Ring Fight

Probably Big Fantasy World >_>

Ring Fight

                Two opponents – great rivals – stand opposite one another on a stony, barren plain. They have come to do battle with one another. The winner will gain glory, knowledge of the superiority, and most importantly: their opponent’s enchanted ring.

                These rings – ancient artefacts of a forgotten age – hold raw magic within them. This magic can be used however the possessor of the ring desires, which allows them to perform a wide range of amazing feats: conjuring fire, or wind; growing plants; demonstrating impossible strength or speed. Possession of more than one ring is rare, but those who possess multiple rings have even more incredible abilities.

Each ring is equal in its power. As such, it is rare that more than one ring falls into the possession of any person at one time – who would dare risk losing such a precious, unbelievably rare treasure? Yet these two are ready to fight, each absolutely confident in their victory.

Those who have come to fight are very different from one another. One has studied all her life – an extended life, the result of using the magic on herself – to gain amazing skill with her ring. She can conjure a spear of fire so sharp that it can pierce any shield; blast lightening with pinpoint accuracy; move her body at incredible speed without damage; and so much more. Furthermore, she is a pretty woman, sweet yet in no way innocent face framed by black curls, body clothed in a dress of the finest black and grey silk.

Her opponent has spent his life helping others. He is younger in years, but older in appearance. He has used his powers only for others: healing the sick; growing food where no food could be grown; aiding when disaster strikes; and many other unheroic, but truly good deeds. He is renowned for his kindness, and his wisdom. His face is weathered; his brown hair has greyed and receded from his forehead. Yet he appears to be amused, as he stands there – a stark contrast to the look of fierce competitiveness on his opponent’s unblemished face.

“Are you sure you wish to do this?” he asks, his voice carrying concern and amusement.

“You are foolish enough to say you can beat me. So foolish as to actually challenge me, with our rings on the line! One such as you, with no skill in battle – why would I refuse?” she replied.

“Very well. I am ready when you are.”

The woman immediately began to use her ring, channelling its power. She felt it begin to form the threads of power she would need for her first attack. But then, suddenly, it stopped.

“What?” she said softly, confused. Looking up from her ring, she saw the man running towards her – he seemed to be summoning no magic at all. No, it was worse – she couldn’t feel any magic at all, from her ring, around her, anywhere.

Her last thought – as the man’s fist slammed into her face – was, No! I cannot be cut off!

                She came to a short while later. Squatting over her, he held his left hand in her face. Her ring had been taken, and placed upon it.

“You’re wondering how someone like me defeated someone like you, correct?” he asked her, lowering his hand.

“No,” she mouthed as she stared at the ring, not in answer.

Continuing anyway, he said, “It’s simple. The rings can be used to suppress nearby magic. We’re out in the middle of nowhere, so the only thing to be suppressed is your ring. The rings are equal in power – so mine was able to fully suppress yours. One punch later, I’m the victor.”

“Please,” she said, sitting up, “Give it back.”

The man rose to his feet and started to walk away. She was too woozy from the punch to stand up and follow, and could only watch as he began to dwindle off into the distance.

After he had reached his horse – a few hundred metres away – she heard him yell, “Perhaps someday! If you deserve it!”

Return

Return

                Deep-Current-That-Pulls-Strongly flowed swiftly up the river, despite going against the current. She was smiling happily; it had been several months since she had last been in the rivers, and she had missed the feeling. She had travelled south into Gracewood Duchy, in hope that she would be granted permission to travel its rivers as well (after word of her arrival in Riverjoin the Duke of Gracewood had barred her permission; a move made due to a mix of politics and fear).

                As she had expected, negotiations had taken months but had eventually born fruit. She had left behind the rest of the negotiation party (several of the Duke of Riverjoin’s advisors, and a Count whose income had increased significantly following Deep’s presence in and advice about the rivers) to swim up to Riverjoin; and then on up until she reached where her mother dwelled.

                She had entered the section of river her mother called home when she noticed something unusual. Each time she returned for her annual visit – this being the twelfth time – her mother had set a watch, using her magic, to detect Deep as she drew close. But this year she could feel no spell waiting to bring word to her mother.

                That’s very strange, Deep thought to herself. Though I suppose I am a month later than usual.

                Deep continued up the river, caught up in her thoughts. She was worried; but that was something she often did. She worried about the rivers, about Riverjoin, about her mother, about the Duke’s health, and about so many other things. I should have been called Deep-Current-Worries-Constantly, she thought to herself with a smile.

                Only a short distance up the river from the beginning of her mother’s territory Deep noticed someone – a girl, perhaps nine years old – sitting at the water’s edge. With a jolt Deep recognised that the girl was a river siren, like herself. Shock quickly turned to horror and worry. Mother didn’t! She wouldn’t reveal the girl like this! she thought. Flowing into the shallows, Deep rose from the water and stared at the girl; her heart pounding like thunder.

                “Hello sister,” the girl said as Deep emerged, in a sickly sweet voice. The girl rose to her feet, and added, “I am Late-Blossoming-Waterlily; shortened to Waterlily, not Late.”

                Biting her lip to control her fears, Deep said, “I am Deep-Current-That-Flows-Strongly, and called Deep. But you knew this already, I think. Where is mother?”

                The girl grinned; a cruel grin that ill-suited the otherwise innocent looking girl. “Cutting right to the chase, haha. You certainly didn’t get that from mother. Well, she’s dead,” the girl said; pausing for a moment before concluding with, “I killed her.”

                “WHY?” Deep screamed, enraged.

                “I didn’t need her anymore. You probably remember her books; all the knowledge she had, just in case something happened to her,” the girl said, almost without emotion.

                “HOW dare, how – how COULD YOU? She was your MOTHER!” Deep yelled, unable to control her rage and growing grief.

                Waterlily replied, “She wasn’t my real mother. Or original mother. However you want to phrase it. You know what I’m talking about – you told her that we remember, after all. That made hiding what I really felt very hard, you kn-“

                “Today you die, Waterlily. You’ll have no chance to use our nature to dark ends,” said Deep, moving forwards.

                With a smug smile, the girl replied, “Would I be here if I wasn’t already more powerful than you? Mother told me all about your limits. But I’m already better than you.”

                “You’re too young to be stronger than I,” replied Deep, viciously. Suddenly she paused. “Which means that you’re taunting me to… make… me kill you? But… Why do you call her mother, and not Swirl-Of-Rivers-Meeting? Or Swirl?”

                A flash of anger crossed the girl’s face. “Fight me! You – you’re an arrogant hag! Just like mo-Swirl-Of-Rivers-Meeting is! Was! Until I killed her!” yelled Waterlily, starting to step towards Deep.

                Deep began to back away, confused. “Do you want to die? You haven’t killed mother, and you only said you had to anger me. Why? Why would you want to die?” she asked.

                “Kill me!” yelled the girl, her feet splashing in the water as she stomped towards Deep. “Or I’ll kill you!”

                “No,” said Deep. “Unless you have a good reason to want to be dead.”

                Waterlily pulled a knife from a pocket in her dress, and slashed at Deep. Deep easily grabbed her hand and squeezed it, forcing her to drop the knife. Catching it and hiding it away in one of her pouches, Deep dragged the girl into the water and pinned her to the riverbed. “You may as well tell me now,” Deep said, her rage and grief already gone. Instead, she was filled with pity and kindness. Waterlily was, after all, her sister.

                Waterlily struggled against Deep’s pin, but couldn’t do anything. Not only were they vastly different in size (Deep being an adult), Deep had training – and not only from forty years ago – in several forms of hand to hand combat. The girl eventually gave up struggled, and lay her head back against the riverbed.

                “I was planning to learn everything I could from – from mother, at first. Then I’d kill her, and sneak off to another river before raising an army. I was going to do it this year, and flee with the books. But when it was the right time, I realised I couldn’t kill her. SHE ISN’T MY MOTHER but she – I love her and I can’t kill her and,” Waterlily said, trailing off into a sob.

                “And now that I’m like this I can’t be ME. I couldn’t even steal the books and leave; I ran off for a couple of days but I didn’t want to go and she found me and she’s so nice but. I’m not really me anymore I’m a river siren but I can’t kill her for turning me into this and I don’t want to hurt her and disappoint her so I can’t do what I wanted to do but I don’t even want to kill and steal anymore like I did but I did and that’s who I am but,” the girl rambled.

                A bandit, of course. Or at least a murderer and a thief, thought Deep. Mother, why. It’s not surprising she’s so confused now, although… Maybe mother didn’t make such a bad choice.

                “You don’t have to be who you used to be,” Deep said, interrupting Waterlily’s babble.

                Waterlily looked up at her, almost in tears. “You are. And that’s easy for you. You didn’t kill so many people that you stopped feeling anything. You never tortured someone to death to see what it was like. You’ve never killed anyone’s parents in front of them and not understood why they cried so much because you never knew yours! And now… Now I know what it feels like to have a mother who loves you and I can’t go back and say how sorry I am even though I want to so much,” said Waterlily, bitterly.

                “And it’s all just more proof that I’m not really even me anymore because I’m feeling sorry for those useless fucks I killed and stole from. Except I know I’m still me even if I’ve changed and I hate the idea that I’ve changed and how I’ve changed and I want to hate her, because I know that she’s the reason I’ve changed but I love her because she’s – she’s my mother,” Waterlily said, finishing with a sob; tears of pale blue forming, visible despite the water.

                Deep sighed, and plucked the girl up from the riverbed, pulling her into a hug. Waterlily seemed shocked at first, but quickly tightened her arms around Deep; returning the embrace. Holding the crying girl to her, Deep started to make her way up the river.

“Just be someone entirely new; not the person you were before at all,” Deep whispered to Waterlily as they travelled. “Remember who you were, and make reparations if you can, but don’t be someone you aren’t anymore. We’re going to go up the river to mother now, okay?”

                In amongst Waterlily’s sobs and cries, Deep heard a muffled and sad, “Okay.”

                I guess we do change greatly when we become river sirens, Deep thought, or at least, we can change greatly. But I think that mother’s influence is the reason Waterlily has changed for the better.

                Adjusting Waterlily slightly, Deep smiled. It is kind of nice to  have a sister.

Smoke

This takes place immediately after Ash (the preceding story).

Smoke

                Viktir, a creature of charcoal and ashes shaped to human form, a being who had once been human, the first Ash Priest, stood before Eleez, a being outwardly human but in truth made of living fire and strange magic, who had also once been an ordinary human, the High Priestess of the Ever Growing Inferno that they both served. They had walked from the temple of the Inferno and made their way up along the coast, eventually reaching a secluded beach.

                “Now we shall find out what you can do,” said Eleez, curling some of her bright red hair back behind her ears as she spoke.

                Viktir began to move his arms and hands rapidly, forming signs. The signs he formed meant, “I am not sure how to begin, High Priestess.” As he signed, small pieces of ash fell off of his mottled white, gray and black ‘skin’ – though it was more akin to the ash and charcoal left behind by a fire that has burnt its course.

                “Earlier, your cough – it produced a great cloud of ash. Begin with that,” commanded Eleez.

                Viktir nodded, and took in a huge breath. His throat made strange noises as he did so; a strangled gurgle, as parts of his throat were drawn in as well. Eleez noticed that the breath seemed far greater than that of an ordinary human – the amount of air Viktir took in caused his body to expand, although he did not seem to notice.

                Once full of air, Viktir paused for a second and looked at himself. Holding the breath within him, he signed, “What is this?”

                “You’ve drawn in around ten ordinary breaths, I think,” said Eleez in reply. “Your body’s ability to draw in air is no longer limited by your lungs. Now, cough.”

                Viktir nodded. He began to cough a terrible, groaning, hacking series of coughs. With each great cough he released a huge cloud of ash into the air; small pieces spiralling and catching in the moonlight. After coughing out all the air he had breathed in, he began to cough more normally – drawing in air to cough it out. Within a minute, the entire area was obscured by a cloud of ash too thick for Eleez to see through.

                “Enough, Viktir. I can no longer see you,” said Eleez, stepping towards where Viktir had stood. Eventually he came into view.

                “I can see fine,” he signed to her, “Although I can tell the ash is there. You truly cannot see through it?”

                “No, I cannot. Can you tell me how large this cloud is?” she asked, waving her hand to indicate the ash.

                “It covers the entire beach,” he replied. He added, “I think I am in control of it; although it does seem to be slowly leaving my control and covering the ground.”

                “I can think of many uses for this ability. Next, I wish to test your strength. Stand still.”

                As Viktir stood, Eleez took several steps backwards. Focusing her magic into the ground before her, she melted the sand and forged it into a black glass ball. She raised the ball with both her hands, pointed it at Viktir and channelled her power into a small explosion. Blasted from her hands, the ball flew through the air and slammed into Viktir’s belly with a thud and a sickening crunch. Viktir’s breath was expelled from him, and he fell to the ground coughing; the ball dropping from his gut to the ground.

                Eleez rushed to Viktir’s side, yelling, “Are you alright?”

                Viktir groaned and coughed for a time, but eventually managed to sign, “I’ll live, I think. I am damaged, but I don’t believe I need the parts of me you hit to live. Anymore, at least.”

                Eleez smiled with relief, and sat down beside him. “I didn’t expect that the ball would fly that far. It was only a small explosion!” she said, and then laughed.

                “I do not want to try that again,” replied Viktir.

                “Of course,” replied Eleez. “I have ascertained what degree of resilience you possess now. And I have several new ideas to utilise my own abilities. There is one more thing I would ask of you: punch me.”

                Viktir nodded, and swung his fist at Eleez. It connected with her stomach with a dull thud; sending small chunks of ash flying in all directions. Eleez let out a little cough from the impact, but was otherwise unharmed. Viktir pulled back his fist, leaving behind a large, smudged imprint on Eleez’s clothing.

                “Was I that weak?” signed Viktir.

                “No, your strength is a little greater than before your transformation. Your flesh – made of ash and charcoal – seems to be softer, however; I suspect you no longer have true bones. So the impact was a bit weaker,” replied Eleez. “Also, my form is quite difficult to harm, despite appearances,” she added, smiling. Viktir nodded respectfully to her.

                “Come, it is time to head back,” Eleez said, beckoning Viktir. Together they made their way back to the temple as dawn was breaking. The night had been good.

Ash

Ash

                COME TO ME, came the voice of the Great Inferno. It woke Eleez from her sleep; and as she hurried to the centre of the temple the presence of the other priests and priestesses stumbled wearily from their chambers. I guess he has summoned us all, Eleez thought to herself. Compared to her fellows, she was fine. She had no need for sleep, although she did so occasionally to clear her head and to dream.

                They made their ways into the great entrance hall of the temple, where the prison of the Inferno sat. The two priestesses who had been on duty – a vigil in case of pilgrims arriving in the night – were kneeling before it. Eleez chuckled upon seeing them; the Inferno did not like ceremony and had only acquiesced so that the faithful would have a means of showing their faith. But I will forever look poorly on those who are excessively obsequious. Showing the most reverence for him would not get them far.

                As the awoken priests and priestesses – twelve in number – moved to stand before the prison, a couple of the fastest pulled the kneeling priestesses to their feet. Once they had all come to stand before his prison, circling around the pit that lay before it with Eleez at their head, he spoke to them.

                It has been seven years since I was dragged from the sea, he said – his voice echoing in their minds. In that time, enough of my power has escaped to induct thirty-two into the priesthood. None of you are close in power to Eleez; and few have received the second gift of flame.

                You will each die in time; of old age or through misadventure. In time, your numbers will swell, and slowly increase. But there will always be so few of you. The land you forge through faith to me grows ever larger, and soon will become too large for you alone to manage.

                I am not only a god of fire; but also a god of what remains after I have blazed. The ash, the char, the ruin, even the black glass this temple and the city beyond are made of are my domain. Awaken the initiates, and ask for the bravest amongst them. Bring them before me so they may hear my words. I have devised a new gift; but the cost of it will likely be great.

                Nodding to the Inferno, most of those assembled hurried off to awaken the initiates. Many were those who hoped to earn the Inferno’s gifts, and to join the priesthood. Each year, five were chosen to receive a gift of flame; and only two had been chosen twice. Yet there were three hundred initiates; some of whom had been present since the raising of the temple, just under seven years ago. Each year more came to join the priesthood, and although some left disappointed the number of initiates had continuously grown as the ‘Lands of Flame’ had expanded.

                Eleez sidled up to the Inferno’s prison, and laid a hand upon it. A Gift of Ash? she asked him.

                Yes, the Inferno replied. The fire – my power – shall burn, and the ash that remains will be empowered. But the fire shall not be extinguished, nor imbued – and thus can burn again. It is my hope that this gift will prevent the priesthood from becoming too thinly spread.

                Eleez nodded, and stepped back from the Inferno’s prison. It was a great honour she alone was given; to be told the Inferno’s thoughts and plans, even his worries and troubles. Despite his form – a great fire, hot beyond all reckoning, bound within a terrible prison of stone – he had once been ‘human’, or as close to human as beings from his former world were. Though he only sought to grow (through the proxy of the ‘Lands of Flame’, as he was trapped without hope of escape) his approach was guided by his previously far more human nature. He had once confided in Eleez that he felt her to be not only his greatest servant, but also his friend. Eleez had found his sentiment incredibly amusing (an Inferno, a god, forming friendships seemed so remarkably unusual to her); and she had been lucky that he did truly consider her a friend and had thus decided against any punishment for her laughter.

                Several plans had been put forward to resolve the trouble the expansion had begun encountering. Many priests were needed at the temple to handle organisation of the growing ‘Lands of Flame’; some were needed to keep an eye on towns and shrines within the Lands; and others were needed to push forward the borders of the land, bringing the faith to people who had not yet heard of the Inferno. The borders of the Lands of Flame had grown to a size where the current priesthood – numbering a mere thirty-three – was having difficulty controlling, watching and organising the land.

                The limiting factor was the Gifts of Flame; power given by the Inferno when initiates were inducted into the priesthood. Though incredibly powerful, the prison the Inferno was trapped within – a prison with no known means of destruction or opening – prevented him from acting openly. It was only through damage inflicted by the Inferno before being cast from his prior world (in which the prison was not invulnerable) that some of his power could trickle, given a minor goal but no longer under his control after leaving his prison.

                The only plan that had seemed viable was to create a ‘petty-priesthood’. It would consist of priests and priestesses who had not been given a Gift, but who were faithful and true to the Inferno. They would serve in all roles, and from their number those to receive Gifts would be chosen. This idea had seemed inevitable, though the Inferno had held off as he felt it cruel to add more hoops for those who have waited so long to jump through.

                The initiates – sleepy and tired – assembled before the Inferno’s prison. They had each been given the Touch of Flame, as had many faithful in the Lands. While close to the Inferno, the could feel his presence; and when right before him, they could hear his voice.

                I have devised a new Gift. It is the ‘Gift of Ash’. I shall, I believe, be able to grant it to any of you who desire it so long as you deserve a Gift. I am, however, not yet sure of the effects of the gift. I know this much, however: you will be unable to receive a Gift of Flame; you shall be charred potentially beyond what is recognisably human; you shall not age and will not need food but fuel; and you will have access to magics and strange abilities in some form. Finally, the first of you to receive the Gift may die. I ask that the bravest amongst you step forward to receive this gift.

                The initiates stood, each considering not only the risk to their lives, but also the other costs and benefits of the gift. It was not long before one of the initiates stepped forward. The initiate was a tall, broad man. Eleez recognised him, as he had toiled as an initiate for the past five years. His name was Viktir, and he had not been chosen due to his lack of intellect. He had not minded; he had come to serve rather than due to temptation, and had happy to act as a bodyguard (something he was very good at; having personally prevented two assassination attempts).

                Those assembled felt the Inferno nod within their minds. Descend into the pit, he said.

                Viktir walked to the pit, and gently lowered himself into it. Once within, he stood in the centre and looked up at the prison expectantly. Liquid fire, bright and pure, the power of the Inferno began to pour from a crack and pool in the pit. It was a slight amount more than was usually given as a Gift, and Eleez suspected it was almost all the power the Inferno had readied.

                The fire flowed towards Viktir, eventually finding his feet and burning away his sandals. As it flowed into him he winced, and groaned in pain. His feet started to redden, as if blistering from intense heat, and then started to burn with the glow of embers – no flame curled forth. The redness stretched up his legs and soon covered his entire body. His feet, having burnt, were left as strangely solid ashes – a mix of pure white, gray, and black. The process continued; burning his entire body with only a rare flicker of flame. His clothes caught – unlike his sandals – did not catch alight, as they had been made from a material designed to withstand fire (as was much of the clothing of the priesthood; due to the nature of their abilities).

                Beyond his initially grunts of pain, Viktir kept his silence as he burnt from the inside out. As the process completed – his face becoming a mess of ash that was hard to interpret, but seemed to have the same shape – he coughed loudly, expelling a thick cloud of ashes. His form had been slightly changed by the Gift; his flesh seemed to have expanded a small amount as it burnt, and his ‘skin’ appeared to be loose – as if a shake would send ash floating off into the air much as his cough had. His eyes had become hard black chunks of charcoal and his hair had burnt away completely.

                Crowding around the edge of the pit, all those gathered saw the liquid fire drip from Viktir once it had completed its task. Eleez – and some others – keenly noticed that it was slightly less than it had been before changing Viktir, but not by much. It flowed to one side of the pit, and formed a small puddle there.

                Viktir let out an unintelligible groan that he cut short. He raised his hand to his throat and patted it, as if to check it was still present. Only a tiny amount of ash was loosened by the actions, and it fluttered gently down to form a ring around him.

                “Can he not speak?” muttered a priest who stood beside Eleez.

                Before Eleez could reply, she noticed that Viktir was moving his arms and hands in a strange pattern. But it was one she recognised – it was a form of sign language, a piece of knowledge the Inferno had imbued into her. “What is he doing?” the priest continued, not understanding Viktir’s actions.

                “He’s communicating with sign language,” replied Eleez loudly, leaping down into the pit.

                “I am fine,” Viktir was signing, looking around for someone who understood him. As Eleez leapt down, he focused on her.

                “I understand you,” she said to him, signing at the same time. “Wait patiently for the Inferno to speak,” she added.

                Viktir nodded, and signed in reply, “He has already spoken to me. I panicked at first, but he told me that this had always been a possibility and that he had gifted me a skill that would help. And now I know these signs, this language.”

                “Unfortunately he was not foresighted enough to grant it to the priesthood. It would have been a useful tool,” signed Eleez.

                The Gift has succeeded, came the voice of the Inferno. But it has cost him his voice. I have gifted him a skill, as part of the Gift of Ash; the knowledge of a signed language spoken with hands and arms from my long-ago home. With it, he may communicate with you all. Eleez shall teach it to you all, beginning with the priesthood.

                As Eleez closed her eyes and sighed at the additional work, the Inferno continued. Having examined the effects of the Gift, here are my proclamations: Viktir has become the first of the Ash Priests, who will guard my shrines and spread my word. They will be assisted in this task by an order of petty priests, who shall act as their interpreters for the masses. Petty Priests shall be serve under Ash Priests or Flame Priests (as all prior priests shall now be referred to as). Initiates shall become petty priests after receiving training here; or, should they choose, Ash Priests. Those to receive a Gift of Flame shall henceforth be chosen from the petty priesthood. Promotions to petty priesthood, and the creation of more Ash Priests, shall begin tomorrow morning. For now, return to your rest or your duties.

                The newly renamed Flame Priests and the initiates excitedly chattered for a time, though a few began to make their way back towards their chambers. Within the pit, Eleez signed to Viktir, “Come with me. I wish to see what you are capable of. The Great Inferno has analysed you, but we have yet to discover the nature and extent of your abilities.”

                Viktir signed his agreement in reply, and the pair left the pit – Eleez light of foot, Viktir with a thud and a cloud of ash.

Rebirth

Rebirth

                “You have proven who you are – or who you were, at least. But I would still hear your tale,” said the Duke of Riverjoin.

                “Of course, your lordship,” came the reply.

                “Thirty-six years ago, in the time of your father, I was a knight. I well-known for several reasons; though chief amongst them were my victories in all events I entered as a squire, and most as a knight. From my twenty-third birthday onwards I was a Knight of Riverjoin, and aided in the defeat of several terrible creatures that wandered into the Duchy.

                “In my thirty-second year I was sent on an expedition up the eastern river, past the mines and into the valleys between the mountains. I had been sent by the Duke to scout the land, to discover what lay there – monsters, men, the quality of the land, and other details. I made my way to the very source of the river safely, and found the land to be fertile and safe. But I also met many winged ones, who claimed the lands as their own (though they gave me safe passage).

                “On my way back, I saw her. A woman beautiful beyond any I had ever seen lay in the shallow water of a pool just off the river, her head poking above the water into the sunlight. I was smitten instantly, despite the slight blue tint of her ivory pale skin. I hesitated for a moment, but could not resist. ‘Greetings!’ I called out, approaching her.

                “She hear my call, and rose from the water with a smile. She wore a blue dress that clung to her tightly, and her body was as perfect as her face. ‘Hello, handsome traveller,’ she said to me. Her smile… It warmed my heart in a way I had never felt before. Barely conscious of my actions I walked right up to her and, well, I stared. I was completely awestruck by her beauty, by her very existence.

                “She giggled as I stood before her, amused at how much her beauty shocked me. And then she said the words that would mark the end of my life: ‘Would you like a kiss?’”

                “I was in no state to disagree with her, so as she leaned forwards I mirrored her actions. Our lips met softly, then firmly. She placed one hand behind my head and the other around my back, drawing me into a tight embrace. I tried to reciprocate but my arms could not move. Yet I did not care; so wonderful was the kiss. It seemed to last for an age, yet it could not have been long before my legs buckled as they too lost their strength.

                “I felt my entire body fading away, piece by piece. But I did not care. I could still feel her lips on mine, even as my vision blurred and her face disappeared. Strangely, though, the last thing I recall is her smell; something I had not taken heed of. It was delightful, much like the rest of her. It was an impossible smell that evoked a river of the purest water on a cool sunny day.

                “And then I died.”

                “About two years passed between then and the next time I was fully conscious, though I remember half-formed thoughts and images. I was in a warm, dark place. Though I could barely move, I was able to feel my surroundings. The walls were soft and pressed in on me; and I seemed to be connected to them. When I checked myself to ensure I was fine, I found myself to be naked; but worse – my body was wrong.

                “I almost panicked, but years of training allowed me to keep my wits. Which was certainly for the best – I am not sure when I finally pieced together that I was in a womb, that I had become a baby once more. Perhaps it was the first time she spoke to me as I grew inside her.

                “I could recall her voice, as I had heard it many times before coming to my senses. She spoke soothing words, and promises that I would be born soon. One day she said something very important: ‘I think you are awake now, my child, which is wonderful. I think that despite the strangeness of this world you have the gift of language. It is the only part of your father that remains. The rest of him – his memories, his life – remained in his body. You are my daughter, my first daughter in this strange world.’

                “She was wrong. I possessed all of my memories; my life as a knight, knowledge of my sworn duty to the Duchy regardless of circumstance. I have discovered since that time that in this world – our world – memories are retained in one’s soul, which was not true in the world she came here from.

                “I decided to hide my knowledge from her then. It was difficult. Despite remembering who I had been, I also felt her. I felt her giving life to me, I felt her nurturing me in her womb, I felt… Like a child, and that she was my mother. This was offputting at first – she had killed me, after all – but as time passed I got to know her from the words she spoke to me. She was kind, and gentle, and had long been lonely and fearful that she could not carry a daughter in this world.

                “And in truth, I did not die. My body did, but my soul was drawn into her and used to create new life in her womb. I was recreated as her daughter. A ‘river siren’, she told me, was what we were. Spirits of the rivers, bound to the water. She had been trapped underground for years, but upon surfacing had chosen the section of river I chanced upon as her home. One day, she said, I would travel the river and find a place to call home myself.

                “It was strange, to be told that I was now something else. But I could feel the river as she swam through it; it felt friendly, and filled me with the sense of peace one can only get where one is at home. I was a river siren. And though tinged by pity and anger, I loved my mother.

                “I was conscious within her womb for nearly an entire year, slowly growing. She told me stories, of the world she had come from, of the duties the river sirens had there. This world was different; there was no great order, no forced purpose. She had walked on dry land unharmed, there was no evil that needed to be purified from the water whenever found. Many were the differences she named, but the important detail was that despite the differences she felt her duty was the same. To protect the river, and the life that depended upon it.

                “Just over thirty-three years ago, I was born again. As the river washed away the mess of birth, and my mother dressed me in a robe, I said my first new words: ‘Hello mother.’ In reply, she smiled, held me close and whispered, ‘Hello daughter.’ I remembered her smile from before, but this time… This time it was a different kind of beauty that I saw, and a different kind of love that I felt. I loved her as her child loves their mother.

                “I lived with her as I grew up, learning many things. I learnt how to prepare food entirely underwater; fish and river plants. I learnt of the magic inherent within us, how to use it and what to use it for. Of other magics she had discovered in the time since she had come to this world, so long ago. She was happy, so happy, that she was no longer alone. That I was there with her. Her wonderful daughter. She named me Deep-Current-That-Pulls-Strongly, and called me Deep.

                “My intent changed as the years past. At first I intended to leave as soon as I was able, despite my love for her. But what I was taught was incredible; and I could not abandon my mother. So I stayed with her through my entire childhood, and as I blossomed into a beautiful woman. I look a lot like her. It – it makes me miss her, when I see myself. We do not age, so the resemblance is strong still.

                “Although it took me until just three months ago to learn all she had to teach, I have long known what I would do when the time came for me to leave. She wished for me to swim the river, to find a place in it to protect and nurture.

                “But I have a different duty that I am sworn to uphold. Duke and Duchy. So I have always known that my place – where I would return to – would be here. That I would return changed, but still a Knight of Riverjoin. I will serve your line until the day I die, your lordship.”

                The pale-skinned beauty curtsied, dipping her head to the Duke. The Duke nodded, and said, “I am honoured to have you in my service. But please, finish your tale.”

                “Yes, your lordship. I spent many years planning how I would leave; and also planning how I would tell my mother that I remembered my previous life and wished to return to the service of Riverjoin. I dug up my old body’s grave in secret, taking the ring bearing my seal and the funds I had been carrying with me when I died.

                “When the day came to leave I was torn. I feared her reaction if she knew that I was more than just her daughter – that I remembered almost as many years as a human, and a knight, as I had spent with her. Strangely enough, I think it was those old memories and ways – though altered by the intervening years – that made me choose to tell her as she prepared to see me off.

                “I did not want to hurt her, yet I wanted to tell her the truth. And I feared for her: if she bore another daughter, there was no guarantee that they would be like me. They might murder her, or worse. Even if they loved her as I did they could be predisposed towards violence and evil, and set off to terrorise the land once grown.

                “So I told her. She was shocked; but she loves me deeply. She understood why I had deceived her – at first, because I feared she would kill me or distrust me; later because I feared she would cast me out or that she would be hurt by my deception. She was hurt, of course, but not as much as I feared. She told me I should have told the truth earlier, and I suspect she was right.

                “After I explained my plan to her – to head to the capital of Riverjoin and offer to return to my former role as a knight – she was surprised. But duty is something she understands; and I am in truth not sure whether the strong sense of duty I feel is from before or after I became a river siren. I feel it, however, and so I came here.

                “My last words to her were a warning, and a plea. I asked her not to kiss another as she had me; to not bear another daughter. At least, that she not choose someone unless she knew them well. Only if she was certain that they would be a good daughter. I worry that she did not listen, but I plan to visit her often so I do not worry much.

                “I set off down the river, flowing through it. We do not swim, as such; we use our magic to ‘ask’ the river to part before us, propelling us along. I made it into Riverjoin in under two days; an incredible pace. I had never before gone far and had no idea of the speed at which I can make my way through water.

                “Once I arrived in Prejoin, I left the water. I spent some time learning what had happened in the past thirty years; the death of your father and your ascension to the dukedom. The troubles that have plagued the land, the new heroes and what happened to the old. Much of what I was familiar with was hard to catch up on – in truth, minor details that I was curious about. I spent much time in the company of old men who could no longer work, and convinced the baron to grant me several audiences.

                “In that time I learnt that spending large amounts of time out of water – more than a week – would start to take a toll. I realised that I could not make my way to Riverjoin by land as I had originally planned, but would instead have to follow the river further. That is why I appeared almost from nowhere two days ago, as I walked up from the river five days hence. I managed to take baths at inns on the way, so I’m still healthy.

                “And so I have come here, your lordship. My abilities – which I have already told you of – are yours to command as you see fit, for the good of the Duchy. I only request that I not be asked to bear a daughter. I – I could, should they be willing. But it will be at my choosing. They would become my daughter; and I do not want to be the mother of a terrible darkness.”

                The Duke looked at her carefully. “I believe your tale; much as I believe you are honest and true. You are also wise, which I suspect comes from your many years and two lives. As such – and as I am not sure I understand your powers as you described them – I ask that you serve the Duchy as you see fit. Cleanse the poisoned rivers we have had to dam of the filth from the mines so that the fields will grow a great bounty, and so that fish live within them once again. Aid knights as they hunt monsters that wander into the Duchy.”

                “I will not be a knight?” she asked, a note of disappointment in her voice.

                “You are still a knight, regardless, in truth. But I wish for you to become a member of the Protectors of Riverjoin; the order above the knights that consists of nobility. As such, I will give you a higher title: Countess of the Rivers. Their bounty is not yours to dole out; but you will have final say on what may be done in them and on them, to ensure they flow clear and pure. Eventually, once you have proven yourself, I will grant you the land up the river should you be able to treat with the winged ones for it.”

                She was silent for a moment, so great was the honour bestowed upon her. Then she knelt before the Duke, and said, “I am honoured, beyond any possibility of deserving such kindness, your lordship. Thank you.”

                The Duke rose, and placed his hands on her shoulders. A quick glance confirmed that his scribe was still present, and he said, “I raise you, Deep-Current-That-Pulls-Strongly, once known as Sir Victor the Champion, to the rank of Countess; and I grant you the domain of the rivers within Riverjoin.”

                Taking his seat once more, he said, “You may rise.” And so she did.

Red Wind

Red Wind

                The wind. It raged for days and days, but they paid it no heed. Their homes were of stone; and their livelihood the earth below. The raging wind was no trouble to them, so they ignored it. None in the isolated community of Norton (named after a traveller who had – according to legend – been first to reach the peak of the mountain the town was built upon) worried, or even mentioned it as they brought their loads of ore down to trade.

                But they should have listened. The wind was a warning, though not deliberate, of what was about to fall upon them. For deep in the mountain they had built their homes a terrible evil had finished growing, and was about to be set loose upon the world. The wind was the sound of their coming, howling out from the depths. When the evil rose from below, they were unprepared.

                Norton had been built atop a pair of sheer cliffs that jutted out from the mountain; the only easy path up the mountain sandwiched between them. A wide stone bridge straddled the divide, and about three hundred people lived on each side. Several mine entrances had been dug on each side, although below the ground the tunnels joined together. The ‘town’ owned the mines, and paid the miners according to the amount of labour they performed with the money made from selling the ore dug from within.

Three inns stood in the town, though they mostly held entertainments for the miners (who would come from towns all around to earn a living in the mines). Several smiths – and a couple of fine smiths – also worked in the town, smelting some of the ore to provide weapons and armour for the town’s guard, who were the most well-equipped in the region. Norton had been built on one of the most north-east peaks of the territory known as the territory of the ‘winged ones’; a winged but otherwise human people.

The region was not controlled by any central authority, but it was usually peaceful. The coastal people to the west were well known for their friendliness to any – smiling fishers, and always in good humour. To the south and south west lay mountains, mostly inhabited by winged ones; but they were never an aggressive people, tending towards isolation instead. All other directions (though not immediately) were deadlands; almost completely uninhabitable for various reasons. Caravans headed south-east around the mountains and north towards the ‘freed nations’ and ‘death lands’, but few towns lay along their routes. Most trade – slightly more than half – made its way north-west, to the coast and the ports along it.

The town kept watchers posted on the edges of the cliffs, gazing down below, ever-vigilant in case a large group of bandits decided to attack. Others – posted in a high tower at the far end of the path that also acted as an entrance to the town – kept an eye on the sky above, just in case. But late in the evening, when all miners had all left the depths, none kept an eye on the mines.

                The wind picked up in the early morning, drowning out all sound. Some slept on; others huddled and waited it out. A few glanced outside, before stuffing their heads under their pillows and ignoring the gale. Jokes were exchanged amongst the guards on duty as they stared down from the cliffs, or up from the tall tower.

                Silent and invisible a greater sylph crept from the mines. Behind her came other sylphs, her own creations. They were not like the others. They could not hide in the wind, as they were not entirely of it. People who walked the forests alone, who worked deep in the mines, or winged ones who flew alone had been taken. Deep in the mountain she had killed them. Drawing power from their blood and their very souls the greater sylph had made a new kind of sylph; one of not only wind, but also blood. The foul manner of their creation, and their creator’s lust for destruction, ensured that vicious and cruel monsters – no conscience, no kindness. Only a deep need to kill and torture; to see blood spray in the air; and to draw power from it.

                Behind her they came, a gust of flickering red. They were the red wind, something new and terrible created to avenge a long forgotten tragedy. The one who lead them screamed her name into the wind. Niophae! Those who were awake heard it, but could scarce tell it from the wind. Yet all felt a chill, so terrible was she.

                They fell upon the outermost houses all at once. Those within screamed as they were torn asunder by invisible claws, and when they saw the scarlet faces flicker. Each was a nightmare – they were not beauties formed of wind, they were demons. Creatures of claws and nightmarish mouths; eyes placed randomly one warped, impossible forms. As blood filled the air – torn from veins and arteries in a disgusting spray – the blood sylphs pulsed stronger, brighter. None were spared; the aged, children, women with child, even animals were all slaughtered. Each house they entered became a mess of red as the sylphs tore the inhabitants flesh to shreds.

                In some houses, someone was quick – grabbing a spear, sword, axe, anything – and fought back. Often it had no effect; but some were lucky, cutting the sylphs instead of the air. But there were many blood sylphs – more than two hundred. A few losses were nothing to their number. Yet there was worse. Niophae rose above the town, and drew power from the souls of the dead and from her dark servants as they feasted. With the power that flowed into her she made new blood sylphs, growing her army. For every death inflicted, she gained enough power to create two foul servants.

                When she had first discovered that she was able to channel the magic of souls and blood, she had created sylphs much like the lesser sylphs she had been taught to make. Beautiful creatures, the epitome of feminine beauty despite their invisibility. Ah, the wonders so few had seen. She herself was such a beauty, though created by Oophoo himself. But creating such creatures took time. Initially she took shortcuts, paying little attention to form and focusing on function. Her creations became ugly, disproportionate, and eventually barely human in shape. Then she had discovered that they need not be human at all. A simple image – teeth, claws, eyes. That was all that was needed to create a servant that would follow her will that would die for her and was eternally bound to her.

                Not only were they quicker to create, they were also easier to control and required less power. Her early creations – capable of speech, though just as vicious and devoted – acted as sergeants and lieutenants, each leading a swarm of nigh mindless horrors. She could make more when she needed more, which she expected to one day occur.

                But on that night she created only nightmares. Her red wind fell upon house after house, tearing all to pieces. Screams echoed within; but once outside were swept away, lost to the wind. Still, those few who made it outside, who made it to as yet untouched houses, slowly spread the world. “The wind is red! The sylphs have come for us!” they shouted. People started fleeing; hammering on doors, running to the pass. Those who had armed themselves readied their weapons, slicing the flickering red horrors that came at them.

                Niophae saw this happening. She descended from above, ceasing creation of new sylphs yet still drawing power. Once above the pass, as the first few – the fastest cowards, and several who had mounted – reached the tower and gate, she created an incredible wind. Those who had started to flee through the gate were blown back and pressed against it, some becoming crushed beneath their horses. There would be no escape.

                On the other side of the gate, those still alive drew together, forming a ring of protection against the wind at the direction of the guard captains. Around two hundred stood there. The sylphs left them alone for a time, as they finished making their way through the houses. Some still slept, or had not been warned. As the survivors made panicked plans, the sylphs slaughtered those left behind.

                Then all became quiet, beyond the mighty gale flowing through the gate. Even it abated somewhat, giving those pressed against the wall time to hurry inside and join the circle. In the quiet, as those of import planned and argued, the townspeople looked around, confused. Some lit torches, adding to the illumination from the sealed mining lamps. After a couple of moments, several looked up. And they screamed.

                Above the circle was a mass of red, almost solid, growing larger as it hurtled down towards them at incredible speed. More screamed as it drew close, and others readied their weapons. It struck them with an incredible boom, sending most of those present flying. Several sylphs were slain as they dived upon weapons that remained raised against all odds, but most tore into their targets, killing them in seconds.

                Niophae flowed through the gate, and battered down those who managed to stay on their feet one by one, gathering power all the while. Finally the last living creature – an old, mostly blind and deaf horse that had not had the mind to flee – was attacked, and died. Niophae felt herself overflowing with power, pulsing through her entire being.

                Rather than creating more horrors, she turned the power inwards, into her very self, and soul. She corrupted her very essence – the magic of Oophoo that had made her so long ago – into something else. Something dark, and foul. She gained the power of the blood sylphs she had created; becoming one of them herself. Before, she had merely a taste of that darkness and the power to channel it. But with the magic of two hundred slaughtered souls warping and empowering her, she could tear even a bear to bloody shreds in under a second.

                Euphoric from the infusion of dark power, Niophae floated up above the slaughter, above the charnel house the town of Norton had become. Her wind, her form, had become the colour of just-spilt blood. In a faint cloud of whirling red her shape could be seen, a scarlet beauty grinning with mad glee. The first part of her plan of vengeance against the winged ones was a success. Looking at her arm, which she was for the first time ever unable to hide, she though, They may see me coming; but that won’t stop them from bleeding. And oh, how they’ll bleed.

Hideout

Hideout

The region near the trade road linking the Duchy's capital to that of the Count in the north-west was a mess of hills, ravines, and small rivers. The land itself was fairly unhealthy; small patches of grass in between tough weed capable of growing anywhere, a few scraggly trees. It was better immediately adjacent to the rivers, as whatever part of the soil kept plants from growing had long since been eroded away, or replaced with soil from further away of different quality. But as a whole, the land was half dead, and uninhabited.
Yet the road cut right through it. Hills had been moved, and rivers bridged with long lasting stone. It had cost a fortune, and had taken the prior Duke's men almost ten years to complete; longer than any of the other roads. Though there was much grumbling about it, the truth was that compared to the old circuitous route the new road was faster and quite a boon for the Duchy - more even than the other new roads.
The relative emptiness of the region had also proven to be a boon to bandits. As such, it became the most patrolled road in the Duchy, with armed soldiers covering each part of the road twice a day, and several permanent camps and forts to supply them. The section of the road that lay within the uninhabitable region took about four days to travel, and had three forts and two camps along its length.
Depsite the patrols, groups of bandits would still frequently pop up and often survive for months even when actively hunted. Often, knights would wander the region, looking for certain particularly wanted bandits to bring in for their bounties. Wise bandits often left the region when the Duke or the Count decided to crack down on the bandits. Luckily, at the time Benjamin led his group back to their hideout for the first time no crack down was in progress. In fact, banditry had been at a low for a couple of years thanks to general prosperity in the Duchy - few were down on their luck enough to run the risk of getting caught and potentially executed.
The group's hideout lay in an out of the way valley through which a small brook gurgled; forming a pond in the centre. They had plans to build a watchtower - disguised as a tree - on the highest hill bordering the valley, which would give them a good view for a fair distance. Within the valley, they planned to build a stockade and several structures; as well as using the fertile land next to the brook to grow vegetables. But having just setup, the camp merely consisted of a few tents.
The five who had started robbing travellers - Benjamin, Bronwyn, Ned, Eustace and Lisa - were not the entirety of the group. Benjamin's wife Emeline (who was twenty years younger than he, barely in her thirties) and two children, as well as Eustace's elderly father Frank, had also come with them. They had remained behind to guard the camp and mind the children, and to begin planting the vegetables and prepare food for the return of the rest. Eustace's father was able to do little strenuous work due to severe arthiritis, but Benjamin's wife was healthy and capable (as well as an excellent cook who had much lamented their inn's lack of visitors).
As the five bandits crested one of the smaller hills looking down into the valley, a young voice called out. It was Benjamin's son, Benjamin, who was more often called Ben. "Dad! Dad's back!" he yelled, happily. He stood by the brook with a stick, and had obviously been poking at the river. Emeline was nearby, tilling the earth with a plow the group had 'acquired' as they left Black Arc. Outside the tents, sitting in a chair, was Frank, idly chatting with Benjamin's daughter, Ira.
"Hello there, little Benjamin!" replied the boy's father, as the group started to descend the hill. "Ned, tie up these horses next to the donkeys," he added.
The group had taken two carts and four donkeys worth of supplies with them when they had left Black Arc; all that each of them had (but had not sold before leaving). On their way north (during which they crossed the trade road) they had also stolen a pair of docile cows, as well as some farming equipment. Much of their stuff - apart from the tents and a few pieces of furniture - remained in the carts, waiting until they needed it.
"Sure," replied Ned, breaking from the group to head towards the donkeys.
"It's good to be back," said Bronwyn, stretching her arms out over her head. Benjamin's family started making their way up the hill.
"Welcome back," said Emeline as they met. She gave him a quick hug, then stepped back to allow his children to do the same. The rest of them continued on, heading to their personal tents.
"How'd it go daddy?" asked Ira, staring up at her father.
"Good, although we didn't get much. A few days' wages off a coachman, a cutlass, a set of nobleman's clothes and a couple of horses. But don't you worry," Benjamin said, squatting down to his young daughter's eye level. "We'll do better tomorrow."
"Come on, let's go get the meal ready," said Emeline, taking her childrens' hands.
As his family walked down towards the makeshift kitchen - a couple of benches and a cauldron - Benjamin looked around the valley. It was a good start. I'll be a bandit king before I know it, he thought to himself, happily.

Getting Started

Getting Started

                "I can't believe I let you guys talk me into this," the blonde, curly-haired girl said. She was just shy of womanhood - seventeen years of age and near her birthday - but she looked several years younger. It made her seem innocent and sweet, and was the entire reason she had been recruited into the conspiracy (though she had proven to be a deft hand with a knife).

                "No turning back now," replied a man in his forties. He was a short man, and though he seemed predisposed towards having a large paunch he barely had one. His head was sparcely covered with gray hair; the result of many stressful years. He laid his hand on the pommel of his sword, and peered at the road.

                The man's name was Benjamin, and he was the owner of an inn in the nearby village of Grayarc. The girl, Bronwyn, was also from the village; as was every member of the ambush party - a brown-haired twenty-something man named Ned who had no trade; a red-haired thirty year-old local hunter named Eustace, barred from hunting following an accident; and a black-haired but graying spinster of uncertain age called Lisa who had been a weaver, but whose hands had begun to shake too much to weave properly.

                They were a sorry bunch; poor or tradeless. Even Benjamin, the inn owner and mastermind of the group, had hit upon hard times - a key trade route had been moved to completely bypass the Black Arc in his father's day, and his inn had become a rundown hovel. And Bronwyn; her parents had left the village two years ago to seek their fortune, and she had not heard from them since. Even worse, a rumour had spread that her family was cursed, and so despite her age no-one would apprentice her, nor would anyone ask her hand in marriage.

                They had been brought together by Benjamin, who had a plan for them all to make some money: robbing people. They would wait by the trade road and ambush the first good target that wandered past. A few minutes ago the hunter, Eustace, had whistled a bird call from up ahead to signal an incoming mark.

                "Time to go, girl," said Benjamin, pushing Bronwyn onto the road.

                Bronwyn stumbled out, but managed to stand up properly before a close-topped carriage rounded the bend up ahead. "Bastard," she grumbled under her breath.

                The plan was pretty simple. Bronwyn was to make the target stop, giving a story about someone wounded just off the road. After they stopped, Benjamin would topple a prepared tree across the path and come out of hiding along with Ned and Lisa. Benjamin would demand their valuables, and after receiving them the group would leave along with any horses to head back to their hide out. If anyone resisted, they'd kill them to establish a reputation.

                "Help! Help!" shouted Bronwyn, as the carriage approached. It slowed down and came to a stop right in front of her, as she flailed her arms up and down. The driver of the carriage was a neatly dressed but very tough looking man, armed with a cutlass.

                "What's the problem, lass?" asked the man, eyeing the forest warily. Noticing the tree beginning to fall, he swore and leapt down from the carriage, tapping on it as he dropped.

                Bronwyn backed up as the rest of the group emerged from the woods, weapons readied. Benjamin had a sword and wore some light mail that had been kept by his family after a knight had keft it in their inn, but Ned only had a spear and Lisa a club. The door of the carriage opened and a youthful, well-dressed man stepped out.

                "A hold up, is it, Barry?" asked the young man. His voice was calm, but his body language betrayed his nervousness.

                "Yes, your lordship," answered the driver. "I've no doubt they've another man or two watching us, likely with bows," he added.

                "I see," the noble replied.

                "That's enough chit chat from you two," said Benjamin. "Hand over your valuables and we'll let you live!"

                "I'm not carrying anything of value," replied the nobleman.

                Benjamin glared angrily at the man. "Tell your driver to drop his cutlass, then both of you get away from the carriage. L, check out the carriage when they've moved, and B, I want you to pat down the driver. Stab him if he gives you any trouble," he commanded.

                The nobleman and his driver obliged, and the members of Benjamin's group did as he ordered. "You, nobleman; strip," Benjamin added.

                As Bronwyn patted down the driver, Lisa's voice came from the caravan. "It's very nice in here, but I can't see anything beyond the remnants of some food in here. Looks like he's taking some kind of day trip, probably visiting some rich friend of his," she said, sounding a little envious.

                "Check for hidden compartments and the like," said Bejamin.

                As Benjamin spoke, the driver made attempted to grab Bronwyn. She had been patting down his pants for hidden coins in the seams or hidden pockets; and he attempted to wrap his arm around her neck. But just as his arm looped around her neck, he screamed in pain. Bronwyn stepped back from him as he tottered forwards, a bloody knife in her right hand.

                "You bitch!" the driver said, grabbing at his leg.

                "You shouldn't have tried to grab me, knobface," retorted Bronwyn. Benjamin laughed, but kept his eyes on the disrobing nobleman.

                "N, get the horses," Benjamin said, as he grabbed the nobleman's clothes.

                Ned cut the horses free, and started to lead them away. "You're going to leave us out here with no horses?" the nobleman asked, shocked.

                "Yep. Don't worry, people come up and down this road all the time. Someone'll find you before nightfall," Benjamin said. "Y'know, maybe, just maybe, this road shouldn't go through abandoned regions so the only travellers are rich bastards, patrols, and merchants? That'd sure make it harder for bandits like us to get away with this kind of thing, don't you think?"

                "Like I have any control over that. It was the old Duke's bloody plan to straighten out the roads, and it is no fault of any if your village refused to move," the nobleman said, angry and full of pomp despite his state of undress.

                Benjamin started going red at the nobleman's response, but Lisa interrupted him. She had just hopped out of the carriage, her search complete. "Nothing!" she said grumpily.

                "Time for us to leave," Benjamin said. He pointed his sword at the pair of victims, and said, "You try to follow us and we'll kill you. Let's go."

                The group backed into the woods, keeping their eyes on their victims until they were quite distant. "Two horses and some pretty clothes. That'll keep us going," said Ned, sarcastically.

                "The driver had some coins on him and we've got his cutlass too," Bronwyn said.

                Ned gave a harrumph, and continued leading the horses. Now that they were out of sight, Eustace rejoined the group. "I overheard you lot talking about the haul," he said. "I guess we should head further up the road and try again?"

                "Can't risk running into a patrol that's looking for us," said Benjamin. "More to the point, that fucker. I can't believe he doesn't know that the land around here's useless for farming. 'Move the village'. Fucking arsehole."

                Bronwyn giggled, and Ned laughed heartily, lightening up. "That's why you went red! Hah! It's not exactly the first thing that comes to mind," said Lisa, laughing as well. "It's a damn shame the old Duke didn't realise the cost to some villages when he made his plan."

                "Oh, he realised," said Eustace. "But the potential profit swayed him. It's bad for some, but good for the Duchy. And truth be told, only you can blame your poor fortune on the road. The rest of us... We'd probably be in the same situation anyway."

                Benjamin grimaced and ground his teeth, but remained silent. "Well, this was good! We managed to rob someone without having to kill them," Bronwyn said with a smile, seeking to brighten the mood.

                "Except you stabbed the driver!" rebutted Ned.

                "I only did it because I had to," Bronwyn replied, smiling viciously.

                The mood lightened, the group made their way back to the place they had chosen to be their hideout.