Volume 1 - The First Spark

"Thank you, mister-sir, that is of great help. If you don't have mind my asking, what are your thoughts about him? What do rumors say?
We mean to help a group of farmers, but we need to know we can trust Yoan." Bartholomew looks up into Brigals eyes with an inquisitive look.

"Like I said, I don't know him personally. What I heard is he's not shy about his complaints. If that's true, then his theories must hold water, 'cause the Lords don't have much patience for sedition, as you may have noticed on your way in."

"I'd say helping farmers would be his kind of thing."

"Thank you once more, I think we should visit him." realising he probably shouldn't talk about their private rebellion he quickly adds, "...maybe.
Erm, if I might ask, do you maybe have something for my garden? I spilled all my beans and now they're all over the garden, do you maybe have something to furtilise them properly?"

Faron opens her mouth to further explain why they were looking for Yoan and then closes it when she realizes that Bartholomew was trying to be discrete.  If left to her own devices, she likely would have told Brigal everything, whether relevant or not, but she wanted to follow her new friend's lead.  Had Brigal not been looking at Bartholomew, he would have remarked on it immediately (generally something akin to Out with it! You look like a dying fish).

"Please Brigal?  One little favor for one of the people you least despise?  It would not even interfere with your work since we would only need it in the morning.  After all, there's the curfew, so we are not looking to leave quite yet."  She beams him a smile.

Brigal grunts. "Not really my field, but I'll see what I can cook up."

+++

The brigands spend the night in Brigal's shop, finding a warm, dry, if slightly uncomfortable spot to sleep. The next day, Brigal gives them some pest repellant he prepared for Bartholomew's garden.

After a simple breakfast of eggs and beans, Faron and Bartholomew leave Innisfirth and start heading towards Grismont.

Innisfirth and Grismont are connected by a highway that passes through Hogswick.

The highways of Cardenfell are well kept. Paved with interlocking bricks, elevated to protect them form the elements, and well-patrolled by the road wardens. If the saying "Blood flows from Cardenfell", then its roads are its arteries, and the Duchess makes sure they are healthy. Caravans thunder down lanes separated by colored markers, while people on foot can travel along its side on a path of beaten earth. Road markers and stones are provided at every quarter mile and at every five mile mark is a trough and a set of hitching posts so that beasts of burden may regain their strength.

At one of these stops, Bartholomew successfully manages to convince a caravan master to let this poor friar and the pilgrim under his care to let them hitch a ride in the back of his cart. This cuts down their journey from a few days to a single one. By the time the sun sets, the brigands find themselves in Grismont.

The brigands smell Grismont before they see it. The town is known for its leatherworks and breweries, two rather pungent trades. Near the entrance of the town is the Coachmaster's Company Hall, surrounded by large grounds full of caravans. Grismont is on the borders of Cardenfell. Traders originating from or heading to different parts of Orslae by land all pass through the fetid town. And all must pay their tithes to the Coachmaster.

The brigands thank their driver and head deeper into the town. Here, too, the citizens wear gambesons, but where Innisfirth's were grey, Gismont's are burgundy. The uniforms are less prevalent in the poorer districts, where the servants and workers live.

Bartholomew and Faron find accommodations for the night at an inn called the Grinning Hog, but they cannot fathom what the hog could possibly be smiling about. Perhaps it likes vermin and despair.

They spend the next day mingling with the populace, Bartholomew offering a friendly ear to any who might need to share their burdens. Faron is impressed watching him work. Bartholomew is not a handsome man and most people's initial reaction is one of disgust, even in this wretched place. However, Bartholomew had a way, through kindness and patience, of earning people's trust.

It takes them the better part of the day before Bartholomew unearths some useful piece of information: the location of Yoan's laboratory in Grismont. They also learn a juicy bit of information: the lab is being moved. All of his gear is currently being packed and, in but a few days time, will be carried out of the city to a new laboratory built by his master on his vineyards.

If they can intercept the caravan, they could not only free the young researcher, but take all of his lab equipment as well.

The time talking to the people on the streets raises very mixed feelings in Bartholomew. Every time someone looks at him and startles or turns away with a face stings, but when the people talk to him, open up to him it warm his heart.
The gathered information about the alchemist and his move however is the satisfying crescendo of the emotional roller-coaster that the day turned out to be.
"What do you think, if there are not many people with the caravan, we could try to take control and take the whole trek with us. M-maybe we could try to be on the crew. Like that the amount of people the might oppose our detour would be even less and we don't need to approach it from the side of the road. You have looked for work in the past, maybe you could go and apply for us. Maybe find out how many others are there.
And then we can mix something in their drinks on the way and when they're asleep take the caravan and leave them with their potential headaches. " He works up an enthusiasm that is seldomly seen in him. Becoming aware of it, he calms his voice, looks at his dirty boots and stammers "Or m-maybe not. I don't know."

Having learned what they can in Grismont, the brigands return to their camp in the Brinkwood to plan their next foray.

Back in their peaceful cove, Bartholomew goes back to his garden. He is not sure whether it is because of the magic of the forest, or the pollution around the monastery, but here everything sprouts and grows much faster than he is used to. With delight he searches sticks for the tomatoes to grow on and he builds a small frame with a net for the cucumbers.
The little vial with yellow fluid that Brigal gave him he saves for now. For the beans.
Quickly a few days pass without him thinking about the revolution, their plans and his problems.

At first, Faron was intent in shadowing Bartholomew and learning more about his garden...


There is so much to learn! What is he growing? How did he pick that location for the garden?  Is it based on the soil quality? Is the soil here magical?  It could be, but how would we know? Well if it is, it might not be a magic that is favorable towards legumes, otherwise he would not have asked Brigal for a solution. That would mean that there are limits to...


...before coming to the conclusion that this time around, perhaps she would leave Bartholomew to his gardening; he looked so serene and she was hard pressed to think of a time when she was told that she had contributed to someone's peace of mind.

Instead, she fidgeted her away around the camp, trying to remember every detail so that she could tell ...well no one. Before getting drawn deeper into sad thoughts, she remembered that their fae patron has mentioned equipment and raced over to the inventory to root through what was available.  It looked like there was the makings of a pretty good demolition kit.  It'll take a bit of doing, but I know my way around powder well enough... Now, let's start being seeing can't be salvaged, she mused to herself, getting to work.

+++

Faron and Bartholomew are prone on a little hill overlooking a turn in the country road outside Grismont. Even this far from the town, the smell of the tanneries carries on the air, mixed with the more natural rural smells. The dense vegetation of this wooded area hides the brigands well and the few, rare passing carts have not noticed them as they drove by. From their vantage point, they can see both sides of the turn, though more of the road from Grismont, as the rest of it winds through the small woods.

The sun has just disappeared over the horizon when their quarry finally appears. A carriage with curtains drawn, followed by a cart covered with a leather tarp, crest a small hill on the horizon and start to trundle down the gentle slope towards the brigands' ambush. Both only have a driver and the small convoy has no escort.

As the vehicles approach, the brigands get ready to spring their ambush, but they freeze when they hear the sound of hooves coming from the other direction. A patrol of four road wardens, all on horseback, rounds the bend. They pass by the brigands' hiding spot, then continue on towards Grismont. They pass the carriage and the cart a couple dozen of meters from the ambush point. When the convoy reaches it, the road wardens are riding away, but are still dangerously close...

It had been a long day. The caravan came later than expected and Bartholomew is parched. He finished his water a good hour back, but at least the sun was setting now. Finally the caravan is approaching. "I wonder who is in the carriage, behind the curtains. It could be only Yoan, but it could also be a bodyguard with him.
What do you think, should we run ahead and I get onto the road walking the same direction as the caravan and ask for a ride? Like that I'll know more about what is waiting for us. "
Then suddenly the road wardens ride by and ruin their perfect spot in no time. "Oh no! Now we have to get to the second spot. That will be tight to make, let's hurry!
Luckily they found two possible spots, one of them being further down the road. Unfortunately they'd have to hurry down a detour to get there without being spotted. But now that is the only option, without risking to face the wardens and whoever is with the caravan.

Before the caravan had even come into view, Faron's heart beat wildly in her chest.  The wardens' arrival was almost a relief; maybe they did not have to go through with this, maybe it was just not their lucky day.  When Bartholomew took off in a sprint, it took her a moment to register the words second spot.  
"Fine Brigal, you were right. Happy?" She mutters under her breath.

Faron had not been convinced that they would need a contingency plan.  

Flashback wrote:

"I dunno Bartholomew... The whole point is that we are doing something daring! Our cause is just, we should have luck on our side!" She slaps a hand to her forehead.  "Brigal would tan my hide if he heard me say that.  Faron," she begins, poorly mimicking his voice and mien. "Any fool can choose to rely on luck but only rich fools can afford to. And you, girl, are not rich.  Ugh! Hahaha! Alright, let's go see what our options are."

Using a spool of twine that has seen better days, the brigands map out the sight lines from a few points before and after the spot that they had identified as ideal for the ambush.  Secretly Faron was hoping against hope that they would not need to use this back up: at this point it was all too easy for her to imagine Brigal's smug, snort of laughter.

Faron takes off after Bartholomew, patting the mask strapped to her side for confidence. They were not relying on luck - they had a plan.

While the wheeled carts have the follow the winding road through the woods, the brigands are free to cut across the forested area. They follow the deer paths, cut across bubbling brooks, and manage to reach their fallback position just as their target round a nearby turn.

They crouch in the bushes lining the road, and wait for their chance to spring their trap.

Out of breath, Bartholomew lies panting behind the stone they chose for cover. They don't have much time to prepare for their attack. "How... should we... go about it?... Shall we... just make... a run for it?... There is... only two of them.... If they... cause more problems... we can... pull out the masks.... Maybe they... are not too invested... in some vials and glass... So they might... just abandon ship... if we make... enough noise. "

Faron exhales forcefully a number of times to help catch her breath and shakes her head at Bartholomew with a smile.  "Let's see if we can avoid... any more running for now... yeah?" She laughs softly, with another forceful exhalation.  "If I can put them to sleep... we  might be able... to just quietly ride the cart away!  If it doesn't work, which is very possible, because this entire situation is like something out of a storybook. Actually it reminds me of this one tale that I used to love, maybe you know it... Actually, maybe this is not the best time to be discussing folklore.  Where was I? Oh right, if I cannot put them to sleep, then we make the run for it.  Although, I guess that we could make the run for it first, and put them to sleep if that does not work. Which is essentially what you were suggesting, isn't it?" Faron slaps her forehead and looks apologetically at Bartholomew.

"I am ready to follow your lead; unless the plan involves talking the guards into an early grave, I am not sure if we should be paying me much mind."

He puts on the mask, feeling a surge of power and confidence flowing through his veins. "Today we will steel from the vampire, just as they stole from us. That I swear, Karzemal!" The strange looking mask molds onto his face. When he rises he stands up straight, gone is his usual hunched over appearance. His shoulders wider, his scales changed to brutal scars. He lifts his head. His eyes dark and sunken, his nose shows the hook of a break and his jaw is much more square. But most notable is the look of determination and dominance on his face. It makes clear he does not accept rejection, does not accept counter-speech.

Behind the next bend of the road, Bartholomew slips out of the bushes and walks towards the caravan. He mutters nonsense under his breath and only when he comes within hearing distance he raises his voice and directly addresses the guards of the caravan. "The end of the reign of terror is near. Choose your sides and choose them wisely, for those on the wrong side shall perish with their fellows.
The Dutchess and her lackeys took one too many things from us and the tide of revenge rises." Jerking his arm forward and pointing directly at the guards, Bartholomew thunders "Who shall you follow? Will you rise with the masses, or do you choose to drown in the sea of blood?"
At this point he stands directly in front of the caravan, blocking its way.
His heart pounding despite the mask.

Bartholomew certainly got the guards attention, but as he continues his speech turns more into a rant and he can see the guards attention slip away. Desperate he asks noone specifically What do I say? What do I do? If I lose their attention, they will fight me. He almost physically flinches when he gets an answer.
You will not lose their attention, not this time. And they will not fight you. But neither shall you. From here on you shall not fight anybody, but with your words, until I release you from this ban. Use this chance well.
The voice fades away and Bartholomew realises it to be Karzemal talking through the mask to him. He opens his eyes and sees the guards following his every word again. For now.

As Bartholomew walks onto the road and begins to speak, the front carriage driver pulls on his horses' reins. The curtained carriage pulls to the side, coming to a stop a few meters from Bartholomew. The cart beings to overtake it, but then its driver spots Bartholomew and the driver brings her cart to a stop as well.

The drivers listen to Bartholomew's words, their attention held by the Fae magic the young friar has called upon. As he talks, he sees a mix of emotion cross the drivers' faces. He seems to be reaching them, to have tapped into a deep-seated resentment. These are not cruel bailiffs or loyal dramcoats, they're regular folks, working a job.

Just as it looks like he feels he's got them, movement from inside the curtained cabin shakes the carriage. The drivers share a worried glance at each other and when they look back at Bartholomew, he sees that they have pulled back from him.

The shaking carriage sends a hot spike through Bartholomews heart. He has very little time left. "Look at the fear you bear for your so called masters. Let it stop, free yourself! Who, but you can break the chains that hold you down? There is three of us, that is how we shall win. The masses will prevail, I say, let's free you right now." Bartholomew takes a determined step forward to the curtained carriage.

From her crouched position behind cover, Faron has watched and listened awestruck, as Bartholomew commanded the attention of the drivers.  He's incredible...  The movement from the carriage draws her eye and as she returns her gaze to Bartholomew and the drivers, realizes that following his lead does not mean letting him do all of the work alone.

Slipping a makeshift cloth mask over her face, she strides out into the road to stand near Bartholomew.  "They are so greedy", she begins, pointing straight at the carriage, "that they would take from us our joy, our courage, our very hope that tomorrow might be better than today. Enough!"

The drivers listen to the brigands words, nodding along, but when Faron raises her voice to emphasize her points, the drivers' eyes grow wide and they both start motioning urgently for her to stop. The young woman is wise enough to quickly hold her tongue.

The two drivers dismount. The driver of the carriage, a tall, skinny saltfolk man wearing the clean clothes of a servant, walks to the cabin and starts speaking reassuringly to its passengers. The driver of the equipment cart, a short, stocky dvarfolk woman with hairy arms and simple, worn clothing approaches the brigands.

"Please, keep your voices down. We sympathize, really, but..." she looks back at the carriage, the fear plain on her face. "We're carrying our master's favored scholar and he's sent along one of his loan-fangs to protect his... property." The last word is spoken with scorn.

"Quickly!" Faron whispered to the drivers, mad at herself for not having considered the other possible risks."What else that you can tell us about the loan-fang?"
Anything that they could tell her would help, but even if they said nothing,  she had Bartholomew, her mask, and luck.

"Uh..." says the driver as you press her, getting visibly agitated. She starts to rattle off what she knows at a breakneck pace. "She's a former dramcoat. Deadly with a blade. Knows it too. Arrogant. Doesn't look at The Help if she can help it. Not sure she could tell me and Poel there apart if it wasn't for our clothing..." she chuckles, then remembers the urgency. "Uh... what else, what else... oh! She's disgusted by human bodily functions, now that she has no need for them. Eating, fucking, relieving one self... Is that any help?"

Having listened to Faron and the guard an idea forms in Bartholomews head. He takes Faron aside, his new confident and awe-inspiring appearance still foreign to her, and whispers "Listen, how about this. You approach the wagon and pretend to say a blessing to the travellers or something like that. Then get sick into the carriage, ideally get some spritzes on the vampire. I'll apologise to her and hopefully convince her to come out of the carriage while you 'clean your mess'. I'll guide her to that creek we just passed to help her clean herself. Then you prepare the Alchemist and tell him what is going on. As soon as I get back we need to leave in a hurry so the vampire cannot catch up. Once we lost her, we'll take the whole caravan back to the camp. What do you think? "
A little surprised by his own new confidence, surely granted to him by the mask, Bartholomew is determined to somehow... Well, his first chance for revenge for Marian's death is only a few meters away and as he swore to the mask, he also swore to himself before. Today was the first step towards vengeance. He could feel it.

Faron beams at the driver and mouths the words thank you as Bartholomew leads her aside.  
"It won't be easy to sick up on command," she mumbles, looking at her feet when he has finished explaining. His plan is daring - far more daring that she has the courage for, and since she does not know how to say so, her minds searches instead for ways to make it work.

"I do have something which might help." It was mustard seeds taken from Brigal's shop and that Faron had intended on giving Bartholomew for his garden.  Their emetic effect was not instantaneous or very strong, but her stomach clenched at the memory of boiled mustard seed tinctures from her childhood (and possibly at the thought of trying to get anything useful done while next to a loan-fang immediately after throwing up).

"Actually... Um, Bartholomew? Since the cart and carriage are already stopped, yeah? Could we maybe instead suggest a bathroom break? I mean, the drivers could suggest it. We could be the drivers.  I mean, we could take their livery and pretend to be the drivers... make the suggestion ourselves?" Faron hates how uncertain she sounds and looks up at Bartholomew, trying to draw inspiration from his confidence rather than be cowed by it.  "Since she doesn't pay attention to the help, she wouldn't even notice that we are not them!"

"Hmm, yeah, that sounds better and much less lethal. We could free the horses on the passenger carriage and instead of the Alchemist relieving himself, we'll all get on the other carriage and make a run for it? We would have to take the horses along, otherwise the vampiress can ride after us. She'll look mighty stupid sitting alone in her carriage without horses. " Bartholomew chuckles. "Either way, we need to act, if she gets suspicious too early we are in... big problems.

Faron nods.  "I will go and make the sugges... humble request."   She walks past the driver and tells her to stay out of sight of the loan-fang in hushed tones. "Wouldn't do to confuse her ladyship by there being too many of the help milling about, eh?" Faron tries to sound confident, even adding a wink for effect.

Had it only been minutes since she and Bartholomew had stepped out into the road?  It felt like a lifetime had passed.  Unconsciously, she places her hand on the mask at her hip to steel herself and approaches the carriage.

As Faron makes her way closer to the carriage, she can start to pick up what the driver is saying to the occupants. His tone is apologetic as he assures them that they'll soon be able to get under way. His eyes flick to Faron and a conflicting mix of relief and tension drift across his features. Things were about to go down, he knew, and they could easily get off the rails.

Drawing closer still, Faron can see a bit, at an angle, into the back of the carriage. She spots a willowy young sylfolk man sits there, dressed in a simple but stylish coat. His skin is a emerald colored and his hair is actually made of layers of leaves of a paler green. Upon his head is a gallant rack of antlers, rakishly sharpened and shined. His eyes are hidden behind his round, gold-rimmed glasses. He seems to be paying little attention to the conversation between the driver and the carriage's other passenger.

The young man yawns, looking up from the book in his lap as he does so, and catches sight of Faron. He frowns, clearly perplexed by the young woman's presence and appearance.

Faron looks from the Alchemist to the driver, and a sense of something akin to calm, readiness perhaps, washes over her.


A child listens raptly to a cautionary tale;
A sibling promises that all will be well;

The mask in her hand sursurrates as the feeling takes hold; had Lies whispering its stories all this time?  

A parent goes without, claiming satiety;
A little rebel tells herself that she is no longer afraid.

Lies was formed from a piece of silverwood, and while the mask itself has been aged to the darkest of pitch, its antlers, with their needle-fine tips, have been polished to a lethal gleam.  When Faron takes another step towards the carriage, the tines seem to undulate like snakes, and a predatory gleam flashes in her wide, (now) emerald eyes.
 
"Apologies most noble mistress.  I need desperately to relieve myself.  Normally I would not bother your esteem person with this, but since time is of the essence and we are already stopped, I thought that perhaps it would be best if we all attended to these needs here and now. "

From where she stands, Faron cannot see the vampire's reaction. However, the meaning of the annoyed sigh she lets out is unmistakable: she has bought it.

"Very well, but be quick about it. And for the Crown's sake, do it downwind," the former dramcoat says, the disgust plain in her tone. "Go," she adds. The young sylfolk alchemist's eyes flick to his riding companion and Faron realizes the last injunction was directed at him.

Hesitantly, the young man stands. The driver pulls the door open for him, moving out of the way and standing at attention. The alchemist has to bow his head pretty low to get his antlers through the doorframe. His well-polished boots hit the road with a thud, kicking up a bit of dust.

He looks at Faron and Bartholomew's masks with a mix of fear and curiosity, but follows them as they urge him away from the carriage. Once a bit of distance has been put between them and his chaperon, he stops, refusing to move further. He looks like a deer, frozen in fear, an impression greatly enhanced by the rack of antlers adorning his head.

He eyes shift from one brigand to the other. "Who are you and what do you want?" he asks, keeping his shaky voice low.

Thanks to the change of his posture the mask Terror brought upon him, Bartholomew towers over the young man. With an intense stare, Bartholomew hisses to the alchemist "Depending on your next choices we are the best or the worst thing that happened to you today. Obviously time is of the essence, so you will follow me to the other carriage while my friend here takes the horses from this one. We will leave and then we will have a plenty of time to chit-chat. Is that clear? "

Faron raises their hands gently as if calming a skittish animal.  "I know that this is a lot to take in, but under these masks, we're people just like you.  We cannot say the same for your traveling companion or your 'master', can we?"

The alchemist, still dubious, nods slowly. "Alright..." he says. He opens his mouth to say more, but shuts it abruptly as a voice cuts through the air like blade, coming from the carriage. "Who's out there?" the loan-fang asks imperiously.

The carriage driver's eyes go wide with terror as the carriage starts to open. He looks at the brigands, the alchemist, and the cart driver. The terror is replaced with an eerie look of calm and he lunges forward, pushing the door closed. "What are you doing? Get out of the way at once!" the loan-fang commands. The driver leans against the door, holding it shut with all his strength. "Go!" he calls out to the brigands. A blade bursts through the door, burying itself in his shoulder. "Hurry!" he cries, his face contorting with pain.

Tears sting Faron's eyes when she sees the look of calm overtake the driver, as if her heart knew what he was going to do before her conscious mind understood the ramifications.

"On the cart now, hurry.  Our friend is being very brave and I need you to be as well. You can do this little one." Faron is probably the same age as the Alchemist, if not a bit younger, but Lies is ancient, and so the sylfolk term of endearment for small children comes without thought.

The cart driver wastes no time, clambering back onto her vehicle and sitting down in the coach box. "Come on!" she says, extending her hand to the alchemist. The young man hesitates for a moment, but the other driver's cry of pain jolts him out of it. He takes the proffered hand and climbs aboard the cart.

Bartholomews eyes widen as the blade appears on the other side of the driver. Panic threatens to put its cold grasp around him. He can't leave the innocent to be slaughtered by the vampires again. Not like that night at the monastery. He has to help this innocent soul. Shaking off the wave of panic and without thinking any longer he acts. "Faron, quick, help me!" he calls out and grabs a long plank from the carriage with the laboratory equipment. Was this from a shelf? Or a table? It doesn't matter. With unknown strength he heaves the plank to the other side of the carriage and rams it against the door, the other end into the ground. Then he pulls the driver off the blade and heaves him towards the material waggon. "Faron! The horses! Undo the horses! We need to rush!"

Still marveling at how wonderfully heroic Bartholomew is,  Faron, determined not to let him down, takes a look at the carriage while patting her body in search of the right tool.

Like many of the higher end conveyances, each horse had a harness made of sturdy, high quality leather.  These harnesses converged at a single mechanism, and she just had to figure out if it would be faster to take out the mechanism or to cut all of the straps instead.  Either way, the plank looked like it could give way at any moment - there wasn't much time.

"No, no... now where is... Aha!" She mumbled to herself.

Faron is able to make quick work of the connection between horses and carriage, too quick even.  Having never had to deal with the kinds of pampered horses that are used to draw fancy carriages, she had not expected them to startle more easily than the stolid, seemingly tireless draft horses that she knew from the Works.  It was lucky that her tool had taken the brunt of the panicked kick; these might not be work horses, but they were still powerful creatures.  Her hand was numb, and the carefully honed tool damaged beyond repair... hopefully Bartholomew did not see that! Well even if he did, at least she had been successful, that had to count for something, right?

"Done!"

As Faron triumphantly proclaims her success and Bartholomew gets the injured driver onto the cart, the loud noise of wood splitting can be heard from the other side of the carriage. It is quickly followed by the sound of boots hitting the pavement as the loan-fang jumps down from the luxurious interior.

"You are going to regret that," she growls.

Faron's mouth went dry at the sound of the splintering wood and when the loan-fang's growled words reached her ears, her mind went blank; like a fawn faced with a predator.

Into that stillness Lies whispered honeyed words of joyful triumph and the nobilty of sacrifice.  Faron's fear could be fashioned into a tool if she was willing to embrace the bravery that the mask insisted burned brightly within her.

"I regret it already noble Mistress! Faron begins speaking before she even sees the loan-fang, using her own wretched terror to stall their enemy's advance; every second mattered.  "I... I don't know what came over me!  It was madness to think that you would not put a stop to these vile machinations." She kept herself within the creature’s line of sight, and hoped that this moment's distraction would give her compatriots the time to get the cart moving.

The loan-fang narrows her eyes when she sees Faron. "Who the bloody hell are you?" she asks, her surprise plain. "And what is that hideous thing you're wearing?" She points her sword at Faron. "Explain yourself!"

Bartholomew feels panic growing in his chest. The situation was slipping through their fingers. With a voice, filled with panic fueled anger that surprises even himself, he yells at the driver of the carriage "What are you waiting for? God is with the patient, but sometimes the patient end up with God. Get the horses moving!"
He pulls out a rope from the burglary tools he packed in order to get into the carriage later, and throws one end to Faron and ties the other side to the carriage. "Here, Faron, grab this. We're leaving. You can flirt later." You flirt later? Why the hell did he say that? Bartholomew stares into the distance with a confused look for a few seconds, before he gathers himself again and focuses on the situation at hand. Let's hope she doesn't get skinned alive.

Thelonius wrote:

"Here, Faron, grab this. We're leaving. You can flirt later."

Flirt? What a delightful notion.

With a rich laugh that is heady with the delightful half truths of courtship, Faron catches the rope, looping it around her forearm. With her other hand, she draws her shield, and as the carriage's advance draws the rope taut, Faron peers over it coquettishly at the loan-fang.
"It would seem, my noble mistress, that our dalliance will have to wait."

The loan-fang grins predatorially at Faron. "I can make the time." As the cart begins to move, pulling Faron towards it, the loan-fang moves with preternatural speed. She leaps over the carriage's horses in a single bound. She stabs twice at Faron, the brigand barely managing to deflect the blows with her shield before being pulled onto the cart.

The driver urges the horses to speed up, but neither they nor the cart are built for speed. The latter is a sturdy thing, designed to haul cargo. The former are large draft horses, bred for endurance. Acceleration is not their forte.

The loan-fang, on the other hand, was fit even before being gifted with the powers of vampirism. She moves like the wind, overtaking the lumbering cart. She skids to a halt a few meters in front of it and pulls a pistol, pointing it at one of the horses' head. One horse would be able to pull the cart, slowly, but not while attached to its dead comrade. "Fireworks are so romantic, wouldn't you agree?" she says with a glance at Faron.

The loan-fang's persistence was unfortunate but not unexpected. Even as her stomach fluttered nervously at the prospect of further confrontation, Faron knew deep down that the power to act was within reach, for a cost.  Whether the mask of Lies made it easier for Faron to lie to herself or the sheer desperation of the situation made any and every solution palatable, did not matter in the end; she would pay the cost for it was not so steep.

Her Patience bound, the young alchemist's eyes sparkled puckishly.  
"Fireworks? How garish!" Faron exclaims, bringing her hand to her chest in faux outrage before whipping her arm back towards the loan-fang, loosing her shield at the monster's face.

Empowered by Lies' magic, Faron throws her shield with uncanny speed. The metal disk catches the loan-fang on the shoulder and neck. The impact, punctuated by a sickening crunch, sends her stumbling back and to the side. Her pistol goes off, the shot going wide. The loan-fang crumples to the ground, her head hanging to the side at an impossible angle.

The cart gains speed as the driver urges the horses forward. As they rend the bend in the road, the brigands look back at the body of their foe, but their elation is tempered as they see the vampire slowly pick herself back up. The last thing they see before she disappears behind the trees lining the road, is the loan-fang straightening her head with a cry of pain.


Once they are safely away, the brigands bring the Alchemist up to speed. He tells them his name is Yoan and seems genuinely excited when he hears about Clindre's people. It seems he has heard of them, referring to them as the Diggers, and has been looking for an opportunity to meet some of them.

Clindre's community is far, however. With an injured man in their cart, the brigands are bound to attract some attention on Cardenfell's roads, so the brigands bring the Alchemist and the drivers back with them to the Brinkwood.


Back at their camp, the injured driver is placed in one of the tents and Yoan, though not a healer, does his best to see to the man's wounds. The cart driver, Simone, tends to her exhausted horses, leaving the two brigands free to rest or plan.