The crackle of the fire filled Poppy's ears. The bandits had made camp somewhere on the Paralin-Soralin border. She was seated on a small boulder, wrapped in a shawl, and eating some kind of ambiguous meat. The meat tasted like chicken or maybe pork, but there was a gamey taste that she couldn't quite name. The men were all laughing raucously and toasting one another with stolen mead. The boy named Jeorge was seated quietly on a tree stump, twiddling his thumbs. The evening was cold, but he didn't seem to shiver. Something about him seemed so stiff and cloistered that Poppy could hardly believe it.
   The tiny sliver of moon stared down on them as the men set up tents. Calling them tents was really an overstatement, as they were no more than cloaks and blankets draped over sticks. I'll never complain about my tiny tent in the caravan again, Poppy thought. She found the tiny tent marked aside for her (the bandits had kindly made up her own tent in an attempt to make her more comfortable and less likely to run away) and spread her extra shawl over the bumpy dirt. It had been a long day, and she should have been exhausted. Yet somehow, after tossing and turning for an hour, Poppy decided to take a walk in lieu of sleeping.
   She wrapped her brown shawl around herself, laced her boots, and stuck her head out into the cool night air. She stepped out and was swooped up by a gust of wind. She tumbled out and fell on her face. She heard footsteps and panicked. What if it was one of her captors? Poppy looked up, swearing in all seven languages.
"Wow, that's more than I know."
Drat! It was Jeorge. He wore an amused smirk on his face, as though her curses amused him.
Poppy spat in the dirt. "What do you want?"
He laughed. "I can help you get out of here."