A village outside of the town of Ashinghamm has had a “fowl” disappearance of hens for the past two weeks before we arrived from Sloane—Seetha had been cataloging every undertaking she and Jacq had ever taken, as she was her own party’s unofficial chronicler for the Questing Guild to read afterwards. Jacq never objected; she did the fighting while Seetha did the writing—until there were barely any hens left and too few eggs to sell for upcoming market days. Even the rooster had been taken.
The third week began on October 22nd, right when we stepped into the picture. Admittedly, it took me some convincing to take the job for free bedding (on straw mats) and a considerably huge decrease in our usual fee; according to the Guild’s rates.
Jacq began her investigation around the scene of the crime while I handled the Q&A part. When I asked who was normally responsible for handling these local incidents, all fingers pointed to Ashinghamm’s watchdog, the Honorary Sheriff as he was colloquially called. Needless to say, it was a shut and close case after a hasty session of questions and answers in lieu of due process as it is these days, deducting that it had only been the occasional herd of wild pigs. Jacq confirmed the evidence when she found a series of hoof-prints around the coops, so that alone would’ve been nothing to trouble the Sheriff, or the Questing Guild over; the latter would’ve been too expensive to solve some yokel’s dilemma anyhow. But the Alderman insisted that it wasn’t wild pigs. Still, I was about to obey my first impulse and walk back to the boat before we got roped in to some run-of-the-mill quest for penny florins and eternal gratitude as a reward, until Jacq reminded me that good character was what the Guild was looking for. The things I do for even a little accreditation.
The villagers said they took it upon themselves to look for the elusive culprits, but none of them could find anything. Then it just so happened, the Alderman explained to me, that there was yet another theft the night before, this time on Ashinghamm’s doorsteps, along the farmhouses outside its town walls. This time, rather than going on a fool’s errand to see the Sheriff again, the Alderman made a formal complaint directly to the town’s founding father, Mayor Johann Irremberg, but alas it was another bust. You see, there’s isn’t much redeemable qualities to be sung about this mayor, as testified by every known associate and worker within his hollow managerial environment. Being the second son in a long line of dwarven gentry, he’s rich and charismatic like the typical dwarf, yet known for his questionable business connections with dark elves and pirates, never mind his seedy affairs with some upperclass starlets from High Cimbria.
In typical fashion of a political leader, there’s weight in his gold but none in his words, and like every political leader, he had a keen eye for any quick boot up the social ladder. At the time of the crime, he was cooped up in his manor writing letters of recommendation to Joshua I, the reigning King of Angevin, for a seat in his personal council in Cair Lundem. Apparently, he and the Sheriff cared little for their own town’s supply of poultry, considering that even nobles and gentries paid well on market days for chicken dinners. Then one night, suspicions were confirmed when one of the town’s Catch Poles on patrol ran into some shady figures robbing someone’s chicken coop on the outskirts of town. According to his testimony, they were hooded figures. One was carrying a stack of twelve or thirteen cages held together by a rope, while the other stuffed the hens in them, one at a time, but one peculiar detail he noticed, even in the dim light of his torch, was that their feet were not that of humans. Not of elves or dwarves either, but they were cloven. The two figures ran for the woods, rather clumsily but quickly, before the alarm could be rung. If our witness could be believed, it was astonishing that those stack of filled cages didn’t weigh those thieves down.
So far, our only description of the mysterious hen thieves were “cloven hoofs” and the apparent strength to lift stacks of hen cages while on the run. Jacq’s immediate deduction was the boerboks—I’ll reiterate for any students from the field of humanoid studies—half men half ungulates, a corrupted variation of Saint Nicholas’ minotaur and Saint Francis’ faun. Turns out that she might have made a slight misidentification, but I’m getting ahead of myself. Offhand, the Catch Pole claimed to have grabbed one of the cages and bravely held on for dear life, although some eyewitnesses awakened by his frightened wailing, as he ran back into town, would beg to differ.
I supposed if I had been a more sensible woman, I would’ve told Jacq we should’ve gone to the Mayor first, who already knew about these disappearances. At the very least, there would’ve been contracts with much better pay waiting for us like hot tubs in a glacier. But then, I remembered the “incident” instigated by my less-than-sensitive companion back in Headquarters. I was afraid that some bounty hunter would’ve been waiting for us in Ashinghamm before we even stepped foot on the shores of the island. It may have been irrational of me to think that news traveled as fast as the fairy flies, but then, when I was just a child, I saw a man fired a hand-canon in a tourney for the first time in my life. In one shot, it pierced a knight’s thick, plate of armor deeper than a crossbow bolt and as fast as the new courier fae services. Of course, the armor was set on a dummy, but it wasn’t even the loud noise that scared me. I was cheering for this one knight during the jousting event, and I was afraid for a moment that he would be up against such a deadly weapon during the fights, that was the real fights in war. We live in fast times, indeed.
But I digress. Jacq soon discovered the culprit’s trail leading into the wilderness, and being the better tracker out of the two of us, naturally she led the hunt. We soon discovered a brigands camp hidden in a ravine two miles into the woods. Easy for a Rüzgârian or a king’s hound to find, but any peasant could easily miss it if he didn’t know where to look. The path to the brigand’s camp lead through natural rock formations of steep crags and gullies most likely paved by the passing of the river once. To the amateur tactician in me, these natural wonders were an ideal first line of defense; the narrow passage with its uneven terrain would’ve made for a perfect choke point for anyone unfortunate enough to alert any nearby brigands. It was a small credit to these tenacious bastards, which would’ve spelled an ignominious end for the two of us, had luck not rolled in our favor. We found their encampment to be empty with no sentries on guard, to my less-than-composed-friend’s disappointment. She had been eager to crack some thick skulls since we landed in Angevin, and since that eagerness was targeted towards menaces to the common good, I appreciated her enthusiasm.
The entrance had been hidden by tree branches like a veil as we entered. What we found at first were shanty tents and weapon racks still erect, and between the tents was a deep imprint in the mud, shaped like a grill, covered by a residue of downy feathers. We delved a little further into the encampment until we came across a sight that made our blood boil: a nestle of dead hens and a rooster. The poor creatures looked as though they’d been torn to pieces, but not by foxes or wild pigs. The bite marks were made by small yet serrated teeth, perhaps made by some species of lizards according to Jacq’s knowledge on how to treat certain animal bites with natural remedies. To me, it was a recall to that old wives tale of hen’s teeth my grandmother once told me; a pretense that even my scholarly family upheld. I supposed the events of that investigation taught me that even such tales could hide a grain of truth, because upon closer inspection at the bodies, we reeled back at the pungy, reptilian odor that was intruding itself up our noses. I don’t believe I’ve ever smelled anything more repulsive in my entire life.
That’s when I figured it out: the brigands were running a cockfighting ring, using a cockatrice as the main attraction. It was despicable. A family goes hungry so that a few dozen scumbags could pinch a few coins from gambling. It was a blood sport that the Empress of High Cimbria had claimed was outlawed in Avrupa eighty years ago, but then again slavery was also outlawed around that time, so I use the term loosely.
The rest of this report contains educated speculation. From what we gathered, the brigands must’ve stuck around their camp, no doubt to wait for another opportunity to rob another farm, until something provoked or incentivized them to leave in a rush for reasons unknown to us at the time.
At the very least, our next discovery dispelled the boerbok theory. We found a pair of dried pigs feet tied to stilts next to a crusty, wooden box stacked with even more stilts, which would explain how the thieves covered their tracks. Either one of them was abnormally strong, or he was wearing a stolen ornament that enhanced his strength. It’s possible that they might’ve had help from orcs; it’s not unheard of for gangs of evil humans and nonhumans to set aside differences to pursue malfeasant agendas. Where the birds were taken to next wasn’t too hard to decipher, seeing as there were downy feathers scattered along the muddy trail heading towards the river.
As for how they acquired a cockatrice, well, this was also an educated speculation. Cockatrices are flightless, arid dwelling creatures originating from Isyr and the eastern archipelagos of Renéria. They aren’t native to any of the Northern Isles as we all know, and pretty hard to catch without the right bait and the correct form of entrapment. Plus, considering that the natural habitat of a cockatrice is, to my best estimate, 3,400 miles away from Angevin, I simply threw my initial theory out the window. The thought of smuggling one just to supply a low-rent blood sport would’ve been implausible, if not impractical, but with that said, there is a theoretical way to create a cockatrice through some kind of Malizauberai enchantment. This is just hearsay from university, but I remember seeing this one student experimenting with a hen’s feed being imbued with a transformation potion, although the exact list of ingredients and the step-by-step process eludes me. Once turned, however, these monstrosities would be thrown into a caged arena like a dog set upon some rats, and the surrounding scum would gamble for the highest kill count. Of course, I never studied Malizauberai, and I certainly don’t plan to touch the topic in the future, not even to save my own life.
We quickly returned to the village with our findings and asked the Alderman where the brigand’s trail led. ‘To a small inn by the river,’ he said stiffly. ‘Owned by my cousin, but in name only. Mayor Johann is the real owner.’
There was something in the Alderman’s tone, seemingly warning us that something was rotting to high heaven over this island, and considering the sort of things these people had to say about their “Honorable” Sheriff,’ I took it on intuition that waiting on the law to do something about it was not going to be an option. Our inside man was a young, fellow human named Leo, a local who happened to hold up two jobs, both as a barkeep’s apprentice. One was at the Cat’s Tongue inn in Ashinghamm, and the other was at the inn by the river, the Pike’s Pike, not more than five miles away.
Lucky for us, the barkeep at Pike’s Pike had eyes and ears where even a rat couldn’t see or hear in the dark, and he had no tolerance for the rats we were hunting for, no matter the profits or threats. According to him, the inn had been in his family as far back as the Relic Crusade of the 8th Century. In his own words, he’d be damned to see a respectable establishment degraded into some dirty goblin’s den. The plan was for Leo to find out where the next cockfight would be staged, tip us off, and then we’d put those bastards out of business. Simplicity in of itself. If only…

The Rüzgârian’s blow pushed the cellar doors inward with a crash, reducing them to a pile of splinters and metal bolts. Like rats caught in the light, the eyes of twenty cowled brigands shot back from their decadent pleasure at the unexpected entrance, all fearfully anticipating the sound of the town guard’s rattling chainmail, or the quip of some meddling Adventurers. The last thing that came to their darkened minds was a tall, half-revealing woman, reveling in the glistening moonlight that shone down like a lady of the night. Her sword was drawn out, but…
“Who ordered the strumpet?” came a crackled voice after an awkward silence: the Head.
Jacq could hardly believe her ears. “Strumpet?” Her hand constricted her sword grip.
The slew of chuckles rattling in her ears was a lit torch that dared to touch her shortened fuse, but before it got any closer, the door to the inn’s upper room swung open. The brigands turned their attention to their sentry posted outside, but then their elated faces dwindled into ghastly bewilderment. A prolonged whine from the sentry’s pale lips, now bloodied from the flowing sheet of crimson, could be heard before he fell face down onto the wooden floor. A protruding knife was staked into the nape of his neck. The Sword Dancer stepped over him to meet his hapless friends.
“He’s dead,” one of the snakes despaired.
“Kill them!” commanded the Head. Short swords and cudgels, being unsheathed or drawn out, were gripped with proscribed intent as the brigands rose up with no reservations visible in their black eyes; eyes that were shortly blinded when the Sword Dancer deployed Leo’s parting gift into their midst. It was a sharp throw.
The small, leather pouch bursted on impact and immediately erupted into a dense, white mist that rose up into an encircling spiral and seemed to muffle any sounds and movements from without, and within. The brigands stumbled around blindly, their movements frantic and erratic as they searched for their attackers. The powdery stench of the mist was overpowering, mixed with the earthy scent of the cellar and the sharp tang of adrenaline emitting hysteria into the men’s ranks tempting them to fling their weapons around impulsively. But none of them dared to, out of fear of striking their leader, or fellow scum.
On cue, the Rüzgârian quickened her pace. Her gait was fluid and graceful as she effortlessly leaped from one step to another, stalking her prey with the grace of a lioness. One of the attackers took a chance and stepped out of formation, tripping over a stool in his haste. The lioness was quick to follow. “Stay where you are!” bellowed the Head, turning his attention away from the scene and losing sight of the two assailants. He cursed under his breath as he pressed his back against a support beam, watching with bloodshot eyes as his once fierce group of bullies crumbled before attrition could even set in. They were reduced to nothing more than scared lambs by two women armed with a simple bag of tricks.
The Barbarian’s flying sword sliced through the mist, catching Brigand no.2 and 3 off guard. No.2 was impaled through his squinted eye, falling to the ground with the sword erect as his tombstone. No.3 tried to retaliate, but before he could strike, the Rüzgârian grappled his sword arm and delivered a powerful blow to his gut. He fell onto his knees in pain as she grabbed his hair and smashed his face into her sword’s cross-guard twice. His teeth flew across the room and his long nose caved into his skull before he collapsed to the floor; his assassin vanished as quick as she came, leaving behind only chaos.
Brigand no.4, barely able to make out the form of the Rüzgârian, fought his way through the crowded group of men in the corral. His cudgel shaking above his head, he pushed and shoved until he finally reached the outskirts of the circle. But by then, the Rüzgârian had wrapped herself back in the mist. Moments later, she came at him not swinging wildly with wide arcs, but gripping her blade’s center with one hand with the pommel braced firmly in the other. Her sword was now a spear. This new stance allowed for more precise attacks in the tight confines of the cellar, though initially it was intended to exploit gaps and crevices in the armor of heavily protected opponents. But Jacq, once upon a time, had studied her Talhoffer well, that was in order to impress her more refined companion to show that she was capable of retaining an education, of sorts. Now, Brigand no.4 was straining a hoarse shriek as he stared at the sharp point of the spear in his chest, unable to comprehend what had just happened.
The Sword Dancer was not a lesser counterpart, slashing no.5 across his whole face with a tigress’s ferocity. He collapsed without realizing he was dead, crashing into a stack of empty mead barrels. Another attacker, no.6, launched two attacks but they were both parried with metallic clangs before he was sliced through the jugular and dropped at the feet of no.7 and 8. Like the white mist, the death noises and clash of steel blanketed the tightly knitted corral. Every man, like a circle of dominos, was forcefully shoved against one another and flatfooted, and then the next flatfooted brigand was knocked into the next flatfooted brigand; each man blindly prodded each other in vain attempts to find the two trespassers. With tempers and terrors rising, cohesion was lost. All according to plan. The ninth man behind no.7 and 8 swung his cudgel with chopping motions against the doom he knew was coming, not knowing that it would come from no.8’s sword.

Tremor was a venom coursing through the Head’s hairy hands. With a ferocious roar, he commanded, “You two on the left!” in a last-ditch effort to break up his crumbling defense and create a semi-circle formation to outflank their attackers. No.10 instinctively took two steps back and prepared for impact. However, before he could react, no.11 panicked and struck him from behind with a sharp blow to the side of his neck. Despite his tense muscles, he couldn’t prevent himself from falling forward and collided heavily with no.11. As no.11 tried to take a step back, no.12 felt something sharp pressing his arm. It was enough.
Brigand no.12 aimlessly jabbed his sword into no.11 and 13, likewise no.14 and15 attacked him simultaneously from both sides. Both perceived they had found the intruders, falling into the fanatical chops of each other’s blades. No.16 felt a sharp cut from above, bending low he careened and fumbled into the makeshift fighting ring for the imprisoned fowls; the wooden framework crumbled as feathers flew into the misty air. No.17 jumped to the side, tripping but barely managed to catch his balance on his legs, but then no.18 rushed forward and covered him with sword slashes swung vertically. No.17 deflected nearly all the blows as he was pushed back onto his knees, yet the last one severed the index and middle finger holding his weapon, and at the sound of his screams did no.18 realize his error. Whirling around in a half-turn, he got ready to parry… too late. He was slashed by no.19 across the face, symmetrical to his old scar, until no.19 and 17 joined him in the long death dream by falling into the Head’s blade. No.20.
He used his back to push himself from the support beam, jumped over the bodies, and attacked with both hands, half-blind. He struck his last man down and immediately jumped back, yet not before brushing against one of the bloodied brigands by the soles of his heavy boots. By his perspiring brow, the shortness of breath, and the quakes in his hands, the dreadful presence of isolation began to dawn on him where he stood. The Head was eying for what chaotic force of misfortune and twisted fate conspired against him in one moment, in the next he did not see the twin strikes from the sides. Slashed on his inner sides, just below the elbow. His broadsword fell from his hand. He fell down to his knees, tried to stand up but failed. Dropping his face first onto the floor, he lied still in a red pool among the scattered wooden stools, weapons, coin, grain and feathers…
“Whoa, Jacq! It’s me!” Seetha called out, her head missed by a hairline after a subconscious parry.
“Shit!” Jacq froze nervously, lowering her sword to her side. “I’m so sorry! I couldn't see you… still can’t see you, actually. It’s the mist.”
“And that shot of poison you dunked earlier, I imagine,” said Seetha, coughing a little as she waved a white cloud from her face and towards the open cellar doors. “Let’s wait until it clears up—” she added grimly “—and pray that no one but Leo heard that.”