Etrisani
Member
- Messages
- 1
They've used this camp before, and to Ealvalrien it brought a comfortable sense of familiarity, just like shrugging on a well-worn coat. The camp featured just enough flat ground for a handful of tents to sit upon damp leaves and cool dirt, but atop a gentle rise to give it a lofty mastery of the land around. The thick stay of trees the curved along one side was perfect shelter from the northwesterly winds, and there was even some ground-born stream on the far side of the hillock. It was a quarter mile from the road, closer than the Serval usually chose, but this section of the forest only had the one lonely road and no townships for some long miles. It was safe enough, and in their business one had to take what little comforts one could.
Tonight, one of those comforts included a pair of fires, a chicken and a fat hare dripping grease from either. The thick forest and tall trees made a fire's smoke no more a danger than its light, and they were the masters of this particular wood regardless. Moreover, it was a fading twilight following a storm that bathed the forest in cool rain, coating the swirling breeze in damp and chill that only a fire and some leftover liquor could hold back.
They were eight, his Company of the Serval. Nine, including Ealvalrien himself. Seven shifted about the fire, each to his own separate duty. Two were out, their vigilant eyes and discerning ears among the pillars of the forest. They'd have some warm food at their watch's end, Ealvalrien would certainly see to that. He had a dry stump to call his own between the twin fires, a clay bowl heavy with thick beef brothel, and a warm stomach from his share of their brandy. The main portion would come soon, Havelock was diligent in his turning of the spit, but he felt that his hunger had lost its bite already. All in all, it was shaping up to be a fair evening that let them rest their legs, their horses, and their heads.
Evenings like this chained the last decades together, it seemed. They were in themselves unmemorable, but compared to the colorless days in between either violence or true comfort, they stood out. The violence had come more often than the comforts, of late, and the silver-haired elf promised himself to think that more through. Of course, if the days felt like they dragged even with his centuries, he had to sympathize for the humans among his Company, for whom each day was a fair sliver of their short lives. It was his promise to them to make only the sum of their days as long as he could, not each individual day. Few had come from comfort like he had in his merry band. Most were survivors, pragmatists, killers, and only the sole woman among them had some luxury written in her past. She, like Ealvalrien himself, loathed bringing it up.
He heard it first, the approaching feet dragging through wet leaves. His head lifted, but stayed there as he discerned just two pairs. Others in his group followed suit, pausing their duties and drifting hands towards weapons. Ealvalrien's relaxed hand sent a calming wave through the other six, waiting. Voices, now..one human's muttering protests, and one half-elf's cool retorts. The pair were over the hill soon after, bathed in firelight.
Samire was, arguably, their finest woodsman. That even he had some competition in the group spoke to their overall talent in the wild's ways. His lean face was lightly bearded, sandy and uneven. He was of a height with the human man beside him, one gloved hand firmly grasped over the back of the other man's travel coat. The man's ruddy features, light leathers, and messenger bag spoke to his profession adeptly. Ealvalrien knew the man's horse was safe and tied up off the road, all as it should be. He knew that to get the messenger off his horse, there had to have been a fall, and that the man favored one leg over the other corroborated the theory.
The circle was quiet, waiting for the sole elf among them to speak. Ealvalrien did, a lazy gesture offered to one of the vacant spots.
"Sit, please. Give us news from the world, and join our dinner." A scoff at the invitation nearby, as someone's seat was offered without his consent. Of course, it was no invitation either, eyes following the messenger's bag. By the end of the night they'd know its contents, they'd have a finger to the realm's pulse better than they could wandering forests, and the messenger would get to be on his way, unharmed.
The hand at the messenger's coat was lifted, turning to give him a nudge forward. Samire wasn't the most verbose of their party. One of the others began to liberate the man's bag from his shoulder, intent rather clear.
"H..hold on, hold on, you can't tak-..aaah.." He sputtered to a stop as the man with one paw already on the bag produced a long curved blade with the other. The messenger tracked it with his eyes, but the blade severed the bag's strap and pulled the satchel away, tossing it to one of the others. With a grunt, the large man sat back down to his own dinner, the knife replaced somewhere under his tattered cloak.
The bag was rummaged around rather immediately, letters withdrawn, seals slit with fine blades. The messenger watched in apprehension and horror, but was seated down on a felled log by strong hands on his shoulders. A bowl of broth and a cup of some strong drink were in his hands soon after, the hospitality diminished only by the silence and the judging, pale gaze from the elf across the fires. "A heavy satchel. More letters than usual this season. News of some weight?" Remarked Ealvalrien, a spoonful of broth carried towards his mouth.
The messenger, his options few, stomach empty, and limps cold..treated his host to just enough silence to sample the broth and liquor. He could do nothing about the letters, now, as two of the Company's more inquisitive minds perused private missive after private missive. One frowned, making a small "Huh" before extending the letter around the fire to Ealvalrien.
"..yes, well, quite the news. The world changes, mark my words. The Naga around Sheketh move more boldly. They've taken a fortress isle, even. Bold, very bold." The messenger was warming to the company, aided by the liquor as he was. Men in his work rarely had hot meals, either.
Ealvalrien's head raised, brows drawing inwards. A few of the group's eyes turned to him, those that he had been with the longest, that knew him best. The words from his mouth were soft, and inevitable. "Which isle?"
Something in the question, the dark tone of it, gave the messenger pause. "..M..Minaris. I know some fled, but it was very..thorough..aah.." He left off, nervously, seeing Ealvalrien's tight shoulders. The elf's eyes went down to the missive he held, pale eyes scanning it.
"Here, another." One of his companions handed him a second notice, with a murmur. "Quite the bounty on that elk, already. Or the elf. Maybe someone knows something." The slim man offered.
An elf, with silver hair off Sheketh's coastline. An elk, sized for war. An elf, with silver hair..and a bounty.
"This village, Harrow, how many days?" The elf's eyes turned to one of the other man, picking his teeth with a knife. He withdrew the blade, curious. "I reckon, nine, ten with the season's muds."
Ealvalrien held his look at the man, but stared past him, well entrenched in thought. The Company waited, one spoon halfway lifted to a mouth.
"Cold breakfast, early dawn. We will make it seven." They had more discipline than to grumble, and questions could come later. They knew his tones, and this one brooked no discussions just then.
Tonight, one of those comforts included a pair of fires, a chicken and a fat hare dripping grease from either. The thick forest and tall trees made a fire's smoke no more a danger than its light, and they were the masters of this particular wood regardless. Moreover, it was a fading twilight following a storm that bathed the forest in cool rain, coating the swirling breeze in damp and chill that only a fire and some leftover liquor could hold back.
They were eight, his Company of the Serval. Nine, including Ealvalrien himself. Seven shifted about the fire, each to his own separate duty. Two were out, their vigilant eyes and discerning ears among the pillars of the forest. They'd have some warm food at their watch's end, Ealvalrien would certainly see to that. He had a dry stump to call his own between the twin fires, a clay bowl heavy with thick beef brothel, and a warm stomach from his share of their brandy. The main portion would come soon, Havelock was diligent in his turning of the spit, but he felt that his hunger had lost its bite already. All in all, it was shaping up to be a fair evening that let them rest their legs, their horses, and their heads.
Evenings like this chained the last decades together, it seemed. They were in themselves unmemorable, but compared to the colorless days in between either violence or true comfort, they stood out. The violence had come more often than the comforts, of late, and the silver-haired elf promised himself to think that more through. Of course, if the days felt like they dragged even with his centuries, he had to sympathize for the humans among his Company, for whom each day was a fair sliver of their short lives. It was his promise to them to make only the sum of their days as long as he could, not each individual day. Few had come from comfort like he had in his merry band. Most were survivors, pragmatists, killers, and only the sole woman among them had some luxury written in her past. She, like Ealvalrien himself, loathed bringing it up.
He heard it first, the approaching feet dragging through wet leaves. His head lifted, but stayed there as he discerned just two pairs. Others in his group followed suit, pausing their duties and drifting hands towards weapons. Ealvalrien's relaxed hand sent a calming wave through the other six, waiting. Voices, now..one human's muttering protests, and one half-elf's cool retorts. The pair were over the hill soon after, bathed in firelight.
Samire was, arguably, their finest woodsman. That even he had some competition in the group spoke to their overall talent in the wild's ways. His lean face was lightly bearded, sandy and uneven. He was of a height with the human man beside him, one gloved hand firmly grasped over the back of the other man's travel coat. The man's ruddy features, light leathers, and messenger bag spoke to his profession adeptly. Ealvalrien knew the man's horse was safe and tied up off the road, all as it should be. He knew that to get the messenger off his horse, there had to have been a fall, and that the man favored one leg over the other corroborated the theory.
The circle was quiet, waiting for the sole elf among them to speak. Ealvalrien did, a lazy gesture offered to one of the vacant spots.
"Sit, please. Give us news from the world, and join our dinner." A scoff at the invitation nearby, as someone's seat was offered without his consent. Of course, it was no invitation either, eyes following the messenger's bag. By the end of the night they'd know its contents, they'd have a finger to the realm's pulse better than they could wandering forests, and the messenger would get to be on his way, unharmed.
The hand at the messenger's coat was lifted, turning to give him a nudge forward. Samire wasn't the most verbose of their party. One of the others began to liberate the man's bag from his shoulder, intent rather clear.
"H..hold on, hold on, you can't tak-..aaah.." He sputtered to a stop as the man with one paw already on the bag produced a long curved blade with the other. The messenger tracked it with his eyes, but the blade severed the bag's strap and pulled the satchel away, tossing it to one of the others. With a grunt, the large man sat back down to his own dinner, the knife replaced somewhere under his tattered cloak.
The bag was rummaged around rather immediately, letters withdrawn, seals slit with fine blades. The messenger watched in apprehension and horror, but was seated down on a felled log by strong hands on his shoulders. A bowl of broth and a cup of some strong drink were in his hands soon after, the hospitality diminished only by the silence and the judging, pale gaze from the elf across the fires. "A heavy satchel. More letters than usual this season. News of some weight?" Remarked Ealvalrien, a spoonful of broth carried towards his mouth.
The messenger, his options few, stomach empty, and limps cold..treated his host to just enough silence to sample the broth and liquor. He could do nothing about the letters, now, as two of the Company's more inquisitive minds perused private missive after private missive. One frowned, making a small "Huh" before extending the letter around the fire to Ealvalrien.
"..yes, well, quite the news. The world changes, mark my words. The Naga around Sheketh move more boldly. They've taken a fortress isle, even. Bold, very bold." The messenger was warming to the company, aided by the liquor as he was. Men in his work rarely had hot meals, either.
Ealvalrien's head raised, brows drawing inwards. A few of the group's eyes turned to him, those that he had been with the longest, that knew him best. The words from his mouth were soft, and inevitable. "Which isle?"
Something in the question, the dark tone of it, gave the messenger pause. "..M..Minaris. I know some fled, but it was very..thorough..aah.." He left off, nervously, seeing Ealvalrien's tight shoulders. The elf's eyes went down to the missive he held, pale eyes scanning it.
"Here, another." One of his companions handed him a second notice, with a murmur. "Quite the bounty on that elk, already. Or the elf. Maybe someone knows something." The slim man offered.
An elf, with silver hair off Sheketh's coastline. An elk, sized for war. An elf, with silver hair..and a bounty.
"This village, Harrow, how many days?" The elf's eyes turned to one of the other man, picking his teeth with a knife. He withdrew the blade, curious. "I reckon, nine, ten with the season's muds."
Ealvalrien held his look at the man, but stared past him, well entrenched in thought. The Company waited, one spoon halfway lifted to a mouth.
"Cold breakfast, early dawn. We will make it seven." They had more discipline than to grumble, and questions could come later. They knew his tones, and this one brooked no discussions just then.
