Dreisterne

INTERLUDE III

The forest clearing buzzed with the raw energy of warriors eager for blood. Steel caught the sun in flashes, mismatched yet deadly. The scent of sweat and old leather mixed with the distant aroma of pine and damp earth. These were not disciplined soldiers, nor mere bandits scraping by on scraps, but they were something in between. Hardened men, well-fed and well-armed, ready to spill blood for the promise of gold and glory.

As their voices rose in savage excitement, two figures stood apart from the rabble. The first was a tall, slender man clad in a dark, finely tailored coat and a sleek pair of glasses, his every movement refined and deliberate. A knowing smile played on his lips as he raised a gloved hand, basking in the adulation of his assembled force. This was Sandman, their benefactor, their guide, and the architect of their coming storm.

Beside him loomed a giant of a man, his scarred arms thicker than most men's thighs. He cracked his knuckles absently, the sound like rocks grinding together. Unlike his companion, his presence was anything but refined. Headmasher was a force of nature, barely restrained.

Sandman's voice cut through the noise, smooth as silk yet carrying an undeniable authority. "Brothers, our moment is at hand." His lips curled as he gestured toward the horizon. "Wayside lies ahead, fat and ripe for the taking. Its people are soft, its defences laughable. And you, my friends, are the storm that will make them remember fear."

A chorus of cheers rang through the forest, blades raised high, fists pounding against shields and breastplates.

Sandman continued, his tone still measured, almost amused. "You owe your fine arms and fine wine to a generous masked friend, but I expect no repayment." He chuckled, watching his men revel in their newfound strength. "No, no. Your joy, your chaos, your unrestrained, glorious carnage will be reward enough for me."

Another cheer, louder this time. The men were ready to march, hungry for destruction.

Sandman turned to the massive man beside him. "I'm sorry you've lost your position as Sheriff of Dunsgoil Hill."

"Bah! Shakin' down those lily-livered pansies for their florins was a damn chore! Couldn't even flick at their empty heads without hearin' complaints. An' don't get me started on that slimy git, Skinner!" Headmasher scoffed. "But now that I don't have any 'filial obligations' tyin' me down, I can look forward to all the skulls I can cave in with these fists!"

Sandman chuckled. "I'm sorry, my friend, but you will be sitting this one out."

Headmasher exhaled through his nose, unimpressed but obedient. "Aye, aye, boss. I remember. No head mashing 'til Rossland's drownin' in its own piss." He folded his arms, glancing at the riled-up warriors with something resembling longing. "Damn shame, though. Would've been fun joinin' the boys in their upcoming party."

Sandman smirked. "Patience. Once you rid the thorns on our side, there will be plenty of skulls to shatter soon enough. I'm sure our masked friend is looking forward to your show, as well."

As the horde set off, vanishing into the trees, Sandman let out a satisfied sigh. The pieces were in motion. Soon, Rossland would be engulfed in chaos it could not contain.

Headmasher, meanwhile, had his own task to enjoy. He yanked a crumpled parchment from his belt, the edges torn and greasy from handling. The faces on it stared back, their ink slightly smudged but unmistakable: Nathan, Harald, and Keith. The brute grinned like a beast, already savouring the thought of caving their skulls in. He turned to his men, their persimmon-coloured tabards catching the light. "Right, lads. We got a job to do. Seems these Dreisterne bastards have been meddlin' too much for our friend's likin', and honestly, I hate 'em myself!" He tapped the poster with a thick finger. "So we don't stop 'til every last one of 'em's worm food!"

The remaining warriors grunted in assent, saddling up and preparing for the hunt.

Headmasher rolled his shoulders, already savouring the fight to come. He grinned, cracking his knuckles. "We're hunting 'em down, boys. And we'll make it messy."