Phoenix-Vampyrum

Alone It had been three days since Swartt's great horde had resumed its march southwest from the stream.  In that time, the Warlord's luck had taken a turn for the better; not only had he rid himself of the crows that had been torturing his soldiers, but he had acquired a good deal more.  Two days earlier, Nightshade had been sent out in search of a possible solution to their crow problem.  She had found a gorge, riddled with caves, and the horde had taken shelter in them.  As it turned out, however, a tribe of foxes already inhabited the caves.  Once they had taken care of the crows outside,

The Warlord's Wife Swartt ordered the horde to break camp at midmorning.  Toting everything they had managed to salvage from the charred ruin of the site, the mass of creatures began their lengthy march southwest.  At the rear of the horde, Sixclaw stood with a line of archers gathered around a fire.  He ordered burning arrows to be fired into the pine grove of the crows, baring his red fangs in a malicious grin as a torrent of flame erupted from the natural firetrap when the arrows hit. Bluefen was marching alongside Nightshade near the front of the horde.  She looked over her shoulder to see the pit

Poison and Honey Bluefen was up and about far earlier than Swartt, not because she wasn't tired, but because her face was still thumping like a hammer and had kept her from sleeping peacefully.  She had ventured, bearing a lantern, out into the dark still that seems to hang in the air like a tangible thing before the sunrise, and dipped water from the stream to bathe her face.  The ferret was beginning to think that she should ask Nightshade to instruct her on how to make a simple poultice, seeing as injuries were becoming commonplace in her marriage, and cool water could only do so much.  After ministering to h

Midnight Assault It was beautiful, utterly beautiful. Bluefen's eyes roved over the landscape before her: lush, thick-bladed grass dotted with wildflowers, fruit trees bordered by tiny patches of mushrooms, a broad stream heavily lined with watercress and milling with fish… it was almost enough to make her forget about her sore footpaws. A sudden shouting dragged her attention away, and she turned to see the horde facing Swartt, cheering and praising his genius. They had no idea that their Warlord was almost as relieved as they were to have found this place. Swartt was smiling, but it was a smug look, aimed at those who had believed hi

Lies and Truths Nothing had seemed to go Swartt's way for the past several days.  Rumor had spread throughout the camp that they were lost, and when Sixclaw told them that they would be staying here for a while, it had just about been confirmed.  Why else would Swartt order them to remain on the boiling, windswept plains?  A few hordebeasts that did not have the luxury of a tent claimed that they had seen the Warlord's vixen and two other creatures slipping off into the night, back the way they had come, several days ago.  They knew that she must be backtracking, and they hoped that she would get them back on the right trail soon.  Without a

Getting to Know You Bluefen still hadn't gone to sleep by the time Swartt returned. During most of his absence she had sat and stared at the tent tarp, struggling to accept the fact that she was stuck here with this monster. An angry red welt had risen on her cheek where he had struck her, and once she noticed it she had taken a small basin, filled it with water, and dabbed the cool, soothing liquid on the stinging spot with a cloth. It was here that the Warlord found her, sitting next to the basin with the cloth to her face. "Still fussin' over that, are ye?" Swartt snorted and went over to the trunk he had pillaged from Bowfleg's tent. Fi

Out of the Frying Pan, Into the Fire The next morning that found the camp of Bowfleg the Warlord was an eerie one. The sun rose slowly over the land with a blood red glow, illuminating the silver ribbons of mist that slithered between the tattered tents like spectral snakes. No birds were to be seen in the sky, and the air was devoid of their morning song. The wind was still, and the whole of the eastern scrublands was left to an almost supernatural silence, as if sound altogether had simply been muted. The camp would have slept much later than usual without the birds or the weather to wake them had it not been for the pounding drums that er

Newcomers Unlike many autumn mornings, this one did not come bearing a gust of chilling wind. The sun rose warm and bright in the clear sky, which many a beast would have claimed was the bluest they had seen in a long, long while. The birds, taking advantage of the beautiful weather, left the nests in which they had hidden in for so long from the cold rain and howling wind that often came with the cooler season. The songbirds were among these fowl, and they chirped at the height of their cheery little voices, flitting about in the blue, cloudless expanse above the tents of Bowfleg the Warlord. A few early risers were already gathered around