Meadow



  • Various perspectives



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    Reflections

    The sailboat lay anchored in a small cove. The surface of the water was serene, and reflected the moon and stars above. Meadow sat on the railing facing west, watching a glimmer of light touch the eastern sky. George was still asleep below.

    She still had trouble sleeping, always rising before dawn. It was the price of being on night shift she supposed, but knew in time she’d acclimate to a more normal schedule. With a deep exhale, she regarded her reflection in the mirror like stillness of the water below.

    The woman that stared back was older and more seasoned than she remembered. She dwelt upon the years past, and wondered if George would still love her if he knew of the things she’d done. Who she had prayed to and why.

    As far as the occupying Mulhorandi knew, the compound in Uthalass was like any other farm community. Crops, two barns, livestock and living quarters for twenty to thirty people. In all the years she spent there, they never discovered it housed a cult that aided the resistance.

    It was in one of the fields that her little six-year-old self had earned the name “Meadow”. She knew she had another name prior, but it was lost in time. Belaise, the cult leader recruited the young, impressionable and desperate. He and two subordinates trained them. Some did not survive. Some tried to run and were hunted and killed. Most enjoyed the power and skills that Belaise taught. Some even reveled in the killing. Some became cold and detached. Meadow was the latter.

    Sixteen years later, a botched mission and a rescue found her in the far reaches of the North.

    Once in Narfell, she had waited diligently for years. There was no word from Belaise or his subordinates. No word from … anyone. For all she knew, the Mulhorandi had found them and put them to death.

    Meadow took solace that early in her stay in Narfell, one of the blessed ones claimed her. But he too was absent. He hadn’t sought her out despite the many opportunities. No, Meadow mused, he had abandoned her too.

    Would George also abandon her?

    The thought of it twisted her inside. She shifted uncomfortably on the railing, pushing those thoughts aside. With the exception of Arryn when she was but a child, George was the only person she had ever loved. She liked to think he loved her too, but love was not something of which she had much experience.

    Footsteps up the stairs. George poked his head out sleepily and then clambered onto the deck. He looked at Meadow, furrowing his brow for a moment, before Meadow put on a smile.

    She continued to sit on the railing and looked up into his eyes. Her insides twisted again, but differently. For a moment she felt transfixed.

    “Love is weakness”, Belaise had taught. “It makes you vulnerable”

    “Fuck Belaise”, Meadow said to herself, and kissed him.



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    Waiting

    George’s apartment smelled like garlic. Chicken simmered on the pan in the fireplace, Meadow occasionally withdrawing the pan on the cradle to poke and flip the pieces. Vegetables, a mix of greens and spinach cooked in the pot next to it.

    It was a dish straight out of Unther. She had never made it for him. She didn’t even know if he would like it. Yet, she had made it for him the past several days … waiting.

    Waiting was always the hardest. In Unthalass, a cell would leave, often for a day or two on a mission to disrupt supplies, take out a particular target, or worse, go undercover and not be heard of for weeks. Meadow learned to wait by occupying her time with duty. In Unthalass, it was inventory, training, and preparation. Here in Peltarch, it was paperwork and guard duty.

    It was the quiet times that were difficult. They allowed her mind to wander and imagine the unthinkable. George had left for the mission into the Abyss, a mission she desperately wanted to attend yet couldn’t.

    Despite her training, the helplessness ate at her. She had realized months ago that her vows and her duties, religious and secular … none of mattered. She would give it all up in a heartbeat. The past was irrelevant. Only the future mattered now, and she was helpless to control it.

    Time passed. Meadow ate quietly as the food grew cold, much as it had many times before. This time she thought, she would bring the leftovers to Thaddeus before his shift ended. She gathered the remaining food into a shallow clay pot, and put the leather lacings around the tabs on the lid to keep it from spilling.

    Footsteps.

    Meadow’s heart leapt, and she turned to the door. A key. A fumbling at the lock. The back of her mind told her she should open it, yet she stood transfixed, rooted to her spot by the dinner table.

    The door opened.

    He was haggard. His tabard and clothing torn. Yet his eyes held a promise, an escape from the past.

    Meadow went to him, and uncharacteristically, wept.



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    The Pissing Goat

    It was late evening, perhaps early morning. Most of the crowd in the Pissing Goat had gone home. There were a few holdouts at a table in the corner, a couple of waitresses, and someone fast asleep in the center of the room.

    Thaddeus sat at the bar nursing an ale. Meadow sat net to him, turning a cup in her hands staring at it. He was just finished his shift and had stopped here to grab an ale before going home. He always did, it helped him sleep. But one ale turned to two, and two turned to three. Meadow had been sitting here the entire time being her usual, non-talkative self.

    Her mood seemed lighter as of late. He couldn’t put his finger on why he thought it. She was rather reclusive and wasn’t prone to sharing or talking about anything she did. Just instinct he supposed.

    She turned to him, regarding him with those sharp eyes of hers, “Why aren’t you home Thaddeus? Isn’t Gwen expecting you?”

    Thaddeus shrugged. “Nah, I often come home a bit late sometimes. Cleanup or an arrest … or two beers instead of one”, he smiled.

    “That’s four”, Meadow quipped.

    “Naw, it’s three…”

    “No Thaddeus, it’s four”, Meadow countered, continuing to turn the cup.

    Thaddeus thought about it, then looked at the barkeep who amusedly nodded and held out four fingers. Thaddeus just sighed and shook his head.

    “What’s having children like?”, Meadow asked.

    Thaddeus nearly choked on his ale, coughing a bit. “Well…”, he said, “…it’s the hardest job you’ll ever love. I have…”

    “Holy fuck it’s the bitch that killed Wilkes!”, a voice rose from the corner. Thaddeus looked over at the three men in the corner. They had been playing some dice game and drinking since he’d been there. The smoke was thick, and smelled herbal. He saw the barkeep visibly tense.

    “Took you long enough to notice”, Meadow said quietly, turning the cup again.

    The sound of a chair sliding back, and one of the men stood up, staring daggers at Meadow. Thaddeus noticed he was unremarkable, except that he was obviously drunk. Angry drunk.

    “I had it ALL you bitch! Wilkes stood up for us! We had…had good pay!”, he stammered walking around the table. Thaddeus noticed the barkeep glanced at Meadow and looked pale. There were hisses of “Sit down” coming from the table, but the man wasn’t listening as he walked over. Meadow turned slightly in her seat and cocked her head.

    The cup still turned.

    The man was red faced, his lower lip quivering in fury. His hand was on a large knife, perhaps short sword at his side. Meadow turned back to the cup.
    “If you draw that pig sticker, I get to kill you and claim self defense”, she mocked with a hint of a smile.

    Thaddeus looked at Meadow. The way she sat subtly shifted. She had deliberately put her back to him, almost inviting him to try. Suddenly, Thaddeus stood up from the bar and whirled, gesturing back to the table from where he came. The man looked up, way up at Thaddeus who suddenly towered over him.
    “Sit down and shut the hell up!”, Thaddeus bellowed.

    The man involuntarily took a step back from the giant of man before him. His lower lip quivered again, and he glanced uncertainly at Meadow. Then swallowing his pride he stumbled into a table, and sat back down with his friends who were speaking in low, insistent tones. Thaddeus huffed and sat back down as well.

    “Spoil sport”, Meadow quipped.



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    Will-O-Wisp

    A few years ago…

    Thaddeus stood the line, his halberd leveled with his brothers in arms. The invaders had breached Peltarch’s walls and were pouring through. Resistance outside had collapsed, and the guardsmen stood there to defend the city.

    He stood head and shoulders above his comrades. Thaddeus was a large man, even as large men went. But his fighting skills were meager. All his life he had relied on his tremendous strength and size to face conflict and adversity. He had never been in a fight before of this magnitude. Bar fights, the occasional thief, or drunken soldier were the extent of his conquests. His body trembled with fear.

    The invaders’ line hit, and soon all was chaos.

    Thaddeus gave a good account of himself. When his line broke and other swept aside, Thaddeus stood there resolute, his size and strength a pillar in the sea of people. When the spear pierced his side, his body wracked in shock, he impaled an invader with his halberd and flung him about, knocking two other invaders to the ground. Yet the next spear pierced his thigh, and another entered his stomach. Thaddeus collapsed to the ground, and the invaders overran the guards’ position. Thaddeus was left for dead, dying on the muddy streets of Peltarch.

    Time passed as the sounds of combat echoed behind him. He knew that death was a matter of minutes. There was a certain serenity to it now that it was inevitable. He thought of his wife Gwen, his two children, and the mangy cat they had adopted. He had given his life to keep them safe, and there was comfort knowing his death would have meaning. If only his comrades had held.

    Through the haze of pain and blurred vision, he watched as the invaders brought a small siege weapon through the hole in the wall. It was wheeled forward trundling across the muddy ground. But death was winning. He was going to close his eyes, perhaps for the last time, when something moved at the corner of his vision. A shadow perhaps. Curiosity kept his eyes open a few moments more.

    There was a flurry of cloth and darkness, and Thaddeus watched the man at the rear of the machine fall prone in a spray of blood. The other two turned, the nearest one too late as shadow swept over him. The invader tumbled off balance to the muddy ground, and within moments lay still, his life bleeding into the mud.
    The third invader had time to draw a sword and take a defensive position, calling for help. He thrust with the sword and the shadow twisted. The invader was grabbed, his momentum carrying him forward, tumbling onto the ground. The shadow followed and the third invader died like the second.

    Thaddeus closed his eyes.

    He no longer felt wet, tired, or much of anything. However, Death waited just a little longer. While he prayed silently to Lathander to take care of his family, he could hear light footsteps nearby. Suddenly a blinding warmth suffused him. He quickly felt whole again as feeling flooded his body. Thaddeus opened his eyes with a start, and stared up into the face of a cloaked woman.

    A few days ago…

    Thaddeus stood on the eastern wall much as he always did for the last few years. About fifty feet further down the wall, the woman he only knew as Meadow watched the eastern swamp, much as she did every tendays.

    Some nights, the swamps were a marvel to behold. The will-o-wisps danced in the darkness, creating a spectacle even the best of wizards could only hope to achieve. It was beautiful.

    Thaddeus had rarely spoken to her. She was quiet and reclusive. Word on the street was that she was some spy for city hall or the guard captain’s private assassin. Ever since the Wilkes affair and trial, dark rumors had swirled around her. After seeing her at the battle a few years ago, he had come to believe that some of them were probably true.

    He owed his life to her, but knew that the only reason she had saved him was because he was probably the only man on the field capable of hauling the siege weapon around by himself. He liked to think that Lathander had answered his prayer and did his work through her, but he sincerely doubted this woman who dwelt in the shadows had anything to do with the Lord of Light.

    Ever since the battle, Meadow had come up to the wall alone to watch the will-o-wisps. Yet yesterday, she was not alone. In an uncharacteristic display she had brought out a plate of meat and cheeses with wine in a wicker encased bottle. She had entertained a soldier whose name Thaddeus didn’t know, but had seen him about the city in uniform. It gladdened Thaddeus to see this woman with someone, anyone really, but another who served the city was a good choice. Yet, she was alone again tonight, and for the first time in a very long time, Thaddeus walked over and said hello.

    “We aren’t meant to be alone”, Thaddeus said, “Though sometimes it’s hard for those that serve. He liked you. I could tell”

    Thaddeus had expected Meadow to tell him to fuck off, but she looked up from her perch between the crenelations and allowed herself a wistful smile, “Oh, I doubt it will come to anything Thaddeus. I’m not a nice person and he knows it”

    Thaddeus looked down at her. He thought of Gwen, the children, and the mangy cat before replying, “Perhaps you’re not a nice person because you’re alone”.
    Meadow stared at Thaddeus for a moment. She always seemed so sure of herself, but for the first time he saw doubt reflected in her expression. Thaddeus patted her shoulder, and walked back to his post.



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    Currency

    With every movement, Jacob’s chest screamed with effort. He crawled laboriously toward the body of his friend Karl, who lay in a slowly expanding pool of his own blood. His chest tingled, his left arm numb to the elbow. Jacob knew he had been poisoned, the single arrow that had hit him in the shoulder was barely a flesh wound. Karl was always prepared, and he knew with relative certainty that he would have a magical antidote on him.

    The night had started peaceful enough. Their camp several leagues south of the city was far back from the road toward the old Romani camp. Several of Jacob’s men had scattered. Some disguised themselves and took caravans heading to the Great Dale. Others to Damara. Most of who remained had left hunting. The person who attacked had chosen her time well.

    Karl failed to report. When Jacob had spied him prone by the river in the grass, he had shouted a warning to his sergeant Isiah. That’s when the arrow hit. He watched as Isiah looked up too late, as a lone, cloaked figure appeared from around the tree and kicked the side of Isiah’s knee, snapping it. Isiah went down in a howl of pain before the figure spun and swiped with her hand. Jacob had watched with horror as Isiah’s chainmail, under padding and skin had opened up like a bloated fish, spilling his entrails out onto the ground. Isiah didn’t suffer for long though, as the next hit cut his throat. Isiah collapsed in his own intestines.

    Jacob had fallen prone in the tall grass, and watched briefly has the lone figure searched the tents and bedrolls in dim light of the false dawn. The figure was female, of that he was certain by her gate. Sleight, cloaked, and sure of movement. She was going through the camp methodically. If Jacob could reach the magical antidote, he could face her on equal terms. Hell, he was probably half again her size.

    With stealth unusual for a man of his large stature, Jacob crawled through the tall grass and finally reached Karl's body. By this time, his left arm was mostly dead weight, his breathing ragged. With his right hand he carefully undid the pouch on Karl's belt, and triumphantly pulled out the small slender bottle. He felt the insignia with his thumb and …

    … a small hand snatched it from his grasp.

    He rolled over as fast as he could and reached for his knife. The cloaked figure took a few steps back.

    “You bitch!”, Jacob wheezed, triumph turning to despair. He tried briefly to stand, but his legs failed him. Propping himself up against the body of his friend, Jacob looked at the knife. He shook his head and dropped it in the grass. In this situation, it was as useless as his legs.

    The woman sat down on a rock about six feet away and pulled back her hood. She could have been pretty perhaps, but had no discernable features. The dim light revealed brown hair, brown eyes, and a face that made her look like any of a hundred other women. Yet, despite that, she had a cold professional look in her eye. Jacob recognized it from other campaign veterans.

    “Just finish it”, Jacob said with resignation.

    She shook her head. “I have a bargain for you”, she said. “You tell me what I want to know, and I will leave this antidote for you. You have my word”. She wiggled the bottle for emphasis.

    Jacob clenched his jaw and nodded.

    “You were the quartermaster for your unit, right?”

    Jacob nodded. Breathing was getting more difficult, and he had to focus to keep his chest moving.

    “What were you paid in?”

    The question puzzled him. Why the fuck did it matter? “Danters, Centaurs and Tarans”, he croaked out

    The woman nodded. “Thank you” she said. Then she stood, and with great deliberation placed the vial on the rock on which she was sitting. Then she inclined her head, turned and moved quickly north.

    Relief washed through Jacob. There would still be time. He went to stand, remembered his useless legs, and then bent forward to crawl … except he couldn’t. Both arms were numb, his legs useless. His salvation, a mere six feet away, might as well been in Thay.

    …and that bitch knew.

    He tried to laugh at the ridiculousness of it. Instead, a tear flowed down his cheek. As he closed his eyes, the darkness was filled with flashes as his breath stilled. He quietly remembered the pretty girl at the potion shop, the one he had bedded before the campaign. The sweet bread smell of her skin, and the perfume in her hair. He remembered the card game with Isiah and Karl, and the bawdy jokes that went around. His father, taking him fishing.

    For a moment he saw himself down on the grass, his body still as he floated above it. Then with finality, the cold greyness of the fugue enveloped him.



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    The West Wall

    Kory and Dane watched with satisfaction as Peltarch burned. Fires had started at various points in the city, and a thick miasma covered the ground. The guards on the west wall had been overcome quickly. They were of various factions Kory noted by their uniforms, and fought in disarray in tight segregated units, clinging to their comrades of similar banner. Most of Kory’s troops descended the stairs to the grounds of the residential unit, alarmed citizens fleeing. Pockets of resistance were swept away.

    “Jewel of the Ice Lace…”, Kory spat, chuckling to himself. This small city would be sacked like any other, though likely richer spoils would be had. In particular, he was looking forward to ransacking the Temple of the Triad, though he had no doubt there would be loss of men. People of faith were often granted substantial power for it. That assault would not be taken lightly.

    “Hey Derrick!”, Kory turned to his man in the tower, “Where the hell are the men with the scorpion! They should be over here already. We need it on this wall now!”

    Derrick didn’t answer. Dane chuckled and turned, the scar on his face crinkling, “He probably found one of the guard’s stash of liquor or coin and is taken it for ‘isself”

    Irritated, Kory moved down the wall, stepping over dead guards towards the open tower door. “Hey Derrick! Where…”, Kory paused, a cold feeling coming over him. Hidden behind the half open door of the tower, Derrick lay in a thick pool of blood. He had died quickly, messily, and worst of all silently by something or someone unseen. Reaching into his belt, he quickly downed a potion that allowed him to see those cloaked in invisibility.

    “Dane!”, Kory shouted in alarm turning to his comrade, “Invisible guard in the wall!”. But even has he spoke, a cloaked, wraithlike figure appeared out of the gloom behind Dane and struck a series of rapid strikes and swipes. Blood sprayed everywhere, a line on his throat fountaining blood down his tunic. Dane, a blank expression on his face pitched forward onto one of the many dead guards that lined the top of the wall. Snarling, Kory drew his longsword and moved forward.

    The cloaked figure was short, slender and feminine. She seemed to weigh her options, glancing behind her before settling in easy loose stance. Kory moved forward in confident and practiced gate. The figure backed up a bit, choosing her ground.

    “Bitch”, Kory smiled, “I am going to have so much fun with you”

    But then Kory’s world went black and ended

    Agak the half orc guard stood over Kory’s body. Kory’s head was completely pancaked on one side, the end result of a mighty swing by the 400 pound guard’s maul. Agak had waited on the other side of the tower just like little miss Meadow had asked and with surprising stealth, moved up behind the invader when he was occupied with his little friend. Meadow winked at him and gave him a thumbs up, and then the two of them moved down the wall.



  • The Bathhouse

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    My name is Erik. I’ve worked in the bathhouse in the city’s residential district for about five years now. While most of the attendants clean the towels, tend to the temperature of the water, and serve the clientele drink and refreshments, I often attend to more … intimate requests. My customers include bored nobility, wealthy visitors and other people of means. They seek me out as someone who caters with discretion, and is a cut above the those who work at the Regal Maid.

    There are several of us scattered throughout the city. A few others even work here in the bath house. Our well-being and security are governed by a patron who shall remain nameless. We function as a courtesans’ guild, but without the charter and recognition.

    Miss Meadow came into the bathhouse a few years ago. A slip of a thing who barely stood to my shoulders, she came to me informed and with purpose. She knew exactly what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to ask.

    There are those who enter the bath house, the Alexis Baily’s and Isolde Garibaldi’s of the world who draw attention by their beauty and presence. Conversation often stops. People stare in desire or jealousy.

    Meadow was not one of them.

    She would often be at the bath house some time before I or others even realized she was there. It was a disconcerting feeling because I like to show some deference to my regulars. Perhaps given some attention and care one could consider her pretty and an abstract sort of fashion, but there was nothing about her that drew much attention, except perhaps for her tattoos.

    Her arms, shoulders, and back were inked in the most remarkable fashion. In a few instances, small scars had been incorporated into the designs to create a third dimension to the art. Most of them appeared to be dragons, serpents, and other fantastic creatures. I asked her once about them, and she responded with a smirk that horses and flowers were so blasé. I left the matter at that.

    She could be quite the conversationalist when she put her mind to it. She was schooled, bright, and intelligent. There was a point in time when a few of the socialites would join her in the bath, and their laughter and hushed whispers echoed regularly.
    The Wilkes affair, ended all of it.

    After that, she remained quite alone for some time. She still came to me regularly, though there was a detached loneliness to her. She was a good client, and I must say she had remarkable control of her body.

    This brings me to the latest incident, which happened last month.

    The Wilkes affair was quietly becoming a distant memory, yet Miss Meadow still sat alone in the corner. She seemed particularly morose today, and had not sought my attentions.

    Bruce came in with his usual entourage. The first son of a minor noble who stood to inherit a rather large estate, Bruce was handsome, loud and arrogant. His entourage consisted of other minor nobles, cousins, friends, and others who wished to garner as much favor as possible. It’s often not what you know, but who you know in this world after all. His bodyguard Kern sat outside the water, looking as bored as usual.

    Bruce and his entourage occupied one section of the pool. Miss Meadow sat in the other. I had privately hoped Miss Meadow would join them, but there were words exchanged. Suddenly, the boisterous conversion quieted, and Bruce assumed a most venomous expression. A couple of the ladies sitting with Bruce whispered in conspiratorial delight. Sadly, I hadn’t caught what was said, but I did hear what followed.

    “I think you heard me the first time Bryce”, Miss Meadow said, deliberately mispronouncing his name. Bruce’s venomous expression garnished a smile. He looked up at Kern and said with obvious delight, “Kern my friend, please remove the boorish cunt from my presence”

    Kern looked up grinning, his boredom replaced with malicious purpose. I thought to intervene, but Kern was rather large. I was no warrior so instead, directed another attendant to fetch the guard.

    Kern walked around the pool to where Miss Meadow sat. She seemed oddly detached from the situation. With a delighted sneer, Kern reached down and grabbed Miss Meadow’s hair. My gut twisted a bit, watching this unfold. The guards would arrive much to late to save Miss Meadow from being accosted.

    What Miss Meadow did was so fast, I was entirely unsure of what transpired. She twisted, her right arm flashed out, and it appeared as if she poked Kern in the throat.

    The effect was rather telling. Kern staggered back, eyes bulging, suddenly unable to breathe. He made a horrible gagging sound as Miss Meadow leapt naked out of the pool. As Kern struggled, she struck him three, perhaps four times in the side and back. It was if Kern was a marionette whose strings had been cut. His body simply went limp, and he went down with a hard smack as his face hit the tiles.

    Miss Meadow stood over Kern for a moment searching, before reaching and unsheathing a large knife from Kern’s belt. Then with an unsettling casualness, she walked around the pool to where Bruce sat.

    A few of Bruce’s entourage immediately hopped out of the pool and fled. Bruce seemed transfixed to his position in fear. Then Miss Meadow hopped into the pool in front of Bruce, holding the knife.

    I didn’t hear what Miss Meadow said. It was whispered quietly in Bruce’s ear as she ran the point of the knife on his face. All I know is that Bruce turned very pale and relieved himself in the pool.

    The guards came about ten minutes later. I and several others spoke to them. No charges were pressed, and Bruce hasn’t shown his face in the bath house since.

    Miss Meadow still comes to me regularly, the detached loneliness ever present. She pays well, and I treat her with the respect, intimacy and deference my profession requires. But the idle curiosity of the nature her background and the tattoos has been replaced by an underlying current of wariness.



  • The Wraith

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    It was a cold, autumn night. The moon scattered dim light through a star strewn, cloud speckled sky. A light wind scattered leaves on the forest floor. Gy’Yeegu stood with two of her trusted soldiers, R’rosh and J’Kargh. Almost a dozen younglings stood chattering nervously in quiet, fearful whispers at the scene before them.

    There were two younglings, both dead, yet propped bizarrely in a comfortable sitting position facing each other as if playing a game. In between them was a silver token with two faces.

    One of the younglings had its throat cut in the most bizarre manner, as if stricken by a large extremely thin blade. The other had two vicious cuts under its arm and its throat slashed open. It had likely bled out within moments by the blood that stained the ground. None of the younglings heard anything. They both had died silently in the night.

    “Take them”, Gy’Yeegu gestured to the younglings, “…and bury them properly. J’Kargh, help them”

    The younglings whined and cowered. J’Kargh sneered and shouted with menace, “You heard your Gynarch! Now!”. Several of the younglings moved forward fearfully and with J’Kargh’s help, gathered the two up. The whines continued as they ventured through the forest back to the cave carrying the deceased.

    R’rosh stepped forward and picked up the two faced token and brought it to Gy’Yeegu. “It’s the old Eastlander symbol, the human god of vengeance”, he said, flipping the coin over. “The children are fearful of the night now. They say an Eastlander wraith haunts these woods.”
    Gy’Yeegu sniffed and spat, “This is no wraith that haunts these woods R’rosh. I smell human … a female. Her scent lingers here”.

    Gy’Yeegu turned and paced anxiously while R’rosh watched. Finally, she spoke again, “Tell the younglings it is no Eastlander wraith but an uppity human who thinks she’s better than us. Tell them to travel in pairs. We must be strong! We will continue to raid these humans and teach them that WE are the ones to fear!”.

    Gy’Yeegu walked over and stared angrily at the pass that led to the road. The humans might have their cities and steel, but they were weak. Gy’Yeegu would show them that while they thought themselves predators, that they were mere sheep to the might of the Gnolls. With a satisfied nod of self-assurance she turned to R’rosh with a bitter snarl…

    …but R’rosh was not there.

    “R’rosh?”, she whispered into the night, but the only answer was the rustle of leaves on the ground. Her hackles went up, and a cold feeling traveled down her spine. She quietly walked over to the place where R’rosh had stood and nearly tripped over him in the darkness. He lay there, his eyes wide open. The air steamed and coppery scent of fresh blood filled the air.

    Suddenly, there was the faint ping of metal as a silver token landed at her feet. Gy’Yeegu looked briefly down with a mixture of fear, anger, and horror at the visage of the two faced coin before violently swinging behind her.

    Her scythe however, met nothing but air.

    Some thirty feet ahead of her was a small hooded figure shrouded in a cloak, which billowed in the gentle breeze. Two eyes glinted red in the moonlight. Then with a quick gesture of its hands it vanished into darkness.