0 - High Road

Nelly starts to narrate as David Eddenburrower. Here we see the small opportunistic fox, caught by the big strong human man.

It's is trapped with no means of escape. The fox has angered the big strong human man, and only with his blade the big strong human man, can feel please again.

Once he has killed the fox, dressed it, cleaned it and eaten it, only then will this appease the big strong human man.
Anything less would just make him a slayer of small animals. A Critter-Slayer

Alex, this isn’t about rations anymore. It’s about face. About being seen as strong, unquestioned, dominant. Your charm failed because it made him feel small; ridicule would do worse. Challenging him, baiting him, even dazzling him with a pretty blade—none of it gives him what he needs in this moment.

If you draw his focus fully onto you, steel will follow. Blood will be spilled—human blood. Yours, or his, or both. The fox would likely live… but the camp would never be the same. The ranger would step in only after the line was crossed, not before. If you don’t escalate—if you let this play out after Nelly’s interference—it will almost certainly end more simply: a dead fox, a grim sort of supper, and a man convincing himself he was justified.

Nelly, your words land. Not as persuasion—but as mockery, clean and sharp.

The guard’s face twists, color rising fast. His eyes flick to the others in camp, to the ranger, to you. For a heartbeat, something like doubt flashes there.

Then it hardens.

"Shut up." he snaps.

Before anyone can move, the knife comes down.

Alex, it's now or never.

Igrem starts a nervous laugh and stands. "Really? Are we going to start a full scale fight for just this little fox? Come on, I'm sure it is not worth it. Come over here and take a drink. You know Alexander, he is always looking for a good word and an occasion to catch the limelight. Maybe it is not worth all this fuss?" says the diminutive wizard, showing a conciliatory body language, in an attempt to deescalate the situation.

Alex watches in mute horror as the knife blade descends. Oh FVCK, he's going to kill the poor creature, races through Alex's mind. Alex has no reason to believe the fox is anything other than a dumb beast, however. I got a good read of that bastard's mind, and were I to even flinch in his direction, he would gut me next. And gut me he would; I'm no knight or champion. My skills are in finesse, not brute strength, and he is more aware of me than anyone else right now, d@mn my foolish tongue.

A feeling of impotent helplessness fills Alex as he realizes that in this tableau—at this time—there is nothing substantial he can do to arrest the wanton cruelty of the younger guard. As he watches in horror, Alex lowers his face and whispers a prayer to his patron goddess.

Oh Smiling Lady of Good Fortune, Beshaba's Bright Sister, watcher over those who dare their luck, but not of fools who cannot calculate the odds, grant your unworthy servant the opportunity to redress the evil embodied in this brute in some fashion. Be it to guide him—or others—from cruelty or be it to help your shining face to turn from those who would abuse their own and others' fortunes. But a glancing touch of your grace would befit me well, Lady Luck.

The knife falls.

The fox’s cry cuts off mid-sound, a sharp breath swallowed by the night. Its body jerks once beneath the guard’s boot, then goes limp, the wire snare rattling softly as tension leaves it. A dark red stain spreads into the dirt.

The guard exhales through his nose, satisfied. He wipes the blade on the grass, then nudges the lifeless body with his boot to free it from the snare. Scooping the fox up by the scruff, he turns and tosses it toward the older ranger.

"There," he says flatly. "Dinner."

The ranger catches it by reflex, then looks down at the small, still form. His mouth twists.

"Barely," he mutters. "There’s hardly any meat on it. Skin and bone."

But he doesn’t argue further. With a resigned shake of his head, he carries the fox a little way from the campfire and begins the quiet work of cleaning it, while the guard stalks off to his bedroll, ignoring Igrem, interest spent.

---

The night settles again. Crickets resume their song. The fire crackles low and steady, renewed by fresh timber. Whatever tension lingered bleeds slowly into the dark, unspoken but not forgotten. The smell of blood fades, replaced gradually by the thin, gamey scent of meat roasting over the coals.

Time passes.

Eventually, Jacob, the merchant, approaches your side of the camp, holding a small pot and a ladle. He hesitates, glancing once towards his side of the camp, then offers a thin, conciliatory smile.

"Sorry you had to see that," he says, to no one in particular. Or, perhaps, to your group as a whole.

"Road’s hard on tempers."

He lifts the pot slightly towards Alex.

"Stew’s still warm. Not much, but you’re welcome to some."

Igrem politely refuses the food if asked. "Thank you, but I'm not very much hungry..."

Alex looks up at Jacob. "Thank you, sir, but I'm not much interested in meat tonight." Before the merchant has a chance to leave, Alex pipes up "Is there anything in particular that has your group so on edge? Any rumor or the like? Our proprietors galloped off last night and I would not like to think that something amiss may have happened to them."

Thank you Nelly takes a blow of soup and happie eats it, enjoying her meal.

Road might be hard, but so is the city. I feel that the road is an overall nicer place to be.

Once she is done eating, she gathers the utensils and takes them the stream to wash them, before going to bed.

The merchant nods first to Igrem, accepting the refusal with a small, understanding dip of his head. He pauses when Alex speaks, studying him for a moment. When Nelly accepts the stew, his shoulders relax just a touch.

At the question, he exhales and shifts his weight. Up close, Jacob looks like a man who has spent more years on the road than he would care to count—late forties, perhaps. His beard is neatly trimmed but threaded with gray, his hair pulled back with a simple leather tie. He wears practical wool and leather, mended more than once, and keeps his hands busy even when standing still, fingers worrying at the belt or whatever he is carrying.

He glances down the dark line of the road before continuing.

"Early spring’s always like this. Demand for goods spikes—folk want seed, tools, iron, salt, all of it, and they want it yesterday. Trouble is, winter drives things hungry. Wolves, goblins, worse. Creatures start ranging farther than they should, poking at camps, testing nerves. Most of it’s nothing. A snapped snare. A missing sack. A shadow where there shouldn’t be one. But enough little things add up, and tempers get short."

At Alex’s mention of Gundren and Sildar riding ahead, Jacob frowns slightly.

"Didn’t hear anything specific. No attacks on the High Road that I know of—nothing confirmed, anyway. But folks are jumpy. Something about trouble east, near the Triboar Trail. Bandits, maybe. Or monsters. Hard to say which stories are true."

He nods then gestures loosely between the three of you.

"If you don’t mind me asking," he says, tone mild, conversational, "how’d you all come to be traveling together? You don’t strike me as kin. Shared a story or two? Bled together? Or is this one of those arrangements where coin put you side by side, and today’s the first night you’ve really had to see what kind of folk you’re traveling with?"

He shrugs lightly.

"Nothing wrong with any of it. Just curious. Makes a difference, when trouble finds you instead of the other way around."

There’s no suspicion in his voice—just genuine interest, the kind born of long nights and shared fires on the High Road.

Alex listens as Jacob describes the tensions of the first-thaw runs on the High Road. Having spent the majority of his young life in either Amphail or Waterdeep, this is about as far as Alex has been outside of civilization, and it's only going to get worse. I should learn what I can from Jacob's wilderness experience, Alex thinks.

Alex shudders slightly at Jacob's mention of bandits or monsters. These are not going to be the same as the thugs or brigands of the Waterdhavian docks, he realizes. Getting a tad more nervous, Alex slowly and unthreateningly unsheathes his short sword and dagger, and proceeds to sharpen them nervously. I almost needed to draw these in anger tonight, he thinks, realizing that could have been a rather final end to his nascent adventuring career.

At Jacob's question, Alex perks up. Waiting until Igrem finishes, Alex concurs. "I agree with friend Igrem here," he begins. Coin is a most powerful motivator, especially to those who find themselves in its need. My distinct shortage in that area, and here Alex taps his rather flat coin-pouch lightly, some…misunderstandings…with the fine men and women of the Waterdhavian City Watch, and a personal matter or three all conspired rather serendipitously to thrust me on to the path to fame, fortune, women, and riches. Although, to be quite honest, Master Jacob, I have seen neither hide nor hair of anything other than mud and grumpiness, so far."

Jacob listens without interrupting, his expression thoughtful as Igrem speaks, then faintly amused as Alex launches into his more colorful explanation. At the mention of the City Watch, he raises an eyebrow, but wisely lets that particular thread lie.

"Fair answers," he says. "Most folk I meet on the road start with coin. Some grow into trust. Some don’t last long enough to find out which kind they are."

To Igrem’s question, Jacob exhales and looks past the fire again, toward the dark line of the High Road.

"Out of the ordinary?" he repeats. "Not exactly. This stretch of the High Road’s about what it always is, this time of year. But..."

He gestures vaguely into the dark.

"Like I said, early spring brings hungry beasts, impatient merchants, and folk who haven’t shaken winter out of their bones yet. Wolves range a bit wider. That’s not danger so much as… friction."

His eyes briefly track Alex’s sharpening blade, then move on without comment.

"Bandits and monsters get talked about every year. Most of it’s just stories travelers tell themselves to explain why the road feels less friendly once the thaw comes."

Then Jacob turns his attention to Nelly, who has finished eating and cleaning.

"And you?" he asks, voice softer now. "You haven’t said much about how you came to this road. You strike me as someone who didn’t leave the city just because her purse was light."

He tilts his head slightly.

"What made you take up the road, Nelly?"

Ah... yes... The city became to hostile for me, so I left with what I had and took to the road. Her words are truthful, even if there are small omissions.
Justice for the underdogs is also needed here.

She has said what she want about the subject and the wanted poster bearing her name. With her sleeping arrangement made she is peparing to turn in. Wake me when its time for my watch

Jacob listens to Nelly’s answer without pressing. He nods once, slow and respectful. He’s learned when not to ask for the rest of it.

"Aye," he says quietly. "The road’s got room for folk the city chews up. And it has its own kind of justice, for better or worse."

When Nelly mentions watch, Jacob gives a small, approving grunt and steps back offering the group a final nod.

"Get some rest," he says. "I’ll keep my lot quiet."

With that, he turns and walks back toward his own camp, his silhouette thinning into the firelight and shadows.

Igrem agrees to take the dusk watch, preferring a continuous sleep. He will take advantage of the time alone to study the book, or the few parchments he brought with him.

Looking at both Nelly and Igrem, Alex sighs and says "I guess that means I take graveyard shift." Which, truth be told, wasn't so bad. He did tend to do a lot of his best work…in multiple areas…in the dead of night. Alex plans on practicing his knife throwing routine whilst the others slumber. A good routine is only made better by relentless practice, he thinks.

So Igrem takes the first watch, keeping close to the fire while the last light fades from the sky. He uses the quiet hours to study his book and parchments, committing arcane notes to memory before turning in for a long, uninterrupted sleep.

Deep night belongs to Alex. Though he claims the graveyard shift with a sigh, truth be told, it suits him just fine. While the camp sleeps and the fire burns low, he keeps watch and practices his knife-throwing by starlight, the repetitive motion calming his nerves as the hours slip past.

Before dawn, Nelly rises for the final watch. She greets the pale light of morning as it creeps over the hills, mist clinging to the road and the chill of night slowly easing.

No threats emerge, no alarms are raised, and the night passes uneventfully, leaving the party rested and ready to continue along the High Road.

Morning comes quietly.

As the camp begins to stir, the younger guard lets out a sharp curse. He sits up abruptly, staring down at the knife he’s just pulled from its sheath. The blade is dull brown now, rough with patches of rust that flake away under his thumb.

"What in the Nine Hells…?"

He turns it this way and that, scowling. The balance is right. The nicks along the edge are familiar. Even the worn leather wrapping on the handle—darkened by years of sweat and use—is unmistakably his.

"This is my knife," he mutters. "Same handle. Same weight."

His eyes lift, immediately finding Alex.

The guard narrows his gaze, suspicion hardening into something sour. "You," he says flatly. "Funny man! Tell me! Now! Did you touch my gear last night?!"