"Prodigal Sons"

Note · 60 gp · Weight 2

"'It's done,' I said. Miliken studied me with narrowed eyes. 'You look awfully clean,' he said. 'Where's the knife?' In answer, the first shouts went up from the inn. 'Fire!' screamed Ilna, and then other voices joined hers. In an instant, Miliken's entrepreneurial instincts took over, and he sprang for the door, tossing the crossbow aside. Outside, the roof of the inn was already smoking oily black against the sunset, flame licking through the thatching in places. With a scream of pain, Miliken ran for the creek. I looked to Phargas. Needing no further cue, we each grabbed up armfuls of supplies and sprinted off in the opposite direction. After ten minutes of leaped brambles and ducked branches, we stopped to catch our breath. Back the way we'd come, the smoke was still visible, though the sounds had faded to just the faint and frantic pealing of a church bell. 'That was close,' Phargas said, leaning against a tree and breathing hard. 'Agreed,' I puffed, staring down at the cloak full of bread that now made up our sole possessions. Then the sound of the bell reminded me of something. 'About what you said back there,' I asked. 'You said Shelyn. I thought you were a priest of Desna?' Phargas grunted. 'A man's faith is a personal thing,' he said, tying up the cloak. 'Now shut up and keep running.' And we did."