~~
The pair rowed their pack-laden boat down the River Elid in the dead of night. They had found the dead assassins’ ship, half sunk in the sea, a short walk from the ruins of Unkah. It had been another day of searching to find the longboat which had been rowed to shore and then set adrift when its owners perished, then another day to portage it across the sounds before they could find a low bank to the waterway. Then 2 days rowing inland, following the trail of the thief. Despite inhabiting the body of an old, frail, shaman, Ophius bones were filled with unholy power, and they pulled the oars longer and harder than Theophania could.
The single blue-lava lantern hoisted at the stern cast long shadows to the far bank of the sandy river. Thia gulped nervously as she spotted first the half-gnawed carcass of some unidentifiable creature, and then the fatbodied crocodile that had apparently caught it. She muttered a swear, then picked up the oars and pushed again.
It would be a long night.
~~

Night had fallen, and the heat fled the desert.

The thief’s hireling had sitting bolt upright for hours. His bind were relatively loose – he had room to turn around, sway, wriggle and writhe, had he really wanted to – the problem was that he had quite a bit too much room. Tall, sturdy trees were rare in this part of the world, and Thia had made do by throwing a rope around a cactus. A poisonous hesporic cactus, with spines 8 inches long and dripping with shiny toxic sludge. The polite thing to do would have been to put up a board behind him, but, again, trees were rare and good lumber was expensive in this part of the world.

The hireling was beginning to shiver. He didn’t like what that did to the buffer of air behind him.

Ten yards away, the queen and the reanimate made camp, watching the captured curmudgeon out of the corner of their eyes. Ophius fed bits of dry brush to a small fire. Thia picked weevils out of their hardtack. Ophius raised an eyebrow. “Too rich for you, your highness?”

Thia made a face. “I’m royalty, not a monk. I don’t need to eat weevils if I don’t want to.” She then bit into a bug-beset biscuit, as if to make a point. “Bleh.” She made another face, picked a weevil out of the remainder, and tossed it into the simmering stew-pot with the others. She stood up, rummaged through some packs, and pulled out a broad, evil-looking knife.

“Fresh meat today!” she called out, and stalked out ominously away from the fire and towards the bound prisoner.

He squirmed uncomfortably.

Thia raised her knife and brought it down savagely, over and over. There was a squeal, a squawk, some tears and wet squelching. Onion and trapped magpie followed the tack into the pot. Thia pointed the bloody knife at the prisoner.

“Imagine what I could do to you with this.” She laughed, and patted him on the head, shoving a weevil-filled square of hard tack into his mouth.
~~