Octopath Traveler 2: The Ninth Flame
Chapter 1: The Warwolf
Disclaimer: I do not own Octopath Traveler. All rights belong to Square Enix.
Hey, everyone. It's WinterWolf29. I've recently gotten really into a game called…Octopath Traveler 2, obviously (it's in the title). I haven't played either game, but I have watched most of the second game. I've decided that I will give a hand at a Fanfic. I hope you enjoy. If you have any constructive criticism to share, please leave a review or message me.
"They'll be coming any minute now," a young man of 27 years of age informed his fellow ambushers, all clad in dark leather armor, amongst foliage and trees overlooking a clear road. "Get into position and wait for my signal." The group hurried and took up positions to hide, some in the shadow of the trees and others on the branches, armed with bows and arrows.
The leader, called the Warwolf, had received news of a slave caravan coming down this road to take a boat to Crackridge on the Western Continent of Solistia. Their destination was clearly the New Delsta Anchorage, which was about a day's ride from the current area, where they would load the slaves onto a ship under the pretense of transporting prisoners. The Warrior Wolf and his followers were determined to prevent that from happening, so their mission was clear: kill the slavers and free the slaves.
As they expected, it took around an hour before the caravan finally arrived on the road. The slavers, dressed in fancy clothes and carrying themselves like 'gentlemen of nobility', rode on horses, numbering around ten. Walking with them were around three dozen guards, all clad in armor and armed with swords, shields, spears and bows. In the center of the caravan were three large cages on wheels pulled by two horses each, each cage carrying at least thirty people. Men, women, children, all in chains and awaiting the horrible fate that awaited them once the slavers found them buyers. At the back was an armored wagon, most likely where the slavers and guards were keeping their treasures.
"Slavers," the Warwolf snarled with grave contempt. His blood boiled at the sight of people who put innocents in chains and let them suffer while they enjoyed a life of luxury. Every slaver deserved nothing less than a painful death for the suffering and sorrow they had inflicted onto innocent people.
With his mechanical bow in hand, the Warwolf grabbed an arrow from his quiver and nocked it silently to not draw attention from the caravan. As he discussed with the ambushers, they would target the soldiers first since they would be the gravest threat. After killing the slavers, they'd check the bodies for keys and use them to free the slaves.
"Mama," a child from the first cage cried, looking back at another cage where his mother looked on with despair. She couldn't hide the dread in her eyes any longer: she had lost hope for them.
"Quiet!" one of the slavers barked before whipping the boy. "No talking!" The little boy quietly cried from the pain of the whip's sting and the feeling of hopelessness he now shared with his mother. There was no telling of what would happen to them once they reached Crackridge: he would probably end up being separated from his mother and spend the rest of his days beaten and starved while he worked under inhumane conditions. If the beatings didn't kill him, starvation and illness would.
"Listen, all of you!" the head slaver addressed the people in chains. "In a few days, we'll be approaching the New Delsta Anchorage. Your old lives don't exist anymore! You're not people, you're property to be sold and treated however we like! So if you want to survive whoever buys you when we reach our destination, I suggest you behave!"
The Warwolf gave a low howl as he drew his arrow back on the bowstring, signalling for his ambushers to get ready. Thought the slavers and soldiers heard the noise, they assumed it was simply a regular wolf howling in the distance…that was, until the Warwolf let his arrow fly into the neck of one of the soldiers.
"Ambush!" the soldiers' captain cried out. "Quick, form-" He was shot in the eye by an arrow, cutting off his sentence and robbing the guards of their leader. Most of the arrows were successful and quick in killing the guards, aiming for their necks and faces as they were the most vulnerable areas. Some guards raised their shields in time to block the arrows and quickly huddled together to form a shield wall.
"Attack!" the Warwolf cried out as he put his bow away and charged with his sword in hand as did his fellow attackers. They were quick and ferocious in killing the slavers and guards that remained after their storm of arrows.
The Warwolf fought with immense ferocity with his sword in one hand and a hand axe in the other, cutting down any slaver or guard in his path. The slavers and their guards did their best to protect themselves and fight back against their ambushers, but they could not match the ferocity and strength of the Warwolf and his followers.
Two of the guards attacked the Warwolf with their spears, which he knocked them aside with his sword. This was followed up with a sideways swing of his sword, which the guards believed wouldn't reach them. To their shock, the blade extended from a foot and a half to three feet, reaching the guards and killing them in one blow.
When it became clear that they would lose their lives if they remained, the surviving slavers and guards made a run for it. Unfortunately for them, they were wounded or killed by arrows shot by the ambushers that remained in the foliage.
"Look for the keys!" the Warwolf called out as he retracted his sword blade and placed his weapons away. As he and his comrades searched the dead bodies of their enemies for the keys to the slave cages, a number of slaves recognized a symbol that they all bore on bracers they wore: a wolf head with its maw open and about to devour an eight-pointed star. The slaves who recognized the symbol knew who had come to their rescue: the North Star.
As for the Warwolf, his appearance was made known in the sunlight. He was of broad build with dark auburn hair, brown eyes and thin facial hair. Like all the North Star fighters, he was wearing dark brown leather armor, but what made him stand out was the silver-colored wolf pelt on his right shoulder. His weapons included the bow and quiver on his back, the sword on the left side of his belt and two daggers on the right.
What stood out about his weapons were their mechanical design, armed with gears that enhanced their functions. The bow Maolcholm possessed was outfitted with a scope that helped to provide a better view for his aim as well as gears near the handle and limbs that would amplify the speed and impact of his arrows, which had allowed him to pierce the armor of enemy combatants.
His sword, which had a wolf-head cross guard and pommel, had retracted to make it easier for him to carry. The mechanisms near the cross guard allowed for the blade and hilt to retract and extend at his pleasure. These weapons clearly belonged to someone who had been trained in the Inventor's Guild…or perhaps someone had provided them to him.
"Maolcholm!" one of the North Star fighters addressed to the Warwolf. "I found the keys!"
"Get those cages unlocked," Maolcholm commanded as he checked the bodies of the slavers and guards to ensure they were dead. While his comrades freed the slaves from the cages and chains, Maolcholm checked the bodies of the slavers in case they had a list; if so, he needed to destroy it or else the people they rescued could be abducted again. After checking four bodies, the Warwolf found a list on one of the slavers. He made a small gesture with his right hand and a magical rune appeared on the list, causing it to burn to ashes.
"You'll…" the struggling voice of one of the slavers groaned, two arrows lodged in his shoulder and leg. "You'll pay…for this…"
"No," Maolcholm snarled as he walked over to the slaver. "It is YOU and all your kind who will pay for this cruelty."
"Who are you to judge us?" the slaver scoffed. "It's just business, nothing more." Maolcholm glared at the slaver with immense hatred upon hearing that last statement. He had lost count of how many times he had heard someone justify slavery by claiming it was 'just business and nothing personal'. How such a cruel and inhumane practice could be justified was beyond him.
"Just…business…" the Warwolf snarled as he pulled out his bow and an arrow. "You steal people from their homes, tear families apart, force them to work under inhumane conditions, treat them like animals and toys…if that is business, then this is justice."
As he did with the list, the Warwolf made a small hand gesture, causing a lightning rune to appear on the arrow, making it crackle and spark. Before the slaver could beg for mercy, Maolcholm pulled the arrow back on the bowstring and shot it point-blank into the man's head. The imbued lightning rune made him cry out in agony for several moments before he fell to the ground, lifeless.
"Worthless scum," Maolcholm spoke with grave disgust as he tossed the whip aside and turned to his men, who had freed the slaves.
"Everyone, do not be afraid," he addressed, his tone now kind and compassionate. "We are the North Star, the group fighting against Jul's slave trade. Return to your homes and embrace your families; you have suffered enough."
"Maolcholm!" one of the North Star fighters called out after managing to open up the armored wagon with a key from one of the slavers. The Warwolf hurried over to look inside; as suspected, it was filled with immense treasure, gold and jewels of all kinds.
"Hand it out amongst the people we freed," Maolcholm instructed. "We take only what we need for ourselves."
As he instructed, Maolcholm and the North Star handed out the treasure among the people they freed, giving them enough money to make a safe trip to their homes. All of them expressed deep thanks and gratitude for their rescue, for liberating them from a life of inhumane treatment. It moved the Warwolf's heart to see their faces lifted with hope and be able to return to their homes, their families, their livelihoods.
He stopped for a moment when felt something wrap around his waist. He looked down and saw the little boy who was whipped earlier wrap his arms around him, embracing him with silent gratitude. The little boy didn't know what words to say to express his gratitude for saving him and his mother from the slavers' cruelty, so he continued hugging Maolcholm for as long as he could.
"Thank you," the mother spoke with immense relief as she gently pulled her son away. "I don't know what would've happened to us had you not come along."
"We're happy to have helped you all," Maolcholm responded with a soft smile. "But keep an eye out; slavers can come from anywhere."
"B-but what about the list they had?" one of the freed people asked. "One of them was carrying a list-"
"I took care of it," Maolcholm assured.
Another successful rescue for the North Star, enemies of the slave city of Jul in the Crestlands on the Eastern Continent. As the freed people walked away with as many leaves as they could carry, Maolcholm and the North Star began burying the bodies of the slavers and guards.
"Thank Balogar we saved more people today," Maolcholm spoke softly. "Let us continue to free as many slaves as possible…and send as many slavers as we can to hell."
The city of Jul in the Crestlands, its banner a purple field with a golden eagle with its wings spread out, the same emblem all Julian soldiers wore on their armor and shields. On the outside, it was a thriving city with markets, farms, and grand walls and statues of stone. It appeared a pleasant enough city to live like Clockbank, New Delsta and Stormhail…but tragically, its beautiful walls and grand stature hid dark shadows.
Slaves worked on the farms, tilling the land and tending to the crops in the summer heat with only torn rags covering their bodies. Some struggled to get the crops out of the soil, either because of injured and bleeding hands or simply lacking the strength to pull them out. Those who succeeded in pulling them out were directed to place them in crates while those who stopped moving or working were immediately flogged.
"Get back to work!" a Julian guard barked as he flogged a young slave woman with his whip.
In the markets were being sold the most desired of all commodities in Jul: slaves. People in rags locked in cages with chains holding their arms, so tightly packed together that there was almost no room to move. Slave traders had the guards bring their 'goods' to a long line with ropes attached around their necks to keep them from looking around or back at the people in the cages.
"Mama!" a little girl cried as she looked at her mother in the line of slaves presented to customers.
"Slaves for sale!" merchants cried out as customers approached, examining the slaves one by one until finding one was that suited for their needs.
"I'll take this one," a customer spoke, gesturing to a well-built man.
"500 leaves and he's yours," the merchant responded.
Outside the walls, the ever-growing city of Jul had more walls and towers being built by its slaves. From carrying rocks to breaking them, to securing the materials needed to work, to putting the stones in place and creating the cement needed to secure the stones, slaves were used for all the labor while being pushed on by guards carrying whips.
No slave could take a rest while under the watch of the guards; if they were caught slacking off, they were flogged mercilessly and sent back to work. Only when the guards allowed it did slaves get any water or food…that is, if the guards felt merciful enough.
"Get up!" one of the guards barked at a slave who had fallen on the ground. He kicked and flogged the slave repeatedly but received no reply; it was clear that the man was dead.
"Get rid of him!" the guard ordered two slaves. They dragged the dead body to a ditch where the walls would be built and threw it in, where it landed on top of other slave corpses that would be buried underneath Jul's expanding walls.
All of this was witnessed by Lady Patricia Richter, matriarch of Jul, who sat in one of the towers of Castle Richter in the center of the city. She sat down at a table, sipping tea and eating sweetcakes as she watched the slaves work in the fields and on the walls of her city with a sense of apathy. Clad in the traditional purple and black colors of her city, her attire was ornate with a beautiful dress, diamond and gold accessories as well as bewitching makeup and perfume, giving her the almost ideal appearance of a noblewoman.
"Milday Richter," a Julian servant addressed. "Captain Armand wishes to speak with you. He has news related to the shipment that was to depart for Crackridge."
"Let him in," Patricia responded as she took another sip of her tea. The servant opened the door to the room and allowed Armand Vallon, captain of Jul's army, to enter. Like all Julian soldiers, he wore the purple tunic with the emblem of the golden eagle, but his armor possessed gold and silver accents to mark his status as the Julian Military Captain. Though he was middle-aged with a balding head and drooping brown eyes, the years had done nothing to take a toll on his strength in combat.
"I have bad news, Milady Richter," Captain Armand solemnly informed.
"What is it?" Patricia questioned, though she already suspected what it was.
"Three more of our caravans have been attacked," the Captain answered. "One of them was led by the Warwolf; there were no survivors."
"And the slaves?" Patricia questioned.
"All gone. The lists we have were taken or destroyed; we have no way of retrieving them now."
Patricia quietly put her cup of tea down on a plate and stood up to look at the Captain, grabbing her scepter cane as she did. Her ironclad expression left him unsure of how she would react, though from previous experiences, Armand knew that she was furious at the loss of more caravans. The more caravans that were ambushed and slaves that were freed, the less business Jul had for its slave trade, all thanks to the efforts of the troublesome band of ruffians who called themselves the North Star.
"They're getting bolder and more numerous, Milady Richter," Armand informed.
"And that's supposed to be an excuse for letting them wreck our slave trade?" Patricia questioned as she calmly paced the room. "They have been fighting us for nearly ten years now, Captain Armand. How could they have lasted so long against our might?"
"They're not just a band of ruffians anymore," Captain Armand stated. "The majority of them are trained fighters and veterans now. And with this damn Warwolf among their ranks, the mere mention of his name is enough to frighten our soldiers."
"I am not frightened by ONE man who calls himself a Warwolf," Patricia dismissed as she walked to a window, where she could yet again witness slaves being worked harshly and brutally.
"This city is my family's legacy. The Richter Family has ruled Jul for generations, all the way going back to the time of D'arqest himself. I refuse to let these 'North Star' fanatics ruin what my family has built." She then turned to Captain Armand with a stern expression.
"Send out word to all our partners and allies: I will give a generous reward to anyone who has useful information about the North Star. As for this Warwolf…I will give 50,000,000 Leaves to anyone who can bring him to us, dead or alive." She then smirked sadistically.
"Though I would prefer alive; his crimes against Jul have warranted him a grueling end."
"As you wish, Milady Richter," Captain Armand saluted and left the room.
"So how'd it go?" a North Star member named Maric, a broadly built man with dark skin, black hair and a thick beard asked Maolcholm as he and his comrades returned to Ft. Whitewind, a North Star hideout close to the Brightland-Winterland border.
"It was a success," Maolcholm informed. "All the slaves were freed and they were given enough leaves to find their way home. We've brought what's left." Maric walked over to the armored wagon and took a look inside. He was surprised by how much treasure was left after giving a generous amount to each person they had freed.
"These slavers just cannot resist taking their leaves everywhere, can they?" Maric scoffed. "Oh well, more for us. The war to liberate slavery isn't a cheap one." He turned to the North Star members driving the armored wagon and directed them to the vault where they kept their wealth in the fort.
"Any word from Ferdiad?" Maolcholm asked Maric as they walked inside to the warmth of the fire-lit fort.
"The other ambushes were a success," Maric reported.
The Warwolf smiled at the news. Every successful ambush they launched, every slave they freed was another blow to Jul's slave trade, the beating heart of its power and wealth. However, that also made their opposition more determined and desperate to beat them to preserve their 'livelihoods'. If Jul remained under the rule of Patricia Richter, Solistia's slave trade would remain. If the slave trade were ever to be crippled beyond repair, Jul had to fall and Patricia Richter be killed.
But there lied the problem: Jul was a city with impenetrable walls, a large army and plenty of defenses that made it impossible to lay siege to it. Almost every single entrance into the city was either sealed or under constant guard, making it near impossible to sneak in. With its back against a mountain, attacking from the rear was out of the question, meaning that the only option present now was a full-on assault, which presented countless issues as well.
Catapults, ballistae, oil, expert archers, a sturdy gate and Julian scholars, all of which presented a powerful defense against invaders. No enemy army had ever taken Jul before; all efforts to siege the city since its founding had ended in failure. But if the North Star were ever to win the war against slavery, Jul's army and leadership had to fall.
"How'd the new upgrades with your weapons work?" Maric asked Maolcholm, gesturing to his mechanical sword and bow.
"They worked out well," the Warwolf replied, taking out his bow and looking at the scope attached to the hilt. "This really helped me aim better during the ambush."
"Well, make sure to tell Ferdiad that when he gets here," Maric suggested with a smile. "He's coming to Ft. Whitewind. He'll be here within a week."
"He's coming here?"
"Yep, so we better make sure we welcome him properly. Now go get some rest, Warwolf."
As Maric instructed, Maolcholm went to his chambers to rest from the long travels. He walked down the stone hallways of the abandoned fort, which had been repurposed for the North Star two years ago. Its position near mountains and several miles away from the road made it an ideal hideout for the anti-slavery fighters that allowed them easy access to both the Brightlands to the west and the Winterlands to the north.
Upon entering his room, the light from the hallway torches illuminated the room, showing a fireplace on the other end. Maolcholm made a gesture to create a Fire Rune and used it to light the wood, illuminating his chambers. Instead of heading to his bed, he walked over to the wooden desk in the corner and sat down before letting out a small sigh of relief before placing his sword, bow and axe down. Before he could rest, there was a knock at his door.
"It's open," he replied. In walked a man of his age with curly dirty blonde hair and green eyes. In contrast to Maolcholm's leather armor and wolf pelt, this young man's attire was more modern, comprised of a red dress shirt, black vest and tie and black slacks with a crimson red feathered hat atop his head. On his belt was a rapier blade with a silver hilt and guard and on his back was a black leather pack that carried his finely crafted lute. The Warwolf knew this man as Saron Cantrell, a secret informant for the North Star.
"Hey, Saron," Maolcholm greeted. "How was Clockbank? Any information?"
"This," the bard informed, handing Maolcholm a newspaper created by the Clockbank Chronicle. The warrior took the newspaper and checked the front page, which read 'Alliance Rejected: Council refuses to join Jul!'. Maolcholm looked at the date it was published, revealing February 12th, which was three weeks ago.
"So Richter sought an alliance with Clockbank," the Warwolf spoke. "Good to know they gave her the finger, but I'm guessing she didn't go in person."
"No, she sent an ambassador," Saron answered. "If she were leaving the safety of Castle Richter in Jul, you'd know of it."
"But at least she's not receiving support from any major cities in Solistia," Maolcholm replied. "Unfortunately, that still leaves her support in the slave underworld to deal with. Identified any slave traders?"
"Just two," Saron responded.
The first often did business in the Wildlands on the Western Continent. His real name was unknown, only going by the Slaver and was renowned for his twisted game called 'Death's Table', where he'd make slaves take turns drinking cups of wine until one of them drank one filled with poison. People sick or sadistic enough to watch often gambled on which slave would come out on top, much to Maolcholm's disgust.
The second one was located somewhere in Hinoeuma called the Red Boar, a nickname he earned for his banner and his aggression towards those he enslaved. He would often take advantage of Hinoeuma's constant warring among the clans to attack villages, enslaving those he deemed useful and killing those he viewed as worthless. It was known that he'd sell his talents and slaves to the highest bidder, which was often Clan Ku until three years ago. Since peace had reigned in the region since then, his business had suffered.
"Were you able to confirm if they're in business with Jul?" Maolcholm asked Saron.
"I can't confirm it, but odds are, they do business with Patricia," Saron answered. Maolcholm leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
"Did you already collect your fee?"
"Just did. But if you paid me a bit more, I could find a good girlfriend for you." Maolcholm chuckled.
"I'm in the middle of a war against slavery; dating isn't one of my priorities right now." Saron smirked.
"You never know. You know I have a good taste in women; I could find the right one for you."
"Maybe…if you don't sleep with her first."
"Well done, my friends," the leader of the North Star, Ferdiad MacDuncan, addressed his followers the night after he arrived.
A broadly built man who was in his fifties, his brown hair and beard were already starting to grey. His presence was that of a professional soldier, someone who had seen combat for many years, who had survived countless battles. Not only that, but he bore the presence of a great and honorable leader, one who the North Star would follow to whatever end.
"We continue to free as many slaves as we can-"
"And sending as many slavers as we can to hell!" a North Star member cheered, following by a loud 'Huzzah!' from the others and joining in his glee.
"Let Ferdiad finish!" Maolcholm demanded, who was standing by Ferdiad's side in front of a bonfire.
"Thank you, Maolcholm," Ferdiad replied before continuing.
"Every slave we free, every caravan we disrupt is a major blow to Patricia Richter and the city of Jul. For the past ten years, we've freed hundreds of thousands of slaves, crippled the slave trade across Solistia, brought down dozens of slave masters. You have all fought well against the inhumanity called slavery, but our war is not over yet!"
As much as Ferdiad and Maolcholm took great joy in the successes of the North Star, one obstacle remained in their way: the city of Jul itself. Despite their victories and their crippling of Solistia's slave trade, as long as Jul remained ruled by Patricia Richter, she would continue to enforce the cruel practice and stop at nothing until the North Star was utterly annihilated. But sadly for the North Star, they lacked the means to launch a full-scale assault on the city; if they were to defeat the Julian army and overthrow Patricia Richter, they'd need numbers, strategy and the element of surprise.
"Let us attack Jul now!" a North Star fighter cried out, earning cheers from the others.
"No!" Maolcholm protested, silencing the room.
"Trust me; I want Patricia Richter and all her supporters dead and all the slaves there freed as much as all of you, but if we attacked Jul directly now, we'd be crushed in a day! We may have them on the run, but the Julian army can still hide behind their walls! We don't have the means to lay siege to the city."
"Maolcholm's right," Ferdiad agreed. "Until we have enough numbers and a proper strategy to take down Jul, we must continue as we do. But for now, let us celebrate our victories and the freedom of those we rescued!"
The celebration went out in full swing, the North Star singing songs and drinking wine, ale and all manner of alcohol. As for Maolcholm, he was about to join in on the fun, but before that could happen, Ferdiad pulled him aside and they went outside, the North Star leader holding a torch as a source of light.
"Yes, sir?" Maolcholm asked his leader.
"You did well leading the ambush," Ferdiad congratulated. "However, some of your comrades told me of how you…'dealt' with the last living slaver in the caravan."
"What of it?" Maolcholm questioned. "We achieved our goal. The slaves were freed-"
"Your mission was rescue, not slaughter," Ferdiad sternly stated. "When you killed the slaver, the battle was already over. Killing him was unnecessary."
Maolcholm quietly disagreed with the North Star leader. In his eyes, every slaver deserved a cruel death; any other punishment was too good for them after seeing how they treated the people they enslaved. All slavers knew was cruelty, sadism and greed; they would do whatever it takes to get what they want, no matter how many lives paid the price as long as it wasn't theirs. To the Warwolf, to kill a slaver wasn't murder, it was justice for the lives of those they had destroyed and killed.
"He would've gone back to Jul and inform Patricia of what happened," Maolcholm answered. "If he remembered the names or faces of any of the slaves, they would've been in danger again."
"That's not the point, Maolcholm," Ferdiad responded. "You didn't just kill him, you made him suffer. That's not defending the innocent, that's hate-fueled slaughter."
"How is it slaughter to kill slavers?" Maolcholm questioned. "What about the crimes they commit against innocent people? Why should we concern ourselves about how we kill slavers?"
"Because you don't understand how slippery and dangerous that slope can be," Ferdiad scolded. "Our mission is freedom, not vengeance. If we kill, Maolcholm, we do so for the freedom of innocent people, not for indulgence. I did not train you in Rune Magic so you could be a butcher!"
Maolcholm was left silent from Ferdiad's scolding. Deep down, the Warwolf knew that what he did to the slaver was fueled by hate, to see slavers suffer as much as the enslaved had. He could justify it however he wanted to Ferdiad, but the North Star leader spoke the truth; Maolcholm's mind accepted it, but his heart…his heart fervently denied it.
"Maolcholm," Ferdiad addressed, putting a hand on his shoulder. "I know what you've suffered, what you've lost, but we must not give into hatred. If we allow our passion for justice to turn into bloodlust and revenge, we risk becoming as cruel as the slavers."
"We could never be as cruel as the slavers," Maolcholm denied.
"Which is why I say that's a very slippery slope, Maolcholm," Ferdiad insisted. "In time, we'd lose the ability to tell between justice and vengeance."
Ferdiad couldn't blame any member of the North Star for wanting revenge against slavers, knowing almost all of them had been wronged by the inhumane cruelty. He'd be lying if he said he didn't think of subjecting them to the same cruelty they inflicted on others to make them feel the same agony.
But as he said, that was a very dangerous slope, one where anyone could easily lose the ability to tell the difference between killing to protect and killing for indulgence. If they were to remain the liberators they said they were, the North Star must always remember that. Should they forget, their passion could turn into cruelty and their focus shifted from freeing slaves to massacring slavers.
"But enough about that," Ferdiad concluded. "I have a very important mission for you, Maolcholm, and I need it done in total secrecy."
"Secrecy, sir?" Maolcholm asked. Ferdiad reached into his pocket and pulled out a small book that he handed to the Warwolf.
"What's that?"
"A list of allies," Ferdiad answered as he handed it to Maolcholm.
The Warwolf took the book and opened it to see who their allies were. The pages revealed the names of three cities: Breezeport in the Harborlands, Lhan in Hinoeuma, and Ironfell in the Crestlands
"What about Icehaven in the Winterlands?" Maolcholm asked, noticing the name not appearing. "You said you've been in negotiations with them. Shouldn't they be on this list?"
"Unfortunately, Icehaven won't help us," Ferdiad solemnly informed. "They have too many of their own internal problems to deal with to lend aid to our cause."
"What about Murland?" Maolcholm questioned about Ferdiad's home island, hidden somewhere in the sea south of Solistia's Eastern Continent. Ferdiad sadly shook his head with immense disappointment.
"They will do nothing," he answered. "Which is why I negotiated with these cities for the past year." He then turned to the night-covered land, which was blanketed by snow for miles and miles as far as they could see.
"We both know Jul is the beating heart of Solistia's slave trade, Patricia Richter the head of the snake and Captain Armand Vallon her muscle. If we're ever to cripple the slave business beyond repair in Solistia, Jul's power must be broken and Richter and Vallon dealt with. But even though our strength has grown, we do not have the numbers nor the strategy to do so, which is one reason why this war has lasted so long. If we can secure enough soldiers from Ironfell, Lhan and Breezeport, we can launch a siege against Jul."
"But that still leaves the need for a strategy," Maolcholm brought up. "A full-on direct assault is simply too risky; even with enough numbers, our casualties would be extreme."
"Which is why I will devise a strategy in the meantime," Ferdiad replied. "I'll dispatch scouts to Jul under the guise of merchants; they'll do what they can to find a weakness in the city. We find that weakness, we can finally destroy Jul's power once and for all."
"And march Armand and Richter right to the executioner," Maolcholm added. "As long as they live, they could rebuild their forces and reinvigorate the slave trade all over again. For the sake of all people, of all Solistia, Armand Vallon and Patricia Richter must die."
Ferdiad considered carefully how to answer Maolcholm's statement. If it were left to a vote, the North Star would undoubtedly advocate for the deaths of Armand Vallon and Patricia Richter. If it were as simple as that, Ferdiad would agree with Maolcholm and march them straight to a well-deserved execution for their crimes and cruelty.
But hatred and anger could easily swell within the hearts of his men once they entered Jul, the place that caused so much suffering for many of them. If left unchecked, the siege of Jul could easily turn into a sacking and massacre; the streets would run red with blood of soldier and citizen alike, regardless of their involvement in Jul's slave trade. Their mission was justice and liberation, not bloodlust and vengeance.
"If need be, they will die," Ferdiad acknowledged. "But if they surrender, they will spend the rest of their lives in prison…which is why you need to stop your brutality."
"Sir?" Maolcholm asked. Ferdiad turned to face the Warwolf.
"You don't understand how your actions could influence the North Star. They look up to you as their best fighter, someone to lead them if anything were to happen to me. If you behave with brutality and hate, so will they." He then placed his hand on Maolcholm's shoulder.
"While you are travelling to these cities, when you run into any slavers, I want you to consider one thing. Before you take a life, ask yourself: are you doing it to protect others or for indulgence? Consider that question deeply."
For protection or indulgence…when it came to slavers, Maolcholm didn't believe there was a difference. All slavers were deserving of death in the most violent ways possible for their inhumane cruelty and joy at the suffering of innocent people. To him, to kill any slaver meant protecting innocent people from being enslaved by those monsters.
"Maolcholm," Ferdiad sternly addressed. "Do you understand?"
"…Yes, sir," the Warwolf responded.
"Then pack your things tomorrow," Ferdiad ordered. "You depart the day after tomorrow. I recommend going to the Western Continent first; our recent raids will have put Jul on their guard, making it harder to get to Ironfell. Don't draw unnecessary attention to yourself nor stay in one place for too long. And above all...be careful who you trust."
"Yes, sir," Maolcholm replied. "I won't let you down."