“We have to risk it,” Sarel insisted. “You still have a sword, but Quickclaw is defenseless, and both she and Red are in sacks.”

Merdon groaned and looked at the village. “We can't,” he insisted. “It's been two weeks. They definitely have your description out there, and mine. I can't go near anywhere with people. This is even too close.”

The blue kobold rolled her eyes. “What do you suggest, verakt? That Quickclaw fights the witch with her hands?”

“I think you could.”

“That is beside the point,” she replied, blushing and punching his back playfully. “Quickclaw left all of her things in Ardmach. She needs to replace them.”

Their target in question appeared to be a recently built habitat, given the more temporary looking shelters, tents mostly, and the lack of any fences yet. It would be easy for the thief to slip in at night and take what she needed. Although, Merdon questioned this place quite heavily. Many fit men were walking around, most of them armed, which made sense if one was starting a village, but none of them seemed to be doing any work. Not to mention, there were too many of them. He wanted to err on the side of caution with this. However, such a course of action meant convincing Sarel to not rush in and ransack the place.

“How about we watch them?” he asked her. “Scout it out first. If it seems safe around midnight, you can go.”

“Deal,” the blue kobold said with a grin, jumping off their horse and going to tell the other two kobolds the plan.

Merdon dismounted as well, sighing, and got all of their things outside of eyesight. Staying away from other people was good, he just hoped the folks on the other side of the hill would be more preoccupied with setting up their large camp than investigating the hillside. They were a long way off the beaten paths, not to mention the highways. If they were discovered, maybe luck would favor them and the people wouldn't have heard about the problems in the capital or at least not have his description on them. Of course, they could always just decide to kill him anyway; mistaking someone for a bandit wasn't uncommon.

By nightfall, Merdon was starting to think being confused for a bandit wouldn't be an issue. He and Sarel were flat upon the hill, watching the people entering the camp below, and they were coming in droves. Wagons pulled in with more people. Goods were tossed around carelessly, and a large bonfire was lit in the middle of the camp. These weren't settlers, they were campers. More than those red flags, Merdon had an idea of just what they'd stumbled into. It took a few key figures for him to guess, shifty people, but what eventually settled it was the secondary ring which formed outside of the camp.

Around sundown, a group of men and a few women stepped out and started a second fire. They circled it and two people would step into the ring. A test of strength wasn't uncommon among things like warbands or large parties, but the first death of the evening being met with a roar of approval cemented this wasn't an ordinary group. This was the infamous gathering of outlaws that happened every so often, the circus of thieves some called it. One night, in any given location, many bandits, mercenaries, and thieves, any kind of outlaw really, gathered. Stolen goods were sold, mercenaries fought and tested their mettle. Ardmach's military only ever knew because of the bodies that would turn up later. Like the ones being tossed out of the makeshift arena Merdon was looking at.

“Sarel does not think we need to worry about them calling the guard,” the kobold said with a frown. “Although, she also wonders if we should go down at all.”

Merdon shook his head. “I'm not sure myself.” He knew they were running low on some supplies, dinners consisted mostly of game, and certain things being lost in their travels didn't help any either. “It might be our only chance to get supplies until we cross a border though,” he added.

Sarel nodded. “Not that we have much coin for such things either.” She was worried about stealing from the place too. Even kobolds knew to stay away from the big bandit camp. If the average citizen of Avant didn't care about kobold rights, what would their criminals think?

The knight was thinking along other lines. “We'll go,” he said after a period of silence. He stood up and turned to get their things. “But I'm going in my armor.” He had an idea to get them the coin they needed.

Sarel nodded and followed him back to their stuff. She told Skyeyes and Red what the plan was, what they'd seen, and while they were both hesitant about the whole thing, they got ready to come along as well. With Merdon suited up they all felt a little better, but their approach got them a great deal of unwelcome attention. All eyes were on the man in steel armor with the kobolds around him, and that attention only got bigger when he ignored the main camp and went over to the fighting pit. His blue mate hissed a warning at him, but Merdon didn't listen. He rode right over and dismounted, taking his helmet off to look the gathered mercenaries in the eye.

In the middle of the ring was a nice little fight. A man taller than Merdon, and taller than his opponent, had been winning duels all night long, and each fight he won got him more coin. Even Ardmach wasn't so barbarian a place as to have an arena, but that didn't stop people like this. Much how Merdon's approach didn't stop the men in the circle from fighting. Merdon watched as the night's champion disarmed his opponent, and then ran the man through with his longsword, loosing a warcry as he lifted the soon to be dead opponent up and then kicking him off the blade. There were no rules here, no terms of engagement, anything you had was at your disposal, and who lived was up to the winner.

Merdon walked up to the circle, many of the men making up the perimeter glared at him until he put his hands on their shoulders and shoved them aside. He walked into the center and held up his purse. It was light, everyone could see that, but the point was made. The newcomer wanted in. Everyone laughed since no one had seen him before. As much of a joke as they found it, Merdon took it seriously. His purse was tossed into a pile near the fire, and he looked at the tall champion.

“Your swordplay is sloppy,” he said calmly, putting his helmet back on. “I've seen children who know how to kill better.”

The man laughed and took a stance. “You'll have to try better than that to rattle me, stranger.”

Merdon had just the reply. “Any good fighter knows ramming your sword through someone's body is just showing off. In a real fight, it gets you killed.” Targeting a gladiator's showmanship was a good way to make enemies, and it worked.

The large man frowned, scoffed, and swung first. Merdon parried him, easily, and countered. He wasn't like a bandit though, the man was a mercenary and his skills reflected that. A parry of his own met Merdon's counter and the man withdrew, making space and approaching in another way. Sadly, Merdon wasn't familiar with the man's fighting style, but he didn't need to be to succeed. Sarel and the others watched as their human companion deflected the follow-up strike with his shield, not activating it but using it properly, and then going for a succession of quick stabs of his own.

Merdon's stabs were fast, but not far-reaching, which the large man taunted him over. “You'll never reach me with those!” To demonstrate, the man-made several longer reaching pokes of his own. Their weapons were equal in length, but his arm went out further, his reach was greater, but he overextended.

Merdon saw his arm lock on one stab, to which the knight reacted perfectly. His shield went up while his body moved to the side. The top of the shield caught the man's elbow with a hard and sickening crack, his arm bending the wrong way from the break. He yelled and dropped his sword, but it was over. With a shorter jab, Merdon's blade found it's way into the man's chest, a mere four inches to the heart, and his opponent stopped dead. All of the ring's eyes were on his technique, the depth, the way Merdon retracted and cleaned his weapon off. Red cupped her mouth in shock, and even Sarel seemed taken aback.

Whispers went up around the crowd, stories had already reached many ears about the killing in Ardmach. The wounds were all precise and fatal. In the chest or the back, never all the way through, always a few inches, no more than necessary. It was a simple technique, a thrust which kept the arm loose, prevented the elbow and shoulder from locking to prevent opponents from getting a hold of you, unlike the man that was now dying on the field. What made it special in this case was the stories of the killings, and the three kobolds the man had approached with.

“Are you...?” one of the members of the crowd started, but stopped himself, not wanting to get a few inches of steel in his chest either.

Merdon obliged the question, however. “Call me the kobold whisperer,” he said from under his helm. “If you've got a problem with me, or my kobolds, step out now.” No one moved. Not even when Merdon walked over to collect his jackpot.

One man did speak up though. An older fellow in a coat of patchwork animal hide shouted, “Don't let this little interloper fool you. Every merc worth his salt knows not to let your blade get stuck in the body.” Merdon's short stabs were just the refined way of making sure his blade didn't get caught on any bones or sinew. It was hardly unique, but his technique wasn't the only thing about him that raised red flags.

The knight turned and saw Sarel on the other side of the ring of fighters. He made a small motion directed at her but disguised as dismissal for the crowd. “Don't believe me?” he shouted at them, his voice echoing in the mostly silent night. All of his plan hinged on this, and he hoped Sarel would follow through. “Come here,” he said, directed at her this time, with his arm sticking out to the side.

Quickclaw looked at him questioningly for a moment and then smirked. She leaped up and grabbed the shoulder of the nearest merc. That man shouted while she catapulted herself towards Merdon's outstretched arm, which she caught with her tail. A quick spin and Sarel landed on his forearm, crouched down and eyeing the crowd, who were now talking to themselves much louder than before. Of anything he could have done, calling an uncollared kobold to his side with two words as good as cemented his story. This was the man who had killed an entire building of slavers and freed hundreds of kobolds. The self-proclaimed kobold whisperer.

The ring of mercenaries parted as Merdon and Sarel walked out towards their mount with a fat sack of coin at their side. Sarel was perilously sat on Merdon's shoulder, but at such a range she could easily whisper to him without anyone else overhearing. Mostly she complimented his spur of the moment ingenuity to convince the crowd. They easily remounted and set out into the main area of the camp where all the criminals were selling their stolen goods. It was markedly different from outside, lit with torches, scraggly men and women advertising their goods; it felt like a bootleg version of Bereth's marketplace. So, in some odd way, it felt comfortable.

Their first stop was obvious, fresh clothes for Red and Sarel, which the blue kobold haggled for with all of her might. Dressed in a white shirt with some shortened pants and new black leather armor over it, Sarel followed at Merdon's side with a frown. Red was wearing plain clothes herself since there hadn't been anything particularly fireproof at the cart they visited. Merdon was more concerned with Quickclaw's expression though and his curiosity led him to ask her what was wrong.

“Quickclaw does not know if she won that exchange,” the kobold said. “She is certain of the deal we were given, but if the thief stole these then do they not win unless we steal them from the thief?” In other words, if haggling were a game to get the most coin, selling anything stolen was an automatic win.

Merdon shrugged. “Maybe instead of judging based on how much money you gave up, judge by how much you saved.”

Sarel mumbled about her possible loss as they walked around, keeping their valuables close. The kobold girl had a strange way of thinking, but maybe that was how a lot of thieves thought. Merdon didn't know too many since most of them didn't like to work on returning stolen objects the way he did. Or, at least, the way he had. It hadn't quite hit Merdon yet that his profession was out the window. Skyeyes was in a similar position, and it was a struggle Sarel and Red couldn't fathom since they didn't have technical professions. Looking around just made it sink in even more. He was out of his league, beyond his depths, standing with a group of kobolds in the middle of a camp of lawbreakers, people he used to hunt down, selling the things he used to retrieve for honest folk. Adjusting his way of thinking to something like Sarel's might be the only way he could stay sane, and it made him glad to have her there next to him. Together they could work something out.

Strangely, as he'd been quiet since their fleeing Ardmach, it was Skyeyes who spoke next as they walked along. Not about the caravan of bandits they were wandering through, not a complaint about all the debauchery that was surely happening behind the scenes or the lack of morality they were displaying by taking part in the purchasing of stolen goods, but about Merdon himself.

“Where did you learn to fight?” he asked the human seriously. “The way you have tackled our enemies and your methodical planning does not seem to be the work of a mundane adventurer.”

The knight curled his lip and thought on it. He decided, given everything they'd been through, perhaps it was time to open up, just a little. “My father taught me,” Merdon replied in a hushed tone. “He was a knight under the king himself.” The revelation got a mixed reaction of surprise and disgust.

“A knight of the king?” Skyeyes asked in wonder. “That certainly explains your skill over seasoned mercenaries.”

Merdon nodded. “He worked as a knight for most of his life, and he met my mother when they were both pursuing the same brigand.”

Sarel caught gist and smirked. “Your mother was an adventurer then, like you.” Of course, Merdon nodded again, because she had been.

“She was a good one too, leader of her own band of sell-swords. Their target killed a few of her companions, which forced her to team up with my dad. I'm told it didn't turn romantic until after they fought side by side.” Merdon paused as a group of bandits walked by, muttering and looking at him. He was getting antsy about staying the caravan.

Skyeyes noticed them as well and whispered, “We can always leave. Quickclaw is a good hunter.” The human shook his head and moved them along. While food was their goal now, he knew a diet of mostly meat would hamper him sooner or later.

“Something I learned from both of my parents,” he replied with a grin. “A balanced diet.”

Quickclaw shook her head and implored him, “Ignore the humes, verakt. What else were your parents like?”

It was then he realized Sarel out of all his companions would be interested in them. He cleared his throat and went looking for the words. Only the right ones would do for this. “My father was strict,” he decided. “A military background will do that. He hammered drills and training into us like no tomorrow.”

“Us?” Red caught the implication expertly. “You have a brother?” she guessed.

Merdon reddened and nodded. “Yeah, we haven't talked in a long while,” he informed them. Sad news, but he delivered it neutrally. “He decided to join the military, following in my father's wake. I became an adventurer.” Like their mother, obviously. Both children following one of the parents.

“That is very sweet,” Sarel half teased. “So, we can assume you both learned how to fight from your parents?”

“Yeah, but he was always a little better at it,” Merdon admitted. “I picked up the basics and then wanted to learn more about... well, everything. He joined the military, polished his skills. I'm decent in a short fight, I learned how to end them quickly.” He mastered the right way of stabbing, where, how hard, how fast, and had figured the rest out later.

Skyeyes rubbed his chin. “That explains your progress through the … prison,” he stumbled just for a moment. “You were quite methodical for an adventurer.”

Merdon sighed and commented, “Another thing my father imparted. A piece of wisdom I lost in the heat of the moment. Specifically to never get lost in the heat of the moment, to always have a plan, remain calm and think through my actions.”

“Didn't you?” Sarel asked him seriously. “You weighed the choices before you and you picked one.” He chose to kill, to turn his back on humans.

“In a sense, yes,” Merdon admitted. “But, it wasn't a decision fueled by calm thinking. It was made in anger, hate, emotion.”

Quickclaw sat a claw on his arm and told him bluntly, “Quickclaw would much prefer a human who thinks with his heart and head than only one or the other.” It was clear to her that was how he came to the conclusion he had.

Merdon gave her a smile, then looked at Red and Skyeyes. “We should hurry this along. I don't want any of these guys following us out of the caravan and trying to ambush us over some silver.”

The two nodded in agreement, but Red was pensive about the whole thing. Merdon, Sarel, Skyeyes, they knew their parents, their history, their heritage. She didn't. Out of all of them, Red was missing the most. Ever since her capture, however, she had been wondering if that wasn't for the best. As the group made their way out of the caravan with their packs once more loaded with supplies and their mounts turned directly towards the witch's tower, the red kobold wondered if what they were doing was going to be any help at all. Perhaps to Merdon, but would the kobolds they freed enjoy that freedom, or would they simply join the masses in Ardmach who waited with bated breath for their capture? Would they simply change one fear for another? Above all, she wondered if her own memories would simply give her more fear, more torture. It was too late to back out now. That she knew most of all, but the knowledge did not keep her from fearing the end of their journey.