12th Day of Summer, 516 AV
“Here!”
It was a faint echo of a sound from the front of the caravan, but Elias knew after twelve days on the road, what that short, simple command meant. That, and more importantly who it came from.
Syna had plunged down into the horizon and vanished by the time they’d decided to call it quits on this day's leg of the journey. The wooded horizon swallowing her up for the night until she was to be born again the next day. Fragments of her still painted the sky, but the darkness was spreading, and that meant that soon the caravan had to make camp.
"Looks like good ground for it."
Elias squinted at the flat blackness to the right of the road and came to the same conclusion. That alone made one corner of his mouth tug upward; that he could indeed look at the ground and see why it was good ground. Thick, solid earth and heath, worn down from past expeditions doing the same thing. Enough that they'd survived to tell about it, perhaps. The skeletons of old camp fires were scattered here and there, which was likely a good sign.
He looked to the sky critically.
Half a bell, at most, then we'll be in the dark.
Elias leapt from the wagon he’d been hitching a ride on, the wooden chariots that had been his bed rest for the past week or two creaking and groaning along with the beasts of burden that hauled them. The ‘lieutenants’ of the group had already begun herding everyone along, moving flesh and wheeled carts into the newly established camp ground as per their master's unspoken instructions.
He picked a spot not far from the rim of the rough circle the carts and wagons were being arranged in, close enough to a particular cart of brandy that if any trouble broke out, he could roll under it in a few ticks or just as quickly grab himself a drink. You never knew... At this point though, it was all repetition, based on what he'd seen before. See something enough times, a process or series of events, and you can start to replicate them, no matter how alien or unfamiliar. You just have to focus, and that's what Elias did. By the failing light he rooted around and made a circle with stones and rocks, scouring around under the cart for them when he had to. Then he went further afield and gathered up twigs, sticks, grass, bark, moss, anything that was dry and flammable, and dumping half in the circle and half on the outside.
Tinder, kindling and fuel, he reminded himself, rubbing through the pile of debris to make sure it was dry enough. Need tinder for a spark, kindling to make the spark a flame, and fuel keep the flame going. Elias mused, thinking back to what some of the other slavers had said a few nights before, as he'd carefully slid branches and cut limbs into their infant fire. This time however, he was determined to create his own, not simply commandeer another’s as he’d allowed himself to do for the past two weeks now.
Honestly, at times it felt somewhat humiliating, and he wasn’t particularly certain why. Everyone here knew how to properly start a campfire, and not just a flame, which constituted a big difference when you spent so much of your time on the road. Everyone knew that… except Elias. He was a city boy through and through, but more than that, he was a mage. A reimancer specifically, which came with it a great many boons that those who considered something like ‘wilderness survival’ important might either find incredibly helpful, or incredibly insulting. Why did he need to gather twigs and stones when all it took to spark a flame was the snap of his finger? Was it fair that he could shape the earth into a cradle of shelter, or conjure up the very water that would sustain him? It felt particularly unfair that he need not even really hunt for his food when he could simply entice his meals to the fire with just a bit of hypnotism. Truthfully, surviving the mundane requirements of the wilderness was not something Elias the sorcerer needed to worry all that much about these days. Elias the sellsword on the other hand was a different story however. One he intended to make sure had a happy ending.
Ever since he’d taken up this rouse as a common mercenary and began plying his skills for the Nykan slaver Valion, the Caldera had gone to great lengths to hide his arcane talents from his new ‘associates,’ and for good reason. Many of these men he’d learned were of Sunberth origin. Apparently, they despised mages down south to a startling degree, thought them more a plague than a person it seemed. It wasn’t just the prejudice however, it was the attention. When you reveal a power like Elias’s, it attracts certain kinds of people. Sycophants and weaklings seeking succor at your feet, or fools who saw what you could do as more a challenge than a good reason to keep their distance. Elias sought neither. His time in Nyka, among these killers for hire was simply a mission. Not something he could afford to compromise by revealing one too many truths here and there.
So for now, the mage was content to simply let the others consider him a mere man with a blade who was a bit luckier than most was all. That suited him fine. Unfortunately that meant no starting a fire with his res, which meant if he wanted that heat, he was going to have to work for it.
With eyes peeled and hands readied, he set about his mundane task.
30 Chimes Later…
Fire after fire was being lit now, orange smears and glows that all seemed to congeal together and illuminate the circle of wagons, their dark shapes hemming in everything.
He watched the other sellswords sit around and throw back their skins and bottles. Saw their teeth gleam and glitter in the firelight, making a note of a few with flashes of gold and silver. One never knew when a comrade might fall in battle, and he was sure he had a pair of pliers somewhere in his pack.
The carters were a different breed. More... humble, he guessed the word was. Less swagger, less noise. More still by their fires, like they were conserving energy for another long, dull day ahead. They still passed around food and drink, though, and the aromas were wafting everywhere, mingling with the unmistakable smell of the many animals still tied to their carts.
Elias could hear the slaves, too. A constant low muttering from the covered, wheeled cages that served as their transport. Dozens of mouths, all communing and praying and plotting and gossiping, it seemed. On some rare nights he even heard the ghost of a laugh from one of them. Some child, probably. Young enough to not quite understand what was happening… to recognize the horror of it all.
He frowned. Something... some pattern had reared its head again this night as it had done too many nights before. He swung his eyes back to the carters and ran over their figures with a scrutinizing gaze. The outlines of their beards and their hair; their shapes and the little tics and motions that gave them some spark of the unique apart from their fellows. He squinted. He stared.
One was missing.
Again.
“Where you headin’?” Came the question for a man named Cole who’d happened to join Elias at his fire. The tattooed fiend was turning over a nice, juicy slab of salted meat when Elias jerked to his feet and started walking. “Foods nearly done. I’ll share you some of mine if you tell me how you got all them scars on your face.” He chuckled.
"Checkin' somethin' out." Elias muttered in reply, making sure to keep his rough and tumble drawl in check even then. Elias the sellsword didn’t talk much, and he certainly didn’t talk fancy-like either. It was a charade he often found easy to uphold one day, a true test of his composure the next.
Cole had questions, more than one by look on his face, but Elias gave no more clues to his purpose. Swaddled in his black cloak, in a moment the Ravokian was swallowed up by the looming shadows of the carts, vanished save for fading footsteps.
It was a faint echo of a sound from the front of the caravan, but Elias knew after twelve days on the road, what that short, simple command meant. That, and more importantly who it came from.
Syna had plunged down into the horizon and vanished by the time they’d decided to call it quits on this day's leg of the journey. The wooded horizon swallowing her up for the night until she was to be born again the next day. Fragments of her still painted the sky, but the darkness was spreading, and that meant that soon the caravan had to make camp.
"Looks like good ground for it."
Elias squinted at the flat blackness to the right of the road and came to the same conclusion. That alone made one corner of his mouth tug upward; that he could indeed look at the ground and see why it was good ground. Thick, solid earth and heath, worn down from past expeditions doing the same thing. Enough that they'd survived to tell about it, perhaps. The skeletons of old camp fires were scattered here and there, which was likely a good sign.
He looked to the sky critically.
Half a bell, at most, then we'll be in the dark.
Elias leapt from the wagon he’d been hitching a ride on, the wooden chariots that had been his bed rest for the past week or two creaking and groaning along with the beasts of burden that hauled them. The ‘lieutenants’ of the group had already begun herding everyone along, moving flesh and wheeled carts into the newly established camp ground as per their master's unspoken instructions.
He picked a spot not far from the rim of the rough circle the carts and wagons were being arranged in, close enough to a particular cart of brandy that if any trouble broke out, he could roll under it in a few ticks or just as quickly grab himself a drink. You never knew... At this point though, it was all repetition, based on what he'd seen before. See something enough times, a process or series of events, and you can start to replicate them, no matter how alien or unfamiliar. You just have to focus, and that's what Elias did. By the failing light he rooted around and made a circle with stones and rocks, scouring around under the cart for them when he had to. Then he went further afield and gathered up twigs, sticks, grass, bark, moss, anything that was dry and flammable, and dumping half in the circle and half on the outside.
Tinder, kindling and fuel, he reminded himself, rubbing through the pile of debris to make sure it was dry enough. Need tinder for a spark, kindling to make the spark a flame, and fuel keep the flame going. Elias mused, thinking back to what some of the other slavers had said a few nights before, as he'd carefully slid branches and cut limbs into their infant fire. This time however, he was determined to create his own, not simply commandeer another’s as he’d allowed himself to do for the past two weeks now.
Honestly, at times it felt somewhat humiliating, and he wasn’t particularly certain why. Everyone here knew how to properly start a campfire, and not just a flame, which constituted a big difference when you spent so much of your time on the road. Everyone knew that… except Elias. He was a city boy through and through, but more than that, he was a mage. A reimancer specifically, which came with it a great many boons that those who considered something like ‘wilderness survival’ important might either find incredibly helpful, or incredibly insulting. Why did he need to gather twigs and stones when all it took to spark a flame was the snap of his finger? Was it fair that he could shape the earth into a cradle of shelter, or conjure up the very water that would sustain him? It felt particularly unfair that he need not even really hunt for his food when he could simply entice his meals to the fire with just a bit of hypnotism. Truthfully, surviving the mundane requirements of the wilderness was not something Elias the sorcerer needed to worry all that much about these days. Elias the sellsword on the other hand was a different story however. One he intended to make sure had a happy ending.
Ever since he’d taken up this rouse as a common mercenary and began plying his skills for the Nykan slaver Valion, the Caldera had gone to great lengths to hide his arcane talents from his new ‘associates,’ and for good reason. Many of these men he’d learned were of Sunberth origin. Apparently, they despised mages down south to a startling degree, thought them more a plague than a person it seemed. It wasn’t just the prejudice however, it was the attention. When you reveal a power like Elias’s, it attracts certain kinds of people. Sycophants and weaklings seeking succor at your feet, or fools who saw what you could do as more a challenge than a good reason to keep their distance. Elias sought neither. His time in Nyka, among these killers for hire was simply a mission. Not something he could afford to compromise by revealing one too many truths here and there.
So for now, the mage was content to simply let the others consider him a mere man with a blade who was a bit luckier than most was all. That suited him fine. Unfortunately that meant no starting a fire with his res, which meant if he wanted that heat, he was going to have to work for it.
With eyes peeled and hands readied, he set about his mundane task.
30 Chimes Later…
Fire after fire was being lit now, orange smears and glows that all seemed to congeal together and illuminate the circle of wagons, their dark shapes hemming in everything.
He watched the other sellswords sit around and throw back their skins and bottles. Saw their teeth gleam and glitter in the firelight, making a note of a few with flashes of gold and silver. One never knew when a comrade might fall in battle, and he was sure he had a pair of pliers somewhere in his pack.
The carters were a different breed. More... humble, he guessed the word was. Less swagger, less noise. More still by their fires, like they were conserving energy for another long, dull day ahead. They still passed around food and drink, though, and the aromas were wafting everywhere, mingling with the unmistakable smell of the many animals still tied to their carts.
Elias could hear the slaves, too. A constant low muttering from the covered, wheeled cages that served as their transport. Dozens of mouths, all communing and praying and plotting and gossiping, it seemed. On some rare nights he even heard the ghost of a laugh from one of them. Some child, probably. Young enough to not quite understand what was happening… to recognize the horror of it all.
He frowned. Something... some pattern had reared its head again this night as it had done too many nights before. He swung his eyes back to the carters and ran over their figures with a scrutinizing gaze. The outlines of their beards and their hair; their shapes and the little tics and motions that gave them some spark of the unique apart from their fellows. He squinted. He stared.
One was missing.
Again.
“Where you headin’?” Came the question for a man named Cole who’d happened to join Elias at his fire. The tattooed fiend was turning over a nice, juicy slab of salted meat when Elias jerked to his feet and started walking. “Foods nearly done. I’ll share you some of mine if you tell me how you got all them scars on your face.” He chuckled.
"Checkin' somethin' out." Elias muttered in reply, making sure to keep his rough and tumble drawl in check even then. Elias the sellsword didn’t talk much, and he certainly didn’t talk fancy-like either. It was a charade he often found easy to uphold one day, a true test of his composure the next.
Cole had questions, more than one by look on his face, but Elias gave no more clues to his purpose. Swaddled in his black cloak, in a moment the Ravokian was swallowed up by the looming shadows of the carts, vanished save for fading footsteps.
WC - 1414
