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Callus Expedition, Campsite,

“Weeks we settle on this frozen hellscape only to turn tail and run."

Oerin was outright furious, more so than usual. He would usually be calm about these situations, letting his fellow Partishans handle the conversation while he focused more on his fist. However, this time it was different, and he didn't like it one bit. The campsite was close to the battlefield, the place of their origin where the dead lingered and buried beneath the snow. The men from the expedition had done what they could to give a proper burial for the fallen comrades. Though the burning remains of the dead were difficult to compare between friend and foe.

By fear or by duty, the wolves had done extensive work to erase any traces of the battle, tossing the bodies into the fire along with their tools and equipment. There was a growing concern among the men from the camp as they whispered behind the Partishans. Some whispered an outrage, others desertion, but all in all they knew the expedition was doomed from the start.

As an order of retreat was announced, everyone in the camp was to depart for the hamlet. Though the men viewed this decision as cowardly, not one of them voiced their concern and made preparation for the long march ahead.

Oerin was at the large tent, gathered among his fellow Partishans as he watched the debate unfold between the expedition leader and those that oppose to the retreat.

"To think we hear this from our leader? The nerve of that guy." Oerin's rage boiled.

Beside him, Decimus was on the ground with a book in hand, reading intently to avoid the argument. "You would think so, but the men that we saved and the supplies we pilfered, I cannot help we have gained much in our travel."

"Gained? What gain do we have?" Oerin proposed, his hand gestured toward at the center of the tent where the argument was at its strongest. "A bunch of squabbles and petty arguments? It is not a gain, but a curse!"

"Those that oppose with Callus' plan would understand in time," Decimus explained, flicking a page of the book, eyes glued on the chapter. "We could only hope that this argument would come to pass for us to proceed."

Oerin brought his hand to his face. "Ugh, it's like I'm talking to a statue," he groaned irritatingly. He dropped his hand down and stared at the reader with genuine concern. "We should be out there: killing beasts, raiding castles and bringing doom on our foes. Action demands we must meet them beasts in combat instead of this...debate. This debacle is but a waste of time."

Decimus chuckled lowly for the first time. "And yet, here we are."

"And yet, here we are!" Oerin repeated furiously.

Silence quickly filled the tent. One of the Partishans slammed his fist on the table as he pointed a dirty finger at Callus. Followed by a range of insult, he spewed his objection, his frustration and anger. All eyes glued on Callus as they were surprised to see the leader unfazed by it all. It was clear to them that Callus showed no sign of backing down.

"This is unbecoming of a Partishan," Decimus stated as he went back to his book. "Pray that you don't be like him."

"Like him?" Oerin's eyes widened, shocked and appalled by his words. He clenched his hand into a fist, ready to speak out in turn. "And what say about you? Here you are reading that book, ignoring the world and our situation? And...and...what are you reading anyway?"

Decimus grinned at the question and showed him the book. The book that he had taken from the wolf outpost. "You should read it sometime. An interesting read if I have to say so myself."

Unable to judge, Oerin displayed a rare form of feeling immense concern for his health. He didn't pry any further of his friend's hobbies. Decimus noticed the silent response and sighed.

"You don't need to say any further," Decimus closed the book as he gradually stood, clearing of the dust of his clothes. "I know what is at stake. Callus chose his decision wisely. Open confrontation with unknown forces would devastate us. We must be cautious in our advance and be vigilant in our venture."

"This is sudden. I didn't take you to shy from bloodshed," Oerin admitted, arms crossed. "Did your time on books make you soft or the beast-folk had found you fancy?"

"Never to shy from a good fight," Decimus said, coldly, eyes glared for a brief moment. He paused himself to calm his temper as he continued. "Never to shy from bloodshed, but never a fool to waltz in the open without a plan or a choice. How many are we left standing, hmm? How many are left? Brom, Ariett, Thalos, Boreal, everyone that we stood shoulder to shoulder has moved on from this world, and I wish not to see more our kin cut short."

Oerin gradually looked down and scoffed. "If that whatever keeps you sleep at night. They died well in the end. We live on minced words and strings."

---

The Campsite, Center of the Tent,

Callus peered at the fellow kinsmen as they showed a mix of discontent and approval. He had been patient to the argument, but slowly and surely, the quarrelsome was taking a toll for the worse. Speculating in advance, the decision to depart created a division among the Partishan, with some of them voiced to rectify his command. Some, if not most, were too stubborn to quit, and some, if not all, were too arrogant to admit that they stood a chance against a bunch of animals. However, Callus knew better than to overestimate his enemies.

With a collection of map charts, disclosed documents and reports that were recovered from the outpost, Callus concluded that the imminent wolf threat was nothing, if not, proven to be wholeheartedly false, and yet the contents provided great detail of wolven authority and the world around them.

In truth, Callus had no interest in the affairs of beastfolk politics as he had enough within his own. The countless complaints of bureaucracy, the stagnant decisions of officers handpicked by noble favour and the irritable annoyance of cowardice that plagued the Imperial army.

No matter the amount of his distaste and volition to expunge the idiocies of many, Callus wished nothing more than to live this through, to survive this harsh and forsaken world as long as he and his men could manage. He recognized the wolves as they were as a pack of savages, worth little of merit or distinction in his eyes. The real threat that he needed to be cautious about was the plague that had taken the land.

Callus had sent several scouts far into the icy wasteland and received reports of hordes of infected beasts, giant crows and other black elements of the unsavoury kind. He felt concerned that the campsite was camped in rotten grounds and that his location was compromised. That reason alone was enough for an immediate retreat.

Sadly, if only it ended without conflict. Callus must convince otherwise a loud, ill-mannered individual that has swayed some of the Partishans to his side. It would have been a simple task, but the person that Callus had to deal with proved far more difficult than he realized.

"You damned coward! Forced to run between the tails on a twist? Must be season already to hide from this blasted heap of weather."

At the opposite end of the table, Partishan Volx remained persistent as well as stubborn to back down without a fight. He was a short man, shorter than the rest of the Partishan as he stood about six feet tall while the average height of a Partishan was seven. A butcher, torturer and a gatherer of information combined, Volx had a reputation for bringing terror onto his enemies. Especially with prisoners under his charge. His brutish demeanour with no regard of life, including other Partishans, made him dangerous, unpredictable and challenging to keep in check. The only few that Volx might consider listening was Callus, but it seemed his chance to maintain good relation turned for the worse.

"Speak carefully when spoken to, butcher!" Reeve warned with dagger eyes.

"Oh, but pardon me, I apologize for my bluntness. Should I call your leader grace or highness from now on? If that were the case, then I would spit on your shiny boots if I would ever do that!"

As Reeve was about to teach him a lesson, Callus slammed his fist on the table, silencing the two in their place. "That is enough," he said, firmly. "This argument is long expired, and we wasted enough time bickering at one another."

"You took the words right out of my mouth," Volx said, agreeing with him for once.

Reeve glared at the butcher but remained silent as Callus continued on.

"Volx, consider understanding my course of action. Our camp is settled deep of a terrible plague that has swept this kingdom. A severe case of infection has taken the beastfolk, and with it, confirmed reports of giants crows wander their land, sapping and turning and rotting anything it touches. We are fortunate that they didn't come to attack--"

"Of course they didn't attack us!" Volx interjected, boldly and slowly losing his patience. "We are Partishans! Not some bunch of militia or mobs of proletarians! This plague is nothing more than works of this so-called magic, and the crows are the manifestation of it, similar to the red bastards such as the Scarlet or Hearten scum. They cower before our presence and pose no threat at all. It is the beastfolk that defy us, burned our dead and steal from us. It is they that deserve our wroth. Each and every one of them!"

Some of the Partishans that sided with Volx voiced in their approval. Callus, Reeve and everyone else did not.

"You think that the beastfolk is our problem?" Reeve said mockingly. "You must be narrow to not see that it is more than that. We are in another realm with rules differ to our own. Its magic unbound, unbent like a bird without its cage. If we are to ensure our survival, we must solve the chaos that had claim this land and turn it inept for us to rule. With an iron hand, not a fist."

Volx paused and gave Callus a long stare. "You wish to rule them?" he asked through gritted teeth. "They are beasts! They cause us nothing but harm!"

"And have the number for it," Callus gradually stood up from his seat. "The reality of war is that our number scarce than the beasts. They numbered us at tenfold. If we are ever to win against them, then subjugation is our crucial element. They will swear to us, by choice or by force. Heh, I suspect you prefer the latter?"

"Downright the damn latter!" Volx raised his voice, seething with rage. "An idea of subjugating this forsaken blight of a kingdom? Bah, I would rather kill them all than to live among their misbegotten kind!"

"Live with them you shall, Volx," Callus stated and glanced at the Partishans that sided with him. "And so is the rest that disagrees with me. Anyone that opposed will be the first to act as emissaries to my plan. So? Any takers?"

As Volx's sympathizers waned at such an offer, suddenly, a soldier appeared from the entrance, wearing black and blue longcoat, breathing in and out in expiration. All eyes stared at the lonely soul as he quickly stood upright for a salute.

"Forgive me for the intrusion, my grands, but I bring--"

Volx slammed his fist on the table, silencing the soldier's announcement. "Why did you interrupt us?" he asked, infuriated and close to punch him at the face. The musketeer shook with a terrible fright, unable to speak further until Callus managed to calm him.

"At ease, trooper, you are in good company," Callus said, warmly, quickly taking his seat. "Pay no attention to my friend here. He was just leaving. Aren't you, Volx?"

Volx was about to voice in until he noticed that some of the Partishans, including Reeve, were approaching much closer to him, hands at the hilt of their swords and handles at the halberd. It was definitely clear he was not welcome. Even the Partishans that sided with him from earlier didn't intervene to the rescue as they stood far from the distant. Enraged, he stormed out from the tent, bumping the soldier by the shoulder.

As Volx left the tent, Callus gestured the soldier to continue on with his report. "Proceed," he said with authority.

The musketeer nodded his head sternly. "Thank you, my grand. I received word from our scout and..." he hesitated for a bit, gulping. "I fear we have a situation.

---

Makeshift Infirmary,

Valeran didn't attend the gathering like he did in the past. Instead, he was at the makeshift infirmary, standing at the sideline as he watched the field surgeon in progress of an operation. At the table was a comatose patient, a wounded squirrel, bandaged and wrapped from a severe wound from the side. Besides the surgeon, the canine apothecary, Ruffcoat, offered his expertise whatever he could provide, using Valeran to translate between dialogue.

At first, the field surgeon was insulted of being told what to do from an animal. Yet the bitter sourness of his mood shifted for the better as he came to realize the canine's knowledge on animal anatomy and remedies that were sorely in need in the camp.

Cutting the last string of his operation, the surgeon was able to complete his with efficient speed as the patient was fully mended from her injury, sleeping quietly on the table. The canine held a rag and, in a kind gesture, wiped the sweat from the surgeon's brow, smiling and nodding his head with approval.

The surgeon was slightly shocked at the canine's action, but eventually, he ended with a smile and made a stern nod in return.

"What is her condition?" Valeran asked.

"Not dead, if you need to know," the surgeon named Rovilus replied, putting his surgery tools on a basin. "Little critter needs to rest for a couple of days. Another one of his potions," he regarded to Ruffcoat. "And she'll be in full recovery."

Valeran sighed in relief as he spoke to the canine in a different dialect. At the end of his sentence, Ruffcoat looked at the surgeon with sincere gratitude and said something positive for Valeran to translate.

"Ruffcoat appreciates for what you've done," Valeran translated. "He also wishes to learn your craft during his stay. If you do not mind?"

Rovilus stared at Ruffcoat then back to Valeran with a concerned look. "Is that alright with you? Usually, we don't teach those that are not part of the army...as well as nonhumans."

"Aye, we don't let them," Valeran admitted, but quickly gestured in a dismissive response. "But I will allow it. He and his little friend are not going anywhere, and assistance is welcomed at this crucial time."

Rovilus thought the Partishan to be downright mad to permit such an action, but painfully aware that his protest carried little importance, he had little to no choice to submit to his command. As the deed was accomplished, Valeran left the two animals at the infirmary tent with two guards to keep a close eye on them.

The Partishan wandered the now empty campground, tents folded and campfires snuffed out. A cold wind blew in his face, the biting wind and frost. Few of the soldiers remained at the scene, gathering whatever of their possessions left for the long trip back to the hamlet. He could vaguely hear the officers, barking their orders at the men in line formation. The synchronize marching step was heard afterwards.

Amid the quiet stroll, Valeran was interrupted when a soldier rushed towards to him, wearing a black and white uniform. As he approached even closer, the man presented himself to be none other than Sergeant Waxer, one of the survivors that were rescued from earlier.

"Sergeant Waxer," Valeran said, slightly surprised that he was up and about. "I did not suspect you to move so quickly. Has the surgeon tend to your wounds?"

"No, my grand, he was not the source of my recovery," Waxer replied. "The apothecary, Ruffcoat, personally gave me a potion that fully restores my health. Mine and the men that were beside me. If it weren't for him, our toll would be worse."

"And it seems your gamble paid off," Valeran admitted, smiling for a bit at his health. "Perhaps, Ruffcoat could give us the formulae for the healing miracle once we head back to the hamlet. It would greatly benefit us in the long run."

Waxer quickly cleared his throat before he spoke. "Pardon to interrupt this banter, but I was sent by Partishan Callus to find you. There is an emergency that I must address."

"Callus? Emergency?" Valeran asked, his expression shifted into a serious look. "Alright, then. Out with it. What is the report?"

"A warband of wolves has been spotted from one of our scouts," The sergeant explained, offered no hint of hesitation in his voice. "They've been spotted not far from our camp and approach within the few hours."

Valeran cursed under his breath, hand over his mouth. "They must have taken the scent of us when we investigate the outpost. No doubt, they come to investigate the sudden destruction of their base."

"I've been requested to take part in the retaliation force. Those that are selected will embark to intercept them."

Valeran chuckled, surprised yet again.

"Hmm, eager to spill beast blood for sure? I shall fetch my weapon."

"Um, my apologies, my grand, but you will not be part of the retaliation," Waxer said as the Partishan raised an eyebrow. "You are to escort the apothecary and the thief to the retreat. Another Partishan would be in charge of the group."

As the sergeant finished his report, Valeran gave out a silent sigh as he quite understood the reason to remain in the camp. Since his conclusion to let the two animals tagged along, Valeran felt a cold gaze from both Partishan and musketeer alike. They knew what he had done, and they hated him for it. The few people that he could rely on was Waxer and the rescued prisoners, but that meant nothing at all when nearly everyone in the camp was ready to kill his guests on sight.

"Fair enough. If Callus wants me to do guard duty...then so be it," he sighed once more, disappointed at his misfortune. "Before you go, may I ask who is in charge of the mission?"

Waxer had a disagreeing look on his face as he sighed heavily. "None other than Partishan Volx."

---

Accornhall, Second Floor,

The second floor faired little worse than below as much of the rooms and halls were barred by fallen debris. The decor that used to galvanize the mansion decayed into a horrid state, roots and vines have taken root through the cracks. Much of the pathway was impossible to cross except for one direction. A direction that Amion remained insistent on following.

The voices from the dark faded into obscurity as the mercenary continued walking, regardless of the dangers that opposed him. With the flame from his hand, he lighted the path onward but found little interest to his attention. Little except of course the number of cobwebs the further he went.

Amion began to hear a hissing sound, more than once in occasion as bones of dead victims laid and the smell of wastes smeared against the wall and floor. He gradually, but steadily, raised his flaming hand upward to gaze a thousand orbs of glowing eyes, beaming down upon him, numbering down by the hundreds or more. Spiders. The giant kind.

A moment of silence stilled the mercenary, staring back of them with an odd sense of calmness. Amion pulled his black blade from the scabbard and gently tightened the grip as the metal glowed in a fiery orange colour. The spiders, aware that they sensed something different about him, hissed loudly at the intruder and pulled away to a different direction. They were heading below the ground floor.

As the last spider drifted away, Amion soon resumed his course toward the end of the trail as he reached a large, spacious room, cleared of any trace of furniture except for webs, animal bones and wrapped cocoons that dangled from the ceiling in its place. From there, at last, he heard once more the voice from the dark. Only this time, the sound was louder, clearer to understand.

"So you have come at last," the voice, old and ancient, hissed at the far end of the room, its dozen red orbs gleamed upon the intruder with an avarice intake.

Amion said nothing and braced himself. He was in for a fight.