Eldritch Guidance-Intermission XXX

The cargo ship groaned as it cut through the restless waves, its steel hull shuddering under the weight of countless stacked containers. Inside one such container—a cavernous, rust-streaked metal crate—stood a figure who seemed carved from the very essence of war.

He was a giant among men, towering at nearly seven feet tall, his body a mass of corded muscle that strained against the confines of his worn leather armor. A brutal, horned helmet encased his skull, its jagged edges casting jagged shadows across the dim interior. Only the lower half of his face was visible—a square jaw clenched tight, the faintest hint of a scar running from his lip down to his throat. His presence alone was enough to make the air feel heavier, as if the darkness itself bent around him.

This was Butcher, second-in-command of Ugo’s Warband, a man whose name was whispered in fear in certain circles.

Around him, six other warriors waited in silence, their massive frames sprawled across crates or leaning against the cold walls. Each was a killer in their own right—battle-hardened, scarred, and restless. Some sharpened blades with methodical precision, the rhythmic scrape of steel filling the stale air. Others played half-hearted games of dice, their eyes glazed with boredom. One man, his face a lattice of old wounds, muttered curses under his breath as he tightened the straps on his gauntlets again and again, as if preparing for a fight that refused to come.

The metal crate was no ordinary shipping container—it had been meticulously modified for human cargo. Climate control units hummed in the corners, battling the oppressive heat that seeped through the steel walls, while dim, flickering lights cast long shadows across the cramped space. Reinforced ventilation shafts disguised as industrial piping ensured fresh air, and soundproofing kept their presence a secret from prying ears. This was no haphazard hiding spot; it was a smuggler’s masterpiece, designed to slip people across borders unnoticed, hidden beneath the mundanity of legal freight.

Butcher had arranged their passage weeks earlier, striking a deal with a shadowy smuggling syndicate operating out of Gix. The syndicate specialized in moving people—not just refugees or fugitives, but mercenaries, cultists, and those who needed to travel without leaving a trace. For the right price, they had secured passage to Golgatta, where Butcher was to meet with another cult. The alliance, if brokered, would tip the scales in their favor—more warriors, more resources, more bloodshed.

The smugglers had done their job well. Paperwork listed the crate as a shipment of agricultural produce, bound for Port Vaal. Customs officials rarely gave such cargo a second glance, especially when the right palms had been greased. So far, the journey had been smooth—no inspections, no delays, no betrayals.

But the real challenge wasn’t evading authorities—it was keeping Hugo’s warband from losing their minds.

The soldiers of the Endless War cult were not men of patience, and being locked up in this small space like sardines for weeks was not helping. They were killers, made for battle, their veins thrumming with the need for violence. Even the more disciplined among them—the ones Butcher had handpicked for this mission—were growing restless. The air inside the crate was thick with tension, the kind that settled like a storm about to break.

One warrior, Krass, paced like a caged animal, his knuckles cracking with every clench of his fists. Another, Vex, sharpened her dagger over and over, the grating sound setting teeth on edge. A third, Drogan, sat motionless, his eyes fixed on the crate door as if willing it to open—yearning for an excuse to spill blood.

Butcher watched them all, his expression unreadable beneath the horned helm. He knew their fury, their hunger. But discipline was the difference between victory and crushing defeat.

Krass: "Agh!" the man snarled, slamming a fist against the crate wall before stalking toward Butcher. The metal groaned under the impact, but Butcher didn’t so much as flinch. "How much longer, Butcher?" His voice was a guttural growl, barely contained.

Butcher: "As long as it takes." he said without turning his head.

Krass: "I can’t stand this fucking cage!” he yelled as he bared his teeth. “Why don’t we just break out and take the ship? Cut the crew’s throats, steer it ourselves—"

Butcher: "And what part of ‘stealth mission’ did you miss?" The war cultist finally turned, his voice a blade poised and sharp. "That’s why we left the heavy artillery behind. That’s why we’re in this crate instead of storming the deck like barbarians." He took a single step forward, and the air thickened with menace. "Or are you so blood-drunk you forgot that none of us know how to pilot a goddamn cargo ship? You want to beach us on the rocks before we even reach port?"

Krass: "Planning’s not my job. That’s what leaders are for."

Butcher: "Exactly." his voice dropped to a lethal murmur. "And since I’m the one leading, here’s your order: Sit the fuck down. Find a way to pass the time that doesn’t involve blowing our cover."

A slow, rasping chuckle cut through the tension.

Drogan: "Krass just needs something to kill, Butcher," he called from the shadows, his scarred face split by a jagged grin. "Give him a promise of violence. Ease his nerves."

Butcher exhaled through his nose.

Butcher: "There won’t be blood on this mission—unless negotiations go south."

Drogan: "And with you leading the talks? They ain’t going south."

Krass: "Agh! So I don’t even get to kill anyone?!" Krass roared, throwing his arms up. The other warriors chuckled darkly, their amusement laced with the same restless hunger.

Butcher’s patience was a fraying wire.

Butcher: "If you want blood so badly, Krass, I’ll let you carve up the first bastard who does cross us. But until then—control yourself. Or I can stick a fucking bullet in your brain. And I would rather not. Cause I don’t want to have to smell your rotting corpse all the way to port Vaal."

For a heartbeat, the crate held its breath. Then Krass huffed, wrenching free—but he sat down.

The message was clear: Butcher’s patience had limits. And crossing them would be the last mistake any of them made.

The rhythmic thud of Vex's knife stopped mid-throw as she spoke up, her voice cutting through the thick air.

Vex: "So, leader," she began, flipping the blade casually in her scarred fingers, "what's the plan once we get to Port Vaal?" She was the only one who dared ask—not out of disrespect, but because years of fighting alongside Butcher had earned her the right to speak plainly.

Butcher turned his horned helm toward her, the dim light catching on its brutal edges.

Butcher: "We move fast," he rumbled. " We'll need to slip through unseen, trying to avoid any unnecessary deaths."

Vex nodded, but her sharp eyes stayed locked on him, waiting for more. The others had perked up now, their restless energy momentarily focused.

Butcher: "From there, we make for Loffa. But we're stopping in Graheel first." 𝕗𝕣𝐞𝐞𝘄𝐞𝚋𝚗𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹.𝚌𝕠𝚖

A murmur rippled through the warriors. Krass, still simmering from earlier, scowled.

Krass: "Another damn detour?"

Butcher: "Another deal," he corrected, his voice like gravel. "This individual has some interesting magic that may be useful for the War Cult."

Vex tilted her head.

Vex: "And if a deal is not reached with this person or the cult in Loffa?"

For the first time, Butcher's hidden mouth curled into something resembling a smile.

Butcher: "Then we negotiate harder."

The crate fell silent again, but the tension had shifted—no longer restless, but razor-edged with anticipation. Even Krass looked marginally appeased, cracking his knuckles with a dark grin.

Butcher: "Just remember, we play this smart. No steel until I give the word."

Vex caught her knife mid-air and sheathed it with a smirk.

Vex: "No promises."

Butcher didn't reprimand her. Some things, after all, were inevitable.