Old friends...

*Forest outside Ostiarium*

Malacost leaned against a gnarled tree trunk, the bark rough against his back as he watched the flickering flames of the campfire dance. Although still day time winter was fasting approaching and his balls were freezing waiting. His eyes, shadowed beneath the brim of a weathered cowl, darted between the trees and the path leading toward Ostiarium. The cold air carried the scent of pine and earth, mingled with the faint smell of smoke from the fire. His hand rested casually on the hilt of his sword, but his mind was far from idle. Soon the smells would be replaced with those of loose bowels and blood. He grinned. Not long now.

Around the camp, the small Craven Pack squad moved like shadows, their presence almost imperceptible. The small squad of sappers and infiltrators was handpicked for their ability to blend into the environment, to strike without warning and disappear just as quickly. Malacost respected their skills, even if he didn't particularly care for their company. They were tools, nothing more, valuable, but ultimately replaceable. Just like the two he was waiting on.
He allowed a thin, cruel smile to play on his lips as he recalled their last encounter. Tarmen, the hulking brute of a barbarian from Kru'll, and Alexis Greyriver, the so called Slayer of Slivikhi. The title made his smile widen. Slayer of Slivikhi, what a grand, heroic name for a woman who had been so thoroughly duped.
A few months ago, he had been a different man, or rather, he had worn the guise of a different man. In the treacherous mountains of Fang, he had insinuated himself into their group, earning their trust with lies and half truths. They had believed him, trusted him, and in doing so, had paid a heavy price. It had been so easy to separate them and betray their friends. He could still hear the echoes of their desperate shouts as they faced his wrath in the cold, unforgiving mountains.
And now, fate had brought them together again. Not by chance, of course, Malacost didn’t believe in such things. No, this was a carefully orchestrated move by his master, The Purger, who had assigned him to this task for a reason. The Purger didn't trust Tarmen and Alexis, not after everything that had transpired and their obvious connection to the heretic Inquisitor. He had sent Malacost to keep an eye on them, to ensure they didn't step out of line during this mission.
He thought of Voah during their time in the desert city and how he had spent many a night since, wishing he had tied her clueless partner up and make him watch has he plied his trade on her supple body. A flock of birds flew above the clearing, likely spooked by someone approaching.
He could already imagine the look in their eyes when they saw him, confusion first, then recognition, followed by that inevitable flare of anger. But it would be too late. They would be forced to work with him, whether they liked it or not, and Malacost would be there to torment them, to twist the knife when necessary. And learn what he could. The thought of their confusion, their frustration, and ultimately, their helplessness filled him with a dark pleasure. They had been so sure of themselves before, so confident in their abilities. But Malacost had torn that apart, and he would do it again.
His thoughts drifted to The Purger, the zealot who had orchestrated this meeting. The Purger was a man who saw the world in black and white, in terms of faith and heresy, but Malacost saw only shades of pain. The snap of a twig in the distance pulled him from his thoughts. His eyes turned toward the sound, and his hand instinctively went to the hilt of his dagger. The Craven Pack, sensing the change in the air, stilled, their attention focused on the approaching figures.
Malacost's smile returned, colder this time. He could see them now walking their mounts, Tarmen's massive form moving through the trees with the subtlety of a charging bull, and beside him, Alexis, her movements fluid and controlled, like a predator on the hunt. They were close now, close enough to see the flicker of firelight through the trees.
"Ah, here they come," he raised his voice so his greeting could reach them, his tone mocking and full of dark anticipation. "The Slayer of Slivikhi and her savage companion. I was beginning to think you got lost."
As the two approached, Malacost couldn't help but feel a surge of adrenaline. The game was in motion, the pieces set. He would see this through, manipulate events as he always did, and emerge victorious.