<i>Stay with the client</i>, the others had firmly bid her before they set out for the journey. The band of mercenaries had organized themselves so that every man (and woman for that matter) within the company had and their own task to perform which allowed the brigade to operate like a well-oiled gear. Among them were Bagdan the stable-master, who took care of all their horses by tending to their needs each night after they set up camp and every morning before they set out, muttering to the beasts reassuring all the while. Sageata was their young scout who showed promise in tracking, hunting, and scouting. Luca was the general multipurpose powerhouse of the group and he liked nothing half as much as drinking and brawling, sometimes simultaneously or interchangeably. Sonia was the newest addition to their caravan and was stuck doing miscellaneous tasks for the time being while taking sword lessons whenever they settled down for a break from Onora herself and several others who took a shine to the cheerful girl. A dozen or so others rounded out the party and lent strength, wisdom or expertise.<br/><br/>For a time their journey had been uneventful and amiable but that ended abruptly when their numbers began to suddenly dwindle in the last stretch of their journey. The hunter had disappeared several days prior and his whereabouts were still unknown, but the odds of their reunion were growing slimmer as more time went by. A week or two ago the old, battle-scarred warrior who went by the name of<i>Bear</i>took a bad fall down a sharp, steep slope at the edge of the road and broke his leg. After cursing at any who approached him and insisting that he was ‘quite all right’, the wound festered, and he died from sub-par medical treatment. Luca and Sonia, who were the last to leave them in the most gruesome of circumstances, seemed to be the equivalent of the final straw for the remaining members and morale all but shattered among the troupe. Some had begun speculating and whispering in hushed voices that their client and his ill begot cargo were<i>cursed</i>and cast him nervous glances at mealtimes. Duty and honor however forced them to continue their unhappy pilgrimage deeper still into the woods with enemies on all sides, lurking in the dark, just out of eyesight.<br/><br/>The day after they parted with the brawler and youth was full of brooding silence, only interrupted by the unnerving sound of whetstone on steel as the young mercenary who called herself Onora pointedly sharpened her sword with no small amount of cross looks thrown at her<i>client. </i>The woman was likely no older than nineteen with a mass of dark, chestnut hair that feel around her shoulders in loose waves and wore both soft and studded leather like some of the men but no plate, choosing to forego the extra protection in exchange for remaining light on her feet. So, while<i>he</i>struggled to stay awake and nursed on the bitter tea, the scrapper of a woman amused herself by quietly glowering at him from where she sat at the front of the carriage that was directly following after Medaurus. As far as she was concerned it was the Skinwalker’s fault that Sonia had been buried at the side of the road with naught but a large stone to mark her grave, a grave that had no doubt already been dug up by the howling beasts that followed them like a persistent plague.<br/><br/>Eventually the carriages jostled to an abrupt stop and the still night air was filled with a horrible stench and nervous whiny. The mercenary did not waste any time and leapt off her perch before pacing forwards and peering in all directions, loudly cursing at the growing dusk that hindered the visibility.<br/><br/>“La naiba!” She muttered under her breath before turning to address Bogdan who tried to calm the animals unsuccessfully. “Wha’s the matter?”<br/><br/>No answer followed but instead a frenzy of activity erupted all at once. One horse received an unannounced bolt to the flank and added the sharp scent of copper to the disorderly fragrance of pine and burnt flesh. Soon after the stable-master clutched at his neck which was quickly depleting him of his life’s blood and fell in a heap upon the earthen floor to reveal the hooded shape that calmly stood behind him, murder weapon held in hand.<br/><br/><i>Stay close, </i>the others had insisted and Onara did just that, sticking by the sleep deprived mage, putting her own lanky shape squarely between the masked stranger and the kneeling Skinwalker. Her pale grey eyes took only a moment to register Bagdan’s body on the ground and the bloodied knife within the woman’s hand before she felt a rush of fury fill her and took a step towards the other with a snarl. No sooner had she raised her sword, however, and yelled something about “her mother’s onions”, than a vicious and enormous mass lunged at the assassin and tore her open like a paper bag. Onara staggered backwards as more wolves appeared out of nowhere and hastily retreated towards the same overturned cart that Medaurus was using as cover.<br/><br/>With the most prominent assassin thus reduced to a quickly disappearing carcass upon the ground, the woman took her time in surveying the situation and spotted two more silent, masked shapes that drew out of the forest like ghosts in the night. The mercenary dropped her sword at her feet for the time being and instead drew her longbow which would allow Onora to strike without leaving her charge. Two arrows were nocked simultaneously and hastily loosed upon the larger of the masked duo that stood just past the cover of trees. No sooner had her iron tipped bolts been released than she already prepared the next two while stilling her breath and closing one eye to facilitate with the aim. Amongst the chaos that now ensued within the camp several other sell swords began to charge at the remaining assassins. One, a burly woman clad in chainmail and wielding a flail, wasted no time in smashing the heavy, spiked weapon at the head of one black, cloaked figure while her companion, a scrawny lad that was barely out of his teens who happened to be her son, followed up with a thrust of a spike towards the assassin’s midriff. Within the confusion, din, and potentially even smoke that now descended on this patch of the forest, what happened in the rest of the caravan was hard to read and even harder to gauge.<br/><br/>The grey-eyed woman remained beside the kneeling man, drawing and loosing arrows at their assailants, insisting all the while that the Skinwalker was a<i>Măgar </i>and this was all somehow his fault.