Through drifting smoke, Quinsareth appeared in folds of shadow, looking down on the burning town of Targris dispassionately, fully expecting the nature of what awaited him, if not the method. He trembled in rage as the scene and its payback became clear to him.
Hoar was strict about the protocols of his followers: swift vengeance, violence returned in the manner it was given, whether the intentions were good or evil. Such abstract notions meant little to Hoar.
Injustice was the true foe, and all manner of beings, from goodly king to cruel tyrant, were capable of committing the offense. Though the good men Quin had faced may have regretted their hypocrisy, only fear had introduced them to the truth of what they'd done. True evil, in his experience, was at least honest in its intentions. He was no priest or cleric. He held no services, taught no wayward souls. He had no temple to conduct such teachings in. His church was the road, his offerings were of blood, and his prayers were dark, silent, and infrequent. Sitting down with his legs crossed, Quinsareth watched as Targris was subdued. He smelled the smoke and watched the fires. His celestial blood screamed for action, moved him to descend on these brigands and beasts. He waited, fighting himself as he focused on Hoar's blessing. The double lives of everything around him were visible, the real and the halo of shadows that flickered behind it all. He closed his eyes to the flames and attempted to block out the screams and weeping that reached him. He knew he could do nothing for them now but wait for early morning. He held on to his emotions, gathered them, sharpening the edge of his desires, molding them into the forms of the predators below. Quinsareth knew that in spite of everything-all that he'd done, all that he'd seen, and all that he might have once held himself to be-he was as much the killer as any of them.
Dark clouds obscured the dim light of early morning. Gaining strength, thunder rumbled in the distance, lost in the trees of the Qurth Forest that filled the southern horizon. The twisted branches danced in the wind, as if reveling like savages around a growing fire.
Small fishing boats in the town's harbor were tossed in the wild waves of the Lake of Steam. Mahgra watched it all and smiled, his bejeweled tusks bared as he swept his gaze across the main street from the doorstep of the mayor's home. The mayor himself was long dead now, covered in the bloody sheets of his own bed, a diversion for Mahgra's cruelty while he awaited the report of his gnoll warriors. He had thrown back his hood and heavy robes in order to inspire fear in his captives as well as to satisfy his own sense of vanity. Mahgra was rare among his kind, born with an affinity for magic that was reflected in his strange appearance. His skin was a deep shade of blue and covered with tattoos, both tribal and arcane. Small ivory horns protruded from his forehead, and his eyes were orbs of solid black, matching his well-groomed long hair, a banner of shadow across his shoulders, flowing in the wild winds of the storm. Gathered before him in the central square were the residents of Targris, guarded by gnolls wielding swords and axes. Others of their kind roamed the empty streets, ransacking homes for valuables and weapons. The gnolls were edgy and anxious, only barely held in check by Gyusk, their commander and Mahgra's second. Gyusk was the fiercest of them, his fiendish parentage giving him a semblance of royalty among their tribe. His green eyes, common among his race, glowed with a hellish light. Mahgra valued his shrewd mind and keen control over the hyena-faced warriors.
Seeing that matters were in control, the ogre turned his thoughts to the Qurth Forest and wondered when the messenger might arrive with new orders, though he loathed Morgynn's silver-tongued lapdog, Khaemil.
The sibilant tones of the shadurakul's voice were enough to drive the ogre mage mad at times. He could already imagine the smell of wet dog Khaemil would invariably bring with him. He brushed at his cloak absently as if to ward off even the idea of the aroma. Rain began to fall, the heavy clouds finally releasing their long-held burden, drops hissing in the dying embers of destroyed houses and the defiled remains of the oracles' temple. The sound added to Mahgra's mood and brought him back from the depth of his thoughts, back to the situation at hand. Gyusk loped forward, as formally as his slightly hunched form would allow, to stand before the ogre commander and await his attention. Mahgra looked down into the dim light of Gyusk's eyes, almost daring the gnoll to report anything contrary to the success he demanded. "Have your warriors finished their sweep?" His voice boomed over the noise of the storm, a second thunder that sent the gathered townsfolk to shaking as they huddled together on the cobblestones of the square. "Yes, Lord Mahgra, but we've collected only a few trinkets of any value." Gyusk's voice was growling and deep as he haltingly spoke in the common tongue that Mahgra preferred over the feral sounds of the gnolls' language. "Do what you will with the spoils. Disperse them among your warriors if it will help keep them in line. The Order wants no one harmed unless absolutely necessary. Understood?" "Yes, Mahgra." The ogre looked over the crowd of huddled fishermen and tradesmen. He frowned. "A pity these fisherfolk breed few warriors, Gyusk. A little resistance might have quelled the boredom of waiting."
Gyusk's brow furrowed at the statement and Mahgra smiled at the gnoll's obvious disagreement. He respected Gyusk's desire for swift victories and low casualties. Indeed, that very quality had compelled Mahgra to recruit the gnoll and his warriors for the Order. Gyusk's mind for strategy in the land of the Blacksaddle baronies had made him a thorn in Baron Thaltar's side for several months. They'd struck upon the weak swiftly and the strong warily, avoiding the armored patrols of Thaltar's soldiers. Mahgra, however, believed that such battles, while profitable, were ultimately hollow. "Petty fear breeds anger in the hearts of one's enemies," he'd said to Gyusk. "The true battle lies in the heart of the strong foe. Destroy that and you will have won. Shying away from conflict in favor of survival will ultimately destroy you." Lightning flashed and the rain fell harder. The wind whipped at Mahgra's cloak and hair. He could feel the magic of the storm like a singing in his blood. This never could have occurred in Innarlith, he thought. The best we could have hoped for there is pale compared to what we might accomplish in this place. Morgynn may think me a fool for insulting the puffed-up Ransar, but Innarlith was never the place for the faithful of Gargauth. Morgynn merely uses the Order, stringing along the affections of Talmen to her own ends, but our ambitions will clash one day, and the Order will be free of her and her pet. He stared at the roiling clouds. They were tinged with an eerie red glow. Mahgra's dark heart rejoiced as visions of conquest filled his mind. He could hear Gyusk speaking, saying his name and clearing his throat noisily. Reluctantly he turned from his reverie and faced the large gnoll. "What is it?" he bellowed, causing everyone to flinch. Gyusk pointed his clawed finger to the western end of the street, past the central square and toward the closed and sealed gate, where a lone figure stood in the darkness. "Someone seems to be resisting." His tone was low and serious, a stark contrast to Mahgra's irritated yelling. The ogre squinted his eyes, blinking through the heavy rain, but saw the figure only briefly before it seemed to disappear into thin air. A low growl, more common among his less civilized cousins, escaped him. "Someone is out there, Gyusk. It appears your warriors failed to find everyone." Gyusk snarled, his hackles raising at Mahgra's mention of failure, but he focused that anger on his subordinates, barking orders in their bestial language.