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Arya the Trenchant

A traveling merchant with a streak of 'bad luck'.

0 · 519 views · located in Ragged Camp

a character in “The Ragged Kingdom”, as played by Alastairim

Description

Arya is a half-elf that won her freedom in a bet - a very lucky bet, indeed - at the age of seven. Born to a slave family, she was the first to emerge from its clutches to a world unknown. She went from not needing money to depending every moment on it, chasing after some sense of safety. Her days on the streets earned her a few skills although her most notable is her silver tongue. Talking her way through her teens, Arya managed to get in with the Merchants Guild and has been peddling salt ever since, even if some say she's in the black market. Her legal trade has created several strong trading partners in both the Kingdom and the Eastern nation and is the famed figurehead for the 'Southern Salts' Company which dabbles in salt and salted fish from the Southern Ocean. Her famed name? The 'Salty Maiden'.

Her trustiest tools are Viki and Vii; her twin daggers she keeps stashed behind her back. She also keeps a small pouch of salt on her at all times to pour into the wounds she cuts.

At a physical level, Arya stands at 5"8 with a busty form. Her light eyes and red hair make her stick out like a sore thumb among most elves and humans. She mostly smiles although its not entirely sincere.

So begins...

Arya the Trenchant's Story

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Clicks of hooves against dirt rang in the stale morning air. Their thin sound was only broken by chirping birds and dripping water in the distance. In the cart that mindlessly wheeled forward were a series of crates covered by a thin, cotton mat tied at the corners. At the helm were two particular characters, one was a woman of apparent stature. She was a half-elf, pale and postured. A red cloak draped over her shoulders before meeting at a wide hood that hung over her eyes, leaving only a smirk to be seen. Below, strips of leather could be seen with small studs on the arm plates and joints before leading to her gloved hands. Her calloused digits softly tapped on her knee, playing a beat to match the drips as if the quiet world was a symphony before her; however, all music must end.

When her hands came to a sudden stop, Arya sighed, "So, Ivan, how did you fare the rain last night?" Her blue eyes flickered from the road before her to the sturdy man at her side. He was a tall ruffian with a wooden left leg which kept him from his previous profession as a castle guard. He rarely found pleasure in conversation and, as such, simply shrugged at her question. His own dark eyes dared not stray from the uneven path ahead. The two black horses that drove the cart forward shared a similar determination and, arguably, conversational dislike.

Arya lifted a brow with a curious smile, "Ah, I see. I'm also glad to see your leg isn't driftwood yet. I know you were worried about that." Keeping a careful eye on him, Arya noted his lack of reply and smiled more deeply. "That's true. Rain is good for the forest. You're such a clever man." She teased, crossing one leg over the other and relaxing more deeply in her seat. After waiting for a few moments in quiet dignity, the woman grew bored of her target and turned her attention to the forest on her left taking the time to visually trace along one of the curling vines. She always thought travel was so dull in the spans of open wilderness. There were no people to watch or things to consider selling. No dreams of future prospects or schemes to hatch; there was simply the green and the brown, both of which she considered mundane. Today, however, she would add a grey to that mundane palate as the clouded sky hung menacingly over the world, gracing the tips of the evergreen trees. Arya almost wished the grey would sink down and choke her where she sat to stead her restless mind.

Against her better judgement, Arya spoke again, "So, how do you think the salt will sell today, Ivan? They said to bring ten pounds only but I had a good feeling about today. Something in the air, I think." She paused but kept her eyes on the trees hoping to see one of the famed Burly Owls that were told to haunt the forest. She considered their pelts to be worth some coin and would make a marvellous cloak and if anything were to be said of Arya, it was her love of a good cloak, among other things.

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No answer came from Ivan, as was expected by Arya who still sat mindlessly at his side. She was surprised, however, when their cart slowed. Her hooded head moved with swift grace to see a figure standing on the wet dirt before them. Ivan pulled the horses back to a slow stop, allowing there nervous feet to tap tediously on the soaked mud, sinking slightly in their stead. Arya's careful eyes examined every feature of the stranger before them knowing that things were about to get very interesting - all without her modest smirk leaving her pink lips. When he spoke, the woman was all too eager to reply, "Good morning indeed, sir. Didn't expect a gentleman visitor so early-" Her eyes caught the shimmers of metal beneath the underbrush and decided to cut her words short, however humours she found herself to be.

Ivan filled the silence instead with a curse and moved to action. Arya always thought he was such a rash man with no mind for business. On several occasions she pondered how he had become her secondhand but perhaps he was meant to be her bodyguard hired by the Southern Salt Company to say they liked her, but not enough to get a fully capable candidate - or one that liked her company. Still, she watched as the man moved to attack, only to be stopped by an arrow near his hand. Arya used all her willpower to not applaud the shot; however, her smirk did morph into a wide, toothy grin. When the man spoke again, the woman heeded him carefully.

"Well, Ivan. Let's listen to the strange man. He has such a way with words - you really ought to learn something from him." She teased while rising from her seat. She never considered using her weapons strapped to her back for there wasn't a need. Instead she stepped, with steady feet and a calm heart, onto the mud and distanced herself from the cart. Ivan, however, was never one for civility. Instead he found a new rage rise under his skin and made him dart for his weapon and jump - fists clenched and voice roaring - towards the strange masked man. "I'll kill you!" He screamed, slammed into the mud and charged towards the masked strange damning all the consequences about to unfold, all for fifteen pounds of salt - or his pride. In truth, Arya wasn't always certain it was the later.

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Arya watched her companion run to his death with a rather apathetic stare. It wasn't terribly glorious but she would tell the Company that he fought with honour and dignity as it was the most courteous thing to do. Still, the woman tossed this from her current mind to hear the stranger's comment about Ivan. She shrugged, shook her head, and smirked, "He did prefer one-legged Ox but to each their own.".

Leaning onto one leg and brushing some mud from her upper thigh, the woman added in a murmur, "And I know when I'm outmatched. Take what you want; although, fifteen pounds of salt isn't much of a bounty." Her dirty hands moved to the rim of her hood, playing tediously on its edge before dropping the thick fabric around her shoulders. Her pale face and short red hair sprung from the red fabric dulled only by her shining smile still speared over her features. "But, of course, you know those horses are worth more than the salt at this current market - maybe even thrice per horse. Two black mares recently into their adulthood? Simply quality steeds. That is what you were after, right? Or maybe," the woman paused to shift on her mud-covered feet, "you didn't know exactly who would show up today. It's just my guess but I feel like you may be a little aimless at the present time. Don't get me wrong, I'm absolutely at your mercy but at least do me the courtesy to see my value. Not as a woman," She smiled, fully aware she was before a man of questionable intentions, "but as a profiteer. I, my sir, am the Salty Maiden."

At this point, Arya decided to take a gamble. Most likely she would die - it was a highway robbery and these things rarely resulted in the victims living past their usefulness. As such, she would become the most useful person in the mud. So, with a still sparking smile, the woman bowed with hands outstretched, "Formally, most people call me Arya the Trenchant but it doesn't roll off the tongue the same way. I'm the main trader for the S.S.C., well respected member of the Merchant's Guild, and famed trader in the East. Glad to make your acquaintance."

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Arya's attention turned to a new figure in the scene: that man who most likely fired the earlier arrow based on the crossbow he held. He was tall, dark and handsome which was not unwelcome. A nest of men, it would seem, the profiteer had fallen into. A marvellous place to be for the heterosexual monster that lurked below the red cloak. She smiled and pulled up from the bow to slowly reach around her back. With each hand, she gripped a hilt and tugged them free to offer them to the men. "Please, meet my associates: Viki and Vii. They're sisters, please be kind to them. They've lived a rather charmed life," The half-elf joked with a sneer. They were two decorated knives, etched with flourished curves and black leather handles with small clear crystals tapered to their blunt ends.

Once her weapons were removed, Arya replied to his earlier comment sparing no moment to break her smile. "Well, I like to consider myself better than rotting flesh, even on my worst days, but perhaps that has little value for a cannibal. And while that's a little too human for my taste, I see the appeal. I do, however, also see a point of benefit for both of us if I live. Sure, I know the trade routines through here, the most prominent traders, and several of the hired thugs, but I also know where to get certain items. Let's say, royal guard uniforms. Why? Well, we both know this road is currently unmonitored but it doesn't have to be. If you get what I'm saying." Her grin intensified as her hands played curiously at the hem of her cloak. Its bottom edges were covered in mud at this point - a simple setback to begin the glorifying start of a beautiful enterprise.

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Arya was pleased to hear she wouldn't be slaughtered quite yet but there was still time for that. Still, she held a brave face as the leader griped her neck and commanded his men. She hated to be touched beyond her will; however, some situations called for compromises, as did this one. Instead she turned to humour to quench her sour mood. "Well I always did love a good threat." She muttered, crumbling willing under his force to march forward. Her lips held a soft smile as her muddy feet pulled from the thick dirt with a wet smack to land in the green underbrush of the forest.

Arya kept her eyes wide open as they trudged through the forest, trying to study their path. She hadn't ever been past the trade road but she was determined to find some level of safety in the unknown land. There were stories, she knew, about this horrible place. The mundane green and brown were all around her now as thoughts of Burly Owls past her mind. Any hope to skin one for herself was lost as she hustled through the maze of vines and trees. With time, the blur of foliage fell away to reveal a camp.

The first thing Arya saw was a small burning fire. It's orange glow welcomed her, bouncing off a large tree with several etches and markings carved into its bark just behind. The flame's thin, grey smoke was lost in the dark green brush above that covered the whole camp. Sunlight barely made it through the heavy leaves, making the camp a grim and dark place to pace about. Yet, the woman didn't have the luxury to take in the ambience. Instead she marched in the direction the leader directed her, which resulted in her entering a small tent that she assumed would be his personal lair.

Arriving inside, Arya thought speaking up right away was her best course of action. So, with a confident smile and charming tone, she began. "To business then. Well, here's my idea: We set up a blockade on the road right before the Eastern border. We not only tax those who come and go, but also patrol their goods. You know, confiscate illegal weapons and merchandise. We can even put on a show and burn the less valuable illegal items before some of our guests to show them our sincerity in the situation. If I get the news to the right people, many traders will assume it's simply a new standard by the Kingdom. The first part will be getting the right gear. If I'm honest, getting used gear is the easiest way to obtain royal uniforms; however, that means spilling some blood or spending some coin. If your robbing salt merchants, I'm guessing you don't exactly have any coin to spare. So that leaves us with two options: killing guards ourselves or - and I mean consider this one very carefully because these people are very vindictive - stealing post-looted outfits from a smuggler den. Specifically a shrunken looking man named Saiv the Sneak. Not a great name but also, not a great man." She paused, noting her own surprise to her words. "And I know it seems weird that a salt merchant would know this much but news travels, you know? And I do my best to know who to seek out and who to avoid. Also, and I don't mean to give you ideas but, salt does keep a corpse fresher for longer. Just, you know, a reason to know certain people." She smiled grimly.

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When the leader released his grip, Arya rubbed her neck with tender hands while faintly smearing mud across the pale flesh. It wasn't a factor in her mind as she watched their reaction - much more interesting things were afoot. With a deep breath, the woman relaxed onto flat feet and crossed her arms. Her red clock was still draped marvellously well, albeit the mud that had already began to crust at its bottom.

Her lips held a ever-present grin while she watched the men deliberate but her mind was buzzing with doubt. They were either more powerful than they appeared or terribly foolish, but then again, this could be her way out of this mess. As much as she had dabbled with the illegal checkpoint idea for months as a casual daydream, the actual implications of such a plan could be disastrous for her and her reputation. After-all, a salesperson is only as good as their worst rumour and she already had her fair share.

And then the dashingly handsome man whipped out his secret weapon; a large, wrinkled map. The woman eyed it curiously. When the stranger spoke, her lips curled tighter. "Well, if you have a captain underfoot I'd hate to see what else you've stepped in." It was a little tease before she took a step towards the two men, "But be warned: this isn't some bandit. This is Saiv the Sneak. He's a well liked smuggler to several groups of rift-raft and a rather prolific artist - if maiming could be considered art. The guard uniforms will be in his warehouse south of the Ever Forest along the Southern Sea." Arya pointed a dirty hand to the map, hovering her fingertip just over a small portion of land along the shore of the Sea. "Now Saiv has several warehouses throughout the region so it's unlikely he'll be at this specific location but that doesn't mean he won't hear about it. Our best bet for no repercussions is to avoid being caught which means I'll go with you, but if you think you're going to be keeping an eye on me the entire time you may as well consider us both dead now." Her voice had turned stern. Her smile had faded to a glare. And her hands were now steady, resting her full weight onto the table she stood over. "It also means no furniture." She added coldly.

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”Well,” Arya began with a lifted brow, ”I can’t say you’re unfair but for both our sakes, let’s just hope you’re as capable as you seem to think you are.” The woman pushed herself from the table and hooked her hands onto the brass clasp of her cloak, clicking it open. Swiftly she pulled it from her neck and tossed the red cape over the back of an empty chair. With a gentle dignity, the woman lowered herself onto its seat and patted her thighs. ”To work then.” She smiled. That was until his companion offered up a new solution. Her excitement began to rise with the patter of her quickened heart.

"Tsk tsk." She cooed attempting to keep her composure, "What a risk-taker you are. If I'm being honest, I wouldn't trust me in your position. I mean, you are the people who just stole my livelihood, threatened me with death and killed my dearest friend. Oh, and stole my sisters. Loyalty is not a word to describe a sort like me. I do, however, understand the value of my life at a monetary value. I also understand that without money, my life has no value. You've already stripped me of that at our original meeting. What next will you threaten to take from me? More importantly, what test would give a worthless maiden like me any hope of trust?" Her face had curled into a devilish smile. Going with them would most likely mean death in her current mind. She hadn't trusted their ability to do the job properly and she would rather die here than at the hands of the smuggler; therefore, staying was in her best interest. And, in its own funny way, them completing the task was her sort of test. If they passed, perhaps they were worthy of her business. If not, well, she would at least get the time to ponder her sad, short life for a week. Thus, with a sly stare, she turned to the leader. "Well, my captor, what do you suppose?"

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"To work, indeed" Arya cooed under her breath. Her right hand quickly took to the quill while she mentally judged both the pen and its owner based on its appearance. It was ill kept, to say plainly; its black feather was kinked at its end, its stem was paled by wear, and its tip was coated with dried ink from previous uses. It would do for now, she supposed with a disappointed stare. Still, she scribbled curved letter with a practiced hand, covering the paper one line at a time, sketching a small diagram between the bundles of letters. Arya made a mental note of the leader leaving but made sure her hands were still busy until a conversation knocked.

"Well is simply the outlook of the mind. You can smile in rain or shine so long as you take it well." She jeered finding herself quite clever in the current situation. Still, she wrote line for line, not daring once to move her eyes from the page. If they failed, it was not going to be on her head. Even though she wished her best on the page, Arya was never one to pass up a conversation so, with a smile and a mildly surprised face, she answered, "Use them? I keep them only so the rift-raft second guess targeting me. You'd be surprised what a nice pair of knives can do for your opponents' morale. Perhaps if I wore them around my neck I wouldn't be in this current situation." It was a lie but she would tell it with a smile just the same, exactly like how she once told a blind beggar that rubbing salt in his eyes could let him see again. Arya was not proud of most things she had done in life; however, she was proud of her own ability to survive and flourish. A slave to renowned saleswoman in less than two decades - truly a feat for a woman of her time. With a guilty grin she lifted her pen from the page and looked at the man who currently accompanied her. "But please, before you ask more about my sisters why not tell me your name? I do best when I know who I'm speaking with."

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"Charmed." Arya kindly retorted with a slight nod of her head. Her light eyes carefully dragged their vision across his form, finally able to take things in at their own speed. He was still handsome and better groomed than one would assume a bandit would be. Although she noted, with a rather curled grin, that his face appeared much more a mask than the steel monstrosity his master wore. Perhaps that was because he seemed so welcoming for a man that pressured guard leaders into his bidding, or perhaps it was something about his aura. Either way, he was a man she could work with on some type of mutual terms. The other, however, lead her to doubt. The masked stranger still seemed impervious to her charms - a fact that she was clear of the moment he left the tent without caring to look back at her. But the conversation had progressed.

"My sisters, aha," The woman began while turning back to the parchment below, "are simply my twin knives. It's after an old joke a man I knew once told me. He said, and I'm paraphrasing here, 'Arya, you are as cutting as your blades. You must have the same mother'. It was silly but I liked the idea and have kept up his joke. I guess I've been saying it too often now that it's become dull and old. Still, it always reminds me to keep them sharp." Arya sighed slightly at the memory before scribbling more on the page. With a little more time, she had finished and presented the series of pages to her watcher.

In total, there were four pages. "My apologies. In truth, I don't know much of the exact details but the rumours should do you well enough. I knew about the uniforms only because I had been shopping for outfits Ivan could wear. Guard uniforms are hard to get rid of sometimes and Saiv was very adamant about selling them. After all, it's fairly damning evidence to have for a business that fronts as a hatchery." She paused before realizing she should admit more information to help increase her trust with this individual, "If you're wondering why I didn't propose the checkpoint idea to Saiv, you really shouldn't. If you knew the man, you'd know all too well that he asks far too much for any little help he provides. It's his insurance to stay on top of everyone else he does business with. Selfishness was bred into his bones." With a smile, the woman shook the papers in her hand, taunting her company to take them from her.

The setting changes from Medieval, Fantasy Kingdom to Ragged Camp

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The day had passed away while Arya remained trapped in the tent. What little light had bled through its thin, cloth walls had been swept away to a dim blackness. The crackling of the fire, once alone, had now been joined by owl calls periodically which 'hoo'ed and 'haw'ed at seemingly random times. It reminded her of the men that came in to ogle their captive throughout the day. She had welcomed the attention and used it to make the hours seem less long; however, now she was stuck, tied up in a bed with nothing to do.

Arya huffed through the gag mulling over how inconsiderate her oaf of a watcher had been - and huffed louder when he re-entered from his temporary leave to simply sit and contemplate in silence. Her mind buzzed angrily about what stupid things a brute like him could be thinking about; it certainly wasn't his duty. Glaring at him, she muttered curses through the cloth as her nose twitched in displeasure. It twitched harder when she saw him stare right at her and laugh.

Still, the woman remained as still as stone. It was not the time to become aggressive, not when either her death or revenge came later. When he freed her arms, immediately Arya's hands darted to the gag and tugged it off her face to rest hanging around her neck. Her voice quickly filled the room with a stern and demanding tone. "So quiet, eh? Well maybe if you're mind was little louder, you wouldn't be so lethargic to action." Arya spit spitefully before turning her fury onto a related topic. "Also, why the gag? I understand the wrists and ankles, but a gag? What? Do you expect me to talk my way out of the rope or will my obvious charms woo it to the point of surrender." The last part wasn't so much a question as it was a blatant statement of mockery. The entire ordeal was all little much for the woman today. She was out for blood.

"Not to mention," She began, still not fully done her rant, "Where do you expect me to run if I were able? Blindly into the forest to be picked apart by owls? Yes, that's what would make this day complete. Not the murder, theft, and blatant disregard for my well being; becoming a live meal for owls. Fantastic." During the tangent, the merchant had untied her feet and aggressively threw the strap of rope onto the ground beside the bed.

The woman paused and closed her eyes. With a deep breath, Arya filled her lungs to capacity and sat on their bloated nature before releasing the air through her curled lips. With a quiet and tender voice, she spoke, "Alright. I'm calm. I apologize for my previous outburst. It was improper of me, and unfair to you." She paused and crawled, on her hands and knees, to the end of the bed. "But now my guardian, She whispered while hanging onto a low pitch, "Please let me sit by the fire. It's so cold in here, I'm worried I'll catch the sickness." She wiggled her shoulders in turn while her face stared pleadingly at Weaver. In all truth, the woman just wanted a change of scenery. While she had absolutely no intention of running out into the night, she assumed it would be a large struggle to convince this man of that. Instead she decided to go with the weak, maiden card and hoped it played well.

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#, as written by Daimayo
Weaver listened to the tirade, slowly blinking. She was angry, understandably, about the current situation. There was no point rising to the baits that she laid down. When she stopped angrily talking, Weaver began to open his mouth to reply but watched the girl instantly switch tactics, the sharp and furious young woman being replaced with a small a tempting maiden, needing his protection. Weaver’s eyes crinkled with mirth – This woman was a rogue, indeed. She would fit in nicely with their little band.

The Palisade pointed a finger forward to her to indicate the woman in her current act. “That, is why I’m supposed to gag you. I’m told your tongue is more than a little gilded, and truthfully not every man and woman in our little band is made of the fine intellectual and moral fiber that I am.” Weaver’s hand turned to indicate the heavy wooden chest that sat at the end of the bed. “I wouldn’t want a knife between my ribs tonight because you promised Barnum a hand in stealing the camp’s gold chest, or something equally as tempting.”

Weaver took a long swig of the thin, tasteless brine in his cup, appreciating at least that his headache was receding. “If you’re cold, I’ll happily tie you up again to fetch you more blankets, lass. While I am sure that you’d love to leave the tent and start making all sorts of friends at the camp, it would make it decidedly awkward if you and I are still alone after this week and I need to feed you to the burlies.”

Still, Weaver did admit that the young girl had a lovely voice and an even more lovely face. It would be annoying to lose her because the captain got himself killed, but Weaver didn’t want to be haunted for the rest of his life by that emotionless bore because he didn’t enact his leader’s last wishes. The man rubbed his forehead, eyes wandering briefly to the crystal bottle of golden liquid that lay beyond Arya on Dervish’s wooden dresser. It was only a week.

“Come sit across from me, the days will go by more quickly if we talk some.” Weaver gingerly moved some of the parchments and documents between the two seats on the table, careful to avoid the candles that he’d lit earlier and the wax that dripped beneath them. After a moment’s consideration, he pulled a deck of well-loved and slightly alcohol-stained playing cards out of a pouch at his side. “Perhaps we can play cards, if you know any games.” His captain had said no drinking, but nothing about a few small card games. He’d relax a bit while he waited for the girl to tire and want to sleep.

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Arya listened with a closed mind as the man disregarded her request and then threatened to tie her up again for a new solution. In truth, the woman found it rather cold of him to reject her so easily. 'Women must not be his preference,' She silently mused with a look of exasperation. The women then sighed heavily at her carer and flopped over on the bed. "You wish to talk about things I care little about and games are only fun when there's a point to winning. You're too much of a guard and not enough of a host." She paused and sighed again, "I perhaps that's what I should expect with bandits." When her voice drew quiet, she could hear a new sound overcome the still night air. Chanting had erupted from a large number of men but not from the camp. Perhaps it was a siege or men returning to camp. In truth, Arya was uncertain but she wanted to find out. It was better than whittling away in this boring, small tent. So with a new found vigour, the young lady rolled off the ledge of the bed and jumped to her feet.

"Do you hear that, Weedle?" She murmured. For a moment she stared the man straight in the eyes, counting down from ten in her mind. When she reached zero, Arya ran full tilt. The counting had psyched up her morale so that her feet were powered by adrenaline when she sprinted forward through the tent flap. She didn't dare look back as she rushed through the camp, surprising strange man after strange man to arrive into the forest. She followed the sound faithfully, over the thick weaving vines and mud still wet from the previous night's rain. With time and dedication, Arya arrived in sights of the sound's source. She could see them; a strange gaggle of troops with two figures behind. The woman tired to stop a distance away but found her footing false and tumbled into the bushes near the path. She prayed inwardly that their chanting had overcome the sound of her fall or that her - almost - guard would arrive in time to save her from the tyrants. Arya realized it was ironic to hope her captors could protect her from new captors but alas, that was the life of a travelling merchant. She was, in some strange way, her own type of merchandise.

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Character Portrait: Arya the Trenchant Character Portrait: Natalia Dalca Character Portrait: Weaver "the Palisade"
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#, as written by Daimayo
Weaver stared for a split-second as the merchant girl suddenly bolted, and the man's hand was too slow as he tried to snatch the back of her clothing as she ran by. Knocking the chair beneath him onto the floor noisily as he stood, Weaver swore darkly and his large frame began to move behind the slight girl's. She was faster than him, so the man hoped she would turn in a wrong direction or hesitate too long at a direction to run, but she seemed to have a target in mind and was not pausing for anything. Weaver heard men beginning to run behind him, perhaps ten seconds behind to help track down the prisoner, but suddenly she dropped and the large bandit couldn't see her anymore. He slowed slightly, and just managed to catch a glimpse of Arya's red hair amongst a dark patch of bushes before his heavy momentum carried him forward onto the path.

There was a long second as Weaver stood on the path, facing a group of armoured men, some of which were still muttering the last trailing words of a song. The former solder took in the sight of their lack of banners, the state of their armour and the prisoners at the back of the group, and before anyone could react, Weaver roared a battle cry and grabbed one of the men on horseback, pulling him free of his steed and slamming the smaller man bodily against the hard dirt path. The man on horseback was either unconscious or his neck broken, and immediately Weaver rose back up with a stolen longsword, charging past the other men on horseback as the mercenaries just began to react to swing the blade heavily at the front line of men. Weaver didn't know these men, but years of battle told him that if he wasn't sure a group was hostile, to not act first would be the same as allowing himself to be killed uselessly. He would just have to hope that the other bandits that had been following him would attack from the flank that he'd just come from as his pilfered sword smashed the blade of a mercenary hard enough that the other man was thrown to the ground.

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Character Portrait: Arya the Trenchant Character Portrait: Natalia Dalca Character Portrait: Weaver "the Palisade"
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#, as written by glmstr
"Come on witch, sing with us! Surely you must know some creepy cult songs," one of the ramshackle guards nudged the hooded girl with his elbow and evoked a chuckle from the rest of their party. Though, they quickly quieted down with the sound of rustling and crackling from behind the treeline. Each guard drew their sword or gripped their polearm, the crescendo of noise putting them on alert.

"Quiet you lot," the captain held out a hand to hush the party and stop their march, when a barbarous man burst onto the road and attacked one of the other two horsemen. He yelped as he was ripped from his steed, which spooked and ran off down the road without its master. His screaming and flailing was quickly silenced after a quick meeting with the ground.

"Ambush! To arms, men!" The commander called and stepped back with his horse. Three of the eight men broke off from formation and charged Weaver, two lowering their halberds and one drawing his longsword and swinging at their attacker, his own cheap blade chipping and deflecting towards the ground.

Elsewhere in the caravan, the ground nearly shook as the giant began stomping his feet and swinging his arms at two of the leftover guards. They yanked at the steel chains and lunged towards the brute with their spears, but the former did little to impede him whilst the latter shattered as twigs when he swung at them.

Behind the cacophony with the giant, the witch began a steady rhythmic chant, her guttural tones hanging in the air and creating unnerving chords as a green vapors drifted to the ground and below. Then, as if a percussion to her chanting, the crackle and groan of wood sounded beneath the earth. Root-like tendrils burst from the ground, grabbing several guards and yanking them to the floor and promptly beginning to strangle them. As their thrashing and gurgling began, the witch ceased her incantation but the murderous vines continued their grim task.

As the giant beat down the soldiers assigned to him, he broke open the shackles and trampled off into the forest in an arbitrarily chosen direction, and the captain of the band had all but vanished in the chaos. The only foes standing were the three attacking Weaver, when one of the three suddenly burst into roaring orange flame. At a distance behind the now engulfed soldier stood the witch, still trapped in the heavy iron wrist shackles and chained to what was once the giant's 'harness'.

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Character Portrait: Arya the Trenchant Character Portrait: Natalia Dalca Character Portrait: Weaver "the Palisade"
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Arya had wiggled into a sitting position amongst the bushes. Using her hands to push away the branches, she peeked onto the fight that had erupted before her. Weaver - whom she had rashly decided to nickname Weedle - begun the assault rather aimlessly to Arya whom already assumed him to be a mindless man. Still, she silently cheered from her first row seat. If she had been bored a minute ago, that was long gone. There was action, loud sounds and blood; all the makings of a wonderful night.

During her observations, Arya latched onto the pair of shackled members near the back of the parade. They gave her a sharp tingle down her back that left goosebumps in its wake. The giant was obviously a physical powerhouse of great strength but the woman beside him was a thing of legends. "A witch." Arya murmured under her breath. She eyed the woman with pure curiosity, wondering where and how such a creature existed. In some ways she envied the woman, wishing such power was at her fingertips. If such a thing were true she wouldn't be struggling for her life. Instead she would be a goddess among humans making them bend to her will. At that point, she could even have a will. Arya had to meet her.

With a bravery unmatched by most people of the day, the merchant gracefully rose from her hiding place among the bushes and playfully jogged towards the witch. While passing Weaver on the way, she jeered, "Good job, Weedle. Give him a real one, two." Her smile was wide and mocking until she ended her gallop before the witch.

The woman paused to pick her words carefully. "Welcome the Ever Forest. I don't mean to be rude but I'm assuming you would like some assistance today. Weedle is only as good as his arm so I believe it may be my turn." Arya stated calmly. After reaching into the helm of her left forearm pad, Arya pulled out a pair of long, thin metal rods formally known as lock picks. She gestured towards the irons that held the witch still. If given the chance, the merchant would pick away at the lock until it clicked open to release its captive.

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Character Portrait: Arya the Trenchant Character Portrait: Natalia Dalca Character Portrait: Weaver "the Palisade"
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#, as written by Daimayo
As the first man fell, stunned from the blow, Weaver raised his head to see three more men charging him. The large bandit idly wished that he'd happened to be wearing armour or that he'd thought to grab his battle axe when he went charging after the merchant girl. The sword felt far too light in his hands, but it would have to do somehow.

Weaver's eyes widened as he saw one of the three men facing him, one of the halberd wielders, suddenly burst into orange flame with a scream of agony. His companions turned to the poor man with horrified expressions, and while one turned to face Weaver again, the other polearm user spent another half-second looking to the woman Weaver assumed to be the Witch. Weaver punished the man for his lack if discipline by plunging his stolen blade into the distracted mercenary's stomach.

As the mortally-wounded opponent fell, Weaver smoothly removed the sword, circling the remaining sword-wielding foe. His enemy was hesitant now, seeing his dispatched allies and aware of the Witch that was still behind him, and Weaver strode forward to keep him on the defensive. They exchanged sword swings quickly, but Weaver's reach was better and the mercenary almost seemed drunk with the wildness of his attack. Another half-second later and it was over, with the large bandit trapping his foe's sword-hand in his own grip and beheading him in an instant.

Weaver let the body fall, and grunted with exertion. The battle was quieting quickly as more members of the bandit camp arrived, and Arya seemed to have started to do her part by starting to free the woman that Weaver had presumed to be the Witch. The former soldier let a small smile wander onto his face.

His smile disappeared as pain blossomed suddenly in his back, deep and sharp enough that his vision immediately blackened slightly. Managing to turn, Weaver saw the first man he'd smashed to the ground had recovered more quickly than he'd expected given Weaver's lighter weapon, and had picked up the halberd from one of his fallen companions... the halberd seemed to be buried in his back. The bandit saw himself fall to a knee, but barely felt it as he looked up at the leering mercenary. Something about his gloating expression... Weaver roared with anger, feeling warm blood on his tongue as he grabbed the smaller foe by his throat and pulled him down to the ground as he fell. Landing on top of the man that had stabbed him, his foe couldn't even hope to move or get his arms up into a defensive position as Weaver crushed his windpipe.

The former soldier's thoughts grew muddy. Why wasn't he wearing any armour? Weaver coughed and saw his own blood fleck the face of the corpse beneath him. A second later the large bandit was unconscious.

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Character Portrait: Arya the Trenchant Character Portrait: Natalia Dalca Character Portrait: Weaver "the Palisade"
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#, as written by glmstr
The hooded figure glanced up from the ground to the pint-sized elf, cocking her head slightly to the side at her welcome.

"I'm not sure that I follow. During my brief capture, did an elven warlord or a local baron conquer the Ever Forest?" With a heavy click the shackle fell into three pieces: two thick armlets remained fastened to the witch's arms and she drew them back into her long sleeves, while the connecting bridge-piece fell unceremoniously to the ground. Without allowing Arya to work on the cuffs themselves, she approached one of the slain horses and retrieved a sack formerly carried by the stallion, stuffing the contents into what must have been a myriad of pockets inside her garment.

"As far as I am aware, such an invasion is not the case, likely due to the fact that my people have inhabited these lands long before this Waors kingdom even existed," she trudged towards Weaver, stepping over several bodies in the process. She lifted one upturned palm, in which the earth responded by heaving upwards to flip the man over onto his back beside his attacker and victim. "So, elf, I presume I must thank you for welcoming me into my own home."

The witch knelt by the large bandit and laid a thin hand on the wound in his abdomen. "Your companion is hurt, I can feel him quickly fading." Her other hand reached into her robes to produce a book, which she laid open beside him. Several brief moments of silence stretched for what seemed to be an eternity, before being broken by a rhythmic droning chant from the kneeling woman, in an unintelligible and possibly archaic tongue.

First, Weaver's own blood spilt on the ground drew towards its master's body, defying gravity and drawing back into him through the man's open wound. Soon a horrific stench spread throughout the battlefield, as the nearby corpses all began to rot and putrefy, visibly withering away in minutes what would normally require weeks or months of decay. Dalca's chanting grew slowly louder, a crescendo in volume and gradual acceleration in tempo. Upon closer observation from the Trenchant, she may see that the Palisade's wound was slowly beginning to close.

As the stranger's ceremony reached a feverishly rapid cadence and an unnaturally booming tone, echoing through the wooded lands, the very ground beneath the two seemed to change. Weeds and flowers wilted and shriveled nearby, several trees shifted from brilliant verdant tones and warm browns to sallow yellows and oil-slick blacks.

The witch's song quickly softened and slowed down, and she removed a previously unseen necklace from her neck, and held the charm, a disk with a three-armed symbol. She pressed the metal symbol with her thumb against Weaver's forehead, as disembodied whispers rushed through the trees along the wind. When the open book snapped shut by its own accord with the end of the ghastly whisperings, the witch took the symbol back and donned the pendant again and rose to her feet. She picked up the book and put it in a satchel slung over her shoulder, and gave a single command to the now resuscitated Weaver.

"Rise."

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Character Portrait: Arya the Trenchant Character Portrait: Natalia Dalca Character Portrait: Weaver "the Palisade"
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Momentarily distracted by the aggressive grunt from behind her, the woman turned to see Weaver moments before he was cut down. Arya was mortified - well, not exactly mortified. Arya was disappointed. She had began to enjoy the man who held her captive, but he would be dead soon after meeting her. "Perhaps he prefers it that way." The half-elf mused under her breath. It was more pity than heartbreak painted across her face as she watched the man suffer. That was until the chained captive began her retort.

It was cute, the merchant mused, to be lectured to about her mindless comment. Her own answer was something along the lines of, "And what a nice home it is." She held a cheeky smile rather confidently while resting her hands crossed over her chest to watch the witch go to work. It truly was magic.

In truth, Arya was uncertain if she wanted her previous protector to live after the occasion. She was that cause of his trouble at the moment, thanks for her daring escape. While she couldn't imagine a simple minded man like Weaver disobeying his master, she could imagine that steel-masked stranger skewing her for damaging his prized mule. If he died, she could plant her own view about the scenario into the mind of the leader and perhaps spin it in her best interest - or, even more frightfully - run off with the witch to live as a lovely couple out in the woods. She then wondered if the witch would be into such a scenario. Arya was more of a man's lady but for a witch, she'd test the waters. But, with a shaking of her head, Arya displaced that thought from her mind. There were more interesting things to do than mentally picture what a magic love-shack would look like. Instead her pale eyes watched Weaver rise.

Once done, Arya had only one question to ask and she did so rather bluntly, "So, does this mean he's now your slave or does he still have freewill? If the former, we could have a wonderful day indeed." Another smile graced her pink lips.

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Character Portrait: Arya the Trenchant Character Portrait: Natalia Dalca Character Portrait: Weaver "the Palisade"
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#, as written by Daimayo
Weaver was having a horrible nightmare. He'd felt as though he was staring at an endless abyss, like a canyon with no bottom and no far side - And the air over the canyon was so cold, painfully cold. It stung his eyes and ate at the warmth in his hands and feet, and Weaver could feel that cold air ensnaring his body and pulling him towards the ledge... But suddenly, before he lost his balance and fell, the abyss was gone. It was warmer now but the nightmare grew worse, a horrific dream that Weaver couldn't escape from, couldn't even open his mouth to scream -

Suddenly, the big man opened his eyes, inhaling as though he had been underwater until he was an instant from drowning. Weaver's memories were fluid and hard to focus on... The sky was completely dark, a pale and full moon the only indication that the former soldier wasn't back at the edge of the abyss. There was a three-armed symbol, half-remembered that filled him with dread. He'd been stabbed. Weaver's hand drifted to his back, finding his shirt torn where he knew the halberd had pierced him, but no wound nor even a mark. Rubbing his eyes, the bandit tried again to remember his nightmare... all he could remember was a man in yellow, and even brief thought made Weaver shiver. He grunted and forced himself up, sitting, then finally getting his feet under himself to stand.

The battle was over, and something had changed. Weaver could see some of the other bandits within what light there was, as well as Arya and the witch. The other bandits were all staring at him openly, as if they expected him to attack them suddenly. Arya was smiling her usual smile, and even the witch was looking at him, albeit without any discernible emotion. Weaver's throat was suddenly very dry. The man felt that he should simply consider himself lucky, and not ask too deeply about why the other bandits were looking at him that way. Weaver padded over to the witch and Arya... as he looked at the merchant girl, he remembered completely what had happened, and why they were out in the forest in the middle of the night at all. For a brief second, Weaver wanted to strike the girl in anger, but he was suddenly drained. He'd been the fool that had let her get the better of him, there was no point in punishing her for being smarter than him. As for the witch, Weaver had only minimal interaction with her kind, but knew that Dervish respected magic-users, the leader's mind generally valued someone based on how 'useful' they were to him, and a witch would be immensely useful indeed.

Weaver looked to both of the women, and smiled slightly. "Before we're all devoured by burly owls, let's head to camp for the night." The man looked at the other bandits, who seemed hesitant to what he was saying for some reason. "Both of you can spend the night in my leader's tent, and in the morning whether you stay or go will be up to each of you." Slowly the bandits around him began to move towards camp. Weaver knew that Dervish would be angry with him already, given the battle and his part in how it had began, he could only hope that the Witch and Arya both would stay and the boon would balance out the bandit's personal failures.

Weaver rubbed his eyes. Fuck Dervish, and fuck guard duty. He needed a drink.

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Character Portrait: Arya the Trenchant Character Portrait: Natalia Dalca Character Portrait: Weaver "the Palisade"
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#, as written by glmstr
"As attractive as such an idea may be, he is no more a slave than he was before," Natalia responded rather curtly. Though, as Weaver successfully awoke from his previously mortal injury, she turned towards him and offered the tiniest of smiles, though the expression was more a result of seeing the ritual successful than knowing the man was okay.

"I see you are awake. You are lucky I came as quickly as I did, wait any longer and you'd likely've gone mad when you woke up," a hint of smugness crept across the witch's face. As the bandit began to speak Dalca nodded, though she began stepping through the desiccated corpses with her eyes lowered. A thin longsword and a small whittling knife were the only things picked from the bodies that she bothered to keep, the former sheathed and its scabbard fastened to her waist and the latter placed in a pocket.

With her newfound loot, the witch followed Weaver towards whatever camp he spoke of. With her abode destroyed by the former captors, she had nowhere to go other than with them. After all, she still had a mission to fulfill, and the dread witch was now presented with an opportunity to further her ambitions.