Accornhall, Ground Floor,

In the ruinous halls of the mansion lingered unspeakable things, the horrors which few whispered behind closed doors. Such whispers turned to tales and rumours that caught the ear of eager opportunists alike. Either brave or foolish, they ventured into that mansion, only to leave without a trace. What they found were not of boundless wealth of treasure, but of a similar outcome. All became meals to a thousand hisses of children in the dark.

The sound of footsteps rushed to the hall, their motion paced with urgent fear and dread to escape the mansion. Yara and Tristram, the bear and the weasel, mercenaries under Amion's employ, were running for their life. Behind the trail, a multitude of hisses screeched aloud, given chase of their prey. Spiders. The large kind, size of a common youngling and twice the tantrum with vicious fangs, red-pierced eyes and an insatiable appetite for blood. They showed no ounce to relent, not a single moment to kill the mercenaries at the spot.

Tristram followed the bear with twin blades at hand, his outfit reeked and soaked of dead spiders. The smell was enough for any decent animal to lose a meal, and he would have passed out fifteen minutes ago if not for one singular thought of being eaten alive in a slow and painful death. To his conclusion, he preferred to lose his meal than to be an actual one.

One of the spiders managed to catch up to them and lunged for a bite, teeth as sharp like swords. Tristram spotted the spider and dodged its attack with ease, but not before he plunged his blade to its skull, killing the creature in an instant. Numberless the spiders swarmed that they cared little of their safety or their concern. They were merely inept to defend themselves as all they think about was the prospect to taste a morsel scrap of blood.

The weasel counted twenty-seven. Twenty-seven dead spiders. Tristram lost count after his forty-third kill that he realized they stood no chance to win against them. They were near endless.

Like a torrential tide of water, the spiders poured through every crack and crevices of the walls, of the ceiling and ground to stop the mercenaries in place. Though the spiders had a numerical advantage over them, they faced against an unstoppable force of fury, strength and an odd consumption of mushrooms.

Swing after swing, Yara's flurry ended most spiders that barred her path, leaving more corpses and toll than Tristram could ever hope to beat. Her stone mallet, littered with idyllic runes and symbolism, glowed like the azure sky and drenched in blood.

"Bah! Where is Amion?" the bear cried out, furiously, slamming her hammer at another spider. "Where is he when we needed of him?"

"Don't know, I'm more worried about us right now at the moment."

The mercenaries rushed through the hall, littered with horrid pests to no end. After a series of engagements, Yara first spotted a glint at the far distant. She saw a light at the end of the tunnel.

Closer and closer their exit in reach that Tristram heard a peculiar rumble coming from above. He looked up at the front to notice cracks on the ceiling.

"Look out!" the weasel shouted, stopping Yara just in time before an enormous thing fell in front of them.

Buried under a pile of rubble rose a giant, green spider, dozen of eyes directed straight upon them. Its meritable size blocked the exit and, without delay, assailed its potential meal. Cursing under her breath, Yara squeezed and tightened around the handle of her mallet. Instead of sounding a retreat, which they were no possible chance to retrace their steps with a swarm of spiders behind their back, she complied to the spider's demand and rushed to meet it.

The green spider made its first move, jaws widened to reveal its many sharp teeth. Yara braced herself, and the spider clamped at her weapon. Its massive strength pushed her slightly, fiercely, away from their exit. Its many eyes stared at the bear with eager determination.

Tristram, blades at the ready, rushed to the bear's assistance, only to be stopped from the rear by several, hungry-looking spiders. Unable to ignore the threat that opposed them, Tristram turned his attention from the back while Yara, for now, focused on the front.

Trapped from both sides of the fight, they struggled to stay alive, yet the more they spent on distraction, the more the spiders would be able to swarm them. Yara continued to hold her position, but not much longer. She felt her arms began to ache and give, little time left before they become bug food. Her eyes surveyed the area for a solution then saw a couple of mushrooms growing on its back. A devious smile appeared on her face.

With a free paw-hand stretched out, she uttered the words as magic flowed at her fingertips. The spores quickly reacted by her spell and grew to spread even further, rooted deep to the spider's exoskeleton.

The green spider screeched in absolute pain and began to relent its attack to instead swung its arm to rid of the spores. Writhing, twisting, shaking to no ill effect, the spider crashed headfirst against the wall, its body laid motionless on the ground as the spores quickly took over.

Yara thought her spells would have killed the green spider just that. The situation proved better than she could hope for. The spores continued to expand, growing, spreading not the insect, but to the walls and the ceiling. In short moments part of the hall would be blocked in spores.

"Hmm, this should work," Yara said, nodding with approval at the prospect. The spores would buy enough time for the two to escape. "We should move. Gather your things and let's get out of here before more show..."

The sound of metal clanked on the floor. Yara shifted from behind to notice the weasel, stood victorious over the small spiders and blood spilled from the stomach and head.

"Y-Yara..." Tristram winced, head drooped down, eyes stared blankly in space.

The bear froze, uttered not a single word of shock and confusion. Yara caught the weasel by her arms as he fell.

"Heh...rot may take them...that hurt..."

"Don't speak. Save your words for another time."

The bear stared at the punctured wound on the weasel's left side of the stomach, dismayed at the state of his condition. She managed to treat the damage with her magic, yet sadly, unable to prevent the poison that coursed in his veins.

"Leave me be, Yara. Save...yourself..."

"Don't talk such nonsense. We are going. Together. So up you go and shut up about it!"

Yara carried him over her shoulder and resumed once more to the exit. She leaped across the dead spider before the spores sealed off behind them.

====

Tristram had the utmost displeasure to be carried around like a piece of luggage. His diminutive stature was an invitation for other, larger individuals plucking him off from the ground, toying with him to no end. If that were the case, he would have probably beaten them to submission, except for the beautiful and refined of ladies.

However, the situation was in dire as the weasel, poisoned and beaten, was whisked away by Yara, the bear, who was on her shoulder right now. Ironically, he thought that he would be a hero, saving damsels in distress and carrying them on his shoulders. Oh, how fate has turned for the worse.

"Don't you dare sleep on me!" Yara growled, fiercely squeezing the weasel's side with one paw-hand.

The pain by her grip has managed to keep Tristram awake... For the time being. He felt his body was on fire, eating from the inside and out. The poison from the spider's bite made its way to the head with ruthless efficiency, unable to staunch the flow from blinding him permanently. While the weasel could no longer see, his other senses were reasonable, and that he could hear the uneasy chitter behind the walls or the unmistakable hisses that lurked behind the dark. They were coming.

A cold gust of wind blew behind Tristram's back, indicating that they were near the exit of the hall. As they reached to the center of the mansion, Yara turned around at the doorway, her paw-hand raised with a green glow. The vegetated vines that had taken over the place wriggled to heed her command, crossing and entangling around the hall, sealing off entirely behind them. It worked well.

"That should buy us some time," Yara stated, taking no chance to take a moment of rest. Her eyes stared towards the exit and paced to it.

"Y-yara... Is Amion here?" The weasel asked weakly, eyes growing heavy.

The bear's response was the following set of curses. "Forget about him! He has left us. Left us to fend for ourselves. Where has he gone to? Did not even help in our plight. Some leader. Some friend, he turns out to be. We are going without him. To the Rot, he goes, if I wait another minute for him."

Tristram remained silent, unable to take another word as the bear continued on with her frantic rant.

"You will need a healer. A good one. One who knows how to cure you. Ah, but of course, the poisoner from the hill! Her claims of the most potent of potions and her dumb advertisements. She could get rid of it. And you will be fine! By the Wyld, you will be back in no time! You can talk and say stupid jokes whenever you like, Tristram... Tristram?"

Yara glanced at the weasel, unease at the grim, sullen silence. She lightly shook his shoulder, hoping to receive some kind of mumble or a gesture of response. After several attempts, each one forceful than the next, she came to realize the truth at last. The cold husk of a body held on her hand, a friend claimed by the poison. Lost without words, she stared at her former associate and closed her eyes in a moment of silence.

Yet the silence wouldn't last.

Yara felt the vibration around the mansion, shaking wild and violent. It was like the sound of a hammer, bamming louder and louder until it was to her position. Before she could react, a terrible roar shrieked and screamed and wailed so loud that Yara forced to cover her ears.

The noise originated from the second floor, where there, out in the air, a shadowy figure arrived with a red, glowing sword and a flaming hand, its armour dented and mostly scorched in the heat of battle. It was bare without a helmet, revealing its olive hide and grayish fur around the mouth and top of the head. Yara managed to catch sight at the mysterious stranger and recognized the animal, no, a human, to be none other than Amion himself.

Amion crashed landed hard on the ground floor, his feet balanced in control and eyes fixated on top. Unaware that Yara was at the scene, he raised his open hand in aim at the second floor where he'd jumped from. The flame around his hand grew larger, deadlier, more concentrated for a powerful blast. Like a fiery star, the human unleashed a gush of fire, hurling towards something from above. Exposed to what had been literally the sun, Yara shielded herself and Tristram from the extreme heat and light. As the fire began to wane, Yara gazed at the human, undoubtedly astonished by his power.

Followed after the attack, Amion silently mumbled something to himself, a silent curse, for he heard its terrible cry, followed by a thunderous screech that made his situation ever more direr. Heavy steps thumped louder at each second, closer, and in turn, revealed itself to be more hideous to imagine.

Dozens of large, grotesque claws emerged from the darkened hall, its limbs caught aflame by Amion's attack. Traces of blood oozed from the cuts and scratches it has endured by his blade, dripping golden juices that proved acidic and volatile in nature. Its chitinous shell was of the blackest of black, teeth like swords and hundreds of red orbs peered down below.

Yara sighted at the thing and froze in sheer terror. "By the Wylds..."

Caught by her voice, Amion took a moment to glance at Yara, seeing Tristram down on the ground beside her, with wounds still visible and fresh. He knew right away what had happened.

"Can you still fight?" He asked neutrally, turning his gaze at the monster from above. He heard the following utterance of the bear's full wrath.

"What have you done?" She almost burst out with a yell, unable to look away at the monster.

"Yara...I can expl--"

"No. No! You do not have a say! What the Wyld is that thing? What am I looking at?"

It wouldn't be wise for Amion to aggravate Yara any further, and yet, he had little time to explain things when the giant insect leaped and crashed to the ground, causing the entire mansion to shook. The flames on the spider continued to spread all around the materials susceptible to burning, and soon the place was caught in a chaotic inferno.

Amion positioned on the defensive. "If you want to know, then shut up and fight. Once we finish this problem, I'll tell you everything."

"Once we're finished you and I are done. That's the end of it!" Yara rebutted harshly. She placed the weasel aside, leaning him against the pillar. With a brief cast of her spell, the vines wrapped the weasel around to form of a cocoon.

Pushed from her doubts and fears, Yara turned her attention to the monstrous creature, the runes of her hammer glowed fiercely blue, emanating a strange kind of warmth.

Amion said not a word. He knew well it was the end of Yara's friendship. Admittedly, he didn't mind if she did. He deserved it.

The chitinous creature, not one to idle any longer, proceeded forth to engage with every force it mustered.

===---===

Somewhere in BlackPine Woods, Ambush Point,

A warband of wolves would arrive in one of the three locations. However, based upon the human scouts that surveyed the area, the nearest travel to reach the human campsite was a stone bridge that crossed from one block of woods to the other. Its rivers under the bridge were frozen solid with a blanket of snow that carpet of ice, almost invisible to all. It was the perfect sight for the perfect ambush.

Men of different uniforms stood cautiously on the frozen river, their hands gently placed several bombs that would shatter the ice altogether. In charge of the idea belonged to Campa company, a group of men who had the knack of traps and explosives that killed more lives than lined formations and bullets. Their signature style of uniform was of a white coat with a black undershirt and yellow cap-hats

As the last of the charges placed and hidden, one soldier waved a flag back at the rear, where a notable company, the Black Swan, noticed the signal through the telescope.

The plan for the ambush was decided by Volx and that the attack was split into two parts. While the Partishans and the rest of the musketeers were to be the vanguard of the assault, the Black Swans and those that remained behind were to be just that. Sharpshooters and backup all in one and Waxer, a prisoner now liberated from the outpost, was in charge of the task ahead.

"Thought they never be done," Waxer said, lowering his telescope and placing it away. He then turned to his attention to a young lad with a uniform of black and blue. A new recruit to the Black Swan. A Bluejay. "Send word to Volx about them. The traps have been placed."

The bluejay clapped his feet together and raised his hand in salute. Without a word, he left the scene at haste to deliver the message. It wasn't Waxer's decision nor any of the Black Swans to require an extra. However, it seemed, whatever he has heard, that this jay had gone astray and created friction within the flock. He had little choice, but to accept him. Whether the young jay proved to be an asset remained to be seen.

"Hmph, the jay is too impetuous," a voice appeared, originating behind of Waxer. "Following orders like a proper soldier he is. Bah, younglings. Forced us to babysit them."

Waxer smiled irritatingly for he recognized that voice all too well. Ashton Belmar was lying behind a dead oak tree, legs stretched with an orange cap over his head. Both arms behind his back, the swan was another one of the prisoners rescued and the most annoying of the bunch.

"That birds need a new set of rules," he continued, lifting his cap up to reveal emerald eyes. "If he wanted to stay long enough to see the end."

A sarcastic chuckle escaped from Waxer's mouth. "Some things never learned," he shook his head and turned his eyes toward Belmar. "And tell me, please, what kind of rules do you have in mind?"

"Oh, the usual stuff. The rules that do matter to the company. Or well, to me, of course. Never make a scene and never pick on a fight that you cannot win. Otherwise, you'd be broke of bones before you could have a chance in the field. Shooting men...and now beasts..."

"I'll be sure to remind the jay once the battle gets started. You know this is downright appalling to see you like this. After all the captain has done for you, you haven't changed one bit."

The swan that laid behind the tree bellowed out loud into laughter, almost bringing the attention to others. "And damn that blighter for it," he gradually got back up to his feet, patting the snow away from his back. "Never did like the old bastard. Never give me a pause or breather. A pesterer, he is. All the way to the end."

"Now that you don't mean it. If memory served, you'd gone warming up to the captain. You could say you looked up to him as a father of sort."

Belmar's face shifted expression from idle frolic to severe distress. "Not going to lie, we all looked up to him. Saved our skins many times over," he smiled sadly. "The captain may be an arse, but he was damn good at his job. Give a damn about us. Still can't believe he is gone."

Waxer remembered the last time he saw the captain at the final stages of the Scarlet war. He last saw him within seconds as the captain, along with many of his friends, stormed the shattered walls of the fortress and met an untimely end.

"What you say isn't true about me."

"Hmm? What is?"

"About the captain's teachings. Still taken to heart since I first enlisted to the company."

"And what would that be then?" Waxer asked curiously.

Belmar returned to his carefree attitude and smiled, grabbing his musket from the tree. "To keep whatever brothers that I have left."

The crunch sound of snow dawned the return of the jay soldier with suspecting news from the Partishan. Waxer noticed the jay's crazed eyes and the unmistakable sweat beading down from his face to know that a battle was upon them.

Belmar saw right away of the bluejay, his smile grew even more extensive. "Impetuous and eager. Heh, guess he can be of a promise after all..."

====

Partishan Volx had a terrible temper, so awful, in fact, that he almost chopped someone's head off just because the poor lad blocked his way. It wasn't the first time that he suffered random fits of rage. At best, most of the musketeers tend to make a distance in hope to avoid his ire. Even fellow Partishans, though managed to tolerate his presence, made little effort to create a simple conversation for the man was cumbersome and hot-headed to deal with. The pale warrior took his isolation to heart, ever vindictive and ever in a bitter mood. Preferred to work alone than with a crowd, he excelled greatly in acquiring information through fear, intimidation and surprise. Never had the Partishan achieved so much more than the number of lives killed to gain it. Yet, the situation changed when he was assigned to lead the ambush, a task which he greatly despised about.

Volx stood at the center of the bridge, bidding in wait for the wolves in his lonesome self. Deep in wonder and thought, he couldn't help but remember of his little interrogation from earlier, a grey wolf held captive under his supervision. In those uninterrupted moments, he spent a great deal with his prisoner, toying its fear, dissecting whatever left of its memories and yanked them out with ease. The secrets uncovered from the beast intrigued his curiosity, the deceitful effort to hide its allegiance from its pack and friends. The wolf died afterwards due to brain hemorrhage, but Volx wasn't worried at the least. He got what he needed...and more.

Like all good subordinates, Volx submitted his statements about the wolf to the expedition leader, how the records detailed its assistance with the mass burnings, the hunt of human survivors and profiting stolen wargear. Though it was enough to convince anyone at the camp, what he did not tell them he kept the rest for himself, and he was only scratching the surface of a mountain.

In its memories, Volx established the young wolf to be an informant, a spy to an anonymous patron. Several letters were placed outside from the outpost, located at a dead tree stump. By what the Partishan made his theory, the wolf had been spilling secrets for years, details such as the number of troops where they stationed their bases, the daily patrols routined across their territory and the recent events that occurred in the last few weeks. All of it in exchange for a few sacks of golden doubloons and trinkets.

Volx found nothing else worth of value from the wolf, and he quite wondered of who or what been gaining the clan's secrets. As much as he wanted to uncover the mystery like a child in work of a puzzle set, his interest would have to wait. The sound of rustled leaves caught his attention from the front, a customized cleaver drawn under his belt. Out from shadow, a human musketeer emerged from the bushes, uniformly dressed to blend in among the forest.

When Volx recognized the human to be one of his scouts, he lowered the weapon down and give the man an angry stare. "Report!" he said, coldly, fiercely, without a hint of indulgence. The scout, not wanting to aggravate his commanding officer even further, rushed to the bridge and stood upright.

"Sight has been confirmed. Wolves spotted on the pathway. They would be here in less than an hour."

"And? Did you confirm the number of their actual count?"

The scout paused and shook his head, hesitantly. "Fraid that isn't...possible, sir" he cleared his throat. "The wolves...their hunters...proved far more effective and almost got caught while doing it. B-but giving the number of torches and path pattern...our initial assumption was lower than we thought."

Volx breathed in deeply and raised his cleaver a bit for the scout to take notice. "So...what is the number?"

"L-less than two dozen..." he said frantically.

Volx took a good long look at the scout, to the trees behind him. He heard nothing except for the whispers of the wind. "Seems you've done us a favour," he finally said, turning his eyes on the scout, grinning from ear to ear. The scout grew uneasy at that smile, but the Partishan gestured and allowed him to pass. "Inform the Swan sergeant. Tell him that I require his band."

The scout nodded, sweat dripped on his brow and cross the bridge in haste, leaving the Partishan once more in his lonesome self. Volx had and always despised cooperating with others. And yet, from time to time, he wouldn't mind to take on with the oldest classic of traditions. A chance for sport, a game in the wild hun