Author Note:Haaaah? A chapter not on Wednesday? Every 10 or so chapters I plan on putting out these additional side stories(with slightly more reliable narration). If I make a Patreon thing, these will end up being sponsored chapters focusing on someone the patron requests, probably maybe. I don't know how Patreon works. Well, I'll make at least one of these per 10 chapters, even if I never do that.

“Let’s keep moving Ruffles.” Castor urged his draft horse forward out of Medean. As usual, he had loaded his cart with earthenware jugs before returning to Glaucen. There, he would buy barrels of lamp oil before returning.

Compared to most merchants, Castor kept to a much smaller route. The profits were mediocre, and the journey dull, only passing through a single small village. As a consequence, only he kept to the route. Demand for the goods between the towns was constant, but not so large that others would be able to push their way onto his turf.

Still, sometimes Castor felt the need to change up his life a little. Very little went on along his three week route.Though over his last trip to Medean, he’d encountered several interesting parties along his way.

X days ago

Clip, clop, clip, clop, clip, clop. Ruffles paced along the road at a good speed, but not too quickly, so as not to be strained. Eight large and one small barrel of lamp oil sat in the back of the cart, a commodity that could be sold anywhere for a good price. Castor settled for merely delivering it to the town of Medean. Oil lamps weren’t all too fashionable, but as the only merchant peddling the route, his assets were steadily growing.

After a day of travelling, he’d spotted a large, but thin young man wearing robes under the old oak. He looked so relaxed, Castor felt that he definitely was living a satisfying life. The merchant felt happy for the strangely dressed stranger and gave him a wave.

“Who knows Ruffles, maybe one day we can retire and just relax on the plains. I’ll find you a healthy mare, and I’ll find a healthy wife and we can all settle down where there are no monsters.”

Ruffles lifted his head and shook his amber mane, letting out a disappointed neigh. Castor always felt pleased he had such a smart horse, but was saddened by the point brought up.

“Yes, of course I remember. But the church can’t raise the taxes too high, even if they are on edge. That would make it very profitable to become a bandit, even given the obvious risks.”

Ruffles snorted and looked back at Castor while he paced along.

“I didn’t mean we’d become bandits, just that with taxation and conscription rates rising, there would be a lot of inner turmoil.” The merchant sighed “You know I don’t care for that kind of high stress life. Peaceful days, that’s all I hope for.”

Castor relaxed in his seat. Ruffles knew very well the road and didn’t need any guidance. In fact Castor suspected that if it weren’t for the fact the goods needed to be unloaded, he could just send his horse to do all the work. He and Ruffles had worked the route for a long time together.

So when the horse began to veer off the path, Castor knew something was up. If it had been just another traveller, they would only move to the side of the road. Ruffles reaction was a great deal more extreme than usual.

Approaching, not so far away, was a small contingent of elves. While they weren’t a rare sight for someone to see, but seven all at once was unusual. Derriad had a very small proportion of nonhumans, at least as far as Castor knew. The Scriptured Doctrines only spoke in terms of Life, Unlife, and Nonlife, but the interpretation of such vague wording varied widely.

Elves were usually on their toes when they visited cities because of this. While it was a rare occurrence, with such long lives they inevitably became targets for mobs and witch-hunts every once in awhile. They liked to keep themselves hard to notice, and generally moved in small numbers so they could flee more easily. For the individual, escape was an easy task; elves did possess a blessed agility and speed. But the more that came along, the more the populace could be riled up, and the more likely one would make a mistake. Large groups were also more profitable for slaving groups to chase after.

Slavers. Castor didn’t think highly of the trade, but he didn’t revile it as some did. To properly control slaves, restrictive magic needed to be applied, and the cost for such a thing was high. Some travellers he met with spoke of slaves being used to tend fields, which greatly amused him; that would be like purchasing a dozen horses to pull a small cart, so incredibly inefficient. They may not be able to walk their own path, but most lived a comfortable life and that is really all one should ask for in life.

Of course there was hardly anyone who wanted to be a slave, but it wasn’t the worst course of events. In fact, one might think Ruffles’ situation similar, although he had a far worse reaction to slavers.

But from their appearance, it didn’t seem as though these elves were even taking such thoughts into account. They were armed and looked dangerous, apparently unworried about drawing the attention of others. The violent aura about them would incite fear and hatred among those even not predisposed to it.

The elves didn’t have the demeanor of bandits though, so Castor didn’t grow nervous. Though they may have looked grim, he was sure they were just trying to live their long lives. Trouble did not discriminate after all.

“Good luck to you!” He called as they began to pass one another. Their footsteps faltered, but did not stop, and since they were both moving they passed each other quickly. He did not have the chance to gauge their reactions, as Ruffles began picking up pace.

After gaining some distance, the horse let out an angry neigh.

“They looked troubled, they could use some good fortune.”

Ruffles let out a sarcastic whinny, and Castor laughed.

X days ago

Two days after passing the elves, Castor caught up to a strange traveller in black. By appearance, he should have been evaluated as far more dangerous than the elves. His weapon was a black sword that clearly emanated a murderous feeling, and his fine dark clothing made him look like a successful, and therefore dangerous, highwayman. With a grim face, one would normally think that they were in danger.

Castor trusted his intuition though, and slowly began to pull alongside the man. He seemed lost, and if you ran into a lost person, the proper thing to do was give them some direction.

“Where is it that you’re travelling fellow?”

The man in black looked a bit surprised that he’d started a conversation, but across his face there was also confusion and a bit of sadness. His response was in words that Castor did not fully recognize. It seemed to be a thick dialect of Brannish, a language the merchant had learned to recognize, but not speak. Braan was rather distant from this area of Derriad, but it wasn’t impossible for a Brannish man to make his way to the interior of the country. Whatever journey he was on it was sure to be a difficult one.

Castor, while not incredibly wealthy, was still a man of good means. Having Ruffles slow his pace, one of the horse’s empty grain sacks was used as a bag to store a bit of preserved rations. Castor was beginning to develop the classic rotund belly of a merchant, a few pieces of food given to an unfortunate traveller was of no trouble to him.

The man received it with a grateful expression, saying what Castor presumed to be thanks, and even bowing a little to make sure his point got across. It was a little embarrassing having someone bow to him, but Ruffles began acting out after that.

“Ruffles! Calm down, what’s wrong?” Patting the horse’s flank, Castor had never seen him act like this. It wasn’t the thrashing of an unintelligent horse, but even he had trouble understanding his partner’s meaning at the moment. It was something about being fellow travellers, but he couldn’t make out the true meaning.

“Ruffles!” Castor patted the stallion again, and decided to use the moment to introduce himself and his horse to the man at the moment. ”Ruffles. My name is Castor. Castor.” From his occasional run in with someone who didn’t speak Derrian, he knew repetition of the key words was important.

“Daracule...Christopher Michaels.” Castor gasped. What sort of noble was a Daracule? Or perhaps those three were all names? Ruffles had calmed down somewhat, but was still making a fuss. Perhaps he’d had a Brannish owner at one point.

Surely a noble wouldn’t so easily bow to a common merchant, but maybe he was simply a good man at heart. Castor respected those with a good heart. So he didn’t mind pulling out a sheet of parchment and charcoal stick to draw a crude map. Buying small amounts of parchment for personal use was quite expensive; the church almost had a monopsony, and wouldn’t allow much to be sold to those outside of large merchant houses for bookkeeping.

The drawing was simple one, but the man in black nodded as he looked over it. Castor held up five fingers and pointed towards the series of suns and moons he’d drawn across the top. Peres wasn’t the closest town, but he did recall that a merchant that knew Brannish regularly passed through.

After handing it over, he waved goodbye to the noble. Ruffles was hesitant to depart from him at first, but eventually resigned himself and sped up back to their normal pace. They had a schedule to keep, and the noble didn’t seem to want to impose on them any more than he had. A truly thoughtful man, if only the lords of Derriad were so thoughtful.

Present day

Having left Medean several days ago, things were returning to their normal pace for Castor. Every once in a while he and Ruffles would pass a pedestrian, but their numbers seemed to be shrinking as of late. The taxes had been seeing a slow increase for a long time, and many took it to be an omen of conflict. Before the conscription began in earnest, many were trying to find ways to preemptively evade it. Second and third sons with no chance at inheritance were trying to find their way out of the region.

Trying to get out of a region could be either expensive or dangerous, and usually both. The safest way to traverse them was to try and get attached to a merchant caravan. Since regions were formed around areas abundant in resources, inter-regional caravans were laden with valuables and armed to the teeth when making their way across the monster infested regions. In times of turmoil they would often pick up a swarm of drifters following them. They didn't do anything to protect these tagalongs, but those who didn't end up as an early warning system or meat shield would make it through safely.

The annual Randall-Varren Caravan was to set off in a few weeks, most people traveling there had already passed through the region. Castor would be on an empty road soon, going back and forth and back and forth with Ruffles.

But a simple life was just fine with him. The occasional excitement of elves or nobles was plenty. In a day or so, he'd pass by the little village, let Ruffles take a drink and the process would repeat.