Those Who Can't Do...Learn (Timshel)

[Nkosi Sunrunner]

27th of Autumn, 513AV Nkosi didn't like hunting himself but when he had to he could be bothered to set traps he'd probably forget to check. Setting traps was a pain too, he could never remember how. "Petching, petch. Leather should grow on the damned trees." He grumbled to himself as he walked, the horse he led snorting with him. It was not his own Strider but his families. His dads to be precise. It carried his his toolkit, waterskin, snares and other supplies in the Yavas bags and trotted along side him. He eyed the horse but didn't attempted to ride it. Darkfury was aptly named for its glossy dark coat and tempter that seemed to run in the family. Under duress it had allowed him to ride, and when asked the beast seemed to have no problems carrying for Nkosi. Probably keeping an eye on him with the bags as a cover. Either way the young man thanked Darkfury with a grin. "You've got to go with me. Beat you wish you were relaxing." The horse did not looked amused and seemed to ignore him. Nkosi laughed, and looked around to where the camp was thinning. He wouldn't go far, but they had already moved for the day. Most of the hunters left in groups but they went with bows, Nkosi preferred traps. Looking around he paused for a moment, spotting another man who looked like he too might be going. He had short hair which spiked his curiosity because it meant he probably wasn't a Drykas. Not that Nkosi had room to talk at the moment. He was tall, taller than the Drykas himself and looked like he enjoyed the sun. Nkosi cupped his hands and called our in Pavi. "Hey! If you're going we should go together. Groups hunts work best, anyway." His hands spelt out 'hate' 'hunting' and 'friend' while he shouted, automatically falling away from his mouth to form.

[Timshel]

Timshel strapped on his only saddle-bag onto Jas. No traps today, just the bare minimum. Emergency stuff: a rope, tarp, some tinder, line and a snack mix made up of nuts, grains and raisins. He'd have to be careful not to pick out the raisins.He checked his pockets and belt. He had his parchment and scribblings on it, his gladius, slingshot and a few carefully chosen stones from the stream the city had passed a few days back. Timshel's breath plumed as he rolled the stones in his fingers. If he didn't know any better or wasn't looking, Timshel would have said they were wet. His fingers seemed to leaden as they lost dexterity. He brought his hands up to his mouth, breathing on them. “Yeh! Fi erouy gniog ew dluohs og rehtegot. Souorg stnuh krow tseb, yawyna.” A boy was yelling at him in the local language. Or was it a young man? Horse next to him, he had short hair for a Drykas, but longer than Timshel's. Rather bushy and obviously finger-combed. It curled and covered his pink ears to match his bold, brown eyebrows that sat above surprisingly striking grey-blue eyes. He had a bit of a button-nose and a strong chin. His hands danced in front of him. Timshel blinked. “Right,” he said in Common, “How goes it? You're a local, huh?"