The twelfth day of fall, 514 AV.
Morning came and had begun its shift into noon by the time Keene awoke from his restless slumber. The sleeping mat had grown - if it were even possible - progressively more uncomfortable as the night had drawn out in its seemingly endless torment of his back and joints. He had fallen asleep in spite of it all, though not without a struggle tantamount to wrestling with one's own soul in the physical plane. Having no windows in his sleeping cupboard, morning's light had yet to grace the chilled, inky atmosphere of the room. Rolling up into a seated position, Keene rubbed a particularly sore area near the bottom of his spine that stood out from the rest of the general ache of his muscles and bones. Like most everything else he'd found and been told on the island: Sahova was not very friendly to the living.
Staggering to his feet in the darkness, Keene fumbled around blindly until he stumbled into the basin where he was meant to wash his face. Leaning upon the stand - though its rickety nature only truly allowed for the shallow appearance of such - until his eyes adjusted to the small bit of light that crept from under the wooden door, he rubbed his eyes several times to remove the sleep and grit from them. Once confident in his footing, he gathered up his pack. In preparation for the day's escapades, he had packed enough food for two days as well as a spare shirt. Shouldering the bag and feeling a tinge of relief at its reduced weight, Keene pushed open the door, locking it behind him before striding down the hallway in search of Boswell.
He planned to have the young man escort him to the grounds, as Boswell had seemed most eager to assist him. Whether that eagerness extended as far as to play tour guide in the wilderness, Keene wasn't certain. However, Risabel aside, Keene had no contacts within the citadel to assist him. Boswell was his best bet. If he refused, Keene had already resigned himself to wander the island alone and alert. Of course, he much preferred the scenario in which Boswell chose to assist him. It increased his chances of survival exponentially.
He made his way down the levels until he arrived on the fifth, presumably Boswell's place of residence. It seemed as deserted as ever, but Keene took the hunter's invitation up and shouted a crisp, "Boswell?" His voice bounced around the hall, growing fainter as it reached the back wall. For a moment it sounded as if several muffled Keenes had replied to the initial, all with their warped "Boswell?". There was no indication the man in question was present, and Keene had little desire to linger in the Quarters (something he found may have been intentional by design).
As he turned to leave, a door opened followed by a groggy, "Wazzit?" In the door frame stood the naked figure of the mousy young man, hair tousled and eyes scrunched against the torchlight. "Eh... Yer... That new Pulser, yeah?" His knuckles dug into his eyes for a few ticks before his face turned a bright grin. "Never got yer name, did I?"
"Keene."
Raising his brows at the abrupt response, Boswell yawned to cover his surprise. Once that business was finished, he scratched his stomach, shivering in the chilled interior of the climate controlled Quarters. "Right then, Keene." He motioned for Keene to join him, disappearing into the room and leaving the door ajar. While not particularly bothered by Boswell's nudity, Keene didn't find the scenario of cramped quarters next to one so bare to be quite to his liking. Still, he wanted the hunter to accept his requests. In his experience, it was always best to accommodate whatever menial tasks the party in question desired in order to better influence the outcome of their response to one's own requests. Slipping into the room behind Boswell, Keene slid over to the other side, leaning against the wall as the other man pulled his legs into his undergarments.
"So whaddya need, Keene?"
The room was, unsurprisingly, much more homey than Keene's. The floors were covered with a mismatch of furs and pelts (all small in size) into a makeshift rug. The sleeping mat had had a similar makeover, though it still retained the detestably lumpy texture that seemed impossible to mask no matter the amount of skins. There was an extra stand aside from the water basin's support that had several candles burning bright against what would have been the oppressive darkness that pervaded the establishment. Boswell's clothes were scattered across the premises: articles of leather, wool, and linen hung, lay, and were stretched across the entire interior.
Keene raised his brow as Boswell wiggled himself into some leather britches. "Will you take me to the Testing Grounds? The Prairie, specifically." Boswell continued dressing himself, stuffing his head into a long sleeved linen shirt, his ruffled head popping out of the neck hole. "I'm to procure bones." That elicited a sly grin from the other man, though why exactly, Keene couldn't say.
"S'not that far, I don't mind." A leather vest was donned and secured, Boswell struggling with the string some what. "Yer gonna hafta watch out for yerself, though. Anythin' goes south, I'mma be outta there quicker'n a thorn hair after the prick." Keene had no idea how quickly that was exactly, but he figured it meant he was in charge of his own life. He expected little else, as it was merely rational to value one's own life above anything else. He nodded that he understood, to which Boswell grinned, shouldering his own backpack after strapping a quiver to his thigh and gathering up his bow. "Arright then, we're off!"
__________________________________________________________________________
Morning came and had begun its shift into noon by the time Keene awoke from his restless slumber. The sleeping mat had grown - if it were even possible - progressively more uncomfortable as the night had drawn out in its seemingly endless torment of his back and joints. He had fallen asleep in spite of it all, though not without a struggle tantamount to wrestling with one's own soul in the physical plane. Having no windows in his sleeping cupboard, morning's light had yet to grace the chilled, inky atmosphere of the room. Rolling up into a seated position, Keene rubbed a particularly sore area near the bottom of his spine that stood out from the rest of the general ache of his muscles and bones. Like most everything else he'd found and been told on the island: Sahova was not very friendly to the living.
Staggering to his feet in the darkness, Keene fumbled around blindly until he stumbled into the basin where he was meant to wash his face. Leaning upon the stand - though its rickety nature only truly allowed for the shallow appearance of such - until his eyes adjusted to the small bit of light that crept from under the wooden door, he rubbed his eyes several times to remove the sleep and grit from them. Once confident in his footing, he gathered up his pack. In preparation for the day's escapades, he had packed enough food for two days as well as a spare shirt. Shouldering the bag and feeling a tinge of relief at its reduced weight, Keene pushed open the door, locking it behind him before striding down the hallway in search of Boswell.
He planned to have the young man escort him to the grounds, as Boswell had seemed most eager to assist him. Whether that eagerness extended as far as to play tour guide in the wilderness, Keene wasn't certain. However, Risabel aside, Keene had no contacts within the citadel to assist him. Boswell was his best bet. If he refused, Keene had already resigned himself to wander the island alone and alert. Of course, he much preferred the scenario in which Boswell chose to assist him. It increased his chances of survival exponentially.
He made his way down the levels until he arrived on the fifth, presumably Boswell's place of residence. It seemed as deserted as ever, but Keene took the hunter's invitation up and shouted a crisp, "Boswell?" His voice bounced around the hall, growing fainter as it reached the back wall. For a moment it sounded as if several muffled Keenes had replied to the initial, all with their warped "Boswell?". There was no indication the man in question was present, and Keene had little desire to linger in the Quarters (something he found may have been intentional by design).
As he turned to leave, a door opened followed by a groggy, "Wazzit?" In the door frame stood the naked figure of the mousy young man, hair tousled and eyes scrunched against the torchlight. "Eh... Yer... That new Pulser, yeah?" His knuckles dug into his eyes for a few ticks before his face turned a bright grin. "Never got yer name, did I?"
"Keene."
Raising his brows at the abrupt response, Boswell yawned to cover his surprise. Once that business was finished, he scratched his stomach, shivering in the chilled interior of the climate controlled Quarters. "Right then, Keene." He motioned for Keene to join him, disappearing into the room and leaving the door ajar. While not particularly bothered by Boswell's nudity, Keene didn't find the scenario of cramped quarters next to one so bare to be quite to his liking. Still, he wanted the hunter to accept his requests. In his experience, it was always best to accommodate whatever menial tasks the party in question desired in order to better influence the outcome of their response to one's own requests. Slipping into the room behind Boswell, Keene slid over to the other side, leaning against the wall as the other man pulled his legs into his undergarments.
"So whaddya need, Keene?"
The room was, unsurprisingly, much more homey than Keene's. The floors were covered with a mismatch of furs and pelts (all small in size) into a makeshift rug. The sleeping mat had had a similar makeover, though it still retained the detestably lumpy texture that seemed impossible to mask no matter the amount of skins. There was an extra stand aside from the water basin's support that had several candles burning bright against what would have been the oppressive darkness that pervaded the establishment. Boswell's clothes were scattered across the premises: articles of leather, wool, and linen hung, lay, and were stretched across the entire interior.
Keene raised his brow as Boswell wiggled himself into some leather britches. "Will you take me to the Testing Grounds? The Prairie, specifically." Boswell continued dressing himself, stuffing his head into a long sleeved linen shirt, his ruffled head popping out of the neck hole. "I'm to procure bones." That elicited a sly grin from the other man, though why exactly, Keene couldn't say.
"S'not that far, I don't mind." A leather vest was donned and secured, Boswell struggling with the string some what. "Yer gonna hafta watch out for yerself, though. Anythin' goes south, I'mma be outta there quicker'n a thorn hair after the prick." Keene had no idea how quickly that was exactly, but he figured it meant he was in charge of his own life. He expected little else, as it was merely rational to value one's own life above anything else. He nodded that he understood, to which Boswell grinned, shouldering his own backpack after strapping a quiver to his thigh and gathering up his bow. "Arright then, we're off!"
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