He stared, a mix of disapproval and weary defeat clearly writ on his face as his kin split away one after the other. It wasn’t too surprising of a trajectory for Syr
Faramund specifically, an individual route, but that the squire should’ve so adopted it already did not bode well.
Some Order. For once, he failed to see what himself had done so wrong that they’d both deem themselves this overly confident in succeeding alone, rather than as a group. Efficiency? Fuck it all to some Seventh Hell.
He’d mark it down for the future — let this be the last time he went anywhere with the two of them, if he could help it.
Fresh out of patience, he glanced sidelong at the peasant at his side. The man smiled, all to pleasantly as if he was willfully oblivious to the glare he got in turn.
“ So — What are
we doing? “
***
At a witch's hut
A thin ribbon of smoke sprouted from the chimney of a hut, the grey sunbleached wood of its walls shimmering in the morning sun. The thick logs bore a heavy turf roof, one that though maintained, sported one baby spruce in the midst of soaked grass. For flare or whimsy, maybe both.
Under the eaves had been set a table with a cutting board, upon it a knife and some dried herbs in a row, stalks yet untrimmed. Next to them stood a three legged clay pot, one rather recently made or purchased. In the rectangular garden just a few steps away, sat on a stool next to a weathered log with a axe stuck to it, was a hooded figure.
A bright voice was humming, a length of grey blonde hair mingling with the red beads of a necklace that shifted alongside movement. Settled atop unassuming skirts and an apron, a dead cockerel was being defeathered. On the path that lead to the yard from the village, were footsteps, approaching.
“ Murder, murder, murder afoot. “ The witch said, look roused to see whom was coming, her face ashift like it was having trouble deciding on a shape. Young, old, something betwixt, back again. Green eyes, brown eyes. The strands of long hair at her shoulder bled to red, to black. Blots of ink dropped to water.
In the end, seeing the man coming, she decided on a mix of features that mimicked his. A long lost sister, once more.
“ I expected someone would be coming soon. How fortunate that it should’ve been you. “ Knight. Not having meant it with any particular judgement, she continued her work, dark stare dipping away.
“ You stray in your lonesome, yet again. Why? “
***
Back in the village
Streetside
Many pairs of eyes were trained on a stranger that would walk down the street, sword at her hip and journal at hand. Sharp in her garb and sticking out for it. Everyone knew of the death, the killing, the murder at this point, as they did the fact that the Elder had sent for the Anathaeum. No accident, then, but exactly whom was this young knight remained question.
Like dogs expecting a beating, many were silent and at their guard, watching her. Lest she think to point a finger at any which one, accusing and bringing to justice by some intuition. The word was she could summon fire in but a flick of the wrist and had a pair of fellow knights in tow, but where were they now?
Not all were coloured by suspicion, naturally. There were some who had livings to make, no matter the means, and a healthy amount of
jolly denial when it came to worst case scenarios. Surely, was one to only speak the truth and nothing but the truth, having nothing to hide, naught bad would befall oneself. Surely.
“ You appear positively on a mission, Syr Knight. “ Called a voice, belongst to a man unloading a cart next to his stall. Some steps away from him a fellow shopkeep gave him a marking glare, but the discouragement went wholly unnoticed. The woman was much too busy hassling about with her pockets, trying to produce change to a customer.
So, the man continued, smiling wide as he picked a crate filled with straw and fresh eggs from the bed.
“ How goes your quest? “
Faramund Amelia Hawthorne