Osytha

Osytha

Knight Sworn of Dusk
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NOW HANDS THAT BUILD

But the dead are still just as dead
A… something thread, with Syr Faramund and Syr Osytha​


This isn’t right.

Osytha should be allowed to ride her own horse. It’s her horse, damn it. Do they know how long it took to get Forbítter’s trust? Weeks and months of daily effort, wearing stupid leather mittens the whole time because she wanted to keep all her fingers, attached, thank you very much. She shouldn’t be walking beside him, leading him by the reins, while they all plodded north. But she is. Because there’s a pile of small children on Syr Osytha’s horse instead of her, and she supposes that she probably can’t sit on top of children. They’re not really made for it.

Well, at least Guffers seems happy with the company, she reckons, and steals a glance that way. Her wee boy is getting lots of adoration and pats from those small hands as he sits in his basket there behind the saddle. Tail a-wagging, snout a-sniffling, tongue a-licking. The children had initially fought over who got to sit toward the back, until Osytha had said they could just take turns. Then there’d been some grizzling, because Toils forbid they actually find a fair solution, but that had stopped when she’d added that if they didn’t like it, they could walk instead.

She probably wouldn’t have made them, not really. But they didn’t need to know that. The kids were on her horse because it would have been a lot of work for those small legs to walk all this way. They’d get worn out, and then they’d get hungry. They’d end up having to eat more. And the less food they all get through, the better. Just in case.

One of the bairns, a small girl called Hadelinde, catches her looking. Osytha gives her a warm smile, a smile that says, isn’t this nice? We’ve got lovely weather, cute dog, a bit of an adventure — but all safe as houses with a couple of brave knights along for the ride. Pretty good, huh? It’s a comforting, easy smile, which is sure to reach her eyes.

And inside, she is seething.

Not at the children. By the Eight, no, not a shred of that anger is with them. And it’s not them she really blames for having to walk instead of ride this leg of the journey. Nor is she angry with any of the other folk about her — adults and more children, from all over. Heading north, away from the remnants of their old homes. Those places lay charred and levelled, now. Greed of the few had manifested armies, and armies do what they do best, which is not just fight other armies and leave it at that. The people in those armies don’t, generally speaking, actually enjoy the prospect of catching an arrow in the eye, or being trampled by the other side’s cavalry. They prefer things like pillaging. Sacking and pillaging is easy. Untrained and disorganised civilians are a lot less dangerous than an enemy militia; they’ve a much better effort-to-reward ratio where loot is concerned. And that’s what it’s mostly about — the loot.

Some, though, actually like the sport of it.

As she watches little Hadelinde nuzzle Guffers there, the possibility that someone else could look at her the same way a noble eyes a fox, as game… it makes Osytha actually, physically, ill. She’d thought she was reaching some sort of epiphany with this whole ‘maybe the best sword is the one you don’t wield’ schtick, but now she’s not sure of that, either. Happen there are still a few people in this world she wouldn’t mind meeting with a sword in her hand. If you could call them ‘people’.

… she sighs. That’s a dangerous way to start thinking, she knows. That sort of ‘othering’. But… even so—

“—to the Vayd Tree?”

Osytha blinks, and looks back up. Another of the children, Jonas, had asked her something. About — yes, where they were going, and how close they’d be to that desecrated site.

“Not especially. At the very least, no closer than the monastery is to it,” she replies, casually. “Which you’ll also be near. We’re always watching toward the Vayd — in more ways than you can imagine — so if there ever is any danger, us Knights will meet it before it has a chance to find you. I don’t even need to promise you that.”

The lad would know she was lying if she’d said there was absolutely nothing to worry about. Telling them that it’s there but under control, hopefully that’s better. And honestly, it’s true enough. Being so close to Astenvale Monastery will make this new home safer than the last, in some ways. And that’s just speaking of the Blight. It had seemed crazy, at first, but… it can be done. Plumhollow sits fairly close to the Vayd Tree and the Balewood, and they manage. They — the Knights, that is — have a chance to help these people make a new home for themselves. Might even help the monastery with trade and recruitment somewhere down the line in turn. It’s still a chance, still gambling with the dangers of the Wyld. But these people had already tried their luck back in the ‘tamed’ world of men, and they’d been burned for it. What’s the odd monster here or there compared to all that?

Monsters…

Syr Osytha looks to the other side, then. To her brother in Dawn, Syr Faramund. Beast of a man — in physique, and if talk is to be believed, in manner once upon a time, as well. Big, brunet, sturdy. Osytha feels dwarfed in every way against him. And when they’ve sparred together… well, she’d always liked the longsword. First simply as the symbol of the Knight. Then later, with a much deeper appreciation for its versatility; the fact that there is always some move to counter what your opponent throws at you, that even when they meet your weak with their strong, you have options to turn it to your advantage. And yet, whenever she’s sparred against Faramund, none of that has seemed to matter. She’d need to be a fair bit more skilled to overcome his might and height advantage. She’d need to be even better than that to catch up to him in terms of experience. But she’s not, and she gets soundly thrashed near every time.

How did he get so good? He’d joined the order late in life. What, exactly, had he done before all that?

And what does he think of all this…?
 
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It wasn't right, but what could they do?

Walking ahead of the procession, boots slung over one shoulder, Faramund kept his eyes on the horizon whilst his mind lingered behind. Following the beaten path, he allowed his thoughts to meander, like the road itself seemed to do every so often, as if changing its mind on where it wanted to lead them. North, then east. Away, if there was such a thing.

Faramund had his doubts.

Wagons trundled along, wheels a-rattling, laden with supplies for the journey. Many of the refugees had taken to carrying their entire lives upon their backs, or in their arms. Women and children, mainly, though a handful of old timers had chosen to walk, sprightly til they weren't. The Road took its toll, always. In time and in flesh. Keeping the column safe and moving had been a task and a half, but it was one Faramund set to gladly, if only to avoid returning to that which occupied his mind's eye day and night.

Like tossing a coin, he mused, one hand on his reins whilst the other steadied his sabre. The land opened up around them, long grass swaying, swishing in a gentle easterly that tugged at his beard and tabard. He had given up his saddle to one of the elders, a fellah named Akke, some time ago. Tribe didn't seem to mind. The bay rouncey was used to random acts of compassion from his rider, so long as he got an apple out of it.

Akke had a granddaughter named Lilia. She had been excited to sit a horse. Still was, going by the smile she wore.

He didn't ask where her parents were - the hollow, forlorn look in Akke's eyes was enough. Faramund had seen the same look reflected on the faces of others a hundred times over. The Road wasn't the only thing taking its toll. In war, there were no winners, only survivors.

A prickle on the back of Faramund's neck bade the dawnling turn, sharp gaze cutting towards another figure 'pon his flank.

Syr Osytha stared back at him, like he was some sort of mystery that required solving. Best you don't delve too deep, he thought, fingers flexing and relaxing, lest you come to despise me as much as I despise myself. 'Something on your mind, Syr?' His words carried through the late afternoon heat. He glanced down at his feet.

'It's not everyday I let the dogs out,' he grinned, though the expression never reached his eyes. 'Surprised no one's keeled over yet, though I s'pose there's still time,' he said, glancing up at the waning Sun, gauging the trickle of the hourglass.
 
Osytha follows his gaze down, and for a moment there, the man’s road-dusted toes have a captive audience.

“You mean from the trek?” she asks. “Or because you’ve took your boots off?”

Osytha pretends not to hear the appreciative chorus of giggles from atop Forbítter. Man might actually be onto something, Osytha muses. They’ve had a long day of walking, it’s proper maftin’, and both those things are only made worse by her heavy black coat. She can feel her own feet yearning for the sweet taste of fresh air, to be released from the fuggy prison of her shoes.

Then again, she doesn’t have Faramund’s sturdy stompers. Hroðgar could probably bend his horseshoes around those things. No, Osytha reckons she’d manage for half hour before admitting defeat against all those tiny jagged stones and knobbly ridges and pokey little sticks. Then she’d struggle back into her hosen and shoes, looking a bit of a twerp before all the bairns in the process, with nowt to show at the end of all that save for a few more blisters than when she’d started.

And Syr Faramund would just keep plodding along through it all, barefoot as ever. Smug fucker.

“Either way,” she goes on, gaze now sweeping further abroad. Seeing a lot of footwraps about the place; not much in the way of boots or shoes or clogs or what have you. “If’n that happens, then we’ll just carry them.”

It’s a very interesting use of the term, ‘we’, there. But Faramund’s got broad shoulders. He’ll be fine.

Then she’s looking a bit thoughtful, after that. Keenly aware that she’s avoided his question, also that she’d hardly been subtle about it. The answer, though, was always, ‘yes’. A few things at once, all the time. Just, mostly stuff the people around them wouldn’t be very comforted to hear in this instance. She ought to find a more innocuous thread to follow.

The ink-bled line of a copse draws her eyes, haze-veiled by a bit of distance. They’re getting close to Astenvale Monastery, close enough that she knows that stretch of woodland. Last time she’d been there in summer, there’d been wild strawberries, blackberries, and nettle. She’d found a small spring hidden in there, too, where the water had proven good… and that had also meant no small amount of fiddlehead, chanterelle, and jelly ear. It’s a little off-course, but even so, she can think of worse places to make camp for the night.

Osytha nods that way. “There’s good fare over in yon woods,” she announces. “And hare in the fields on the way. Folks can get their ferrets out, catch us a few. Others can help with foraging while it’s still light out.” Her hands rise to the bundles at Forbítters flank, feeling out the curling limb of her recurve bow. “But if we do, then we should quickly check for signs of game in there first. Before anything has a chance to scare off.”

She takes her eyes from the far-off blotch and turns them Faramund’s way. “What do you think?”

With a bit of luck, there’ll be elk or boar drawn to that watering hole, and landing one of those will mean a lot of full bellies tonight. Leaves and berries only go so far. Roots and mushrooms, they help go a little further. It’s not really the time of year for seeds and nuts — but meat? Meat can make or break a venture like this.
 
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Faramund followed Osytha's gaze down to his dirty feet. Another young syr had once remarked that he possessed toes as thick as thumbs. Of course, he had answered by pointing out that thumbs tended to vary per the hand they belonged to, but that was a whole conversation he would rather not see repeated.

Giggles accompanied by a request to elaborate bade the knight raise his head.

“You mean from the trek? Or because you’ve took your boots off?”

'Yes.' Faramund replied, blunt as a warhammer, though no less effective. The children's giggles crescendoed, tickled pink by the gruff ranger and his mysterious ways. Fortunately, Syr Osytha pressed on before he could work the tykes into a proper frenzy. The young dusker would have loved that, no doubt. 'We will,' he agreed, his smile a touch more genuine as he turned to glance back down the line, brow creasing as he bore witness to the misery war wrought.

'What do I think?' He mulled her words over. 'I tend not to,' he sniffed, 'though I s'pose a plan is better than no plan.'

Handing his reins over to Akke, the dawnling sat down by the wayside to dust his feet, before slipping on his boots. 'Off huntin'?' The ealdorman asked from atop his borrowed steed. Faramund knew his hearing wasn't all there, but the bloke sure could telltale. Probably had a story for every grey hair on his head. More than he did teeth, anyhow.

'Aye,' the dawnling nodded, 'off to scout them there trees, maybe even scrounge up some supper.' Wishful thinking, maybe, but then hope was all some of the refugees had these days.

'Syr Osytha and I will make sure the place is safe 'fore we set camp for the night,' he continued, whistling to one of the older boys, who hustled up with an eight-foot tall spear they'd requisitioned from the sight of a skirmish a half dozen leagues back. The knight nodded his thanks.

'You're in charge til we get back,' he said, speaking to Akke but looking at Lilia. 'Try not to ride off with my horse, eh?'

The girl smiled shyly.
 
Forbítter comes dutifully to a halt at Osytha’s command. “Alright, you lot — off you pop,” she announces, to a symphony of whining protestations. She begins to lift the children down, one by one. “It’s ferret time. Grab your nets and get crackin’. Bar you, Jonas. You stay up there while Forbs has his dinner — make sure he don’t go too far, nor that he get into owt he ought’nt to. Just as I showed you.”

The lad should be fine. Forbítter tends to be better with children than with adults. He’s that way with small creatures in general, like Guffers and Sabinian’s perfect little princess, Priscilla. It’s not so much that he actually likes them, just, seems to think anything below a certain height is inconsequential. Plus, he’s well-trained,¹ Osytha’s made very sure of that. Jonas hasn’t had any problems doing this before; he won’t suddenly start having them now.

She grabs the bow in its leather sleeve, plus her quiver of arrows. But with Faramund covering them on the spear front, she leaves her own behind; even though hers is made specifically for hunting, it’ll be a lot easier to move quietly through that woodland if she doesn’t have to mind it from catching and scraping on all the brush.

Syr Faramund, Syr Osytha, and brave Syr Guffers set off across those fields, leaving the bustling mass to shrink behind them. Some are flushing rabbits from their holes into waiting nets, and yet others scrounge low for yarrow, nettle, borage, and dandelion. A few, like Jonas, see to other odd jobs here and there. A few more, the ones to whom the road has been especially harsh, simply take the chance to sit and rest.

The excited cries of children and whooping ferreters slowly fade away, replaced more and more by the rustle and crunch of meadow plants beneath the knights’ feet. They’re soon far enough away not to be heard by the others, if Osytha wanted to answer that question for real; to tell the man what she really thinks.

Most of it’s still not worth putting to voice, even so. Questions like ‘what if there’s not enough time to prepare for winter?’, and ‘do you think we’re going to lose some people?’. She can hazard a pretty good guess at the answers, and it changes nothing. The Knights are already doing everything they can think of to help these people. And not a one of them is going to turn around now just to march all the way back to homes they don’t have any more. None of that is news to anybody here.

But there are other, better things to think upon, instead. They’re smaller and easier to miss, easier to forget, crowded out as they are by all those big, bleak, ruminations. Yet still important. And they need to be said, and said again, because the heavier thoughts keep rolling back over them. Osytha doesn’t know if Faramund’s found much time to think those littler thoughts. Maybe he just doesn’t know how, and that’s why it’s easier for him to avoid thinking altogether. So she speaks.

“Bairns are reight fond of you.” A pause. “It’s nice.”

And why shouldn’t they be? Syr Faramund is unflappable, he’s funny, and he’s one hell of a Knight. The kids are in awe. He’s also huge. The man cuts a real intimidating figure, but that's alright when the monster is on your side. He probably makes those children feel safe in a way that Syr Osytha, a full head shorter and with arms but half as thick as his, never could.

It’s hard not to feel a bit envious, she admits that. She also knows that allowing herself to feel jealous is a pointless indulgence. No, she’ll never match him, in neither might nor stature, maybe not even in talent. So, what’s the alternative — do all this with someone else, someone more on her level? The memories of every embarrassing defeat at Faramund’s hand replay in her mind, and she knows: if something comes from out of the dark, be it man or Blighted beast, they’ll all be glad it’s him who’ll stand against it.

If that happens, they don’t need another Syr Osytha here instead…

“Lilia, especially,” she goes on. “I think Akke really appreciates that. It surely means a lot to see her smiling after everything.”

She glances Faramund’s way just long enough to throw him a wry grin, before her eyes settle back to the woods ahead. “I must have missed that class at the Monastery. Or have you always been good with kids?”


¹ OK, besides the whole ‘keeps dismembering people’s fingers’ thing. Apart from that, he’s almost perfectly well behaved.
 
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Having dispatched a veritable army of foragers to search the surrounding landscape, the two knights set off towards the copse with nary a wasted second. Shouldering the spear like he was a soldier in some noble laird's army, Faramund fell into step alongside Osytha, strides shortened out of habit, so as to avoid outpacing the dusker.

It had become something of a daily occurence, these little forays into the wylds. Come the setting sun, the column would stop, able bodies dispersing to strip the land of whatever they required most. Supplies, mostly, though potable water was always sought-after.

The hours had been long, the days sweltering. Spring had sprung, and with it came clear skies as far as the eye could see. If not for the dark plumes of smoke on the horizon, Faramund might have stopped to admire the vista behind them. Time, alas, was ever at a premium. Much like everything else, he mused, swatting away as some winged insect alighted on the back of his neck. It was then he noticed Syr Osytha looking up at him. Again.

'Don't go sellin' yourself short, missy,' he replied, gruff as the bear he was sometimes mistaken to be. 'Ain't me the young lassies follow 'round like ducklings in a brood,' he said, staring down at her. 'It's you.'

Faramund was grateful for that. For all his smiles and jokes, there was an emptiness to him now that no amount of joy could fill. And I am oh-so very tired of pretending, he blinked, turning away, gold-flecked eyes playing across the copse they were destined towards.

'Course, the lads like t' pester me for stories,' he confessed with a grin, 'an' the older boys ask after you, wonderin' if "Lady Knights" are common where we come from, meanin' Astenvale.' Someone whooped in the near-distance, drawing a curious glance from the dawnling. 'And of course, I directed them towards you,' he continued, 'though, I wager there ain't been many who've braved yer presence as of yet?'

Up ahead, the trees stood tall and silent, like sentinels guarding a hidden treasure.

Faramund spied little and less amongst the swaying trunks, but that didn't mean there was nothing there.
 
Osytha gives a little shrug. “They’ve tried. But I think they’re too scared of Forbs to get close, for some reason.” Then she looks a little thoughtful; the recollection of those flighty youth’s attentions having dislodged something else. “William did propose to me, actually.”

William is six. William doesn’t know a great deal about marriage except that it’s something people do when they like each other. So far William has proposed to a majority of the other kids, several doting elders, someone who showed him a really cool bug, anyone whose dinner he likes the look of, and, after he found out who Guffers belongs to, Syr Osytha.

“I told him we should wait some before the wedding,” she confides.

Faramund’s right enough about her little entourage, as well. Osytha recognises the dynamic, since she already has something like it with Leofric; she’s become a sort of big sis to a few wayward ducklings who’ve otherwise found themselves sisterless, motherless, auntless, or some other variety of that kind of ‘-less’. But it’s also different than with Leofric. Part of it’s… solidarity, she supposes? And another part is some of these girls need help with things that, frankly, Faramund might not be equipped to deal with. Or maybe he is; Osytha’s not going to make assumptions. But the ‘Lady Knight’ at least felt safer for the lassies to approach with their issues. And, when she’d proven even more knowledgeable on that front than expected (thanks, Mærufrið), a few more of the ‘-less’ girls had begun joining Osytha’s brood.

It makes her glad she’s been opening her eyes to the world a bit more. A few years ago, the idea that there’d be something of value to a knight in a midwife’s teachings — she’d have thought it preposterous. But Osytha is doing more good for these ducklings in explaining things like cycles and their signs, and how to prepare, and which herbs to avoid at times, and which can help at others; more good with that right now than she could hope to do with a sword, certainly.

… they’re drawing close. Close enough to the woods that Syr Faramund has begun to really look at it. The time for talking is nearing an end, for if there is something for them to hunt in there, it may flee at the first provocation.

Osytha halts and finally draws her bow from its sleeve. “Hold a moment.”

Its limbs curl far forward at rest, almost to a perfect half-circle. It’s not a tall bow, but it packs a pretty good wallop nonetheless. That size makes it easy to use from horseback and carry through the brush, just, it can’t be kept under tension for too long. She wends it, mostly horizontal, behind one knee and in front of the other; uses that to brace it while she heaves one limb back far enough she can hook the other end of the bowstring in place.

She finds her eyes moving up in those few seconds, back onto the woods. Maybe it’s just because she’d seen the alertness which has come over the older knight, and that’s proven infectious, but… Osytha can’t help but feel disquiet creeping up her spine.

Finished, she frees the bow from her leg and straightens up. “Good now, thanks,” she tells Faramund while nocking an arrow; a vicious-looking broadhead which glints late in the sun. “Notice owt ahead there?”

Catsear and sorrel crackles underfoot as she resumes their approach.
 
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'No shit.' Faramund's smile was a fleeting thing, barely there. William was an orphan. No parents or grandparents to speak of, no neighbours or cousins or friends. He had just appeared one day, straw doll in hand, caked in mud and soot and not much else. A survivor of some horror his little mind struggled to comprehend, he had been welcomed into the fold without a second thought. A lone child, bereft, and confused. Just like the rest of them.

Dread to think he would not be the last orphan they stumbled across on their way north.

'Holding.' Squatting down on his haunches, Faramund regarded the copse like one might an unexpected curiosity, eyes flitting hither thither, watching, always watching. It was what he was good at, after all. What he was made for.

Trees leaned with the wind. Grass rippled and waved. The hoots and hollers were distant now, so very far away.

Faramund's gaze didn't falter for a heartbeat. The wind tugged at his hair and beard like an unruly child. Prodding him to action. It was Osytha's voice that finally pulled him from his reverie, though there was nothing pleasant about the thoughts running through his head just then.

'I smell something,' he told her quietly, inhaling, making a show of scenting the air. 'Yes... there it is again...' Pausing, he turned to face the dusker, mirroring her mien, all business. Until he could hold it no longer.

'Last night's beans,' he grinned, breaking the spell with a laugh. 'Told you they'd come back to haunt us.'

Watching as the tension ebbed from Syr Osytha's shoulders, the dawnling nodded westward, adjusting his grip on the spear as he left the road. 'Let's head downwind,' he said, smiling all the while. 'Something's been through here recently. See those marks? On the birch, there?' He levelled the spear for guidance. 'Looks t' me like tusk damage. Tad low down t' be a buck,' he shrugged.

'Might get lucky, though. Even when I'm right, I'm wrong.'
 
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Son of a—

Faramund laughs his stupid fucking laugh, and Osytha’s first instinct is to ding him reight good across the ear. Second instinct, which wins out once her hackles settle down a touch, is to join in, and he hears an appreciative little snort from her direction. Can’t deny he really had her going there.

Then she’s following the point of his spear, and sure enough, there’s a birch sporting the tell-tale signs of some hefty critter’s scratching post. Perfect, Osytha thinks as she plods her way over, signalling Guffers to follow along. Looks like the swine really went for it, wearing through layers of bark and catching its tusks a few times in the process, resulting in gouges along the trunk. It hasn’t exactly ring-barked the poor tree, but Osytha wouldn’t be surprised if it still proves fatal, either.

She whistles low for Guffy’s attention and snaps her fingers a couple of times by the trunk. “Hider,” she urges. Little dog bounds over and snuffles all around the tree, hyper-focused on picking up every scent its previous visitor had left behind. “Hider, byre, hider.”

While he does that, Osytha draws one of her daggers and hacks off bark from a discoloured patch at the base. The smell is unmistakeable; more than a scratching post, this tree has been turned into a marker. She bundles it up and slips that into a pouch, to produce for Guffers later on. Try and get him to pick the trail back up once they’ve moved upwind, and to keep him on task.

“Even when I’m right, I’m wrong.”

Jaded, much?

It’s probably not worth trying to read too far into that. Probably it was just a casual, throw-away piece of self-deprecating humour. But… it’s the kind of thing her mother, normally so awkward and clueless even in simple, everyday conversation, would fall quiet and contemplative over. Osytha hadn’t noticed it when she was younger — she hadn’t noticed a lot of things back then — but these days, it strikes her that Merifrith has a remarkable gift for sensing other people’s hurt. And, while Osytha doesn’t think she inherited that talent, for some reason the image of her mother in one of her tender, reflective silences had appeared so clearly in response to Faramund’s words.

How often, and how badly, must someone get things wrong before a sentiment like that rolls so naturally off the tongue?

West. Osytha stands up and watches waves ripple over the field, east to west. They need to head westward a bit, hopefully that will put them upwind. The boar — hard to imagine what else it would be with all this evidence — looks like it had continued on more or less north, so they shouldn’t have to swing too far out the way. She starts off, whistling for Guffy’s attention and commanding him to follow.

The knights are moving again, closing in on their quarry. Now the woods are almost upon them, and looking very welcome there; cool and shaded, with the promise of clean, crisp water further in. They seem peaceful, too; tranquil and quiet. Osytha has to ask, before that quiet descends on them.

“Do you think this is the right thing to do, then?” A glance to the commotion they’ve left behind makes it pretty clear what she means. “Or does that mean it was the wrong call?”

She’s not really asking for herself. Osytha already knows the answer to that question. Does Faramund, though?
 
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Whilst Osytha and her dog investigated their findings, Faramund moved further ahead, his profile lowered, two hands on the too-long stave he had been given for the hunt. The spear's length would come in handy if any of the porkers decided to rush him, but the trees and foliage were a nuisance he could have done without.

Beyond the birch, the ground was rife with hoofprints and signs of passage; churned earth, snapped branches, and a lovely lump of shit that the dawnling didn't spend overly long examining.

Onwards, they went, the dawnling's soft steps belying his size. '"The right thing to do."' He repeated Osytha's words back to her. Not to mock, or make light of her concerns. He had a fair few of his own to contend with; matters of the heart and soul, though neither truly belonged to him. It was very likely they never would. 'Is it wrong of us to give these people hope for the future?' Faramund answered question with question. 'These forays serve to keep our bellies full, granted. But there's more to life than the next meal.'

Halting, long grass brushing his knees, Faramund turned to fully consider Osytha. Younger by a decade, the light behind her eyes had yet to be dulled by the types of experiences the dawnling would just as soon forget.

'You ever encountered the walking dead, Osytha?' The knight's tone was light as the first snows, his expression no less cold. 'I have. They're waiting for us just down the road, see. Patient as ever. Notice how quiet the ones by the wagons are?' Faramund nodded towards the boxy wheelhouses, faded awnings billowing in the breeze, bleeding colours yet to be deciphered by artistic minds. Figures milled about amid the haze and heat. Going through the motions. Like automatons. Cold. Disconnected.

'Not everyone deserves a second chance,' he continued, leaning on his borrowed spear. 'They do. Every last one of 'em.'

The Lilia's and Akke's and William's. The elders and the soon-to-be olders.

'Can't save everyone,' the dawnling's face twisted, the look in his eye growing distant as he turned his gaze inward, to the root of all his woes. 'Doesn't mean we shouldn't try,' he heard himself whisper, as if from somewhere on high. He blinked.

'Does that answer your question?'
 
That look which comes over Faramund toward the end there, before he blinks it away… she’s not sure what to make of it. Osytha wonders if the question she’d asked was one of those ones better left unvoiced. Seems it’s brought on the snow. Or, is this coldness something that was already there inside him to begin with?

“Aye. daresay it does.” And she smiles his way, trying to share a little warmth with that frigid man. “For what it’s worth, I reckon there’s nowt in any of that to disagree with.”

Jaded the man may be, but he’s staying the course. Some don’t, Osytha knows. Sometimes a Knight just… falls apart. Maybe they feel it too keenly every time a life slips between their fingers, and one day they simply can’t take it any more. Occasionally, a Knight straight up deserts the order; abandons the cause and starts fighting for things like riches and power instead. Perhaps those are the ones who’ve stopped caring altogether.

Not Faramund, it seems. Not yet, anyroad. Osytha knows the years ahead — if she even survives them — are going to take their toll on her, same as they do any Knight. And, when she gets there, she hopes she’s still able to hold onto her purpose, like Syr Faramund is.

“Happen when tha’rt right, sometimes tha’rt just plain right,” she suggests.

Shade falls over them, dappled and dancing to a wind-borne rhythm. That sharp, green scent of fresh-trod plants yields to much more earthy tones of last year’s leaves, thawed and spongy with gentle decay; of the soil freshly roused by spring’s warmth to resume its grundid toils. The woods are upon them.

Osytha crouches down, pulling out that little bundle. “Hider,” she speaks in little more than a whisper, beckoning to Guffers, and unfolds the cloth. The dog trots up, tail all wag, and sniffs the chip of birchbark thoroughly. “Ġespyra,” she instructs.

A change comes over her boy, then. He turns aside and sniffs at the air, snout twitching this way and that. Then it comes down, and Guffy pads along the ground, wending this way and that. Seeking something there in all the dirt and hummus and winding tree-roots. Osytha gets up and resumes their course.

“Folga, mīn byre,” she whispers again, and the dog scurries to keep pace. Not quite following on their heels; still falling a little behind here or darting a little ways ahead there, where he pauses at a spot to circle it with his nose a while, but never straying too far. Every now and then, his little head lifts up to take another taste of the air, seeing if anything carries on the muted breeze. “Ġespyra,” Osytha intones again, reminding him to keep at it.
 
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'Maybe,' the dawnling acquiesced with a nod, 'maybe not.' He didn't have it in him to argue on the finer points of his character, lacking as it was. 'One thing I am certain of is that wisdom is not borne of age nor ensured by it,' he continued, bending at the waist to give Syr Guffers a well-deserved scratch behind the ears. 'I think you're off to a fair start in that regard,' he smiled thinly, returning the dusker's warmth, if only for a fleeting moment.

'Mind you, even when I'm right...'

Rising to his full height, Faramund beckoned Osytha to join him as he ventured on, spear balanced against one broad shoulder, as if at parade rest. He did not know what else to say, and, quite frankly, he had grown sick of listening to himself speak.

The day continued to bleed slowly. The stars and moons gathered to witness its death. Beneath the shade of swaying beech trees and mighty oaks, night had already fallen, the light dimning quite dramatically as Guffers tracked the scent deeper into the woods.

Planting his feet carefully, Faramund listened to the whispering wind and melodious chirping of unseen wings. Perhaps they'd get particularly lucky and bag a grouse or two to go with the boar. Perhaps-

A snap, up ahead.

Holding up a fist, Faramund sank down into a low crouch, ears pricked, sharp gaze picking out movement amongst the underbrush directly in front of them. Fifty, sixty feet, maybe. The ground sloped up to the right, providing a perfect line of sight down into the mossy defile where the boars rooted, cheerfully ignorant of the hunters and their cute, little hound.

Pressing two fingers to his temple, Faramund gently swung them towards the rise. Though they shared rank and responsibility, a number of the knights had taken to listening to him by dint of seniority, if for no other reason than that.

Besides, the refugees weren't the only ones fixing for something to eat, and cold salt beef and hard bread only got you so far.
 
Faramund brings them to a good vantage point over the hollow. Osytha crouches low, almost in a squat, feet carefully testing the ground before she commits her weight to each step. There’s still a whisper of sound to it, but low enough the boar below won’t hear it over their own foraging.

She flows into the shadow of an elm, whose roots cascade down the sharp embankment, stubbornly refusing to yield any more of their soil. In the moonlit delve below, a sounder of sows. Not quite the male boar they thought they’d be tracking, but Guffers had smelled something close enough, and Osytha ain’t going to complain. Looks like farrowing has begun, too, if the tiny little striped potatoes down there are any indication. Some are resting, snouts a-twitch. Others scamper about and tussle with one another. Yet more are pestering their mothers for milk. The adults seem preoccupied with rooting around for… well, roots. And tubers, and worms, and insects, and — honestly, if they’re hungry enough, then anything that’ll fit in their mouths. Pigs aren’t the fussiest eaters.

Not every sow will be fertile. Osytha wants to bag one of those ones. Partly, yes, because she doesn’t want to kill one that’s carrying piglets to term or a mother who’s already whelped her litter, even though the other adults in this sounder will adopt any orphans. But pregnancy takes a heavy toll on the body. Those sows which have been spared from that will be bigger, fatter, meatier. That one digging through a patch of young bracken there, looks like just what they need.

Osytha considers a moment, then draws a second arrow. Why not be sure about this, after all? Bow comes up, one shaft nocked, the other held in same hand at the ready. Should have blackened the heads with soot so’s they don’t shine, but oh well. She keeps it to the elm’s shade, and hopefully, the boar won’t see that glint until it’s already on its way. A contrite blue eye sights down at its quarry—

—the big sow’s head rises up. Sharp, like alarm — did it notice something? Osytha instinctively twitches her aim and lets loose.

The pigs bolt. They’re quick, when they startle. If Osytha hadn’t led her target at the last second, that first arrow might have missed entirely. But it lands solidly in the creature’s neck. Arrow number two strikes just above the rear leg before the pig’s gone entirely, disappeared back into the brush with the others. Hardly seemed like the damage had slowed it down.

It will, though, and very soon. Broadheads have a way of doing that. Especially one in the throat.

Osytha stands up, nocking another arrow. Probably won’t need it against that pig, but you don’t stay a Knight for long unless you keep on your toes. Boar are dangerous quarry… and they probably aren’t even the worst of what’s out here.

“I doubt it will have gone far,” Osytha says. “Let’s go. Won’t be hard to track. Not with how much blood it’ll be losing.”
 
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It was a good shot, the kind one made through years of training, trial and error. Faramund reckoned he could not have done any better if he tried. 'That's a fine aim you've got, Osy,' the dawnling answered with a grunt, descending the slope with long, bounding strides. She had picked her target wisely, not wanting to cause any more damage to the sounder than was necessary.

So far as right calls went, there weren't much wrong with it, Faramund figured, examining the volume of blood left behind in the sow's wake. He had seen the arrow strike true, heard the squeals. A kill-shot, no doubt about it.

'Quick and calm, now,' he nodded, moving fast, so as to avoid losing their kill to another.

It was sometimes easy for the sentient races to consider themselves apart from nature. Indeed, most cared little for the world around them, building where they pleased, hunting whatever they so chose. It pleased him to know Osytha was far less callous than some he had encountered on the Road. She had a good head and the heart to go with it, which was more than he could say for himself.

'Alright, slow now.' With the element of surprise gone, there was no need for subtlety. Caution had never hurt, though. 'Up ahead, 'twixt the boulders.' Spear held low, Faramund dipped his head towards the spot in question.

'Caught an artery, looks like. Should save me some time preppin' it.'

Of course, someone had to lump the carcass back to camp. Faramund glanced sidelong at Osytha as they closed on the boar, still alive, if only for a measure of moments. Dropping his spear, the dawnling drew his dagger. 'Eyes up. In case they come circlin' back.' Unlikely, granted, but there was no accounting for nature's ways. Getting caught with your pants down was only fun the first time around.

Muscle and sinew parted as Faramund slipped his dagger into the poor beast's heart. The sow squealed one last time, limbs seizing, then fell silent. The dawnling wiped his blade clean with a clump of wet leaves, nodding to himself.

'Looks like meat's back on the menu. Well done.'
 
“That's a fine aim you've got, Osy.”

“Aye. Sure hope so,” she murmurs, tailing after Faramund and Guffers down the slope. “I owe it to the pig.”

Better that Osytha miss entirely than land a glancing blow which leaves the beast able to escape, only to suffer terribly for days before finally succumbing to the wound.

She pads along, halting at Faramund’s direction. End of the road, she can see it too — doesn’t need Guffy’s nose to spy the slick of blood, black in moonlight upon those stones. With careful heft, Osytha starts to ease her bow unstrung.

Three bits of praise from the man. Osytha hadn’t really been sure to expect any, so she feels rather proud about that. Though to be fair, that remark on one’s wisdom leaves some room for interpretation. Plus he’d seemed to be talking to the dog more than at her when he’d said it. Well, she and Guffers are a team, right? Maybe they can, sort of, split that one between them. So, two and a half… ish? … compliments.

Of course, that sort of thing will lose all meaning as soon as she lets it go to her head. But Osytha allows herself a few seconds to feel smug about it, nonetheless.

“We can bleed it out here, if you like,” she speaks to the boulders, tucking her bow away and hoisting up the cast-aside spear in its place. “I’ve the rope for it, and a vessel. Heard some folk sounding wistful for a taste of black pudding just earlier today.”

Every part. They'll use every part of the pig: flesh, fat, blood. Heart, liver, kidneys, chitterlings, brains. Crack apart the bones and scrape out their marrow. Even use the bones themselves, maybe to make stock or turn into tools. Every single part — they’ll need it all. And they owe it to the pig. Wouldn’t be right to squander anything, considering what it cost the poor beast. And it wouldn’t be fair to the other pigs they’d need to hunt just to make up for their own wastefulness.

Osytha hears one now, far away in the woods. Sorry creatures must still be in a panic, especially if they’ve tasted kin’sblood upon the night air. It comes as a shrill squeal, sharp and short, which has her and Guffy’s ears pricking up.

“Save us from getting drenched in the stuff lugging the poor girl back.” Osytha goes on… and hesitates there, as she considers how much use she’s going to be with hauling a sixteen-stone boar all the way back to camp. Any lingering smugness evaporates away, like fog in full summer sun. “I mean. I’ll help with that, of course. Inasmuch as I’m able.”
 
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