[The Bronze Wood] Scars and Pickles (Intro, PM for invite)

[Sturlin]

1st of Spring, 510 AV

Scars and Pickles make a home with Francis.

High pitched shrieks of pain broke the silence, punctuated by the sloppily sick noise of a creature rolling fur and meat around in its mouth. Something struggled in the leaves on the side of the deer trail, but Francis continued to plod passed with only a slight roll of the eyes. The horse paused a moment to be comforted by a heavily scarred and gnarled hand, which stroked its muzzle affectionately.

With a swift swipe of a heavy riding boot Sturlin sent a thin layer of dust sliding from the trail into the darkness. A disgruntled hiss was the only response, followed by more shrieks of pain. "Pickles. You know toying with them upsets Francis. Stop." Nonplussed, the cat's bald head swung imperiously out of the shadows with a struggling mouse in its mouth. The fat mouse flopped around a few more moments, as if the cat were letting its master know that it could do whatever it wanted, and then the spine was snapped and the creature went limp.

It had been like this for days. Sturlin let Francis lead the way, occasionally guiding him as he noted changes in the terrain or allowed his whim to take hold. Aside from the occasional rest, or shelter off the side of the trail to conceal themselves from something or someone moving nearby, the trio traveled in relative peace. Unfortunately Mr. Pickles insisted upon eating in the presence of Francis, and showed himself to be quite unwilling to kill his meals for Francis' benefit.

The quest for a campsite had been one of many excuses for Sturlin to wander aimlessly through the Bronze Wood. It was not the safest place to wander aimlessly, but he could take comfort that it was also quite far from being the most dangerous. Unfortunately he had been getting tired of sleeping propped against trees or rocks. It was about time that he and the boys found a safe spot to pitch the tent and get to work. Everything else could come later.

[Sturlin]

Several hours passed before Sturlin and the boys located a campsite which suited all of them. It was important that the campsite not be within the deep forest, as the hunter was not expert enough to perfectly preserve his meat and furs. What he could accomplish would still provide sustenance for his little family. Also, though he would be loathe to admit it, he was not an accomplished enough warrior to feel safe in the deep woods; though a competent Reimancer he did not wish to risk his health or his sanity blasting petty beasts for protection.

The campsite was in a shadowed glen a brisk ten minute hike from the nearest freshwater stream. Francis showed interest in camping directly next to the stream, but it was not wise to sleep in a place which would attract so many other creatures seeking water. Before pitching the tent Sturlin swept the campsite clean of larger rocks and twigs with his hands, both of which he piled for use later. Mr. Pickles busied himself with pawing lazily at Francis' flicking tail.

With the tent prepared it was time to see about making the campsite more comfortable. First he removed the saddlebags from Francis' back and smiled as the horse nickered softly. Lifting each of the horse's hooves one at a time he checked for stones or any injuries sustained from traveling the winding animal paths today. Once satisfied that his friend was in good health he took his comb and ran it slowly through the chestnut hair. It was slow going, he would have preferred a brush, but when he first acquired the horse he had no idea he'd need one.

It was dusk by the time he finished with the comb and tethered Francis to a nearby tree, with enough slack for him to graze on the nearby grass. After looking around the campsite with satisfaction he placed his hands on his hips and said, “Mr. Pickles, fetch me my spade.” After a few moments of watching the cat lick itself unconcernedly, he decided that he had better fetch his own spade. His packs were in good condition and it took him little time to locate that which the cat considered himself too regal to retrieve.

Digging a fire pit was a simple matter, but he cut his hand on the spade as he rushed through the process to make sure he could finish before darkness. Muttering curses under his breath he did his best to ensure that the pit was deep enough and wide enough to conceal a large portion of the light. With the pit finished he returned to his piles of sticks and rocks, sucking dirt and blood from his left thumb. The rocks he piled around the edge of the pit. The sticks he sorted through, selecting only dry wood, and then stacked them neatly in the pit.

Armed with flint and steel from his pack he quickly lit a merry fire. Mr. Pickles separated from his current entertainment to lay down and curl up next to the warming stones. Sturlin felt more secure now that his fire was lit and set about finishing his unpacking. The evening passed in pleasant silence marred only by the disgusting taste of traveler's stock and hard biscuits. As he fed a few more sticks to the fire he sighed, “Well, its not home, but it'll do.”

[Sturlin]

The day dawned peacefully in the camp of the horse, the cat, and the hunter. Sturlin awoke with a start in his tent. Standing on his chest was a completely bald cat, whose wrinkled face was inches from his own. “Do you have to do that every morning?” With a heavy sigh he rubbed under Mr. Pickles' chin until the cat was purring contentedly. After a few minutes of such treatment he carefully deposited the cat in his still warm bedding and then set out to meet the day.

Tending the camp was a matter of habit by now. It did not take long for him to tend the horse and rekindle the fire, and unfortunately breakfast was as uncomplicated as ever. He was already beginning to tire of soup and bread. After breakfast he carefully rinsed his utensils with his water skin, smothered the fire pit with earth from his digging, and left a dish of water in the tent for the cat.

Gathering up his more valuable possessions on the off chance that someone were to wander through the camp in his absence, he untethered Francis and began walking toward the stream. Along the way he did his best not to step on any dry twigs or rustle the leaves too hastily, but in the end he was almost as loud as his horse. Upon arriving at the stream and pausing to be sure that no one else was present at the moment, he released Francis to drink and began to strip off his clothes to bathe.

A cold bath is not particularly pleasant. He does not use any soap, wary that animals could pick up the scent more easily than if he were to just wash clean in fresh water. After running his hands over his stubbled chin and scalp he decides that he will shave tomorrow. Emerging from his bath invigorated the hunter then dries himself quickly and dons his leather clothing. “Time to go Francis. If you drink any more you'll burst.”

Travel back to the camp was achieved in more silence than before, but only because he decided to cheat a bit and walk on the dirt of an animal trail instead of the more littered forest floor. With his hand on his dagger he checked through the camp to be sure that everything was as he left it, and then he tethered Francis to another tree and collected his bow and arrows. As always when wielding Kardeg's bow, his fingers absently ran over the notches in the wood as he moved about his business.

Getting to work as soon as possible was his task. He had enough gold mizas to keep his supplies full for some time, but they would run out eventually if he did not replenish them. One final sweep told him that all was well. The fire pit was cold and smothered, Mr. Pickles was sleeping peacefully, and Francis was once again grazing. With a spring in his step he set on the path back toward the stream.

When he could once again hear the trickling water he paused to string his bow. Moving in a semi-circle around the stream, much more slowly now to maximize his stealth, he examined trees to find one tall and sturdy enough to bear his weight with a clear view of the water. Climbing up was not a difficult matter. Strong and hardy his hands gripped the bark and pulled him further above the earth. He almost fell, only once, as his scarred hand stiffened at an inopportune moment and he was forced to snatch hastily at a lower branch.

Once he was seated firmly straddling a branch with his back pressed against the trunk he slipped his bow from his shoulder and pulled an arrow free from his quiver. Resting the arrow across his thighs he pulled a piece of jerky from his pack and slipped it between his teeth and lip. Another week and all he will have left is broth. This prospect was all the motivation he needed as he loosely gripped his arrow and set it gently against the string. Ready to draw his bow at a moments notice, he sat as still as he could.

[Sturlin]

It was quickly becoming Sturlin's belief that branches were unreasonably uncomfortable. One hour passed, and then a second. The stiffness in the hunter's thighs was no longer alleviated by quietly shifting positions, in fact that just seemed to make it worse. Rubbing the heel of his hand into his eyes to clear them occasionally, he kept his bow at the ready and his focus on the stream. One rabbit had already escaped because of his preoccupation with his own discomfort, and he was not about to let that happen again.

As he shifted his seat and his grip once more his fingers absently caressed the notch-marks made by the bow's original owner. As his eyes scanned the stream he spotted movement. His hands froze for an instant, before readying an arrow against the string of his bow. A skittish looking brown rabbit was hopping toward the water, eager for a refreshing drink.

Taking in a calming breath Sturlin took aim on the animal, near the back of the neck. From this vantage point he had an excellent angle. A few moments passed before the animal felt comfortable enough to stretch out its neck and take a drink from the water. As he released his breath, he released the string. The world seemed to speed up as the arrow marked the side of the rabbits cheek and shattered against a rock in the stream. Springing into action it fled into the darkness, leaving only a trace of red and splinters of arrow in the water as a sign of its visit.

His head fell back against the rough bark of the tree trunk. How wonderful. Not only did he miss, he managed to ruin some of his ammunition. This was starting quite nicely. “I bet Mr. Pickles would have done a better job on that rabbit than I did,” he grumbled under his breath as he shifted his position for comfort.

The rest of the day was hardly more eventful. Only two more animals arrived at his section of the stream. A squirrel may have gotten away, but he bagged himself a large weasel. The hole in the weasel's hide was minor and repairable, but as he walked back to the campsite with his prize in tow he realized it still wouldn't fetch full price. He'd have to resort to methods other than archery if he was to make any money from hunting small game such as this.

When he reached his camp he sat the kill aside and, after unstringing and storing his bow, he took an inventory of his ammunition. Two arrows had been damaged beyond repair and the one which killed the weasel needed to be cleaned and sharpened. “First things first boys. You thirsty?”

It took several trips to the stream to satisfy the thirst of the hunter, the horse, and the cat. Once they were fed and watered they shared the campsite; Francis stood to one side, watching Mr. Pickles purring in Sturlin's lap as he tended to the weasel's remains. The cat leaned forward lazily, its nose inches away from the drippings from the hide, as if it would rather starve than be anything but hand-fed. Finally the cat was forced out of his warm lap so that the hunter could stretch and treat the hide, as well as the meat.

“I've never had weasel before, come to think of it...Bound to be better than soup.”

[Sturlin]

Regrettably soup remained the main fare on the menu broken only occasionally by weasel meat or the remains of the jerky. Toward the end of the week Sturlin gave his last fruits to Francis, officially depleting his rations. It was the seventh of spring and he was breaking down the camp to take his meager collections to the nearby Syliras.

The week had been long and frustrating. Even a capable hunter will find that scavenged materials for snares and traps are far less easy to manage than proper equipment, and Sturlin was only passably skilled at the trade himself. Since the previous loss of two arrows and his realization that they were not proper for smaller game he had spent all of his waking time crafting more appropriate means.

His hands were nicked and cut from finger to elbow from scavenging vines in the underbrush. The area around the camp was now littered in several places with painfully dug and concealed pit traps, along with amateur snares and snags. He was sure that half of them would fall apart before he made it to town.

Nevertheless he left his mark on the traps to show that they were his, and that he would be back to collect the contents in due course. Hopefully his time in town would take no longer than a day. A night in a simple inn and an honest bed would do him good, and then he could return to see what damage nature had wrought on his impromptu devices.

Only the cat was in good spirits. The grazing this early in the spring was not yet enough to sustain a full grown horse , and Francis was in sore need of some oats and other solid fare. He would be much happier once well fed. As Sturlin loaded the gear onto the downtrodden animal he made a mental note to purchase a brush.

As he led the horse away from the camp, with the cat trotting along at their heels, he felt a pang of worry. This shaded glen was not his home, to be sure, but the week had made him comfortable with it; one could even say he was fond of it. With each step the faint trickle of the stream became fainter in the distance, and the rustle of the leaves only served to remind him that he had no guarantee the area would remain unmolested in his absence. He could only hope that it was waiting for him when he returned.

Thread concluded.

[Gossamer]

Sturlin Experience: +4 XP Wilderness Survival, +2 Shortbow Additional Notes: Very nice intro