Gods of Mischief

Chapter 1 - The Ambush

The moon cast its ethereal glow upon the forested road leading to Laighin, the trade city of Durmond. A crisp night breeze rustled through the leaves, setting the stage for an act of retribution years in the making. The four figures concealed in the shadows, Lir, Oisin, Kjell, and Ivar, moved with the precision and unity of a well-oiled machine, each step carrying a sense of purpose that transcended personal vendettas.

In the distance, the rhythmic clattering of hooves announced the approach of their quarry. A convoy of carriages, escorted by Lord Bengtsson's formidable guards, rumbled closer, their torchlight painting eerie patterns through the forest canopy. The carriage at the center of the convoy was their target—a veritable vault on wheels, brimming with riches stolen from the hardworking people of the land.

Kjell, his eyes focused and staff in hand spoke into the crystal gem braced around his earlobe. "I have eyes on the carriage," he whispered, his voice a mere murmur that traveled effortlessly to his comrades' ears.

Lir, at his side, gripped the hilt of his sword, muscles taut and senses sharp. "Acknowledged," he responded, the anticipation palpable in his voice.

Oisin, his gaze locked on the prize ahead, nodded in silent agreement. His fingers flexed around the handle of his claymore as he took a deep breath, his determination unwavering.

The quartet's formation was flawless, and their plan well-rehearsed. With a deft hand, Kjell summoned a flicker of dark energy, infusing it into a nearby tree trunk. Moments later, a muffled explosion erupted, echoing through the forest. Sparks danced through the night, and leaves rained down in a cascading display of pyrotechnic brilliance.

The carriage guards, startled and disoriented, reacted with unbridled haste, forming a protective wall around their precious cargo. In the midst of the chaos, Lir seized the moment, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Remember our plan," he urged, his voice resonating with determination. "Oisin, take the lead. Kjell, cover us. Ivar, keep their archers at bay. Let's dance."

Without a second's hesitation, the quartet sprang into action.

Oisin, a force of nature in motion, charged forward like a juggernaut, his claymore cleaving through the darkness. He smashed into the fray of guards with a primal roar, and the clashing of steel filled the night as he engaged them, his singular focus on the prize—the man responsible for the torment inflicted upon his family.

As the guards grappled with Oisin's overwhelming fury, Lir moved with the grace of a predator, his sword an extension of his will. He cut through the guards with precision, leaving a path of bodies in his wake.

Kjell, from a safe distance, conjured another burst of dark energy, hurling it toward the guards, who were struggling to regain their composure. Explosions erupted at their feet, sending them tumbling and disoriented.

Ivar, perched high above the fray, sent arrow after arrow into the night, expertly picking off archers who threatened to rain down death from afar. His silver hair flowed in the breeze as his piercing green eyes remained locked on his targets.

Amidst the chaos, the quartet's coordinated assault unfolded with ruthless efficiency. The guards, outmatched and bewildered, could only muster a desperate defense. The quartet's communication was seamless, their crystal gems enabling them to coordinate with precision.

And then, it was done. The final guard fell, and the moonlight cast a haunting glow upon the scene. Oisin's gloved hand gripped the carriage door's ornate handle, his heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and rage. With a forceful pull, the door creaked open, revealing the opulent interior of the carriage. A flicker of torchlight danced across the figure seated within—the man responsible for the torment that had haunted Oisin's every waking moment.