A Simple Contribution

The others had been very busy in the last weeks. Danswitch seemed to live off spirits and paperwork, often falling asleep in a chair with books in his lap, soaked in red wine. Thoraine was spending time in meditation, seeming to draw plans in his mind. He visited the old dead tree quite frequently as well. Gren had been back and forth from Restov more than the others. He seemed to be spreading word of some great new paradise to those lost sheep of the flock. He could have a very honeyed tongue when he spoke with conviction it seemed. Horrace spent most of his time watching them, whether or not they knew they were being watched. Busy little bees.

He spat into the water.

He looked out over the treacherous running waters from atop the roof of the ransacked shack that had once been Nettle's Crossing. He had set up a sleeping roll and fire pit, making himself a little home away from home. He felt better out here in the wild during these times. Sometimes the fear of Nettle, fueled by terrible revenge, still echoed in his dreams.

There was plenty to be said for ambition and tenacity in plan making, but this was not what Horrace had signed up for. These lads were living lives of bricks and maps. Numbers and ideology. They sticking flags into their little patch of safety carved out of these dangerous lands. What troubled him was the fact that they didn't seem to be regarding the massive expanse of deadly wilderness that still surrounded them, like wolves moving in on weak prey. There was still much to be done before all this intrepid bricklaying.

Even over the rushing of white water, and the humming ambiance of the forest around, Horrace heard the footsteps. If nothing else, his lifestyle had made him very keen in senses. Instinctively he crouched and flattened himself to the rooftop, becoming nearly invisible. Looking out along the riverbank he made out the human approaching. He seemed lost, and traveled encumbered by the large bundle on his back. Furs, tubes, and sacks. He recognized them. Those were Olag's wares. The glisten of a silver pin made Horrace's one eye twinkle.

The fire that usually kept him going had been nothing but embers these last weeks, but all at once they seemed to be breathed into a roaring pyre.

An arrow took the man through the knee. A good shot for 80 paces, and on his belly.

The bandit screamed and fell to the river bank, buried under the weight of his stolen goods. He looked around in a panic attempting to identify his pursuer. Nothing.

With all his strength he struggled to pull himself free. A boot landing on his hand, crushing his finger bones brought that to an end. He looked up in horror to see the twisted figure of Horrace glaring down at him. His gaze with thick with judgment and accusation.

"I'm sorry! Oh Gods, I'm so sorry! I..I swear I'll give it back! I renounce the Stag Lord! He has fallen!" He pleaded as tears formed in his eyes. "Please, have mercy! I beg for justice!"

Kysziem had his way with words. His cunning tricks. His logic and planning.

Thorain had his wealths of knowledge. His powers over the Arcane.

Gren held the light of the God Iomide in his hands. He had his bravery, and his passion.

They were just what a thriving kingdom needed. Great leaders all, in their own sense. Heroes to be spoken of for ages. But there was one thing Horrace believed his allies lacked. The one simple contribution he could add, when it was needed most.

His axe fell with all the weight of decisive conviction, and punishment. It landed clean as the bright green landscape, begging to be molded. And the red banner of justice spilled out across the riverbank, speaking worlds of consequence for those who fought against progress.