Knights of Anathaeum Hunt on the Heath

[Isander]

Dawn cracked its yolk over the heathland sprawls that sprawled before Isander's eyes. He crouched low in the grass, dew-slick ankles creaking from the strain. Swathed in fitted leathers and padded linen, he made a survey of the land. Leagues separated him from the nearest hamlet, and he would have sworn that he could still see the furls of smoke from evening hearths. Alas, it was but fog fresh the morning burn, occluded by a canvas of changling leaves and the skeletal fingers of reaching trees.

His stomach rumbled. And his head rung with the splitting eaves of drink most sensibly diluted from the well; but few had christened the knight such. Disillusionment might otherwise greet them.

To think an offhand wager would send him into the Wilds before Pneria and Lessat crossed beneath the horizon. Their silhouettes still waned beyond. It served only to remind him of the aches stiffening his joints, of the exhaustion that crested his brow. He had to clench his jaw around a yawn that threatened to escape.

Breathing around it, he whispered over his shoulder:

"How damn long does it take to find a pig's tracks in this light?"

 

[Roki]

Roki was many things. A tinkerer. A magicker. A damn fine cook. He was not, in any sensible capacity, a tracker.

Fires though, he could start those. Part of why he was out here. Stuck in the wilds. Away from the shop and the Knoll and all. He grunt. Shook his head, and went on stacking the kindling. Setting the pan.

"Not a clue, Syr, not a clue," he said, to himself as much as to the elder knight. Sparked the fire. The smoke rose in silver trails and the pan began to heat.

Isander

 

[Isander]

A glower glimmered in the embers of Isander's eyes, and he strained to keep himself in reign. A steadying breath, a whistle through teeth that eased in their clenching. The fault was his, not the Squire's. It became a litany that played in contrast to the throbbing at his temples.

He returned to his survey of the heathlands, hoping against hope that some rustle would distract him from the drums that beat him to incoherency. No such luck graced his morning. Instead, it gave him breadth to compose what patience he could muster. Loosing his shoulders into a roll, it proved too effective; another yawn creaked apart his jaws.

"Same here, Roki," he said around it. Gaining vitality, he added:

"How long do these old bones have to find a pig before we breakfast?"

Roki

 

[Roki]

A crackle, a pop, the hiss of flame as it licked the cold iron of the pan. "I'd say," he gave the air a sniff. As if his sensitive snoot could smell the heat. "Bout ten and ten, syr, less you'd be wanting some taters," he grinned wide. Snapped his fingers, and saw the camp's cookfire spout into bright gout. "Then maybe half an hour,"

The iron pan glowed with the heat as flames licked about its raised sides, and Roki's eyes were wide and happy as he watched. Remembered himself, and did a little whirl and loop with pointer finger that calmed the flame quick.

No gleeful roar anymore, but happy whir and snap.

Isander

 

[Isander]

"Half an hour then," Isander said with a bark of a laugh. Righting his spear, he stepped from the cookfire and waved over his shoulder to the Squire. In the morning dew and by light gray and poor, he had a pig to hunt. It was to be a race.

"I am always wanting taters."

Adopting a crouch, he scanned the foliage for tracks. He brushed at the grass, breathed deep of the sharp soil. Each slinking step took him further from the Squire, moment on moment slipping closer to the promise of food. An inglamorous breakfast, but one that riled him with redoubled determination.

Isander palmed at the dirt and vanished beneath a dip in land.


Roki

 

[Roki]

Roki took his eyes from the pan, if only for but a moment, to watch the eld knight away into the brush. A bit colder now without his company.

Truth of the matter was, since he had been assigned to Bardin Outpost, he had found a reluctant calm in the solitude. Nary a soul to keep him company save the critters and the bugs.

Not that he minded them any.

But he wasn't like Aramirn, or Hector. The wyld talk didn't come easy to him. Much preferred cooking the critters to conversing with them, if truth be told. But... well.

He sighed. Shook his head. Looked to his supply kit, saw a broad hairy shape there, with burlap about its supple back. Breath caught in his throat. His eyes widened as the pan popped. And hissed. A glance to the shrubbery, and Syr Isander was gone.

Eldyr's Nuts.

He looked to the shape snuffling through his pack. Heard the munch and crunch of gnashers come crunch across firm potatoes. The bag slipped off its head. And a large boar was staring back at him. Tusks proudly protruding from its wet snout.

Roki blinked.

 

[Isander]

The boar snuffled about, flecking spuds around its snout. It crinkled and snorted, tongue lashing over lips to catch what could be caught. It shook its head, scraping tusks over grass to escape the burlap that occluded it. Stamping hooves signaled elation, and it gave a waggle of its hind to fully explore the freedom. Potatoes rolled across the ground.

Contentment glazed its lazy eyes, and motion caught it. Transfixed the boar with tongue caught around the base of a tusk. Hesitation. Such manner of creature stood so boldly before it. The boar had not noticed it before, not over the cackling flames and the succulent aromas crisping in the pan.

It swiveled its head, looked at Roki.

And the pig blinked back.

-----

Isander knew little of forestry. It was not a talent he possessed. He could follow prints laid obviously before him; could light a fire with sufficient flint and tinder; could lay camp and find rest in the most buzzing of bogs. These wisdoms came with experience. Others could track his prey. Others knew best where to camp, when to call quits on the hunt. These were learnings outside of his ken.

When he found himself boasting over tankards the night prior, he had so thoroughly forgotten this. Toss the dice, slide another coin onto the pile. An offhand jab to show he still played the game. Gentle jibing may have been involved. A comely companion, perhaps. Even the recollection came vaguely to him, as peering through the murk and peat at his own reflection.

The Knight swore by his word, however. He suckled at the teat of integrity, and this was a mere task to overcome.

Thus did he crawl amidst the grass, squinting over the clodding ground, mingling in beds of wild flowers, pollen dusting his gloves. None the wiser to what unfolded back at camp.


Roki

 

[Roki]

There was, what felt like, a keen intelligence behind the pig's eyes. A shine that spoke of more than just a mindlessness.

Hunger, yes. That was there. As the potatoes trailed in testament across the earth. But so too was there joy.

Speechless, Roki stood, with slight hunch. Hand still wrapped around the iron handle of a pan that slowly turned hot. Till it burned him. Singed. He whipped his hand away quick, hissed through his teeth. Flicked the pain away as he blew breaths across cooked skin.

The pig snort. Its stout head jerked back. Hairs on end, it lowered its tusks some, as if to warn the young squire what would come next.

Roki's eyes flit over with the movement. Widened again. Raised his hands. "No no, wait, I," his gaze dart about. From the pig, to the potatoes, to the pan popped. Hungry for oil. Hungry for food to cook.

There was a potato at Roki's foot. He felt it when he shifted his stance. Kicked it gently. His brain had registered it before he saw it, and when he looked down he saw the multi-eyed spud looking back up at him. He looked back to the pig. Still, he showed his hands, and bent down slow like. Picked up the potato.

"You want it?" he offered the creature.

There was the feintest hint of richness in the air. Roki snuffled some. Olives. Cortossi. His eyes widened again. Looked to his pack. Could see the green glass of a spilled bottle. Cork popped. Golden sheen of oil slowly seeping into the earth.

"Shit," he cursed. Gulped. Nod towards the bottle. "I... I need that," he warned, and slowly inched toward the bottle of fine cooking oil.

Isander

 

[Isander]

Equilibrium disturbed, the pig reared back on its hind legs, trotters stamping at the ground. Potato, oil, glass; a verdant symphony that assailed its ear, that raised taut the hairy hackles about its thick, rounded frame. It pounded the grass flat, a wide startle maintaining the distance between it and the Squire.

The pig gave its head a wary shake, black eyes glued to the Squire. A squint narrowed them, considering. It snorted again, gave a hesitant snuffle at the distance that separated them. Breath harumphed from it; a decision was made.

"REEEEE!" it exclaimed, making a mad hop for the fallen oil.

-----

The sound drew Isander from his fruitless survey, whipping his head up from what may have been tracks cut light into the dirt.

He spent some time considering that: bent glades of grass jutted out from a puncture arrayed in a manner suggesting movement. A trio of similar markings disturbed the area, spread chaotically to his gaze. Little furrows which avoided the knee-high grass, favoring instead freshly upturned clods in the dirt. When he approached it from another angle, it could be the aftermath of a betusked snout scraping around, in search of food or perhaps in lazy flight.

Yet, he was no longer given to such considerations. Unless maladied by his antecedent indulgence, that noise came quite close to where he had wandered off from. The camp. The Squire. The fire...

"Roki!" Isander shouted. Couching his spear at an elbow, he tore back to the camp, feet skittering on the dew slicked dirt and curses tearing from his throat.


Roki

 

[Roki]

A shout, bright with fear as he ducked away from the pig's charge. Dove down into the dirt with a cloud of dust come puff about him, half expecting the beast to gore him with its proud tusks. He curled into a ball, and clutched at his head.

But, where he expected sharp shard of pain come red across his senses, there was only the snufflings and hufflings of piggy snout. The soft tink and clink of glass against dirt and pebble.

Slow and careful, Roki unfurled his hands from about his skull. Craned his head to regard the creature that rut about, pushing the fine vial of glass across the dirt. The precious oil, truffle pressed, glug-glugged out of its round mouth and was slurped up by the bristly intruder.

Anger sparked fast in his heart. Brow knit together as his hands clutched tight at the dirt. Shook silt free from his grip. Loosed. He laughed as he watched the creature follow after the glass jar.

Slow like, he stood. Hunched to make himself smaller. "You, like the oil?" he said gently. Looked at the vial, its pouring out of its contents. He had heard of pigs that could hunt for truffles. A rare and valuable bit of culinary treasure. Still, he felt his heart beat fast.

Smart as it seemed, the pig was large, muscle bound and heavy set. Roki gulped. Eased forward some more. Hand reached out to try and pat it. Let it know, he meant no harm.

A shout, dull and in the distance, had Roki's head turn sharp toward it, eyes wide and breath held.

Isander

 

[Isander]

The pig, head swaying and snout flared, did indeed like the oil. It liked the stuff to such a degree that it was willing to ignore the sudden noise, tensing for only a breath before turning its ministrations back to the vial in full.

Licking some traces of the substance from its snout, the pig decided it did not quite mind the hand that approached so gingerly. It contented itself to leisure, an idleness only the pig could properly enjoy.

Isander? the knight was yet a distant shout, a rustle in far off reeds.


Roki

 

[Roki]

A smile spread wide across Roki's face.

This was the first time he had felt such a kinship with an animal. Most the time, he stuck to cooking and eating them. Not that he had anything against animals. It was just, well. He was never too good at riding horses. And dogs didn't seem to like him too much, let alone wolves. Cats. Well, cats were ok. And birds were cool too. But-

Oh right, the pig.

"Well," he said happily, and pet the pig gently upon the snout. Little strokes with his fingertips that it didn't seem to mind too much. "Aren't you a charming pig,"

It made a little snort of a sound. Huffed its breath and wiggled its fleshy nose.

Shouts came in the distance.

"Oh, shit," he hissed under his breath, and turned about to track the sound. "Syr!" He called out, looked to the pig, who looked up at him with an oink. A twitch of its leathery ear. A huff as it nudged the oil once more. Roki plucked it up, the vial with the golden liquid, and stopped it with a cork. "You just, you just stay calm, ok?" he said, trying to stay calm himself as the rustles and the branches broke in the near distance.

His eyes snapped toward the sound once more. "Syr, Isander, Syr," he stumbled toward the brush, and the pig followed after the oil some steps. "Syr, don't be alarmed!"

Isander

 

[Isander]

Isander's mad dash slowed the nearer he drew to the camp. An absence of panic left a low energy to resonate through the area; no shouting, no signs of struggle, a distinct lack of blood on the air. Only the Squire's voice calling steady, a plead for calm. He redoubled his surveillance, checking each imprint on the ground that he assumed to be tracks.

Confusion gripped him as tightly as he held the couched spear.

Crossing the last crook of grass occluding him from the camp, he rolled to a crouch, hips braced and spear ready to pierce whatever awaited him. His mind had raced through the possibilities: bandits, rogues from the town come to accost Roki while the knight was away. Wild beasts. Poisonous flora that his hungover eyes could not detect.

Instead, Isander found the Squire with a hand on a rather pernicious looking pig. Pudgy yet distinctly fierce tusks rimmed a slick snout and a bristle-haired hide. Compact, stubby legs that flexed with promised power at the cusp of a charge. Beady little eyes that swung over to meet the knight's own.

"Good," he hissed, easing a palm over to Roki. "You did good. Easy now, lad."

Making a low shushing motion, he angled his body to appear harmless (or as harmless as a man couching a spear, brows drawn down to keep as much of the morning light from overly sensitive eyes could mimic). He took a single, shuffling step.

"Keep it steady now... I'll stick it right in the heart." His voice crooned out, all whispered promise and comforting chirps.

"Just a few more steps..."


Roki

 

[Roki]

With eyes full of terror, Roki watched as Syr Isander crept from the grass with spear held firm. Like a demon, come to collect whatever debt was owed.

"Syr, wait," Roki stammered. "Hold, a moment!" he urged, raised is palm as he shielded the pig from the spear.

The pig, snort, and snuffled, and bumped Roki's hand with its thick skul. Raised its snout and licked at his fingers as he tried to find more of that oil.

"It's, it's friendly, Syr! Intelligent!" he tried to convince the entranced knight. The sounds of the tavern, the cheers for the bets. They all seemed a hazy and horrid memory now in Roki's head. But surely, the honored knight would hear him.

But he just kept coming. Closer, and closer.

Just a feww more steps...

Roki's eyes dart back to the pig, that looked up at him. Huffed. Roki looked back to Syr Isan, who's frame seemed to fill with hot blooded strength. He snapped back to the pig, filled with his own heat. Raised a hand, and smacked the side of the pudgy pig.

A squeel.

"Run!" Roki shout to it.

And the pig turned, kicked up a dust cloud as its trotters scraped up the earth, and it sprint away with all four of its stubby legs.
Isander

 

[Isander]

"Tits and teeth, Roki!" came the exclamation.

In a froth, Isander tossed down his spear. Eyes flashing hot behind a hood of anger, his nostrils flared as he watched the pig's retreating hind.

Biting back the words forming acrid on his tongue, he let his fists unclench. Took a slow breath. Drew it in, eased it out. Let it fill the silence that thrummed between them. It did little for the drum beating out lines of fervor at his temple. Less for the gnawing hunger that gurgled in his belly.

He mastered it swiftly.

"Why under the Tree did you do that?" he asked, distilling his tone to a measured calm.


Roki

 

[Roki]

Roki's eyes looked away from the pig's dust cloud, and up to Syr Isander. "You were going to kill it!" he exclaimed, with some panic in his voice. Shook it away. Looked down at the spear. "It, it was a smart pig," he went on to explain, the reasoning felt like ash in his mouth.

Hardly anything but afterburn.

"It liked truffle oil!" he said more sure, eyes up on Syr Isander once more. "Could, you know, probably find us some truffles," his certainty waiverd, and he clutched at his arm as he looked away. "If it still trusts me, I mean," he muttered.

Isander

 

[Isander]

"Of course I was going to kill it," isander said, words tumbling out in an affronted mutter. Staking the butt of his spear into the soft ground before the remains of their cookfire, he spat out the embers of his disgust; a shake of the head, a wipe of palm over brow, a heavy sigh that lifted his chest and puffed up cheeks on the exhale.

He stole a moment to comport himself. Lent an ear to listen to what the Squire was saying, let it rattle around his skull while he digested the meaning. It took longer than he liked. The desperate sprint back to camp winded him, filled him with the thrum of blood against his temples.

At last he nodded, broke off his sigh. Transmogrified it into a smile, slightly stiff for the trying.

"Truffles," he said, "truffles indeed. Very well, Roki. I'm sorry. I should have trusted your judgement. Instead I bumbled in, fearing for your safety and, well."

A shy smile tipped over his lips.

"Well. I suppose a bit of hunger got the best of me. But tell me: supposing the pig comes back, what would we even do with the thing? Add it to the Squirebooks? Mark it down on the ledger as friend to the Order?" Sheepishly, he admitted, "It does have a nice ring to it, really."


Roki

 

[Roki]

What few clouds had gathered over Roki's bright eyes, all but burned away at the hearing of truffles, lips wide with a smile, head shook with a nod. "The nicest ring!" he said as he popped straight backed.

Dusted himself off some, thought a moment. Smelled it before he saw it. "Oh!" he recalled the flame. He had left unatended. Turned sharp and found it hissing and spitting. Small, hungry. Almost angry really.

Roki sighed with relief, snapped his fingers, and saw the last tongues of flame go out..

He went to clean up the mess created by the encounter. Stashed the supplies that still remained. Tatter bitten through, carrots still good, and some mushrooms. The eggs though. He held the satchel up as yolks ran out and dripped onto the floor.

"Gross," he said to himself. "If we find the pig," he said as he turned it inside out. "Maybe you can wyld speak with it?" he asked naively.

Syr Isander was a Sworn knight. He could probably do that, right?

Isander

 

[Isander]

"What?" Isander asked, having to roll the question about his tongue; a tongue absent the kiss of Wyld speech, familiar but to more manling words. He mulled over it, kicking the bed of stones that surrounded their fire over the remaining embers.

"No," he said, "such are not talents bequeathed to me."

Moving from their campsite, shouldering the naked length of his spear, he bent to appraise the tracks left by their unwelcomed guest. He pointed proudly at a tri-fold print.

"There, had we not seen which way it bolted, we could have used this to discern our way."


Roki

 

[Roki]

Roki blinked.

No wyld speech. Well. That was certainly a set back. He cleared his throat and shook his head. Remembered the cook fire and hurried over to it to stamp out the last of its embers. Till one of his hurried stamps landed a bit wrong and he near twisted his ankle.

A stutter step, and a jutting jaw saw him clutch up his foot as he made, sort-of-quiet, grunts and whimpers of pain.

Come the pointing of the tracks. Roki forced his foot down, and snapped a nod. "A valuable observation, Syr!" he saluted. Though all the rigidity of his posture eaked out of him a breath later. His ankle still in agony.

Roki winced. Lower lip a-shake. He shook it off. "Should we, give chase?" he asked brightly.

Isander

 

[Isander]

"Aye, Roki," Isander said, meeting nod with nod. A shimmer of resolution took hold of his eyes. He pressed on, spear couched at an elbow.

After a fashion, he cocked his head back to the Squire and asked, "Say, knowing my inadequacy in Wyld speech, what plan have you for when we come across our... unwitting companion?"


Roki