- Messages
- 96
“We'd be muchly quicker with double the horses, or better yet, with ones that serve in death. Tell me Avan, why are we pulled by this pair of dim living beasts when wraiths of the equine would serve much better? No feeding, no resting, just our destination bested in one long trip. Tell me why,” Hans hissed with raised palms at these misgivings, his frail and shrouded black visage straddled atop the coach like marionette with half tensed strings. Reigns lay amassed and limp beside him.
His companion, a shorter yet more powerfully built fellow of elven persuasion who drew in fresh water from the abundant pool that shimmered in the moonlight, didn't reply, instead looking to the sky as if to gain further patience for it's serenity.
“Well?” Hans said, and made mocking pantomime with his arms and hands, his tattered cloaks made patchwork covers for his gangly frame, his sharp triangle of a nose protruding from cowl and scant else evidence that he was not simply garments upon garments.
A sigh.
“Hans, have you ever heard of the expression, a hammer sees nought but nails?” The elf Avan replied thusly in all too calm and hushed tones as he sealed his wineskin with water enough to see them through their journey. He tread slow and silent, his eyes scanning about their position. A place of calm, where fireflies did glow about the reeds in the water, where scaled crocodile did lurk and the draping canopy of trees swayed majestic. His deep purple leathers gave no sheen from such illuminations.
“What mean you Avan, I'm no carpenter, I fashion-”
Avan's golden eyes flashed in frustration and warning even as his voice remained cool.
“You fashion the dead from the bereft of life, I know, I know. As do many of us servants to Zakron, Hans. Our hosts prize discretion in this matter. And we'd have scant little of that should illuminative steeds through the countryside stride strong in death to carry what we are charged with delivering. So let the horses feed, rest, and we'll be about our journey soon enough.”
“Better served by speed of the dead than the living. Just let me set the knife to them. We'll be away and done with this task in twice the speed, all I need is-” Hans began, reaching to belt for a wicked sharp thing for ritual suggested.
“You'll do no such thing. We were charged with trust, and resources to our task. Do you doubt the wisdom of our long lived betters? Should I tell them you slayed their horses simply because you had no patience to allow them to feed?”
Hans brayed like disgruntled goat, sliding knife back into resting by his hip and folding arms in the mass of black wool.
“That's what I thought,” Avan said, and made approach to the black coach, a thing of rugged refinement and shuttered windows, more befitting a funeral procession than the transportation of cargo. Made of heavy wood and sigils that protected it from arcane blast, it was a thing designed to keep that inside firmly safe. The coach was firmly locked, the contents denied to even the two that rode and protected it.
“Be glad our betters view us living, horse or otherwise, as assets. And for Kindred's sake, keep a look out. We know not who pays attention here.”
The horses chewed upon the long grasses and supped from the water that Avan now provided. They were lashed to a stake in the ground that Avan looked firmly at in thought.
His companion, a shorter yet more powerfully built fellow of elven persuasion who drew in fresh water from the abundant pool that shimmered in the moonlight, didn't reply, instead looking to the sky as if to gain further patience for it's serenity.
“Well?” Hans said, and made mocking pantomime with his arms and hands, his tattered cloaks made patchwork covers for his gangly frame, his sharp triangle of a nose protruding from cowl and scant else evidence that he was not simply garments upon garments.
A sigh.
“Hans, have you ever heard of the expression, a hammer sees nought but nails?” The elf Avan replied thusly in all too calm and hushed tones as he sealed his wineskin with water enough to see them through their journey. He tread slow and silent, his eyes scanning about their position. A place of calm, where fireflies did glow about the reeds in the water, where scaled crocodile did lurk and the draping canopy of trees swayed majestic. His deep purple leathers gave no sheen from such illuminations.
“What mean you Avan, I'm no carpenter, I fashion-”
Avan's golden eyes flashed in frustration and warning even as his voice remained cool.
“You fashion the dead from the bereft of life, I know, I know. As do many of us servants to Zakron, Hans. Our hosts prize discretion in this matter. And we'd have scant little of that should illuminative steeds through the countryside stride strong in death to carry what we are charged with delivering. So let the horses feed, rest, and we'll be about our journey soon enough.”
“Better served by speed of the dead than the living. Just let me set the knife to them. We'll be away and done with this task in twice the speed, all I need is-” Hans began, reaching to belt for a wicked sharp thing for ritual suggested.
“You'll do no such thing. We were charged with trust, and resources to our task. Do you doubt the wisdom of our long lived betters? Should I tell them you slayed their horses simply because you had no patience to allow them to feed?”
Hans brayed like disgruntled goat, sliding knife back into resting by his hip and folding arms in the mass of black wool.
“That's what I thought,” Avan said, and made approach to the black coach, a thing of rugged refinement and shuttered windows, more befitting a funeral procession than the transportation of cargo. Made of heavy wood and sigils that protected it from arcane blast, it was a thing designed to keep that inside firmly safe. The coach was firmly locked, the contents denied to even the two that rode and protected it.
“Be glad our betters view us living, horse or otherwise, as assets. And for Kindred's sake, keep a look out. We know not who pays attention here.”
The horses chewed upon the long grasses and supped from the water that Avan now provided. They were lashed to a stake in the ground that Avan looked firmly at in thought.