The Next Day

A little food, a little drink, and a little rest is well earned and well had, in as much as the party can bring themselves to indulge in any of those things in such an unfamiliar setting. But the upper room proves secure, and the chief's den even more so; and rising at dawn you reconvene to prepare to continue your mission. Your breakfast options are limited: most of the peasantry in Brackenwall begins the day with a wholesome but unappetizing sludge made from macerated wheat fibres, either suspended in water for weak stomachs or in a kind of breakfast lager for stronger ones. This is the staple diet, you surmise, that comes from their trade with the Barrens; the silos full of wheat from that superior farmland, for the exported sacks upon sacks of thickspike wheatgrass better suited for animal grazing, but which happens to be able to grow in the appalling saline conditions of Dustwallow Marsh. But a couple of enterprising vendors are selling individual fruits from their backyard farming efforts, and though supply is limited and quickly exhausted, you're able to snatch some up with a trivial purchase, if you want to. The ranges are again limited to the trees and plants the locals have been successful in growing in this salty interior marshland: rugged little coconuts, sweet pomegranates, and fresh figs all of which are very similar to the same you've sampled from similar village farming near Theramore. More exotic is the jambola, apparently grown from seeds traded from a wandering pandaren cartographer from her much rumored and mysterious home. It strikes you as a kind of primordial citrus fruit; a sort of proto-grapefruit-mandarine as large as a human head. It has a soft enough rind that can apparently be candied, and the fruit within has a familiar citrusy portioning that peels naturally enough by hand into about a dozen wedge shaped segments. It's sweet enough to the taste, though it's no show-stopper like a blueberry or a cherry; and you can't quite shake the feeling that it belongs to some weird class of ur-fruits that modern tongues were not meant to know.

You're waiting by the gate out of town when Targ makes good on his promise, and a couple of grunts bring you your cadet. He's escorted additionally by the taciturn, sharp eyed orc that spectated on your interaction with the chief before. Aside from the perhaps unnecessary vigilance of three warrior orcs, the cadet seems well treated enough; though he had been deprived of food for a couple of days, he had been given water to sustain him and he's had a dinner and breakfast since you've arrived. He's in his dirty gambeson and leggings, the kind one expects under any armored skin; with the rest of his regalia in the care of one of his escorts. A flop of black hair keeps dangling into his eyes, and he keeps brushing or blowing it aside; and the face behind it is wary, but not overtly traumatized. Your arrival in Brackenwall came before the things could happen to him that happen to happen to men thought to be spies, even in nations that are theoretically in a cessation of open war; and you hesitate to entertain a thought about what might have happened to him, and how different your stay in this town might have been, if anything had delayed your coming.

"He's all yours, for now. I'm told we're to take him back and make him comfortable for a few more days, if you ask." One grunt says to Jakk'ari in broken Zandali; handing the cadet a bundle of sackcloth with a crested Theramore helm and sheathed sword on top. It doesn't take a genius to see these horde soldiers would much prefer the cadet appear capable and healthy enough to leave with you, but are obligated to house him longer by your diplomatic efforts if you so demand. "But after that, no return visits from Alliance military without proper announcement and acknowledgement." This is a repeat of the same admonishment Targ had offered in discussion the night before, and is boilerplate military diplomacy that is unlikely to stop small infractions like this anyway, yet is conjured up like a superstition when they occur all the same. The gates close behind you, and once you're out of ear and eyeshot of the orcs, the cadet - the first conscious one you've had the privilege of encountering.

"Bloody savages..." He grumbles, as he begins working his way back into his chainmail, looking back over his shoulder to the guard tower, looking down at him. Soon, though, he's looking at the party, as he plops down on his backside and threads his legs into his chain chaussers. "I don't know how you found me, but I owe you my life. I'm Felix. I stumbled my way to Brackenwall because I thought I was dying, but it turns out I'm just soft as fish paste." He gestures to a rent portion of his chainmail, over the left breast, where some slashing strike has carved through the links and the gambeson beneath, staining both with blood.. but not an awful lot of it. "The orcs stitched me up and locked me up trying to find out what my 'mission' was. I tried telling them we didn't have a mission except trying to keep the swamp free of demon dabblers, and that on our own dumb initiative. But..." He pauses, now armored with his boots on and help in his lap, but hesitating to stand up as he considers the question the answer to which he is afraid to receive. "Did... anyone else make it out alive?"

Spoiler: OOC Options!
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You have your second cadet, alive and well, all things considered. Your primary task remains to forge south, back via the path you came and then following Zachary's ranger-sign to navigate the Quagmire - the muckiest, grossest part of the swamp before it dries out a little and leads to Stonemaul Village, where you have reason to believe you'll find one or both of the last two cadets.

You also need to decide whether you want to bring Cadet Felix with you. He seems like he's healthy enough to not slow you down, and he's an extra set of hands and a sword when things need doing; but it'd be a shame to get him killed when you just secured his life. You can leave him with the horde (if you trust them) to pick him up on the backswing, or try to send him off alone to Northpoint Tower. Or any other solution to this problem you care to propose, I'll entertain.

And naturally, you might want to shake a few answers out of Felix yourself. Feel free to pile up a bunch of questions, and he'll respond to them all in one big hit; since back-and-forth is a bad cadence for play by post games, we'll use a little abstract magic to smooth it.