Volume 1 - The First Spark

The lords mansion lay right in front of him. He takes a deep breath and knocks on the large front door. Only shortly after a young lady opens and looks at him with a inquisitively raised eyebrow.
"G-good afternoon, fair lady, the church sent me to bless your tools and supplies, so the Lord rewards us all with a rich harvest. W-would you please be so kind to show me to the storage? "

The young woman sighs, then ushers Bartholomew into the manor. "Just watch your step, Father."

Inside, Bartholomew sees a small army of workers going about renovating the place. Scaffolds line the walls, linen tarps cover the floor and the whole place is bustling with activity. As he is lead through the house, he chats with the young servant and learns that a new Lord as recently taken possession of the estate and has made multiple changes. From her tone, and the look of the other servants, the household staff do not seem to be particularly happy about the new administration. It doesn't take long for Bartholomew to figure out why: the new master's tastes are particularly gaudy, and his household guards particularly nasty, taking every occasion to bully the workers and the staff.

The former friar is taken through the servants' passageways and out the back, where he is handed off to the head gardener, an plump old woman with an insincere smile. She leads him out to the estate's lands where the Lord's peasants are hard at work tilling the earth as they prepare for planting, under the watchful eyes of bailiffs in the household's livery.

Bartholomew is left with them, as the supervisor goes back to her perch up the mansion's back steps to look over the work. He spends some time blessing the peasants' tools and talking with them as he does. The discontent seems to have spread to the peasants. Reading between the lines, Bartholomew understands that the previous master was a lot more lax, providing a tolerable standard of living for his people, whereas the new one has brought some rather cruel taskmasters with him and cut back on the few small luxuries the peasants had been afforded.

When the work day is done, the peasants return their tools and supplies to a large shed sealed with a lock and heavy chain located near the stables and manor proper, before having to trek all the way across the large fields, back to their shabby, drafty cabins.

Having completed his task, Bartholomew takes his leave and returns to the brigands' camp to brief his fellows.

The brigands all elect to travel light, in case they have to carry the supplies back. The trip from their refuge to Breckenridge Hall, their target, goes smoothly. The lord's estate lies at the edge of the farmlands surrounding Innisfirth, not far from the outskirts of the Brinkwood, so they only have a short way to go once they leave its safety.

They emerge shortly after sunset, the last embers of sunlight vanishing over the horizon, chased by the night sky. The moon is a waxing crescent, but whether it smiles upon them or grins in mockery, the brigands cannot say. As they near the farmlands, the scent of freshly tilled earth fills the air, carried by the mild breeze.

Breckenridge Hall stands out like a beacon, light escaping its many windows. The main gate is sealed shut, but as the brigands sneak past it they hear raucous laughter from the guard house that lies near it.

They round the corner of the outer wall and approach the staff door. It's a reinforced wooden door without any handle or lock, and as the brigands try it, it doesn't move an inch. Most likely, it is held shut by a drawbar on the other side. As they ponder whether to scale it or find another way in, Retenia spots a beam of light moving along the street. As she listens, she hears the sound of mailed boots walking up the road towards the service path. In but a few moments, a patrol will round the corner and find them...

As the light dances around the corner of the wall, Bartholomew becomes pale under his cowl. They will be caught, there is no place to hide, nowhere to go. Except... With an unexpected agility, Bartholomew jumps up the wall, catches the top with his fingers and with desperate strength pulls himself up. Atop the wall he crouches to look around. If noone is in the yard, I can open the door for the others and close it before the patrol comes. I hope I can.

Bartholomew scrambles over the wall, dropping down on a gravel path on the other side. He hustles to the door and slides the drawbar out of the way. Retenia and Jaul rush inside just as the patrol rounds the corner.

"Did you see that?" They hear one of the guards say.

Bartholomew slowly and quietly slides the drawbar back in place as the sound of boots grows closer. The staff door rattles as one of the guards tries it.

"Must have been the wind," the other guard says, nervously.

"Maybe... or one of those uppity house servants was trying to sneak out. Stay here. I'm going to make sure none of them are breaking curfew," says the first voice with hopeful, vicious glee.

One pair of boots starts to walk away, while the other can be heard shuffling on the other side of the door.

The brigands find themselves huddled between two stone buildings, staff housing and the shed they have come to rob. The grounds ahead, where they must go to access the shed's door, seem clear, but light spills upon it from windows in the manor up ahead, the guard house near the main gate, and the staff's residences to their left. A mix of cooking smells and horse manure confusingly hangs in the air. The brigands can hear the hum of conversation in the distance.

Bartholomew leans on the door with his back, his heart racing. Any moment, the guards will be coming out of their hut and bust them. Surely they must hear his stupid heart pounding.
He breathes fast and short.
Again the last moments rush by in front of his inner eye. In retrospective he has no idea, how he made it up that wall. When he was younger he was always the kid that stayed on the ground, when the others climbed a tree. He could never pull himself up that first branch. Now he had done it.
Moments pass, his breathing slows and with his breath comes the fear. His left hand starts shaking slightly and small pearls of sweat form on his temples.
Then he hears the patrol men walk off. He takes another deep breath and looks up at the other brigands.
"We're in, what's next?"

The brigands sneak to the edge of the alley, wincing every time their feet disturb the gravel path. Jaul cranes his neck to peek around the corner, searching the courtyard for guard patrols and sentries. Thankfully, security seems lax. He spots a single patrol, he holds until they vanish on the other side of the mansion and motions the group forward.

The shed's door is only a few meters away, but as they near it, a bleary-eyed stable hand steps out of the stables farther ahead. Retenia grabs onto her comrades and pulls them close, hugging the shed's wall. The stable hand empties a chamber pot into a compost barrel, then heads back inside, none-the-wiser.

The danger having passed, the brigands proceed to the shed door. It is a large double-door secured by a heavy chain passed through its handles and held shut by a sturdy-looking brass lock.

After the initial shock, Bartholomew hangs back a bit, letting the others take charge. He is very aware that he might be in over his head. What was he thinking, breaking into a lords estate. It's insane.
Suddenly Retenia pushes him into the dark of a shadow, making him painfully aware how much he was in his thoughts and how little focused on the situation at hand Get yourself together, Bartholomew, don't dream about what was, focus on what is! Only then he sees and hears the stable boy. Bartholomew holds his breath.
When they round the corner, finding themselves in front of the tool shed, Bartholomew realises, with cold swear running down his back, that the shed is locked with a big chain. Everything in vain. How could they possibly get in through a locked door and no windows?
Then Bartholomew remembers the burglary gear he packed, after all they are trying to break in and kneels down in front of the lock. This is like carving. Carving the rose on the abbot's cross. Carefully he slides in the lock picking tool. He mouths a short prayer, takes a deep breath and starts carefully wiggling the tool.

To his surprise and relief, it doesn't take long for Bartholomew to hear the satisfying click of the lock's mechanism disengaging. He catches the chain as it grows limp and starts to slide, then carefully removes it and lays it down on the ground.

The brigands pull the shed's door open. The depths of the shed are shrouded in darkness, the moon's dim light only reaching the first row. The brigands can see the shape of tools on racks, but it is hard to make out what kind. The smell of freshly tilled earth hangs in the dry air.

" There is plenty here, this is a solid score " the Heartseeker says in delight. " Now we need to get them to the horses and find a way out of this place " he adds quietly. "OH and the guards, we gotta pin it on the guards"

Bartholomew nods with a satisfied smile. This is a great score, the farmers will have enough to work with for some time. Still amazed and pumped with adrenaline from his second unexpected success this night he has a wide grin on his face. Until...
"Horses?" the wide grin suddenly wiped from his face and replaced with a grimace of fear and surprise. "Did you say horses?" Suddenly he is the shy young boy again whom they got to know on the first day. Drawing invisible pictures on the floor, with his foot, he hesitantly starts "It's... You know... Might not be the best time, but... I am terrified by horses. I... I cannot handle one, little less sit on it. I... I cannot go into the stables." He hunches a bit more than usually. "M-maybe I could be a look out?" The end of the sentence elevating in pitch making it a hopeful question.

Suddenly the door of the guard hut flies open with a bang and a man stumbles out. It's not clear whether he is drunk on sleep or something else, but what is clear are his intentions of relieving himself into the bushes.
"We need to leave, this is getting too risky. G-grab what you can and wait for the chaos. I will be right back." Bartholomew whispers to the rest. He grabs flint and stone from his pouch and some black powder. He had hoped he wouldn't need this, but they need a distraction now.
Almost overwhelmed by his own decisiveness Bartholomew stumbles out of the shed, over to the stables. In the shadows of the alley to the back entrance, he crouches and tries to make a spark onto the black powder and some branches. Every time the metal hits the stone he flinches, sure that a guard will put his heavy hand on his shoulder any moment. But no hand reaches for him. After 10 loud strikes a spark finds the powder and quickly a small flame starts licking on the leaves and branches. Bartholomew nourishes it until it is large enough that he can lift a branch up and drop it through the window into the stables.
Then he rushes back into the shed and grabs what he can carry and urges the group into the small alley.
"A-as soon as chaos breakdown out, we open the the door and rush for the woods, ok?"

The brigands wait in the alley with bated breath. After a few moments, they can hear the sound of horses whinnying. The smell of flames reach them as smoke starts to rise into the night sky. Soon after, the cries of "FIRE! FIIIIIRE!!!" rise from beyond the shed. People start to pour out of the servants' lodgings, dressed in their nightgowns or with disheveled, hastily thrown on clothing.

Bartholomew slides the drawbar out of the way and pulls the door open. On the other side, a young guard wearing a gambeson gapes at them, then reaches for the blade in his belt. Jaul rushes forward, body-slamming the sentry and sending him tumbling to the ground. The brigands run out unto the path beyond and bolt towards the road. The guard's yells of "Thieves! THIEVES!!!" get lost in noise of Breckenridge Hall's residents fighting the flames consuming the stables.

+++

It's only, when the brigands stop to catch their breath, that they notice the red stain on Jaul's shirt. Retenia bids him to sit and pull his shirt up to reveal a deep gash in Jaul's side. The guard had managed to pull out his blade before being tackled and had landed a blow in the struggle.

Retenia patches him up as best she can and the brigands get back underway.

+++

Jaul has grown pale by the time they reach Clindre's community. The sun is rising over the horizon and the farmers have started getting ready for their day: eating a meagre breakfast, feeding the chickens, gathering their tools...

When they notice the brigands, they rush to their side, a mix of excitement and worry etched across their faces. Two burly men help Jaul to one of the cabins as the others grab the tools liberated from Breckenridge Hall. Retenia follows Jaul into the cabin. With a place to lie down, she will have better luck treating his wounds.

Clindre approaches Bartholomew, the last brigand to be relieved of his loot and the only one still outside.

"I'm sorry your friend got hurt on our behalf," she says, apologetically. She looks out across the fields, where her people getting to work with their new tools, then she clasps Bartholomew on the shoulder. "You folks are people of your word, and so are we. Once the harvest comes in, we'll set aside a share for y'all. And if you ever need to make something grow where it ain't wanted, you can count on our help."

Bartholomew blushes and retreats deep into his cowl. "Th-thank you. We are happy we could help. In times like these we all need to stand together. I h-hope the day will come, where we ask you for help." he looks over his shoulder to make sure noone else is close. Then he continues in a hushed voice. "One day, we... we will move against the Duchess. We will finally be free again and no boots stomping in lock step through the streets, no more mistrust between one another in fear of hidden spies. When the day comes, can we count on your help?"

Clindre lets out a long whistle. "Those are some big dreams, son." She shakes her head. "My people aren't soldiers. With more people, more land, more tools, we might be able to help you feed one..." She grins, but there's a sad quality to it. "Look. It's nice to dream, but you gotta be realistic. Your friend got hurt stealing farming supplies and you're talking about taking on the Duchess. Learn to walk before you try to fly, okay?"

An awkward silence spreads, while Bartholomew looks at Clindre from under his cowl. But we helped. We did it.
Without saying another word, he turns around and walks to the gate of the property, where he sits down on the wall and hunched over, looking at his feet, he waits.
But we helped. he thinks again and again, trying to see where he went wrong.

Bartholomew sulks for a while, sitting by himself as the dawn turns to day. He hears the farmers sing as they work, the steady beat of their tilling like a metronome.

His dark thoughts are interrupted by Retenia, when she sits down next to him. Her gown is stained with blood and sweat. "Jaul is hurt pretty bad, but he's going to pull through. He needs bed rest, though. Clindre has agreed to let him stay. I'm going to stay too. He's going to need my help, and these people too. Maybe I can make some more headway with them at the same time. I think they have more to offer than they let on."

She turns to look at Bartholomew. "I know this is asking a lot, but can you go back to Karzemal and let her know? We'll be back as soon as Jaul is well enough to travel."

+++

Faron's life in the factories of Innisfirth had left her unprepared for life in the wilds. Finding shelter, food and water in the Brinkwood had proven to be a challenge for the cogscamper. As she wandered its many, treacherous paths, she felt her strength being slowly whittled away. When she stopped for rest, she could feel hungry eyes on her. Maybe the stories the Lords spread about the woods were true after all...

... but, whenever the thought of giving up crept up on her, she would find places of natural beauty that made her wish she had canvas and brushes: a meadow covered with wild flowers, caves filled with quartz, a doe and her fawns grazing under a flowering cherry tree... and so, she pressed on.

After a few days, hungry and tired, Faron stumbles through a copse of spruce trees and into a clearing still blanketed in snow. In the clearing's center, a crackling campfire over which a skewered hare roasts beckons her invitingly with its delicious smell.

A humanoid form sits on the other side of the fire pit. The skin of her face is like the bark of a dark ash tree, with beautiful cracks running along its length. Her eyes are white, like windows caked in frost. Bare branches rise from her head like a crown. The rest of her body is covered by a cloak, made of ice-covered leaves. She raises her head to look at Faron. "Welcome," she says, in a clear, crystalline, female voice. "I am Karzemal, the Warmth of Snow, Once Buried, Fae of the Winter Court. Won't you sit with me and rest? I offer you this meal freely, with no expectations of compensation." The muscular, stained arm of a machinist rises out of her cloak and motions to the roasting hare, then falls and disappears under her garment.

Faron stands transfixed, her hunger and weariness momentarily forgotten.  Karzemal, the Warmth of Snow, Once Buried, Fae of the Winter Court is like nothing that she had ever seen before and yet there is a certain familiarity - as if She might be a manifestation of the Brinkwood itself.  Looking at the Fae, Faron wonders if she is in fact lying in a ditch somewhere dying of exposure; perhaps her mind had conjured this miracle to provide a peaceful end to her travels?  Ever the pragmatist, she declared to herself that the nature of this scene would be best explored after a bite to eat.

"Hallo!" She calls, raising an arm and then wincing from a stiff ache. "Well met Karzemal, the Warmth of Snow, Once Buried, Fae of the Winter Court.  Happy to make your acquaintance and happier yet to make the acquaintance of that hare!"  She laughed, blushing. "Which isn't to say that I think more highly of a wee creature than of you Miss,  only that I'm right hungry!  It's a wonder that you can hear me over my tummy's rumblings!  It is right kind of you to offer and a good thing that you are not asking for anything back, because I've precious little to give!"

Karzemal smiles the indulgent smile of a tired, but loving mother. "You have more to offer than you think, little coda," she says, with a hungry edge to her voice, "but there is no need to broach such matters now. Please, sit and eat."

Faron carefully steps closer and lifts the hare from the flame. Its flesh looks perfectly cooked and steam rises from it in the cold air. Gratefully, the young woman digs in, feeling her strength returning with every bite.

+++

Bartholomew's trek back to the brigands camp was a miserable, lonely journey. The weather seemed to match his mood and he found himself drenched by rain by the time he made it back to camp.

The rain lets up when he reaches the brigands' clearing and he's greeted by the song of birds and the first rays of sunshine cutting through the waning cloud cover. His first thoughts are to his garden. He finds his little plot of soil largely unmolested, but a few of his bulbs and seeds seem to have been dug up by squirrels, the unrelenting scourge of gardeners the world over. As he laments the loss and considers what steps he could take to protect his crops, he hears the distant sound of voices cutting through the trees, coming from the direction of Karzemal's grove.

Bartholomew picks himself up and hurries down the little path between the camp of the Fae's lair.

He finds Karzemal sitting in her usual spot in the snow. Across the fire sits a short, broad shouldered woman devouring a skewered hare.

The fae nods at former priest. "Welcome back, Bartholomew. Please, join us."

Famished as she was, the hare was preternaturally delicious, and so was counted as a point in favour of the "dying in a ditch" theory. Back to being tied.  However, when Karzemal, the Warmth of Snow, Once Buried, Fae of the Winter Court said the name Bartholomew, it was game point for "maybe this is real".  The only Bartholomew that she had ever known, was a vicious cogscamp who had insisted on being called Bartho.  He was a bully who would never miss an opportunity to hurt her and others in nasty little ways.  Even in death, especially in death, she would never ever EVER be thinking about Bartho - blegh.

Faron shoves the remaining bits of hare into her mouth and springs up, wiping her mouth with the back of her sleeve while bounding towards Bartholomew.  

"Hallo! Well met Bartholomew!  I don't suppose you happen to lying in a ditch, dying of exposure somewhere in the Brinkwood, eh? Sorry mate, I am knackered and lost-but-found, and apparently speaking utter nonsense!" After rattling off those at a breakneck pace, Faron pauses for a beat and looks at Bartholomew, sheepish but still smiling.  

"Let me try this again: Hallo Bartholomew.  My name is Faron.  It is good to meet you."

As Bartholomew steps onto the clearing he immediately sees the stranger at the fire. They found us, they will bring me to the Dutchess. He looks around himself, to find something to defend himself against the bailiffs that would surely jump out of the bushes any moment. Spotting his rake, he leaps for it, grabs it and holding it forward like a spear, he slowly walks onto the clearing. "Karzemal, there is a stranger at your fire. Watch out!"

Suddenly the stranger jumps up and turns towards him. He looks at the short, broad shouldered woman, his heart pounding so loud, her words only slowly reach his conscious mind. She said dying! She said dying!! Raising his rake towards her, his hands trembling he looks over his shoulders for those bailiffs. "Stay back! I don't want to be dying. Stay back, I-i have... a rake!"

Karzemal stands in one swift motion, snow cascading from her cloak. She towers over the two humans like a mountain. The sky seems to grow dark and a glacial wind blows through the clearing, dimming the flames. "Bartholomew! Put! That! Down!" Her voice sounds like the cracking of ice on a lake. One misstep, and one would be plunged into the cruel, icy waters to drown.

"I will not have you threaten my guest!"

Bartholomew flinches, drops the rake and it seems he shrinks a few sizes. Like a beaten dog, with his tail between his legs, he scurries over to the fire and mumbles, barely audible "... sorry. But she... stranger....ed to help."

Things had gone from full of potential, to confusing, to terrifying. Now she was mad.  Mad that Bartholomew looked so miserable and that it was all her fault.  

Faron looks up at the Fae defiant, eyes bright with tears.  
"Karzemal, the Warmth of Snow, Once Buried, Fae of the Winter Court, I do not know that I want to be your guest if this is how you treat people.  This is my fault. I surprised Bartholomew. I know that I sometimes get carried away..." She looks down at her feet, shamefaced.  "Either way, that wasn't nice!"  Certain that the Fae will strike her for talking back, as had so often been the case when she tried to stand up for herself or others, she draws herself up to her full height to try to look dignified but cannot keep from trembling.

Karzemal tilts her head. "As you wish, little coda. I would not want to offend my guest." The wind dies down and sky grows bright again. The flames pick, crackling with glee.

The fae sits back down, again precisely and in one smooth motion. "I apologize for my outburst, Bartholomew," she says, her voice soft like a blanket. "I... am not used to dealing with mortals. I will try to be more considerate in the future."

Faron blinks a few times, realising that a blow was not coming.  She bobs a quick curtsey to the Fae and then walks carefully toward the fire, diligently staying within Bartholomew's line of sight as she approaches.  When she speaks to him it is at a much gentler pace than before.

"I didn't mean to be disruptive but I was. And maybe I still am? Being disruptive that is." She sighs, more of a shuddery exhalation; recent events were fast becoming overwhelming.  "So, I apologise," she says softly, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt.

Bartholomew lifts his head, his face barely visible in his cowl and says, "It's alright. You seem... nice. How come you are here if I may ask?"

Turned to Karzemal he continues, "And we helped Clindre, the farmer woman and her friends. They needed tools, which we borrowed from one of the lords.
But my friend, Jaul, got hurt badly so he had to stay and Retenia stayed to look after him. But they will come back when he is better."

"I am!" Faron exclaims brightly before remembering the trouble that her enthusiasm brought just moments ago and trying to be more sedate.  "Or at least, I try my best to be. Nice, that is."

Why was she here? Innisfirth had been all that she ever known and in that little town that had been her entire world, she had been happy.  Well maybe not happy, but at least... not entirely unhappy.  She might never have left if it hadn't been for what happened to the union folks.  Faron had only recently started connecting with them; drawn by the idea that maybe one day there would not need to be cogscamps. The hare sat heavy in her stomach as she recalled the night that she left.  Even the grinding cacophony of the works hadn't completely masked the sounds of the brutal violence with which they were repressed.


"Why I'm here? Luck, really," she began, her bottom lip trembling.  "There was a k-kettle. And when they closed in... I was just outside of it." She is no longer looking at Bartholomew, warm brown eyes staring blankly ahead.  Her breathing quickens as she relives memories that until then had taken a backseat to a fundamental drive to survive.  "And then I ran. Here to the Brinkwood. I ran instead of staying to help. I should have stayed with them.  Oh sulfur and blood... I ran. I ran." She begins to hyperventilate, breathlessly repeating those two words.

"There, there." , Bartholomew awkwardly taps Farons shoulder. "There was nothing you could have done... Until now. Will you help me, help us to fight those evil bastards?" he covers his mouth in surprise over the strong word. "W-we started helping people around and hopefully one day we have enough people that will help us, that we can do something about the reign of terror of the Dutchess."

Karzemal nods. "Bartholomew is correct. Running ensured your survival when you did not possess the tools needed to fight back. If you swear an Oath to oppose the Crimson Crown, I can equip you for the fight ahead. We may be few, but there are many who yearn for freedom. Will you join us in our quest to help them?"

Faron can hear them, first Bartholomew and then Karzemal, but it takes a few moments for their words to register. Swear an oath to fight, to help others to fight, the Duchess? She is surprised to find a sliver of hope running through her fear and it is because of Bartholomew.  He seems so meek and so frightened, and yet speaks of fighting for and with the people.  She can not help but be drawn in by his courage.  Her breathing slows and gives him a wan smile.

"You are... incredible," she begins softly, meeting his eyes. "If you would have me," she says to him before turning to the fae, "and you would lend me the tools, then I will fight."

Karzemal lifts a muscled, scarred arm out of her cloak, and places her hand in the fire. As the flames start to lick her skin, their color changes to shades of blue and the heat turns to a bitter, icy chill. "Then place your hand in these flames and speak your Oath, that it be sealed with suffering and hope for relief."

Faron had had her share of burns; they were inevitable in The Works.  This would be her first that it would be deliberate, on her part at least - there was the time that Bartho had pushed her against a raging kiln to "wipe that stupid bloody smile" off her "bloody stupid face".  Even a dung-breathed cad like Bartho deserved better than the life that they were all living now.

"In my family has a saying: 'Ye canna keep The Works out ye lungs, but ye can keep 'em out ye heart.' For a long time, I did not understand what it meant and no one would explain it to me. You see, I was the youngest and by far; a surprise to a family that often had less than nothing. That saying meant that I will never know all that they gave up so that I could know joy and care and warmth."  

She plunges her hand into the flame.

"I will honor the sacrifice that kept The Works out of my heart."

When Faron plunges her hand in the flames, it is not met with burning heat, but biting cold. As she recites her oath, her hand starts to turn red and small ice crystals start to form on her fingers. Her oath spoke, she pulls back her hand.

Karzemal follows suit and the flames return to their natural, warm colors. The heat feels welcome and,  as the ice melts off, Faron's hand quickly starts to feel better.

"Welcome, Faron." The fae lifts two mismatched arms, palms up. As Faron follows the movement with her eyes, she sees that seven wooden masks have appeared among the branches of the trees behind Karzemal. They look old and worn, and they stare at the young women with different expressions ranging from amusement to unbridled rage. "I present you with these gifts. They are born of the magic of my kind and once, they were worn by the protectors of this land, but they have been neglected since the rise of the Old Kingdom. If you feed them with your actions and the blood of our enemies, they will grow strong again and will allow you to make the leeches quiver with fear at their mere mention."

Karzemal drops her arms and they vanish under her cloak. "I also offer you more mundane means." She turns her head to look at Bartholomew. "Will you show our new friend to the camp? Afterwards, you should get some rest and prepare. There is still much to do."

"Come." Bartholomew starts walking towards the camp, turns around, and waits for Faron to follow. Together they walk to the camp and Bartholomew takes of his cowl. When they reach the camp, he starts showing her around. "This is where we cook and eat. It works really well and with the supplies we have, we can make very tasty meals.
Over there is my... our garden. We have fresh vegetables and herbs there. We must pay good attention, so nothing goes bad.
Here are the tents where we sleep. This one is mine, that one is Retenias and here my friend, Jaul, sleeps. He is hurt now, so they will not come. But that one over there is free, is it OK for you? ", he points over to the fourth tent.
"The rest is for storage and everything. Shall I make us a soup?
Ah, no, you just ate.
I'll make it anyway, maybe you feel like joining me later." and with that he starts cleaning vegetables and heating water in a kettle.

Faron follows Bartholomew listlessly, at first shaken by the tumult of emotions that she had experienced in a very short time. Soon enough, she is looking around intently, and taking in what Bartholomew says with rapt attention.

"The garden looks incredible! The colors are so vibrant! And I would definitely like to help pay good attention," she pauses, and looks a bit sheepish. "Although I would not know what to look for.  When I was with my family, we did not grow our own food, and nothing grew in The Works.   Oh! But I might be able to make good use of cuttings and shavings!  Plants are a very versatile material, especially when you have the right equipment."


Faron does not answer Bartholomew when he asks about the soup, nor when he leaves her to begin to prepare it.  She stands in front of the tent in silence for a long while. Long enough that the water has boiled, and Bartholomew is well into the soup making process by the time she rejoins him.

"I can have the whole tent?! All of the time?" She is not asking him so much as expressing her wonder.  It had been years since she had had a space that did not have to be shared, whether several to a bed, or many using the same amenities across work shifts.  Seeing where he is at in making the soup she exclaims, surprised:
"Oh, you made soup!  Is there enough for me to have some?  That hare was delicious, but I have not eaten much in the past few days and would love to share a meal with you... If I may!  I don't even have to say anything. I know that I can be... enthusiastic," she giggles and then covers her mouth to keep from laughing more.  

Faron's laughter, much like Faron herself, is lighter than it had been in days.

"I've been meaning to ask, why are you here? Or rather what brought you here? Actually, you don't need to talk about that if you don't want to.  I know that it can be hard to think about... Really hard... She shakes her head briskly.

"What do you like the most about this place? Have you been here long? You mentioned fighting," , her brow furrowed in thought for a moment. "And helping people! Could you tell me more about that? Who did you help?  What else is there to be done? Is there any more to be done? I cannot imagine that there wouldn't still be work to be done, or else you'd not be here. Which reminds me..."

Faron rattles off these questions while looking at Bartholomew with genuine inquisitiveness mixed with a nervous energy. She knows that she is being "enthusiastic" but cannot quite restrain herself and hopes that Bartholomew will not tire of her before she can be of help.

Another AKA wrote:

"I've been meaning to ask, why are you here? Or rather what brought you here?"

Bartholomew starts nervously fidgeting with his spoon. Hesitantly and half to himself he starts. "It's... They killed... I lost someone, the only one and I will make it right. " He pauses, staring in his soup and then jumps readily at Farons next question. "I like the peace here. Here I don't need to be afraid, nor careful what I say" , he pauses, thinking. "Here we have everything we need. At best I would stay here forever, but I have something that I need to do first, something I swore to do.

I have been here not very long, it's actually three of us, but my friend got hurt and Retenia is taking care of him. We didn't fight much yet, but we helped. We helped Clindre and her farmers with tools we borrowed from one of the lords.
We have to help as many people as we can. That way they have it easier than we had it and maybe one day they'll help us.

Clindre talked about the Alchemist, we should maybe try to find out more about him. Will you help me? "

It is all she can do to not ask Bartholomew about the one that he lost as curiosity smolders in her mind like a kiln hungry for fuel.  She would not feed it her new friend's grief.

As Bartholomew answers her questions, Faron's nervous energy gives way to something that is more focused. "

Thelonius wrote:

We have to help as many people as we can. That way they have it easier than we had it and maybe one day they'll help us.

His words resonate deeply. Clearly he had sworn the same oath as her; his own version of it of course,  but the spirit was the same: Hopeful rather than expectant and looking to kindle that hope in hearts and minds.

"I will help you. Of course I will!  An Alchemist eh? More information makes sense and I know an Alchemist - maybe he could help us.  Imagine if Clindre's Alchemist and Brigal, that's my Alchemist, were one and the same?  That would be so odd!"

"Yes, that is a great idea, we should go visit him. Maybe tomorrow.
Until then, let's eat and take a rest. Is it far?"

"He is in Innisfirth... The place that I left to come here." She is quiet for a moment. "I don't suppose that it is, far that is.  The hardest part of getting here from there was not having enough supplies. Or any supplies really! With some food, and some oiled canvas so that we can keep dry, it shouldn't be too bad!"  
Stifling a yawn, she agrees with him regarding food and rest. In the morning, they could worry about Brigal and Innisfirth... and breakfast!

+++

The brigands leave the Brinkwood the next morning. They avoid the well-patrolled roads of the Cardenfell, but still manage to make good time, arriving at Innisfirth with a few hours to spare before curfew.

The town is surrounded by walls, as much a fort as a city. Housing the county's gun powder mills, it is the most heavily defended settlement. The heavy grind of machinery reach well beyond the walls. The smell of industry and tightly packed workers permeates the air: a cloying mix of sweat, smoke, chemicals, and waste. Dirty, downtrodden workers stalk its narrow streets, either coming from or going to work in the mills that loom over the residential districts the brigands find themselves in.

Prisoners, restrained in hanging in gibbets, are displayed near Innisfirth's gates, near sewer runoffs, and in town squares. Their crimes are etched on tablets attached to the cages for all to see and range from murder to sedition. Frescos upon walls depict great willow trees, the names of loyal servants to the Duchess’ domain engraved upon each strand of leaves. Placards speak the importance of bloodlines and the importance of service to the Duchess, even at the cost of one’s life.

The residents of Innisfirth are clothed in gambesons, their paramilitary dress giving the appearance of battle-readiness and marking outsiders stand out. Some of them wear badges, denoting a higher social rank, and are treated with forced deference and barely hidden jealousy by the unranked citizens. The merchants from other towns wear similar clothing, but of different colors, noting their origin. The peasants and newly arrived laborers are dressed in simple, ordinary clothing, and are looked at with scorn or suspicion. The brigands cannot help but feel paranoid as they walk to their destination, but is it paranoia when you are stared and spied upon by everyone?

Luckily, the brigands do not have to go far into the city. Brigal's establishment is situated near Hostel Row, a neighborhood on the edge of town that caters to new arrivals with coin enough to afford a wooden slab in a run down tenement house where the rent is too high and privacy is a luxury few can afford. Faron has heard that the landlord and their bailiffs often pilfer mementos and rummage through belongings, robbing blind any tenant who has overstayed their scant welcome; seeing them forced out to the streets or forced into the subjugation of their petty, vile demands.

Brigal's is quite literally a hole in the wall. It hadn't started out that way.  What was now a service counter had been the outer wall of a small storage room.  After the landlord refused to replace crumbling mortar in a section of the wall, telling Brigal to "figure something out or don't, you should be grateful that I let so much space to you. I could be making far more if it was two leases," the alchemist went to work.  He often said that it was the best thing that ever happened to his shop, as now what was once the main shop was a much larger storage room and experimentation space, so he had a better inventory "And no one walking through the shop means no theft."

Faron tells Bartholomew all of this as they walk towards the shop, clearly quite fond of the Alchemist.  They arrive at a building that has a few benches on the outside, and a wooden half door set in the brick work.  Faron points to areas around the door where the mortar is only gray rather than black with soot, chuckling and raises her hand to knock at the closed door before thinking better of it.

She fishes out a key and gestures to Bartholomew to follow her.  At first, the smells of Brigal's shop combined with those of Innisfirth, making everything so much worse.  Once Faron closes the door, the warm earthy smells of drying plants and the fresh, biting scent of various alcohols take over.  The space is cluttered with plants and glassware, but on closer inspection, everything is labeled, and well organized. A lanky, bald man is hunched over a table and seems to be writing intently while muttering to himself.

"You are one hell of a lock pick mate, so you should know that there's nothing here worth stealing," he says without raising his head.  "I can tell you which tincture will bring joy to your evening rather than stop your heart if you promise to fuck off afterwards."

"Brigal, one day that attitude will get you stabbed in the back by a thief."

"The Duchess' dangling dick!  Faron?! How did you manage to get this far into the shop without talking my ear off?" He turns around, smiling at Faron, and then Bartholomew.  "And who's this then?"

Bartholomew squirms a bit under the sudden attention and the brusque language of their new host. "I-i'm Bartholomew Mr. Alchemist-Sir. We... err, I... I am... was a monk over in the monastery that burned down a few months back.
Nice shop-place, mister-sir."

"Bartholomew can cook and knows how to grow things! And he takes taking care of his friends very seriously. You will like him Brigal." The last sentence, though spoken in the same light tone as the rest, is somehow more of an imperative than a declarative, and the Alchemist huffs impatiently. She pay him no mind, walking towards him, every so often glancing at a label and nodding. When she gets close to him, she peers over his shoulder.

"I see that you are still adjusting the inventory system. The latest changes make a lot of sense! Oooh! What you are working on? Do you have something new that you can show me while we're here?"

"Eh... I should have known it wouldn't last..." Brigal mutters to himself.

"I got nothin' exciting to show you. Nothin' ready, anyway. Still working on a treatment for the bloody Hacks," he says. Faron is quite familiar with the Hacks. It is a common affliction of long-term factory workers, who have inhaled too much smoke from the boilers.

He stays quiet for a bit, grinding a few herbs to dust with a mortar and pestle. "I heard the strike went to shit. Ivon got the gibbet. Amer's in hiding. Lots of new maimed begging in the streets... The others got the lash, then sent back to work... I was worried you'd... nevermind."

Brigal sighs, restoring his cranky façade. "What do you want? Surely you didn't prance in here to look at my shelves' rutting labels."

Faron's breath grows shallow as Brigal speaks about the strike. When he glosses over his concern for her, it releases a tension that had been building in her chest, and they end up sighing in unison.  Blinking back tears, she gives him a fake glare.
"You should be happy that someone other than you cares about your labels!  But we're here because maybe you can help us with another Alchemist. We...  uh... actually Bartholomew will fill you in," she finishes, realizing that somehow she had not gotten around to learning from Bartholomew many of the details about who it was that they were looking for or even why.  Odd! I wonder how that happened?

"We're looking for a... err... colleague (?) of yours.
His name is Yoan and he works over in Grismont for Lord Keswick.
His field is botany, but he is unhappy how his Lord uses his skills.
Do you know anything about him?"

"Then you're in the wrong town." Brigal stops grinding the herbs and looks up at Bartholomew. After a few seconds, he says: "That was a joke. You're supposed to laugh." He sighs. "Nevermind..."

"Yoan. Botany. Grismont," the bald alchemist mumbles to himself. He nods as the pieces fall into place in his head. "Yeah, I know of him. Never met the whelp myself, but read one of his books before he got scooped up by the Lord o' Grapes." Brigal says the last few words with a mocking tone. "The publication of his work stopped shortly after that."

"If I remember correctly, his book was about plant-matching to increase farming yields. Symbiosis between different breeds. Interesting theory."

Brigal starts grinding his herbs again. "Not sure if that's the kind of information you wanted, but it's what I got."