It began to rain.

Something smelled like rancid cheese. It had followed them over the roads and through the mountains, but it didn't betray what it was until Fenks fell over dead; his back splitting open to reveal bits of his rib cage. It took the watchmen an hour to fully remove him and leave his body along the roadside, and once the task was done they were placed back in the wagon. The plague had found another victim, but it did leave good news for the occupants in the cart. If they had the disease, they would have shown signs by now. Fenks had hid it behind his grey shirt. It seems the Gods looked down on them with some last vestigial mercy before they turned their backs upon the exiled few.

The rain fell harder. It drowned out the grunts of the mounted men who escorted them, the men having to yell at one another to communicate in any fashion. The ten that escorted the wagon on foot clutched their halberds, facing forward grimly when they weren't glancing into the gaps of the prison cart with disdain. Water dripped off their kettle helms and unshaven chins, seeping into their surcoats and boots. The prisoners had the luxury of the wagon roof, but they were only clad in unassuming grey garments. Any droplets that fell in likely touched either thin fabric or flesh.

It had been rough going even sitting on their asses. The mountain passes were fraught with rocks and steep inclines, causing them to all but fly around the cramped cart. Their food was soggy and old, and their piss breaks could only be described as 'infrequent.' It was lucky they now saw the walls of rock that had framed their wagon the last two days were now dispersing to copses of trees and even a glimpse at the sky. Unfortunately, the mountains were not finished with them. The foothills were as unwelcoming as their larger cousins, bucking their wagon. One horse even broke a leg the day before, having to be put down swiftly and its rider made to walk.

The six of them in their wagon were surrounded by thirty men-at-arms. All career soldiers, given leave by their Lord to take the exiles as far south as the Blood Coast. They carried themselves as killers, their crossbows were held like old friends. When their liege had offered them double pay for the week, they had all agreed. It seemed a strange investment to send these souls southward when they could just be killed, but the logic was sound. Raddek had overheard the magistrate explain the night before their departure. It bypassed whatever scandal might occur for any who would be missed, it would grant their soldiers some extra pay rather than grant them any scarce available land for service rewards, and if any of the six survived and found enough money to pay for their ransom, it was all worth it in the end.

The squeaking of the wagon wheels stopped, and the six of them shifted forward for the briefest of moments. They could barely see past the rain and the horses outside the wagon. Shouts rose and the beasts whinnied, moments turning to a full minute as the rain simply continued to fall. Slowly the back door was unlatched, and it creaked open before the six. Mud streaked rocks and hard ground greeted them, and a coarse voice ordered them to stand up and step out of the wagon. Three men stepped into view, their crossbows loaded and raised. There was no negotiation, and when the prisoners left the roof of the wagon, they felt the cold touch of the storm's torrent on their skin.

Two men closed the door behind them; a stark difference than every other 'break' they had experienced. They could see the barbed tips of twenty quarrels pointed their way, all from the mounted men. Ten halberds lowered; ready to skewer them at a moment's notice. There was something menacing about the steel forged head of the weapons, dripping in the rain. Out of the ranks rode the Commander, recognizable only by his thick mustache and hard eyes. His stallion neighed and stamped upon the ground as he reined the beast in, keeping it from bowling over the prisoners.

Without a word, he produced a steel circle with seven keys in its ring and tossed it into the mud at their feet. The keys to their shackles. The voice of his sergeant rose behind him, telling the men to reform and move out. The creak of the wagon departed, the structure reared around the small clearing they found themselves standing upon. The last real plateau of the mountains before the lowlands and trees swallowed them all up.

With a sneer, the Commander turned his horse. It was then they noticed the entire contingent had already disappeared into the mist, their squadron leader now following suit, fading into the distance. Like a dream the soldiers and wagon disappeared into the nothingness. Like waking from the dream, the rain began to dissipate. The clouds wrath having been sated and uncovering a glimpse of the sun, though it remained elusive for the current moment.

Now the six were alone, with seven keys and the north closed off.

The Bloodcoast awaited.

The rain was a blessing from the gods.

After a week of sitting in nearly complete silence with seven strangers, only speaking when he murmured his morning and nightly prayers, the rain offered a change of pace. The only other interesting thing had been the horse breaking its leg yesterday, and that had been over and done within minutes. The rain at least offered something to distract him from the fact that his ass hurt from being in the same position for nearly days on end and to wash away the disgusting smell that had steadily grown stronger. He had already identified the trees and plants he could see around him, and what wildlife or monsters could live within them. He had already exhausted himself planning out how he would ambush this caravan with his fellow Horizon Guardsmen. There was only so many times you could identify the same tree and what would live in it, the same plants and how they could be used, or picture the commander's face and stupid mustache being pierced by a crossbow bolt.

The smell seemed to power through the rain, much to Faeril's annoyance, getting worse and worse until Fenks dropped over dead. The plague killed another. Faeril carefully moved as far away from the body as he could, waiting to be let out of the cage. No sudden movements to make their captors twitchy, but he wasn't going to be near a plague victim either, regardless of his own luck in not catching it.

Fenks hadn't seemed like he'd had long left in this world anyways, and Faeril cared more for the fact that it gave them an opportunity to step out into the rain that was falling. Faeril closed his eyes and quietly lifted his head to the sky as the blessings of the gods fell upon him. It felt good to have something wash away the filth he had accumulated. Opening his eyes and watching as they struggled to remove the corpse, he wordlessly muttered a prayer to Gaerim for Fenks' soul. He hadn't known the man, but Fenks hadn't wronged him either. That was worthy enough of a prayer for a quiet death and a happy afterlife.

All too soon they were put back into the cart, just as the rain began to fall down harder. His fingers tightened into fists and slowly relaxed as the guards shoved him into the wagon. He forced his fury at the treatment down. There wasn't anything he could do but bear their disdainful looks, unnecessary roughness, and insults. His pride was wounded, but it wasn't worth dying over. Still, he couldn't help but think how they wouldn't dare do such if he was armed and ready. They wouldn't have dared do such to a Skywatcher, these swine, much less a Horizon Guardsman. Faeril's eyebrows came down into an even deeper scowl as his back ached. He wasn't a Skywatcher anymore, or a Horizon Guardsman. He was nothing, betrayed by his family and kin.

Faeril cracked a grim smile, the first since he had been sentenced to exile by his own family a month ago, at the discomfort of the guardsmen. Let them suffer through the mud and the rain. Gaundet would reward those who did their duty without complaint and punish those who shirked their duty or whined. Such was the way of the gods.

As their scenery turned from stone to trees again and their ride became even bumpier (a punishment for his already aching ass), Faeril turned his attention back to his living companions once more. They were mostly unremarkable, but they were what he had to work with. Only two of them were certainly worth anything, the quiet human and the burrahob. Those two seemed like they had gotten their hands dirty before, and could be trusted to do it again as necessary. Not fully trusted though. Dirty hands just as easily stabbed their allies as they did their foes. The giant of a man and the one with a noble bearing had potential, but the could have also just easily been victims of regime purges. Perhaps they lacked the steel to do whatever is necessary. Hopefully they did not. Still, even the cowardly could stab their friends in the back. The woman was almost certainly useless. Faeril wished it had been her instead of Fenks who had died, but the ways of the gods were mysterious. He would have to make do. Maybe he would get lucky, and she would fall over dead just as Fenks had.

He was not so lucky and the wagon began to slow to a halt once more. Faeril waited patiently as the seconds went by, standing as they were ordered out. Finally they were going to be freed from this damned cart and let out into their exile. Or, a quiet voice whispered in the back of his mind, they were going to be executed here and there. Hidden from even the view of Magni and far from any repercussions that their deaths may bring. Faeril found himself tensing in preparation for the familiar crack of crossbows being fired. If he was to die this day, he would not go without at least one of his captors.

His mental prayers to Woegrim to grant him the strength to enact his vengeance on his captors were interrupted as the commander road up and threw the keys to their freedom on the ground. Faeril could hardly believe it. They were all gone. They were actually just going to let them go into their exile. The gods had finally decided to smile upon him again after the harsh injustice he had received at the hands of his so called family and comrades.

Faeril waited until the sneering man was fading into the mist before moving. He spat in the direction of the convoy and crouched down to pick up the keys. As he unlocked himself, he muttered prayers of thanks to Magni and his patron, Gaundet. They hadn't turned their backs on him. Freeing himself from his shackles, Faeril handed the keys to the next person and stood for a moment. He silently took it all in and stretched his arms above his shoulders for the first time in what felt like years. A weight was off of him, both physically and mentally. The past was behind him, and even though he could still feel its claws in his back, he could fully focus on his future.

Turning towards his fellow prisoners, Faeril spoke. "Now that we can talk, my name is Faeril Skywatcher of-" He paused, instinctually bringing his right hand to him and rubbing the top of it. "Well, that doesn't matter anymore. What shall I call all of you, now that we are free?" As he waited for a reply, he kept his eyes moving on the area around them. He didn't want to survive all this only to be killed by bandits or local wildlife. He would have to remember to pray to Boernegar for protection from wild animals. Maybe a sacrifice, if he could find something suitable.

On day one, Lorcan had been full of hope that a journey in a wagon was not the worst thing that could happen to him. He had seen the clouds, the many mounted soldiers with no roof over their heads to protect them from anything. He had also seen the road and that it probably would turn more rough at some point, had thought that they were the lucky ones who did not have to carry their own weight for the next few days.

On day two, Lorcan's neck muscles had started to ache. All the effort of trying not to bang his head against some part of the wagon's ceiling or side walls with every bump on the road had been taking its toll already. Luckily his hair was a big, fuzzy mess that could act as some sort of shock absorber.

Somewhen over the course of day three Lorcan's guts had started to protest against the food that could hardly be called such. Maybe it had been the better decision than to try and fully process it, even if the infrequent breaks had made it difficult to hold things back quite literally.

Had it been day four or five when Fenks had died ? The plus point: There now was more room, less of the nasty smell and the certainty that none of those remaining was infected. On the other hand however it still was one person who had died a painful death and while maybe some of the others didn't care, Lorcan did. And with that kind of revelation the wagon had started to feel just that tiny little bit more dirty.

Also, Lorcan would have preferred the wagon breaking a wheel than one of the horses breaking a leg. He was in no way claustrophobic, but being practically immobilized for days had felt like a very bad thing for the athletic Skayleigh. Getting out of that wagon would have taken away some of his worries, but such a change of things had been nowhere in sight. The foothills had punished his already pretty beaten head just like the mountain roads, but not harder than those either. So there had been no hope for the material breaking down then after so much survival.

And yet, after all that hardship, the way their guards just left them behind still managed to baffle him quite a bit. Weren't those iron shackles worth anything or why did they just leave them and the keys behind ? Maybe a quite tiny oddity to wonder about given his overall situation right now, but still...

The person Faeril passed the keys on to was him and greedily the half-giant rammed the keys in the crude lock. Ironically, now that the clamps had been pressing on his skin for so long, removing them actually hurt as blood was pouring back into layers of flesh that had been in lack of it for days. Lorcan looked down on himself, gently pulling back the sleeves to check whether any kind of infection had formed beneath the iron. Nothing! Maybe the only good thing this day for otherwise their situation could be considered rather bleak.

Having handed the key over to the one standing next to him, Lorcan kneeled to pick up his still warm shackles from the ground again. The thought of keeping those felt odd, but on the other hand it somehow felt satisfying and good for his sense of security to have something in his hand. Maybe that iron could send some sparks flying to start a fire ? Or maybe they could be used to beat a small animal to death for food ? Lorcan did not know, but his grip around his shackles only hardened. If they should prove to be useless ballast he could still throw them away at any time.

"Lorcan. Just Lorcan." It would be easy for anyone to notice that the Skayleigh was speaking with a bit of a weird accent. The Caelic isles were a bit of a region of their own and he could not hide that easily. "I do not have any other name."

The rain here tasted different.

It had been 57 days since Valdym's treachery. Reyvadin wondered when he'd finally stop keeping track of the days, but so far he hasn't. If anything ever since he had fled from his homelands, keeping track of the days has been what helped Reyvadin from giving into his despair, becoming some drunkard or a corpse in the middle of nowhere. Reyvadin needed to keep all of his wits about himself less his dark desires or worse, Valdym's men, would eventually find him. With the help of the Ransom Broker Reyvadin had made many deals with in the past, he was able to secure a quick passage to the south, knowing that he would soon be released once they reached their destination. It wasn't great: If Reyvadin had detected the treachery faster, if he was able to be at his family's side when Valdym put them to the sword, maybe then Reyvadin could've mustered up the forces to retake his family's city and defend their honor. But alas, he was too late to do any of that. Now the best he can do is outrun the lies, to get somewhere where the Vaegir name isn't known and thus unaffected by the slander Valdym had already convinced everyone else of.

Despite his noble birth Reyvadin never found much discomfort during the long and silent ride. When he was a squire he was taught how to handle the rigors of imprisonment: unlike the common soldiers who could expect, at best, a merciful death should they be defeated, Reyvadin was of noble birth and thus he would likely be captured for ransom. He would then need to be conditioned to handle life in a dungeon or in shackles like a common criminal. Granted this part of Reyvadin training he never liked very much, but he does not regret learning it, especially now. He knew the conditions would be poor, the food would be worse, and unlike the stories any attempts to chat up or snark at the guards was more likely going to end with Reyvadin missing fingers and breaking bones than making friends, so he kept himself quiet and didn't struggle during his journey.

To ensure his wrist weren't rubbed raw from the manacles Reyvadin made sure to hold his hands to his chest, so that the manacles wouldn't rest against only one spot on his arms. When fed, he resisted the urge to simply eat his food all at once and made sure to portion them out carefully. Eating too quickly would result in an equally quick need to relieve one self and Reyvadin could count the amount of piss breaks they took with one hand. Though Reyvadin did have the misfortune of sitting next to Fenks when he finally succumbed to the plague. Pretty much everyone knew he was infected, and Reyvadin feared for his health since he was forced to be the one closest to the corpse. But once he did kick the bucket Reyvadin wasted no time to take advantage of the opportunity. Before they were forced out or anyone noticed Fenks was even dead, Reyvadin stole the deadman's belt. Little more than a knotted length of cloth, but Reyvadin knew they were just going to toss the man's corpse off to the side and Reyvadin needed every bit he could get. With the belt Reyvadin wrapped it around his wrists as best as he could to cushion them from the manacles and give himself a bit of relief.

And so Reyvadin stood there, rain fresh on his face. It tasted like dirt and rocks, unlike the rain from his homeland which tasted like ice and snow. It left him feeling both sticky and wet, chilly yet at the same time distressingly warm. This entire trip could be summed up in a single word: Discomforting. But it was over now. Two of the prisoners freed themselves and introduced themselves, so Reyvadin figured he would be the third to do so. Undoing his shackles, the Banian human tighten the cloth around his wrists to give them more support and latched the manacles to his waists. Reyvadin definitely knew how he could use these. "Reyvadin. I'm guessing the rest of you have earned the ire of your local baron or lord as well?" He said with a casual smirk. He could sense the tension was still here among the group, and the last thing Reyvadin wanted was for everyone to start killing each other.

That being said, should violence happen Reyvadin already knew how to be prepared. When the rain had cleared up and some of the mist rolled away, he had spotted a nice sturdy looking branch, which the young man picked up and began to prune of stems. While it'll likely serve as a decent cudgel for combat Reyvadin's intentions with this staff is far more utilitarian: they're going to be doing a lot of walking and thus he's going to need a walking stick. It was somewhat hefty, perhaps three or four pounds, and roughly and inch in diameter, though one end thinned out to be somewhat smaller. It went up to Reyvadin stomach in height, almost the size of a short spear. Indeed, given to a proper smith and he could likely turn this humble length of wood into a weapon of war within the hour. And Reyvadin certainly had war on the mind right now.

"Anyone else need a staff? Looks like there's a few decent branches over here. If we're going to be walking much further we'll be needing them."

Emmaline pulled herself to her feet fighting back tears. Her entire body was filthy and sore, sheened with a residue of days of sweat and dust kicked up by the wagon wheels. She still wore the prisoners smock she had been given after her arrest, the ragged tatters she had been captured in not able serve as any decent clothing. Fine blonde hair, which she was accustomed to wearing in long curls, hung lank and listless, greasy with its own oils. At least she was finally free, she though as she turned the key and her cuff fell away to reveal chafed red rings on her pale arms.

I told you this wasn't the end.

The voice had a triumphant ring to it as it echoed in the silences of her mind. It was getting easier not to flinch when the voice spoke to her. That didn't mean that it got any less unpleasant. Since the cursed ritual it had spoken to her, sometimes awake and other times in her dreams. What worried her most was that she was starting to forget her dreams, but she had the distinctly unpleasant impression that the voice was speaking to her subconscious when she, the conscious Emmaline was no longer present. It worried her, but it didn't have nearly the deleterious effect on her morale as being filthy, tired, and feeling like her rump had been pounded up through her spine.

"Shut up," Emmaline muttered to the voice. She wasn't completely certain it heard her, though it was possible it did and merely didn't deign to respond to her. A problem for another time, she was in enough trouble without getting caught talking to herself. She had been lucky to avoid being burned at the stake, but the priests had pronounced her clean of corruption. That obviously wasn't true, but it wasn't as though she had been motivated to declare that she was hearing voices.

She looked around the empty wilderness that seemed to stretch in all directions. Gods only knew how far they were from any major settlement. How far they were from a bath, more to the point. This was a strange land, where she knew no one. Being alone without allies was a terrifying thought for any criminal. She glanced around at the other prisoners.

"I am Emmaline," she announced in what she hoped was an even voice.

"I suppose if we follow the road we will eventually reach... somewhere?"

They could still hear the pattering of the rain like a distant memory, but it no longer touched them. The clouds clung to the mountains; a ghastly beast held back by the stone. The air was humid and growing warmer, but it was still entirely too cold from the bite of the rain. It was difficult to gauge what time of day it was with the sky obscured, as the hours in the wagon seemed to run together like melted wax. The only certainty they had was that if they wished to not starve, they had to move. West, east, south...only the north was now closed off to their little group.

Raddek accepted the keys from Migi with a grim silence, taking a moment to find the correct one before unshackling himself with a multitude of iron 'clinks.' The moisture in the air clung to his brown hair as if it were stone, or the fur of some great beast. That was the benefit of keeping it close cropped for battle, it seemed. It gave his knife shaven neck and chin a strange sheen. He tossed the key ring back to Migi and flipped his shackles to fold in on themselves, apparently showcasing he was well versed with manacles.

"If we are where I think we are, we should probably move south." He said. There was a strength to his words despite his voice never rising into a shout. He slid his shackled into the waistband of his prisoner trousers. "Or I will. I'm Raddek, and staves might be good." He mentioned to Reyvadin. "If we find the main road, The Seven cities will-" He let his voice fall into nothingness, and the others would suddenly grow aware of footfalls clapping against the ground accompanied by the heavy breathing of desperation.

A cry of anguish arose and they could hear the figure falling into the wet foliage, just beyond their vision. The mist permeated the treeline, masking the pursuit of what had to be a man followed by something. Raddek turned his head like a hound raising its ears. Another cry rang out...further footfalls until they inevitably dragged again, like something with claws had pulled whoever was running back into the very dirt. There was a struggle; the sound of a man slowly succumbing to the superior strength of something, and it was followed by weeping before all went silent once again.

Raddek knelt like a hunting cat, taking four stride southward and peering into the trees. The man sniffed the air, something tickling his nostrils. Priests often claimed that evil was palpable. If that was true, it explained the sudden dread in the very air around them. Raddek stepped thrice more until he found himself next to a copse of bushes at the edge of the group's field of vision, and with tigrish speed he tore it aside and revealed...

Nothing. Nothing concrete anyway. No corpse or beast or blood thirsty bandit. Just puddles of blood and an imprint amongst the fallen leaves. Raddek had the blood of the north in him, but he was no hound. He merely happened upon this strange thing where he thought he had heard the struggles. Demons, he thought. Perhaps a banshee or some southern terror he was not privvy to. What he smelled was something different, and it once again brought him out of his reverie. It was a familiar and far more powerful stench. One the others would notice as well, once he mentioned it aloud.

"I smell smoke." He said, standing again to his full height. He stared past the bloodied ground to a small path, likely used by backwoods travelers. Within the treeline, the forest was far less misty. Only the trees hampered ones sight, and even through them, the smoke still wafted. It wasn't from a campfire. It had to have been from a massive bonfire to reach their position. Raddek had less optimistic theories for what it could indicate. "Further south."

Lorcan, the giant. Strange accent that one. Faeril couldn't place it, but he didn't care enough to ask where the man was from. He looked like he'd be able to pull his weight and that's all that mattered. Even if Faeril did keep catching him sending strange looks his way. Something to watch, and to keep an eye on. At Revyadin's attempt at a joke, Faeril's scowl deepened again. His back ached. It was none of his fucking business what they had done to get on the same cart. Still, he needed the noble. He kept his tongue as best he could, swallowing some choice curses. "Something like that." He spat the words out through gritted teeth, watching the man begin to prune a stick. At least he looked like he knew what he was doing, unlike the woman. Emmaline. Her name was even that of someone useless. He glanced over at the burrahob as she went on a rant, grimacing at her in response. As insulting as her words were, she wasn't wrong. They needed to get moving. They were standing targets out here, and he wasn't keen on dying in some muddy road at the edge of civilization. He had too much spite in him to die like that.

His attention turned to Radek. He at least knew where they were. The Seven Cities was a name unfamiliar to him, but it was a start. It was a way to start rebuilding after the terrible way his luck had turned, and perhaps reach his old heights of glory and power. That was something to work towards, at least. And gods knew he needed that.

Faeril's thoughts were interrupted by the familiar sound of a chase. He immediately crouched low to the ground and scooped up his manacles, wrapping them around his hand in a crude weapon. It wouldn't do much against a sword or bow, but it was something. Gods, he missed his axe and shield.

He stayed crouched and ready as the struggle fell silent, eyes scanning the trees for anymore signs of movement. There were none, even as he checked behind him to make sure it all hadn't been an elaborate ruse to ambush them. A few more moments passed as Radek prowled towards the trees and Faeril followed, relatively confident that they weren't going to be attacked from behind. The tension in the air was palbable and he could feel the familiar rush of adrenaline as he waited for whatever it was to be revealed behind the bushes. He let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding as the bushes revealed nothing, loosening his grip on the manacles. Thank the gods. That was a fight that he suspected would've been short and not at all in their favor.

The northman had found where the struggle had taken place quickly. That was useful. Someone else who knew how to track would be invaluable. He noted the backwoods path, and the smoke the was curling through the trees in the distance. Radek was a keen one.

Faeril knelt on the ground and examined blood and the imprint on the ground. It was confusing. No tracks back, no body, nothing to indicate what had happened to whatever poor bastard had met their end here. He spoke quietly to the others, trying not to give away their position to anyone who might be listening for more victims. "It lifted the body up. Must have been a big bastard." He glanced over his shoulder at 'Princess Petunia'. "Or a small victim." He mentally sent a prayer to Boernegar for protection from whatever it was that had struck here, before turning his attention to Radek.

"You said we should head south? If there's no other way to civilization, it looks like we'll have to do so carefully. As much as I'm not keen on following the smell of smoke and puddles of blood with only fucking manacles and clubs for weapons, I'm even less keen on wandering around the woods and dying of starvation, dehydration, or disease. The better question is, do we want to go around or follow the path of least resistance?" He jerked a thumb towards the backwoods path. It was the closest thing they had to a road right now. Unfortunately, it also lead straight towards fire, and likely whatever had spilled all the blood.

There was a not so uncommon rumor that Skayleigh would meet Burrowfolk with disdain, but if things had gone Lorcan's way that kind of talk would have met firm resistance many years ago already. In his opinion hardly anything could be further from the truth and the only thing that kept this kind of malicious rumors alive had to be stubborn people with ossified brains that really thought that a massive height difference alone could make a deal.

The 'princess' however now started really not to impress him. Her being in the circus ring alongside him and them battling through arranged arguments full of foul speech so to entertain the audience was a fun imagination. Them drinking together backstage afterwards was even more so. Right now however that circus was a very long way away and, given their overall situation, the Skayleigh couldn't help but expect at least some tiny bit of decency from everyone. It was an expectation the tiniest member of them all had failed to meet at this point!

Luckily though the others appeared to be a less troublesome, though quite rough bunch. Who could blame them for that after this week of hell alone though ? Lorcan did not, at least not so far. He just once more reminded himself to be a tad careful when it came to people like Faeril. Had the dwarf noticed his stares ? Also there was no way to determine whether the human, Raddek, actually did know something about this region or just wanted to make himself appear important. They were quite a bit in the same boat though, so why should he talk absolute shit ?

Ultimately Lorcan convinced himself to follow suit without asking questions, but taking the time to obtain a wooden stick himself. To his misfortune the Skayleigh knew that in terms of an undetected approach he was a worst case, so he tried his best to... stay as low as possible. He also felt a bit of an uneasy tension raising: Just how likely was it to be released as an anonymous prisoner at a seemingly arbitrary location and to encounter a threat like the one he was thinking about within moments ? The idea of this being an elaborate trap appeared anything but far-fetched.

Lorcan ultimately found his own way of relieving some of his stress, even though he did it in a very low tone so not to betray their position earlier than his footsteps would. Thinking of poems and rhymes had always helped him a little in such tense situations and this party had made it pretty easy so far to find a subject:




Hopefully his tone also was low enough so a very distinct individual wouldn't hear it all too easily...

"Ah what a sharp tongue. Now if only your wit were to match, we'd certainly have something to work with. Alas, the best we can hope for is sunnier weather and some fortune." Reyvadin quipped as he was in the process of pruning a second, longer staff. For himself naturally, as this one was of better quality than his first. He had just finished shaving off the bark when the sound of a man's scream echoed through the woods. "Sounds like an opportunity to me." Reyvadin says as he continued to carve away at the staff. Oh sure, he was afraid. Everyone here was practical a walking meal for whatever beast was out there. But having a sound mind and focusing on the task at hand helped him steel his nerves. It wasn't completely unlike some of the battles he had faced in his early years as a knight. Back then he was so cocky as to travel with a small band of warriors instead of a proper army, and paid the price when his men got ambushed by wild beasts and wily bandits. Reyvadin was blessed to have survived, and matured from those experiences.

As Faeril and Reddek went off to follow the trail, Reyvadin followed slowly after, behind the tall Skayleigh who had also fashioned himself a staff. Which was fine for Reyvadin, man was so huge Reyvadin would need to forge a pike to make him a suitable walking staff. Speaking of which, it wasn't too difficult for Reyvadin to add one more addition to his better walking staff: a sharpen point. Using a stronger staff that was about shoulder height for Reyvadin, he effectively carved out a crude spear to defend himself with. It lack heft of course, and being made of untreated timber the spear wasn't the most sturdy. But better than just swinging a branch around, hoping to bludgeon enemies away. At least with a spear Reyvadin can more reliable deal with a potential threat considering his skill with such weapons. And who knows what enemies they'll face before them.

As the trackers found a clue of the recent victim, Reyvadin listened to their words and tried to get an idea of what might've happened. He was no genius, but using his mind and imagination worked wonders when trying to both survive and outmaneuver one's enemies. Reddek mentioned smelling smoke, and when Reyvadin took a whiff he picked it up as well. Twas no mere campfire but something bigger. Either a bonfire meant for a much larger group or possibly a burnt down hut. Reyvadin was familiar with both scents. The others had a bit of a debate as to whether to follow the beaten path and possibly find monsters and men, or try foraging through the forests to avoid trouble. Reyvadin voiced his thoughts.

"If there's a beast on the prowl, it'll be in it's element if we walked through the forest. At least on the backroads we'll have room to maneuver if it should come out of the bush and try to attack us. Not to mention if this smoke is from a camp, there may be supplies there we can secure. And if there are others we could try to talk to them... Though chances are anyone out here is just as criminal as we are so they could try to rob us. In which case I would recommend we attack them first. If I had to guess, assuming the fire comes from a bonfire, could be a group of brigands or hunters and one of their own made the mistake of breaking off from the group. Made himself wonderful prey for a beast."

The motley group held themselves together well, considering. Everyone was privvy with some tales of boogiemen or beasts of nightmare in their respective cultures. It seemed no matter where one went, there was always something. Lorcan's melody did not rise two octaves above whisper, though it was jauntier than most might expect from a Skayleigh. It seemed the Caelic Isles were also a place of drink and cheer, even past the cheerless Shrouded Sea beyond Norgard. It almost looked like Raddek was going to hum something of his people, but he stopped himself. A dirge or song of old were heavily merged in his mind from his youth, but that was a lifetime ago. He was too focused to give way to fancies.

Despite the thickness of the air, everyone had an easy time hearing one another. The Thaegar wore a strange, small smirk, as if thinking of a memory both fond and grim. He had figured he would have been sent south with a bunch of rapists and ruined courtiers, but these lads and lasses at least seemed wary. Despite their sharp tongues and sharper quips, Faeril and Migi managed to blend within the group like gnats in the fur of a hog. Not exactly invisible, but inconspicuous and nonchalant. Any eyes upon them would certainly focus a bit more on the taller folk. Even as Migi moved forward in the vanguard, she did well to use her height to its advantage.

Raddek took Faeril's point with a nod, knowing they were on the same page. They had to get the hell out of here quickly for want of food as much as safety. "Only one way to find out." The fighter said to Reyvadin, curling his manacles around his right fist like makeshift iron knuckles. Migi was already slinking through the brush, so Raddek and the others followed. Emmaline stuck close to the Thaegar, knowing a survivor when she saw one.

As the group did their best not to snap any twigs or brush against anything that might scuttle or slither among the newspring ground littered with leaves and brush, Migi and those with good eyes would be able to see the forest did not last very long. Well, it might very well be a vast forest, but the smell from the smoke was close at hand. Flame licked their vision, but it wasn't a massive bonefire like some expected. No, it was far more sinister.

The stink of cooked and decaying meat wafted into the air, permeating the ruins of a nameless village. Even as they approached, the crack of a falling wall reached their ears, and the silence that followed betrayed what they were about to see. A small sob leaped out from somewhere within the ruins, and the group managed to make it to the tree line behind the brush and viewed a sad scene.

A one eared man unsheathed a langmesser even as they looked, muttering something unintelligible under his breath as he gutted a hapless man, sending a woman into sobs before a mate of his dragged the lass into the crumbled remains of a house. At the center of the road were five men with crossbows, casually speaking to one another and laughing. It was clear they were bandits, judging by their lack of regalia, uniform, or cohesion of any sort. In fact they seemed to be wearing padded jacks and hats from various different locales, likely picked up from people they had murdered. Set before them were five prisoners, their hands tied and their heads bowed.

"Kill 'em," The messer wielder spat, and he stalked into the house the woman had been dragged into. With another last, uproarious laugh, the crossbowmen began to crank up their windlass crossbows. Steel and timber groaned under the weight of their draw, and they were nearly there. The group had a choice. Let the villagers die and bypass the town, try and kill the crossbowmen, or something else?...

Despite himself, Faeril gave a smirk at the burrahob's quips. Never missed a chance, that one. As long as it wasn't directed at him, it was mildly amusing. He was more than happy to let the burrahob go first. She slipped just as quietly into the underbrush as any of his fellow Horizon Watchers had. That was something he could appreciate, from a purely professional standpoint. For all of her bravado and sharp tongue, she backed it up with some real skill and the knowledge of when to shut up. Reyvadin's spear wouldn't do them any good in a true fight, but at least the man was doing something to prepare, even if he was prone to long winded statements.

With 'Petunia' heading into the forest, it seemed their path was decided. Slinking low to the ground and instinctually falling into old habits, he moved along the path with the others. The brush wouldn't be able to provide true cover, given that he wasn't in anything that remotely blended in with the area, but it would at least make him less likely to be seen. He only shook his head at the sight of Emmaline sticking with Radek. She was dead weight, and nothing else. He checked behind him periodically, partially to make sure that there wasn't anyone creeping up behind them, but also to make sure that those who weren't right in front of him wouldn't try to slip away. Fortunately, no one did. They were in this together, for better or for worse.

Despite his misgivings, Faeril was pleasantly surprised by the group's quiet movements. None of them had revealed their positions. Sure, some of them could use some training in how to move quietly, but at least none of them stepped on a stick. The tall bastard, Lorcan, seemingly couldn't stop himself from singing like an idiot but at least he kept it as quiet as possible. Not everyone could possess the innate knowledge of when to shut the fuck up.

Reyvadin was proven right when the familiar sights and sounds of a raid reached them, though anyone would have been right with as broad a guess as the man had made. Faeril carefully crept up to the edge of the forest and viewed the sight impassively. These men were scum of the earth, attacking those who could not defend themselves, but they were also armed and dangerous. You don't survive as bandits without being good at violence.

Even if he was inclined to risk his life for a bunch of strangers who almost certainly had nothing to offer in return, there was nothing they could do. He counted five men outside, plus at least two that had gone inside the house with their victim. Five crossbows. Faeril's hands itched to get one, to feel the comforting weight of a reliable weapon again. He felt naked without one, as if a piece of him was missing.

It was almost enough to make him throw caution to the wind. But as his gaze fell upon the wickedly sharp arrowheads, his impulse died. He wasn't about to rush five armed men with nothing more than some shitty manacles and prayers. Even if Emmaline proved to be a complete surprise and actually very useful in a fight, they still wouldn't have the numbers. Especially when the two other men came running out at the sounds of combat. Maybe if the prisoners got up and attacked as well, they would have a chance. But seeing how they were bound and accepting of their fate, Faeril doubted they would be any help in a fight.

He pressed himself against a tree, looking back at the group. "Not our fight." He hissed quietly, trying to quell any stupid heroics. He didn't think the burrahob or Radek would have any desire to save the victims but who knew about the others. "Those crossbows would kill us before we even reached them. We should wait, and scavenge what we can when they leave." Praying fervently to any god that would listen that his companions would see reason, and to Gaerim for those who were about to be executed, Faeril watched the trail behind them. He didn't want any of the bandits friends to catch them by surprise while they were waiting for the bastards to leave. Or whatever had murdered the poor bastard from before, for that matter.

Lorcan had little interest in being the one betraying their position. Therefore, he could not allow his tall figure to be seen or his dark voice to be heard. So, when he addressed Faeril, he did so in a pose that went somewhat beyond mere crouching. His hands and knees were on the verge of touching the dirty ground as he bent forward the best he could without losing his balance, trying to lower his profile further. A giant toddler who had lost his rattle and who, while searching for it, suddenly found the dwarf nearby more interesting.

That stink! Sure he himself probably did not smell like a field of roses either after that week in a wagon, but the kind of miasma wafting around Faeril irritated Lorcan's nose definitely a little hard! An opinion absolutely not biased by the fact that he had stopped to like dwarves in general since they had forced him to go into exile in the first place, so he kept his mouth firmly shut about it at that point!

"I find your logic sound, Faeril, but only at first glance." he started, almost whispering in the dwarf's right ear. "Upon deeper investigation I find it deeply flawed. First of all we don't know if there will be anything useful left to scavenge when they leave. Then just sitting and waiting here or somewhere else in the vicinity will expose us to the risk of detection as we do. Who knows how long they will take to finish what they're doing ? And then there's the fact that even if we succeed and get what we want we might very well happen to run into them again the next day. I say we should try and find a plan to dispose of this problem as we see it. If we don't find one we can still go for any of the alternatives."

In Lorcan's opinon they also could not just go around that village right now and gain a headstart, simply because there could be more bandits hiding somewhere else. Who said that all they currently saw was all that was there ? And suddenly an idea rose above his cognitive horizon: Of course those bandits would kill them right away if they went for any kind of frontal approach, but...

Lorcan turned his head behind, trying to see their 'princess': "Hey! Doesn't your kind of people have this fancy trick of not to be seen somehow for a short time ? We two could try and go for some distraction, maybe we can lure someone away from the rest." These, after all, were woods around them. Woods Lorcan started looking at for some minor study of their detailed appearance. Nobody would take notice of just one more tiny little tree, would he ?

Emmaline's blue eyes narrowed slightly as she saw the woman dragged off into the hut. For a time she had been in a daze, too stunned and overwhelmed by her sudden disastrous turn of fortune to focus much on what was going on. When the halfling had headed along the trail she had followed, more because a decision had been made rather than because she agreed with it. More than anything else she was tired of being tired and scared.

"You want a distraction?" she demanded, the first words she had spoken since being unshackled. Without waiting for a response, she squared her shoulders and marched forwards towards the bandits, slipping sideways away from the group so as not to give away their position. Her gait changed abruptly becoming half stumbling and tears began to stand out in the corners of her eyes.

"Help!" she called out in a tremulous voice, doing her best to make herself seem non threatening, like a villager stumbling into to raid by accident. She swiped at her eyes and stumbled to the ground as she came into sight of the crossbowmen, making herself a smaller target while forcing them to come to her if the wanted to apprehend her.

"Please help!" she wailed pitiful.

Foolish girl.

Oh shut up Emmaline thought back, hoping that taking another prisoner was more appealing than shooting her full of arrows.

Quarrels.

Shut up Emmaline's thought once again..

Lorcan was about to deliver a rough reply about cleaning one's ears towards whomever had asked about the Skayleigh's urge for a distraction, but before his words had ever had a chance to leave his mouth he could also see a figure move past him. An eerily familiar figure whose identity turned Lorcan's face into a test rig whether one's eyeballs could actually fall out by too much staring.

Emma... he could not remember the second part. Could you perhaps consider asking the others first ? Tagging her as 'fucking moron', Lorcan quickly realized that Emmaline's action would not allow the rest of the party to prepare much. What's the damn purpose of a distraction if you don't have any kind of action in the back of your hand to actually make use of it ?

For the Skayleigh it came accross as a pretty bad move, but it would be even more of a dick move to abandon Emmaline now, using her as a distraction to just escape the overall situation. Sure he could, thereby probably greatly boosting his personal chances of survival, but what would his conscience say about it afterwards ?

So Lorcan launched his own move. No time for discussing this with Mr. Dwarf or any of the other unknown variables that were his companions, but instead he had to do in a hurry now what he had originally planned to do with much greater care: circle around the village and approach the men with crossbows from behind... or from the side at least. Starting to crawl along, Lorcan could only hope that at least some of the others would come to the same conclusion.

However the very first few yards of crawling on soil littered with leaves and branches made clear to him that both his current equipment -- that was the rattling chain of his manacle -- and skill were no match for the task of combining speed and stealth in this environment. He'd have to think of something easier, quicker to reach, and redirected his eyes towards a nearby tree. Then back towards the ruined village in an attempt to see what the bandits were doing and if they were looking at his direction, then back to the tree again.

This will have to do... If there are any lumberjacks around here I'm screwed!

He crawled a little bit further until he was at a position where his line of vision towards the bandits was blocked by a building of the village. There'd be no point if those bandits would be able to see how he turned into something else. And then, there it suddenly was, a brand-new... well whatever fucking non-Hurlgim species of tree this was next to him. As long as he would be able to maintain a halfway proper replica of it's visual appearance (albeit a lot smaller) everything was good!

"Stop! I told you to stop, bitch!" Lorcan inserted a brief, artificial pause into the words he yelled before continuing: "Oh damn why do women always have to think with their fucking curves while you claim we'd do it with the thing between our legs! STOP! Or I'll make you fuck a duck once I got you!"

Hopefully that was enough to give the impression that Emmaline had indeed some kind of pursuer on her tail that was about to emerge from the woods a few yards away from the rest of the group. Now if just one of those bandits would come here to check... or better more than one. As long as he would not have attracted the attention of too many men everything would be good, right ? Otherwise... Faeril and those around him would better start moving... and he'd have to continue acting like a tree that had suddenly learned to keep its mouth firmly shut.

When Reyvadin and the others arrived to the village, his suspicions were correct. That smoke came from the smoldering remains of the huts and buildings, with fairly obvious signs that someone had come by and raided this place. It was a familiar sight to Reyvadin. Many Banian villages looked like this after a seasonal raid. Most of the time, the villagers know in advance to flee if they don't think they had the manpower to hold off a raiding party. But there were plenty more villages with an established militia but less sense, thinking they could stand up against a horde of Norgard warriors. And it's always Reyvadin and his men who would come across these ruins, hunting down the army that laid wasted to their lands.

But unlike before Reyvadin was not dressed in the finest of plate, armed with a trusty poleaxe, on top of a mighty steed, with an army at his back. No, he was a ragged man armed with a stick that could barely be called a spear, in the company of criminals and low lives. It was tempting to see what sort of things might be in this village that they could salvage. Perhaps a knife that could be turned into a dagger or spearhead. Perhaps some armor from a dead militiaman. Or even better, food, because no amount of steel can save you from hunger. But there was a noise, one that Reyvadin was also unfortunately familiar with. The cries of a woman in peril.

As the group snuck closer, they would see a ghastly sight. Brigands, executing and capturing prisoners. Or rather, a prisoner. A young woman who's fate was likely going to be horrific, violent, and short. Compared to her, the bound men were at least going to die mercifully quick. As terrible as the scene was, Reyvadin steeled his resolve in the face of this atrocity. One of the first lessons he learned when he became a knight was to harden his heart against this sort of tragedy. Rape and raiding were merely tools used by all armies to bolster their own supplies and morale: even the most honest of soldiers needed physical comfort and what better way to get it than through the conquest of arms? After all, gathering slaves from conquered people was a common practice in the north. Letting your emotions get the better of you when faced with it was a quick way to share the slave's fate.

Which was why Reyvadin was barely able to concern an annoyed and tired sigh when the blonde woman, likely a madwoman, broke out from cover to "distract" the brigands. Something that as far as Reyvadin heard, no one asked her to do. Certainly could've been discussed considering out of everyone here, Reyvadin was the only one who was properly armed with some sort of weapon that wasn't just a pair of cuffs. But Lorcan went out to take advantage of the situation, using his strange magics to disguise himself as a tree. "Huh, that's handy." Reyvadin thought to himself as he got into position. His plan was simple: help Lorcan take out a brigand from behind, preferably by stabbing them through the neck with his spear, and taking one of their knives. He'll need to use a body as a shield considering that Reyvadin's shirt wouldn't be able to stand up against a particularly dull needle, let alone crossbow bolts. If they can get those brigands to waste their bolts shooting their allies or better, missing, that would give Reyvadin an opportunity to get a good thrust in with his spear or dagger.

But this could only work if they manage to win the element of surprise. Hopefully that woman's shapely figure and deceptive appearance would be more than enough to convince these bandits to see with their dicks instead of their eyes, enabling the others to take advantage of their dubarchery and butcher them like the animals they are. There was too much that could go wrong now, but alas. Reyvadin wasn't going to let this opportunity go to waste. "If we survive this, I'm going to have some words with that woman." The young noble thought to himself.

The crossbowmen blinked and halted their cranking, save for one of them who still had the frame of mind to look up and widen his eyes at the stumbling woman that had fled the treeline. Even the prisoners, their lives destroyed in all but name, looked up in bewilderment at Emmaline. Her womanly charms barely contained by the drab garb she wore, she didn't have to act too hard on keeping herself small and losing her footing. The ground was laden with fallen debris, weapons, and the unforgiving rocks that would pepper the dirt road regardless. Luckily, due to the efforts of the group and Emmaline's earnest cries, they didn't notice anyone else within the wood.

One of the men pulled a pocket knife, though he was kept at bay by the hand of another. "Wait! You'd gut something so fine? She'll be fun for days!"

"But where'd she come from?" Another asked, however it was clear suspicion was only half his thought. Clearly he wanted to know if there was a sister or another like her he could have all to himself. None of them saw the cloaked Migi right beside Emmaline, eyeing them like a threatened badger.

"Hey! You-" A strong voice called, revealing himself to be the one eared man. He stepped out of the ruined house again, but halted his speech as soon as he saw Emmaline on the ground. Next, Lorcan's not so subtle movements caught everyone's attention. They didn't see him, crouched as he was, but the snap of a tig and the crinkling of the leaves clearly got their attention. All heads turned that way, and his yell of the pursuer erupted from the tree line. The leader, though confused, obviously had a good head on his shoulders. "Kraf, Grig, Lochlan, you three check the trees." He said as one of them slapped a prisoner that had started whispering to another. "You two, keep an eye on-"

Of course, nothing was ever that simple. Raddek made his move. The rugged man stepped out of the trees further down the street, and though he was clad in his prisoner attire, he moved like he was in armor. He didn't even announce himself. Surprised and seeing a seemingly unarmored man, the crossbowman aimed at him and pulled the trigger. Raddek had figured that was the next move, and he had stepped out right where a fallen door had lain. He pulled the door up just in time and the bolt hit the door, quivering from the force of the shot.

"Crank up those crossbows," the leader ordered and unsheathed his langmesser. He stalked toward Raddek, though another set of mumbles came from one of the prisoners. With barely a glance, he turned and chopped at the neck of the closest hostage, beheading the mumbler in a gurgle of blood, causing the others to cry out in horror. He didn't pay them any more notice, turning to Raddek again. "Who in the hells are you!?" He asked, stepping close to Emmaline and Migi, weapon point half a meter from the blonde woman's face. "Answer me or I'll kill her!"

"She's mine." Raddek said quickly. "I was going to tell you that until I got shot at."

"Well, she's ours now."

It seemed everything was devolving by that point.

Lorcan saw, but he did not like what he saw: From the perspective of the opposing leader it probably was perfectly reasonable to send not one, but two of his men to investigate the turmoil the Skayleigh had created. From the latter's perspective however comitting two individuals was very borderline to what he felt could be handled. On the plus side it meant that the others would have to deal with less.

Lorcan's view focused on the men as they were approaching, the corner of the halfway ruined building they had just come around still behind their backs. His grip tightened around his shackles as if that would make them a more proper weapon, but of course they remained exactly the cold lump of metal they were. He'd have to press them into service as a tool for skull bashing anyway. Tension inside him only increased, but still the oddity of him just standing there and watching the two men while they still were completely oblivious of his presence was palpable. Had he ever used the tree shape for this kind of move before ?

The two men were thugs who, judging by their visual appearance, might not have been the most clever ones. Unfortunately they didn't seem to be the most visually interested beings either for they didn't keep looking at Emmaline's curves, but started their search instead and so even with haste. Lorcan could hear complaints about prisoners being executed with them being unable to watch. What a miserable bunch of petty idiots!

The Skayleigh had to pick a target without even having the possibility to silently exchange some glances with Rey as no matter how intensively he stared at the man, Rey would only see a tree! So without any exchange of information and coordination he decided to go for the bigger looking individual, caring little whether it was actually muscle or just fat hiding beneath the thug's clothes. As the latter's search pattern finally lead him close to the fake tree, Lorcan wound up to make use of the chain that connected the two heavy parts of his manacles.

He aimed at the bandit's head from behind without warning, but also with a very makeshift weapon he had not used before.