Jada watched this conversation - less a conversation than a sparring of words - for as long as she wanted to hear it, which came to a brief amount of time indeed. She turned to lean on the railing, back to the quarreling escapees. We are all killers and thieves, nothing more. Was it true? Was this what she had become - a runaway forced to steal for survival

Her lips twisted into a ruefully ironic smile. She did not see another way to describe it.

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"Life is short, yes. But I see no connection between that argument and mine" Amaran pointed out. "And excuse my mistake. I did not know the difference between a mage and a sorcerer. But, how could one so lowly as I know?" Amaran retorted.

Kiana rolled her eyes. They were bickering over something that wasn't even important. Crove seemed to think that he was above all of them and thought that they didn't know their place in the world. By feeding into his little illusions with retorts it was making his case bigger. Kiana smiled, yes she did snap at him, but she was beginning to see the true side of Crove- and less and less was he becoming trustworthy. Kiana smirked. He was right-in some ways. Kiana didn't know exactly where she was in the world. But she was finding that out. Kiana would never admit that to Crove, but she was gaining some understanding of her place in the slowly corrupting world.

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Arielle said nothing, listening to the conversation. Although she hated to admit it, Crove's words were slightly disturbing, hitting home with a keeness she should not have felt. Was she indeed uncertain with her place in the world? Well, yes; it had always been a part of her existence, but before she had been comfortable with that. It was as thrilling as any other sense of danger, knowing that one false step could send her irreparably plummetting.

And she had to admit that, slimy and sadistic as he was, she did hold a certain amount of respect for the man. He seemed to have a fair grasp on the complexities of life, and the ruthlessness to claw his way to the top of their little party of cutthroats. But could he stay there?

The mercenary leaned against the hull of the little barge, one knee drawn up on the bench where she sat, shaking her black hair out of her eyes. She drew her cloak tight against the chill breezes playing along the surface of the dank river. The lap of water on wood and the voices of her companions began to fade. Well, she might not find another good time to sleep - best to do it now, while they had no choice but to remain inactive. Sleep was good ...

Arielle looked up sharply. Deryni Tal loomed over her, tall and shadowed with the full moon behind her. Deryni the mastermind. Deryni the plotter. Deryni, who should be ecstatic that the Black Ruby had been lucratively disposed of, that her heist had gone more or less as planned, but who looked like the female manifestation of a nascent thunderstorm.

Both women were silent. Finally Arielle could bear it no longer. "Yes?" Though she was of an age with Deryni, she was the less mature, even though in the moonlight her blonde hair appeared almost silver.

Deryni shrugged, deceptively casual, and knelt down, taking the throwing star that Arielle was sharpening. She turned it in her fingers. "So it's you and me left, Arielle, just the way it started out. Hell and high water affected us the none, but mayhap it was you survived on account of me. But they're on us, lass, they've our scent, and it's not happy they are about this ruby business. So the way I see it, I've no choice." She flicked her wrist, and the razor-sharp steel flashed through the air, severing Arielle's throat as quickly as a thought.

Deryni rose. "I'd apologize, but much good it'll do either of us. A pleasure workin' with you, Deryni Tal." Swiftly trading cloaks and weapons, she vanished into the trees, leaving the body for her pursuers to find.

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<center>Nothing but the Rain</center>

Falch'nus shrugged Crove's words off. They may have struck a younger Falch'nus, but now he really cared little for his "place in the world." The world was vast, each individual a tiny ripple in the river of time. What was one's place in the world but an illusion, a denial instigated for one's own security? He believed not in fate, but in free will. But that too, he knew, could just as easily be another illusion.

Fear Crove? Of course he feared Crove. To not fear a magic-user was folly. Any survivor in these cruel webs of cities and wildlands deserved respect. Magic-users were different. To sacrifice so much for one's magic, to wade in that maelstrom of power and intrigue... Weak magic-users died early in this competition for survival. The strong remained, self-serving, to trod on the weak. Crove was strong, that much perspicuous from his utter ruthlessness. Arrogance would be his downfall. Someday he'd underestimate his opponent and be destroyed, a sneer still twisting his lips.

With a shrug, Falch'nus retreated to a corner of the barge. If he had a place in the world, it was to mind his own well-being and care not about the futures of others. He laid his dirk across his lap and wrapped his forest green cloak around himself. He'd never been a heavy sleeper, but he found exhaustion overtaking him quickly. His last thought before his world faded was survival itself... killing for gold... hunting for food... asking no more of life than his present existence... In other words, surviving simply to survive.

Perhaps Crove's words had bitten deeper than he realized.

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Tallis watched quietly as one of his fellow elves fought his battle with Crove for him. As for Crove's remark about not knowing his place in the world, he knew exactly what his place was. It was that of an outcast, an exile; and while he was not exactly happy with that place in life and he had on many occasions tried to better that place, he did know that it was his place.

"Well, this conversation has been facinating, but I am going to retire now," Tallis said as he moved to the side of the ship and entered the elvish meditation trance that was subistuted for sleep by elves.

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Four Gods wait on the windowsill,
Where once eight Gods did war and will,
And if the Gods themselves may die,
What does that say for you and I?

Now, three Gods wait on the windowsill
Where one God's blood was lately spilled
While black tongues lap at the spreading pool
And build the strength they need to rule.

Kiana rolled her eyes and buried herself under her thick cloak.
"You two that are bickering: since you are clearly getting no where with your argument, you can keep watch while the rest of us sleep."
Kiana closed her eyes and willed herself into an uneasy sleep. Soon after she was asleep a dream...more of a nightmare mulled over her.
Her mother, dark haired and fair bent over her. She had peircing blue eyes that looked into Kiana's. She looked worn and tired, though her beauty was still visible. Kiana smiled at her, hoping for words of encouragement, but none came. When her mother finally spoke, her once warm, inviting tone was not there, rather it was replaced by a cold, distant one.
'I thought you would be great.' She coldly, 'You could regain the families name.'
'Mum, I didn't mean too, I didn't mean too.' Kiana said in a barely audible whisper.
'Of course you did. Things don't happen on accident. Your father did nothing to you. And you killed him. Your a dishonor to the family, Kiana.'
'No...no. He abandoned us, you must understand.'
'You as well should be dead. You won't here from me, not anymore. You wouldn't be here if it weren't for him.'
'Mum, he abandoned us, doesn't that mean anything to you.'
'It was his mistake to live with, not yours. Goodbye Kiana.' Her mother said and slowly disappeared.

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"Why not?"

Crove said and shrugged before standing up, he quietly walked to the barge edge and quietly stared along the river with his back turned at everyone else. What an ideal place to stab him in the back, but then again all of them must have thought the fact that without Crove things might get far more trickier than they hoped for. Crove actually had a grasp of what was happening and he was about to get a firmer grip on that reality as he quietly took out the letter he had received.

He eyed it trough twice with a smile and memorized the content, which was quite brief. With a quick wrist move accompanied by spell words Crove scattered the letters ashes into the river. Things were going well for now yet the tricky part had not even began and there seemed to be even more concern as Crove began examining the orcish map. Such a well drawn and detailed map to be the result of orcish hands, it could be stolen, but the grim fact that it described the journey from the mountains to Silvermoon was troubling. The very same route they had decided to use, it was only logigal as they wished to travel fast and it seemed obvious now that someone had either tried to kill them or just test them.

Things weren`t going as well as he had hoped for, but since when had he relied on hope? The rest of the night continued without much trouble with each person taking on their sifts on guarding the barge, Crove was obviously not the sight the rest wanted to see as the first thing when they wake up. Yet at least Crove didn`t bother the rest when he slept almost the rest of the way and no wonder, sorcery was not effective because it was flashy, but because it cost the caster so much. Finally the barge reached Mirabar, the mining center of the sword coast, operated by humans and dwarves together. Dwarves handled the mining and smithing as where humans did the trading as well as defending the city from magical threats when required of them. The city stood on the northern bank of the river, a relatively short walk and Crove almost cheerfully was the first to jump off the barge.

His landing was ever balanced mainly thanks to his elven heritage that was know for being far more agile than the stronger humans or it just might have been due to his, all tough relatively short, rogue career. Crove gazed at the rest before starting to head for the city.

"We will resupply here and when we are done, we meet at the city gates, just don`t take too long or else.... well you all know he consequences..."

Crove added with a smirk.

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Let him curse my name
On these blood stained pages of misery
Let him call me a tyrant so cruel
Let him curse my name, but remember the truth!

Ruthnak strode off the barge, stretching. It felt good to be on solid ground again. Ignoring Crove's last remark, he walked into the town.

He didn't need to buy much of anything, aside from some food, but he could spend a few minutes just looking around the town. <i>Maybe I could pick up some coins.</i> He quickly pushed the thought aside. He wasn't here to get put in jail again. He smirked. Actually, maybe jail would be a way to get out of this mess.

He shook his head a bit. He had agreed to join the group, and he was going to follow through with that agreement.

Arielle woke with a gasp, her hands flying to her throat, expecting to feel the warm stickiness that was blood. They came away dry.

She relaxed, still breathing irregularly. It had not been her life that had been taken, yet when she closed her eyes, she could still see the blood starting to well, and then gush, from that clean, efficient line in the skin. Funny how such things stayed with one. It was only after her turn on watch that she could forget it enough to sleep again. She was able to forget, sometimes. Not often. Every time someone spoke her name, she was reminded.

Now she eyed the walls of Mirabar with interest. She'd been here once before, several years ago, on business. And they were to be unsupervised? Definitely unexpected. Perhaps engaging in a little more business wouldn't hurt. And it might help to increase her credibility by going with a companion. Preferably of the same profession.

The mercenary made her way over to Falch'nus. "Well, then, what would you be thinkin' on this city? Been here before?"

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<center>Nothing but the Rain</center>

Amaran slowly exited the boat. His wound still hurt something terrible, but by being careful he could manage to walk. He struggled to kep up with the others, who were already a few strides ahead. No doubt the they'd get fed up with the snail like pace of his gait. HOwever, he let that worry slide away. They could abandon him, sure. Then at leat he'd be rid of thier precence. He tolerated thier precence, yes, but that was far from making any lasting friendships. The sooner he could leave them, the better.

Mirabar. Jada recalled the city with detached interest - which was this? She seemed to recall being an apothecary's apprentice here. That had worked passably well for a while. She shouldered her battered pack and wondered how long memories were here...a stolen pair of boots came to mind, and an unfortunately overturned cart of melons. Jada had gotten clumsy in her haste.

She eyed Amaran, who seemed to have recovered with impressive haste - though she knew all too well how under certain circumstances it was necessary. Jada caught up to him in a few strides, moving rather more slowly than the rest as he was. "Wound's alright, then?"

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Amaran eyed the woman who questioned him. It was Jada, of the desert people. Though she seemed secretive and cunning, he felt that she was one of the more reliable of his comrades. "I'd not say 'alright' Amaran answered. "'Managable' is more like it. It hurts, but I'll live. How do yo fare?" He asked, decidedly changing the subject away from himself.

Jada could decidedly sympathize with such sentiments. Sometimes one had to do what needed to be done despite the unfortunate presence of an injury. She recalled, with a wince, riding a horse with several broken ribs. That had been - before. Jada hastily stopped recalling.

"Well as any of us," said said noncommittally. "Can think of several things I'd rather be doing, but it's a sight better than prison." If only because of the boredom that tended to infuse a prison cell. At least there was some modicum of interest in this venture.

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Falch'nus noticed Arielle's approach and nodded almost absently. "They have nice gallows here."

He glanced askance at her as they stepped off the barge. In his career he'd gotten an insider's perspective on the average mercenary. Either Arielle wanted to discuss the weather, or she was up to something. Recalling what he knew of the female mercenary over the past few days, he seriously doubted the former.

Apparently Crove had left them to their own devices, letting them disperse freely. That simple privilege alone allowed Falch'nus to pick out the antisocials among them. But then again, he'd always considered himself antisocial as well. It surprised him that Arielle wanted to join him at all. She'd always struck him as independent in the extreme - a type he tended to avoid, especially among women. The independence often pointed to spitfire. Vaguely he recalled a glimpse of an iron pot headed for his face.

The two of them fell in behind the merchant caravans. Both guards at the gate - one dwarven, the other human - let them pass without as much as a glance. Soon they were strolling Mirabar's bustling marketplace. Falch'nus stopped to let a troop of dwarves manning an ore cart push by, before looking at his companion. "Any preferences? All I'll need are some rations and a new quiver."

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Kiana woke up some time later and got up to stretch. She started to wander the streets, she needed her blades sharpened and a new cloak. Her's was torn in the orc struggle. She found a tailors and entered. The store smelled of must and mold, and there were very few candles lit. A small man with watery eyes was mending a coat from behind a worn desk. He looked up and blinked.
"Yes." He croaked in a bitter tone.
"I need a new cloak." Kiana said, pulling out a small bag of coins. The man bustled behind a door and returned with a dark green woolen cloak. Kiana paid and left the shop.
The busy streets were perfect for Kiana. She liked to keep to herself. Soon she found a blacksmith shop and carefully entered the store. It was busy with dwarves and mortals alike. They were all admiring the handsome blades. Kiana waited paitently before she had her knives and sword sharpened. She left the store with her money purse noticeably lighter. Sighing Kiana looked around. She would need to get other provisions before they carried on. Readjusting her parcels, Kiana moved back into the crowd to finish her shopping.

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