KHAZUUL

Blood and soot darkening her face, Sow just nods with wide, white eyes as Freki reports what he has seen. Laying down her weapons, she digs through Cutwell's kit for bandages and anything else that will help patch up the metal-armed barber and the Marchguard, who isn't sharing his character sheet.

"I've got my sling that can be used to fling burning pitch as well," the girl says as the works, cleaning and binding wounds.

Freki nods in agreement, "There's three cauldrons of pitch next to the flinger. If we target those, I think the whole things might go up."

Freki helps Sow as best he can and as the two fallen companions begin to stir, he says to Cutwell, "What are you mumbling about? Pigs and Porridge?" He looks around at the others in confusion and eventually adds, "Sorry Doc, no time to eat until we finish our task and get back to base camp. Come on, sit up and have a sip of water. That was a close call, I thought we lost you two for a second there."

Finishing one of the bandages, Sow meets Freki's gaze with hers and glances up the hill before she speaks. "If we're going to do this... we don't have much time." Then, to the two men on the mend, and to Saffron, she asks, "Are you able?"

Saffron sheathes the shining sword and begins assisting Sow, as the big men are hard to roll for the smaller-framed women. She points to the blood-soaked fracture that has left the mousy woman's face and hair dripping red. "You're the toughest woman I've ever met."

It's difficult to tell beneath the grime, the blood and the mud, but Sow reddens when Saffron compliments her. Offering a waterskin to the two recovering men, she doesn't say anything in return, thinking instead of what they are about to attempt...

"Aye, that’s me belly talkin’, ain’t it?" Cutwell says, inspecting his bandages and finding that they’ll hold for now!

"That didn’t go as I’d hoped! What’s next?" he says, wondering if he ought to have mentioned the idea of retreating before they’d thrown themselves at the spears.

"The fire-thrower's atop the hill, just over the crest there," Sow says to Cutwell, fussing over his bound wounds one last time, her normally broken tones seeming a little stronger today. "Most of the fighting is now on the other side, so the way is open to get that thrower and the piles of pitch near it alight..."

"Thank you," Flint says gratefully to Sow in little more than a croak. He gulps greedily from the proffered waterskin, easing his parched mouth as he examines her handiwork.

"You've done well patching me up, Sow. I might owe you my life." The faintest of sparks returns to the injured man's eyes as his voice becomes less hoarse and shaky.

"No time to rest is there? I am ready to help." Flint slowly gathers his things as he stretches and tests his injured body.

"Right! Let’s light the pissing thing. Best hope that the boys come to drag our arses from the fire, ain’t we?" he says, something like grim determination in his voice.

Freki takes a long drink from his waterskin as the others slowly get up after Sow's treatment. He's happy to see the others recovering some energy, although it'll be awhile before they fully heal.

"Yeah, let's light it up so bright they see it from Vanguard Bastion!"

With a nod to everyone to make sure they're ready to go, he leads the group back up the slope to the spot with a clear view of the flinger and neighbouring barrels of pitch.

The company, bruised and worn, drags themselves to the crest of the hill where the Dreadwing's camp lies. The hill burns, and the smoke stings your eyes. You crouch behind an unmanned barricade of lashed timbers, hands on your weapons, ready.

Freki had seen the storm of arrows from the Black Skull, but now it had stopped. The Dreadwings hadn’t taken much damage, if any. A few of their archers were laughing, shouting down the hill, mocking the Black Skull’s poor aim. They weren’t afraid - not yet.

You spot the fire flinger immediately, which the Dreadwings are preparing to fire on the unsuspecting Black Skulls below. The Dreadwings work fast, scooping tar from the caldrons and jamming it into the gaping maw of the fire flinger. The Ruin Sage, dressed in black, stands over them, watching for danger, his eyes cold.

The lanterns of the sappers throw long shadows over the machine, and now, in that light, you can see it clearer. The fire flinger is no simple tool of war—it is shaped like a dragon's head, ornate and grim. It looks like it could breathe fire even without the help of the men or the tar. Both Sow, Cutwell, and Saffron, who have touched the Other Side through the relics they carry, can sense its unnaturalness, even at this distance.

"Wait a second, will ya?" Cutwell says, as he takes a knee and fishes around in his pack for a moment. Squinting in the dark, he finally pulls out a small, tightly rolled pouch, and begins to untie it.

He had several more like it. Some were knives and other instruments for quick and messy surgery in the field. This one was instead a small set of four syringes; each containing a few milliliters of clear liquid.

The man picks one up, and swishes it. He inspects the liquid and then prepares his arm, after placing the syringe between his lips, edgeways to keep it safe.

"Hoped it wouldn’t come to this, didn’t I? This stuff is no joke, but it’ll give us the edge!" he says, making eyes at the others that asked if they wanted to partake.

Flint takes the sling from Sow and feels its weight,Flint wonders how well he will equip himself this day. Through stinging eyes he sees his life flash before him. The Vicars daughter's eyes burn brightly, shimmering with tears, laughing at him, sure her revenge is about to be wreaked. Flint is sorry for the affair. Sorry that she killed herself by fire, the irony not lost on him.

"I'm coming with you Cutwell!"

Crouching down next to Cutwell, Sow, her eyes white against the dark smudges all over her face, merely nods as she starts rolling up her own sleeve…

Flint is wary of needles, amusing as it sounds, but he realizes he needs an edge. He will wait until Sow gets her dose and then reluctantly offer his arm as well.

"Just don’t ask for more! Powerful stuff this, ain’t it? And I’m all out." he warns. He’d seen made brought back from the edge of death with this stuff. Some of them could never get away from their dependency on it though!

"Take the shot, and then see where we stand!" he determines, hoping they can still avoid a massive scrap!

Freki stops at Cutwell's words and catches his breath as they approach the summit. He adjusts the bandage around his neck. He had fared well in the fight against the Dreadwings, but his injury from earlier dealing with Dario was still fresh and now throbbing from the exertion.

"I don't like the sound of that," he says about the stuff that Cutwell injects into his arm, "but we need every advantage we can get at the moment and this is one place I don't want to lag and get left behind. Give it to me Doc!"

While he waits his turn, he takes Sow's sling, puts a stone in it and whirls it around to get a feel for it. Then he wraps one of the scrap clothes that Wilmot found for them, ties it tightly around the stone and soaks it in some of Flint's lamp oil.

"Okay, I think I'm ready. I'm not sure our fire will do anything to that Dragon by the look of it, but if we can light those barrels of pitch next to it, then nobody will be able to stand anywhere near it to use it and hopefully it'll burn down the entire camp!"