Gaivus looks on with mouth agape as the bow and weathered clothes are placed in his hands. He raises his eyes to meet Djonn’s, searching for any hint of irony. Finding none, he offers a forced, acquiescent nod.

“As we are for the moment pressed for time, I will comply with your, ah, [i]precautions[/i],” he says, unenthused. “For now. When we arrive tonight at our destination, however, I would [i]very[/i] much like to discuss with you alternatives for the remainder of this journey.” He gives the rumpled surcoat a tentative sniff, twisting his face into a sour expression. “Alternatives,” he repeats, “that are agreeable to [i]both[/i] parties.”


[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/dhY2v2d.jpg[/img]
[h3]Chapter 2 - Part I[/h3][/center]

The mood has changed. 

Where before most in the caravan had simply been carrying on, going through the motions of a routine operation, a fresh sense of apprehension seems to hum from every corner. By now Gisele’s warning has spread to every man and woman, carrying with it a sense of palpable foreboding. 

The commanding officer of the White Guard, as if by instinct, rapidly formulates a plan, relaying his orders with immediacy and precision. With clear instructions, some of the more nervous members seem to ease into their duties with a renewed focus on the task at hand, rather than the numerous and diverse bedevilments conjured by their imaginations. The frontline fighters of the guard fan out along the perimeter, while the archers and crossbowmen ride alongside the wagon drivers. The lessir, Silhainlé, nimblest and quickest of the guardsman, moves forward to scout the road slightly ahead, careful to remain always within sight of Adele’s amplified vision. Adele herself, perched atop Gaivus’s personal carriage, carrying her curious cannon, scans in every direction for any sign of peril. 

[color=FF66CC][h3]Adele[/h3][/color]
To your enhanced eyes, the only activity there seems to be is the swooping of starlings and the occasional squirrel. The driver, an older, sharply dressed man wearing a bowler and riding gloves, seems glad of the company and starts telling you stories about all sorts of famous people he has driven around Verloren in his career. As he goes on, you witness up close the dizzying sequence of cranks and levers the carriage requires to start, noting that once in motion the only further manipulations the driver makes are adjustments in the direction of the carriage’s forward motion. 

[color=FF3333][h3]Rook[/h3][/color]
The interior of the carriage is luxurious, perhaps even more than the outside.

The woodwork within is masterful. Rich and intricate crown molding line the corners; soft lush seat cushions fill either bench; pleasant, relaxing scents fill the cabin; and the carpeted floor on your slippered feet---one of the conditions on allowing you to enter was trading your boots for clean slippers---is a welcome surprise after a day’s walk on the hard earth.

You notice a small steel pitcher sitting on top of one of two gold plates built into a counter top, latticed with a strange patterns and set within grooves that appear to be designed to overlap one another. You notice a handle connected to the second plate, and use it to slide the second plate underneath the first. Within moments, heat begins to emanate from underneath the pitcher. You recognize that when combined, the two gold plates create the familiar hatch-work for heating.

The cabinets have a few bottles of liquor and wine, a box of tobacco, and what seems to be a jar full of tea leaves. Tucked behind the tea you notice a few opened envelopes. Without touching them, you can see that the outermost envelope is addressed to Gaivus Hemming. 

[color=8585AD][h3]Marcel[/h3][/color]
You and Gaivus sit together towards the back of the caravan at the front of one of the covered wagons. A driver named Bhirit sits between you, clearly apprehensive at the prospect of sharing her personal space with both her boss and, well, you. For a time, the clopping horse hooves and rattling wagons are the only sounds to perforate the awkward silence. Though the simple tedium of travel eventually lulls Bhirit into unconsciously returning to her natural behavior, clearing her throat and hocking the juice down into the dirt. As she draws her sleeve across her mouth, you notice Hemming with eyes wide in silent horror. 
 
After that, Gaivus moves from the driver seat back into the wagon bed to sit with Gisele, who sorts through an intimidating stack of parchments. “Miss Margot,” Gaivus says, “Have I become nose-blind, or have these clothes somehow lost their stale, tenacious odor?” 

A smile dares to bloom on her face for a moment, but quickly evaporates as if something terrible was just remembered. “I’m…” she starts, eyes downcast. “I apologize for overstepping my bounds, sir.”

Gaivus exhales slowly and smiles at her tightly. “We’ll fret over that later. For now, let’s just focus on our plans after arriving in Paolou. Agreed?” Gisele replies with a feint, tentative smile. Her eyes return to her work, though you happen to notice periodically they flick from her papers up to you, only to quickly return back to her scripts. 

A smile begins to tease across Hemming’s face.

"So, eh, Marcel is it?” he begins in a jovial tone. “If we’re to be wagon-mates for the remainder of the day, we should get to know each other a little better, no? Did you grow up in Belencrest?" He pauses, waiting for an answer. “What about family?” he adds, a hint of a cheeky grin playing at the corners of his mouth. “A wife, perhaps?” 

[color=00FFFF][h3]Djonn[/h3][/color]
While this hardly your first mission as a ranking officer, many of these recruits are new to the Belencrest outfit and have never served under your command. However, most of them seem to respond to your authority instantly, carrying out your orders with keen efficiency, moving as a single organism. You remain vigilant, listening to the sounds of the forest: songbirds trilling in the trees lining the roadside, a breeze whispering through the leaves, and the near-imperceptible frequencies of insects flooding the space with an orchestra of white noise.  

After many miles, you notice Silhainlé lolloping back towards you from the far front. He moves quickly, far faster than a man can sprint. He comes to a halt right before you, giving you an awkward but sincere salute.

“Sir,” he says, breathing a little harder than normal. “Ahead, the woods recede back into farmland. There’s a big lake on the left, and up ahead I think I can make out a small town.” 

Lake Oáfel. Which means the town must be Cossleton---a small hamlet of farmers, fishermen and artisans who live on the Cossler lands. Just beyond it lies the estate. By your estimation, the Cossler mansion is just an hour further down the road, and, glancing up towards the sun, you determine that the caravan would arrive just after nightfall.

Silhainlé’s left ear perks up quizzically. “Orders, sir?”

[color=CC99FF][h3]Rhona Mór[/h3][/color]
Another day in Belencrest, another day at Finnic’s pub.

The twins, Vinia and Anja, have developed an infatuation for you, and have taken it upon themselves to make Finnic’s a comfortable place as possible for you. Repurposing crude doll furniture, they have constructed a small, private booth for you that their father, Orvil, has allowed them to set at the end of the bar counter. The booth is comprised of a small round table with a table cloth made from a handkerchief, a small glass vial filled with a pinch of wildflowers as a center piece, and a small chair upholstered with felt and down. Orvil, seeing how much you delight his daughters, has had the local blacksmith create a unique funnel that becomes narrow enough to perfectly pour drinks into a small, dimpled thimble, just for you.

The sun has just begun to slip underneath the horizon as the twins traverse the bar to light candles, when a woman with green-gold eyes and olive skin pulls up a stool next to your corner, ordering an ale with a gesture to Orvil. 

“’Ere y’ are, Reau. Good t’ see you,” the brew master says, sliding over a fresh draught.

The woman known as Reau Belleno nods in thanks, and looks down at you. “Hey there, little pixy,” she says breezily. “Shall we drink together for a moment? My treat.”

She reaches into her coat pocket with a slender hand, then plinks onto the counter right beside you a small stack of coppers… As well as a tiny roll of paper, tightly wound into tube about the length of your arm, bound with twine. 

“I have a favor to ask you,” she says in a quiet voice. “Just a little hush-hush errand.” She casually looks over her shoulder before turning back to you. “I need you to find Djonn and make sure he gets this message. He should be arriving at the Cossler’s any minute now, so if you hurry, you might catch up to them before midnight.” She takes a deep pull of her ale and wipes her mouth with her sleeve. “I’m asking you because you can slip out of here without being noticed and speed is of the essence. Do this thing for me and I’ll buy you a bottle of Montesillard brandy big enough to raise a family in.”