Nemara stands over the pot of oatmeal, her green Elven eyes glazed over and almost shut as the soft crackle of the fire lulls her back to sleep. Her head nods once or twice as one of her long cords of braided red hair dangles dangerously above the flames. It’s far too early to be awake, much less awake and in charge of cooking breakfast. For a few moments, she falls entirely asleep on her feet, until the loud thump of boot heel on wooden floorboards startles her to consciousness once more.
“Your mutt stunk up the porch, Nemara.” A much older Elf enters the common room from the back door of the large structure and sets a rope full of dead hares on a side table before entering one of the many private rooms that spoke out from the common area, each of them shut off by only a hanging tapestry. Emerging seconds later without his longbow and quiver, the Elf silently slides onto a soft bench near a window and reiterates his previous complaint. “I said your mutt-“
“I know what he did, Father Aenor,” Nemara cuts the Elf off mid-phrase, having now come to her senses. She stirs the pot of oats a few times, taps the wooden spoon on the kettle, and sets it down to rub her eyes. Aenor frowns from the bench, but says nothing. As head of the Elven commune, he knows there is nothing more to say to the young Nemara. She will take care of the issue, or she will face much greater consequences in their ranks, even as a teenager.
Almost as if prompted, a small animal pokes its furry head into the common area from an outdoor window. With a low mix of growls and whimpers, it paws feebly at the kettle, more than ten paces away from its short reach. Aenor frowns again, his slender blue eyes drawn to the beast. Nemara turns and hisses toward the window, only provoking the creature to whimper louder.
“Ugh,” she complains, balling her fists and stomping out of the room onto the porch. Aenor calls after her, speaking sternly with some aged wisdom about respect for elders, but she hears none of it as she slams the large oak door shut, surprising the small bear-like animal. It falls backwards off the windowsill, rolling over on the floor before sitting on its haunches, its head at knee height to the young Elf.
“You’re going to get me exiled, you know.” Nemara scolds the cub tersely. He responds by playfully swiping a paw at her sleep dress, almost tearing it. “Stop that!” She swats the paw away and leans down, pointing a finger at the cub’s black nose. “You have got to start listening. I can’t do this if you’re not going to listen.” Nemara reclines onto the floor of the porch, crossing her legs. The creature stays where he is. “Now, let’s have a look at you.”
The Elf closes her eyes, holding out a palm to the creature, who cocks his head at first, then slowly leans forward until the crest of his skull is pressed against her hand. She meditates on their bond, which is very weak right now, she having only tamed the cub two days ago. Brief flashes of light jump into Nemara’s mind; a few fuzzy images and sounds from the beast’s short life in the woods west of Watercrest. Through the disjointed visions, Nemara slowly confirms her original belief. The cub is a Withered Shore Black Bear. He shudders a little as Nemara wades through the cub’s memory, scratching her palm with his coarse and wiry grey hair. The Elf sighs softly, knowing this cub, while only three feet tall on its hind legs, is almost at full size. Creatures of the Withered Shore are, by nature, stunted in their growth, and this Black Bear is no exception. However, there is no sign of the Evil in him, which pleases her.
“Alright then. You’ll need a name, if you’re to be my companion.” She removes her hand from his head and watches as he idly licks a paw before turning his attention back to the smell of food coming from inside the structure. Aenor can be heard inside talking to another of the Southern Riders, a group of Elven Rangers and kin of the Faudree Rangers that study and hunt the Withered Shore, keeping a loose neutrality with King Bos Tau IV and the Bulund Army. Nemara sighs again, thinking of her recently lost companion, an Elklands wolf-hound that she lived with for three years. Rangers often keep a companion for decades, protecting one another and even extending each other’s lives unnaturally through their bond. But Nemara’s poor luck has lost her two companions in only one decade. She was very hesitant to seek out a new one, but seeing as this cub found her and not the other way around, she took a chance.
“Don’t make me regret this,” she tells the small bear as she stands to leave. “I’m going to town, and when I get back, you better have made yourself useful.” Testing the limits of their bond, Nemara waits until she has passed the fence before mentally commanding her cub to leave the porch and sit in the grass instead. She stops and looks at him, focusing on the task, before watching the cub roll onto his side right there on the porch. As he begins scratching at the wood, she curses her luck once more and turns back toward the dirt path to town.
.
== NOON == .
Nemara stands uncomfortably in the Scales and Scabbards antechamber twirling a red braid of hair in her hands. Men and Half-Elves stream in and out of the shop, causing the metal bell to clang every few seconds. She nervously taps a boot on the wooden floor, staring at the sign and half listening to the complaints of a few patrons.
STARTING TODAY: No more hide or meat trading. Only acceptable currency in GOLD. By order of the Good King Bos Tau IV.
She gulps and instinctively feels the pouch draped over her shoulder, full of pelts and stinking of dried blood. This is her biggest chore in the community of Rangers. This is her reason for remaining among Father Aenor and the others. No matter how many times they considered banishing her for past mistakes, this fifteen year old Elf had made herself extraordinarily useful in the Watercrest shops. But now, without proper gold, she’d come home as empty handed as she had left. A tear rolls down her smooth cheek as a heavy hand clasps her small shoulder.
“Nem,” the owner of the shop, a gruff-looking older Halfling named Bormand frowns beneath a thick mustache and sighs as Nemara shudders, “I’m sorry, lass. ‘fraid I can’t help ye anymore. Orders o’ the Good King…” The word ‘good’ comes out sarcastically, but the empathy doesn’t help. Nemara meekly lifts the pouch of hides and tries her hand at bartering anyway.
“Sir,” she begins, “these aren’t Withered Shore hares. M-most of them are from right here near Watercrest!” She takes a damp pelt and shoves it in Bormand’s face. Despite the age difference, they are nearly at the same height. He sighs again, taking her fist in his own and leading her away from the crowds. She continues her explanation of the fantastic furs as Bormand waves to a few customers currently standing in line, their pockets full of the gold Nemara so desparately needs.
“Nem, here’s what I c’n do for ye.” Bormand takes the list out of Nemara’s other hand and looks it over, scratching his forehead. “This last time, an’ I mean it, this ONE last time, I’ll give ye most of what’s on the list fer those furs.” Nemara beams with relief as Bormand continues. “But not now. Come back near nightfall, an’ I’ll leave the supplies at the back of the shop. If ye happen t’ have any gold at all, I’d sure appreciate it.”
With that, the Halfling turns and walks back toward the counter, dismissing a rude tone from a Half-Elf with a heavy sack of coin and instead calling a woman up to the front, who deposits her gold onto the table in exchange for a few jars of oil. The shop goes back to its usual busy state, and Nemara heads outside with her own quandary. How can she waste another five hours until dusk without going back home, and even then, how can she explain that this will be the last errand run she can make for the Rangers without proper gold?
A passing conversation, possibly a blessing from Vargen himself, answers both questions. Two Gnomes speaking to one another around the corner of the Scales and Scabbards wooden frame catch her ear as she leans near the wall to listen.
“…and you’re sure? The Outfitters lodge?” a hushed but shrill voice asks the other.
“Yes, yes yes yes! It’s simple, and we each get forty coins.” A second whisper joins the first. Nemara can’t see them, but she can tell the two Gnomes apart by their tones.
“Alright, fine.” The first Gnome pauses for a beat before continuing. “If you promise we won’t get caught.”
A scoff. Then a laugh. “By those idiots? If anything they’ll suspect each other! Smash and grab, simple as that. Just before night, through one window, under the rug behind the counter, and back out again.” The second Gnome explains hurriedly.
“Two minutes tops.” A faltering response from the first.
“Tops! I promise.”
With that, the Gnomes begin toward the northern side of the building, prompting Nemara to scurry away from the front door toward the road and nonchalantly head for a cluster of homes in the opposite direction of the two would-be thieves. From the snippet of their conversation, she can only assume they mean to rob the Highlands Outfitters, a guard post and supply shop owned by group of Men and Halflings near the road to the Highlands Valley. They had disdained the Southern Riders for years, sending away the Elves when they called for help or supplies. She turned the options over in her mind… Tail the Gnomes and catch them in the act? The Outfitters may give her a reward in gold for that deed. But it would no doubt be a paltry sum in comparison to taking the coin for herself, should she beat the Gnomes to the lodge at dusk.
.
== DUSK == .
Nemara stands behind an oak tree less than twenty paces from the Outfitters main lodge. Having been here over an hour, she has surmised as to why the Gnomes wish to break in tonight. The bulk of the Outfitters are handling the Harvest Caravan of wagons coming from the eastern cities along the River and heading toward Taurus Keep, where they’ll give the Good King his share of the season’s harvest before dispersing across the land to divvy out the rest. The road from Watercrest to Taurus Keep, through the Highlands, is a dangerous one, and with the wagons loaded heavily, the drivers and patrolmen need as much preparation as possible.
The Gnomes are nowhere in sight. Perhaps they’ve abandoned the idea. Perhaps she should too. She briefly considers leaving, maybe heading back to Bormand’s shop to gather what supplies he could spare and tell Father Aenor the truth about the matter, but that wouldn’t help anything. Gold. Gold will help. Nemara stands frozen in her trepidation as the Outfitters lodge door swings open once more. A young Halfling exits the building, carrying with him a heavy leather pack that clinks and clanks with each step. He wears an oversized cuirass, unbuckled and loose on his chest. Probably one of the King’s Knights. No, more likely a squire. He’s much too young. Setting the pack of weapons and gear down, he turns to fiddle with the door, going through key after key as Men and Halflings near the caravan are finishing up their jobs of packing the horses, bulls, and wagons.
“Parnus!” A Man emerges from around the side of the building with light blonde hair and an enormous build. He stands bare chested, with metal pauldrons and greaves, missing only a breastplate currently being worn by the Halfling. He appears to be the squire’s master, and not a happy one at that. “Parnus, leave the damn door, just get me my armor so we can get on the road before the black of night! If the Bjornen Star sets before I’m on my horse, I swear on the gods…”
His voice trails off as he turns back toward the caravan. Parnus the Halfling curses lowly and abandons locking the door, scooping his pack and heading toward his master. As he rumbles off, clanking and clacking with many metal objects on and about him, he fails to notice a shiny short sword falling from the pack. One of several, most likely. However, Nemara sees it and the glint of the steel in the low light of day. She briefly considers calling out for the boy, but what reason would she have for hiding in the trees behind the lodge at this hour? She checks once more for the pair of Gnomes, still nowhere to be found, then steels herself for the task at hand.
Springing lightly through the grass, Nemara quickly creeps toward the back wall and closed window. She thinks briefly about needing her bow, or at least her daggers, but for what purpose? She then thinks of her bear cub and almost laughs at the thought of him clambering through the window behind her. What a farce that would be. A peek through the cloudy glass yields no movement inside. The chorus of voices from man and beast in the caravan grows quieter as one of the drivers whips at his line of bulls, and all at once the Harvest Caravan is on the move, leaving the Outfitters lodge. If Nemara wanted to get this done, it had to be now, before any of the workers came back.
Through the window she goes, silently once more. “Under the rug behind the counter,” she whispers to herself, moving through the building in which she’d never stepped foot. She gasps at the sudden sight in the darkness.
Twelve counters! And just as many rugs! Oh no, this has already gone terribly. She darts toward the first counter, skidding around the corner of it and tearing up the rug with a free hand. Only wooden planks beneath it. With a quickening heart beat, she moves toward the second and third. Dirty floorboards smile up at her from both upturned rugs. Cursing herself, she sprints to the front door, opening it an inch or two and looking through the gap. A group of Men and Halflings are milling about, one of them smoking a pipe. Then, unexpectedly, two detach from the group and start for the lodge. They’re only fifty paces away, and Nemara has no time to finish her task. She turns toward the window as a pair of hands smushes up against it from outside.
“Damn!” she hisses, cowering backward into a dark corner of the building. Trapped. Armed Men heading this way from the road, and someone forcing open the window from the back of the building. Those damned Gnomes! Up pops a hairy head, tiny and loud.
“Arright, shove me over!” With that, the first Gnome goes tumbling through the window, sprawling out on the floor in a flood of limbs and curses. Standing to his feet, he begins casually walking toward the row of shelves and counters, passing up the first few and stopping at the fifth or sixth. Without pause, he stoops down, kicking the rug aside, and lifts a metal latch from the floor. Nemara burns holes into his head with her eyes from the corner. As he grunts and reaches into the floor safe beneath the rug, the front door opens abruptly, flooding the middle of the building with what’s left of the day’s light.
“Oi, the hell ye think you’re doin’?” All at once, Nemara hears a scamper of feet from outside away from the lodge, a string of curses from behind the counter, and the sickly sliding of steel on leather as swords are drawn near the door. She closes her eyes and curls up tighter in the corner, still somewhat hidden.
Stepping back, still behind the counter, the Gnome holds a cloth sack in one hand and a large fishhook in the other. He’s covered head to toe in black clothing, and he’s pulled a hood about his face from somewhere Nemara hadn’t noticed before. He backpedals into the darkness in the rear of the building and laughs softly. Both Men approach, stomping over the floorboards with heavy boots. One holds a torch in his offhand. The light spreads its wicked fingers, reaching out toward Nemara, who scoots further across the wall, remaining unnoticed.
“Give us back de gold, shorty, an’ we won’t hurt ye.” One of the Men threatens the Gnome in a rough deep voice. In the darkness, Nemara sees flashes of the Gnome moving from counter to counter. Suddenly, without warning, the first Man screams aloud. Turning toward him, the second Man shoves the torch his direction, finding the screaming one bent over and clutching a bloody boot, the large fishhook still embedded in it.
“Slash ‘is damn neck, Guthar!” The injured Man sits back, still holding the foot. His sword, abandoned on the ground, is gone.
Guthar, the torch-wielding Man, moves forward. Three more steps and Nemara can bolt for the door. She prays intensely for aid, reaching out to Vargen somewhere in the void. He never listens, she thinks. Just then, Guthar spots the Gnome, growling and thrusting the sword out toward him. Nemara watches as the Gnome sidesteps the slash easily, bringing the stolen blade up and into the groin of the attacker. He falls dreadfully onto his knees as the Gnome cackles and darts toward the window, bag still in hand.
Nemara flees to the open door, leaving the two Men crying out in anguish. As her hand reaches to shove it open, it suddenly springs back, pulled from the outside by a Halfling, who sees her face and hears the wretched wailing of two Outfitters inside.
“What the,” the Halfling begins, startled and offguard. Nemara leans all her weight into him as she bolts past him into the yard outside. Four more Outfitters await her. Two Men and two more Halflings. Now, she thinks. Now I could use my damned weapons. And then, Vargen answers once more. As the Outfitters slowly become aware of the situation unfolding, Nemara stumbles upon the sword lying in the grass, left by the Knight’s squire. She kicks it up swiftly, catching it in her hand. This fight, should it happen, will be the death of her. But she can’t let them kill her unarmed. She lifts the sword and turns on her feet, scanning the Outfitters.
A roar, loud and close, hits the ears of everyone outside. Coming from the trees just south of the road. It’s dark, and the dangerous path toward the Highlands lends itself to all sorts of nasty beasts. They’ll no doubt be attacking the well-armed Harvest Caravan, and perhaps they’ve come so close to town as well. The roar continues, falling into low guttural growls that send shivers up every spine.
“Inside, and kill the Elf!” The Halfling at the door speaks, holding it open as the others file in. The last one, an older Man, takes a feeble swing at Nemara as he runs past her. She throws the sword up in defense, closing her eyes. With a loud “Bang!” the blow is absorbed, and Nemara opens her eyes in time to see the Man go flying backwards, unarmed. “Get in here, you fool!” The Halfling tugs at the Man from inside the building, slamming the door behind him. Nemara hears the persistent injured cries from the two Men inside, as well as the muffled angry conversation by the rest of the Outfitters. She’s alone now, with what she can only assume is an enchanted Knight’s blade, against what she can only assume is a Highlands beast.
Turning to the trees, sword gripped tightly, she breathes and sets her feet, her mind and senses all reeling from the rapid series of events. The roar replaces itself with a whimper, and Nemara laughs aloud as her Withered Coast cub steps out from the treeline, a bow slung awkwardly on his broad shoulders, a brown sack in his teeth; she sees her own gear and the supplies taken from Bormand’s store.
“I suppose we have a bond after all.” Nemara approaches the cub in relief. “You didn’t happen to steal one of Father Aenor’s horses as well, did you?” The bear stands on all fours, still holding the sack, and grunts again. Nemara looks once toward the Elven community to the South, then to the Outfitters lodge, before staring down the dark western road to the Highlands.
“It’ll be a long walk to the Stronghold without a horse or a bull, you know. You’d better have more than a roar in that little body.”
The Visuals:
Watercrest Streets: i.imgur.com/9qJbFxD.jpg
Southern Riders Outpost: i.imgur.com/5agl0Ui.jpg
Nemara the Outcast, formerly Nemara of the Southern Riders:
i.imgur.com/h9HomDA.jpg
Father Aenor of the Southern Riders: i.imgur.com/sCIkDHv.jpg
Unknown Gnome Thief: i.imgur.com/LihBToM.jpg
.
== DAWN ==
.
Nemara stands over the pot of oatmeal, her green Elven eyes glazed over and almost shut as the soft crackle of the fire lulls her back to sleep. Her head nods once or twice as one of her long cords of braided red hair dangles dangerously above the flames. It’s far too early to be awake, much less awake and in charge of cooking breakfast. For a few moments, she falls entirely asleep on her feet, until the loud thump of boot heel on wooden floorboards startles her to consciousness once more.
“Your mutt stunk up the porch, Nemara.” A much older Elf enters the common room from the back door of the large structure and sets a rope full of dead hares on a side table before entering one of the many private rooms that spoke out from the common area, each of them shut off by only a hanging tapestry. Emerging seconds later without his longbow and quiver, the Elf silently slides onto a soft bench near a window and reiterates his previous complaint. “I said your mutt-“
“I know what he did, Father Aenor,” Nemara cuts the Elf off mid-phrase, having now come to her senses. She stirs the pot of oats a few times, taps the wooden spoon on the kettle, and sets it down to rub her eyes. Aenor frowns from the bench, but says nothing. As head of the Elven commune, he knows there is nothing more to say to the young Nemara. She will take care of the issue, or she will face much greater consequences in their ranks, even as a teenager.
Almost as if prompted, a small animal pokes its furry head into the common area from an outdoor window. With a low mix of growls and whimpers, it paws feebly at the kettle, more than ten paces away from its short reach. Aenor frowns again, his slender blue eyes drawn to the beast. Nemara turns and hisses toward the window, only provoking the creature to whimper louder.
“Ugh,” she complains, balling her fists and stomping out of the room onto the porch. Aenor calls after her, speaking sternly with some aged wisdom about respect for elders, but she hears none of it as she slams the large oak door shut, surprising the small bear-like animal. It falls backwards off the windowsill, rolling over on the floor before sitting on its haunches, its head at knee height to the young Elf.
“You’re going to get me exiled, you know.” Nemara scolds the cub tersely. He responds by playfully swiping a paw at her sleep dress, almost tearing it. “Stop that!” She swats the paw away and leans down, pointing a finger at the cub’s black nose. “You have got to start listening. I can’t do this if you’re not going to listen.” Nemara reclines onto the floor of the porch, crossing her legs. The creature stays where he is. “Now, let’s have a look at you.”
The Elf closes her eyes, holding out a palm to the creature, who cocks his head at first, then slowly leans forward until the crest of his skull is pressed against her hand. She meditates on their bond, which is very weak right now, she having only tamed the cub two days ago. Brief flashes of light jump into Nemara’s mind; a few fuzzy images and sounds from the beast’s short life in the woods west of Watercrest. Through the disjointed visions, Nemara slowly confirms her original belief. The cub is a Withered Shore Black Bear. He shudders a little as Nemara wades through the cub’s memory, scratching her palm with his coarse and wiry grey hair. The Elf sighs softly, knowing this cub, while only three feet tall on its hind legs, is almost at full size. Creatures of the Withered Shore are, by nature, stunted in their growth, and this Black Bear is no exception. However, there is no sign of the Evil in him, which pleases her.
“Alright then. You’ll need a name, if you’re to be my companion.” She removes her hand from his head and watches as he idly licks a paw before turning his attention back to the smell of food coming from inside the structure. Aenor can be heard inside talking to another of the Southern Riders, a group of Elven Rangers and kin of the Faudree Rangers that study and hunt the Withered Shore, keeping a loose neutrality with King Bos Tau IV and the Bulund Army. Nemara sighs again, thinking of her recently lost companion, an Elklands wolf-hound that she lived with for three years. Rangers often keep a companion for decades, protecting one another and even extending each other’s lives unnaturally through their bond. But Nemara’s poor luck has lost her two companions in only one decade. She was very hesitant to seek out a new one, but seeing as this cub found her and not the other way around, she took a chance.
“Don’t make me regret this,” she tells the small bear as she stands to leave. “I’m going to town, and when I get back, you better have made yourself useful.” Testing the limits of their bond, Nemara waits until she has passed the fence before mentally commanding her cub to leave the porch and sit in the grass instead. She stops and looks at him, focusing on the task, before watching the cub roll onto his side right there on the porch. As he begins scratching at the wood, she curses her luck once more and turns back toward the dirt path to town.
.
== NOON ==
.
Nemara stands uncomfortably in the Scales and Scabbards antechamber twirling a red braid of hair in her hands. Men and Half-Elves stream in and out of the shop, causing the metal bell to clang every few seconds. She nervously taps a boot on the wooden floor, staring at the sign and half listening to the complaints of a few patrons.
STARTING TODAY: No more hide or meat trading. Only acceptable currency in GOLD. By order of the Good King Bos Tau IV.
She gulps and instinctively feels the pouch draped over her shoulder, full of pelts and stinking of dried blood. This is her biggest chore in the community of Rangers. This is her reason for remaining among Father Aenor and the others. No matter how many times they considered banishing her for past mistakes, this fifteen year old Elf had made herself extraordinarily useful in the Watercrest shops. But now, without proper gold, she’d come home as empty handed as she had left. A tear rolls down her smooth cheek as a heavy hand clasps her small shoulder.
“Nem,” the owner of the shop, a gruff-looking older Halfling named Bormand frowns beneath a thick mustache and sighs as Nemara shudders, “I’m sorry, lass. ‘fraid I can’t help ye anymore. Orders o’ the Good King…” The word ‘good’ comes out sarcastically, but the empathy doesn’t help. Nemara meekly lifts the pouch of hides and tries her hand at bartering anyway.
“Sir,” she begins, “these aren’t Withered Shore hares. M-most of them are from right here near Watercrest!” She takes a damp pelt and shoves it in Bormand’s face. Despite the age difference, they are nearly at the same height. He sighs again, taking her fist in his own and leading her away from the crowds. She continues her explanation of the fantastic furs as Bormand waves to a few customers currently standing in line, their pockets full of the gold Nemara so desparately needs.
“Nem, here’s what I c’n do for ye.” Bormand takes the list out of Nemara’s other hand and looks it over, scratching his forehead. “This last time, an’ I mean it, this ONE last time, I’ll give ye most of what’s on the list fer those furs.” Nemara beams with relief as Bormand continues. “But not now. Come back near nightfall, an’ I’ll leave the supplies at the back of the shop. If ye happen t’ have any gold at all, I’d sure appreciate it.”
With that, the Halfling turns and walks back toward the counter, dismissing a rude tone from a Half-Elf with a heavy sack of coin and instead calling a woman up to the front, who deposits her gold onto the table in exchange for a few jars of oil. The shop goes back to its usual busy state, and Nemara heads outside with her own quandary. How can she waste another five hours until dusk without going back home, and even then, how can she explain that this will be the last errand run she can make for the Rangers without proper gold?
A passing conversation, possibly a blessing from Vargen himself, answers both questions. Two Gnomes speaking to one another around the corner of the Scales and Scabbards wooden frame catch her ear as she leans near the wall to listen.
“…and you’re sure? The Outfitters lodge?” a hushed but shrill voice asks the other.
“Yes, yes yes yes! It’s simple, and we each get forty coins.” A second whisper joins the first. Nemara can’t see them, but she can tell the two Gnomes apart by their tones.
“Alright, fine.” The first Gnome pauses for a beat before continuing. “If you promise we won’t get caught.”
A scoff. Then a laugh. “By those idiots? If anything they’ll suspect each other! Smash and grab, simple as that. Just before night, through one window, under the rug behind the counter, and back out again.” The second Gnome explains hurriedly.
“Two minutes tops.” A faltering response from the first.
“Tops! I promise.”
With that, the Gnomes begin toward the northern side of the building, prompting Nemara to scurry away from the front door toward the road and nonchalantly head for a cluster of homes in the opposite direction of the two would-be thieves. From the snippet of their conversation, she can only assume they mean to rob the Highlands Outfitters, a guard post and supply shop owned by group of Men and Halflings near the road to the Highlands Valley. They had disdained the Southern Riders for years, sending away the Elves when they called for help or supplies. She turned the options over in her mind… Tail the Gnomes and catch them in the act? The Outfitters may give her a reward in gold for that deed. But it would no doubt be a paltry sum in comparison to taking the coin for herself, should she beat the Gnomes to the lodge at dusk.
.
== DUSK ==
.
Nemara stands behind an oak tree less than twenty paces from the Outfitters main lodge. Having been here over an hour, she has surmised as to why the Gnomes wish to break in tonight. The bulk of the Outfitters are handling the Harvest Caravan of wagons coming from the eastern cities along the River and heading toward Taurus Keep, where they’ll give the Good King his share of the season’s harvest before dispersing across the land to divvy out the rest. The road from Watercrest to Taurus Keep, through the Highlands, is a dangerous one, and with the wagons loaded heavily, the drivers and patrolmen need as much preparation as possible.
The Gnomes are nowhere in sight. Perhaps they’ve abandoned the idea. Perhaps she should too. She briefly considers leaving, maybe heading back to Bormand’s shop to gather what supplies he could spare and tell Father Aenor the truth about the matter, but that wouldn’t help anything. Gold. Gold will help. Nemara stands frozen in her trepidation as the Outfitters lodge door swings open once more. A young Halfling exits the building, carrying with him a heavy leather pack that clinks and clanks with each step. He wears an oversized cuirass, unbuckled and loose on his chest. Probably one of the King’s Knights. No, more likely a squire. He’s much too young. Setting the pack of weapons and gear down, he turns to fiddle with the door, going through key after key as Men and Halflings near the caravan are finishing up their jobs of packing the horses, bulls, and wagons.
“Parnus!” A Man emerges from around the side of the building with light blonde hair and an enormous build. He stands bare chested, with metal pauldrons and greaves, missing only a breastplate currently being worn by the Halfling. He appears to be the squire’s master, and not a happy one at that. “Parnus, leave the damn door, just get me my armor so we can get on the road before the black of night! If the Bjornen Star sets before I’m on my horse, I swear on the gods…”
His voice trails off as he turns back toward the caravan. Parnus the Halfling curses lowly and abandons locking the door, scooping his pack and heading toward his master. As he rumbles off, clanking and clacking with many metal objects on and about him, he fails to notice a shiny short sword falling from the pack. One of several, most likely. However, Nemara sees it and the glint of the steel in the low light of day. She briefly considers calling out for the boy, but what reason would she have for hiding in the trees behind the lodge at this hour? She checks once more for the pair of Gnomes, still nowhere to be found, then steels herself for the task at hand.
Springing lightly through the grass, Nemara quickly creeps toward the back wall and closed window. She thinks briefly about needing her bow, or at least her daggers, but for what purpose? She then thinks of her bear cub and almost laughs at the thought of him clambering through the window behind her. What a farce that would be. A peek through the cloudy glass yields no movement inside. The chorus of voices from man and beast in the caravan grows quieter as one of the drivers whips at his line of bulls, and all at once the Harvest Caravan is on the move, leaving the Outfitters lodge. If Nemara wanted to get this done, it had to be now, before any of the workers came back.
Through the window she goes, silently once more. “Under the rug behind the counter,” she whispers to herself, moving through the building in which she’d never stepped foot. She gasps at the sudden sight in the darkness.
Twelve counters! And just as many rugs! Oh no, this has already gone terribly. She darts toward the first counter, skidding around the corner of it and tearing up the rug with a free hand. Only wooden planks beneath it. With a quickening heart beat, she moves toward the second and third. Dirty floorboards smile up at her from both upturned rugs. Cursing herself, she sprints to the front door, opening it an inch or two and looking through the gap. A group of Men and Halflings are milling about, one of them smoking a pipe. Then, unexpectedly, two detach from the group and start for the lodge. They’re only fifty paces away, and Nemara has no time to finish her task. She turns toward the window as a pair of hands smushes up against it from outside.
“Damn!” she hisses, cowering backward into a dark corner of the building. Trapped. Armed Men heading this way from the road, and someone forcing open the window from the back of the building. Those damned Gnomes! Up pops a hairy head, tiny and loud.
“Arright, shove me over!” With that, the first Gnome goes tumbling through the window, sprawling out on the floor in a flood of limbs and curses. Standing to his feet, he begins casually walking toward the row of shelves and counters, passing up the first few and stopping at the fifth or sixth. Without pause, he stoops down, kicking the rug aside, and lifts a metal latch from the floor. Nemara burns holes into his head with her eyes from the corner. As he grunts and reaches into the floor safe beneath the rug, the front door opens abruptly, flooding the middle of the building with what’s left of the day’s light.
“Oi, the hell ye think you’re doin’?” All at once, Nemara hears a scamper of feet from outside away from the lodge, a string of curses from behind the counter, and the sickly sliding of steel on leather as swords are drawn near the door. She closes her eyes and curls up tighter in the corner, still somewhat hidden.
Stepping back, still behind the counter, the Gnome holds a cloth sack in one hand and a large fishhook in the other. He’s covered head to toe in black clothing, and he’s pulled a hood about his face from somewhere Nemara hadn’t noticed before. He backpedals into the darkness in the rear of the building and laughs softly. Both Men approach, stomping over the floorboards with heavy boots. One holds a torch in his offhand. The light spreads its wicked fingers, reaching out toward Nemara, who scoots further across the wall, remaining unnoticed.
“Give us back de gold, shorty, an’ we won’t hurt ye.” One of the Men threatens the Gnome in a rough deep voice. In the darkness, Nemara sees flashes of the Gnome moving from counter to counter. Suddenly, without warning, the first Man screams aloud. Turning toward him, the second Man shoves the torch his direction, finding the screaming one bent over and clutching a bloody boot, the large fishhook still embedded in it.
“Slash ‘is damn neck, Guthar!” The injured Man sits back, still holding the foot. His sword, abandoned on the ground, is gone.
Guthar, the torch-wielding Man, moves forward. Three more steps and Nemara can bolt for the door. She prays intensely for aid, reaching out to Vargen somewhere in the void. He never listens, she thinks. Just then, Guthar spots the Gnome, growling and thrusting the sword out toward him. Nemara watches as the Gnome sidesteps the slash easily, bringing the stolen blade up and into the groin of the attacker. He falls dreadfully onto his knees as the Gnome cackles and darts toward the window, bag still in hand.
Nemara flees to the open door, leaving the two Men crying out in anguish. As her hand reaches to shove it open, it suddenly springs back, pulled from the outside by a Halfling, who sees her face and hears the wretched wailing of two Outfitters inside.
“What the,” the Halfling begins, startled and offguard. Nemara leans all her weight into him as she bolts past him into the yard outside. Four more Outfitters await her. Two Men and two more Halflings. Now, she thinks. Now I could use my damned weapons. And then, Vargen answers once more. As the Outfitters slowly become aware of the situation unfolding, Nemara stumbles upon the sword lying in the grass, left by the Knight’s squire. She kicks it up swiftly, catching it in her hand. This fight, should it happen, will be the death of her. But she can’t let them kill her unarmed. She lifts the sword and turns on her feet, scanning the Outfitters.
A roar, loud and close, hits the ears of everyone outside. Coming from the trees just south of the road. It’s dark, and the dangerous path toward the Highlands lends itself to all sorts of nasty beasts. They’ll no doubt be attacking the well-armed Harvest Caravan, and perhaps they’ve come so close to town as well. The roar continues, falling into low guttural growls that send shivers up every spine.
“Inside, and kill the Elf!” The Halfling at the door speaks, holding it open as the others file in. The last one, an older Man, takes a feeble swing at Nemara as he runs past her. She throws the sword up in defense, closing her eyes. With a loud “Bang!” the blow is absorbed, and Nemara opens her eyes in time to see the Man go flying backwards, unarmed. “Get in here, you fool!” The Halfling tugs at the Man from inside the building, slamming the door behind him. Nemara hears the persistent injured cries from the two Men inside, as well as the muffled angry conversation by the rest of the Outfitters. She’s alone now, with what she can only assume is an enchanted Knight’s blade, against what she can only assume is a Highlands beast.
Turning to the trees, sword gripped tightly, she breathes and sets her feet, her mind and senses all reeling from the rapid series of events. The roar replaces itself with a whimper, and Nemara laughs aloud as her Withered Coast cub steps out from the treeline, a bow slung awkwardly on his broad shoulders, a brown sack in his teeth; she sees her own gear and the supplies taken from Bormand’s store.
“I suppose we have a bond after all.” Nemara approaches the cub in relief. “You didn’t happen to steal one of Father Aenor’s horses as well, did you?” The bear stands on all fours, still holding the sack, and grunts again. Nemara looks once toward the Elven community to the South, then to the Outfitters lodge, before staring down the dark western road to the Highlands.
“It’ll be a long walk to the Stronghold without a horse or a bull, you know. You’d better have more than a roar in that little body.”
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== NIGHTFALL ==
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