CLOSED | Nug Quest

[nonvenomous]

WHO: Adrasteia, Holden, Jone, Joselyn, Sawbones, Val de Foncé, Wysteria, and Dick.
WHAT: Poachers run afoul of a Riftwatch research expedition.
WHEN: Cloudreachish. Time is a flat circle.
WHERE: Minranter River, Free Marches
NOTES: Animal cruelty, some gore.

JOURNEY:

Their trek north across the Free Marches to the Minranter is light and mild: Jone’s mule, Loghaine, hauls the bulk of any heavy gear. The wind stays brisk beneath steady cloud cover, only rarely committing to rain, and there’s an inn to curl up in once they reach the river. Have a drink, rent a bunk with a moth-eaten blanket, splurge on the “luxury” suite upstairs.

For those that aren’t willing to cough up the coin, there’s always the stable.

Further into the wilderness, the white noise roar of the river at night makes for restful sleep and long watches, where the crack and rustle of a bear through the underbrush or the sound of approaching horses might go unheard until it’s too late. At times flashing eyes reflect the watch fire from the treeline, only to melt away without incident. Pawprints pressed into the river sand and traces of bone-littered scat hint at the nature of their nightly visitors -- more fascinating to some than others.

DESTINATION:

Vultures spiral overhead -- an ill omen, easy to mark at a distance. Far below, hoof-beaten grass is streaked with gore where a herd of nugs was pursued out onto the river flats, blood still wet despite the wind, one little body left broken underfoot on the trail. They never had a chance.

Ravens squabble and hop between flayed corpses left to stiffen on the beach. Flies zip from haunch to haunch, spoiled for choice.

There are a dozen nugs here, most of them quite young. Their skulls are crushed, the sand churned with tracks where they struggled.

A few still have their hides. The leather is mundane, for anyone who has the heart to check.

Further west across the river, campfire smoke drifts skyward over the trees where the sunset fades orange to purple. A pained squeal carries across the distance, accompanied by the sound of cruel laughter on the wind. Eventually a few of their voices rise in song.

The killers are close, and night is falling.

AFTERMATH:

An earlier drizzle keeps the fire from spreading into the surrounding wood: by the time the battle is dying down and the nugs are freed, the flames have dwindled to a forlorn lick across blackened canvas and crates of supplies. And the corpses: some burnt, some on the beach, one bobbling slowly downriver.

Something should probably be done about those.

The two fade-touched nugs they’ve rescued need tending. They are wild and distrustful, but they are also exhausted, and injured, and desperately thirsty.

Near the remains of the campfire, a spit-roasted nug still has attracted a fly or two, but still has meat on the bone. There are fade-touched nug hides to be found on the wagon that survived.

A few dazed mounts linger where they were tied off at camp or tangled in the woods nearby -- at some point, a dracolisk had plunged past Jone into the battle-darkened water. Like the armor of their previous owners, they’re rugged and diverse -- beasts captured, won and stolen. A great, shaggy white Avvar horse has taken to Adrasteia, lipping at her sleeve.

Let them roam free or round the others up for an easier ride home.

Comments

[degenere]

"I rarely am."

And he says it with such confidence that at first hearing, it seems inarguably true. Whatever Adrasteia is thinking is not known (except, perhaps, by what one might glean from her sigh). For Val, it is clear that he is thinking of the stable as he stares at it thoughtfully.

Very suddenly, he turns to to Adrasteia and claps her bracingly on the arm.

"Come! You cannot be so squeamish as to be dreading this night. It is but one of many. And there is a roof, yes? Now, that is a luxury."

Pretty rich coming from a guy who was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, with the rest of the contents of the silver drawer safely stowed beneath his bassinet. He does seem to mean what he says.

[kantikoy]

"True," comes her answer, along with a nod and a deep breath. The horses seem stoic enough at the idea of sharing their sleeping area with the travelers, and he makes a good point. She's definitely slept rougher than this, and a roof is better than none.

"Do we want to set up a round of watches or are we trusting that we are safe enough, here?"

[degenere]

Val casts an eye up at the loft. He looks around them.

"Yes," he decides, "we do want that. If we were in Orlais, we might be safe and comfortable and able to sleep without fear in the open, but here? Who knows what danger we might encounter. And though we are but poor members of Riftwatch, we will might be seen as likely targets."

[kantikoy]

"Glad to know I'm not the only one who thinks this way." Adrasteia nods, stretching her arms above her head and then wiggling her fingers before dropping her arms to her sides again. "I'll take first watch, then. Do you want the second?"

[degenere]

His answer is the hand that he thrusts at her, expectant of a handshake.

"I am difficult to wake." But at least he gives fair warning. His smile suggests that maybe he is exaggerating. His everything else suggests that he likely is not exaggerating.

[kantikoy]

She takes it; her handshake is firm, her hands perpetually a little warm and callused.

"I'm sure I'll think of something." Water. Water is her solution. Mainly because she can dry him and his items very quickly using those selfsame warm hands.