<ul><span style="font-family: New Times Roman;"><span style="font-style: italic">:: North of the Kingdom, behind the mountains... A two weeks walk from the borders.</span><br/><br/>Issuing one single long silken cackle, filthy steel-gauntleted digits snatched a portion of a Fortress Guardâ€™s torn shirt, pulling the frail, struggling body to his own with force. <br/><br/>Necroplasmic body was clothed in long magical robes, dark of color from hood to robe bottoms. A razor sharp pointy tip of his magical sword came to pierce the skin of the Guard's cheek whilst dark emerald eyes set in dark deep sockets scornfully observed five other Guards; crimson blood pooling out from beneath their perforated, lifeless bodies . <br/><br/>The voice of the master rang forth as the back of his large, strong hand came to crush flat across the Guard's nose, causing a nasal fracture beyond possible repair.<span style="color: #808040"><span style="font-style: italic">''<span style="font-weight: bold">Destroy their homes! Burn their villages and allow none of them to flee, or I shall claim your heads instead.</span>''</span></span> He snarled, his shadowy figure averted a wicked expression towards some of his henchmen - tall, cowled figures, before shifting a death stare upon the sniveling, emotionally; psychologically and physically damaged human. <br/><br/>A sadistic expression was formed on the face of the one in charge and with one gauntleted swift movement and uncanny sword-wielding, he executed the one last Guard and raised a blood stained hand, motioning for his henchmen to follow. He stepped over slain corpses of a thousand men as the <span style="font-style: italic">Dark Army</span> marched ahead toward their objective, the City of Morrranwick. ::</span></ul><br/>-------------------------------------------<br/><br/><br/><br/><ul><span style="font-family: New Times Roman;"><span style="font-style: italic">City of Morrranwick...</span><br/><br/>A man descended the last couple of stairs hurriedly, dressed in dark ulitarian garments â€“ fur-lined cloak fastened on the right shoulder with one single circular brooch, black pants, a charcoal-black long-sleeved tunic which ended two inches past the knees and high boots. Sir Turbertus did not seem to have gotten any rest, but nor did Solas. He regarded the Knight, his somber demeanor was downcast, hands clasped on the oak table. <span style="font-style: italic"><span style="color: #BFBF80">''I have deciphered the message. Little sleep have I found.''</span></span> The Fallen bagan, as both men left the Tavern, pulling hoods over their heads; his expression falling firmly on the mortal. <span style="font-style: italic"><span style="color: #BFBF80">''The Black King is marching, approaching.''</span></span> He added. <span style="font-style: italic"><span style="color: #BFBF80">''Well, that is strange, my friend. I have sensed it too. I could not find rest, even though that pretty wench tried to lure me into temptation.''</span></span> Turbertus muttered, giving the Fallen a quizzical look as the two companions made their way towards their destination, the meeting point.<br/><br/>Solas got distracted for a moment as five Watchmen hurried past Turbertus and himself. A dark brow rose as he glanced past his shoulder; one of the Watchmen stumbled over cracks in concrete ground before regaining composure and detouring around the walls of the Tavern, following after the rushing Guards. <span style="font-style: italic"><span style="color: #BFBF80">''Indeed, Turbertus. Now, it is only a matter of time before he reaches the Kingdomâ€™s borders.''</span></span><br/><br/>The Fallen's azure orbs caught sight of the sitting form of the Carpenter in the distance as they approached a narrow alley whilst lips parted to curse under his breath, silently repulsing himself for not doing anything when he could. He should never have allowed false instincts to inhabit his being, or eyes to falter from the woman, the Fallen. Her name was of no importance to him, yet her presence was - A presence that he could have trusted. Another mortal would underestimate a woman joining them on the battlefield, except for when they could use an experienced or none experienced woman to provide care and bind the wounds. But the woman that has flooded his mind over the past few hours was not just another mortal. One Fallen female was stronger than a hundred men clothed with armors and armed with weapons. He should never have let her go.<br/><br/><span style="font-style: italic"><span style="color: #BFBF80">''Good morning, Carpenter. I hope your day, you know, flourishes with all the good, happy things in this life. How relaxing and good was your sleep?''</span></span> Sir Turbertus greeted Kell, chuckling as he tried to keep a positive mood. Solas' approach was a slow one, his boots hardly making any noise as he neared the wooden crate that was hosting the Carpenter's sitting form. <span style="font-style: italic"><span style="color: #BFBF80">"Greetings, Kell!"</span></span> A warm smile crossed the Fallen's facial features as he slightly bowed his head but the light had already faded from his eyes.</span></ul>