Sometimes all roads led to the same place. And a fork wasn't really a fork, just a bend. Both paths felt correct, so he felt at the air and the rain. But it wasn't families he was looking for. It was food and warmth. You never knew how the signs came. Sometimes it was a smell, sometimes a wind – once a pebble that caused him to lose footing and roll down the correct hill. Because Luck didn't care how, only that you made it to where you were supposed to be.

Left path smelled of bread, geese bumped on his arms at the sniff. The right one didn't have a smell, only a warm wind that forgot it shouldn't exist in the downpour. So let Laric pick, he'd picked enough for the day. The thumb between his teeth, Ginny's brain between the planks.

„The left will feed us. The right will keep us warm.“ Shrugged, hands playing with the reins. Perhaps both roads could provide either – but She was tightlipped.

Took off his soggy boot to empty out the footpuddle. Hurt or not, was never a good idea to brine and pickle your foot. That's how you lost toes.
 
Trevor looked at him. Just looked.

Guess an army of beavers could cut through. Weavers could make the lumber fuck off. Now, a beaver weaver could probably pull doubletime – but Trevor was none of these things. So he just turned.

He'd never heard the other horse get a name. Mistake on Blondie's part. Stuff needed names.

„Come on...Jerry.“ Yup, looked right. Reminded him of the oxenfucker.

Tiniest licks of fortune at the heavy hooves – cause it wasn't only a leg they'd be breaking if they decided to take the plunge into the mud.

„You sure you're alright to walk?“ Maybe they could switch? No. Trevor was too legged up for that.

Maybe Jerry could carry them both. But he didn't want the fourleg to break her back either.
 
Now that was a look he knew. The quiet suspicion. Because once trust broke, it was fucked. Much like Ginny's neck. He hoped the two found some peace in whatever came after. Because there was no place for them on Khurun. Wondered what to make of the whole torture business. That meant Laric had been tortured too. Not like spilled drink could be unspilled by some nice words...but was he supposed to say something?

No. No. He should keep his mouth shut and get them where they needed to be. Cause that's how you helped people out of deep shit – by guiding the way. They didn't need a hand or more legs, just a light to tell 'em where the next bank was.

Mud sloshed away with each step. More up than hill, but the incline was still slick with rain and resistance. And what little Luck was stuck to Jerry's legs spent itself on balance and purchase. He hoped Laric was equally lucky – but he refused to make sure.

It was coming into view now, a small homestead. Rickety fence of aspen, oncewhite wood still kept its many eyes. The four buildings inside had all seen better days, each adopting a drunken sag to match the hillside. Smoke rose from the two houses. And as the thought hit him, so did the smoke from the fire far behind them. Strong enough, then. There was some peace in knowing that Sitha wouldn't make 'em go back to their old ways.

No one came out to greet them, but he felt eyes beyond the wood. Two foreign fucks with fire at their backs. Not exactly a welcome sight.

„I'll try to be a better guest, this time 'round.“ A shiteating grin for his traveling companion.
 
Whatever Laric had or hadn't said earned them a spot in the barn. Not much to look at, but it stank less in the downpour. The dried hay had mostly escaped the mold, and the roof refused to leak. Suppose that was the best one could hope for after already burning a shelter today.

Wanted to make sure Jerry was alright, but he wasn't fluent in Horse. Mare snorted like it was well – tone adamant. Bothering Laric at this point seemed like a bad idea.

The occupants had smartly not let them in the house – his ass alone, if wrung out, would've caused a flood. If the floor had any boards, they would've been drunk by the time his toes were dry.

They left them some food that'd seen better days. Bread reminded of the the violent one he'd thrown at the kid's nose, and the dried meat...if it could be called that, had the texture of shoeleather. But even shit things were great when they were free. Or when Laric paid for them. Same thing.

As he got his boots off, he wondered where all the animals were. These folks must've eaten half their fourlegs already...or they were hiding them someplace else.

Either way – it would be a long night if they didn't start a fire. Trevor wasn't exactly sure what the etiquette was on burning shit in other people's yards. Last time he had to worry about it, he just burned the yard. No one was left to complain after.

Probably for the best to leave someone else in charge of the fire, this time around.

„They tell you if we're allowed to burn some shit around here?“

Wasn't the first time he'd go to sleep wet if they ran out of ideas. Still, dry was preferable.

He hated quiet types. They waited until everyone was asleep to get jumpy.
 
Blondie seemed to be barnborn, so he'd figure it out. Trevor knew how to clean 'em and some minor acts of haymagic. When it came to controlled fires and not burning things you shouldn't... well, let Laric handle it.

The trashfire got going, smoke finding new ways to escape. Whatever the other guy did up in the roof sure sucked the smoke out well enough.

The other man shed his clothes. Seemed a smart thing to do. Unusual, that the seeming princeling wasn't more worried about propriety and whateverthefuck. Well, proper had never stopped Trevor before. Boots were already off, the shirt was easy to pull over, and the pants dropped as soon as he unlatched the belt. The undercloth was..hmm.. eh it was dry enough – sides, if he took it off, he'd get hay up his crack. That seemed a worse curse than wetass. He'd heard of a guy in camp once getting a pebble under the foreskin. Looked real bad before they had to take a piece. No no. Better wet tools than chewed ones.

Shirt and pants bunched together in his hands, Trevor quickly realized he couldn't reach the beam. Probably could've jumped up, but the foot was still purple and green and useless. Could've climbed a lick, but through-and-through in his forearm put a stop to those thoughts.

„This aint bread. It's a weapon. Figure if we shave it thin enough, we won't chip a tooth.“ If he flung something like this from the city walls and headsmushed a guy – reckoned not even Sitha could get that fucker up. Maybe they could try boiling the bread a bit before they ate it? Sounded unappetizing. But it would kill its spirit, along with any blight it might carry.

„Anyway...mind hanging this up for me?“ Waved the still belted pants and the Jerryshirt around.

Hated being a short fucker, but hate didn't make a guy taller.
 
Ass firmly on the ground, by the fire. Was it comfortable? No. But it was warm and dry, and on a day like this, that had to be enough.

„Thanks.“ A mutter for them both, as the clothes got hung.

Trevor'd spent too much with soldiers to notice when people flapped around nude. There was the briefest flinch when the knife came out, but it was for the mare. So that too got a pass. Didn't much care for sharp things beyond whether they were going to stab him or not. Hopefully, the mad bastard wouldn't knife Jerry. Was his horse and all – but it still seemed wrong.

But it all passed peacefully. Fact that Laric had clearly dealt with horses before became more apparent with each passing moment. Suppose it made sense – you had to check horsefeet for corns and thorns and pebbles and such. Trevor never rode the same horse long enough to worry about it, but suppose it was the same thinking that made people get shoes. Fucked foot meant a fucked leg, and then it was just you who were screwed.

„It's a moo, not a me.“ Sniff confirmed it. Wasn't sure what cut the meat originally came from. Clearly belonged to the leatherfolk now. If you put it in a real big slingshot, reckon you could put a hole in a door. But shaved down nice enough, the meat noodles were still delicious, even if the teeth lost all their edge.

So that's what kept him busy. The knife they got from Kla wasn't a fishknife after all. Must've come as a surprise to the tool. Traveling in search for scales, only to became a cowbarber so late in life. Didn't matter, long as it was sharp.

„Where'd you learn horses?“
 
Trevor took the strange, heavy blanket and wrapped around himself. Felt more like a rug than a blanket, but whatever was covering your ass was blankety enough.

He'd heard of Threnodyn before. Viscounty was far too big to miss. Some maps argued over its exact borders, but all of them were honest about it being there. So the fancy lad was from rich stock. Made sense. But he was slumming it with Trevor to...what...deliver random coin to former employee leftovers?

Felt more like peeling than cutting, but the stringy bits broke in his mouth without too much protest.

„Coin's not much for knowing. More of a compass type deal.“ Which was true enough. Because that's how it worked. You got to know whether the way was right, and when you arrived. Not much beyond that. And it wasn't Trevor who knew through the coin, it was the coin that knew through Trevor. But that was a slippery conversation to have. So he chose not to.

„Feels much closer now then it did back in Havenby. So we're going the right way. Beyond that...“ Shrugged. There wasn't really anything beyond that.

„We did some work in Threnodyn, some seven, eight years back.“ Was hard to recall the exact contract. Enough knives changed hands, and acts blurred together. Remembered the area, though. Nice land. „Don't remember the lords being so concerned with merc family or safety.“

But times change.

People don't.
 
Trevor and his big mouth. Couldn't just talk horses. Nooo...had to make it about things best not discussed. But a man could say a lot without ever really saying anything. One of those roadgifts practiced by those stuck to the shadier side of things.

„Figure it was four, five jobs after Ogam's Hollow.“ The rebellion they dispatched there still stuck with him. „We headed north for one of the landgrabs.“ And while some jobs were memorable, others weren't. Whether it was a cousin that got too big for their breeches, keeping the locals in check, or the good ol' bandit infestation...time had eaten the details away. Only remembered they went as seven and came back as four.

„Long time gone, anyway. No need to dredge it all up.“

Felt the urge to mention the fire, the roof, the wet of his ass...but he knew better.
 
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