Anxiety, the feeling of that dark knot that formed in the pit of one’s stomach, turned his entrails to ice. The arrow whistled by him, the hairs pricking on the back of his neck, and his eyes reeled toward the source to scan for his adversary. He thought he glimpsed movement at a distance, or perhaps it was the desert heat that whispered tricks into his head, and so he could not say for sure who had loosed an arrow at him.

He sprinted and slid into cover, pressing his body against the red Mojave rock. His heart was throbbing now, but his muscles remembered what had to be done in order to brave the fray. “Please?” he called out to the unknown assailant, decisively weakening the whole of Caesar’s legion with a simple phrase. But he was ranked well enough on his own, appointed by his masters, that he figured he could get away with a few kindnesses every so often.

“I am alone,” he said, hoping that if they were truly hostile they would not believe him, or if they had a modicum of mercy they would hear him out. “Do not be scared, okay,” he was shouting, his voice feeling a bit tight, words grabbing at his throat. He had a gladius in his hand, and raised himself to a crouch—if the assailant came to nick his throat, then they would face great adversity with only strength the Bull could grant. His hand squeezed the hilt of the blade, sweat dripping from his forehead in the desert heat.

“I am called Octavius,” he called to the stranger, the apparent profligate. Was it worth it, to try to make friends with a savage? His lords would have him believe otherwise, his mother warning him of such trespasses against Caesar when he was a youth . . . but something set the blaze of his curiosity.

Kaw had spent the better part of a week keeping a watchful eye on the Legion encampment, monitoring their pitiful existence and biding her time until she had the opportune moment to strike. She kept her distance, but through her careful observations was able to decipher the highest ranking members present – those would be who she’d execute first. Surely, the mighty Legion was nothing if they were not able to grovel at their leaders’ feet.


From her hideaway, she watched the young Decanus Octavius leave his group, foolishly wandering alone into the wasteland. She moved to follow him then, taking cover whenever possible, tailing him silently and with impeccable stealth. As she grew nearer, Kaw reached for the sharpened machete at her side, its blade glistening under the desert sun.


Before she could strike, a single arrow hit the ground near his feet, and Kaw looked to one of the steep rises in a distance. There, another woman stood, her sights trained on Octavius. Did she too have some vendetta against the Legion? Kaw watched the scene before her unfold as the Decanus ran for cover behind one of the large Mojave rocks, but it quickly became apparent to her that this other woman had no intention to kill him – at least not now. She let another arrow fly, and this one too missed him. It was intentional.


Kaw swore under her breath – she had no time for these games, and now that Octavius was separated from his fellow legionaries, she would kill him. That would send a message to the rest – and Caesar – that she was coming for them.

Gripping the machete, Kaw flung herself at the already-compromised Octavius, her eyes ablaze in her anger. She had no armor, just the hide clothes on her back and her dark hair whipping wildly in the wind, and she swung the blade for his throat. If this other woman was going to pussyfoot around killing him, she’d finish the job.

Out of nowhere another chick appeared and lunged right for the Legion man's neck! He seemed able to fend her off, but Mary wasn't about to let a fellow female get beaten down by some Legion thug, even if she was kill-stealing. Just the sight of his hands grasping for her was enough to enrage the veteran Khan, and she quickly abandoned her previous tactics.

While he was distracted by the tribal, Mary darted around behind him, keeping out of his view, gripped her axe and swung for the back of his head!

[OOC] Due to player affiliations, after my post control of the NPCs will be awarded to Shepherd , within reason. Please be advised that abuse of NPCs will result in things. Killing them is fine.

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QEx0mLlT1-3 legionary[ies] approached the scene, their presence summoned by the commotion. They brandish their weapons in order to assist their brother warrior, and call for an end to the fight or the women will be killed.1-3

Dammit! The tribal girl tripped and yanked the guy out of Mary's reach! "Clumsy fool!" she shouted, moving to attack again. He was already retreating, though, and the Khan knew her chance was lost.

And now some more Legionnaires were coming, attracted by the ruckus. Gritting her teeth, Mary brought her bow up again, set an arrow and drew it back, trying to reckon up how many she could shoot before the rest got in range.

...except the first one chose that moment to betray his brothers, slicing one's throat wide open and drawing the second into his range. That left the third to bear down on the girls, and suddenly Mary's odds were a lot better. She aimed for his throat...

((1-5 miss, 6-10 hits))
9TfUnYrj1-10
1-10

Violence went aflame in him, but had not cleansed the reality of his actions from his head. He had scorned the king he loved, and his tender mother—his brothers, lay dead in the sand. The final stake in his treacherous coffin was the way his adversary glared into him, beheld him with a look of hate and disgust. The young wolf had not kept his vows, did not uphold the standards—every gift that Caesar had bestowed upon him was squandered.

“I am sorry,” he whispered, choking on his words. He broke free of his brother’s grasp, and carved a rasher off his side, the blood spurting violently out of the wound. The legionary whimpered, grasping at his side pathetically, trying to patch the hole or keep the blood from seeping out into his burlap clothing.

“Profligate dog, whoreson,” the legionary cried, his voice tight and trembling, the wound too deep to heal. He would succumb if he was not put from his misery, but Octavius hesitated, looking down at his brother. He kicked away the weapon the legionary had been carrying, and tossed away his own, and came to kneel before him.

Octavius shook his head, “I—never—” what did he mean to say, even? Nothing would repair their relationship, and their time was very short. The legionary was leaning backward, resisting the relaxation that was pouring into him as his blood wept.

He stood up, and looked in the direction of the camp; it was downhill from here, off by a few miles. The wind had picked up some, and the sand carried the fog of war that had blinded Caesar’s prying eyes; time would only tell if a sneak had witnessed his treason against the crown.

The young wolf looked back toward the women, and reached between the strips of his pteruges, and produced a small hunting knife—it had been used only for food, but he would sully it with the blood of this man. With his dominant right hand, he sunk it into the neck of his dying brother, severing the spinal tissues with one puncture. “Vale,” he said, using the pseudo-Latin pronunciation he had been taught (a soft ‘w’ noise), made sweeter by his exotic accent.

[Due to the closeness of combat I decided not to roll! sorrry!]