[center][b]Surprises[/b][/center]
Triala glared at the slack-jawed mercenary, her amber eyes narrowing into angry slits.

The human smiled back, displaying an impressive array of rotten teeth, and shifted from one foot to another.

A chill wind, laden with the scents and sounds of sellswords making camp, tousled Triala's red hair and caused a few stray locks to fall across her face.

"I don't...what the fuck are you even asking me, Arno?" Triala demanded as she slowly leaned forward, causing the wooden seat beneath her to creak ominously. Gods in the Beyond, Osric's wagon was making more noise these days than a Cygnari noblewoman trying to use a chamber pot after gorging herself on white peppers. The elf sighed heavily, knowing it would rain gold coins and naked virgins before Osric "The Mad Mage" Weaver let anyone touch his precious "wizard's wagon." The man believed all wainwrights were thieves, drunkards, or some unspeakable combination of the two. As if he could hear her thoughts, Osric's high-pitched laughter drifted out from the wagon's covered interior, and Triala shot a caustic glare over her shoulder at the gaunt man reclining against a pile of burlap sacks. The talented spellcaster only laughed harder, his bony shoulders shaking beneath his velvet robes, and gestured for his apprentice to pay attention to the simpleton standing before her. 

Flicking a strand of hair away from her face, the elf took a breath in through her nose and let it out slowly. Osric was enjoying every moment of this, and she couldn't blame him. Arno Fossey might be a moron, but it was Triala's responsibility to help him. Riding in the wizard's wagon meant you were dutybound to distribute any alchemical or magical solutions the Company of the Wolf's members needed. The garishly painted purple wagon, a gift from the Captain to Osric for his thirty years of exemplary service, contained some of the band's most valuable reagents, poultices, and arcane curiosities. Some of the mercenaries were convinced Osric even had a scrying orb hidden amongst all the crates, sacks, and barrels. Rumors notwithstanding, the fiery-haired elf would probably be killed on the spot if she lost her temper and accidentally incinerated the wizard's wagon with her pyromancy.

Pursing her lips and setting the wagon's reins on her lap, the she-elf asked, "How long have we known each other, Arno? You joined the Company before the Battle over Silver Lake, right?"

Arno's round, greasy face scrunched up for a moment beneath his lobster-tailed helmet as he tried to remember. Grunting and shrugging his broad shoulders, he finally said, "Uhhh...sure, sounds about right, Ala. The Battle over Silver Lake was...mmm...oh wait...when was that again?"

Triala wanted to scream. Or at least throw something at this buffoon. Whenever the Company of the Wolf stopped marching for the day, Triala had an opportunity to race over to the band's finest cook, an elven woman named Lanriel "Sweetsong" Valtir, and ask for a freshly baked honey roll. Of course, Lanriel also had to feed a mob of unruly sellswords so the red-haired elf needed to put in her request before work began on the evening meal. And Triala wouldn't reach Lanriel's wagon in time if she couldn't get rid of Arno Fossey. This was one of the difficulties with what Osric called "walk-alongs," a term he'd created to describe the men and women who came to the wizard's wagon for help. You never knew how long it would take to solve somebody's problems. Neither "The Mad Mage" nor Triala minded handing out a pouch of sirrac seeds to a hired blade that needed extra energy to endure a long day of marching. If they showed signs of addiction, however, they were cut off. Occasionally, someone would succumb to a minor illness, like lover's pox or lockjoint, and they'd need a potion or ungent brewed. Osric prided himself on having almost every alchemical ingredient known to man stored somewhere in the wizard's wagon. It was just a matter of navigating the disorganized interior and finding what you needed. Still, requests for sirrac seeds and various poultices were typical for a mercenary company.

But morons like Arno Fossey believed the reagents in Osric's wagon could do the impossible. And if they failed then the mage and his apprentice undoubtedly had a miracle or two up their sleeves. These ignorant clods annoyed Triala and her mentor so much they'd actually started taking turns dealing with them. It was the elf's turn now, and Arno was her first walk-along of the day. The Company had stopped marching less than half an hour ago, and the flabby hired blade was already asking for something the elven mage couldn't provide.
 
Baring her teeth in a furious grimace, the elf said, "The Battle over Silver fucking Lake happened in 1170 IC. It was two years ago! Two! You have known me for two years now, Arno. Have you ever seen me cast a spell in those two years that, and these are your words not mine, would make someone's teeth less shitty? Think about it for a moment."

In a revelation worthy of someone possessed by the Spirits, Arno suddenly realized something was annoying Triala. He didn't know what it could be, though. He also didn't particularly care. Wiping his filthy hands on his leather cuirass, the sellsword said, "Uhhh...no, I don't think I remember seeing you do nothing like that, Ala. Well...no, no I don't think I have."

"No. Never. Now, if I remember our last discussion correctly, I asked you to stop chewing so many damned zenolia leaves. I know they taste fucking wonderful, but they also turn your teeth to mush if you chew more than one or two a day. I told you this and you told me to, and these are your words once again, 'Piss off, you fucking ugly long-ear,'" Triala said and, despite her rapidly diminishing chances of getting a honey roll, a cruel smile spread across her pale visage. The expression stopped abruptly when it reached the scar tissue covering the right side of her face, creating an unnatural-looking half grin that made most people recoil in disgust.

"So, does that mean you can help me?! My teeth are hurting something awful," Arno said, his voice brimming with hope and excitement.

"I...Angharad's flaming cock, man, what did I say to make you think I...?" Triala started to say before stopping and taking one last deep breath. Osric was always telling her to calm down and breathe before she acted. If she couldn't make Arno leave after this final attempt then she would just set him on fire. Nobody would miss the obnoxious whoreson. "Listen to me closely, asshole. I...cannot...help...you. Now, piss off, you fat, greasy pile of horse turds. Oh, and thank you for visiting the wizard's wagon. Have a Light blessed day and please come see us again."

Arno's face went slack for a moment and then he took a step towards the wagon, his puffy features twisting into an expression of unbridled rage and hatred. The cut-throat reached for the rusty knife dangling from the rope belt around his waist. He wasn't going to let this elven bitch talk to him like that! He was Arno fucking Fossey! He'd fought in the Battle over Silver Lake in...in...whatever year IC Ala had said! As soon as the bloated sellsword's fingers touched the hilt of his pigsticker, however, Triala's eyes turned dark blue and the air around the wizard's wagon suddenly became still and warm. And it was getting warmer by the second. The lone black-furred ox yoked to the purple wagon let out a grunt and shook his horned head, obviously disturbed by the sensation of someone reaching for the Will.

"This is your last chance, Arno," Triala snarled as she hopped down from her seat and stood tall in front of the overweight mercenary. "Fuck off or I will make you fuck off. With fire." Thankfully, Arno Fossey didn't have any intention of dying today, and he promptly ran off into the crowd of Company members erecting tents near the wizard's wagon. Nobody seemed to have witnessed the confrontation or they'd all decided to ignore it. Sighing in relief, the she-elf allowed the Will to drain from her like water through a sieve and stroked the terrified ox's dark fur. An expression of distaste and irritation flittered across Triala's scarred face. She hated using her abilities to scare people, but some folks were just too stubborn and foolish. They wouldn't respond to anything less than blatant intimidation or excessive force. Or both. Wiping her sweaty brow and giving the ox one last pat, the red-haired elf turned to get back into the wagon...only to find Osric standing behind her, his grey eyes glittering with disapproval and concern. Triala held up her hands and said, "Osric, you know I wouldn't actually-"

"I'm not mad at you for scaring that shit stain, my temperamental apprentice," the human mage said as he reached into the wagon and pulled out the thornwood quarterstaff he'd purchased for Triala nearly ten years ago. After handing the weathered stave to his pupil, Osric held up a scrap of parchment and said, "No, I am worried about this. One of those brats we picked up in the last town came by the wagon while you were [i]educating[/i] our fat friend. She looked scared for some reason so I got out of the wagon, and she shoved this into my hands. The Captain wants to see you in his tent. Immediately. Perhaps you'd like to tell me what this is all about, hm?"

Triala's mouth fell open into a silent 'O' of surprise. In truth, she'd done her best to avoid antagonizing or even interacting with the Captain after that whole incident involving his [i]flynska[/i] hat and Blackheart, her beloved Vorstagian Charger. Before the First Battle for Redstone Village in 1162 IC, one of the other mercenaries had decided to take a basket they'd found near the makeshift forge the band used to make repairs in the field. The man or woman in question apparently wanted to use the basket to gather pearl berries from a nearby thicket. It turned out that basket was given to the Captain as a gift by one of the village woman, who was unspeakably grateful for the Company of the Wolf's protection from the Vorstagian menace. It also wasn't a basket, but a hat made of woven fronds that happened to be shaped like a basket. A traditional northern basket hat or [i]flynska[/i]. Not only did Redstone Village eventually fall to the Empire, but Blackheart, who loved pearl berries more than anything, found the hat full of fruit beside the ramshackle smithy. Whoever picked the berries evidently decided to do something else after putting enough fruit in the [i]flynska[/i] to feed an army. Or to satisfy one hungry Vorstagian Charger. 

The Captain hadn't looked pleased when he'd emerged from the forge to find his half-eaten hat dangling from Blackheart's mouth. Triala, who'd tied the stallion to a low-hanging branch while she went to run a few errands in Redstone Village proper, arrived just in time to see her horse devour the rest of the [i]flynska[/i]. The elf apologized profusely and promised to make the Captain a new basket hat, but the man just grunted and said all was well in a tone that indicated the exact opposite. Later that evening, the Company of the Wolf lost the First Battle for Redstone Village and, almost one year later, they were defeated again at the Second Battle for Redstone Village. Triala's memories of that quaint northern settlement weren't exactly positive.

Could this message be about that? It seemed preposterous. Almost ten years had passed since the basket hat affair took place.

Seeing the horrified expression on his apprentice's face, Osric said, "Oh, calm down, Triala, or you'll soil those lovely calfskin breeches. I'm sure the Captain just wants to know if we acquired anything noteworthy during our visit to the Imperial City. Which we didn't because everything was so damned expensive! Vorstagian dogs! Erhem, you should head towards the Captain's tent now. He may have dwarven blood in his veins, but our fearless leader is not a patient man. Or a talkative man. Or a hygienic man. Or...well, you get the idea." Osric paused and tugged at the remnants of his once impressive white mustache a few times. Clearing his throat, he said, "I expect you to be refreshed and ready to continue our discussion about pyrite ore when you return. Perhaps we could find a way to create pyrite powder? Or pyrite-tipped arrows? Hmmm...oh, and you might want to send someone to check on that orphan girl. I blew her away from the wagon with a gust of magical wind after she handed me the note. I think she might have landed on her head. Poor dear."

Triala stared at Osric, her mouth hanging open slightly. He'd done what to who now?!

"Why are you looking at me like I just said I eat babies in my spare time?" the skeletal mage asked when he saw the she-elf gaping up at him. "The little wretch was staring at me! Well, she was staring at my mustache. I know I blew half of it off when we were experimenting with dwarven blackpowder the other night, but I will not be gawked at. I am not some animal in the Imperial Zoo, thank you very much. I would think you of all people would understand, Triala."

"I do understand, Osric," the elf said, the corners of her lips turning up as she spoke. "I also don't go around blowing children over with magic for staring at me. Usually."

Waving his hands as if he was shooing away an annoying insect, "The Mad Mage" said, "Oh, don't be so particular, Triala. It's a most tiresome quality. Now, get yourself gone before I do something unpleasant."

"You're insane, you old fool," the red-haired elf said in an exasperated, gently teasing tone as she turned to leave.

"And you're hideous, you pointy-eared wench," Osric said affectionately, completing the bizarre farewell ritual they'd developed over the years.

As her teacher started to unhook the weary ox from the wagon's yoke, Triala pulled up the hood of her black cloak and walked into the swirling madness of Company sellswords trying to complete the numerous tasks essential to establishing a proper encampment. A few mercenaries, apparently too hungry to wait for "Sweetsong" to make supper, were chewing on strips of dried meat while setting up their tents. By this point, however, most of the hired blades were busy cleaning or repairing their clothes, armor, and weapons. Others were setting up a ring of sharpened wooden stakes around the slowly expanding cluster of canvas tents. Triala even heard a few hired blades bawling out old tavern songs as they worked, though their off-key singing made it impossible to tell if they were singing "Bread, Blades, and Blood" or "The Lion and the Lying Lady." The whole area seethed with barely controlled chaos, but somehow a well-defended camp was starting to take shape. 

Luckily for the plump Triala, whenever the band of sellswords marched from one place to another, each person's position in line was determined by how many years they'd been with the Company. Since Osric was one of the older members, his wagon was permitted to ramble along in the middle of the throng, and this put him within spitting distance of the Company's highest-ranking officers. It also made sense to have the valuable wizard's wagon near the front of the column. As she walked towards the Captain's large, and strangely foreboding, tent, Triala wondered why the Company of the Wolf's leader wanted to see her. The whole situation made her nervous. The only other time she'd truly made an ass of herself was when Connor Vaelis had provoked her into nearly setting the entire Company on fire. The sack of shit had paid for it in the end, but the damage to her reputation was irreversible. She was considered dangerous and extremely unreliable thanks to Connor's prank. Was that what this was about? Or did it have something to do with the Imperial Sorceress' presence and the Company's abrupt departure from the Imperial City? Shaking her head and frowning, the she-elf stepped aside to let a mercenary carrying a heavy crate totter past only to find herself standing before the Captain's tent. There were several people already pushing their way through the entry flap. And one of them was Connor Vaelis.

Triala clenched her fists and entered the tent, though she stood a few paces away from the rest of the group. She didn't want to talk to Connor unless she had no other choice. Gods in the Beyond, what was the Captain hoping to accomplish? Was all this secrecy necessary? And why was Connor fucking Vaelis involved?