Weak late winter sunlight poured in from the open window, just enough to see her work by. Mild scent of hot beeswax and the ever present foundry haze, scorching her throat. Esmé poured wax from a red clay crock into the mouths of two dozen shallow tins, lined up like soldiers on the kitchen table. The last of the garden had gone into this, cured roots and preserved delicates, containers of earth upended outside for the stragglers. There would be no replanting this year.
Sad, that. Maybe. At least there’d be fewer drunks to piss in her flowerpots on the road – that was the hope. But she didn’t think she’d want to come back and see whoever took this space next. Home and hiding for the most difficult years of her life, precious in a way.
“I’ve never left the city, you know?” Esmé called to Ceren in the other room. Their place was tiny, she didn’t need to raise her voice. “What’s it like out there? Just quicksand and darkspawn everywhere, I imagine.” The wax was just about set, now. Starting with the first one poured, she set to work covering the tins with cloth and tying kitchen twine around the mouth of each container. Salves and ointments for minor complaints, enough for every pack if used sparingly.
Ceren had told her before, of course. About her work, about the lands around Kirkwall and Denerim both. But it was always so nice to listen to someone talk about the things they loved. Esmé washed her hands in the basin and walked into the other room, linking her arm through Ceren’s. Momentarily unsteady on her new leg, she leaned into her friend.
Around them, furniture was pushed to the walls, open packs and saddlebags infesting the packed earth floor.
“Still can’t believe we’re doing this. Are you sure about it all? We could still say that we changed our minds.”
Where had it all come from? Ceren stood over all their worldly possessions, hands on her hips as she surveyed the lot. If she’d had to guess a week ago, she’d have said they could fit everything they own into three, maybe four packs. Yet somehow their time here in Kirkwall had seen their belongings multiply to a seemingly impossible amount. She looked around the small room, wondering where they’d managed to squirrel it all away. The medicinal smell of Emmi’s salves wafted in from the other room and the corner of Ceren’s lips twitched into a small smile. It seems that, in spite of their insistence that it would only be temporary, this hovel had become a home. When Esmé’s voice floated in soon after, Ceren’ head tilted for a moment.
Huh… I guess she hasn’t.
“And brigands.” Cer called back, her smile widening. “Hoards of brigands.”
It wasn’t a lie. An exaggeration, certainly. But not a lie. The freedom that came with the Marches meant gaps in order and control between the city states. And those gaps were filled by all sorts looking to take advantage of whatever, or whoever, they could. But Ceren was no stranger to holding her own in the wilds. And, though she was still adjusting to the new leg, Emmi was no wilting flower either. Together, and along with their new comrades, they’d be a formidable company indeed.
The soft thud of Esmé’s gait was new to Ceren’s ears, but a welcome sound all the same. She looked up as her friend came through the doorway and resisted the urge to move toward her rather than let her cross the wide expanse of… two steps. Schooling her face, Ceren turned her eyes back to their collected belongings, not wanting Emmi to feel any less than. Still, when the familiar shape of her arm snaked with her own, Ceren hugged it close to her side.
“We could, I guess.” Ceren said, shrugging slightly. “Maybe knock out that wall and take over Volkbert’s back room? It’s greedy how much space he takes up all by himself.”
”Ugh. But then we’d be living with Volkbert.” She wrinkled her nose in an exaggerated display of distaste. The old man wasn’t all that bad, considering – but he’d talk for hours if you let him and ate little other than boiled eggs. He had a persistent sulfurous aroma to match his diet.
”Alright, we’ll do it. Those brigands better watch out.” She swung slowly around, pulling away at the last moment to slouch her way over to her cot. Esmé sat down heavily and turned her attention to a stack of books. It was so difficult to part with any of them, treasures all. Alas, some had much more use on the road than others. Pack space was too limited for a dogeared copy of Hard in Hightown.
”But mercenaries are pretty much the same thing, right? With an extra step involved.” Depending on who Caro let hire them. Still, she could imagine him looking quite mournful at the prospect of being called a brigand. Never mind that hired killers had brought them all together in the first place.
There was the wagon, though. Maybe she could? … No. Food and supplies for six people, that was the priority. Reference volumes only, right. She set the first book aside, thinking vaguely of how to find it a new home. Nothing and no one came to mind.
”Cer, you know them better than I do. How much do you trust them?” Sighing, Esmé ran her fingers through her long hair, massaging her scalp. Qunari, mages, they seemed fine enough. But she didn’t know them like she knew Ceren. What if it turned out that she hated this life?
There wouldn’t be any going back. And the only place lower than this was Darktown.
"True..." Ceren said, her expression reflecting Emmi's. She held no ill will for the man, but she certainly wouldn't miss the smell of him. She watched Esmé until she was seated on the cot, then knelt to close up the bag at her foot. "Sure, but it's that extra step that makes all the difference." Esmé did mostly have the right of it, though. There was often quite a fine line between the two. Ceren's own father had told her as much as he'd started teaching her his trade. It would be on them to police how far they'd be willing to stray from their morals to keep food in their bellies. Had Ceren not learned that when she'd taken up with those smugglers? Though, if she'd turned down that job... she'd have never met Esmé. A silver lining to every cloud, she thought as she watched Esmé Consider her books before turning back to the chore of packing.
She pulled her bedroll from her cot, rolling it tight, and strapped it into place on her pack. When Esmé spoke again, Ceren's ears caught the sigh that followed. She turned and considered Esmé for a moment before answering. "Caro didn't have to protect me that day we met. He could have cut and run when we had his captors distracted. That means a lot, in my book. And Genthus," Ceren looked up and smiled, "well... what you see is what you get with him." Cer chewed on the inside of her lip for a second, before pushing her bag out of the way enough to scoot over near Esmé again, putting a hand on her shoulder. "Listen, if it ever starts to feel wrong, we can always leave. There's no such thing as in too deep, ok?" Looking to the side, Ceren's eyes fell on the book Esmé hadn't packed. She picked it up, flipping idly through the pages. "This can go in my bag." she said, tossing it gently into her open pack. "I'll even let you borrow it if you ask nicely." she added, with a teasing smile.
Rolled up meat of some kind, smattered in a zesty sauce, wrapped in a flatbread with onions and peppers. His possession and provisions stuffed into his bag, a large sack with a single strap, tossed over his shoulder by the strap, held in one bouncing hand against his pectoral. An admonishment from his cousin, followed by an eyeroll, followed by a grumbled well-wishing. The morning sun on his skin and horns, outclassed by the cool sea air clinging the last of the season. All of it only served to make Genthus save his breath as he inhaled deeply, held his lungs so-filled, and then exhaled. None of it kept him from immediately following up the exercise with another tearing bite into his breakfast, happily chewing loudly.
Today was going to be a great day. Hell, this year was going to be great!
To be fair, he felt this way every time he left Kirkwall, always elated to see the city walls behind him. But Genthus wasn't fair, and he felt little reason to be today; his new friends were, at long last, ready to depart, and what efforts he'd made to bite his tongue and bide his tongue and not go stir-crazy had finally borne fruit. He'd been packed for days already, and "getting ready" had been the busy work of grabbing his pack, buying his breakfast, and closing the door with his foot behind him.
So it was that his business would continue as he approached Esme and Ceren's door. Hand still full of food, he'd forgo knocking entirely; they knew he was coming, it was fine. Instead, his voice would growl with rising timber as a booted foot stuck forward to push the wood aside, flooding the room that he greeted with sunshine, a very large shadow, and a booming voice. "Gooooooooooooooooooooooood morning frien-!"
The dull, hard thud cut the sentence short as his horns caught on the door's uppermost lip, levering his head up and smacking his forehead straight into the dull edge. Grunting in sudden pain, the door would swing back on him as he cursed, his food-cladden hand blindly knocking against it as he completed a wince. "Accursed low-hanging splinter-breeding..." With a toss of his pack on the floor inside, he'd enter, head stooped low this time, wrap contents littered at the entrance below a nice new notch in the wood.
"As if we needed more reasons to leave this damned city. Low ceilings." Kicking his tossed back to the side, he'd look down at both women with a growing smile, accented by a nice new mark across his forehead. Taking another bite of his meat-wrap, he'd chew enough to speak, mouth still full. "Ready to go?"
All the difference. What did that mean, exactly? And for her in particular. Esmé had never really considered herself a moral person. Thief, daughter of criminals, so on and so forth. But she wasn’t a killer. That would probably change, and soon. The poisons and contraptions she was capable of making … Well, there was a time such a thing had threatened a whole district here in Kirkwall, if old bones such as their own dear Volkbert could be believed. Many dead, something about heavy poison gas turning disastrous and impossible to clear in the sunken streets.
Bad way to go, nothing righteous about it at all no matter the hand that pointed her to build such a thing. Esmé glanced up at Ceren, squeezing the hand on her shoulder. Would she do it anyway, if it meant her friends could walk into an enemy fortification unchallenged? In a heartbeat, without question.
”I dunno if it’s gonna be bad or wrong – that’s for Caro to worry about. It’s just different, and different is scary. Anyway, I’m looking forward to see–” Esmé halted mid sentence, freezing as a heavy boot cracked the door frame with a shower of dust. Her grip on Cer tightened then released entirely, in case the other woman needed to go for a weapon.
Then a familiar voice rung out, cheerful and boisterous and then suddenly given to swearing. Evidently, Genthus had forgotten Marcher ceilings were not built to accommodate his great height and horns besides.
”Oh.” She shrugged up at Ceren, embarrassed by her doubt. It was time to put that away. Esmé got back to her feet and slung her pack, still open, over one shoulder. She moved to the kitchen and began stuffing her salves and ointments into the bag.
”Just about. But we’re going to load you down like a pack mule, I’m afraid. Fewer trips to the stables that way.” She pointed, indicating a few bags that needed carrying. Finally, her gaze settled on a long shrouded bundle beneath her cot. ”And those too. I want to burn them tonight. On the road.”
Ceren nodded. Letting Caro bear the burden of leadership was certainly helpful. The worst part of hiring out to protect caravans was the hiring process. Negotiating a price that would keep her fed, but was still appealing to to the caravans always left her walking away with a headache, even when the negotiations had gone well in her favor. The less talking she'd have to do, the better for everyone.
Outside, and high above, Andor let out a cry. At the same moment that Ceren's ear registered the sound, a heavy boot struck the door. Without thought, the hand on Esmé's shoulder twisted to grip hers, ready to leverage it to pull the woman behind her. Ceren's other hand went to the knife on her belt, pulling it from its soft leather sheath to hold in a reverse grip. All this passed as she pulled in a breath, muscles tensing to spring toward the door. The realization that it was merely Genthus, now stooped and cursing their lintel, pulled that breath back out of her lungs in a sigh. Sheathing her knife, Ceren stood and made to move toward the man, then thought better of it. The room was small as it was, and if he actually meant to come all the way inside, she didn't want to get tangled in the same space as him. Indeed, she had to retreat backward, a step behind Esmé, to stand in the doorway so their Qunari friend might have room enough to... stoop.
As if to echo his sentiment, Andor's claws thumped into the thatching of the roof and he called out again. "Believe me, big man. I'm as eager as you to put this place behind us." Ceren said, tossing him the first of the bags Esmé had indicated. She lifted her own and settled it onto her back, shifting her shoulders left and right to seat it comfortably, then gestured at the other bags with a tilt of her head and a wink. When Esmé mentioned the last, Ceren followed her gaze to the bundle and smiled.
"Now that's a good idea!" Ceren said, stooping over and pulling the crutches from under Esmé cot. Turning back to the woman, Ceren grinned as she settled them across one shoulder.
With everything collected, Ceren turned to follow Genthus out the door. Andor Hopped about on the roof above them as they emerged, then down to perch on the end of the crutches sticking out behind Ceren. Chuckling, Ceren gave the eagle a shake, but adjusted to his weight as they walked away from their little home. All around, children crouched and peeked around corners and piles of junk and refuse. "Have at it." Ceren said to one child who'd met her eye. She popped back behind the barrel she was using as cover, but Ceren knew they'd scarce make it around the corner before the urchins descended on the shack to pick over whatever they could find.
They were welcome to it, as far as she was concerned.
Stuffing the last of his wrap into his face, Genthus would wave his literally-saucy hand at Esme, chewing loudly for one more moment before swallowing hard. "Bah, please, load me up. I-" A tiny belch cut him off, and it went unexcused as he licked his fingers clean before wiping his hands on his... oh, right, he'd forgone a shirt today. Bah, no matter. His abs made as fine a rag as any at the moment. "I've carried more for people that haven't asked as nicely." Catching Esme's first bag from Ceren, he'd peer around her at the rest, nod, and grunt as he hobbled over to them. Dropping the first bag onto the rest, he'd spread his arms wide and lean down, scooping the collection in one fell swoop.
As he turned, he blinked, realizing he'd tossed his own bag and now had his hands full. Grumbling at his own short-sightedness, he'd crouch next to it on his way out the door, managing to scoop up the strap with a stretched duo of fingers. From there, it was a sideway shimmey out the door, careful to lower his head as deeply as he could, still managing to lightly clack a horn on the inside edge of the frame. As soon as he was outside, he'd stand tall and stretch his back, battleaxe on his back jingling in the motion.
Clear skies and a rising sun. "We've good omens this morning, I can feel it." Shouldering the bags under each arm, he'd lead his companions down the street, chuckling as Ceren released what they had left to the children. A permanent choice; in his experience, the urchins were brutally efficient in their scavenging. If they were to change their minds and head back, there would be nothing left, not even the most basic of amentities.
The only way was forward, and thus he strode with a bounce in his step, his cheer apparent.
Their walk away from the city center would include turns aplenty until finally the stables just inside the city walls entered site. The waft of wet hey and horse manure could do little to dampen Genthus's spirits as he'd lean his head back, grunt to clear his throat, and holler.
Genthus sauntered down the street at him, shouting Caro's name like the great shirtless brick he was. He was the only career mercenary amongst them, and it still baffled Caro that Genthus wasn't in charge. He was barely visible beneath the sackcloth bags drapped over him. Caro hopped down and moved silently to the back of the wagon and dropped down a crate for him to step up on. The wagon was perhaps a bit austere for their voyage but it did come free with the job. Thick oaken floor, oilcloth walls, and a pair of benches running the length of the wagon. Genthus and Esme's horses were already hitched to the front. He shouted back toward Genthus, “Alright, bring it in then, We've a ways to go before we start getting paid.” He stared at his own singular rucksack in the back with sudden inadequacy. Clearly he should have more things by now.
The job was exactly what they needed; an excuse to get paid while traveling to more lucrative land. Guarding caravans was meat and drink to any mercenary group and it was clear road to legitimacy as far as reputation goes, and supplies to the warzone between Antiva and the Marches was likely to land you right in the center of work. Salamander's in the rear, and some other group at the head. Hiring petty companies in bulk rather than one large company let you have more sway in negotiations, and vouchsafes against getting rooked on the outskirts when the sun finally goes down. As Genthus approached he lowered his voice. “Keep your eyes on the other company when we travel. I've never heard of them.”
He left Genthus to load the wagon and continued down the path to an approaching Ceren and Esme. “Hey when we are with the main group, kinda spread out and get a feel for the other company here. It's not unheard of for these things to go south quick and I wanna a heads up if they seem that way.” He spoke under his breath, perhaps unnecessarily. “And keep your weapons stowed when you can, I don't want to hand out intel unless I have to.” He would have told Genthus to stow his weapon, no one could look at him and guess an intent other than his truth. If anything his overt physical violence could head off trouble before it got to them.
”I could get you– ah. Nevermind.” Esmé watched Genthus wipe sauce on his bare belly, then shot Ceren a sidelong glance. It was awfully difficult to make sense of her friend’s earlier pronouncement, simple as it was. What she saw was … What? A slob? A fool? Still, his help came freely and without complaint. She cast one final fond glance at their home and followed the others out into the daylight. Lowtown’s endemic life was ready to pick over the corpse and she wished them some use of it.
The busy streets would have been overwhelming on her own, but the giant Qunari cut them a clear path all the way to the city’s landward gates. Esmé regarded the curiosity of her horse already hitched to an unfamiliar wagon. A matched set, Domino and the other beast were very much not. She pet the gelding’s velvety nose and relaxed as Caro appeared from around the back. No need to cut the traces and run. Yet.
”No mules? You know, when you said I ought to buy a horse, I thought to be riding it.” Her tone was mild, self-conscious that complaining five minutes into the new job was surely impolite. Yet at the same time – what was he going to do, fire her? They were a small company already. Just, it had taken a lot of curatives sold to people that could hardly afford them to pay for a proper mount. Shrugging, Esmé made an elaborate showing of patting down her pockets for nonexistent weapons. The mage must have stowed his staff already.
With some difficulty, Esmé climbed up onto the front bench and sat next to Caro. What did inconspicuous look like, half-naked giant aside? A wife or sister, perhaps. She pulled her cloak up to hide her hair, and angled herself as if to converse with the mage. Her eyes followed Ceren, though. She was the role model from which to take all her cues in this bizarre situation.
Unfortunately, Cer and Rabbit had a job to do – one that would keep her out of easy conversation once they were underway. Esmé would have to find her own footing with the others. The wagon rumbled forward, and she peered up as they left the city. Kirkwall’s gloomy architecture gradually receded behind them. She tried to tell the beginning of their caravan by sight, but the road was still too crowded. The sweaty barnyard odor of too many people and animals was markedly distinct from the slums of Lowtown but no more pleasant.
She studied Caro openly now, once the first empty winter field had rolled by and set the tone. In some ways, he was very much the opposite of cheerful, even-keeled Genthus. Clever and slightly off putting, varying wildly between subdued and intense. Right now, paradoxically both. Like he was in his head about something.
”So … When do you expect trouble? And what kind, I guess.”
Throwing her pack into the wagon, Ceren stood watchful until Emmi was herself up and in before turning to Rabbit. He stood, patient though his ears twitched every which way. Ceren had gotten him at a steal of a price. Most doing business in and around Kirkwall had little use for an overzealous gelding. But Ceren knew he'd be perfect out beyond the walls and crowds. She too felt her muscles twitching in anticipation, her lungs eager to breathe deep the open air. As if to echo their sentiments, Andor called from where he circled high above. He, at least, had been able to venture far afield whenever the urge struck him. Still, Ceren felt he resented having to check in on her in her cage. No more, little brother, she thought as she guided Rabbit alongside the wagon.
Caro's words were well received. This was, after all, not her first caravan. He got a nod, though there'd be no stowing of her bow and quiver. The short sword, however... "Here," Ceren said, tucking it behind where Esmé sat on the wagon's bench. "We can work on fancier techniques over time, if you want. But I think you can manage the basic stab if it comes to it." Ceren gave her friend a wink, and Caro a nod before tapping her heels into Rabbit's flanks to encourage him forward. Time to see about our counterparts.
Rabbit moved at a trot, passing the rear wagons that were laden heavy with barrels and crates and pulled by huge, lumbering oxen. Their drivers looked her way as she passed, first at her face, then her bow. Most gave slight nods and returned their attention to their animals. Some looked back at her again, their eyes unsure before flitting away. There was always some danger in working a caravan, and war did nothing to lessen it. Uncertainty, mistrust, was to be expected. As a new band, the House of the Salamander had yet to establish itself as a balm to such ailments. All in good time. Ceren did not offer smiles, as that would do no favor. Instead, she kept her eyes sharp and to the business of surveying her charges, taking stock and beginning the work of at least partially memorizing their features.
About half way up the line, she came upon a tall, broad chested man in worn, but not worn out, studded leather armor. He carried is banded wooden shield on his back and his long sword sat comfortably at his side. His hair, a dirty blond, looked freshly washed and hung in a tight braid down the back of his neck. His square jaw was freshly shaved as well. Clearly, this man was intent on a good impression. At hearing the jingle of her approached, he turned his head until brown eyes met hers. Those eyes swept from Rabbit's hooves to the top of Ceren's head, then took another pass or two before he huffed his acknowledgement of her presence. Ceren slowed Rabbit to a walk, completing her own assessment of the man, then turning her eyes to scan over the fields alongside the road. Any danger to the caravan would not appear so close to Kirkwall. But ahead, the scrub trees were in sight, heralds of the forests ahead. Beyond them, the foothills of the Vimmark Mountains waited. Ceren took any job that would let her explore the terrain around Kirkwall since they'd settled there, but those jobs were few and far between. She could not rely on her ready knowledge of the land now, as she could in the Bannorn, so she would have to learn fast. More importantly, she would have to keep her lack of knowledge a secret.
"So you're with them... what was it?" the man asked, his voice gruff.
"House of the Salamander." she said, then tapped her chest. "Ceren."
"Never 'eard of 'em." he replied. Then, after a moment, he added, "Luca. The Red Dogs."
"Likewise." Ceren replied, looking at the man sidewise.There was a long moment of silence between them before the man gave a huff that might have been an acknowledgement of their shared... lack of reputation. Ceren, feeling that the encounter had served it's purpose, nudged Rabbit again, turning him to cut through the gap between two carts to ride back down the line along the other side. She did not see that the man had opened his mouth to say something else. From what she could tell, he was like many of the standard issue caravan guards she'd encountered in Ferelden. She wasn't exactly sure what else she should be looking for in him. Perhaps Caro could give some clarity on the assignment.
Ducking his head as he approached Caro, Genthus would acknowledge the man's instructions with a single nod. Squinting off at the caravan, he tried to make out the front-most group amongst the ruckus of everyone preparing to leave; mercenaries were typically easy to spot amongst groups like caravaneers, especially if the employers in question had no security of their own. But alas, too much chaos, too many bodies to single out any unique. He'd forfeit the effort after a moment and busy himself with carefully placing down each of Esme's bags in the wagon, stacking them into a small stack. After them would come what remained among Caro's purchases; basic provisions, a few tools and such for the wagon, and much to Genthus's delight, a single cast iron pot ready for a campfire. Once everything was compact enough and secure, he'd toss his own bag in like a ball, letting it clatter in the wagon's corner. Following it would be his battleaxe, which was somehow louder as it banged down into the wood.
And last would Genthus himself, slamming the wagon's back shut with enough force to shake the vehicle. Collapsing behind Caro and Esme's seats, still tall enough to peer out the front of the wagon between them, he'd bang the wood with a fist to confirm the vehicle's readiness. They would begin to trundle just as he got comfortable, a few of the bags rearranged as cushion's for the man's massive back.
Settled, Genthus would put his hands behind his head and close his eyes, dozing as they made way. Hamlets and Kirkwall's adjacent settlements gave way to farms and rural communities, then to fields, and finally began to close in as the trees became denser and more numerous, the caravan's wagons traversing a million shadows thanks to the angled morning sun. Enjoying the occasional warmth of each crossing their ride, Genthus would hum at Esme's question. The lack of a hypothetical in her line of questioning was correct, in his experience; there would be trouble, it was just a matter of when.
"That depends on this caravan's haul, I would say." Opening his eyes and sitting forward, he'd rest an arm between Caro and Esme, peering past their sides at the wagons ahead, squinting again. He could see... "Looks like... some grain, leather, and are those-" Leanin forward, he'd be properly between his compatriots for a moment, hand above his eyes to shade them, before sitting back down. "Aye, spears by the gross. Is this just a war train, Caro, or is there more?"
Caro had known there were weapons in the shipments, but not quite to this scale. It changed the math a bit in his head as he pondered over the possible hiccups. He stared between Genthus and Esme a moment before he spoke. “The way I see it there are 3 ways this could go south in a hurry.” he pondered his choice of phrase as he stared south at Kirkwall. Surely if it went south they'd end up back in town? He shook his head free of his errant statement and continued. “First and foremost we could be set upon by 'honest ambushers' upon the road, either as an attack of opportunity or with forwarning.” he nodded his head to the side as if ticking off of a list. “This is most likely and the literal reason we are here, so while I don't discount that it could happen, I could hardly say we aren't prepared for it.” Truth is he felt slightly unprepared for a well thought out and pre-planned ambush but he wouldn't say that now.
He ticked his head the other direction, “Second, we could be betrayed by the other mercenary group. They have little reputation to lose and several carts worth of goods to gain. It's not the hardest thing to sell weapons and food where we are going and even you got silver on the dollar for it, you'd be well set up for months to then reform under a new name and go again.” He looked back as if to peer through the oilskin wall of the wagon toward the front of the train. “Ceren is currently assessing that threat, as I expect you all to attempt at some point.” he shrugged, “This is less likely as it stands now, It's even odds us against them and worse odds against the caravan group as well, but if they have more men along the path ahead?” he waved his hand through the air in an uneasy gesture.
He edged forward on his bench before he spoke in a lowered tone. “For the third possible point of contention, We are currently under the assumption that these goods are bound for Free Marchers in the contested zone, but there would be good money in getting your caravan “ambushed” near the border so that the goods could cross over to Antiva for a premium.” Caro glanced between them both. “Hiring new mercenary groups can be a risk, but also a boon if you want to make sure no one comes looking for the missing parties.” He sat back a moment and took a deep breath. “Or we get hit by a comet. Or nothing happens at all and we spend the better part of a month picking our navel and getting paid.” He shrugged finally, nothing else to add and slinked back to center of his bench.
Ceren’s blade remained on her mind, a weighty presence behind the small of her back. Esmé’s father would have had two like it twenty years ago, waiting through the night in the most secluded room of their home while the darkspawn had been rampant in the city. Thank the Maker he hadn’t needed to use them.
But that offer to teach, … Well, Esmé’d had some training with rapiers and daggers as a young woman. It had been an amusement only; she’d never had the makings of a great duelist. Of course, Ceren didn’t know much about her upbringing. After they’d fled Fereldan, it had seemed unthinkable that she’d ever walk with her hands free again. Why not accept? Right now, it was clear she’d be a burden if there ever was any fighting.
Genthus shoved his head between her and Caro and Esmé braced her hand on the giant’s shoulder. His horns were a hazard to eyes and other soft bits everywhere as they rattled and bounced on the track. She scowled at the points and leaned her face away.
”Leather and spears don’t sound worth killing and dying over.” Grain, sure, depending on how hungry you and yours were. Winter along an uneasy, shifting border – that’d be hard on people. There was no doubt in her mind about that. Shit, throw out the spears and pack more food. ”But you’re the experts.”
Caro calling the odds even seemed unusually optimistic for him. Unless their stragglers caught up soon, they only had three real fighters. She hoped it wouldn’t come to a struggle with the other mercenaries. They wouldn't come away from something like that without getting hurt, even if they were lucky enough to survive.
”I’ll see what I can make from our stores when we stop for the night.”
–
By the end of the day, she was further from civilization than she’d ever been – and her leg hurt most terribly. Esmé squeezed the bulb of a glass dropper over her tongue, pulling a face as the astringent willow bark extract seemed to dry her entire mouth. It’d help. Eventually. Esmé slipped the medicine back into her cloak’s inner pockets and sidled past the horse lines to watch the camp take shape by firelight.
Dogs and Salamanders and then the merchant’s own folks -- which were more difficult to put a name or face to. Ceren had told them a little about the other mercenaries, having spent some time on the road with them. There was Karvil, a tattooed dwarven deserter with two axes in his belt. Lelindin, a quiet, weary looking woman with a crystalline staff on her back. Alred, clanking in rusty armor and smelling like a still – he was by the fire right now in fact, telling a story with wild hand gestures. It was a wonder the fumes on his breath hadn’t caught fire yet.
Obviously there was no privacy to be had out here. If she needed to work, it would have to be in their own wagon. Limping over, Esmé sat on the wagon’s back rail and massaged her spasming thigh muscles. Caro’d said a better part of a month of this. If it didn’t get any easier, she might start to wish for that comet.
"Even after all these years, it still gets me sometimes."
Ceren turned to look down at Karvil, eyebrow arching to show her confusion.
"Watching your bird, just now. Reminded me of when I first saw the sky... nearly lost my lunch, I was so dizzy."
Ceren's other eyebrow raised to join the first, understanding finally taking hold. She'd worked with some dwarves in the Brannorn, though not many. But she did remember one trader mention something to that effect. She looked back skyward, Andor's silhouette difficult to discern in the growing darkness. She herself imagined that venturing into the subterranean lands of Karvil's people would be equally disconcerting to her. Having spent nearly all her life with nothing but trees or a stretch of canvas above her head... She imagined the dwarven cities would feel much like the prison cell she and Esmé had shared; cramped, dark, and smelling too much of one's own stink.
Andor's screech pulled her mind back to the present, and she watched as he dove suddenly, shooting downward to intercept another shape and force it to the earth. When he cried out again, Ceren smiled, then gestured with her head in his direction, an invitation for Karvil to follow. It took a few moments to reach where Andor held his prey to the ground. It gave some resistance, but Andor had a good grip on its neck with his talons. He flared and flapped his wings for balance, but held the pheasant fast. "Well done, little brother." Ceren cooed as she approached, gripping the pheasant's neck to allow Andor to hop to the side. A quick twist and the pheasant was still. Ceren stood, fishing in a pouch for the bits of dried meat she kept for Andor and tossed him a few bites.
"He's a clever bird, I'll say that." Karvil said. Ceren need not be a reader of minds to see that he was genuine in his compliment. Though his tattooed visage was imposing, he seemed an amiable sort.
"He is." Ceren agreed, nodding her thanks.
After a moment Karvil excused himself to see to his own supper. Andor beat his wings a few time, lifting himself off the ground enough to perch on her arm and Ceren made her way to her own band's wagon and company, plucking feathers from the pheasant as she went. As the day had passed, she'd learned of Caro's suspicions. Or, rather, of the possible dangers they must need be prepared for. She could find no flaw in his warnings. Each was as possible as the other, as far as she could see. Though... maybe not the comet. And it was wise to consider the possibility that their mercenary counterparts might be wolves in, well, not sheep's clothing. Dogs clothing? In any case, better to be prepared than surprised. So then, how to know? Ceren had never been the best at reading others. Whatever a body presented to her, she took at face value. Her father had taught her that all people would try to get the best for themselves in any situation, so it was not that she was naive. She just usually found that people we by and large who they said they were. And she struggled to see Luca or Karvil for anything but mercenaries, not unlike herself. Alred too, though she could see him selling his own mother for a cask of strong drink, he didn't seem the scheming sort. That left Lelindin, whom Ceren had not actually met. She'd learned the woman's name from Luca and hadn't come within several carts of her as the caravan moved that day. She'd be the one Ceren would have to learn more about.
"Feeling alright?" Ceren asked when she saw Esmé sitting at the back of their wagon. She plopped the pheasant onto the space beside Emmi and continued to pluck away. "It's a clear night. Moon'll be up most of it. Decent light for watches, even beyond the fires. Not a bad start." she mused. "Where are the others?"
