*
Fall 59th 513
He needed food. True hunger had not met him yet but his stomach churned, and mouth salivated at the smell brought only upon the rare breeze originating somewhere east of him, and the road. The rain fell softly with a soothing ambient song, and though sparse rays of sun filtered down Trente had begun to realize the danger that disarming rain brought to him. It settled like a noxious assassin of the Wildlands then when the sun sunk the winds came from the water his night became dominated by shivers, and he would not be able to sleep for fear he might not wake, and if he did the stiffness slowed his body and mind. It made him sluggish and endangered him.
For two whole days he had endured the aroma of whomever camped within the wilds, hidden far from the beaten path, for fear of that weather but the time had come. Despite the rain and Trente's sane fear of the wilderness he would set out to acquisition some of this taunting sustenance, before he became too weak to accomplish the goal.
He wore his clothing reversed so that the faded and undyed underbelly showed, breaking his lines and allowing him obscurity that the twilight hours could not. He had hoped the rain would settle before dusk, but it had persisted without break. The loss of daylight would make the trip back to his shelter far more the risk, but his chances of escaping unseen were far higher. Still, he feared the humans of this camp far less than whatever the night brought with it from the branched and the burrows.
His motivation to risk the night was less than sane. It had been enough days that Trente had stopped counting, stopped truly hoping that his companion would uphold their responsibilities. No, Trente would have to devise a way into the city, though he had no ideas of how to accomplish this in even a remotely safe fashion. And, he would have to devise this plan before the weather grew any colder. If another storm hit, like the last, he may not survive. His reflexes were slowing with each wasted day, he was dying in those Wildlands. Escaping to the ocean remained the only option.
The mysterious camp proved harder to find than Trente had hoped, tucked within a natural dip in the forest floor by a creek that Trente, even after all his time in the area, had been unaware existed. The babbling of the water, and the sounds of the camp were contained within the dip and lost beyond the ring of healthy trees and brush packed thick along the creek.
It was Trente's hunger than deceived the camp's clever concealment. His nose continued to drive him onward, and when he lost track he knew for the bitter absence of the fire's promise. When he finally stumbled (for there is no more elegant way to put his discovery) upon the location Trente felt a sense of pride for showing restraint. Had he not been hungry he likely would have only accomplished losing himself in the forest, where every tree still seemed identical to his novice eyes.
Trente approached the short stump, cut to a man's shin, covered in a used and expired pillow. Aside it was a small collection of poorly fletched arrows a cantene of water, and a small satchel. It appeared that Trente had been lucky yet again, the lookout had been placed wisely and could see a large portion of the forest where man, and especially horse could approach easily. Had there been a man at his post Trente could have been filled with malformed shaped arrows by then. The unknown group must not hold watch through the night. Trente found it a particular wonder that the forest hadn't eaten them alive in the two days there had been there, perhaps longer.
The satchel lay empty, smart not to leave food behind for lure, and the canteen was not, in fact, full of water, but a stronger substance which Trente opened and pored out on the ground. The gesture was less of spite and more of survival, you cannot poison yourself with what you do not have. He still pocketed the canteen, though, it appealed to him and may replace the one he had misplaced of Hadrian's, which he still felt some measure of guilt over.
With a slow and silent sigh he stepped with great care, avoiding brittle sticks and shifting rocks. Silence was paramount for the task at hand. He gingerly pushed his way into a near by tree, cautious to wave away any spiders from his path with his long dagger. Then once encapsulated in the obscuring darkness he peered out toward the firelight, which quite quickly was becoming brighter than the sinking sun.
Just as Trente had expected of men in the wilds they were armed. Four of them, all fit and of formidable age. They each had their own tent, then a fifth of the same construction. At first Trente assumed one must be for storage, before he managed a glimpse at the long rope stretching down from a high tree's bow. It ended somewhere close behind the tent closest to him.
Trente waited for the group of men to break into conversation, busying himself by checking his clothing for any loose fray that could be easily caught on branches and brush. They ate, grew quite silent while the thin broth filled their chilled stomachs then, as Trente hoped they began to speak, though the words were inaudible at that distance below the drizzling of rain through the branches, and babbling of the creek.
Carefully Trente hoisted a booted foot upon a sturdy branch, and grabbed a hold of a higher one with his stronger hand. Distributing his weight out the best he could between the two he rose his second foot up off the ground, and pulled himself higher. The elevation brought him closer to an angle to view what lay at the end of the rope, but he had to get higher for a clear look. Something with a stretch of netting lay out, but Trente highly doubted they could have caught any fish within the creek.
Trente steadied his free foot on a higher branch and found another for his free hand. As he pulled up his new footing nearly slipped, and though he held steady weight shifted severely for only a split of a moment to the other foot and a loud crack cried out from beneath him. To Trente it sounded like the report of thunder, and he feared that it would give under him. It held, but Trente's heart raced to the indistinct murmurs below as the men he could see stirred and turned toward the sound.
Trente commanded himself to breath slowly and clearly, to prepare for a fight if it were to come. The man who had prepared the food for the others rose from his seat and began toward Trente's hiding place. Trente could not make out through the branches if he had drawn his weapon yet, which soon became irrelevant.
Trente felt it like an unpleasant tickle across the tiny hairs of his tense fingers. He looked up and with panic spotted the long legged and giant arachnid displaced from his entrance earlier making its way up his warm and vulnerable arms. Trente bit down on his lip and stopped breathing as it passed harmlessly over. There was no way of knowing the poisonous from the not, not to Trente. For all he knew a lethal dose of venom just walked across his skin.
More murmurs rolled up from below and the man heading for the tree turned and began to gather the cooking supplies, and took them to the netting. Trente could seen now what it contained. A net with a thin and warn blanket contained a pot and quite a bit of rations, including some vegetables, which struck Trente as absolutely essential in their absence over the past season.
Trente feared he had missed his opportunity, however, as the man folded that rations into the cloth and hoisted the net upward into the air. Trente could not fathom what purpose such an action could possibly accomplish, aside from making his life decidedly more difficult. The rugged rope cause once upon an old knot, inspiring an obtrusive yank from the wielder. Trente's heart sank into his pit of a stomach. Lowering the food without causing a general ruckass would prove very challenging, indeed.
The man returned to his seat, took a sip of liquor and continued uninspired conversation with his companions. Trente lowered himself with minimal noise and gladly disengaged from the shelter of the spider infested tree.
Again with careful steps he moved through the shadows far from the fire's light until he reached the stake which held the food suspended. With a careful sight he took his knife, silently severed the rope, holding it taught with the opposite hand and set the knife near where he could arm himself quickly if his luck remained anything that it usually did.
He checked the accessibility of his rapier then began to lower the food. He had no idea how observant these men were, but his next meal depended on their incompetence.
The food had lowered nearly half the distance before the rope caught, Trente knew this would happened and responded with a practiced patience. Slowly he rolled the rope in one direction, waiting for it to inch along the branch till the weight of the food helped drop it subtly past the old pressed knot. As he worked he listened casually to the men's chatter, attempting to decode their intentions in the wild.
His concentration was cut short, however, as that pesky man rose once more and announced that he had misplaced his canteen, then turned and approached the tent which Trente hid behind. This was exactly the free fall of deadly coincidences which Trente feared most. With any sever degree of searching for that canteen Trente's job was going to get much bloodier.
With one hand Trente held the rope as firmly and steadily as he could, and the other he sifted through the pockets he had been so careful to button down while he waited. After a few moment of frantic fumbling he managed to produce the canteen from before and tossed it into the tent upon the disheveled bedroll, though perhaps not as close to the opening as Trente wished.
The man climbed down onto the bedroll, reaching out for the canteen, and stopped a moment, befuddled at its weightlessness. Trente and the man lay side by side, with only the thick cloth of the tent to separate them. Trente knew he had a proper angle on the intoxicated and prone man, with some luck he could silence him right then, and not have to worry about further meddling, or being spotted as the man exited the tent to return to his associates. Trente even got as far as taking his blade in hand and righting himself on his knees for the blow, till his head bobbed above the tent's peak for a moment and he saw movement unattributed to the four men. A fifth (likely the owner of the fifth tent) approached and drew the eye, but not Trente's.
Moving unseen with great speed and a certain predatory confident stealth was a man, obscured mostly in shadow. He did not crouch, nor move with hesitance, instead he strolled quite silently behind the far tent and kneeled with dignity as he took stock of the camp, keeping a close eye on the fifth man which he had approached with, or rather trailed. And, when he kneeled Trente captured a clear glimpse at the hilt strapped to his side. A rapier hilt, and an unmistakably familiar one.
One of the men around the fire coughed quite gutturally as the Trente's man from the tent rose and quite harshly began accusing his companions of theft, and demanding the perpetrator reveal himself, with distinct disregard for the appearance of the last individual.
This chaos created the perfect opportunity for Trente to complete his work and depart unnoticed, but his eyes were fixed on the shrouded and armed figure stalking the shadows. He understood what he looked at, yet could scarcely believe it, nor comprehend its implications. Soon he would.
*
Fall 59th 513
He needed food. True hunger had not met him yet but his stomach churned, and mouth salivated at the smell brought only upon the rare breeze originating somewhere east of him, and the road. The rain fell softly with a soothing ambient song, and though sparse rays of sun filtered down Trente had begun to realize the danger that disarming rain brought to him. It settled like a noxious assassin of the Wildlands then when the sun sunk the winds came from the water his night became dominated by shivers, and he would not be able to sleep for fear he might not wake, and if he did the stiffness slowed his body and mind. It made him sluggish and endangered him.
For two whole days he had endured the aroma of whomever camped within the wilds, hidden far from the beaten path, for fear of that weather but the time had come. Despite the rain and Trente's sane fear of the wilderness he would set out to acquisition some of this taunting sustenance, before he became too weak to accomplish the goal.
He wore his clothing reversed so that the faded and undyed underbelly showed, breaking his lines and allowing him obscurity that the twilight hours could not. He had hoped the rain would settle before dusk, but it had persisted without break. The loss of daylight would make the trip back to his shelter far more the risk, but his chances of escaping unseen were far higher. Still, he feared the humans of this camp far less than whatever the night brought with it from the branched and the burrows.
His motivation to risk the night was less than sane. It had been enough days that Trente had stopped counting, stopped truly hoping that his companion would uphold their responsibilities. No, Trente would have to devise a way into the city, though he had no ideas of how to accomplish this in even a remotely safe fashion. And, he would have to devise this plan before the weather grew any colder. If another storm hit, like the last, he may not survive. His reflexes were slowing with each wasted day, he was dying in those Wildlands. Escaping to the ocean remained the only option.
The mysterious camp proved harder to find than Trente had hoped, tucked within a natural dip in the forest floor by a creek that Trente, even after all his time in the area, had been unaware existed. The babbling of the water, and the sounds of the camp were contained within the dip and lost beyond the ring of healthy trees and brush packed thick along the creek.
It was Trente's hunger than deceived the camp's clever concealment. His nose continued to drive him onward, and when he lost track he knew for the bitter absence of the fire's promise. When he finally stumbled (for there is no more elegant way to put his discovery) upon the location Trente felt a sense of pride for showing restraint. Had he not been hungry he likely would have only accomplished losing himself in the forest, where every tree still seemed identical to his novice eyes.
Trente approached the short stump, cut to a man's shin, covered in a used and expired pillow. Aside it was a small collection of poorly fletched arrows a cantene of water, and a small satchel. It appeared that Trente had been lucky yet again, the lookout had been placed wisely and could see a large portion of the forest where man, and especially horse could approach easily. Had there been a man at his post Trente could have been filled with malformed shaped arrows by then. The unknown group must not hold watch through the night. Trente found it a particular wonder that the forest hadn't eaten them alive in the two days there had been there, perhaps longer.
The satchel lay empty, smart not to leave food behind for lure, and the canteen was not, in fact, full of water, but a stronger substance which Trente opened and pored out on the ground. The gesture was less of spite and more of survival, you cannot poison yourself with what you do not have. He still pocketed the canteen, though, it appealed to him and may replace the one he had misplaced of Hadrian's, which he still felt some measure of guilt over.
With a slow and silent sigh he stepped with great care, avoiding brittle sticks and shifting rocks. Silence was paramount for the task at hand. He gingerly pushed his way into a near by tree, cautious to wave away any spiders from his path with his long dagger. Then once encapsulated in the obscuring darkness he peered out toward the firelight, which quite quickly was becoming brighter than the sinking sun.
Just as Trente had expected of men in the wilds they were armed. Four of them, all fit and of formidable age. They each had their own tent, then a fifth of the same construction. At first Trente assumed one must be for storage, before he managed a glimpse at the long rope stretching down from a high tree's bow. It ended somewhere close behind the tent closest to him.
Trente waited for the group of men to break into conversation, busying himself by checking his clothing for any loose fray that could be easily caught on branches and brush. They ate, grew quite silent while the thin broth filled their chilled stomachs then, as Trente hoped they began to speak, though the words were inaudible at that distance below the drizzling of rain through the branches, and babbling of the creek.
Carefully Trente hoisted a booted foot upon a sturdy branch, and grabbed a hold of a higher one with his stronger hand. Distributing his weight out the best he could between the two he rose his second foot up off the ground, and pulled himself higher. The elevation brought him closer to an angle to view what lay at the end of the rope, but he had to get higher for a clear look. Something with a stretch of netting lay out, but Trente highly doubted they could have caught any fish within the creek.
Trente steadied his free foot on a higher branch and found another for his free hand. As he pulled up his new footing nearly slipped, and though he held steady weight shifted severely for only a split of a moment to the other foot and a loud crack cried out from beneath him. To Trente it sounded like the report of thunder, and he feared that it would give under him. It held, but Trente's heart raced to the indistinct murmurs below as the men he could see stirred and turned toward the sound.
Trente commanded himself to breath slowly and clearly, to prepare for a fight if it were to come. The man who had prepared the food for the others rose from his seat and began toward Trente's hiding place. Trente could not make out through the branches if he had drawn his weapon yet, which soon became irrelevant.
Trente felt it like an unpleasant tickle across the tiny hairs of his tense fingers. He looked up and with panic spotted the long legged and giant arachnid displaced from his entrance earlier making its way up his warm and vulnerable arms. Trente bit down on his lip and stopped breathing as it passed harmlessly over. There was no way of knowing the poisonous from the not, not to Trente. For all he knew a lethal dose of venom just walked across his skin.
More murmurs rolled up from below and the man heading for the tree turned and began to gather the cooking supplies, and took them to the netting. Trente could seen now what it contained. A net with a thin and warn blanket contained a pot and quite a bit of rations, including some vegetables, which struck Trente as absolutely essential in their absence over the past season.
Trente feared he had missed his opportunity, however, as the man folded that rations into the cloth and hoisted the net upward into the air. Trente could not fathom what purpose such an action could possibly accomplish, aside from making his life decidedly more difficult. The rugged rope cause once upon an old knot, inspiring an obtrusive yank from the wielder. Trente's heart sank into his pit of a stomach. Lowering the food without causing a general ruckass would prove very challenging, indeed.
The man returned to his seat, took a sip of liquor and continued uninspired conversation with his companions. Trente lowered himself with minimal noise and gladly disengaged from the shelter of the spider infested tree.
Again with careful steps he moved through the shadows far from the fire's light until he reached the stake which held the food suspended. With a careful sight he took his knife, silently severed the rope, holding it taught with the opposite hand and set the knife near where he could arm himself quickly if his luck remained anything that it usually did.
He checked the accessibility of his rapier then began to lower the food. He had no idea how observant these men were, but his next meal depended on their incompetence.
The food had lowered nearly half the distance before the rope caught, Trente knew this would happened and responded with a practiced patience. Slowly he rolled the rope in one direction, waiting for it to inch along the branch till the weight of the food helped drop it subtly past the old pressed knot. As he worked he listened casually to the men's chatter, attempting to decode their intentions in the wild.
His concentration was cut short, however, as that pesky man rose once more and announced that he had misplaced his canteen, then turned and approached the tent which Trente hid behind. This was exactly the free fall of deadly coincidences which Trente feared most. With any sever degree of searching for that canteen Trente's job was going to get much bloodier.
With one hand Trente held the rope as firmly and steadily as he could, and the other he sifted through the pockets he had been so careful to button down while he waited. After a few moment of frantic fumbling he managed to produce the canteen from before and tossed it into the tent upon the disheveled bedroll, though perhaps not as close to the opening as Trente wished.
The man climbed down onto the bedroll, reaching out for the canteen, and stopped a moment, befuddled at its weightlessness. Trente and the man lay side by side, with only the thick cloth of the tent to separate them. Trente knew he had a proper angle on the intoxicated and prone man, with some luck he could silence him right then, and not have to worry about further meddling, or being spotted as the man exited the tent to return to his associates. Trente even got as far as taking his blade in hand and righting himself on his knees for the blow, till his head bobbed above the tent's peak for a moment and he saw movement unattributed to the four men. A fifth (likely the owner of the fifth tent) approached and drew the eye, but not Trente's.
Moving unseen with great speed and a certain predatory confident stealth was a man, obscured mostly in shadow. He did not crouch, nor move with hesitance, instead he strolled quite silently behind the far tent and kneeled with dignity as he took stock of the camp, keeping a close eye on the fifth man which he had approached with, or rather trailed. And, when he kneeled Trente captured a clear glimpse at the hilt strapped to his side. A rapier hilt, and an unmistakably familiar one.
One of the men around the fire coughed quite gutturally as the Trente's man from the tent rose and quite harshly began accusing his companions of theft, and demanding the perpetrator reveal himself, with distinct disregard for the appearance of the last individual.
This chaos created the perfect opportunity for Trente to complete his work and depart unnoticed, but his eyes were fixed on the shrouded and armed figure stalking the shadows. He understood what he looked at, yet could scarcely believe it, nor comprehend its implications. Soon he would.
*
