Shadow of Hope XV
Borlak was also happy to realize that he wouldn’t be sleeping here on the field. Weeks on a trail that grew ever-more mired as he moved south throughout the early spring, in the company of the caravan that had also delivered Cheskith, had spelled nothing but weariness at the prospect.
Borlak betrayed a twinkle of amusement in his eyes and a slight upturn of his mouth at the solemnity of the reptilian’s reply. In his quiet manner of speaking, he said in turn, “I am of the Vari tribe of the Sunar people.” He looked around at those present, his dark-eyed gaze coming to rest on Marcus. “I am good with a sword, fair with a bow, and I believe that the affinity that my people hold for our horses is common knowledge.”
Kurn, arms crossed with restrained impatience for the inactivity, listened to the introductions as they were exchanged, if nothing else than to reinforce the names that may shortly be called for purposes.
There was a brief uncomfortable moment when Borlak concluded and in the silence a glance or two looked in Kurn’s direction. Kurn sighed.
“Kurn. Swordsman; mercenary. Unaffiliated.” Name, present, past.
Haron cleared his throat and with a first-tentative, then-eager youthful grin volunteered, “Haron Farrier, son of Simon Farrier of Farrier and Sons livery, Honor’s Flow. It’s a pleasure to meet all of you, ladies, sirs. A real pleasure!” Indeed, being able to speak to a gathering of what were so obviously accomplished adventurers made the boy puff up his chest in a bit of pride. “If any of you are needing mounts, I can assure you we’ve brought the finest!”
Kurn raised an eyebrow at the last and fixed a minor glare on Haron for volunteering the horses perhaps prematurely, but did not speak reprimand or correction. The boy was making some assumptions; that this group, indeed, was their destination and the reason for all the riderless mounts; but Kurn let it lie, having reached the same conclusion.
The young man who arrived last took a step forward, pulling himself back into the group. It seemed whatever was bothering them had subsided, what he may have been thinking of was left in the moments past. Unfolding his hands, he clasped one wrist with the other hand before him, letting his arms relax. It was an assertive but peaceful stance, a subtle sign in his homeland of truce, symbolizing bound hands. Unlike other places holding up an empty hand was not a sure sign of inaction, such a gesture could often be even more dangerous than being armed. “I am Daroun, mage adept, currently residing in Sagassport. It is a pleasure meeting all of you, and I am sure to those I have yet to be introduced to, it will be as pleasant.” He bowed his head down and up to the group collectively.
All manner of nature appeared subdued by the saturated environment as the group began their introductions. The wind blew with faltering gusts that carried the deeply earthen aroma of construction from along the river. The insects, the birds, all manner of fauna seemed content to hunker down and wait out the inhospitable weather.
Two short bursts from a horn in the vicinity of the bridge gave indication to the workers that the break for midday was commencing. A few jovial cheers and muttered curses drifted across the heavy air as those now being granted a reprieve from their toil made hasty departures for drier locales.
Before long only the constant churning of a water wheel somewhere below the bridge dominated the setting. The intermittent sounds of life from within the transient village of Westerly erupted every now and again, but for the most part, a resounding quiet enveloped the small shelter occupied by the motley host of adventurers.