Time: Late August, Mid-afternoon.
Location: Eowesoa Border.
Status: Closed. @glynwarrens
The mid-afternoon sun, for once, didn’t make Efrain feel as though he was an ant burning under a magnifying glass. The moments of shade provided by the sparse canopy overhead as they followed the dirt road were further reprieve from the heat. Wagon wheels had eaten into the dirt and made the path gnarled and uneven. Several of their small party had already turned their ankles and cursed at the loose stones and roots sticking out of the ground. The horses dragging the cart were accustomed to rough terrain and despite their load faired better than many of the bipeds.
Just the day before, the primary southern encampment, the largest concentration of military in charge of the border, received word that several fleeing families had made it to Hilstead, a small border village, and would require escorting to a safer location. The nearest outposts were unable to spare the manpower and so a small group, including Efrain, were ordered to take care of them. The are had been quiet for some months and the patrols and scouts reported nothing amiss or suspicious. The stroll in the sunshine on their way to a simple mission was enough to make even the most hardened soldier among them relax. Too rarely could they expect their days to be free of carnage.
Efrain himself walked near the front, eyes scanning ahead, but otherwise calm. The others, the majority of whom were soldiers of varying ranks with only one other knight, talked amongst themselves. A war-worn dwarf Efrain had only met that morning, Porrig, had made himself quite comfortable at his side and kept dragging him into conversation with several others he seemed to have taken under his wing. Everything from the proper care of ducklings, to the predictions of this year’s royal jousting tournament (for which he was keen to hear Efrain’s opinion for), to the daisy he’d seen a moment ago were all on the table for intensive discussion.
“I remember, and I doubt you lot do, when Lord Shevfield, Man of Hogs, named on the account of his house crest and not a personal failing, sent every man and woman who dared oppose him off their horse with a flick of his lance. Now, lads and lassies, that is not a euphemism, I promise you,” said Porrig, voice rich and strongly accented. Efrain, focused on treeline where he could see nearing smoke, had to repress his flinch as the lively dwarf swatted him on the arm. “And you, Sir Crayhorn, I remember seein’ you when you were but a wee lad menacing the competition. Even our dear King had reason to be wary of you and your formidableness,” he continued.
His skills for smalltalk were ironically dwarfed in the face of such a jaunty being and Efrain could only shrug. “There’s nothing really to it—” he managed, voice stilted, but the dwarf was off once again, happy to carry them through the very last leg of their journey. “Though I s’pose he too was just a lad at the time. S’all in the skill of the riding, but—now hold on, do all of you know how t’ride?” His attention on Efrain lapsed as suddenly as it began as he finally turned to the other ducklings in his little circle with a twinkle in his eyes. “You, you look like ye could be a mighty jouster!” he exclaimed and gestured to a fellow soldier.
