Dropping the torn pieces of paper, Jacht's eyes were drawn to the treeline. A pair of men stepped out, one with a bow drawn and ready, the other brandishing a bastard sword. Both were wearing sturdy armor made of thick hides. Jacht spun around to see more men coming out of the woods behind them. Marcella's hand laid instinctually on her sword hilt as Corona dropped the travel trunk.

The man with the bastard sword stepped forward as his associate watched the three of them cautiously. “I'm only going to tell you once, surrender your loot or we'll pry it from your corpses,” he said.

Jacht's brow furrowed, “That's it? Aren't you going to say something witty like, 'I'm sorry, this road has a toll' or 'your wealth or your health?'”

The lead highwayman strode forward and grabbed Jacht by the throat, lifting him onto his toes, “Are you trying to get smart with me?” He could feel the man's blade against his stomach. “Empty those pockets!”

Jacht did just that, handing over a small money pouch and a couple vials. As the man let him down he furiously rubbed his neck; the thief had one hell of a grip. Another bandit took the chest at Corona's feet, giving her a crude smirk as he did so. Their leader looked to Marcella who was surprisingly calm. “You, in the armor,” he said, “take it off and drop those weapons.”

“Hey, mate, what about this pretty thing here?” one of the men said, oogling Corona, “She's worth more than all the junk these fellas are carrying put together.”

“Bring her along,” the leader said, waving his arm. Two men grabbed her, swords in hand, and hauled her behind their boss.

“You shouldn't do that...” Jacht said, which earned him a firm shot to the gut from the back end of the bastard sword. Corona looked at her master as she was manhandled by the thugs. Jacht just nodded to her. The lead thief however was still busy with Marcella.

“I said drop your weapons!” he shouted. Two more of his men stepped forward, one with an axe and the other wielding a pair of daggers. Marcella took her time undoing her plated armor as the thieves closed in. She could sense what was coming and was trying to bide her time.

Carefully, Marcella undid one of her bracers. As soon as it hit the dirt Corona transformed into her demonic form. She grabbed one of the men with her clawed hands and sunk her fangs into his neck, taking him to the ground. His partner reeled around in shock, too slow to bring his sword to bare.

Jacht capitalized on this opportunity. “Flame!” he shouted, waving his arms in front of him. A wave of flames burst into the air, bowling over the lot around Corona.

Behind him, Marcella drew her sword and shield in one smooth, practiced motion, gutting the man with the daggers as she drew it. The axe-wielding bandit lunged at her, swinging wildly into her shield. Marcella withdrew her blade from the other thief's corpse as the battle axe was wedged between the thick wooden planks of her shield. The man tried to pry it free as Marcella whipped her blade around, slicing his arm. A yelp escaped him as he recoiled, clenching the wound as another blow fell on his neck. Marcella ran ahead as he collapsed to ground, bleeding into the dirt.

Corona was still wrestling with her captors however. She held one of them to the ground, the man's throat between her jaws. He tried to scream as his windpipe collapsed in her mouth, fangs penetrating his muscles. With a yank the man's throat was gone and she jumped on the second lackey who was still reeling on the ground beside her, patting out a flame on his shirt. Her claws pierced his neck as he forced out a gasp. His pulse quickened in her grasp as he struggled to pry her claws free. She leaned over him, blood oozing from her fangs, putting her full weight into it. She could feel the life draining from him, thinking for a moment what a pity it was she didn't have time to absorb it more... efficiently.

As Corona was enjoying her prey the lead highwayman and his archer companion scrambled to their feet. Jacht cursed and hurled a fireball at the archer. It exploded as it struck the man square in the chest, sending him back the the ground with a cry of pain, his bow shattered into splinters. As he did this a flash of steel caught his eye. Jacht instinctively flinched away from it but too slowly; the blade sliced his arm open. Kicked to the ground as he held his wounded arm, Jacht shielded himself from the highwayman. Blood flowed out and soaked the sleeve of his robe. He scrambled away as Marcella charged the attacker, the axe still embedded in her shield. Caught off guard, the lead bandit took a wild swing at her. With military finesse she parried the strike and ran the man through with her sword. His eyes bugged out as he dropped his weapon. Marcella kicked his body off her blade and he fell before them. He gasped a few last breathes into the dirt before expiring.

Jacht stood up, a bit wobbly, and staggered over to the archer. He was still alive but pretty badly burned. Corona stopped strangling the corpse of her assailant to watch her favorite of his party pieces. Placing his hand on the archer's chest, Jacht began to recite a chant under his breath. The archer flinched and gasped but was too weak to fight Jacht's magical suggestions. Before their eyes the man's life began to fade; his breathing became shallow, his pulse relaxed. His squirming turned into slight twitches and finally nothing. Jacht removed his hand and rubbed his arm; he was completely healed.

“That was too close for comfort...” Jacht said, his companions staring at him.

“You two are starting to freak me out now,” Marcella said, removing the axe from her shield, “ And how in tarnation did you do that?”

“How did I do what?”

“Heal yourself, I thought only priests could heal, and you sure ain't part of the Order.”

“Oh, just something I picked up from Corona,” Jacht replied. “I'm not as good at it as she is though. I mean sucking the life out of one man saved me like, what, seven stitches? I don't even get the cool scar.” Jacht fiddled with the hole left in his robe, “Plus, they have to be weak enough for me to drain them. It wouldn't work on a healthy person like you.”

“I see...” she looked over to Corona who was busily rifling through the bodies, collecting whatever loot she could find. “Tell me, with all the magic drying up everywhere, where do you get your energy from anyways?”

“From me,” Corona said, going through one of the thief's packs, “I suck the energy from the humans and my master gets to use however much he needs. Everything else is gravy.”

Jacht grabbed his trunk and threw Corona's accumulated stuff inside. There wasn't much to scavenge though; a little coin, some interesting baubles but mostly just leather armor and weapons, nothing they found particularly interesting. Jacht kept the coin and reclaimed his vials. Corona cleaned herself off and resumed her disguise. Hoisting the trunk onto his back, he lead the party down the road again towards Timberloft.

---

It took several hours before the party reached civilization. Timberloft wasn't so much a city as it was a swollen town, at least compared to the grander western cities. For these parts though it was sizable and you couldn't easily access the eastern mountains without passing by it. Because of this it grew fairly large over time, a gradual increase over the years in response to all the land traffic. It sat just at the beginning of the foothills, granting the town an unusual and characteristic feeling as buildings were constructed on stilts to correct the ground angles. Most of them were of wooden frames made from a local lumber mill that harvested the massive forests that engulfed the hills and mountains of Ez'Efess, and thus it derived its name. The city's streets weren't packed like one would expect on an afternoon in a trading district, instead various venders had set up shop along the main roads with a smattering of people casually browsing their wares.

It'd been quite a while since Jacht had last been to the city so it took him some time to get his bearings. Marcella lead him to a tavern she claimed to have stayed in before, a homey place across from a row of townhouses. Inside she attracted a glare or two but unlike Hammersmith no one dared say anything. It was also a bit more populated which might have taken the edge off any would-be troublemakers. Jacht paid for a room and hauled his stuff upstairs with Corona in tow, plunking the heavy chest down at the foot of the bed. Exhausted from the trip, Corona spread out on the bedsheets.

“What do you think you're doing? We need to shake this place down!” Jacht said, stretching his back after hauling his trunk.

“You can,” she replied with a yawn, “but the magic will still be missing in a few hours and I need a nap.”

Jacht yawned as well, “I'm bushed too but daylight's burning...”

“We'll go in shifts then, master. You and what's-her-face have a look around. If you find anyone with tight lips... yawn let me know. I'll get it out of them.”

Jacht was going to protest further but she began snoring into the pillow. Realizing there was some wisdom in what she said, he headed downstairs to see what Marcella was up to. He found her sitting at the bar, two bowls of stew and two flasks of ale beside her. He sat down next to her and started digging in. He was starving after the trip.

Marcella looked around, “Where's what's her face?”

Jacht didn't look up from his bowl, “She's taking a nap. Says if we don't find anything out she'll have a look around tonight, see if she can't find some answers from the late crowd.”

She looked at him strangely, “She sleeps?”

“She sleeps, she eats, she just doesn't ever shut up.”

“Mm. We might need her though, I'm getting tuckered myself and this sounds like looking for a needle in a haystack. Might as well see what the word is in town,” Marcella said, taking a swig from her flask, “Barkeep...”

A portly man looked at her from behind the bar, “Can I help you, ma'am?”

“What's the news in town? My friend and I've been out in the mountains for a spell.”

The man took an empty glass from where another patron sat and began to clean it, “Well, hunting season's 'bout to end, that's got most folks headin' out west to trade their haul. With all the people from the mountains passing through we got our share of weirdos cropping up.

“Oh yeah? Anyone we should look out for?”

The bartender shrugged, “There's some talk about a so-called 'prophet' that's been comin' round the town square.”

“Like a priest?” Jacht asked, “Someone from the Order?”

“Nah, no he ain't from the Order of the Divine. More a storyteller or somethin', folks say he has a mystical quality about him. They been takin' to him as well, he's got himself quite a following. I haven't seen him myself so who knows.”

“It might be worth checking out,” Marcella said, “Where can we find him?”

“Oh, he lectures in the residential square some evenings around dusk. You could check it out if you're interested. Just about half a mile down the road, by the fountain.”

“I appreciate it,” Jacht said.

The two of them finished their meals in relative quiet. They were both pretty exhausted from their trip. Marcella suggested going to bed early and catching the prophet's lecture the next evening but Jacht would hear nothing of it. Before he left the tavern he ordered a shot of whiskey which seemed to revive him. Marcella ordered another a few for herself as Jacht paid his half of the bill and went upstairs to leave a note for Corona as to where they'd be. When he returned downstairs Marcella was waiting for him.

Even though she was fully clad in armor and Jacht was by no means a casual-looking city-goer or woodsman in his robes, the two of them hardly attracted any attention. As a crossroads for the region Timberloft was used to diverse travelers. Even so, Jacht thought it might be worthwhile to buy a change of clothes in town to replace his torn robe as they passed a few clothing shops.

“I do hope you're wearing something under that,” Marcella said as he walked inside.

“Of course, but I look like a tramp with this sleeve torn,” he replied taking the robe off. He handed it to a seamstress behind the counter, requesting it be cleaned and the tear sewn. Marcella shook her head as he strolled the line of robes and cloaks available, his regular clothing being noticeably worn.

“Just wait for your old robe to be fixed,” she said.

“And walk around town looking like a vagabond? No, I need something else.” Jacht pulled a couple down from the stand, “What do you think, purple? Or blue?”

She crossed her arms, “I think you're wasting yer money.”

“I think the blue one, but it's lacking something.” He put them both back, pulling another out. It was dark blue with a basic silver trim. More a long tunic than a robe, it was fitted with a matching cloth belt. “I think this one is dashing.”

“I think you shop like a woman and it'll get torn apart in the field.”

Jacht shook his head and laid it on the counter, “I'll take it, ma'am.”

“Alright, sir,” she said, folding it for him, “That'll be a gold and fifty pence.”

Jacht grabbed his money pouch and spilled its contents into his hand. “Between this and fixing my sleeve that just about cleans me out, wow.” He handed the money over anyway and took the robe, inspecting it for a moment. It was made of linen, smooth and sturdy but basic in design. He took off his undershirt, a worn out rough garment and replaced it with the new robe. It fit like a glove as he cinched the belt. When he was done untucking and straightening he posed a little for Marcella.

“Very nice,” she said, “now you look like a genuine city slicker.”

“Exactly what I was going for!” he replied. They left the shop together, Marcella tugging at his new garment with mock admiration.

“You do look-”

“I look like a student, maybe a traveling merchant, maybe a priesthood initiate, or perhaps an old sorcerer's apprentice.”

“... but not someone who would be conjuring demons,” Marcella said, catching his drift.

“Well, maybe not specifically that,” Jacht said, “I don't think anyone will come up to me and say, 'Hey! You! You look like a warlock. You summoning demons?'” He poked Marcella in the chest as though accusing her, “You some kinda demon summoner? Hey, where'd you get those robes? Did a demon give them to you?”

“I get it,” she said, knocking his hand away, “But you would be surprised how suspicious the Order can get.”

“As a matter of fact a demon did give me those robes.”

“Really?”

“No,” Jacht said, “But you would have believed it, because I looked like a warlock.”

This banter would likely have progressed further but by this point the two adventurers had reached the busy center of town. Already a collection of people was starting to build around an ornamental fountain. In the midst of them was a figure covered from head to toe in a burlap robe, their face obscured by the enormous hood. A cord of rope secured the costume to them and they seemed to radiate the presence of knowledge. Marcella and Jacht stared at this prophet for a moment before speaking again.

“The prophet looks like a monk from the Order's monasteries,” Marcella observed.

Jacht was too preoccupied to listen. “I recognize that energy...” he muttered to himself, stepping forward from the crowd. Marcella followed him, not sure what he was about to do. As Jacht got closer his suspicion grew. The people mingled around the hooded person, eager for their insights, but Jacht caught the prophet's attention.

“Yes, my son,” said the prophet. His voice wavered like an elderly man but still with strength behind it, “what is it you wish to ask?”

Jacht straightened up and got a look in his eye Marcella hadn't seen before, one of authority. He addressed the prophet sternly, “You will refer to me by my proper name.”

The old man was still. People still gathered around him, asking when his lecture would begin. The prophet pushed them away gently and asked for a few more moments before turning back to Jacht, “You are the one who brought me here?” he asked.

“Yes,” Jacht replied, “I am your master.”

“Not my master,” the prophet snapped, “what business do you have with me? I'm conducting my followers and must begin my lecture.”

Jacht didn't back down but his tone became more diplomatic, “You are right, you are not bound to me. Pray tell why the summoning failed?”

The prophet placed his hand on Jacht's chest. It was wrinkled and blackened as though with severe gout, “I was lost, like the others. I made it further than most but you must realize how difficult it is to navigate the mortal realm.” He looked to the throng of people, there were now dozens of them gathered together, “If you'll excuse me I must attend to my lecture. Go and rest, and in the morning I will do my best to relay my story.”