Oleksandr opens his eyes, groggily sitting up in the bed. He looks around, feeling disoriented and confused. It takes him a moment to remember the previous night's dream. He brings his hand up to his head, still feeling the comforting weight of Thekkur's hand on his pillow. But he's alone now, back in the real world. He sits up and swings his feet over the bed, the pain in his back still present but significantly better. As he moves, he feels his earring dangle more than normal, and he reaches up to feel it, when he feels his heart skip a beat. The ruby charm his brother gave him, in his laudanum-induced haze or dream or whatever it was, was there, right where he tied it. Oleksandr gasps as he touches the ruby charm, feeling its cool smoothness against his fingertips. He can hardly believe it. Is this another dream? But no, this feels real. Too real, and he's wide awake. He stands up, still a little shaky on his feet, and walks over to the small mirror on the wall. He holds up the ruby charm in front of his face, observing it closely. There it is, the fine golden chain, wrapped around his hoop earring, with the ruby bead dangling from it.

Oleksandr stares in shock, not believing what he's seeing. He touches the charm again, feeling the weight of the ruby in his palm.

"How... how is this real?" He mutters to himself, speaking out loud for the first time that day. Am I still dreaming? He hits his head with his palm and pinches himself, but both only confirm what he already knows. He's wide awake, and the ruby charm is still there on his earring. He turns back to the bed, his mind spinning. What does this mean? Is he going mad? He shakes his head in frustration at the confusion.

"It's this damn room. This room is driving me FUCKING crazy!"

He paces back and forth in the room, his mind in turmoil. The small room suddenly feels claustrophobic, like the walls are closing in on him. "I need to get out of here," he says aloud, more to himself than anything else. "I can't stay in this room any longer. I need fresh air, I need to feel the ground under my feet, I need... I need..." He rips the bandages off his shoulder and looks back in the mirror at the wound. He winces slightly, but it's decent. He puts on his boots, his tunic, his belt, and he puts on his bandana. He grabs his gear, checking quickly to make sure he has everything he needs. His sword is sharpened, his dagger is clean and ready to use, and he has a few small throwing knives in his pack. He walks to the door, pausing for a moment to look back. A part of him is afraid that if he leaves, he'll somehow lose his brother's gift. But he shoves that thought to the back of his mind, and exits the room.

The surgeon looks up from his table as Oleksandr passes by. "Where are you going? You need to rest."

Oleksandr ignores him and pushes the door open with a huff, going back into the town. He finds his horse in the town stable, and quickly saddles up. The animal senses his urgency and paws at the ground, eager to get moving.

"Hey, Deago..." Oleksandr mumbles to the horse under his breath. "You feel as trapped as I, huh?" He leads the horse out of the stall and mounts him quickly. Deago whinnies softly as if in agreement. He tosses his head eagerly, ready to be off. Oleksandr mounts the horse, feeling the familiar weight of the large animal beneath him. Deago seems to sense his urgency and prances around nervously, nickering softly. Oleksandr pats his neck, gently hushing him.

"Shhh, my friend. Easy, boy. We'll be out of here soon." He rides towards the west of the town, before quickly stopping at a tavern. He walks in, looking around, before spotting a couple of soldiers sitting at a table having dinner. He strides up, his voice urgent and stern.

"What happened with those Ottoman encampments a week ago?" The soldiers look up at him, a mixture of surprise and confusion on their faces. They're not used to being ordered around by an apparent civilian, especially one as tall and intimidating as Oleksandr.

"You mean the fire siege on the Ottoman camps down at the southern slopes?"

"Aye. What was the outcome?" The soldiers exchange a glance as they realize who Oleksandr is referring to. One of them shakes his head.

"Yeah. They burned them to the ground. The whole place was in absolute flames, never seen anything like it. All four of the camps and all their occupants, turned to ash."

Another soldier chimes in, "they say it was just a small group who did it. Brave bastards, whoever they were." Oleksandr listens to the soldiers, relishing at their description of the attack. His plan had worked as intended, and the Ottoman camps had been destroyed.

"How many men did they lose?" He asks, curious to hear the full extent of his victory. The soldiers look at each other again, unsure of the exact number.

"Hard to say for sure," one of them replies, "but I heard it was in the thousands. The whole place was a blazing inferno. It burned for days. I heard an officer say it's one of the greatest Ottoman losses to date..." Oleksandr's expression remains stoic, but he feels a surge of satisfaction at the news. Vengeance is a dish best served hot. To hear that they had been completely destroyed by him and the small band of his dear gypsy friends was beyond his wildest hopes. He grunts in acknowledgment, mentally congratulating himself on a job well done. He turns to leave, one of the soldiers calls out to him.

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"Hey, wait a minute!" Oleksandr stops, turning back to the table. He raises an eyebrow, waiting for the man to speak. The soldier nods at him, looking him up and down.

"You're that mercenary. The one they call the 'Flaxen Reaper', yeah?" He nods and the soldier's eyes widen at the confirmation.

"Damn, it's him alright. You're a legend around here, you know that? I heard you once took out an entire platoon of Ottoman soldiers single-handedly!" Oleksandr shrugs modestly.

"Ah, you flatter me."

"Don't be so humble, sir," he says, raising his cup of ale to him. "You're a regular folk hero here. People have songs about you, for god's sake!" He raises an eyebrow.

"What?"

The soldier nods, a wide grin on his face. "Yeah, songs. They sing about your battles and your heroic deeds. They say when you're on the battlefield, it's a sign of certain victory. Some even think you're some kind of angel, like Michael, sent to bring us salvation from the Ottoman bastards." Oleksandr is taken aback by this news. It hadn't occurred to him that people would sing songs about his exploits in battle, let alone view him as some kind of spiritual being. He clears his throat, feeling awkward.

"Ah... is that so...?" The soldier nods eagerly.

"Yeah! There's this one song they sing in the tavern about you riding in on your black horse, your blonde hair flying in the wind. They say you killed three-hundred men in one battle, with just your sword. Folks love it. Makes 'em feel safe, knowing that you're out there somewhere, fighting for them."

He moves closer to the table, speaking in a more hushed tone. "And the Ottomans? What do they say?" The soldier's eyes widen at Oleksandr's question. He lowers his voice to match his tone.

"The Ottomans? They're shitting their damn pants at the mere mention of your name. You're their boogeyman. Rumor has it that they've got a pretty price on your head, dead or alive. Can't say I blame 'em." Oleksandr processes this information silently, his face still impassive. He'd known that he was becoming a bit of a legend among the locals, but he hadn't realized he'd become so feared by the enemy. The thought gives him a strange thrill, somewhere between satisfaction and unease. One older soldier at the back of the table looks him over.

"It was you, wasn't it?”

Oleksandr turns to the older soldier, his face betraying no expression. He knows what the man is referring to, but he doesn't confirm or deny the accusation. He simply meets the man's gaze evenly, waiting for him to continue. The older soldier leans forward, his voice low and gravelly. "You were the one who burned down those Ottomans encampments last week, weren't you? You and your little band of gypsies?" Oleksandr turns to leave the tavern, casting a sly grin and a wink over his shoulder before he strides out.

Deago is waiting outside, grazing on a bundle of grass. He looks up as Oleksandr approaches, his ears flickering in greeting. Oleksandr pats his neck affectionately.

"One more stop, boy," he mutters, swinging up into the saddle. Deago stomps his hoof impatiently, eager to get moving. Oleksandr guides him out of the town, taking the road to the west. Oleksandr digs through his pack to find a rolled up piece of leather, tied with some twine. Inside, he stores important papers like maps, manuscripts, notes, and so on. He sorts through them and finds one of his hand-drawn maps, covered in symbols and notes. Oleksandr unfolds the leather map, examining the various symbols and markings on it. The map is meticulously detailed, with symbols indicating towns, roads, forests, and even specific places of interest. He scans over the landscape, comparing it to the map to confirm his bearings. On the map, he has drawn little stars. He sees one nearby, and recalls the exact location. He steers Deago in the direction indicated by the map, riding off the main road and onto a smaller dirt trail. The trail curves and twists through the forest, the trees looming overhead. As they ride, Oleksandr keeps his eyes peeled for any familiar landmarks. Soon, he spots a small clearing up ahead that matches the drawing on the map.

He dismounts his horse and approaches a tree that stands apart from the rest. He grabs a sturdy stick and starts to dig in the soft, loamy soil. The dirt is easy to excavate, and soon he's made a small hole, big enough to reach his entire arm into. Feeling around inside the hole, he feels his fingers brush over something hard and metallic. Oleksandr opens the box, revealing the familiar sight of the small coin satchels inside. The sachets are each filled with a fistful of gold and silver coins, heavy and worth a small fortune. He counts them one by one and grins, satisfied with his findings. He takes a couple of the sachets and puts them in his pack.

He has many of these caches, all over the peninsula from his various exploits, the product of years of adventures. Mostly from the kings and lords he has served well over the years, who wanted to show him some gratitude, and some from plundering and looting enemy camps. Since he has no permanent home or way to store all the valuables he's accumulated, he has developed a habit of burying his treasure in various locations, hiding them from potential thieves or adversaries. He looks over at Deago, who is standing patiently a few feet away. The horse has grown used to Oleksandr's habits and doesn't even seem fazed by the buried gold. After all, why would he? He's a horse.

He buries the box with the rest of the gold back in the ground, packing the earth down, and covering it with foliage. He gets back on his horse and rides back to town quickly and efficiently, going directly back to the Alchemist shop he robbed for ingredients a week back. He strides in, straight to the counter. The old woman narrows her eyes at the sight of him, and stands as if about to tell him off and notify authorities, but before she can do so, the sound of the coins dropping on the counter rings out through the shop, catching the old woman's attention immediately. Her expression changes from one of annoyance to surprise as she sees the small fortune laid out before her. Oleksandr, unperturbed, just stands there, waiting for her reaction. The old woman looks at Oleksandr, then at the gold coins on the counter. Her eyes widen as she realizes the value of the gold in front of her. After a long pause, she slowly reaches out and picks up the sachet, weighing it in her hand. She looks up at Oleksandr skeptically.

"Thanks." Oleksandr says before turning on his heel and leaving the shop without another word.