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Marjanglers
slakking

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A ragged mercenary stands atop piled high refuse from an old war past, resting his prosthetic hand on hilt and scabbard. He surveys his surroundings, taking note of a smoke pyre rising from a nearby tree line. The air reeks of decay, and the destroyed wagon that provides him this vantage point creeks and cracks with every shift of weight. Despite the picturesque view, his mind is flooded with strategies of war and death dealing. The eye in his mind flashes brief scenes of slaughter and gore, but despite his best effort, these cannot be suppressed. He rests his tired stare while simultaneously unsheathing his blade, beginning an inspection for wear and damage. Running his thumb along the blade, a few chips and rolled edges are observed, but there is nothing to be done. The weapon itself is a modified Longsword, with its length being reduced and “sword catcher” styled patterns of notches ground into the base of the blade. Some of these parry notches are bent or severed. A crude weapon, but an effective one if no shields are present.


Kneeling down, the mercenary inspects his gear. As he takes off his pack, the man looks at the rucksack, stopping on a crest bearing an insignia hanging from the top. “Six Hounds: Ward” is transcribed over a navy blue and maroon shield pattern with three embossed skulls above the text. Ward thinks back to his time in the service of Sovereign Helreginn; a senile king fond of bloody battles and pointless outcomes. Scenes flashed behind his eyes; clandestine operations, compound infiltration, assembling crossbows on rooftops, assassinating dissenters. Shaking the memories, he opens his pack and retrieves glass vials of oil to coat the blade. Other contents of the bag consisted of various instruments of war, with supply looking dire. While dousing the blade with various viscous liquids and buffing them into the dull metal, Ward hears the far call of battle. Hastening pace, Ward slams three lids back onto the vials, each bearing different etched symbols. Grabbing the vials in one hand and an oil-soaked rag in the other, he stows the items away, slinging the pack over his shoulder. With a sigh, he sheaths the blade while standing up and lowers himself down from the decrepit wagon.


Getting to his feet, Ward starts in the direction of the smoke pyre. From his hip, he unclasps a buckle securing a mask made of iron, equipping it on the side of his head, over his right ear. This mask is no ordinary thing; the shape and symbol carry fear in these lands. Etched into the metal face is an upper portion of a hound skull, with maroon soaked bandages covering the mouth. ‘VI’ is carved into the forehead. Arriving closer to the forest, Ward staches his rucksack under dense foliage and notes the location. While continuing at a light jog the echoes of battle grow louder, and Ward steels himself. Skirting around a patch of large fir trees, the skirmish’s location is revealed. Ahead 50 meters, a melee has broken out. The two parties appear to be independent of any kingdom, which Ward is glad to find. Merchant guards versus common bandit rabble, not an uncommon sight, but a reality of wartime. Taking cover behind a tree, Ward readies his blade and retrieves a potion from his belt. As the last drops enter his mouth, Ward's eyes blacken and a sigil overlays his left iris.


Keeping his crouched stance, Ward takes heavy but agile steps, closing distance to the battle. In a zigzag pattern, going from tall brush to shrub or any concealment to be found, he makes his way behind the merchant party. At this range, frantic communication could be heard from the unaware group of guards, relevant commands and responses to war. “Watch the left Haddig!”, “Center guard broken! Reinforcements!”, “I’m fucked, need aid!” among grunts and screams. Waiting for a break in the action, Ward notices the condition of both forces. The merchant’s guardsmen wear leather and light plate armor, made for long journeys and rough conditions. Their weapons were kept well maintained and gleamed when sun rays shone through the cover of leaves and pine needles above. The bandits sport rags and common farming tools, with rusty broadswords dotted amongst their rank. A forward squad hacks away at the guardsmen’s shields with battered axes and scythes. This surprises Ward, as usually bandits are disorganized and laden with chaos. Their power is surprising too, as many dead guards littered the line of battle.


Flipping his weapon from sword wielding style to a dagger stance, Ward pounces from his hiding place with rapid speed and precision. Moving into the blind spot of a guardsmen, Ward lashes out and slices through the man’s unarmored knee ligament. With a cry, he falls backward to the ground, too shocked to respond with force. Ward crouches over him, bending low and extending an arm across the downed man’s chest while aiming the sword for his neck. muffling the guard's mouth with his free hand, Ward sends the blade into a small spot just below the right ear. As the blade enters the man’s neck, it eviscerates the major arteries supplying blood to the head, and he quickly goes limp. With a foul sound of ripping flesh, Ward frees his weapon from the dying man and moves on. Continuing toward the rear guardsmen, Ward picks up a spear from the dirt and cleaves most of the shaft’s length in a swift motion, leaving a makeshift shiv behind in his grasp.


Closing behind the closest guard, Ward darts his eyes around this victim, searching for a weak point in his armor. Stopping his hurried gaze at the man’s lower back, Ward braces the spear-shiv with both hands and plunges it into the man’s torso. Purchase. As this second guard falls, Ward abandons this tool and switches grip on his sword once again, back to a standard style. At this point, a handful of guards had become aware of the flank, and were turning to face this new commotion with weapons at the ready. Ward steps toward these new adversaries and goes into an offensive stance. Bearing down upon the swordsman nearest, Ward executes an overhead slash and cuts through the leather armor, rending the flesh underneath. Shoulder checking the swordsman, Ward charges forward, engaging with a pikeman. With much anxiety, the pikeman throws a volley of jabs, none of which make their mark. As Ward pushes past, he grabs the pike with his right hand, and pulls back his left, which brandishes the sword breaker longsword. Once in range, Ward jerks the pike back and thrusts his sword into the man’s stomach.


Glancing at the dying man’s face sends a tamed shudder down Ward's spine; death manifests itself like an apparition stealing the light from his eyes. Ward coldly looks away. With a kick, he frees his sword, and blocks an incoming attack by an axeman. Engaging the axeman, Ward trades blows and side steps away from the force of guards, pivoting back into their flank. At the end of his repositioning, Ward’s boot catches a discarded shield and he falls to his left side, pinning his sword arm. Seeing an opportunity, the axeman frantically raises his ramshackle war axe and swings down with full force. In response, Ward sends a wild punch to the right, impacting the flat axe head and sending it off course. The weapon slams into the earth below, sending dirt and refuse into Ward’s eyes.


Being at quite a disadvantage is nothing new to this ragged mercenary, but the situation seems dire in his mind. Understanding a man’s limits is crucial to surviving a battle. Ward spent many years trying to find these limits; a fruitless attempt in the wake of grueling procedures and potions passed down from ancient grimoires of war that Helreginn possessed. Shady alchemists and master surgeons had done many unspeakable treatments to his body and mind. All for the purpose of becoming an emulation of death, and accepting it for the Sovereign, if the need ever arose. A majority of these fell dealings slipped from Ward’s mind with time. The results thankfully had not.


Shutting off his mind, Ward’s body starts moving automatically, like a stuck beast entranced in its own death throes. He abandons his custom longsword and springs off the ground; the intensity of such action would shatter bones in any normal person. Ward gets within a meter of the axeman and slams his thumbs into the frenzying man’s eyes. The force propels both onto the ground. With a sick squelching noise, the thumbs are removed and dart to grasp the now blind man’s weapon. The mere sight of such an act stops all advancing guards for a moment, as they vicariously experience the trauma of their companion. Ward does not find himself in this trance; two guards are felled with a single swing. A third begins to scream as Ward lunges forward. The axe head bisects the man’s chest from his stomach; his scream turns from a shrill cry to a foul croak as all air escapes his lungs from the gaping wound.


Two guards remain in Ward’s way. They watch, frozen in place, as he advances forward. One falls to his knees, while the other turns to run. Ward does an undercut swing on the kneeling guard. It connects with his chest and ends at his jaw, exposing ribcage and tendons through ruined armor and flesh. The other guard only gains a few paces before Ward throws his temporary weapon overhead through the air. It rotates once with blistering speed and tumbles; the blunt side impacts this last guard. With a shrug, Ward sighs and moves to retrieve his discarded sword. As he picks up the weapon, multiple small explosions ring out somewhere. The acrid stench of sulfur surprises Ward; gunpowder is outlawed in this land, and any smugglers wouldn’t deal with clients like bandits or a common guardsmen outfit.


The mystery intrigues Ward as he catches his breath. This battle seems worth fighting, his gut says ample gold or something of value must be on the line. He recalls the axeman encounter; such amateurish slip ups should be almost impossible at this point. Is something wrong with these potions? Am I losing my grip? There wasn’t enough time to ponder, as Ward absolutely needs to get the timing right on his attack. He shakes these thoughts and focuses on scouting. The skirmish was starting to ebb ahead. Bandits outnumber guardsmen now by hefty numbers. Ward observes strange figures in sulfur-stained hooded robes behind the main bandit force, which he estimates stands 20-30 strong. The robed figures appear to be lobbing small clay pots filled with gunpowder toward the front line, indiscriminately killing men from both sides. They seem to be responsible for such common bandit scum besting trained men. These mysterious enemies and ruthless tactics worry Ward, but any more thought was meaningless. He stands now fully committed to the fight. With a dull ringing beginning to echo inside his skull, the tired veteran steels himself again and downs another potion.


Hellfire bursts from Ward’s eyes as he rips the wolf mask from his face. Thick blackened blood weeps from his eye sockets. The fetid ooze burns his skin and seeps through his beard, overwhelming his sense of smell and taste. The pain drives him to the ground. After a minute of agony, the side effects loosen their grip; Ward regains control of his body and mind. Rising quickly and with reckless abandon he charges forward into a thin strip of forest separating himself from the battle. Ward forms a rudimentary tactic as he runs parallel with the tree line: “Flank main force, assassinate sulfur bearers, disengage. Seven minutes.” Ward passes by a squad of bandits mercy killing injured soldiers from a previous engagement. Hallucinations manifest from the corpses in the form of ghostly silhouettes. They float above the felled men and shriek an incoherent dirge only audible to Ward. This “symphony of shadows” is a symptom of potion overdose, and a dull fear begins to creep into Ward’s stomach. He snuffs the feeling and attempts to moves on.


Despite the spectacle, Ward keels over and dies from potion overdose. He collapses into the mud as consciousness fades, dying as he lived, akin to a rabid dog; with no purpose and no point. Years later, his backpack is found and among other keepsakes lies a sealed metal box, rectangular in dimension. It takes many craftsmen many attempts to open this metal tomb, but eventually, a corner is sufficiently damaged enough for a prying wedge. Jurmongandyrviedasetzen, a blacksmith visiting from another country, dutifully finds purchase with long metal tongs and cracks open the crude safe. Inside lies an old book. Loose pages crumble like ash at the mere glance of sunlight. Eventually, this ancient text trades hands into some scholarly research den deep within Helreginn territory. Careful hands transcribe what they can under cover of moonlight, as they dare not destroy such historical information. The translated text is shared to certain circles, where many embellishments and fallacies are entwined within the original report, for the sake of localization if nothing else. This is the unembellished report, with certain liberties taken to maintain the original tone and intent.


The text below was found with a simple inscription carved into the front face.


"strange land"


Chronica I: Landfall and location


We have arrived early. Terra Ignota lies beyond a ghastly wall of fog that enshrouds the waters surrounding this strange land. A tension is building in the crew; faint signs of life are hidden among the stacks and craigs. These impediments served to challenge Vortimer, our navigator. His steep price of four Marks proved worth though, as he guided us safely through such troubled waters. A few deckhands spotted flotsam among the rocks. Has it drifted here from afar, or are we to expect locals? This expedition isn’t due to linger, therefore I hope these lands are deserted. I also hope the relic isn’t resting anywhere too impassable; there appears to be a group of mountains near to the East of our mooring location. A lashing wind cuts across the deck as I document these thoughts. Will it persist through the night? The sun recedes on our backs as we prepare for landfall.


Chronica II: Strange camp


A scouting crew have reported strange mineral deposits dotted toward the mountains. An intriguing discovery, but irrelevant from the task at hand. We need shelter. A spine-chilling gust stuck to us through the fog, and indiscriminately batters everything on the coast. Delimbed trees form a gradient into wooded hills that crawl toward the rocky beach like a spider web in disrepair. I feel that we are flies intruding on an ominous place.


The sun has left us alone on this horrible beach. Hadburg proposed we clear some of our row boats and use them as makeshift wind cover. We fashioned some stakes from driftwood and formed a half circle. Four boats proved to be adequate for the task. A sputtering campfire barely illuminates my journal; the flame cowers low, daring not to peek out from our makeshift pit. I gave my cloak to Lantgrim, a man from the scouting party which found the mineral deposits. My gratitude was repaid with some information. Lantgrim produced a sample from his knapsack, taken from one of the larger deposits. The ore is very strange. Five men from three different lands have seen nothing of its sort. There seems to be three different materials composing the sample. A layer of slate-like sediment encases six maroon gemstone fragments. Tiny veins permeate the slate like varix webs; pooling into flecks of a foul-smelling shale substance. It reminds me of Sulphur.


The smell has lingered on my fingertips now for some time, despite this horrible and relentless wind. I pray that a lucky few of us can sleep through such harsh conditions. Time to collect reports from the Sergeants. May their reports be dull: I do wish for any other discoveries to delay our mission.


Chronica III: Contact


We woke to confusion. Octavius Wright took last watch and tended our ramshackle fire while most slept through the early morning. A few soldiers found him with trembling hands and bloodshot eyes, clutching his dagger and sheath. Considerable frostbite damage was done to his extremities. Someone from Third Company managed to coax Wright into recounting the events of last night. He spoke in a frantic whisper, barely audible over the droning wind. It had died down into a dull hum some hours before daybreak, so Wright ventured near the tree line for kindling. His first few trips were uneventful and slow going. He managed to build a fair stockpile of branches. Trouble started when Wright moved further inland. I find it doubtful, but the man remains adamant that it wasn’t just him in those woods. After five bundles were collected from the interior, he reports feeling ‘watched’. By what, we have no idea. “Shadows”. So much for a tangible description. I do not believe Wright is on the level. There are various stressors wearing upon each man on this expedition. Cracks will begin to form in the less weathered crew. I need to dispose of this superstition, lest chaos seeps into our rank.


A proper meal has eased tensions somewhat. I will now sit for a short while and relish a full stomach. We depart into the woods after this indulgence.


Chronica IV: Injury report September 7th 1516 AD


Minor injury report – Standard Bearer, Arvid Goswyn


Type:

               Minor Laceration, left forearm.

               Broken Ligament, left hand.

               Severe Bruising, right foot, right leg, right knee.

               Unknown rash, left chest and shoulder.

               

Conditions:


Nausea, tremors in upper body. Profuse sweating. Contact with skin in inflicted area causes great pain.

 

Notes:


Subject strode through unstable topsoil that concealed a shallow pit. The hazard formed in a steep gradient, which the subject tumbled down, causing severe leg bruising. Subject crashed into a deposit of (an unknown mineral). Subject impacted on his left side. Subject snapped something in his left hand from the impact. There is something wrong with him beyond the scrapes and bruises.


Our trek to more suitable land for a basecamp has been damned by God. One of our Bearers took a nasty fall down steep terrain. He is now of no use to this expedition as a result of such carelessness. Every man here is weathered to fucking traversal; combat nonetheless. Damned fool.