Hunt by the seasons, my boy, and the ancestors will never lead your bow astray...

Those words echoed in Bard's mind to this very day, words he had learned at his father's side in the forests of Southpeak. To hear his father tell it, Bard's ancestors had been hunting in those lands since the days before the formation of the empire. Their traditions, their beliefs, their methods of hunting, this had been passed from parent to child, one generation to the next, for centuries. Nobility had their lofty claims of honor and grand glory. Peasants had humbler notions of status and right.

Bard breathed slowly, quietly observing the woods before him. Snow was falling in the predawn light, and he'd been out since before the sun had begun to peak over the horizon. A rough blanket, covered in leaves and dirt, was draped over his cloak, and he was hunkered down in a knoll between two bushes. His crossbow was leveled, aimed at nothing in particular for the moment. He was waiting. He'd had to trek over leagues of farmland just to get far enough out that he could find a forest dense enough to provide worthy game. Now, as morning broke, he knew this was his best chance to get anything of worth. Bard waited, breath streaming out slowly so as not to give away his position. He knew the deer around here were fat and hardy, they'd make good stores for the tavern where he worked. All he had to do was wait.

Not far away from the hunting Bard, a figure seemingly materialized from the snow covered foliage. This figure was none other than the infamous Ethera - The goddess that ruled all the land, ruling the sky and very univ-

What was I doing again?

Oh, right, looking for that darned white stag! Ethera thought to herself, her conscious train interrupted by the delicate crunching of the thin layer of snow beneath her boots. She had been up for no longer than an hour, having camped out by some stream in the wooded land of onlythegodsknowswhere. When she first awoke she saw a white deer right across the stream, she swore! Said deer was covered thickly in snow, but that was beside the point. She had been hunting for this creature.

It didn't exactly take a scholar to tell that the girl had long since gotten lost. As a matter of fact, she could hardly recall what she had for dinner last night.. Rabbit, perhaps? No matter. It was not long before the trapper's keen eye detected a deformation in the trees. Rather, the man's back looked to be a boulder covered in leaves and mud and other things to the girl. Within only a few prolonged moments of blank staring, she recognized that a human being was beneath that rock.

Silencing her breathing to nothing more than a whisper carried upon the tundra-like wind, the girl stooped down, gathering up enough snow into her hands to form a compact ball of the frozen stuff. With a broad grin, she stalked towards her newest prey, hand held at the ready. In a sudden strike no faster than lightning itself(Not really), Ethera hurled the ball of snow at Bard's back, opening her mouth to scream a loud "Boo!" just as the ball would meet its target, should the 'attack' be successful.

Bard had been waiting for some time when a proper bit of prey made itself available to him. A stout, fat boar had trundled into the glade, snuffling about in the snow and shoving mounds of the white fluffy stuff aside as it searched for roots, carrion, anything it could eat that wouldn't try to eat it back. Bard had been following the boar's slow, ponderous movements with his crossbow for a few moments when he heard a sound behind him. Footfalls, light and quiet, but still reaching his ears with each crackling of the snow. A loud shout startled the boar, sending it running off in the opposite direction with an indignant squeal. Bard rolled from his position as the snowball smacked into the tree next to him. The cloak he'd been using as cover crumpled to the ground under the weight of his camouflage, and the former soldier pivoted around to face the snow ball flinging assailant, coming up on one knee and leveling his still loaded and very much drawn crossbow. Quickly, it found center mass and he took a moment to confirm his target.

Was it a bandit? Some wayward mugger? A would be assassin? Or even, mayhaps, a dreaded Murder-Hobo?

Nope. Not even close. Bard frowned and lowered his crossbow as he realized he was facing not an armed and dangerous opponent, but rather a skinny slip of a girl barely into her teens, or so he judged. "By the Kingstealer's Bloody Sword, what the hell do you think you're doing kid? I almost shot you!" He shouted, stepping over to his cloak and picking it up to shake off the dirt and leaves. This hunting spot was worthless to him now. Her little shout would have spooked every animal for a mile, sending them scattering off in all different directions. Bard was not pleased.

Ethera paused, nearly breaking into a run or falling to the ground when the man whipped about and nearly shot her. When she decided he would fail to do so-at least for the moment, she burst into hysterics, clutching her sides. "Bahahaha! I got'cha good! You should see the look on your face!" When she finished her little fit, the girl straightened up, dusting the chilling bite of snow from her gloved hands. Some of the flakes had managed to work their way through unfortunately, but they would melt again soon enough. 

"Aah.. Sorry mister, uh, crossbow-user-man. I couldn't resist. Why're you sitting out in the snow, anyway? Game ain't gonna walk right into your lap, y'know."
It was true-for her, at least. She'd try to sit still and wait for her prey, but such endeavors usually ended with her getting up and running off to keep herself occupied another way, more often than not. The only time she had caught prey using this tactic was when a half dead raccoon literally blundered into her after she had fallen asleep while watching. Her brothers never stopped teasing her about that.

Now sobered enough to take in the full view of the man she had assaulted, Ethera grew somewhat quiet. She was no fool. -Well, perhaps she was. Either way, she did not want to tangle with someone who was nearly twice her size. Her voice dropped to a quiet tone as she shuffled her feet, adjusting her weight from one foot to the next, should a speedy escape be needed. "Really sorry.."

Watching the girl burst out laughing like a maniac almost made Bard wish he HAD shot her. With a disgruntled growl, he plucked the bolt from the crossbow's arms and slid it back into the satchel at his hip, then slung the weapon across his shoulder. "My name is Bard, thank you very much, and I do just fine hunting the way I do." Bard's method was simple: Find a good spot near a resource animals needed. In this case, there was a stream just a ways beyond the tree line that ran just swiftly enough to keep from freezing in this cold. Waiting here meant that he could see every animal that came and went from the stream. He'd increased his odds by positioning himself upwind and hiding under the old cloak. The smell of the dirt and leaves would have hidden his own scent from the animals he hunted. Of course, this stranger had shot all his best laid plans straight to the Abyss.

"What in blazes are you doing out here anyway? Where're your parents?"

"I'm Ethera. Nice to uh, meet you, Bard." Ethera replied curtly. She found her gaze wandering around the area now, from the tiny abandoned bird's nests above to the soft babbling of the stream just outside of her sight. When the man had inquired about her parents, however, her attention snapped back towards him.



With a rather sarcastic gesture, she pointed to the bow and quiver full of arrows on her back. She really didn't mean to be ornery, but the question was one she had grown to despise. As can be expected, that was how nearly every conversation with every grown-up under the sun went. "I'm hunting, duh. Just like you. And I don't need no mama or papa to go around fussing over me, either. Where're your parents?" 

"Dead and buried in Southpeak." He growled, walking past Ethera, sights set in the direction of Vertholt. If he was lucky, he might still find something worth taking down on the way back into the city. It'd been a few days since he'd brought in any fresh kills for the Dancing Hare, but they had plenty in reserves for the time being. In truth, Bard simply liked being away from the hustle and bustle of the city, enjoyed being out in the quiet woods. He paused, realizing that the words he'd said had come out harsher than they should have. Bard didn't care to admit it, but the fact that he'd been stuck in Vertholt, delirious with fever, and unable to travel to Southpeak to see his parents in their final moments was still a raw, savage wound on his heart. The girl, however, could not have known any of that, and didn't deserve to be exposed to Bard's lousy attitude. "Sorry. I didn't mean to be so gruff." He stopped and looked her over, eyes narrowing a bit. "What are you out here after, anyways? Deaf deer? That shout of yours probably scared everything around here worth hunting."

Ethera frowned, trailing after the man. The woods were quiet, sure, but they were lonely, as well. She reckoned she hadn't seen another human soul in a week now, save the occasional caravan traveling one of the more busied roads. Noisy things they were. "Oh, it's not like there's anything around worth waiting around for anyway." She replied sourly, kicking an overgrown root. The root, however, was much stronger than the girl's foot, and so she was sent stumbling. "I'm after the things dumb enough to get themselves caught in traps, y'see. Oh.. By the way, you'd better watch where you step around here. Wouldn't want ya gettin' your leg cut off or anything. I don't think you'd be a very good catch." She laughed quietly at her little joke.

What good would catching a human even be? Ethera thought absently to herself. Other than to make a new friend, of course. A crippled and probably very angry one at that.

Bard turned at the sound of her stumbling and watched her tumble into the snow. Ethera's clumsiness earned the girl a bemused smirk from the old Bridgeburner, and he offered her a hand to help her up. "You're not just any old hunter then, eh? You're a trapper?" Bard had never been very good with traps. Oh, sure, he could string up a decent snare, and any idiot could build a pitfall with the right materials, but beyond the most basic of tricks and traps, Bard was hopeless. He stuck to his crossbow when he wanted to kill at range. For everything else, there was his Eiphyre Double-Axe, a weapon that had yet to fail him. "So, a hunter-girl with no parents, no manners, and not enough sense to avoid giants with crossbows. I'm guessing you just live out here in the wilds like some bandit queen?" He teased her, but his eyes were now sweeping the ground around them, looking for any signs of her aforementioned traps. The last thing he needed was to find himself dangling upside down in a tree by his ankles.

Ethera took Bard's hand and jumped up, shaking the snow from herself in a manner not unlike that of a dog. "You bet! I'm not a bad bandit, though. Promise I won't try to kill you or anything." She then followed Bard's gaze, curious as to what he was searching for. There weren't any traps too close by, thankfully enough. If there were, she doubted they would be useful any longer after the both of them blunder anywhere near them. "What about you, are you a bandit? You're scary enough to pass as one!" Snatching a branch from a tree, Ethera drew her sword that rest at her hip and cut it, sheathing the weapon and taking the branch along with her. She began to pull at the frozen bark, bending the branches at odd angles so that it peeled away in string-like forms, shaping it so that it formed a makeshift spear. It was a nervous tic, really. Besides, she was out of rope, and making rope for her traps was always such a hassle.

Me? A bandit? The thought made him chuckle, his voice a low rumble. "No, not a bandit." He said, still marching on through the snow, keeping her in his peripheral vision as she crafted her makeshift spear. "I've seen my fair share though." The fact that she thought there could be such a thing as a bandit who wasn't bad clashed with his own preconceptions regarding the term. Bard had never met a 'good' bandit in his entire life: By and large they had all been greedy, self-obsessed thugs without a shred of honor or decency among the lot of them.

Of course, Bard could have been a little biased in that regard. After all, every bandit he'd ever met had either been in the process of trying to kill him, or eventually worked their way up to it. He decided, however, not to be a rude jackass in the presence of such a young woman. Instead he set his eyes forward and continued his trek through the woods. His twin axes clacked against his hips as he paused, thinking he might have heard the footfalls of nearby prey. However, when he found nothing to validate his suspicions, he kept walking. "Truth is, Ethera, I used to be a soldier. Fought a lot of bandits when I served the king." It had been a messy way to make a living, that was certain. He often took for granted just how lucky he was to have survived at all.

"Ah, okay.." Ethera gave the man a sideways glance, freezing when he did at the chance of a stray catch before continuing onwards. With the stick now sharp enough to be used as a very flimsy spear, she stuck it into the ground spike-upwards and ran along, deciding that that particular stick was far too brittle anyhow.
Her attention did not waver from the direction in which the sound had come from. While it was probably just a chunk of snow falling to the ground, there was always that slim chance it was a crafty animal instead- one that did not sprint away and make an ear bleeding amount amount of racket in the process, and instead waited for its predators to pass on.


"Ooh, really? That's so cool!" Ethera cheered at the thought of being near a veteran soldier. While she had seen her share of bandits every now and again during her time alone, they were usually never too much of a problem until they got caught into her traps. Bandits were not the type to make friends with despite her claim to be a good one, that was for sure. "Does that mean you fought in a real war? With dragons and armies and lots of those uh.. Cannon ball-y.. Catapults 'n stuff?"

Bard gave a long sigh, the breath puffing out into the cold winter air as he swung his cloak back over his shoulders. She spoke as if she were romanticizing the bygone days of glorious battle, where spilling the blood of your foes was an honorable, indeed, a celebrated act. No doubt, she had been raised on stories and tales of the great wars and the heroic soldiers who waged them. Bard knew this because he too had been a wide-eyed youth once. Drinking deep of the cup of legends and steeping himself in tales of war-time valor, Bard had followed those tales all the way to the capital. He learned the truth of these things far too late. "No, not exactly. The unit I was assigned to rarely ever saw battle with Snowclaw's forces." He responded, shaking his head. "Mostly we dealt with Bandit Clans, Mercenary troupes. We kept the peace." He'd never even seen a dragon, let alone fought one. The idea of trying to combat a creature that could literally burn you live just by sneezing in your general direction seemed rather suicidal to Bard. "Catapults? Well, of course I've seen those. Sometimes you have to bash open a bandit stronghold before you can set to work clearing out the murdering scum inside."

Bard wasn't much for old war stories these days. Back when he'd sat around the camp fires with his men, he hadn't minded slinging tales of their valiant battles and glorious conquests. Now the words tasted like ash on his tongue. Bard had seen more death and suffering in his short stint as a soldier than many civilians saw in their entire lives. He'd ordered good, loyal, honorable men to their ends. He'd slain men and women without hesitation, given orders that saw entire units wiped out. The burden of the Commander was not merely to stand at the front and give orders, but to live with the knowledge that every time you screwed up, someone you knew, someone you'd broken bread with and drank with, was going to die. Worse than that, you could do everything right and they STILL might die. Bard had lost his taste for war when he'd been dragged out of the silty swamps of Pinemarsh.

"War's an ugly thing, kid. Don't let anyone fool you about that: There's no glory in killing. There's only blood."

Ethera quickly picked up on Bard's distaste of war. Sure, she had heard her fair share of tall tales from those willing to talk talk the inns, but most of the sobered soldiers always seemed so.. Somber about it. Perhaps the ones that weren't were just the crazy ones. Of course, killing people would be a really terrible thing to do, when she really thought about it. Even the animals that suffered after a misplaced trap and arrow she felt pity for, but perhaps she was just soft.

"Well.. What about animals? There's plenty of glory in killing them, right?" She said, eager to change the subject. "Like.. Foxes! They don't do nothing but eat up livestock and wake people up in the dead of night, and their pelts are always so soft!" Foxes had to be her favorite prey, or one of her favorites, at least. They were often too crafty to fall for the most basic traps, at least in the part of Southpeak where she was raised, anyway. Even when one of the clever bastards managed to slip from her grasp, Ethera considered them to at the very least be a sign of good luck for that day.

A low, rumbling laugh spilled from Bard's lips as she changed the subject to hunting. "Aye, there's some glory in that..." He murmured, trudging on through the snow. "Foxes are wily bastards indeed, you have to out-fox them if you want to have even a hope of catching one." Personally, Bard didn't have much use for hunting foxes. When Bard hunted, it was for meat. The hides he collected were just a bonus, a way of padding his pockets. By and large, foxes simply weren't worth the effort to him. He meant it, though, when he said there was glory in a good hunt. Animals were cunning, swift, strong, and you had to be all that and more to hunt them successfully. There was something simple, something honest about hunting. Killing animals didn't leave a pit in his soul, didn't make him hate himself. Bard didn't quite understand it, but he supposed it was the necessity of the killing. He didn't slay beasts out of cruelty, or for money, or for hate. He hunted to feed himself, to feed others, and he saw to it that nothing went to waste. "Aye, I've seen a few good hunts. Once, my da and I tracked a bull elk for two days. It was raining, and we'd wounded the bastard, but somehow he just kept going. Damned impressive. We got him in the end, but for a while I was certain he'd slipped us and been taken down by wolves or a bear." The memory warmed his heart, reminded him of home. Suddenly, he longed for Southpeak.

Ethera smiled at the thought. Indeed, hunters had little choice but to take the lives of animals to get by. It wasn't as if food grew on trees. -Well, it did, but far too slowly to be of any use unless grown in abundance. And, well, that was obviously just plain boring. No one ever told stories of 'The Valiant Farmer Who Grew and Vanquished a Tomato'. Or rather, if they did, she certainly hasn't heard the tale. "You didn't lose 'em even in the rain? That's amazing! Not very many people can do that, that's for sure. How did you catch 'em?"

The old soldier grinned at the girl, winking. "Persistance. We followed his trail. I guess we kept close enough that nothing else tried to get the wily bastard. We knew we'd hurt it badly, but apparently not badly enough to kill it. Poor dumb beast was bleeding pretty badly, we just wanted to finish the hunt and put it out of its misery, but damn if it didn't have one hell of a drive to live." He respected that, deeply. The hunt with his father was one of his father's memories, because it taught him to value life, cherish it, and that to waste a life was a near unconscionable sin. He was about to say more as they were passing through a low grove of trees, when the sudden crunching of feet falling through snow caught his attention. Four men wearing thick, padded clothes and warm wool cloaks stepped into their path, ten feet ahead. Fifteen feet behind them, two more stepped into view. Bard's eyes narrowed as he realized he recognized one of them by the crooked, broken nose he sported. "Bult, glad to see that ugly beak of yours didn't set right. Mind gettin' the hell outta my way?" Bard's voice had dropped an octave, into a deep, rumbling baritone. He sounded more like a growling dog than a man at the moment, and his crossbow came up from his hip.

The one named Bult stepped forward, grinning wickedly at Bard. He was at least a foot shorter than Bard, but broader across the shoulders, with a barrel chest and stout legs. His hair was black as jet, and slicked back, and he wore his beard in a goatee. "Hello Bard, no luck on your hunt today?" His eyes drifted to Ethera for a moment before Bard stepped between them, "Who's your pretty little friend? She's a little young for you. Sister maybe? Niece or Daughter? Ah, Screw it, I don't care." The men drew weapons, short, curved swords and long fighting knives or clubs. Bard raised the crossbow to his shoulder and aimed down the sights. "C'mon Bard, let's not make this messy. You're outnumbered. Let's just do this the easy way."

Bard glanced to Ethera, then back to Bult. The man was a thug, a low level operator in one of Vertholt's more notorious criminal gangs: The Bonehunters. They were bad news, but when Bard had beaten the man senseless and thrown him out of the Dancing Hare, the former soldier hadn't known that. Suddenly he realized that Bult, insulted, slighted, and humiliated, had been planning revenge ever since. How long had he been following Bard? How long had he been setting this up? Who had he seen Bard with? Immediately, he knew Shae, the owners of the Dancing Hare, even his former apprentice could all be in serious danger. "She's no one, just some kid who ruined my hunt and then wouldn't leave me the hell alone." He was dismissive of her, attempting to spare her from witnessing what was about to be an ugly, bloody confrontation, or worse becoming a casualty. "She's no one, just let her run along and we can finish our business in privacy."

Ethera's expression twisted into one of disgust as the vagabonds appeared. Speak of bandits, and they shall appear. She knew not of the names of the obnoxious gangs that plagued Vertholt. Bonehunters or Berryhunters, they smelled bad and they needed to go. She wondered how long they had been eavesdropping, and why they didn't simply take them by surprise instead of announcing their presence like a bunch of blundering imbeciles. It was their loss and her gain she decided. Idiots or not, they were still clearly at a disadvantage. No matter how strong her new friend may be, she doubted he could take on an entire lot of them and walk away without injury. Likewise, she wasn't much help at the moment, either. The few traps she had scattered around the area were too far spaced to simply shove them into, and it was also very unlikely they would bother chasing her for long given the circumstance.

"Er.. Yeah!" She replied with a squeak, shuffling away into the brush, where she assumed none of the creeps were hiding. At least, that was what her intuition told her, since they were dumb enough to lose enough of their element of surprise. "I ain't got nothing on me worth more than half a gold either, so.. I'll be going now! Buh-bye!"

Ethera's mind began to race. There wasn't enough time to create a trap, and she'd definitely get run through before she could get close enough to land a hit with her trusty sword. That left a single option - 'running away'. All great warriors knew when retreat was best called for, right? That was what she believed, and a tactful retreat had saved her hide more than once before. Of course, she wasn't going to completely ditch Bard - she wasn't that low. Ditching him and getting him killed would probably bruise her conscious beyond repair anyhow.

Ethera caught on quick, something Bard was grateful for. She started to run off, but Bult stepped closer, shouting, "Ah ah ah, not so fast missy." A seventh man, clad in white fur, wielding a long, curved knife in one hand and a cudgel in the other stepped in from the side to intercept her. Bard mentally cursed, he'd missed the bastard completely. He must've been a sneaky fuck. "We can't have your young ladyfriend here runnin' off to the guards now, can we? I'm afraid we've got no choice but to...well, detain her." Bard tensed. It was time to make a decision. Did he take Bult with the crossbow? If he did, the girl would be captured, she'd be used as leverage. No, the decision was easy. He turned sharply, took aim, and fired into the white-clad man's path. The bolt caught him completely unawares, taking him in the gut. Bart saw the wounding, but had no time to confirm the kill as Bult and his gang moved in for the attack. Bard tossed the crossbow aside, and focused intently on his axes. A deep, bone chilling cold filled his core as his inner strength came alive, and the axes snapped up into his hands.

He intercepted Bult's lunging stab with a short sword, catching the blade under the head of his left axe, Ice. The Eiphyre weapon, frosted blue in color and textured with a wavering carbon black grain, clashed with a tone like the peal of a bell. Bard twisted the axe to lock the head against Bult's sword, then dragged it away from him, effectively misdirecting his attack. Then his second axe, Wind, came whistling down through the air to cut a grievous, bloody wound across his chest. The man howled and staggered back, his life's blood fleeing from the ragged slash in his flesh. His compatriots surged forward, seeking to overtake Bard, but be back pedaled out of range. The two that had come up the trail behind them were closing fast on Bard, and he needed cover badly. Snapping his axes together with a flourished spin, he swept it out in an arc before him, knocking aside and warding off the three men who had initially attacked with Bult, who was now lying in the snow in shock. "Ethera, get out of here! I've got this under control!" One of the thugs slashed at Bard, working around his guard and cutting a bloody furrow along his left bicep. Bard wore no armor, hadn't thought he'd needed his chain or helm. This was bad, but he'd been in worse scuffles.

Oh no oh no oh no! Ethera yelled in her mind, dashing off blindly once the stealthy seventh man was distracted with the wound. She ran in a half circle around the scene, slowing and crouching behind the trees as she drew her longbow, Spitter, and retrieved three arrows, holding them in her drawing hand. She was an awful shot when it came to moving targets - no point lying there. Besides, if she were to aim at the crowd of bandits she was likely to strike Bard and do more harm than help. Instead, she frantically began to search the area for anything that may be of use. An ill placed rock.. A tree rotted into falling..

Don't shake the trees in winter. You'll hurt yourself. 
Her father's advice suddenly came to mind as she searched the overhanging branches, thick with snow and, of course, icicles. Perfect. With how they were fighting, it was certainly a gamble. Ethera notched an arrow, praying to every god she could name and aiming at the branches directly above the bandits that were giving chase. She had circled around so that she was on the opposite side where she had initially escaped, and so hoped that the vagabonds had long since forgotten about her. The only problem.. What would act as a proper alarm?

Taking a deep breath, she released the arrow just as the group reached a place particularly weighed down by icicles. "Boo!" The arrow whistled through the air and smashed into a rather feeble branch just above the brawl, the swift sound accompanied by her own not-so-graceful screaming as she notched a second arrow and readied a second shot regardless of the outcome of the first.

The branch nearly snapped in half from the impact, flinging the frigid debris at the group below.

Even if the 'alarm' had failed to catch Bard's attention, Ethera was almost certain the icicles would not kill him and instead hit the bandits. She was generally good with positioning triggers when she actually paid attention. But then again, she hadn't placed the icicles herself, and so any of the icy spears she did not see would end up as more of a wild card than a strategically placed attack. Either way, the attack was most likely going to bring down a heap of snow onto the lot of them.

The heavy icicles crashed down on the men around bard, breaking their attack on him and allowing him to roll backwards and away from the falling ice. he came up crouching, axes now connected at the haft. He stood, flipping the axe from the center, allowing the haft to roll across his open palm. he guided it lightly, keeping the weapon spinnning around his center of gravity as the bandits resumed their assault. Two came straight for him. The haft of his axes snapped into his right hand, swinging down sharply to cleave away the swinging club of one, the haft intercepting the stabbing dagger of the other. He swung around, throwing his body into it and extending his leg to crash violently into the side of the Knife-man's head, sending him reeling into his compatriot and throwing them to the ground. Bard lunged forward, stepping over the sprawled men and kicking up snow with an outraged roar as he shot forth at top speed, angling for the man who'd held back, His right hand had closed over the haft, near the head of Ice, in an inverted grip, while his left held onto it more loosely closer to the middle in a more appropriate fashion.

The man he faced was not a veteran. He was not a soldier. He was a glorified thug with a short sword more suited to life in a butcher's shop than in combat. He made a fair attempt at it, slashing out in an arc as Bard drew close. The Bridgeburner paused, halfstepped back, then pivoted to the man's left. He drew back hard with his right hand, and pushed forth with his left, sending Wind out in a glittering arc of silvery blue metal, catching the man just under the ribs, and biting deeply into his torso. The two stood still for a moment, Bard looking off into the forest beyond, the dead man holding a horrified gaze on his stalled compatriots. Bard twisted the axe head and ripped it free with a spurt of crimson gore, and the body slumped, twitching. The haft of his great eiphyre axe split in his hands, and he swept the blood from the head of Wind, painting a crimson arc in the snow. Bard took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly in a cloud of white. "Last chance. Leave, cowards, or die." Bard was not impressed. Bard was not amused. Though none of them could see it, a savage grin drew up taught along his cheeks, not an expression of mirth, but a baring of the teeth.

The men raised their weapons, grouping together a good fifteen feet from where Bard stood, and about ten feet to Ethera's left. They no longer seemed at all interested in her, their fear and stupid, stubborn determination forcing them to focus only on the greatest immediate threat. They just didn't understand. They didn't get it. Bard stared for a moment at the thin stream of blood running down over his arm from the wound in his left bicep, but barely registered the pain. He felt cold, and his smile faded to a grim, neutral look. He turned, studying the armed men, and held his axes out loosely in his hands, arms angling downward and away from his body. "Just once," he mumbled to himself, "I'd like to see a SMART bandit." The men, as one, rushed forward.

Ethera was in somewhat of a daze as the flurry of kicked up snow and ice swirled about and obstructed her vision. Judging by the clatter of metal and the yells of the men, the icicles hadn't done much to the majority, only having severely hit two; one with an icicle impaling the top of his head and the other with one in the arm. At least it was better than nothing. As the veil of snow faded again she took aim at one of the men that was now charging toward Bard, directing her shot at the closest bandit's legs.

The arrow pierced through the air and barely nicked into the closest man's calf, sending him stumbling as the projectile sailed past and buried itself into the ground, staining the snow where it had sunk a slight pink. "Darn." She hissed under her breath, stringing the third and final arrow she had in her drawing hand and sprinting out of her hiding place. With all her worth, she smashed her foot into the downed bandit's head just as he prepared to jump up again, effectively knocking him out as she drew the final arrow she held in her drawing hand to take aim at the remaining assailants.

With her foot still perched atop the unconscious bandit's head, Ethera loosed a third arrow into the back of another of the group, whom had taken notice of her and was in the process of whipping around to face her. With the vagabonds running towards Bard and their backs to the trapper, it was a relatively easy shot. Ethera ripped the nearby arrow out of the ground, stepping away from the unconscious man and stringing it for yet another shot, backing away should the group should they decide that she was a threat. Her arrows were diminishing, and wasting any more on the smelly bandits would be rather redundant.

Bard waited, let them close, and then began striding forward. He saw one go down, clipped by Ethera's arrow, and his grin returned. A second dropped, leaving Bard with only one opponent to contend with. The man swung at him with a cudgel, going for Bard's right temple, but the Bridgeburner swept back and around the man's dominant side, behind him. He whirled, thrusting with a stout knife, but Bard was prepared for that. The war axe in his left hand, Ice, slipped down into his grip until his fist rode just under the head, then lifted suddenly to deflect the thrust off to the side harmlessly in a single fluid motion. His right axe, Wind, cleaved into the man's flank a second later, having chopped through his arm to get there. Bard used the momentum of the initial deflection with his left axe to force the weapon to ride back up out of his fist, until he gripped it at about the middle of the haft, then swung up in a diagonal slash, splitting the top half of the man's head from the rest. He slumped, dead, and suddenly the forest was quiet.

Bard stood still, panting, breath coming out in long, slow puffs of steam as he wrestled with adrenaline surging through his veins. His battle lust, the blazing call in his heart to fight, to destroy and kill and maim, was rising like a tide, and he needed to quell it immediately, or it would consume him. Hands trembling, he lowered himself into a clean patch of snow and began single-mindedly scrubbing the blood from his axes and hands, until not a speck remained. He stood, slid his axes into the steel rings on his belt that supported them, and walked to fetch his crossbow and yank the bolt from the Man In White's corpse. He was tuned in, focused on containing his fury. Finally, when he no longer felt a single step from the razor's edge, he turned to regard Ethera. "Are you all right, kid?"

With the danger passed, Ethera took a moment to take in the scene. The corpses were disturbing to look at. They made her want to vomit, and so the trapper set to work collecting her arrows and washing the gore from them a good way away from the carnage before slipping them into their quiver again, slipping Spitter over her head and attaching it to its place on the top of her bag. She simply told herself it was animal blood that coated her boots - not blood from once living people. It was easier that way. Was there any glory in killing people? Even if the people in question were just smelly bandits? No, definitely not.

"Yup, I'm fine, they didn't get me at all." She replied quietly, turning to Bard as she kicked in the snow to clean off her boots. It was almost as if raising one's voice now would bring the forest crashing around them, or perhaps wake the dead. Obviously, they did not need to deal with zombies at the moment. "..Er, you're bleeding though. Are you okay?" Taking the moment to state the obvious, Ethera picked her way over to Bard, taking off her bag and undoing the top and shuffling around inside to find something that may help the situation. The trapper was normally never short on cloth, be it from old clothes or actual bandages. Her clumsiness meant it would be death (Or just mild pain) without it. Pulling out a roll of old, tatter-yet-clean cloth, she drew her sword and began to set to work measuring out a good enough amount.

"Sorry you had to see that, Ethera. You handled yourself pretty well, for one so young." Pain was beginning to creep up his arm as the adrenaline rush of live combat faded, and his focus shifted not on ignoring the sensations, but actually being human again. He studied his arm for a moment, revealing a three inch long gash in his left bicep. He tore the sleeve the rest of the way down with an irritated sigh, noting the blood soaking the cloth. "Gods be damned, that was my last clean shirt." Bard reached into a small pouch on his belt and pulled free a carved wooden flask. Twisting the cork free, he poured a small stream of clear, pungent smelling alcohol over it. His eyes twitched as the coarse grain brew burned under his skin, waited for about two, three heartbeats, then began scrubbing the wound with a handful of fresh, clean snow.

"Somethin' they never teach you in the Imperial Army." He said to her, his voice low. "Get a strong enough alcohol, and it'll sanitize wounds." He brought the flask to his lips and took a long, deep drink before corking it and shuddering visibly. The Alcohol would help bring him down off the combat high. In battle, it had never been a problem. Surrounded by death on all sides, with only the men or women by your sides to prevent death from swooping in, those had been moments when Bard could be Bard. The Bard that lurked under a guise of humanity. Some men were born to sculpt eternal statues, some to paint wondrous arts. Some were born with gifts of magic or unique in-born abilities. Bard was a man born with a unique affinity for inflicting death. His men, Wynne, they'd all marveled at the way he would drink after every engagement, purportedly celebrating victor and toasting the honored dead. The truth was much less convenient. Without the dulling, placating effect of alcohol, he'd have killed until his reserve of blood lust ran dry, or burned itself out from exhaustion. No, Bard had long learned to control himself. "One of our field medics, Mallet, he figured it out. Wrote a report about it and everything. Turns out, it was a commonly known fact, and no one had bothered to tell the grunts gettin' bloody." He realized that the fact he wasn't addressing the brutal situation that had just transpired, that he wasn't making any effort to reassure her or try to justify his actions, might actually be scaring the girl. He hadn't even looked at her during his monologue. "We started requisitioning these flasks, as much rough liquors as we could. Experimenting, Mallet called it. It took us damn near a year to figure it out, after buyin' a jug off some Three-Forks traders. They told us the recipe."

He sighed, kneeling back down in the snow and holding out his now bare arm for her to bind up. In his field of vision were three of the slain men, their features gruesomely still. "There are three types of killers in this world, Ethera. Their are those who are compelled to kill, those who kill for profit or out of sickness, and those who kill because they are left no other choice." Bard wanted to try and make this stranger understand that he wasn't a murderer, wasn't some bloodthirsty monster to be feared and avoided. Wynne and Ephraim, his unit had understood, but in one way or another, they were all gone. "As a soldier, I was once a man who was compelled by his king's command to kill those who killed for personal gain. Now I'm trying to be someone who only kills when he must. It's not easy, and I run into these situations more often than I'd like, but I am truly sorry you were a part of this."

No one so young should have to see this.

Ethera shook her head, glancing over her shoulder at the  carnage sprawled behind her. It was almost a pretty sight, the scarlet snow painting a nearly monochrome picture amongst the overwhelming stench similar copper or some other metal. "It's not like it could be helped. They were askin' for it anyway.. Ah, hey, I'm not that young." Did they have families? Or even anyone that would even miss their absence? Probably not. They were criminal scum, not hardworking men, their chance at redemption stripped away by a single foul decision. Whether that made it better or worse, Ethera couldn't say.

"Alcohol's good for something other than havin' people make idiots outta themselves?" Ethera mused, cutting the stitched together cloth over her sword before wrapping the old cloth over the gash in Bard's arm, tying it tightly with ever trembling fingers. While she wasn't one to go about drinking, she had experienced what alcohol does to cuts firsthand, though she never really thought of it as a case of 'the burn means it's working.' With the danger over for the time being, the usual childish smile slowly returned to her face. Dwelling on the short battle would do little but depress, and she hardly wanted her day to be ruined by some dumb bandits with no sense of logic.

Finishing up with binding Bard's wound, Ethera stood, slinging her bag over her shoulders again and awkwardly flapping her arm about as she slipped her arm into the second strap. "I get it, I get it. Killing's bad, so you killed people that kill for no good reason.. And stuff. That makes you good, I guess." In a way, she did understand. This wasn't the first time she had drawn blood, and it wouldn't be the last. It was merely self-defense.

Her gaze fell to the young man she had shot partially in the leg, still very much unconscious. Judging by the large bleeding gash in his forehead, it was doubtful he would live much longer either, what with being face down in the snow. He would probably drown in his own blood before he died of the cold. Nevertheless, if they just left him in misery, there was always a slim chance he could get up again and hobble off to his other bandit friends and spill the happenings of the brawl. As odd as it was, Ethera obviously wouldn't want that to happen. It was already dangerous enough outside the walls of Vertholt and the other cities, and a group of rogues chasing after her was the last thing she needed. "Huh.. What 'bout him?" She pointed to the vagabond, glancing back to Bard. "I think he's still alive, least a lil'bit. Does he need to die too now?"

When did kids become so damn brazen? Maybe it was just Ethera, or maybe Bard really was getting old. The old soldier held himself still as the girl bound his arm,, and when she was done, he gave it an experimental flex to test the tightness of the bindings. The wound throbbed and ached as Bard rolled his arm around in its socket, but that was to be expected. With a grunt, he pushed himself back on to his feet and dusted the snow off his legs. Ethera's remark about him being good made him chuckle softly, head shaking lightly from side to side. "Good? Aye, I suppose I am good." Good at killing, maybe. Whispered an ugly little voice in his head. Bard did not accept the negative connotations of the thought. He was good at killing, at fighting, yes, but he did not use that gift for personal gain or to exert power over others. Bard was a good man, sometimes he just forgot that 'good' isn't always the same as 'nice'.

Turning his attention to the unconscious man, Bard strode through the snow and nudged the fellow over onto his back with the thick toe of one of his boots. The bandit was young, still bearing the long, awkward limbs of a youth still in growth, and the wispy beginnings of a beard on his chin and cheeks. He couldn't have been much older than Ethera, maybe two or three years her senior, certainly no more than five. The situation presented was one Bard was not happy to find himself in. On the one hand, the boy was no longer an immediate threat to either of them. There was little chance that he would survive long after their departure, as the scents of spilled blood and waste would bring all manner of predators and scavengers forth to investigate. A pack of wolves, or wild dogs, or even a particularly hungry bear or boar would likely finish the job Bard had started. It would have been a mercy to kill the lad now, while he was still incapable of resisting. Better to die without knowing it than to wake up to something eating you.

Bard's right hand drifted towards the axe hanging from his belt, as if he had already made his decision. Then, the veteran stopped, and took a deep breath of the cold, wintry air. I've killed enough today, haven't I? Killing the boy was unnecessary. Even if he did make it back to Vertholt alive, the Bonehunters were dead and gone: The young man lying in the snow before them had no friends or comrades waiting for him in Vertholt. There would be no posse of criminals looking for Bard or Ethera, hell, they would likely disregard the girl's presence in the matter altogether. "Kingstealer's Balls..." He swore, then stomped over to the nearest two bodies. Relieving the corpses of their belts, he bound the unconcious boy's hands and feet together with the stout leather bands, and then heaved the lad over his shoulders. The wounded boy groaned faintly, but did not stir. "I guess I'm taking him back to Vertholt with me."

See Bard? You can be nice when you try.

Ethera turned her attention to the snow laden trees and paced a few steps away, expecting to hear something close to the splitting of the boy's skull at any moment. When the sound never came, she spun on her heel again, dumbfounded by the sight now before her. "Er, what..? Are you crazy?" She exclaimed, "He'll probably end up shankin' you before you get halfway there! No bandit is good, right?" The statement was ironic, really. Wasn't she the one whom had bragged about being the 'Good Bandit Queen' not an hour before? Out of all the things she had expected, she hadn't considered this. Even if the boy was tied up to the point of pointlessness, captives always seemed to find one way or another to shimmy out of their bonds when no one watches and acquire something that involves stabbing. Hell, for all she knew they vomited knives - which wouldn't be too terrible a power - but as usual, the thought was extremely derailing to the situation.

Staring at the boy, Ethera frowned. He looked harmless enough, all tied up and knocked out like some kind of limp noodle or farm animal. She almost felt bad for him. Besides, how long would the trek to Vertholt even take? She had lost her sense of direction long ago, after changing her mind for the millionth time on where to head next. An actual map probably wouldn't hurt much, either. "How far away is Vertholt, anyway? Last I knew it'd take exactly... A real long time to get there."

Bard shrugged under the weight of the lad, who groaned quietly. "I could use a good jog." He did need the exercise, it would help him further recover from his recent illness. The infection had cost him a fair bit of his former physique. Where once the man had been built like an ogre of lore, now he had a much leaner build. Though he was regaining his strength, he had a long way to go: The prospect of carrying the boy back to Vertholt didn't bother him. "Besides, I ain't doin' it outta the kindness o'my heart. Likely there's a little profit to be made on returnin' him to the proper authorities."

Likely it wouldn't be much, if any at all, of a reward, but it was better than leaving the young man out here to freeze, starve, and be eaten by wild beasts; hopefully in that order. "Bind up his leg so he doesn't bleed out, and I'll split the reward with you. Maybe even see to it you've got a hot meal before you head out." Bard held still and lowered his shoulder a bit to bring the boy's leg well within reach of Ethera's arms. "Oh, and don't worry about bein' gentle. The little shit thinks he's a tough guy? He can take it."

"Ooh.. I didn't think of that.." Ethera nodded, albeit reluctantly. "But if he wakes up and starts to go crazy, I'm outta here for good." Naturally, that wouldn't be the only situation in which the trapper would be making a break for it, either. The moment someone in Vertholt decides to recognize her, she would be making like a tree and getting the heck out of there. She retrieved her roll of bandages again, not bothering to whip out her sword and instead ripping off enough with her hands to wrap around the boy's bleeding leg a few times over. Funnily enough, the majority of the cloth she had chosen had a dainty pink and purple floral design on it. It probably belonged to some frilly dress before she turned it into scraps. "How much do you think he's worth? I mean, if we're gonna be draggin' a body back into Vertholt then we might as well take the leader." 

A few moments later the wound was firmly bound. Ethera returned the roll to her bag again, messily wiping the traces of the boy's blood on the front of her attire and leaving a smear of red in a plume of fur stitched into her clothing. She certainly got the bandit good when she shot him - probably tore right through a tendon somewhere above the achilles heel. She couldn't help but to feel proud of herself. He wouldn't be walking straight for a long time, if at all.