The day of the 2nd expedition.

Domic somehow finds himself back in the tavern. He's quite small, barely as high as a dwarf. He's surrounded by people taller than him, and people smaller than him and everyone talks with one another, happy as can be. He looks down to see a cord tied around his ankle. He tugs at it, insistently, until someone walks over. He straightens up to find Gwenevi looking him in the eye, their heights the same.

They both look around, surveying the other people in the tavern: a merchant talks loudly up at the artisans who tower over him; hunters of unequal size clasp hands; a tall priestess tugs at her ropes, dragging Domic and Gwenevi towards her. They go, as the priestess smiles down on them and a varied group of others, speaking with a voice that befits her stature. Domic turns away again, looking at his feet, now covered with ropes and chains and cords.

He watches as Gwenevi pulls a thin cord of her own. Domic feels a hand on his shoulder and turns to find Torjo standing next to him. Torjo glances down and picks up an iron chain. Domic follows the length of the chain to where it ends around his ankle, before looking back up at Torjo, who nods. Then the tavern seems to swell to impossible height, and he tries to look over the shoulders of Torjo and others. He looks to men-trees and women-towers and then to hills and mountains, two distant mountains of jungle ropes and anchor chains and spiderweb cords.

"Where's Izabel? Where's Cerni?" he thinks, as he feels himself falling backwards to the tavern floor.

His eyes snap open as he lays in bed, sweaty despite the chill in the air. He groans as he throws the blankets off, sitting up. "My head," he thinks, clutching it, "either I had way too much to drink, or Izabel's actually a terrible apothecary," he shuffles over to the window, peering out at the sun. "Still early morning - got a couple of hours to recover before the muster." He walks over to his clothes chest, putting on the woolen tunic and breeches he'd laid out yesterday, before heading out of his room.

"What happened last night? I went to the tavern, talked to Cerni and Halle, met Velda, and then I danced?" he thinks. "A lot, with Izabel, and maybe others? And then I was sitting with...Cerni? Yes, because she was naughty," he thinks, amused. "Then there was the...the...affirmation dance, I think? Who did I dance with? It's all foggy. Cerni? Or was it...Velda? And something happened with uh, whoever it was...something good and bad?" he thinks, confused.{if Izabel ****=1} "And who else...Izabel, yes. And we? No," he squirms. "Did we do something wrong? Something we shouldn't have? Fuck, I don't fucking remember!" he gulps, standing at the top of the stairs. "Alright, alright, if...big if...we did do something, I should just act normal, she won't remember. And if she does, I'll play it off as everyone was drunk, yes, too damn drunk, doing stupid things, harmless things."{else}{endif}

He heads downstairs, to find the house cold and empty. There's a note in Izabel's handwriting on the kitchen table. 'At Herut's. Stop by before you leave,' he reads, before starting a fire in the hearth. He eats a cold breakfast, heats up a bit of water for a short lukewarm bath, grabs his prepared gear, makes a final check of it, then is out the door. All the while he tries to remember anything else about last night. Only one thing seems to come to his mind, one truth, solid as the mountains he'll be marching towards: "Halle is not my friend."

...

Domic steps through the door into Herut's apothecary. Like many shops in Pael, her main room is filled with displayed merchandise. In Herut's case it is jars and vials, all stoppered and multicolored, stacked in neat rows with their name and purpose written on slips of paper. He passes cosmetics for women and men, potions for various internal aliments, poultices for flesh wounds, sweet-smelling perfumes next to foul-smelling pest poisons. The efficacy of all this goop and glop depends from item to item, and from apothecary to apothecary. "And Izabel says Herut's the best in town - or at least the most expensive," Domic thinks, glancing at the high prices listed.

Herut, a small woman becoming smaller with age, sits behind the front counter, slowly grinding away with a mortar and pestle. "Your sister's in the back dearie," she mutters in response to him.

He goes into a brightly lit back room, both from the roaring fire and the big windows that let the morning sunlight shine through. Izabel leans down on a massive table covered with raw ingredients and tools, flipping rapidly through a book.{if Izabel ****=1} Her hair is tied together, but it hangs down over her shoulder, just as her breasts hang in the light blue chemise she wears, admirable cleavage showing. The fire makes the room hot, and she's rolled up her sleeves. "Izabel," he says quietly, carefully, trying to sound normal, even though more blood starts to course through him. "Stay calm, everything will be alright," he thinks, anxious and yet happy to be in her presence.

She looks up, and he feels a stab of exhilaration when her deep blue eyes connect to his, staring like an implacable and calm river. "Hello. How do you feel?" she says, leaning up from her reading.

He can't decide if her tone is slightly different or perfectly normal. "Uh, fine," he says, a white lie. "I remember the potion - maybe because it tasted terrible. But I don't want her to think I remember anything else - like if we did something," he thinks, pausing, as she looks at him, waiting for him to say more. "No secrets between us," he thinks. "I think that potion helped," he says, cracking a smile he hopes is natural.

"Good, I'm glad. I'm sorry they taste that way - but they do help," she says.

He nods. "Should I?" he thinks anxiously. "So, do uh, you remember anything from last night? I don't really."

Izabel stares at him for a moment, silent, frozen. "Um, no, I don't either. Everything after we danced together in that quartet is gone, or really foggy," she says placidly, but he sees one ripple in her eyes.{else} "Hello," he says.

"Oh, hello," she replies. "How do you feel?"

"Better - that potion really helped," he says, smiling.

"Good - sorry they taste so bad. So did you enjoy last night? I think I did, but everything is a bit foggy."

"Uh, yes, I did, but it's all a bit foggy for me as well."

"Well, that's just how it goes sometimes," she says.{endif} "Do you have everything you're supposed to bring?"

"I think so, yes," he says, showing her his stuffed pack, skis and their father's long musket slung over his shoulders, Kexca's ax in his belt.

"Hmm, not quite," she says, walking over to a shelf and grabbing a sealed jar, blue symbol drawn on it.{if Izabel ****=1} He watches how her chemise and skirts sway as she approaches him, his heartbeat picking up annoyingly.{else}{endif} "This is more of that blue mush, alright. Just, uh, just in case," she says, voice wavering a bit, stopping before him. "I don't want you to go," she says, handing him the jar.

He takes it, sighing. "I don't want to go either, but it'll be alright. The orc will lead us to her boss, we'll take care of them, then we'll have a quiet winter," he says, trying to be reassuring, embracing her tightly.

She chuckles quietly. "Heh, look at you, my little brother, comforting me - it's supposed to be the other way around, you know," she whispers softly into his ear.

"You don't think you're doing that? Hugging me?" he whispers back as she chuckles again. They hold onto each other for a long while. "She'll be there for me, and I'll be there for her," he thinks, before finally pulling away, looking into her concerned eyes. "I know - do uh, do you need me to bring you back some mountain plants? I can," he says, smiling.

She nods, smiling weakly. "Uh, yes, could you? That'd be helpful. Let me write you a note - grab a few empty jars and pouches too," she says, pulling away. She goes back to her table, takes a roll of paper and quill, before moving around the room, checking jars and bundles, scribbling periodically.{if Izabel ****=1} He puts a few empty vessels in his pack, then watches her, unwilling to look away, in case - just in case something happens in the mountains. He watches her face, her eyes, smiling at him, but he finds himself glancing down, glancing down more than he should. He glances at the slight jiggling of her chemise as she approaches and at the back of her skirts as she leaves.

"Everything's alright - and everything will be," he thinks with relief, tugging on the collar of his woolen tunic. Izabel stops at a tall shelf, reaching up for a jar, standing on her tiptoes, just brushing it. He gets up, walks over to her, and without really thinking, clasps her waist and lifts her up slightly, just enough so she can grab it, before he setting her down and opening his mouth to stammer an apology.

She spins around and faces him, eyes agitated, mouth parted, cheeks starting to flush. "Huuh, thanks," she murmurs, evidently as surprised as he is.

"Sure," he says, watching her guiltily as she reads the jar.

"I uh, I think this is it," she says, deep blue eyes locking onto his, twisting around to place the jar randomly on a lower shelf, offering the paper list to him. He takes it, impure thoughts washed away by the coming goodbyes.{else} She comes to a tall shelf, straining but not quite reaching a jar. He gets up, goes over and grabs it for her. "Thank you," she says.

"You're welcome."

"I uh, think this is it," she says, offering him the list.{endif}

"I swear I'll come back," he says, taking the list and hugging her again for a moment.{if Izabel ****=1} Then he leans down and kisses her cheek, for a second or so.

"I know you will," she smiles, leaning up to kiss his cheek, before pulling away to look at him. For a moment he thinks she's about to say something else, but she just smiles, and they release from their hug. "Be safe, I love you," she says.

"I love you too," he replies, giving her a reassuring wave and smile as he turns to leave.{else} "I know," she says, as they release from their hug. "Be safe, I love you," she says.

"I love you too," he says, turning to leave.{endif}

...

The courtyard of the guard commandery is full, even though the official muster isn't for another hour or so. It is filled, as with the first expedition, with guardsmen and women preparing for the journey into the mountains. This time, however, there are also pack mules, in process of being loaded with crates and bundles of supplies, braying and swishing their tails. They're not the only change from the first expedition however. Standing away from the clumps and individual guards of Pael, in their own corner, are southerners. "Mercenary filth," Domic thinks, eyeing them warily, as they pack solid steel cuirasses, tassets, and pauldrons onto horses, sharpen tall halberds, or pour gunpowder into their horns. A white standard is set in the middle of them - with a stylized bloody red hand grasping two gold coins is sewn onto it. Domic walks past them to greet Torjo, already having some inkling of why they're here too.

"Domic, good to see you lad," Torjo says, smiling alertly at him. "I'm glad to see the party didn't hit you too hard last night," he says. Domic only smiles, suddenly wary, but that's all Torjo says of the party. "Ah and you brought your father's musket, good - is there anything else you need from the armory?" he asks.

"Uh, no no, I don't, I've got skis, warm clothes," he says, setting aside his surprise that evidently Torjo had written in the margin of the note. "Did he know my father?" he thinks, deciding to ask him that later, along with, now that he thinks of it, many other questions. "What, uh, are those, southern fuc-, I mean, southern, uh, men, doing here?" he asks.

Torjo's smile droops and dissipates, and he lays a hand on Domic's shoulder. "They're here to help us," he says resignedly. "I don't know how much you've been following council politics, or what's going on down south - not much, huh?" he says, as Domic shakes his head. "Well, despite...what happened, five years ago, some councilors can't shake the idea that southerners could be useful in fighting the orcs." He removes his hand and crosses his arms, as they both turn to watch the mercenaries. "And with what's going on down south, more peaceful lulls in their squabbles, more cities and territories reuniting, one way or another, all the mercenary bands have seen their business drop. And this, this Two Coins Company," he spits the name out, "well, they're one of the first to send up a delegation, to see if we'll hire them. And with this recent business with witches scaring the shit out of the council, they've ordered Halle to send fewer guards to fight the orcs, and to take the southerners instead, to test them," he says, shrugging.

"And you don't think that's a good idea?"

Torjo pauses for a moment. "Look at them. You know the forest. You know the mountains. Do you carry all that when you go out? I'm surprised they don't have two camp followers for every man. But Halle's hands are tied," Torjo sighs, and he looks over to a guard waving at him. "I have to go, we'll talk later. Go to the armory, grab armor and a burgonet, and then," he points to a corner of the courtyard, "go talk to our...guide," he says, walking away as Domic nods.

Domic walks over to where Kexca sits back against the stone wall of the commandery building, after visiting the armory. The orc's condition has not improved - she is still tightly bound, her trousers are still holey, boots battered, her face and hair still dirty and encrusted with dried blood. "And gods, does she stink. She probably did before, but sitting in that cell definitely didn't help," he thinks. Her head is drooped down, and she doesn't raise it as he approaches, nor when he stops in front of her. "Is she asleep?" he thinks, kicking the sole of her boot. She gasps, whipping her head up, amber eyes sparking in fear, before looking to his, blazing up into anger and disgust.

"You," she hisses in Norword.

"Yes, me," he replies, squatting down to the level of her head. Her eyes are bloodshot, and with dark shadows underneath them.

"Are we going to leave now? You stupid humans are so fucking slow," she mutters.

"No, not yet," he says. "You look like shit."

"I fucking know that, and I fucking feel like it too - that tends to happen when you're woken every hour or more," she spits, eyes blazing.

"They kept her awake all night? How the fuck is she supposed to guide us?" he thinks. "Who did that?" he says, with curious concern.

"The one who busted his hand on my plate, whatever his name is," she frowns. "And don't pretend like you care, I'm not fucking stupid," she growls.

He scoffs at her. "Jaetor you fucking idiot," he thinks, standing up to go find Torjo.

"And over here is the captured orc, and it's warden, I believe," Halle's voice sails over to him, coming closer.

"Oh, my my, how fascinating," a familiar, smooth voice follows in its wake. Domic turns around and begins to process several thoughts as the approaching group of people come into his field of vision. The first thing he notices is the sheer extravagance of the rotund man in front of him, holding a handkerchief to his nose. He wears a purple and scarlet doublet, a fox fur cloak, and finally a gold chain laden with a heavy gold circle, itched with heraldry of Pael in silver.

"The First Councilor," he thinks, starting to bow politely as he continues processing. Behind the First Councilor's right shoulder stands Halle, dressed in a burnished breastplate, his shiny helmet in hand, gesturing with the other. And behind the First Councilor's left shoulder stands - her familiarity makes sense now, she had been standing on the balcony too, the other day, and he'd probably seen her before then, around town. "Velda," he thinks, completing his bow and standing up, her iron grey eyes flashing to his momentarily, with the shadow of a smile. Clustered around them, and dressed like Velda with the symbols of their office, stand the other members of Pael's governing council, holding their noses like the First Councilor.

"Eh, don't worry Mother, I would slay it, should this guard lose control of it. Isn't that right, Rab-Gilim?" Heljo says, standing to Velda's side, smacking the arm of a large armored man, with a tanned and clean-shaven face, wearing a tabard sewn with the symbol of the Two Coins Company. Rab-Gilim grunts, frowning down at Kexca.

"Domic wouldn't let that happen," Cerni says, her big brown eyes looking widely at him: happy, sad, concerned. She's wrapped in a cloak, one side pulled back to reveal a thick blue gown, as she clasps her hands at her waist.

"She's not coming with," he thinks, looking between her and Halle, whose pebbles are regarding Kexca. He is flooded with emotions: relief she won't be in danger, worry at what her staying here means, sadness that it's starting to appear that...whatever they were...is over. "Uh, yes, a uh, child," he glares at Heljo, "could control an exhausted prisoner. Captain, she...she can barely stay awake," he says, shaking Kexca as she starts to slump. She shakes her head, eyes wide, trying to incinerate everyone in front of her.

"Yes, well, her oath holds her to guide this expedition, regardless of her condition," Halle says, in a commanding voice. "But how did this happen?" he asks Domic.

"She says Jaetor kept her up all night," he replies.

"You believe this beast?" Rab-Gilim interjects, speaking deliberately, with a heavy accent.

"Uh, yes?" Domic says, as Rab-Gilim scoffs.

"Enough," Halle says. "Jaetor will be reprimanded - this incident is not surprising."

"Sounds like your guards need better discipline, Captain," Rab-Gilim says.

Halle glares at the southern mercenary. "Please, esteemed councilors, let us conti-"

"Captain Halle, a moment," Velda interrupts him. She steps forward, regarding Kexca as one would a cornered, wounded wolf - deciding whether to kill or heal it. "Look at?" her eyes jump to Domic's, wondering, as she pauses.

"Her. Kexca," he replies. "It feels weird saying her name, knowing she wants to gut me," he thinks, looking down as her eyes glare hatefully into his. "At least she hasn't been cursing or spitting all this time."

"Hmm, look at Kexca's clothes. She won't make it very far up the mountains with those boots, even at this time. With an early blizzard? A frozen guide isn't much use, don't you agree Captain?" Velda says.

Halle frowns as several of the councilors murmur in agreement. "We don't have many clothes in the armory. Domic could take her into town, get her outfitted - if the esteemed councilors agree?" Several other councilors murmur and nod in agreement.

"It's settled then," Velda says, as she detaches a coin purse from a belt around her waist. "How about you take thi-"

"Councilor, please, allow me," Halle interrupts, stomping forward, removing a coin pouch from his belt and pressing it into Domic's outstretched hand. "Decent clothes, if you can, Domic," he says. "Keep any excess, as payment for this extra duty," he adds.

"Oh, Domic," Velda pauses, twisting her head to look at him. "If any shopkeepers give you trouble, tell them the council will be very displeased to hear of it," she grins slightly.

"And I'll have two guards escort you," Halle adds. "Now, please, esteemed councilors, let us continue," he says, waving and pointing his hand at some other point in the courtyard. Domic sighs in relief as the group moves away - except for Cerni, who walks over to him briskly, watching as the backs of the group move away.

"I'm sorry, I thought I was coming, I didn't know, my father, he - " she stammers.

"Cerni, what? It's not your fault," he says. "And uh, it's uhm" he says, searching for the words as she stops in front of him.

"It's for the best?" she says quietly, grabbing his hand, sadly looking at him.

"Yes," he nods, frowning heavily, feeling terrible.

"Be safe," Cerni says, as she softly caresses his cheek. He nods and she glances around them quickly, focusing on the group moving slowly away, seeing only their backs. "Goodbye," she says, and she gives him a quick kiss on his cheek, before marching briskly away.

"Goodbye," he whispers, turning back to Kexca. "I don't want to know if she looks back," he thinks, as he undoes the ropes binding Kexca's feet. He glances up to Kexca, who watches him with an unnervingly blank expression. "What? What do you want?" he sneers, but she doesn't say anything. "What? No mocking remark? No insult? No spits?" he says, starting to get upset, but she just watches him. "Fine then, keep quiet, then I can stand you. Now get up," he spits, as she regards him silently, face frozen.

...

Domic drags Kexca through the winding stalls of Pael's marketplace, in a foul mood. They, and the two hapless guards escorting them, had spent the last hour and a half shopping - pure ****, when with a stinky, arrogant orc. Kexca had ground enough on his nerves, true, but her curses and glares were seasoning to the main course the townsfolk had fed them. It took far too long to find shopkeepers willing to serve them, despite what Velda had told him - they had ignored it, or asked for exorbitant prices, or simply locked their doors. Gawkers had cursed at them and hurled the inevitable produce - "A whole fucking town of people who must serve in the guard, not one can fucking throw straight?" he curses, wiping onion juice off his face. Once their guards even had to level their muskets at belligerent drunks who stumbled out of a tavern, while he pushed her into an alley, preparing to flee. Eventually, however, he had found and purchased some new boots, tunics, breeches, a jacket and cloak set, gloves, and socks. Much of it was red - "So we know where to aim," he had hissed at her when she asked why.

Now they stomped through the stalls, as he tried to think of anything else she might need. "Blankets - I'm sure no one will share theirs, and a pack and waterskin," he thinks, looking back as she struggles to hold on to everything with her bound hands. They stop at a stall, and he buys a big leather pack and waterskin for her.

"What are those?" she demands, as he pays the merchant. Her head is turned to the adjacent stall, looking at stacked bars of soap.

"That's soap," he mutters, stuffing her extra clothing into the pack.

"So-ap?" she says slowly. "Does it taste good?"

"Taste good?" he says. A wicked thought leaps to his mind. "Yes, yes it does. I'll get you some," he says, moving over and paying the grimacing merchant a coin for two bars, stuffing them in her pack before she asks to try one. Then, with the last coins, he buys two blankets, and drags her away, out of the marketplace and back to the commandery.