He'd left without any word, save a vague notice to Harding about having to 'check on something'. The dark bruise that framed his cheek bone hadn't even truly begun to darken, then, but by the time he found his way to the Fallow Mire it had. It had taken several days hiking by himself, but he was used to it - enjoyed it, even - and had been intending to meet up with Ned's team and make himself as useful as possible.
That had turned out to be somewhat difficult. For a start, the scouts were not where they were supposed to be. In fact, Gavin couldn't find them at all. Moving by himself he managed to avoid most of the dead, but there were several times where he was forced to just run away as fast as he could. That was fine by him. Running was far better than being dead.
Eventually he ended up camped out on top of an abandoned hut - cold and wet and covered in mud - sending flaming arrows down at the dead whenever they got too close. He had hoped he'd be able to spot Ned's scouts, from here, if they came past, but all he'd seen were endless dead and bog. Of all the places he'd been in the world, he decided that this one was probably the most miserable.
At least he had a couple days left of stolen food. Even if he was having to pick the weevils out of it...
After the Rescue: Latrine Duty
They didn't name him a deserter. He was glad, for that. He hadn't even really thought about it, before he left - he was so used to doing so - but he'd forgotten he was part of an army, now. Desertion was... well. A little different than just wandering off from his clan. He'd had a long and angry verbal reprimand, and now had perpetual latrine duty. Or, at least it felt perpetual.
He couldn't even really bring himself to mind. The work was hard, yes, and smelled foul (really, awfully foul) but it kept his mind off himself. He dug the latrine pits, dealt with the sewage, and lost himself in the rhythm of the spade.
It did make for fairly stinky greetings, however, whenever someone came to check up on him.
Or, you know, yell at him for taking off in the first place and almost getting himself killed. Same difference, really!
Gavin Ashara
He'd left without any word, save a vague notice to Harding about having to 'check on something'. The dark bruise that framed his cheek bone hadn't even truly begun to darken, then, but by the time he found his way to the Fallow Mire it had. It had taken several days hiking by himself, but he was used to it - enjoyed it, even - and had been intending to meet up with Ned's team and make himself as useful as possible.
That had turned out to be somewhat difficult. For a start, the scouts were not where they were supposed to be. In fact, Gavin couldn't find them at all. Moving by himself he managed to avoid most of the dead, but there were several times where he was forced to just run away as fast as he could. That was fine by him. Running was far better than being dead.
Eventually he ended up camped out on top of an abandoned hut - cold and wet and covered in mud - sending flaming arrows down at the dead whenever they got too close. He had hoped he'd be able to spot Ned's scouts, from here, if they came past, but all he'd seen were endless dead and bog. Of all the places he'd been in the world, he decided that this one was probably the most miserable.
At least he had a couple days left of stolen food. Even if he was having to pick the weevils out of it...
After the Rescue: Latrine Duty
They didn't name him a deserter. He was glad, for that. He hadn't even really thought about it, before he left - he was so used to doing so - but he'd forgotten he was part of an army, now. Desertion was... well. A little different than just wandering off from his clan. He'd had a long and angry verbal reprimand, and now had perpetual latrine duty. Or, at least it felt perpetual.
He couldn't even really bring himself to mind. The work was hard, yes, and smelled foul (really, awfully foul) but it kept his mind off himself. He dug the latrine pits, dealt with the sewage, and lost himself in the rhythm of the spade.
It did make for fairly stinky greetings, however, whenever someone came to check up on him.
Or, you know, yell at him for taking off in the first place and almost getting himself killed. Same difference, really!