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Johannes Bruckner awoke. The young swordsman found himself in a stone cell with thick iron bars. He lay on a rough cot covered with straw; a lone slat window let in a sliver of sunlight several feet above his head.  

The young man winced as the light struck his eyes, for his head ached as if he had taken some great blow. Touching the back of his skull cautiously, the young man discovered a large lump. He probed it gingerly, then pulled his hand away. Dried blood, like rust, clung to his fingertips. 

Bruckner attempted to sit, but was driven back down by a violent churning in his stomach. His head felt as if it must burst at any moment.  He slipped back into brief insensibility before sitting upright again, pain be damned; panic began to work its subtle chaos through his frame as he fought to remember what had happened.  

He remembered the sea. He had set out from Cormorant in the early spring, to hone his skill and his spirit. He had signed on with a group of merchant marines who traveled across the Faussian Sea, hawking their wares in every port from Esseldown to Stent. It was not trade that drew him forth from his father’s house and forge, however, but the promise of bold deeds and adventure—he had bowed before his father, taken his sword, and vowed to return in time, after having taken the measure of the world, and grown to meet it.

Bruckner had been especially eager to visit the martial cities of Sevahr: the tales of bravery and swordsmanship from that sun-drenched land drew many to seek out adventure on its shores. The cities of Sevahr were hard, and its people resembled their homes. Bastos, and Aspil, white-spired Sievenar, and Emmenia, northernmost of the Sevahran polises. Emmenia! Had they come to Emmenia? He strove to remember. Emmenia, ruled by the House of Janessin, lay on the the southern shore of the Faussian Sea, which sailors called the Sea of Drowned Stars for the eldritch lights that sometime welled up from deep within those haunted waters, weirdly illuming the depths. Memories of the sea, of the leathery-tan faces of his shipmates, of a city glowing like a bed of coals above the sandy gray rim of the horizon-- 

His head began to spin and he closed his eyes again slowly. They had made port at Emmenia, he was sure of it. He recalled savoring the feeling of new ground under his feet. Then there was some great noise and commotion, and then he remembered no more.

Bruckner’s thoughts were interrupted as a heavy-set guard wearing an oily leather jerkin roughly shoved open a small grating at the base of his cell door.  The man shoved in a plate of food, then turned to drop an identical offering before the cell opposite Bruckner’s own. He seems highly distracted, and in great haste. Sounds of some wider activity could be heard faintly outside, as of many men on the move, and angry shouts here and there.

Peering through the bars of his cell door, into the dim light of the prison beyond, Bruckner spied a small figure sitting in silent repose on the floor of the opposing cell. A woman, Bruckner gauged, from the slender build and delicate hands. Human or perhaps elvenkind, she was draped in a dark green robe, a hood drawn over her face.  She made no move to pick up the plate of food dropped untidily at her feet.

This woman was called Nima Greenleaf. She sat meditating silently in her cell; thinking and waiting.  She had been sitting thus for many hours now. She had watched the guards drag in the youth and toss him into the cell across from her own.  He appeared healthy and well-muscled, but had taken a bad beating. She had studied him absently as the night hours had ticked away. He had an honest, workman’s face, which was lent a certain daring and regality by the etching of a Mensur scar on the left side of his face. His eyes—she saw when he at last awoke—were of deep brown, and held a vim and courage uncommon in a youth of eighteen years.

Nima was of middling to short height. Her hair was long, and shone black as a crow under a full moon. Intense green eyes peered out from over alabaster cheeks, casting sharply about her, missing little. The curve of her ears and the hint of old starlight in her eyes marked her out as an elf, or as one with some proportion of the old blood in her. The proud tilt of her chin, however, and the nicked edges of her dagger were marks more suggestive of the human form and fabric. Eyes wary and blade ready, the half-elf maid had been wandering the cities of Sevahr for several months now, on her own business.  She had been caught by the Emmenia town guard nearly two weeks past, in the general vicinity of the Janessin Palace. She had kept her tongue, and her own counsel, despite increasingly dire threats from her interrogators regarding those methods they should soon be forced to adopt should she persist in her silence. She was, at this point, quite eager to leave, and it seemed to her that an opportune moment to escape was now at hand, for trouble was gathering in the city. The guards had grown increasingly distracted over the past several days, and the mood in the prison had grown strangely tense. Even before her capture, she had heard rumors of strange doings in the city. Unknown happenings were manifestly sweeping through Emmenia, and a clever individual could easily lose herself in such a commotion. Such were the thoughts in Nima Greenleaf’s mind.

With a groan, Bruckner stood, steadying himself against the cold stone wall as his knees threatened to betray him. The sounds of activity outside were growing louder, trickling in through the thin window overhead; men shouted commands, horses whinnied and shrieked, and, growing unmistakable now was the clank of armor and shield.

Bruckner glanced at the plate of food: atop the disc of blackened tin sat a hard biscuit and a thin strip of dried salted beef.  A desiccated carrot, almost limp to the touch rounded out the meal. Ignoring it, he turned to the woman sitting stock still across the hall. 

"You there: what is this place?"

He called out to her, in the elvish tongue most common along the Faussian coast.

The strange woman gave a quick, but audible sigh at the question, before answering in the dominant human vernacular of the region. 

"I would imagine the answer to be obvious--what do bars, poor bedding, and unreachable windows usually signify?"  

Without waiting for a reply, I say in a very-slightly-less harsh tone, 

"Well, you do appear to have been injured in the region of your head; perhaps your mind isn't as sharp as it might otherwise be.  You are in prison."

“What is happening outside?”

“The town garrison has mobilized,” 

Nima answered. 

“Emmenia has been home to strange dealings of late. They whisper that King Hector Janessin has gone quite mad. He has ordered a rash of executions over the past month, though his victims were charged with no crimes, nor were trials held. Meanwhile, bandits patrol the roads and pirates sail freely across the Bay of Flaking Fire. Rumors abound that he is little to be seen outside of the royal bedchamber, though his country lies in chaos.”

"How long have you been here?" 

Bruckner asked, dumping the fetid food from his plate. He tested the strength of the tin plate, then tossed it aside. The youth began to search his cell carefully, looking for any means of egress.

"Have you died?" 

Bruckner demanded suddenly, into the yawning silence that met his query.

“No, I'm simply amusing myself, watching an amateur prowling his cell and imagining himself making a daring escape. I've been here twelve days, and I believe I can say with expertise that we are locked in fairly well.”

"Of course," 

she added softly, 

"Perhaps you have a powerful deity on your side?"  

As the elf-maid said this, she began to fumble with an intricate braid of knots hanging from her belt.

Bruckner studied her. 

"Why have you been locked in here?"

"Oh, a little bit of this, a little bit of that.  Let's just say that sometimes good intentions are rewarded with . . . jail time."

With that, Nima stood, dusted herself off, and clapped her delicate hands together with a crisp pop.  

"All right, then.  I have decided to help you."  

She held up a hand as if to forestall any upwelling expressions of gratitude.  

“If, that is, you are honest with me.  Begin with answering the same questions with which you have been peppering me, and then feel free to add any other details you might feel are relevant--profession, skills, the like."

She waited. Bruckner stepped towards the bars, dusting the straw off of his clothes. 

“My name is Bruckner. I hail from the King's Forest, in Cormorant. I had been traveling the Sea of Drowned Stars. We had made port in the Bay of Sevahr, and then...I awoke here.”

"For what purposes did you take to the sea?  And more importantly, what did you do upon making port to earn you such a welcome as this?"

"I am a swordsman.” 

Bruckner answered simply. 

“I follow the sword, and I go where it sends me. As for the other...I cannot recall. We docked at Emennia. I know nothing more."

As the two prisoners compared their fates, the sounds outside grew steadily louder.  There are repeated thuds can hear heavy thuds, a constant clanging as of many smiths all working their hammers, and the bellow of officers shouting commands.  For a time the prisoners fell silent, and simply listened. Within the hour, they began to hear the thin whine of arrows leaping off of bow-strings. Shrieks of dying men filled the air, evidence of shafts finding their marks. 

Of a sudden, the door at the far end of the hall slammed open, and the man in the oily leather jerkin rushed in.  He shambled heavily past the empty cells until he came before Nima.  He squinted in the direction of Bruckner briefly, before turning his attention to the elf maid. He fumblingly loaded a heavy crossbow; his breath was labored, and reeked of cheap wine He stared at the elf through red-rimmed eyes, swaying slightly.  

'Alright, you two.  The King's got no more need for troublemakers, come wand'rin' into town during the dead of night.  Nor', he turns to glower at Bruckner, 'for busybody pirate scum.  We was gonna make you dance, boy; find out about the rest of your filthy company; them what got away at port yesterday.  But ain't no time for that now, what wif' the siege n'all.'  

He was very drunk.  He turns back to Nima, licking his lips.  

'I wanted to interview you personally; find out all your tasty lil' secrets.  But, orders is orders.'  He raises the crossbow to eye level, aiming directly at Nima's chest.  'To the King's justice!' he croons.  

The man’s cry turned to a howl as an arrow bloomed suddenly from his side, a long black shaft protruding from under his right armpit.  He screamed and his own crossbow careened upward, the bolt discharging wildly into the ceiling.  He turned in the direction of the attack, and another arrow sank into his chest.  He gurgled and gasped, blood spilling out from behind clenched teeth, then he dropped, twitching, onto the floor.  The sounds of battle outside grew ever more intense; the clang of metal filled the air, and the smell of blood. A tall figure with upswept black hair and a trimmed beard stepped into view from the end of the hallway, holding a long black bow.

Bruckner leapt against the cell wall between himself and the archer, gesturing for Nima to do the same. She paid no heed, instead dropping to her knees before the cell bars, snaking a narrow arm through, straining her fingers towards the keyring hanging from the gaoler’s belt.

The bearded archer strode down the hallway swiftly, putting a foot on the chest of the man he had just killed.  He worked quickly, emptying man's pockets, and surgically cutting a   purse from off a string around the man's neck. He dropped his bow and grabbed Nima’s wrist with his free hand as she lifted the keyring from its seat.

He turned to the half-elf and smiled dryly, staring into her eyes.  

“Planning on going somewhere?”  

Holding her wrist tightly with his right hand, his left finished its work, plucking the dead man’s meager belongings forth and stowing them safely away.  He turned Nima’s wrist slightly, bending her hand down with gentle but steady pressure until the keys dropped into his waiting palm.

The stranger stood up, tossing the key ring repeatedly into the air. He was smiling widely, as if he were uniquely party to some great joke that these others too, would soon be in on. He looked to Bruckner, then back to Nima.  

“I estimate we have roughly 6 minutes until this building is stormed. My understanding is that the Bastoran army is to take the city as bloodlessly as possible, so odds are they won't kill the two of you.  But..." 

he shrugged.  

"You know how men are when their blood is up." 

His eyes traced a swift path from Nima’s boots up and over her fair form to meet her eyes, his look punctuating the warning. He tossed the keys into the air again.  

“Do you know…I'd be willing to give you these keys, though I'm not sure it wouldn't be a breach of," he grinned wickedly, "my civic duty.  Normally prisoners are prisoners for a reason. Then again, old man Janessin hasn’t exactly been himself of late, has he?"

“We have been imprisoned here for seeking our fates...no more than any man might do." 

The man laughed. 

"A criminal poet, are you?  You speak like a Cormorantian. You're a long way from home, boy."  

He looked back to Nima. 

“And you?"

Nima met the man’s eyes coolly.

“A favor I tried to perform for someone went wrong--at least in the eyes of the king's men.  Of course, if you were to release me, it would be you who would have rights to a favor."  

She paused a moment after saying this, and then added:

"Us.  If you were to release us, " 

as she motioned between herself and Bruckner. 

The scoundrel chuckled.  

"It is sad, isn't it, how our best intentions turn against us?  Ah, well."  

He paused a moment, then turned abruptly. 

"Do me a kindness, wait here a moment."  

He dashed down the hall, ignoring any cries to the contrary. A key scraping a lock sounded faintly, forty second passed, then the man dashed back into sight.  

"Here," he announced, holding the keys out to Nima, but keeping them in his hand. 

"By the time you are out, I shall be gone.  I have opened the holding room at the end of the hall; your equipment should all be there.  Your gold..." he shrugged. "Well, we'll call that my fee.  Good luck thief" 

he said to Nima. Then he turned and delivered a mocking salute to Bruckner, crowing

"And fair thee well, my young criminal poet!" 

He crowed, delivering a mocking salute to Bruckner. Then he dropped the keys on the floor before Nima's cell and was off.  

Nima cursed under her breath at the theif’s intentions towards her gold, then set to unlocking her cell door with—it must be noted—slightly shaking hands.  She strode swiftly to Bruckner’s cell, asking him:

"Which deity did you say, exactly, you had looking out for you?"

“Eleam, the Sword, and Talis, who stays the good man’s courage. To what gods do you pray?"

Nima did not answer. She turned the key and slid Bruckner’s cell door open, then made haste to follow after the archer. By the time Bruckner had made it to the hallway, she was halfway up the short flight of stairs leading up to the storeroom. Inside, she found a window smashed outward, and a length of rope secured to a wall sconce trailing over the sill. She caught a glimpse of the man who had “saved” them, skirting around a contingent of archers taking aim at some unseen foe. Cursing him again, she set to swiftly searching the room.

She found her own equipment sitting in the back of a long wooden lockbox; the lid was up, the lock picked.  Her purse was gone, as promised, but the rest of her belongings appeared to be there. She swiftly began donning her dyed grey and black studded leather armor. She tied her dagger to her belt, and grasped her ironwood quarterstaff with relief.  Her satchel was likewise in the box, and inside it, her set of lockpicks, several weeks rations of dried fruit and nuts, as well a small silver amulet with a blue stone, sewn into the lining of the bag.  Her search of the room also revealed a light crossbow hanging on a rack above the door, with a quiver of bolts.  A curative philter of crimson shade, locked up in a dusty crystal bottle, she found in a trap desk-drawer, and beneath it, an old book written in what appeared to be one of the Infernal tongues.

Bruckner had entered shortly after Nima, and made his way swiftly—for the sounds of violence were growing louder, and some now originated clearly from within the building—to his own bag, stowed hastily in a corner cabinet. The youth’s belongings consisted in: a barely broken-in set of studded leather armor, a heavy steel shield, and--he breathed a sight of relief to see it tucked in the corner of the small wooden locker--his longsword.  The sword was made especially for Bruckner, by his father, a smith of renown in Bruckner’s home, in Kingswood. who worked on it during the evenings for over a year, crafting it to perfection.  As such, it is itself a masterwork; two fullers run down the length of the adamantine blade.  The boy had worked for several years, saving gold to help his father pay for the precious metal, but the results were well worth it.  The black blade gleamed as Bruckner draw it briefly from the scabbard; 

the tang was wrapped in a handle of dark stained cherry wood, over-wound with a thin webbing of cured black leather.  The pommel was a solid knob of adamantine, rounded and glossy.  The blade had not yet seen battle.

He found also his cloak and satchel, which contained two curative draughts, a half-eaten loaf of stale bread and some salted cured meat. His coin-purse was, unsurprisingly, missing. 

Bruckner quickly donned his armor, and buckled on my sword and shield.

As Bruckner lashed his shield tight against his shield-arm, and Nima whirled her green cloak on over freshly donned leather armor, the two escapees heard the heavy stamp of armored feet pounding their way up the stairs into the cell-lined corridor. A man with clanking tread could be heard at the other end of the hallway. 

"Up here!" 

he shouted, and began charging down towards the storeroom. Nima and Bruckner saw him burst into view, a heavy-set man with a lance, wearing half-plate. He saw the two escapees and called out again behind him, more urgently.

Bruckner drew his sword, and Nima cocked her crossbow, and set a quarrel to the string.

The armored man in the hallway was now ascending the stairs. He slowed as he saw the weapons being prepared against him, but came on still.  Two more men were right behind him now. The second held a worn greathammer, and the third wielded a falchion. The first gained the summit of the steps. He levelled his lance, and began walking forward, calling out: 

"Typical Emenniaian tactics, innit, boys?!  Running and hiding." His face transformed into a snarl, and he leapt forward, keening out with the tip of his lance.

As Nima prepared herself to strike, a deep voice from behind the three men called out: 

"HOLD!"  

The man immediately ceased his headlong charge, and pulled back with an angry curse to stand with his fellows. The three men kept their eyes on Nima and Bruckner, however, and their weapons at ready. They waited, as someone ponderously heavy climbed the stairs behind them. A bear of a man shoved his way through them, coming to stand in front of the two escaped prisoners, his one good eye glowering.  A greatsword hung sheathed across his back, the handle jutting up over his left shoulder. His hair was a wild mane of tangled brown, his beard spilling over his chest.  One of his eyes was missing, and a jagged scar ran the length of his face, over the empty socket, and down into the forest of beard growth.  He roughly said: 

"You two aren't of Emennia."

"No - we're travelers." Bruckner said. 

He looked at Bruckner sharply.  

"Sheathe your sword, boy. I'm glad I followed this lot up here--" 

he turned and cuffed the first of the three men to enter the room, brutally.  The man's head snaps back, crashing into the head of the soldier behind him.  The one-eyed man roars at them to get out.  

"Bloody idiot mercenaries", 

he said as they left, all a mixture of shock and sullen rage, and still well within earshot.  The giant sat down, unsheathing his own sword, and stabbing the tip into the ground between his feet as he settled his considerable frame onto a chair.  He began swivelling the sword by its grip between the palms of his hands, slowly, the tip gouging thick shavings out of the wooden floor.  He considered Nima and Bruckner.  

"You lot just enjoy frequenting foreign prisons, or were you more...permanent guests here?"  

Bruckner sheathed his sword.

"I...we were taken here several days ago, for no clear reason." 

Nima still held her crossbow in ready-to-shoot position.  She spoke from the depths of her hood: 

"Well, not exactly no clear reason."  

She looked curiously at Bruckner for a moment.  

"For me, at least. But as you note, we are not of Emennia, we don't belong here, and we've no intention of staying here, so if you will kindly allow us to depart…”

She took a step toward the window, keeping eye and bow trained on the one-eyed giant.

The huge man shook his head, and said: 

“Calm down sprite; you're pointing that at the wrong man. I'm not out for either of you.  We were here to put down Janessin's madness.  But", 

he spat,

“It looks like the good king has gone and fled.  The siege is over--not that it took long.  The castle is emptied, and he ain't here.  I'm just glad I thought to follow that damned mercenary company over to the prison before they took your heads off.  I reckon they were here looking to loot."  

He shook his head, his hair and beard shaking like as wild as a lion’s mane. Nima had lowered her crossbow. 

"That's what comes of hiring sellswords; ain't a scrap of honor among 'em."  

He sighed, which sounded more like the rumble of a sleeping grizzly.  

"Janessin--his madness of late has thrown all of Sevahr into a panic.  His men have been harassing travelers, arresting merchant seamen, killing folk on the road, all on his orders.  Our trade routes in these parts are shaken to the core; some of the towns are damn near starving.  Whatever it is you two did, or didn't do, isn't any of my concern.  We're here to liberate Emennia not pass judgment on those it's been persecuting."  

He stood up.  

"Go if you wish; I've no quarrel with you.  However, you may want to wear these."  He tossed two small badges; metal, with a black rose emblazoned over a red field.  

"Signate of Bastos," he said abruptly, turning to leave.  

"Long as you're wearing those, the army won't bother you."

"Thank you for this," 

Bruckner said, taking the badge. 

"What brought the King to madness?"

The man laughed gruffly, then set a serious eye upon Bruckner. Nima kept an eye on the window, but stayed to listen to the man’s answer.

"That's the question, ain't it?  No one knows for certain; old Janessin was never what you might call a model ruler, but he was only a bit of a fop before, never dangerous, save for his occasional negligence."  

He looked around warily, then leaned forward, as if to avoid being overheard.  

"Don't know if I ought to be repeating this--don't know if I believe it myself, for one thing--but the rumor is that dark things have trickled into these parts.  They say a demon woman, a succubus wormed her way into the king's bed, and his mind.  That ain't all, either.  Folk have claimed that Janessin's men--the one's who've been ambushing people on the road and such--some have claimed that they've seen creatures with them; with horns and the like."  

His widened eye stared from Bruckner to Nima, then back.  

"Spawn of darkness."  

He sat back and twirled his sword in the ground, laughing.

"Like I said though--people love to talk, and folk are easily beguiled--whether by succubi or rumors, so it seems to me."  He shook his head.  "Still, troubling though."

The man looked up suddenly, as though suddenly struck with a new notion. He looked at the two erstwhile pri soners anew, as though taking fresh stock of them.  

"You two look like the sort who like trouble, though, eh?  If you're interested, I'm sure my commanding officer, General Aleksander, could find a job for the two of you that involved infiltration" he looked to Nima, "and, sword work" he nodded at Bruckner.  

"For my part," 

Bruckner said, looking at Nima, 

"It's sword work I've come here for. But I'm no mercenary killer. What sort of work is this?"

Nima had opened my mouth eagerly when Bruckner began to speak, looking ready to accept the offer without reservation.  However, as Bruckner's words sounded, her expression subtly shifted to one of reserve.  

"Yes,"

she said with mock sagacity, 

"What kind of work would we be getting ourselves in for?"

The man waved a hand dismissively at their concerns. 

“I know sellswords, and be assured, I did not mistake either of you for such.  If you were to seek a path from General Aleksander, you'd be working directly for the head of the Allied Sevahr Army; Bastos, Aspil, Sievenar, Eltuhlich, and until recently, Emennia, all look to the General to organize Sevahr's defenses.  Surely you've heard tell of him in Cormorant lad--if I judge your accent aright."

“Certainly I have.” 

Bruckner answered eagerly. General Aleksander of Bastos was hailed across the sunlit lands as a peerless martial commander. Tales of his tactical brilliance were outdone only by those that spoke of his high and unfaltering principle.

He looked at Nima.  

"I can't quite place yours though; where do you hail from?"

"I hail from the coast of the Ambria Sea, from a town called Sultar.  But I have not seen those shores since childhood." 

The man brightened, and said: 

"Ah yes, I know Sultar.  Been there once, as a lad.  Best oysters I ever tasted."  

He sat back, stroking his beard a minute, apparently lost in thought, then shook himself.  

"Sorry," he boomed, "I always get sentimental after a battle." He stood up abruptly.  

"Well come on then.  No point in stickin 'round here.  The battle's won, and I imagine all the hostiles are under control."  

The giant man lumbered down the stairs, apparently expecting the two tentative recruits to follow him. He continued talking as he walked down the hallway, about the unfortunate nature of this war, Sevahran fighting against Sevahran, and the like.  

With a look to Nima and with his hand on the pommel of his sword, Bruckner followed. Nima did likewise.

They followed the huge man down the hall; he was listing off the nature and extent of the victory over Emennia.  Apparently the Sevahran forces were largely made up of Bastoran troops, with a smattering of companies from other cities, and a small contingent of sellswords, who were under the direct command of the man you now follow.  

"Forgive me," he said, turning around abruptly to face Bruckner and Nima as the group exited the prison, emerging from the gloom out into the bright noon sunshine. "I never told you my name. I am Toril. What are you called? And you?” 

Nima and Bruckner give their names, which the gigantic Toril hears with interest, and quickly commits to memory. Despite his intimidating stature and obvious prowess in battle, he seemed a gentle sort, quick to laughter and full of good will.  

He continued to detail the siege as the group made their way through the captured city.  Bodies littered the ground; long slicks of still-wet blood were rapidly soaking into the packed earth of the Emenniae roads.  Troops milled about, some leading captives, others setting up tents, or passing out provisions.  The visible houses see all had guards posted in front of the doors. Toril gestured at one such guard as they passed: 

"General Aleksander's a careful man.  He don't hold with looting or raping; he puts his most trusted and able warriors on 'discipline watch'; least that's what he calls it.  Any man caught defiling the survivors gets the noose," 

He turned to bend a hard eye back at his new companions.  

"I don't expect such stuff will be a problem with either of you, will it."  

This was said more as a statement than a question.

Toril led them through the castle gates; the drawbridge was down and the portcullis had been raised.  Outside the castle proper, what looked to be an impromptu command center had been erected; a semi-circle of tents surrounded a large central table that looks of such fine make that it could only have been dragged out of the castle in order to serve her its new master. Across the table, a large map of Sevahr was spread, held down at the corners by nails. A regal looking man stood over it, conferring with a group of others. His dress was that of the Bastoran military caste, but it was not this that set him, for all were attired so. Some nobility in his bearing, some subtle ivory about his brow, or call it a godly light that shone within intelligent and many eyes—however it was, Bruckner and Nima knew without being told, who was in command here.

Toril led them straight towards the table, stopping at ten feet and raising a Bastoran salute, holding his right hand straight, his arm locked across his chest.  

"General!"

He says in a a controlled military voice.  The General looked up and nodded. He said something briefly to a man at his right, then walked over, his arms open to embrace his subordinate.  The two men clasp one another’s arms warmly, and the General says in a voice at once potent and stoic:

"A fine victory, captain.  Low losses on both sides, thank the gods."  He then turns to the two of you.  "What do we have here?" 

he asked in a voice neither warm nor cold.

"I am called Bruckner, sir. I am a swordsman of Cormorant. Your man Toril says you may have some work for me."

Before the General could respond, Toril burst into a roar of wild laughter, and slapped Bruckner on the back so hard that Bruckner almost tumbled over.

He cried out, still laughing, 

“Ah, I do like this lad; he has a pair on him, don't he sir?"

General Aleksander raised an eyebrow at Toril, and said dryly, 

“Perhaps you shouldn't kill the boy before he's had a chance to see real combat, Toril?” 

Toril continued chuckling, and patted Bruckner’s shoulder more gently.

“Aye, sir". 

A hint of a smile toyed with the corners of the General's mouth; he and Toril, despite the obvious difference in rank, seemed to be quite close.  The General turned to more closely inspect Bruckner and Nima.

He turned to Bruckner first, and said: 

"There is--sadly enough, as it were--always work these days in Sevahr for anyone willing and able to swing their sword in favor of justice."  

He studied the young swordsman with eyes of slate-gray infinity.  

"Why do you swing your sword?"

"To learn to swing it well. My father is weaponsmith and arms master to one of the noble houses of Cormorant. I hope to take his place one day, when I am worthy. So, I seek to understand the sword."

The general nodded seriously, seeming to approve of Bruckner’s answer.  He turned to Nima.  

"And what of you?" 

he asked.  

"Why do you desire to fight for Sevahr?"

Nima shrugged noncommittally.  

"Is it ever truly possible to limit one's motives to a single explanation?  I suppose, though, it is your right to ask; in which case my primary reason is that I am interested in finding a cause to be interested in.  Along with that, I am interested in remaining, for the time being, at the side of my new companion."

The General studied the elf maid for a moment, then turned to address both. 

"Very well,” he said. “I appreciate the honesty you have both answered with.  Come with me."  

He turned and beckoned for them to follow. He walked about 15 paces to a small brown tent. Inside was a small cot and a small desk.  A chest lay at the foot of the cot.  Bruckner noted the fact that General Aleksander's tent was identical to all of the others that had been erected; there was no pomp or fanfare to denote that the most decorated military man in Sevahr had his temporary headquarters here. 

Aleksander pulled two small pieces of parchment out of the chest, and set them on the desk, alongside an inkwell and quill.  

“If you will serve, read these and sign," he said simply.

"I apologize for the necessary haste of these proceedings. But time is our greatest asset now, and as you might well imagine, I have my hands rather full seeing to the peaceful transition of Emmenia’s government from Janessin's madness to a temporary military tribunal."  

Bruckner and Nima sat, taking up the papers offered them. The parchments looked to be standard military contracts; they stipulated that there undersigned would be serving the Council of Lords of Sevahr, directly under the command of Lord General Aleksander of Bastos. Strict provisions were included against the theft of goods from lawful citizens of Sevahr, the murder of lawful citizens of Sevahr, and the rape or general harassment of lawful citizens of Sevahr.  Violations of these codes, if discovered, would, the parchment informed them, result in hanging from the neck until dead. Bravery and fealty would be rewarded with honor and payment as the Lords of Sevahr saw fit, but would amount to no less than 100 gold sovereigns per year (according to the Luthian Calendar).

A line at the bottom of each page awaited signature.

Nima took up a quill and signed.

“General,”

Bruckner said, looking up from the contract, to meet Aleksander’s eyes.

“Before I sign, I must know something of what we would do. It isn't only the lawful citizens of Sevahr to whom I owe my loyalty."

The general nodded. 

“Nothing I will ask of you would contravene the expectation of any lawful and just person within the bounds of the Sunlit Lands. The work I have for you is the location, observation, and if necessary, extermination of elements which seek to contravene the peace of Sevahr, and by extension, the lands of all good, free folk. No doubt you have heard the rumors surrounding the recent madness of King Hector. It seems that at least some of these rumors are true.”

He studied them, his eyes serious.  

"There is dark and demonic activity in the heart of Sevahr, and our goal is to root it out and destroy it.  I swear by Tyr, Palis, the Hammer, and all the good gods and goddesses that we seek only for order across Sevahr, and for the safety of all the good-willed peoples who live therein. You may doubt this, or no; it is one to me what you believe about me.  But if any mission you receive seems to you to contravene what I have just told you, you are under no obligation to fulfil it.”

He rose, and walked to a nightstand by his cot. Picking up a decanter of water, he poured himself a glass.  

"Your accent marks you as a Cormorantian.  It may interest you to know that King Revule Foxlash has allied himself to the Sevahran Lords, and now serves upon the Council.  Believe me, lad--if you would honor your home, your father, and your king, there is no better place for you. Alongside your friend, you could prove a serious asset to me; you are not known here, so you will not be recognized. You can be my eyes and ears in the wild, gathering information, and, when necessary, fighting for the mutual good. What say you?"

Bruckner took up a quill and signed.

General Aleksander furled up the contracts, saying: 

"I am glad to have the two of you aboard.  These times are dangerous, moreso perhaps, than the majority of the army knows.  I have a mission for you immediately, if you are ready.  There are basic provisions in the quartermaster's tent, and here is some coin", 

he tossed them each small leather purse: each contained 100 gold Bastoran dazrins. Each gleaming yellow coin bore the sigil of Bastos and the city’s motto, written in an ancient Sevahran tongue, which translated, meant: “Virtue our arms, the gods our shield.”

"Also,"

he stated and then abruptly walked to the door of the tent, called out, 

"Henrik!  Bring a raven, at once!" 

Then strode back in, and said: 

“We will require a method of communication across distance. I distrust magic at the best of times; it seems to me that a living being is always the better option."  

As he finished saying this, a slight boy, of no more than 17 came into the tent nervously, holding a magnificent black raven perched upon his forearm.  The General continued, “we use these birds to communicate in the army; each is well trained, and intelligent enough to know when to remain unseen--as in combat--and how to find me, no matter where I might be."  

He looked at his new recruits.  

"These birds have personalities, and will no doubt pick one of you or the other to attach itself to."

No sooner had he finished speaking than the raven fluttered to Nima to perch lightly upon her shoulder. The bird stared at her with the glossy black marble of its eye for a moment before nuzzling his beak against her hair and pointed ear.  General Aleksander smiled slightly.

"I'm not surprised. They tend to gravitate toward women."

"I need you to investigate activities reported near Mt. Elesborre," the General continued.  

"There have been reports of orcs massing on the lower slopes, and... rumors of darker things still."  

He sighed.  

"I should tell you, we have very little idea as to how widespread the evils that have corrupted Janessin have spread.  But as far as we can tell, the problems go far beyond one crazed monarch. Investigate Mt. Elesborre; if there are forces there, more than a few strays that is, you are to hold back, and wait for reinforcements.  Send the raven, men can join you within a day and a half.  It won't serve me well to immediately lose you both."  

The voice of an aide-de-camp sounded outside, requesting admission to see the General. Aleksander called for the man to enter, then turned to address Bruckner and Nima, who stood.

"You should be off.  I apologize for the brief nature of this meeting."  

He led them to the tent’s entrance, holding aside the heavy canvas open to the world beyond. He gave each a last searching look with his slate-colored eyes.

"The times do not allow for more."