Buren sat amidst a tense daily briefing with the seneschal and his accountants, a veil of dissatisfaction settled over his features. "How could I have been left in the dark about this until now?" he grumbled.
"The guards promised to control the situation and recover the stolen funds before it escalated," the seneschal explained, his voice quivering slightly. "It appears their forecast was overly optimistic," he conceded.
With a contemplative expression, Buren intertwined his fingers and leaned forward. The discrepancy in their projected revenue meant they couldn't meet the Crown's demanding tribute, a failing Duriel would surely exploit.
"You could liquidate some of your high-value properties to balance the books," a meek accountant suggested, peering out from behind his ledger.
Buren dismissed the idea with a shake of his head; such a move would only compound their struggle to fulfill the tithes in the ensuing months. Rising from his seat, he moved towards the exit.
"What should we do?" the seneschal called after him.
"Maintain operations as usual," Buren replied.
"I'll handle this," he silently vowed.
Later, Buren found himself ensconced amidst the bustle of the Eastern District's busiest thoroughfare. Disguised as a beggar, he held out his left hand in a plea for alms, while his right one remained concealed beneath a grubby cloak. He blended seamlessly into the horde of homeless, barely drawing a glance from passersby.
Earlier, he had visited the guard headquarters, extracting all relevant information from their chief, whose complexion fluctuated between shades of pale, flushed, and yellowish under Buren's smoldering gaze. The street where Buren now sat was the site of several recent robberies. His tax collectors had been ambushed, and the levies they had gathered were pilfered.
One such collector now walked past him, turning a disdainful nose up at Buren's outstretched hand. In response to the robberies, Buren had announced an additional tax to compensate for the losses, a decision that had incited widespread public discontent. He had hoped this would lure out the thieves. But as the tax collector departed unscathed, Buren couldn't help but question if the culprits were astute enough to detect the trap.
"They can't be that clever," he mused. "After all, they've decided to steal from me."
Unexpectedly, a weight landed in his palm—a small pouch. Upon opening it, he found it filled with silver staters, an amount sufficient to provide lodging and meals for several days. Keeping his face obscured by his hood, he studied the generous donor.
The man had already moved on, gifting another beggar with a similar pouch. As the beggar examined the gift with his sole good eye, he let out an exuberant hoot, falling to his knees to clasp the man's ankles.
"Thank you, my lord!" he exclaimed.
"Don't thank me," the benefactor replied. "I'm merely returning what the nobles and lords, who are supposed to be your protectors, have unjustly taken from you. Use it for a warm bed and a decent meal. And I'm not a lord."
"Of course, my lo- my friend," the beggar stuttered, continuing his effusive praises.
Buren seized this opportunity to scrutinize the philanthropist. He didn't bear the appearance of nobility, nor did he seem the type to possess such wealth. A coarse stubble covered his shorn head and chin, his face marked by scars and blemishes. He wore rough leather garments, twin short swords fastened to his belt. As he distributed more silver to the swarm of beggars, Buren spotted a tiny tattoo on the man's left hand, the design too distant to discern.
"Easy, my friends," the benefactor urged as a swarm of mendicants surrounded him. "Justice will be restored, and balance will prevail." He doled out his wealth as though it held no value until his hands were finally bare. "I've run out for now, but fear not, this won't be the last of it."
A collective groan of disappointment emanated from the crowd, to which he quickly responded, "If there are those among you who possess the strength to fight or have nimble fingers, you're welcome to join me. You can assist my comrades and me in redressing this imbalance."
Numerous hands shot up in eager acceptance, among them Buren's, hidden within the densely packed crowd, his left arm aloft. His commanding presence caught the philanthropist's eye.
"I admire your readiness to contribute," he declared, soothing the noisy crowd with a wave of his hand, "but the task at hand requires both your arms."
He flashed Buren an apologetic grin and selected two towering men from the crowd, both of whom Buren suspected were erstwhile thugs, fallen on hard times when the war had reduced people to paupers. The three men started to depart, only to find Buren standing resolutely in their path, his face and right hand concealed beneath his cloak.
"Sorry, friend, but I fear you'd only end up getting hurt," the benefactor cautioned. Met with Buren's silent defiance, the brute on his left advanced, declaring, "I'll handle this."
As he lumbered forward, extending his formidable hand towards Buren, he dodged adroitly, grabbing the thug's wrist and twisting it with surprising force, his boot striking the thug's ankle simultaneously. The man let out a yelp of pain and toppled face-first into the mud. Buren applied more pressure to his wrist and pressed his boot onto the thug's face, leaving the brute to quickly realize that further resistance would only exacerbate his suffering.
"On second thought, welcome aboard," the philanthropist conceded, spreading his arms as if to embrace Buren. With Buren added to their ranks, the man led them towards the city's edge, right up against the encircling wall.
They entered what seemed to be an abandoned, dilapidated warehouse. However, Buren noticed watchful eyes peering from the windows of neighboring structures, confirming that this operation was backed by significant manpower. Inside, more rough-and-ready men populated the room, appearing to be war veterans and career criminals. They honed their weapons and scrutinized the newcomers, but the ambiance was oddly convivial rather than hostile. The bandits filled the air with light-hearted whistling, humming, and jesting. Their games were combat preparations, with men wrestling in straw-lined rings and competing in knife-throwing and bouts with wooden swords.
On one side of the room, a cluster of provocatively dressed women stood, their beauty suggesting they'd been recruited from the city's brothels. But here, they were engaged in more mundane tasks, laundering clothes, hanging them to dry, and taste-testing a bubbling stew, deliberating over the right blend of spices. A man sat by the women on a bale of hay, fingering his guitar and crooning out a love song. The serenading troubadour was rewarded with flirtatious smiles from the women.
Overlooking the scene from an elevated vantage point stood a solitary figure. "Ah, you've returned," he hollered, deftly descending from the loft by grabbing a rope and swinging down to land neatly before them. "I see you've brought some fresh blood."
"Seems like you've finally got the hang of that swing," their guide retorted, delivering a friendly slap on the man's shoulder. "Knee all healed up since the last mishap?"
"Fit as a fiddle," the man replied with a broad grin. Adorned in long soft leather boots, tights, a tunic, and a brown jacket, he turned to Buren and the other recruit. "I'm Robbie, and welcome to the Merrymakers. Now, show your faces and introduce yourselves."
The burly recruit raised his chin and proudly declared his name, earning enthusiastic greetings from the crowd. When his turn came, Buren shed his hood and locked eyes with Robbie. "Call me Flynn," he stated.
"Pleasure to meet you, Flynn," Robbie said, flashing an approving smile. "Must say, I'm quite taken with your beard."
Buren acknowledged the compliment with a nod. As a prudent measure, he had altered his appearance, using Dryad-derived pigments to darken his hair and shaping a flamboyant, black beard with audacious curls from hair collected from a barbershop floor. His disguise was both striking and deceptive, deflecting any scrutiny from his other features. It seemed to work perfectly, as no one batted an eye at having the Overseer of a District, one possessing the Gauntlet no less, in their midst.
"Make yourselves at home," Robbie invited. "Grab a bite, unwind. You must be weary after your time out there on the streets. But those hardships are behind you now."
"Shucks," the towering recruit remarked, glancing around. "Just tell me whose throat I need to cut to earn my keep, and consider it done."
"Ha!" Robbie guffawed, his gaze momentarily cast towards the ceiling, before refocusing on the burly man. "I have no doubt your skills have been indispensable in that regard, but here, we'll put them to more noble use. To benefit the people."
"Huh," the imposing recruit grunted, looking perplexed.
"In a nutshell," Robbie explained, "we take from the thieves, namely the nobility and other lords, and redistribute to their victims - the ordinary folk. We retain only what's necessary to keep ourselves fed and clothed."
The hulking man's eyes widened. "With the amount of coin you've been handing out, I reckon we could hold onto a bit more."
Robbie simply shook his head, grinning. "Trust me, the act of doing good carries rewards far greater than any shiny trinkets. Money can't buy you love, for instance, but being a hero, well..." His conspiratorial wink at the women elicited an enamored sigh from the flock. "You'll come to understand and enjoy the perks, I promise."
The lumbering recruit moved off to sample the soup, leaving Buren alone with Robbie. "So, you're the one calling the shots?" he queried, his attention seemingly directed to an ongoing wrestling match as though he were merely engaged in casual chit-chat.
"I've got authority over this particular barn, and even then, it's only when these lads decide to heed my words," Robbie replied with a broad grin. "No, the one truly in command is the White Fox."
Buren nodded, his assumption confirmed by Robbie's revelation. He was familiar with the tales of White Fox, a man notorious for his audacious heists on nobility and subsequent redistribution of wealth among the common folk. This manner of operating, coupled with his choice of targets, had elevated him to a folk hero status, which further complicated his capture; the populace willingly provided him and his band sanctuary, deliberately leading the pursuing guards astray. His activities were initially concentrated in remote provinces, targeting regional lords known for their excessive harshness. However, discovering him now in the heart of the capital signaled a significant escalation in his audacity.
"I'd like to shake his hand," Buren mentioned.
"That will have to wait," Robbie responded. "He seldom shows up in person, considering he's busy constructing his empire."
Buren silently acknowledged the response.
"Well, if you're not in the mood to lounge about the clubhouse, would you be up for assisting with a task?" Robbie queried.
Buren gave an affirming nod. It seemed like an ideal means of gaining further insight into their operations.
"Fantastic," Robbie declared. "Don't fret, it's nothing perilous. Just a bit of intelligence gathering."
Robbie guided Buren back towards the entrance. "In fact, I reckon I'll accompany you. I've been confined within these walls all day." They exited the building, Buren promptly drawing his hood up again. They confidently navigated the streets.
"This place was once a real gem," Robbie lamented as they strolled. "Look at it now," he sighed, indicating the huddled vagrants and dilapidated buildings with a sweeping gesture of his arm. "Of course, the Malignant One wreaked havoc on the Realm, particularly devastating the southern farmlands, but that's just part of the story," he elaborated, his words gaining momentum without Buren's prompting.
"The nobles and rulers saw a golden opportunity and seized control of the vital resources, intending to tighten their grip on the populace. The Faith too, capitalizes on the situation, all the while preaching the virtues of equity." He scoffed. "It's quite an indictment of society when those striving for justice are labeled as criminals and persecuted relentlessly, while those exploiting the weak to pad their own coffers parade as the moral guardians."
Buren nodded in agreement. "His sentiments aren't far off from my own," he thought. "It's just not the right time and place for doing the right thing."
"And don't even get me started on these so-called heroes, like Commander Traum, or the worst of them all, the Bearer of the Gauntlet," Robbie ranted. "To him, people appear to be mere resources, something to be exploited for his benefit. I had high expectations of him, given his reputation from the war. It's a potent reminder not to place trust in hearsay, you get me?"
Buren simply shrugged.
"Precisely," Robbie concurred. "Anyway, here we are," he announced as they approached a building festooned in garish pink and cyan. "The latest brothel launched by District Overseer Coldwood," he elucidated. "It's rapidly gaining popularity." Buren conceded that he wouldn't have been aware of such details without Robbie's insight, as the minutiae of daily operations had been delegated.
They entered the establishment, and Buren noticed that Robbie seemed entirely at ease, striding in with an unshakeable confidence, while he himself shrouded his identity with his cloak, as he deemed appropriate for a man of his notoriety. Robbie sauntered up to the counter, flashing a charismatic smile at the matron.
"What are you in the mood for?" the made-up woman inquired. "Young, mature, men, women? And how many?"
"I'm in search of something more specific," Robbie interjected, nonchalantly rolling up his sleeve to unveil the tattoo, which Buren, now closer, could discern to be a fox. "The tax collector, to be exact."
The woman's eyes flickered with intrigue. "What kind of cut would we be looking at?" she bargained.
"We'll return half to you, retain the bare minimum for ourselves, and distribute the rest to the less fortunate," Robbie proposed. "I'd wager some of that money would eventually find its way back here anyway."
The woman gave an eager nod, handing him a slip of paper. "This is the usual schedule followed by the collector," she stated. "I've been keeping track to ensure we're prepared."
Buren's eyebrows subtly ascended, marveling at the hostess's readiness to align herself with a notorious gang of criminals. "Law loses all relevance when it no longer serves one's interests," he mused.
He transcribed the timetable for his personal reference while the matron offered them complimentary shots of liquor, then they made their exit. "You guys are the real heroes," she hollered after them, to which Robbie offered a casual acknowledgment.
"We should lay low for a few days before coming back," Robbie suggested, "There's always the risk that some prying eyes noticed our little rendezvous. White Fox is relentless in preaching caution."
"Smart," Buren mused inwardly. He couldn't suppress the twinge of jealousy, which he promptly quashed. "Their actions merely offer a fleeting solace," he reasoned, "In the grand scheme of things, they create more chaos, especially if my plan to combat the entities gets derailed due to their interference." Yet, seeing the spark of hope in the eyes of the commoners at the sight of the rogue, whom everyone seemed to know but had failed to turn in to the authorities, he had to concede that the gang did bring a glimmer of relief to the downtrodden.
"I think we'll launch our operation the day after tomorrow, around this time," Robbie proposed. "Based on her records, the tax collector is due for a visit right before noon. I'd like you to join us; it'd be interesting to see you in action." Buren nodded in assent.
"Knew I could count on you," Robbie affirmed. "In the meantime, you can strut your stuff at the clubhouse." They returned to the warehouse on the outskirts of the city, where Buren spent the ensuing hours memorizing as many faces as possible. He didn't intend to round up everyone, but after dismantling the leadership of this local division of White Fox's empire, a host of experienced fighters would be on the lookout for employment. And he was always hiring, albeit covertly and via different intermediaries.
"Hey, Flynn," someone called, drawing Buren's attention to the towering man who had enlisted alongside him. It appeared he'd discovered their stash of ale, evident by the flush on his cheeks. "You managed to best that other guy pretty easily, but I won't go down without a fight," he proclaimed, attracting a crowd. "I challenge you to a wrestling match." The crowd erupted in cheers, initiating a chant of "Ring, ring, ring," while raising and lowering their fists in unison.
Buren exhaled audibly, but his newfound "comrades" gently nudged him towards the ring. There was an air of excitement among them, keen to witness how a one-armed man would fare against an opponent twice his size. The brawny man positioned himself across Buren, digging his feet into the dirt floor. "Any last words?" he taunted. Buren merely lowered his center of gravity and adopted a defensive stance.
"It's been quite some time since I fought without the Gauntlet," he contemplated, sizing up his adversary. "Moreover, I can only use my left hand, and I need to ensure my beard remains intact during the scuffle." He sighed. "Hopefully he won't get hurt too bad."
Robbie stepped forward. "For our newcomers, let's lay down some ground rules," he announced, and the crowd hushed just enough for his words to be audible. "No biting, no low blows or eye-gouging, and no...well, that's it. Just remember, make a good show for the crowd."
Buren caught a stray comment from the spectators. "I'm wagering three staters on the big fellow," someone shouted. "I'll take that bet," Robbie responded promptly. A woman nearby struck two metal pan lids together, marking the start of the fight.
The giant lunged at Buren, who swiftly sidestepped his advance. Ducking beneath the flailing arms, he delivered an open-palm strike to the man's solar plexus. The force of the blow caused his adversary to recoil, gasping for air. Capitalizing on the moment, Buren seized the man's wrist, spun around, and bent down, effectively catapulting his opponent over his back. The crowd's exhilaration reached a crescendo as the man flew through the air, feet pointing skyward, before crashing back down to the ground, causing dust to billow around him.
Buren stepped back, allowing the man time to rise. After a moment's struggle to regain his breath and composure, the man shakily pushed himself up from the ground. Despite his evident exhaustion, he lunged at Buren again, displaying courage, if not much strategic acumen. Buren deftly grabbed the man's little and ring fingers, twisting them painfully while simultaneously bending his arm behind his back. Releasing his grip, Buren delivered a firm kick to the lower back, causing the man to stumble to the edge of the ring, teetering precariously on the tips of his right toes, while flailing his arms for balance. The crowd laughed at the display.
Having managed to remain within the ring, the man turned to face Buren again, his frustration clearly mounting. He charged at Buren with his arms flung wide, seemingly intent on entrapping him in a bear hug. However, as the distance closed between them, Buren dropped onto his back, lifting his legs to strike the man's stomach. The momentum propelled his opponent forward, and he tumbled over Buren's upraised legs, and Buren kicked so his opponent went careening out of the ring and into the startled crowd, which erupted into enthusiastic cheers.
Using his left hand to push against the ground, Buren kicked his legs up, deftly transitioning from a prone position to standing. The spectators' excitement reached a fever pitch as the underdog claimed victory.
"You're more effective with one hand than most are with two," Robbie praised, raising his cup in a toast. "What happened to the other one, anyway?"
"War," Buren replied tersely.
"Ah, of course," Robbie responded, nodding understandingly. "Here," he said, pressing a stater into Buren's hand. "You earned this coin. It's only fair you get a third, for doing all the work."
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"Someone might argue that he deserves more than that," someone jested from the crowd.
"We're all rogues here," Robbie retorted with a hearty laugh. "Our sense of justice might be a tad skewed. Now, let's get back to our drinks."
The men crowded around the keg of ale, but when the stern-faced barmaid brandished a long metal ladle, they quickly fell into an orderly line, waiting patiently for their turn to refill their pitchers. As the evening wore on, the veterans regaled them with tales of their most audacious exploits. Likely embellished for effect, their stories were nonetheless captivating, made all the more lively by the long shadows that danced on the walls as they acted out their adventures with animated gestures and expressive pantomime.
As dusk fell, Buren discreetly excused himself. He was aware that his nightly fits could draw unwanted attention. Moreover, his Gauntlet had a peculiar habit of stirring in his dreams, and he was worried it might inadvertently reveal itself. So, opting for the safety and privacy of his castle, he retreated for the night.
The following day, Buren immersed himself in the group's daily activities at their base. He defeated all those that would challenge him to knife-throwing competitions, arm-wrestling matches, and even card games. Quickly gaining a reputation for his impressively impassive poker face, he became a well-known figure among the outlaws. As they unwound during these games, the bandits would chatter openly about their lives before joining the band, revealing where their families lived and how they depended on the money they sent home. This information would be useful in tracking them later on and potentially provide Buren some leverage. A flash of distaste crossed his face at this thought, which his card-playing opponent interpreted as a sign of weakness and promptly went all in.
When Buren revealed his winning hand, disappointment clouded his opponent's face. However, as Buren pushed the small stack of coins back to him, the man's expression shifted to one of confusion. "You won fair and square," he protested. "I'm not taking any pity money."
"It's not for you," Buren responded curtly. "It's for your family." The rugged exterior of his opponent softened, his eyes blinking rapidly as he swallowed hard. "Thanks," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.
The remainder of the evening was spent imparting wrestling and combat techniques to some interested members. As it was time to sneak out again, Buren noted an unusual spring in his step, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The camaraderie had temporarily alleviated his pressing concerns. But as he walked back to his castle, he sighed, realizing that he'd need to exercise caution and stay focused on his ultimate goal in the future.
The next day, Robbie positioned his crew well ahead of the planned robbery. They loitered by the bustling main avenue, concealed in the shadows cast by the surrounding buildings. "Can you believe these prices?" Robbie grumbled, casting a disparaging look at the updated cost listings from the nearby taverns, brothels, and grocery stalls. "If the old taxes were draining the people drop-by-drop, this is akin to slitting their throats."
Buren nodded quietly. In an effort to recoup money that had found its way back to the peasantry, he had levied heavy tariffs on the District. He noticed that the once impoverished citizens, who had abruptly discovered newfound wealth, weren't dissuaded by the exorbitant prices. Instead, they indulged themselves in finer food, drink, and entertainment while they still had the means.
"There," Robbie murmured, subtly pointing to a man cloaked and carrying a large leather satchel, flanked by two guards. The trio emerged from an establishment they had visited earlier, a glimpse of a metal coffer seen before the man sealed his satchel. Their mark was the tax collector.
"They've beefed up security," Robbie noted. "It used to be just one guard, usually open to bribes. These guys look more seasoned."
"Should we abort the job?" asked the third man in their party.
"No, we still have the element of surprise," Robbie countered. "Let's stick to the plan."
On Robbie's signal, they dispersed to avoid drawing attention as a group. Robbie veered into a side alley to outpace the trio, while Buren and his associate trailed behind the collector and his bodyguards. The collector visited several brothels, taverns, a blacksmith, and an alchemist's shop, his satchel swelling with each stop. Eventually, they veered away from the crowded streets and the throng of people thinned.
Suddenly, a horse-drawn wagon burst from a side alley, halting abruptly in front of the trio. The guards brandished their batons, barking orders to clear the way.
"Terribly sorry," Robbie called from the driver's seat. "The horses are uncontrollable."
At that cue, Buren and his accomplice swiftly ambushed the distracted bodyguards, striking them unconscious. The collector retreated, clutching his satchel tightly to his chest. Robbie vaulted over the wagon's roof, landing beside him. "Just hand it over and there'll be no need for us to get rough."
His smirk, however, drained from his face as the supposedly empty wagon's doors were kicked open from inside. Four armed guards leapt out, rapidly encircling them. "A setup," Robbie growled, unsheathing his sword, mirrored by their third associate.
"What are you waiting for, Flynn?" he hissed when Buren remained still. "We could use your muscle right about now."
Without a word, Buren pulled back his hood and ripped off his beard. Robbie's eyes widened in surprise, and his face locked in an expression of shock when Buren extended the Gauntlet from beneath his cloak. Meeting Robbie's gaze, Buren's eyes were apologetic, but unyielding.
Their third associate panicked and swung his blade. Buren effortlessly caught the swing in the Gauntlet's grip, breaking the sword and disarming Robbie simultaneously with his left hand. Buren's guards swiftly apprehended them, shackling their hands and feet. "To the brig?" one of the guards asked, to which Buren nodded. Robbie and his associate were thrown into the wagon meant for their getaway, and driven off to their fate.
Buren knew by now his guards would have completed their sting operation at the outlaws' hideout. They would have found it empty, as Buren himself had tipped off the band of Merrymakers about the impending raid. Undoubtedly, the outlaws had rushed to recover their reserves of coin intended for redistribution amongst the people, only to find their stash depleted. The stacks of silver and gold now resided in Buren's castle, being accounted for by his meticulous bookkeepers. At a glance, it appeared he would have enough to meet his obligations to both the Crown and the Faith, taking into account the secured and increased revenue from his businesses.
He exhaled a heavy sigh, caught in the crossfire of his moral dilemmas. Whose side was he truly on? He was double-dealing with the outlaws, tipping them off about an impending raid while purloining their funds to meet the demands of two factions who he had no heartfelt allegiance to and whom he foresaw betraying in the future.
"I'm on the side of what is right," he resolved when his actions seemed too contradictory and disingenuous. "On the side of the oppressed, if nothing else, at least in the end."
News spread about the apprehension of one of White Fox's lieutenant. When the date for a public execution was announced for the following week, the public sentiment was largely one of condemnation, as people found more sympathy for the Merrymakers than the ruling authorities. However, the looming threat of the Inquisition muted any opposition to mere murmurs, voiced with cautious discretion.
The Inquisition showed keen interest in obtaining custody of Buren's prisoners for more intense interrogation, but he declined. Publicly, he justified his decision as an attempt to quell the public unrest by expediently carrying out the execution. However, his true intent was to spare the men from such brutal treatment. In his jail, they enjoyed relative comfort, each having their own cell, reasonable meals, and fresh hay for bedding.
However, such minor comforts would do little to alleviate the dread of imminent execution. Robbie paced his cell relentlessly, probing the bars and stone walls, finding no discernible weaknesses. He even resorted to using a bone from his meal to start tunneling into the wall, but his efforts were quickly thwarted. All these activities were reported back to Buren by his planted agent, who posed as a long-term prisoner chained to the wall in the cell across from Robbie's.
On the day of the execution, the condemned were dragged to a small marketplace near Buren's castle where the grim spectacle was to take place. Guards had set up barricades to control the crowds, and carpenters had hastily constructed a gallows, its ominous presence looming at the center of the cobblestone square.
Buren stood on the platform, surveying the sea of faces striving to glimpse the proceedings. Instead of his knightly attire, he wore a dark cloak and leather clothes. The Faith had sought to distance themselves from the event, desiring only to quell excessive rebellious sentiment. After all, White Fox and his crew were champions for the common man, much like the Faith itself claimed to be. They had only become problematic when they started stealing from the Faith's emissaries.
A menacing, black, steel-reinforced wagon, adorned with intimidating spikes, plowed its way through the crowd, drawn by robust horses that snapped at people obstructing their path. The carriage halted, and the guards flung open the heavy door, hauling out the condemned. The men, blindfolded with black sacks, were chained together at the wrists.
They were led toward the execution platform along an avenue created by rows of guards. In the absence of rotten tomatoes and eggs, as the city had insufficient provisions to spare, the crowd armed themselves with clumps of mud and waste collected from latrines and outhouses. However, it was the guards, rather than the prisoners, who bore the brunt of this distasteful volley. When the onslaught of filth became too much, the guards drove the crowd back using their weapons.
The prisoners were led up the stairs to the platform, where their blindfolds were finally removed. Initially squinting against the sudden light, Robbie soon fixed his gaze on Buren. "Traitor," he hissed. "And I don't just mean to our band. You were supposed to be a champion of the people."
Buren, silent, continued to scan the surrounding rooftops. "Only history can judge what I am," he pondered internally.
"Please, I have a family," the other man pleaded, dropping to his knees. "Well, at least children with various women in different towns and brothels. But I do send them money, and visit when I can. What will happen to them without a father-figure showing them what is right and proper?"
"We trusted you, welcomed you into our family," Robbie continued. "Do you think us naive for trusting a stranger off the street? We knew the risks, but none of us would be here if not for someone giving us a chance. A little undeserved trust can turn a crook into someone reliable, and that's what White Fox gave us. But I guess you don't care about saving people like us, only about expanding your own power."
Robbie spat at Buren's feet. "I give my life gladly for the chance I have been given."
"Good for you," Buren thought, his visage impassive above the condemned. "But such noble sentiments are worthless if they stand in the way of preserving lives. If the choice is between saving people's character and their lives, the righteous choice is to save lives, whatever the cost."
A self-important city official unfurled a scroll and cleared his throat in a pompous manner before beginning to read out the litany of crimes for which the men had been found guilty. However, his speech was abruptly curtailed due to a rain of projectiles launched his way. He managed to sputter out, "tobeexecutedbyhangingbythedecreeofthemosthonorablecourt," as he scurried down the stairs, clutching his wig and making a hasty retreat.
The condemned were ushered to stand on trapdoors, ropes promptly fitted and secured around their necks. Robbie met his final moments with a defiant, albeit slightly pale smile, while his compatriot trembled and wept. A faint frown crossed Buren's face, as he thought it was going to be a closer call than he would have liked.
The executioner, his face obscured by a black hood with eye holes, gripped the lever that would trigger the trapdoors. As he pulled, the doors flung open, sending the men into free-fall. Buren steeled his expression, sensing a miscalculation on his part. As the ropes snapped taut, instead of the men jolting to a halt, the moorings where the ropes were attached gave way, and the men continued their descent, disappearing out of sight beneath the platform. Buren now noted the unusual design of the gallows, which had been built so there was ample space beneath it, realizing its potential significance too late. Or had he unconsciously chosen to ignore it earlier? He could not tell.
The spectacle prompted a wave of shock and indignation to ripple through the crowd. The executioner leaned over the gaping holes, attempting to discern the fate of the condemned, when a man abruptly leaped out, landing an uppercut that sent him sprawling backward. A squad of men emerged from beneath the platform, brandishing an assortment of swords, daggers, and clubs. Dressed in stylish leather attire and sporting immaculately groomed beards, they appeared to epitomize dashing rogues.
Robbie, too, reappeared, brandishing a sword, his hands no longer shackled. The crowd erupted in exuberant cheers, while the guards scrambled to ascend the platform. However, the stairs gave way under their weight, revealing yet another sabotage. The more determined guards tried to hoist themselves onto the stage, but they were promptly kicked down. The ladder the outlaws had used to ascend from beneath the platform was swiftly retracted, momentarily placing them beyond the grasp of the law. However, they were not out of reach of the Gauntlet.
Buren, seemingly unperturbed by the audacious takeover, continued to scan the surrounding rooftops.
Buren's gaze finally landed on a figure stirring on a roof overlooking the square, a man clad in red leather with striking white hair and a matching beard, his face concealed behind a mask. "People of the capital," the figure boomed, causing all in the square to shift their attention to him. One of the outlaws on the platform attempted to seize this diversion, lunging at Buren's exposed back. However, the Gauntlet promptly spun around, seizing and twisting the offender's weapon-wielding arm.
"You have long suffered under the tyranny of the lords," the White Fox declared from his lofty perch. "But rest assured, their days are numbered. My band and I—" His proclamation was abruptly cut short as Buren whipped the Gauntlet around, gaining tremendous momentum before leaping from the platform. He soared above the astonished crowd, landing on the rooftop with the White Fox. The two bodyguards at the Fox's side instinctively lunged at Buren, but halted upon their leader's command.
"It seems the Bearer of the Gauntlet has little patience for speeches," the Fox quipped, earning chuckles from the crowd. "So, let me make this brief: rather than tell, let me show what I promise you!" He grabbed two sacks lying beside him, flinging them over the crowd. The strings holding the bags shut came undone, showering the crowd with silver staters. The scene dissolved into chaos as the people scrambled for the coins, effectively eradicating the guards' control over the situation.
At the fringes of the square, an outlaw shot an arrow with a rope attached to it at the gallows. As he rapidly secured the other end to a building, his comrades on the platform clung onto their weapons and used the rope as a makeshift zipline, soaring over the guards and the frenzied crowd. As the guards tried to force their way through the rowdy mass, they were met with resistance and even outright hostility.
Buren watched as a team of horses emerged from a side alley, the fugitives swiftly mounting them and bolting from the square at a blistering pace. "Not half bad," Buren mused internally.
"I get the feeling you really wanted to meet me," the White Fox declared. "I must say, I'm flattered you went to all this trouble just for my attention." He sauntered casually to the edge of the roof. "You could have just sent a postcard...big brother."
"You should return to the forest," Buren retorted. "You're fortunate I found you first, Brenner. The Inquisition wouldn't be as lenient."
"And what would we do there, steal acorns from squirrels?" Brenner retorted, removing his mask. "With so little produce to sell, there are no payment transfers to pilfer either." He pivoted to face the crowd below, extending his arms theatrically. "Besides, this is where we can truly make a difference."
Buren suddenly sprang into action, disarming one of Brenner's bodyguards and knocking him down. "We're being watched," he murmured. "Play along." Swiftly, Brenner unsheathed his sword, adopting an ostentatious combat stance and keeping Buren at bay with flamboyant swordplay.
"City life has made you soft," Brenner muttered, barely moving his lips. "The old Buren wouldn't have compromised like this."
"I always did what was best for you," Buren countered, reiterating an age-old disagreement.
"Yes, and that's the problem," Brenner retorted, launching an attack that would have skewered Buren's heart, had it not been expertly deflected. "At least your reflexes haven't faltered," Brenner quipped.
"Set your escape plan into motion," Buren muttered, his tone barely rising above a growl. "More guards, along with the King's Knights, will be flooding the area any moment now."
"And what if I don't?" Brenner queried, an air of defiance in his voice. "Whose side would you stand on then, family or oppressors?"
Buren shot him a scowl.
"What, agitated that everything isn't proceeding as per your blueprint?" Brenner taunted. "I'm a rogue. I don't abide by the rules. It's part of the job description. Be it the laws of the court or the decrees of the Faith, I wipe my ass with them. I'd shatter the laws of nature too, if only I possessed the spark of magic. And I certainly don't adhere to the edicts of your logic."
"Why am I striving to rescue this fool, again?" Buren found himself wondering.
"Adolescence of playing second fiddle to you gave me quite enough of that," Brenner finished.
Just as Buren had foreseen, the King's Knights arrived, thundering into the scene on their steeds. "Naturally, it wouldn't suit my image to be captured," Brenner conceded, a sly look in his eyes. "And you have a reputation to uphold as well, brother. I wonder how it would look if you allowed a criminal like myself to escape."
"Don't fret, what I'm about to do should leave no room for doubt," Buren retorted.
Before his brother could fire off another flippant remark, Buren lunged forward, deflecting the blade that swung in his direction. He gripped Brenner by the throat, lifting him off his feet and holding him over the edge of the building. With his other hand, he leveled his sword at Brenner's remaining bodyguard, effectively restraining him.
"What are you waiting for, brother?" Buren muttered. "Time to pull off one of your characteristic stunts and escape." Brenner flashed a grin, repositioning his mask on his face. "If you insist."
A knife materialized in his hand as if conjured from thin air, and he lunged at Buren. Buren evaded the jab, and, playing along with the ruse, released his grip on his brother. Brenner plummeted from the building, drawing a gasp of shock from the crowd below. He arrested his fall by latching onto a windowsill and heaved himself up. He thrust two fingers into his mouth, emitting a shrill whistle, and from a nearby alley, a magnificent white steed, adorned with an eye mask identical to Brenner's, cantered past the building.
The White Fox swiftly fastened a grapple hook to the sill, and swiftly rappelled down the facade, releasing the rope and dropping the last few yards to land on his horse. The stallion reared up on its hind legs, gave a piercing neigh, and bolted forward.
"Time to make this look convincing," Buren thought to himself, launching into a sprint across the rooftop in pursuit.
Buren sprang off the ledge, a brief silhouette of an eagle spreading its wings before succumbing to gravity. His hand fastened around a flagpole protruding from the wall, using it to catapult himself forward, his feet bounding off the opposing building. He was soon sailing above Brenner, the frantic gallop of the horse unable to outpace his Gauntlet-powered leaps. His shadow swept across the ground ominously, akin to a bird of prey closing in on its quarry.
Just as Buren had anticipated, Brenner detected his approach from the dancing shadow, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder. Buren read the silent curse on his brother's lips and was reasonably certain he'd just been branded a showoff, among other less flattering things. Having dallied long enough, Buren descended towards Brenner in his saddle, arms stretched out to knock him off his perch.
At the final moment, Brenner teetered precariously from his saddle, clinging to the horn for dear life, his body swinging along the horse's flank. Buren overshot his target deliberately, and made his landing seem more rough than it actually was, rolling haphazardly a few times before coming to a halt on his back.
Brenner pulled himself back into his seat, removed his hat, and bade Buren farewell with a dramatic wave before disappearing down a side street. Buren slowly pushed himself off the ground, dusting off his clothes.
Upon returning to the square, he found the rest of the Merrymakers had also managed to escape, the guards having been too occupied dealing with the frenzied crowd.
The city guards hastily organized a search and cordoned off the streets, but the culprits had vanished. A few hapless pedestrians were detained for the sake of appearance, only to be released when no incriminating evidence was found. The District Overseer himself had sent word, threatening punishment for any officials found guilty of unnecessary imprisonment.
The spectacle soon became the hot topic around town, undoubtedly enhancing the White Fox's notorious reputation. Consequently, the bounty offered for his capture, dead or alive, surged significantly.
Several hours later, a safe distance from the capital, the outlaws celebrated their feat around a roaring campfire tucked away in a secluded grove off the main road. Robbie held the others captive with his animated retelling of the events, embellishing his tale with every iteration; each time he faced more adversaries, and his final words as the noose was tightened around his neck were sometimes hilarious jokes, sometimes poignant critique of their society.
"If only I could get my hands on that Gauntlet-Bearer," he declared theatrically, making a grand gesture as though snapping someone's neck. "I would..." His boastful monologue trailed off as he noticed the laughter and camaraderie had suddenly ceased, all eyes trained on him in wide-eyed shock.
"Was it something I said?" he asked, perplexed. Then it dawned on him. They weren't staring at him, but rather at something—or someone—behind him. He turned around slowly, his heart pounding in his chest.
There, at the fringe of the firelight, stood a dark, silent figure, his cloak billowing softly in the wind. Buren.
The bandits were quick to their weapons, forming an array of sword points and arrow tips pointed at Buren. He stood as still as stone, undeterred by the prickly front of the outlaws.
"I'll handle this," Brenner said, his face bare of his usual mask. With his words, he defused the tension, pressing down the nearest weapons. After a brief hesitation, the rest of the gang followed suit.
Together, Brenner and Buren left the firelight, meandering into the darkness of the woods.
Brenner broke the silence between them: "Did you know I am the White Fox or was that just lucky coincidence?"
"The more I heard of White Fox's exploits, the more I recognized familiar strategies," Buren explained. "So call it a hunch."
Brenner accepted his explanation, and continued: "When was the last time you visited home?" Buren offered only a shrug in response. The memory felt like it was from a different lifetime.
"You know, your moves back there were surprisingly decent," Brenner continued, a sly grin creeping onto his face. "I have a trainee spot open in the gang, if you're interested. Given your arm, I reckon you'd peel our potatoes faster than anyone else. You might even rise to head the culinary department."
Buren simply ignored his brother's playful taunts. Growing up, the more Buren had learned the value of silence, the louder his brother seemed to have become, a trait shared by many of his current companions. It was as if they were attempting to fill a perceived void with their chatter - a void that Buren found utterly unnecessary to fill.
"You're also welcome to join my team," Buren proposed. "Leave this White Fox charade behind."
"The people need the White Fox," Brenner swiftly retorted. "They need someone who's genuinely striving to help them. Someone to inspire them to rise against their oppressors." He then shook his head, his countenance turning somber. "What happened to you?" he blurted. "One moment, tales of your heroics are all the rage, stories about how you bravely squared off against the Malignant One to save the Realm, and the next moment, you're the most depraved robber baron of them all, taking full advantage of people's plight."
"Nothing changed," Buren replied stoically. "The motives remain the same. It's just that my sacrifices alone can no longer salvage the Realm."
Brenner scoffed at his reply, his earlier jovial demeanor dissolving into frustration.
"How did you find us?" Brenner asked, "I made sure we covered our tracks."
"I simply went where I would've hidden," Buren replied, unfazed. "I didn't bother with tracks."
Brenner scoffed. "So, you think you have me all figured out? That I'm that predictable? Just a lucky guess."
Buren kept his thoughts to himself, preferring not to stoke his brother's already simmering temper. "I suppose you're here to persuade me to return to Coldwood and resume my old job as a hunter," Brenner continued, his voice steadily rising in volume.
Buren merely nodded.
"Well, you don't own me, and I've paid my dues. I owe you nothing. I am free to live my life as I see fit, regardless of your opinions," Brenner shouted, his voice echoing through the trees.
"You owe me the responsibility of not wasting your life," Buren said quietly.
"No, I don't," Brenner retorted, each word emphasized. "That's just what you'd like me to believe. But not anymore," he said, punctuating his statement with a sharp wave of his hand. "I have the freedom to waste my life as I see fit. You can't control me, any more than you can control this world."
"It's not about control," Buren replied in his usual hoarse whisper, "It's about doing what's right."
"I don't want what's best," Brenner shot back. "I'm making a difference in the world, just like you were supposed to."
"I never asked for this position," Buren thought, giving a tired sigh. He had had low expectations for the conversation, but he believed it had been worth a try.
"Let him experience what being a hero truly entails," he mused.
A warning glance passed between the two brothers, their pale blue eyes reflecting each other's resolve.
"If your band is seen in the city again, I will hunt them down, one by one," Buren whispered. "Each one of your friends and accomplices will die because of your stubbornness, except you. I'll make sure you'll live."
Surprise briefly flickered across Brenner's face before he recovered, his expression stone cold. "You better watch your back, hero," he growled. "It seems you're the only thing standing in our way of saving the people of this realm."
Buren couldn't help but find the irony in Brenner's words amusing. "Funny," he thought, "I was thinking the exact same thing about you."