A great weight was lifted from Osric's mind at Sage's words, and he suddenly felt as if nothing had ever come between them, as if their friendship had continued to that very morning without any interruption. But the relief was short-lived. His easy-going smile faded into a frown, his brow furrowing.

This Katrina woman certainly had a great deal of nerve, to treat him as if he were a cocksure fool. Did she imagine he planned to lead them in an assault on the nearest infernal fortress, some sort of suicide mission? Nothing had been further from his mind; indeed, the daggers were more of an emergency safeguard, a knave to be played against a surprise attack. Well, now was it a knave, or was it an ace that trumped in cards? The monk knew little of such things. Gambling was sinful, after all.

Her mention of Lord Omida was particularly galling. Osric was beginning to suspect that Katrina was somewhat less than pious, that she would name a god so flippantly. Before he could think of a sufficiently stern admonition, he saw the big woman approach.

Revna was impossible to miss, and similarly difficult to forget. Their paths had not crossed often before, as he was seldom picked for shrine-duty, and when he was she was rarely among the congregants. But that was between her and the gods. She had been willing to stand before the General Assembly and volunteer, and that was more than enough for Osric. If she was even half as dangerous as she looked with that halberd, the Cup of Woe was as good as returned to Aldren Priory. If he could only teach her how to pronounce his name properly, then all would be well. He didn't even complain when she took a dagger from the saddle-bag without asking; he had intended to pass them out anyway.

“The Mother Above bless you also, Revna,” he said, returning her greeting, “I am pleased you have come.”

Osric sheathed the blade he had held up for demonstration and thrust it through his own belt, before taking another from the bag and holding it out for Katrina. Her snide query about their small numbers set him over the edge, however; he tossed the proffered weapon at her feet in a huff.

“I should think that so [i]august[/i] a vagabond as yourself would agree that there is safety in stealth upon the road ahead, and that such subterfuge is more easily managed by a party of small size? Do you not think so?” he exhaled sharply through his nose, “But if you should prefer to join a larger expedition you may, should one [i]ever[/i] set off. No oath binds you to this one.”

He frowned, trying to rein in his anger. His hands, obscured by his sleeves, were balled into fists so tightly that their nails bit flesh, and his voice sounded shrill in his own ears. He was not accustomed to losing his temper so easily. Something about Katrina just seemed to rub him the wrong way. After a brief moment he sighed, bowing his head.

“I apologize for speaking harshly.” he said softly, gesturing at the glittering steel on the ground, “Please accept yon dagger as a gift from myself and my Order. If you will excuse me, I should fetch our wagon from the stable across the road.”

With that said, he untied his horse from the crooked post and quickly led away it to the stable. He hoped a moment of busy solitude would set his nerves aright. And it began well; he was pleased to find that the wagon was actually inside. His order to requisition one had been made at the last minute, and Sister Charlotte had worried that she might not be able to secure one while the harvest was still coming in. But there it was, thankfully. How embarrassing it would have been to announce the existence of a wagon where there was none.

It was a decent wagon, Osric supposed. It had a large bed with high sidewalls, and posts at each corner where a cover could be attached to keep the interior dry. The seat on the front was long enough for two people to sit comfortably; three, if they squeezed a little closer. Yes, it was a very decent wagon.

He began to untie the bags and sacks from his horse's pack-saddle, intending to move them into the wagon. He stopped short, however, as he heard slow breathing coming from inside the vehicle. The walls were too high to see within from where he stood, but it sounded as if someone were sleeping. He hoped it wasn't one of the stable-girls; he didn't feel up to scolding another woman that morning.

Laying down his burdens, he walked around to the rear and peered in curiously. He saw a young man, or maybe a boy, sleeping peacefully. He was short and lightly-built, and aside from the brown hair rather reminded Osric of a younger version of himself. He looked familiar, too; but where did he know him from?

The Monastery, of course! This must be one of the novices, though Osric couldn't for the life of him remember this one's name. He seldom dealt with them since leaving the novices' quarters himself, except to train small groups in the healing arts, and he wasn't sure this young man had ever worked under him.

Unsure what the novice was actually doing here, he decided to handle this development as he supposed Father Robert might. he took up his walking stick and rapped loudly on the frame of the wagon.

"Up, lad!" He cried, making no effort to hide his amusement, "You've missed the bell for morning prayers!"