Hey everyone! Yes, I'm still alive. Well, for the most part. Senior year is kicking into high gear, and I've been hard pressed to find time for anything not involving school work/college stuff/working/everything else that is entailed in life nowadays.

But, I finally got something up and running! I've been mulling over this particular concept for a little while, and finally decided to pull the trigger just a short time ago. I want everyone here to know that this first chapter is really just a preliminary thing, and the response I get will dictate where I go from here. I can't really afford to put a large chunk of time into this story, but it will still be as well-written and developed as I can make it.

Anyway, I'm not going to spoil anything in the description here, so all of you can be the judge on that. Read, enjoy, and please, please, PLEASE REVIEW!

P.S. - Doors of Fire and Whence we Came ARE NOT, I repeat ARE NOT dead. Far from it. Right now I'm taking a break from actually writing in them and instead stepping back and looking over the story concepts. Just thought ya'll would like to know.

It was on a frigid, moonless, and rain-laden night that a large column of beasts doggedly made their way along the muddy path. At least five score in all, a smattering of foxes, stoats, weasels, ferrets, rats, and even the miscellaneous otter or squirrel. The low-hanging trees overhead failed to help in their futile attempts to stay dry. If anything, the drooping boughs seemed to funnel the water down onto their heads. Paws had long-since gone numb from the cold and wet. Fur was slickened with mud and grime. Sickness was abundant and thriving in the conditions. Many of those marching could only think of one name for their predicament: Hell.

But this was more than a wandering band of slack-jawed vermin soldiers under the harsh whip of some egotistical maniac overlord, or a gang of marauding pillagers. Though their equipment might have been haphazard and lacking in some areas, their uniforms filthy and unkempt, and their gazes long and unfocused, it didn't take an expert's eye to see what motivated these creatures to suffer through such strife.

They were mercenaries: paw-loose warriors who sold their swords, axes, bows, darts, or whatever arms they could cobble together to the highest bidder. Though they lacked official leadership, it had always been assumed that every important matter would be voted on by the whole company, and acted on as such. Whether that was accepting contracts, deciding which direction to undertake, or a similar issue, the two hundred or so beasts-for-hire were assured a role in every decision made. This system, of course, had often lead to heated arguments and broken snouts or swollen lips on more than one occasion.

As the contingent marched on, too tired to complain to any great extent, two beasts appeared out of the mirky haze just ahead. They were scouts, sent forward from the main column to find shelter for the night. A weasel and stoat, both experienced soldiers, held a brief conversation with a few of those at the head of the column. After a few nods, the weasel cupped both paws around his mouth and shouted to be heard over the torrential rain and wind. "Clearing in the woods up ahead, two hundred paces! All those for setting up camp?"

A resounding chorus of "Aye!" went up from the crowd. Desperate for any chance to escape the pounding weather, every beast gathered what little strength they had remaining and surged forward. They ignored the splattering mud and water on their legs, too invested in the possibility of a dry hollow to crawl into.

It took the troupe only a matter of minutes to find the small expanse of level ground nestled just a few paces off the main path. Covered in dead leaves and mud puddles as it was, everybeast was grateful for a reprieve. Wool-fabric tents quickly appeared from waxed haversacks, designed to repel moisture as best they could. It was decided by each beast present that fires were permitted, as the only creatures insane enough to travel through a storm such as this were the mercenaries themselves.

It was unspoken code that the band segregated itself by occupation. The experienced sword and blade fighters set up to one side, while the cooks, scribes, and other assorted crewbeasts went to another. Cobblers, blacksmiths, healers, scouts, and archers followed suit.

Tucked against a chunk of forest, a small encampment of only three score beasts or so lifted their tents and desperately attempted to light fires. Some were successful, and soon there were a number of smoky, roiling blazes going. In their attempts to ward off the gloominess and bitter cold, some began to sing and play small instruments while the rest tried to maintain some semblance of normal conversation.

"I still swear by the ol' ash," a ferret was saying, huddling miserably under his cloak while water dripped off his muzzle. "Long, straight trunk, don't usually get no stinkin' knots, and they grow like bloody weeds around these parts."

A squirrel, the majority of which were in the same camp, scoffed. "Ash? You ever tried chopping down one of those monsters just to find the grubs have gotten to it? I'll have none of that. Birch is the best, by far. Spine weight's almost always the same, so long as you cut 'em the same width." He turned to a figure sitting against a tree trunk close by, whose shape flickered in the sputtering twilight. "Go on, Shiloh, tell 'em I'm right."

The ruddy firelight revealed the creature for just a moment. It was a fox, dirty and disheveled as any of them. His soiled white tunic had turned almost the same color as the tattered green jerkin fastened across his chest, and his soaking copper fur was just as dull. He looked up from the half-finished piece of whittling in his paw, tapping it with the worn but battle-sharp knife in the other. He took a moment before speaking, with the voice of a beast only a quarter of the way through his seasons, but with more experience than most gained in their lifetimes. "Are you two maids still arguing over that arrow shaft scuffle? By the seasons, you just won't let it go."

Thorben, the squirrel, threw another bundle of large twigs on the sputtering fire to keep it going. "Come on, mate, we all know you've got that 'secret' arrow wood you go on about. What is it?"

Shiloh chuckled to himself, turning his eyes back to the chunk of wood in his grasp. "And you know that I'm not telling you scurvy-ridden dogs anything. I found them by myself, so you'll have to do the same."

The ferret, who went by the name of Harsk, snorted. "Not in this luckless forest. 's all pine an' evergreen. Not good fer nothin', more so in this downpour."

Most everybeast agreed with a murmured "Aye", or "'struth" before falling back into silence. The odious conditions didn't help to stir up conversation or merriment. The majority of them simply huddled under whatever meager shelter had been erected, trying desperately to keep as dry as possible. It turned out to be a fruitless endeavor.

It had been nearly an hour of shivering, sleepless rest before the sounds of pawsteps squelching in the mud and armored links clacking together interrupted the rain's cacophony. Shiloh didn't bother to even lift his eyelid, much less his head, although a few beasts did at the approaching warrior. The fox silently ground his teeth together, aware of what was coming next.

"Lookit this sorry lot! Rottin' shame, seein' all these beasts just lyin 'ere, sufferin' so gallantly. Mayhap I should contribute some dry firewood, or a blanket, or...oh, my mistake, they're just a bunch a' cads. Archers, by the seasons! Why, they're the scum of the earth! Pity some of 'em don't just drop dead from the cold, eh?"

Krieger Macepaw was a brutal specimen of a weasel. From the tip of his twisted nose, to the end of his charcoal-hued tail, his sinewy and muscled body was covered in armor. Its shoulders and elbows were adorned with blunt spikes, along with the back of his gauntlets. And riding on his hip in a thick leather strap was the weapon with which he had made true his namesake: A terrifyingly gargantuan mace, studded with sharpened hooks and spikes along its spherical top. It could crush bone, splinter armor, and destroy any weapon thrown against it with no more than a flick of the arm.

Standing next to him was a young page, a rat hardly out of childhood. He held a large piece of cloth hoisted on a pole, protecting his master from the maelstrom. Macepaw loomed over the ramshackle group of fighters, his gaze mocking under the hooded helmet. Krieger was known for having a low opinion of almost everybeast save for him, but especially for the yeobeasts. "So, ya repulsive miscreants, 'ow many 'ave ye slain recently? Ten a piece? Twenty? Probably laughed as ye did it, filthy bunch of worms!"

Nobeast spoke, despite the roiling hatred beginning to rise in their guts. Krieger had been personal friends the original founders of the troupe, and therefore held more sway than the average creature. And while he couldn't assume any sort of command, he possessed enough clout to change the minds of those he wished to bend, or even kill those who got in his way and get away scot-free.

He sneered contemptuously and kicked at a nearby mud puddle, spraying them with the slop. As before, none of the archers spoke a word. Krieger spat at them. "Low-lives, mud-sucking parasites! Not an ounce of honor 'twixt the score of ye, I'd wager. Bet ye enjoy killin'..."

"You actually want us to believe you know anything in the way of honor, Macepaw?"

The weasel's face darkened as he met Shiloh's gaze. "Shut yore trap, fox, or all shut it for ye! I don't hide in the forest, pickin' off beasts with arrows and runnin' when the fighting gets tough. I fight 'em face-t'-face, tooth and claw, bringin' down..."

"Bringing down creatures who have already surrendered?" Shiloh's face didn't betray so much as a hint of emotion as he went on, still focused on the carving work in his paw. "Doesn't seem too honorable to me, slaying a whole squad of mice and squirrels after they'd laid down arms and come to us under a white flag of truce."

A few beasts couldn't stop themselves from inhaling sharply, wary of the rising fury on Macepaw's face. No one had ever dared mention the incident almost six seasons before, when after defeating a large contingent of mountain militia and accepting their surrender, Krieger had slaughtered four of the creatures out of naught but pure bloodlust. They could only stare in stunned silence as their piercing wails wraught the air, silenced only as the vermin snuffed out their lives one by one.

The weasel's paw was already grasping the handle of his weapon. "You...you...I'll flay the hide from your miserable back! I swear on the fiery entrance of hellgates itself, I'll..."

He stopped mid-sentence, suddenly taking notice of Shiloh's own blade. The knife itself didn't seem very spectacular. A simple Birchwood handle, with a blade just longer than the width of his paw and a quarter as wide. There wasn't even any crossguard to protect its owner's fingers from slipping down onto the blade. But it wasn't the weapon on its own that made Macepaw stop. It was widely known that Shiloh's experience with this particular dagger was only surpassed by that with his bow. While he may win the fight in the end, Krieger knew, his chances of coming out without being seriously wounded or killed were slim.

Growling lowly, the weasel spat one more time and then turned away, the small rat trundling along behind.

It was another few moments before the silence was broken by Harsk's guffawing laughter. He held up two fingers, only a hair's breadth between them. "This close, mate. This close to getting yer skull split. I swear, sometimes it's like ye're tryin' t' get yoreself killed."

The fox took his gaze away from Krieger's disappearing figure only after he was sure the weasel hadn't turned around. "Funny how that'n talks of honor and duty like he's a bloody Saint. He's probably killed more than all of us combined."

Thorben leaned back against his traveling bag, clasping his paws behind his head nonchalantly. "Doesn't really matter in the long run, we're all doomed to Hellgates by now anyways. Just hope the devil's got room for all us scallywags, eh?"

Shiloh chuckled mirthlessly. Gallows humor usually wasn't very humorous at all, but at times it was all they had. "Aye, that's the truth. Archers aren't looked upon very fondly by the enemy, let alone the spirits."

"Whaddya mean?" Harsk asked.

"Well," He went on, "Let's say that a lord or a knight gets taken prisoner. Unless they're fightin' savages, usually they get treated well and held for ransom. Lots of pomp and circumstance, big ceremonies, huge dinner, the whole bit."

The ferret seemed puzzled. "Ye mean they don't treat archers the same? We're part o' the group, ain't we?"

Shiloh smiled wryly. "Oh, sure, we're in the same army. But that doesn't mean we're the same as them. As much as I can't abide that worthless scum Krieger, he had a point. We're considered less-than worthy of the same treatment. You'd be lucky if they execute ye outright. Last time I saw a yeobeast get captured..." He shook his head sadly. "Doesn't bear thinking about."

"Why, wot'd they do to 'em?"

"Beat on 'em for a while," Thorben answered, staring blankly into the fire and speaking in a voice racked with sadness and horror at the memory. "But that wasn't just it. They strung four of the poor creatures up on a rack and tortured them for at least two days, right where we could see 'em all. In the end they cut off their string fingers and dumped every soul into a lake while they were still bound, alive an' kickin'." His face was a mask of disgust. "I ain't never seen anythin' like it in all me days."

Harsk shifted his gaze back and forth between the two, looking desperately for any sign that they were just trying to scare him. But there was nothing. Only a stoic silence and sad gazes off into the night.

Eventually the trio drifted into a fitful sleep, tormented incessantly by the falling rain.