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Cyrdic stepped over the last gnarled root of the forest, and found himself out of the Ostland treeline and within the crags of the Middle Mountains. The peaks loomed above him, and the boulders and lesser mounts that jutted out of the earth stood like watchful sentinels in the afternoon sun. He decided he should enjoy its warmth while it lasted. The clouds rolling in from the east threatened a storm.

The rugged youth turned around and held out a hand to help up his new companion, lifting her up easily if she took his offer. He was still unsure of his company. He'd never traveled, or barely even spoken to a beautiful courtesan before. He'd met this one once or twice in the courts of Wurzen. Despite his initial mistrust of her, he honestly didn't think she had anything to do with the count's death, just as he didn't. He was old fashioned, but even he wasn't going to shirk an adventure partner who knew how to duel simply because she was a woman. And how could he leave her behind to die?

They'd been lucky not to run into more than three Forest Goblins eating their dinner. Dispatching them quickly, the past two days had been quietly sneaking through the forest with the utmost care to keep away from roving herds of Beastman, and giant spiders.

"With luck, we'll get through the mountain passes in a day or two and end up on the Talabec," he breathed.
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Camilla blew out an irritable breath, blowing a stray lock of her raven hair clear of her face as she grabbed the young Seargent arm and clambered from the treeline into the pale afternoon sun. Her feet hurt abominably, twigs and bits of branches from the forest were tangled in her hair and she didn't even want to think about what she smelled like. Cydric himself smelled like a cross between an iron works and an slaughter house, the aftermath of the skirmish with goblins still fragrant.

A few days ago they had been at the court in Wurzen, living in relative luxury, she had been a 'companion' of the counts son Otto, an ornament to the court. Now Otto's was the Count and he was in no doubt about who had murdered his father. In her heart of hearts Camilla wondered if he had murdered the old man so he could inherit and was now going through the charade of being outraged. Such things were common in Tilea, but she didn't think it was the style here in the Empire.

"We... we can climb those?" she asked incredulously, turning her eyes up to the enormity of the mountains. White snow glistened on the tops of peaks which seemed to scrape the sky. She pulled her improvised cloak around her body. She had been forced to flee in clothing that... well it wouldn't have been suitable even in private for most people. She had supplied the lack with trousers, far too big, and a shirt which she kept belted around her waist with a strip of her previous silken garment. Both items were on loan from Cydric. Completing the ensemble was a horse blanket that they had found in a saddlebag, before they had been forced to abandon their horses to escape Otto's men. The heavy wollen material was fastened around her neck with a repurposed silver chain, another part of her oh so alluring outfit.

It was a genuine question, not a sarcastic rebuke, she had thought that Cydric was insane to suggest going through the forest on foot and had told him so in no uncertain, and not particularly flattering terms. None the less he had been correct, it had been nearly a day since they heard any sound of pursuit from the Ostlanders. A crude horn sounded somewhere far off, not an Imperial instrument, something cruder, perhaps more of the greenskins, or the animal mutants Otto had so frequently boasted of slaying. Camilla hoped that they hadn't traded one set of hunters for another.

"The..." she struggled for the word, "Weather, it does not look good," her accent made it sound more like 'Wee ther'. She cast a glance back at the forbidding forest. A second blast of the horn sounded and she couldn't tell if it was closer or further away. It didn't look like there would be much choice.

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"No, Fraulien," he began, then questioned his choice of addressing her. Sigmar knew he wasn't used to speaking with higher class people, save for his military superior. "Er, your ladyship I mean. We'll not climb them. There should be a pass through the mountains going south. Once we get through it, Wolfenburg will be to our left and Middenland will be to our right, but there's a dark forest we'd need to cut our way through if we chose that route to Middenland."

Images of Goblins riding on Spiders the size of houses crossed through his mind, but he shook those dark thoughts away. No need to scare the lady. "So instead we'll go straight south. Board passage on the River Eiskalt by Wolfenburg, hit the Talabec and go east. We'll be much closer to Middenheim then. Or Marienburg for that matter..." Cyrdic trailed off, and ran a thumb over the fresh cut on his cheek, courtesy of one of the Goblins he killed.

He'd never been to Marienburg. Sigmar, he'd never been to most of the Empire, much less outside of it. Ostland, Ostermark, Nordland...where else? Damned if I take the effort to recall now. Get your ass moving, he scolded himself. Immediately his mind whirled back to the task at hand, his iron eyes steeled once more. The horn that blasted behind them only punctuated his point. "Follow me," he told Camilla, and hefted his pack and weapons as he moved forward ahead of her. The young Ex-sergeant had been worked like an Ox for most of his life, in his father's shop, and then as a soldier. Marching was one skill he could do.

The towering Mountains closed in around them as they waded into the passes deeper. At first Cyrdic felt at ease to be out of the forest, yet soon he found the lack of visibility beyond a slope of one of the peaks almost suffocating. The Thunder just above them was the nail in the coffin, and soon it began to rain, pounding down harder than a Brettonian cavalry charge. He pushed onward, his brown hair matting. To their left, small rocks began to skid, and then crumble to roll down the mountain. Nothing too dangerous, but it served as a warning they needed to find shelter, and soon.
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Camilla's eyes glazed over slightly at the sergeants description of the places that lay ahead of them. To here they sounded like a confusing melange of half known images and markings on old maps in Otto's bedchambers. Marienburg she did recognize though, the great entrepot was famous throughought the known world. There would be ships there that could carry them wherever the wished to go. Irrationally, and for no more reason than its familiarity, she settled Marienburg as their destination. There, they were going to Marienburg. For whatever reason that little bit of resolution made her feel better.

"Anyone that rescues me from a suspicious murder, drags me through the forest and splatters me with Golbin brains can call me Camilla," she ventured in the spirit of new found boldness, her full lips twitching into a mischievous smile.

For a long time they climbed into the mountains. The rain, a particular misery in the already cool weather, began to fall in a heavy deluge. In short order it became hard to move safely, though with her acrobat trained reflexes she managed the task better than the Imperial. After endless minutes of sodden misery, she nearly tripped in a shallow and unexpected trough in the stone. Her eyes followed the flow of water, expecting it to run down of one of the near vertical rock faces surrounding them. To her surprise it didn't.

"Cydric," she all but shouted over the thunder of the rain, her Tilean accent rendering the words as closer to Sit-Rick. When he turned his head she stretched out her arm and pointed her finger. Across the narrow defile water was gouting from under a slight overhang. Over the years it had warn a slight trough into the stone, it must be more noticeable when there wasn't an inch of water slouching over everything. Water shouldn't flow from UNDER a ledge. In her misery she was unsure of what she would find, but none the less trudged towards the ledge, it might at least provide some shelter if the torrent dislodged further rocks, Ranald For-fend.

Reaching the ledge ahead of the Imperial she stepped under, it was only a few feet wide and provided little cover from the wind driven rain. What she did find was an old masonry work. A cylinder of fitted stones serving as a down pipe, brining water down from above. She frowned, unable to determine the purpose of such a device. Gingerly she reached her hand forward to the moss surrounding the pipe and pulled it away. To her surprise there was a small void between the pipe and the stone of the cliff. Perhaps they could widen it to make an opening for the two of them?

She turned and pointed to Cydric, shouting above the near deafening drum of rain.

"It is a passage of some sort, the pipe must be draining something!" she screamed through cupped hands.
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Cyrdic had pressed forward like the draft-horse he was often compared to on campaign, eyes steeled and youthful visage grim against the weather. He wasn't as agile as the beauty he traveled with, but he had steady feet and kept to it best he could through the uneven crags and torrents of water spilling down the mountains around them. His thoughts were more concerned with keeping course, and keeping his companion safe.

Not out of any feelings or desires any man might have with Camilla. I'll need to get used to calling her that, he thought. Sigmar knew he thought she was pretty, but it wasn't that... He had almost grinned when she insisted on him referring to her as her name. It made him feel like he was actually traveling with a comrade rather than the damsel she seemed. At the end of the day, that was what mattered. He was a military man, and he looked after his comrades.

He was broken out of his staunch reverie by her screaming his name, and whirled, expecting danger. It took him a moment to calm and realize what she'd found. He approached through the soaked, broken rocks and found himself standing next to her, looking at a strange device. "Stand back!" he roared over the maelstrom, and felt along the stone work around what he guessed was a pipe. He'd seen a few used for sewage in the few cities he'd visited.

His callused hands rubbed along the coarse stonework, until they ran over something smooth and intricate. Immediately he traced along it, bending down to see where it would lead. His vision was blurred by the rain, but he felt he could see what looked like a design upon the rock, moving left. He sidestepped and followed it, approaching the next bluff. He halted before he made it to the jutting rock. The sudden stop made his feet skid over the stone ground below, but he caught himself on an outstretched stone. He grabbed it automatically, and to his surprise, the stone held for only a moment. Then the weight of his hand sent it hanging limply from the mountain like a broken branch.

"What in the hell?" He muttered, before a torrent of water from above gushed over him, drenching him as if he had just submerged into a pool. He was temporarily blinded, and did not see the door before him initially open. Once he wiped his eyes and hair, the broad shouldered Imperial was starring at a dimly lit corridor, uniform in design, with ornate carvings and designs laid about in patterns within. He didn't even think, and turned to pull Camilla in with him, stepping into the stuffy, but very dry shelter they now had.
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The lack of rain was a sensation it itself, it was as if nerves deadened by the continual lashing of the downpour suddenly sprang back to life. The inervating cold of the rain slackened and Camilla began to shiver. The garments she had on were plastered to her body by the water, like being enfolded in a heavy wet blanket. The slackening of sound was also a relief. The thunder still rolled and the rain still hammered but undercover it seemed almost endurable.

It was dry here. Not just out of the rain dry, sepulchral dry. It was difficult to get a sense of the room they were in. The blackness was complete, broken only by the occasional crash of lighting, and that reflected of dull stone and refracted by a leaden downpour. Her hands fumbled for her pouch and the flint and steel for a moment before lack of familiarity with the task defeated her. As she peered closely at the walls she could make out oddly familiar designs, worked into the rock by artisans of ages past. The smell of must and ancient decay told her that the halls weren't being lived in, or at least that this section of them was abandoned.

"Cydric," she whispered, somehow afraid to speak to loudly. A ridiculous notion, she had been shouting only a moment ago. She found his bicep in the dark and squeezed softly.

"I... I cant find my flint and steel," she confessed, oddly disquieted to be unable to perform so simple a task.

"We need to get some light..."

No sooner had she spoken the word than a particularly vicious crack of lighting ripped down into the defile, bathing the whole scene in an unearthly purple light for long moments. For confused instants she had a vision of a large room, filled with all manner of objects, it was shockingly like a merchants holding area. A moment later the light died and bright purple after images danced in her eyes. By memory she reached along one of the walls and seized some sort of wall hanging, yanking it down with a sharp tug. Without pausing to investigate it, she wrapped the fabric around her shoulders, feeling its barrier against the chill immediately engulf her.

"What is this place..." she breathed.

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When her hand fell on his arm, he stiffened, but only for a moment. He felt oddly exposed in here, at least when he first walked in. The lack of rain and wind was almost deafening, but he knew this place likely saved them for the time being. He took off his soldier's coat, and tossed it onto the ground. "I don't know if I have mine either," he admitted, and knelt down to look through his pack. Moments passed, and thankfully he found them. But they were soaked. Almost everything in his pack was.

He found a rag that seemed relatively dry, and immediately he began wiping down his broadsword to keep it from rusting. Her comment on the light brought some clarity in the form of lightning, and Cyrdic glimpsed the strange, ethereal room they found themselves sheltered within. Great statues of warriors he could only guess were Elves stood at the ready at the head of the room. One of them had been cloven in twain, however.

He turned, and saw desks and strange devices made of exquisite wood, carved almost delicately. Two chests were within the room, as well as a central chest at the center, upon what looked like a sepulchre carved from the mountain stone. "I don't know..." he replied to her question. He'd never met an Elf, and had only seen a Dwarf a handful of times. But even he knew the two races got along as well as Imperials and Brettonians.

Dwelling on it wouldn't change anything. He let out a haggard breath, and realized some of the rain water had gone down his throat when the door had opened. He cleared his throat, and gripped his sword. Taking one of the strange devices made of wood, he hacked it apart in one swipe. The wooden bits fell onto the floor, and he gathered them up, and began doing his best to dry his flint and steel, before he attempted to create a fire for them.

"Check in my pack, there's some jerky in there." He told her as he worked. "It's Nordland stock. I'd give-" he jerked as he caused sparks to fly, and he chuckled at the small success. Still no fire though, "-my left leg for some good Talabecland Deer Jerky, but Nordland stock is not bad." As an afterthought, he added "bit tough though" as a warning.

The room was certainly odd, an almost alien in majesty and perception. But Cyrdic was nothing if not pragmatic. They needed food and warmth first. Still, the curiosity of where they were still nagged even his bullheaded brain. "Good job finding the room," he told her gruffly. When the fire sparked to life, he fell onto his rump, and ran a hand through his brown, matted hair in satisfaction.
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Camilla stared in wonder as the light of the small fire kindled to life, illuminating the room. Her hand froze with the jerky halfway to her mouth.

"By the Gods," she breathed, looking down at the wall hanging she had used as a makeshift blanket to see it revealed as a silken banner bearing some kind of great fiery bird. The rest of the room was in equally decayed splendor. Fine furniture, or what had once been fine furniture lay scattered round at seemingly random intervals. Her brain kept trying to tell here that their was a greater aesteic order and then skittering away from grasping the pattern.

Bitting down on the jerky started her from her reverie. The outer layer was softer from being drenched in the rain, but the inner layer was like iron and she felt her jaw half broke clamping down on it. Against her own better judgement she started to giggle, and her giggle built to a laugh with only the slightest tinge of hysteria.

"I'm sorry," she said, making a dismissive gesture with her hand once she had bought herself under control.

"I was just thinking that this place is like something out of a Brettonian play and then nearly broke my teeth on your jerky, somehow that part seems to get left out of the damsel's lines..."

She was about to go on about the reality of adventure when she suddenly went completely deathly still.

"Cydric," she breathed, "why are their eyes gouged out?"

The statues were all in various stages of disrepair, some appeared to have been hacked appart, others defaced with crude grafitti of indeterminate languge. But every single statue, from the mightiest stone monolith, to the smallest foot high carving had it eyes neatly and perfectly removed.

Camilla reflextively gulped and immediately began to choke on the jerky.
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Most of the women he's grown up with were country folk. Hardy and sharp of wit, but pragmatic and even less educated than he (at least after his service with the Quartermaster). He'd never met a woman who had read or attended plays, much less foreign ones. At least, he'd never met one that didn't immediately look passed him for his humble origins. It was odd having one for a travel companion, but not unwelcome, he realized. Even if he didn't understand the appeal of gaudy actors up on stage.

He blinked when she spoke of the eyes, and he turned to gaze around the room. "I don't know," he said. He almost found himself embarrassed of those words being his every other sentence, but this was something he'd never seen before. This place was obviously Elven, but he'd never heard of Elves living in the Old World. He'd thought only the Dwarfs made refuge here. The only tales of Middle Mountains he had heard were of Orcs and Goblins, and those tales seemed all too real now. The lack of eyes was disturbing enough, but the scratch marks along the eyelids brought a cold chill up his spin.

He saw Camilla jump a bit, and he wasn't surprised she was frightened. It took him a moment to realize her intake of air was suddenly halted. "Camilla?" He asked, and when she didn't, couldn't, answer, he leaped to his feet. "Norscan's balls, ok Camilla hold still!" he ordered, and he wrapped his powerful arms around her waist. He kept her steady, and then suddenly pressed into her lower abdomen. Nothing. He did it again, and the second time shot the jerky out of her throat and onto the floor.

When he heard her gasps, he breathed a sigh of relief. "You ok?" He breathed in her ear. And he thought he'd have to worry about Orcs. This woman gave him enough worry, it seemed.
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Camilla coughed and spluttered ungracefully as she sucked in a huge lung full of air. A moment later her mind realized that Cydric was trying to be quiet and she did her best to mitigate her coughing. After a moment she managed to get herself under control, reaching up she wiped some of the spittle from her mouth with the back of her hand before scrapping it off onto the banner she was wrapped in.

"Sorry, I'm afraid I'm not making much of a dashing adventure," she apologized, shivering against the chill. A wry grin quirked her lips.

"Or the damsel in distress I'd wager," she replied, spitting into the darkness, "though the distress part I seem to have under control."

The small fire was beginning to blaze now and its warmth was a welcome companion. Within a few minutes she cast aside the banner and allowed the heat do dry her clothes. Eerie statues aside, this was probably the safest she had felt since they had fled the court. Bitterly she recalled her dresses, fine weapons and jewelry and her carefully horded money, all lost now.

"Why did you come here Cydric?" she asked, dark eyes locked on the fire and remember the warm evenings in Tilea.

"You aren't a local are you?"
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He grinned at her, and he patted her on the head. Not in a dismissive way, but in a warm way. "I've seen you duel. Not half bad, honestly. That and your morale? You'll make a fine adventurer, I'd say." He said. He didn't mention the Damsel part, because he thought she played that part quite well. Though whether he was quiet because it might either offend her, or him not wanting to admit he was attracted to her, he didn't rightly know. Didn't matter anyway. She certainly had the spirit for this dangerous road.

As the fire glowed, Cyrdic sat down opposite of Camilla. He often kept quiet when he wasn't barking orders or giving snappy comebacks to fellow troops. He took the time to gaze around the room. Elven work was something else. Dwarf was utilitarian, but ornate. Human work varied, depending on the province. These sculptures flowed and twisted with a barely perceptible grace, far beyond human craftsmanship. He briefly wondered if they used witchery to carve the statues and desks. The stories of Elves capturing his countrymen for slaves brought a spark of anger in his visage for a moment.

"Hmmm?" He replied, his ears twitching from the unexpected question like a hound. One muscled arm rested over a raised knee, the other leg out, his free arm resting on his lap. Until he reached up to his face once again, to brush a finger along scars both old and new. "Well, apart from my helping you, I don't think they'd welcome back a soldier that failed to protect the Baron's son. It was my duty and I failed. I...I'm local to Ostland. But I've been around. Sometimes the Baron sends us to aid provinces he wants to make nice with."

His thoughts drifted, and he found his brown eyes lingering on the fire as well. In the flames, he saw spurts of blood as his memory took hold of him. "I've fought the Northern Barbarian's twice. The Chaos dogs from across the sea. Norscans. First time was in Nordland, and the second time at home on the coast. It's how I got the shield," he said, and patted the robust round shield lain next to him. "But I'm sure my stories would bore you."

His eyes left the fire and fell on her, the flames dancing on his eyes. "Do all people speak like you in Tilea?" He asked bluntly. Cyrdic's queries often sounded like he was questioning people in a challenging way. Perhaps Camilla would be used to it by now (or simply think it was an Ostlander thing) but it was just how he spoke. He never meant to seem too rough. "How did you come by Ostland? Do you have a home in Tilea?" Suddenly, the thought crossed his mind. "Is that why you're heading south with me? To head home?"
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Camilla smiled into the fire.

"Consider how you sound to me," she jibbed playfully.

"For the Emperor, Forward March, We must hunt for pheasants!" she made her voice comically rough, drawing out the syllables and flattening the vowels to make the words almost unrecognizable. In Tilea, Imperials were mocked for their gutural accents. They routinely made up the comedy element of plays with a caricatured brutishness and fanatical devotion to even the silliest duties. Since she had come to Ostland she had found the sterotypes to be wrong of course, although Imperials in general did seem a grim foreboding lot. For a few moments she allowed her eyes to wander the room and she considered the lands they had traveled together since fleeing. Perhaps these were good lands for grim foreboding people.

"I don't have a home in Tilea," she responded, a little more somberly. A shower of sparks flew up as one of the pieces of timber gave way with a little pop.

"I was... how you say... without mother... orphan, I was an orphan," she explained.

"When I was a little girl I lived on the street, but in Tilea there are Putadorea... houses that will take in orphans, pretty ones anyway. They trained us, taught us to dance and duel to read and write, be witty." Her accent drew out the word witty to sound like Whee tee. It had been a happy time, as far as such things went, there had been enough food, and the tutors beat the children less than the street kids had. There had been other things of course, but she tried not to think on it too deeply.

"When I was old enough, I was sent to court as a companion, this was in Remus, while I was there a merchant from the Empire saw me, he thought I would make a good companion for his own wife who was old," she continued. Companion to a wife or aged relation was the usual pleasantry that was used.

"Otto, saw me at a ball and convinced the merchant to part with my... services, the rest you know, more or less anyway." She pulled her knees up to her chest as she talked, making her self smaller instinctively.
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He let out a snort at her attempting to speak with a gruff Imperial accent, and the ridiculous line she spoke. He actually started to chuckle. Cyrdic had to admit he must sound very odd in Tilea, or anywhere south of the World's Edge Mountains. But she'd traveled more than he. He'd definitely not be able to speak Tilean. Briefly, he wondered if he'd need to learn it at some point. Maybe the Empire wasn't big enough to escape a Baron's wrath.

"Suppose that's lucky," he replied, poking the fire with a stick. He'd begun to down some of the Nordland jerky himself. "To be given a place to stay. Though the services..."

Cyrdic shook his head. "I guess I'll be a Sellsword. Work for anyone who'll pay me. Fighting is all I know, so..." He shrugged. "I've not got much of a choice." He began to think aloud. "But, I guess it's not all bad. Mercenaries make their own hours, travel...long as you don't mind going hungry every now and then, you can manage. I can manage." He sounded as if he was speaking to himself. What he'd need to do would be to sign up with any outsider noble to whatever province he was at. No, start low. Maybe a sewer watchman.

"But you're able to do whatever you want. Outside of Ostland that is. What's your plan?"
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Camilla gave a caviler shrug and tossed her hair in what might have once been a defiant gesture. The small rain of twigs that came free from her tangled hair rather spoiled the gesture.

"It is a service like any other," she said with a dismissal in her voice.

"Much better than making a living on the street as a thief or a blade." Some of the men were scooped up into the inveterate mercenary bands, but the mortality rates were high and women weren't welcomed in any case. Girl children who weren't pretty enough had few options, none of them pleasant.

"A Sell Sword," she said, putting the emphasis on each individual syllable, trying it on for size. There hadn't really been much time to consider her next move in the last few days, the whole of her attention had been focused on escaping the Count's misguided vengeance.

"I can no go back to Tilea," she said, more turning the notion over in her head for her own benefit.

"Too many assassins, and a girl who just returned from the Empire would be obvious to a fool." Otto would have no trouble hiring toughs to knife her in some dark alley if she went back to Tilea. Estallia maybe, but the alure of that hard scarbble kingdom didn't fill her with much more enthusiasm.

"Maybe I will remain in the Empire," she mused, "Although I will have to keep moving, too obvious for me if I stay in one place." For a long moment she just stared into the fire contemplating the coming days and months. Cydric of course could blend in a little easier, he spoke the language and his presence wouldn't be remarked upon in all but the remotest village.

"I don't know what I will do, perhaps I can sell my sword too, or sing for money a ... how do you say ... mistral?" She frowned, the pronunciation tasting wrong. She couldn't be a courtesan again, not yet, it would make her far to obvious a target and few rich men would go far to protect their mistresses when the Imperial law might be involved.

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He could empathize with her dismissal. Being a soldier was his only real option in life. It just happened to be Heldenhammer's grace that he was a natural at it. "A minstrel," he replied to her. "Though they often draw attention. Or attempt to." His eyes switched to the tapestry she had worn to warm her. "Speaking of which, when we make it out of here, you staying cloaked might be the best idea. And we'd need a story on who we are. I don't even think the Baron knows my name, but just to be safe I'll assume a name until we reach past Middenland."

He never enjoyed lying. Life was so much simpler when you just spoke what was. "Minstrel or Mercenary, both travel," he said with a shrug, his broad shoulders rose and fell like an ocean wave. "Not sure where I'll travel. Only I'd need to keep moving, too. Only way to get money, and to make sure I'm not discovered either. I doubt I would be, but I don't intend to die before it's a time of my choosing."

Abruptly, he came up with a name. "When we're on the Talabec, call me Reiner. I could be your bodyguard, if anyone asks."
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"Reiner," she said experimentally, trying the name on for size. It seemed to fit, very Imperial. Subterfuge was part of the games of Courts and she took to it easily.

"I don't know that any name would conceal who I am," she mused. Though the more she thought about it, if she wore a cloak and a hood, who was to say who she was. It was a big Empire afterall, perhaps a travelling Tilean sell sword wouldn't gain that much attention. The possibilities grew on her, afterall the further they got away from Hochland the harder it would be for anyone short of a wizard to track them down and she doubted Otto's pockets ran quite that deep.

"I'll have to come up with a name too," even as the words left her mouth inspiration struck her and she snapped her fingers.

"Maybe Vivienne, an adventurer from Brettonia," she said, shifting her cadence and adding unnecessary H sounds to the words to form a Brettonian accent. If she tried it in Courrone she would be discovered in a second but who was to say what a Brettonian accent sounded like this far north of Axe Bite pass, it was close enough she was sure of it. Her face brightened measurably as the idea took fire in her mind.

"The strangeness will work for me no!"
she continued, holding the thick Brettonian accent on as she did so, gesticulating with her hands in the fashion of that country.
Hidden 2 yrs ago Post by POOHEAD189
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He laughed, despite himself. Her spirited nature seemed to be effective, even to he. "You fit the accent like a glove," he said, amused. The scarred young sergeant leaned back, his upper back pressed to the wall. He yawned, and drew his hands behind his head, arms thickening from the motion. "You might be the fish out of water, but I'm starting to think you'll have an easier time here in the Empire than me." She did seem to be a natural actor. Or maybe it was just a side effect of being impulsive.

"Vivienne and Reiner," he echoed. "Traveling companions." He grunted. The heat of the fire, and the pitter patter of rain outside the opened portal was relaxing him visibly. But he hadn't dozed just yet. "If you're a Brettonian adventurer, would being your bodyguard work? Perhaps a fellow adventurer." His voice grew scratchy and gruffer as he groaned from his body slumping even further. "I don't think I could pull off a squire." He breathed.

He yawned, his eyes closed. "Have any ideas?"
@Penny
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"We can work on the details, the more rumors the better really, I think you are too clean to make a believable squire," she said fighting off a yawn of her own as the last of the rains chill was warmed away by the glowing embers of the fire. She cast him a deliberately critical look.

"Though I suppose that might just be because of the rain," she teased. Scootching across the cave floor she put her back up against the cool stone wall.

"We could be partners, sole survivors of some ill fated expedition, a noble woman on pilgrimage with a guide, the more stories we start, the harder it will be for anyone to connect us to Otto," She went on. It was a very workable idea, one they could tailor to whatever situation they found themselves in.

"Better think about sleep," she said, indicating that she would take the first watch. They weren't on any particular plan, so she figured she would get the longer rest if she took the first turn watching. She didn't know how much food, to the extent that jerky could be considered food, they had left, but she figured that the sooner they were out of this place the better. Maybe once they reached the forest or the river they could find more food. She didn't have the vaguest idea of how to hunt food without a party of hunters to make it a game and the very idea of catching her own fish seemed ridiculous, but she supposed she could learn.
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