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[Konrad Venger]

17th Bell - 90th Day of Winter, 515AV - Near the Saer Ruins, Sea of Grass

They were lost when they found them. If he'd known what "irony" was, Konrad might have appreciated it.

"I thought youse bastards couldn't get lost inna Sea?"

"First time for everything."

"Not fucking fu-"

The Elder hissed and Konrad's mouth clicked shut immediately. He knew better than to disobey the older Drykas: the man had seen more in these swaying veils of vegetation and barren steppes than he could imagine. When he made a motion for quiet, you followed his lead.

The Younger was at a crouch next to him in a tick, both of them flanking the older hunter, bow raised to complement Konrad's heavy crossbow. The Sunberthian's eyes and aim scanned left and right, but saw nothing save shivering stalks and heard little save distant bird calls.

Hawks. Yes. I remember him telling-

The Elder held up a finger and for a moment Konrad was sure the old fuck could hear his thoughts. After the last dozen days in the Wilds, going hunting and trapping with the pair whenever the caravan was bedded down, he would not be surprised. The Younger was skilled, yes, as befit all his people... but the Elder? Konrad didn't think he could be honestly amazed by someone anymore, but his abilities were...

Useful. Really useful. So he'd watched, and learned, and agreed to come on this hunt. Which turned out to be something of a mistake.

He licked his lips and tried to crane his head over the grass, spy the jutting, jagged fingers of the ruins to the east. The Drykas' had told him they were just known as "the Saer", but who built them and when, they had no idea. The sellsword assumed they were yet another mysterious legacy from the Valterrian and left it at that. What was he, after all? A petching scholar?

"Camp fire. Game. Still burning..."

The finger slowly lowered, until it was pointing horizontally at a faceless stretch of the grass.

Konrad wasn't stupid enough to ask if he was sure; the Younger was probably too respectful. Instead the scarred mercenary wiped his sweaty brow with the back of his hand, cold wind tickling his scalp for the brief tick his hate was off his head, then set it square back in position.

"Let's have a look..."

The three men moved slowly, and thus quietly, and Konrad didn't have to be told their mood had changed. This was still a hunt, of sorts, but not for rabbits of deer anymore. Here in the Sea of Grass, the Drykas ruled supreme, and the horsemen weren't fond of negotiation when it came to "trespassers". They barely tolerated the Kabrin Road, and if not for the threat of the Knights should too many good, clean Sylirans die, they would probably have struck the caravans on it so often that only the mad, foolish or terminally stupid would attempt it.

So, it could be them. But Konrad didn't see... what was the word...?

They're not afraid enough, he whispered inside his own mind, following the hunters, aping their footfalls as best he could, avoiding any ground that would crunch or snap or squelch. They left their people, they never went back. Got to be a reason for that. If it was the Drykas, we wouldn't be closing in. We'd be running back.

And to where, exactly?

Konrad's teeth ground briefly like slamming stone doors as he remembered why they were so far abroad: they'd gotten petching lost. The Saer had been their anchor, their guiding mountain, but the Elder had made a rare mistake. He'd forgotten how fast the grass could grow around these parts, the Younger had told him, and spent half a bell scolding himself in lilting, chiding Pavi while running them in circles.

Now Konrad was casting wry glances upward and trying to will Syna not to lower, to give them more time, more light, more room and window to dive through the grasses and blunder back to Fangor, Three Eyes, Stash and all the rest.

He didn't need the Drykas to mentor him in how deadly it was out here past nightfall.

"Could it be ours?"

"Eh?"

The Younger twisted his head around a little bit to hear the question again.

"Our camp. Could we have come around on it the wrong way?"

"Nah... Nah, I don't think so."

"Why'd'ja say that?"

"Just feels... wrong."

"'Wrong'?"

"Look, I dunno, the grass is wrong-"

"That's what got us stuck out here in the first-"

Another hiss. Accompanied by a look wizened by time and innate meanness that all old and bitter men that survived the killing business for long enough seemed to possess. Konrad blinked at him and, that time, didn't shy away like a whipped dog

"Innate meanness" was something he knew a little about.

Whatever the tension of that moment could have birthed, whether snarls or challenges or simple, unthinking violence, the trio were never to find out. A peal of laughter split the natural silence of the Sea like the first blast of thunder of a storm. All three heads snapped towards the sound, and Konrad was pleased to find out he got the direction right.

Which is fucking well saying something. Sound never travels right out here.

"Stay low," the Younger whispered, keeping his crouch and moving forward again, the Elder at his side. "Weapons ready, but be ready to run, too."

Their eyes ate up the grass as they moved. Soon Konrad could see the countless layers of grass and scrub and hedge and leaf start to thin. He wasn't sure how, but he could tell the vegetation was... lessening, as if they were approaching the edge of a mad and massive stretch of hair on an impossible head. He could see shapes and space through the gaps in the grass.

Sky. Snow. Dirt.

Wagons. Horses. Figures moving at a speed best described as "walking", and other figures seated.

The two Drykas and the Sunberth sellsword crouched in a rough line with their weapons poised. There was a thick rank of grass masking them, but still they near-hugged the ground with their caution, Konrad taking off his stark, black hat and putting it on the ground next to him.

He licked his lips, from one unmarred corner to the other that forever felt and tasted like rancid, butchered meat, and started to observe their new... neighbors, bustling around a roaring fire, far off from the Kabrin Road.

[Coryn]

This was a bad idea.

This was a terrible idea.

Coryn had been on this world for little more than a season, and even she possessed enough common sense to know that her decision to leave Syliras was not a good one. What had she been thinking? As much as she had detested the walled city, this cross-country travelling was far, far worse. Forty days (give or take, the caravan lead always said each time their journey length was questioned) had seemed so short within the confines of Syliras. But the road, the travelling, warped time and space. She was quite sure she had been travelling for thirty years, not thirty days.

She was exhausted, bored, frustrated, cold and – most depressingly of all – in desperate need of a wash. Her skin was covered in a film of sweat, dirt and dust, her hair was knotted and greasy. She daren’t even think how she smelt.

But then, everyone in their miserable little travelling party stunk to the high skies. The guards were the worse; wearing their air-tight armour all day and marching, marching marching before taking it off and revealing to everyone what, exactly, a thirty-something year old man smelt like in great, eye-watering quantities.

The odour was just one of many, many reasons why Coryn kept her distance in the evening. Whilst the merchants and mercenaries laughed and jostled each other around the campfire, Coryn kept herself to herself. There were ten other travellers like her, independent people who were seeking a different life in Kenash. But beyond their intended destination, Coryn had nothing in common with these people. Their intent desires to tell her their secrets and problems irked her even more, and after the first ten or so days they eventually learnt not to approach the distant Ethaefal.

Tonight was no different. It was early in the evening, and even with spring right around the corner, Leth was already hanging lowly in the sky. Coryn was standing over the fire, tentatively watching a pot of meat brown and sizzle away -- what exact animal the meat came from, she was not certain. Somehow, the task of cooking the evening meal had fallen to Coryn, but in truth she did not mind. The process of creating a meal gave her something to focus on beside her regret over this farce of a journey.

What was she hoping would happen in Kenash, anyway? She knew very little about the city beside that it was surrounded by swamps and that slavery was rife. There was a small part of Coryn that wondered if the thought of slavery should distress or upset her. To hold someone against their will was clearly wrong, at least on some moral level. But then again, she found such a concept hard to imagine and understand, so it easier for her to simply not think of it. Did that make her ignorant? Possibly.

“Oi, Coryn! How’s that food looking?” One of the guards called out across the fire, earning a round of explosive laughter from his comrades. How was that comment even funny? Coryn’s eyes remained fixed on the sizzling meat beneath her, but inside she bristled with annoyance. Their rations were running low, as was expected so late in the journey, and with the mystery meat, onions and two carrots she had to work with, Coryn’s culinary ability was limited. Once the meat had browned, she added the sliced onion and carrot, stirring the por constantly. Eventually flour was added, and then water. As the steam rose up to greet her, Coryn allowed a fraction of a smile to flicker on her lips. She would not eat any of this food– she didn’t need to ingest food or water during night – but there something pleasant about bringing together several (or four) ingredients and turning them into a meal.

Were there any herbs left? Possibly not, but Coryn decided that it was worth investigation. She yanked the pot off the fire, placed a lid on it and strode towards the caravan that had been designated as their food storage. She began to search through the bags and boxes, most of which were empty despite the daily forage and hunt that had been reaping less and less the closer they came to Kenash. Soon she would be forced to serve up little more than boiled potatoes… And Coryn could already imagine the endless, so-called hilarious complaints the greedy guards would throw towards her.

“No herbs.” She concluded eventually, standing upright and stretching out her back with a grateful wince. Between the cooking and the endless traipsing down this petching road, Coryn’s muscles ached and her posture, she felt, had become shoddy. She longed for a proper bed, in which she planned to lie for a good three days and nights before ever moving again.

The wheels from the caravans had butchered and churned up the earth, and for a brief tick Coryn followed the deep tracks back up towards the Kabrin Road. She wondered what the point of pulling off the main road was, if the wheel tracks indicated so plainly where the party was sheltering. Their caravan leader had declared loudly that this method prevented thieves and bandits from targeting the party whilst everyone slept (again Coryn wondered why it was so impossible for the guards to organise a routine where some slept and some patrolled as they were paid to do). Perhaps he assumed that bandits would not bother a small party? But then, wouldn’t that make them all the more vulnerable?

Coryn shook her head slowly. She frequently failed to understand the minds of men and women, who seemed to take great joy in making simple matters complicated and then complaining about their many stresses.

Perhaps the people of Kenash would be simpler, better folk.

Or not.

[Konrad Venger]

Once it was clear what they were looking at, the question became what it meant to them. Konrad spend a few long, silence moments watching the caravan bustle about. He noticed the little differences. No aura of misery and cloying, rancid corruption hung over all, thanks to the absence of slaves. A half-dozen wagons, supplies for the journey and luggage for the passengers, by the looks of it.

Passengers. Those were interesting to him. Fangor's mob had no such dead weight encumbering them. They laughed in high, careless trills and chatted to each other over bowls of steaming food they ate with bone spoons and frilly napkins. The men were... clean. Well-dressed. But not like the ranking gangers of Sunberth, silk and fine cotton swaddling scarred, lumbering bodies.

Half of them aren't wearing swords. Where are the... ah. There.

They were, but they weren't, at the same time. He counted ten of them, men in armor and good stuff, by the looks of it. Plate. Slabs of shining metal linked by chain-mail... gods, he hadn't seen the likes often in Sunberth. Stuff cost a fortune but half of them were clanking around in it... and the other half had full suits sitting next to them, gleaming in bright Summer Syna like disembodied torsos and limbs, polished to a sheen.

But what they weren't doing made the mercenary frown.

"You see any sentries?"

"What?"

"Sentries," Konrad repeated, voice a breathless whisper. He nodded their way as much as he dared, even with the grass waving all around them. "Guards. Lookouts. I don't. They're all around the fire or wandering around."

"Far from the road, too." That came from the Elder, which was enough to shock the two younger men into almost flinching. "Too far to see it. Stupid. Takes longer to get back. Been here a day, too. Maybe more. Fires are old."

Konrad could see much the same: the fires were too big to have been made that day, just for a night. There was a line of washing out, too, ghostly garments flapping in the breeze. The horses were arrayed in a line and...

"... is that a bathtub?"

The Drykas pushed his head closer maybe an inch... and nodded. "Yes. Tub of water. With steam."

"Unbepetchinglievable..."

He said the words and he believed them, too. But there was more than just disbelief behind his words. He ran his eyes over the slaves and those eyes were practiced in more than just violence. He saw mizas in that oblivious, amateurish party. He could smell the gold on the hems of dresses and in pockets with deep purses. Even the horses were a cut above the caravan, sleek and groomed and straight-backed.

Then he saw the girl, and it wasn't just the inanimate that got him thinking.

She was a beauty, that was for sure. Not in the noble, delicate way of the "ladies" in the stories, but something that made you look twice. Three times. Fine, so after a while Konrad was just staring. Golden hair and a smile always on her face on threatening to twist her lips upwards. A body lean but not starved, clearly used to a hard life that put muscle on you and didn't leave time for idle gluttony. Konrad would have had to pay double for a quarter-bell between her legs back home, and with that-

He looked at her. Flicked a glance back to the party, fast as a snake's tongue and just as cold.

Ten guards, looks like the same again as many passengers, the drivers, too...

Thousands. Easily. Just waiting for us to take them.

"C'mon," he murmured, starting to back away, crouching low, waddling like a crow in his black coat, grabbing his hat. "We're heading back. Bringin' the others."

That got the Drykas' attention, young and old.

"What you say?! For what we bring them?"

"Fuck're you talking about," the Younger rasped, a little more au fait with Common than the Elder, even if he didn't feel like being to versatile with it at that moment. "'Bringing the others?!' Fangor's the boss, not you."

Konrad couldn't argue with that... or he could, as it turned out.

"Not sayin' he ain't," he said, and carefully. Konrad knew how gangs worked, and this was one. The fact it traveled and called themselves a caravan didn't make a difference. Fangor was Sunberth by blood and breed, a member of the Brotherhood. He knew the rules and ways. "But that don't mean he won't agree. Out there? Fresh meat. A dozen slaves, maybe more. Handsome and fine, clean and healthy, not like the scum been dyin' in the wagons for a fuckin' season. How many we lost? Five? Seven? Fever an' shits an' pox. An' now, right here, we find a way t'make it right."

"They have guards, boy. Armor. Real armor."

Konrad could have snorted at that, loud and long, but they weren't so far away from the camp that he wanted to risk it. Armor. "Real" armor. Yes. So?

"An' I ain't plannin' to walk up an' ask 'em for a fuckin' duel, am i? C'mon, old man. Get us back before that big orange thing petchin' vanishes f'good."

The Drykas led the way, the Elder muttering ominously in his own tongue, and the Younger... cast him a quick look. Fleeting and flickering but solid, almost... reassuring. He agreed. And he saw the words "bonus for initiative" stamped all over their prospects for the future. Konrad gave him a short nod back and filed him away.

Changing loyalties? Useful for later? Maybe.

The horselords (as was) slinked back into the grass and the Elder began to scan the ground and the skies for a route back to their caravan. Konrad cast one look back towards the smoking plume spilling upward from the camp. He could have sworn he saw a flash of shimmering Synalight, worn as a veil by a certain girl. A flash of Summer lightning, winking at him through the grass... then it was gone.

A tick later, so was he. For now.

[Coryn]

The stew was bubbling away, spitting as hissing once Coryn had returned it to the fire. The warming aroma of cooked meat, fried onions filled the air. Soon enough the guards and other travellers began to inch their way closer to her side of the fire, their wooden bowls at the ready. At the start of their journey there had been bread, salted and crusty to aid it surviving their journey. But the last scraps had turned dried and patched with fluff ten or so days ago; even the most bolshie of mercenary guards hadn’t dared to eat the stuff. Nevertheless, Coryn would have appreciated the extra bulk to her meal, which looked a rather sorry sight indeed. Her concern was not for the appetites or stomachs of her fellow travellers: she simply wanted to avoid the performance of apparently hilarious complaints that the guards seemed to have rehearsed together.

And soon enough, when it came to their turn to fill their bowls:

“Is this all there is?”

“Yes.”

“Gods, woman! Are you hinting that I need to loose a few pounds?”

“I think I’m going to be too full after eating this meal!”

“I guess yer goin’ for quality, not quantity, ey?”

She smiled and laughed dutifully at each of the jokes, but Coryn’s eyes remained distant and brooding. Their words were meant to be humorous, but she had seen the way the guards eyed up everyone else’s bowls, trying to figure out if they received a larger portion than the other men and women who were also travelling to Kenash. If they hadn’t (and they never had so far), she would hear them loudly discussing their need for more food (“don’t she realise that if we drop dead from starvation, nobody will be here to guard them?” “Why’s that fat petcher gettin’ as much as me?”). Coryn let the words wash over her. As far as she was concerned, if the guards felt they needed more food, that was issue to take up with the hunters.

In a way, Coryn envied the hunters. At the rise of Syna they would stalk into the grasses, lead by one of the Horselords that had accompanied their group. Whatever they did out there, they usually came back laughing and accosting each other over who had killed the most that day. It seemed such joyous work in theory, in the same way that this journey from Syliras to Kenash had seemed to Coryn a pleasant escape. And look how that had turned out.

She watched her fellow travellers eating their meal, having separated themselves into little groups: the guards, the mercenaries, the merchants, the other nobodies. Briefly she considered what lives they would make in Kenash – apparently it was not an easy place to make a name for oneself, but Coryn had not yet decided if she wanted to achieve even that. She might only linger in the place for a season before moving off again, though to where she did not know.

“Cory?”

There was only one person in the party who got away with addressing the Ethaefel by that name. She turned towards the child, a skinny little brown-haired boy who was accompanying his mother to her home city. Though she had tried to distance herself from the lad, as she had everyone else, Coryn had found herself unable to uphold the same chilly façade with him. Early on in the journey, Michael had shyly requested that he touch Coryn’s horns – the lad had owned a beloved pet goat back in the Mithryn Outpost and he wanted to investigate whether her horns would feel the same as his beloved Roo’s. Irritably Coryn had allowed him, hoping that if his curiosity was satisfied, he would return to ignoring her.

But as his hands had touched the dark emerald horns that twisted and spiralled from her temples, Coryn had felt his inner most needs.

The boy needed a home. He was only a child and yet Michael had known precisely what he was lacking. His mother, a flighty and dismissive creature who only paid attention to her son to scold him, had shifted him about across the country several times. First Zeltiva, then Nyka, then Sunberth and finally the Mithryn Outpost. The reasons for this were unknown to Michael, who since that evening had visited Coryn in her quiet corner of the camp almost every night. It was his quiet purity, his honesty and essence of being eternally lost, that Coryn related to. She was also looking for a home, though unlike Michael Kenash was as unpromising for her as Syliras had been.

“Yes, Michael?”

“Do you think when we reach Kenash I’ll be able to get another goat?”

This was a common theme in their conversations. Michael was a simple boy, and loved animals. Coryn had theorised that this was because they tended to be far more accepting than his mother. “Maybe, yes.” She was aware that making promises to the boy when she couldn’t keep them could be damaging, and so she was keen to distract him. Pointing to the darkening sky, she murmured, “but did you know there’s a goat in the stars?”

It was a story that Coryn had been told during her second night in Syliras. Whilst she was being held at the medical centre, one of the kinder nurses had sat with her, explained delicately what Coryn’s life now was. “I’ve seen one other person like you,” she had said gently, her two hands sandwiching Coryn’s own, “it is said your people fell from the skies…” And the nurse had preceded to share all she knew of the heavens, including stories behind the constellations.

There were not yet any stars out, so Coryn jabbed at the soft earth with her fingertips to recreate the general shape of the constellation she was talking about. “I am told that this goat once lived in the Mithryn Outpost, like you and your Roo—” Not the total truth but the way Michael grinned excitedly made the lie worth it, “and this goat was a particularly fine example of his species. One day, whilst the herd was out grazing, the shepherd wandered too far from the field, disappearing into a nearby forest.

A few bells later, dusk came. The Billy Goat, knowing that the shepherd should have come to herd the goats back inside by now, went to look for him. Into the woods he went, only to find a pack of hungry wolves circling the shepherd.” Coryn glanced from the earthen dirt to Michael, who watched her with wide eyes and an agape mouth. “The shepherd saw the goat but said nothing, knowing that the wolves would rather eat goatmeat than human, and also knowing that this particularly Billy Goat was such a good example to his breed. Instead, the Shepherd mouthed the word ‘run away’ to his friend the goat.” She paused briefly to build up the tension. “But the Billy decided not to run, and to instead face the wolves head-on. This shepherd was a good one, kind to the other Goats unlike some others, so he was worth saving. One by one the wolves lept to the Billy, who greeted them with his horns or his hooves. It was a bloody battle, and though the Shepherd helped in slaying the wolves, the Billy Goat was fatally injured.

As he was dying, the Billy explained to the shepherd why he had saved him: ‘you treat my kind as equal to your own, and so it is only fair that I did the same’. At that moment Caiyha decided that this brave Billy deserved a reward, but there was nothing she could do to stop his death. So, instead, she asked the stars to remember him, and they did. They moved across the sky to take the shape of the goat, with his horns as impressive as they were in life.”

Only when Coryn finished her tale did she realise that the other travellers nearest to her and Michael had also fallen silent. The story lingered in the air for a tick or so, but then one of the piggish guards guffawed and claimed:

“What a load of bullshyke! Goatmeat’s bloody delicious.”

[Konrad Venger]

It wasn't hard to convince mercenaries and slavers to make money off wayward travelers, but that didn't instantly make it easy. Konrad was not an orator nor a leader of men. He was a follower, and a killer, and he let violence speak for him. But this trip, he'd found that changing.

There was more than one way to get men to do what you wanted. Sometimes fear and steel were the best tools; in fact, he'd scratch the "sometimes". But more and more, he saw that incentive, persuasion, smooth words and knowing a shared interest could be just as useful.

"Have you lost your petching mind?"

But steel surely is faster.

Fangor was fit to burst, and Konrad didn't just mean the ominously-pulsing vein on his forehead. Syna had long-since sank and only the fires from the camp lit his face now, throwing shadows that seemed to run and flee across his craggy face rather than stay put. Konrad faced him and didn't flinch, didn't back away. Any weakness now and the plan was lost.

"Why'd y'say that?"

"Why? Let's count the fuckin' reasons, shall we?" A pudgy finger went up for each one. "We're in the middle of the fucking Sea, not workin' out of a city with high walls. Think we're leavin' a skeleton crew here to watch the livestock? Secondly, and more importantly, you barely found yer way back here last time, so what makes you think-"

"I can get us back."

Fangot turned to the Elder with something close to betrayal in his eyes. Really? Was this reliable old sod now following the whims of greedy children? He more than most should know the dangers of traipsing through the Grass, especially at night. Yet there he stood, the Younger Drykas next to him, bows over their shoulders and arms crossed.

"You told me you were lost, so how-"

"I cast a Web on the way back," the Elder said, ignoring Konrad's questioning frown. "From there... to here. We follow it back, anything cross it, I will see. We can avoid."

Web?

Konrad filed that away for later but knew the bigger point was being made: whatever this "Web" was, it could take them back to the camp without getting lost. A straight line to their booty, and back. He gestured to the Elder with one hand and shrugged.

"See? We can get there. We can get back, too. We've got extra chains, space in the wagons... how many have we lost, Crayden?"

Fangor's second-in-command stiffened as if struck, unwilling to be drawn into the discussion. So Konrad answered it himself, taking another step towards Fangor.

"Seven. I found out when I got back. We can make that back up and then some, all of it for us. Brotherhood wanted to ship a hundred slaves, yes? That's what we'll deliver. But the others?"

Another step. Close enough that he could see the slaver's stony resolve start to chip a little. His hand slid to the dagger at his belt but Konrad's didn't. No threat, no intimidation; all of that was made clear by the low, coaxing tone, even with the ring of mercenaries watching with interest.

"That's for us, am I right? Pure profit, Brotherhood can't touch it. An' that's not including the horses, the cargo on the wagons, the weapons from the guards we kill, the wagons we can take-"

"A'right, a'right, you've made yer point..."

Then came the silence of a man weighing his options. Konrad could practically hear the stones being shifted from one pile to another until the scales tipped. Around them, orbiting like curious celestial bodies with weapons and zero morals, were the sellswords. Three Eyes and the Drykas were behind Konrad, physical positions quite apt considering their mental ones. Crayden stayed next to his boss, silent and watchful, but hoping... hoping...

They all are, Konrad said to himself, studying those dirty faces through eyes hidden under the brim of his hat. A whole campsite full of livestock, booty, goods, golds, horses...

"Crayden?" Fangor tilted his head and his lieutenant took a step. "You checked the cages today?"

"Yes, sir. All solid, no new damages or missing screws or bars."

"How much extra chain to we have?"

"Twenty-two at last count."

"Sellswords?"

"Twenty-one."

Fangor nodded and Konrad hid his smile. The older man was prickly: he might have decided, but any sign or hint from Konrad that he felt he had some sort of power over him, or his men, and he'd cut him out of the deal. Maybe even physically. So he kept his expression neutral, patient, faintly drumming fingers on the hilt of his sword his only outward sign of-

"Crayden? Stay behind with eleven of the men and watch the livestock. We're not back by Syna, take the Younger and get back on the road. No point throwing the rest of you after us if this shyke goes tits-up."

"Yes, sir."

Fangor cracked a wry smile. No, none of that "sir, I'll come for you" or "sir, let me go with you" bollocks from his men. Sellswords. You get what you pay for and if there isn't pay in the equation, what you get is fuck-all.

Konrad waited until the grizzly man turned to him again, sellswords around them all rustling and shifting like trees with a wind blowing through them. They were animated now. Something new and unexpected was happening and already they were clustering closer, hoping for a chance at the booty.

He didn't bother. He didn't need to.

"Half-a-bell to get ready, Venger. Then we're moving."

Two Bells Later

Fangor wasn't fucking around with that ultimatum. The Elder wasn't, either, and Konrad saw what the Web really was.

Not that he understood it.

All he saw was a man go... out of himself, or so it seemed. The Elder's eyes rolled back in his head and his hands wound and sorted something that he couldn't see. Like a ball of yarn or a length of rope, felt and kneaded between his gnarled fingers. His mouth moved but whether it was a prayer or instructions or just reading whatever words the djed put into his head, Konrad did not know.

Whatever it was, when he blinked again, he had their directions.

A dozen men made tracks into the Sea of Grass, led by the Elder, Fangor and Konrad, in that order. Each man had manacles and chains wrapped around their shoulders, and half their archers were with the raiding party. Konrad had his crossbow ready in his hand, strung and ready to go. Three Eyes was at his heels, bandoleer of knives augmenting his usual pair at his hips. Around them there were more hard, avaricious faces...

They followed the same route. Every half-bell or so, the Drykas would sit and go into that strange trance. Sort string with his hands and when he was back among the living, they'd either change direction or continue, based on what he'd seen.

Not 'string'. A Web. And it has... eyes?

Konrad shook the thought away as the smell of cooked food, booze and fresh waste from several species' assailed his nostrils. Fangor and the Drykas flashed him a look and he nodded. Yep, this was the place.

"Everyone gather 'round."

It was a quick, simple plan, and Konrad saw no fault in it. With the sellswords looking around, lit only by the light of Leth, Fangor spoke with his hands and had them spread out in a half-circle around the camp, like a set of skeletal jaws, and every fang was an armed man. Konrad, the Elder and another man with a compound bow were picked to go first, sneaking ahead, watching... observing...

Konrad's arm shot up, no higher than his head. Stuttering but quickly, the line stopped moving. He squinted and... yes, there was a gleaming silver helmet ahead of them. Watching. Turning one way, then the other... a sentry. He turned to Fangor and muttered the development.

"Your responsibility."

"Not a problem."

"Wait for my signal."

They started moving again, and close to the edge, Konrad frowned. It wasn't just the sentry he could see; he could see several, in fact, but more than that... roasting meat on the fire. Some animal, recently caught, hogtied and over a fire with long-haired men sitting around it. A mercenary or two, by the same plate armor he'd seen before, but the others?

Drykas. Shyke.

He clenched his jaw and kept his eyes open. It was late, as planned. Most of the camp was sleeping, as planned. What they'd set in motion was too far along to stop now, too close to the edge for any loss of speed to change the outcome.

He checked that Three Eyes was behind him, blades ready, fresh crossbow bolt between his teeth. As soon as that first bolt went flying, he'd notch another, take the shot... and then things would get interesting.

Even more with the fuckin' Horselords in the mix.

He didn't both to shake or clench or shrug. It was what it was. And besides, there was always a silver lining. More casualties mean a bigger split for the rest. If he was lucky, maybe Fangor would be the one tagged and then... who was to say who the new lieutenant of the caravan would be, once Crayden moved up and became boss?

Konrad allowed himself a small, sharp smile in the darkness, and tipped back his hat a little for a clearer view down the crossbow. He rested the tip of the bolt on the breast of the spear-toting sentry, swaying back and forth on his feet out of boredom, just waiting for his shift to be over.

He steadied his breathing. Observed the target. Remembered his lessons. Waited for Fangor's roar to set him free.

[Coryn]

When the Drykas and hunters stomped into the growing darkness, still complaining about Coryn’s meagre portions, the Ethaefal had ignored them. They were greedy, piggy men who were not only impossible to please but unappreciative at the best of times. She desperately wished for them to return empty handed, irritable at their failure and hungrier than ever after burning off what food she had provided them with earlier.

But no; from the grasses she heard their exaggerated laughter and hoots. If their location was meant to be kept secret, the cover was well and truly blown now.

They had come back with a boar, a little thing but for all intents and purposes, it was a meal fit for the Gods. They swung the poor animal around, looking over to Coryn with newfound smugness in their piggy little eyes. “There you go.” They said to her from across the fire, “that’s what you call a meal.”

Coryn had said nothing, instead turning her back to them and returning to the flames. She fed the fire another log or two, until the flames swallowed up the wood and began swelling hotly before her. Tonight, for the first time since the beginning of their journey, Coryn was planning to bathe herself. The tin bath had been lugged from one side of the camp to the other, beside the campfire that Coryn had claimed as her own. Most of the other travellers were asleep now, with only a few guards and insomniacs still awake, but they were thankfully all surrounding the larger fire in their camp, their backs to Coryn and her soon-to-be nakedness.

Water was boiled over the flames and then tipped into the tin bath, steaming and rising up to Coryn’s face and making her wince. There was an inch of soap left, but at this point she didn’t care – it was the warmth of the water and the sense of weightlessness it would grant her that she desired. When it was almost full, she undressed quickly and clambered inside.

The bath was divine.

A blissful sigh escaped Coryn’s lips, and she rested her head backwards against the rear of the tub, her eyes closed and lips parted slightly in pure pleasure. She had filled the tub so much that water splashed over the side of the bath, hissing as it landed on the stones closest to the fire. Those first few ticks were perfect, where Coryn was the only person who existed in the entire world, the water and the fire her only companions. If life remained exactly like this, she wouldn’t complain.

But then brutish laughter erupted from around the other campfire. The hunters who had bought back the pig were beginning to eat, picking meat off the corpse and eating open-mouthed. Their ignorance made Coryn furious. Did they not realise that people were sleeping? Of course they did, they simply didn’t care. She thought briefly of Michael, who would be lying beside his unloving mother right now, fast asleep and no doubt dreaming of goats. Would they wake him? No doubt: they were being inconsiderately loud and boorish.

Inhaling sharply, Coryn plunged her head under the water. Her eyes were still open, and she watched the malformed world above her. The sky was framed by the metallic side of the bath, warped by the ripples of water that lapped at her skin. Was this what fish saw when they looked up towards the sky? Did fish even bother to observe the world above their own?

She broke through above the water, coughing quietly and blinking red-eyed. Finally she began to clean herself, rubbing the miniscule amount of soap over her arms and face and breasts until it lathered and covered her skin. When she washed it off, the grime and dust of thirty days of travelling formed a thin layer of scum on the waterline. Disgusted, she tried to scrape the worse of it off and fling it into the grass beneath the tub. She tried not to think of all the people who had used this tub before her – surely they would have cleaned it out after using it, yes?

Her hair was washed next, black tendrils that flowered out from her skull as she dipped her head in the water to wash the soap off. She had been in the bath for a good half-bell, if not more. Thankfully her close proximity to the fire ensured that the water would not loose its warming embrace. If she could somehow get away with it, Coryn decided that she might stay in the tub all night long.

A beastlike roar erupted through the darkness. Initially the Ethaefal frowned and rolled her eyes, casting a judgemental gaze towards the guards who she presumed had made the racket. But no: they were suddenly on their feet, the suckling pig long forgotten and no longer in their hands. Instead blades were drawn, smiles were replaced by frowns and quiet commands.

Something was wrong.

Coryn inhaled sharply and returned back to her underwater world, waiting for the trouble to pass over.

[Konrad Venger]

"Is that the-"

"Works for me."

TWANG!

Konrad wasn't about to wait for an engraved invitation from Fangor. He knew there'd be a signal, just not what the signal was. But he was guessing the old slaver wasn't about to get too creative; not when battle was a rank of grass away. The sentry he'd been aiming at started, peace shattered, both hands gripping his spear, sharp tip darting around just like his eyes, trying to find the-

-crossbow bolt in his gut-

Aim low. Even if you miss, you don't miss.

-reeling back onto his arse with a thin screech, pawing at the dead wood impaling him, blood already frothing around it along with nameless, stinking fluids Konrad didn't care to think about. The second the bolt flew he threw out his leg straight, hooking the crossbow's stirrup over his foot and yanked on the strong with both hands-

"Up! Up, you bastards! Earn your petching pay!"

The thick, bass sound of the crossbow firing wasn't the only one. The whistles of arrows blended into it, followed it, the Elder Drykas and the couple of other archers they had opening fire from their hiding places. But the camp was alert, men pouring out of the tents, lurching upright from the fire with swords and bows in their hands-

Konrad watched one of the Drykas, hunters he supposed, jerk and spasm where he stood, first one arrow and then another piercing his torso, front and back. The others ran for cover, staying low, passing the bodies of the other sentries, the Elder and his kind ending their lives in the first ticks of the battle.

Now it was joined. Konrad could see that as he snatched the next bolt from Three Eyes and notched it into the crossbow. Those disembodied metal suits had found their form, now. Ordinary men were made huge and hulking by the weight of them, clanking out into the darkness with limbs and trunk cloaked in metal, helmets shoved onto their heads.

Konrad couldn't help but gawp. Knights. He'd never seen real knights before.

You still haven't, a hard, vicious little voice reminded him. You've seen petching caravan guards, now shoot!

He raised his crossbow and tracked the nearest clanking monster. Beyond the stoic, faceless metal was a man, he knew that. He moved like one. Skittish and unsure, rubbernecking around, metal squeaking as he did, long sword wobbling in his hands. Konrad waited until some scream or death kneel had distracted him and-

TWANG! THUNK!

It was like shooting a tin can in the back. Looked like it and sounded like it. He pulled the trigger and the bolt buried itself into the back of the ersatz-Knight with a high, hollow sound, like he was throwing stones at a brass pot. But the bolt pierced, and Konrad was not surprised. He'd seen bolts nearly go through his target before, so much force did the string have. Armor or no armor, it almost didn't matter.

The metal man fell screaming, clawing at his back and unable to find it, touch it, battering the back of his armor like a woman banging kitchenware together. Konrad couldn't see his face, just heard his voice. Screaming and yelping and cursing and praying, all in one long, desperate dirge. He threw aside the bow and stood, seeing a dozen other wraiths like him emerge from the same grasslands.

Monsters in the night, coming from the shadows, with fangs and claws of burnished steel. Around the camp, men squirmed and wriggled and begged, or just laid there. Unmoving forever, save for Dira's gentle, unseen ministrations. Konrad wasn't in any position to count, but as his eyes flash around he saw four, five bodies, laid out. Two of them in armor.

Not a bad start, he told himself as he ran out of cover, unsheathing his kopis as he went. But the night is-

A stocky figure with a chest made of iron burst out of the nearest tent. Konrad blinked and saw he had not even his breeches about his legs, just his undergarments... but he'd taken the time to slip his torso-piece over his head and grab a sword.

Maybe the confusion this appearance bred was a stratagem, because Konrad was so busy he almost missed-

-the bastard sword swinging at his side, kopis jerking up to block it, backhanding across his chest out of instinct-

DONG!

-and the curved blade bounced off like it was made of grass, not finely-honed steel. A livid white scar was born on the plate, but it didn't penetrate any deeper than that. Just a mocking, curving smile at his presumption and before he knew it he had to-

-defend again as the sword came back, impact shaking his arm and knocking him to one side. The half-naked guard came on, scorning the freezing night air nipping at his hairy legs, swinging and yelling with each strike, final vertical chop barely blocked by Konrad as it knocked him down to one knee.

Hairy legs. Ah.

Before the bastard can swing down again, Konrad shot forward, bursting off his knee and hacking sideways as he went-

-slicing through one of that legs-

-and sending the (regrettably) half-armored guard to the ground in a screaming mess of metal and bleeding flesh. He dropped the sword and rolled onto his back, shoving his hands against the stump just under his knee where his leg had been, hands turned to crimson in a blink, blood pouring, gushing.

Konrad didn't finish him. Waste of time. Two chimes, three at the most, he'd be nothing but still meat in a lake of blood. So he moved on, kopis held ready, black hat bobbing and weaving between tents, searching for anyone else stupid enough to be carrying a sword tonight.

Some part of him was looking elsewhere. Something feral and possessive growled in his hind-brain, and looked for golden hair and a smile worth a bag of mizas.

[Coryn]

It was hard to take the screams of dying men and the clashes of metal seriously when they sounded so warbled under the water. Everything was twisted, deformed until Coryn struggled to discriminate shouted order from the sound of a body hit the ground.

Only to her, still enwrapped in the limited underground world of her bath, the battle wasn’t real. She was separate from it all, perhaps even imagining it. Certainly she felt so panic or that her own life was in danger. Rather she was more distracted wondering what type of people would exactly attack a travelling party like theirs. Bandits, probably. They would steal the merchandise and then leave; that was her theory.

But the fight seemed to go on and on. Coryn, her lips protruding out of the water so she could breathe, decided to life her entire head above the rim of the tub. She peeked out of the tub and over the flames of her fire. The scene was a blood bath, with familiar faces and familiar bodies armour lying motionless in a puddle of dark liquid. The boar that had been cause for so much celebration earlier had been knocked from its spit to the ground, another victim of this casualty.

And yet still she didn’t move, though now out of fear rather than anything else. These were no normal bandits: they looked bloodthirsty, out for a kill. Psychopaths, pure and simple hacking down every guard and merc that approached them. Of course there were losses on their side, too, but Coryn paid the corpses she didn’t recognise no attention.

She would need to move, to get out of the tub and get dressed at the very least. Her arms rose from the water, sloshing the liquid over the rim and she froze again, wincing. Stupid, stupid woman! The need for stealth and silence was crucial, so when Coryn move again she did so carefully, slowly. The water was caressed and moved like a sleeping babe, no sloshing or splashing anymore. Fingers gripped the side of the tub, and just as Coryn was about to haul herself onto her feet, she saw an unknown male stalk towards her tub.

Some of the women in the travelling party had laughed at Coryn’s modesty, claiming that at some point, love, you won’t care if you’re naked or you’re not. She supposed their words were intended to instil some confidence in her, to let her know that her fellow women had also once been shy over their bodies, but were not so anymore. The only issue surrounding such charitable advice was Coryn’s utter lack of modesty. It wasn’t that she was shy or self conscious, she simply knew that if she were start parading her naked body through the camp, men would want her, and would touch her. Their desires would become her own and then there was little in the way of fucking right there in the middle of the camp, audience and all. And she didn’t need any such distraction.

So, when she saw the stranger with a face twisted by scars stride towards her tub, Coryn did not fluster or cover her breasts self consciously. Instead she watched him, her violet eyes sharp with curiosity, until he was close enough to hear her and, if he hadn’t already, definitely see her. For a tick she said nothing, merely drinking in the hideousness of his appearance. She felt like offering him the bath, but the weapon in his hands indicated that personal hygiene was far from the forefront of his mind. Wiping a thick strand of black hair that had plastered itself wetly on her cheek, she said: “I don’t have a weapon.” It was a moot point, given her obvious nakedness, though self consciously Coryn touched her horns. Could they be regarded as a weapon? Hardly: they were clearly decorative with the sole purpose of collecting open-mouthed stares. “Though could you give me a hand getting out of here?” She extended her hand towards the male. In truth she needed no help, but touching his skin would gift Coryn with a chance to remove her own fear for at least a tick. Something, in the far reaches of her mind, told Coryn that her safety was under severe threat.

[Konrad Venger]

Once again, hesitation nearly killed him. The first time was a mistake, but almost forgvable; every man earns a slip here or there, and it's up to fickle Lhex to decide what happens next, that whoreson bitch. But twice in the same fight?

Must be getting ol-

No. This was something... special.

He prowled from tent to tent and anything that bore a sword was hacked down. Sometimes he was too slow, and another of their mercenary squad came howling in with a yell and a whop, sword or mace or ax flashing orange and yellow in the flames. No longer confined to their circle of stones or crackling timber, some of them were blazing up and down tents, even wagons. The mercenaries were tossing blazing torches into them as they passed, spreading fear, panic, confusion.

Easy meat when the occupants came running out. Either steel them met, and Dira; or cruel fists and hard hilts and handles, followed swiftly by manacles at their wrists.

Konrad's face split into a feral grin under his hat, face splattered, scars stretched and skin almost creaking as they did. Armor? Pah. Armor didn't make a fighter, or a killer, and certainly not a warrior, however the petch these soft Western bastards measured that.

All around them, those men died. Like gleaming giants taken down by swift, rabid jackals, they were surrounded and butchered in turn. A couple made a fight of it, hacking down men unable to pierce their armored hides, but there were always too many left, and the second one's back was turned-

"Cunt!"

He saw Fangor bury a short, broad dagger into the chink under the armpit of one as he finished hacking a sellsword to death. The man cried out behind his helmet and Fangor twisted, pushing it deeper in, finishing the job. The man never knew his killer, never saw his face.

Konrad grinned again. He very much approved.

Easy one could guess his mood as he hunted, and oh, he was very much hunting now. Women and men, barely-clothed in haphazard finery, were forced onto their knees and beaten and flogged and cursed even as manacles were slapped on them, the last jewelry they would ever wear. Even a child or two, and part of Konrad noted that carefully.

They fetch more, he reminded himself, still searching out the prime chit he'd seen earlier that day. Let them age up, get some muscle on their bones and-

Sploosh

Konrad was fairly sure he hadn't seen a pond in the camp. The absurd thought occurred to him as he whirled to face the watery sound, instantly replaced by "bathtub" as his memory cranked into gear. Some bastard or another sneaking around it, knocking it over, signing his own death-

He hesitated. A man would have to have been dead not to.

She was not the blonde. Didn't have that pale, willowy beauty of Summer days and country girls. She glistened like her flesh was made from carved and gleaming marble, chocolate and smooth. Konrad's mouth went from panting to just gaping as he took her in.

Not a stitch. And nothing like the golden girl before. Violet eyes. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen...

The slaughter fell away. Gods knew he'd been mired deep enough and long enough in death through malice to block it out. All the horrible sounds became white noise as he looked up and up... saw those twin gnarls of bone curling from her head.

Gods above, he thought with the merest touch of blasphemous awe, they don't even spoil her.

She said something. Konrad thought he heard the word weapon, but he had to shake his head a few times to catch it. What the fuck was wrong with him? More and more his mind rebelled and shook him from the insides, demanding a return to the focused cruelty of before. There was still work to be done! He knew that!

He knew that. Still he stared.

"You..." Her hand rose, cascade of rippling diamond drops rolling off her as she did, and proved to him what he was looking at were real. He swallowed. "You have horns."

She said something else, and he caught the end of it. Help. She wanted help.

Konrad was Konrad, before he was anything else. A woman, naked and helpless, beautiful beyond any he'd seen, alone in the Sea of Grass... and with horns... was asking him for help.

Something clicked inside what passed for his heart, and the wonder died in his eyes. What replaced it was... well, Konrad.

"Think you've got me confused fer-"

A shadow, ragged and desperate, flew at him from the glare of a tent to his right. Stupid. Getting caught like that. Konrad's gaze snapped to the wild-eyed young man swinging a sword at him, mind already cold and smooth and clinical-

Or trying to be. Because all that peaceful, professional ice was shattered as a molten thought burst it's way through his brain and-

She's yours. Protect her.

"Down!"

He lunged for her with his free hand, pushing her down back into the tub and away, right hand cocked to-

He gasped as something hot and yearning bubbled up from his hand and flew down his arm and struck him there, then vanished a second later. The girl screamed. He'd barely touched her. But when he looked her face was screwed up in horror, staring into nothing, trying to deny-

Idiot!

The sellsword roared as that fucking kid who he'd fucking forgotten nearly took his fucking arm of. His stumble as he touched the girl saved him, trhough. He tottered back and what should have been his arm was instead a nasty gash that still robbed him of his kopis, killing his fingers and his grip.

The boy stared, amazed. Fair hair and pale skin. Not one for the countryside, apparently, or hard traveling. A flickering, stunned grin crossed his face, like he'd actually succeeded in-

Never hesitate. Look what nearly happened to me.

Konrad lunged from his knees and smashed his left fist into the bastard's balls. Spit and bile frothed from his lips as his eyes nearly bugged out of his head like they were on stalks. Konrad ground his teeth and both his hands jerked up, right arm howling through his skin like wolves tearing into them-

Left grabbing the boy by the collar of his shirt as he bent double. Right grabbing his sword hand, squeezing even as his bloody bicep oozed.

"Fuckah!"

CRACK!

He yanked down hard with his left and smashed the boy's face against the rim of the bathtub. Wet and shiny tin was splattered with crimson and, yes, that was bone, within a tick. The sword dropped but Konrad wasn't finished. Weapon forgotten, Konrad let his right hand aid his left, bracing it behind the boy's head and twisting his body hard to-

CRUNCH!

-deliver another shattering blow, nearly caving his face in as he hammered it into the edge. More blood. More fragments. Spatter pattering into the water like a red rain, like oil in water.

On chocolate skin. He was heedless, though. Over and over until the fucker's head was ruin and that side of the tub was leaking blood inside and out, spreading like red tendrils into the water towards her and-

Her. She's safe? Is she okay? Was she harmed?

The fuck is wrong with you?!

Panting so hard it was almost a growl, sweat clotting his features as much as exertion, almost as much as the ruin his father had wreaked upon him, Konrad viewed his... prize? Yes. That was the word. Because it was reality, because she was his and he would-

No. Reality was crueler and more complex. A score of reasons that could never be besieged him and the girl would almost see them war over his shattered features. They'd never let him. Fangor would claim her. It would be impossible. If any of them touched-

Touched.

"What... What did you do?" He croaked out in a think voice. He cleared it out and spat. "What was that?! Did you-"

"Venger?! Venger, get out here, you lucky bastard!"

Speak of the daemon. Without a form, Fangor called out to him from the center of the devastation. A chorus of wailing innocents accompanied his voice, backed by the leers and laughter of victorious killers. Konrad licked his lips and spun his eyes from girl to void to grass to-

-his kopis was in his left hand and at her throat in a moment. Wickedly curved blade drooping to meet a neck he would perhaps even regret cutting.

"Stay down." He growled, barely human and very serious. "Don't move. Don't be seen. Or..."

Or what?

... fuck.

Konrad left her there, bleeding arm nearly forgotten, faceless youth an even further memory, mind whirring with how he could take his prize out of her without being butchered.

[Coryn]

That moment hung in the air for what seemed like forever. Coryn’s breath was trapped in her throat, her heart beating rapidly in her chest like the heart belonging to a rabbit. She was terrified, but instinct made her muscles rigid and immobile. She could not move, even if she wanted to.

He was even uglier up close than she had earlier thought. Gnarled lips, dry skin, scars, eyes that were devoid of life, emotion. Though his appearance was disturbing, she felt an inkling of pity for the male. He was the epitome of bitterness.

But he was also incredibly dangerous. Coryn knew this simply because he had survived the bloody scene behind them. Knights – trained, armoured knights - were lying dead, squealing like pigs in the darkness. And yet here stood this male, older than some of the knights and guards and certainly less protected. She imagined his blade cutting through steel and flesh like butter, that emotionless face fixed despite the gore and blood around him. Yes, this man was dangerous and Coryn needed to do all she could to not anger him, to keep herself alive.

Her violet eyes flickered closed, and a silent, tick-long prayer was said to Nikali. Perhaps the Goddess had foreseen that this would happen to Coryn. But either way, the Ethaefal felt sure that her gift would be her salvation.

“I do have horns.” She said in a calm, quiet voice. The words were more than a whisper, but barely, delivered solely to Konrad as if it were a secret between the two of them. “You can touch them, if you like?” She leant forward in the tub, causing another swirl of water to flop over the edge, sizzling as it landed on a hot stone that formed the ring of the campfire. If she could extend this moment for just a while longer, until his skin touched her own, Coryn felt that her chances of survival would increase dramatically. Already she recognised the somewhat gormless stare with which he bided her his attention: the gnosis that appeared as a dark red stain beside her right breast was working its affect on the male, probably saving Coryn’s life in the process.

But that preciously important moment was shattered when a sand-haired knight erupted into their detached quietness. She failed to recall his name, though Coryn recognised him. He was younger than most of the others, and arrogant because of it. He’d risen quickly in the knightly ranks, quicker than most, and this had been enough for Coryn to compare him to a preening rooster. She’d despised him from day one.

A conflict was inevitable, but what did surprise Coryn was how the bandit – because she presumed that’s what this hard-eyed man must be – dived not towards the knight, but to her. She felt a heavy hand collide with her shoulder, pushing her down with unpleasant force into the water. She was submerged instantly, but her eyes remained open, aflame thanks to the suddenness of her submersion and the desires that now flooded into her mind.

Except…

Except that these desires were somehow separate from him, as if there was barely any attachment between the man and the mind, the wants. It was all so unemotional, business-like… and strangely inhuman and it sent Coryn’s blood cold despite the warm water that surrounded her. He was a seasoned killer, she was sure.

The contact between them broke and Coryn pushed herself through the water and back into the air, her breath choppy and water-logged.

The battle happened incredibly quickly, but Coryn could see each bloody detail with gross clarity. The bandit was bleeding profusely on his arm, and his injury had a bizarre effect on her: she winced, worried for him. This male was her only connection to the bandits, her only real chance to survive whatever they’d planned. Were they simply planning on slaughtering everyone? If so, she had at least a thin strip of a hope that he would not harm her. After all, he had – what? Saved her? Was that what the scarred male had been trying to do when he had dived towards Coryn, pushing her under the water? He hadn’t been trying to drown her, she was sure, because he wouldn’t have lifted his hand off her in that instance.

So perhaps her worry was due to Coryn hoping that the bandit would survive this fight and the young knight would die. Briefly she wondered if this betrayal of loyalty should make her feel guilty: but then perhaps the only way to survive in this world was to have no loyalties, to readily switch your alliance to whoever had the better chance of living.

And so when the bandit – murderer, whatever he was – slammed the knight’s head on the side of the tub, Coryn made little reaction. Her lips tightened into a grim, remorseful line. She recognised the shame in the young knight’s death, but at the same time the outcome had been almost inevitable, ever since he’s first bragged so righteously about his skill in battle. The boastful didn’t survive, it’s the ones with the quiet, sometimes gross, resilience to battle and blood who usually live on. Only when the thin tendril of blood began to eek its way towards her did Coryn move, raising her hand through the bloody water to inspect how the red liquid ran down her arm. She’d never seen human blood so close before.

Somewhat in a daze, she looked back to the hatted male, her head tilted and gaze glassy. He was her lifeline now, she supposed. Could have been at least a little better looking…

He was talking to her, but the words cut short by someone calling out to him. The name, or title, Venger was mentioned. Perhaps it was a term of endearment, or a word in some other language she didn’t know, but Coryn decided that Venger suited the male well. She felt pleased knowing at last how to address him in her mind.

“You’re hurt.” She said in that quiet, albeit rushed, manner again. More words ebbed onto her moist lips, words that she hoped would extend the bridge that connected them, but they did not come to fruition. Instead she felt cold metal lightly press on her skin, like a shackle. Was this a premonition of how he would keep her? Because now she was surely his property, or at the very least in his debt.

An order was given, the blade removed. “I’ll stay.” She said, her hand moving to rest upon her left breast, atop her heart. It was some sort of vow or promise to him, and when Coryn submerged her hand back into the water, a faint handprint of watered down blood stained her skin.

And there she stayed, perfectly still and low in the tub, her face barely out of the water but her eyes open, sharp and waiting for… whatever happened next.