DONOVAN crawled out of his tent and had a quick breakfast before breaking camp in the early morning light. He had passed the first major fork of Sorrenar’s major northeast highway, meaning to follow it on through its eastward curve and past the second main fork. This would take him to the world-famous Whitemane Mountains and its pass of the same name, which in turn led through a mountainous isthmus that joined Sorrenar with Enmayar.

The bard, for the beginning of both his globetrotting performances and his seeking of inspiration for songs of his own, wanted to see the pagodas and beautiful towns nestled along the mountain road as he made for Enmayar. He had also recalled that Frosthaven, an industrious mining town that was just a good day’s ride from where he now was, had been attacked and damaged four months back by a golem that had been unearthed in the mines. While the golem was slain and no one was hurt in the incident, a good several buildings had been destroyed or severely damaged, including the town’s temple. Repairs and rebuilding had been underway since, and Donovan, hoping for a good helping of inspiration, was intrigued to see the town in its recovery and hear firsthand accounts from the townsfolk. Seeing as the town was on the way to the Whitemanes and that it was reachable in a day if he rode a bit longer and at a good trot, Donovan quickly gathered his gear and mounted up.

He rode on for a little over an hour, relishing the cold and bracing wind as it caressed his face. As he topped the next hill, he gazed about the country with poetic admiration. His eyes lit up as he recognized the great way shrine that stood just another mile ahead. Moved by the sight, as well as a sense of gratitude for the safeness of the journey so far, he set his horse to a gallop. As he reached the shrine, Donovan brought his horse to a halt and dismounted for a brief respite of prayer and meditation. The bard looked admiringly at the carvings and sculptures of the roadside worship site. They were stylized, yet with a rich sense of detail that had weathered through the millennia. Way shrines of all sizes and designs dotted all the lands of Fidonhaal, but this one was among the most celebrated in Sorrenar as one of the largest and most elaborate ones around. Whereas most shrines were dedicated to Onu and one or two angels, or otherwise just Onu himself, this one depicted all of the angelic host.
For the relative symmetry of the shrine’s design, all of the angels except for the ones of Day and Night were grouped in their spousal pairs. A depiction of Onu’s unfathomable form overlooked all the angels, enveloping the sculptures within the shrine.

At the center of the sacred assembly stood Vitahla and Morinaar, the Angels of Life and Death. They stood together, with Vitahla on the left and Morinaar on the right. Both were robed and hooded, and held hands while also carrying their shepherd’s crooks and bearing their flasks on their hips. On either side of them stood one of the elemental couples, with Terranah and Stromarus to Vitahla’s side, and Vente and Branok to Morinaar’s. Terranah, the Angel of Earth, and Stromarus, the Angel of Water, stood together with their stunning figures of strength. Terranah held her great hammer, and her husband held his spear. Vente, the Angel of Wind, and Branok, the Angel of Fire, each bore their slender, muscular physiques. Vente held her longbow and Branok held his smith’s hammer.

Past the elements stood the seasons, with Kyse and Vernid on the left, and Estvii and Sardoth on the right. Kyse, the Angel of Autumn, stood beautifully plump and buxom as she held her full harvest basket. Her husband Vernid, Angel of Spring, stood beside her as a lean and virile man with a harp. Estvii, Angel of Summer, stood slender and graceful as she held the scythe. Her husband Sardoth, Angel of Winter, held his great wood-axe as he stood heavy-framed and barrel-chested. At either end of the angelic assembly, levitating and peering over the heads of their brethren, were Maywa and Yorun, the Angels of Day and Night. Gazing lovingly across the rest of the host into each other’s eyes, Maywa floated upon the left side and Yorun on the right. Maywa, petite in her short gown and warm in countenance, held her mirror. Yorun, slender and sincere in his robes and veil, held his lantern-bearing staff.
Behind Vitahla and Morinaar’s joined hands was the root of the design that represented Onu’s form, which branched out over all the host and formed the backdrop and overall structure of the shrine. It was simple and intricate, ancient, and yet timelessly pristine.

Donovan stood before it for a time, then approached it and sat down, crossing his legs and resting his hands on his thighs. He alternated between looking at the iconography and closing his eyes in contemplation and prayer. His mind, heart, and soul reached out to his Maker and the angels. Gratitude, reflectiveness, and hope for the future filled him.

Then, he heard footsteps crunching through the light sheet of snow that still covered the area. It came to his left side from behind the shrine. It was followed by the fur-raising sound of a bowstring being slowly pulled taut.

The bard’s eyes snapped open, and his head jerked in the direction of the sound. A few feet away stood a tall, heavy man. He was hooded and cloaked, with a cloth draped over his muzzle to further obscure his face. Only his green eyes and the white fur that surrounded them were visible, along with the white fur of his shins, which were exposed from beneath his kilt. The kilt, along with the muffled accent, pointed to the bandit being a native of the highlands, though there was no certain telling as to how far he’d come to set up this ambush at the shrine.

“Hoi there, laddie,” said the highwayman with a menacing sneer. “If’n ye’d kindly rise up, nice an’ slow, an’ hand o’er yer horse an’ gear, an’ whatever ye’ve got in yer pockets an’ purse, Ah’d be most grateful.”

Donovan, hands raised, slowly got up from his meditative position, locking eyes with the bandit and sizing him up as he slowly neared his horse. The bard had a dagger sheathed along the back of his belt, which was hidden by his cloak. In addition to music and song, Uncle Jak had taught the young bard a few pointers on self-defense as a man who had roamed the roads for many a year. He took his horse’s reins with his left hand, continuing to burn his gaze into the bandit’s green eyes, and cocked his right arm ever so slightly as he inched toward the robber.

“You picked a fine spot for targets, good sir,” said Donovan in bitter sarcasm.

“Nothin’ like makin’ use o’ a place dedicated tae the One who allows our lives tae go tae shite,” the bandit retorted, “even with all our efforts tae reconnect with him.”

“Who is also the One who guides and inspires those who look to help those down on their luck,” Donovan countered, now just a few paces from the bandit.

“Unless they’re more inclined tae sit on their high horses an’ scorn those who did wrong a time or two before, an’ tell ’em tae get lost.”

Donovan was now in arm’s reach of the bandit. He sneered bitterly, slowly holding the reins out to the highwayman.

“No point trying to convince you to check with the Temple, I see, or a druid or whoever else that may be a convenient option for you.”

“Nae, laddie; nae point indeed.”

“So, I’ve just got one question to ask, if you’d indulge me, since I’m surrendering all but the clothes on my back to you.”

“Aye?” the bandit replied with a mock tone of interest and the raising of an eyebrow.

Donovan did not wish to kill, if he could avoid it. His sense of honor, however, mingled evenly with his thorough contempt of the bandit, given his choice of locale to spring a robbery. As his temper began to rise during his discourse with the ruffian, the memory of a taunt that Jak had taught him years ago suddenly came to mind. Jak had whispered it to him one night, out of earshot from his father, following a less-than-pleasant incident with an out-of-towner at the tavern. As the young bard suppressed a shocked laugh in response to the phrase whispered in his ear, Jak said to “save it fer when ye have nae intention of makin’ friends with whoever’s being the arse,” as it had gotten the old bard banned, when he was a young rover himself, from ever performing in one far-off Enmayarn town in the wake of the brawl it set off.

Not seeing himself sharing a drink with the bandit anytime soon, Donovan figured he might as well indulge his crass streak and crack the taunt then and there. Hopefully, he thought, when combined with the sudden drawing of his dagger once the bandit got close enough, it would be enough to convince the hooligan that he was not someone to be trifled with, and that he should be left alone. As the bandit reached for Donovan’s reins, the bard sharply pulled them from his reach.

“Why don’t you just run off and brown a tart’s muzzle?”

The bandit’s green eyes narrowed, and Donovan grinned triumphantly as he made to draw his dagger.

It wasn’t there.

A hand suddenly grabbed the top of Donovan’s head from behind, cruelly digging its claws into his scalp as it forced his head back. Donovan’s own dagger then flashed before his eyes, which now felt as if they were about to pop from their sockets, before pressing coldly to his throat. His eyes snapped onto the first bandit, who was now roaring with laughter.

“HA! Aye, laddie, Ah just may do that, an’ Ah might use the shite in yer britches fer the job!”

Within minutes, Donovan lay on the crisp, cold ground in only his tunic and hose, tied up and cursing himself for not considering that a bandit rarely works alone.

“You damn idiot,” he said to himself. “If there’s anything about this that should surprise you, it’s that there’s only two of them.”

The two bandits, having taken all of Donovan’s supplies and arranging them on his stolen horse, were now debating something in low voices. Donovan pricked up his ears, straining to catch the words. Amongst the discussion, he picked up that the first bandit’s name was Ethan and the second one was named Broviir.

“Surely, Broviir ... hunt us ... if we leave him ...”

“That ... probably freeze anyway, Ethan ...”

“... Spare him the trouble.”

Donovan saw Broviir draw his stolen dagger, then walk steadily toward him. The bard’s blood froze in his veins.

“So this is how it ends, apparently,” said Donovan inwardly as he fearfully struggled to somehow try and regain his footing, which only prompted the highwayman to up his pace. “No! I won’t just let them slit my throat like it’s nothing! If I’m to die, it won’t be without a fight!”

As the bandit reached him, dagger ready, Donovan managed to turn onto his back and send his bound feet flying straight into the robber’s stones. Broviir dropped to his knees, spitting on Donovan and yelling a stream of curses. Ethan, setting his bow across his shoulder, approached to hold down the bard.

The bowman had just pressed his foot down onto Donovan’s chest when a sharp whistle sounded just down the road. The bard and the two bandits turned their eyes to the sound, and saw two riders galloping toward them from up the northeast road. Ethan told Broviir to get up and stand his ground.

“There’s only two o’ them,” said Ethan, “an’ only one o’ ’em looks armed an’ armored. We can take ’em if we need tae. We just got tae be smart.”

The two riders reached the way shrine as soon as Ethan finished speaking. The armed one, a Zaron woman who wore the armor and coat of a knight of the Faithguard, called out to them with an air of blunt authority.

“Release that traveler, sirs, and surrender your arms and come with us! We of the Temple will see that, should you cooperate, the justice dealt will be light and swift. Afterwards, we’ll offer you both a chance at redemption and a better life, either with us or wherever you wish under our endorsement.”

Ethan the bowman raised his hands in mock surrender, addressing the two with bitter sarcasm. “Och, praise be tae Onu! The great an’ wonderful Temple has come tae save us at last, Brov! An’ it only took ’em twenty-seven years o’ mah life, an’ mah little sister dyin’ o’ fever, tae get around tae it!”

The second rider, a heavy-set, middle-aged Mavon man who was clearly a priest, had his horse take three steps forward to address the highwaymen. Donovan noticed the Faithguard woman pull up beside him immediately, her Konothian axe and buckler at the ready, to do all she could to protect the cleric if things turned violent. The look on her face seemed to resemble that of a grown child vying to help and protect an aging father.

“I’m sorry that you’ve suffered so, sir,” said the priest. “Alas, for all our efforts, none of the Temple can be everywhere at once. But now, I am here, as is my Faithguard companion, and we swear that if you’ll come with us peacefully, we’ll–”

“Ye may nae be able tae be everywhere at once,” Ethan said, “but ye all are never failin’ tae give your guards good an’ shiny gear, or yourselves plenty tae eat, eh, Brother Porky?”

Donovan caught the look in the knight’s eyes as she stared fixedly at the bandits. They were bright green, same as the bandit Ethan’s. The knight did not make a single move in response to Ethan’s retort and insult, but the look in her eyes made the bard’s skin crawl, and set a dreadful shiver down his spine as he lay on the ground. The priest seemed to sense the protective fury of his guardian, and made to hold her back, only to see that she remained still. He then gave the knight a quick nod of approval, which Donovan wondered if either of the bandits, or even the knight herself, noticed.

“We work with the resources that the dear people of Fidonhaal give us,” the priest said with perfect calmness, “so that, in times like these, we can give the troubled a chance at a better lot, and guard and feed them as long as they’re in our care. But we need what we can get, too; our mission may be Onu-given, but we are not Onu ourselves, and thus are not invulnerable to harm nor impervious to hunger. I assure you, you’ll both have enough to eat if you come with–”

“Broviir!” Ethan snapped in exasperation, “What in Raakhaal’s blazes are ye DOING?”

Broviir, his dagger hand having dropped to his side, had taken a few hesitant steps toward the Temple duo.

“Ah-Ah ...” he stammered, “Ah think we’ve had enough o’ this sort o’ living. We’ll at least have a chance–”

“If yer goin’ tae slink any closer tae those two, it better be tae catch ’em off-guard!”

“Ethan–”

The bowman swiftly drew his bow and aimed it at his comrade. All the others present gasped.

“E-Ethan,” Broviir pleaded fearfully, “we ... we can have a chance–”

“The only chance ye’ve got is if ye stick with me, understand?”

“Ah–”

“Ah can’t believe ye got swayed by a few comfortin’ words from a couple strangers o’ the cloth,” Ethan yelled angrily. “After all the shite the ones back home gave us!”

The black-furred priest raised a hand, along with his voice, but only to speak clearly.

“Are those people still there,” he asked, “wherever it is you two come from? If so, give me their names and where they are. I’ll have inquiries made on their conduct and–”

“Stop tryin’ tae win us over, ye chubby chanter!” Ethan barked horribly as he spun in the priest’s direction, bow still drawn, more tautly than before. The Faithguard knight’s eyes narrowed dreadfully, and she tensed, axe and shield raised, to pounce in front of the priest if necessary. Ethan looked to Broviir, who stood staring dumbly at his companion in crime.

“What ye starin’ at, Brov? Rush ’em!”

Ethan let the shaft fly, and Donovan felt his heart leap up his throat.