Befriending a Bandit

Ricayu arrives at Puka’s hunters’ market as muddy floodwater surges from the Pike River, swirling around crates, boots, and the legs of overturned stalls.

Above the butcher’s awning, an outlaw archer stands with bow drawn. His soaked clothes cling to him, and his arrow points past the crowd rather than at any single face.

Several townsfolk wade closer, gripping cleavers, poles, and hunting spears. Water rises around their feet while the archer keeps one boot braced against the awning’s sagging frame.

The crowd’s fear hardens into anger. Behind the archer, the market’s roofline offers little shelter, while the brown water pushes faster through the packed lanes.

Ricayu’s warning cuts through the shouting. Families abandon crates and tools, wading uphill as the flood tears boards loose behind them. In the rush, a falling stall beam strikes Ricayu’s shoulder.

Ricayu reaches the awning and helps the outlaw down, guiding him across a narrow plank to higher ground. The archer keeps his bow, but lowers it at last.

Ricayu accepts with a firm nod and follows the archer uphill, leaving the flooded market behind. The man studies that answer, then turns toward the wooded ridge.

As they climb, Ricayu notices the archer choose firm ground without looking down. He carries little besides bow, quiver, knife, and a weathered wool cloak.

The archer’s confidence is practiced, yet his caution is not theatrical. He checks the trail behind them twice and keeps the settlement within sight through the trees.

Ricayu drags leafy branches behind them, brushing mud and soft earth until the path loses its clear line. Twigs rasp against stones, making a faint, repeated scrape.

The archer pauses and points back along the trail. Ricayu’s marks are broken and scattered, but the dragging branches have made one obvious noisy ribbon through the brush.

He demonstrates slowly, shifting weight onto firm stones and pausing where leaves would crack. Ricayu copies the sequence, then conceals their route with shorter, irregular sweeps.

Ricayu follows the disturbed ground, placing each foot where rain has darkened stones or animals have pressed the leaves flat. His pace changes from slow steps to a measured walk, then back again.

The archer moves ahead, pausing beside a muddy hollow where several small tracks cross. He gestures for Ricayu to study the marks before choosing his route.

Ricayu crosses the hollow without breaking its crust or crushing the scattered leaves. His changing rhythm blends with the forest’s interruptions: dripping branches, bird calls, and distant water.

Ricayu continues up the ridge, reading flattened moss, broken twigs, and rain-darkened stones while listening through the dripping canopy. His steps begin to flow with the forest.

Ricayu changes pace without prompting, placing each foot beside old tracks and using roots to mask his weight. The archer’s corrections grow rare as the trail becomes harder to read.

At last they reach the ridge. Below, the flooded market and broken riverbank lie visible through the trees, while a narrow animal path continues along the crest.

Ricayu crouches and follows the deepest heel marks along the ridge. Their edges remain crisp beneath the damp leaves, while the compressed earth shows a deliberate, steady stride.

He scans beyond the prints, comparing their spacing, depth, and direction with the surrounding ground. The walker carried weight, but balanced it carefully rather than stumbling.

The heel impressions align with the archer’s worn soles, including the heavier outside edge of his right boot. Rain has softened them, but has not erased their details.

He kneels beside the marks without touching them, following Ricayu’s reasoning toward a bend where the animal path overlooks the river road.

The archer leads Ricayu along the ridge to a low timber shelter tucked beneath fir branches. A rack holds bundled bows, spare strings, and a straw target facing the trees.

He sets his provisions inside, then selects a plain hunting bow from the rack. Its limbs are smooth with use, and the string gives a dry, tight note beneath his fingers.

He demonstrates the stance beside the target, turning his body slightly and showing how the bow hand remains steady while the drawing hand moves without a jerk.

Ricayu draws the bowstring again and again beneath the firs. His arms tire, sweat gathers at his brow, and the archer’s hands steadily correct his shoulders, wrists, and stance.

Two hours pass in measured repetitions. Ricayu’s breathing grows heavier, but his form settles under the guidance, and the bow no longer feels like a stranger in his grip.

The archer studies the surrounding brush, then helps loosen several young bushes and replant them along the open approach. Fallen limbs and stones complete the uneven barrier, leaving the shelter tucked naturally beneath the firs.

The archer leads Ricayu around the shelter, pointing out sightlines, loose stones, pale bark, and branches that betray movement against the sky. He marks a winding route through the firs.

Ricayu follows the route, timing his steps with dripping branches and shifting his weight onto roots and old footprints. He passes behind the trees without shaking a single loosened bush.

Ricayu smiles beneath the firs. The archer studies him in the quiet, one hand resting on the plain hunting bow while rain ticks softly through the branches.

Corven turns toward the charcoal-burner’s track and gestures for Ricayu to follow. Beyond the shelter, fresh impressions interrupt the old path in two places.

Ricayu crouches beside the hidden approach, bringing his eyes level with the damp earth. He studies every impression, broken stem, and displaced pebble without touching the trail.

The marks are newer than Corven’s passage. One person came from the river road, wearing narrow-soled boots with a worn outer heel, and paused twice near the shelter’s concealed turn.

A second set of impressions follows the first only briefly. Those boots are broader, deeper, and muddied with pale clay unlike the dark soil beneath the firs.

Between the tracks, Ricayu finds a crushed resin bead and a short thread of coarse blue wool caught on thorn bark. Neither belongs to Corven’s clothing or provisions.

Corven lowers himself beside Ricayu, careful to keep his knees beyond the impressions. His attention shifts from the trail to the river road, where rain hides the distance.

Ricayu compares the heel wear, pauses, and direction of travel. The narrow-soled walker moved deliberately, avoiding the shelter’s visible approaches and testing the concealed turn.

The resin bead and coarse blue wool suggest the first walker carried or wore distinctive supplies, leaving traces while pausing to watch the shelter. The second’s pale clay came from the river road.

Corven points to the two pauses, then the broken thorn where the wool caught. His expression tightens as he studies the river road below.

Corven rises and scans the firs. A faint scrape sounds beneath the shelter, followed by the soft collapse of disturbed earth beside the concealed entrance.

One timber settles with a sharp crack. Dust sifts from the roofline, and a narrow gap opens behind the rack of bows, revealing fresh mud and a strand of blue wool.

Ricayu keeps clear of the weakened rear wall, selecting the usable bows, spare strings, provisions, and essential tools. He carries each bundle close against his body.

Using roots, stones, and rain-darkened ground, Ricayu climbs uphill by a broken line through the firs. His feet settle beside old disturbances rather than making new marks.

Ricayu places the equipment beneath a dense shelf of roots and fallen branches, covering its shape with natural debris while preserving quick access.

Ricayu circles the damaged shelter with Corven, studying the sagging supports, disturbed mud, splintered timber, and the direction of each fresh scrape.

He points out the cleanest footing and traces the displaced earth to a narrow digging place behind the shelter. The damage was deliberate, but limited.

Together, they brace the failing timber with fallen branches, keeping clear of the weakened earth. The shelter steadies enough for careful inspection.

Ricayu studies the damaged earth from the braced shelter outward, comparing soil color, crushed roots, scrape angles, and the shelter’s limited clear space.

He identifies a concealed approach from the river road: the saboteur used the old charcoal-burner’s track, then crawled beneath the rear wall where wet clay hides older impressions.

Near the departure point, Ricayu finds a crescent mark from a short iron spade, blue wool caught on thorn bark, and a crushed resin bead matching the earlier trace.

The footprints reveal a narrow-soled boot with a worn outer heel. Its stride is measured, and the scout paused twice to watch the shelter before leaving toward the ridge.

Ricayu drinks. Heat spreads through him as his features broaden, his skin takes on a rough green cast, and his muscles swell into a laborer’s powerful frame. His shirt strains at the seams; he removes it and his armor, leaving tight trousers torn at the knees.

Ricayu descends toward the river road carrying no weapon in sight. The transformation costs him a sharp cramp beneath the ribs, but it does not slow his search.

Among cart ruts and damp clay, he finds the same narrow-soled impressions, their worn outer heels marking a practiced stride. A blue wool fiber clings to a thorn beside them.

Ricayu follows the scout’s narrow-soled tracks through wet lanes until they end beside a modest timber home. Across the street, a loaded cart stands half-unpacked.

Several broad-shouldered orc men and women unload sacks and bundled goods. Their weathered faces, earth-toned tunics, and practical belts mark them as experienced laborers.

Ricayu joins them without hesitation, matching their pace and lifting beside the cart. No one questions the powerful green-skinned laborer who quietly takes his share.

They pass him a waterskin, then share coarse bread, beans, and salted vegetables when the cart is half empty. Their easy jokes and open welcome make the work feel companionable.

As the laborers rest against the cart, Ricayu settles naturally among them, enjoying their company while keeping the home and its quiet windows in view.

The door opens. A middle-aged woman steps out wearing a dark wool dress and brown shawl, her narrow face framed by gray-streaked hair and marked by a small scar beside one eye.

The question interrupts the easy rhythm of unloading. Ricayu’s altered green skin and broad laborer’s frame remain convincing, while the morning’s work leaves his muscles firm and pleasantly tired.

One laborer turns too quickly while speaking, knocking a small sack from the cart. Beans scatter across the wet road, and several heads turn toward Ricayu.

Keep Corven out of custody