Selm
The Southern Route to Groville
For only one silver piece a day, this job was positively ridiculous. And not in a hilarious manner. Selm scoffed at her previous self's desperation to get away from that city. Guard duty for a sleazeball halfling was not exactly her idea of "getting back on her feet" now was it? She couldn't deny the fact that at least she was getting some silver in return for the hours upon hours of walking through the Keldanian countryside… but her feet ached. She had blisters upon blisters and but a few coins in her pouch to show for it.
Rubbish, all of this. Selm was a noble! How could she have fallen so low as to have to guard a single cart containing whatever shady merchandise this sweaty repulsive man was carting about. Come to think of it, Selm hadn't seen Jonesy actually try to sell anything in their last few stops. Whatever was up with that, she wondered. And the company… oh there wasn't much to say about the company.
Selm was not the only guard hired to protect this cart, and apparently not the only one desperate enough to do so for such meager pay. Some had come and gone on this trade route, but the ones who have stuck around were just two others.
She cast her eyes to the otherside of the cart, through the gap behind the horse and in front of the cart itself. There, walking almost as sorely as she was, was the mage. Mr. Velemure was an obnoxious stuck up pretentious scholar. One who unfortunately reminded her of herself a bit. She shuddered in repulsion, the very thought of her past attitudes towards people causing her to cringe internally.
The half-elven man glanced at her, as if feeling the dwarven woman's gaze upon him. His thin eyes, both the color of an embering fire, stared back. She had to admit, he was a decent looking fellow, with his sable black hair shorn short on all sides and his angular face with sharp features. The earrings that dangled from his slightly pointed ears glimmered slightly in the sunlight, some runes that the mage seemed to care for. Like she said, a decent looking fellow, even in the dusty old mage robes he insisted on wearing.
"Can I help you, Miss Selm?" He asked, annoyance on his voice ruining any charm he may have had while his mouth was shut.
"Just keeping an eye out Mister Velemure," she replied, gesturing to the stone strewn hills the caravan was traveling over, "someone must." All she got, however, was an eyeroll. Selm's eye twitched. She still wasn't used to people giving her attitude. She could not wait for the moment she would leave behind this shoddy occupation and rise back to proper society.
The cart lurched briefly, the two horses pulling it straining against a particularly rough section of hill.
"Girl, get us up." Jonesy barked, dabbing at his forehead with a likely disgusting handkerchief. The 'girl' in question wasn't Selm, but the other guard who had stuck around this long. Selm glanced back to see her take her position behind the cart. Inathia was her name, Selm recalled. A dragonborn, one of races Selm had little experience with due to their reclusiveness. Getting the cart up this small section was seemingly light work for the scaled woman, on account for her massive size and sizable muscles covered in light red scales.
When they had first met, Selm couldn't help but be slightly intimidated by the immense size of the dragonborn. Selm herself was fairly average in height for a dwarf, standing at four and a half feet. Inathia, however, towered over her. She wasn't quite sure, but she could guess that her size was easily a few inches over seven feet. Tall enough to even rival the giant-kin that dotted Keldanis. Observing Inathia over time had dispelled the illusion of a mighty beast born of claw and scale.
The girl, which was an accurate term for the dragonborn(who seemed to be only just of age), was timid. Selm had seen new maid's on their first day of work in her former-manor who possessed more spine than young Inathia. Selm did not consider herself much in the way of a fighter(her only weapons being a large kitchen knife and her voice) but even she had been more useful in subduing a pack of gnolls who had been foolish enough to test the caravan's sturdiness.
The cart steadily climbed the hill, Inathia barely even straining to move it up farther. Thankfully, for both her and Mister Velemure's sake, Inathia was able to do a majority of the heavy lifting in this job, only requiring their magical aid in combat.
"How much longer until camp, Leadlock?!" Jonesy shouted, disrupting Selm from her musings about their little troup. The target of his belligerent words was riding by, checking on the caravan. Mike Leadlock, the guide and leader of this caravan gave an irritated sigh. He brushed his scraggly stubble before turning his horse around to better keep pace with Jonesy.
"At least three more hours, Bresweat." A Halfling surname, Selm presumed.
"It possible we can hustle 'nother hour in?" Selm desperately wanted to protest, detesting the sweaty little halfling even more. He got to sit on his cart all high and mighty while they were forced to walk. Selm, who before had never had to do so much walking in her life, was not enjoying this change of pace.
"Diminishing returns, Bresweat," Mike stated, shaking his head. "Time taken from tomorrow will need to be returned twice-fold. No, we keep to my schedule." Mister Velemure's head nodded subtly, agreeing with the caravan leader. Jonesy only grumbled further frustration evident as he dabbed furiously at his receding hairline. Mike gave Selm a minuscule pitying glance before returning to his previous route down the rest of the line.
They weren't too far away from the end of the caravan, of which consisted of just under twenty individual vehicles. From Selm's view, the caravan was made of carts transporting grain and vegetables, merchant's hauling their wares, and a few passenger carriages. All of these different vehicles, and Selm was unfortunate enough to get assigned to the one cart filled with mystery.
Jonesy didn't let anyone touch the cart, save Inathia when needed. No one was to ride with him when they were tired, nor were they permitted to see under the thick leather tarp that covered the interior, leaving no clue as to what actually was inside of the cart. The only certainty that she had was that Jonesy had their meals(a collection of porridge and a surprising amount of salted meats) and his bedroll under that tarp.
Paranoid… yes, that descriptor did seem to fit the small man well.
Regardless, she wasn't being paid to care about the contents of the cart. Jonesy had been quite naive about specifying their verbal contract. He simply had told them to protect himself and the cart. Thus, she didn't care.
Really. Selm was above it.
~~~
Selm was immensely curious, so curious she could melt. This entire trip, she had been silently scheming on how to find out what was inside that blasted cart. But every plan she had always seemed to have a fault. Something that could go wrong at a moment's notice. As much as she abhorred to admit… She desperately needed the meager pay. Selm barely had anything to her name, just the dress she wore and the few possessions she smuggled out in her pack, plus her "weapon".
It seemed that figuring out the contents of the cart would have to wait. How unfortunate. The caravan had stopped for the night, early enough in the evening for light to still be present. The entire caravan had curled itself up in a horseshoe formation off to the side of the road. People either slept in their carts or carriages, or set up tents and bedrolls inside zones created by vehicles. The beasts of burden had been tethered nearby-plenty of grasses and foliage for them to graze upon.
Selm grimaced. Yet another night filled with discomfort and soreness from sleeping on the ground. She only had a single rough sheet of cloth to use for her own bedding. Part of her… no, most of her yearned for the silken sheets and cloudlike softness of her old bed.
Jonesy had tossed their daily rations outside the cart before tying the tarp back over himself and his possessions. Inathia had distributed them quietly before going back to timidly sitting by the fire they all shared. Selm continued to eat the dried beef, the saltiness getting to her throat. Another thing she missed. Fresh fruit. The sweetness of a demurin, or having a basket of freshly picked cherries. The very thought of it was enough to cause her appetite to wane, unable to stand digesting anymore of these… rations.
"Inathia, finish these off." She tossed the rest of her meal(wrapped up in its cloth, of course) to the dragonborn. Early on she learned that the massive girl was always hungry. With just how pitiful the meals were, she knew Inathia simply had to be miserable from her hunger pangs. A small kindness, but it was a kindness Selm could still do.
Selm felt a small amount of warmth fill her chest, followed quickly by greater feelings of regret. She hadn't noticed these things a year ago. The only person who could be hungry was her. The only person who could be sore was her. All her life, she was a selfish spoiled brat. What a waste.
She shook her head, trying to clear the depressive clouds that were closing in on her the more she reflected. Now was not the time for self-depreciation. She needed her confidence now more than ever. If there was one thing Selm could do, it was put up a front. As long as she outwardly appeared as a competent(if not down on her luck) individual, then she could survive.
All around the varying campsites, there were conversations happening. Some of the other groups were huddled around their cooking pots, cooking up some meals that would be better than what their group had. Others were sitting on their bedrolls, or inside of their tents, and simply chatting the time away. She locked eyes with Melia, another dwarven woman, from across the camp. Selm received a polite nod.
Selm did not know how to feel about Melia. Melia was competent as far as she had seen. She was an adventurer afterall, traveling alongside her compatriots. Selm had only spoken to her twice before, but it seemed that the raven-haired dwarven woman held much more experience in the world than Selm did. Her very appearance seemed to speak volumes on this, even as odd as it was to Selm. Melia was always wearing heavy winter furs, a fluffy hat to match. Not to mention her gloves, a pair of pristine white silk gloves that reached up into the sleeves of her clothing. As odd as she appeared, Selm chalked it up to it being associated with Melia's worship of Winet. The goddess of frost and snow, as well as of winetus. Perhaps Melia's worship was conditional?
Regardless, Selm could not help but compare her situation with that of Melia's. Sure, Melia and her were doing practically the same job, but for Melia this seemed to simply be a means of travel. As an adventurer, Melia surely had other opportunities. Much more lucrative ones. Not to mention, she seemed to get along well with her companions: a black scaled dragonborn man and a flamboyant blonde human man.
Wait.
Was Selm… jealous?
Preposterous.
Jealousy was unbecoming of her, it was… beneath her!
Shame flooded back into Selm quickly. The feeling of inadequacy mixed with the bitter feelings of regret quickly resummoned those depressive clouds. If Inathia or Mister Velemure noticed Selm's tears form and fall, they didn't mention it.
"I…I-I will be back." She said, clearing her throat and standing up. The other two simply nodded, Inathia looking a tad bit concerned while Mister Velemure didn't bother looking up from the small tome he was studying. Selm quickly stepped past the cart and into the nearby treeline, trying to compose herself. Gods… what a mess.
~~~
It was dark by the time Selm's eyes had dried. Her throat ached a bit from the choked sobs she had struggled to keep down. This wasn't how her life was meant to go. She was meant to be pampered. She was meant to have anything she wanted. Why did she give it all up? Just why?
"Because I was curious." She whispered to herself. She had no one to blame but herself. It was her who started to look into just where her father was getting his riches. It was her who looked into their finances. It was her who snuck out to talk to a few workers under the cover of night.
Burning anger filled her briefly at remembering the confrontation between her and her family. That anger quickly burned at the feelings of regret, cauterizing them. She did not regret looking into her family. She was Keldanian, damn it. Honor was one of the one things she would not let her family take from her. What crimes they committed for their gold… it was beyond dishonorable. It was downright disgusting.
No, she may be out on her own now, but she is better off than she ever was. To the fiery pits of the hells with her past, this was her fresh start. Just like the regular common folk, she would build herself up. All she had to do was save her coins, find a good trade… yes… that was all she needed to do.
Her comparison to Melia, who was practically a stranger, still stung a bit. Selm would just have to live with that, however. Melia certainly could not be perfect. No one was. And, perhaps Selm could learn from her. Hmm… yes… that sounded like an adequate plan. Melia could offer advice to Selm. Ju-just friendly advice to a fellow dwarf, she reasoned. There was no way she would ask her "How do I become like you?", no… that would be beyond mortifying. And who just ask some-
Snap.
A sound echoed out around her. A branch being broken by something strong enough to do so. She was not alone here. It shouldn't be someone from the caravan, not with how far she walked into the trees. She was at least two hundred feet from the treeline.
Selm listened, all the while cursing at herself for forgetting her knife. With her throat as clammy as it was, she was unsure about her voice as well. Song was the best medium for her magic to spring into formation, a practice she had only recently had to put into combat, rather than entertain at galas. Worst case scenario, she just had to sprint back to camp and pray whatever it was was slower than her. Unlikely, she was not the fastest nor most agile of creatures.
Snap.
There it was again. She slowly backed against a tree, trying to not make any noise. It was close to her, hidden only by the thick underbrush and dense trees. Her heart hammered in her chest, making it nearly impossible to listen for any other sounds.
An onslaught of cracking twigs and branches drew her attention to the source of the noise. She instinctively drew herself inward, even closer to herself. It was a huge shape, covered in mud and some other liquid. Her panic was making it hard to discern what it was, her darkvision trying to differentiate the shapes.
Wait.
This was a person.
No, she corrected herself, this was two people. One carrying the other across their shoulder. And both were covered in blood.
"Help," said the half-orc, the one carrying the smaller figure.
He then promptly fell forward, unconscious.