From the deck rail, Nathan let his eyes rove the city as their ship breached the harbour; this was as far as he had been, outside the narrated journeys of his books and his study, from the palace ad the city of his birth. He shivered, despite the warmth of the midday sun, gaze ranging to see where it was both exotic ad familiar in the manner of all cities since the kingdom began. They strayed, drawn perhaps, to the land beyond, where the Foe sallied forth from, perhaps, and in the legends

With the kiss the ship made with the dockside, the Blue Cloak pulled his symbol of office closer, watching as both Graimother ad Oathbound leapt ashore. He followed, less familiarly but with a small measure of competency, joining them and offering his bookish opinion, "Let us take the road through the Asenboro, if it proves trouble-free. I have heard tales of it ad it seems to make little difference from the maps"

Even as the ship glided along the dock toward it's portage, Arui leaped from the ship with her pack over her shoulder as soon as was humanly possible.  She felt the reassuring solidity of the ground when she landed even on the docks, and whispered a soft prayer of thanks.  She turned to the Graimother and offered an open hand salute.  "Thank you for your hospitality. May you fair well."  Then she was off into the city to find news from people with the good sense to keep solid ground beneath their feet.

She stopped in  a dockside bar and ordered a beer.  She addressed the bartender as they worked, "I've just come from the sea, and I'm headed for Pennnryn.  I hear the Mondain are causing trouble.  Have you any news on the safety of the roads?"

Cara is attempting to find someone within Grainmother Patil's operation who is knowledgable about the area and properly Khundari enough to be accommodating to an Oathsworn.

I'm going to hold off on that for just a little bit as I suspect that Idle-No-More might fit the bill, which would be perfect synchronicity...   Obviously, I'm going to try to fold both new players into the game in Stolygard.

"Should be safe enough.."   Anniel said, nodding slightly as she considered.   "There's a blight of bandits in these parts at the moment.  As the snow recedes, the northmen are coming down more often.  Some trade, some raid.  No telling which is which.  And the snow hasn't cleared enough for us to get an up-to-date map of the mountains.

"Aureth won't be open to strangers.  But Asenboro."  Anniel nodded.  "Yes.  Asenboro is stalwart, strong.  They'll be a little quiet, what with their headman havin taken the red rot last season. Leaving three sons fighting for the title.  Not literally--I hope."

After a moment, she offered a hand to Grain Mother Patil and motioned towards the short, squat well-weathered building that served as harbor-control.  "Come.  Let's see the manifests and haggle.   I know you've got buyers already for most, but surely there's some left to negotiate.  I have a couple of bottles of Haversham ice-wine from last season that somehow got left behind--I paid a pretty penny for it. It's like candy in a bottle."

@ARUI

Once Arui set her feet upon solid ground, it was like a momentary up-swelling of joy, relief, gratitude, envy, fear... the whole panoply of emotion that ebbed and flowed, coruscated around her.   She just didn't get that same kind of empathy on the water.

And each place was different, with different sounds, tastes and different courts.  But all the spirits, no matter the land, understood courtesy.  And, in truth, though they were seaward, this place held enough similarity to the northern plains, that the proximity to the mountains must provide a stronger sense of familiarity than she might have expected.   It would take a while to sort out the peculiarities of this new region.

Stoltgard had only two taverns at the waterside.  One an inn, the other not.  The one she made her way into was not the Inn.  The Soggy Troll was a solid place, beaten-up and well-worn, but also well-taken care of.  It was a small half-timbered building, with a dirt floor covered in straw. A large iron cauldron sits in the center of the common room. There were a few small rooms with straw mats off of the main common room,  though Arui couldn't see much more than the open doorw3ays.

The innkeeper was a heavysetwoman of late middle age.  She wore a heavy dress and a thick armless over-dress., her blonde hair had lost the war with grey and only a few straqnds of gold still survived.   She was stirring the cauldron when Arui entered.

On a crude stone board near the cooking area, the day's offerings were listed:

• Roasted Pork and Dried Peas, Perry
• Boiled Pork and Rye Biscuits, Cider
• Stewed Lamprey and Dried Lentils, Ale

Arui addressed the woman at the cauldron, revelling in the savory smells that came from it.  It filled the entire place and it was clear to Arui why the tavern had more people in it than she'd have expected... maybe a full dozen in the middle of the day!

"I've just come from the sea, and I'm headed for Pennnryn.  I hear the Mondain are causing trouble.  Have you any news on the safety of the roads?" Arui asked.

Someone at the far end of the tavern scoffed.  A bald-headed soldier in black leathers.  He had tight-pinched eyes and a scar that ran along the left side of his face. There was chain-mail and a bastard sword laying against the wall at his feet.   He appeared to be playing some sort of game of stones with someone who wasn't present.  But given his position and posture, he'd been considering the strategy of the board for some time.

The innkeeper shushed the soldier without even looking at him.   "Well then, welcome to the Troll.  You came during the dry season, at least.  The Roads are safe, for the most part.   But it's springtime.  So, the Northmen are making forays again.  If you're armed and you keep a tight camp, you shouldn't have any problems.  But, if you <I>need<I> escorts, I can probably put you on to some of the right people.   You heading to the keep, then?  Answering Our Lord Duke's call to arms?"

She looked over regarding the soldier at the end of the bar before answering the bartender, "If the Duke's keen on keeping those mountain devils in their mountains, then that's fine by me.  I'd just as soon travel light and quick myself, but my companions are city folk who may want larger numbers.  If they do, I'll send them your way.  Thank you for the offer."  She looked at the menu and discarded the eel.  To much sea food lately anyway.  "I'll have some pork and peas, please, when you get a chance."

@ARUI

It was simple fare, but good, hearty, strong food.  It was spiced oddly, with a subtle undercurrent of... cinnamon, perhaps?  something darker and richer with a slight after-taste that wasn't unpleasant.  It was just... different.

The Perry, though, was like sipping at liquid sunshine, smooth and clean with a body that filled the nose and mouth and didn't overpower.  There were hints of citrus that nicely balanced out the smoke-notes.  It was a sweeter wine than Arui might've been used to, but it left almost no after-burn, passing instead like a warm afterglow.

"Three Days to the Keep, if'n you go North."  the ruffian at the corner called over.    Some others looked up, but most just kept to themselves.  "Go through and you can cut half a day off, but you run the risk of running afoul of entmyrs guarding the barrows of the first war.  You go that route, just don't go too far from the path.  Asenborough to Tumult.


And what is an entmyr, you might ask?  no bloody clue.  Random letters thrown together as a vague hook for something.
This message was last edited by the player at 08:36, Sun 24 Jan 2021.

@Cara (and @Idle-No-More)

I think we're agreeing on enough of Idle-No-More to say that Grain Mother Patil and Harbour-master Anniel can put you in touch with him...  He's made the trip once a few times.

I'm okay with him getting INM in and getting active sooner rather than later.  The rest, we can work out along the way, as needed.

Listening to the Harbourmistresses words, Nathan nodded; he was unfamiliar with these local lords, but he could read what Anniel was saying. And what she wasn't. He held his peace, though, he had offered what scant opinion he had. He held his peace and nodded to both of the women as they retired for an amicable battle.

Watching them depart, his eyes turned to Cara, "Do we need a guide for the road, whether Asenboro or Aureth? Is it one you have ridden before?"

When the agents had secured what rumors and supplies they had gathered, the Grainmother of the Patil Clan gathered them round. She was young looking, considering her title, though her eyes betrayed an age that the smooth expanse of her skin denied. Perhaps she was older than she seemed. She was dressed in rough spun traveller's garb, with a mantle of midnight blue over the grays and blacks.

"I don't have much of a mind to take my wares through the Ashen Woods, so Janonton it is. Mondain raids or no, none of my Clanbound will be able to pull a wagon over roots and shrubs. Means we'll want extra muscle with us, in case there is trouble. I know a man who has made the journey more than a few times, but..."

She looked to Cara, and her face pinched up in an expression that was difficult to read.

"... well, I wouldn't use him unless he was the only one left. Problem is, he is. I warned you of this when we were back in the Capitol. I wasn't due here for another three weeks. My regular muscle is still in Tumvult with half a dozen Silverbands, and won't be back for another halfmoon. Time isn't on our side, so there is nothing for it then but to work with what we have. He'll take the work, and he's good for it, you just won't like it."

With that, she turned and began walking along the main thoroughfare, leading them away from the docks and parallel to the river. Behind her, her Clan and Clanbound prepared the two wagons loaded with grain, though if the others present looked at them closely they noted that none of the harnesses appeared big enough for a horse. The answer to what would pull them became clear as the eight Clanbound in their orange hoods gathered the harnesses up upon their shoulders, four to each wagon, and began pulling them with practiced steps after the Grainmother. The two lesser Grainmothers walked between the two wagons, chattering between themselves in the harshly beautiful language of their homeland. Each Clanbound and all three of the Grainmothers were armed with long knives and short bows, quivers and sheathes at their belts so as to keep the shoulders of the Clanbound free for the leather harnesses of the wagons.

"Harbormaster Anniel Martin said he'd been bunking at the Southern Squalling, so we'll go there and ask for him. With luck, we can be on the road before noon. Let us be about the work."
This message was last edited by the player at 03:22, Tue 26 Jan 2021.

In the quiet of the copse - with trees bearing tight-lipped leaves in spite of the easy breeze - stood an inconspicuous inn. Its verdant colors and shadow-shaded trim spoke to its station, the moss amassed at its base spoke to its age. Sprouting from its backside was a younger addition, its walls and roof tarred and treated but yet to earn the love of complimentary colors. The building seemed nestled as well as any mountain peak; it seemed so natural from a distance, yet up close it could make you feel small.

The stout, crooked door had long been beaten by seasons and fists, old blue paint giving way to the relentless strength of wood aged by trials. On surprisingly oiled hinges, it would give way to a crackling fire, silent sojourners, and whispering wayfarers. None of these were a match for those farthest from the flames. Among this group of ragtag rabble-rousers were two distinct rhythms that filled the main hall. The first was composed of the hollow *clicks* of bone dice reverberating across a stained table. Shortly after these clicks came the second syncopated beat; the repetitive cursing of someone's luck changing.

"By the fuckin' favors, Baruk!" The blond woman yelled, squinting her one eye with violent intent. "Damn dice'r shite!"

"Non meh problem, Leinv." Baruk said, holding out a thin hand. "It's j'own dice."

Leinv growled, her hand jerking against her natural reaction to move to her mace, but something flashed in Baruk's eyes, something more wary than his easy grin. His red hair and brown eyes shown stark against his beech-bark complexion, and Leinv was reminded this wasn't the crew. It was the Caravan, and it was her last hope.

"Fucking."

Her calloused fingers passed him the dice, and the games began anew. Fresh curses and coins resumed their play about the table with a renewed vigor, as though Baruk's cowing reminded them of how beautful it was to be alive. But just like life, the game drew to a natural end, and Baruk raked in the meager earnings. He was, however, generous enough to offer a round to the lot of them. Usually they were on duty, which meant no more than two drinks in a day. They were fortunate that it was Baruk's Day of First Breath, and he was in charge of the six of them. "'N go'n get t'beg mon." Baruk didn't even look up as he counted out his handful of winnings. "Leinv, youn' do et."

Leinv waved him off, but felt chills go up her back. She was still the newest member, her bandit past leading her to this odd family of fellow Caravaners. Out of all the ones she tried to get to know, there seemed to be no way to get around the strange aura surrounding that Khundari.

She made her way to the back, passing into the newly built section of the Southern Squalling constructed to house the small influx of Caravaners and their gear. Beyond the bunks she could already hear the movement of something beyond the door to the supply room. That guy was always in the supply room. He took his job too seriously, she figured, but then again, he did a damn good job.

"Hey!" Leinv kicked open the door, "Idle-No-More!"

She wouldn't admit it, but she was still too nervous to call him Idle for short. None of the newer folks did.

Idle was completely unperturbed by the door slamming open, continuing his stride while turning to look at her with two giant bags over his bare shoulders. Leinv always noticed that piercing first. It didn't seem to make sense, having a nostril and ear connected like that. It was bound to get caught on something one day, but a part of her didn't want that to happen. She knew what it was like to be missing something...and it was kind of nice?

Idle kept walking. "Yeah?" That Khune accent was ever present, but Idle's voice was cool and even, like waters so clear you couldn't tell how deep they went.

Leinv let her eye linger on his rippling back, then looked to the other end of the storeroom. "Favors, don't you get tired?" Bags and boxes were piled as high as most kith, neatly organized into easy to deploy segments. She saw no spilled grains, no split straws strewn across the floor. It had been swept. And it seemed like multiple times.

"Anyways, Baruk's doin' a round fer everyone." Idle placed the bags down, dusting off his hands as Leinv crossed her arms. "You might even deserve one."

Idle turned, putting a hand on his hip, looking at Leinv with a tilt of his head and unobfuscated observation. Leinv did the same. He was taller than a few and wider than most, with limbs like ship masts and just as weathered. Scars quilted him as much as the inked forms of strange creatures alongside what she thought to be Khundari script. His own gaze from beneath lazy eyelids seemed sharp. He didn't ignore her sewn-shut socket, or the tattoos that ran across her nose. It was as though he took it all in, accepted what made her rather than who she was. It made her feel weak...no...not weak...vulnerable. It was probably how those conniving Khundari got you to drop your defenses.

She had only heard about his exploits, about how he would become a monster to fight the same. There were rumors about the way he fought, how he seemed to have little regard for his life. Then there were the facts, like how he didn't eat meat, or how he would always both spit and pray facing east. But what surprised her the most, behind those hazardous hazels, beneath the flesh colored like dark river rocks, was something so eternally sad.

Idle asked, "That it?"

"Aryeah, s'it."

The supply keeper moved to another corner stacked with boxes. "Thanks."

"Don't mention it." She twisted her lips. There was a chance, so of course she's going for it.

"Fucker."

Idle made a soft sound. Was that a chuckle? He pushed some boxes around. "That's my working name."

Leinv turned to let him be, hiding a smile. She made him snicker. Only the vets had done that. Damn, she always knew she was funny. Maybe when all this monster-hunting was done, she could be one of those comedy minst-

"Leinv."

She turned back, grinning.

"I helped build this room. If you broke that door," Idle glanced up at her with a face that felt like tomb. "I'll make you feel the same way." He shifted a box before moving to the back towards the broom.

Leinv gulped, and when Idle-No-More turned, she frantically checked the door. Fortunately there was no damage. As she scurried away, she couldn't help but wonder how serious he was.

There were some chances not worth taking.

---

People and Things introduced:

Baruk Nolfka - Short-statured gamble-happy Station Leader of Caravaners bunking at Southern Squalling

Leinv Jenetia - One-eyed foul-mouthed ex-bandit, new to Caravaners
This message was last edited by the player at 04:31, Wed 27 Jan 2021.

Rickard, for his part, had kept himself quiet.  Grain Mother Patil unsettled him, true.  But he knew better than to create drama for it's own sake.

At the first opportunity, Rickard excused himself and went to stretch his legs.  A walk around the town. Taste the air, listen to the sounds, teh people, the environment.  He had never put it into words, this feeling he got.  But his over-developed sense of intuition had saved his life more than once. or so he believed.

Most of the buildings were stone, quarried from the rock of the land.  Some of the best builders had repaired to Aureth, but their handiwork was evident in the solidity and permanence of the settlement.   White-washed outer walls left the town gleaming in the afternoon sun.  The roofs were largely shale and tine, pitched with the mashed remains of seweeds mixed with mortar-dust, making a jigsaw-like design in the lay of row upon row.

Rickard travelled north along the river until he came to the Mistress Bridge, the only crossing of the stream that ran through the town.   It had been a point of defense of the original town, but had long since been romanticized.  People lay garlands along the posts of the wooden bridge, and local lore had it that the last garland to survive when winter comes would signal a true love.

If only it were that easy, Rickard thought.  But love, like politics, was never his strong suit.   He could lure them along, turn their cheeks and tell them sweet lies, but nothing touched him anymore.  Only the sweet laughter of innocent children reached him.  And for that, though he'd told not a soul, he would die to preserve.

From the Mistress Bridge, he turned East to the main gathers, the great open courtyard that was the confluence of the three great neighborhoods.  Behind the Great House, he wandered into the market that took up residence in the main gathers.  ...

@IDLE-NO-MORE

"Oi."  someone called from outside the storage rooms.   "Y'in there.  One comes running.   Coat of Red and Black, Blue-coat, Gem in her head.  Pieced and Weighted."

She was an urchin.  A child, no more than seven or eight cycles.  Shadows moved in the upper air-vents around the  ceiling.  Nobody should've been able to get up there.   But a child... perhaps.  A climber.

His eyes having long since adjusted to the comparative dark inside, it took Idle-No-More a few seconds to discern the face scrunched into the inches-wide vent.  A girl, he thought.   Age-range matched the voice.  Accent placed her as Stoltgard born and bred.  the flat vowels and the sudden drop after the vowel-ends. "Mama says yer no fond of the colors.  But they got silver, maybe gold.  Ship uloadin now.  Worth it to you?" 

"Pieced and Weighted" is a generally accepted euphemism for "there's a job for you." 

@ARUI

After a little time, Arui could feel the vague tension the sea brought to her start to seep out.  It would take days, for certain, before it was all gone, but just having two feet on dry land reinstilled the sense of confidence she'd always felt.

As she atre, a young man came in, wire-thin and lanky, dressed in a black and gold doublet that had obviously seen some wear.   He had shoulder-length blonde hair and a wispy moustache the same color.  Behind him trailed a lad of perhaps eleven or twelve, carrying a wooden case and a thicker backpack.

"Now, let us see whether the good master or mistress can use some entertainment."  he motioned for the boy to approach the pot where Ennil remained apparently impassive.

Jongler, singer, wayfarer, walker of the ways.  the words came to Arui unbidden.

Even now, the spirits of the place were seeking her out, providing insights and tidbits.  It was the beginning of the social interplay, the dance of getting to know her.  She wasn't familiar with the dynamics in this area of the world, but she had a vague sense of it.  Being this close to the mountains meant that the general dynamics would be much like they were for the plains..  Only, there were sea and woods to take into account.

And a quarry, apparently.  And ancient grudge tinged with respect and an acknowledgement of admiration for what was built.

The boy set down the packs and set the case on top of them, opening it with an entirely-unnecessary flourish.  Inside was a stringed instrument, very much like a lute, with a bent haft and glistening blonde wood.

"Mistress, I am Aren Windover of Jarusk.   It seems my host has fallen upon harder times than expected and he bade me to seek refuge here.  Surely an establishment such as this could use a little lively entertainment?"

With the squeaking of well greased wheels and a huffing of eight sets of lungs, the two carts came to a stop in front of the simple in. The men who had pulled them were not winded, for they had long years experience putting the strength of their backs to work for the good of the Clan of Patil, but each was broad chested enough that even a simple breath was practically a performance. They kept their hoods up, as was customary outside of Khune, but kept the faded Orange silks pulled back enough that their faces could catch the wane morning sun. They were not at all what one usually pictured upon hearing the word "slave," and in truth none would have thought to describe themselves so. They were Clanbound, having chosen to bind themselves to the Grainmothers of Patil rather than face the salt plains on thier own. There was strength in that unity, and comradery in the banter that filled the air as they found a place to rest in the shade of the inn. Khundari voices filled the air, simultaneously harsh and silky smooth, as they jested and gossiped among themselves in Taal. The two Grainmothers joined them, clearly at east among those Bound to them, and only the men tapping their sigiled headbands at their approach signaled any sort of deference.


One of the younger men asked, staring at the worn doors of the inn. Like all Khundari, he showed the proper respects by always using her full title. Among those of the Clan, Clannames were not needed. His face was as sharp and cutting as Cara's though that was the only way he looked like her.  He'd taken to piercing his nose as well as his ears, thick rings of copper that he'd taken in a game of cards off some seaman.


The older of the two Grainmthers answered, matching respect given with respect earned with Jarlis' full title as well. She looked to be in her late thirties, with wide brown eyes and a ritual tattoo covering one cheek.


One of the older Clanbound asked, a heavier man with a thick black beard just starting to go gray, and flashing amber eyes.



The Clanbound all echoed in imperfect unison.

---

Cara, for her part, had been lost in thought as they had drawn near. She snapped out of whatever reverie she was in, and adjusting the thick leather of her gloves moved to the front door of the Southern Squalling. She paused to look over her shoulder at Huarta, and glared when the Matriarch showed her forward with a gentle smile. The Matriarch had explained the basics of what they were about to face on the journey over, and while she agreed that it was necessary, she was less than thrilled with the prospect. A handful of Silverbands, or even that warrior monk Manaolana. Something beyond this. Yet there was no fate but that which she tread, and her only choice was in the treading.

With a heavy hand, she knocked on the front dorr.

Idle-No-More swept.

'A clean floorspace is a clean headspace,' he heard someone say once. He wanted to believe that was how it worked, but he knew it didn't. The supply room was one of the few things he controlled, the few things he could call his own duty. His House wanted nothing more with him. His sister no longer wrote him. Each carried crate and bag born to its corner allowed Idle to not remain so. It was an effective way of muting his feelings, of muzzling these new thoughts that sprang with his new way of life.

Besides, five years a slayer could only kill so much.

A thumb-thick loc - charmed with the thin tooth of his first felled fiend - fell over his face from out of the large bound bundle at the back of his head. Despite the devils he destroyed in his time with the Caravan, there were only so many he could put down inside of him. The rest remained to wander like mondains tearing away at the beliefs he once knew as mundane. Still, he practiced his forms, kept his silik listening to the death song. Still, he subjected himself to the constraints that remained for THE GREATER GOOD, though no longer was this for his House, his Home. The Caravaners were his House now, though they seemed to miss the subtlety and conniving that came with being of Xhexes.

Still, he spoke with the tones and tilts of his home, like granular silk pouring into an iron cauldron. It wasn't hard to move among these new men and woman, but it was hard to realize that everything was so different. There wasn't the same sense of...Idle-No-More knew not the word, but what bound them together was a different kind of glue. Perhaps like one from a netwi tree as compared to hooves.

Still, and most of all, he wondered about his sister, where her letters went, where her head lay at night. He'd never known Lorai B'hi to be a soft girl, certainly more hard than most Khundari women. Idle remembered when he became a Saggar, though the memory wasn't quiet and triumphant when juxtaposed against the last chore he was chosen for in Khune. Is that what led to his continual abandonment? Did a simple job that night nudge Lorai closer to jeopardy? Unlike him, his sister was talented, gifted, studied and celebrated in the magical method within Xhexes. But would House Xhexes be willing to do to her what they did to him? Was what they did to him and had him do all for her? For Lorai?

"Y'in there."

Idle-No-More still swept as he lifted his head, the loc falling from his face as he tried to scrub at the darkness with investigative glances.

"One comes running."

He hadn't expected the voice of a child, even less so than expecting one up creeping and climbing overhead. Where were they? It was certainly no type of freedom he had much experience with as a child. He looked back down at the broom - no use sweeping if you didn't do the job right - then looked back up. It almost seemed like a game. Idle grinned. To be a child again, but not so unusual as this one. At least unusual as far as he could tell, but it wasn't shocking.

What was shocking was what came next.

"Coat of Red and Black, Blue-coat, Gem in her head. Pieced and Weighted."

Idle-No-More stopped sweeping.

A coat? The broom froze in the grip of hesitation. He'd heard passing of those blue-coated authority types, and knew nothing of gem-headed individuals. But a coat...the coat of red and black? His lids opened, slowly, like the dawning of a dark sun on a new day.

Red and Black?

"Emperor Markov's bloody shits," Idle mumbled. What in the Three was an Oathsworn doing out here? Was it Grainmother Huarta? She had to have told them, or it, whatever this group was. The supplier looked up again. That child said they had work for him. House Xhexes had to be here for him.

No...that wasn't right. They would have taken him, killed him, ignored him...but certainly not paid him.

"Mama says yer no fond of the colors. But they got silver, maybe gold.  Ship uloadin now. Worth it to you?"

Idle-No-More put the broom away, perhaps spending a breath longer than necessary making sure it was in the right place. He turned back to the child up in the vents as he pulled his robe off its hook. It was green, plain if not for the finely detailed gold embroidery along the sleeves. Next to his physical form, it was the last remnant from his time as a Saggar. "Be good to your...'mahmuh'. She's wise." Between his accent and state of mind, the unfamiliar word was a struggle. The thigh-length robe was worn nearly open, the bottom of it tucked into the top of his pantaloons. It fit him loosely, and he pulled the hood over his head. It was massive, able to encumber his bundle of locs, but leave his face relatively free.

"And you can let her know that I'll have a look. But remember, kid," Idle had picked that last word off of Baruk. "The only colors you should ever concern yourself with..." He tied his rope-sash off at the waist, checked that the bell was proper centered. The peal inside it was tied off. For now.

"...are the ones that put food in your mouth."

Idle-No-More made to wink, leaving the child with a grin. As soon as he left the storage room, he heard what sounded like cheering.

Must be a good game of Pig.

If the Oathsworn wasn't there yet, maybe he'd take Baruk up on that drink.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

*KTUNK KTUNK KTUNK KTUNK*

"Let y'self t'fuck on in!" The few Caravaners laughed at Leinv, their mugs clinking like applause. Leinv's feet were propped on a table, leaned so far back in her chair that it would be almost unfortunate if calamity didn't claim her. Her drink sloshed, but not a drop was wasted, as Baruk nimbly caught the splashed remnants in his own glass. "Non need to be rood," Baruk said. "Perhaps anota body wan'in to join our game, lose t'eir coin as bad as you do." Some snickered; in this game of Lucky Pig, Leinv had none of the former. "Figya a real pig would be richa'n you right now."

Leinv spat back, but the room was already drowning in chuckles. Even the quieter patrons respected the comment with a smile as Baruk took a long pull on his mug. "Dohn't mind meh while I gets that door..." He stood slowly, his short stature taking enough time to let the silence sink in.

Then, with a smile that splayed his ruddy cheeks, he added, "...I's got meh a pig t'bring in. Give 'em j'you seat, Leinv."

The room was in an uproar, the tender in tears, the whispering wayfarers in wheezes, Caravaners convulsing in fits of mirth. All the while Leinv pouted, mumbling to herself as she stared at her drink and the dice that worked against her.

Baruk opened the door, looking straight at red and black, then up at one of the most intimidating figures he'd only ever heard about third-hand.

"Oh bwe...j'you's no pig at all."

~~~~~~~~~~~~

It might have been that Cara missed Baruk's bothered mien altogether, because across the room - a room whose mirth dissipated like fog in the wind - stood a large, heavy-lidded Khundari whose hazel eyes remained unmoved from her own.

"Oathsworn."

Even Idle-No-More didn't know if it was a greeting or statement of fact, but there were some customs that took longer to forget than other. He greeted her with a thumb to his forehead and a short nod. His other hand, however, didn't move from his hip.

"What the fuck's an Oa-?" Baruk's quick look shut Leinv up.

"How may I be of service?"

Looks like he wasn't going to have time to get that drink after all.
This message was last edited by the player at 01:37, Thu 04 Feb 2021.

The sound was muted, but through the wood of the door Cara distinctly heard the cry of "Let y'self t'fuck on in!" She made to oblige, pulling on the worn brass handle, but was briefly thwarted as the crooked blue door was evidently caught in the frame. She braced herself, and gave it a heavier pull, putting what muscle she had into it. It wasn't much. Although she had the feral, lean look of a fighting cat, she was not a large woman. The coat went a long way towards covering that fact up, but the truth of the matter was that Khundari were typically not selected by the Houses for the Red and Black due to the width of their shoulders and the strength of their arms. Oh, there were brutally strong Oathsworn among some of the Houses, but typically those talented in such ways found themselves bound within the Silverbands. Cara's training with the dueling knives had certainly made her muscles stringey and long, they had not given her much more in the way of mass, and thus it took a concerted effort on her part to force the door open.

Baruk beat her to it, a broad shoulder ramming the stuck door open with the practiced ease of familiarity. "Oh bwe...j'you's no pig at all." He was far bigger than her, despite her having a few inches on him, but the fact that her coat caught his eyes more than the twinned pair of long knives at her hips told that the lion share of the her work with the man was already done. They were obviously brawler's weapons, the heavy guards on each more akin to knuckle dusters than a duelist's quillon and guard. Practical tools for a practical killer. For them not to earn so much as a glance, but the coat to make him stare? He knew what she was, or at least some twisted version that more than suited her purpose. She pushed past him, dismissing him completely as she passed through the threshold and into the Southern Squalling proper.

"Oathsworn."

The words rang out as she stepped in, risking much in that critical moment as her eyes adjusted to the relative gloom within. If someone had struck at her in that instant, she would have been practically blind. Yet it was a chance she risked, for the Matriarch of Patil did business here. If she had been in imminent danger, the Grainmother would have warned her. Besides, the voice that had named her Oathsworn had been Khundari, had it not?

"What the fuck's an Oa-?" Her amber eyes found the source of surprised cursing, but passed over them instantly as he was silenced. She did not know if a pointed elbow or a glare had silenced him, but it didn't matter. That wasn't who she was hunting for either. It was the Khundari who were eyes sought, finally spotting him across the main room of the inn.

"How may I be of service?"

He added, and she took a moment to take his measure as her vision returned in full. She saw no sigil of Clan upon him, which was rare for a Khundari, even one so far from the harsh lands of home. Perhaps he had gone native in these Green Lands, or was he Clanless? The latter would certainly explain why Grainmother Patil had made it so clear that she would not like him. The Matriarch had not elaborated, saying at the time that the salt would fall where it fell. Cara had not asked her to, the meaning of the expression clear to her. When the ill winds of fate brought forth The Salt that Taints the Ground, there was nothing for it but to follow the path of the Greater Good.

She mirrored his greeting exactly, bringing her thumb to her forehead and coupling it with her own curt nod. Her gaze never left him as she did, drifting a moment to the hand at his hip. That earned a single arched eyebrow, though her gloved hands did not move from her sides to grasp the twinned hilts of her own blades. Instead, she moved to the bar, her eyes sweeping briefly over each present once before settling back on the Khundari.

[Language unknown: "I ur Alet, Notvented Allthoeveent ng Ilpoto Niiner. Thi liom ha ncbe seel m at Necasaer o erana Ioplpeonss ne Tioundwhe, osmoos Forvenbut m nte Lartr."]

She answered him in their native tongue, slipping easily into the formalities of greetings and proper names.

[Language unknown: "Fiure setoutanying, Olleosee."]

There was something utterly wrong about him, and it was far more than his avoidance of the proper formalities of names. Even across the room she could feel it, though she had no context to understand what it was. It was an oily sensation, creeping across the face of the magic she had so painstakingly woven into her Mantle. She was brimming with the stolen and tithed power of her Dependents, and whatever it was she was sensing, it was nothing of magic like she knew it. She could feel the alien sensation crawling just under her skin, worming its way into her, and almost instantly she became aware of the piece of the Fragment lying swollen and blinded within her forearm. She could feel it roiling within her, and only just avoided reaching for her own vambrace encased wrist in a futile gesture. Instead she pushed the feeling away, ignoring it, and concentrated on Idle. It was easy enough to keep her discomfort from showing on her features, she was well used and well trained to such things. Yet it was disquieting nevertheless. She would have known in an instant if he was somehow draining the power from her Mantle, and the only thing that she was sure of was that was not what was happening here.

Whatever it was, the Matriarch had been truly right.
This message was last edited by the GM at 13:56, Mon 22 Feb 2021.

Even if Baruk had not buckled under the Oathsworn's aura, it would still be impossible to tell if the Caravaners would have reacted the same way. Years of combined training kept them in sync with their commanding leaders reactions: it was how veterans lived long enough to claim the title. It was the learned instinct that kept them from being speared by some sharp-fingered mondain who seemed just a little less scary than the last one.

Cara's gaze carved the room in a searing wave as she made her way to the bar. Those few that were simply passing through couldn't help but keep their heads tucked into their drink or conversation. The Caravaners reacted in different ways. Most looked away, one glared back, and Leinv stared with her one eye, jaw hanging on a confused hinge.

Idle-No-More had simply upturned his bottom lip, watching coolly, nodding his head gently. It had been awhile since he'd been spoken to with such an air of presumptousness; no one could affect such an inherent measure of command like an Oathsworn. This one...Cara...she made the few Oathsworn he'd ever seen sound like toothless dbars. It was almost amusing. It almost made him homesick.

Almost.

His strides, long and lenient, brought him to join her at the bar. It was obviously intentional as he let her demand hang in the air as he ordered himself a drink, making sure to specify that both of theirs would be on Baruk's tab. She (and/or whoever else she came with; there was little reason to suspect she was alone) needed something from him. Whatever it was, it was important enough for her to find him herself.

Perhaps he was getting ahead of himself. For all he knew, this Cara could have simply been paying the courtesy personally as he was a kindred Khundari. 'Kindred' did seem to push the idea...and courtesy had varying degrees of definition when it came to...her types. Unless Khune had undergone some sort of revolution, he was prepared that the exchange of etiquette would be more than likely unilateral. Pending if he was in a nice mood.

[Language unknown: Ca il m]...Idle-No-More."

Idle lapsed for a moment, considering something in his speech. He didn't hide the bend at the corner of his lip.

[Language unknown: "Llmidi Dayameess le Buterecon Oladur. Ecisss e paith Eveartthe Aiolfo Tioinepro. Hoit tioas Tiothiore-andson Adtrro llno olwa reavenare."]

Their was no reason the sea baron would have held back information for Idle's sake. Sending in an Oathsworn blind into a situation was not something someone chose to do if they could help it, and if they valued their life. He'd liked the Grainmother anyway; she still respected him from a business standpoint, though he could tell he put the woman at unease.

Maybe he just had that affect on Khundari women. He made certain to give Cara a wide berth before leaning forward with both forearms on the bar counter. The motion elicited a complaining creak of wood and stone. To ensure the Oathsworn had a wide berth, he gave a casual look to the two Caravners at the bar. They quietly got up and moved back to the Lucky Pig game taking place. In the inquisitive silence that filled the space, he could hear the click of dice and Leinv questioning Baruk. Baruk hadn't given her any answers.

[Language unknown: "Adter u ou ers rat ekei. Ad werantstr lo iculun as il os tosspe-heof esio'ssmo. Nd nd wilatepro wil ce thuof ai ectarddin setntiing, ch rong se ngic-erna are. Reatolarta man i."]

Instead of killing me, was what he also thought. Cara may have noticed how Idle-No-More fell back into Taal with relative ease; he was, in fact, much more eloquent when conversing in his native tongue than others, understandably, though he seemed to hesitate on the word for 'home'. He left his sleepy-eyed look on the space between his gripped hands. Would her companions be joining her? He never knew non-Khundaris to mind their own, so he presumed she would have an entourage of fellow Khundaris. Some sort of Clanbound who were just as likely as he was to get used up and dumped off somewhere. The thought made him clench his jaw, made him angry at his perpetrators and worried for Lorai all over again. His drink arrived, and he took a long pull to stall for time to gather himself.

[Language unknown: "Riiewierlo, p essinefor esmen ectentsonill disa intsonith ome p rutndeear po stibletin sonle Wi ameillhas e cksti os stiomesti. Etfo intareart u o weprfonewi, kor, notouting eenameateeen trathasti ss m uthech, k ardastntethu thethimen o k asteveill..."]

Idle-No-More let his words hand in the air. The whole time he kept his face fixed ahead, his mug nestled between calloused palms.

He grunted. [Language unknown: "U ationerom kor aiman din Waseauiveersall nteredere be tio essdinoun."]
This message was last edited by the GM at 13:58, Mon 22 Feb 2021.

Cara's eternally ireful features darkened further as Idle drew the exchange out, ordering his drink before gracing her with the basic formalities of his name and title. It was more than just his aura, though she certainly found that corruption unpleasant. For a people for whom individual survival essentially depended upon communal cooperation, the bonds of family and kin were everything. Such family did not need to be by blood, for any could earn a place even among the high Houses if they had the talent. The end result was that even the smallest Clans wore their sigils proudly, and spoke their surnames with the chins held high.

Which meant that whoever this Khundari was, he was Clanless. Well, that certainly explained why the Matriarch had said they would not get along. Her suspicion was confirmed when he finally gave his moniker, yet her reaction was perhaps not what might have been expected. In the revelation, and in the face of his quirked lip, the Oathsworn of Yisil let out a rather undignified snort.

"Idle-No-More?"

She said incredulously in Kumol.

"That is just... a terrible name for one of the Clanless. Matriarch's sagging teets."

She cursed, not bothering to hide her dubious expression. It was a far cry from the formal declaration of greeting she had opened up with, made even cruder by the fact that she wasn't obscuring it in Taal. She didn't elaborate, instead shaking her head and turning to the bar to order her own drink. That left him largely to his own devices to go on. The name of "House Xhexes" earned him another sideways glance, but no further comment. Whatever her opinion of the fallen House was, it wasn't strong enough to merit commentary on her part. What evidently crossed the line was when he referred to the Shadow Caravan with the honorific of "House" in their shared tongue.

[Language unknown: "Utplng all in te."]

She snapped on reflex, though blessedly she didn't force the issue if he insisted, and let him finish without further disturbance. When he'd said his piece, she heaved a heavy sigh and turned back towards him.

"We're short up, Idle-No-More. The Silverband crew the Matriarch of Patil normally runs with is still in Tumult, and not due for another two weeks."

She'd slipped easily back into Kumol, as evidently she didn't care if the others there understood her. "Silverbands" sounded a little awkward, but it was a close enough translation of the name for the hunter and warrior caste of the Khundari. Mercenaries, primarily, unless they bound themselves as guards or marines to one of the Clans. They were generally quite skilled with short bow and long knives, though never match for a well trained Saggar.

"So I can keep being cold and engaging in the time honored tradition of pointless bickering, and likely as not sit on my ass until they show, or I can show a little courtesy and hire the local experts. We need to get the Grainmother's caravan to Pennryn, and as I understand it the Mondain are making things a bit complicated for any who brave the roads. You and yours are good at what you do, as per the word of the Matriarch. No higher praise is bound to be forthcoming here, as far as I'm concerned."

She tapped her thumb to her forehead again, another gesture of respect paid the Matriarch's way. Even though Cara technically outranked the Matriarch within the Khundari caste system, such gestures of respect were not uncommon if they had been earned. It was the only thing about her that wasn't odd. She should have been far more aggressive with him, given the extent of his admission. The rumors around House Xhexes were prolific, and that was above and beyond the normal game of Houses. He occupied the very bottom rung of the caste system, while she was near the top. She should have been bullying him, ordering him to comply, yet she wasn't. Something had altered her perceptions, her sense of her place in the world.

There was far more too it than that, for even her presence there was odd. Oathsworn were the most prized assets of a House, the accumulation of generations of arcane power and bloody sacrifice. There was simply no way that the Clan of Patil would hire one to escort a couple of grain caravans traveling through the Greenlands. It would have been cheaper by far to just wait for Silverbands to make their way from Tumult. Clearly, something else was at play here. Which was honestly exactly what one would expect for one of the Oathsworn, nothing any of the Houses did was straightforward or clear, and doubly so for their empowered Agents. This simply seemed too mundane and pedestrian for her.

[Language unknown: "U Is all, orehasore t thutul io Dinlatlatandeve, butillvir of Ckivst..."]

She clanked her mug into his, switching back into their mother tongue.

[Language unknown: "... tinterall k whi liwer Atlais Itnces has ecenc ss oneingome n mo i ernire llngri."]
This message was last edited by the GM at 14:03, Mon 22 Feb 2021.

Idle-No-More's eyes lingered in his mug. Other than raising his eyebrows at Cara's reaction to calling the caravan a House - a title of which the meaning was now muddled for him - there was very little reaction to be seen on the fit man's face. He softly "hmfed" and "mmed" in a way that sounded either dismissive or attentive. Once she got her drink, he turned in his seat to face her, though his face didn't follow. It remained pointed toward the mug in his hand.

Maybe he had more shame than he remembered.

Not that it was his fault. How was one to feel when their family left them to the  wilderness like wasted firewood? Unlike Khune this land was much more lush, yet the flora and fauna could do little to fill the space in his soul that was held by Clankin. Each of the last five seasons had brought a new stage of mourning, and this one had been on the final cusp of acceptance. This Oathbound's arrival, unexpected and irresistible, had upset years of sand still settling inside of him. Now it was blown about, reaching between and irritating the smallest parts of him he nearly forgot.

At least she sounded considerate enough; at the very least considerate enough to respect time outside the hemming and hawing of haggling for a "shit over a nick" (Baruk had the strangest sayings). Idle kept his Silik singing, reaching out to her with the song that called all life. It hummed in pleasure; there was blood on this one. She was dangerous.

He would have been worried if she wasn't.

"You and yours are good at what you do, as per the word of the Matriarch." Baruk, seated away from Cara's view, caught Idle's eye with a look that said, Really now? "No higher praise is bound to be forthcoming here, as far as I'm concerned." Idle ignored the short man's waggling brows, though they were wise enough not to crack a smile. Idle was short the station leader thought the Oathsworn would feel it.

*Clink*

The mugs connected and Idle raised his mug, taking a big gulp. He'd learned how these eastern folk drank when they needed strength, or anything else really. Idle still didn't understand the concept, but was beginning to sympathize.

"Well..." Idle wiped his mouth before switching to his mother tongue.

[Language unknown: "U ousrattic i il m ate ion..."]

"Baruk." He watched their ears perk in that silly, feline way. Baruk was always a good actor; the man could play dead on the field before stabbing a Mondain in the back. He had little time for pride, which is what got him to stay alive long enough to be stationo leader. Idle even wondered if they could speak Taal, but he suspected that he would never know.

"Sounds like we've got some possible work."

Baruk excused him from the game, being sure to take his winnings and shove them in his pocket as he approached. "Oh jyeah? Like'n wot?" The redhead's eyes shifted uneasily to Cara.

""Needs an escort," Idle said. "Nasty work. Her and...others...?" Idle looked to Cara, wondering with a tilt of his head if there were others in her entourage.

The prospect of payment propped up Baruk's stance. The confidence that came with coin was recognizable. "Oh jyeah. Well'm...I's got to see who's for sparun. Can't leave t'stayshun f'empty, jyeah?" With a glint in his eye he asks Cara, "What's t'weight of et?"

---

shit for a nick - Nickel and diming

The Weight of It - going rate
This message was last edited by the GM at 14:06, Mon 22 Feb 2021.

Cara waved a dismissive hand at Baruk's question, clearly disinterested in discussing minor details like payment. That made sense, for even a minor House like Yisil would have no shortage of wealth within its coffers to draw upon. The Houses did not hoard wealth over generations like the Nobles did here in the Green Lands, yet their mere existence was built on such an intricate network of magic, blood, and boons that they never lacked for it. There was always another debtor, and another debt to be paid. Yisil might not even be a minor power anymore, in the time since Idle had left, for the fortunes of Houses were always waxing and waning.

"The Matriarch of Patil with have coin enough to fill you bellies."

She answered him, her eyes never leaving the other Khundari. It was clear she assumed that he was the leader, and that he was the one she would be negotiating with. All the stranger that she wasn't simply ordering him around. Had they been in Khune, no Oathsworn would have lowered themselves to haggling with one of the Clanless. They would have just tried to order him around, or perhaps even skip that step entirely and just attempted to bind him with sorcery. Clearly, some amount of the Green Lands had rubbed off on her.

"Name your price, and it will be met. When the ban has warded the storm we will see if you were worth it, or if there is to be an accounting."

There it was, the arrogance one would expect with an Oathsworn. With her words, she challenged him to name whatever price he wanted for his services, but guaranteed that she would demand he and his fellow Caravaners be worth every bite of tin they claimed. Whatever she was to say next was interrupted by the door again swinging open, with the three Grainmother's of Patil entering the Southern Squalling, joking amongst themselves in Khundari. All three brought their thumbs to their foreheads upon seeing Idle, but only the Matriarch added the courtesy of an accompanying nod.

[Language unknown: "E, As thu repe tio i te lin teattast undateard, vorti m ive wienc thu ulhick n conoerear forpo."]  She said with a smirk, her voice rich despite its hardened edge.

[Language unknown: "Ildi ar o prliom he, Liekpait Alnoas. T etatet waoun lipl ioce ive wit en on wh siing forsanred asaine."]  Cara answered, taking a pull from her own drink.

[Language unknown: "Kor nasalo u le a day he res eaudayoer, wendnc ive m ndil i lerehe en on tosste vor t sefo ur Ssplil Ted. Treias nte inehasfor eau ovelaroul e, oufi astprowhe fo an astmeneve on estoutred of."]

---

When the bane has warded the storm - reference to the charms of gull feathers used to shelter sailors from Izkazar: The Mother of Storms, translates to "when the storm has passed."

Warding flame - the flames which are kept ever burning to ward off the attention of Idrin: the Warper of Flesh.
This message was last edited by the GM at 14:08, Mon 22 Feb 2021.

It hadn't taken long to gather the group.  Those of the Silverbands that were in Stoltgard had started to secure the loadings.  Several of the ship-members helped, though many of them would remain with the ship in Stoltgard.  It was early enough in the year that Grain Mother Patil would return to make for Cyrenni within a fortnight.

Grain Mother Patil and the ship's crew had unloaded the cargo with a swiftness that spoke of long-earned expertise and experience.   What was being moved to Pennryn was forged weapons, iron-bars and ingots of other metals.  Some were carefully wrapped and marked with warding signs.   There were wraps of leather, bolts of fabric and foodstuffs from the south, though in lesser measure.

Nathan and Rickard had been overseeing the preparation, having been none-to-kindly told to stay out of the way. But the crew was mostly done unloading by the time Baruck and his crew arrived to start prepping the caravan.   Immediately, there was a disagreemtn about how to store and bind some of the materials.

Patil, for her part, did not intervene.  "They're going to have to work together, work it out."  she said non-commitally.  For her part, she and Baruck were in close-quarters, discussing something a a rapid-fire patois that was part Taal, park Lumol, part indistinguishable.

Word spread through Stoltgard that the Shadow caravan was moving to Pennryn, and shortly after, several other people--neither Silverbands nor Baruck's caravaners-- seemed to show up like termites out of the woodwork.

There were, it seemed, always people looking to go to PEnnryn Keep.  Most were just waiting for the safety of a caravan to go unaided.  A party had left but a moon earlier, but already there were a dozen figures looking to go with them.  Most wore simple unbleached robes and wore braided bracelets.  The Shadow Caravaners directed them with bland acceptance.

Robes & Bracelet:  The remaining cultists from the Blue Sails warehouse.  One of them, Robert, had gone with Etzagith and Nathan to confirm the Prince's identities, and now Robert languishes in a Druvir cello, awaiting execution for conspiracy to  kidnap the royal princes.

Among the robed, a little blonde girl of no more than eight, with tiny ringlets held off of her face by a braided leather band, stayed back, her sad, dark eyes stained with tears.   She was the only child among them--though there'd been more when Cara and Nathan had come upon them in the Blue Sails Warehouse.
This message was last edited by the player at 14:53, Mon 22 Feb 2021.

When Lilith returned, she moved with a confident swaggering pace and a smile from ear to ear.   She bore a small satchel over her shoulder and held a hairy green fruit in one hand, tossing it in the air and catching it again.   It was about the size of an apple, and where she'd bitten into it, it glowed an almost luminescent green..

"You have to try these!" She called out, threw one of the fruits to Cara and another to Nathan.  She ignored Rickard.   "It's sunshine in a bubble!"

Lilith took a moment to admire the working Khundari as they secured their cargoes.  She let her eyes linger, then shook her head with another smile, touched her fingers to her lips,  "And that is why I could never be a a chastitant."

Noting that Arui wasn't around, Lilith offered that the Tarenti Guardian had gone to the more disreputable tavern near the docks, The Soggy Troll, several hours before.

"I can fetch her, if we're about ready."  she offered.

Cara caught strange green fruit, but pocketed it in her coat without taking a bite. It was less that she didn't trust Lilith, though she didn't, and more that she didn't trust anything in these Greenlands that she didn't know. The Grainmothers would know what it was, and if it was safe to eat. Instead she just nodded to the rogue, the gesture curt but professional.

"Find her then, I'll be along shortly. I'm feeling... full..."

She patted her stomach, favoring Lilith with a smile at the implication of what she was saying. The rumors of Oathsworn being drinkers of blood were commonplace in these lands, and there was even a bit of truth to them. That was always the case with the best stories, truth and lies blending so seamlessly that it was impossible to tell one from the other. The Houses used that to their advantage, ensuring that the stories about them outside of Khune were always full of the most vile misdeeds. Fear was a weapon, and one they employed to great effect. The truth of it was, as always, more complicated than that. The Lesser Boon was indeed a tithe of blood, but Oathsworn were not some Dhampir to slake some unholy hunger with it. There was power in blood, magic primordial and ancient. The Shards gave them a means to act as a conduit, but it was the blood from which they truly drew strength.  She shared none of this, though given his former status as a Saggar of House Xheses he likely as not knew it already. Instead, she turned and regarded Idle-No-More with a pinched faced stare, the look of her hungry and lean.

"I've some business with the wagons that will need attending to, afore we are off. See to the Matriarch about your payment, she'll see you get your standard rates and then some."

She finished her drink and set down her cup gingerly, spinning about on her heel and stalking out of the inn. She moved like a hunting cat, straight as an arrow towards the wagons, but drew up short when she saw the motley assortment gathered outside. Her eyes passed over the young girl, and while her gaze did not harden, nor did it soften at the sight.

"You. Yes all of you!"

She barked at the refugees, her hands settling on her knives' hilts.

"You remember me, aye? Well I remember you, all of you. Is this really to be the way of it? What is a child doing here? Who is responsible for this one? If I hear the answer 'she's not ours, Oathsworn,' I will be mightily displeased. She was indeed with you outside the Blue Sails. Was she belonging to one of those who died that day? How did you all even get here?"

She sounded angry, but she certainly wasn't cushioning the blow her words might inflict.

"By ship, Oathswearer. We had enough to buy passage on the Morning Sprite despite you ruining everything. Your displeasure aside, she ain't ours. Maybe your knives took her pap?"

One of the refugees answered, spitting on the ground as he did. He was a short man of middling build who walked with a cane. He'd taken some injury then, to need such assistance, for he was far too young to have need of it it otherwise.

"Oathsworn!" She answered him with a snarl. "Maybe they did. Maybe the Queen's Men were supposed to take care of the young ones. If this is what passes for Kumlan responsibility? Did they really just abandon you to fend for yourselves after all that had passed?"

He sneered at her, afraid of what he was doing but not letting it stop him. "What did you think they were going to do?" Some of his companions tried to stop him, but their own fear made them reluctant to so much as raise their heads, let alone get involved.

"Protect their own." She growled back, half drawing her blade, before glancing at the already traumatized girl. Then she looked at the caravan, heaved a sigh, and sheathed it. "If you're looking to travel to Pennryn, then you're looking to place yourself under my tender and loving care. That means she's coming with us, and she's your responsibility. Anything happens to her, you better already be dead from it" She turned and, without further argument, moved towards the larger of the two covered wagons.

Describe the Action: Very serious roll to catch the fruit

Roll the Dice: 07:57, Today: Cara rolled 2 using 4 Fudge dice.

Determine Approach: Athletics, total of +3

Choose an Action:Catch the fruit!


]

@CARA
Took it a little further than I wanted you to... so, I'm backtracking it just a touch.  I wanted to introduce a couple of things...

"Haddren." a voice called.  a woman's voice, low-pitched and reedy.  "Enough.  Let it be.  She's hunted us this far."

A woman stepped out from behind one of the wagons, wiping sweat from her hands on the low hem of her robe.   She was middle-aged and thick-set,  but muscular, with close-shorn blond hair that had long started turning to silver.   Her face was seamed and sun-touched, and there seemed to be lines in her face from battle and worry in equal measure.

Cara had seen her before, clutching the side side of the man that had gone with Etzagith to the Blue-Coat garrison in Druvir to confirm the identity of the young princes.  Robert lay, even now, in a Druvir dungeon awaiting the black hood's axe for kidnapping and treason.

"Jacinda." the woman called out.  "Go behind the wagons with Haddren dear.  We're going to need more stores of water."

The girl stood motionless for a moment, but the man with the cane clucked his tongue and the girl ran to him, helped him move beyond.

The woman turned to face Cara squarely "Move to to harm my daughter, and I'll not see you move again.".  Her voice was solid and square; fear might've been in her, but she'd obviously had enough life-experience to master her emotions.

Her eyes flicked back and forth around the scene and others of the group seemed to adroitly fade into the background.  They didn't disappear so much as suddenly become busy doing something.  That most of those things involved an obstacle--a wagon, a cart, a set of boxes--between them and Cara was not lost on her.

"It wasn't enough that you took her father?"  she asked.  "You must really hate Medallon, that you hound those who flee his teachings?"