0 - High Road

Alex rolls over, stretches, and begins preparing for his morning ablutions. A quiet, peaceful night is nothing to be ignored, he thinks. Maybe the road won't be so bad—so long as it doesn't rain!. Alex shudders at the thought of mud getting into his tunic, or worse, his smallclothes. Rubbing his eyes as he extracts himself, he starts his morning ablutions. Washing his face, brushing his teeth with a twig, checking his possessions, including the various weapons he has secreted on his body.

After packing his bedroll, Alex eyes his hides with askance. They are uncomfortable, stiff, and smelly. Oh for a proper ox hide set, he mentally laments. As Alex sighs and makes his way to his armor, his thoughts are most rudely interrupted by the younger guard from yesterday—the fox-killer.
Oho! It seems that the Mistress of Good Fortune has heard my prayers. Well, M'lady, I shall dare all, and trust in the Lady.*

Alex turns slowly to the younger guard. "Are you, perchance, talking to me, my good sir." Alex vocally enunciates the word "good" with the barest hint of sarcasm. "I am both honored and surprised. Honored that you recognize my cutting wit and risible turns of phrase." At this, Alex performs a shallow bow, never taking his eyes off of the guard's eyes. The eyes telegraph the movement; that is what my fencing instructor always said. While slightly bent over, Alex draws a couple of copper coins from his pouch, which is nowhere near his dagger, thankfully.

Straightening up, Alex continues "I am surprised, in that you had the mental acuity to discern the humor in the first place. Your mien and demeanor both speak more to the puissance of your musculature—especially between your organs of aural receptivity!"

Alex starts one coin dancing in his hands; around his fingers, between his knuckles, sliding across his wrist, Alex attempts to keep the coin moving. Then he adds a second.

"Touch your dagger? My dear sir, is that what the youth are calling it these days? What an unfortunate euphemism. I shall have you know—in no uncertain terms, mind you—that I much prefer to sheathe my dagger. If you would like your gear touched, there are plenty of people in the dock ward who would be willing for a nib or two." Alex keeps the one-handed coin juggling going on, leaving his other hand relaxed, but close enough to his weapons should things go awry.

"As for the slip of metal in your hands, my good man," once again, Alex slightly stresses the word "good", playing more to his companions, the ranger, and Master Jacob, than to the oaf who accused him. "I have perfectly serviceable weapons of my own. Those, I would be happy to show you if you wish", Alex says with a wide grin.

The guard blinks. Once. Then again.

Whatever fury he woke with falters under the weight of too many words, most of which slide past him like rain off oilcloth.

"Hah," he snorts despite himself. "You talk like a bard with a mouthful of marbles."

At the mention of sheathed daggers and dock ward nibs, his brow furrows—then his lips twitch.

"…Touch my gear," he repeats slowly. "That’s—" He huffs out a short laugh before he can stop himself. "That ain’t what I meant. Gods. And I don't wanna see yours either."

Some of the tension bleeds out of his shoulders. He scratches at his beard with his free hand, eyeing the coin trick with a mixture of suspicion and reluctant interest.

"You didn’t sneak up and swap it, then?" he asks, less accusatory now, more uncertain. "Because I’d swear it was clean last night. Ain’t never seen rust crawl like that."

Igrem think to himself that his friend Alex will definitely get into big troubles one day. But today is not this day, it seems, at least for now.

"Can I have a look?" he simply says to the oaf, looking concerned, and hoping to be able to check if there is magic at work there. "Did anyone experience the same issue?"

Nelly is surprised when she sees the rusted blade. She checks her own knife, armor and other equipment, if she can find similar changes anywhere else.

I heard stories about a monster that could cause equipment to rust, by its touch, but that is hardly the case here. I hope

Igrem, you take the knife carefully, turning it in your hands with a practiced eye. There’s no mistaking it—this is the same blade the guard used last night to kill the fox. The balance, the edge, even the faint notch near the tip where it struck bone are all exactly as you remember. The rust, however, is fresh: uneven, patchy, as if it bloomed all at once rather than creeping in over time.

You focus, searching for the telltale residue of arcane influence—warping in the metal, lingering resonance, the faint hum that magic often leaves behind. There’s nothing arcane.

You glance around the camp. No one else reports trouble. The same guard’s longsword is clean and bright. Spare blades, spearheads, armor buckles—everything else is exactly as it should be. Whatever happened, it was precise. Singular. And personal.

---

Nelly, you check your own gear out of habit, running your fingers over steel and leather. Nothing has changed. No corrosion, no weakness, no sign of decay.

Yet as you straighten, a quiet certainty settles in your chest. This wasn’t chance. The feeling is familiar, like the moment before an oath is given or a prayer is answered. Some divine hand brushed the world here, lightly and briefly, leaving just enough of a mark to be noticed by the one who needed to notice it.

Whatever force caused the rust is already gone. But the message remains.

---

Igrem looks at the oaf, not sure what to say and what not to say that would trigger him. Eventually, he elects to feign to misunderstand the cause. "Not sure what it is... Did you clean it well?"

Tell me... that dagger. Was that the dagger that killed the fox? Nelly is all business now, and the soldier is the center of her attention now.
Did you just piss off some powerful being?

"Clean it? Aye. Same as always. Wiped it down a couple of days ago. Ain’t my first year on the road."
"What? Of course it was," he says, irritation flaring. "It’s my dagger. Only one I carry at hand."

He snorts at the rest of her words, shaking his head hard.

"Piss off some powerful being? From killin’ a fox? No. No. That’s nonsense. It’s rust. Just rust. Damp air, bad luck, cheap iron—pick one."

Still, he slides the knife back into its sheath with less confidence than before and reaches for his pack.

"Enough jawin’," he mutters. "Sun’s up. Road won’t walk itself."

He shoulders his gear and starts toward the wagon, already putting distance between himself and the conversation.

Having dared danger, taken a risk, and honored his patron, Lady Tymora, Alex proceeds to get ready for the road in contented quiet. Rather unusual for the normally loquacious lad, actually.