A/N: Sorry about the really really long wait.
Heartsbane sat upon his black horse, fire flickering across his face. Knothole had been razed to the ground, and his empire had finally begun. It was here that he shall build his throne, his future around. Here, in the very glade he was born in. No one will defeat him. No one can defeat him.
Kalsis strode up to the trader, who whimpered and threw himself on the ground, prostrating himself before his feet.
"Oh, get up," he said contemptuously.
"You-you aren't going to kill me, O mighty one?" the trader whined in a nasal voice.
"Now why would I do that?" the leather-clad Hero said, helping the mustached man to his feet.
"So, you aren't one of his cohorts, O mighty one?" the Trader said shakily.
Kalsis narrowed his eyes. Heartsbane's reputation preceded him. "Of course not. I wouldn't ally myself with the likes of him."
"Well, I am a trader. Nice to meet your acquaintance, Hero," the man flourished his hat.
"The name's Kalsis."
The trader started. "Oh, well, don't be offended, but you looked like another Hero named Orion." The trader glanced at Kalsis' questioning face, "he's a graduate from the Heroes Guild like yourself."
"Oh, where does he live?" Kalsis asked.
"I don't think he exactly lives anywhere, but he was last seen by Barrow Fields."
Kalsis thanked the trader and walked down the wooden bridge. This Hero intrigued him, and he didn't want to lose the lead.
Heartsbane's eyes flickered, as visions of a great city - the centre of his power whose foundations were being built not far from here – glided through his head. It would not be long now, before he could make his attempt to snatch the weapon he had been coveting for some time.
A small, wiry soldier approached him, dressed in a dark boiled leather cuirass. He bowed respectfully, and took a breath. Heartsbane emerged from his meditative state and acknowledged this respective fighter.
"What is it, Sergeant?" he barked.
"It's a … delicate … matter that needs your attention, Dread Lord," the man spoke, not unnerved.
"Ah, come with me, Sergeant." Heartsbane got up from his ebony chair. "What is it?"
"Maladrac, the assassin, has returned from his … outing … in Bowerstone. He wishes to speak with you."
"Send him in." The Sergeant nodded and turned to the flap of the large pavilion.
"Halt!" Heartsbane called, "what's your name, Captain?"
"Er, Raitol, but, I'm a Sergeant," the soldier hesitated.
"Not anymore. Get to it, Captain." Heartsbane rewarded men who gave him loyalty and the respect he deserved.
Shortly after, a shrouded, slippery-looking man stepped into the tent, making no sound or unnecessary movement. He wore a hood over his face, but his hands were charred grey. An obsidian katana was slung across his back, and his stance betrayed his keen alertness. He bowed to Heartsbane, and spoke in a rasping voice.
"Kaldor has been taken care of, Dread Lord."
Heartsbane nodded. "Good. Move to the next target. Remember, I want her alive, Maladrac, and no casualties along the way. I don't want your hands bloodied. No one must know my involvement."
"As my Lord commands," Maladrac said as he bowed and stepped out of the pavilion.
