Fate - First Reply Night at the Wayward Rest

Rain poured in relentless sheets, silvery against the light of the pale moons. In defiance of the night slim orange lights from inside the Wayward Rest issued forth. The inn was one of many in the vicinity of the thin arms of land to the west and east of Alliria and its surrounding towns, situated along the well-trodden roads and servicing travelers going to and from the grand city.

But the Wayward Rest was dreadfully alone this night.

"There ain't no reason to hide," called Lorick Gamon with a smug, even gay, surety. Indeed his cheerfulness belied many things. The fact that, just behind him, one of his men held an innocent girl hostage. The fact that the entire Wayward Rest was surrounded by his large band of raiders.

"Them doors? Them windows? Those walls and that roof? They ain't gonna shelter ye for long. And there ain't nowhere to go. You're gonna have to deal with me sooner or later."

Lorick smiled wide, his teeth pressing into his lower lip. The rain fell and it bothered him not a whit.

"But I'm a nice guy. Nice and reasonable, so I tell you what! I tell...you...what. You bring all that gold and them valuables you got outside and drop it at my feet. Do that and we all walk away happy from this. Don't do that...and she dies. And not only does she die, but you all die too!"

Thunder rolled just as he said that. Lorick laughed heartily.

"Hear that? Arethil her-fuckin-self agrees with me." Lorick raked his teeth along his lip and then called out, "You all got fifteen minutes to decide."



Reven knelt in a huddle with the other patrons and the innkeep of the Rest in the (once) cozy common room. One of the windows of the common room was broken, shards of glass on the floor, rain sprinkling in through the violent opening. A dead man lay near it, crossbow bolt in the back of his head—the unfortunate man had been standing near the window, and Lorick and his band of raiders had decided to announce their presence by shooting him from the outside.

Reven started taking a quick headcount, now that it mattered. And bad news. There weren't many of them, patrons of the Rest. Not many at all. Throwing in the innkeep himself, there was less than a dozen all told. And the raiders had the whole damn inn surrounded—the patrons were outnumbered no less than three-to-one by the raiders.

But the man speaking. Their leader. Reven...damn, he felt like he knew that voice from somewhere. But he couldn't quite place it. Not that knowing the leader would do him any good. Raiders, bandits, roadmen, theirs was a cutthroat business, and Reven ought to know.

"Wer in a damn fix, and that ain't no lie," Reven said.

The innkeep, a man named Robert, said frightfully, "He has my daughter! My Morgan! She's seen but her fourteenth winter!"

"Yeah, we all heard as much. But if they ain't impressed with what gold and goods we drop at their feet, they'll do whatever they want till they're satisfied. See the dead man over there? That's fine proof surrender isn't our best call."

Robert, beside himself and near hysterics with fear, said, "Then what can we do!?"

Reven glanced about the huddle. Not everybody was armed. Not everybody could fight. But necessity was a bitch, and violence didn't ask your permission before intruding on your life.

"How 'bout it?" Reven said, looking to the person next to him.

The rain pattered on the hood of Morgan's cloak and it pattered on her shoulders and she eyed the Wayward Rest with a level calm.

The innocent girl was not in truth innocent. This particular ploy, of holding a seemingly innocent girl hostage and demanding ransom from the patrons of the inn, was not of Lorick Gamon's devising, but of her own. Her father Lorick, skittish at the best of times, had a tendency to exaggerate for effect; Morgan would've rolled her eyes if she knew he said she was fourteen years of age again; yes, she could pass for it, what with the more childish features of her face, but she was approaching her twentieth.

Once she had been a sweet girl, taking after her late mother and working about the Rest, diligent and upright and wholesome. But some few years back she was kidnapped—revenge upon Lorick for one of his less-than-savory dealings. He wasn't above conducting some unlawful business under the table, but this was the first time it blew up in his face. He crossed the wrong people. They took Morgan as collateral. By the time Lorick paid them back, they had already sold her to Lorick's gang.

But the twist of fate: Morgan fell deeply in love with her kidnapper, the muscle employed by the people Lorick had crossed, a young man her age named Dannig, and he too had fallen for her. Dannig even joined Lorick's gang to be with her, and they kept their bond a close secret. And Morgan, for the sake of her true love, took to the sordid life of an outlaw with astonishing sincerity and alacrity. The sweet girl she once was had perished.

Lorick kept her as a sort of concubine, but she'd prove her cunning to him by suggesting this ploy as could be seen here tonight. Her father Robert, equal parts incredulous and frightened when Morgan returned—smiling—to the Rest and as Lorick threatened him into playing along in the ploy, agreed to do whatever the raiders wanted. And the first haul was good: no blood, easy work, those bleeding-heart patrons and adventurers poured their pockets out. The second haul was decent enough, especially for no blood.

Tonight was the third time this ransom ploy was put into motion. And Morgan hoped that this time, the work for Lorick's gang wouldn't be so easy. Everything depended on it. In her mind, it was the only way she and Dannig could truly be free.

She covertly glanced over to him, to Dannig, with just her eyes. He wasn't the man holding her hostage, but he was close by. He glanced back in similar manner. Then they each looked to the Rest again.

The rain continued to fall.



"I—I agree!" Robert said in enthusiastic, trembling response to Ernesta, his eyes bulging. "It's not doable! We can't do anything rash!"

"Quiet down, man," said Reven, with a touch more anger for the man's distraught interjection than he liked. He caught himself, cleared his throat, and spoke again, this more measured. "Look. We know how yer feelin. We ain't tryin to get yer daughter killed, and wer also not tryin to get killed ourselves. Or have our livelihoods stolen."

"Okay, okay, okay..." Robert said, clutching at his chest and holding up his hand as though pleading for mercy, forgiveness, or something of the sort. The man certainly was beside himself, that was for damn sure.

Reven looked back to the woman with the big hat. And it was a nice hat; not Reven's style, sure, but those feathers and all were a nice touch. In any case, it wasn't the hat, but her and her fellows' gear that Reven eyed. Fancy swords (or fancy enough to Reven's undiscerning sight), though they might have more elsewhere stashed—Reven didn't know, he didn't quite catch them all coming in before this mess.

"Reven," he said, expediently introducing himself as planning began in earnest. "You all got anythin with some range? Any of you? Bow, crossbow, hell, I'll take a sling if'n one of you is a crackshot slinger."

Ernesta Von Norgard