Fallout:Blood and the Bull

Any opinion and comments are welcome

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We carried several wagons loaded with everything we had hidden in the cave near the castle: dozens of lorica hamata and carefully forged gladius swords, tools, provisions, and the wealth accumulated throughout the campaign. Only months had passed since many of these men had left their homes, but time, battles, and marches had transformed them. Despite their initial inexperience, they now moved like hardened veterans, unwavering in their execution of orders, each step reflecting a determination born only of the necessity to survive.

Our march south was steady, sticking to secondary roads to avoid local garrisons and patrols. Every stop was strategic: in markets, we sold goblin and orc slaves who had become burdens and replaced them with more useful human slaves and stronger draft animals. Anything unnecessary was sold or traded, and with each transaction, we amassed more gold and resources to ensure our caravan could continue without hindrance. Scouts monitored the perimeter vigilantly, reporting any movement that could pose a threat, and the group's discipline ensured everything remained as it should.

The strain began to show. Long days and cold nights left their marks on the faces of my men, but no one complained. It was a march with no margin for error. The tension and exhaustion hung over us like a constant shadow, but the order held firm. Until something broke the routine.

During a stop, as I reviewed reports from the scouts, I was interrupted by a group of officers with urgent news. "Five legionaries are dead," they said. My gaze hardened at the words, but what followed chilled the air further. "They tried to turn you over to your father. They thought the reward would be high."

The officers explained that the traitors had been discovered by their own contubernium members, who, without hesitation, had taken justice into their own hands. They beat them to death with nothing but their fists. They led me to where the bodies lay, and what I saw was the raw, brutal representation of betrayal and its punishment. The five lay on the ground, their faces battered, their bodies contorted in positions that spoke of a desperate struggle before succumbing.

I stared at the corpses for a long moment, letting the scene settle in my mind. They weren't just dead men; they were a reminder of how fragile loyalty could be when gold and empty promises intervened. My eyes shifted to the men who had killed them. Their silence said it all: they did not regret it; they sought no approval. They had acted as they must.

"We will not move the bodies," I said finally, my voice cold and laden with conviction. "Let them rot where they fell. Betrayal deserves worse than death. It deserves to be forgotten and despised by all."

The men nodded, though some averted their gaze, uncomfortable with the idea of leaving their former comrades in such a state. To me, it was a lesson no one in the caravan would forget. There would be no burial, no fire to purify their remains, nothing. The stench of decay would be their only legacy, and every man who passed that place would know what happens to those who break trust.

As the caravan resumed its march, the bodies were left behind, a macabre reminder that would fade with time but not from the minds of those who witnessed it. Few spoke much after that. The legionaries, already hardened, seemed even quieter, more reflective. The lesson had been clear. Any thoughts of betrayal now faced the weight of that image: disfigured faces, bodies abandoned to the most humiliating fate.

The march continued, and though the group was weary, the pace never faltered. Each step was firm, disciplined, guided by a shared understanding. Here, there was no room for the weak-willed or for those seeking shortcuts at the expense of others. Loyalty was not an option—it was the sole rule that kept everyone moving forward. The rotting bodies at the side of the road weren't just a punishment; they were an eternal warning.

After another week of continuous movement through the Marquis's territories, evading his patrols and scouts, we finally left his borders behind. The secondary roads and constant reports from my scouts had allowed the caravan to advance without interruption, leaving behind only the faintest trace. Upon officially crossing out of his territory, a sense of relief and triumph settled over the group, though it was unspoken. As I gazed at the open horizon, a slight smile curved my lips.

"I can only imagine the Marquis's face," I murmured to myself, "when he learns we slipped away right under his nose." The satisfaction wasn't just personal; it was a clear message that his authority, while great, was not absolute.

However, there was no time to stop or celebrate. Our destination now lay further south, in the region of the Free Cities of the Empire—a territory my father had mentioned many times over the years. According to him, these cities were in a constant state of war with each other, fighting over trade, influence, or simple historical grievances. Their internal conflicts had turned the region into a magnet for mercenaries, wandering soldiers, and any force willing to sell their sword for gold. There, combat wasn't just a means of survival; it was an economy in itself.

"The Free Cities are nothing like the lands of the Marquis," my father had said in the past, with a mix of disdain and pragmatism. "There, the citizens prefer to focus on trade and craftsmanship, leaving others to bleed for them. If one plays their cards right, they can find enough gold to build something lasting—or die trying."

The men continued marching behind me, their steps firm and disciplined despite their accumulated fatigue. Though few spoke openly, I could sense they shared the same mix of anticipation and tension. To them, the Free Cities represented both opportunity and risk. Their hearts and bodies had hardened over these months, but the uncertainty of the south weighed on them as much as it did on me.

As we approached the territory of the Free Cities, the roads became more traveled. Caravans of merchants, small groups of mercenaries, and peasants with their carts passed in the distance, all sharing the same look of those searching for something better amid the chaos. Each encounter reinforced the reality of what lay ahead: a world where war and commerce walked hand in hand, and survival depended not just on strength but also on cunning.

The path toward one of the Free Cities grew busier as we approached. The dusty roads were now marked by wagon tracks and the constant flow of travelers, merchants, and small armed groups. There was a buzz of activity absent in the lands of the Marquis, where vigilance and control cast a somber shadow over everything. Here, chaos and movement made it feel like everything was within reach, though every misstep could be fatal.

It was then that we spotted a structure in the distance—a dark stone entrance surrounded by makeshift tents, campfires, and a bustling crowd moving constantly. Some carried worn weapons and armor, others hauled sacks filled with strange objects and trophies I couldn't immediately identify. The structure, unmistakable in its design and aura, was a dungeon.

I halted the caravan and ordered my scouts to approach first for a closer look. I wouldn't risk walking into something blind. As they advanced, I dismounted and moved to a vantage point where I could observe the area better. What I saw perplexed me.

Unlike the dungeons I had encountered in the north, where corrupt mana unleashed unspeakable horrors, this one seemed... peaceful. Adventurers moved in and out with an almost mundane calm, as if they were entering a market or a fair. Some returned laughing, showing their companions parts of beasts hunted inside, while others gathered in circles to share tales of their exploits or negotiate with merchants who had set up improvised stalls around the entrance.

One scout returned quickly to provide a report. "Sir, it seems this dungeon is not like those in the north. Here, adventurers enter to hunt creatures and gather resources. They say the beasts have hides, bones, and other materials that fetch high prices in nearby cities."

I watched one of the groups emerging at that moment. They carried trophies: fangs, claws, and strange hides with colors and patterns I had never seen. The creatures hunted here were different—not the grotesque abominations warped by corrupt mana that infested the northern dungeons. Here, the beasts resembled animals more than monsters, and the atmosphere was entirely different. There was no stench of death that clung to northern dungeons, no oppressive sense of a condemned place.

"This is... different," I murmured, more to myself than anyone else. "There's no corruption here... no despair. Just commerce and opportunity."

The men around me seemed equally surprised. Some, hardened by battles in the northern dungeons, looked at the adventurers with disbelief, as if they couldn't comprehend how these people could enter and leave a dungeon so easily. Others murmured among themselves, debating whether this was something we could take advantage of.

Meanwhile, the caravan came to a full stop, and a small group of officers approached to discuss the next steps. While our priority remained reaching the city, this place represented something more: resources, connections, perhaps even a foothold among the Free Cities.

"Establish a perimeter," I ordered. "We won't leave the caravan exposed while we evaluate this place. Have some men inquire about what's sold here and the value of those materials. I want to know if staying longer is worthwhile."

As my orders were carried out, I continued observing the adventurers. Some looked like little more than armed peasants with improvised tools, while others resembled seasoned mercenaries. Their equipment and behavior varied widely, reflecting the chaos and diversity of this place. To them, these dungeons weren't mortal threats but resources to exploit. This mindset was foreign to someone like me, raised in the north, where a dungeon was a death sentence to anyone who ventured too close.

"The south is an entirely different world," I thought, adjusting my cloak as I kept watching. "Here, they don't fight to survive."

I remained silent, weighing the possibilities. If these adventurers could find wealth in a place like this, why couldn't we? I had no intention of becoming one of them, but nothing prevented us from using their methods to supply our needs. If these dungeons were resources instead of threats, they might be the key to strengthening our position in the Free Cities.

I decided to send two of my decanus with their contuberniums into the dungeon. I didn't expect them to face anything they couldn't handle; these men had fought in far worse conditions. Meanwhile, I used the time to explore the camp surrounding the entrance, where merchants displayed their wares and adventurers traded goods and trophies. The activity was constant, and the variety of items on offer was as puzzling as it was intriguing.

Two hours passed as my men negotiated some supplies with local merchants. It wasn't anything significant: dried food, basic tools, and some information about the region and nearby cities. Some merchants were wary of speaking to a group as disciplined as ours, but gold always broke down barriers. I observed everything from a distance, attentive to every move. The voices and laughter of adventurers entering and exiting the dungeon created an atmosphere that felt surreal for what, in the north, would be a place of death and despair.

Then, through the camp's bustle, I saw my men emerging from the dungeon. The decanus led the way, escorting legionaries carrying the spoils obtained inside. At first glance, the scene was impressive. The soldiers brought back several monsters they had hunted within. Some were dead, their massive bodies covered in exotic hides or shimmering scales that looked priceless. Others, to my surprise, were alive, bound and struggling against the ropes that held them.

I approached as they laid out their haul before me. One decanus stepped forward, his face still streaked with sweat and dust. "Sir, the interior is... different. The creatures are fierce but not corrupt. There are packs of beasts, many of them valuable for their hides, claws, and fangs. We encountered few obstacles we couldn't handle. We've brought some specimens for your evaluation, both alive and dead."

I examined the haul as he spoke. One of the monsters, a reptile covered in black scales, hissed furiously as it struggled against the ropes. Its skin gleamed in the sunlight, as if made of obsidian. Beside it lay the lifeless body of a beast with curved horns and legs like a wolf's, its blood still fresh. It was clear these creatures weren't just dangerous but incredibly valuable.

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Any opinion and comments are welcome