Amal had made enemies in two provinces, he would rather not get someone imprisoned on a third. At least not on his first day without travel. He did not wish to admit that, though, nor that he partially did it because she was pretty. Instead he shrugged. "He wanted the pie back so badly, I felt a bit guilty." He joked, taking her hand in his and shaking it. "But you're welcome." The redguard had immensely strong hands. It was easy to feel, even if he did not grip her own tightly. 

"Amal of Rihad, I am... well, let's say I have need of money and wish to use my blade to get it." He said, not even pretending to be deceptive in his tone when he spoke of himself. He added: "For the most part." 

"Now, if you've been good, Wayshrines of Dibella may bless you so you can grow up big and beautiful," a mother Breton told her little girl, wagging her finger to the troublemaking little one. Amal glanced to the right, seeing the girl pout, but she relented with a nod and they walked away. The noise of chatter and laughter grew more prominent as others strode by.

"No, you fool. Nobody goes into the mountains but hunters and thieves on the lam. Food and shelter is hard to come by." A local workman said, speaking louder than he believed, to a traveler asking questions of the region. 

"I take it you're not simply here to talk pastries." Amal leaned forward conspiratorially, before he placed his forearm against his mouth to stifle a small burp. "-As good as they are. If you're wanting the reward, you'll either have to join me or race me for it. Usually I am accommodating to ladies, but I am in need of money, and I do not know your skills..." He took the opportunity to study her more closely, though before a moment passed, he frowned lightly. Did he recognize her? She looked familiar, he thought. Oh well, no matter.

At that, he pulled back and gave a wide smile. "So, would you like to go somewhere more private and discuss, or will we be rivals on the road?" 

He wondered what magic she wielded. Redguards did not trust illusion magic. They did not like the idea of someone manipulating someone else's thoughts. Though Amal was not a typical redguard, one might say.
[hr] 

Outside of Keogria, on the hilltop overlooking the bay, Maurice drove his cart up the best. Loud as ever, he was confident no one would follow him. He had been a merchant here since before the gates opened. Children had grown up around him, and the townsfolk asked him for news and advice everytime he returned. The sun was slightly past its zenith, the perfect time to make himself scarce as the bretons and foreigners mingled and ate and supped in their midday break. On the road, he drove by the old Martinne Guimard statue, now overgrown with foliage. She had once been beautiful, the statue. Now it was chipped and weathered, a far-cry from the fabled enchanting countess the lady had once been. Martinne was remembered as the leader of a consortium of coin-barons that purchased the Systres archipelago from the Colovian kings, supposedly shrewd and cunning in all matters she put her mind to. He hoped she would feel this work was necessary.  

He drove his cart over the last rise, and the horse pulled them to the great oak tree that dominated the small hill, almost leaning over the cliff face as if to peek down at the waters below. Maurice goaded his horse to a stop, and hopped out to grab his pitchfork from the back of the cart. He took the implement in his hands, but nearly jumped out of his trousers when he saw the figure of Glen striding from the tree. What on Nirn was he doing here? Had he been napping by the oak like a lout? 

"Maurice?" Glen asked. He was a breton about Maurice's age, though his hair had gone white prematurely. He was a friend; a nice man, always quick to smile and ready to talk. Maurice had no time to talk, at the moment. 

"Glen! How are you?" The merchant asked, trying to appear unfazed.

"Oh, just came up to see the view. Wanted to..." Glen trailed off, failing to not appear thoughtful. Maurice sighed, knowing his reasons. Glen had told him the story of his father before, how the sailor had left when Glen was a small boy, had promised to come home. Even though he had a family now, Maurice could understand. Still, at lunch time? "Anyway, what are you doing up here?" 

"Glen, it's dangerous to leave the town alone. I got my horse, but you can't be wandering out here." Maurice cautioned, trying to hide his apprehension. 

"I know, I know... I just... I haven't been here for years. Wanted to come up and think awhile." He explained, shaking his head. Glen glanced back at the tree, a sense of concern passing over his face, before he pulled himself back to the present. "I was just going, anyway. But you got some work up here? I could help you out, we can ride back together." He remarked jovially. 

Maurice froze for a brief moment, before he smiled sadly, and he shook his head. "Sorry, Glen. I truly am." He remarked. 

"Oh, it's-" Glen began, unable to finish his sentence before Maurice shoved the sharpened pitchfork into his chest. Glen's lips mouthed 'okay' to finish his thought, before the blood began to seep out in a small trickle. Maurice drove the iron in deeper, pain on his face just as Glen's twisted in pain, and a few moments later, he let Glen fall to the dirt. The act wasn't pretty, especially under a cloudless sky. He'd felt the iron hit bone, but he knew he found his friend's heart too. 

"Aw Glen," Maurice lamented. "I was hoping to save you and the family, at least. You'd been through enough. But you had to be all nosey."