The Hellfire in Mossflower

Margorr Revnik gently brushed the fur of the hare he had skinned. The skin was still drying, so he hadn't had time to really work with it. What he had finished, though, was preserving one of the paws. They always said rabbits were lucky, why not hares as well? Margorr tucked the hare's paw into a pouch, then took a minute to dress himself. The stoat was very particular about who saw him without any of his furs on. Today he dressed himself in his ferret mask, selecting the correct paw gloves and tail to accompany it. Taking a minute to check himself out in his pocket mirror to make sure he looked credible, he set off to go find Cremsin.

The assassin wasn't particularly close to the warlord, but he wanted to make sure he knew that his services were available. It took a bit of wandering until he found the warlord. Margorr liked Cremsin a lot. Not only was he a capable leader, but his fur was a brilliant red. It looked so soft, so beautiful. Margorr would love to just touch it, even for a second. He'd love to own it too. He imagined himself, leader of his own group of assassins, with that gorgeous fur as his cloak.

Carefully, Margorr approached Cremsin, and knelt down on one knee a respectful distance away, but in the warlord's line of sight. bowed his head and waited to be addressed, not wanting to offend Cremsin by speaking first.

     Cremsin had always been one of those horde leaders who seemed to have eyes in the back of his head. There was practically nothing that went on within the horde that he was unaware of, despite its vast size. It was little surprise that he took notice of Hide's approach long before he came into view, and further notice of Claudius standing off to the side, undoubtedly giving the mink his usual glares that Cremsin secretly believed were only fitting of an infant who had just been sent off to bed early with no supper. Alas, Cremsin was in far too good a mood to be butting heads with Claudius this morning, so he just cast a single smug glance in the wildcat's direction, and twisted his lips upward in a way that only Claudius would know was mocking. 

     Cremsin secretly hated Claudius as much as Claudius hated him, but Cremsin held a sense of superiority over the cat--being of higher rank than him, after all. Cremsin was always alert of Claudius's ambitions to try and overthrow him, and despite the danger of it, Cremsin believed he had found a way to use that ambition to his own advantage; whether Claudius was aware of it or not. Let Claudius entertain himself being a captain, Cremsin thought, believing he'll eventually gain more respect out of the horde than I. Cremsin believed he had Claudius wrapped around his claw at that point--let the cat exhaust himself trying to seem like 'the better leader' when he was only saving Cremsin a boatload of effort and stress at the end of the day. It was like having a puppet who didn't even know who they were a puppet--how grand.

     One of the main reasons he had stopped the horde to rest for the day was not simply just to restock provisions and kick back mountain-worn feet. No, today was also a day for planning his next move on the grand chessboard of conquering, and even as he ate the fish his mind was hard at work. Plans were forming in his mind....particularly about how to deal with a certain oversized mutt and how to quickly find out more information about this 'red castle' some Mossflower rats had told him about. But, the mink scolded himself mentally, he must take it one thing at a time if he wishes for all his plans to be foolproof. Especially with creatures like Claudius around.

     The sly smile was now pointed in Margorr's direction. Putting aside the bones of a fish, the mink folded his paws and leaned forward. When he was in a good mood, his voice was eerily sweet and warm--comparable to an innocent kindle of fire. After all, Cremsin related himself to the terrible element of fire in practically every way but physical. He was perhaps the only warlord to ever utilize fire as a weapon--and efficiently. Yet another reason on why vermin flocked to him, for his amazing abilities at wielding such a dangerous weapon.

     "Ah, Margorr, one of my most favored assassins. Do not think I cannot recognize thou beneath that disguise, I knoweth thee too well. How art thy skins dryin', hmm? Good, I shalt presume? 'Tis always fascinated me about what thou art capable of creating from a kill. What doth thou desire from Cremsin Fireslayer, Hellfire of the North?" As Cremsin spoke, he idly fixed back on his metal claws--those terrible weapons that increased the fear in his reputation. He fit them on while he kept his eyes transfixed on the vermin before him, and not once did he gut his paws on those saw-tooth edges of his terrifying weapons. Like Claudius, Cremsin was aware there was ambition somewhere within the assassin stoat, he could feel it. Yet, this soldier was a lot more easier to deal with then Claudius.

Bruke Limpear strode merrily through the camp, her half-tail twitching behind her. Ever since she had received the injury during her days as a slaver, the cold northern air had often sent a dull pain shooting up her spine. In the familiar warmer climate of Mossflower however, the chronic pain had finally subsided, at least for the moment, and she felt too energized to stand still.

Spotting a nearby group of soldiers lying about near the edge of camp, she marched over, annoyed at their idleness. The half-asleep hordebeasts paid no mind to her at first, but at the sudden crack of a whip they bolted upright in terror.

"If you lot have nothing better to do, how's about you get about scouting out the surrounding woods and getting the lay of the land? Unless you'd like to get better acquainted with this'un..." At this, she ran a claw along the uncoiled whip she now brandished at them. She raised her paw again as if to strike them, sending the motley group scattering into the nearby woods.

Bruke considered herself a beast of simple wants, but she couldn't deny how much she enjoyed the thrill of power she got whenever she bossed others around. Her tendency to boast may have gotten her in trouble in her home village, but now that she had just enough fighting skills to back it up, she had quickly risen up through the ranks. At any rate, she was grateful that she could delegate the scouting to other beasts, as her sense of direction was awful beyond reason. Even in familiar woods as these, she would certainly get lost beyond hope of recovery.

Deciding that her latest act of delegation would suffice for the immediate time being, she decided to report back to the Warlord. Their new surroundings were making her twitchy and restless, and she was eager to inquire about what their next move would be. She had been vaguely aware of a "red abbey" in this region since she was a child, but until recently she had always assumed it was a myth. Now that these rumors were spreading throughout the horde, she was somewhat less skeptical, and curious as to whether this abbey would be the horde's next destination. Approaching the lean-to, she spotted an exchange between Cremsin and a ferret she didn't recognize, as well as the very familiar Wildcat general observing from nearby.

The wildcat's eyes locked with the mink's, and the General returned the Warlord's leer with a tilt of the head and a patronising smile laced with jagged teeth, unconsciously tightening his buff-coloured paws around the leather hilt of his broadsword. He watched as the stoat-turn-ferret knelt down and presented Cremsin with what was obviously some sort of gift, though Margorr's back was blocking his view. How sweet. (The Wildcat could not help privately hoping that whatever it was was for consumption and poisonous).
His eyes wandered elsewhere for a moment when he heard the crack of a whip and saw one his fellow captains terrorizing a group of soldiers. The corners of his mouth turned up in a malicious grin; he had always liked how Bruke handled things. A good deal more blunt than his methods maybe, but effective and fun to watch nonetheless.
He was about to stride over and join her when he heard the approach of another Horde captain, the fox Rifion. Not tearing his gaze away from Cremsin, he spoke to her in a low drawl, skipping the greetings. "If you want to speak to our warlord you might have to wait a bit; he appears to be indulged in his daily paw-licking session."

As Bruke observed Claudius speaking with Rifion from a distance, a sudden impact to the back of her head sent her staggering forward and falling face first into the dirt. Snorting angrily and scrambling back upright, the weasel turned around with a glare, intending to club into silence anybeast who might think to laugh. The few soldiers in the immediate vicinity who had noticed the incident quickly diverted their gazes, fearful of her fury. Even if the sheer size of the army prevented her from directly terrorizing every soldier, her rare acts of brutality, as well as the rampant rumor-mongering efforts of her most loyal subordinate, ensured that most of the ordinary rabble feared her reputation, or would learn to quickly enough.

Her eyes fell upon the tail-ring on the ground, which she quickly snatched up. Shifting to a more neutral expression, and ignoring the throbbing pain in her head, she then scanned the throngs of milling hordebeasts for the perpetrator. Moments later, her suspicious gaze singled out a skinny stoat just at the borders of the center of camp. Making a conscious effort to not reach for her weapon or otherwise appear visibly hostile, she casually strode over in the direction of the stoat.