text: this was a mistake of my father's. One that I will soon correct."
  
  "Do you know why they have allied themselves now? Did you do something against them?"
  
  "Not at all, my dear. One cannot understand the ways of the savages. They sacrifice their fellows to their god. As far as our former diplomats reported, they have no written word. They are mere beasts, superstitious in nature, allowed to roam at our approval. It's gone on far too long, and they will soon learn why threatening Helswith is not in their best interest."
  
  The High Lord sips at the goblet resting on the table top and continues. "Their 'Great Warlord' is simply a man clinging to the past, using an ancient title to further his own pursuit. He will soon learn the danger in threatening a true leader, a nation strengthened with military might. This will be my greatest glory, my dear. I hope you count yourself lucky to share it with me."
  
  "Share? I take what I want," the woman answers, sending her hands lower. The High Lord doesn't stop her.
  
  > Morgan II
  Those two soldiers, who surprisingly managed to sneak up on Morgan -- due to her exhaustion -- weren't the only ones she ran into. More accurately, ran through. The plains offer little shelter for someone trying to go unnoticed. The plain's tall grass and rocky hills help, sure, but those are more temporary solutions. They work well for sneaking around a few soldiers, but there's a whole goddamn army at her back.
  
  Tonight, however, she's seeking them. Her target is an officer, one that will possess knowledge of a certain prisoner in their camp or at the very least be able to share what happens to prisoners once the army mobilizes.
  
  It's dark. Small fires burn safely within the camp's interior, protected by both patrolling and stationary guards. Tiny movement appears near the flame. It may be late, but not everyone is asleep within the camp. Something to take into account. Tall grass as her cover, Morgan glides forward, silent, like a lion stalking prey.
  
  The first line of defense doesn't notice her. Neither does the second.
  
  Morgan finds herself in rows of tents, lined up like buildings in a city. She pauses a moment in an "alley," taking refuge in its shadow. Heavy boots draw near, then fade past. A group of men finally retiring to their makeshift barracks, if Morgan had to guest. They don't notice the woman crouched between canvas structures.
  
  There. Her prey must be inside. A tent, largest from what Morgan's seen, lies ahead. Several spearmen are posted outside as sentries. Where exactly does one hide their secrets? Behind lock and key, in this case, armored soldiers. Morgan waits, listening for movement, then darts across the street towards the next row of tents, hiding between each. She repeats the action three more times before arriving at her destination.
  
  The tent is of red canvas. Soft light shines from within, illuminating small gaps between the canvas and dirt in a line of light. Four soldiers at the door, another four patrolling the perimeter. Her prey must really be paranoid. For good reason. After assessing the patrol's movement, their cadence, their pattern, Morgan breaks for the tent, aiming for the light peering through the canvas floor. She slides, well more of a roll so as to not disrupt the dirt, scooping the bottom of the tent up, pulling it just high enough for her body to slip under. As quickly as it's raised, it drops back to its original position. One of the patrolling guards strolls past, oblivious to the quick motion that just took place.
  
  The interior looks familiar. Red silk pillows, arranged in a circle, lie in the center of the tent, its backdrop a desk in the foreground of several bookcases. It's a little different, but there's no mistaking the councilor's furniture. Strange. The soldiers outside were normal, not the armored elites that separated Morgan from her partner. Still, Morgan keeps an air of caution. She definitely did not want to run into them again, especially alone. She's about to discover how formidable the councilor is without his elite guard. Not very, is Morgan's guess.
  
  His back is turned, hands searching for a particular book on the shelves. Gods, it must be difficult to travel with so many leather-bounds. A little easier, though, when you have free labor chained at the wrists. He doesn't notice her presence until Morgan's hand clamps around his mouth, dagger pressing into his lower back.
  
  Morgan brings her lips close to the councilor's ear, allowing him to feel her breath as she whispers. "Hello again, your eminence. Our last conversation was so rudely interrupted. I assure you, that won't be the case this time around."
  
  "You...you..." the councilor tries to speak, words failing him at Morgan's sudden appearance.
  
  "Yes, me," Morgan answers with a little laugh, one that would get a man's blood hot in an aleroom setting. "You know who I seek. Where is he?"
  
  "We released him," the councilor manages to say.
  
  "You what? For what purpose?"
  
  The councilor answers, gaining back his resolve. "Tracking purposes. The High Lord is marching straight for the horde's leader, and we, uh, don't exactly know his location. The prisoner was obviously aligned with the 'Great Warlord,' and he'll take us straight to him."
  
  "Fools. Why not simply interrogate him?"
  
  "We did. Not even our thickest needles could bring a response. So I had an unfortunate 'servant' bring the prisoner's meal, giving him instructions that would...present a certain opportunity for the prisoner. He'll lead us right to the horde's position where High Lord Ursa will cut them down."
  
  "And where exactly is his last known location?"
  
  The councilor replies by pointing to a scroll on one of his shelves. Morgan guides them both over, where the councilor grabs and unrolls the parchment, allowing them both to read its contents. It's a simple map of the plains, marked with coordinates, dates, and times. Whoever is tracking Joren is sending back current updates of their location as the most recent date is yesterday's.
  
  "This will do," Morgan comments, shoving her dagger into the councilor's back. His cry, mixed with a gurgle, is muted by her palm against his mouth. Morgan carefully guides the councilor, again, this time to the floor as not to alert the sentries. The floor at his bookshelves start to match the red silk pillows in the center of the tent.
  
  Morgan folds the parchment into a small square and places it inside of her pocket. She had some ground to cover. First Joren, then her Nameless partner. Lady give her strength.
  
  > Into the barbarian plains
  The man's face is a mixture of surprise and bewilderment at your sudden arrival. The battlefield is a chaotic place, one-on-one duels have no place here. Whatever "honor" comes from testing yourself against another is lost, a false romantic notion brought by poets and scholars. True war is unfair. Rules don't apply, save for one. Survive.
  
  Your blade finds his exposed back, his axe swing already blocked by Paxson's buckler. Paxson, no stranger to unfair circumstances, learned that lesson quickly in the arena, a lesson that he brought with him to the western plains. Gladiatorial matches are often stacked on one side, especially with lesser known names. It's all about the enjoyment of the people, rather than an even fight. It was just one of Paxson's many challenges along the way to reuniting with her.
  
  Your current battlefield is a dirt road, not wide enough for two wagons side-by-side, along the northern coast of the plains. The Reapers were sent deeper west and then north to the coastline with orders to stop supply lines from reaching the horde. With resource shortages, the tribes are bound to turn on one another.
  
  Your mission would be a lot easier with naval support from King Tristrand, a simple blockage would result in the same outcome of all your hard-fought efforts, but the islands to the east lie silent. It's a mystery to Helswith, as Tristrand relies on importing goods to survive. You're sure there will be a sizable tax added to Helswith goods after the war ends for their unresponsiveness and seemingly unwillingness to aid.
  
  Four wagons, single file, are hit hard by the Reapers. Battles were won outnumbered by the tribesmen. These supply raids could hardly be considered as such. Often they were poorly defended, their position made worse by the terrain. It only adds to the Reapers' chance at success.
  
  Paxson blocks a spear, redirecting the weapon away from his body. He steps forward, coming into sword range -- a place where spearmen lie exposed -- and finishes the man with one swing of his short sword. Three more stand in front of him, one after another due to the narrow road. On the open plains, they'd surround him. Here, they aren't afforded that luxury.
  
  Glancing to Paxson, you duck underneath the wagon, rolling to the opposite side. There, you're met with an axehead, barely missing your ducking head. Still in motion, you kick a foot out, tripping your opponent, a man with unkempt hair and beard like a mane, swinging your sword up, catching his throat on the way down. Hurdling the body, you make for the back of the wagon, meaning to flank the three barbarians closing in on Paxson. You arrive to find Paxson planting his sword in a fallen opponent, the last of the three.
  
  He shrugs. "Sometimes the direct approach is best."
  
  You eye the small wounds accumulated on his forearms. His left leg is dyed red from an unseen cut, the blood staining his trouser leg from within, not from his handiwork. Then, you look down at your own body. Not a single mark is on your body. "Sure, if you want to single-handedly keep the surgeon in business."
  
  Paxson laughs. "Minor scrapes, nothing more. You fight well for one raised in silk sheets, despite your aversion for dirtying yourself."
  
  "I have no problem with that," you answer. "These barbarians simply offer me no threat. The gap between our skill level is too wide, although by your 'scrapes,' I can tell the gap is lesser."
  
  Squadleader Pralthar approaches, bow in hand. His left side of his face is bathed in grime and sweat. Obviously, he had engagement well-within melee range. "Report casualties."
  
  You glance around, seeing Caius and K'rell alive and well, the other two from your initial strike force on the wagons. Pralthar and the rest of the Reapers followed up in the chaos you ensued.
  
  "None, sir," you answer, jumping on top of the nearest wagon. You rip back the canvas covering its contents. "This one's holding dried meat. Looks like some fruit as well."
  
  "Dried too, I hope?" Pralthar asks.
  
  "Yes, sir," you reply. "Much easier to deal with than fresh."
  
  "Take the reins. We'll escort these back to the cave," the squadleader commands. After searching the tribesmen's bodies and not finding much, you pack up the captured supplies and travel back to the cave, your temporary base of operations.
  
  The "cave" is more of an inlet, a place on the cliffside where sea level digs into the bluffs. A winding road leads down to the beach, where the overhang of rock sits a few hundred paces. From the plains, it's hidden. From the sea is a different story, but the barbarians aren't ones to travel by boat. Their sea activity is kept solely to supplies.
  
  For the time being, you're content to stay in the Reapers and the authority of Pralthar. You haven't forgotten your mission. It's burned in your memory, and the tattoo on your arm is a constant reminder. As the Lady's herald, your goal of confronting the Great Warlord has remained unchanged. The task will be easier once you weaken his forces, and with Pralthar in charge, you're doing exactly that. Only a fool would charge directly in, placing their strength directly against the Warlord's. Funny, that's likely what Paxson would do in your position. You've learned patience. A hunter requires the trait to strike at the proper moment. With the Reapers, you chip away at the Warlord's defenses, seeking to land the killing blow once he's vulnerable.
  
  By the time you finish unloading, the sun is nearly set. The cave's floor is sand, so the Reapers have taken to creating makeshift wooden floorboards, built with planks and various pieces of lumber picked up in raids. Each man, even Paxson, has their own island, a floorboard of wood with a personal tent built on top. Most, however, don't take advantage of the canvas privacy, seeking companionship over solitude. The air is warm enough that a fire isn't needed, and the dried food on the latest recovery takes out the other use for a fire.
  
  "Get some rest, men. Tomorrow we'll continue along the coast. It's best not to stay in one place too long," Pralthar speaks from his island.
  
  You gladly follow the command, feeling the strain of battle now that adrenaline's worn off. Slowly, you feel your endurance being built up, a result of prolonged battle. While you have been well-trained, the grind, the grueling consistency of battle wore heavy on your body. Now, you feel in a place where your body is conditioned for it, like there's no longer a liability in that regard.
  
  Your eyes begin to soften, drawing heavy, then closing completely. Bright light! The suddenness causes you to sit up suddenly. Around you, everyone's asleep. Already? It's only been a few seconds. It's completely dark, no sign of the sun is present. Perhaps, it was longer than a few seconds after all.
  
  The sudden light subsided, you glance around sensing for the Lady. Where is she? The woman flocked by crows. You long to view her timeless face, one that's unmarked by flaws, her golden hair floating just above her bare shoulders. She's been absent of late. Somehow that brings a feeling of loneliness, like the empty side of a widow's bed. She said she would appear when you need her. She should be present all the time then.
  
  Your arm burns for a moment as if a stray ember fell on top of it. You look down. The tattoo on your inner arm, a crow mid-flight, glows softly on one side. The left wing. As you draw your arm closer for a better look, the light subtly moves to another section of the bird, although the glow itself remains stationary. It's pointing in a specific direction, like guiding stars for sea voyage. It's dark. No one else is awake.
  
  > follow the light
  Your last interaction with the Lady left an impression in your mind. Besides drawing you closer to her, deeping your bond, it was the first time you learned of her. She fights an unseen battle. She's charged with stopping the return of Uralan. She chose you as her herald. If this is her only way to warn you of danger, a brief moment between battle, you will gladly adhere to her warning. Your trust is fully in the Lady, and you'll follow her signs.
  
  You rise without a sound, meaning to follow the glow without waking the others. Despite the repertoire that you've steadily built up over skirmishes, it doesn't look good if you sneak away from camp. You're still, after all, an "add-on," a soldier that is conscripted into service rather than joining of his own accord. That fact alone will always stain your reputation with a linger of doubt, especially this early on.
  
  Sand is easy enough to move silently through. Its sound is non-existent with your light footsteps, and there aren't obstacles on the ground to give away your position, such as dry leaves or small twigs. It's sand, rocks, and some shells, which you take great care to avoid. The light takes you further down the beach, away from the winding path to reach the cave.
  
  Your vision is dyed with blue light from the moon, shining visibly, sparkling a deep navy, on the ocean water before you. Minutes later, you look down at your arm for direction. It's dark, the glow no longer appearing. What is the Lady trying to show you? There, on the water. Ships. Shadowy, masts rising like scarred trees. They float at the coastline, sails folded up in an anchored position.
  
  Anchored position... The cave! You turn around, ready to warn the others of the sudden ships and come face-to-face with Paxson. He stands, hands on his hips, eyeing you.
  
  "Tristrand," he spits. Seeing your surprise, he continues. "Heard you getting up. Thought you might be up to something. One does not sleep easily in a gladiator school."
  
  "Tristrand. What's he doing here?" you ponder aloud. "We need to get back--"
  
  That's when you notice the countless rowboats on the shore. Dark figures stand on the beach, standing above the Reapers, like an executioner over a kneeling man. Desperately, you rush forward, intending to sprint back to the cave. Paxson stops you with an arm.
  
  "Did you know," he asks, not as a question. "Did you know they were coming. Is that why you fled at the exact moment of their arrival?"
  
  He peers at you like a father searching for dishonesty in his son's eye. "Of course I didn't know. We need to get back. We need to help them."
  
  You attempt to push past him, but he holds you in front. "Bullshit. It's too late anyway. You had something to do with this. I'm sure of it."
  
  Angered by his accusation, you shove Paxson with both hands, sending him stumbling a few steps back. "Damn you. I had nothing to do with this. We need to get back. We need to help them."
  
  An anger, similar to yours, folds his face into a scowl, although he does not strike back. He does keep you from advancing though, stretching both arms out like a net capturing fish in the sea. "I'm afraid it's no use. There are too many of them. How is it that you left at the exact moment they showed up?"
  
  The repetition of his question and the implication associated with it causes you to fire a right fist into Paxson's face. He stumbles, clutching where your blow landed, but then returns to his standing position, arms stretched out, stoicism filling his face rather than the anger displayed a moment ago. His demeanor only ignites you. You throw another right hand, then a left, finishing by grabbing the back of Paxson's head and sending your knee into his nose. He stumbles, again, then returns to his position, blood pouring from a broken nose.
  
  "Will that be all, Master Scholhart?" he speaks.
  
  Master Scholhart. Your father, his owner. The bond shared by battle is not enough to erase the scars left by servitude. The very thing you've spent your life avoiding has become your reality. A curse haunting your blood. The sins of a father passed down to his firstborn. Master Scholhart, a title you replaced with Nameless, still rears its ugly head. Broken, pieced together by an attempt at redemption, you collapse to your knees. Paxson still stands.
  
  Pure disgust fills your mouth, like biting into a piece of spoiled meat. After a few heaves, your body hurls bits of dry meat and fruit from your mouth. As you wipe the corner of your mouth, movement appears in front of you. A hand outstretched, a symbol of aid, friendship. You look up to see Paxson offering a hand to help you to your feet. Humbled, you allow this man, a slave owned by your father, a man forced into combat same as you, a man marked by similar tragedy, to pull you up.
  
  The newly arrived sailors slaughter your friends on the beach. There's nothing you can do about it.
  
  > Continue
  You watched them all night. There was no sleep for either you or Paxson. You found a spot on the bluffs and watched the sailors in the moonlight, now in the creeping light of the rising sun. With the sunlight, you're able to see the colors in which they fly. Royal blue. King Tristrand. So that's why he's been unresponsive to the High Lord's messengers. He must be taking the conflict between Helswith and the tribesmen to further his own pursuits. Coward.
  
  Surprisingly, the soldiers in blue don't row back to their ship. They gather the Reapers' supplies, most of which were a result from their raids, and pack up the captured carts. From your view, it looks like they are traveling deeper into the plains, using the very carts you won the day before.
  
  As the soldiers move, you tail from a distance, the two of you. Since your skillset, as it comes to stealth, is far past Paxson's, you take the lead, guiding him along the way. You thought maybe taking the lead would highlight your confrontation from last night, although Paxson seems to be past that. What's done is done, and you have a joint vengeance to seek.
  
  For days, they travel due south, heading straight for the heartland of the plains. Soon, the view of the ocean is replaced with nothing but grass, the bluffs a place you grew to enjoy, is left far behind you. Tracking them soon becomes difficult, not because they're nimble, but due to the openness of the plains. As you traverse the rolling hills, you're forced to wait until the soldiers reach the next peak before moving forward. Each time they pass from view, you grow a little nervous to lose them. You're reminded, though, that a number such as theirs doesn't simply disappear. Even if you got to the next peak and discovered they'd vanished, there would be clues leading in their direction. The thought is a bit comfortable, although it doesn't entirely bring you to ease.
  
  Cresting the next hill causes you to duck for cover. Sheltered by a boulder, you peer down the hillside. Like the way a forest hides the ground with its trees, the horde's army is sitting at the bottom of the hill, a basin, flatlands large enough to hold the entire mob. Tristrand's soldiers have brought you to the very doorsteps of the Great Warlord. The camp is built in a circular shape, all surrounding a tent that must be the size of a small building.
  
  "Is that what I think it is?" Paxson whispers next to you.
  
  "The Great Warlord," you answer.
  
  You notice the soldiers, Tristrand's men, greet some of the sentries, then begin to set up camp just outside the horde's. Seems despite their apparent partnership, they aren't allowed fully into the warcamp. As you continue to watch, you realize your initial thought was a little off. While Tristrand's men are on the outskirts of camp, several of them enter the horde, probably looking for a way to blow off steam. You're sure the horde has plenty of strong drinks and willing women. Distractions, meant to stave off the burden of a soldier's responsibility for a moment. Works well for the common soldier, at little expense to their leaders.
  
  "Uh oh. I'm not sure I like that look," Paxson comments, noticing your brow furled in thought.
  
  Despite his light-hearted comment, you don't reflect the same. "I told you once I would kill their leader. Tonight may be the night."
  
  "I'm all for taking the fight to them, but there are tens of thousands," Paxson replies. "We didn't even come across any Helswith soldiers along the way here. We're deep in enemy territory without support."
  
  "I have enough support," you answer, thinking of the Lady. She promised. She would aid you when you need her. This is the moment. You would need her to accomplish this task.
  
  Paxson, thinking you meant him, says, "I'll do what I can, but this is a one-way mission. I don't possess your crafitness. I'm but a dull hammer meant to bash my enemies into submission."
  
  "'Sometimes the direct approach is the best way,'" you quote Paxson.
  
  "Gods. Sometimes it's not."
  
  > The direct approach
  While the "direct approach" for Paxson may be lowering his shoulder and running through a door, your version of the statement is more subtle. An idea forms in your mind, but you remain in your position, watching the horde for a while longer. The soldiers in blue, Tristrand's naval members, are able to walk freely within the camp. You see three of them make their way past several plainsmen who guard the perimeter. Gods. From here, they look out of their element, like a fish out of water.
  
  If you're going to make it two steps within the horde of barbarians, you're going to need a disguise. Two royal blue uniforms should do the trick. Now, there's just a matter of waiting for some of the naval members to isolate themselves enough to catch them unawares. You wait, patiently. Beside the three who initially entered the camp, the rest stick together, never straying too far from their position. That's certainly going to make things more difficult. The day steadily transitions to evening, the sun lowering from its position directly above you. Huh. Sometimes all it takes is a change is perspective. Focusing too hard on one outcome can blind you from another, a simpler resolution.
  
  Single lane dirt paths wind through the horde's location, leading in different directions, ensuring the Great Warlord's location is the center hub of the plains. King Tristrand's soldiers, who've never visited the plains before, took a straight path to arrive, hiking over hills, most likely working from a compass direction rather than actual map. After spending some time in the plains, you're not even sure a map would help. The roads themselves are hardly straightforward, each twisting and winding around stone and overgrown grass, crossing over one another like snakes in a bucket. You explain your idea to Paxson, who agrees, and follows you from your vantage point back to the nearest road.
  
  It doesn't take too long, not even an entire hour, before dust appears on the horizon. Someone's coming your way. With this many warriors brought together, ones that are used to roaming freely on the plains, it's no wonder tribesmen come and go almost constantly. They don't travel in rows; they're scattered on the road like patrons in a crowded alehouse.
  
  "Scouts?" you whisper to Paxson. He's crouched next to you. You've found a sizable boulder to hide behind, the overgrown grass surrounding you as a sanctuary. Between strands of grass, you can barely see through. Better a limited view than an exposed position.
  
  "I don't think so," he whispers back. "Look." Now that they're closer, you notice two of them carry a twine of rabbit slung over their shoulders. Not a scouting party. Hunters.
  
  You wait until they reach you, just barely passing by as to hit their flank. Again, your version of the "direct approach" bends the meaning of "direct." Up close now, you count seven of them, each wearing light hide armor. Their armor wouldn't do much good against a spearpoint, but it'd do the trick against a stray slash of the axe.
  
  Realization falls over you. The tribesmen, at least these ones, aren't equipped for a full-on clash with Helswith. Is that why they haven't marched on the desert? They're equipment is suited towards minor disputes, in-fighting, between tribes. Redirecting their combined focus on Helswith doesn't change the fact that they are severely out engineered, despite their overwhelming numbers.
  
  Using your training, you move swiftly and quietly behind the hunters, sticking low underneath their eye line. Your weight is dispersed through the balls of your feet, limiting the total amount of foot surface that touches the road; the less of your foot that physically touches the ground, the less likely an unwanted noise will appear. Muscles in your legs flex, absorbing the impact of your steps.
  
  Your breath is intentionally slowed, and you creep forward at a steady pace, not allowing sudden movements to alert the hunters of your presence. Your dagger is already drawn. Too many would-be assassins make the mistake of drawing their weapon too close to their target, like people don't notice the sound of a blade being pulled from its sheath. Your first victim is but ten feet away...six...three...
  
  Paxon's feet scuffle the ground. Seven pairs of eyes quickly turn around, eight when you look back to flash him a look of disapproval.
  
  He doesn't acknowledge your stare, rushing past you before you even turn back around towards the hunters. When you do, you see Paxson in the air, propelled higher by his charge.