The Freelancer rode at the front of the cart beside the driver, who smelled like coins washed in stale beer. Occasionally, she had to elbow him awake when she found him dozing while holding the reins. He'd give her a wink, look over his shoulder to ensure none of the full-paying passengers noticed, then let out a breath and roll his shoulders.
He had offered her payment for protection to Un'Sael, a destination many mercenaries and displaced folks were flocking to lately. The Wood Elf King had taken up residence in the ancient keep when the planar portals started opening, abandoning his usual home in Eilowyn. Though they tried to keep this move under wraps, it quickly became common knowledge, and anyone with the means began heading to its gates seeking protection.
"You know you can't just sit up there all day," Verse said, walking alongside the cart. His bandaged right hand—broken by her kick the night before—was tucked inside his cloak. "It's time to switch."
The Freelancer smiled and gave him a thumbs-up with her right hand. He scowled, his wrapped hand starting to form a fist but stopping when pain shot up his arm.
"Sit down, stand up—make up your mind, Verse," she said as she leaned forward and jumped off the side of the moving cart. Her heavy boots landed on the soft ground with a thud. "It's all yours."
She stood still for a moment, adjusting her gear for walking as the cart and other mercenaries moved past her. Her eyes scanned the forest as she tied her platinum-white hair beneath her bandana. She froze when she saw movement beyond some trees but was startled when one of the other mercenaries whistled at her.
"Hey, keep up," they said when she looked at them. "Don't want the Maskweaver to get you."
The Freelancer rolled her eyes and jogged up to the cart, her light Elven armor barely making a sound even as the metal plates brushed against each other—a thin layer of soft material dampening any noise.
"Maskweaver? What's that, Mom?" a young boy near the back of the cart asked, looking up at the woman sitting next to him.
They weren't a species the Freelancer recognized. Their skin was grey-toned, and their eyes looked like deep pools reflecting starlight. Their ears were rounded but came to a very subtle point, hinting at some sort of elf. They were likely planar refugees who had fallen through from whatever place they called home.
"Don't worry, dear. Mommy will keep you safe from anything. And a Maskweaver isn't anything you need to worry about," the mother replied to her child. She glanced quickly at the Freelancer with a little nod before looking back at her son. She gave him a little tap on the nose that made him scrunch his face.
The Freelancer watched as the boy snuggled into his mother. He believed her with every fiber of his being that she would keep him safe—as all kids should of their parents.
Her mother had asked her to trust her many times. But it's funny: when parents need you to trust them the most, it's usually when they're lying. There was one night in particular the Freelancer would always remember. Her mother had said she would keep her safe and that they'd be with Father soon.
She was half right.
The large birch doors were heavy, but her mother opened them by herself. She was clutching armor the Freelancer had recognized as being her father's—the armor she now wore.
The estate was in this very forest, near the eastern shore on the Great Bay. It was twelve years ago now. Things were just starting to get tense between the Green Sea and the Eastern Kingdoms. There's never much love for those caught in the middle, whether they choose to be there or not. And the image of her father's shadow against the birch tree she learned to climb on was a constant reminder that people don't want someone to help them compromise—just someone to help them win.
When the Freelancer's eyes blinked out of her memories, she realized the young boy was making funny faces at her. She responded with a smirk and a funny face of her own, but then she spotted it too late. From the trees, she saw a bandit loose an arrow that hit the driver between the eyes. As his body slumped, the horses reared and set off at a fast gallop.
The Freelancer dove forward, grabbing the back of the cart as it took off, her feet dragging for a distance before she could pull herself up. As she stood on the back step, two bandits in dark cloaks landed on the cart. Verse kicked the driver from his seat and tried to grab the reins, but his injured hand couldn't grip them tight enough.
The bandit closest to the Freelancer stepped forward to kick her hands from holding on, but the young boy got in the way. The bandit swung a backhand at the boy, sending him falling back into his seat with a loud thud and a cry of pain. His mother launched forward in a rage, tackling the bandit and causing them both to stumble and fall off the side of the cart.
The Freelancer left one hand on the cart as she let herself drop low enough that her body was dragging again but grabbed the mother with her free hand as the bandit's body cracked against the trunk of a rushing-by tree.
She pulled herself and the mother back up onto the cart and saw Verse dealing with the other bandit, parrying his attacks and trying to land a stab.
"Can you drive a cart?" the Freelancer asked the mother quickly while assessing the scene. The mother nodded confidently as she caught her breath, checking her son's safety first. "Good. Follow the path continuing northwest. There's a toll along that path, and the guards will take care of you."
She pulled herself up fully, finally stepping into the cart. She drew her blade and took a few steps forward, grabbing the dark cloak of the bandit just as he ducked. And again, the Freelancer saw something a bit too late.
A low branch of a tree hit her right in the head, sending her flying off the cart as Verse yelled out to her. As she landed on the compacted ground of the well-traveled path, her consciousness slipped away, feeling the weight of her armor wrapped around her.