Shrubs groaned and flattened against the ground as his weight descended upon their heads, two shoes passing blamelessly across the forest floor or two cruel slavemasters, lashing their whips and forcing grass to kneel in the dirt. The difference was lost to the dwarfish plants. Upon his leave they sprung back to their feet; unbroken, proud, and a tad disheveled.
Joarn followed no carved path. He flicked his scarf over his shoulder, conscious of the overhanging branches and vines, and tried to recall the course he had taken in his last trip to Dead Mouth valley.
The memory was interesting; he recollected diving east from the Servant’s exit whilst humming a broken tavern tune—no forks, no turns, no landmarks. How the Silver Tree was claimed to be a long and twisted journey, he did not know, only he kept his mind on the book seller, and marched ahead.
He’d traversed only an hour’s worth of forest floor when the trees surrounding him began to lose their locks. Leaves grew more and more sparse, and what little of them remained had a grayish tint, as if they were covered with scales. The air felt thinner—most likely because of the depopulated tree branches—and ghosts whistled on the breeze, weaving between the balding tree tops and the open air.
Joarn wrapped his scarf tighter about his neck, hugging himself from the sudden chill. He was halfway there; he knew.
With his pale hands he pushed a thick, overhanging branch from his way, but to his surprise, it toppled from its socket and hammered onto his chest. It must have been dead and hanging for ages, he thought to himself, heaving it off him. Upon returning to his feet, he noticed a red flicker of fire between the trees, a few yards ahead.
It must have been shielded from view by the branch. He slowed his pace to a delicate tip-toe, peering from behind a group of half-starved tree trunks unto the source of the flame.
Three soldiers in chainmail squatted near the embers, one of them extending his frigid hands unto its warmth. Two other men stood like sentries on either side of the group. Joarn recognized them to be members of the “R.N”s, or “Royal Nomads”. Commonly referred to as “Rens” or “Wrens”, they were ordinary soldiers commissioned by the King to wander in clusters and patrol the entire country for Vashii terrorists, who often slipped from their homeland and into the Rufuslocke for martyrdom or revenge. After they’d patrolled for a certain amount of time, they were returned to their normal ranks in the army, and replaced with other soldiers.
They were having a slow, tired conversation of grunts and dead-end remarks.
“I hear the Gut-Spiller’s killing left ‘nd right.” Said the one by the fire, his hands caressing it like a crystal ball.
One of the sentries mumbled something.
“Yeah, well you’re right, the King’ll get to him sooner or later, I guess. Criminals don’t last on foreign turf.”
“Ya gotta have begged in the streets to hide in’em.” The other sentry murmured in affirmative.
“I wonder what he’s got against the men he kills, though. I mean, is it blind, or is it coded somehow?”
