Caught in the Act

[Demiana]

((Closed to Roscar Palidyne))

She laid her hand upon the bush
And peered beyond its abounding front.
Then slowly crouching down on fours,
She prepared for her prankish stunt.

For beyond the leaves, relaxing there
A friend, quite unwary
And how indeed she meant to startle him,
That polecat, grey and hairy.

Gingerly she stepped around
The twigs and betraying leaves
Then quickly she snatched up Wesley
And to the river, heaved.

Well, Wesley was quite surprised.
He ran onto the bank
And while he primped, he thought
It was she that he must thank.

But once the fish was brought before him,
All enmities were forgotten,
And there abided two best friends
In the first tell-tale tidings of autumn.

But all good times must soon end
And the pair went on their way
To find a place to earn some coin,
To find a quest of prey.

Demiana, a decent archer
Was a bounty hunter by trade,
And despite her physique of elven girth
Never that craft, betrayed.

She spent those early years among
Her fairy ring of kin
Who resided in the woods
Away from mortal sin.

But Dem, despite herself,
Was as free as the birds around
And when she left, her clan watched on
Hoping she would come 'round.

But no, she roamed the woods
And then the towns nearby.
Using her prowess in bows
Many thieves were her fault confined.

And this went on for some seasons till
Something changed her life.
And this was when the young man, Wesley,
Approached her with a knife.

But only did he want to sell it
And never to slay the elven maid
And in that first meeting,
A very deep friendship was made.

Reminiscing on that moment,
Dem cradled her ferret.
And though this ferret was as true a friend,
His namesake, he never met.

Now thinned the thinning trees
While the sun hung low and voices rose
As Underwood came into view and then,
Demiana walked into the town's evening repose.

[Roscar Palidyne]

Three months.

A quarter of a year seemed to stretch over the course of a few years for Roscar. His mind, blank of childhood, adolescence, or adulthood, had to rush to fill in the spaces that he had in his head, which is what made the short amount of time (relative to the entirety of humanity) have such magnitude. Tabula rasa. Three months had passed since Roscar had made his first known steps through this town which made its living off the slaughter of the giants which towered over him in every direction. Back then, Roscar could not recall being what one might call a man. He knew nothing, save his name. He didn't have a purpose. He didn't have a home. He didn't even have a person to rely on. Everything was a new experience, with even a flower becoming an adventure for his neophyte senses. He had age, but not the cynicism to go with it. But no matter how much he experienced among this world, no matter how many people he was privilaged to meet, or monsters slayed in the name of good, there still remained a giant hole that stuck in the back of his head, prodding his consciousness with every waking moment. A gnat in the eyes of his existence.

He had to know who he was.

The dream he had whilst journeying through the tamed lands of Scara Brae was his first clue to somehow gaining a hold on the real Roscar Palidyne. Though it wasn't really telling, it did spark his interest and give him some hope. However, it was his confrontation with Leridien back in Vla'toros that gave him confirmation of his next journey. Salvar. It was true, he could physically make the hike there, just as he had traveled the lands of Alerar and Raiaera. But the dream, the general and the conniving man on the ship made him think that it would be of utmost importance to make the travel by ship. But first....he'd have to get a ship himself. Maybe in the island continent of Corone, where trade and shipping were huge industries, would he find his way.

So, he would start his search in the familiar grounds of Underwood, a place that had its share of people making their way to the dense forest for lumber in the day time. However, as dusk approached, the place could be considered to be little more than a ghost town. It was to be expected: what sort of a night life would a logging town support? The sun now under the trees, Roscar made his way to the only place he knew to go at this time of day: the Peaceful Promenade.

The boards on the walls of the tavern certainly hadn't changed. And by Roscar's memory, neither had the patrons. Still the hardened lumberjacks spending their hard-earned Coronian GP to drown out the boredom of the tranquil town they had probably spent their whole lives in. Even the bartender was the exact same, polishing his glasses to a splendid sheen for lack of better things to do, occasionally making small talk with the guys at the bar. Roscar takes a stool at the bar, smiling at the bartender who turned to him to finally acknowledge his existence.

"Well well, it's that old trouble maker. You ain't back to turn the whole bar into a frenzied riot, are ya?"

Roscar couldn't help but bear a small chuckle at the slightly balding man. Indeed, last time he had started a brawl out of self defense, but it had escalated very much out of hand by the time Roscar realized it himself.

"No, sir. Just here to take in the sights again.....this time, not lost. Or poor."

Sliding the bartender some money, Roscar orders himself a warm meal to munch down on and some ale to drown it in. This time, he would have an uneventful stay at the Peaceful Promenade. No fighting, no saving people, no bumping drinks over on other patrons.

Well, one can hope.

[Demiana]

The bustling of the peasant women bringing baskets of meat and fresh-baked bread home to their lumbermen was slowly dissipating when Demiana reached the town. She walked by the church and nodded to the priest extinguishing the candle out front and passed the harem that was just lighting their own.

Demiana enjoyed her travels to human towns. Being half-human herself, she was familiar with human customs and liked the rugged atmosphere. Her father was a woodcarver and had fallen in love with her mother’s wandering spirit. She still remembered his rich and hearty laugh when she was younger and would ask to explore the sun.

Now the sun was dimming as candled illumined in the windows. She made her way to the tavern.

“Mad Duke” was quite the informant. He spent so much time in the bar, he knew every story and would retell them with flourishing embellishments. As an adventurer, Dem enjoyed hearing about the tales and legends of others - especially when they were tales of people who were wanted by the law (or somebody’s law, at least).

With Wesley on her shoulder, she walked to the doorway and looked around. Catching the bartender’s eye, she nodded hello. He pointed to the louder side of the bar where men where roaring with drunken laughter. As she approached, she could make out the form of the grizzled man, right in the middle of one of his stories.

“I have heard this one before, Duke! Might you be having anything worthy of my time?”

Mad Duke looked up in exclamation. “Why – Dem! Haven’ been seein’ ye in ages! I’ma jes goin’ ov’r the story of Barley Flynn to these here trav’lers – mighty fine men ye be! – and now I’ma jes finishin’ up.”

“By all means,” Dem said with a smile and a wave of her hand.

She left the group and went to the bar and sat. The bartender smiled as he put half of a pint in front of her, knowing how much of a lightweight she was.

“Hey Merph, watch this. I taught Wes a new trick,” she told him and he stood there wiping a cracked glass. She put Wesley down on the table and put a gold piece on the table. Wesley sniffed it, picked it up in his mouth, then scrambled to the bartender. The bartender opened his hand and Wesley dropped the coin into the awaiting palm. Merph chuckled.

“Aye, and here be yer change, little man!” he said as he put three silver pieces on the table. One by one, Wesley picked up each coin and dropped it into Demiana’s wallet by her hand. Afterwards, Wesley gobbled down his treat of dried fish and promptly went to sleep in Dem’s lap. For a while longer, they sat conversing until Mad Duke came over. Mad Duke, unfortunately, had nothing worthwhile to tell Dem. She told him about her escape from the orcs though, and Mad Duke ate up the tale.

“So that’s wha’ happened to that fellow. Nice lad he was, poor boy,” he said to her comfortingly.

“Yes. I still miss him. But at least I have this Wesley to help,” she said as she pet the sleeping ferret.

“Heh, and no finer ferret have I seen in these parts!” he exclaimed.

He stood up and lifted his hat to her. Upon saying good night, he made his way to exit the bar. Along the way, he slapped an older man on the back, whom had just started eating.

“Ye see that lass there?” He said, leaning down and pointing at Dem. “She’s goin’ ter be something soon, jes ye watch. Enjoy yer meal there, sir.” Then he turned and walked out the door.

Demiana gave the man a weak smile. Waking up Wesley, who looked around, looking for anything shiny, she laid two gold pieces in front of him which he hurriedly put in the bartender’s hand, bringing Dem the key. With the task completed, he clambered up to the half-elf’s shoulder, sniffing behind her ear. She gave him another piece of dried fish before getting up, saying good night to Merph and heading up the stairs to her room.

[Roscar Palidyne]

The name of the tavern did, for the most part, live up to its boast. The hardened workers guffawed at crazy stories that each threw at each other, and the atmosphere was perfect to enjoy the drumstick and bread placed in front of him. Most taverns he had encountered were out of necessity to get to somewhere on the fly, or to meet someone for a discussion of directions or a chance at making some money to pay for travelling expenses, but here he allowed his body to take in all the sights and sounds, nourishing his turbulent soul along with his empty stomach.

But among all these fair things, his eyes would constantly stop the little black obsidion adornment that wrapped his left middle finger. The metal of it almost seemed magnetic to him, exerting some pull upon his very being all the way from his extremity. Roscar slips it off absentmindedly, pausing his meal to gyrate it through his hand as if to uncover its mystery through his callused palm and fingers. It was another key to his past, and just as useless at the same time. Nothing to be gained from a silly little old ring, and yet as much as the little piece of jewelry plagued him, the idea of getting rid of it was unbearable. Sure, in the sense of it being one of the things he came with after his awakening, it was very important. But he and that ring also seemed drawn together by unknown, some mystical power perhaps but could never be truly known on his own.

Ring....what binds you to me?

Roscar's stupor is suddenly interrupted by the impact of a hand on his back. This little disturbance causes the ring which had rested in his hand to fumble onto the bar. It surprised even himself how desperately his hands flung towards the rolling ring to catch it before it drifted off the bar and out of reach. He manages a sign of relief after the ring was secured safe and sound amongst his tightly gripped hand. Roscar turns to see what this man's finger and words address, and his eyes find themselves laying upon a particulary notable woman. She seemed slightly elven by the points in her ears, but certainly not as distinct as the Raiaerians or the Alerians, clad in leather which appeared quite form fitting. Suddenly realizing that this woman had seen Roscar handle his ring like he did, he became rather self-conscious, responding to her small smile with an embarrassed flash of teeth before she started on her way. On her shoulder, a ferret pointed his head around the room with slightly sleepy eyes, eagerly searching, performing fairly difficult tasks in ferret terms for its mistress. The little show of talent reminded him that he needed a room for his own, too. He hurriedly finished his meal and drink, and signaled the bartender with a wave of his hand and some gold to match it.

~~~~

The room was standardly furnished for taverns. A round oak table that could accompany two, long with a couple chairs, a window that afforded the tenant a great view of the town, and of course a sturdy bed, which was not very soft but much preferred to the ground that sometimes Roscar had to opt for on long trips. Out of the window, the darkness stared back at him. But he wasn't missing much. Not a soul would be out there at this time of night. All would be resting up for their next day's hard work, if not drinking downstairs to prepare for the inevitable closing of eyelids. Roscar still carried his ring in hand, clenching it softly to feel its smoothly cut curves. Placing it on the table, Roscar plopped himself on the bed after kicking off his boots, closing his eyes to the comfortable bed as he slipped under its woolen covers. Salvar was waiting for him, and tomorrow he would find his way there by boat. Secrets lay in the seas of Salvar, and maybe in Salvar itself. He just knew it. But his thoughts were cut short as sleep grabbed hold, age and weariness catching up with his young mind, and he succumbs to his dreams, his ringless finger itching.

[Demiana]

The room Demiana had taken was the cheapest Merph offered – for good reason. After turning the key and shoving the door open, she had to immediately turn away from the pungent stench that assaulted her nostrils, which she instantly realized was a brash mix of urine, sweat, pipe smoke, and somebody’s regurgitated dinner. She quickly walked to the tiny window and, with some work, managed to open it. Looking into the night sky, she drew in a big draught of air, sweetened by the faint scent of honeysuckle and wood.

The moon was out now. She could hear the half-hacking laughter of a drunken patron leaving the tavern. The light breeze caressed her arms as she gazed listlessly out the window. She leaned out a bit more to get a wider view of the town at large. For a town, it had a dignified quality. In the architecture, in the cobblestone streets, everything here was precisely cut and fitted together with utmost care.

She yawned and looked over at the stained, yellowed sheets folded at the edge of the bed. She was ready to rest. She had not really rested in days. Sleepily, she made the bed then undressed. Before turning off the lights, she propped her spear against the bare night table. Collapsing on the bed, she gathered Wesley to her bosom and promptly fell asleep.

__________________________________________________ _____________

Perhaps one does not know the nature of ferrets. Like cats, they can sleep for hours; and like cats, they roam in the early hours of the morning.

Demiana stirred, waking Wesley. An early bird, so to speak, Wesley dropped down to the floor, Demiana in yet a deep slumber. He scurried over to the window and jump to the windowsill, as balanced as any feline. He sniffed the air. He smelled muffins. But no, he wanted fish. Always fish. Fish fish fish! And apparently, the fisherman had not brought his goods to the market yet. Dem had fish – but she always kept it secured, knowing Wesley’s thieving tendencies.

She usually fed him when she woke up, but Wesley wanted fish now. Fish now, yes, fish. He knew she would not be awake for a while yet. So, Wesley had a mission: fish fish fish. He jumped onto a barrel out the window and onto the ground. He sniffed his way over to the trash heap, hoping to find some small morsel of fish. No fish, no fish. So Wesley had to continue his search.

Wesley scrambled to the market square, the only place he got any scent of fish. He found another trash heap. Here, he did find fish – but too rotten, even for him. Undeterred, he went back to the tavern. Maybe some sleeping person had some fish. Yes, fish, good fish. He dexterously jumped a couple of crates and onto an open windowsill, peering inside.

He sniffed. No fish - but a shiny caught his eye. And then it all fell into place. He knew how to get fish now. Dem always gave him fish whenever he brought shinies to her. Good fish. Dropping to the floor, ignoring the slumbering human altogether, he went to the table where the glint of the morning sun had rebounded to his ferreting eye. Hopping onto a chair and onto the table, he carefully picked up the shiny. Then, plopping onto the floor, he pattered to the window, jumping up and out, back down to the ground, back up the way he had come, to Demiana’s window.

Excited about getting fish, he leaped onto the bed and began to nudge Demiana’s hand with his cold, wet ferret muzzle. Four, maybe fives times it took to wake the groggy half-elf. She opened one eye and yawned.

“Goodness, Wes, what is it? It’s too early to be waking me,” Demiana said sleepily.

Wesley dropped the shiny into her loose fingers and forcefully nudged her arm. She was not moving fast enough.

Demiana peered out of half-open eyes at the curious ring she found in her hand. Black – “probably obsidian,” she thought – and heavy, for a ring.

Wesley nudged her again. Get to the fish! Demiana looked at him as if in a stupor. Then huffing, she said, “Alright, alright, goodness, Wesley! Here, have your breakfast, but do not bother me again till I rise, got it?”

She rolled out of bed and went to the knapsack strategically placed out of Wesley’s reach. She tore off a fairly large piece of fish and let it fall to the ground where Wesley scrambled to it. The fish was gone in no time, as Wesley was in the habit of gobbling up meals, even when he was not starving. Dem flopped back into bed, lazily pulling the sheets back up around her. Wesley hopped onto the bed and curled up next to her, licking his whiskers in content.

[Roscar Palidyne]

Another relatively peaceful day began in the sleepy logger town of Underwood. The sun's rays peirced through the distant trees, blinding the eyes of the muscular workers who pushed themselves out of bed for their next daily dose of lumberjacking. Travellers in the Peaceful Promenade yawned sleepily as they dragged themselves down the stairs for breakfast and a start to their next journey. Everything seemed to be proceeding normally.....content. Bored. But most importantly, comfortable.

All, except for one weathered warrior.

"Where is it?"

Frantic steps boomed from Roscar's room along with the sound of a table falling over.

"Where?!"

He threw the covers of his bed off and tore the sheets off the bed with voracious speed. His eyes darted around the room, his face cringed with frustration.

It has to be here!

The dream still lay fresh in his mind to probe at his conscious thoughts. In the dream, he seemed to be walking. It felt like forever he walked, landscapes flashing past him. He could see the rolling plains of Alerar reflecting its sunny golden sheen. He would then be enveloped in the damp darkness of Brokenthorn Forest. Then, he would be wisked away to the beaches of Lake Valeena and its pure waters. An ocean breeze would then remind him that he stood on the shores of Scara Brae, overlooking the endless ocean. Finally, he would be wrapped under the branches of Concordia. A deciduous leaf floated softly into his hand, as if it was dreaming during its final descent. Roscar gazed at it awhile, content in the fact that it would remain green and healthy for a while yet.

Suddenly, the leaf begain to shift orange. It then degenerated to brown, becoming brittle until finally it fell apart in front of his very eyes. Roscar gazed at the remains, puzzled, until his eyes lay upon everything that was happening around him. Mountains began to erode, canyons were filled by rockslides, rivers would dry up, oceans would siege and overtake the shores that once held them at bay, and forests would turn from spring to autumn to winter in a matter of seconds. Crippled by fear, Roscar fell down onto the everchanging ground in front of a stream that was drying up. He looked at his hand. Ringless. It began to shrivel up, being decayed by all-consuming time. Desperately he looked at the last bit of water in the stream, and saw his own reflection, thinning and getting more wrinkles by the second. Where was it?

Where was his ring!?

~~~~~~~~

It was about the time he broke his room's lamp that he plopped himself down onto his bed, panting from the anger and frustration of it all. He had most definitely left it on the table last night. There's no doubt about it; the ring had been thieved. But how? The door had been locked, and surely had remained that way. The window had been somewhat open, but even if a person had come in, he'd have heard him. Roscar wasn't a heavy sleeper....sleeping out while travelling wouldn't allow that. So...how?

~~~~~~~

Lumbering down the stairs of the old inn, Roscar took his usual sit right on the bar, watching Merph prepare some food. He took a break to pour some ale for Roscar, who sipped it lightly while in thought. Merph stopped himself to regard Roscar.

"What's wrong, old guy? You seem a little...flustered."

Despite the bed-head, Roscar did notice his frazzled self in the mirror behind the bar. He looked back at Merph with an inquiring look.

"Do you have any problems with thieves around here?"

The bartender scratched his head, squinching one side of his face in ponderment.

"Nope. None I can think of. Why do you ask?"

Raising his hand in front of Merph's face, Roscar outstretches his fingers, showing the back of his palm to the bartender as he wiggled his index finger.

"My ring. It's gone. I placed it on the table last night when I went to bed. I had a pretty bad dream, woke up, and it was gone."

Roscar sighs as he thinks of the dream and the ring once again, in an attempt not to be overtaken by his frustration again.

"Aye, that does sound like thieving, it does." Merph picks up a glass in his wash bin and begins to polish it to a brilliant sheen, as he always seems to do as a habit. "My bet would be that this culprit's not from around these parts."

Roscar stops in the middle of a drink, the words perking his interest very fast. He puts down his cup.

"What makes you think that?"

"The law. That's what. Ya see, we used to have some minor, but troublesome problems with some drifters who would think to make a small little profit off our goods, or run out on us early in the morning and not pay for their night. We're a small town, Underwood, we can't afford these little no-good punks to take what little we got, ya know?"

Merph stopped himself for a bit to pour some ale for some incoming customers, nodding his head to the regulars before continuing on.

"Well, one day we had a town hall meeting to discuss our laws more ......thoroughly. It seemed like fines and jail time just weren't cuttin' it. So, we tacked on some harsher punishments, and lo and behold! The thieves just started disappearin'!"

Roscar squinted his eyebrows, looking suspiciously at the bartender.

"What KIND of harsher punishments?"

Merph took on a grin at this question, a kind of knowing smile. There was something cold about it. With one finger, he pointed at a banner on the wall next to the mirror. It was beautiful calligraphic writing, most official looking. It read:

As of this current time, in accordance with the Underwood Council, the sherriff, and his law enforcement officials, all usurpers of the law attempting or succeeding in the procurement of items otherwise not belonging to their person, whether the said items being part of this establishment or owned by patrons of the establishment, will be captured and be sentenced to death by the gallows, no matter the size of the crime nor the person involved.

Roscar couldn't help but gape at this. But the bartender was right; it was doubtful that any normal resident of Underwood would dare try to go against this law for a silly old ring. This person had to be a traveller, someone who wouldn't be at all familiar with this law. Roscar was one step closer now, at least. The thief had to be in the Peaceful Promenade, no question about it. But, who would it be?