Adventure of Octavius 1

The walk ends beneath Reeve Anja Vey’s office awning. Mara and Edrin remain beside Octavius, Patter close to his boots, as Guard Tessa emerges with the intercepted summons held carefully by its edges.

Anja summons the courier from within. The young man arrives pale and rain-damp, carrying a delivery ledger under one arm; he stops short when he sees Mara and Edrin unharmed.

He compares the intercepted paper with his ledger and the office seal. The marks match closely, but a line ordering immediate relocation was added in a different hand after the summons left his custody.

Anja studies Octavius in the rain-muted awning, then looks to Mara and Edrin. Tessa keeps the altered summons raised while the courier waits beside the office door.

Mara’s guarded expression eases, though she keeps one hand near the sealed packet. Edrin watches Anja steadily, giving Octavius the room he requested rather than answering for him.

Anja nods once. The altered summons remains visible between them, but the decision has shifted from defending the failed arrangement to considering Octavius’s unconventional remedy.

Octavius takes a deep breath and smooths his clothes, a small gesture of self-comfort beneath the rain-dark awning. Mara watches him steadily; Edrin’s jaw tightens at the proposed danger.

Octavius bends sharply at the waist despite the ache through his hip. The bow is formal, but the effort and restraint in it make his gratitude unmistakably sincere.

Anja’s sternness softens into consideration. Tessa stands beneath the awning with one hand near her bow, while Mara and Edrin exchange a brief, measuring glance.

Anja looks from Tessa to the two travelers, finding no objection. The proposal has given her a trusted voice within the party without turning Octavius’s promise into blind obedience.

Octavius lifts his eyes and gives Anja a knowing glance, warm but measured. The gesture carries the quiet confidence of someone unwilling to sign away judgment he may need on the road.

Anja holds his gaze, then lets the sternness leave her face. Tessa remains attentive nearby, while Mara and Edrin give the exchange its proper silence.

The agreement settles without ceremony. Tessa inclines her head, Mara’s shoulders ease, and Edrin gives a quiet nod as Anja turns toward the preparations for departure.

Anja considers him beneath the rain-muted awning. The request carries no claim upon her authority, only care in how her trust is represented beyond Dunmere’s walls.

Mara inclines her head, and Edrin’s quiet approval joins hers. Anja reaches for a clean scrap of parchment and writes the permission in her own hand.

She offers him the signed note. The permission is clear, limited, and immediate, placing Anja’s confidence in Octavius’s careful hands without asking him to surrender his judgment.

Octavius bows again, bending as deeply as his hip permits. The gesture is formal but unforced, carrying honest respect for Anja and for the permission she has placed in his keeping.

Anja accepts the bow with a solemn inclination of her head. The signed permission remains between them, clear in its purpose and bounded by the trust they have built.

She closes her hand over the edge of the parchment, then releases it to him. Her expression is warm, though the authority in her voice remains steady.

Anja’s mouth curves with brief amusement. The request turns protection into a public story, giving Dunmere’s watchers something ordinary to repeat while the real movement slips ahead.

Tessa gives the arrangement to a waiting clerk, who records the scouts’ immediate departure and the tavern gathering as separate instructions. The plan becomes movement, rumor, and cover at once.

Beyond the awning, four travel-ready scouts receive their sealed route orders and depart before nightfall. By supper, three off-duty guards will turn the tavern into a loud, harmless rehearsal for the journey.

Anja’s amusement broadens into understanding. Behind her, the sealed orders have already sent the Dunmere Scouts quietly beyond the walls, while the public story gains a louder, more foolish shape.

By dusk, the largest pub in Dunmere rings with raised cups and theatrical congratulations. Mara plays exasperated, Edrin plays proud, and Octavius’s supposed escort becomes the evening’s favorite piece of gossip.

The three Dunmere Guards loudly celebrate the supposed triumph and future escort, while the genuine Dunmere Scouts remain unremarked beyond the walls. The false departure story takes root exactly where Anja needs it.

Laughter swells around the table, and the guards’ exaggerated promises travel farther than any official notice. By night’s end, Dunmere expects a noisy departure with soldiers in plain sight.

Octavius cackles loudly and lifts the borrowed cup, taking a deliberately modest sip, then another and another as though draining it outright. The performance earns the table’s full attention.

The three Dunmere Guards roar their approval and raise their cups, loudly repeating that Octavius and his companions have slipped every trap in Dunmere. Their theatrical praise rolls toward neighboring tables.

A broad-shouldered middle-aged woman behind the bar snatches up a fresh cup and fills it from the cask, her weathered brown face framed by iron-gray hair, a russet apron over a cream blouse, and a small silver hoop in one ear. Her knowing smile suggests she has recognized a performance, but she plays along.

The cup reaches Octavius brimming. He raises it with exaggerated triumph, while the three off-duty guards pound the table and turn his boast into louder tavern gossip.

Octavius grins broadly, leans too far in his seat, then sways upright and drinks deeply. The tinted water sloshes convincingly past his lips as he performs a sloppy swallow, swallow, swallow.

The three off-duty guards explode into approving laughter. One repeats the boast to a neighboring table, and another loudly declares that Octavius is too drunk to shoot straight, making tomorrow’s departure sound wonderfully careless.

Octavius lurches upright, catches his chair with one heel, and lands on his backside amid a booming laugh. He rises again in stages, cup held high, swaying magnificently.

The challenge catches fire. The three off-duty guards rise noisily, waving neighboring drinkers toward the courtyard, while Mara hides a smile and Edrin shakes his head in delighted disbelief.

The broad-shouldered barkeep unlocks the courtyard gate and publicly vouches for the spectacle, making Octavius’s drunken reputation the tavern’s entertainment and creating a favor he will owe her afterward.

Octavius sways through the courtyard gate, face ruddy and eyes wide and glassy. He pats every pocket with mounting theatrical confusion, searching for a bow far too large to hide there.

The three off-duty guards crowd around, roaring with approval. One checks beneath a bench while another peers solemnly into an empty rain barrel, treating the ridiculous search as urgent business.

Laughter spills through the open gate. The broad-shouldered barkeep gestures to a guard, who hurries inside for the bow, while the courtyard audience accepts Octavius’s search as proof of spectacular drunkenness.

The joke races back toward the tavern, exactly as intended. Octavius’s missing bow becomes fresh gossip, and the guards’ laughter makes his supposed helplessness thoroughly public.

Octavius points at no one in particular, eyes crossing theatrically. He lurches toward the doorway, catches himself on the barkeep’s arm, and whispers his gratitude and promise of a generous tip if she berates him convincingly through morning.

The broad-shouldered barkeep shoves him lightly toward the tavern with practiced irritation. Octavius trips forward, catches the doorframe, then tumbles fully into the mud and erupts into drunken giggles.

The guard returns with Octavius’s bow. The broad-shouldered barkeep loudly demands payment for the flower tubs while he retrieves it, and the tavern crowd roars as the performance carries perfectly into tomorrow’s gossip.

Octavius waves her off, nearly stumbling again, then staggers inside. He retrieves his enchanted bow from the bar, accepting it from the guard carrying it, and returns with exaggerated difficulty.

He hands the cup to the broad-shouldered barkeep in a wildly rude gesture, then blinks at his own hand as though too drunk to understand the insult. She recognizes the performance and keeps berating him for the crowd.

Outside, Octavius fumbles at his hip four times before catching an arrow, then takes twice as long to nock it. The off-duty guards howl approval, and the barkeep’s promised gold becomes a real favor owed.

The challenge catches the courtyard. The guards loudly name the lantern, the barkeep shouts that a miss earns her a new pot, and the tavern crowd accepts Octavius’s drunken bravado as established fact.

Octavius squints at the two swaying lanterns, draws the enchanted bow, and looses. The arrow sails deliberately wide, burying itself in the courtyard wall well beyond the target. The bowstring snaps hard against his forearm, leaving a bright welt, but he squares his shoulders proudly as though he has struck dead center.

The three off-duty guards erupt in cheers, pointing toward the untouched lantern while loudly agreeing with the performance. Their laughter rolls through the open gate and into the tavern, carrying the story farther than any accurate shot could.

The broad-shouldered barkeep keeps her face stern for the audience, though amusement brightens her eyes. The lanterns continue swinging untouched, while Octavius’s bruised forearm and triumphant pose make the drunken boast entirely convincing.

Octavius staggers a few steps through the mud, still clutching his bow. His raised, wagging finger wavers through the next word before his feet tangle and he falls flat on his face, keeping the bow clear of the ground.

He leaves the finger limply aloft and lies still for a moment, breathing through the pose. Mud darkens his clothes, while the lanterns continue swinging untouched overhead.

The guards’ laughter swells through the courtyard and toward the tavern, sealing the tale of Octavius’s glorious drunken marksmanship. No one sees the careful sip behind the performance, only the mud-smeared archer surrendering theatrically to sleep.

Morning finds Octavius awake beneath a borrowed blanket, his clothes stiff with dried mud and his forearm welt tender where the bowstring struck. Rain taps softly beyond the tavern shutters.

The courtyard tale has outrun the weather. At nearby tables, patrons whisper that Dunmere’s newest road hero drank himself senseless, missed a lantern, struck the wall, and then lost a duel with the ground.

Mara hides a smile behind her cup, while Edrin looks openly delighted. Three off-duty guards nearby repeat the story with fresh embellishments, each insisting Octavius could not hit a barn door at arm’s length.

The gossip has spread exactly as intended, but the price is fixed in public memory: Octavius’s name now carries a comic warning about archery, and the broad-shouldered barkeep’s muddy threshold awaits his attention.

Octavius gives Mara and Edrin an elated grin while carefully holding back his giggle. Around them, breakfast gossip continues, and the tavern offers a perfect audience for the new performance.

Their agreement settles into the tavern’s gossip. Mara begins criticizing Octavius’s uselessness at once, while Edrin adds weary complaints, turning his concealed readiness into a public liability.

Octavius grasps both ears and follows Mara and Edrin downstairs, shoulders sagging. He holds his breath through a theatrical swallow, swallow, swallow, then lets his face pale with convincing misery.

Their berating draws fresh laughter from the breakfast room. Octavius reaches the ground floor looking thoroughly wretched, and the tavern accepts the performance without suspecting the alertness beneath it.

The apology, delivered with a miserable slump and another theatrical swallow, finally turns their mockery into practical cooperation. Mara stops berating him and points toward the wash yard.

Edrin fetches a wooden bucket while Mara takes the stiff brush from beside the back door. The broad-shouldered barkeep watches from the threshold, arms folded, clearly pleased that her favor has become public.

Octavius holds his breath through three tiny sips, making them look like a miserable swallow, swallow, swallow. He slumps beside the bucket, eyes lowered in abject apology.

The broad-shouldered barkeep’s sternness loses its edge. She nudges the brush toward him with one boot, granting the apology publicly while preserving the small dignity of her demanded penance.

Edrin sets the full bucket beside Octavius, and Mara plants the brush in his hand. Around them, breakfast onlookers see only a chastened drunk beginning his public penance.

For the next half hour, Octavius scrubs until the threshold shines. He pauses often to cough and gag over the bucket, spitting into it, then accepts copious water with miserable gratitude and occasionally asks where he may purge.

Each swallow appears laborious: three tiny sips held behind his breath, presented as a sickly swallow, swallow, swallow. The broad-shouldered barkeep supplies water, watches the performance, and keeps the tavern’s laughter aimed safely at his supposed hangover.

At last, Octavius empties the dirty bucket, shakes excess water from the scrub brush, and returns both borrowed tools. The threshold gleams, and his public penance is complete.

He squints against the morning light and sways beside the clean threshold, still dreadfully hung-over in appearance. The broad-shouldered barkeep’s stern look softens into approval as she takes the brush and bucket.

Octavius briefly cleans the misery from his face, gives the broad-shouldered barkeep a quick wink, then resumes coughing and gagging over the bucket. He holds his breath through three tiny sips presented as a laborious swallow, swallow, swallow.

The broad-shouldered barkeep turns toward the breakfast room and raises her voice, ensuring nearby patrons hear her concern while Octavius resumes his miserable slump beside the cleaned threshold.

Laughter and sympathetic groans follow her through the tavern. The broad-shouldered barkeep begins repeating the story to each departing traveler, while Octavius coughs weakly and looks too pathetic to contradict her.

The journey leaves Dunmere beneath a brightening sky, the tavern’s ridiculous story traveling ahead of the party. By midday, the road narrows between wet hedges and low stone walls.

A lone scout, a young adult human man with a lean build, a narrow weathered face, short black hair, and a dark green travel cloak marked by a torn shoulder seam, emerges from the hedge ahead, raising both hands before approaching. Mud darkens his travel cloak, and his controlled breathing shows he has hurried back from the route.

Tessa studies the hedge, the scout’s muddy boots, and the quiet road beyond. The interruption has cost time, but it has also confirmed that someone is watching the route before nightfall.

Octavius settles against the wagon bench beside Edrin, letting his head loll and his eyelids droop. His bow hangs beneath the bench’s shadow, concealed without impeding his hands.

Edrin shifts to support Octavius’s weight, arranging his shoulders into theatrical annoyance. From the road, the posture reads as weary companionship rather than a watchful archer hidden beside him.

Guard Tessa glances back once, sees the convincing display, and continues riding without comment. The returning scout moves ahead, while Octavius tracks the hedges through lowered lashes.

The wagon rolls on. Octavius remains apparently limp against Edrin, bow hidden low, while his attention stays clear and the party presents an easy target to anyone measuring the road.

Octavius lets his head loll against Edrin while watching through narrowed lashes. His low-draped hand keeps the enchanted bow hidden, arrow already held in a three-fingered draw beneath the bench’s shadow.

Edrin jostles him as requested. Octavius coughs, gags toward the roadside, and makes a miserable swallow, swallow, swallow from tiny sips held behind his breath.

The complaint carries farther than intended. The returning scout glances back, and Tessa subtly reins in her horse, making the party’s supposed helplessness look conspicuously performed rather than casually observed.

The act survives, but its loudness has drawn notice and cannot simply be repeated. Octavius settles lower against Edrin, bow still hidden and arrow ready, while the wagon rolls onward.

The road winds through wet hedges and low stone walls without disturbance. No rider appears behind them, no bowstring sounds from the trees, and no hidden feet close on the wagon’s tracks.

Tessa reins back toward the wagon and studies the empty road behind them. The silence remains ordinary rather than tense, broken only by wheels, hooves, and the damp hedges brushing past.

By dusk, the party reaches a sheltered rise and makes camp without challenge. The false story continues ahead of them, while the real travelers settle into an uneventful night beneath the darkening sky.

After twenty minutes against the wagon’s stiff wooden backing, Octavius jolts awake with a cough. He bends over the bucket, spits into it, and performs three breath-held sips as a miserable swallow, swallow, swallow.

Edrin passes a wooden cup forward, then nudges a small cloth-wrapped bundle after it. The scent of crushed grapes rises from within, enough to make the performance convincing without supplying spirits.

Tessa keeps her eyes on the hedges while Edrin settles the cup into Octavius’s hand. Patter noses at the grape bundle, then curls back beneath the bench as the camp resumes its guarded quiet.

Octavius takes the wooden cup and tips it back quickly. Holding his breath, he makes three tiny sips look like a swallow, swallow, swallow, then bends over the bucket coughing and gagging, spitting as though nausea has filled his mouth.

Tessa takes the cup before it can spill, then nods toward the stained water and grape bundle. Edrin settles the cloth over the bundle, while Patter watches from beneath the bench.

The permission folds neatly into the deception. The road party continues beneath its brightening sky, carrying a convincing excuse for Octavius’s weakness and a lawful trap for anyone bold enough to follow.

Octavius keeps his voice low beside the wagon, then raises the cup again for anyone watching. He holds his breath, makes three tiny sips resemble a swallow, swallow, swallow, and bends over the bucket coughing and gagging.

Tessa takes the cup and turns toward the road, her expression settling into stern disapproval. Beneath the bench, Patter watches her while Edrin keeps Octavius propped against his shoulder.

She passes the stained water back without a flicker of doubt. The ruse is now hers as well, and the road party continues beneath its brightening sky, inviting pursuit from anyone listening.

Night settles over the sheltered rise. Octavius’s pretend reserve becomes an ongoing spectacle of coughing, gagging, and breath-held sips, while the camp settles into guarded silence.

Near midnight, Patter rises beneath the wagon and fixes his dark muzzle toward the eastern hedge. Beyond the fireless camp, a stone shifts softly, then another.

Tessa signals toward the distant scouts. Two faint answering clicks come from the dark, followed by a sudden rustle retreating through wet grass. The advance watchers have found company.

Before dawn, a scout returns with fresh signs of two strangers circling beyond bowshot. The camp remains untouched, but the false story has drawn its first deliberate test, and Dunmere’s hidden scouts have kept it from becoming more.

Octavius lowers himself from the camp’s edge and slips into the eastern grass, timing each movement with Edrin’s theatrical complaints. Tessa keeps the others quiet while Patter watches from beneath the wagon.

He follows the strangers from well beyond bowshot, keeping stones and wet grass between himself and their dark shapes. His success costs him a faint scrape of leather against stone, and one stranger pauses to glance back.

The strangers resume their retreat toward the old quarry, unaware of Octavius’s exact position. He remains behind them at a careful distance, close enough to follow and far enough to preserve the camp’s cover.

The strangers descend toward the old quarry, pausing whenever the ground opens. Octavius keeps far behind, using the wet grass and broken stones to remain only a moving shadow.

Their route bends away from the road and into a narrow ravine. From the ridge, Octavius sees a shielded ember-glow below and two bedrolls tucked beneath an overhang.

The strangers inspect the ravine mouth, then settle near the hidden fire without discovering the trail behind them. Their camp is temporary, concealed, and close enough to watch the road.

Octavius reaches a stone shelf overlooking the camp and stops there, preserving the distance that carried him safely through the pursuit. The strangers speak too softly to identify.

Behind him, Edrin’s complaint fades into the night, maintaining the camp’s story. Ahead, the strangers’ hidden shelter confirms their purpose: they were measuring the party, not merely wandering.

From the stone shelf, the fire’s warmth reaches Octavius only faintly, but the ravine carries the strangers’ voices upward. Their words become clear without forcing him closer.

One stranger shifts beside the shielded ember, and a coal briefly illuminates two travel-stained faces. Neither wears a uniform, and both keep their weapons close.

Their purpose is no longer uncertain: they are testing the tavern tale and measuring the party’s hidden protection. The conversation continues below, now close enough for every cautious word to reach Octavius.

The strangers settle back beneath the overhang, unaware that their warning has already failed. Their fire burns low, and the ravine holds the rest of their conversation for Octavius to hear.

Octavius withdraws from the stone shelf without disturbing the loose shale. He circles wide through wet grass and shadow, returning toward camp while the strangers remain beneath the overhang, watching the empty ridge.

The camp’s low darkness receives him unnoticed. Edrin still mutters his complaint beside the wagon, preserving the story that Octavius has collapsed somewhere beyond the fire.

Guard Tessa spots Octavius’s shape only when he reaches the wagon’s shadow. She gives no signal toward the ravine, and her face remains sternly fixed on the road.

Beyond the rise, the strangers wait through the darkness, unaware that their listener has returned. Their hidden observation now serves Dunmere’s deception rather than exposing it.

Octavius whispers to Tessa, then creeps back into his bed space. He lowers himself carefully, slackens his posture, and lets his breathing turn uneven beside the wagon.

Boots retreat noisily along the slope, then fade behind the hedges. The scouts remain nearby in concealed positions, close enough to intervene while the strangers hear only an apparent withdrawal.

Octavius coughs into the bucket, spits, and holds his breath through three tiny sips that pass for a miserable swallow, swallow, swallow. In the ravine, the watchers hear only a useless drunk suffering through the night.

The roar tears across the dawn camp. Octavius immediately pitches from the wagon, clutching his head as he lands in the damp grass, bow lying forgotten beneath the bench.

He coughs and gags over the bucket, spits into it as though nausea were filling his mouth, then holds his breath through three tiny sips that pass for a laborious swallow, swallow, swallow.

Octavius collapses back against the wagon, coughing and gagging into the bucket. He spits as though nausea fills his mouth, then holds his breath through three tiny sips that pass for a miserable swallow, swallow, swallow.

Edrin catches Octavius by the shoulder and jostles him into a lopsided sprawl, scowling toward the hedges as though burdened by a useless drunk. The strangers hear every complaint.

Edrin’s agreement is secured, but the promised tenfold repayment now hangs between them as a real obligation. He keeps Octavius slumped and harmless while the hidden watchers accept the performance.

Octavius coughs into the bucket, spits, and forces three tiny sips to resemble a miserable swallow, swallow, swallow while holding his breath. Beneath the performance, his voice remains quietly earnest.

Edrin’s scowl toward the hedges does not change, but his shoulder steadies Octavius more gently. The hidden watchers hear an irritated old traveler, not the warmth beneath his answer.

That concrete promise gives Octavius a fair return without weakening the deception. Edrin resumes his loud complaints, while the strangers beyond the hedge receive only the picture of a burdened, quarrelsome party.

The exertion folds Octavius over the wagon’s edge. He coughs and gags into the bucket, spits as though nausea is making him salivate, then forces three tiny sips behind held breath to resemble a miserable swallow, swallow, swallow.

Edrin’s hand steadies Octavius’s shoulder, his loud scowl easing into something gentler while he continues facing the hedges. To anyone listening, he remains an irritated companion tending a useless drunk.

He jostles Octavius once, preserving the performance, but his support remains careful and sure. The understanding settles between them without coin, obligation, or hidden measure.