Desdemona Blackwood's Fellowship

The broken fern trail winds between blue pines to a moss-covered stone marker. Its worn engraving points east, toward the distant shoreline, while a weather-stained map fragment protrudes from beneath its base.

The Guild healer kneels beside the marker without touching the paper, her calm gaze following the missing lower edge. The burly warrior shifts his axe from one shoulder and listens into the trees.

Beyond the marker, voices murmur through the pines. Crates scrape over roots, then pause. The sound is close enough that individual footsteps stir needles beneath the branches.

Corrin slips from the marker into the blue-pine shadows, placing each boot where the moss and old needles will swallow its weight. His thieves' tools remain ready in one hand, their wrapped metal kept from betraying him.

His keen senses stretch through the dimness, separating scraping wood from whispering branches. He spots the thieves' staggered path and follows its quietest edge, using the trees as a screen.

At a root-choked hollow, Corrin pauses and studies the nearest crate. A slim lockpick tests its hasp without opening it, confirming the cargo is secured and revealing fresh brass dust on the ground.

He advances again, easing past a leaning pine and settling behind a fallen trunk. From there, the whole hauling party lies in view, their green scarves and burdened sled plainly visible.

The thieves pass within a few strides, unaware. Their trail exposes a narrow downhill path beside the hollow, concealed from the main road and leading directly toward the shoreline.

Corrin’s keen senses fix on the rear thief’s head through the dimness. His fingers select a smooth stone while his wrapped lockpicks and thieves’ tools remain ready, silent against his palm.

He measures the throw with the same care he gives a stubborn lock, tracking the thief’s pace and the hollow’s shifting shadows. Confidence turns the simple cast into a deliberate flourish.

The stone strikes the back of the thief’s head with a dull crack. He folds beside the sled, unconscious, and one crate jolts against the roots.

The flourish costs Corrin: his boot slips on loose needles, and his left palm scrapes hard across the fallen trunk. The sting does not loosen his grip on the tools.

The lead thief, a wiry young adult man with a narrow face, cropped brown hair, a green scarf, and a dark wool tunic over leather breeches, turns sharply, while the thief beside the crates, a stocky young adult woman with a round, freckled face, auburn braids, a green scarf, and a russet wool vest over sturdy trousers, reaches for a cudgel. Between them, their fallen companion lies still, and the stolen cargo blocks the downhill path.

Corrin’s sharp whistle cuts through the pines. The burly warrior and the Guild healer answer from behind the marker as he bursts from cover, keen sight guiding him through roots and shadow.

His daggers flash into his hands. Reckless confidence drives extra speed into the charge, sending him skidding over loose needles, but his superb footing carries him cleanly around the sled.

Corrin reaches the thieves before they can form up. One dagger pins the lead thief’s sleeve to the sled rail, while the other bars the cudgel hand beside the crates.

The burly warrior crashes into the hollow behind him, axe raised but held back, while the Guild healer moves toward the fallen rear guard. The thieves freeze between steel, crates, and the blocked path.