Private Venture forth, Young Dawn

[kristofer]

Rodhan Barony
Northwestern Woods​

“ Is he dead?”

Aleksei Rodhan cleared the last of the bushes, arriving to where two of his men at arms had stilled. One standing, the other crouched before whom sat slumped against the rough trunk of a tall pine. Coming closer, he recognized the figure as another man of his — Joryn?

Serves him right, having weaseled away for a piss while camp yet remained unset.

“ No. Just dazed. “ Answered the man currently at work slapping the bastard awake. Aleksei marched all the way to their side, the look about his boyish face indignant as he stared first at them, then the surrounding woods.
“ Figure something hit him, yet we didn’t hear a peep — There’s not supposed to be anyone here. “
“ People be in all kinds of places they aren’t supposed to. More so lately. “
“ You can say that again. “

All three started at the sound of an approach, the Baron’s third son almost drawing his sword in a quick heel turn as another came hurrying in. Twigs cracking, shrubs whipping, a rush of mail and the chime of a kettle helm that almost caught in an overhanging branch.

“ Abandoned fire. Fifty paces that-a way. “ The man announced, pointing it out. “ No embers, but the slot in the dirt was still warm. ”

Aleksei let down his guard immediately, embarrassment transmuting to anger as he straightened.

“ Tracks? “
“ None. “
“ Bastard. “ He spat, remembering just so to keep his voice down. They were supposed to be here on the sly — Traveling light with just the twenty of them, to meet with Aksel’s squad on the morrow. So close. It infuriated him that they may have come all this way, hiding from even their own damn peasants, just for it to come undone at the seams at the very last second.

More than the plan failing, he dreaded having to confront his father and elder brother about it. To have blown it, now that he’d finally been given a chance. His first, at anything.

“ Fuck. “ He begun away in a brisk march, back towards where the rest of the men were. Squat little shelters littered the forest floor, more branches than tentcloth, and upon one of them sat a magpie. It tilted its head, in that smooth and yet twitchy way as a regular bird would, one black eye pointed at him.

“ Rider. “ It croaked. The young lord halted before it, impatience writ in the bristle of his shoulders and his hands that were clutched into fists.

“ Where? “
“ The Road. Westward. “

That was opposite to their own heading. And the hillfort, which was directly Northeast. Aleksei’s eyes narrowed, his head keeling as he glanced at the men that’d roused to attention. Deathly quiet, for it was the Shapechanger that’d spoken.

“ What is there, west from here? “ He asked, of everyone in general.
“ Forest. Some villages. A field or two. “ Responded one, nervous stare bouncing from lord to magpie.
“ Colours? Sigils? “ Aleksei continued, growing more serious.
“ Colourless, bannerless, nameless. Horse — Bay. Star. “ The bird sat still, statuesque.

A scout? If it was Hvithelm’s, dressed without any identification at a glance just like his own troupe was at the moment, the man had gotten plenty daring. There was supposed to be a truce, enforced by the accepted summons to Rosthall. Suppose a man’s curiousity was his own, as was his betrayal.

“ Follow them. See where they go — what they do. Who else is there. “ Young lord Rodhan ordered in conclusion, watching as the Shapechanger spread wing without another word. A black and white form distanced, turning to a dark speck on the yet clear sky. Flying towards a brilliant sunset.

In the east, clouds gathered. Distant thunder.

*​

Rodhan Barony
Village of Lehtoja​

A large ash with bouquets of budding leaves on its branches creaked in the evening wind, a dark sentinel towering over the squat houses. Smoke, wet earth and sunlight smelled in the air, coltsfoot dotting the sides of the road that split the village in half. Smaller paths lead to every direction thereon, buildings spreading out betwixt the trees. The smaller they grew, the more recent they were. There were people, even many, but it was uncannily without excess noise of a bustling settlement.

Jaan’s Day — graves, grief, remembrance. Whose names are spoken will never truly die. It’d hardly be the usual feast to welcome in the Spring, but Silja had insisted on arranging at least something for their hearts’ sake. A bit of tradition to take their minds off what they all dreaded, what was happening and had been happening for a whole of three years.

It inches closer, she had said. Every day they waited, going on about their days in a preoccupied haze. When will there be smoke to drown out the horizon, when will the men come and take what they want — what they’re entitled to, by lord or decree itself. In many ways, the life out here was just as he’d remembered it, from years upon years ago.

The joy too, somehow simpler and yet so complicated. They’d take it wherever they could and felt it, truly. In a deep breath Oliver let the door close behind him, a dry sort of creak about the steps as he exited to the yard. Little fires were being lit, to shelter against nightfall and the household ghosts that’d dine after everyone else at the large table still in process of being set. The Knights of Anathaeum had all spread out on their tasks, taking part, himself included.

A bit of rations for the watchman, stood by the last house in this row. Overlooking the length of road that lead eastward, before taking a bend that hid it away into the dense woods. He walked past the large ash and down the path, quiet if resolute.

“ No sign of Willem? “ He asked sidelong as he found the one posted at the familiar bench, leaned against the grey log wall of a peasant’s abode. One step closer and he offered the bit he’d been able to secure, just for the occasion.

Bread and cheese.

 

[Hector]

Grim was the feeling, and cold was the air.

And try as he might, Hector could not shake those thoughts born from parchment and writings. How the reports sounded so much like the scripture of old histories he had read and learned from. Old legends passed down in ritual and given voice round fires. Only now, the names were different.

Only now, he and so much of what he loved was here. Amidst fresh fires fed and ashes rise. There with the shifts he could see so clearly in his mind. That he had scrawled in his folio night after night, and day after day. Where the Rodhan camped. Where the Hvithelm marched. Where Murtohovi stood. The Rosthall and Grennfelt's boundaries. The Lekander lines.

No sign of Willem?

Pulled Hector from his current swirl of thoughts.

A small laugh huffed from his nose. "Sounds about right," he moved off the post he had relied so much upon for his moment's rest. Snapped shut the binds of his folio. Stashed it neath the folds of his leathers and glanced up the road. "Willard is a right ghost most the time," he said, and took up the goods. "Usually have better luck hearing him, than seeing him," he motioned toward his long ear. "Half harder these days though," Wasted little time in taking a sit upon the bench. "He'll show up,"

With cold fingers, Hector ripped a piece of bread off, pinched a bit of cheese there to go with it, and offered it to Syr Oliver. "How fare the good people, uncle?"

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

A black nose snuffled through the damp underbrush. Deep into the ferns and the moss that covered the woods around Lehtoja, a wolf moved like a shadow made flesh. Her fur, thick and dark as storm clouds, was damp around the legs and belly from pushing through bramble and fern. Silver eyes scanned the forest floor ahead, her breath misting faintly in the cool, loamy air.

Birdsong echoed overhead— brief, fluting notes from somewhere high in the canopy where the light was warmer. Down below, the forest wore its age in layers. A bed of fallen logs furred in pale green, the long decay of last autumn’s leaves, tangled ivy climbing over everything it could hold. The scent of rain lived here, even when skies were dry.

They moved deeper, where the trees grew older, taller. Gnarled roots jutted from the earth like reaching fingers. A beetle with an iridescent green shell trundled across a fallen log slick with moss. A bird darted through a shaft of sun between branches, vanishing with a flicker of wing and sound.

Farren paused, her head dipping low to sniff a patch of churned earth near a crooked birch. She huffed softly and stepped aside, glancing back.

"That one?" a small voice asked behind her.

Little boots scuffed through wet leaves as Inkeri, Silja’s niece, crept to the stump before squatting down and brushing back the mulch with care, revealing a small golden cluster, their delicate caps like flower petals, nestled in the wet dark.

"Chanterelles!" she exclaimed and reached out to give Farren a quick pat on the head. “Good girl!” she said brightly— then paused, eyes widening a little. “Ope. Sorry. I know you’re not a dog. But still.”

She patted her again, more sheepish now, and Farren leaned in, pressing her great head gently against the girl’s chest before giving her a quick, affectionate lick across one cheek. Inkeri giggled and wiped at her face with her sleeve, her nose a little runny from the chill, smearing the dirt that already streaked her hollowing cheeks.

Using her mushroom knife with the small boar-bristle brush on the end to gently clean the stems. “Papa showed me this trick,” she murmured, more to herself than anything, as she snicked through the stems with the blade. “He said you can smell them before you even see them. Like you do. He said I had a nose for it.”

Her satchel sagged heavy against her hip, the flap bulging with chanterelles, false parasols, dark morels, and a single, knobby king bolete. It looked nearly too large for her small shoulders, the strap slipping down her arm as she adjusted it with a grunt. But Farren noted the familiar stubborn hunch of youth— the set of a child carrying the burdens she believed herself grown enough to bear.

Farren waited as Inkeri stepped over a tangled root, her breath puffing in the chill. The girl didn’t speak again, just reached out and tangled her fingers into the thick fur at Farren’s shoulder, holding on with the quiet, unconscious need of someone seeking comfort more than guidance.

They walked like that, together.

Back through the underbrush and the damp and the shadows, toward home.

The forest watched them go, and said nothing.

 

[Oliver]

Shit— He did get the lad’s name wrong again, didn’t he.

“ Willard. “ Oliver repeated dutifully, as if that might help commit it to memory. The mind that’d stretched much too thin, transparent as the thinnest gauze, splintered parts drifting apart. Shame colouring his face that scrunched up against the vagrant beams of waning sunlight, he looked to the East.

For ghosts.

“ They have all been better. “ He responded, accepting the bread and cheese. The instinct had been to wave it off, as the offering was supposed to go just the one way, but who was he to fault a young man his generosity. He’d been raised the same way, not far from here.

“ But I think us being here helps, genuinely. “ Holding onto his bit of bread and cheese, he grazed the village behind his shoulder with a glance. “ Even if that feels like very little — Hard for a man to turn into an early harvest, a peace betwixt powers that be or whomever another should’ve lost. “

But a fleeting relief — perhaps. Help around the tables and households, the duties and the digging, another set of eyes to mind the fire, a skilled hand at the end of a sword, the beat of paws alongside small feet in the woods.

“ But— We’ll do our best and go forward, no matter what. “ Shoulders bouncing in a shrug, he shoved the bread and cheese in his mouth.

“ Bears knowing most aren’t strangers to what happens, even now. “ Save for the youngest children, probably.

“ Myself and Silja, among a couple others here, hail from a village a little to the North. “ He indicated over yonder, past the tops of trees. There was a lightness to the tone, given by the fond smile that was wide enough to crinkle the edges of his eyes.

“ Though that place may have faded away, we haven’t. “

 

[Willard]

Hooves beat their steady rhythm upon the path. Riding at the cant, Willard did his best to avoid the main roads, though even this was proving a challenge. Thick woods, and armed men that don't belong. He had tracked them for some time, now, sticking to the heights. Or else travelling in their shadow. Just another deserter on a stolen horse with a borrowed sword, looking to escape those whose service guaranteed a bloody end. That was his story, anyway.

It would not hold up under duress, but then he didn't plan on getting himself captured anytime soon.

Still, I cannot help shake the idea I'm being followed. A prickling sensation on the back of his neck told him as such. Evolution doing its best to warn the unwitting prey of the predator on its tail. And yet the road behind me remains empty, he mused, glancing over his shoulder, a short grip on the reins in his hands. A cool wind whispered between the trees as he sat, watching the road, the skies above. A lone raptor rode the thermals, there in the distance. White on black.

His fingers flexed.

Turning his back on the scene, Willard rode on. Lehtoja was not far now. A mile or so. He could already smell the woodsmoke wafting from the settlement, the scents of pine and wet sawdust mixing where trunks had been felled by woodman's axe.

The brace of rabbit and pheasant would be his gift to the struggling souls of Lehtoja. He was already wearing the guise of a deserter - why not add poaching to the list?

Passing through a break in the trees, he followed the road in. Two figures rested in the shade of one of the outbuildings and it was towards them Willard rode. Not directly. His fledgling paranoia would not allow it. Best play it safe than sorry. Taking his left hand from the reins, Willard extended his index and middle fingers, feigning an itch. Then came the curl as they formed a fist.

Twenty men, the signal read, hand unfurling as he slipped on by, fingers dancing. Behind. Potential pursuit.

 

[Euphemia Martell]

The woods were thick here, perhaps a benefit or mayhap a curse. It was difficult enough to march through the thicket to where the refuge camp was. Effie was dressed in simple clothes over chain mail, better to hide her nature when she'd gone out to in search of medicinal plants and natural edible roots to help supplement the camp's food. What she hadn't expected was to find a small group of refugees. Villagers displaced because of the border disputes. Homes burned to the ground. Farms destroyed.

There had been a moment where she watched them from the shadows, her shroud vision highlighting the shapes of the men, women, and children. It wasn't long before she realized that they meant no harm and were looking for a safe place away from the baron's armies until they would be able to rebuild. She had stepped from the trees, hands held out in peace and after a short conversation with the leader of the group, an elderly man who walked with a cane.

Effie had offered to lead them to the refugee camp, a place that they could find safety. From there, they could decide whether to continue on or stay with the camp. At the very least, they could get some food for everyone. They looked like they hadn't eaten in a couple of days.

As she neared camp, the knight lifted her fingers to her mouth blowing in such a way to mimic the sound of a goldfinch. A signal that a friendly approached. Effie stepped from the edge of the tree line from north of the west gate, one of the children balanced on one hip as they had grown tired from walking, thick bag filled with her findings on the other. The rest of the little group followed her out. She gave a nod to Willard who was still atop a horse, perhaps just back from his own scouting from further out if she had to guess based on the horse. Oliver and Hector were on watch, enjoying some simple rations as they kept an eye on the road.

"I came upon them while foraging." She said simply as she drew near to the watch building. "More families displaced by the disputes." The tired people walk past them heading into the main part of the village, and she handed off the child on her hip off to her mother with a nod. Lehtoja was already stretched thin, but it wasn't like she could leave these people out there to get caught between the to armies bent on laying claim to the land. She relaxed her shroud sight, already feeling the headache forming from using it so long while forging in the forest.

 

[Hector]

"I have no doubt," he voiced. Tore off new pieces for himself, popped them into his mouth as he listened, glad for the fatty cheese, tangy and soft. The chew of bread.

Simple joys that all seemed the more to matter with all that went on around them. All that waited for them in the woods and fields.

"We go forward," just as they had against Järnberg, there in the dead of winter. His mouth half full of food. He passed it down, and ripped another serving. Hungrier than he had thought. When had he last eaten?

"You and uncle, Kaarle, if memory serves," easy as chewing. He set his eyes toward the north. "Any names that need saying?" warm as lamp light in the cold night, but any hope of ceremony came dashed by the sound of cantering hooves that set his ears to twitch. His head keeled, and there from the dark came their ghost. Sure atop his star faced mount.

Hector watched as the steed slowed to them. A nod passed between them. Fingers flicked and showed in quick series.

Twenty.

Possible pursuit.

A pushed breath from lungs. Hector looked to the darkness beyond. Heard the stirrings of something more from the woods. Many more. Tired, hungry. How long had it been since they had eaten?

"Well done, Syr Martell," he said as he tried to meet the exhausted faces that came by with what glow he could muster. Placed a hand on a youth's shoulder, pressed bread and cheese into their hands. Let them carry on as his eyes set back to the woods.

Twenty.

He closed to Syr Oliver's side. "I could set a flare," he said, motioned with his nose, and the line of his eyes. Just above the treeline which Willard had come from. "Call out for talks?"

What could his sword do against twenty?

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

The milling of tired voices perked Farren's ears as she led Inkeri from the woodline onto the east road that bled from the small town. Keeping measured pace with the child's lagging one— for the girl had stubbornly insisted on carrying back the large bag of mushrooms.

It wasn't until they got closer, that Farren began to hear the concern laced through the clamor of those gathered. Amongst them were what she was sure were new faces. Haggard, but she saw determination there too.

But it was Willard she noticed first, atop his horse and conversing with her fellow Knights with a grim set of his jaw. From his tight shoulders, and the look of Syr Oliver's stoic brow, Farren could tell that ill tidings had arrived, and hope was beginning to fray at its edges.

Unease itched at her pelt and hurried her paws. Shifting from one second to the next in a flare of silver flames— Farren crouched down next to Inkeri, wiping at the dirt on her cheek. "Take this bag, Inkeri, and bring it to your aunt Silja. She'll make sure to put them to good use for us all later."

She went to stand and urge the child away from the road, but the girl caught at her hand as Farren turned to go. "Will you promise to sit by me at dinner? My papa used to sit on my left side, but you can sit there until he gets back from the Baron's."

A strange impact hollowed her chest and for a moment, Farren couldn't answer. Instead, she hooked a pinkie with Inkeri's and solemnly nodded her head, "I promise."

With the trust only a child could give, the girl ran off with a beaming smile, her bag seemingly no longer heavy in the least.

Farren continued towards the crowd, her feet light on the worn earth, navigating the divots carved into the ground by heavy cartwheels. Passively noting the tangled mess of discarded goods between squat houses, the empty sacks piled by the sides of the road, and the occasional sharp-eyed stare from the refugees.

Nodding at Willard and touching Euphemia's shoulder lightly so she would know she was there. Farren’s gaze flicked across the faces of her comrades, noting the grim tension in their postures. She paused for a moment, steady voice edged with concern, "Has something happened while I was gone?"

@Hector @Euphemia Martell @Willard @Oliver

 

[Oliver]

So many names, dear nephew. His response was a hum and a smile, fond and sad. So much heart, was Syr Hector. And effortless in expressing it, with all the right things to say. He hadn’t the time to appreciate it more, let alone in words, before already their little silence unspooled. To arrivals.

East, North, the road and the woods. In a frown he kept his attention at the warning come riding in, the young man upon that star-faced bay horse. His expression didn’t flicker, remaining stern as he glanced at Hector sidelong upon the suggestion. It wasn’t a bad one, but something about it didn’t sit to the surrounding whole like he would’ve preferred.

Twenty men. Had it been any less—

“ No. “ He said, jaw set, a gesture calling Willard to join them where they stood. “ If they are in pursuit, they’ll see us just fine from afar, flare or not. Calls to prepare either way, but to invite them outright? “

He shifted on heel, only half-arsedly paying attention to the mill of people suddenly having appeared, Euphemia at the helm.

“ If it is the Baron, they’ll seek us however they wish. If someone else— “ He shrugged.
“ They’ll also do whatever they wish, once they’re here. But we should prepare. Syr Martell— “ His voice rose, urgency in it.

“ Good work. See these people situated with Silja— “ A gesture through the village, the little wreaths and garlands put up for the holiday on sight even from this far off. Where she toiled, settings things up and shouting orders.

“ And then return. Proper equipped. We’ll be keeping watch through the night, I reckon. “

A child ran in the midst then, a faster one amongst the slow lumber of the crowd that he recognized for Silja’s niece. That poor bastard Iivo Koskela’s daughter. He nodded to Farren in a subdued smile when she joined the rest of them, acknowledging. Not only her presence, but the help and the care. Children didn’t keep it together as the rest of them did when loved ones went missing. All they had were vague words of hope that weren’t necessarily true — some of them blatant lies, buying time. Serving the moment, but none truly, when it came to it.

“ Not as such, Syr Lóthlindor. But stay a moment, if you will. “ A little softer, with just betwixt the three of them.

With that, he turned to the returning scout, at long last.

“ Syr Willard. Potential pursuit. “ He said, repeating what he'd told them in the brief signal, head tilting in question.

“ Why? Whose men. “

What did you do? What did you see?

 

[Willard]

Message sent and received, Willard passed on by, gathering his reins to himself as Hellion slowed to a walk. Drawing up just shy of the great ash tree that held vigil over Lehtoja's hearths and homes, the scout slipped from the saddle, boots sinking into mud as hungry hands sought to relieve him of grouse and game. 'Easy, now.' Willard cooed, calming the star-faced bay, a touch and a tender word serving to placate the creature, if but for the moment.

Retrieving his stave and quiver, the knight issued quiet instructions to the villagers, memorising names and faces before departing to join his brethren where they stood watch beside the road. He hadn't the luxury of time to greet Farren and Euphemia the way he wished to; a simple nod and meeting of eyes would have to suffice.

His gaze flicked briefly to the flock of refugees following in Syr Martell's wake: women, children, the old and the infirm. Victims of war, starving where they stood.

Looking away, Willard turned a deaf ear to their cries and calls for food. He did not have the rations to sate their hunger, and even if he had, he was not sure it would've been enough. The war had taken much from these people, he knew. More than could ever be replaced by the likes of him.

'Syr!' Joining his fellows, the dawnling glanced towards the trees. Deepening shadows obscured much and more, and the woods whispered in remorse, each gust of wind like a secret waiting to be revealed. Fortunate, then, that Willard was the forgiving sort.

'I don't know, syr. Soldiers for certain, though, they bore neither badge nor banner. Heading north-north-east. Too well-fed to be deserters. A young man led them. Or at least the majority seemed to defer to him. Due to blood or merit, I could not say.' Frowning, Willard scritched his chin, embarrassed by what what duty bade him confess. 'As to the why, well, one of them snuck up on me. I realise how that sounds.'

Not good, not by any measure of the word.

'I made him docile before he could raise the alarm, and withdrew before he was discovered, though I do not doubt that he was.' Instinct and suspicion drew his gaze to the sky. 'I believe they employ much the same means as we when it comes to travelling and tracking in secret. A worg, or shapechanger, perhaps.' He shook his head, ashamed at having been caught lacking. 'I'm sorry, syr,' he said, meeting the Pursuant's gaze. 'I messed up. Endangered everyone here with my... with...'

He fell silent.

 

[Euphemia Martell]

With her magical sight still on, she caught Willard's nod and gave one of her own in return. It had been too busy here among the camp recently to take the time to catch up with anyone really. The day filled with doing all they could to help and in roles that best fit their skills. As one of the their best scouts, that meant Willard was often out tracking movements about the forest. Making sure everyone stayed safe.

Twenty incoming. She felt the sharp pang of anxiety rush her system. If they were soldiers then there could be trouble. It would be best to get these refugees in and settled quickly. Fist to heart, Effie turned from the group at the gates and headed toward the center of the little village and toward Sijia who directed people with commanding words and sweeps of her hand as they prepared for the observances this evening. The refugees followed her as she drew to a stop beside the woman who ran the village. "Sijia." The knight called out as she drew near to the woman. "Found them wandering through the woods lost. Seems their homes were burnt by one of the armies." The knight said explaining the situation briefly. There had been too many of such recently. Too many mouths to feed the longer this went on, but they couldn't just let them starve.

The knight pulled her sack from her back and set it on the ground next to the Sijia. "The medicinal herbs, I was able to find. There's a few root vegetables I managed to find as well along the way. Not enough." It was never really enough. "This is Elder Maessen." She introduced as the older man with the cane stepped forward. "Can I leave them in your care?"

With approval given, the knight turned to head back toward the gate. Letting her sight fade as she drew back up in time to hear the end of Willard's explanation. The pain sharp behind her eyes as the world turned dark again. She'd been using that spell for longer intervals that was healthy and it was starting to show.

 

[Hector]

Hector braced the scout with a sure hand clasped against his shoulder. "Eyes up, Syr," he gave him a nod.

Too much left doing to give into such doubts now.

"You did well to return as you did," gave the Dawnling he'd grown up alongside a shake. "Whole and in one piece as you are," let his hand slip. and looked back to Syrs Oliver and Lóthlinder. "I can take the first watch," turned toward Euphemia who came up the road. "Syr Edwynna was helping prepare for the ceremony, last I saw her,"

Prepped their packs too, for the ranging out that awaited them. Would have to wait longer with all this, it looked.

A soldier in this part, Hector waited for the next beat of their drum to follow.

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

A shapechanger? Her brow furrowed. How had she missed that? The shroud that it took to change the body was a tangible one for someone like Farren who grew up in more bodies than just her own. And she couldn't help but feeling a mote of frustration at her own self. Her role was not of scout, but still the weight of needing to be here amongst her fellow Knights as the most useful version of herself, burned, and Farren made note to try and speak to Syr Willard on the matter.

For now, the Dusker waited on the leading word of Syr Oliver, his competence guarding her anxiety against the coming marches of tyrant men.

 

[Oliver]

Words were received to silence and a stare that grew grim, lips twisting with contemplation over each detail. Hector had hurried to speaking quickly after Willard, with that softer camaraderie and offer as for the next step, already looking ahead. For all it’s well-meaning, he had to assume, it failed to draw his attention away from who should’ve muttered that accursed sorry at the end of the report. He tore his look away belatedly, regarding the rest.

“ You may take the first watch, Syr Rookheart. Partner up. “ He affirmed, without further ado or clarification as for whom with. While each was free to choose whomever, Syr Edwynna was a natural enough presumed choice for how her name had already been mentioned. And it fit the strongly advised protocol wherein opposing Sanctums be paired.

“ Eyes out for anything — “ Bounced a glance at the trees, then the eastern road. “ From strangers to shapechangers, hoofbeats or light betwixt the trees. Do not investigate alone. “

Bore reminding everyone, for how many times he’d had to in the past. One too many steps to the maw of darkness that yawned open, unthreatening until it swallowed another soul whole.

“ Syr Martell and I will take the second watch and relieve you in a couple hours. Syr Willard will have his well-earned rest and pick up patrol, once the night falls. “ He was then half a mind to dismiss and disperse, onto the next order of business, but instead stepped closer to Syr Willard.

“ And you’ll never say sorry when you report to me ever again. “ It wasn’t a suggestion. “ We’re endangered here, no matter what. “ He continued firmly, restraining the will to reach out in encouragement. Gestures as that had a way to soften the words overmuch. But, still—

“ You’ve scouted and come back, as you were bid. Now, we go forward. “

With that he tossed his hand conclusively. Rotated on heel towards the rest of the village and let his look fall on Farren, that dutiful waiting.

“ Syr Lóthlindor, with me. “ Gestured for her to follow in a jerk of the head. “ I’ve a task for you. “

 

[Willard]

Hector's reassurance, whilst appreciated, only helped to compound the guilt darkening Willard's thoughts. He had returned whole and in one piece, true enough, but he had drawn unwanted attention in the process, and he could not forgive himself that, with failure so fresh in his mind.

Syr Oliver's words only solidified the idea in his head, and the young dawnling struggled to bite back another apology, head dipping in understanding as he looked away. 'Forward, syr, aye.'

What's done is done, he tried to remind himself. Focus up now, for the love of the Gods!

Orders were given and obeyed. The brethren hopped to with an energy born of thinly-veiled concern. Twenty men. Bad odds. But not the worst. 'I'll do a sweep of the perimeter whilst you go and collect Edwynna,' he told Hector as Oliver and Farren moved off towards the village green. 'Don't think I have it in me to rest. Not now, anyway.'

The unstrung bow stave in his hand called to him as he turned towards the woods again, and Willard grimaced.

'There's a storm brewing, Hec. I can feel it in my bones.' Shaking his head, he turned to go, a wry smile upon his face. 'Man, do I sound old!'