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There is nothing around but shrubbery in the surrounding area. It's dusk, the sun is hanging lower and lower in the sky, and the air is becoming thick with chill. From where she's sitting at the base of a large tree, Harlan is not phased. Her eyes are focused on a camp ten yards away where a figure is sitting, their back facing her as they poke at a fire. Daggers gripped tight in her hands, she inches forward stealthily until she's in throwing distance. She's close enough and just about to throw.

A week ago, a young vagrant had crossed the path of the bandits' territory. Surrounded by axes and cudgels, he'd found himself confronted with the classic question: 'Your money or your life'. The only problem had been, of course, that he'd no money to rob, and only paltry posessions -- it had become necessary to explain to the criminals the value to them if he were not killed -- the rare ability he possessed to sense magic in objects, even when they had been long-dormant. How this might help them distinguish things of greater value, and how he could alert them to any active casting so no target could pull a magical attack without them knowing until it had already happened.

Unfortunately, though this preserved his life, this demonstration of value had not preserved his freedom -- so the lad sat now at some distance from the campfire, barefoot and with a length of chain secured about his ankle, trailing off a distance to a broad tree.

His eyes caught a wayward gleam of metal -- a dagger from off in the shadows -- and without seeing who it was in the bushes, he moved at once to duck and shield himself behind the log he sat upon.

"Slaveboy, are you trying to break your chains?"

Wandolfin, most just call him Randy, was a seiðman who was recently hired by the magicians. He would use his shamanistic powers to divinate great sources of wealth for them. He had very few reservations that they tended to be the homes of lords or the wagons of merchants, as he was generally paid a good sum for his work. Beyond that, the bandits were a rather fun bunch, always enjoying the best booze and meat they could grab.

He got up and walked closer to the prisoner and spoke.

"I recommend you stay still for a while. You don't want my employers to get antsy."

Celebrimbor suddenly jerked awake and gasped for air. His pale eyes snapped open with terror and confusion as he lay stiffly on a large stone table that had been eroded and filled to the brim with moss.

His eyes moved frantically, examining the crumbling ceiling above him in hopes that it may provide answers to where he was, but it unsurprisingly gave him none.

After a few more minutes of harsh breathing, the tall elf managed to roll off the table and fall to the floor with a thud. He immediately began shaking uncontrollably due to the amount of shock he was in, but it subsided a few moments after and Celebrimbor was able to lift himself to his feet with great effort.

Then, like a wave of thunder, his memories returned with such force that he quickly found himself falling once more. The rings, the power, the control, the deceiver, Sauron! It was all too much for him and he curled up into a ball, praying it would be enough to protect him from the darkness that filled his thoughts.

He lay there for quite a bit in this terror until, with a great effort, he said, "Celebrimbor. The hand of silver. I am the bright master. Yes. I am Celebrimbor!"

Upon seeing the figure ducking away, Harlan caught glimpse of the camp a bit more. Tents were torn and made of recycled quilt pieces, leathers, and burlap. A campfire smoked in the dead center, leaving a thick, dark plume rising skyward, and discarded items everywhere.

She moved closer, keeping her head ducked low in the shrubbery. What she was able to gather was this: whoever inhabited the camp was currently gone, possibly off hunting of pillaging if the piles of pottery and other home-ware was anything to go by. Overstuffed sacks that would definitely help her profit. Enough coin to last her a few weeks tops, just if she could just get her hands on a few things.

But whoever this was behind the log they were sitting on would have to remain quiet--and unarmed.

Harlan took another long look at the camp before advancing forward and spotting the figure a bit better now. A young man, or boy, by the looks of it, slouched, and with chains around his ankles. Though this wasn't what she was expecting, this would certainly be easy.

The blazing sun bore down heavily upon Anton. He wouldn't have minded it nearly as much if it hadn't been for his armor. He cursed the miserable globe as he removed his helmet to wipe the sweat from his brow and to replace the water lost from his body. He then tied his canteen tightly back underneath an armored plate near his thigh, donned his helmet once more and continued on.
"This damned camp has to be somewhere up ahead," he said to himself as he slowly made his way over the top of a small hill, "The reward for these bandits had better be worth all this trouble."
As he took the final steps to the top of the hill, a smile perked up from underneath his helmet as he sighed with relief.
"Why, there you are," he said with a chuckle to himself as he overlooked the jungle of torn tents, pots, and logs.
He slowly slid his pollaxe from the sheath on his back, taking precautions to prevent scraping it, and took it into both of his hands. This axe had been his closest companion since he had designed it, that and alcohol of course. He hoisted it onto one of his shoulders, letting it hang behind his back as he began to tread down slowly to the camp, ready to begin his work.

The lad swallowed, at the inquiry from the shaman -- "No -- I ain't been." He had made a couple escape attempts in the first few days of his captivity, but these attempts had seemingly stopped once he'd been kept tethered by a chain.

His eyes, dark, hollow, dull for a boy's his age, flicked wild about the dusky shadows, searching. "There was sommat... sommat out there, I thought I saw..." He was looking where he'd seen the gleam before, squinting. "A knife or..." His voice trailed off. The lad was tense, equally from percieved threat in the shadows and from the percieved threat in the shaman's words.

"Probably a wolf or bear. Eager beasts, see you as a chained up meal. But enough messing with you, I will check it out."

Jokes aside, he was not exactly confident to confront the threat. Shamans work with rituals and divination; outright combat is difficult for them. He cast a few quick charms to protect himself. First, a charm of Loki's Tongues. If it was an animal or whatever, he could speak to it. Next, a charm of Baldr's Last Wish, which had a good chance of making arrows simply bounce off him. And last, a charm of Fafnir's pride. If anyone made a break for the gold and tried to take it he would know.

"Attention beast or beggar. There is nothing for you here expect pain and death. If you value your life you are free to go elsewhere. Ask nicely enough I slaveboy might even through you some table scraps. Otherwise, get out!"

Celebrimbor lay there for what felt as forever. His mind was filled with his memories, all returning to him mercilessly. Yet for some reason, those memories felt as if they'd happened such a long time ago. He did not understand.

After a bit, the elf decided to at least figure out where he was so he slowly got to his feet, shaking with effort the entire time. He managed to take a single step before nearly falling but he caught himself on the stone table, leaning against it for support.

He remained still and looked around the room. It was a large cube made of pure stone. The table sat in the very center. A rectangular doorway appeared to be the only exit so, with wobbley steps, Celebrimbor made his way out of the room and was instantly blasted by the cold night air.
He found that he was standing at the top of a small temple that was located in the middle of a large forest. He could hear crickets and frogs and the sound of trickling water.

Celebrimbor frowned at this and solemnly realized that he had no clue where he was.

The minute Harlan started rummaging through a bag next to one of the tents, she saw a man walking towards the camp from the forest. She froze and stared at him, hand still hovering over the loot.

"Shit."

Harlan reached for her dagger at her left hip and took a quick look back at the boy chained to the tree. With a huff she brought her right arm back then flung it forward. The dagger went flying thirty feet, glinting in the sunlight. If this hit, she had a chance to run forward and attack at a closer range, if not, she would be in trouble. Harlan held her breath as the dagger seems to slow in mid air.

Lost again. That blasted Clannfear had no sense of direction, but this wasn't Tamriel. "This isn't where we were a second ago," The Argonian wondered aloud, "But this is much nicer than a Daedric ruin filled with banekin." He checked his surroundings, his red robes flowing in the breeze. A camp could be made out in the distance, about a few measures away. This would be his mark, seeing no fire yet many people. He hoped they would be kinder than the Daedra that attacked him at every turn.

"FRIGG! Why would you throw a dagger!"

It caught him hard in the shoulder. It didn't scratch the bone or open a vein, but it hurts enough to harm his joint mobility. But vikings don't get distracted they get mad. He grabbed the dagger and made a charge at the bush.

"I am going to rip your ears off and make you choke on them!"

Harlan immediately jumped over a large pile of firewood in order to duck behind a chest as the man charged towards her. Seeing a hammer to her right, she took hold of it and flung it towards the man with a grunt. Not turning to look and see if it hit him, Harlan took off running, running towards the opposite side of the clearing.

Harlan tripped over a few stones but managed to catch herself before coming to a steep drop in the terrain. Her stomach dropped as she almost lost her footing once again, her heart was pounding, but this was seemingly the only way unless she wanted to get herself killed.

She threw a look over her shoulder, then without hesitation, slid down the rocky slope and into shrubbery below.

The chained lad decided it was time to move, the moment the viking began to cast magic upon himself. Of course his range of movement was limited -- to a radius of about fifteen feet round the tree, and that assuming the chain didn't tangle. But the knife he'd caught a glance of had been thrown, and now he could see the instigator, the movements of the both of them. He bolted towards the tree which he was secured to.

His hands fumbling with the chain, and the lock which kept it from loosening. But of course his lockpicks had been confiscated ages ago. Taking advantage of the chaos to seize up as large a stone as he could -- trying to smash it into the lock on the chain around the tree. The one by his ankle, if he tried to do the same... he'd have a good chance of breaking his damn ankle, if he hit hard enough to break the chain! Smashing the rock into the lock again and again, with frantic movements. The lock would take a while to budge.

Friggin' bandits, it's always bandits. Manon thought to herself as she hid in the dense shrubbery that concealed her from her possible attackers. After leaving the safe confines of her hometown Manon had been the target of bandits repeatedly. Of course she understood why: young girl, traveling alone with way too many belongings, it was obvious she didn't know what she was doing. Hence, easy target. But Manon had nothing left at this point. That didn't stop a new group of bandits from approaching her camp though.

There were five in total, three men and two women, of various races but all clearly bandits. They were a rowdy group, which tipped Manon off as she sat at the small camp she had made for the night. It seemed like a good place, so she set out her bedroll and started a fire, scrounging up what food she'd found and hunted to assemble herself something that resembled a meal and that's when she heard them.

Their loudness gave Manon the information she needed to know how fast they were approaching and she was able to shove a few things back into her sack before she ran out of time and needed to run before she was caught. Manon tied off her belongings and shoved a spare roll of bread into her mouth and attempted to quietly make her way to a patch of trees and bushes packed tightly enough together to offer her shelter. Maybe these bandits wouldn't take what she left, maybe they wouldn't notice the newly started flames and try to seek her out. That was hopeful thinking, the type of thinking Manon abandoned early on in her new journey.

She needed a plan. She wasn't experienced enough as a fighter to successfully take down five, likely armed, individuals. She wasn't clever enough to lure them somewhere else. So Manon only had one option, run. But just as she shifted in her crouched position to take off a sudden mass of something rammed into her, knocking her over and knocking her dinner right out of her mouth when she let out a huff at the impact.

With a hard thud, Harlan slid right down into a body below her. They both fell hard, and Harlan was sure she slammed her thigh into a large rock as she landed and rolled away from whoever it was. Coughing, dust now covering her cheeks, she saw a girl ten paces away looking as if the wind had gotten knocked out of her. She made haste, however, shaking herself off and beginning to stand up.

Glancing upward at the slope towards the line of trees-and from down here, Harlan was able to make out that the drop had been a good thirty feet-she heard heavy movement. She pulled the other dagger from her hip and pointed it at the girl.

"You didn't see me. You didn't see anyone. If that man comes down here, you cooperate but you didn't see me."

And without another word, she cycled back and took off running over the rocks in the river some feet away, and dashing to the heavy woods on the other side. A good few minutes of running later, Harlan came to a halt as her chest ached. She leaned against a tree in order to catch her breath. The canteen she pulled out of her rucksack was full, thank goodness, and she took a long drink. She'd have to keep hiking until nightfall, but at this point, she was safer.

Harlan flicked her hood up over her head. She had to get moving.

As Anton approached the camp, he saw that it was deserted, entirely. The only evidence of life was the fire, still roaring, heating up the cold morning. He had heard shouting just moments before he entered the camp, so he likely did not have much time to set a trap before whoever was here returned. He looked around the camp for anything he could use to his advantage. As his eyes veered to the fire next to him, an idea sprung into his head. He quickly gathered up all of the oil lamps he could find and began to pour out the oil onto the canvas of all of the tents but one. He then reached his hand into the fire and quickly pulled out, already feeling the intense heat, with a flaming branch in his hand. He would have to be fast, as the leather padding underneath his metallic gauntlets would not stay the unbearable heat forever. He made haste going around the camp, touching the torch to the oil on the canvases, lighting all but one tent on fire. He made sure to pick a tent that was farthest away from the others, to keep the fire from spreading to it. This is where he would lay in wait for the bandits to return to their ruined camp who would, hopefully, be too distracted by the fire to notice the real threat, looming right under their noses.

Celebrimbor stood at the entrance of the temple with pure dissatisfaction because now, not only did he have no clue what had happened to him, but now he had no clue where he was.

Yet in this dissatisfaction, the elven lord noticed something high above the trees. A fire of great magnificence far in the east. But the sight of these flames brought back an evil memory. Memories of Sauron, burning Eregion to the ground, killing his people, and brutally murdering his family!

With this in his thoughts, Celebrimbor glared at the flames and suddenly a single name entered his confused mind; Sauron. He had to be stopped!

Without a second thought, he drew his magnificent elven sword and darted mindlessly into the forest, ready to kill.

Invaders -- it must have been another bandit clan, between the one who'd thrown the knife, and the one tramping square into the camp now -- Bialis wanted to avoid detection. And for the moment it was successful, the man so distracted in his looking around the camp that he seemed not to notice the lad. Instead he found a lamp, and... poured.

Lamp oil.

On the tents.

The lad's heart plumetted into his feet -- and with grunts he began to SLAM the stone into the lock with more speed and less care -- as the man began to light things -- but as the glow rapidly grew, the fear enveloped him, and panic overtook. He tried to pry open the battered lock, screaming, then bashed again and again -- the fire at the nearest tent was too close to the tree, he couldn't bear it, and pulled, at the greatest length the chain could achieve. Panic made his movements wild and thoughtless -- he was now striking again and again at the chain itself, screaming loud enough for even the wildly approaching elf to hear.

There was a seemingly faint noise outside of the tent Anton was hiding in. But as he pressed his ear closer to the canvas, he could make out screaming. "Damnit," he cursed, "whoever that is is going to ruin my plan."
Anton briefly looked out of the tent to check to see if it was clear before heading out towards the source of the screaming. As he peered around the corner he could see a small man, maybe even a boy, chained to a tree in the camp. "God! How could I have been so blind to have missed him the first time?" He thought to himself.
He thought he heard more yelling from multiple voices in the distance but he couldn't quite make it out due to the raging flames around him. Saving this boy would put his entire plan at risk, and he doubted the good deed would net him any payment, but he couldn't risk the boy giving away his position. So he hurried over to where the boy was trapped and brandished his pollaxe.
"Move back, boy," Anton said as he mustered up all of the force in his giant body, raised the pollaxe up, and brought it down as hard as he could on the chain. There was a clang, but the ground was not solid enough for the axe to put enough pressure. So he raised the axe up again, this time striking at the tree where the chain was connected. He struck several more times with the pollaxe until, finally, the boy was loose. "Quickly, come with me," he said as he rushed back into the tent