Ambush of the Caravan! (Autumn 1, 59AD)

by Karlonai

Since the day my parents kicked me out of the tree and told me to go find my fortune, life has been pretty boring, I’ll tell you. I didn’t want to start picking pockets in that big human city. What if I got caught? A life sentence in some stone prison can be pretty grim for an elf, and you’d better believe it. Didn’t want to report in to the Thieves’ Guild, either; they can be even more nasty, at least in the short term.

The most interesting thing that happened to me was meeting up with a bunch of strangers, mostly humans. There was a smelly guy dressed in skins and carrying a stick and calling himself a great warrior and a lover of nature. What do humans know of nature? Another was some dude hiding inside armour and being self-righteously smug about his religion. There was another fighter-type called Fascul Jott in all his polished protection. He was a little more interesting, not so much of a prig. Then there was Corvin, Mr. Religion himself. Touting some artificial god and trying to convert me all the time. Maybe some day he’ll see the light. Lastly there was another elf who calls himself Pickles. Not a real elf name, is it? He says he’s a thief, and he’s serious about it. Well, at least I can talk to him.

The bunch of us ended up doing escort duty for a “caravan.” Not much of a caravan either. Two merchants, York and Terry, and four pack horses. We’re not even getting paid; we “just happen to be going their way.” They told us that merchants attract bandits, and we can have whatever loot the bandits have on their persons, once we dispatch them. I can’t wait. (Yawn!) What loot do you get from bandits that haven’t been successful yet?

So we were almost at our destination and nothing had happened. Just walking and talking. Dull to the eyebrows. Then one of the horses gets himself shot and we’re being peppered by some little dog-men with crude bows. One of them shot me, and that hurt! Not really happy-making. So I shot him back and did him a treat. I shot another couple out of the trees while the big iron-clads set to stomping the rest of them. Even York, the merchant, got involved. I swear I heard the clink of chain-mail from him, that sound when it’s belted up at the waist. Presumably he’s wearing it under his robes.

The rest of the little dog-men just ran off. Piff! I was just starting to enjoy myself, and it was all over.

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