Every few minutes, Aksel looked at the road behind the teetering cart and strained his eyes in the dark, scanning for any figures that might be following him. He didn't figure that anybody would care enough to search for some random half-blood Tolosi elf, but nevertheless he was on edge. Because he had replaced the already rough-fitting door loosely in its frame and AVOIDED any violence on his way out, Aksel had given very little reason to worry about his personal freedom. Save for a possible connection to the imminent invading forces, one prisoner's escape would concern the higher ups as much as a missing breakfast. Ironically enough, that connection to the invading forces would come about soon enough.

Earlier that evening, the young monk had been approached by a small, cloaked man bearing a letter. Without a word the  courier had disappeared, leaving Aksel alone in the road with a letter detailing his next move. In their usual mysterious manner, J and T had directed him towards the “Four Sisters,” a set of decayed watchtowers run by an inexperienced skeleton crew. The young man had been blessed with luck once again, for the oyster farmer whom he had asked about his destination happened to live on the coast, just past the Four Sisters themselves. For nothing but companionship and conversation, Aksel was to ride along with the farmer and his fine donkey in a wobbling but stable cart.

While the farmer, a graying man by the name of Jeremie, jabbered on about oyster recipes, oyster prices, oyster farming, Tolosi brothels, but generally oysters, Kjaerr concentrated on his peculiar new ring, only interjecting into the conversation with the sporadic “ahh” or “sounds delicious.” The stone ring was now distinctly more gray than it had been when he first saw it, there was no doubt. The contrasting lighting to the cell might have made a difference during the day, but it was night time now and the monk was sure that the ring had changed colors. Aksel rubbed it, poured warm and cold water over it, and even blew on it, but the gray color remained. Was that extraordinary impact simply for a single occasion? Aksel wouldn't accept that, for he still sensed power in the ring. There must be some way to activate that hidden power, and the young monk had a fair amount of time in a rickety cart to figure it out.

It had been nearly two hours of experimenting and oyster talk. Aksel knew how the best corner to sell oysters on and how to cook them into a stew, but he was no closer to solving the riddle of his ring. The lord of sleep was beginning to weight his eyelids and fog his thoughts when the half elf heard a distinctive sound that brought memories of pain and loss flooding back to him. A sound that signaled danger, that let you know that you were at a disadvantage in whatever happened next. It was the soft, thrumming purr of an arrow speeding through the early night's air. Aksel looked down at a quivering shaft sticking out of the splintered wood between his own legs.

“Git down lad! I'll git us outta 'ere!” The farmer cracked the reigns and his donkey sprinted as fast as its stubby legs would allow. Without a second thought, the young monk obeyed.

They were flying through the darkness, all thoughts of safety long since abandoned. They were rapidly approaching tree cover, but the frequency of arrows – three every few minutes or so – wouldn't let up. That meant that the bandits were on horseback which wasn't good news for the monk and the farmer. A horse was faster than a donkey on its own, but when the donkey was pulling a cart, the distance between the two was surely diminishing rapidly.

Aksel was ducking down below the rim of the cart, his hands covering his head. He had been fortunate thus far, but when an arrow lodged into the wood just above his left shoulder, the half elf felt the hand of panic tightly grasp his heart. The next arrow was closer. Much closer.

A sharp stinging pain shot through Aksel's hand, and he was sure that he was dead. The young monk had spend enough time studying under Grim Bardolon, the Tolosi god of war, to know that an arrow, most likely shot from a composite bow, would stick clean through a man's hand. Aksel was sure that he would look up only to find himself a ghost with a spectral arrow permanently pinning his right hand to his skull. What he saw instead was his stone ring, a faint white glow illuminating the rest of his hand. 

[i]I understand. It's ready now. [/i]

With prospective death snapping at his heels, the young monk couldn't help but smile. He had been given unearthly power, and the moment that it's mysteries unveiled themselves to him came only briefly before his death; before he would ever be able to use it. The ring would fall into the hands of bandits who would probably never understand its power, pawning it for a drink or even discarding it into some ravine when shinier jewelry outcompeted it for finger space.

But the death didn't come. In fact, the arrows had stopped completely. Aksel knew better than to be relieved, however. Jeremie reigned his donkey in, and when the half elf looked up, he saw why. The three probable chasing bandits had shepherded them right into their comrades. Four men with spears at the ready and long daggers on their belts grinned wickedly as they closed in. Jeremie's donkey spooked and darted sideways, tipping the cart halfway over and spilling the contents in the back – including Aksel – before the bandits. While three of the bandits moved to chase the cart, the bandit farthest the right approached the young half elf, his horrible smile revealing no more than four teeth. He was an ugly, wiry man with a hideous boil on his hook nose, but Aksel wouldn't be intimidated after surviving so much in the past few minutes.

Aksel thought back to evertyhing he had learned of combat during his studies Bardolonian studies. He's got a spear. [i]He'll stab and I'll dodge right, bat it down with my left arm and punch right with my ring.[/i] Aksel executed his plan, dodging the stab that never came right into a swing from the spear. The shaft cracked the young monk in the head, sending him sprawling into the bushes. He rolled down a low slope, followed closely by by the bandit. As soon as the half elf came to a stop and was able to drag himself back up to his feet, the bandit came down off the slope, bundling him over. His spear had been lost in the fall, but the bandit already had his nasty looking dagger out of its scabbard. The dagger rose in the air, rusty point peering down into Aksel's eyes. The monk's body was pinned, but, thankfully, his right arm was free. Aksel's fist shot up and connected with the bandit's face, punching an arrow-shaped hole through the ugly man's eye. Heart pounding, the young man pushed his unsightly attacker off of him to stain the matted grass with freely flowing blood.

Aksel stabbed his stone ring with the bandit's dagger – it glowed white in response – and ran back up to the clearing; however, Jeremie and the other bandits were nowhere to be seen. The monk could only pray that his new, oyster-loving friend had escaped the pursuit in his wagon.

______________________________________________________________

Though he no longer had the farmer and the cart, Aksel had only a small fraction of his journey in front of him; he arrived, dirty and bloody, to the Four Sisters well before dawn. They were truly a decrepit collection, missing stones and even gaping holes rendering the walls minimal fortification at best. As the young monk approached the watchtower he was greeted by a thin young man of average height and fair features set in a softly rounded face. His dark hair was short and well-maintained, shaved on the sides.

“You've not got the look of an Etruschan, mate; what's your business?” The young mercenary spoke in a respectful stately manner. If Aksel visualized the ideal soldier, Trooper Tahrez would be that. The monk could only imagine that this dedicated individual would wholly dismantle him in a fight. After explaining his situation and his connections, Aksel was taken firmly by the arm and brought into the tower. The mercenary proved to be surprisingly talkative, letting Aksel know that he was Trooper Anden Tahrez of the Forlorn Hope platoon, best in the Grey Wind Mercenary army, mate. The “mate” accompanying each sentence didn't annoy Aksel quite yet, but he was sure that wouldn't last long.

After passing over numerous sleeping mercenaries, each more intimidating than the last, until he found the most intimidating of them all. Her broad-shouldered frame was home muscles on corded muscles, and scars decorated a vicious wolf's face. Through dark, tangled hair, the young monk could tell that this brutish elf only sported an ear and a half. Immediately question the path that had brought him here, young Aksel Dehli, disenfranchised half breed, began to explain his situation to Myranda Tavellan, fearsome, menacing elf berserker.