The caravan stretched across the dusty road like a slithering beast, a train of ragged outlaws, pack mules, and creaking wagons groaning under the weight of ill-gotten gains. The air was thick with the stench of sweat and blood, the metallic tang of looted weapons mingling with the sour reek of unwashed bodies. Laughter and curses spilled from the group, a cacophony of voices that grated against the stillness of the forest.
It wasn’t a noble procession. It was a roving menace.
A band of killers, thieves, and swindlers, all bound for a city where the law dared not tread.
Jolly Jack Vance rode at the head, perched atop a sturdy warhorse he had “acquired” some weeks prior—a fine beast, far too good for its previous owner, a merchant who had the unfortunate habit of traveling alone. Jack had taken a liking to the animal’s easy gait, and in a rare moment of charity, had let the merchant keep his boots before leaving him for the wolves.
He grinned at the thought, running a hand along the horse’s neck. “Ah, Buttercup,” he murmured, patting the mare affectionately. “You’re too good for the likes of me.”
Behind him, Sturgis the Sly rode with one eye constantly scanning the men around him, his paranoia honed to an art. A man didn’t survive in Jack’s company without developing an instinct for treachery. Not that Jack minded—it kept his men on their toes.
Lazy “Lucky” Bob trudged beside one of the wagons, half-heartedly chewing on a strip of dried meat, his gaze darting between the looming treeline and the heavily-laden carts. He muttered something under his breath about weight distribution and trap-laden roads, but nobody was listening.
Jack twisted in the saddle, taking in his men. Some were laughing, swapping stories of past crimes, of loot well-earned and blood well-spilled. Others were silent, brooding, gripping their weapons a little too tightly. He could feel it in the air—tension.
Rash’Kel was a haven, yes. A city where their kind could trade freely, spend coin without scrutiny, and rest their heads without some do-gooder’s sword at their throat.
But it was also a city full of men just like them.
Jack had seen it before. Criminals didn’t trust each other. They tolerated, they schemed, they smiled through gritted teeth while fingers curled around dagger hilts. Rash’Kel wouldn’t be an easy place to thrive. The moment they arrived, they’d have to carve out their own space. Stake a claim. Make it clear they weren’t just another pack of wandering outcasts looking for shelter.
Jack turned to Sturgis, who was flipping a dagger idly between his fingers, his lips pressed into a thin line.
“You’re thinkin’, Sturge,” Jack said casually. “I don’t much like it when you think.”
Sturgis caught the blade mid-flip and shot him a look. “Just wonderin’, boss,” he said, his voice low, cautious. “We’re heading to a city full o’ men like us, aye?”
Jack nodded, amused.
“So,” Sturgis continued, “what’s to stop them from carvin’ us up the moment we step through the gates?”
Jack laughed, throwing his head back. “Oh, my dear, simple Sturgis.” He reached over and clapped the man on the shoulder. “That’s the beauty of it! They won’t.”
Sturgis narrowed his eyes. “And why’s that?”
Jack grinned. “Because we’re going in loud.”
Sturgis groaned. “Jack, no.”
Jack spread his arms. “Oh, come now! We’ve just been cast out by the law. We’re exiles, homeless rogues, men who once ruled the outskirts of Fabernum and are now forced to flee!” He leaned in, eyes gleaming. “And we’re going to make them love us.”
Sturgis frowned. “Love us?”
Jack winked. “Rash’Kel’s crawling with cutthroats and cowards, aye, but men like us? We don’t just admire winners—we become them. ” He gestured behind them, at the caravan, at the armed riders, at the sheer force of their departure. “You think these bastards in Rash’Kel are gonna see us as runaways? As little lost lambs?” He grinned, flashing teeth. “No, my dear boy. They’re gonna see us as conquerors.”
Sturgis muttered something about getting stabbed within the week, but Jack didn’t care.
The road stretched ahead. Rash’Kel awaited.
And when they arrived, the city would know that Jolly Jack Vance had arrived.
They would not sneak in like rats. They would ride in like kings.
It wasn’t a noble procession. It was a roving menace.
A band of killers, thieves, and swindlers, all bound for a city where the law dared not tread.
Jolly Jack Vance rode at the head, perched atop a sturdy warhorse he had “acquired” some weeks prior—a fine beast, far too good for its previous owner, a merchant who had the unfortunate habit of traveling alone. Jack had taken a liking to the animal’s easy gait, and in a rare moment of charity, had let the merchant keep his boots before leaving him for the wolves.
He grinned at the thought, running a hand along the horse’s neck. “Ah, Buttercup,” he murmured, patting the mare affectionately. “You’re too good for the likes of me.”
Behind him, Sturgis the Sly rode with one eye constantly scanning the men around him, his paranoia honed to an art. A man didn’t survive in Jack’s company without developing an instinct for treachery. Not that Jack minded—it kept his men on their toes.
Lazy “Lucky” Bob trudged beside one of the wagons, half-heartedly chewing on a strip of dried meat, his gaze darting between the looming treeline and the heavily-laden carts. He muttered something under his breath about weight distribution and trap-laden roads, but nobody was listening.
Jack twisted in the saddle, taking in his men. Some were laughing, swapping stories of past crimes, of loot well-earned and blood well-spilled. Others were silent, brooding, gripping their weapons a little too tightly. He could feel it in the air—tension.
Rash’Kel was a haven, yes. A city where their kind could trade freely, spend coin without scrutiny, and rest their heads without some do-gooder’s sword at their throat.
But it was also a city full of men just like them.
Jack had seen it before. Criminals didn’t trust each other. They tolerated, they schemed, they smiled through gritted teeth while fingers curled around dagger hilts. Rash’Kel wouldn’t be an easy place to thrive. The moment they arrived, they’d have to carve out their own space. Stake a claim. Make it clear they weren’t just another pack of wandering outcasts looking for shelter.
Jack turned to Sturgis, who was flipping a dagger idly between his fingers, his lips pressed into a thin line.
“You’re thinkin’, Sturge,” Jack said casually. “I don’t much like it when you think.”
Sturgis caught the blade mid-flip and shot him a look. “Just wonderin’, boss,” he said, his voice low, cautious. “We’re heading to a city full o’ men like us, aye?”
Jack nodded, amused.
“So,” Sturgis continued, “what’s to stop them from carvin’ us up the moment we step through the gates?”
Jack laughed, throwing his head back. “Oh, my dear, simple Sturgis.” He reached over and clapped the man on the shoulder. “That’s the beauty of it! They won’t.”
Sturgis narrowed his eyes. “And why’s that?”
Jack grinned. “Because we’re going in loud.”
Sturgis groaned. “Jack, no.”
Jack spread his arms. “Oh, come now! We’ve just been cast out by the law. We’re exiles, homeless rogues, men who once ruled the outskirts of Fabernum and are now forced to flee!” He leaned in, eyes gleaming. “And we’re going to make them love us.”
Sturgis frowned. “Love us?”
Jack winked. “Rash’Kel’s crawling with cutthroats and cowards, aye, but men like us? We don’t just admire winners—we become them. ” He gestured behind them, at the caravan, at the armed riders, at the sheer force of their departure. “You think these bastards in Rash’Kel are gonna see us as runaways? As little lost lambs?” He grinned, flashing teeth. “No, my dear boy. They’re gonna see us as conquerors.”
Sturgis muttered something about getting stabbed within the week, but Jack didn’t care.
The road stretched ahead. Rash’Kel awaited.
And when they arrived, the city would know that Jolly Jack Vance had arrived.
They would not sneak in like rats. They would ride in like kings.
