Fable - Ask Sinking Deeply

[Vida]

There was a saying that Vida had remembered about the Vaknelle swamplands. Well, there were two, actually. When they first told her, she simply believed them to be exaggerations told by drunks and travelers to pass the time; not an uncommon thing to find in taverns.

"Where there is land, there is mud."

"The richest road with the poorest footing."​

When she found herself on the road, she soon came to realize that there was plenty of truth in both sayings. The wetlands of the seemingly endless swamp that ran parallel to the forests of Falwood to their south boasted, by far, the worst roads she'd ever step foot upon. To a sellsword who spent nearly a decade travelling countless different, horrifyingly neglected routes? That was saying something.

There were months where her only companions were broken cobblestones and overgrown weeds; dirt paths and thoroughfares made only through the ruts of passing cart-wheels. And yet, never before had she encountered quite such an unpleasant, unrelenting source of frustration that made up the roads of the Vaknelle, and it just... never seemed to end. The horror beyond them would stretch on for days, still.

If not weeks, for every wheel that found its watery grave in a quagmire or hidden sinkhole took hours to replace.

Not that she could necessarily blame the wagon drivers when they lost their temper, and had silently commiserated every time their swears punctuated the humid air that was otherwise constantly abuzz with the unfaltering drone of a hundred different insects.

And there were all kinds of those; some that swam, some that flew on translucent wings, and more still that did both of these things with grotesque ease. But she couldn't put a single name to any of them, for she despised insects almost as much as she despised swamps. Now, more than ever.

Vida was watching one of them lose their temper now, as it happened.

There wasn't a great deal of entertainment to be found in a place like this, so she had to make do with watching the scene currently unfolding before her - a driver cursing while yet another wagon wheel was lost to the deceitful ground of a swamp that so cleverly hid its snares and tricks beneath broken paving stones and pitch-black layers of rotting sediment.

The man was an Allirian and she wasn't quite sure if he was weeping or not, for the humidity that stung her eyes did a fabulous job at preventing her from distinguishing whether one was crying or merely sweating. She wouldn't blame the man if he was.

In a few short days, she had long since surrendered trying to wipe away the salty beads of exertion from her forehead, instead opting for the much more sensible approach of simply enduring her suffering in miserable silence; only when it collected too heavily upon her brow for her to ignore did she finally force herself to smear the pooling perspiration from her flesh. And only then.

She did that now, so as to have a better view of someone else suffering for once.

Out of the six wagons winding their way through the Vaknelle, it just had to be the foremost carriage that had lost its wheel and axle both. Not to mention another oxen - who had rather admirably fallen to the wayside with little more than a noisy grunt of disapproval as it found itself entangled in both reins and the viscous morass of peaty earth on the land that flanked their pathetic little road on both sides. That meant that the carriage was nearly immovable; which meant that the rest of them were as hopelessly stranded as it was.

Why had it happened? Vida was genuinely curious, and as it was said, there were very few options for entertainment in this hell. Her first guess was a particularly awful pothole. The second? Possibly a pothole that had long since turned into a sinkhole, with the earth around the disused road gradually being swallowed up by the strangling fingers of the impossibly hungry marsh. Her third guess? The wrath of god, perhaps?

The list was extensive as it was inexhaustible, so she chose not to think too hard about it.

Oh, one of the drivers was actually pointing at her? Well, that was not going to fucking happen.

There was another bout of swearing behind her newly turned back as she promptly wandered away to discover something more interesting than the dismal prospect of idle, dirty busywork. The cry of her name was barely audible, and grew more distant still from beneath the groaning of the stricken wagon as it settled into the ooze of the treacherously soft terrain; with wheel and ox both forever lost. Another casualty of the war against the avarice of mother nature, Vida mused.

"How much will that cost us?"

The voice of one of the caravan masters shook her out of her self-indulgent reverie, and there was already a scowl formed on her face for the man atop the nearby driver's platform by the time she'd met his gaze. This was, of course, immediately met by the dour and placid expression of a cart driver who'd seen it all before - his greying hair was as slick with sweat as hers was, and he didn't bother wiping it from the brow of a reddish, frowning countenance.

Averek was his name, and he was an Allirian in the same way that most of the party was.

He was also patient, and so waited patiently for the sellsword to give up on her glaring and posturing with nothing more than an idle flick of his pipe to break up the monotony of the encounter. Vida quickly found how his easy, casual nature did little to improve her mood. Like, at all.

But it still served to cast water over her irritation, if nothing else.

A moment passed, then two, and by the third Vida had blinked first; her eyes travelling away from Averek's face and to the hide-painted wagons that were now at a standstill, painted garishly with reds and yellows and blues that stood out as a harsh contrast to all the sickeningly ever present green of the foliage and weeping trees.

"Please, don't ask me questions like that." Vida still seemed intent on churlishness, if only for a little while longer. She couldn't help it. And it gave her time to manage her unkempt hair with prodding fingers, trying to tidy the mangy and unwashed cut of bangs in the face of so much sweltering humidity - in other words, it was pointless. She didn't know why she continued trying really, aside from out of habit. And when she was done, she looked up and noticed those same eyes on her, waiting for a response. "... the lead wagon has lost a wheel and another ox, I believe. An hour or two? Perhaps sooner. I don't really know."

All that admission earned was a grunt in the affirmative that he had heard her.

Vida was about to leave it at that, but Averek had another frustratingly common question. "I thought you'd be in more of a rush to be at Nateille with that lockbox. Or at least your master would, considering how much coin he paid to have it - and the sellswords protecting it - delivered swiftly."

The implications annoyed her, and there was always another person that wanted to ask questions. "Do you imagine that I'm not bothered by the delay? Because I am. I'm sick of swamps, I'm sick of sweating, and I'm sick of these silly little attempts at trying to play coy. So just say it, so we can be done with this conversation."

"Oh, don't act like that. I'm as curious as everyone else about what's in it."

"That's all you wanted to ask? Very well then. It's none of your business, Averek, so let's leave it at that."

She couldn't even bring herself to care about the pretense of niceties anymore, just as she couldn't bring herself to care about how her blouse and expensive riding breeches were long since damp to the touch. Or how absolutely foul she smelled. Or the fact that she desperately missed the taste of wine; having been resigned to water and the equally watery, tasteless ale they kept in waterproofed barrels of one of the wagons.

The staccato of her riding boots as they stalked across what little road there actually was between creeping vines and muddy patches of soil announced her departure.

Someone was clearly not in the greatest of moods.

But the pay was far too appealing for her to pass up, for what was supposed to be a journey of sixteen odd days between the townships of Nateille and Acencleour. To deliver a lockbox through the trade route that went straight across the swamplands of Vaknelle.

Not that she knew its contents, nor did any of the half-dozen other sellswords commissioned for the same task, and while everyone was undoubtedly curious about it - nobody had the key. And so the great mystery remained a mystery.

The fact they were hired in the first place was hardly a mystery, in comparison.

Despite how much commerce passed through the swamps and forests of Falwood, there was no escaping the banditry that seemed to multiply by the day. And every day they grew bolder and bolder, and more cunning. Vida wasn't deaf or blind to the situation; she had been told in detail as to how the newest gangs exceeded the brutality and methodology of those who came before.

That wasn't even mentioning how their intelligence only seemed to grow, since it appeared like they always knew when to strike and where to strike, to the detriment of everyone who decided to make a living in trade between the Allirian city states and the scattered provinces of Falwood. And it always seemed like they had knowledge of what to look for.

Someone was being paid to tell them, of course, but that wasn't what she was hired for.

Vida and the rest of the sellswords were hired to protect a lockbox; to make certain it reached where it was meant to go by decree of the Count de Alemburant. All those other details? They weren't important, nor was the rest of the caravan necessarily important, but the leading wagon had a damaged wheel and one less ox than it should.

So they stayed, and waited, and sat on their butts; for no amount of coin could hurry this disaster.

Ah. There was one of them now, as it happened. She hadn't shared many words with the others who were hired before - far more content in wallowing in her own misery - and so took the opportunity, now. Maybe she could find a way to take her mind off the way that her feet were soaked by the watery ground they trekked upon, both through her boots and the woolen socks she made sure to wear to avoid... well, exactly this situation.

Her voice carried the hints of an upbringing in Dornoch, but only hints; she seemed to hide it well beneath a carefully unaccented trade tongue. Every word and syllable was accounted for, and she spoke with a careful and clearly practiced eloquence. "Someone more superstitious might think the Vaknelle doesn't like visitors," her laugh carried absolutely zero mirth, as if it was only an exercise to appear friendly. Non-threatening.

Good lord, she was never very good at small talk.

"I don't believe we've been introduced."

 

[Aeyliea]

Surly did not even begin to cover it.

She had been gone from the Sea for a couple of years now, and had seen many things that had not made sense before. The only thing this place minded her of was the river delta far to the east. That was, if the delta was a lot thicker and shallower except for that part of it that masqueraded as air above it and that which played at being ground.

Sweat gleamed on the expanse of bare skin and scales between the loincloth round her waist and the cloth wrapped round her breasts that served only to maintain the modesty that her companions seemed to think was important. She looked more like a barbarian than not. She wore no boots and no breastplate or body armor now - that had been doffed after the second day in this Seven forsaken land of black water and biting flies. At least the latter were no stranger. Welts from bites covered her exposed back and midriff, missing only where the slate grey scales along her spine left broken mandibles.

Armor was pointless where bandits were concerned anyway. Arrows were not stopped by leather. Anyone stupid enough to get close enough to her to put a blade in her flesh deserved what they got. The fact that it was cooler - a relative thing - was enough of a benefit. The added bonus of drawing the eyes of the men in the group was somewhat spoiled, though. It wasn't eyes that were feasting on her skin.

Her arms likely would have been similarly covered had she not had them wrapped in cloth up to her shoulders; the left one misshapen and twisted. It burned like fire today. It never felt particularly great, but the humidity made the bones ache and the flesh burn; sweat soaking into the wrapped limb only seemed to heighten the discomfort.

The wagons had halted again, and she had taken the opportunity to hop up on one of the wagons and scowl at the lush wetlands around her as if that would do anything constructive. Most of the drovers kept well clear of her; her temper was well known among them, and her pedigree wasn't exactly unknown either. There were a few among them who had travelled the drier paths across the Sea. Some of them had met her kin. The ones that survived were the ones who remembered - mostly because the ones that didn't had never left the plains.

"You, come help get this damned thing out. Actually do something for your money," said a voice in a much too familiar tone to her from behind. Aeyliea turned to look at the owner with a withering gaze and got to her feet. The muddy platinum braid swung against her thighs as she turned to face him.

She smiled. It wasn't pleasant. "No," she suggested. She rested her right hand on her hip, near one of her knives. Her big, heavy knives. He paled, muttered something noncommittal, and hurried off to go accost someone else. Her blue-grey eyes followed him as he left. With a huff she turned and strode off in the other direction, snatching the short stabbing spear and the leather buckler that were her preferred weapons. Her braid clicked and clacked as she walked and it swayed; the bones of small animals and beads of colorful stone bounced off of one another while feathers and strips of (once) colorful cloth fluttered.

The only people that did not stay well out of her way were the other hired blades. She did not think most of them really liked her, either.

What she really wanted more than anything in the world right then was something to drink. It was the only thing that quieted the voice in her head and dulled the pain in her twisted, useless arm. What she got was company she did not want as she rounded another of the wagons.

"This place, it does not," she said in thickly accented common. She made a gesture of warding as though that would do anything while they were surrounded by the corrupted spirits of this land. She could not imagine any who died in such a place ever finding the peace of the Sea of Stars. Surely the land would claim them in the same way it claimed their wagons and their unwary boots.

She stopped and stared at the unkempt mercenary. It was nearly impossible to stay clean in this place, but she managed it above the waist at least. Sweat darkened the cloth round her bosom and mud flecked her legs and coated her feet. She wasn't sure the other was even trying.

"Have not," she agreed. Whereas the other seemed to be trying to conceal her origin, Aeyliea had no such problems with her heritage. She thrived on the fact that her kith and kin were hated and feared all round the Sea of Grass. She considered the other woman for a moment with hard eyes. An outsider was an outsider, and her ancestry led all the way back to the great Betrayal. But...

Everything you know is a lie. Aeyliea grit her teeth at the whispered words in her skull. If the words were true, it changed everything. It meant that everything she was and had been were...

..she needed a drink. "Aeyliea," she said in a flat voice. She moved to cross her arms, and her face tightened briefly. She settled with resting her right hand on her hip again, trying to cover for the slip.

 

[Tyisur Volklor]

Venturing deeper into the current mission, a sense of uncertainty began to take root. It wasn't a matter of questioning his ability to see it through to completion; rather, it was a persistent doubt that gnawed at the edges of his consciousness. Was this venture truly worth the dedication of his time and effort? After years of honing his skills in the unforgiving world of his profession, he had amassed a modest amount of coin that afforded him a small amount of comfort. This current job had beckoned to him with a different, but seductive allure, promising a journey of discovery that went beyond the financial means. As whispers of his shadowy dealings reverberated through the streets of his adopted home of Alliria, he found himself now treading with cautious steps and carefully selected words, wary of revealing too much of himself in a world where trust was a commodity in short supply.

As the days stretched into weeks, and so on, a sense of detachment settled over him. He had always prided himself on his ability to remain composed in the face of challenge–but the swamp was a relentless assault on his senses. Every day here felt like a battle, a test of his endurance and resilience. The weight of expectation bore down on him. And yet, in the midst of the inner turmoil, a glimmer of determination was felt within —a stubborn resolve to preserve no matter what sacrifices lay ahead. He felt as though he had stepped into another world entirely, as if transported to a realm untouched by time. The air was thick with the scent of rot and decay, a reminder of the swamp's secrets. Every noise, no matter how faint, felt like it was increased in the eerie stillness.

The man's clothing bore the marks of the journey through the unforgiving terrain. His once pristine black tunic was now a canvas of mud and dirt, its fabric tightly clinging to his skin. Tyisur's loose-fitting leggings appeared even worse, their fabric soaked and stained by the murky waters he waded through. The scabbard of his sword was now coated in the same marking of filth. With each step he took, his boots, chosen for durability, sank into the boggy ground. Their surface was now sticky and heavy. Despite the weariness that clung to his every movement, his face remained an enigma, a mask of determination hiding any hint of fatigue. Yet, within the depths of his piercing green orbs, there flickered a glint that dared anyone to challenge him, a silent invitation to test his own mettle.

Now it seemed as if they were stuck in the midst of nowhere. Despite an unfortunate turn of events, not a hint of sympathy was given for the fallen beast, and it felt as though the wagon’s repair lay solely on the shoulders of the group of mercenaries. The man stood motionless for a moment, his gaze fixed on two of the others, his hands folding in front of his body in a display of defiance. A hint of arrogance lingered in the air, potentially adding another layer of tension to the already complex situation.

A sudden burst of laughter cut through his thoughts like a blade. His lip curled in distaste at the sound, unable to fathom what could be so amusing about their current predicament. A brief exchange followed, and he learned the name of one: Aeyliea. He studied her carefully, taking in every nuance of her body language. She, too, appeared to be of little use–another fact he did not bother to mask. He was certain his skepticism would not go unnoticed. With a tilt of his chin, he exuded a hint of superiority.

When Averek approached and attempted to engage in conversation, his words fell on deaf ears, for Tyisur had already made up his mind. Partaking in such tasks felt beneath him, yet he understood the importance of maintaining appearances and avoiding unnecessary attention. Unconsciously, his hand brushed against the hilt of his dagger, then further up to wipe away beads of sweat threatening to trickle into his eyes. He strode forward with purpose now, deciding to inspect the lead wagon. Passing by the two sellswords, a rare flicker of emotion crossed his face, a sneer aimed in their direction, making sure they felt the weight of his disdain as he moved past them.

 

[Vida]

To be entirely honest, Vida wasn't quite certain what she had expected to accomplish by asking someone nearly as miserable as she was about whether or not the swamplands were anything other than a frustrating and spiteful joke, being made at the expense of all who travelled its breadth. Given that it was, in fact, a spiteful joke she wasn't at all surprised to see Aeyliea commiserating with her words.

Then came the obscure motions the woman made with her hands as a sign of warding, and it had piqued Vida's curiosity, if only a little. The answer itself was entirely unsurprising, and she doubted that even the bleating frogs in the backdrop of the conversation or the thousands upon thousands of mosquitoes flitting in the humid air would find fault with her estimation. But she was always interested to see how people worked; this woman was mostly a stranger to her in a way that even the most surly sellsword of the group was not, and that made her decidedly different.

And in a place like this, any excuse to break up the monotony was welcomed.

She found herself observing the No'rei woman as she sat upon the back of the wagon, finding the rest a small respite to the throbbing ache she found beneath wandering fingertips that occasionally rubbed at the muscles of her thighs and calves. She didn't even want to think about the callouses she'd find on her feet after the caravan stopped for the night - she didn't get callouses - but the dampness of the swamp that held every step in thrall worked its miracles, and she in turn found cracks and blisters where she hadn't before in all her years on the road.

The mud-flecked stranger standing before her seemed rather more accustomed, and had walked around the corner of the wagon with a confidence that had both amused her and was what had initially brought her attention to the woman's face in the first place; noticing the way her sun-tanned features had tightened ever so slightly at the crossing of her arms, yet Vida made no comment. It was clear that such a thing would be unappreciated, and the tenuous grasp of the trade tongue found in Aeyliea's reply would've probably made it pointless to even inquire about.

But it was almost funny, seeing all the small similarities.

The No'rei was utterly out of place with all her fetishes dangling in her braid. Not to mention the way she carried herself, and the broken words she spoke that hinted at an obvious struggle with more polite tongues than whatever language she was accustomed to within her tribe. The similarities to a Nordwiir woman by the name of Skad were undeniable, and Vida's pouting lips that had since formed into a small, curious smile explained absolutely none of this.

"Then we should fix that. My name is Vida, and you'll have to forgive me for not standing," a pause as she gave a cursory glance beyond the woman's shoulder, noting the other sellsword; the way he had looked at them with disdain as if he was any better of a soul for pretending this whole affair was anything more than a sordid test of everyone's patience. Her gaze conveyed as much, flitting from his before returning to Aeyliea's own with little more than a disdainful roll of her eyes. "But the wagons won't be moving, and neither will we, so it's an opportunity I'd rather not waste."

When she spoke next, the amusement dripping from her lips was a little less present. "It's a pleasure, nonetheless."

Vida removed the hands from her lap in order to pat at the broad, wooden back-bench of the wagon she'd recently appropriated, clearly making an invitation to sit. But it was hardly an order - soon after her hands resumed their vigil upon the little perch she'd made with her raised knees and the weathered fabric of the breeches that clung to her skin.

As to why she even bothered with someone who was clearly not in the mood for conversation, especially not with people Aeyliea seemed to despise if going by the gossip around the caravan, she didn't know. Plain curiosity, maybe? Some desperate desire to relieve her boredom either by small, meaningless chitchat or perhaps even a verbal spar that might result from their differences? It had worked when it had come to Skad, so maybe she was simply wondering how many similarities the two gruff and unrepentant outsiders truly shared.

Honestly, anything was better than having to tolerate the annoyed, roving stares of the caravanners or the nipping of so many strange insects who sang an oppressive and foreign song in the sweltering afternoon air. Their chorus was strangely loud in the silence that was only broken up by the grunts of the caravan's crew that had worked without pause to free the carriage from its sinking embrace.

She was never good at waiting, her talents lay elsewhere.

As to why she didn't bother to help so that the wait didn't drag on? No comment.

"Please, tell me, are you familiar with travelling the Vaknelle on foot?" The question wasn't a pointless one. If they were to stay in the same place any longer she'd feel compelled to briefly scout the area, and her eyes that now narrowed in dry mirth promised that it wasn't simple chit-chat that had caused her to ask; whether that was something that might actually lift Aeyliea's spirits was another thing altogether.

But they were both mercenaries, and they had a job as much to themselves as they did to their odd cargo. Vida would leave the replacing of wheels and slipping in the mud for the caravanners and the sneering Volklor. "I don't enjoy not knowing my surroundings, nor do I intend to allow trouble to show itself except for when it's on my own terms. And the longer we sit here, the easier it is for someone to take advantage of that."

***​

Meanwhile, even Averek was having a lovely time of attempting to pull the wagon out of its rut.

Of course, he wasn't the one doing it - but he was coordinating it, and bellowed out orders from beneath his quivering mustache with the same intensity of an Anirian drill sergeant. The concept of looking left or right or up or down was pointless to him; all that mattered in that moment was pointing at one man or another to shore up this or that end of the carriage so that it did not sink any deeper.

The colorful fabric of the tent was still a vibrant exception to the multitude of stunted, wilted, grasping foliage that seemed to lean ominously over the heads of the caravan, as if it were some predator about to pounce upon its prey. All too willing to bring what little color there was beyond the pervasive greens and browns of the swamp into its clutches.

Which it already had, to be fair. Hence why there were people running around with wooden planks and shovels to prevent just that.

 

[Aeyliea]

She nodded tightly and turned to follow her gaze. Her piercing gaze swept Tylsur from head to toe in quick calculation; she dismissed him out of hand and went back to looking at this Vida.

She kept a tab in her head of the fellow, though. Though likely soft as so many of the outsiders were, steel was still steel and she did not trust any of her companions. Not Tylsur, not Averek, not Vida. The Great Mother might whisper in her ear that the Betrayal was from her own kith and kin, but decades of bitter fighting and merciless bloodshed had made her wary of those not of her own.

She didn't know what to say to her affable attitude towards her. The others kept their distance or, as Tylsur was, their disdain. She was unaccustomed to anyone treating her even as neutrally as Vida was. The suspicion crossing her sun dark features reflected this.

"Drivers lazy," she said simply. She did not accept the offered seat, preferring to stand. Her feet had sank up to her calves in black mud. It was the only part of her body even remotely cool. "Want help with.... wagons. But will help when real work come?" She flourished the spear for emphasis, face split in a mirthless grin. She shook her head in answer to her own question. The drovers were cowards. She had slain many of them in her day, and few ever offered resistance.

She let the weapon fall back to her side. The grin turned sour as she waved away some of the choicer flies from her face with her bad arm, wincing at the motion. She shook her head at the question, braid swinging. "No. But <<this accursed stinking pit of mud and flies>> is same as other place," she said, lapsing into her native tongue halfway through as it allowed her to really express her dislike of the marsh. She carefully gestured with her bad hand at her eyes and pointed with the spear round her to indicate watchfullness.

"Always watch. Not watch, maybe dead?" She scratched at some bites on her stomach and cocked her head to one side as though listening to something. Or feeling something. Her steel eyes danced among the reeds and black water, narrowing. "Trouble. But not... not able to read land?" She stroked her braid, fingering a bead of stone and a bit of bone.

The land was dead here, stagnant and empty. Her ancestors certainly would look on this place, but with disdain. The Seer did not like this place for more than its misery. Some ancient horror had happened here that had scarred the land so deeply it would never heal.

She nodded at Vida's last comment. "Yes. Were this the Sea, neck deep in my people would be." And the damned drover with the bright idea of ordering her around would have had his throat cut first thing.

She smiled at the thought.

 

[Tyisur Volklor]

As time ticked by in the dense, murky swamp, the atmosphere only seemed to grow heavier, suffocating any sense of hope that dared to linger in the air; yet, amidst all of the uncertainty, he maintained a facade of calm indifference, his eyes sweeping across the faces of his companions, absorbing the details of their weary expressions and any emotion that may have danced in their eyes. Unlike most parties, this one did not have the typical bond that often held things together in times of adversity.

Observing the scene before him, his eyes settled on Averek, the self-appointed leader of the group, whose every movement exuded an air of self-importance, as if his sole motivation was a desire for control; despite his words, Tyirsur remained unmoved, unfazed by the man's feeble attempts of instilling dominance. Unfortunately, he knew all too well that revealing his true capabilities could easily disrupt the balance of power within this very group, a risk he was not willing to take. So in that moment, he found himself walking a fine line, torn between revealing his own authority and maintaining the facade of a humble sellsword– a role he had played for over a decade of his life, one that was ingrained in his very being.

Approaching the lead wagon, a sense of detachment washed over him. The world around him seemed to blur for a moment longer; the sounds of the bustling group faded into the background as he stood still once more, a silent observer in the midst of confusion. Tyisur simply watched from the sidelines, trailing on the moving figures before him, their movements seemingly slow with gritted determination. Piercing through the commotion, he saw in the corner where a massive beast of an ox lay lifeless, its fate sealed by the swamp. He knew that it would not be the only victim by the time this day drew to a close. With several steps forward, his shoulders brushed against those around him, perhaps a reminder about the significance of his arrival. He hoped it to be a gesture that conveyed a message without the need for words: he was here, and they were merely obstacles in his path now.

Just as expected, Averick's voice rang out once more, causing Tyisur to stand for just a moment longer. His muscles began to tense, as he wanted to dare him to a potential confrontation. Instead, with a swift turn of his head, he directed a gaze at the man over his shoulder, giving a declaration of his own strength and a reminder to know one's place in the grand design of things. He began examining the wheel, his finger tracing each spoke, and testing the strength of each individual piece. Beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead, creating a path down to his cheeks. Refusing to budge from his position, he instead barked out an order at the nearest individual to fetch the necessary tools. With a quick pace, the man disappeared and soon returned with what he required.

This task was not within his area of expertise, but he could not stand by and continue to watch others struggle fruitlessly. Frustrated with the lack of progress, he had no choice but to take matters into his own hands. With a hammer, a handful of nails, and a length of rope, he made the decision to embark on bringing the wheel back to life. Strikes were made here and there, as each nail driven in led him closer to finishing; but as several refused to yield, a flurry of curses in his mother tongue of Uytani could be heard escaping his lips. Pausing briefly from the labor, he took a second to wipe the sweat from his brow, feeling the strands of his blonde hair cling to his face.

As time passed, he continued with determination. Tying the rope around the wheel, he prayed that it would withstand the journey ahead. With a knot secured, he then stood back and surveyed the tools scattered around him. Without a second glance, he at last dusted off his hands. His part was done. The success of this all now rested on the rest of the companions.

 

[Vida]

Vida had appreciated the confirmation that the two women shared the same opinion of the hired drivers, even if it honestly might have been a bit unfair. They were making effort of pulling the sinking wagon out of the mire it had settled in, after all. Which definitely needed to be done. But right now? Vida was less interested in what was fair and more interested in a sellsword's favorite activity: idle griping.

Something to pass the time, since she'd long since had her fill of brooding in uncomfortable silence. It was a fleeting novelty.

She was even in a good enough mood to hold her tongue and all the remarks that floated to its surface while Aeyliea struggled, visibly and painstakingly, to speak in their mutual language. After a while, the other woman simply chose to gesture broadly to the marsh all around them before lapsing into another language altogether. But Vida had gotten the point from the vague visual translation.

"The same as any other place," came the summarization of Aeyliea's final words, with Vida seemingly in agreement. Aside from the fact that this place in particular worked to betray them as much as any thief or bandit might; it was simply more patient in how it went about doing so. Not to mention far more determined, given its constant, crawling progress as it steadily worked to swallow all who trespassed upon it.

Or perhaps Aeyliea's comment wasn't about the swamp at all, or at least not entirely.

Rather than saying anything more and all but confessing her ignorance, Vida opted to allow the strange women to continue speaking without any additional contribution - aside from adjusting the elbow atop her thigh so that she might prop her chin in her hand - and had instead observed while the No'rei woman grew suddenly tense; her eyes wandering and her head cocked to the side as if listening for something.

Which, unless the heat was already beginning to weigh upon the poor woman's mind, would've been an impressive accomplishment in the deafening cacophony of sounds that surrounded them. All of which seemed to mingle and coagulate into one indiscernible note that droned on and on, deafening even Vida's acute senses to anything beyond the most immediate and most obvious of the swamp's incoherent din. Honestly, there were so many strange and repulsive songs being played that she had almost no hope of recognizing encroaching danger.

So it wasn't terribly surprising to hear that Aeyliea couldn't read the lay of the land, not in the same way she was obviously accustomed to. And yet... she had mentioned there being trouble? Vida was reluctant to believe that anyone could make sense of so much nonsense at once, and the faint lift of her brow as she sat upon the steps of the carriage said as much. But she had listened all the same; paying as much attention to the woman as she did their surroundings, following the gaze of the other mercenary with an appraising eye.

As well as a pensive frown revealing itself beneath her fingertips.

Maybe this Aeyliea was more adept than she initially thought? She was not so prideful as to deny such a thing was possible, and the lack of any tangible evidence only mattered to those who relied on facts alone. Most sellswords preferred to maintain other tools of the trade, and instinct was by far one of the most important tools to keep sharpened.

By the time the woman had finished speaking of the Sea, Vida's expression was of her earlier wry amusement.

"I have no doubt you're right about that."

Slowly, the Dornoch sellsword lowered the heel of her boot down from its perch atop the steps of the wagon to the sodden earth below. Her back arched into a languid stretch that helped ease the tension of her shoulders and legs as she moved to stand, with her words trailing off into a soft sigh of exasperation as her feet dug into what remained of the paving stones of the Vaknelle road, between rivulets of creeping vines.

She stood there for a moment, adjusting to the way her muscles had ached in protest at the sudden, obviously unappreciated shift in movement as she idly tugged at the damp material of her breeches that seemed intent on clinging uncomfortably to the back of her thighs. The impromptu rest hardly made an improvement in either body or spirit, but she would take what could get.

"Then you wouldn't mind coming with me to scout the area, I take it?" Vida considered it more of a walk to occupy her mind than anything else; to stave off the tedium of the wait until the caravan was moving once more. But then again, there was no telling what they would find while they were doing it, and she wasn't lying when she spoke of not allowing trouble to show itself. "I'll take you on your word if you believe there's trouble to be found, it's certainly better than turning a blind eye. Wrong or not."

There was another lingering pause as she gathered the bow she'd left leaning against the bench of the wagon, testing the tautness of the string with a series of fingers in case the moisture made it pointless to take with her - or even bother with - while her gaze remained locked with Aeyliea's own, clearly curious as to how the other woman would react to the idea.

She wouldn't blame the No'rei if she wasn't particularly thrilled at the concept.

"And honestly, I think anything is better than sitting around here, waiting," was all that was said at first while she worked the bow over her shoulder, although her hand went to the hilt of her sword as if to say that she didn't have great hopes for the other option. There was a sigh of resignation in her breath as she took one final look at the expanse of marsh around them, before adding, "I mean, unless you'd prefer to stay and help with the wagon?"

An invitation and a threat in the same sentence; although it held none of her usual mockery behind it beyond a faint smirk as if to say that the choice was really, very obvious. Or at least it was to her, anyway.

***​

Even with the help of the valiant and most gallant Tyisur Volklor, it would be a while yet before anything moved in any meaningful way. Even longer still before the oxen were harnessed once again and made to pull the remainder of the wagon from its confinement, and Averek was already making every effort he could to hurry them along.

There was little room for sympathy or understanding while they were already this late on their journey.

And so he did what he did best - he bellowed, stomped his boots, occasionally gesticulated wildly in what was an approximation of his grand design in getting them all back on their way, and to their ultimate destination. How much this translated into actually helping move the process along, nobody quite knew, and yet not a single soul said a word in the face of such mustache-brimming authority. Most especially not when he spoke with such confidence in his craft; putting to shame the caravanners who labored under his stern guidance, and who seemed to function on nothing more than instinct alone at this point.

"... Oh, no, not like that! You need to take the cargo off first and... yes, lay it right there, that's fine!"

The humidity and the heat had made short work of any enthusiasm they might've foolishly once held in the beginning, but at least they persevered, if only for the promise of payment once they reached their destination. It was the same thing that Averek kept telling himself as well, and was probably the only thing that kept him from succumbing to frustration.

The promise of payment, the promise of enough coin to buy things that would make him forget about this whole chapter of his life.

Probably a great many of those things, truth be told.

When he came over to inspect Tyisur's work, his mood was in a better place than it could've been, thankfully. The concept of someone actually taking a proactive approach to the situation was almost unfathomable - and by a sellsword, no less - so it was definitely a pleasant surprise, and he made no attempt at hiding it from beneath his quivering mustache that rode up and down his lips as he spoke in that gruff way of his.

"Aye, you've done an alright enough job, good man! Not to say it's perfect, but I can take care of it from here," Averek had declared with an enthusiasm for finishing a task nearly completed, and had spoken as if the pair had been working together for most of their lives rather than a few short days. "Oh, it's an alright enough job,"

Clearly it was alright enough to meet his expectations, as he hovered without making any further effort to mend the wheel and its hodge-podge repair. At least not while the sellsword was still kneeling over it and patting off his hands, and Averek had waited until the other man was about to stand before clapping a hand on Tyisur's back in affirmation.

"Not much more you can do here, unless you know a bloody thing about oxen? If not, well, it shouldn't take long at all. All we need to do is hitch them up, then we're about finished."

It seemed that, in Averek's opinion, everyone had a task to do (or not do) and clearly Tyisur had finished his.

 

[Aeyliea]

The Savannah native made a noise at the back of her throat in initial reply to the question. "Eyes better than speaking to...," she began. Trailed off as she tried to decide the best way to convey the idea of communion with the spirit of the land. She did not wish to commune with the ancestors here, lest they decide to come in person.

Too easy to think of rotten bones and flesh crawling from stagnant pools.

Instead, she shrugged. "Anyway. Looking and finding is better than not and being found," she said in that thick accent of hers. She eyed the wagons again, shook her head such that the braid flipped like the tail of an angry cat, and then stalked forward. "Much better than wagon. Maybe find something to kill."

If she sounded happy about anything, it was about that last statement. The prospect of finding someone stupid enough to give her a reason to gut them made the incessant whir of bugs and slepping through shin-deep mud and water almost worthwhile.

"Together, or apart?"

Tyisur Volklor

 

[Vida]

"I'm glad that we could agree."

As to whatever else Aeyliea had tried to convey with words that were not forthcoming, Vida did not know, nor did she think to ask. What mattered was that the agreement was there; the details about spirits entirely unknown to the other woman's more urban sensibilities could remain so. It was hardly a necessary thing to explain when the task put forth was relatively simple, and required little more than Aeyliea's willing participation.

To put it lightly, given her sudden enthusiasm now that the opportunity to kill had presented itself.

Vida couldn't help but to offer a faint, unreadable smile at that. But rather than thinking of a reply to that - whether in criticism or approval - she instead settled on taking a handful of careful steps past the wagon and to the side of the path so that she could better survey the roadblock. As if she hadn't already been looking at it for the past hour while she sat and brooded on the steps.

But it was exactly as she remembered it; still stuck in the muddy earth of the wayside, still crawling with countless faces that milled around it like buzzing flies. Their voices made hoarse in the humid air as they slung accusations, orders, insults and the occasional bout of laughter between one another as they made the effort to free the foremost wagon from its mire.

The strain on their faces said enough to deter her from any sudden change of heart. So instead she turned back to the waiting Aeyliea, her flickering smile returning to full stride once the prospect of manual labour was no longer being considered.

Although she didn't say anything right away, with her eyes sliding from the No'rei woman's face to glance at the surrounding swampland, lip twitching in subtle contemplation.

There was no point in her mind when it came to splitting up. And she wouldn't deny her own curiosity; the idea of watching Aeyliea at work was appealing. Made all the more tempting by the irony that Aeyliea was now the one defending a caravan from the potential of an ambush - when she once hailed from a tribe known far and wide for its talent for the reverse. Oh, the scenario was admittedly a little amusing.

Beyond that, however? Vida knew the other woman's perspective could prove invaluable. "Together, I think. If that suits you well enough?" The question was more of a courtesy than anything else, and she hadn't expected an answer to the contrary from the mostly untalkative, mostly agreeable woman who had surprised Vida with her willingness to saunter off into the wilderness of the swamp on a whim.

The thought made her eyes return from the foliage before them and back to her new companion, her brow arched as she looked expectantly at Aeyliea. Not quite willing to go wandering off with the expectation that she would be followed. "There's no point in splitting apart until we have an idea of the surrounding area, at least. And if there is something to kill? I'd much rather there were two of us, rather than the one."

She looked as if she was about to say more before stopping herself, saying something else instead.

"That being said, I'm also curious about how your people would go about it. You may have a better idea than me of what to look for." Well, that wasn't totally true. Her days in Dornoch were hardly that of a saint, and ambushing a caravan wasn't exactly a foreign concept to Vida. But sometimes flattery didn't always need the truth.

Also, it was clear that she was expecting Aeyliea to take the lead rather than be the first to forge a way through the unknown. Thus far the other woman was handling this whole trip far better than she was. So the assumption that Aeyliea would also better handle the wilderness of the Vaknelle wasn't exactly a strange and unreasonable concept.

 

[Aeyliea]

She made a noise at the back of her throat in ascent, cutting her eyes to the overgrown marsh. Cattails and sword grass made up the majority of the foliage, with the odd skeletal tree mixed in with the living. Pools of black water rippled in the light breeze, their depth and content unknown. Black mud ringed these stagnant pools.

Aeyliea grunted, and closed her eyes for a moment and then swore under her breath. The silence was broken by the creak of an axel and the lowing of draft animals. She gestured with her head and started off into the marsh proper, first few steps splashing before she slowed to make less noise.

The marsh was not the plains and she did not move as easily or as comfortably here, but she was still accustomed to the wild places far more than an urban setting. In the grasslands she could move in utter silence. Here, she moved with barely a rustle and splash.

A hundred yards out, she paused in knee-deep water, and closed her eyes again. Breathing in and out rhythmically, listening to the pulse of this rotting, diseased land. Listening to the whine of insects and the now more distant goings on of the caravan.

Wordlessly, she flipped the long, mud-spattered braid over her shoulder and gripped it - or, rather, one of the stone beads woven into her white hair.

<"Let me see, ... Mother,"> she whispered in her native tongue. She only stumbled over the last a little. Somewhere far away, a reptilian eye swiveled. The bead between her fingers crumbled to dust, and the dust fades to shadows as it slipped from her grasp.

The world round her came into sharper focus. The breath of wind, barely felt otherwise, raised the hairs on her neck. The watery sounds, the insects, the reptiles and amphibians - all of them became sharper to her ears. And to other senses better honed in drier places. The scent of vegetable rot became oppressive, mingling the scent of sour sweat...

She opened her eyes and looked to Vida. Her eyes became hard, nostrils flaring.

"Not alone," she whispered in as quiet a voice as she could manage. She could not see what it was she smelled: male sweat, and close. The buzz of insects and wet sounds hid anything unusual. That, or magical influence kept something hidden. "Not know. Ambush, maybe... but near."

 

[Vida]

Despite her preferences leaning more towards urban sprawls rather than the unpredictable nature of the marshlands, Vida wasn't totally helpless against the elements of the land, nor was the deliberate pace that Aeyliea set too difficult for the experienced sellsword to match. It wasn't pleasant by any stretch of the imagination, that was true, but it wasn't impossible. She'd suffered through worse.

The heel of her boots sank into the muddy waters with precise, calculated motions.

The crunch of dry grass parting beneath her feet and the sucking mud that tried to deter her every step eventually went unnoticed by the uncomplaining sellsword as the minutes had carried on to nearly half an hour. She'd long since gotten used to the process of it by that point, and even the uncomfortable sensation of her sodden pants and socks sticking to her clammy skin had become routine.

Nonetheless, a bath after all of this sounded marvelous to her.

But as soon as she'd gotten into the intricacies of navigating the trail before them, Aeyliea had suddenly and abruptly stopped. Vida paused, listening; her eyes scanning a horizon almost completely obscured by the long stalks of grass around them.

Her features tightened at what she heard, feeling both at once a tinge of concern as well as a strange, almost comforting rush of exhilaration - oddly at peace with the fact - if only because there would be no more waiting. No more wondering. She'd taken this poor woman out into the sticks so that she'd finally put those little worries to rest rather than merely letting them curdle and rot in her stomach.

Without looking in Aeyliea's direction, she had moved closer to the woman so that her next words could be kept to a whisper. "You're certain of it?" It wasn't that she was doubting Aeyliea, personally. She doubted everyone and everything, always. And besides, the question was asked more out of practicality than as an insult; in that moment she simply wanted confirmation, and perhaps a little more clarity.

When she spoke next, the whisper was softer, almost imperceptible as she crouched close to the No'rei. "Can you tell how many?"

The faint trill of birdsong echoed far above, oddly muted from where they kneeled in the rushes.

***​

"The richest road with the poorest footing."

It was a stupid saying, clumsy and ugly. Not exactly one that inspired many poets to replicate, and the only people that bothered uttering it at all were the caravanners who frequented the road. They said it with pride sometimes, but mostly they said it as a way to stomach the fact that few people wanted to travel the Vaknelle, and only out of necessity were their services employed. They were paid well, at least. That was something nobody could deny.

The Vaknelle saw a lot of trade; from the Allirian Strait and all the way to the borders of Vel Anir.

That made it a route rich in all manner of ways, which explained the first half of the truism. As for the other? Carwyn found it was easiest to let the state of the road speak for itself. Honestly, some parts of it were so bogged down into the mud that the only reason anyone knew they were still on it was due to the path being relatively straightforward, from coast to coast. But he couldn't deny that it was worth travelling, both for the caravans and the souls that preyed on them.

He hadn't liked the swamps at first, not one bit; his first month in the place was quite nearly his last, and instead of robbing wagons he was instead condemned to surviving some kind of wasting sickness that had him sweating off nearly twenty pounds.

The memory still instinctively brought back an unpleasant shudder, but a sickness of nearly three years ago was the last of his concerns at that moment. His present concern lay in slapping away flies nearly the size of his fingernail, and observing as a party of men worked tirelessly at saving their wagon from floundering in the swamp's uncertain earth.

They weren't going anywhere, any time soon.

As overjoyed as the rest of the group was with the development, they despaired as well.

It wasn't a fun task shadowing a caravan, that much was already obvious. It took a lot of work to navigate the bogs with a group of nearly thirty people; all of them churning the mud of the paths they made with each subsequent step, leaving those behind them with an even more difficult task of avoiding sinking further into the mire they'd kicked up.

That wasn't even going into the fact that they'd painstakingly set up an ambush only hours ahead of where they currently sat, having spent the better part of a day cutting down the gnarled trees by the wayside so that it could be piled up in the road ahead. That was a lot of awful, bloody work gone to waste now that the ringleader of their crew had up and suddenly decided that the plan had changed. Lovely, marvelous, and who cheered at that? Pretty much nobody, of course, because it meant that they'd toiled all that time for absolutely nothing.

If he wanted an honest day's work, he'd have different ideas on how to make that coin. Maybe something that hadn't caused his callused hands to crack and weep after his newest blisters had popped.

Still annoyed at that, he rubbed his sore hands, making a vain attempt to ease the dull, aching throb found beneath as he continued to study the trapped caravan. He hated the bloody man that made the decision, and yet nobody thought to argue it when Tommos had decided on a different course of action. That's just how it went; Tommos made the plans, and the rest of them followed like lemmings.

Nobody could deny that it was convenient, though. Better an ambush in the evening than at night.

Either way, he hoped this was worth all the effort.

The better part of the crew was on the other side of the swamp, where the crest of a rise allowed them to conceal the majority of their numbers from any wandering eyes. That just left him and three others on their side, in the off-chance that they needed to cut off any stragglers. Carwyn didn't complain either, just nodded like the rest of lemmings. He was perfectly happy with staying out of danger.

Not that he was scared, or didn't know how to handle a weapon - quite the opposite. He might've been a bit shorter than the rest of them, give or take, but where the bandit lacked in height he made a point to make up with practice, and skill. That was a lot more valuable than being bigger, and it had meant that he was good at what he did.

He got his fair share of the spoils.

But he didn't have any interest in taking his chances with the portly man heading the caravan with his wonderful, bushy mustache. Nor the small handful of sellswords that he could see moving from the advantage of his tree overlooking the swamp's grasses. Not that they seemed particularly thrilled with their arrangement, either.

Not bothering to whisper, the bandit in his gambeson and dirtied cloak leaned away from top of the old, willowy tree he perched himself on in order to bark at the other members of his own party; his hazel eyes scanning the swaying vegetation with a dismissive flicker of his aquiline nose. He'd been staring for so long that everything sort of blended together, at that point.

"They still ain't moving, happy?"

The other bandit didn't deign his reply to be terribly helpful, and instead spat a mouthful of phlegm to the ground below. To then be replaced with a piece of dried jerky that the practically toothless man gnawed at, stopping only long enough to add, "Keep looking then, yeah? Tell me if they do."

Carwyn shrugged, pushed back his mop of ashen hair, then went back to looking.

 

[Aeyliea]

She nodded in silence, tilting her head as if listening to something. True, as it turned out; she was listening to the buzz and whir of the marsh. It was an unfamiliar song, but she had been days into this mess and had some semblance of an idea of its warp and weave.

"No. Many. Not two or three." She paused, trying to push her awareness outward. The swamp pushed back, the malicious spirits of the land malcontent with the presence of a stranger from beyond their ken. "This place, it not like use. No whispers to warn. Silence."

She shook her head, bones and beads clicking. Without another word, she moved smoothly and carefully through the black water until she was in the shadow of the reeds. Her senses could not pinpoint any particular soul among the stagnant water, only their rough proximity. They were close, much closer than she felt comfortable with. It was unlikely that whoever it was would prove to be friendly, either.

Standing there, she listened again.

And then went utterly still. Even if the colors weren't precisely right for the environment, it suddenly became quite difficult to see the Seer where she stood in knee-deep water. It was a kind of magic in itself, although quite subtle. It was how the plains folk were so devastatingly effective at their ambushes.

She looked back to Vida, pressed a finger to her lips. She raised a hand to her ear, and indicated a direction while with her bad hand, she painfully and difficulty mimed a mouth opening and closing.

Voices. Near enough to hand that she could hear them and the direction they came from.

 

[Vida]

With the information they weren't alone at Vida's disposal, she hardly needed the reminder to keep herself silent.

All the same, she had nodded in acquiescence to the warning voiced by Aeyliea, making sure she edged forward with an agonizing slowness as they weaved their way through the tall grasses. Every step was accounted for and every dense patch of cattail avoided with a practiced ease. At some point she'd lost track of her impromptu guide, and it took her longer than she would've liked to pinpoint the No'rei woman amidst the reeds a few paces ahead.

Aeyliea moved with all the grace of a ghost, she had suddenly thought; if not for the soft lap of water beneath their feet, she might've assumed herself to be walking alone. But no, there she was.

It was no wonder why their tribe was so effective in the ambushing of caravans, now that Vida saw for herself how unnervingly quiet the other woman could be.

Most of all when there was a hunt to be had, clearly.

When the other woman had turned again to her - the braided strands of her hair tinkling with so many bones - and made a gesture to listen, that's exactly what she did. The voices of the men ahead of them carried easier upon the windless air now that they'd stopped, and Vida made a conscious effort then to listen; closing her eyes in concentration as she tried to catch anything meaningful from the distant conversation.

That they were men, and they were closer than she'd expected was clear enough.

As for anything beyond that?

Frustrated, Vida opened her eyes after nothing came of the effort to eavesdrop, then narrowed them, trying what she could to squint through the dense foliage. As if doing so would help her see any better.

Obviously it hadn't. They were still too far away to peer through any convenient gaps, and so instead opted to return her attention to Aeyliea; her eyes meeting the No'rei's own in quiet consideration. After a moment, she crept towards her companion with her hands upon the hilt of her sword and an unspoken question lingering upon the tip of her tongue.

And in her eyes.

It was a pointless one to ask, of course. It wasn't as if they could turn away now, not when they still knew so little about the potential threat lurking before them. Or if they were even a threat in the first place, and not simply wayward travelers who preferred to shun the roads for any number of reasons. Vida was certainly no stranger in walking the roads less travelled, so to speak, and understood why some preferred to avoid the main thoroughfares.

So it was with a tilt of her chin that she acknowledged Aeyliea's warning, and with that she slipped the bow from her shoulder. Thankfully the string was still taut, and hadn't suffered nearly as much as she'd expected it to in the humid, damp environment of the Vaknelle. And for that much, she was thankful.

It felt like blessings were few and far between, in this place.

With only the briefest of moments spent lingering where they'd halted, fingers plucking experimentally at the bowstring, Vida finally made the tentative trip to where Aeyliea still stood, motionless. From there, at least one of the mercenaries pushed forward, bracing with every step into more of a crouch as the voices rang louder in her ears and the top of the gnarled tree gradually exposed itself from their vantage point in the grasses.

That was when she saw the first man - and it was difficult not to. With his back turned to the two women, he made less of an effort to conceal himself, perched as he was above them all; the dulled blue of his grubby cloak doing little to blend into the scenery around him.

He was surveying the caravan, that much was obvious. Nor was he alone. But so far she'd only heard the others.

For a second she had slunk to be nearly flush with the ground beneath her, before realizing that the men in the clearing had next to no interest in what lurked behind them. Vida felt her pursed lips tightening in anticipation, and twisted her head in order to hopefully discover that her partner was close by. The next question was one she actually decided to voice, as quietly as she could.

"Trouble?"

The distinct lack of inflection in her voice pretty much transformed the question mark into a full stop, making it apparent what her thoughts were about it. Nonetheless, she decided to ask, rather than assuming what was going on in the mind of the other woman with a head full of feathers, bones, and fetishes.

 

[Aeyliea]

Her thoughts of the situation were very much divided at the moment.

It was clear to her, at least, that an ambush was under way. It was also clear to her that there were more than just the two men in this tree that she could see. And so was presented a quandary: turn the tables and ambush the ambushers and try to whittle down the numbers or fade into the background and wait it out.

She really, really did not like the thought of running. Her moral compass was an interesting dive at the best of times - after all, she was a raider and had slain a non-zero number of innocent people in the pursuit of an endless war against any outsider at all. The trick was, she had given her word on defending this set of probably innocent people from others like herself.

Morals as the civilized world saw it didn't matter. Her honor, on the other hand.

She nodded in answer to Vida's question, and then made a careful motion indicating her bow, and pointing to the right-hand of the two in the tree. She gripped her spear and grinned in a feral way. As far as she was concerned, there was no reasonable excuse for being up in a tree nearby the bogged down caravan with an unknown number of your friends about. If they had been friendly, they could have shown themselves and helped out.

Getting a spear through the liver was the least they deserved for making them sit in this soggy mess for any longer than they had to.

She still did not speak. She merely looked the question. If the other mercenary was on board with the idea, she would have to skulk a lot closer to make sure she could get a good throw and not be left disarmed out of the process.