Ira Archer dealt in the misery of mages and sorrow of spellcasters. The more tears they shed, the more coin he made.
It was nothing personal, really – they were damned souls to begin with, from the minute they let the taint of magic overwhelm their body, so he was just rounding them up, shipping them out, like any proper mage hunter would. Where the mages went, what was done with them, and why, he didn't know, didn't care – and he'd bet his crossbow that none of his fellow mage hunters cared either. Who would be fool enough to question the hand that pays you? Ira Archer, born and bred in a humble low class home, knew better than to ask too many questions.
These mountains were cool, the skies overcast – it might rain, perhaps, but if Ansgar was willing, he'd hold out on that rain for just a while more. Grey, melancholy clouds painted themselves across the skies, while a foreboding chill sank through the area – as if nature itself knew who lurked in the Thunderblacks. The area was dotted with many tall cliffs to hide behind; it was rocky, bumpy, and could leave anyone easily confused, if they weren't careful. The southern side of these treacherous mountains was home to many the wild, hungry animal – and hunters, mage hunters, like Ira. Granted, this pass was the quickest way to get to Adela, to the heart of the country. So mages took the risk, and chanced meeting with mage hunters like himself. Hell, it was their funeral.
A large caravan was traversing through the pass – one with at least eight carts, pulled by horses, populated with mages, undoubtedly. Verna, hound Ira kept at his side, could smell the magic dripping off their aura, his snarl only confirming their status as mages. Back at La'marri, he had heard of a group of mage-hunters gathering here, to this spot, to take out what could possibly be the payoff of a lifetime – after all, it wasn't every day that a group of mages travelled in such a large pack, out in the relative open. Intelligence said that the mages were supposedly travelling to Adela, and from there on, who knew. Ira didn't know, but it wasn't important.
Safety in numbers might've made mages feel a little better at attempting to travel in these dangerous times, but the same could be said for the mage hunters. Armed to the teeth, Ira knew that other mage hunters lurked in the pass as well. They did not know each other, no, but they only knew that they shared the same goals. They had not even come here together, but had made their way to these mountains separately, meeting for only a brief minute to come up with a plan. There would be time for talk later, when they had bagged the mages and were on their way for a handsome pay off. For now, they hid amongst the cliffs, waiting for Ira to send off the signal.
Ira cocked his bow, aiming for the horse in the middle of the caravan, the one that strung the first four and last four carts of the caravan together. It was a majestic beast, a dapple grey – too bad it would have to die. Ira drew back the arrow – iron tipped, sharper than the precipices of hell – he let the arrow fly, taking out the horse with one shot, not bothering to watch the beast stagger and slump to the floor. First was confusion, than fear, then panic, and now Ira drew up the second arrow, powdered with paralyzing gas.
The gas would not paralyze necessarily, it would only slow down the brain, make his victim's movements groggy, until they no longer had the will to move. This arrow one was a little flashier, with a light red ribbon attached to it, and when Ira let it fly, one could easily mistake it for the devil's arrow, raining up from the underworld itself. As the mages exited their carts, to assess what had just happened, Ira let that red arrow go, amongst the crowd of people. As the hell arrow landed, it started to sizzle, the gas flowing ominously into their area. And then, the final stage, realization, as the mages pieced it all together – they were under attack.
The stage was set, the signal had been sent, and the mage hunters moved out.
