"I don't want to cause you any further trouble. I'll head East to fulfill my task".
Not again, he thought, reading the crumpled piece of paper that had been handed to him, the handwriting of Deorla barely legible as she'd clearly had to make several copies for each of the Company members and gotten bored halfway through writing this particular one.
Rubbing his forehead, feeling dry-mouthed and stuffy-headed (though that was mainly due to the wine he'd drank copious amounts of the night before), he sighed. The last time he'd had a note written to him, he'd read it hungover as well, and he'd never seen that person again. That person had been his wife. Deorla was practically family. And the dread of deja vu unsettled him greatly as his mind throbbed (again, mainly from the booze) at the prospect of not seeing her again.
It had all happened so fast last night. He'd been angry, and agitated, and wound up, frustrated. But at least she was there. And now, as is her way, she hadn't even said goodbye.
He knew that was her way, but something troubled him greatly. The General, her master, had mentioned that she was wanted for treason in the East, and if Deorla didn't return her life was in danger. Chewing his lip, staring blankly at the hastily scribbled ink, he crinkled the pages with his fingers in thought.
One thing he knew was that he had resources. He didn't command resources for their members were of free mind, and he was merely one half of what made this Company tick. But he had resources. He had his profit, and he had the moneylender should he need him again. And he had an excuse; carts and carts of caravannable excuses that could turn profit as well, to go East with anyone willing.
"What would Deorla do?" he thought to himself. Cunning, crazed woman that she was. Remembering the bridge incident again in his mind; how she had cut the bridge in the North, stranding herself on the side of the enemy with almost no hope of escape just to save the local town from attack, he thought about what resourcefulness she had.
What did he have? A company of people, who adored her. That counted for something. Perhaps, if he was clever, then there would be a way. After all, as Deorla had shown him years ago, there was always a way to achieve your ends. You just had to be willing to stop at nothing to achieve them. And if she was wanted for treason... well, that wouldn't be the first time. And it certainly wouldn't be the first time he'd tried to do something about it, either. Such was his curse.
Smiling a little, he thought about the upcoming tournament that he and the Sergeant had organised in order to assess and train the Company for upcoming journeys on the roads. But, perhaps this tournament may have another purpose. Deorla may no longer be there as a prize to fight for, but perhaps the original objective hadn't been entirely unfortunate. Perhaps, there still may be more riding on this tournament than he'd thought.
More secure in his conviction, he nodded to himself. He'd speak to the Sergeant later in the week and iron out the details, but Sunday had more purpose now than ever. And if he indeed thought like that mad woman, perhaps he could indeed utilise that advantage. Best not to reveal too much, mind. Perhaps he'd save that until Sunday. After all, a lot of galvanising people required their mood to be right and their fervour to be high. There was so much to accomplish in Bree, though, and he knew there was a lot of work ahead for the Company both at home and abroad that they'd need to see to. But, he couldn't help think about what he'd said to himself the night before, over and over and over as he'd trained.
Kill the elf. Win Deorla's freedom. In that order. Maybe this note didn't change things that much after all.
