Private Tales Sospirando of the Wistful Vale

[Isander]

Three clicks from the monastery, Isander once again found himself in the Wylds. The precise trajectory that landed him there lay occluded to his gaze; indeed, his shoulders yet writhed with the stiffness of his recent travels, remembered well the hard caress of unpacked dirt and upturned roots. Perhaps given sufficient time he could recall an occasion on which his back had found the comforting embrace of a straw (or, under fortune's many-clipped wing, down) mattress, but he refused to dwell on such luxuries.

The leather straps of a girthy pack adorned his shoulders, bit deep into the tunic he accoutered himself with. Hours and miles prior he began regretting the choice of eschewing his customary maille and gambeson coat. Another inch of padding promised welcome relief, and in its absence he felt every step acutely. It settled as an ache in his knees, a quiver that threatened to buckle beneath a moment's rest. Then again, given the war he waged against his own lungs for calm and even breath, he also could not quite begrudge his choice.

At least, with the sun yet high in its sail across the midsummer sky, the weather held firm. This beneath the shadow of the Spine, a pleasant breeze blew staccato sighs across the forest's canopy; tall, skinny trees stood as sticks between new shoots and an ever present coat of lichen and green. His feet dragged him over a well-marked trail of chipped gravel and packed dirt, too thin and disparate for travel on horseback. A billygoat trail, surely, or some other game. He decided early on into the trek to pay little heed to such trifles.

Other, more pressing affairs demanded his attention, such as the newling Squire playing the part of pupil. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he offered a dawning shrug.

"I should note," he said, "I make for a poor mentor. Surely we are here to learn together, and I may yet seek your counsel on this." His voice came ripe with hesitation, pausing on occasion to suck in another gulp of air as he pressed into the foliage.

"Have you any experience with the hunt? Cook Pilsny shoved a satchel of potatoes and clove into my arms before we left and suggested the local partridge. A buck-quilled bird? Or something of the ilk."


Sitra

 

[Sitra]

The last few weeks were almost impossible for the squire next to Isander to describe in detail, as if everything was happening all at once and her memory was a book whose pages were all out of order.

She was rarely given the opportunity to stop and reflect; to find in that book where she'd last left off.​

But most of all, she never had the chance to simply be allowed to think. To breathe for little more than a few precious moments before being swept up again in the blurring passage of time and duties that defined her days at the Monastery. Was she studying hard under the tutelage of knights like Bebin Theros, both cousin and teacher?

Oh, certainly, and the state of her memories were a testament to that.

It was only this afternoon that brought some much needed reprieve in the form of a ranging, some distance from the Monastery. Away from the stifling routines, away from the daily lessons, away from the dozens of squires, knights, novices. Now she could finally have a chance to think. But only when her thoughts amidst the whispering trees and bubbling creaks weren't interrupted by one lamentation or another by the Knight Sworn she was following.

Sitra was not away from everyone, as it happened. In the woods a few paces ahead of her was the man who was supposed to be both guide and tutor, apparently.

However, she honestly wasn't quite certain whether that was what was happening here, and felt the faint stirring of panic as he spoke of learning together; the admission of ignorance was not a thrilling one while they were out in the middle of... nowhere, truly.

Aside from Isander's squire, there was literally nobody else that question might have been directed towards. As bloody if they were here to learn together if he had meant to ask her for directions. He may as well have asked the hundreds of little insects and animals that were going about their day in the woods and brooks of the Wyld to show them the way.

Thankfully the pause was only sought to catch his breath, before he elaborated.

Yet the question surprised her more than it should've, after she'd gotten over her initial panic.

There was a slight parting of her lips in an unvoiced query; one that she ultimately decided against asking in the hope that she was wrong. She wouldn't lie and say that she wasn't at least somewhat concerned about whether or not this grown man and fully fledged knight was asking her if she knew how to hunt out of simple curiosity, or if this was the thing he had wanted her counsel on.

Sitra uttered a quiet prayer to her gods and all the martyrs, then answered: "I have some experience, yes."

After a quiet sigh of frustration while she carefully brushed past a low-hanging branch (and then another) to avoid having her braided hair entangled in the worst of the woodland about them, she continued to speak; her voice perhaps a tad dry and without a great deal of inflection. Sitra was never more fact orientated than when she was annoyed. And there was admittedly a lot of things to be annoyed about when it came to trekking through dense foliage.

But she was trying her best not to sound too frustrated by the fact. "I'm not wonderful at it by any means, but yes, I've hunted with my father and brothers plenty while I still lived at home. I was also taught by... another knight, while we were riding to Astenvale."

Her earlier alarm had dissolved into something a little less existential by that point, and she'd since found the composure to put on her usual face of detached disinterest. If Isander wanted to look back to see anything beyond a squire that was perfectly content with following him aimlessly through endless woodland, then he would've been disappointed.

And if he had looked, then he would've noticed how Sitra was dressed in her usual uniform for the Wyld; that was, a sturdy pair of riding breeches and boots with plain leather gaiters, as well as her usual blouse beneath the much appreciated warmth of a fitted tunic that acted as an overshirt. Not to mention a travelling cloak of what might've once been a brilliant blue - before the weather and the mud had gotten to the dye, leaving it dull and washed out.

The ensemble was completed with the addition of a satchel that she'd regretted bringing; as the straps were far too loose and so it bounced and clattered at her waist at every opportunity. At first she was annoyed, but by this point it was simply another burden weighing her down. Every step was a labour in both her body's tolerance and whatever patience was left behind those frowning lips.

Very little, as it were.

"Have you had much experience with hunting, Syr?" Sitra did try to avoid sounding too rueful about having asked.