“Potions! Potions, straight from Pisces-”

“Fresh knit clothes and wear! Products all the way from-”

The hollering people pour out from their respective stands, unorderly set in crooked lines.

He registers the crowd. Either the Marauder is late, or he is, or this was a miscalculation. It will be a hassle to have to repeat this process again, and there is no given second chance to be as promising. Coming from the direction and entering the capital’s borders should take less than a day to reach. Less than a day, being the day before.

Evening sets itself on the dirt path of the stands. Awning curtains open to block the rising sun. He settles for his hood and steps inside an awning to let a crowd pass, and finds it empty.

“Auxilium, rare and from-”

Potions are set neatly in display, lying in wooden shelves unattended. Different shades of light, encased in tagged bottles stand in waiting. He picks up a glass vial of flickering jade. Steady light without flame. A tag is tied to the rim with a straw rope, and reads: “Healing; minor dosage, half vial”. He turns the bottle around in his hands to examine.

It’s not. It’s not a healing potion.

When he uncorks the bottle and spills a drop on the ground, the surface caves in on the drop of a dark seethe. The seethe traces the dirt surface in a thin layer, then quickly disperses into the air after rising in a light smoke. The dirt appears unchanged. No one stands to guard the coins left astray on the table from purchases. Yet surprisingly, it seems untouched. He decides asking the trader next stand and goes immediately against it upon seeing it to be none but “the bold and brave”. There our hero goes, behind the stand. Completely out of reach and view. He possibly can’t ask him anymore. Except he wasn’t going to. Except now he can’t.

A quick flash of yellow and black has the trader at the point of a blade. A gloved hand silences him. Bold and brave and stabbed. Not much can be said there- he got stabbed. Nothing more to it. Dagger metal squelching inside embedded flesh with a wet, squelch noise. He continues to watch, unnoticed. The cloaked figure removes the dagger. That now leaves much more to say- the red dribbling out of the mouth, the growing blossom by the front of the shirt, the limp angle of the arm, the red-

Several displays from the potions stand crash down as he knocks them. Someone peers in. (He almost does a bowing hand gesture towards the tragically dying hero. Ta da.) Screams pierce. Commotion sounds.

“IT'S THE MARROW-”

“Riders, where are the riders-”

“It's going to be okay, it's going to be okay- sweetie, close your eyes and hold my hand-”

“CALL THE WHITE RIDERS-”

Dust rises beneath running feet. Several more stands knock over. The cloaked figure hasn’t turned, but speaks, softly, to herself. “He seemed to be nice.” Soft clangs sound from the vials that are buckled to a sling. A mage. The Marrow herself.

He passes unnoticed, and crouches in a space between the wreckage, a potential exit. Among shattered shards of bottles and vials, with loose liquids, he grabs a - proper - healing potion.

“I wouldn’t say, no.” He replies. She turns abruptly and eyes him with curiosity, crouching and vulnerable. He meets her gaze with a friendly mask, potion in hand. He doesn’t move out of her way.

“Are you trying to stop me?” The edge of the dagger pointed towards him is daub in colour. Dripping. It steps closer. “What would make you, of all in the Cope, capable of stopping me?”

“Me? No one else? Untouched coins glitter, spilled from the potions stand.

“You’re late.” He counters with a laugh.

“What for?”

“Your company.”

“What are you-”

“Yesterday night, first day of the market. Quarter after the second Hora, towards the border edge a full day ago. May I suggest you run? You might still make it in time.” Ruse. Detainment.

Gamble. “The Marauder?” He offers, starting to stand.

She changes her stance, fully facing him. Her hand is on a potion. Fighting stance. He feigns nonchalance with a shrug and looks over her shoulder. The wound of the bold and brave doesn’t seem too fatal.

“Where is he now-” She unlatches a potion as a threat. He immediately drops and kicks away his own to fake surrender. The healing potion stops right next to the bold and brave.

“Where is Blue- ” She snarls, approaching closer. Behind, bold and Brave manages to take a gulp.

She begins to mutter words. Her hand hooks and unlatches a dark red liquid. In response, he reaches for his handgun and quickly points it before she can stop him. She looks straight in his eyes as a threat. It speaks for itself. A flicker of blue. Steady light without flame.

He looks again to the Marrow- her black hood has fallen to show the face- 16? 17? Red flame ripples at her hands in glaring light. He dodges the spell, and several potions shatter behind him. A voice cries in anguish. He dodges the next spell with the same ease. Looks her in the eye again. Its, irregular-

“Where is Blue-”

She turns and slices a broad arc. Blood on the blade’s edge flecks the air. She throws a spell and lunges with her dagger in hand. He steps out of the way, still locking eyes. The lunge leaves her arm outstretched, and he pulls her cloak sleeve over the point. The fabric catches around the cutting edge and he grabs the covered dagger by the blade. She tries to drive the dagger into his palm. He pulls it back with her. The sleeve cuts and the dagger falls. He snatches it during its fall. He slices at her sling. It cuts and falls. Glass lands on dirt with a clatter. She steps back and swoops down to grab a single potion. She prepares to launch, eyes defiant. But he’s behind her, dagger at her neck. She glares at him with corrupted eyes.

Searching. Killed. Marrow. Marauder. Kill. The intent of a wanted of murder-

But it's not. It’s not wanted.

He sighs. Slowly steps to the side with his hands raised. He presses her dagger to her hand.

The clop of horses echo louder.

“What are you-”

“Leave.”

He steps out of the way.

“Run to your left. Less prone to ambush. There’s a forest if you go straight, but try your best to stay off the road.” She doesn’t move. He shoots off the potion in her hand. It shatters and a splinter cuts her in the cheek. The sound of horses rise with muffled voices upon hearing the noise.

He shoots again, this time to the sky, waving a goodbye with his other hand.

“Elias.” He calls out, gesturing to himself.

She runs without a word.

To her left, at least.

***

He tells the Riders the opposite direction.

He places some of his syhoses on the broken potion stand and buys the rest of the ‘mislabelled’ potions of the Marrow for the labelled price.

He doesn’t encounter the Marauder.

The sun is setting and in what seems like failure. He needs an alternative way to approach the Marauder. He’s acquired new information, and that seems to be less of a challenge than it was before. But new challenges-

The coins left untouched and her singular speech made it obvious. The “Marrow” was not with the Marauder. Both by distance and seemingly purpose and side. He turns the mislabelled healing potion in his hands, pondering. The intent of a wanted of murder-

He puts the vial in his pocket.

When did-

Impressive.

His pocket is empty, wallet gone.