The road to Mirador was long and unkept.  The path remained cobbled for a few meagre meters once it stretched outside the thin walls of Hoffen, and after that, it was dirt for as long as the eye could see.  Tiny hamlets sometimes dotted the road to the larger cities of Viarosa, Adesteim, and Weissburg, but most were nothing more than three or four settled buildings.  The road grew even more unruly when it split, with one section going to the east and another continuing south.  Forests rose in place of farmland, and people became scarce.  There was little or nothing for the good citizenry in this region, just wilderness and hardship.  

Fortunately for Ceara Eachaidh, she didn’t plan on staying long.  After lightening damn near every purse and pocket in Hoffen, she had bought good horses that would make short work of the restive trail.  In addition, she had picked up a few things that would be crucial for her time in Mirador as well.  Just thinking about the scheme began to make her smile.  The thief slowed her cream-coloured mare, reaching into the saddle bag and removing a purse of coin.  She turned to the rider beside her, a man clad from head to toe in steel and mail.  “You’re rather quiet, Nima.  We’ve a long way to go - want to play a game?”

Nima’s reply was as methodical as ever, albeit muffled behind the curtain of mail that covered his face.  “I do not know any games.”

Ceara poured the currency into her hands, counting it absently.  “Luckily for you, I know plenty.”  She glanced at Nima.  “We’ll play [i]Fírinne[/i].  I ask you a question, that can be about anything, and you answer.  Then, I have to guess if you were lying or telling the truth.  Sound easy?”

“Easy enough.”

“Good.”  Ceara furrowed her brow, pretending to be deep in thought.  Suddenly, she grinned.  “Have you ever been with a girl, Nima?”

Nima’s strange helmet hid his expression, but his tone remained even.  “No.”

“Hm.  I think you’re…”  Ceara raised an eyebrow. “Telling the truth?”

The eastern warrior nodded.  “Yes.”

“Oh?”  Ceara grinned.  “Not even some blushing eastern girl?  A woman of religion and substance?  I bet you fighters of the flame make all the commoners swoon as you march past, don’t you?  All with your shining plate and polished swords, on gleaming Savarid mounts?”  The thief waggled her eyebrows, running the Arums through her fingers and into the purse.  “Ah.  I think I understand.  Here in the west, our knights take off their helmets when they go through a town of eager little milkmaids.  I bet you never even thought of that, eh?  [i]Oh, the enemy might get a bolt in me eyes if I take me ‘elmet off for more than three minutes.  What enemy?  I don’t rightly know, but you never know what some starving peasants could do ‘gainst me mighty host.[/i]”

“I did not deal with any peasants, nor did I march through the villages.  Any women that came to our hallowed Ember were Zealots, and they were only interesting in our vows - one of which is never to take a woman.” Nima paused.  ”I did not break my vows while I guarded the stables in Rosiland, and I will not break them now that I am free.”

Ceara furrowed her brow.  “You don’t belong to the damn shadow elves anymore.  You don’t belong to the damn Zealots anymore.  Zealots and elves, both of them can go fuck themselves.  Whats the point of being free if you’ve still gotta adhere to some stupid vows?  After we do this job, we’ll go somewhere with lots of girls.  And you’ll have enough money for all of them, eh?”

The warrior twisted his head towards his companion.  “I will not break my vows.”

The thief shook her head, but she did not object.  “Fine, fine.  Do what you want, ya miserable bastard.”  Ceara scratched her red hair.  “Back to the game, right?  My turn.  Ask away.”

Nima nodded again, his mail softly clinking against the plates on his chest.  “Alright.  I shall ask you…  How long have you been a thief?”

Ceara frowned, looking at her horse.  “The day I was robbing the corpses on your battlefield was the first I’d ever done it.”

“Liar.  Wouldn’t be as good.”

Her frown turned to a sly smile, and she admitted her concession.  “Yep.  I’ve been a thief for quite a long time now.  Lets see…  I’ve lost track of the years, but I suppose I’ve been doing it since my father died.  I was just angry then, take it out on a few taverns in my hometown.  After the army came and took us away from the village, though, I started doing it to survive.  Taking stuff from my master at first, and once I got out of that deal, I was pick-pocketing every rich bugger who came down to watch the street performers.  Been doing it ever since.  Guess I just never get tired of it.”

Nima gripped the hilt of his sword, as if it was muscle memory.  “We used to punish slaves that stole from the master in Rosiland.  Shadow elves are creative.  They would take the strongbox and fill it with this strange venom that melted skin from bone like it was butter on a pan.  They’d force the thief to put his hands in that strongbox, try to steal what he had been caught with.  Most passed out, the pain was too much.  The Samothaurs were stronger.  Smelled like burning jerky…”

“No offence, but you’re kinda putting a damper on the mood here buddy.”  Ceara winced at the thought of elven punishment.  “I’m a thief, and I don’t really want to hear about thieves getting their hands burned right off and all that.  Smells like bad luck, especially before something like this.”

“Yes, of course.  I’m sorry.”  Nima paused for a moment.  “Speaking of, if I might ask, what is the plan for this job?  You told me we’d speak on the road.”

Ceara spread her hands, feigning innocence.  “We’re speaking, aren’t we?  I’ve a few ideas.  I’ll make sure that you’re kept…”  The thief’s voice trailed off as the pair rounded a bend in the road, coming across a fallen tree and the men that had cut it.  There looked to be four of them, each wearing some mismatched gambeson or strip of mail.  Two wore half helms, while the others had nothing but hair on their heads.  Each man carried a weapon, be it a club, axe, or sword.  The rough looking bunch was gathered around their makeshift roadblock, standing in an unorganized circle around another figure, one that seemed to be on his knees.  He was of a dark skin colour, unlike the men that threatened him, but he was dressed flagrantly enough to attract a great deal of attention.  

As the duo turned the corner, one of the armed men twisted in his place to face them.  “Boys, we’ve got two more.”

The largest man turned around, stepping forward as the obvious leader of the group.  He stared at Nima mostly, his frown deepening as he did.  “You two.  Keep on heading right through here, and that’ll be the end of this little meeting.  We’ve got us a fine one ‘ere, don’t need any more trouble.”  He waved his hand, and each of the bandits sheathed his weapon.

The Cathionic remained silent, but he flashed Ceara a pleading, desperate look, as if silently asking for help. His eyes darted about, keeping check of each of the four bandits, then they fell back to Ceara and Nima. Nima he eyed fearfully, recognizing his armor as that of the slave-soldiers of the North, or worse, the Furusiyyas of the Flame. 

Ceara regarded the situation carefully.  “Are you lot bandits?  I’ve heard about your sort.  I bet the Order would love to know where you’re operating these days.”  She paused, watching the implication settle into their faces.  “I’m a little short on coin at the moment, otherwise I might  stop at a tavern and drink this little encounter away.  Doubt I’ll remember a damn thing.”

The bandit on the far left seemed to be baffled at the notion she was pushing.  He pointed a gloved finger at her, spitting his words.  “You’ll not squeeze one Arum out of us, ginger bitch!”

The leader held up a hand, still eyeing Nima as he silenced his man.  “You’ve ‘ave to forgive my company.  Mothers weren’t around to teach them how to speak to a lady, it’d seem.  Luckily, I’m a bit of a gentleman, and I won’t see a woman destitute in my land.  Aida, give her some coin.”

The bandit on the left opened his mouth, only to close it again.  Grumbling about redheads, he took a leather pouch from his belt and tossed it towards the pair of travellers.  Ceara caught it with her right hand, shooting Aida a mocking smile as she deposited the pouch in her saddlebags.  Turning her gaze towards the leader, her smile remained arrogantly plastered across her face.  “A pleasure, gentlemen.  Have fun with your friend there.”

“Yeah, you and your steel bitch have a great evening as well.  Make sure he burns some children before he goes to bed, ‘else he’ll get nightmares from his fucking crazy god.”

Immediately, Nima began to dismount.  Ceara glanced at him, grinding her teeth as she tried to retain her composure.  The bandits drew their blades once again, each of them facing Nima as he ripped his shield free from the saddlebags and smashed his sword against it.  He advanced, not a single word escaping his lips.  “You fuckin’ idiot Aida!  Do you see what you’ve done, you prick!”  Aida was quick to respond.  “That’s only one man of the east, alright?  Four of us, one of ‘im.  Lets fuckin’ kill the bastard, and then we’ll get his whore as well.”

“I’d advise against it.” remarked Ceara.

“Shut your gob, you pretty little-”

Nima dashed forward, faster than any of the bandits had expected in all those layers of armour.  He smashed his shield against the man that had been speaking, sending him crashing into the dirt.  The three other bandits slashed towards the armoured easterner, but he blocked two strikes with his shield and backed away before the third could land true.  

“Fuckin’ bastard!  I think he broke my nose!”  the bandit rose to his feet, blood streaming from the place where Nima had attacked with the shield.  He took a position with his comrades, and prepared to charge with everything they had.  With a scream for blood, they did just that.

Ceara dismounted her horse, nervously watching the battle unfold as she swept her leg across the mare to land on the dirty road.  She unsheathed her longest dagger, clutching it tightly as she moved to the man that the bandits seemed to have entirely forgot about.  She took the purse that the bandits had given her, tucking it into his shirt and slapping him lightly on the cheek.  “Thats probably yours, I realize.  Sorry about trying to sell you out there, but we’re all in the same boat now, and I'm going to have to ask you to row.  Try to distract one of those bandits, Nima is going to need help."

A bit irritated that the woman had tried to abandon him in his time of need, the man was still in no position to complain. "A thousand thank-yous, miss. But I need a weapon. I'm skilled with light blades: daggers, knives, swords."

The thief looked uneasy, but after hearing another terrible clash of metal on metal, she passed the bard her dagger.  "Right, use that.  I have plenty."  A strangled cry went up from the fight behind her, and Ceara turned to see a bandit falling to the ground with a large red gash in his chest.  Three remained, each of them attempting to break Nima's guard at the same time.  The eastern warrior made no attempt to call for help, but it was obvious he was having a bit of trouble.  "Get one of them off of him, if you can.  I'll be back."  With that, Ceara ran away.

Nodding to the thief, the man scrambled to his feet, sprinting to one of the bandits without a helmet. Said bandit had attempted to flank Nima as he dealt with the other two remaining enemies. The man leapt towards his target, tackling him to the ground, flat on his face. With a loud, victorious cry, the man held the bandit down and thrust the dagger into the nape of his neck, drawing the attention of the remaining two bandits.

The leader that had spoken earlier turned his attention from Nima, his face locked in a deep scowl.  He began to advance, gripping his axe firmly. The Cathionic yanked the dagger out of the corpse and began backpedaling away, dagger raised in icepick grip. Should the bandit attempt the swing, the man would try to parry. The lead marauder growled, taking another step forward.  

With the slick sound of steel tearing through flesh, the bandit fighting collapsed.  Stabbed in the back by Ceara, who had used the Cathionic distraction to help her friend.  The leader of the bandit turned around, seeing all his companions crumpled on the road.  Ceara opened her mouth to speak, but Nima brushed past her, punching the bandit with his sword arm and then driving his blade through the man's chest.  Kicking the corpse free of his sword, he stood still, breathing heavily.

The Cathonic man watched the bandit leader crumple to the ground, breathing a sigh of relief as he doubled over, catching his breath. "Many thanks for the aid, travelers," he said to the two as he offered Ceara her dagger back. He reached into his shirt and fished out his coin purse. "Please, keep this. I will be sure to make up for it myself when I get to Mirador. Oh, pardon me; my name is Mostafa Idrissi, from Thobos. I am a bard by trade, and I had heard that the Grandmaster of the Knights Solanian was to be present in Mirador. I was on my way to entertain him and his entourage when these four brutes... well."

"I am Ceara, that is Nima." The thief took her dagger and pointed to herself, and then to her armoured companion.  She weighed the man's purse in her hand, carefully stepping over the corpses to approach the bard.  "Grandmaster?  Is he the one that is the son of a god or somesuch?"

Mostafa smiled and shrugged. "So they say. Whether he is or isn't, he does much good for the world, he and his Order. Though these bandits slipped through their fingers, I am sure we will be rewarded, well, *you* will be rewarded for bringing them to justice, and for alerting them to the problem."

"Nima did most of the work, he should be the one rewarded."  Ceara tucked her dagger in her belt, kneeling beside the man Mostafa had killed and checking the corpse for valuables.  She glanced upwards, pausing for a moment.  "What kind of reward?  Does the Order have a lot of money?"

"A fortune," he replied. "Loot they seize from bandits like these, treasures they take from cultist lairs, generous donations from Lords and Ladies, bounties on demons and every manner of beast that terrorizes the people... the Grandmaster is no pauper. Most certainly blessed, if not divine himself!"

"Oh, surely."  Ceara stood up, smiling.  "You've been a bard for these crusaders a long time?  Make good money?"

By now the bard was growing suspicion, raising a dark eyebrow as he slowly, carefully replied to that question. "...no. I have not been working for the Order at all, and I have not heard of any further crusades. I was simply going to perform before the Grandmaster." He paused, remembering who exactly he was dealing with. "...I make more than the average troubadour. I sing and play the lute, my father's lute, to be exact, in a variety of different cultural styles. It impresses most Lords and Ladies, anyways."

Ceara placed her hand on her dagger.  "Thats nice." she grinned, watching Nima unsheathe his bloodied sword out of the corner of her eye.  "I feel bad about doing this, seeing as you've already seen some trouble today, [i]and[/i] you helped my friend, but I'm afraid I have no choice.  I want you to undress, slowly and carefully.  Don't rip anything, or I'll take one of your talented fingers."

"You... what?!" the bard cried, taking a step back from the thief. Seeing the furusiyya unsheathe his blade was intimidating enough. With an infuriated but defeated growl, the bard slowly began removing his clothes, starting with the feathered cap. Within a minute or two, he was down to his loincloth, his clothes laying disheveled on the ground before him.

Ceara took his clothes, gesturing for Nima to watch their new prisoner as she tucked them into one of her saddlebags.  She turned back around, rope in her hands.  "This isn't what it looks like, by the way."

"I do not care what it does and does not look like!" The bard cried, "You help a man merely to rob him blind yourself! To go steal from holy men, no less! Men and women who have contributed far more to this world plagued by the living dead, unholy spawn, and honorless whores such as yourself! And what do you spend your ill-gotten gold on?!"

Nima stepped forward, raising his sword for a sweeping blow that would take the bard's head clean off.  Before his blade could strike true, Ceara dropped the rope and pulled him backwards, shooting him a scathing glare.  The easterner shook his head, stepping away and putting his sabre in it's scabbard.  With her companion sorted, the thief turned her attention back to the angry minstrel.  "I spend my money on whatever I please, because I can.  You can have your honour and your holiness all you like, [i]Mostafa[/i], but I've got your coin and your clothes.  World seems to favour me at the moment."

"Because, you craven parasite, you have a slave-soldier to kill those who resist! Do not speak to me about worldly favour, you devil-haired mongrel! You take and you take, never to give! You bring shame to your fellow Bryonics and Cainleathites, especially to those of your profession who at least give what they take to the poor!"

Ceara absently touched her hair, scratching the top of her head while she sighed in annoyance.  Nima picked their rope off the ground, and used it to tie the bards hands together.  Ceara nodded to him.  "Oh, nobody actually gives to the poor.  Maybe in your stupid little ballads."  

"We should kill him."

Ceara glanced back at her companion, raising her hands in exasperation.  "I said no.  He walks."

Nima shook his head slowly.  "He dies.  His fury is hotter than a forge, look at him.  While you debate, he plans to turn us into the nearest guard.  We are hunted already, I do not wish the Order to track us as well.  We kill him here, and then it is the bandits that did the deed.  Safe."

"First you trudge into those bandits for a fucking insult, now you want to run this bard through?  We've been through this, dammit!  Cool your fucking head, go gather the horses.  I'll be fine." Nima didn't move. Ceara sighed, putting her hands on her hips. "Go, Nima."  Reluctantly, the slave-soldier finally agreed.

"You. I'll take your lute, as well."  Ceara used one hand to pick up the intstrument, with her other clutched on the grip of her dagger.  "I know how to play, don't worry, I won't bring dishonour to your name."

"And you would steal from a man his dead father's lute! You can run and hide in the shadows like the coward you are, but the Gods will cut you down and you will burn in the Infernum!"

"If it's any consolation, I'll try to return the lute.  If you hang around Mirador for a while after the feast is finished, I could..."  Ceara shook her head, as if to clear it.  "The nearest city is Viarosa. Have fun walking."

The bard fell silent, taking a final look at the lute before turning and storming away, marching to the southwest as though he still had a shred of dignity left.

Nima appeared at Ceara's side, the leads for both of their horses in his mailed hands. He stood beside his friend, watching the bard leave. "This will end badly."  He remarked, mounting his horse.

Ceara followed suit, taking her eyes off the wandering bard and setting them east.  "You worry too much."