The Northern Reaches, 19th Winter, 406 A.V.
''Hurry your ass up, it's petchin' cold out here.'' A voice called, muffled by the deer-hide tent between them. Rewyn woke from his slumber, barely eager to leave his humble abode. At least it's warm in here.. He realised he had slept long past the rise of the sun, which he was accustom to leaving at with each coming day. Crawling from his blanket of pelts and cloth, Rewyn wiped the sleep from his eyes, stretched out like a canvas, and felt all his bones crack at once. He heard a mailed fist beat at the side of his tent, and for a moment feared it would collapse.
''I'm coming, Rook.'' He yelled back drily. Rook was Murs' right-hand man, and Murs was the leader of their little sellsword company. They were no Flayed Brothers, in savagery or in number, but their steel was sharp and their thirst for gold was unending. Contracts were never few and far between. Rewyn slid himself into his armour; a brigantine studded with iron across the breast, leather gauntlets with a thin iron plate down the wrist, breeches, and some leather boots that were too big for his feet. He preferred to remain light and thus agile when he fought, though the huge cloak of sheepskin he garbed over top only weighed him down. It was winter regardless, and he would've preferred a cumbersome cloak than perishing slowly and excruciatingly to frostbite.
Wiry, gloved hands wrapped around the edge of his tent flap, and he pushed it open, revealing an angry Rook. He was a sturdy man, rugged and brawny from fighting and climbing. His chest was covered in a crudely-kept mail shirt and a boiled leather cuirass, his legs and feet covered in leathers. His hands were wrapped in fur gloves, and his figure in a huge wolf skin cloak. He pulled it tight against his skin, inexorable gaze falling upon the younger man. Rewyn gave him a nervous smile, but the man just laughed through his thick copper beard.
''Awake at last then, lad? Good to see you didn't freeze in your sleep,'' He ran a gloved hand through his short, spiky hair, ''Murs says we'll be heading off after we break our fast, got a contract close by or summat. Best we go see him, then.'' The copper-haired giant of a man motioned for Rewyn to follow, and so he did, haplessly attempting to adjust his sword belt. There were fifteen amongst their band, each man as deadly as the last. Some were archers, others swung flails, but most stuck to sword and shield. Murs had gathered them from all over the land, from Cyphrus and from Sylira, from Ravok and from the Reaches themselves. They sat around fires, huddled and cold even beneath their furs, breaths materialized into hazy white puffs of smoke. Rewyn's boots created discreet crunch sounds as they walked atop the fallen pine needles. It wasn't long before either was caked in milky white snow that seemed to freeze his toes, even through the leather that divided them.
Some of their fellows nodded or waved as they went by, but most stuck to their fasts, gnawing through the last serving of the boar they had left. Murs had put a quarrel in the beast only two days before, and already its meat ran scarce. The Reaches were aplenty with edible game, but they oft evaded quarrel, arrow and trap. The boar had been stuck as it drank from a stream, luckily enough for the company. Soon it would be just a matter of what they would eat when the meat ran dry.
''Come, get some boar into ya belly before it's petched off into everyone else’s!'' Asger urged as they approached Murs' tent. Asger was the only man in the company with any knowledge of cooking, though that wasn't to say eating his meals was the greatest pleasure. His boar was often under-cooked or burnt, and his stews and soups were hardly to die for. Still, they sufficed. Better to have shyke in the stomach than nothing at all.
''Thankyou, Asger.'' Rewyn muttered as the man handed him a bowl, laden with some vegetable stew with traces of boar haunch throughout. Rewyn ate it dutifully, ignoring the overcooked meat and the filthy smell of it all. ''Where is Murs?'' He asked curiously as he handed the bowl back to Asger, realizing their leader was not present outside his own tent. It was the largest of the company, made of wolf and deer and cow pelts, and held together with crude sticks and vines. Inside was nothing but a log for sitting and a bedroll for sleeping, as well as some woven sacks full of provisions. At least, they had been filled with provisions.
Asger shrugged, haunch shoulders raising and falling idly. He was a large man, from the Reaches, but Rook made even him look small. His long blonde hair was tied up with a thin strand of rope, extending down to the middle of his back. His squared face was covered in a short, close-cropped beard, and brown eyes peered out from beneath thick golden brows. Asger wore a sheepskin cloak similar to Rewyn's, though chose to adorn more furs beneath it rather than armour. He was a man trained with a crossbow, and never saw the need to coat himself in protective clothing when the enemy never even got close to him. Warmth over safety, he always japed.
''Haven't seen him since the sun came up, he took his sword and his horn and wandered off down the mountain pass.'' The crossbowman-turned-cook said concernedly. They were situated in a compact flat area of the mountains, with a vast forest of soldier pines at their back and a treacherous, narrow mountain pass at their front. They had came up the pass, but would trek through the pines when they disembarked.
We are to travel through the forest, so then why has Murs gone the other way, and alone?
He did not know if it was the wind, the snow or the sudden feel of insecurity that gave him shivers.
''I'm coming, Rook.'' He yelled back drily. Rook was Murs' right-hand man, and Murs was the leader of their little sellsword company. They were no Flayed Brothers, in savagery or in number, but their steel was sharp and their thirst for gold was unending. Contracts were never few and far between. Rewyn slid himself into his armour; a brigantine studded with iron across the breast, leather gauntlets with a thin iron plate down the wrist, breeches, and some leather boots that were too big for his feet. He preferred to remain light and thus agile when he fought, though the huge cloak of sheepskin he garbed over top only weighed him down. It was winter regardless, and he would've preferred a cumbersome cloak than perishing slowly and excruciatingly to frostbite.
Wiry, gloved hands wrapped around the edge of his tent flap, and he pushed it open, revealing an angry Rook. He was a sturdy man, rugged and brawny from fighting and climbing. His chest was covered in a crudely-kept mail shirt and a boiled leather cuirass, his legs and feet covered in leathers. His hands were wrapped in fur gloves, and his figure in a huge wolf skin cloak. He pulled it tight against his skin, inexorable gaze falling upon the younger man. Rewyn gave him a nervous smile, but the man just laughed through his thick copper beard.
''Awake at last then, lad? Good to see you didn't freeze in your sleep,'' He ran a gloved hand through his short, spiky hair, ''Murs says we'll be heading off after we break our fast, got a contract close by or summat. Best we go see him, then.'' The copper-haired giant of a man motioned for Rewyn to follow, and so he did, haplessly attempting to adjust his sword belt. There were fifteen amongst their band, each man as deadly as the last. Some were archers, others swung flails, but most stuck to sword and shield. Murs had gathered them from all over the land, from Cyphrus and from Sylira, from Ravok and from the Reaches themselves. They sat around fires, huddled and cold even beneath their furs, breaths materialized into hazy white puffs of smoke. Rewyn's boots created discreet crunch sounds as they walked atop the fallen pine needles. It wasn't long before either was caked in milky white snow that seemed to freeze his toes, even through the leather that divided them.
Some of their fellows nodded or waved as they went by, but most stuck to their fasts, gnawing through the last serving of the boar they had left. Murs had put a quarrel in the beast only two days before, and already its meat ran scarce. The Reaches were aplenty with edible game, but they oft evaded quarrel, arrow and trap. The boar had been stuck as it drank from a stream, luckily enough for the company. Soon it would be just a matter of what they would eat when the meat ran dry.
''Come, get some boar into ya belly before it's petched off into everyone else’s!'' Asger urged as they approached Murs' tent. Asger was the only man in the company with any knowledge of cooking, though that wasn't to say eating his meals was the greatest pleasure. His boar was often under-cooked or burnt, and his stews and soups were hardly to die for. Still, they sufficed. Better to have shyke in the stomach than nothing at all.
''Thankyou, Asger.'' Rewyn muttered as the man handed him a bowl, laden with some vegetable stew with traces of boar haunch throughout. Rewyn ate it dutifully, ignoring the overcooked meat and the filthy smell of it all. ''Where is Murs?'' He asked curiously as he handed the bowl back to Asger, realizing their leader was not present outside his own tent. It was the largest of the company, made of wolf and deer and cow pelts, and held together with crude sticks and vines. Inside was nothing but a log for sitting and a bedroll for sleeping, as well as some woven sacks full of provisions. At least, they had been filled with provisions.
Asger shrugged, haunch shoulders raising and falling idly. He was a large man, from the Reaches, but Rook made even him look small. His long blonde hair was tied up with a thin strand of rope, extending down to the middle of his back. His squared face was covered in a short, close-cropped beard, and brown eyes peered out from beneath thick golden brows. Asger wore a sheepskin cloak similar to Rewyn's, though chose to adorn more furs beneath it rather than armour. He was a man trained with a crossbow, and never saw the need to coat himself in protective clothing when the enemy never even got close to him. Warmth over safety, he always japed.
''Haven't seen him since the sun came up, he took his sword and his horn and wandered off down the mountain pass.'' The crossbowman-turned-cook said concernedly. They were situated in a compact flat area of the mountains, with a vast forest of soldier pines at their back and a treacherous, narrow mountain pass at their front. They had came up the pass, but would trek through the pines when they disembarked.
We are to travel through the forest, so then why has Murs gone the other way, and alone?
He did not know if it was the wind, the snow or the sudden feel of insecurity that gave him shivers.
