Hanging upside-down from a tree was not so bad as it might seem.

The good thing was: one was set free from the torment of endlessly regretting their poor life choices, because all the blood rushed to the head and made them too dizzy to think.

But the downside was: one could not come up with an escape plan, because all the blood rushed to the head and made them too dizzy to think.

Such was the case for a chronically unlucky soldier.

For the first few minutes of her confinement, while she still had strength left in her, Farren took hold of the scavenged nails again, and tried to slash at the net around her to little effect. The dead knot taut around her ankle was beyond divine help, and she dared not to sever it for fear of plummeting head-first onto the broken glass-studded rock directly below.

All in all, it was a proper Death Ring situation.

When she was moments from losing consciousness, there echoed footsteps again, light and measured, and came to stop in front of her.

Farren blinked open one eye.

Before her stood a beautiful stranger. An amber-haired woman clad in a low necked, ruffled collar shirt. Slung on her back with long, leather straps was a lute. Beneath high-waisted breeches, moccasins covered her feet.

A rather charming, dimpled smile spread across the stranger's face.

"My, my! This is one strange-looking deer," she chuckled, looking at Farren. "Bet you'll taste exquisite too."

Farren let out a series of incoherent words which further identified her as an unintelligent four-legged creature.

The lady called her companion. "Oy, Bjorn! I think we've found our little mischief-maker. Quick, show me the poster once more, will you?"

Heavy boots thumped across the forest floor, and a huge hand, possibly Bjorn's, tugged at the net enclosing Farren.

A clicking of tongue. "Look, Hilda--the net! She's ruined it. And to think, I spent all week weaving this one," said a man's gruff voice, oddly familiar with a strong Velan accent. He handed Hilda the wanted poster, and as she matched her appearance with the one on the parchment, he turned to her.

Farren found herself looking into the red-bearded face of the Velan mercenary she'd arm-wrestled with at the Olde Weasel.

"You?" said both in unison.

Hilda cast amused looks between the two of them. "Didn't mention you knew this Clearstrike girl."

"I know her," his eyes scanned her face, "Yes...of course. No wonder that poster looked familiar.”

Hilda crossed her arms. "Oh? And who is she to you?"

A swindler who robbed him of his money.

The man hesitated. "A--a friend. Had a few rounds of drinks together. Oh, and she's great at arm-wrestling, I tell you!"

Guilt pierced into Farren like serrated knives. A friend!

"Oh, I'm telling Gunvald. He needs to know the kind of folk his brother makes friends with," said Hilda teasingly.

He grunted. "I honor a warrior who's got a strong grip and can hold their drink. Tell him what you will."

"I only jest." She chuckled. "Now let's get your friend untied. The captain would like a word."

Farren didn't give a damn about the second half, but she would very much like to be on firm ground once again. Her head was spinning, and she could hardly muster enough energy to cast an immobility spell right now.

Bjorn hesitated, looking at her poorly, struggling form.

"I'd no clue that this--" He pointed to the picture, "--is this." He gestured to Farren. "You see my point, Hilda? Picture don't match up that well."

"He's right!" Farren made a desperate attempt, for she did not wish to be handed over to the same godforsaken mages, nor did she had any intention to end up as their dinner. "The scar is clearly bigger and on the wrong eye. Not to mention, I'm much, much prettier than whoever that is on the poster! They didn't even get my face right, those arseholes at the Council!"

Elegant fingers moved across her face to gently lift the curtain of wavy hair and reveal her scar. The only reason Farren did not bite them off was these two people were her best chances at getting free from this upside-down nightmare.

"You are quite the looker, I'll give you that," said the woman. "But the scar is on the right eye. We can't let you go, deer.”

"Exactly," Farren squirmed, "it's on the right eye, and mine's on the left. You've got the wrong person!"

A devilish smirk spreading across her lips, she turned to Bjorn. "Well? Let's not stand around all evening. She's ruined the net, so it's just cabbage stew for us all tonight," said Hilda, "but who cares about game when we've got this? Ten thousand gold... we're going to be rich! Perhaps I'll buy a new lute."

"Stay still, and no sudden moves, alright?" said Bjorn.

Farren nodded vigorously, hair swinging like a mop that had come alive.

Heaving a sigh, Bjorn shoved his hand through the net and began loosening the rope around her ankle. With one burly arm, he pushed the whole tangle of nets with Farren inside it to one side so she would not crack her skull open on the rock below.

Hilda watched in silence, an amused look in her eyes and fingers fiddling with the strap of her lute.

And Farren's dizzy mind began working fast. The moment her legs would be free, the nails would slash through the remainder of the net, and she'll tackle the bard first--she looked delicate enough--next it would be run, run and run. Bjorn couldn't possibly chase her down with all that heavy armor.

She couldn't have been more wrong.

The moment she brandished her fists armed with the nails, hands shot out to close around her wrists, their grip gentle so as not to hurt her, yet firm like iron. It couldn't be Bjorn, who was still busy with the net.

"Shhhh," said Hilda softly into her ear, "Captain will be mad enough at what you've done to the poor net. She's already in a foul mood that her wife won't be able to pay a visit the next Spring Fest. Let's be quick and nice and try not rile her up, yes?"

"Your captain can die mad for all I care!" snapped Farren. Grasping the woman's arm before she could move away, Farren mustered up what strength was left in her, and channeled her immobilizing sorcery through her muscles. "Take that, fool!"

"A feisty one you are," said Hilda with a frown. "But you have much to learn."

With a jolt of horror, Farren realised her magic was back-flowing into her. The paralysis spread through her own muscles, dulled by her resistance, yet weakening enough to slow her down in her struggle. Hilda had deflected it.

"I'll show you how it's done," she said, grasping her wrists tighter. Sorcery grew thick in the air between them, but to no effect. She frowned down at Farren, Bjorn turned too. "A resistant, eh?" said she, "no matter. I've got stronger spells to work past that."

"Stop, damn you!"

Farren tried thrashing around as she felt her arms go limp, the chaffing of ropes at her ankle fall away as sensations escaped her flailing limbs. The nails clattered off her hands, and rolled off the rock into the long grasses.

After Bjorn had finished undoing the ropes, he presented a paralysed Farren before Hilda in the manner of holding up a feral cat.

"Oy! I swear, I'll kill you both--" Bjorn looked a bit hurt and Farren corrected herself. "But you first! Yeah, you with the lute! What's your name--?"

Hilda gave her a bow, and a dashing smile, before slipping a knot around Farren's wrists with a swift movement. "Hildegard of Goldcrest. A bard by trade."

Before Farren could say much, Hilda tightened the cuffs, and with an arm around her waist, swung her over her shoulder with surprising strength.

"You're heavier than you look," she said with a grunt.

"Well, looks can be deceiving, eh?" said Farren through gritted teeth. "Who woulda thunk you're such a beast?"

Bjorn folded up the net and swung it over his shoulder and followed, masking his bewilderment with a stoney expression.

With great difficulty, Farren craned her neck to look at him. Beneath the fur cloak across his huge shoulders, there shone azure and gold dyes upon the coarse fabric. Around his neck was a thin, silver chain, and so was Hilda's.

"This the mercenary company you'd bragged about at the inn? The one your brother joined?"

He merely grunted in response.

"Cracking skulls? Making coin?" she asked. “Well, are you?”

Bjorn glanced at the tattered ropes in his hand. "Weaving nets and dealing with feral brats, more like." He stomped off ahead.

Clearly, he wasn't the talkative sort, which was strange. People who conversated with Farren usually became extremely enthusiastic, especially about yelling at her to shut up.

Meanwhile Hildegard of Goldcrest was humming a song under her breath.

Seeing all resistance was futile, Farren simply let her chin fall against Hilda's back. "So what's a bard doing in a mercenary company?"

"Oh, I'm actually a hostage."

Farren had a plethora of questions, but the only one that escaped her lips was, "...What?"

"Well, fun little story actually. The college where I first got an apprenticeship was raided one night. Expensive instruments--gold-plated flutes and jewelled lutes--all presents from Royal Officials to our Headmaster. Even a little harp from His Majesty himself! You couldn't play a damn chord on that thing, but it was solid gold," she said, "ah, and a chest full of the fees paid by us apprentices."

"I see, and these shady mercenaries were the ones looting you poor, unarmed folk paralysed by fear, right?" Farren threw a taunting look at both.

"No. Captain's men were hired to track the bandits down and get the valuables back," growled Bjorn.

"Aye, because their rates were cheap. And our Headmaster was sort of broke-- obviously," continued Hilda. "And during that pursuit, I was kidnapped by them. Scary, I know! But even thick-headed rogues value art."

"Kidnapped?" Bjorn spun around. "You came at your own will. Gunvald said your exact words were: 'Screw history of music lessons. I'm going to rule Midaelia and become the best bard this land has ever known.'"

Hilda halted in her tracks, her posture defiant. "Well, if we're being honest, I've achieved at least half my dream, haven't I?"

He snorted. "Really? Why, I don't see you sitting upon the throne."

Farren snickered, then hissed a curse as a slap landed across her backside.

✦✧✦✧

A few hundred paces later, Bjorn stopped. "Say, Hilda. Shouldn't we cover her eyes or something? Or she might try to sneak out later and compromise our hideout," he said, casting Farren a narrow-eyed look.

"Aye, she's a slippery one--" said Hilda as Farren did another vain attempt to wriggle out of her grasp.

"Easy there, soldier. We're just gonna cover your eyes for a bit. Don't want you to point us out to the Council of fools, do we?" she cajoled, "it would be just like the game we played as children. Blind man's buff. Right?"

Through all her desperation, Farren hissed out a laugh. "Rhilio bless your innocence, bard. Wasn't a child's game, last time I was blindfolded."

Hilda shoved her head into a dusty burlap sack, which possessed little of the appeal Farren's last encounter with a blindfold had. "Provoking your captors is never a good idea, sweet."

Her next swears were thankfully muffled by the sack enough that they wouldn't be inappropriate for innocent ears.

✦✧✦✧

Turns and bends, winding tracks and twisted trails. Her breath hot against her own sweating face. A pair of steady footfalls keeping pace, and a constant murmur of dry leaves down below. The minutes went by in blindness.

Farren felt like an amateur thief who had entered the enchanted dark alleys of Silver Knife without a Quarleen mask to guide the way.

Bjorn stopped once, and grunted as he seemed to lift something heavy.

Then the mercenary and the bard began to descend what seemed like steps of a winding stairwell, down and down until her head spun, and she felt queasy. But the very idea of throwing up inside the sack was so revolting, the feelings subsided on their own.

Great doors squealed open and banged shut. A rowdy clamour, like that of a tavern surrounded her. Smell of sweet ale and pungent Goldcrest whiskey rode the air, along with fresh-baked bread and sweet rolls and steaming stews. Farren's sore back found the cushioned backrest of a chair, the ropes at her wrists falling away.

"Behold!" cried Hilda, as though about to break into a song, "our key, to open wide the gates to the glorious city of Byton!"

The raucous crowd fell silent. Hilda removed the sack, and with a snap of a finger, undid the spell of immobility.

Men and women all wearing the same azure and gold-- war-hardened warriors with grizzled features and jagged scars--surrounded Farren at all sides in what seemed to be an enormous dining hall.

"Oy, Gunvald!" called Bjorn. “Over here.”

A man in a dark cloak and robes, who looked almost identical to Bjorn approached, to take the wanted poster from his hands.

"Well done," Gunvald thumped a huge hand on Bjorn's shoulder, who Farren assumed was his twin brother.

But Farren had not a moment to rejoice the scene of fraternal affection. Her stomach gave a sick lurch.

The dark attire ...she recognised them.

The horserider!

"You..." Farren pointed a shivering finger at Gunvald. "You are the one who tried to kill Crowder!"

A bemused look passed among the mercenaries. The man composed himself. "I've tried to kill enough people in my life to recall their names. Can you be a bit more specific, Miss?"

"The Dark Saints carriage driver with ice powers?" said Farren, through clenched teeth. "Need I remind you of the dagger in the package too?"

"That lad? Bah, I merely knocked him out for a bit," he chuckled.

"To try and steal what rightfully belonged to our commander."

"Sacred Blades belong to no one but followers of the Nameless One, lass."

"'The Unnamed Lord', you mean?"

A hand landed on Farren's shoulder. "They're one and the same," said Hilda.

A serious look crossed Gunvald's face. "You lot of Kinallen, or all Midaelian soldiers for that matter, might be noble warriors--but you're bound by the whimsical laws of The Council of fools," he said. "You aren't even allowed to wield sorcery. That dagger was a Sacred Blade, and I only wished to stop it from being lost within the whirlpool of corruption that now rules Midaelia."

Farren's eyes darted around to find crystal bladed weapons glimmering at some of the warrior's belts while others had ordinary swords.

"I couldn't get my hands on it in the end, could I?" Gunvald laughed bitterly, now addressing all of the mercenaries than Farren alone. "And look what has befallen Kinallen. Chaos and bloodshed. And what do those Council Mages do about it? They keep on licking the boots of the Drisians as they always have."

Perhaps he would go on some more with his cynical worldview, but a commotion broke out outside, and the doors creaked open upon its rusty hinges.

Giving Farren a jolt of surprise, in strode a flabbergasted Ryffin Wellis.

Ah, so 'house calls' translate to 'I'm associated with a gang of shady mercenaries'. Must be Witch-doc language.

Ryffin brought a boy in gently by the arm. Half of his face was hidden in the blue, Midaelian army-issue hooded cloak. With them rushed in several mercenaries.

Despite all that uproar, the boy in the middle of the commotion looked nonchalant, almost bored.

He glanced around and catching Farren's eye, lowered his hood to give her a wave and a triumphant smile.

Helmer.

He had followed her in here.

"Found this little gentleman spying on us near the entrance," said Ryffin to Bjorn and Gunvald.

"Consider yourself lucky he hasn't driven his knives through you," called Farren across the room. "yet."

Ryffin choked on air as his eyes found her.

"What's this goblin doing here?" he sputtered. Without waiting for an answer, the alchemist then spun to face Helmer. "And knives, sir?"

Helmer nodded, sliding one out from his belt with a grin. "Like this. Nice and shiny, isn't it? Corporal gave me as a present, this one."

He hadn't the need to specify which corporal. Ryffin slapped his hand onto his forehead.

"Silence, all of you," yelled Bjorn over all the clamor, rather unperturbed by a fourteen-year-old knife wielding boy in the middle of the room.

"Captain's coming right this way," he said.

But what suprised Farren more than the old captain was the confused local deity who strode in with her, looking not so confused now.