"Never Yank A Fox´s Tail" by Toni J Kaukinen

He refused to believe it at first. The half-elf had, for several weeks, been the very image of tranquility, wit and charm... but this was ridiculous. It was as if a mask had been removed from the fop's face and something very different indeed had been revealed. Granted, locking the half-elf in a tomb after looting it because they figured the arrogant little thing (anything was little in Holt's eyes) deserved a dead lesson was... not a nice thing to do. Holt's opinion of the betrayal differed somewhat over the rest of the party's, but he wasn't going to try to stop five adventurers by himself - or with the strange half-elf's help. He had managed to toss his personal waterskin in the tomb when the others weren't watching, but that offered little consolation.

At first the camp had been silent, but as Holt had woken up, they had realized Gereth had disappeared without his new sword. Gereth wouldn't even leave it behind when he went to the men's bush, so it seemed strange already at that moment. When he had noted the strange dark puddle behind the log he had been sitting on, he'd woken up the others. They had braced themselves for a wolf attack or maybe even a horde of orcs. But nothing had come, so they waited until dawn and started to search for their companion.

They found him by the river, lying lifeless on a rock. A quick burial later they had moved on - taking his share of loot, of course. Gereth, as good a friend as he was, had met an adventurer's death and adventurers had to steel themselves for the inevitable deaths that occured at times. How Gereth died, they didn't know - but as he had no living relatives (at least none he spoke of), the river was a good place for the old farmer's boy to rest.

Autumn was there, spreading yellow and red around the forest - every step they made produced pleasant sounds, at least to the woodsman's ears. The others looked shaken, tired or giddy - sometimes all of the three at the same time. At some point, he realized as he scanned his surroundings and shooed away a way too curious bird, he had forgotten why he was doing this. At first he had done it for his family, but after that Miriam had left with their son, for reasons he couldn't understand.

He kept thinking about it well into the night, but finally fell asleep, too tired to focus. Fate had in store for him another rude awakening, unfortunately: he again woke up in the middle of the night - this time to see that Harris was missing. And Latienne, the mage of the party, had a slit throat.

It was at this point that he was pretty sure it wasn't any animal or orc. He hadn't found footprints the night before, but now he saw - right in front of him - the familiar print of the half-elf's boot. A heavy chopping sound confirmed his suspicions. "Ratagar!" He howled, waking up the last man in the party in addition to himself. Tyren had an axe stuck in his skull - and it looked as if an unsheathed foil was already gleaming in the firelight.

Ratagar, a man almost as big as Holt, had his longsword in hand and was surprised when he saw the half-elf and his blade approach with speed. He was a swordsman, as good as they came, but he didn't recognize all the tricks Holt saw the half-elf use on him. Ripostes, parries, feints - fast cuts and slashes that seemed to skim past his fluid defense.

Holt was surprised to see the silver haired demon glare at him - he barely realized Ratagar was collapsing, his neck cleanly cut.

He was the only to return, though, and one of those who helped contribute to the infamy of the Fox. The familiar guideline after this was: "Unless you've his head on a pike, don't assume he's dead." Sebastian sulked over the issue afterward, but eventually forget the entire ordeal, being the fickle bastard he was.