Off the Beaten Track

With the caravan instructed to move on under the protection of the remaining guards, the captain (whose name you think might be 'Bimi', but that may also be the merchant's nickname for her. Are you brave enough to try using it? Do you know better?) requisitioned provisions from the stores --enough for a few days, but everyone is hoping it will not take that long-- and left them on the road to sort out the battle's aftermath.

The map is... not good. It clearly shows the ambush point --with another, crossed out, marking suggesting the original point on the main road-- but assumed those reading it knew where they were coming from. Meht if you had not taken over navigation from the captain, you are pretty sure you would never have found what you are looking for.

As it is, it is nearing sunset by the time you all realise you are getting near. The big hint is the unusual fog that permeates the area. This time of year, this time of day, there should not be fog, especially not localised to this one valley like this is. More than just the damp cold makes everyone shudder and pull their cloaks close around themselves.

• How are you approaching? What precautions have you taken?

---

Cook, you have never seen the 'temple' --most of the bandits haven't-- but you have all heard rumors... unbelievable rumors, mostly... about it and those of your who go there.

• What have you heard? What do you think is going on?

The bandit camp is mostly empty since they went off on a job. None of them have returned.
• Who else is still in camp, and why?

---

• What about Cook causes the party to give him a chance to join you instead of sniping him in the heart (the old "bandit queen's gambit").
Anyone should answer.

Cook busies himself with the camp duties - stirring the rabbit and potato in the stewpot, tending the skittish horses the bandits didn't trust to take on an ambush, beating blankets to get out the ticks. Jondar lets out a moan. Darn fool got clawed by a bear while he was taking a crap. Cook holds a hand to his forehead. "Huh, might recover. Might not."

Cook shields his eyes as he checks the position of the evening sky. "Getting late. Darn fools may have gotten themselves kilt. He-he, more rabbit for me." He stirs the pot and breathes in the aroma.

Cook has heard the bandits frequently talking about the camp. The riches it still holds, the powerful relics that will make them all kings. Pure foolishness. Poor men of limited character looking for a get rick quick solution to all their problems rather than putting in the study and work needed to achieve real power. Since they haven't found the supposed temple, Cook is starting to believe it might not even exist.

But then the fog rolls in. An unnatural thing with a touch of power to it. A touch of power that is familiar to Cook from his life before the Inquisitors. There's something happening here, but certainly nothing the bandits have considered in their wildest dreams.

Alycine has dressed up warmly for the journey, the chilly fog held back by the furs she put on. Maha hovers behind, keeping its trained eye out for any danger and ready to screech at a moment's notice. She waits patiently for Meht to return from his scouting trip and the subsequent report.

...

"...but would you rather question him?", she turns to face the source of the question, Meht.

"An old man with a bad leg, serving as a cook? Something seems off about this... it does not sound like the profile of a man who would willingly join up to pillage and plunder.

Hmm, given his age... I suspect he must know something about the temple we are about to explore. I dare say he might even be one of the caretakers, press-ganged by the bandits with no idea of his significance. Indeed, it is likely wise to stay your hand for this moment, Meht. Let us interrogate him, but try not to panic him and bring the bandit camp running back to us."

"A bad leg...?" The captain mutters to herself. She had been showing a limp for the last hour or so, and absentmindedly rubs her own leg in pain.

"I... we," she corrects herself, "don't care about the bandit camp." She almost spits the last two words. "It's the temple that matters. If he is a caretaker we need to question him." This all seems like a bit of a narrow view of the situation, and is not at all like the captain you know.

The old man continues stirring the pot a few moments before slowly turning around. His arm with the stirring spoon hangs at an odd angle and his face is crossed by deep, unnatural lines of age. A large clever is tucked into a leather apron, but the old man makes no move towards it. On seeing Rook, a look of confusion comes across his face and it takes several more moments before it resolves itself. "You're welcome to stew, but best be gone before the others return. They're not friendly."

He starts to turn back to the pot when his eyes turn skyward and a look of alarm crosses his face. Zanthos' annoying spy! I'll teach him to spy on me! The old man raises the spoon and points to the the falcon circling overhead. He mumbles a few unintelligible words and jerks his arm. "Bastard!" He stands there motionless for a few moments and then suddenly starts as if surprised to find himself pointing skywards. He seems to notice you for the first time. "Who are you? Best be gone before the others return. They're not friendly."

"Not that bright. Figured they'd get themselves killed. Either the fog, or the temple, or some other way." He turns back to the pot, either completely unaware or completely not caring about Albert's appearance.