Deep in a forest, where only little light reaches, ten people and their horses, nine on them, one walking next to his horse, follow a path. The one on foot, clad in leather, holding a bow and having a quiver on his hip leads, keeping his eyes on the path, going down to check the path with his hands. The one slightly behind and next to him is clad in similar armour and holds a long spear with a cross-piece a hand below the tip to prevent over-penetration, one that looks exactly like the spear in the saddle skirt of the un-mounted horse.

The riders behind them are clad in mail-shirts over leather, both of them have a shield, formed like a teardrop, strapped to their left arms, one with a sabre the other with a straight long-sword in a sheath below their shield, ready to be drawn with their right arm. They keep close watch of the flanks, ready to respond to any attack.

The next four stand out a little, clad in soft leather clothes and without the obvious martial weapons the other carry but on closer look their daggers and ornate maces giving them away as spell-casters of some kind.

The last two are clad just like those in the second row and they keep quite a bit of distance, watching out for attackers from behind, one of them turning around every few seconds to check.

The sabre-wearing warrior in the back speaks towards a small, silver object that keeps pace with them, when suddenly, a large canine, maybe a small wolf, maybe a large dog or maybe a mix of the two, breaks through the brush, snarling and barking, only to end up being skewered on the spear, stopped by the cross-piece. Getting a good look at the animal dying at the end of his spear, seeing the collar around its neck and realising that it’s a guard-animal of some kind.

“Hound!” he calls out to his companions, making sure that they know that it wasn’t a random animal attack, maybe due to rabies or extreme hunger, but that they have stumbled upon someone who uses animals as their guards.

While muttering soft curses, the dismounted rider jumps back onto his mount and they keep their eyes open, looking for the owners of the guard dog, most likely the bandits they had been hunting all along.

They enter a large clearing and the one riding in the back calls out, “To the left, charge!”, their formation shifting and picking up the pace as they see a small camp, five tents around a small fire, with logs and scruffy-looking figures sitting around it.

Their formation shifts into a wedge, the two who had been in the back picking up the pace and take position next to the other two shield-bearers, the two scouts falling back to let the four armoured shield-bearers take the lead, with them on the sides of the wedge. Before putting his bow away, the archer quickly nocks and shoots two arrows, not fully bothering with aiming, just trying to sow confusion and maybe wound a bandit before their charge hit. His mount is well trained, keeping their position in the wedge without effort, allowing him to put the bow away and ready his spear.

Behind them, the four spell-casters are clad in colourful light and a golden light shines from one of them, enveloping the six charging riders for a moment before fading. But some of the light remains, adding a soft glow to their armour.

One of the other spellcasters has finished his working and with a shout, a fireball arcs from his hand, overtaking the charging riders and exploding in the middle of the bandit-camp.

And then the charge hits, the heavy, well-trained horses smashing through the camp, simply using their mass to break through the disorganised and confused bandits that still reel from the sudden attack. Their riders simply use their weapons to hack down at their prey in the few moments they are amongst them, before their speed carries them through the camp and out the other side where they turn, still in formation, to make another pass.

But there is no need, one bandit lies still with an arrow in the chest, two try rolling on the ground to put out fire, two have been simply trampled by the charging horses and the last four have all taken a heavy hit from the riders and look rather worse for wear. Just as the apparent leader, clad in slightly better armour and with a weapon that’s not more rust than intact metal gives out orders to defend against another attack, the two remaining spellcasters have finished their magic and roots burst from the ground, wrapping around all bandits, dead or alive, tying them down.

The six armed riders slowly approach, careful to make sure that nothing jumps from the tents, even as one of the tents is burning. They dismount a few meters away, the shield-wielders leading the way, with the two scouts supporting them with their spears. A few stabs into the tents make sure that nobody is hiding, before the group binds the bandits, before the magic binding them fades. Once that is done, they quickly search the tents, easily finding the evidence to ascertain that they indeed are the bandits they have been looking for.

The leader of the riders addresses the bound bandits, after giving a small sign to his men.

“Greetings. I am Tobiuno, Steward of Everwatch, and in the name of Sir Walter, Duke of Highever, I hereby judge you, according to the laws of the realm. You have been found guilty of robbery, banditry and poaching. The sentence is to hang by the neck at the nearest road, remaining there for the carrion-feeders, serving as a warning.” he declares with a small frown.

The bound bandits groan and those who are too wounded to walk are quickly put out of their misery. After that is done, one of the men speaks up.

“Sir, why don’t we say that none of them is fit to walk?” he asks, the leader frowning for a moment but quickly getting his point.

“Yes, you are right, I don’t think any of them can be made to walk.” with those words, he pulls his sabre again, ending the lives of the bound bandits with swift strikes.

“Let’s burn the camp and the corpses, no need to give the carrion-feeders indigestion.” he calls out after the gruesome business is done, all ten looking relieved not to have to drag the prisoners to the nearest road and hang them.

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[fade-to-black]

The view flies, over snow-covered mountains, mixes of white snow and grey rocks dominating everything. Suddenly, on the horizon, what looks like a cloud becomes visible, strangely grey-brown and moving in an odd manner. The vision flies closer and a huge glacier becomes visible and it becomes clear that the cloud is centered at the end of that glacier.

Closer still, and it becomes obvious that the cloud is composed out of dozens of birds, some smaller, flying lower, others bigger and the strange optic stemmed from the fact that the winds and air move with their swarm, twisting in a circle.

When the vision gets close enough, a round valley becomes visible, right below the wheel formed out of birds and wind, a valley buffeted and ravaged by the brutal wind the birds have conjured up, orcane-like wind funnelling through the sole entrance to the valley, ripping even small rocks from the mountainside and carrying them away.

Suddenly, at the bottom of the valley, figures are visible for a moment, trying to move through the wind, only to be obscured by a white cloud of thrown up snow and, strangely, mist that starts moving with the wind, joining it in its mad, twisting chase. The vision moves into the cloud and in the middle of the valley, a black-clad figure moves with the wind, her cloak flapping behind her, like black wings. Her hood is blown back and one can see a pristine, pale-blue face, a gentle smile playing on her lips, despite the storm raging around her.

Her arms move in a strange manner, partially blown around by the brutal winds, partially moving with the wind, directing it to blow, sometimes leading, sometimes following, as her feet step in an almost floating, dreamlike manner. As she moves, the interferences she takes from the storm seems to cease more and more, or maybe her movements just move with the storm, not trying to control it but letting it blow her where it will, a leaf on the wind, stillness in motion.

But the image of doesn’t last, the storm turns even more furious and the dancing figure is about to lose her step, to be blown into the air and ripped apart by the harrowing winds when another figure steps into her space, gathering the far smaller figure into her arms, ripping her from the possessive grip of the storm and carrying her away, into a small crevice below the glacier.

Now, with the loss of the dance-partner, the storm turns even faster, even more furious and the vision moves out, now again, showing the valley from above, the birds frantically flying to move with the storm, that has now turned into a blinding blizzard, sharp shards of ice, carried by relentless wind turning into razor bladed. Some of the smaller birds manage to get to safety, protected by their bigger brethren but a lot of them are swallowed by the wind, some pulled down into the valley and broken against the walls, others struck down by flying ice.

And the storm rages on, as the birds flee from the havoc they wrought.

[fade-to-black]

In the middle of a city, surrounded by a massive wall of white stone, near a huge, white tower with a golden top, stands a huge, round building. The building is built from grey stone and decorated by colourful awnings, giving shade from the sun above and masses of people mill around, creating a teeming, buzzing atmosphere.

In the middle of the round building, surrounded by stands made from grey marmor, is an empty expanse, filled with sand and on one side of that round expanse stands a tall figure, clad in shining armour, waiting for his opponent, the next test of his mettle and martial might.

His hands hold a massive weapon, crafted to be one-and-a-half times his impressive height, a polearm that many wield but few, if any master. On the top of the three meter long shaft, made from some of the hardest wood and banded with metal sits the head that makes the weapon so unique and versatile. On one side, sits a crescent-axe blade, opposite of it, a sturdy and sharp spike and between the two a gleaming spear-tip. The fighter had previously used his halberd with great ability and versatility, chopping limbs of with the blade, striking through even the hardest armour with the sharp spike, parrying attacks with the shaft and using the spear to impale those recklessly charging at him, be it another warrior or one of the many monsters, captured for the arena. He even, from time to time, used the butt of his weapon like a staff or club, hitting his opponents over the head with it.

An announcer, his voice carried far and wide by magic, starts speaking.

“And finally, the last challenger for the great Gramus, is a special treat. He is one of those the Gods told us about, a chosen one, send here to learn and receive guidance. Today, he will receive guidance from the one of the greatest warriors that have ever graced the sandy floor of our arena.

Give a rousing cheer for Clavran!”

From one of the stairs, leading down into the staging area below the arena, another warrior emerges, his armour far less splendid, made from reinforced leather and in his hands wait two blades, one longer, the other shorter but both slightly curved, crafted in a style unfamiliar to most in the audience, but a few, those experienced with foreign countries and cultures eye them with interest. The weapons almost look like a cavalry saber, only the larger one is far larger than a saber, the shorter one quite a bit shorter and both are so slim that one has to wonder if they would survive the brutal impact a cavalry charge subjects them to.

The fighter calmly walks into the arena, for a moment looking around the stands until his gaze falls on his opponent and it seems as if the rest of the world ceases to exist for him.

Now, only his foe matters, until he is vanquished.

After a short prayer to the gods and salute to the Emperor, combat starts, not with a bang but with a careful approach by Clavran who starts to circle his opponent. The experienced fighter Gramus has to smile at that, holding his ground and easily keeping his foe in his vision, noting that those in charge of the arena have used the powerful magic of the ancient building to bring his attributes down to his foes level. For a moment, he tenses his muscles, one after the other, mentally taking note of what he has to work with, before his foe starts the first, probing attack, slashing with one blade in a feint to get an opening, if Gramus underestimates the newcomer.

He does not, and so, the dance begins. Blade strikes axe, shaft parries blade, in a frantic symphony of clanging metal. From time to time, one of the combatants manages to get a grazing hit, causing small marks on the armour of the other, but neither of them manages to do more than cause cosmetic damage. After the first few exchanges, Gramus had taken his halberd in a centered grip, using not only the axe-head but also the butt to great effect. Some might say that his longer reach would help more, but there are more than enough tricks, feints and abilities to get into the radius of the weapon, taking away the biggest advantage of its heft and reach. The center grip takes that into account, meeting the enemy on almost even ground, forcing them to commit at short range.

And that short range is what decides the match at the end, Gramus letting a stab from the shorter blade pierce through a gap in his armour, causing a superficial wound, while he manages to capture the longer blade between the axe-head and the spear-tip, twisting his weapon almost like a sword-breaker and ripping the weapon from his foes hand, bend in a manner that makes any warrior and blade-smith in the audience cringe.

Reduced to only the lesser of his two blades, Clavius is at the mercy of his more experienced foe and is forced away. At that point, Gramus gives his opponent a moment to concede, hoping that he is not forced to end the match by maiming or even killing his opponent, he had fun fighting him. The Traveller, seeing that there is no way to get into range to use his short blade against his powerful foe, not with the halberd keeping him at a distance, bows, conceding the match. But it had been a good match and the crowd cheers for both fighters, as Clavius calls out, asking them if they are entertained.