The Ebonstryfe Calls Timestamp: 65th of Spring, 512 AV Location: Somewhere between Ravok and Nyka He'd been traveling for ten days now, and if what the guide was saying was correct, they should be just over half way to Ravok. As with any journey, it was long and tiring. The weather in the wilds was no where near as hospitable as it was in Ravok, pelting the travelers with rain every few days. But Clyde was a survivor from the storm earlier in the season, a little rain was nothing to him now. Clyde and the rest of the people he was traveling with were camped for the night. A fire was burning, fresh stew was boiling on the pot, and the weather was good for a change. The merchant in charge was so pleased that he even decided to share some of his beer. The man was a Zeltivan. He'd come to Nyka seeking trade, and was now on his way to Ravok for the same reasons. The beer was kelp beer, and while it wasn't for everybody, it still got you drunk. If Clyde didn't want beer, there was water as well. Whatever he chose, eventually there came a time when he had to slip away from the group to go and relieve himself. If he wasn't shit-faced drunk, Clyde might notice the fact that while he was gone the sounds of the camp seemed to have died down. If he was drunk, he probably didn't notice a thing. Either way, he might not even mark it as something to be worried about. It was quite possible the stew was done and the chatter gave way to eating, but soon enough Clyde would find out the truth. When he was done and made his way back into camp the first thing he would notice was that everyone was laying down. Which was odd.. it wasn't that late, and the stew was still bubbling away over the fire. But, as his eyes readjusted to the light of the fire, Clyde would soon come to realize they weren't just lying down. The two of the guards, the ones who weren't on watch duty, had their weapons drawn but were crumpled on the ground with arrows pouring from their throats. The chef, at least that's what people called him, was lying face down in the dirt with a meat cleaver in one hand and a pool of blood soaking into the dirt around his head. The only one who wasn't sporting any obvious wounds was the merchant himself, though he too was crumpled on the ground. "Sorry about your friends. They would have just gotten in the way." A feminine voice, soft and seductive. Clyde spun around and found himself facing a beautiful woman. Her lush red lips curved into a smile and she took a step toward Clyde. She was dressed in a black brigandine doublet, and pants, and tall leather boots, with the crest of the Ebonstryfe eblazoned plainly on her chest. Without speaking another word she slowly drew a long, wickedly curved dagger, and took another step toward Clyde. The woman licked her lips and then lunged. She was fast, and the dagger came straight at him, but by some chance of fate Clyde was able to dodge in time, avoiding a fatal blow and only recieving a stinging knash across his right arm in the process. The woman didn't give him much time to react. As she spun back around a booted foot came up to connect with his chest, sending the mage staggering backwards. Finally she spoke again. "Defend yourself, or die like the rest of them." |