Adele Brunsque, played by Fairess
Constantine “Rook” Heldane, played by Hank
Djonn Kolthus, played by Commodore Robot
Marcel Rimbaud, played by OneEyedChurro
Rhona Mór, played by Hella Cute

Color Codes

Former Players

Yeah, PM me if you have an open spot.

Night falls over Belencrest.

The trek from the Captain's office back to the barracks is short and pleasant. A cool breeze wafts down the city streets, carrying with it the scents of the city, for better or worse. Pale moonlight drapes across the shingled rooftops, pooling into the cobblestone streets, luminous silver mixing with the faint, blue light of glowing totems held high on iron posts. The magistrate had commissioned their installation at intervals all along the main street. That was six months ago, but it was still a marvelous sight. Like ghostly sapphires floating in the air. Though the streets were illuminated and safer than they had ever been, most of the people of Belencrest remained indoors at this hour, just as they have always done. The only sign of them was the orange lamp light winking out of the windows. Your walk back to your quarters is uninterrupted by anyone save a few louts on a stone stoop laughing too loudly.

You’ve just been given orders by your captain to escort the recently arrived caravan to Paolou, a city famed for its beautiful beaches, delicious spices, and beautiful people. By caravan the journey would be eight, perhaps nine days from here. A man by the name of Gaivus Hemming is paying for the trip, a man whom you and twenty-three other guardsmen are to meet tomorrow morning by the city gates. By all accounts, this should be an easy job. Bandits were not only rare in the area, but disorganized. Two dozen members of the White Guard would surely be too costly of a challenge for any prowling for vulnerable prey.

An easy job.

Just then, rough hands grab you from behind, pinning your arms behind you as a coarse sack is pulled over your head. The hands guide you forcefully along a short distance, the cobblestone underfoot giving way to the unpaved alley floor. The faint moonlight you can see through the loose stitching slips away into utter darkness. Then, over the scuffle of boots and breath, you hear the shift and squeak of an opening door. Dull, orange light blooms from the darkness as the sound of voices and music spill out into the alley. Something shoves you forward as the sack is pulled roughly from your head. Immediately a press of bodies surrounds you, stinking of sweat and ale. Torchlight flares brightly along the wall in rough, iron sconces, illuminating dozens of smiling, familiar faces.

The White Guard.

In an instant, someone grabs your hand and places in your grasp a tall mug of ale, shouting "Drink up, soldier!" as cool froth spills over your fingers. The room explodes with cheers and laughter as your fellows clap you on the back and crack their mugs against yours. "To your good health, mate! Safe journeys, good fortunes, dull arrows."

You quickly recognize where you are. This is the back room in Finnic's pub, a popular haunt of the Guard. Finnic's wasn't the nicest place in the city. Not even close. It was old, ugly, and the food was nearly always bad, but the ale was decent and the owner had offered a small discount to guardsmen after the greyskins disappeared. By now the staff had become family. The brew-master Orvil manned the bar while his wife, Talia, and twins, Vinia and Anja, managed most of the cooking and cleaning. Along the walls were colorful tapestries depicting traditional aspects of rural life, sewn by a rather untalented local artist. While some guardsmen joked that these portrayals were leaving out the exciting bits, like drunk fathers chasing their children with pitchforks or adulterous liaisons in barn lofts, others found comfort in the utter banality of it. Thus it had become something of a sacred place to the Guard. A place of drink, laughter, and memory.

"Sorry, seems like a rough bit of treatment to me, but the lads tell me it's a tradition," says lieutenant Ignim Thorpe, placing a hand on your shoulder.

"Well, to be true, this the first time we've done the bag bit," pipes in Reau Belleno, her green-gold eyes flashing with mischief. "Normally there's a formal asking. But this commission is absolutely cushy. Tonight is bound to be the only excitement they're to see over the next few weeks."

"But... Barkin, you invited me," says the giant aaula, Burata Oong, his deep voice incredulous. "Why not bag me?"

"'Cause you weigh fifty stones, Oong," spits Hogart Barkin, a grin splitting his pock-marked face. "A bit of fun ain't worth gettin' yourself crushed over." With that he punches Oong the side with a laugh, and the massive aaula giggles in reply.

Everyone is smiling, laughing, drinking, remembering.

"Raise your ales, guardsmen," yelled lieutenant Thorpe. "And drink deep. To the Guard; to our fellows; to those before us, to those with us; brothers, sisters; blood, bone and steel. When we meet again, may it be above the ground."

Adele didn’t have any coherent thoughts— just a fuzzy red tinge to her vision as her hands balled up with all the pressure of a cast iron press. Her mug quivered in her hand. The way the others had been callously blinded and dragged into the poor excuse for a pub, she was surprised no one had dropped the carelessly juggled alcohol between “captors” and “captives.” Merry words fell deaf on her ears; claps and thunks fit to break a spine were numb on her shoulders as her last teensy string of self-control squeaked against the tension building up in her chest. Barbarians. All of them. Handling a woman like that and then drinking themselves into a stupor the night before we head off! Don’t look at Reau. Don’t look at Reau. The second I do, my fist is going to be making a chip in her nose. Adele closed her eyes as thought filtered through the steam raging beneath her skull. If her superiors weren’t right there knocking ale onto the floor with everyone else, she would have ripped them a new one. They had no business attacking their comrades like that, even in play. What if someone had overreacted and fought back? Passed out? The overexcited, beer-guzzling mercenaries would have had no one to blame but themselves. When the gurgle and guzzling of agreement died down after Thorpe’s cheers, Adele’s tone—so warm it chilled her lips—was the first to pipe back up. “What an adorable little prank, fellows. I can barely contain myself at the thought of leaving Belencrest.” She glanced down at the sticky, yellowed liquid drizzling down her fingers and her brow twitched. It was tempting to shake her hand out and toss the mug at the nearest grinning idiot, but with a grace borrowed from manners tempered from birth, she set it ever-so-gently on the nearest table. “Even so, I’m afraid I need a bit of fresh air.” Her lips were glass with a vat of lava seething behind them as she smiled, turned, and shoved herself out from the stifling clouds of body odor and alcohol that were people and back out the door from which she’d been so carelessly shoved in. “Aaaaaaaaah.” Adele let all the steam out once the door was closed behind her. Her shoulders slumped as she stepped against the pub’s wall and leaned against it, her hand rubbing gentle circles into her forehead. Who’d have thought a group of combat hardened men and women could act so childish? No, she’d seen them pull off lesser stunts like that before. Living on the edge apparently meant partying hard, too. She, however, didn’t want to be hungover for the following morning when they were to leave. In addition to sending off some letters before her next journey with the company of mercenaries, she would have to make sure to pack carefully. Machinery was so much more delicate than it looked, and without her brain being as crisp and quick as possible, her only strength within the group of fighters would be nothing. Her treat for the evening was instead the muffled revelry behind the wall and the clear evening sky. Every night she gazed about Belencrest, the same thought came to mind—it wasn’t Bossart. Though the infrastructure of the city was roughly similar, the nightlife had always been so, well, lively. Here, there was only silence and the eerie blue light of lantern-totems. Even if that magical energy was more efficient, she preferred the warm light of oil lanterns. Given the light drizzling from the houses she’d passed earlier, she had to wonder if the citizens didn’t share the same opinion, or perhaps light totems were simply too expensive for the average person in Belencrest. “Ah, well. It doesn’t matter.” Adele smiled mildy to herself as she straightened back up and slipped off her backpack. Her notebook came out and she flipped idly through it, thinking on whether or not she ought to bring more raw material for her cannon filters. Even if the other mercenaries called the escort trip “cushy,” she felt the more fitting word was “annoying.” Travel was interesting enough, but that would provide a poor environment for tweaking her Sound Cannon I and there were so many things she was yet to do with it—so many things she needed to do with it. Otherwise, all this putting up with the rowdy group of soldiers and every other risk that came from their particular practice would be for nothing. It had already been months since she left Bossart and she still hadn’t figured out the key to her latest idea—a dual amplification filter that could mesh the effects of two different elemental totems. None of her filter patterns had worked despite several different reversions and, well, this was just one of those nights when the lack of inspiration felt particularly sore. "The most potent feature of our work? Hope. That’s what makes us do crazy things; we get a grain of promise and then we have to watch the miracle unfold before our eyes.” That’s what Professor Godat said at times like the one she was experiencing now. Adele chewed on that as she closed her eyes, waiting for the revelry inside the pub to die back down before she’d risk going back in again.

"Guys, you know I hate surprises," complained Zacharias. However, he was betrayed by the huge grin on his face. He laughed, and took a sip from his mug. Of course they were gonna take me here, he thought. After all, we come to the pub before every single mission. Not even the bag part was a complete surprise. Sure, I've never seen it, but I've heard tales. When he didn't receive an invitation, Zacharias knew something was up. He reached for a bag tied to his belt, grabbed a sweet bread roll, and took a bite from it. He had bought it earlier, as he knew from experience how disgusting Finnic's food was. He drank a bit more from his ale, and began to joke around with his fellow Guardsmen. Of course, Zacharias' mind was still running about the following day. Any of his friends would tell him to give it a rest, drink a mug of ale or ten, and let the thinking for the actual mission. But he preferred not to drown his thoughts in alcohol. Last minute preparations, plans, preventions, et cetera, they all could mean the difference between someone's life and death, even with an assignment as easy as escorting that caravan. What worried him the most were the Guards chosen for the job. Some of them had been members for far, far longer than he'd been. The election of such elite, experienced members of the White Guard puzzled him, to say the least. They hinted at something... else, about the mission, though he couldn't place his finger on what it was. But that was something to worry about later, he decided. He'd gone through his whole list of preparations, and nothing was missing. He took another sip from his mug, decided to enjoy the rest of the night, without realizing he'd spent about ten minutes staring blankly into a corner of the pub.

A smile creased Ramzi's face as he saw the little show they'd put on for him. "Now, lads, you know how I feel about drinking too much" he joked as a pint-glass of warm ale was clumsily placed into his hands. "Ah, g'won, it's the last time we'll see ya in weeks!" smiled Barkin, giving him a clap on the back. 'G'won, do the thing!' The older man held the glass to his lips, took a deep breath through his nose and allowed as much liquid down his throat as possible. A small group of guards encouraged him with shouts of 'Chug it, mate!' The warm ale was soon drained in one go and the glass was put back down onto the table with an audible bang. The men cheered loudly and Ramzi, embarrassed at all the attention, waved it off. As another round of drinks were fetched and the guardsmen dispersed from around his table, he found his thoughts on the journey tomorrow. Some said it was looking to be a cakewalk, a cushy job, one for green-eared new boys and old men. Others told tales of hordes of greyskin barbarians looking to descend on isolated caravans. Either way, it was looking to be the first journey he had taken since his injury during the defence of Belencrest. The thought of being among his comrades, walking among the long grasses or trotting atop a stallion excited him. It had been two years since he had seen any action (outside of the bedroom, obviously) and he honoured that his higher-ups would consider him in any jobs, even if it was a small one such as this. As he scratched his beard and pondered on the next day, another round of drinks was headed to the table. "Here you go, Ramzi!" grinned a guardsman as he handed him yet another glass of ale. Ramzi nodded his thanks but placed the glass on the table, content to take small sips of it occasionally. In his younger days, he had been able to drink half the guard under the table and escape unscathed the next morning. But in recent years, the horrific hangovers had started to make up for lost time and he had taken to drinking less and less. While the younger men around his table excitedly chatted and drained their glasses, Ramzi noticed his old friend, Three-Finger Finn, enter the pub, blankly glancing around. "Ah, Finn, good evening" smiled Ramzi, beckoning him closer. The old mercenary dragged up a stool to the table and the two shook hands in greeting. "Ayyyy, Ramzi! How're you?" grinned Finn, still clutching his friends hand. Ramzi couldn't help but notice the two fingers (index and middle) taken from Finn's right hand, a source of many rumours and discussions among the pub. "Not bad, friend. Will you be travelling with us tomorrow?" "Nah, mate, I've got forms to fill out" sighed Finn, placing both arms on the table and crossing them. "Besides, I reckon they've got enough old sods going as it is!" Ramzi snorted into his drink and Finn chuckled as he watched his dark-skinned friend wipe piss-orange ale out of his beard. "Will you at least share a final drink with me?" said Ramzi, lifting his drink. "Nah, sorry mate, I can't go in with another hangover tomorrow". "I hear that" murmured a guardsman with a mouthful of ale. Ramzi shrugged and went back to his own drink while Finn greeted another friend. Three-Finger Finn had been friends with Ramzi since he was just Finn, with all five fingers intact. They had gone through a lot together over the years - be it the training, the battles or the Belencrest Defence, they had been through it all together. Now, as a pair of veterans in the White Guard, they had often found themselves mucking about the library or standing about for hours in the cold on guard duty, which had only strengthened their friendship more. In his youth, Ramzi had harboured thoughts about Finn that were often about more than just friendship but they had mellowed over the years as it became clear that Finn wasn't interested in members of the same sex. Finn was not aware of Ramzi's thoughts either, as far as he knew. After he had finished his drink, the older man stood and announced to his table he would be turning in early. He warmly shook hands with Finn and the other men sat around him, promising them this would not be the final farewell. He often found the banter among younger men tiring and the droll silence among older men boring, so early nights came often when he was in the Finnic pub and were of no surprise among his fellow mercenaries. After flicking a coin at Orvil, the brew master, and bidding lieutenant Thorpe a good night, he stepped out into the darkness of Belencrest, scratching his beard and looking forward to a night in bed. He briefly considered popping into a brothel and hiring a boy for a few hours before waving off the thoughts. It looked like he would have to go a few weeks without company in his bed but that was nothing to be concerned about. As he began a slow walk outside the Finnic to his home, he noticed a woman. Younger and covered in belts, she looked quite familiar - it took Ramzi a few moments to remember this woman was in the White Guard and would most likely be travelling with him the following day. Her name was..Edele? No, it was Adele. His walk slowed as he approached her until he came to a stop beside her, shivering slightly from the cold. "Good evening" he greeted. "Why do you stand alone out here and not inside the Finnic, comrade?"

"Haha, excellent stuff guys. The bag was a nice touch but you gave yourselves away too easily. I mean really Erik, did you forget who taught you that hold?" The young mercenary who had played the role of his 'captor' looked down at his feet embarrassed. Seeing him downcast, Djonn laid a hand on the youngster's shoulder and passed him the glass of ale he had been given. "Well don't get so down and out about it boy, this is supposed to be a party isn't it?" The raucousness of the pub provided him his answer as another glass of ale was thrust into his hands. He walked amongst the Bacchic displays put on by his fellow mercenaries and set the frothing glass down on the first open tablespace he could find. He danced from group to group, putting in a few words here, a joke there, and generally doing his best to be a good sport as he made his way to the counter. As he sidled up to the bar Talia placed a steaming mug on the counter along with a small plate piled up with cabbage fritters. Djonn had found that in his years here they were perhaps the only worthwhile item this place sold, though their tea wasn't the worst he'd ever had. "I saw you making your way over here after they handed you those drinks. Tea's made the way you like it and I even threw in a couple extra fritters for you considering you're the only person who appreciates my cooking." Talia smiled warmly as Djonn slid a gold coin across the counter with one hand and took a sip with the other. As usual the tea was watery, but there was enough honey intermixed to give it *some* flavor. Djonn chuckled after setting his mug back on the counter, "How long have I been coming in here for that I'm this predictable?" Talia furrowed her brow as she tried to recall, "Only nearly every other day or so for the past two years, and you aren't exactly a difficult man to read mister Kolthus. Though I must admit you put on a good show for a teetotaler, you almost look like you have fun at these things." "Well we all have our appearances to keep Talia. Thank you for the tea and food." Djonn had noticed that a couple White Guard had left the bar already and figured that he would follow suit. He wrapped the remaining fritters in a handkerchief, grabbed his mug of tea, and carefully maneuvered his way out of the oppressive bar atmosphere and into the clearer night air. There he found another one of the younger guardsmen, Adele her name was, propped up against the wall. The sounds of inside dulling behind him as the door closed, he raised his mug in a wave and walked over to them. "I thought I was supposed to be the antisocial one at parties, I'd expect a young lass like you to be having a ball in there. you're Adele right?" noticing fellow polearm enthusiast and dinosaur Ramzi next to her Djonn quipped, "Sorry Ramzi old friend I didn't notice you there. Us team ancients need to stick together, though if you're also assigned to this pleasure cruise of a job I think The Captain may be subtly telling us its time to retire." Searching for an empty patch of wall of his own near the small group, Djonn closed his eyes and sighed deeply, taking in the night's calm through the throbbing noise coming from the other side of the wall. Opening his eyes again he looked back to the two and fumbled a bit not sure what to do. Finally deciding he unfurled his handkerchief and held out the still warm pile of fried dough to them. "Care for a fritter? I swear they aren't as atrocious as the other things they serve at this place."

A rush of sweat and heat flooded Marcel's face as the bag was removed- the only thing that kept him from swinging were the two men that kept his arms glued to his back- he wasn't sure, but it seemed that the man holding his right arm was significantly stronger than the man holding his left; what foe of his knew of the injury he tried so hard to hide? Not a foe, but an ally. A smile flashed across Marcel's red face as the true identity of his captors was revealed. Marcel should've assumed- few outside of the White Guard knew of his oddity; as for the get-together, Marcel always knew the White Guard were a friendly lot. Glancing around the pub as someone tried to shove a mug into his bad hand (New member, perhaps?) proved unfruitful for familiar faces, not that Marcel was necessarily expecting any. Even though he had spent two years with the crew, he hadn't formed many relationships- perhaps he was afraid to in this line of work, where a friend could easily end up a corpse? Marcel shoved the thought aside- "Hey, fuzz!" came a loud voice right into his ear- Marcel jumped. "If you're gonna scare that easily than maybe I should take your place." Marcel turned. "Dain! I should've known you were behind this." Of those few relationships Marcel had formed, Dain was certainly one of them. He was young, very pale, had arms too long for his body, and he was missing half of his right ear, but Marcel be damned if he could find a finer marksman. "Not my idea, fuzz. Though I was just given an invitation. You gonna drink that?" Dain pointed down at Marcel's good hand, who only just realized the frothing mug that had been placed in it. "Don't mind if I do." Marcel tipped back and drank the unpleasantly warm liquid, wiping his mustache and beard of the droplets when he was done. He wasn't fond of the taste, but Marcel wasn't picky about what he ate or drank, especially if it was free, and even moreso where alcohol was involved. He wasn't proud that he had taken to the bottle after joining the Guard, but it did wonders for keeping his mind off of things. Marcel sometimes wondered if his enjoyment of hard liquor's burn had something to do with his totem- if he had become so used to the feeling of burning that he now had an otherworldly desire for it. Marcel handed Dain his cup. "Another?" "You got it, fuzz. Why don'tcha find us a table?" --- "So they had you hold my left arm while another held my right? I always did beat you at boxing, and I'm one handed. That's saying something." "As if I'd ever let anything get that close to me in an actual battle, fuzz. I'd have three arrows in your head 'fore you even reached full speed. 'Sides, with that hand you may as well be swinging a club." "A flaming club, at that." Marcel laughed and took another gulp of wine. Dain's smile faded- "Say, fuzz, I know that they're sayin' this'll be an easy mission, but be safe, okay? I can't grow a beard like that to take your place." They both smiled. "I'll do my best." The two were quiet for several moments. Marcel's thoughts drifted to his father. What would he think of him turning to a life of a sellsword after shutting down the forge? Though he had run it during wartime, his father certainly didn't enjoy the thought of bloodshed. He wasn't a warmongering man; quite the opposite. Marcel would never be able to find proof, but he had a hunch that his father had played some sort of role in keeping Marcel from being drafted. "I'm sure he'd be proud." Marcel looked up from his mug at Dain- that's why he liked the kid. He had a way to read peoples' faces. Had a knack for knowing the perfect thing to say at the perfect time. "Would he though? He always preached that the greatest thing a man can do is to make the most out of what is given to him. That's what he thought success was. I took what he had given me and turned my back on it." "I think you're takin' that a little too literally, fuzz. What was that other thing you said he'd always say? There's only one rule for a man- whatever comes, face it on your feet-" "A man must stand tall, not be held up by others," Marcel finished the quote. Dain had him there- Marcel would never consider his father a philosophical man, but that saying had garnered much thought in Marcel. He used to pull out that quote during the time Marcel ran the Forge, though he wouldn't be surprised if his father had heard it somewhere, too. "You should get some shut-eye, fuzz. I'll finish that mug for ya'." Marcel slid the wine over the wooden table into Dain's open hand, who stood as he took a sip. He gave a slight nod and smile, and absorbed himself into the small crowd on the other side of the pub. Marcel wiped his beard of any stray foodstuffs, and headed outside. He was almost surprised to see a few of the White Guard outside of the pub, though this was a pretty diverse lot. A burly and bearded man- Marcel could probably remember his name if he thought about it for a few moments, he'd seen him a few times before at Finnic's- was holding out fritters for the others. Normally, Marcel wouldn't take food that hadn't been offered to him, but the alcohol told a different story. "I'd love one," he said as he snatched the hunk of dough off of the small platter and bit into it. Per Finnic's Pub usual, it tasted mostly of fried dough, but it was rather satisfying. He turned back towards the group, mouth full of food, his right hand on his hip and his left balled up and hidden in his sleeve. "Well if you're the lot I'll be traveling with, then at least we're starting off with something we all agree on. I've never been one for parties, either."

"You can all go fuck yourselves," Rook promptly declared when the bag was taken off. Because his totem, the hanger around his neck, hadn't twitched at all when they were ambushed on their way to the pub, Rook had quickly realized that he wasn't in any danger. No reason to spoil whatever was happening, though, so he'd kept his mouth shut and played along. Raising his jug of ale to the cheering mercenaries, he drained it in one go, matching Ramzi for quantity (though not speed; that trick the old man could do where he just opened his throat kept eluding Rook). He smiled and let a barmaid fill his drink again. The Scarlet Raven arrived much more recently than most of the other White Guard here. Rook didn't have any new friends yet, though he got along well enough with most people. His eyes scanned the pub, looking for other members of his chapter, and he found them grinning at him from a corner of the pub. Boisterously shoving people aside and yelling mock excuse-me's, Rook made his way to them and clasped hands with them in turn, the traditional Scarlet Raven greeting. "Should be an easy run," Gottfried said, a tall, blond fellow from some northern region whose name escaped Rook. "Must be some kind of insult that they chose you." Rook shrugged and smiled wearily. "Might be nice, actually, doing nothing for a change," he said dryly, "compared to the boatload of action we've seen here so far." The other Scarlet Ravens laughed, though most of it was mirthless. The greyskins had already been mostly driven back when the Scarlet Ravens arrived in Belencrest. So far, the chapter hadn't seen much combat at all, which suited them poorly. The Scarlet Ravens that liked sitting back, doing fuck all while they extorted their clients as much as they could, had been eliminated in Rook's purge a little over a year ago. Finishing his second drink, Rook spotted several other members of the expedition party heading outside. Rook parted with his fellow Scarlet Ravens with a few short, but heartfelt goodbyes, and stepped outside into the fresh night air. He took a few seconds to look the motley bunch over. He'd exited the pub only a few feet behind Marcel, who took a fritter and stated his dislike for parties. Reminder to steer clear of him, Rook thought to himself, but he followed the man's example anyway and took one of the fritters, tipping his head in appreciation. One member of the group in particular caught his attention, the young woman with the notebook. Now there's a pretty lady. Rook decided not to say anything, letting the conversation between his newfound travelling buddies develop among itself. He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms, his eyes mostly on Adele.

Djonn raised an eyebrow at the steady flow of other White guards who had begun to congregate outside. The two new arrivals took some of the fritters off of his hands and Djonn grabbed the last and ate it himself. Dusting off his hands and stowing his handkerchief he gave them a once over. The big one with the fancy beard he recognized as Marcel R-something, a large and strong guardsman but there was something wrong with one of his hands. The other he immediately recognized for the red sash around his waste. He was one of the Scarlet Ravens, their leader if he remembered correctly. The Ravens weren't exactly known for their good natures but last Djonn had heard this fellow had purged them of their less desirable ranks. They had to have been worth something to become a chapter of the White Guard so Djonn supposed he wasn't someone to worry too much about. Still there was something about the man that didn't jive properly with Djonn that he could not put his fingers on. Hoping to break the awkward silence Djonn decided to force some form of conversation. "Well look at that, it seems quite a few of us aren't the party type. Perhaps The Captain is trying to subtly purge the old, inexperienced, and the unfun at the same time with this job," dropping into a more serious yet still casual tone he continued, "I've been informed by the Captain that I'll be the highest ranked officer on this mission so I suppose that means I'm something resembling 'in charge' of you people for the coming days. You seem like a solid bunch and I look forward to serving alongside you and the others, pleasure cruise or otherwise. I have only one ground rule to making sure this run goes smoothly my comrades: Don't die on me. "

Despite being immersed in his own thoughts, Zacharias noticed, out of the corner of his eye, the slow, yet continual outflux of Guardsmen; all of them were also, he noted, members of his next mission's crew. He considered wether or not to follow them, and decided to do so. He finished his sweet bread roll and his mug of ale, and left after them, arriving in time to hear the end of Djonn's speech. "I wouldn't worry about that," he joked, playfully. "After all, we have quite a bit of experience not dying. We've been doing it all our lives." He laughed at his own joke. "Though, really," he added, changing his tone. "I hope you've all prepared well for tomorrow. Regardless of how much of a field trip our next mission is, it's still a job, and as such, it's likely to involve some level of danger. If it didn't, we wouldn't have been hired." He leaned against the wall, and pondered wether to take out another bread roll, but chose not to. He didn't want to share, after all.

A wave of sound and light rolled over the otherwise quiet street when the pub door opened for the first time. Adele turned to look and arched a brow at the following mercenary—from what she could hear of the party, it was way too early for drunks to be stumbling back to the barracks. With the fleeting light of the closing door surrounding the man, it was easy to pick him out as one of the older mercenaries. He also seemed to be among the more unique, what with the sun baked skin. He was unmistakably Ramzi, the Ramzi younger recruits like her never shut up about when the endless re-livings of Belencrest’s skirmishes with the greyskin barbarians were made around the table. Wait! He started walking in her general direction. Pace? Leisurely. Purpose? Probably to head back to the barracks—at least until he decided to pop her inflated personal bubble and get right next to her. She could smell the stench of alcohol on him before he even opened his mouth to speak. "Good evening. Why do you stand alone out here and not inside the Finnic, comrade?" Her brain pulled a blank. In her mind, her intent had been obvious: she’d wanted to get away from smelly, noisy soldiers, and now he was ruining her perfect little cool-off spot. Had her sarcasm from earlier not given any hints as to how much she wanted to punch something? Only then did it occur to her that she’d been addressing no one in particular, and in the heat of the heavy drinking after Thorpe’s toast, it was likely that no one had heard her at all. Adele’s shoulders twitched and the smallest sort came out. What amusing frustration she’d imposed on herself, feeling like she could toss cold water into a room full of fiery comradery. Perhaps it was best that no one had noticed her exit, or were at least feigning ignorance. She wasn’t in the mood for a lecture or pity talk. “Some people have the ability to think whilst surrounded by merry-making. I lack that particular gift.” Adele’s gaze finally swiveled up to meet Ramzi’s and she felt a strange sort of satisfaction knowing the difference between eye-levels was miniscule. People could call her prissy if they liked, but she still had a stature that could compete with the other trained women of the White Guard. Simple facts like that unfortunately weren’t capable of dispelling awkward silences. Her lips parted as her brain dug for something to add to her former statement; then she noticed Ramzi shivering. The night air did lean towards the chilly side and the ghost-like street lamps weren’t really helping the atmosphere. Before she knew it, her arms were folded around her chest against the cold and the pub’s stone wall was that much more uncomfortable. “Wow, it is kind of cold out tonight, isn’t it?” When in doubt, always default to weather. Adele knew it was clichéd, still awkward, and poor excuse for conversation, but any sound at all to fill the silence building between her and the ‘old’ man was music to her ears. How long was it now? Minutes? Seconds? Another White Guard exited the tavern with the same pop of light and sound. Oh no. Was he waving at them? You’re walking towards me. Crap. Stop walking. Now you’re waaaaay to close. Did you have to bring that booze with you? I swear, all of you are up to your eyes in that stuff. Do you have any idea how bad your breath is? You’re going to melt my face off!. Adele’s arms tightened around her as she braced herself for Awkward Encounter II. "I thought I was supposed to be the antisocial one at parties, I'd expect a young lass like you to be having a ball in there. You're Adele right?" That was so Djonn, niggling a greener recruit with that dry humor. In all honesty, though, she couldn’t blame him—he did his job really, really well. She just tended to enjoy it more when someone else was getting the end of it. After Djonn finished addressing Ramzi and offered out the snacks (which she would not have touched even if she’d been kept from food for days—maybe), Adele was quick to answer him blow for blow. “Yes, I’m Adele Brunsque. As it happens, the people back home have a different idea of what a party is. Just try to imagine a buffet table, some music, a sweet-smelling gentleman and some dancing—then you wouldn’t find me outside trying to catch a breath. You haven’t happened to see any gentlemen around these parts, have you?” Whether or not Djonn’s reaction was worth his invasion fell beyond Adele’s attention span as the pub’s door opened. Again. Out came White Guard III, the bear with a mystery arm. She’d seen him around, just like the others, though his stature alone made him impossible to miss. While she’d learned to fear the vengeful stench of a man in armor at the end of a day, for some reason, Marcel was more tolerable. Probably due to the hair. Since her little moment of solitude was already broken, she was out of complaints as Marcel joined them—until he reached for one of those things. Yay for her—it was a beer-cabbage breath special tonight. Marcel was in the middle of saying something, but her distracted brain got worse with the simultaneous entrance (or exit, rather) of another mercenary. Forget pub bashes—this is a full-on family reunion. The party ends and they’re still talking. Am I going to have to sit through another war re-telling? Think of some excuse, Adele! You’re going to die here if you don’t leave! You’re going to die young and pretty and so full of regrets and these guys are still going to be chatting. Was there a way to detach herself without being rude? Did she care about being rude at this point? Adele’s back began to sink down against the wall, only for her hand to relax just enough to drop her notebook. She blinked and bent down to pick it up, only to notice a pair of boots that weren’t Ramzi’s. They had to belong to the last person exiting the pub, but… no way. Those taut calves? It was so wrong, but what could she do besides follow the rest of the guy’s leg up to his face as she stood back up? Maybe it was because she’d just been socializing with two veterans, or maybe it was because she was feeling something other than frustration for the first time that evening, but this guy was something else. It wasn’t the leather armor (a common sight among mercenaries), but the way he wore it with that lanky, confident sort of gait. And that sash! Since when did anyone besides her have a fashion sense beyond armor practicality? He’s totally looking at me and I’m ogling! Crap! Play it smooth, Adele! After all, it wasn’t like she hadn’t done this sort of thing before. At the academy, most particularly in the engineering department, she ran into guys all the time, even dated a few. She knew the look he was giving her and she knew how to start a recovery after that awkward little gawk session. The trick was not to stare and not to shyly avert her gaze, either. She tilted her head slightly, meeting his gaze innocently and speaking with her eyes, “Yeah, you’re not so bad, either..” Then she turned her head to pretend that she was listening to Djonn as he piped up again. She got the impression that he was saying something about being old again, but was a little bit distracted by the blue pair of eyes that made the cold suddenly not so cold. Enter the what, seventh mercenary now? This was another of the interesting personalities she knew of among the mercenaries—the guy with the weird eye. She’d never asked him directly about the story there, but given the gristly condition of half his face, she wasn’t sure she really wanted to know. For all strange appearances, though, Zacharias was still quite the smooth one, diving into the conversation as casually as if he’d been standing there the whole time. He wasn’t going to get away with that one. “Just to be clear here, not everyone considers standing around guzzling ale a party. I mean, seriously, when was the last time any of you danced with a girl?” Ooch, maybe she was starting off a bit too harsh. She softened her tone a bit before continuing. “Anyways, I’m also concerned about preparations. I haven’t been on caravan duty before and I’ve got a lot to sort through as far as my weaponry is concerned. How do these travel sessions even work? Do we just walk all day?”

Silhainlé had sense the ambush a moment before it had happened, but it hadn't given him enough time to react. He would have blamed the false sense of security being with the group had given him, but his mind was too geared into a primitive fight or flight. His legs kicked wildly as he was pulled to stand unnaturally on his feet. From that position there was little he could do but wrestle in vain against his captor. By the sounds he was picking up through the thick, scratchy material of the bag, it sounded as if the whole group of them had been abducted so. His heart was thundering distressingly loudly in his ears, the panic rising quickly in his throat. He could do little to fight back while being forced to walk on his toes, it was near impossible to get off a good kick like this. Even once they were escorted inside and it was all revealed to be nothing but some kind of joke among friends he found that he was not much calmed by the revelation. He failed to see how such rough treatment could be considered a joke. It was this kind of behaviour that he failed to understand about the humans. They seemed to enjoy scaring each other at times, which seemed so strange to him, being from a society who shared blood with prey animals. He could still feel his heart pounding, his instincts keeping him on high alert. A glass flagon of ale was shoved into his hands, the cold and the spill of beverage was a surprising sensation on his warm palms. He almost dropped it in surprise, but managed not to make that mistake. He paused for a moment before placing it on the nearest, stable surface. “I... would rather not, thank you friends.” He said, trying to be polite. He had tried such a drink before, and found the taste to be far too strong and burning on his taste buds. Lessir did not have such things, they would have eaten the crops than have them ferment into this... strange liquid. He struggled to see the appeal. While the rest continued their merriment Silhainlé backed off a little. He found himself torn, for he both wanted to bond with his fellow Guards, but did not want to be subjected to the foul taste of their beverages, or the sting of their drunken tongues for that matter. He crouched and curled in on himself, bringing his arm tight near his body. The cramped space and the loud chatter and the strong smell was causing him sensory overload. He decided it would be best to leave and, spotting someone else exiting through the door, scampered out to. The night air was as clogged with city scents as ever, but it certainly beat being inside the pub. As he looked around he soon noticed the small group that was forming by the wall. He hesitated, unsure whether to join them or to just return to the barracks. His foot twitched nervously, patting the ground below. He was still a little catious around people.

"Well look at that, it seems quite a few of us aren't the party type. Perhaps The Captain is trying to subtly purge the old, inexperienced, and the unfun at the same time with this job," dropping into a more serious yet still casual tone he continued, "I've been informed by the Captain that I'll be the highest ranked officer on this mission so I suppose that means I'm something resembling 'in charge' of you people for the coming days. You seem like a solid bunch and I look forward to serving alongside you and the others, pleasure cruise or otherwise. I have only one ground rule to making sure this run goes smoothly my comrades: Don't die on me. "

Needn't worry about me, Djonn,, Marcel thought to himself, remembering the veteran's name, feeling ashamed that he had to think about it, considering the man's legacy and time spent with the Guard. Was he one of the founders? Marcel couldn't remember. He had started a reply when one of the younger Guardsmen spoke first- Zacharias, Marcel recognized him from the burn on his face. Wouldn't be surprised if the two of them bonded quickly, sharing similar wounds, though Zacharias' was much more serious. Marcel eyed each member of the party, going through their names in his head in an effort to get some sort of memorization down, though he was confident it'd soon become natural, anyway. His thoughts were seized when he felt a cool breeze brush his left hand, cooling it slightly and sending chills up his left arm. How long had his hand been exposed? He balled it back up into his sleeve and the warmth was quick to return. “Just to be clear here, not everyone considers standing around guzzling ale a party. I mean, seriously, when was the last time any of you danced with a girl?” “Anyways, I’m also concerned about preparations. I haven’t been on caravan duty before and I’ve got a lot to sort through as far as my weaponry is concerned. How do these travel sessions even work? Do we just walk all day?” Marcel was a bit taken aback by Adele's first question- surely she hadn't meant it as an insult. Or had she? Marcel had no refute, however. He'd never danced with a woman- come to think of it, the last romantic interaction he'd had was long ago when he had run the forge. Chrysla was her name, daughter of a rancher who'd often come to pick up horseshoes. Needless to say, she didn't appreciate Marcel shutting down the forge and pledging to the life of a city guardsman-turned-sellsword. Marcel offered his reply to Adele's second question, "Can't honestly say I'm sure, but I imagine something of the sort. In any case, some well-deserved sleep will certainly help accomplish whatever it is we'll be doing, so I will be retiring for the night. I look forward to traveling with you all." A bit long winded, but polite. Marcel never liked leaving group conversations like that, especially when he was the first to leave. It always felt too abrupt and awkward. The walk back to the Guardsman's quarters was quick, or at least felt quick. Marcel had spent most of the journey in thought as he pondered the party he was to be traveling with. He had no ill thoughts about any of them- in fact, Marcel looked up to Djonn and Ramzi, he had a desire to one day hold the title of veteran, should he live long enough to earn it in this dangerous line of work like they have. --- Marcel only needed to make a few preparations- when he was told of his participation in the mission he had made most of his arrangements this morning. There was only the matter of laying out his armor and weapons, which he liked to keep next to his bed. He hunted down his specially-made shield, which Dain nicknamed 'Weaponward', and leaned it against his cuirass. It was made of sturdy wood (Which Marcel actually preferred over metal, as metal shields had the tendency to break arrows and send the shards into the face of the carrier), and Dain had painted two ravens on it, which he said stood for something but Marcel couldn't remember. It had suffered it's fair share of scuff marks during training sessions, to say nothing of the greyskin incursions, but Marcel was confident in his own craftwork. He checked the thick straps to make sure they were attached tight to the bulwark and found they were all where they should be. Marcel cleaned his face and hair of any stray grease from the pub food, relieved himself of all clothing except his pants, and was soon asleep on his cot.

The crisp, morning air slips through the cracks in the windows as the sun melts the night sky in the dark blue horizon. In the shadows of the barracks, the snores of sleeping soldiers begin to give way to the sounds of rustling blankets, cinching belt buckles and tired groans. You recognize some of the other White Guards from last night rolling off their hay-stuffed mattresses, noting the effort it requires for them simply to stare ahead with their pink, puffy eyes.

After gathering your things, you begin to make your way towards the western city gate, passing through the awakening street market. Farmers and merchants move about, methodically carrying out their morning routines, laying out wares for the day. As you pass, some take notice and nod briefly before returning to their tasks. The market square is full of kiosks and wooden stands wrapped in fabrics of colors bright and vibrant even in the low morning light. You could find just about anything here. Jewelry, silks, ironworks, fruits, vegetables, teas, coffee, meats, tools, oils, perfumes... The scent of spices and baked bread is everywhere.

When you finally arrive at Westgate clearing, golden light from the morning sun has just begun to peek from behind the horizon. The caravan lies before you in the midst of a flurry of activity. You notice a few dozen men and women, presumably of Hemming's employ, bustling about with last minute preparations, loading ten covered wagons of various sizes. The smallest wagons are hitched to horses of several breeds; bound to the largest wagon is a great white obi, shaggy haired beasts the size of four oxen. From behind the obi you then catch a glimpse of an unhitched, ornate carriage - out of place amongst the other, more utilitarian vehicles with its ornate, gilded accents, rich fabric linings and polished wood trimmings.

At the center of all this activity, you notice a small congregation. Even from behind, you quickly recognize the gray-blonde hair of Lieutenant Thorpe standing among them, speaking to a man who - much like the carriage - seems quite out of place surrounded by the dozens of working class scurrying about him. He wears a red hunting jacket and gold vest over a too-white shirt; a man in his late forties with salt and pepper hair, lightly browned skin with a thin, neatly trimmed moustache. He takes notice of you and turns to Thorpe, muttering a few words before returning to the others in the circle. Thorpe turns around, calling out in your direction.

"Djonn, come here."

"Djonn, this is Gaivus Hemming. Gaivus, this is Djonn Kolthus. He will be acting commanding officer for this company. Questions and concerns should be addressed to Djonn." Hemming gives Djonn a slight nod, and returns to the preparations.

Thorpe watches him for a moment before letting out a long sigh: "Come, Djonn. Let's look over the route to Paolou."

Djonn - (within earshot of Silhainlé)

Thorpe takes you a short distance away from the rest of the guard, gesturing to you to follow as he removes a roll of parchment from his coat pocket.

"We nearly lost this job to Macavel's outfit," he admits, his voice swollen with exhaustion and perhaps even regret. "Hemming knows they aren't worth nearly what we are, but when we went over incidental expenses he started to second guess going with us. Securing this contract required some compromise." His face seems drawn and pale. "I need you to follow this route instead," he says, dragging the tip of his finger along a thin line running just beneath the Western Road. "You'll follow the main road most of the way, but here," he indicates, tapping a small dot at the northernmost tip of Lake Eulemir. "Right here, your first stop is the Cossler estate."

"As part of negotiating this contract, we've agreed to use some of our local favors to avoid putting all of you up in taverns," he says, rolling up the map before handing it to you. "This means you won't have to sleep out in the cold every night. I've sent letters to the Cossler, Reminar, and Baelin estates. You may have met them before? They've each agreed to let the caravan stay for a night; they're willing to provide rooms for Hemming, his ranking attendants, and you; the rest of the guard and Hemming's men will sleep in the stables and barns. Hemming saves coin by not having to pay for rooms for forty people as well as avoiding the tolls at both Velwood and Gauston." With that, Thorpe rolls up the map, tying it with a thin, brown thread. "Any questions?"

Djonn gave Mr. Hemming a curt bow. "Pleasure to be of your service sir, I am sure everything will run smoot-" Hemming had already gone back to his preparations. Shaking his head Djonn walked over to where Lieutenant Thorpe had beckoned him. He paid careful attention and made mental notes of where to go, paying very special note to the last leg of their journey. "Macavel? How could any self-respecting individual feel safe guarded by those clowns Sir?" Djonn Shrugged, "I guess it just goes to show that with merchants profit is more important than safety. I would like to know more about the affairs of these estates. I used to be close with the Baelin household, but admittedly I haven't spoken to them since well..." he paused not exactly sure what to say. Lydia had been childhood friends with the eldest Baelin daughter: Katya. When Lydia's father passed away she was taken in by the Baelin house and raised as their adoptive daughter. Lydia wasn't the kind to take advantage of others and left the house when she was 18 to find her name in the world, yet throughout all that time she had kept up correspondence with Katya and the Baelins however she could. Djonn and Lydia had actually been married on the Baelin Estate, and her knowledge of the land had been part of why the two were initially deployed to Bellencrest in the first place. After Lydia's death the Baelin family had been surprisingly supportive, they didn't begrudge Djonn for what had happened as he expected they would. Her funeral was the last time he had ever spoken to or saw them. He imagined the reunion would be interesting, though it was not something that he was excited for. Regaining his composure quickly Djonn tried the question again. "I would like to know about the estates sir," While he awaited the response he gave Thorpe a once over, the man looked harried to say the least. He looked like death. "Is everything alright Thorpe?"

Djonn - (within earshot of Silhainlé) "I haven't visited them myself," Thorpe admits, offering you the map. "But here's what I know: each house oversees the surrounding farmland and townships for the magistrate, around five-thousand acres each; each employs a staff of more than twenty; each is run by a family who has lived there for at least three generations; and despite the entitlement that I would have expected, as it turns out they are capable of gratitude for the Guard's protection during the greyskin invasion." He nods, contemplative. "Whether that gratitude is due to the preservation of their people or their position, I cannot say." He smooths his gold-gray locks, pushing them back to reveal his receding hairline, pale, wrinkled forehead. "I know little else. Only that they're expecting you." "Is everything alright Thorpe?" He regards you, taken aback. "Of course," he says, in a halting voice. "Quite alright. Frankly, just ready to be done with this job." He smiles, tightly. "Now, is there anything else you need of me?"

Silhainlé woke early that morning. He didn't sleep on a bed like the rest, he felt strange having his body off the ground like that. Instead he'd made himself a small, nest-like bed, his designated blanket and a sheeps wool rug carefully piled together to make a comfortable, warm sleeping space for him. He was one of the first to wake, many were still soundly asleep from their drunken stupor. He stretched his large legs out and yawned, shaking off the built up stiffness in his limbs. Resting on his haunches he took a moment to clean and scratch his ears, knowing he would need them in good condition for the journey ahead. Once he was satisfied he picked up his pack and gathered his things; he took the wool rug, his leather cuirass and pauldrons, along with anything else he would need on the mission. He dressed in his surcoat, greaves and vambraces, deciding that was enough to keep him safe for now. He quietly passed by the rest of the sleeping guardsmen and headed out into the town. Since living amongst humans he had come to love their markets. There was such a variety of pleasant smells and interesting sights. He was particularly fond of the farmer stalls, the fresh vegetables were truly a mouthwatering sight. As he weaved carefully past a few men carrying crates of goods he spied a pile of particularly tasty looking cabbages. Feeling hungry enough to spend some of his coin he lolloped over to the stall. Standing up a little straighter he bought himself a small, full cabbage and slipped it into his pack. Silhainlé continued on his way and soon arrived at the Westgate. There were few other White Guard members around, so he quietly moved over to sit by the wall of a building. He opened his back and peacefully munched on his cabbage, enjoying the fresh taste. It wasn't too long before more familiar faces began appearing. Once the White Guard began to gather he quietly sidled along beside them, still chewing on his cabbage. When Djonn was called away from the group Silhainlé did twist his ear in that direction. He listened in on what was being said, curious as to what exactly the details of this mission were.

Marcel awoke early in the morning to a slight headache and a small puddle of drool that had pooled next to his head. He wiped his mouth clean of the drivel and sat up- several of the other guard were sleeping, some were already up and preparing their gear, and a few had already left. He was certain he wouldn't be the first to arrive at the caravan, but he wouldn't be last. Swinging his legs over the side of one bed, Marcel stood in one smooth motion, rubbing his forehead with his good hand. This headache had better go away quickly. He went about donning his usual choice of accoutrements- a thin but padded leather vest under a short-sleeved scale shirt and cuirass. On his right hand he donned a plated gauntlet, while his left forearm received a scale vambrace, since it was both difficult and uncomfortable for his burnt hand to conform to gauntlets. He called a fellow Guardsman over to help him strap a single, heavy pauldron over the uniform surcoat and onto his left shoulder- Marcel felt it helped make up for the lack of a full gauntlet on that arm, and he liked to keep his right arm free and flexible to swing harder. There remained only his shield- Weaponward- which would be strapped to his left forearm over the vambrace. Normally, Marcel would wrap his left hand with bandages to hide its ugly presence, but since he would soon be leaving Belencrest he decided against it. The companions he would be traveling with would discover it eventually, anyway. The bearded Guardsman double checked to make sure his sword was secure on his hip, and set out into the morning streets. --- Even in the early hours of dawn, the Marketplace was bustling with activity. Occasionally, the general hubbub of conversation would falter slightly as Marcel bumped and nudged his way through crowds, his figure too large to weave in between. After passing several colorful market stalls, Marcel stopped and looked for a particular one, only to be greeted by an unfamiliar mustachioed face selling fruits. Marcel feared the worst. Has she passed away? Marcel's thoughts grew grim as he continued to push through the swarm of breakfast-goers and early grocery shoppers. But then he saw her, standing at the final stall before the Market began to give way to the Westgate clearing. "Mornin', Miss Creedey", he said with a smile. The weathered and wrinkled woman turned with a start and with surprising agility, given her age. She had to be nearing eighty-five. "Marcel, my boy," she responded with her warm, rosy-cheek smile. She patted Marcel's unarmored shoulder with a flour-covered hand and stood on her tip-toes to kiss him on the cheek. "I'm leaving today, Miss Creedey. Might be gone for a while. Figured I'd stop by." "And right on time, too. I need a strong man to hold a heavy basket for an old woman like me." She slowly walked back into the shadow of her bright blue awning, retrieving a large basket full of light-brown rolls. They were only the size of his fist, but were thick and heavy. The smell alone was enough to get Marcel's stomach rumbling. Originally, Miss Creedey's stall was located further into the market, and had commonly sold intricate blankets, quilts, pillowcases, and things of similar nature. Sewing was a passion for Miss Creedey, though she never really took to weaving in any totem patterns. Nevertheless, her work was beautiful and rustic- the blankets Marcel used in the barracks were made by her, but when her husband passed away she struggled for money. She used most of the inheritance to buy a mid-sized oven suited for easy outdoor use (Thanks to totems) and began selling pastries, as well. Miss Creedey was of the opinion that the stalls closer to the gate clearings were the ones that were the most successful, since they would be the first someone coming into the city would see, and it would seem that since she started selling baked goods her dream was realized as she occupied "spot number one". Marcel held the basket of rolls in his good hand, high enough to not put too much strain on his muscle- the basket was heavy- but not so high that Miss Creedey couldn't reach the pastries. He followed close behind as she laid out the bread on her stall tables in neat, picturesque piles. "These smell awful good, Miss Creedey." "Then we'll just say that it's a coincidence that I have too many rolls in the basket for my plates out here." She smiled at Marcel and he smiled back. "Only a few more, now." She was right. When they were finished, there were a few rolls left in the bottom of the basket. She bundled them up in her arms, wrapped them all into a cloth, and shoved the cloth-covered loaf into Marcel's bag, which already contained some rations but he wouldn't say no to Miss Creedey's bread. The two chatted as Miss Creedey continued her rounds, floating between oven and various tables. At one point, Marcel noticed her wedding ring slip off her wrinkled finger into the hot oven fires. When she wasn't looking, Marcel quickly reached into the fires with his burnt hand- it just fit with the shield strapped to it- and retrieved it. "You've dropped this, Miss Creedey." Marcel said, presenting it to her with his good hand. The old woman beamed and twisted the ring back onto her finger. "Thank you my dear," she said as she grabbed Marcel's hand. He needed to leave, but she'd always hang onto your hand for longer than seemed necessary. Another one of her quirks. "Oh! Before you leave- where did you say you would be going again?" "Paolou," he repeated. He'd told her several days ago- wasn't sure if he was supposed to share that information for some reason. During his time with the City Guard, he'd learned that sometimes odd rules about what one can and cannot tell civilians were in place to protect both parties. "I have a favor to ask you. As you know, Woad was born in Paolou." Marcel actually hadn't known where her husband was born- he tended not to bring him up much when they would talk. The old baker retreated behind her oven for a moment, only to appear holding a small jar. "It was his wish to be scattered into the sea he loved so much," she declared, thrusting the jar into Marcel's good hand. It took him a moment to realize that he was holding Woad; or at least, what remained of him. "Miss Creedey, I-" Marcel stared at the jar for a moment. Woad's wife was growing old and one of these days she wouldn't be able keep her oven fires going. He'd have a tough time saying it, but Miss Creedey meant a lot to Marcel. She was probably the closest thing to a mother that he'd ever have. This was the least he could do for the woman. "-I'll do it." "I'll miss you while you're gone, my boy." She kissed him on the cheek again. "Stay safe, but get! You don't want to be late and I don't think my customers take too kindly to a bear standing behind a stall." They both laughed. As he walked into the clearing he carefully placed the jar into one of his pack's pockets. The lid was on very tight, but he still worried that he'd drop the pack and it would break. Marcel shaped up as he saw fellow Guardsmen in the clearing, huddling around the caravan he would be escorting. He almost walked up to Djonn- whom he saw first-, but noticed he was discussing something with Lieutenant Thorpe. He instead located his companion group, which at the moment consisted of a lone Silhainlé, gnawing on a cabbage. He always had a curious but cautious demeanor- if Marcel recalled correctly, the Lessir societies tended to keep to themselves- but here in the clearing surrounded by Guardsmen he looked comfortable. That is, as comfortable as someone in full gear about to traverse a long journey could be. He waved as he approached- not sure if Silhainlé even noticed him- but said nothing, his mind still occupied by Miss Creedey's wish.

Dear Mum, Everything has still been peaceful in Belencrest. Some of the men have even complained that they need more action rather than braving another boring street patrol. You really should see how much quieter here it is here than even Bossart. It reminds me a little of our house on the edge of town. I know you wanted me to make friends and all, but it hasn't been easy. Most of the folks here are older and into drinking at dingy pubs. What few girls there are here are always quipping about how I take too long to get ready in the morning or how my 'delicates' are impractical when we do laundry. Exactly when was a lady's underwear even a little bit practical? I know what you must be thinking, but don't worry. My roommates and I were always making petty little quips at the academy. They may have had a better idea of what 'practical' means, but they also weren't exactly mature when it came to comparing who could shave her legs the best. Yeah, in a lot of ways, these White Guards are a slightly more mature crowd. How are things at the mansion? Did Dad hire more help for the repair shop yet? He's got to learn how to relax every once in a while, you know? I think about you all the time and miss your cooking more than you know. Even the stores I’m used to shopping at are hard to be without. I'll be joining an escort group to Paolou this morning, so maybe I'll finally get a taste of something luxurious in a week or two. As always, I'll write you as soon as I arrive. Lots of love, Adele Brunsque Adele sighed as she set her pen down, rubbing her eyes for the tenth time. Despite getting to bed late, she'd arisen before the sun to make sure she could finish her errands and preparations for the trip. She'd managed to fold her dresses and other things into a trunk the night before, but it was always wise to make an inventory check for her equipment. Sure, it looked like she just had that big, weird cannon to worry about, but that cannon sure came with a lot of adjustable nuts, screws, filters, and strings. All of those had to be checked before the cannon could be operated. Her high-tech crystal sycronization device? A tuning fork. She took the thing from her desk drawer before knocking it on the desk's wooden top. Pliiiiiiiiiing. Adele closed her eyes and grabbed the crank of the cannon, slowly turning it. Wheel rubbed against string, making a hum that sounded like a metallic bagpipe. She smirked, already imagining the groans of her drunk neighbors as she awoke them with the instrument's loud music. Well, it wasn't really music, as she was simply testing every note of the thing's chromatic scale, but it still sounded nice to her musician's ear. Once that little task was complete, she checked to see that everything in her utility belts was in order. The number of small trinkets and devices in those pouches was enough to give even her a headache. Was she done then? Please. If every woman in the world simply woke up and went out ‘as-is,’ the world would probably implode. She freshened up with a pitcher of water and some peony scented soap, making sure every last stench from the night before was gone. Since she had some extra time, she even managed to painstakingly shampoo her hair, lathering it up with some fruity-yet-sharp scents of pear and juniper. What she didn’t have time for was to let all her hair dry, so she simply pulled it up into a bun and clapped her goggles around the top of her head. Dressing for the day was easy for once—all her other dresses were packed away, so she was left with only one choice. It was a ruffled, light blue shirt with a leather corset and simple brown skirt. Her utility belts formed an x over her waist, and she had an additional one running from the top of her left shoulder to the right side of her hip. Finally, her thick leather shoes were belted up all the way to her knees, and running up from those were creamy white stockings. Of course, this offered nothing in the way of protection, but she wasn’t going to be the one parrying blades. If anything was silly enough to get close to her, it would be incinerated, electrocuted, or blinded. Possibly all three. With letters in one hand the handle of her trunk in another, (plus a small pack on her back—she was a veritable pack mule), Adele finally made her way out of the barracks. She didn’t actually have hands to carry her cannon, but that was solved with a harness gripping around her neck and shoulders. The weapon dwarfed most of her torso, but she barely seemed to pay any mind to it as she hit the streets and headed towards the market. The first thing she did was drop off the letters, but the market was far too tempting for her to just pass through. Plus… she was tempted to find a make-up gift for a special someone. Last night hadn’t exactly ended well and she wasn’t sure how to approach that someone without an excuse. Ah, but when was a marketplace good for finding only one sort of thing? The smell of freshly baked pastries was so tempting that it was only minutes before a hot and flaky raspberry tart was in her mouth. She stopped to smell flowers, to admire some locally woven cloth—at some point, she could have sworn she even saw the bear-like form of Marcel somewhere along the fringes of the marketplace. After a few more self-indulgent minutes, Adele finally found what she wanted, or rather, what she wanted found her. “Oooh, what a pretty lady. You must fancy fine things, yes?” A middle-aged woman grinned at Adele, making the young lady stop to listen. Well, honestly, even if the woman hadn’t spoken, she was still something to stare at, what with all those bangles and flowing tufts of purple fabric about her body. “You look a little lost, too. I can help.” Adele folded her arms, more than a little skeptical. “I’m not lost, and I only buy fancy, fine things when they’re worth the cost.” The woman held out a hand, gesturing Adele closer with the other. “You are seeking guidance on a personal matter, yes? Your spirit animal will guide you if you only choose to listen.” This was getting ridiculous. All the same, Adele found herself ridiculously intrigued. She vaguely recalled spirit animals in reference to some ancient cultures that used totems shaped like animals. Given that she was standing in a city quite lacking in such history, the likelihood of the woman selling fake totems was quite high. Perhaps the woman was already guessing at her thoughts, because she waggled a finger. “I do not specialize in magic. I am a craftswoman who is in touch with the spiritual world. Allow me to show you.” The woman reached forward, gently cupping her hands around one of Adele’s. Without asking, she removed the leather glove from it and lightly traced the lines of her palm with one finger. “Ahhh, you see this line closest to your thumb? This is your life line, and you have a very promising one. Long and clearly marked, you shall have a long life full of vitality, but it is not without some problems. Your line is chained, ah, perhaps emotional problems are plaguing your health?” Adele raised a brow. “I’m perfectly healthy. Exactly what are you trying to convince me of, here? Are you trying to sell medicine?” The woman shook her head with a small smile. “Now, your head line, the next up. This one is very long and straight—you are logical and direct in your thinking. You must have excellent memory and quite the imagination, quite potent over your body when this line is joined with your life line. "Ah, and the most tender of all—your heart line. You have a disregard for the true meaning of love and its responsibilities, which is why you are prone to give your heart away more than you must suspect. This long line also tells me you are looking for one whose status rises above yours, someone you respect. Again, your chained line here tells me you are bothered by the tension your love life is giving you.” Adele’s cheeks flushed, and she promptly pulled her hand away. “Like I said, complete nonsense.” “You think so?” The lady rummaged through a drawer hidden under the table she had been leaning over, and finally procured a strange trinket—a butterfly. It appeared to be some kind of brooch made from woven strings and glass. The center was riddled with white rhinestones, and the wings extended out like a net with each one nesting a pane of dyed red glass. Or was that polished quartz? “Your personality has attracted the butterfly. He is a lightness of heart and spirit, a bringer of transformation. There is a part of you ready to transform, my dear.” The woman offered up the trinket, her smile widening. “This can be your companion for only a few coins.” Adele rolled her eyes at this, though she didn’t up and walk away. Actually… the more she thought about it, the more interesting such a gift could be. It’d certainly look nice as a brooch for a certain sash. “Eh, I’ll take it if you stop talking.” Adele made a quick exchange, finally holding up the trinket to the light of the morning sun. All that crap about spirits and palms was too much to swallow, but the lady did make some gorgeous accessories. With that distraction out of the way, Adele picked up some thin bronze squares she’d pre-ordered some days ago and finally made her way over to the caravan. Surprisingly, it seemed like some of the White Guards were still missing—namely the one she wasn’t too keen on seeing again. She shrugged that off and stuffed her trunk into the wagon with the White Guards’ supplies before looking around to find the best way to kill time. Hahaha—Thorpe looked like he’d been dragged across half the country and back again. The frazzled soul was standing a little of a ways off from the caravan talking to Djonn, probably about discretionary ‘mission’ stuff. She found she didn’t really care about being outside the special information, given that she already knew the most important thing: she’d be travelling the road instead of remaining in a barracks where she could comfortably work on her cannon. She sighed as she cradled the instrument in her arms, looking for something better to amuse herself with. Luckily, she found Marcel again, this time waving and walking up to that strange rabbit fellow she’d caught a glimpse of the night before. Yeah, that was as good an opportunity as any. “Hey, guys!” Adele put on a smile as she stood close enough to form a small circle with the two men. “Just to make things official between us, I’m Adele. This is my first time guarding a caravan, so I’ll be sticking around you two to get the hang of it.”