Thankfully that had not been her fate, her elven born agility and poise saving her. She shot Markas a look of pure venom, masking the flush of fear. In her mind she felt like she was actually falling. Were her tremors borne of terror or anger? Likely both, she realised.
For his part Markas shot her a half apologetic look and a shrug. Markas Weiss was a boorish man of few words which suited her just fine. The man was a dullard anyway and they were here for money not conversation.
The company consisted of her, Markas, a mercurial old warrior who had only ever been known as Wulf and at the rear of the group, Vasilya, a young quiet mage dressed in flowing robes that were entirely impractical for their current endeavour.
And that endeavour was treasure. Responding to a tip from one of Wulf’s many dubious associates, they now found themselves in North Arbora traversing the gully that lead to the Manse de Poulian. The manse was now long abandoned and decrepit but if their source was to be believed, it was also the resting place of a hidden sizable cache of valuables, the ill gotten gains of a band of brigands who’s despicable deeds had finally caught up with them in a very terminal way. She only hoped that the information was worth the price they had paid, their last two leads had been less than lucrative.
****
“It was Burgetts lots base you see” the scrawny individual who had only identified himself as ‘Red’ had explained, between swigs of Golden Best. Of course anything served in the Tattered Fox was far from the best of anything but it did taste slightly better than the urine it so strongly resembled. That night the inn was full of heady aromas and bawdy banter, all the better to conduct clandestine conversations. The attendees of this impromptu meeting were well used to tuning out the background activities of the Tattered Fox and Wulf bade ‘Red’ continue with a curt gesture.
“Yep, Burgetts lot” the informant continued, his reddish mop hung lank and filthy round his temples, framing what seemed to be a permanent scowl. Every now and then his head jerked involuntarily, doubtless the mark of some substance abuse. The tic sent drops of sweat flying with every motion and Yarlae surreptitiously covered her drink with her hand.
“They had quite the stash from what I understand, ‘course that lot committed many a misdeed over the years as you well know”, he shot a knowing look at Wulf and drained his pint. Wulf grunted noncommittally and gestured for a serving wench to bring another round.
“And then of course they were bought low at Halgen’s Hill, the whole sorry lot of them, and all that loot has been just waiting there, at their hideout. Hidden away I've no doubt but I imagine it’s well worth a look at any rate. Just so happens I have the key to the tower where it’s held, taken off Burgett’s very corpse no less! Yours for the right price, if you’re interested that is'', he added, with a sly look. He spasmed again, thankfully before accepting his drink from the maid. He took a long draught from the stein, spilling ale down his front as he jerked uncontrollably once again. He wiped the foam from his lips with the back of his hand and waited expectantly.
Markas stopped picking his teeth with a dirk, planting the blade point down in the dark oak table before sneering unpleasantly.
“An’ why you not gone after this great prize yourself eh?” his rasping voice low and spiteful. “Seems just too good to be true, lest you trying to trick us? Eh?” He jerked the dirk from the table top, waving it accusingly.
Red lowered his half empty stein to the table and raised his hands placatingly. He was missing half his ring finger on his left hand Yarlae noticed. No doubt there was some grim story to be told there, she idly mused.
“Do I look like an adventurer, friend?” he retorted. “I’m not like to go off into the mountains on my own, treasure or no treasure. I’m no warrior, as you can plainly see, I'd not last a minute in a fight. No, no I'm not capable of this task, you mark my words, but you lot…” He lowered his hands, reaching for his drink again. “Besides” he added, with a sideways glance, “I only came into possession of the key and the location of the hideout recently didn’t I?”
Something about the way that he said ‘possession’ jolted Yarlae from her half-reverie. A warrior he most certainly was not but she could imagine him quite capable of a cowardly murder, skulking in the shadows. For her part she believed the man's tale, Wulf wasn’t the kind of man you deceived, not unless you had a death wish.
Negotiations had been made, more alcohol quaffed and coin parted with. The unkempt informant had stuffed his gains into a torn and stained jerkin before slinking off into the night, a wretch returning to his natural habitat.
Now Wulf stood, his face impassive, the key hanging from his belt, his warhammer slung over one shoulder. A two handed weapon, Wulf swung it with a disciplined, practised, ease such that Yarlae suspected him to be a Knight of the Realm. Still, they didn't talk of such things. They didn't really talk at all, strictly business, always.
It had taken a week to reach Blackvale. The nearest town to Manse De Poulain, Blackvale was nearly desolate, not uncommon in Arbora where predation from ghouls and worse could ravage populations. The people who were still there were sullen, drawn, but they had been able to provide some accommodation and supplies. When pressed about the nearby Manse they had only said it was a place of horrors. Monsters dwelled within, they said. No one went near the place. Yarlae had been glad to leave the bleak location, though the road ahead was no less inhospitable. Rising above the dark forests of Arbora, their winding path took them into the hills. Through treacherous crags and climbs they had journeyed and now the more dangerous terrain lay behind them. There was now but a short ascent before them to the manse above. They would be there soon.
“Take point” Wulf said to Yarlae, with the natural authority that had made him de facto leader of the company and once again belied his probable military background. Much about him fit that assumption Yarlae realised, from his neat grey beard to the immaculate condition of his armour and weapon. She moved swiftly to the head of the group, shooting Markas a dirty look as she passed. She received a nasty sneer in return though she didn’t see it. Unslinging her bow, she adopted a low crouch and drew an arrow.
“Use those half elven eyes of yours” Wulf instructed. “Scout ahead, thirty feet, we’ll follow. Come back once you have checked the path ahead and the gate.” He held up a hand, signalling those behind him. The brigand and mage drew to a halt. Vasilya looked around nervously whilst Markas took the opportunity to scrape filth from his boots with his blade, proceeding to wipe the blade clean on his trousers.
Yarlae moved off quickly, even crouched; she moved almost as fast as her normal gait; there was a smoothness and elegance to her motion, a boon of her mongrel heritage, as were her preternatural senses. She was the company’s scout, seeing dangers and foes long before her cohorts. She had never known her father. He had been absent at her birth and ever since. Her mother had refused to speak of him, and the look on her face, the rare occasion that Yarlae might broach the subject combined with the scars that marked her, suggested that her conception had been far from a loving affair. Yarlae soon learned to stop asking.
Her mother was taken from her on her 13th Birthday. A simple black fletched arrow through her throat, a simple and swift death that went unnoticed and unremarked. Yarlae had been on her own ever since and had ever since been doing whatever she needed to survive, no matter how unpleasant.
She caught herself again. She had a tendency to drift, often at inopportune times. Sometimes she even fancied she could see things that hadn’t happened yet, Though she couldn’t do it on command. It came unbidden, uncalled, premonitions through daydreams. They didn’t always come true, but often she would find her mind slipping, imagining future events that would then sometimes come to pass. Always minor, and often dismissable as coincidence. Was it just a personality trait? Or another mark of her mixed blood? Either way, it irritated her, almost as much as her ears, too misshapen to be human yet lacking the natural elegance and point of the fey folk.
Still, those ears had their advantages and she strained them now to hear any activity ahead as she neared the outer walls of the Manse. Nothing. Her acute vision also betrayed no presence. Stayed for a moment, scanning the building, picking out points of interest and checking for any sounds or movement, but there was only silence. Happy enough that she was alone she carried out a quick but thorough close inspection of the gate and wall, noting a possible point of ingress. She looked back behind her, true to his word Wulf and the remainder of the company were about thirty feet behind. They would be hidden to most but Yarlae picked them out with little difficulty. She made her way back down the slope, rejoining them;
“Nothing, '' she confirmed. “It’s quiet as the grave up there. The main gate is barred but there is a small door higher up above the wall that we should be able to reach with that.” she pointed at the coiled rope at Markas’s waist. The main tower seems to be at the back of the complex, I couldn't see if it was easily reachable from outside. I imagine we’ll be able to determine that from the top of the wall.”
Wulf nodded. “Let's get to it then”.
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