text: 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.
  
  > stay put
  Whatever this is, it's not the way the Lady normally appears to you. You decide to ignore the light. Often, her presence would come during moments of sleep. She appears in your dreams, never as a glowing light while you're conscious. You roll over to hide the tattoo with your body and drift off to sleep, fully expecting to find yourself face-to-face with the Lady.
  
  Instead, you find yourself face-to-face with a pike, illuminated by the blue glow of the moon. Behind it, a soldier dressed in royal blue, standing next to countless others. Royal blue, the colors of King Tristrand. Rowboats lie scattered on the beach, the reason why no one heard their approach. Next to you, each man of the Reapers is awoken with a similar treatment. K'rell is clutching a wound at his side, apparently didn't take too kindly, or passively, to the soldier's presence.
  
  With the Reapers contained, a man strides through Tristrand's soldiers wearing a tricorn hat, hands clasped behind him. His uniform is more distinct, embroidered with a more intricate weave. Must be the captain. Pralthar has the same thought and addresses him.
  
  "What is the meaning of this? We're under the High Lord's protection. Remove your weapons and go your own way. I just may forget this little incident ever took place."
  
  The captain, a man with appearing wrinkles at his face presses his lips into a content smirk. "Ahh, you must be the leader of this...bunch. I heard there was a Helswithian squad in this area causing a ruckus. Seems I've found them."
  
  "Found them and testing their patience," Pralthar answers. "The High Lord will not be pleased in Tristrand's interference."
  
  "That's King Tristrand," the captain replies. A nod of his head brings a blow across Pralthar's face from the nearest soldier in blue. "Helswith and Ursa have grown too confident for their own good, treating my lord as if a common trader. Each year, prices on Helswithian goods increase and increase, attempting to bleed my king dry. You Helswithians are all the same. You expect the world to grovel at your feet."
  
  "The prices rise with material shortage!" Caius shouts, interjecting himself into the conversation. He's given a similar treatment across the face.
  
  "My king has entered into a new agreement. One that is much more beneficial to his waters and coffers. He has his people to think about, you know. I know that's hard for you to wrap your head around, thinking about someone other than yourselves. It seems your services are no longer needed, soldier."
  
  With another nod, soldiers dressed in royal blue thrust their pikes forward, impaling members of the Reapers on their makeshift islands, a fitting place to die at the hands of their executioners. Those of you with quick reflexes fight back, even felling a few of Tristrand's men, but there are too many of them. You, Paxson, and the Reapers die to several stab wounds, bleeding out on the sand, sand which is not born of your homeland, the Helswith Desert.