Decrulitlul? The builders may as well have named it Derelict and been done with it. Call a wand a wand, lest it have false dreams of grandeur.

Decrulitlul was a coastal village, slowly sinking into the soft earth that tended to run more to the sandy nature the closer one got to the lip of the sea. Fine spray that smelled strongly of salt and aquatic life moistened the air in a thick blanket of humidity, which kinked up Medeia's normally straight locks into an unruly lion's mane.

Her clothes were damp and stuck to her skin uncomfortably, and the wooden shaft of her crossbow was digging uncomfortably into the small of her back with each step Garron took. Her feet kept falling asleep, and to keep the pins and needles away, she drummed her feet against Garron's chest. They both were in sore need of a bath, and she was almost certain that her clothes could keep on walking without her even being in them at this point.

Most women who found themselves in a similar situation, trudging through such a dreary location would be miserable and irritable, but Medeia was having the time of her life. For the first time since being legitimized, she was doing what she wanted to do, simply because she wanted to do it. She and Garron were alive and they were together; that was all that mattered to her. Eventually, when she and Garron had made a name and fortune for themselves, she would come back and whisk her mother away from all of those simpering, back-stabbing lords and ladies. A frown drew full lips into thin, pale lines at the thought of her mother.

Tying off the last braid with a strip of gherkin, Medeia sat back and judged her work with a critical eye. Garron's shoulder-length chestnut hair was braided in neatly sectioned braids close to his scalp, each individual braid tied off with a matching bit of leather, as was the style along this area of the coast. They'd passed few enough travelers in the hours before this little trail they were on had deposited them in this quaintly deteriorating village, but the men had mostly had their hair braided in the same style Garron's was currently. It was best to blend in with the locals, and not draw attention to themselves. Brehmen had been evidence enough of that. Four nights past, and the memory of it was still fresh in her mind.

Four days ago,(Brehmen)...

The Prancing Pony had been a lively and fun little tavern, the men deep in their cups and the women loose with their tongues. Medeia had spent most of the afternoon running a faro game while Garron was dickering with the blacksmith and fletcher for extra bolts and a quick run of his axe over the grindstone.

Feeling more alive than she had in ages, Medeia was eight gold nicks up, and maybe a little tipsy. Running the bank for the tiger's cell, Medeia's deft hands and glib tongue ensured that for every nick she paid in, she got a return, plus her investment. During a run towards afternoon's end, Medeia began to note two hooded figures were becoming more and more interested in her. Maybe her luck had run out already. Begging off the game, and losing two nicks in the process, Medeia excused herself from the game and slipped out the tavern door into Lower Brehmen.

As she suspected, two long shadows followed a few moments behind her. Weaving in and out of the crowd of people going about daily routine, she slipped into the shadows offered by the fletcher's display. Making herself dim, she waited, eyes never wavering from the two hooded figures. As they moved by, peering in every nook and cranny, she noticed the flash of steel beneath one of the cloaks. They passed, making their way uphill towards Brehmen Proper. So intent was she on watching them, that she didn't note the burly man who snuck up behind her, a crooked grin on his face.

A large hand settled on her left shoulder and she let out a yelp of surprise. Twisting quickly to the right, one hand had dipped down to her thigh, drawing a single slender throwing knife in a practiced motion. If she'd not recognized that mop of chestnut hair, Garron would have had one extra hole in his body.

"On edge, are you, love?", Garron chuckled, gathering Medeia into his arms and placing a kiss atop her head. "Did you liberate them of so much coin they are after you already?"

Swatting at him playfully, Medeia shook her head. "I don't think they even lost a nick, but they followed me out into the street." She nestled up against him and whispered softly. "They wore steel and looked far too interested in me for comfort."

This wiped Garron's grin from his face, and he looked up the street in the direction Medeia's gaze had wandered. His grip on her tightened, and he bent down to speak softly.

"Do you think they are your father's men?", he asked apprehensively. "We've met little enough resistance so far, but I am not dull enough to think that he would not send someone after you."

She shook her head in puzzlement. "I don't think so, love. Why send men with blades, if all he wanted was his daughter back? He knows if something happens to you, I'll never return." She studied the ground, her teeth worrying at her bottom lip. "If there is no you, there is no me."

With a chuckle, Garron's hand reached out to tousle her locks lovingly, before dipping to cup her chin and tip her eyes up to gaze into his.

"Then we'll be careful, love. No one will take you from me, this I swear," he said, no humor in his features now.

Leaning up on tiptoe, Medeia stole a kiss from him, and growled protectively.

"Since we know they are looking, perhaps we should use the element of surprise and find out what they want," she suggested, waving a hand in the direction the men had wandered off in. Garron nodded and the two stole after the others in stealth.

Near an old, derelict cannery, they caught up with Medeia's tailers. A couple of twin thumps, an indignant squawk that cut off, and Garron had incapacitated the larger one, who dropped like a sack of potatoes to the muddy ground below. The other turned and drew a thin, dangerous blade, intent to stab into the flesh of Garron's open back.

A single step, and a ball of fury collided into him, small hands wrenching the knife away in the tumble and confusion. It all ended in a matter of moments, with Medeia sat straddling the slighter man, his own knife pressed close enough to the soft flesh of his neck to draw a single bead of blood.

"What do you want from us, and why do you follow me?" she growled, choking up on the blade enough to let him answer. Shifting, she had pinned his arms beside him with her thighs, and a after a moment of struggling, the man lay still.

Anger and disgust warred for a moment on the man's face as his cowl slipped back to show features Medeia knew well enough. Ser Bartrend had after all, been one of her father's most trusted chevaliers, and had served as Medeia's protector for several years after her legitimization. That calm face that had so often been the last she saw before falling asleep now gazed up at her with unveiled hate.

"You destroyed your father, and all of us with what you did," Bartrend hissed, "and now he lies on his deathbed, shattered by your brazen betrayal. How could you do such a thing to one who loved you so?" This last almost ended in a yell, as his voice picked up timbre in his ire.

"Betrayed?!", Medeia was incredulous at this accusation. "How is running off with Garron betrayal? Was my 'marriage' to that old ninny so very vital?"

Ser Barry's gaze narrowed, and he very nearly spat his next words out, each clipped and charged with anger.

"You know that is not of what I speak!", he sputtered angrily. "You stole an entire ship and its holds! The money from that shipment is vital to Tylmerande and the well-being of its citizens. How could you take food from the mouths of widows and orphans, just to run off? You could have left and none would have said a word, but to leave with so much? You were a fool if you thought no one would find out!"

Medeia's grip on his cloak lessened, and she chanced a glance at Garron. What in the seven worlds was Ser Barry going on about? Theft? A shipment? True, she'd taken all of her own coin with her, but she hardly thought that would feed many, much less the widowed and orphaned of Tylmerande. There were far too many of them in number for her little coinpurse to support.

Garron only offered a confused shrug, as he was fairly busy trussing up the other with a length of thick cord. She turned back to him, some of the venom gone from her voice as she spoke.

"I have no idea what you're talking about. All I did was leave with Garron in the middle of the night, and if my father wants me back, spreading lies about me is not at ALL the way to go about it," she said with contempt.

"So you claim you had nothing to do with the disappearance of the Amnity? That someone else did it, and pinned it on you? We all know you, Medeia," Bartrend said, dripping with derision. "Your eyes see something and your fingers just have to take it. Your mother will pay for your lies, with her life, if your siblings have a say in it."

Medeia's eyes went wide, and her grip again tightened, the knife pressing hard enough to bring a thin line of crimson in its wake. "My mother?! What have you done with my mother? I swear I took no ship, no pearls, and no great some of money. Look at me. Does it look as if I have great wealth to you?! If I had stole the Amnity, no one would have been the wiser. This you should know from personal experience."

She had a point. Though fairly clean at the moment, thanks to the Dancing Pony's bath and washtub, she still looked the part of any conventional traveler. Yes, perhaps Ser Barry and a few of the other chevalier had dragged Medeia several times to return little items like a necklace or other shiny thing when caught, but that had been years ago. She'd since gotten much better at her little snickings, and hadn't been caught taking anything since she reached her teens.

"She's in the dungeon, where she has been since the day after you left. Truly, child, do you say you had nothing to do with the Amnity?" Ser Barry looked confused, and deeply troubled. "Vivica demanded her imprisonment, saying that if anyone knew where you had gone, it would be the Lady LeFonte. She's been accused of conspiring with you and Garron. Death may be eventual, but for the moment, it is only imprisonment."

It was all too much for Ser Barry, apparently, as he slipped under the grayness of unconsciousness.

With the older man's vehemence abated, Medeia relaxed, the knife fallling from her fingertips.

"Vivica... that scamming troglodite. I smell her and Vincient's hand all over this," she growled. "I knew she looked just a little too happy to see me go. And Mama is... oh hells."

Tears welled in her eyes, making everything wavery and blurry. Finished with his own trussing, Garron hunkered down by her, placing both large hands to the sides of her face and holding her gaze with his own. He had not heard everything, surely, but he'd heard enough.

"Don't worry, my little Raven. No harm will come to her, and we will rescue her," Garron told her soothingly. He chanced a glance around quickly. Though the part of Brehmen they were in was mostly deserted, it was silly to think that no one would wander by if they lingered.

"We need to get moving though. We'll make for my mother in the woods. She'll know what to do."

Tears fell, Medeia brushing off the stubborn stragglers with the back of her hand as she rose and dusted off her knees.

"And when I get my hands on Vivica, I'll wring her pretty neck!"

Present day...

Four days ago, that had been, and now they were in the forgotten bellybutton of nowhere: Decrulitlul. The forest was closer now; she could smell the pine and woody musk beneath the alkaline smell of the sea that permeated everything. She smelled something else, too..FOOD!

Peddlers and vendors harried the pair with warm voices, offering everything from meaty pies filled with fish and venison to the little popkins stuffed with meat and pineapple. Fruits, breads, all were stacked one against another in this small port town, and Medeia's belly rumbled noisily.

She reached down, and worried Garron's shoulder. He missed a step coming to a halt, and she slipped down from his shoulders without a sound, landing nimbly on the balls of her feet. Reaching back, she grabbed his hand, pulling him in tow towards one of the vendors who had several meat pies cooling on metal sheets in the early morning sun.

Slender little tendrils of steam rose from the little slits in their crusts, and the smell was maddening. Hot food, thank the gods, she thought happily. She was so tired of hard jerky and that odd sort of bread that the elderly woman in Brehmen had given them. It most certainly wasn't the tastiest of fare, but she had to admit that it did keep well on the road.

"Hungry, are you?", Garron asked innocently, engulfing her with an arm slung around her shoulder. "You eat any more, and I'll have to roll you to the woods, you know?", he finished, lips twitching in an effort not to laugh.

"Quiet you," she chided, gifting him an elbow in the gut, "and get me a pie. Get one for you too, cause I'm not sharing mine with you, you lummox!"