[center][h3]Artemisia & Trace Flashback[/h3]
[b]Time and Place:[/b] Bustling inn in the early afternoon, Edinbourgh[/center]

Even after sitting down, another hefty silence had settled on the taciturn pair, which continued to weigh upon Trace and Artemisia up until the point her food arrived. The meal was simple, an ear of corn plus a cut of pork, but it ignited a spark in those blue eyes of hers. “Oh, that is delectable,” she remarked after swallowing a big mouthful. “I can assure you, the sort of provisions you receive while in a clinic are best reserved for famine. One can scarcely call it food, though I imagine that’s to be expected. Our patrons were seldom the sort who could afford private care, after all, and ascetics like the Sister must not value food as anything but sustenance.” She cut off another slice of pork and devoured it, though she did take care in her earnestness to not make a spectacle of herself.

The silence had been long and heavy but such silence didn’t bother Trace as much as it might have a more talkative person.  The situation outside and the uncertainty of the situation here at this table both combined to keep his mind rather occupied.  He had eaten not too long before and didn’t have too much of an appetite at present. But, he still ordered bread with butter and cheese as well as a bowl of the anonymous stew on the fire.  It would all be good to eat after a while, even cold. Though, the stew might lose something of its savor. He would be able to simply pack away the bread and cheese for later if he had to.

When the food arrived, the mood at the table changed immediately as Artemisia began talking.  In fact, she talked quite a bit. Trace was beginning to wonder if she was forcing herself since such profuse discourse didn’t seem to fit her very well.  Still, he didn’t know her all that intimately in the first place. All he could do was reply. “The food here is good. It’s popular with the more successful mercenaries.  I’ve heard that some of the merchants and shop owners take their dinners here on occasion as well.”

Trace’s thoroughly uninteresting comments did not seem to provoke a response from Artemisia. Instead, she picked at the remained of her meat, a thoughtful expression crossing her features. “I wonder...what did this pig go through to come here? Could be as simple as sourcing it from a local farm. But it’s salted, so it was preserved and could have come a long way. Did the meat just get shipped off by a swineherd, or was it taken as a tax from some poor downtrodden peasant, perhaps, passed around and redistributed by some Lothian stooge? Maybe part of a shipment recovered -or stolen- from some convoy, or taken as loot from a distant conquest. Or was it wild, hunted in some daring chase by a desperate young hunter, or maybe by a tired old lord looking for a thrill, that he then charitably bequeathed to a local butcher? What made the tax collecter so hard-hearted as to be able to live with such actions? What grand adventures did that elderly noble see in his youth that make him yearn for action in his late years?”

Artemisia looked at Trace for the first time since she’d received her meal. Before now the young woman seemed withdraw, quiet, and even antisocial, but now…’passionate’ described her far better. “Might not seem like it, but there are stories everywhere. Interesting tales even in mundane objects. Where they were, whose they were, what happened to them. People, of course, can tell their own stories.” She let go her utensil and placed both elbows on the table, arms crossed. “It’s all so fascinating, you see. That’s why I hate surface-level small talk.”

Trace listened and watched.  For the first time since they had first exchanged words he seemed to focus on her exclusively.  His gaze became piercing and intelligent. And, he smiled. It was a small smile but a smile none-the-less.  He knew that he was being challenged to reveal more than he had been willing to share. So, the curiosity was mutual.

“There really are stories everywhere, even in small talk.  The merchants who own stores in town come here to eat because the food here is better than there is on their own tables during the lean months.  The owner here sources their foodstuffs from the most reliable sources in the empire. Some of the ingredients come from far away, others from next door.  While the quality isn’t the highest, the supply is always regular and that reliability is a great strength in this business.” Trace took a quiet breath while he continued to examine his dinner partner.  She wanted to know his story. He wanted to know hers. Perhaps a trade then.

“Like most who tell stories, I’m not sure if anyone would want to hear mine.  But, I became a mercenary when I was 12. I joined a group called the Pierced Shield.  They were mostly swordsmen and took a lot of small local jobs around Edinburgh. But, my first job was getting strong enough to fight.  My… limited magic wasn’t something worth their attention. I trained with the spear, hard. I had only one teacher, he was one of the most veteran members of the company.  He was also the only one who knew the lance. He kept me from going on jobs until I was 21.” Trace’s gaze hardened a little before he continued.

“My first job was the last job that the Pierced Shield ever took.  I survived, along with a few other rookies who managed to get away.  Everyone else died.” He took another long breath. “A lot of stories ended that night.  But, like always, others started at the same time.”

This was his initial answer to her challenge, her open desire to get more information out of him.  From here, he simply had to decide whether or not her interest was sufficient to justify telling her the details of that job… and how it went wrong.  He took a bite of his stew but kept his eyes on Artemisia. The stew was good, far better than the typical travel rations he carried.

The mage nodded. “Not bad.” A beat passed before her eyebrows went up. “That is to say, you are not a terrible storyteller. Naturally, I’m sorry to hear that happened. Of course, if that memory is too tragic for you I shall not ask you to elaborate, but I would be interested in the details of that night. I do not have much experience with battle or the mercenary lifestyle, so I cannot imagine what terrible fate must have befallen your company.” She picked up and resumed nibbling at her corn.

Trace’s smile, which had faded away as he spoke, returned.  He had indeed been right. But, she hadn’t decided to trade stories.  At least she was interested. And, there really wasn’t much reason to not tell the story at this point.  So, he swallowed the stew in his mouth and continued.

“That job was one that the whole company was hired for.  Most jobs, dealing with bandits, guard jobs, or bounties only need a few people.  But, Pierced Shield wasn’t a big company so most of the veteran members had to go on every job.  This one was an escort job. We were hired to protect the young son of a low rank noble on his way to some reclusive magic school in the north.  The company stayed in formation with the best of us around the carriage and the other accomplished members in the vanguard. The rookies and less capable members were kept in the rear.  The trip was pretty uneventful for the first day. With dusk coming on, the leader wanted us to make camp for the night and proceed in the morning.” Here, Trace paused and took a bite while he organized his memories.  There was something that was bothering him about what he remembered.

“The young noble got out of the carriage for the first time and insisted that we continue on through the night.  He said that he had to get there without delay. The leader gave in. But, it was odd. That kid was wearing a full cloak in early summer… and his hood was up, hiding his face.  To this day I’ve never seen a noble hide themself like that.” He took another breath. “We proceeded on into the night. It was cloudy and fog began to rise around midnight, just as we were entering a forest.  The ambush was fast… strong. They weren’t bandits. They moved fast and quiet from both flanks. No war cries or shouted orders and their armor was covered in black paint to keep it from shining. Most of them used spears or swords, the rest had bows.  They were armed with just the right weapons to counter us and they knew exactly what they were doing. They began with a volley of flaming arrows that almost all hit the carriage. It was a mass of flames in moments. The little noble managed to get out of the carriage but the enemy had charged in immediately.  He didn’t make it past their lances. Neither did the guards around the carriage.” Trace’s expression was flat but his eyes were grim as he seemed to sink into that scene from the past. Reexamining these memories gave him a bad feeling, like maybe it wasn’t over with that. Assassins don’t like living witnesses. “The elites from the Pierced Shield were attacked by the enemy’s best before they could move to protect the carriage but they only sent a few common lancers to attack the rookies at the rear.  They knew our formation ahead of time. But, they underestimated me. I hadn’t shown anyone my skill before. I wasn’t even sure how good I was then. I remember thinking that it was strange… how slow they moved. I told the other rookies to run, they wouldn’t have been any help anyway. They all used swords and moved slower than the enemy lancers did. They ran quickly enough though...” Trace fell silent for several long moments. It was hard to remember that night, painful, troubling. “I killed the few lancers that they sent and then I fled.  None of the others made it out.” He took a deep breath, pulling himself out of those memories with some effort.

“Reputation is everything for a mercenary.  Without it you can’t make enough coin to feed yourself.  For a soldier, running away when the battle is lost is cowardly.  For a mercenary, it’s how you survive having foolish employers. The Pierced Shield no longer exists and I kept quiet to avoid any lingering trouble.  I’ve survived with small solo jobs since then. This is my first big contract on my own. I was lucky to get it without connections or much of a reputation.  I hope the Prince isn’t as foolish as he is noble… or we’ll all end up dead, not just the mercenaries.”

With that, Trace fell silent and resumed eating.  His stew wasn’t quite as good since it had begun to cool.  Still, it was better to eat it now and wrap up the bread before it hardened, so he did while keeping his ears open.  Surely this mage would have something to say, whether for good or ill.

Artemisia absorbed all Trace had to say in steady silence, moving only to take a drink from her water once in a while. His recollection of that night painted a vivid, even terrifying picture. To come under attack from an unknown, silent foe, vastly more powerful and lethally informed, to understand there was no hope of victory, and to flee while one’s allies were slaughtered by the darkness--it was an almost poetic tragedy. 

She did wonder about some of the details the lancer provided, though. North of here, already a northern part of the continent, meant that this couldn’t have happened too far from Cherno Bog. Could her kinsfolk have had any part in that event…? Maybe. Most operations were kept on a need-to-know basis, so she knew nothing about any such activities. It struck her as stupid for anyone from the Coven to conducting such a large-scale assassination so close to home, but its operatives worked in mysterious ways. If it was the Coven’s work, they must have had a good reason. Making a mental note to ask next time she went home, Artemisia hurried to fill the silence that followed Trace’s story.

“How horrible. My heart goes out to you. I can only pray that His Majesty favors you in the future.” Looking down, she speared the last bit of pork and finished it off. She’d hoped -as mentioned earlier when she suggested that he get lunch with her- that he’d be able to inform her about recent events, but now the results of her inquiry left a dark cloud over the lunch table. In this atmosphere, pressing him for more felt inappropriate.

Trace finished his stew and packed his bread and cheese away as he processed Artemisia’s response.  Sympathy… she was working in a clinic so being able to express sympathy was not unbelievable… but… it was strange.  It felt like she was using it to cover her real thoughts. It didn’t feel like lying though, more like she was using a lesser truth to hide a greater one.  Trace had done the same in the past, when it seemed necessary. Well, he had been sharing in the hope of getting information in return. Even this little nibble on his hook was something to work with.  But, the time it took might prove more expensive than either of them could afford.

“I appreciate the sentiment.”  He said. Clearly, this matter brought him more worry than pain.

He raised his arm to touch the shoulder of a passing serving girl with a hand that held a coin.  “Excuse me. Have you heard anything about refugees or rumors from the regions affected by the war?”  He asked with a pleasant smile that never touched his eyes.

The serving girl seemed inclined to say something rude initially, until she spotted the glint of the coin.  Then she answered that shallow smile with one of her own and apologized for not having heard anything. According to her, the roads had been clear of refugees and there hadn’t been a peep out of anyone who came from that direction.  Pocketing the coin and waving prettily, she swished back into her regular work, occasionally evading the wandering hands of the more thirsty patrons.

Trace’s smile died instantly as soon as the serving girl turned away and his eyes swept across the windows to linger on the door.  “Silence from a battlefront? Only the dead are silent in war.” He muttered. “This city… it’s gonna burn.” He turned his gaze back to Artemisia and spoke more clearly.  “If you want to search for that person, I can take you around some places that aren’t usually open to passers by. This might be the last chance you get to look here.”

The mage gave a nod. “A fine notion. We will proceed shortly. And...I am grateful you told me all that.”

“Don’t mention it.”  Trace said as he stood and paid for the meals.  It was merely a polite phrase but it seemed to be meant seriously as well.  There could be real danger in sharing such stories too casually. Once Artemisia was ready, he led the way.  But, his eyes kept moving the whole time, searching for the threat that he knew was there.