#short answer?

Glass shattered in the distance from inside one of the tents. Liam perked up, stretching as he readied his bow and nocked an arrow. No rattling of manacles or clashing metal followed the disturbance. Hopefully that meant no upstarts got any ideas, but better safe than sorry.

One of his cohort’s voices carried over the night air, full of piss and vinegar- ah of course. Bertrand. “Steel-arm” as he insisted, the prick. Liam relaxed his stance, rolling his eyes.

Faint snippets of “did they follow-“ and “you idiot if they find us-“ cut through the air, harsh and as sharp as the pieces of whatever bottle Bertrand threw in one of his infamous fits. Although, even from this far, the waver in his voice gave Liam pause.

Their small band caught wind of the rumors, a group hunting the Scarlet Triad across the continent. They appeared without warning, leaving nothing but destruction and bodies in their wake. Some of the stories varied as to the… extent of their brutality. Considering the few stories that Liam heard came from either townsfolk, or Triad members who lost contact with those stationed elsewhere? He could hazard a guess.

Bertrand emerged out of their makeshift barracks seething. Face burning and shoulders shaking with rage and something else entirely. Other mercenaries Liam hadn’t bothered to commit to memory followed in his wake. Some stumbling from drink consumed before the bad news dropped. One man nursed a sizable bruise across his cheek. The bearer of bad news.

Each of them stood with their weapons drawn.

They’d made quick work of the resistance they faced before, stomping inexperienced local guard and makeshift militias before clasping them in manacles. Joking among themselves about the low prices their skills warranted. No jokes passed between them now. No cruel smirks. Only a shared watch of the horizon.

Waiting.

Listening.

Despite a complete lack of clouds, the smell of rain carried on the wind. Wind that grew stronger without warning, bending the surrounding trees to its whims. As torches and campfire sputtered and struggled to cast their light out into the darkness, a shape darted out, wreathed in blinding white lightning. Liam’s arrow flew far wide of the intruder- his vision mottled with black spots. More shadows surged out of the woods, concealed by darkness.

“THEY’RE HERE-“

“GET THEM-“

“GO-“

Thunder shook Liam from his stunned silence, cracking bone and battle cries signaling the intruders’ arrival. Shapes still mottled by dark halos where the lightning lingered in Liam’s eyes.

A lute’s song rose above the now deafening cacophony of battle, heavy with magic. He shook his head and squinted in its direction. Music meant a bard- the so-called “Death Aspirant”- probably an easier target than the rest. Bertrand and the others could hold their own long enough for him to pick off the weakest member. Give them an advantage.

This far away from the central group, odds were that he went unnoticed. Or the rest of their attention lay elsewhere. An opportunity either way.

Eyesight restored at long last, Liam spotted his target standing behind most of his compatriots. Tactical positioning, were it not for him. He drew his bow back. Stop the music, stop the magic. Be the one who finally put the aspirant where he belonged.

Then he turned and looked Liam in the eye.

Years of exposure to dirty work- assassinations, muggings, torture, violence, it left a mark. A sort of tell. You moved- acted differently when you took a life with your own hands. Whether for coin or survival, in the end it didn’t matter. It reflected in the eyes. Always.

This- this was not that mark.

This was an endless raging ocean, churning beneath your ship, stretching in every direction. A chasm tearing the ground asunder and leading into inky nothing. This was the first sign of blackened fingertips in a blizzard, endless frigid cold encroaching a dying fire. Its embers snuffed out to desolate coals.

Those eyes were certainty, bleak and inevitable, that the end approached. Sure, certain, waiting. Liam would die one day, as all things did. The Death Aspirant knew this, knew it more than any other being alive.

And here in this clearing, he might ensure it.

Liam's bow clattered onto the ground, though he failed to notice its absence. Not over the thudding of his heartbeat in his ears, a fragile reminder that his life currently remained intact. The scent of iron, sour and sharp, pulled his attention from his panic enough to witness his fellow mercenaries become bodies littering the forest floor.

A being unlike any he’d seen –or even heard of– before, some hybrid of shark and man, beat a man ensnared in his jaws until he no longer moved. A hulking figure in armor stood with flails drenched in gore surrounded by grotesque corpses. The others did- did something in the distance, engulfed by lightning and magic too bright to parse. One seemingly bending nature’s force around him to deflect a bolt towards another victim.

Rumors paled in comparison to the reality of this- this slaughter.

No sum of money on a contract was worth dying here- Not to them. Not for the Triad.

From the ground, Bertrand pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, alone now. Great-axe in hand he lunged for the Death Aspirant, wild and desperate. A gaping wound split his back, flayed open, weeping blood onto the already soaked ground.

The Death Aspirant’s focus shifted to his assailant, only reacting with a slow blink and an almost imperceptible sigh.

New music spilled out from his intricate lute, discordant yet entrancing. Mid swing Bertrand froze, face drained of all blood as he stammered and stared at something Liam could not see. Every shadow in the camp drew towards the frightened man, impossibly dark.

Frantic muttering turned to screams turned all too swiftly to silence. Bertrand collapsed in a motionless heap. His expression forever locked in its final state of unmitigated terror. A wrought mask.

Breath returned to Liam, as well as his memory of how to run away. His first steps found no purchase, nearly falling over himself before he regained his balance and made a break for the relative (he hoped- he prayed) safety of the treeline.

He dared only a short glance over his shoulder, to check whether he needed to make peace with whatever god would bother taking his soul, yet no one followed behind him. The Death Aspirant had raised a hand and shook his head to the others, turning that damned stare to Liam for only a second before all five walked away.

Still, even a town appeared on the horizon after hours of running, even as the sun rose over shimmering waves, it lingered. The unshakable knowledge that one day, the sands of his time would run out. That fate’s thread could snap at a moment's notice.

He needed to go to a temple. Then a bar. Maybe two.