2nd of Spring, 518 AV
10th Bell
10th Bell
When at last Rhyson Halfhame reached the Northern Ravok Outpost, he was greeted by a sight that was about as bleak as he'd grown to expect. Two high hills surrounded by parched-looking trees, and then the fort's walls and the gate. The Isur himself was mud-encrusted, bone-tired, and most egregiously, out of pipeweed. He'd smoked the last of it weeks ago, his resolve having demanded it when he had been ready to turn back.
Actually, he had one bowl left. His pipe was stowed in his bag at the moment however, and Rhyson's steady footsteps wouldn't slow until he reached that petching gate. The lurching pace his steps took on accentuated the dangling satchel he had kept a hold of, against all odds. Rigel Wulfstan's letter remained pristine, if slightly wrinkled, and to Rhyson's annoyance, unopened. Back when he'd been travelling by wagon, he'd been tempted to open the envelope but had realized he had no means of convincingly sealing it. It hadn't been worth risking the job to snoop, but Rhyson had decided he would have a crack at forgery the next chance he got.
The Northern Ravok Outpost loomed overhead, and as Rhyson stepped out from the trees, he fell to his knees and exhaled long and slow. His thoughts turned to the journey he'd been on, that petching madman of a caravan driver, and the bitter Winter spent slogging through Syliran wildlands. In his time, Rhyson had been a traveller in many places, and had faced many arduous trials, but he was having a hard time thinking of something as brutal as living off of northern Syliras' sparse and unforgiving wetlands. He had even sworn an oath to himself, that if he could help it, he'd return to Ravok by water, and petch the land route.
Rhyson dropped his bundled canvas roll, somewhat weathered since he'd purchased it, but still well-made and in good condition. He wiped his brow. The action smeared more mud on his face rather than drying it. He'd only been walking a few hours since that morning, but by what he could only guess was the nine or tenth bell of the day, Rhyson knew he was in for a hot one. He'd managed to ration out his water thus far, but this close to civilization, Rhyson felt he had earned a break. He tugged his waterskin off his belt and started to take long appreciative gulps of water. Tepid, but boiled and drinkable, it was more hydrating than refreshing, all things told.
"Who are you? What's your business here? We don't take dirty vagrants!" A gruff voice said loudly.
Rhyson opened his eyes and rehung the water skin on his belt to take in the sight of an armed guard. The man was a human, and poor stock too, if his puny shoulders were anything to judge by. Of course, the guard had a spear, and Rhyson only had a knife, so he'd have to be polite.
"The name's Rhyson Halfhame, and I'm here for work. I've heard you need good hard labour. I may be dirty at the moment but I'm certainly not a vagrant." To emphasize this point, the Isur gave a pointed tug and a cheerful clinking of metal rang out from somewhere in his breeches. The guard raised an eyebrow at that last motion, but when Rhyson turned to pick up his bundled canvas, the man's expression turned suspicious.
"You can't possibly be expecting to perform hard labour, with only one arm! We don't need beggars and thieves coming up this way, so I recommend you-" The man's voice cut off when Rhyson hit him with a glare. The Isur had understood the kind of image he would be giving to people in his state, but he'd also been in this situation before, and after the hell he'd just trekked through, he was quite simply done. He flared his coat to retrieve the satchel where it hung at his side, and the shiny blade of his cold iron dagger caught the guard's eye. The man raised his guard. His hands clenched his spear tighter, but Rhyson just sighed and rolled his eyes.
"No sir, I'm hoping I don't need to do hard labour, but that's why I'm also a messenger." Rhyson lifted up the satchel pointedly, and waved it lightly to fan some air on his face. "I'm here to get this to..." Shyke, what was her name again? "Wulfstan's daughter. Hannah? They run an Outfitting business here and on the lakeshore. I'm hoping to finish up this errand, and hopefully fetch some more work suited to my talents."
"You say Hannah, but you don't seem too certain about that." The guard said skeptically.
"I set out at the start of Winter, and I heard the girl's name one time. Please for Rhysol's sake just let me in so I can get this to her and get my pay." The Isur and the man held each other's gaze for a long moment, before the man relented. He asked to see the satchel, and examined the envelope cursorily. He returned both a chime later and waved Rhyson inside, with a word of caution to behave himself and to be productive, if he didn't want to get thrown out.
Rhyson took a few ticks to get his bearings, including noting where a more than refreshing looking spring and stream was located in the center of the outpost, before he spotted it. The Wulfstan Outfitters North shack did not appear too dissimilar to its southern counterpart, which meant it stood out to Rhyson. It seemed as though the log walls themselves were newer than it, and had been built up around the shack.
He wasn't in a terrible hurry, and so the Isur set his bundle and pack down against the wall of the shack and he began to dig around for his pipe. Once he had retrieved the lovely silvery beauty, Rhyson cheeked it, and got out his flint and steel. The first light was the hardest for him, and he didn't have a surface to help him, but Halfhame managed. He always did. It had taken him a murderously long time to develop the necessary technique, but by this point he was an old pro. Sitting down next to his things, he kicked his boots off and held the flint between his heels. Next Rhyson set pipe against his calf, so that the bowl lay beneath the flint. The rest was easy enough, as he could use his free hand to strike the flint with the steel. Spark, spark, light. Fan. Smoulder. Tamp.
Once Rhyson had relit his pipe, and had some Kline puffing merrily in his cheeks, he could stand up tall. He put his boots back on and had a bit of a chuckle, musing that of course it was Kline that he'd have saved for last, with its dry and sour aroma. Rhyson also got hints of sweetness, though that could very well be the remnants of his second to last bowl, which had been the sweeter Vayt's Ruse. Either way, the pipeweed seemed to complement the aridity of the day perfectly, and when Rhyson turned to knock firmly on Hannah's door, he felt more beads of sweat drifting down his cheeks.
"By Rhysol, it's scorching out here," Rhyson muttered around his pipe, tapping his foot to a nameless song in his head. His thoughts at that point drifted from one concern to another, until he shook himself and waited patiently for his knock to be answered. Another throaty laugh bubbled up from him when his mind helpfully broke up the monotony. "It's dry as Kline..."
