Faruq’s words were ones of wisdom, but his addition of “sneak-thief”, again, it hurt Finch still. As though admission of what he is was a great shame to him. He nodded to him in acknowledgement but said nothing more; but as he began walking again, a pang of guilt and frustration overcame Finch as Fiona said her piece. It dug into him like a knife. He wanted so badly to yell back – she didn’t know him or what he had to go through, Finch did what he had to do to stay alive and suddenly his life was the payment of the job given to them! As impressive as Fiona was when she punched Nolan out in the first place, she should have left well enough alone. Those ladies weren’t in any danger, and they should’ve fended for themselves anyway and watch their own back! That’s the way life worked!

But as the young man whipped around, no sound came out – nothing that could carry through the sudden appearance and exuberance of the guard. They had them all surrounded, swords raised, and one woman had their crossbow trained on one of them. This was not the first time he found himself in this situation – the first was Meir Thorvale.

[i]‘I feel like I’m losing my touch.’[/i]

As the guards circled them, Finch looked at the bottle of Firebrand wine in hand and back at the guardsmen, mustering as innocent a look as he could.

[color=crimson]“Now, before you get the wrong idea, I bought and payed for this.”[/color] Finch lied. The vagabond looked himself up and down, covered in rags. [color=crimson]“Alcoholism. Oblivion take me, right?”[/color]

“Shut up.” Said the woman with the crossbow.

[color=crimson]“Aye, ma’am.”[/color]

It seemed though, as quickly as the guard had them numbered, another fiasco was taking place elsewhere. A scout came to report to the captain indoors of arrows and lit guard towers, hooves – centaurs. Finch muttered a swear under his breath. Their luck couldn’t get any worse, could it? Promised an opportunity out of one disaster and into another, they would pit this ragtag band of failures against a barbaric band of wild not-men where battle is ingrained into their very [i]culture.[/i] Finch groaned as he tried to find a place to hide.

The centaurs were running straight towards them. The first came to strike Fiona, who blocked the first blow, and as it came around, dealt the death blow into its abdomen – she might’ve been a killer, but at least that was helping them out now. It was easier to digest considering that these weren’t men. The second came, and the mage set it ablaze with a simple fireball, causing it to flee in panic. The third came with a bow – aimed at one of the barmaids. He feared it was the end for the poor woman – but in the knick of time, Fiona took the shot for her. Finch’s eyes widened in shock as one of their own took what may have been a mortal wound – the placement of the arrow... it was either in her stomach, where the leakage would digest the rest of her insides, or she’d be unable to breathe.

Gaela was at her side, though. Thank the Nine for Gaela.

Gods, why? Why, why why! Fiona, so selfless, so [i]stupid![/i] Why was there this [i]consistent[/i] pattern of putting herself in harm’s way? Was it a delusion of heroism? Because that’s what got his father, and every hero before and after him.[i] Heroes don’t get happy endings.[/i] Period! But even with all of that stupid redhead’s flaws – you know, murder notwithstanding – she was something admirable, had a way of inspiring, even without words. Finch growled to himself in frustration, fighting that urge to act upon the opportunity Fiona had given them.

Finch slung his crossbow over his shoulder and drove the head end into the ground as he pumped the crank on the side of the crossbow, driving the string back and loading a bolt onto the rail. Panic was flooding his mind and he picked it back up and tried to aim at the retreating centaur bowman. His hands felt shaky. [i]‘Why am I doing this?’[/i]

A pull of the trigger, and the bolt whizzed through the air. While originally aimed at the base of the centaur’s back, it veered way off course as a result from Finch’s “expertise” and instead dug deep into the back of the centaur’s right shoulder.

[color=crimson]“Blasted...”[/color] Finch muttered as he hurriedly started cranking the next round, anticipating another centaur to start coming through again. Well, there was one bright side: hopefully that centaur wouldn’t come back with a bow again. He desperately hoped that bolt hit some kind of nerve cluster or ligament or tendon – something – that would keep that thing’s arm from moving ever again. He looked over at the scene where Fiona was injured, and where Gaela would begin mending her newest wound. He rolled his eyes and sighed. He would probably regret this, but whatever. That girl looked like she needed a really strong drink.

While, hopefully, Faruq could cover their collective asses - if his stories held any credence.

Picking up the bottle he had set down just before firing the shot, he hurried over to the pair before the next centaur could get a drop on them. He was entirely expecting another dirty look from the warrior woman, but it wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen before. He’d survive a couple scorns. The look in his eyes, on the other hand, was a mix of something dry and annoyed – a hint of panic, as again, all that had resembled normalcy was falling apart around them, as though some agent of Mehrunes Dagon was following their every step. After a brief pause, between looking at the warrior and the healer beside him - whom he greeted with a curt and awkward smile, he stuck the strong wine forward to Fiona as an offer.

[color=crimson]“I took this bottle so that when we got to Camlorn, I could use it as a way to get into the castle, or as an offering to the king.”[/color] Finch admitted to her. He hoped she would at least catch the subtext of it not being done in greed. He didn’t want to talk to her too much, lest she got tired of his excuses. He shook the bottle in front of her, hoping that at least the novelty of the drink and the idea of numbing the pain and whatever phantom pain that came after the healing - or, damn it all, dealing with the fact that there was an [i]arrow[/i] buried in her gut - would entice her. [color=crimson]“...Have it. We're probably dead anyway.”[/color]