Cole

It was just a few ticks past midday when Cole and Azeroth crept towards the walls of Outpost Onx. The nice wind of two days ago was gone, leaving a stagnant heat. Cole collected dirt to pat himself and Azeroth with.

“You’re sure you can do this?” Cole asked his green companion.

“I’ve seen it done enough times.” Azeroth shrugged.

Cole turned his head towards the hills shadowing Outpost. He could not see Bréag, but he knew Bréag could see him. The elden was likely concealed near their camp, keeping an eye on Cole and Azeroth as well as Frost and Rerume. This was all Bréag’s plan, composed after a day of observing the outpost. Cole looked skyward, hoping it would serve as a silent prayer to Feste, Lord of Performers.

From the hill Cole saw a glint of reflected light. The signal to move forward. Cole’s anxiety started to ball in his stomach. He hadn’t felt like this during the rebellion on the caravan, nor when they attacked the phyrn. In those situations he felt like an observer or one of many. Here, it was just him and Azeroth. If the plan failed, then he would likely not leave Outpost Onx alive. He gulped hard and picked up the tequila bottle at his feet.

They approached the Outpost slowly, swerving their path but still moving in a single direction. Cole draped his arm across Azeroth’s shoulders and started to belt out a song:

“Six sips for six soldiers,

The ones who died while I lived.

Two pisses for two kings,

Whose blood I’ll never forgive.

One shot for the fire blast,

That made my heart throttle.

And for the lass who soothed me after?

Well, you best just give me the bottle!”

Azeroth knew the song and did well to mock harmonize with Cole. They sang loud enough that the guards of Outpost Onx had collected at the front walls to observe the two trespassers.

“Hail in there!” Cole shouted, making sure to put an extra lilt in his voice. “We’re two lost wastrels with liquor and coin to spare for a night’s bedding.” He waved the half-drained bottle of tequila. The guards made whispered comments amongst themselves. Some seemed amused, others not so much.

“Go walk into the sun!” One of the guards shouted. Cole kept his act up, but surveyed the line-up they had attracted. He counted six, which was two short of the full eight they had counted during observation.

“Who thaid that?” Azeroth loudly lisped. He pointed at an older human whose face was lined with deep canyons of wrinkles.

“Wath it you? You thaid that to me? Come clother tho I can look at you right.”

Cole wasn’t sure why Azeroth’s impression of a drunkard involved excessive lisping, but it amused the guards enough that they did not stop the duo from walking closer.

“We’ve been walking for hours. The sun is cruel, but the shade is kind, and there’s little of it to be found.” Cole shouted. He didn’t have anyone in particular in mind with this impression, maybe a few of the lushes that would frequent his parent’s inn during wine season.

“Get these drunks out of here.” The guard captain barked.

“Drunkths?” Azeroth bellowed. They were close enough to the walls to make a running jump into the courtyard. “You think we’re drunk? You can’t dethide we’re drunk. You can’t just dethide.”

Azeroth was clearly going for a more aggressive, borderline-blackout, drunk. It certainly worked in drawing the attention of the remaining two guards. Cole was afraid any moment one of them would know enough about orcs to realize inebriation as Azeroth displayed it would take more than a bottle of tequila.

“Maybe we just throw them in the cart with the others. Make the boy sing some more. It’d lighten the mood at least.”

“I can sing plenty of songs!” Cole declared proudly. “Take away Joffrey; Its Falstaff’s Day Somewhere; Arrows, arrows, arrows!”

Cole started to sing with spirit as a demonstration, making sure to “dirty” his singing to keep the act up. They were close enough to see into the courtyard fully. Cole’s eyes fell on the cart of bound humans. He had a somber recollection of how he had been in similar circumstances a week ago. He had to rescue these people and this decision loosened the knot in his stomach. Three guards approached them. Two with ropes and one with a cutlass drawn for safety.

“Make sure not to shatter the bottle,” the sword-wielding guard muttered to the other two.

The guards approached like Cole and Azeroth were easily spooked animals. Cole pretended not to notice and kept singing for the few on the walls. The two rope-bearing guards charged at Azeroth. Cole realized that this meant they thought himself meek enough to not warrant an aggressive capture. Azeroth switched like the release of a bowstring. He seized one man by both wrists and hurled him into the other. He kicked the third guard swiftly in the gut causing him to fumble his sword, which was caught by Azeroth and tossed to Cole.

The remaining guards didn’t need much more of a signal to start surrounding the two. Cole shifted his feet into his Faer By Dusk stance. It was a stance made for defensive fighting and the first Faer Hours stance Cole had learned. It was his fencing instructor’s belief that you should learn to protect before you learn to attack. Cole spent his first semester of fencing lessons with an ineffectual wooden blade while his opponent was given a dulled steel one. When two guards came to him with their own blades he batted them back like second nature. He moved towards them, flourishing his sword in front of him like a dancer’s ribbon. The two guards were dumbfounded by this display. Cole planted his left foot and lunged forward with his right, stabbing his blade into the breast of one of the guards. When the second guard attempted a flank Cole pivoted, whipping his sword in time to slice deep into the man’s arm.

The guard dropped his blade and gulped hard when he realized he was at Cole’s mercy. He had a tattoo of a cactus blossom that glistened with sweat. Cole was breathing heavily. He had to make the decision.

“Go anywhere else.” Cole pointed the tip of his sword towards the surrounding hills. The man practically scrambled on all fours to escape the area.

The first guard was more frantic. He saw Cole’s moment of mercy as weakness and rushed to kill the boy. He was felled by a single arrow launched from the hills. Bréag had slipped closer while the guards were distracted and was providing ranged support.

That made for two of the eight guards dealt with. Azeroth had drawn the most aggression of the crowd. He was constantly moving from foe to foe, making light hits to fracture composure or disable attacks. Even with Azeroth’s considerable talent, he was just one man and the number of cuts he was suffering stained his pale green skin with bright red blood. Bréag was cautious about shooting into the crowd that flanked Azeroth. Cole knew that if the crowd turned to him he would not last. Worse than that, were the two archers on the walls finally retrieving their bows. They set their sights on Cole, forcing him to run a serpentine path to avoid their arrows.

Frost and Rerume had climbed the rear wall and were now running along it. Rerume breathed fire upward to signal their arrival. It worked. The archers turned away from Cole, allowing him to catch his breath, and fired three arrows directly into Rerume’s midsection.

“Mother, I beg your blessing.” Rerume declared.

His new mantel manifested a purple glow. A circle of black feathers fell at his feet and a bird's cry echoed overhead. When the arrows struck him Rerume did not even flinch. He pulled the clutch from his stomach like they were weeds to be plucked. All servants of Divines can manifest blessings with training and a medium through which to do it. Before their assault, Rerume had explained how the Vulture Mother’s blessing worked. His body became temporarily “death-proof,” nullifying whatever bodily harm he would suffer. There was a catch to this ability, but Rerume was not keen to share. He assured the group that it would serve their needs.

The archers were disturbed by Rerume’s display. Magic was not uncommon, but magic like that would turn any person’s stomach. The glow on Rerume’s mantel dissipated. He jumped from the rear wall to rush to Azeroth’s aid. Azeroth welcomed the reprieve. His skin was muddied with the mixture of blood, sweat, and dust.

Frost approached Cole. “Are you injured, friend?”

“No. I’m just...my stomach feels like ice.”

Frost’s wolfen face was pensive. Wordlessly, he took Cole’s sword in his off-hand, pairing it with the cleaver he had bought for the phyrn attack. In exchange, he handed Cole his quiver of javelins.

“Take these. Use them on the archers. Whatever happens: never stop helping your pack.”

Cole nodded, his eyes trained on Rerume and Azeroth. Frost seemed resigned. He didn’t want this fight, but he committed to what the group desired. Frost turned towards the group fighting Rerume and Azeroth. A strangled sound started in Frost’s throat. It was the growl of a wolf, as natural as if Frost was a lycan. The short hair on Frost’s body stretched, becoming shaggy and thick. His face extended into a true snout. Cole had to look down to confirm that, yes, a bushy tail had sprouted out of Frost’s backside. Cole thought he should be unnerved by the sight, but it was still recognizably Frost. Frost looked back to Cole, as if to confirm he had not become some mindless feral.

Shifting is a talent unique to all the breeds of the wechers. They can revert to an ancestral form, returning to how their race was when first crafted by the Spirits. Much like the coatlmade’s elemental breath, it is something that can only manifest in trained individuals.

That excerpt had come from a book on the history of The War of Red Snow. It had been a rather dull, depressing book so Cole did not make it far, but he had made it far enough to ponder what a shifted wecher looked like. Now he had his answer.

Frost waded into the melee, attacking with speed and power he did not have prior. Cole understood why he had taken a second weapon. Dual-wielding allowed Frost to attack as if he had claws. An arrow pierced Frost’s thick hide. Cole remembered the order he was given and pivoted to the archers on the walls. He snapped up one of his javelins and tossed it with gusto. He didn’t have the force to pierce armor, but no one can ignore arm-length spears being hucked at them. None of the archers fell to his assault, but the distraction was enough for Bréag to do the job with his own timely arrows.

With Frost’s aid, Rerume and Azeroth ended their own melee. The eight bandit guards were either dead, unconscious, or fleeing the outpost. Frost limped back to Cole, blood matting his thick fur. He handed Cole a hilt missing a sword. Before Cole could ask an explanation Frost reverted to his natural form.

“I’m sorry friend, in my haste to end the battle I...broke the sword you were using.”

Cole couldn’t help but laugh. “That was amazing Frost! Why haven’t I seen you shift before this?”

Frost did not join in on Cole’s humor. In fact, he looked very serious. “Because the first time I did it outside of my tribe I was chased into the forest by humans. It...unnerves most people.”

Cole opened his mouth to comfort Frost, but was cut-off.

“—Did you notice I was the only one of our party not asked to join the Order of Suffering?”

Cole had not noticed this and he struggled to think of an explanation for it. Fortunately, he didn’t need to answer because the conversation was taken over by the arrival of Rerume and Azeroth.

“We were lucky. The rabble assigned to protect this place were not expecting so many different abilities.” Rerume sheathed his own sword.

Cole looked to the hill closest to the outpost. Bréag was sprinting down the slope to join them. He didn’t bring the cart and Mall. Must’ve left them at the campsite hidden by the hill’s crest.

A thick green finger tapped the top of Cole’s head.

“You did good with a sword.” Azeroth commented. “Why waste your time with those?”

He meant the javelins. Cole didn’t know why people kept asking him that. At this point he didn’t have a rational answer, so he went with honesty. “I’m trying something new. I think I’m getting the hang of javelin tossing.”

He twirled one of the spears as if to prove his point. Azeroth responded wit the confused look he often gave Cole. “They’re long darts, not javelins. You’ll need an atlatl. Otherwise that will keep happening.”

Azeroth pointed to the wall where two archers lay dead. Cole had expended most of his javelins distracting them. Of the five he threw, only one was still usable. The others were too flimsy to survive impact with the stone walls. Counting the intact one, that reduced Cole’s ammo count to two, the other being the one currently in his hand. Doing the math about what it would cost to replenish this spent ammo, Cole comically grimaced. He didn’t know what an atlatl was, but he assured Azeroth he would find one.

The wide stable doors of the main building were barred. No doubt shut when the fighting began. Azeroth and Frost combined their strength to force it open, but the ancient wood held. There was another set of smaller doors nearby, but those were held by a weighty padlock. Cole volunteered that he could pick it with the proper materials, a proposition that caught him strange looks from his companions. He explained that he had dabbled in lock picking as a means to sneak out of his academy dorm after curfew. Why he needed to sneak out was not mentioned as that was a private matter between himself and Lara Aífe.

They were fortunate that the outpost was guarded by mercenaries and bandits, for one of the dead carried an amateur’s lock picking kit. The metal picks were crude, but they could work. While Cole attended to the padlock, the others released the captured humans still bound in their wagon.

“Praise the eye of Sahn and the winds of Ehcah!” Exclaimed the eldest of the humans once he was freed. “When I heard the commotion, I had hope that rescue had found us. My name is Cory Montelban. I am the mayor of Saltspring, the village where these people come from.”

Despite his age, Cory nimbly climbed out of the cart and eagerly shook the hands of each his rescuers. He then assisted in freeing the others of his village. “We were taken in the night. A pack of black-cloaked strangers on horseback ran through the center of town. They threw torches on our buildings without care or true target. It happened so fast. By the time I had rallied the town’s warriors, what few we have, the riders had vanished. We had to drop our weapons to extinguish the fires. That is when the barbatus came. The chaos was to their advantage and they took the village with ease.”

The old man was bitter, but unbroken.

“How long have you been here?” Rerume asked.

“Two nights.” Shouted one of the villagers, a girl no older than 16. “We arrived late the first night. I woke before anyone else and listened to the guards. They said us being here was a mistake by the barbatus. Then one them said...he said…”

Tears welled in her eyes. Cole paused his lock picking to look back to the cart. Cory put his arm around the girl.

“There were ten of us when we arrived. Now we are eight. Zoe claims the missing two were fed to something beneath the base and the same fate would have befallen all of us.”

“That’s horrible! Spirits unmake these men to use you like cattle.” Frost snarled.

The remaining villagers were freed. Cole knew they would be checking his progress soon. He sang to himself, an elven lullaby his mother would sing, to steady his hands. After an audible click, the padlock fell to the ground and the door inched forward.

“I’ve done it!” Cole exclaimed.

Frost arrived first so that he could pat Cole on the back. “Good work friend, but we need to be cautious. We don’t know what hides inside.”

“Three more.” Azeroth remarked without proof.

One of the villagers, a boy younger than Zoe, snapped up one of the dropped weapons. His sweat-soaked hair clung to the sides of his face like a helmet. “I’ll help you. I’ll kill these bastards for what they did.”

Cory shook his grey head. “Hays, you’ll do no such thing. Leave this to trained warriors like them.”

Cole was pleased to hear himself included amongst the “trained warriors.” When Hays protested Cory kicked the boy in the gut so that he would drop his weapon and double over. A woman, Cole assumed the boy’s mother, ran to her son.

“I was an adventurer like yourselves once.” Cory crossed his arms and nodded to Cole’s group. “I remember enough from that time to know we would only get in your way should another fight occur.”

“Let me help them grandpa!” Hays shouted.

“You’ll help by staying here with me and making sure the bandits don’t return. Not enough of us are in a condition to fight, especially when we have five able-bodied warriors to do it for us.”

This convinced the boy. He took his grandfather’s hand as a promise that he would not interfere. Rerume stood nearest to the pair. When Hays extended his arm, something snapped in Rerume and compelled him to seize the lad’s wrist.

“What is this?” Rerume exclaimed. He painfully held the boy’s arm high to expose the black mark in the shape of a nautilus with spear tipped tentacles.

“It’s a tattoo. I got it years ago from a peddler!” Hays cried from Rerume’s roughness.

“That is the mark of Kurtzkith, Muspellr of Undeath!” Rerume did not relent his grip. Cole’s jaw dropped when he realized Rerume had drawn his sword. Frost ran to intercept whatever rash action Rerume was planning.

“I-I didn’t know what it was, I swear! I thought it would make me look dangerous, that’s all!”

Hays dropped to his knees. His mother and Cory both pulled at Rerume, but the Avenger was immovable and his grip was a vice.

“Let the boy go, it was a simple mistake and not worth taking his life. Kurtzkith is unknown in Saltpring.” Cory looked as if he was ready to die protecting his grandson.

“One does not ‘mistakenly’ mark themselves with the symbol of a Muspellr. It is a deliberate decision that I, as an Avenger of the Divines, cannot ignore.” Rerume threw off the two villagers. Cole was panicking. He had never imagined Rerume capable of this. No one knew what to do.

“Are you going to kill him?” Azeroth’s deep voice cut through the tension of the moment. He stood opposite Rerume.

Rerume looked around. His eyes were defiant, but he realized how he must seem.

“This isn’t what your oath is for.” Bréag was the next to speak.

Rerume was silent. He released Hays and sheathed his blade. Hays ran to his mother, his eyes wide as the rim of the sun and leaking tears. Cory cautiously approached Rerume. The old man had his head bowed. He spoke slow and diplomatic, despite what had just transpired.

“I did not realize your station. You were within your right to act as you did. I chastised Hays when I first saw it myself, but he’s no cultist of Kurtzkith. I told him this would happen. Can you understand that this was just the consequence of a youth acting without thought, and not the influence of apocalyptic forces?”

Rerume kept his scaled mouth tight. After ripping his eyes from Hays’ tattoo, he gave a small, affirmative bow to Cory Montelban before marching towards the unlocked door.