing threats, but it posed no danger to unarmed civilians. For now, it was just another soldier in their ranks.
The patrol moved deeper into the forest, their boots crunching over the undergrowth as the Dog Boys—a German Shepherd and a Labrador mix—led the way, sniffing the air for any sign of magic or supernatural threats. They’d been walking for about an hour when the Dog Boys raised their heads, alert. Ahead, through the trees, another band of refugees had set up camp in a small clearing.
This group looked noticeably different from the previous ones the patrol had encountered. There were no men between under 50—only women, older men, and children. The women, though clearly displaced, looked better fed and cleaner than most refugees. Their clothes were in better condition, their tents were Northern Gun. Though they were still clearly nomads, they appeared to have more resources and were managing their situation better than most other refugee groups wandering Tolkeen’s war-torn landscape.
The lieutenant raised a hand, signaling for the patrol to stop. The Dog Boys trotted forward, their noses twitching, but something was off. The German Shepherd Dog Boy stopped, sniffing the air with more urgency. His psychic senses, normally sharp and clear, couldn’t pick up anything from the group of refugees.
“I’m not getting anything, sir,” the German Shepherd said, his ears twitching. “No psychic energy, nothing.”
The Labrador Dog Boy confirmed it. “Same here. But... I can still smell them. They’re human, no question about it.”
The lieutenant frowned but motioned the rest of the squad to approach. As they did, they noticed the women in the camp were unusually attractive, some in their early twenties, wearing clean clothing that clung to their figures. Several of the younger Coalition soldiers exchanged glances, their attention immediately drifting toward the women, whose subtle, flirtatious smiles and welcoming gestures seemed to pull them in.
Suddenly, one of the Dog Boys stopped in his tracks, his eyes going wide. His ears flattened against his skull, and a growl escaped his throat.
“Danger! We’re surrounded!”
In the same instant, the Dog Boy's sixth sense went off like an alarm, but it was too late. In an instant, the lieutenant, two soldiers, and the two Dog Boys froze, their muscles locking up as though an invisible force had seized control of them. They couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, their eyes wide with shock. They were utterly paralyzed.
Three of the younger soldiers, distracted by the beautiful women, seemed oblivious to the danger around them, their attention completely focused on the women’s soft voices and flirtatious smiles. One of the women, a tall brunette, leaned closer to one of the soldiers, her hand lightly brushing against his arm. He barely noticed the sudden stillness of his comrades.
Meanwhile, the Skele-bot, looming, its mechanical joints jerked. Then, as though pulled by an invisible string, the Skele-bot straightened to full attention and began moving—but not under its own command.
The Psi-Stalker—the squad's anti-psychic specialist—felt the sudden shift. His sharp senses, attuned to psychic energies, registered the presence of unseen enemies all around them. He grabbed his energy rifle, his eyes scanning the area, teeth bared in a snarl.
"We're being ambushed! Everyone's compromised!" the Psi-Stalker yelled, his voice cutting through the haze of confusion.
The remaining soldiers, still distracted by the women, barely responded. Worse, he could sense that the others—his lieutenant, the Dog Boys, and the soldiers—were being actively undermined by the psychic forces in the camp.
With a growl, he raised his rifle and shouted again, his voice full of rage, “Release them, now! Or I’ll kill you ALL!”
The response was immediate.
One of the refugee women, a seemingly delicate girl in her early twenties, suddenly leaped forward, placing herself directly in front of the Psi-Stalker’s rifle. He fired twice without hesitation, his energy blasts streaking toward her, but to his shock, she absorbed the shots, her body flickering with energy as the beams vanished into her like water soaking into a sponge. She stood, unharmed, her eyes glowing faintly with a psychic aura.
The Psi-Stalker snarled, realizing the trap was far deeper than he had anticipated. His comrades were falling one by one, the last three soldiers paralyzed within seconds as the invisible psychic grip extended to them. The Psi-Stalker’s mind raced—he was outnumbered, outmaneuvered, and his weapon was useless now.
With no time to waste, he made the only choice left. Turning on his heel, he fled into the forest, his dark cloak swirling behind him as he vanished into the trees. But he was not alone. The Skele-bot, now under the control of the Psi-Tech, lunged after him, its heavy, mechanical frame thundering through the forest with relentless speed.
The Psi-Stalker could hear the metallic clanking of the Skele-bot gaining on him, its hollow, glowing eyes locked onto him like a predator. The chase had begun.
---
A Coalition States Military Squad during the War on Tolkeen
The Coalition States are a powerful, human-supremacist, military regime focused on eradicating magic and non-human entities. During the War on Tolkeen, the CS engaged in one of the most significant and brutal conflicts, targeting the Tolkeen Kingdom, a society that heavily embraced magic and non-human entities, with devastating force.
1 Lieutenant (officer)
1 Psi-Stalker
2 Dog Boys
1 Skele-bot
5 Coalition Grunts
---
Leadership: Coalition Lt
Role: Command and tactical coordination
Responsibilities:
Strategy & Decision-Making: The lieutenant serves as the squad leader, responsible for tactical decision-making on the battlefield. They relay mission directives from higher command and adjust plans based on battlefield developments.
Coordination: In a combat scenario, the lt ensures the squad's specialists and support units work cohesively, maximizing efficiency in complex operations.
Morale Leadership: As a commanding officer, the lt ensures discipline, order, and morale, which are critical in the bloody, chaotic battles of the War on Tolkeen.
Challenges:
The lieutenant faces moral ambiguity as Coalition forces are tasked with wiping out not only magical combatants but also non-combatant civilians who are perceived as "the enemy" simply for using magic or being non-human.
2. Coalition Grunts (5 Members)
Composition: Each grunt in the squad fulfills a specialized role that enhances the team's adaptability and combat proficiency.
Demolition Man
Role: Expert in explosives and structural sabotage by planting charges to destroy fortifications, obstacles, or enemy infrastructure.
Strategic Impact: In urban warfare during the siege of Tolkeen, demolitions are vital in breaching magical barriers or tearing down key structures like defensive walls.
Medic
The war in Tolkeen involves a mix of high-tech and magical weapons, meaning the medic must be prepared for injuries caused by both conventional munitions and supernatural forces.
Major Psychic (Healer): Bio-Regenerate (self) (6), Deaden Pain (4), Healing Touch (6), Psychic Diagnosis (4), Psychic Purification (8), Psychic Surgery (14), Stop Bleeding (4), Suppress Fear (8)
Rescue Advanced Training
Salvage Expert Advanced Training
Pigman (Heavy Weapons Specialist)
Role: Fire support using high-caliber weaponry.
Key Responsibilities: Laying down suppressive fire with heavy machine guns, grenade launchers, or railguns. Dealing with large targets like enemy war machines, magical constructs, or heavily armored Tolkeen defenders.
Strategic Importance: The Pigman is crucial for overpowering magical defenses or creatures summoned by Tolkeen forces, providing a heavy-hitting response to Tolkeen's supernatural arsenal.
Recognize Weapon Quality (+20%)
W.P. Rifles
W.P. Heavy Military Weapons
W.P. Heavy Energy Weapons (including rail guns)
W.P. Two of choice (any) or two Demolition skills
The Dog Boys and Psi-Stalker perform the role of scouts
Point Man (Scout)
Role: Reconnaissance and forward scouting.
Key Responsibilities: Identifying threats or enemy positions ahead of the squad.
Finding safe paths through potentially dangerous, magic-riddled terrain.
Challenges: Tolkeen’s mages often manipulate the environment or use illusion spells, making the point man’s job extremely dangerous. The point man must be adept at spotting magical traps and ambushes.
Radio Man (Communications)
Role: Communication and coordination with higher command.
Key Responsibilities:
Ensuring constant communication with Coalition command for updated orders and battlefield intel. Coordinating airstrikes, artillery, reinforcements, or tactical retreats when necessary.
Literacy: American
Computer Operation
Electronic Countermeasures
Optic Systems
Surveillance Systems
Languages: Dragonese
Cryptography:
TV Video
Secondary:
Basic Electronics
The forest surrounding the Kingdom of Tolkeen was a sprawling tangle of tall, ancient trees and thick underbrush. Once peaceful and verdant, it now echoed with the sound of distant battle, a constant reminder of the war slowly consuming the land. Scattered throughout the fields and woodlands were small bands of refugees, aimlessly wandering as they sought refuge from the escalating conflict. Skattered throughout the region are ragtag group of weary and displaced souls.
One such camp itself was a pitiful sight: makeshift tents crafted from torn clothing and canvas, hastily tied to branches or stuck in the muddy ground. A few small fires burned in the center, their thin trails of smoke rising into the overcast sky. The refugees huddled close, clutching what little belongings they had salvaged from their former lives.
The refugee camp, like many was predominately women (the men being involved in the war), their faces marred with exhaustion and fear. Some sat quietly, cradling small, crying infants wrapped in blankets as old grandmothers whispered soothing words to calm them. Nearby, a group of elderly men tried to fix a torn cart, their hands trembling with the stiffness of age and the cold bite of the wind. A handful of younger men, ragged and gaunt, kept watch at the perimeter of the camp, though they bore no weapons, only the helpless determination of people with nowhere to go.
In the distance, the low, mechanical rumble of Coalition hovercraft broke the uneasy quiet. The sleek black machines glided over the rough terrain, their movements precise, ominous. From one of the crafts, a squad of soldiers disembarked—a unit of the Coalition clad in heavy black body armor, their helmets concealing their faces, making them faceless enforcers of the regime. Accompanying them were Dog Boys, psychic hounds sniffing the air, ears twitching as they scanned the surroundings.
The lieutenant leading the squad signaled to the grunts to approach. His eyes lingered on the camp below, particularly on the young women, their clothing tattered and revealing. There was a flicker of amusement in his cold gaze. With a curt nod, he sent two grunts forward to "question" the refugees.
The two Coalition soldiers strode forward with a swagger, their weapons held loosely at their sides. They scanned the refugees, eyes lingering too long on the frightened women huddled together. One of them—a tall, imposing figure—stepped up to the nearest group of girls, his voice casual but with an edge of menace.
“State your business here.”
One of the girls, no older than twenty, looked up at him with wide, terrified eyes. She held a small bundle—an infant—closely to her chest. Her lips trembled as she spoke.
“Please. We...we’re just trying to get away from the fighting. We mean no harm. Please, we have nothing.”
The soldier’s eyes swept over her, and he smirked, making no attempt to hide his interest. His companion nudged him, a low chuckle escaping his lips.
“Nothing, huh? Looks like you’ve got plenty to offer.”
The girls shrank back, the fear in their eyes deepening. One of the older men, bent with age and hardship, stepped forward, his voice shaking with barely restrained anger.
“Leave them alone! They’ve done nothing wrong!”
The lieutenant, still observing from a distance, gave a bored glance toward the old man but made no move to intervene. To the Coalition, these people were just another group of displaced souls—irrelevant to the larger war effort. Humans. Non-combatants. The old man’s defiance was met with a hard shove from one of the soldiers, sending him sprawling into the mud.
“Shut up, old man. You don’t get to tell us what to do.”
The Dog Boys stood at the edge of the camp, noses twitching, but they gave no sign of any magical or supernatural presence. The squad leader knew they wouldn’t find anything of value here—no D-Bees, no mages, no threats. But still, they lingered. His eyes returned to the women, and he adjusted his helmet as though preparing to give a more direct order.
The air in the camp grew thick with tension. The refugees, powerless to resist the soldiers, huddled closer together. The women stared down at the ground, hoping to escape the soldiers' gaze, while the old men could do little but watch, helpless and seething, as the soldiers circled like predators.
After what felt like an eternity, the lieutenant sighed, finally raising his hand to call off the grunts. “Enough. Let them be. They’re no use to us.”
The soldiers exchanged disappointed glances but relented. With a final leer at the frightened women, they turned away, moving back toward their lieutenant.
Before leaving, one of the grunts looked over his shoulder and issued a warning, his voice flat and devoid of sympathy. “This is a war zone. Get out while you can. We won’t be so nice next time.”
The hovercraft engines roared to life, and the soldiers boarded, leaving the camp behind in a cloud of dust and tension. The refugees remained motionless for a few moments, silent except for the distant wails of a baby.
As the noise of the Coalition patrol faded into the distance, the refugees of Camp Fatale slowly began to move again, faces etched with exhaustion and fear. They knew this encounter was only the beginning of their trials in the war-torn land of Tolkeen. The war would show them no mercy, and neither would those who claimed to protect humanity.
---
The Psychic Ambush
The hovercraft glided to a halt on the forest's edge, its black, sleek frame blending into the shadows of the towering trees. The lieutenant stood near the craft’s exit, signaling for the driver to depart. His orders were clear: the hover vehicle was too valuable to risk being stolen or ambushed while they were on foot. The plan was simple—a moving target was harder to hit, and they had a designated rendezvous point in four hours. If things went sideways, the radios would bring the hovercraft back within minutes.
The hovercraft engines roared back to life, kicking up dust and leaves as it lifted off, leaving the ten-person patrol alone on the forest floor. At the center of their formation stood a towering black figure—a Skele-bot, its 7-foot frame all sharp angles and gleaming, pitch-black armor. It moved silently, following behind the patrol like a mechanical shadow, waiting for orders but programmed not to fire unless commanded by the lieutenant or sergeant. Its cold, mechanical gaze swept the area, analyzing threats, but it posed no danger to unarmed civilians. For now, it was just another soldier in their ranks.
The patrol moved deeper into the forest, their boots crunching over the undergrowth as the Dog Boys—a German Shepherd and a Labrador mix—led the way, sniffing the air for any sign of magic or supernatural threats. They’d been walking for about an hour when the Dog Boys raised their heads, alert. Ahead, through the trees, another band of refugees had set up camp in a small clearing.
This group looked noticeably different from the previous ones the patrol had encountered. There were no men between under 50—only women, older men, and children. The women, though clearly displaced, looked better fed and cleaner than most refugees. Their clothes were in better condition, their tents were Northern Gun. Though they were still clearly nomads, they appeared to have more resources and were managing their situation better than most other refugee groups wandering Tolkeen’s war-torn landscape.
The lieutenant raised a hand, signaling for the patrol to stop. The Dog Boys trotted forward, their noses twitching, but something was off. The German Shepherd Dog Boy stopped, sniffing the air with more urgency. His psychic senses, normally sharp and clear, couldn’t pick up anything from the group of refugees.
“I’m not getting anything, sir,” the German Shepherd said, his ears twitching. “No psychic energy, nothing.”
The Labrador Dog Boy confirmed it. “Same here. But... I can still smell them. They’re human, no question about it.”
The lieutenant frowned but motioned the rest of the squad to approach. As they did, they noticed the women in the camp were unusually attractive, some in their early twenties, wearing clean clothing that clung to their figures. Several of the younger Coalition soldiers exchanged glances, their attention immediately drifting toward the women, whose subtle, flirtatious smiles and welcoming gestures seemed to pull them in.
Suddenly, one of the Dog Boys stopped in his tracks, his eyes going wide. His ears flattened against his skull, and a growl escaped his throat.
“Danger! We’re surrounded!”
In the same instant, the Dog Boy's sixth sense went off like an alarm, but it was too late. In an instant, the lieutenant, two soldiers, and the two Dog Boys froze, their muscles locking up as though an invisible force had seized control of them. They couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, their eyes wide with shock. They were utterly paralyzed.
Three of the younger soldiers, distracted by the beautiful women, seemed oblivious to the danger around them, their attention completely focused on the women’s soft voices and flirtatious smiles. One of the women, a tall brunette, leaned closer to one of the soldiers, her hand lightly brushing against his arm. He barely noticed the sudden stillness of his comrades.
Meanwhile, the Skele-bot, looming, its mechanical joints jerked. Then, as though pulled by an invisible string, the Skele-bot straightened to full attention and began moving—but not under its own command.
The Psi-Stalker—the squad's anti-psychic specialist—felt the sudden shift. His sharp senses, attuned to psychic energies, registered the presence of unseen enemies all around them. He grabbed his energy rifle, his eyes scanning the area, teeth bared in a snarl.
"We're being ambushed! Everyone's compromised!" the Psi-Stalker yelled, his voice cutting through the haze of confusion.
The remaining soldiers, still distracted by the women, barely responded. Worse, he could sense that the others—his lieutenant, the Dog Boys, and the soldiers—were being actively undermined by the psychic forces in the camp.
With a growl, he raised his rifle and shouted again, his voice full of rage, “Release them, now! Or I’ll kill you ALL!”
The response was immediate.
One of the refugee women, a seemingly delicate girl in her early twenties, suddenly leaped forward, placing herself directly in front of the Psi-Stalker’s rifle. He fired twice without hesitation, his energy blasts streaking toward her, but to his shock, she absorbed the shots, her body flickering with energy as the beams vanished into her like water soaking into a sponge. She stood, unharmed, her eyes glowing faintly with a psychic aura.
The Psi-Stalker snarled, realizing the trap was far deeper than he had anticipated. His comrades were falling one by one, the last three soldiers paralyzed within seconds as the invisible psychic grip extended to them. The Psi-Stalker’s mind raced—he was outnumbered, outmaneuvered, and his weapon was useless now.
With no time to waste, he made the only choice left. Turning on his heel, he fled into the forest, his dark cloak swirling behind him as he vanished into the trees. But he was not alone. The Skele-bot, now under the control of the Psi-Tech, lunged after him, its heavy, mechanical frame thundering through the forest with relentless speed.
The Psi-Stalker could hear the metallic clanking of the Skele-bot gaining on him, its hollow, glowing eyes locked onto him like a predator. The chase had begun.
---
A Coalition States Military Squad during the War on Tolkeen
The Coalition States are a powerful, human-supremacist, military regime focused on eradicating magic and non-human entities. During the War on Tolkeen, the CS engaged in one of the most significant and brutal conflicts, targeting the Tolkeen Kingdom, a society that heavily embraced magic and non-human entities, with devastating force.
1 Lieutenant (officer)
1 Psi-Stalker
2 Dog Boys
1 Skele-bot
5 Coalition Grunts
---
Leadership: Coalition Lt
Role: Command and tactical coordination
Responsibilities:
Strategy & Decision-Making: The lieutenant serves as the squad leader, responsible for tactical decision-making on the battlefield. They relay mission directives from higher command and adjust plans based on battlefield developments.
Coordination: In a combat scenario, the lt ensures the squad's specialists and support units work cohesively, maximizing efficiency in complex operations.
Morale Leadership: As a commanding officer, the lt ensures discipline, order, and morale, which are critical in the bloody, chaotic battles of the War on Tolkeen.
Challenges:
The lieutenant faces moral ambiguity as Coalition forces are tasked with wiping out not only magical combatants but also non-combatant civilians who are perceived as "the enemy" simply for using magic or being non-human.
2. Coalition Grunts (5 Members)
Composition: Each grunt in the squad fulfills a specialized role that enhances the team's adaptability and combat proficiency.
Demolition Man
Role: Expert in explosives and structural sabotage by planting charges to destroy fortifications, obstacles, or enemy infrastructure.
Strategic Impact: In urban warfare during the siege of Tolkeen, demolitions are vital in breaching magical barriers or tearing down key structures like defensive walls.
Medic
The war in Tolkeen involves a mix of high-tech and magical weapons, meaning the medic must be prepared for injuries caused by both conventional munitions and supernatural forces.
Major Psychic (Healer): Bio-Regenerate (self) (6), Deaden Pain (4), Healing Touch (6), Psychic Diagnosis (4), Psychic Purification (8), Psychic Surgery (14), Stop Bleeding (4), Suppress Fear (8)
Rescue Advanced Training
Salvage Expert Advanced Training
Pigman (Heavy Weapons Specialist)
Role: Fire support using high-caliber weaponry.
Key Responsibilities: Laying down suppressive fire with heavy machine guns, grenade launchers, or railguns. Dealing with large targets like enemy war machines, magical constructs, or heavily armored Tolkeen defenders.
Strategic Importance: The Pigman is crucial for overpowering magical defenses or creatures summoned by Tolkeen forces, providing a heavy-hitting response to Tolkeen's supernatural arsenal.
Recognize Weapon Quality (+20%)
W.P. Rifles
W.P. Heavy Military Weapons
W.P. Heavy Energy Weapons (including rail guns)
W.P. Two of choice (any) or two Demolition skills
The Dog Boys and Psi-Stalker perform the role of scouts
Point Man (Scout)
Role: Reconnaissance and forward scouting.
Key Responsibilities: Identifying threats or enemy positions ahead of the squad.
Finding safe paths through potentially dangerous, magic-riddled terrain.
Challenges: Tolkeen’s mages often manipulate the environment or use illusion spells, making the point man’s job extremely dangerous. The point man must be adept at spotting magical traps and ambushes.
Radio Man (Communications)
Role: Communication and coordination with higher command.
Key Responsibilities:
Ensuring constant communication with Coalition command for updated orders and battlefield intel. Coordinating airstrikes, artillery, reinforcements, or tactical retreats when necessary.
Literacy: American
Computer Operation
Electronic Countermeasures
Optic Systems
Surveillance Systems
Languages: Dragonese
Cryptography:
TV Video
Secondary:
Basic Electronics
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Forest of Tolkeen
The clearing was eerily silent except for the rustling of leaves and the distant sound of insects. The Coalition patrol lay on the ground, disarmed, bound hand and foot with thick rope. Their energy rifles, sidearms, and equipment had been stripped away and piled near the center of the camp, far out of reach. The Skele-bot, once a towering black presence of mechanical power, now lay prone and deactivated on the forest floor, like a lifeless metal corpse.
Around the Skele-bot, four women, each dressed in rugged yet practical clothing, moved with a sense of purpose. These Psi-Techs, possessed a mental blueprint of the machine—schematics memorized from their Telemechanics psionic power and studying Coalition skele-bots moved with a methodical precision.
Each worked with their “tools” (telekinesis and hand tools) deftly reached inside the robot’s complex inner workings. Plates of black metal were lifted off the Skele-bot’s frame and neatly placed aside with calm efficiency. With a faint shimmer of psychic energy, one of the Psi-Techs raised a hand, and the intricate wiring and circuitry from within the bot floated up, suspended in the air as she examined it. Slowly, they dismantled the bot from its essential components.
"Careful, we don’t want to trigger a failsafe," one of them said, her voice calm but focused.
Another Psi-Tech nodded, using her telekinesis to gently lift out the power core and place it aside. The central processor was the last to go—delicately extracted from the machine's chest cavity, it was a gleaming piece of tech, until it was finally switched off, its lights dimming to nothing. The Skele-bot was now a shell of what it had been.
As the Psi-Techs finished their work, a group of human mercenaries arrived at the edge of the camp, their movements quiet but confident. They were hardened individuals, carrying themselves with the ease of seasoned fighters who had survived many battles. Their weapons were clean and well-maintained. These men were on loan from the Mystic Knights. A tight-knit team that operated behind the scenes of Tolkeen’s war effort.
One of the mercenaries, a sergeant, approached the Psi-Techs, his sharp eyes scanning the Coalition prisoners as he walked. He signaled to his men, and they began moving into the camp, dropping off packs of food and supplies for the psychic refugees.
"Start packing up their gear," the sergeant ordered, his voice firm but calm. “The sooner it and the prisoners are gone the less chance there will be of their psychic detection or the camp being found with them here.
The mercenaries quickly moved to the pile of Coalition gear: energy rifles, radios, and other military equipment. They worked fast, gathering the pieces of the Skele-bot, the Coalition weapons, and anything of value into their packs. The lieutenant and his squad, still bound and powerless, could only watch as their equipment was methodically stripped away.
Once everything was secured, the sergeant turned his gaze to the Coalition prisoners. He walked over, towering over them as they sat on the ground, defeated but not broken. His expression was cold, but there was no malice—just the pragmatism of a man who had seen too much war.
"You’re lucky," the sergeant said, his voice carrying over the quiet camp. "You’re leaving here alive and without injury."
The prisoners exchanged glances, their minds still reeling from the ambush. For a moment, it seemed like a cruel joke. They had been bested so easily, and now their enemies were letting them live?
"You’ll be taken to a prison of war camp," the sergeant continued. "It’s not gonna be a picnic, but it beats a grave."
He nodded to the mercenaries, who began tying ropes around the Coalition soldiers wrists, linking them together in a long line. Each prisoner was then given a heavy pack to carry—ironically filled with pieces of their own equipment and parts from the dismantled Skele-bot. The lieutenant, visibly seething under the weight of his defeat, shouldered his pack silently, unable to muster the will to resist.
The Psi-Stalker, usually so attuned to psychic energies, scowled as he adjusted the strap of his pack. He knew they had been outplayed, their superior technology and training rendered useless against the subtle, overwhelming power of the psychics. There would be no redemption today—only survival.
One of the Psi-Techs stood off to the side, her arms crossed as she watched the mercenaries march the prisoners into the forest. She tapped into her telepathic powers, scanning for any lingering threats. Satisfied that none remained, she gave a small nod to the sergeant.
"Move out!" the sergeant barked, his voice carrying through the trees.
With that, the Coalition prisoners, still bound and humiliated, began their slow march into the forest. The ropes binding them together forced them to walk in step, and the weight of the packs on their backs only added to their burden.
As they disappeared into the shadows of the trees, the clearing was left silent once more, save for the faint sounds of the mercenaries packing up the last of the supplies. The once-mighty Coalition patrol, now reduced to prisoners, walked toward an uncertain future, knowing that this defeat was only the beginning of a far darker chapter in the war.
The forest closed in behind them, swallowing them into the wilderness of Tolkeen, as the battle continued to rage elsewhere.
---
The Transfer to the Psi-Stalker Clan
The forest clearing was quiet except for the gentle rustling of leaves in the cool evening breeze. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the earth, its fading light filtering through the dense canopy of trees. In the heart of this wild, isolated area stood a small group of native Psi-Stalkers, their lean, muscled forms blending into the surrounding wilderness as though they were part of it.
The Clan Leader, a tall, weathered man with deep-set eyes and intricate tribal markings on his skin, stood at the forefront, his gaze fixed on the Coalition Psi-Stalker and the two Dog Boys who had been brought before him.
The mercenaries who had captured the Coalition patrol earlier stood off to the side, their demeanor relaxed but watchful. They had just finished explaining the terms of the arrangement, and now waited for the handover to be completed.
The mercenary sergeant, a grizzled man with a hard face, stepped forward, addressing the Coalition Psi-Stalker directly.
"Your Coalition treats you like second-class citizens at best," he said, his voice calm but firm. "You're nothing more than tools to them—useful until you're not. But here? Things will be different."
He gestured to the Psi-Stalker clan, who stood in a semi-circle, their expressions unreadable. "This clan has agreed to keep you and the Dog Boys out of the war. No bars, no cells. Just the land and the trees."
The Coalition Psi-Stalker said nothing, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the scene. He had been captured, disarmed, and humiliated, and now, instead of facing the cold metal bars of a Coalition prison or worse, he was being turned over to these people—wild Psi-Stalkers, tribal and primitive in his eyes, but free in ways he had never been.
One of the Dog Boys, the German Shepherd, shifted uncomfortably beside him. He was tense, his psychic senses on high alert, but there was no immediate threat here. The Labrador Dog Boy stood more calmly, his tail twitching slightly, though his eyes flickered with uncertainty.
The sergeant continued, turning to face the Dog Boys. "Our leadership doesn't believe you should suffer in a prison. You're Dog Boys, not criminals. But if we take you to a Tolkeen prisoner of war camp, that's exactly what you'd be—locked up like animals."
He pointed toward the vast expanse of forest behind the Psi-Stalker clan. "Here, you have the forest. The clan has pledged to keep you alive, give you space to live, build, and survive. There’s land to farm, fish, forage, and hunt. They've even provided wood for you to build cabins before winter sets in. You'll be free, as long as you stay."
The Clan Leader stepped forward now, his voice low and gravelly, but filled with authority. "But know this: if you try to run, if you think of escaping back to the war or to your Coalition, we will hunt you. This forest is ours, and no one leaves without our say. You run, we finish you off."
The weight of the threat hung in the air, and the Psi-Stalker from the Coalition gave a barely perceptible nod. He understood the deal. It wasn’t freedom in the way he had always imagined it, but it was a far better fate than rotting in a prison camp or being executed as a traitor. Here, he could still be useful, still be alive.
One of the mercenaries handed over a bundle of supplies—tools, seeds for planting, and a few basic provisions—to the native clan. The Psi-Stalker clan members accepted them silently, their eyes never leaving the Coalition soldiers.
The sergeant turned back to the Coalition prisoners, his tone final. "You’ll stay here, live off the land, and make your peace with this place. When the war is over, we'll see what happens. But for now, you belong to them."
The Psi-Stalker glanced at the Dog Boys. The German Shepherd looked uneasy, his nose twitching as he sniffed the unfamiliar scents of the forest, while the Labrador appeared resigned, his calm demeanor masking whatever thoughts ran through his mind.
The mercenaries began to step back, their job done. The sergeant gave the Psi-Stalker one last hard look. "You're lucky," he said, "very few make it out of this war alive with their heads still attached. Don’t waste this chance."
With that, the mercenaries turned and made their way back into the forest, leaving the prisoners alone with the Psi-Stalker clan.
The Clan Leader spoke again, his voice softer now, but still carrying an edge of authority. "This forest can be your home. The choice is simple—live here and survive, or die if you try to leave. The wood for your cabins is already cut. You have until winter to build and prepare."
He gestured to a small clearing beyond the trees, where piles of wooden planks and tools sat, ready to be used. "Work together, or fail together. The war does not reach this place. Here, you are not soldiers—you are survivors. Choose wisely."
The Coalition Psi-Stalker remained silent, but inside, his thoughts churned. He knew he had no real choice. For now, at least, this was his new reality. He gave a brief nod to the Clan Leader, signaling his acceptance.
The Dog Boys followed his lead, still wary but beginning to accept the situation.
With the sun now sinking lower behind the trees, casting long shadows across the clearing, the Psi-Stalker clan turned away, retreating into the forest, leaving the Coalition prisoners to their fate. The German Shepherd Dog Boy growled softly, still unsure, while the Labrador sniffed at the ground, his ears perked in thought.
Once proud and defiant, now stood in a foreign land, tied not by chains but by the invisible bounds of survival. They would have to make a life here in the wilderness, under the watchful eyes of the Psi-Stalker clan.
The forest stretched endlessly around them, silent and vast, its secrets and dangers lurking in every shadow. They had no choice but to make the best of their new lives, or die trying.
---
Location: A dimly lit camp. The only source of light is a safe fire, casting flickering shadows across the forest floor. Knight One sits, his face obscured by the hood of his cloak. His aura is one of calm authority, but there is tension in the air. Standing across from him is Knight Three, his posture rigid, his eyes betraying no emotion. They together with Knights Two and Four, save for the echo of their own voices in the cold air.
---
Knight One: (in a deep, measured tone)
"You know why I want to speak with you, don't you?"
Knight Three: (calm, but guarded)
"I suspect. The matter with Doctor Summers and his prisoner."
Knight One:
"Good. Saves us time." (pauses, locking his gaze on Knight Three)
"We gave that man a test. A chance to reveal who he truly was—a spy or simply a prisoner. He could have been useful to us. Yet, when we left, I saw the look in your eyes. You tripped him on the way out, and you made sure that the Doctor’s nephew had a clear shot at him. The man didn’t stand a chance."
(Knight One’s voice hardens.)
"Was it a deliberate choice, Knight Three? Did you intend for him to die? Or was this all just a play to deceive Doctor Summers' family? You made it look like a clean kill, as though we had nothing to do with it. But I need to know—why?"
Knight Three: (taking a deep breath, keeping his voice steady)
"He was a liability. The moment he woke up and saw us, our situation became compromised. Whether he was a spy for Tolkeen or just a prisoner didn’t matter anymore. He saw us, our faces, and he would have recognized that we were not just random thieves or intruders."
(Knight Three steps forward, his voice lowering but growing more intense.)
"The lockpicks were a test, yes, but if he had escaped fully intact, the family would have known something was wrong. They would have known that someone had been there or at least that he escaped. Then they would have known their secret is out about their bunker and that they are really spies. But by making it look like a failed escape attempt—one that ended with his death—the family is left with nothing more than a convenient excuse. He tried to escape, and the nephew killed him. Simple. Clean."
Knight One: (narrowing his eyes)
"So, you arranged it all, then? You knew exactly how it would play out from the moment you tripped him up?"
Knight Three: (nodding)
"I knew it was the only way to protect the operation. If we left him alive, chained to the wall, he might have talked eventually. If we killed him ourselves, chained like an animal, the family would have known we were there. But by giving him a way out—a small taste of freedom—I ensured he would be silenced, permanently, by someone within their own ranks."
(Knight Three pauses, his voice growing even colder.)
"And if he was a spy, as was possible, then it’s one that can’t spill his secrets to the CS. With the exception of what you gleaned from his mind telepathically as well as what he told you only in a whisper, his secrets are safe. Either way, we accomplished our mission and left without a trace."
Knight One: (leaning forward, his tone sharp)
"And the Summers family? Do they suspect anything?"
Knight Three: (shaking his head)
"No. The nephew believes it was a routine escape attempt. Doctor Summers is more concerned about how his nephew is dealing with having killed a man, rather than questioning how the prisoner tried to escape in the first place. They remain unaware that we discovered the laptop, the files, and their connection to Tolkeen. As far as they know, their secret is safe. But we know better."
Knight One: (silent for a moment, considering Knight Three’s words)
"You took a risk. A calculated one, but a risk nonetheless. You arranged for a man’s death in a way that served our interests, but you acted without consulting me or the others. That could have jeopardized everything."
(Knight One rises slowly, his presence looming.)
"But your reasoning is sound. You preserved the secrecy of our mission, and if the family remains in the dark, we still have the upper hand. For now."
(Knight One steps closer to Knight Three, his tone softening slightly but still firm.)
"You’re walking a fine line between cunning and recklessness. The next time you make a move like that, I expect to be informed beforehand. Understood?"
Knight Three: (bowing his head slightly in acknowledgment)
"Understood. I will not act alone again."
Knight One: (nodding)
"Good. Don't forget: we succeed as a unit, not as individuals. Dismissed."
(Knight Three turns leaving Knight One alone with the crackling fire and the weight of decisions made in the shadows.)
The clearing was eerily silent except for the rustling of leaves and the distant sound of insects. The Coalition patrol lay on the ground, disarmed, bound hand and foot with thick rope. Their energy rifles, sidearms, and equipment had been stripped away and piled near the center of the camp, far out of reach. The Skele-bot, once a towering black presence of mechanical power, now lay prone and deactivated on the forest floor, like a lifeless metal corpse.
Around the Skele-bot, four women, each dressed in rugged yet practical clothing, moved with a sense of purpose. These Psi-Techs, possessed a mental blueprint of the machine—schematics memorized from their Telemechanics psionic power and studying Coalition skele-bots moved with a methodical precision.
Each worked with their “tools” (telekinesis and hand tools) deftly reached inside the robot’s complex inner workings. Plates of black metal were lifted off the Skele-bot’s frame and neatly placed aside with calm efficiency. With a faint shimmer of psychic energy, one of the Psi-Techs raised a hand, and the intricate wiring and circuitry from within the bot floated up, suspended in the air as she examined it. Slowly, they dismantled the bot from its essential components.
"Careful, we don’t want to trigger a failsafe," one of them said, her voice calm but focused.
Another Psi-Tech nodded, using her telekinesis to gently lift out the power core and place it aside. The central processor was the last to go—delicately extracted from the machine's chest cavity, it was a gleaming piece of tech, until it was finally switched off, its lights dimming to nothing. The Skele-bot was now a shell of what it had been.
As the Psi-Techs finished their work, a group of human mercenaries arrived at the edge of the camp, their movements quiet but confident. They were hardened individuals, carrying themselves with the ease of seasoned fighters who had survived many battles. Their weapons were clean and well-maintained. These men were on loan from the Mystic Knights. A tight-knit team that operated behind the scenes of Tolkeen’s war effort.
One of the mercenaries, a sergeant, approached the Psi-Techs, his sharp eyes scanning the Coalition prisoners as he walked. He signaled to his men, and they began moving into the camp, dropping off packs of food and supplies for the psychic refugees.
"Start packing up their gear," the sergeant ordered, his voice firm but calm. “The sooner it and the prisoners are gone the less chance there will be of their psychic detection or the camp being found with them here.
The mercenaries quickly moved to the pile of Coalition gear: energy rifles, radios, and other military equipment. They worked fast, gathering the pieces of the Skele-bot, the Coalition weapons, and anything of value into their packs. The lieutenant and his squad, still bound and powerless, could only watch as their equipment was methodically stripped away.
Once everything was secured, the sergeant turned his gaze to the Coalition prisoners. He walked over, towering over them as they sat on the ground, defeated but not broken. His expression was cold, but there was no malice—just the pragmatism of a man who had seen too much war.
"You’re lucky," the sergeant said, his voice carrying over the quiet camp. "You’re leaving here alive and without injury."
The prisoners exchanged glances, their minds still reeling from the ambush. For a moment, it seemed like a cruel joke. They had been bested so easily, and now their enemies were letting them live?
"You’ll be taken to a prison of war camp," the sergeant continued. "It’s not gonna be a picnic, but it beats a grave."
He nodded to the mercenaries, who began tying ropes around the Coalition soldiers wrists, linking them together in a long line. Each prisoner was then given a heavy pack to carry—ironically filled with pieces of their own equipment and parts from the dismantled Skele-bot. The lieutenant, visibly seething under the weight of his defeat, shouldered his pack silently, unable to muster the will to resist.
The Psi-Stalker, usually so attuned to psychic energies, scowled as he adjusted the strap of his pack. He knew they had been outplayed, their superior technology and training rendered useless against the subtle, overwhelming power of the psychics. There would be no redemption today—only survival.
One of the Psi-Techs stood off to the side, her arms crossed as she watched the mercenaries march the prisoners into the forest. She tapped into her telepathic powers, scanning for any lingering threats. Satisfied that none remained, she gave a small nod to the sergeant.
"Move out!" the sergeant barked, his voice carrying through the trees.
With that, the Coalition prisoners, still bound and humiliated, began their slow march into the forest. The ropes binding them together forced them to walk in step, and the weight of the packs on their backs only added to their burden.
As they disappeared into the shadows of the trees, the clearing was left silent once more, save for the faint sounds of the mercenaries packing up the last of the supplies. The once-mighty Coalition patrol, now reduced to prisoners, walked toward an uncertain future, knowing that this defeat was only the beginning of a far darker chapter in the war.
The forest closed in behind them, swallowing them into the wilderness of Tolkeen, as the battle continued to rage elsewhere.
---
The Transfer to the Psi-Stalker Clan
The forest clearing was quiet except for the gentle rustling of leaves in the cool evening breeze. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows over the earth, its fading light filtering through the dense canopy of trees. In the heart of this wild, isolated area stood a small group of native Psi-Stalkers, their lean, muscled forms blending into the surrounding wilderness as though they were part of it.
The Clan Leader, a tall, weathered man with deep-set eyes and intricate tribal markings on his skin, stood at the forefront, his gaze fixed on the Coalition Psi-Stalker and the two Dog Boys who had been brought before him.
The mercenaries who had captured the Coalition patrol earlier stood off to the side, their demeanor relaxed but watchful. They had just finished explaining the terms of the arrangement, and now waited for the handover to be completed.
The mercenary sergeant, a grizzled man with a hard face, stepped forward, addressing the Coalition Psi-Stalker directly.
"Your Coalition treats you like second-class citizens at best," he said, his voice calm but firm. "You're nothing more than tools to them—useful until you're not. But here? Things will be different."
He gestured to the Psi-Stalker clan, who stood in a semi-circle, their expressions unreadable. "This clan has agreed to keep you and the Dog Boys out of the war. No bars, no cells. Just the land and the trees."
The Coalition Psi-Stalker said nothing, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the scene. He had been captured, disarmed, and humiliated, and now, instead of facing the cold metal bars of a Coalition prison or worse, he was being turned over to these people—wild Psi-Stalkers, tribal and primitive in his eyes, but free in ways he had never been.
One of the Dog Boys, the German Shepherd, shifted uncomfortably beside him. He was tense, his psychic senses on high alert, but there was no immediate threat here. The Labrador Dog Boy stood more calmly, his tail twitching slightly, though his eyes flickered with uncertainty.
The sergeant continued, turning to face the Dog Boys. "Our leadership doesn't believe you should suffer in a prison. You're Dog Boys, not criminals. But if we take you to a Tolkeen prisoner of war camp, that's exactly what you'd be—locked up like animals."
He pointed toward the vast expanse of forest behind the Psi-Stalker clan. "Here, you have the forest. The clan has pledged to keep you alive, give you space to live, build, and survive. There’s land to farm, fish, forage, and hunt. They've even provided wood for you to build cabins before winter sets in. You'll be free, as long as you stay."
The Clan Leader stepped forward now, his voice low and gravelly, but filled with authority. "But know this: if you try to run, if you think of escaping back to the war or to your Coalition, we will hunt you. This forest is ours, and no one leaves without our say. You run, we finish you off."
The weight of the threat hung in the air, and the Psi-Stalker from the Coalition gave a barely perceptible nod. He understood the deal. It wasn’t freedom in the way he had always imagined it, but it was a far better fate than rotting in a prison camp or being executed as a traitor. Here, he could still be useful, still be alive.
One of the mercenaries handed over a bundle of supplies—tools, seeds for planting, and a few basic provisions—to the native clan. The Psi-Stalker clan members accepted them silently, their eyes never leaving the Coalition soldiers.
The sergeant turned back to the Coalition prisoners, his tone final. "You’ll stay here, live off the land, and make your peace with this place. When the war is over, we'll see what happens. But for now, you belong to them."
The Psi-Stalker glanced at the Dog Boys. The German Shepherd looked uneasy, his nose twitching as he sniffed the unfamiliar scents of the forest, while the Labrador appeared resigned, his calm demeanor masking whatever thoughts ran through his mind.
The mercenaries began to step back, their job done. The sergeant gave the Psi-Stalker one last hard look. "You're lucky," he said, "very few make it out of this war alive with their heads still attached. Don’t waste this chance."
With that, the mercenaries turned and made their way back into the forest, leaving the prisoners alone with the Psi-Stalker clan.
The Clan Leader spoke again, his voice softer now, but still carrying an edge of authority. "This forest can be your home. The choice is simple—live here and survive, or die if you try to leave. The wood for your cabins is already cut. You have until winter to build and prepare."
He gestured to a small clearing beyond the trees, where piles of wooden planks and tools sat, ready to be used. "Work together, or fail together. The war does not reach this place. Here, you are not soldiers—you are survivors. Choose wisely."
The Coalition Psi-Stalker remained silent, but inside, his thoughts churned. He knew he had no real choice. For now, at least, this was his new reality. He gave a brief nod to the Clan Leader, signaling his acceptance.
The Dog Boys followed his lead, still wary but beginning to accept the situation.
With the sun now sinking lower behind the trees, casting long shadows across the clearing, the Psi-Stalker clan turned away, retreating into the forest, leaving the Coalition prisoners to their fate. The German Shepherd Dog Boy growled softly, still unsure, while the Labrador sniffed at the ground, his ears perked in thought.
Once proud and defiant, now stood in a foreign land, tied not by chains but by the invisible bounds of survival. They would have to make a life here in the wilderness, under the watchful eyes of the Psi-Stalker clan.
The forest stretched endlessly around them, silent and vast, its secrets and dangers lurking in every shadow. They had no choice but to make the best of their new lives, or die trying.
---
Location: A dimly lit camp. The only source of light is a safe fire, casting flickering shadows across the forest floor. Knight One sits, his face obscured by the hood of his cloak. His aura is one of calm authority, but there is tension in the air. Standing across from him is Knight Three, his posture rigid, his eyes betraying no emotion. They together with Knights Two and Four, save for the echo of their own voices in the cold air.
---
Knight One: (in a deep, measured tone)
"You know why I want to speak with you, don't you?"
Knight Three: (calm, but guarded)
"I suspect. The matter with Doctor Summers and his prisoner."
Knight One:
"Good. Saves us time." (pauses, locking his gaze on Knight Three)
"We gave that man a test. A chance to reveal who he truly was—a spy or simply a prisoner. He could have been useful to us. Yet, when we left, I saw the look in your eyes. You tripped him on the way out, and you made sure that the Doctor’s nephew had a clear shot at him. The man didn’t stand a chance."
(Knight One’s voice hardens.)
"Was it a deliberate choice, Knight Three? Did you intend for him to die? Or was this all just a play to deceive Doctor Summers' family? You made it look like a clean kill, as though we had nothing to do with it. But I need to know—why?"
Knight Three: (taking a deep breath, keeping his voice steady)
"He was a liability. The moment he woke up and saw us, our situation became compromised. Whether he was a spy for Tolkeen or just a prisoner didn’t matter anymore. He saw us, our faces, and he would have recognized that we were not just random thieves or intruders."
(Knight Three steps forward, his voice lowering but growing more intense.)
"The lockpicks were a test, yes, but if he had escaped fully intact, the family would have known something was wrong. They would have known that someone had been there or at least that he escaped. Then they would have known their secret is out about their bunker and that they are really spies. But by making it look like a failed escape attempt—one that ended with his death—the family is left with nothing more than a convenient excuse. He tried to escape, and the nephew killed him. Simple. Clean."
Knight One: (narrowing his eyes)
"So, you arranged it all, then? You knew exactly how it would play out from the moment you tripped him up?"
Knight Three: (nodding)
"I knew it was the only way to protect the operation. If we left him alive, chained to the wall, he might have talked eventually. If we killed him ourselves, chained like an animal, the family would have known we were there. But by giving him a way out—a small taste of freedom—I ensured he would be silenced, permanently, by someone within their own ranks."
(Knight Three pauses, his voice growing even colder.)
"And if he was a spy, as was possible, then it’s one that can’t spill his secrets to the CS. With the exception of what you gleaned from his mind telepathically as well as what he told you only in a whisper, his secrets are safe. Either way, we accomplished our mission and left without a trace."
Knight One: (leaning forward, his tone sharp)
"And the Summers family? Do they suspect anything?"
Knight Three: (shaking his head)
"No. The nephew believes it was a routine escape attempt. Doctor Summers is more concerned about how his nephew is dealing with having killed a man, rather than questioning how the prisoner tried to escape in the first place. They remain unaware that we discovered the laptop, the files, and their connection to Tolkeen. As far as they know, their secret is safe. But we know better."
Knight One: (silent for a moment, considering Knight Three’s words)
"You took a risk. A calculated one, but a risk nonetheless. You arranged for a man’s death in a way that served our interests, but you acted without consulting me or the others. That could have jeopardized everything."
(Knight One rises slowly, his presence looming.)
"But your reasoning is sound. You preserved the secrecy of our mission, and if the family remains in the dark, we still have the upper hand. For now."
(Knight One steps closer to Knight Three, his tone softening slightly but still firm.)
"You’re walking a fine line between cunning and recklessness. The next time you make a move like that, I expect to be informed beforehand. Understood?"
Knight Three: (bowing his head slightly in acknowledgment)
"Understood. I will not act alone again."
Knight One: (nodding)
"Good. Don't forget: we succeed as a unit, not as individuals. Dismissed."
(Knight Three turns leaving Knight One alone with the crackling fire and the weight of decisions made in the shadows.)
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
The first 100 Days Later in the Forest Prison
The forest had transformed with the turning of the seasons, its thick canopy now laced with the colors of late autumn. The air was crisp, with the faint scent of pine and earth carried on the wind, and the trees, once vibrant with green, had shifted to hues of gold and amber.
The forest clearing, once quiet and sparsely populated, had transformed over the past 100 days into a vibrant, self-sustaining settlement. What had begun as a small collection of hastily built cabins was now a thriving community, home to 30 Dog Boys, including 14 females, and the lone Coalition Psi-Stalker. Every week, new arrivals brought fresh faces and new responsibilities, as well as the supplies necessary to survive in the wilderness. What was once an uncertain, disorienting place had become a strange but functioning home.
The center of the settlement now boasted three sturdy cabins, built from rough-hewn wooden planks. Though far from polished, they were sturdy, with thatched roofs to keep out the rain and wind. Smoke lazily drifted from the small chimneys, hinting at the warmth inside. Several more added over time as new Dog Boys arrived. Gardens sprouted around the edges of the clearing, filled with rows of hardy vegetables like potatoes, carrots, and beans, grown with the help of the fertilizer and pesticide they had been given.
What truly set the settlement apart, however, was the addition of two resources that had greatly improved their quality of life: a flock of goats and a set of honey beehives.
The goats, numbering 30, wandered around a fenced-off section of the clearing. The Dog Boys had been tasked with their care—herding, managing, and even slaughtering them for food when necessary. The goats provided milk, cheese, and meat, which significantly boosted the group's ability to feed themselves. Each week, the Dog Boys took turns milking the goats and learning to craft basic dairy products, adding a new level of sustainability to their existence.
In another corner of the settlement stood several beehives, carefully arranged and well-maintained. The native Psi-Stalker clan had provided them with a cutting-edge Flow Hive Hybrid system, which allowed the Dog Boys to harvest honey without disturbing the bees. They were also given a bee suit and the necessary tools for beekeeping. The honey was not only a source of food and sweetness, but the bees themselves helped pollinate their crops, increasing the yield of their small farm. The honey became a treasured commodity, used in their meals or traded with the native clan for other goods.
The CS Psi-Stalker, the de facto leader of the group, had fully integrated into the rhythms of this new life. His once sharp and disciplined appearance had become rugged and practical, his leather and fur clothing now worn and patched from the rigors of the forest. Yet despite his appearance, his mind was as sharp as ever, and he continued to lead the group with a quiet, steady hand.
Every morning, the Psi-Stalker woke early to patrol the borders of their settlement, his psychic senses ever-alert for any changes or potential threats. Though the native Psi-Stalker clan left them alone, he could always feel their presence at the edges of his awareness, reminding him that this was not true freedom—it was a prison without walls.
He oversaw the hunting expeditions, and helped manage the growing number of animals and crops.
The goats were often his responsibility, as he had a knack for keeping them in line. He also worked with the new arrivals, showing them how to care for the beehives and ensuring that their apiary remained productive and undisturbed. This new life was strange and far removed from the war he had once fought, but here, at least, he was useful, and they were all still alive.
The German Shepherd Dog Boy had become the group’s primary hunter and scout, his restless energy driving him to patrol the outskirts of the settlement every day. His thick, dark fur had grown even shaggier, but his eyes remained sharp and vigilant. He had taken on the role of protector, constantly checking for threats, even though none had presented themselves since their arrival. Still, the disciplined nature of his Coalition training had never left him.
The goats, however, provided him with a new challenge—one that he begrudgingly accepted. While he was used to fighting and tracking, herding goats was something entirely new. He spent many afternoons chasing the more stubborn animals around the clearing, frustrated but determined to keep them safe. The German Shepherd also had to stand aside for their Psi-Stalker to slaughter the goats when needed.
He had also become the primary hunter for the group, often disappearing into the woods for hours, sometimes days, at a time, tracking wild game to supplement their diet. His instincts were sharp, and more than once, he returned with a deer or wild boar, feeding the group for days. Though he was content with this life of survival, the longing for structure and battle still simmered beneath the surface.
The Labrador Dog Boy had embraced the peaceful simplicity of their new life. His soft brown fur had grown thick and glossy, and he had adopted a more relaxed posture than his counterpart, content with the slow pace of forest living. His uniform had been replaced by patchwork clothing, a mix of furs and hand-sewn fabric.He had become the settlement’s farmer and beekeeper, taking charge of both the crops and the Flow Hive Hybrid system. His gentle, easygoing nature made him well-suited to working with the bees, and he quickly learned how to harvest honey without disturbing the hives. The bee suit fit him snugly, and he took great care to ensure that the bees were healthy and productive.
The Labrador had found joy in foraging—picking wild berries, mushrooms, and edible roots from the forest floor, often spending hours wandering the woods in search of food. His natural optimism and easygoing nature made him the glue that kept the group from falling into despair. He had learned how to build small fishing nets, which he cast into the river, bringing back enough to supplement their meager diet. His senses were still sharp, but he had learned to relax, to find comfort in the small things—the rustle of leaves in the wind, the feeling of sun on his fur, the crackling of the fire at night.
He also managed the fields, planting crops and tending to the gardens, ensuring that everyone had enough food. The arrival of the goats had made his job easier, as their manure served as fertilizer, and their milk provided much-needed nutrients. He organized the group’s efforts to rotate tasks, from milking the goats to harvesting honey and tending the fields.
While the German Shepherd kept his distance, often restless and watchful, the Labrador would sit by the fire at night, staring into the flames, talking about anything that came to mind. He was always the first to help with building or repairs, his cheerful demeanor making the isolation more bearable for all of them.
The Lab was always the first to greet the new arrivals, offering them a tour of the settlement, showing them where the water filtration system was set up, and giving them a rundown of how things worked. He also organized games using the sports equipment they had been provided—a soccer ball and a set of frisbees helping the group blow off steam and bond through play.
In the evenings, the Labrador could often be found sitting by the fire with a few others, strumming on a simple flute or drawing with the pencils and paper they had received. He had become something of a morale officer, his easygoing nature and infectious laughter keeping spirits high, even as the reality of their confinement weighed on them all. His friendly demeanor extended to everyone, ensuring that the growing community remained a family rather than a prison. He often led the group in music and games. The music player they had been given played soft tunes, and the group would gather around the fire, sharing stories and laughing as they tried to make the best of their strange situation. The Labrador also encouraged the use of the sports equipment, organizing games of soccer or setting up makeshift exercise routines to keep the Dog Boys active and fit.
His positive attitude made him the heart of the group, and his natural empathy helped ease the tensions that sometimes arose between the more restless members. He saw this forest not as a prison, but as a place of peace, and he worked hard to keep it that way.
Life with the Growing Dog Boy Population
Every time new Dog Boys arrived, their numbers slowly increased to 30. With each new arrival, they received food, water, survival gear, and everything needed to build their own shelters—wood boards, construction tools, and farming supplies. The newcomers were also provided with fishing rods, bait, and tackle, as well as cordage, medical supplies, sea salt, spices, and other essentials for living off the land.
As the community grew, so did their responsibilities. The new arrivals were quickly integrated into the routine—building their cabins, learning to care for the goats, managing the beehives, and contributing to the farm. The females were just as involved as the males, many of them taking to farming and beekeeping, while others joined the hunting efforts or took care of the goats.
The Dog Boys learned to work together, each contributing to the group’s survival in their own way. Some took up drawing with pencils and paper, while others played flutes or helped with more practical tasks like chopping wood and building new cabins. The music player played in the background during quiet moments, providing a sense of normalcy amidst the isolation.
The Forest Prison
Though their community thrived, the presence of the native Psi-Stalker clan was always felt, just beyond the edges of the forest. Supplies arrived now and then—mostly from the clan, who would provide extra wood for repairs, or leave a bundle of furs for warmth as the winter chill set in. But the arrangement was clear: the prisoners were to survive on their own, free to live as long as they did not attempt to leave. The clan never interfered, but the threat of being hunted down if any of them tried to escape was ever-present. The Dog Boys and the Psi-Stalker knew they were not free, even if there were no physical walls or bars.
The goats, the beehives, and the new arrivals provided enough to keep them occupied, but as winter approached, the weight of their situation grew heavier. They were survivors now, building a life in the wilderness, but the war outside the forest raged on. For now, they were safe—alive, productive, and thriving in their strange, self-made world.
No one forgot that they were in a prison but here, at least, they had trees instead of bars, and the land to live off. The forests, once a place of fear and uncertainty, had become their home, a place where they could build, farm, fish, and survive.
The forest had transformed with the turning of the seasons, its thick canopy now laced with the colors of late autumn. The air was crisp, with the faint scent of pine and earth carried on the wind, and the trees, once vibrant with green, had shifted to hues of gold and amber.
The forest clearing, once quiet and sparsely populated, had transformed over the past 100 days into a vibrant, self-sustaining settlement. What had begun as a small collection of hastily built cabins was now a thriving community, home to 30 Dog Boys, including 14 females, and the lone Coalition Psi-Stalker. Every week, new arrivals brought fresh faces and new responsibilities, as well as the supplies necessary to survive in the wilderness. What was once an uncertain, disorienting place had become a strange but functioning home.
The center of the settlement now boasted three sturdy cabins, built from rough-hewn wooden planks. Though far from polished, they were sturdy, with thatched roofs to keep out the rain and wind. Smoke lazily drifted from the small chimneys, hinting at the warmth inside. Several more added over time as new Dog Boys arrived. Gardens sprouted around the edges of the clearing, filled with rows of hardy vegetables like potatoes, carrots, and beans, grown with the help of the fertilizer and pesticide they had been given.
What truly set the settlement apart, however, was the addition of two resources that had greatly improved their quality of life: a flock of goats and a set of honey beehives.
The goats, numbering 30, wandered around a fenced-off section of the clearing. The Dog Boys had been tasked with their care—herding, managing, and even slaughtering them for food when necessary. The goats provided milk, cheese, and meat, which significantly boosted the group's ability to feed themselves. Each week, the Dog Boys took turns milking the goats and learning to craft basic dairy products, adding a new level of sustainability to their existence.
In another corner of the settlement stood several beehives, carefully arranged and well-maintained. The native Psi-Stalker clan had provided them with a cutting-edge Flow Hive Hybrid system, which allowed the Dog Boys to harvest honey without disturbing the bees. They were also given a bee suit and the necessary tools for beekeeping. The honey was not only a source of food and sweetness, but the bees themselves helped pollinate their crops, increasing the yield of their small farm. The honey became a treasured commodity, used in their meals or traded with the native clan for other goods.
The CS Psi-Stalker, the de facto leader of the group, had fully integrated into the rhythms of this new life. His once sharp and disciplined appearance had become rugged and practical, his leather and fur clothing now worn and patched from the rigors of the forest. Yet despite his appearance, his mind was as sharp as ever, and he continued to lead the group with a quiet, steady hand.
Every morning, the Psi-Stalker woke early to patrol the borders of their settlement, his psychic senses ever-alert for any changes or potential threats. Though the native Psi-Stalker clan left them alone, he could always feel their presence at the edges of his awareness, reminding him that this was not true freedom—it was a prison without walls.
He oversaw the hunting expeditions, and helped manage the growing number of animals and crops.
The goats were often his responsibility, as he had a knack for keeping them in line. He also worked with the new arrivals, showing them how to care for the beehives and ensuring that their apiary remained productive and undisturbed. This new life was strange and far removed from the war he had once fought, but here, at least, he was useful, and they were all still alive.
The German Shepherd Dog Boy had become the group’s primary hunter and scout, his restless energy driving him to patrol the outskirts of the settlement every day. His thick, dark fur had grown even shaggier, but his eyes remained sharp and vigilant. He had taken on the role of protector, constantly checking for threats, even though none had presented themselves since their arrival. Still, the disciplined nature of his Coalition training had never left him.
The goats, however, provided him with a new challenge—one that he begrudgingly accepted. While he was used to fighting and tracking, herding goats was something entirely new. He spent many afternoons chasing the more stubborn animals around the clearing, frustrated but determined to keep them safe. The German Shepherd also had to stand aside for their Psi-Stalker to slaughter the goats when needed.
He had also become the primary hunter for the group, often disappearing into the woods for hours, sometimes days, at a time, tracking wild game to supplement their diet. His instincts were sharp, and more than once, he returned with a deer or wild boar, feeding the group for days. Though he was content with this life of survival, the longing for structure and battle still simmered beneath the surface.
The Labrador Dog Boy had embraced the peaceful simplicity of their new life. His soft brown fur had grown thick and glossy, and he had adopted a more relaxed posture than his counterpart, content with the slow pace of forest living. His uniform had been replaced by patchwork clothing, a mix of furs and hand-sewn fabric.He had become the settlement’s farmer and beekeeper, taking charge of both the crops and the Flow Hive Hybrid system. His gentle, easygoing nature made him well-suited to working with the bees, and he quickly learned how to harvest honey without disturbing the hives. The bee suit fit him snugly, and he took great care to ensure that the bees were healthy and productive.
The Labrador had found joy in foraging—picking wild berries, mushrooms, and edible roots from the forest floor, often spending hours wandering the woods in search of food. His natural optimism and easygoing nature made him the glue that kept the group from falling into despair. He had learned how to build small fishing nets, which he cast into the river, bringing back enough to supplement their meager diet. His senses were still sharp, but he had learned to relax, to find comfort in the small things—the rustle of leaves in the wind, the feeling of sun on his fur, the crackling of the fire at night.
He also managed the fields, planting crops and tending to the gardens, ensuring that everyone had enough food. The arrival of the goats had made his job easier, as their manure served as fertilizer, and their milk provided much-needed nutrients. He organized the group’s efforts to rotate tasks, from milking the goats to harvesting honey and tending the fields.
While the German Shepherd kept his distance, often restless and watchful, the Labrador would sit by the fire at night, staring into the flames, talking about anything that came to mind. He was always the first to help with building or repairs, his cheerful demeanor making the isolation more bearable for all of them.
The Lab was always the first to greet the new arrivals, offering them a tour of the settlement, showing them where the water filtration system was set up, and giving them a rundown of how things worked. He also organized games using the sports equipment they had been provided—a soccer ball and a set of frisbees helping the group blow off steam and bond through play.
In the evenings, the Labrador could often be found sitting by the fire with a few others, strumming on a simple flute or drawing with the pencils and paper they had received. He had become something of a morale officer, his easygoing nature and infectious laughter keeping spirits high, even as the reality of their confinement weighed on them all. His friendly demeanor extended to everyone, ensuring that the growing community remained a family rather than a prison. He often led the group in music and games. The music player they had been given played soft tunes, and the group would gather around the fire, sharing stories and laughing as they tried to make the best of their strange situation. The Labrador also encouraged the use of the sports equipment, organizing games of soccer or setting up makeshift exercise routines to keep the Dog Boys active and fit.
His positive attitude made him the heart of the group, and his natural empathy helped ease the tensions that sometimes arose between the more restless members. He saw this forest not as a prison, but as a place of peace, and he worked hard to keep it that way.
Life with the Growing Dog Boy Population
Every time new Dog Boys arrived, their numbers slowly increased to 30. With each new arrival, they received food, water, survival gear, and everything needed to build their own shelters—wood boards, construction tools, and farming supplies. The newcomers were also provided with fishing rods, bait, and tackle, as well as cordage, medical supplies, sea salt, spices, and other essentials for living off the land.
As the community grew, so did their responsibilities. The new arrivals were quickly integrated into the routine—building their cabins, learning to care for the goats, managing the beehives, and contributing to the farm. The females were just as involved as the males, many of them taking to farming and beekeeping, while others joined the hunting efforts or took care of the goats.
The Dog Boys learned to work together, each contributing to the group’s survival in their own way. Some took up drawing with pencils and paper, while others played flutes or helped with more practical tasks like chopping wood and building new cabins. The music player played in the background during quiet moments, providing a sense of normalcy amidst the isolation.
The Forest Prison
Though their community thrived, the presence of the native Psi-Stalker clan was always felt, just beyond the edges of the forest. Supplies arrived now and then—mostly from the clan, who would provide extra wood for repairs, or leave a bundle of furs for warmth as the winter chill set in. But the arrangement was clear: the prisoners were to survive on their own, free to live as long as they did not attempt to leave. The clan never interfered, but the threat of being hunted down if any of them tried to escape was ever-present. The Dog Boys and the Psi-Stalker knew they were not free, even if there were no physical walls or bars.
The goats, the beehives, and the new arrivals provided enough to keep them occupied, but as winter approached, the weight of their situation grew heavier. They were survivors now, building a life in the wilderness, but the war outside the forest raged on. For now, they were safe—alive, productive, and thriving in their strange, self-made world.
No one forgot that they were in a prison but here, at least, they had trees instead of bars, and the land to live off. The forests, once a place of fear and uncertainty, had become their home, a place where they could build, farm, fish, and survive.
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darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Blue Earth
The four Mystic Knights and a squad of mercs marched steadily along the dusty trail that wound through the wetlands toward Blue Earth.
The air was thick with the earthy scent of river mud, and the faint rustle of the nearby reeds was the only sound as they approached. Above, dark clouds threatened rain, casting the entire scene in a heavy, gray light.
As they crested a small hill overlooking the town, Knight One, raised a hand to halt the group. Below them, the ramshackle settlement of Blue Earth sprawled along the riverbank, where the two branches of the Blue Earth River met and merged into a single current. Even from a distance, the town looked rough and weathered, as though it had barely survived the ravages of time and conflict.
The docks, visible on the southern edge of town, were a chaotic jumble of wooden piers and rusted metal. Several small riverboats and barges bobbed on the water, moored to the rickety jetties. A few figures, barely more than shadows at this distance, moved along the docks, loading and unloading crates with rough efficiency.
"Not much of a place," muttered Knight Three, his voice muffled beneath his helmet, the visor half-lowered to obscure his eyes. "More mud than anything else."
"More to it than meets the eye," replied Knight Four, with a calm, measured voice. "Places like this are always more dangerous than they appear."
As they descended into the town, the details of Blue Earth became clearer. The buildings were mostly low and crude, made of timber, scrap metal, and salvaged materials, many of them patched and reinforced with whatever the locals had at hand. Roofs were covered in sheets of tin, some held down by loose rocks or lashed together with rusting chains. The streets themselves were narrow and uneven, a mixture of dirt and gravel, slick with the dampness of the riverbanks. Pools of stagnant water gathered in the low places, thick with algae.
"Look sharp," commanded Knight One, his deep voice authoritative. "This place reeks of secrets."
The Ironwater Tavern, to their left, loomed near the river’s edge—a grim fortress of shipping containers stacked haphazardly, their metal sides rusted and streaked with grime. From within, the sound of raucous laughter and the clinking of mugs could be heard, mixed with the occasional crash of something being smashed. A flickering neon sign barely illuminated the tavern’s name, casting the scene in a sickly light. Knight Four, the youngest of the group, shot a glance at the tavern.
“Do you think we’ll find what we’re looking for in there?” he asked, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his handgun.
“Perhaps,” Knight One responded. “But let’s not draw attention. We’ll search the tavern later. For now, focus.”
They marched further into town, past the Blue Fork Trading Post, which sat at the center of Blue Earth. The building was imposing, its weathered wood and salvaged metal exterior a patchwork of history and survival. Old-world advertisements, barely legible through years of grime, covered the walls, promising long-gone luxuries. A few traders were gathered outside, bartering over crates of supplies and looking up warily at the approaching Knights. One of the mercenaries from the back of the group leaned over to Knight Four.
"Think we can get a drink after all this?" he grinned, nodding toward the tavern. "Looks like my kind of place."
Knight Four chuckled darkly. "If you survive the night, maybe."
As they entered the central square, a small gathering of locals—hardened, suspicious figures—paused their conversations and watched the newcomers with guarded eyes. The people of Blue Earth, it seemed, were well-used to visitors but slow to trust. A few of the town’s children, barefoot and mud-covered, scampered behind buildings, peeking out from alleyways at the mercenaries.
The river was always in sight, running through the town like a vein of life. A few small boats drifted along its surface, while the docks remained busy with boatmen loading goods—grains, furs, and other supplies likely destined for trade further along the river. Occasionally, one of the boats would be seen hastily docking, its crew avoiding eye contact with the soldiers on the docks.
“Keep your eyes on the docks,” said Knight One softly to his companions. “Smugglers and black-market traders. This place thrives on the illegal, and that’s where we’ll find our leads.”
They passed by the drydocks, where a surly boatwright, was hunched over the hull of a large riverboat, hammering away at a patch of rusted metal. He barely glanced up at the mercs, his attention focused on the work, though the flicker of recognition in his eyes didn’t go unnoticed by Knight Three.
“Drydocks,” Knight Three noted. “That’s where they’ll hide the real shipments.”
Knight One nodded. “We’ll speak to Gunn soon enough.”
They moved deeper into the town, their boots clanking on metal walkways and squelching in the damp earth. As they passed through the heart of Blue Earth, the town’s rough, survivalist atmosphere grew even more apparent. The air was heavy with the scent of fish, smoke, and wet earth, and every corner seemed to hold a secret or hidden deal waiting to unfold.
Blue Earth, with its rickety docks, makeshift homes, and scavenged buildings, might have looked like a forgotten, decaying town to an outsider. But the Mystic Knights knew better. Beneath the dirt and grime, this place was a nexus of trade, secrets, and conflict, and the arrival of the Knights would undoubtedly stir the pot.
“Let’s make camp near the river,” Knight One commanded, his voice low but firm. “We have work to do before the sun sets.”
The soldiers and knights alike moved with practiced ease, knowing that the real challenge would come not from the town itself, but from the forces hiding in its shadows.
The four Mystic Knights and a squad of mercs marched steadily along the dusty trail that wound through the wetlands toward Blue Earth.
The air was thick with the earthy scent of river mud, and the faint rustle of the nearby reeds was the only sound as they approached. Above, dark clouds threatened rain, casting the entire scene in a heavy, gray light.
As they crested a small hill overlooking the town, Knight One, raised a hand to halt the group. Below them, the ramshackle settlement of Blue Earth sprawled along the riverbank, where the two branches of the Blue Earth River met and merged into a single current. Even from a distance, the town looked rough and weathered, as though it had barely survived the ravages of time and conflict.
The docks, visible on the southern edge of town, were a chaotic jumble of wooden piers and rusted metal. Several small riverboats and barges bobbed on the water, moored to the rickety jetties. A few figures, barely more than shadows at this distance, moved along the docks, loading and unloading crates with rough efficiency.
"Not much of a place," muttered Knight Three, his voice muffled beneath his helmet, the visor half-lowered to obscure his eyes. "More mud than anything else."
"More to it than meets the eye," replied Knight Four, with a calm, measured voice. "Places like this are always more dangerous than they appear."
As they descended into the town, the details of Blue Earth became clearer. The buildings were mostly low and crude, made of timber, scrap metal, and salvaged materials, many of them patched and reinforced with whatever the locals had at hand. Roofs were covered in sheets of tin, some held down by loose rocks or lashed together with rusting chains. The streets themselves were narrow and uneven, a mixture of dirt and gravel, slick with the dampness of the riverbanks. Pools of stagnant water gathered in the low places, thick with algae.
"Look sharp," commanded Knight One, his deep voice authoritative. "This place reeks of secrets."
The Ironwater Tavern, to their left, loomed near the river’s edge—a grim fortress of shipping containers stacked haphazardly, their metal sides rusted and streaked with grime. From within, the sound of raucous laughter and the clinking of mugs could be heard, mixed with the occasional crash of something being smashed. A flickering neon sign barely illuminated the tavern’s name, casting the scene in a sickly light. Knight Four, the youngest of the group, shot a glance at the tavern.
“Do you think we’ll find what we’re looking for in there?” he asked, his hand instinctively resting on the hilt of his handgun.
“Perhaps,” Knight One responded. “But let’s not draw attention. We’ll search the tavern later. For now, focus.”
They marched further into town, past the Blue Fork Trading Post, which sat at the center of Blue Earth. The building was imposing, its weathered wood and salvaged metal exterior a patchwork of history and survival. Old-world advertisements, barely legible through years of grime, covered the walls, promising long-gone luxuries. A few traders were gathered outside, bartering over crates of supplies and looking up warily at the approaching Knights. One of the mercenaries from the back of the group leaned over to Knight Four.
"Think we can get a drink after all this?" he grinned, nodding toward the tavern. "Looks like my kind of place."
Knight Four chuckled darkly. "If you survive the night, maybe."
As they entered the central square, a small gathering of locals—hardened, suspicious figures—paused their conversations and watched the newcomers with guarded eyes. The people of Blue Earth, it seemed, were well-used to visitors but slow to trust. A few of the town’s children, barefoot and mud-covered, scampered behind buildings, peeking out from alleyways at the mercenaries.
The river was always in sight, running through the town like a vein of life. A few small boats drifted along its surface, while the docks remained busy with boatmen loading goods—grains, furs, and other supplies likely destined for trade further along the river. Occasionally, one of the boats would be seen hastily docking, its crew avoiding eye contact with the soldiers on the docks.
“Keep your eyes on the docks,” said Knight One softly to his companions. “Smugglers and black-market traders. This place thrives on the illegal, and that’s where we’ll find our leads.”
They passed by the drydocks, where a surly boatwright, was hunched over the hull of a large riverboat, hammering away at a patch of rusted metal. He barely glanced up at the mercs, his attention focused on the work, though the flicker of recognition in his eyes didn’t go unnoticed by Knight Three.
“Drydocks,” Knight Three noted. “That’s where they’ll hide the real shipments.”
Knight One nodded. “We’ll speak to Gunn soon enough.”
They moved deeper into the town, their boots clanking on metal walkways and squelching in the damp earth. As they passed through the heart of Blue Earth, the town’s rough, survivalist atmosphere grew even more apparent. The air was heavy with the scent of fish, smoke, and wet earth, and every corner seemed to hold a secret or hidden deal waiting to unfold.
Blue Earth, with its rickety docks, makeshift homes, and scavenged buildings, might have looked like a forgotten, decaying town to an outsider. But the Mystic Knights knew better. Beneath the dirt and grime, this place was a nexus of trade, secrets, and conflict, and the arrival of the Knights would undoubtedly stir the pot.
“Let’s make camp near the river,” Knight One commanded, his voice low but firm. “We have work to do before the sun sets.”
The soldiers and knights alike moved with practiced ease, knowing that the real challenge would come not from the town itself, but from the forces hiding in its shadows.
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darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Blue Earth
The Town’s Social Fabric
Blue Earth is a town on the edge, with an uncertain moral compass. The people here are hardened by survival, their loyalty is to profit and survival, not any particular ideology. That being said, the presence of the Coalition has become more pronounced recently.
Attitudes Toward D-Bees:
Though not as openly hostile as some other regions, the people of Blue Earth have a general distrust of D-Bees, especially more exotic-looking non-humans. D-Bees are charged higher prices and are treated with suspicion. Slavery isn’t legal here, but D-Bees are often coerced into indentured servitude in exchange for food, shelter, or protection. Those who work in the drydocks or trading post are usually given the worst tasks, and though the town isn’t as openly hostile as Coalition territory, the sense of being second-class citizens is palpable for non-humans.
Coalition Influence:
Blue Earth is split between those who support the Coalition States and those who lean toward Tolkeen or neutrality. However, the rise of Coalition influence has grown, particularly with the Blue Fork Trading Post quietly aligning itself with Coalition traders. The town’s neutrality is slowly eroding as more Coalition sympathizers establish a foothold.
Breakdown of how Blue Earth might address these essential needs:
Housing and Shelter: Most permanent residents of Blue Earth live in simple, durable structures made from salvaged materials, much like the tavern and trading post. Homes are likely constructed from wood, scrap metal, and stone, often using river clay or mud as a form of mortar. Many of these buildings are small, with basic single-room layouts, shared by extended families or groups.
Some residents live in converted shipping containers and makeshift cabins.
The more resourceful residents have two-story homes with lofted sleeping areas, but the majority live in low, cramped, practical spaces.
With a transient population guest accommodations include:
Small bunkhouses, likely near the trading post, offering simple cots and little privacy.
The Ironwater Tavern has a few rooms for travelers who need shelter, but these rooms are spartan, perhaps just a bed and a curtain for privacy.
Riverboats and barges also serve as temporary housing for traders and travelers passing through.
Sanitation:
Outhouses are the primary sanitation solution. Given the town’s low-tech and its proximity to the river, residents and travelers rely on communal outhouses placed around the town, but away from key water sources.
Chamber pots are used within homes, with waste disposed of in the latrines.
For bathing, most residents make use of the river. Some have constructed simple wooden baths near their homes, filled with water heated over a fire.
Food Sources
Locally Grown Food: Blue Earth’s residents have small-scale, self-sustaining gardens growing hardy vegetables such as potatoes, carrots, beans, and cabbage. The fertile, mineral-rich soil of the riverbanks make basic agriculture possible, even with the harsh conditions.
Small livestock such as chickens, goats, or pigs are kept by some residents for eggs, milk, and meat.
Fishing from the river is another primary food source, with residents catching fish (trout, catfish, or pike).
Foraging and Hunting: Residents supplement their food supply by foraging for edible plants, wild berries, and nuts from the surrounding forests and wetlands. Hunting small game (like rabbits, deer, or boar) also provides food, with occasional hunts organized for larger game.
Food Imports: Despite local efforts, many important food items would still need to be imported via river trade. These imports include:
Grains (wheat, oats)
Salt and preserved foods (such as jerky or pickled goods)
Alcohol and tobacco, likely a luxury but popular with the tavern crowd.
Dried fruits and canned goods for variety, given the lack of local fruit options.
Water Supply: River Water: Most residents draw their water from the River, either directly or from simple wells or rainwater collectors. Given the potential for contamination, water is boiled or filtered before consumption. Some use rain catchment systems, simple metal roofs with guttering to funnel rainwater into barrels or tanks for daily use.
A basic well exists in the center of town, providing relatively clean water for daily drinking, cooking, and cleaning.
Trade and Imports
While Blue Earth is self-sufficient in some ways, many crucial goods would still need to be imported:
Textiles and clothing materials: Fabric, thread, and basic clothing (since the town likely wouldn’t have the capacity to produce its own).
Tools and weapons: Basic tools for farming, fishing, and construction, along with weapons for hunting and protection.
Fuel and Oil: For lanterns, heating, and running any salvaged machinery or generators.
Medicines and medical supplies: Since any kind of local medicinal herb collection are limited, essential medical supplies like bandages, antiseptics, and rudimentary medicines are imported.
Basic Amenities and Services
Barter and Trade: Residents rely heavily on bartering and trade for services and goods, with the Blue Fork Trading Post serving as the primary economic hub.
Items such as food, leather goods, furs, and weapons are commonly traded, with residents relying on the river for importing what they can't produce themselves.
Repair Services and Craftsmanship: The drydocks, run by Derek Gunn, doubles as a repair shop for anything else—be it weapons, tools, or makeshift machines. Blue Earth residents have learned to be resourceful, relying on blacksmithing, leatherworking, and other basic crafts.
The town square:
Aside from the Ironwater Tavern, which is more of a rough hangout for the rowdy crowd, there is a small central square near the trading post where residents gather for communal events or announcements.
Medical Care
Given the harsh, frontier nature of the town, there is no formal hospital, but basic medical care is available by a local healer. Supplies are scarce, and residents rely on herbal remedies, simple bandaging, and improvisation to deal with injuries or illnesses.
Blue Earth functions as a self-reliant, gritty frontier town where residents meet their basic needs through a combination of local farming, fishing, and bartering. Essential goods and luxuries are imported via the river, while practical services like repairs and black-market deals are vital to the town's survival. The town’s infrastructure is primitive but functional, designed to withstand both the elements and the dangers that threaten from all sides.
Near the center of town, the Blue Fork Trading Post dominates the landscape, its towering, multi-level structure built from local timber and salvaged metal. The weathered building, patched together with old-world materials and plastered with faded advertisements, exudes both a rustic charm and a sense of gritty survival. It is the largest and most important structure in Blue Earth, acting as the town’s commercial core.
The trading post is a bustling market where the region's most daring merchants and adventurers gather to barter for supplies, raw materials, and more questionable items like black market weapons or salvaged tech. Travelers from the northern wilds and the Coalition-controlled southern territories use the Blue Fork as a stopover, recognizing its value as a neutral ground. The river's flow brings goods and people from distant regions, making the post a vital link in the dangerous web of frontier trade.
Neutrality with a Price
Officially neutral, the Blue Fork Trading Post welcomes all who have something to offer, whether it's credits, goods, or valuable information. The diversity of patrons ranges from hardened Coalition soldiers to outcast Tolkeen sympathizers, and even the occasional D-Bee passing through in disguise. However, neutrality here comes with a price. While the post is open to all, Merik Haldan, the post’s cunning owner, manipulates prices based on his own strategic interests. Coalition soldiers and their allies often find the best deals, while Tolkeen supporters and D-Bees may have to pay exorbitant rates.
This selective pricing has created tension, especially as factions passing through realize they are subject to Merik's ever-changing calculations of profit and power. Yet, despite the simmering resentments, the post’s importance ensures that it remains a necessary stop for anyone hoping to survive in Blue Earth’s harsh landscape.
Run by Merik Haldan – The Unseen Power Broker
Merik Haldan, the post’s proprietor, is a name spoken with both respect and caution throughout Blue Earth and the surrounding regions. A former Tolkeen trader, Merik now claims allegiance only to the highest bidder. Known for his silver tongue, ruthless business sense, and an uncanny ability to read people, Merik runs the trading post with an iron grip behind his amiable facade. Though friendly to all, those who cross Merik often find themselves without access to vital resources or worse, targeted by the town’s more opportunistic residents.
Merik's influence extends far beyond the trading post. His connections to black market networks and mercenary groups give him leverage, allowing him to sell information to both sides of the conflict between the Coalition and Tolkeen. He keeps a close eye on the activities of every traveler who passes through Blue Earth, using his position to further his own interests, all while maintaining the post’s appearance as a neutral ground.
A Fragile Anchor in a Harsh Land
The Blue Fork Trading Post is more than just a place of commerce; it’s the fragile anchor that keeps Blue Earth from sliding into chaos. While trade and bartering may fill the post’s rooms with a constant activity, the town's future remains precarious. As factions clash, wildlife threatens, and bandits roam the countryside, Blue Earth’s continued survival depends on the delicate balance of trade, neutrality, and the sharp instincts of its people.
For those brave enough to navigate this dangerous landscape, the Blue Fork Trading Post offers the promise of supplies, profit, and perhaps a fleeting glimpse of safety in an otherwise unforgiving world.
The Blue Fork Trading Post is an imposing, multi-level structure that stands at the heart of Blue Earth, with a rough and rugged design befitting the harsh frontier town. The building itself covers an estimated 7,500 square feet, with an irregular, sprawling layout that has expanded over the years as new materials became available or salvaged. The post is approximately three stories tall, giving it a towering presence in the otherwise low-slung town of Blue Earth.
The exterior is a patchwork of wood and metal, with large sections of the building constructed from local timber, weathered and darkened by years of exposure to the elements. Portions of the roof and walls are reinforced with salvaged metal sheets, giving the building a mismatched, utilitarian look. Rusted steel plates and tin roofing, patched with fragments from long-forgotten vehicles and machinery, are common sights, lending a sense of derelict decay to the structure. Faded advertisements from old-world products, such as defunct brands of drinks and fast food places are plastered across the outer walls, their slogans barely legible but adding a historical, almost ghostly charm to the trading post.
The roof is a jagged assembly of sloped panels and flat sections, patched repeatedly with anything that could be scavenged, including tarps and scrap metal. Gutters are hastily attached with rope or wire, designed to catch as much rainwater as possible, which is stored in barrels around the perimeter of the building.
Inside, the Blue Fork Trading Post feels like stepping into an entirely different world—a mix of frontier roughness and opportunistic enterprise. The first floor is largely open and serves as the main trading hall. The ceilings are high, nearly 15 feet, giving the interior an expansive, almost cavernous feel. Thick, rough-hewn wooden beams support the ceiling, and the walls are lined with mismatched shelves and makeshift tables. The wood here has darkened over time, adding to the sense of age and wear. Lighting is provided by lanterns and candles stuck into rusted sconces along the walls.
The trading area is sectioned off into different stalls and booths where merchants can display their goods. These sections are defined by wooden partitions and metal scraps fashioned into dividers, giving each vendor a semi-private space to negotiate their deals. The air is thick with the smell of leather, old wood, and the faint tang of oil or grease from mechanical parts being traded.
Upstairs, the second and third floors are narrower and more private, with rooms that serve various functions. Some are used for storage, while others act as private meeting areas where secretive deals are made. The floors creak with every step, and the hallways are dimly lit, adding to the feeling of secrecy and danger. The upper floors also house sleeping quarters for traveling merchants or guests, with small, cramped rooms equipped with little more than a cot and a window overlooking the river or town. The third floor is rumored to contain Merik Haldan's personal office and a vault where the post’s most valuable items are kept.
Color and Aesthetic:
The colors of the trading post reflect the environment and history of Blue Earth. The wooden planks making up most of the exterior have weathered into a deep charcoal gray, while the metal patches, long corroded, have taken on a rust-red or coppery hue, giving the post an almost patchwork look from a distance. Inside, the woodwork is darker, almost black in some places, with surfaces worn smooth by years of foot traffic and trading. The interior is lit by a warm, amber glow from various light sources, but the constant dimness makes it feel as though you're in a place where time has slowed down, with a mix of danger and opportunity in the air.
Additional Details:
Main trading hall dimensions: 4,000 square feet, featuring multiple stalls and a central bartering table.
Storage and private areas: Spread across the upper levels, taking up around 1,500 square feet each.
Floors and walls: Rough, uneven planks that creak underfoot, with walls reinforced by scavenged steel plates.
Windows: Small, often covered by metal grates or shutters to prevent break-ins or attacks.
Decorations: Sparse, but there are a few relics from the past: old maps, faded posters, and an assortment of unclaimed trinkets that add to the trading post’s rustic, lived-in feel.
The Blue Fork Trading Post, though rough around the edges, is both a shelter and a marketplace for those who brave the wilds of Blue Earth. Its patched-together appearance belies its importance as a key hub of commerce, where everything—from weapons to secrets—has a price.
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The Ironwater Tavern – A Rough, Grimy Refuge at the River’s Edge
The Ironwater Tavern stands near the riverbank, a looming, grimy structure built from salvaged shipping containers and rusted steel plating, giving it the appearance of a makeshift fortress rather than a traditional tavern. The building's dark gray and rust-red exterior blends into the surrounding industrial landscape, and years of exposure to the elements have coated it in layers of grime and soot from nearby fires. The uneven assembly of containers, stacked at odd angles, makes the tavern look haphazard and unplanned, as if it were cobbled together in desperation.
Large, riveted steel plates reinforce sections of the walls, clearly designed to withstand the violence that frequently erupts inside. Some of the shipping containers still bear faded logos and numbers from their original purpose, lending the tavern a patchwork aesthetic. There are no windows on the lower levels, only narrow slits covered with iron grates that allow the faintest light to seep through, while the top of the building is crowned with barbed wire and crude metal spikes—more deterrents than actual defenses.
The entrance is a heavy, rusted steel door, propped open most of the time, revealing a dimly lit interior. Above the door, a flickering neon sign reads "Ironwater Tavern," with some of the letters either missing or partially broken. At night, the weak neon light casts an eerie glow on the muddy riverbank, where battered boats are often moored, their occupants seeking refuge within the tavern’s grimy walls.
Stepping inside the Ironwater Tavern feels like entering a world of chaos barely held together by rust and rivets. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, stale beer, and oil, all of it mingling into a pervasive stench that hangs in the dimly lit space. The interior is dominated by long steel tables and mismatched chairs, most of them cobbled together from various scrap materials, giving the tavern an industrial, utilitarian feel. The bar itself is a massive slab of welded metal, pocked with dents from years of fists and bottles slamming into it. Behind the bar, shelves made from steel beams and old pipes hold an assortment of rough-looking bottles and jugs, the local brews stored in haphazard fashion.
The walls inside are as grimy as the outside, with exposed metal surfaces covered in dirt and grease. Old posters and tattered maps hang crookedly from nails driven into the steel walls, remnants of an earlier, more organized time. Bullet holes and scorch marks can be seen in various places, reminders of the many fights that have broken out in the tavern over the years.
The lighting is dim and flickering, provided by old-world electric lanterns that buzz and occasionally short out, casting long shadows across the room. Candles, stuck in empty bottles or rusted holders, provide additional light, but mostly serve to enhance the tavern’s grungy, chaotic ambiance.
At the far end of the tavern, a back room serves as a meeting place for mercenaries and bounty hunters looking for work. Here, a job board made from a sheet of scrap metal is covered with hastily scrawled notices, offering everything from caravan guard positions to bounties on dangerous individuals. The room is slightly more organized than the main bar area, but still has a rough, makeshift feel, with wooden crates serving as seats around a low table made from a piece of welded scrap.
The Brawls and Atmosphere:
The Ironwater Tavern is as notorious for its rowdy and unpredictable clientele as it is for its strong, locally brewed drinks. The floor is often sticky with spilled beer, and the air is constantly filled with the sounds of clinking glasses, raised voices, and the occasional thud of fists hitting flesh. Bar fights are frequent, and the building's metal construction ensures that it can take a beating. Tables are bolted to the floor to prevent them from being used as weapons, though that doesn’t stop patrons from throwing punches, chairs, or anything else they can grab.
Despite the chaos, there is a sense of control, thanks to the tavern’s formidable owner, Helga Ironarm. A tall, broad woman with a no-nonsense demeanor, Helga is often seen behind the bar, cleaning glasses with one hand while the other rests on her hip, ready to knock out anyone who gets too rowdy. Her reputation for maintaining order with her bare fists has kept even the toughest mercenaries in check. Although she tolerates the occasional brawl, anyone who crosses the line quickly finds themselves tossed out the door and into the riverbank mud, courtesy of Helga’s unmatched strength.
Additional Details:
Size and layout: The tavern is about 4,000 square feet, with a main floor for drinking and socializing, and a smaller, enclosed backroom for more private meetings and job negotiations.
Bar length: The bar stretches for about 30 feet, a solid slab of welded steel that’s seen years of abuse.
Flooring: The floor is an uneven mix of metal grates and reinforced concrete, often covered in mud and spilled liquids.
Seating: About 50 seats inside, but standing room is common, especially when the tavern is packed with travelers.
Decorations: Sparse and grimy, with a few relics like old-world posters, tattered flags, and cracked mirrors that reflect the dim lighting and shadowy figures of the tavern’s patrons.
In the dim and chaotic atmosphere of the Ironwater Tavern, mercenaries, bounty hunters, and drifters all find a place where they can drink, brawl, and plot in relative safety—so long as they don’t cross Helga Ironarm.
The Town’s Social Fabric
Blue Earth is a town on the edge, with an uncertain moral compass. The people here are hardened by survival, their loyalty is to profit and survival, not any particular ideology. That being said, the presence of the Coalition has become more pronounced recently.
Attitudes Toward D-Bees:
Though not as openly hostile as some other regions, the people of Blue Earth have a general distrust of D-Bees, especially more exotic-looking non-humans. D-Bees are charged higher prices and are treated with suspicion. Slavery isn’t legal here, but D-Bees are often coerced into indentured servitude in exchange for food, shelter, or protection. Those who work in the drydocks or trading post are usually given the worst tasks, and though the town isn’t as openly hostile as Coalition territory, the sense of being second-class citizens is palpable for non-humans.
Coalition Influence:
Blue Earth is split between those who support the Coalition States and those who lean toward Tolkeen or neutrality. However, the rise of Coalition influence has grown, particularly with the Blue Fork Trading Post quietly aligning itself with Coalition traders. The town’s neutrality is slowly eroding as more Coalition sympathizers establish a foothold.
Breakdown of how Blue Earth might address these essential needs:
Housing and Shelter: Most permanent residents of Blue Earth live in simple, durable structures made from salvaged materials, much like the tavern and trading post. Homes are likely constructed from wood, scrap metal, and stone, often using river clay or mud as a form of mortar. Many of these buildings are small, with basic single-room layouts, shared by extended families or groups.
Some residents live in converted shipping containers and makeshift cabins.
The more resourceful residents have two-story homes with lofted sleeping areas, but the majority live in low, cramped, practical spaces.
With a transient population guest accommodations include:
Small bunkhouses, likely near the trading post, offering simple cots and little privacy.
The Ironwater Tavern has a few rooms for travelers who need shelter, but these rooms are spartan, perhaps just a bed and a curtain for privacy.
Riverboats and barges also serve as temporary housing for traders and travelers passing through.
Sanitation:
Outhouses are the primary sanitation solution. Given the town’s low-tech and its proximity to the river, residents and travelers rely on communal outhouses placed around the town, but away from key water sources.
Chamber pots are used within homes, with waste disposed of in the latrines.
For bathing, most residents make use of the river. Some have constructed simple wooden baths near their homes, filled with water heated over a fire.
Food Sources
Locally Grown Food: Blue Earth’s residents have small-scale, self-sustaining gardens growing hardy vegetables such as potatoes, carrots, beans, and cabbage. The fertile, mineral-rich soil of the riverbanks make basic agriculture possible, even with the harsh conditions.
Small livestock such as chickens, goats, or pigs are kept by some residents for eggs, milk, and meat.
Fishing from the river is another primary food source, with residents catching fish (trout, catfish, or pike).
Foraging and Hunting: Residents supplement their food supply by foraging for edible plants, wild berries, and nuts from the surrounding forests and wetlands. Hunting small game (like rabbits, deer, or boar) also provides food, with occasional hunts organized for larger game.
Food Imports: Despite local efforts, many important food items would still need to be imported via river trade. These imports include:
Grains (wheat, oats)
Salt and preserved foods (such as jerky or pickled goods)
Alcohol and tobacco, likely a luxury but popular with the tavern crowd.
Dried fruits and canned goods for variety, given the lack of local fruit options.
Water Supply: River Water: Most residents draw their water from the River, either directly or from simple wells or rainwater collectors. Given the potential for contamination, water is boiled or filtered before consumption. Some use rain catchment systems, simple metal roofs with guttering to funnel rainwater into barrels or tanks for daily use.
A basic well exists in the center of town, providing relatively clean water for daily drinking, cooking, and cleaning.
Trade and Imports
While Blue Earth is self-sufficient in some ways, many crucial goods would still need to be imported:
Textiles and clothing materials: Fabric, thread, and basic clothing (since the town likely wouldn’t have the capacity to produce its own).
Tools and weapons: Basic tools for farming, fishing, and construction, along with weapons for hunting and protection.
Fuel and Oil: For lanterns, heating, and running any salvaged machinery or generators.
Medicines and medical supplies: Since any kind of local medicinal herb collection are limited, essential medical supplies like bandages, antiseptics, and rudimentary medicines are imported.
Basic Amenities and Services
Barter and Trade: Residents rely heavily on bartering and trade for services and goods, with the Blue Fork Trading Post serving as the primary economic hub.
Items such as food, leather goods, furs, and weapons are commonly traded, with residents relying on the river for importing what they can't produce themselves.
Repair Services and Craftsmanship: The drydocks, run by Derek Gunn, doubles as a repair shop for anything else—be it weapons, tools, or makeshift machines. Blue Earth residents have learned to be resourceful, relying on blacksmithing, leatherworking, and other basic crafts.
The town square:
Aside from the Ironwater Tavern, which is more of a rough hangout for the rowdy crowd, there is a small central square near the trading post where residents gather for communal events or announcements.
Medical Care
Given the harsh, frontier nature of the town, there is no formal hospital, but basic medical care is available by a local healer. Supplies are scarce, and residents rely on herbal remedies, simple bandaging, and improvisation to deal with injuries or illnesses.
Blue Earth functions as a self-reliant, gritty frontier town where residents meet their basic needs through a combination of local farming, fishing, and bartering. Essential goods and luxuries are imported via the river, while practical services like repairs and black-market deals are vital to the town's survival. The town’s infrastructure is primitive but functional, designed to withstand both the elements and the dangers that threaten from all sides.
Near the center of town, the Blue Fork Trading Post dominates the landscape, its towering, multi-level structure built from local timber and salvaged metal. The weathered building, patched together with old-world materials and plastered with faded advertisements, exudes both a rustic charm and a sense of gritty survival. It is the largest and most important structure in Blue Earth, acting as the town’s commercial core.
The trading post is a bustling market where the region's most daring merchants and adventurers gather to barter for supplies, raw materials, and more questionable items like black market weapons or salvaged tech. Travelers from the northern wilds and the Coalition-controlled southern territories use the Blue Fork as a stopover, recognizing its value as a neutral ground. The river's flow brings goods and people from distant regions, making the post a vital link in the dangerous web of frontier trade.
Neutrality with a Price
Officially neutral, the Blue Fork Trading Post welcomes all who have something to offer, whether it's credits, goods, or valuable information. The diversity of patrons ranges from hardened Coalition soldiers to outcast Tolkeen sympathizers, and even the occasional D-Bee passing through in disguise. However, neutrality here comes with a price. While the post is open to all, Merik Haldan, the post’s cunning owner, manipulates prices based on his own strategic interests. Coalition soldiers and their allies often find the best deals, while Tolkeen supporters and D-Bees may have to pay exorbitant rates.
This selective pricing has created tension, especially as factions passing through realize they are subject to Merik's ever-changing calculations of profit and power. Yet, despite the simmering resentments, the post’s importance ensures that it remains a necessary stop for anyone hoping to survive in Blue Earth’s harsh landscape.
Run by Merik Haldan – The Unseen Power Broker
Merik Haldan, the post’s proprietor, is a name spoken with both respect and caution throughout Blue Earth and the surrounding regions. A former Tolkeen trader, Merik now claims allegiance only to the highest bidder. Known for his silver tongue, ruthless business sense, and an uncanny ability to read people, Merik runs the trading post with an iron grip behind his amiable facade. Though friendly to all, those who cross Merik often find themselves without access to vital resources or worse, targeted by the town’s more opportunistic residents.
Merik's influence extends far beyond the trading post. His connections to black market networks and mercenary groups give him leverage, allowing him to sell information to both sides of the conflict between the Coalition and Tolkeen. He keeps a close eye on the activities of every traveler who passes through Blue Earth, using his position to further his own interests, all while maintaining the post’s appearance as a neutral ground.
A Fragile Anchor in a Harsh Land
The Blue Fork Trading Post is more than just a place of commerce; it’s the fragile anchor that keeps Blue Earth from sliding into chaos. While trade and bartering may fill the post’s rooms with a constant activity, the town's future remains precarious. As factions clash, wildlife threatens, and bandits roam the countryside, Blue Earth’s continued survival depends on the delicate balance of trade, neutrality, and the sharp instincts of its people.
For those brave enough to navigate this dangerous landscape, the Blue Fork Trading Post offers the promise of supplies, profit, and perhaps a fleeting glimpse of safety in an otherwise unforgiving world.
The Blue Fork Trading Post is an imposing, multi-level structure that stands at the heart of Blue Earth, with a rough and rugged design befitting the harsh frontier town. The building itself covers an estimated 7,500 square feet, with an irregular, sprawling layout that has expanded over the years as new materials became available or salvaged. The post is approximately three stories tall, giving it a towering presence in the otherwise low-slung town of Blue Earth.
The exterior is a patchwork of wood and metal, with large sections of the building constructed from local timber, weathered and darkened by years of exposure to the elements. Portions of the roof and walls are reinforced with salvaged metal sheets, giving the building a mismatched, utilitarian look. Rusted steel plates and tin roofing, patched with fragments from long-forgotten vehicles and machinery, are common sights, lending a sense of derelict decay to the structure. Faded advertisements from old-world products, such as defunct brands of drinks and fast food places are plastered across the outer walls, their slogans barely legible but adding a historical, almost ghostly charm to the trading post.
The roof is a jagged assembly of sloped panels and flat sections, patched repeatedly with anything that could be scavenged, including tarps and scrap metal. Gutters are hastily attached with rope or wire, designed to catch as much rainwater as possible, which is stored in barrels around the perimeter of the building.
Inside, the Blue Fork Trading Post feels like stepping into an entirely different world—a mix of frontier roughness and opportunistic enterprise. The first floor is largely open and serves as the main trading hall. The ceilings are high, nearly 15 feet, giving the interior an expansive, almost cavernous feel. Thick, rough-hewn wooden beams support the ceiling, and the walls are lined with mismatched shelves and makeshift tables. The wood here has darkened over time, adding to the sense of age and wear. Lighting is provided by lanterns and candles stuck into rusted sconces along the walls.
The trading area is sectioned off into different stalls and booths where merchants can display their goods. These sections are defined by wooden partitions and metal scraps fashioned into dividers, giving each vendor a semi-private space to negotiate their deals. The air is thick with the smell of leather, old wood, and the faint tang of oil or grease from mechanical parts being traded.
Upstairs, the second and third floors are narrower and more private, with rooms that serve various functions. Some are used for storage, while others act as private meeting areas where secretive deals are made. The floors creak with every step, and the hallways are dimly lit, adding to the feeling of secrecy and danger. The upper floors also house sleeping quarters for traveling merchants or guests, with small, cramped rooms equipped with little more than a cot and a window overlooking the river or town. The third floor is rumored to contain Merik Haldan's personal office and a vault where the post’s most valuable items are kept.
Color and Aesthetic:
The colors of the trading post reflect the environment and history of Blue Earth. The wooden planks making up most of the exterior have weathered into a deep charcoal gray, while the metal patches, long corroded, have taken on a rust-red or coppery hue, giving the post an almost patchwork look from a distance. Inside, the woodwork is darker, almost black in some places, with surfaces worn smooth by years of foot traffic and trading. The interior is lit by a warm, amber glow from various light sources, but the constant dimness makes it feel as though you're in a place where time has slowed down, with a mix of danger and opportunity in the air.
Additional Details:
Main trading hall dimensions: 4,000 square feet, featuring multiple stalls and a central bartering table.
Storage and private areas: Spread across the upper levels, taking up around 1,500 square feet each.
Floors and walls: Rough, uneven planks that creak underfoot, with walls reinforced by scavenged steel plates.
Windows: Small, often covered by metal grates or shutters to prevent break-ins or attacks.
Decorations: Sparse, but there are a few relics from the past: old maps, faded posters, and an assortment of unclaimed trinkets that add to the trading post’s rustic, lived-in feel.
The Blue Fork Trading Post, though rough around the edges, is both a shelter and a marketplace for those who brave the wilds of Blue Earth. Its patched-together appearance belies its importance as a key hub of commerce, where everything—from weapons to secrets—has a price.
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The Ironwater Tavern – A Rough, Grimy Refuge at the River’s Edge
The Ironwater Tavern stands near the riverbank, a looming, grimy structure built from salvaged shipping containers and rusted steel plating, giving it the appearance of a makeshift fortress rather than a traditional tavern. The building's dark gray and rust-red exterior blends into the surrounding industrial landscape, and years of exposure to the elements have coated it in layers of grime and soot from nearby fires. The uneven assembly of containers, stacked at odd angles, makes the tavern look haphazard and unplanned, as if it were cobbled together in desperation.
Large, riveted steel plates reinforce sections of the walls, clearly designed to withstand the violence that frequently erupts inside. Some of the shipping containers still bear faded logos and numbers from their original purpose, lending the tavern a patchwork aesthetic. There are no windows on the lower levels, only narrow slits covered with iron grates that allow the faintest light to seep through, while the top of the building is crowned with barbed wire and crude metal spikes—more deterrents than actual defenses.
The entrance is a heavy, rusted steel door, propped open most of the time, revealing a dimly lit interior. Above the door, a flickering neon sign reads "Ironwater Tavern," with some of the letters either missing or partially broken. At night, the weak neon light casts an eerie glow on the muddy riverbank, where battered boats are often moored, their occupants seeking refuge within the tavern’s grimy walls.
Stepping inside the Ironwater Tavern feels like entering a world of chaos barely held together by rust and rivets. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, stale beer, and oil, all of it mingling into a pervasive stench that hangs in the dimly lit space. The interior is dominated by long steel tables and mismatched chairs, most of them cobbled together from various scrap materials, giving the tavern an industrial, utilitarian feel. The bar itself is a massive slab of welded metal, pocked with dents from years of fists and bottles slamming into it. Behind the bar, shelves made from steel beams and old pipes hold an assortment of rough-looking bottles and jugs, the local brews stored in haphazard fashion.
The walls inside are as grimy as the outside, with exposed metal surfaces covered in dirt and grease. Old posters and tattered maps hang crookedly from nails driven into the steel walls, remnants of an earlier, more organized time. Bullet holes and scorch marks can be seen in various places, reminders of the many fights that have broken out in the tavern over the years.
The lighting is dim and flickering, provided by old-world electric lanterns that buzz and occasionally short out, casting long shadows across the room. Candles, stuck in empty bottles or rusted holders, provide additional light, but mostly serve to enhance the tavern’s grungy, chaotic ambiance.
At the far end of the tavern, a back room serves as a meeting place for mercenaries and bounty hunters looking for work. Here, a job board made from a sheet of scrap metal is covered with hastily scrawled notices, offering everything from caravan guard positions to bounties on dangerous individuals. The room is slightly more organized than the main bar area, but still has a rough, makeshift feel, with wooden crates serving as seats around a low table made from a piece of welded scrap.
The Brawls and Atmosphere:
The Ironwater Tavern is as notorious for its rowdy and unpredictable clientele as it is for its strong, locally brewed drinks. The floor is often sticky with spilled beer, and the air is constantly filled with the sounds of clinking glasses, raised voices, and the occasional thud of fists hitting flesh. Bar fights are frequent, and the building's metal construction ensures that it can take a beating. Tables are bolted to the floor to prevent them from being used as weapons, though that doesn’t stop patrons from throwing punches, chairs, or anything else they can grab.
Despite the chaos, there is a sense of control, thanks to the tavern’s formidable owner, Helga Ironarm. A tall, broad woman with a no-nonsense demeanor, Helga is often seen behind the bar, cleaning glasses with one hand while the other rests on her hip, ready to knock out anyone who gets too rowdy. Her reputation for maintaining order with her bare fists has kept even the toughest mercenaries in check. Although she tolerates the occasional brawl, anyone who crosses the line quickly finds themselves tossed out the door and into the riverbank mud, courtesy of Helga’s unmatched strength.
Additional Details:
Size and layout: The tavern is about 4,000 square feet, with a main floor for drinking and socializing, and a smaller, enclosed backroom for more private meetings and job negotiations.
Bar length: The bar stretches for about 30 feet, a solid slab of welded steel that’s seen years of abuse.
Flooring: The floor is an uneven mix of metal grates and reinforced concrete, often covered in mud and spilled liquids.
Seating: About 50 seats inside, but standing room is common, especially when the tavern is packed with travelers.
Decorations: Sparse and grimy, with a few relics like old-world posters, tattered flags, and cracked mirrors that reflect the dim lighting and shadowy figures of the tavern’s patrons.
In the dim and chaotic atmosphere of the Ironwater Tavern, mercenaries, bounty hunters, and drifters all find a place where they can drink, brawl, and plot in relative safety—so long as they don’t cross Helga Ironarm.
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darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Blue Earth
The air shifted suddenly, a palpable tension tightening around the group of Mystic Knights.
Knight One felt the familiar tingle of danger crawling up his spine, a sensation that reached deep into his sixth sense. Without a word, he raised his hand, signaling to his companions. The other three Mystic Knights spread out silently, each scanning their surroundings, their senses heightened.
Danger was present—but the source remained elusive.
Instinctively, each of the knights whispered the spell of invisibility, their forms shimmering for a brief moment before vanishing from sight. Invisible to the naked eye, they began to move fluidly, their eyes constantly shifting in every direction. They were careful, light-footed, ghosts in the wind.
It was Knight Two who first noticed the Coalition squad down by the docks. A group of ten, all heavily armed, and unmistakable in their dark armor, marked by the angular insignia of the Coalition States. Two Dog Boys were sniffing the air, their enhanced senses clearly picking up something out of place. One of them pointed directly toward the Mystic Knights, their sharp eyes narrowing as they honed in on the scent.
"Don't damage the dock," Knight One's voice whispered softly through their telepathic link. "We will leave. If they don’t follow us, they will be lucky. If they follow us, they will be unlucky."
The knights moved silently, unseen, preparing to withdraw into the shadows. Yet the Dog Boys had locked onto their trail, and the rest of the Coalition soldiers were following their lead. The Skele-bot at the head of the squad—a skeletal, humanoid war machine—strode forward mechanically, a Dog Boy flanking its side. The Dog Boy’s nose twitched, and the creature barked something to its handler, pointing directly toward the Mystic Knights ambush point.
Then, without warning, the Skele-bot’s head exploded, a precise sniper shot severing it cleanly from its metal body. The headless machine staggered aimlessly.
The CS squad reacted instantly. Weapons raised, they unleashed a barrage of gunfire, energy bolts tearing through the air in a chaotic storm, aiming wildly toward where they believed the sniper shots had come from. Red flashes and the high-pitched whine of energy weapons lit up the docks. The hail of energy fire continued until their clips ran dry.
As the Coalition soldiers hastily reloaded, the Mystic Knights struck.
With a burst of magical speed, the four knights sprinted from their hidden positions, moving faster than humanly possible, nearly a blur as they closed the distance between themselves and the now-vulnerable CS squad.
Knight One and Knight Four raised their hands, casting Magic Nets that flew through the air like living creatures, wrapping around six of the Coalition soldiers.
The CS troops struggled, but the enchanted nets held tight, binding them in place as they thrashed and shouted in frustration.
The three remaining Coalition soldiers opened fire, their bolts singed the Mystic Knights combat fatigues. If they had been ordinary men, they would have been dead on the spot, but their magical defenses held strong.
A second set of Magic Nets flew from the knights’ hands, ensnaring the last two CS grunts. They fell to the ground, helpless, their weapons clattering on the wooden dock.
The only one still standing was the Psi-Stalker, a lithe and cunning figure, his face obscured by the mask and visor of his armor. He moved with unnatural grace, darting between the shadows of crates and dock pilings, running in an evasive pattern. The Mystic Knights, cautious of collateral damage, did not fire. Shooting recklessly could risk harming the townspeople or destroying the docks.
Knight Four nodded silently and took off after the Psi-Stalker, his speed matched by the urgency of the hunt. The Psi-Stalker, sensing he was being pursued, turned abruptly, drawing his blade—a long, Vibro sword that gleamed faintly in the dim light of the docks.
The duel began, a clash of metal as the two warriors met in the center of the town, near the edge of the bustling docks. The townsfolk of Blue Earth, hardened survivors of the frontier, watched from a distance, wary but unsurprised by the violence erupting before them. This was just another day in a town where the CS and its enemies often clashed.
The Psi-Stalker was fast, his strikes brutal, seeking to end the fight quickly. But Knight Four was no ordinary swordsman. His Vibor-blade, parried the Psi-Stalker’s blows with ease, countering each attack with a swift strike of his own.
The Psi-Stalker spun on his heel, his blade flashing as he lunged at Knight Four. Their swords met in a bright, ringing clash, the impact reverberating through the wooden docks. Sparks flew from the metal as the two warriors locked eyes, each gauging the other’s skill, each searching for an opening.
The Psi-Stalker, lean and quick, darted to the side with cat-like agility, attempting to circle Knight Four and find a vulnerable angle. His blade slashed through the air, a swift, lethal arc aimed at the knight’s side. But Knight Four was faster than the Psi-Stalker expected. In a fluid motion, he parried the strike, spinning his body with grace as if the movement were part of a well-rehearsed dance.
Their swords flashed in the dim light, reflecting the flickering lanterns that lined the docks, casting long, dancing shadows across the water.
The Psi-Stalker, realizing his usual tricks wouldn’t work on this opponent, leapt backward, his feet barely touching the ground as he dodged another powerful swipe from Knight Four. His boots skidded on the slick, rain-dampened wood of the docks, but he recovered quickly, launching himself forward with a powerful thrust. Knight Four, not to be outdone, somersaulted backward, his cloak billowing as he spun in the air, narrowly avoiding the deadly point of the Psi-Stalker’s blade.
"You're fast," the Psi-Stalker hissed, eyes narrowing behind his visor, but Knight Four merely smiled, adjusting his grip on his sword.
The deadly dance continued. The Psi-Stalker darted in again, his sword moving in quick, unpredictable strikes, but Knight Four met him at every turn. The Psi-Stalker’s blade came down in a powerful overhead chop, but Knight Four sidestepped, ducking low and driving his own sword upward in a flourishing parry, forcing the Psi-Stalker’s blade wide.
Before the Psi-Stalker could react, Knight Four leapt into the air, his acrobatics as fluid as his swordplay. Twisting mid-leap, he brought his blade down in a vicious arc aimed at the Psi-Stalker’s exposed shoulder. The Psi-Stalker barely managed to roll aside, his boots skidding dangerously close to the water’s edge. He recovered with a snarl, immediately countering with a sweeping low strike aimed at Knight Four’s legs.
Knight Four flipped over the blade, landing lightly on his feet as though he were born for this kind of combat. His eyes never left his opponent, and as the Psi-Stalker charged again, Knight Four met him head-on. Their swords clanged together, again and again, in a barrage of blows that echoed through the dockyards. The onlookers, a mix of townsfolk and dockworkers, stood frozen in place, mesmerized by the swashbuckling duel playing out before them.
The Psi-Stalker, growing desperate, tried to gain distance. He leapt back, intending to regroup, but Knight Four pursued with a burst of speed, closing the gap in an instant. With a graceful spin, Knight Four launched himself off a nearby crate, flipping over the Psi-Stalker’s head in an impressive display of acrobatics. He landed behind his opponent, his blade flashing in the air as he brought it down toward the Psi-Stalker’s back.
The Psi-Stalker, sensing the move, twisted at the last moment, raising his sword just in time to deflect the blow. But the force of Knight Four’s strike sent him staggering backward, his balance faltering. Knight Four pressed the advantage, his sword moving in swift, precise strokes that forced the Psi-Stalker onto the defensive.
"You're outmatched," Knight Four said, his voice calm but firm as he stepped forward, each move measured, each strike calculated to force the Psi-Stalker into a corner. The Psi-Stalker’s foot slipped on the slick dock, and he found himself backed up against a stack of crates.
Desperate, the Psi-Stalker tried one last desperate lunge, his sword aimed directly at Knight Four’s heart. But Knight Four was faster. He sidestepped with a spin, his blade moving in a blur of steel as he caught the Psi-Stalker’s sword with a flawless parry. The Psi-Stalker’s momentum carried him forward, and in one swift motion, Knight Four knocked the blade from his opponent’s hand, sending it clattering across the dock.
The Psi-Stalker froze, disarmed and cornered, his chest heaving from the exertion of the fight. For a moment, the world seemed to stop, the air thick with tension as Knight Four stood over him, his sword poised.
The Psi-Stalker’s eyes flicked from Knight Four’s blade to his own sword lying several feet away. Without a word, he turned and bolted, darting between the crates and disappearing into the maze of shadows beyond the docks.
Knight Four sheathed his sword, standing tall and calm in the aftermath of the fight. He walked over to where the Psi-Stalker’s sword lay, picking it up with a practiced hand. The balance was good—light but strong, meant for quick strikes rather than brute force. He twirled it once before sliding it into his belt alongside his own.
The townsfolk, who had watched in awe from the shadows, still did not move. They knew better than to interfere in the affairs of others when they gained nothing. When the battle was over, they would simply return to their lives, as they always did.
Knight Four turned to rejoin his companions, the weight of the Psi-Stalker’s sword resting in his hand. He didn’t need to say a word—his victory was clear. The other knights had already secured the Coalition soldiers, and the docks were quiet once again.
"The Psi-Stalker got away," Knight Four said as he reached Knight One, holding up the captured sword. "But I have this. Let him come back for it, if he dares."
Knight One nodded. "We’ve done enough here. Let’s leave before they send reinforcements."
With that, the four Mystic Knights turned to the docks.
“A river pilot is needed and a crew. IF they can keep quiet and like getting paid in advance. On the front end, the CS weapons and gear. On the back, maybe their boat. Also, I want a bounty on that Psi-Stalker; alive. Half if dead. I’ll leave the reward with Merik along with his commission.”
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The Blue Earth Docks and Drydocks – Lifeblood of the River Town
Positioned at the southern edge of town, where the East and West branches of the Blue Earth River converge, the Blue Earth Docks stretch out into the murky water, forming the backbone of the town’s river trade. Though the docks are old and rickety, constructed from a mix of salvaged wood and rusted iron supports, they remain functional, if not exactly sturdy. The wooden planks creak and bend underfoot, some weathered to the point of rot, but they’ve been reinforced over the years with iron nails and salvaged steel plates to prevent complete collapse.
The docks themselves stretch for several hundred feet, with uneven jetties jutting into the river, each one capable of accommodating riverboats, barges, and smaller rafts. Shallow and deeper sections of the river allow for a wide variety of vessels to dock here, ranging from scrappy, hand-built rafts to imposing metal barges. Though cluttered and chaotic, the docks serve as the beating heart of Blue Earth’s economy, and their strategic position on the river makes them a vital hub for trade in this isolated frontier town.
River Trade Hub:
At almost any time of day, the Blue Earth Docks are alive with the sounds of river-based trade. Boats creak against their moorings, men shout orders over the water, and the constant flow of goods onto and off of vessels keeps the dock bustling with activity. The air smells of wet wood, fish, and the occasional whiff of tar, as shipments of grain, furs, preserved meats, and weapons flow in and out of the town. Traders from all over the region use the docks to exchange goods, and though much of the commerce is legitimate, the occasional crate of contraband—smuggled tech, black market weapons, or illegal magical artifacts—passes quietly through the dock's hands.
The docks are also a hotbed for rumors and information, as river travelers share news about the larger conflicts playing out in the war-torn land. From whispered tales of Coalition patrols upriver to reports of Tolkeen sympathizer movements or dangerous D-Bee activity, the boatmen and traders bring more than just physical goods; they bring stories and secrets from distant territories.
Drydocks and Repairs:
Just a short walk from the main docks, the Blue Earth Drydocks serve as the town’s key facility for boat repair and maintenance. The drydocks are constructed from salvaged materials like old metal beams, riveted steel sheets, and crisscrossed wooden scaffolding, forming an industrial yard where riverboats can be lifted out of the water for repairs.
Run by Derek Gunn, an old, grizzled boatwright with grease-stained hands and a surly attitude, the drydocks have a reputation for efficient, if rough, work. Derek has been patching up vessels for years and is known for his no-nonsense approach to boat repairs. Whether it’s a rusted barge with gaping holes in its hull or a sleek, battered Coalition patrol boat, Derek can fix it—often with little more than scrap metal and brute force. His workshop is cluttered with welding equipment, piles of spare parts, and the skeletons of old vessels slowly being stripped for salvage.
Derek is also well-known for his willingness to look the other way when it comes to the cargo he handles. Smugglers and black market traders often frequent the drydocks for quick, quiet repairs on their vessels, paying Derek well to keep their operations off the Coalition’s radar. Hidden compartments in boat hulls and disguised storage areas are common fixes, and Derek’s ability to ensure discretion has made the drydocks a critical asset for those operating on the fringes of the law.
Smuggling and the Black Market:
While the official trade through Blue Earth is vital to the town’s survival, it’s the black market that truly thrives under the surface. The Blue Earth Docks are a haven for smugglers, who use the river to slip past Coalition checkpoints and avoid unwanted scrutiny. Boats laden with exotic contraband can often be found moored under the cover of night. Smugglers make heavy use of the drydocks hidden compartments and pay bribes to dockworkers to ensure their illicit goods go unnoticed.
The docks themselves are also riddled with hidden alcoves and concealed passages, perfect for storing contraband or conducting secretive deals. Even the dockhands, many of whom have grown accustomed to the constant flow of shady characters, turn a blind eye to the more suspicious cargo—so long as they get their cut. Blue Earth’s isolation and river access make it the ideal place for traders looking to evade the watchful eyes of the Coalition.
Additional Details:
Dimensions: The docks stretch out for around 500 feet along the river, with multiple smaller jetties for individual boats. The drydocks occupy a 3,000 square foot space adjacent to the main dock, filled with scaffolding and makeshift repair equipment.
Materials: Constructed from salvaged timber, rusted iron, and steel scrap, the docks and drydocks are functional but far from pretty. Constant repairs keep them usable, though they appear on the verge of collapse.
Lighting: At night, the docks are dimly lit by oil lamps or flickering electric lights rigged up from salvaged tech. Shadows and dim corners are frequent, making it easy for unsavory deals to go unnoticed.
Security: Loose and informal. Dockworkers and smugglers alike keep an eye on things, but most of the security comes from mutual understanding and bribes.
The Blue Earth Docks and Drydocks are the lifeblood of the town, where legal trade, black market dealings, and the flow of information converge to sustain this fragile, isolated frontier settlement.
The air shifted suddenly, a palpable tension tightening around the group of Mystic Knights.
Knight One felt the familiar tingle of danger crawling up his spine, a sensation that reached deep into his sixth sense. Without a word, he raised his hand, signaling to his companions. The other three Mystic Knights spread out silently, each scanning their surroundings, their senses heightened.
Danger was present—but the source remained elusive.
Instinctively, each of the knights whispered the spell of invisibility, their forms shimmering for a brief moment before vanishing from sight. Invisible to the naked eye, they began to move fluidly, their eyes constantly shifting in every direction. They were careful, light-footed, ghosts in the wind.
It was Knight Two who first noticed the Coalition squad down by the docks. A group of ten, all heavily armed, and unmistakable in their dark armor, marked by the angular insignia of the Coalition States. Two Dog Boys were sniffing the air, their enhanced senses clearly picking up something out of place. One of them pointed directly toward the Mystic Knights, their sharp eyes narrowing as they honed in on the scent.
"Don't damage the dock," Knight One's voice whispered softly through their telepathic link. "We will leave. If they don’t follow us, they will be lucky. If they follow us, they will be unlucky."
The knights moved silently, unseen, preparing to withdraw into the shadows. Yet the Dog Boys had locked onto their trail, and the rest of the Coalition soldiers were following their lead. The Skele-bot at the head of the squad—a skeletal, humanoid war machine—strode forward mechanically, a Dog Boy flanking its side. The Dog Boy’s nose twitched, and the creature barked something to its handler, pointing directly toward the Mystic Knights ambush point.
Then, without warning, the Skele-bot’s head exploded, a precise sniper shot severing it cleanly from its metal body. The headless machine staggered aimlessly.
The CS squad reacted instantly. Weapons raised, they unleashed a barrage of gunfire, energy bolts tearing through the air in a chaotic storm, aiming wildly toward where they believed the sniper shots had come from. Red flashes and the high-pitched whine of energy weapons lit up the docks. The hail of energy fire continued until their clips ran dry.
As the Coalition soldiers hastily reloaded, the Mystic Knights struck.
With a burst of magical speed, the four knights sprinted from their hidden positions, moving faster than humanly possible, nearly a blur as they closed the distance between themselves and the now-vulnerable CS squad.
Knight One and Knight Four raised their hands, casting Magic Nets that flew through the air like living creatures, wrapping around six of the Coalition soldiers.
The CS troops struggled, but the enchanted nets held tight, binding them in place as they thrashed and shouted in frustration.
The three remaining Coalition soldiers opened fire, their bolts singed the Mystic Knights combat fatigues. If they had been ordinary men, they would have been dead on the spot, but their magical defenses held strong.
A second set of Magic Nets flew from the knights’ hands, ensnaring the last two CS grunts. They fell to the ground, helpless, their weapons clattering on the wooden dock.
The only one still standing was the Psi-Stalker, a lithe and cunning figure, his face obscured by the mask and visor of his armor. He moved with unnatural grace, darting between the shadows of crates and dock pilings, running in an evasive pattern. The Mystic Knights, cautious of collateral damage, did not fire. Shooting recklessly could risk harming the townspeople or destroying the docks.
Knight Four nodded silently and took off after the Psi-Stalker, his speed matched by the urgency of the hunt. The Psi-Stalker, sensing he was being pursued, turned abruptly, drawing his blade—a long, Vibro sword that gleamed faintly in the dim light of the docks.
The duel began, a clash of metal as the two warriors met in the center of the town, near the edge of the bustling docks. The townsfolk of Blue Earth, hardened survivors of the frontier, watched from a distance, wary but unsurprised by the violence erupting before them. This was just another day in a town where the CS and its enemies often clashed.
The Psi-Stalker was fast, his strikes brutal, seeking to end the fight quickly. But Knight Four was no ordinary swordsman. His Vibor-blade, parried the Psi-Stalker’s blows with ease, countering each attack with a swift strike of his own.
The Psi-Stalker spun on his heel, his blade flashing as he lunged at Knight Four. Their swords met in a bright, ringing clash, the impact reverberating through the wooden docks. Sparks flew from the metal as the two warriors locked eyes, each gauging the other’s skill, each searching for an opening.
The Psi-Stalker, lean and quick, darted to the side with cat-like agility, attempting to circle Knight Four and find a vulnerable angle. His blade slashed through the air, a swift, lethal arc aimed at the knight’s side. But Knight Four was faster than the Psi-Stalker expected. In a fluid motion, he parried the strike, spinning his body with grace as if the movement were part of a well-rehearsed dance.
Their swords flashed in the dim light, reflecting the flickering lanterns that lined the docks, casting long, dancing shadows across the water.
The Psi-Stalker, realizing his usual tricks wouldn’t work on this opponent, leapt backward, his feet barely touching the ground as he dodged another powerful swipe from Knight Four. His boots skidded on the slick, rain-dampened wood of the docks, but he recovered quickly, launching himself forward with a powerful thrust. Knight Four, not to be outdone, somersaulted backward, his cloak billowing as he spun in the air, narrowly avoiding the deadly point of the Psi-Stalker’s blade.
"You're fast," the Psi-Stalker hissed, eyes narrowing behind his visor, but Knight Four merely smiled, adjusting his grip on his sword.
The deadly dance continued. The Psi-Stalker darted in again, his sword moving in quick, unpredictable strikes, but Knight Four met him at every turn. The Psi-Stalker’s blade came down in a powerful overhead chop, but Knight Four sidestepped, ducking low and driving his own sword upward in a flourishing parry, forcing the Psi-Stalker’s blade wide.
Before the Psi-Stalker could react, Knight Four leapt into the air, his acrobatics as fluid as his swordplay. Twisting mid-leap, he brought his blade down in a vicious arc aimed at the Psi-Stalker’s exposed shoulder. The Psi-Stalker barely managed to roll aside, his boots skidding dangerously close to the water’s edge. He recovered with a snarl, immediately countering with a sweeping low strike aimed at Knight Four’s legs.
Knight Four flipped over the blade, landing lightly on his feet as though he were born for this kind of combat. His eyes never left his opponent, and as the Psi-Stalker charged again, Knight Four met him head-on. Their swords clanged together, again and again, in a barrage of blows that echoed through the dockyards. The onlookers, a mix of townsfolk and dockworkers, stood frozen in place, mesmerized by the swashbuckling duel playing out before them.
The Psi-Stalker, growing desperate, tried to gain distance. He leapt back, intending to regroup, but Knight Four pursued with a burst of speed, closing the gap in an instant. With a graceful spin, Knight Four launched himself off a nearby crate, flipping over the Psi-Stalker’s head in an impressive display of acrobatics. He landed behind his opponent, his blade flashing in the air as he brought it down toward the Psi-Stalker’s back.
The Psi-Stalker, sensing the move, twisted at the last moment, raising his sword just in time to deflect the blow. But the force of Knight Four’s strike sent him staggering backward, his balance faltering. Knight Four pressed the advantage, his sword moving in swift, precise strokes that forced the Psi-Stalker onto the defensive.
"You're outmatched," Knight Four said, his voice calm but firm as he stepped forward, each move measured, each strike calculated to force the Psi-Stalker into a corner. The Psi-Stalker’s foot slipped on the slick dock, and he found himself backed up against a stack of crates.
Desperate, the Psi-Stalker tried one last desperate lunge, his sword aimed directly at Knight Four’s heart. But Knight Four was faster. He sidestepped with a spin, his blade moving in a blur of steel as he caught the Psi-Stalker’s sword with a flawless parry. The Psi-Stalker’s momentum carried him forward, and in one swift motion, Knight Four knocked the blade from his opponent’s hand, sending it clattering across the dock.
The Psi-Stalker froze, disarmed and cornered, his chest heaving from the exertion of the fight. For a moment, the world seemed to stop, the air thick with tension as Knight Four stood over him, his sword poised.
The Psi-Stalker’s eyes flicked from Knight Four’s blade to his own sword lying several feet away. Without a word, he turned and bolted, darting between the crates and disappearing into the maze of shadows beyond the docks.
Knight Four sheathed his sword, standing tall and calm in the aftermath of the fight. He walked over to where the Psi-Stalker’s sword lay, picking it up with a practiced hand. The balance was good—light but strong, meant for quick strikes rather than brute force. He twirled it once before sliding it into his belt alongside his own.
The townsfolk, who had watched in awe from the shadows, still did not move. They knew better than to interfere in the affairs of others when they gained nothing. When the battle was over, they would simply return to their lives, as they always did.
Knight Four turned to rejoin his companions, the weight of the Psi-Stalker’s sword resting in his hand. He didn’t need to say a word—his victory was clear. The other knights had already secured the Coalition soldiers, and the docks were quiet once again.
"The Psi-Stalker got away," Knight Four said as he reached Knight One, holding up the captured sword. "But I have this. Let him come back for it, if he dares."
Knight One nodded. "We’ve done enough here. Let’s leave before they send reinforcements."
With that, the four Mystic Knights turned to the docks.
“A river pilot is needed and a crew. IF they can keep quiet and like getting paid in advance. On the front end, the CS weapons and gear. On the back, maybe their boat. Also, I want a bounty on that Psi-Stalker; alive. Half if dead. I’ll leave the reward with Merik along with his commission.”
---
The Blue Earth Docks and Drydocks – Lifeblood of the River Town
Positioned at the southern edge of town, where the East and West branches of the Blue Earth River converge, the Blue Earth Docks stretch out into the murky water, forming the backbone of the town’s river trade. Though the docks are old and rickety, constructed from a mix of salvaged wood and rusted iron supports, they remain functional, if not exactly sturdy. The wooden planks creak and bend underfoot, some weathered to the point of rot, but they’ve been reinforced over the years with iron nails and salvaged steel plates to prevent complete collapse.
The docks themselves stretch for several hundred feet, with uneven jetties jutting into the river, each one capable of accommodating riverboats, barges, and smaller rafts. Shallow and deeper sections of the river allow for a wide variety of vessels to dock here, ranging from scrappy, hand-built rafts to imposing metal barges. Though cluttered and chaotic, the docks serve as the beating heart of Blue Earth’s economy, and their strategic position on the river makes them a vital hub for trade in this isolated frontier town.
River Trade Hub:
At almost any time of day, the Blue Earth Docks are alive with the sounds of river-based trade. Boats creak against their moorings, men shout orders over the water, and the constant flow of goods onto and off of vessels keeps the dock bustling with activity. The air smells of wet wood, fish, and the occasional whiff of tar, as shipments of grain, furs, preserved meats, and weapons flow in and out of the town. Traders from all over the region use the docks to exchange goods, and though much of the commerce is legitimate, the occasional crate of contraband—smuggled tech, black market weapons, or illegal magical artifacts—passes quietly through the dock's hands.
The docks are also a hotbed for rumors and information, as river travelers share news about the larger conflicts playing out in the war-torn land. From whispered tales of Coalition patrols upriver to reports of Tolkeen sympathizer movements or dangerous D-Bee activity, the boatmen and traders bring more than just physical goods; they bring stories and secrets from distant territories.
Drydocks and Repairs:
Just a short walk from the main docks, the Blue Earth Drydocks serve as the town’s key facility for boat repair and maintenance. The drydocks are constructed from salvaged materials like old metal beams, riveted steel sheets, and crisscrossed wooden scaffolding, forming an industrial yard where riverboats can be lifted out of the water for repairs.
Run by Derek Gunn, an old, grizzled boatwright with grease-stained hands and a surly attitude, the drydocks have a reputation for efficient, if rough, work. Derek has been patching up vessels for years and is known for his no-nonsense approach to boat repairs. Whether it’s a rusted barge with gaping holes in its hull or a sleek, battered Coalition patrol boat, Derek can fix it—often with little more than scrap metal and brute force. His workshop is cluttered with welding equipment, piles of spare parts, and the skeletons of old vessels slowly being stripped for salvage.
Derek is also well-known for his willingness to look the other way when it comes to the cargo he handles. Smugglers and black market traders often frequent the drydocks for quick, quiet repairs on their vessels, paying Derek well to keep their operations off the Coalition’s radar. Hidden compartments in boat hulls and disguised storage areas are common fixes, and Derek’s ability to ensure discretion has made the drydocks a critical asset for those operating on the fringes of the law.
Smuggling and the Black Market:
While the official trade through Blue Earth is vital to the town’s survival, it’s the black market that truly thrives under the surface. The Blue Earth Docks are a haven for smugglers, who use the river to slip past Coalition checkpoints and avoid unwanted scrutiny. Boats laden with exotic contraband can often be found moored under the cover of night. Smugglers make heavy use of the drydocks hidden compartments and pay bribes to dockworkers to ensure their illicit goods go unnoticed.
The docks themselves are also riddled with hidden alcoves and concealed passages, perfect for storing contraband or conducting secretive deals. Even the dockhands, many of whom have grown accustomed to the constant flow of shady characters, turn a blind eye to the more suspicious cargo—so long as they get their cut. Blue Earth’s isolation and river access make it the ideal place for traders looking to evade the watchful eyes of the Coalition.
Additional Details:
Dimensions: The docks stretch out for around 500 feet along the river, with multiple smaller jetties for individual boats. The drydocks occupy a 3,000 square foot space adjacent to the main dock, filled with scaffolding and makeshift repair equipment.
Materials: Constructed from salvaged timber, rusted iron, and steel scrap, the docks and drydocks are functional but far from pretty. Constant repairs keep them usable, though they appear on the verge of collapse.
Lighting: At night, the docks are dimly lit by oil lamps or flickering electric lights rigged up from salvaged tech. Shadows and dim corners are frequent, making it easy for unsavory deals to go unnoticed.
Security: Loose and informal. Dockworkers and smugglers alike keep an eye on things, but most of the security comes from mutual understanding and bribes.
The Blue Earth Docks and Drydocks are the lifeblood of the town, where legal trade, black market dealings, and the flow of information converge to sustain this fragile, isolated frontier settlement.
Last edited by darthauthor on Thu Sep 19, 2024 3:53 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Blue Earth
The four Mystic Knights stood at the edge of the docks, the aftermath of the battle still fresh in the air—the scent of ozone from energy weapons, and the still-bound Coalition soldiers struggling uselessly in their cuffs.
Their eyes now turned toward the riverboat anchored just down the dock, the vessel the Coalition squad had arrived on. It was a sleek, armored craft, designed more for military transport than leisurely travel, its angular shape painted in dark, non-reflective colors that blended into the murky river waters. The boat’s hull was reinforced with plated armor, and a light cannon was mounted on the front deck, capable of repelling any common threats along the river.
"Their boat’s too valuable to leave behind," Knight One said, his gaze sweeping over the vessel. “The Coalition wouldn’t send a squad of 10 without something important aboard.”
Knight Two nodded in agreement, his eyes narrowed.
Knight Three, “They likely have equipment, maps, and communication tech we could use.”
Without hesitation, the Mystic Knights moved toward the vessel, their footsteps silent as they approached the craft. Knight Three raised a hand, muttering a quick incantation that sent a wave of invisibility over himself.
He reached the boat’s boarding ramp, a sturdy metal bridge leading up to the deck. The boat itself appeared quiet, though its engines were still humming faintly, the sound barely audible over the soft lapping of the river against the docks. The banners and insignia of the Coalition were emblazoned on its sides, a stark reminder of the power that this faction wielded in the world beyond Blue Earth.
Knight One nodded and gestured for Knight Two and Knight Four to move around to the other side of the boat, flanking it. Meanwhile, Knight Three stayed with him, their eyes scanning the deck for any signs of movement.
As they reached the deck, Knight Two spotted a Dog Boy who had remained behind to guard the vessel sitting near the front of the boat. His ears twitched before he could react, Knight Four appeared out of thin air, his sword at the creature’s throat in an instant. The Dog Boy froze.
His face was angry.
Knight Four’s voice was calm, barely a whisper, “We have the CS grunts. IF you killed me or got away they would not. As sure as they are alive, so you too will be taken prisoner.
His hands dropped the rifle as he instinctively reached for the air in front of him.
The Dog Boy complied, knowing he was outmatched. Knight Four escorted the Dog Boy down the dock.
Knight One and Knight Two made their way inside the vessel, entering the narrow interior cabin where the Coalition officers would normally gather. The air was cold inside, the walls lined with metal crates containing ammunition, survival supplies, and standard Coalition issue. The boat was functional, almost sterile, devoid of any personal effects or luxuries. This was a military machine, and nothing more.
Knight Three moved toward the control room, his fingers tracing the edges of the control console. “They left it on autopilot,” he muttered. “No crew onboard besides the Dog Boy.”
Knight One inspected the cargo hold. Inside, his suspicions were confirmed. Coalition weapons, neatly stacked in rows, ready for deployment.
Knight One said, "Let’s move. We’ve secured their boat, but it won’t be long before they send reinforcements.”
Knight Three quickly moved to disable the boat’s communications system, ensuring that no signal could be sent from the craft. “That should buy us some time.”
The four Mystic Knights gathered on the deck, the riverboat now fully under their control.
Knight Four glanced down at the Dog Boy, tied securely with a bit of rope. "What do we do with him?"
Knight One considered for a moment, then shook his head. "Another for the Psi-Stalker tribe. Keep them on the boat"
---
The four Mystic Knights moved silently through the narrow, muddy streets of Blue Earth, the darkness of the town swallowing them as they made their way toward the Blue Fork Trading Post. They had another piece of business before leaving town—finding Merik Haldan, the post’s wily owner. They could put a bounty on the elusive Coalition Psi-Stalker who had fled during their battle. Along with that, they had to decide what to do with the captured Coalition soldiers. They had no use for prisoners, but there was always a solution in a place like Blue Earth.
The trading post loomed ahead, its patchwork of timber and salvaged metal rising above the scattered shacks and hovels that dotted the riverside town. The dim light of lanterns flickered through the cracked windows, and the muffled sounds of traders haggling and voices in low conversation could be heard even at this late hour.
Knight One, leading the group, pushed open the heavy wooden door. Inside, the trading post was as grimy and cluttered as always. Stalls lined the walls, filled with goods ranging from food and weapons to more illicit items that didn’t always find their way onto legitimate markets. A handful of traders were still present, whispering quietly among themselves, but the room grew quieter as the Mystic Knights stepped in. Their presence was always enough to make people wary—especially those who knew their reputation.
At the far end of the trading hall, Merik Haldan sat behind a large desk, surrounded by old crates and barrels stacked haphazardly. His eyes flicked up from a ledger as the knights approached, and a slow, calculating smile spread across his face. His silver hair and worn leather coat gave him the look of a man who had lived through a hundred different trades, each one more dangerous than the last.
"Well, well," Merik said smoothly, leaning back in his chair. "Look who graces my humble establishment. What brings you to my doorstep tonight?"
Knight One stepped forward, his gaze unwavering. "We’ve got business to settle."
"Don’t we all?" Merik chuckled, gesturing for them to continue.
"We need a bounty placed," Knight One said. "That Coalition Psi-Stalker—alive if possible. Half the bounty if dead. He slipped through our fingers earlier tonight. He’ll be a danger to Blue Earth if he’s allowed to roam freely until he’s reported back to the CS."
Merik raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Alive, eh? Psi-Stalkers aren’t easy prey, even for bounty hunters. What’s this one worth to you?"
Knight One reached into his satchel, pulling out a small pouch of gold coins, each one stamped with an ancient emblem. He tossed the pouch onto the desk in front of Merik. "That’s the first half. We’ll pay the rest once the Psi-Stalker is delivered to us. Alive, and it’s double."
Merik picked up the pouch, weighing it in his hand with a grin. "A generous offer, Knight. I’ll spread the word to the local bounty hunters who know the area and those that pass through here. I imagine a few of them will jump at the chance for a prize like this." He glanced up at Knight One, his expression sly. "And if they bring him back in pieces?"
"You know the deal," Knight One said firmly. "Half the bounty if he’s dead. But if he’s alive, the reward doubles. Make sure they understand that."
Merik nodded, pocketing the pouch. "Consider it done. The hunters will be on his trail before the sun’s up. Anything else?"
Knight Two stepped forward this time, his voice calm but carrying the weight of an important offer. "The CS soldiers we captured earlier. They’re no use to us, but we’re not leaving them here to talk. They need to be kept out of the war. We can kill them but no ones paying us. Instead, we’re offering them as shanghaied workers to any neutral river captain who’s willing to take them. We’ll give them to whoever can use them and keep them out of Coalition service."
Merik tilted his head, intrigued by the offer. "Shanghaied, you say? I’m sure a few of the river captains who pass through here would be interested. Soldiers are valuable, even if they come with a bit of baggage." He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "How much are you asking for their service?"
Knight One said. "All we want is secrecy about our being here and for them to be kept out of the war. Keep them away from the Coalition and their enemies. They’re yours to use for labor or whatever you need. Just keep them out of Blue Earth’s fight."
Merik’s eyes gleamed with interest. "I can arrange that. The river captains always need strong hands for their crews, and I doubt any of them would turn down a group of them. I’ll make sure they don’t see the battlefield again. You have my word.”
Knight One nodded. "Good. The prisoners are bound and secured. Take them off our hands, and they’re yours."
Merik stood up from his desk, walking around to face the knights directly. "I’ll take care of it from here. I’ll have them shipped out on the next river boat. By the time the Coalition comes looking, they’ll be long gone." He extended a hand, and Knight One shook it, sealing the deal.
"You’ve done good business tonight, Merik," Knight Three said with a smirk, already turning to leave.
Merik chuckled. "You keep bringing me interesting work, and I’ll keep finding ways to make it worth your while."
The Mystic Knights turned and left the trading post, stepping back into the quiet night of Blue Earth. The air was still heavy with tension, but their business was done for now. As they walked through the dark streets toward the river, Knight Two glanced over at Knight One.
"Do you think the Psi-Stalker will come back?"
Knight One’s eyes narrowed, his voice low. "No. But if he does, they will have him.”
---
As the Mystic Knights gathered around the small campfire just outside the town, Knight One leaned forward, his eyes reflecting the flickering flames. His voice, low and measured, carried the weight of his concerns.
"The people here. They've seen us. They know we’re not what we appear. I am certain one or more of them are spies. The files from the CS computer said as much when we stole the information. Only we don’t know exactly who it is other than they are human and not a child. It’s only a matter of time before they report our description and last known direction we went to the CS. Also, even after we take care of the spy, their are sympathizers who, when pressed, will talk." He glanced at his companions, gauging their reactions.
"We can't allow that," Knight Two said, his tone dark.
Knight Three, "If word gets back to the Coalition, they’ll send more than just a squad next time. And they won’t just be firing energy rifles at us."
Knight One nodded. "Exactly. A large part of our security is being anonymous and underestimated. IF we are just another small time Merc squad we are overlooked. What we don’t want are bounties on our heads or for CS intelligence to have files on us.
We need to erase that fight from the minds of the people, or make them fear our reprisal if they snitch on us or make them loyal to us. My guess, from the look of things, bribing them would lead to more bribes, intimidation alone is good, while we are around, as soon as we are gone the next CS patrol through here could lean on them to talk.
Fear may be a crude tool, but it works.
I only have the inner strength to erase our facial details from 2 people a day. We should take out the one or two spies we know are here.
“After that, we will see.”
The group was silent for a moment, the gravity of the suggestion sinking in.
Knight Four interjected, his voice thoughtful. “We need an excuse so that the people don’t hide or run. An official hearts and minds mission. We can look like we are helping the town while we hunt for the spy or spies. They will either run, take a shot at us, or play their role. Either way our play will flush them out.”
Knight One considered this, his eyes narrowing as he stared into the fire. "Perhaps," he said slowly, "but at the very least, I need to erase the memories of those who got a good look at us. Those who can identify us need to forget what they saw. And the rest... well, we'll see..."
---
As sunrise bathed Blue Earth in a soft, golden light, the Mystic Knights began their subtle, calculated campaign to influence the townspeople. They moved silently through the narrow streets, making their way toward the center of town, where many of the residents had already begun to stir.
Knight One slowed his pace as they approached the central square. Small groups of townspeople were gathered here, some haggling at market stalls, others speaking in low voices. No one seemed to take much notice of the Mystic Knights, but the Knights knew better. Someone was watching them. Someone had already been in contact with the Coalition.
They spread out, moving through the square with the subtle grace of hunters. Knight Three approached a group of merchants, their faces smeared with dust and sweat from a day of trading. The spell was simple, a small pulse of magic, barely noticeable—unless you hated magic.
"Here," Knight Three said, his voice pleasant as he approached one of the men. "You’ve been working hard today. Let me help you." He extended his hand, casting the spell as a shimmering wave of magic energy washed over the man.
The merchant blinked, looking down at himself in awe. His grimy clothes were suddenly spotless, his skin clean as if he’d just bathed. He smiled and nodded gratefully.
Knight Three smiled back and moved on, satisfied. Not the spy.
Meanwhile, Knight Four approached a woman tending a small fruit stall. She was wiping her hands on her apron, her face covered in a thin layer of dirt from the market. "Let me help you," he said, casting the same spell with a wave of his hand. The magic energy surrounded her, lifting away the dust and dirt, leaving her and her clothes fresh and clean.
The woman gasped in surprise, but then broke into a wide smile. "By the river gods! That’s a fine trick. I haven’t felt this clean in months!"
Not her either.
The Mystic Knights continued to move through the town, testing one person after another. Some laughed in surprise at the cleanliness the magic brought, while others merely thanked the knights for their generosity. But none of them reacted with fear or disgust or hatred.
Then, Knight Three spotted a man standing near the edge of the square. He was alone, watching the crowd with sharp, wary eyes. His clothes were simple, but there was something about his posture that caught Knight Three’s attention. The man wasn’t relaxed like the others—he was tense, calculating, as if he was waiting for something.
Knight Three walked up to him casually, the others fanning out to keep the man in their sights without making it obvious. "You look like you’ve been working hard," Knight Three said, casting the spell before the man had a chance to refuse.
The magic energy flowed over him, lifting the dirt and grime from his clothes and body. But instead of the usual reaction, the man stiffened, his face twisting into a look for an instant before turning to a smile.
His eyes darted around. He’d revealed himself.
Knight Three’s expression didn’t change, but inside, he knew they had found their man. He could see it in the man’s eyes, the way he recoiled from the magic. A loyal Coalition spy would never tolerate magic being cast on them. It was one of their deepest beliefs.
"Relax," Knight Four said, his voice calm but laced with a threat. "It's just a bit of magic. No harm done."
But the man didn’t relax. He stepped back again, his hand drifting toward the knife on his belt.
Before he could act, Knight One appeared behind him, his voice cold and commanding. "Drop it."
The man froze, his eyes wide. He hadn’t even heard Knight One approach. He knew now that he was trapped.
"You're working for the Coalition," Knight One said, no question in his tone—just a statement of fact. "We know. And now everyone here knows." He glanced around, making sure the other townspeople were watching. A few of them had gathered, their expressions wary, but none of them moved to help the spy.
---
After tying him up and putting a blind fold on him, Knight One erases the facial details of the team from the spies mind.
Knight Three found he has a cybernetic eye with a camera. It's memory and the pictures of the Mystic Knights and their Mercs are deleted.
While hauling him off to the back of the CS boat Knight One says, "Snitches. They are bad for business."
Everyone gets the idea.
"What was his is now yours. I'll leave it to between all of you to figure out who gets what."
Continuing the work that they had started the town's folk are now freshly clean. But one of the town's people has disappeared.
The four Mystic Knights stood at the edge of the docks, the aftermath of the battle still fresh in the air—the scent of ozone from energy weapons, and the still-bound Coalition soldiers struggling uselessly in their cuffs.
Their eyes now turned toward the riverboat anchored just down the dock, the vessel the Coalition squad had arrived on. It was a sleek, armored craft, designed more for military transport than leisurely travel, its angular shape painted in dark, non-reflective colors that blended into the murky river waters. The boat’s hull was reinforced with plated armor, and a light cannon was mounted on the front deck, capable of repelling any common threats along the river.
"Their boat’s too valuable to leave behind," Knight One said, his gaze sweeping over the vessel. “The Coalition wouldn’t send a squad of 10 without something important aboard.”
Knight Two nodded in agreement, his eyes narrowed.
Knight Three, “They likely have equipment, maps, and communication tech we could use.”
Without hesitation, the Mystic Knights moved toward the vessel, their footsteps silent as they approached the craft. Knight Three raised a hand, muttering a quick incantation that sent a wave of invisibility over himself.
He reached the boat’s boarding ramp, a sturdy metal bridge leading up to the deck. The boat itself appeared quiet, though its engines were still humming faintly, the sound barely audible over the soft lapping of the river against the docks. The banners and insignia of the Coalition were emblazoned on its sides, a stark reminder of the power that this faction wielded in the world beyond Blue Earth.
Knight One nodded and gestured for Knight Two and Knight Four to move around to the other side of the boat, flanking it. Meanwhile, Knight Three stayed with him, their eyes scanning the deck for any signs of movement.
As they reached the deck, Knight Two spotted a Dog Boy who had remained behind to guard the vessel sitting near the front of the boat. His ears twitched before he could react, Knight Four appeared out of thin air, his sword at the creature’s throat in an instant. The Dog Boy froze.
His face was angry.
Knight Four’s voice was calm, barely a whisper, “We have the CS grunts. IF you killed me or got away they would not. As sure as they are alive, so you too will be taken prisoner.
His hands dropped the rifle as he instinctively reached for the air in front of him.
The Dog Boy complied, knowing he was outmatched. Knight Four escorted the Dog Boy down the dock.
Knight One and Knight Two made their way inside the vessel, entering the narrow interior cabin where the Coalition officers would normally gather. The air was cold inside, the walls lined with metal crates containing ammunition, survival supplies, and standard Coalition issue. The boat was functional, almost sterile, devoid of any personal effects or luxuries. This was a military machine, and nothing more.
Knight Three moved toward the control room, his fingers tracing the edges of the control console. “They left it on autopilot,” he muttered. “No crew onboard besides the Dog Boy.”
Knight One inspected the cargo hold. Inside, his suspicions were confirmed. Coalition weapons, neatly stacked in rows, ready for deployment.
Knight One said, "Let’s move. We’ve secured their boat, but it won’t be long before they send reinforcements.”
Knight Three quickly moved to disable the boat’s communications system, ensuring that no signal could be sent from the craft. “That should buy us some time.”
The four Mystic Knights gathered on the deck, the riverboat now fully under their control.
Knight Four glanced down at the Dog Boy, tied securely with a bit of rope. "What do we do with him?"
Knight One considered for a moment, then shook his head. "Another for the Psi-Stalker tribe. Keep them on the boat"
---
The four Mystic Knights moved silently through the narrow, muddy streets of Blue Earth, the darkness of the town swallowing them as they made their way toward the Blue Fork Trading Post. They had another piece of business before leaving town—finding Merik Haldan, the post’s wily owner. They could put a bounty on the elusive Coalition Psi-Stalker who had fled during their battle. Along with that, they had to decide what to do with the captured Coalition soldiers. They had no use for prisoners, but there was always a solution in a place like Blue Earth.
The trading post loomed ahead, its patchwork of timber and salvaged metal rising above the scattered shacks and hovels that dotted the riverside town. The dim light of lanterns flickered through the cracked windows, and the muffled sounds of traders haggling and voices in low conversation could be heard even at this late hour.
Knight One, leading the group, pushed open the heavy wooden door. Inside, the trading post was as grimy and cluttered as always. Stalls lined the walls, filled with goods ranging from food and weapons to more illicit items that didn’t always find their way onto legitimate markets. A handful of traders were still present, whispering quietly among themselves, but the room grew quieter as the Mystic Knights stepped in. Their presence was always enough to make people wary—especially those who knew their reputation.
At the far end of the trading hall, Merik Haldan sat behind a large desk, surrounded by old crates and barrels stacked haphazardly. His eyes flicked up from a ledger as the knights approached, and a slow, calculating smile spread across his face. His silver hair and worn leather coat gave him the look of a man who had lived through a hundred different trades, each one more dangerous than the last.
"Well, well," Merik said smoothly, leaning back in his chair. "Look who graces my humble establishment. What brings you to my doorstep tonight?"
Knight One stepped forward, his gaze unwavering. "We’ve got business to settle."
"Don’t we all?" Merik chuckled, gesturing for them to continue.
"We need a bounty placed," Knight One said. "That Coalition Psi-Stalker—alive if possible. Half the bounty if dead. He slipped through our fingers earlier tonight. He’ll be a danger to Blue Earth if he’s allowed to roam freely until he’s reported back to the CS."
Merik raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Alive, eh? Psi-Stalkers aren’t easy prey, even for bounty hunters. What’s this one worth to you?"
Knight One reached into his satchel, pulling out a small pouch of gold coins, each one stamped with an ancient emblem. He tossed the pouch onto the desk in front of Merik. "That’s the first half. We’ll pay the rest once the Psi-Stalker is delivered to us. Alive, and it’s double."
Merik picked up the pouch, weighing it in his hand with a grin. "A generous offer, Knight. I’ll spread the word to the local bounty hunters who know the area and those that pass through here. I imagine a few of them will jump at the chance for a prize like this." He glanced up at Knight One, his expression sly. "And if they bring him back in pieces?"
"You know the deal," Knight One said firmly. "Half the bounty if he’s dead. But if he’s alive, the reward doubles. Make sure they understand that."
Merik nodded, pocketing the pouch. "Consider it done. The hunters will be on his trail before the sun’s up. Anything else?"
Knight Two stepped forward this time, his voice calm but carrying the weight of an important offer. "The CS soldiers we captured earlier. They’re no use to us, but we’re not leaving them here to talk. They need to be kept out of the war. We can kill them but no ones paying us. Instead, we’re offering them as shanghaied workers to any neutral river captain who’s willing to take them. We’ll give them to whoever can use them and keep them out of Coalition service."
Merik tilted his head, intrigued by the offer. "Shanghaied, you say? I’m sure a few of the river captains who pass through here would be interested. Soldiers are valuable, even if they come with a bit of baggage." He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "How much are you asking for their service?"
Knight One said. "All we want is secrecy about our being here and for them to be kept out of the war. Keep them away from the Coalition and their enemies. They’re yours to use for labor or whatever you need. Just keep them out of Blue Earth’s fight."
Merik’s eyes gleamed with interest. "I can arrange that. The river captains always need strong hands for their crews, and I doubt any of them would turn down a group of them. I’ll make sure they don’t see the battlefield again. You have my word.”
Knight One nodded. "Good. The prisoners are bound and secured. Take them off our hands, and they’re yours."
Merik stood up from his desk, walking around to face the knights directly. "I’ll take care of it from here. I’ll have them shipped out on the next river boat. By the time the Coalition comes looking, they’ll be long gone." He extended a hand, and Knight One shook it, sealing the deal.
"You’ve done good business tonight, Merik," Knight Three said with a smirk, already turning to leave.
Merik chuckled. "You keep bringing me interesting work, and I’ll keep finding ways to make it worth your while."
The Mystic Knights turned and left the trading post, stepping back into the quiet night of Blue Earth. The air was still heavy with tension, but their business was done for now. As they walked through the dark streets toward the river, Knight Two glanced over at Knight One.
"Do you think the Psi-Stalker will come back?"
Knight One’s eyes narrowed, his voice low. "No. But if he does, they will have him.”
---
As the Mystic Knights gathered around the small campfire just outside the town, Knight One leaned forward, his eyes reflecting the flickering flames. His voice, low and measured, carried the weight of his concerns.
"The people here. They've seen us. They know we’re not what we appear. I am certain one or more of them are spies. The files from the CS computer said as much when we stole the information. Only we don’t know exactly who it is other than they are human and not a child. It’s only a matter of time before they report our description and last known direction we went to the CS. Also, even after we take care of the spy, their are sympathizers who, when pressed, will talk." He glanced at his companions, gauging their reactions.
"We can't allow that," Knight Two said, his tone dark.
Knight Three, "If word gets back to the Coalition, they’ll send more than just a squad next time. And they won’t just be firing energy rifles at us."
Knight One nodded. "Exactly. A large part of our security is being anonymous and underestimated. IF we are just another small time Merc squad we are overlooked. What we don’t want are bounties on our heads or for CS intelligence to have files on us.
We need to erase that fight from the minds of the people, or make them fear our reprisal if they snitch on us or make them loyal to us. My guess, from the look of things, bribing them would lead to more bribes, intimidation alone is good, while we are around, as soon as we are gone the next CS patrol through here could lean on them to talk.
Fear may be a crude tool, but it works.
I only have the inner strength to erase our facial details from 2 people a day. We should take out the one or two spies we know are here.
“After that, we will see.”
The group was silent for a moment, the gravity of the suggestion sinking in.
Knight Four interjected, his voice thoughtful. “We need an excuse so that the people don’t hide or run. An official hearts and minds mission. We can look like we are helping the town while we hunt for the spy or spies. They will either run, take a shot at us, or play their role. Either way our play will flush them out.”
Knight One considered this, his eyes narrowing as he stared into the fire. "Perhaps," he said slowly, "but at the very least, I need to erase the memories of those who got a good look at us. Those who can identify us need to forget what they saw. And the rest... well, we'll see..."
---
As sunrise bathed Blue Earth in a soft, golden light, the Mystic Knights began their subtle, calculated campaign to influence the townspeople. They moved silently through the narrow streets, making their way toward the center of town, where many of the residents had already begun to stir.
Knight One slowed his pace as they approached the central square. Small groups of townspeople were gathered here, some haggling at market stalls, others speaking in low voices. No one seemed to take much notice of the Mystic Knights, but the Knights knew better. Someone was watching them. Someone had already been in contact with the Coalition.
They spread out, moving through the square with the subtle grace of hunters. Knight Three approached a group of merchants, their faces smeared with dust and sweat from a day of trading. The spell was simple, a small pulse of magic, barely noticeable—unless you hated magic.
"Here," Knight Three said, his voice pleasant as he approached one of the men. "You’ve been working hard today. Let me help you." He extended his hand, casting the spell as a shimmering wave of magic energy washed over the man.
The merchant blinked, looking down at himself in awe. His grimy clothes were suddenly spotless, his skin clean as if he’d just bathed. He smiled and nodded gratefully.
Knight Three smiled back and moved on, satisfied. Not the spy.
Meanwhile, Knight Four approached a woman tending a small fruit stall. She was wiping her hands on her apron, her face covered in a thin layer of dirt from the market. "Let me help you," he said, casting the same spell with a wave of his hand. The magic energy surrounded her, lifting away the dust and dirt, leaving her and her clothes fresh and clean.
The woman gasped in surprise, but then broke into a wide smile. "By the river gods! That’s a fine trick. I haven’t felt this clean in months!"
Not her either.
The Mystic Knights continued to move through the town, testing one person after another. Some laughed in surprise at the cleanliness the magic brought, while others merely thanked the knights for their generosity. But none of them reacted with fear or disgust or hatred.
Then, Knight Three spotted a man standing near the edge of the square. He was alone, watching the crowd with sharp, wary eyes. His clothes were simple, but there was something about his posture that caught Knight Three’s attention. The man wasn’t relaxed like the others—he was tense, calculating, as if he was waiting for something.
Knight Three walked up to him casually, the others fanning out to keep the man in their sights without making it obvious. "You look like you’ve been working hard," Knight Three said, casting the spell before the man had a chance to refuse.
The magic energy flowed over him, lifting the dirt and grime from his clothes and body. But instead of the usual reaction, the man stiffened, his face twisting into a look for an instant before turning to a smile.
His eyes darted around. He’d revealed himself.
Knight Three’s expression didn’t change, but inside, he knew they had found their man. He could see it in the man’s eyes, the way he recoiled from the magic. A loyal Coalition spy would never tolerate magic being cast on them. It was one of their deepest beliefs.
"Relax," Knight Four said, his voice calm but laced with a threat. "It's just a bit of magic. No harm done."
But the man didn’t relax. He stepped back again, his hand drifting toward the knife on his belt.
Before he could act, Knight One appeared behind him, his voice cold and commanding. "Drop it."
The man froze, his eyes wide. He hadn’t even heard Knight One approach. He knew now that he was trapped.
"You're working for the Coalition," Knight One said, no question in his tone—just a statement of fact. "We know. And now everyone here knows." He glanced around, making sure the other townspeople were watching. A few of them had gathered, their expressions wary, but none of them moved to help the spy.
---
After tying him up and putting a blind fold on him, Knight One erases the facial details of the team from the spies mind.
Knight Three found he has a cybernetic eye with a camera. It's memory and the pictures of the Mystic Knights and their Mercs are deleted.
While hauling him off to the back of the CS boat Knight One says, "Snitches. They are bad for business."
Everyone gets the idea.
"What was his is now yours. I'll leave it to between all of you to figure out who gets what."
Continuing the work that they had started the town's folk are now freshly clean. But one of the town's people has disappeared.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Blue Earth
The sun was setting over Blue Earth, casting long shadows across the town.
Cade "Wire" Yarrow, a black market engineer, or Operator, who had passed through Blue Earth on his way to another job upriver. Cade was a wiry man with a perpetual smirk on his face, his hands constantly moving, tinkering with wires, bolts, and any piece of tech he could get his hands on. The Mystic Knights had found him loitering near the docks, clearly intrigued by the remains of the Skele-bot. It hadn’t taken much convincing to enlist his help.
"Well," Cade said, crouching beside the ruined bot and pulling out a set of tools, "this thing's power core is still intact, and it’s got some decent components we could repurpose. If you’re looking to power something big—or, say, rig up a recharging station, this could do the trick. Question is: what do you want out of it?"
Knight One looked down at the engineer, his expression calm but calculating. "We want to repurpose its power supply for the town. Something that will provide them with a steady source of electricity. It will be seen as a reward—a gift from us for cooperating, for not siding with the Coalition."
Cade snorted as he began unscrewing a panel on the Skele-bot's chest. "Electricity, huh? Not a bad incentive for keeping their mouths shut. A town like this probably hasn’t seen reliable power in years, if ever."
"Exactly," Knight One said, his voice low. "But it’s more than that. If anyone talks—if word reaches the Coalition about the fight here and the full truth comes out—they’ll see this power supply as a threat. The Coalition could take it away, cut them off, or worse. They might see the people of Blue Earth as accomplices, taking sides in the war."
Knight Three, standing with his arms crossed, added, "The idea is simple. If they want to keep the power, they’ll have to stay quiet. If they betray us, they lose everything. The Coalition won’t let them keep it once they find out where it came from."
Cade, now pulling out the Skele-bot’s glowing power core, raised an eyebrow. "That’s a bit of a gamble. You're banking on fear and greed keeping them in line."
Knight Three smiled, his voice thoughtful. "Those are the two greatest forces of a human’s life. In this case, fear of the Coalition’s punishment and greed for the electrical power provided. It’s a balance. We’re showing them that siding with us brings benefits, real, tangible benefits, but also consequences if they betray that trust."
Cade grinned as he disconnected the power core from the Skele-bot, holding it up with a satisfied look. "Well, that’s a neat bit of manipulation. I like it. Now, let’s get this thing rigged up to the town’s infrastructure—if you can call it that."
---
By the time the Skele-bot’s power core was installed and functioning, night had fully fallen over Blue Earth. Cade, working alongside the Mystic Knights, had repurposed several of the bot’s internal systems, converting them into a rudimentary charging station capable of powering a small grid. Cade had jerry-rigged the bot’s power supply ensuring a steady flow of electricity for the town’s basic needs.
The faint hum of electricity began to spread across the small central square as dim lights flickered on inside the Trade Hub. For the first time in years, maybe decades, Blue Earth had reliable power. It wasn’t much—just enough to give the town a small glimpse of the convenience and progress they had long been denied—but it was more than they’d had in living memory.
The townspeople, most of whom had gathered to watch the process from a distance, looked on in awe and disbelief. They’d known the Mystic Knights were powerful, but this—this was something they hadn’t expected. Electricity, real and dependable, was something they had never dreamed of. Quiet whispers passed through the crowd as they watched Cade make the final adjustments, his hands moving quickly and expertly over the wiring.
"This is what we bring," Knight Four said, standing near the edge of the crowd, his voice just loud enough to carry to the townspeople. "This is the power of our alliance. But it is a fragile gift, one that could be taken away. If word reaches the CS about this, if they learn of what happened here today, you know what they’ll do."
Knight One stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over the gathered crowd. "They will see this as a threat. They’ll take the power away. They’ll punish you doing nothing, for what you now have. And they’ll make you choose a side, their side or else."
The crowd was silent, tension thick in the air. The people of Blue Earth were pragmatic, survivors who understood the implications of what they were being offered. They now had something to lose, something tangible that had the power to change their lives. But they also knew that if they crossed the wrong people, if word of the fight between the Mystic Knights and the Coalition got out, the price would be steep.
A man from the crowd stepped forward, his face worn and weathered from years of hard living. "And what if they come looking for you?"
Knight Two answered with a cool, measured tone. "Then they’ll come looking for you too. They’ll see this power supply, and they’ll know what it means. If you want to keep it, you’ll need to keep quiet. And remember who gave this to you. And that they could always have given it to you, if they cared enough about you to choose you over a machine of war. And will take it away."
Another murmur rippled through the crowd, a mix of fear and agreement. They knew the stakes now. The electricity was a gift but also a test. If they kept quiet, they could live better lives, easier lives. If they spoke, they would lose it all.
Cade, wiping the sweat from his brow, stood up and dusted off his hands. "There. You’ve got yourself a power supply. Just be sure to maintain it, or you’ll lose it faster than a Coalition patrol can show up."
Knight One looked at the man who had spoken earlier. "This is your town. You make the call. But if the Coalition comes for you, you’ll know who’s responsible. And you’ll know the price you’ll pay for betraying us."
The man nodded slowly, understanding fully now what the Mystic Knights were offering—and what it meant to accept.
As the Knights turned to leave, the lights flickered softly in the square, casting long shadows over the faces of the townspeople. Blue Earth was different now. They had something valuable, something that could change the course of their lives. They had something to lose. But they also had something to keep and a secret to keep—one that could cost them everything if it got out.
The sun was setting over Blue Earth, casting long shadows across the town.
Cade "Wire" Yarrow, a black market engineer, or Operator, who had passed through Blue Earth on his way to another job upriver. Cade was a wiry man with a perpetual smirk on his face, his hands constantly moving, tinkering with wires, bolts, and any piece of tech he could get his hands on. The Mystic Knights had found him loitering near the docks, clearly intrigued by the remains of the Skele-bot. It hadn’t taken much convincing to enlist his help.
"Well," Cade said, crouching beside the ruined bot and pulling out a set of tools, "this thing's power core is still intact, and it’s got some decent components we could repurpose. If you’re looking to power something big—or, say, rig up a recharging station, this could do the trick. Question is: what do you want out of it?"
Knight One looked down at the engineer, his expression calm but calculating. "We want to repurpose its power supply for the town. Something that will provide them with a steady source of electricity. It will be seen as a reward—a gift from us for cooperating, for not siding with the Coalition."
Cade snorted as he began unscrewing a panel on the Skele-bot's chest. "Electricity, huh? Not a bad incentive for keeping their mouths shut. A town like this probably hasn’t seen reliable power in years, if ever."
"Exactly," Knight One said, his voice low. "But it’s more than that. If anyone talks—if word reaches the Coalition about the fight here and the full truth comes out—they’ll see this power supply as a threat. The Coalition could take it away, cut them off, or worse. They might see the people of Blue Earth as accomplices, taking sides in the war."
Knight Three, standing with his arms crossed, added, "The idea is simple. If they want to keep the power, they’ll have to stay quiet. If they betray us, they lose everything. The Coalition won’t let them keep it once they find out where it came from."
Cade, now pulling out the Skele-bot’s glowing power core, raised an eyebrow. "That’s a bit of a gamble. You're banking on fear and greed keeping them in line."
Knight Three smiled, his voice thoughtful. "Those are the two greatest forces of a human’s life. In this case, fear of the Coalition’s punishment and greed for the electrical power provided. It’s a balance. We’re showing them that siding with us brings benefits, real, tangible benefits, but also consequences if they betray that trust."
Cade grinned as he disconnected the power core from the Skele-bot, holding it up with a satisfied look. "Well, that’s a neat bit of manipulation. I like it. Now, let’s get this thing rigged up to the town’s infrastructure—if you can call it that."
---
By the time the Skele-bot’s power core was installed and functioning, night had fully fallen over Blue Earth. Cade, working alongside the Mystic Knights, had repurposed several of the bot’s internal systems, converting them into a rudimentary charging station capable of powering a small grid. Cade had jerry-rigged the bot’s power supply ensuring a steady flow of electricity for the town’s basic needs.
The faint hum of electricity began to spread across the small central square as dim lights flickered on inside the Trade Hub. For the first time in years, maybe decades, Blue Earth had reliable power. It wasn’t much—just enough to give the town a small glimpse of the convenience and progress they had long been denied—but it was more than they’d had in living memory.
The townspeople, most of whom had gathered to watch the process from a distance, looked on in awe and disbelief. They’d known the Mystic Knights were powerful, but this—this was something they hadn’t expected. Electricity, real and dependable, was something they had never dreamed of. Quiet whispers passed through the crowd as they watched Cade make the final adjustments, his hands moving quickly and expertly over the wiring.
"This is what we bring," Knight Four said, standing near the edge of the crowd, his voice just loud enough to carry to the townspeople. "This is the power of our alliance. But it is a fragile gift, one that could be taken away. If word reaches the CS about this, if they learn of what happened here today, you know what they’ll do."
Knight One stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over the gathered crowd. "They will see this as a threat. They’ll take the power away. They’ll punish you doing nothing, for what you now have. And they’ll make you choose a side, their side or else."
The crowd was silent, tension thick in the air. The people of Blue Earth were pragmatic, survivors who understood the implications of what they were being offered. They now had something to lose, something tangible that had the power to change their lives. But they also knew that if they crossed the wrong people, if word of the fight between the Mystic Knights and the Coalition got out, the price would be steep.
A man from the crowd stepped forward, his face worn and weathered from years of hard living. "And what if they come looking for you?"
Knight Two answered with a cool, measured tone. "Then they’ll come looking for you too. They’ll see this power supply, and they’ll know what it means. If you want to keep it, you’ll need to keep quiet. And remember who gave this to you. And that they could always have given it to you, if they cared enough about you to choose you over a machine of war. And will take it away."
Another murmur rippled through the crowd, a mix of fear and agreement. They knew the stakes now. The electricity was a gift but also a test. If they kept quiet, they could live better lives, easier lives. If they spoke, they would lose it all.
Cade, wiping the sweat from his brow, stood up and dusted off his hands. "There. You’ve got yourself a power supply. Just be sure to maintain it, or you’ll lose it faster than a Coalition patrol can show up."
Knight One looked at the man who had spoken earlier. "This is your town. You make the call. But if the Coalition comes for you, you’ll know who’s responsible. And you’ll know the price you’ll pay for betraying us."
The man nodded slowly, understanding fully now what the Mystic Knights were offering—and what it meant to accept.
As the Knights turned to leave, the lights flickered softly in the square, casting long shadows over the faces of the townspeople. Blue Earth was different now. They had something valuable, something that could change the course of their lives. They had something to lose. But they also had something to keep and a secret to keep—one that could cost them everything if it got out.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Blue Earth
Inside the small boat the four Mystic Knights stood around the Coalition spy, bound and seated on a wooden chair. A single lantern flickered overhead, casting long, dancing shadows on the faces of the interrogators.
The spy, a wiry man in his mid-thirties, sat with his hands tied behind his back, his once-cocky demeanor long gone. His face was pale, his eyes wide and darting from one knight to the next as he struggled to maintain his composure. He knew what the Mystic Knight Mercs were capable of—he had seen it in their battle with the Coalition squad earlier. And now, he was at their mercy.
Knight One stood directly in front of the man. His voice was low, calm, and devoid of emotion. He said softly, leaning forward slightly. "We don’t have much time to spend on you."
The spy swallowed hard but said nothing, his jaw clenched in silent defiance. Knight Two circled around him, arms crossed, watching the man’s every movement like a predator sizing up its prey.
"You are CS or you’ve been working for them," Knight One continued. "That much is clear. What we need to know now is simple: what do you know about this town? Who else has been feeding them information?"
The spy’s lips trembled, but he remained silent. Knight Two, standing behind him, flicked his fingers slightly, and a faint electric spark rippled through the air. The spy twitched, feeling the static electricity brush against him—a reminder of the Knights abilities.
"I’m not telling you anything," the spy spat, his voice hoarse but defiant. "You can kill me if you want, but you won’t get any information out of me."
Knight Three chuckled softly from the shadows, stepping into the light with a slow, deliberate pace. "Kill you? That’s not the plan. Not yet. We need you alive... for now."
Knight One raised an eyebrow, his gaze never leaving the spy. "You’ve been watching this town for a while, haven’t you? You know the people here. The routes the traders take, who’s neutral, who’s sympathetic to the Coalition. We’re going to find out everything you know, whether you tell us or not. But I suggest you make it easier on yourself."
The spy shifted uncomfortably, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold. He was trying to hold out, trying to keep his loyalty to the Coalition intact, but the pressure was mounting. He could feel it.
Knight Three leaned in close, his voice a dangerous whisper. "You see, we’re not just looking for who you’ve been talking to. We want to know how far the Coalition has infiltrated this town. Are they planning another raid? Who do they trust here? You know the answers, and we know how to get them."
The spy’s resolve was beginning to crack. He could sense the noose tightening around him, but his training kept him from breaking—at least for now.
"You can threaten me all you want," he growled, his voice shaky. "But the Coalition is bigger than you. They’ll come for this town, and when they do, you’ll all be dead."
Knight One tilted his head slightly, watching the man carefully. "Is that so? Then let me make this clear. When they come, they’ll find nothing left of you to save." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in. "We’ll know every move they made, every plan, and we’ll be ready. Because you’re going to tell us everything."
Knight Four, still standing behind the spy, leaned down, his voice smooth but menacing. "Let me show you something."
With a wave of his hand, Knight Four cast a spell, the air around them shimmering briefly before settling. Suddenly, the spy’s vision blurred, and he felt his entire body stiffen. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. The boat around him twisted and distorted, until everything was dark. He couldn’t see. Imagine being this way; all the time. Trapped in a dark chamber.”
They were closing in, whispering threats and promises of pain.
In his mind, he saw himself being torn apart by the Mystic Knights, piece by piece, his secrets spilling out in agonizing bursts. The pain felt real, the fear all-consuming.
Knight Four watched the man’s face, reading the signs. "This is just a taste," he said softly. "A glimpse of what we can do if you resist. There’s no point in holding out."
After what felt like an eternity to the spy, it ended. His body snapped back to reality, but the terror remained. His breathing was ragged, his eyes wide with panic.
Knight One knelt down in front of him, his voice quiet but commanding. "Now, tell us what we want to know and you can get out alive, maybe even with some credits and gear. Maybe, even with a job for us. Who in this town has been helping the Coalition?"
Suddenly, he felt an overpowering feeling he could trust Knight One. Next a compulsion to talk. The spy’s resolve shattered, his will broken by the relentless psychological assault.
"All right, all right!" he gasped, his voice a mix of fear and desperation. "There’s a few of them—traders mostly. They smuggle messages to the Coalition when they head south. There’s a woman... Kiera, she runs a stall near the docks. She’s been sending information for months."
Knight Two stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. "Who else?"
The spy stammered, the words tumbling out now. "A man named Tarris... he works the drydocks. He’s been slipping Coalition agents into town, hiding them in boats. There’s another group, but I don’t know all their names. I just know they meet sometimes in the tavern, in the back room. That’s where they make their deals."
Knight One stood, satisfied with the information. "That wasn’t so hard, was it?"
The spy slumped in the chair, his body trembling. "You’ve got what you wanted," he muttered, his voice weak. "Now what?"
Knight Three stepped forward, a smile playing on his lips. "Now? Now you’ll disappear. The Coalition will never know what happened to you." He glanced at Knight One, who nodded in agreement.
"The people of this town won’t have to worry about you talking," Knight One said, his voice cold. "And the Coalition will have one less spy in their ranks."
The flickering lantern light revealed his slumped, defeated figure. The spy—who had once prided himself on being invisible, on blending seamlessly into the shadows of Blue Earth—now found himself exposed, vulnerable, and entirely at the mercy of the Mystic Knights.
Knight Three stepped forward from the shadows, his gaze thoughtful as he studied the man. Unlike his companions, Knight Three had a different perspective on this spy. He saw more than just a broken tool of the Coalition. He saw potential.
"You’ve lost your place here," Knight Three began, his voice quiet but steady, cutting through the spy’s thoughts like a blade. "Your cover is blown. Everyone in Blue Earth knows you’re a spy now. They won’t trust you, they won’t talk to you, and they’ll either avoid you or assume anyone in your presence is under suspicion too."
The spy lifted his head, his eyes still filled with the weariness of defeat. He didn’t respond but listened intently, sensing that Knight Three wasn’t here to make more threats.
"When you disappear from this town," Knight Three continued, "they’ll think you’re either dead or on the run. That’s a useful narrative. It lets you start fresh, somewhere else. And your skills? They’re valuable, transferable, if you will."
The spy’s brow furrowed. "Transferable?" he muttered, confused. "To what? My cover’s blown. I can’t just hop to the next town and start over. The CSn will find out eventually."
Knight Three smiled slightly. "True. But you don’t have to keep working for the CS." He stepped closer, standing over the man, his eyes gleaming with purpose. "You're a professional. You’ve been doing a job, just like any of us. We understand that. And in your line of work, loyalty is fluid, is it not? You’ve spent years cultivating your skills, gathering intelligence, tracking movements, recruiting informants. You could keep doing that... just NOT for them."
The spy blinked, processing the words. For the first time since his capture, a spark of something other than fear flickered in his eyes. "You’re... offering me a job?"
Knight Three nodded. "Your cover may be blown here in Blue Earth, but that’s a small problem in the grand scheme of things. You can still be useful elsewhere. You’re a skilled operator—one of the best I’ve seen. You speak multiple languages, you can navigate any terrain, operate communications equipment, and even blend into different societies. You know how to read people, how to manipulate them, how to listen without being noticed. All of that can serve us."
The spy frowned, still hesitant. "What exactly would I be doing?"
Knight Three crouched down so he was at eye level with the man, his tone persuasive but firm. "We need someone who can recruit and train new spies, someone who understands counterintelligence, the art of finding spies who infiltrate us. You’d be teaching others how to do what you do best, while also helping us stay ahead of our enemies. And don’t forget, mercenary work isn’t all cloak and dagger. Many of your skills translate easily to corporate espionage, intelligence gathering for the highest bidder. We are a business, after all."
The spy’s eyes darted around the boat as he thought it over, but there was no denying the truth in Knight Three’s words. His cover in Blue Earth was gone, but elsewhere? He could still operate. And, more importantly, he could still survive.
"You think you need me?" the spy asked, skeptical but intrigued.
Knight Three smiled again, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "We know we need talented people and you are one. Talents we come across every day. You’re more educated than most people in this region, and you know the ins and outs of the land, the back streets, the hidden places. You even know how to disappear into the forest. All of that makes you incredibly valuable."
The spy shifted in his chair, his mind racing. "And if I say no?"
Knight Three’s smile faded, his expression turning serious. "Then you disappear another way. We can’t risk leaving you behind as a loose end. The CS will come for you, and they’ll find you. If they don’t, well, you’ll be in Blue Earth’s bad graces for the rest of your days, living like a ghost. Either way, you won’t last long on your own."
Silence filled the boat as the spy weighed his options. He was a professional, a man who had spent his life adapting to survive. And now, once again, survival meant choosing sides.
After a long pause, the spy finally spoke, his voice resigned but steady. "Fine. I’ll work for you. But I’m not a soldier. I’m not going to march into battle."
Knight Three stood up, satisfied. "We wouldn’t ask you to. Your skills are better used elsewhere."
Knight One stepped forward now, nodding in approval. "Good. You’ll be well-compensated for your work, and we’ll ensure you have the resources you need to do your job."
The spy looked up at them, his shoulders relaxing slightly. It wasn’t freedom, but it was a way out. And more importantly, it was a way to keep using the skills he had honed for so many years.
Knight Three leaned in one last time. "Welcome to the private security sector. You’ve just traded up."
With that, they untied him, and the spy stood, rubbing his wrists. He was no longer their prisoner—he was their asset.
Things had changed since the first interrogation—now the air felt less hostile, more like a strategy session among peers.
Knight One stood with his arms crossed, watching their newest recruit—the former Coalition spy—as he leaned over a table strewn with maps of Blue Earth and the surrounding regions. The dim lantern light cast deep shadows, but it was bright enough to show the seriousness of the conversation.
The spy, now aware that his skills were valued, had regained some of his composure. His sharp eyes scanned the maps, his mind already working through the logistics of the people he had betrayed earlier. Knight Three stood nearby, quiet but observant, while Knight Two fiddled with a small device recovered from the Skele-bot, ready to turn any insight into action.
Knight One broke the silence. "You mentioned a few names earlier—Kiera at the stall, Tarris at the drydocks, and a group that meets in the Ironwater Tavern. These people know about us. We need to decide what to do about them, and we want your input from an intelligence perspective."
The spy looked up from the maps, meeting Knight One’s eyes. "You want to know if they’re a threat," he said, his voice steady. "From what I’ve seen, they aren’t going to act out of loyalty to the Coalition. They’re opportunists, like most people here. They give information when it’s beneficial to them or when they feel threatened. Killing them outright would send a message, sure, but it might backfire. They’re well connected here, and any sudden disappearances will raise alarms. That’ll just draw more attention from the Coalition. If the goal is self-preservation, killing them isn’t your best option."
Knight Three raised an eyebrow. "So what should we do about them? Ignore them, deal with them directly, or make sure they don’t remember us at all?"
The spy paused, weighing his words carefully.
"They haven’t taken direct action yet, have they? They’re opportunists. They send information when it benefits them—maybe for money, maybe for favors. They're not loyal to the Coalition, at least not deeply. They can be dealt with... quietly."
Knight One raised an eyebrow. "How?"
The spy glanced around the room before speaking. "Well, you have options. You said you can erase memories, right? If any of them got a good look at you, you can make sure they forget. That’ll neutralize the immediate threat. Erase the right memories, and they won’t even remember seeing you here at all. No Coalition agent will know what happened because these people won’t have anything to tell."
Knight One nodded slowly, considering. "I can selectively remove memories. The issue is, we need to make sure they haven’t gathered any physical evidence. Photos, videos—anything that could reveal who we are."
The spy scratched his chin. "If they have anything like that, it’ll likely be hidden. Kiera, for example, is cautious. She might have a stash in her home or near her stall. Tarris is clever, too, and he deals in smuggling, so he knows how to hide things, but if you erase the evidence, then you’re mostly in the clear."
Knight Four stepped forward, arms crossed. "And after we erase their memories and clear out any evidence? What then? Do we just let them continue their lives, hoping they don’t find a new way to turn against us?"
The spy shrugged. "You don’t need to kill them, if that’s what you’re thinking. But you do need to control them. If they talk to the wrong person, it could get back to the Coalition. That’s where removing specific memories is useful. If they can’t remember seeing you, they have nothing to report. And if they don’t know who you are, they have no reason to fear the Coalition or to tip anyone off."
Knight Two tilted his head, a smirk forming. "And if someone asks them what happened during the fight?"
The spy’s lips twisted into a knowing smile. "That’s the beauty of it—they won’t remember there was a fight. Just a normal day in Blue Earth. A few tensions, some traders passing through, but nothing remarkable. Nothing worth reporting."
Knight One stood back, arms crossed, deep in thought. "Our goal isn't to destroy the Coalition. This war is profitable for us—protecting assets, people, and places the Coalition attacks is what we get paid to do. The war ends for us when the Coalition stops attacking, or when we decide it’s time to disappear. Until then, we need to ensure that people like Kiera and Tarris don’t see us as a threat or a bargaining chip."
The spy straightened up, more confident now in his role. "That’s right. They’re small fish. If you leave them alone, they’ll stay out of your way—especially if they don’t remember anything about you."
Knight One turned to the group. "Then here’s what we do. We’ll pay each of these people a visit, one by one. If they have any evidence, we erase it—discreetly. After that, I’ll erase the specific memories of seeing us, the fight, and any connection they might think we have with the Coalition’s interests. Once we’re done, we’ll make sure they know nothing about us."
Knight Four, ever pragmatic, added, "And if any of them resist? If they refuse to cooperate or try to hide something?"
Knight Three spoke before the spy could answer. "Then we handle it quietly. We leave no trace, no reason for anyone to look for us. This is about control, not fear."
The spy looked at the faces of the Mystic Knights, seeing the calculated resolve in their eyes. "You’ve got it figured out," he said. "Do this right, and no one will be able to connect you to anything. The people you let live will be too afraid—or too forgetful—to remember you. And the Coalition won’t have a trail to follow."
Knight One turned to the door, signaling that the conversation was over. "Good. Then let’s get started. The sooner we clean this up, the sooner we can leave Blue Earth behind."
With that, the Mystic Knights moved out into the night, their new recruit leading the way as they prepared to quietly erase their presence from the memories—and the records—of Blue Earth. They wouldn’t be remembered, but their influence would linger in silence, hidden in the shadows where they thrived.
Inside the small boat the four Mystic Knights stood around the Coalition spy, bound and seated on a wooden chair. A single lantern flickered overhead, casting long, dancing shadows on the faces of the interrogators.
The spy, a wiry man in his mid-thirties, sat with his hands tied behind his back, his once-cocky demeanor long gone. His face was pale, his eyes wide and darting from one knight to the next as he struggled to maintain his composure. He knew what the Mystic Knight Mercs were capable of—he had seen it in their battle with the Coalition squad earlier. And now, he was at their mercy.
Knight One stood directly in front of the man. His voice was low, calm, and devoid of emotion. He said softly, leaning forward slightly. "We don’t have much time to spend on you."
The spy swallowed hard but said nothing, his jaw clenched in silent defiance. Knight Two circled around him, arms crossed, watching the man’s every movement like a predator sizing up its prey.
"You are CS or you’ve been working for them," Knight One continued. "That much is clear. What we need to know now is simple: what do you know about this town? Who else has been feeding them information?"
The spy’s lips trembled, but he remained silent. Knight Two, standing behind him, flicked his fingers slightly, and a faint electric spark rippled through the air. The spy twitched, feeling the static electricity brush against him—a reminder of the Knights abilities.
"I’m not telling you anything," the spy spat, his voice hoarse but defiant. "You can kill me if you want, but you won’t get any information out of me."
Knight Three chuckled softly from the shadows, stepping into the light with a slow, deliberate pace. "Kill you? That’s not the plan. Not yet. We need you alive... for now."
Knight One raised an eyebrow, his gaze never leaving the spy. "You’ve been watching this town for a while, haven’t you? You know the people here. The routes the traders take, who’s neutral, who’s sympathetic to the Coalition. We’re going to find out everything you know, whether you tell us or not. But I suggest you make it easier on yourself."
The spy shifted uncomfortably, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cold. He was trying to hold out, trying to keep his loyalty to the Coalition intact, but the pressure was mounting. He could feel it.
Knight Three leaned in close, his voice a dangerous whisper. "You see, we’re not just looking for who you’ve been talking to. We want to know how far the Coalition has infiltrated this town. Are they planning another raid? Who do they trust here? You know the answers, and we know how to get them."
The spy’s resolve was beginning to crack. He could sense the noose tightening around him, but his training kept him from breaking—at least for now.
"You can threaten me all you want," he growled, his voice shaky. "But the Coalition is bigger than you. They’ll come for this town, and when they do, you’ll all be dead."
Knight One tilted his head slightly, watching the man carefully. "Is that so? Then let me make this clear. When they come, they’ll find nothing left of you to save." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in. "We’ll know every move they made, every plan, and we’ll be ready. Because you’re going to tell us everything."
Knight Four, still standing behind the spy, leaned down, his voice smooth but menacing. "Let me show you something."
With a wave of his hand, Knight Four cast a spell, the air around them shimmering briefly before settling. Suddenly, the spy’s vision blurred, and he felt his entire body stiffen. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. The boat around him twisted and distorted, until everything was dark. He couldn’t see. Imagine being this way; all the time. Trapped in a dark chamber.”
They were closing in, whispering threats and promises of pain.
In his mind, he saw himself being torn apart by the Mystic Knights, piece by piece, his secrets spilling out in agonizing bursts. The pain felt real, the fear all-consuming.
Knight Four watched the man’s face, reading the signs. "This is just a taste," he said softly. "A glimpse of what we can do if you resist. There’s no point in holding out."
After what felt like an eternity to the spy, it ended. His body snapped back to reality, but the terror remained. His breathing was ragged, his eyes wide with panic.
Knight One knelt down in front of him, his voice quiet but commanding. "Now, tell us what we want to know and you can get out alive, maybe even with some credits and gear. Maybe, even with a job for us. Who in this town has been helping the Coalition?"
Suddenly, he felt an overpowering feeling he could trust Knight One. Next a compulsion to talk. The spy’s resolve shattered, his will broken by the relentless psychological assault.
"All right, all right!" he gasped, his voice a mix of fear and desperation. "There’s a few of them—traders mostly. They smuggle messages to the Coalition when they head south. There’s a woman... Kiera, she runs a stall near the docks. She’s been sending information for months."
Knight Two stepped closer, his eyes narrowing. "Who else?"
The spy stammered, the words tumbling out now. "A man named Tarris... he works the drydocks. He’s been slipping Coalition agents into town, hiding them in boats. There’s another group, but I don’t know all their names. I just know they meet sometimes in the tavern, in the back room. That’s where they make their deals."
Knight One stood, satisfied with the information. "That wasn’t so hard, was it?"
The spy slumped in the chair, his body trembling. "You’ve got what you wanted," he muttered, his voice weak. "Now what?"
Knight Three stepped forward, a smile playing on his lips. "Now? Now you’ll disappear. The Coalition will never know what happened to you." He glanced at Knight One, who nodded in agreement.
"The people of this town won’t have to worry about you talking," Knight One said, his voice cold. "And the Coalition will have one less spy in their ranks."
The flickering lantern light revealed his slumped, defeated figure. The spy—who had once prided himself on being invisible, on blending seamlessly into the shadows of Blue Earth—now found himself exposed, vulnerable, and entirely at the mercy of the Mystic Knights.
Knight Three stepped forward from the shadows, his gaze thoughtful as he studied the man. Unlike his companions, Knight Three had a different perspective on this spy. He saw more than just a broken tool of the Coalition. He saw potential.
"You’ve lost your place here," Knight Three began, his voice quiet but steady, cutting through the spy’s thoughts like a blade. "Your cover is blown. Everyone in Blue Earth knows you’re a spy now. They won’t trust you, they won’t talk to you, and they’ll either avoid you or assume anyone in your presence is under suspicion too."
The spy lifted his head, his eyes still filled with the weariness of defeat. He didn’t respond but listened intently, sensing that Knight Three wasn’t here to make more threats.
"When you disappear from this town," Knight Three continued, "they’ll think you’re either dead or on the run. That’s a useful narrative. It lets you start fresh, somewhere else. And your skills? They’re valuable, transferable, if you will."
The spy’s brow furrowed. "Transferable?" he muttered, confused. "To what? My cover’s blown. I can’t just hop to the next town and start over. The CSn will find out eventually."
Knight Three smiled slightly. "True. But you don’t have to keep working for the CS." He stepped closer, standing over the man, his eyes gleaming with purpose. "You're a professional. You’ve been doing a job, just like any of us. We understand that. And in your line of work, loyalty is fluid, is it not? You’ve spent years cultivating your skills, gathering intelligence, tracking movements, recruiting informants. You could keep doing that... just NOT for them."
The spy blinked, processing the words. For the first time since his capture, a spark of something other than fear flickered in his eyes. "You’re... offering me a job?"
Knight Three nodded. "Your cover may be blown here in Blue Earth, but that’s a small problem in the grand scheme of things. You can still be useful elsewhere. You’re a skilled operator—one of the best I’ve seen. You speak multiple languages, you can navigate any terrain, operate communications equipment, and even blend into different societies. You know how to read people, how to manipulate them, how to listen without being noticed. All of that can serve us."
The spy frowned, still hesitant. "What exactly would I be doing?"
Knight Three crouched down so he was at eye level with the man, his tone persuasive but firm. "We need someone who can recruit and train new spies, someone who understands counterintelligence, the art of finding spies who infiltrate us. You’d be teaching others how to do what you do best, while also helping us stay ahead of our enemies. And don’t forget, mercenary work isn’t all cloak and dagger. Many of your skills translate easily to corporate espionage, intelligence gathering for the highest bidder. We are a business, after all."
The spy’s eyes darted around the boat as he thought it over, but there was no denying the truth in Knight Three’s words. His cover in Blue Earth was gone, but elsewhere? He could still operate. And, more importantly, he could still survive.
"You think you need me?" the spy asked, skeptical but intrigued.
Knight Three smiled again, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "We know we need talented people and you are one. Talents we come across every day. You’re more educated than most people in this region, and you know the ins and outs of the land, the back streets, the hidden places. You even know how to disappear into the forest. All of that makes you incredibly valuable."
The spy shifted in his chair, his mind racing. "And if I say no?"
Knight Three’s smile faded, his expression turning serious. "Then you disappear another way. We can’t risk leaving you behind as a loose end. The CS will come for you, and they’ll find you. If they don’t, well, you’ll be in Blue Earth’s bad graces for the rest of your days, living like a ghost. Either way, you won’t last long on your own."
Silence filled the boat as the spy weighed his options. He was a professional, a man who had spent his life adapting to survive. And now, once again, survival meant choosing sides.
After a long pause, the spy finally spoke, his voice resigned but steady. "Fine. I’ll work for you. But I’m not a soldier. I’m not going to march into battle."
Knight Three stood up, satisfied. "We wouldn’t ask you to. Your skills are better used elsewhere."
Knight One stepped forward now, nodding in approval. "Good. You’ll be well-compensated for your work, and we’ll ensure you have the resources you need to do your job."
The spy looked up at them, his shoulders relaxing slightly. It wasn’t freedom, but it was a way out. And more importantly, it was a way to keep using the skills he had honed for so many years.
Knight Three leaned in one last time. "Welcome to the private security sector. You’ve just traded up."
With that, they untied him, and the spy stood, rubbing his wrists. He was no longer their prisoner—he was their asset.
Things had changed since the first interrogation—now the air felt less hostile, more like a strategy session among peers.
Knight One stood with his arms crossed, watching their newest recruit—the former Coalition spy—as he leaned over a table strewn with maps of Blue Earth and the surrounding regions. The dim lantern light cast deep shadows, but it was bright enough to show the seriousness of the conversation.
The spy, now aware that his skills were valued, had regained some of his composure. His sharp eyes scanned the maps, his mind already working through the logistics of the people he had betrayed earlier. Knight Three stood nearby, quiet but observant, while Knight Two fiddled with a small device recovered from the Skele-bot, ready to turn any insight into action.
Knight One broke the silence. "You mentioned a few names earlier—Kiera at the stall, Tarris at the drydocks, and a group that meets in the Ironwater Tavern. These people know about us. We need to decide what to do about them, and we want your input from an intelligence perspective."
The spy looked up from the maps, meeting Knight One’s eyes. "You want to know if they’re a threat," he said, his voice steady. "From what I’ve seen, they aren’t going to act out of loyalty to the Coalition. They’re opportunists, like most people here. They give information when it’s beneficial to them or when they feel threatened. Killing them outright would send a message, sure, but it might backfire. They’re well connected here, and any sudden disappearances will raise alarms. That’ll just draw more attention from the Coalition. If the goal is self-preservation, killing them isn’t your best option."
Knight Three raised an eyebrow. "So what should we do about them? Ignore them, deal with them directly, or make sure they don’t remember us at all?"
The spy paused, weighing his words carefully.
"They haven’t taken direct action yet, have they? They’re opportunists. They send information when it benefits them—maybe for money, maybe for favors. They're not loyal to the Coalition, at least not deeply. They can be dealt with... quietly."
Knight One raised an eyebrow. "How?"
The spy glanced around the room before speaking. "Well, you have options. You said you can erase memories, right? If any of them got a good look at you, you can make sure they forget. That’ll neutralize the immediate threat. Erase the right memories, and they won’t even remember seeing you here at all. No Coalition agent will know what happened because these people won’t have anything to tell."
Knight One nodded slowly, considering. "I can selectively remove memories. The issue is, we need to make sure they haven’t gathered any physical evidence. Photos, videos—anything that could reveal who we are."
The spy scratched his chin. "If they have anything like that, it’ll likely be hidden. Kiera, for example, is cautious. She might have a stash in her home or near her stall. Tarris is clever, too, and he deals in smuggling, so he knows how to hide things, but if you erase the evidence, then you’re mostly in the clear."
Knight Four stepped forward, arms crossed. "And after we erase their memories and clear out any evidence? What then? Do we just let them continue their lives, hoping they don’t find a new way to turn against us?"
The spy shrugged. "You don’t need to kill them, if that’s what you’re thinking. But you do need to control them. If they talk to the wrong person, it could get back to the Coalition. That’s where removing specific memories is useful. If they can’t remember seeing you, they have nothing to report. And if they don’t know who you are, they have no reason to fear the Coalition or to tip anyone off."
Knight Two tilted his head, a smirk forming. "And if someone asks them what happened during the fight?"
The spy’s lips twisted into a knowing smile. "That’s the beauty of it—they won’t remember there was a fight. Just a normal day in Blue Earth. A few tensions, some traders passing through, but nothing remarkable. Nothing worth reporting."
Knight One stood back, arms crossed, deep in thought. "Our goal isn't to destroy the Coalition. This war is profitable for us—protecting assets, people, and places the Coalition attacks is what we get paid to do. The war ends for us when the Coalition stops attacking, or when we decide it’s time to disappear. Until then, we need to ensure that people like Kiera and Tarris don’t see us as a threat or a bargaining chip."
The spy straightened up, more confident now in his role. "That’s right. They’re small fish. If you leave them alone, they’ll stay out of your way—especially if they don’t remember anything about you."
Knight One turned to the group. "Then here’s what we do. We’ll pay each of these people a visit, one by one. If they have any evidence, we erase it—discreetly. After that, I’ll erase the specific memories of seeing us, the fight, and any connection they might think we have with the Coalition’s interests. Once we’re done, we’ll make sure they know nothing about us."
Knight Four, ever pragmatic, added, "And if any of them resist? If they refuse to cooperate or try to hide something?"
Knight Three spoke before the spy could answer. "Then we handle it quietly. We leave no trace, no reason for anyone to look for us. This is about control, not fear."
The spy looked at the faces of the Mystic Knights, seeing the calculated resolve in their eyes. "You’ve got it figured out," he said. "Do this right, and no one will be able to connect you to anything. The people you let live will be too afraid—or too forgetful—to remember you. And the Coalition won’t have a trail to follow."
Knight One turned to the door, signaling that the conversation was over. "Good. Then let’s get started. The sooner we clean this up, the sooner we can leave Blue Earth behind."
With that, the Mystic Knights moved out into the night, their new recruit leading the way as they prepared to quietly erase their presence from the memories—and the records—of Blue Earth. They wouldn’t be remembered, but their influence would linger in silence, hidden in the shadows where they thrived.
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darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
After days on the river the Mystic Knights and company arrive at the Hamlet of Vosberg.
Magic Pigeons had come to them from their adoptive Atlantean Clan (Aurelios Clan). The message was to investigate the Hamlet of Vosberg.
The computer files the Mystic Knights have on Vosberg say that a CS patrol had investigated the town. Their conclusion was that the towns people are superstitious and no evidence of vampires were found.
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Knight One:
The sun was high in the sky when I first saw the hamlet of Vosberg, and for a moment, I almost thought I was walking into some storybook village.
Quiet, nestled among rolling green fields, a light breeze carrying the scent of tilled soil and fresh crops. But even from a distance, something felt off. I tightened my grip on the reins of my horse, sweat dripping from the back of my neck beneath the brim of my wide-brimmed hat. The sun beat down hard, its heat radiating from the packed dirt road, turning the air into a hazy shimmer. It was a far cry from the cold, river town of Blue Eart, but I wasn’t complaining.
The daylight was always a comfort.
The Hamlet of Vosberg wasn’t much—just a cluster of buildings in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by sprawling farmland as far as the eye could see. Tall stalks of corn and patches of wheat swayed lazily in the summer wind, their soft rustling the only sound besides the slow clop of my horse’s hooves. The place had that stillness, that eerie quiet where you just knew something was wrong, even though nothing jumped out at you. No children playing in the streets, no chatter from the townsfolk. Just silence, save for the occasional distant creak of a weathered wooden door or the shuffle of feet behind closed windows.
As I approached the village center, the smell of manure and freshly cut hay filled the air, thick and earthy. My mouth tasted like dust from the long ride, and I could feel the grit between my teeth. I passed by a few scattered roadside stands, half-empty crates of fruit and vegetables, a sign of self-sufficiency here. There wasn’t a soul in sight, though I could feel eyes on me. Behind drawn curtains, nervous faces peeked out from the shadows, darting away the moment I turned my head. These people were scared, but not just of me.
The sunlight glinted off the wood and silver crosses nailed above nearly every doorway and window. Garlic hung in shriveled clusters, browned by the heat, but still pungent enough for me to catch the scent on the wind. It hit me like a warning bell. They knew. Or, at the very least, they feared.
I reined in my horse near the Town Hall, the largest building around. The wood was faded and cracked, the paint long since chipped away by the elements. A few chickens wandered aimlessly across the square, pecking at the dry earth. The sound of my boots hitting the ground echoed in the stillness as I dismounted, the dirt crunching underfoot. The air here felt...heavy, like the weight of all their collective superstitions pressed down on me. It was noon, the sun blazing down, but I could feel the shadow of their fear clinging to every corner of this hamlet.
I glanced at the church, its steeple barely rising above the squat buildings. The cross at the top was crooked, casting a warped shadow over the village. No bells rang, no hymns drifted from inside. Just silence.
Sweat beaded down my back, sticking my shirt to my skin, but it wasn’t just the heat that had me uneasy. Something had these people locked in a fear they wouldn’t speak about, at least not to someone like me. But I knew the signs. The garlic, the crosses, the barred windows at midday. They’d seen something. Probably more than once.
I wiped the sweat from my brow, feeling the sun beat down mercilessly. The humidity was thick, wrapping around me like a wet blanket, making each breath heavy. Insects buzzed in the distance, and the faint scent of wildflowers mixed with the unmistakable smell of livestock. But beneath it all was that faint, sickly sweet odor—the kind that clung to places where something unnatural had passed through.
I wasn’t here to make friends or to calm their nerves. I was here to hunt. The scent of death was always faint in daylight, but I could pick up traces of it. Maybe not today, not with the sun burning so hot, but I knew when night fell, things would change.
The villagers were watching, hiding behind their wooden doors and garlic garlands, clutching at their crosses like they would be enough to save them. They wouldn’t be.
He got off his horse and walked into the General Store.
The general store of Vosberg is a modest, one-story wooden building, its façade weathered by years of sun and rain, giving it a rustic charm that matches the simple way of life in the hamlet. A wooden sign hangs above the door, creaking softly in the summer breeze, the painted letters spelling out “General Store” faded but legible. The front porch, shaded by a sagging awning, is cluttered with crates of fresh produce—seasonal fruits and vegetables from the surrounding farms. A couple of barrels stand by the entrance, filled with watermelons and potatoes, their earthy scent mixing with the sweet aroma of freshly baked cookies that wafts from inside.
The old wooden door of the general store creaked shut behind me as the bell above it gave a half-hearted jingle. Inside, the cool, dim space was a welcome relief from the heat of the sun. The air smelled faintly of wood, leather, and the sharp tang of metal from the tools hanging on the walls. A few lingering scents of freshly baked cookies wafted in from the back, mingling with the earthy aroma of produce from the crates near the entrance.
Behind the counter stood the old woman, her thin frame wrapped in a faded, floral-patterned apron, her hands busy folding pieces of fabric into neat squares. Her movements were steady, methodical, but her eyes were sharp. She glanced up from her work, acknowledging me with a slight nod, her lips pressed into a thin line. She was the kind of woman who’d seen her fair share of passersby, knew their types, and had no time for nonsense.
I stepped closer, my boots scuffing against the well-worn wooden floor. "Afternoon," I said, my voice echoing a little in the quiet store.
She looked me over, her eyes squinting slightly as if sizing me up. "Afternoon," she replied, her tone neutral but not unfriendly. She set the fabric down on the counter, crossing her arms as she leaned against it. "What can I help you with?"
I gave a brief glance around, then leaned one elbow on the counter. "I was wondering if you could tell me a little about this place—Vosberg."
Her expression didn’t change much, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes. Wariness, maybe. She didn’t answer right away, her hands drifting back to folding the fabric, but I could tell she was thinking. This was a woman who didn’t trust easily, especially not outsiders.
"Not much to tell," she said after a long pause, her voice low and measured. "Just a small farming community. Folks mind their business, work hard, keep their heads down. We don’t get many strangers passing through." She glanced at me sideways, as if to emphasize that last part.
I nodded, trying to ease into the conversation. "Looks like a quiet place. People seem nervous, though." I gestured to the door behind me, where I’d seen more than a few eyes peering out from windows as I walked through the village. "Garlic, crosses... Folks don’t seem to trust much these days."
Her lips pressed together again, and she stopped folding, turning her full attention to me. "We’re a God-fearing town, that’s all. Got our ways, our traditions." She leaned slightly closer, her eyes narrowing. "And we don’t take kindly to things that don’t belong."
There it was, the edge I’d been waiting for. Fear. Maybe suspicion too. I didn’t blame them. I’d seen enough of these small towns to know they had their reasons for caution. But there was something deeper here.
"I’m not here to cause trouble," I said, keeping my voice calm. "Just passing through. But I’ve heard some talk, rumors about... strange things happening in places like this." I let the words hang in the air, giving her space to respond.
She snorted softly, shaking her head. "People talk. They always do. But we keep to ourselves. Don’t want no trouble, and we don’t go looking for it neither." She hesitated then, as if deciding how much to say. "Some folk around here… they’re scared. There’s been things out there, in the dark. Things that ain’t right. But we take precautions, you see." Her eyes flicked toward the wooden cross hanging on the wall behind her. "Ain’t much, but it helps."
I straightened up a bit, my hand resting on the edge of the counter. "And what happens when those precautions don’t work?"
She didn’t answer right away, just stared at me, her eyes hard as steel. Then, finally, she sighed, the weight of years settling in her voice. "Folks here know when to lock their doors and stay inside, that’s all you need to know. We ain’t got no sheriff, no militia to protect us. Only ourselves. And our faith."
I studied her for a moment. She wasn’t telling me everything, but I hadn’t expected her to. People like her rarely did. But her silence told me more than her words ever could.
"Fair enough," I said, pushing away from the counter. "Thanks for your time."
She gave a slow nod, her eyes never leaving mine. "Best you move on before sundown," she said quietly. "Strangers don’t fare well out here at night."
I tipped my hat to her, turning to leave, but her voice stopped me at the door.
"Whatever it is you’re looking for, you won’t find it here. Best to let sleeping dogs lie."
I glanced back at her. "Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t."
The bell above the door jingled as I stepped outside, the sun blinding after the dim light of the shop. But even with the warmth of the day on my face, I couldn’t shake the chill that had settled into my bones. There was more to Vosberg than met the eye.
And I wasn’t about to let sleeping dogs lie.
---
Knight One rode up to The Depot as the building stood at the end of the quartyard, a modest but dignified structure, its weathered wooden exterior giving off a simple, unpretentious charm. It wasn’t built for grandeur—just functionality—like everything else in this village. The Depot had the look of a place meant to do a job and do it well, nothing more.
He dismounted, his boots hitting the dry ground with a soft thud as he led his horse toward the small stable out back. A few planks creaked underfoot as he passed the main entrance, a pair of heavy wooden doors that had seen years of use. Out back, a small stable and animal pen were tucked against the rear of the building. A couple of horses idled in the pen, grazing lazily in the fading light, their dark eyes following him as he unsaddled his own mount and tied it to a post. The stable smelled of hay, leather, and the faint musk of animals—simple, familiar scents that reminded him of his travels through countless small towns like this.
With his horse settled, Knight One turned his attention to The Depot itself. He walked around to the front, stepping up onto the porch and pushing open the doors. They gave way with a low creak, and the cool interior welcomed him with the scent of polished wood and the faint lingering aroma of past gatherings. The light inside was dim, the sun’s rays filtering through narrow, high windows that lined the walls of the main meeting hall.
The hall itself was a wide, open space, built to accommodate a variety of purposes. Long, sturdy wooden tables filled the center of the room, their surfaces worn smooth from years of use. Benches lined the walls, some stacked haphazardly against the corners as though pushed aside after a recent meeting or gathering. The space was large enough for a dance or a festival, though now it stood empty, its quiet vastness echoing slightly with each step he took. A faint smell of old parchment and leather lingered in the air, no doubt from the meetings of Coalition soldiers or merchants who passed through, leaving behind the weight of their affairs.
Knight One noticed several doors along the far wall, leading to small rooms that served as temporary quarters for visitors. Modest and sparse, each room was just large enough for a bed, a washbasin, and a small wooden chest for belongings. There was no luxury here, just practicality. He chose a room at the end of the hall, opening the door to find a narrow bed with a woolen blanket neatly folded at the foot, the wood floor scuffed but clean. The single window was covered with simple curtains, pulled tight to block out the dimming light of evening. He set his pack down beside the bed, pausing for a moment as he listened to the quiet of the building. The only sound was the faint rustle of wind outside.
Back in the main hall, a small hearth sat cold and empty on one side of the room, its soot-stained stone chimney reaching up toward the ceiling. There was no fire tonight, not in this heat, but Knight One could imagine the place bustling with warmth in colder seasons—travelers huddled around the flames, sharing stories, warming their hands, the crackling of the fire filling the silence.
Off to one side of the hall, he noticed a bulletin board pinned with notices and faded papers. Most were old—handwritten messages about missing livestock, requests for supplies, and the occasional message left by traveling merchants. One tattered notice warned of strange sightings on the outskirts of town, a faded date marking it as years old. He glanced at it briefly before turning away.
The Depot felt like the kind of place where people came to pass through. No one stayed long, but everyone left a little piece of themselves behind. Coalition soldiers might’ve rested here after long marches, sitting in the very spot where Knight One now stood, their armor clinking as they relaxed, weary from their duties. Merchants from distant towns might have slept here too, their carts parked out back, full of goods to trade the next morning.
But tonight, The Depot was empty, its halls silent, its rooms devoid of visitors except for Knight Oneand his followers. He could almost hear the echo of past conversations, the ghost of a bustling room that now felt abandoned, save for the creak of the wooden beams and the occasional shifting of the wind outside.
As he looked around, Knight One couldn’t help but feel the weight of the place—a crossroads where people came and went, but always left something behind, be it a scrap of gossip, a bit of coin, or a piece of themselves. And tonight, it was his turn to rest, to gather his strength before moving on to the next battle, the next hunt, wherever that might lead him.
He stepped back into his room, closing the door behind him, the soft thud reverberating through the quiet building. The Depot, with all its modesty and stillness, would serve its purpose for another night.
Magic Pigeons had come to them from their adoptive Atlantean Clan (Aurelios Clan). The message was to investigate the Hamlet of Vosberg.
The computer files the Mystic Knights have on Vosberg say that a CS patrol had investigated the town. Their conclusion was that the towns people are superstitious and no evidence of vampires were found.
---
Knight One:
The sun was high in the sky when I first saw the hamlet of Vosberg, and for a moment, I almost thought I was walking into some storybook village.
Quiet, nestled among rolling green fields, a light breeze carrying the scent of tilled soil and fresh crops. But even from a distance, something felt off. I tightened my grip on the reins of my horse, sweat dripping from the back of my neck beneath the brim of my wide-brimmed hat. The sun beat down hard, its heat radiating from the packed dirt road, turning the air into a hazy shimmer. It was a far cry from the cold, river town of Blue Eart, but I wasn’t complaining.
The daylight was always a comfort.
The Hamlet of Vosberg wasn’t much—just a cluster of buildings in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by sprawling farmland as far as the eye could see. Tall stalks of corn and patches of wheat swayed lazily in the summer wind, their soft rustling the only sound besides the slow clop of my horse’s hooves. The place had that stillness, that eerie quiet where you just knew something was wrong, even though nothing jumped out at you. No children playing in the streets, no chatter from the townsfolk. Just silence, save for the occasional distant creak of a weathered wooden door or the shuffle of feet behind closed windows.
As I approached the village center, the smell of manure and freshly cut hay filled the air, thick and earthy. My mouth tasted like dust from the long ride, and I could feel the grit between my teeth. I passed by a few scattered roadside stands, half-empty crates of fruit and vegetables, a sign of self-sufficiency here. There wasn’t a soul in sight, though I could feel eyes on me. Behind drawn curtains, nervous faces peeked out from the shadows, darting away the moment I turned my head. These people were scared, but not just of me.
The sunlight glinted off the wood and silver crosses nailed above nearly every doorway and window. Garlic hung in shriveled clusters, browned by the heat, but still pungent enough for me to catch the scent on the wind. It hit me like a warning bell. They knew. Or, at the very least, they feared.
I reined in my horse near the Town Hall, the largest building around. The wood was faded and cracked, the paint long since chipped away by the elements. A few chickens wandered aimlessly across the square, pecking at the dry earth. The sound of my boots hitting the ground echoed in the stillness as I dismounted, the dirt crunching underfoot. The air here felt...heavy, like the weight of all their collective superstitions pressed down on me. It was noon, the sun blazing down, but I could feel the shadow of their fear clinging to every corner of this hamlet.
I glanced at the church, its steeple barely rising above the squat buildings. The cross at the top was crooked, casting a warped shadow over the village. No bells rang, no hymns drifted from inside. Just silence.
Sweat beaded down my back, sticking my shirt to my skin, but it wasn’t just the heat that had me uneasy. Something had these people locked in a fear they wouldn’t speak about, at least not to someone like me. But I knew the signs. The garlic, the crosses, the barred windows at midday. They’d seen something. Probably more than once.
I wiped the sweat from my brow, feeling the sun beat down mercilessly. The humidity was thick, wrapping around me like a wet blanket, making each breath heavy. Insects buzzed in the distance, and the faint scent of wildflowers mixed with the unmistakable smell of livestock. But beneath it all was that faint, sickly sweet odor—the kind that clung to places where something unnatural had passed through.
I wasn’t here to make friends or to calm their nerves. I was here to hunt. The scent of death was always faint in daylight, but I could pick up traces of it. Maybe not today, not with the sun burning so hot, but I knew when night fell, things would change.
The villagers were watching, hiding behind their wooden doors and garlic garlands, clutching at their crosses like they would be enough to save them. They wouldn’t be.
He got off his horse and walked into the General Store.
The general store of Vosberg is a modest, one-story wooden building, its façade weathered by years of sun and rain, giving it a rustic charm that matches the simple way of life in the hamlet. A wooden sign hangs above the door, creaking softly in the summer breeze, the painted letters spelling out “General Store” faded but legible. The front porch, shaded by a sagging awning, is cluttered with crates of fresh produce—seasonal fruits and vegetables from the surrounding farms. A couple of barrels stand by the entrance, filled with watermelons and potatoes, their earthy scent mixing with the sweet aroma of freshly baked cookies that wafts from inside.
The old wooden door of the general store creaked shut behind me as the bell above it gave a half-hearted jingle. Inside, the cool, dim space was a welcome relief from the heat of the sun. The air smelled faintly of wood, leather, and the sharp tang of metal from the tools hanging on the walls. A few lingering scents of freshly baked cookies wafted in from the back, mingling with the earthy aroma of produce from the crates near the entrance.
Behind the counter stood the old woman, her thin frame wrapped in a faded, floral-patterned apron, her hands busy folding pieces of fabric into neat squares. Her movements were steady, methodical, but her eyes were sharp. She glanced up from her work, acknowledging me with a slight nod, her lips pressed into a thin line. She was the kind of woman who’d seen her fair share of passersby, knew their types, and had no time for nonsense.
I stepped closer, my boots scuffing against the well-worn wooden floor. "Afternoon," I said, my voice echoing a little in the quiet store.
She looked me over, her eyes squinting slightly as if sizing me up. "Afternoon," she replied, her tone neutral but not unfriendly. She set the fabric down on the counter, crossing her arms as she leaned against it. "What can I help you with?"
I gave a brief glance around, then leaned one elbow on the counter. "I was wondering if you could tell me a little about this place—Vosberg."
Her expression didn’t change much, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes. Wariness, maybe. She didn’t answer right away, her hands drifting back to folding the fabric, but I could tell she was thinking. This was a woman who didn’t trust easily, especially not outsiders.
"Not much to tell," she said after a long pause, her voice low and measured. "Just a small farming community. Folks mind their business, work hard, keep their heads down. We don’t get many strangers passing through." She glanced at me sideways, as if to emphasize that last part.
I nodded, trying to ease into the conversation. "Looks like a quiet place. People seem nervous, though." I gestured to the door behind me, where I’d seen more than a few eyes peering out from windows as I walked through the village. "Garlic, crosses... Folks don’t seem to trust much these days."
Her lips pressed together again, and she stopped folding, turning her full attention to me. "We’re a God-fearing town, that’s all. Got our ways, our traditions." She leaned slightly closer, her eyes narrowing. "And we don’t take kindly to things that don’t belong."
There it was, the edge I’d been waiting for. Fear. Maybe suspicion too. I didn’t blame them. I’d seen enough of these small towns to know they had their reasons for caution. But there was something deeper here.
"I’m not here to cause trouble," I said, keeping my voice calm. "Just passing through. But I’ve heard some talk, rumors about... strange things happening in places like this." I let the words hang in the air, giving her space to respond.
She snorted softly, shaking her head. "People talk. They always do. But we keep to ourselves. Don’t want no trouble, and we don’t go looking for it neither." She hesitated then, as if deciding how much to say. "Some folk around here… they’re scared. There’s been things out there, in the dark. Things that ain’t right. But we take precautions, you see." Her eyes flicked toward the wooden cross hanging on the wall behind her. "Ain’t much, but it helps."
I straightened up a bit, my hand resting on the edge of the counter. "And what happens when those precautions don’t work?"
She didn’t answer right away, just stared at me, her eyes hard as steel. Then, finally, she sighed, the weight of years settling in her voice. "Folks here know when to lock their doors and stay inside, that’s all you need to know. We ain’t got no sheriff, no militia to protect us. Only ourselves. And our faith."
I studied her for a moment. She wasn’t telling me everything, but I hadn’t expected her to. People like her rarely did. But her silence told me more than her words ever could.
"Fair enough," I said, pushing away from the counter. "Thanks for your time."
She gave a slow nod, her eyes never leaving mine. "Best you move on before sundown," she said quietly. "Strangers don’t fare well out here at night."
I tipped my hat to her, turning to leave, but her voice stopped me at the door.
"Whatever it is you’re looking for, you won’t find it here. Best to let sleeping dogs lie."
I glanced back at her. "Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t."
The bell above the door jingled as I stepped outside, the sun blinding after the dim light of the shop. But even with the warmth of the day on my face, I couldn’t shake the chill that had settled into my bones. There was more to Vosberg than met the eye.
And I wasn’t about to let sleeping dogs lie.
---
Knight One rode up to The Depot as the building stood at the end of the quartyard, a modest but dignified structure, its weathered wooden exterior giving off a simple, unpretentious charm. It wasn’t built for grandeur—just functionality—like everything else in this village. The Depot had the look of a place meant to do a job and do it well, nothing more.
He dismounted, his boots hitting the dry ground with a soft thud as he led his horse toward the small stable out back. A few planks creaked underfoot as he passed the main entrance, a pair of heavy wooden doors that had seen years of use. Out back, a small stable and animal pen were tucked against the rear of the building. A couple of horses idled in the pen, grazing lazily in the fading light, their dark eyes following him as he unsaddled his own mount and tied it to a post. The stable smelled of hay, leather, and the faint musk of animals—simple, familiar scents that reminded him of his travels through countless small towns like this.
With his horse settled, Knight One turned his attention to The Depot itself. He walked around to the front, stepping up onto the porch and pushing open the doors. They gave way with a low creak, and the cool interior welcomed him with the scent of polished wood and the faint lingering aroma of past gatherings. The light inside was dim, the sun’s rays filtering through narrow, high windows that lined the walls of the main meeting hall.
The hall itself was a wide, open space, built to accommodate a variety of purposes. Long, sturdy wooden tables filled the center of the room, their surfaces worn smooth from years of use. Benches lined the walls, some stacked haphazardly against the corners as though pushed aside after a recent meeting or gathering. The space was large enough for a dance or a festival, though now it stood empty, its quiet vastness echoing slightly with each step he took. A faint smell of old parchment and leather lingered in the air, no doubt from the meetings of Coalition soldiers or merchants who passed through, leaving behind the weight of their affairs.
Knight One noticed several doors along the far wall, leading to small rooms that served as temporary quarters for visitors. Modest and sparse, each room was just large enough for a bed, a washbasin, and a small wooden chest for belongings. There was no luxury here, just practicality. He chose a room at the end of the hall, opening the door to find a narrow bed with a woolen blanket neatly folded at the foot, the wood floor scuffed but clean. The single window was covered with simple curtains, pulled tight to block out the dimming light of evening. He set his pack down beside the bed, pausing for a moment as he listened to the quiet of the building. The only sound was the faint rustle of wind outside.
Back in the main hall, a small hearth sat cold and empty on one side of the room, its soot-stained stone chimney reaching up toward the ceiling. There was no fire tonight, not in this heat, but Knight One could imagine the place bustling with warmth in colder seasons—travelers huddled around the flames, sharing stories, warming their hands, the crackling of the fire filling the silence.
Off to one side of the hall, he noticed a bulletin board pinned with notices and faded papers. Most were old—handwritten messages about missing livestock, requests for supplies, and the occasional message left by traveling merchants. One tattered notice warned of strange sightings on the outskirts of town, a faded date marking it as years old. He glanced at it briefly before turning away.
The Depot felt like the kind of place where people came to pass through. No one stayed long, but everyone left a little piece of themselves behind. Coalition soldiers might’ve rested here after long marches, sitting in the very spot where Knight One now stood, their armor clinking as they relaxed, weary from their duties. Merchants from distant towns might have slept here too, their carts parked out back, full of goods to trade the next morning.
But tonight, The Depot was empty, its halls silent, its rooms devoid of visitors except for Knight Oneand his followers. He could almost hear the echo of past conversations, the ghost of a bustling room that now felt abandoned, save for the creak of the wooden beams and the occasional shifting of the wind outside.
As he looked around, Knight One couldn’t help but feel the weight of the place—a crossroads where people came and went, but always left something behind, be it a scrap of gossip, a bit of coin, or a piece of themselves. And tonight, it was his turn to rest, to gather his strength before moving on to the next battle, the next hunt, wherever that might lead him.
He stepped back into his room, closing the door behind him, the soft thud reverberating through the quiet building. The Depot, with all its modesty and stillness, would serve its purpose for another night.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Vosberg
Knight One led the way as he and his three teammates made their way through the dusty streets of Vosberg. The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the hamlet.
Greta Van Camp’s House stood as a cozy cottage with a work white picket fence and a small garden bursting with wildflowers, their sweet fragrance carried on the breeze. The house itself is modest, painted in a soft, weathered yellow with green shutters, and a few wisps of smoke rise lazily from the chimney offering a bit of color against the otherwise muted backdrop of the village.
The sign that read
"GRETA’S SALON"
sways gently in the summer breeze, and the faint smell of wildflowers reached Knight One’s nose as they approached.
Knight One kept his focus on the house ahead. He was used to this sort of work by now—small towns, suspicious locals, and whispers of things that went bump in the night. He’d seen it all before, and from what they’d gathered so far, Vosberg wasn’t any different. Still, something about the air here felt heavier, more cautious, and the crosses and garlic hanging on every door hadn’t escaped his notice.
The porch creaked under their boots as they stepped up, and Knight One gave the door a firm knock. A few moments passed before it swung open, revealing Greta Van Camp herself.
Greta was shorter than he expected, her wiry frame wrapped in an apron that had seen better days. Her hair, a shock of unnatural auburn curls, was pinned up, and her sharp eyes immediately lit up when she saw the four of them.
“Well now, look at this! Strapping soldiers, aren’t you?” Greta’s voice was bright, almost sing-song, but there was a knowing gleam in her eyes that told Knight One she wasn’t just here to talk about haircuts. "Come on in, come on in! You boys look like you could use a trim."
She stepped aside, ushering them in with a sweeping motion. Knight One ducked slightly as he entered, scanning the interior of the house.
The salon was exactly what he’d expected: a mix of quaint charm and comfortable clutter. The smell of lavender and freshly baked bread hit him first, along with the subtle tang of hair products lingering in the air. There was one worn chair set up in front of a large mirror, and a cluttered table to the side, filled with combs, scissors, and curling irons. The lace curtains fluttered in the light breeze from the open window, and the room was bathed in the soft glow of the fading sunlight.
“Have a seat, whichever one of you is first,” Greta chirped, already grabbing a pair of scissors. “I’ll make you look handsome in no time.”
Knight Four stepped forward, grinning as he sat in the chair. "Ladies first," he joked, and Greta let out a hearty laugh, clearly enjoying the attention.
Knight One remained standing, scanning the room, while Knight Two and Three took seats on the nearby armchairs, leaning back but keeping their eyes on the space. Knight One knew that even here, in what appeared to be the most benign of places, they couldn’t afford to relax completely. This was vampire territory, or so they suspected.
“We’re not just here for haircuts, ma’am,” Knight One began, keeping his voice even. “We’ve been hearing rumors about Vosberg—about strange happenings, people disappearing. We’re here to take care of a vampire problem, if there is one. You know anything about that?”
Greta paused mid-snip, her eyes darting to him in the mirror. She clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Vampires, huh? You boys don’t waste any time, do you?”
Knight One crossed his arms. “We’ve dealt with them before. We know what to look for—sunlight destroys them, the cross and garlic repel them, running water melts them. We’re familiar with their strengths and weaknesses. If there’s a vampire in Vosberg, we’ll find it and remove the threat.”
Greta finished cutting Knight Four’s hair, dusting him off with a practiced motion. She turned to face Knight One fully now, her eyes narrowed with a mix of curiosity and caution. “You’re not the first ones to come through here talking about vampires, you know. But most don’t stay long enough to figure out what’s going on. I’d be careful if I were you.”
Knight One leaned in slightly. “Do you think there’s a vampire here?”
Greta hesitated, glancing toward the small crucifix hanging above her door. “I can’t say for sure there’s one in Vosberg proper,” she said, her voice quieter now. “But there’s something out there. People hear howling at night, find bodies in the woods with their throats torn open and drained of blood. The CS? They won’t touch it. They’ll blame it on Tolkeen, say it’s just raiders or something, but I know better.”
“Who do you think it is?” Knight Three asked, leaning forward.
Greta looked down at her hands, still holding the scissors. “I can’t point a finger at anyone here, but... Old Matt Heimlin, he’s been different lately. Met some mystery woman, folks say. Nobody’s seen her, but he’s got that spring in his step again after losing his whole family. Some think it’s Widow Maybell—her farm’s only a few miles from his—but no one’s seen her or her boys in two months. There’s talk.”
“Think this woman’s the vampire?” Knight One asked.
Greta pursed her lips, then shrugged. “Could be. Could be nothing. But if you ask me, the vampire isn’t living in town. It’s too small, too isolated. But it’s close. Real close. That thing’s been picking off people from neighboring communities, travelers, troops. It’s smart. Knows how to stay hidden. If you’re here to hunt it, you better be quick and quiet.”
Knight One exchanged a look with his teammates, nodding slightly. They were on the right track.
“Would you boys like to stay for dinner?” Greta asked, suddenly brightening. “I made more than enough, and I won’t take no for an answer.”
Knight One smiled politely, knowing full well what accepting the invitation meant. Hours of endless talk, but Greta knew things. They needed her knowledge. "We’d be happy to stay," he said. "But we’ll be heading out before sunset."
Dinner was a simple but delicious affair—hearty stew, fresh bread, and a selection of vegetables from Greta’s garden. True to her reputation, Greta didn’t stop talking, regaling them with stories about the town, Old Matt, and every rumor she’d caught wind of. The team listened, occasionally exchanging knowing glances, filing away every piece of information.
As the light outside began to fade, Knight One stood, tipping his head slightly to Greta. "Thank you for the meal, ma’am. But like we said, we’re on the hunt. We’ll be heading out now."
Greta smiled warmly, her eyes gleaming. "You boys be careful out there. And if you need anything else, you know where to find me."
With a final nod, the four of them left Greta’s house, stepping back into the twilight. The air had cooled, but a heaviness still hung in the atmosphere. As they walked toward the edge of town, Knight One glanced back at the house, the lace curtains fluttering in the breeze.
The hunt was on.
---
The sun dipped lower toward the horizon as Knight One and his team left Greta’s house, their boots crunching softly on the dirt road as they marched eastward.
The village of Vosberg grew quieter as they moved out of the center, and the fading light of sunset cast long, ominous shadows across the hamlet. The air was cooling now, but it carried with it a sense of unease, thickening as they neared the edge of town.
To their left, the graveyard loomed, a small cluster of headstones surrounded by a sagging iron fence, rusted and chipped with age. The graves themselves were mostly unremarkable, simple markers for the generations that had come and gone in Vosberg. The wind stirred faintly, rustling the dry grass between the stones, but the air felt still, like the breath of the village had been caught, held in anticipation of something.
Knight One glanced briefly at the graveyard as they passed, noting the silence, the unsettling calm. No birds, no insects, just the quiet whisper of wind through the overgrown grass.
“We’re close now,” Knight Three said, his voice low, almost out of respect for the dead.
Knight One nodded, his eyes forward. Widow Maybell’s farm lay just beyond, and the sun was slipping away faster than he liked.
The farm came into view soon enough—small, isolated, with fields of overgrown crops spilling out in uneven patches. Weeds and wild grass had overtaken the rows of corn and vegetables, their twisted shapes creeping up like nature reclaiming what had been abandoned. Even from here, Knight One could tell the fields hadn’t been tended to in weeks, maybe months. The farm itself was equally forlorn, its once-proud red barn fading to a dull rust color, and the farmhouse, though sturdy, looked neglected. There was no sign of life—no animals, no movement, not even the creak of a door swinging in the evening breeze.
Knight Four pointed toward the house. "The door’s open."
Indeed, the front door stood ajar, gently swaying on its hinges. There were no crosses nailed to the door, no garlic hanging above the windows like every other home in Vosberg. Knight One’s gut tightened. It was as if the house had been deliberately left unprotected.
"Stay sharp," Knight One ordered. The team spread out, hands instinctively resting on their weapons as they approached.
Knight Two took point, pushing the door open with a soft creak. The farmhouse was dark inside, the last rays of sunlight barely cutting through the grimy windows. Dust floated in the stale air, illuminated in brief patches by the failing light. The smell hit them immediately—a sickly sweet odor, unmistakable.
The smell of death.
Knight One gestured for Knight Three and Four to check the back rooms while he and Knight Two headed toward the master bedroom. The floors creaked under their weight, and the house felt oppressive, as though it had absorbed the fear and horror of whatever had happened here. The main living area was intact—nothing was stolen, nothing broken. No sign of bandits or looters.
When they reached the bedroom, Knight One knew instantly. Lying on the bed, stiff and decayed, was Widow Maybell. Her body had been there for some time, her skin mottled and bloated in death. She lay on her back, her eyes open but lifeless, the sheets half-pulled over her. There were no obvious signs of a struggle—just the quiet stillness of a body that had been left to rot in her own home. The smell was overwhelming, even for seasoned fighters like them.
"She's been dead a while," Knight Three muttered, pulling the blanket back to get a closer look. "Weeks, maybe more. No cross, no garlic—whoever, or whatever, did this wasn’t worried about being stopped."
Knight One stepped back, his eyes narrowing. “Check the cellar.”
They moved quickly, the sense of urgency rising as the last light of the sun disappeared behind the horizon, casting the world into twilight. In the back of the house, Knight Three had found the door to the fruit cellar beneath a trapdoor in the kitchen. The air down there was even worse—thick with decay, so foul it made Knight Four gag as they descended the narrow wooden steps.
In the cellar, lit only by their flashlights, the first thing they saw was a tarp, its edges curled up slightly, barely covering the mass underneath. Knight One’s breath caught in his throat as he knelt, pulling the tarp back.
Beneath it lay the decaying bodies of two boys and two workhands, their limbs twisted awkwardly as though they had died in pain. Their hands and feet were bound with thick, frayed rope, and though their faces were nearly unrecognizable due to the state of decomposition, the sight was unmistakable. They had been kept alive, prisoners beneath their own home.
Knight Three knelt beside one of the bodies, his expression grim. “Too far gone to tell if they were bitten or turned. But this wasn’t the work of bandits.”
“No signs of a struggle upstairs, no broken furniture or smashed doors,” Knight Four added. “Whoever did this wanted them here, alive—at least for a while.”
“Food,” Knight One said, the word heavy on his tongue. He stood, his eyes scanning the cellar. “These people were food.”
The thought hung in the air, thick and suffocating. The victims had been tied up, likely fed on over time. This was no random attack. Whoever—or whatever—had done this had made these people prisoners, and then fed on them until they no longer needed them.
“Vampire,” Knight Two muttered darkly, his face hardening as he stood.
Knight One turned back toward the steps, urgency creeping into his movements. “We leave now. We’re not staying here after sunset.”
The team ascended from the cellar, the weight of what they’d discovered pressing down on them. As they stepped back outside, the sky was darkening fast, the last slivers of daylight slipping away. The air had grown colder, the wind picking up, rustling the overgrown fields.
Knight One took a deep breath, his eyes scanning the horizon. The vampire wasn’t here anymore—of that, he was certain—but it was close. Too close. The hunt was on, and they would find this creature before it took another life.
"Let's move. Back to The Depot," Knight One ordered, his voice steady. "We regroup and figure out our next move. This thing isn’t staying hidden much longer."
The four knights turned eastward, their steps quick and deliberate, the weight of the night pressing in around them. The darkness was deep now, and they knew the hunt had truly begun.
---
The sky was fully dark by the time Knight One and his team returned to The Depot, their breaths quick from the urgency of their march. The oppressive weight of what they had found at Widow Maybell’s farm clung to them like a shadow. There was no time to waste.
As they burst into the meeting hall, the few people gathered inside turned to stare, their faces filled with a mix of surprise and unease.
Knight One didn’t hesitate. “Everyone, listen up!” His voice boomed across the room, cutting through the murmur of quiet conversation. “Widow Maybell is dead, and so are her boys and the farmhands. They’ve been killed by a vampire.”
Gasps rippled through the room, and a couple of people stood up, their faces pale. The light from the oil lamps flickered, casting trembling shadows along the walls as the atmosphere shifted from unease to outright fear.
“We don’t know where the vampire is right now,” Knight One continued, “but it’s close. You’ve all seen the signs. The crosses, the garlic, they work. Vampires can’t enter a home if it’s protected, but you must stay indoors and keep your doors locked. Don’t let anyone in until sunrise—not your friends, not your neighbors. No one.”
An older man near the back spoke up, his voice trembling. “What if...what if it’s already too late? What if someone’s been taken?”
Knight Four shook his head firmly. “That’s why we’re here. We’ve dealt with vampires before, and we’re not going to let anyone else die tonight. But you need to stay inside.”
Knight One stepped forward, addressing the crowd with urgency. “Go to your homes. Make sure there’s a cross on every door and garlic over every window. If you’re missing anyone, send word. We’ll check. We’re not leaving anyone behind.”
The people in The Depot exchanged terrified glances but began moving toward the doors, some muttering prayers under their breath. Knight Three turned to Knight One, his voice low but firm. “We need to make sure the whole town knows. If anyone is out there, they’re vulnerable.”
Knight One nodded, his jaw tight. “Let’s go. We’re not losing anyone tonight.”
---
They hit the streets of Vosberg fast, the cool night air biting at their skin as they moved from house to house. Knight One pounded on doors, his gloved fist echoing through the quiet village as he called out warnings. “Stay inside! Don’t open your doors to anyone until morning! There’s a vampire in the area. Keep your crosses up, and don’t let anyone in, no matter who they say they are!”
Behind each door, anxious faces peered out before quickly bolting their homes. Knight Two and Three were doing the same, racing through the streets and knocking on doors, shouting for the villagers to protect themselves and check on their loved ones.
At one home, an elderly woman, pale and shaking, opened the door just a crack. “My grandson...he hasn’t come back from the fields. I don’t know where he is.”
Knight Four placed a firm hand on the doorframe. “Stay inside. We’ll look for him. Keep your doors locked, and don’t let anyone in.”
The woman nodded quickly, closing the door and latching it with a series of rattling clicks.
Knight One motioned to Knight Four. “Check the fields to the north, and fast. We’ll keep sweeping the town.”
As the minutes ticked by, they encountered more of the same—families too afraid to open their doors, some missing friends or neighbors. A group of younger men had gathered near the town square, gripping farming tools as makeshift weapons.
“We’re going to look for the vampire ourselves,” one of them said, his voice unsteady but determined.
“No, you’re not,” Knight One said firmly, stepping into their path. “It’s too dangerous. We know how to kill vampires, but you don’t. Get to your homes, and stay there. You’re only putting yourselves at risk out here.”
One of the men, a farmhand with dirt-streaked overalls, hesitated. “But what if someone’s out there? What if it comes for us while we’re hiding?”
“That’s exactly why you need to stay inside,” Knight Two added. “Vampires can’t enter your home if it’s protected. But if you’re out in the open, you’re vulnerable. The best way to protect your family is to stay where the vampire can’t reach you.”
The men exchanged uncertain looks before reluctantly dispersing, heading back to their homes with the weight of fear hanging heavy on their shoulders.
---
By the time the Knights had swept through most of the town, the night had fully settled in. The streets were eerily quiet, save for the occasional creak of wood or the distant bark of a dog. Lights flickered behind shuttered windows, and the faint glow of oil lamps illuminated the edges of tightly closed curtains.
Knight One stopped in the center of town, catching his breath as he glanced toward the dark horizon. “We’ve warned everyone,” he said, his voice tense but controlled. “Now we wait.”
Knight Three approached, his face grim. “I checked the south end. No one’s missing from the homes I passed. But it’s still out there somewhere.”
Knight Four returned from the fields, shaking his head. “No sign of the boy. Fields are empty.”
Knight One cursed softly under his breath, his hand tightening around the hilt of his blade. “We’ll keep looking, but we need to be smart about this. It could attack at any time.”
A cold wind blew through the streets, rustling the trees and causing the night to feel more oppressive, more dangerous. The weight of the vampire’s presence hung over the town like a heavy, invisible cloud.
“We’ll find it,” Knight One muttered to his team, his eyes scanning the darkness. “But tonight, no one dies. Not on our watch.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the sounds of Vosberg muffled and distant. Then, as one, they turned back into the night, weapons ready and hearts pounding, prepared for the fight ahead.
---
It was close to midnight when Knight One heard the news—no one had been able to reach Old Matt Heimlin at his farm in the southwest corner of town. A farmhand who worked near Old Matt’s property, came back shaking his head. “He’s asleep, probably,” the man said. “But we didn’t see a cross on his door. Only the dogs outside. No sign of him.”
Knight One’s instincts flared. He knew the old man had been through more than most, losing his family to a combination of disease and raiders, but this didn’t sit right. The lack of protection on the door, the reports of a mysterious woman near his farm… it all added up to something he didn’t like. He gathered his team and headed out into the night.
The moon hung high in the sky as they approached Old Matt’s farm, casting a pale light over the overgrown fields. The air had cooled considerably, and a faint breeze rustled the tall grasses, but it wasn’t enough to shake the uneasy silence that clung to the land. The only sounds were the soft padding of their boots on the dirt road and the occasional bark from one of the dogs patrolling near the farmhouse.
As they drew closer, Knight One could make out the outlines of three dogs, all pacing near the front of the house, their heads low, sniffing the air. They didn’t seem alarmed, but their presence only added to the tension in his gut.
“Old Matt’s likely asleep by now,” Knight Three whispered, eyes scanning the property. “You think he knows what’s going on?”
“I doubt it,” Knight One muttered, keeping his voice low. “But we’re not leaving anything to chance.”
They moved in silence for a few moments, approaching the house. Knight One’s eyes narrowed when he noticed the door slightly ajar, no cross or garlic to protect it. Just like Widow Maybell’s place. The fields around them, overgrown and wild, hadn’t been tended in weeks, the sign of a man who had long given up on life. Yet, something else prickled at Knight One’s senses.
Then, out of the shadows, she appeared.
A woman—young, maybe in her early twenties—stepped gracefully from the side of the farmhouse, her long, black hair tied into a loose braid that glistened under the moonlight. Her skin was pale, almost glowing in the silvery light, and her eyes—warm brown and disarmingly soft—immediately caught Knight One’s attention. She wore a simple dress that moved fluidly with her, and despite the night chill, there wasn’t a bead of sweat on her skin. Four of the dogs, previously patrolling the perimeter, now padded calmly at her side, their tails swaying lazily. None of the animals reacted to the knights approach, nor did the woman seem startled.
“Evening, gentlemen,” she said, her voice soft and lilting, with a thick southern accent that sounded almost out of place here. “Lovely night for a walk, isn’t it?”
Knight One immediately stiffened, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade as he studied her. There was something off about her—something too calm, too practiced. He could see it in the way her eyes lingered on them, assessing, reading the situation.
“Evening,” Knight Four asked, “Who are you?” his voice steady but edged with suspicion.
She smiled, and it was a warm, inviting smile. “Oh, just a traveler,” she said lightly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Carlotta’s the name. I’ve been staying here for a while—refugee from the south.” She glanced toward the sky, admiring the moon. “I needed someplace quiet after all the chaos.”
Her tone was so casual, so relaxed, that it almost felt disarming. But Knight One wasn’t fooled. His eyes swept the property again. “You live here, with Old Matt?”
She tilted her head slightly, a teasing smile playing on her lips. “A dear friend of mine,” she replied smoothly. “He’s sleeping now. I wouldn’t want to disturb him at this hour, you understand.”
Knight Four frowned, stepping closer. “Are you his wife?”
Carlotta giggled softly, a sound that seemed almost too sweet, too carefree in the heavy stillness of the night. “No, no, nothing like that,” she said with a shake of her head. “Friend. I’m just keeping him company these days. He’s been through a lot, poor man.”
Knight One stepped forward, his voice firm. “The neighboring farm, Maybell’s, Maybell is dead, along with her children. And now, we find Old Matt’s place unprotected.” His eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
Her eyes flickered, just for a second, but her smile never faltered. “Oh, goodness no,” she said, her voice light. “I’ve seen some sad things, to be sure, but I haven’t harmed anyone. I just like to enjoy the night air. It’s peaceful out here, away from the War the CS has started.” She gestured around her, the dogs still trotting faithfully at her side. “Why would I want to bring harm to a place like this?”
Knight Three stepped beside Knight One, his hand on his own weapon. “We’re vampire hunters, ma’am. If there’s a vampire in the area, we’ll find it. And we’re not leaving until we do.”
Carlotta’s expression softened slightly, almost pitying. “Vampires, huh? Well, that’s quite the tall tale.” She glanced toward the distant woods, her tone casual again. “But you won’t find anything around here.”
Knight One’s instincts screamed at him. She was too calm, too comfortable. She hadn’t answered their questions directly, and her avoidance was too well-practiced.
“We’ll need to check the house,” Knight One said, his tone firm.
Carlotta’s eyes gleamed, and for the first time, there was a subtle shift in her expression—something sharp and dangerous beneath the surface. “Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” she said, her voice softening but losing its previous warmth. “Old Matt deserves his rest. It’s been a long day for him.”
Knight Two stepped forward, but Knight One raised a hand, halting him. “Let’s not disturb the old man,” Knight One said calmly, sensing that pressing her too hard right now would end poorly. “But we’re going to make sure no one in town gets hurt tonight.”
Carlotta tilted her head again, smiling softly. “Of course, gentlemen. I wouldn’t dream of getting in your way. But, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll take a walk. Clear my head. The night is far too beautiful to waste.”
Without another word, she turned, walking gracefully into the fields, the dogs following silently at her heels. She cast one last glance over her shoulder, her eyes locking with Knight One’s, and then she disappeared into the shadows of the trees.
Knight One watched her go, his body tense, every instinct telling him they had just met the vampire they were hunting.
“She’s the one,” Knight Three muttered, his voice low.
Knight One nodded slowly. “Yeah. But not tonight. She’s smart. We’ll need to wait for the right moment.”
“Think she’ll come after us?”
“If she thinks she can win,” Knight One said, his voice steady. “But she knows we’re prepared. She’ll wait. So will we.”
As the team stood in the darkened field, the moonlight casting long shadows across the overgrown crops, Knight One knew the hunt wasn’t over. Far from it. The game had just begun.
Knight One led the way as he and his three teammates made their way through the dusty streets of Vosberg. The late afternoon sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the hamlet.
Greta Van Camp’s House stood as a cozy cottage with a work white picket fence and a small garden bursting with wildflowers, their sweet fragrance carried on the breeze. The house itself is modest, painted in a soft, weathered yellow with green shutters, and a few wisps of smoke rise lazily from the chimney offering a bit of color against the otherwise muted backdrop of the village.
The sign that read
"GRETA’S SALON"
sways gently in the summer breeze, and the faint smell of wildflowers reached Knight One’s nose as they approached.
Knight One kept his focus on the house ahead. He was used to this sort of work by now—small towns, suspicious locals, and whispers of things that went bump in the night. He’d seen it all before, and from what they’d gathered so far, Vosberg wasn’t any different. Still, something about the air here felt heavier, more cautious, and the crosses and garlic hanging on every door hadn’t escaped his notice.
The porch creaked under their boots as they stepped up, and Knight One gave the door a firm knock. A few moments passed before it swung open, revealing Greta Van Camp herself.
Greta was shorter than he expected, her wiry frame wrapped in an apron that had seen better days. Her hair, a shock of unnatural auburn curls, was pinned up, and her sharp eyes immediately lit up when she saw the four of them.
“Well now, look at this! Strapping soldiers, aren’t you?” Greta’s voice was bright, almost sing-song, but there was a knowing gleam in her eyes that told Knight One she wasn’t just here to talk about haircuts. "Come on in, come on in! You boys look like you could use a trim."
She stepped aside, ushering them in with a sweeping motion. Knight One ducked slightly as he entered, scanning the interior of the house.
The salon was exactly what he’d expected: a mix of quaint charm and comfortable clutter. The smell of lavender and freshly baked bread hit him first, along with the subtle tang of hair products lingering in the air. There was one worn chair set up in front of a large mirror, and a cluttered table to the side, filled with combs, scissors, and curling irons. The lace curtains fluttered in the light breeze from the open window, and the room was bathed in the soft glow of the fading sunlight.
“Have a seat, whichever one of you is first,” Greta chirped, already grabbing a pair of scissors. “I’ll make you look handsome in no time.”
Knight Four stepped forward, grinning as he sat in the chair. "Ladies first," he joked, and Greta let out a hearty laugh, clearly enjoying the attention.
Knight One remained standing, scanning the room, while Knight Two and Three took seats on the nearby armchairs, leaning back but keeping their eyes on the space. Knight One knew that even here, in what appeared to be the most benign of places, they couldn’t afford to relax completely. This was vampire territory, or so they suspected.
“We’re not just here for haircuts, ma’am,” Knight One began, keeping his voice even. “We’ve been hearing rumors about Vosberg—about strange happenings, people disappearing. We’re here to take care of a vampire problem, if there is one. You know anything about that?”
Greta paused mid-snip, her eyes darting to him in the mirror. She clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Vampires, huh? You boys don’t waste any time, do you?”
Knight One crossed his arms. “We’ve dealt with them before. We know what to look for—sunlight destroys them, the cross and garlic repel them, running water melts them. We’re familiar with their strengths and weaknesses. If there’s a vampire in Vosberg, we’ll find it and remove the threat.”
Greta finished cutting Knight Four’s hair, dusting him off with a practiced motion. She turned to face Knight One fully now, her eyes narrowed with a mix of curiosity and caution. “You’re not the first ones to come through here talking about vampires, you know. But most don’t stay long enough to figure out what’s going on. I’d be careful if I were you.”
Knight One leaned in slightly. “Do you think there’s a vampire here?”
Greta hesitated, glancing toward the small crucifix hanging above her door. “I can’t say for sure there’s one in Vosberg proper,” she said, her voice quieter now. “But there’s something out there. People hear howling at night, find bodies in the woods with their throats torn open and drained of blood. The CS? They won’t touch it. They’ll blame it on Tolkeen, say it’s just raiders or something, but I know better.”
“Who do you think it is?” Knight Three asked, leaning forward.
Greta looked down at her hands, still holding the scissors. “I can’t point a finger at anyone here, but... Old Matt Heimlin, he’s been different lately. Met some mystery woman, folks say. Nobody’s seen her, but he’s got that spring in his step again after losing his whole family. Some think it’s Widow Maybell—her farm’s only a few miles from his—but no one’s seen her or her boys in two months. There’s talk.”
“Think this woman’s the vampire?” Knight One asked.
Greta pursed her lips, then shrugged. “Could be. Could be nothing. But if you ask me, the vampire isn’t living in town. It’s too small, too isolated. But it’s close. Real close. That thing’s been picking off people from neighboring communities, travelers, troops. It’s smart. Knows how to stay hidden. If you’re here to hunt it, you better be quick and quiet.”
Knight One exchanged a look with his teammates, nodding slightly. They were on the right track.
“Would you boys like to stay for dinner?” Greta asked, suddenly brightening. “I made more than enough, and I won’t take no for an answer.”
Knight One smiled politely, knowing full well what accepting the invitation meant. Hours of endless talk, but Greta knew things. They needed her knowledge. "We’d be happy to stay," he said. "But we’ll be heading out before sunset."
Dinner was a simple but delicious affair—hearty stew, fresh bread, and a selection of vegetables from Greta’s garden. True to her reputation, Greta didn’t stop talking, regaling them with stories about the town, Old Matt, and every rumor she’d caught wind of. The team listened, occasionally exchanging knowing glances, filing away every piece of information.
As the light outside began to fade, Knight One stood, tipping his head slightly to Greta. "Thank you for the meal, ma’am. But like we said, we’re on the hunt. We’ll be heading out now."
Greta smiled warmly, her eyes gleaming. "You boys be careful out there. And if you need anything else, you know where to find me."
With a final nod, the four of them left Greta’s house, stepping back into the twilight. The air had cooled, but a heaviness still hung in the atmosphere. As they walked toward the edge of town, Knight One glanced back at the house, the lace curtains fluttering in the breeze.
The hunt was on.
---
The sun dipped lower toward the horizon as Knight One and his team left Greta’s house, their boots crunching softly on the dirt road as they marched eastward.
The village of Vosberg grew quieter as they moved out of the center, and the fading light of sunset cast long, ominous shadows across the hamlet. The air was cooling now, but it carried with it a sense of unease, thickening as they neared the edge of town.
To their left, the graveyard loomed, a small cluster of headstones surrounded by a sagging iron fence, rusted and chipped with age. The graves themselves were mostly unremarkable, simple markers for the generations that had come and gone in Vosberg. The wind stirred faintly, rustling the dry grass between the stones, but the air felt still, like the breath of the village had been caught, held in anticipation of something.
Knight One glanced briefly at the graveyard as they passed, noting the silence, the unsettling calm. No birds, no insects, just the quiet whisper of wind through the overgrown grass.
“We’re close now,” Knight Three said, his voice low, almost out of respect for the dead.
Knight One nodded, his eyes forward. Widow Maybell’s farm lay just beyond, and the sun was slipping away faster than he liked.
The farm came into view soon enough—small, isolated, with fields of overgrown crops spilling out in uneven patches. Weeds and wild grass had overtaken the rows of corn and vegetables, their twisted shapes creeping up like nature reclaiming what had been abandoned. Even from here, Knight One could tell the fields hadn’t been tended to in weeks, maybe months. The farm itself was equally forlorn, its once-proud red barn fading to a dull rust color, and the farmhouse, though sturdy, looked neglected. There was no sign of life—no animals, no movement, not even the creak of a door swinging in the evening breeze.
Knight Four pointed toward the house. "The door’s open."
Indeed, the front door stood ajar, gently swaying on its hinges. There were no crosses nailed to the door, no garlic hanging above the windows like every other home in Vosberg. Knight One’s gut tightened. It was as if the house had been deliberately left unprotected.
"Stay sharp," Knight One ordered. The team spread out, hands instinctively resting on their weapons as they approached.
Knight Two took point, pushing the door open with a soft creak. The farmhouse was dark inside, the last rays of sunlight barely cutting through the grimy windows. Dust floated in the stale air, illuminated in brief patches by the failing light. The smell hit them immediately—a sickly sweet odor, unmistakable.
The smell of death.
Knight One gestured for Knight Three and Four to check the back rooms while he and Knight Two headed toward the master bedroom. The floors creaked under their weight, and the house felt oppressive, as though it had absorbed the fear and horror of whatever had happened here. The main living area was intact—nothing was stolen, nothing broken. No sign of bandits or looters.
When they reached the bedroom, Knight One knew instantly. Lying on the bed, stiff and decayed, was Widow Maybell. Her body had been there for some time, her skin mottled and bloated in death. She lay on her back, her eyes open but lifeless, the sheets half-pulled over her. There were no obvious signs of a struggle—just the quiet stillness of a body that had been left to rot in her own home. The smell was overwhelming, even for seasoned fighters like them.
"She's been dead a while," Knight Three muttered, pulling the blanket back to get a closer look. "Weeks, maybe more. No cross, no garlic—whoever, or whatever, did this wasn’t worried about being stopped."
Knight One stepped back, his eyes narrowing. “Check the cellar.”
They moved quickly, the sense of urgency rising as the last light of the sun disappeared behind the horizon, casting the world into twilight. In the back of the house, Knight Three had found the door to the fruit cellar beneath a trapdoor in the kitchen. The air down there was even worse—thick with decay, so foul it made Knight Four gag as they descended the narrow wooden steps.
In the cellar, lit only by their flashlights, the first thing they saw was a tarp, its edges curled up slightly, barely covering the mass underneath. Knight One’s breath caught in his throat as he knelt, pulling the tarp back.
Beneath it lay the decaying bodies of two boys and two workhands, their limbs twisted awkwardly as though they had died in pain. Their hands and feet were bound with thick, frayed rope, and though their faces were nearly unrecognizable due to the state of decomposition, the sight was unmistakable. They had been kept alive, prisoners beneath their own home.
Knight Three knelt beside one of the bodies, his expression grim. “Too far gone to tell if they were bitten or turned. But this wasn’t the work of bandits.”
“No signs of a struggle upstairs, no broken furniture or smashed doors,” Knight Four added. “Whoever did this wanted them here, alive—at least for a while.”
“Food,” Knight One said, the word heavy on his tongue. He stood, his eyes scanning the cellar. “These people were food.”
The thought hung in the air, thick and suffocating. The victims had been tied up, likely fed on over time. This was no random attack. Whoever—or whatever—had done this had made these people prisoners, and then fed on them until they no longer needed them.
“Vampire,” Knight Two muttered darkly, his face hardening as he stood.
Knight One turned back toward the steps, urgency creeping into his movements. “We leave now. We’re not staying here after sunset.”
The team ascended from the cellar, the weight of what they’d discovered pressing down on them. As they stepped back outside, the sky was darkening fast, the last slivers of daylight slipping away. The air had grown colder, the wind picking up, rustling the overgrown fields.
Knight One took a deep breath, his eyes scanning the horizon. The vampire wasn’t here anymore—of that, he was certain—but it was close. Too close. The hunt was on, and they would find this creature before it took another life.
"Let's move. Back to The Depot," Knight One ordered, his voice steady. "We regroup and figure out our next move. This thing isn’t staying hidden much longer."
The four knights turned eastward, their steps quick and deliberate, the weight of the night pressing in around them. The darkness was deep now, and they knew the hunt had truly begun.
---
The sky was fully dark by the time Knight One and his team returned to The Depot, their breaths quick from the urgency of their march. The oppressive weight of what they had found at Widow Maybell’s farm clung to them like a shadow. There was no time to waste.
As they burst into the meeting hall, the few people gathered inside turned to stare, their faces filled with a mix of surprise and unease.
Knight One didn’t hesitate. “Everyone, listen up!” His voice boomed across the room, cutting through the murmur of quiet conversation. “Widow Maybell is dead, and so are her boys and the farmhands. They’ve been killed by a vampire.”
Gasps rippled through the room, and a couple of people stood up, their faces pale. The light from the oil lamps flickered, casting trembling shadows along the walls as the atmosphere shifted from unease to outright fear.
“We don’t know where the vampire is right now,” Knight One continued, “but it’s close. You’ve all seen the signs. The crosses, the garlic, they work. Vampires can’t enter a home if it’s protected, but you must stay indoors and keep your doors locked. Don’t let anyone in until sunrise—not your friends, not your neighbors. No one.”
An older man near the back spoke up, his voice trembling. “What if...what if it’s already too late? What if someone’s been taken?”
Knight Four shook his head firmly. “That’s why we’re here. We’ve dealt with vampires before, and we’re not going to let anyone else die tonight. But you need to stay inside.”
Knight One stepped forward, addressing the crowd with urgency. “Go to your homes. Make sure there’s a cross on every door and garlic over every window. If you’re missing anyone, send word. We’ll check. We’re not leaving anyone behind.”
The people in The Depot exchanged terrified glances but began moving toward the doors, some muttering prayers under their breath. Knight Three turned to Knight One, his voice low but firm. “We need to make sure the whole town knows. If anyone is out there, they’re vulnerable.”
Knight One nodded, his jaw tight. “Let’s go. We’re not losing anyone tonight.”
---
They hit the streets of Vosberg fast, the cool night air biting at their skin as they moved from house to house. Knight One pounded on doors, his gloved fist echoing through the quiet village as he called out warnings. “Stay inside! Don’t open your doors to anyone until morning! There’s a vampire in the area. Keep your crosses up, and don’t let anyone in, no matter who they say they are!”
Behind each door, anxious faces peered out before quickly bolting their homes. Knight Two and Three were doing the same, racing through the streets and knocking on doors, shouting for the villagers to protect themselves and check on their loved ones.
At one home, an elderly woman, pale and shaking, opened the door just a crack. “My grandson...he hasn’t come back from the fields. I don’t know where he is.”
Knight Four placed a firm hand on the doorframe. “Stay inside. We’ll look for him. Keep your doors locked, and don’t let anyone in.”
The woman nodded quickly, closing the door and latching it with a series of rattling clicks.
Knight One motioned to Knight Four. “Check the fields to the north, and fast. We’ll keep sweeping the town.”
As the minutes ticked by, they encountered more of the same—families too afraid to open their doors, some missing friends or neighbors. A group of younger men had gathered near the town square, gripping farming tools as makeshift weapons.
“We’re going to look for the vampire ourselves,” one of them said, his voice unsteady but determined.
“No, you’re not,” Knight One said firmly, stepping into their path. “It’s too dangerous. We know how to kill vampires, but you don’t. Get to your homes, and stay there. You’re only putting yourselves at risk out here.”
One of the men, a farmhand with dirt-streaked overalls, hesitated. “But what if someone’s out there? What if it comes for us while we’re hiding?”
“That’s exactly why you need to stay inside,” Knight Two added. “Vampires can’t enter your home if it’s protected. But if you’re out in the open, you’re vulnerable. The best way to protect your family is to stay where the vampire can’t reach you.”
The men exchanged uncertain looks before reluctantly dispersing, heading back to their homes with the weight of fear hanging heavy on their shoulders.
---
By the time the Knights had swept through most of the town, the night had fully settled in. The streets were eerily quiet, save for the occasional creak of wood or the distant bark of a dog. Lights flickered behind shuttered windows, and the faint glow of oil lamps illuminated the edges of tightly closed curtains.
Knight One stopped in the center of town, catching his breath as he glanced toward the dark horizon. “We’ve warned everyone,” he said, his voice tense but controlled. “Now we wait.”
Knight Three approached, his face grim. “I checked the south end. No one’s missing from the homes I passed. But it’s still out there somewhere.”
Knight Four returned from the fields, shaking his head. “No sign of the boy. Fields are empty.”
Knight One cursed softly under his breath, his hand tightening around the hilt of his blade. “We’ll keep looking, but we need to be smart about this. It could attack at any time.”
A cold wind blew through the streets, rustling the trees and causing the night to feel more oppressive, more dangerous. The weight of the vampire’s presence hung over the town like a heavy, invisible cloud.
“We’ll find it,” Knight One muttered to his team, his eyes scanning the darkness. “But tonight, no one dies. Not on our watch.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the sounds of Vosberg muffled and distant. Then, as one, they turned back into the night, weapons ready and hearts pounding, prepared for the fight ahead.
---
It was close to midnight when Knight One heard the news—no one had been able to reach Old Matt Heimlin at his farm in the southwest corner of town. A farmhand who worked near Old Matt’s property, came back shaking his head. “He’s asleep, probably,” the man said. “But we didn’t see a cross on his door. Only the dogs outside. No sign of him.”
Knight One’s instincts flared. He knew the old man had been through more than most, losing his family to a combination of disease and raiders, but this didn’t sit right. The lack of protection on the door, the reports of a mysterious woman near his farm… it all added up to something he didn’t like. He gathered his team and headed out into the night.
The moon hung high in the sky as they approached Old Matt’s farm, casting a pale light over the overgrown fields. The air had cooled considerably, and a faint breeze rustled the tall grasses, but it wasn’t enough to shake the uneasy silence that clung to the land. The only sounds were the soft padding of their boots on the dirt road and the occasional bark from one of the dogs patrolling near the farmhouse.
As they drew closer, Knight One could make out the outlines of three dogs, all pacing near the front of the house, their heads low, sniffing the air. They didn’t seem alarmed, but their presence only added to the tension in his gut.
“Old Matt’s likely asleep by now,” Knight Three whispered, eyes scanning the property. “You think he knows what’s going on?”
“I doubt it,” Knight One muttered, keeping his voice low. “But we’re not leaving anything to chance.”
They moved in silence for a few moments, approaching the house. Knight One’s eyes narrowed when he noticed the door slightly ajar, no cross or garlic to protect it. Just like Widow Maybell’s place. The fields around them, overgrown and wild, hadn’t been tended in weeks, the sign of a man who had long given up on life. Yet, something else prickled at Knight One’s senses.
Then, out of the shadows, she appeared.
A woman—young, maybe in her early twenties—stepped gracefully from the side of the farmhouse, her long, black hair tied into a loose braid that glistened under the moonlight. Her skin was pale, almost glowing in the silvery light, and her eyes—warm brown and disarmingly soft—immediately caught Knight One’s attention. She wore a simple dress that moved fluidly with her, and despite the night chill, there wasn’t a bead of sweat on her skin. Four of the dogs, previously patrolling the perimeter, now padded calmly at her side, their tails swaying lazily. None of the animals reacted to the knights approach, nor did the woman seem startled.
“Evening, gentlemen,” she said, her voice soft and lilting, with a thick southern accent that sounded almost out of place here. “Lovely night for a walk, isn’t it?”
Knight One immediately stiffened, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade as he studied her. There was something off about her—something too calm, too practiced. He could see it in the way her eyes lingered on them, assessing, reading the situation.
“Evening,” Knight Four asked, “Who are you?” his voice steady but edged with suspicion.
She smiled, and it was a warm, inviting smile. “Oh, just a traveler,” she said lightly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Carlotta’s the name. I’ve been staying here for a while—refugee from the south.” She glanced toward the sky, admiring the moon. “I needed someplace quiet after all the chaos.”
Her tone was so casual, so relaxed, that it almost felt disarming. But Knight One wasn’t fooled. His eyes swept the property again. “You live here, with Old Matt?”
She tilted her head slightly, a teasing smile playing on her lips. “A dear friend of mine,” she replied smoothly. “He’s sleeping now. I wouldn’t want to disturb him at this hour, you understand.”
Knight Four frowned, stepping closer. “Are you his wife?”
Carlotta giggled softly, a sound that seemed almost too sweet, too carefree in the heavy stillness of the night. “No, no, nothing like that,” she said with a shake of her head. “Friend. I’m just keeping him company these days. He’s been through a lot, poor man.”
Knight One stepped forward, his voice firm. “The neighboring farm, Maybell’s, Maybell is dead, along with her children. And now, we find Old Matt’s place unprotected.” His eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”
Her eyes flickered, just for a second, but her smile never faltered. “Oh, goodness no,” she said, her voice light. “I’ve seen some sad things, to be sure, but I haven’t harmed anyone. I just like to enjoy the night air. It’s peaceful out here, away from the War the CS has started.” She gestured around her, the dogs still trotting faithfully at her side. “Why would I want to bring harm to a place like this?”
Knight Three stepped beside Knight One, his hand on his own weapon. “We’re vampire hunters, ma’am. If there’s a vampire in the area, we’ll find it. And we’re not leaving until we do.”
Carlotta’s expression softened slightly, almost pitying. “Vampires, huh? Well, that’s quite the tall tale.” She glanced toward the distant woods, her tone casual again. “But you won’t find anything around here.”
Knight One’s instincts screamed at him. She was too calm, too comfortable. She hadn’t answered their questions directly, and her avoidance was too well-practiced.
“We’ll need to check the house,” Knight One said, his tone firm.
Carlotta’s eyes gleamed, and for the first time, there was a subtle shift in her expression—something sharp and dangerous beneath the surface. “Oh, I wouldn’t do that,” she said, her voice softening but losing its previous warmth. “Old Matt deserves his rest. It’s been a long day for him.”
Knight Two stepped forward, but Knight One raised a hand, halting him. “Let’s not disturb the old man,” Knight One said calmly, sensing that pressing her too hard right now would end poorly. “But we’re going to make sure no one in town gets hurt tonight.”
Carlotta tilted her head again, smiling softly. “Of course, gentlemen. I wouldn’t dream of getting in your way. But, if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll take a walk. Clear my head. The night is far too beautiful to waste.”
Without another word, she turned, walking gracefully into the fields, the dogs following silently at her heels. She cast one last glance over her shoulder, her eyes locking with Knight One’s, and then she disappeared into the shadows of the trees.
Knight One watched her go, his body tense, every instinct telling him they had just met the vampire they were hunting.
“She’s the one,” Knight Three muttered, his voice low.
Knight One nodded slowly. “Yeah. But not tonight. She’s smart. We’ll need to wait for the right moment.”
“Think she’ll come after us?”
“If she thinks she can win,” Knight One said, his voice steady. “But she knows we’re prepared. She’ll wait. So will we.”
As the team stood in the darkened field, the moonlight casting long shadows across the overgrown crops, Knight One knew the hunt wasn’t over. Far from it. The game had just begun.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
The first light of dawn crept over the horizon, casting long shadows across the overgrown fields surrounding Old Matt’s farm. Knight One stood just outside the edge of the property, his eyes heavy with the weight of a sleepless night but his body still alert, watching the farmhouse as the world began to wake. The others were scattered nearby, keeping an eye on the surrounding area.
In the early morning light, the farm looked different. The disrepair was still evident—rotting wood on the barn, the overgrown crops strangled with weeds—but there were signs of recent work.
The flower garden flanking the front steps was new, vibrant with morning glories and roses that bloomed despite the rest of the farm's neglect. Here and there, Knight One could see evidence of fresh repairs—some of the fencing had been mended, and new boards had been hammered over parts of the house that once gaped open. The place was still in rough shape, but it seemed as though someone had been trying to breathe life back into it.
The pack of seven dogs that had been so quiet through the night was now fully awake, darting around the chicken coop and house. They barked at the knights, keeping their distance but clearly on alert. Their presence made the farm seem lively, almost normal, but the knights knew better.
As the sun rose higher, the front door of the farmhouse creaked open, and Old Matt shuffled out, his weathered face bathed in the soft morning light. He moved slowly, his back hunched from years of hard living. His clothes were dirty but functional, and his hands, calloused and stained with soil, held a small tool—a sign he had planned to spend the morning in the vegetable garden. He looked far older than his 50 years, his skin weathered and his hair more gray than black, the years of loss etched deep into his features.
The dogs immediately rushed toward him as he stepped outside, barking and wagging their tails. Matt squinted at them, then at the knights, his brow furrowing.
“What’s all this commotion about?” he called, his voice gravelly from disuse.
Knight One stepped forward, gesturing to the pack of dogs. “We’ve been keeping an eye on your place all night. We need to talk to you.”
Old Matt’s frown deepened, but he nodded slowly, making his way toward them. As he got closer, Knight One could see the exhaustion in his eyes—an exhaustion deeper than just physical weariness. This was a man who had been broken by loss and solitude, clinging to what little life remained in him.
“We’re sorry to disturb you so early,” Knight One began, keeping his voice respectful but firm. “We’re here to warn you, Matt. Something terrible’s happened.”
Old Matt looked up, his eyes cloudy with confusion. “Warn me? About what?”
Knight Two stepped in, his tone somber. “Your neighbor, Maybell. She and her family... they’re dead, Matt. Killed by a vampire.”
For a moment, the old man didn’t seem to process the words. He stood there, staring blankly at the knights, the soft morning breeze tugging at his frayed clothes. Then, slowly, he sank down onto the front step, his shoulders slumping forward as the weight of the news settled over him.
“Maybell?” he muttered, almost to himself. “And her boys? Dead?”
Knight One nodded. “We found their bodies at the farm. They’d been dead for weeks. There’s no doubt it was a vampire. They didn’t suffer the way most do, but... it was still a terrible end.”
Old Matt lowered his head, his hands trembling slightly as he rested them on his knees. The dogs circled him, still wary of the strangers, but they quieted as if sensing the grief their master was feeling.
“We’re holding a funeral for them today,” Knight One continued. “It’s safe to go out now that the sun is up. We thought you’d want to know, and we’d like to invite you to pay your respects. Maybell was a good woman.”
Matt didn’t respond immediately, staring off into the distance. His face was drawn and hollow, the lines of age and pain etched deep. He ran a hand through his gray hair, his fingers trembling. Finally, he spoke, his voice hoarse. “Maybell... was the last of my neighbors I could still call a friend. I didn’t even know... didn’t even know they were gone.”
The old man looked up at Knight One, his eyes filled with a mixture of sorrow and confusion. “A vampire, you say?”
Knight Three nodded, standing next to Knight One. “We’ve been tracking it. We think it’s been preying on Vosberg and the surrounding area. It’s not safe, Matt. You need to be careful.”
Old Matt shook his head, his gaze distant. “I’ve seen plenty of death in my time, but this... this is worse than I ever imagined.”
Knight One knelt beside the old man, keeping his tone gentle but firm. “We can’t bring back Maybell or her family, but we can make sure no one else suffers the same fate. We’ll protect this town, but you need to come to the funeral. Pay your respects, and let’s put them to rest properly.”
Old Matt’s gaze lingered on the ground for a long moment. Then, finally, he nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll come. She was a good woman. She deserves that much.”
Knight One stood, extending a hand to the old man. “Good. We’ll leave soon. You can bring the dogs, if you’d like. They seem loyal.”
Old Matt chuckled softly, though there was no joy in it. “Loyal, aye. They’re about all I’ve got left these days.”
As Matt slowly rose to his feet, the knights exchanged glances. The old man looked broken, his movements stiff, but there was a flicker of resolve in his eyes. He was ready to face the loss, even if he could barely stand the weight of it.
“Let’s go,” Knight One said softly, turning back toward the village. The day was brightening now, and the sunlight cast a new clarity on the farm—its disrepair more evident, but also the hope of new growth in the flower garden. The promise of renewal, even in a place so marred by death.
As they made their way back toward Vosberg, Old Matt shuffled along with the pack of dogs close by. The knights kept their guard up, knowing full well that the danger was far from over. But for now, in the light of day, they could offer the village one thing—a chance to mourn, and a chance to rebuild, before the darkness crept in again.
---
The Hamlet of Vosberg stood silent in the afternoon sun as the small crowd gathered near the cemetery, the fresh graves of Widow Maybell, her boys, and the farmhands laid to rest.
The funeral had been a somber affair, filled with murmured prayers, bowed heads, and the quiet shuffling of feet on the dry earth. The villagers, weary from the horrors of the past weeks, clung together, each face a mixture of grief, confusion, and fear.
Knight One stood before the gathering, his armor gleaming under the sun’s rays. His expression was resolute, but his heart was heavy. He had fought many battles, faced creatures that most people only whispered about in the dead of night, but something about the quiet desperation of Vosberg struck him deeply. This town, isolated and forgotten, had been slowly poisoned by the darkness lurking just beyond the edges of its fields.
He cleared his throat, and the villagers turned their eyes toward him. The knights stood with him, a united front, their faces hardened but respectful in the wake of the ceremony. Old Matt stood apart, his face a mask of sorrow and silence, his shoulders hunched beneath the weight of loss.
Knight One took a breath and began, his voice carrying across the small gathering.
“Today, we laid to rest good people—neighbors, friends, family. They were victims of a terrible evil. But here, in the light of day, we are safe. In the daylight, we know who stands among us.”
He gestured toward the crowd. “We’ve accounted for everyone. Every one of you here—under the sun—is NOT a vampire. That much is certain. And knowing that, we can start narrowing down who is responsible for the horrors that have befallen Vosberg.”
The villagers murmured among themselves, some nodding, others exchanging worried glances. Knight One let the silence linger for a moment before continuing, his tone growing more pointed.
“The question we need to ask ourselves now is simple: Who has been around Vosberg and is not here?”
A hush fell over the crowd as they processed the weight of his words. For a moment, there was nothing but the distant rustling of leaves and the soft whimper of a dog near Old Matt’s feet.
Then Knight One’s voice rang out with sharp clarity. “Carlotta!”
The name hit the villagers like a cold wind, and several of them gasped. Eyes turned toward Old Matt, who visibly stiffened, his face paling under the scrutiny. Knight One could see the conflict in the old man’s eyes, the deep-rooted denial and desperation that kept him from acknowledging the truth.
Matt shook his head slowly, his voice quiet but trembling with emotion. “No… no, she’s a good woman. She’s a refugee, a lost soul. She’s done nothing wrong.”
Knight One stepped forward, his gaze fixed on the old farmer. “Matt, listen to me. We’re not saying this lightly. We’ve accounted for every resident in Vosberg. No one here is a vampire, and the only person who’s been living on the outskirts, showing up at night, is Carlotta.”
Matt’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, his breathing shallow. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” he whispered. “She’s… she’s not a monster. She’s not…”
Knight One’s voice softened, but there was no room for compromise. “Matt, I know this is hard. But we need to be sure. All it takes to disprove this is for Carlotta to be seen in the light of day. If she’s not a vampire, then it shouldn’t be a problem.”
The crowd was growing restless, sensing the tension between the knight and the old man. Knight One raised his hand, calling for calm.
“We’ll search your farm, Matt,” Knight One said firmly. “For Carlotta’s lair, if it exists. You know what we’re looking for—vampires can’t hide in the daylight, and they have to have a place to rest. If we find nothing, we’ll leave her be. But if we don’t search, more people will die.”
Matt’s eyes filled with a mix of anger and desperation, and for the first time, he stepped forward, his voice rising with emotion. “No! I won’t let you do this! She’s not a vampire, and I’ll fight anyone who tries to lay a hand on her!”
Knight One’s heart sank. He could see it now—Matt was simply in denial, blinded by loneliness, by love. He had ignored all the signs. Whether he knew it deep down or not, he couldn’t let go of the only person who had filled the emptiness in his life.
Knight Two stepped up, ready to move, but Knight One held him back. “Matt, we don’t want to hurt you. We know you care about her. But you’re wrong about this.”
Matt’s eyes blazed with fury, and in a flash, his hand went to the handle of an axe lying nearby. He gripped it tightly, his body trembling but filled with the raw energy of a man who had nothing left to lose. “You’re not taking her from me,” he growled. “She’s all I have.”
The crowd gasped, and the knights tensed, knowing the situation had turned dangerous.
“Matt, don’t,” Knight One warned, his voice low but commanding. “We’re here to protect Vosberg. This isn’t what you want.”
But Matt was beyond reason. “You’ll have to kill me first,” he spat, swinging the axe with surprising strength. Knight One dodged the first blow, but he knew Matt was not playing, and there was no talking him down now.
“Subdue him!” Knight One ordered.
Knight Two and Three rushed forward, trying to restrain the old man without harming him, but Matt fought with the wild desperation of a man protecting his last shred of hope. His swings were wide and strong, each one coming dangerously close to the knights.
Knight One stepped in, disarming Matt with a quick, decisive strike to his wrist. The axe fell to the ground, but Matt lunged again, his fists swinging wildly. Knight Four caught him from behind, pinning his arms, but it took the combined effort of all the knights to finally subdue him, bringing him to his knees.
As they held him down, Matt struggled, tears streaming down his face.
“You can’t take her,” he sobbed. “Please, don’t take her.”
Knight One knelt beside the broken man, his voice low and filled with sorrow.
“Matt, I’m sorry. But we have to be sure.”
The crowd was silent, watching as the knights stood over Old Matt, who now lay on the ground, weeping in defeat. Knight One stood, his face grim as he looked toward the farmhouse in the distance.
“Search the farm,” he said quietly, his voice carrying to the villagers. “We’ll know soon enough whether Carlotta is what we fear.”
And with that, the knights made their way toward Old Matt’s farm, where the truth—whatever it was—awaited them in the shadows.
---
The air was thick with tension as Knight One and his team descended into the cellar of Old Matt’s farmhouse. The dark, musty smell clung to the stone walls, and the wooden beams above creaked ominously. Their flashlights cut through the gloom, casting sharp shadows as they moved deeper into the earth. The villagers stood gathered outside, a silent mass of eyes and anxious whispers, watching as the knights searched for proof of what they had long feared.
It wasn’t long before they found it.
In a corner of the cellar, hidden behind a stack of old tools and wooden crates, the knights uncovered a large, wooden coffin, its surface worn and covered in a fine layer of dust. The lid was tightly shut, and though it looked unremarkable, the knights knew exactly what it meant.
Knight One stood over the coffin, his jaw clenched. “This is it,” he said, his voice echoing in the cold, dark space. He gestured to Knights Two and Three. “Get it up to the surface. We’ll open it in the daylight.”
The two knights moved quickly, gripping the sides of the coffin and heaving it up the narrow steps. It was heavy, the weight of it unnatural despite its outward appearance. Old Matt, restrained and watching from the farmhouse doorway, muttered under his breath, shaking his head in disbelief. But there was no stopping what was coming now.
As the coffin emerged from the cellar, the morning sun beat down on it, casting long shadows across the farmyard. The crowd of villagers, still hovering near the edge of the property, gasped as they saw the knights dragging the ominous box into the open.
Knight One wiped the sweat from his brow, the heat of the day starting to bake the earth beneath them. He motioned for everyone to stand back, then nodded to Knight Four, who stepped forward with a crowbar, wedging it into the coffin’s seam.
With a sharp crack, the lid gave way, the wooden nails snapping loose, and the knights pried it open. As the sunlight flooded in, what they found inside wasn’t the body they expected—but it was damning all the same.
At the bottom of the coffin lay about thirty pounds of soil, a dark, rich earth that seemed completely out of place in this farmyard. Knight One’s heart sank slightly—no vampire, not here. But the evidence was undeniable.
Knight One leaned over, examining the soil closely. He took a deep breath, then turned to the crowd, his voice steady and resolute.
“This soil... it’s the proof we needed,” he said, raising his gaze to meet the villagers. “A vampire needs to sleep in the soil from the land where they became a vampire. This coffin, buried here, filled with this earth—it’s Carlotta’s.”
The crowd murmured, the tension rippling through them as they exchanged looks of horror and disbelief. Some backed away, while others stood frozen, processing what had been uncovered.
Knight Two shook his head, his face grim. “She’s not in the coffin. She’s hiding. We’ve got to find her before nightfall.”
Knight One nodded, glancing at the horizon, where the sun had started its slow descent. They didn’t have much time left. He turned back to the crowd, his voice carrying with an authority that demanded attention.
“Carlotta is a vampire,” he said, each word heavy with the truth they had fought so hard to uncover. “She’s not here now—she’s hiding until nightfall. But we know she’s out there, and we know she’s coming back. What remains is the hunt.”
Old Matt, still struggling in the grip of his emotions, shouted from the farmhouse. “You’re wrong! She’s not a vampire! You’re all mad!”
But Knight One remained steadfast. “The coffin proves it, Matt. She’s been hiding right under your nose, using you as her cover. You may not want to see it, but we do. And we’ll stop her before she hurts anyone else.”
Matt slumped against the doorway, his protests fading into weak sobs. The man had been broken. His love for Carlotta had blinded him, and now, it had cost him everything.
Knight Three stepped forward, his weapon ready. “What’s the plan, One?”
Knight One stood tall, his gaze sweeping over the farm and the villagers gathered around. “We start searching now. Carlotta is close, likely hiding somewhere nearby where she can rest until the sun sets. We have to find her and confirm the kill before nightfall.”
The crowd grew restless, the fear palpable now. Some began whispering, talking of leaving the village, of hiding. But Knight One raised his hand, silencing them.
“No one’s leaving,” he said. “We’ve fought vampires before. We know what to do. But we need every able hand to help us search. If we work together, we’ll stop this.”
He turned to his knights. “Split into groups. Check every barn, every outbuilding, every hidden corner. If she’s here, we’ll find her.”
With that, the knights dispersed, leading the villagers into the surrounding fields and woods. Time was running out, and Knight One knew that if they didn’t find Carlotta soon, the night would bring more bloodshed.
As he stood over the open coffin, the soil still lying in the harsh sunlight, Knight One’s resolve hardened. They had uncovered the truth—now they just needed to finish what they had started.
The hunt continues...
In the early morning light, the farm looked different. The disrepair was still evident—rotting wood on the barn, the overgrown crops strangled with weeds—but there were signs of recent work.
The flower garden flanking the front steps was new, vibrant with morning glories and roses that bloomed despite the rest of the farm's neglect. Here and there, Knight One could see evidence of fresh repairs—some of the fencing had been mended, and new boards had been hammered over parts of the house that once gaped open. The place was still in rough shape, but it seemed as though someone had been trying to breathe life back into it.
The pack of seven dogs that had been so quiet through the night was now fully awake, darting around the chicken coop and house. They barked at the knights, keeping their distance but clearly on alert. Their presence made the farm seem lively, almost normal, but the knights knew better.
As the sun rose higher, the front door of the farmhouse creaked open, and Old Matt shuffled out, his weathered face bathed in the soft morning light. He moved slowly, his back hunched from years of hard living. His clothes were dirty but functional, and his hands, calloused and stained with soil, held a small tool—a sign he had planned to spend the morning in the vegetable garden. He looked far older than his 50 years, his skin weathered and his hair more gray than black, the years of loss etched deep into his features.
The dogs immediately rushed toward him as he stepped outside, barking and wagging their tails. Matt squinted at them, then at the knights, his brow furrowing.
“What’s all this commotion about?” he called, his voice gravelly from disuse.
Knight One stepped forward, gesturing to the pack of dogs. “We’ve been keeping an eye on your place all night. We need to talk to you.”
Old Matt’s frown deepened, but he nodded slowly, making his way toward them. As he got closer, Knight One could see the exhaustion in his eyes—an exhaustion deeper than just physical weariness. This was a man who had been broken by loss and solitude, clinging to what little life remained in him.
“We’re sorry to disturb you so early,” Knight One began, keeping his voice respectful but firm. “We’re here to warn you, Matt. Something terrible’s happened.”
Old Matt looked up, his eyes cloudy with confusion. “Warn me? About what?”
Knight Two stepped in, his tone somber. “Your neighbor, Maybell. She and her family... they’re dead, Matt. Killed by a vampire.”
For a moment, the old man didn’t seem to process the words. He stood there, staring blankly at the knights, the soft morning breeze tugging at his frayed clothes. Then, slowly, he sank down onto the front step, his shoulders slumping forward as the weight of the news settled over him.
“Maybell?” he muttered, almost to himself. “And her boys? Dead?”
Knight One nodded. “We found their bodies at the farm. They’d been dead for weeks. There’s no doubt it was a vampire. They didn’t suffer the way most do, but... it was still a terrible end.”
Old Matt lowered his head, his hands trembling slightly as he rested them on his knees. The dogs circled him, still wary of the strangers, but they quieted as if sensing the grief their master was feeling.
“We’re holding a funeral for them today,” Knight One continued. “It’s safe to go out now that the sun is up. We thought you’d want to know, and we’d like to invite you to pay your respects. Maybell was a good woman.”
Matt didn’t respond immediately, staring off into the distance. His face was drawn and hollow, the lines of age and pain etched deep. He ran a hand through his gray hair, his fingers trembling. Finally, he spoke, his voice hoarse. “Maybell... was the last of my neighbors I could still call a friend. I didn’t even know... didn’t even know they were gone.”
The old man looked up at Knight One, his eyes filled with a mixture of sorrow and confusion. “A vampire, you say?”
Knight Three nodded, standing next to Knight One. “We’ve been tracking it. We think it’s been preying on Vosberg and the surrounding area. It’s not safe, Matt. You need to be careful.”
Old Matt shook his head, his gaze distant. “I’ve seen plenty of death in my time, but this... this is worse than I ever imagined.”
Knight One knelt beside the old man, keeping his tone gentle but firm. “We can’t bring back Maybell or her family, but we can make sure no one else suffers the same fate. We’ll protect this town, but you need to come to the funeral. Pay your respects, and let’s put them to rest properly.”
Old Matt’s gaze lingered on the ground for a long moment. Then, finally, he nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll come. She was a good woman. She deserves that much.”
Knight One stood, extending a hand to the old man. “Good. We’ll leave soon. You can bring the dogs, if you’d like. They seem loyal.”
Old Matt chuckled softly, though there was no joy in it. “Loyal, aye. They’re about all I’ve got left these days.”
As Matt slowly rose to his feet, the knights exchanged glances. The old man looked broken, his movements stiff, but there was a flicker of resolve in his eyes. He was ready to face the loss, even if he could barely stand the weight of it.
“Let’s go,” Knight One said softly, turning back toward the village. The day was brightening now, and the sunlight cast a new clarity on the farm—its disrepair more evident, but also the hope of new growth in the flower garden. The promise of renewal, even in a place so marred by death.
As they made their way back toward Vosberg, Old Matt shuffled along with the pack of dogs close by. The knights kept their guard up, knowing full well that the danger was far from over. But for now, in the light of day, they could offer the village one thing—a chance to mourn, and a chance to rebuild, before the darkness crept in again.
---
The Hamlet of Vosberg stood silent in the afternoon sun as the small crowd gathered near the cemetery, the fresh graves of Widow Maybell, her boys, and the farmhands laid to rest.
The funeral had been a somber affair, filled with murmured prayers, bowed heads, and the quiet shuffling of feet on the dry earth. The villagers, weary from the horrors of the past weeks, clung together, each face a mixture of grief, confusion, and fear.
Knight One stood before the gathering, his armor gleaming under the sun’s rays. His expression was resolute, but his heart was heavy. He had fought many battles, faced creatures that most people only whispered about in the dead of night, but something about the quiet desperation of Vosberg struck him deeply. This town, isolated and forgotten, had been slowly poisoned by the darkness lurking just beyond the edges of its fields.
He cleared his throat, and the villagers turned their eyes toward him. The knights stood with him, a united front, their faces hardened but respectful in the wake of the ceremony. Old Matt stood apart, his face a mask of sorrow and silence, his shoulders hunched beneath the weight of loss.
Knight One took a breath and began, his voice carrying across the small gathering.
“Today, we laid to rest good people—neighbors, friends, family. They were victims of a terrible evil. But here, in the light of day, we are safe. In the daylight, we know who stands among us.”
He gestured toward the crowd. “We’ve accounted for everyone. Every one of you here—under the sun—is NOT a vampire. That much is certain. And knowing that, we can start narrowing down who is responsible for the horrors that have befallen Vosberg.”
The villagers murmured among themselves, some nodding, others exchanging worried glances. Knight One let the silence linger for a moment before continuing, his tone growing more pointed.
“The question we need to ask ourselves now is simple: Who has been around Vosberg and is not here?”
A hush fell over the crowd as they processed the weight of his words. For a moment, there was nothing but the distant rustling of leaves and the soft whimper of a dog near Old Matt’s feet.
Then Knight One’s voice rang out with sharp clarity. “Carlotta!”
The name hit the villagers like a cold wind, and several of them gasped. Eyes turned toward Old Matt, who visibly stiffened, his face paling under the scrutiny. Knight One could see the conflict in the old man’s eyes, the deep-rooted denial and desperation that kept him from acknowledging the truth.
Matt shook his head slowly, his voice quiet but trembling with emotion. “No… no, she’s a good woman. She’s a refugee, a lost soul. She’s done nothing wrong.”
Knight One stepped forward, his gaze fixed on the old farmer. “Matt, listen to me. We’re not saying this lightly. We’ve accounted for every resident in Vosberg. No one here is a vampire, and the only person who’s been living on the outskirts, showing up at night, is Carlotta.”
Matt’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, his breathing shallow. “You don’t know what you’re saying,” he whispered. “She’s… she’s not a monster. She’s not…”
Knight One’s voice softened, but there was no room for compromise. “Matt, I know this is hard. But we need to be sure. All it takes to disprove this is for Carlotta to be seen in the light of day. If she’s not a vampire, then it shouldn’t be a problem.”
The crowd was growing restless, sensing the tension between the knight and the old man. Knight One raised his hand, calling for calm.
“We’ll search your farm, Matt,” Knight One said firmly. “For Carlotta’s lair, if it exists. You know what we’re looking for—vampires can’t hide in the daylight, and they have to have a place to rest. If we find nothing, we’ll leave her be. But if we don’t search, more people will die.”
Matt’s eyes filled with a mix of anger and desperation, and for the first time, he stepped forward, his voice rising with emotion. “No! I won’t let you do this! She’s not a vampire, and I’ll fight anyone who tries to lay a hand on her!”
Knight One’s heart sank. He could see it now—Matt was simply in denial, blinded by loneliness, by love. He had ignored all the signs. Whether he knew it deep down or not, he couldn’t let go of the only person who had filled the emptiness in his life.
Knight Two stepped up, ready to move, but Knight One held him back. “Matt, we don’t want to hurt you. We know you care about her. But you’re wrong about this.”
Matt’s eyes blazed with fury, and in a flash, his hand went to the handle of an axe lying nearby. He gripped it tightly, his body trembling but filled with the raw energy of a man who had nothing left to lose. “You’re not taking her from me,” he growled. “She’s all I have.”
The crowd gasped, and the knights tensed, knowing the situation had turned dangerous.
“Matt, don’t,” Knight One warned, his voice low but commanding. “We’re here to protect Vosberg. This isn’t what you want.”
But Matt was beyond reason. “You’ll have to kill me first,” he spat, swinging the axe with surprising strength. Knight One dodged the first blow, but he knew Matt was not playing, and there was no talking him down now.
“Subdue him!” Knight One ordered.
Knight Two and Three rushed forward, trying to restrain the old man without harming him, but Matt fought with the wild desperation of a man protecting his last shred of hope. His swings were wide and strong, each one coming dangerously close to the knights.
Knight One stepped in, disarming Matt with a quick, decisive strike to his wrist. The axe fell to the ground, but Matt lunged again, his fists swinging wildly. Knight Four caught him from behind, pinning his arms, but it took the combined effort of all the knights to finally subdue him, bringing him to his knees.
As they held him down, Matt struggled, tears streaming down his face.
“You can’t take her,” he sobbed. “Please, don’t take her.”
Knight One knelt beside the broken man, his voice low and filled with sorrow.
“Matt, I’m sorry. But we have to be sure.”
The crowd was silent, watching as the knights stood over Old Matt, who now lay on the ground, weeping in defeat. Knight One stood, his face grim as he looked toward the farmhouse in the distance.
“Search the farm,” he said quietly, his voice carrying to the villagers. “We’ll know soon enough whether Carlotta is what we fear.”
And with that, the knights made their way toward Old Matt’s farm, where the truth—whatever it was—awaited them in the shadows.
---
The air was thick with tension as Knight One and his team descended into the cellar of Old Matt’s farmhouse. The dark, musty smell clung to the stone walls, and the wooden beams above creaked ominously. Their flashlights cut through the gloom, casting sharp shadows as they moved deeper into the earth. The villagers stood gathered outside, a silent mass of eyes and anxious whispers, watching as the knights searched for proof of what they had long feared.
It wasn’t long before they found it.
In a corner of the cellar, hidden behind a stack of old tools and wooden crates, the knights uncovered a large, wooden coffin, its surface worn and covered in a fine layer of dust. The lid was tightly shut, and though it looked unremarkable, the knights knew exactly what it meant.
Knight One stood over the coffin, his jaw clenched. “This is it,” he said, his voice echoing in the cold, dark space. He gestured to Knights Two and Three. “Get it up to the surface. We’ll open it in the daylight.”
The two knights moved quickly, gripping the sides of the coffin and heaving it up the narrow steps. It was heavy, the weight of it unnatural despite its outward appearance. Old Matt, restrained and watching from the farmhouse doorway, muttered under his breath, shaking his head in disbelief. But there was no stopping what was coming now.
As the coffin emerged from the cellar, the morning sun beat down on it, casting long shadows across the farmyard. The crowd of villagers, still hovering near the edge of the property, gasped as they saw the knights dragging the ominous box into the open.
Knight One wiped the sweat from his brow, the heat of the day starting to bake the earth beneath them. He motioned for everyone to stand back, then nodded to Knight Four, who stepped forward with a crowbar, wedging it into the coffin’s seam.
With a sharp crack, the lid gave way, the wooden nails snapping loose, and the knights pried it open. As the sunlight flooded in, what they found inside wasn’t the body they expected—but it was damning all the same.
At the bottom of the coffin lay about thirty pounds of soil, a dark, rich earth that seemed completely out of place in this farmyard. Knight One’s heart sank slightly—no vampire, not here. But the evidence was undeniable.
Knight One leaned over, examining the soil closely. He took a deep breath, then turned to the crowd, his voice steady and resolute.
“This soil... it’s the proof we needed,” he said, raising his gaze to meet the villagers. “A vampire needs to sleep in the soil from the land where they became a vampire. This coffin, buried here, filled with this earth—it’s Carlotta’s.”
The crowd murmured, the tension rippling through them as they exchanged looks of horror and disbelief. Some backed away, while others stood frozen, processing what had been uncovered.
Knight Two shook his head, his face grim. “She’s not in the coffin. She’s hiding. We’ve got to find her before nightfall.”
Knight One nodded, glancing at the horizon, where the sun had started its slow descent. They didn’t have much time left. He turned back to the crowd, his voice carrying with an authority that demanded attention.
“Carlotta is a vampire,” he said, each word heavy with the truth they had fought so hard to uncover. “She’s not here now—she’s hiding until nightfall. But we know she’s out there, and we know she’s coming back. What remains is the hunt.”
Old Matt, still struggling in the grip of his emotions, shouted from the farmhouse. “You’re wrong! She’s not a vampire! You’re all mad!”
But Knight One remained steadfast. “The coffin proves it, Matt. She’s been hiding right under your nose, using you as her cover. You may not want to see it, but we do. And we’ll stop her before she hurts anyone else.”
Matt slumped against the doorway, his protests fading into weak sobs. The man had been broken. His love for Carlotta had blinded him, and now, it had cost him everything.
Knight Three stepped forward, his weapon ready. “What’s the plan, One?”
Knight One stood tall, his gaze sweeping over the farm and the villagers gathered around. “We start searching now. Carlotta is close, likely hiding somewhere nearby where she can rest until the sun sets. We have to find her and confirm the kill before nightfall.”
The crowd grew restless, the fear palpable now. Some began whispering, talking of leaving the village, of hiding. But Knight One raised his hand, silencing them.
“No one’s leaving,” he said. “We’ve fought vampires before. We know what to do. But we need every able hand to help us search. If we work together, we’ll stop this.”
He turned to his knights. “Split into groups. Check every barn, every outbuilding, every hidden corner. If she’s here, we’ll find her.”
With that, the knights dispersed, leading the villagers into the surrounding fields and woods. Time was running out, and Knight One knew that if they didn’t find Carlotta soon, the night would bring more bloodshed.
As he stood over the open coffin, the soil still lying in the harsh sunlight, Knight One’s resolve hardened. They had uncovered the truth—now they just needed to finish what they had started.
The hunt continues...
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darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
The sun hung low in the western sky, casting a warm, golden glow over the fields of Vosberg as the Mystic Knights regrouped after a long and exhaustive search. They had scoured every inch of the hamlet, from barns to basements, even venturing into the surrounding woods, but Carlotta was nowhere to be found. With each passing hour, the urgency of their hunt gave way to a growing realization: Carlotta had fled.
In the clearing near The Depot, Knight One stood with his team, the weight of the past few days etched into the lines of his face. The villagers watched from a distance, their fear palpable, but tempered by the presence of the knights who had brought some semblance of protection to their quiet, beleaguered village.
They sent Magic Pigeons, small enchanted birds that would carry their message far and wide. Their wings shimmered with faint traces of magical energy. Each pigeon bore details of Carlotta.
Knight One stepped forward, addressing the small crowd of villagers gathered nearby. "We've searched everywhere," he said, his voice calm but tired. "Carlotta isn't here. She's fled, knowing we've uncovered the truth. But that doesn't mean you can relax."
The villagers exchanged nervous glances, a few of them clutching the small crosses around their necks.
"Tonight, you must lock your doors, seal your windows, and keep your crosses and garlic in place," Knight One continued. "We’ll keep watch through the night. If she returns, we'll be ready. But until then, you need to protect yourselves."
There were murmurs of agreement, and the people of Vosberg nodded, fear still lingering in their eyes. As the last pigeon was released into the air, its wings catching the last rays of sunlight, Knight Four stepped beside Knight One.
"They'll carry word to nearby towns and settlements," Knight Four said quietly. "If Carlotta is moving from place to place, someone will be warned."
Knight One nodded, his gaze following the pigeons as they soared higher into the sky, vanishing into the distance. "It's a start," he said.
---
The night came quickly, cloaking Vosberg in darkness. The air was cool, and the streets were empty as the villagers did as they were told, retreating into their homes and locking their doors tight. The Mystic Knights stood vigilant, patrolling the perimeter of the village, eyes scanning the shadows, ears attuned to the faintest sound.
But the night passed in unnerving silence.
No whispers of wings in the dark, no glint of red eyes peering from the trees. Carlotta did not return. The village remained untouched by her presence, and by dawn, the knights gathered again in the town square, weariness pulling at their features.
"Nothing," Knight Three muttered, rubbing his eyes. "No sign of her."
Knight One frowned, his brow furrowed in thought. "She’s gone. But why?"
The answer eluded him. Vampires were predators by nature, but Carlotta had shown an intelligence and cunning that few others of her kind possessed. She knew she was hunted, and now, it seemed she had fled to regroup—or perhaps to wait until the knights left.
The following days were much the same. The knights maintained their vigilance, by night, but Carlotta did not return. They slept during part of the day. Cleaned up and renovated Maybell’s Farmhouse while they stayed there during the day. Waste not; want not.
They continued their search, using their psychic powers to attempt to locate her. Remote Viewing was a powerful tool, one that allowed them to glimpse scenes far away, but it revealed little about her current whereabouts. During the day, all they saw was an anonymous looking forestry scene—endless trees, patches of light, the quiet of the wilderness. At night, their visions shifted to fleeting images of what seemed to be her in a neighboring town, lit by street lamps and flickering candles in windows. But there was no clear sign of Carlotta.
"She’s hiding," Knight Four said after one such session of Remote Viewing. "And she’s smart enough to avoid us. For now."
Knight One sighed, glancing at the horizon. The days had begun to blur together, and it was clear that Carlotta was playing the long game. She wasn’t coming back to Vosberg—not anytime soon.
---
On the fifth day, the knights gathered in the center of Vosberg for the last time. The villagers, sensing the end of their watchful presence, had come to see them off. There was a mixture of relief and apprehension in the air. They were grateful to the knights for uncovering the truth, but they also knew that once the knights were gone, Vosberg would return to its quiet, lonely existence—forever haunted by the shadow of Carlotta, lurking somewhere beyond their borders.
Knight One addressed the crowd, his voice steady but filled with a quiet resolve. "We’ve done what we can here. Carlotta is gone, and while we can’t be certain when or if she’ll return, we’ve sent word to the neighboring towns. Keep wearing your crosses and staying in after dark. You’ll be safe."
The villagers nodded, offering murmurs of thanks, though their eyes betrayed their lingering fears.
"If she returns," Knight One added, "you know what to do. Keep your homes protected. Stay vigilant, and if you hear anything suspicious, reach out to your neighbors."
Old Matt stood at the back of the crowd, a hollow man, his grief and denial still fresh. He hadn’t spoken much since the knights uncovered the truth about Carlotta, and now he stood, head bowed, as the knights prepared to leave. Knight One gave him a glance but knew there was nothing more to be said. The old man had made his choices, and in the end, those choices had cost him everything.
The knights mounted their horses, and the crowd parted as they began their slow ride out of the village. The sun was bright in the sky, and the fields stretched out before them, a landscape both familiar and foreign now, marked by their recent search.
As they reached the edge of Vosberg, Knight One glanced back one last time. The village was quiet, peaceful, the same as it had been when they arrived. But something had changed. The people had been shaken awake by the presence of darkness in their midst, and they would never be the same again.
“On to the best guess of the neighboring town that she is in,” Knight One muttered, his eyes narrowing as he turned forward again. “We run her down.”
In the clearing near The Depot, Knight One stood with his team, the weight of the past few days etched into the lines of his face. The villagers watched from a distance, their fear palpable, but tempered by the presence of the knights who had brought some semblance of protection to their quiet, beleaguered village.
They sent Magic Pigeons, small enchanted birds that would carry their message far and wide. Their wings shimmered with faint traces of magical energy. Each pigeon bore details of Carlotta.
Knight One stepped forward, addressing the small crowd of villagers gathered nearby. "We've searched everywhere," he said, his voice calm but tired. "Carlotta isn't here. She's fled, knowing we've uncovered the truth. But that doesn't mean you can relax."
The villagers exchanged nervous glances, a few of them clutching the small crosses around their necks.
"Tonight, you must lock your doors, seal your windows, and keep your crosses and garlic in place," Knight One continued. "We’ll keep watch through the night. If she returns, we'll be ready. But until then, you need to protect yourselves."
There were murmurs of agreement, and the people of Vosberg nodded, fear still lingering in their eyes. As the last pigeon was released into the air, its wings catching the last rays of sunlight, Knight Four stepped beside Knight One.
"They'll carry word to nearby towns and settlements," Knight Four said quietly. "If Carlotta is moving from place to place, someone will be warned."
Knight One nodded, his gaze following the pigeons as they soared higher into the sky, vanishing into the distance. "It's a start," he said.
---
The night came quickly, cloaking Vosberg in darkness. The air was cool, and the streets were empty as the villagers did as they were told, retreating into their homes and locking their doors tight. The Mystic Knights stood vigilant, patrolling the perimeter of the village, eyes scanning the shadows, ears attuned to the faintest sound.
But the night passed in unnerving silence.
No whispers of wings in the dark, no glint of red eyes peering from the trees. Carlotta did not return. The village remained untouched by her presence, and by dawn, the knights gathered again in the town square, weariness pulling at their features.
"Nothing," Knight Three muttered, rubbing his eyes. "No sign of her."
Knight One frowned, his brow furrowed in thought. "She’s gone. But why?"
The answer eluded him. Vampires were predators by nature, but Carlotta had shown an intelligence and cunning that few others of her kind possessed. She knew she was hunted, and now, it seemed she had fled to regroup—or perhaps to wait until the knights left.
The following days were much the same. The knights maintained their vigilance, by night, but Carlotta did not return. They slept during part of the day. Cleaned up and renovated Maybell’s Farmhouse while they stayed there during the day. Waste not; want not.
They continued their search, using their psychic powers to attempt to locate her. Remote Viewing was a powerful tool, one that allowed them to glimpse scenes far away, but it revealed little about her current whereabouts. During the day, all they saw was an anonymous looking forestry scene—endless trees, patches of light, the quiet of the wilderness. At night, their visions shifted to fleeting images of what seemed to be her in a neighboring town, lit by street lamps and flickering candles in windows. But there was no clear sign of Carlotta.
"She’s hiding," Knight Four said after one such session of Remote Viewing. "And she’s smart enough to avoid us. For now."
Knight One sighed, glancing at the horizon. The days had begun to blur together, and it was clear that Carlotta was playing the long game. She wasn’t coming back to Vosberg—not anytime soon.
---
On the fifth day, the knights gathered in the center of Vosberg for the last time. The villagers, sensing the end of their watchful presence, had come to see them off. There was a mixture of relief and apprehension in the air. They were grateful to the knights for uncovering the truth, but they also knew that once the knights were gone, Vosberg would return to its quiet, lonely existence—forever haunted by the shadow of Carlotta, lurking somewhere beyond their borders.
Knight One addressed the crowd, his voice steady but filled with a quiet resolve. "We’ve done what we can here. Carlotta is gone, and while we can’t be certain when or if she’ll return, we’ve sent word to the neighboring towns. Keep wearing your crosses and staying in after dark. You’ll be safe."
The villagers nodded, offering murmurs of thanks, though their eyes betrayed their lingering fears.
"If she returns," Knight One added, "you know what to do. Keep your homes protected. Stay vigilant, and if you hear anything suspicious, reach out to your neighbors."
Old Matt stood at the back of the crowd, a hollow man, his grief and denial still fresh. He hadn’t spoken much since the knights uncovered the truth about Carlotta, and now he stood, head bowed, as the knights prepared to leave. Knight One gave him a glance but knew there was nothing more to be said. The old man had made his choices, and in the end, those choices had cost him everything.
The knights mounted their horses, and the crowd parted as they began their slow ride out of the village. The sun was bright in the sky, and the fields stretched out before them, a landscape both familiar and foreign now, marked by their recent search.
As they reached the edge of Vosberg, Knight One glanced back one last time. The village was quiet, peaceful, the same as it had been when they arrived. But something had changed. The people had been shaken awake by the presence of darkness in their midst, and they would never be the same again.
“On to the best guess of the neighboring town that she is in,” Knight One muttered, his eyes narrowing as he turned forward again. “We run her down.”
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darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Coalition States Military Intelligence Report
Subject: Ongoing Analysis of the Siege of Tolkeen
Analyst: Captain Marcus Haldren, CS Military Intelligence Division
Date: [REDACTED]
Classification: Top Secret – Eyes Only
---
Executive Summary
The Coalition’s war against the Kingdom of Tolkeen, initiated under “Operation Juggernaut,” was intended to be a swift, methodical campaign designed to weaken and ultimately annihilate Tolkeen’s military power through overwhelming force and superior organization.
However, real-world events have deviated significantly from theoretical projections. Initial estimates anticipated a conflict lasting 18 months to 3 years, with a far lower rate of attrition. Current data shows a ratio of 6.7 Coalition casualties for every one Tolkeen defender, a staggering figure not accounted for in initial plans.
While progress is being made, the war has taken a heavier toll in terms of lives, resources, and time than anticipated. The lack of cohesion within Tolkeen's defenses, though seemingly a strategic weakness, has contributed to our challenges. This report examines the current state of the conflict, analyzing both the strengths and failures of the Coalition’s strategy and the evolving dynamics of the battlefield.
---
Operation Juggernaut – Strategic Objectives and Deviations
Operation Juggernaut was formulated to dismantle the Kingdom of Tolkeen in stages, leveraging the Coalition States superior numbers and technological might. The central strategy was to conduct a slow, methodical sweep of the region surrounding Tolkeen, obliterating opposition piecemeal. This would prevent ambushes or coordinated pincer tactics by eliminating supporting strongholds, supply lines, and auxiliary defenders before engaging Tolkeen directly. Each victory was expected to diminish Tolkeen’s ability to resist, weakening their defenses for a final decisive blow.
Key Objectives:
1. Encircle Tolkeen: The plan aimed to surround the kingdom, systematically destroying all outlying settlements and resistance.
2. Crush Morale: Isolate Tolkeen from external support and demoralize its population, forcing an eventual collapse of their defenses.
3. Limit CS Casualties: By deploying overwhelming firepower and numbers, especially using volunteer immigrant soldiers as front-line cannon fodder, the goal was to minimize Coalition citizen casualties.
Current Status:
The siege has proceeded, but far slower than anticipated. Each town and city captured has been hard-fought, with the defenders displaying resilience far beyond expectations.
Tolkeen's morale has not been broken despite the obliteration of several outlying settlements. Their forces continue to fight with unparalleled ferocity, especially their magically empowered factions.
The casualty ratio (6.7 Coalition service members for every one Tolkeen fighter) indicates that while we are taking ground, the cost is far higher than predicted. The reliance on non-citizen volunteers, originally intended to mitigate losses among CS citizens, has resulted in significant morale issues among these troops, who now see themselves as expendable.
---
Tolkeen's Disorganized Defense – A Double-Edged Sword
On paper, Tolkeen’s defense appears chaotic. Their forces lack centralized command and coordination, with individual factions and groups seemingly acting on their own initiative. However, this disorganization has worked to our disadvantage in unexpected ways.
Tolkeen’s factions, ranging from magical warlords to mercenary bands, are often at odds with one another, striking independently without formal military logic.
Yet, despite this lack of coordination, their quality—both in terms of combat abilities and magical prowess—has allowed them to launch devastating strikes against Coalition forces.
Key Observations:
Lack of Centralized Command: Tolkeen's defense suffers from internal division. Powerful factions often duplicate efforts, conducting redundant attacks while others fail to capitalize on tactical advantages. Missions are sometimes uncoordinated, with one faction attacking a target that another could have secured more efficiently.
Superiority in Individual Power: While Tolkeen’s disorganization is a weakness, the raw power and unpredictability of their magic-users, demons, and supernatural allies compensate for their lack of tactical discipline. Our forces are repeatedly surprised by the ferocity and unpredictability of their counterattacks.
Atrocities by Rogue Factions: Some of Tolkeen’s factions, particularly the more "evil" or ruthless groups (demons, elementals, entities, shifters, etc.), target non-combatants indiscriminately. Hospitals, civilian convoys, and supply lines have all been attacked without mercy. These factions, while reviled, create further chaos on the battlefield and make it difficult for our forces to predict enemy movements or strategies.
While this disorganization has caused frustration for our high command, it has also hampered Tolkeen’s overall war effort. Without a unified front, their attacks lack the concerted pressure needed to drive back the Coalition. However, the quality of their individual combatants continues to bleed our forces at an unsustainable rate.
---
Attrition and Resource Management
The current rate of attrition is a matter of grave concern. Coalition resources were initially believed to be sufficient for the projected 18-month campaign. However, with the conflict now extending beyond initial estimates and showing no signs of immediate resolution, our logistical reserves are being depleted at an alarming rate.
Current Challenges:
Unsustainable Casualty Rates: This war of attrition is far more costly than projected. If the current trend continues, the Coalition will face severe manpower shortages within three years, especially if our reliance on volunteers remains unchecked.
Resource Drain: The slow, circular sweep through Tolkeen’s territory, while effective in theory, has required significantly more resources than expected. Supply lines are stretched thin, and maintaining the front has become a logistical nightmare, particularly in hostile, magically disrupted terrain.
Volunteer Troops: The use of non-citizen volunteers as frontline soldiers, while politically expedient, has also introduced new challenges. Initially, these forces were considered expendable, with the promise of future citizenship serving as their primary motivation. However, morale has begun to wane as they face higher-than-expected casualties, leading to desertion and unrest among the ranks. This instability is threatening to undermine our ability to maintain troop strength and cohesion over the long term.
The roads of the Kingdom of Tolkeen were not designed for the need of a large mechanized army. In the Coalition we build them straight. We bore through the mountain, built a bridge over the lake, and cut down the tree; nothing stood in our way.
In the kingdom of Tolkeen, there are no straight roads to Tolkeen or anywhere else in their EVIL kingdom. The roads are as crooked as they ALL are. Dirty dirt roads they call all natural, they go around the mountain or use switchbacks, they go around the lakes and trees.
Besides, the trees are enormous, 2 to 3 meters wide (6 to 10 feet) and 30+ meters tall (100+ feet). Some are magically endowed to resist conventional cutting methods and we have to blast and shoot them down giving away our position.
Some magic wielding party moved the trees in the way of the dirt roads or knocked them down barring the way. When they fall it echos everywhere and must be done expertly else it can, and has sometimes, fallen on CS troops or equipment.
While using fire is like sending up smoke signals and has led to forest fires which is as much a danger to us and the enemy and is time consuming. In one case, Fire Elementals emerged and disappeared in the flames and with the help of Air Elementals burned and tossed platoons all over the local forest. Even within their armor they were broken.
Larger formations of mechanized forces make obvious targets to area of effect spells (sections of lava appear out of nowhere) and supernatural beings such as dragons invisibly raining down their breath weapon or dropping something on top of us. Such beings are able to quickly move in and out of combat via flight or teleportation and regenerate any damage they sustain and even regrow limbs.
The CS Air Force has to control the airspace over our mechanized forces to deter and repel attacks instead of attacking the enemy's cities. It is a two way defense as our ground forces support them from below.
Many times our forces have had to take the proverbial one step back to take two steps forward. Time consuming but it works and we are taking the kingdom even if it takes us twice as long as we thought it should.
---
Conclusion and Long-Term Projections
Despite these setbacks, I remain confident in the eventual success of the Coalition’s war against Tolkeen. The Kingdom’s inability to unify its forces under a cohesive command structure has prevented them from fully capitalizing on their individual strengths. While their magical and supernatural abilities have caused significant Coalition losses, our methodical advance continues to gain ground.
However, it is the recommendation of this office that high command adjust its projections. The war is likely to last twice as long as initially predicted, with double the casualties and costs. These are not favorable metrics, but they are the price for securing humanity’s future and eliminating the threat of aliens, demons, and magic wielding traitors to humanity.
Ultimately, the Coalition States will emerge victorious, though we will not wear the mantle of heroes. Rather, we will be the survivors—the ones left standing to tell the tale of how humanity fought, bled, and survived the greatest magical threat the world has ever known.
Recommendations:
Hire Mercenary Armies:
By outsourcing attacks or at least defensive positions to them we can save our own manpower and resources. Those that fail and retreat we will destroy or at least not pay for their failures. IF defending they will probably be wiped out by the attacker so we won't have to pay them. Those Mercs that succeed we can then dispose of when they are at their weakest and pin it on the Tolkenites. One less army that fights for money unlike our patriotic soldiers who fight for humanity and humankind. Besides, the absence will weakness city's and kingdoms that depend upon them. In their dependence and fear they may turn to the CS for their defense and our expansion.
These expendable fighters should be contracted and utilized immediately. The enemy won’t expect them. In Tolkeen’s hesitation to kill non-CS combatants we can take the initiative.
Reinforce Supply Lines: Strengthen logistical operations to maintain the momentum of the siege. Without secure supplies, we risk stalling our advance.
Postpone Eradication of human collaborators and D-Bees: Construct labor camps and use prisoner of war labor to recycle and resupply our materials. This is essential to maintaining an effective logistic chain and supply line. The prisoners can also be used as shields to deter attacks from Tolkeenites.
Propaganda Efforts: Increase propaganda aimed at maintaining public support for the war. Emphasize the existential threat Tolkeen poses to humanity to justify the extended timeline and mounting casualties.
End of Report
Subject: Ongoing Analysis of the Siege of Tolkeen
Analyst: Captain Marcus Haldren, CS Military Intelligence Division
Date: [REDACTED]
Classification: Top Secret – Eyes Only
---
Executive Summary
The Coalition’s war against the Kingdom of Tolkeen, initiated under “Operation Juggernaut,” was intended to be a swift, methodical campaign designed to weaken and ultimately annihilate Tolkeen’s military power through overwhelming force and superior organization.
However, real-world events have deviated significantly from theoretical projections. Initial estimates anticipated a conflict lasting 18 months to 3 years, with a far lower rate of attrition. Current data shows a ratio of 6.7 Coalition casualties for every one Tolkeen defender, a staggering figure not accounted for in initial plans.
While progress is being made, the war has taken a heavier toll in terms of lives, resources, and time than anticipated. The lack of cohesion within Tolkeen's defenses, though seemingly a strategic weakness, has contributed to our challenges. This report examines the current state of the conflict, analyzing both the strengths and failures of the Coalition’s strategy and the evolving dynamics of the battlefield.
---
Operation Juggernaut – Strategic Objectives and Deviations
Operation Juggernaut was formulated to dismantle the Kingdom of Tolkeen in stages, leveraging the Coalition States superior numbers and technological might. The central strategy was to conduct a slow, methodical sweep of the region surrounding Tolkeen, obliterating opposition piecemeal. This would prevent ambushes or coordinated pincer tactics by eliminating supporting strongholds, supply lines, and auxiliary defenders before engaging Tolkeen directly. Each victory was expected to diminish Tolkeen’s ability to resist, weakening their defenses for a final decisive blow.
Key Objectives:
1. Encircle Tolkeen: The plan aimed to surround the kingdom, systematically destroying all outlying settlements and resistance.
2. Crush Morale: Isolate Tolkeen from external support and demoralize its population, forcing an eventual collapse of their defenses.
3. Limit CS Casualties: By deploying overwhelming firepower and numbers, especially using volunteer immigrant soldiers as front-line cannon fodder, the goal was to minimize Coalition citizen casualties.
Current Status:
The siege has proceeded, but far slower than anticipated. Each town and city captured has been hard-fought, with the defenders displaying resilience far beyond expectations.
Tolkeen's morale has not been broken despite the obliteration of several outlying settlements. Their forces continue to fight with unparalleled ferocity, especially their magically empowered factions.
The casualty ratio (6.7 Coalition service members for every one Tolkeen fighter) indicates that while we are taking ground, the cost is far higher than predicted. The reliance on non-citizen volunteers, originally intended to mitigate losses among CS citizens, has resulted in significant morale issues among these troops, who now see themselves as expendable.
---
Tolkeen's Disorganized Defense – A Double-Edged Sword
On paper, Tolkeen’s defense appears chaotic. Their forces lack centralized command and coordination, with individual factions and groups seemingly acting on their own initiative. However, this disorganization has worked to our disadvantage in unexpected ways.
Tolkeen’s factions, ranging from magical warlords to mercenary bands, are often at odds with one another, striking independently without formal military logic.
Yet, despite this lack of coordination, their quality—both in terms of combat abilities and magical prowess—has allowed them to launch devastating strikes against Coalition forces.
Key Observations:
Lack of Centralized Command: Tolkeen's defense suffers from internal division. Powerful factions often duplicate efforts, conducting redundant attacks while others fail to capitalize on tactical advantages. Missions are sometimes uncoordinated, with one faction attacking a target that another could have secured more efficiently.
Superiority in Individual Power: While Tolkeen’s disorganization is a weakness, the raw power and unpredictability of their magic-users, demons, and supernatural allies compensate for their lack of tactical discipline. Our forces are repeatedly surprised by the ferocity and unpredictability of their counterattacks.
Atrocities by Rogue Factions: Some of Tolkeen’s factions, particularly the more "evil" or ruthless groups (demons, elementals, entities, shifters, etc.), target non-combatants indiscriminately. Hospitals, civilian convoys, and supply lines have all been attacked without mercy. These factions, while reviled, create further chaos on the battlefield and make it difficult for our forces to predict enemy movements or strategies.
While this disorganization has caused frustration for our high command, it has also hampered Tolkeen’s overall war effort. Without a unified front, their attacks lack the concerted pressure needed to drive back the Coalition. However, the quality of their individual combatants continues to bleed our forces at an unsustainable rate.
---
Attrition and Resource Management
The current rate of attrition is a matter of grave concern. Coalition resources were initially believed to be sufficient for the projected 18-month campaign. However, with the conflict now extending beyond initial estimates and showing no signs of immediate resolution, our logistical reserves are being depleted at an alarming rate.
Current Challenges:
Unsustainable Casualty Rates: This war of attrition is far more costly than projected. If the current trend continues, the Coalition will face severe manpower shortages within three years, especially if our reliance on volunteers remains unchecked.
Resource Drain: The slow, circular sweep through Tolkeen’s territory, while effective in theory, has required significantly more resources than expected. Supply lines are stretched thin, and maintaining the front has become a logistical nightmare, particularly in hostile, magically disrupted terrain.
Volunteer Troops: The use of non-citizen volunteers as frontline soldiers, while politically expedient, has also introduced new challenges. Initially, these forces were considered expendable, with the promise of future citizenship serving as their primary motivation. However, morale has begun to wane as they face higher-than-expected casualties, leading to desertion and unrest among the ranks. This instability is threatening to undermine our ability to maintain troop strength and cohesion over the long term.
The roads of the Kingdom of Tolkeen were not designed for the need of a large mechanized army. In the Coalition we build them straight. We bore through the mountain, built a bridge over the lake, and cut down the tree; nothing stood in our way.
In the kingdom of Tolkeen, there are no straight roads to Tolkeen or anywhere else in their EVIL kingdom. The roads are as crooked as they ALL are. Dirty dirt roads they call all natural, they go around the mountain or use switchbacks, they go around the lakes and trees.
Besides, the trees are enormous, 2 to 3 meters wide (6 to 10 feet) and 30+ meters tall (100+ feet). Some are magically endowed to resist conventional cutting methods and we have to blast and shoot them down giving away our position.
Some magic wielding party moved the trees in the way of the dirt roads or knocked them down barring the way. When they fall it echos everywhere and must be done expertly else it can, and has sometimes, fallen on CS troops or equipment.
While using fire is like sending up smoke signals and has led to forest fires which is as much a danger to us and the enemy and is time consuming. In one case, Fire Elementals emerged and disappeared in the flames and with the help of Air Elementals burned and tossed platoons all over the local forest. Even within their armor they were broken.
Larger formations of mechanized forces make obvious targets to area of effect spells (sections of lava appear out of nowhere) and supernatural beings such as dragons invisibly raining down their breath weapon or dropping something on top of us. Such beings are able to quickly move in and out of combat via flight or teleportation and regenerate any damage they sustain and even regrow limbs.
The CS Air Force has to control the airspace over our mechanized forces to deter and repel attacks instead of attacking the enemy's cities. It is a two way defense as our ground forces support them from below.
Many times our forces have had to take the proverbial one step back to take two steps forward. Time consuming but it works and we are taking the kingdom even if it takes us twice as long as we thought it should.
---
Conclusion and Long-Term Projections
Despite these setbacks, I remain confident in the eventual success of the Coalition’s war against Tolkeen. The Kingdom’s inability to unify its forces under a cohesive command structure has prevented them from fully capitalizing on their individual strengths. While their magical and supernatural abilities have caused significant Coalition losses, our methodical advance continues to gain ground.
However, it is the recommendation of this office that high command adjust its projections. The war is likely to last twice as long as initially predicted, with double the casualties and costs. These are not favorable metrics, but they are the price for securing humanity’s future and eliminating the threat of aliens, demons, and magic wielding traitors to humanity.
Ultimately, the Coalition States will emerge victorious, though we will not wear the mantle of heroes. Rather, we will be the survivors—the ones left standing to tell the tale of how humanity fought, bled, and survived the greatest magical threat the world has ever known.
Recommendations:
Hire Mercenary Armies:
By outsourcing attacks or at least defensive positions to them we can save our own manpower and resources. Those that fail and retreat we will destroy or at least not pay for their failures. IF defending they will probably be wiped out by the attacker so we won't have to pay them. Those Mercs that succeed we can then dispose of when they are at their weakest and pin it on the Tolkenites. One less army that fights for money unlike our patriotic soldiers who fight for humanity and humankind. Besides, the absence will weakness city's and kingdoms that depend upon them. In their dependence and fear they may turn to the CS for their defense and our expansion.
These expendable fighters should be contracted and utilized immediately. The enemy won’t expect them. In Tolkeen’s hesitation to kill non-CS combatants we can take the initiative.
Reinforce Supply Lines: Strengthen logistical operations to maintain the momentum of the siege. Without secure supplies, we risk stalling our advance.
Postpone Eradication of human collaborators and D-Bees: Construct labor camps and use prisoner of war labor to recycle and resupply our materials. This is essential to maintaining an effective logistic chain and supply line. The prisoners can also be used as shields to deter attacks from Tolkeenites.
Propaganda Efforts: Increase propaganda aimed at maintaining public support for the war. Emphasize the existential threat Tolkeen poses to humanity to justify the extended timeline and mounting casualties.
End of Report
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Tolkeen Free Press Broadcast
The screen flickers to life, revealing the serene backdrop of Tolkeen’s skyline at sunset. The anchor, a calm yet passionate woman dressed in robes adorned with the symbols of elemental power, speaks with urgency but hope.
“Good evening, citizens of Tolkeen.
Tonight, we remember Borderline, a fledgling kingdom of 16,000 souls, mostly D-Bees who had made their home in this corner of the world, knew all too well the threat the Coalition States posed. Harassed and targeted for years, they expected to be among the first casualties when Emperor Prosek declared his war on all who dared to exist beyond his iron rule.
They were right.
The Coalition Army descended on Borderline and reduced our neighbor to a smoldering wasteland. Not a single life was spared. Not even the human children. The entire population lost in the onslaught. Borderline’s defenses, crumbled before the relentless Coalition war machine.
The ruins of Borderline now stand as a silent reminder of the Coalition’s savagery and their genocidal hunger for domination. Whenever doubt creeps into the hearts of those who question why we fight, all it takes is the name 'Borderline' to remind us why we stand against these invaders.
For Borderline. For freedom. For our very lives. This is why we fight.
Our way of life has changed dramatically since the Coalition began their relentless campaign against our kingdom. But, as we have always done, we adapt.
Warlocks, long respected for their talents, have become essential in more ways than ever before. With the abundance of energy flowing from our Nexus, they now work to mend and recycle metals, ensuring our industries have the materials they need. No longer must we depend solely on external resources. From the scraps we gather, we rebuild. We renew. With each piece of salvaged metal passed through the hands of a Warlock, a new tool or weapon emerges. We are resilient.
And that resilience extends beyond metal. Our Water Warlocks have secured us an endless supply of fresh water, conjured from the very air. No matter the siege, no matter the destruction the Coalition attempts to bring, Tolkeen will not thirst. Electricity flows without interruption, wood and essential materials are provided through powerful magics, sustaining industries and homes alike. Where the Coalition seeks to break us, we bend and reform.
But not all losses can be so easily replaced. The most tragic of all are the lives taken from us by the Coalition’s merciless advance. They push forward with their machines of war, poisoning our wilderness and laying waste to the homes and villages of our people. Like locusts, they sweep through our smaller communities, tearing apart what we have built and enslaving those they conquer. These villages, once vibrant with life and culture, are now either burned to the ground or forced into servitude under the Coalition’s iron boot.
What we have uncovered, however, is a heinous tactic. The Coalition keeps our people alive, not out of mercy, but to shield themselves from us. They use our captured citizens as living barriers, ensuring that any attack we launch against their forward operating positions risks maiming or killing our own. This is the level of cruelty they are willing to stoop to—hiding behind our people, forcing us to choose between defending ourselves or protecting the innocent. It is nothing short of barbaric.
Yet in the face of this horror, we find strength. Our city’s Shifters, those who wield the power to open Rifts between dimensions, have become vital to our survival. They, along with the city’s pyramids, have sustained our supply chains, allowing us to import food not only from distant lands but from other worlds entirely. It has taken time but we can now feed ourselves again. Our self-sufficiency, once a point of pride, has been replaced with this desperate trade. While this hurts our local economy, we cannot ignore the reality: too many of our farmers, our craftsmen, our workers, are either gone to war or lost to it.
It says something, the intentionally cutting off our city's food supply, using starvation as a method of warfare, depriving children of food, that tells you what we are defending ourselves against. And they call us EVIL.
But let us not forget: this trade, while born of necessity, has fostered new relationships with allies from FAR beyond our borders. Our city’s economists argue that this will strengthen us in the long term. Perhaps, when this war is over, these bonds will bear fruit beyond survival.
Yet, even as we forge these alliances, we feel abandoned by our so-called allies in Lazlo and New Lazlo. They, who once stood with us, now hesitate, as though they believe the Coalition’s hunger for conquest will stop at our borders. They will share our fate, whether they realize it or not. The Coalition does not stop. It consumes, and they will turn their attention to Lazlo in time. But for now, Tolkeen, as a city-state, stands alone.
And while we stand, we fight—not just with swords, spells, and spirit, but with art, with culture, with history. A local sculptor has recently dedicated a series of stone statues to the noble Cyber-Knights who have joined our defense, standing as defenders of freedom against the Coalition’s tyranny. These knights came of their own volition, knowing that our struggle is not just about land or power but about the survival of our way of life, the right to live free from persecution simply because we are different.
We honor them, and we also honor the fallen. One of our citizens has opened a museum dedicated to a forgotten chapter of history: the Vanguard, mages who once defended the Coalition itself from the Federation of Magic nearly a century ago. They wielded magic to protect their people, but once the danger passed, they were exiled. It is clear that the Coalition fears what it cannot control. Magic, to them, is not a tool to be understood but a force to be eradicated. And now, they seek to do the same to us. They do not control us, and they never will.
The fight we face is not just a battle for Tolkeen, but for our freedom—our right to exist as we are. If we do not fight here, and now, then we will only postpone the inevitable. The Coalition will come for us all, and when they do, they will strike when we are alone and weakened. That is why we must stand together, now more than ever. Our differences, the very things the Coalition seeks to destroy, are what make us strong. We have lived with each other for years, and though we have had our conflicts, we have never killed one another. The Coalition cannot say the same.
Their path is one of destruction. Ours is of survival.
Let this be a call to every citizen: stand firm, and know that our cause is just. We fight for our future, for our children, for the very soul of Tolkeen. We will prevail—not because we seek conquest, but because we choose to live free. Together, we are stronger than the machines of war, stronger than fear, and stronger than the Coalition’s lies. For Tolkeen, for freedom, we will endure.”
The broadcast ends, the image of Tolkeen remaining on the screen for a moment longer.
The screen flickers to life, revealing the serene backdrop of Tolkeen’s skyline at sunset. The anchor, a calm yet passionate woman dressed in robes adorned with the symbols of elemental power, speaks with urgency but hope.
“Good evening, citizens of Tolkeen.
Tonight, we remember Borderline, a fledgling kingdom of 16,000 souls, mostly D-Bees who had made their home in this corner of the world, knew all too well the threat the Coalition States posed. Harassed and targeted for years, they expected to be among the first casualties when Emperor Prosek declared his war on all who dared to exist beyond his iron rule.
They were right.
The Coalition Army descended on Borderline and reduced our neighbor to a smoldering wasteland. Not a single life was spared. Not even the human children. The entire population lost in the onslaught. Borderline’s defenses, crumbled before the relentless Coalition war machine.
The ruins of Borderline now stand as a silent reminder of the Coalition’s savagery and their genocidal hunger for domination. Whenever doubt creeps into the hearts of those who question why we fight, all it takes is the name 'Borderline' to remind us why we stand against these invaders.
For Borderline. For freedom. For our very lives. This is why we fight.
Our way of life has changed dramatically since the Coalition began their relentless campaign against our kingdom. But, as we have always done, we adapt.
Warlocks, long respected for their talents, have become essential in more ways than ever before. With the abundance of energy flowing from our Nexus, they now work to mend and recycle metals, ensuring our industries have the materials they need. No longer must we depend solely on external resources. From the scraps we gather, we rebuild. We renew. With each piece of salvaged metal passed through the hands of a Warlock, a new tool or weapon emerges. We are resilient.
And that resilience extends beyond metal. Our Water Warlocks have secured us an endless supply of fresh water, conjured from the very air. No matter the siege, no matter the destruction the Coalition attempts to bring, Tolkeen will not thirst. Electricity flows without interruption, wood and essential materials are provided through powerful magics, sustaining industries and homes alike. Where the Coalition seeks to break us, we bend and reform.
But not all losses can be so easily replaced. The most tragic of all are the lives taken from us by the Coalition’s merciless advance. They push forward with their machines of war, poisoning our wilderness and laying waste to the homes and villages of our people. Like locusts, they sweep through our smaller communities, tearing apart what we have built and enslaving those they conquer. These villages, once vibrant with life and culture, are now either burned to the ground or forced into servitude under the Coalition’s iron boot.
What we have uncovered, however, is a heinous tactic. The Coalition keeps our people alive, not out of mercy, but to shield themselves from us. They use our captured citizens as living barriers, ensuring that any attack we launch against their forward operating positions risks maiming or killing our own. This is the level of cruelty they are willing to stoop to—hiding behind our people, forcing us to choose between defending ourselves or protecting the innocent. It is nothing short of barbaric.
Yet in the face of this horror, we find strength. Our city’s Shifters, those who wield the power to open Rifts between dimensions, have become vital to our survival. They, along with the city’s pyramids, have sustained our supply chains, allowing us to import food not only from distant lands but from other worlds entirely. It has taken time but we can now feed ourselves again. Our self-sufficiency, once a point of pride, has been replaced with this desperate trade. While this hurts our local economy, we cannot ignore the reality: too many of our farmers, our craftsmen, our workers, are either gone to war or lost to it.
It says something, the intentionally cutting off our city's food supply, using starvation as a method of warfare, depriving children of food, that tells you what we are defending ourselves against. And they call us EVIL.
But let us not forget: this trade, while born of necessity, has fostered new relationships with allies from FAR beyond our borders. Our city’s economists argue that this will strengthen us in the long term. Perhaps, when this war is over, these bonds will bear fruit beyond survival.
Yet, even as we forge these alliances, we feel abandoned by our so-called allies in Lazlo and New Lazlo. They, who once stood with us, now hesitate, as though they believe the Coalition’s hunger for conquest will stop at our borders. They will share our fate, whether they realize it or not. The Coalition does not stop. It consumes, and they will turn their attention to Lazlo in time. But for now, Tolkeen, as a city-state, stands alone.
And while we stand, we fight—not just with swords, spells, and spirit, but with art, with culture, with history. A local sculptor has recently dedicated a series of stone statues to the noble Cyber-Knights who have joined our defense, standing as defenders of freedom against the Coalition’s tyranny. These knights came of their own volition, knowing that our struggle is not just about land or power but about the survival of our way of life, the right to live free from persecution simply because we are different.
We honor them, and we also honor the fallen. One of our citizens has opened a museum dedicated to a forgotten chapter of history: the Vanguard, mages who once defended the Coalition itself from the Federation of Magic nearly a century ago. They wielded magic to protect their people, but once the danger passed, they were exiled. It is clear that the Coalition fears what it cannot control. Magic, to them, is not a tool to be understood but a force to be eradicated. And now, they seek to do the same to us. They do not control us, and they never will.
The fight we face is not just a battle for Tolkeen, but for our freedom—our right to exist as we are. If we do not fight here, and now, then we will only postpone the inevitable. The Coalition will come for us all, and when they do, they will strike when we are alone and weakened. That is why we must stand together, now more than ever. Our differences, the very things the Coalition seeks to destroy, are what make us strong. We have lived with each other for years, and though we have had our conflicts, we have never killed one another. The Coalition cannot say the same.
Their path is one of destruction. Ours is of survival.
Let this be a call to every citizen: stand firm, and know that our cause is just. We fight for our future, for our children, for the very soul of Tolkeen. We will prevail—not because we seek conquest, but because we choose to live free. Together, we are stronger than the machines of war, stronger than fear, and stronger than the Coalition’s lies. For Tolkeen, for freedom, we will endure.”
The broadcast ends, the image of Tolkeen remaining on the screen for a moment longer.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
War Journal:
The Mystic Knights have gone over the CS files on the town of Solomon. They would not be this far North except their "Remote Viewing" shows them unmistakable images of the town and Carlotta being here. Their mission remains the same, eliminate the vampire Carlotta.
They go over the Coalition report on the town:
Captain Darius Rook, Coalition Army, Report on Tactical Operations in Solomon
Subject: Operation Solomon – Ongoing Efforts to Secure the Key of Solomon
Solomon. A town that should've been nothing more than a footnote in this campaign has turned into a persistent thorn in our side. Population 3,000 before the war—small, insignificant. No strategic value, no military infrastructure worth mentioning. It’s a quiet, peaceful place that should’ve been flattened by now. But it hasn’t been. And we all know why.
The "Key of Solomon."
That damn artifact. Some kind of magical relic the Tolkeenites are keeping hidden somewhere in this town. It’s the only thing keeping us from leveling this place to the ground like we’ve done with so many others.
Command is terrified of the potential fallout. One wrong move, one miscalculated artillery strike, and we might trigger a magical disaster we can’t control—something that could be worse than a nuke. A Ley Line storm, an uncontrolled Rift, hell, maybe even a magical superweapon. No one’s entirely sure what would happen, and frankly, I don’t want to find out.
The town has become a focal point, not because of its location or resources, but because of this artifact—this Key. Speculation within our ranks suggests that the Key is somehow tied to the ley line nexus in Solomon, which may be why Tolkeen hasn’t moved it elsewhere. Despite Tolkeen’s ability to smuggle troops and supplies in and out with relative ease—an alarming fact, given our efforts to surround the town—the Key itself appears to be immobile. This, combined with the constant and increasing resistance, has led CS High Command to believe that we’re closing in on something vital.
So here we are, sitting on the outskirts of this battered little town, picking at it like vultures, when we should’ve crushed it weeks ago. Solomon is still mostly intact—more than any town that’s stood in our way so far. We’ve had to restrain our usual tactics: no carpet bombing just surgical precision and calculated moves.
All because of that damn Key.
On paper, our forces should have crushed Solomon by now. Tolkeen’s defenders have formed a semicircular wall of magic, locking us into skirmishes nearly around the clock. It’s an unfathomable but our experts on magic say it is the consequence of waging a battle with these magic user when they are near a ley line nexus. Their powers are inexhaustible and their spells are stronger than ever.
We should be able to overwhelm them with superior numbers and firepower but with the remains of Xiticix Hivelands around the corner we'd risks literally stirring up a hornets' nest. If they sensed a massive number of CS troops and Tolkeen army they would attack us both. Then, who knows, maybe we'd have to deal with them.
Despite our efforts, Tolkeen troops continue to move in and out of the town with little incident. Entire columns of their soldiers slip past us as if our presence means nothing. Small squads come and go without raising alarms. It’s almost as if they know exactly where we are—almost as if they’re toying with us. We’ve tried to tighten our perimeter, but it’s clear that we don’t have as much control over the region as we’d like. That, in itself, is maddening.
It’s unclear to us why Tolkeen hasn’t simply moved the Key to a safer location. The idea that our surveillance and pressure are too tight to allow for its extraction doesn’t hold up under scrutiny. While we’ve taken strategic positions, we do not have a total stranglehold on the area. If the Key could be moved, they’d have done it by now. Which leaves us with only one logical conclusion: the Key can’t be moved. We suspect it’s tied to the ley line nexus, potentially anchored to the magical energies of the town itself.
We’re dealing with something beyond the standard magical threats we’ve faced before. We’ve questioned and tortured hundreds of prisoners, but none of them seem to know the full scope of what the Key can do. Their loyalty and their magical practices is so fanatical that they’d rather die than reveal too much. That alone tells me we’re dealing with something that goes beyond simple defense.
One-third of Solomon’s population has been evacuated—mostly women and children. What’s left is a town without laughter, without life. It’s like a ghost town, but there’s resistance. Another third of the population is on the front lines, fighting alongside Tolkeen’s forces against us, and the rest? They’re the ones we’re dealing with now—the “ground-zero defenders,” as they like to call themselves. Civilians mostly, too stubborn or too scared to leave, taking up arms to hold their homes. They’ve dug in, fortified what they can, but they’re not real soldiers. They’re farmers, shopkeepers, old mages who should’ve retired long ago. It’s almost pitiful. Almost.
I’ve seen my share of battles, but this one is different. The Key of Solomon isn’t just some myth or metaphor, and I’m certain of that now. We may not know exactly what it is or what it can do, but the lengths Tolkeen has gone to protect it—throwing troops into a meat grinder just to buy time—speak volumes. This isn’t about protecting civilians or preserving their territory. This is about something bigger, something they believe can turn the tide of the war.
And yet, the closer we get, the more brutal the fighting becomes. Every foot of ground we gain costs us dearly. Tolkeen’s magic-wielding scum are relentless, throwing spell after spell at our lines, summoning creatures from gods know where to harass and attack us. They’ve created a battlefield soaked in blood and filled with the stench of sulfur and arcane energy. Our men are holding, but morale is taking a hit. No one expected this much resistance from such a small town.
But make no mistake, they’re not going down without a fight. Every time we push in, they push back, just enough to make our job harder. And then, of course, you’ve got Tolkeen’s defenders who pass through like shadows, bolstering their defenses. One day, the town is quiet; the next, we’re getting hit by a squad of heavily armed mages or a wave of supernatural entities. They come and go, leaving the town rattled, but still standing.
What really gets me is the geography of this place. Solomon used to be a town known for peace and neutrality. Neutrality—what a joke. These people always claimed they didn’t take sides, but look at them now, entrenched in a war they can’t win. The orchards and vineyards that once surrounded the town are nothing but trampled mud now, crushed under the boots of Tolkeen’s so-called protectors and migrant refugees.
If they were truly neutral, they’d have opened their gates to us, handed over the Key, and avoided this mess. But no. Now they’re playing the martyr, holding onto some sense of pride that’ll get them killed in the end.
The town itself is intact as I was order to avoid attack. My guess is the CS has spies or at least informers imbedded in the town searching for the Key and those who know about it.
The town hall is still standing, though it’s being used as a makeshift hospital for the wounded Tolkeenites. The churches, the general store, even the diner—still there, still operating in some capacity.
It’s almost surreal, seeing these everyday places in a war zone.
The civilians that remain, they know we’re coming, eventually. And they know they don’t stand a chance.
The stone pyramid sitting on the nexus point?
That’s another complication. It’s the reason why the town hasn’t been reduced to rubble. Command doesn’t want to mess with it, not until we’re sure it won’t trigger some kind of magical backlash. Every time I look at that thing, I wonder if today’s the day some trigger-happy trooper will blow it up and send us all to hell.
For now, we’re playing the long game, a game I’m not particularly fond of. We can’t just overwhelm them with brute force like we did with Borderline or other towns. We have to be careful, surgical. It’s a frustrating way to fight, but I understand why it’s necessary.
The key is too valuable to risk. If we secure it, we take away a weapon from Tolkeen. If we destroy it, well, let’s just say none of us want to find out what happens.
But the longer this drags on, the more resources we burn, and the more men we lose to Tolkeen’s magic-wielding fanatics. Every day we wait, Solomon becomes more of a symbol for them. "A town that resists the mighty Coalition"—that’s the narrative they’re spinning, I can feel it. It’s dangerous, giving the enemy hope.
From a tactical standpoint, Solomon should’ve been wiped off the map by now. But we’re stuck in a game of patience and precision. We’ll take it eventually. I have no doubt about that. But until then, we have to keep our eyes on the prize—the Key of Solomon.
Once we have it, this town will have seen its last sunrise.
Until then, it’s just a matter of time. And I hate waiting.
The Mystic Knights have gone over the CS files on the town of Solomon. They would not be this far North except their "Remote Viewing" shows them unmistakable images of the town and Carlotta being here. Their mission remains the same, eliminate the vampire Carlotta.
They go over the Coalition report on the town:
Captain Darius Rook, Coalition Army, Report on Tactical Operations in Solomon
Subject: Operation Solomon – Ongoing Efforts to Secure the Key of Solomon
Solomon. A town that should've been nothing more than a footnote in this campaign has turned into a persistent thorn in our side. Population 3,000 before the war—small, insignificant. No strategic value, no military infrastructure worth mentioning. It’s a quiet, peaceful place that should’ve been flattened by now. But it hasn’t been. And we all know why.
The "Key of Solomon."
That damn artifact. Some kind of magical relic the Tolkeenites are keeping hidden somewhere in this town. It’s the only thing keeping us from leveling this place to the ground like we’ve done with so many others.
Command is terrified of the potential fallout. One wrong move, one miscalculated artillery strike, and we might trigger a magical disaster we can’t control—something that could be worse than a nuke. A Ley Line storm, an uncontrolled Rift, hell, maybe even a magical superweapon. No one’s entirely sure what would happen, and frankly, I don’t want to find out.
The town has become a focal point, not because of its location or resources, but because of this artifact—this Key. Speculation within our ranks suggests that the Key is somehow tied to the ley line nexus in Solomon, which may be why Tolkeen hasn’t moved it elsewhere. Despite Tolkeen’s ability to smuggle troops and supplies in and out with relative ease—an alarming fact, given our efforts to surround the town—the Key itself appears to be immobile. This, combined with the constant and increasing resistance, has led CS High Command to believe that we’re closing in on something vital.
So here we are, sitting on the outskirts of this battered little town, picking at it like vultures, when we should’ve crushed it weeks ago. Solomon is still mostly intact—more than any town that’s stood in our way so far. We’ve had to restrain our usual tactics: no carpet bombing just surgical precision and calculated moves.
All because of that damn Key.
On paper, our forces should have crushed Solomon by now. Tolkeen’s defenders have formed a semicircular wall of magic, locking us into skirmishes nearly around the clock. It’s an unfathomable but our experts on magic say it is the consequence of waging a battle with these magic user when they are near a ley line nexus. Their powers are inexhaustible and their spells are stronger than ever.
We should be able to overwhelm them with superior numbers and firepower but with the remains of Xiticix Hivelands around the corner we'd risks literally stirring up a hornets' nest. If they sensed a massive number of CS troops and Tolkeen army they would attack us both. Then, who knows, maybe we'd have to deal with them.
Despite our efforts, Tolkeen troops continue to move in and out of the town with little incident. Entire columns of their soldiers slip past us as if our presence means nothing. Small squads come and go without raising alarms. It’s almost as if they know exactly where we are—almost as if they’re toying with us. We’ve tried to tighten our perimeter, but it’s clear that we don’t have as much control over the region as we’d like. That, in itself, is maddening.
It’s unclear to us why Tolkeen hasn’t simply moved the Key to a safer location. The idea that our surveillance and pressure are too tight to allow for its extraction doesn’t hold up under scrutiny. While we’ve taken strategic positions, we do not have a total stranglehold on the area. If the Key could be moved, they’d have done it by now. Which leaves us with only one logical conclusion: the Key can’t be moved. We suspect it’s tied to the ley line nexus, potentially anchored to the magical energies of the town itself.
We’re dealing with something beyond the standard magical threats we’ve faced before. We’ve questioned and tortured hundreds of prisoners, but none of them seem to know the full scope of what the Key can do. Their loyalty and their magical practices is so fanatical that they’d rather die than reveal too much. That alone tells me we’re dealing with something that goes beyond simple defense.
One-third of Solomon’s population has been evacuated—mostly women and children. What’s left is a town without laughter, without life. It’s like a ghost town, but there’s resistance. Another third of the population is on the front lines, fighting alongside Tolkeen’s forces against us, and the rest? They’re the ones we’re dealing with now—the “ground-zero defenders,” as they like to call themselves. Civilians mostly, too stubborn or too scared to leave, taking up arms to hold their homes. They’ve dug in, fortified what they can, but they’re not real soldiers. They’re farmers, shopkeepers, old mages who should’ve retired long ago. It’s almost pitiful. Almost.
I’ve seen my share of battles, but this one is different. The Key of Solomon isn’t just some myth or metaphor, and I’m certain of that now. We may not know exactly what it is or what it can do, but the lengths Tolkeen has gone to protect it—throwing troops into a meat grinder just to buy time—speak volumes. This isn’t about protecting civilians or preserving their territory. This is about something bigger, something they believe can turn the tide of the war.
And yet, the closer we get, the more brutal the fighting becomes. Every foot of ground we gain costs us dearly. Tolkeen’s magic-wielding scum are relentless, throwing spell after spell at our lines, summoning creatures from gods know where to harass and attack us. They’ve created a battlefield soaked in blood and filled with the stench of sulfur and arcane energy. Our men are holding, but morale is taking a hit. No one expected this much resistance from such a small town.
But make no mistake, they’re not going down without a fight. Every time we push in, they push back, just enough to make our job harder. And then, of course, you’ve got Tolkeen’s defenders who pass through like shadows, bolstering their defenses. One day, the town is quiet; the next, we’re getting hit by a squad of heavily armed mages or a wave of supernatural entities. They come and go, leaving the town rattled, but still standing.
What really gets me is the geography of this place. Solomon used to be a town known for peace and neutrality. Neutrality—what a joke. These people always claimed they didn’t take sides, but look at them now, entrenched in a war they can’t win. The orchards and vineyards that once surrounded the town are nothing but trampled mud now, crushed under the boots of Tolkeen’s so-called protectors and migrant refugees.
If they were truly neutral, they’d have opened their gates to us, handed over the Key, and avoided this mess. But no. Now they’re playing the martyr, holding onto some sense of pride that’ll get them killed in the end.
The town itself is intact as I was order to avoid attack. My guess is the CS has spies or at least informers imbedded in the town searching for the Key and those who know about it.
The town hall is still standing, though it’s being used as a makeshift hospital for the wounded Tolkeenites. The churches, the general store, even the diner—still there, still operating in some capacity.
It’s almost surreal, seeing these everyday places in a war zone.
The civilians that remain, they know we’re coming, eventually. And they know they don’t stand a chance.
The stone pyramid sitting on the nexus point?
That’s another complication. It’s the reason why the town hasn’t been reduced to rubble. Command doesn’t want to mess with it, not until we’re sure it won’t trigger some kind of magical backlash. Every time I look at that thing, I wonder if today’s the day some trigger-happy trooper will blow it up and send us all to hell.
For now, we’re playing the long game, a game I’m not particularly fond of. We can’t just overwhelm them with brute force like we did with Borderline or other towns. We have to be careful, surgical. It’s a frustrating way to fight, but I understand why it’s necessary.
The key is too valuable to risk. If we secure it, we take away a weapon from Tolkeen. If we destroy it, well, let’s just say none of us want to find out what happens.
But the longer this drags on, the more resources we burn, and the more men we lose to Tolkeen’s magic-wielding fanatics. Every day we wait, Solomon becomes more of a symbol for them. "A town that resists the mighty Coalition"—that’s the narrative they’re spinning, I can feel it. It’s dangerous, giving the enemy hope.
From a tactical standpoint, Solomon should’ve been wiped off the map by now. But we’re stuck in a game of patience and precision. We’ll take it eventually. I have no doubt about that. But until then, we have to keep our eyes on the prize—the Key of Solomon.
Once we have it, this town will have seen its last sunrise.
Until then, it’s just a matter of time. And I hate waiting.
Last edited by darthauthor on Wed Sep 18, 2024 2:26 pm, edited 1 time in total.
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darthauthor
- Champion
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Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Behind Enemy line outside the city of Solomon
The four Mystic Knights crouched in the cover of the dense woods, just out of sight of the Coalition patrols that swept the perimeter of Solomon. The town lay within reach, but the risk of detection was high.
Only the ley line, a shimmering pulse of energy cutting through the landscape like a massive, invisible artery, gave them the advantage they needed.
Knight One, the leader of the small band, lifted a hand, signaling the others to remain still. His piercing eyes tracked the faint blue shimmer that indicated the ley line’s presence in the air above the town. They were close—close enough to phase in, if they did it precisely.
“We'll phase directly into the town, near the library. Remember, once we’re in, we stick to the shadows until we confirm the Key’s location.”
The others nodded in silent agreement, their eyes glowing faintly in anticipation of the power they were about to harness. Ley Line Phasing was not just a skill—it was a gift, a manipulation of the very energy that bound dimensions together. And here, near Solomon, the ley lines were their express ticket inside the city.
Knight One stood first, closing his eyes and spreading his hands to feel the energy coursing through the ley line. A pulse of raw, magical energy rippled through the air, sending a faint hum vibrating through the ground beneath their feet. “Now,” he whispered, and in unison, the four knights stepped into the ley line, their forms flickering as they became one with its arcane flow.
Instantly, the world around them shifted.
The ley line was vast, a tunnel of shimmering blue and white energy that spiraled in every direction, like a river of stars flowing through an endless void. Here, distance and space were irrelevant. The Knights could move anywhere along its length, up or down, across any horizon. Time seemed to slow as the power of the ley line coursed through them, a perfect connection to the magic that threaded through the land.
Knight One focused his mind on their destination—Solomon, the heart of the town where the library of pre-Rifts knowledge stood. The ley line twisted beneath them, almost alive, as it responded to his will. With a single thought, he triggered the phase.
In the blink of an eye, the four Mystic Knights reappeared.
They stood in the shadows of Solomon’s narrow streets, silent buildings rising around them. The ground trembled slightly from the distant rumble of battle beyond the town’s walls. The Knights had phased flawlessly, their arrival undetected. No sound, no ripple of energy to alert the Coalition forces.
Above them, the ley line arced through the sky, invisible to the untrained eye but a tangible force to the Knights. They could feel it humming, a silent current of power they could tap into again at any moment.
Knight One gestured to the others, keeping them low as they moved between the buildings. The library is close, just a few streets over. They moved quickly, silent as shadows, their black armor blending with the darkened corners of the town.
They passed a small patrol of Tolkeen soldiers, who walked with a weary gait. These men had no idea that four elite mystic assassins had just slipped through their defenses, phasing into Solomon with ease. But the Mystic Knights had no intention of engaging unless necessary. Their target was far more important.
Knight One held up his hand again, stopping the group just before they reached the library. They could see it now, the large, stone structure of the Atlantean pyramid still intact. The Key of Solomon was said to be tied to this place, its power interwoven with the ley lines that crisscrossed the town.
“This is it,” Knight One whispered, his voice tense with anticipation. “IF the Key of Solomon is real I bet it opens something in that pyramid or is inside it or has something to do with it.”
The other Knights nodded, their eyes already scanning the area for threats. For now, Solomon remained quiet, but they knew better than to trust in silence. The Coalition was relentless, and the town was a battlefield waiting to erupt.
With a final nod, the Mystic Knights slipped deeper into the town, their forms blending with the shadows, ready to complete their mission before the Coalition—or Tolkeen’s defenders—could even realize they had arrived.
---
The four Mystic Knights stood at the base of the massive stone pyramid, the structure looming over them like a silent sentinel. Its surface was pristine, its edges sharp and clean. The dark stone absorbed the faint light of the ley lines that crisscrossed the sky, converging at the pyramid’s apex, creating a nexus of unimaginable power.
This was no ordinary construct—it was Atlantean, the craftsmanship unmistakable to those trained in ancient lore.
Knight One, the leader of the group, ran his gloved hand across the stone. “This is it. Atlantean work, no doubt about it. The Key of Solomon has to be tied to this place.”
Knight Two, squinted up at the pyramid’s peak, his eyes narrowing.
Knight Three, “But how do we get in? We’ve searched the perimeter, and there’s no visible entrance. Not even a crack in the stone.”
Knight Two nodded in agreement, his eyes scanning the smooth surface.
Knight Four, “If there is a way in, it's hidden behind some kind of magical lock. And the Coalition hasn't found it either, or they'd already be inside."
Stared intently at the pyramid, his expression contemplative. The others hadn’t noticed the shift in his demeanor yet, but he had an idea—a memory resurfacing from their training on ley lines and ancient Atlantean designs. He stepped forward, breaking the silence.
“I know how to get inside,” Knight Four said, his voice steady but with a hint of excitement.
The other three turned to him, surprise flickering across their faces.
Knight One frowned. “What do you mean?”
Knight Four gestured toward the pyramid’s walls. “We’ve all been in and seen and even lived in Atlantean architecture. We know the general layout of these pyramids, even if this one’s been sealed. It’s not a physical entrance we need. The ley lines themselves are the key.”
Knight Three crossed his arms, skeptical. “Ley Line Phasing? We’ve done it before, but how can you be sure it’ll work with something this fortified? There’s no guarantee we won’t phase straight into the stone itself or a trap.”
“Trust me,” Knight Four replied confidently. “The ley lines crossing here give us direct access. If we phase in while standing within the nexus field, we’ll materialize inside the pyramid—assuming the design is the same as other Atlantean structures.”
Knight One considered for a moment, then nodded. “You’re willing to go first?”
“I’ll go first,” Knight Four said, already positioning himself where the ley lines converged just outside the pyramid. “Once I’m inside, I’ll use my telepathy to send a mental image of the layout to all of you. If it works, you follow.”
Knight Three glanced at the others, her expression a mix of curiosity and caution. “This is risky, but it’s the only shot we’ve got. If the Key is here, it’s inside that pyramid.”
Knight Four closed his eyes, centering himself within the ley line energy. He could feel the power flowing through the air, crackling invisibly around them, pulling at the magical forces bound to the nexus. The pyramid hummed faintly, like it was responding to their presence.
With a deep breath, he called upon his power of Ley Line Phasing. The world around him flickered, the sounds of the wind and the faint distant battle muffled as he began to dematerialize, his form shifting into the stream of energy. And then, in a flash of blue light, he vanished.
The other three Knights stood silent, watching the space where their comrade had been moments ago. The air felt charged, heavy with anticipation. Knight One took a deep breath, eyes narrowed in concentration.
Moments passed before a familiar voice echoed in their minds, carried by telepathy.
"I’m in."
Knight Four’s voice was calm but edged with awe.
"The interior is massive, just like we suspected. Stone corridors, ancient Atlantean runes on the walls. It's some kind of chamber. You can phase in safely. Follow the ley lines, just as we planned."
As he spoke, a mental image flooded the minds of the other Knights—a vivid picture of the interior, the corridors lined with carvings, wide and grandiose, and lit faintly by crystals within the pyramid.
Knight One gripped the hilt of his blade, his voice low. “It’s clear. Let’s move.”
The three remaining Knights wasted no time, stepping into the nexus point where the ley lines converged. The air crackled around them, and in perfect unison, they tapped into the flow of energy. The world around them blurred, and with a familiar pulse of power, they vanished from the outside world.
When they reappeared, they stood within the pyramid.
The interior was vast, as Knight Four had described. Smooth stone walls etched with ancient Atlantean symbols stretched out before them, rising into a ceiling lost in shadow. The pyramid, it was pristine, untouched by time or battle.
Knight Four stood a few paces ahead, surveying the chamber. “Told you.”
Knight Three glanced around, impressed. “You weren’t kidding. This place is Atlantean for sure. But where’s the Key?”
Knight Three, ever the tactician, moved to one of the walls, running his fingers over the walls. “The Key is here somewhere. If this pyramid is anything like the others, there will be a central chamber we can start from there.”
Knight One nodded, his eyes scanning the vast corridors that extended into the depths of the pyramid. “Alright, we stay together. If the Key is tied to this place, it’ll be well-protected. And we’re not the only ones after it.”
The Knights moved deeper into the heart of the pyramid, their every step echoing through the ancient halls. Somewhere within this pyramid lay the Key of Solomon, the artifact that could change the fate of the war—and perhaps the entire world.
Within the corridor within the pyramid the light above them was warm and golden, as though the sun itself shone through the crystal ceiling. The walls, carved with intricate runes and glowing softly with ley line energy, felt alive, vibrating with ancient power. Despite the eerie quiet, there was a sense of peace here—one that didn’t sit well with the Knights, who had come expecting danger.
Knight Two led the way, his gaze sweeping the corridor ahead, ever wary of traps or defenses. Behind him, Knight Onr and Three kept their hands near their weapons, ready for anything. Knight Four, walking at the rear, glanced up at the light, momentarily entranced by the illusion of sunlight in such a deep, hidden place.
“Feels like we’re walking in daylight,” Knight Four muttered, almost to himself.
Knight Four scoffed softly. “I’d rather be in the dark. Something’s not right here.”
Before Knight One could respond, they rounded a corner—and stopped short. Standing in the middle of the corridor were two figures, seemingly waiting for them. They wore simple brown tunics, their presence calm, even gentle, in stark contrast to the Knights tense posture.
Knight One recognized their kind. They were Grey Seers—Mystics by the looks of them, with their deep, serene eyes and the unmistakable aura of otherworldly wisdom.
One of the Seers, an older man with a long, weathered face, gave a small smile. His companion, a younger man with soft features and sharp, perceptive eyes, merely watched them in silence. Both stood with their hands folded in front of them, showing no signs of aggression or fear.
"Grey Seers," Knight Three whispered in disbelief. “Here?”
Knight One stepped forward, cautious but determined. “What are you doing inside the pyramid?”
The older Seer tilted his head, his smile never faltering. “The question is not what we are doing here, but what you seek here.”
Knight Two stiffened, clearly on edge.
Knight Four, “Don’t play games. This isn’t a place for wandering prophets.”
The younger Seer, still silent, met Knight Two’s gaze with a piercing stare. There was no malice in it, only the weight of knowledge—an uncomfortable, almost intimate awareness of something beyond the present moment.
Knight Four shifted, feeling a strange sense of familiarity wash over him. “You… you know why we’re here, don’t you?”
The older Seer nodded slowly. “Yes. You seek the Key of Solomon. But your understanding of it is incomplete, as are your intentions.”
Knight One took another step forward, his posture commanding but not openly hostile. “Do you know where the Key is?”
The Seer’s expression softened, though there was a trace of sadness in his eyes. “We see much, Knight One. The Key you seek is not an object of conquest, nor is it meant to be used as a weapon. Its true nature transcends such notions.”
Knight Three, growing frustrated, stepped beside Knight One, his voice a low growl. “Enough with the mystic talk. You’re wasting our time.”
The younger Seer finally spoke, her voice calm and even, but there was a firmness to it. “Rushing forward in ignorance will bring nothing but ruin. You walk a dangerous path, one that could unravel much more than you realize.”
Knight Four, who had been watching the Seers with careful eyes, chimed in. “Then what do you suggest we do?”
The older Seer nodded. “We are not here to stop you. But we are here to offer insight, should you wish to hear it.”
Knight One glanced at his companions. There was hesitation in his eyes, but the Seers hadn’t made a move against them. The knights sixth sense was not ringing. In fact, the Seers seemed almost indifferent to the Knights presence, as though they were simply observing, waiting for something to unfold.
“Speak your piece,” Knight One finally said, crossing his arms.
The older Seer took a slow breath, his gaze distant, as if seeing far beyond the present moment. “The Key of Solomon is not something that can be taken. It is bound to this place, yes, but not in the way you think. It is not an artifact to be wielded. It is a force—an awakening.”
Knight Four felt a chill run down his spine. “An awakening? Of what?”
The younger Seer’s eyes darkened, her voice dropping to a whisper. “An awakening of truth. Of potential. It is not for you, nor for Tolkeen, nor for the Coalition. It is for the world.”
Knight Three scoffed, disbelief coloring his voice. “More riddles.”
But Knight One frowned, sensing there was more to this than just cryptic warnings. “And what if we try to take it?”
The older Seer sighed. “The Key’s purpose is to shift the balance.”
Knight Three narrowed her eyes. “Shift the balance how?”
The Seers exchanged a look, and the older one spoke softly. “That remains to be seen. But know this: what you seek is not a weapon to end a war. It is the beginning of something much greater.”
The silence that followed was thick with unspoken tension. Knight One’s mind raced—he could feel the weight of the decision before him. The mission was clear, but the path was clouded with uncertainty. The Seers had given them much to think about, but could they trust them?
Knight Four broke the silence, his voice quieter now. “You said the Key is for the world. Does that mean it will end this conflict?”
The younger Seer looked at him with a kind of compassion. “Not end it. Transform it. The future is in flux, but there is a chance—if the Key is used wisely—that it will prevent further suffering.”
Knight One looked at the Seers, weighing their words. They hadn’t tried to stop them, hadn’t lied. The truth was there, in their eyes—maddening as it was.
“Let’s go,” he said at last, turning back toward the corridor leading deeper into the pyramid. “We’ll find the Key and decide what to do when we get there.”
The Seers didn’t stop them. They simply watched as the Mystic Knights walked past, heading toward the unknown fate that awaited them.
As they disappeared into the corridor, the older Seer murmured to his companion, “They will soon understand.”
The younger Seer nodded, her eyes distant. “The Key has already begun to awaken.”
---
The Mystic Knights moved cautiously through the dimly lit corridors of the Atlantean pyramid, the golden light from the ceiling’s crystals casting long shadows. Their senses were heightened, their every step filled with anticipation as they delved deeper toward the heart of the ancient structure. The air was thick with magic, vibrating with an energy that was both powerful and foreboding.
Knight One led the way, his eyes darting between the glowing runes on the walls, tracing the power that pulsed through the stones. Behind him, Knight Two and Knight Three moved in silence, their weapons ready, while Knight Four trailed slightly behind, lost in thought, still reflecting on the warnings of the Grey Seers they had encountered earlier.
“They knew something,” Knight Three muttered under his breath. “Those Seers weren’t just spouting riddles. This place… it feels like it’s hiding something.”
Knight One stopped in front of a large, intricately carved stone door, its surface radiating with ancient Atlantean runes. “We’re about to find out,” he said, his voice tight with focus. “This door leads to the central chamber. Whatever the Key of Solomon is, it’s behind here.”
With a shared glance, the four Knights gathered around the door. Knight One raised his hand and, with a deep breath, called upon the ley line energy they had been trained to control. The runes on the door flickered and hummed as the ley lines responded, and slowly, the massive stone door began to slide open with a low, grinding sound.
Beyond the door was a large, circular chamber bathed in an eerie, soft glow. At its center stood a raised platform, and atop it, suspended in midair by invisible forces, was a woman.
She appeared no older than twenty, her eyes closed, her face peaceful, almost serene. She wore a simple Grey Seer’s robe, her long hair flowing around her as though caught in a gentle wind. Around her, the air shimmered with a faint magical aura.
“Is that… the Key?” Knight Four asked in disbelief.
Knight One stepped forward, his gaze locked on the woman. “The word Key must have been a metaphor. She's the Key. She’s the Key of Solomon. It's a person. NOT an artifact.”
The Knights moved cautiously into the chamber, their eyes searching the chamber.
“She’s a Grey Seer,” Knight Four added quietly. “That’s their way. Sacrifice for the greater good. They don’t care about wealth or power. They believe in helping others, even at their own expense.”
Knight Three circled the platform, his voice low. “She’s frozen in time or something; like in her own pocket dimension.”
Knight Four’s eyes narrowed as he studied the scene. “The Grey Seers mentioned… but this…” He shook his head.
Knight One looked at the woman again, his mind racing. “The Seers believe that this—this Key—can change everything. How? Does she wake up and have superpowers? Or maybe she just gives wise advice?" He shakes his head. "There is plenty of wisdom in history and stories. IF people make unwise decisions its for the lack of desire and will-power. She can't help anyone who doesn't want to make and live with the wisest decisions.”
The Knights stood in silence, each of them wrestling with the weight of the situation. They had come seeking an artifact, something powerful to use in their own war, but what they had found was far more complex.
“What do we do?” Knight Four asked quietly.
Knight One stared at the woman suspended in stasis, the Key of Solomon, the Grey Seer who had dedicated her long life to this moment.
"We question those Grey Seers," Knight One says.
The four Mystic Knights crouched in the cover of the dense woods, just out of sight of the Coalition patrols that swept the perimeter of Solomon. The town lay within reach, but the risk of detection was high.
Only the ley line, a shimmering pulse of energy cutting through the landscape like a massive, invisible artery, gave them the advantage they needed.
Knight One, the leader of the small band, lifted a hand, signaling the others to remain still. His piercing eyes tracked the faint blue shimmer that indicated the ley line’s presence in the air above the town. They were close—close enough to phase in, if they did it precisely.
“We'll phase directly into the town, near the library. Remember, once we’re in, we stick to the shadows until we confirm the Key’s location.”
The others nodded in silent agreement, their eyes glowing faintly in anticipation of the power they were about to harness. Ley Line Phasing was not just a skill—it was a gift, a manipulation of the very energy that bound dimensions together. And here, near Solomon, the ley lines were their express ticket inside the city.
Knight One stood first, closing his eyes and spreading his hands to feel the energy coursing through the ley line. A pulse of raw, magical energy rippled through the air, sending a faint hum vibrating through the ground beneath their feet. “Now,” he whispered, and in unison, the four knights stepped into the ley line, their forms flickering as they became one with its arcane flow.
Instantly, the world around them shifted.
The ley line was vast, a tunnel of shimmering blue and white energy that spiraled in every direction, like a river of stars flowing through an endless void. Here, distance and space were irrelevant. The Knights could move anywhere along its length, up or down, across any horizon. Time seemed to slow as the power of the ley line coursed through them, a perfect connection to the magic that threaded through the land.
Knight One focused his mind on their destination—Solomon, the heart of the town where the library of pre-Rifts knowledge stood. The ley line twisted beneath them, almost alive, as it responded to his will. With a single thought, he triggered the phase.
In the blink of an eye, the four Mystic Knights reappeared.
They stood in the shadows of Solomon’s narrow streets, silent buildings rising around them. The ground trembled slightly from the distant rumble of battle beyond the town’s walls. The Knights had phased flawlessly, their arrival undetected. No sound, no ripple of energy to alert the Coalition forces.
Above them, the ley line arced through the sky, invisible to the untrained eye but a tangible force to the Knights. They could feel it humming, a silent current of power they could tap into again at any moment.
Knight One gestured to the others, keeping them low as they moved between the buildings. The library is close, just a few streets over. They moved quickly, silent as shadows, their black armor blending with the darkened corners of the town.
They passed a small patrol of Tolkeen soldiers, who walked with a weary gait. These men had no idea that four elite mystic assassins had just slipped through their defenses, phasing into Solomon with ease. But the Mystic Knights had no intention of engaging unless necessary. Their target was far more important.
Knight One held up his hand again, stopping the group just before they reached the library. They could see it now, the large, stone structure of the Atlantean pyramid still intact. The Key of Solomon was said to be tied to this place, its power interwoven with the ley lines that crisscrossed the town.
“This is it,” Knight One whispered, his voice tense with anticipation. “IF the Key of Solomon is real I bet it opens something in that pyramid or is inside it or has something to do with it.”
The other Knights nodded, their eyes already scanning the area for threats. For now, Solomon remained quiet, but they knew better than to trust in silence. The Coalition was relentless, and the town was a battlefield waiting to erupt.
With a final nod, the Mystic Knights slipped deeper into the town, their forms blending with the shadows, ready to complete their mission before the Coalition—or Tolkeen’s defenders—could even realize they had arrived.
---
The four Mystic Knights stood at the base of the massive stone pyramid, the structure looming over them like a silent sentinel. Its surface was pristine, its edges sharp and clean. The dark stone absorbed the faint light of the ley lines that crisscrossed the sky, converging at the pyramid’s apex, creating a nexus of unimaginable power.
This was no ordinary construct—it was Atlantean, the craftsmanship unmistakable to those trained in ancient lore.
Knight One, the leader of the group, ran his gloved hand across the stone. “This is it. Atlantean work, no doubt about it. The Key of Solomon has to be tied to this place.”
Knight Two, squinted up at the pyramid’s peak, his eyes narrowing.
Knight Three, “But how do we get in? We’ve searched the perimeter, and there’s no visible entrance. Not even a crack in the stone.”
Knight Two nodded in agreement, his eyes scanning the smooth surface.
Knight Four, “If there is a way in, it's hidden behind some kind of magical lock. And the Coalition hasn't found it either, or they'd already be inside."
Stared intently at the pyramid, his expression contemplative. The others hadn’t noticed the shift in his demeanor yet, but he had an idea—a memory resurfacing from their training on ley lines and ancient Atlantean designs. He stepped forward, breaking the silence.
“I know how to get inside,” Knight Four said, his voice steady but with a hint of excitement.
The other three turned to him, surprise flickering across their faces.
Knight One frowned. “What do you mean?”
Knight Four gestured toward the pyramid’s walls. “We’ve all been in and seen and even lived in Atlantean architecture. We know the general layout of these pyramids, even if this one’s been sealed. It’s not a physical entrance we need. The ley lines themselves are the key.”
Knight Three crossed his arms, skeptical. “Ley Line Phasing? We’ve done it before, but how can you be sure it’ll work with something this fortified? There’s no guarantee we won’t phase straight into the stone itself or a trap.”
“Trust me,” Knight Four replied confidently. “The ley lines crossing here give us direct access. If we phase in while standing within the nexus field, we’ll materialize inside the pyramid—assuming the design is the same as other Atlantean structures.”
Knight One considered for a moment, then nodded. “You’re willing to go first?”
“I’ll go first,” Knight Four said, already positioning himself where the ley lines converged just outside the pyramid. “Once I’m inside, I’ll use my telepathy to send a mental image of the layout to all of you. If it works, you follow.”
Knight Three glanced at the others, her expression a mix of curiosity and caution. “This is risky, but it’s the only shot we’ve got. If the Key is here, it’s inside that pyramid.”
Knight Four closed his eyes, centering himself within the ley line energy. He could feel the power flowing through the air, crackling invisibly around them, pulling at the magical forces bound to the nexus. The pyramid hummed faintly, like it was responding to their presence.
With a deep breath, he called upon his power of Ley Line Phasing. The world around him flickered, the sounds of the wind and the faint distant battle muffled as he began to dematerialize, his form shifting into the stream of energy. And then, in a flash of blue light, he vanished.
The other three Knights stood silent, watching the space where their comrade had been moments ago. The air felt charged, heavy with anticipation. Knight One took a deep breath, eyes narrowed in concentration.
Moments passed before a familiar voice echoed in their minds, carried by telepathy.
"I’m in."
Knight Four’s voice was calm but edged with awe.
"The interior is massive, just like we suspected. Stone corridors, ancient Atlantean runes on the walls. It's some kind of chamber. You can phase in safely. Follow the ley lines, just as we planned."
As he spoke, a mental image flooded the minds of the other Knights—a vivid picture of the interior, the corridors lined with carvings, wide and grandiose, and lit faintly by crystals within the pyramid.
Knight One gripped the hilt of his blade, his voice low. “It’s clear. Let’s move.”
The three remaining Knights wasted no time, stepping into the nexus point where the ley lines converged. The air crackled around them, and in perfect unison, they tapped into the flow of energy. The world around them blurred, and with a familiar pulse of power, they vanished from the outside world.
When they reappeared, they stood within the pyramid.
The interior was vast, as Knight Four had described. Smooth stone walls etched with ancient Atlantean symbols stretched out before them, rising into a ceiling lost in shadow. The pyramid, it was pristine, untouched by time or battle.
Knight Four stood a few paces ahead, surveying the chamber. “Told you.”
Knight Three glanced around, impressed. “You weren’t kidding. This place is Atlantean for sure. But where’s the Key?”
Knight Three, ever the tactician, moved to one of the walls, running his fingers over the walls. “The Key is here somewhere. If this pyramid is anything like the others, there will be a central chamber we can start from there.”
Knight One nodded, his eyes scanning the vast corridors that extended into the depths of the pyramid. “Alright, we stay together. If the Key is tied to this place, it’ll be well-protected. And we’re not the only ones after it.”
The Knights moved deeper into the heart of the pyramid, their every step echoing through the ancient halls. Somewhere within this pyramid lay the Key of Solomon, the artifact that could change the fate of the war—and perhaps the entire world.
Within the corridor within the pyramid the light above them was warm and golden, as though the sun itself shone through the crystal ceiling. The walls, carved with intricate runes and glowing softly with ley line energy, felt alive, vibrating with ancient power. Despite the eerie quiet, there was a sense of peace here—one that didn’t sit well with the Knights, who had come expecting danger.
Knight Two led the way, his gaze sweeping the corridor ahead, ever wary of traps or defenses. Behind him, Knight Onr and Three kept their hands near their weapons, ready for anything. Knight Four, walking at the rear, glanced up at the light, momentarily entranced by the illusion of sunlight in such a deep, hidden place.
“Feels like we’re walking in daylight,” Knight Four muttered, almost to himself.
Knight Four scoffed softly. “I’d rather be in the dark. Something’s not right here.”
Before Knight One could respond, they rounded a corner—and stopped short. Standing in the middle of the corridor were two figures, seemingly waiting for them. They wore simple brown tunics, their presence calm, even gentle, in stark contrast to the Knights tense posture.
Knight One recognized their kind. They were Grey Seers—Mystics by the looks of them, with their deep, serene eyes and the unmistakable aura of otherworldly wisdom.
One of the Seers, an older man with a long, weathered face, gave a small smile. His companion, a younger man with soft features and sharp, perceptive eyes, merely watched them in silence. Both stood with their hands folded in front of them, showing no signs of aggression or fear.
"Grey Seers," Knight Three whispered in disbelief. “Here?”
Knight One stepped forward, cautious but determined. “What are you doing inside the pyramid?”
The older Seer tilted his head, his smile never faltering. “The question is not what we are doing here, but what you seek here.”
Knight Two stiffened, clearly on edge.
Knight Four, “Don’t play games. This isn’t a place for wandering prophets.”
The younger Seer, still silent, met Knight Two’s gaze with a piercing stare. There was no malice in it, only the weight of knowledge—an uncomfortable, almost intimate awareness of something beyond the present moment.
Knight Four shifted, feeling a strange sense of familiarity wash over him. “You… you know why we’re here, don’t you?”
The older Seer nodded slowly. “Yes. You seek the Key of Solomon. But your understanding of it is incomplete, as are your intentions.”
Knight One took another step forward, his posture commanding but not openly hostile. “Do you know where the Key is?”
The Seer’s expression softened, though there was a trace of sadness in his eyes. “We see much, Knight One. The Key you seek is not an object of conquest, nor is it meant to be used as a weapon. Its true nature transcends such notions.”
Knight Three, growing frustrated, stepped beside Knight One, his voice a low growl. “Enough with the mystic talk. You’re wasting our time.”
The younger Seer finally spoke, her voice calm and even, but there was a firmness to it. “Rushing forward in ignorance will bring nothing but ruin. You walk a dangerous path, one that could unravel much more than you realize.”
Knight Four, who had been watching the Seers with careful eyes, chimed in. “Then what do you suggest we do?”
The older Seer nodded. “We are not here to stop you. But we are here to offer insight, should you wish to hear it.”
Knight One glanced at his companions. There was hesitation in his eyes, but the Seers hadn’t made a move against them. The knights sixth sense was not ringing. In fact, the Seers seemed almost indifferent to the Knights presence, as though they were simply observing, waiting for something to unfold.
“Speak your piece,” Knight One finally said, crossing his arms.
The older Seer took a slow breath, his gaze distant, as if seeing far beyond the present moment. “The Key of Solomon is not something that can be taken. It is bound to this place, yes, but not in the way you think. It is not an artifact to be wielded. It is a force—an awakening.”
Knight Four felt a chill run down his spine. “An awakening? Of what?”
The younger Seer’s eyes darkened, her voice dropping to a whisper. “An awakening of truth. Of potential. It is not for you, nor for Tolkeen, nor for the Coalition. It is for the world.”
Knight Three scoffed, disbelief coloring his voice. “More riddles.”
But Knight One frowned, sensing there was more to this than just cryptic warnings. “And what if we try to take it?”
The older Seer sighed. “The Key’s purpose is to shift the balance.”
Knight Three narrowed her eyes. “Shift the balance how?”
The Seers exchanged a look, and the older one spoke softly. “That remains to be seen. But know this: what you seek is not a weapon to end a war. It is the beginning of something much greater.”
The silence that followed was thick with unspoken tension. Knight One’s mind raced—he could feel the weight of the decision before him. The mission was clear, but the path was clouded with uncertainty. The Seers had given them much to think about, but could they trust them?
Knight Four broke the silence, his voice quieter now. “You said the Key is for the world. Does that mean it will end this conflict?”
The younger Seer looked at him with a kind of compassion. “Not end it. Transform it. The future is in flux, but there is a chance—if the Key is used wisely—that it will prevent further suffering.”
Knight One looked at the Seers, weighing their words. They hadn’t tried to stop them, hadn’t lied. The truth was there, in their eyes—maddening as it was.
“Let’s go,” he said at last, turning back toward the corridor leading deeper into the pyramid. “We’ll find the Key and decide what to do when we get there.”
The Seers didn’t stop them. They simply watched as the Mystic Knights walked past, heading toward the unknown fate that awaited them.
As they disappeared into the corridor, the older Seer murmured to his companion, “They will soon understand.”
The younger Seer nodded, her eyes distant. “The Key has already begun to awaken.”
---
The Mystic Knights moved cautiously through the dimly lit corridors of the Atlantean pyramid, the golden light from the ceiling’s crystals casting long shadows. Their senses were heightened, their every step filled with anticipation as they delved deeper toward the heart of the ancient structure. The air was thick with magic, vibrating with an energy that was both powerful and foreboding.
Knight One led the way, his eyes darting between the glowing runes on the walls, tracing the power that pulsed through the stones. Behind him, Knight Two and Knight Three moved in silence, their weapons ready, while Knight Four trailed slightly behind, lost in thought, still reflecting on the warnings of the Grey Seers they had encountered earlier.
“They knew something,” Knight Three muttered under his breath. “Those Seers weren’t just spouting riddles. This place… it feels like it’s hiding something.”
Knight One stopped in front of a large, intricately carved stone door, its surface radiating with ancient Atlantean runes. “We’re about to find out,” he said, his voice tight with focus. “This door leads to the central chamber. Whatever the Key of Solomon is, it’s behind here.”
With a shared glance, the four Knights gathered around the door. Knight One raised his hand and, with a deep breath, called upon the ley line energy they had been trained to control. The runes on the door flickered and hummed as the ley lines responded, and slowly, the massive stone door began to slide open with a low, grinding sound.
Beyond the door was a large, circular chamber bathed in an eerie, soft glow. At its center stood a raised platform, and atop it, suspended in midair by invisible forces, was a woman.
She appeared no older than twenty, her eyes closed, her face peaceful, almost serene. She wore a simple Grey Seer’s robe, her long hair flowing around her as though caught in a gentle wind. Around her, the air shimmered with a faint magical aura.
“Is that… the Key?” Knight Four asked in disbelief.
Knight One stepped forward, his gaze locked on the woman. “The word Key must have been a metaphor. She's the Key. She’s the Key of Solomon. It's a person. NOT an artifact.”
The Knights moved cautiously into the chamber, their eyes searching the chamber.
“She’s a Grey Seer,” Knight Four added quietly. “That’s their way. Sacrifice for the greater good. They don’t care about wealth or power. They believe in helping others, even at their own expense.”
Knight Three circled the platform, his voice low. “She’s frozen in time or something; like in her own pocket dimension.”
Knight Four’s eyes narrowed as he studied the scene. “The Grey Seers mentioned… but this…” He shook his head.
Knight One looked at the woman again, his mind racing. “The Seers believe that this—this Key—can change everything. How? Does she wake up and have superpowers? Or maybe she just gives wise advice?" He shakes his head. "There is plenty of wisdom in history and stories. IF people make unwise decisions its for the lack of desire and will-power. She can't help anyone who doesn't want to make and live with the wisest decisions.”
The Knights stood in silence, each of them wrestling with the weight of the situation. They had come seeking an artifact, something powerful to use in their own war, but what they had found was far more complex.
“What do we do?” Knight Four asked quietly.
Knight One stared at the woman suspended in stasis, the Key of Solomon, the Grey Seer who had dedicated her long life to this moment.
"We question those Grey Seers," Knight One says.
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darthauthor
- Champion
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Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Stone Pyramid of Solomon
The Mystic Knights moved swiftly through the pyramid’s corridors, their footfalls echoing off the stone walls as they retraced their steps toward the entrance. The urgency of their mission had shifted—no longer focused on merely securing the Key of Solomon, but on understanding the full extent of what they had uncovered.
Knight One led the way, his jaw set, determination fueling his stride. The others followed, sharing the same mix of curiosity and frustration. They needed answers—real answers, not speculation.
“We can’t risk moving forward blind,” Knight One said, her voice tight with tension. “We need to know if what we saw is truly the Key and what role she’s meant to play in all this.”
Knight Two nodded, his expression grim.
Knight Three, “If we’re going to make a decision, we need to know exactly what’s at stake. Guessing won’t cut it.”
As they rounded the final corner, the faint light of the corridor crystals illuminated the figures ahead—two Grey Seers, dressed in their simple brown tunics, waiting as if they had anticipated the Knights' return. It was the same pair they had encountered earlier: the older man and the younger woman. Both stood calm and serene, their expressions unchanged as the Knights approached.
Knight One stopped a few paces in front of the Seers, his eyes narrowing in focus. “We have questions. Real questions this time. And we need answers.”
The older Seer smiled faintly, his hands still folded in front of him. “Of course. Ask, and we shall answer.”
Knight One wasted no time. “The woman in stasis. Is she the Key of Solomon?”
The older Seer’s smile faded, his expression growing serious. “Yes, she is the Key.”
Knight Four stepped forward, a note of urgency in his voice. “Why is she in that stasis field? How do we free her?”
The younger Seer answered this time, her voice soft but clear. “She is in stasis to preserve her until the time of her destiny arrives. The magic was woven to protect her and the plan she is part of. To free her, the stasis field must be undone by her own will. When the time is right, she will awaken.”
Knight Two frowned, his skepticism rising. “What do you mean ‘when the time is right’? What exactly is she waiting for?”
The older Seer stepped forward, his voice measured. “The Key of Solomon is not merely a title. She is tied to the Orb of Solomon, which grants the wisdom of a thousand years. She is waiting for the one most in need of that wisdom.”
Knight Three folded his arms, his brow furrowed. “Orb of Solomon? What is that?"
The young Seer, "The crystal that cannot be undone and imparts wisdom to the one whom the Key chooses."
Knight Four, "And this wisdom… Is it meant to be taught? Is she supposed to bestow the wisdom like some kind of teacher?”
The older Seer shook his head gently. “No. The Orb does not grant wisdom to those who seek it, but to those who most need it. The Key of Solomon is the one who carries that blessing and passes it along to another most in need of it. When the time comes, she will deliver it.”
Knight Four’s voice dropped, uncertain. “And that’s why she’s in stasis? To wait for the moment when she can deliver that wisdom?”
The older Seer nodded. “The field was created to keep her from being killed until the moment she is needed. If the Key is slain, the Orb of Solomon becomes dormant for one hundred years."
Knight One, "And when is the moment?"
The young Seer, "The moment the Orb is brought close to Emperor Prosek, her link to the artifact will awaken her. She will teleport directly to the location of the Orb and the one in most need of its wisdom, and she will bestows its blessings upon them.”
Knight Three, ever the skeptic, crossed his arms. “Emperor Prosek. You intend to bestows the gift of longevity and wisdom on to him. And assuming it all works, what happens?”
The Seers shared a glance before the younger woman spoke, her voice tinged with both sadness and resolve. “Yes. The Key’s purpose is to bestow wisdom upon those in need, even at the cost of her life. She has accepted this fate.”
Knight Four, his expression softened, took a step closer to the Seers. “So, the plan… You intend for the Key to give Emperor Prosek the wisdom of Solomon, hoping it will change him, change the Coalition, and stop the war.”
The older Seer gave a single nod. “That is the hope. The Key believes that with the Orb’s blessing, Prosek will see the folly of his ways and embrace peace.”
Knight One exhaled, the weight of the plan settling over him. He had seen enough war to know how deeply hatred could root itself in a person’s soul. Could a single moment of wisdom—no matter how powerful—truly change someone like Prosek?
“And what if she fails?” Knight One asked quietly.
The older Seer’s eyes gleamed with an unwavering belief. “The Orb grants Wisdom to those who need it most.”
Knight Four looked from the Seers to his fellow Knights, his expression torn. “This is… a lot to take in. We came here thinking we’d find a weapon or some tool we could use, but this...”
The younger Seer smiled, a small, hopeful light in her eyes. “The Key has lived for 140 years, waiting for this moment. She has seen much, taught many, and now she will deliver the greatest gift of all.”
The Knights stood in silence for a long moment, the enormity of the plan was audacious, dangerous, and the outcome uncertain...
Knight One turned to the Seers, his face grim but resolute. “What if Prosek rejects the wisdom? What if he can’t be changed?”
The older Seer smiled softly, a twinkle of understanding in his eyes. “Then the world will face its own consequences. But the truth will have been revealed, and that is all we can hope for.”
Knight One’s eyes narrowed, his tone sharpening. “And you believe Emperor Prosek is the one most in need of this blessing?”
The younger Seer’s gaze met Knight One’s without hesitation. “His heart is clouded by war, hatred, and fear. The Orb will pierce that cloud and reveal to him the truth—the pain he has caused, the beauty he has overlooked, and the path toward peace.”
Something gnawing at the back of his mind. He turned around, his voice cutting through the silence.
“Wait,” Knight One said, his voice hardening with realization. “This is a suicide mission, isn’t it?”
The Grey Seers, who had been watching them leave, remained calm. The older Seer met Knight One’s gaze, his expression unreadable.
“For her, yes,” the Seer admitted. “The Key of Solomon will sacrifice her life when the Orb's blessing is unleashed.”
Knight One shook his head, frustration creeping into his voice. “No, I’m not just talking about her. For this plan to work, someone has to get the Orb close to Emperor Prosek. The Emperor Prosek, he is surrounded by guards, they will see it as an attack.”
Knight Three chimed in, his voice skeptical. “Yeah, they’ll shoot.”
The younger Seer, sensing the growing tension, spoke softly but firmly. “It is true. The protectors of the Emperor will perceive the Orb and the Key as a threat. It is the nature of their fear, their misunderstanding.”
Knight One’s voice grew sharper. “And what happens to the ones who survive that?”
Knight Three, who crossed his arms. “You’re asking people to die for this. People who won’t even get the benefit of that wisdom themselves.”
The older Seer closed his eyes for a moment, as if weighing their words carefully. “It is as you say. There is great risk in this plan. Those who assist in delivering the Orb will likely be hunted, imprisoned, and perhaps killed. But this is the sacrifice that some have chosen to make, believing that the gift of wisdom can reshape the future, even if they themselves will not live to see it.”
Knight Four, a bitter note in his voice, asked the next question that lingered in all their minds. “Wait. What about the Orb? Does the Emperor have to open it? How does it even work?”
The younger Seer glanced at the Orb, still suspended over the Key of Solomon in the heart of the pyramid.
“The Orb of Solomon does not need to be physically opened. It works upon contact. The moment it touches the Emperor—whether he knows what it is or not—its magic will activate. The wisdom of a thousand years will flood into him. He will experience the consequences of his choices, the pain of those he has harmed, and the beauty of the lives he has disregarded. It is not a conscious choice to accept the wisdom. It is inevitable.”
Knight Four’s brow furrowed in thought. “So, all we need is to get the Orb close enough to touch him. Then what? The Emperor has a revelation and suddenly decides to stop the war?”
The older Seer’s expression softened, his voice full of quiet hope. “The blessing of the Orb will change him—his heart, his understanding. He will see the world differently, with clarity and compassion. What he chooses to do with that wisdom is not something we can predict. But it is our belief that it will lead him to end this war, and perhaps more.”
Knight One stepped forward, his tone harsh. “Belief? You’re betting everything on a ‘belief’? That he might change? That he might stop the war? And what about everyone who dies along the way, just to give him the chance to maybe change his mind?”
The younger Seer’s voice remained steady, though there was a hint of sadness. “We cannot guarantee what Emperor Prosek will do with the gift of wisdom. We can only give him the chance to change. That is the nature of free will, and the burden of those who choose to act in the service of others.”
Knight Three uncrossed his arms, his frustration giving way to resignation. “So, we’re walking into a death trap. Whoever carries the Orb gets shot, maybe tortured if they’re unlucky enough to survive, and even if they succeed, there’s no guarantee Prosek will even care.”
Knight Four, his voice soft but intense, spoke next. “But if he does care… if he does change, it could stop the war. Save thousands. Maybe millions.”
Knight One clenched his fists. “And that’s what you’re banking on? That a man like Prosek, who has led the most brutal regime on this planet, will suddenly grow a heart because of some ancient magic?”
The older Seer stepped closer, his eyes full of a deep, unshakable conviction. “The Orb does not impart mere knowledge. It grants understanding, empathy, and wisdom beyond what even the greatest rulers could fathom. If anyone is in need of this gift, it is Emperor Prosek. And yes, it is a gamble. But is it not worth the risk, to end this cycle of bloodshed?”
Knight Two shook his head.
Knight Three, “You’re asking for a lot. Too much.”
Knight One stared at the Seers, his mind racing. They were right about one thing—the war had claimed too many lives, and if there was even a slim chance to stop it, it might be worth the cost. But the reality of it all was crushing. The lives of those who would be tasked with delivering the Orb, the unlikelihood of surviving such a mission, the uncertainty of whether Prosek would even be moved to change...
“What happens if we fail?” Knight One asked, his voice low but firm. “OR if Prosek rejects the wisdom?”
The older Seer’s eyes darkened. “Then the war continues, and those who gave their lives for this cause will be remembered as those who fought for peace, even if peace did not come.”
Knight One’s voice was a low growl as he stared at them. “So let me get this straight. No money. No artifact. No power. A very small chance of success, and a very big chance of failure. And we’re certain to die if we succeed.”
He took a step closer, his anger boiling over. “Let me ask you a question: Is that wise?”
The older Seer’s expression didn’t change, though a flicker of sadness passed through his eyes. He held Knight One’s gaze with quiet composure before answering. “It is not the outcome that makes a choice wise. It is the intention behind it.”
Knight One scowled. “So, what? We sacrifice ourselves for some idea? For the hope that maybe, MAYBE, this plan works? You’re asking us to die for something that isn’t even certain.”
The younger Seer, her voice soft but firm, stepped forward. “Wisdom is not always about certainty. It is about understanding the larger picture. The stakes here are not just the lives of a few, but the future of an entire world.”
Knight One clenched his fists, his frustration building. “And what if we don’t care about the world? What if we care about our own lives and loves? You’re telling me the wise choice is to walk into certain death for the slim chance that Emperor Prosek might change his ways?”
The older Seer nodded, his gaze never wavering. “Yes.”
The word hung in the air between them, simple and direct. Knight One blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the Seer’s straightforwardness.
“You believe the wise choice is the one with no reward for us? No power, no riches. Just death,” Knight One said, his tone incredulous.
The older Seer stepped closer, his eyes filled with a quiet strength. “Yes. Because wisdom is not measured by what you gain. It is measured by what you leave behind.”
Knight One stared at him, his mouth tightening into a grim line. “You’re asking us to leave everything behind. Our lives, our futures, everything.”
The younger Seer’s voice was steady, her tone laced with empathy. “Yes. But in doing so, you give the world a future it may never have without you. A future where war no longer defines the Coalition or Tolkeen. A future shaped by understanding and peace.”
Knight Three, who had silently followed Knight One back to the Seers, stepped forward now, his expression a mix of disbelief and frustration. “That’s a hell of a gamble to ask from people who’ve spent their whole lives fighting. You want us to just trust in this—this ideal that this magical wisdom thing can fix everything?”
The younger Seer turned her gaze to Knight Two, her expression soft but resolute. “Wisdom cannot fix everything. But it can prevent much suffering, and it can guide even the most lost toward a path of redemption. That is all we ask. To give the world a chance.”
Knight One’s jaw clenched as he struggled with his emotions. “But we’ll die. You know that, don’t you? We won’t survive this, even if it works.”
The older Seer’s eyes softened with a deep understanding. “But your sacrifice would not be in vain. You would die not as soldiers, but as those who gave their lives for the hope of something greater. For peace.”
There was a long silence, the weight of the words settling over the chamber. Knight One looked at the ground, the internal war playing out on his face. Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter, almost resigned. “And you call that wise?”
The older Seer nodded once more. “I do. Because wisdom is not about preserving oneself. It is about making choices that honor the lives of others, even if it costs us our own. True wisdom lies in understanding that our lives are part of a much larger tapestry. One thread pulled in the right direction can shift the course of an entire world.”
Knight One’s anger ebbed, replaced by a deep, hollow weariness. He ran a hand over his face, shaking his head slightly. “It still feels like madness.”
The younger Seer smiled gently. “Many acts of wisdom appear as madness to those who only see the surface. But those willing to look deeper find purpose, even in sacrifice.”
Knight One looked up, locking eyes with the Seers. “You’re sure this is the only way? That it’s worth it?”
The older Seer nodded solemnly. “The only true wisdom is knowing what must be done. This is what must be done.”
Knight One stood still for a moment, his gaze hardening as he locked eyes with the Seers. The weight of everything—the war, the mission, the impossible odds—pressed heavily on his shoulders. But his mind was clear, his heart resolute.
“I have faith in the possibilities,” Knight One began, his voice steady but firm. “Faith that King Creed of Tolkeen or Archduke Maceo Sigil, the leader of the Order of the Mystic Knights, could and would use the wisdom of the Orb to protect the innocent and make this world a better place. Creed’s fighting for his people, for survival. Sigil is a leader who believes in balance, in justice. Either of them could turn the tide of this war, not just by brute force but with the wisdom to find the right path.”
The younger Seer opened her mouth as if to respond, but Knight One raised a hand, cutting her off gently but firmly.
“But Prosek?” He shook his head, frustration creeping into his tone. “I don’t have that faith in him. I can’t really commit myself to something I don’t believe in. Specifically, that I should take my men on a suicide mission. That my men or I would succeed at forcing or tricking Prosek into touching the Orb—or that we should force wisdom upon the Emperor of the Coalition States. Or that even if EVERYTHING worked and Prosak was the wisest man in the world he would change it for the better.”
He stared down the two Seers, the weight of his words hanging in the air as the reality of the mission settled over him.
“The odds of getting that Orb anywhere near Emperor Prosek are astronomical,” Knight One began, his voice sharp with frustration. “Do you even realize what you’re asking?”
The older Seer remained calm, but Knight One could see the flicker of concern in the younger Seer’s eyes. Undeterred, he continued.
“First, let’s talk logistics. How do we even know where Prosek is going to be at any given time of day? He’s a paranoid man, surrounded by layers of security. He has impersonators—people who stand in for him to avoid assassination attempts. How do we know that the guy we’re handing the Orb to is even him?”
Knight One took a step forward, his voice rising. “And even if, by some miracle, we did find the real Emperor, getting him to touch the Orb is a whole other problem. Do you think he’s going to just reach out and take it? The man isn’t stupid. He won’t touch anything he doesn’t trust, and I can guarantee he won’t be touching a magical artifact willingly.”
Knight Four, standing behind Knight One, chimed in, his tone grim. “And trying to throw it at him? Forget it. He’s guarded by an army of security personnel—all of them trained to lay down their lives to protect him. These guards would leap in front of any incoming threat, Orb or not. They’d knock it away, shoot it, throw it off a building, into a sewer, hell—get it as far away from him as possible. And once it’s gone? It’s over. You’d have to start all over again, and trust me, you won’t get a second chance.”
Knight One paced in front of the Seers, his frustration building. “The Orb radiates magic. That means anyone within a thousand feet can detect it. So the moment we even get close, the alarms go off. Guards are swarming in, and Prosek’s being ushered away faster than you can blink. We’d have maybe fifteen seconds, if that, before he’s out of reach.”
He stopped, turning to face the Seers head-on. “And through all of this chaos, we’re supposed to protect The Key? The one person who can make the whole thing work? While getting shot at, chased down, and probably cut down by a battalion of Coalition soldiers? One stray blast, one mistake, and she’s dead. If she dies, the plan dies. It’s over.”
The older Seer met Knight One’s gaze calmly, but Knight One could see the weight of his words registering. “So my question is,” Knight One continued, his voice quieter but no less intense, “If you were to do it, how would you do it? Because it sure as hell doesn’t sound smart to me. I don’t enjoy the consequences of doing stupid things. So I’ll listen to your answer. And if you don’t change my mind, I’d like to share an alternative with you.”
The room fell silent. The Grey Seers exchanged a glance, the calmness they usually exuded now tinged with the gravity of what was being asked.
The older Seer stepped forward first, his voice as serene as ever, but with a deeper understanding of the obstacles ahead. “You are right, Knight One. The path we ask you to walk is not one of certainty. It is fraught with risk, and the odds may seem insurmountable.”
The younger Seer nodded, her voice soft but clear. “We do not pretend that this will be easy. Emperor Prosek is heavily guarded, and his protectors will do all they can to prevent anything from reaching him, let alone a magical artifact.”
Knight One’s expression remained skeptical. “So then, how?”
The older Seer folded his hands, his brow furrowed in thought. “The key is not brute force. It is subtlety. The Orb’s magic must reach the Emperor, yes, but there are ways to achieve this that do not rely on physical touch.”
Knight Two scoffed. “Like what?”
The younger Seer looked directly at Knight Two. “Not directly. But the Orb’s power can be activated through contact with those near him. The Emperor is never alone, but he is often surrounded by those who are closest to him. They are the bridge.”
Knight Three raised an eyebrow. “You mean we’d have to get someone close to him—someone he trusts?”
Knight Four, who had been listening quietly, spoke up. “So we have to get the Orb into the hands of someone close to Prosek, mask its magic, and hope they’re close enough when the magic activates?”
The older Seer nodded solemnly. “Yes. It is not a foolproof plan, but it is the path we see. There will be danger, and not all will survive. But the chance to end the war—however slim—must be taken.”
Knight One let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair. “This is all too many moving parts. Too many things could go wrong.”
He turned back to the Seers. “What about my alternative?”
The Seers looked at him with curiosity, waiting for his proposal.
Knight One straightened up, his voice firm. “Instead of running a suicide mission trying to reach Prosek, we give the Orb to the side Emperor Prosek is at war with—King Creed of the Kingdom of Tolkeen. With the wisdom the Orb grants, and his position as the leader of his kingdom, he would be able to make the wisest decisions in this time of war. Creed could willingly accept the gift of wisdom, and we all get out alive. No need for death. No need for a desperate gamble with the Emperor.”
The older Seer blinked, clearly considering the suggestion. The younger Seer frowned slightly, her brow furrowing in thought.
“That’s… an interesting proposition,” the younger Seer said slowly, her voice soft but edged with hesitation. “King Creed is a powerful ruler, yes. And perhaps he would accept the Orb willingly. But wisdom does not guarantee victory in war.”
Knight One stepped forward, conviction growing in his voice. “No, but it guarantees clarity. King Creed could use the wisdom to outmaneuver Prosek, to protect his people in ways that don’t involve senseless slaughter. You said the Orb bestows understanding of the consequences of one’s actions, right? Imagine a leader already inclined toward peace but fighting to defend his people—what could he accomplish with that kind of insight?”
The older Seer remained quiet for a moment, his eyes narrowing as if weighing the potential outcomes. “It is true that King Creed is a man of intelligence and vision. With the blessing of the Orb, he could indeed make decisions that minimize loss of life, perhaps even turn the tide of the war in Tolkeen’s favor.”
Knight One pressed further. “Exactly. Prosek’s never going to willingly touch the Orb. And the plan to get close to him? It’s a nightmare waiting to happen. Tolkeen’s king, on the other hand, would embrace it. He’s already fighting for survival. He knows what’s at stake, and he’d use the wisdom for the good of his people.”
Knight Three, who had been listening quietly, crossed his arms. “And we don’t have to worry about getting torn apart by Prosek’s army of bodyguards while trying to toss a glowing magical artifact at him.”
The younger Seer’s frown deepened. “But the wisdom of the Orb is not meant to be used solely for strategic advantage. It’s meant to inspire empathy, understanding. The ability to see beyond one’s own interests.”
Knight One nodded. “And Creed’s already capable of that. He’s not some power-hungry tyrant. He could use the Orb to find a way to end this war with as little bloodshed as possible. Maybe even negotiate a truce, if he had the wisdom to do so.”
The older Seer shifted slightly, clearly torn. “The Orb is meant for the one most in need of wisdom. In this conflict, we believe that person to be Emperor Prosek.”
Knight One threw up his hands, exasperated. “But he’s unreachable! You’re asking us to risk everything—our lives, the Key’s life—for a tiny chance that Prosek might even touch the Orb, let alone be changed by it. Meanwhile, you have a willing recipient on the other side, someone who could take that wisdom and use it wisely today. Why gamble everything on Prosek when there’s another way?”
The older Seer closed his eyes, thinking deeply. When he spoke, his tone was measured. “King Creed could indeed benefit from the Orb’s wisdom. But the question remains: Is he truly the one most in need of it? The one whose decisions could reshape the world for the better, not just his kingdom?”
The younger Seer glanced at Knight One. “Wisdom given to King Creed would make him a more powerful leader, yes. But the Orb’s true purpose is to awaken empathy in those who have forgotten it. Prosek has the power to end this war, not through military might, but through a change of heart. If he could see the pain he has caused, the suffering of both his people and his enemies, he might bring peace on a much grander scale.”
Knight Four stepped forward, his voice skeptical. “And what if he doesn’t change? What if he touches the Orb and nothing happens? Or worse, he feels all that and still chooses war?”
The older Seer met Knight Two’s gaze evenly. “There is always risk when it comes to matters of the heart and mind. We cannot control what Prosek will do, only what he will experience. But without the Orb, he will never have the chance to understand the full weight of his actions.”
Knight One sighed heavily, shaking his head. “So we’re back to gambling on a man who’s shown no interest in changing—who’s built his entire empire on hatred and fear. While King Creed would use the wisdom. He could save lives right now.”
The younger Seer placed her hand gently on Knight One’s arm, her voice soft but resolute. “You are right that King Creed would be a wise and capable bearer of the Orb. But Prosek… Prosek holds the fate of millions in his hands. If there’s even a chance to turn his heart toward peace, that is worth more than any military victory.”
Knight One clenched his fists, feeling the weight of the decision pressing down on him. "You are NOT a soldier or a leader of soldiers. For if it came at the cost of the lives of your men and victory, that slim chance is not worth it."
Knight One began pacing, the weight of his frustration and conviction pouring into his words. “Prosek is only a man. One politically powerful man, yes, but still a man. And I figure the chances are at least fifty percent that if he suddenly starts making wise, compassionate choices, his own people will turn on him. They’ll think he’s lost his mind. Commit him to a mental institution, force him into retirement, or worse—assassinate him and seize power for themselves.”
The older Seer watched Knight One with a calm but sorrowful gaze, as if understanding the depths of the doubt that clouded the Knight’s mind.
Knight One continued, his voice rising slightly. “And even if we succeed in getting Prosek to touch the Orb, even if he does change, what then? His people won’t follow him down that road. The Coalition is built on fear, on control, on hatred for anything that isn’t human. You think they’ll just accept a change of heart from their Emperor? That they’ll follow him into peace?”
Knight Two nodded in agreement, his arms crossed.
Knight Four, “He’s right. The moment Prosek starts talking about making peace with Tolkeen or recognizing nonhumans as equals, his people will take him out. No way they’d let that slide.”
Knight One sighed, the weariness evident in his voice. “Regardless of all that, I refuse to lead my men to their deaths with such a small chance of success. I believe that the moment we try to execute this plan, the Orb would be captured by the Coalition. And once they have it, it’ll be locked away, secured, and the world would be denied the benefits of its wisdom for centuries—if not longer.”
The younger Seer took a breath to speak, but Knight One held up his hand once more, this time with finality. “I believe it’s better for the Orb’s wisdom to be shared and used today, by someone who would want to make the world better, than for it to be lost forever in some secret underground Coalition vault.”
He turned to face the Seers fully, his eyes hard but filled with conviction. “I’ve thought this through. Creed and Sigil—both of them could use the Orb’s wisdom immediately. They wouldn’t be stifled by politics or overthrown by their own people. They want to make a difference. They could protect the innocent, guide their people toward peace without losing everything they’ve built.”
The room fell silent, the tension thick in the air as Knight One finished speaking. The Grey Seers remained still, their faces thoughtful, though the younger Seer’s brow furrowed in concern.
The older Seer finally spoke, his voice soft but tinged with understanding. “Your concerns are not without merit, Knight One. The Coalition’s hold on Emperor Prosek is strong, and the risks are great. You fear not only for your men’s lives but for the possibility that the Orb’s wisdom may be lost to the world, locked away beyond reach. This is a heavy burden to bear.”
Knight Three, standing beside Knight One, spoke quietly but firmly. “And if that happens, all of this—everything we’ve fought for—will have been for nothing.”
The younger Seer stepped forward, her eyes pleading but calm. “I understand your desire to see the wisdom shared with those who already seek a better world. But the Orb’s gift is not meant for those who already walk the path of wisdom. It is for those who have lost their way, whose choices have caused untold suffering. King Creed and Archduke Sigil are already capable of great wisdom—”
“But not enough,” Knight One interrupted, his voice calm but unyielding. “No one ever has enough wisdom. That’s why the Orb exists, isn’t it? To give us a chance to do better. And right now, we don’t have the luxury of hoping Prosek suddenly becomes a saint. People are dying, and we can’t keep wasting time. You’ve said that wisdom illuminates paths, but it doesn’t force anyone to walk them. I know that Creed and Sigil would walk them.”
The Seers were silent, weighing Knight One’s words with solemn gravity.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the older Seer spoke again, his voice low and thoughtful. “Perhaps you are right. Wisdom is most often sought, but it is also most needed where it is least expected. Prosek may be in great need of it, but we cannot deny that those who seek wisdom have the potential to shape the world in ways we cannot yet foresee.”
Knight One didn’t speak, but his eyes softened slightly. He could see that his words had been heard.
The younger Seer still looked uncertain but nodded slowly. “You speak with conviction. And while our belief in the need to reach Prosek remains strong, we cannot force your hand. You must follow the path you believe is right.”
The Mystic Knights moved swiftly through the pyramid’s corridors, their footfalls echoing off the stone walls as they retraced their steps toward the entrance. The urgency of their mission had shifted—no longer focused on merely securing the Key of Solomon, but on understanding the full extent of what they had uncovered.
Knight One led the way, his jaw set, determination fueling his stride. The others followed, sharing the same mix of curiosity and frustration. They needed answers—real answers, not speculation.
“We can’t risk moving forward blind,” Knight One said, her voice tight with tension. “We need to know if what we saw is truly the Key and what role she’s meant to play in all this.”
Knight Two nodded, his expression grim.
Knight Three, “If we’re going to make a decision, we need to know exactly what’s at stake. Guessing won’t cut it.”
As they rounded the final corner, the faint light of the corridor crystals illuminated the figures ahead—two Grey Seers, dressed in their simple brown tunics, waiting as if they had anticipated the Knights' return. It was the same pair they had encountered earlier: the older man and the younger woman. Both stood calm and serene, their expressions unchanged as the Knights approached.
Knight One stopped a few paces in front of the Seers, his eyes narrowing in focus. “We have questions. Real questions this time. And we need answers.”
The older Seer smiled faintly, his hands still folded in front of him. “Of course. Ask, and we shall answer.”
Knight One wasted no time. “The woman in stasis. Is she the Key of Solomon?”
The older Seer’s smile faded, his expression growing serious. “Yes, she is the Key.”
Knight Four stepped forward, a note of urgency in his voice. “Why is she in that stasis field? How do we free her?”
The younger Seer answered this time, her voice soft but clear. “She is in stasis to preserve her until the time of her destiny arrives. The magic was woven to protect her and the plan she is part of. To free her, the stasis field must be undone by her own will. When the time is right, she will awaken.”
Knight Two frowned, his skepticism rising. “What do you mean ‘when the time is right’? What exactly is she waiting for?”
The older Seer stepped forward, his voice measured. “The Key of Solomon is not merely a title. She is tied to the Orb of Solomon, which grants the wisdom of a thousand years. She is waiting for the one most in need of that wisdom.”
Knight Three folded his arms, his brow furrowed. “Orb of Solomon? What is that?"
The young Seer, "The crystal that cannot be undone and imparts wisdom to the one whom the Key chooses."
Knight Four, "And this wisdom… Is it meant to be taught? Is she supposed to bestow the wisdom like some kind of teacher?”
The older Seer shook his head gently. “No. The Orb does not grant wisdom to those who seek it, but to those who most need it. The Key of Solomon is the one who carries that blessing and passes it along to another most in need of it. When the time comes, she will deliver it.”
Knight Four’s voice dropped, uncertain. “And that’s why she’s in stasis? To wait for the moment when she can deliver that wisdom?”
The older Seer nodded. “The field was created to keep her from being killed until the moment she is needed. If the Key is slain, the Orb of Solomon becomes dormant for one hundred years."
Knight One, "And when is the moment?"
The young Seer, "The moment the Orb is brought close to Emperor Prosek, her link to the artifact will awaken her. She will teleport directly to the location of the Orb and the one in most need of its wisdom, and she will bestows its blessings upon them.”
Knight Three, ever the skeptic, crossed his arms. “Emperor Prosek. You intend to bestows the gift of longevity and wisdom on to him. And assuming it all works, what happens?”
The Seers shared a glance before the younger woman spoke, her voice tinged with both sadness and resolve. “Yes. The Key’s purpose is to bestow wisdom upon those in need, even at the cost of her life. She has accepted this fate.”
Knight Four, his expression softened, took a step closer to the Seers. “So, the plan… You intend for the Key to give Emperor Prosek the wisdom of Solomon, hoping it will change him, change the Coalition, and stop the war.”
The older Seer gave a single nod. “That is the hope. The Key believes that with the Orb’s blessing, Prosek will see the folly of his ways and embrace peace.”
Knight One exhaled, the weight of the plan settling over him. He had seen enough war to know how deeply hatred could root itself in a person’s soul. Could a single moment of wisdom—no matter how powerful—truly change someone like Prosek?
“And what if she fails?” Knight One asked quietly.
The older Seer’s eyes gleamed with an unwavering belief. “The Orb grants Wisdom to those who need it most.”
Knight Four looked from the Seers to his fellow Knights, his expression torn. “This is… a lot to take in. We came here thinking we’d find a weapon or some tool we could use, but this...”
The younger Seer smiled, a small, hopeful light in her eyes. “The Key has lived for 140 years, waiting for this moment. She has seen much, taught many, and now she will deliver the greatest gift of all.”
The Knights stood in silence for a long moment, the enormity of the plan was audacious, dangerous, and the outcome uncertain...
Knight One turned to the Seers, his face grim but resolute. “What if Prosek rejects the wisdom? What if he can’t be changed?”
The older Seer smiled softly, a twinkle of understanding in his eyes. “Then the world will face its own consequences. But the truth will have been revealed, and that is all we can hope for.”
Knight One’s eyes narrowed, his tone sharpening. “And you believe Emperor Prosek is the one most in need of this blessing?”
The younger Seer’s gaze met Knight One’s without hesitation. “His heart is clouded by war, hatred, and fear. The Orb will pierce that cloud and reveal to him the truth—the pain he has caused, the beauty he has overlooked, and the path toward peace.”
Something gnawing at the back of his mind. He turned around, his voice cutting through the silence.
“Wait,” Knight One said, his voice hardening with realization. “This is a suicide mission, isn’t it?”
The Grey Seers, who had been watching them leave, remained calm. The older Seer met Knight One’s gaze, his expression unreadable.
“For her, yes,” the Seer admitted. “The Key of Solomon will sacrifice her life when the Orb's blessing is unleashed.”
Knight One shook his head, frustration creeping into his voice. “No, I’m not just talking about her. For this plan to work, someone has to get the Orb close to Emperor Prosek. The Emperor Prosek, he is surrounded by guards, they will see it as an attack.”
Knight Three chimed in, his voice skeptical. “Yeah, they’ll shoot.”
The younger Seer, sensing the growing tension, spoke softly but firmly. “It is true. The protectors of the Emperor will perceive the Orb and the Key as a threat. It is the nature of their fear, their misunderstanding.”
Knight One’s voice grew sharper. “And what happens to the ones who survive that?”
Knight Three, who crossed his arms. “You’re asking people to die for this. People who won’t even get the benefit of that wisdom themselves.”
The older Seer closed his eyes for a moment, as if weighing their words carefully. “It is as you say. There is great risk in this plan. Those who assist in delivering the Orb will likely be hunted, imprisoned, and perhaps killed. But this is the sacrifice that some have chosen to make, believing that the gift of wisdom can reshape the future, even if they themselves will not live to see it.”
Knight Four, a bitter note in his voice, asked the next question that lingered in all their minds. “Wait. What about the Orb? Does the Emperor have to open it? How does it even work?”
The younger Seer glanced at the Orb, still suspended over the Key of Solomon in the heart of the pyramid.
“The Orb of Solomon does not need to be physically opened. It works upon contact. The moment it touches the Emperor—whether he knows what it is or not—its magic will activate. The wisdom of a thousand years will flood into him. He will experience the consequences of his choices, the pain of those he has harmed, and the beauty of the lives he has disregarded. It is not a conscious choice to accept the wisdom. It is inevitable.”
Knight Four’s brow furrowed in thought. “So, all we need is to get the Orb close enough to touch him. Then what? The Emperor has a revelation and suddenly decides to stop the war?”
The older Seer’s expression softened, his voice full of quiet hope. “The blessing of the Orb will change him—his heart, his understanding. He will see the world differently, with clarity and compassion. What he chooses to do with that wisdom is not something we can predict. But it is our belief that it will lead him to end this war, and perhaps more.”
Knight One stepped forward, his tone harsh. “Belief? You’re betting everything on a ‘belief’? That he might change? That he might stop the war? And what about everyone who dies along the way, just to give him the chance to maybe change his mind?”
The younger Seer’s voice remained steady, though there was a hint of sadness. “We cannot guarantee what Emperor Prosek will do with the gift of wisdom. We can only give him the chance to change. That is the nature of free will, and the burden of those who choose to act in the service of others.”
Knight Three uncrossed his arms, his frustration giving way to resignation. “So, we’re walking into a death trap. Whoever carries the Orb gets shot, maybe tortured if they’re unlucky enough to survive, and even if they succeed, there’s no guarantee Prosek will even care.”
Knight Four, his voice soft but intense, spoke next. “But if he does care… if he does change, it could stop the war. Save thousands. Maybe millions.”
Knight One clenched his fists. “And that’s what you’re banking on? That a man like Prosek, who has led the most brutal regime on this planet, will suddenly grow a heart because of some ancient magic?”
The older Seer stepped closer, his eyes full of a deep, unshakable conviction. “The Orb does not impart mere knowledge. It grants understanding, empathy, and wisdom beyond what even the greatest rulers could fathom. If anyone is in need of this gift, it is Emperor Prosek. And yes, it is a gamble. But is it not worth the risk, to end this cycle of bloodshed?”
Knight Two shook his head.
Knight Three, “You’re asking for a lot. Too much.”
Knight One stared at the Seers, his mind racing. They were right about one thing—the war had claimed too many lives, and if there was even a slim chance to stop it, it might be worth the cost. But the reality of it all was crushing. The lives of those who would be tasked with delivering the Orb, the unlikelihood of surviving such a mission, the uncertainty of whether Prosek would even be moved to change...
“What happens if we fail?” Knight One asked, his voice low but firm. “OR if Prosek rejects the wisdom?”
The older Seer’s eyes darkened. “Then the war continues, and those who gave their lives for this cause will be remembered as those who fought for peace, even if peace did not come.”
Knight One’s voice was a low growl as he stared at them. “So let me get this straight. No money. No artifact. No power. A very small chance of success, and a very big chance of failure. And we’re certain to die if we succeed.”
He took a step closer, his anger boiling over. “Let me ask you a question: Is that wise?”
The older Seer’s expression didn’t change, though a flicker of sadness passed through his eyes. He held Knight One’s gaze with quiet composure before answering. “It is not the outcome that makes a choice wise. It is the intention behind it.”
Knight One scowled. “So, what? We sacrifice ourselves for some idea? For the hope that maybe, MAYBE, this plan works? You’re asking us to die for something that isn’t even certain.”
The younger Seer, her voice soft but firm, stepped forward. “Wisdom is not always about certainty. It is about understanding the larger picture. The stakes here are not just the lives of a few, but the future of an entire world.”
Knight One clenched his fists, his frustration building. “And what if we don’t care about the world? What if we care about our own lives and loves? You’re telling me the wise choice is to walk into certain death for the slim chance that Emperor Prosek might change his ways?”
The older Seer nodded, his gaze never wavering. “Yes.”
The word hung in the air between them, simple and direct. Knight One blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the Seer’s straightforwardness.
“You believe the wise choice is the one with no reward for us? No power, no riches. Just death,” Knight One said, his tone incredulous.
The older Seer stepped closer, his eyes filled with a quiet strength. “Yes. Because wisdom is not measured by what you gain. It is measured by what you leave behind.”
Knight One stared at him, his mouth tightening into a grim line. “You’re asking us to leave everything behind. Our lives, our futures, everything.”
The younger Seer’s voice was steady, her tone laced with empathy. “Yes. But in doing so, you give the world a future it may never have without you. A future where war no longer defines the Coalition or Tolkeen. A future shaped by understanding and peace.”
Knight Three, who had silently followed Knight One back to the Seers, stepped forward now, his expression a mix of disbelief and frustration. “That’s a hell of a gamble to ask from people who’ve spent their whole lives fighting. You want us to just trust in this—this ideal that this magical wisdom thing can fix everything?”
The younger Seer turned her gaze to Knight Two, her expression soft but resolute. “Wisdom cannot fix everything. But it can prevent much suffering, and it can guide even the most lost toward a path of redemption. That is all we ask. To give the world a chance.”
Knight One’s jaw clenched as he struggled with his emotions. “But we’ll die. You know that, don’t you? We won’t survive this, even if it works.”
The older Seer’s eyes softened with a deep understanding. “But your sacrifice would not be in vain. You would die not as soldiers, but as those who gave their lives for the hope of something greater. For peace.”
There was a long silence, the weight of the words settling over the chamber. Knight One looked at the ground, the internal war playing out on his face. Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter, almost resigned. “And you call that wise?”
The older Seer nodded once more. “I do. Because wisdom is not about preserving oneself. It is about making choices that honor the lives of others, even if it costs us our own. True wisdom lies in understanding that our lives are part of a much larger tapestry. One thread pulled in the right direction can shift the course of an entire world.”
Knight One’s anger ebbed, replaced by a deep, hollow weariness. He ran a hand over his face, shaking his head slightly. “It still feels like madness.”
The younger Seer smiled gently. “Many acts of wisdom appear as madness to those who only see the surface. But those willing to look deeper find purpose, even in sacrifice.”
Knight One looked up, locking eyes with the Seers. “You’re sure this is the only way? That it’s worth it?”
The older Seer nodded solemnly. “The only true wisdom is knowing what must be done. This is what must be done.”
Knight One stood still for a moment, his gaze hardening as he locked eyes with the Seers. The weight of everything—the war, the mission, the impossible odds—pressed heavily on his shoulders. But his mind was clear, his heart resolute.
“I have faith in the possibilities,” Knight One began, his voice steady but firm. “Faith that King Creed of Tolkeen or Archduke Maceo Sigil, the leader of the Order of the Mystic Knights, could and would use the wisdom of the Orb to protect the innocent and make this world a better place. Creed’s fighting for his people, for survival. Sigil is a leader who believes in balance, in justice. Either of them could turn the tide of this war, not just by brute force but with the wisdom to find the right path.”
The younger Seer opened her mouth as if to respond, but Knight One raised a hand, cutting her off gently but firmly.
“But Prosek?” He shook his head, frustration creeping into his tone. “I don’t have that faith in him. I can’t really commit myself to something I don’t believe in. Specifically, that I should take my men on a suicide mission. That my men or I would succeed at forcing or tricking Prosek into touching the Orb—or that we should force wisdom upon the Emperor of the Coalition States. Or that even if EVERYTHING worked and Prosak was the wisest man in the world he would change it for the better.”
He stared down the two Seers, the weight of his words hanging in the air as the reality of the mission settled over him.
“The odds of getting that Orb anywhere near Emperor Prosek are astronomical,” Knight One began, his voice sharp with frustration. “Do you even realize what you’re asking?”
The older Seer remained calm, but Knight One could see the flicker of concern in the younger Seer’s eyes. Undeterred, he continued.
“First, let’s talk logistics. How do we even know where Prosek is going to be at any given time of day? He’s a paranoid man, surrounded by layers of security. He has impersonators—people who stand in for him to avoid assassination attempts. How do we know that the guy we’re handing the Orb to is even him?”
Knight One took a step forward, his voice rising. “And even if, by some miracle, we did find the real Emperor, getting him to touch the Orb is a whole other problem. Do you think he’s going to just reach out and take it? The man isn’t stupid. He won’t touch anything he doesn’t trust, and I can guarantee he won’t be touching a magical artifact willingly.”
Knight Four, standing behind Knight One, chimed in, his tone grim. “And trying to throw it at him? Forget it. He’s guarded by an army of security personnel—all of them trained to lay down their lives to protect him. These guards would leap in front of any incoming threat, Orb or not. They’d knock it away, shoot it, throw it off a building, into a sewer, hell—get it as far away from him as possible. And once it’s gone? It’s over. You’d have to start all over again, and trust me, you won’t get a second chance.”
Knight One paced in front of the Seers, his frustration building. “The Orb radiates magic. That means anyone within a thousand feet can detect it. So the moment we even get close, the alarms go off. Guards are swarming in, and Prosek’s being ushered away faster than you can blink. We’d have maybe fifteen seconds, if that, before he’s out of reach.”
He stopped, turning to face the Seers head-on. “And through all of this chaos, we’re supposed to protect The Key? The one person who can make the whole thing work? While getting shot at, chased down, and probably cut down by a battalion of Coalition soldiers? One stray blast, one mistake, and she’s dead. If she dies, the plan dies. It’s over.”
The older Seer met Knight One’s gaze calmly, but Knight One could see the weight of his words registering. “So my question is,” Knight One continued, his voice quieter but no less intense, “If you were to do it, how would you do it? Because it sure as hell doesn’t sound smart to me. I don’t enjoy the consequences of doing stupid things. So I’ll listen to your answer. And if you don’t change my mind, I’d like to share an alternative with you.”
The room fell silent. The Grey Seers exchanged a glance, the calmness they usually exuded now tinged with the gravity of what was being asked.
The older Seer stepped forward first, his voice as serene as ever, but with a deeper understanding of the obstacles ahead. “You are right, Knight One. The path we ask you to walk is not one of certainty. It is fraught with risk, and the odds may seem insurmountable.”
The younger Seer nodded, her voice soft but clear. “We do not pretend that this will be easy. Emperor Prosek is heavily guarded, and his protectors will do all they can to prevent anything from reaching him, let alone a magical artifact.”
Knight One’s expression remained skeptical. “So then, how?”
The older Seer folded his hands, his brow furrowed in thought. “The key is not brute force. It is subtlety. The Orb’s magic must reach the Emperor, yes, but there are ways to achieve this that do not rely on physical touch.”
Knight Two scoffed. “Like what?”
The younger Seer looked directly at Knight Two. “Not directly. But the Orb’s power can be activated through contact with those near him. The Emperor is never alone, but he is often surrounded by those who are closest to him. They are the bridge.”
Knight Three raised an eyebrow. “You mean we’d have to get someone close to him—someone he trusts?”
Knight Four, who had been listening quietly, spoke up. “So we have to get the Orb into the hands of someone close to Prosek, mask its magic, and hope they’re close enough when the magic activates?”
The older Seer nodded solemnly. “Yes. It is not a foolproof plan, but it is the path we see. There will be danger, and not all will survive. But the chance to end the war—however slim—must be taken.”
Knight One let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair. “This is all too many moving parts. Too many things could go wrong.”
He turned back to the Seers. “What about my alternative?”
The Seers looked at him with curiosity, waiting for his proposal.
Knight One straightened up, his voice firm. “Instead of running a suicide mission trying to reach Prosek, we give the Orb to the side Emperor Prosek is at war with—King Creed of the Kingdom of Tolkeen. With the wisdom the Orb grants, and his position as the leader of his kingdom, he would be able to make the wisest decisions in this time of war. Creed could willingly accept the gift of wisdom, and we all get out alive. No need for death. No need for a desperate gamble with the Emperor.”
The older Seer blinked, clearly considering the suggestion. The younger Seer frowned slightly, her brow furrowing in thought.
“That’s… an interesting proposition,” the younger Seer said slowly, her voice soft but edged with hesitation. “King Creed is a powerful ruler, yes. And perhaps he would accept the Orb willingly. But wisdom does not guarantee victory in war.”
Knight One stepped forward, conviction growing in his voice. “No, but it guarantees clarity. King Creed could use the wisdom to outmaneuver Prosek, to protect his people in ways that don’t involve senseless slaughter. You said the Orb bestows understanding of the consequences of one’s actions, right? Imagine a leader already inclined toward peace but fighting to defend his people—what could he accomplish with that kind of insight?”
The older Seer remained quiet for a moment, his eyes narrowing as if weighing the potential outcomes. “It is true that King Creed is a man of intelligence and vision. With the blessing of the Orb, he could indeed make decisions that minimize loss of life, perhaps even turn the tide of the war in Tolkeen’s favor.”
Knight One pressed further. “Exactly. Prosek’s never going to willingly touch the Orb. And the plan to get close to him? It’s a nightmare waiting to happen. Tolkeen’s king, on the other hand, would embrace it. He’s already fighting for survival. He knows what’s at stake, and he’d use the wisdom for the good of his people.”
Knight Three, who had been listening quietly, crossed his arms. “And we don’t have to worry about getting torn apart by Prosek’s army of bodyguards while trying to toss a glowing magical artifact at him.”
The younger Seer’s frown deepened. “But the wisdom of the Orb is not meant to be used solely for strategic advantage. It’s meant to inspire empathy, understanding. The ability to see beyond one’s own interests.”
Knight One nodded. “And Creed’s already capable of that. He’s not some power-hungry tyrant. He could use the Orb to find a way to end this war with as little bloodshed as possible. Maybe even negotiate a truce, if he had the wisdom to do so.”
The older Seer shifted slightly, clearly torn. “The Orb is meant for the one most in need of wisdom. In this conflict, we believe that person to be Emperor Prosek.”
Knight One threw up his hands, exasperated. “But he’s unreachable! You’re asking us to risk everything—our lives, the Key’s life—for a tiny chance that Prosek might even touch the Orb, let alone be changed by it. Meanwhile, you have a willing recipient on the other side, someone who could take that wisdom and use it wisely today. Why gamble everything on Prosek when there’s another way?”
The older Seer closed his eyes, thinking deeply. When he spoke, his tone was measured. “King Creed could indeed benefit from the Orb’s wisdom. But the question remains: Is he truly the one most in need of it? The one whose decisions could reshape the world for the better, not just his kingdom?”
The younger Seer glanced at Knight One. “Wisdom given to King Creed would make him a more powerful leader, yes. But the Orb’s true purpose is to awaken empathy in those who have forgotten it. Prosek has the power to end this war, not through military might, but through a change of heart. If he could see the pain he has caused, the suffering of both his people and his enemies, he might bring peace on a much grander scale.”
Knight Four stepped forward, his voice skeptical. “And what if he doesn’t change? What if he touches the Orb and nothing happens? Or worse, he feels all that and still chooses war?”
The older Seer met Knight Two’s gaze evenly. “There is always risk when it comes to matters of the heart and mind. We cannot control what Prosek will do, only what he will experience. But without the Orb, he will never have the chance to understand the full weight of his actions.”
Knight One sighed heavily, shaking his head. “So we’re back to gambling on a man who’s shown no interest in changing—who’s built his entire empire on hatred and fear. While King Creed would use the wisdom. He could save lives right now.”
The younger Seer placed her hand gently on Knight One’s arm, her voice soft but resolute. “You are right that King Creed would be a wise and capable bearer of the Orb. But Prosek… Prosek holds the fate of millions in his hands. If there’s even a chance to turn his heart toward peace, that is worth more than any military victory.”
Knight One clenched his fists, feeling the weight of the decision pressing down on him. "You are NOT a soldier or a leader of soldiers. For if it came at the cost of the lives of your men and victory, that slim chance is not worth it."
Knight One began pacing, the weight of his frustration and conviction pouring into his words. “Prosek is only a man. One politically powerful man, yes, but still a man. And I figure the chances are at least fifty percent that if he suddenly starts making wise, compassionate choices, his own people will turn on him. They’ll think he’s lost his mind. Commit him to a mental institution, force him into retirement, or worse—assassinate him and seize power for themselves.”
The older Seer watched Knight One with a calm but sorrowful gaze, as if understanding the depths of the doubt that clouded the Knight’s mind.
Knight One continued, his voice rising slightly. “And even if we succeed in getting Prosek to touch the Orb, even if he does change, what then? His people won’t follow him down that road. The Coalition is built on fear, on control, on hatred for anything that isn’t human. You think they’ll just accept a change of heart from their Emperor? That they’ll follow him into peace?”
Knight Two nodded in agreement, his arms crossed.
Knight Four, “He’s right. The moment Prosek starts talking about making peace with Tolkeen or recognizing nonhumans as equals, his people will take him out. No way they’d let that slide.”
Knight One sighed, the weariness evident in his voice. “Regardless of all that, I refuse to lead my men to their deaths with such a small chance of success. I believe that the moment we try to execute this plan, the Orb would be captured by the Coalition. And once they have it, it’ll be locked away, secured, and the world would be denied the benefits of its wisdom for centuries—if not longer.”
The younger Seer took a breath to speak, but Knight One held up his hand once more, this time with finality. “I believe it’s better for the Orb’s wisdom to be shared and used today, by someone who would want to make the world better, than for it to be lost forever in some secret underground Coalition vault.”
He turned to face the Seers fully, his eyes hard but filled with conviction. “I’ve thought this through. Creed and Sigil—both of them could use the Orb’s wisdom immediately. They wouldn’t be stifled by politics or overthrown by their own people. They want to make a difference. They could protect the innocent, guide their people toward peace without losing everything they’ve built.”
The room fell silent, the tension thick in the air as Knight One finished speaking. The Grey Seers remained still, their faces thoughtful, though the younger Seer’s brow furrowed in concern.
The older Seer finally spoke, his voice soft but tinged with understanding. “Your concerns are not without merit, Knight One. The Coalition’s hold on Emperor Prosek is strong, and the risks are great. You fear not only for your men’s lives but for the possibility that the Orb’s wisdom may be lost to the world, locked away beyond reach. This is a heavy burden to bear.”
Knight Three, standing beside Knight One, spoke quietly but firmly. “And if that happens, all of this—everything we’ve fought for—will have been for nothing.”
The younger Seer stepped forward, her eyes pleading but calm. “I understand your desire to see the wisdom shared with those who already seek a better world. But the Orb’s gift is not meant for those who already walk the path of wisdom. It is for those who have lost their way, whose choices have caused untold suffering. King Creed and Archduke Sigil are already capable of great wisdom—”
“But not enough,” Knight One interrupted, his voice calm but unyielding. “No one ever has enough wisdom. That’s why the Orb exists, isn’t it? To give us a chance to do better. And right now, we don’t have the luxury of hoping Prosek suddenly becomes a saint. People are dying, and we can’t keep wasting time. You’ve said that wisdom illuminates paths, but it doesn’t force anyone to walk them. I know that Creed and Sigil would walk them.”
The Seers were silent, weighing Knight One’s words with solemn gravity.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the older Seer spoke again, his voice low and thoughtful. “Perhaps you are right. Wisdom is most often sought, but it is also most needed where it is least expected. Prosek may be in great need of it, but we cannot deny that those who seek wisdom have the potential to shape the world in ways we cannot yet foresee.”
Knight One didn’t speak, but his eyes softened slightly. He could see that his words had been heard.
The younger Seer still looked uncertain but nodded slowly. “You speak with conviction. And while our belief in the need to reach Prosek remains strong, we cannot force your hand. You must follow the path you believe is right.”
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darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: The Pyramid of Solomon
The chamber was silent, the oppressive weight of the ancient Atlantean pyramid pressing down on everyone present. Knight One stood before the two Grey Seers, his eyes narrowed and his posture rigid with a mixture of frustration and determination.
Knight One took a step forward, “Where is the REAL Orb of Solomon?”
The younger Seer blinked, surprise flickering across her face. “Knight One, what are you—”
Knight One’s voice was steady, but his words came out like the draw of a blade. “I read a report. A Coalition field report describing a crystal orb, matching the appearance and description of the Orb of Solomon, being seen. It’s only logical that you—your people—would have taken the real Orb and sent it out of the city long ago. A team, most likely, tasked with getting it close to Emperor Prosek.”
The younger Seer exchanged a glance with the elder, her expression guarded.
Knight One took another step closer, his eyes locking onto the Seers. “If that team had succeeded, the Key wouldn’t be here, would she? She’d have been summoned to the Emperor, and your mission would be over. You wouldn’t have needed to suggest that I take on this impossible task of delivering the Orb myself.”
The Seers remained silent, but Knight One could see the truth in their eyes. He pressed on, his voice rising with intensity. “You’ve foreseen this, haven’t you? With your powers of precognition. You—or the original conspirators of this scheme—must have chosen a group of operatives and Grey Seers, capable of penetrating Chi-Town’s defenses and getting to Prosek.”
The older Seer exhaled slowly, the weight of Knight One’s words pressing down on him. “And if that were true, what do you believe happened to them?”
Knight One continued, his tone cold and analytical, “The Coalition, I’d imagine. That’s consistent with the report I read. The Coalition troops caught them but in the frenzy, others were there and got involved. According to the surviving CS troops, another group came to their aid. The CS forces withdrew, but not before causing enough damage to wipe out your team.”
Knight Two stepped forward, his face grim. “They didn’t make it.”
The younger Seer looked down, her voice barely a whisper. “No. They did not. The last one alive managed to get to one of those adventurers. He handed him the Orb and said, ‘The Coalition must never get this artifact...’ before dying from his wounds.”
The older Seer nodded slowly, his face lined with sorrow. “That is true. We know this from a D-Bee who was there. He saw it all happen.”
Knight One said, his voice laced with frustration. “You don't know who has the Orb or where it is.”
The younger Seer looked up, her eyes filled with a strange mix of hope and despair. “No, he does not. All we know is that the group was heading toward Alaska.”
Knight Three, who had been standing silently beside Knight One, shook his head. “So you’re telling us that the Orb of Solomon—the one thing that might actually end this war—is out there, in the hands of some random group, and you have no idea who or where they are?”
The older Seer’s shoulders slumped slightly. “Yes.”
Knight One ran a hand over his face, the enormity of the situation crashing over him like a tidal wave. “And you want us to go chasing after it? To find an Orb that’s maybe in Alaska by now?”
The younger Seer took a hesitant step forward. “We believe that fate has brought you here for a reason. The Key of Solomon remains in stasis, waiting for the moment the Orb is close enough. That means the Orb is still in play, still within reach. We need your help to find it.”
Knight Four’s voice was hard, his eyes flashing with anger. “You’re asking us to search for an artifact half way across half a continent, all while the Coalition closes in on Solomon.”
Knight One shook his head, his voice resolute. “No. It’s not. NOT if we get paid. Not, if the Orb is out there. But we’re not going in blind.” He turned to the Seers, his gaze piercing. “You have information. Use your powers. Find the path.”
The older Seer’s eyes softened, and he nodded. “We will do what we can. But understand this, Time is short, and the forces are closing in. There are enough people in town that if the Coalition takes it they will find the Key here. We must act swiftly before that happens.”
Knight One nodded, his mind already racing. “Then we start now. Tell me everything you know. Every detail, every rumor, every lead. We’re going to find that Orb.”
The Seers exchanged a final look, then began to speak. As the Mystic Knights listened, the weight of their mission grew heavier still.
---
Knight One stood in the center of the chamber, his eyes locked on the Elder Grey Seer. Now it was time to lay out the terms—his terms.
The Elder Seer’s calm gaze never wavered. “If you have something to say. Now would be the time to say it.”
Knight One took a deep breath, his posture firm and uncompromising. “I’m willing to help retrieve the Orb, but I want something in exchange. That’s how I work. Three favors.”
The Seer’s eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of surprise flickering across his face. “Three favors?”
“Yes,” Knight One replied, his voice steady. “The first is to find and eliminate a vampire who has come to Solomon. Her name is Carlotta. She’s the real reason I came here. Dangerous and unpredictable. Since she’s a vampire, she’s not truly alive, and you should have no moral issue with eliminating an undead abomination.”
The Seer tilted his head, considering. “You wish us to hunt down this creature?”
Knight One nodded. “Yes. And your abilities to sense supernatural evil should help you pinpoint her whereabouts after a walk through town. I’ve already scouted the area, but she’s slippery. You can do this faster and more effectively.”
The Seer’s expression was thoughtful, but there was no refusal in his eyes. “And the second favor?”
Knight One’s gaze shifted, his voice taking on a more earnest tone. “The younger Seer,” he said, nodding toward the doorway where she had just been moments before. “I want her to join us on this journey.”
The Elder Seer’s eyes widened in surprise. “You wish for her to accompany you? Why?”
“Because she has powers that I believe will aid us in finding the Orb or the person that has it. Besides, She’ll gain experience. She will also be there to keep an eye on us,” Knight One explained. “Her presence will remind us all of why we’re doing this. And, honestly, I want to learn more about the Grey Seers. She can provide insight, context.”
The Seer’s expression tightened, his voice low and filled with concern. “You ask much. Her safety is not something we can risk lightly.”
Knight One’s eyes hardened. “This mission is risky by nature. We’re talking about retrieving an artifact that could change the world. If you want me to put my life on the line, then I want her with us. She’s not a fighter—I know that—but she’s valuable in other ways. And she’ll be safer with us than staying here if the Coalition decides to launch a full assault.”
The Seer considered this for a long moment before nodding reluctantly. “Very well. And the third favor?”
Knight One hesitated for just a moment, then met the Seer’s gaze directly. “The third favor, I’ll reserve to ask upon my return. I haven’t decided what it will be yet, but whatever it is, it must be something you’re able to provide and within the bounds of your morality. It won’t be illegal, immoral, or unethical. And it won’t involve money, sex, or violence.”
The Seer’s eyes narrowed. “You ask for a blank promise. What guarantee do we have that your request will not demand too much?”
Knight One shrugged slightly, his voice calm but firm. “I’m not asking for anything outrageous. I just need to know that you’ll honor this agreement. Whatever I ask, it will be something reasonable, something I know you can fulfill. If you can’t or won’t do it, we can negotiate an alternative that’s acceptable.”
The Elder Seer’s gaze held Knight One’s for a long, tense moment. “You are placing much at stake, Knight One. You seek the Orb, but you do so with conditions. Are you truly committed to this mission?”
Knight One’s eyes flashed with intensity. “I am committed to fulfilling my contracts and my word. I’ve spent my life making sacrifices in training for missions and executing them to find information, people, places, and things bringing them back or destroying them. I’m not asking for much in return, just these three favors. It’s business. I help you, you help me. And it’s not like I’m asking for anything impossible. You get rid of a vampire, you bring along the Seer, and when we’re done, I ask for one small favor. No tricks, no traps.”
Knight One glanced at the older Seer, who nodded slightly. The Knight took a deep breath, “We agree to the terms?”
The Seer nodded slowly, his voice soft but steady. “Very well. We agree to the terms, with one condition.”
Knight One raised an eyebrow. “And what’s that?”
“That your third favor, whatever it may be, does not endanger others or compromise the purpose of our mission.”
Knight One’s expression softened slightly. “Agreed. You have my word.”
The Elder Seer extended his hand. Knight One took it, the handshake brief but firm.
“Then we have an agreement,” the Seer said quietly. “We will eliminate the vampire, Carlotta, and the young Seer will accompany you. As for your third favor, we will honor it when the time comes.”
Knight One nodded, releasing the Seer’s hand. “Good. Then let’s get to work. The sooner we take care of this vampire, the sooner we can focus on finding the Orb.”
The Seer inclined his head, his gaze thoughtful. “And what of your doubts? You have expressed concern over the purpose of this mission. Do you truly believe in it?”
Knight One nodded slowly, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I believe in getting paid. If that happens, then I’ll do everything in my power to make sure this mission succeeds. I believe the Orb should be used now, not lost to the Coalition forever. I believe wisdom should be put to good use today, not kept in a stasis field in a stone pyramid, waiting for SOMEDAY.”
He paused, his gaze drifting to the dimly lit corners of the chamber, as if trying to put his thoughts in order. “Waiting for someone who ‘needs it most’ but may or may not even want it, and may or may not even use it. Emperor Prosak is an evil leader of a hostile empire, who built and maintained his kingdom with an army that’s killed hundreds of thousands to keep it in line.”
The Seer remained silent, his expression calm but attentive, allowing Knight One to continue.
His voice grew sharper, edged with frustration. “You want to hand over the Orb to a man who could be dethroned by his own people the second he’s perceived as weak instead of ruthless. You think Prosek can be transformed into some kind of enlightened leader, but he rules through fear and oppression. His nation’s stability is built on a foundation of control. What happens when you remove that control? What happens when that fear turns on him?”
He took a step closer to the Seer, his eyes fierce. “I’ll tell you what happens: a coup d’état. Or worse, a revolution like the French Revolution of 1789. Prosek suddenly starts making ‘wise’ decisions and his people will see it as a betrayal of everything he’s ever stood for. They’ll tear him apart for it. That’s not the end of the war; that’s the beginning of a new one.”
The Seer’s expression remained calm, though his eyes were filled with a quiet sadness. “You are right to be cautious. The risk is great. But the Orb’s wisdom is not about making Prosek a softer leader. It is about showing him the true consequences of his actions. About breaking through the wall of hatred and fear that he has built around himself.”
Knight One shook his head. “And what if that breaks him? What if the sudden clarity drives him mad, or he crumbles under the weight of his guilt? You think his people will follow him down that path? No. They’ll see weakness, and they’ll turn on him in a heartbeat.”
The Seer sighed softly, his gaze distant, as if seeing something far beyond the room they stood in. “Perhaps. But wisdom is a gift that must be offered, even if it is not always accepted. The Orb seeks out those whose hearts are most in need, even if they are unwilling or unaware.”
Knight One’s voice was filled with bitter resolve. “You’re gambling everything on the hope that Prosek will be the one in a million who actually changes. But the world doesn’t work like that. People like him don’t change. They just get more dangerous.”
He took another step forward, his presence towering over the Seer, his words like a challenge. “If you really want to use the Orb for good, then it has to be given to someone who’s already trying to make things better—someone who wants to protect the innocent, not a dictator who’s built his Empire on blood.”
The Seer’s eyes met his, unflinching. “And who would you choose, Knight One?”
Knight One hesitated for a moment, then spoke with conviction. “King Creed. Archduke Sigil. A Dragon King of Freehold. Hell, even Lord Dunscuan. Any one of them would use the Orb’s wisdom to actually protect people, to guide their followers, to stop the Coalition from burning everything in its path.”
The Seer tilted his head slightly.
Knight One’s jaw clenched, his frustration mounting. “You want to change the fate of the world, but you’re putting everything on the shoulders of a man who could snap under the pressure. Prosek is a tyrant, but his people are xealots. If he falters, they’ll replace him with someone worse, someone who won’t hesitate to turn the full force of the Coalition against every corner of this continent.”
The Seer’s expression softened, his voice filled with quiet compassion. “And what would you do? If you held the Orb in your hands, where would you take it?”
Knight One’s eyes burned with intensity. “I’d take it to someone who wants it. Someone who would use it for the right reasons. You talk about offering wisdom, but you want to force it on a man who doesn’t want to see it. Prosek will fight you, tooth and nail, and even if he’s changed, his empire won’t.”
The Seer nodded slowly, his gaze thoughtful. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps this is a dangerous gamble. But if there is even the slightest chance that Prosek can be changed, then it is a chance we must take. Because if he is not, this war will consume everything. And then, there will be no peace left to protect.”
Knight One shook his head, his voice filled with determination. “I’m not betting the future, my life and the lives of my people, on a ‘maybe.’ If you want my help, you’ll agree to my terms. We use the Orb as soon as we have it, with someone who knows what it is and consents to it. Not someday. Not in some theoretical future where Prosek has a change of heart. Now.”
The Seer’s eyes shone with a strange light, a mixture of hope and sorrow. “And if we refuse? If we believe that Prosek is the one most in need of this gift?”
Knight One’s voice was firm, unyielding. “Then you’re on your own. I won’t lead my men into a suicide mission for a plan I don’t believe in. If the Orb falls into Coalition hands, it’s lost forever. Better to use it today, to make a real difference, than to gamble it all on one man who could destroy everything you’ve worked for.”
The Seer was silent for a long time, his gaze locked on Knight One’s, as if searching for something in his eyes. Finally, he nodded, his voice soft and resigned. “Very well. We will do as you ask. We will use the Orb, as you suggest.”
Knight One’s shoulders relaxed, a faint smile crossing his lips. “Then let’s get started. We’ve wasted enough time already.”
As he turned to leave, the Seer’s voice stopped him. “And… remember this: Wisdom is not always about what we believe to be right. It is about what is necessary. I hope, for all our sakes, that your path is the one that brings us peace.”
Knight One didn’t look back as he walked away, his mind set, his heart steeled for the challenges ahead. He knew the risks, but he also knew that some chances were too dangerous to take. And in a world on the brink of destruction, he would fight for a future that was real, tangible, and within reach.
Because sometimes, the greatest wisdom was knowing when to walk away from the impossible.
The chamber was silent, the oppressive weight of the ancient Atlantean pyramid pressing down on everyone present. Knight One stood before the two Grey Seers, his eyes narrowed and his posture rigid with a mixture of frustration and determination.
Knight One took a step forward, “Where is the REAL Orb of Solomon?”
The younger Seer blinked, surprise flickering across her face. “Knight One, what are you—”
Knight One’s voice was steady, but his words came out like the draw of a blade. “I read a report. A Coalition field report describing a crystal orb, matching the appearance and description of the Orb of Solomon, being seen. It’s only logical that you—your people—would have taken the real Orb and sent it out of the city long ago. A team, most likely, tasked with getting it close to Emperor Prosek.”
The younger Seer exchanged a glance with the elder, her expression guarded.
Knight One took another step closer, his eyes locking onto the Seers. “If that team had succeeded, the Key wouldn’t be here, would she? She’d have been summoned to the Emperor, and your mission would be over. You wouldn’t have needed to suggest that I take on this impossible task of delivering the Orb myself.”
The Seers remained silent, but Knight One could see the truth in their eyes. He pressed on, his voice rising with intensity. “You’ve foreseen this, haven’t you? With your powers of precognition. You—or the original conspirators of this scheme—must have chosen a group of operatives and Grey Seers, capable of penetrating Chi-Town’s defenses and getting to Prosek.”
The older Seer exhaled slowly, the weight of Knight One’s words pressing down on him. “And if that were true, what do you believe happened to them?”
Knight One continued, his tone cold and analytical, “The Coalition, I’d imagine. That’s consistent with the report I read. The Coalition troops caught them but in the frenzy, others were there and got involved. According to the surviving CS troops, another group came to their aid. The CS forces withdrew, but not before causing enough damage to wipe out your team.”
Knight Two stepped forward, his face grim. “They didn’t make it.”
The younger Seer looked down, her voice barely a whisper. “No. They did not. The last one alive managed to get to one of those adventurers. He handed him the Orb and said, ‘The Coalition must never get this artifact...’ before dying from his wounds.”
The older Seer nodded slowly, his face lined with sorrow. “That is true. We know this from a D-Bee who was there. He saw it all happen.”
Knight One said, his voice laced with frustration. “You don't know who has the Orb or where it is.”
The younger Seer looked up, her eyes filled with a strange mix of hope and despair. “No, he does not. All we know is that the group was heading toward Alaska.”
Knight Three, who had been standing silently beside Knight One, shook his head. “So you’re telling us that the Orb of Solomon—the one thing that might actually end this war—is out there, in the hands of some random group, and you have no idea who or where they are?”
The older Seer’s shoulders slumped slightly. “Yes.”
Knight One ran a hand over his face, the enormity of the situation crashing over him like a tidal wave. “And you want us to go chasing after it? To find an Orb that’s maybe in Alaska by now?”
The younger Seer took a hesitant step forward. “We believe that fate has brought you here for a reason. The Key of Solomon remains in stasis, waiting for the moment the Orb is close enough. That means the Orb is still in play, still within reach. We need your help to find it.”
Knight Four’s voice was hard, his eyes flashing with anger. “You’re asking us to search for an artifact half way across half a continent, all while the Coalition closes in on Solomon.”
Knight One shook his head, his voice resolute. “No. It’s not. NOT if we get paid. Not, if the Orb is out there. But we’re not going in blind.” He turned to the Seers, his gaze piercing. “You have information. Use your powers. Find the path.”
The older Seer’s eyes softened, and he nodded. “We will do what we can. But understand this, Time is short, and the forces are closing in. There are enough people in town that if the Coalition takes it they will find the Key here. We must act swiftly before that happens.”
Knight One nodded, his mind already racing. “Then we start now. Tell me everything you know. Every detail, every rumor, every lead. We’re going to find that Orb.”
The Seers exchanged a final look, then began to speak. As the Mystic Knights listened, the weight of their mission grew heavier still.
---
Knight One stood in the center of the chamber, his eyes locked on the Elder Grey Seer. Now it was time to lay out the terms—his terms.
The Elder Seer’s calm gaze never wavered. “If you have something to say. Now would be the time to say it.”
Knight One took a deep breath, his posture firm and uncompromising. “I’m willing to help retrieve the Orb, but I want something in exchange. That’s how I work. Three favors.”
The Seer’s eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of surprise flickering across his face. “Three favors?”
“Yes,” Knight One replied, his voice steady. “The first is to find and eliminate a vampire who has come to Solomon. Her name is Carlotta. She’s the real reason I came here. Dangerous and unpredictable. Since she’s a vampire, she’s not truly alive, and you should have no moral issue with eliminating an undead abomination.”
The Seer tilted his head, considering. “You wish us to hunt down this creature?”
Knight One nodded. “Yes. And your abilities to sense supernatural evil should help you pinpoint her whereabouts after a walk through town. I’ve already scouted the area, but she’s slippery. You can do this faster and more effectively.”
The Seer’s expression was thoughtful, but there was no refusal in his eyes. “And the second favor?”
Knight One’s gaze shifted, his voice taking on a more earnest tone. “The younger Seer,” he said, nodding toward the doorway where she had just been moments before. “I want her to join us on this journey.”
The Elder Seer’s eyes widened in surprise. “You wish for her to accompany you? Why?”
“Because she has powers that I believe will aid us in finding the Orb or the person that has it. Besides, She’ll gain experience. She will also be there to keep an eye on us,” Knight One explained. “Her presence will remind us all of why we’re doing this. And, honestly, I want to learn more about the Grey Seers. She can provide insight, context.”
The Seer’s expression tightened, his voice low and filled with concern. “You ask much. Her safety is not something we can risk lightly.”
Knight One’s eyes hardened. “This mission is risky by nature. We’re talking about retrieving an artifact that could change the world. If you want me to put my life on the line, then I want her with us. She’s not a fighter—I know that—but she’s valuable in other ways. And she’ll be safer with us than staying here if the Coalition decides to launch a full assault.”
The Seer considered this for a long moment before nodding reluctantly. “Very well. And the third favor?”
Knight One hesitated for just a moment, then met the Seer’s gaze directly. “The third favor, I’ll reserve to ask upon my return. I haven’t decided what it will be yet, but whatever it is, it must be something you’re able to provide and within the bounds of your morality. It won’t be illegal, immoral, or unethical. And it won’t involve money, sex, or violence.”
The Seer’s eyes narrowed. “You ask for a blank promise. What guarantee do we have that your request will not demand too much?”
Knight One shrugged slightly, his voice calm but firm. “I’m not asking for anything outrageous. I just need to know that you’ll honor this agreement. Whatever I ask, it will be something reasonable, something I know you can fulfill. If you can’t or won’t do it, we can negotiate an alternative that’s acceptable.”
The Elder Seer’s gaze held Knight One’s for a long, tense moment. “You are placing much at stake, Knight One. You seek the Orb, but you do so with conditions. Are you truly committed to this mission?”
Knight One’s eyes flashed with intensity. “I am committed to fulfilling my contracts and my word. I’ve spent my life making sacrifices in training for missions and executing them to find information, people, places, and things bringing them back or destroying them. I’m not asking for much in return, just these three favors. It’s business. I help you, you help me. And it’s not like I’m asking for anything impossible. You get rid of a vampire, you bring along the Seer, and when we’re done, I ask for one small favor. No tricks, no traps.”
Knight One glanced at the older Seer, who nodded slightly. The Knight took a deep breath, “We agree to the terms?”
The Seer nodded slowly, his voice soft but steady. “Very well. We agree to the terms, with one condition.”
Knight One raised an eyebrow. “And what’s that?”
“That your third favor, whatever it may be, does not endanger others or compromise the purpose of our mission.”
Knight One’s expression softened slightly. “Agreed. You have my word.”
The Elder Seer extended his hand. Knight One took it, the handshake brief but firm.
“Then we have an agreement,” the Seer said quietly. “We will eliminate the vampire, Carlotta, and the young Seer will accompany you. As for your third favor, we will honor it when the time comes.”
Knight One nodded, releasing the Seer’s hand. “Good. Then let’s get to work. The sooner we take care of this vampire, the sooner we can focus on finding the Orb.”
The Seer inclined his head, his gaze thoughtful. “And what of your doubts? You have expressed concern over the purpose of this mission. Do you truly believe in it?”
Knight One nodded slowly, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I believe in getting paid. If that happens, then I’ll do everything in my power to make sure this mission succeeds. I believe the Orb should be used now, not lost to the Coalition forever. I believe wisdom should be put to good use today, not kept in a stasis field in a stone pyramid, waiting for SOMEDAY.”
He paused, his gaze drifting to the dimly lit corners of the chamber, as if trying to put his thoughts in order. “Waiting for someone who ‘needs it most’ but may or may not even want it, and may or may not even use it. Emperor Prosak is an evil leader of a hostile empire, who built and maintained his kingdom with an army that’s killed hundreds of thousands to keep it in line.”
The Seer remained silent, his expression calm but attentive, allowing Knight One to continue.
His voice grew sharper, edged with frustration. “You want to hand over the Orb to a man who could be dethroned by his own people the second he’s perceived as weak instead of ruthless. You think Prosek can be transformed into some kind of enlightened leader, but he rules through fear and oppression. His nation’s stability is built on a foundation of control. What happens when you remove that control? What happens when that fear turns on him?”
He took a step closer to the Seer, his eyes fierce. “I’ll tell you what happens: a coup d’état. Or worse, a revolution like the French Revolution of 1789. Prosek suddenly starts making ‘wise’ decisions and his people will see it as a betrayal of everything he’s ever stood for. They’ll tear him apart for it. That’s not the end of the war; that’s the beginning of a new one.”
The Seer’s expression remained calm, though his eyes were filled with a quiet sadness. “You are right to be cautious. The risk is great. But the Orb’s wisdom is not about making Prosek a softer leader. It is about showing him the true consequences of his actions. About breaking through the wall of hatred and fear that he has built around himself.”
Knight One shook his head. “And what if that breaks him? What if the sudden clarity drives him mad, or he crumbles under the weight of his guilt? You think his people will follow him down that path? No. They’ll see weakness, and they’ll turn on him in a heartbeat.”
The Seer sighed softly, his gaze distant, as if seeing something far beyond the room they stood in. “Perhaps. But wisdom is a gift that must be offered, even if it is not always accepted. The Orb seeks out those whose hearts are most in need, even if they are unwilling or unaware.”
Knight One’s voice was filled with bitter resolve. “You’re gambling everything on the hope that Prosek will be the one in a million who actually changes. But the world doesn’t work like that. People like him don’t change. They just get more dangerous.”
He took another step forward, his presence towering over the Seer, his words like a challenge. “If you really want to use the Orb for good, then it has to be given to someone who’s already trying to make things better—someone who wants to protect the innocent, not a dictator who’s built his Empire on blood.”
The Seer’s eyes met his, unflinching. “And who would you choose, Knight One?”
Knight One hesitated for a moment, then spoke with conviction. “King Creed. Archduke Sigil. A Dragon King of Freehold. Hell, even Lord Dunscuan. Any one of them would use the Orb’s wisdom to actually protect people, to guide their followers, to stop the Coalition from burning everything in its path.”
The Seer tilted his head slightly.
Knight One’s jaw clenched, his frustration mounting. “You want to change the fate of the world, but you’re putting everything on the shoulders of a man who could snap under the pressure. Prosek is a tyrant, but his people are xealots. If he falters, they’ll replace him with someone worse, someone who won’t hesitate to turn the full force of the Coalition against every corner of this continent.”
The Seer’s expression softened, his voice filled with quiet compassion. “And what would you do? If you held the Orb in your hands, where would you take it?”
Knight One’s eyes burned with intensity. “I’d take it to someone who wants it. Someone who would use it for the right reasons. You talk about offering wisdom, but you want to force it on a man who doesn’t want to see it. Prosek will fight you, tooth and nail, and even if he’s changed, his empire won’t.”
The Seer nodded slowly, his gaze thoughtful. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps this is a dangerous gamble. But if there is even the slightest chance that Prosek can be changed, then it is a chance we must take. Because if he is not, this war will consume everything. And then, there will be no peace left to protect.”
Knight One shook his head, his voice filled with determination. “I’m not betting the future, my life and the lives of my people, on a ‘maybe.’ If you want my help, you’ll agree to my terms. We use the Orb as soon as we have it, with someone who knows what it is and consents to it. Not someday. Not in some theoretical future where Prosek has a change of heart. Now.”
The Seer’s eyes shone with a strange light, a mixture of hope and sorrow. “And if we refuse? If we believe that Prosek is the one most in need of this gift?”
Knight One’s voice was firm, unyielding. “Then you’re on your own. I won’t lead my men into a suicide mission for a plan I don’t believe in. If the Orb falls into Coalition hands, it’s lost forever. Better to use it today, to make a real difference, than to gamble it all on one man who could destroy everything you’ve worked for.”
The Seer was silent for a long time, his gaze locked on Knight One’s, as if searching for something in his eyes. Finally, he nodded, his voice soft and resigned. “Very well. We will do as you ask. We will use the Orb, as you suggest.”
Knight One’s shoulders relaxed, a faint smile crossing his lips. “Then let’s get started. We’ve wasted enough time already.”
As he turned to leave, the Seer’s voice stopped him. “And… remember this: Wisdom is not always about what we believe to be right. It is about what is necessary. I hope, for all our sakes, that your path is the one that brings us peace.”
Knight One didn’t look back as he walked away, his mind set, his heart steeled for the challenges ahead. He knew the risks, but he also knew that some chances were too dangerous to take. And in a world on the brink of destruction, he would fight for a future that was real, tangible, and within reach.
Because sometimes, the greatest wisdom was knowing when to walk away from the impossible.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Skele-bot Assault
The moon hung low in the night sky, casting an eerie silver glow over the town of Solomon.
Beyond the town’s perimeter, the darkened treeline concealed the cold, mechanical forms of 100 Skele-bots, their skeletal frames glinting ominously as they readied themselves for the assault.
“Operation commencing. Objective: Secure the enemy position,” echoed the Skele-bot command channel in a chorus of synthetic voices.
The machines moved with a terrifying precision, advancing in perfect unison. Their eyes, glowing with a cold blue light, scanned the landscape ahead, collecting data and marking targets. The lead units began their approach, marching steadily through the fields, their metal feet crunching over the frosted grass. A few adjusted their rifles, mechanical limbs moving with seamless efficiency. Others switched to thermal imaging, searching for the heat signatures of the soldiers hidden behind barricades and in the trenches beyond.
The defensive line, an uneven mix of sandbags, overturned vehicles, and foxholes, was bristling with tension. Soldiers gripped their energy rifles tightly, hearts pounding as they watched the advancing line of deathly figures. The silence was broken only by the distant sound of the Skele-bots servos and the faint crackle of static over the platoon’s radios.
Suddenly, a burst of energy fire erupts from a fortified position to the east. A lone soldier, unable to contain his fear, squeezed the trigger and sent a volley of energy bolts toward the advancing machines. The Skele-bots reacted instantly. “Return fire,” came the directive, calm and unwavering.
A dozen Skele-bots pivoted as one, their rifles discharging beams of searing light that ripped through the air with lethal accuracy. The defensive position was illuminated by the flash of explosions as sandbags erupted and the soldier fell silent, his body limp.
As the Skele-bots continued their relentless run forward, they encountered the first line of obstacles—barbed wire entanglements and barricades. Without hesitation, the front line units deployed integrated Vibro-Sabers from their forearms, slicing through the wire as if it were nothing more than paper. Others cut through metal barricades, creating pathways for the advancing force.
The defenders opened fire, a furious storm of red and blue bolts lancing out toward the advancing Skele-bots. The machines, unfazed by the incoming fire, methodically targeted the sources of the resistance. Their combat computers calculated trajectories and adjusted their aim with inhuman precision.
They have no fear.
Defensive positions were systematically neutralized, each burst of fire from the soldiers answered with an overwhelming volley from the advancing horde.
“Attention. Surrender or retreat.” The robotic voice, devoid of emotion, echoed across the battlefield from the Skele-bot commander at the rear.
Some soldiers, their nerves shattered, began to break. A group sprinted away from the line, abandoning their posts. The Skele-bots, adhering to their programming, ignored them, advancing toward the town’s center. Others, clinging to their resolve, continued to fire desperately, their weapons blazing even as the machines closed the distance.
One Skele-bot, its rifle still smoking, leapt over a barricade and landed in the midst of a small squad of soldiers. They recoiled in horror as the machine swung its retractable saber into position, the blade gleaming in the pale moonlight. It slashed through the air, forcing the soldiers to scatter.
“Surrender,” it intoned, leveling its rifle at the nearest man. Trembling, the soldier raised his hands, his weapon clattering to the ground.
Nearby, another Skele-bot squad was sweeping through a row of trenches. Soldiers, now cornered and overwhelmed, shouted frantically into their radios, calling for reinforcements that would never come.
One brave defender stood his ground, his rifle blazing until a single, precise shot from a Skele-bot’s rifle struck him down. The machines stepped over his fallen form, continuing their advance without pause.
The Skele-bots reached the town square, their presence marked by the rhythmic thudding of their metallic feet. Some units moved to secure key buildings, while others fanned out to establish a perimeter. The resistance was crumbling, the remaining soldiers either dead, captured, or fleeing into the night.
In the center of the square, a group of surviving defenders, a mix of battered and bloodied men and women, stood with their hands raised, their faces pale in the harsh light of the Skele-bots’ optics. The machines surrounded them, weapons at the ready but silent.
“Surrender acknowledged.
……
Remain still.”
The Skele-bots formed a tight cordon around the prisoners, securing the area as other units continued to sweep through the town.
The Skele-bots, cold and relentless, had completed their mission. Ashcroft, once a town brimming with hope and defiance, now its defenders defeated and its fate in the mechanical grip of the Coalition’s skeletal soldiers.
Mystic Knights Assault
The silence in the town square was shattered by a brilliant flash of energy. Four figures emerged from the shadows, striding confidently into the area left by the Skele-bot assault. Their eyes glowing with an eerie blue light as they surveyed the battlefield. Dressed in combat fatigues and steel-toed boots, they looked human.
The Skele-bots, scattered across the square in defensive positions, turned their heads in unison to face the new threat. Weapons raised, they targeted the intruders and opened fire, a barrage of laser blasts streaking through the night. The Mystic Knights, however, didn’t even flinch as the searing bolts struck them, harmlessly dispersing into shimmering waves of light against their bodies. Only their clothing suffered, singed and smoldering from the energy, but their expressions remained calm and confident.
As if on cue, the first Knight raised his rifle, but instead of bullets or lasers, twin beams of energy erupted from his eyes, shooting straight at a nearby Skele-bot. The beams pierced through the air with a crackling roar, striking the robot's head with pinpoint accuracy. The metal skull imploded, sparks and circuitry exploding outward as the machine crumpled to the ground, its body twitching in a lifeless heap.
“One down,” he muttered, the glow in his eyes intensifying.
The Skele-bots, now recognizing the threat, redirected their focus. Dozens of rifles pivoted towards the Mystic Knights, unleashing a relentless storm of laser fire. But the Knights moved through the barrage as if walking through a summer rain, the blasts splashing harmlessly against them. The only sign of the attack was the smoldering holes appearing in their fatigues, revealing unscathed skin beneath.
The second Knight joined the fray, a smirk playing on his lips as he aimed his rifle at a cluster of Skele-bots. Again, searing bolts of magical energy shot from his eyes, each blast timed perfectly, two seconds apart. The first struck a Skele-bot’s head, and before it even hit the ground, the second bolt smashed into the next target. The machines fell like dominos, their heads sparking and smoking as they collapsed, disabled and broken.
The third and fourth Knights moved in tandem, sweeping through the square in a deadly dance. Their eyes pulsed with lethal energy, each blast striking with devastating precision. They hardly bothered to use their rifles for cover, the weapons clutched more as props than tools of war. Every two seconds, another Skele-bot fell, its head shattered by the overwhelming force of the arcane bolts.
“Keep them coming,” the third Knight laughed, dodging around a line of fallen machines. “We could do this all night!”
A Skele-bot, trying to adapt to the impossible situation, surged forward with its saber extended, aiming for the nearest Knight. The blade swung down in a vicious arc barely missing him before Knight Three leapt back.
The Knight turned, eyes blazing, and fired point-blank into the Skele-bot’s face. The head exploded in a shower of sparks, and the machine toppled over, its body still twitching with residual energy.
“Nice try,” he muttered, brushing off the spot where the saber just missed. “But you’ll have to do better than that.”
The Skele-bots, realizing the futility of their attack, attempted to regroup, forming defensive lines and focusing fire in coordinated volleys. The Mystic Knights merely strode forward, their expressions bored, as if this were nothing more than a training exercise.
Each blast of their magic was precise, calculated. Heads exploded in showers of metal and circuitry, and the once-proud machines were reduced to smoldering heaps littering the square.
In the midst of the carnage, the fourth Knight stopped, surveying the battlefield with a critical eye. “We’ve almost got them,” he said, his voice calm despite the chaos around him. “Let’s finish this.”
The other three nodded, and together they raised their rifles, energy blazing from their eyes in unison. The coordinated assault was devastating. Skele-bot after Skele-bot crumpled under the relentless bombardment, their heads obliterated in flashes of blinding light.
In a matter of minutes, the square was silent once more, the last of the Skele-bots lying disabled and shattered across the ground. The Mystic Knights stood amidst the wreckage, their clothes singed and torn, but their expressions triumphant.
“Well, that was disappointing,” the Knight One said, his eyes fading back to their normal color. “I thought these things were supposed to be tough.”
The Knight Two shrugged, looking around at the destroyed machines.
Knight Three, “They’re just toys. Let’s make sure the place is clear before we report back.”
As they moved through the ruins of the town square, stepping over broken metal and scorched earth, the once overwhelming presence of the Skele-bots was reduced to nothing more than scrap. The defenders, those few who had survived, watched in awe and disbelief from their hiding places as the Mystic Knights, seemingly invincible, casually dismantled the remains of the Coalition's fearsome enforcers.
With the Skele-bot threat neutralized, the Mystic Knights paused at the edge of the square, looking back at the devastation they had wrought.
“Secure the position,” the leader commanded, his voice steady. “We’re taking it back.”
And with that, they fanned out, their eyes still glowing faintly in the darkness, ready to ensure that no machine, no matter how advanced, would challenge them again.
---
The shattered remains of Skele-bots lay strewn across the town square, sparking under the cold moonlight. The four Mystic Knights, standing amidst the wreckage, turned their attention to a small, battered radio clutched in the hand of a wounded soldier. The crackling voice on the other end was urgent, filled with desperation.
“This is Alpha Team, we need reinforcements! Skele-bots are advancing on our position—multiple hostiles! We can’t hold them back much longer!”
The Mystic Knights exchanged quick glances. They were still pulsing with energy from the recent battle, their eyes glowing faintly as they absorbed the information. Knight One, nodded slowly, a plan forming in his mind.
“They’re not finished yet,” he murmured. “We need to get there, now.”
Closing his eyes, he lifted his arms slightly, palms open to the air. The others followed suit, their expressions turning focused and intense. They stood perfectly still, feeling the hum of power beneath them, the pulse of the ley line. The energy thrummed through their bodies, a living force connecting them to the very fabric of the world.
The leader whispered. “Focus on the Ley Line. Feel it. Let it guide you.”
A soft blue light began to shimmer around them, growing brighter with each passing second. The air crackled with raw magical energy, swirling around their forms like an invisible storm. They were no longer standing on solid ground but on the edge of a vast, unseen current of power stretching out in all directions.
With a final, unified breath, the Mystic Knights vanished.
They reappeared in a flash of light high above the battlefield, suspended in the air at the apex of the ley line’s towering reach. For a brief moment, they hung there, weightless, looking down at the scene unfolding below. The ley line, a glowing ribbon of energy, stretched out beneath them, winding its way through the landscape like a celestial river.
“There,” the leader pointed, spotting the beleaguered Alpha Team. The soldiers were entrenched in a narrow ravine, their position surrounded by a swarm of Skele-bots. The mechanical enforcers moved in precise, calculated lines, their weapons blazing as they closed in on the desperate defenders.
The Mystic Knights focused, visualizing their destination just above the ground near the ravine’s edge. With a pulse of energy, they vanished again, reappearing in a blur of motion directly behind the Skele-bots’ formation.
The air shimmered as they materialized, the soundless teleportation complete in an instant. The Skele-bots, momentarily confused by the sudden presence, hesitated for a fraction of a second—just long enough.
“Engage,” the leader barked, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade.
In perfect synchronization, the Knights raised their rifles, not as weapons but as extensions of their power. Beams of pure, concentrated energy erupted from their eyes, each blast striking with surgical precision. Heads of Skele-bots exploded one after another, sparks flying as the machines crumpled to the ground.
The Skele-bots turned, their targeting systems locking onto the new threat. A barrage of laser fire erupted from their rifles, filling the air with a lethal storm of red light. But the Knights moved as if they were dancing, each step fluid and purposeful, the beams harmlessly barraged their arms and chests. Only their clothes showed the signs of battle, singed and torn, but the men beneath were untouched, their expressions calm and focused.
The Knight Two, a broad-shouldered figure with a fierce gaze, teleported mid-stride, reappearing directly in front of a group of Skele-bots. With a quick glance, he unleashed twin bolts of energy, each one tearing through the heads of his targets in a burst of sparks. The machines collapsed around him, and before the others could react, he phased again, vanishing into thin air.
He reappeared above, suspended momentarily in the sky like a dark, vengeful angel. From his vantage point, he unleashed a rain of energy blasts, each one striking true. The Skele-bots below crumpled and fell, their bodies sparking and twitching in the dirt.
“Keep moving!” the Knight Three shouted, his voice carrying over the din. He blinked out of existence and reappeared behind a cluster of Skele-bots trying to flank the ravine. Before they could turn, he swept his hand in a wide arc, his eyes blazing. A wave of pure force exploded from his gaze, catching the machines in its path and ripping them apart like paper in a hurricane.
The leader of the Knights focused on the center of the Skele-bot formation. He teleported directly into their midst, the machines’ sensors momentarily overloaded by his sudden arrival. He raised his rifle, but it was just a prop—the real weapon was the searing energy that poured from his eyes, scything through the ranks of machines in devastating arcs.
Skele-bot mechanically, raising its rifle to fire at point-blank range.
The Knight didn’t even blink. His gaze flared, and the Skele-bot’s head exploded in a shower of metal and sparks. It toppled backward, its rifle still clutched in a lifeless hand.
Around them, the remaining Skele-bots began to falter, their ranks thinning rapidly under the relentless onslaught. The Mystic Knights moved like shadows, teleporting from place to place, their attacks devastating and precise. The ground was littered with the wreckage of the once-imposing machines, their shattered forms testament to the Knights power nearby a Ley Line Nexus.
With one final, coordinated assault, the Knights converged on the last cluster of Skele-bots, their eyes blazing in unison. A blinding burst of energy erupted, and then all was silent.
---
The battlefield had grown eerily silent, the smoking remains of Skele-bots scattered across the town square. The Mystic Knights stood victorious, their eyes glowing faintly as they surveyed the aftermath of their assault. The soldiers they had rescued watched from a distance, still awestruck by the sheer power and precision of the Knights.
Suddenly, a low, rumbling roar filled the air, rapidly growing louder. The Knights turned as six Sky Cycles appeared over the horizon, their sleek, angular forms cutting through the night sky. The cycles sped toward the town at incredible speed, their engines emitting a high-pitched whine as they descended to treetop level. Their laser guns glowed ominously, and the missile pods under their wings were primed for attack.
The leader of the Mystic Knights narrowed his eyes, sensing the imminent threat. “Incoming! Defensive positions!” he shouted, his voice calm but commanding.
The Knight Two, a towering figure with a scar across his cheek, stepped forward, his eyes glowing with a fierce blue light. He raised his hands, and the air around him shimmered as he called upon his magic. “Deflect,” he intoned, his voice resonating with supernatural power.
A translucent energy field, barely visible but humming with power, formed in his hands just as the Sky Cycles unleashed their barrage. Six missiles streaked through the air, trailing plumes of white smoke as they arced toward the Knights.
The Deflect spell quickly veered the missles wildly off course as if swatted aside by an invisible hand. Each one detonated harmlessly on the ground, fiery explosions blossoming several dozen yards away from the Knights.
The blasts sent dirt and debris flying, and a few nearby buildings trembled under the shockwaves. The soldiers, huddled behind cover, ducked and covered their heads as the concussive force rippled through the air. One soldier, glancing up in awe, muttered, “How the hell did they do that?”
The Knight Two who had cast the spell held his ground. He gritted his teeth, as the Sky Cycles, seeing their missiles diverted, switched to their laser cannons. Red beams lanced out from the cycles, crisscrossing the battlefield as they targeted the Knights.
The Knight Three, a lean figure with sharp eyes and a wicked grin. Before the pilot could react, he fired twin beams of energy from his eyes. The shots struck the Sky Cycle's cockpit, and the vehicle spiraled out of control, the pilot barely managing to eject before the craft crashed into the ground in a fiery explosion.
“Nice try,” the Knight sneered.
The Knight One, the leader, conjours a flaming meteor that comes plunging from the sky above striking the cycle. The craft exploded in a brilliant fireball, shrapnel raining down as it plummeted to the earth.
The remaining Sky Cycles swooped low, lasers blazing as they tried to pin down the Knights. But the Mystic Knights stood and took the laser fire.
The fourth Knight, a powerful-looking figure with short-cropped hair, caught the Sky Cycle in mid-flight with a magic Net spell causing him to spiral out of control and crash his sky cycle.
The two remaining Sky Cycles pulled back, their pilots realizing they were up against something far beyond their capabilities. But the Knights were relentless.
The pilots desperately trying to flee, were caught in the crosshairs of Knights One, Two and Three. Their eyes glowed brighter as he took careful aim.
“Not so fast,” he muttered, unleashing a devastating blast. The beam struck the cycle’s rear, and it exploded in a brilliant flash, sending debris raining down across the fields.
Silence fell once more over the battlefield, the air thick with smoke and the acrid smell of burning metal. The Mystic Knights stood amidst the wreckage, their expressions calm and collected, as if the battle had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
Knight Two lowered his hands, the shimmering energy of the Deflect spell dissipating into the air. He glanced around at his comrades, a satisfied smirk on his lips.
The leader nodded, his gaze sweeping over the field. “They’ll send more. They won’t give up this position so easily.”
He turned to the soldiers, who were cautiously emerging from cover, their faces filled with a mix of awe and gratitude.
“Get your wounded out of here and regroup. We’ll hold this position as long as we can,” the leader said, his voice steady and commanding.
The soldiers nodded, quickly moving to follow his orders. As they hurried to evacuate the injured and secure the area, the Mystic Knights turned their attention back to the horizon, where the faint glow of Coalition reinforcements could be seen in the distance.
The battlefield, moments ago filled with the roar of weapons and the clatter of metal on stone, was now eerily quiet. The Mystic Knights stood amidst the wreckage, their eyes slowly dimming back to normal as they surveyed the scene. Alpha Team, stunned and disbelieving, emerged cautiously from their battered positions.
“You’re safe now,” the leader of the Knights said calmly, lowering his rifle. “The Skele-bots are finished.”
The soldiers stared, a mix of awe and relief on their faces. The Mystic Knights, dressed in torn fatigues but utterly unscathed, had turned the tide of battle in mere moments, their mastery of the ley line and their devastating power reducing the Coalition’s most fearsome enforcers to scrap metal.
“We’ll secure the area,” the leader continued, his voice steady and commanding. “Make sure no more surprises come your way.”
The Knights moved off, their presence a tangible force of power and protection. As they began their sweep of the battlefield, the soldiers of Alpha Team watched in silent respect, knowing they had just witnessed something extraordinary.
The moon hung low in the night sky, casting an eerie silver glow over the town of Solomon.
Beyond the town’s perimeter, the darkened treeline concealed the cold, mechanical forms of 100 Skele-bots, their skeletal frames glinting ominously as they readied themselves for the assault.
“Operation commencing. Objective: Secure the enemy position,” echoed the Skele-bot command channel in a chorus of synthetic voices.
The machines moved with a terrifying precision, advancing in perfect unison. Their eyes, glowing with a cold blue light, scanned the landscape ahead, collecting data and marking targets. The lead units began their approach, marching steadily through the fields, their metal feet crunching over the frosted grass. A few adjusted their rifles, mechanical limbs moving with seamless efficiency. Others switched to thermal imaging, searching for the heat signatures of the soldiers hidden behind barricades and in the trenches beyond.
The defensive line, an uneven mix of sandbags, overturned vehicles, and foxholes, was bristling with tension. Soldiers gripped their energy rifles tightly, hearts pounding as they watched the advancing line of deathly figures. The silence was broken only by the distant sound of the Skele-bots servos and the faint crackle of static over the platoon’s radios.
Suddenly, a burst of energy fire erupts from a fortified position to the east. A lone soldier, unable to contain his fear, squeezed the trigger and sent a volley of energy bolts toward the advancing machines. The Skele-bots reacted instantly. “Return fire,” came the directive, calm and unwavering.
A dozen Skele-bots pivoted as one, their rifles discharging beams of searing light that ripped through the air with lethal accuracy. The defensive position was illuminated by the flash of explosions as sandbags erupted and the soldier fell silent, his body limp.
As the Skele-bots continued their relentless run forward, they encountered the first line of obstacles—barbed wire entanglements and barricades. Without hesitation, the front line units deployed integrated Vibro-Sabers from their forearms, slicing through the wire as if it were nothing more than paper. Others cut through metal barricades, creating pathways for the advancing force.
The defenders opened fire, a furious storm of red and blue bolts lancing out toward the advancing Skele-bots. The machines, unfazed by the incoming fire, methodically targeted the sources of the resistance. Their combat computers calculated trajectories and adjusted their aim with inhuman precision.
They have no fear.
Defensive positions were systematically neutralized, each burst of fire from the soldiers answered with an overwhelming volley from the advancing horde.
“Attention. Surrender or retreat.” The robotic voice, devoid of emotion, echoed across the battlefield from the Skele-bot commander at the rear.
Some soldiers, their nerves shattered, began to break. A group sprinted away from the line, abandoning their posts. The Skele-bots, adhering to their programming, ignored them, advancing toward the town’s center. Others, clinging to their resolve, continued to fire desperately, their weapons blazing even as the machines closed the distance.
One Skele-bot, its rifle still smoking, leapt over a barricade and landed in the midst of a small squad of soldiers. They recoiled in horror as the machine swung its retractable saber into position, the blade gleaming in the pale moonlight. It slashed through the air, forcing the soldiers to scatter.
“Surrender,” it intoned, leveling its rifle at the nearest man. Trembling, the soldier raised his hands, his weapon clattering to the ground.
Nearby, another Skele-bot squad was sweeping through a row of trenches. Soldiers, now cornered and overwhelmed, shouted frantically into their radios, calling for reinforcements that would never come.
One brave defender stood his ground, his rifle blazing until a single, precise shot from a Skele-bot’s rifle struck him down. The machines stepped over his fallen form, continuing their advance without pause.
The Skele-bots reached the town square, their presence marked by the rhythmic thudding of their metallic feet. Some units moved to secure key buildings, while others fanned out to establish a perimeter. The resistance was crumbling, the remaining soldiers either dead, captured, or fleeing into the night.
In the center of the square, a group of surviving defenders, a mix of battered and bloodied men and women, stood with their hands raised, their faces pale in the harsh light of the Skele-bots’ optics. The machines surrounded them, weapons at the ready but silent.
“Surrender acknowledged.
……
Remain still.”
The Skele-bots formed a tight cordon around the prisoners, securing the area as other units continued to sweep through the town.
The Skele-bots, cold and relentless, had completed their mission. Ashcroft, once a town brimming with hope and defiance, now its defenders defeated and its fate in the mechanical grip of the Coalition’s skeletal soldiers.
Mystic Knights Assault
The silence in the town square was shattered by a brilliant flash of energy. Four figures emerged from the shadows, striding confidently into the area left by the Skele-bot assault. Their eyes glowing with an eerie blue light as they surveyed the battlefield. Dressed in combat fatigues and steel-toed boots, they looked human.
The Skele-bots, scattered across the square in defensive positions, turned their heads in unison to face the new threat. Weapons raised, they targeted the intruders and opened fire, a barrage of laser blasts streaking through the night. The Mystic Knights, however, didn’t even flinch as the searing bolts struck them, harmlessly dispersing into shimmering waves of light against their bodies. Only their clothing suffered, singed and smoldering from the energy, but their expressions remained calm and confident.
As if on cue, the first Knight raised his rifle, but instead of bullets or lasers, twin beams of energy erupted from his eyes, shooting straight at a nearby Skele-bot. The beams pierced through the air with a crackling roar, striking the robot's head with pinpoint accuracy. The metal skull imploded, sparks and circuitry exploding outward as the machine crumpled to the ground, its body twitching in a lifeless heap.
“One down,” he muttered, the glow in his eyes intensifying.
The Skele-bots, now recognizing the threat, redirected their focus. Dozens of rifles pivoted towards the Mystic Knights, unleashing a relentless storm of laser fire. But the Knights moved through the barrage as if walking through a summer rain, the blasts splashing harmlessly against them. The only sign of the attack was the smoldering holes appearing in their fatigues, revealing unscathed skin beneath.
The second Knight joined the fray, a smirk playing on his lips as he aimed his rifle at a cluster of Skele-bots. Again, searing bolts of magical energy shot from his eyes, each blast timed perfectly, two seconds apart. The first struck a Skele-bot’s head, and before it even hit the ground, the second bolt smashed into the next target. The machines fell like dominos, their heads sparking and smoking as they collapsed, disabled and broken.
The third and fourth Knights moved in tandem, sweeping through the square in a deadly dance. Their eyes pulsed with lethal energy, each blast striking with devastating precision. They hardly bothered to use their rifles for cover, the weapons clutched more as props than tools of war. Every two seconds, another Skele-bot fell, its head shattered by the overwhelming force of the arcane bolts.
“Keep them coming,” the third Knight laughed, dodging around a line of fallen machines. “We could do this all night!”
A Skele-bot, trying to adapt to the impossible situation, surged forward with its saber extended, aiming for the nearest Knight. The blade swung down in a vicious arc barely missing him before Knight Three leapt back.
The Knight turned, eyes blazing, and fired point-blank into the Skele-bot’s face. The head exploded in a shower of sparks, and the machine toppled over, its body still twitching with residual energy.
“Nice try,” he muttered, brushing off the spot where the saber just missed. “But you’ll have to do better than that.”
The Skele-bots, realizing the futility of their attack, attempted to regroup, forming defensive lines and focusing fire in coordinated volleys. The Mystic Knights merely strode forward, their expressions bored, as if this were nothing more than a training exercise.
Each blast of their magic was precise, calculated. Heads exploded in showers of metal and circuitry, and the once-proud machines were reduced to smoldering heaps littering the square.
In the midst of the carnage, the fourth Knight stopped, surveying the battlefield with a critical eye. “We’ve almost got them,” he said, his voice calm despite the chaos around him. “Let’s finish this.”
The other three nodded, and together they raised their rifles, energy blazing from their eyes in unison. The coordinated assault was devastating. Skele-bot after Skele-bot crumpled under the relentless bombardment, their heads obliterated in flashes of blinding light.
In a matter of minutes, the square was silent once more, the last of the Skele-bots lying disabled and shattered across the ground. The Mystic Knights stood amidst the wreckage, their clothes singed and torn, but their expressions triumphant.
“Well, that was disappointing,” the Knight One said, his eyes fading back to their normal color. “I thought these things were supposed to be tough.”
The Knight Two shrugged, looking around at the destroyed machines.
Knight Three, “They’re just toys. Let’s make sure the place is clear before we report back.”
As they moved through the ruins of the town square, stepping over broken metal and scorched earth, the once overwhelming presence of the Skele-bots was reduced to nothing more than scrap. The defenders, those few who had survived, watched in awe and disbelief from their hiding places as the Mystic Knights, seemingly invincible, casually dismantled the remains of the Coalition's fearsome enforcers.
With the Skele-bot threat neutralized, the Mystic Knights paused at the edge of the square, looking back at the devastation they had wrought.
“Secure the position,” the leader commanded, his voice steady. “We’re taking it back.”
And with that, they fanned out, their eyes still glowing faintly in the darkness, ready to ensure that no machine, no matter how advanced, would challenge them again.
---
The shattered remains of Skele-bots lay strewn across the town square, sparking under the cold moonlight. The four Mystic Knights, standing amidst the wreckage, turned their attention to a small, battered radio clutched in the hand of a wounded soldier. The crackling voice on the other end was urgent, filled with desperation.
“This is Alpha Team, we need reinforcements! Skele-bots are advancing on our position—multiple hostiles! We can’t hold them back much longer!”
The Mystic Knights exchanged quick glances. They were still pulsing with energy from the recent battle, their eyes glowing faintly as they absorbed the information. Knight One, nodded slowly, a plan forming in his mind.
“They’re not finished yet,” he murmured. “We need to get there, now.”
Closing his eyes, he lifted his arms slightly, palms open to the air. The others followed suit, their expressions turning focused and intense. They stood perfectly still, feeling the hum of power beneath them, the pulse of the ley line. The energy thrummed through their bodies, a living force connecting them to the very fabric of the world.
The leader whispered. “Focus on the Ley Line. Feel it. Let it guide you.”
A soft blue light began to shimmer around them, growing brighter with each passing second. The air crackled with raw magical energy, swirling around their forms like an invisible storm. They were no longer standing on solid ground but on the edge of a vast, unseen current of power stretching out in all directions.
With a final, unified breath, the Mystic Knights vanished.
They reappeared in a flash of light high above the battlefield, suspended in the air at the apex of the ley line’s towering reach. For a brief moment, they hung there, weightless, looking down at the scene unfolding below. The ley line, a glowing ribbon of energy, stretched out beneath them, winding its way through the landscape like a celestial river.
“There,” the leader pointed, spotting the beleaguered Alpha Team. The soldiers were entrenched in a narrow ravine, their position surrounded by a swarm of Skele-bots. The mechanical enforcers moved in precise, calculated lines, their weapons blazing as they closed in on the desperate defenders.
The Mystic Knights focused, visualizing their destination just above the ground near the ravine’s edge. With a pulse of energy, they vanished again, reappearing in a blur of motion directly behind the Skele-bots’ formation.
The air shimmered as they materialized, the soundless teleportation complete in an instant. The Skele-bots, momentarily confused by the sudden presence, hesitated for a fraction of a second—just long enough.
“Engage,” the leader barked, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade.
In perfect synchronization, the Knights raised their rifles, not as weapons but as extensions of their power. Beams of pure, concentrated energy erupted from their eyes, each blast striking with surgical precision. Heads of Skele-bots exploded one after another, sparks flying as the machines crumpled to the ground.
The Skele-bots turned, their targeting systems locking onto the new threat. A barrage of laser fire erupted from their rifles, filling the air with a lethal storm of red light. But the Knights moved as if they were dancing, each step fluid and purposeful, the beams harmlessly barraged their arms and chests. Only their clothes showed the signs of battle, singed and torn, but the men beneath were untouched, their expressions calm and focused.
The Knight Two, a broad-shouldered figure with a fierce gaze, teleported mid-stride, reappearing directly in front of a group of Skele-bots. With a quick glance, he unleashed twin bolts of energy, each one tearing through the heads of his targets in a burst of sparks. The machines collapsed around him, and before the others could react, he phased again, vanishing into thin air.
He reappeared above, suspended momentarily in the sky like a dark, vengeful angel. From his vantage point, he unleashed a rain of energy blasts, each one striking true. The Skele-bots below crumpled and fell, their bodies sparking and twitching in the dirt.
“Keep moving!” the Knight Three shouted, his voice carrying over the din. He blinked out of existence and reappeared behind a cluster of Skele-bots trying to flank the ravine. Before they could turn, he swept his hand in a wide arc, his eyes blazing. A wave of pure force exploded from his gaze, catching the machines in its path and ripping them apart like paper in a hurricane.
The leader of the Knights focused on the center of the Skele-bot formation. He teleported directly into their midst, the machines’ sensors momentarily overloaded by his sudden arrival. He raised his rifle, but it was just a prop—the real weapon was the searing energy that poured from his eyes, scything through the ranks of machines in devastating arcs.
Skele-bot mechanically, raising its rifle to fire at point-blank range.
The Knight didn’t even blink. His gaze flared, and the Skele-bot’s head exploded in a shower of metal and sparks. It toppled backward, its rifle still clutched in a lifeless hand.
Around them, the remaining Skele-bots began to falter, their ranks thinning rapidly under the relentless onslaught. The Mystic Knights moved like shadows, teleporting from place to place, their attacks devastating and precise. The ground was littered with the wreckage of the once-imposing machines, their shattered forms testament to the Knights power nearby a Ley Line Nexus.
With one final, coordinated assault, the Knights converged on the last cluster of Skele-bots, their eyes blazing in unison. A blinding burst of energy erupted, and then all was silent.
---
The battlefield had grown eerily silent, the smoking remains of Skele-bots scattered across the town square. The Mystic Knights stood victorious, their eyes glowing faintly as they surveyed the aftermath of their assault. The soldiers they had rescued watched from a distance, still awestruck by the sheer power and precision of the Knights.
Suddenly, a low, rumbling roar filled the air, rapidly growing louder. The Knights turned as six Sky Cycles appeared over the horizon, their sleek, angular forms cutting through the night sky. The cycles sped toward the town at incredible speed, their engines emitting a high-pitched whine as they descended to treetop level. Their laser guns glowed ominously, and the missile pods under their wings were primed for attack.
The leader of the Mystic Knights narrowed his eyes, sensing the imminent threat. “Incoming! Defensive positions!” he shouted, his voice calm but commanding.
The Knight Two, a towering figure with a scar across his cheek, stepped forward, his eyes glowing with a fierce blue light. He raised his hands, and the air around him shimmered as he called upon his magic. “Deflect,” he intoned, his voice resonating with supernatural power.
A translucent energy field, barely visible but humming with power, formed in his hands just as the Sky Cycles unleashed their barrage. Six missiles streaked through the air, trailing plumes of white smoke as they arced toward the Knights.
The Deflect spell quickly veered the missles wildly off course as if swatted aside by an invisible hand. Each one detonated harmlessly on the ground, fiery explosions blossoming several dozen yards away from the Knights.
The blasts sent dirt and debris flying, and a few nearby buildings trembled under the shockwaves. The soldiers, huddled behind cover, ducked and covered their heads as the concussive force rippled through the air. One soldier, glancing up in awe, muttered, “How the hell did they do that?”
The Knight Two who had cast the spell held his ground. He gritted his teeth, as the Sky Cycles, seeing their missiles diverted, switched to their laser cannons. Red beams lanced out from the cycles, crisscrossing the battlefield as they targeted the Knights.
The Knight Three, a lean figure with sharp eyes and a wicked grin. Before the pilot could react, he fired twin beams of energy from his eyes. The shots struck the Sky Cycle's cockpit, and the vehicle spiraled out of control, the pilot barely managing to eject before the craft crashed into the ground in a fiery explosion.
“Nice try,” the Knight sneered.
The Knight One, the leader, conjours a flaming meteor that comes plunging from the sky above striking the cycle. The craft exploded in a brilliant fireball, shrapnel raining down as it plummeted to the earth.
The remaining Sky Cycles swooped low, lasers blazing as they tried to pin down the Knights. But the Mystic Knights stood and took the laser fire.
The fourth Knight, a powerful-looking figure with short-cropped hair, caught the Sky Cycle in mid-flight with a magic Net spell causing him to spiral out of control and crash his sky cycle.
The two remaining Sky Cycles pulled back, their pilots realizing they were up against something far beyond their capabilities. But the Knights were relentless.
The pilots desperately trying to flee, were caught in the crosshairs of Knights One, Two and Three. Their eyes glowed brighter as he took careful aim.
“Not so fast,” he muttered, unleashing a devastating blast. The beam struck the cycle’s rear, and it exploded in a brilliant flash, sending debris raining down across the fields.
Silence fell once more over the battlefield, the air thick with smoke and the acrid smell of burning metal. The Mystic Knights stood amidst the wreckage, their expressions calm and collected, as if the battle had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
Knight Two lowered his hands, the shimmering energy of the Deflect spell dissipating into the air. He glanced around at his comrades, a satisfied smirk on his lips.
The leader nodded, his gaze sweeping over the field. “They’ll send more. They won’t give up this position so easily.”
He turned to the soldiers, who were cautiously emerging from cover, their faces filled with a mix of awe and gratitude.
“Get your wounded out of here and regroup. We’ll hold this position as long as we can,” the leader said, his voice steady and commanding.
The soldiers nodded, quickly moving to follow his orders. As they hurried to evacuate the injured and secure the area, the Mystic Knights turned their attention back to the horizon, where the faint glow of Coalition reinforcements could be seen in the distance.
The battlefield, moments ago filled with the roar of weapons and the clatter of metal on stone, was now eerily quiet. The Mystic Knights stood amidst the wreckage, their eyes slowly dimming back to normal as they surveyed the scene. Alpha Team, stunned and disbelieving, emerged cautiously from their battered positions.
“You’re safe now,” the leader of the Knights said calmly, lowering his rifle. “The Skele-bots are finished.”
The soldiers stared, a mix of awe and relief on their faces. The Mystic Knights, dressed in torn fatigues but utterly unscathed, had turned the tide of battle in mere moments, their mastery of the ley line and their devastating power reducing the Coalition’s most fearsome enforcers to scrap metal.
“We’ll secure the area,” the leader continued, his voice steady and commanding. “Make sure no more surprises come your way.”
The Knights moved off, their presence a tangible force of power and protection. As they began their sweep of the battlefield, the soldiers of Alpha Team watched in silent respect, knowing they had just witnessed something extraordinary.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Somewhere over Canada
The enchanted carpet floated high above the snow-dusted wilderness, its colorful patterns a stark contrast against the endless expanse of white below. The five travelers huddled close together, wrapped in heavy cold-weather gear to ward off the biting chill of the high-altitude winds. The carpet moved steadily northward, gliding.
Knight One, the leader of the group, sat at the front, his posture straight and vigilant despite the long hours of travel. His piercing brown eyes scanned the horizon, ever watchful for signs of danger or opportunity. He wore a thick, dark parka and army fatigues, his face partially concealed by the hood and a scarf wrapped tightly against the cold. His gloved hand rested on his rifle, a habitual gesture of readiness.
Behind him, Knight Two and Knight Four exchanged quiet words, their voices barely audible over the rush of wind. They were checking their gear—ensuring that weapons were secure and packs were balanced. Every so often, they would glance at the landscape passing below: a vast, frozen tapestry of forests, rivers, and occasional mountain peaks. The sun, low in the winter sky, cast long shadows across the land, painting the snow in shades of gold and blue.
Knight Four, sitting at the rear of the carpet, leaned slightly closer to the woman beside him, a playful smile on his face. He was a lean, dark-haired man with an easy charm that seemed impervious to the cold. His fingers drummed lightly on his knee as he spoke, his voice carrying a light, teasing tone.
“You know, you’re making this journey almost as enjoyable as the view,” he said, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “And that’s saying something, considering the company.”
The woman beside him, dressed in layered furs and a silver-trimmed cloak, turned her head to give him a cool, appraising look. She was the Grey Seer, a powerful mystic whose eyes, an unnerving shade of stormy grey, marked her as someone who could see beyond the mundane. Her features were sharp and elegant, with a calm that hinted at the depths of her power. She arched an eyebrow, the hint of a smile touching her lips.
“I’m sure the company appreciates your dedication to keeping everyone entertained, Knight Four,” she replied dryly, though there was a glimmer of warmth in her eyes.
Knight Four chuckled and leaned back, his gaze shifting to the breathtaking vista around them. Below, a herd of caribou moved like shadows across the tundra, their antlers glinting in the fading light. He gestured to the view with a sweep of his hand.
“It’s hard to believe we’ll be in Alaska soon,” he said, his voice thoughtful now. “I wonder what kind of welcome we’ll get when we finally touch down.”
The Grey Seer looked out at the landscape, her expression growing more serious. “Hopefully a peaceful one,” she said softly. “But we’ll be ready for whatever comes.”
As the day wore on, the sky shifted from pale blue to a deep, dusky purple. The air grew colder, and Knight One raised a hand, signaling for them to prepare for landing. The carpet began a gentle descent, the wind swirling around them as they dropped toward a secluded clearing sheltered by a ring of snow-laden pines.
The landing was smooth, the carpet settling softly onto the snow. One by one, the knights dismounted, stretching stiff limbs and pulling their hoods tighter against the sudden stillness. The Grey Seer stepped off last, her boots crunching lightly in the snow.
Knight One moved quickly, his voice low and commanding. “Set up the tents. We have a few hours before we need to rest. Knight Four, you’re on watch first.”
The knights moved efficiently, casting spells of Sheltering Force tents in a semicircle around the clearing. Knight Two, flashed a quick salute before turning to keep watch, his sharp eyes scanning the perimeter.
Once the camp was secure, the group gathered in a small circle. Knight Two raised his hands, murmuring a few words in the arcane tongue. A soft, warm glow enveloped them, the spell Cleanse washing over their bodies. In an instant, the grime and fatigue of the long journey vanished, replaced by a sensation of warmth and renewal. Their clothes, freshly laundered, felt soft and clean against their skin.
The Grey Seer closed her eyes, savoring the magic’s touch. “It’s almost as good as a hot bath,” she murmured, a faint smile playing on her lips.
Knight One nodded, his expression softening as he looked around at his companions. “It’s a luxury we’re fortunate to have,” he said quietly. “But don’t get too comfortable. We’ll sleep four hours tonight. It’s a long flight tomorrow, and I want us rested and ready.”
The knights nodded, understanding the unspoken message. Alaska was close, and their mission—whatever awaited them there—would soon be upon them.
They settled into their tents, the walls glowing faintly. Outside, the night was silent except for the occasional whisper of wind through the trees. The stars shone brightly overhead, a glittering canopy that stretched infinitely across the dark sky.
Knight Four, his shift now underway, stood at the edge of the clearing, his breath misting in the cold air. He glanced back at the tents, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. He thought of the Grey Seer’s smile, her calm presence beside him on the carpet.
“Stay safe, everyone,” he murmured to the quiet night. Then he turned his gaze outward, scanning the shadowed forest for any sign of danger.
Above, the stars continued their silent watch, and the enchanted carpet, resting in the snow, seemed to pulse faintly with its own hidden magic, waiting for the dawn and the journey yet to come.
---
The first light of dawn crept over the horizon, casting a pale glow across the snow-covered landscape. In the small clearing where the knights had camped for the night, their breath rose in clouds of mist as they packed their gear and prepared for another day of travel. The enchanted carpet lay spread out on the ground, its vibrant colors muted in the soft, early morning light.
Knight Two knelt beside the carpet, his face intent as he studied an array of navigation instruments spread out before him. They were a curious collection of tools: an ornate brass astrolabe with intricate etchings, a sextant with polished lenses, and a strange compass whose needle spun in erratic patterns before settling on a specific point. Beside him, a rough, hand-drawn map of Canada, its surface marked with notes, symbols, and the faint lines of their journey so far.
He adjusted the sextant, aligning it with the faint silhouette of the North Star still visible in the morning sky. His brow furrowed in concentration as he measured the angle, then cross-referenced it with the astrolabe and compass. Satisfied, he took a charcoal pencil from his pocket and made a small, precise mark on the map.
“We’re here,” he said, tapping the map with the end of the pencil.
Knight Four, “About fifty miles northwest of the last ley line nexus. We’ve made good progress, but there’s still a long way to go. If the weather holds, we should be crossing into the Yukon by tomorrow night.”
Knight One, standing nearby with his arms crossed, nodded thoughtfully. “Good work. Keep us on course, and let me know if you see any anomalies in the ley line patterns. We can’t afford to be caught off guard by a storm.”
Knight Two nodded, quickly packing away his instruments with the practiced ease of someone who had done this countless times. “Understood. I’ll keep an eye out for anything unusual.”
The Grey Seer approached, her breath forming soft clouds in the cold morning air. “Are we still following the ley line route?” she asked, her voice calm and steady. “I can sense a strong flow of energy to the northwest.”
Knight Two glanced at his instruments again, then nodded. “Yes, we’re on track. The ley lines converge near the Alaskan border. That’s where we’ll find our best path. But this area is known for its Demons and Storms and other disturbances.”
She nodded, a thoughtful look in her eyes. “I’ll be ready,” she said quietly.
With their course set, the knights took their positions on the carpet. Knight One at the front, the Grey Seer in the center, and Knight Four at the back, his usual lighthearted demeanor replaced by a more serious focus. Knight Two settled in beside the Grey Seer, his navigation tools within easy reach.
“Let’s move out,” Knight One ordered, his voice firm but calm.
The carpet rose gently from the ground, hovering a few feet above the snow. Then, with a soft whoosh of magical energy, it surged forward, picking up speed as it lifted higher into the sky. The landscape blurred beneath them as they climbed to cruising altitude, the wind whistling softly around them as the carpet glided northward.
As they traveled, Knight Two kept his eyes on the instruments, occasionally marking their position on the map. He would glance up now and then, checking their progress against the terrain below. Snow-covered forests stretched out in all directions, broken only by the occasional frozen river or distant mountain range.
Despite the chill in the air, the view was breathtaking. The sun, now fully risen, cast a golden light over the landscape, making the snow sparkle like a sea of diamonds. Far below, a herd of elk moved slowly through the trees, their breath visible in the crisp morning air. The knights watched in silence, the beauty of the scene momentarily lifting the weight of their journey.
Knight Four, seated at the back of the carpet, leaned forward slightly, a playful grin returning to his face. “So, what do you think? I’ve seen some incredible sights, but this—this is something else.”
The Grey Seer turned her gaze from the passing scenery to him, a faint smile on her lips. “It is beautiful,” she agreed. “Even in these harsh lands, there is beauty to be found. It’s a reminder that, no matter how dark the world becomes, there is still light.”
Knight Four nodded, his grin softening into a more genuine smile. “Well said. And here I thought you were all about the doom and gloom of the future.”
She laughed softly, a sound like the ringing of a distant bell. “It’s not all doom and gloom. There’s always hope, even in the darkest times.”
They flew on, the conversation lightening the mood as the hours passed. The Grey Seer occasionally murmured a spell, her hands weaving through the air as she tested the flow of magic around them. Knight Two continued his careful navigation, his eyes flicking between the instruments and the map, ensuring they stayed on course.
The carpet sailed over endless stretches of forest, vast frozen lakes, and the occasional abandoned town—ruins from a time long past, half-buried in snow and ice. They passed over a ley line nexus, the ground below glowing faintly with mystical energy, and the carpet seemed to hum with renewed power as they crossed its path.
As the sun began to dip low in the sky, casting long shadows across the land, Knight Two looked up from his instruments.
Knight Four, “We should find a place to camp soon,” he said. “There’s a clearing about ten miles ahead. It looks sheltered and close to a small stream—good for setting up camp.”
Knight One nodded. “All right. We’ll land there for the night. Keep an eye on the weather patterns, everyone. We’re getting closer to Alaska, and things are bound to get more unpredictable.”
With a gentle dip, the carpet began its descent, gliding toward the designated clearing. As they approached, Knight One skillfully guided the carpet through the trees, the branches whipping past them in a blur of green and white.
The landing was smooth, the carpet settling softly onto the snow-covered ground. The knights dismounted quickly, stretching stiff limbs and breathing in the crisp evening air. The Grey Seer closed her eyes, reaching out with her senses to check for any hidden dangers or disturbances.
“All clear,” she said after a moment. “The area feels quiet. No signs of rift activity or supernatural presence.”
Knight One nodded, his gaze sweeping the clearing. “Good. Let’s set up camp and get some rest. Tomorrow, we push on to Alaska.”
The knights moved efficiently, setting up their tents and casting the Cleanse spell to refresh themselves. The soft glow of the spell washed over them, leaving their bodies warm and their clothes clean, as if they had just stepped out of a warm bath.
As the night deepened and the stars began to twinkle overhead, the knights gathered around a small, enchanted safe-fire, its blue flames flickering gently in the cold air. They spoke quietly, sharing stories and laughter, their camaraderie a warm light against the vast, dark wilderness surrounding them.
Above, the northern lights began to dance across the sky, ribbons of green and purple shimmering against the backdrop of stars. The knights watched in silence, the beauty of the moment filling them with a sense of peace and purpose.
Tomorrow, they would continue their journey, flying ever northward on their enchanted carpet, bound for the wilds of Alaska. But for now, they were content to rest and take in the wonder of the world around them, united in their mission and their friendship.
---
The morning sun rose over the snow-covered landscape, casting long shadows across the frozen wilderness. The knights awoke in their tents, stretching off the stiffness of another night on the cold ground. Despite the freezing temperatures, they moved with practiced efficiency, breaking down their camp and preparing for another day’s journey.
Knight One stretched and rolled his shoulders, feeling the familiar readiness settle into his muscles. They were close now—close to Alaska, to their destination, to the unknown challenges that awaited. He watched as Knight Two, already busy with his navigation instruments, carefully marked their position on the map spread out on the ground.
Knight One stood by the enchanted carpet, his breath visible in the frigid air as he surveyed their surroundings. The sky was clear, a brilliant blue stretching out overhead, and the forest around them was silent except for the occasional rustle of wind through the trees.
“All right, everyone, let’s get moving. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover today,” he said, his voice firm but calm. “We should be crossing into Alaska by midday if we keep a steady pace.”
The knights nodded, gathering their gear and securing it on the carpet. Knight Two, his instruments already laid out, knelt beside the carpet and began his morning routine. He carefully adjusted the sextant, aligning it with the sun as it climbed higher into the sky. The compass spun lazily, then snapped to a fixed point, and he made a quick notation on the rough map spread out before him.
“We’re on course,” he confirmed, marking their position.
Knight One, “The ley line we’re following will lead us directly to the border. From there, we’ll need to keep a close eye out for any anomalies or disruptions.”
Knight Four, standing nearby, glanced at the map, then at the horizon. “I hope we get a smoother ride today,” he said with a grin. “The winds were brutal yesterday. I almost went flying off when we hit that downdraft.”
The Grey Seer, adjusting her furs and fastening her cloak, gave him a wry smile. “I’d hate to see you take a tumble. You’d be hard to replace.”
He winked at her, his eyes twinkling. “Glad to know you’d miss me.”
Knight One shot them a look, though there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Focus, both of you. We’re entering dangerous territory today. Keep your eyes sharp and your minds sharper.”
With that, the knights took their positions on the carpet. Knight One at the front, guiding them with a steady hand. Knight Two, his navigation instruments close at hand, sat beside him, ready to adjust their course as needed.
Knight Four, his usual grin subdued but still present, gave the Grey Seer a playful nudge as he helped her onto the carpet.
“Ready for another day of flying and fighting off the cold?” he asked, his tone light but his eyes serious.
She smiled softly, her hands adjusting the fur-lined hood of her cloak. “Always ready. Let’s see what today brings.”
They flew northward, the carpet gliding steadily over the vast wilderness below. The land stretched out in a seemingly endless expanse of snow-covered forests, frozen rivers, and distant mountains. As they traveled, the air grew colder, the wind sharper, but the knights remained focused, their bodies sustained by the magic that pulsed through them.
The carpet lifted gently from the ground, hovering for a moment before gliding upward, the knights adjusting their positions to maintain balance. As it rose higher, the landscape spread out below them in a patchwork of snow-covered forests, frozen rivers, and distant mountain ranges.
The wind whipped around them as the carpet picked up speed, sailing northward. The cold bit at their faces and hands, but the knights were used to it, their layers of insulated gear and their own inner strength keeping them warm against the elements.
As they flew, Knight Two kept a close eye on his instruments, occasionally making adjustments to their course. The Grey Seer’s eyes remained closed, her breathing slow and even as she reached out with her senses, feeling the ebb and flow of magical energy beneath them.
“There’s a disturbance ahead,” she said suddenly, her voice breaking the silence. “I can feel it—something’s off. It’s faint, but it’s there.”
Knight One glanced over his shoulder at her. “What kind of disturbance? A rift? A Ley Line Storm?”
She shook her head, her brow furrowing slightly. “No, not a rift. More like… a ripple. A distortion in the ley line. It’s not strong enough to be dangerous yet...”
Knight Two adjusted his compass and peered down at the landscape below. “Three O'clock,” he said, pointing to a distant shimmer in the snow.
Knight Four, “That area—there’s something unusual about the way the light’s reflecting. It’s like the air’s warped, bending the light.”
Knight One nodded, his eyes narrowing as he considered their options. “We’ll avoid it. Steer us east, along the edge of the distortion. We don’t need to take any unnecessary risks.”
Knight Two made a quick adjustment to the carpet’s course, and they veered to the right, skirting the edge of the strange, shimmering area. As they passed, the Grey Seer opened her eyes, her gaze fixed on the ground below.
“It’s growing,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the wind. “Slowly, but it’s spreading. Whatever it is, it’s not stable.”
Knight Three tightened his grip on his rifle, his eyes scanning the sky and ground for any sign of danger.
Knight Four, “What could cause something like that?”
The Grey Seer shook her head. “I don’t know. It could be a natural fluctuation in the ley line, or something else—something trying to push through from another dimension.”
Knight Four glanced over at her, his usual lightheartedness replaced by a serious expression. “If it’s something trying to break through, we’ll be ready.”
They flew on, leaving the shimmering distortion behind as they continued northward. The terrain grew more rugged, the forests giving way to rolling hills and jagged, snow-covered peaks. The wind picked up, buffeting the carpet and forcing the knights to grip the edges tightly as they navigated the shifting currents.
Despite the challenging conditions, the journey was not without its moments of beauty.
They passed over a vast, frozen lake, its surface smooth and glassy, reflecting the clear blue sky above as if the heavens themselves were laid out beneath them. The carpet glided silently over the ice, the knights peering down at the crystalline expanse, marveling at the sight. Thin cracks webbed across the lake’s surface, intricate patterns like veins of white lightning frozen in place. The clarity of the ice allowed glimpses into the depths below, where shadows of ancient trees and rocks lay entombed, ghostly remnants of a time before the world changed.
The air was still and crisp, carrying the faint scent of frost and pine from the distant shoreline. As they flew, the only sound was the soft hum of the carpet’s enchantment and the occasional creak of the ice below, as if the lake itself were breathing in the cold, thin air.
Beyond the lake, the landscape shifted to a rolling sea of snow-covered tundra, broken only by the dark forms of low, wind-sculpted ridges. A herd of musk oxen, their hulking bodies dark against the white, moved slowly across the snow. Their shaggy coats, thick with layers of matted fur, rippled in the breeze like the heavy waves of a winter sea. The animals trudged forward, their broad hooves crunching softly on the snow, each step purposeful and slow.
The knights watched in silence as the herd continued its stately progress. The musk oxen’s heavy heads swung back and forth, their curved horns glinting in the sunlight, a sign of their strength and resilience. Steam rose from their nostrils in great, billowing clouds, and their breath, warm against the frigid air, hung around them like halos of mist.
Some of the younger animals, smaller but no less sturdy, pranced beside their elders, kicking up sprays of snow with playful exuberance. They darted in and out of the line of adults, their movements a stark contrast to the slow, measured steps of the mature oxen. Occasionally, one of the larger oxen would pause, its head lifting, nostrils flaring as it tested the air for signs of danger. Then, with a deep, resonant grunt, it would lower its head and continue on, leading the herd forward.
As the knights soared overhead, the musk oxen raised their heads in unison, dark eyes watching the strange sight above them. For a moment, the herd stood still, as if the earth itself had paused to take in the sight of these travelers from the sky. Then, slowly, the animals resumed their march, their forms merging back into the snowy landscape, leaving only the faintest traces of their passing in the soft, unbroken snow.
Knight Two leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the horizon. “The border,” he said, his voice carrying over the wind.
Ahead, the sky began to darken, clouds swirling in an unnatural pattern. A sense of unease settled over the group as they watched the clouds churn and pulse with energy. Knight One’s hand tightened on his rifle, his gaze sharp and alert.
“Demon Storm,” he muttered, his voice low but steady. “Get ready.”
The Grey Seer closed her eyes, her hands moving in a graceful, fluid pattern as she meditated.
“The storm is gathering strength,” she said, her voice calm but urgent. “We need to get through it quickly. There are creatures—demons—forming in the storm’s heart.”
Knight One nodded sharply. “Hold on, everyone. We’re going to push through.”
The carpet surged forward. The wind howled around them, buffeting the carpet and causing it to lurch and sway. Dark clouds swirled on all sides, shot through with flashes of eerie, otherworldly lightning.
Knight Four gripped the edge of the carpet, his eyes narrowed against the stinging wind. He shouted over the roar of the storm, “We can do this!”
Suddenly, a dark shape loomed out of the clouds, a twisted, demonic form with wings like tattered leather and eyes that burned with malevolent fire. It shrieked and dived toward them, claws outstretched.
Knight Two reacted instantly, raising his rifle and firing a burst of energy bolts. The creature screamed as the blasts struck it, its body dissolving into a cloud of black smoke. But more demons were emerging from the storm, their grotesque forms twisting through the air as they closed in on the carpet.
The Grey Seer’s eyes flashed with a fierce light as she extended her hand.
The Knights blasted magical bolts of energy from their eyes striking the nearest demons, driving them back with a force that shattered their forms into fragments of darkness. But the storm continued to rage around them, the air thick with the presence of hostile entities.
Knight One drew his sword, the blade glowing with a brilliant blue light as he channeled his energy into it. “Keep moving!” he ordered, his voice cutting through the chaos. “We’re almost through!”
Knight Four swung his weapon in a wide arc, cutting down another demon that lunged at them from the side. “Almost there!” he called out, his voice tight with concentration. “Just a little more!”
The carpet shuddered as it dodged and weaved through the storm, the knights holding on tightly as they fought off the attacking demons. The wind screamed around them, the storm’s fury threatening to tear them apart. But they pressed on.
Finally, with a last surge of speed, the carpet burst out of the storm’s grip, emerging into clear, open sky. The sudden calm was almost disorienting after the chaos of the storm, the air around them still and cold.
They hovered for a moment, catching their breath and regaining their bearings. Below, the land stretched out in a vast, unbroken expanse of white, the distant peaks of the Alaskan mountains visible on the horizon.
“We’re through,” Knight One said, his voice filled with relief.
Knight Two checked his instruments again, making a mark on the map. Then nodded, his expression hard but satisfied.
Knight One, “We’ve crossed into Alaska. We’re on the final stretch now. Good work, everyone. Keep your eyes open. We’re not out of danger yet.”
The Grey Seer glanced back at the dissipating storm, her eyes thoughtful. “The ley lines are strong here,” she murmured. “I can feel the power flowing through them.”
They resumed their journey, the carpet gliding steadily northward. The air grew even colder as they flew over the snow-covered wilderness, the landscape below stark and beautiful in its desolation.
As the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon, they saw it—a massive expanse of shimmering ice, stretching out as far as the eye could see. The frozen waters of the Bering Sea, glittering in the fading light, marked the edge of their journey.
Knight One raised his hand, signaling them to slow. “There,” he said, pointing toward a small cluster of lights near the coast. “That’s our destination. A village on the edge of the sea. We’ll land there for the night and make contact with the locals.”
The carpet descended slowly, the lights of the village growing brighter as they approached. The wind whispered softly around them, the cold air tinged with the scent of salt and ice.
They touched down on a snow-covered ridge overlooking the village, the carpet settling gently onto the ground. The knights dismounted, their breath visible in the freezing air.
Knight One turned to his companions, his gaze steady and commanding. “Welcome to Alaska.”
The enchanted carpet floated high above the snow-dusted wilderness, its colorful patterns a stark contrast against the endless expanse of white below. The five travelers huddled close together, wrapped in heavy cold-weather gear to ward off the biting chill of the high-altitude winds. The carpet moved steadily northward, gliding.
Knight One, the leader of the group, sat at the front, his posture straight and vigilant despite the long hours of travel. His piercing brown eyes scanned the horizon, ever watchful for signs of danger or opportunity. He wore a thick, dark parka and army fatigues, his face partially concealed by the hood and a scarf wrapped tightly against the cold. His gloved hand rested on his rifle, a habitual gesture of readiness.
Behind him, Knight Two and Knight Four exchanged quiet words, their voices barely audible over the rush of wind. They were checking their gear—ensuring that weapons were secure and packs were balanced. Every so often, they would glance at the landscape passing below: a vast, frozen tapestry of forests, rivers, and occasional mountain peaks. The sun, low in the winter sky, cast long shadows across the land, painting the snow in shades of gold and blue.
Knight Four, sitting at the rear of the carpet, leaned slightly closer to the woman beside him, a playful smile on his face. He was a lean, dark-haired man with an easy charm that seemed impervious to the cold. His fingers drummed lightly on his knee as he spoke, his voice carrying a light, teasing tone.
“You know, you’re making this journey almost as enjoyable as the view,” he said, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “And that’s saying something, considering the company.”
The woman beside him, dressed in layered furs and a silver-trimmed cloak, turned her head to give him a cool, appraising look. She was the Grey Seer, a powerful mystic whose eyes, an unnerving shade of stormy grey, marked her as someone who could see beyond the mundane. Her features were sharp and elegant, with a calm that hinted at the depths of her power. She arched an eyebrow, the hint of a smile touching her lips.
“I’m sure the company appreciates your dedication to keeping everyone entertained, Knight Four,” she replied dryly, though there was a glimmer of warmth in her eyes.
Knight Four chuckled and leaned back, his gaze shifting to the breathtaking vista around them. Below, a herd of caribou moved like shadows across the tundra, their antlers glinting in the fading light. He gestured to the view with a sweep of his hand.
“It’s hard to believe we’ll be in Alaska soon,” he said, his voice thoughtful now. “I wonder what kind of welcome we’ll get when we finally touch down.”
The Grey Seer looked out at the landscape, her expression growing more serious. “Hopefully a peaceful one,” she said softly. “But we’ll be ready for whatever comes.”
As the day wore on, the sky shifted from pale blue to a deep, dusky purple. The air grew colder, and Knight One raised a hand, signaling for them to prepare for landing. The carpet began a gentle descent, the wind swirling around them as they dropped toward a secluded clearing sheltered by a ring of snow-laden pines.
The landing was smooth, the carpet settling softly onto the snow. One by one, the knights dismounted, stretching stiff limbs and pulling their hoods tighter against the sudden stillness. The Grey Seer stepped off last, her boots crunching lightly in the snow.
Knight One moved quickly, his voice low and commanding. “Set up the tents. We have a few hours before we need to rest. Knight Four, you’re on watch first.”
The knights moved efficiently, casting spells of Sheltering Force tents in a semicircle around the clearing. Knight Two, flashed a quick salute before turning to keep watch, his sharp eyes scanning the perimeter.
Once the camp was secure, the group gathered in a small circle. Knight Two raised his hands, murmuring a few words in the arcane tongue. A soft, warm glow enveloped them, the spell Cleanse washing over their bodies. In an instant, the grime and fatigue of the long journey vanished, replaced by a sensation of warmth and renewal. Their clothes, freshly laundered, felt soft and clean against their skin.
The Grey Seer closed her eyes, savoring the magic’s touch. “It’s almost as good as a hot bath,” she murmured, a faint smile playing on her lips.
Knight One nodded, his expression softening as he looked around at his companions. “It’s a luxury we’re fortunate to have,” he said quietly. “But don’t get too comfortable. We’ll sleep four hours tonight. It’s a long flight tomorrow, and I want us rested and ready.”
The knights nodded, understanding the unspoken message. Alaska was close, and their mission—whatever awaited them there—would soon be upon them.
They settled into their tents, the walls glowing faintly. Outside, the night was silent except for the occasional whisper of wind through the trees. The stars shone brightly overhead, a glittering canopy that stretched infinitely across the dark sky.
Knight Four, his shift now underway, stood at the edge of the clearing, his breath misting in the cold air. He glanced back at the tents, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. He thought of the Grey Seer’s smile, her calm presence beside him on the carpet.
“Stay safe, everyone,” he murmured to the quiet night. Then he turned his gaze outward, scanning the shadowed forest for any sign of danger.
Above, the stars continued their silent watch, and the enchanted carpet, resting in the snow, seemed to pulse faintly with its own hidden magic, waiting for the dawn and the journey yet to come.
---
The first light of dawn crept over the horizon, casting a pale glow across the snow-covered landscape. In the small clearing where the knights had camped for the night, their breath rose in clouds of mist as they packed their gear and prepared for another day of travel. The enchanted carpet lay spread out on the ground, its vibrant colors muted in the soft, early morning light.
Knight Two knelt beside the carpet, his face intent as he studied an array of navigation instruments spread out before him. They were a curious collection of tools: an ornate brass astrolabe with intricate etchings, a sextant with polished lenses, and a strange compass whose needle spun in erratic patterns before settling on a specific point. Beside him, a rough, hand-drawn map of Canada, its surface marked with notes, symbols, and the faint lines of their journey so far.
He adjusted the sextant, aligning it with the faint silhouette of the North Star still visible in the morning sky. His brow furrowed in concentration as he measured the angle, then cross-referenced it with the astrolabe and compass. Satisfied, he took a charcoal pencil from his pocket and made a small, precise mark on the map.
“We’re here,” he said, tapping the map with the end of the pencil.
Knight Four, “About fifty miles northwest of the last ley line nexus. We’ve made good progress, but there’s still a long way to go. If the weather holds, we should be crossing into the Yukon by tomorrow night.”
Knight One, standing nearby with his arms crossed, nodded thoughtfully. “Good work. Keep us on course, and let me know if you see any anomalies in the ley line patterns. We can’t afford to be caught off guard by a storm.”
Knight Two nodded, quickly packing away his instruments with the practiced ease of someone who had done this countless times. “Understood. I’ll keep an eye out for anything unusual.”
The Grey Seer approached, her breath forming soft clouds in the cold morning air. “Are we still following the ley line route?” she asked, her voice calm and steady. “I can sense a strong flow of energy to the northwest.”
Knight Two glanced at his instruments again, then nodded. “Yes, we’re on track. The ley lines converge near the Alaskan border. That’s where we’ll find our best path. But this area is known for its Demons and Storms and other disturbances.”
She nodded, a thoughtful look in her eyes. “I’ll be ready,” she said quietly.
With their course set, the knights took their positions on the carpet. Knight One at the front, the Grey Seer in the center, and Knight Four at the back, his usual lighthearted demeanor replaced by a more serious focus. Knight Two settled in beside the Grey Seer, his navigation tools within easy reach.
“Let’s move out,” Knight One ordered, his voice firm but calm.
The carpet rose gently from the ground, hovering a few feet above the snow. Then, with a soft whoosh of magical energy, it surged forward, picking up speed as it lifted higher into the sky. The landscape blurred beneath them as they climbed to cruising altitude, the wind whistling softly around them as the carpet glided northward.
As they traveled, Knight Two kept his eyes on the instruments, occasionally marking their position on the map. He would glance up now and then, checking their progress against the terrain below. Snow-covered forests stretched out in all directions, broken only by the occasional frozen river or distant mountain range.
Despite the chill in the air, the view was breathtaking. The sun, now fully risen, cast a golden light over the landscape, making the snow sparkle like a sea of diamonds. Far below, a herd of elk moved slowly through the trees, their breath visible in the crisp morning air. The knights watched in silence, the beauty of the scene momentarily lifting the weight of their journey.
Knight Four, seated at the back of the carpet, leaned forward slightly, a playful grin returning to his face. “So, what do you think? I’ve seen some incredible sights, but this—this is something else.”
The Grey Seer turned her gaze from the passing scenery to him, a faint smile on her lips. “It is beautiful,” she agreed. “Even in these harsh lands, there is beauty to be found. It’s a reminder that, no matter how dark the world becomes, there is still light.”
Knight Four nodded, his grin softening into a more genuine smile. “Well said. And here I thought you were all about the doom and gloom of the future.”
She laughed softly, a sound like the ringing of a distant bell. “It’s not all doom and gloom. There’s always hope, even in the darkest times.”
They flew on, the conversation lightening the mood as the hours passed. The Grey Seer occasionally murmured a spell, her hands weaving through the air as she tested the flow of magic around them. Knight Two continued his careful navigation, his eyes flicking between the instruments and the map, ensuring they stayed on course.
The carpet sailed over endless stretches of forest, vast frozen lakes, and the occasional abandoned town—ruins from a time long past, half-buried in snow and ice. They passed over a ley line nexus, the ground below glowing faintly with mystical energy, and the carpet seemed to hum with renewed power as they crossed its path.
As the sun began to dip low in the sky, casting long shadows across the land, Knight Two looked up from his instruments.
Knight Four, “We should find a place to camp soon,” he said. “There’s a clearing about ten miles ahead. It looks sheltered and close to a small stream—good for setting up camp.”
Knight One nodded. “All right. We’ll land there for the night. Keep an eye on the weather patterns, everyone. We’re getting closer to Alaska, and things are bound to get more unpredictable.”
With a gentle dip, the carpet began its descent, gliding toward the designated clearing. As they approached, Knight One skillfully guided the carpet through the trees, the branches whipping past them in a blur of green and white.
The landing was smooth, the carpet settling softly onto the snow-covered ground. The knights dismounted quickly, stretching stiff limbs and breathing in the crisp evening air. The Grey Seer closed her eyes, reaching out with her senses to check for any hidden dangers or disturbances.
“All clear,” she said after a moment. “The area feels quiet. No signs of rift activity or supernatural presence.”
Knight One nodded, his gaze sweeping the clearing. “Good. Let’s set up camp and get some rest. Tomorrow, we push on to Alaska.”
The knights moved efficiently, setting up their tents and casting the Cleanse spell to refresh themselves. The soft glow of the spell washed over them, leaving their bodies warm and their clothes clean, as if they had just stepped out of a warm bath.
As the night deepened and the stars began to twinkle overhead, the knights gathered around a small, enchanted safe-fire, its blue flames flickering gently in the cold air. They spoke quietly, sharing stories and laughter, their camaraderie a warm light against the vast, dark wilderness surrounding them.
Above, the northern lights began to dance across the sky, ribbons of green and purple shimmering against the backdrop of stars. The knights watched in silence, the beauty of the moment filling them with a sense of peace and purpose.
Tomorrow, they would continue their journey, flying ever northward on their enchanted carpet, bound for the wilds of Alaska. But for now, they were content to rest and take in the wonder of the world around them, united in their mission and their friendship.
---
The morning sun rose over the snow-covered landscape, casting long shadows across the frozen wilderness. The knights awoke in their tents, stretching off the stiffness of another night on the cold ground. Despite the freezing temperatures, they moved with practiced efficiency, breaking down their camp and preparing for another day’s journey.
Knight One stretched and rolled his shoulders, feeling the familiar readiness settle into his muscles. They were close now—close to Alaska, to their destination, to the unknown challenges that awaited. He watched as Knight Two, already busy with his navigation instruments, carefully marked their position on the map spread out on the ground.
Knight One stood by the enchanted carpet, his breath visible in the frigid air as he surveyed their surroundings. The sky was clear, a brilliant blue stretching out overhead, and the forest around them was silent except for the occasional rustle of wind through the trees.
“All right, everyone, let’s get moving. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover today,” he said, his voice firm but calm. “We should be crossing into Alaska by midday if we keep a steady pace.”
The knights nodded, gathering their gear and securing it on the carpet. Knight Two, his instruments already laid out, knelt beside the carpet and began his morning routine. He carefully adjusted the sextant, aligning it with the sun as it climbed higher into the sky. The compass spun lazily, then snapped to a fixed point, and he made a quick notation on the rough map spread out before him.
“We’re on course,” he confirmed, marking their position.
Knight One, “The ley line we’re following will lead us directly to the border. From there, we’ll need to keep a close eye out for any anomalies or disruptions.”
Knight Four, standing nearby, glanced at the map, then at the horizon. “I hope we get a smoother ride today,” he said with a grin. “The winds were brutal yesterday. I almost went flying off when we hit that downdraft.”
The Grey Seer, adjusting her furs and fastening her cloak, gave him a wry smile. “I’d hate to see you take a tumble. You’d be hard to replace.”
He winked at her, his eyes twinkling. “Glad to know you’d miss me.”
Knight One shot them a look, though there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. “Focus, both of you. We’re entering dangerous territory today. Keep your eyes sharp and your minds sharper.”
With that, the knights took their positions on the carpet. Knight One at the front, guiding them with a steady hand. Knight Two, his navigation instruments close at hand, sat beside him, ready to adjust their course as needed.
Knight Four, his usual grin subdued but still present, gave the Grey Seer a playful nudge as he helped her onto the carpet.
“Ready for another day of flying and fighting off the cold?” he asked, his tone light but his eyes serious.
She smiled softly, her hands adjusting the fur-lined hood of her cloak. “Always ready. Let’s see what today brings.”
They flew northward, the carpet gliding steadily over the vast wilderness below. The land stretched out in a seemingly endless expanse of snow-covered forests, frozen rivers, and distant mountains. As they traveled, the air grew colder, the wind sharper, but the knights remained focused, their bodies sustained by the magic that pulsed through them.
The carpet lifted gently from the ground, hovering for a moment before gliding upward, the knights adjusting their positions to maintain balance. As it rose higher, the landscape spread out below them in a patchwork of snow-covered forests, frozen rivers, and distant mountain ranges.
The wind whipped around them as the carpet picked up speed, sailing northward. The cold bit at their faces and hands, but the knights were used to it, their layers of insulated gear and their own inner strength keeping them warm against the elements.
As they flew, Knight Two kept a close eye on his instruments, occasionally making adjustments to their course. The Grey Seer’s eyes remained closed, her breathing slow and even as she reached out with her senses, feeling the ebb and flow of magical energy beneath them.
“There’s a disturbance ahead,” she said suddenly, her voice breaking the silence. “I can feel it—something’s off. It’s faint, but it’s there.”
Knight One glanced over his shoulder at her. “What kind of disturbance? A rift? A Ley Line Storm?”
She shook her head, her brow furrowing slightly. “No, not a rift. More like… a ripple. A distortion in the ley line. It’s not strong enough to be dangerous yet...”
Knight Two adjusted his compass and peered down at the landscape below. “Three O'clock,” he said, pointing to a distant shimmer in the snow.
Knight Four, “That area—there’s something unusual about the way the light’s reflecting. It’s like the air’s warped, bending the light.”
Knight One nodded, his eyes narrowing as he considered their options. “We’ll avoid it. Steer us east, along the edge of the distortion. We don’t need to take any unnecessary risks.”
Knight Two made a quick adjustment to the carpet’s course, and they veered to the right, skirting the edge of the strange, shimmering area. As they passed, the Grey Seer opened her eyes, her gaze fixed on the ground below.
“It’s growing,” she murmured, her voice barely audible over the wind. “Slowly, but it’s spreading. Whatever it is, it’s not stable.”
Knight Three tightened his grip on his rifle, his eyes scanning the sky and ground for any sign of danger.
Knight Four, “What could cause something like that?”
The Grey Seer shook her head. “I don’t know. It could be a natural fluctuation in the ley line, or something else—something trying to push through from another dimension.”
Knight Four glanced over at her, his usual lightheartedness replaced by a serious expression. “If it’s something trying to break through, we’ll be ready.”
They flew on, leaving the shimmering distortion behind as they continued northward. The terrain grew more rugged, the forests giving way to rolling hills and jagged, snow-covered peaks. The wind picked up, buffeting the carpet and forcing the knights to grip the edges tightly as they navigated the shifting currents.
Despite the challenging conditions, the journey was not without its moments of beauty.
They passed over a vast, frozen lake, its surface smooth and glassy, reflecting the clear blue sky above as if the heavens themselves were laid out beneath them. The carpet glided silently over the ice, the knights peering down at the crystalline expanse, marveling at the sight. Thin cracks webbed across the lake’s surface, intricate patterns like veins of white lightning frozen in place. The clarity of the ice allowed glimpses into the depths below, where shadows of ancient trees and rocks lay entombed, ghostly remnants of a time before the world changed.
The air was still and crisp, carrying the faint scent of frost and pine from the distant shoreline. As they flew, the only sound was the soft hum of the carpet’s enchantment and the occasional creak of the ice below, as if the lake itself were breathing in the cold, thin air.
Beyond the lake, the landscape shifted to a rolling sea of snow-covered tundra, broken only by the dark forms of low, wind-sculpted ridges. A herd of musk oxen, their hulking bodies dark against the white, moved slowly across the snow. Their shaggy coats, thick with layers of matted fur, rippled in the breeze like the heavy waves of a winter sea. The animals trudged forward, their broad hooves crunching softly on the snow, each step purposeful and slow.
The knights watched in silence as the herd continued its stately progress. The musk oxen’s heavy heads swung back and forth, their curved horns glinting in the sunlight, a sign of their strength and resilience. Steam rose from their nostrils in great, billowing clouds, and their breath, warm against the frigid air, hung around them like halos of mist.
Some of the younger animals, smaller but no less sturdy, pranced beside their elders, kicking up sprays of snow with playful exuberance. They darted in and out of the line of adults, their movements a stark contrast to the slow, measured steps of the mature oxen. Occasionally, one of the larger oxen would pause, its head lifting, nostrils flaring as it tested the air for signs of danger. Then, with a deep, resonant grunt, it would lower its head and continue on, leading the herd forward.
As the knights soared overhead, the musk oxen raised their heads in unison, dark eyes watching the strange sight above them. For a moment, the herd stood still, as if the earth itself had paused to take in the sight of these travelers from the sky. Then, slowly, the animals resumed their march, their forms merging back into the snowy landscape, leaving only the faintest traces of their passing in the soft, unbroken snow.
Knight Two leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the horizon. “The border,” he said, his voice carrying over the wind.
Ahead, the sky began to darken, clouds swirling in an unnatural pattern. A sense of unease settled over the group as they watched the clouds churn and pulse with energy. Knight One’s hand tightened on his rifle, his gaze sharp and alert.
“Demon Storm,” he muttered, his voice low but steady. “Get ready.”
The Grey Seer closed her eyes, her hands moving in a graceful, fluid pattern as she meditated.
“The storm is gathering strength,” she said, her voice calm but urgent. “We need to get through it quickly. There are creatures—demons—forming in the storm’s heart.”
Knight One nodded sharply. “Hold on, everyone. We’re going to push through.”
The carpet surged forward. The wind howled around them, buffeting the carpet and causing it to lurch and sway. Dark clouds swirled on all sides, shot through with flashes of eerie, otherworldly lightning.
Knight Four gripped the edge of the carpet, his eyes narrowed against the stinging wind. He shouted over the roar of the storm, “We can do this!”
Suddenly, a dark shape loomed out of the clouds, a twisted, demonic form with wings like tattered leather and eyes that burned with malevolent fire. It shrieked and dived toward them, claws outstretched.
Knight Two reacted instantly, raising his rifle and firing a burst of energy bolts. The creature screamed as the blasts struck it, its body dissolving into a cloud of black smoke. But more demons were emerging from the storm, their grotesque forms twisting through the air as they closed in on the carpet.
The Grey Seer’s eyes flashed with a fierce light as she extended her hand.
The Knights blasted magical bolts of energy from their eyes striking the nearest demons, driving them back with a force that shattered their forms into fragments of darkness. But the storm continued to rage around them, the air thick with the presence of hostile entities.
Knight One drew his sword, the blade glowing with a brilliant blue light as he channeled his energy into it. “Keep moving!” he ordered, his voice cutting through the chaos. “We’re almost through!”
Knight Four swung his weapon in a wide arc, cutting down another demon that lunged at them from the side. “Almost there!” he called out, his voice tight with concentration. “Just a little more!”
The carpet shuddered as it dodged and weaved through the storm, the knights holding on tightly as they fought off the attacking demons. The wind screamed around them, the storm’s fury threatening to tear them apart. But they pressed on.
Finally, with a last surge of speed, the carpet burst out of the storm’s grip, emerging into clear, open sky. The sudden calm was almost disorienting after the chaos of the storm, the air around them still and cold.
They hovered for a moment, catching their breath and regaining their bearings. Below, the land stretched out in a vast, unbroken expanse of white, the distant peaks of the Alaskan mountains visible on the horizon.
“We’re through,” Knight One said, his voice filled with relief.
Knight Two checked his instruments again, making a mark on the map. Then nodded, his expression hard but satisfied.
Knight One, “We’ve crossed into Alaska. We’re on the final stretch now. Good work, everyone. Keep your eyes open. We’re not out of danger yet.”
The Grey Seer glanced back at the dissipating storm, her eyes thoughtful. “The ley lines are strong here,” she murmured. “I can feel the power flowing through them.”
They resumed their journey, the carpet gliding steadily northward. The air grew even colder as they flew over the snow-covered wilderness, the landscape below stark and beautiful in its desolation.
As the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon, they saw it—a massive expanse of shimmering ice, stretching out as far as the eye could see. The frozen waters of the Bering Sea, glittering in the fading light, marked the edge of their journey.
Knight One raised his hand, signaling them to slow. “There,” he said, pointing toward a small cluster of lights near the coast. “That’s our destination. A village on the edge of the sea. We’ll land there for the night and make contact with the locals.”
The carpet descended slowly, the lights of the village growing brighter as they approached. The wind whispered softly around them, the cold air tinged with the scent of salt and ice.
They touched down on a snow-covered ridge overlooking the village, the carpet settling gently onto the ground. The knights dismounted, their breath visible in the freezing air.
Knight One turned to his companions, his gaze steady and commanding. “Welcome to Alaska.”
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darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
First Contact with the Coastal Tribe
The village clung to the edge of the frozen sea like a handful of dark stones scattered along the icy shore. As the knights descended from the ridge, the air grew thick with the tang of salt and the distant, rhythmic roar of waves crashing against the ice. Small, sturdy homes made from driftwood, stone, and animal skins huddled together against the relentless wind, their walls adorned with carvings of whales, seals, and ancient symbols that spoke of the tribe’s deep connection to the land and sea.
Smoke drifted from the chimneys of several huts, and the faint scent of cooking fish and seal meat wafted toward the approaching group, mingling with the cold, briny air. A group of children playing near the edge of the village was the first to notice the knights. Their laughter ceased, and they stood frozen for a moment, wide-eyed and silent, before one of them—a boy with bright eyes and a fur-lined hood—let out a high, clear call.
“Strangers!” he shouted, pointing up the slope. “Strangers are coming!”
The village stirred to life. Men and women emerged from their homes, their faces curious and wary. They were dressed in heavy furs and leather, their skin weathered by the harsh climate, eyes sharp and alert.
The knights moved slowly, their hands visible and open, showing that they meant no harm. The Grey Seer stepped forward, her calm presence and unassuming posture a signal of peace.
A group of hunters, their faces painted with ceremonial markings, moved to intercept the newcomers. They carried spears tipped with bone, and their eyes were watchful, but there was no hostility in their stance. At their head was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a mane of greying hair, his face lined with age and wisdom. He stepped forward, his grip firm on the shaft of his spear.
He demanded, his voice deep and resonant. “What brings you to our village at the edge of the sea?”
Knight One took a step forward, bowing slightly as a gesture of respect. “We are travelers from the south, seeking passage through your lands,” he said, his voice steady and respectful. “We mean no harm. We come in peace and seek only to speak with your leaders.”
The elder’s eyes narrowed, studying the knights carefully. He seemed to weigh their words, his gaze lingering on their strange clothing and the weapons at their sides. The wind tugged at his fur cloak, and for a moment, the only sound was the distant roar of the waves and the faint rustling of the sea grass that grew along the shore.
Finally, he nodded, a slow, deliberate movement. “I am Taktuq, chief of this village,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of authority. “If you come in peace, then you are welcome here. But know this—we are a proud and strong people. We will not be intimidated or tricked.”
Knight One nodded, his expression sincere. “We understand, Chief Taktuq. We only wish to talk and to learn more about your people and this land. We bring news from the south and hope to offer our help, if it is needed.”
The chief regarded them for a long moment, then turned and gestured for them to follow. “Very well. Come with me. You will speak with our council, and we will decide what to make of your words.”
The knights followed the chief through the village, feeling the eyes of the villagers upon them. They passed by rows of low, sturdy huts, their walls decorated with intricate carvings and symbols. Women worked outside, scraping hides and tending to racks of drying fish. They watched the newcomers with curious, guarded expressions, whispering among themselves as the knights walked by.
A group of elders waited near a large, open pavilion in the center of the village, its roof supported by pillars carved with images of whales and seabirds. They sat on thick pelts spread over the frozen ground, their eyes sharp and questioning as the chief led the knights forward.
“These travelers claim to come in peace,” Taktuq announced, his voice carrying across the gathered villagers. “They say they bring news from the south and wish to speak with us.” He turned to Knight One, his gaze steady. “Speak, then. Tell us what brings you to our land.”
Knight One took a deep breath and stepped forward, choosing his words carefully. “We have traveled far, from the lands beyond the great mountains. We bring no demands or threats, only the hope of friendship and mutual respect. We seek a crystal Orb. We believe it is carried by someone fleeing a war in the south.”
The elders murmured among themselves, their expressions thoughtful. One of them, an old woman with eyes as sharp as a hawk’s, leaned forward, her gaze fixed on the knights.
“You speak of friendship,” she said, her voice thin but strong. “But what do you know of our lives here? Of the struggles we face?” She gestured to the sea beyond the village, where the ice stretched out to the horizon. “This is a harsh land. Why would you want to ally yourselves with us?”
The Grey Seer stepped forward then, her presence calm and serene. “Because we know that your people are strong and wise,” she said gently. “We wish to learn from you, and, if needed, to offer our help. We do not seek to change your ways. We only hope to share what we know and to stand together against the challenges that face us all.”
The old woman studied the Grey Seer for a long moment, her eyes narrowing slightly. Then she nodded, a small, almost imperceptible gesture. “We will listen to what you have to say,” she said quietly. “But know this—we are not easily swayed. Words are like the wind. They come and go.”
Knight One bowed his head, his voice steady and sincere. “We understand. We will prove ourselves.”
The chief nodded, his expression thoughtful. “You will stay with us tonight. Tomorrow, we will talk more. There are many things to discuss, and the council will want to hear.”
He turned and spoke a few words to one of the hunters, who nodded and gestured for the knights to follow. “This man will show you to your quarters. Rest now. You have traveled far, and the road ahead is long.”
The knights bowed and followed the hunter, their steps light and respectful as they moved through the village. The eyes of the villagers followed them, curious and watchful, but no longer filled with suspicion.
They were led to a large, warm hut near the edge of the village, its walls lined with thick furs and its hearth glowing with a welcoming fire. As they settled in, the knights exchanged quiet words, their expressions thoughtful.
“We made it,” Knight Four said softly, a hint of relief in his voice. “But it’s just the beginning.”
Knight One nodded, his gaze steady. “We’ve taken the first step. Now, we have to prove ourselves.”
The Grey Seer looked around at her companions, her eyes calm but resolute. “We’ll do what we must.”
The fire crackled softly, its light dancing on the walls of the hut as the knights settled down to rest. Outside, the village was quiet, the only sound the distant roar of the sea and the soft, ever-present murmur of the wind.
The journey to Alaska had been long and difficult, but they had reached their destination. Now, the real work would begin.
---
The wind howled outside the large communal hut as the villagers gathered around the fire, their faces illuminated by the flickering flames. The knights sat at the center, their posture relaxed but attentive, sensing the curiosity and concern emanating from the crowd around them. The warmth of the fire was a welcome reprieve from the bitter cold outside, but it was the intensity of the villagers’ gaze that truly held the air tight.
An elder woman, her lined face a testament to decades of survival in this harsh land, stepped forward. Her hands were clasped together, fingers adorned with rings carved from bone and stone. She glanced around at the others before speaking, her voice firm but respectful.
“You’ve been with us for three days now,” she began, her eyes fixed on Knight One. “You do not eat with us, you do not drink our water. We have not seen you go out to relieve yourselves, and yet you remain strong, your faces show no signs of hunger or thirst. And your clothes—always clean, as if you’ve just donned them from a warm hearth.”
She paused, her gaze shifting to the Grey Seer, who sat with calm composure beside the fire. “We are grateful for your presence and your help. But this is not natural. It makes us wonder, what manner of beings are you? How can you live without food and water?”
The crowd murmured in agreement, the quiet rustle of suspicion and curiosity filling the room. The children, who had initially been fascinated by the knights stories and strange appearance, now peered at them with wide, uncertain eyes.
Knight One leaned forward slightly, his expression open and reassuring. “We understand your concerns. We are not spirits or demons, if that is what you fear. We are human, like you. But we are under the effect of a powerful spell of sustenance. It allows us to go without food, water, or sleep for long periods of time, so we may focus on our mission without distraction.”
He gestured to the Grey Seer, who nodded in affirmation. “This spell, called Sustain, keeps our bodies and minds strong. While another, called Cleanse, makes our clothes clean and why we have no need to bathe. But I assure you, it is simply a convenience, not something sinister.”
The villagers listened in silence, absorbing this explanation. The elder woman frowned, her brow furrowing. “Magic like that… not common. Why would you use such magic just to travel? What is it that you seek here, in our lands?”
Knight One exchanged a glance with the Grey Seer, who nodded almost imperceptibly. He reached into his pack and withdrew a carefully folded piece of parchment. With a deliberate motion, he opened it, revealing a picture of the Orb—a milky cream-colored crystal ball, its swirling interior almost seeming to move under the flickering light of the fire.
“We are looking for this,” he said, his voice calm but tinged with urgency. “It is an Orb, a powerful artifact that has been lost. It once belonged to the Grey Seers.” He glanced at the Grey Seer, who gave a small, sad smile. “We believe it is now in the possession of a man—a woodsman and traveler.”
He unfolded another picture, this one showing a rugged, weather-beaten man with a thick beard, sharp eyes, and a confident, adventurous stance. He was dressed in sturdy furs and leather, a rifle slung across his back, his expression one of quiet determination. The villagers leaned closer, some recognizing the type of man but not the specific face.
“This man,” Knight One continued, “is known to travel to remote and wild places. We believe he came here, to Alaska, because he loves the challenge of exploring new lands. We do not know his name, but he carries the Orb with him. We need to find him, and the Orb, for it is a force for good. Its wisdom is needed to help end a war and save many lives.”
The elder woman peered at the picture, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “You say this Orb is powerful and good. But why does it matter so much to you? Why would you travel all this way, using such magic, just to find it?”
The Grey Seer leaned forward, her gaze steady and sincere. “Because the Orb holds wisdom that can guide us in times of great need. It can help us make decisions that could save thousands of lives. Without it, we are blind to dangers that threaten our world.”
She paused, her eyes searching the faces of the villagers. “This man may not know the power he carries. He may simply see it as a curiosity, a beautiful object. But in the wrong hands, it could be used for terrible purposes. We seek it not to control or possess, but to protect and use its wisdom to save lives.”
The villagers exchanged glances, their expressions thoughtful, though not entirely convinced. The elder woman looked back at the knights, her gaze sharp and assessing.
“There was a man,” she said slowly, her voice carrying the weight of careful consideration. “He came through here not long ago. A stranger, like you, but he seemed… different. A man who knew how to survive in the wild, but who spoke little of himself. He traded some furs and took supplies. He was headed west, toward the mountains.”
Knight One straightened, his eyes brightening with hope. “Did he have the Orb with him? Did you see anything like this in his possession?”
The elder shook her head. “He kept his pack close. We did not see much of what he carried. But he was cautious, like a man guarding something precious. If he has this Orb, he would not show it openly.”
Knight Four, who had been listening intently, leaned forward. “How long ago was this? How far could he have gone?”
The elder glanced at one of the hunters beside her, a young man with sharp eyes and a thoughtful expression. The hunter nodded. “Five, maybe six days. If he travels well, he could be halfway to the mountains by now. But the weather is harsh, and the paths are dangerous. He will not move quickly.”
The knights exchanged glances. Knight One turned back to the elder, his voice steady but urgent. “Thank you. You have given us more than we had before. We will follow his trail. But if you see or hear anything more of him, please, send word to us. The Orb is not just our concern—it affects the fate of many.”
The elder nodded slowly, her eyes filled with a mix of curiosity and wariness. “We will watch, and we will listen. But know this—if you bring trouble to our lands, we will not hesitate to defend ourselves.”
Knight One bowed deeply, his voice filled with respect. “We understand. We will do everything we can to ensure no harm comes to your people.”
The villagers began to disperse, murmuring among themselves, their curiosity and concern still evident. The knights remained by the fire, their thoughts heavy with the weight of the news they had received.
“The mountains,” Knight Four said quietly, his voice thoughtful. “It won’t be easy to track him in that terrain, especially if he doesn’t want to be found.”
“We don’t have a choice,” Knight One replied, his gaze distant. “We have to find him, and soon.”
The Grey Seer glanced at the picture of the Orb, her expression filled with determination. “We will find him. The Orb called to me once before, and I believe it will guide us again. We just need to be patient, and ready.”
Knight Four nodded, his usual lighthearted demeanor replaced by a rare seriousness. “We’ll get it back.”
The fire crackled softly as the knights sat in silence, their thoughts turning to the rugged, unknown man who held the fate of so many in his hands. Outside, the wind howled over the frozen sea, a haunting reminder of the wild, untamed land that awaited them.
---
The wind off the sea was brisk and biting as the villagers gathered in the center of their small coastal settlement, the low sun casting long shadows over the snow-packed ground. The news of the knights’ imminent departure had spread quickly, and now men, women, and children were huddled together, curiosity and anticipation visible on their faces. The elders stood at the forefront, their eyes watchful and wary, still processing the strange visitors who had come into their midst.
Knight One stepped forward, his breath misting in the cold air as he raised a hand in greeting. His voice, though calm, carried the authority and sincerity that had marked his every word since they had arrived.
“Before we leave, we would like to offer something in return for your hospitality,” he said, his gaze sweeping over the gathered villagers. “We know that life here is hard, and we want to help in any way we can. We have healing magic, and we can use it to ease the suffering of those in need.”
A ripple of surprise and murmured conversation moved through the crowd. The villagers exchanged glances, their expressions a mixture of skepticism and hope. Chief Taktuq, standing beside the elders, stepped forward, his face serious.
“Magic is not something we take lightly,” he said, his voice low and measured. “But we have seen that you mean no harm. If you can help our sick and injured, we will accept your offer.”
The Grey Seer nodded, her presence calm and reassuring. “Bring those who need healing to us. We will do all we can to ease their pain.”
The villagers hesitated, but then a young mother stepped forward, carrying a child bundled in thick furs. The child’s face was pale, his eyes half-closed, his breathing labored. The mother’s expression was one of desperation and love, her voice trembling as she spoke.
“He is my son. He has been sick for many days. Please, if you can help him…”
The Grey Seer nodded gently, stepping forward and placing her hands lightly on the child’s head. Her eyes closed, and a soft, warm light spread from her hands, enveloping the boy in a gentle, golden glow. The villagers watched in silence, their breath held as the boy’s color slowly returned, his breathing becoming stronger and steadier.
After a few moments, the Grey Seer stepped back, her face serene. The boy opened his eyes, blinking up at his mother with a clarity that had been absent for so long. The mother gasped, tears filling her eyes as she hugged her son tightly, her voice breaking with gratitude.
“Thank you, thank you so much…”
The crowd murmured, astonishment and relief spreading through their ranks. More villagers stepped forward, carrying those who were ill or injured—an elderly man with a deep cough, a young woman with a twisted ankle, a hunter with a festering wound on his arm. One by one, the knights and the Grey Seer moved among them, their hands glowing with healing magic as they mended wounds, soothed pain, and brought comfort to those who had known only suffering.
Knight Four, his usual playful demeanor softened by the gravity of the moment, knelt beside an old woman whose hands were gnarled with arthritis. He spoke softly to her, his voice gentle, as he let the magic flow through his hands, easing the pain in her joints. She looked at him with wonder, her eyes shining with gratitude as she felt relief from her pain, tears streaming down her weathered cheeks.
She whispered, her voice trembling. “I can hold my grandchildren again. Thank you…”
Knight Four smiled, his expression warm. “It’s my honor. I’m glad I could give you even a moment of relief.”
As the knights finished their healing, the mood in the village shifted. The initial wariness had been replaced by a sense of awe and gratitude. The villagers spoke in hushed tones, their eyes filled with respect and a new understanding of the strangers who had come to them from the sky.
Glistening in the dim light, coarse grains of sea salt were conjured using one of the Knight’s recently acquired Ocean Magic spells of “create salt.”
“This is a gift from us to you,” Knight One said, holding out a 10 pound sack to Chief Taktuq. “It is not much, but it is good, pure sea salt. It can be used to preserve food, to season your meals, or to trade as you see fit.”
Chief Taktuq took the pouch, his expression thoughtful. He nodded slowly, accepting the gift with a grave nod of respect. “Thank you. This will be of great use to us.”
The Grey Seer stepped forward then, her eyes bright with a gentle, hopeful light. “There is one more gift we can offer, if you will accept it. We can use our magic to cleanse you and your clothes. It will refresh your bodies and your garments as if you had just bathed, without the need for water or fire.”
The villagers exchanged glances, their expressions uncertain. Bathing was a luxury in these cold, harsh lands, and to be clean, truly clean, was something few experienced outside of the brief summer months. But the memory of the healing was fresh in their minds, and slowly, they began to nod.
The Grey Seer extended her hands, her voice soft and melodic as she spoke the words of the spell. A wave of soft, shimmering light spread out from her, washing over the gathered villagers. They gasped in surprise as the magic flowed over them, their clothes becoming clean and fresh, the smell of sea salt and herbs filling the air.
The children laughed and touched their newly cleaned coats and boots, their faces alight with joy. The adults looked down at their clothes, touching their own skin in wonder. Even Chief Taktuq’s stern face softened as he felt the warmth and cleanliness settle over him.
“This… this is a gift indeed,” he said quietly, his voice filled with a kind of quiet awe. “We are honored by your generosity.”
The knights bowed their heads, their expressions respectful. “It is the least we can do for the kindness you have shown us,” Knight One said softly. “We wish you and your people health and peace in the days to come.”
Chief Taktuq nodded, his gaze steady and thoughtful. “You have brought more than just words to our village. May your journey be safe, and may you find what you seek.”
The knights gathered their belongings, preparing to depart. The villagers watched them with a new light in their eyes, a mixture of respect, gratitude, and something more—a sense of connection, of shared humanity that transcended the cold, harsh realities of their world.
As the knights mounted the enchanted carpet, the children ran alongside, waving and laughing, their voices carrying over the wind. The Grey Seer smiled and waved back, her heart warmed by their joy.
The carpet rose slowly into the air, its colorful patterns glowing softly in the pale light of dawn. The villagers watched in silence, their breath misting in the cold air as the knights ascended, their forms becoming smaller and smaller against the vast sky.
Chief Taktuq stood at the center of the village, the sack of sea salt clutched in his hand. He watched the knights disappear into the distance, his gaze thoughtful and serious.
“They carry more than magic,” he murmured to himself. “They carry hope. May the spirits guide them on their path.”
The wind whispered over the village, the sound of the sea and the cry of the distant gulls mingling with the echoes of the knights’ departure. The people turned back to their lives, their work, but something had changed. A sense of possibility, of hope, had taken root in their hearts.
The knights flew northward, the cold wind biting at their faces, their thoughts already turning to the mountains ahead, and the elusive man who held the key to their quest.
But for now, they left behind a village that would remember them, not just as strangers from the sky, but as friends who brought light and warmth to the cold, dark edges of the world.
The village clung to the edge of the frozen sea like a handful of dark stones scattered along the icy shore. As the knights descended from the ridge, the air grew thick with the tang of salt and the distant, rhythmic roar of waves crashing against the ice. Small, sturdy homes made from driftwood, stone, and animal skins huddled together against the relentless wind, their walls adorned with carvings of whales, seals, and ancient symbols that spoke of the tribe’s deep connection to the land and sea.
Smoke drifted from the chimneys of several huts, and the faint scent of cooking fish and seal meat wafted toward the approaching group, mingling with the cold, briny air. A group of children playing near the edge of the village was the first to notice the knights. Their laughter ceased, and they stood frozen for a moment, wide-eyed and silent, before one of them—a boy with bright eyes and a fur-lined hood—let out a high, clear call.
“Strangers!” he shouted, pointing up the slope. “Strangers are coming!”
The village stirred to life. Men and women emerged from their homes, their faces curious and wary. They were dressed in heavy furs and leather, their skin weathered by the harsh climate, eyes sharp and alert.
The knights moved slowly, their hands visible and open, showing that they meant no harm. The Grey Seer stepped forward, her calm presence and unassuming posture a signal of peace.
A group of hunters, their faces painted with ceremonial markings, moved to intercept the newcomers. They carried spears tipped with bone, and their eyes were watchful, but there was no hostility in their stance. At their head was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a mane of greying hair, his face lined with age and wisdom. He stepped forward, his grip firm on the shaft of his spear.
He demanded, his voice deep and resonant. “What brings you to our village at the edge of the sea?”
Knight One took a step forward, bowing slightly as a gesture of respect. “We are travelers from the south, seeking passage through your lands,” he said, his voice steady and respectful. “We mean no harm. We come in peace and seek only to speak with your leaders.”
The elder’s eyes narrowed, studying the knights carefully. He seemed to weigh their words, his gaze lingering on their strange clothing and the weapons at their sides. The wind tugged at his fur cloak, and for a moment, the only sound was the distant roar of the waves and the faint rustling of the sea grass that grew along the shore.
Finally, he nodded, a slow, deliberate movement. “I am Taktuq, chief of this village,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of authority. “If you come in peace, then you are welcome here. But know this—we are a proud and strong people. We will not be intimidated or tricked.”
Knight One nodded, his expression sincere. “We understand, Chief Taktuq. We only wish to talk and to learn more about your people and this land. We bring news from the south and hope to offer our help, if it is needed.”
The chief regarded them for a long moment, then turned and gestured for them to follow. “Very well. Come with me. You will speak with our council, and we will decide what to make of your words.”
The knights followed the chief through the village, feeling the eyes of the villagers upon them. They passed by rows of low, sturdy huts, their walls decorated with intricate carvings and symbols. Women worked outside, scraping hides and tending to racks of drying fish. They watched the newcomers with curious, guarded expressions, whispering among themselves as the knights walked by.
A group of elders waited near a large, open pavilion in the center of the village, its roof supported by pillars carved with images of whales and seabirds. They sat on thick pelts spread over the frozen ground, their eyes sharp and questioning as the chief led the knights forward.
“These travelers claim to come in peace,” Taktuq announced, his voice carrying across the gathered villagers. “They say they bring news from the south and wish to speak with us.” He turned to Knight One, his gaze steady. “Speak, then. Tell us what brings you to our land.”
Knight One took a deep breath and stepped forward, choosing his words carefully. “We have traveled far, from the lands beyond the great mountains. We bring no demands or threats, only the hope of friendship and mutual respect. We seek a crystal Orb. We believe it is carried by someone fleeing a war in the south.”
The elders murmured among themselves, their expressions thoughtful. One of them, an old woman with eyes as sharp as a hawk’s, leaned forward, her gaze fixed on the knights.
“You speak of friendship,” she said, her voice thin but strong. “But what do you know of our lives here? Of the struggles we face?” She gestured to the sea beyond the village, where the ice stretched out to the horizon. “This is a harsh land. Why would you want to ally yourselves with us?”
The Grey Seer stepped forward then, her presence calm and serene. “Because we know that your people are strong and wise,” she said gently. “We wish to learn from you, and, if needed, to offer our help. We do not seek to change your ways. We only hope to share what we know and to stand together against the challenges that face us all.”
The old woman studied the Grey Seer for a long moment, her eyes narrowing slightly. Then she nodded, a small, almost imperceptible gesture. “We will listen to what you have to say,” she said quietly. “But know this—we are not easily swayed. Words are like the wind. They come and go.”
Knight One bowed his head, his voice steady and sincere. “We understand. We will prove ourselves.”
The chief nodded, his expression thoughtful. “You will stay with us tonight. Tomorrow, we will talk more. There are many things to discuss, and the council will want to hear.”
He turned and spoke a few words to one of the hunters, who nodded and gestured for the knights to follow. “This man will show you to your quarters. Rest now. You have traveled far, and the road ahead is long.”
The knights bowed and followed the hunter, their steps light and respectful as they moved through the village. The eyes of the villagers followed them, curious and watchful, but no longer filled with suspicion.
They were led to a large, warm hut near the edge of the village, its walls lined with thick furs and its hearth glowing with a welcoming fire. As they settled in, the knights exchanged quiet words, their expressions thoughtful.
“We made it,” Knight Four said softly, a hint of relief in his voice. “But it’s just the beginning.”
Knight One nodded, his gaze steady. “We’ve taken the first step. Now, we have to prove ourselves.”
The Grey Seer looked around at her companions, her eyes calm but resolute. “We’ll do what we must.”
The fire crackled softly, its light dancing on the walls of the hut as the knights settled down to rest. Outside, the village was quiet, the only sound the distant roar of the sea and the soft, ever-present murmur of the wind.
The journey to Alaska had been long and difficult, but they had reached their destination. Now, the real work would begin.
---
The wind howled outside the large communal hut as the villagers gathered around the fire, their faces illuminated by the flickering flames. The knights sat at the center, their posture relaxed but attentive, sensing the curiosity and concern emanating from the crowd around them. The warmth of the fire was a welcome reprieve from the bitter cold outside, but it was the intensity of the villagers’ gaze that truly held the air tight.
An elder woman, her lined face a testament to decades of survival in this harsh land, stepped forward. Her hands were clasped together, fingers adorned with rings carved from bone and stone. She glanced around at the others before speaking, her voice firm but respectful.
“You’ve been with us for three days now,” she began, her eyes fixed on Knight One. “You do not eat with us, you do not drink our water. We have not seen you go out to relieve yourselves, and yet you remain strong, your faces show no signs of hunger or thirst. And your clothes—always clean, as if you’ve just donned them from a warm hearth.”
She paused, her gaze shifting to the Grey Seer, who sat with calm composure beside the fire. “We are grateful for your presence and your help. But this is not natural. It makes us wonder, what manner of beings are you? How can you live without food and water?”
The crowd murmured in agreement, the quiet rustle of suspicion and curiosity filling the room. The children, who had initially been fascinated by the knights stories and strange appearance, now peered at them with wide, uncertain eyes.
Knight One leaned forward slightly, his expression open and reassuring. “We understand your concerns. We are not spirits or demons, if that is what you fear. We are human, like you. But we are under the effect of a powerful spell of sustenance. It allows us to go without food, water, or sleep for long periods of time, so we may focus on our mission without distraction.”
He gestured to the Grey Seer, who nodded in affirmation. “This spell, called Sustain, keeps our bodies and minds strong. While another, called Cleanse, makes our clothes clean and why we have no need to bathe. But I assure you, it is simply a convenience, not something sinister.”
The villagers listened in silence, absorbing this explanation. The elder woman frowned, her brow furrowing. “Magic like that… not common. Why would you use such magic just to travel? What is it that you seek here, in our lands?”
Knight One exchanged a glance with the Grey Seer, who nodded almost imperceptibly. He reached into his pack and withdrew a carefully folded piece of parchment. With a deliberate motion, he opened it, revealing a picture of the Orb—a milky cream-colored crystal ball, its swirling interior almost seeming to move under the flickering light of the fire.
“We are looking for this,” he said, his voice calm but tinged with urgency. “It is an Orb, a powerful artifact that has been lost. It once belonged to the Grey Seers.” He glanced at the Grey Seer, who gave a small, sad smile. “We believe it is now in the possession of a man—a woodsman and traveler.”
He unfolded another picture, this one showing a rugged, weather-beaten man with a thick beard, sharp eyes, and a confident, adventurous stance. He was dressed in sturdy furs and leather, a rifle slung across his back, his expression one of quiet determination. The villagers leaned closer, some recognizing the type of man but not the specific face.
“This man,” Knight One continued, “is known to travel to remote and wild places. We believe he came here, to Alaska, because he loves the challenge of exploring new lands. We do not know his name, but he carries the Orb with him. We need to find him, and the Orb, for it is a force for good. Its wisdom is needed to help end a war and save many lives.”
The elder woman peered at the picture, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “You say this Orb is powerful and good. But why does it matter so much to you? Why would you travel all this way, using such magic, just to find it?”
The Grey Seer leaned forward, her gaze steady and sincere. “Because the Orb holds wisdom that can guide us in times of great need. It can help us make decisions that could save thousands of lives. Without it, we are blind to dangers that threaten our world.”
She paused, her eyes searching the faces of the villagers. “This man may not know the power he carries. He may simply see it as a curiosity, a beautiful object. But in the wrong hands, it could be used for terrible purposes. We seek it not to control or possess, but to protect and use its wisdom to save lives.”
The villagers exchanged glances, their expressions thoughtful, though not entirely convinced. The elder woman looked back at the knights, her gaze sharp and assessing.
“There was a man,” she said slowly, her voice carrying the weight of careful consideration. “He came through here not long ago. A stranger, like you, but he seemed… different. A man who knew how to survive in the wild, but who spoke little of himself. He traded some furs and took supplies. He was headed west, toward the mountains.”
Knight One straightened, his eyes brightening with hope. “Did he have the Orb with him? Did you see anything like this in his possession?”
The elder shook her head. “He kept his pack close. We did not see much of what he carried. But he was cautious, like a man guarding something precious. If he has this Orb, he would not show it openly.”
Knight Four, who had been listening intently, leaned forward. “How long ago was this? How far could he have gone?”
The elder glanced at one of the hunters beside her, a young man with sharp eyes and a thoughtful expression. The hunter nodded. “Five, maybe six days. If he travels well, he could be halfway to the mountains by now. But the weather is harsh, and the paths are dangerous. He will not move quickly.”
The knights exchanged glances. Knight One turned back to the elder, his voice steady but urgent. “Thank you. You have given us more than we had before. We will follow his trail. But if you see or hear anything more of him, please, send word to us. The Orb is not just our concern—it affects the fate of many.”
The elder nodded slowly, her eyes filled with a mix of curiosity and wariness. “We will watch, and we will listen. But know this—if you bring trouble to our lands, we will not hesitate to defend ourselves.”
Knight One bowed deeply, his voice filled with respect. “We understand. We will do everything we can to ensure no harm comes to your people.”
The villagers began to disperse, murmuring among themselves, their curiosity and concern still evident. The knights remained by the fire, their thoughts heavy with the weight of the news they had received.
“The mountains,” Knight Four said quietly, his voice thoughtful. “It won’t be easy to track him in that terrain, especially if he doesn’t want to be found.”
“We don’t have a choice,” Knight One replied, his gaze distant. “We have to find him, and soon.”
The Grey Seer glanced at the picture of the Orb, her expression filled with determination. “We will find him. The Orb called to me once before, and I believe it will guide us again. We just need to be patient, and ready.”
Knight Four nodded, his usual lighthearted demeanor replaced by a rare seriousness. “We’ll get it back.”
The fire crackled softly as the knights sat in silence, their thoughts turning to the rugged, unknown man who held the fate of so many in his hands. Outside, the wind howled over the frozen sea, a haunting reminder of the wild, untamed land that awaited them.
---
The wind off the sea was brisk and biting as the villagers gathered in the center of their small coastal settlement, the low sun casting long shadows over the snow-packed ground. The news of the knights’ imminent departure had spread quickly, and now men, women, and children were huddled together, curiosity and anticipation visible on their faces. The elders stood at the forefront, their eyes watchful and wary, still processing the strange visitors who had come into their midst.
Knight One stepped forward, his breath misting in the cold air as he raised a hand in greeting. His voice, though calm, carried the authority and sincerity that had marked his every word since they had arrived.
“Before we leave, we would like to offer something in return for your hospitality,” he said, his gaze sweeping over the gathered villagers. “We know that life here is hard, and we want to help in any way we can. We have healing magic, and we can use it to ease the suffering of those in need.”
A ripple of surprise and murmured conversation moved through the crowd. The villagers exchanged glances, their expressions a mixture of skepticism and hope. Chief Taktuq, standing beside the elders, stepped forward, his face serious.
“Magic is not something we take lightly,” he said, his voice low and measured. “But we have seen that you mean no harm. If you can help our sick and injured, we will accept your offer.”
The Grey Seer nodded, her presence calm and reassuring. “Bring those who need healing to us. We will do all we can to ease their pain.”
The villagers hesitated, but then a young mother stepped forward, carrying a child bundled in thick furs. The child’s face was pale, his eyes half-closed, his breathing labored. The mother’s expression was one of desperation and love, her voice trembling as she spoke.
“He is my son. He has been sick for many days. Please, if you can help him…”
The Grey Seer nodded gently, stepping forward and placing her hands lightly on the child’s head. Her eyes closed, and a soft, warm light spread from her hands, enveloping the boy in a gentle, golden glow. The villagers watched in silence, their breath held as the boy’s color slowly returned, his breathing becoming stronger and steadier.
After a few moments, the Grey Seer stepped back, her face serene. The boy opened his eyes, blinking up at his mother with a clarity that had been absent for so long. The mother gasped, tears filling her eyes as she hugged her son tightly, her voice breaking with gratitude.
“Thank you, thank you so much…”
The crowd murmured, astonishment and relief spreading through their ranks. More villagers stepped forward, carrying those who were ill or injured—an elderly man with a deep cough, a young woman with a twisted ankle, a hunter with a festering wound on his arm. One by one, the knights and the Grey Seer moved among them, their hands glowing with healing magic as they mended wounds, soothed pain, and brought comfort to those who had known only suffering.
Knight Four, his usual playful demeanor softened by the gravity of the moment, knelt beside an old woman whose hands were gnarled with arthritis. He spoke softly to her, his voice gentle, as he let the magic flow through his hands, easing the pain in her joints. She looked at him with wonder, her eyes shining with gratitude as she felt relief from her pain, tears streaming down her weathered cheeks.
She whispered, her voice trembling. “I can hold my grandchildren again. Thank you…”
Knight Four smiled, his expression warm. “It’s my honor. I’m glad I could give you even a moment of relief.”
As the knights finished their healing, the mood in the village shifted. The initial wariness had been replaced by a sense of awe and gratitude. The villagers spoke in hushed tones, their eyes filled with respect and a new understanding of the strangers who had come to them from the sky.
Glistening in the dim light, coarse grains of sea salt were conjured using one of the Knight’s recently acquired Ocean Magic spells of “create salt.”
“This is a gift from us to you,” Knight One said, holding out a 10 pound sack to Chief Taktuq. “It is not much, but it is good, pure sea salt. It can be used to preserve food, to season your meals, or to trade as you see fit.”
Chief Taktuq took the pouch, his expression thoughtful. He nodded slowly, accepting the gift with a grave nod of respect. “Thank you. This will be of great use to us.”
The Grey Seer stepped forward then, her eyes bright with a gentle, hopeful light. “There is one more gift we can offer, if you will accept it. We can use our magic to cleanse you and your clothes. It will refresh your bodies and your garments as if you had just bathed, without the need for water or fire.”
The villagers exchanged glances, their expressions uncertain. Bathing was a luxury in these cold, harsh lands, and to be clean, truly clean, was something few experienced outside of the brief summer months. But the memory of the healing was fresh in their minds, and slowly, they began to nod.
The Grey Seer extended her hands, her voice soft and melodic as she spoke the words of the spell. A wave of soft, shimmering light spread out from her, washing over the gathered villagers. They gasped in surprise as the magic flowed over them, their clothes becoming clean and fresh, the smell of sea salt and herbs filling the air.
The children laughed and touched their newly cleaned coats and boots, their faces alight with joy. The adults looked down at their clothes, touching their own skin in wonder. Even Chief Taktuq’s stern face softened as he felt the warmth and cleanliness settle over him.
“This… this is a gift indeed,” he said quietly, his voice filled with a kind of quiet awe. “We are honored by your generosity.”
The knights bowed their heads, their expressions respectful. “It is the least we can do for the kindness you have shown us,” Knight One said softly. “We wish you and your people health and peace in the days to come.”
Chief Taktuq nodded, his gaze steady and thoughtful. “You have brought more than just words to our village. May your journey be safe, and may you find what you seek.”
The knights gathered their belongings, preparing to depart. The villagers watched them with a new light in their eyes, a mixture of respect, gratitude, and something more—a sense of connection, of shared humanity that transcended the cold, harsh realities of their world.
As the knights mounted the enchanted carpet, the children ran alongside, waving and laughing, their voices carrying over the wind. The Grey Seer smiled and waved back, her heart warmed by their joy.
The carpet rose slowly into the air, its colorful patterns glowing softly in the pale light of dawn. The villagers watched in silence, their breath misting in the cold air as the knights ascended, their forms becoming smaller and smaller against the vast sky.
Chief Taktuq stood at the center of the village, the sack of sea salt clutched in his hand. He watched the knights disappear into the distance, his gaze thoughtful and serious.
“They carry more than magic,” he murmured to himself. “They carry hope. May the spirits guide them on their path.”
The wind whispered over the village, the sound of the sea and the cry of the distant gulls mingling with the echoes of the knights’ departure. The people turned back to their lives, their work, but something had changed. A sense of possibility, of hope, had taken root in their hearts.
The knights flew northward, the cold wind biting at their faces, their thoughts already turning to the mountains ahead, and the elusive man who held the key to their quest.
But for now, they left behind a village that would remember them, not just as strangers from the sky, but as friends who brought light and warmth to the cold, dark edges of the world.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
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- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
The sun was sinking low on the horizon, casting long shadows over the snowy tundra as the knights settled down around their evening campfire. The wind had picked up, whistling through the pine trees and carrying with it the scent of distant snow. Their Sheltering Force tents were set up in a small clearing, shielded from the worst of the wind by a natural rock outcrop. The carpet, rolled and stowed for the night, lay beside the fire, its colors muted in the fading light.
Knight Four sat cross-legged by the fire, his face thoughtful and tense. He held the photograph of the rugged woodsman in his hands, the image worn and creased from days of handling. The man in the picture stared back at him, his eyes sharp and determined, the lines of his face etched with a life lived in wild places. Knight Four exhaled slowly, focusing on the man’s eyes, letting his mind clear of all thoughts except for the target in the photograph.
The Grey Seer watched him intently from across the fire, her expression calm but serious.
“Are you sure you’re ready?” she asked quietly. “Remote Viewing is draining, and you’ve already done so much today.”
Knight Four glanced up at her, giving a small, reassuring smile.
“I’m fine. If we’re going to find this man before he disappears into the wilds completely, we need every advantage we can get.” He looked back at the photograph, his voice steady. “Let’s see where he is, shall we?”
He closed his eyes, taking a deep, slow breath. The air around him seemed to still as he reached out with his mind, focusing all his thoughts and energy on the image of the man. The fire crackled softly, its warmth a comforting presence against the growing chill of the night.
The psionic energy surged within him, a subtle pulse that spread outward like ripples on a pond. He felt his awareness expanding, stretching across the miles, searching, seeking, until he found the familiar presence of the man in the photograph. There was a brief moment of resistance, a hazy barrier that he pushed through with gentle persistence, and then—
His vision shifted, and he was no longer in the clearing by the fire. Instead, he found himself looking down from above, as if peering through a skylight into another world.
The woodsman was moving through a dense forest, his steps purposeful and quick. He wore a heavy, fur-lined coat, his breath misting in the cold air. Snow clung to his boots as he trudged through the thick drifts, his movements steady despite the difficult terrain. In his left hand, he carried a long, sturdy walking stick, and his right hand was clenched tightly around the strap of his pack.
Knight Four watched intently, trying to take in as much detail as he could. The trees around the woodsman were tall and ancient, their branches heavy with snow. The light filtering through the canopy was dim, suggesting either the approach of night or the overcast sky of a deep winter day. The man’s eyes were sharp, scanning his surroundings as he moved, as if he were searching for something—or someone.
For a brief moment, the woodsman paused, his head tilting slightly as if he had heard something in the distance. He turned, and Knight Four caught a glimpse of what lay behind him: a narrow, snow-covered trail winding between the trees, disappearing into the shadows beyond. The woodsman’s expression was wary, almost cautious, as he glanced over his shoulder before continuing forward.
Knight Four’s perspective shifted slightly, following the woodsman’s line of sight. There, in the distance, he saw a small structure—a makeshift shelter, barely visible through the thick trees. It was a crude, temporary dwelling, built from fallen branches and covered with a tarp. Smoke rose in a thin, almost invisible line from a small fire pit in front of it, blending with the mist that hung low to the ground.
The woodsman moved toward the shelter, his steps careful and deliberate. He stopped just outside, his eyes scanning the area again, as if ensuring that he was truly alone. Knight Four’s view shifted closer, giving him a glimpse of the inside of the shelter—a small, neat space with a bedroll, a few scattered belongings, and, resting on a rough wooden crate, something that made his heart leap.
The Orb.
It was unmistakable, even in the dim light. The milky cream-colored sphere sat nestled among the man’s gear, its swirling interior shifting slowly like the murky clouds of a distant storm. It pulsed faintly, almost imperceptibly, with a deep, steady rhythm, as if it were a living thing, breathing quietly in the cold.
Knight Four felt a surge of excitement, but he kept his focus, trying to take in as much as he could. The woodsman knelt beside the Orb, his expression thoughtful, almost reverent. He reached out, his fingers brushing lightly over its surface. The Orb seemed to respond, its swirling patterns brightening for a brief moment before settling back into their slow, hypnotic dance.
The vision began to blur around the edges, the scene growing hazy and indistinct. Knight Four struggled to hold onto it, to see more, but the connection was slipping. He caught a last glimpse of the woodsman rising to his feet, his face set with determination, and then—
The vision snapped shut, and Knight Four was back in the clearing, the photograph still clutched in his hand. He exhaled sharply, his heart pounding, his mind reeling from the intensity of the experience.
The Grey Seer was at his side in an instant, her hand on his shoulder, her eyes searching his face. “What did you see?” she asked urgently. “Did you find him?”
Knight Four nodded, his voice still breathless. “I saw him. He’s in a forest, heading toward a shelter. The Orb is with him, I’m sure of it.” He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “He looked… cautious. Almost like he’s expecting trouble.”
Knight One leaned forward, his expression intense. “Did you see where he was? Can you describe the area?”
Knight Four closed his eyes for a moment, recalling the vision. “The trees were old, tall. It looked like a deep forest, maybe near the mountains. There was a makeshift shelter, and smoke from a fire. It wasn’t a permanent camp—more like a place to rest before moving on. He’s not staying in one place for long.”
Knight Three’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Near mountains… that could be anywhere north of here. We need more information, but at least we know he’s close.”
The Grey Seer glanced at the photograph, her expression troubled. “If he has the Orb, and he’s being cautious, he might be aware that someone is looking for him. We need to be careful how we approach him. If he thinks we’re a threat…”
Knight Four nodded, still feeling the lingering echo of the woodsman’s wariness.
“We know where to start. If we head north, toward the mountains, look around the area, we should be able to pick up his trail.”
Knight One rose to his feet, his face set with determination.
“Then we leave at first light. We’re close—closer than we’ve ever been.”
The knights nodded in agreement, their resolve strengthened by the news. As they settled in for the night, their thoughts were filled with the image of the woodsman and the glowing Orb, nestled among the snow-covered trees.
They had found him. Now, they just had to reach him.
---
The first light of dawn was just breaking over the horizon, painting the snow-covered landscape in shades of pale pink and gold. The air was crisp and still, the kind of cold that bit deep and left a sting in the lungs. The knights stood in a loose circle at the edge of their camp, the trees rising around them like silent sentinels. Their breaths formed small clouds in the frigid air as they prepared for the day ahead.
Knight One stood at the center, his expression focused and calm. He lifted his hands, the energy of the spell already beginning to hum softly around him. “This will give us the endurance we need to cover more ground,” he said, his voice steady and reassuring. “We won’t feel tired or slow, and we’ll be able to move quickly through the forest. Stay alert for any signs of the woodsman—tracks, disturbed snow, anything. I can feel we are close.”
The others nodded, determination etched on their faces. The Grey Seer watched Knight One with calm, trusting eyes, while Knight Four shifted from foot to foot, his eagerness barely contained. Knight Three and Knight Two tightened their gloves and adjusted their packs, their focus entirely on the task ahead.
Knight One closed his eyes, his voice low and clear as he spoke the words of the spell. “Supernatural Endurance.” The magic flowed through him like a river, spreading out from his core and enveloping the others. A soft, shimmering light surrounded them, a brief, brilliant glow that seemed to pulse in time with their heartbeats. Then, as quickly as it had come, the light faded, leaving them all with a newfound sense of strength and energy.
Knight Four flexed his fingers, his eyes widening slightly as he felt the magic take hold.
Knight One nodded, a faint smile touching his lips. “We’ve got two hours. Let’s make them count.”
Without another word, they set off, their boots crunching through the snow as they began to run. The forest blurred around them as they picked up speed, their movements fluid and effortless. They weaved between the trees, their breath steady and strong, the cold air whipping past their faces. There was no fatigue, no strain—only the pure, exhilarating sense of motion, of power.
The snow-covered ground flew by beneath them, their boots leaving faint, fleeting impressions that were quickly swallowed by the swirling frost. They ran with a purpose, their eyes scanning the terrain, searching for any sign of the woodsman’s passage. The sun climbed higher, casting long shadows across the forest floor, but they moved with relentless speed, covering miles in minutes.
The Grey Seer, her senses heightened by the spell, kept her gaze moving, looking for any disturbance in the pristine landscape. Suddenly, she raised a hand, signaling them to slow. “There,” she called, her voice cutting through the stillness. “To the left. Tracks.”
They skidded to a stop, snow spraying around them as they turned and moved toward the spot she indicated. There, faint but unmistakable, were the tracks of a lone figure. The prints were deep, the shape of the boot clear and distinct against the snow. They were fresh—no more than a few hours old.
Knight Four knelt beside the tracks, his eyes narrowing as he studied them. “The woodsman,” he said softly. “It has to be. He’s moving quickly, but he’s on foot, like us.”
Knight One nodded, his gaze sharp. “We’ve got him. He can’t be far.”
They took off again, following the tracks as they twisted and turned through the forest. The snow was deep here, but the spell kept them light on their feet, their movements swift and sure. The trees thinned as they climbed a low ridge, the landscape opening up to reveal a wide, frozen valley below.
Knight Four slowed as they reached the top, his eyes scanning the valley. A flicker of recognition crossed his face, and he pointed toward a cluster of dense evergreens near the far side of the valley.
“There! That’s the spot I saw in my vision—the shelter must be close by.”
Knight One glanced in the direction he pointed, his eyes narrowing as he spotted the telltale wisps of smoke rising faintly from among the trees. “Let’s go.”
They descended the ridge at a breakneck pace, their bodies moving with effortless speed and precision. As they reached the valley floor, the tracks became clearer, leading straight toward the trees. The wind picked up, blowing swirls of snow around their legs, but they pressed on, their focus unwavering.
The forest thickened as they approached the evergreens, the air filled with the scent of pine and frost. The smoke was stronger now, a thin, curling line against the sky. They slowed, their steps cautious as they moved closer to the source.
And then they saw it.
The shelter was tucked away among the trees, almost invisible beneath its covering of snow and branches. It was a crude structure, built for temporary use, but there was no mistaking the glow of a small fire just inside. The woodsman’s pack was propped against one side, his rifle leaning casually beside it.
Knight One held up a hand, signaling them to halt. They crouched low, their breaths controlled and silent, watching the shelter with keen eyes. There was no movement from inside, only the faint crackle of the fire and the soft, rhythmic sound of someone breathing deeply.
The Grey Seer leaned in close to Knight One, her voice barely a whisper. “He’s resting. If we’re careful, we can approach without startling him.”
Knight One nodded, his gaze never leaving the shelter. “We’ll move slowly. Stay ready. We don’t want to spook him.”
They moved forward, their steps silent on the snow, the spell’s energy still thrumming through their veins. As they drew closer, the figure inside the shelter shifted, and the knights froze, holding their breath.
The woodsman sat up, his movements slow and deliberate. He glanced around, his eyes narrowed, as if sensing something was amiss. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold its breath, and then his gaze locked onto them.
He stood in a fluid motion, his hand reaching instinctively for his rifle. Knight One rose to his full height, his hands open and empty, his voice calm and clear.
“Wait! We’re not here to harm you.”
The woodsman’s eyes flicked between them, his expression hard and wary. “Who are you? What do you want?”
Knight Four stepped forward, his voice steady. “We’re looking for something—a crystal orb. It’s important, not just to us, but to many people. We believe you have it, and we need your help.”
The woodsman’s grip on the rifle tightened, but he didn’t raise it. His eyes narrowed, suspicion warring with curiosity. “You’re talking about that weird stone I found, aren’t you? What’s so important about it?”
The Grey Seer stepped forward, her gaze earnest. “It’s an ancient artifact, a force for good. It holds knowledge that could save lives—thousands of lives. Please, let us talk. We mean you no harm.”
There was a long, tense silence. The woodsman studied them, his eyes searching their faces for any sign of deception. Finally, he exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.
“Fine. You’ve got five minutes. But if I don’t like what I hear…” He left the threat unspoken, but the meaning was clear.
Knight One nodded, relief flooding through him.
The knights slowly lowered their hands, their movements careful and deliberate, as they approached the shelter. The woodsman watched them closely, his eyes still wary, but there was a flicker of something else there now—a cautious, tentative hope.
Knight Four sat cross-legged by the fire, his face thoughtful and tense. He held the photograph of the rugged woodsman in his hands, the image worn and creased from days of handling. The man in the picture stared back at him, his eyes sharp and determined, the lines of his face etched with a life lived in wild places. Knight Four exhaled slowly, focusing on the man’s eyes, letting his mind clear of all thoughts except for the target in the photograph.
The Grey Seer watched him intently from across the fire, her expression calm but serious.
“Are you sure you’re ready?” she asked quietly. “Remote Viewing is draining, and you’ve already done so much today.”
Knight Four glanced up at her, giving a small, reassuring smile.
“I’m fine. If we’re going to find this man before he disappears into the wilds completely, we need every advantage we can get.” He looked back at the photograph, his voice steady. “Let’s see where he is, shall we?”
He closed his eyes, taking a deep, slow breath. The air around him seemed to still as he reached out with his mind, focusing all his thoughts and energy on the image of the man. The fire crackled softly, its warmth a comforting presence against the growing chill of the night.
The psionic energy surged within him, a subtle pulse that spread outward like ripples on a pond. He felt his awareness expanding, stretching across the miles, searching, seeking, until he found the familiar presence of the man in the photograph. There was a brief moment of resistance, a hazy barrier that he pushed through with gentle persistence, and then—
His vision shifted, and he was no longer in the clearing by the fire. Instead, he found himself looking down from above, as if peering through a skylight into another world.
The woodsman was moving through a dense forest, his steps purposeful and quick. He wore a heavy, fur-lined coat, his breath misting in the cold air. Snow clung to his boots as he trudged through the thick drifts, his movements steady despite the difficult terrain. In his left hand, he carried a long, sturdy walking stick, and his right hand was clenched tightly around the strap of his pack.
Knight Four watched intently, trying to take in as much detail as he could. The trees around the woodsman were tall and ancient, their branches heavy with snow. The light filtering through the canopy was dim, suggesting either the approach of night or the overcast sky of a deep winter day. The man’s eyes were sharp, scanning his surroundings as he moved, as if he were searching for something—or someone.
For a brief moment, the woodsman paused, his head tilting slightly as if he had heard something in the distance. He turned, and Knight Four caught a glimpse of what lay behind him: a narrow, snow-covered trail winding between the trees, disappearing into the shadows beyond. The woodsman’s expression was wary, almost cautious, as he glanced over his shoulder before continuing forward.
Knight Four’s perspective shifted slightly, following the woodsman’s line of sight. There, in the distance, he saw a small structure—a makeshift shelter, barely visible through the thick trees. It was a crude, temporary dwelling, built from fallen branches and covered with a tarp. Smoke rose in a thin, almost invisible line from a small fire pit in front of it, blending with the mist that hung low to the ground.
The woodsman moved toward the shelter, his steps careful and deliberate. He stopped just outside, his eyes scanning the area again, as if ensuring that he was truly alone. Knight Four’s view shifted closer, giving him a glimpse of the inside of the shelter—a small, neat space with a bedroll, a few scattered belongings, and, resting on a rough wooden crate, something that made his heart leap.
The Orb.
It was unmistakable, even in the dim light. The milky cream-colored sphere sat nestled among the man’s gear, its swirling interior shifting slowly like the murky clouds of a distant storm. It pulsed faintly, almost imperceptibly, with a deep, steady rhythm, as if it were a living thing, breathing quietly in the cold.
Knight Four felt a surge of excitement, but he kept his focus, trying to take in as much as he could. The woodsman knelt beside the Orb, his expression thoughtful, almost reverent. He reached out, his fingers brushing lightly over its surface. The Orb seemed to respond, its swirling patterns brightening for a brief moment before settling back into their slow, hypnotic dance.
The vision began to blur around the edges, the scene growing hazy and indistinct. Knight Four struggled to hold onto it, to see more, but the connection was slipping. He caught a last glimpse of the woodsman rising to his feet, his face set with determination, and then—
The vision snapped shut, and Knight Four was back in the clearing, the photograph still clutched in his hand. He exhaled sharply, his heart pounding, his mind reeling from the intensity of the experience.
The Grey Seer was at his side in an instant, her hand on his shoulder, her eyes searching his face. “What did you see?” she asked urgently. “Did you find him?”
Knight Four nodded, his voice still breathless. “I saw him. He’s in a forest, heading toward a shelter. The Orb is with him, I’m sure of it.” He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “He looked… cautious. Almost like he’s expecting trouble.”
Knight One leaned forward, his expression intense. “Did you see where he was? Can you describe the area?”
Knight Four closed his eyes for a moment, recalling the vision. “The trees were old, tall. It looked like a deep forest, maybe near the mountains. There was a makeshift shelter, and smoke from a fire. It wasn’t a permanent camp—more like a place to rest before moving on. He’s not staying in one place for long.”
Knight Three’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Near mountains… that could be anywhere north of here. We need more information, but at least we know he’s close.”
The Grey Seer glanced at the photograph, her expression troubled. “If he has the Orb, and he’s being cautious, he might be aware that someone is looking for him. We need to be careful how we approach him. If he thinks we’re a threat…”
Knight Four nodded, still feeling the lingering echo of the woodsman’s wariness.
“We know where to start. If we head north, toward the mountains, look around the area, we should be able to pick up his trail.”
Knight One rose to his feet, his face set with determination.
“Then we leave at first light. We’re close—closer than we’ve ever been.”
The knights nodded in agreement, their resolve strengthened by the news. As they settled in for the night, their thoughts were filled with the image of the woodsman and the glowing Orb, nestled among the snow-covered trees.
They had found him. Now, they just had to reach him.
---
The first light of dawn was just breaking over the horizon, painting the snow-covered landscape in shades of pale pink and gold. The air was crisp and still, the kind of cold that bit deep and left a sting in the lungs. The knights stood in a loose circle at the edge of their camp, the trees rising around them like silent sentinels. Their breaths formed small clouds in the frigid air as they prepared for the day ahead.
Knight One stood at the center, his expression focused and calm. He lifted his hands, the energy of the spell already beginning to hum softly around him. “This will give us the endurance we need to cover more ground,” he said, his voice steady and reassuring. “We won’t feel tired or slow, and we’ll be able to move quickly through the forest. Stay alert for any signs of the woodsman—tracks, disturbed snow, anything. I can feel we are close.”
The others nodded, determination etched on their faces. The Grey Seer watched Knight One with calm, trusting eyes, while Knight Four shifted from foot to foot, his eagerness barely contained. Knight Three and Knight Two tightened their gloves and adjusted their packs, their focus entirely on the task ahead.
Knight One closed his eyes, his voice low and clear as he spoke the words of the spell. “Supernatural Endurance.” The magic flowed through him like a river, spreading out from his core and enveloping the others. A soft, shimmering light surrounded them, a brief, brilliant glow that seemed to pulse in time with their heartbeats. Then, as quickly as it had come, the light faded, leaving them all with a newfound sense of strength and energy.
Knight Four flexed his fingers, his eyes widening slightly as he felt the magic take hold.
Knight One nodded, a faint smile touching his lips. “We’ve got two hours. Let’s make them count.”
Without another word, they set off, their boots crunching through the snow as they began to run. The forest blurred around them as they picked up speed, their movements fluid and effortless. They weaved between the trees, their breath steady and strong, the cold air whipping past their faces. There was no fatigue, no strain—only the pure, exhilarating sense of motion, of power.
The snow-covered ground flew by beneath them, their boots leaving faint, fleeting impressions that were quickly swallowed by the swirling frost. They ran with a purpose, their eyes scanning the terrain, searching for any sign of the woodsman’s passage. The sun climbed higher, casting long shadows across the forest floor, but they moved with relentless speed, covering miles in minutes.
The Grey Seer, her senses heightened by the spell, kept her gaze moving, looking for any disturbance in the pristine landscape. Suddenly, she raised a hand, signaling them to slow. “There,” she called, her voice cutting through the stillness. “To the left. Tracks.”
They skidded to a stop, snow spraying around them as they turned and moved toward the spot she indicated. There, faint but unmistakable, were the tracks of a lone figure. The prints were deep, the shape of the boot clear and distinct against the snow. They were fresh—no more than a few hours old.
Knight Four knelt beside the tracks, his eyes narrowing as he studied them. “The woodsman,” he said softly. “It has to be. He’s moving quickly, but he’s on foot, like us.”
Knight One nodded, his gaze sharp. “We’ve got him. He can’t be far.”
They took off again, following the tracks as they twisted and turned through the forest. The snow was deep here, but the spell kept them light on their feet, their movements swift and sure. The trees thinned as they climbed a low ridge, the landscape opening up to reveal a wide, frozen valley below.
Knight Four slowed as they reached the top, his eyes scanning the valley. A flicker of recognition crossed his face, and he pointed toward a cluster of dense evergreens near the far side of the valley.
“There! That’s the spot I saw in my vision—the shelter must be close by.”
Knight One glanced in the direction he pointed, his eyes narrowing as he spotted the telltale wisps of smoke rising faintly from among the trees. “Let’s go.”
They descended the ridge at a breakneck pace, their bodies moving with effortless speed and precision. As they reached the valley floor, the tracks became clearer, leading straight toward the trees. The wind picked up, blowing swirls of snow around their legs, but they pressed on, their focus unwavering.
The forest thickened as they approached the evergreens, the air filled with the scent of pine and frost. The smoke was stronger now, a thin, curling line against the sky. They slowed, their steps cautious as they moved closer to the source.
And then they saw it.
The shelter was tucked away among the trees, almost invisible beneath its covering of snow and branches. It was a crude structure, built for temporary use, but there was no mistaking the glow of a small fire just inside. The woodsman’s pack was propped against one side, his rifle leaning casually beside it.
Knight One held up a hand, signaling them to halt. They crouched low, their breaths controlled and silent, watching the shelter with keen eyes. There was no movement from inside, only the faint crackle of the fire and the soft, rhythmic sound of someone breathing deeply.
The Grey Seer leaned in close to Knight One, her voice barely a whisper. “He’s resting. If we’re careful, we can approach without startling him.”
Knight One nodded, his gaze never leaving the shelter. “We’ll move slowly. Stay ready. We don’t want to spook him.”
They moved forward, their steps silent on the snow, the spell’s energy still thrumming through their veins. As they drew closer, the figure inside the shelter shifted, and the knights froze, holding their breath.
The woodsman sat up, his movements slow and deliberate. He glanced around, his eyes narrowed, as if sensing something was amiss. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold its breath, and then his gaze locked onto them.
He stood in a fluid motion, his hand reaching instinctively for his rifle. Knight One rose to his full height, his hands open and empty, his voice calm and clear.
“Wait! We’re not here to harm you.”
The woodsman’s eyes flicked between them, his expression hard and wary. “Who are you? What do you want?”
Knight Four stepped forward, his voice steady. “We’re looking for something—a crystal orb. It’s important, not just to us, but to many people. We believe you have it, and we need your help.”
The woodsman’s grip on the rifle tightened, but he didn’t raise it. His eyes narrowed, suspicion warring with curiosity. “You’re talking about that weird stone I found, aren’t you? What’s so important about it?”
The Grey Seer stepped forward, her gaze earnest. “It’s an ancient artifact, a force for good. It holds knowledge that could save lives—thousands of lives. Please, let us talk. We mean you no harm.”
There was a long, tense silence. The woodsman studied them, his eyes searching their faces for any sign of deception. Finally, he exhaled, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.
“Fine. You’ve got five minutes. But if I don’t like what I hear…” He left the threat unspoken, but the meaning was clear.
Knight One nodded, relief flooding through him.
The knights slowly lowered their hands, their movements careful and deliberate, as they approached the shelter. The woodsman watched them closely, his eyes still wary, but there was a flicker of something else there now—a cautious, tentative hope.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
The small shelter felt surprisingly warm and intimate as the knights gathered around the flickering fire, their breath still visible in the crisp air. The woodsman stood on the other side of the flames, his eyes sharp and calculating as he looked over his unexpected visitors. The Orb rested beside him, nestled in his pack, its milky surface catching the firelight and swirling faintly with an inner glow.
Knight One took a step forward, his hands still open and non-threatening, his voice calm and measured. “We’re grateful you’re willing to talk.”
The woodsman’s lips curled into a faint, humorless smile as he took in the expressions of the knights before him. His sharp eyes lingered on their gear, their weapons, noting the tension in their stances. He could see their determination, their unyielding focus on the Orb, but he wasn’t about to be pushed or intimidated. He leaned back slightly, his posture casual but alert.
“You want something from me, and I want something from you,” he said slowly, his voice carrying a hint of challenge. “I’m a simple man. I don’t care about wars or politics. I don’t get involved in things that don’t concern me.”
He paused, studying them thoughtfully, his gaze moving from one face to the next. “So, here’s my offer. I’ll trade you the Orb—but I want something in return.”
Knight One glanced at his companions, his brow furrowing slightly. The tension was palpable as he turned back to the woodsman, his voice steady but cautious. “What do you want?”
The woodsman’s eyes narrowed, considering his words carefully. “I want something from each of you. Something that I value, something of use to me.”
The knights exchanged uncertain glances. This was more than they had expected, and they could see the woodsman was testing them, trying to gauge them and how much they wanted the Orb.
Before anyone else could speak, the young Grey Seer stepped forward, her voice calm and serene, her presence a beacon of peace amidst the growing tension.
“Let us seek an honorable way,” she said softly, her words carrying a gentle strength. “When we go our separate ways, we will say that it was good that we crossed paths and are better for it. You were making your way in this land before we came across you. I suggest we travel together to understand one another and what we need and why. Then we will know if we have learned each other’s truth, and from that, goodness and justice will prevail.”
Her words hung in the air, softening the atmosphere like the first light of dawn after a long, cold night. The woodsman’s gaze shifted between the knights, his expression flickering with confusion and uncertainty.
“Does she always talk like that?” he asked, his voice low, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.
The knights glanced at each other, then subtly nodded, almost in unison. There was a hint of a smile on Knight Four’s face, a ghost of amusement at the woodsman’s bewilderment.
The woodsman sighed, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Well, I suppose there’s no need to rush into anything. If she wants to travel together, that’s fine by me.” He looked at the Grey Seer, his expression assessing. “You seem like the kind of person who likes to keep things… nice.”
He watched her closely, noting the subtle lead she seemed to hold over the others. It wasn’t a forceful dominance but something gentler—an influence that made the knights defer to her, respect her judgment. The way they looked at her, the way they seemed to hold back in her presence, spoke volumes. He could sense it—whatever she had over these hardened warriors, it was personal.
“So, what’s the plan, then?” he asked, his tone light but edged with curiosity. “We all head out together, get to know each other, and see where we stand?”
The Grey Seer nodded, her gaze unwavering. “Yes. If we understand one another, we can find a way forward that serves us all.” she added, her voice softening, “Know the truth of us. We seek your trust and the Orb.”
The woodsman’s eyes flicked to the knights again, gauging their reactions. He could see the conflict in their faces—their desire for the Orb tempered by their respect for the Seer. He realized then that he might be better off with the Seer around. Who knows what these tough guys would do if he was alone with them.
“Alright,” he said, a cocky smile breaking through his earlier wariness. “I’ll allow you to travel with me, for a while, let’s see what happens. But I’ll say this upfront—I won’t be tied down or boxed in. I go where I please, and I make my own decisions.”
Knight One stepped forward, his expression serious. “We can agree to that.”
The woodsman nodded slowly, his gaze lingering on the Grey Seer. He gestured to the knights with a casual wave of his hand. “Pack up. We can head out together. There’s a place I want to see—an old mining settlement up in the hills. Shouldn’t be too far from here.”
The Grey Seer smiled, her eyes warm. “Thank you for your openness. We will respect your boundaries and work together.”
As the knights moved to break down their camp, the woodsman watched them, his mind already spinning with possibilities. They were strong, well-equipped, and clearly experienced. If he could figure out what motivated them, what weaknesses they might have, he could use that to his advantage. Traveling together would give him time to observe, to test their limits.
And then there was the Grey Seer. She was the key, he was sure of it. She was the one who kept these men in line, the one who tempered them. If he could get her to see things his way, to trust him, he could tip the balance in his favor.
He chuckled to himself as he adjusted his pack, glancing once more at the Orb nestled safely within. He’d come to Alaska for challenge and adventure, and now it seemed it had found him.
As they set off together, the woodsman found himself unexpectedly curious about these companions. They were formidable, certainly, but they were also holding back. Why? What was it about the Seer that kept them in check? And what could he learn from her—and them—in the days ahead?
He glanced at the Grey Seer, who was walking a few steps ahead, her eyes scanning the snowy landscape with calm concentration. She turned slightly, catching his gaze, and smiled—a small, genuine smile that made him blink in surprise.
Maybe, he thought, this was going to be more interesting than he’d imagined.
For now, he would play along, learn what he could, and see where this path led. After all, it wasn’t every day that you got to travel with people as interesting—and potentially useful.
As they headed north, the wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of pine and snow. The woodsman’s eyes gleamed with the thrill of the unknown, his mind already calculating his next move. The game was on, and he intended to win.
---
The sky above them was a vast, cloudless blue as they moved through the forest, the snow crunching softly underfoot. The woodsman walked a few paces ahead, his gaze sweeping the landscape with a practiced eye. Behind him, the knights followed in a loose formation, their faces composed but their thoughts churning with tension.
Knight Two glanced at Knight One, his expression calm but his eyes sharp. Without breaking stride, he reached out telepathically, his thoughts directed at his leader.
“We can take the Orb from him without breaking a sweat.”
Knight One’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but he didn’t turn. His response was firm, brooking no argument.
“The Grey Seer would see it.”
Knight Four, further back, his face a mask of casual curiosity, joined the mental exchange, his tone laced with the hint of a smile.
“Lift it off of him while he sleeps?”
Knight One’s response was immediate, a warning clear in his mental voice.
“She would not leave without the Orb. If we show her we have it, she would ask how we got it. If we told her we stole it, she would demand we return it.”
Knight Two’s gaze flicked to the Grey Seer, walking gracefully beside the woodsman, her cloak billowing gently in the breeze. Her expression was serene, her eyes focused on the horizon, but Knight Two knew better than to underestimate her awareness.
“We could take the Orb and leave her behind.”
There was a pause, and in that silence, Knight One’s thoughts came through, resolute and unwavering.
“A big reason I took her was to begin an alliance with the Grey Seers enclave. I still believe such an alliance has more value than the time we will spend with the woodsman. Patience with others is the key to learning about them and getting them to trust you. We have to appease him.”
Knight Four’s mental voice was skeptical, tinged with impatience.
“So, we’re just going to humor this guy? What if he never gives it up? What if he decides to bolt and we lose the Orb for good?”
Knight One’s response was calm, but there was a thread of steel beneath it.
“He’s cocky, not stupid. He knows he’s safe with us for now. And he’s curious about us—about her, especially. That curiosity will keep him close. As long as we don’t push too hard, he’ll want to see how things play out.”
Knight Two’s thoughts shifted, a note of resignation mingling with frustration.
“So, what’s the plan? We just keep playing along, hoping he’ll hand it over?”
Knight One’s gaze flicked briefly to the woodsman’s back, then to the Grey Seer, who was speaking softly to their traveling companion, her voice carrying snippets of calm, thoughtful conversation on the wind.
“The plan is to get him to trust us. We’re not taking the Orb by force. I don’t want to alienate the Grey Seers—having their support could be important. We play his game for now. We wait, we watch, and when the time is right, we’ll get the Orb. With his cooperation, or without it, but not at the expense of losing her favorable impression of us.”
Knight Four’s voice held a faint edge of humor, though his thoughts were serious.
“You’re betting a lot on patience and trust. Not exactly our strong suits.”
Knight One’s mental tone softened, though it was still firm.
“We’re knights not thieves. The Grey Seer needs to see that. Stay the course. We’ll get what we came for, one way or another.”
Knight Four let out a mental sigh, his thoughts echoing his grudging acceptance.
“Fine. But if this guy tries to play us, I won’t hesitate to take him down a peg.”
Knight One’s response was laced with a quiet, dangerous humor.
“I’d expect nothing less. Just… not yet. We’re playing the long game here.”
Knight Two’s thoughts flitted through the link.
“We’ll follow your lead. Just hope this woodsman doesn’t bore us to death first.”
Knight One’s final thought was clear, focused, and resolute.
“Things can change quickly out here. We’re not just dealing with him—we’re dealing with the land, too. And it can turn on us faster than any enemy.”
They fell silent, the telepathic link dissolving as they focused back on their surroundings. The woodsman, unaware of the conversation that had just taken place, glanced back at them, a small, cocky smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He seemed at ease, as if he had nothing to worry about from his new companions.
Knight One returned the smile with a nod, his face a mask of calm professionalism. Inside, though, his thoughts churned with strategy and contingency. The woodsman was confident, perhaps too confident. But he was also useful. For now, they would play along, keep the Grey Seer engaged, and see where this unlikely alliance led them.
The Grey Seer, sensing their return to silence, glanced back at the knights, her eyes calm and questioning. Knight One gave her a reassuring nod, and she smiled faintly before turning back to her conversation with the woodsman.
They continued their journey, the forest thickening around them, the trees standing tall and watchful. The wind whispered through the branches, carrying with it the promise of snow and the weight of unseen possibilities.
The game was on, and the stakes were high. But Knight One was nothing if not patient. He would wait, watch, and when the time was right, he would make his move.
And in the meantime, he would make sure that everyone played their part, just as he intended.
Knight One took a step forward, his hands still open and non-threatening, his voice calm and measured. “We’re grateful you’re willing to talk.”
The woodsman’s lips curled into a faint, humorless smile as he took in the expressions of the knights before him. His sharp eyes lingered on their gear, their weapons, noting the tension in their stances. He could see their determination, their unyielding focus on the Orb, but he wasn’t about to be pushed or intimidated. He leaned back slightly, his posture casual but alert.
“You want something from me, and I want something from you,” he said slowly, his voice carrying a hint of challenge. “I’m a simple man. I don’t care about wars or politics. I don’t get involved in things that don’t concern me.”
He paused, studying them thoughtfully, his gaze moving from one face to the next. “So, here’s my offer. I’ll trade you the Orb—but I want something in return.”
Knight One glanced at his companions, his brow furrowing slightly. The tension was palpable as he turned back to the woodsman, his voice steady but cautious. “What do you want?”
The woodsman’s eyes narrowed, considering his words carefully. “I want something from each of you. Something that I value, something of use to me.”
The knights exchanged uncertain glances. This was more than they had expected, and they could see the woodsman was testing them, trying to gauge them and how much they wanted the Orb.
Before anyone else could speak, the young Grey Seer stepped forward, her voice calm and serene, her presence a beacon of peace amidst the growing tension.
“Let us seek an honorable way,” she said softly, her words carrying a gentle strength. “When we go our separate ways, we will say that it was good that we crossed paths and are better for it. You were making your way in this land before we came across you. I suggest we travel together to understand one another and what we need and why. Then we will know if we have learned each other’s truth, and from that, goodness and justice will prevail.”
Her words hung in the air, softening the atmosphere like the first light of dawn after a long, cold night. The woodsman’s gaze shifted between the knights, his expression flickering with confusion and uncertainty.
“Does she always talk like that?” he asked, his voice low, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.
The knights glanced at each other, then subtly nodded, almost in unison. There was a hint of a smile on Knight Four’s face, a ghost of amusement at the woodsman’s bewilderment.
The woodsman sighed, his shoulders relaxing slightly. “Well, I suppose there’s no need to rush into anything. If she wants to travel together, that’s fine by me.” He looked at the Grey Seer, his expression assessing. “You seem like the kind of person who likes to keep things… nice.”
He watched her closely, noting the subtle lead she seemed to hold over the others. It wasn’t a forceful dominance but something gentler—an influence that made the knights defer to her, respect her judgment. The way they looked at her, the way they seemed to hold back in her presence, spoke volumes. He could sense it—whatever she had over these hardened warriors, it was personal.
“So, what’s the plan, then?” he asked, his tone light but edged with curiosity. “We all head out together, get to know each other, and see where we stand?”
The Grey Seer nodded, her gaze unwavering. “Yes. If we understand one another, we can find a way forward that serves us all.” she added, her voice softening, “Know the truth of us. We seek your trust and the Orb.”
The woodsman’s eyes flicked to the knights again, gauging their reactions. He could see the conflict in their faces—their desire for the Orb tempered by their respect for the Seer. He realized then that he might be better off with the Seer around. Who knows what these tough guys would do if he was alone with them.
“Alright,” he said, a cocky smile breaking through his earlier wariness. “I’ll allow you to travel with me, for a while, let’s see what happens. But I’ll say this upfront—I won’t be tied down or boxed in. I go where I please, and I make my own decisions.”
Knight One stepped forward, his expression serious. “We can agree to that.”
The woodsman nodded slowly, his gaze lingering on the Grey Seer. He gestured to the knights with a casual wave of his hand. “Pack up. We can head out together. There’s a place I want to see—an old mining settlement up in the hills. Shouldn’t be too far from here.”
The Grey Seer smiled, her eyes warm. “Thank you for your openness. We will respect your boundaries and work together.”
As the knights moved to break down their camp, the woodsman watched them, his mind already spinning with possibilities. They were strong, well-equipped, and clearly experienced. If he could figure out what motivated them, what weaknesses they might have, he could use that to his advantage. Traveling together would give him time to observe, to test their limits.
And then there was the Grey Seer. She was the key, he was sure of it. She was the one who kept these men in line, the one who tempered them. If he could get her to see things his way, to trust him, he could tip the balance in his favor.
He chuckled to himself as he adjusted his pack, glancing once more at the Orb nestled safely within. He’d come to Alaska for challenge and adventure, and now it seemed it had found him.
As they set off together, the woodsman found himself unexpectedly curious about these companions. They were formidable, certainly, but they were also holding back. Why? What was it about the Seer that kept them in check? And what could he learn from her—and them—in the days ahead?
He glanced at the Grey Seer, who was walking a few steps ahead, her eyes scanning the snowy landscape with calm concentration. She turned slightly, catching his gaze, and smiled—a small, genuine smile that made him blink in surprise.
Maybe, he thought, this was going to be more interesting than he’d imagined.
For now, he would play along, learn what he could, and see where this path led. After all, it wasn’t every day that you got to travel with people as interesting—and potentially useful.
As they headed north, the wind picked up, carrying with it the scent of pine and snow. The woodsman’s eyes gleamed with the thrill of the unknown, his mind already calculating his next move. The game was on, and he intended to win.
---
The sky above them was a vast, cloudless blue as they moved through the forest, the snow crunching softly underfoot. The woodsman walked a few paces ahead, his gaze sweeping the landscape with a practiced eye. Behind him, the knights followed in a loose formation, their faces composed but their thoughts churning with tension.
Knight Two glanced at Knight One, his expression calm but his eyes sharp. Without breaking stride, he reached out telepathically, his thoughts directed at his leader.
“We can take the Orb from him without breaking a sweat.”
Knight One’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but he didn’t turn. His response was firm, brooking no argument.
“The Grey Seer would see it.”
Knight Four, further back, his face a mask of casual curiosity, joined the mental exchange, his tone laced with the hint of a smile.
“Lift it off of him while he sleeps?”
Knight One’s response was immediate, a warning clear in his mental voice.
“She would not leave without the Orb. If we show her we have it, she would ask how we got it. If we told her we stole it, she would demand we return it.”
Knight Two’s gaze flicked to the Grey Seer, walking gracefully beside the woodsman, her cloak billowing gently in the breeze. Her expression was serene, her eyes focused on the horizon, but Knight Two knew better than to underestimate her awareness.
“We could take the Orb and leave her behind.”
There was a pause, and in that silence, Knight One’s thoughts came through, resolute and unwavering.
“A big reason I took her was to begin an alliance with the Grey Seers enclave. I still believe such an alliance has more value than the time we will spend with the woodsman. Patience with others is the key to learning about them and getting them to trust you. We have to appease him.”
Knight Four’s mental voice was skeptical, tinged with impatience.
“So, we’re just going to humor this guy? What if he never gives it up? What if he decides to bolt and we lose the Orb for good?”
Knight One’s response was calm, but there was a thread of steel beneath it.
“He’s cocky, not stupid. He knows he’s safe with us for now. And he’s curious about us—about her, especially. That curiosity will keep him close. As long as we don’t push too hard, he’ll want to see how things play out.”
Knight Two’s thoughts shifted, a note of resignation mingling with frustration.
“So, what’s the plan? We just keep playing along, hoping he’ll hand it over?”
Knight One’s gaze flicked briefly to the woodsman’s back, then to the Grey Seer, who was speaking softly to their traveling companion, her voice carrying snippets of calm, thoughtful conversation on the wind.
“The plan is to get him to trust us. We’re not taking the Orb by force. I don’t want to alienate the Grey Seers—having their support could be important. We play his game for now. We wait, we watch, and when the time is right, we’ll get the Orb. With his cooperation, or without it, but not at the expense of losing her favorable impression of us.”
Knight Four’s voice held a faint edge of humor, though his thoughts were serious.
“You’re betting a lot on patience and trust. Not exactly our strong suits.”
Knight One’s mental tone softened, though it was still firm.
“We’re knights not thieves. The Grey Seer needs to see that. Stay the course. We’ll get what we came for, one way or another.”
Knight Four let out a mental sigh, his thoughts echoing his grudging acceptance.
“Fine. But if this guy tries to play us, I won’t hesitate to take him down a peg.”
Knight One’s response was laced with a quiet, dangerous humor.
“I’d expect nothing less. Just… not yet. We’re playing the long game here.”
Knight Two’s thoughts flitted through the link.
“We’ll follow your lead. Just hope this woodsman doesn’t bore us to death first.”
Knight One’s final thought was clear, focused, and resolute.
“Things can change quickly out here. We’re not just dealing with him—we’re dealing with the land, too. And it can turn on us faster than any enemy.”
They fell silent, the telepathic link dissolving as they focused back on their surroundings. The woodsman, unaware of the conversation that had just taken place, glanced back at them, a small, cocky smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He seemed at ease, as if he had nothing to worry about from his new companions.
Knight One returned the smile with a nod, his face a mask of calm professionalism. Inside, though, his thoughts churned with strategy and contingency. The woodsman was confident, perhaps too confident. But he was also useful. For now, they would play along, keep the Grey Seer engaged, and see where this unlikely alliance led them.
The Grey Seer, sensing their return to silence, glanced back at the knights, her eyes calm and questioning. Knight One gave her a reassuring nod, and she smiled faintly before turning back to her conversation with the woodsman.
They continued their journey, the forest thickening around them, the trees standing tall and watchful. The wind whispered through the branches, carrying with it the promise of snow and the weight of unseen possibilities.
The game was on, and the stakes were high. But Knight One was nothing if not patient. He would wait, watch, and when the time was right, he would make his move.
And in the meantime, he would make sure that everyone played their part, just as he intended.
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darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Somewhere in Alaska
The night was still, the cold air biting and crisp around the camp. The moon hung high in the sky, casting pale light over the snow-covered ground. The fire had burned down to glowing embers, and the only sounds were the quiet breathing of the sleeping party and the distant whisper of the wind through the trees.
Then, in an instant, everything changed.
The knights, each deeply attuned to the subtle shifts of the world around them, felt the sudden jolt of danger—an almost physical shock that sent them all bolt upright. Their Sixth Sense flared with a single, urgent message: Danger is here.
Knight One was on his feet in an instant, his voice a sharp whisper as he reached for his rifle. “We’ve got trouble. Everyone, up!”
The others snapped awake, their movements swift and precise. The Grey Seer, trembling, was pulled to her feet by Knight Four, while the woodsman, already alert, grabbed his rifle and peered into the darkness, his eyes scanning the tree line.
Knight Two lifted his energy rifle, pressing his eye to the scope. The night vision flared to life, painting the world in shades of eerie green. He swept the rifle slowly across the forest, his breath steady and calm despite the sudden tension in the air. Then he saw them—hulking figures moving through the shadows, massive and silent, their eyes glowing faintly.
“Count six,” he whispered, his voice tense but controlled. “They’re circling us. Big ones. Coming from all sides.”
Knight One cursed under his breath, his gaze darting around their camp. “Positions! Now!” he ordered, his voice low but commanding.
The knights spread out, forming a loose circle around the campfire, their weapons raised and ready.
The Grey Seer stood frozen, her eyes wide with terror as she stared into the darkness. “Can’t… we… they’re—”
Knight One cut her off, his voice firm but not unkind. “Stay out of sight. We’ll handle this.”
Knight Four gripped his rifle, his face a mask of grim determination. “They’re getting closer. We need to take them out before they hit the camp.”
The woodsman nodded, his rifle already trained on the nearest shape moving through the trees. “I’ll try to slow them down,” he muttered, then squeezed the trigger. The crack of the rifle shot shattered the silence, and a burst of blood exploded from the shoulder of the nearest Monster. The creature staggered but didn’t fall, its eyes narrowing as it let out a guttural snarl.
Knight Two’s rifle fired twice in quick succession, the energy rounds streaking through the night. The first shot struck a beast in the chest, but the creature barely flinched. The second shot took it in the head, and it dropped like a stone, its body hitting the ground with a heavy thud. He swung his rifle to the next target and fired again. Another went down, its skull shattered by the precise shot.
“Two down!” Knight Two called, his voice steady. “Four left!”
But the monsters were already charging, their massive bodies moving with terrifying speed and agility, claws tearing through the snow as they sprinted toward the camp. Their eyes glowed with malevolent hunger, and their guttural voices rumbled through the night.
“You die now!” one of them roared, its voice a deep, guttural growl.
Another screamed, the sound piercing and terrible, freezing the blood of anyone who heard it. The Grey Seer clutched her head, a soft cry escaping her lips as the paralysis took hold, leaving her unable to move, her face pale with fear.
The woodsman fired again, the rifle’s muzzle flashing in the darkness. The bullet slammed into a monster’s chest, but the creature. It leaped forward, crashing into the woodsman with the force of a runaway train, knocking the rifle from his hands. He scrambled to his feet, drawing a bone club from his belt and swinging it with desperate strength.
The club connected with the beast’s jaw, shattering teeth, but the creature only laughed, a horrible, rasping sound. It grabbed him with one massive hand, lifting him off his feet like a ragdoll. “I’ll make you SUFFER for that,” it snarled, and then it turned and bounded into the darkness, the woodsman struggling in its grasp.
“No!” Knight Four shouted, firing after them, but the creature was already gone, disappearing into the trees.
Before they could react, another lunged from the opposite side, its claws slashing through the air. Knight Two turned, firing a desperate shot that seared through the creature’s shoulder. It barely slowed. The beast’s claws closed around the Grey Seer, lifting her off her feet with terrifying ease.
“Enjoy to kill you!” it growled, and then it, too, was gone, vanishing into the night with the Seer in its grasp.
Knight One roared, his voice raw with fury. “They’re taking them!”
He lifted his hand, magic crackling around him as he and Knight Four cast their spell. A shimmering Armor of Ithan enveloped them both, a glowing shield of light that made their forms shimmer and blur. The spell took hold, and they surged forward, their movements impossibly fast, weapons blazing.
Knight Four’s rifle spat energy, the rounds slamming into a charging beast. The creature roared, its head snapping back as the first shot tore through its skull. He fired again, the second shot blowing the creature’s head apart in a shower of gore. It collapsed in a heap, its limbs twitching.
Knight One moved like lightning, his sword flashing in the pale moonlight. He struck a beast’s arm, the blade slicing clean through the thick, hide-like skin. The creature howled in pain, staggering back, but Knight One didn’t hesitate. He brought the blade down in a brutal arc, severing the Windigo’s head from its body in a single, fluid motion.
The remaining two beasts snarled, their eyes blazing with rage. They charged, claws outstretched, but the knights were ready. Knight One’s rifle fired, the shots striking one Windigo in the chest, sending it sprawling. Knight Four darted forward, his shield raised, deflecting a savage blow from the other creature. His sword flashed, the blade cutting deep into the beast’s neck.
The creature screamed, its voice a raw, animalistic bellow. It staggered, then fell, its blood steaming in the cold air. Knight Four moved swiftly, his blade cutting again and again until the creature’s head lay severed at his feet.
Knight One turned, his eyes locking onto the last Windigo, still struggling to rise. He stepped forward, his face a mask of grim determination, and brought his sword down in a final, crushing blow. The blade cleaved through the Windigo’s skull, ending its life in a burst of dark blood and shattered bone.
The fight was over.
The knights stood among the bodies, their breath coming in harsh gasps. The clearing was silent except for the soft crackling of the fire and the distant howl of the wind.
Knight One wiped his blade clean, his face set in a hard line. “Check the bodies. Make sure they’re dead. We can’t take any chances.”
Knight Four nodded, moving to the nearest corpse. He swung his sword, severing the head from the body with a single, powerful stroke. He glanced at Knight One, his face pale but determined.
“We’ve got to get them back,” Knight Four said quietly.
Knight One nodded, his eyes hard. “We will. But first, we need to make sure these things are done for. I’ve never fought one before.”
They worked quickly, moving from body to body, severing heads and taking skulls as proof. The Windigos’ blood steamed in the cold air, staining the snow dark and slick. The knights moved with grim efficiency, their faces set in expressions of focused determination.
When they were finished, they gathered the severed skulls in a rough pile, the grotesque trophies a grim testament to their victory. Knight One looked around at the carnage, his jaw tight.
“After-action review,” he said sharply, his voice cutting through the silence. “What did we do right? What did we do wrong?”
Knight Two, his face pale but composed, spoke first. “We took out two of them early. Good calls on the shooting. But we underestimated their speed and strength. We weren’t ready for them to grab and run.”
Knight Four nodded, his eyes dark. “I should have been closer to the Seer. If I’d been faster, I might have stopped it.”
Knight One shook his head. “You did your best. They were moving too fast. We’ll get them back.”
He looked around at the grim, blood-soaked clearing, then turned back to his companions, his eyes fierce with determination.
“We’re going after them. We find their lair, we get the Seer and the woodsman back. He has the Orb with him (he slept with it) and we finish this.”
The knights nodded, their faces set with resolve. They had faced terrible odds before and won. They would do it again.
As they gathered their gear and prepared to track the Windigos through the dark, frozen forest
Knight Four, “I’ll go after the Seer.”
Knight Two, “We don’t need her and she could be dead already.”
Knight One, “We don’t know… how slow they will be killing them. We do know, they’ve gone in separate directions. If they are to survive, without maiming, we’ll have to separate.”
Knight Four, argues to Two, “Never leave a man behind.”
Knight Two, “They are NOT one of US. The Orb is indestructible BUT it could be lost. The mission comes first.”
Knight One turns his head between Knights Two and Four
Knight Four runs off in the direction the beast took the Seer.
Knight Two, “We have a tracking device on the Woodsman. We should go now before he gets any farther away.”
Knight One had faced many horrors in his time, but the sight of these beasts was something that sent a chill through his very core. They were nightmares made flesh, twisted embodiments of hunger and malice that prowled the dark, frozen wilderness like predators from another age.
Standing nearly ten feet tall on their hind legs, with a massive, humped back and limbs that were a grotesque blend of human and bestial, the Windigos moved with a terrifying, fluid grace. Their bodies were covered in thick, shaggy fur, the color of dirty snow and ash, matted with blood and filth. Even in the dark, their eyes gleamed with a malevolent intelligence, a hungry light that seemed to pierce through the night.
Their faces were a hideous mockery of humanity, elongated and twisted. Their eyes, sunken and glowing a faint, eerie yellow, held a malevolent, cunning light that spoke of a savage mind behind the monstrous visage. The jaws, lined with jagged, razor-sharp teeth, were capable of snapping bones like dry twigs. Their breath, hot and rancid, steamed in the cold air, carrying the stench of decay and old blood.
Each step they took, whether on two legs or loping forward on all fours, was unnaturally silent, a predator’s stealth that belied their massive size and weight. They moved with a predatory grace, their limbs too long and too powerful, muscles bunching and rippling under the thick fur as they stalked their prey.
The claws, long and black, curved like sickles and were capable of tearing through flesh and bone with terrifying ease. He had seen them slice through the trunk of a tree as if it were paper, the sound a soft, terrible hiss in the still night air.
But it wasn’t just their physical prowess that made them so dangerous—it was the sheer, relentless hunger that drove them. There was no reasoning with a Windigo, no bargaining. They were driven by an insatiable need to kill and consume, to destroy and devour. They thrived on fear and suffering, their guttural, broken speech a mockery of human language, designed to unnerve and terrify.
They had rasped, the words distorted and harsh. “Suffer. I will find you.” The sound of their voices, low and gravelly, was enough to send shivers down even the most hardened warrior’s spine. It was like hearing a predator speak—something that shouldn’t be, something that was wrong on a fundamental level.
And then there was their speed. Despite their massive size and bulk, they could move with startling swiftness, covering ground in long, bounding strides that left no time to react. Their agility was uncanny, twice that of a normal human, and their strength was beyond monstrous.
Knight One had faced demons, sorcerers, and monsters of all kinds, but these were different.
As he stood among the fallen bodies, the severed skulls at his feet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were only the beginning.
He would be ready. Because he had to be.
---
The snow crunched underfoot as Knight Four raced through the dense forest, his breath clouding in the frigid night air. He moved like a shadow, weaving between the trees with a speed and grace born of years of experience. His heart pounded, the cold biting at his face, but he paid it no mind. Every fiber of his being was focused on one thing: saving the her.
The White beast’s tracks were clear and fresh, the massive prints still sharply defined in the snow. The beast had less than five minutes ahead start, and Knight Four pushed himself harder, his flashlight cutting a narrow, powerful beam through the darkness. He held his energy rifle ready, the night vision scope displaying the world in eerie shades of green and black as he scanned for movement.
He knew he had to be cautious. A wrong move, a misjudged shot, could kill the Seer. The beast was a cunning predator, and it would use her as a shield if it sensed any threat. As he ran, his mind raced through strategies, his muscles tense with the need to act, to fight, to save her.
The tracks led him to the mouth of a dark, yawning cave, its entrance half-hidden by fallen rocks and twisted branches. The stench of decay and blood wafted out, a sickening miasma that made him gag. He hesitated for only a moment, then took a deep breath and moved forward, his steps silent and precise.
Inside, the cave was a nightmare of shadows and bones littered the floor, the remains of the Windigos countless victims scattered in grotesque piles. The walls were stained with old blood, and the air was thick with the smell of death and rot. Knight Four’s eyes flicked over the scene, his heart pounding as he searched for any sign of the Grey Seer.
But there was nothing—no sound, no movement.
Just the endless shadows and the oppressive, suffocating darkness.
He swallowed, the fear for her safety clawing at his chest. If she was alive, he had to find her quickly. But if the Windigo was close...
He clenched his jaw, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. This was too dangerous, too uncertain.
He couldn’t risk a stray shot or causing a cave-in. He needed precision, needed to see everything, every movement, every flicker of shadow.
Slowly, he drew his magic sword from its sheath, the blade humming softly with a faint, blue light. It would cut through the Windigo’s thick hide, through its bones, but it wouldn’t harm the Seer if he could just get close enough.
In his other hand, he cast the spell “Magic Shield” and held it, a shimmering barrier that would protect him from the creature’s savage attacks. He moved deeper into the cave, his eyes scanning every dark corner, every pile of bones. His flashlight, still strapped to his belt, shown brightly. The shadows seemed to dance and twist, moving in time with his heartbeat, and the whole world felt as if it were shifting in and out of focus.
Suddenly, there was a sound—a low, guttural growl that echoed through the cave. Knight Four darted, his senses straining as he tried to pinpoint its source. The growl came again, closer this time, a rumble that vibrated through the ground, through his bones.
His flashlight flickered wildly, and then it slipped from his belt, clattering to the ground and spinning, its light flashing on and off in a disorienting, staccato rhythm, and strob-like effect.
Everything seemed to slow down, the world caught in that erratic pulse of light. He could see the cave around him, the bones and shadows shifting and sliding in the darkness. He turned slowly, his sword and shield at the ready, his every muscle coiled like a spring.
Then, with a speed that defied its size, the creature lunged from the shadows. Its eyes gleamed with a terrible, predatory light, its maw open wide in a snarl of rage and hunger. The massive claws slashed through the air, aiming for his throat, but Knight Four was already moving.
He threw himself to the side, rolling across the rough stone floor and coming up in a crouch. The beast’s claws scraped against his shield with a screech of metal on bone, the force of the blow sending him skidding back. He planted his feet, his sword slicing out in a blinding arc that caught the creature across the chest.
The Monster howled, the sound deafening in the enclosed space, and staggered back. Blood oozed from the gash, dark and viscous, but it didn’t slow the beast. It was already healing, the wound knitting together almost as fast as he’d made it. Knight Four gritted his teeth, his mind racing. He couldn’t afford to let up, couldn’t let the creature regain its strength.
With a shout, he leaped forward, his sword flashing in the chaotic light. The Windigo met him head-on, its claws lashing out in a blur of movement. They clashed in a deadly dance, the cave echoing with the sound of steel meeting bone, of grunts and roars and the crash of bodies against stone.
Knight Four moved with the grace and precision of a master duelist, his feet never stopping, never still. He spun and dodged, his shield deflecting the Windigo’s savage blows, his sword striking again and again. Each time, he aimed for the head, for the limbs, anywhere he could cripple or slow the beast.
The beast was fast, impossibly fast, its massive form moving with a terrifying, predatory grace. It struck with both claws, a furious double swipe aimed at his chest. Knight Four ducked under the first blow, raising his shield to catch the second. The impact jarred his arm, but he held firm, pushing back with all his strength.
He swung his sword, the blade arcing down toward the Beast’s knee. It struck true, biting deep into the joint, and the creature bellowed in pain. It stumbled, its balance momentarily lost, and Knight Four seized the opening. He surged forward, his sword cutting in a quick, brutal series of slashes, each one aimed to cripple, to maim.
The Monster roared, its claws raking across his shield, splintering the magical barrier with a shower of sparks. Knight Four grunted, the force of the blow nearly knocking him off his feet. He rolled to the side, coming up in a crouch, his sword held low.
The beast turned, its eyes blazing with fury. It charged, its maw open wide, teeth flashing in the flickering light. Knight Four waited until the last possible second, then spun aside, his sword slicing out in a vicious, upward strike. The blade bit deep into the Windigo’s neck, severing tendons and bone.
The creature screamed, its voice a raw, terrible sound, and staggered back, blood pouring from the wound. But it wasn’t dead—not yet. It turned, its eyes burning with a hateful light, and lunged again, its claws slashing out in a desperate, final attack.
Knight Four met it head-on, his shield raised high. The claws struck, shattering the shield in a burst of light, but he was already moving. He ducked low, his sword flashing in a deadly arc. The blade cut through the beast’s neck, severing its head from its body in a single, powerful stroke.
The creature’s body crashed to the ground, twitching and spasming as the last of its life bled away. Knight Four stood over it, his chest heaving, blood and sweat dripping from his face. He stared down at the creature, his sword still held high, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
It was over. The beast was dead.
He took a deep breath, then looked around, his eyes scanning the dark, bone-littered cave. The Grey Seer was still missing, still somewhere in this horrible place.
He wiped his blade clean, then sheathed it, his mind already focused on the next step. He needed to find her, and quickly. Another of the beasts could be close, and he had to get her out before they returned.
With a final glance at the fallen creature, he turned and moved deeper into the cave, his steps light and silent. He had faced the beast and won. Now, he would find the Seer, no matter what it took.
He would not fail. Not tonight.
Knight Four moved deeper into the cave, his every sense straining against the oppressive darkness. The Windigo’s den was a labyrinth of twisting passages and low, jagged ceilings, the air thick with the smell of decay and the faint, coppery tang of blood. His footsteps were silent, his breathing controlled, his hand steady on the hilt of his sword as he stepped lightly over the bones that littered the floor.
He had to find the Grey Seer. The thought of her, alone and terrified in this hellish place, drove him forward, his heart pounding with fear and determination. He paused, his eyes sweeping the shadows, listening for any sign of movement, any hint of her presence. The darkness seemed to press in on him, the silence heavy and unnatural.
Then he heard it—a faint, muffled sound, a soft, desperate whimper that sent a jolt of urgency through him. He turned, his sword at the ready, and followed the sound, his steps quick and sure. The passage narrowed, the walls closing in around him, the ceiling so low he had to crouch. The air was colder here, the walls slick with moisture and something darker, something that made his skin crawl.
He rounded a corner and found himself in a small chamber, the walls jagged and uneven. In the far corner, huddled against the cold, damp stone, was the Grey Seer.
Her hands were bound with thick, rough rope, her face pale and streaked with dirt and tears. Her eyes, wide with fear, met his, and he saw the faint spark of hope ignite within them.
He whispered, his voice soft but urgent. He sheathed his sword and moved quickly to her side, his hands working to undo the knots that held her. “It’s me. I’m here rescue you. You’re safe now.”
Her body was trembling, her breaths coming in quick, shallow gasps. “Ugh…” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “I—I thought I was going to die.”
“Not on my watch,” he said, his voice firm and steady. He loosened the last of the ropes, freeing her hands, then gently pulled her to her feet. She stumbled, her legs weak and unsteady, but he caught her, his arms wrapping around her to keep her upright.
“We have to get out of here,” he said, his eyes flicking to the entrance of the chamber. “There could be more of them. Can you walk?”
She nodded, though he could see the fear and exhaustion in her eyes. “I—I think so. But… they’re still out there. I heard them, heard them coming and going. They—”
Her voice broke, and she clutched at his arm, her fingers digging into the fabric of his sleeve. “We have to get out of here. Please.”
“We will,” he promised, his voice strong and sure.
He retrieved his fallen flashlight, the beam flickering weakly as he adjusted it, casting erratic shadows that made the cave walls seem to pulse and breathe. He turned back to her, his gaze steady. “Stay close to me. Don’t let go of my hand. I’ll get us out.”
She nodded, her grip tightening on his arm. He led her carefully through the winding passages, his sword back in his hand, his senses on high alert. Every shadow, every flicker of movement, sent a jolt of adrenaline through him, but he forced himself to stay calm, to focus on her safety.
They moved slowly, each step deliberate, each breath held as they listened for any sign of the creatures that stalked the dark. The cave seemed to close in around them, the air growing colder and heavier, but he kept moving, his eyes fixed on the faint light that marked the way out.
Then, just as they rounded a corner, the sound of heavy, lumbering footsteps echoed through the passageway. Knight Four froze, his body tensing as he pulled the Seer behind him, his sword raised and ready.
A massive shape loomed out of the darkness, its eyes glowing faintly in the weak beam of the flashlight. Another one, its maw open in a snarling grin, its breath steaming in the frigid air.
“Found you,” it growled, its voice a low, guttural rumble.
Knight Four didn’t hesitate. He pushed the Seer back, his shield snapping into place as the creature lunged forward, its claws slashing through the air. The impact rocked him, the force of the blow sending a shock of pain through his arm, but he held firm, his feet planted, his sword poised to strike.
“Stay back!” he shouted, his voice echoing through the narrow space. He swung his sword in a wide arc, the blade cutting through the air with a sharp, lethal hiss. The Windigo reared back, its claws swiping at him again, but he was faster, his sword biting deep into its side.
The creature howled, the sound deafening in the confined space. Blood sprayed from the wound, but the Windigo didn’t falter. It swung a massive arm at him, the claws catching his shield and ripping it from his grasp. Knight Four staggered, his heart racing, but he didn’t let up. He slashed at the beast’s legs, his movements swift and precise, forcing it back step by step.
The Windigo roared, its eyes blazing with fury. It lunged, jaws snapping, but Knight Four twisted aside, his sword flashing in the flickering light. The blade found its mark, cutting deep into the creature’s neck. The Windigo’s roar turned into a gurgling choke, its body shuddering as it tried to claw at him, tried to fight.
Knight Four stepped in close, his face set in grim determination. With a single, powerful thrust, he drove his sword through the Windigo’s throat, the blade piercing bone and sinew. The creature shuddered, its eyes wide with rage and pain, then went still, its body collapsing to the ground in a heap.
Knight Four stood over it, his breath coming in harsh gasps, his heart hammering in his chest. He turned to the Seer, his eyes fierce.
“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice rough but gentle.
She nodded, tears streaming down her face, her body trembling. “Yes… I—I’m okay. You saved me.”
He stepped forward, pulling her into his arms, holding her close. “I’ll always save you. Always.”
She clung to him, her body shaking with sobs, and he held her tight, his hand gently stroking her hair. They stood there in the darkness, surrounded by the bones and shadows of the cave, the danger still present but, for a moment, held at bay.
After a few heartbeats, he pulled back, his hands still on her shoulders, his gaze serious.
“We need to move. There could be more coming. Can you make it?”
She nodded, her eyes meeting his with a new, fierce resolve. “Yes. I can. I will.”
He smiled, a small, tired smile, and took her hand. “Let’s go, then. Stay close, and keep quiet. We’ll be out of here soon.”
Together, they turned and made their way back through the winding passages, Knight Four’s sword still held ready, his body tense and alert. The Grey Seer stayed close, her eyes fixed on his back, trusting him to lead her through the darkness, through the fear, through the horror.
And as they moved, the darkness seemed a little less oppressive, the shadows a little less menacing. Because they were together. Because they had survived.
The night was still, the cold air biting and crisp around the camp. The moon hung high in the sky, casting pale light over the snow-covered ground. The fire had burned down to glowing embers, and the only sounds were the quiet breathing of the sleeping party and the distant whisper of the wind through the trees.
Then, in an instant, everything changed.
The knights, each deeply attuned to the subtle shifts of the world around them, felt the sudden jolt of danger—an almost physical shock that sent them all bolt upright. Their Sixth Sense flared with a single, urgent message: Danger is here.
Knight One was on his feet in an instant, his voice a sharp whisper as he reached for his rifle. “We’ve got trouble. Everyone, up!”
The others snapped awake, their movements swift and precise. The Grey Seer, trembling, was pulled to her feet by Knight Four, while the woodsman, already alert, grabbed his rifle and peered into the darkness, his eyes scanning the tree line.
Knight Two lifted his energy rifle, pressing his eye to the scope. The night vision flared to life, painting the world in shades of eerie green. He swept the rifle slowly across the forest, his breath steady and calm despite the sudden tension in the air. Then he saw them—hulking figures moving through the shadows, massive and silent, their eyes glowing faintly.
“Count six,” he whispered, his voice tense but controlled. “They’re circling us. Big ones. Coming from all sides.”
Knight One cursed under his breath, his gaze darting around their camp. “Positions! Now!” he ordered, his voice low but commanding.
The knights spread out, forming a loose circle around the campfire, their weapons raised and ready.
The Grey Seer stood frozen, her eyes wide with terror as she stared into the darkness. “Can’t… we… they’re—”
Knight One cut her off, his voice firm but not unkind. “Stay out of sight. We’ll handle this.”
Knight Four gripped his rifle, his face a mask of grim determination. “They’re getting closer. We need to take them out before they hit the camp.”
The woodsman nodded, his rifle already trained on the nearest shape moving through the trees. “I’ll try to slow them down,” he muttered, then squeezed the trigger. The crack of the rifle shot shattered the silence, and a burst of blood exploded from the shoulder of the nearest Monster. The creature staggered but didn’t fall, its eyes narrowing as it let out a guttural snarl.
Knight Two’s rifle fired twice in quick succession, the energy rounds streaking through the night. The first shot struck a beast in the chest, but the creature barely flinched. The second shot took it in the head, and it dropped like a stone, its body hitting the ground with a heavy thud. He swung his rifle to the next target and fired again. Another went down, its skull shattered by the precise shot.
“Two down!” Knight Two called, his voice steady. “Four left!”
But the monsters were already charging, their massive bodies moving with terrifying speed and agility, claws tearing through the snow as they sprinted toward the camp. Their eyes glowed with malevolent hunger, and their guttural voices rumbled through the night.
“You die now!” one of them roared, its voice a deep, guttural growl.
Another screamed, the sound piercing and terrible, freezing the blood of anyone who heard it. The Grey Seer clutched her head, a soft cry escaping her lips as the paralysis took hold, leaving her unable to move, her face pale with fear.
The woodsman fired again, the rifle’s muzzle flashing in the darkness. The bullet slammed into a monster’s chest, but the creature. It leaped forward, crashing into the woodsman with the force of a runaway train, knocking the rifle from his hands. He scrambled to his feet, drawing a bone club from his belt and swinging it with desperate strength.
The club connected with the beast’s jaw, shattering teeth, but the creature only laughed, a horrible, rasping sound. It grabbed him with one massive hand, lifting him off his feet like a ragdoll. “I’ll make you SUFFER for that,” it snarled, and then it turned and bounded into the darkness, the woodsman struggling in its grasp.
“No!” Knight Four shouted, firing after them, but the creature was already gone, disappearing into the trees.
Before they could react, another lunged from the opposite side, its claws slashing through the air. Knight Two turned, firing a desperate shot that seared through the creature’s shoulder. It barely slowed. The beast’s claws closed around the Grey Seer, lifting her off her feet with terrifying ease.
“Enjoy to kill you!” it growled, and then it, too, was gone, vanishing into the night with the Seer in its grasp.
Knight One roared, his voice raw with fury. “They’re taking them!”
He lifted his hand, magic crackling around him as he and Knight Four cast their spell. A shimmering Armor of Ithan enveloped them both, a glowing shield of light that made their forms shimmer and blur. The spell took hold, and they surged forward, their movements impossibly fast, weapons blazing.
Knight Four’s rifle spat energy, the rounds slamming into a charging beast. The creature roared, its head snapping back as the first shot tore through its skull. He fired again, the second shot blowing the creature’s head apart in a shower of gore. It collapsed in a heap, its limbs twitching.
Knight One moved like lightning, his sword flashing in the pale moonlight. He struck a beast’s arm, the blade slicing clean through the thick, hide-like skin. The creature howled in pain, staggering back, but Knight One didn’t hesitate. He brought the blade down in a brutal arc, severing the Windigo’s head from its body in a single, fluid motion.
The remaining two beasts snarled, their eyes blazing with rage. They charged, claws outstretched, but the knights were ready. Knight One’s rifle fired, the shots striking one Windigo in the chest, sending it sprawling. Knight Four darted forward, his shield raised, deflecting a savage blow from the other creature. His sword flashed, the blade cutting deep into the beast’s neck.
The creature screamed, its voice a raw, animalistic bellow. It staggered, then fell, its blood steaming in the cold air. Knight Four moved swiftly, his blade cutting again and again until the creature’s head lay severed at his feet.
Knight One turned, his eyes locking onto the last Windigo, still struggling to rise. He stepped forward, his face a mask of grim determination, and brought his sword down in a final, crushing blow. The blade cleaved through the Windigo’s skull, ending its life in a burst of dark blood and shattered bone.
The fight was over.
The knights stood among the bodies, their breath coming in harsh gasps. The clearing was silent except for the soft crackling of the fire and the distant howl of the wind.
Knight One wiped his blade clean, his face set in a hard line. “Check the bodies. Make sure they’re dead. We can’t take any chances.”
Knight Four nodded, moving to the nearest corpse. He swung his sword, severing the head from the body with a single, powerful stroke. He glanced at Knight One, his face pale but determined.
“We’ve got to get them back,” Knight Four said quietly.
Knight One nodded, his eyes hard. “We will. But first, we need to make sure these things are done for. I’ve never fought one before.”
They worked quickly, moving from body to body, severing heads and taking skulls as proof. The Windigos’ blood steamed in the cold air, staining the snow dark and slick. The knights moved with grim efficiency, their faces set in expressions of focused determination.
When they were finished, they gathered the severed skulls in a rough pile, the grotesque trophies a grim testament to their victory. Knight One looked around at the carnage, his jaw tight.
“After-action review,” he said sharply, his voice cutting through the silence. “What did we do right? What did we do wrong?”
Knight Two, his face pale but composed, spoke first. “We took out two of them early. Good calls on the shooting. But we underestimated their speed and strength. We weren’t ready for them to grab and run.”
Knight Four nodded, his eyes dark. “I should have been closer to the Seer. If I’d been faster, I might have stopped it.”
Knight One shook his head. “You did your best. They were moving too fast. We’ll get them back.”
He looked around at the grim, blood-soaked clearing, then turned back to his companions, his eyes fierce with determination.
“We’re going after them. We find their lair, we get the Seer and the woodsman back. He has the Orb with him (he slept with it) and we finish this.”
The knights nodded, their faces set with resolve. They had faced terrible odds before and won. They would do it again.
As they gathered their gear and prepared to track the Windigos through the dark, frozen forest
Knight Four, “I’ll go after the Seer.”
Knight Two, “We don’t need her and she could be dead already.”
Knight One, “We don’t know… how slow they will be killing them. We do know, they’ve gone in separate directions. If they are to survive, without maiming, we’ll have to separate.”
Knight Four, argues to Two, “Never leave a man behind.”
Knight Two, “They are NOT one of US. The Orb is indestructible BUT it could be lost. The mission comes first.”
Knight One turns his head between Knights Two and Four
Knight Four runs off in the direction the beast took the Seer.
Knight Two, “We have a tracking device on the Woodsman. We should go now before he gets any farther away.”
Knight One had faced many horrors in his time, but the sight of these beasts was something that sent a chill through his very core. They were nightmares made flesh, twisted embodiments of hunger and malice that prowled the dark, frozen wilderness like predators from another age.
Standing nearly ten feet tall on their hind legs, with a massive, humped back and limbs that were a grotesque blend of human and bestial, the Windigos moved with a terrifying, fluid grace. Their bodies were covered in thick, shaggy fur, the color of dirty snow and ash, matted with blood and filth. Even in the dark, their eyes gleamed with a malevolent intelligence, a hungry light that seemed to pierce through the night.
Their faces were a hideous mockery of humanity, elongated and twisted. Their eyes, sunken and glowing a faint, eerie yellow, held a malevolent, cunning light that spoke of a savage mind behind the monstrous visage. The jaws, lined with jagged, razor-sharp teeth, were capable of snapping bones like dry twigs. Their breath, hot and rancid, steamed in the cold air, carrying the stench of decay and old blood.
Each step they took, whether on two legs or loping forward on all fours, was unnaturally silent, a predator’s stealth that belied their massive size and weight. They moved with a predatory grace, their limbs too long and too powerful, muscles bunching and rippling under the thick fur as they stalked their prey.
The claws, long and black, curved like sickles and were capable of tearing through flesh and bone with terrifying ease. He had seen them slice through the trunk of a tree as if it were paper, the sound a soft, terrible hiss in the still night air.
But it wasn’t just their physical prowess that made them so dangerous—it was the sheer, relentless hunger that drove them. There was no reasoning with a Windigo, no bargaining. They were driven by an insatiable need to kill and consume, to destroy and devour. They thrived on fear and suffering, their guttural, broken speech a mockery of human language, designed to unnerve and terrify.
They had rasped, the words distorted and harsh. “Suffer. I will find you.” The sound of their voices, low and gravelly, was enough to send shivers down even the most hardened warrior’s spine. It was like hearing a predator speak—something that shouldn’t be, something that was wrong on a fundamental level.
And then there was their speed. Despite their massive size and bulk, they could move with startling swiftness, covering ground in long, bounding strides that left no time to react. Their agility was uncanny, twice that of a normal human, and their strength was beyond monstrous.
Knight One had faced demons, sorcerers, and monsters of all kinds, but these were different.
As he stood among the fallen bodies, the severed skulls at his feet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that they were only the beginning.
He would be ready. Because he had to be.
---
The snow crunched underfoot as Knight Four raced through the dense forest, his breath clouding in the frigid night air. He moved like a shadow, weaving between the trees with a speed and grace born of years of experience. His heart pounded, the cold biting at his face, but he paid it no mind. Every fiber of his being was focused on one thing: saving the her.
The White beast’s tracks were clear and fresh, the massive prints still sharply defined in the snow. The beast had less than five minutes ahead start, and Knight Four pushed himself harder, his flashlight cutting a narrow, powerful beam through the darkness. He held his energy rifle ready, the night vision scope displaying the world in eerie shades of green and black as he scanned for movement.
He knew he had to be cautious. A wrong move, a misjudged shot, could kill the Seer. The beast was a cunning predator, and it would use her as a shield if it sensed any threat. As he ran, his mind raced through strategies, his muscles tense with the need to act, to fight, to save her.
The tracks led him to the mouth of a dark, yawning cave, its entrance half-hidden by fallen rocks and twisted branches. The stench of decay and blood wafted out, a sickening miasma that made him gag. He hesitated for only a moment, then took a deep breath and moved forward, his steps silent and precise.
Inside, the cave was a nightmare of shadows and bones littered the floor, the remains of the Windigos countless victims scattered in grotesque piles. The walls were stained with old blood, and the air was thick with the smell of death and rot. Knight Four’s eyes flicked over the scene, his heart pounding as he searched for any sign of the Grey Seer.
But there was nothing—no sound, no movement.
Just the endless shadows and the oppressive, suffocating darkness.
He swallowed, the fear for her safety clawing at his chest. If she was alive, he had to find her quickly. But if the Windigo was close...
He clenched his jaw, slinging his rifle over his shoulder. This was too dangerous, too uncertain.
He couldn’t risk a stray shot or causing a cave-in. He needed precision, needed to see everything, every movement, every flicker of shadow.
Slowly, he drew his magic sword from its sheath, the blade humming softly with a faint, blue light. It would cut through the Windigo’s thick hide, through its bones, but it wouldn’t harm the Seer if he could just get close enough.
In his other hand, he cast the spell “Magic Shield” and held it, a shimmering barrier that would protect him from the creature’s savage attacks. He moved deeper into the cave, his eyes scanning every dark corner, every pile of bones. His flashlight, still strapped to his belt, shown brightly. The shadows seemed to dance and twist, moving in time with his heartbeat, and the whole world felt as if it were shifting in and out of focus.
Suddenly, there was a sound—a low, guttural growl that echoed through the cave. Knight Four darted, his senses straining as he tried to pinpoint its source. The growl came again, closer this time, a rumble that vibrated through the ground, through his bones.
His flashlight flickered wildly, and then it slipped from his belt, clattering to the ground and spinning, its light flashing on and off in a disorienting, staccato rhythm, and strob-like effect.
Everything seemed to slow down, the world caught in that erratic pulse of light. He could see the cave around him, the bones and shadows shifting and sliding in the darkness. He turned slowly, his sword and shield at the ready, his every muscle coiled like a spring.
Then, with a speed that defied its size, the creature lunged from the shadows. Its eyes gleamed with a terrible, predatory light, its maw open wide in a snarl of rage and hunger. The massive claws slashed through the air, aiming for his throat, but Knight Four was already moving.
He threw himself to the side, rolling across the rough stone floor and coming up in a crouch. The beast’s claws scraped against his shield with a screech of metal on bone, the force of the blow sending him skidding back. He planted his feet, his sword slicing out in a blinding arc that caught the creature across the chest.
The Monster howled, the sound deafening in the enclosed space, and staggered back. Blood oozed from the gash, dark and viscous, but it didn’t slow the beast. It was already healing, the wound knitting together almost as fast as he’d made it. Knight Four gritted his teeth, his mind racing. He couldn’t afford to let up, couldn’t let the creature regain its strength.
With a shout, he leaped forward, his sword flashing in the chaotic light. The Windigo met him head-on, its claws lashing out in a blur of movement. They clashed in a deadly dance, the cave echoing with the sound of steel meeting bone, of grunts and roars and the crash of bodies against stone.
Knight Four moved with the grace and precision of a master duelist, his feet never stopping, never still. He spun and dodged, his shield deflecting the Windigo’s savage blows, his sword striking again and again. Each time, he aimed for the head, for the limbs, anywhere he could cripple or slow the beast.
The beast was fast, impossibly fast, its massive form moving with a terrifying, predatory grace. It struck with both claws, a furious double swipe aimed at his chest. Knight Four ducked under the first blow, raising his shield to catch the second. The impact jarred his arm, but he held firm, pushing back with all his strength.
He swung his sword, the blade arcing down toward the Beast’s knee. It struck true, biting deep into the joint, and the creature bellowed in pain. It stumbled, its balance momentarily lost, and Knight Four seized the opening. He surged forward, his sword cutting in a quick, brutal series of slashes, each one aimed to cripple, to maim.
The Monster roared, its claws raking across his shield, splintering the magical barrier with a shower of sparks. Knight Four grunted, the force of the blow nearly knocking him off his feet. He rolled to the side, coming up in a crouch, his sword held low.
The beast turned, its eyes blazing with fury. It charged, its maw open wide, teeth flashing in the flickering light. Knight Four waited until the last possible second, then spun aside, his sword slicing out in a vicious, upward strike. The blade bit deep into the Windigo’s neck, severing tendons and bone.
The creature screamed, its voice a raw, terrible sound, and staggered back, blood pouring from the wound. But it wasn’t dead—not yet. It turned, its eyes burning with a hateful light, and lunged again, its claws slashing out in a desperate, final attack.
Knight Four met it head-on, his shield raised high. The claws struck, shattering the shield in a burst of light, but he was already moving. He ducked low, his sword flashing in a deadly arc. The blade cut through the beast’s neck, severing its head from its body in a single, powerful stroke.
The creature’s body crashed to the ground, twitching and spasming as the last of its life bled away. Knight Four stood over it, his chest heaving, blood and sweat dripping from his face. He stared down at the creature, his sword still held high, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
It was over. The beast was dead.
He took a deep breath, then looked around, his eyes scanning the dark, bone-littered cave. The Grey Seer was still missing, still somewhere in this horrible place.
He wiped his blade clean, then sheathed it, his mind already focused on the next step. He needed to find her, and quickly. Another of the beasts could be close, and he had to get her out before they returned.
With a final glance at the fallen creature, he turned and moved deeper into the cave, his steps light and silent. He had faced the beast and won. Now, he would find the Seer, no matter what it took.
He would not fail. Not tonight.
Knight Four moved deeper into the cave, his every sense straining against the oppressive darkness. The Windigo’s den was a labyrinth of twisting passages and low, jagged ceilings, the air thick with the smell of decay and the faint, coppery tang of blood. His footsteps were silent, his breathing controlled, his hand steady on the hilt of his sword as he stepped lightly over the bones that littered the floor.
He had to find the Grey Seer. The thought of her, alone and terrified in this hellish place, drove him forward, his heart pounding with fear and determination. He paused, his eyes sweeping the shadows, listening for any sign of movement, any hint of her presence. The darkness seemed to press in on him, the silence heavy and unnatural.
Then he heard it—a faint, muffled sound, a soft, desperate whimper that sent a jolt of urgency through him. He turned, his sword at the ready, and followed the sound, his steps quick and sure. The passage narrowed, the walls closing in around him, the ceiling so low he had to crouch. The air was colder here, the walls slick with moisture and something darker, something that made his skin crawl.
He rounded a corner and found himself in a small chamber, the walls jagged and uneven. In the far corner, huddled against the cold, damp stone, was the Grey Seer.
Her hands were bound with thick, rough rope, her face pale and streaked with dirt and tears. Her eyes, wide with fear, met his, and he saw the faint spark of hope ignite within them.
He whispered, his voice soft but urgent. He sheathed his sword and moved quickly to her side, his hands working to undo the knots that held her. “It’s me. I’m here rescue you. You’re safe now.”
Her body was trembling, her breaths coming in quick, shallow gasps. “Ugh…” she murmured, her voice barely audible. “I—I thought I was going to die.”
“Not on my watch,” he said, his voice firm and steady. He loosened the last of the ropes, freeing her hands, then gently pulled her to her feet. She stumbled, her legs weak and unsteady, but he caught her, his arms wrapping around her to keep her upright.
“We have to get out of here,” he said, his eyes flicking to the entrance of the chamber. “There could be more of them. Can you walk?”
She nodded, though he could see the fear and exhaustion in her eyes. “I—I think so. But… they’re still out there. I heard them, heard them coming and going. They—”
Her voice broke, and she clutched at his arm, her fingers digging into the fabric of his sleeve. “We have to get out of here. Please.”
“We will,” he promised, his voice strong and sure.
He retrieved his fallen flashlight, the beam flickering weakly as he adjusted it, casting erratic shadows that made the cave walls seem to pulse and breathe. He turned back to her, his gaze steady. “Stay close to me. Don’t let go of my hand. I’ll get us out.”
She nodded, her grip tightening on his arm. He led her carefully through the winding passages, his sword back in his hand, his senses on high alert. Every shadow, every flicker of movement, sent a jolt of adrenaline through him, but he forced himself to stay calm, to focus on her safety.
They moved slowly, each step deliberate, each breath held as they listened for any sign of the creatures that stalked the dark. The cave seemed to close in around them, the air growing colder and heavier, but he kept moving, his eyes fixed on the faint light that marked the way out.
Then, just as they rounded a corner, the sound of heavy, lumbering footsteps echoed through the passageway. Knight Four froze, his body tensing as he pulled the Seer behind him, his sword raised and ready.
A massive shape loomed out of the darkness, its eyes glowing faintly in the weak beam of the flashlight. Another one, its maw open in a snarling grin, its breath steaming in the frigid air.
“Found you,” it growled, its voice a low, guttural rumble.
Knight Four didn’t hesitate. He pushed the Seer back, his shield snapping into place as the creature lunged forward, its claws slashing through the air. The impact rocked him, the force of the blow sending a shock of pain through his arm, but he held firm, his feet planted, his sword poised to strike.
“Stay back!” he shouted, his voice echoing through the narrow space. He swung his sword in a wide arc, the blade cutting through the air with a sharp, lethal hiss. The Windigo reared back, its claws swiping at him again, but he was faster, his sword biting deep into its side.
The creature howled, the sound deafening in the confined space. Blood sprayed from the wound, but the Windigo didn’t falter. It swung a massive arm at him, the claws catching his shield and ripping it from his grasp. Knight Four staggered, his heart racing, but he didn’t let up. He slashed at the beast’s legs, his movements swift and precise, forcing it back step by step.
The Windigo roared, its eyes blazing with fury. It lunged, jaws snapping, but Knight Four twisted aside, his sword flashing in the flickering light. The blade found its mark, cutting deep into the creature’s neck. The Windigo’s roar turned into a gurgling choke, its body shuddering as it tried to claw at him, tried to fight.
Knight Four stepped in close, his face set in grim determination. With a single, powerful thrust, he drove his sword through the Windigo’s throat, the blade piercing bone and sinew. The creature shuddered, its eyes wide with rage and pain, then went still, its body collapsing to the ground in a heap.
Knight Four stood over it, his breath coming in harsh gasps, his heart hammering in his chest. He turned to the Seer, his eyes fierce.
“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice rough but gentle.
She nodded, tears streaming down her face, her body trembling. “Yes… I—I’m okay. You saved me.”
He stepped forward, pulling her into his arms, holding her close. “I’ll always save you. Always.”
She clung to him, her body shaking with sobs, and he held her tight, his hand gently stroking her hair. They stood there in the darkness, surrounded by the bones and shadows of the cave, the danger still present but, for a moment, held at bay.
After a few heartbeats, he pulled back, his hands still on her shoulders, his gaze serious.
“We need to move. There could be more coming. Can you make it?”
She nodded, her eyes meeting his with a new, fierce resolve. “Yes. I can. I will.”
He smiled, a small, tired smile, and took her hand. “Let’s go, then. Stay close, and keep quiet. We’ll be out of here soon.”
Together, they turned and made their way back through the winding passages, Knight Four’s sword still held ready, his body tense and alert. The Grey Seer stayed close, her eyes fixed on his back, trusting him to lead her through the darkness, through the fear, through the horror.
And as they moved, the darkness seemed a little less oppressive, the shadows a little less menacing. Because they were together. Because they had survived.
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darthauthor
- Champion
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Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
The night was a dark, oppressive shroud over the forest, the trees looming like silent sentinels under the pale light of a sliver moon. The air was sharp and cold, each breath a misty puff that vanished almost as soon as it formed. Knight One and Knight Two moved through the underbrush like shadows, their bodies low and silent, their eyes fixed on the faint, glowing screen of the tracking device in Knight One’s hand.
The rhythmic beeping of the tracker was their only guide, the signal pulsing steadily as it traced the path of the Woodsman. Or more accurately, the beast that had dragged him off into the night.
“We’re closing in,” Knight One whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. “He’s less than a quarter mile ahead.”
Knight Two nodded, his grip tightening on his energy rifle. “Do you think the monster knows it’s carrying the Orb?”
Knight One’s eyes narrowed as he glanced down at the screen. “Hard to say. But it doesn’t matter. We can’t let that thing get away with it. If it realizes what it has, it could be disastrous.”
They moved faster, their boots crunching softly over the snow, every sense alert for the slightest sound or movement. The forest around them was eerily quiet, the shadows thick and shifting, the trees like skeletal hands reaching up to the starless sky. Knight Two’s gaze swept over the darkness, his heart pounding with the urgency of the hunt.
Knight One’s jaw tightened. “The Orb’s indestructible. We don’t have to be careful with it. We can take out the creature as soon as we have a shot.”
They pressed on, the signal on the tracker growing stronger, the beeping quickening. The trail led them down a steep slope, the ground treacherous with ice and hidden roots. Knight One kept his eyes on the screen, following the path of the beacon, his mind racing with the possibilities of what lay ahead.
Then, through the darkness, they saw it.
A hulking figure moved through the trees ahead, its massive form hunched and powerful. Its fur gleaming faintly in the dim light, was dragging the Woodsman along like a ragdoll, the man’s body limp and unresisting. The pack on his back—the one containing the Orb—bounced with each lumbering step the creature took.
Knight Two’s breath caught in his throat. “Ten’o’clock,” he whispered, his eyes narrowing as he raised his rifle.
Knight One hissed, his hand on Knight Two’s arm. “We can’t risk a shot. It’s too fast, if the beast flees, we could lose Orb.”
Knight Two lowered his weapon, his jaw clenched. “So, what do we do?”
Knight One scanned the terrain, his mind racing. They were still too far to engage directly, but the beast is moving slowly, its attention focused on its captive. He glanced back at Knight Two, his voice low and firm.
“We split up. I’ll circle around and draw its attention. You get to the Woodsman and grab the pack. If the beast runs I’ll kill it. It is turns on you, you will kill it. IF things go side ways we do a pincer movement. Between the two of us, it will die before it escapes us. We do this right, we won’t have to chase it all night.”
Knight Two nodded, his expression determined.
With a final nod, they moved. Knight One veered off to the left, his movements silent and precise, his body blending into the shadows. Knight Two took a deep breath, then began to creep forward, his eyes locked on the Beast.
The creature’s pace was steady but slow, its breath steaming in the cold air. The Woodsman’s head lolled as he was dragged along, his eyes half-closed, his face pale.
Knight Two felt a surge at the sight of the creature. The beast was fast, huge, powerful.
He pushed the emotion down, focusing on the task. He had to get that pack. He moved closer, his steps careful and deliberate, every muscle tensed and ready. The Beast’s growl rumbled through the air, low and guttural, its eyes scanning the forest as if sensing their presence.
Then, a sudden noise to its left—a sharp snap of a branch, the sound deliberately loud and attention-grabbing. The Beast’s head jerked up, its body tensing, its eyes narrowing as it turned toward the sound.
Knight One.
Knight Two didn’t hesitate. He darted forward, moving quickly and quietly, his eyes fixed on the pack bouncing on the Woodsman’s back. He could see the faint glow of the Orb’s energy, the power radiating through the canvas. His heart pounded as he reached out, his fingers closing around the strap.
The Beast let out a furious roar, its attention snapping back to him. Knight Two yanked hard, pulling the pack free just as the creature lunged, its massive claws slashing through the air where he had been standing a moment before.
He stumbled back, the pack clutched to his chest, the Orb’s power thrumming through him like a living thing. The Creature turned, its eyes blazing with rage, and Knight Two felt a tremble of fear at the sheer size and fury of the beast.
“I’ve got it!” he shouted, his voice echoing through the clearing.
Knight One appeared from the shadows, his sword drawn, his body a blur of motion as he slashed at the beast’s back and struck it’s arm as he parried. The creature howled in pain, its focus shifting to Knight One, its claws lashing out in a wild, furious arc.
Knight Two upon fired into the beasts back with his energy rifle.
The beast spun back and forth between the two Mystic Knights. In its frenzy it exposed it’s flank to each one when it attacked. With a final, desperate look at Knight One, the beast turned and ran. Its feet pounding over the snow, his breath burning in his lungs. He heard the energy blasts before falling.
The sound of battle echoing through the forest before falling silent.
The cold air biting at his face, the darkness pressing in around him. The forest seemed endless, the shadows deep and menacing, but he pushed on, his mind focused on the task, on the weight of the Orb in his hands.
The moonlight spilling down like a signal flare. His eyes scanning the dark forest behind him, his mind racing.
A figure emerged from the darkness, limping but steady, his sword held low. Knight One. He was bloodied, his armor dented, but he was alive.
Knight Two let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
Knight One nodded, his face grim but determined. “That thing didn’t go down easy.”
They stood there for a moment, the cold night air swirling around them, the Orb glowing faintly between them. Then Knight One reached out, his hand resting on Knight Two’s shoulder.
“We are alive. We’ve got the Orb. That’s what matters.”
Knight Two nodded, his heart still racing.
Knight One glanced back at the forest, his jaw tight.
They heard it.
“It’s not dead.”
Knight Two, let loose a gorge of fire lighting up the night and the beast.
It roared.
They hacked it up and burned what remained.
Knight One, his eyes steady. “We need to get back to our camp. Four will go back to it to rendezvous with us.”
Knight Two nodded, the tension easing from his body.
With the Orb safely in their possession, they turned and made their way back through the forest, the darkness around them no longer as threatening, the weight of their mission lighter now that they had succeeded.
The rhythmic beeping of the tracker was their only guide, the signal pulsing steadily as it traced the path of the Woodsman. Or more accurately, the beast that had dragged him off into the night.
“We’re closing in,” Knight One whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. “He’s less than a quarter mile ahead.”
Knight Two nodded, his grip tightening on his energy rifle. “Do you think the monster knows it’s carrying the Orb?”
Knight One’s eyes narrowed as he glanced down at the screen. “Hard to say. But it doesn’t matter. We can’t let that thing get away with it. If it realizes what it has, it could be disastrous.”
They moved faster, their boots crunching softly over the snow, every sense alert for the slightest sound or movement. The forest around them was eerily quiet, the shadows thick and shifting, the trees like skeletal hands reaching up to the starless sky. Knight Two’s gaze swept over the darkness, his heart pounding with the urgency of the hunt.
Knight One’s jaw tightened. “The Orb’s indestructible. We don’t have to be careful with it. We can take out the creature as soon as we have a shot.”
They pressed on, the signal on the tracker growing stronger, the beeping quickening. The trail led them down a steep slope, the ground treacherous with ice and hidden roots. Knight One kept his eyes on the screen, following the path of the beacon, his mind racing with the possibilities of what lay ahead.
Then, through the darkness, they saw it.
A hulking figure moved through the trees ahead, its massive form hunched and powerful. Its fur gleaming faintly in the dim light, was dragging the Woodsman along like a ragdoll, the man’s body limp and unresisting. The pack on his back—the one containing the Orb—bounced with each lumbering step the creature took.
Knight Two’s breath caught in his throat. “Ten’o’clock,” he whispered, his eyes narrowing as he raised his rifle.
Knight One hissed, his hand on Knight Two’s arm. “We can’t risk a shot. It’s too fast, if the beast flees, we could lose Orb.”
Knight Two lowered his weapon, his jaw clenched. “So, what do we do?”
Knight One scanned the terrain, his mind racing. They were still too far to engage directly, but the beast is moving slowly, its attention focused on its captive. He glanced back at Knight Two, his voice low and firm.
“We split up. I’ll circle around and draw its attention. You get to the Woodsman and grab the pack. If the beast runs I’ll kill it. It is turns on you, you will kill it. IF things go side ways we do a pincer movement. Between the two of us, it will die before it escapes us. We do this right, we won’t have to chase it all night.”
Knight Two nodded, his expression determined.
With a final nod, they moved. Knight One veered off to the left, his movements silent and precise, his body blending into the shadows. Knight Two took a deep breath, then began to creep forward, his eyes locked on the Beast.
The creature’s pace was steady but slow, its breath steaming in the cold air. The Woodsman’s head lolled as he was dragged along, his eyes half-closed, his face pale.
Knight Two felt a surge at the sight of the creature. The beast was fast, huge, powerful.
He pushed the emotion down, focusing on the task. He had to get that pack. He moved closer, his steps careful and deliberate, every muscle tensed and ready. The Beast’s growl rumbled through the air, low and guttural, its eyes scanning the forest as if sensing their presence.
Then, a sudden noise to its left—a sharp snap of a branch, the sound deliberately loud and attention-grabbing. The Beast’s head jerked up, its body tensing, its eyes narrowing as it turned toward the sound.
Knight One.
Knight Two didn’t hesitate. He darted forward, moving quickly and quietly, his eyes fixed on the pack bouncing on the Woodsman’s back. He could see the faint glow of the Orb’s energy, the power radiating through the canvas. His heart pounded as he reached out, his fingers closing around the strap.
The Beast let out a furious roar, its attention snapping back to him. Knight Two yanked hard, pulling the pack free just as the creature lunged, its massive claws slashing through the air where he had been standing a moment before.
He stumbled back, the pack clutched to his chest, the Orb’s power thrumming through him like a living thing. The Creature turned, its eyes blazing with rage, and Knight Two felt a tremble of fear at the sheer size and fury of the beast.
“I’ve got it!” he shouted, his voice echoing through the clearing.
Knight One appeared from the shadows, his sword drawn, his body a blur of motion as he slashed at the beast’s back and struck it’s arm as he parried. The creature howled in pain, its focus shifting to Knight One, its claws lashing out in a wild, furious arc.
Knight Two upon fired into the beasts back with his energy rifle.
The beast spun back and forth between the two Mystic Knights. In its frenzy it exposed it’s flank to each one when it attacked. With a final, desperate look at Knight One, the beast turned and ran. Its feet pounding over the snow, his breath burning in his lungs. He heard the energy blasts before falling.
The sound of battle echoing through the forest before falling silent.
The cold air biting at his face, the darkness pressing in around him. The forest seemed endless, the shadows deep and menacing, but he pushed on, his mind focused on the task, on the weight of the Orb in his hands.
The moonlight spilling down like a signal flare. His eyes scanning the dark forest behind him, his mind racing.
A figure emerged from the darkness, limping but steady, his sword held low. Knight One. He was bloodied, his armor dented, but he was alive.
Knight Two let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
Knight One nodded, his face grim but determined. “That thing didn’t go down easy.”
They stood there for a moment, the cold night air swirling around them, the Orb glowing faintly between them. Then Knight One reached out, his hand resting on Knight Two’s shoulder.
“We are alive. We’ve got the Orb. That’s what matters.”
Knight Two nodded, his heart still racing.
Knight One glanced back at the forest, his jaw tight.
They heard it.
“It’s not dead.”
Knight Two, let loose a gorge of fire lighting up the night and the beast.
It roared.
They hacked it up and burned what remained.
Knight One, his eyes steady. “We need to get back to our camp. Four will go back to it to rendezvous with us.”
Knight Two nodded, the tension easing from his body.
With the Orb safely in their possession, they turned and made their way back through the forest, the darkness around them no longer as threatening, the weight of their mission lighter now that they had succeeded.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Knight Four and the Grey Seer burst from the mouth of the cave, the cold night air biting at their faces as they sprinted through the snow-covered forest. The moon cast a pale light over the landscape, but the shadows between the trees were deep and shifting. The howls of distant Beasts echoed through the woods, a chilling reminder that danger was still near.
The Grey Seer, her face pale and streaked with dirt and blood. She was exhausted, her eyes wide with fear, but there was a determination there too. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself.
Knight Four took a step back, his hands glowing softly with a gentle, warm light as he began to cast the spell. His voice was low and calm, the words of the incantation flowing smoothly from his lips.
The magic swirled around them, shimmering in the air like a gentle breeze. The energy washed over the Grey Seer, flowing from her head to her feet, the light brightening as it touched her. The grime and blood disappeared, the dirt and sweat vanishing as if swept away by an invisible hand. Her hair, once matted and tangled, now hung in smooth, clean waves around her shoulders. Her clothes, torn and stained from her ordeal, were now pristine, as if freshly laundered and pressed.
Knight Four felt the magic flow over him as well, the sensation cool and refreshing, like stepping out of a hot bath into a crisp morning air. His armor and clothes were spotless, the blood and dirt gone, his body and mind suddenly clear and focused. He looked at the Grey Seer, her eyes wide and blinking with surprise as she took in the change.
“Better?” he asked softly, a small smile tugging at his lips.
She nodded, her voice trembling but grateful. “Yes… thank you. I—” She paused, taking a deep breath. “I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
He squeezed her hand gently. “You’re safe now, Seer. But we’re not out of this yet.” He glanced around the dark forest, his senses still on high alert. “I got rid of our scent now we need to get lost ourselves.”
They ran without speaking, Knight Four leading the way with the Grey Seer’s hand clutched tightly in his. He pushed himself to move faster, his eyes scanning for any sign of a safe haven, somewhere they could regroup and hide. He could feel the fear in her trembling grip, but he knew they had to keep moving. Stopping now could mean death.
After what felt like an eternity, he spotted a cluster of thick, snow-covered pines growing close together. He veered toward them, pulling her along, and they ducked into the dense foliage. The branches closed around them, the needles brushing against their faces, forming a small, concealed space hidden from view.
“We should be safe here for a moment,” he whispered, his breath misting in the cold air. “I’m going to set up a shelter. It’ll keep us hidden for the night.”
He released her hand and stepped forward, his hands glowing once more as he began to cast another spell. The words of the incantation filled the air, soft and melodic, and the magic responded, shimmering around him like a living thing.
A soft, bluish-white light spread from his hands, expanding and curving upward, forming a semi-opaque dome around them. The light solidified, becoming a protective barrier that resembled a tent made of thick, frosted glass. Inside, the air was warmer, the chill of the night held at bay by the spell’s gentle warmth.
The Grey Seer watched in awe as the shelter took shape, the dome large enough to accommodate them both comfortably. The light inside was soft and soothing, the shadows outside blurred and indistinct, giving them privacy and protection. She stepped forward, her fingers brushing against the smooth, almost glass-like surface of the barrier.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, her voice filled with wonder.
Knight Four smiled, his face softening as he looked at her. “It’ll keep us safe and warm until morning. Come on, let’s sit down.”
They settled on the dry ground inside the shelter, the snow outside barely visible through the semi-opaque barrier. The warmth seeped into their bodies, soothing their aching muscles and calming their frayed nerves. Knight Four kept his sword close, his eyes still watchful as he glanced around, his instincts alert for any sign of danger.
The Grey Seer leaned back against the curved wall of the shelter, her body finally relaxing after the night’s harrowing events. She glanced at Knight Four, her eyes soft and grateful.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, her voice barely more than a whisper. “For everything. I—I was so afraid. I thought… I thought I wouldn’t make it.”
Knight Four’s expression softened, and he reached out, taking her hand in his. “You’re safe now. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
She nodded, a small, trembling smile breaking through her fear. “I trust you.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the soft light of the shelter casting a gentle glow around them. Outside, the wind howled through the trees, the shadows shifting and twisting in the darkness. But inside, there was it was a small sanctuary of light and warmth in the heart of the cold, dark night.
After a while, the Grey Seer sighed, her eyes closing as she leaned her head against his shoulder. “I don’t know what I would have done without you,” she whispered. “You’ve saved me more times than I can count.”
Knight Four smiled, his hand resting gently on hers.
She looked up at him, her eyes bright with emotion. “It’s more than that. You—” She paused, her voice catching in her throat. “You’re my… my protector. I can’t imagine what I would do without you.”
He leaned forward, his voice soft and earnest. “I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”
---
The morning sunlight filtered through the semi-opaque dome of the magical shelter, casting soft, muted shadows across the two figures entwined beneath the warmth of a shared blanket. The Grey Seer awoke slowly, her senses stirring to the quiet of the dawn and the comforting weight of the man beside her. Her left arm was under his neck, his head resting lightly against her. Her right hand was clasped gently in his, held close to his chest. She lay still, savoring the sensation of his skin against hers, the strength and calm that radiated from his presence.
She turned her head slightly, her gaze drifting over him. Knight Four was shirtless, his bare torso rising and falling with each steady breath. His body was lean and powerful, his skin smooth and clean, smelling faintly of fresh soap and something else—something uniquely him. She inhaled deeply, her heart fluttering at the scent. He smelled incredible, warm and strong and safe, and she felt a strange, heady thrill rise in her chest.
She shifted slightly, and that’s when she noticed them: the bruises and cuts, small but scattered across his shoulders and sides, darkening his skin with shades of purple and blue. Some were fresh, the skin broken and raw, while others were fading into yellow and green, evidence of injuries sustained and hidden from her the night before.
Her heart clenched with sudden worry. He had fought so fiercely, protected her so bravely, and she had not even known how much he had endured. She swallowed hard, her fingers brushing lightly over a dark bruise near his ribs, careful not to wake him.
She pulled her hand back, her resolve hardening. He had done so much for her; it was her turn to take care of him. She carefully slipped out from under him, her movements slow and gentle so as not to disturb his rest. Her eyes darted to his pack, which lay just within reach. She retrieved his medical kit and a small candle, lighting it with a flick from his lighter.
Then, with a deep breath to steady herself, she climbed back over him, straddling his waist. The candle flame flickered in the soft breeze, casting a warm, golden glow over his body. She held it close, studying him in the gentle light.
She focused first on the bruises and cuts, her fingers trailing lightly over his skin as she examined each one. The injuries were not severe, but they must have caused him pain, pain he had hidden from her to keep her from worrying. She felt a surge of guilt and gratitude, her heart aching for him.
But as she continued to study him, her gaze shifted, and she found herself staring. His body was magnificent—strong and defined, every muscle and curve sculpted by years of training. Her eyes traced the lines of his chest, the contours of his abs, the way his skin stretched taut over the powerful muscles of his arms and shoulders. She felt her cheeks heat, a blush rising as she realized she was no longer just looking for injuries.
She was ogling him.
The memory of last night flashed through her mind—how he had fought for her, rescued her, cradled her in his arms as if she were the most precious thing in the world. He had come for her like a knight from the stories her father used to read to her, like the heroes in the romance novels she had once secretly devoured. He was everything she had ever dreamed of and more.
She reached out, almost unconsciously, her fingers brushing over his skin, feeling the warmth of him, the solid strength. Her heart raced, her breath catching in her throat. She wanted to kiss him, to feel his lips against hers, to—
A drop of hot wax fell from the candle, landing on his chest.
Knight Four’s eyes flew open, his body tensing in an instant. Before she could react, he moved, in one fluid motion, he grabbed her wrist, twisted, and reversed their positions, pinning her beneath him. His weight pressed her down, his grip was iron, his body solid and unyielding, his face inches from hers.
The Seer gasped, her heart pounding wildly. She was suddenly aware of every inch of him, his breath warm against her cheek, his eyes intense and piercing as they searched her face. The mixture of excitement and fear surged through her, her body trembling under his.
Then, as quickly as he had pinned her, his expression shifted. Recognition softened the hard lines of his face, the tension in his body easing as he realized who she was, where they were. His grip on her wrists loosened, his touch becoming gentle, almost apologetic.
He glanced down at the melted wax on his chest, a rueful smile tugging at his lips.
She stared up at him, her heart still racing, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I—I didn’t mean… to… wake you like that,” she stammered, her voice breathless. “I was just… checking your injuries. You were hurt, and I didn’t know, and…”
He chuckled softly, his hand lifting to brush a stray lock of hair from her face. “I’ve had worse.” He paused, his gaze holding hers, his expression turning serious.
She nodded, her throat tight, words failing her.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, he leaned down, his lips brushing softly against her forehead, a feather-light kiss that sent a shiver down her spine. He whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. “I’m here you.”
She closed her eyes, her heart swelling, and lifted her hand to his cheek, her touch gentle. “And I’m here for you.”
---
Later, they were nestled together under a blanket, the warmth of their shared body heat warding off the chill of the morning air. He held her close, his arms wrapped around her. She rested her head against his chest, her eyes half-closed, a contented smile on her lips.
---
The morning sun hung low on the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over the snow-covered forest. The air was crisp and still, the silence broken only by the occasional rustle of the wind through the trees. Outside the semi-opaque shelter, Knight Four stood shirtless, the chill of the air biting at his skin but doing little to affect him. He rolled his broad shoulders, stretching his arms out wide. He took a deep breath, the cold air filling his lungs, and then exhaled slowly, letting his body relax.
He turned to face the Grey Seer, who stood just outside the shelter, watching him with a mix of admiration and curiosity. She had wrapped herself in a blanket against the morning chill, her eyes wide as she took in the sight of him.
He began to murmur the incantation, his voice a low, melodic chant that seemed to resonate with the very air around them. The magic responded, swirling around him like a gentle breeze. A bubble of shimmering, translucent water formed in the air, glowing faintly with a soft, white light. It enveloped him completely, the water seeming to flow and pulse as if alive.
The enchanted water scoured his skin, its touch cool and refreshing. He felt it working deep into his body, scrubbing away dirt, infusing him with energy and vitality. Minor cuts and bruises from the previous night’s battle vanished, the aches and pains melting away as the magic did its work. His skin felt smoother, fresher, and he could almost sense the nutrients being absorbed into his very cells, leaving him rejuvenated.
After a moment, the bubble dissipated, the water evaporating into a fine mist that left him dry and refreshed. He smiled, rolling his shoulders again, feeling the ease and strength in his body.
“Now, your turn.”
Knight Four began the spell again, the incantation flowing smoothly from his lips. The air shimmered once more, the bubble of water forming around the Seer, glowing with that same soft, white light. She gasped softly as the water enveloped her, her eyes widening as she felt its cool touch against her skin.
The enchanted water moved over her, scouring away minor scrapes and bruises fading as if they had never been. She felt the magic infusing into her, a gentle, tingling sensation that seemed to fill her with warmth and vitality. The water smoothed her skin, easing the tension in her muscles, straightening her hair, and softening the lines of stress and exhaustion. It was as if the spell was washing away not just the physical dirt and pain, but the weight of the fear she had endured.
She closed her eyes, a soft sigh escaping her lips as the magic continued its work. The water seemed to caress her, healing and soothing, leaving her feeling lighter, freer. When the bubble finally dissipated, she stood there, her eyes still closed, her body glowing faintly in the morning light.
Knight Four watched her. The spell had done its work beautifully; she looked radiant, her skin smooth and glowing, her hair shining like silk. There was a peacefulness about her now, a serenity that made her seem almost ethereal in the soft light of dawn.
The Seer opened her eyes, meeting his gaze, and he saw the wonder there. “I feel… amazing,” she whispered, her voice filled with awe. “I’ve never felt anything like this before.”
He smiled, stepping closer, his eyes warm. “You look beautiful. Even more so than usual.”
She blushed, the color rising to her cheeks as she looked away, her smile shy and pleased. “Thank you. For everything.”
He reached out, his hand brushing lightly against her cheek, his touch gentle.
She looked up at him, her eyes shining.
They stood there for a moment, the morning sun rising higher, the world around them quiet and still. Then he stepped back, taking a deep breath, his expression turning serious.
“We need to find the other knights,” he said, his voice calm and focused. “There might be more monsters.”
She nodded, the calm determination in her eyes matching his. “Let’s go, then.”
The Grey Seer, her face pale and streaked with dirt and blood. She was exhausted, her eyes wide with fear, but there was a determination there too. She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself.
Knight Four took a step back, his hands glowing softly with a gentle, warm light as he began to cast the spell. His voice was low and calm, the words of the incantation flowing smoothly from his lips.
The magic swirled around them, shimmering in the air like a gentle breeze. The energy washed over the Grey Seer, flowing from her head to her feet, the light brightening as it touched her. The grime and blood disappeared, the dirt and sweat vanishing as if swept away by an invisible hand. Her hair, once matted and tangled, now hung in smooth, clean waves around her shoulders. Her clothes, torn and stained from her ordeal, were now pristine, as if freshly laundered and pressed.
Knight Four felt the magic flow over him as well, the sensation cool and refreshing, like stepping out of a hot bath into a crisp morning air. His armor and clothes were spotless, the blood and dirt gone, his body and mind suddenly clear and focused. He looked at the Grey Seer, her eyes wide and blinking with surprise as she took in the change.
“Better?” he asked softly, a small smile tugging at his lips.
She nodded, her voice trembling but grateful. “Yes… thank you. I—” She paused, taking a deep breath. “I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
He squeezed her hand gently. “You’re safe now, Seer. But we’re not out of this yet.” He glanced around the dark forest, his senses still on high alert. “I got rid of our scent now we need to get lost ourselves.”
They ran without speaking, Knight Four leading the way with the Grey Seer’s hand clutched tightly in his. He pushed himself to move faster, his eyes scanning for any sign of a safe haven, somewhere they could regroup and hide. He could feel the fear in her trembling grip, but he knew they had to keep moving. Stopping now could mean death.
After what felt like an eternity, he spotted a cluster of thick, snow-covered pines growing close together. He veered toward them, pulling her along, and they ducked into the dense foliage. The branches closed around them, the needles brushing against their faces, forming a small, concealed space hidden from view.
“We should be safe here for a moment,” he whispered, his breath misting in the cold air. “I’m going to set up a shelter. It’ll keep us hidden for the night.”
He released her hand and stepped forward, his hands glowing once more as he began to cast another spell. The words of the incantation filled the air, soft and melodic, and the magic responded, shimmering around him like a living thing.
A soft, bluish-white light spread from his hands, expanding and curving upward, forming a semi-opaque dome around them. The light solidified, becoming a protective barrier that resembled a tent made of thick, frosted glass. Inside, the air was warmer, the chill of the night held at bay by the spell’s gentle warmth.
The Grey Seer watched in awe as the shelter took shape, the dome large enough to accommodate them both comfortably. The light inside was soft and soothing, the shadows outside blurred and indistinct, giving them privacy and protection. She stepped forward, her fingers brushing against the smooth, almost glass-like surface of the barrier.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmured, her voice filled with wonder.
Knight Four smiled, his face softening as he looked at her. “It’ll keep us safe and warm until morning. Come on, let’s sit down.”
They settled on the dry ground inside the shelter, the snow outside barely visible through the semi-opaque barrier. The warmth seeped into their bodies, soothing their aching muscles and calming their frayed nerves. Knight Four kept his sword close, his eyes still watchful as he glanced around, his instincts alert for any sign of danger.
The Grey Seer leaned back against the curved wall of the shelter, her body finally relaxing after the night’s harrowing events. She glanced at Knight Four, her eyes soft and grateful.
“Thank you,” she said quietly, her voice barely more than a whisper. “For everything. I—I was so afraid. I thought… I thought I wouldn’t make it.”
Knight Four’s expression softened, and he reached out, taking her hand in his. “You’re safe now. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”
She nodded, a small, trembling smile breaking through her fear. “I trust you.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the soft light of the shelter casting a gentle glow around them. Outside, the wind howled through the trees, the shadows shifting and twisting in the darkness. But inside, there was it was a small sanctuary of light and warmth in the heart of the cold, dark night.
After a while, the Grey Seer sighed, her eyes closing as she leaned her head against his shoulder. “I don’t know what I would have done without you,” she whispered. “You’ve saved me more times than I can count.”
Knight Four smiled, his hand resting gently on hers.
She looked up at him, her eyes bright with emotion. “It’s more than that. You—” She paused, her voice catching in her throat. “You’re my… my protector. I can’t imagine what I would do without you.”
He leaned forward, his voice soft and earnest. “I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere.”
---
The morning sunlight filtered through the semi-opaque dome of the magical shelter, casting soft, muted shadows across the two figures entwined beneath the warmth of a shared blanket. The Grey Seer awoke slowly, her senses stirring to the quiet of the dawn and the comforting weight of the man beside her. Her left arm was under his neck, his head resting lightly against her. Her right hand was clasped gently in his, held close to his chest. She lay still, savoring the sensation of his skin against hers, the strength and calm that radiated from his presence.
She turned her head slightly, her gaze drifting over him. Knight Four was shirtless, his bare torso rising and falling with each steady breath. His body was lean and powerful, his skin smooth and clean, smelling faintly of fresh soap and something else—something uniquely him. She inhaled deeply, her heart fluttering at the scent. He smelled incredible, warm and strong and safe, and she felt a strange, heady thrill rise in her chest.
She shifted slightly, and that’s when she noticed them: the bruises and cuts, small but scattered across his shoulders and sides, darkening his skin with shades of purple and blue. Some were fresh, the skin broken and raw, while others were fading into yellow and green, evidence of injuries sustained and hidden from her the night before.
Her heart clenched with sudden worry. He had fought so fiercely, protected her so bravely, and she had not even known how much he had endured. She swallowed hard, her fingers brushing lightly over a dark bruise near his ribs, careful not to wake him.
She pulled her hand back, her resolve hardening. He had done so much for her; it was her turn to take care of him. She carefully slipped out from under him, her movements slow and gentle so as not to disturb his rest. Her eyes darted to his pack, which lay just within reach. She retrieved his medical kit and a small candle, lighting it with a flick from his lighter.
Then, with a deep breath to steady herself, she climbed back over him, straddling his waist. The candle flame flickered in the soft breeze, casting a warm, golden glow over his body. She held it close, studying him in the gentle light.
She focused first on the bruises and cuts, her fingers trailing lightly over his skin as she examined each one. The injuries were not severe, but they must have caused him pain, pain he had hidden from her to keep her from worrying. She felt a surge of guilt and gratitude, her heart aching for him.
But as she continued to study him, her gaze shifted, and she found herself staring. His body was magnificent—strong and defined, every muscle and curve sculpted by years of training. Her eyes traced the lines of his chest, the contours of his abs, the way his skin stretched taut over the powerful muscles of his arms and shoulders. She felt her cheeks heat, a blush rising as she realized she was no longer just looking for injuries.
She was ogling him.
The memory of last night flashed through her mind—how he had fought for her, rescued her, cradled her in his arms as if she were the most precious thing in the world. He had come for her like a knight from the stories her father used to read to her, like the heroes in the romance novels she had once secretly devoured. He was everything she had ever dreamed of and more.
She reached out, almost unconsciously, her fingers brushing over his skin, feeling the warmth of him, the solid strength. Her heart raced, her breath catching in her throat. She wanted to kiss him, to feel his lips against hers, to—
A drop of hot wax fell from the candle, landing on his chest.
Knight Four’s eyes flew open, his body tensing in an instant. Before she could react, he moved, in one fluid motion, he grabbed her wrist, twisted, and reversed their positions, pinning her beneath him. His weight pressed her down, his grip was iron, his body solid and unyielding, his face inches from hers.
The Seer gasped, her heart pounding wildly. She was suddenly aware of every inch of him, his breath warm against her cheek, his eyes intense and piercing as they searched her face. The mixture of excitement and fear surged through her, her body trembling under his.
Then, as quickly as he had pinned her, his expression shifted. Recognition softened the hard lines of his face, the tension in his body easing as he realized who she was, where they were. His grip on her wrists loosened, his touch becoming gentle, almost apologetic.
He glanced down at the melted wax on his chest, a rueful smile tugging at his lips.
She stared up at him, her heart still racing, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “I—I didn’t mean… to… wake you like that,” she stammered, her voice breathless. “I was just… checking your injuries. You were hurt, and I didn’t know, and…”
He chuckled softly, his hand lifting to brush a stray lock of hair from her face. “I’ve had worse.” He paused, his gaze holding hers, his expression turning serious.
She nodded, her throat tight, words failing her.
Slowly, almost hesitantly, he leaned down, his lips brushing softly against her forehead, a feather-light kiss that sent a shiver down her spine. He whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. “I’m here you.”
She closed her eyes, her heart swelling, and lifted her hand to his cheek, her touch gentle. “And I’m here for you.”
---
Later, they were nestled together under a blanket, the warmth of their shared body heat warding off the chill of the morning air. He held her close, his arms wrapped around her. She rested her head against his chest, her eyes half-closed, a contented smile on her lips.
---
The morning sun hung low on the horizon, casting a warm, golden glow over the snow-covered forest. The air was crisp and still, the silence broken only by the occasional rustle of the wind through the trees. Outside the semi-opaque shelter, Knight Four stood shirtless, the chill of the air biting at his skin but doing little to affect him. He rolled his broad shoulders, stretching his arms out wide. He took a deep breath, the cold air filling his lungs, and then exhaled slowly, letting his body relax.
He turned to face the Grey Seer, who stood just outside the shelter, watching him with a mix of admiration and curiosity. She had wrapped herself in a blanket against the morning chill, her eyes wide as she took in the sight of him.
He began to murmur the incantation, his voice a low, melodic chant that seemed to resonate with the very air around them. The magic responded, swirling around him like a gentle breeze. A bubble of shimmering, translucent water formed in the air, glowing faintly with a soft, white light. It enveloped him completely, the water seeming to flow and pulse as if alive.
The enchanted water scoured his skin, its touch cool and refreshing. He felt it working deep into his body, scrubbing away dirt, infusing him with energy and vitality. Minor cuts and bruises from the previous night’s battle vanished, the aches and pains melting away as the magic did its work. His skin felt smoother, fresher, and he could almost sense the nutrients being absorbed into his very cells, leaving him rejuvenated.
After a moment, the bubble dissipated, the water evaporating into a fine mist that left him dry and refreshed. He smiled, rolling his shoulders again, feeling the ease and strength in his body.
“Now, your turn.”
Knight Four began the spell again, the incantation flowing smoothly from his lips. The air shimmered once more, the bubble of water forming around the Seer, glowing with that same soft, white light. She gasped softly as the water enveloped her, her eyes widening as she felt its cool touch against her skin.
The enchanted water moved over her, scouring away minor scrapes and bruises fading as if they had never been. She felt the magic infusing into her, a gentle, tingling sensation that seemed to fill her with warmth and vitality. The water smoothed her skin, easing the tension in her muscles, straightening her hair, and softening the lines of stress and exhaustion. It was as if the spell was washing away not just the physical dirt and pain, but the weight of the fear she had endured.
She closed her eyes, a soft sigh escaping her lips as the magic continued its work. The water seemed to caress her, healing and soothing, leaving her feeling lighter, freer. When the bubble finally dissipated, she stood there, her eyes still closed, her body glowing faintly in the morning light.
Knight Four watched her. The spell had done its work beautifully; she looked radiant, her skin smooth and glowing, her hair shining like silk. There was a peacefulness about her now, a serenity that made her seem almost ethereal in the soft light of dawn.
The Seer opened her eyes, meeting his gaze, and he saw the wonder there. “I feel… amazing,” she whispered, her voice filled with awe. “I’ve never felt anything like this before.”
He smiled, stepping closer, his eyes warm. “You look beautiful. Even more so than usual.”
She blushed, the color rising to her cheeks as she looked away, her smile shy and pleased. “Thank you. For everything.”
He reached out, his hand brushing lightly against her cheek, his touch gentle.
She looked up at him, her eyes shining.
They stood there for a moment, the morning sun rising higher, the world around them quiet and still. Then he stepped back, taking a deep breath, his expression turning serious.
“We need to find the other knights,” he said, his voice calm and focused. “There might be more monsters.”
She nodded, the calm determination in her eyes matching his. “Let’s go, then.”
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: somewhere in Alaska
The Alaskan camp bustled with life, a vibrant patch of civilization nestled amid the vast, rugged wilderness. The midday sun hung low in the sky, casting a soft, diffuse light over the clearing. Smoke curled lazily from small cooking fires, mingling with the crisp scent of pine and the faint, briny tang of the sea. Colorful tents and makeshift shelters dotted the snow-covered ground, their fabric flapping gently in the cool breeze. The air buzzed with the sounds of conversation, laughter, and the rhythmic hammering of tools as locals went about their daily tasks.
The party moved through the camp at a leisurely pace, taking in the sights and sounds around them. The locals, wrapped in thick, fur-lined clothing adorned with beads and intricate stitching, greeted them with curious glances and friendly nods. Children ran past, their laughter bright and clear, chasing each other through the maze of tents and stalls.
Knight One and Knight Two stayed near the edge of the group, their eyes watchful, scanning the camp with quiet intensity. They had the Orb safely hidden in Knight One’s rucksack, its presence a constant, silent weight between them. They hadn’t decided when—or if—they would tell the others. For now, they would focus on the present, on the camp and its vibrant life. As far as anyone knows that beast has it, in its belly, before it took off in this direction.
“Quite the place,” Knight Four murmured, his gaze sweeping over a row of stalls where traders displayed their wares. “I didn’t expect to see this many people out here.”
Knight One nodded, his eyes lingering on a group of locals haggling over bundles of dried fish and herbs. “It’s a hub for trade, even out here. And not just goods—information, too.”
They made their way to the central square, where a large communal fire crackled cheerfully, its warmth drawing people close. Around the fire, various vendors had set up simple stands, offering an array of food and crafts. The rich aroma of roasting meat and freshly baked bread filled the air, mingling with the sweet scent of spiced berries and the earthy fragrance of smoked fish.
The Grey Seer and the Woodsman stood near one of the stalls, the Seer’s face lit with excitement as she examined a selection of intricately carved wooden charms. The Woodsman, his eyes sharp and assessing, watched the exchange with a faint smile, his posture relaxed.
“Look at these!” the Seer called, her voice filled with delight. She held up a small, carved bear, its surface polished smooth. “Aren’t they beautiful? The detail is incredible.”
Knight One smiled, his eyes softening. “They are. The craftsmanship here is remarkable.”
The vendor, an older woman with a kind face and hands worn from years of work, nodded proudly. “Each one is made by hand, from wood gathered near the river. Every piece tells a story, a part of our history.”
The Seer’s eyes widened with interest. “I’d love to hear more about them.”
The woman’s smile deepened. “Perhaps later, over some tea. For now, feel free to look around. There’s much to see here.”
As they moved away from the stall, the Woodsman leaned closer to Knight One, his voice low. “These people are resourceful. They’ve made a life out here, against all odds.”
Knight One nodded. “It’s impressive. But we need to keep our focus. We’re here to trade and gather information.”
“Right,” the Woodsman agreed, though his eyes lingered on the Seer as she moved to another stall, her interest piqued by a display of bright, woven blankets.
The camp was alive with activity, voices mingling with the crackle of fires and the occasional burst of laughter. The Mystic Knights wandered through the bustling market area, absorbing the sights and sounds around them. Nearby, the Grey Seer and the Woodsman examined a row of beautifully woven blankets, their vibrant colors standing out against the muted tones of the snowy landscape. People moved with purpose and ease, their voices rising in friendly conversation, the scent of cooking fires and fresh bread mingling with the crisp, clean air.
The camp was a kaleidoscope of colors and textures, the vibrant hues of dyed fabrics and painted carvings standing out against the snowy backdrop. A group of young women worked near a large tent, their hands deftly weaving strands of dried grass and sinew into sturdy baskets. Nearby, an elder sat on a low stool, his fingers skillfully shaping a piece of bone into a delicate knife handle.
The party drifted toward a food stall where a woman was cooking something over a small grill, the scent of sizzling meat and herbs filling the air. She smiled as they approached, her eyes crinkling with warmth.
“Hungry travelers, I see,” she said, her voice rich and friendly. “I have smoked venison, fresh bread, and berry stew. The stew’s a favorite around here, especially with this cold.”
Knight Two’s stomach rumbled, and he grinned sheepishly.
As the woman ladled the steaming stew into a bowl, Knight One glanced around, his eyes noting the careful organization of the camp. Water barrels stood at the edge of each cluster of tents, covered with heavy lids to keep them from freezing. The locals moved with purpose, each person contributing to the camp’s rhythm, their roles clearly defined.
The scent of the camp's offerings was intoxicating, blending the rich, earthy aromas of smoke, herbs, and roasting meat. As Knight Two took his first spoonful of the berry stew, he felt a warm, comforting sensation spread through his body, warding off the chill of the Alaskan air. The stew was thick and hearty, the base made from a blend of wild berries that burst with a tart sweetness on his tongue. Each bite carried the complex flavor of the forest—the berries' sharp tang was balanced by the earthy richness of root vegetables and tender chunks of venison that practically melted in his mouth.
The venison itself was expertly smoked, its deep, savory taste tinged with a subtle smokiness that hinted at cedar and pine. The meat was lean yet succulent, with a texture that was both firm and yielding. As he chewed, the flavor seemed to deepen, releasing notes of juniper and a faint, spicy warmth that lingered on the palate.
The bread he dipped into the stew was dense and slightly chewy, with a rustic, nutty flavor that complemented the stew’s richness perfectly. It was freshly baked, still warm from the fire, and as he bit into it, he could taste the faint sweetness of honey mixed with the hearty taste of whole grains and wild seeds. The crust was crisp and browned, giving way to a soft, warm interior that soaked up the savory broth with each bite.
Knight One sampled a piece of smoked fish, its flesh flaking easily under his fingers. The first taste was a rush of umami, the delicate, salty flavor of the sea mingling with the earthy, smoky undertones from the traditional smoking process. The fish was tender yet firm, its natural oils giving it a luxurious mouthfeel that spread the rich, briny flavors across his tongue. Hints of alderwood smoke lingered on his palate, adding a subtle complexity to the experience.
As they shared their meal, the Grey Seer was offered a small cup of something warm and sweet—a tea brewed from local herbs and berries. She took a cautious sip, her eyes widening in surprise. The tea was light and fragrant, with the bright, floral notes of wild chamomile and the subtle, tart undertone of dried cranberries. There was a hint of spruce in the background, a taste that was crisp and almost minty, leaving her mouth feeling refreshed and invigorated.
The Woodsman, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of roasted root vegetable, nodded in appreciation. The vegetable was slightly caramelized, its natural sugars brought out by the heat of the fire. It was sweet and earthy, with a satisfying, slightly crispy texture. He could taste a hint of wild garlic and a touch of salt, the simple seasoning enhancing the vegetable’s natural flavors without overwhelming them.
As they continued to eat, the flavors of the meal mingled and melded, each bite a new discovery. The food was simple but exquisite, a reflection of the land and the people who had crafted it. Every ingredient, every dish, carried a story—a history of survival, of adaptation, of making the most of what the harsh, beautiful land provided.
And as the party savored each mouthful, they felt, for a moment, not just as travelers passing through, but as part of the living, breathing tapestry of this extraordinary land.
“Where do you get your water?” Knight One asked casually, accepting a piece of bread from the vendor.
The woman nodded toward the north. “There’s a stream not far from here, runs down from the mountains. We gather there when the ice isn’t too thick. And when it is, we melt snow or use the hot springs.”
“Hot springs?” Knight Four’s interest was piqued.
The woman nodded, her smile widening. “Yes, about a mile from here, nestled in the hills. The springs are warm all year round, even in the deepest winter. It’s a place of rest and healing. Many come here to trade and bathe when the weather is good.”
The knights exchanged a glance, the information registering as a potential resource and a gathering spot for the locals.
“We might visit, then,” Knight One said, his tone thoughtful. “After we finish here.”
As they continued through the camp, they traded all of their sea salt for a meal, the locals eyeing the salt with keen interest. It was a valuable commodity out here, where preserving food was a constant challenge.
The camp’s atmosphere was warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the harsh wilderness that surrounded it. People greeted them with nods and smiles, their faces open and curious. Knight One and Knight Four noted the ease with which the locals moved through the camp, the sense of community and cooperation that bound them together.
At the center of the camp, a small group of locals had gathered around a healer. The atmosphere was calm and expectant, the air filled with a quiet reverence. The healer, a tall woman with long, silver-streaked hair and eyes as clear as glacial ice, knelt beside a young man who sat on a rough-hewn stool, his face pale and pinched with pain. His hands were bare, the skin a mottled, angry red and white, the telltale signs of severe frostbite marring his fingers.
“Please,” the young man murmured, his voice tight with a mix of fear and hope. “I don’t want to lose them. I need my hands to work.”
The healer gave him a gentle, reassuring smile, her hands hovering just above his. “You’ll be fine,” she said softly. “The damage is recent, and the frost has not claimed you fully. I can help.”
She closed her eyes, her breath steadying, and then, with a soft whisper of words that seemed to hang in the air like the first snowflakes of winter, she summoned the magic. A faint, shimmering glow surrounded her hands, the light delicate and pure, like the soft luminescence of moonlight on fresh snow.
The onlookers held their breath, watching as the magic flowed from the healer’s hands and into the young man’s frostbitten fingers. The glow brightened for a moment, sparkling like tiny, crystalline snowflakes, each one bursting into existence and then fading in a soft, ephemeral shimmer.
The magic seeped into his skin, the light spreading across his fingers, melting the frost’s cruel grip. Slowly, color returned to his hands, the pallid white and purple hues fading as healthy, rosy warmth bloomed in their place. The young man gasped softly, his eyes wide as he watched the transformation, the pain and stiffness in his hands dissolving as circulation was restored.
The crowd murmured softly, their faces filled with awe and relief. The healer’s hands moved gently over his, her touch light but sure, guiding the magic with a skill that spoke of years of practice and deep, intuitive understanding. The frostbitten skin, once blistered and raw, smoothed and healed, the dead tissue revitalized before their eyes.
She said quietly, her voice carrying a note of calm satisfaction. “It’s done.”
The young man flexed his fingers tentatively, a look of wonder and disbelief spreading across his face. “It doesn’t hurt anymore,” he whispered, his eyes glistening with tears. “It’s… it’s like it never happened.”
The healer smiled, a soft, compassionate expression that lit her features. “The frost is a cruel teacher, but you’ve learned your lesson. Be more careful in the future, and your hands will continue to serve you well.”
He nodded fervently, gratitude shining in his eyes. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
The healer nodded, rising gracefully to her feet. As she did, she glanced up and met the eyes of Knight One, who had been watching from a respectful distance. Their gazes locked for a moment, an unspoken understanding passing between them.
Knight One gave her a slight nod, a gesture of respect and acknowledgment. The healer returned it with a small, serene smile, then turned back to the crowd, her hands reaching out to the next person in need.
The Grey Seer, who had moved closer to watch the healing, turned to Knight One, her eyes wide with admiration. “That was incredible. The way she just… restored him.”
Knight One nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Their magic reflects the world they live in.”
The Seer’s gaze lingered on the healer, who was now tending to an older woman with frostbitten toes. She asked softly, almost to herself. “Or at least, let me watch and learn?”
Knight One glanced at her, a small smile touching his lips. “If you don’t ask, the answer is always no.”
The Seer’s face lit up with a hopeful smile, and she moved a little closer to the healer, watching with rapt attention as the magic flowed once more, healing and restoring, turning pain into relief, fear into hope.
The Mystic Knights follow, they wanted a closer look themselves.
The Alaskan camp bustled with life, a vibrant patch of civilization nestled amid the vast, rugged wilderness. The midday sun hung low in the sky, casting a soft, diffuse light over the clearing. Smoke curled lazily from small cooking fires, mingling with the crisp scent of pine and the faint, briny tang of the sea. Colorful tents and makeshift shelters dotted the snow-covered ground, their fabric flapping gently in the cool breeze. The air buzzed with the sounds of conversation, laughter, and the rhythmic hammering of tools as locals went about their daily tasks.
The party moved through the camp at a leisurely pace, taking in the sights and sounds around them. The locals, wrapped in thick, fur-lined clothing adorned with beads and intricate stitching, greeted them with curious glances and friendly nods. Children ran past, their laughter bright and clear, chasing each other through the maze of tents and stalls.
Knight One and Knight Two stayed near the edge of the group, their eyes watchful, scanning the camp with quiet intensity. They had the Orb safely hidden in Knight One’s rucksack, its presence a constant, silent weight between them. They hadn’t decided when—or if—they would tell the others. For now, they would focus on the present, on the camp and its vibrant life. As far as anyone knows that beast has it, in its belly, before it took off in this direction.
“Quite the place,” Knight Four murmured, his gaze sweeping over a row of stalls where traders displayed their wares. “I didn’t expect to see this many people out here.”
Knight One nodded, his eyes lingering on a group of locals haggling over bundles of dried fish and herbs. “It’s a hub for trade, even out here. And not just goods—information, too.”
They made their way to the central square, where a large communal fire crackled cheerfully, its warmth drawing people close. Around the fire, various vendors had set up simple stands, offering an array of food and crafts. The rich aroma of roasting meat and freshly baked bread filled the air, mingling with the sweet scent of spiced berries and the earthy fragrance of smoked fish.
The Grey Seer and the Woodsman stood near one of the stalls, the Seer’s face lit with excitement as she examined a selection of intricately carved wooden charms. The Woodsman, his eyes sharp and assessing, watched the exchange with a faint smile, his posture relaxed.
“Look at these!” the Seer called, her voice filled with delight. She held up a small, carved bear, its surface polished smooth. “Aren’t they beautiful? The detail is incredible.”
Knight One smiled, his eyes softening. “They are. The craftsmanship here is remarkable.”
The vendor, an older woman with a kind face and hands worn from years of work, nodded proudly. “Each one is made by hand, from wood gathered near the river. Every piece tells a story, a part of our history.”
The Seer’s eyes widened with interest. “I’d love to hear more about them.”
The woman’s smile deepened. “Perhaps later, over some tea. For now, feel free to look around. There’s much to see here.”
As they moved away from the stall, the Woodsman leaned closer to Knight One, his voice low. “These people are resourceful. They’ve made a life out here, against all odds.”
Knight One nodded. “It’s impressive. But we need to keep our focus. We’re here to trade and gather information.”
“Right,” the Woodsman agreed, though his eyes lingered on the Seer as she moved to another stall, her interest piqued by a display of bright, woven blankets.
The camp was alive with activity, voices mingling with the crackle of fires and the occasional burst of laughter. The Mystic Knights wandered through the bustling market area, absorbing the sights and sounds around them. Nearby, the Grey Seer and the Woodsman examined a row of beautifully woven blankets, their vibrant colors standing out against the muted tones of the snowy landscape. People moved with purpose and ease, their voices rising in friendly conversation, the scent of cooking fires and fresh bread mingling with the crisp, clean air.
The camp was a kaleidoscope of colors and textures, the vibrant hues of dyed fabrics and painted carvings standing out against the snowy backdrop. A group of young women worked near a large tent, their hands deftly weaving strands of dried grass and sinew into sturdy baskets. Nearby, an elder sat on a low stool, his fingers skillfully shaping a piece of bone into a delicate knife handle.
The party drifted toward a food stall where a woman was cooking something over a small grill, the scent of sizzling meat and herbs filling the air. She smiled as they approached, her eyes crinkling with warmth.
“Hungry travelers, I see,” she said, her voice rich and friendly. “I have smoked venison, fresh bread, and berry stew. The stew’s a favorite around here, especially with this cold.”
Knight Two’s stomach rumbled, and he grinned sheepishly.
As the woman ladled the steaming stew into a bowl, Knight One glanced around, his eyes noting the careful organization of the camp. Water barrels stood at the edge of each cluster of tents, covered with heavy lids to keep them from freezing. The locals moved with purpose, each person contributing to the camp’s rhythm, their roles clearly defined.
The scent of the camp's offerings was intoxicating, blending the rich, earthy aromas of smoke, herbs, and roasting meat. As Knight Two took his first spoonful of the berry stew, he felt a warm, comforting sensation spread through his body, warding off the chill of the Alaskan air. The stew was thick and hearty, the base made from a blend of wild berries that burst with a tart sweetness on his tongue. Each bite carried the complex flavor of the forest—the berries' sharp tang was balanced by the earthy richness of root vegetables and tender chunks of venison that practically melted in his mouth.
The venison itself was expertly smoked, its deep, savory taste tinged with a subtle smokiness that hinted at cedar and pine. The meat was lean yet succulent, with a texture that was both firm and yielding. As he chewed, the flavor seemed to deepen, releasing notes of juniper and a faint, spicy warmth that lingered on the palate.
The bread he dipped into the stew was dense and slightly chewy, with a rustic, nutty flavor that complemented the stew’s richness perfectly. It was freshly baked, still warm from the fire, and as he bit into it, he could taste the faint sweetness of honey mixed with the hearty taste of whole grains and wild seeds. The crust was crisp and browned, giving way to a soft, warm interior that soaked up the savory broth with each bite.
Knight One sampled a piece of smoked fish, its flesh flaking easily under his fingers. The first taste was a rush of umami, the delicate, salty flavor of the sea mingling with the earthy, smoky undertones from the traditional smoking process. The fish was tender yet firm, its natural oils giving it a luxurious mouthfeel that spread the rich, briny flavors across his tongue. Hints of alderwood smoke lingered on his palate, adding a subtle complexity to the experience.
As they shared their meal, the Grey Seer was offered a small cup of something warm and sweet—a tea brewed from local herbs and berries. She took a cautious sip, her eyes widening in surprise. The tea was light and fragrant, with the bright, floral notes of wild chamomile and the subtle, tart undertone of dried cranberries. There was a hint of spruce in the background, a taste that was crisp and almost minty, leaving her mouth feeling refreshed and invigorated.
The Woodsman, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of roasted root vegetable, nodded in appreciation. The vegetable was slightly caramelized, its natural sugars brought out by the heat of the fire. It was sweet and earthy, with a satisfying, slightly crispy texture. He could taste a hint of wild garlic and a touch of salt, the simple seasoning enhancing the vegetable’s natural flavors without overwhelming them.
As they continued to eat, the flavors of the meal mingled and melded, each bite a new discovery. The food was simple but exquisite, a reflection of the land and the people who had crafted it. Every ingredient, every dish, carried a story—a history of survival, of adaptation, of making the most of what the harsh, beautiful land provided.
And as the party savored each mouthful, they felt, for a moment, not just as travelers passing through, but as part of the living, breathing tapestry of this extraordinary land.
“Where do you get your water?” Knight One asked casually, accepting a piece of bread from the vendor.
The woman nodded toward the north. “There’s a stream not far from here, runs down from the mountains. We gather there when the ice isn’t too thick. And when it is, we melt snow or use the hot springs.”
“Hot springs?” Knight Four’s interest was piqued.
The woman nodded, her smile widening. “Yes, about a mile from here, nestled in the hills. The springs are warm all year round, even in the deepest winter. It’s a place of rest and healing. Many come here to trade and bathe when the weather is good.”
The knights exchanged a glance, the information registering as a potential resource and a gathering spot for the locals.
“We might visit, then,” Knight One said, his tone thoughtful. “After we finish here.”
As they continued through the camp, they traded all of their sea salt for a meal, the locals eyeing the salt with keen interest. It was a valuable commodity out here, where preserving food was a constant challenge.
The camp’s atmosphere was warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the harsh wilderness that surrounded it. People greeted them with nods and smiles, their faces open and curious. Knight One and Knight Four noted the ease with which the locals moved through the camp, the sense of community and cooperation that bound them together.
At the center of the camp, a small group of locals had gathered around a healer. The atmosphere was calm and expectant, the air filled with a quiet reverence. The healer, a tall woman with long, silver-streaked hair and eyes as clear as glacial ice, knelt beside a young man who sat on a rough-hewn stool, his face pale and pinched with pain. His hands were bare, the skin a mottled, angry red and white, the telltale signs of severe frostbite marring his fingers.
“Please,” the young man murmured, his voice tight with a mix of fear and hope. “I don’t want to lose them. I need my hands to work.”
The healer gave him a gentle, reassuring smile, her hands hovering just above his. “You’ll be fine,” she said softly. “The damage is recent, and the frost has not claimed you fully. I can help.”
She closed her eyes, her breath steadying, and then, with a soft whisper of words that seemed to hang in the air like the first snowflakes of winter, she summoned the magic. A faint, shimmering glow surrounded her hands, the light delicate and pure, like the soft luminescence of moonlight on fresh snow.
The onlookers held their breath, watching as the magic flowed from the healer’s hands and into the young man’s frostbitten fingers. The glow brightened for a moment, sparkling like tiny, crystalline snowflakes, each one bursting into existence and then fading in a soft, ephemeral shimmer.
The magic seeped into his skin, the light spreading across his fingers, melting the frost’s cruel grip. Slowly, color returned to his hands, the pallid white and purple hues fading as healthy, rosy warmth bloomed in their place. The young man gasped softly, his eyes wide as he watched the transformation, the pain and stiffness in his hands dissolving as circulation was restored.
The crowd murmured softly, their faces filled with awe and relief. The healer’s hands moved gently over his, her touch light but sure, guiding the magic with a skill that spoke of years of practice and deep, intuitive understanding. The frostbitten skin, once blistered and raw, smoothed and healed, the dead tissue revitalized before their eyes.
She said quietly, her voice carrying a note of calm satisfaction. “It’s done.”
The young man flexed his fingers tentatively, a look of wonder and disbelief spreading across his face. “It doesn’t hurt anymore,” he whispered, his eyes glistening with tears. “It’s… it’s like it never happened.”
The healer smiled, a soft, compassionate expression that lit her features. “The frost is a cruel teacher, but you’ve learned your lesson. Be more careful in the future, and your hands will continue to serve you well.”
He nodded fervently, gratitude shining in his eyes. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”
The healer nodded, rising gracefully to her feet. As she did, she glanced up and met the eyes of Knight One, who had been watching from a respectful distance. Their gazes locked for a moment, an unspoken understanding passing between them.
Knight One gave her a slight nod, a gesture of respect and acknowledgment. The healer returned it with a small, serene smile, then turned back to the crowd, her hands reaching out to the next person in need.
The Grey Seer, who had moved closer to watch the healing, turned to Knight One, her eyes wide with admiration. “That was incredible. The way she just… restored him.”
Knight One nodded, his expression thoughtful. “Their magic reflects the world they live in.”
The Seer’s gaze lingered on the healer, who was now tending to an older woman with frostbitten toes. She asked softly, almost to herself. “Or at least, let me watch and learn?”
Knight One glanced at her, a small smile touching his lips. “If you don’t ask, the answer is always no.”
The Seer’s face lit up with a hopeful smile, and she moved a little closer to the healer, watching with rapt attention as the magic flowed once more, healing and restoring, turning pain into relief, fear into hope.
The Mystic Knights follow, they wanted a closer look themselves.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: The Camp
The healer, still surrounded by those seeking her aid, stood in the center of a small clearing near the edge of the camp. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a pale, golden light over the snow-covered ground, but the chill of the approaching afternoon was unmistakable.
A young family approached her, their faces drawn and tired. The father, his shoulders stooped and his clothes worn, carried a small child wrapped in furs. The mother, her cheeks reddened by the cold, glanced nervously at the healer, her eyes pleading.
“He’s been sick,” the mother explained, her voice thin and strained. “We’ve tried to keep him warm, but our tent… it doesn’t hold the heat, and we’re worried the cold will make him worse.”
The healer’s eyes softened with understanding. She looked at the child, who lay quietly in his father’s arms, his face pale, his breath shallow. She placed a gentle hand on the boy’s forehead, her touch light and soothing.
“He needs more than just warmth,” she said softly, her voice calm and steady. “But for now, we can give him a safe place to rest and heal.”
She stepped back, her hands raising to shoulder height, her fingers moving in a slow, deliberate pattern. The air around her seemed to still, the faint sounds of the camp fading as she began to speak, her words flowing like a quiet chant. A soft, silvery glow formed around her hands, the light growing brighter with each syllable, shimmering like ice crystals caught in the sunlight.
“Ignaara veldari sorn alai,” she murmured, her voice carrying the cadence of the spell through the clearing.
The snow at her feet began to shift, gathering in a gentle, swirling motion as if stirred by an unseen wind. The light from her hands spread out, infusing the snow with a faint, ethereal glow. Slowly, the snow began to rise and pack itself into shape, the flakes adhering to one another in a seamless, flowing pattern. The onlookers watched in awe as the snow formed into a perfect dome, five feet tall and nearly three times as wide, its surface smooth and solid.
The structure glistened in the sunlight, the light from the spell fading as the igloo took its final shape. It was not just an ordinary shelter of snow; it was infused with magic, the walls compacted and hardened to a strength beyond that of any natural snowdrift. The air around it seemed warmer, a faint, inviting heat radiating from within.
The healer gestured toward the igloo, a gentle smile on her lips. “This will keep baby warm, protect them from the wind and cold.”
The father hesitated, then stepped forward, peering into the entrance of the igloo. The interior glowed softly, the light within reflecting off the walls and creating a warm, welcoming space. The air was noticeably warmer, a gentle, steady heat that filled the small shelter.
He turned back to the healer, his eyes filled with gratitude. “Thank you. I… I don’t know how to repay you.”
The healer shook her head gently. “There is no need. Just take care of your family.”
Carefully, the father carried the child inside, the mother following close behind. The igloo seemed to embrace them as they entered, the warmth enveloping them as they settled inside. The boy stirred slightly, his eyes fluttering open as the heat seeped into his body, a faint color returning to his cheeks.
Outside, the crowd murmured softly, their faces filled with wonder and admiration. The healer’s magic was not just powerful—it was compassionate, a force for healing and protection in a world that often seemed harsh and unforgiving.
Knight One and Knight Two stood at a distance, watching the scene unfold.
He said quietly, his voice filled with respect. “It’s like our Sheltering Force Tents.”
Knight Two nodded, his eyes still on the healer.
They took a closer look at her, tall and proud, her features strikingly handsome, her movements graceful and purposeful. She wore thick furs. Tattoos, etched in vibrant, swirling patterns, peeked out from beneath her collar and sleeve, markings that Knight One recognized immediately.
The healer turned back to the crowd, her presence calm and serene. “This shelter will last for the night,” she said, her voice carrying gently over the clearing. “It will protect against the wind and cold, and if any of you need shelter, you’re welcome to use it. Our strength lies in how we care for one another.”
The people nodded, their faces softened with gratitude and respect. Slowly, they began to disperse, murmuring words of thanks as they returned to their own tasks and lives.
The Grey Seer, who had been watching from the edge of the clearing, stepped forward, her eyes bright with admiration. “That was beautiful,” she said softly to the healer.
The healer smiled, her eyes crinkling with warmth. “Magic is a gift meant to be shared. It’s not just about power; it’s about using that power to make the world a better place, even if only in small ways.”
“Atlanteans,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. “Born and raised here, I’d wager. Look at their gear—blends of traditional design and local adaptation. And those tattoos… they might just decorative.”
Knight Four nodded, his eyes focused on the Atlanteans. “They’ve integrated well. But do they know where they come from? Their true heritage?”
Knight One’s gaze sharpened. “Let’s find out.”
He stepped forward, his posture open and non-threatening, his hands visible at his sides.
Knight One spoke in the ancient Greek, Atlantean words felt strange on his tongue, but he spoke them clearly: “We are travelers seeking peace, sister.”
She looked a little confused then looked around exchanging glances with other, surprise flickering across their faces. A tall woman with dark hair braided back and piercing blue eyes, stepped forward, her gaze assessing.
Shee spoke, her voice calm but wary. “You are?”
Knight One smiled, inclining his head. “We are not Atlanteans, but we know of your people and your ways.” He switched to his spell of Tonuges, his tone respectful. “We honor your heritage, and we are curious about how it has endured here, in this harsh land.”
She studied him for a moment, then nodded, her tension easing slightly. “We were born here, raised in these lands. Our ancestors spoke as you did a time long ago, of the way when, when our people were as gods. IF that was ever true, it was a long time LONG ago. We know who we are here. Not gods. We are of this place. The land shapes us as much as our blood does.”
Knight Four stepped forward, his eyes bright with interest. “So you have abandoned your traditions?”
The old lady, “For us there is no other place than here. Those who have pushed past and see what ley beyond the edges did not return.”
Knight Four, who had been silent, spoke up, his voice cautious. “And your tattoos… ”
Her gaze hardened slightly. “Why are you here? What do you seek in our lands?”
The Atlanteans exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable. Then, a woman with long, silver hair and intricate tattoos winding down her arms stepped forward. "If we speak of this again. It will be another time."
---
The camp was settling into the quiet rhythms of late afternoon, the sun casting long shadows across the snow-covered ground. Knight One stood at the edge of the clearing, a collection of plant materials—leaves, vines, strips of bark, and flower petals—spread out before him. The Grey Seer and Knight Four watched curiously from a short distance, their eyes fixed on Knight One’s hands as he prepared to cast his spell.
Knight One took a deep breath, his fingers hovering over the gathered materials. He could feel the latent energy within each piece of plant matter, the potential waiting to be unlocked. He closed his eyes, centering himself, then began to speak the words of the spell, his voice low and steady, resonating with the magic that lay just beneath the surface.
As he chanted, the air around him shimmered, a soft, ethereal light forming around his hands. The leaves and vines, bark and petals, began to lift from the ground, swirling gently in the air like autumn leaves caught in an invisible breeze. The magic wove through the materials, binding them together, transforming them into something entirely new.
The spell’s energy spread outward, encompassing a larger area as Knight One focused, his hands guiding the materials into place. The leaves and vines twisted and interwove, merging seamlessly with the bark strips and petals, their colors blending into a stunning tapestry of green, brown, and bright floral hues. The fabric took shape, expanding and stretching, each piece joining the next with a smooth, effortless grace.
Slowly, a vast sheet of material began to form. The sheer size of it was breathtaking—a massive, shimmering expanse of magical fabric that seemed to ripple and flow like water under the gentle touch of the wind. The material was like nothing created by mundane means, a fusion of natural elements and arcane power that was both resilient and flexible, waterproof and lightweight.
The colors were vibrant and earthy, the greens and browns of the leaves and bark interspersed with the bright yellows, reds, and oranges of flower petals and grains. The entire sheet of fabric glowed softly in the fading light, the hues shifting subtly as it caught the last rays of the sun.
The onlookers murmured in awe, their eyes wide as they took in the sight. Even the locals, who were accustomed to the wonders of magic, stared in astonishment at the vast, beautiful sheet of fabric that now lay before them.
Knight One moved his hands in a sweeping motion, the fabric lifting gently into the air. He guided it with practiced ease, folding and shaping the material as if it were no more than a piece of parchment in his hands. The fabric responded to his will, bending and curling, forming large, simple shapes—a series of cloaks, each one large enough to envelop an adult; long, rectangular sheets suitable for making tents or blankets; and several thick ropes, the fibers twisted and strengthened by the magic that had formed them.
The process took time, but Knight One’s movements were steady and sure, his concentration unbroken. As he worked, the onlookers moved closer, watching as the fabric transformed under his guidance. The Grey Seer’s eyes were wide with wonder, her hands clasped together as she watched the shapes take form.
When at last he finished, Knight One stepped back, his face flushed but calm. Before him lay a collection of finished items: a series of cloaks in varying sizes, several large sheets of fabric that could be used as blankets or tents, and thick, sturdy ropes coiled neatly on the ground. The colors were rich and vibrant, the textures smooth and soft to the touch.
He lifted one of the cloaks, holding it up for the others to see. It was a deep, earthy green, the color shifting subtly as the light caught it. The fabric was supple yet strong, the weave tight and even. It was clear that, despite the spell’s simplicity, Knight One had poured a great deal of care and skill into its creation.
“This will keep you warm,” he said quietly, offering the cloak to a nearby woman who had been watching with her children. “It’s lightweight, waterproof, and strong enough to withstand the elements.”
The woman hesitated, her eyes wide with disbelief. “This… this is for us?”
Knight One nodded, his smile warm. “Yes. It’s a gift. You can use the rest to make tents, or whatever else you need. The ropes are strong, too—good for securing things or climbing.”
Tears sprang to the woman’s eyes as she took the cloak, her hands trembling slightly. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice choked with emotion.
The children crowded around, their faces alight with excitement as they reached out to touch the fabric, their fingers tracing the smooth, vibrant surface. The other onlookers murmured in awe, their eyes filled with gratitude and admiration.
Knight One turned to the Grey Seer, who was watching with a look of deep admiration. “It’s not much,” he said, his voice quiet.
The Grey Seer smiled, her eyes shining. “It’s more than that. You’ve given them something beautiful, something made with care and skill. It’s a gift of warmth and comfort—and in a place like this, that’s priceless.”
Knight Four stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over the fabric and the cloaks. “You’ve outdone yourself.”
Knight One shrugged, though his smile was pleased. “We all do what we can.”
As the camp settled into the evening, the new fabric and cloaks were distributed among the people, the vibrant, resilient material bringing warmth and protection to those who needed it most. The massive sheet of fabric, now divided into useful items, had transformed from a simple gathering of leaves and vines into something truly extraordinary—a testament to the power of magic and the skill of the one who wielded it.
And as the last light of day faded into the cool blue of twilight, the camp was filled with the quiet, joyful buzz of people admiring their new cloaks and blankets, their spirits lifted by the unexpected gift. It was a moment of connection and kindness, a small but powerful act of generosity that brought a touch of brightness to the harsh, beautiful land of Alaska.
The healer, still surrounded by those seeking her aid, stood in the center of a small clearing near the edge of the camp. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a pale, golden light over the snow-covered ground, but the chill of the approaching afternoon was unmistakable.
A young family approached her, their faces drawn and tired. The father, his shoulders stooped and his clothes worn, carried a small child wrapped in furs. The mother, her cheeks reddened by the cold, glanced nervously at the healer, her eyes pleading.
“He’s been sick,” the mother explained, her voice thin and strained. “We’ve tried to keep him warm, but our tent… it doesn’t hold the heat, and we’re worried the cold will make him worse.”
The healer’s eyes softened with understanding. She looked at the child, who lay quietly in his father’s arms, his face pale, his breath shallow. She placed a gentle hand on the boy’s forehead, her touch light and soothing.
“He needs more than just warmth,” she said softly, her voice calm and steady. “But for now, we can give him a safe place to rest and heal.”
She stepped back, her hands raising to shoulder height, her fingers moving in a slow, deliberate pattern. The air around her seemed to still, the faint sounds of the camp fading as she began to speak, her words flowing like a quiet chant. A soft, silvery glow formed around her hands, the light growing brighter with each syllable, shimmering like ice crystals caught in the sunlight.
“Ignaara veldari sorn alai,” she murmured, her voice carrying the cadence of the spell through the clearing.
The snow at her feet began to shift, gathering in a gentle, swirling motion as if stirred by an unseen wind. The light from her hands spread out, infusing the snow with a faint, ethereal glow. Slowly, the snow began to rise and pack itself into shape, the flakes adhering to one another in a seamless, flowing pattern. The onlookers watched in awe as the snow formed into a perfect dome, five feet tall and nearly three times as wide, its surface smooth and solid.
The structure glistened in the sunlight, the light from the spell fading as the igloo took its final shape. It was not just an ordinary shelter of snow; it was infused with magic, the walls compacted and hardened to a strength beyond that of any natural snowdrift. The air around it seemed warmer, a faint, inviting heat radiating from within.
The healer gestured toward the igloo, a gentle smile on her lips. “This will keep baby warm, protect them from the wind and cold.”
The father hesitated, then stepped forward, peering into the entrance of the igloo. The interior glowed softly, the light within reflecting off the walls and creating a warm, welcoming space. The air was noticeably warmer, a gentle, steady heat that filled the small shelter.
He turned back to the healer, his eyes filled with gratitude. “Thank you. I… I don’t know how to repay you.”
The healer shook her head gently. “There is no need. Just take care of your family.”
Carefully, the father carried the child inside, the mother following close behind. The igloo seemed to embrace them as they entered, the warmth enveloping them as they settled inside. The boy stirred slightly, his eyes fluttering open as the heat seeped into his body, a faint color returning to his cheeks.
Outside, the crowd murmured softly, their faces filled with wonder and admiration. The healer’s magic was not just powerful—it was compassionate, a force for healing and protection in a world that often seemed harsh and unforgiving.
Knight One and Knight Two stood at a distance, watching the scene unfold.
He said quietly, his voice filled with respect. “It’s like our Sheltering Force Tents.”
Knight Two nodded, his eyes still on the healer.
They took a closer look at her, tall and proud, her features strikingly handsome, her movements graceful and purposeful. She wore thick furs. Tattoos, etched in vibrant, swirling patterns, peeked out from beneath her collar and sleeve, markings that Knight One recognized immediately.
The healer turned back to the crowd, her presence calm and serene. “This shelter will last for the night,” she said, her voice carrying gently over the clearing. “It will protect against the wind and cold, and if any of you need shelter, you’re welcome to use it. Our strength lies in how we care for one another.”
The people nodded, their faces softened with gratitude and respect. Slowly, they began to disperse, murmuring words of thanks as they returned to their own tasks and lives.
The Grey Seer, who had been watching from the edge of the clearing, stepped forward, her eyes bright with admiration. “That was beautiful,” she said softly to the healer.
The healer smiled, her eyes crinkling with warmth. “Magic is a gift meant to be shared. It’s not just about power; it’s about using that power to make the world a better place, even if only in small ways.”
“Atlanteans,” he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. “Born and raised here, I’d wager. Look at their gear—blends of traditional design and local adaptation. And those tattoos… they might just decorative.”
Knight Four nodded, his eyes focused on the Atlanteans. “They’ve integrated well. But do they know where they come from? Their true heritage?”
Knight One’s gaze sharpened. “Let’s find out.”
He stepped forward, his posture open and non-threatening, his hands visible at his sides.
Knight One spoke in the ancient Greek, Atlantean words felt strange on his tongue, but he spoke them clearly: “We are travelers seeking peace, sister.”
She looked a little confused then looked around exchanging glances with other, surprise flickering across their faces. A tall woman with dark hair braided back and piercing blue eyes, stepped forward, her gaze assessing.
Shee spoke, her voice calm but wary. “You are?”
Knight One smiled, inclining his head. “We are not Atlanteans, but we know of your people and your ways.” He switched to his spell of Tonuges, his tone respectful. “We honor your heritage, and we are curious about how it has endured here, in this harsh land.”
She studied him for a moment, then nodded, her tension easing slightly. “We were born here, raised in these lands. Our ancestors spoke as you did a time long ago, of the way when, when our people were as gods. IF that was ever true, it was a long time LONG ago. We know who we are here. Not gods. We are of this place. The land shapes us as much as our blood does.”
Knight Four stepped forward, his eyes bright with interest. “So you have abandoned your traditions?”
The old lady, “For us there is no other place than here. Those who have pushed past and see what ley beyond the edges did not return.”
Knight Four, who had been silent, spoke up, his voice cautious. “And your tattoos… ”
Her gaze hardened slightly. “Why are you here? What do you seek in our lands?”
The Atlanteans exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable. Then, a woman with long, silver hair and intricate tattoos winding down her arms stepped forward. "If we speak of this again. It will be another time."
---
The camp was settling into the quiet rhythms of late afternoon, the sun casting long shadows across the snow-covered ground. Knight One stood at the edge of the clearing, a collection of plant materials—leaves, vines, strips of bark, and flower petals—spread out before him. The Grey Seer and Knight Four watched curiously from a short distance, their eyes fixed on Knight One’s hands as he prepared to cast his spell.
Knight One took a deep breath, his fingers hovering over the gathered materials. He could feel the latent energy within each piece of plant matter, the potential waiting to be unlocked. He closed his eyes, centering himself, then began to speak the words of the spell, his voice low and steady, resonating with the magic that lay just beneath the surface.
As he chanted, the air around him shimmered, a soft, ethereal light forming around his hands. The leaves and vines, bark and petals, began to lift from the ground, swirling gently in the air like autumn leaves caught in an invisible breeze. The magic wove through the materials, binding them together, transforming them into something entirely new.
The spell’s energy spread outward, encompassing a larger area as Knight One focused, his hands guiding the materials into place. The leaves and vines twisted and interwove, merging seamlessly with the bark strips and petals, their colors blending into a stunning tapestry of green, brown, and bright floral hues. The fabric took shape, expanding and stretching, each piece joining the next with a smooth, effortless grace.
Slowly, a vast sheet of material began to form. The sheer size of it was breathtaking—a massive, shimmering expanse of magical fabric that seemed to ripple and flow like water under the gentle touch of the wind. The material was like nothing created by mundane means, a fusion of natural elements and arcane power that was both resilient and flexible, waterproof and lightweight.
The colors were vibrant and earthy, the greens and browns of the leaves and bark interspersed with the bright yellows, reds, and oranges of flower petals and grains. The entire sheet of fabric glowed softly in the fading light, the hues shifting subtly as it caught the last rays of the sun.
The onlookers murmured in awe, their eyes wide as they took in the sight. Even the locals, who were accustomed to the wonders of magic, stared in astonishment at the vast, beautiful sheet of fabric that now lay before them.
Knight One moved his hands in a sweeping motion, the fabric lifting gently into the air. He guided it with practiced ease, folding and shaping the material as if it were no more than a piece of parchment in his hands. The fabric responded to his will, bending and curling, forming large, simple shapes—a series of cloaks, each one large enough to envelop an adult; long, rectangular sheets suitable for making tents or blankets; and several thick ropes, the fibers twisted and strengthened by the magic that had formed them.
The process took time, but Knight One’s movements were steady and sure, his concentration unbroken. As he worked, the onlookers moved closer, watching as the fabric transformed under his guidance. The Grey Seer’s eyes were wide with wonder, her hands clasped together as she watched the shapes take form.
When at last he finished, Knight One stepped back, his face flushed but calm. Before him lay a collection of finished items: a series of cloaks in varying sizes, several large sheets of fabric that could be used as blankets or tents, and thick, sturdy ropes coiled neatly on the ground. The colors were rich and vibrant, the textures smooth and soft to the touch.
He lifted one of the cloaks, holding it up for the others to see. It was a deep, earthy green, the color shifting subtly as the light caught it. The fabric was supple yet strong, the weave tight and even. It was clear that, despite the spell’s simplicity, Knight One had poured a great deal of care and skill into its creation.
“This will keep you warm,” he said quietly, offering the cloak to a nearby woman who had been watching with her children. “It’s lightweight, waterproof, and strong enough to withstand the elements.”
The woman hesitated, her eyes wide with disbelief. “This… this is for us?”
Knight One nodded, his smile warm. “Yes. It’s a gift. You can use the rest to make tents, or whatever else you need. The ropes are strong, too—good for securing things or climbing.”
Tears sprang to the woman’s eyes as she took the cloak, her hands trembling slightly. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice choked with emotion.
The children crowded around, their faces alight with excitement as they reached out to touch the fabric, their fingers tracing the smooth, vibrant surface. The other onlookers murmured in awe, their eyes filled with gratitude and admiration.
Knight One turned to the Grey Seer, who was watching with a look of deep admiration. “It’s not much,” he said, his voice quiet.
The Grey Seer smiled, her eyes shining. “It’s more than that. You’ve given them something beautiful, something made with care and skill. It’s a gift of warmth and comfort—and in a place like this, that’s priceless.”
Knight Four stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over the fabric and the cloaks. “You’ve outdone yourself.”
Knight One shrugged, though his smile was pleased. “We all do what we can.”
As the camp settled into the evening, the new fabric and cloaks were distributed among the people, the vibrant, resilient material bringing warmth and protection to those who needed it most. The massive sheet of fabric, now divided into useful items, had transformed from a simple gathering of leaves and vines into something truly extraordinary—a testament to the power of magic and the skill of the one who wielded it.
And as the last light of day faded into the cool blue of twilight, the camp was filled with the quiet, joyful buzz of people admiring their new cloaks and blankets, their spirits lifted by the unexpected gift. It was a moment of connection and kindness, a small but powerful act of generosity that brought a touch of brightness to the harsh, beautiful land of Alaska.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Alaska Wilderness, Near a Hidden Hot Springs
Having exhausted their personal energy casting spells The Mystic Knights wind down and prepare to settle in their Sheltering Force Tent.
---
That night.
The camp, which had been lively and filled with the sounds of conversation and laughter, fell into a tense silence as the roar of engines echoed through the forest. The ground vibrated as a gang of cybernetic bikers rolled in, their motorcycles growling like feral beasts, exhaust pipes belching smoke and flame. There were 36 of them, their chrome-plated bodies gleaming menacingly in the fading light. They rode in tight formation, the harsh, metallic clank of their gear blending with the deep rumble of engines.
The leader, a hulking figure with a cybernetic arm and glowing red eyes, pulled to a stop at the center of the camp. His bike, a massive machine bristling with spikes and weapons, idled with a low, menacing growl. He dismounted, his boots crunching on the snow-covered ground as he surveyed the gathered locals with a cold, appraising gaze.
“Listen up!” he barked, his voice amplified by the metallic speaker embedded in his throat. “We’re here on business. Captain’s looking for a few more good men to join his crew. We’re only taking the strong, so step forward if you don’t want things to get ugly.”
The camp was deathly quiet, the locals frozen in fear. Families huddled together, mothers pulling their children close, men shifting uneasily as the gang members, bristling with cybernetic enhancements and weapons, spread out, their eyes scanning the crowd.
The Mystic Knights and the Grey Seer stood near the edge of the camp, their faces grim. They had seen enough press gangs in their time to know what was coming. The gang was looking for able-bodied men to force into labor, and the people here were in no position to resist.
The Mystic Knights exchanged a series of quick glances, their minds racing. They are strong, even without their magic reserves, but they knew the camp was full of civilians—children, elders, people who couldn’t defend themselves. A fight would almost certainly lead to casualties; for the civilians. They were surrounded.
Knight One’s jaw tightened, his eyes flicking to the Grey Seer and the Woodsman. They were watching him, their expressions anxious but resolute. He stepped forward, his shoulders squared, his voice calm but carrying a firm undertone.
“We’re the ones you’re looking for,” he said, his tone steady. “We’re the strongest men here. Take us, and leave the others alone.”
The gang leader turned his glowing gaze toward them, his lips twisting into a cruel smile. “Well, well, well. Look at this, boys! Looks like we’ve got some volunteers.” His cybernetic arm whirred as he gestured to the other bikers. “Cuff ’em and get them in the truck.”
Knight Four took a step forward, his posture rigid, his voice calm. “We’ll go willingly. Just leave these people in peace.”
The bikers moved in, heavy boots crunching on the snow as they approached the Mystic Knights. The civilians watched in fearful silence, their faces pale, their eyes wide with horror and helplessness.
The Grey Seer reached out, her hand trembling as she caught Knight One’s arm. “No, you can’t—”
He turned to her, his gaze softening, though his voice was firm. “We don’t have a choice. If we fight here, people will die.”
She shook her head, tears filling her eyes. “But—what if you—”
“We’ll be fine,” Knight Four said quietly, his tone reassuring. He glanced at the bikers, who were now a few steps away, then back at her. “We just need time to rest. We’ll get out of this. But for now...”
He looked at the Woodsman, who was watching with a guarded expression. “Keep them safe,” Knight Four said, his voice low but carrying a weight of trust and expectation. “We’ll be back.”
The Woodsman nodded, his face set with determination. “I’ll take care of them. You just focus on getting through this.”
The Grey Seer’s grip tightened on Knight Four’s arm, her eyes desperate. “You have to come back. Promise me.”
Knight One reached up, gently prying her fingers from his arm. “We will. I promise.” He glanced at Knight Two, who gave a slight nod, then back at her. “We’re trusting you, to keep our stuff safe.”
The bikers reached them then, heavy, metallic hands clamping down on their wrists, pulling their arms behind their backs. The gang leader sneered, his eyes gleaming with a sadistic light.
“Look at these fools,” he mocked. “Sacrificing themselves for the weak. How touching.” He leaned closer to Knight One, his voice a low growl. “We’ll see how brave you are once you’re on the ship.”
Knight One met his gaze unflinchingly. “We’ll go with you.”
The leader’s smile widened, his teeth sharp and metallic. “We’ll see.”
The Mystic Knights were led to a large, reinforced truck parked near the entrance of the camp. The back was already crowded with men, their faces grim and resigned. The bikers shoved them inside, slamming the doors shut behind them.
Knight One and the others found places to sit on the hard metal floor, the cold seeping through their clothes. The truck rumbled to life, the engine growling as it began to move, carrying them away from the camp, away from the people they had sworn to protect.
Knight Two leaned back against the wall, his eyes closed. "Kill?"
Knight One shook his head.
Knight Four (telepathically). “What’s the plan?”
“We rest,” Knight One said, his tone firm. “We get our energy back. And then, when we’re ready, we take them down. No collateral damage.”
The others nodded, their faces set with grim determination.
The truck rattled on, the bikers’ laughter and the roar of engines fading into the distance.
---
The Gamble Sets Sail
The old wooden ship loomed like a specter against the darkening sky, its tattered sails snapping in the cold wind. As the Mystic Knights were herded up the gangplank, their manacled wrists chafing against the cold iron, they could feel the oppressive weight of the situation settling over them like a thick fog. The ship, fittingly named “The Gamble,” creaked and groaned with every wave that slapped against its hull, the sound a harsh reminder of the unforgiving sea that surrounded them.
Knight One glanced back at the shoreline, now a faint, dark line on the horizon, slipping further away with each passing moment. The camp, the Grey Seer, and the Woodsman were now miles behind them, and the cold wind carried with it the scent of salt and the bitter promise of a harsh journey ahead.
They were roughly shoved toward the center of the deck, where other men—similarly bound and equally wary—stood in uneven lines. There were perhaps a dozen of them, their faces gaunt and eyes haunted. Most of them wore the look of people who had been broken long before they ever set foot on this ship. Knight One’s eyes hardened as he glanced at his companions. They might be prisoners for now, but they would not be cowed.
The first officer, a wiry man with a face like weathered leather and a sneer that seemed permanently etched into his features, stood on a raised platform near the mainmast. His eyes swept over the new arrivals with the cold detachment of someone appraising livestock. He held a long whip coiled in his hand, its handle polished from use, and the way he fingered it made it clear he was no stranger to wielding it.
“Welcome aboard,” he began, his voice carrying across the deck with a harsh, clipped cadence. “For those of you too slow or too stupid to understand, let me make it clear: this is your new home. Get used to it.”
He began to pace, his boots thudding heavily on the wooden planks. “You’re here because you’re useful, or at least, we think you might be. But make no mistake—if you become more trouble than you’re worth, we’ll toss you overboard without a second thought.”
He paused, his cold eyes narrowing as he glanced over the captives. “Look around you,” he continued, his voice low and menacing. “This is your life now. You work, you obey, and maybe—just maybe—you’ll get through this alive.”
The officer gestured broadly, his arm sweeping out toward the open sea. “See that water? It’s cold enough to freeze your bones solid. If the ship goes down, you go down with it. And if you’re thinking of jumping overboard, you’d best forget it. You’ll freeze to death before you drown. And if, by some miracle, you don’t freeze, you’ll tire yourself out trying to swim back to shore, and you’ll sink like a stone.”
The men stood in tense silence, their faces pale under the harsh, unyielding scrutiny of the first officer. The Mystic Knights held themselves steady, their expressions impassive, but inside, they were coiled with tension, every word reinforcing the grim reality of their situation.
“This is your life now,” the officer repeated, his voice rising with a cruel edge. “Get used to it, or you’ll suffer the bite of the whip and the kiss of the cold.”
He lifted the whip, uncoiling it with a deliberate, almost theatrical motion. The air cracked as he snapped it against the deck, the sound like a gunshot that made a few of the men flinch.
“You behave, and the chains come off,” he said, his voice now a dangerous purr. “Disobey, and you’ll be wishing for a quick death. So, what’ll it be, lads?”
Silence hung heavy in the air, the only sound the distant crash of waves against the hull and the eerie creaking of the ship as it rode the dark swells. The Mystic Knights exchanged brief, tense glances, their minds racing. They had faced worse situations, but this was different. They were stripped of their weapons, their magic reserves drained, and surrounded by innocents who would suffer if they acted recklessly.
Knight Two stepped forward slightly, just enough to draw the officer’s attention without seeming aggressive. He nodded his head.
Knight Four spoke, “We’ll do what’s asked of us,” he said, his voice calm and steady. “But know this—if you push us too far, there won’t be a ship left to sail.”
The first officer’s eyes flashed with anger, and for a moment, the whip twitched in his hand as if he considered striking. But then he smiled, a thin, mirthless curve of his lips that held no warmth. “You’ve got spirit,” he said softly. “I like that. It’s always interesting to see how long that lasts.”
He gestured to the crewmen standing nearby. “Get him.”
A hook was quickly latched to his chains that pulled him high. Then below, the whip cracked. Knight Four thought he was strong, and was, but he had never known a pain like this before after the salt water wash splashed on his whipped back.
---
Later...
“Into the hold,” the officer commaned. “Let them stew for a while. Tomorrow, they start working.”
Rough hands shoved the Mystic Knights toward a hatch near the center of the deck. They descended a steep ladder into the dim, cramped quarters below, the stench of sweat, salt, and unwashed bodies hitting them like a wall. The hold was barely more than a large, open space, lined with rows of narrow hammocks and crates of supplies. It was dark, the only light coming from small portholes high on the walls.
The Knights were unceremoniously pushed into a corner, their manacles clinking softly in the oppressive silence. As the hatch above them slammed shut, the reality of their situation settled heavily on their shoulders.
Knight One shifted slightly, his eyes scanning their surroundings. “They’re not giving us much room to maneuver,” he muttered. “This place is a death trap if things go wrong.”
Knight Two nodded grimly.
Knight Four leaned back against the cold, rough wall of the hold, his eyes closed as he took a deep breath. He was in pain. “We need to rest. Once we have our strength back, we can make our move.”
Knight One’s gaze flicked to the other captives, huddled together, their faces etched with fear and hopelessness. “We’ll bide our time,” he said quietly. “For now, we play along. But when the moment comes, we will strike.”
The ship rocked gently with the motion of the waves, the creak and groan of the timbers a constant reminder of the vast, freezing ocean that surrounded them. Outside, the first officer’s voice carried through the thin planks, barking orders at the crew. The Mystic Knights settled into their makeshift seats, their minds racing even as they forced their bodies to relax.
They had been in tight spots before, but this was different. They were captives on a ship in the middle of the frigid northern seas, their magic depleted and their options limited. But they were not beaten, not yet.
Then the mid-shipman come down to the hold and had the Knights brought up and pressed to work.
As the hours passed and the ship sailed further into the icy waters. They were forced to stay wake but they would endure it, they would regain their strength, and when the time was right, they would act.
And “The Gamble” would learn that taking the Mystic Knights captive was a mistake it would not survive.
Having exhausted their personal energy casting spells The Mystic Knights wind down and prepare to settle in their Sheltering Force Tent.
---
That night.
The camp, which had been lively and filled with the sounds of conversation and laughter, fell into a tense silence as the roar of engines echoed through the forest. The ground vibrated as a gang of cybernetic bikers rolled in, their motorcycles growling like feral beasts, exhaust pipes belching smoke and flame. There were 36 of them, their chrome-plated bodies gleaming menacingly in the fading light. They rode in tight formation, the harsh, metallic clank of their gear blending with the deep rumble of engines.
The leader, a hulking figure with a cybernetic arm and glowing red eyes, pulled to a stop at the center of the camp. His bike, a massive machine bristling with spikes and weapons, idled with a low, menacing growl. He dismounted, his boots crunching on the snow-covered ground as he surveyed the gathered locals with a cold, appraising gaze.
“Listen up!” he barked, his voice amplified by the metallic speaker embedded in his throat. “We’re here on business. Captain’s looking for a few more good men to join his crew. We’re only taking the strong, so step forward if you don’t want things to get ugly.”
The camp was deathly quiet, the locals frozen in fear. Families huddled together, mothers pulling their children close, men shifting uneasily as the gang members, bristling with cybernetic enhancements and weapons, spread out, their eyes scanning the crowd.
The Mystic Knights and the Grey Seer stood near the edge of the camp, their faces grim. They had seen enough press gangs in their time to know what was coming. The gang was looking for able-bodied men to force into labor, and the people here were in no position to resist.
The Mystic Knights exchanged a series of quick glances, their minds racing. They are strong, even without their magic reserves, but they knew the camp was full of civilians—children, elders, people who couldn’t defend themselves. A fight would almost certainly lead to casualties; for the civilians. They were surrounded.
Knight One’s jaw tightened, his eyes flicking to the Grey Seer and the Woodsman. They were watching him, their expressions anxious but resolute. He stepped forward, his shoulders squared, his voice calm but carrying a firm undertone.
“We’re the ones you’re looking for,” he said, his tone steady. “We’re the strongest men here. Take us, and leave the others alone.”
The gang leader turned his glowing gaze toward them, his lips twisting into a cruel smile. “Well, well, well. Look at this, boys! Looks like we’ve got some volunteers.” His cybernetic arm whirred as he gestured to the other bikers. “Cuff ’em and get them in the truck.”
Knight Four took a step forward, his posture rigid, his voice calm. “We’ll go willingly. Just leave these people in peace.”
The bikers moved in, heavy boots crunching on the snow as they approached the Mystic Knights. The civilians watched in fearful silence, their faces pale, their eyes wide with horror and helplessness.
The Grey Seer reached out, her hand trembling as she caught Knight One’s arm. “No, you can’t—”
He turned to her, his gaze softening, though his voice was firm. “We don’t have a choice. If we fight here, people will die.”
She shook her head, tears filling her eyes. “But—what if you—”
“We’ll be fine,” Knight Four said quietly, his tone reassuring. He glanced at the bikers, who were now a few steps away, then back at her. “We just need time to rest. We’ll get out of this. But for now...”
He looked at the Woodsman, who was watching with a guarded expression. “Keep them safe,” Knight Four said, his voice low but carrying a weight of trust and expectation. “We’ll be back.”
The Woodsman nodded, his face set with determination. “I’ll take care of them. You just focus on getting through this.”
The Grey Seer’s grip tightened on Knight Four’s arm, her eyes desperate. “You have to come back. Promise me.”
Knight One reached up, gently prying her fingers from his arm. “We will. I promise.” He glanced at Knight Two, who gave a slight nod, then back at her. “We’re trusting you, to keep our stuff safe.”
The bikers reached them then, heavy, metallic hands clamping down on their wrists, pulling their arms behind their backs. The gang leader sneered, his eyes gleaming with a sadistic light.
“Look at these fools,” he mocked. “Sacrificing themselves for the weak. How touching.” He leaned closer to Knight One, his voice a low growl. “We’ll see how brave you are once you’re on the ship.”
Knight One met his gaze unflinchingly. “We’ll go with you.”
The leader’s smile widened, his teeth sharp and metallic. “We’ll see.”
The Mystic Knights were led to a large, reinforced truck parked near the entrance of the camp. The back was already crowded with men, their faces grim and resigned. The bikers shoved them inside, slamming the doors shut behind them.
Knight One and the others found places to sit on the hard metal floor, the cold seeping through their clothes. The truck rumbled to life, the engine growling as it began to move, carrying them away from the camp, away from the people they had sworn to protect.
Knight Two leaned back against the wall, his eyes closed. "Kill?"
Knight One shook his head.
Knight Four (telepathically). “What’s the plan?”
“We rest,” Knight One said, his tone firm. “We get our energy back. And then, when we’re ready, we take them down. No collateral damage.”
The others nodded, their faces set with grim determination.
The truck rattled on, the bikers’ laughter and the roar of engines fading into the distance.
---
The Gamble Sets Sail
The old wooden ship loomed like a specter against the darkening sky, its tattered sails snapping in the cold wind. As the Mystic Knights were herded up the gangplank, their manacled wrists chafing against the cold iron, they could feel the oppressive weight of the situation settling over them like a thick fog. The ship, fittingly named “The Gamble,” creaked and groaned with every wave that slapped against its hull, the sound a harsh reminder of the unforgiving sea that surrounded them.
Knight One glanced back at the shoreline, now a faint, dark line on the horizon, slipping further away with each passing moment. The camp, the Grey Seer, and the Woodsman were now miles behind them, and the cold wind carried with it the scent of salt and the bitter promise of a harsh journey ahead.
They were roughly shoved toward the center of the deck, where other men—similarly bound and equally wary—stood in uneven lines. There were perhaps a dozen of them, their faces gaunt and eyes haunted. Most of them wore the look of people who had been broken long before they ever set foot on this ship. Knight One’s eyes hardened as he glanced at his companions. They might be prisoners for now, but they would not be cowed.
The first officer, a wiry man with a face like weathered leather and a sneer that seemed permanently etched into his features, stood on a raised platform near the mainmast. His eyes swept over the new arrivals with the cold detachment of someone appraising livestock. He held a long whip coiled in his hand, its handle polished from use, and the way he fingered it made it clear he was no stranger to wielding it.
“Welcome aboard,” he began, his voice carrying across the deck with a harsh, clipped cadence. “For those of you too slow or too stupid to understand, let me make it clear: this is your new home. Get used to it.”
He began to pace, his boots thudding heavily on the wooden planks. “You’re here because you’re useful, or at least, we think you might be. But make no mistake—if you become more trouble than you’re worth, we’ll toss you overboard without a second thought.”
He paused, his cold eyes narrowing as he glanced over the captives. “Look around you,” he continued, his voice low and menacing. “This is your life now. You work, you obey, and maybe—just maybe—you’ll get through this alive.”
The officer gestured broadly, his arm sweeping out toward the open sea. “See that water? It’s cold enough to freeze your bones solid. If the ship goes down, you go down with it. And if you’re thinking of jumping overboard, you’d best forget it. You’ll freeze to death before you drown. And if, by some miracle, you don’t freeze, you’ll tire yourself out trying to swim back to shore, and you’ll sink like a stone.”
The men stood in tense silence, their faces pale under the harsh, unyielding scrutiny of the first officer. The Mystic Knights held themselves steady, their expressions impassive, but inside, they were coiled with tension, every word reinforcing the grim reality of their situation.
“This is your life now,” the officer repeated, his voice rising with a cruel edge. “Get used to it, or you’ll suffer the bite of the whip and the kiss of the cold.”
He lifted the whip, uncoiling it with a deliberate, almost theatrical motion. The air cracked as he snapped it against the deck, the sound like a gunshot that made a few of the men flinch.
“You behave, and the chains come off,” he said, his voice now a dangerous purr. “Disobey, and you’ll be wishing for a quick death. So, what’ll it be, lads?”
Silence hung heavy in the air, the only sound the distant crash of waves against the hull and the eerie creaking of the ship as it rode the dark swells. The Mystic Knights exchanged brief, tense glances, their minds racing. They had faced worse situations, but this was different. They were stripped of their weapons, their magic reserves drained, and surrounded by innocents who would suffer if they acted recklessly.
Knight Two stepped forward slightly, just enough to draw the officer’s attention without seeming aggressive. He nodded his head.
Knight Four spoke, “We’ll do what’s asked of us,” he said, his voice calm and steady. “But know this—if you push us too far, there won’t be a ship left to sail.”
The first officer’s eyes flashed with anger, and for a moment, the whip twitched in his hand as if he considered striking. But then he smiled, a thin, mirthless curve of his lips that held no warmth. “You’ve got spirit,” he said softly. “I like that. It’s always interesting to see how long that lasts.”
He gestured to the crewmen standing nearby. “Get him.”
A hook was quickly latched to his chains that pulled him high. Then below, the whip cracked. Knight Four thought he was strong, and was, but he had never known a pain like this before after the salt water wash splashed on his whipped back.
---
Later...
“Into the hold,” the officer commaned. “Let them stew for a while. Tomorrow, they start working.”
Rough hands shoved the Mystic Knights toward a hatch near the center of the deck. They descended a steep ladder into the dim, cramped quarters below, the stench of sweat, salt, and unwashed bodies hitting them like a wall. The hold was barely more than a large, open space, lined with rows of narrow hammocks and crates of supplies. It was dark, the only light coming from small portholes high on the walls.
The Knights were unceremoniously pushed into a corner, their manacles clinking softly in the oppressive silence. As the hatch above them slammed shut, the reality of their situation settled heavily on their shoulders.
Knight One shifted slightly, his eyes scanning their surroundings. “They’re not giving us much room to maneuver,” he muttered. “This place is a death trap if things go wrong.”
Knight Two nodded grimly.
Knight Four leaned back against the cold, rough wall of the hold, his eyes closed as he took a deep breath. He was in pain. “We need to rest. Once we have our strength back, we can make our move.”
Knight One’s gaze flicked to the other captives, huddled together, their faces etched with fear and hopelessness. “We’ll bide our time,” he said quietly. “For now, we play along. But when the moment comes, we will strike.”
The ship rocked gently with the motion of the waves, the creak and groan of the timbers a constant reminder of the vast, freezing ocean that surrounded them. Outside, the first officer’s voice carried through the thin planks, barking orders at the crew. The Mystic Knights settled into their makeshift seats, their minds racing even as they forced their bodies to relax.
They had been in tight spots before, but this was different. They were captives on a ship in the middle of the frigid northern seas, their magic depleted and their options limited. But they were not beaten, not yet.
Then the mid-shipman come down to the hold and had the Knights brought up and pressed to work.
As the hours passed and the ship sailed further into the icy waters. They were forced to stay wake but they would endure it, they would regain their strength, and when the time was right, they would act.
And “The Gamble” would learn that taking the Mystic Knights captive was a mistake it would not survive.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: The ship The Gamble
The frigid winds howled across the deck of “The Gamble,” slicing through the ragged clothing of the crew like icy knives. Frost clung to every surface, glistening like shards of glass in the faint pre-dawn light. As the sun’s first rays began to creep over the horizon, bathing the snow-capped peaks of Alaska in a pale, golden glow, the Knights who can closed their eyes and summoned their psionic power.
The change was subtle but profound. It was as if a barrier of thought, impenetrable and absolute, formed between their bodies and the biting cold. The frost-laden wind that would have chilled any other man to the bone passed over them like a gentle breeze, leaving no trace of its cruel touch. They stood straight and unyielding, the power of their minds shielding them from the harsh elements with a serene, almost otherworldly calm.
Knight One opened his eyes, the glacial blue of his irises reflecting the first glimmer of dawn. His breath no longer formed a cloud of mist in the air, and his skin, which had been pale and chapped moments before, now appeared untouched by the cold. He turned to Knight Two, who met his gaze with a small nod, his dark hair ruffling slightly in the wind. They shared a moment of quiet understanding. This was a gift they rarely used, one that required intense focus and training—a mastery over their own bodies that defied nature itself. They let out a slow, controlled breath, their eyes fixed on the horizon. His muscles, which had been tense and rigid from the cold, now relaxed. The harsh sting of the Alaskan wind was nothing to them, reduced to a mere sensation without consequence. Their lips curved in a faint smile as he watched the sun emerge fully, casting a brilliant path of light across the undulating sea.
But there was no such relief for Knight Four. He stood a few paces away, shivering violently despite his best efforts to conceal it. His breaths came in short, visible puffs, and his skin was flushed with the deep, painful red of cold exposure. He clenched his jaw against the urge to curse the frigid air, every gust a cruel reminder that he lacked the psionic gift his companions wielded so effortlessly.
He glanced at them—three figures standing as still as statues, impervious to the chill that gnawed at his bones. Frustration mingled with admiration in his eyes. The sun, now fully risen, painted the sky in shades of orange and pink, casting a surreal light over the icy expanse. The water sparkled like a field of diamonds, each wave tipped with a fiery gleam as if the sea itself was ablaze. It was breathtaking, yet he could barely appreciate it through the haze of pain.
Knight One noticed his struggle and stepped closer, his expression softening. “Focus on your breathing,” he murmured, his voice a calm anchor amidst the chaos of wind and waves. “Slow and steady. Don’t fight the cold—accept it, and it will hurt less.”
Knight Four nodded, his teeth chattering too hard to speak. He tried to follow the advice, inhaling deeply, then exhaling slowly, willing his body to relax, to find some semblance of peace despite the biting air that seemed to pierce him to the core.
The sun climbed higher, its light spreading warmth that was more illusion than reality, yet somehow, it was enough. The golden orb painted the icy sea and distant cliffs in radiant hues, making the world seem less hostile, less unforgiving. The Mystic Knights stood together, their faces turned toward the sunrise.
As the ship creaked and groaned around them, its ancient timbers straining against the icy swells. Knight Four shuddered, but he held his ground, drawing strength from the presence of his comrades.
Knight One turned his gaze toward Knight Four, his voice gentle. “We’ll find a way out of this,” he said quietly, his breath no longer visible in the freezing air. “Together.”
Knight Four nodded, the pain in his eyes easing slightly as he straightened, shoulders back, defiance in every line of his stance. The sun continued to rise, and though its light brought no true warmth. For now, they were prisoners, but they were also soldiers, and no storm, no sea, and no captor could break them so easily.
Act 2: Trials at Sea
The Storm
The sky darkened swiftly, as if the heavens themselves were pulled shut by unseen hands. Ominous clouds gathered, swirling and boiling in shades of black and bruised purple, blotting out the pale light of day. The wind picked up, whipping the sea into a frenzy of frothing whitecaps that battered “The Gamble” like a relentless beast. The first fat drops of rain began to fall, quickly turning into a torrential downpour that pelted the deck, soaking everything in seconds.
Aboard the ship, the crew scrambled in a chaotic dance, their shouts lost in the roar of the wind and the booming thunder that followed. The sails flapped wildly, threatening to tear loose as the ship lurched violently, its timbers creaking and groaning under the strain. Waves crashed over the sides, washing across the deck in icy torrents that sent men sprawling.
“Reef the sails!” bellowed the acting first officer, his voice barely audible over the tempest. “Secure the lines or we’ll be torn to pieces!”
The men, forced to the night shift again, were already on the top deck when the storm hit. Struggling to keep their footing on the slick, heaving planks, they moved with the surety of men who had faced danger countless times before. Their eyes narrowed against the stinging rain, their muscles straining as they leapt into action.
Knight One, his arms aching from previous wounds, gritted his teeth and took hold of a loose line whipping dangerously through the air. With a powerful heave, he pulled it taut, bracing himself as the wind tried to rip it from his grasp. Knight Three joined him, securing the rope to the nearest cleat with practiced speed, his face a mask of concentration.
“Get those sails down!” Knight One shouted, his voice carrying above the storm. “They’re going to rip clean off!”
Knight Two and Knight Four raced up the rigging, their movements swift and sure despite the ship’s wild pitching. Knight Two reached the yardarm first, his hands working quickly to furl the massive, billowing sail. Knight Four, agile as a cat, clambered higher, wrestling with the mainsail’s topmost section. Below, the crew watched in astonishment as the mercenaries, who had been little more than prisoners hours ago, moved like seasoned sailors, their skill and bravery stark against the backdrop of chaos.
A sudden, violent gust of wind hit the ship broadside, and “The Gamble” heeled sharply, the deck tilting at a dangerous angle. Men screamed as they were thrown off their feet, some sliding toward the railings, fingers clawing desperately at the wet wood for purchase. Knight Three grabbed a falling crewman by the collar, hauling him back from the brink just as a wall of water crashed over the side, nearly sweeping them both away.
“Hold on!” Knight Three roared, his voice a guttural snarl against the howling wind. “We’re not dying on this cursed ship!”
Through the driving rain, Knight One’s eyes caught a flash of movement near the mainmast. A fifth man, cloaked in shadow and drenched to the bone, was working at one of the ropes with quick, deliberate motions. At first, it seemed he was securing it, but then Knight One noticed something odd: the fifth man was loosening the knot, not tightening it.
The realization hit Knight One like a blow. Sabotage.
Without a second thought, he charged through the storm, slipping and stumbling as the deck bucked beneath him. He reached the fifth man just as the rope whipped free, releasing a section of the rigging that controlled the ship’s only furled sail.
“What the hell are you doing?” Knight One shouted, grabbing the fifth man’s arm.
The fifth man twisted, his eyes cold and calculating. For a moment, they were locked in a struggle, the storm raging around them. Then the fifth man’s lips twisted into a sneer.
“Saving my own skin,” he hissed, shoving Knight One back. “This ship’s already lost, and I don’t plan on going down with it.”
Before Knight One could react, another massive wave struck the ship, knocking both men off their feet. The fifth man scrambled away, disappearing into the chaos as the loose rigging swung wildly above, threatening to tear down the mast itself. Knight One cursed, pulling himself up and lunging for the flapping rope.
“Four, get down here! The rigging’s loose!” he bellowed, his voice raw with urgency.
Knight Four slid down the rigging with the speed of a hawk diving, his boots hitting the deck with a thud. He immediately assessed the situation, his eyes widening as he saw the damage. “That bastard’s trying to get us killed!”
Together, the two men wrestled the rogue rope back under control, straining against the storm’s fury. Knight Three and Knight Four, seeing the danger, abandoned their posts on the upper rigging and joined the effort, adding their strength to the task. It was a brutal, backbreaking struggle, every inch fought for as the wind screamed around them and the sea clawed at the ship like a ravenous beast.
Finally, with a last, desperate heave, they managed to secure the line, the rigging snapping back into place with a harsh, metallic twang. The sail, once again under control, billowed and strained but held steady. Knight One, panting and soaked to the skin, looked around for the fifth man, but he was nowhere to be seen.
The crew, battered and bruised, gathered what remained of their strength to stabilize the ship. Men scrambled up and down the rigging, securing ropes, mending tears, and working the pumps to keep the water from flooding the hold. Slowly, painfully, they brought the vessel back from the brink of disaster.
As the storm finally began to abate, the mercenaries slumped against the railing, exhausted. The dawn’s first light pierced through the remaining clouds, casting a cold, silvery glow over the scene of devastation. The ship was a wreck, sails torn and rigging frayed, but it was still afloat.
The crew looked at the four Mystic Knights with a mixture of awe and newfound respect. They had seen these men take on the storm head-on, risking their lives to save a ship that had been nothing but a prison to them. The dynamic aboard “The Gamble” had shifted, subtly but unmistakably.
Knight One met Knight Two’s gaze, his jaw clenched. “We’ve got a traitor on board,” he muttered, wiping rain from his face. “And he’s not going to stop until this ship’s at the bottom of the sea.”
Knight Two nodded grimly. “Then we find him. And when we do—”
“We deal with him,” Knight Three finished, his voice low and dangerous. “But first, we get through this storm.”
Knight Four, shivering from the cold but defiant, stood beside them. “One challenge at a time. We’ve survived this long. We’ll survive what comes next.”
The storm had tested their mettle and revealed cracks in their enemy’s façade.
---
It felt like an eternity as sea with the waves and the wind.
The storm had carried them farther and farther into the Pacific.
No one knew exactly where they were but understood the clouds had to break before they could get their bearings.
The storm’s fury began to ebb, the relentless winds dwindling to a fierce breeze and the crashing waves subsiding to a restless swell. Dark clouds still hung low and ominous in the sky, but patches of pale light broke through, casting a grim, silvery sheen over the heaving sea. The crew of “The Gamble” sagged with relief, their bodies aching and drenched, but their ordeal was far from over.
A deep, resonant groan reverberated through the hull, followed by an eerie, almost mournful wail that cut through the post-storm silence. The men, their senses still heightened from the battle against the elements, froze. The sound was unlike anything they had ever heard—a bone-chilling, guttural roar that sent a shudder through the entire ship.
“What the hell was that?” Knight Four whispered, his voice barely audible above the creaking of the battered vessel.
Before anyone could answer, a massive shadow passed beneath the ship, darkening the already dim waters. The crew stared in horror as a gigantic, serpentine form began to coil around the ship, its scales glistening like wet obsidian. The creature’s head rose from the depths, towering above the deck. Its eyes, glowing a sickly yellow, fixed on the ship with a malevolent intelligence. A maw filled with razor-sharp teeth gaped wide, emitting another bone-rattling roar that sent a spray of fetid, briny mist across the deck.
“Gods help us,” one of the crewmen murmured, his voice trembling.
Panic spread like wildfire. Men stumbled back, some screaming, others frozen in terror. The creature sensing the ship’s vulnerability and the fear of those aboard, tightened its coils, the ship groaning in protest as the pressure mounted. The monster’s sheer size dwarfed “The Gamble,” its body stretching far beyond the limits of the deck’s view, a testament to the ancient, predatory power of the deep.
Knight One, his heart pounding, he turned to the scattered crew, his voice a bellow of authority. “You lot! Spears, harpoons, whatever you can find! We’re not going down without a fight!”
Knight Two and Knight Four sprang into action, rallying the crew and arming them with anything sharp or heavy enough to wound the creature. The sea creature’s massive head dipped lower, its jaw snapping shut mere feet from the mainmast, the force sending a tremor through the deck. The crewmen, shaking but resolute, hurled harpoons and makeshift spears at the creature. Some bounced harmlessly off its armored scales.
The beast roared in fury, thrashing its coils and causing the ship to lurch violently. Men were thrown to the deck, sliding across the wet planks, clutching at anything they could to avoid being flung overboard. Knight One, clinging to a rope, felt a surge of adrenaline. They were making it angry—but they needed more than that. They needed to drive it off, and fast.
The stormy skies hung like a bruised shroud over the churning sea, lightning crackling in the distance as the monstrous creature, loomed over "The Gamble." Its eyes, burning with primal rage, fixed on the knights standing defiantly on the battered deck. Every movement of the creature sent ripples of fear through the remaining crew, but the knights, stood their ground.
Knight Three’s eyes darted to the bow where a single cannon was mounted, its muzzle pointed toward the sea. It had been used for signaling and deterrence, not combat, but in this moment, it was their only chance. “We lure it in close,” he yelled back. “Then we blast that thing right in its damned mouth!”
“That cannon’s too close to the hull!” Knight Four warned, his voice strained as he helped a fallen crewman to his feet. “You fire it from there, you’ll tear the ship apart!”
Knight Three’s jaw set in grim determination. “If we don’t, that thing will tear us apart anyway.”
The mercenaries moved quickly, setting up the risky maneuver. Knight Four scrambled up the ratlines, holding a long rope with a hook attached. He swung it with precision, snagging one of the harpoons embedded in the creature’s neck. “Come on, you ugly bastard!” he taunted, tugging on the rope. The Creature’s eyes snapped to him, a murderous light gleaming in their depths. It lunged forward, the deck shuddering as its massive body slid closer.
Knight Three took his position at the cannon, the crew hurrying to load it with what little shot they had left. Knight One and Knight Two braced themselves nearby, holding the line taut to keep the creature’s head in place. The Beast, now enraged and bleeding from a dozen wounds, opened its maw wide, the dark gullet within seeming to swallow the very light around it.
“Now!” Knight One screamed.
With a thunderous boom, the cannon fired. The blast was deafening, the recoil throwing Knight Three back as the shot streaked into the Monster’s open mouth. The impact was immediate and catastrophic. The beast’s head snapped back, its roar of agony a deafening crescendo that shook the ship to its core. The creature writhed, its massive coils thrashing wildly. The force of its movements sent waves crashing over the sides, swamping the deck and nearly capsizing the ship.
The cannon shot had done its work, but the damage to "The Gamble" is severe. The section of the bow where the cannon had been mounted was shattered, the force of the blast and the subsequent thrashing of the creature tearing a gaping hole in the hull. Water surged in, the ship listing dangerously to port.
“Brace yourselves!” Knight Two shouted, grabbing hold of a railing as the ship tilted violently. Crewmen screamed as they were swept into the churning sea, the icy water claiming them before they could even cry for help.
“We’re still in this,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
“Ready yourselves,” Knight One commanded, his voice steady despite the exhaustion that gripped his bones. Their bodies were battered and bruised, magic reserves nearly depleted, but retreat was not an option. If they failed, the ship would be torn apart, and all aboard would perish.
The Knights exchanged a brief, resolute glance. Then, drawing on the last vestiges of their personal energy, they summoned the raw, fiery power buried deep within their cores. The air around them shimmered, charged with energy as they focused, channeling every remaining drop of their personal reserves.
Knight One was the first to unleash his power. With a guttural cry, he clenched his fists and felt the fire surge up through his body, burning hot and fierce. His eyes flared, a brilliant, blinding white light erupting from them. Twin bolts of searing energy shot forth, cutting through the air like twin lances of flame. The beams struck the Leviathan’s thick hide, scorching its dark, armored scales and leaving smoldering, charred marks in their wake.
Beside him, Knight Three followed suit, his entire body trembling with the effort of maintaining control. His eyes blazed, glowing an intense orange as he unleashed his own bolts of fire. The twin beams sliced into the creature’s side, and the monster bellowed, rearing back as smoke rose from its wounds. The smell of burned flesh mingled with the salty tang of the sea, a sickening reminder of the stakes.
Knight Two, usually the calmest among them, gritted his teeth, beads of sweat forming on his brow. His eyes ignited with a searing, golden light, and he poured everything he had into the focused beams, striking the creature's chest. It roared, its massive tail lashing out in pain, sending waves crashing over the deck. But Knight Two wasn’t finished. Channeling the last of his strength, he lifted his hands, palms outstretched.
Sparks danced across his fingertips, then, in a sudden, explosive burst, bolts of crackling lightning shot forth. The jagged tendrils of energy snaked through the air, arcing towards the creature. The lightning struck with a blinding flash, the electricity crackling and dancing over its body, the scent of ozone sharp in the air. The monster convulsed, its muscles spasming as the electricity coursed through it, its roar morphing into a high-pitched scream of pain.
The Creature, wounded and disoriented, its coils began to loosen from around the ship. Yet even this wasn’t enough to bring it down. The creature thrashed wildly, its rage intensifying, the sea around it churning into a frothing maelstrom of foam and spray. Knight Four, standing at the forefront, knew they were running out of time. The creature was still too strong, too dangerous.
He took a deep, steadying breath, centering himself amidst the chaos. His eyes locked onto the beast’s glowing, hate-filled gaze, and he focused his will. Knight Four used his Bio-Manipulation against the beast.
The sea creatures’s movements slowed, its thrashing tail and snapping jaws gradually falling still. Its furious eyes, locked on Knight Four’s, widened in shock and then dulled, the bright flame of rage dimming as a strange lethargy took hold. A shudder ran through its colossal frame, and then, impossibly, it stopped. The creature’s body, once so alive with motion, became utterly still, suspended in the water like a statue carved from the very sea itself.
The silence that followed was deafening. The crew, watching in stunned disbelief, dared not move, scarcely daring to breathe. The only sound was the ragged breathing of the four knights, their bodies trembling with the strain of their efforts. Knight Four’s arm dropped slowly, the dark power receding, leaving him weak and dizzy, but victorious.
The beast’s vast body, now paralyzed, began to sink. Slowly at first, then faster, it descended into the dark, cold depths of the ocean, its form disappearing beneath the waves. For a moment, it hung there, just below the surface, its eyes still locked on Knight Four’s, not with anger, but with something else—an understanding, perhaps, or a grudging respect.
Then it was gone, vanishing into the abyss, its presence fading like a bad dream in the light of dawn.
The knights stood on the deck, breathing heavily, their limbs shaking with exhaustion. They had done it. They had faced down a creature of nightmare and lived to tell the tale. Around them, the crew began to stir, murmurs of awe and disbelief spreading among them.
Knight One wiped a trickle of blood from his nose, his vision swimming. “Is it… is it over?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
Knight Two, his hands still crackling faintly with residual energy, nodded. “For now.”
Knight Four, swaying unsteadily, managed a weak smile. “I think… I made an impression.”
Knight Three clapped him on the back, a grin breaking through the fatigue on his face. “I’d say you did more than that, brother. You made sure that beast will think twice before tangling with us again.”
Knight Four, still clinging to the ratlines, looked down at the devastation below. “We’ve got to stop the water! We’ll sink if we don’t patch that hole!”
Knight One, his body aching from the effort, nodded grimly. “You heard him!” he roared to the remaining crew. “Get the pumps working! Patch whatever you can!”
The crew, battered but alive, sprang into action, grabbing whatever materials they could find to stuff into the gaping wound in the ship’s hull. Knight Three, staggering to his feet, looked at the destruction he had caused. He had driven the monster away, but at a terrible cost.
As they worked, the sun finally broke through the clouds, its golden light washing over the shattered, bloodstained deck. “The Gamble” was wounded, its crew exhausted and shaken, but they had survived. For now.
Knight One, standing at the bow, looked out over the water, his eyes hard. “This ship’s not going to last much longer,” he said quietly to Knight Two, who had joined him. “We need a plan, and we need it fast. Before something else tries to kill us.”
The frigid winds howled across the deck of “The Gamble,” slicing through the ragged clothing of the crew like icy knives. Frost clung to every surface, glistening like shards of glass in the faint pre-dawn light. As the sun’s first rays began to creep over the horizon, bathing the snow-capped peaks of Alaska in a pale, golden glow, the Knights who can closed their eyes and summoned their psionic power.
The change was subtle but profound. It was as if a barrier of thought, impenetrable and absolute, formed between their bodies and the biting cold. The frost-laden wind that would have chilled any other man to the bone passed over them like a gentle breeze, leaving no trace of its cruel touch. They stood straight and unyielding, the power of their minds shielding them from the harsh elements with a serene, almost otherworldly calm.
Knight One opened his eyes, the glacial blue of his irises reflecting the first glimmer of dawn. His breath no longer formed a cloud of mist in the air, and his skin, which had been pale and chapped moments before, now appeared untouched by the cold. He turned to Knight Two, who met his gaze with a small nod, his dark hair ruffling slightly in the wind. They shared a moment of quiet understanding. This was a gift they rarely used, one that required intense focus and training—a mastery over their own bodies that defied nature itself. They let out a slow, controlled breath, their eyes fixed on the horizon. His muscles, which had been tense and rigid from the cold, now relaxed. The harsh sting of the Alaskan wind was nothing to them, reduced to a mere sensation without consequence. Their lips curved in a faint smile as he watched the sun emerge fully, casting a brilliant path of light across the undulating sea.
But there was no such relief for Knight Four. He stood a few paces away, shivering violently despite his best efforts to conceal it. His breaths came in short, visible puffs, and his skin was flushed with the deep, painful red of cold exposure. He clenched his jaw against the urge to curse the frigid air, every gust a cruel reminder that he lacked the psionic gift his companions wielded so effortlessly.
He glanced at them—three figures standing as still as statues, impervious to the chill that gnawed at his bones. Frustration mingled with admiration in his eyes. The sun, now fully risen, painted the sky in shades of orange and pink, casting a surreal light over the icy expanse. The water sparkled like a field of diamonds, each wave tipped with a fiery gleam as if the sea itself was ablaze. It was breathtaking, yet he could barely appreciate it through the haze of pain.
Knight One noticed his struggle and stepped closer, his expression softening. “Focus on your breathing,” he murmured, his voice a calm anchor amidst the chaos of wind and waves. “Slow and steady. Don’t fight the cold—accept it, and it will hurt less.”
Knight Four nodded, his teeth chattering too hard to speak. He tried to follow the advice, inhaling deeply, then exhaling slowly, willing his body to relax, to find some semblance of peace despite the biting air that seemed to pierce him to the core.
The sun climbed higher, its light spreading warmth that was more illusion than reality, yet somehow, it was enough. The golden orb painted the icy sea and distant cliffs in radiant hues, making the world seem less hostile, less unforgiving. The Mystic Knights stood together, their faces turned toward the sunrise.
As the ship creaked and groaned around them, its ancient timbers straining against the icy swells. Knight Four shuddered, but he held his ground, drawing strength from the presence of his comrades.
Knight One turned his gaze toward Knight Four, his voice gentle. “We’ll find a way out of this,” he said quietly, his breath no longer visible in the freezing air. “Together.”
Knight Four nodded, the pain in his eyes easing slightly as he straightened, shoulders back, defiance in every line of his stance. The sun continued to rise, and though its light brought no true warmth. For now, they were prisoners, but they were also soldiers, and no storm, no sea, and no captor could break them so easily.
Act 2: Trials at Sea
The Storm
The sky darkened swiftly, as if the heavens themselves were pulled shut by unseen hands. Ominous clouds gathered, swirling and boiling in shades of black and bruised purple, blotting out the pale light of day. The wind picked up, whipping the sea into a frenzy of frothing whitecaps that battered “The Gamble” like a relentless beast. The first fat drops of rain began to fall, quickly turning into a torrential downpour that pelted the deck, soaking everything in seconds.
Aboard the ship, the crew scrambled in a chaotic dance, their shouts lost in the roar of the wind and the booming thunder that followed. The sails flapped wildly, threatening to tear loose as the ship lurched violently, its timbers creaking and groaning under the strain. Waves crashed over the sides, washing across the deck in icy torrents that sent men sprawling.
“Reef the sails!” bellowed the acting first officer, his voice barely audible over the tempest. “Secure the lines or we’ll be torn to pieces!”
The men, forced to the night shift again, were already on the top deck when the storm hit. Struggling to keep their footing on the slick, heaving planks, they moved with the surety of men who had faced danger countless times before. Their eyes narrowed against the stinging rain, their muscles straining as they leapt into action.
Knight One, his arms aching from previous wounds, gritted his teeth and took hold of a loose line whipping dangerously through the air. With a powerful heave, he pulled it taut, bracing himself as the wind tried to rip it from his grasp. Knight Three joined him, securing the rope to the nearest cleat with practiced speed, his face a mask of concentration.
“Get those sails down!” Knight One shouted, his voice carrying above the storm. “They’re going to rip clean off!”
Knight Two and Knight Four raced up the rigging, their movements swift and sure despite the ship’s wild pitching. Knight Two reached the yardarm first, his hands working quickly to furl the massive, billowing sail. Knight Four, agile as a cat, clambered higher, wrestling with the mainsail’s topmost section. Below, the crew watched in astonishment as the mercenaries, who had been little more than prisoners hours ago, moved like seasoned sailors, their skill and bravery stark against the backdrop of chaos.
A sudden, violent gust of wind hit the ship broadside, and “The Gamble” heeled sharply, the deck tilting at a dangerous angle. Men screamed as they were thrown off their feet, some sliding toward the railings, fingers clawing desperately at the wet wood for purchase. Knight Three grabbed a falling crewman by the collar, hauling him back from the brink just as a wall of water crashed over the side, nearly sweeping them both away.
“Hold on!” Knight Three roared, his voice a guttural snarl against the howling wind. “We’re not dying on this cursed ship!”
Through the driving rain, Knight One’s eyes caught a flash of movement near the mainmast. A fifth man, cloaked in shadow and drenched to the bone, was working at one of the ropes with quick, deliberate motions. At first, it seemed he was securing it, but then Knight One noticed something odd: the fifth man was loosening the knot, not tightening it.
The realization hit Knight One like a blow. Sabotage.
Without a second thought, he charged through the storm, slipping and stumbling as the deck bucked beneath him. He reached the fifth man just as the rope whipped free, releasing a section of the rigging that controlled the ship’s only furled sail.
“What the hell are you doing?” Knight One shouted, grabbing the fifth man’s arm.
The fifth man twisted, his eyes cold and calculating. For a moment, they were locked in a struggle, the storm raging around them. Then the fifth man’s lips twisted into a sneer.
“Saving my own skin,” he hissed, shoving Knight One back. “This ship’s already lost, and I don’t plan on going down with it.”
Before Knight One could react, another massive wave struck the ship, knocking both men off their feet. The fifth man scrambled away, disappearing into the chaos as the loose rigging swung wildly above, threatening to tear down the mast itself. Knight One cursed, pulling himself up and lunging for the flapping rope.
“Four, get down here! The rigging’s loose!” he bellowed, his voice raw with urgency.
Knight Four slid down the rigging with the speed of a hawk diving, his boots hitting the deck with a thud. He immediately assessed the situation, his eyes widening as he saw the damage. “That bastard’s trying to get us killed!”
Together, the two men wrestled the rogue rope back under control, straining against the storm’s fury. Knight Three and Knight Four, seeing the danger, abandoned their posts on the upper rigging and joined the effort, adding their strength to the task. It was a brutal, backbreaking struggle, every inch fought for as the wind screamed around them and the sea clawed at the ship like a ravenous beast.
Finally, with a last, desperate heave, they managed to secure the line, the rigging snapping back into place with a harsh, metallic twang. The sail, once again under control, billowed and strained but held steady. Knight One, panting and soaked to the skin, looked around for the fifth man, but he was nowhere to be seen.
The crew, battered and bruised, gathered what remained of their strength to stabilize the ship. Men scrambled up and down the rigging, securing ropes, mending tears, and working the pumps to keep the water from flooding the hold. Slowly, painfully, they brought the vessel back from the brink of disaster.
As the storm finally began to abate, the mercenaries slumped against the railing, exhausted. The dawn’s first light pierced through the remaining clouds, casting a cold, silvery glow over the scene of devastation. The ship was a wreck, sails torn and rigging frayed, but it was still afloat.
The crew looked at the four Mystic Knights with a mixture of awe and newfound respect. They had seen these men take on the storm head-on, risking their lives to save a ship that had been nothing but a prison to them. The dynamic aboard “The Gamble” had shifted, subtly but unmistakably.
Knight One met Knight Two’s gaze, his jaw clenched. “We’ve got a traitor on board,” he muttered, wiping rain from his face. “And he’s not going to stop until this ship’s at the bottom of the sea.”
Knight Two nodded grimly. “Then we find him. And when we do—”
“We deal with him,” Knight Three finished, his voice low and dangerous. “But first, we get through this storm.”
Knight Four, shivering from the cold but defiant, stood beside them. “One challenge at a time. We’ve survived this long. We’ll survive what comes next.”
The storm had tested their mettle and revealed cracks in their enemy’s façade.
---
It felt like an eternity as sea with the waves and the wind.
The storm had carried them farther and farther into the Pacific.
No one knew exactly where they were but understood the clouds had to break before they could get their bearings.
The storm’s fury began to ebb, the relentless winds dwindling to a fierce breeze and the crashing waves subsiding to a restless swell. Dark clouds still hung low and ominous in the sky, but patches of pale light broke through, casting a grim, silvery sheen over the heaving sea. The crew of “The Gamble” sagged with relief, their bodies aching and drenched, but their ordeal was far from over.
A deep, resonant groan reverberated through the hull, followed by an eerie, almost mournful wail that cut through the post-storm silence. The men, their senses still heightened from the battle against the elements, froze. The sound was unlike anything they had ever heard—a bone-chilling, guttural roar that sent a shudder through the entire ship.
“What the hell was that?” Knight Four whispered, his voice barely audible above the creaking of the battered vessel.
Before anyone could answer, a massive shadow passed beneath the ship, darkening the already dim waters. The crew stared in horror as a gigantic, serpentine form began to coil around the ship, its scales glistening like wet obsidian. The creature’s head rose from the depths, towering above the deck. Its eyes, glowing a sickly yellow, fixed on the ship with a malevolent intelligence. A maw filled with razor-sharp teeth gaped wide, emitting another bone-rattling roar that sent a spray of fetid, briny mist across the deck.
“Gods help us,” one of the crewmen murmured, his voice trembling.
Panic spread like wildfire. Men stumbled back, some screaming, others frozen in terror. The creature sensing the ship’s vulnerability and the fear of those aboard, tightened its coils, the ship groaning in protest as the pressure mounted. The monster’s sheer size dwarfed “The Gamble,” its body stretching far beyond the limits of the deck’s view, a testament to the ancient, predatory power of the deep.
Knight One, his heart pounding, he turned to the scattered crew, his voice a bellow of authority. “You lot! Spears, harpoons, whatever you can find! We’re not going down without a fight!”
Knight Two and Knight Four sprang into action, rallying the crew and arming them with anything sharp or heavy enough to wound the creature. The sea creature’s massive head dipped lower, its jaw snapping shut mere feet from the mainmast, the force sending a tremor through the deck. The crewmen, shaking but resolute, hurled harpoons and makeshift spears at the creature. Some bounced harmlessly off its armored scales.
The beast roared in fury, thrashing its coils and causing the ship to lurch violently. Men were thrown to the deck, sliding across the wet planks, clutching at anything they could to avoid being flung overboard. Knight One, clinging to a rope, felt a surge of adrenaline. They were making it angry—but they needed more than that. They needed to drive it off, and fast.
The stormy skies hung like a bruised shroud over the churning sea, lightning crackling in the distance as the monstrous creature, loomed over "The Gamble." Its eyes, burning with primal rage, fixed on the knights standing defiantly on the battered deck. Every movement of the creature sent ripples of fear through the remaining crew, but the knights, stood their ground.
Knight Three’s eyes darted to the bow where a single cannon was mounted, its muzzle pointed toward the sea. It had been used for signaling and deterrence, not combat, but in this moment, it was their only chance. “We lure it in close,” he yelled back. “Then we blast that thing right in its damned mouth!”
“That cannon’s too close to the hull!” Knight Four warned, his voice strained as he helped a fallen crewman to his feet. “You fire it from there, you’ll tear the ship apart!”
Knight Three’s jaw set in grim determination. “If we don’t, that thing will tear us apart anyway.”
The mercenaries moved quickly, setting up the risky maneuver. Knight Four scrambled up the ratlines, holding a long rope with a hook attached. He swung it with precision, snagging one of the harpoons embedded in the creature’s neck. “Come on, you ugly bastard!” he taunted, tugging on the rope. The Creature’s eyes snapped to him, a murderous light gleaming in their depths. It lunged forward, the deck shuddering as its massive body slid closer.
Knight Three took his position at the cannon, the crew hurrying to load it with what little shot they had left. Knight One and Knight Two braced themselves nearby, holding the line taut to keep the creature’s head in place. The Beast, now enraged and bleeding from a dozen wounds, opened its maw wide, the dark gullet within seeming to swallow the very light around it.
“Now!” Knight One screamed.
With a thunderous boom, the cannon fired. The blast was deafening, the recoil throwing Knight Three back as the shot streaked into the Monster’s open mouth. The impact was immediate and catastrophic. The beast’s head snapped back, its roar of agony a deafening crescendo that shook the ship to its core. The creature writhed, its massive coils thrashing wildly. The force of its movements sent waves crashing over the sides, swamping the deck and nearly capsizing the ship.
The cannon shot had done its work, but the damage to "The Gamble" is severe. The section of the bow where the cannon had been mounted was shattered, the force of the blast and the subsequent thrashing of the creature tearing a gaping hole in the hull. Water surged in, the ship listing dangerously to port.
“Brace yourselves!” Knight Two shouted, grabbing hold of a railing as the ship tilted violently. Crewmen screamed as they were swept into the churning sea, the icy water claiming them before they could even cry for help.
“We’re still in this,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
“Ready yourselves,” Knight One commanded, his voice steady despite the exhaustion that gripped his bones. Their bodies were battered and bruised, magic reserves nearly depleted, but retreat was not an option. If they failed, the ship would be torn apart, and all aboard would perish.
The Knights exchanged a brief, resolute glance. Then, drawing on the last vestiges of their personal energy, they summoned the raw, fiery power buried deep within their cores. The air around them shimmered, charged with energy as they focused, channeling every remaining drop of their personal reserves.
Knight One was the first to unleash his power. With a guttural cry, he clenched his fists and felt the fire surge up through his body, burning hot and fierce. His eyes flared, a brilliant, blinding white light erupting from them. Twin bolts of searing energy shot forth, cutting through the air like twin lances of flame. The beams struck the Leviathan’s thick hide, scorching its dark, armored scales and leaving smoldering, charred marks in their wake.
Beside him, Knight Three followed suit, his entire body trembling with the effort of maintaining control. His eyes blazed, glowing an intense orange as he unleashed his own bolts of fire. The twin beams sliced into the creature’s side, and the monster bellowed, rearing back as smoke rose from its wounds. The smell of burned flesh mingled with the salty tang of the sea, a sickening reminder of the stakes.
Knight Two, usually the calmest among them, gritted his teeth, beads of sweat forming on his brow. His eyes ignited with a searing, golden light, and he poured everything he had into the focused beams, striking the creature's chest. It roared, its massive tail lashing out in pain, sending waves crashing over the deck. But Knight Two wasn’t finished. Channeling the last of his strength, he lifted his hands, palms outstretched.
Sparks danced across his fingertips, then, in a sudden, explosive burst, bolts of crackling lightning shot forth. The jagged tendrils of energy snaked through the air, arcing towards the creature. The lightning struck with a blinding flash, the electricity crackling and dancing over its body, the scent of ozone sharp in the air. The monster convulsed, its muscles spasming as the electricity coursed through it, its roar morphing into a high-pitched scream of pain.
The Creature, wounded and disoriented, its coils began to loosen from around the ship. Yet even this wasn’t enough to bring it down. The creature thrashed wildly, its rage intensifying, the sea around it churning into a frothing maelstrom of foam and spray. Knight Four, standing at the forefront, knew they were running out of time. The creature was still too strong, too dangerous.
He took a deep, steadying breath, centering himself amidst the chaos. His eyes locked onto the beast’s glowing, hate-filled gaze, and he focused his will. Knight Four used his Bio-Manipulation against the beast.
The sea creatures’s movements slowed, its thrashing tail and snapping jaws gradually falling still. Its furious eyes, locked on Knight Four’s, widened in shock and then dulled, the bright flame of rage dimming as a strange lethargy took hold. A shudder ran through its colossal frame, and then, impossibly, it stopped. The creature’s body, once so alive with motion, became utterly still, suspended in the water like a statue carved from the very sea itself.
The silence that followed was deafening. The crew, watching in stunned disbelief, dared not move, scarcely daring to breathe. The only sound was the ragged breathing of the four knights, their bodies trembling with the strain of their efforts. Knight Four’s arm dropped slowly, the dark power receding, leaving him weak and dizzy, but victorious.
The beast’s vast body, now paralyzed, began to sink. Slowly at first, then faster, it descended into the dark, cold depths of the ocean, its form disappearing beneath the waves. For a moment, it hung there, just below the surface, its eyes still locked on Knight Four’s, not with anger, but with something else—an understanding, perhaps, or a grudging respect.
Then it was gone, vanishing into the abyss, its presence fading like a bad dream in the light of dawn.
The knights stood on the deck, breathing heavily, their limbs shaking with exhaustion. They had done it. They had faced down a creature of nightmare and lived to tell the tale. Around them, the crew began to stir, murmurs of awe and disbelief spreading among them.
Knight One wiped a trickle of blood from his nose, his vision swimming. “Is it… is it over?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
Knight Two, his hands still crackling faintly with residual energy, nodded. “For now.”
Knight Four, swaying unsteadily, managed a weak smile. “I think… I made an impression.”
Knight Three clapped him on the back, a grin breaking through the fatigue on his face. “I’d say you did more than that, brother. You made sure that beast will think twice before tangling with us again.”
Knight Four, still clinging to the ratlines, looked down at the devastation below. “We’ve got to stop the water! We’ll sink if we don’t patch that hole!”
Knight One, his body aching from the effort, nodded grimly. “You heard him!” he roared to the remaining crew. “Get the pumps working! Patch whatever you can!”
The crew, battered but alive, sprang into action, grabbing whatever materials they could find to stuff into the gaping wound in the ship’s hull. Knight Three, staggering to his feet, looked at the destruction he had caused. He had driven the monster away, but at a terrible cost.
As they worked, the sun finally broke through the clouds, its golden light washing over the shattered, bloodstained deck. “The Gamble” was wounded, its crew exhausted and shaken, but they had survived. For now.
Knight One, standing at the bow, looked out over the water, his eyes hard. “This ship’s not going to last much longer,” he said quietly to Knight Two, who had joined him. “We need a plan, and we need it fast. Before something else tries to kill us.”
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darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: Lost somewhere in the Pacific Ocean
The sea was deceptively calm in the aftermath of the storm and the sea creature’s attack. The crew, exhausted and bloodied, worked tirelessly to patch the ship’s wounds, their movements slow and heavy. The scent of smoke and seawater hung thick in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of fear that had settled deep into everyone’s bones.
The sky above was a clear, pale blue, a cruel contrast to the ragged state of the ship and its crew. The sunlight glinted off the shattered masts and frayed rigging, casting shadows across the deck where men labored to keep the ship afloat. It was during this fragile moment of reprieve that the lookout’s voice cut through the murmurs of the crew like a knife.
“Sails on the horizon!” he shouted, his voice shrill with panic. “Port side!”
All eyes turned toward the distant smudge of white that had appeared against the deep blue of the sea. As it drew closer, the distinctive black flag flying from its mast became visible—a skull grinning from beneath a tattered tricorn hat, flanked by crossed cutlasses. There was no mistaking it.
“The Bloody Harpy,” one of the crewmen breathed, his face draining of color. “Captain Vayne’s ship.”
A murmur of dread rippled through the men.
Knight One, still weary but alert, stepped forward, his gaze locked on the approaching vessel. He said, his voice low but commanding. “Everyone to your stations!”
“But we can’t outrun them!” a crewman protested, his eyes wide with fear. “Look at the state of us—”
“Then we outsmart them,” Knight Three interrupted sharply. “Get those sails up.”
The crew hesitated, fear and exhaustion warring with duty, but the first officer cracked his whip. "I give the orders here. MOVE!"
Knight Three, gripping the splintered wheel, glanced over his shoulder. “Ideas?” he called, his voice tight with tension.
“Play to their arrogance,” Knight Four suggested, his sharp eyes scanning the pirate vessel.
Knight One nodded, a plan already forming in his mind. “We make ourselves look like easy prey—struggle with the rigging, turn the ship in erratic patterns. Let him think we’re panicking, but keep our distance. We lure him in close, then we strike.”
As they moved to implement the plan, the Sabotuer (from before), leaning casually against the mainmast, watched the proceedings with an unreadable expression. His gaze flicked from the pirates to the knights, then back again.
“You seem remarkably calm for a man about to be gutted,” Knight One remarked, his tone icy. “You know something we don’t?”
The man’s lips curved into a thin, sardonic smile. “You could say that. Vayne and I go way back. I know his tricks, and more importantly, I know that ship.”
Knight Two narrowed his eyes. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I can get us out of this,” he replied, his voice smooth and confident. “If you’re willing to do as I say.”
Knight One’s jaw clenched. Time was running out. The pirate ship was almost upon them, the jeers and catcalls of its crew faint but growing louder, carried on the wind.
“Talk fast,” Knight One said tersely.
The man straightened, his gaze turning calculating. “The Bloody Harpy’s guns are rigged for a frontal assault—most of her firepower is concentrated in the bow. If we can get close enough, maneuver her into a broadside position, we’ll be in her blind spot. Vayne won’t expect it. He’ll be looking to ram us, pin us down with a barrage.”
Knight Three’s eyes narrowed. “And how do we get that close without getting blown out of the water?”
“Leave that to me,” the man replied, his smile widening. “I know a few… tricks.”
There was no time for further discussion. The pirates were close enough now that the black-clad figures on their deck were clearly visible, waving cutlasses and muskets in anticipation of the kill. Vayne himself stood at the prow, a towering figure with a mane of tangled black hair and a wicked grin, his eyes gleaming with cruel delight.
Knight One took a deep breath, then nodded sharply. “Do it.”
With a quick, almost theatrical bow, the man darted to the starboard side, where a small, ratty signal flag was tucked away. He unfurled it, then began waving it in a complex series of motions, the bright colors flashing in the sunlight. The effect was immediate. "The Bloody Harpy" slowed, its course altering slightly as if in response to an unspoken command.
“What’s he doing?” Knight Four muttered, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.
“He’s communicating,” Knight Three replied, his voice filled with reluctant admiration. “He’s using pirate signals. Vayne thinks we’re someone else.”
"The Gamble" veered sharply to port, seemingly out of control, the sails fluttering and flapping like the wings of a wounded bird. The pirates, sensing blood, surged forward, their ship cutting through the waves with terrifying grace.
“Hold your course!” Knight One shouted, his eyes locked on the pirate ship. “Wait for it…”
The Bloody Harpy was almost on them, her bow cutting through the water like a knife. The pirates, eager for the kill, began firing, the sharp cracks of gunfire ringing out across the water. Bullets whizzed past, embedding themselves in the deck, but the knights held their ground, their eyes fixed on the approaching vessel.
“Now!” Knight One roared.
With a sudden, sharp turn, The Gamble swung hard to starboard, its damaged hull groaning in protest. The movement was unexpected, catching the pirates off guard. The Bloody Harpy, moving at full speed, overshot its mark, her guns unable to swivel fast enough to track the sudden maneuver.
Dropping the signal flag, the man leapt to the nearest cannon. With a deft twist of his wrist, he adjusted the angle, aiming directly at the Harpy’s mainmast. The knights, seeing his intent, sprang into action, coordinating the remaining cannons in a deadly, calculated broadside.
“Fire!” Knight Three bellowed.
The roar of cannon fire split the air, the recoil shuddering through the deck. The shots flew true, striking the Harpy’s mast and rigging with devastating force. Splinters exploded into the air as the mainmast cracked and toppled, sails and lines collapsing in a tangled, burning mess.
The pirates’ triumphant shouts turned to cries of panic as their ship, crippled and unable to maneuver, began to drift helplessly. Vayne’s furious roar was audible even over the chaos, his eyes blazing with rage as he watched his prize slip through his fingers.
“Get us out of here!” the first officer ordered, his voice tight with urgency.
The crew, energized by the sudden turn of events, sprang into action. The sails filled with wind, and The Gamble lurched forward, putting distance between itself and the crippled pirate ship. The Bloody Harpy floundered, its crew scrambling to cut away the wreckage and regain control, but it was too late.
The man who signaled the pirates, leaned against the railing, a satisfied smile playing on his lips as he watched the pirates recede into the distance. “Well,” he drawled, “that was fun.”
Knight One shot him a hard look. “Don’t think this means we trust you.”
The man shrugged. “I wouldn’t dream of it. But we’re alive, and that’s what matters. For now.”
As the sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting long shadows over the waves, the battered ship sailed on, its crew battered but unbeaten. The Gamble had escaped once more, but the game was far from won.
---
The atmosphere aboard The Gamble was taut with tension, like a storm cloud ready to burst. The ship limped through the open ocean, its sails tattered, its hull scarred from battle. Every creak of the timbers, every groan of the battered masts seemed to echo the crew’s despair. Everyone had been up for days. The confrontation with the Sea Creature and the harrowing escape from the pirate ship, but the wounds left behind, both physical and psychological, had only deepened.
The Captain was making more of a show of himself, he stood at the rail, gazing out over the endless expanse of water. The salt wind tugged at his hair, and his eyes, shadowed with exhaustion, flicked over the deck where the crew moved sluggishly, their faces drawn with fatigue and fear. The Captain was rationing food and water and pressing everyone to repair the ship. It was clear that The Gamble was a ship on the edge. Supplies were dwindling, and the promise of land seemed as distant as ever. But it wasn’t just the state of the ship that concerned him—it was the state of the men.
Murmurs of discontent had been growing ever since they had to fight for their lives. The crew, already wary of the harsh command of the officers and the capricious moods of the captain, had begun to question their fate. Why were they risking their lives for a ship that seemed cursed? What cargo could be worth such danger? And why were the four mysterious mercenaries, pressed into service against their will, so determined to keep the ship afloat?
Knight One clenched his fists, feeling the rough wood of the railing bite into his palms. The time for waiting and watching was over. They needed to take control of this ship, or they would all go down with it.
He turned away from the rail, scanning the deck. Knight Two and Knight Four were at the bow, helping a group of crewmen repair the shattered foremast. Knight Three was by the galley, distributing what little food remained. The fifth man, as always, was lurking in the shadows near the mainmast, his gaze flicking from the crew to the officers and back again, a calculating glint in his eyes.
Knight One made his way over to his comrades, moving with purpose through the sluggish crowd. As he approached, Knight Two glanced up, his brow furrowing. “What’s the plan?” he asked quietly, sensing the resolve in Knight One’s posture.
“We need to make our move,” Knight One replied, his voice low but firm. “This ship is falling apart, and so are the men. They’re scared, angry. If we don’t take control, they’ll either turn on each other or jump overboard to take their chances with the sea.”
Knight Four, his hands raw from handling ropes and nails, straightened, his eyes narrowing. “You’re talking about a mutiny.”
“I am,” Knight One confirmed. “We take the ship. We get her to port—or at least somewhere safe. But we can’t do it alone. We need the crew with us.”
Knight Two nodded slowly. “How do we convince them? They’re afraid of the officers, and even more afraid of the captain.”
Knight One glanced around, ensuring they weren’t being overheard. “We start with those who’ve already shown signs of discontent. The ones who’ve questioned orders, who’ve spoken against the officers. We rally them quietly. If we can get a few key men on our side, the rest will follow.”
Knight Four looked thoughtful, then nodded. “And what about him?” He jerked his chin toward the man who had signaled the pirates and fired upon them, who was now watching them with a slight, knowing smile. “We can’t trust him.”
“No, but we can use him,” Knight One said grimly. “He’s been waiting for something. He knows more about this ship—and this crew—than he’s letting on.”
As if sensing their scrutiny, the Fifth Man sauntered over, his movements loose and unhurried. “Planning a little coup, are we?” he asked, his tone light but his eyes sharp. “You’ll need more than just grit and muscle to pull it off.”
Knight One’s gaze hardened. “And what do you suggest?”
The fifth man glanced around, then leaned in closer, lowering his voice. “The crew’s loyalty to the captain is already paper-thin. They follow because they fear him, not because they respect him. But fear only holds as long as there’s no alternative. Give them something—someone—to rally around, and they’ll turn in a heartbeat.”
“And what do you propose we offer them?” Knight Three asked, his skepticism clear.
The fifth man’s smile widened, but there was no warmth in it. “Information,” he said simply. “The captain’s been hiding something. You think this ship’s just carrying spices and silks? Think again. There’s a reason he’s pushing us so hard, why he’s willing to risk everything, even his crew’s lives.”
He paused, letting the words hang in the air like bait on a hook. Knight Four frowned, his curiosity piqued despite himself. “What are you talking about?”
The fifth man’s eyes gleamed. “There’s something in the hold, worth more than everything else on this ship combined. It’s hidden in a sealed crate, under false cargo labels. The captain plans to sell it at a secret port—a port that most of the crew doesn’t even know exists. It’s the reason we’re being driven so hard, why we’ve faced these dangers. He doesn’t care if half the crew dies, as long as he paid for what he delivers.”
The knights exchanged glances, the implications sinking in. If what the man said was true, it changed everything. The crew wasn’t just risking their lives for a cargo of luxury goods—they were being used as pawns in a dangerous, high-stakes game.
“Why tell us this?” Knight Three demanded, his voice tight with suspicion. “What do you get out of it?”
The Fifth Man shrugged, his expression inscrutable. “I have my reasons. Let’s just say I’m not fond of the captain’s, and I’m even less fond of being on a sinking ship. But I’m no fool. If you’re planning to take control, you need leverage. The secret is your leverage. Reveal the truth to the crew, and they’ll turn on the captain faster than you can blink.”
Knight One studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “Alright. But if you’re lying—”
The man interrupted smoothly. “You’ll find the crate in the lower hold, beneath the marked cargo. It’s guarded, of course, but I’m sure a few capable fellows like yourselves can handle that.”
Knight Two nodded.
Knight Four, “We’ll verify it. If it’s there, we move forward. If it’s not—”
“If it’s not, I’ll throw myself overboard,” the Man said with a mocking bow. “But it is. I’ll even help you get to it, if you like. Consider it a gesture of goodwill.”
Knight One turned to his comrades, his eyes steely. “We split up. Two and Three will verify the hold. Four and I will—start talking to the men. Quietly. Sound them out. If they know what’s really at stake, they’ll side with us.”
Knight Three nodded, his expression grim. “And the officers?”
“We avoid them for now,” Knight One said. “No need to tip our hand too early. We get the crew on our side first, then we deal with the rest.”
They moved with purpose, splitting up to carry out their tasks. Knight Three and Knight Two made their way to the lower decks, the sneaky man trailing behind them with an air of casual confidence.
The hold was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of salt and mildew. Knight Two and Knight Three moved cautiously among the rows of stacked crates and barrels, their footsteps muffled on the creaking wooden planks. Ahead, four guards stood watch near a stack of crates in the corner, their expressions guarded and suspicious.
Knight Three stepped forward, his demeanor calm and assured, masking the tension coiling beneath his skin. “Routine inspection,” he announced smoothly, his voice carrying an air of casual authority. “Orders from the captain. We’re to check all cargo.”
The guards exchanged wary glances. One of them, a tall man with a scar running down his cheek, narrowed his eyes. “Orders from the captain?” he repeated, his voice laced with doubt. “That’s not what we were told.”
Knight Three raised an eyebrow, maintaining his calm facade. “You weren’t told? Well, that’s hardly surprising, given the chaos on deck. He wanted this kept quiet. You know how the captain is.”
The scarred guard shifted, his hand moving to rest on the hilt of his cutlass. “Funny, that. Because the last orders we got from the captain were clear: no one goes near this crate but him. Anyone else tries, and he’ll have our hides.”
Knight Two stepped up beside Knight Three, his expression unreadable.
Knight Three, “Are you calling us liars?” His tone was soft, almost casual, but there was a dangerous edge to it.
The guards tensed, their hands tightening on their weapons. The scarred guard sneered, his eyes flicking over the knights. “I’m saying I don’t believe you. The captain don’t trust no one, least of all a bunch of new guys who shouldn’t even be down here.”
A tense silence settled over the hold, the only sound the faint creak of the ship’s timbers and the distant murmur of the sea. Knight Three glanced at Knight Two, then back at the guards, his muscles coiled and ready.
“This doesn’t have to get ugly,” Knight Three said quietly, his gaze steady. “We just need to check the cargo. Do your job, and we’ll do ours.”
The guards exchanged another glance, but it was clear they weren’t backing down. The scarred man’s hand tightened on his cutlass, and the other guards followed suit, their expressions hardening.
“Turn around,” the scarred guard growled, drawing his blade. “Now.”
Knight Three’s eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a lethal calm. “You might want to rethink that.”
The guard barely had time to react before Knight Two moved. In a flash, he grabbed the man’s wrist, twisting it sharply. The guard cried out, his cutlass clattering to the floor. Knight Three sprang into action, drawing the sword from the floor and striking the second guard's throat with a swift, precise strike.
The second guard lunged at Knight Two, his blade flashing in the dim light. Knight Two sidestepped smoothly, his sword darting out to strike the man’s wrist. With a swift, brutal motion, he severed the guard’s arm against the edge of a crate. Blood sprayed everywhere.
The third guard hesitated, his eyes darting between his fallen comrades and the Knight Three. Knight Three turned toward him, his sword glinting ominously in the shadows.
“Drop it,” Knight Three ordered, his voice cold and commanding.
For a moment, it seemed the guard would comply. His grip loosened on his weapon, his gaze flicking nervously to the others. But then, with a defiant snarl, he raised his sword and charged.
Knight Two met him halfway, his blade a blur of motion. The guard’s attack faltered, his eyes widening as Knight Two’s sword sliced through his defenses, knocking him off balance. With a final, swift strike, Knight Two thrust his sword through his heart.
The guard staggered back, clutching his chest, his face twisted in pain and fear. He looked at his fallen comrades, then back at his killer, his chest gushing blood.
The fourth guard looked back and fourth between Knight Two and Knight Three. He dropped his sword and raised his arms.
Knight Three knelt and picked up the cutlasses, inspecting it briefly before tossing it aside.
“Well, that went about as well as expected,” he muttered, wiping a trickle of blood from his cheek.
Knight Two glanced at the remaining guard, then thrust his sword through his throat.
It was over with quick. Then he made sure the other men were dead.
He turned toward the stack of crates, his eyes narrowing. The crate they had been looking for was marked with a simple, unassuming symbol—a red triangle painted on the wood. Nothing about it stood out to the casual observer, but now, knowing what lay inside, it seemed to pulse with an ominous energy.
“Let’s see what the captain’s been hiding,” Knight Three murmured, stepping forward.
With a swift motion, Knight Two pried open the lid. Inside, nestled in layers of silk and padding, was nothing but more layers of silk.
Knight Three shook his head slowly. “Nothing worth killing for.”
He glanced back at Knight Two, his expression grim. “We've been played... No... Wait... Why were there four guards. Unless... Either something's here and we missed it. Or... The captain has it near him. The guard did say the captain doesn't trust anyone. This was a trick to distract thieves.”
He laughed.
"Looks like you can't trust anyone these days."
They returned to the deck, where Knight One and Knight Four were already whispering with a small group of crewmen. The men’s faces were tight with anger, their eyes flashing with barely restrained fury. As Knight One approached, one of them, a burly, scarred sailor named Mullen, stepped forward.
“Is it true?” Mullen demanded, his voice shaking. “The captain’s got us risking our necks for some score we'll got none of?”
“It’s true,” Knight One confirmed. “We saw it ourselves. He plans to sell it at a secret port, make himself rich while we die for nothing.”
A ripple of anger passed through the gathered men. Another sailor, a wiry man named Keefe, spat on the deck. “Bastard. We’ve lost good men already, and for what? So he can line his pockets?”
“We don’t have to take this,” Mullen growled. “We take the ship and sell it ourselves.”
Knight One raised a hand, silencing the murmurs. “We take the captain and his officers, secure the ship, and set a course for the nearest port. Everyone gets their fair share.”
The men nodded, their faces hard with determination. The mood had shifted, the fear and uncertainty replaced by a cold, focused resolve.
“Are you with us?” Knight One asked, his voice clear and steady.
A chorus of affirmations rose from the crew, their voices strong and united. The mutiny had begun.
As they moved to put the plan into action, Knight One glanced back at the fifth man, who was watching the scene unfold with a satisfied smile.
“This is far from over,” Knight One murmured, his eyes narrowing. “We still don’t know your angle.”
The fifth man’s smile widened, but he said nothing, his gaze drifting to the horizon where dark clouds were beginning to gather once more.
“No, it’s not over,” he said softly. “Not by a long shot.”
The ship, battered and wounded, sailed on into the gathering dusk, the crew preparing for the battle to come. Mutiny was in the air, a dangerous, intoxicating promise of freedom—and a reckoning that could either save them all, or doom them to the depths.
The sea was deceptively calm in the aftermath of the storm and the sea creature’s attack. The crew, exhausted and bloodied, worked tirelessly to patch the ship’s wounds, their movements slow and heavy. The scent of smoke and seawater hung thick in the air, mingling with the metallic tang of fear that had settled deep into everyone’s bones.
The sky above was a clear, pale blue, a cruel contrast to the ragged state of the ship and its crew. The sunlight glinted off the shattered masts and frayed rigging, casting shadows across the deck where men labored to keep the ship afloat. It was during this fragile moment of reprieve that the lookout’s voice cut through the murmurs of the crew like a knife.
“Sails on the horizon!” he shouted, his voice shrill with panic. “Port side!”
All eyes turned toward the distant smudge of white that had appeared against the deep blue of the sea. As it drew closer, the distinctive black flag flying from its mast became visible—a skull grinning from beneath a tattered tricorn hat, flanked by crossed cutlasses. There was no mistaking it.
“The Bloody Harpy,” one of the crewmen breathed, his face draining of color. “Captain Vayne’s ship.”
A murmur of dread rippled through the men.
Knight One, still weary but alert, stepped forward, his gaze locked on the approaching vessel. He said, his voice low but commanding. “Everyone to your stations!”
“But we can’t outrun them!” a crewman protested, his eyes wide with fear. “Look at the state of us—”
“Then we outsmart them,” Knight Three interrupted sharply. “Get those sails up.”
The crew hesitated, fear and exhaustion warring with duty, but the first officer cracked his whip. "I give the orders here. MOVE!"
Knight Three, gripping the splintered wheel, glanced over his shoulder. “Ideas?” he called, his voice tight with tension.
“Play to their arrogance,” Knight Four suggested, his sharp eyes scanning the pirate vessel.
Knight One nodded, a plan already forming in his mind. “We make ourselves look like easy prey—struggle with the rigging, turn the ship in erratic patterns. Let him think we’re panicking, but keep our distance. We lure him in close, then we strike.”
As they moved to implement the plan, the Sabotuer (from before), leaning casually against the mainmast, watched the proceedings with an unreadable expression. His gaze flicked from the pirates to the knights, then back again.
“You seem remarkably calm for a man about to be gutted,” Knight One remarked, his tone icy. “You know something we don’t?”
The man’s lips curved into a thin, sardonic smile. “You could say that. Vayne and I go way back. I know his tricks, and more importantly, I know that ship.”
Knight Two narrowed his eyes. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I can get us out of this,” he replied, his voice smooth and confident. “If you’re willing to do as I say.”
Knight One’s jaw clenched. Time was running out. The pirate ship was almost upon them, the jeers and catcalls of its crew faint but growing louder, carried on the wind.
“Talk fast,” Knight One said tersely.
The man straightened, his gaze turning calculating. “The Bloody Harpy’s guns are rigged for a frontal assault—most of her firepower is concentrated in the bow. If we can get close enough, maneuver her into a broadside position, we’ll be in her blind spot. Vayne won’t expect it. He’ll be looking to ram us, pin us down with a barrage.”
Knight Three’s eyes narrowed. “And how do we get that close without getting blown out of the water?”
“Leave that to me,” the man replied, his smile widening. “I know a few… tricks.”
There was no time for further discussion. The pirates were close enough now that the black-clad figures on their deck were clearly visible, waving cutlasses and muskets in anticipation of the kill. Vayne himself stood at the prow, a towering figure with a mane of tangled black hair and a wicked grin, his eyes gleaming with cruel delight.
Knight One took a deep breath, then nodded sharply. “Do it.”
With a quick, almost theatrical bow, the man darted to the starboard side, where a small, ratty signal flag was tucked away. He unfurled it, then began waving it in a complex series of motions, the bright colors flashing in the sunlight. The effect was immediate. "The Bloody Harpy" slowed, its course altering slightly as if in response to an unspoken command.
“What’s he doing?” Knight Four muttered, his eyes narrowing suspiciously.
“He’s communicating,” Knight Three replied, his voice filled with reluctant admiration. “He’s using pirate signals. Vayne thinks we’re someone else.”
"The Gamble" veered sharply to port, seemingly out of control, the sails fluttering and flapping like the wings of a wounded bird. The pirates, sensing blood, surged forward, their ship cutting through the waves with terrifying grace.
“Hold your course!” Knight One shouted, his eyes locked on the pirate ship. “Wait for it…”
The Bloody Harpy was almost on them, her bow cutting through the water like a knife. The pirates, eager for the kill, began firing, the sharp cracks of gunfire ringing out across the water. Bullets whizzed past, embedding themselves in the deck, but the knights held their ground, their eyes fixed on the approaching vessel.
“Now!” Knight One roared.
With a sudden, sharp turn, The Gamble swung hard to starboard, its damaged hull groaning in protest. The movement was unexpected, catching the pirates off guard. The Bloody Harpy, moving at full speed, overshot its mark, her guns unable to swivel fast enough to track the sudden maneuver.
Dropping the signal flag, the man leapt to the nearest cannon. With a deft twist of his wrist, he adjusted the angle, aiming directly at the Harpy’s mainmast. The knights, seeing his intent, sprang into action, coordinating the remaining cannons in a deadly, calculated broadside.
“Fire!” Knight Three bellowed.
The roar of cannon fire split the air, the recoil shuddering through the deck. The shots flew true, striking the Harpy’s mast and rigging with devastating force. Splinters exploded into the air as the mainmast cracked and toppled, sails and lines collapsing in a tangled, burning mess.
The pirates’ triumphant shouts turned to cries of panic as their ship, crippled and unable to maneuver, began to drift helplessly. Vayne’s furious roar was audible even over the chaos, his eyes blazing with rage as he watched his prize slip through his fingers.
“Get us out of here!” the first officer ordered, his voice tight with urgency.
The crew, energized by the sudden turn of events, sprang into action. The sails filled with wind, and The Gamble lurched forward, putting distance between itself and the crippled pirate ship. The Bloody Harpy floundered, its crew scrambling to cut away the wreckage and regain control, but it was too late.
The man who signaled the pirates, leaned against the railing, a satisfied smile playing on his lips as he watched the pirates recede into the distance. “Well,” he drawled, “that was fun.”
Knight One shot him a hard look. “Don’t think this means we trust you.”
The man shrugged. “I wouldn’t dream of it. But we’re alive, and that’s what matters. For now.”
As the sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting long shadows over the waves, the battered ship sailed on, its crew battered but unbeaten. The Gamble had escaped once more, but the game was far from won.
---
The atmosphere aboard The Gamble was taut with tension, like a storm cloud ready to burst. The ship limped through the open ocean, its sails tattered, its hull scarred from battle. Every creak of the timbers, every groan of the battered masts seemed to echo the crew’s despair. Everyone had been up for days. The confrontation with the Sea Creature and the harrowing escape from the pirate ship, but the wounds left behind, both physical and psychological, had only deepened.
The Captain was making more of a show of himself, he stood at the rail, gazing out over the endless expanse of water. The salt wind tugged at his hair, and his eyes, shadowed with exhaustion, flicked over the deck where the crew moved sluggishly, their faces drawn with fatigue and fear. The Captain was rationing food and water and pressing everyone to repair the ship. It was clear that The Gamble was a ship on the edge. Supplies were dwindling, and the promise of land seemed as distant as ever. But it wasn’t just the state of the ship that concerned him—it was the state of the men.
Murmurs of discontent had been growing ever since they had to fight for their lives. The crew, already wary of the harsh command of the officers and the capricious moods of the captain, had begun to question their fate. Why were they risking their lives for a ship that seemed cursed? What cargo could be worth such danger? And why were the four mysterious mercenaries, pressed into service against their will, so determined to keep the ship afloat?
Knight One clenched his fists, feeling the rough wood of the railing bite into his palms. The time for waiting and watching was over. They needed to take control of this ship, or they would all go down with it.
He turned away from the rail, scanning the deck. Knight Two and Knight Four were at the bow, helping a group of crewmen repair the shattered foremast. Knight Three was by the galley, distributing what little food remained. The fifth man, as always, was lurking in the shadows near the mainmast, his gaze flicking from the crew to the officers and back again, a calculating glint in his eyes.
Knight One made his way over to his comrades, moving with purpose through the sluggish crowd. As he approached, Knight Two glanced up, his brow furrowing. “What’s the plan?” he asked quietly, sensing the resolve in Knight One’s posture.
“We need to make our move,” Knight One replied, his voice low but firm. “This ship is falling apart, and so are the men. They’re scared, angry. If we don’t take control, they’ll either turn on each other or jump overboard to take their chances with the sea.”
Knight Four, his hands raw from handling ropes and nails, straightened, his eyes narrowing. “You’re talking about a mutiny.”
“I am,” Knight One confirmed. “We take the ship. We get her to port—or at least somewhere safe. But we can’t do it alone. We need the crew with us.”
Knight Two nodded slowly. “How do we convince them? They’re afraid of the officers, and even more afraid of the captain.”
Knight One glanced around, ensuring they weren’t being overheard. “We start with those who’ve already shown signs of discontent. The ones who’ve questioned orders, who’ve spoken against the officers. We rally them quietly. If we can get a few key men on our side, the rest will follow.”
Knight Four looked thoughtful, then nodded. “And what about him?” He jerked his chin toward the man who had signaled the pirates and fired upon them, who was now watching them with a slight, knowing smile. “We can’t trust him.”
“No, but we can use him,” Knight One said grimly. “He’s been waiting for something. He knows more about this ship—and this crew—than he’s letting on.”
As if sensing their scrutiny, the Fifth Man sauntered over, his movements loose and unhurried. “Planning a little coup, are we?” he asked, his tone light but his eyes sharp. “You’ll need more than just grit and muscle to pull it off.”
Knight One’s gaze hardened. “And what do you suggest?”
The fifth man glanced around, then leaned in closer, lowering his voice. “The crew’s loyalty to the captain is already paper-thin. They follow because they fear him, not because they respect him. But fear only holds as long as there’s no alternative. Give them something—someone—to rally around, and they’ll turn in a heartbeat.”
“And what do you propose we offer them?” Knight Three asked, his skepticism clear.
The fifth man’s smile widened, but there was no warmth in it. “Information,” he said simply. “The captain’s been hiding something. You think this ship’s just carrying spices and silks? Think again. There’s a reason he’s pushing us so hard, why he’s willing to risk everything, even his crew’s lives.”
He paused, letting the words hang in the air like bait on a hook. Knight Four frowned, his curiosity piqued despite himself. “What are you talking about?”
The fifth man’s eyes gleamed. “There’s something in the hold, worth more than everything else on this ship combined. It’s hidden in a sealed crate, under false cargo labels. The captain plans to sell it at a secret port—a port that most of the crew doesn’t even know exists. It’s the reason we’re being driven so hard, why we’ve faced these dangers. He doesn’t care if half the crew dies, as long as he paid for what he delivers.”
The knights exchanged glances, the implications sinking in. If what the man said was true, it changed everything. The crew wasn’t just risking their lives for a cargo of luxury goods—they were being used as pawns in a dangerous, high-stakes game.
“Why tell us this?” Knight Three demanded, his voice tight with suspicion. “What do you get out of it?”
The Fifth Man shrugged, his expression inscrutable. “I have my reasons. Let’s just say I’m not fond of the captain’s, and I’m even less fond of being on a sinking ship. But I’m no fool. If you’re planning to take control, you need leverage. The secret is your leverage. Reveal the truth to the crew, and they’ll turn on the captain faster than you can blink.”
Knight One studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “Alright. But if you’re lying—”
The man interrupted smoothly. “You’ll find the crate in the lower hold, beneath the marked cargo. It’s guarded, of course, but I’m sure a few capable fellows like yourselves can handle that.”
Knight Two nodded.
Knight Four, “We’ll verify it. If it’s there, we move forward. If it’s not—”
“If it’s not, I’ll throw myself overboard,” the Man said with a mocking bow. “But it is. I’ll even help you get to it, if you like. Consider it a gesture of goodwill.”
Knight One turned to his comrades, his eyes steely. “We split up. Two and Three will verify the hold. Four and I will—start talking to the men. Quietly. Sound them out. If they know what’s really at stake, they’ll side with us.”
Knight Three nodded, his expression grim. “And the officers?”
“We avoid them for now,” Knight One said. “No need to tip our hand too early. We get the crew on our side first, then we deal with the rest.”
They moved with purpose, splitting up to carry out their tasks. Knight Three and Knight Two made their way to the lower decks, the sneaky man trailing behind them with an air of casual confidence.
The hold was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of salt and mildew. Knight Two and Knight Three moved cautiously among the rows of stacked crates and barrels, their footsteps muffled on the creaking wooden planks. Ahead, four guards stood watch near a stack of crates in the corner, their expressions guarded and suspicious.
Knight Three stepped forward, his demeanor calm and assured, masking the tension coiling beneath his skin. “Routine inspection,” he announced smoothly, his voice carrying an air of casual authority. “Orders from the captain. We’re to check all cargo.”
The guards exchanged wary glances. One of them, a tall man with a scar running down his cheek, narrowed his eyes. “Orders from the captain?” he repeated, his voice laced with doubt. “That’s not what we were told.”
Knight Three raised an eyebrow, maintaining his calm facade. “You weren’t told? Well, that’s hardly surprising, given the chaos on deck. He wanted this kept quiet. You know how the captain is.”
The scarred guard shifted, his hand moving to rest on the hilt of his cutlass. “Funny, that. Because the last orders we got from the captain were clear: no one goes near this crate but him. Anyone else tries, and he’ll have our hides.”
Knight Two stepped up beside Knight Three, his expression unreadable.
Knight Three, “Are you calling us liars?” His tone was soft, almost casual, but there was a dangerous edge to it.
The guards tensed, their hands tightening on their weapons. The scarred guard sneered, his eyes flicking over the knights. “I’m saying I don’t believe you. The captain don’t trust no one, least of all a bunch of new guys who shouldn’t even be down here.”
A tense silence settled over the hold, the only sound the faint creak of the ship’s timbers and the distant murmur of the sea. Knight Three glanced at Knight Two, then back at the guards, his muscles coiled and ready.
“This doesn’t have to get ugly,” Knight Three said quietly, his gaze steady. “We just need to check the cargo. Do your job, and we’ll do ours.”
The guards exchanged another glance, but it was clear they weren’t backing down. The scarred man’s hand tightened on his cutlass, and the other guards followed suit, their expressions hardening.
“Turn around,” the scarred guard growled, drawing his blade. “Now.”
Knight Three’s eyes narrowed, his voice dropping to a lethal calm. “You might want to rethink that.”
The guard barely had time to react before Knight Two moved. In a flash, he grabbed the man’s wrist, twisting it sharply. The guard cried out, his cutlass clattering to the floor. Knight Three sprang into action, drawing the sword from the floor and striking the second guard's throat with a swift, precise strike.
The second guard lunged at Knight Two, his blade flashing in the dim light. Knight Two sidestepped smoothly, his sword darting out to strike the man’s wrist. With a swift, brutal motion, he severed the guard’s arm against the edge of a crate. Blood sprayed everywhere.
The third guard hesitated, his eyes darting between his fallen comrades and the Knight Three. Knight Three turned toward him, his sword glinting ominously in the shadows.
“Drop it,” Knight Three ordered, his voice cold and commanding.
For a moment, it seemed the guard would comply. His grip loosened on his weapon, his gaze flicking nervously to the others. But then, with a defiant snarl, he raised his sword and charged.
Knight Two met him halfway, his blade a blur of motion. The guard’s attack faltered, his eyes widening as Knight Two’s sword sliced through his defenses, knocking him off balance. With a final, swift strike, Knight Two thrust his sword through his heart.
The guard staggered back, clutching his chest, his face twisted in pain and fear. He looked at his fallen comrades, then back at his killer, his chest gushing blood.
The fourth guard looked back and fourth between Knight Two and Knight Three. He dropped his sword and raised his arms.
Knight Three knelt and picked up the cutlasses, inspecting it briefly before tossing it aside.
“Well, that went about as well as expected,” he muttered, wiping a trickle of blood from his cheek.
Knight Two glanced at the remaining guard, then thrust his sword through his throat.
It was over with quick. Then he made sure the other men were dead.
He turned toward the stack of crates, his eyes narrowing. The crate they had been looking for was marked with a simple, unassuming symbol—a red triangle painted on the wood. Nothing about it stood out to the casual observer, but now, knowing what lay inside, it seemed to pulse with an ominous energy.
“Let’s see what the captain’s been hiding,” Knight Three murmured, stepping forward.
With a swift motion, Knight Two pried open the lid. Inside, nestled in layers of silk and padding, was nothing but more layers of silk.
Knight Three shook his head slowly. “Nothing worth killing for.”
He glanced back at Knight Two, his expression grim. “We've been played... No... Wait... Why were there four guards. Unless... Either something's here and we missed it. Or... The captain has it near him. The guard did say the captain doesn't trust anyone. This was a trick to distract thieves.”
He laughed.
"Looks like you can't trust anyone these days."
They returned to the deck, where Knight One and Knight Four were already whispering with a small group of crewmen. The men’s faces were tight with anger, their eyes flashing with barely restrained fury. As Knight One approached, one of them, a burly, scarred sailor named Mullen, stepped forward.
“Is it true?” Mullen demanded, his voice shaking. “The captain’s got us risking our necks for some score we'll got none of?”
“It’s true,” Knight One confirmed. “We saw it ourselves. He plans to sell it at a secret port, make himself rich while we die for nothing.”
A ripple of anger passed through the gathered men. Another sailor, a wiry man named Keefe, spat on the deck. “Bastard. We’ve lost good men already, and for what? So he can line his pockets?”
“We don’t have to take this,” Mullen growled. “We take the ship and sell it ourselves.”
Knight One raised a hand, silencing the murmurs. “We take the captain and his officers, secure the ship, and set a course for the nearest port. Everyone gets their fair share.”
The men nodded, their faces hard with determination. The mood had shifted, the fear and uncertainty replaced by a cold, focused resolve.
“Are you with us?” Knight One asked, his voice clear and steady.
A chorus of affirmations rose from the crew, their voices strong and united. The mutiny had begun.
As they moved to put the plan into action, Knight One glanced back at the fifth man, who was watching the scene unfold with a satisfied smile.
“This is far from over,” Knight One murmured, his eyes narrowing. “We still don’t know your angle.”
The fifth man’s smile widened, but he said nothing, his gaze drifting to the horizon where dark clouds were beginning to gather once more.
“No, it’s not over,” he said softly. “Not by a long shot.”
The ship, battered and wounded, sailed on into the gathering dusk, the crew preparing for the battle to come. Mutiny was in the air, a dangerous, intoxicating promise of freedom—and a reckoning that could either save them all, or doom them to the depths.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
The Captain’s Justice
The deck of The Gamble was eerily silent, the usual hum of activity replaced by an oppressive tension. The crew stood in uneasy clusters, their eyes darting toward the quarterdeck where the captain, flanked by his first officer and a squad of grim-faced Marines, stood in a circle of lantern light. The air was thick with the salty tang of the sea and the sour stench of fear.
Suspended from the yardarm, a sailor dangled, his body swaying gently in the breeze. His face, already turning a sickly shade of purple, was twisted in agony, his eyes bulging as he struggled to draw breath. His feet kicked weakly, scraping against the rough wood of the mast, but there was no purchase to be found, only the merciless grip of the noose tightening around his throat.
Captain Thorne surveyed the scene with a cold, dispassionate gaze. He was a tall, imposing figure, his face weathered and harsh beneath the brim of his black tricorn hat. His eyes, dark and unyielding, swept over the assembled crew, lingering on each man long enough to send shivers down their spines. He was a man who commanded fear, and fear was what he intended to sow.
“Look at him,” Thorne said, his voice carrying across the deck with an almost casual cruelty. “This is what happens to traitors. To those who think they can whisper and plot behind my back.”
He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his boots thudding heavily on the planks. The crew shifted nervously, their eyes flicking from the captain to the sailor twisting on the rope above them. The man’s gasping breaths were faint, barely audible over the creaking of the rigging and the gentle lap of waves against the hull.
“I’ve heard the talk,” Thorne continued, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. “Whispers of discontent, of mutiny.” He spat the word with disdain. “You think you can rise up against me? Take this ship and sail off into the sunset, free men with your pockets lined with gold?”
His eyes narrowed, a cruel smile twisting his lips. “Let me make one thing perfectly clear. This ship is mine. Every plank, every sail, every nail—and every one of you. I will not have my command challenged by a bunch of worthless scum.”
The first officer, a gaunt, sharp-featured man named Merrick, stepped forward, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. “Captain,” he said, his voice thin and reedy, “this man has been implicated in the conspiracy. He was caught spreading sedition among the crew.”
He gestured to the hanging sailor, who let out a faint, strangled whimper. “We found him with a group of men, talking treason.”
Thorne’s smile widened, his eyes glittering with dark amusement. “Is that so?” He turned his gaze back to the hanging man, tilting his head slightly. “Well, it seems you’ve found yourself in quite a predicament, haven’t you?”
He raised his voice, addressing the crew. “This man is a traitor. A mutineer. And this is what happens to those who would defy me.” He gestured to the noose. “He’ll hang there until he’s ready to talk. It might take hours. It might take days. But make no mistake—he will talk.”
The man let out a faint, choked sob, his feet jerking feebly in the air. The crew watched in horrified silence, a few men looking away, their faces pale and drawn. The Marines, rifles at the ready, stood like statues, their expressions blank and impassive.
Thorne chuckled softly, the sound devoid of humor. “A good hanging is good for morale,” he said, his voice almost jovial. “Reminds everyone who’s in charge. Who holds the power.”
He paced slowly along the line of men, his eyes glittering with a predatory gleam. “You see, I don’t need your loyalty. I don’t need your love. I don’t even need your respect. All I need is your obedience. And this—” He jabbed a finger toward the hanging man. “This is what happens to those who forget that.”
He stopped in front of one of the crewmen, a young man who was visibly shaking, his hands clutched white-knuckled at his sides. “Do you understand me?” Thorne asked, his voice soft but dripping with menace.
The young sailor nodded frantically, his eyes wide with terror. “Y-yes, Captain.”
Thorne smiled, a slow, cruel smile that never reached his eyes. “Good. I’m glad we’re all clear.”
He turned back to the first officer. “Lower him down just a bit, Merrick. Let’s see if a little relief loosens his tongue.”
Merrick nodded curtly and gestured to the Marines. One of them moved to the winch and cranked it a notch, lowering the sailor a few inches. His boots scraped the deck, his legs buckling as he struggled to support his weight and gasp for breath. His face, still contorted with pain, flushed a deep red as he gulped air, coughing and sputtering.
Thorne approached the man, his gaze cold and merciless. “Now,” he said softly, “let’s try this again. Who else is involved?”
The sailor, his voice raw and broken, managed a faint, pitiful moan. He shook his head weakly, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“I—I don’t—” he gasped, his words barely coherent. “I don’t know—I swear, I didn’t—please…”
Thorne’s smile vanished, his expression turning hard. “I don’t have time for lies,” he said sharply. “Every man on this deck is going to watch you hang until you tell me the names of every traitor on this ship.”
He nodded to Merrick, who signaled the Marine at the winch. The man began to turn the crank again, slowly raising the sailor back into the air. His choked cries echoed over the deck, mingling with the tense, heavy silence of the crew.
“Talk, you bastard!” one of the guards snarled, his face twisted with rage. “Talk, or we’ll string you up for good!”
But the sailor, his face now a mottled, purplish hue, only let out a strangled sob, his body convulsing as he dangled from the noose.
“Enough,” Thorne said, his voice calm but commanding. The winch stopped, leaving the sailor hanging just a few inches off the deck, his toes barely brushing the wood.
The captain turned back to the crew, his eyes sweeping over them with cold, clinical precision. “This man will hang here until he talks. It could be hours, or it could be days. But he will talk. And when he does, I will know every name, every face of the traitors among you.”
His voice dropped to a low, menacing growl. “And when I do, I will make an example of every last one of you.”
He gestured to the Marines, who stepped forward, their rifles gleaming in the lantern light. “If any of you have something to say, now is the time. If you know of any mutiny, any plot, speak up. You might just save yourself a noose.”
Silence reigned over the deck, the crew exchanging fearful, uncertain glances. No one spoke. No one moved.
Thorne’s smile returned, a cold, satisfied curl of his lips. “Good,” he said softly. “Very good.”
He turned on his heel and strode back to the quarterdeck, Merrick and the Marines following in his wake. The crew watched them go, their eyes flicking back to the hanging man, his faint, desperate gasps a haunting counterpoint to the captain’s departing footsteps.
“Back to work!” one of the Marines barked, his voice sharp and harsh. “Unless you want to join him up there!”
Slowly, reluctantly, the crew dispersed, their movements stiff and jerky. But as they returned to their duties, the air was thick with a simmering, unspoken rage—a rage that smoldered beneath their fear, waiting for the right moment to ignite.
And as Knight One watched from the shadows, his jaw clenched tight, he knew one thing for certain: the captain’s show of force had not quelled the mutiny. It had only made it inevitable.
---
The Keelhauling
The sun hung high and merciless in the sky, casting its harsh light over The Gamble. The air was thick with tension, the deck crowded with anxious, tight-lipped sailors. At the center of it all, the first officer, Merrick, stood beside the hanged man, who now lay crumpled on the deck, gasping for breath, his body trembling from the brutal ordeal.
Captain Thorne watched from the quarterdeck, his face a mask of cold satisfaction. He leaned casually against the railing, his eyes fixed on the trembling figure of the hanged sailor, who was now shakily getting to his feet, his eyes wild with fear and desperation. The captain’s voice cut through the oppressive silence like a blade.
“Speak,” Thorne commanded, his tone calm but laced with menace. “You’ve got a chance to save your miserable life. Tell me—who are the traitors among us?”
The man, his voice hoarse and broken, swallowed painfully. He swayed unsteadily, his knees threatening to give out beneath him. Slowly, his hand lifted, trembling as he pointed a shaking finger at a group of crew members huddled near the mast.
“Th-they were—” he began, his voice cracking. “They were talking about… about taking the ship. Mullen… Keefe… R-red Jack… They were all in on it!”
Gasps rippled through the crowd as the named men stiffened, their faces blanching with shock and horror. Mullen, a burly sailor with a deep scar across his face, stepped forward, his fists clenched. “You lying bastard!” he snarled, his voice thick with rage. “I never—”
“Silence!” Merrick barked, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. The first officer’s gaze was like a hawk’s, cold and unyielding. “You’ll have your turn, Mullen. We’re not done yet.”
The hanged man turned, his accusing finger swinging toward another group. “Them too!” he croaked, his voice gaining strength as he sensed the captain’s approval. “They were with ‘em! They were planning to kill you, Captain! Take the ship and run!”
Knight One, felt a cold fury rise in his chest. He exchanged a sharp glance with Knight Two, who stood tense and defiant, his eyes blazing with barely suppressed anger. Knight Three’s face was a mask of cold determination, his jaw set as he stared down the snitch.
“I’ve heard enough,” Captain Thorne said, his voice carrying a cruel, almost playful tone. “It seems we have quite the little nest of vipers on board.”
He turned to the assembled crew, his gaze sweeping over them. “Traitors and mutineers,” he said softly, “deserve no mercy.”
He raised his hand, gesturing to the Marines stationed nearby. “Seize them.”
The Marines moved forward, rough hands grabbing Mullen, Keefe, and the other accused crew members. The men struggled, shouting protests, but the Marines were relentless, dragging them to the center of the deck and forcing them to their knees. The crowd murmured uneasily, but no one dared step forward to help.
“Bring the new guys, too,” Thorne ordered, his eyes locking onto the knights. “They’ve been a thorn in my side from the beginning.”
The Marines hesitated, their expressions uncertain. “Captain, these men are—”
“Do you need to be reminded who gives the orders on this ship?” Thorne’s voice was dangerously soft.
“No, Captain,” one of the Marines stammered. “Right away.”
They moved toward the knights, their grips firm but cautious. The knights exchanged quick glances. There was no point in fighting now; it would only give the captain more reason to single them out. Reluctantly, they allowed themselves to be bound and brought forward, joining the accused sailors.
The fifth man stood to the side, watching the scene unfold with an inscrutable expression. His eyes met Knight One’s for a brief moment, and there was something almost... in his gaze—before he blending into the shadows.
Captain Thorne stepped down from the quarterdeck, his boots striking the planks with a deliberate, menacing rhythm. He stopped in front of the bound men, his gaze sweeping over them with cold disdain.
“Keelhauling,” he said softly, savoring the word. The crew stirred uneasily, fear rippling through them. “A fitting punishment for mutineers and liars. We’ll see how brave you are after a trip under the hull, hmm?”
Mullen spat on the deck, his eyes blazing with defiance. “You’re a coward, Thorne,” he growled, his voice thick with contempt. “You’ll get yours, mark my words.”
Thorne’s smile widened, but there was no humor in it. “Bold words, Mullen. Let’s see if you’re still talking when we haul you back up.”
He turned to the Marines. “Prepare them.”
The crew watched in tense, horrified silence as ropes were brought out and tied around the wrists and ankles of the accused men. The end of each rope was looped through the rigging, stretching out over the side of the ship. The knights stood silent, their faces grim as they felt the coarse hemp biting into their skin.
Knight One glanced at Knight Two and Three. “Stay calm,” he muttered. “We’ll get through this.”
Knight Two nodded tightly, his eyes flicking to the captain.
“Not if we drown first,” Knight Three muttered, his voice laced with bitter humor.
With a sharp gesture from Thorne, the first man was pushed to the railing. Mullen glared at the captain, his face twisted with rage and fear, but he held his head high.
“Take him under,” Thorne ordered, his voice flat.
The Marines heaved on the ropes, and Mullen was lifted over the side, his body swinging out above the water. The crew leaned forward, watching in horrified fascination as Mullen was lowered, his feet touching the surface of the sea. Then, with a sudden, violent motion, he was yanked downward, disappearing beneath the waves.
A tense silence hung over the deck as the seconds dragged on. The only sound was the creaking of the rigging and the faint, rhythmic splash of the water against the hull. Then, slowly, agonizingly, the Marines began to pull the rope, dragging Mullen’s body along the length of the ship’s hull.
The men on deck could only imagine the horror he was enduring—the sharp barnacles scraping at his flesh, the cold, suffocating darkness, the crushing weight of the sea. The rope strained and jerked as Mullen’s body was hauled beneath the keel, and then, after what seemed like an eternity, he reappeared on the opposite side of the ship.
His body was a bloodied, broken mess, his skin shredded by the barnacles, his face contorted in agony. The crew watched in horrified silence as he was hauled back onto the deck, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. He lay there, coughing and trembling, his eyes wide and unfocused.
“Next,” Thorne said coolly, his gaze turning to the other accused sailors.
Keefe was next, then Red Jack, each one enduring the same brutal ordeal. By the time the third man was dragged back onto the deck, barely conscious and bleeding, the crew’s fear had turned to a simmering rage. Murmurs of anger rippled through them, but no one dared speak out, their eyes fixed on the captain’s impassive face.
Finally, it was the knights’ turn. Knight Four was dragged to the railing first, his hands and feet bound tightly. He looked back at Knight One and Knight Two, his face pale but resolute.
“See you on the other side,” he said, his voice a strained whisper. Then he was heaved over the side, his body plunging into the sea.
The water was freezing, the shock of it stealing his breath, the cold water closing over his head like a shroud.. He felt the rope go taut, pulling him downward, the dark shape of the hull looming above him like a nightmare. The barnacles scraped at his skin, tearing at his clothes, but he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to keep his mouth closed, his lungs burning with the need for air.
The seconds stretched into an eternity. His vision blurred, spots dancing before his eyes. He felt himself weakening, the pain and the cold and the lack of air combining into a dizzying, all-consuming agony. Just as he thought he couldn’t hold on any longer, the rope jerked, and he was yanked upward, his head breaking the surface.
He was dragged back onto the deck, gasping and shivering, blood streaming from a dozen cuts and scrapes. He could hear the crew’s murmurs, the horrified gasps, but his vision was swimming, his mind a fog of pain and exhaustion.
Then it was Knight Three’s turn. He turned on his psionic power of Impervious to Cold and acted the ordeal out with the same grim determination, his face pale and set as he was lowered into the sea. The crew watched in stunned silence as he was dragged under, the tension on the deck almost unbearable.
When he was pulled back up, his body bruised and bleeding, the crew shifted uneasily, their eyes flicking toward the captain. They could sense something changing, a dark, simmering fury building beneath the surface.
Finally, Knight One was brought forward. His eyes locked with Captain Thorne’s, a silent promise passing between them. Thorne’s smile was cold, his eyes gleaming with sadistic pleasure.
“Take him under,” he ordered.
Knight One was lifted over the side. He felt the rope go taut, the barnacles biting into his flesh as he was dragged along the length of the hull. He forced himself to stay calm, to keep his mind focused, even as the pain and the darkness closed in around him.
Then, just as his lungs were about to burst, he was pulled upward, the bright light of the sun blinding him as he broke the surface. He was hauled onto the deck, his body a mass of cuts and bruises, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
He lay there for a moment, his vision swimming, the taste of salt and blood thick in his mouth. Then, slowly, he pushed himself up, his eyes locking on Captain Thorne’s.
The captain’s smile faded, his eyes narrowing. “It seems you’re tougher than you look,” he said softly.
Knight One struggled to his feet, his body trembling with pain and exhaustion, but his gaze never wavered.
A murmur of agreement rippled through the crew, their faces hardening with anger and defiance. The captain’s eyes flicked over them, and for the first time, a shadow of doubt crossed his face.
Merrick stepped forward, his hand on his sword. “Captain, perhaps we should—”
“Enough!” Thorne snapped, his voice sharp and cutting. He turned to the crew, his face twisted with rage. “Anyone else want to test my patience?”
The crew fell silent, their eyes dropping, but the tension remained, a heavy, dangerous undercurrent that crackled in the air.
Thorne turned back to the knights, his gaze cold. “Get them below,” he ordered. “Throw them in the brig. Let them rot.”
The Marines moved forward, grabbing the knights and dragging them toward the hatch. Knight One didn’t resist, his body too weak, but his mind was clear, his resolve stronger than ever.
As he was shoved into the darkness of the hold, he caught a glimpse of the fifth man watching from the shadows, his face unreadable.
Then the hatch slammed shut, plunging him into darkness.
The keelhauling had left its mark, but it had also lit a fire. The crew had seen the cruelty of the captain, had felt the lash of his wrath.
The mutiny was coming, and this time, there would be no turning back.
The deck of The Gamble was eerily silent, the usual hum of activity replaced by an oppressive tension. The crew stood in uneasy clusters, their eyes darting toward the quarterdeck where the captain, flanked by his first officer and a squad of grim-faced Marines, stood in a circle of lantern light. The air was thick with the salty tang of the sea and the sour stench of fear.
Suspended from the yardarm, a sailor dangled, his body swaying gently in the breeze. His face, already turning a sickly shade of purple, was twisted in agony, his eyes bulging as he struggled to draw breath. His feet kicked weakly, scraping against the rough wood of the mast, but there was no purchase to be found, only the merciless grip of the noose tightening around his throat.
Captain Thorne surveyed the scene with a cold, dispassionate gaze. He was a tall, imposing figure, his face weathered and harsh beneath the brim of his black tricorn hat. His eyes, dark and unyielding, swept over the assembled crew, lingering on each man long enough to send shivers down their spines. He was a man who commanded fear, and fear was what he intended to sow.
“Look at him,” Thorne said, his voice carrying across the deck with an almost casual cruelty. “This is what happens to traitors. To those who think they can whisper and plot behind my back.”
He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his boots thudding heavily on the planks. The crew shifted nervously, their eyes flicking from the captain to the sailor twisting on the rope above them. The man’s gasping breaths were faint, barely audible over the creaking of the rigging and the gentle lap of waves against the hull.
“I’ve heard the talk,” Thorne continued, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. “Whispers of discontent, of mutiny.” He spat the word with disdain. “You think you can rise up against me? Take this ship and sail off into the sunset, free men with your pockets lined with gold?”
His eyes narrowed, a cruel smile twisting his lips. “Let me make one thing perfectly clear. This ship is mine. Every plank, every sail, every nail—and every one of you. I will not have my command challenged by a bunch of worthless scum.”
The first officer, a gaunt, sharp-featured man named Merrick, stepped forward, his hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword. “Captain,” he said, his voice thin and reedy, “this man has been implicated in the conspiracy. He was caught spreading sedition among the crew.”
He gestured to the hanging sailor, who let out a faint, strangled whimper. “We found him with a group of men, talking treason.”
Thorne’s smile widened, his eyes glittering with dark amusement. “Is that so?” He turned his gaze back to the hanging man, tilting his head slightly. “Well, it seems you’ve found yourself in quite a predicament, haven’t you?”
He raised his voice, addressing the crew. “This man is a traitor. A mutineer. And this is what happens to those who would defy me.” He gestured to the noose. “He’ll hang there until he’s ready to talk. It might take hours. It might take days. But make no mistake—he will talk.”
The man let out a faint, choked sob, his feet jerking feebly in the air. The crew watched in horrified silence, a few men looking away, their faces pale and drawn. The Marines, rifles at the ready, stood like statues, their expressions blank and impassive.
Thorne chuckled softly, the sound devoid of humor. “A good hanging is good for morale,” he said, his voice almost jovial. “Reminds everyone who’s in charge. Who holds the power.”
He paced slowly along the line of men, his eyes glittering with a predatory gleam. “You see, I don’t need your loyalty. I don’t need your love. I don’t even need your respect. All I need is your obedience. And this—” He jabbed a finger toward the hanging man. “This is what happens to those who forget that.”
He stopped in front of one of the crewmen, a young man who was visibly shaking, his hands clutched white-knuckled at his sides. “Do you understand me?” Thorne asked, his voice soft but dripping with menace.
The young sailor nodded frantically, his eyes wide with terror. “Y-yes, Captain.”
Thorne smiled, a slow, cruel smile that never reached his eyes. “Good. I’m glad we’re all clear.”
He turned back to the first officer. “Lower him down just a bit, Merrick. Let’s see if a little relief loosens his tongue.”
Merrick nodded curtly and gestured to the Marines. One of them moved to the winch and cranked it a notch, lowering the sailor a few inches. His boots scraped the deck, his legs buckling as he struggled to support his weight and gasp for breath. His face, still contorted with pain, flushed a deep red as he gulped air, coughing and sputtering.
Thorne approached the man, his gaze cold and merciless. “Now,” he said softly, “let’s try this again. Who else is involved?”
The sailor, his voice raw and broken, managed a faint, pitiful moan. He shook his head weakly, tears streaming down his cheeks.
“I—I don’t—” he gasped, his words barely coherent. “I don’t know—I swear, I didn’t—please…”
Thorne’s smile vanished, his expression turning hard. “I don’t have time for lies,” he said sharply. “Every man on this deck is going to watch you hang until you tell me the names of every traitor on this ship.”
He nodded to Merrick, who signaled the Marine at the winch. The man began to turn the crank again, slowly raising the sailor back into the air. His choked cries echoed over the deck, mingling with the tense, heavy silence of the crew.
“Talk, you bastard!” one of the guards snarled, his face twisted with rage. “Talk, or we’ll string you up for good!”
But the sailor, his face now a mottled, purplish hue, only let out a strangled sob, his body convulsing as he dangled from the noose.
“Enough,” Thorne said, his voice calm but commanding. The winch stopped, leaving the sailor hanging just a few inches off the deck, his toes barely brushing the wood.
The captain turned back to the crew, his eyes sweeping over them with cold, clinical precision. “This man will hang here until he talks. It could be hours, or it could be days. But he will talk. And when he does, I will know every name, every face of the traitors among you.”
His voice dropped to a low, menacing growl. “And when I do, I will make an example of every last one of you.”
He gestured to the Marines, who stepped forward, their rifles gleaming in the lantern light. “If any of you have something to say, now is the time. If you know of any mutiny, any plot, speak up. You might just save yourself a noose.”
Silence reigned over the deck, the crew exchanging fearful, uncertain glances. No one spoke. No one moved.
Thorne’s smile returned, a cold, satisfied curl of his lips. “Good,” he said softly. “Very good.”
He turned on his heel and strode back to the quarterdeck, Merrick and the Marines following in his wake. The crew watched them go, their eyes flicking back to the hanging man, his faint, desperate gasps a haunting counterpoint to the captain’s departing footsteps.
“Back to work!” one of the Marines barked, his voice sharp and harsh. “Unless you want to join him up there!”
Slowly, reluctantly, the crew dispersed, their movements stiff and jerky. But as they returned to their duties, the air was thick with a simmering, unspoken rage—a rage that smoldered beneath their fear, waiting for the right moment to ignite.
And as Knight One watched from the shadows, his jaw clenched tight, he knew one thing for certain: the captain’s show of force had not quelled the mutiny. It had only made it inevitable.
---
The Keelhauling
The sun hung high and merciless in the sky, casting its harsh light over The Gamble. The air was thick with tension, the deck crowded with anxious, tight-lipped sailors. At the center of it all, the first officer, Merrick, stood beside the hanged man, who now lay crumpled on the deck, gasping for breath, his body trembling from the brutal ordeal.
Captain Thorne watched from the quarterdeck, his face a mask of cold satisfaction. He leaned casually against the railing, his eyes fixed on the trembling figure of the hanged sailor, who was now shakily getting to his feet, his eyes wild with fear and desperation. The captain’s voice cut through the oppressive silence like a blade.
“Speak,” Thorne commanded, his tone calm but laced with menace. “You’ve got a chance to save your miserable life. Tell me—who are the traitors among us?”
The man, his voice hoarse and broken, swallowed painfully. He swayed unsteadily, his knees threatening to give out beneath him. Slowly, his hand lifted, trembling as he pointed a shaking finger at a group of crew members huddled near the mast.
“Th-they were—” he began, his voice cracking. “They were talking about… about taking the ship. Mullen… Keefe… R-red Jack… They were all in on it!”
Gasps rippled through the crowd as the named men stiffened, their faces blanching with shock and horror. Mullen, a burly sailor with a deep scar across his face, stepped forward, his fists clenched. “You lying bastard!” he snarled, his voice thick with rage. “I never—”
“Silence!” Merrick barked, his hand dropping to the hilt of his sword. The first officer’s gaze was like a hawk’s, cold and unyielding. “You’ll have your turn, Mullen. We’re not done yet.”
The hanged man turned, his accusing finger swinging toward another group. “Them too!” he croaked, his voice gaining strength as he sensed the captain’s approval. “They were with ‘em! They were planning to kill you, Captain! Take the ship and run!”
Knight One, felt a cold fury rise in his chest. He exchanged a sharp glance with Knight Two, who stood tense and defiant, his eyes blazing with barely suppressed anger. Knight Three’s face was a mask of cold determination, his jaw set as he stared down the snitch.
“I’ve heard enough,” Captain Thorne said, his voice carrying a cruel, almost playful tone. “It seems we have quite the little nest of vipers on board.”
He turned to the assembled crew, his gaze sweeping over them. “Traitors and mutineers,” he said softly, “deserve no mercy.”
He raised his hand, gesturing to the Marines stationed nearby. “Seize them.”
The Marines moved forward, rough hands grabbing Mullen, Keefe, and the other accused crew members. The men struggled, shouting protests, but the Marines were relentless, dragging them to the center of the deck and forcing them to their knees. The crowd murmured uneasily, but no one dared step forward to help.
“Bring the new guys, too,” Thorne ordered, his eyes locking onto the knights. “They’ve been a thorn in my side from the beginning.”
The Marines hesitated, their expressions uncertain. “Captain, these men are—”
“Do you need to be reminded who gives the orders on this ship?” Thorne’s voice was dangerously soft.
“No, Captain,” one of the Marines stammered. “Right away.”
They moved toward the knights, their grips firm but cautious. The knights exchanged quick glances. There was no point in fighting now; it would only give the captain more reason to single them out. Reluctantly, they allowed themselves to be bound and brought forward, joining the accused sailors.
The fifth man stood to the side, watching the scene unfold with an inscrutable expression. His eyes met Knight One’s for a brief moment, and there was something almost... in his gaze—before he blending into the shadows.
Captain Thorne stepped down from the quarterdeck, his boots striking the planks with a deliberate, menacing rhythm. He stopped in front of the bound men, his gaze sweeping over them with cold disdain.
“Keelhauling,” he said softly, savoring the word. The crew stirred uneasily, fear rippling through them. “A fitting punishment for mutineers and liars. We’ll see how brave you are after a trip under the hull, hmm?”
Mullen spat on the deck, his eyes blazing with defiance. “You’re a coward, Thorne,” he growled, his voice thick with contempt. “You’ll get yours, mark my words.”
Thorne’s smile widened, but there was no humor in it. “Bold words, Mullen. Let’s see if you’re still talking when we haul you back up.”
He turned to the Marines. “Prepare them.”
The crew watched in tense, horrified silence as ropes were brought out and tied around the wrists and ankles of the accused men. The end of each rope was looped through the rigging, stretching out over the side of the ship. The knights stood silent, their faces grim as they felt the coarse hemp biting into their skin.
Knight One glanced at Knight Two and Three. “Stay calm,” he muttered. “We’ll get through this.”
Knight Two nodded tightly, his eyes flicking to the captain.
“Not if we drown first,” Knight Three muttered, his voice laced with bitter humor.
With a sharp gesture from Thorne, the first man was pushed to the railing. Mullen glared at the captain, his face twisted with rage and fear, but he held his head high.
“Take him under,” Thorne ordered, his voice flat.
The Marines heaved on the ropes, and Mullen was lifted over the side, his body swinging out above the water. The crew leaned forward, watching in horrified fascination as Mullen was lowered, his feet touching the surface of the sea. Then, with a sudden, violent motion, he was yanked downward, disappearing beneath the waves.
A tense silence hung over the deck as the seconds dragged on. The only sound was the creaking of the rigging and the faint, rhythmic splash of the water against the hull. Then, slowly, agonizingly, the Marines began to pull the rope, dragging Mullen’s body along the length of the ship’s hull.
The men on deck could only imagine the horror he was enduring—the sharp barnacles scraping at his flesh, the cold, suffocating darkness, the crushing weight of the sea. The rope strained and jerked as Mullen’s body was hauled beneath the keel, and then, after what seemed like an eternity, he reappeared on the opposite side of the ship.
His body was a bloodied, broken mess, his skin shredded by the barnacles, his face contorted in agony. The crew watched in horrified silence as he was hauled back onto the deck, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. He lay there, coughing and trembling, his eyes wide and unfocused.
“Next,” Thorne said coolly, his gaze turning to the other accused sailors.
Keefe was next, then Red Jack, each one enduring the same brutal ordeal. By the time the third man was dragged back onto the deck, barely conscious and bleeding, the crew’s fear had turned to a simmering rage. Murmurs of anger rippled through them, but no one dared speak out, their eyes fixed on the captain’s impassive face.
Finally, it was the knights’ turn. Knight Four was dragged to the railing first, his hands and feet bound tightly. He looked back at Knight One and Knight Two, his face pale but resolute.
“See you on the other side,” he said, his voice a strained whisper. Then he was heaved over the side, his body plunging into the sea.
The water was freezing, the shock of it stealing his breath, the cold water closing over his head like a shroud.. He felt the rope go taut, pulling him downward, the dark shape of the hull looming above him like a nightmare. The barnacles scraped at his skin, tearing at his clothes, but he gritted his teeth, forcing himself to keep his mouth closed, his lungs burning with the need for air.
The seconds stretched into an eternity. His vision blurred, spots dancing before his eyes. He felt himself weakening, the pain and the cold and the lack of air combining into a dizzying, all-consuming agony. Just as he thought he couldn’t hold on any longer, the rope jerked, and he was yanked upward, his head breaking the surface.
He was dragged back onto the deck, gasping and shivering, blood streaming from a dozen cuts and scrapes. He could hear the crew’s murmurs, the horrified gasps, but his vision was swimming, his mind a fog of pain and exhaustion.
Then it was Knight Three’s turn. He turned on his psionic power of Impervious to Cold and acted the ordeal out with the same grim determination, his face pale and set as he was lowered into the sea. The crew watched in stunned silence as he was dragged under, the tension on the deck almost unbearable.
When he was pulled back up, his body bruised and bleeding, the crew shifted uneasily, their eyes flicking toward the captain. They could sense something changing, a dark, simmering fury building beneath the surface.
Finally, Knight One was brought forward. His eyes locked with Captain Thorne’s, a silent promise passing between them. Thorne’s smile was cold, his eyes gleaming with sadistic pleasure.
“Take him under,” he ordered.
Knight One was lifted over the side. He felt the rope go taut, the barnacles biting into his flesh as he was dragged along the length of the hull. He forced himself to stay calm, to keep his mind focused, even as the pain and the darkness closed in around him.
Then, just as his lungs were about to burst, he was pulled upward, the bright light of the sun blinding him as he broke the surface. He was hauled onto the deck, his body a mass of cuts and bruises, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
He lay there for a moment, his vision swimming, the taste of salt and blood thick in his mouth. Then, slowly, he pushed himself up, his eyes locking on Captain Thorne’s.
The captain’s smile faded, his eyes narrowing. “It seems you’re tougher than you look,” he said softly.
Knight One struggled to his feet, his body trembling with pain and exhaustion, but his gaze never wavered.
A murmur of agreement rippled through the crew, their faces hardening with anger and defiance. The captain’s eyes flicked over them, and for the first time, a shadow of doubt crossed his face.
Merrick stepped forward, his hand on his sword. “Captain, perhaps we should—”
“Enough!” Thorne snapped, his voice sharp and cutting. He turned to the crew, his face twisted with rage. “Anyone else want to test my patience?”
The crew fell silent, their eyes dropping, but the tension remained, a heavy, dangerous undercurrent that crackled in the air.
Thorne turned back to the knights, his gaze cold. “Get them below,” he ordered. “Throw them in the brig. Let them rot.”
The Marines moved forward, grabbing the knights and dragging them toward the hatch. Knight One didn’t resist, his body too weak, but his mind was clear, his resolve stronger than ever.
As he was shoved into the darkness of the hold, he caught a glimpse of the fifth man watching from the shadows, his face unreadable.
Then the hatch slammed shut, plunging him into darkness.
The keelhauling had left its mark, but it had also lit a fire. The crew had seen the cruelty of the captain, had felt the lash of his wrath.
The mutiny was coming, and this time, there would be no turning back.
-
darthauthor
- Champion
- Posts: 1914
- Joined: Sun Jan 05, 2020 8:55 pm
Re: Mystic Knight Merc Squad
Location: The Brig
The darkness of the brig was thick and oppressive, the air damp and stifling. The knights, still sprawled on the cold, hard floor, stirred fitfully, their sleep troubled by a growing sense of unease. It was Knight Three who awoke first, a deep, wrenching cough tearing through his chest and jolting him upright. He doubled over, clutching his ribs as the fit racked his body, the sound echoing harshly in the confined space.
He gasped, his voice raw and strained. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grimaced at the smear of blood on his skin. His breath came in ragged, shallow bursts, and he shivered uncontrollably, a bone-deep chill spreading through his limbs.
Knight One was next, his eyes fluttering open as a wave of nausea washed over him. He tried to sit up, but his head spun violently, the world tilting around him in dizzying, disorienting spirals. He pressed a hand to his forehead, feeling the feverish heat radiating from his skin.
“Something’s… wrong,” he muttered, his voice barely a whisper. He looked around, his gaze bleary and unfocused, and saw Knight Two and Knight Four still lying motionless beside him. “Wake up,” he rasped, reaching out to shake Knight Two’s shoulder. “Something’s not right.”
Knight Two stirred sluggishly, his eyes opening just a crack. His face was pale, beads of sweat glistening on his brow. “I feel… like I’ve been poisoned,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. He tried to sit up, but his arms trembled violently, and he collapsed back against the wall, his breath coming in shallow, labored gasps.
Knight Four groaned softly, his eyes squeezed shut as if trying to block out the pain lancing through his head. “My head… feels like it’s splitting open,” he mumbled, his voice thick and slurred. He rolled onto his side, curling into himself, his whole body trembling as if gripped by a fever.
Knight One swallowed hard, the bitter taste of bile rising in his throat. He forced himself to take a deep, steadying breath, trying to clear the fog that clouded his mind. “We’re sick,” he said, his voice strained but firm. “Something we picked up from the crew—or maybe the water during the storm.”
Knight Three let out a low, humorless laugh that turned into another harsh, rattling cough. “Of course we are,” he muttered, his voice laced with bitter irony. “As if being keelhauled and thrown in the brig wasn’t enough.”
Knight One ignored the comment, his mind racing. He knew their bodies were strong, but whatever this was, it was eating away at them quickly. Their limbs felt leaden, their thoughts sluggish, their energy sapped by the relentless waves of nausea, fever, and pain.
He struggled to his knees, every movement sending a fresh wave of dizziness through his head. “I’m going to try something,” he said, his voice tight with concentration. “A cleansing spell. And Cure Illness. It should purge whatever’s making us sick.”
Knight Two nodded weakly, his face a mask of pain. “Do it,” he whispered.
Knight One closed his eyes, forcing himself to focus past the pounding in his skull and the rolling nausea in his gut. He raised his hands, his fingers trembling as he summoned the energy from deep within himself. The familiar warmth of magic flickered at the edges of his consciousness, hesitant and fragile, but he reached for it, drawing it up, shaping it with sheer force of will.
A faint, shimmering light began to form around his hands, growing brighter and more intense as he poured his strength into the incantation.
The light flared, filling the cramped confines of the cell with a warm, golden glow. He felt the magic surge through him, a rush of energy that pushed back the darkness clouding his mind, driving out the sickness that clung to his body.
The light spread out from his hands, enveloping his comrades in its gentle, healing warmth. Knight Two gasped, his eyes widening as the fevered flush began to fade from his cheeks. Knight Four let out a low, shuddering breath, his body relaxing as the pain in his head ebbed away. Knight Three’s coughing subsided, his breath coming more easily, the tightness in his chest easing as the magic flowed through him.
Knight One held the spell as long as he could, the light growing brighter, more brilliant, until it filled the entire brig with a radiant, golden glow. He could feel the sickness retreating.
Knight Four followed up with negate poison. The poison being drawn out of their bodies and dissipating into the air like mist before the dawn.
Finally, with a soft, exhausted sigh, they felt the spells fade, the light dimming and then winking out, leaving them in the dim, shadowed gloom of the brig once more.
They profound relief washed over them as they felt the sickness lift, his strength slowly returning.
Knight Two pushed himself upright, his movements still slow and cautious, but there was a new clarity in his gaze, a new steadiness in his voice. “It’s… it’s gone,” he murmured, almost disbelievingly. He took a deep breath, his lungs clear and unburdened for the first time since he had awoken.
Knight Four rubbed a hand over his face, the tension in his features easing as the last remnants of the fever left his body. “You did it,” he said softly, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Knight Three let out a low, relieved chuckle, his voice still a little hoarse but steady. “I knew you’d do it,” he muttered, his eyes glinting with a touch of his usual humor. “Now, let’s get out of here before something else tries to kill us.”
Knight One nodded, his eyes still closed as he took a moment to catch his breath, to let the remnants of the magic settle in his bones. He felt the fatigue, the lingering weakness from the spell, but it was a good kind of exhaustion—the kind that came from victory hard-won.
“We rest for a few more hours,” he said quietly, his voice steady. “We need to be at full strength for what’s coming next.”
The others nodded, settling back onto the floor, their bodies still aching but their minds clear, their strength returning. As the silence of the brig wrapped around them once more, the tension that had gripped them eased, replaced by a calm.
They had faced the sickness and won. And now, with their magic restored and their strength returning, they were ready to face whatever came next—no matter how dangerous, no matter how deadly.
For now, they rested, the shadows deepening around them as the ship rocked gently on the dark, endless sea.
---
Knight Four was the last to rise, his movements slow and deliberate. His wounds had been healed by Knight Three's "Heal Wound" spell. The pain had left that part of his body and moved on to another. His gaze was sharp, though, his eyes glittering in the dim light. “I’ve got enough strength to get us out of here,” he said quietly, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “And I found this.”
He held up a small, piece of human bone, its tip bent and jagged. The others stared at it for a moment, then Knight Three snorted softly, his lips quirking in a wry grin. “Trust you to turn up something useful in this hellhole.”
Knight Four shrugged, slipping the nail into the lock on their cell door. “It’s amazing what you can find when you’re bored, desperate, and have the time.” He began to work the nail with careful, practiced movements, his fingers deft and steady despite the damp chill in the air.
The lock was old and stiff, and for a tense moment, it seemed it wouldn’t budge. But then there was a faint click, the sound like thunder in the oppressive silence of the brig. The door swung open with a soft creak, and Knight Four grinned, a fierce, triumphant light in his eyes.
“After you,” he whispered, stepping back to let the others pass.
Knight One nodded, slipping through the doorway and into the narrow, shadowed corridor beyond. They moved silently, their footsteps barely a whisper on the wooden planks as they made their way up the stairs toward the deck. The ship was quiet, the usual bustle and noise subdued, as if the very air was holding its breath.
They paused at the entrance to the main deck, crouching low behind a stack of barrels. Through the narrow gap between the barrels and the bulkhead, they could see the Marines standing watch, their rifles slung over their shoulders, their faces shadowed and expressionless in the dim lantern light. There were at least 30 of them on the ship, but only a dozen on deck tonight, spread out across the deck in small groups, their eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of trouble.
Knight One glanced at his comrades, his voice a barely audible murmur. “We take out as many as we can, then get back to the brig. No heroics, no risks. We need to conserve our strength.”
Knight Two nodded, his eyes narrowing as he focused on the nearest group of Marines. “Understood.”
Knight Four held up his hand, his fingers twitching slightly as he whispered the incantation under his breath. A soft, shimmering light enveloped them, and then they were gone, their forms melting into the shadows like smoke on the wind as they became invisible.
Moving with the stealth of predators, they crept across the deck, their invisible forms gliding silently among the unsuspecting guards. Knight One reached the first Marine, from behind he struck him, caught his mouth. While his fellow knights did the same. Subtly they dropped the bodies over the side.
The other marines began to take notice and looked over the side.
The knights gave them a telekinetic push over the side.
Knight Three moved to the next, his hand hovering just above the Marine’s head. A quick flick of his wrist, and the man was throat was slit before he could shout man over board. His body too was flung silently over the side. He disappeared into the dark waters below with barely a splash, the sea swallowing him whole.
One by one, they moved among the Marines, each man falling, their bodies vanishing over the railings into the black, yawning depths of the ocean. Twelve men fell before anyone even noticed they were gone.
Knight Two paused by the mainmast, his eyes scanning the deck for any sign that they had been discovered. But the remaining sailors were still oblivious, their attention focused on the empty horizon and tending to the ship. He turned back to his comrades, a satisfied smile ghosting over his lips.
“Clear,” he whispered, his voice barely carrying over the soft rustle of the sails. “Let’s get back.”
They moved as one, slipping back into the shadows, their invisibility shimmering and fading as they retraced their steps to the brig. The door swung open silently, and they slipped inside, locking it behind them with the key they telekinetical returned.
Knight Four let out a long, slow breath, his body sagging with relief and exhaustion. “That should keep them on their toes,” he muttered, slumping against the wall.
Knight One nodded, sinking down onto the cold floor beside him. “We’ve bought ourselves some time. And weakened them, too.”
Knight Two glanced at the others, his eyes still bright with the afterglow of the magic they had wielded. “18 plus to go.”
Knight Three stretched out on the floor, his eyes already drifting shut. “I could sleep for a week,” he muttered, his voice trailing off into a murmur. “Wake me when it’s time to kill that bastard captain.”
A soft chuckle passed among them, the tension easing as they settled back into the cramped confines of the cell. The ship rocked gently beneath them, the sound of the waves lulling them back toward sleep.
The magic they had used had taken its toll, draining them even as it filled them with its fleeting power. But they had done what they needed to do. The Marines were fewer now, their strength diminished, their vigilance shaken. And when the time came, the knights would strike again, harder and faster, until the ship was theirs.
As the darkness of sleep claimed them once more, their minds were clear, their resolve unbroken. They would rest, they would regain their strength, and then they would finish what they had started.
For now, they slept, the steady rise and fall of their breathing the only sound in the quiet, shadowed brig.
The darkness of the brig was thick and oppressive, the air damp and stifling. The knights, still sprawled on the cold, hard floor, stirred fitfully, their sleep troubled by a growing sense of unease. It was Knight Three who awoke first, a deep, wrenching cough tearing through his chest and jolting him upright. He doubled over, clutching his ribs as the fit racked his body, the sound echoing harshly in the confined space.
He gasped, his voice raw and strained. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and grimaced at the smear of blood on his skin. His breath came in ragged, shallow bursts, and he shivered uncontrollably, a bone-deep chill spreading through his limbs.
Knight One was next, his eyes fluttering open as a wave of nausea washed over him. He tried to sit up, but his head spun violently, the world tilting around him in dizzying, disorienting spirals. He pressed a hand to his forehead, feeling the feverish heat radiating from his skin.
“Something’s… wrong,” he muttered, his voice barely a whisper. He looked around, his gaze bleary and unfocused, and saw Knight Two and Knight Four still lying motionless beside him. “Wake up,” he rasped, reaching out to shake Knight Two’s shoulder. “Something’s not right.”
Knight Two stirred sluggishly, his eyes opening just a crack. His face was pale, beads of sweat glistening on his brow. “I feel… like I’ve been poisoned,” he murmured, his voice hoarse. He tried to sit up, but his arms trembled violently, and he collapsed back against the wall, his breath coming in shallow, labored gasps.
Knight Four groaned softly, his eyes squeezed shut as if trying to block out the pain lancing through his head. “My head… feels like it’s splitting open,” he mumbled, his voice thick and slurred. He rolled onto his side, curling into himself, his whole body trembling as if gripped by a fever.
Knight One swallowed hard, the bitter taste of bile rising in his throat. He forced himself to take a deep, steadying breath, trying to clear the fog that clouded his mind. “We’re sick,” he said, his voice strained but firm. “Something we picked up from the crew—or maybe the water during the storm.”
Knight Three let out a low, humorless laugh that turned into another harsh, rattling cough. “Of course we are,” he muttered, his voice laced with bitter irony. “As if being keelhauled and thrown in the brig wasn’t enough.”
Knight One ignored the comment, his mind racing. He knew their bodies were strong, but whatever this was, it was eating away at them quickly. Their limbs felt leaden, their thoughts sluggish, their energy sapped by the relentless waves of nausea, fever, and pain.
He struggled to his knees, every movement sending a fresh wave of dizziness through his head. “I’m going to try something,” he said, his voice tight with concentration. “A cleansing spell. And Cure Illness. It should purge whatever’s making us sick.”
Knight Two nodded weakly, his face a mask of pain. “Do it,” he whispered.
Knight One closed his eyes, forcing himself to focus past the pounding in his skull and the rolling nausea in his gut. He raised his hands, his fingers trembling as he summoned the energy from deep within himself. The familiar warmth of magic flickered at the edges of his consciousness, hesitant and fragile, but he reached for it, drawing it up, shaping it with sheer force of will.
A faint, shimmering light began to form around his hands, growing brighter and more intense as he poured his strength into the incantation.
The light flared, filling the cramped confines of the cell with a warm, golden glow. He felt the magic surge through him, a rush of energy that pushed back the darkness clouding his mind, driving out the sickness that clung to his body.
The light spread out from his hands, enveloping his comrades in its gentle, healing warmth. Knight Two gasped, his eyes widening as the fevered flush began to fade from his cheeks. Knight Four let out a low, shuddering breath, his body relaxing as the pain in his head ebbed away. Knight Three’s coughing subsided, his breath coming more easily, the tightness in his chest easing as the magic flowed through him.
Knight One held the spell as long as he could, the light growing brighter, more brilliant, until it filled the entire brig with a radiant, golden glow. He could feel the sickness retreating.
Knight Four followed up with negate poison. The poison being drawn out of their bodies and dissipating into the air like mist before the dawn.
Finally, with a soft, exhausted sigh, they felt the spells fade, the light dimming and then winking out, leaving them in the dim, shadowed gloom of the brig once more.
They profound relief washed over them as they felt the sickness lift, his strength slowly returning.
Knight Two pushed himself upright, his movements still slow and cautious, but there was a new clarity in his gaze, a new steadiness in his voice. “It’s… it’s gone,” he murmured, almost disbelievingly. He took a deep breath, his lungs clear and unburdened for the first time since he had awoken.
Knight Four rubbed a hand over his face, the tension in his features easing as the last remnants of the fever left his body. “You did it,” he said softly, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
Knight Three let out a low, relieved chuckle, his voice still a little hoarse but steady. “I knew you’d do it,” he muttered, his eyes glinting with a touch of his usual humor. “Now, let’s get out of here before something else tries to kill us.”
Knight One nodded, his eyes still closed as he took a moment to catch his breath, to let the remnants of the magic settle in his bones. He felt the fatigue, the lingering weakness from the spell, but it was a good kind of exhaustion—the kind that came from victory hard-won.
“We rest for a few more hours,” he said quietly, his voice steady. “We need to be at full strength for what’s coming next.”
The others nodded, settling back onto the floor, their bodies still aching but their minds clear, their strength returning. As the silence of the brig wrapped around them once more, the tension that had gripped them eased, replaced by a calm.
They had faced the sickness and won. And now, with their magic restored and their strength returning, they were ready to face whatever came next—no matter how dangerous, no matter how deadly.
For now, they rested, the shadows deepening around them as the ship rocked gently on the dark, endless sea.
---
Knight Four was the last to rise, his movements slow and deliberate. His wounds had been healed by Knight Three's "Heal Wound" spell. The pain had left that part of his body and moved on to another. His gaze was sharp, though, his eyes glittering in the dim light. “I’ve got enough strength to get us out of here,” he said quietly, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “And I found this.”
He held up a small, piece of human bone, its tip bent and jagged. The others stared at it for a moment, then Knight Three snorted softly, his lips quirking in a wry grin. “Trust you to turn up something useful in this hellhole.”
Knight Four shrugged, slipping the nail into the lock on their cell door. “It’s amazing what you can find when you’re bored, desperate, and have the time.” He began to work the nail with careful, practiced movements, his fingers deft and steady despite the damp chill in the air.
The lock was old and stiff, and for a tense moment, it seemed it wouldn’t budge. But then there was a faint click, the sound like thunder in the oppressive silence of the brig. The door swung open with a soft creak, and Knight Four grinned, a fierce, triumphant light in his eyes.
“After you,” he whispered, stepping back to let the others pass.
Knight One nodded, slipping through the doorway and into the narrow, shadowed corridor beyond. They moved silently, their footsteps barely a whisper on the wooden planks as they made their way up the stairs toward the deck. The ship was quiet, the usual bustle and noise subdued, as if the very air was holding its breath.
They paused at the entrance to the main deck, crouching low behind a stack of barrels. Through the narrow gap between the barrels and the bulkhead, they could see the Marines standing watch, their rifles slung over their shoulders, their faces shadowed and expressionless in the dim lantern light. There were at least 30 of them on the ship, but only a dozen on deck tonight, spread out across the deck in small groups, their eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of trouble.
Knight One glanced at his comrades, his voice a barely audible murmur. “We take out as many as we can, then get back to the brig. No heroics, no risks. We need to conserve our strength.”
Knight Two nodded, his eyes narrowing as he focused on the nearest group of Marines. “Understood.”
Knight Four held up his hand, his fingers twitching slightly as he whispered the incantation under his breath. A soft, shimmering light enveloped them, and then they were gone, their forms melting into the shadows like smoke on the wind as they became invisible.
Moving with the stealth of predators, they crept across the deck, their invisible forms gliding silently among the unsuspecting guards. Knight One reached the first Marine, from behind he struck him, caught his mouth. While his fellow knights did the same. Subtly they dropped the bodies over the side.
The other marines began to take notice and looked over the side.
The knights gave them a telekinetic push over the side.
Knight Three moved to the next, his hand hovering just above the Marine’s head. A quick flick of his wrist, and the man was throat was slit before he could shout man over board. His body too was flung silently over the side. He disappeared into the dark waters below with barely a splash, the sea swallowing him whole.
One by one, they moved among the Marines, each man falling, their bodies vanishing over the railings into the black, yawning depths of the ocean. Twelve men fell before anyone even noticed they were gone.
Knight Two paused by the mainmast, his eyes scanning the deck for any sign that they had been discovered. But the remaining sailors were still oblivious, their attention focused on the empty horizon and tending to the ship. He turned back to his comrades, a satisfied smile ghosting over his lips.
“Clear,” he whispered, his voice barely carrying over the soft rustle of the sails. “Let’s get back.”
They moved as one, slipping back into the shadows, their invisibility shimmering and fading as they retraced their steps to the brig. The door swung open silently, and they slipped inside, locking it behind them with the key they telekinetical returned.
Knight Four let out a long, slow breath, his body sagging with relief and exhaustion. “That should keep them on their toes,” he muttered, slumping against the wall.
Knight One nodded, sinking down onto the cold floor beside him. “We’ve bought ourselves some time. And weakened them, too.”
Knight Two glanced at the others, his eyes still bright with the afterglow of the magic they had wielded. “18 plus to go.”
Knight Three stretched out on the floor, his eyes already drifting shut. “I could sleep for a week,” he muttered, his voice trailing off into a murmur. “Wake me when it’s time to kill that bastard captain.”
A soft chuckle passed among them, the tension easing as they settled back into the cramped confines of the cell. The ship rocked gently beneath them, the sound of the waves lulling them back toward sleep.
The magic they had used had taken its toll, draining them even as it filled them with its fleeting power. But they had done what they needed to do. The Marines were fewer now, their strength diminished, their vigilance shaken. And when the time came, the knights would strike again, harder and faster, until the ship was theirs.
As the darkness of sleep claimed them once more, their minds were clear, their resolve unbroken. They would rest, they would regain their strength, and then they would finish what they had started.
For now, they slept, the steady rise and fall of their breathing the only sound in the quiet, shadowed brig.