The Savage Caves - Chapter 2
Chapter 2
The Duchy of Tenh, Current Year 575
Readying (Spring) 26, Waterday
The last rays of sun spilled out over the sky as Naull returned, seeing the tower from far off even with the tree coverage. The twilight was purple and blue, red and yellow as the sun was replaced by the many glittering stars above and Naull took in the coolness of the time with a contented sigh. Her walk had been as it always was; freeing. She’d gone a mile or so into the woods before she gathered her things and her clothing, then set them inside of an old tree that had a hole in its trunk. She was very confident that Larktiss trusted her enough not to follow but she didn’t want to disappoint him by ignoring his request.
Her ability to change her shape didn’t affect her clothing, though strangely her mother’s earrings always seemed to merge with her new feline form. She’d read that certain important items sometimes stayed with a mage when their form shifted; rings, amulets, some staves as well. But her mother’s earrings weren’t magical, at least not in any discernible way. She’d cast dozens of divinations on them and turned up nothing. Perhaps it was because they were connected to something special to her. She wasn’t sure. But she loved that they were always with her.
She’d enjoyed the sensation of running through the underbrush as a cat; a small black blur, shifting back and forth quickly as she chased butterflies and the occasional rabbit. It felt natural to be a cat. Like slipping into an old, familiar cloak that she’d always had. It was comfortable. She kept a watch out for owls but they were nocturnal creatures, she knew. And she’d only once seen a wolf in the woods - it had snarled as she’d passed it but when she reverted into her human form, nude, it seemed to grow less bold and ran off.
As the beginnings of night draped themselves over the land, Naull made up her mind. She would tell Larktiss she was leaving - he would resist but she needed to go out, make something of herself. She needed to live. Tales and books were fine but she needed to see and experience everything that she could.
She idly fingered her right earring as she walked, passing the small gate that led a mile to the tower and saw an altogether unexpected sight; four horses, all brown, were riding towards her and away from the tower. They passed by quickly, ignoring her completely, thundering down the simple road that led away towards the village. She spared a glance back and saw a boy, perhaps fifteen winters, looking back at her. His nose was a crooked thing and Naull got an unsettling feeling as their eyes met. He turned away, continuing on with the others - all were dressed as knights, in full regalia and one had a banner, rolled up, at the side of his steed. She couldn’t see the heraldry but their armor was emblazoned with a strange purple keep, a dragon of some sort curled around it. Naull turned to the tower and broke into a full run. She managed the door easily enough, throwing it open as she reached the tower and very nearly slammed into Larktiss as she ran into the first level.
“Gods be damned, girl, what are you doing?” His voice was startled and he pushed her to arms length, keeping his feet but looking very flustered. His eyes looked heavy and his mouth was tight, almost pained in expression.
Out of breath, she panted her response. “T-the men, knights, passing on the r-road,” she took a deep breath and Larktiss nodded, holding up a hand and allowing her to catch her breath. She swallowed and let her breath steady itself.
“Yes. I am aware of them.” Larktiss’ tone was flat, almost somber.
“Well, what did they want? Are they calling you away from some magical disaster or are you needed for a wizard’s council, OH - I know, I know. Your skills are needed somewhere far flung and you have to travel to New Koratia so you can use their teleportation circle to get there! Oh, please, please, Larktiss - let me go with you, please.” She beamed but realized his face was dour. He didn’t smile. He just looked at her sadly and shook his head. “No, Naull. They came to tell me my apprentice, Farah Madal, has died.”
Naull sat quietly at the table, watching Larktiss stare out of the window into the night. As she observed his slow, steady breathing all she could think about was how old her Master looked; his shoulders sagged and he seemed to fold in on himself. As if he were steadily growing smaller and smaller with each breath. Naull wasn’t certain exactly how old Larktiss was but it was greater than a century - maybe two? She took a deep breath herself and spoke. “Larktiss, I’m sorry.” “Do you know how many apprentices I’ve had before you, Naull?” His voice felt so small, like he was whispering. She shook her head and even though he never took his eyes away from the window, he responded as if she’d said something. “Eight. I’ve had eight apprentices before you. All skilled practitioners, capable and instilled with all of the wisdom I have - though none, and I do mean none have had your skill in magic.” He paused for a long time and Naull could sense the discomfort he had as he spoke again; almost as if he was trying to keep himself from sobbing. “Do you know how many of them are still alive?” He turned to her, his blue eyes looking strangely dull even in the illumination of the lantern’s light, as he asked this. She could see the redness there and knew he held back tears.
Naull didn’t answer.
“You. Only you.”
She stood at that, the feeling of tears welling up in her eyes. She wiped them away before they could roll down her thin cheeks. She stared up at Larktiss, the corners of his eyes turned down in sadness. The old man sighed so heavily it was as if all of the air rushed out of him. Naull almost reached out to steady him but she didn’t.
“W-what happened to Farah?” Naull’s question hung in the air for a long moment.
“What happened to all of them,” came the old man’s reply. “They decided that they knew better, or at least that they knew better than I did and left. I watched them, every one, walk out this door and down that path. And I knew they’d never return. They wanted to know the world; its wonders and its dangers. And like so many, they were swallowed up by it.” He had true tears in his eyes as he spoke, shaking his head gently. They rolled down his cheeks and disappeared into his long beard. From his robes he drew a single, slender wand with a wizard’s mark etched into the handle; a swirl inside an open square of flowers. Naull thought the detailing was beautiful.
A wizard’s mark distinguished an object or magical item belonging to a specific mage; it was often used in identifying something created by a mage but also helped in tracking down thieves that might sneak into a tower and actually run off with such valuables. Every mage had their own mark - at least, every mage that Naull had heard of. The famous ones. So, she would have one as well, though she hadn’t developed one yet.
“Now this is what I have of Farah.” He looked at it, furrowed his brow and sighed. “Stupid girl,” he said softly to himself but Naull heard it clearly. She knew he wasn’t talking about her but he may as well have been. She wanted the same thing, she knew - the freedom to leave and live, even if it meant the dangers of the world.
“I-I am not those that have come before me, Larktiss.”
His reply came out as a hiss, as if it slipped between his lips unintentionally. “You are more,” he said quietly.
“What do you mean?” Naull asked.
“Where will you go, girl?” He diverted, looking back to the window and out into the deepening night.
She’d thought about this many times - she could practically picture the image of the map in Larktiss’ study and see the lines of roads leading away from the tower and into the countryside. The little villages and hamlets, the cities far beyond. She took a deep breath and felt fearful of telling him, even though she’d rehearsed this conversation a thousand times.
“Fairbye, I suppose.” She nodded. “I can pick up the trade road from there and travel to New Koratia. Then, I don’t know. Beyond. Somewhere.”
The old man nodded. “Beyond.”
“I have no intention of getting myself killed,” she said defensively but regretted it. She ran her tongue over her teeth, scraping them and feeling the gentle sting she’d used to chide herself in the past when she’d spoken out of turn. Larktiss didn’t seem upset by the words, at least no more than he already was at news of Farah’s death - how had she died, Naull wondered silently.
“None of them did, child.” His response was heavy and she only nodded, letting the silence between them gather again like the shadows outside. “Maybe your wisdom has outgrown my own.”
“No, Larktiss. My wisdom hasn’t outgrown yours. My curiosity, my ambition - I don’t know. I have outgrown this place.” She gestured to the room and above herself. “You have given me everything that I have ever hoped for; knowledge, understanding, even trust - though sometimes I’ve challenged that.”
“Often,” he commented, with a soft but sad smile.
She smiled back. “But I need to find my way. I need to be who I am.”
Why did I say that?
“Each of my apprentices left before I thought they were ready,” he started, struggling to continue as Naull stood there. Her arms had fallen to her sides and the old man looked so small to her. So tired. “If you leave, which i know you will do with or without my blessing, please.” He took a breath. “Please promise me something, girl. Naull.”
She didn’t speak. Her chest felt too heavy to draw breath and she was crying now, tears falling openly.
"For Boccob’s sake, don’t join an adventuring party. I need some faint hope that you’ll live.”
She laughed, loud and full. He chuckled with her, sniffling and clearing his throat.
Even though he smiled, Naull could see the worry on his face. She knew he was sure that he would never see her again, Just like all the others.
“I will return, Larktiss. I will visit you every other year. You couldn’t keep me away.” She said defiantly.
He nodded but the sadness in his eyes didn’t fade. He looked to the stairs leading further into the tower. “Fairbye, hmm? Well, you’ll need a few things. Components. Your spellbook.” Naull chuckled at that. She only nodded, smiling wide.
“I want you to take this,” he moved over to the table where his satchel was. He picked the old leather bag up, testing the weight and gave it to Naull. She looked at it for a long moment and he motioned to the clasp. She looked at it; the metal clasp was worn and shaped like a stylized chest with a looping circle inside of it. “This satchel will hold more than it should. The two side pouches and the main. I’m sure you’ll figure out the limits on your own.” She didn’t argue. She took the satchel. “I have a few scrolls I might be able to part with. And a potion or two.” He added. “And you’ll need a staff - no wizard worth their magic doesn’t carry a staff.” “Larktiss,” she started but he shushed her. “If you’re leaving, then you’re leaving. I won’t send you out into the world with nothing but good wishes. I’m all out of those these days.” The young mage nodded in understanding. Larktiss moved slowly towards the stairs, looking back at her with fresh tears in his eyes. “The night has been heavy and I’m tired, girl. I’m going to bed. Tomorrow morning we’ll get your things.” He left it at that, moving up and out of sight. The sound of his soft footfalls disappeared after a few moments. Naull was alone. She cried but felt the giddy anticipation of freedom, true freedom right at the edge of her grasp. She gathered the satchel and moved up to her room, closing the door silently and laying back in her bed. She lay like that for hours, moonlight from outside spilling through her small window and she cried the happiest tears as she squeezed the satchel. Finally, sleep took the young wizard and she dreamed of dancing flames and the sound of music - soft, comforting and familiar.
Larktiss rose early that morning, right before dawn broke and the morning birds sang their songs. He gathered scrolls, placed them in a scroll case and clasped the lid closed. He collected the few potions he’d amassed as payments for spells or found in his travels into a velvet lined side pack; it would clip easily to a belt. The old mage set out extra components for Naull on the table and wrapped a small traveling meal, along with several dried rations; dried fruits, cured meats and crackers that would last until she could reach somewhere with better provisions. He placed a small coin pouch on the table. It was mostly silver and copper but it would be enough for her to pay any toll roads and get herself accommodations. He’d instilled in the young woman an understanding that the finer things did not always make them greater than simple, cheaper alternatives.
He took an old tree branch and, running his aged hands over it like a sculptor, shaped the natural wood into a straight staff that was a head or two taller than Naull’s petite frame. He wrapped an all-weather cowl over this, for the rains, and placed a new set of boots near the door - these were to be a gift for winter time but they were needed now. He took a look at all he’d brought and sighed.
Fresh tears filled his eyes as he looked over the gathered supplies.
He sighed heavily to himself. “Enough, old man. Enough.”
Larktiss didn’t feel convinced, though.
Naull woke some hours later, gathering her things and took one last look at her room. She contemplated taking some of her books but decided it was best to travel unburdened - even the satchel she’d been given could hold only so much. She’d have time to buy other books. She bounded down the steps, nearly missing the last one and stumbled a bit. She half expected Larktiss to laugh or say something but he wasn’t downstairs. She saw the provisions and staff laid out for her but no Larktiss.
A single slip of parchment rests on the table, with a message for her penned by Larktiss’ hand.
Naull,
No goodbyes. I wish you well, girl. You’re the finest apprentice I have ever known and I cannot bear to watch you leave. I’m a foolish old man, I know. But please. Go and find who you were meant to be.
Larktiss
The letter was finished with his mark; a circle with five star points at its edge, an inverted triangle with six lines crossing its border held inside. She rolled the parchment up and placed all of her items within the bag, noting that it indeed held far more than she expected it to, like Larktiss described. Taking the stairs back up to her room, she gathered several of her books and placed them into the strange, too-large space - she couldn’t leave all of these books here, the young wizard decided. The bag’s weight never changed and she smiled.
“Oh, I love magic.”
She returned to the tower’s first floor.
She strapped the component pouch to herself, slung the cowl over her back and took the staff in her hand. The staff felt perfectly balanced and at either end the wood looked as if it had been burnished. Running her hand over the staff felt good. The weight felt solid and real to her. She would leave the breakfast - though she nibbled a bit of biscuit as she moved to go. In the provisions she found a jar of jam that Larktiss made.
“Goldenberry.” She smiled and blinked away tears.
No more need for crying. She stepped out of the door, the morning sun warming her face.
“Wee Jas,” she said softly, feeling the bracelet against her wrist and palming the skull symbol. “Set the road before me.”
The Duchy of Tenh, Current Year 575
Readying (Spring) 26, Waterday
The road to New Koratia was a well-worn, set stone path that looked like it was rarely kept up; all along the length they’d traveled Jozan saw grass growing through the spaces between stones and though there was a small wooden marker they’d passed an hour back it was nearly incomprehensible. The words were in the Flan tongue to be sure, that was obvious, but age and the elements had blurred them to uselessness.
They might as well be traveling back towards Lianne for all the priest could make out on the posts. But Regdar seemed to be unconcerned; he kept his head forward and just idly shifted forward on his horse. The two seemed to be in perfect sync. Unlike him and his own mount, who he realized he’d not even bothered to learn the name of - Grace? Gracie? He was unsure. It started with a “g”, though, he was confident of that.
Or was it a “j”?
He mused as he shifted his legs for the thousandth time since they’d left Lianne. He was never much of a rider but the prospect of walking to New Koratia was unpleasant at best and the length of the journey would be almost doubled. He was slower in his armor, even if he did know how to fight in it. Marching was a different thing entirely! He’d never served in any militia or armed group, though he did remember training in his cloister focusing on movement and proper techniques. He’d had some experience with that. His eye shifted upwards, taking in the glory of Pelor’s face and let out a heavy sigh. The sun’s warmth felt comforting, as always.
“Enough experience with that, I think.” Dark thoughts swirled in his head but he pushed these aside. “Do we need to stop?” Jozan heard Regdar’s gravelly, harsh voice ask him. “Oh, no. I’m falling behind, I apologize.” He shifted the reins of the horse and slightly cracked them, encouraging the animal on with a few uncomfortable squeezes of his thighs. They already ached and it had only been a handful of hours. The nearest town was Fairbye, he knew, and that was still half a day's travel. They’d camp, though, before that - at least he was hopeful they would. His thighs would protest if they didn’t and Jozan wasn’t sure how long he could ignore them or how badly it would ache the next morning. “We’ll go for a few more hours, set camp and rise early.” Regdar called back as he stopped his horse, waiting for Jozan to catch up. He sidled up next to the taller, heavily armored man and nodded his agreement. “Yes, thank you. My legs will be grateful.” Regdar only nodded to that. A few minutes of silence hung between them before Jozan spoke again, turning to look at his traveling companion and hired guide - Jozan was certain the man, from what he’d been told outside of obvious gossip, would’ve agreed even without the promise of coin. People in Lianne seemed to respect him, if for no reason other than his service to the Dukes of the west beyond The Craven Peaks. Jozan had never traveled that far but he remembered tales of warlord states and constant conflict. Escorting a priest of Pelor to a city must seem like child’s work to the man. “May I ask you a question, Regdar? I don’t mean to pry, obviously you can simply not answer if you don’t wish or I am happy to remain in silence,” Jozan started and the warrior leveled him with a passive face that stopped the priest’s words on his tongue. Regdar raised his eyebrows, looking resigned. “It’s a long journey. No sense in being quiet throughout the entire thing. What would you like to know?” “Your voice is very,” he started and Regdar pulled down the leather at his collar, taking the neck of the tunic he wore with it. Underneath was a single, jagged-looking scar that ran from the left side of the man’s throat into the middle. It looked like a puncture wound that a sword might make. Jozan stared openly for a moment. Regdar nodded. “A gift from a mercenary group in Solnomae; The Bastards. To join their ranks you have to fight one of the members. It was supposed to be a fight to first blood and I guess it was.” He shook his head as if remembering. “I certainly bled.” He chuckled a bit and let his tunic cover the scar once more. “I’ve always sounded a little rough but that sealed it, I think. Turns out even magic can’t remove some scars.” Jozan nodded. “I’ve skill in the healing arts, mystical as well as some mundane, and I understand that.” “You know magic, father?” Regdar asked, his square face showing genuine surprise. The skill of magic was a rare one and many who possessed it were snatched up by wizards or churches, for good or ill. Jozan nodded. “I am gifted with Pelor’s understanding of magic, I think. His hands work through my own,” Jozan released his hands from the reins and looked at them for a moment. The horse beneath him bucked slightly and he resumed holding the reins. “Well, good. Plenty of hurt people in the world.” “That’s for certain.” Jozan looked over to the large shield Regdar carried. It was larger than the small round shield that Jozan had brought with him and considerably more detailed. His was a simple wooden shield, banded in iron and with an iron umbo in the center. Jozan nodded to the warrior’s shield. “Better to stop the wounds all together.” He gestured to the sword and shield. Regdar shook his head slowly. “I’ve seen war, Fath- Jozan,” he corrected himself and continued. “There are always wounds, even when there is no death. What I do isn’t the same as healing the sick and wounded. Yours is noble. Mine is,” the man seemed to search for a word and he trailed off for a few seconds. “Messy,” Jozan said. “It’s messy and foul and painful.” Regdar’s eyes showed genuine surprise. “I was a cloistered acolyte for many years - but there were times of strife and suffering, disease and war. I have seen my fair share of deaths and failed attempts to save lives.” He took a long look into the other man’s soft brown eyes and shrugged. “My hands heal with the will of Pelor. There are, unfortunately, limits to what I can do, even with His grace.” Regdar’s face tightened. Jozan put up a hand. “I’m sorry. This was not my intention, I just thought to know you better as we’re companions along the road.” Regdar softened for a moment and Jozan swore he saw something like loss in the man’s eyes; that deep, thousand yard stare that comes when someone has lost another. There was no hope that lingered in that gaze. Jozan had seen the same eyes looking into his reflection years ago, after Calmet - he stopped himself. No. I will not dwell. Pelor shows me the path and it is illuminated before me, not behind. He repeated the litany in his head a few times as silence fell between them again. This time it stretched for several hours, breaking just as the beginning of the night settled over their shoulder like a great blanket. The stars twinkled above soon enough and Regdar set up the small tent he’d carried a good distance off of the road. There was a copse half a mile from the road; scrubby, short little trees with thick leaves. A small stone marker designated it as a campsite and there was evidence of a firepit, though it hadn’t been used in some time. Regdar had set up a small fire with some flint and steel, bundled wood and a little wool. Soon enough it was warm enough to push back the slight chill of the night. Though winter had passed into spring, the nights could still be cold. Jozan was thankful for that. He'd never cared for the heat and the chill air felt good.
Jozan doffed his armor, placing it alongside his bags and set his mace down. He had begun to pull down his own tent from the horse when Regdar motioned to his own. “It sleeps two, if you want to share.”
“Well, I’m flattered,” Jozan said and started to say something else.
Regdar laughed aloud. “I meant for safety, Jozan. But you can have your tent, I’ll have mine.” He chuckled as he lifted the entrance flap and began to place his things inside. The man moved to set himself up, finishing surprisingly quickly.
Jozan’s face burned but he chuckled as well. He was just about to make a comment in reply when the sound of creaking wagon wheels filled the air nearby. Jozan turned, his eyes going to his mace a few feet away and Regdar stepped close to his horse, casually unsnapping the clip that held his blade to the side of the animal. He crossed his arms casually but Jozan had seen fighting men before; he was ready. The sound bled into the sight of a merchant wagon laden with trade goods; textiles, it looked like, in a variety of colors. There were a dozen or more bolts of the stuff. The man that drove it had a lantern illuminating his face, though the fading sunlight was more than enough to see him.
He was a pudgy-faced, beady eyed man with a great smile on his face. He seemed joyful but Jozan didn’t like the feeling he got as he watched the man approach. There was a small cask of something at his side and it was clear he had been enjoying it for some time; he swayed slightly in his seat but otherwise seemed to have his wits about him. The priest noticed more casks in the back of the cart. Beer, perhaps. Or wine, though Jozan couldn’t think of a winery nearby in such a rural place. Often they were churches alongside their wine-making.
“I thought I spied a fire from the road,” he called out. His voice was quite loud. “Would either of you gentlemen be interested in some fine cloth?” He gestured behind himself with a sweeping hand and chuckled. “I have fine bolts in black, grey and green. I turned from the road, headed to Lianne you know, and thought I might manage another fortuitous night for myself.” He laughed. The sound seemed to echo off of the trees around them and Jozan felt suddenly surrounded. “It has been an excellent week,” he said with a very big smile.
Regdar shook his head. “I have no need, no. And our camp is a bit full as of now. Two others just went off to heed nature and we’ve few provisions.” He positioned his hand on the horse and shifted his footing. He was angled to draw the blade in one motion and move forward quickly, Jozan noted. He sighed and his eyes flicked to the mace. It would take him time to reach it and he was unarmored.
The warrior gave Jozan a knowing glance.
Jozan silently cursed his inability to lie. He had never developed the skill and every time he tried, inevitably the person saw right through it. Truth was ever his burden and it had caused issues all throughout his life with others. Damnation, he thought. He only nodded, keeping his mouth closed and praying to Pelor that the man was not persistent.
The merchant eyed Jozan, though it looked as if he could not focus; his eyes shifted back and forth. He snapped his fingers and spoke again.
“A priest of Pelor!”
The symbol hanging from Jozan’s neck was clear in the firelight; a simple wooden connection that the priest had with his god and a source of his power. So long as he held the symbol, he could call upon the miracles of Pelor and do his works in the world. His hand went up to the symbol and he saw Regdar tense. Jozan, with his other hand signaling Regdar to calm himself, inclined his head to the merchant.
“Yes, merchant. I serve Pelor. Are you in need of assistance?”
“I may have orange cloth, father!” A long pause fell as the merchant, who seemed very jovial, looked back into his cart and made a tsk tsk noise, sucking his teeth as he swung back around.
“Unfortunately not,” he said in a manner that sounded genuinely sad. Jozan nodded in return.
“I have no need of cloth, either, I say.” He shrugged. “I have never had skill with sewing either, neither cloth or flesh.” He laughed and immediately regretted his laugh. Regdar was staring openly in confusion at him and embarrassment washed over the priest like a bucket of water to the face.
The merchant laughed and slapped his fat leg. “Oh, you are funny, father!” He laughed uproariously for a long breath, wheezing at the end of it. He pulled the cask to his face and took a long drink, a stream of light brown beer dribbling down his face. “This is an excellent day indeed! Luck finds Debin once more.”
“Merchant Debin,” Regdar said, looking at Jozan with an amused face. He seemed genuinely confused by the situation but not angry. “We wish you well in your travels - stick to the roads and I am certain your luck will continue.”
The man lifted the cask in a salute, nearly dropped it and managed to keep it from slipping between his fingers. He smiled wide and snorted. “If you are in Lianne, find Debin. I’ve the finest cloth you’ll see east of New Koratia!” He waved his hand and placed the cask down, shifting his cart and burdened horses back the way he’d come. There were a few minutes as the two of them watched him move away and Regdar turned slowly to stare at Jozan.
He said nothing but Jozan felt his accusations and waved his hand at the man in dismissal.
“I cannot easily lie,” said Jozan. “I am a terrible liar and a priest, for Pelor’s sake! Deception is not a skill I have developed in my devotion to The Lord of the Morning.” He shook his head. “The man was harmless, thankfully.”
“Heironeous bless a drunk merchant,” he replied and laughed.
Jozan laughed as well.
“It was foolish of me. He could’ve been a bandit or it might’ve been a group of bandits.” He shook his head.
“Lianne is only a half day away. I doubt that bandits would travel with a wagon and that man was clearly drunk,” the warrior said somberly. He shook off the apology but Jozan insisted. Regdar relented.
“If we need to lie, I know it’ll be me.” He laughed again and pulled his horse close to the fire. He had the beast lay down, something Jozan was impressed by and for a fleeting moment he thought about trying to do the same with his own. He exchanged a look with the beast and thought better of it. He sat down near the fire and warmed his palms. He took a look at the sky above him; an inky sea spotted with flecks of light and the brilliance of the moons shimmering away. He turned to Regdar.
“I am not always so easily tongue-tied,” he said with as much confidence as he could manage.
“Oh, I trust that, priest. You’re just not accustomed to traveling and are tired.” The warrior looked at him and smiled.
“Well- yes, actually.” He blinked in surprise.
“Then get some rest, Jozan. I’ll stay up a bit, take the first watch just in case. I’ll wake you in time and then you’ll watch over our camp. Agreed?”
Jozan nodded.
“Good night, Regdar.”
“Let’s hope so, Jozan.” He shot the priest a smile and pulled a ration from his pack, tearing off a small chunk and chewing as he stared into the small fire before him.
He left his horse standing there and moved into his tent, shifting the small bedroll about and settling down. The bedroll was nowhere near as comfortable as a bed but Jozan had been on battlefields where he needed to camp in such a way. He felt his thoughts turning to the images of battle torn men; their broken bodies brought before him, many screaming and some weeping for their lives. Some wept for their mothers. Jozan let the thought wash over him, asking Pelor to steady his heart and guard him against despair.
“The sun rises at dawn and I am renewed,” he repeated the liturgical phrase and took heart in it.
The priest closed his eyes and let sleep take him.
Regdar idly pet Butterbean’s coat as he looked at the stars glittering above. “A priest who cannot lie,” he said, chuckling to himself. “A tall tale if ever I heard one.” He put the ration back in his pack and pulled his scabbard from the horse. He was happy that he’d not needed to use it and pulled his whetstone from his pack. He took a small bowl, poured a bit of his waterskin into it and let it soak for a time before he set about sharpening his blade. The motions were simple and steadying. The back and forth, the clear and satisfying feel as he kept his blade angled and listened to the night. His eyes were keen and he could make out the trunks of each tree, the shifting of the grass before him past the edge of the firelight. He couldn’t see in the darkness but there was a strange comfort in that, he thought. A darkness too deep to see through. Regdar liked the darkness for that reason. Butterbean nuzzled the man’s shoulder. He leaned back against the horse and looked at Jozan's horse. “You’ll warm to him, I think.” The other horse looked blankly at Regdar. “Maybe not.” He chuckled and sat back, his sword laying across his lap as he watched the night lights dance above his head.
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