Orde's Arrival

A shadow flew across the forest floor, stirring bits of leaves with its sweeping length. It was less a shadow, and more a swath of black cloth, attached to the heavy woolen coat of the dour looking human male. Purposefully, he strode through the trees, coming upon a clearing in the forest. Lifting his head, grey hair dangling in front of his eyes, he looked out from under the woolen hat covering his crown, and set the traveling case he'd brought with him down, unrolling a bedroll and beginning to make camp deep in the woods, building a small fire and setting sprigs of herbs and candles around his campsite. Withdrawing a shiny metal globe on a chain from his belt, he packed it with a handful of incense, lighting it and waving it around his immediate area, covering the clearing with thin aromatic smoke.

After a couple hours, after Orde had cleansed his camp and mind, he prepared himself for his night investigation, sliding his old but sturdy iron breastplate on under his coat. Double checking his sleeves were in working order, he patted both of them and heard the reassuring.g click. Tying the incense holder to his belt once more, he inspected the polished wooden crossbow in front of him, making sure the levers and bolt feeds were in working order. Hefting himself up, his black furred boots crunched softly over the forest as he set off towards the road that would lead towards the town.

The caravan wheels rattled over the worn dirt road towards the great city of Avengard. With several miles yet to go through the tangled woods, the guards walking along side the cages grew weary. "Lucky scum gets to ride while we walk!" muttered one portly guard to another, clanking his sword against the side of the cage while the prisoners within shrank away.

Blood red eyes narrowed from the shadows and fixed on the guard and lept to the next thick branch, heavy cloak fluttering soundlessly through the air. Of course not all of Sorn's slaves had escaped, he was a fence that nearly half of the black market respected and feared... getting fresh meat was not the problem. The problem was keeping his wares safe, hence the hired mercenaries riding in front and to the rear of the caravan.

Thorn ran one of his blades over his lips thoughtfully. The drow counted at least fifteen guards though they mattered little, as well as six or so mercenaries. No doubt Sorn's second in command had one with him in the carriage. Thorn knew of course Sorn was already in the city; why dirty his hands with the transfer of goods when he had the gold to pay others to do it for him?
The elf's nose twitched and he got the feeling that someone else was traveling through the dark woods near by though he could not feel their intentions just yet. Human. Of that he was mostly sure. Whether they were friend or foe was yet to be determined.

Clamping the dagger between his teeth and pulling two more from his sleeves, he waited for the new arrival to make themselves known.

Orde had spotted the caravan just a few moments ago, and was tailing the procession, noting the number of guards and working over a strategy in his head. Clearly, he would have to use one of his order's greatest tools- fear. Crouching in the bushes on the side of the trail, he pushed the wooden lever on his crossbow forward, raising the fully loaded clip of ten heavy steel bolts upwards in preparation to fire. He hadn't noticed the other in the forest, his ruminations dulling his awareness of anything but his intended goal, which was to be the culmination of his efforts up until now. He had traced the missing peasants through the land, from his village. Eventually the money and "questioning" had led here, to this night and this delivery.

He took the sight along the bow, lining up on three straggling guards that lagged behind the main body. Waiting until they dropped far enough behind so that they wouldn't be immediately missed, he went over his tactics again. Being the heavily built man he was, his best bet was a thinning of numbers and then a forceful offense, wishing he'd brought his axe instead of dressing light.

The Most Holy Deacon Orde Vurmbrand, of the Order of the Long Night Vigil, pulled back the lever of his crossbow in succession, three times, casting his silent and deadly judgement upon the lagging guards, dropping them with soft "thwip" noises and dull thuds. After all, the night was quite dark in these parts, and he couldn't wait to light up the blackness of such sins with his holy fire. He settled down for a few quick seconds, waiting and listening for any shouts of alarm, which if sounded, would be met with a quick hail of bolts and a sudden descent upon the group.

The blade nearly slipped from the drow's lips when the guards towards the rear of the caravan were felled by bolts. Whoever they were apparently they were on his side... or at the very least they would make his job easier. Though he could not see them or smell them (especially not over the horses and filthy human bodies in the caravan) he could sense them with his empathy and from that he could tell they had great conviction and were hellbent on taking out the slave-traders, perhaps freeing the slaves.
This was a welcome turn of events...

As the guards dropped, one of the mercenaries was back far enough to see them fall and sounded the alarm. The carriage and the cage wagons picked up speed as a few of the guards and mercenaries stayed behind to face their unseen foe. Armed with torches, swords, and crossbows, the mercenaries approached the edge of the forest calling out threats and slashing through the thickets.

Thorn decided this was his chance to 'get the drop' on one of his old friends, so he did, falling from the upper branches and landing on the shoulders of one of the mercenaries which he proceeded to stab repeatedly in the neck until the man lurched forward, gurgling, and bled out on the damp forest floor. A crossbow bolt whizzed by his ear and Thorn turned slowly with a blade between his teeth as he grinned at the clumsy guard. A scream echoed from the shadows as the dark elf cut the man's mortal coil short.

A decapitated head was flung from the edge of the woods, landing with a meaty plop at the feet of the other mercenaries. Perhaps the owner of the mysterious crossbow would see it as a gift and they could finish them off together. Thorn grinned like a cat. It was time to dance.

The deacon saw the head arc through the air, and stood up fully, his tall frame outlined, looking like a black specter of vengeance. Raising his bow to chest height, he pumped the lever as quickly as possible, the remaining seven bolts flying out like hornets, thwipping through the air, and ending in wet thunking noises as they buried themselves in throats, heads, and chests. Orde wasted no time checking to see if they were dead, dropping his crossbow onto the floor. He would recover it later, he decided, throwing his coat open to reveal his gleaming chest, unslinging the incense burner. It glowed and trailed smoke from under his coat, casting the thin smoke every which way as the zealous warrior descended upon the defenders, swinging the heavy metal ball around and around, bashing in skulls with heavy thumps and clouds of embers and sparks. His other hand held a light wooden club, wrapped with what looked like thin strips of cloth with text on them.

Charging out of the bush, ignoring arrows that pinged off his breastplate, he roared in a voice full of fire and brimstone, with a heavy accent that was reminiscent of gloomy castles, wandering tribes, misty lands, and towns ending in "burg". "Your decisions have brought you here! Benediction awaits those who do not repent! THE VIGIL IS NOT SILENT!" Swinging his weapons in wide arcs that demolished foes in front of him, he set about cleaning up the survivors of his crossbow volley, catching sight of a dark shadow out of the corner of his eye. Clouds of smoke, ember, and the burned screams of his fallen enemies trailed the imposing figure as he came to the slave carriage, engaging the mercenaries still huddled around it. He caught an arrow in the shoulder, wincing as it made his strike falter. He pressed onwards, his conviction keeping the pain numbed until eventually his side of the caravan was clear. Hustling to catch up with the slave wagon, he drew his uninjured arm backwards, trying to smash the wagon spokes with his club.

The remaining mercenaries were descending upon the cloaked phantom that had drifted from the dark cover of the forest branches and met them with blades drawn and grin wide. The first, a nimble man with a goatee and thin limbs rushed him with two blades but Thorn was ready, arms thrown wide mockingly and side-stepping the assault only to pin he man down and slit his throat.

That's when the volley of arrows started, the two remaining mercenaries and guards fired upon him and he dodged the bolts gracefully for a moment before two bolts stuck him in the shoulder and one caught his leg. Groaning in pain, Thorn fell to his knees and tried to catch his breath. The guards approached him gingerly, unsure whether killing him would be the best of options... after all, a specimen such as this white-haired one would fetch quite the price.

Their mistake was getting too close. The singing of sharp thin blades sang through the air and the guards sank to their knees and then fell forward with little ceremony or dignity, just lumps of flesh. Thorn stood then, hood back and crimson eyes locked with the mercenary's as he broke off the ends of the arrows leaving the shafts embedded in his shoulder. He flung himself at them in a blood rage. There were more coming. The carriage had foolishly stopped just ahead and the remaining guards and mercenaries were running towards them.

He leaned on the wagon beside him heavily and pulled out a few throwing daggers when he felt the gentle touch of tiny fingers on his injured shoulder. A glance and the mother of those small fingers snatched her child away. Soft sweet smiles were exchanged between human child and elf before the onslaught began.

The deacon rounded the caravan from the front, after having broken the wheel, pausing only to swing his incense mace at the driver attempting to escape as he flashed by. He saw the remaining mercenaries approach in a charge, and as he pulled forward, breathing raggedly from the wound in his shoulder, he caught another glance of the mysterious stranger, not quite sure what to think of him. Ah, well. For now, he was an ally and questions could be asked later.

Roaring furiously, they met their foes together, bashing heads in Orde's case and leaving clouds of smoke and ember above the fallen, and thin lines spouting great amounts of blood in the stranger's case. Finally, there seemed to be no more standing foes, save one of the guards on his knees. Orde hung his weapons back inside his coat and placed a hand on the kneeling man's forehead, intoning in a voice that sounded like a deific ultimatum. "Again, the path of evil has brought you here, whether willingly or unwillingly. Do you choose to seek atonement, or do you instead ask me for forgiveness?"

The guard shook on his knees, wincing as the gloved hand touched his head. "P-p-please! Forgive me! Let me go and i'll never do anything like this again!" Orde remained grim, and nodded. "So be it. You are......forgiven." The deacon's palm jerked upward with the ratchety sound of gears releasing and the guard fell backward with a frozen grin of relief on his face, and a lovely new addition to where Orde's hand had been- a fresh bolt sunk so deep into his head it was barely visible. Breathing easily and slowly, he walked back around to the slave cage, examining the lock and trying to figure out how to bust it open. He probably should have swept the area first, but all the immediate threats had been dealt with, and this was his main goal tonite, not indiscriminate slaughter of foolish slavers. Besides, he had planned to continue his purge after the slaves had been freed.

He paid no attention to his temporary ally at first, concentrating intently on the problem on the carriage.

It was hard to tell whether it was a grin or a grimace on his face as he snapped off the end of the arrow embedded in his leg and limped over the side of the cage wagon with the latch and lock. Finding his new acquaintance there pondering the lock, he gruffly uttered, “Allow me.” and pulled a thin blade from his belt along with a metal prong and set to picking the lock.

It wasn’t an entirely complicated lock so he had it open in a moment or so with a satisfying click. When he stepped back to wrench the metal door open he felt thick meaty fingers wrap around his injured leg and suddenly found himself on the ground, winded, with dirt in his teeth.

Apparently one of the mercenaries had cowardly hidden under the wagon and waited for his moment to strike. He was strong, dragging the writhing elf under the wagon with one arm but Thorn, with a bloodcurdling howl, quickly turned the tables. The assailant found a set of delicately pointed teeth sinking into his jugular and a dagger tearing through his abdomen. Heaving the dying man off of him, Thorn crawled out from under the wagon.

Once he was on his feet again, he resumed helping the slaves out of their crude rusty cage. The child who had touched his shoulder looked deeply into his eyes for a moment as he helped her down from the wagon. Love. Big brown eyes like a doe looking up at him with unquestioning love and trust… it made his skin crawl. The former slaves huddled together like frightened rabbits, unsure of their saviors and whether they should run from them as well.

He spoke in a soothing tone, addressing the people before them, “Esme sends her regards. Stick with me and you will see your kin shortly. They are safe… and free.” he added with an almost smile.
When the ones who needed help were out, he turned his attention to the grisly silver-haired man, looking him over and then glancing over at the maimed bodies. Thorn smirked, his charcoal lips pulling back like curtains over his blood-stained lips,
“I was just admiring your handiwork. I must ask though, what are your motives in helping these humans?”

Casually, as if bloody moonlit rampages were nothing out of the ordinary, the drow pulled a flask from his pack and knocked back a few swigs of a foul-smelling concoction, wincing, and then offering the flask to the deacon,
“It tastes like dung but it will help those wounds close up much faster.”

The other two arrows in his shoulder he snapped off, leaving the tips in. He figured Esme could help him remove them later… not that he looked forward to asking for her aid but it sounded better than trying to dig them out himself with a knife.

Orde stepped back and stood there, impassively as the drow worked his nimble magic on the lock. The tall man observed coolly as Thorn was attacked, and how easily the threat was dispatched. Wondering who this Esme person was, he nodded to the slaves that had been from the lands surrounding the church near his village. They would recognize the dress of the deacon and thank him in hushed tones, hanging back in a separate group from Thorn's folk.

As the drow proffered his flask of dubious brew, Orde shook his head. "Mine will heal in time. And I could ask you very much the same thing, Oh Wytchfolk of Many Sins. Some of these people were kidnapped from our barony, and a priest of the Vigil does not suffer abuse of humanity lightly. Deus Humanum - Man is God." He looked over the group of slaves that stood near the drow. "Your motive puzzles me as well. We do not see many of your kind aboveground, unless they are preparing to raid. And if I believed that you were some sort of advance guard, then these people would still be locked up." Wiping a trickle of blood from his eye, Orde buttoned his coat neatly. "I heard you mention a name. Perhaps one of your fellow raiders, dark one?"

Waiting for an answer, Orde began to inspect the slaves he had rescued, examining wounds here and there, and dispensing rations from his coat. He spoke to the group softly and ushered them away."You know which way home is. Nothing will trouble you on the return journey." Turning back to the drow, the deacon folded his arms, waiting for an answer as the small band of peasants started shuffling off down the packed dirt road towards home.

“… ‘Man is God’. I like that, though perhaps I’m interpreting it in a different manner than you intended.” he chuckled darkly. Thorn walked over to the front of the cart and began rummaging through the boxes and sacks which contained some food though mostly hard tact biscuits but it was better than nothing. He gathered as much as he could into a few sacks along with a few flasks of water and headed over to the remaining people who were no doubt Esme’s people.

“And you, good sir, get to carry this bag, and you m’lady some water… make sure the children get some food first, and you, hold the rest. Now, all of you, follow the trail I’ve marked for you north east, you’ll come to a fork, wait there, Esme will come for you and I will join you shortly. Hurry now.” The group murmured, taking the provisions he had scrounged up and hurried down the narrow path though it was not much of a path at all. Only the occasional tree was marked by Thorn’s blades but it was enough for them to follow safely.

“Sins indeed…” Thorn returned to Orde’s first statement, “Wonders upon wonders, a man of God suspicious of the dark one’s intentions. Well, I can’t blame you. My people are known for their imperious ways. I assure you, if I were part of a raid I’d likely have breasts and be among several of my sisters. Just as you humans enslave your own kind, so does mine thus this errand was rather personal. Take that however you will. I have better things to do this night.”

He knelt painfully beside a mercenary and picked his body for gold, for weapons, and then set removing his fine cloak, “Eh, spattered with blood unfortunately but with a good wash in the river perhaps Esme will like it.” He glanced up at the deacon, “So, man of God, if you care to follow me you’ll see I’m the only monster from the Underdark about and the lady Esme is a woman to be reckoned with. The only reason I’m offering is because I have a hunch you’ll follow me anyway to ensure I’m alone… and because I don’t see you as much of a threat.”

Orde frowned at the drow, and folded his arms again. If he was trying to incite a reaction then he would not get one. "Were it not for the band of people headed home tonight that need protection, then I would indeed follow you. However, your appearance is obviously no coincidence." He grunted and made sure all his possesions were tight on his body. "And it requires further investigation. I will return to this town, and from there we shall see where your goals take you. Making a mental note of a few things he might need to bring, he added offhandedly as he headed home. "And The Vigil does not believe in a god...it is why each man must become a god to himself and his fellow humans." Chuckling wryly at the drow's last statement, he began to walk away down the path. "I am glad you do not consider me a threat...for it gives me the upper hand when I suddenly become one. We will meet again, Wytchfolk....you and your so called band. I am sure of it."