Sparky
Registered User
"I worship no such dire god, Fendric. Reverence is another matter. When you live in the shadows, you don't scorn the gods of darkness."
Oliver is still mounted and remains that way as the group apporaches the patently suspicious bundle. As it is untied and the group's focus narrows, he gropes awkwardly for the crossbow lashed to his saddle. Trusting as children, this lot. I hope their eyes are never opened to wickedness. He pulled the string into a locked and ready position, scanning the scrub and trees and grasses with sharp eyes, sparing a glance or two for the package. Or that if their eyes are finally opened, they are not closed forever in the same heartbeat. He looks at Raven as he reaches back for a bolt, That one's eyes are open. And Nurthk as he seats the bolt, the crossbow is ready, And maybe Nurthk's too. He shakes his head at the scarf handed him, hands on his crossbow. Tatlock opts to tie it festively to the saddle horn and Oliver's mouth twitches.
Hirtius stands tall saluting the trees. Oliver's eyes snap to the young man waving like mad from the bushes. He squints, bringing the crossbow up and scanning the area, mistrustful of the obvious friendliness. He lowers it as the young man, Redrick apparently, approaches and conversation ensues.
And to Fendric's question a hopeful bleakness settles into Oliver's mind... A better world awaits. The words had been tugging at Oliver since Fendric relayed them. He had survived against slim odds so many times, scraped through trials by the skin of his teeth more than he could count. So often that now every moment felt borrowed. Stolen. A treasure. Each dawn a fresh taunt to the gods of chance and justice. Or maybe I'm just getting paranoid in my dotage. Some dotage.
He moves up to Raven, Whistler nimbly sidepassing at pressure from Oliver's knees. He passes a knowing look to the woodsman, and another to Nurthk. They were dangerous men, not ones who would allow their comrades to be cut down unawares.
Oliver is still mounted and remains that way as the group apporaches the patently suspicious bundle. As it is untied and the group's focus narrows, he gropes awkwardly for the crossbow lashed to his saddle. Trusting as children, this lot. I hope their eyes are never opened to wickedness. He pulled the string into a locked and ready position, scanning the scrub and trees and grasses with sharp eyes, sparing a glance or two for the package. Or that if their eyes are finally opened, they are not closed forever in the same heartbeat. He looks at Raven as he reaches back for a bolt, That one's eyes are open. And Nurthk as he seats the bolt, the crossbow is ready, And maybe Nurthk's too. He shakes his head at the scarf handed him, hands on his crossbow. Tatlock opts to tie it festively to the saddle horn and Oliver's mouth twitches.
Hirtius stands tall saluting the trees. Oliver's eyes snap to the young man waving like mad from the bushes. He squints, bringing the crossbow up and scanning the area, mistrustful of the obvious friendliness. He lowers it as the young man, Redrick apparently, approaches and conversation ensues.
And to Fendric's question a hopeful bleakness settles into Oliver's mind... A better world awaits. The words had been tugging at Oliver since Fendric relayed them. He had survived against slim odds so many times, scraped through trials by the skin of his teeth more than he could count. So often that now every moment felt borrowed. Stolen. A treasure. Each dawn a fresh taunt to the gods of chance and justice. Or maybe I'm just getting paranoid in my dotage. Some dotage.
He moves up to Raven, Whistler nimbly sidepassing at pressure from Oliver's knees. He passes a knowing look to the woodsman, and another to Nurthk. They were dangerous men, not ones who would allow their comrades to be cut down unawares.
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