Ceren’s blade remained on her mind, a weighty presence behind the small of her back. Esmé’s father would have had two like it twenty years ago, waiting through the night in the most secluded room of their home while the darkspawn had been rampant in the city. Thank the Maker he hadn’t needed to use them.
But that offer to teach, … Well, Esmé’d had some training with rapiers and daggers as a young woman. It had been an amusement only; she’d never had the makings of a great duelist. Of course, Ceren didn’t know much about her upbringing. After they’d fled Fereldan, it had seemed unthinkable that she’d ever walk with her hands free again. Why not accept? Right now, it was clear she’d be a burden if there ever was any fighting.
Genthus shoved his head between her and Caro and Esmé braced her hand on the giant’s shoulder. His horns were a hazard to eyes and other soft bits everywhere as they rattled and bounced on the track. She scowled at the points and leaned her face away.
”Leather and spears don’t sound worth killing and dying over.” Grain, sure, depending on how hungry you and yours were. Winter along an uneasy, shifting border – that’d be hard on people. There was no doubt in her mind about that. Shit, throw out the spears and pack more food. ”But you’re the experts.”
Caro calling the odds even seemed unusually optimistic for him. Unless their stragglers caught up soon, they only had three real fighters. She hoped it wouldn’t come to a struggle with the other mercenaries. They wouldn't come away from something like that without getting hurt, even if they were lucky enough to survive.
”I’ll see what I can make from our stores when we stop for the night.”
By the end of the day, she was further from civilization than she’d ever been – and her leg hurt most terribly. Esmé squeezed the bulb of a glass dropper over her tongue, pulling a face as the astringent willow bark extract seemed to dry her entire mouth. It’d help. Eventually. Esmé slipped the medicine back into her cloak’s inner pockets and sidled past the horse lines to watch the camp take shape by firelight.
Dogs and Salamanders and then the merchant’s own folks -- which were more difficult to put a name or face to. Ceren had told them a little about the other mercenaries, having spent some time on the road with them. There was Karvil, a tattooed dwarven deserter with two axes in his belt. Lelindin, a quiet, weary looking woman with a crystalline staff on her back. Alred, clanking in rusty armor and smelling like a still – he was by the fire right now in fact, telling a story with wild hand gestures. It was a wonder the fumes on his breath hadn’t caught fire yet.
Obviously there was no privacy to be had out here. If she needed to work, it would have to be in their own wagon. Limping over, Esmé sat on the wagon’s back rail and massaged her spasming thigh muscles. Caro’d said a better part of a month of this. If it didn’t get any easier, she might start to wish for that comet.
But that offer to teach, … Well, Esmé’d had some training with rapiers and daggers as a young woman. It had been an amusement only; she’d never had the makings of a great duelist. Of course, Ceren didn’t know much about her upbringing. After they’d fled Fereldan, it had seemed unthinkable that she’d ever walk with her hands free again. Why not accept? Right now, it was clear she’d be a burden if there ever was any fighting.
Genthus shoved his head between her and Caro and Esmé braced her hand on the giant’s shoulder. His horns were a hazard to eyes and other soft bits everywhere as they rattled and bounced on the track. She scowled at the points and leaned her face away.
”Leather and spears don’t sound worth killing and dying over.” Grain, sure, depending on how hungry you and yours were. Winter along an uneasy, shifting border – that’d be hard on people. There was no doubt in her mind about that. Shit, throw out the spears and pack more food. ”But you’re the experts.”
Caro calling the odds even seemed unusually optimistic for him. Unless their stragglers caught up soon, they only had three real fighters. She hoped it wouldn’t come to a struggle with the other mercenaries. They wouldn't come away from something like that without getting hurt, even if they were lucky enough to survive.
”I’ll see what I can make from our stores when we stop for the night.”
–
By the end of the day, she was further from civilization than she’d ever been – and her leg hurt most terribly. Esmé squeezed the bulb of a glass dropper over her tongue, pulling a face as the astringent willow bark extract seemed to dry her entire mouth. It’d help. Eventually. Esmé slipped the medicine back into her cloak’s inner pockets and sidled past the horse lines to watch the camp take shape by firelight.
Dogs and Salamanders and then the merchant’s own folks -- which were more difficult to put a name or face to. Ceren had told them a little about the other mercenaries, having spent some time on the road with them. There was Karvil, a tattooed dwarven deserter with two axes in his belt. Lelindin, a quiet, weary looking woman with a crystalline staff on her back. Alred, clanking in rusty armor and smelling like a still – he was by the fire right now in fact, telling a story with wild hand gestures. It was a wonder the fumes on his breath hadn’t caught fire yet.
Obviously there was no privacy to be had out here. If she needed to work, it would have to be in their own wagon. Limping over, Esmé sat on the wagon’s back rail and massaged her spasming thigh muscles. Caro’d said a better part of a month of this. If it didn’t get any easier, she might start to wish for that comet.
03-27-2024, 05:36 PM
