He had murdered a wizard in cold blood. Murdered a wizard who was in service of Lorinia, simply for the fact that the senile old bat had the guts to accidently unleash a spell in the midst of his soldiers, then nonchalantly laugh it off. His own son had been in that regiment.
Every injured soldier he had seen ever since that day took on the face of his beloved son. He had spent too many years fighting, been in one too many battles, and it all came to a head. Something inside of him snapped, unleashing an all consuming hatred. It didn't take him long to seek out the wizard and run him through, simply to quell the growing madness in his heart.
The way he looked at it, wizards were indirectly responsible for his current state of apathy and despair. They were nothing but a bunch of finger waggling demons that played with powers beyond their control, treating normal people and their lives with similar irreverence. He was well aware that the reasoning made little sense in the grand scheme of things, but when had mankind ever followed the precepts of logic?
The ensuing silence from outside the tent was his cue to make an appearance. They were waiting for him. Just like children wanting to be told what to do. Gregory paused at the exit of his tent as he ran through the mental checklist required to be successful as a bandit lord. Intimidating armor? Check. Weapons displayed in a casual, yet overtly threatening manner? Check. Scowl? Check.
He knew it was critical to maintain a certain appearance. Everyone has their roles to play, and being a leader was just one of them. Though Gregory seriously doubted a real bandit leader would need to run through that mental list, it should be something that comes naturally.
This only served to further indicate that this really wasn't his role, but fate had decided otherwise. Perhaps the thing that scared him the most was how he still went along with it. Once a murderer, always a murderer. . . Still, the notion tugged a brief derisive smile to his lips. In the end, it was what everything was reduced to: a role to be filled.
And so he left the tent, pushing the deerskin flap aside. The dreary mid-afternoon light assailed his eyes, casting the fellow members of his band as indistinct shapes, all crowded around something of interest, even as the pungent aroma of cooking meat and burning wood from the nearby campfires filled his nostrils. He found himself marveling at how his very presence quelled the few murmurs from the surrounding crowd. It was a gesture of respect; respect he had earned and stalwartly reinforced.
It didn't hurt that he looked the part; something which he silently and grudgingly admitted. At just a hair over six feet, he was well muscled from years spent on the battlefield in service of Lorinia. Several wickedly edged curved blades lay at rest on his belt, ready to be brought to bear at any moment, along with meticulously kept black leather armor with interlinked links of metal that had obviously seen, and persevered through, many battles.
Scars, a visible monument to both lives he had led, covered almost every showing part of his body, along with a particularly nasty one that ran its way from the bottom of his right ear, across the cheek, coming to rest at just touching the edge of his lip. But it was the cold as ice, blue crystalline eyes that sealed the deal, reinforcing the fact that this man was not one to be trifled with.
He could, and would, do anything he pleased.
"Boss. . . you're not going to believe this." A small blonde man, barely more than a child really, pushed his way through the crowd.
"I won't believe what, Alec?" he responded, crossing his arms.
"We. . . uh. . . seem to have caught the wizards. . . alive."
Only now was Gregory aware as to why he was the focal point of his band's attention. Every pair of eyes (or in case of some people, just a singular eye) was trained on him, eagerly anticipating his reaction at the news. It was no secret that he hated wizards, though the exact reason for it was never disclosed to them.
A mixture of eagerness and anger gripped him as he made a beeline for the crowd, which respectively parted as he approached. Sure enough, in the center, three figures, hands and legs tied and mouths gagged, lay kneeling along with a gathering of knapsacks and bags, what he could only assume was the spoils of the raid. The figures, a woman and two men, were watching the crowd with expressions ranging from alarm to unsullied loathing.
Another surprise awaited Gregory as he finally got a good look at these so-called wizards. By the Gods! They are nothing more than children! A score of years at most! His band didn't seem to care, for now that the Boss had arrived, they brazenly started to hound the prisoners.
Jeers, taunts, bawdy suggestions, and insults were thrown with abandon, each one becoming more and more frenzied in execution and delivery. Gregory even allowed himself to briefly become caught up in the elation of the situation, taking a bit of perverse pleasure in seeing the panic now grace the features of all three of the prisoners.
Slowly, though, his feelings turned from excitement to disgust. When had he fallen so low as to derive pleasure from such an act against his natural grain? These people were nothing more than children!
They represented not the aloof, unfeeling, haughty wizards he had grown to hate. He had to do something before the crowd worked itself up to more than just throwing words. "Quiet, all of you!" he shouted, anger evident. The crowd immediately settled down and listened, exactly like the obedient children they were. "What are we? Animals? No, we are bandits, and bandits we may be, but I will not have us acting like uncouth louts! I want the prisoners in my tent for questioning, and a full report by the raid leader, including casualties, within five minutes! Loot will be distributed after I am done interrogation. Now clear out of here, the lot of you!"
At that, he spun around on the heel of his boot, not waiting to see if they complied as his black cape swirled in a small whirlwind of fury, and stomped his way to his tent. Angrily he flipped aside the deerskin flap and plopped himself down on the large pillow in the back, one of the few luxuries he allowed himself, and struggled to calm down.
The lamp, resting on a crate in the corner, flickered violently at his passing, as if a reflection of what boiled under the surface. It wouldn't do for his prisoners to see him in such a state. They were, at the very least, wizards, though it would seem as if time had yet to twist them into the image he hated.
He disliked seeing his people act like that. It confirmed a truth that he tried to deny. They were, at their very basic, nothing more than a band of bloodthirsty brigands. He had tried to give them order, form them into something beyond a gathering of witless people out for only themselves. It had worked, but only while he was around. It took so little coercion to revert them back to their original forms.
A small cough roused him from his private contemplations. Looking up, he saw his second in command, Rorian, standing politely in front of him. The man was as much as an oddity in the band as Gregory was. Rorian had all the makings of a bard: a flair for the dramatic and aptitude for music, in addition to a healthy dose of charisma. How he had become a part of the band was something not even Gregory knew, for the man had been with the group as long as anyone could remember. Though, he admitted that he had come to enjoy the intelligent man's company, in addition to the music he provided the men during the frequent lonely nights. But it didn't stop him from scowling anyway, the events prior still fresh in his mind.
"What do you want, Rorian?"
His second in command just smiled, not at all fazed by his Boss's bad mood. "You've requested a report, Boss. If you recall, it was yours truly that led the successful expedition, since you had prior engagements." Gregory waved for him to continue. "Your strategy worked out brilliantly, sir. We kept ourselves sparse and spread out, as you suggested. The wizards were obviously confused and little spell play came forth from them. Any attempts to cast normally were thwarted as we sought out to capture one of their party. We managed to do so, and they were quick to surrender in lieu of us killing him. Again, as you thought they would, sir."
Gregory nodded, happy that wizards were still as predictable as ever. Now came the part every leader was loathe to hear. "Casualties, Rorian?"
The red haired man licked his lips, and then continued. "We only lost one, to a spell cast by the woman. It was Yori, sir, fried by a bolt of lightning. We had two more injured, one when the lightning jumped from Yori to him, and Krag was struck in the chest by a spell. We suspect he has broken ribs. But, all in all, it was a smashing success, sir. No pun intended."
Gregory grimaced, Yori was a good man. "How did Gragis take it when his brother was struck?"
Rorian's huge grin told him exactly how the protective oggron took it. "Not well at all, sir. We thought the oggron would kill the one man. He nearly in fact did, but somehow the wizard had released a spell in an attempt, we think, at killing both of them. A suicide with extras, if you will. But the spell must have gone awry. Nothing came of it besides an unconscious wizard and a very confused, Gragis."
Gregory's eyebrow rose up in surprise. That was something different. The wizards he knew would never do such a self destructive thing. He didn't know whether to be impressed at the bravery, or to mock the foolishness of the failure. The young man continued, undaunted. "Anyway, sir, we found no trace of these familiar creatures you told us to look out for. But, again at your suggestion, we tied the fingers together and gagged them; ensuring no spell play will come forth from them. They await your summons outside."