Rook furrowed his brow at Gisele's words. It certainly sounded like somebody wanted Hemming dead very much. Now that he knew the extent of the attempts made on their client's life, Rook found himself more sympathetic towards Adele's outburst. It was absurd to hide this knowledge from the White Guard. We've obviously been hired because master Hemming no longer trusts his own entourage completely, the Montgardian thought to himself. Why haven't we been informed of our true purpose, so we can be on the lookout? Seemingly having recovered her composure, Adele went on a long, thorough and very well thought-out rant. Rook's furrowed brow raised slowly as the woman went on and on, surprised at the clarity of her insight. Of course, he realized, he shouldn't be, since the woman was obviously smart. The cannon alone said more than enough. Djonn approached. Oh, good, some actual authority, Rook thought. He took a few steps back, distancing himself from the discussion. He just wanted to do his job and gladly left the rest of the discussion, and smoothing over Adele's mess, to Djonn. It honestly didn't matter to him where they went from here, as long as they got to their destination eventually. Rook trusted Djonn to come to a reasonable agreement with Gisele. When their leader was done explaining the best course of action according to him, Rook touched Adele on the arm to grab her attention. He titled his head towards the stream, a little ways away from the halted caravan and the rest of the group. "Come with me," he said quietly.

What the--is he serious? Fire returned to Adele's eyes as she glared at her commanding officer. Gaivus knew about all of this from the beginning! Us knowing about it isn't going to change his mind, so are you seriously putting all of us in danger just because he'll say no? What's the point in anything I just said if you're not willing to see it through! A tap on her arm didn't make her any less upset about the current development, and she stared at Rook incredulously when he asked her to go. Was he worried that she was going to loose it again? Didn't he realize just how tense the situation was and how wandering off would just make it worse? Wasn't he angry with Djonn, too, what with how casually the man conceded to honoring an idiot's wishes? "...This had better be good." Adele growled under her breath as she turned to follow Rook. What he wanted to discuss was well beyond her imagination, but they'd have plenty of time to chat while Djonn spoke to Gaivus and the others about the new "nature of the mission." She'd already heard more than she could take.

Relieved that Adele was willing to follow him, Rook sighed regardless when he saw the look on the woman's face. She was still evidently upset. He ran a hand through his hair, slightly exasperated, and looked around for a few seconds while he gathered his thoughts. "Listen," he said, firmly but quietly. "I strongly urge you not to make enemies with the people we're working for, even if they're idiots. Don't forget that, in the end, we're all in this for the money. If you ignore a client's wishes or deliberately go against them... well, I don't think I have to explain how bad that is for business. When Gaivus Hemming says jump, you don't even ask how high, you just jump as high as you can. "Secondly, I could see you were about to undermine the authority of your commanding officer in front of the client's employer. Djonn heard you, he's not going to throw everything you said into the wind, he's just trying to be diplomatic right now. For what it's worth, I think you made some very good points and suggestions, but don't make Djonn look stupid. Chain of command is still a thing. I know I joked about collectively undermining the man's authority but that's the kind of stuff you do behind his back. Okay?" Pausing for a second, Rook's face softened and he tilted his head to the side, as if he was inspecting Adele. "And lastly... are you alright? You seem very... stressed. Is it because of what happened last night?"

"You. Are. Utterly tactless, bringing that up at a time like this!" Adele cracked her knuckles, already having to let off some steam. "I'm aware that money will make you roll on the ground and bark for a master, but I have slightly loftier goals--like not dying. Exactly what point is there in any job if you get your neck snapped? Did it even occur to you that it might have been Gaivus' intent all along to bring us harm? Either he's the biggest moron ever to run a business, or he's purposely trying to draw his enemy out. "Screw protocol--I wasn't raised to follow orders without question. Djonn needs to be more than diplomatic in a situation like this. I mean, really! Those nobles favored the White Guard name enough to shelter us for free, and now we're bringing danger to their doorstep? You think that's justified because someone who already lied to you says so?" Adele fixed her glare firmly on Rook, hands on her hips. "I thought someone like you would have valued my safety as well as your own more than pretences demanded by rank."

Marcel was so conflicted- on one hand was the reasonable approach of Adele, and since he felt it his duty to complete the mission successfully he at first felt compelled to agree with her. In fact, if Marcel was in charge he liked to think that he'd force Hemming into turning around back to the main road, where it was probably safer, even if he had to drag him. Sure, there would be ill feelings galore and Marcel would certainly lose any sort of trust or confidence from Hemming- if there was any, after Gisele's revelation- but he believed the man would eventually thank him for his life. But would that be taking it too far? Djonn also had made a point- one that involved much less possible loss of trust and more or less hinged on them doing their job efficiently, not to mention that Marcel looked up to the man on top of listening to the only voice of authority in the group beyond their employer. But if they were to carry on down this path and Hemming get killed, and the Guard knew of the possibilities, then who was at fault for the death? Hemming, with his hardheadedness to keep on the path; or the Guard, who failed to do what they had been hired for? This was a bit too much for Marcel, who was rubbing his temples. He caught Rook taking Adele back towards the stream and used the event as ample time to distance himself, as well, but towards the caravan rather than away. I don't like all this talk, I'd rather be doing something. I'd like to keep Hemming in my sights as best as possible without stalking the man, wouldn't want to look suspicious. I'd like my shield to be close. Maybe that won't end up mattering- whatever; I need to feel I at least tried. It was certainly odd to think that way, especially as a mercenary. A sellsword wasn't supposed to feel so attached to virtues such as duty so much that they risked their own lives, were they? Was Marcel really risking his life here? After all, this blockade could end up being nothing at all. Perhaps it was the Rimbaud tradition of protectiveness, or maybe Marcel was taking this all too seriously, or mayhap Marcel was just insane; but whatever path the caravan ended up taking, Marcel was sure of one thing: their job was to see Hemming live through this trip. As he walked and pondered what he wanted to do his thoughts drifted towards his companions- where was Silhainlé? He wondered how the Lessir was handling all the interaction now that everyone involved with this job were becoming more chummy. He thought of Adele, and Rook, and Gisele. Well...mostly chummy.

When Adele begins her apology, Gisele instantly responds with an icy expression; though the Bossartian's appeal cracks through her defenses almost instantly. "... every person here has a name, friends and family..." Gisele's countenance softens. Breaking eye contact, her face transforming in the span of a few moments from shame, to remorse, to resolve. She returns her gaze to Adele, her expression now set into one of earnest determination as she listens intently to the fair-haired woman's continued extrapolation. Djonn's assurances that the White Guard is committed to their safety seem to calm her even more. "Now Madam Gisele, why would anyone have reason to send assassins after Mister Hemming..?" She furrows a softly sculpted brow. "I cannot say. But I think perhaps he may..." "What's going on here?" A voice exclaims from behind Gisele. Emerging from behind a nearby caravan is Gaivus Hemming, walking purposefully forward with jaw set hard. No longer wearing the bright finery from this morning, Hemming wears a dark-colored medium-length frock coat over a high-collared white shirt, matching trousers, and a felt derby. Even from a distance, his clothes are unmistakably Bossartian. "Sir, I-I was... Forgive me, I was only..." Gisele trails off, withering under his stare. Frustration simmers in Hemming's features, though it never boils. Instead, he draws in a large breath, rubs his temple with the fingertips of a gloved hand, exhaling slowly. "Miss Margot," he says after a few moments, without looking directly at her, "I wish to depart soon. If you would be so kind as to make the appropriate arrangements to ensure that we are so prepared..?" Gisele nods curtly, and walks briskly back to the caravan, passing Marcel along the way; as she does, she glances briefly over her shoulder at the large Belencrestian. She quickly faces forward, cheeks freshly flushed, and disappears amidst the activity surrounding the wagons. Gaivus follows her exit with a sideward glance before facing the gathering. "Listen, all of you... Please, for just a moment" he says wearily. "I can understand that this, this news I imagine my steward has shared with you may seem troubling and cause for worry. However, let me assure you: miss Margot's concern, while admirable in one sense, is wholly misplaced." He sighs, removing his hat for a moment to smooth back his dark, graying hair. "Let me make it plain. My steward has conjured a plot from what I see only as coincidence. Pellan Huo's death was truly tragic, as was the wretched affair on the Elkin river. But nothing about these unfortunate events on my journey could be considered connected. Hopstead is, famously, a dangerous city; and the wretches on the Hanyemede could only be described as mere thieves seeking easy coin." He pauses for a moment, looking back the way Gisele had left, and turns back towards the group. "I certainly appreciate miss Margot's... Passion. But in mathematics, we say that nothing is true until you have proven it. And I simply see no proof." "So, if there's nothing more, I'd like to be on our way as soon as possible."

What I need is a mentor of sorts. A man whose example I can follow and who can answer my questions. Marcel was immersed in his thoughts as he aimlessly wandered about the bustling caravan- his companions must have reached a decision for it seemed everyone was getting ready to leave soon. Perhaps what he needed was something more than a figure to follow- perhaps he needed a cause? He let his good hand brush the shoulder of a horse as a few servants led it back towards the caravan. He thought of the exemplar knight- a man of duty and honor sat atop the noble creatures who both fought for the cause of a Lord. But no- Marcel had a cause, and that was to do his job to the best of his ability, and help the others he can along the way. His father always told him that it's not the money you make that will ultimately make you happy but whether or not your work fulfills you, and joining the White Guard had done that. His mind drifted to Djonn; the man had a service record that spoke for itself. Perhaps he was the mentor Marcel sought? Marcel already looked up to the man out of respect of authority as well as his history, not to mention the beard, and in more than a few ways he even reminded Marcel of his father. Marcel was startled when someone brushed past him- glancing up he met the eyes of Gisele for a moment but she looked away. Was that a look of suspicion? He recalled how she seemed to distrust the White Guard contingent that was with the caravan. Perhaps he would speak with her when they reached the Cossler Estate about the matter. Marcel made his way back to where he had originally come from, his short journey fruitless in containing his anxiety. Rook and Adele were still talking in private while Hemming seemed to have found Djonn and Zach. Not wanting to intrude he approached the larger group. "Ah, Master Hemming, good to see you're faring the journey well. It seems we're about to get this show back on the road," he glanced from Hemming to Djonn, then back to Hemming, "Whichever road that may be."

Djonn ground his molars as he pondered. Hemming did honestly have a point, there was technically no evidence to say that the attempts on his life had been part of some grand scheme. Powerful men attracted thieves and ne'er do wells who sought what they did not have from those who did. These were all facts of life, but something was gnawing at Djonn's mind. The day was starting to grow long, they had already gone too far to get back on the highroad and make it to the Cossler estate by nightfall by his estimation. The last thing he wanted was to be on the roads at night, King's Sentinels be damned. The decision became clear to Djonn, at least for the short term. He glanced back at Adele and ground his teeth more. "This will be another reason for her to hate me I suppose. Better to get them all out of the way early. I'll try to smooth things over once we get to the Cossler Estate, but now I need to keep pretending to be in command here. Djonn put an end to his rumination and cleared his throat to get the attention of the guard around him before speaking. "Very well sir, we will continue at haste to the Cossler estate and make camp there. However once we have digested this day's events I would like us to have a chat about our next move, happenstance or not I think it wise to not rule out potential changes to the planned route given the circumstances. On that same note sir, I believe it also important to inform the estates that there have been attempts on your life during your journey, not for your or our sake but for theirs. These people have graciously offered us their properties to stay and so it is only fair we inform them of any dangers that may befall them no matter how remote the chance. You are an honorable man I am sure Mister Hemming, so I trust in good faith that you will not find this disagreeable. Also I would like to take further precautions regarding your safety. If you would be so obliged, I would like one of my men to personally accompany you as a measure of safet.." "Ah perfect. Marcel is the perfect man for such a duty. The man is a veteran and a stalwart defender, if anyone can keep you safe it is Marcel. I don't want anyone slipping by us, and no one can slip by Marcel: his shoulders are too damn broad. If you will allow me to get him up to speed on the situation first then I will discharge him into your care Sir." With that Djonn waved his hand in a Come hither motion at Marcel and awaited his marching orders.

Rook pinched the bridge of his nose with the fingers of his left hand, his other hand resting on the pommel of a sheathed ketra blade. Adele made some good points, but she still sounded more like a civilian than a mercenary. Life-threatening danger always lurks around every corner, he thought to himself. That's why people hire us. It's why we're armed to the teeth. "Of course I care about your safety," he said. "And my own," he added as an afterthought. "Which is why I've got knives strapped to every limb and this," he voiced in a whisper as he pulled his totem from beneath his shirt, "around my neck." Rook put the totem away and looked around to make sure nobody else had seen it. "It twitches when danger is about to strike and it's been motionless the entire journey. We are not in any immediate danger." He paused and cocked his head, listening to the voice of master Hemming as it drifted over from the caravan. Eyes pointedly fixed on Adele's, Rook shrugged when the man was done explaining his side of the story. "Well, there you go," Rook said. "Maybe he's withholding information, or maybe he's right and he's not actually being hunted. Either way," he spoke with a tone of finality, "it is not our place to judge and argue. And I'm sorry for any perceived tactlessness on my part, it was not my intention to upset you any further," he muttered. "Come, let's return to the group." And with that, Rook turned and walked back to the caravan.

Wow, he actually… Adele’s eyes were wide as she stared at Rook. The line about her safety hadn’t been a demand so much as the culmination of an unvoiced suspicion—she hadn’t believed Rook cared about her. He’d shown interest the night before, but that had grown all too quickly into poorly disguised lust on both their parts. The fact that she hadn’t been able to actually do it with him in addition to there being other women among the mercenaries who probably would have (or more accurately, could have) made her suspect that he wouldn’t invest any more attention towards her. For a man like him, there were many, many other women who would be happy to entertain. Thus, when he gave a response other than, “Just take care of yourself,” she didn’t know what to do. There was no hesitation in his declaration, and his seriousness made it difficult to take as a white lie. Her heart, having been fed on a steady diet of angry adrenaline over the course of the day, puttered to a stop. She felt weak, sick, and bizarrely enough, afraid. Had her refusal to speak of last night turned him off? “W-wait.” Her hand moved before she gave it permission to, grabbing ahold of his sleeve. She couldn’t meet his gaze, and the cracking of her voice was already so embarrassing it was difficult to continue. “I’m sorry, too. About back there and… last night. This really is my first mission away from the barracks—paranoia is kind of typical for me in an unfamiliar situation. We’ve got a lot to talk about, so for now… I’m just going to follow your lead, okay?”

Before Rook could get very far, a timid hand grabbed hold of his sleeve and stopped him in his tracks. He turned to look at Adele over his shoulder, eyebrows raised in surprise. It seemed that his words had finally pierced the veil of indignation. She refused to meet his eyes and her mood had turned faster than a hurricane's gale. As she explained, Rook felt a pang of pity for her. First mission out in the wild? Of course she's afraid, he thought to himself. "That's... quite alright," he said, looking ahead at the caravan again. He'd always thought of himself as having a way with words, but this kind of emotional response was pretty far removed from his comfort zone. He opened his mouth to say something but shut it again after a few seconds as he drew a blank. "Let's return to the caravan for now. I think master Hemming needs some placating." He returned just in time to hear Djonn praise Marcel's virtues as a stalwart and reliable defender to Hemming. Gaivus' eyes skimmed over Rook briefly, and the blade-strapped duelist nodded in affirmation. Oh, yeah, totally, he thought to himself. Not that I've ever seen Marcel fight, but he doesn't need to know that. "Sure as sure," Rook added. Rook risked a quick peek at Adele when Hemming's attention moved away from him and gave her a reassuring smile.

D-don’t look at me like that! You’ll give people the wrong idea. Adele used a none-too-gentle index finger to poke Rook’s cheek, trying to turn that charming little face away from her. She already seemed to have recovered from the sudden show of weakness in front of Rook; her shoulders were squared and her body was taut with spring-loaded preparation for their next move. “So sorry to interrupt, Sir.” Adele’s smile was full of saccharine sadism—the fire in her eyes left no doubt that she had a few choice words to deliver to both captain and caravan master. “But I couldn’t help but acknowledge your orders and feel the need to suggest an additional course of action. Since we seem to be moving forward with upmost caution, might I suggest leaning away from putting Mr. Hemming back in the carriage?” Honestly, she wasn’t even sure if Marcel would fit in there with whoever else Hemming had. “You see, my heart aches at the notion that something so fine may easily be targeted in the case of an ambush. This is only a suggestion in the humblest sense, but perhaps it might be safer if we traded Mr. Hemming’s hat for one of our surcoats and a hooded cloak of some kind? If we disguise him as one of our own and have him ride in one of the wagons with Marcel as a bodyguard, it’s bound to look much less conspicuous. It may seem like an extreme precaution, I am sure, but nothing is more important than the safety of our client when there are traces of bandit activity about.”

Djonn glanced to his side and met Adele's gaze, a sly smile pursing his lips. Her plan wasn't a bad one, but that wasn't why he was smiling. It was the kind of thing he would have expected of Lydia when they were younger. "You know Sir, my subordinate raises an excellent point. Assassination attempts be damned, the trap from earlier puts the chances of there being bandits or other ne'er do wells in the area almost an assurance. They'll be gunning for your horseless carriage above all else if they're looking for wealth, I know I would. But some random guardsman on a supply wagon? They'll largely ignore you. Marcel will remain at your side with that mighty shield of his to ensure your safety of course. However we'll have to do something to make you look the part of the watchman. A surcoat will be provided by a guardsman who more closely matches your figure, as for weaponry?" Sliding the bow and quiver from his back, he holds the weapon and quiver out to Hemming to grab. "These should do nicely, now I trust that a well to do man such as yourself has hunted with a bow before, but that may just be my aristocratic side assuming things. If not just keep an arrow in one hand and hold the bow with the other. You don't have to know how to nock or loose an arrow; you just have to look like you do." "As for the rest of you," he said gesturing with his free arm to the guardsmen within earshot. "Those with ranged weapons I want posted on every other wagon providing overwatch with a melee fighter posted alongside you for close defense. The others will maintain a standard skirmish perimeter around the caravan." a chorus of aye sirs followed his order. Thinking back to Adele he rummaged into his pack and drew Lydia's totem. Holding it carefully in his hand he looked at his reflection in the smooth brass for a moment, then handed the mask to her. "I won't exactly have time to be playing lookout, so for the time being take this. Just press it to your face and squint your eyes, it will amplify your vision like a spyglass. I want you and Rook to watch over Hemming's carriage. Now, if there are no objections I would very much like to get off the road for the night and I'm sure Master Hemming agrees with me."

Gaivus looks on with mouth agape as the bow and weathered clothes are placed in his hands. He raises his eyes to meet Djonn’s, searching for any hint of irony. Finding none, he offers a forced, acquiescent nod.

“As we are for the moment pressed for time, I will comply with your, ah, precautions,” he says, unenthused. “For now. When we arrive tonight at our destination, however, I would very much like to discuss with you alternatives for the remainder of this journey.” He gives the rumpled surcoat a tentative sniff, twisting his face into a sour expression. “Alternatives,” he repeats, “that are agreeable to both parties.”



The mood has changed.

Where before most in the caravan had simply been carrying on, going through the motions of a routine operation, a fresh sense of apprehension seems to hum from every corner. By now Gisele’s warning has spread to every man and woman, carrying with it a sense of palpable foreboding.

The commanding officer of the White Guard, as if by instinct, rapidly formulates a plan, relaying his orders with immediacy and precision. With clear instructions, some of the more nervous members seem to ease into their duties with a renewed focus on the task at hand, rather than the numerous and diverse bedevilments conjured by their imaginations. The frontline fighters of the guard fan out along the perimeter, while the archers and crossbowmen ride alongside the wagon drivers. The lessir, Silhainlé, nimblest and quickest of the guardsman, moves forward to scout the road slightly ahead, careful to remain always within sight of Adele’s amplified vision. Adele herself, perched atop Gaivus’s personal carriage, carrying her curious cannon, scans in every direction for any sign of peril.

Adele

To your enhanced eyes, the only activity there seems to be is the swooping of starlings and the occasional squirrel. The driver, an older, sharply dressed man wearing a bowler and riding gloves, seems glad of the company and starts telling you stories about all sorts of famous people he has driven around Verloren in his career. As he goes on, you witness up close the dizzying sequence of cranks and levers the carriage requires to start, noting that once in motion the only further manipulations the driver makes are adjustments in the direction of the carriage’s forward motion.

Rook

The interior of the carriage is luxurious, perhaps even more than the outside.

The woodwork within is masterful. Rich and intricate crown molding line the corners; soft lush seat cushions fill either bench; pleasant, relaxing scents fill the cabin; and the carpeted floor on your slippered feet---one of the conditions on allowing you to enter was trading your boots for clean slippers---is a welcome surprise after a day’s walk on the hard earth.

You notice a small steel pitcher sitting on top of one of two gold plates built into a counter top, latticed with a strange patterns and set within grooves that appear to be designed to overlap one another. You notice a handle connected to the second plate, and use it to slide the second plate underneath the first. Within moments, heat begins to emanate from underneath the pitcher. You recognize that when combined, the two gold plates create the familiar hatch-work for heating.

The cabinets have a few bottles of liquor and wine, a box of tobacco, and what seems to be a jar full of tea leaves. Tucked behind the tea you notice a few opened envelopes. Without touching them, you can see that the outermost envelope is addressed to Gaivus Hemming.

Marcel

You and Gaivus sit together towards the back of the caravan at the front of one of the covered wagons. A driver named Bhirit sits between you, clearly apprehensive at the prospect of sharing her personal space with both her boss and, well, you. For a time, the clopping horse hooves and rattling wagons are the only sounds to perforate the awkward silence. Though the simple tedium of travel eventually lulls Bhirit into unconsciously returning to her natural behavior, clearing her throat and hocking the juice down into the dirt. As she draws her sleeve across her mouth, you notice Hemming with eyes wide in silent horror.

After that, Gaivus moves from the driver seat back into the wagon bed to sit with Gisele, who sorts through an intimidating stack of parchments. “Miss Margot,” Gaivus says, “Have I become nose-blind, or have these clothes somehow lost their stale, tenacious odor?”

A smile dares to bloom on her face for a moment, but quickly evaporates as if something terrible was just remembered. “I’m…” she starts, eyes downcast. “I apologize for overstepping my bounds, sir.”

Gaivus exhales slowly and smiles at her tightly. “We’ll fret over that later. For now, let’s just focus on our plans after arriving in Paolou. Agreed?” Gisele replies with a feint, tentative smile. Her eyes return to her work, though you happen to notice periodically they flick from her papers up to you, only to quickly return back to her scripts.

A smile begins to tease across Hemming’s face.

"So, eh, Marcel is it?” he begins in a jovial tone. “If we’re to be wagon-mates for the remainder of the day, we should get to know each other a little better, no? Did you grow up in Belencrest?" He pauses, waiting for an answer. “What about family?” he adds, a hint of a cheeky grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “A wife, perhaps?”

Djonn

While this hardly your first mission as a ranking officer, many of these recruits are new to the Belencrest outfit and have never served under your command. However, most of them seem to respond to your authority instantly, carrying out your orders with keen efficiency, moving as a single organism. You remain vigilant, listening to the sounds of the forest: songbirds trilling in the trees lining the roadside, a breeze whispering through the leaves, and the near-imperceptible frequencies of insects flooding the space with an orchestra of white noise.

After many miles, you notice Silhainlé lolloping back towards you from the far front. He moves quickly, far faster than a man can sprint. He comes to a halt right before you, giving you an awkward but sincere salute.

“Sir,” he says, breathing a little harder than normal. “Ahead, the woods recede back into farmland. There’s a big lake on the left, and up ahead I think I can make out a small town.”

Lake Oáfel. Which means the town must be Cossleton---a small hamlet of farmers, fishermen and artisans who live on the Cossler lands. Just beyond it lies the estate. By your estimation, the Cossler mansion is just an hour further down the road, and, glancing up towards the sun, you determine that the caravan would arrive just after nightfall.

Silhainlé’s left ear perks up quizzically. “Orders, sir?”

Rhona Mór

Another day in Belencrest, another day at Finnic’s pub.

The twins, Vinia and Anja, have developed an infatuation for you, and have taken it upon themselves to make Finnic’s a comfortable place as possible for you. Repurposing crude doll furniture, they have constructed a small, private booth for you that their father, Orvil, has allowed them to set at the end of the bar counter. The booth is comprised of a small round table with a table cloth made from a handkerchief, a small glass vial filled with a pinch of wildflowers as a center piece, and a small chair upholstered with felt and down. Orvil, seeing how much you delight his daughters, has had the local blacksmith create a unique funnel that becomes narrow enough to perfectly pour drinks into a small, dimpled thimble, just for you.

The sun has just begun to slip underneath the horizon as the twins traverse the bar to light candles, when a woman with green-gold eyes and olive skin pulls up a stool next to your corner, ordering an ale with a gesture to Orvil.

“’Ere y’ are, Reau. Good t’ see you,” the brew master says, sliding over a fresh draught.

The woman known as Reau Belleno nods in thanks, and looks down at you. “Hey there, little pixy,” she says breezily. “Shall we drink together for a moment? My treat.”

She reaches into her coat pocket with a slender hand, then plinks onto the counter right beside you a small stack of coppers… As well as a tiny roll of paper, tightly wound into tube about the length of your arm, bound with twine.

“I have a favor to ask you,” she says in a quiet voice. “Just a little hush-hush errand.” She casually looks over her shoulder before turning back to you. “I need you to find Djonn and make sure he gets this message. He should be arriving at the Cossler’s any minute now, so if you hurry, you might catch up to them before midnight.” She takes a deep pull of her ale and wipes her mouth with her sleeve. “I’m asking you because you can slip out of here without being noticed and speed is of the essence. Do this thing for me and I’ll buy you a bottle of Montesillard brandy big enough to raise a family in.”

I knew it. Djonn wants me to suffer. Adele removed the totem mask from her face for the umpteenth time, one arm curled around her middle as she tried to keep her stomach from turning inside out. The rattling movement of the carriage on top of having her vision zoomed in and out at will was the perfect recipe for nausea. While she figured a master of such a device could ultimately learn to use it while moving, she was far from such a goal. If she tried to use her cannon without some ample practice, her trajectory would be so off-put that the group would probably wonder if she’d ever used her cannon before. So what gives, Djonn? Why me? Even if you didn’t want to play lookout, you could have given this to someone else. Y’know, someone you’ve known longer and trust more? Adele put the mask back on and gazed in the old man’s direction, squinting her eyes to zoom in on his face. Surely, the totem must have psychic properties to affect her vision so. Or perhaps the eyes had special lenses that reacted to the subtle tension of her face? The carriage hit a pothole, and she promptly forgot anything about the totem’s properties. “You alright?” The driver glanced at her, more fearful than concerned. “Mr. Hemming isn’t going to forgive me if you—” Adele held up a finger, her other hand occupied with covering her mouth. She waited a moment for the rolling motion in the pit of her stomach to stop before speaking. “Don’t worry. If something happens, Djonn will be fully responsible. If that’s not in the contract, I’ll write it in.” “Eh… maybe you ought to take a break, then? Whatever you’re doing looks awfully… awful.” “Thank you for noticing, Sir Obvious.” Adele shot the man a glare, deciding to take out her frustration on him. “In case you haven’t noticed, I have the best vantage point in this miserable caravan, so I’m more responsible than most for keeping vigil. If something sneaks through while I have this masochistic vision totem, I’ll never hear the end of it.” She couldn’t tell if the man’s face was amused or annoyed—it was a very strange mix of the two on his crinkled face. “Just give it a break for a few minutes. I don’t want to have to deal with vomit on the driver’s seat.” For the sake of her light lunch, she did take a break. She listened to him go on and on about his various clientele, namely some popular vocalist by the name of Tristana Dent. The best part was that she didn’t even have to feign interest because it was her job to continually glance away to watch the roadside. At length, she finally gave him a jibe about never having given a ride to an esteemed engineer—namely the one responsible for creating the carriage he so liked to brag about. “His name is Victor Greaves, by the way.” Adele gave the driver a smug smirk. “He worked with a team of scientists who put the first electric crystals to use—in Bossart, that is. I got to attend a seminar on totem powered machinery by him when I attended the academy. After his lecture, I got to shake his hand, and he personally signed my copy of his textbook.” After that little quip, the driver didn’t talk much. She was more or less left alone with her thoughts, and she eventually came to regret that. While she was used to getting upset and going off as she pleased, losing composure as she had in front of Rook was new. She still couldn’t shake off the embarrassment he’d given her just before they left. With a real task in guarding the most targetable object in the caravan, she’d been eager to go off to her post, only to realize she wasn’t ready. There’d been no time or privacy to get her shoes and stockings on, so she’d been caught leaning haphazardly against the carriage while trying to shove them on. “Did you want me to put those on for you? Not that seeing you hop like that isn’t fun, of course.” Ugh, that pervert! I’ll get him for that! Adele glared down at the carriage’s passenger compartment, knowing full well that Rook was in there. He probably wasn’t having issues holding his pride or his stomach down, either.

Marcel had begun to grow tired- comfortable, even, now that he was sat atop one of the covered wagons instead of walking alongside it, in addition to having a somewhat more peaceful mind from Hemming joining him. His eyelids had just begun to grow heavy when Bhirit loudly cleared her throat- Marcel chuckled seeing Hemming's reaction. The former blacksmith mused around the thought of how Hemming would react to some of the habits his father had. Gaivus didn't seem to notice Marcel's mirth, and eventually he ducked back into the wagon bed with surprising grace and Marcel was quick to join him, sitting on the opposite side, his left shield-bearing arm resting on a knee to help support its growing weight. “If we’re to be wagon-mates for the remainder of the day, we should get to know each other a little better, no? Did you grow up in Belencrest? What about a family? A wife, perhaps?" Something made Marcel hesitate to answer. He was never a fan of talking for the sake of filling a void of silence but Gaivus had a point; something still seemed off, though. There was an air of un-caring surrounding the questions that was amplified by the merchant's sly smile- the wry grin only businessmen seemed to have. "Indeed I did grow up in Belencrest, worked there as a smith for a long time before joining the Guard," He skipped over his time spent in the City Guard, but from his experience there wasn't a huge difference in duties between the two, until now, anyway. "Father owned the smith I worked at- never knew my mother. The rest of my family in Belencrest aren't exactly.. people people, if you know what I mean." He glanced from Gaivus to the diligently working Gisele and caught her eyes again, as he had before. It suddenly clicked- Gaivus' smile, his questions, Gisele's repeated glances- Marcel used his good hand to scratch his beard, it was all he could do to keep his face from flushing. "Uh, no. No wife." Marcel and Gisele were sure to be speaking when they reached Cossler's. "What about you two?" He aimed the question at both of them, though Marcel honestly couldn't give a damn about Gaivus at this point. Marcel's fiddling with the shield straps were interspersed with similar glances at Gisele.

"Woah," Rook said quietly to himself as he stepped into the carriage. He wiggled his toes in his slippers, enjoying the soft sensation of the carpet. His feet and lower legs felt bare without his boots, but this was undoubtedly nice. Tinkering around with the carriage, Rook discovered the heating totem built into the counter top. So Gaivus can boil tea in here? he thought to himself, leaning forward to examine the totem. He could feel the heat on his face. Upon further examination of the carriage he found the jar of tea leaves -- so tea indeed -- and -- aha! -- the alcohol. Much to his disappointment, Rook learned that they were all sealed shut. He wasn't about to risk stealing from his employer if it was that easy to get caught. Take a little sip here and there, who will notice? But uncork a sealed bottle of wine... bad idea. Resigning himself to this fate, Rook began to sat back down when he saw the opened envelopes. Addressed to Gaivus Hemming... obviously. Who else? he mused. Curiosity nagged at him. The letters were already open, seals broken, so taking a peek should be easy without getting caught. Looking around, Rook gave the interior of the carriage another thorough inspection, but found nothing that... well, what was he really looking for? He found nothing suspicious either way. Taking a deep breath, Rook used his nimble fingers to lift the outermost envelope without disturbing the others. He'd already memorized its position so that he could place it back without Gaivus ever being able to tell the difference. Sliding out the letter and folding it open, Rook began to read.

"Yeah, and the man looks to him and says, that's no lion... it's a giraffe." One of the greener men of the company said, finishing his joke. He sat in utter silence as the men around his table drunk from their mugs simulataneously to hide their disappointment. Rodrick, a stout dwarf with a stereotypical, braided, red beard leaned in at the table and looked the boy dead in the eye, "I dun' get it," he said. Rhona sat on one of the men's shoulders, a tall elven fellow with a totally butchered name. She kicked her legs and cleared her throat, "A'ight, I got one - so, a roast duck walks into a tavern.... the barkeep turns to him and says-" "Yeah, we don't serve food here," the elf rolled his eyes, cutting her off. She leant over and pulled on his knife-ear, "No need to be fuckin' rude." "Ow, ow! Stop it!" Rhona smirked, "Nah, I don't think I will." That moment the door opened, a tall young man pushed open the door to the pub. He looked more knightly than the usual rabble that the White Guard usually kept in the pub. He beckoned to the group sitting around the table, "Come on, you drunks. You have the night patrol." Rhona let go of the elf's ears and pushed off of him, falling down towards the table before catching herself with her wings and making a last-second reversal. She hovered in the air and saluted sarcastically as the boys grumbled and made their way to the door. The knightly boy's eye twitched as he glanced at Rhona before leaving. Once they were gone, Rhona sighed, "Geez, what a pain. Orvil! Fetch me an ale, would y'?" "Aye," the barkeep nodded, setting out Rhona's thimble on her booth and filling it with her funnel, "'ere y' are." Rhona fluttered over to the bar and dropped down on the the bar, running to catch up with her flying speed, "Right, thank y'." She said, pulling the chair back and grabbing the thimble in her other hand. She leaned back in her chair as she downed the drink. "Ahhh~ ehe..." she smiled and let gravity pull her and the chair back up to the table. She slammed the thimble down on the booth and held it up, "Another, eh?" "Aye, aye," he chuckled, pouring her another thimble-full of ale. His eyes dotted up towards the door, watching Reau walk across the floor of the pub before she settled in beside Rhona's booth and ordering an ale with a gesture to Orvil. “’Ere y’ are, Reau. Good t’ see you,” the brew master says, sliding over a fresh draught. Reau Belleno nodded in thanks and looked down at Rhona. “Hey there, little pixy,” she said breezily. “Shall we drink together for a moment? My treat.” Rhona giggled, "Alright, as long as y'er buyin'." She smiled and picked up her thimble and rocked back and forth on her chair, "So, what's up, boss?" Reau reached into her coat pocket with a slender hand, then plinked a small stack of coppers onto the counter beside Rhona. As well as a tiny roll of paper, that was tightly wound into a tube about the length of Rhona's arm, bound with twine. “I have a favor to ask you,” she said in a quiet voice. “Just a little hush-hush errand." Rhona set the chair down on all fours and leaned in over her booth, "Y'?" "I need you to find Djonn and make sure he gets this message. He should be arriving at the Cossler’s any minute now, so if you hurry, you might catch up to them before midnight.” She takes a deep pull of her ale and wipes her mouth with her sleeve. “I’m asking you because you can slip out of here without being noticed and speed is of the essence. Do this thing for me and I’ll buy you a bottle of Montesillard brandy big enough to raise a family in.” Rhona whistles at the mention of Brandy, "Wow... alright, I'll get your love letter to Djonn." She smirks and looks around, waving to Orvil who walks over to the booth. Rhona unstraps and holds out a relatively large, empty glass vial, "Fill me up, I got some rounds to make." Orvil nodded and filled the vial with his brew. Rhona took it and fastened it to her belt alongside her various poisons. She picked up the roll of paper and hovered just above the surface of the counter, "Alrighty, and just so we're clear- I don't actually have to raise a family after I finish that bottle, right?" She smiled and fluttered off through a small hole in the rafters. Above the roof of the tavern she looked around, "Alright... the Cossler's is... this way right?" She flew over the road as dusk began to fall - and at no great speed - but a steady pace. The sun set quicker than she anticipated; now she was fluttering in darkness.

Djonn was impressed. He had honestly expected disaster at any moment, but the sinking dread had by and large receded into the regimented boredom of the long march. He remained vigilant but the edge had certainly been taken off his mind. Nonetheless he jogged to and fro in the formation trying to make sure things were running smoothly. Adele wasn't having an easy time with Lydia's totem, that much he could tell from her pained expression and grasping of her torso. He snickered a bit, as he trotted passed Hemming's carriage he offered her some words of assurance. "You're doing fine Lass just take deep breaths and limit how long you keep it on to only short spats, you don't have the stomach yet for keeping it on any longer while moving. Just take things easily and take heart knowing that the first time I put on her mask I actually lost my lunch!" he left her at that and made his way towards the front of the column where he was greeted by Silhainlé the Lessir. By the rabbit-man's report they were only an hour's march from the Cossler estate. He glanced at the sky and figured they'd get there just as night fell. Perfect, he thought. He seemed a bit winded. Djonn tugged at his beard more in habit than actual contemplation, "That's excellent to hear Silhainlé. We'll be at the Cossler Estate soon so refresh yourself, catch your breath, and then make your way down the path and inform them of our imminent arrival."

Marcel

"What about you two?"

The all too pleased look on Gaivus's face strains for just a moment. "Not I," he replies, shaking his head, eyes appearing distant for just a moment when the cloud passes. He nods towards Gisele, his smile returning to his face. "Not yet anyhow. And neither has miss Margot here."

Gisele's blue eyes blaze at Gaivus as her grip tightens around her writing quill, and, for a moment, it looks as if she might just lunge forward and stab him with it. "If it's quite alright, gentlemen," she says heatedly, "I would much rather prefer to continue my work without being forced to listen to you idly dither on." Fuming, she returns to her papers, roughly sorting the parchments as Gaivus offers his best attempt at appearing cowed---though he looks far closer to bursting into laughter.

The palpable conflicting energies within the wagon---the thick, protracted silence from Gisele and the infuriatingly jocular emanations from Gaivus---threaten to ignite in an explosive cataclysm like the clash of cold and warm fronts before a storm. But the moment passes and the threat dissipates. Gisele's tight face softens and her breathing returns to normal. Without lifting her eyes from her work, barely audible above the sounds of the creaking wagon, Gisele quietly replies: "But to answer your question, Marcel, no. I am not married."

Rook

You gently slide the envelope out from behind the tea jar with a deft hand... When the carriage rocks hard as a wheel slams into a deep pot hole. Though you manage to hold your balance, you hear a thud reverberate through the ceiling and see the contents of the cabinet pitch forward. You reflexively extend your hand and catch the jar of tea just before it crashes to the floor. Above you, a string muffled epithets furiously stream through the ceiling in what sounds like one of Adele's now familiar diatribes.

At least this time it's not at directed at you.

Turning your eyes back inside the cabinet, you find everything in disarray. The envelopes have hopelessly scattered. Several of the bottles have fallen over, and to your recollection the labels for those that remain standing are facing in different directions. You recognize that, at this point, virtually any amount of tampering could be blamed on the rough road without fear of suspicion. You replace the jar and collect the envelopes.

The first letter is written in a lovely script with scented ink on paper blue as a robin's egg.

My Dear Gaivus,
I find myself in an uncomfortable position as I come to write this letter in response to your previous correspondence. However, as you have requested, I will answer in accordance with the desires of my heart and the demands of my conscience in this matter.

Over the months, I must admit I have enjoyed great pleasure from our dalliances, public and otherwise, and while I assure you my intimations towards you were nothing but genuine, I must nevertheless dutifully decline your proposal. Certainly you are not without your qualities, but the mere allure of your particular charms must not and will not determine my course. I must consider foremost the responsibilities and affairs of my station. As it happens, I have been made aware of the nature of your estate, your ventures, your debts. Simply I cannot entertain the notion of joining our houses. To do so would be foolish and irresponsible.

I regret if the bluntness of my tongue wounds you, but as you know I have never been one to prevaricate when the circumstances are so plain before my eyes.

With all respect,
- Rosalie Chastaine

The second letter is quite plain in comparison, with neat and unembellished handwriting.

Hemming,
Just received your letter. Lovely to hear some good news for a change. Keep me informed of your progress. Would be grateful to hear from you as soon as you arrive in Paolou so my fraying nerves may be at ease. This contract has the potential to change both of our fortunes, my friend. In either, mind you.

As for the other matter, use your best judgment, but be careful not to underestimate her.

I trust you'll keep everything in order.
- Victor Greaves

The final letter is written on paper much like the second, with careful, precise script.

Mr. Hemming,
Your refusal to offer any help to me thus far in this affair is regrettable. I hope you find reason and change your mind, and quickly.

This will be the last letter you receive from me.
- S.D.

The sun dips below the horizon, forfeiting its celestial throne to the gods of the night. Out here, away from the city lights of Belencrest, the clear night sky is brilliant in resplendent luminance. Stars prick through the darkness by the thousand-thousands in an eternal, glittering swirl; the twin moons, Eselle and Raan, like two silver pools, cast a soft gauze of pearly light upon the earth below. The most dazzling sight of all is perhaps the yellow planet Caprisa, a golden orb with glittering emerald rings that looms in the sky every few decades before retreating back into the ink black infinite.

Some of the Cossleton townsfolk are milling about as you pass through, regarding you mostly with looks of concern or apprehension. With the Western Way only a few miles to the north, these people are clearly unaccustomed to their town being used as a thoroughfare. Along the way, a man in simple, ivory robes looks at the horseless carriage with disdain marking his face. From his garments you recognize he must belong to the Alnocce, a philosophical order who decry the study and use of totems, seeing it as an affront to the gods and the natural order. However, despite the occasional sour look, you pass through Cossleton without any incident.

The main road leads out of town, veering into the countryside. Pockets of tree thickets sparsely populate the sprawling fields of short grass that seem to shimmer with dappled silver. Before long, you arrive at an open, iron-wrought gate. You pass through, traveling along the winding, moonlit path, when you notice in the distance a great mansion silhouetted against the night sky. It seems quite odd amidst this pastoral setting: this impressive structure stands five stories tall, with its decorative exterior pilasters, corbeled windows, ornate parapets and thin chimneys set atop the gabled roof and stretching into the sky like the spines of a black crown.

The caravan slowly settles as the pathway loops in front of the mansion into a gravel roundabout. Though some sconced torches offer some illumination to the estate grounds, most of the windows appear to be absent of any light at all. The caravan comes to a full stop, and for the moment you wait in the night and the silence. "There was a footman here earlier," offers Silhaine, his voice sounding a bit uneasy. "He said to take the caravan here in the front, but I don't see him anywhere."

At that moment, a loud clack rings out from the estate as the front door swings open. A figure emerges from the darkness within, out into the silver twilight intermixed with the dull flickering orange of flames, glinting dimly on a blackened, inhuman faceplate. A voice like grinding slabs of granite booms out across the courtyard. "Welcome to the Cossler estate."

Through the dark windows you notice the curtains begin to sway with movement as shadows shift from within. The window panes shatter in showers of tinkling glass, revealing the tips of crossbows glinting in the black. "Djonn... The quarrels... They're totems," Zacharias whispers to you amidst the chorus of crashing glass. "Stay where you are, all of you. If you are armed," the stone voice continues, "we ask that you remove your weapons at once." Around either corner of the mansion emerge several more dark figures, dim light playing upon cruel blades. "We have several hostages within. Including the nobles. Cosslers. A Baelin." The guards and workers around you begin to fidget uneasily.

"I will make this very simple for you. There will be no negotiation. All we want is Hemming." From behind the speaker, a creature appears wearing a grotesque helm of orange tinted glass, bulbous and protruding, twisting and warping its wearer's face into something monstrous and inhuman. It clutches at the speakers arms, pointing a crooked claw towards the caravan, singling out a few individuals... And you.

The speaker nods but otherwise pays it no mind. "Hand him over to us, and there shall be no violence. We will depart at once. Deny us this one, simple request, and all will die."

Rhona Mór

You've been making good time. The cool breeze has remained fortuitously gentle. You have not once been forced to struggle against any headwinds. Just a few minutes ago, you had passed by a sign indicating that the Oáfel lake was nearby. At this rate, you should arrive at the Cossler place in just under half an hour. You continue to flit along the road when a uneasy feeling overtakes you.

Instinctually, you dart sharply to the right just as a screeching blur swoops past you, missing you by mere inches.

The air flutters with the heavy rustle of feathers as you discover two slate-gray owls circling above you. Bulbous, golden eyes rolling madly in their sockets; large brow feathers, arched like devil's horns; beaks and talons curved and vicious. Adrenaline floods your system as the oddness of owls hunting together only briefly crossing your mind when the owls swoop again for another attack.