#raev

She takes a wrong turn out of the Grand Steward's office and almost doesn't notice she's on the way to the room she's been so graciously given, so caught up in her thoughts is she. The wide expanse of the Lochs fills her mind so thoroughly that she might well be able to smell the salt of the Seld itself if she concentrates hard enough.

The beams of the Sandsea are almost the same colour as the mountains of Gyr Abania, so even when she corrects her course she still feels disoriented. Lost. It's been a year since she came to Eorzea, and not once has she felt so lost. Not even when all they had to eat were stale crumbs stolen from the Lominsan culinarians, nor even when she had been held in Ul'dahn jail awaiting execution or extradition.

The stairs leading to the mansion's modest training ring lead to cooler colours, and she is drawn to it for that reason alone, though the closer she steps the more she realises she can hear someone's exertion. Training, she thinks, mayhap for the mission ahead, and she files through the faces she knows.

She has yet to meet Ashelia's husband - Ala Mhigan too, as so many of her compatriots seem to be - and thinks from the masculine grunts that perhaps it might be he swinging fists. Better late introducing herself than never, she supposes, and takes the steps down.

Blessedly, she's wrong. It is Ashley who swings his training sword to and fro, balancing the blade perfectly, as a Riskbreaker ought. Her footfalls are never light, so she is under no illusion he has not heard her descent, but he does not let up. Not immediately.

"You hold yourself stiffly," she says, and he lets his concentration break. The sword's point does not droop; even at ease he holds it meaningfully, carefully. "The Grand Steward made mention you would be leaving on the morrow, also."

"You, too?" he asks, not a single hint of surprise betrayed by his moue. "Then she intends to act soon."

"Aye."

They stand looking at one another, neither moving a muscle until Orella gestures at the sword rack. "May I join you?" she asks. "Just for a brief bout."

Rosenheim says nothing, but takes a step back so his blade does not get in the way. She can feel his eyes upon her back as she chooses a hilt and pulls it free - the weapon is lighter than she is used to now, and must needs flourish it once or twice to remember how to swing. Her off-arm feels naked without a shield, but she is not training to take the field.

"I think," she says, turning, and settles comfortably into a simple stance, not too low. Ashley mimicks her, and they take a moment to circle one another, getting a feel for putting one foot in front of the other. "That this could well end in disaster. Not for Ashelia," she adds quickly, still pacing, "for Ingvald and for myself. We are being sent to the Quarter."

"You're to oversee the people."

It isn't a question. She steps lightly to him, lifts her arm as though to strike from above and changes the arc before she can begin the swing. He parries easily. The metal clashes loudly once, and then they go back to circling one another. Orella nods.

"Aye. But we are known by too many to go as we are." A pause as she deflects a similarly lazy swing. "We will not be bringing a linkpearl."

That sees Ashley stop. Orella shoots him a look and keeps circling, forcing him to move with her. "There's reckless and then there's stupid," he says, but Orella is already shaking her head.

"I do not think Ashelia was keen on the idea, but it is the safest. I will not be returning to Gyr Abania as a soldier. I will be returning as a woman."

By the look Ashley is giving her, she is not making any sense. She sighs, swings the blade gently before she realises he's dropped stance. She follows suit. "I mean," she says patiently, "That it will be safer if I pretend to be something I am not. Think about it, Riot," and she says his name sharply. Pointedly. "Orella aan Steelhand, once a Kingsguard, still a soldier with an Imperial yoke. A fighter. Fled to the Wall, and then beyond. Garlemald will be looking for her. Not the wife of a- a farmer. Or a blacksmith. Or anybody."

Ashley stares at her for near enough a full minute. "You're returning to Ala Mhigo without a linkpearl, and without weapons."

It sounds foolish when put like that. "Er," she manages, feeling foolish, "That's... about the sum of it. Bloodhound's magic is coming in strong now we've spent this long here," she adds, trying to ignore the way her cheeks burn. She hasn't come up with a stupid idea like this since Theodoric's time. "I have nothing but confidence in him."

The way Ashley continues to regard her as though she's lost her head isn't inspiring confidence in herself. It goes for so long that she thinks maybe she ought to place the sword back upon the rack and let him to it.

"The Grand Steward bade me return with Tia," he says carefully. She cannot blame him. It must still sit strangely, announcing such names to someone he barely recalls. "To spread the word. Recruit, if we can. The larger our native force, the more chance we have to push Garlemald out of the region for good."

She remembers a conversation by the fire, when they could neither look each other in the eye.

Do you think Ala Mhigo can be freed?

I do.

"I trust you," she says suddenly. She means it. "I do not have faith in my plan, but nor do I have faith in marching in with a 'pearl in my ear and a griffin upon my back. You, however, have the luxury of not being known by most men. I would beg your assistance."

If her words have stirred anything in him, he does not show it. She envies him that skill. "What do you need?"

"A rendezvous point," she says without preamble. She has her thoughts collected. "A time to meet. A code," she adds, thinking furiously. "If you cannot make it to the point, that you will send someone in  your stead. I do not mean to keep Ashelia in the dark."

His daughter's name garners a response. Not much of one, but a response nonetheless, and she files the information away carefully. "The Saltery," he says. She'd thought that at first, too. "It's abandoned, it-"

"No," she says, and for the first time feels pride that she worked for Garlemald. Her knowledge of the area is limited now she's been away for so long, but she'd walked that area just over a year before. Her boots had so often been encrusted with the salt of the Seld. She knows it is not as abandoned as he thinks. "Regular patrols. The monastery, up on the hills. The Sali. Safer. A longer journey to from the Quarter, but I'll risk nothing."

"The Sali," he agrees. "Your code?"

"East End's forests sure have changed," she recites. An older saying that she's not heard for years, but any trueborn Ala Mhigan would have said them once upon a time. Before the rest of the land had been scarred. "And your response is-"

"But the Leshy still abounds," comes the answer, and she nods. "Very well. When? You realise the Grand Steward means to move before the moon's turn?"

She hadn't. "Shit," she says, a soldier through and through. "I'd thought to say once a week, but that won't be enough. Every eve? No. Every other eve, with the moon at its highest. Is that something you are able to do?"

"I can have someone there," he says, and she breathes in deep, relieved. "Aught else?"

"Just one," she says, and looks toward the rack of weapons once more. "A knife. Nothing fancy, but sharp. Enough to pass off as a cooking tool. We're travelling," she adds, and runs both hands through her hair to mess it. The action pulls strands free of where they lie; they tickle as they fall to rest at her temples, at her cheeks. A soldier keeps her hair free of her face. A woman grows it long. "So it would not be so strange. And," she adds, "Two rings. No jewels. Suitable as wedding bands." She fixes Ashley with a hard stare and knows it does not carry the full weight of her feelings, with her face so... hidden. "I will not fuck this up."

Ashley has already turned from her to dig through the smaller racks to the side of the swords to find her requests. "No," he agrees. "You won't. Change your name. Both of you. Steelhand hasn't been forgotten. Neither has her hound."

He holds a knife out to her, and she takes it gingerly. It isn't in the best condition, but it's sharp, and she can work on it on the road.

"Thank you," she says, as he turns his head to say "And, Steelhand?"

Were they anyone else, the sudden silence might have made them laugh. Here, now, under the light of the chandelier and the full weight of Ala Mhigo's future on their shoulders, the tension sits heavy instead. "Yes?" she asks, and slips the knife into her boot.

In the decades he's known Orella, she's been insufferable plenty of times. He has a penchant for forgetting just how she gets when she has her heart set on something; more often than not his opinion sways her not at all. Nor does his irritation.

And Twelve above how she irritates him sometimes.

She's doing it now. He feels the first wave roll in when she glances sidelong at him, when she tells him without words he can take his good intentions and shove them as far up his arse as he can manage.

"No."

"You," she announces, "Are no fun whatsoever."

"Thank Rhalgr for small mercies," he mutters. From the way she goes back to stirring, it seems as though she is pretending not to have heard him. Another of her specialities.

He forgets that being told no has never stopped her.

Come the morn, he awakes alone.

It doesn't register at first. So groggy is he that he thinks first of Ul'dah, and then of Gridania as he opens his eyes to the leaves above.

And then the breeze picks up, and the scent it brings him he remembers from before the Wall. A fresh-flowing river, the natural salt of the land, the moist earth beneath him. It comes back to him like a thump to the head.

Gyr Abania. East End, the border, the Wall -

Home.

but Orella is nowhere to be seen. The fire has long since burned itself out; the empty pot sits on its cold coals, awaiting a wash. Something has bitten him during the night, on his wrist, under his sleeves, and he rubs at it as he sits up to scan the forest.

No sign of her appears. No sight, no sound.

Cursing, he gets to his feet slowly, picking up his rapier as he goes. They'd decided it wouldn't be unusual for a man to carry a weapon, even if he was but a trader. Ala Mhigo's lands have always been and will always be harsh and unforgiving. Her wives and daughters are strong too, but a wife of Orella's age would not put herself at the frontlines of action.

Which is why he worries. He doubts it was the wildlife. Had it been bugs, Orella would have shaken him awake during the night, for something in her blood has always attracted mosquitos. Had it been something larger, it would have gotten him, too.

Not to mention, there'd be more blood.

He takes that as a good sign. There are no signs of struggle anywhere; nothing but the tamped leaves where she had been sleeping. He reaches over to touch the space and finds it cold.

"... Orella?"

Something chirrups from the tree above in answer, something decidedly animal. Other than that single noise, silence reigns supreme in the East End.

"Gods damn you," he mutters to himself, and picks himself up slowly. "If I find that you've gone and wandered off a cliff, or let a sapria take you while you left to piss, I'll..."

He doesn't finish the thought. He doesn't need to. The forest answers for him with a roar that echoes even through the trees.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me."

The first thing he notices is that she stands almost as tall as the thrice-damned bear.

She does stand a wary distance from the beast, at least, having not gone entirely insane. She has - Rhalgr take her - the kitchen knife held tightly in her left hand, holding it in front of her like she thinks it'll actually protect her should the bear take interest.

And the bear has most certainly taken a vested interest in the thing challenging it. It's sat on its haunches, watching her, nose turned upwards to sniff. Apparently what it smells it does not like, for it roars again, and thumps down onto its forepaws. This close, the thud is almost enough to stagger, so loud is it, and he cannot - will not - let her perish under the weight of her own claw-tipped stupidity.

They haven't even reached the river.

"Are you insane," he hisses, unable to help himself, and she turns at the sound. The bear seizes its chance, lumbering toward them suddenly. It's fast, despite its size, and Orella turns to face it, eyes wide and mouth a perfect o of shock, and the knife can do nothing for her, nothing--

He steps forward and calls aether to his fingertips. The spell is hurried with the force of his panic and it arcs oddly, burning the air itself as it flies towards his foe.

And the spell flies. It leaves his fingers with such speed that it takes him aback. He thinks dimly that it hurts, but that is a problem for later; he reaches forth with his other hand and gestures wildly at Orella to get back. She looks between him and the bear, wide-eyed still, and takes one foolish step forward.

The bear has been stunned senseless and crashed to the ground, one paw still outstretched. He can see in its eyes the pain, the confusion, and finds himself thanking every book he's ever touched for knowing how to pull lightning from aether.

And the feeling of Gyr Abania's aether is unfamiliar after so long in Eorzea. It's rich. Heady.

He could get used to it.

Orella takes another step forward, well within the range of the bear's claws, and seems satisfied that it will not swipe at her; she darts forward now to sink the knife deep into the beast's throat and spill its life upon the forest's floor. Dimly, he registers the cut is clean, practised, but he cannot connect the thought with anything else, too overwhelmed with rage and fear and -

She's talking. It proves difficult to pull his concentration away from his shaking, sore fingers, from the muscle that jumps painfully at his jaw.

"... owe you," she's saying, and she's busy with her own hands, busy with the bear, making sure it is well and truly incapacitated. She isn't looking at him. "Thank you."

It takes a full moment for his heart to leave his throat, something he manages with a deep breath and a hard swallow. "You," he manages. His voice shakes with the effort of not yelling. "What in the Twelve's name do you think you're doing?"

"Well," she starts, and he steps forward. Something of his fury must show on his face, for she closes her mouth immediately.

"I don't give a damn about your excuses. Are you trying to get yourself killed? Do you even understand what's at stake here? All these years of telling me not to do stupid stuff and now suddenly it's fine for you to - to fight a bear," he hisses. He hasn't been so angry in a long, long time. "That has got to be the stupidest way to get killed I've ever seen. And I've worked with people stupider than you."

She says nothing, suitably mollified. The silence stretches so thick between them that not even her knife could cut it; it wraps around them both, suffocating in its intensity.

"Well?"

"I'm sorry," she says in a small voice. She can't look him in the eye. That irritates him more than ought to be reasonable; he is used to her shying from eye contact when her faults come to bear, but this is so much more serious than her annoyance over his mistakes, or any inequalities she perceives within their ranks. "I just thought if we're to play a role... we ought to play it to our fullest."

It is going to be a long, long day. He sighs heavily and rubs at his temples; the stench of the bear's blood irks him, and a familiar pounding at the base of his skull begs for a cup of hot, strong tea.

"Take your damn trophy," he says, and turns his back on her. "If you'll excuse me, I'm going to go and have a heart attack."

He has to talk himself out of leaving her behind.

He's on his second cup of hot dandelion tea when Orella returns, dragging what looks like a sack behind her. He watches from the corner of his eye as she scrapes meat and blood from the squares of fur she's taken from the bear, and does his best not to think about when and where she must have learned to skin animals. She seems to know what she's doing, working quickly and methodically, and before the sun has reached its zenith, she's rolled the squares tightly, lashed them together with some leather thong he'd not noticed her carrying.

"They'd fetch more if we had time to let them cure," she says, and he does not dignify that with an answer. She knows better than to press the subject. Time is the one thing they do not have.

But they will not stain overmuch, and even if they aren't traders, a fistful of gil is never a bad thing. Better yet, they are burdened with meat, rich and tough as it is. Their meals will not lack for flavour now, and after the bland, bitter tea he'd drunk directly from the pot earlier, his stomach craves more than leaves to fill it.

Their journey continues in silence. They share the load, and incredibly, Orella doesn't even complain about the heat - or the bugs - or the way the furs hang strange upon her back - nor even at the way the forest begins to thin and the ground becomes unstable under their very feet. Lush moss and thick roots turn to dust and unsteady rock with every step closer toward the Velodyna.

And when she stumbles, she thumps to her knees without protest, though he can see the way the impact hurts by the way her jaw pulls tight, and he sighs, for he knows there is no use in learning to hate her. Not after all they have been through together.

He bends to offer his hand, and she stares straight past him.

"Holy shit," she breathes.

The Resistance - and the Riskbreakers - have not been idle. Hanging from the aeroport's spire, their claim flutters in the wind. Ala Mhigan purple and Rhalgr's shining star decorate the sky, painfully, wonderfully conspicuous.

The white bunting seems almost blasphemous in its lack. Not for two decades have either of them seen the Star or the road leading them to its resting place, let alone heard mention of Rhalgr's name.

And now it sits boldly against Garlean steel, welcoming them to Ala Mhigo.

Welcoming them home.

"Yes, again," he says, taking a sheaf of proffered paper from a boy no older than fifteen. He jerks his head at the door and the boy leaves without a word. "Brown hair,  you said? Standing how high?"

"Taller'n you," is the response. The Gull grins at the papers, knowing how annoyed the courtesan must be to snap at him so quickly. "Tall enough, for a half'n half. Smaller than Berthi by just a little, I'd say. In good shape, too, but a miserable face."

He hums in acknowledgement, trying to listen and read at the same time. He can barely read the spidery scribbles the page, knows it is of at least middling importance, and curses the man that wrote it. So engrossed is he that Wicked Cloud's next sigh - this time disguised as merely a burst of static - startles him, and he's glad she can't see him jump. "Whatever you're calling yourself these days, he looked like he knew the Eastern Spray."

Now that's interesting. The Gull sets the papers down and at least has the good grace not to frown at them, but there are few enough people that remember that name that there can be no doubt it’s more than simply a likeness...

"I can't imagine who'd call themselves something so crass," he says lightly, wondering if it’s true, after all this time.

So lost in thought is he that he almost misses Wicked Cloud cursing him in language a lady ought not know. He tells her as much, and is promptly told something he doesn't understand. He's not bothered to learn the native Roegadyn tongue.

"You are insufferable," she says once her tirade is over, and he grins. "I no longer care if you do or do not know him. You heard the message and my contract is done. Do you require anything else of me?"

"Poetry," is the reply. "Recited underneath the new moon, and a promise to wed me."

"Fuck you."

The courtesan and the rogue laugh together. At least, he thinks she laughs, but from the way the linkpearl has destroyed the sound, he cannot be sure, and does not want to ask. "Thank you for telling me," he says once they quiet. "I need nothing else. You take care of yourself, Cloud. If you or the girls need anything..."

"We'll call."

With that, the line goes dead, and he plucks the pearl - an irritation - from his ear, rolling it between his fingers to consider it carefully. A request- entirely out of the blue - from a mixed-race Midlander matching Ashley godsdamned Riot's description asking him to go to the Sali? And quickly, too - he'd have to leave immediately if he is to make the appointed hour - and if he is to meet who he thinks it is...

But words are words, and who he thinks of has been gone for nigh-on twenty years, and he has seen many that match the description in the intervening time.

Still. This request has not come from the Resistance, and if it truly is Riot making his return, there is little and less to be won by taking shelter in the Undercity.

The papers are easily forgotten, buried under some small mountain of personal effects as he retrieves his arms. Heartsnatcher slides home to its sheath at his belt, and Tearjerker into his boot.

The road to the monastery is a long one, but at the very least, it will not be uneventful. As the Gull walks he is glad for his daggers, still serving him after all this time, and with every step, an old marching tune comes to mind.

Behind the patrol, Ala Ghiri yet stands as though Theodoric's standard still flies. Rhalgr's purple hangs from the gates instead of the Empire's white, and the Garleans are few enough that they pose no threat to the village. The crystal embedded deeply in the rock looks almost as a protective arm curling around the village, hiding them from the very worst Gyr Abania has to offer.

"Look sharp," Ingvald says to her, but there's no need. The moment they espied black-and-red in the distance she'd felt her breath come short, had pulled herself tall and tight, and reached for Ingvald's hand. He'd let it happen without protest; this was their deception, after all. Her lips are thin and her face grim. The force of her grip belies how deeply uncomfortable the Garleans make her feel.

Privately, he thinks the very bones in his hand are shifting.

There is no point in them stopping. If they have seen the patrol, the patrol will have seen them, and there is naught more dangerous than a small travelling party refusing to engage with the Imperials - and suspicious, besides, with Resistance purple hanging so close by. Not to mention they are both weary from a hard pace wordlessly set through harsh sun and cold nights. No stranger to the march are either of them, but that does not make the ordeal easier. A single night in an inn cannot kill them.

"Keep breathing," he murmurs as they walk up to the soldiers. Their welcoming party has fanned out to prevent their passing, all seven of them, all men, all tall enough to rival Orella, who stands a neat six fulms and carries herself as though she's closer to seven. The only indication he gets that she's heard him at all is, incredibly, a squeeze of his fingers.

"That's far enough," one of the patrol calls out to them, and they stop on the same step. They're close enough that they can see the Garleans' eyes beneath their helms. Beside him, Orella shakes her head so hair falls in front of her face. She's stopped slicking her hair back since they crossed the Wall, and the idea of brash, headstrong Orella Steelhand hiding from anyone is laughable to him.

Ingvald, with his hair cropped short, doesn't have the luxury of stepping back. He realises that she has the heavier load strapped to her back, and his heart stops-

They ought to have stopped to trade packs. Ala Mhigan women are strong, but they're pretending to be less than themselves, and a trader's wife would not be that strong-

A Roegadyn, sallow-skinned and well-muscled - the opposite of Ser Zartosht in almost every way, he thinks, and has to force that comment to the back of his mind or laugh damningly - steps forward. "State your business," he says in Garlean, sounding bored. HIs gaze drifts over Orella and fixes upon Ingvald, the man, the de facto leader of their merry band of two.

None of the soldiers are looking at her, as though she is naught to be considered, and that is what pushes him to anger. He has to remember to keep breathing.

"Here for trade, ser," Ingvald says. Every word tastes like twenty years of oppression. "We came from East End, we're here for-"

"Shut up," the soldier says. Ingvald does so. He does not want to pick a fight with a man with an axhead wider than its owner's broad chest while he stands unarmed. "From the Fringes? The seven hells you need to go so far for?"

Almost before he even finishes his question, he's shaking his head. "Not you," he says, and Orella closes her mouth. Her hand is shaking in Ingvald's. He can't tell whether fear or rage courses through her veins. "I'm not interested in listening to some savage whore's drivel. You, farmer," he says to Ingvald, and crosses his arms. "What's in East End? Where are you from?"

"... From the capital, ser," he says carefully, and takes another deep breath to calm the blood pounding in his ears. "We're traders. East End holds more for us. No point in selling salt when you come from the Lochs. We wanted furs. And claws can be sold for medicine. Right? ... Honey?"

The pet name drips off his tongue insincerely, and he winces, knowing it sounds false. Movement at his side means Orella has turned her attention from her feet to him. Knowing her, she's displeased with the choice of epithet.

Hang her displeasure. There are more important things at hand.

Thankfully, the Garleans don't seem to notice their silent squabble. Two of the men are talking amongst themselves; another's attention is directed at the sky; the others look bored. The big Roegadyn steps forward, arms still folded, an impassable presence that seems to almost blot out the sun with his bulk. Ingvald is not a short man, and this soldier looks down at him. Power and height make one terrifying combination.

"Get your wares out."

They're able to set their packs down and unwind the twine holding the furs tightly wound, displaying everything they'd taken from the bear. What flesh remains on the fur is starting to smell bad, Ingvald notices with a frown. A task for later tonight, scraping the remains away and doing their best to dry them before setting off in the morning.

The woollen tunics they'd taken from the Sandsea pale in comparison to the meat and the other trinkets arrayed before the soldiers. For the first time, Ingvald is relieved that Orella had the foresight to go after the bear, despite the foolhardy way she'd gone about it. And that's not the only thing she'd thought of: a linkpearl in either of their ears would have been noticed immediately, as would have mail under their peasant's clothes.

And they think her beneath notice.

"This is it?" The Roegadyn toes the edge of one square of fur roughly; a claw is nudged out of place and he kneels to pick it up, to turn it over in his big hand. The claw is almost dwarfed by the size of his hand. "Hardly worth coming back at all for this pitiful lot. Three furs? And badly cut, to boot. Didn't bother to clean 'em, dry 'em... and they stink. Are you really traders?"

Ingvald's mouth has gone dry, his heart racing. They'd practised their lies, but he hadn't thought they'd be scrutinised like this so quickly.

Beside him, Orella's voice is quiet, but firm. "Well, we're obviously not hunters."

"Damn straight," Ingvald says, and perhaps it comes out a little too forceful, for Orella's hand finds his again, and they cling to each other without shame. Ingvald no longer cares for the bones shifting in his hand, for he knows he returns the favour.

"Well, the meat's not rotten yet," the soldier says, and Ingvald prays he doesn't look too closely, for they have been preserved with simple ice spells he'd learned in Ul'dah, "And the claws aren't tarnished. Could get a pretty price for these," he adds, and pockets the claw he'd picked up. Ingvald crushes Orella's hand as she opens her mouth to protest. "A tax," the soldier says, and has the audacity to leer at her. "You don't need that much money, even if you are bas. And if you're that desperate, then I've the cure for what ails you. And we'll pay," he adds, as though that makes his proposition more attractive.

And they are yet unarmed: Ingvald with his spells cannot hope to take on all seven of the Imperials, and Orella will fare little better than he. He yanks on her arm hard enough he feels something pop out of place, and she yelps, but follows the movement sharply, and the tug means that the arrow whistling through the air misses her and lands in the dirt a fulm before the feet of the Roegadyn.

One full second passes. Another. Everyone stares at the arrow, distracted from Garlean threats by its sudden appearance. Its fletching is unfamiliar to the natives, the vanes the colour of a hornbill's back and yet bound to the shaft in a way neither have seen before. Clearly, it means something to the soldiers.

"Resistance," the Roegadyn calls, and rips his axe free of his back. The patrol comes alive, pulling their weapons free, and Orella pulls Ingvald off the road with all her might.

From where they cower together, hands enjoined as though they have never existed as separate entities, they have a fantastic vantage of the slaughter that ensues. The Garleans are overwhelmed from the start, outfitted with fear and confusion as they are. They're no match for the handful of fighters all wearing nondescript green, faces covered with what look like imitation griffin masks. And there's all shapes and sizes, unlike the uniformly masculine silhouette of the patrol. A skinny Miqo'te with a longbow as tall as she stands, plucking the bowstring effortlessly, every arrow flying fast and hard. A Lalafell, back straight, wand extended, blowing flame as though the Amalja'a's primal ought make offering to him. The telltale scaled tail of an Au Ra, menacing in his size, made more menacing by the long-barrelled gun in his hands. At the head of the group, the stocky shoulders of an Ala Mhigan used to the lay of the land.

Orella yet trembles like a leaf in the wind, but her eyes are bright, and she does not once look away from the fight. "What do we do if they turn on us next?" she whispers to him, and Ingvald can only shake his head. He has no answer for her anxieties, can only try to quiet his. They can only hope the Resistance is as well-meaning as the stories have made them out to be. And there have been plenty of stories on the road.

Whatever the Resistance are, they're well-trained enough that within minutes the Imperials are lying dead or dying on the dusty Abanian road. The Miqo'te's bow quickly finds them as a new target, though its owner is not so hasty that she plays the song of death for them. Orella and Ingvald stand, slowly, free hands raised to display their innocence.

But only the archer keeps her eyes on them. They are but an older, unarmed couple; nothing compared to seven armed Garlean men desperate to keep their lives. The Highlander turns his back to them, saying something too lowly for the wind to carry to them, and the small group breaks apart to clean up after themselves. The Lalafell and the Auri man start riffling through pockets and find the stolen bear claw - longer than the Lala's entire arm - and after another moment's careful consideration, the archer lowers her bow. She stands aside to let her commander approach.

"Well met, sister," he says in the rough eastern dialect native to the Peaks. It's familiar in a way Orella can't quite place, and not just because she'd grown up speaking it before her days in the Kingsguard. "And you, brother. They didn't bother you overlong, I hope."

Orella is too busy trying to place the voice, face screwed up in thought, so Ingvald answers for the both of them. "Just questioning us, though I fear you stepped in at the right time."

The archer turns her griffin's mask toward Orella; they can see the  grim line of her mouth. "Imperials like to make the hinnies queb it. Y'ain't hurt, lass?"

She shakes her head, which seems to satisfy the archer, and she offers a salute to the Highlander before joining her comrades' casual thievery. "We're going to the city to trade," Ingvald says, and gestures at the furs still unravelled on the dirt. "Thought we'd detour to Ala Ghiri to rest."

"Not a bad plan," their saviour nods. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you what lurks in the dark out here."

"We both grew up here," Orella offers suddenly, and finds herself under careful scrutiny. Still, she doesn't shrink back from the focus the Highlander trains on her. "Besides, nothing's more dangerous than the Garleans."

"I'll be damned," the man under the mask says. "You're that one from Ul'dah, aren't you, sister? I always wondered what happened to you."

There's a pregnant pause where Orella considers carefully, and frowns as she speaks. "... Horrick," she says, and the Ala Mhigan beams.

"Ul'dah?" Ingvald asks, lost.

"Your lady got put behind bars," Horrick says, and wrestles with his mask. It's more than just a mask; white leather covers the ears and neck and covers the helm beneath. Impressive work. He's tanned from the high Abanian sun, chin darker than the rest, a beard doing its best to try and sprout. "Near enough a full twelve months ago, now. Good piece of work, from what I heard."

At Ingvald's side, Orella makes a swift, jerking movement that he cannot quite see in his peripheral, but has been on the receving end of enough times to know what she's doing. She gestures furiously, drawing her hand before her neck. In all the years he's seen it, Ingvald has never quite known whether she means it to mean stop talking or I'll kill you. "I don't think I heard that," he says mildly, and the moment he turns his heard to look at Orella she quits the motion.

As expected, she's looking anywhere but him. Guilty as charged.

"Were you ever going to tell me this?" he asks, exasperated, and Horrick bursts into laughter.

"True firebrand, ain't she, brother? Well," and he offers Ingvald a lazy wink that goes unnoticed. "All's fair in love and war, and you look like you've seen your fair share of both. More one than th'other, I'd wager, if miss murder here's anything to go by."

"Orella..."

"Major," the Lalafell says, walking up and offering the bear claw to Orella, who has to bend to take it. With his hands free, he salutes, looking every bit as though he doesn't feel dwarfed by the Highlanders around him. "We shouldn't hang about. Gotta make it look like the patrol's gone missing. You know the drill. Has to be natural."

"Natural," The Au Ra agrees from a few paces away, and Horrick nods.

"Aye, that it does. You two fancy lending us a hand? We'll escort you to Ala Ghiri once we're done here. We've a safe house you're more than welcome to."

Orella's still ignoring Ingvald's pointed stare. "Really? We wouldn't want to impose, and we do have to reach the city..."

"A night in a bed won't do you any harm, sister. Rest awhile. Ala Mhigo will still stand on the morrow."

That it will, though with the Riskbreakers likely hot on their tail, Orella can't be sure how long that statement will ring true. Still, the idea of a bed as opposed to some sheltered rock is an attractive prospect, even if it is only for a night. They have time enough to reach the city, and time enough to keep the peace.

"Orella," Ingvald says, desperate now, "What did he mean by miss murder?"