[Albion Plane, Porfield Kingdom, Rustfang Mountains]
The Rustfang Mountains were not like the soft, wooded slopes of Mount Thor.
They were filled with an eerie aura, and howls of wolves during the night. The smell of blood and flesh gave off a metallic tang, one of the reasons behind its name.
Their destination was a way point clinging to the side of a mountain pass, a place called The Grumbling Giant.
It was the last proper shelter before the disputed mine, a solid stone-built tavern that catered to miners, prospectors, and the rare, hardy merchant caravan. It was here the Royal Mage and his escort would break their journey. At least, this is what Jack predicted.
He had been around for a decade among the White Lions, and he knew the Longlost fief better than its caretakers. He had traveled, and completed enough assassination and escorting mercenary jobs to know the patterns of merchants and travelers.
They arrived a day before the target was due, their entrance as unremarkable as possible.
They were just another group of rough-looking men and a woman, travel-stained and quiet.
Jack, playing the part of a merchant's agent, secured two rooms with coin, no question asked.
The common room was hazy with smoke from a peat fire and thick with the smell of stale ale and unwashed bodies.
Greem sat in a corner, a half-empty tankard of watery beer before him, his senses heightened, the biochip passively recording every detail.
[Target: Miner. Name: Odin. Stress levels elevated. Fatigue high. Conversation topics: Ore yields, poor pay, a missing dog.]
[Name: Odin. Attributes: Strength - 1.0 | Agility - 0.6 | Vitality - 0.5. Skills: Mining (16)...]
It was mundane, but it was data.
Silas was at the bar, his weathered face making him just another old soldier down on his luck.
Corin played dice with a group of miners, his laughter a little too sharp, his wins a little too frequent. Obviously, he was cheating. Anya had vanished, presumably to a vantage point outside.
And Jack… Jack was a ghost, moving between tables, listening, his presence so forgettable it was a weapon in itself.
'How did a man so poisonous, so skilled, go unnoticed in the White Lion Groups', Greem mused, 'In any case, I will certainly learn more under him than under Ragnar'
The next evening, the convoy arrived.
It was smaller than Greem had expected. A single, enclosed carriage, dusty but well-made. An escort of six soldiers in the livery of the Porfield crown, their postures professional but relaxed.
[Name: Soldier. Attributes: Strength - 1.0 | Agility - 1.1 | Vitality - 1.0. Skills: (?)]
[Name: Soldier. Attributes: Strength - 1.1 | Agility - 1.1 | Vitality - 0.9. Skills: (?)]
[Name: Soldier. Attributes: Strength - 1.2 | Agility - 0.8 | Vitality - 1.0. Skills: (?)]
[Name: Soldier. Attributes: Strength - 1.0 | Agility - 1.1 | Vitality - 1.0. Skills: (?)]
[Name: Soldier. Attributes: Strength - 1.2 | Agility - 1.0 | Vitality - 1.3. Skills: (?)]
[Name: Soldier. Attributes: Strength - 1.0 | Agility - 1.1 | Vitality - 1.1. Skills: (?)]
Well-trained, they certainly did not pale in front of white lion bandits. In fact, their attire and equipment probably made them stronger in combat, even if attribute wise they were average for warriors. Seeing their physical attributes made Greem proud, however. His own squad was very much superior to those soldiers.
But leading them, there were two knights. Relaxed, but sharp. They were the real threat.
[Name: Female Knight. Attributes: Strength - 2.0 | Agility - 2.7 | Vitality - 2.3. Skills: (?)]
[Name: Male Knight. Attributes: Strength - 3.5 | Agility - 1.2 (1.6) | Vitality - 2.5. Skills: (?)]
Their noble air, almost arrogant, made Greem associate them with Alicia. The woman especially. Her blond hair and beautiful face contrasted with the physical attributes displayed. Balanced, strong, and likely very skilled, she was a dangerous being.
The male knight was more similar to Ragnar in terms of build. Muscular, strong, but not so agile. However, unlike Ragnar, he looked very much dignified, and wore a heavy armour limiting his movements but making him almost impossible to kill.
The mage emerged last. He was a young man, wrapped in dark blue robes embroidered with silver thread, representing the authority of the Royal Magical Court.
He had a thin, anxious face, his eyes darting around the common room that screamed inexperience. He clutched a polished wooden staff topped with a cloudy blue crystal.
[Name: Royal Mage. Attributes: Strength - 0.5 | Agility - 0.7 | Vitality - 0.6 | Arcane: 2.0. Skills: (?)]
'Only 2.0? How come?', Greem exclaimed inwardly, shocked by the revelation. Even if the Royal Magical Court sending a skilled mage to this rural territory seemed unlikely, the goal was to retrieve a supply of magical crystals. There was not enough information in the meditation technique book, but if they were potent in mana, they were likely used as fuel for magical artefacts and perhaps even spells.
Hence, Greem had expected the missionary to have some serious skills.
'Now that I remember it, the headman did not have any arcane potency related to him...Perhaps the talent mentioned in the book is rarer and more important than I initially thought...', Greem analysed
[Name: Greem | Age: 16 years old
Attributes:
Strength - 1.7 → 1.8 | Agility - 1.6 → 1.7 | Vitality - 1.6 → 1.7| Arcane - 2.0 → 2.4
Skills: White Tiger Sword Art (65→ 72), Banditry (56), Literacy (42 → 45), Horse Riding (35), Plundering (30), Basic Axe Mastery (20) (New)]
His own arcane power, painstakingly built through months of meditation, was 2.4. This man, backed by a powerful organisation and hailed by many as a legend, had less raw power than he did.
The realization was staggering. Of course, the man could probably cast a myriad of spells, which he could not even fathom casting yet, despite having a biochip helping him.
Jack gave a barely perceptible nod. The plan was in motion.
As the mage's party settled, ordering food and wine arrogantly, Silas made a casual trip to the kitchen. Later, a serving wench, a silver coin tucked discreetly into her apron, brought them their stew and ale.
The poison was not meant to kill. Jack had been clear.
"A dead man in a tavern brings questions. Sick men bring only delay and vulnerability"
The night passed. Dawn broke, grey and cold. The mage's party did not depart. Instead, sounds of retching and groans of discomfort came from their rooms. The poison had worked. The knights were weakened, the soldiers sluggish. The mage himself was pale and trembling, clutching his stomach. As the one with the least vitality, it was only natural for him to be the most impacted.
It was the perfect time to strike.