-Deoman-

Chapter 1

Life is unfair. If you try to change this, life will cheat.

A coach rattles over a landscape which could be described quite thoroughly by the word 'desert'.

There were signs that there had once been civilization here, such as a wheel of a cart, the odd skeleton of an building or even the odd skeleton of a human, gradually disappearing in the ever going wash of sand. Almost all of Heaven had been reduced to this nothingness, and it seemed that the little which was left to thrive at the moment was soon to join it. Of course, it had not always been like this, along with the way that a coach had not always needed about four expensive mercenaries to guard it while travelling between Hercart and Hiscart.

There were three mercenaries on this coach, as well as the wealthy couple who had been rich enough to afford them in the first place, and the driver, who wouldn't go anywhere outside the safety of a city wall himself without a reasonable fee. These days, mercenaries were judged by the number of scars they possessed, as people seemed to think that each scar on a face equaled each battle fought, and more importantly, survived. Whether they had any skill or not was just and added bonus, because it was only the warrior's appearance which was really bought, with hopes that they might scare away anything which should happen to approach. The truth was that anything which did approach would be able to strip the coach of it's belongings and the passengers of their flesh before any mercenary would be able to even get their sword out of their sheath, so there was no real point in trying too hard.

Although to an aristocrat a hired sword was needed on any voyage, no matter how small, they would never allow themselves to be seen too nearby them, for there was always the problem of fleas, which was turning into a real problem amongst the common now, and, of course, What Would The Neighbors Think? The ruffians could sit on the roof.

A cloaked figure sat on the coach's roof looked out towards the horizon, where many figures were trying to stand in a neat and clever formation, but seemed to be failing miserably due to the lack of really wanting to be there.

"Well, 'mage'?" said one of the two other mercenaries, spitting the syllable. This was completely understandable, because of the simple fact that he had a sword. It was only expected of all blade-wielders to resent any other form of warrior that didn't. It also didn't help a lot that this mage, unlike others, was not rich enough to do anything about it. "What's happenin' over there?"

"I'm not sure. I can't see from here."

"Huh? But I thought that you people were perfect, eh? You'd think so the way that you lot go on about yourself, and your amazing magic," his partner pointed out.

"Yeah, yeah, so why don't you just magic your eyeballs then, so that you can see and tell us what's goin' on, eh?" said the one which had spoken first, grinning and nodding excessively to make sure that everyone got the message that what he had just said was incredibly funny.

The mage already had him pretty summed up. The man had obviously noticed that it was the scars which were being looked for in mercenaries nowadays, but he had risen to the occasion quite excessively. It also seemed that he thought battle scars were not only good for business, but that they also had the amazing ability to immediately make someone appear rougishly handsome. Half of his looked like fake ones which had been stuck on. Unfortunately, he hadn't managed to catch the knowledge that too many would merely make one look like an idiot who was trying too hard.

"Unfortunately, that is not within my power," the Mage replied, and then took care not to take any heed of the remarks which were fired back in answer to this.

Men, she thought. Stick a sword in their filthy hands, and they immediately think that they have the world's neck against their knife point.

It was only fortunate for the mage that the other mercenaries did not know that he was in fact a she. People (mostly of the male type) resented women earning money through fighting, in the same way that they resented poor mages earning money through fighting. Putting the two together could easily shunt someone into an even lower class than the werewolves.

Of course, she knew this, and had made plans to solve the problem immediately after her cleansing ceremony. The answer was a well thought out cloak. Everyone wore big cloaks now; it was not an unusual thing to see, so she had taken advantage of this. Hers was black, and the hood was one of those which successfully shadowed the whole face. It was also important that it was not made out of any ordinary material, because it would not do if someone happened to accidentally pull the hood back. She was simply relying on the two swordsmen's combined stupidity (there were not many safer things to rely on) to not realize that no matter how fast they were travelling, the cloak refused point blank to whip back in the wind.

"...And then, after making a fortune for slaying all the Deomans surrounding Hercart," one of the men was saying to the other, "I'll marry a beautiful woman (a princess from some foreign, exotic country, most likely) and then go back to Hiscart for a little celebration."

"Sounds good, but you'll have to be quick, because that sounds a lot like my plan!" said Fake-Scarface, proudly.

She shook her head. She had told herself that she must not speak to either of them unless there was no other way around it, but there were some things which were just to stupid to be left to lie. "Defeat the Deomans? All of them?" she said, in disbelief.

"Yeah, well, as soon as I come up with a brilliant idea on how to do it, which I'm sure'll turn up sooner or later, it'll be as easy as pie."

"Besides," the other added, defensively, "At least we're thinking about the future."

"Yeah, yeah, what are your plans? I bet you're expecting some kinda overnight miracle, just because you're a mage."

She considered this. Normally, in her eyes there was no future past the present job until it was finished, but perhaps it was time to start thinking about what she was going to do for the rest of her life, unless she planned on earning two Suntz a job like this forever. A husband and kids was out of the question, for, after all, what ordinary man in this age would want a woman who could burn them into a crisp by merely looking at them the wrong way?

She chose not to answer for the time being.

They were closer to the city now. On the coach it may have been rickety, but it seemed that the driver was much less concerned about the wheels getting mashed against jagged rocks and passenger discomfort than he was about something jumping onto the back and peeling the roof off if he gave it the chance. She could see the crowd more clearly, and the second thing she noticed about it was that everyone in it was holding some crude metal implement. The first thing which she had noticed was the people holding them. Whoever had recruited these... probably the best word for them was men, they certainly weren't picky.

"So, mage? What're ya gonna do?"

It was an idea... But the person would have to be extremely unconcerned about the type of people taken in to hire her. Nevertheless...

"I think I'll join in the fight to destroy the Deomans..." she said eventually.