Grimoires and Gunsmoke

If there was a word to describe Shaw, it was anxious. Even since he was a lad, he’d been plagued by a paranoia that bordered on illness. He saw shadows where others saw light and whispers where others heard silence. This constant state of vigilance made him a difficult man to know and an even harder man to befriend. His mind was always racing, always strategizing, always expecting the worst. It was both his curse and his salvation.

Shaw's upbringing did little to quell these instincts. Born into bondage, he learned early on that trust was a luxury he couldn't afford. Every friendly gesture was scrutinized, every helping hand inspected for hidden daggers. While isolated, this mindset honed his instincts to a razor's edge and imbued him with a rare resilience among his peers.

Even now, he could feel the whispers and jeering of his men. Even though every face was engrossed in their work to get this convoy moving, Shaw could see the mocking gazes. However, whenever he focused in on an individual, they’d always pretend they’d done nothing but work.

“LIAR!” Shaw barked at one young knight who had walked passed him with the reins of a war horse in one hand and those of a worg in another. “Ye think me a fool not to see Yer mutterings! Ye mock me just like that Wyvern whore!” He nearly screeched, approaching the young man with an aggressive and accusing finger pointed.

The young knight flinched away violently from the sudden verbal attack as spittle flew in his face. The horse, startled by the sudden commotion, neighed and dangerously spun around, its hooves threatening to kick. In a frantic effort to get the beast under control, the young knight scrambled, trying to calm the agitated animal while also defending himself against the barrage of accusations.

"I didn't say a word, Capt'n!" he protested with a voice laced with panic. "I'm just fetching the mount like I was told." Complete confusion clouded the young knight's face as he looked around, trying to gauge if others had witnessed the outburst and could offer some explanation for Shaw's sudden fury.

But there was no solace to be found in the faces of his comrades. The men and women of Shaw's command were well accustomed to his paranoia and accusations. They had learned to keep their heads down and continue their work, even when the knight captain laid into them.

A lesson this poor soul had yet to learn.

The incident with the young knight was a spark in a tinderbox. Shaw's anxieties, fueled by the humiliating encounter with Eira and the lingering sting of failure, now burned out of control. Every shadow seemed to contain a conspiracy, every glance held hidden contempt. His frantic walk towards Lord Harmswid's tent was marked by further incidents. Warriors, mages, and laborers alike scattered before him, startled by the wild look in his eyes and the incoherent accusations he flung about frivolously.

Lost in a mental storm, Shaw was oblivious to the fact he was delaying the departure of the convoy with each one of his episodes, and he couldn’t help but curse the incompetents Harmswid stuck him with. With the count now on his mind, the Knight Captain couldn’t help but tighten his grip in frustration. Harmswid was the one who had elevated him to a position of power.

The count had given him a chance when others had scorned his low birth as a son of a slave. He owed the nobleman everything. But in Shaw's twisted perception, Harmswid was not a savior but an architect of his misfortune.

"Harmswid!" The knight captain snarled, his gaze darting around the tent as if seeking out hidden enemies. "Ye deserved everything ye got!! Ye knew about those monsters, and ye sent me to my death!" he continued to have an internal meltdown as he came to a stop in front of the count's personal tent.

"She knew..." Shaw muttered, his voice a strangled whisper. "She knew this would happen… she knew they'd be there… that damned beast… That damned whore probably lead them here…!” Shaw clenched his jaw tightly as he started pacing back and forth in front of the count’s tent. “That… That BACKSTABBER knew it from the beginning and took advantage of the fact I have nothing but these PATHETIC and INCOMPETENT lemmings..." His hand clenched into a fist, fingernails biting into his thumb so hard that blood started to flow.

Hyperventilating, Shaw’s vision fixated on the flaps of the tent. He knew all manners of luxurious treasures he couldn’t even fathom were behind those two simple pieces of cloth… All the decadent joys he was denied access to just because of his low birth. The knight captain stepped forward and reached out to push them apart… All he had to do was step inside and take what was rightfully his… but a voice called out before his hand could reach the entrance.

“M-my lord?”

Shaw snapped around, and half drew his sword, ready to strike down anyone foolish enough to sneak up on him. However, his hand stayed as his eyes settled on a terrified, portly woman who seemed to be cowering, hoping that her head would remain attached to her shoulders. “ I-I apoplogize M-My Lord!! T-The convoy is r-ready to depart…!” She stuttered, flinching back and looking back at the knights standing a ways away for help. But instead of rushing to her aid, the men simply motioned encouragingly for her to continue. “T-They said we’re –”

“Be silent, woman!” Shaw shouted, causing the woman to recoil as if struck. Her eyes widened in terror, and for a long moment, Shaw simply glared at her before turning his furious gaze toward the knights standing in the distance. The silence hung heavy in the air, broken only by the muted sounds of the camp preparing for departure.

Sheathing his sword with an angry clang, the knight captain let out a frustrated breath. "Pathetic whelps..." he spat with a voice full of venom "Too afraid to fight their own battles...and they call me a coward."

He then turned his back on the woman, dismissing her as a mere annoyance. "Tell them to start, I have my own tasks!" He barked before pausing at the entrance to the tent. "I'll catch up with the rear if... they've managed to put some distance between themselves and me!" He said with a parting sneer just before he swept into Harmswid's tent.

Once inside the luxurious space, Shaw gaze took in a hellish scene. He had expected pure savagery with blood and gore all over the place, but he had to admit what he found scared him more. Everything was as pristine and perfect as when he was last in here except for the headless corpse of the count sitting at his magnifcent desk along with his dismembered bodyguards behind him. Whoever that damned Dark Elf had brought to attack the count didn’t even give them time to blink and cut them down with such clinical precision as speed, Shaw considered they didn’t even fully realize they were being attacked.

The interior of Lord Harmswid's tent was an assault on the senses. Accustomed to the austerity of campaign life, even Shaw found the lavishness bordering on obscene. Rich tapestries hung on the walls, depicting scenes of mythical hunts and fantastical beasts. A bed of cushions and exotic furs was piled in the center on top of plush carpets that would likely fetch a small fortune in any kingdom. A gilded brazier burned with sweet-smelling incense, masking the lingering scent of blood left by the recent attack.

But the centerpiece of this excessive display was Harmswid's desk. A monstrous thing crafted from dark ebony and inlaid with intricate silver designs, it was there that the count conducted his affairs. And it was there he met his end.

A labored breath left the knight captain's mouth as he meandered over to the pile of cushions and furs that he realized the count used as a bed and flopped lazily on it. The plush softness swallowed Shaw whole, a stark contrast to the straw-filled pallets and worn linens that were his usual sleeping accommodations. He closed his eyes, letting out another sigh that sounded content. His troubles seemed to recede in this decadent haven for just a moment.

"How long..." he mused aloud, his voice barely a whisper. How long had he endured the gnawing hunger, the harsh elements, the constant sting of disrespect? How long had his toil, sweat, and blood lined Harmswid's coffers and fueled the count's ambitions?

The answers were a leaden weight upon his soul. For over a decade, possibly multiple decades, he had been nothing but a tool, a beast of burden for a man consumed by greed and indifferent to the plight of anyone but his coffers. He had endured it all with stoic obedience, believing that loyalty and hard work would be their own reward.

But now, lying in a headless count's bed, surrounded by stolen riches, Shaw's perspective was shifting. A lifetime of servitude felt like a cruel joke, a mockery of the dreams he'd once held as a boy. The dreams of honor, of a life worth living... dreams Harmswid and his kind carelessly trampled underfoot.

The warmth of the furs seeped into Shaw's weary bones, a delicious lethargy settling over him. As he sank deeper into the cushions, he closed his eyes and made a silent vow: never again would he sweat and strain for another silver-spooned fop. He had played the loyal dog for long enough, and hid reward was always blood and nightmares.

But now… Now he had a dead man's riches.

Now he was done with servitude. He would complete this one final task, this errand for the 'Duchess', and then...then he would disappear. Vanish into the anonymity of the wider world and start anew.

His thoughts turned to the multitude of possibilities. Perhaps he could turn his hand to banditry. With his experience and a few like-minded men, he could strike at supply caravans, prey on those very merchants and nobles who had grown fat on the labor of the common folk. A dark smile played on his lips. There was a certain poetic justice to the idea.

Or maybe, with the gold he was about to liberate, he could assemble a mercenary company. He knew war, and there was always war to be fought somewhere for the right price. He was never one for righteousness or justice. He was more of a… convenience and practicality kind of man… and with enough coin, he might even earn a reputation and perhaps become someone to be reckoned with.

He glanced around the tent, spotting goblets and locked cabinets. There was more to be had here, a fortune that could well and truly set him on his path. But first… he’d like to take a quick rest. Just five minutes of blissful oblivion before he tackled the practical matters of his escape.

With a sigh that was half exhaustion and half contentment, Shaw closed his eyes. His chaotic

mind began to drift, and the cares of the day seemed to dissolve in the soft warmth… However, Sleep came for Shaw like a thief in the night. The soft embrace of the furs had been a trap. He had meant only to rest his eyes for a mere moment and gather his thoughts, but instead, he was plunged into a deep, dreamless slumber.

Shaw threw himself forward as he woke up with a start. He found himself disoriented as he peered around, trying to make sense of his surroundings, and flailed forward as if the plush piles of fur stung. How long had he slept? Had the camp already left?

Panic flared within the knight captain as he rose to his feet. “Curse it all!” A scream left the man’s mouth as he burst from the tent like a bat out of hell. With a thumping heart, Shaw’s head snapped from side to side, scanning the scene before him. And what he saw made his blood run cold.

The encampment was gone. The tents, the wagons, the milling soldiers and servants – all vanished. Only the churned-up earth and trampled grass remained as evidence of the recent whirlwind of activity.

A wave of despair threatened to overwhelm Shaw. Had he slept for Half an hour? An hour? Half a day? How could he have been so foolish, so carelessly indulgent? For a moment, he stood rooted to the spot, his mind a whirlwind of paranoid thoughts and fear, until a somewhat familiar voice spoke up.

“Capt’n?”

The voice cut through Shaw's despair like a knife. He whirled around, his hand going instinctively to the empty space where his sword should have been. For a heart-stopping moment, he feared it was some ambush, some cruel trick of fate.

But when his eyes focused, he saw the young knight, the one he'd berated so harshly earlier. The lad sat nervously atop a war worg, the creature was a strange blend of a wolf with a hyena-like head. Easily reaching the size of a beast of a horse, it wore a muscular build, and its fur was a mottled gray and brown while its long, thick tail trailed behind it, occasionally smacking the ground with a powerful swat.

Despite its fearsome appearance, the young knight seemed to handle the creature with ease. He sat confidently in the saddle, his hand rubbing the side of the warg's thick neck. The beast itself seemed more curious than anything else, its gaze fixed on Shaw with an intelligent glint in its red eyes.

Most importantly, the reins to another warg were nestled within the lad's other hand. Taking a cautious step forward, the young man extended his free hand, the reins of the spare warg dangling harmlessly. "S-sir..." he started, his voice strained with trepidation. "The Lieutenant thought you m-might need... a steed..." He swallowed hard, “And… well, the camp had traveled quite a ways by now…”

His words seemed to hang awkwardly in the air. Shaw glowered at him, his gaze shifting to the monstrosity at his side, then back again. The young knight braced himself instinctively, expecting another outburst.

However, Shaw remained silent, albeit for an uncomfortably long moment. The air filled with the unspoken tension of their last encounter as the knight captain glared at the young man. Inside, Shaw was warring with himself. "What's yer name, boy?" He spoke with a less accusatory and more resigned tone as he approached and took the reigns of the free worg.

The young knight blinked, startled out of his fearful hunch. While still gruff, Shaw's change in demeanor caught him off guard. He'd half-expected another paranoid tirade accusing him of insubordination or mockery. Instead, he was being addressed, if not with respect, at least with something resembling acknowledgment.

"Hugh, sir." He straightened slightly in the saddle, his voice gaining a touch more confidence. "Hugh of Arling,"

Shaw grunted, a hint of a skeptical smile playing about his lips. "Of Arling, eh? Sounds fancy." He paused as if considering something, then nodded. "Well, Hugh of Arling, you’ve done right by me. But you’re still a bushy-eyed and insufferable shit."

Hugh’s eye twitched at the insult. He opened his mouth to protest, to ask for some justification behind such a harsh label, but a wiser instinct held his tongue. Arguing with the knight captain, while slightly less volatile at the moment, was a surefire way to end up back on the receiving end of his temper.

Before Hugh could respond, Shaw had turned his attention back to the warg beside him. He ran a hand over its coarse fur, studying the creature with a critical eye.

"Never liked these damned beasts," he muttered, his frown deepening. "Sooner to bite yer head off than carry ye reliably."

With a sigh, Shaw moved around his mount and saw two saddlebags and a visibly empty wooden framed burlap sack attached snuggly to the creature's rear. A flash of realization crossed Shaw's face as a cunning glint entered his eyes. "Stay here, boy!" the knight captain barked as newfound energy filled his voice. "Keep the worg steady!"

Before Hugh could fully process the order, Shaw was already darting back into the tent with the empty saddlebags and framed burlap sack in hand. Hugh stared, open-mouthed, as a cacophony of sounds erupted from within. Items clattered against the ground, muffled curses echoed out, and a bout of manic laughter sent shivers down Hugh's spine.

For his life, Hugh couldn’t understand what the captain was doing in the name of all that was holy. This was the Count's tent… was he doing what he thought he was doing? Questions swirled in Hugh's mind, and his worry grew with each passing moment. If he was… then if Wyvern Commander Eira ever found out… Gods, he would be complicit just for standing here, and there would be no saving them from a fiery end if they weren’t fed outright to that beast.

Minutes stretched into eternity. Hugh shifted nervously in his saddle. The worg beneath him whined, sensing his anxiety, and the young knight ran a soothing hand over its coarse fur, trying to calm both the beast and himself.

Just when his nerves were about to fray completely, Shaw burst forth from the tent, his arms laden with the saddlebags and the burlap sack, now bulging at the seams with a mysterious load.

A manic smile crossed the knight captain's face. "Hugh!" Shaw shouted, his voice hoarse with excitement. "Help me remount this, will you? We need to make haste!"

Completely bewildered, Hugh couldn’t help but blink, "Sir, I... I don't understand... what..." He stammered.

"No time for questions, boy!" Shaw snapped, his impatience clear. He shoved the saddlebags into Hugh's hands. "Just do as you're told!”

Hugh held his tongue, swallowing back the torrent of questions swirling in his mind. The captain's erratic behavior, the manic glint in his eyes... there was no point in arguing. All he could do was follow orders, hold his tongue and hope word doesn’t make it to Commander Eira.

It didn’t take long for the two to secure the saddlebags nad make their out of the camp. Their beasts snorted and dug their claws into the ground, tearing down the eastern road at a breakneck pace. Each jarring step causes metallic clinks to echo through the air and

shimmers of light to leak out of the bulging bags. Riding close behind the captain, Hugh caught a glimpse of the source – golden goblets and other wares spilling out from a tear, their brilliance amplified by a faint, otherworldly glow.

There was no mistaking it; Shaw had robbed the long-expired count’s tent, an act of greed and treason that could bring the wrath of the realm down upon them. Especially when he saw the bulging framed burlap sack secured just behind Shaw. It shifted precariously, threatening to spill its contents at any moment. Within its depths, something protruded – a dark, ovoid shape, smooth and almost obsidian in its blackness. Hugh squinted, hoping and praying to every god in every pantheon that it was not what he thought it was, or else Eira would forsake the Empire to hunt them down.

The two rode hard as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky with streaks of gold and crimson. The worgs powerful strides ate up the miles until they soon saw the faint outlines of carriages, horses, and other war beasts, and relief washed over Shaw like a cool balm.

"Hail!" Shaw boomed, raising an arm in greeting as two grizzled riders approached from the rear of the convoy. Mounted on war horses, they cut a less terrifying figure than his worg, but their armor gleamed with hard-won practicality.

The guards stiffened upon seeing him, eyes widening in surprise. "Captain Shaw?" one of them exclaimed. "We thought you’d be at the head of the caravan!”

A mask of nonchalance settled over Shaw’s features. "I was… delayed.” He replied in a casual voice. "But all's well now."

"Well, sir, it's good to see you–" the other guard started, but Shaw cut him off with a raised hand.

"And while ye lot left me," he growled scornfully before gesturing towards Hugh, "Hugh of Arling showed spirit and loyalty by remaining with a spare mount." Shaw begrudgingly spoke approval of the young man.

His men remained silent and cringed under their knight captain's glare. After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Shaw threw himself off his mount and moved to unbuckle the luggage to the rear of his work. "Now…" he said, lifting up the framed sack gently and bringing it to the rearmost carriage, "what's the news? Any trouble on the road?"

Shaw carefully nestled the burlap sack between furs, extra weapons, and what appeared to be the cart driver's meager personal effects. There, hidden amongst the mundane, its sinister contents would hopefully remain undiscovered. Satisfied that his most dangerous cargo was secured, he returned to his worg, where the saddlebags bulged with their promise of stolen riches.

“A few highwaymen were foolish enough to think us a merchant caravan, Captain," one of the guards answered, his voice weary. "There were a few small bands of highwaymen, nothing the vanguard couldn't handle. Too bold for their own good."

"Morale?" Shaw pressed. This was the key, the weakness he could exploit.

"The lesser mages are spent," the other guard replied. "The lack of sleep is starting to get to people. And with the fate of the count…" he trailed off, his face clouding over with uncertainty.

Shaw nodded. The count's death had undoubtedly shaken them. Loyalty was a fickle thing and only reliable when reinforced by wealth and authority. Both were now in question. “Provide them with extra rations and wine–”

Just as he ordered, a deafening explosion kicked up earth and debris further ahead of Shaw. Even from a distance, the shockwave shook Shaw’s very bone. Dust filled the air, mingling with panicked shouts and the maddened cries of beasts.

His first instinct was to glance upwards, searching the twilight for the telltale silhouettes of wyverns. But the sky above remained clear. “Eira ain’t attackin’ us… Then who!?”. Shaw’s eyes darted across the caravan, trying to pinpoint the source of the attack.

More blasts erupted, tearing through the heart of the convoy, but this time, the explosions were followed by strange sounds… An unending series of echoing cracks and snaps in a staccato rhythm, like a thousand angry hornets beating their wings in unison.