Thread: Godless (RaidenTheRipper & Chariot)

You are hurt. Her voice was tired, neutral. If there was anyone she was more indebted to it was Black. It had killed her over the years to see him grow slowly more deteriorated and abused. She had tried her best to limit the spells and their magnitude, however she certainly was not the best sword in camp and when it came to war one must earn their keep in some fashion. Her relationship with Black was not something that she thought either was expecting. When she was at Scalla, when she saw the death mill of the prison and the mass graves that were dug in the spring and filled by the winter, she wanted to leave. However, her master The High Magus Riddark Litomus, was a cold man who did not tolerate quitting. Once accepted into his tutelage the only way out was either success or death it seemed, as those who quit before participation in the Cull were sent penniless from the mountains with nothing more than the clothes on their back. The grind of being an Apprentice in such a place took it's effect as well, and it was not uncommon for poisonings, stabbings, and other acts of violence to occur to get more training. Some masters even demanded blood to be fully recognized as a pupil. Though no matter her experience in Scalla, Black had it worse. She knew of the starvation, the fights, the poxes. It may have occurred under her feet in the bowels of that accursed place, but watching the Cull every year revealed the truth. Most bonds couldn't be forged even by the best students as the prisoner selected was either too sick or too weak to deal with the shock and pain. If both involved didn't die in the ritual itself the survival rate was less than ten percent after a failed bond for the apprentice and even less for the prisoner who received no care. By the time she bonded to Black she expected him to hate her, or to live as a relative mute too shell shocked to converse. Instead she had her most loyal friend. A confidant of sorts, who despite their circumstance and history, managed to respect her not only as his Magus, but in some ways as his friend. His words may not always be based in kindness, but honesty and experience were worth far more than kindness anyway. He had trained her himself in the sword arts, and she always appreciated his input when it came to tactics. She wished that she could grant him titles outside of her own but the rules did not work that way. Though, in truth, her work for the Mad King walked the dangerously thin line of neutrality. However for seven years word from Scalla had not found her and in truth she did not care--he would bear the burden not her--for when it came to the Mad King's orders you either obeyed or died. And he never seemed to run out of gruesome ways to do that. She shook her head, moving back to the present. Give me a moment and I'll attend to your wounds my friend. With some difficulty, she pulled herself out of the barrel, hardly minding her nudity. Modesty was something no soldier had the luxury of in the camp and the sight of her body was no news to Black. She pulled on a battered crimson tunic and mud colored trousers before moving next to him rummaging in a pack for the necessary items to dress his wounds. I am afraid our Mad King has a delightful sense of humor my friend. Our summons say that his his thirst for blood has been quenched. She found a bladder of wine and a needle with some thread. Moving to help him with his armor she waited for her words to sink in as she continued. We are the farthest out post I believe with only two options, both certain to kill many before any reinforcements could reach us with aid. We can continue north-northwest into the Highlands, and perhaps make it to Brettarch-on-the-sea and take a ship back. However the cost of that along with winter coming makes that idea little more than a dream. Or we head South, through the marshes and across the Forks--which will be swelling with the winter rains and the currents strong enough to knock a man--particularly a wounded man--off his horse before he even reaches halfway. That option will likely leave us with only a thousand to two thousand men where five thousand rode strong with us.