28th Winter, 514 A.V.
Wildlands, 8th Bell
The woods were gold with a clear morning sun. Syna’s light turned the mundane into the beautiful. The kiss of the goddess made Bakr grateful for his lot in life, though everything he owned was here with him and Moe. The golden light played across the crusted snow that coated the entire forest like thousands of peerless jewels. With glorious beams it cut horizontally across the winding way he rode through.
Bakr had veered north off the beaten path. He knew this way, for he had travelled along the road many a times. He was trying to cut across the woods and would turn east to reconnect with the road in a few leagues. He knew it was paramount to practice keeping his direction while in dense woods. Usually this would be more of a challenge, but this morning Syna shone bright and bold. Not a creature in the wood could mistake her position. So keeping her to his right was easy enough.
Moe seemed to like their wandering off the beaten path. It seemed to excite her nearly as much as the odd clearing did. She would often begin a merry canter when she had room, whether Bakr urged her to or not. He would periodically glance towards the sun, careful not to look directly at the goddess’s visage. He learned early on, in the deserts of Eyktol, that such could weaken the sight.
The snow made a pleasant crunch under hoof as they made their way through the forest. They mounted the crest of a rather steep hill and the sun’s rays became even more prominent. The pair meandered through the Wildlands for a bit longer on that shallow ridge. But something agitated Moe and she reared and huffed. It was all Bakr could do to settle her enough for him to dismount.
As his feet his the thin layer of snow with a muffle crunch he pulled his hood down. The forest was always eerily quiet after a snowfall. It was as though everything was content to stay put and wait for the warmth of midday. He stepped around Moe’s brown flank to see what had caused her to protest. He found a smear of something black in the snow, and sign of clearly upset snow. He walked in front of Moe and bent to examine the smear.
Blood.
He stood abruptly to look down the hill but Moema picked that moment to throw another fit. Her chest collided with his back, sending him sprawling down the side of the hill. Bakr tumbled through snow and small, leave less bush alike. He yelled out, but it was cut short as his side collided hard with the ground and expelled the air from his lungs. He fell off a small ledge, only a foot or two off the ground. Landing on his shoulder, he was able to avoid further damage by rolling.
The halfbreed ended up rolling into a bank of snow beside a tree. The dull thump as he hit the soft, cold frost was anti-climactic to say the least. He lay there, cold and quickly getting wetter. His side hurt from the initial fall but it was the indignity that hurt the most. His own horse had knocked him down a hill. He just thanked the gods above that no one else was there to witness it.
Wildlands, 8th Bell
The woods were gold with a clear morning sun. Syna’s light turned the mundane into the beautiful. The kiss of the goddess made Bakr grateful for his lot in life, though everything he owned was here with him and Moe. The golden light played across the crusted snow that coated the entire forest like thousands of peerless jewels. With glorious beams it cut horizontally across the winding way he rode through.
Bakr had veered north off the beaten path. He knew this way, for he had travelled along the road many a times. He was trying to cut across the woods and would turn east to reconnect with the road in a few leagues. He knew it was paramount to practice keeping his direction while in dense woods. Usually this would be more of a challenge, but this morning Syna shone bright and bold. Not a creature in the wood could mistake her position. So keeping her to his right was easy enough.
Moe seemed to like their wandering off the beaten path. It seemed to excite her nearly as much as the odd clearing did. She would often begin a merry canter when she had room, whether Bakr urged her to or not. He would periodically glance towards the sun, careful not to look directly at the goddess’s visage. He learned early on, in the deserts of Eyktol, that such could weaken the sight.
The snow made a pleasant crunch under hoof as they made their way through the forest. They mounted the crest of a rather steep hill and the sun’s rays became even more prominent. The pair meandered through the Wildlands for a bit longer on that shallow ridge. But something agitated Moe and she reared and huffed. It was all Bakr could do to settle her enough for him to dismount.
As his feet his the thin layer of snow with a muffle crunch he pulled his hood down. The forest was always eerily quiet after a snowfall. It was as though everything was content to stay put and wait for the warmth of midday. He stepped around Moe’s brown flank to see what had caused her to protest. He found a smear of something black in the snow, and sign of clearly upset snow. He walked in front of Moe and bent to examine the smear.
Blood.
He stood abruptly to look down the hill but Moema picked that moment to throw another fit. Her chest collided with his back, sending him sprawling down the side of the hill. Bakr tumbled through snow and small, leave less bush alike. He yelled out, but it was cut short as his side collided hard with the ground and expelled the air from his lungs. He fell off a small ledge, only a foot or two off the ground. Landing on his shoulder, he was able to avoid further damage by rolling.
The halfbreed ended up rolling into a bank of snow beside a tree. The dull thump as he hit the soft, cold frost was anti-climactic to say the least. He lay there, cold and quickly getting wetter. His side hurt from the initial fall but it was the indignity that hurt the most. His own horse had knocked him down a hill. He just thanked the gods above that no one else was there to witness it.
