[Cartell]

“Move or die.” The harsh shout was yelled at the children, as they were awakening, and yet another day of misery waited. As they waited in the makeshift jail for the shilaken to chain them up them up a small group sat in the middle, talking intently.
“We must move now, some of us can barely stand, let alone run.” This whisper came form a younger boy, light blond hair gracing his head. “Michael, we must act now.” The other boys seemed in agreement until Michael spoke. A tall boy, with reddish hair, he seemed to posses the confidence that others lacked.
“We will wait, Gilthon. We will wait. We are not ready to run, or prepared to survive in the wilderness.” The others looked at Gilthon, waiting for a response, but none came except a nod of concession. It was true, of the eight boys in the circle, only three had any skills in their chosen paths of life. Gilthon was natural born monk, and while his fighting unarmed was his specialty, he was slow, and thus open to attack. Marcus, a short Halfling who had known Michael the longest, was a rogue excellent trap breaking and lock picking but his archery skills left something huge to be desired.. Michael, the unspoken leader of the group, was a paladin, a holy warrior for the god Rafthon. The others, Uthgar, (a Half-Orc) Marie, (A Gnome) Marcel, (another Halfling) and the elven brothers, Adelas and Cecil were all unskilled in the crafts, and thus would, for the time being, be more of a burden then a help in the escape. However, as each village’s children were added the line, they had formed a pact, and together they would get out, or they would all go with the rest of the children to what could quite possibly be there death.
“You eight, lets move it.” A whip cracked and the boys cowered, the shilaken taskmaster was pleased, so pleased that he missed the dangerous looks that passed over the children’s faces. As they walked towards the exit of the fence surrounding the makeshift camp Michael turned to the others,
“We have no choice but to move now. I will stay and defend with Gilthon, since we have the best chance against those monsters, the rest of you would simply get in the way.” A grin lit Gilthon’s face at the prospect of the oncoming fight. As Michael walked through the gate Gilthon screamed in pain, and the shilaken were confused, and for three precious seconds, Michael had an opportunity to bend over and pick up a rock. Which he proceeded to smash into the face of the nearest shilaken, as it fell, he grabbed its weapon, a greatsword, “Now my brothers,” He yelled and hacked down into the oncoming shilaken guards. Gilthon rushed outside, and began systematically beating the guards coming round the east end, while Michael held his own against the remaining shilaken. The six others sprinted out the gate, and began running towards the woods, from which they had come the night before. The clanging of swords, and the thumping of fists, was alarm enough, as the shilaken began pouring towards the two boys, who with the light of battle on their faces, the glory of cause, had become men. The shilaken archers now in place, arrows whizzed by as the party of six raced up the hill. Uthgar, the slowest was the first hit, and with his first misstep a dozen arrows thudded into his back. Marcel screamed as an arrow slammed into his throat, and he too fell. Gilthon yelled in defiance as the more shilaken began pressing in. As he fought his slow lumbering punches knocked creature after creature back, but then for the first time in his life he felt the power of his god enter him, he became like a madman and his heavy fists became speedy as well. Michael was surrounded on all sides, having fought away from Gilthon to give him a chance. All sorts of thoughts raced from his mind as he fought. He had known that he would not survive the escape attempt. His only goal had been to get the others out. He fought like a demon and many shilaken died at his hand. Adelas turned to help Marcel but upon slowing his step he too was killed by an arrow to the chest. “Noooooo,” Cecil turned and screamed at what he saw. His brother’s body, laying over Marcel’s, an arrow in his chest, he felt a familiar sensation, creeping into his limbs, and instead of denying it hold, as he usually did, he accepted it and the magic rushed through his veins. Dark magic from an ancient time flew from his fingertips as fire slammed into the archers. With a twist of his hands he revived their corpses, still burning from his magic, as they assaulted the shilaken nearest them. Gilthon was weakening, no matter how much the power of his god filled him he could not fight eternal, and as he fought he again slowed, a shifty looking shilaken, seeing his chance slipped thought the ranks, dagger held forward preparing to strike. Michael had abandoned all thought, what ever he had been thinking was gone after the first arrow struck him in the leg. Fighting all the more fiercely he was a whirlwind of steel as he cut first one then another then a third in half. But he too was weakening, and his blade also slowed, but he fought on. Cecil had surrendered himself completely to the dark magic. Blue fire lanced first one way, then another, as entire waves of shilaken were blasted into oblivion. Marcus turned, and saw what was happening, unsure of what he was seeing; his first thought was to get Cecil out danger. He crept forward, and grabbed his arm.
“Ahhhhh!” Marcus screamed as blue fire rent his arms. “Cecil!” Cecil turned and upon seeing his burned friend, the magic left him. He picked Marcus up and ran towards Marie. They trio then disappeared into the woods. Michael had fought his way back towards Gilthon. As the two glanced at each other they saw the battle rage mirrored in the others eyes, and they fought on. Then the fighting stopped. The dead were littered around the pair, and the remaining shilaken formed a semi circle around the men, and waited. Michael stood, using the time to gather his energy for a final assault, while Gilthon stood still, meditating to regain his strength.
“You have fought well.” A voice slid over the field like oil, slippery and dark, and though spoken softly all heard. “And so I give you a choice, an honor. I will let you join my ranks, as captains. Or you can die here away from your family, your friends, and your homes.” With this final statement, a black robed figure walked to the front of the ranks, and Michael got his first good look at him. Tall, and muscular, it was obvious, even from under the black robes that this man was not simply a mage, though his robes did suggest otherwise. Long white hair spilled out form beneath the hood. Although inside it was unnaturally black. “So, my little warriors, what will it be, will you accept the hand of friendship offered you, or will you deny my will and suffer the consequences?” Michael breathed heavily, even with the power of Rafthon flowing through his veins the battle had still been taxing. He turned and looked at Gilthon, and saw nothing; turning he saw his friend lying on the ground, a poisoned blade slammed in his side. Gilthon’s head turned, and a small grimace lit his face,
“No.” The simple word broke whatever thoughts Michael had had of accepting the man’s offer. On the ground, Gilthon breathed deeply, one last time, and closed his eyes. Gilthon looked up, a small smile on his face. He whispered a prayer to Rifthon and brought his greatsword to the ready position. His eyes weeping for his friend, he looked at the black cowled figure in the distance, and spit. The figure simply nodded, and a wave of arrows hit him in the chest. Dropping his greatsword, he stood upright, blood pouring from a dozen wounds, arrows sticking out of his sides, chest and legs, and he began to mutter an incantation. Even as his body fell he spoke, until the spell was complete. A circle of light had surrounded both his and Gilthon’s body. At the very least, they could die in peace. Looking up at the sky he gave a final shout and Rafthon took his soul.

Ashaan sprinted forwards, and upon reaching the trio of shilaken, brought both swords down with all his fearsome strength. One of the pike wielding shilaken turned and began stabbing towards Ashaan while his partner fell, two bloody lines, slashed through his chest. Realizing his mistake too late, Ferux leapt upon the last of the pike shilaken, and brought it to the ground. Ashaan adopted a defensive stance and prepared to finish off the remaining shilaken. Ferux had finished the first shilaken and was also menacing the last. As the final shilaken weighed the odds, it deemed them not good enough to attempt. It turned and ran. Ashaan waited then threw his dagger with all the force he could muster. Blood splattered the nearby trees as the final shilaken fell. Turning to Ferux he grimaced as he noticed the large cut that went from shoulder to shoulder.
“That’s a fine souvenir you got there.” Ferux turned, pain mixing with humor in his large eyes,
“Yes, but tis a shame that my master could not receive such a fine present from our shilaken friends as well.”
"O yes, such a shame." Ashaan’s grin disappeared as he turned and saw the damage that the shilaken had caused Greenwood. “Ferux, look at this, the entire village was destroyed. There must have been more shilaken, but why are they working together, shilaken are usually tribal.”
“Look at this Ashaan.” Ashaan walked over to where Ferux was standing. A pile of bodies, lying in heaps,
“O my God, look at this. This doesn’t seem like shilaken at all. And I don’t like how this looks.”
“And Ashaan, where are all the children.” Ashaan looked at Ferux, thoughts swirling through his head, but most of all, if shilaken had killed and burned the village, where were the children???