It wasn't much different than being in a cell, was it?
To pass the time, he'd counted the similarities. The smell of mold, cramped and unwashed bodies, with rotting wood surrounding him on all sides. The damp sensation against his backside as the splintered bench dug at his flesh through the saturated fabric of his trousers. The sound of muttering voices, languages foreign and broken as they carried fearful and worried messages between brothers and sisters bound by misery and desperation. The looming feeling that something was coming, and the fear in how unknown it was.
The only comfort one could truly take in such dismal affairs was the slow rolling of wheels against wet dirt beneath them, sending an unsteady, volatile vibration through the entirety of the shoddy wooden cart that carried no less than a dozen through a torrential downpour, sheets of rain battering against the meager cloth covering that vainly attempted to defend those inside from the water that ran through to soak their heads. All here by choice.
Crossing the border between North and South Ilica wasn't a feat any mundane type could easily accomplish, at least not without the proper paperwork or status. For those of particular desperation, the most common option was to catch a 'crosser' wagon across the lesser patrolled areas of the border, usually on a stormy or moonless night. After all, even if you were hardy enough to brave the wilds that divided civilization on your own, the local warlords and mercenaries on the Crown's take could be very persuasive in turning away the unwanted and unwelcome.
There were few more unwelcome in the North than Carradine.
It had been home, once. He'd been a killer for the Crown. The knife that the hooded man now polished in the dim light of a single, dying lantern had brought to him everything he'd ever wanted for in life, for the low price of independence and autonomy. Carradine himself became a kinfe, to be wielded by the royals who filled his pockets with every drop of blood spilt. How fitting, then, that just like every blade that begins to falter and choose its own course, he was just as quickly disposed of.
Your title has been stripped, and your properties revoked. The Kingdom of Altalusia hereby disavows any knowledge of you, and brands you an enemy of the crown.
Even now, he saw the letters on the page each time he closed his eyes, that pang of anger and regret surged up his spine like a stab in the heart. It was a welcome reminder that his still beat. If only he could say the same for his mind; What else but madness had led him to this? Smuggling himself back into a land that had branded him an enemy, on a wagon that barely held itself together through a storm so vicious it seemed the sea itself objected to his presence?
Maybe he knew the answer. Or perhaps the answers he sought could only be found beyond The Free States.
Home. Or what was left of it.
To pass the time, he'd counted the similarities. The smell of mold, cramped and unwashed bodies, with rotting wood surrounding him on all sides. The damp sensation against his backside as the splintered bench dug at his flesh through the saturated fabric of his trousers. The sound of muttering voices, languages foreign and broken as they carried fearful and worried messages between brothers and sisters bound by misery and desperation. The looming feeling that something was coming, and the fear in how unknown it was.
The only comfort one could truly take in such dismal affairs was the slow rolling of wheels against wet dirt beneath them, sending an unsteady, volatile vibration through the entirety of the shoddy wooden cart that carried no less than a dozen through a torrential downpour, sheets of rain battering against the meager cloth covering that vainly attempted to defend those inside from the water that ran through to soak their heads. All here by choice.
Crossing the border between North and South Ilica wasn't a feat any mundane type could easily accomplish, at least not without the proper paperwork or status. For those of particular desperation, the most common option was to catch a 'crosser' wagon across the lesser patrolled areas of the border, usually on a stormy or moonless night. After all, even if you were hardy enough to brave the wilds that divided civilization on your own, the local warlords and mercenaries on the Crown's take could be very persuasive in turning away the unwanted and unwelcome.
There were few more unwelcome in the North than Carradine.
It had been home, once. He'd been a killer for the Crown. The knife that the hooded man now polished in the dim light of a single, dying lantern had brought to him everything he'd ever wanted for in life, for the low price of independence and autonomy. Carradine himself became a kinfe, to be wielded by the royals who filled his pockets with every drop of blood spilt. How fitting, then, that just like every blade that begins to falter and choose its own course, he was just as quickly disposed of.
Your title has been stripped, and your properties revoked. The Kingdom of Altalusia hereby disavows any knowledge of you, and brands you an enemy of the crown.
Even now, he saw the letters on the page each time he closed his eyes, that pang of anger and regret surged up his spine like a stab in the heart. It was a welcome reminder that his still beat. If only he could say the same for his mind; What else but madness had led him to this? Smuggling himself back into a land that had branded him an enemy, on a wagon that barely held itself together through a storm so vicious it seemed the sea itself objected to his presence?
Maybe he knew the answer. Or perhaps the answers he sought could only be found beyond The Free States.
Home. Or what was left of it.
