"The merchants took us to the next town and we bought a couple of old draft horses there," he said, pointing toward the south, where Dhamon squinted to make out two big mares. Even in the darkness it was obvious they weren't as well bred as the pair Rig and Fiona had in Iron-spike. "And then we continued on this trail. Saw your fire when we intended to stop for the night and thought we'd take a look. Thought you might be the merchants we befriended. But it was purely a coincidence we crossed paths."
"Pity we weren't the merchants."
Rig stared at him for several minutes, his brow furrowing with a dozen thoughts. Then his eyes trailed away to watch Fiona.
The Solamnic was sitting on a log near Maldred, occasionally glancing Rig's way and steepling her fingers-a gesture she practiced when she was uncomfortable. The half-elf was standing at Fiona's shoulder, alternating between inspecting the Knight and casting flirtatious looks at Dhamon. She strolled the length of the wagon, hips undulating and shoulders swaying. The kobold was sitting cross-legged at the big man's side, his glowing red eyes focused solely on the mariner.
"You're welcome to share our camp tonight, Rig." Dhamon finally broke the silence. His mouth felt dry. Another glance at the jug. "This is ogre country, and you're safer with us than on your own, especially this late at night. In the morning, we'll go our separate ways. You should head back into Khur-if you're smart."
Rig's eyes cut into Dhamon. "You owe me an explanation," he repeated with more force. "Why are you acting like this? What happened to you?"
Dhamon sighed. "And then I suppose you'll let me get some sleep?"
The mariner said nothing, continuing to stare.
"All right," Dhamon relented. "For old time's sake." He settled himself into a more comfortable position, but grimaced when he heard the scrabble of small feet.
"Dhamon's gonna tell a story," Fetch said with glee, revealing that he'd been using his acute hearing to eavesdrop on their conversation. The kobold picked a spot near Dhamon, just outside the reach of Rig's glaive, then he waggled his bony fingers to get Rikali's attention. He pulled out the ‘old man/ already filled with tobacco, hummed at his finger and thrust it into the bowl, lighting it. Then the kobold puffed away, blowing smoke rings in the mariner's direction.
The half-elf glided over, kneeling behind Dhamon, and languidly wrapped her arms around his shoulders. She nuzzled his neck and winked slyly at Rig.
The mariner looked across the camp to Fiona, who nodded as if to say, "I will stay here and keep an eye on Maldred." She turned her attention back to the big man, intending to learn something about this band of thieves.
"You've questions, Lady Knight," Maldred began, his expression gentle and his good hand relaxed on his knee. He let the silence settle between them before continuing. "I can tell it from your face. It's a beautiful face, one that is most easy on my weary eyes. But you've some unbecoming worry wrinkles here. All those questions surfacing." He reached up and tenderly touched her forehead, where her brow was creased in thought. "Your mind is working far too hard. Relax and enjoy the evening, it's finally cooling a bit."
Her stiff posture proved she wasn't yet willing to do that. She steepled her fingers again and sucked her lower lip under her teeth.
"We'll not hurt you."
"I'm not afraid of you," she said almost angrily. They were the first words she had spoken to the stranger.
He raised an eyebrow. "I can see that," he continued, his deep voice soothing and melodic, almost hypnotic. Fiona found herself enjoying listening to it, and that disturbed her more than a little. "Though perhaps, Lady Knight, you should be afraid of us. Some call our small band cutthroats, and many decent folks around here fear us. Still, I'll not raise a weapon against you, at least not unless your rash friend over there…"
"Rig," she said.
"Rig. That's right. An Ergothian, correct? Dhamon mentioned him several times before. He's a long way from home. Unless Rig starts something." He traced her steepled fingers, his eyes still capturing hers.
"You've already hurt enough people," she said. She shook her head when he offered her a drink from the jug of spirits, and she brushed a stubborn, sweat-soaked curl from her forehead. "In Ironspike, you killed several dwarves. Knights. And many buildings were burned." She closed her eyes and let out a deep breath, clasped and unclasped her hands, as if her fingers needed to be doing something.
