"Rise and shine!"

Alaric rose with a start. His eyes flew open and a hand shot for his cloak pocket. Instead of wrapping around the hilt of his dagger he found the pocket empty. Painfully bright sunlight fell on his face forcing him to squint. He wiped his eyes wearily as he climbed to his feet. Thick, black bars slowly came into focus. The fiends groaned behind him.

Alaric whipped around, suddenly wide awake. Both fiends issued identical swears and shielded their eyes from the sunlight streaming through a window opposite the cell. The deputy watched them with an amused smirk deputy while sipped a mug of what smell like black coffee. Aside from the four of them the room was empty.

"You're friends are fine," the deputy said lazily. "They awoke a few hours ago and are with the sheriff. If you agree to his deal, you can join them for breakfast in the staff quarters.

Alaric hesitated. The idea of helping the sheriff in exchange for his freedom still annoyed him. Part of him wanted to reject the deal just to spite the sheriff. But as much as he hated to admit it, there was no better alternative. Besides, persuading a few cultists to bother a different town could not be that difficult. He would be free by lunch.

"Alright," he relented. "Take me to the sheriff."

With a flourish and jangle of keys, the deputy unlocked the cell. After a moment of ear splitting creaking he was free. Despite every fiber of his being urging him to make a break for it, Alaric allowed himself to be guided to the door behind the counter. Once he resolved the sheriff's cult problem he could turn his back on Arborville for good. He barely suppressed a smirk at the thought.

The staff quarters were smaller than Alaric had expected. Two sets of armor hung in recesses carved into the wall to his left. At the far end of the room several tall cabinets stood at the foot of a simple straw bed. To his right, a light brown counter ran the length of the room, stopping before an ash filled fire pit and a grey chimney. Three wooden bowls released swirling clouds of steam from the counter. And in the center of the room, Gwenestra, Aldrin, and the sheriff poured over a small table completely covered by a weathered parchment map.

"Good morning," the sheriff said without looking up from the map. "Nice of you to join us. Grab some breakfast and we'll get started."

Aldrin and Gwenestra tore their gazes from the map to stare at them. Alaric averted his gaze, turning his attention to the steaming bowls. They were filled with colorless, lumpy mounds of porridge. The fiends examined the contents of the bowls with distain.

"Breakfast is regrettably limitted," the sheriff admitted. "Last night, our cult friends liberated our supply wagon of its more palatable options."

Alaric took the remaining bowl without complaint. He had survived off far worse before he ran away from the orphanage. The fiends however, were none too pleased with the meager meal. Ingatius glared at the porridge murderously and Fernae gnashed his teeth all the way to the table. Once they had all taken seats, Alaric careful to sit as far from Gwenestra as possible while avoiding her gaze, the sheriff began.

"Most of the cultist sightings were reported along the main road, here," he pointed to a section of road near The Broken Bottle. "They are most often seen at night or early morning. They focus their raids on trade wagons, but have been seen breaking into the blacksmith's. They conduct their raids in groups of two or three, looting as much as they can carry before retreating into the woods north of town here. Fortunately, Solëir saw them intercept a wagon last week and was able to follow them to here before losing them."

"That is where I said they would be," Aldrin interrupted.

"Yes," the sheriff continued. "But when I set after them the following morning I was able to track them a half mile further into the woods before losing them here. I suspect they have made their camp somewhere near this clearing."

Ignatius poured over the map, his porridge forgotten.

"Why do you think they stopped there?" he asked. "There is a creek another mile in and the trees are much more dense there. Between the trees and the creek, an encampment there would be easy to defend."

"I thought so as well," the sheriff agreed. "Which is why I scouted the entire area between the clearing and the creek. Whatever spell hides them from my tracking charms loses effect before the clearing. As far as I can tell, the enchantment is centered on the clearing."

Ignatius stroked his scaly chin. His eyes narrowed on map, darting between the creek and the clearing. He frowned as though trying to make sense of the cult's choice of campsite. Finally he gave an exasperated sigh.

"Perhaps they thought the creek to obvious a place to encamp," he said. "How many cultists are there?"

"I estimate a half dozen or so," the sheriff answered.

"Weapons and armor?" Ignatius asked.

"Mostly shortswords and daggers," the sheriff said. "And most only have padded leather armor, but at least two have full plate. Curiously, they have all engraved the same insignia onto their armor, a dragon facing a gemstone."

Alaric saw his own concern mirrored in the tensing expressions around the table. It was unusual for bandits to be so well equiped. Their past successes would likely emblden them when confronted. Driving them from Arborville would entail more than ferocious snarls and threats of bodily harm. Ignatius was quick to voice his own skepticism.

"The crest suggests some degree of unity and dedication to the cult. And if they have the means to forge their own armor, it is unlikely we will be able to simply scare them off. Forging armor is no easy feat and requires considerable time and effort," he said, then more accusingly continued, "Far more than is expected of cultist bandits."

He met the sheriff's gaze pointedly. The deputy, who had been leaning against the door so quietly Alaric had forgotten he was there, suddenly straightened and made purposely for Ignatius. A calmly raised hand from the sheriff was enough to stay him, though he kept his scrutinizing gazed fixed on the fiend from the door.

"Your assessment is correct, aside from one point," the sheriff said shredly. "I have reason to believe the cult stole the weapons and armor from a poorly guarded trade caravan passing through Arborville about a month ago. That is why they only have a few incomplete armor sets and a variety of weaponry.

A collective sigh escaped the table, though it was short lived.

"However," the sheriff started again. "I do believe they may have come into some kind of magical artifact in the course of their looting."

At this, Gwenestra straightened in her chair.

"What kind of magical artifact?" she asked with baited breath.

Alaric found her sudden curiosity strange. Then again, he found everything about her strange. Why was an elf, especially one of such a young age, trapesing about a foreign nation on her own. Elves were well known for their solitary nature. It was most unusual for elves to travel abroad at all outside of business, diplomacy, or war. Even when they did travel they never did so alone.

""I believe the artifact to be imbued with a concealment charm," the sheriff said. "And a powerful one too. That is why neither Solëir nor I could track them down."

"Do you believe it may possess other enchantments," Gwenestra asked enthusiastically.

"No," the sheriff said. "But I do wish to study it. If you are able to retrieve it, each of you will receive a considerable reward."

"How much?" Alaric asked.

"Ten gold auri."

Now it was Alaric's turn to refocus his attention. Ten gold auri was not what he would call 'considerable', but neither was it a small sum. To the average person, such a sum meant financial security for at least a decade. Alaric however, found his needs to be more costly. Even so, the sum would last him long enough to warrant the additional complication to his task and some. Perhaps this wretched town was finally making up for its inconveniences.

A knock at the door tore him from his reverie. The deputy opened the door to reveal a young boy no more than twelve years of age. Dark hair clung to his dirty forehead. His faded gray clothes stuck to his narrow frame. When the deputy knelt to hear his message, he spoke so softly even Alaric with his keen ears could not make out a word.

"Sir," the deputy rose with fresh concern wrinkling his brow. "You need to hear this."

"What is it will," the sheriff asked politely.

"It's Mr. Solëir, Mr. Sheriff sir," the boy, Will, answered nervously. "He's fallen deathly ill."

"He was fine last night," the sheriff said. "Have him taken to Alina. She can sort him out."

"She's the one that sent me," Will continued hurriedly. "Nothing she's tried has had any effect. She thinks he's been poisoned or- or-."

The boy gulped.

"Hexed."

"Very well," the sheriff sighed. "Tell Alina I will be there shortly."

The deputy deposited a copper auri onto the messenger's palm before escorting him from the room. Alaric could hear the deputy offering the boy repeated assurances it was unlikely a hex or curse was responsible for Solëir's condition. The sheriff sighed again.

"It's always something with this town," he muttered irritably. "Rick, give this lot back their things. Make sure they have day packs and water. Right. I better be off before they start panicking and muttering nonsense like murder or plague."

The sheriff rose abruptly. He bolted after Will with a snap of his fingers. One of the armor sets leaped from its place on the wall. In the blink of an eye every strap and buckle drew taught, firmly securing the protective gear to its owner.

"One more thing," the sheriff paused in the doorway. "There is a tracking charm on every single item we confiscated last night. Don't become my next problem."

A moment later he had disappeared. The deputy wasted no time carrying out his orders and quickly unlocked the cabinets beside the bed. Inside were all of their rings, weapons, and miscellaneous possessions. He began hastily returning the items. As each item returned to its rightful owner, the tags fixed to them the previous night fizzled into thin air. After a few minutes and some confusion as to which rings belonged to which fiend, the deputy resecured the cabinets.

"As the sheriff stated earlier, although the tags have disappeared, there is still a tracking charm on all of your things," the deputy said. "The charm will fade once you return here and the cultists are gone. There are day packs under the counter with fresh provisions. Take one on your way out. Take the map too. Good luck."

Alaric resisted the urge to chastize the deputy for uttering such a sentiment while forcing them to do his bidding. Instead, he focused on the reassuring weight of his dagger in his breast pocket. The fiends uttered identical sentiments in their native tongue before Ignatius scooped up the map and two day packs. Alaric seized his own pack, then followed them from the jail, only lingering until he heard Gwenestra mimic his movements.

Cool air filled his lungs replacing the stale air of the prison. Early morning rays warmed his face and arms. The last traces of pink faded from a cloudless sky. He could have revelled in the simple joys of freedem for hours, but there was work to be done.