Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-27550231-20200125011422/@comment-28358106-20200309031912

The carts have all had their aheels smashed, their contents spilled, the mules tethered to them cut free. Dried goods in small sacks and kegs lie scattered; bolts of bright fabric look like a shattered rainbow in the loam.

"Gods' balls...look at the fruit..."

Rose's mouth is practically watering as she shovels jars of dried fruit, jams, jellies, and preserves into a sack. That one full, she begins shoving small jars of dried fish, beef tack, bottles of cordial, and other foodstuffs into another. Her eyes glitter with anticipation of the upcoming feast, but she remains focused on her task at hand.

Bailey is methodically pulling open traveling trunks and seat compartments, yanking out anything that looks remotely valuable and stuffing it into a pack. Juno, despite herself, has come from her hiding spot and is beginning to look over the bolts of cloth, her eyes drawn to the beautiful fabrics.

"Only take what fabric you can carry in an armload, love," Dorian calls out evenly, his eyes never leaving the hostages. "And no patterns.  Be quick."

Juno snaps out of her trance and begins scooping up the bolts. In moments she has a teetering pile, and she staggers over to Dorian's mount and rolls them in a saddle pack before strapping them down as tight as her slender arms can manage.

As the merchant moves among his drovers and empties their pockets into the sack, one of the young men steps forward meekly, his hands clasped.

"S-sir," he begins shakily, "I c-cannot speak for my fellows, b-but I am grateful that you have spared---"

Dorian's sword flashes across the young man's face and he tumbles over with a cry, clasping his cheek as blood runs between his fingers. He groans and writhes as Dorian steps over and, slowly, deliberately, kneels next to him. His voice is cold and hard behind the dark mask as he presses the tip of his sword to the young man's throat.

"I've spared none yet, my lad. Speak when your betters bid you, or serve as an example of the end of my generosity."

The drover listens to this short speech through bloody, splayed fingers, his eyes wide with terror.

"Boss! We're loaded!"

"Capital."

Dorian stands abruptly and sheathes his sword. The merchant tosses the velvet bag, now plump with loot, at Dorian's feet, where it lands with a satisfying jingle.

"Here! T-that's everything.  Everything!  Take it!" The merchant's voice is dejected, almost a sob.

"Jolly good. Though I wouldn't say this is everything." Dorian picks up the sack and tucks it in his vest, clicking his tongue for his mount. Idly, he waves his pistol at them.

"You've got your own clothes, most of your comestibles, your offspring, two insufferably useless guards, a bleeding idiot youth, and your own miserable, shortsighted, greedy little lives."

He speaks the last line as he climbs aboard his saurian mount. The merchant steps forward, gaining a semblance of courage now that the emd of the ordeal is in sight.

"You mock us, sir! You mock us, to say we are the ones who suffer from greed, when you rob us of our livelihood!"

"Oh?"

The group steps back collectively as Dorian slowly rides closer. His tone is conversational, but he makes no attempt to hide his derision.

"You, sir, take the crop from the farmer for pennies because he pays his dues for land he does not own and cannot refuse.  He would call you a robber, I'm sure."

"And so you return this wealth to its 'rightful owners'? Is that what this is about, you vandal?" The merchant shouts. He jumps when Dorian throws his head back, laughing.

"Good gods, no! I'm going to bed a dozen silk-swaddled wenches while soaked in gin!  If that makes me a vandal, then a vandal I will die!"

With a shout, he spurs his mount, who turns and leaps away. They ride off into the forest, melting into the trees and underbrush, and in moments, they are gone.