"-and with the revenues, me wife up and left, and even took the damned goat..."

Will shook his head solemnly, showing the fellow just how much he agreed with the sentiment. It had all been an act, but the ex-soldier knew all too well the flaws inherent in the system that the whole island had to deal with now. Even stableguards weren't exempt from being victims of the latest land litigation. Will clapped a hand on his shoulder, the ale sloshing in the wooden mugs from the brief contact. 

"Won't be this way forever, my friend. The king's son is on the continent. He'll set matters right, I think." Will replied soothingly. It was treason to say such things, but the stableguard was already inebriated, thanks to the muddlehead poultice Will had slipped in it when the Albanic had offered the brew. 

The guard waved it off. "Won't bring the wife back, or my favorite goat, but aye. 'Least there will be some reckoning." He paused a moment, before the tears began to brim, and he took another swig of his mug. Will was impressed at how quickly he finished the pints, and did his best to catch the fellow before he tumbled over, already beginning to sway. "Make- HUC-... make shure nbo one shteals ny hors...hhorses..." 

"Werry no' on tha'," Will replied, his accent returning as he helped the man to the hay covered floor. "Jest go t' sleep, me boy." Soon the man was snoring, and Will knew he needed it. Muddlehead only caused someone to sleep if they hadn't in a long while. It saved him the trouble of knocking him out, at least. As he pulled the man into an empty stable, he looked up and spied the guard's discarded musket leaning against a wooden rail. Outside, thunder crashed and the horses whinnied nervously as he went for the weapon. On closer inspection, it was technically a musketoon, or the shorter carbine version of the standard wheelock. It would serve on horse, and shouldered it before finding a nice black gelding, calming the beast as thunder rolled in the distance once more with soft words of his mouth tongue. 

"Socair a-nis a bhalaich, bidh a h-uile càil gu math." He whispered, running a hand over the beast's snout. There were old tales that the men of Alban could speak to the beasts of the forest like old friends, and it lead to them being fine horsemen. Much of the rumors came from old takes from a thousand years ago, and kept alive by the Albanic's themselves. Truth be told it was mostly rubbish, as far as Will was concerned. No language could soothe beasts better than another. Still, he felt more comfortable with his mother tongue when speaking softly, and so he used it when speaking to skittish horses or dogs. It seemed to work here, and soon he and the gelding were out of the stable, and Will thanked Saint Finbar there was no rain as of yet. 

"Alright, now let's let you meet the missus that'll-" He started, interrupted by the clatter of a wagon. A team of horses streamed past he and his new mount, with Emmeralda hanging on for dear life in the back of it. Will's eyes met hers for a brief moment, and before three heartbeats passed, out of the darkness of the trees came three riders clad in black. Their cloaks billowing in the wind, they chased after the runaway carriage as it careened down the road.

Will took a full two seconds to overcome his stunned reaction. Had Emmeralda not been thirty meters down the road, she would have guffawed at his expression. He had never met a woman who was such a contradiction in great luck and the poorest luck imaginable. The juxtaposition was driving him up the bloody wall. He groaned audibly. "By the solemn blood of Bartholomew Bracha!" Quickly, he made up for lost time and mounted the black gelding, setting the mount off at a gallop, hoping beyond hope the wagon wouldn't crash or the riders wouldn't catch up to her in time. They wouldn't shoot her, he theorized. It took too much effort to capture her for them to simply kill the woman, but it was small comfort at the wild situation.