<div class="floatleft">(http://img4.imageshack.us/img4/7946/marcusdupont.jpg)<br/>(http://img7.imageshack.us/img7/9464/falkoviansoldiers.jpg)</div><br/><strong>OOC:</strong>I will be out until tonight. Poor baby has to get her first vaccine shots, so I'll be gone for most of the day. Wrap anything pre-Avonleigh up today, and feel free to do whatever. Have your way with the story and any of the NPCs that you're interacting with, until you guys feel comfy and like you've found any closure you need. We're going to fast forward to Avonleigh as of this evening.<br/><br/><hr/><br/><strong>Marcus Dupont</strong>, The Skirmish [Marcus Dupont, Richard Dupont, Frederick Martin and possibly William Bond]<br/><br/>Sebastian stumbled off towards the carriages behind him; even as Marcus fought with a blade, his breadth of vision was wide and acute enough that he caught the form of the injured smith with his eyes.<br/><br/>"Right where I want you, dog," he said on exhale, driving one of the two remaining soldiers back, and right upon his son's merciless blade. The blade slid in smoothly, and Marcus stepped back as it pierced through the front of the Falkovnian's chest. It was grotesque, really, the way the man dropped his sword, eyes full of unanswered questions. He held onto the blade, his hands slicing to bloody pulp, as Richard used his foot on the man's back and pulled the blade free from his backside.<br/><br/>The battle was over, really. Just one minor detail left to wrap up. The three men advanced on the last of the Falkovnian soldiers, even as he begged for mercy. The soldier dropped his sword, and scampered back on the ground. "Please. Please don't kill me," he muttered in very broken Dementlieu. His accent was terrible, but Frederick understood him well enough.<br/><br/>"Let him go," he said, his voice noble with authority. "Let this one go, Marcus."<br/><br/>"Sir?" the old man questioned. "You can't be serious!"<br/><br/>A small grin spread on Frederick's lips as he yelled, "Go on. Get out of here if you value your life. Go man!" The soldier turned, scrambled to his feet, and launched himself in a mad dash.<br/><br/>For his part, Frederick had to hold his hand up to keep the Duponts back. "Marcus, all I want is a bit of sport," he murmured, as he reloaded his spent weapon. The man was now 40 yards away, almost halfway to the Musarde. Frederick gave a soft chuckle as he brought the musket up, aiming. The shot rang out, to be the last of the day, and the final Falkovnian intruder hit the ground within clear sight of his fellow countrymen. "Now we can go," he said with a deep laugh.<br/><br/>The three headed back to the carriages, running once they saw the enveloping mist. "Another? A sorcerer of some kind?" asked Marcus to no one in particular.<br/><br/>The Falkovnians treated magic much differently than the Dementlieu did. In his civilized lands, magic was used to entertain or perform; no one really took it seriously. But the barbaric Falkovnian's had entire state institutions devoted to training demonic sorcerers; men and women who had sold their souls to something primitive and dark. He had seen them rain fire upon his countrymen in years past, or cause the elements to freeze soldiers under his command in the middle of sweltering summer.<br/><br/>"The women! They must be in danger. This has all been a diversion!" Marcus seemed panicked. "Back! Back! We must save them."