Running in the Night

Rising without a sound Bracht quickly packed his belongings, making calming sounds to Mahvros as he kept one eye on the dark.  Nights like this made him nervous.  An evening spent in the wilderness wasn't a cause for anxiety under normal circumstances, but these were far from normal times.  Armed soldiers rode hither and yon.  Nobility made war upon fairies and creatures out of myth and legend.  Gypsies spoke of fortune and fame to be found amidst the greatest danger, and hungover barbarians galloped off to find them without a moment's concern.  No, these were most definitely not normal times.
 
Mounting Mahvros made Bracht feel better.  He secured his bardiche in its case and tied the haft down.  It'd be more difficult to retrieve should a fight ensue but it'd be near-useless on horseback in such an event.  Speed was what he wanted.  He made sure his small axe was easily accessible and touched heel to Mahvros' flanks.  The horse whickered softly and stepped forward.  As he reached the edge of the clearing Bracht stopped and looked back and to the west.
 
"Not me," he whispered into the night, wondering why he did it even as he spoke the words.  Had his ancestors done the same generations ago?  Did some forefather of his sit astride his plains pony and whisper into the night in the hopes that a pride of 'pumas wouldn't consider him a trespasser?  "I'm not your enemy.  By my greatfathers and yours, I am not your enemy."  'It's the soldiers you want,' he mentally added, more for his benefit than anyone else's.
 
Mahvros whickered again and stamped a foot.  Bracht took the hint and turned the horse east.  To the road, then, and then south.  Were he stopped on the road he could say he was turned back by the Duke's patrols.  The notice in his pack would serve as a good enough cover.  A man out looking to find a bounty shouldn't be too unheard of in these parts.  And if that didn't work, better a known foe than one of magick.  The barbarian inadvertantly made a sign with his left hand to ward off evil spirits.  He almost laughed at the gesture, but suddenly the elder's traditions didn't seem so silly anymore.  He nudged Mahvros into a canter, keeping a sharp eye for breakfalls and high limbs the horse might stumble on.
 
East, then south along the road, at least until sunrise.  He could rest then and see what traffic the road brought.  He needed to put distance between him and whatever stalked the night, though, be it man or beast.  Preferably with some haste.  Mahvros, at least, seemed to agree with him.  Hopefully Fortune would, too.
Reaching the road after a short while, Bracht checks the sky.  The clouds reveal little and the moonlight is faint.  He turns south and Mahvros canters at a distance-eating pace.  For a while, both horse and rider smell the odor of "beast" on the breeze blowing from the west.  But they make good time, meeting nothing on the Old Coast Road.  As the twilight of dawn lightens the eastern sky, Bracht reins Mahvros to the side of the road at an intersection. 

There, nailed to a signpost at the crossroad is another copy of the Wanted Poster.  An arrow drawn on the signpost points back the way he had come: "Squarento" it says.  Another points west: "Riverside".  The road leading south is much less travelled, more overgrown.  To the east, the trees of the forest are lower than in other places, but very dense. 

Bracht goes a little distance down the southern fork before dismounting.  He walks several dozen yards further, careful to disguise his tracks as best he can, before turning into the woods in search of a place to rest.  He finds a clearing, but immediately decides to press on to the south.  The clearing is littered with the bones of a battle.  The scavenger creatures have long since picked the meat from the carcasses, but some of the bones belong to large horse-sized dogs: wargs.  He's beginning to wonder about the wisdom of being alone in these woods. 

He walks Mahvros to the other side of the road and remounts.  Tired or not, he'd rather not take a chance on being discoverd by any of their litter mates.

Mahvros is walking now, for both rider and horse have been traveling steadily since yesterday morning with only a few, too-brief hours of sleep.  By mid-morning he turns inland from the road, hoping to find a sheltering spot.  It is not long before he finds what he is looking for:  a small clearing amid the dark greenery of the trees.  They look healthy and the ground, undisturbed.  Tiredly, Bracht dismounts, quickly pickets Mahvros loosely and unrolls his bedroll.  He is asleep almost before his head hits the ground.

A Bad Way to Wake Up

When he awakes, it is late afternoon, and he cannot move.  He finds himself covered with a sticky mass of webs, anchored to nearby rocks.  He is lieing on his side, and tries to move, but the web-strands are as thick as his wrist.  His right arm is outstretched, left comfortably across his chest; his legs are bent easily in a natural position.  Turning his head the slight distance allowed, he see that Mahvros is hobbled fore and aft, his bridle tied to a stout tree.

From behind him, a voice comes.  It is male, soft and low.  There is a trace of accent... but it could also be that Bracht's Helegornish ears are ~listening~ with an accent.

"Welcome back, stranger.  What business do'ye have here in the woods?  And carrying such a large and shiny axe too!"  Bracht stretches his fingers a few millimeters and finds that his bardiche is not where he left it.  He tries to look behind him, but cannot turn his head that far.

"Well," Bracht says, stifling an involuntary yawn in spite of the sudden rush of adrenaline accompanying understanding of his situation. "I was sleeping, but it seems I may have overdone it a bit." A humorless chuckle escaped even as he fought the urge to panic. "Wouldn't be the first time. Other than that I was just going from back that way," the briefest of gestures with his head, "to that-a-way." Another gesture. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. The feeling of total helplessness was new to him and, quite frankly, most distressing. He suddenly flexed, straining his entire body against the bonds holding him to the earth.

As he heaves up off the ground, the webs give a little bit, but not much.  Bracht falls back with a small *WHUMP*.

The voice behind him ignores the escape attempt.  "From back that way to that-a-way, eh?  ...  Now then, that-a-way leads to absolutely no where a'tall !  There's no THERE over there.  ....  What could y'be, I wonder.... I'd wager m'last dog whistle that you'd be one of them skin hunters... chasin' after that money that ~His~Royalness~ has put on people's heads.  Well, boyo, ye've decided to camp under the wrong tree THIS time. .... Why... I oughta leave y'there trussed up like Kelly's prime pig until the rats and crawlies come t'chew on yer flesh.  Or maybe that villain supremis, Kalban Nightwalker, will happen on't'ye, and he'll feed y'to his pet demon.  Imagine it... poor, poor you.  No weapons t'hand.  Can't run away.  And Mr. Magic his-very-self comes strollin' over the hill, all firey and brimstoney and all.   He'd melt 'yer flesh with some spell o'his and use yer bones for fer-tee-lizer in his herb garden."  This last thought has struck Bracht's companion as funny, and he begins to giggle on a soft, high pitched note.

"By the bye," he goes on after a short while, "did'ja know yer horse-beastie's got a bit of a temper?  Near't bit off one o'me fingers, 'e did.  Then he tried to stomp me.  Unfriendly sod. ... Does'e take after 'is owner, now?"  Bracht hears the clatter of metal and the rustle of cloth.  "What'ya got in here anyhow?  Cookin' gear...clothes...SAY! nice material.  D'ya use Skrodkins in Riverside t'make yer clothes?  He's the best! ... Lumpy, dry stuff... YOUR type'd prob'ly eat this, eh?  ... Junk....junk and more junk."  Bracht hears the crunch of an apple -- probably one from his saddlebags.

A twig flies thru the air, landing squarely on Bracht's chest; improbably, it lands exactly in the center of his chest on it's end.  It stands perfectly straight up, caught in the same sticky web that holds the Helegornian Axeman immobile.  There is a pause in the rambling patter.  When he speaks again, there is no laughter in the voice.  "I'll ask'y but one more time.  WHAT ARE Y'DOIN' IN ME WOODS? "

"I told you," Bracht retorted angrily. "Sleeping!" He took a deep breath. Now was most definitely not the time to lose his temper. He'd end up with a slit throat--or worse--for certain.

"I was heading south, to Riverside. I'm meeting--" he trailed off. He didn't really know who he was meeting. "I have business there. I was trying to avoid the soldiers as my business is none of their's." Or yours, he mentally added, wisely refraining from voicing his opinion. He didn't know who his antagonist was, but he didn't care overmuch, either. Once he got free...

"If and when I decide to hunt something or someone I usually find them." It was a boast but it seemed appropriate. "I have no quarrel with the likes of fairies and hexapumas, but if the Duke wants to wage an insane war who am I to stop him? Doesn't mean I have to join in, does it?" Bracht strained again, hoping the webbing would part and he could at least face his captor before dying, for he certainly entertained no thoughts of being freed.

"I was heading south, to Riverside.  I'm meeting--" he trailed off.  He didn't really know who he was meeting.  "I have business there.  I was trying to avoid the soldiers as my business is none of their's."  Or yours, he mentally added, wisely refraining from voicing his opinion.  He didn't know who his antagonist was, but he didn't care overmuch, either.  Once he got free...
 
"If and when I decide to hunt something or someone I usually find them."  It was a boast but it seemed appropriate.  "I have no quarrel with the likes of fairies and hexapumas, but if the Duke wants to wage an insane war who am I to stop him?  Doesn't mean I have to join in, does it?"  Bracht strained again, hoping the webbing would part and he could at least face his captor before dying, for he certainly entertained no thoughts of being freed.
 
"I'm heading south to Riverside."  His mocking tone was a very poor imitation of Bracht's baritone.  "Yer a dimwillow to top it off.  Riverside's NORTH from here.  D'ya mean to say they let a fellow like you out of town by yourself these days.... What *IS* the world comin' to?"

Another twig comes flying over Bracht's head.  This one lands on the tip of Bracht's nose.  It too lands exactly on its end, standing straight upright as it sticks to the web.  Bracht tries to ignore it, but his eyes keep crossing.

"and DUKE is it yer callin' him?!   OOOOOO_HOOOOOO!!!  You'll be deader'n rocks if y'be sayin' that in public.  Haven't you heard?  Better not let the Benign and Serene Overlord of the Benignity of Free Athring hear you call'im a mere Duke.   He claims everything east of the Rangithael for the Benignity ... not that he can get anywhere north of the Swamp, but there's no harm in thinkin' big, I guess ... plus he's signed a treaty of agreement with Twain, the Mark of Maendir, giving him ownership of the Isle of View as well.  I wonder what that sly old gob got in payment for givin' up his claim to the Isle..... Not that either of 'em has a butterfly's chance in a typhoon o'tryn' t'take the Isle from the elven folk.  There's more magic on that island than there's leaves in the forrest."

"Y'know.... you might as well tell me yer business.  I'can set here for a long, long time without getting bored of askin'..."

Just then, Bracht hears a footfall near his feet and looks down to see a male elf, dressed in browns and greens with a bow over his shoulder.  "You must be getting old, Skarne.  I almost snuck up on you this time.... Askin' what, exactly, Skarne?"  Asks the elf in a well modulated tenor.

The original voice answers, but from a different direction.  It's off to the left now, and sounds farther away.  "If 'tis any of yer busy-ness, Mr. Lord High Criminal, I was interrogatin' me prison-eer.  But now that yer here, y'can roast him over a slow fire yerownself, 'cause 'tis your head he's after, not mine."

There is a pause, and then the elf stands where Bracht can see him.  "Dont mind Skarne.  He's been a bit sensitive since they put a bounty on his skin.  I'm not so sensitive.  But I do value my life just as much, so I wont be letting you up just yet.  What *IS* your reason for wandering so far from the normal traveler's paths?  These are dangerous times, friend...You'd be well advised to go back where you came from."

The elf is slender and muscular, perhaps 5 ft tall and 130 lbs.  He carries a pack over one shoulder, a long-sword at his belt and a bow over the other shoulder.  The dappled light of the woods splashes across him.