A Muddled Trail
Twelfth of Olweje-hamba (Olweje Descendent), 1349 A. L. (After Landfall)
"There, there's the son of a bitch!" Not you will admit the most encouraging start to your attempts at negotiations... and neither are inventive comparisons of your lineage to a goat. If you were five years younger odds are you would have run the fellow in the lead through. As is you motion with your sword to the narrow gap between the bud-brick houses where the lone of the rustlers had run though.
"There the true enemy monsters among us!" you shout and there indeed the daemon was trying to write some foul spell in its bile.
Whether it be the sight of the flaming blade or the word 'gukhra', which means something like 'monster' and something like 'plague on man', you do not know, but the lead thug looks at the thing and calls out to his fellows that you spoke truth.
Alas the demon too has heard, though you can see no ear upon its loathsome form. With a hiss like an air filled sheep's bladder being punctured the thing whirls towards you, tongue playing among its jagged teeth... and with a ripple in the air it is gone.
As you curse it Silver's eyes glow soft green and he calls out from beneath you: "It's not gone, but veiled. Strike when I say!"
So your friend bears you into battle, shield on one side, sword outstretched, guided by the insight he had gained in dreams of power. "Raise your hand... up... up left, horizontal strike." Then he turns abruptly with such force as might almost throw you from your saddle to surprise the foe and calls out with the full power of his deep lungs behind it. "Now!"
Durendal flies, an arc of fire in its wake, an arc of demon's blood frothing and foul upon the air. You hear it scream and then by the trail of ichor you mark its flight, for none of you have wings to follow where it goes, up and up, into the clear blue skies of summertime to wreak to wreak who knows what evil upon the world of man.
A hush falls on the company that had so recently been drawn in mortal battle, the sight of a demon fleeing, the sound of a talking horse more than enough to cool the blood even as it bewildered the mind.
The man at the forefront of the Purple reinforcements bears their colors, or perhaps it is better to say bore them. What must once have been a vivid purple sash, of the kind only the highborn are known to lightly bear had been stained with dirt and blood, with other less recognizable substances until it was more of a dull grayish-brown with just enough of the old color to stand out.
"Well ain't that the shit!" the man spits over his shoulder, a kind of warding, or call to his gods perhaps to bring good fortune. "D'you bring that thing here sell sword?"
Odds are it had been more interested in you than in the goats, but you are not about to say so now that you finally have a chance to talk top one of his ilk who is not minded to rob you or fight you.
"That sort do not come at the behest of men, but only on their own foul errands. None but fools think they are the masters of the Neverborn," you reply instead. "I come to bring word to your leader than there is much evil and confusion between us, the mark of one who has stolen from his coffers and almost cost me a dear friend."
"You call one of the Highborn friend man of the sword?" the thug asks as more of his fellows come closer, but though these are no less rough company, clay-footed, some in the city call them, those who walk barefoot in the mud of the Kime.
"I call Odorin Koire that yes," you reply, sheathing Durendal. For his part Tom does not look the least pleased to be lowering his spear and as for Wanderer... well you are just glad Tom managed to get him to fight the thieves when you did
"Heard of that." He looks around at his men and then chooses a boy, no more than fourteen if you were to guess and twitchy with it. "Broke Tooth, go get Arram and see what the hell's going on..."
***
As it happened you were right about Arram's back being broken from the blow, though the fellow who had summoned him does not seem that torn up about the fact. So it is with less surprise than he perhaps expected that you greet the belated introduction of: "Kefele Akumu, now what's this about you and I sharing a foe and where in the hells did that Neverborn came from? You talked like a priest about 'em, but that don't answer my questions?"
The rough speech belies the hall you had been invited into, thick with the aroma of mint tea, flat bread and soft cheese set before you with a side of dates. The curtains, actually purple and much cleaner than some of the clothes your interlocutor was wearing dance in the evening breeze. There is a kind of swagger in the grime and the blood you now realize, like a veteran knight might count a dented shield more precious than one freshly painted.
What do you reply?
[] Admit that the Neverborn might have something to do with you
[] Claim ignorance, for all you know those thieves might have been under the hand of someone mad enough to deal with their ilk
[] Write in
OOC: Tying to do both things at once guaranteed that the cacodaemon would be able to go invisible, but luckily for you Silver has magesight and even more luckily... this. You wounded the thing enough to make it clear it was there, but of course you have no wings 
