A cog, a feather and a sword: these three symbols, painted on the amaranth-red bonnet of the rolling wagon, make up the insignia of Platinum Corp. Nobody knows what exactly Platinum Corp is, save that it's a very wealthy and very secretive organization. But there are rumours: mindless soldiers of glass and steel, invincible flagships capable of sinking entire fleets, and mind-mending technology. Their involvement in the colonization of Arid Mesa has been treated as something of an urban legend, with skepticism and often in half-sarcastic murmurs. Yet here is the evidence, as three wagons carve their westward path through the snow and frost of The Ice Fields. Each bears that same insignia, and each is laden with supplies for the detestable deeds taking place on the arid land across the sea. And it would seem that one of those absurd rumours is actually true, as the figures that escort the wagons are walking creations of metal-artifice. Even the horses that draw the wagons are not horses at all, but clockwork imitations that crush snow beneath iron hooves.

No snow falls on this bleak afternoon, and so the piled snow as shallowly so. There is little to impede the caravan as they crush clumps of ice beneath their wheels and hooves, passing some three-hundred feet from the edge of the Coldwood whose birch trees are the only shelter for miles. And yet shelter is, apparently, not something the caravan desires, as they have circumvented the forest and mountains in favour of a clean gouge through the tundra-plains.

In addition to the wheel-tracks, the footprints of taloned feet - almost avian - have left a clear trail to follow; it seems secrecy is not their primary concern so much as expediency. This is a fortunate thing indeed. If they had not left such a trail, how else could they be followed? Had they not been found, how else could they be found? If they had not been found, what hope would there be to destroy them?

Yes - there are many who detest the abusive expeditions into the Arid Mesa, and so the supplies headed there - including this one - have been marked for righteous banditry. But, even with the caravan in sight, it won't be an easy task. There are no fewer than twenty mechanical men - all armed - escorting the caravan, and three separate wagons to target. The rear wagon is a beastly one, its bonnet totally concealing whatever heavy cargo it holds. The middle wagon is more usual save for the horse drawing it, which seems to wear a mane of fire. And the fore wagon... is difficult to call a 'wagon,' but seems to serve the same purpose. It possesses similar wheels and is drawn by another metal horse, but the wagon itself (constructed of tin) has been resemble to resemble a snail, swirling shell and all. It is easily one of the strangest things that might be seen in Frost Gale. Then again, the day is still young; the assault has yet to even begin, and it is bound to be a bizarre one.

---

Taking Minions
Bishop-11 (Three is a Crowd II)
Fisher-06 (Experienced Crew)
Knight-02 (Three is a Crowd II)

Taking Pets
Envy-04 (Nightmare Steed)
Lag Switch-06 (Ashlands Jackal)

Despite the sun beating down on the group of five trudging through the snowy tracks, the assassin cloaked in black was barely visible in the shadows granted to him from the landscape. His posture was relaxed, though it was obvious to any observer from the serious expression on his face that he was ready for action at any moment. On either side of the assassin stood two shorter, masked humans- one unarmed, the other with a line of daggers strapped to her belt. Neither one of the apprentices had said much the entire journey, electing to speak to the assassin in hushed tones rather than the tiefling and the swordsman that had been hired to sabotage this shipment right alongside Cyran.

Cyran himself, along with the mercenary and the medic, had all been tasked with this mission by the same employer. Wagons much like this one had been making their way through Frostgale for the past few months or so, supplying the dangerous westward expansion of the Arid Mesa, and a band of concerned citizens had come together to supply just enough funds to hire the three adventurers currently lying in wait to sabotage the shipments and halt progress.

… Although, now that Cyran had a better look of the carts in the distance, ones he’d scouted out with Yeux, it was safe to say that this was not your traditional shipment of cargo.

For one thing, the first wagon was constructed entirely of metal, the second piloted by a steed wreathed in hellish flames, and the third a hulking vehicle that dwarfed the other two. Not to mention the entire caravan was surrounded by strange automatons, the likes of which Cyran had never seen before.

Look for the caravan with the cog, the feather, and the sword. That was the one piece of information they’d been given by their employer- Cyran hadn’t asked for more. He was beginning to regret that decision now. It seemed that this Platinum Corp, whatever the secretive company really was, would prove different from the usual kind of businesses that Cyran was hired to target.

Not that it mattered. With a few well-placed strokes of a dagger it would bleed just like any man of flesh and blood.

All one needed to find was the weak point.

Cyran pulled up the hood of his cloak as they followed the wagon tracks across the snow, casting his face in shadow. This particular shipment had been smart, avoiding areas like the Coldwoods and the mountains to avoid being taken by surprise, but even forethought and careful planning would be trumped by the natural environment. Soon, they would be approaching terrain filled with craggy ice outcroppings that would provide more natural coverage. The perfect environment for an ambush.

“We’ll be approaching the site soon.” Cyran murmured in a low voice as he addressed his companions. “Once we’re there, the environment will provide more coverage to get close and stage our attack.” None of them possessed much in the way of firepower, but they didn’t need much if they were to sabotage the wagons. All they needed was to get close enough to damage the wagons or stop them entirely. “It looks like they’re well guarded- Yeux spotted upwards of twenty automatons, all carrying weapons.”

With that simple warning, Cyran quickened his pace, pulling Spell Slicer and Cold Steel from his belt. They would be catching up to the wagon soon, and he would be ready to take out as many guards as necessary to get to the wagons they protected. Behind him, Oriole and Andromeda readied themselves, following behind their mentor with determined expressions on their faces, masks concealing any of the nerves they felt. Neither had worked a job of this scale before, but they would support Cyran any way they could.

---

Taking Minions
Oriole (Warlord I)
Andromeda (Warlord II)

Taking Pets
Yeux (Vampire Bat)

The cold is a... quaint thing.

It isn't as though it's something completely alien to Askr-- he's well-accustomed to the moonlit chill of nights in the Zeinav Desert, the way the heat abandons the valleys of sand in the White Sand Sea without a second thought as soon as ink stains the pale blue sky, the way he has to shove his fingers into his pockets or merely curl them into the fabric of his jacket just to stave off that cloying numbness. It is merely a part of the cycle of time, the cycle of temperature, the moon and the sun leaving their mark on the land in any way they may, however volatile it may seem. It is something he is used to, however sparsely travel leads Captain Bleier's band through the desert.

None of that compares to this, though-- to the constant sting in the air, whipping against whatever exposed skin he's left unveiled for the elements to poke at, to the numbness threatening to take him even through the heavy fabric of his winter clothing. It is fortunate that he had taken additional precaution; his ears still sting, left for the wind to whistle against, but he thought to trade his normal lighter ensemble for something more protective. It had felt optimal, and so he had taken the optimal route. Such was logic.

It is one of his first commissions alone, after all, and he would hate to be a stain on Oleeae's name.

...He is not entirely alone, merely without a familiar face. There is no Captain, no Aaranay, no Ogma and Tethra with their strange and unending arguments, no fellow mercenary he could count upon in the traditional sense. No, instead he stands beside a strange, elven shadow of a man-- one that Zarius had introduced to him as Cyran, back in the more comforting terrain of Darkveil City-- and two companions of his, and... a tiefling, one he presumes must be a medic. It is always fortunate to have one with medical experience on a venture such as this, as well as to have those experienced in the art of stealth.

It is enough to make Askr feel a little useless, in contrast. He is armed with a sword, his resilience, and dedication to the commission placed within his hands. The old shards of his mother's dead powers buzz in his gilded veins, but whatever fruit they yield, he has no access to.

He sweeps a finger through a lock of sand-colored hair, brushing snow from it the same way he'd pluck wisps of ash away on a venture to the more familiar turf of Mount Drakolt, before glancing up to the elven man, registering his words carefully. Automatons... Constructs. Artificial entities. No will of their own beyond the will bestowed upon them, an inorganic core sustaining them as a substitute for organs. Quaint, but Askr supposes that's one advantage he does have here.

He knows all about inorganic little things made to carry out organic will.

"Yes, sir," he says quietly, fingers curling around the hilt of his sword where it is sheathed at his side. His gaze flits from Cyran, over to his two companions, back over to the tiefling where it lingers a moment longer, something akin to curiosity dimly flickering in those golden eyes. "Do we... need to stage a primary form of correspondence? Or distribute roles for this plan of attack?"

The ache of cold lingers underneath Nyr’s skin, the Frost Gale’s creeping fingers digging into him with pinpricks of icy pain that raise the hair on his arms and leave him shivering. Not from the cold itself but from the sense of dread that comes from still being here.

He had wanted to leave Frost Gale much sooner than this, but it seemed that this frozen place had a way of keeping him trapped. The tiefling had been seeking passage south, near desperate for a way out when he had finally gotten an offer he couldn’t refuse. He would have his place on a ship across the sea, but first, he would owe a favor.

Nyr had made it very clear to his employers that he was not the most skilled alchemist or medic on the planet, far from it. But even a student of the healing arts was better than nothing on a mission like this. A mission where they would no doubt be experiencing… Combat.

His cheeks are stained a dark and dusty blue from the stinging cold as Nyr, and his companions make their way quietly through the snow. At the very least, he was with several others who seemed much more prepared to fight than Nyr could ever hope to be. In front was an elven man, though Nyr was unsure of his age. He was certainly older than Nyr himself, but Nyr knew from his father that the features of elves could be deceiving. The elven man and his two companions moved with a stealth and grace Nyr could hardly hope to emulate, though he tried his best to keep quiet. Nyr was no stranger to this landscape of ice and snow, so while he was not the stealthiest of individuals, he could keep up with them without losing his footing.

It is the last member of their group that confounds Nyr. Golden eyes and a fine face more suited to a painting than reality confuse him. He was supposedly a mercenary also hired for this little excursion to stop a shipment from reaching the waters between Frost Gale and the Arid Mesa below. But Nyr could not help but feel that there was something more to the other boy. Something… Off about him.

But it was neither Nyr’s place nor his mission to ask those questions. He was here to provide support for this group. They would surely be facing a battle soon, and with conflict would come injury. For better or worse, whatever may come, their lives would be in his untrained hands.

‘No pressure, Nyr. Just remember what Nafr taught you. Think of it like bandaging yourself after an afternoon with Father.’

Right. No pressure…

Though the older elf’s voice is but a murmur, Nyr hears it like thunder in his ears. They didn’t have long now before they would face their opponents.

“Automatons?” Nyr murmurs questioningly. Not a word he was overly familiar with. “Like golems?” He had never seen a golem in person before, but he was at least familiar with the subject from some of the many books on magic and theory that had made up his education as a child. “I don’t think our employer mentioned anything about who would be guarding this caravan… A-Are we-” The tiefling cuts himself off, trying to stem his stuttering before it can get worse. It wouldn’t do to appear like a fool before battle.

Even if he was one.

“Are we… prepared to face this?”

Both mercenary and medic snapped to attention as Cyran spoke, one with more practiced ease of someone who was accustomed to taking orders than the other. The sandy-haired swordsman spoke first, a soldier’s manners as he addressed Cyran, though Cyran noted his eyes flitted to the medic occasionally, the first sign of interest he’d shown through their short trip. His wandering attentions should have been cause for more alarm on Cyran’s end, but the swordsman quickly proved that he still had his mind on the mission as he brought up a point Cyran hadn’t considered. The Specter was far too ingrained in his own ways that it was all too easy to forget, sometimes, what it was like to work with other people.

He turned his attention to the apprentices behind him with a nod. No words were exchanged, but one could only assume an order had been given, as both masked figures moved in sync, leaving Cyran’s side. The young man- Oriole- took his place behind the swordsman, standing at attention with his hands behind his back. That left the young woman armed with an entire kitchen’s worth of daggers- Andromeda- to take her place beside the medic, mimicking Oriole’s posture.

“My students will serve as a point of communication with me, and one another. As for strategy…” His gaze drifted over to the medic, who’d nervously interjected with his own worries about the opponents they would be facing. Cyran had a feeling the waver in his voice did not come from the cold.

Cyran tilted his head, his one visible eye that was not pitch-black narrowed in suspicion. Had the medic ever even seen battle before? When this party had been formed with the express intention of disrupting this shipment, Cyran had assumed their employer had the foresight to pick candidates who were experienced enough to penetrate the steel fortress they’d been asked to target. Did they even know they were sending a child on a dangerous mission? What the hell were they thinking?

“Sort of like golems, though these look like they’ve been constructed of metal rather than earth.” Cyran replied, keeping the indignant anger out of his tone. Not anger directed at the young apprentice medic, but at the ones who’d been foolish- or perhaps desperate- enough to send him on such a high-stakes mission. “They can be destroyed just like any mortal of flesh and blood. But they are not our primary target, simply an obstacle to overcome. If you’d both prefer, I can divert their attention while you two attempt to halt the caravan’s progress.”

He turned his attention back to the swordsman. “Oriole here may not be suited to combat, but he makes up for it with his quick hands. He’ll support you from behind and break any lock that might be in your way.”

Now, he addressed the medic. “Andromeda is a fine combatant, and will protect you from harm should any automaton stray too close to you.” As if to accentuate his point, Andromeda plucked one of her daggers from her belt, running her finger along the sharp side of the blade, a sharp look on her face as cold as the ice-enchanted weapon in her hands. Cyran felt a little bit of relief leaving her with the anxious young man. She was a skilled marksman with those blades, and she followed her orders faithfully. She would ensure the medic’s safety.

“And for the plan…” Here, Cyran paused. “I will scout ahead and cause a temporary distraction. That should allow you two to get close and do what you can. I will support you from the shadows.”

It was here that they’d rounded the corner, their conversation cut short by the change in their environment. Flat snowlands gave way to cracked icy fields, where splinters jutted upwards from the ground, and rocky hills surrounded the path. It was the only stretch of land during the caravan’s route that provided any stretch of natural coverage, and the best place for the group to stage their attack. Cyran would not waste this opportunity. He stepped closer to a tall outcropping that cast a jagged shadow on the ground, one that reached out to him with the enthusiasm of an old friend as he got close, nipping at his heels, eager to invite him in.

The shade welcomed him with open arms as he stepped inside, a sensation he could not rightfully call comfortable, but familiar. It was a space where Cyran did not rightfully exist, but rather stood with own foot in reality, and another in the stillness of the dark. The more Cyran called upon the shadows, he was struck with the feeling that they pulled him down further in turn, until the day that they would drag him down entirely. Even as he stepped out from the shadows, the darkness refused to relinquish its grip on him, cloaking him as he made his way closer to the caravan, unseen to any eyes that might wander in his direction.^[1]

He picked up his languid pace, until he had gotten close enough to the final wagon, close enough that he could reach out and brush his hand against one of the automatons if he so desired. They were completely unaware of the specter on their heels as they forged on with perfect, mechanical movements, the grim silence of their pilgrimage punctuated only by the grinding of wheels and the creaking of metal.

Until Cyran waited just until he was out of earshot of the others and shattered the quiet with an ear-splitting scream that destroyed any illusions the automatons might have had of a peaceful journey, if the artificial beings were capable of dreaming at all.^[2]

---

1. Dark Form
2. Howls of the Damned

Askr's gaze snaps right back to Cyran-- who, for the sake of this mission, he will elect to address as their leader-- as soon as he speaks, the curiosity he'd spared for the silver-skinned medic immediately shifting back into a soldier's careful, shatterproof attention. The world has taught him much in the three months he has known it, and its primary lesson is that there is little comfort to be found on a battlefield, out on a mission, where danger bites at your heels and your life is in the hands of your enemy and allies alike; and yet, there is comfort in this, in letting someone else take the reins and deliver orders. Cyran speaks with years of experience, those grey eyes deep with wisdom, rich with the sights of all a battlefield's rotten fruit.

He is trustworthy, Askr thinks. His voice is slightly softer than Oleeae's, but it carries the same knowledge, the same command, all the understanding of how to navigate new and strange battlegrounds. It is comforting to know that this temporary captain will be just as capable and reliable as the one he is used to.

As the silent order for Cyran's students is given, Askr turns to face the man who has joined him at his side, staring blankly at the masked individual there. He does not bother trying to parse what might be going through this man's-- Oriole-- mind; he has no skill with interpreting the myriad ways emotion can twist a person's features as is, and the mask veiling the minutiae only makes such a thing more difficult. So he does not try at all. He merely gives Oriole a polite, unsmiling nod before turning back to Cyran.

"Yes, sir," he says quietly, voice as devoid of inflection as ever. "The caravan is our goal. The constructs are an obstacle. Things made by human hands can perish just like the things that made them. I am not concerned."

He parrots the instructions, the summary, in that same unflinching tone, hand settling on the hilt of the blade at his side as they continue forward, almost ready to step into what will soon bloom into chaos. And still, as Cyran steps forward, ready to commence the chaos of it all, Askr... pauses, taking one more glance over at the medic who is accompanying them, at the expression on his face. It does not take a master of comprehension to tell that he is nervous.

Hm.

"...medic," he begins, quite awkwardly, not knowing how to address him. "...be careful. Um. I am... here if you need... backup."

Another moment of silence, of hesitation.

"...I'm Askr. My name is, I mean. In case you need more help."

And then, before another word can be spoken, there's a distant screech from their captain, and Askr takes it as his cue to move. He slips out from beside the outcropping, still laying low as these flat lands will allow, sword in hand, moving quickly as can be toward the closest of the wagons-- he has no spells to rely on, no call of the shadows to slip into, merely the blade in his hands and every lesson Oleeae Bleier has taught him since she found him in those ash-covered lands three months ago.

He does not know what else to do other than approach one of the smaller mechanical men lingering at the back of the wagon and slam the blade of his sword up into it, uncertain of where its core is, uncertain of what might shut it down-- all he has is the knowledge of his own inorganic body to go off of, and trial and error.

He certainly hopes a sword and a goal is enough to carry him through this.

The older elven man’s presence was reassuring in a way that left Nyr feeling a little surprised. Though it was clear Nyr’s nerves were playing at the edges of his senses, tickling him with their frayed edges, the older elf was doing his best to reassure him, even going so far as to leave one of his companions behind with Nyr to keep him safe. Maybe it was all because of a strategy in his mind; you couldn’t let the group medic go down, even if Nyr was hardly much of a medic, but…

Usually, older elves had a tendency to put Nyr on edge in his sparse interactions with them. But this elven man reminded Nyr far more of his dear Nafr than he did…

Right. Well. Not a good time to think about that, now was it? He had a job to do, and that job was not fucking up and getting someone killed. Or letting them die. Or dying himself.

The young tiefling gives Andromeda a small, almost shy nod. “I-I’m in your care, then… I’m sorry I’m not much of a fighter, but I’ll do my best not to hold you back…”

‘No pressure, no pressure, no pressure, no pressure-’

The mention of the word ‘medic’ cuts Nyr’s mantra short, and his eyes fly to the other boy in their little group. He had caught Nyr’s eye before, mainly because they seemed to be around the same age. It was comforting to think he was not the only inexperienced one here, but the way the other boy carried himself and spoke quickly dashed those thoughts from Nyr’s mind. He spoke more like a warrior should, calm and steady before battle, ready to follow their leader's every word. Not like Nyr, who struggled to keep from shaking in his boots…

The offer of backup is. Unexpected. So is the offer of the other boy’s name, but it brings a small smile to Nyr’s blue-tinged lips anyway.

“..Thank you, Askr. I’ll be here if you get injured- But, um, maybe try not to get injured…? No- I mean to say- I hope you don’t- I-” Cutting himself off, Nyr takes a breath. “My name is Nyr. I’ll be here to care for all of you.” So please, keep him safe.

A distant, haunting screech jars Nyr back to the daunting reality he’s found himself in, but surprisingly, he does not seem as afraid as perhaps his nervous countenance would suggest he should be. The trembling in his fingers and limbs stops as his eyes hone in on the caravan with wide-eyed attention.

How strange it was to hear the howls of damned souls even so far now from his father’s home. Maybe hearing them now was a sign he’d just never escape them.

Nyr looks to Andromeda and nods, allowing her to move forward, closer to the budding scene of combat, without worrying for him as his form becomes a whisper and harder to make out among even the slightest of shadows¹. His fingers twitch, so he grasps the straps of his traveling bag and counts in his head a list of all the medical supplies he had brought with him.

‘No pressure.’

---

^{1. Cloak of Shadows}

As the thick blanket of snow transitions to an ice-blue field, wracked with fissures and riddled with frozen spires, the caravan's pace doesn't lull. Though they notedly avoid more hazardous stretches of thin ice, they do so without a word and without once deviating from the path. It's as if the path is instinctual to them, but their course is obviously something far more sophisticated. Like an axe unto a tree or a pick unto stone, they act only on the forces propelling them, and engage without protest nor error.

Until they meet an opposing force.

A cry like death's own requiem shatters the monotony of groaning wheels and clanking footfalls. All at once, the caravan comes to an ominous stop, as if all part of the same mind. And this finally disturbs their restless march.

In clunky motions, like the movements of dolls' joints, they raise weapons to alert, and the glares of their crimson lenses sweep the landscape. To call them 'panicked' doesn't seem quite accurate, but they are most-definitely urgent. Even once the screech has subsided, a strange commotion resounds about the wagons. Through incomprehensible series of kliks, beeps and chirps, they seem to be attempting some mechanical breed of communication with one-another. But even this alien correspondence is confused; they constantly call over one-another, and not one seems to acknowledge another's words.

Seems Cyran's hex has taken hold even over their artificial minds, and to great effect.

In the confusion, they search and scry, weapons raised. Spears and light crossbows make up the majority of their armaments, though none of them appear to wear any armor - not in the traditional sense, at least. Near the rear wagon, two of the spear-bearing constructs are simply staring at one-another. Their eyes 'blink' in a rhythmic fashion, that red glow winking rapidly in and out in some attempt at nonverbal conveyance.

A third, bearing a crossbow, is nearby, but disengaged from their conversation. It turns with its bolt pointed straight and steadied. The construct's knees and hips emit some bizarre, unnatural hissing, and its joints rattle with every movement of its frantic survey. But it isn't nearly observant enough, for just as it comes to face a white-haired boy that it would've surely spared no sympathy, it finds that same boy's sword plunged through its hull. The blade pierces with surprising ease through a thin hull of tin, into the most vital of the construct's organ-devices. Askr can feel moving parts grinding against his blade, but not for long; with a decrescendoing howl, that redness fades from the construct's eyes and it goes limp - as limp as a metal thing can - unto the ice. Some fluid, bright in both blue tinge and literal luminescence, leaks out of the gouge that Askr left, staining the snow in a way that looks oddly... appetizing?

They *do* die, it would seem. And this simple revelation will be a welcome boon for the attacking party - especially Askr, who now sees that those two other constructs have paused their chat to pay him the attention he deserves. Two pointed spears against one blade... Being outnumbered may be something of a theme for this venture.

But that isn't all. From between the fore and centre wagons, an excitable... something... scurries out. As with every other one of the caravan's guardians, this one is a machine of tin and glass, but bastardizing a jackal^[1] instead of a humanoid. It bears a canine's snout, its claws and even its pointed ears. Indeed, its appearance isn't so unsettling as the manner that it arrives. Defying reason, its footprints in the snow precede it; the clawed prints are made, and then the mechanical beasts comes bounding some two seconds after. And the beast itself, how it twitches and jerks from place to place... Just looking at it invites a headache.

Unfortunately for the attacking party, the machine has a canine's nose, as well. After sniffing the air, its tail raises in epiphany. Little by little, it's approaching the place where our medic has hidden himself - and with two other machines in tow.

---

1. (Ashlands Jackal) Lag Switch-06