Thread: For Cause or Coin? (Valanaer & WriteMood)

I regret to say that the picture link isn't working for me. The caravan was almost here and Rasta could feel the tension emanating from her men. Each one of them were tried and true warriors who had fought in several skirmishes with her. It was because of their tensions, their lack of cocky behavior, that she believed they won. No man got so caught up in his own skills that he thought himself invincible. Untouchable. Those that held themselves on such a pedestal often found it, and their legs, cut out from under them in a bloody swoop. The sound of wagons and horses cut through the quiet woods and she lifted her hand and made a fist in a silent command that her men ready. There would be plenty of soldiers with this delivery. It was wares and goods destined for an encampment. Cutting this off would help turn the tide for a different rebel group led by her cousin. Closer. Just a little more. Close, you bastards. She let the first few wagons pass until the approximate middle of the caravan was before her. Now She stood and walked out of the brush, sword and dagger still in their sheaths. Ho! she called. You venture in enemy territory, sirs. Turn back, leave the goods, and your worthless lives shall be spared. A man made his way toward her on a lone horse, his decorated armor proclaiming him a general. Out of here, wench, before I cut your pretty face in half to remove that tongue of yours. She smiled up at him, genuinely amused by his threat. You were warned. With a shrill war cry, her men emerged from the bush and battle ensued. It didn't take long for her to realize they had been set up. Soldiers removed the cloth tarps from two wagons to reveal more soldiers than what her scouts had reported and what she'd plan for. Her small contingency wasn't matched for the even numbers. She curse, unsheathing her dagger as well as her sword. Today was not the day for her to hold back. What followed was a whirlwind of action as she spun, cut, and dodged her way through enemies. Foe after foe fell. Friend after friend cried out nearby as they were felled by the enemy. After an hour of battle, Rasta stood panting, spatters of blood dotting her skin and armor alike. Her legs were swore and she hated to admit it, but she was getting tired. Four men surrounded her, jeering at her as the took turns prodding her, testing her defenses. All your men are dead, bitch, the general from earlier sneered. Give it up and we'll spare your worthle-- A strangled noise replaced his words and, to her surprise, then man fell face-forward, back split open. A man--a sexy, strange man that she'd never seen before--stood on the other side of the corpse. Before she could blink he was attacking the others. His form was good, better than most of the men she'd fought beside for years. His armor covered him well, but she imagined he was very toned underneath it. He dispatched another man, and then the next within but a few breaths. Looked like you needed some help, just thought I would lend a hand,' the man said to her when the dust began to settle. She looked at the corpses, at the man, then at his sword. Bravo, sirrah. I do believe your swordsmanship is the best yet I've encountered. Her mind moved quickly as she weighed her options. Come, catch one of the horses while I grab a wagon. When we get to camp, I'll send some more out to bring back the rest. She used the edge of her shirt to give her blades a quick wipe, then headed toward a wagon without waiting for his answer. Surely he was on the side of the resistance, or he wouldn't have helped her. The soldier's uniforms from the aristocracy had been very plain, and yet he had cut them down without mercy. I am Rasta, she said as she swung up into the seat of a wagon and grabbed the reins. You are?