There was always a compulsion to move in the midst of a battle. Something about the very nature of combat seemed to demand that a person constantly be moving, whether that was the simple shifting of footing, or whether it was the delicate parry and counters of swordplay, or perhaps even those instances when the morale of an opposing force had been shattered completely and they fled into the woods in hopes of merely saving their lives instead of holding out for any hope whatsoever of victory or honorable endings. Regardless of the assorted movements, there was always that nagging sensation that seemed to speak to each and every soldier which told them that if they simply stood, then they would die.
Perhaps that was partially the reason that one of the youngest of the group of remaining survivors still clutched at a dagger with apparent fear. It could well be that the mere presence of both the undead and the terrifying visage of the Prince of Eternal Mercies had effectively burned out that portion of his brain which demanded that he heed their demands, or perhaps the intense terror of the scenario had managed to inflict him with some form of shock which had restrained his hand from releasing like a fear-inspired rigor mortis taking control of his body.
There were four of them now, considered the hybrid as he began to encircle them, a hungering vulture gazing upon meat that was already as good as dead should they refuse to comply with his demands. It was good that a majority of those around had complied, because it meant that he might not need to slay them, and could potentially instead simply induct them into his ranks as he had many mercenaries in the past. In the end, these were simply men and women who felt confident in their combat abilities, and who were attempting to earn enough coin to support whatever hedonistic lifestyles pertained to them, and the fact that they might be fighting against the law as opposed to for it typically didn’t enter into their minds as often as a more morally upright and less violent citizen.
One of those in the group spoke, advising that the boy allow the blade to fall to the ground as the others had done, and the twilight hybrid examined him in particular with several trills with predatory analysis. He had seen that one during the battle, had observed as he had stricken down one of Divinya’s thralls with relative ease. That was impressive given that none of his companions had managed to inflict any genuine casualties upon their number, and whilst it was true that another had wounded one of his own, it seemed likely that that particular injury would recover whereas the ones inflicted upon the thrall would certainly never be reversed.
With a slow step, the twilight hybrid approached the boy who dare still brandish his knife, staring into his eyes from only about a foot away, as if daring him to action. He shook with the tremors indicative of intense stress and terror, and for an instant it looked as though he might swing with the blade, attempting to drive it between the visor of Noth’s armet. Rather anti-climactically, he simply stood, his hand clenched tightly around the blade as he continued to stare with anxiety at the monstrous being before him.
“Very well.” He growled, and suddenly he was active, his hand launching forward and wrapping around that of the boy, pressing inwards until it seemed quite possible that one or more of his fingers were broken by the pressure. There was a shriek of pain which was cut short as the hand and it’s bladed companion were driven upwards, lodging themselves into the throat of their owner who began to choke and gurgle almost immediately, still shaking, albeit now with the throes of death. The Avriel let him fall to the ground like a piece of trash, not even bothering to remove the knife from his gullet as he strode away to review the remainder.
“Your obedience and desire to live is noteworthy. Many others have made far poorer decisions in scenarios such as these, and so your choice to simply surrender is commendable.” A wicked smile curled underneath the armet, reaching his eyes which still blazed with a crimson fire. “Beyond that, some of you have displayed talent in your combative abilities.” He spoke, pausing directly in front of Ryder, glaring at him with what might have been some semblance of respect for how he had done given the gauntlet he had faced, and then he continued on his rounds, encircling the trio.
“I am the Prince of Eternal Mercies. It is quite possible that you have heard of me, and, if so, you are likely aware of what I am capable of. That said, I treat my own fairly, and they are paid well for their services.” He raised a hand, dismissing a vast majority of the circle to begin scouring the bodies of the dead. “You are mercenaries, aren’t you?” He chuckled mirthlessly to himself. “Come, put your talents to use in my service. Fight with these others who are like you, who have seen for themselves what goods I bring. Join me, and you may have your choice of the armors and armaments scattered here, and a share of the golden coins which we take.”
“Of course, the alternative is rather… messy.” He glanced towards the still body of the young man, and then towards the remaining thrall, directing a gauntleted finger towards the corpse. The undead abomination shambled forward obediently, listening to the orders it was given by the hidden necromancer in the woods, and promptly began to tear into and consume the flesh of the corpse, hungrily tearing away at it.
“Your answer?”
