Notch Below Neutral

The road to Largo Largo wasn't exactly long but Dorge did wish he had a horse. It wasn't that long ago he'd walked damn near all the Hurry, but, here he was. It'd be easier, too, if he wasn't doing most of the walking in the woods along the road to try to avoid bandits, or other adventurers, or anyone, really. He'd never been to Largo Largo but did know it was home to a pretty robust theives guild and thought with his current quest he'd better try to keep his head down and his eyes open.
He probably wasn't going to get any points in the stealth column though. His new leather armor wasn't broken in yet and that made it a little hard to move, crunching through the undergrowth and stopping to listen ever so often had become his mode of travel, one hand on his sword hilt, the other around the sack draped over his shoulder. It's a wonder the dead hadn't crawled up with the noise the sack was making, like a bunch of King's dinnerware clanking around. The blacksmith had told him to keep it closed and so he had. He wasn't that interested in whatever it was he was carrying, anyways, and figured the less he knew the better. The last time he'd had a mission to transport goods he had looked, when he had been told not to, and at the end of the day had taken a morality penalty. Fine by him but it'd taken him a notch below neutral and that kind of thing comes with consequences.
Dorge stops and readjusts the sack, trying not to let it make too much noise. The blacksmith didn't seem to be too concerned with his ability to get it out of the city. Even though it had a baker's mark stamped into the canvas it was pretty clear he wasn't carrying flour, but the guards didn't give him a second look. Probably happy just to see him on his way, and headed west? Figures. Looking like hell but being able to go up against half-ogres had it's advantages, and it makes sense that's just what Caryle was thinking. The only problem with being mistaken for a higher level was that a lvl 40 could take two Healing Surges a day and he wasn't really there, yet. He shrugs and hopes it doesn't come to that. Just a delivery job, mead and mutton by sundown. Then back to Adver.
Only Adver was going to be able to answer any questions about him waking up in that field and-wait,
horses on the road, three, no, two. Dorge squats down hard, forcing the armor to flex, covering the hilt of the sword with his gloved hand, the only thing that might shine through the foliage.
The horses are going full gallup when they pass his spot in the woods. Dorge does a spot check and picks out the insignia on their armor, but he already knew: Banda Cate Soldiers. Moving in a damn hurry, too. He needs to move fast.
Dorge pulls the sack off his shoulders and dives against the soft earth, scraping a hole into the dirt, his gloved fingers digging deep grooves. He sits back on his haunches and listens, not hearing anything. He knows the shallow hole he's managed isn't perfect but figures it'll do for now, dropping the sack into it. He's about to start pushing the loose dirt on top of it but pauses. It may not be just a delivery job now, and so he wants to know. He has to take his gloves off to undo the cord, his bare hands feel cold and wet in the moist air, fumbling with the knot after having clawed a hole into the ground. Eventually the bag falls open and Dorge can see inside, the gleaming silver and gold trinkets, bejeweled and gaudy, truthfully. His heartbeat is beginning to approach something close to normal and he can hear something other than his pulse in his ears. He reaches in a pulls one of the items out. It's heavy and polished to a high shine but still wouldn't fetch much gold on the market. He purses his lips and thinks maybe the soldiers weren't looking for him, after all. Maybe not everyone had heard of Dorge the Mighty Level 36 Warrior, Scourge of Taverns Everywhere. But, he thought he'd better do another spot check just to make sure, turning the little knickknack round and round.
Oh, shit. ohshit. Dorge sits back on his ass and his fingers go numb all over again, shouldn't-have-looked-shouldn't-have-looked. What he had been burying in a hole in the woods was a sack full of Holy Relics. Fuckfuckfuck. Let's see how far those health surges go when he's burned at the stake. Maybe they're fakes, Dorge thinks.Or maybe he could spot check again and free-action it all day in the woods like the noob he was being.
"Warriors never make it too far alone, do they, Dorge?" he mutters to himself and starts pushing the dirt back on top of the sack. "You could at least find a Rogue to do some thinking for you, right?" He wipes the dirt from his hands before pulling the gloves back on and listens. He can't hear anything, and doubts the riders could hear him at the rate they were going. He uproots a pale white mushroom and puts it on top of the little mound then stands, making his way to the road. He'd stay out of sight in the woods but can move faster out in the open and what he needed right now was distance. Leaning down he breaks a few low-growing stems to mark his place along the road, a Ranger trick he'd learned once upon a time.
Stepping out onto the road he stretches his arms and wonders if he should push west or go back the way he came. If the soldiers knew he was headed to Largo Largo then odds were that information was supplied to them, and the supplier probably game them a description of his armor, too. Damnable blacksmiths. Biggest bellies and biggest asses.
He furrows his brow, but maybe backwards was better, turning to look in the direction he'd come from, he froze. There had been a third rider, and there he was now, sitting still on top of his mount just in the bend of the road.
"That's all it took to flush you out, Warrior?" the half-elf Paladin smiles, stroking his blue-black beard.
Dorge freezes, his heart pumping ice.
I believe you have something that belongs to Banda Cate," the Paladin says, his eyes holding Dorge in place, "Nay, something that belongs to Mashrata the Merciful. And I, Rolan D'so, have come to restore her rightful property."