Fate - First Reply The Great Escape.

[Florinthe Othal]

The Wild Markets of Cerak were exactly as one would expect of them. Dirty, putrid and full of filth, apt terms to describe both the setting and its inhabitants. Across the uneven square that held this unholy practice, and in no particular order, were numerous ramshackle tents signalling the lesser markets where older or less valuable slaves were sold. The main attraction, however, sat in the centre of the plaza dominating the skyline. A single mothballed, frayed, and faded pavilion it marked the main auction house of Cerak At'Thul. Within the heart of this forboding structure lay two separate camps divided by a thin fabric wall, more specifically, those that had chosen to come here, and those who had not.

Florinthe stirred, her eyelids flickering as her senses came back to her and, with that, she wished they hadn't. The smell hit her first, her eyes and nose simultaneously assaulted by the putrid stench of this place and it took all her will power to prevent herself from wretching. She breathed, one... two... three... Calmed. A quick mental assessment followed and she noted that her digits, limbs and, as far as she was aware, bones were all intact. Once satisfied her eyes shot open and she glanced around at the mess she found herself stuck in.

She had never wanted to be an attaché on this mission. Her oath-sworn house, Luana, publicly abstained from partaking in slavery - although she had a strong suspicion some of the servants they kept would challenge this notion. Despite this, some bureaucrat - she assumed - had seen her troubled history with pirates and slavers and assumed she would be an excellent addition, or guide, to the team. Their mission had been clear, simply escort the Anirian trade delegation, in secret, to Cerak and secure favourable slaving rates. However, the crew that had been selected were inexperienced and the ship was shockingly ill-maintained and so, despite her best efforts, even she was powerless to prevent the inevitable sinking that had occurred.

Glancing around she took stock of the situation. Drafting magic here would be difficult, these chains were engraved with potent sigils that provoked painful, and sometimes deadly, backlashes of magical energy back into the caster. If she was to make it out of here alive she would need help and fast. Groggily she turned towards the individual beside her, whispering as quietly as possible while still retaining some audibility.

"So, I don't suppose you have an idea of breaking out of this mess, do you?"

 

[Jeriah Thackett]

Florithe Othal

"Well..." started Jeriah, who took any opportunity to explain his thoughts at great length. For once William de Courcey and Hera were able to avoid being forced to listen to him wax lyrical about his latest schemes.

Of course they might never volunteer again. They had escaped by the skin of their teeth but his latest scheme involving purchasing slaves using a deed for a mothballed galleon had gone very badly indeed.

"...as it happens since being arriving here I think I have come up with six different schemes for breaking out. Unfortunately they have required, in no particular order: a hair pin, parchment and quill and a blood stained handkerchief."

He spoke well, with a slight drawl to his accent. Unfortunately he was as adept at talking himself into trouble as he was out of it.

Jeriah was too well dressed to be a slave, but his black eye spoke of some rough treatment on his way here. The 'merchandise' were segregated into pens. The buyers able to walk between them under the cover of the tent. Jeriah had been on that side just hours ago.

"Currently I had a mind to talk myself into some professional servitude and finding myself in a situation with many more opportunities for escape. Unless you bring anything new to the table."

 

[Florinthe Othal]

Jeriah Thackett

It didn't take Florinthe long to regret her decision. As Jeriah droned on she realised with abject horror that she stood chained to a talker. As if things could not get worse it seemed the universe had other ideas and her head rang out, a pulsating headache stemming from the cumulative exhaustion and trauma sustained from the past few days. She had only half-listened to what the man had to say and sighed, essentially, she concluded, he did not have a plan and a simple 'no' would have spared her head from yet more pain.

Desperate, both to be free and to find a more mute ally, she glanced around the area trying to locate anyone more suitable to assist in breaking free of this bondage. Her efforts, however, were fruitless as each detainee - with the exception of herself and Jeriah - seemed resigned to their future capacity as slaves. Soon it dawned on her, the young Dreadlord's best and, as of yet, the only hope of breaking free was co-operating with this man.

Hope was not lost, however, as the mutterings of the well-dressed man had stoked the fires of her brain and she found herself cultivating the seeds of a very rough and, in all honesty, unlikely to work plan. "I have always been amazed at the cruelty these slavers display, perhaps... If we were to pose as a couple... Such a dynamic might pique the interests of these monsters and together, after purchase, we can test these opportunities" Her words were a stretch, filled with uncomfortable pauses, she was not a talker and even less of a people person, but currently she needed to be both. "I am Florinthe." She muttered through gritted teeth.

 

[Jeriah Thackett]

Florithe Othal

"Thackett," he replied. "Professional at lightening the heavy wallets of the rich."

She was a worthy replacement for William. She even had that look of abject disappointment that he had down pat for an unfinished scheme.

"As it happens I can talk my way out of...Most things," he said with a glance down at his shackles.

"Why do you think that posing as a couple is going to lead to us being sold together?" he asked. "I've seen them break apart whole families, send children far from their parents."

His expression darkened just a little. The casual nature seemed to ebb away from his tone. There was just a hint of anger and the danger that lurked beneath the surface of it.

 

[Florinthe Othal]

Jeriah Thackett

"...A thief then." She said unperturbed. Stealing from the rich always seemed an odd clarification to make, a thief wasn't exactly going to be fiscally successful if they robbed the poor. Not that she cared, really, everyone had different paths in life.

As he spoke about his skill, she found herself wanting to make a remark, acerbic responses were swirling in her mind, but what stopped her wasn't the fear off offending her new acquaintance. Instead, it was the realisation that she too was in the very same position as him. "Hmm... Well if you handle the talking, I can handle the fighting." Curiously, despite the utter conviction she held in her own words, very little about this young, almost dainty, woman seemed to give off any impression that she was indeed a fighter.

"Families are big investments, but children can be moulded - separating them makes sense." She breathed deeply as she spoke, memories flooded back to her of her own experiences here. Memories she hadn't thought about in years, swirling in her head made worse by the headache.

"Adults are fully formed, they can oftentimes require... leverage." Audibly swallowing after these words, she found herself disgusted at speaking them aloud - giving them life.

As the two of them spoke, the crowd of slaves periodically shuffled closer to the opposite end of the tent. The auction had now commenced and the slaves were now being sold.

"At this point, I'm not sure we have anything to lose."

 

[Jeriah Thackett]

"Ah," went Thackett, seeing where she was going with that train of thought. There was no need to follow it all the way to the end.

"You're a swordsman or a mage?" he asked, looking at her hands but unable to see if they revealed the answer. "That sounds as if it will work out to me. I am quite useless with a sword."

How capable he was with a sword seemed to depend on the time of day. He spent great lengths telling William how great a fencer was, yet never actually proved this. He usually let the rest of his Noble Vagrants handle the dirty work.

"We need someone who will value my skills, want to keep you as leverage and then believe we are actually a couple..." It sounded like three simple things. It didn't feel like it.

 

[Florinthe Othal]

Florinthe watched Jeriah mull over the proposition, waiting with bated breath for his response. She paused before answering his question, it was unwise for her to reveal her tricks just yet and, equally, she was ashamed that she had ended up in this position.

"Yes." She said, revealing no further information about her skills and quickly moved on. She was unsurprised by his revelation, he seemed to lack the inherent killing intent or deadly air that many swordsmen and weapon meisters seemed to revel in.

"If I'm completely honest Thacket, I hardly think we'd find a slaver who needs a thieving slave. I don't suppose you're any good at bluffing or, failing that, have any wondrous talent you're keeping from me?" She sensed a quickness about his mind, not unlike her own, and hoped she was not wrong.

The slow shuffle of the slaves continued, thankfully the pair were set at the very back, but time was visibly against them.

"What if... we play as hostages to be ransomed?" At this point, she was merely throwing suggestions and seeing what stuck, but the desperation was slowly gnawing at her.

 

[Jeriah Thackett]

Florithe Othal

"I have many wondrous talents that I am keeping form you," he boldly declared. "Do you think I steal by picking pockets?" he said, pretending to be affronted.

"I will be whatever the potential buyers need me to be, but I doubt such duplicity will be required. Have you any idea of the worth of a slave who can read and write? Even excluding the fact that I am a quite exceptional cook."

Thackett's smile instantly faded and he took a step closer, invading her personal space.

"Heads down. One of the organisers of the pit fights is coming through," he whispered.

Down through the central corridor of the tent walked a tall and broad man with long, jet black braided hair. There was a wickedly curved sword at his belt that made the two guards seem wasted.

"That one will be looking for meat for the gladiator fights."

 

[Florinthe Othal]

Florinthe stared at Jeriah quizzically, she truly could not form an opinion of the man. It was an entirely unfamiliar sensation for her as she could, and routinely did, find any excuse to dislike a person.

"I don't as it happens, my employer does not keep slaves. I can, however, believe your cooking talent, you strike me as an excellent house husband." It was a crude attempt at humour on her part, but even she had to admit, begrudgingly at least, his charisma was catching.

The moment Jeriah's warning left his mouth, she found her eyes widen in excitement. "Oh, Jeriah you beautiful man, this is our chance out of here." She smirked confidently, she wasn't familiar with the fight pits, but they sounded like a much better fit for her skills than posing as a damsel in distress. It was then, completely contrary to his warning, that Florinthe piped up.

"Oi, Pony-tail. I am a Dreadlord, of the third level, and this here is my apprentice. If you buy us together, I can assure you you'll have a fight on your hands." She smirked triumphantly and, at that exact moment, the dizziness struck her. She almost vomited there and then. It quickly dawned on her that what she had done was entirely out of character, in fact, everything until this point was out of character. She was smart, strong, full of guile and this makeshift prison, with primitive magic dampening shackles, would not normally best her.

The realisation washed over her like ice water. It even became apparent as to why she found herself being won over by the likes of Jeriah.

"Shit on it, I'm fucking concussed." She shuddered as she spoke. In this state casting her magic would be dangerous and, similarly, she was uncertain of how useful her martial skills would be with her head this muddled.

To top it all off, she had chosen to pick a fight with one of the most dangerous men she had ever witnessed. She breathed.

"Fuck."

 

[Jeriah Thackett]

"I would not say beautiful myself. Others might, certainly have and..."

"Oi, Pony-tail. I am a Dreadlord, of the third level, and this here is my apprentice. If you buy us together, I can assure you you'll have a fight on your hands."

Thackett's eyes went wide when she started shouting out. The fighting pits came and collected the most dangerous slaves for their business. Though he knew they also came near the end of a week to pick of the chaff at a reduced cost. Those unfortunate souls would be set against captured beasts and monsters for the amusement of the crowd.

The woman started swaying, but quickly explained why. Jeriah swore under his breath. A one-two punch of trouble. The large man had started gesticulating in their direction. Several guards unlocked a gate and started pushing through other slaves towards them.

Jeriah couldn't hear what the pit master said, but he could lip read.

Save yourself the bother and cut off her pretty little head.

The pit master had drawn his huge, wicked scimitar.

"Did you say a Dreadlord of the third level?" called the slaver. Her boast had been a step too far. They weren't considering sending her to the fighting pits, but murdering her because she was too dangerous.

"My master said she was a Dreadlord of the first level!" Thackett called out.

"Stand straight, hold my arm if you need to," Thackett hissed to Florithe Othal . If he was going to get out of this place then he was going to stick close to a powerful mage who was also trying to escape.

 

[Florinthe Othal]

It was a rule universally agreed and unspoken that bound the realms of men. It transcended culture, race, species and was agreed by all. It had, and would, exist for millennia unchanged and rarely broken. To do so would elicit scorn, rebuke and shame upon the individual cowardly enough to break it. Florinthe, however, was not a man and she played by a separate rulebook - particularly when her life was at stake.

And so, as the first guard made his cautious approach, Florinthe summoned agility and strength from resources yet unknown to herself and struck. With her attack, the future of the guard crumbled. Dreams of dynasties, children, grand-children collapsed as she kicked out against the very crux of what made him a man. The impact was resounding and several men, including the other guards, found themselves wincing and shuddering as the broken figure fell.

She was not one for sympathy, however, and as he tumbled forward her knee moved to meet him. It struck hard against his temple, the guard rendered unconscious immediately. Karma, however, had other ideas and she was suddenly overcome with nausea. It seemed the quick and sudden movements she had displayed had disturbed her fragile system and she found herself doubled over - vomiting bile over the poor guard she had laid flat.

Wiping the spittle from around her mouth, she staggered, falling clumsily against Jeriah. "Y...Yeah, I am a First Level Dreadlord... Of House Luana and any slave to help my escape will earn their freedom!" Her attempt at shouting came out as little more than a squeak, but her words carried weight. Even here, hundreds of miles away from Vel'Anir, House Luana was known. They were, after all, the house of the down-trodden, the oppressed, and publicly opposed slavery in all its forms. While she had strong assumptions this was merely good branding on the part of her patron - and even stronger assumptions they were just as cruel as the other houses - for the time being, it was all she needed.

Almost immediately, the guards found themselves set upon from all angles as the slaves fought tooth and nail for their freedom. While the chaos began to unfold around them, Florinthe took the opportunity to grab the downed guard's blade and held it towards Jeriah.

"Please tell me your talents extend into picking restraint locks with a sword." She stumbled as she spoke, almost impaling her 'apprentice', before steadying herself - at least for the moment.

"I also think we... might need to find a physicker."

 

[Jeriah Thackett]

Jeriah felt that one right at the pit of his stomach. The low sound - full of pain and regret - that the guard made as he dropped to his knees in slow motion only made his empathy stronger. That kick to the temple was probably blessed relief.

"You understand that if they quell this little revolt that they are going to take their time flaying us alive?" Thackett replied. "And you don't need a healer you need to lie down and sleep."

The stench of fresh vomit combined with the twisting knot already in his stomach had Jeriah dedicating some of his mental capacity to keeping his breakfast down.

He looked down at the sword and frowned. Ignoring the weapon he leaned forwards to inspect the cuffs up close. A sword hissed through the air where his head had been.

"Oh dear," Thackett said casually. He gave the unbalanced guard a shove and they vanished in a sea of angry prisoners. Even as they tried to quell the mass brawl the guards were trying to push through the crowd towards Florithe Othal

Thackett dropped to his knees and started working at the guard's belt, which was likely to draw some confusion in the circumstances.

"Aha!" he went as he stood up, turning the pin of the belt buckle towards her cuffs.

 

[Florinthe Othal]

"By the time they quell this little revolt, I have every intention on having broken us both out of here." She sounded a lot more certain than she felt, but at this moment in time, with her head aflame as it were, she was simply living each minute as it came.

Florinthe's attention quickly shifted towards the image of Jeriah on the floor before her. She stood dumbfounded, watching his actions with a mixture of curiosity and horror. "Jeriah, there is a time and place for that and this most certainly is not..." She was cut off at the sight of the belt pin. Blushing profusely, and feeling the embarrassment for both of them, she said no more.

Her embarrassment, however, was shortlived as a new figure stepped into the fray. While the earlier guards had simply disappeared beneath the writhing masses of slaves, he was different. The braided man, with his vicious scimitar, waded through the crowd. The slaves, to their credit, were aware they faced certain death at his hand or an uncertain chance at freedom through the gate he left open. She sighed, obviously they had chosen the latter.

Suddenly, her hands felt light, her wrists could move and her hands could flex. Jeriah's strange and curious fumble with the guard had paid dividends and she was finally free. Not only that, she was armed. Adrenaline pulsed through her body and she leapt ferociously at the braided man, only to crash painfully into the bars of the lockup.

Fuck.

To all of those, except Florinthe of course, it seemed the young Dreadlord had simply launched herself headfirst into the bars. Florinthe, however, quickly realised she had failed to notice that she was seeing double of this behemoth.

"Jeriah, Run."

Her instructions and speech were clear and sound. Her movements were anything but. She was running on fumes at this point and acting purely on muscle memory. Despite this, she leapt into the fray once more. This time, at least, she hoped she had chosen the right target.

 

[Jeriah Thackett]

The pit master swung the scimitar upwards so quickly it hissed. As if it's edge were so keen that the wind itself wailed as it were parted by it.

He made a cry of challenge in some language Jeriah didn't know. The sound of steel on steel rang out with its melodic voice. Darting backwards he afforded Florithe Othal plenty of room, but did this to make space for himself and his wicked sword. Clearly a proficient fighter, his footwork was tight as he circled and swung again.

Jeriah pressed through the gate at the head of a wave of slaves. The air was heavy with the scent and death, the bodies of guards and slaves left in their wake.

Thackett looked towards the far end of the tent. If he went that way he could cut through the outside world whilst the guards tried to contain the other prisoners and slip into the crowd. He was exceptional at simply vanishing in a throng of people. It was a skill he had learned well before forming the Noble Vagrants and beginning a life of crime.

He did not like Florinthe's chances. Even now he could hear more guards coming. The scimitar wielding pit master might have graduated from those fighting kits himself from the way he handled himself.

With a groan of frustration at his own weakness he turned back towards her.

 

[Florinthe Othal]

Florinthe stumbled backwards, her latest offensive push had been repulsed by the hulking figure before her. The pit boss did not relent, pressing home his advantage he launched himself head-on towards the exhausted Dreadlord. For each attack he threw, she found herself blocking twice, her double vision preventing her from adequately gauging the real threat. Furthermore, each successful defence elicited a sharp spike of pain through her sword-arm and saw the remainder of her strength quickly sapped from her.

She leapt backwards, finding a brief respite from the onslaught. Fortunately, as she landed, Florinthe clocked the corpse of a dead guard within reach and effortlessly plucked his weapon from his limp grasp. With two weapons, at least, she could trade blows with both figures.

The braided man redoubled his offensive, however this time he was surprised to find that her defensive manoeuvres left him very little purchase. It was certainly hard splitting her attention equally between two mirrored opponents, especially between bouts of dizziness and nausea, but for now, she was coping. That was, however, all she was doing - coping. She knew that the longer the fight drew on, the higher the chance of a killing blow.

Moments of dancing, circling, clashing and fighting elapsed, but then the pit boss gained an edge. A simple two-handed slash on his part, yet to someone of Florinthe's deteriorating health it was simply unblockable. She moved backwards as his scimitar meet her sword. Clang. Her blade careened off and the recoil of the blow sent her sprawling to the ground. Florinthe was forced to cast off her remaining weapon to ensure a safe landing.

The pit boss smiled cruelly, stepping closer towards the hunched figure before him. She watched as he savoured his last few remaining moments on Arethil and when she returned his smile, he knew something was wrong. She had anticipated this, she knew a pit fighter would want to savour his win. In doing so, he had left himself open.

Standing over her helpless figure, he failed to notice the wind around him pick up. Equally, he failed to notice that the blades she cast off had never landed. He was careless and he paid the price. At this moment, she was still not sure which figure before her was real, but it mattered little as the floating blades pierced their jugulars.

As the blood rained down upon her, she saw the blurred figure of Jeriah in the distance. "Ha, pretty convenient for you to show up after all the hard wo." Her jest was cut short, she fell backwards - unconsciousness overtaking her. The magic had taken what was owed.

 

[Jeriah Thackett]

Thackett could barely follow the exchange. He heard the ringing of blades and the distinct sounds of each collision merging into a near continuous sound. When it seemed that the dreadlord was for it he started to reach for a rock to throw. Anything to delay him.

He stopped. He was far too seasoned a con man to miss what was happening. He laughed before the blades even leapt towards the pitfighter, skewering his neck.

"I do try and be fashionably... Oh."

Thackett was faced with a dilemma. A question of conscience. She was responsible for getting them out of the pens and he could easily slip away now. Many other slaves would end up captured and put back in the pens and he was happy to let them form his own distraction. Yet if he left her she would be subjected to the worst cruelty of the slavers.

They would extract every measure they had lost from their stock from her personally until she begged for death. Perhaps she would even have earned herself a public flaying. No, she would probably die alone in the worst hole left in the darkest corner of this island.

He resigned himself to this course of action. He muttered: "this had best win a little favour," under his breath.

Thackett had to stand sharply, catching sight of a guard in his periphery. The guard swung a wicked pole arm with reckless abandon, turning several slaves into bloody heaps. The guard came for Thackett, who kept his hands up in surrender.

The spiked and hooked edge of the pole arm shot forwards. It looked as if the guard had avoided skewering Thackett due to sheer bad luck. The conman certainly looked surprised. He wrapped his left hand around the haft of the weapon and struck just once to lay out the guard.

Turning back to the dreadlord he laid her stolen sword across her chest; they would need that later. Then he picked up her limp form and slipped out of the chaos.

His silver tongue convinced a young sailor that he was taking her for treatment, but one one else bothered him as he made his way into a quiet warehouse district. He picked the lock on a large cargo shed near the docks. He slipped inside and laid the dreadlord out behind a row of crates on the hard floor.

"Well," he started to ask the uneasy silence, turning the belt pin towards his own shackled, "what am I going to do with you?"

 

[Florinthe Othal]

In her unconscious state, her sense of smell was the first thing to return to her. Far from the smell of body odour and death that seemed to permeate the slave cage, she instead smelled the crisp sea breeze. She breathed deeply, filling her lungs to capacity she felt invigorated and refreshed.

The cool breeze quickly revived her and, shortly after, she awakened. Without hesitation, she flexed her limbs, her digits and any other miscellaneous joint or moveable part she possessed. While there were definite bruises and aches, she had gotten off lightly and nothing seemed to be broken. Content with the results, she turned her attention to Jeriah and the surroundings.

"Thanks are in order it seems." She inhaled deeply, Florinthe was not one for showing weakness and, to her at least, being saved was the very epitome of that. Glancing around at the rows of boxes and crates, it didn't take her long to realise that he'd taken her to a store of some sort, perhaps by the sea - although she couldn't be sure.

While she couldn't be certain how long she had been passed out for, she had to admit it had given her some respite. The exhaustion she felt, while still considerable, was considerably less so than when she had been detained. Now, finally free from her bondage, Florinthe soon realised she had a mission to complete. Whether she liked it or not, she had to find out what happened to the rest of the trade envoy.

Her mind raced, the next steps of the mission would require assistance. She would need someone familiar with Cerak and its inhabitants, she would need someone who could charm, she would need... She swallowed, it soon dawned on her that whichever way she approached this she came to the same conclusion. She would need Jeriah.

"Now that we're free, it seems... I am in need of your skills." To his credit, she had earned his respect, yet she still found herself pained at the prospect of asking for help. "I came here as part of a trade delegation, but we were shipwrecked. I need to know the fate of my comrades. If you can assist me, and aid in my subsequent return to Vel'Anir, I can ensure that House Luana pays you handsomely." As she spoke she remembered who the man before her was - at least, her impressions of him. He was smart and cunning, riches could easily be won - and likely lost - by a man like him.

"...In addition, you will have a Dreadlord indebted to you. I'm certain that someone of your skills could find some use for that." She kissed her teeth as she spoke, the uncertainty of the proposal unnerved her, but she knew she had to sweeten the deal. Furthermore, she was acutely aware that she was the weaker party at this particular bargaining table.

 

[Jeriah Thackett]

Florithe Othal

One of her assumptions was wide of the mark. His schemes were just as likely lose money as they were to succeed in taking it. Turning down good coin was difficult. If it wasn't then they probably would have parted ways at that very moment.

"Am I to assume that these comrades of yours are most likely to be found in the slave pens we just escaped?" he asked, lifting one eyebrow.

It was almost predictable that he pointed out then worst part of the deal being offered by the other side. He hadn't tested the patience of a dreadlord before. That was new.

 

[Florinthe Othal]

Florinthe stared coldly at Jeriah, she was getting impatient and she needed to know where her offer stood. As he spoke she cursed herself inwardly, he had seen through the plan immediately.

"Yes. We need to head back to the market... Ideally, if we can, I'd like to grab some food and weapons first, but..." She turned the pockets out on her ragged clothing. Whoever had fished her out from the shipwreck had obviously pocketed her valuables. Regardless, she knew that she would need to come by coin to get back to Vel'Anir, obtaining it, however, might prove tricky.

"So, you in?" Her gaze lightened up, she'd already shown her hand. Regardless of his decision, she would be returning to the market.

 

[Jeriah Thackett]

Jeriah stroked his beard as if it was a difficult question. It wasn't. He just wanted her to think that his motivation was money and influence. Just like most people. In fact doing anything that would hurt those slavers was enough to tempt him.

Just as long as there was a good plan behind it. In Jeriah's mind a good place was defined as one that he had put together. No amount of evidence was going to convince him otherwise.

"Alright," he said reluctantly, perhaps overdoing it. "I'm in. We'll need coin first. This place is entirely powered by silver being slipped into the wrong hands. Now how many people do we need to find? What magic can you do? I need to understand what I'm working with and to here."

 

[Florinthe Othal]

Despite her best efforts, Florinthe could not help herself scrutinising Jeriah's every move. With each passing moment, her heart continued to sink. He seemed to be mulling over her offer, however, each second in the thought of it was another second in which the dangers could be realised. He was smart, she would need to watch him, he could be a great asset or enemy in future - though she hoped it would be the former.

It was rare for Florinthe to find respect for someone, especially a common criminal like the man before her. Despite this, and with her concussion now seemingly faded, she found herself begrudgingly doing so for Jeriah. Although why that was, she wasn't quite sure. He was just catching she supposed, like a human plague.

She exhaled deeply, he had agreed to the offer and weight almost lifted from her shoulders. "Wind and lightning mainly, although without a weapon to focus on it can be a bit of a stretch." She paused, unsure of how much to give away. Shaking her head quickly, she realised she had more important things at stake here. "There is only one man of import, he's the delegate for one of the lesser Anirian houses. I have no doubt he survived, the fates seem to often spare the powerful." The irony was lost on her.

 

[Jeriah Thackett]

Going back to focus on rescuing just one person seemed rather wasteful. Thackett mused on whether there would be opportunity to do more damage to the slavers. It wad the kind of dangerous thought that tended to land him in trouble. Which was, of course, how he had come to meet Florinthe in the first place.

"Wait here, I'll come back with clothes and money," he said. "And don't look so suspicious. There's no one I can turn you in to that won't clap me back in chains either."



True to his word - and truth was not how he lived up to his promise - Thackett returned within the hour. He had a big burlap sack full of clothes and a modest pouch of coins. He quickly turned the bag over and started rifling through what he had. It was clearly an odd assortment.

"Such crude theft," he complained. "Now what kind of weapon did you need to actually use your magic?"

 

[Florinthe Othal]

Florinthe straightened immediately. Jeriah spoke sense and she began to wonder why she hadn't realised it sooner. He was just like her, that is to say, in a very dangerous position within the heart of enemy territory. She sighed again, it would probably do them both some good for her to treat him less coldly than she had - he had certainly earned that by now.

As he departed, she took the opportunity alone to run through some stretches and basic exercises. She had spent an uncomfortable amount of time cooped up and it felt good, albeit painful, for her to relieve some of the tension that had been building up within her.

Upon his return, Florinthe's eyes visibly widened. She had not expected, at least within the space of an hour, for him to return back with so much loot. At that moment it became apparent to her that her initial assumptions of him being a 'common thief' were very very wrong. "Wow, that... that is quite impressive." The words sounded alien to her ears, praise was not something she was used to dishing out.

"Anything will do really, my magic's still... unrefined. I just need the weapon as a focal point." She paused, before adding. "A spear, or several, would be preferred though. And something subtle and small."

"What shall our plan of action be then, Mr Thackett?" She smiled wickedly, her blood was boiling and she was ready to wreak havoc once more. However, her body was quick to remind her of her humanity and, almost immediately, a long extended groan erupted from her stomach.

 

[Jeriah Thackett]

Praise was not something he was used to receiving either.

"Ah you are much more willing than my usual crew," Thackett replied. He was aware that it was because she hadn't been around him long enough to see how often his schemes went awry.

"This will have to do," he said, pulling a sheathed knife from his sack of stolen goods. "Also we have about three days before the local Red Crow gang come looking for me now."

Jeriah provided absolutely no more context on how that statement relates to what he had just stolen, nor would he no matter the questions posed.

"First, change so we can go close enough to the slave pens," he said. The rest of the plan was still being formed. In fact it likely wouldn't go further than 'have a look around' for some time. She didn't need to know that when she was so impressed so far.

Jeriah found some local garb from the bag and meandered towards the other side of a stack of crates to change.

 

[Florinthe Othal]

Florinthe arched her eyebrow curiously. "That doesn't raise any red flags at all, your usual crew being unwilling." She made her comment in jest, she knew by now that, regardless, the two of them were stuck together.

As she grabbed the knife, she instinctively checked its balance and weight. Surprised at its quality, Florinthe decided it best not to ask any questions about its origin.

"If we can get this done with time to spare, perhaps we can mount a cheeky little defence against this Red Crow gang." She smiled wickedly, she had a personal grudge against any Cerak native and would happily spend the rest of her days here beating up the local thugs.

As Jeriah moved to change, Florinthe grabbed a few unassuming clothes and simply got changed where she stood. Her sense of embarrassment had numbed over the past few days and it was simply relieving to get herself out of the disgusting rags that the slavers had clothed her with.

"We'll take a quick look at the pens, but the person we're looking for is a noble of some rank. He might have been taken elsewhere to be ransomed instead of the market."