They should be back by now. Imp thought to herself. She had been sitting alone in the Tynemouth Guild Hall, drinking diluted ale to pass the hours after Renzen and Kelek abandoned her. She did not begrudge Kelek his want for solitude. She knew all too well the pain of losing one’s parents. But she was frustrated with the elf’s avoidant nature. She could tell that there was a profound emotional storm brewing beneath his thick crust of ennui and abrasiveness, but she had yet to pierce that veil. Several hours had passed since the two of them left, and the sun was beginning to set. With a hint of worry, she readied her veritable arsenal of weapons and set out.
Imp was a skilled tracker. During her youth in Vencollis, she would hunt small game to supplement her family’s meals when fishing seasons were poor. Her mother’s apothecary business was ran as more of a service to the poor than for profit, and her father’s income was largely dependent on being able to undersell larger fisheries; something that was not always achievable. Thus, Imp took it upon herself to be proactive in supporting her family in whatever she was able.
Her expertise in tracking nurtured her skill in hunting, which led to her fascination with the bow. Even when the larder was full, she would keep her eyes and fingers sharp by practicing archery on the never-ending cascade of rabbits that infested the city’s gardens. The rabbit meat would spoil long before it became necessary, but she found the pelts to be worth a meager sum.
Skinning a warren’s worth of rabbits led to her fascination with knives. She took an unsettling amount of pleasure in the feeling of the fur separating from the muscles as the honed edge of a dagger glided across the skin. The surgical precision of the practice enthralled her, and she soon became a savant with cutting implements. Even before she reached adulthood, Imp seldom left the house without her bow and several meticulously maintained daggers.
Tragedy struck around her seventeenth birthday. Creditors demanded payment for her family’s house, payment far in excess of their meager earnings. Her parents were prepared to abandon their home, but a fiendling offered to settle the debt. Such a being was not a common sight in Vencollis, and Imp was wary about his dubious intentions. A year passed in relative peace before the fiendling returned to claim his due. As she did not sign the contract, Imp was spared, but her parents were dragged away as property of the fiendling, leaving her abandoned and alone in the city.
She was scarcely old enough to be considered an adult, but she was undeterred from making a successful life on her own. She capitalized on her exceptional hunting skills by finding work as a mercenary. The majority of her jobs saw her defending merchant caravans to and from Ardor. Most clients did not feel adequately defended by a bow and daggers alone, so she trained in a variety of war implements until she felt prepared for any encounter. For every weapon she learned, a fatal weakness was discovered, leading her to master a new one to cover for the prior’s deficiencies. This cycle continued until she became intimately familiar with every conventional murderous weapon in circulation.
Swords were the obvious first step. They were light and easy to swing, but they lacked range, and a mounted combatant could easily outmaneuver them. Naturally a polearm excelled at anti-cavalry combat, but the cumbersome length made it ill-suited for encounters in tight corridors and heavily armored opponents. Her favorite weapon became the hand-axe. It shared the light weight and maneuverability of a sword, but with enough heft to cleave into armor. Moreover, she delighted in using the hooked crevice between the head and haft to grapple the shafts of lances, completely disarming some foes.
As she spent several years under mercenary employ, her love for combat grew. She found herself wishing her charge would come under attack, just so she would have the chance to display her unparalleled skill. These desires festered to the point of bloodlust. Oftentimes she would lose her sense of self in the heat of battle, giving control of her senses over to some ravenous destructive force that yearned for victory and glory in the most gruesome manner. The tranquility of mind she would achieve during this red haze was the only time in which she felt peace from the ever-present guilt of losing her parents.
I need to be stronger. I need to be relied on. I need to root out the evil.
These thoughts repeated themselves in her mind when she would enter her battle trance, and these same thoughts echoed in the back of her psyche as the moon rose over the forest while she frantically searched for her companions.
Imp was confident that Renzen would be able to handle any dangers that might present themselves on the road, but she did not share the same faith in Kelek. His magic prowess was impressive, sure, but his general savviness left much to be desired. Worse, she had no inkling as to where they left. Neither of them indicated a destination, and Kelek’s mental state was worrisome. After nearly two hours of panicked searching, Imp spotted the telltale glow of a campfire peering between trees.
She approached the clearing with quiet steps and a readied dagger; she was no stranger to the perils of interacting with unknown parties at night. When she got close enough to observe the small camp’s inhabitants, she hid behind a tree and listened to the unfamiliar voices as they conversed over a meal.
“Nah, don’t think we’ll see anymore for at least a week. Cargo runs from Ardor only head up at the start of the month. With Barkroot burned to the ground they’ll have to stop in Tynemouth, meaning they’ll either be packing extra provisions or be missing a day’s meal by the time they reach it. Either way, a few miles south of town is where we’d rather be.”
The man’s voice had the seasoned roughness of middle age, and there was clear thought behind his words. A female voice replied to his remarks.
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“If we’ve got that long, may as well stop by Vencollis. Might be able to round up a wizard or two.”
“And what, keep ‘em fed and tied up for days while we wait for a caravan? Come on, use your brain. Any worthwhile mage would be far too much trouble to keep held down that long. No, leave the kidnapping to the others. The commission ain’t worth the risk.”
Imp tightened the grip on her dagger as she heard the crunching of leaf litter. Someone was approaching from behind her. Before she could process the nature of the intruder, she darted toward the source of the sound.
“Wha- ah!” The man yelped as Imp pounced on him.
The pair tumbled into the leaves for a few paces before she asserted herself on top of him, hand over his mouth and dagger pressed to his jugular. Clearly taking notice of the commotion, the masculine voice from the camp called out.
“George? Everything alright?”
Imp could see the gleam of terror in her captive’s eyes from the dim firelight that eked through the trees. He emitted several plaintive moans from beneath her fingers, but his cries were barely audible.
Shit! Imp thought as she scoured her mind for a solution.
“Oi, George!” The man called out louder.
Hoping that these bandits had a stronger sense of camaraderie than the ones from Tule, Imp lifted the man and advanced toward the camp, dagger still firmly pressed to his throat.
“Whoa there, easy miss. No need for violence.” The man said, his arms in the air in a passive motion. “Why don’t you let our friend go and we all just go about our night, eh?”
Imp was pleased with the man’s relatively peaceful disposition. A compassionate man was one that could be manipulated.
“I’m looking for some people. You’re kidnappers, don’t try to deny it.” She said, motioning with her nose toward the black and red fist sewn into their gambesons. “An elf and a man with a purple shirt. Where have you taken them?”
The woman replied, her voice breaking from anxiety and adrenaline.
“We haven’t seen anyone like that, we swear! We’ve only just got here last night, just a few shakedowns, no abductions!”
“It’s true.” The other bandit added. “There’s some other groups around here that showed up after the Barkroot fire, I can’t speak for them, but we haven’t seen them. I’m sorry. We mean you no-“
“Quiet!” Imp spat “I heard you talking, where are they holding Harnessers? You made a good point that it’s too dangerous just to hogtie and hold on to them.”
“I have no idea ma’am. Greith sends word when he is coming to round up captives, but I don’t know where the others keep them.”
The man in Imp’s clutches began to squirm. She drove the dagger’s point a hair’s breadth into his neck, eliciting a small trickle of ruby tears. The man whimpered and slowly raised a hand upward, trying his best to glance at Imp. Hesitantly, she removed her fingers covering his mouth.
“I-I heard…That sometimes they… use g-goblins.” He said, mustering every ounce of composure he had left.
“Goblins?” Imp replied, incredulously.
The man stammered an affirmative. She looked to the other bandits with a quizzical face for further explanation.
“I know the hills south of Barkroot has a lot of them. They probably have some sort of, I don’t know, goblin town or something around there? They have to live somewhere, right?” The woman answered, desperate to satisfy Imp’s demands.
“Yeah, th-that’s what I ‘eard. They pay ‘em to throw the people in holdin’ cells. Then Greith’ll come round ‘em up. I don’t know what he does with ‘em after, I swear!” Imp’s hostage muttered.
She thought back to the goblins that ambushed then a few days prior. Their words made sense, but she was having difficulty genuinely trusting them.
“Please miss, let our friend go. We promise we won’t pursue you or say a word. We can all just pretend this didn’t happen. We’ve told you everything we know.” The calm man pleaded again.
Imp’s thoughts raced. Could she take these bandits at their word? Her vision began to blur. What if Renzen and Kelek were fine and she was worrying about nothing? Her breath quickened as she hyperventilated. What if they were being sold into slavery? She closed her eyes. A quiet moment passed. Then another. She took a long, deep breath and regained her composure.
She opened her eyes and wiped the streak of blood from her vision. Her forehead stung from a deep gouge the ran an inch above her left eye. Blood steadily flowed from the wound, running along the first of the three claw-mark scars that decorated her face. She knelt down and removed her hand axe from the bandit woman’s chest. The motion ached another newfound wound, a dagger embedded in her right thigh.
She removed the knife through gritted teeth and fetched a thick poultice from her satchel. It was far from the first time she had treated such a wound, and she was thankful for her family’s knowledge of medicinal slaves. She looked about the campsite and found her dagger sheathed in the hostage’s neck. After retrieving her weapon, she spotted the last man crawling in the direction of the main road, his back punctured with several arrows. She followed the thick trail of blood he left as he tried to escape and stood in his path.
He looked up at her, face contorted in fear as gasps of terror fled his throat. He double backed and crawled toward the campsite, his legs limply dragging behind him. Imp rubbed the bleeding slash on her forehead and let out a small groan of displeasure. She strode behind him and hefted her sword.
“I’m sorry. You seem to be too honest of a man for this profession.” She said, her words cold and biting.
The man did not have a chance to reply before his head was cleaved from his shoulders, ending his misery. Imp cleaned her weapons and tended her most pressing wounds. Dressing a bandage around her forehead, she first wetted her fingertips at the edge of the gouge. She stared at her dark reflection in the bead of crimson fluid for a moment before toughing it to her lips and tasting it. It was strong and sour and she bit her lip as the corners of her mouth curled into a smile and tears streamed down her face.