Pieces of Aftermath

Southern Pathway - 


 * ''The southern artery of the independent freehold known as Crown's Refuge is known quite simply as the Southern Pathway; a road of smooth cobbles, wide enough for two carriages to pass with space to spare, that runs a perfect north-south route between Tempest Corona to the north, and Crown's Bulwark to the south.


 * ''The cobbles of this pathway are not only smooth and level, but also seem to have been born from a variety of different types of stone, giving each one a distinct color as it rests next to all the others. Hues of brown, gold, bronze, slate, charcoal, and a myriad of other shades all conspire together to make such a route more affluent than it really needs to be.


 * ''The sides of the pathway are protected by low-rising curbs that mark where the road ends and the rest of the large township begins. Beyond those curbs, homes and stores flank the pathway in carefully placed patterns of building and street. Small backroads and trails break away from the main artery to lead to the two southern quarters of Crown's Refuge that the Southern Pathway runs as a divide between.


 * ''The towering fortification known as Tempest Spire looms overhead towards the north, giving you a constant bearing of your location within Crown's Refuge. To the east spans the quarter of the freehold known as Wildcat Haven, which plays host to the various services of the township, such as the central Tavern and various storage buildings. To the west one will find the Mongoose Exchange, home of craftsman and tradesmen alike within the Wildlands.

Making his way up the path from the city gate, Cuan pauses to look upwards the sky. The night is moonless, though clear enough that the stars provide illumination to see by. He picks up his pace as he walks onto the southern road.

The silence is pervasive, eerie and thick, oppressive in a way that makes it seem almost tangible. A living, breathing entity whose blood pumps with shadow and heart beats sorrow. No crickets sing; the night birds have fallen silent.

It's as if the entire city is grieving for its lost and dead.

The streets lie empty and quiet, unpatrolled save for a few members of the Bloodguard, faces solemn and footsteps leaden. The soft hiss of Syladris' scales and the jingle of ringmail armor seem to compound the silence, rather than lift it.

And it is so that Cuan is alone on this night, stargazer though he may be, and that he can hear whatever sounds may come his way.

Cuan tugs at the baldric that holds the quiver over his shoulder, and takes another look around himself. The fact that he's within the walls of the town barely seems to register, and there's a wary glint in his eyes as well-developed instincts come into play. He ducks his head slightly, avoiding drawing attention to himself, and raises one hand over his shoulder to touch the reassuring curves of his bow. He lowers the hand after a moment and rests it on his belt, where he's carrying his hunting knife and a few unskinned rabbits that will probably feed him for a few days.

And it's there--faint, but present nonetheless. At first what 'it' is might be unidentifiable, just a vague feeling of *wrong* that plagues the back of the mind and hovers *just out of reach* of the senses. It's a sound... or maybe a smell. Perhaps it's the way the shadows flicker under the numerous lamplights, or something just a little off in the taste of the night air.

But it's definitely something, and it makes the Bloodguard shift uneasily. Or does it? Is it only in the mind of the viewer? Or perhaps it is merely the memory of tragedy so fresh in the minds of the guards that makes them fidget and glance nervously about like that. It is hard to pinpoint this off-ness--even the slightest movements disturb it. Like carrying an opened flag through mist.

The hairs on the back of Cuan's neck tingle, spurring him to pick up his pace a bit more. He watches the trees on either side of the road as if he doesn't trust them not to move when his back is turned. With his jaw set and a resolute expression on his face, he keeps heading north along the path. His footsteps, though faint, seem to echo in the stillness, and he stoops his shoulders as if feeling exposed on the cobblestone road.

Cuan's footsteps take him to a darker portion of the road, the lanterns growing fewer and far between, and the Bloodguard left behind him. If he stops now, he will know how alone he is.

It comes as a small, soft cry from the shadows just beyond the trees--thin, and laden with pain and fear in that single, high note. A child. And... something else, too. A rough scraping sound--tree branches in the faint wind, or claws? Only an imagination brought to life by the already-eerie night can tell.

Cuan Thornglade pauses and wavers for a moment at hearing that sound, a hand unconsciously moving for his bow. He throws another nervous glance at the moonless sky, but after a moment of hesitation he's moving again. Heading towards the treeline, flattening himself against one of the trunks to keep from being seen as he peers into the shadows to get a better look. He slips the bow off his back, just in case.

Cuan Thornglade rolls his Perception with a 0 modifier. The result of the roll is Great (2). The shadows are a thick web, blanketing everything, dancing weirdly among the trees. But the thing Cuan is looking for is there anyway. A writhing, heaving cluster of darkness suddenly grows teeth, bearing them in a snarl, and a mangy, feral mutt advances towards Cuan. The stench behind the creature indicates something dead.

--And then, as if from nowhere, a child of no more than eight or nine years flings herself out from behind a tree, screaming wildly at the beast and flailing her arms at it in an attempt to frighten it away. Tears are running down her cheeks, legs bare to the knee and what looks like a child-sized dressing gown her only clothing. The result? The distracted beast turns towards her instead.

Cuan keeps his bow ready in one hand, but rather than reach for an arrow with his other hand he lowers it to his hip, where he's still carrying his catch of meat from the day's hunting. He unties the knot holding the string in place, and tugs it loose from his belt. Carefully he waves the bundle of rabbits in front of him, then raises his arm and tosses it over the creature's head. Only then, hoping it will be distracted from the child, does he draw an arrow. The girl shrieks, a wordless cry of terror and fury, and reflexively throws her arms up to cover her face as the beast charges towards her.

Rabbits. The dog pauses, mid-bound, turning back to the smell of meat. Fresher meat than whatever that hideous dead thing is lying on the ground nearby. But then, as the rabbits fall, its attention is once again on Cuan. It drops low to the ground, eyes gleaming with madness and teeth bared in a low growl as it stalks towards the Wildlander.

Cuan's expression is sober as he knocks the arrow and pulls back the bowstring. He takes aim at th beast quickly, without the luxury of time that hunting normally affords. He bares his teeth back at the animal as it advances, and lets the arrow fly before it can close the distance between them.

There's a yelp--high pitched and painful as Cuan's arrow drives deep into its throat and a thick stream of blood begins to spew. The dog falls, collapsing in a heap on the ground. Its limbs twitch spasmodically, soft whimpers coming less and less frequently until they don't come at all, and it lies still in a pool of mud and blood.

The girl does not stir, huddled at the base of a tree with her face tucked into her arms, rocking herself and sobbing quietly.

Cuan Thornglade takes a step towards the downed animal, placing his palm on the handle of his knife as he does so. He stops with the blade half-drawn out of its sheath, though, and looks over at the sobbing girl. A slightly perplexed expression crosses his face, and he slips the knife back and moves over to crouch beside her. He doesn't say anything, but taps her shoulder with his hand.

The girl flinches away from his touch, back and away, but looking up at Cuan as she does. And past him, at Dead Thing X. For a moment, she seems to endure some inner struggle, shutting her eyes and breathing heavily to calm the sobbing. It's an impressive feat for an eight-year-old.

Cuan Thornglade pats her arm again, his face blank of expression, and turns to look where she's looking. Whatever it is had been forgotten about until now, and he raises himself from his crouching position to move over and get a closer view. Again, he puts his hand on the hilt of his knife.

And now the source of the trouble may be seen. There, on the ground, lies a man. Or at least, most of him. The flesh is burnt and wounded from the battle of the previous night, but he is small enough and slight enough of build to make easy prey for a hungry dog in the mood for carrion.

Cuan Thornglade's lips twist into a grimace as he examines the corpse, shaking his head slightly. He straightens up and looks around among the pear trees, as if unsure what to do about the two corpses.

And--to make matters more complicated--the girl speaks a single word into the ensuing stillness: "Brother."

Cuan Thornglade grunts, and sets his jaw in a grimace. Moving to one of the trees, he grabs a slender, low-lying branch and tugs on it a few times, before determining it suitable and using his knife to cut it off at the trunk. He repeats the process with a few more branches, collecting enough to lash them into an impromptu sled he can use to drag the corpse without too much effort.

The girl watches the process in teary-eyed silence, moving closer to the corpse as she does, reaching out to touch one of those muddied, bloodied hands with her own dry, dusty ones. The other goes to the pocket of her frock... and draws out a handful of walnuts, which she wordlessly extends to Cuan. Payment, one Wildlander to another.

Cuan Thornglade accepts the nuts with a solumn nod, tucking them into his belt pouch before lifting the dead man's body onto the crude wooden travois. Once it's settiled into place, he grabs the end near the head and pulls, the branches sliding across the grass. He nods to the girl, and gestures for her to lead the way.

And slowly, solemnly, with the measured tread and the silent sorrow of one who knows that the fight has been fought and lost and cannot be reclaimed, the girl rises to her feet and walks before Cuan. And so it is, with the dignity of an autumn sunset, that the little procession guides yet another of the fallen to rest.

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