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Freezing winds blew off the sea to the North of Daemonheim, chilling the peninsula as Sylvia sat in a small shack to the West of the fort. Though she had arrived less than twenty four hours earlier, she already hated it. I fucking hate the cold , she thought to herself, wrapping her wolf skin cloak tighter around herself as she stared out of the window, brooding on the information Xul had provided at the earlier meeting. She scribbled her thoughts in a small notebook, waiting for her visitor.
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Between strong gusts of boreal wind, the distant beating of gnomecopter wings could be heard. Shortly, they were loud enough that even the wind could not conceal their buffeting noise.

(Within the lead copter, one of two.)

The gnomish pilot cursed as he fought the control stick, muttering beneath his breath.

"Not safe to fly, I say. Weather too rough. But nooo.."

A gruff voice from the back crew compartment spoke up. "You gripe too much, Spin. Far too much."

"Well, luckily you won't have to hear it much longer. I've found a flat.. well, flat enough spot."
Stuttering and shuddering in the bracketing gusts, the copter would set down rather roughly on the barren earth. The second followed close behind.

From the sliding crew compartment doors emerged eight, dark-grey clad figures, laden with weaponry and bags of supplies. As the copters lifted back off, bits of gravel and dust flung themselves about in an artificial tempest.

He crouched down, finally managing to find enough dead air to light the thing, before rising once more, smoke racing away from his mouth with each exhale, and looking about for his appointed contact.
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In the distance, Sylvia could hear the loud, rhythmic beating of gnomecopter wings over the wind. With a heavy sigh, she unwrapped herself from the cloak and clasped it correctly around her neck, grabbing her thin leather gloves and sliding them onto her hands before fighting her way out the door. A short distance away, she could see the faint silhouette of the copter. She tread through the snow towards it, the wind biting at her exposed face.

Church would see the cloaked figure moving toward him from a distance, and began to plod off, entering from the bare patch into the snow, to meet it.

After a minute or two of somewhat difficult maneuvering, Sylvia narrowed her eyes against the wind. The figure approaching her was all too familiar, she realized, catching a glimpse of her visitor's defining feature - a black eyepatch.

"You again," she called out sarcastically.

"We've got to stop meeting like this."

Church would drop his large duffle bag first, then lay the rubium musket gently upon it, throwing his arms out to either side to suggest an embrace.

Sylvia blinked at him, somewhat caught off guard by the suggestion of a public display of affection, before coming closer and loosely hugging him. "Well, I know how you would prefer to meet but, unfortunately, this line of work makes that difficult."

Breaking from the hug, Church retrieved his gear from the snow and began plodding off in the direction Sylvia had come from.

He reached with his free hand and plucked the roll from his mouth, throwing it into the snow.

"Never know when you might not meet at all. Spin almost killed all of us at least three times on the flight up."

"I have had my fair share of brushes with death since our parting in Canifis as well, I can assure you." She turned on her heel in the snow and begin the task of getting back to the shack.

Silently, the two black-clad figures drug their feet through the gathering snow.
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Opening the door to the shack, Church entered and sat his gear heavily down on the meager bed. He would take a seat on a rough-hewn chair and produce another roll.

Sylvia followed him in, shutting the door tightly behind her and making her way over to the window to retrieve her open notebook, left next to Church's chosen seat, before he had a chance to look at it. She tucked it into the inside pocket of her cloak as she took a seat on the side of the bed. "Sensitive information," she told him, in reference to the notebook.

"Your diary?" Church grinned before lighting the roll and resting his bearded chin on his free hand.

She shrugged, then chuckled. "I have too much information to store in my brain to have room for my own thoughts and feelings in there as well."

Church flicked the ash from the end of his roll and chuckled lightly. "Shame, I would haved liked to read the all the sappy love poetry I suspect you write in your downtime."

"Of course. It's all about you, at least I'm sure that's what your ego tells you." Sylvia reached into the cloak pocket again, flinging the notebook across the room to the desk beside Church. "Perhaps at some point when the lives of our fair Kingdom aren't at stake."

Church would retrieve the notebook, open it, and read silently for around a minute. Closing the book and placing it on the table, he would drag on the dwindling roll. "Sounds a bit grim. Undead?"

"Supposedly. A few days ago, the Queen and King received a letter from a representative of the Kingdom of Isafdar, the so called "Guardian of the Kingdom", Xul. In the letter, he spoke of a great army of the dead being spotted by a patrol around Daemonheim. Of course, only one member of the patrol made it back. So we are going on the word of a sole man on the most Northern outpost of a Kingdom we just finished a war with."

Church grunted briefly. "If I had to bet, I'd say the knife-ears are trying to draw our forces away from the West before they cross the border and try to finish us off." Looking out a dreary window, Church's expression grew sad. "If they're telling the truth, though.."

Sylvia unclasped the cloak, shrugging it off of her shoulders. "If they are telling the truth, which I am inclined to believe they are, then we have a much bigger problem than elves on our hands, Jonathan."

"Well, thankfully, the undead rarely have the capacity for individual thinking or group tactics. If they're out there, and they come here, we can bash them to pieces in the ravines and canyons hewn from the rock. Maybe load them with charges before their advance." He put his free hand to his mouth, stroking his rough mustache briefly. "We can't commit that sort of resources without confirmation, though. There are a hundred other fires Wardog could be putting out."

"There are a hundred other places I could be now as well," Sylvia nodded her agreement. "I am relatively useless here if the army of the undead proves to be real. I am not a fighter anymore. However, the Queen sent me to asses the situation. I am meant to gather information and determine if there is any substance to this story." Sylvia rose from the bed, walking over to the window sill. "I know you are not fond of elves, but I must admit: after meeting with Xul and others earlier, I think there is truth here."

Church would cross his legs, stubbing out the roll. "If Spin hasn't thrashed the copter into splinters yet, we can take it up and head West. If the mass is as large as they say, we can probably spot it before it spots us."

Sylvia shook her head. "Not in enemy territory. Keep the copter on the ground. There is already a scouting party being organized. Ah..." Sylvia glanced over at Church before looking back out at the wind swept land outside the window. "I may have already volunteered us."

Church sighed and opened his hands in a gesture of helplessness. In a moment, he collected himself. "Well, I suppose we'll do alright if we stick to high ground and watch for the tell-tales. Dust clouds, so forth. They won't need any campfires, so going out at night would be fruitless and foolish." Church leveled a finger at her, speaking in an almost fatherly tone. "But you. You can't come."

Sylvia turned to face him, crossing her arms and tilting her head. "I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were my father now."

"The undead don't sleep, or feel exhaustion. If we're spotted, and we're far enough out, we'll have to fight as much as we run. Worse, we could lead them back here before defenses are complete. Do you think you'll survive?"

"I go into most of my missions not sure if I'll survive. It is part of the job. My mission here is to assess the situation, if at all possible, with my own eyes." Sylvia replied, slightly irritated.

Church retracted his finger, realizing that his emotions had, briefly, interfered with his mission. "Right. Right."

Seeing the somewhat dejected look on his face, Sylvia's irritation morphed into amusement. She uncrossed her arms, hitting his arm. "I am truly honored, however, that the great war veteran, the most dangerous man in the Kingdom, cares about my well being. Perhaps I should document this moment."