[center][img]http://fengzhudesign.com/images/gallery_image_451.jpg[/img] [h3]Chapter 1 - Part II[/h3][/center] Everyone moves in the frenzied tempo of a costly operation running behind schedule. The hired hands of Hemming’s people shift the crates hurriedly into the wagon beds, securing them with lengths of rope and calling out inventory to a young woman carrying parchments flattened against a thin tablet of wood. Her auburn hair is braided into an updo that cascades down into a low chignon, and her fine clothes are immaculate, proper. She moves from cart to cart in a brisk, calculated gait, double-checking every crate and parcel. Chests, packages, barrels, baskets - she seems to have her eyes on everything and everyone; more than once you notice her looking over towards your group, though she does not approach. A few more members of the White Guard approach the scene from behind you, briefly joining your party. “You think she’s taking inventory of us, eh?” jokes the guardsmen, Darl Sison, a Belencrest native with a copper beard and gleaming bald head. “Wouldn’t mind being a tick off her list.” “Ugh,” cuts in Aikka. “You’re nauseating.” She rests her spear against her shoulder, sweeping back her raven black curls from her freckled face, twisting them behind her into a tousled bun. “Though in truth,” she adds, her emerald eyes following Sison’s gaze, “neither would I.” “Ho-ho, you think she prefers [i]your[/i] type to me?” Darl challenges, incredulous. Aikka’s lips curl into smirk. “They always do, Sison.” Some of the other guard laugh as Sison’s face turns pink. “Twice isn’t [i]always[/i],” he grumbles to himself. One of the officers orders you all to make your way down to the caravan to load your gear, informing you that the last wagon in the caravan is reserved for your company. Though the limited storage only provides enough room for your group's equipment, a bench at the back of the wagon might allow enough space for a few to sit and rest while the others march. It seems there are no horses for the Guard other than those hitched to the wagon, a realization that leads some of the guardsmen to quietly complain amongst themselves. Other members of the White Guard have decided to help with the packing: Belencrest locals Marten Url and Olsen; the chulregs Jardai and Obadashet Tun; and perhaps most conspicuous of them all, Burata Oong. Though his aquamarine fur, amber eyes and towering frame visibly discomforts some of the workers at first, their apprehension quickly dissolves into gratitude when they witness the aaula lifting a massive armload into one wagon bed that would have required four others. It isn’t long before the last of the cargo is loaded and accounted for. When a foreman shouts out a count, the auburn-haired woman briefly confers with Hemming. He nods and disappears within the opulent carriage, which you notice remains curiously unyoked from any beast. [color=66FF33]A dim, pink glow emanates from somewhere within the frame.[/color] A driver climbs on top of the carriage and begins pulling and twisting a dozen curious golden levers that sprout out of the flooring at odd angles. Moments later, the carriage seems to shudder into life, creaking slowly forward. A few Belencrest urchins who have gathered by the street corner to watch begin to point and shout excitedly to each other at the marvel of it. Finally, an hour since you first arrived in the city square this morning, the caravan passes through the Westgate and into the open country. --- The Western Way leading out of Belencrest makes for pleasant travel. Farmland stretches out every direction in gentle undulations. To the far north, visible just beyond the green foothills lapping against the horizon are the Andasse Mountains, appearing through the distant haze as violet ghosts. Built upon a reconstructed ancient Caiteran highway, the Western Way connects several cities of the Verloren inland with the Althaus ocean, and as such is a thriving conduit for trade and travel. Indeed, you pass by several merchants and traders along the way. While the horseless, living carriage draws stares, your morning is otherwise uneventful. Few fear to travel the Western Way, for every mile of the road lies within the presence the emerald watchtowers, erected at intervals just a few hundred yards distance from the road. Manned by the sentinels of Ru, it is said that not even the shadows lies outside their vision, and that at the first sign of danger a contingent of the king’s footmen will be called to bear down upon any who threaten the safety of Verloren travelers. For miles, the persistent sounds of travel serenade you; the clack of wagon wheels and horseshoes clicking on stones; the squeaking of axles and stretching leather harnesses; the jingling chainmail and horse reins; the idle singing of songs both familiar and foreign. --- Hours later, the caravan veers left at a junction on the Western Way, the smooth stone of the Caiteran highway giving way to the uneven, packed earth of a south western road that leads towards the Cossler borders. The trees that line the road begin to grow more dense, the rise and fall of the terrain more dramatic. It isn’t long before even the watchtowers are hidden from view. Another hour passes as you make your way through the wooded road, when rounding a bend, you find yourselves unable to move forward, as several trees have fallen over across the path, blocking the way forward. Though perhaps this was a natural occurrence, most of you recognize a common trick bandits employ to stage ambushes when you see one. As a few work to move the trees off the road, the rest position themselves defensively around the caravan, keeping watchful eyes on the surrounding area for any signs of movement within the foliage. Minutes pass slowly as the trees are removed, one by one. The surrounding forest is quiet, ominous, inscrutable. When the way is finally cleared without incident, the caravan resumes its pace, and a palpable unease begins to spread amongst Hemming’s men and a few of the Guard. You hear them speaking amongst themselves: Maybe it [i]was[/i] a natural accident, or maybe the bandits who set this trap were not here to see it sprung, or maybe they were wise enough to allow this group with two dozen armed soldiers pass unmolested. --- When the sun reaches its zenith, the caravan comes to a stop in a small clearing by the road beside a gentle stream. The horses are released from their harnesses and allowed to rest and cool themselves. Sidling beside them, the great obi laps the chilled stream water with its paddle-sized tongue. Some of the men and women of the caravan begin to distribute food – nuts, dried fruits, vegetables, cured meats – until everyone has had their fill. Some stretch their legs and ease their aching muscles, while others sprawl out in the grass by the stream. “Excuse my intrusion,” says a voice in the gentle, exotic accent of the southern islands. Emerging from behind a wagon is the woman with the auburn hair. “My name is Gisele Margot, steward to master Hemming. If I may speak with you for a moment,” she ask hesitantly, her voice dropping into a hushed tone. “I do not know what it is that Gaivus has told you or your superiors, and as such I am loathe to speak in this manner so… Surreptitious. But I fear that Gaivus underestimates, or perhaps even deliberately ignores whatever power it is that moves against us,” she says, a look of concern passing over her face. “I believe we are in danger. What you may not know is that two attempts have been made on Gaivus’s life since we first undertook this journey several weeks ago,” she says, glancing furtively over her shoulder as some of the servants lead a couple horses back the wagons. “And I am unable to ignore the feeling of dread gnawing at my heart that it will happen again.”