CHAPTER 4:

The first week of traveling was surprisingly pleasant. Well, pleasant might not be the right word, but compared to what everyone was expecting, it went very well. The caravan would spend the day traveling using natural paths, stopping to chop, cut and rinse when the thicket became too thick. They weren’t moving quickly by any means; the foliage would be obstructing even for a single traveler, let alone their entire ensemble, but they were making progress, and managed to keep on schedule. The plan was to travel for about a week and a half, then stop at a small human village named Ichorsville. The fact that such a place existed surprised the adventurers, but there were actually a dozen villages or so scattered all around the great woods, or so their inhabitants claimed. How exactly they eked out lives here was beyond anyone at the caravan.

The journey wasn’t entirely without difficulty, of course. Food was scarcely found, and though Edric had packed plenty, it was still loosely rationed. Water, meanwhile, needed to be acquired in the network of rivers that permeated the forest, often entailing long trips to refill their skins. The real danger, however, came not from lack of necessities, but from the environment itself, and from those who inhabited it.

The first time such an event occurred, a lone merchant had been struck by independence, and was attempting to circumvent a nasty blockade of boulders and thorns that the others were going through. This, alas, only put him face to face with a wolf. Meager and desperate, it came with fangs bared, perhaps also separated from the pack. However, despite being of considerable size, it wasn’t particularly dangerous. None of the adventurers even had time to help before Edric’s other bodyguards fended it off with a few thrusts from their spears, the merchant escaping with only a bitten arm.

Such frenzied animals, jittery and scuffed as if driven mad, were a common occurrence. Thankfully, few attacked, but even when there were only twisted trees and entangling bushes, relaxing was ill-advised. Some of the caravaneers would swear that roots or branches reached for their throats in the corners of their vision, but upon turning, there was always nothing. Strange indeed, but it wasn’t the oddest of the land’s frights. That happened on an early morning at a small lake. Having set up camp there the night before, the caravan’s carpenter, bored or seeking to avoid busywork, was wandering the water’s shores. According to his recount, he’d stumbled across several piles of rats, mice, and other gnawing creatures, lying near the yellow reeds. All of them had been unmoving, still as the grave. A blink later, however, and they were on their ant-numbered feet, scurrying straight at the poor woodworker. What was surprising was that they congregated, rather than scattering. They moved as a unit, crawling on top of each other. Screaming and horrified he’d run back to the caravan as this swarm bit him in the legs and tried to climb into his garb. It took significant amounts of spearing, kicking and panicking to kill enough of them that they spread back out and withdrew into the woods. The story was retold many times to exemplify the dangers of walking alone, especially by the carpenter himself. His version promised the creatures had elongated teeth and red eyes.

Terror-inducing though it may be, the rodent pack was another encounter that the adventurers didn’t need to intervene in. In fact, their role contained far less fighting than they’d initially imagined. That’s not to say they were useless, of course, each found their own way of contributing to safety and expeditiousness. When dusk approached, Raven and several other scouts would seek out a glade or other open space nearby, where the caravan would bring up large tents and spend the night. Raven turned out to be useful in quite a few ways, actually. Aside from being an excellent pathfinder, she was a skilled scavenger and tracker, managing to find what little nutrition the Pitchwoods had to offer. As their salted rations of meat were monotonous and dry, the variation she brought became one of the few joys the caravan experienced. She could’ve even been well liked, but mostly kept to herself as she trailblazed, with Moria as her only companion. Aki and Caeli weren’t nearly as used to wilderness survival, but made themselves useful with their magic. Caeli was capable of creating small bolts of flame, which were excellent for lighting campfires. Her elven eyes could also see in the darkness, allowing her to pierce hard-to-navigate sections. Aki, on the other hand, specialized in destroying larger obstacles. Able to send forth a very loud, thunderous shockwave, he could blast away swaths of overgrowth with little effort. Another vital contribution was his excellent music, which he would often play during the evenings, when everyone was gathered around the campfires. He quickly made friends with nearly everyone, and kept morale high, a duty shared with Derrik. The mighty axman’s boisterous attitude was excellent at reinvigorating, even when the odds felt bleak. He hacked away tirelessly at bushes, branches, and brambles, pushed large rocks or other obstacles out of the way, generally helping out with physical labor. He even tended to the horses, as he proved surprisingly good at handling animals.

All in all, the caravan was completely fine, an outcome nobody had expected. However, it was a state that wasn’t meant to last.

Trouble came upon a fateful evening. The caravan had prepared for nighttime in a small grove, placing their cloth-roofed tents and wagons haphazardly. From the former, one could already hear snoring, Caeli’s included. Next to the latter, Derrik and Aki were sitting around a campfire, together with a few of the hired bodyguards who would be serving the night shift. Although, in the end, it would be Raven who discovered the threat to the stillness.

The ranger had just come back from reconnaissance, something she took very seriously. Others had difficulties navigating in the dim moonlight, but Raven was used to such conditions, allowing her to work late in the evenings. She had, just now, identified a promising trail which the caravan could use in the morning to continue traveling for at least another day or two, with only a few minor roadblocks along it. Nothing Derrik couldn’t handle; she thought as she went to cozy down inside a bush. (Well, cozy and cozy, bushes in the forest weren’t particularly comfortable, but Raven hated sleeping in the tents with so many people around her.) However, as she was on her way, she suddenly noticed Moria speeding towards her, a soft growl leaving the panther’s jaw.

“What is it, old girl?” Raven crouched down to pet her companion.

Though the two of them were unable to speak per say, they understood each other well, simply through instinct. Though such ability was fairly redundant here. Anyone with basic understanding of animal behavior would know that Moria felt threatened.

Well, that’s concerning. Raven looked around camp, then peered into the forest, but saw nothing at either location. It could simply be a reaction to some monsters deeper in, but there was no guarantee said monsters weren’t approaching. She weighed her options for a moment, before deciding on an esoteric course of action. It wouldn’t help against the beasts they’d faced so far, but it also wouldn’t take very long, and she still remembered the other thing that had threatened Edric. Sitting down cross legged, she tuned out the last jolly cheers from the central campfire, and began a sort of meditation.

Raven, too, possessed a degree of magic. She wasn’t nearly as skilled a caster as Aki or Caeli, but she could perform a few tricks. Her magic was specialized. The others might be able to wield light, energy, or change their shapes, but she could manipulate nature. The trees, stones, and the very earth under her feet had a collective consciousness; not one that was thinking and feeling, but one that was spiritual and dormant. As she lulled herself into trance, she attuned to the land, linked with this consciousness. Then, with a little magical coaxing, its invisible feelers become part of who she was. She couldn’t see, hear or smell per say, but regardless, she could sense everything around her, roughly five miles outward. The vastness, soothing and glorious, could in theory be used to locate anything. Alas, it wasn’t quite so simple. In reality, the land’s ability to differentiate one thing from another relied on using the meditator as a reference point, meaning that it could only locate things they had a deep understanding of. In Raven’s case, that was humanoids: humans, dwarves, elves and all other such races who were self-conscious and walked on two legs. The reason for this was, mostly, due to herself counting among their number, but it was also because she’d studied the imprints their presence left within the wilderness. It had been part of her training, for her work demanded she knew how to best sneak around them, trick them, and where to shoot them for maximum effect. Alas, Raven lacked the skill to reliably find anything else. Her peers at the Gray Bandits’ Guild could locate all sorts of beings, including natural animals, unnatural aberrations, and even dragons.

What all of this meant in practice was that, after spending a minute in concentration, Raven knew that they were not alone. Besides the caravan, there were two distinct groups roaming the forest. One was composed of twenty-two elves.

This wasn’t actually a surprise, but it was still interesting to get confirmation of their existence. Farmers living on the outskirts of the Pitchwoods had long been reporting slender, pointy-eared people moving about in the forest, seemingly hunting or scavenging. Still, next to nothing was publicly known about this isolated culture, so their role was yet to be seen. For now, they were a safe distance away from camp, and didn’t trouble Raven overmuch.

The second group was far more concerning. It consisted of thirty-one humanoids, most of them actual humans, though there were a few dwarves among them too. Raven couldn't know with certainty what they were doing in the Pitchwoods, though she had her guesses. This was no time for ruminating, however, for the group was less than a mile away from camp, and rapidly closing the distance.

Alarmed, Raven returned to normalcy and hurried to the dying campfire, where the still unsnoring adventurers sat.

“Guys, pick yourselves up! There’s a group of humanoids rapidly moving this way, they’ll be here soon!” She tried her best to convey the weight of the situation.

“What?” Aki rose with a jolt, “how many? What do they want? From which direction?”

“No time to explain!” Raven replied, “get ready, they could be hostile!”

Changing direction, she headed for Edric’s tent, which was south of the central wagon. Really, the incomers might just be a hunting party from one of the villages, but it was suspicious that they were approaching from the same direction as the caravan had. Like they’d followed them into the Pitchwoods. Raven could only think of one organization that would do such a thing.

At her violent entrance, the merchant leader awoke with a scream that would make a five-year-old envious.

“What is the meaning of this?” He stared at Raven, highly confused.

“There's another group of travelers quickly approaching camp. They could be enemies. What should we do?”

“But… what…? This is madness!” Edric shifted about frantically as the grog of sleep cleared.

“You’re the leader of the caravan! What’s our plan of action?”

“Plan? I… uhh… well, fix it! Yes, I hired you to solve problems, go do your job!”

The merchants weren’t the only people waking up around camp. Derrik was quick to react, grasping the situation almost as soon as Raven told him. He ran into the other tent south of the central wagon, beside Edric’s, and jostled awake as many people as he could. Aki was a little slower on the draw, but after the initial shock had worn off, he hid inside a nearby clump of undergrowth, readying his magic, bamboo flute in hand. Just after he did so, he spotted a recently awoken Caeli.

Assuming the incoming people were indeed enemies, the elf thought that now would be a good time to change. She just needed some privacy, but where? A quick sweep later, the spice-and-cloth-filled interior of a wagon, north of the campfire, offered the service. Within, she dropped the magic camouflaging her, steadied herself from the tumult that always accompanied it, and once more became Walda. Shortsword in hand, she awaited the time to emerge.

Raven, meanwhile, had abandoned her attempts to get Edric to do something, and was back outside, deliberating her next move. She noted that many of the hired bodyguards had gathered together, weapons drawn and ready for action. At least they were doing their jobs. Maybe she should join them? Or should she go into the forest and try to get a clearer view of the incoming force? Or maybe, she could try to climb up on one of the wagons and gain the high ground? Or perhaps...

Her eyes locked onto something. It was just outside the northwestern part of the camp, near the last tent, which Derrik still hadn’t gotten around to waking up. Out of the nighttime stepped a lean, well-groomed man, tightly dressed and lightly armored, almost camouflaging him in the swaddling firelight. He stepped out into the camp with rakish swagger, twirling his thin, flat blade, a sharp-edged rapier. His other hand was empty, but was it imagination, or had a brief flash of lightning come from its palm? Regardless, the previous cacophony went silent. All eyes watched closely. Raven, too, approached, an arrow knocked to her bow. Unfortunately, she was alone, having lost Moria in the chaos.

“Who are you?” She spoke clearly to the interloper, ready to evade at a moment’s notice.

“You dunno who I am? Really? The man had an accent that made it sound like he was perpetually taunting, while simultaneously telling a bad joke. “Gascon’s the name. Master of hounds, brigand supreme, pack leader of the Wardogs.” He continued forward as he announced his arrival, despite Raven clearly aiming at him.

“Don’t go any closer!” Raven made a show of pointing her bow at him, “what do you want?”

Gascon chuckled at this, and tipped his dirt-colored bycocket hat, red feather included. “I go where I please, m’lady. And what I want… is to rob this little caravan pantsless.”

Before anyone could answer, the bandit leader howled, producing a sound frighteningly akin to an actual dog’s. His cry was mimicked by dozen other bandits, all armed to the teeth, who ran into the camp from every direction, having surrounded them out of view during the prior preparations.

In the mess that followed, Gascon practically flew forward, right in the direction of Raven. She fired her arrow, but he’d been ready and twisted sideways, so that it barely missed. Within seconds, the darting blade assailed her, and Raven barely had time to draw her own shortsword to defend. Just as the initial surprise of his assault passed, Gascon’s empty palm flashed again. Before she knew it, he had kicked a stunning amount of dirt, foliage and insects straight in her face. More than what should’ve been possible, as if a sudden gust of wind had assisted him. When her vision cleared, she saw that he was disappearing into the nearby tent, still filled with sleeping caravaneers. He hadn’t bothered to use the entrance, instead electing to slash open a new one in the covering’s side.

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Aki watched the initial clash from the safety of his bushes. Quite the handsome fellow, that Gascon. Too bad he was also a violent outlaw.

Around him, battle raged as the bandits engaged the bodyguards with scimitars and crossbows. His position was near the camp’s center, affording him a good view of the field. A solitary wardog was fighting by the horses to the camp’s southwest, several others were engaging Derrik on the eastern side, and a scrawny one, approaching from the south, had a large sack of… something, swung over his shoulder. Identifying the best target was hard. Gascon was the obvious choice, but being inside a tent, Aki couldn’t see him, thus making him unable to play his magic. Most of his spells relied on sight. Following him in was an option, but that would put the two at close range, and Aki didn’t even bother carrying any actual melee weapons. He was, instead, about to support Derrik when another wardog emerged from the woods, from the same, western direction as Gascon had come from. Aki thought it must be the sister of the massive wardog they had fought in the tavern, for she was certainly as brutish, if not even larger. A shoddily crafted, but destructive-looking maul in hand, she charged the still wiping-off-insects Ray.

Now that’s just not acceptable. Aki blew a few unpleasant, discordant notes on his flute. Sounds could help shape magic, but the tongue could only produce so many. By adding an instrument, it was possible to get a far clearer grasp on it, and Aki was an excellent musician.

The results were immediate and satisfying. The wardog, messy and quite clearly tired after the exasperating woods, had regardless been wearing a joyful expression. The kind of face a child makes after being told they could smash something to a pulp. Her howl, though a poor imitation, had been equally gleeful as she ran in, raising the iron hunk in her hands. But then, something strange happened. Aki felt a sort of interior click as the magic attached, and the wardog stopped. Voices filled her head, a vortex of whispers that assaulted thought and reason. The gleefulness was replaced by a psychic headache, and her battlecry turned into a scream of horror as she dashed back into the woods, desperately trying to escape.

Were it not for the seriousness of the situation and the dark nature of the spell, Aki would’ve giggled to himself. The results were always fun to watch, though this one did drain notably on his magical reserves. He had no time to consider his next target, however, before his attention was grabbed by the unexpected appearance of the black-haired elf from the tavern.

To the bodyguards who gazed in awe, and the unlucky bandits who got in her way, Walda was not fighting, but performing a choreography. Every bit of momentum was conserved, every breath was considered, every slash of her sword vicious. So many times did it seem like a scimitar would cleave her head off, only for it to cut nothing at all, its target having moved with but an inch to spare. Her pulsing rhythm wasn’t the only part of her performance, however, for, despite the madness of battle, she was singing as well. In a language nobody understood, her words echoed across the campsite, the sounds flowing like water, each filled with nuance, though none could discern their meaning. Their effect, however, was all too clear, for the sung spell turned Walda’s body not quite solid. She left afterimages, form shifting and wavering, which, combined with her fascinating movements, made her nearly impossible to hit. Not a single foe out of a dozen managed to strike her as she twirled toward the tent where Gascon had entered.

The inside was lit by lanterns, and the bandit leader was apparently taking the opportunity to extort valuables. A few frightened souls, those unable to escape, had been huddled up into a corner by gleaming steel, made to toss coins and jewelry onto the floor in front of them. Gascon was not so distracted, however, as to not notice Walda’s own entrance.

“Why, hello there! And who might you be?” It was an almost festive cheer with which he gave his greeting.

The dancer didn’t bother answering, and, continuing her song, leaped at him. Their swords clashed, and Gascon was initially forced to backpedal through the quadratic tent. However, Walda discovered that she’d underestimated her opponent’s abilities, for he proved swift and tricky, and his weapon possessed greater range than hers. In short order, he turned the tables and went on the offensive. Of course, Walda was nearly impossible to strike, allowing her to simply wait for an opportunity, which soon arrived. After a few moments of rapid fencing, an overzealous strike caused a drop in his guard, and with a flick, she struck… realizing too late that it was a feint.

“Phew! Aren’t you quite the handful? I’ve had easier times stabbing insects!”

Gascon sent a barrage of thrusts, her dissociated shape barely saving Walda from more than a scratch to the neck. However, he continued his advance relentlessly, eventually managing a sneaky kick that booted her shortsword upward. Her guard, previously weak, was now broken. He followed up with a lethal impale, aimed for the heart, but instead of soft flesh, the tip clashed into something hard. In a flash of yellow, emerging from Walda’s hand, she had manifested a magical shield, a runic circle. The spell was so rapid it was almost instinctual. Gascon staggered back, repelled by the collision, and when their blades met again, they were back on equal footing.

“My my, that’s some shiny magic you’ve got there!” Performing a strange combat pirouette, he generated some distance from Walda, “I bet we could be here a while, trading blows. Alas, I have places to be, so I’ll have to leave you with a trick of my own!” Gascon snapped his fingers, and a brief electric current crackled between them.

A strong, sudden, and incredibly misplaced gust of wind came from the highwayman’s direction, propelling him forward, while catching Walda flat-footed. She lost her enemy as he flew in behind her, felt something against the back of her leg and… met the ground with a thud as Gascon pushed her off balance.

“And with that, m’lady, I must bid you... adieu!”

Gascon tipped his hat and bowed slightly, looking disappointed at the fact the extorted caravaneers had escaped. Then, he slashed a new hole in the tent, and left.

Outside, the initial surprise of the battle had dissipated, leaving heartfelt combat in its stead. Although the Wardogs had surrounded the camp, most had still emerged from the eastern side, opposite of where Gascon came, meaning the most intense action was there. Scimitars met the spear-shield combination of the bodyguards, crossbowmen fired in, and the howlers’ scrawny sack-hauler pulled out a red-hot, glowing glass ball. With a chuck, it went into one of the southern tents, causing an alchemical explosion with an ensuing blaze. Thankfully both had been evacuated, but it was still a blow to the caravaneers’ spirits. Indeed, they were outnumbered, and the bandits were causing destruction as they ran around, mercilessly slaying anyone they got their hands on. It’s quite possible the defenders would’ve turned and fled already, were it not for a single man in the thick of the battle, holding the line, swinging his greataxe like an animal.

Derrik had always been much like a coin. One side was an ale-chugging, back-patting, panther-petting fellow. The other was he who was present, surrounded by enemies, so furious his body was pushed far beyond its limits. Two bandits were slashing at him with scimitars, but their attacks barely seemed to hurt the raging mountain of muscle, who paid them no heed. Rather, he was focused on the apparent triplet of the wardog sister-brutes, this one wielding a wooden branch freshly ripped off a nearby tree. The two swung at each other with reckless abandon, but Derriks’ massive blows, which sent a reeling magnitude with every hit, were proof that he had the upper hand. It didn’t get better when an arrow pierced the shoulder of one of the smaller bandits, and a sleek, black panther followed up, pouncing her claws into him. Raven, reunited with her furry friend, were deadly both in melee and at range.

Aki was one of the few who didn’t join this eastern slugging. After using his psychic whispers again, sending the iron-maul wardog screaming into the forest for the second time, he left his bush to pursue Gascon. Apparently, the master of hounds was unable to use doors like a normal person, as not only did Aki see him cut his way out of the tent, he also sliced himself into the northmost wagon. Clearly he was a raucous fool, but he was a fool who led a group of bandits, and bandits had a tendency to flee when their leaders were defeated. Taking him out was a high priority.

Running over, so that he could pull aside the wagon’s curtains and see Gascon through the not-newly-made entrance, Aki caught his target scanning the goods within. This way, there was a fair bit of distance between the two. That space would allow for some music, before the razor scythed the bamboo.

“Why, hello there sir! Don’t think we’ve met before!” Had there been disappointment in Gascon’s eyes, before he reacted to the new presence? If such was the case, it was gone now.

“You’re lucky fate blessed your face. Otherwise, I’d blast it to bits right about now.” Aki’s spitefulness was genuine, but the rest was also true. Damaging something so pretty would be a shame.

“Thanks,” Gascon made a show of pulling back his hair, “I can’t say the same for your visage, I’m afraid.”

He’s gonna pay for that. Blowing the rapid sequence on his pipe, he shaped another dissonant set of tones. Watching Gascon desperately cut his way out of the wagon and run into the main battle as a thousand bad insults wracked his mind was just as satisfying as Aki thought it would be.

Raven was doing great. She remained unscratched, in spite of attempts to make it otherwise. Those who'd tried lay felled by swordsmanship and arrows. Now, she was firing into the night and flame, wherever aid was needed most.

Moria, on the other hand, was not doing so well. In viciously clawing open another of the bandits which assailed Derrik, the panther had left herself exposed, allowing the burly, thuggish wardog to wind up a smackdown with their tree branch. She had rolled several feet before staying on the ground, her wounds mounting. Derrik was of course planning revenge, and so exchanged blow after blow with the culprit. While his opponent was noticeably weakened compared to the start of the battle, Derrik only seemed to have gotten angrier. The ax nearly cleaved through the wood after a reckless overhead strike, but ended up getting stuck. As they wrestled for control, Moria gathered the last of her strength, took her chance, and leaped onto the wardog, fangs sinking deep into her neck. Unable to hold on, she crashed onto the ground, lifeless. However, the panther followed suit, falling down next to her victim, eyes closed. Derrik didn’t have time to provide help, however, for mere moments later, a certain other bandit showed up.

In his rage, Derrik almost didn’t notice who he was fighting, only that whoever it was proved to be very evasive, and that his blade stung very painfully. It wasn’t until the bandit started talking that he figured out their identity.

“Why, hello there,” the recently recovered Gascon was taking in his surroundings, “Gods, I'm meeting so many new people today! First it was that lady with the bow, then that other lady who insisted on singing while fighting, and then there was that lad who played the flute and filled my head with nonsense! I thought this invasion would be a little sideshow, but how wrong I was!”

“The Name’s Derrik. Nice to meet you! It was less a sentence, more a growl.

“Pleasure to meet you as well. Gascon’s the name, though I suspect you already caught that.”

The two continued to stab and cleave as they spoke. Gascon had to constantly dodge, duck and weave, hard pressed for an opportunity to strike back. It was a deliberate strategy, as defending against the quick blade with the cumbersome greataxe would’ve been no mean feat.

“Woah. You really like swinging that thing around, eh? You could teach some of my dogs a few tricks!”

“I agree. My ax is impressive. Glad you like it!”

A massive swipe from Derrik almost chopped Gascon in half, but it finally gave the bandit leader a chance to turn the fight. With a series of harrying thrusts towards Derrik’s arms, he impeded any movement from the ax, making it nearly impossible for the raging warrior to reinitialize his assault. Ridiculous though it looked, Derrik, try as he might, couldn’t break free of the murder-poking.

“Not too impressive when you can’t use it, wouldn’t you agree?”

“You leave me no choice!”

With those words, Derrik let go of his weapon. It plonked onto the ground. Genuinely surprised, Gascon flat out stopped, giving Derrik all the time he needed to pull from his backpack and slam his foe in the side with a blunter, dirtier kind of armament.

Back at the southwestern side, Walda watched the blasted corpse of a dwarven bandit. Post exiting the previous tent in disgrace, she’d hunted her way around camp, harrying isolated enemies. This one had been occupying himself with releasing the caravan’s horses, so Walda had resorted to magic in order to put a stop to it. The spell had sent out three long, pink projectiles, darts which homed in on the bandit. Upon impact, they sent him flying backwards, scorched by magic. The death didn’t bring the horses back of course, but that wasn’t a particular concern of hers. They could be recaptured. What did worry her was the fact that, between her missiles, the form-altering she had to recast each morning, and the blurring effect, Walda had used quite a lot of magic. If her reserves ran out… No, she’d rather not think about that. Wiping off her blade, she looked for a new target, and spotted a few unarmed caravaneers trying to put out the still-blazing tent.

Right, the scrawny one with the sack. He needs to be taken out. But where was he? Walda got her answer when she saw Ray preparing to shoot at a hulking wardog, (who she was fairly certain had been running around in the woods all battle, hands held as if in a terrible headache) but the archer was forced to dodge out of the way of a small glass orb, filled with clear, icy smoke. When it smashed onto the ground, a cascade of freezing cold emerged, though Ray avoided the worst of it.

The globe had come from between the two southern tents, which meant that Walda needed to get over there, and quickly, before the wardog blew up anything else. The location was just to her right, but one of said tents, Edric’s non-aflame one, was blocking her path. Fortunately, she had a way to bypass it, and avoid losing precious time. Unfortunately, it meant using more magic. Walda mentally prepared herself, then took a single step in the bag-bandit’s direction. In the middle of this step, her quick spell brought her out of reality, past the tent, and rematerialized her on the other side. Only a puff of mist was left behind where she had started, placing her but a few steps from her victim.

“Why, hello there.” She said, doing her best imitation which, while it lacked some oomph, was still an excellent replica. The slim wardog got so spooked he dropped the sack, which, thankfully though surprisingly, didn’t explode.

“You… fight with shovels?” Gascon, on the defensive by virtue of sheer confusion, stared at the enraged yet polite man in front of him.

“YES.” Derrik made several consecutive lunges with his tool, keeping the bandit leader at a distance.

“And I thought I had seen everything today! This reminds me of that one time I was about to get locked away in a prison cell. I’ll never forget the look of that guard when I bonked him with a candelabra!” Gascon waved with his free hand to simulate a man falling to the ground, while using the other to stab for Derrik’s throat.

Around them, the Wardogs were being pushed back. Moria lay unmoving on the ground, joined by half a dozen bodyguards, but the still-fighting defenders were driving off the remaining enemies. The thug with the iron maul, who had finally had a chance to recover, came out of the burning tent, which she had ended up in, somehow.

“It ain’t here boss! I can’t seem to find them!”

“No, of course they’re not there.” Gascon was busy not getting his ribs bludged in while answering. “Not only is that a tent, meaning not used for storage, it’s also on fire. Burning things is not a good way of stealing them!”

The thug was about to answer, but instead began spontaneously laughing. And she didn’t stop. She laughed until he could no longer hold her weapon, stand up, or even breathe. Rolling on the ground, it was a simple enough matter for a shy spearman to walk over and give her a fatal poke. Aki set down his flute. His mental spells were capable of far more than simple terror.

“Well, that’s a shame.” Gascon overlooked the losing bandits, “I liked that one. She would sing to me sometimes.”

“Uhh… I’m sorry for your loss. What exactly are you looking for anyway?” Derrik made a downward swing which would’ve cracked the skull of a troll, had it actually connected.

“Oh, nothing you need worry about.” Gascon countered with a few strikes of his own, which added to Derrik’s grazes, though didn’t really hurt him. “Anyway, it seems like it’s time for us to retreat, so I'll have to bid you adieu for now. We should have a drink sometime though!”

“We should!”

With that, Gascon lifted a small glass sphere of his own, this one filled with gray smoke. As one might guess, said smoke burst outward upon the orb’s subsequent crash into the ground, providing convenient cover for Gascon to escape through as he ran back into the forest. The surviving wardogs soon followed suit, vacating the camp posthaste.