from the grey ashes
06-02-12, 01:03 PM
Closed.
The red courser made as quick a pace as dared through the trees, sun's setting fire glinting off a summer-slick coat and casting long evening shadows through the boughs. It was early yet in the season, and the day's former heat was quick to be replaced with a sharp cool. The day-birds had already fallen quiet, and in the deepening shade between the trunks the small lights of insects flickered silently.
The rider's tremendous stature was belied as he sagged in the saddle, swaying precariously from time to time, staying aboard seemingly by the grace of memory alone -- or perhaps with whatever small amount remained of his senses. His armour clinked as the great red mount beneath him wove surely around the maze of pines, stepped across fallen logs, and wound about the persistent scrub that had formed wherever the canopy between ancient sentinel trees thinned to provide light enough for lesser growth. Here was a horse well traveled, and intelligent in the ways of the trail. Reins drooped from the big man's grip, with the other gauntleted hand braced against the worn cantle. He either trusted his horse to navigate this dangerous country beyond what any rider rightly should, even with such an obedient and wise creature as his, or he had fallen into too much of a stupor to care about anything other than staying off the ground. Even the latter was proving to become difficult beyond the reaches of his normal skill, and when the mount stumbled in a hole, Barden Holly finally tumbled with a grunt from the saddle.
"Stupid, sodding useless animal," the armored traveler growled a bit unfairly as he struggled to his feet. After-all, Wolf had had little to do with the senseless binge hours before at the Lamb's Head. But the wine had been cheap and spiced, and his master's flasks empty for too long. A shame that the old tavern had been no inn.
The courser stood nearby, his tail giving a little swish. As his dismounted rider clumsily stumbled toward him through the mouldering pine needles of the forest floor, Wolf's foxy ears swiveled and his black nostrils flared to test the rapidly cooling air. Many deadly things roamed these quiet northern woods; along with the dust and sap of a high summer forest, he could smell their hunger. Every instinct in him shouted for movement, to run from this dangerous place, and in his unease he ducked away when the drunken man lunged for a rein.
Some more choice words were muttered, but Holly managed to grab ahold and steady himself against the saddle. "No time f'this," he warned, attempting to place the wrong booted foot in the stirrup and, thankfully, failing. "Got to get to Knife's Edge. Late as it is." Even a sober man would have been loathe to make camp in such an exposed area without at least a rock ledge to rest his back against.
Wolf snorted and jerked, sending Holly off balance again. Before he could react, a low growl and a strange orange luminescence emerged from the creeping darkness behind him.
The red courser made as quick a pace as dared through the trees, sun's setting fire glinting off a summer-slick coat and casting long evening shadows through the boughs. It was early yet in the season, and the day's former heat was quick to be replaced with a sharp cool. The day-birds had already fallen quiet, and in the deepening shade between the trunks the small lights of insects flickered silently.
The rider's tremendous stature was belied as he sagged in the saddle, swaying precariously from time to time, staying aboard seemingly by the grace of memory alone -- or perhaps with whatever small amount remained of his senses. His armour clinked as the great red mount beneath him wove surely around the maze of pines, stepped across fallen logs, and wound about the persistent scrub that had formed wherever the canopy between ancient sentinel trees thinned to provide light enough for lesser growth. Here was a horse well traveled, and intelligent in the ways of the trail. Reins drooped from the big man's grip, with the other gauntleted hand braced against the worn cantle. He either trusted his horse to navigate this dangerous country beyond what any rider rightly should, even with such an obedient and wise creature as his, or he had fallen into too much of a stupor to care about anything other than staying off the ground. Even the latter was proving to become difficult beyond the reaches of his normal skill, and when the mount stumbled in a hole, Barden Holly finally tumbled with a grunt from the saddle.
"Stupid, sodding useless animal," the armored traveler growled a bit unfairly as he struggled to his feet. After-all, Wolf had had little to do with the senseless binge hours before at the Lamb's Head. But the wine had been cheap and spiced, and his master's flasks empty for too long. A shame that the old tavern had been no inn.
The courser stood nearby, his tail giving a little swish. As his dismounted rider clumsily stumbled toward him through the mouldering pine needles of the forest floor, Wolf's foxy ears swiveled and his black nostrils flared to test the rapidly cooling air. Many deadly things roamed these quiet northern woods; along with the dust and sap of a high summer forest, he could smell their hunger. Every instinct in him shouted for movement, to run from this dangerous place, and in his unease he ducked away when the drunken man lunged for a rein.
Some more choice words were muttered, but Holly managed to grab ahold and steady himself against the saddle. "No time f'this," he warned, attempting to place the wrong booted foot in the stirrup and, thankfully, failing. "Got to get to Knife's Edge. Late as it is." Even a sober man would have been loathe to make camp in such an exposed area without at least a rock ledge to rest his back against.
Wolf snorted and jerked, sending Holly off balance again. Before he could react, a low growl and a strange orange luminescence emerged from the creeping darkness behind him.