The First Spark

[Vossill]

Location: The planet Crakull, in the Unknown Regions.

The aging spacecraft shuddered and wheezed as it entered the atmosphere abruptly. It probably had no business flying anymore, but this was all that Toar Shul had been willing to spare for Vossill's mission. Spread the fires of rebellion, of freedom, the elders had instructed him. That Vossill would do, although he had surely expected some better equipment for the job.

The Quarren fighter looked out the viewport in the cockpit of the rusting aircraft. He wasn't much of a pilot, but his lifelong friend Rii Kosh had that technicality under control. Below him, forests of spiraling trees bending in all sorts of different directions splayed out, covering miles and miles of blue-green terrain. Random splotches of clearings indicated either swamps or settlements, both probably too dismal for most in the galaxy to live in.

"Starting descent now, my brothers!" Rii Kosh triumphantly stated into the comm system which would be transmitted throughout the entire transport. Cheers resounded throughout the cabin. The ship's cargo hold, which was hastily reconfigured for life-forms to be comfortable on long trips, held the rest of the extremists; most were fellow Quarren of the Toar Shul group, but there were some humans, a Trandoshan, and a Miralukan. The group of twenty or so had boxes of blaster rifles and explosives accompany them.

Spread the fires of rebellion and freedom, indeed. Vossill felt a tinge of excitement run through him. His first directive from Toar Shul; he would not let them down. Nodding at Kosh and speaking into the comm system, Vossill firmly stated, "Ready, my brothers. Prepare to disembark and wash the oppressors in their own foul blood. Free the oppressed!" More shouts echoed from the cargo hold in response.

Vossill smiled, tentacles squirming. The next step would be to reach the contact on the planet who had asked for Toar Shul's assistance. All was going well.

 

[Feralt Tarr]

Feralt Tarr rested along the back, his aged spine curled; hands rested upon the hilt of his blade, arms shackled together by old cuffs - a willing disability in effort to abstain from carelessness- and head shrouded beneath the deep gaze of an iron mask. The shuttle rattled with ancient prowess, and Feralt, laodicean to attention, fixated solely upon the prospect of his arrival: he was an anarchist, he traveled from operation to operation freely, in hopes of spurring a greater movement. Here, he had found his new bond, his brothers of ambition: quarren, from the distant Mon Cala, lead by the powerful Vossill. This Vossill had approached him, in the midst of his travels, and offered him a promise: a revolution, one which sounded brightly with the buried hopes lodged within a fading heart. Feralt Tarr accepted this offer.

The announcement blared over a failing comm system, echoing throughout this transport.

"Ready thine arms," shouted Tarr, standing upright among his brothers in arms; from his fettered arms he heaved a great blade - dull in all but point - onto his wide shoulders, swishing a silver mane of wild hair. "Herein you have all been explained our mission: failure shall not be tolerated."

"But, Feralt, your arms!" exclaimed one of the quarren.

"Silence," he commanded, "I must practice my thrusts."

"During battle-"

Feralt Tarr struck with lightning speed, flaunting his blade in a wide, arcing twirl before jamming the tip between the alien's legs, impaling the floor and sending sparks shooting out like bright, dying cinders. The quarren froze, his shoulders stiffening; beads of sweat bled from his forehead.

"Look," observed Feralt, "If I hath missed, thou would be in pain. Doth thou hath else you would wish to share?"

The quarren shook his head.

"Tis a surprise; and the rest of you?"

The other quarrens shook their heads.

The sword was once more heaved to his hulking shoulders and, heaving his weight about with shoddy footfalls, Feralt lurched to the cockpit blast door, despite the unbalanced shaking of the vessel. Hands clamped together, he slammed the pommel of his blade against the blastdoors, signalling his presence to [member="Vossill"] with thundering efficiency. "Brother," he said, "All is well in order; I trust I shall accompany thee to the field? Lest thee intend to go alone."

 

[Vossill]

[member="Feralt Tarr"]

Vossill's head turned to the cockpit doors as a thunderous banging caught his attention. Pushing the button that would open the doors and present Feralt, Vossill took a step forward, only to run into the door. Blasted, no-good, worthless equipment they gave to me. Virtually punching the door's control panel, Vossill finally heard the hiss as the blast door quickly disappeared into the walls. Greeted with the intimidating sight of Feralt occupying the hallway, Vossill addressed his ally.

"Of course you will accompany me, friend," Vossill affirmed, nodding his head. "The men would benefit greatly from your leadership and skill. Now come. We will unload the weapons and meet our allies on the planet." Stepping to the side of Feralt, he strode down the ship's ramp, amidst scurrying warriors gathering their personal supplies. Pulling his datapad from his pocket, Vossill consulted the coordinates the native Croke had given him. They had not landed far from the village they needed to reach. Good.

Planting his worn boots onto the soft grass underneath him. Vossill surveyed the area. Grass patches, like the one the ship had landed on, gave way to marshes and forests that poked above murky waters. Water was good. The quarren would feel at home here.

Vossill had heard odd stories about the Crokes that inhabited the planet. Masters of illusion, they were considered. That is a very useful skill set for our purposes, he thought to himself. Taking one last look, Vossill turned back to the ship and addressed the ragtag group of fighters they had assembled. "We leave to meet our allies in 5 minutes. Sgraa, Kayees, stay and guard the ship. The rest of you, follow me to the village."

Spread the fires of rebellion, and of freedom.

 

[Feralt Tarr]

[member="Vossill"]
"Wise, thou art," commented Feralt, "To pursue an alliance with the natives. However, I plead, this land is swollen by a curse; that of strife and decadence. Behold its scars with care." The monstrous being of Tarr lunged beside his companion, his leering head, consumed by masque, hung forward, casting a deep shadow across the ground. Both hands clasped in prayer over his hilt, the great blade swung over his shoulders, looming like a demonic angel, cast in the light of the morning sun. "O, thou art at the advantageous position; be mindful to keep out of sight, the shadows are friends hitherto." The quarren seemed to swarm around his backside, desperate to keep out of his line of sight, lest they fall victim to his piercing criticism; through the Force, however, it was of no use:

"Lygash," he barked, "Raise thine weapon higher. Thou art a warrior, carry thine arms high to symbolize our flames; wield the burden of cinder."

"Yessir!" cried a blue quarren from among the party, coalesced behind the leading pair, marching through the grass. He scrambled himself together, much to the snickers of his fellow men, and rose his weapon to his shoulder - like some eighteenth century minuteman.

"Note," he observed, "The water; use it to the advantage. Send out scouts, for thine opponents will not expect eyes by the drink."

 

[Vossill]

[member="Feralt Tarr"]

Hopefully the waters would be deep enough for proper concealment. Nodding to two soldiers beside him, Vossill nonverbally volunteered them to silently move ahead and act as scouts. They were no proper military unit, that was for sure, but they could still profit from military tactics nonetheless. Truthfully, they were less military tactics and more common tactics, but still. Vossill shook the thought from his mind and focused on placing on foot in front of the other, eyes periodically scanning for threats.

The Croke were very small creatures; if the hostile majority of the natives had any idea of their coming, then they would have likely been spotted already without any of their notice. Vossill hoped his contact would be wise enough to cover their short trek to the village.

Turning to Feralt, who was walking beside him, still hoisting his giant cleaver of a sword, Vossill stated, "You said to be wary of strife and decadence. Yet it is we who come to free the oppressed from the strife that keeps them as lower-class denizens of this planet. We are here to help them, overthrow their corrupt government. I am in this for the people. But any who stand in our way . . . I pity them, for they will find themselves on the wrong side." Now was not the time for second thoughts or doubts. There was us, and there was them. They must perish in combat if there is to be a renewal.

 

[Feralt Tarr]

[member="Vossill"]
"You speak not for they who art consumed by hatred," Feralt observed. He shuddered, emitting a hollow rasp that might just have been laughter; his great, hunched form broken forward by each great step. Beneath him, barefoot, his feet trod upon various outcrops of stones and rotten branches, decayed amongst soil; with each snap, they broke into his skin drawing blood - yet he did not cry out. Rather, he reveled in the pain, and executed the brewing discomfort to further perceive potential within their environment. "Thy blade shalt free the locals, yes, brother; yet, take care not to be too glutted by ambition. For our force, many years shalt be spent upon field fighting to claim the whole of this planet; fixate, first, upon those colonies therein." Suddenly, he shifted his weight, pulling his crooked body together upright, further towering over those near; his gaunt head turning to overlook the terrain; fraught with green turf and azure sod.

"Hail, Vossil; stand above them, lest they seek opportunity to overturn thine generosity; greed art universal," he warned.

"Commanders," croaked a familiar, blue quarren, shoving past his swarming brethren, "Shall we dispatch lighter units to set up along the village's perimeter? If early, we might find ourselves welcome to press the advantage; the earlier we strike, the more quickly we would build up momentum."

"Turn thine eyes to the sky; note thy sun."

The quarren shifted uncomfortably. "Y-Yes, sir?"

"To strike now would, undoubtedly, be of a crippling disadvantage; yes, thou might have the early edge in thine battle, but without knowledge of surrounding terrain, the moment thou art forced to retreat, thou would be lost in foreign wilderness, subject to native predators . . . lest thou command the mysticisms of the Force. Thou should wait until it hung softly incandescent upon thine distant horizon."

"Yes, Feralt . . ."

"Take note, Vossill; thy forces art weak n' inexperienced. Take thine time to observe the terrain and use it to thine advantage, lest thou be overrun."

 

[Vossill]

[member="Feralt Tarr"]

Vossill nodded as Feralt addressed him. There was so much to the art of warfare: troop placements, environmental concerns, enemy strengths and weaknesses, and much more. It seemed overwhelming to take in at first. He would have to use all of his focus to lead his unit.

A grunt tentatively approached Vossill, pointing over his shoulder. "Sir," he whispered, dropping into a crouch. "Someone's coming this way. It looks like one of us, a quarren, but . . . it's coming from the direction of the village." Vossill cursed and motioned for everyone in the group to drop onto the waterlogged ground. If this mission is already compromised . . . Vossill began to think, until he saw the aforementioned quarren awkwardly walking alone through the trees and the mush.

"Fear not, I am the one who contacted you. All is proceeding well. Come, get up, we have much to discuss." The quarren dissolved into nothingness and instead, traversing the ground, was a small, pistol-sized alien. Well, good and bad news. Bad news was their group was spotted pretty easily. Of course, the Crokes were said to be skilled with the Force, so that may have had something to do with it. But the good news was that they had found their contact. He would fill them in on the best strategies of attack.

 

[Feralt Tarr]

Feralt eyed the small creature distastefully, taking a great deal to remain observant of its motions as he traced steps along the perimeter. "Thou art free from hostility," he observed with callous gaze, lost beneath the folds of a dark-wrought mask of despair and torture, "Yet, lest thou take us for jests, it is in thine best intentions to remain interwoven to thine own judgement; remain professional, Vossil." He toddled off, gathering the quarren beneath his steely leer; them falling into ranks like fall leaves to the earth - the smokey darkness of his gaze a catalyst which commanded both respect and fear. "Feralt shalt not make assumptions to speak on behalf of thine force; take thine time, for Feralt art a living weapon - not thine leash."

"Brethren, take hold upon thyself; revolution is amongst us like a divine wind!" he barked, thrusting, with both hands bound together, his blade into said air. "Care to throw thyself against the stone bastions of oppression - [member="Vossill"], if thou would be so kind to lend Feralt the blue fellow," he said, motioning to the quarren from earlier, "Feralt would deeply appreciate to take him and a handful of thine men to scout the area; to map out the terrain and open an opportunity to flank thine opponents."

The quarren moved to object: "S-Sir, may I be so bold-" He was silenced, however, by Tarr dropping his blade, dull as it were, yet embedding itself into the earth beneath its weight. Feralt interrupted, "Best thy men move quickly through this undergrowth; as afternoon rolls around, thine opponents will become more alert in the sun - as all men of daylight time art."

 

[Vossill]

[member="Feralt Tarr"]

Vossill paused, stroking his tentacles in thought. Yes, he could trust Feralt not to intentionally harm his men, even though he viewed them so low. Feralt wouldn't unintentionally hurt his troops either; there was something about him, odd as he may appear, that displayed an image of calculated precision.

"Very well, then. We will form two groups. Feralt, you will take what troops you desire and scout the territory. I with the rest will accompany the Croke back to our ship to retrieve the heavy equipment and wait for your report. Move with speed, friend." Vossill turned back to the Croke and gave an inquisitive look to see if it had understood and agreed to the plan. It gave a small, slight nod, as slight as such a miniscule creature could allow. Without any words, it scampered across the undergrowth back the way they had came.

"I suppose that's our cue. Feralt, use your comms when you have finished scouting and are ready to commence the attack. We will be ready."

 

[Feralt Tarr]

"With thine blessing," he bowed, "Thou will shalt be done." He rose, great cleaver shouldered, cast against the mid-morning sun; the breeze, raising steadily across the distance, casting tidal waves of grass to bend beneath it, clashed against him. Ragged tatters of torn cloth clutched at his breast and spat out, like wings kindred to the devil; his vast shadow, looming dark across the land, like a wraith from hell, whose writhing form rose steadily from the void; and his mask, through which he exhaled raspy, echoing breathes, stared unending in iron visage. "Lygash," he called first, the blue quarren from before, "Olu'karp, Cloriss, and . . . Polypas." All those who he called stood at attention, though visibly sweated nervously; Feralt was calm and calculated, moving with precise success, but in doing so, he had become notorious to testing the limits of his men's mental and physical boundaries. Though, all the more, it was likely to better them.

"Lygash," he said again; "Thou art responsible for the rear. Use height to thine advantage; bear the flag of thine kin. Let none close in upon us. Olu'karp and Cloriss shall take up thine flanks, Olu'karp to the left and Cloriss to the right; thou shalt move through the undergrowth, to establish thine perimeter and to halt any unwarranted advantages. Polypas shalt be thine primary offensive force and shalt dispatch hitherto wherein we encounter resistance, and support thine brethren. Feralt shalt take heed to muster the eyes of thine group herein; Feralt shalt perform as forward scout, with superior speed n' agility. Feralt shalt use hand signals n' whistles to provide intel to thou, so keep thine ears n' eyes open. Once thou hath established a wide perimeter o' exactly the dimensions further provided once departed, we shalt commune with Brother Vossill's main force. Any questions?"

They knew better than to ask.

"Good, let Feralt n' company depart then. We shalt perform as Forward Squadron. [member="Vossill"], thou shalt hear from Feralt soon.

 

[Vossill]

[member="Feralt Tarr"]

Vossill had never quite seen a creature like a Croke before. It shot along the soft ground with deftness astounding. He and a fellow soldier exchanged fascinated looks as they struggled to keep its pace back to their ship.

"I don't like these things, Vossill. They're masters of deception, right? How can we trust him? It could be a trap," the soldier, one of three humans among their number, whispered to Vossill, obviously hoping to not be heard by the Croke. They had just come upon the clearing in which the battered ship was resting.

"What would he have to gain by drawing in a small offworlder force just to kill them? The Crokes keep to themselves as much as possible. To hear a request from them is a rare event, and quite an honor at that. I suppose we will hear his full story shortly."

The man nodded as they strode onto the clearing. "Sgraa, we are here for the explosives," Vossill called to one of the quarren he had left to guard the ship. "And we have our gracious host," Vossill stated, gesturing to the Croke who was inspecting the shuttle.

 

[Feralt Tarr]

Feralt, with Forward Squadron in tow, departed into the underbrush, trailing along the assumed breadth of the village, lost beneath bleak, cool canopies of looming, alien trees. As promised, Tarr took the lead, great blade hoisted up as ever, and vanished from sight, leaving his men to follow the signals he left behind: often in the form of brief appearances, complete with hand signals, or foreign bird calls; he left little trail to his appearance within the vegetation. Beyond this, the men's feet oft-sunk into the muddy soil - squelching with disgusting consistency beneath their grotesque, synthleather-clad feet; Polypass, the center guard, provided the prime landmark to their formation, his green head shimmering sickly amongst cloranthy surroundings, in his arms slung a great, heavy repeating rifle - one of elder tech, rustic, a DLT-90, much like the greater portion of their supplies, it was falling apart.

To the left slunk Lygash, blue head dipping beneath the layers of leaves which revered him; enshrouding him beneath a veil of silky flora which, effectively, concealed him. His yellow eyes bit through the darkness, inspiring an almost carnal sensation upon witnessing the visage - likened to fear, perhaps. At least of its ilk; perhaps terror. He and Olu'karp, who held the right flank, both were ill-equipped - they had signed on for the effort with their own arms: a degree of pathetic, low-power pistols that dipped and sputtered with failing energy. Both, however, remained cool and collected; this was no game to them, a fact which Feralt deeply appreciated, and just by watching them march through the bushes, as if their life depended on it, gave him a warm feeling of recognition: he had picked the right men for the job. He returned to the front. He was quick, abnormally so - unbeknownst to [member="Vossill"], this strange man had long since been adapt in augmenting his agility with the Force.

With hands bound, he scaled the trunk of a great tree, leaping up along the bark, propelled by pistoning feet - he reached the lowest branch with ease, careful to cancel out his momentum with a swing of the hefty sword; he was left perfectly balanced upon his perch, a great, blue tree, almost like pine, save for the savory smells which emanated, and the particularly thorn-esque composition of its needles. Nonetheless, he remained concealed in perfect safety, locked beneath the sharp brambles above and below; from here, he sensed his troop advance. He also noted the village; rather, a colony: it was freshly established, one of many within this sector of Crakull - with great steel sheds and milling men, some armed, some dressed as if they were peasants; all working, building up an incredible stench. He could not see them, no, but he sensed them - he picked out their sounds from above, and became all the more aware of them; yet, he was still too far.

He whistled; his troops picking up on the signal. They glanced up, jaws dropped, to find their blind, bound sergeant squatting along the branch of a great tree; perhaps hundreds of meters in height. Feralt held a hand, index and thumb pressed together, the others curled like a claw - a universal symbol for "O.K." but, to them, meant something far more different; the circle a code for the group movement - the three, one for each of them, save for Lygash; he had taken a liking to the blue-skinned fool, and desired to give him special treatment for his ambitious tongue. He broke the circle - they were to depart; the pinky first, he showed - marking the position just a few klicks from here - Olu'karp was to observe the colony from the north; the ring finger next, Cloriss was to head east; the middle finger, most delicately, to flip the bird to them all: this was meant for Polypass, the latecomer: he would head south and set up observations there. He (Feralt) offered a delicate chuckle to his own immaturity then waved them away, offering a point towards Lygash, who shivered slightly; whatever Feralt's suggestion, he doubted it would bode well for him.

Once the others had left, he was gifted by an amazing sight; of Feralt descending the tree to the forest floor, feet slamming upon the earth - a blast of Force, to cancel out the impact, sending up a cloud of twigs and dead grass. "Lygash," he commanded, "Thou shalt depart with Feralt."

"Where are we going, sir?"

"Where else, but of course, thine opponent's base of operation? Feralt wishes to go within hitherto."

 

[Vossill]

[member="Feralt Tarr"]

"When we asked for assistance, I had no idea this is what we would receive," the Croke said, emitting some kind of noise Vossill could only guess was laughter. His men watched the small arthropod-like creature suddenly morph into a quarren, almost identical to Vossill. The speed at which the Croke cast its illusion was staggering. Whether it morphed to make the troops feel more comfortable or to impress them with its skill was uncertain. These creatures were nothing to mess with. It would be their downfall to underestimate them. Masters of deception, indeed.

"We will be all that is necessary to bring down the oppressors," Vossill responded, being sure to stay patient. Not all species were as noble as the quarren, the elders had told him. "Though we may not have the best equipment, we have the best spirit and the best determination. You would not be able to find that elsewhere in the galaxy to help your cause."

The quarren that the Croke had changed into gave Vossill an inquisitive look, then shrugged. "Perhaps you are right. But what is done is done. I am certain you would like to know some inside information, no? Then listen up." The Toar Shul detachment gathered around the eccentric creature as it outlined the village and its inhabitants. There were a surprising amount of offworlders living on Crakull, it disclosed; they, along with labor for construction, brought weapons with them, mainly blaster rifles. The village was about a half mile in length and was situated around one particularly tall structure. That building housed the generator for all power and the village's government, which as the Croke explained was connected to the larger government that ruled this sector. By striking the command building, Toar Shul would strike a deadly blow to this area.

However, the act would most likely draw attention from a larger force nearby. Then the fun would begin.

 

[Feralt Tarr]

[member="Vossill"]

The village perimeter was of surprising durability; vast, twelve-meter barricades rose up like stalwart bastions, interwoven into complex structures - oft-dedicated to communications, derived from the gargantuan satellite arrays which sprouted from their peaks like flower petals. Lights spanned the walls, lethargically patrolled by the occasional soldier - dressed in gray slacks and basic supplies; often with a small, tight-fitting cap and rifle, not necessarily exotic nor unfamiliar, but of fair quality; black metal shining in the distant sun's incandescence, energy cells outfitted to lethal blasts - their seemingly-innfeficient pattern erected concerns of inability . . . but Feralt felt otherwise. The entirety of the colony elicited simplicity, yet weaved together into a complex, almost singular, structure; it all built upon itself, each building, behind the other, as it led into the center, higher than before; a strategic architecture, built around that single, titanic spire - it was built to, easily, withstand attack. Even if they were pushed farther back from the walls, they would still hold the advantage of higher ground - and as Lygash relayed the description to him, Feralt's ears perked peculiarly.

Even though the colony held a diameter of half a mile, it emphasized production; the great tower, which found itself at the center, peaked with energy; from their it held command, over viewing the entirety of the fortified hamlet and serving as the center of power. Without artillery, an enemy force would have to penetrate the outer defenses, which were compact - with the enemy holding continuous high ground, the advancing force would become pinned down on the ground, and would be stifled until reinforcements arrive, effectively flanking them and crushing them between the two forces. Even then, they would be limited; an attack from the air would be ineffective; though they seemed to lack any aircraft of their own, anti-aircraft artillery guns lined the internal structures, supported along key points of power - fuel cells and ilk. To cripple the structure would be a suicide run - nothing a small, independent group, such as they, would gladly undertake . . . this was already becoming far more complex than he anticipated.

A direct assault was out of the question - their key points were well protected and they purposefully illicit an appearance of being unprepared; were they perhaps provoking an attack? No, they wouldn't have known about the Toar Shul . . . perhaps the Crokes knew? Crokes have made mercenary alliances before to defend Crakull; that wouldn't be too great of a stretch to assume that they might return to their previously established methods of defense. Just what were they doing here anyway? No matter, weaknesses had to be established in their position before the assault could begin; aerial attacks were out of the question - so were direct assaults . . . even if they could cut through, they would lose too many men, and it was too great a risk: they might not even succeed. The quarren were exotic here, in the Unknown Regions; in such great number, they couldn't bypass the security or sneak in effectively. Just what could they do?

 

[Vossill]

[member="Feralt Tarr"]

The Croke provided a data chip; how he had carried that without any of the quarren noticing was startling, but Vossill was beginning to catch on to the Croke's innate ability for deception and illusion. "I, as I have a considerable position within the government - and so wish to see it crumble for its uselessness - have access to many things that you do not; this digital readout of our village, for example," the Croke stated slowly, twisting its quarren face into a grotesque smile. He wasted no time in inserting the chip into a cheap R2 unit on board, which projected a blue-tinted 3d view of their target.

Vossill, upon seeing the fortifications of such a village, instinctively took a step back. Sighs were shared around the group. Some "village" indeed. This, rather, was more of a city, or a fortress; though it may not have been military in nature, it certainly wasn't a village in the quarren sense.


Use your strengths without hesitation; but cover your weaknesses well. Yes, a plan started to form in Vossill's head now. His unit's strength was combat and sabotage, but a full-scale attack would end in complete failure. They would need fully-armored and functional tanks for that. However, as this Croke had shown, stealth and subtlety would be key for this operation, at least in the beginning.

"Croke, I am starting to think we will need you more than previously thought. Our main problem is getting inside the city and setting up, but if you could somehow let us in, under some sort of disguise, then we can fulfill our task as requested by yourself and your partners." Vossill never did like asking for help in his endeavors, but they were on Crakull, not Mon Cala. This was unfamiliar ground, and they would need every advantage possible.

 

[Feralt Tarr]

"Lygash," said Feralt.

"What?"

"Provide proper report, following standard procedures, to [member="Vossill"] immediately; I shalt make the first attempt to penetrate thine opponents defenses and scatter the villain's forces to the wind!"

'WHAT?"

But it was too late; Feralt had already dashed away beneath the cover of shadow once more - leaping into darkness, as was his ilk, leaving Lygash both frustrated and at a loss for words. He held up his holocommunicator, attached to a binding bracer from his wrist, and opted to request a communications channel directly with his commander: a steady, soft beep and ring humming as a blue hologram, prepping connections, fluttered into being a few centimeters above.

"Come on, Vossill; pick up!"

Meanwhile, from the wall, a single guard, stationed upon his patrol, spotted the shimmering light in the distance. "H-Huh?" he stuttered, stepping closer to the railing - he intended to get a better look at what appeared upon the distant shadow of the surrounding woods. His rifle was raised steadily, not out of any particular capability of distinctly recognizing a threat - rather, out of trained instinct . . . they were not the amateurs they appeared to be. Regardless, he was ill-prepared for the next step of the plan: Feralt lunged himself up along the length of the wall - it was with little difficult, himself an adept climber and, with the support of outgrowths of fungal stalks and carpet moss, cropping along the wall, it took mere bursts of speed and jumps to propel himself to his target. His eyes flashed to the intruder, and were given only a brief glimpse of recognition before the momentum of the blade caught up with him. There was only the briefest uncomfortable sensation, almost like a dull crack - the rapping of your brow against splintered wood, a brief shock, numbed, before the pain set in . . . then nothing: it was all over for him.

A thrust, as Feralt had so desperately wished to practice, pierced through his lower jaw and through the back of his head - Feralt allowed the momentum to continue carrying him upward, as the dull blade split the man's skull, spraying deep particles of blood out, splashing the floor and desecrating the wall; as he remained airborne, and his flight slowed, he tackled the standing corpse, eyes popping from their sockets beneath the pressure of the impalement, and fell onto a nearby roof with a subtle clang. Within it, a few men, enjoying their deathsticks, glanced up warily to the ceiling. Feralt ransacked the man's body, capturing a few thermal detonators from his satchels and belt before hurling himself from the perch, leaving the gored body to rot, temporarily out of sight. Meanwhile, Lygash stared, comm channel still ringing, slack-jawed, towards the spectacle he just witnessed; "May the great oceans protect us," he prayed, crossing his free hand over his breast: "That man is insane."

 

[Vossill]

[member="Feralt Tarr"]

Vossill was distracted from the soon-to-be dispatching of his forces to meet with his scouts by his commlink buzzing solemnly on his wristpad. Furrowing his brow, the quarren typed in the accept transmission command and a blurry hologram of what looked to by Lygash appeared. The damned technology they had been given was purely atrocious.

Finally, the communications link established itself and the image and audio synced. It was indeed Lygash, who looked very panicked, glancing around as he spoke in hushed whispers. "Vossill, thank the oceans this got through. I have to tell you something urgent. Commander Feralt - he . . . I think he is mentally unstable. He's endangered the mission!" Lygash seemed to look around as he said this, obviously trying to see if Feralt was close enough in vicinity to hear his critique.

Vossill stifled a chuckle at Lygash's first remark, but upon hearing that the mission might be threatened, he gave his full attention. "Lygash, what do you mean? What did Commander Feralt do? I find it hard to believe he would risk the mission itself. Surely there is more you can tell me?"

The hologram fluttered and the audio cut out for a few seconds, but it soon returned. "- and killed the guard, almost recklessly. I don't know if any other guards noticed. Please, try to -" The hologram sputtered out, and try as he may, Vossill could not reestablish connection.

Vossill tried his best to remain tranquil. He would have to act quickly. A leader must show no fear or uncertainty, the elders had told him. Act with confidence.

"Listen up, mighty lions of Toar Shul! We march now to meet our scouting party, who has been involved in some sort of problem. Battle may very well be soon upon us."