Chapter 4: Follow Your Gut

Sophonus set out from the site of the wrecked caravan in high spirits, ready to seek out this camp of orc slavers, see that they faced justice, and put them out of business permanently. However, such a task was, as they say, most certainly easier said than done. For before any justice-delivering could be done, Sophonus first needed to find their base of operations, somewhere in the dense and quite expansive Newcraven forest. Which was turning into quite an obstacle.

Five days had past since his encounter with the orc patrol, and so far he had found nothing that even remotely resembled a hint at its location. He had followed the patrols footprints back the way they had come, though he lost the trail around a small creek, where they must have waded through it. Which meant he had nothing whatsoever to go on; a location to shoot for, a trail to follow, even a general direction to walk. All he could do was wander through the trees and hope to stumble upon some sort of trace that would lead him to his goal.

And so it went for five days, during which hardly anything, even insects, presented themselves before him. The whole wood seemed to be utterly empty and the quiet grew more and more unsettling. No birds chirping or even the sound of the whispering wind. Just still silence, pierced only by Sophonus's footfalls in the grass, though even they seemed dull and muffled.

To try and gather his bearings, every so often he would study the ground to try and pick up any new tracks for him to follow. This too, yielded little. While there were indeed plenty of tracks scattered across the forest floor, most of them were rather old, some over a week or more, and following them would really have been pointless. Not to mention that many of the fresh ones were simply animals that merely had past. Nothing too shocking or useful about that.

However Sophonus did notice that there was quite a bit of activity in certain spots. From his scrutiny, he was able to identify the footprints of orcs, humans, several hobgoblins by the looks of things, many, many nork, and some other tracks that he couldn't make out for the life of him. But that was understandable; Zarrin had only really shown him some of the most basic types of footprints and how to decipher their meanings, so coming across footprints that he couldn't identify was no real surprise. So he wandered, being all that he really could do.

And to make things all the more aggravating, the days began to grow warmer, as the early spring days were beginning to yield to the unrelenting heat of the impending summer. And heat linked with frustration tends to shorten ones temper and increase their impatience. With the increased temperature beating down on him, it didn't take long for Sophonus's water skins to empty, leaving his throat parched and pleading for a taste of a cool drink.

Luck smiled upon him however, for as the light of the sixth day began to fade, he heard the sounds of a splashing stream beyond the trees, and following his ears he discovered a running creek, filled to the banks with crisp cool water. Not wasting time on etiquette, Sophonus laid his belongings down in the grass and dunked his whole head underwater, opening his mouth and taking in as much water as his mouth could. It was absolutely delightful, the water tasted as rich and as satisfying as a cool glass of wine.

Immersing his head had been quite refreshing, so good actually that he saw no reason to stop there. Quickly stepping out of his clothes, he dove into the shallow creek, letting the delicious sensation envelop him. The bath, the first he had taken in quite a while, was the perfect thing to wash away his frustrations on making nearly zero progress in his quest.

Finally he decided he had splashed enough and stepped out, shaking the water from him. Whilst drying, he began to fill his water skins right to the tops, all the while wondering how far that would take him.

Soon the first traces of night began to make themselves known in the sky above, heralding the coming evening. Despite the fact that there was still some light left, enough to travel a bit further, Sophonus felt compelled to remain by the waters edge, the bath having seemed to calm his burning spirit for exploration.

"Barely a week out and I'm already getting lazy," Sophonus joked as he unpacked his things. Just as he had been, his fire was quite puny, hardly more than a couple of sparks, but at least strong enough to cook. And speaking of food, as he rooted through his satchel, he found a large hunk of meat that he had liberated from the orc patrol. And for some reason, now seemed like the time. So he stuck it on a stout stick, hung it over the flames and waited.

Since the meat had been in the possession orcs, Sophonus tried not to think about where the pieces of meat might of come from before that, but as it cooked and a tantalizing aroma began to spread, he no longer cared. For the majority of the past six days, all he had eaten was some of his dried bread and berries from some trees. Now cooking the meat, the realization of how hungry he was began to bore into him, as it sent a near maddening aroma around him. Once thoroughly cooked, he barely waited for it to cool and tore into it like a wild animal, consuming the chuck in but a few enormous bites.

A sip from one of his water skins produced a belch that all but shook the trees. He clapped a hand over him mouth swiftly, glancing about in embarrassment. Silence. He had to laugh after that, for Zarrin, right alongside his weapons, survival, and endurance training, had strived to teach him some table manners. Sophonus did not take to those lessons quite as well as the others.

That, Sophonus thought to himself, is one skill I never learned properly. And probably never will.

Before much longer, darkness fell in earnest across the woods, miring the trees and all within them in shadows. Sophonus sat for a bit, tending to his gear and just killing time. Finally he could stand his idleness no more.

"I guess I should turn in," he decided aloud, "Nothing to do except stare at the fire. I'd best save my energy for more aimless wandering tomorrow."

Before doing so, Sophonus stepped back down the creek, to get one last drink before he slept. As he did, he caught sight of several flashes of silver darting to and fro beneath the water's surface. He didn't need his keen eye to see they were decent sized fish, leisurely swimming before him.

"Well, maybe I won't rush off tomorrow," he mused with a smile, "I haven't had a bit of leisurely fishing in quite a while. Nor roasted fish for that matter."

His plans set; he returned to his bedroll and was in the process of kicking out his small fire, when he saw smoke. But this was clearly not his, oh no. For his fire, as pitifully small as it was, only let out thin wispy trails that almost completely vanished before it cleared the treetops. The plume that he was seeing now however was very thick indeed, a billowing ghostly white, as visible as a flaring beacon amidst the dark sky.

In other words, as jarringly obvious as it was, the people who were responsible for it were either a group of bandits, or a band of travelers who had no reservations whatsoever about giving away their position to any number of thieves or robbers. It was a simple thing to know of course, that to let out that much smoke from a fire in a forest infested with cutthroats, you would either have to have no sense at all or to be extraordinarily confident.

From what Sophonus could judge, the smoke was originating from somewhere very close by, a little ways from the clearing he now sat, mired in the depths of the trees. Which meant his position was no longer safe. True it could have been witless or awfully secure travelers, but Sophonus put his money on bandits.

And even though he was not truly giving his position away with such a small fire, who's to say that there weren't some bandit's sneaking around nearby? Wishing to avoid the scenario of being discovered, which would perhaps entice a horde of bandits down around his ears as a potentially easy mark, Sophonus felt it wise to quickly and discreetly pack up his things, douse his fire and slink off in another direction, just to be sure he would avoid being found.

As he did this however, all at once he began to cease. He felt…something…in his head…a twitch almost or a…a pull. Whatever it was, something was urging him to do something a bit different. Instead of following through with his own safe and sensible course of action, he felt all but compelled to head straight for that distant fire to see who was behind it. He couldn't really explain it. All his training and logical sense told him that it would be bad to move closer to what was almost assuredly trouble, yet he felt this compulsion that desired him to do it anyways. But perhaps whatever it was went beyond mere training and the definition of logic…

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Zarrin was what one might call multifaceted; he knew much on a multitude of topics though he rarely spoke of them, and his past trials of adventure and peril were always kept shrouded in secret lest he wished to divulge them. Yet despite his complexities, he was deceptively simply as a human. Fishing was perhaps his most favorite of pastimes, merely lounging on the bank of a creek or stream, a line in the water, passing the time by napping and peacefully sitting. This somewhat lethargic pastime had rubbed off on Sophonus too, as he adopted a liking of an activity that all but demanded one to be lazy and required only the most minimum of effort. Though in truth, he did not always think so.

His attitude growing up had been enthusiastic and a tad erratic, ready to rush out and get his goal accomplished in the quickest way possible. As one might expect, such an outlook would not fare well in the languorous world of fishing. As was his nature, Zarrin had found a way to convert even a simple fishing trip into training for the aspiring young adventurer, something he did with all other aspects of the boy's teen years.

"Ye got ta learn patience boy," Zarrin had barked at him, smacking the back of his head in a passing slap, "Ye can't demand that them fish merely bite the line and sacrifice themselves cause ye want ta eat. Sometimes ye got to wait, let the enemy make the first move, an' ye got to learn to respond accordingly. Merely rushin' inta things will get ye killed right quick, believe you me."

And unlike the lesson of patience in fishing, some of his most profound words of wisdom came forth at seemingly random times. The two had been sitting near a small stream in a thicket to the north of the village, carving wooden swords for practice later and merely taking it easy. Dangling in the water before them was a pair of fishing lines, whilst a fire burned at their feet, ready to roast any fish unlucky enough to be caught.

"Yer a smart kid," Zarrin had proclaimed thoughtfully, chewing on a blade of grass as he did, "Always graspin' what I be tellin' ya right quick, figurin' problems out...But even the smartest of us need a helpin' hand. A hand from beyond yer normal senses."

Sophonus knew what this meant; Despite the wisdom seeded within, it was a roundabout way for his teacher to tell him to shut up and listen carefully. The boy ceased with his whittling, faced his master, hands planted on his knees, and leaned forward, listening intently. Seeing his pupil was all ears, Zarrin cleared his throat.

"When ye be wanderin' the world alone, as ye'll be doin' one day, they're won't be some withered old goat standin' behind ya to point ye in the right way and to clout ye on the back of the head when ye be wrong. Meanin', yer gonna need to learn ta solve yer tribulations on yer own. But therein lies the trouble; as some situations aren't really problems that ye can identify merely by lookin' at 'em. They be merely situations that need to be acted upon…ye follow?"

Sophonus had nodded, though in truth, he had no clue. A problem that wasn't really a problem that required a solution? He had no idea what that meant. Regardless, his teacher went on.

"Yer head be a fine tool to help ye solve all sorts of troubles that will require a lot of thought and patience, but you'd best believe that not everything be so easy to spot. An' if that be the case, ye'll have a devil of a time figurin' things out. Lucky for ye that there be one bit 'o advice that I can give ye ta help ye along. When in doubt, always listen to yer gut…Remember that…" The darkened eyes of the elderly man bored into his apprentice for moment or two longer, then Zarrin turned his attention back to his sword and to the lines which still yielded no fish. The boy however was sitting there in a state of utter confusion at the advice he had just received. Your gut? What sort of nonsense is that?

"Your…gut sir?" he had asked tentatively, feeling certain that his master's point had all but sailed over his head. The old man looked down at him, grinning.

"Yer gut" said he, patting his stomach. "It's what some folks call their instinct. It's hard to describe, but it's a sort of feeling that you really can't ignore; a tingle that'll tell'em what way be best. Following your gut will never lead you astray." He turned back to their motionless lines. "And right now me gut is tellin' me to move our fishin' expedition downstream, cause we ain't gettin' even a nibble here."

"Is that your instinct telling you that?" Sophonus had asked, to which the old mans stomach rumbled in reply.

"Well that an' because I'm so flippin' hungry that I can't think straight. Come on, put out the fire an' lets see if we can't find a spot where the fish ain't a sleepin'." And wouldn't you know it, once moved downstream a ways, they caught more fish than either of them could eat.

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All those years later, Sophonus believed he finally knew what his master had been talking about. In situations prior, whether it had been during his training or in the few days he had been traveling, he had solved all his problems with a keen intelligence and logical outlook on whatever his current predicament might have been. But this…it wasn't technically a problem. He was planning on packing his camp up and moving away, as to avoid being spotted by possible bandits, yet he felt it…how, he couldn't say, but he knew that slipping away was the wrong course of action. He could feel what felt like an overwhelming compulsion to actually break his camp and move closer to the distant fire, not further from.

It was more in his head than his gut, but he believed that this was his instinct talking. And his master had told him, it is never wrong. Sophonus personally didn't really believe that mere hunches would always be one hundred percent infallible, though whether or not it was true, this feeling could not be ignored. He almost felt compelled to try and dismiss it, yet he felt certain that if he did so, he would then be plagued by a near-maddening sense that something wasn't right. He decided not to risk that happening.

So after he had stowed all of his gear, all the while asking himself if he was completely mad, Sophonus started to creep in the direction of the fire. He took great care as he walked, moving slowly and carefully, trying his best to avoid any large clumps of brush. He had grown up near the woods, yet he was no rogue or ranger, at one with nature and able to walk silently among it. That would take a delicate and deft foot to accomplish, both of which he lacked.

Though despite his unhurried rate of movement, he soon caught glimpses of firelight dancing between the tree trunks, its origins even closer than he had thought. He approached, clinging to the trees for cover, stepping cautiously, wondering how close he should get, but before he even realized it, he saw his feet had carried him right to the edge of another clearing. This one was different from where he had set his camp, which had been a wide open area with no trees covering the sky. This one however had a decent open spot amongst the brush, yet the outmost branches from the surrounding trees closed together above them, blotting out the moon and stars above, yet not so thick as to trap the smoke from the fire.

The blaze in question was grand indeed, clearly proportional to the amount of smoke it was generating. It wasn't quite a bonfire but it was no ordinary campfire either, the wood piled high in the inferno, the dull roar of the dancing flames and the crackling snaps of the fuel being incinerated complementing its sheer intensity.

And from scrutinizing the figures that sat around the massive flames, Sophonus saw that he had been correct…bandits. He counted six sitting around the fire itself, and another dozen easy crowding around a substantial pile of large sacks, wooden chests, miscellaneous pieces of furniture and a veritable collection of assorted odds and ends. Loot from their latest caper no doubt, or perhaps a massed stockpile of everything they had ever stolen.

As he crouched, Sophonus began to analyze the assortment of outlaws before him. Two of the six around the fire were big brutish thug types, wearing undersized leather and as dirty as hogs, the other four were skinny lanky men, not unlike Sophonus, some older and other younger. They all looked mangy, their clothes an appallingly bad array of colors and various styles, and each had a nasty almost sinister gleam in their eyes.

Most important of all however, was the whole lot of them were very well armed. In addition to the diverse array of valuables scattered about their campsite, there was also a decent hoard of weaponry and armor, enough to fully equip an entire platoon of soldiers. As for the rest of them, a total of sixteen that Sophonus had counted, they were not as close to the fire, thus harder to discern, though it was a good bet that they were more or less the same.

As for the six around the fire, they seemed to be in the grips of griping at one another.

"Come on Darl," one of the skinny men barked, glaring daggers across the fire, "stop hoggin' all the ale, ye bloomin' pig! I be needen' to get a drink too, I've been sober fer far too long already. It ain't as though we's got a huge supply right now, thanks to yer endless guzzlin'!"

His demand for more liquor was directed towards the largest man seated around the fire, a bulging unsightly ape of a lug who was all but lounging against a fallen log, a somewhat glazed look plastered across his shaggy face. Held in the crook of one arm was a small barrel, which he held most protectively. He returned a drunken sneer to the outlaw.

"Ah shut yer bleedin' trap already," his words were slurred and unsteady, probably hardly able to see who it was who spoke with his bleary eyes, "I's ain't done with it yet. 'Sides you just had a swallow a few moments ago, so ye can hold yer water now, as I needs to drink. "

"Yer head be full of dung, ye slobberin' ass. I ain't had narry a sip, ye've been sittin' there guardin' that cask all bloody evenin', threatenin' ta chop off peoples heads if they come near! Well, now I's be thirsty, so I says give it befer I lop off yer hands off."

"If ye be so thirsty an' impatient, then why not go and get some of tha wine from that trunk?"

"Oh dear," perhaps the youngest bandit chimed in, rolling his eyes, "There he goes again…"

"What's that supposed ta mean, ye little blither? I saw a case of wine in there, I did. Looked mighty fine, but since I be an ale man meself I'll leave it fer ye boys. I can't stand that nasty fruity taste."

"You never saw no wine," accused the first bandit, "and don't be tellin' me you don't like wine neither, I've seen ya down bottle after bottle of the stuff befere and you was never complaining after that. An' if ye be talkin' about that uppity whore's trunk, than yer full of it. I's went through that trunk meself and there was no wine in there, so stop talkin' that rubbish an' give me that keg!"

"Yous callin' me a liar Thern?" Darl, his glassy eyes cantankerous, struggled to sit up, perhaps to appear more intimidating that the sprawled mass that he was, "I swears on me mother's warty nose there was a big case of wine in there. You must not have dug round enough. Why not check again?"

Thern, grumbling all the while, hoisted himself up and went stalking over to a fine wooden chest, with a glossy finish and polished brass hinges, and after violently kicking it open, he began to shuffle through the contents, what looked to be a mass of lady's lingerie.

"Don't see how ye could have missed it," Darl went on, more muttering to himself, "Maybe ye be gettin' a bit slow these days. An old sob like you ain't so smart no more. A bloke needs ta be sharp as a nail to be sneaky he does. Might be time fer ye ta go into retirement, leave this lifestyle to the real men."

"If that's what we did," the young bandit proclaimed, thrusting a bony arm upward to the night sky above, "then I'd be doin' this job all by meself." The rest of the men around the fire fell into a burst of laughter, no doubt seeing the remark as a joke, though Darl in his less than coherent state, did not.

"Ah, shut yer mouth Elmic, lest I come over there and bust ya teeth with me fist. Ye ain't no man…yer a whoppin' huge rat that's gone an' lost 'is hair."

"A bit touchy 'bout 'is manhood, ain't he?" the second bulky brutish thug grunted, his thickset face contorted as he gave Darl a spiteful curled lip, his eyes somewhat wrathful.

"Bugger off Frugon, we all knows ye be the one lackin' the equipment an' face ta satisfy any woman. An' glower at me all ye like, ye ain't gettin' anythin' else from me. I already paid ya back double and then some, so ye may as well quit yer hounden', cause ya ain't gettin' nothin'."

"I told ya there was no wine in here, ya stupid clob!" Thern hollered, "All I sees is a big bottle of black crud. And it doesn't look like wine to me, and I never worked in no vineyard!" What he held was dark tinted glass bottle, that did possess the vague shape of a standard wine bottle, though the contents of the container seemed to be a bit darker and much thicker than wine.

"Ya that be the one!" Darl bawled back, waving a drunken hand, "I don't know if it is wine but me thinks its liquor. Its in a mighty fine bottle and I would have taken a swig or two if I didn't have me ale here. Why not take a swallow and tells us how it is. Then we can pass the bottle round and get a drink." Thern lifted the bottle up, sloshed the dark substance that lay within around a few times, took a quick sniff, then tilted his head back and took a tremendous swallow. He held that pose only for a moment before he loosed a cloud of black spray in a sputtering cough.

"Gha, that ain't wine you stupid twit! Its ink! What the 'ell are you doin' havin' me drink ink?" he began to spit and hack, trying to get his mouth clean again

"Oh, its ink is it?" Darl echoed, his words becoming more and more lax, as was his appearance, his head slowly falling, "Who…puts ink in a wine bottle…that's what I'd like to know. It didn't…taste good then? I've always wondered what ink tasted like…looks a lot like whiskey…" A few more almost indiscernible comments escaped his lips and finally, Darl was down for the night, followed by a large obnoxious snore.

One of the bandits, a really nasty looking fellow who was wearing some dark leather armor over a faded frilled ruby shirt, his eyes sharp and his greasy hair tightly braided behind him, stood and stepped over to the unconscious man, examining his condition. After giving him a little boot in the side with his foot, he relieved him of the barrel, raising the cask to his lips and took a few swallows, before passing it around to the others.

"Heh, old Darl had too much ta drink again," he chuckled before loosing a gassy belch, "Looks like one of us will be a carrin' him out of 'ere tomarrow. Whos turn is it then? Ain't it yers Frugon?"

"Oh hell no Larim," the other brute grunted, "he owns me and I ain't doin' 'im no favors until he pays me back. You'd just better find someones else."

"I though he said he paid ya back?" Elmic inquired, "an' 'sides that, how much could he own you? You never had anything to loan him to begin with."

"Shut yer ugly face, ye bleedin' scab," Frugon snarled, "I'm more well-off than ye take me fer. An' if ye actually took somethin' that drunk said seriously, then it be yer own fault."

"Says the man who be swindled by 'im in the first place."

"Piss off. It be last week after we wrangled that surly fat merchant, he sweet-talked me inta givin' him a keg of ale an' all the jewelry I collected. He gave me a beauty of sword in return, but the damn thing broke clear in two, 'fore I could even use it. He owes me fer his two-faced bunkum, an' that's all there is to it." The final bandit, another lanky fellow wearing a tattered orange bandana, snickered at the story.

"Ye always be a sucker fer some sweet words from an' ugly bastard aye? Perhaps ye've got a soft spot fer our drunk lout maybe? Havin' a fling with 'im while we's not lookin?" Frugon's beefy face swelled outward, tinting red as he rose to his feet, his hand straying to his belt where a large bladed knife hung.

"Ye got somethin' ta say ta me, ye half-pint orc tookus? Think carefully befere ye answer, lest I feel the need ta cut yer throat wide open."

"Easy now ladies," Larim soothed, despite the risen level of hostility, he still looked calm and rather passive, "We's all know that Frugon 'ere be fond of the busty ladies, 'specially them pretty famin' girls that be even more innocent than ye think." There was a hearty amount agreement there, "An' if Frugon 'ere be fond of Darl's charming words, then let that be between the two love-birds, aye?" He gusted some laughter after that, the others joining in, save Frugon, who merely spat into the fire but relented, sitting back down again, his face still sullen.

"So," Larim, went on, scanning the faces around him, "Who would like ta volunteer fer the job of carryin' our esteemed colleague aye?"

"Why do we even need to carry 'im anyway?" the last bandit asked, "We can just put 'im in our new cart and let him ride. Saves us the trouble anyway."

"I'd rather we drag 'im from the back of the cart by his lyin' brainless neck," Thern growled, still trying to wipe the excess ink from his lips, "Or even better, I's like ta save us the trouble by gettin' rid of 'im permanently. That lil' weasel will put a knife in our backs sooner or later, ya see if he doesn't. I says we takes him off in the wood fer them orcs to eat."

"I'll admit I's thought about it a time or two…" Larim confessed with a sly grin, though he shook his head, "but it would like be cuttin' our own arms off. We'd need someone like 'im if them orcs ever decide ta try an' take us prisoner fer their little business. Them bastards be tough an' ugly ta boot, an' no one can fight like ol' Darl 'ere."

"Yeah," the bandana man concurred, lifting a small flask, "an' no one can drink like 'im either!"

"That's right Nalen," Larim chuckled, finding a bottle of his own, "but we can still try!" Whereupon, all the men, those still conscious anyhow, lifted some manner of drink and swallowed it down, the resulting drinks prompting a chorus of various gas-related emissions that were both crude and nauseating, sparking some laughter from the group.

Sophonus sat amidst the foliage of his hiding place, watching the whole spectacle before him. During their winded and often times hard to understand conversation, Sophonus had heard many many instances of these foul men committing heinous deeds, that all but demanded he take action. He intended to do so but he needed to be cautious, for rushing out into the middle of all those bandits would be quite unwise. Twenty-two against one? Regardless of unfavorable odds though, he felt compelled to deliver justice to these wicked men.

Although he had to admit, watching these villainous criminals in their gritty lifestyle, loathsome and dishonest though it was, it had made for some interesting entertainment. Their incessant bickering, Thern drinking the ink, the colorful name-calling; it was rather comical, Sophonus having to stifle some laughter more than once.

Humor aside though, at least now perhaps he understood why he had felt it necessary to risk discovery by approaching this nest of thieves; they obviously knew something about the orc slave camp…perhaps where it was or how many orcs ran it, or even…

"Well hello there little dearie," a voice interrupted his thoughts, a callous whisper that breathed into his ear, sounding just as a cold piece of metal slid around his throat. Sophonus froze at once, having only then; after it was far too late, felt the presence of someone close by. "Havin' a bit o' fun with yer spyin' game aye? It be rude ta spy, ye know? The proper thing ta do is ta step out and introduce yerself. An' I'm a bloke that's always about bein' all proper-like." Before Sophonus could answer or even run through a list of options as to what he could do, he felt something thump him on the back of the head, hard enough to make his vision swim, though he escaped from the grasp of unconsciousness.

"Oi! Larim," the rogue hollered, the men around the fire ceased their laughing and look round, "I's found a little somethin' a sneakin' around over 'ere! Looks ta me like a rat!" With a nasty kick to the back, Sophonus fell forward, tumbling out of the brush and toppled into the leaves and dirt, clearly in the light of the fire. As he lay there, trying to will his senses to return to normal, he was vaguely aware of many sets of footsteps approaching, and as he managed to lift his head a bit, he saw many pairs of boots around him.

"Aye," Larim grinned, looking down at the sprawled boy, "A fine job as always Roon." Sophonus twisted his neck around, able to stare upward, meeting Larim's unsettling expression.

"Well 'ello there lad," the bandit greeted, all but patronizing Sophonus with a small yet sinister smile, "Nice night fer a stroll…ain't it?"