A group of ten people rode in a convoy of three carts, driven by horse. The night was pitch black, the moon obscured by clouds, and the only light in the area was from the lanterns on the carts. Sobbing could be heard from the backs of the carts, as emaciated wretches struggled against their binds, their dry, thirsty screams heard by no one except their captors. Thirty people in all rested in filthy cages, clawing desperately at the bars for some chance at freedom. The riders were slavers; they kidnapped beggars, prostitutes, and other social outcasts, taking them as slaves. Once, they were the criminal lords of this place. But that was the past.
Now they were reduced to giving lab rats to Necromancers. They were simple jobs; grab some beggars, take them to the caves. But the Necromancers were always so difficult to deal with; it was rumored that if you gave them even one unsuitable chattel, they would take you as a replacement. And these were not just idle rumors; these Necromancers were dangerous and brutal. But they had a lot of Gold, and it was a very profitable business. And the Liberator wasn't looking here, or so they hoped.
Aston, the leader of the Slavers, was still ever cautious. The Liberator struck without warning, and he would have to look for even the slightest movement and listen for even the slightest noise. A slight noise could be the wind blowing a twig- or it could be the sound of an arrow of death headed towards them. He was paranoid, getting extremely anxious at the various creaks and crows of the night time. The Liberator had reduced them from wealthy criminals to scum just barely scrapping by. And he wouldn't rest until every slaver was dead; they all knew that. They would have to do their best to stay alive in the face of the greatest threat their organization had ever faced. Aston knew he was getting close to the cave where the Necromancer's hiding place, as marked by a torch as usual. But the mages were standing outside, instead of waiting inside as normal. Something was wrong.
Aston reached for his bow and began to draw an arrow; he had been in this business too long, and if there was one thing he knew, it was that if his clients don't do things according to plan, then people would die. His body was already pumping adrenaline, and he placed an arrow in his bow, getting ready to fire a warning shot. Then the first bolt hit.
Thinking on instinct, Aston had dove out of his cart and gotten into a position to protect himself from an explosion; one of the carts lit up in a fireball as a streak of blue made contact. Aston barely had time to react to the first explosion when three more bolts hit, taking out each of their carts in quick succession; Aston was the only one who saw, the only one who made it. Not caring if any of his comrades made it, and knowing it certianly wasn't worth dying scrambling to look for men he felt no love for, he ran, but he felt his body collapse under him as he started to run, his arms and legs freezing up. He was hit by a Paralysis Spell.
Aston lied flat on his black, hearing footsteps approach him but unable to do anything in response. He heard the corpses of his comrades being dragged off the cart, as were the now dead slaves. He could not move, and he felt terror creeping in his mind as he wondered what the Necromancers may do to him. He struggled against his magical restraints, but he was completely frozen in place, and for his efforts he did nothing but weaken his mind. He heard one of the mages walk closer to him, and he looked up to see a young robed woman, knife in hand. Mercifully, she cut his throat before directing others to take his corpse like the others.
Davakas silently snuck above the gathered group, his bow in hand. The group was together in a circle, performing some kind of ritual. He took note of the six individuals; one of them was unhooded, a human male who looked like he was beginning to rot. They were six mages, adepts at least. It would be far too dangerous to take them on alone. They hadn't spotted him yet, he thought, so he could observe their actions without them knowing. They continued in their ritual, and Davakas recognized the motions.
This was the Ritual of Enslavement; any unfortunate soul caught in that ritual would be bound to obey the whims of the lead caster. Davakas's stomach churned at the thought; Slavers. Part of him wanted to strike now and forgo caution, strike the dark mages now before they could enslave anyone. In the end, he decided he would continue to be cautious; he won't save anyone by committing suicide by mage. Slavery struck a cord with him, and he felt rage fill his mind as he continued to think about the implications.
In the end, it all made sense, he supposed. He tracked the Necromancers through a slaver ring- they had been taking people for years. Their targets always suggested a link to someone in power- people with radical political positions, rebellious serfs, and others who had struck against the powers that be.
Davakas sighed to himself. He was an experienced thief, solider, and assassin, and one of the best archers in the world. It was a testament to his skill as a thief that he was still relatively unknown. He was known only as "Kingslayer" in the underworld for his aptitude at slaying individuals holding a certain leadership position; other names were thrown around. "The Liberator" was another one, for his slave-freeing antics. He was keen with a bow, quick and agile, very smart, and had a good intuition. He had a deep seated hatred for aristocracy and all of its members; and in this land, such a system was the dominant force. The land was divided between countless kingdoms, all ruled by some Noble House. Urthadar, Darkeye, Falconsflight, Dragontooth… just a few of the Royal Houses.
He turned his mind from the world at large and brought himself back to focus on the group. Six mages; he recognized the unhooded male, though he couldn't put a name to the face; he was decaying, and he felt great power in the man. Davakas had a sudden realization; he was a lich. And he looked like he had turned recently, so perhaps his phylactery was nearby.
He knew there was nothing to be gained by passively observing any longer, so he pressed himself to the wall and got ready to move slowly, as the door nearby swung open. A young woman stepped out, stunningly beautiful, but was dark pools riding under her dark eyes. She stepped with a group of five adepts, her robes covering her body except for her head, and her bare feet. She carried herself with a certain confidence, a certain grace and aggressiveness in her walk. Her adepts looked blankly ahead, and the others in the room payed her no mind. Her hair consisted of wavy bands of blonde, pushed back to allow her to focus on her work. Davakas realized he was beginning to be mesmerized by her, and brought his willpower to avert his eyes from her, when she looked up, straight at him.
The young Necromancer gave a warm, pleased smile upon seeing the young archer standing there; she chanted something under her breath as she looked into his eyes, holding his gaze. Davakas began to become lost in her bright, blue eyes, starting to feel tired. The Necromancer, now confident she could beat him in a battle of wills should it come to it, broke off her gaze, and just stared at the Archer for a moment, the others in the room too busy with chants or rituals to notice her. She pressed her palm to her lips, and pressed it out towards the archer, blowing him a kiss, then lightly chuckling after, before continuing on her path, the Adepts around her walking as she walked, oblivious to anything but the movement of their mistress.
Behind her trailed several adepts carrying the corpses of the slavers; Davakas recognized them and gave a brief nod at the justice of such a thing. The woman left the room, and suddenly several of the mages left the ritual- including the lich. The ritual was ready now; all it would take is a worthy candidate and they would have themselves a permanent thrall. He waited for the room to clear out besides two adepts, closing his eyes and letting the woman's influence clear out of his mind, and allow the group to get a good distance away. When he felt it was safe, he drew his first arrow.
The first one took an adept at the base of the skull, his corpse slumping over onto the ground. He already had the second arrow in the bow ready to take the other adept in the heart, as he made eye contact with her, which he instantly regretted. When he saw her mouth begin to move, he let the bow loose, taking her in the heart. He watched the life pour out of her eyes extremely quickly. It was never a pleasant sight, watching someone die. But after ten years of this, his heart was hardened enough to handle that. He brushed it off, and lept down from his perch. He looked to disrupt the Ritual, but he immediately saw the circle was protected. Unfortunate, but he could solve that problem once everyone in the tomb was dead.
He intensively went to loot the corpses; the male just had a few coins on him. The female had a large amount; probably a bored noble girl looking for some excitement. He quickly pocketed the gold and turned to finish the job in the tomb. It would be the hardest fight of his life, but he did not yet know that.