Of Pens, Swords and Hungry Stomachs.

[Guillaume]

It begins slowly, and under the cover of darkness. But then, doesn't everything, these days?

That there is no alarm raised by the guards at the Wall is only a result of careful planning: they'd been warned to expect the first caravans at some point before the end of this week, and that is unmistakably what this is. Like the one behind it, the wagon is built long and broad, with heavy cloth drawn taut its lts heavy load. The men who jump down from their seats to greet the Guard are merchants, by the fluidity of their banter; those who'd sat beside them -- and remain there still -- are clearly not.

The Brotherhood are well-trained men; those agents of Lothbury and the Militia who still patrol the Wall are far from being slouches, themselves. They'll recognise those men for the guards that they are. And given the current climate, they'll surely understand the need for them: after all, these caravans have travelled here from northern Tempestia, and that road is both long and treacherous.

But in any case, the two wagons are granted entrance without further inspection of the goods that they carry; their drivers are given directions to the Barracks, where instructions await the Brotherhood's commander. There are embraces exchanged, and grinning reassurances as well, and when they depart, it is with a small escort -- enough that they will arrive at that barracks unmolested.

***

It continues through the morning: the brightening dawn illuminates another cluster of caravans, and by afternoon, they've become a steady stream. From Tempestia, these wagons have been driven; from Derry as well, and those have heavily armoured men at their helm. There's no mistaking those ones for farmers -- but then, anyone familiar with the militant nature of tiny Derry would expect no less. By late afternoon, even the goods from Foggy Bottom have arrived, not fashionably late, but [i]inevitably so. After all, Foggy Bottom has had a sizable task set before it: even now, they are readying makeshift shelters, accumulating bedrolls and blankets in readiness for the possibility of disaster.

Long into the night, the arrivals will continue, each of them bearing nothing more remarkable (or less miraculous) than dried produce and salted meats; than great casks of wine and water, and even supplies for the Rememdium. Foggy Bottom alone has sent fresh produce, being at close enough vicinity that it won't have spoiled during the journey. Some will be directed to the Brotherhood's Barracks. Others yet will be directed to the great storehouses built just years ago, in the heart of Myrkentown. And none will travel unescorted.

In unreasonable times, it appears, men are willing to take unreasonable cautions.[/i]

[Biske]

The caravans are guarded, guided; sent to Myrken Wood with the upmost care. One can certainly assume that they'd be bothered by brigands outside the Wall, but inside? A few desperate folk, and a few true bands of theives - but these were easily beaten off; no trouble at all for those guards caring for the lifeblood of Myrken.

But soon, parts of the caravan would start disappearing.

A small one, here and there - these could be written off as wrong directions, when they didn't arrive on time. But men sent to check the area found nothing; as if the wagons had simply vanished, with nothing but a spot of blood in the dust.

But soon it came faster. Wagons were -hit-, so close that those behind could hear the sounds of struggle and the blaring of trumpets - but each time reinforcements arrived, the men were dead, the wagons overturned, food gone - or even the entire wagon itself, with no tracks to mark where it could have been taken. Brotherhood Guards who had been aiding the effort were nowhere to be found - no bodies, no tracks.

The food would dry up. Always was it taken, and never without bloodshed - and the complete anihilation of those guarding the precious cargo. What drove men's fears? Would they refuse to deliver?

For food was entering the provence, past the Wall... but it was not reaching the people.

And here, the latest - it seems the men managed to give back, though of course they had all been killed, and the food taken. But here was a scrap of grey, the coarse fabric of a Brotherhood uniform; and here, the tattered half-flag of a once-time ally.

Thessilane.

[Cinjin]

Yeah, sure it was illegal, and signs posted along the course of several miles before the juncture warned of the closed off Pass ahead, the North Passage Down. But since when had she obeyed the signs and taken the route along the Mavoirr River south and around to get to the Wekslos? And waste two days or better getting around? Ha. Fat chance. And besides...she had a stop at the General Store for a pickup in Paisiann Falls, which was barely ten miles southwest of the border. Taking cover in the thick woods of Silver Forest, the half-elf rode along at a casual gait near the base of the Sikasoons as she neared the Gilroy. The old guardpost rarely had anyone on duty, but occasionally, she'd had the pleasure of having to outrun several yelling guards for her tresspassing, and knew better than to strut on by without a care. But still, the hidden path she'd made around the post was perhaps 100 yards away at best, and the small building was offered to her in a bird'seye view from her somewhat elevated state. She'd avoided it even more, as of late, as the flag of Thessilane was seen blowing in the wind. They had spread North, and the risk increased with each passing ride.

On this day, a caravan traveled on ahead of her on the main trail, intent on turning South before the close-off, and she watched the wagons absently from her distance as they made their way to the Mavoirr Trail.

Suddenly, a distant shout was heard, and the thunder of hooves broke the silence. She nudged her mount on ahead, and, closing the gap between herself and the foray, she slid off the horse and walked quietly to a decent vantage point to observe. *Odd..* she thought... She was -more- than close enough to see the entire event, yet things were blurry to her, and she rubbed her eyes, thinking perhaps they'd been caught by dust particles or something of the like. Looking again, still, her excellent vision seemed to be impaired. She looked in the opposite direction, and, as she suspected, she was able to see twice the distance with ease, clear, as it should be. Her head shook slowly, wondering what sort of curse she was witness to. And then, yes, right in the front, there, leading the charge...a large black man, rather heavyset, shouting orders that fell to her ears distorted and muffled. Something strange was afoot, and she was determined to find out more.

She crept silently bewteen the trees, edging ever closer to the scene, now able to hear more distinctly. And a shame it was, too, for the screams of horror as the slaughter ensued , the clashing of steel blades, the groans of agony as bodies were run through were all she heard. With each step she took that carried her closer, the sight became a bit more clear to her, though the clarity would not fully come to her. Hazel eyes widened in shock as a flurry of activity between men afoot and men on mounts battled it out. What's this? Gray? But...this was the Brotherhood's Uniform... She bit her lip, not believeing what she was seeing. In what seemed like mere moments, all fell silent, save for the occasional whinny of a mount, or a yell from one attacker to the his comrade. She watched with strained eyes, narrowing to take in any detail that might clarify the situation, and within minutes, the wagons were hauled away, and then finally, total silence.

She waited until the dustcloud in the distance had settled, and clicking quietly to Shadrach, she mounted up and rode down the small slope to see what she could make of things. She was astounded by the sight before here, for it was nothing but dust. No wagons, no bodies, no evidence that there had even -been- a caravan, except for hooveprints and a set of wheel tracks, and they were being covered quickly as the wind swept over the trail, small clouds of dust shrouding any evidence as to the direction they'd disappeared to.

She dismounted, walking around slowly, kicking at a clump of dirt here and there, and that is when the clump of gray caught on her boot. She bent over to retrieve it, and, shaking it off, cursed quietly as the Janiero symbol was exposed beneath a smear of blood. What business did they have with this caravan? Was it not food and supplies for the villagers? A slim fingertip tapped on her lips as she thought for a moment, then with a sigh, she turned to walk back to her mount. It was then that she spotted the only other thing on the ground that lay there besides blood and the piece she'd already found. Curses....the Thessalanes. She mounted back up and rode off in the direction from which she'd came. She'd have to run the Ghreu Fenn pass over the Northern side of Myrken, and South to the village from the Pass. She had stumbled on something she had no dealings with, but knew of others that would find the news of great importance.