Weaver "the Palisade"'s Story

Dervish slid one of the scattered pieces of parchment on his table across to the sly merchant, then pointed to the quill pen and ink that rested within her reach. "Start writing." Briefly the bandit leader glanced at Masa - He suspected that the young rogue was a bit taken by this attractive and eloquent girl, which could be a problem. Until Arya proved herself worthy of their trust she had to be treated as a potential enemy, and thus far they had certainly done nothing to her that would have earned her good will. Right now she was here because she wasn't given a choice. Trusting each other would only start to happen once her and the bandits started to make a profit from the relationship. "At the moment, the only thing on this girl's person that we can use as collateral to ensure her obedience and honesty is her life. Anything less than that and she would find an easier path to freedom." That meant, unfortunately, that they would also have to take a risk on her information being enough to succeed, but Dervish was willing to bet that Arya's love of her skin would make that risk as low as she could.

The leader stood, pushing his chair back, and walked towards the exit of his tent. "Watch her for now." He needed to prepare, and the first thing that needed to be done would be to find a guard. Pushing the tent flap aside, the masked man exited.

There was a disadvantage to working nearly exclusively with scoundrels: There were few people that Dervish could think of at the camp who could act as a prison guard for the girl and not be tricked, bribed, or seduced into her winning her freedom. There were no paragons of virtue here, but Dervish worked with what he had. He needed Weaver. Weaver was never a difficult man to find if he was at the camp, as he stood a head taller than nearly everyone around him, and sure enough Dervish quickly spotted the man the ragged bandits affectionately referred to as 'the Palisade' sitting on a fallen log at the edge of camp, rubbing an oiled rag along the blade of an intimidatingly large axe.

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Weaver looked up when his leader approached and smiled, setting the rag on his knee. "Good morning Captain. I saw that you had a busy start to your morning! Who was the lass that you dragged into your tent?" The big man's smile broadened, a teasing glint in the big man's eye. "I'll be honest, I didn't think you that sort of man."
There was an extended pause as Dervish didn't respond, inscrutable behind his steel mask. Finally when Dervish spoke, the joke was completely ignored. Weaver's captain had always been rather humourless. "I need you to guard someone in my tent for this coming week. I don't trust her outside of your sight, so you can't just stand outside the doorway, and I also don't want her to hate us any more than she already may, so you will only have her bound when you have to sleep or leave the tent. I only want someone other than you watching her when you need to leave the tent, which can't be for more than five minutes at a time and never with the same guard twice. If you do this without either having her escape or hurting her, I'll give you double bonus pay for the week as well as that bottle of fine wine in my tent that I know you've been eyeing." Weaver's expression grew more interested at that. "However, Weaver. You won't touch a drop for the week. Do you understand?"

The big man made a noise of annoyance, but then smiled again and stroked his beard. "Aye. I suppose I can help you Captain." It looked like he'd have to get all of his week's plans for feasting and drinking out of the way in one go tonight. Tomorrow things were going to get rather tedious.

Weaver grumbled slightly as he returned to Dervish's tent, patting the back of the other bandit who'd briefly covered his post while the big man needed to relieve himself. He'd felt like death for nearly the entire day, slightly regretting the long night of drinking and gambling he'd done the previous night in preparation for this new job, and was only now starting to feel like his head wasn't necessarily going to split apart. Sitting in his captain's chair with a discomforting creak, Weaver sadly considered the mug of water he'd been nursing for an hour now - he considered water to be a drink for the horses and dogs, not meant for Men who had risen to cook meat and brew beer. Drinking the water out of a wooden mug was an insult even to the mug.

Nonetheless, Weaver drank, and after a moment looked up, making eye contact with the girl who'd been unceremoniously bound on Dervish's bed and suddenly laughing uproariously. He'd forgotten to untie and ungag her when he'd gotten back into the tent. This whole thing was a bit overly cautious, in Weaver's opinion, to keep her from moving or talking in the brief moments that he had to leave the tent, but the former soldier trusted Dervish. Heaving himself out of the chair as if it were the most difficult act in the world, Weaver padded to the bed and pulled the rope knots for the girl's wrists, immediately turning and heading back to the chair to let her worry about the rope around her ankles and the cloth blocking her mouth. "Sorry about that, lass. I was wondering why it'd become so quiet!" The large bandit chuckled at his own joke as he sat back down to the audible dismay of the poor chair beneath him.

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.

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.

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.

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.

"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'.

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.

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.

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."

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.

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.

"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.

Arya sighed, "I guess we don't always get what we want." Her face had turned into disappointment as she dragged her feet after the two. No slave and now no freedom. While the man currently offered her a choice in the morning, she doubted it would true after he had rested. Most likely the witch would leave and the masked leader would have a new striking pole named Arya. Things didn't bode well for the young maiden. She hoped that the old oaf would get drunk tonight and forget to wake in the morning. She would charm one of the novice bandits to run away with her, which would act as her guard and guide out of the forest. She had a plan and, by god, she was going to get out alive and scar free.

Still, she trudged on through the forest which was finally dry from the morning rain. She was sure there was a moon out, but past the thick leaf cover above now, it was impossible to tell. There was no time to tell or detail to care about. There was simply a call for sleep; one in which she heeded obediently. Arya arrived at the tent, striped down to nothing and flopped lazily onto the bed before settling to sleep. The other would have to deal with her naked body mindlessly laid over the leaders sleeping mat because she cared very little about the entire thing. In truth, it was an easy way to try and surprise a bandit in the morning and seduce him. For now it was just a way to sleep so that the warm summer air didn't melt her. She was tired, annoyed and partially hopeless. It was time for bed.

Arya slept silently, twitching the odd time to a dream about money, and that was her night.