The heat hit the homestead with ferocity, but under the leaf cover of the forest trees, Cameron barely felt it. The shaded forest seemed to continue on forever, and Cameron's only guide was Dastilan giving him surprisingly accurate directions by radio. He had set up an impromptu radio station before leaving, and instructed Dastilan in it's use. The Cervidian, being the commander and guide of the operation, decided to stay behind, and instruct Cameron on the infliltration. Cameron asked him to take part, at which Dastilan pointed to his back and expressed concerns that he would just get them caught. Cameron couldn't deny the possibility, but it gave him little comfort doing the whole thing by himself. At least he could keep in contact with the Court Mage, and his wide databanks of directions and knowledge. The man was like a machine, he could reliably recall memories years in the past, and jog the rest into focus with the use of 'Eidetic Recall', a spell he learned and utilised freely in the Royal College while attaining his qualifications. Cameron couldn't have a better director at the helm. Dastilan decided to teach the outworlder some things to broaden his knowledge. He spoke of the wildlife in the Cobarlian forest; the tasty ones, the timid ones, and the ones to avoid. The ones to skin, and the ones to not bother with. The only living thing Cameron had actually seen so far was an ugly creature that looked like a cross between a tapir and a pangolin. It was mostly the strange long snouted, stubby legged animal he knew, if not thinner, but on it's back was a hardened shell-like material like a pangolin's, or an armadillo's. Dastilan told him the animal made a good stew, but not to bother with it if it hadn't engaged him. He wasn't hunting for meat after all. He was prowling for stronger prey.

The forest was a cluttered mess, a long way away from the well cultivated open woods he had played in as a child. Each heavy step landed with crunches and snaps as he treaded through the dense, clustered bushes and lush undergrowth. Fungi grew freely on fallen deadwood, and the colours of the environment grew brighter and more scenic as he left the tree cover and wandered around the edges of clearings and rock outcroppings. Furry tails and tiny paws danced on the trunks and branches, jumping and galavanting on their forage for nuts and berries. Cameron felt like little red riding hood, wandering through the woods. The woodland was gorgeous. He could see why Dastilan chose this place as a retreat from civilisation.

The outworlder was dressed for war; He was camoflaged in a Spetsnaz Paratrooper flecktarn type uniform, thick black combat boots on his feet and an olive balaclava on his face. He wished he had realised he could call for clothing beforehand, his jeans and t-shirt condemned to be stained for the rest of time by the thick internal juices of the boars he had massacred. Those types of stains required stronger cleaning spells that Dastilan had no reason to learn, much to Cameron's chagrin. Dastilan cheekily suggested he hire a maid if he wanted a personal assistant to be at his beck and call. For the struggle ahead of him, had considered going fully loaded for bear, full plate carrier, knee/armpads and heavy helmet, but reconsidered due to the weight of the equipment wearing him down. It would only make him a louder, bigger target in the forests, and he doubted a Type IV plate would stop fire engulfing his body should it come to blows. He settled for travelling light and quiet, a Five-Seven pistol in his leg holster and a VSS Vintorez in his hands, chest adorned with a bandolier to hold his ammunition, and kit. The pistol was of an armor-piercing pedigree, an integrally suppresed sidearm that propelled a smaller bullet at a higher velocity to defeat body armour and light cover. His primary, the VSS on the other hand, was a highly sought after rifle; a strange mesh of a vaguely AK-looking rear, tapering in the front into a handguard, and further still into a long metal tubed internal silencer. It used a heavy, yet slower round, the subsonic nature of the bullet negated the crack of normal ammunition breaking the sound barrier, and it's heavy weight insured it still packed a punch. The Russian sight attached to the top allowed a four times magnified picture to be seen, perfect for the clandestine operations Cameron expected to undertake. Sentries would be a cinch to deal with.

"Are the 'enlightened' ones back yet? Haven't heard em' causing shit with the non humans lately." A hunched, olive-skinned man kept his eyes towards the woods, passing smalltalk back and forth to his patrol mate as they skirted the heavy brush concealing their camp. The man next to him dwarfed him by 2 feet, a leathery orange epidermis and red irises, smiling a toothy grin as he conversed with a deep raspy voice.

"Nah, not yet. We got a bet running back at the tents. I'm 20 Tessons deep for the 'dead and eaten' side. Wonder what noble tastes like, heh."

"Fuck's sake, no one tells me shit. I'll take that bet. They've done a runner obviously, probably hopped the border to suck imperial cock and get their titles back."

"What? Idiot, you really reckon those wankers would survive a second out in the deep forests? They're leaders, not fighters. They'd talk the rest of us to come with em' and soak up the damage for sure. Just like they did when we jumped the fence to get here."

"Hah, don't talk like you rushed the gates yourself, you wastrel. I saw you waiting around for a clear moment just like me."

"Course I did. I've got a working brain, aint I? Sides, word is the ringleaders spiked the soup pot just before with Ketaline's Folly shavings. Got the boys in a rage to make a path for the rest of us." The two men winced. The breakout wasn't pretty.

"Shit. No wonder they threw themselves at the Guard. Unlucky fuckers."

Cameron saw the backs of the two men, mid gossip. He decided to listen in on the sentries talking, absorbing anything useful before raising his firearm. Dastilan would wanna hear this. The lines and dashes of the sight overlaid the taller one's head, and Cameron depressed the trigger. The sound of the firearm was akin to a click, more than a bang, and was aided by the surrounding brush in muting the sound of the detonating gunpowder. The taught skin of the fiery-eyed man was tough, but did nothing to stop the collision of the stubby round crashing through the back of his bald skull and resting in the cartilidge of the man's sharp nose. The delayed reaction of his friend caused his own downfall. He was caught mid turn, palm half-raised to stomach level in an attempt to shelter himself from the rapidly approaching rounds begging to penetrate flesh. The weasely man collapsed in a pile after the bullets found their mark, embedding themselves in the man's ear and neck. The two of them dribbled blood from their wounds. A good result. The mercenary spectre emerged from the greenery he had shrouded his presence in, and hung the rifle on his back, reaching out for the legs of the sentries and dragging them into the deep brush. His breath was deep with exertion, the taller man being of heavier stock and taking considerably more effort to drag than his ally.

"How are you doing? Have you encountered the enemy yet?" Dastilan sat inside of his cabin at the dining/work table, a cup of tea to his side, and a metal box adorned with buttons and dials to his front. He shortly realised he had kept the intercom button depressed, and released it to let his operative talk.

"I'm here. Two sentries dead, still undiscovered. I see a tower, looks excellent for an overview."

"They'll have the same idea, expect close contact with the enemy. Can you stomach close and personal?"

"As long as I get the jump on them, they're fair game. If I get spotted however..."

"Then you'll deal with it. If you have to run, so be it. They aren't rangers, just inner city criminals. It's not like they can track you, after all. You've a lead consistency. No magic to lock on to."

"Lead? How flattering. Thanks for the pep talk." Cameron rolled his eyes.

"Pep? What is 'pep'?" Whatever language I'm talking doesn't play nice with English, sometimes. Annoying. Cameron was ready to move. The stone tower stood infront of him, simple in construction, 40 metres tall and ensconced in brambles and dense vines that clung to the exterior.

"I'm going silent. Wish me luck."

The finality of Cameron's speech left no room for Dastilan's questions. All he could do was as the man said. He leaned back into his chair, and sighed. The kid will be fine.

The wooden palisades seemed to have stood longer than their current inhabitants, weather worn and cracked here and there. The wall extended upto the stone of the tower, neglecting to surround it entirely. Probably less work for the blokes making it. Better for me, though. The building's bricks were seemingly made of whatever stones the makers could find around the forest, bumpy and relatively unrefined from their original shape. It made excellent handholds for Cameron to utilise, and he started mounting the wall. He was a great climber, and the purchase on the tower with it's holes and protrusions made for an easy time to the top. The roof of the structure was half-collapsed, the room below scattered with debris from the construction materials, and detritus from the forest. A square cutout on the top floor suggested a ladder access, but the ladder in question was missing.

Cameron climbed through the top floor window, measuring his footfalls carefully and remaining covert. He slowly peered through the cutout, head emerging from the ceiling of the floor below and instantly focusing on a sleeping woman in front of him. The braided woman was in the corner of the dark room, back to the wall and head slumped down, arms crossed. A bow laid carelessly on the ground, and it's arrows rested in a quiver against the leg of the chair. She'll hear my shots, for sure. Cameron decended from the opening like a spider, falling onto the tip of his toes. He studied the sleeping guard for any sound or stir. Nothing. The blue skinned sentry held her slumped, tattoed arms loosely across her chest, head bobbing with each drawn breath. Cameron felt a lump in his throat. Goosebumps lining his skin. If his ambush failed, he knew he was dead. In his hand, he held a tanto dagger, the blade black and the paracorded handle held tightly to his palm. If I fuck this up, they'll all burn me alive. The room seemed to scretch into a hallway with every step Cameron took towards her, his arms stiffly held in front of him, ready to plunge the knife into the neck of the napping deserter. He reached the feet of his prey. He held the blade in a reverse grip, the tip of the weapon aimed towards the nape. He drew his strength into his arms, and plunged. The strange edge of the tanto blade pierced the dark blue skin of the neck, and dug into the spine. He withdrew the blade quickly, letting the lifeforce drain from the carcass, and lowering it to the floor by the shoulders to stop it falling to the ground. Cameron quietly exhaled. Overlook secured. So far, so good.

The camp proper could be best be described by the word 'squalid'. Six stained tents made two seperate circles around campfires, and heavy cast-iron pots hung from metal tripods and bubbled and broiled whatever meat and vegetables the deserters could round up. Those eating from them raised their spoons with grimaces. A heavy, metal reinforced gate to the left of the tower stood open, and two complaining men stepped through it, presumably unhappy about their patrol detail. The gate sentry closed it afterwards, and smiled to himself, happy that he was stationed in the relative safety the walls provided. On 3 ramshackle wooden scaffoldings, spaced evenly around the palisades, stood 4 bored looking archers facing outwards, either smoking some kind of tobacco from straight wooden pipes, or twiddling their thumbs. The makeshift watchtowers had thatch roofs, and solid planks surrounding the structure to hide behind for safety should the arrows start flying. They go first. The back of the camp, in front of the tower, seemed to house the armory, an organised clutter of chipped iron swords in barrels, battleaxe heads on tables, and unstrung bows adorning twig racks. A staging area. The boss probably gathers them there for raiding parties. Dark smoke rose from a chimney attached to the roof of the only other remaining stone structure in the camp; a one-floored residence with planks across the windows, a dull uniform grey in colour and cracked orange tiles adorned the top, and at the only entrance stood two intimidating human warriors, each with a simple metal spear held vertical. That's going to be tough. Cameron's heart rose to his throat. He formulated plans, and disregarded them as soon as they appeared. Maybe if I ask nicely, they'll group hug and I can toss them a grenade to play with.

"Say that again you little beanstalk, and I'll pull your spine out through your arse!" A skinny runt of a man was accosting someone twice his bodyweight, a green skinned, brown tusked orc with rippling muscle pointed a beefy finger threateningly at the loudmouth. The wiry bandit didn't get the message.

"You got muscles for ears too, goblin fucker? I said I'm glad the rest of you green barbarians died at the gate! If they were here we'd be stepping over your filth and having to smell your shit-eating breaths! Thank god for Meridia, eradicator of the unwashed orckin!" The runt appealed to the crowd like a circus presenter looking for volunteers. Some of the deserters sniggered. Most kept quiet. The orc on the other hand, was livid. His hands flexed, and darted towards the beanstalk's pipe of a neck. The human's legs glowed a familiar white, and he dodged to the side, and delivered a magically-enhanced punch to the orc's torso. The crowd went wild. They were going insane out of boredom. A good fistfight would give them something to talk about. The human's face was adorned with a shit eating grin. He detested orcs. He had his eyes on this one for a long time, testing his patience by throwing every insult and offensive remark he could summon up. Today, his foul tirades worked, and the orc threw the first punch. What could he do but defend himself?

The human jumped back in a dodge, the orcs fist going wide by a mile, and propelled himself forward, aiming for the man's unguarded solar plexus. The balled fist found it's mark, and the orc's lungs emptied with a wheeze. He recoiled from the punch, and the human rushed into his guard for a repeat attack. A big mistake. The human's punch lacked the force necessary, and the orc feined a winding to bring the human into his range. He resumed a stance, to the surprise of the human, and grabbed their shoulders and drove the top of his head into the human's nose. The human yelled out in pain and fell back, nose twisted unnaturally and bright blood flowing down the top of his lips. The orc held his rippling trunks for arms aloft in victory, mocking the human with a toothy grin. The bystander roared. The human scowled and re-readied himself, wiping his nose on his sleeve, and raising his fists, inconcolable rage in his eyes.

The two of them unceremoniously fell to the ground at the same time. A purple black curtain of mana forced their heads and bodies to the ground in supression, and they groaned with what little air they had left in their lungs. The ringleader had revealed himself. The crowd, having grown to max population drawing onlookers out of their tents and outhouses, immediately fell silent. The general commanded obedience, and they listened. The spear-wielding guardsmen of the boss' private quarters moved to the two men, and the purple veil released. Locking the two fighter's arms behind their back with faces devoid of emotion, they took the placid men to the courtyard outside the armory and threw them to the ground. The general called for his men to follow. They fell in line behind their commander, silent and compliant, as if following a funeral procession for the orc and the human that dared to step out of line. The archers on the watchtowers huffed. They were on duty, and they coundn't see the events obscured by war tents and trailers of goods they had pilfered from their victims. Anxious to not get caught for dereliction of duty, they faced the palisades again, irritated and unfulfilled. Cameron was ecstatic. This is just what he needed. This time, the plan built itself. Cameron only needed to pull it off.