A Bastard's Journey

[Kalehart 1096]

((This is the RP post regarding my week two week long leave. I'm out of town, and I dont want Peter just gone for a 2 year with no reasoning.

 

Also it seems that Aeldin has been inaccessible since 3.75 but uh... Too bad, I guess. That was decided after I wrote this, and I'm not going back on two weeks of backstory.))

 

Heaving a long and forlorn sigh, Peter cast his gaze upwards at the keep of Owynswood. He ground the heel of his boot into the paved stone as he gave the cobbled fortress an ambivalent look, contemplating his rather few options before withdrawing a crumpled letter from his coat pocket. He stood there for quite some time, simply looking between the keep and his aged and mangled letter.

 

It was the rain that snapped him from his stupor, the harsh chill splashing against his cheek waking him from his thought and eliciting a shiver from him.  He hesitated a moment before quickly pocketing the letter; which bore a signature familiar to him and very few others. It had been too idealistic, he supposed, to think that all of the secrets were discovered. Alas, this was one he could not, in good conscience, ignore. If it were true, he must know for certain.

 

“Very well, then.” he grunted and cleared his throat, spitting to one side before turning and starting towards the north. As he wandered, he couldn’t help but smile- some small sliver of excitement seeping into him at the prospects of his journey and destination. Still, he knew that he must steel himself to whatever he would find there, and upon his return home.

 

-Months later-

 

Peter coughed quietly as he wrapped the thick fur cloak around his shoulders, exhaling a plume of white fog. He gave a quiet sigh as he watched his breath dissipate into the foliage of the pine tree over his head, a grin playing across his features at the same time as a shiver. His clothes were ragged; crusted with dirt and torn all over, now more closely akin to rags than actual garments.

Rising from where he stood and stretching his arms upwards, Peter paced his way towards the roaring fire and freshly chopped log that was his seat for the night. He let his eyes trace around the edges of the illuminated clearing, observing the treeline for any prying eyes. There was the odd spark of reflected firelight, but none so luminous or common for him to be worried- likely just droplets of water from the earlier downpour, or the odd squirrel investigating his campsite.

He grunted quietly in satisfaction before kicking some dirt into the fire and heading towards the tent he’d pitched- a military one with room for a bed roll, pack, and folding table. For some time he simply sat on his bed roll and enjoyed the abundance of sensations and sounds around him. The smell of the damp forest mixed with the earthy smoke of his fire, the gentle crackle of embers and babbling creek. The wind and chill nipped at his flesh and buffeted his tent, coaxing a shiver from the man as he rose once more and snatched a compass from the nearby table, eyeing the dial as it spun and pointed north.

 

 

He kept his gaze downwards on that dial as he made his way to the log and seated himself lightly on it, hunched over as he stared down at the dented, dirt-crusted instrument in his hands. How much farther, he wondered, would he choose to go? It had been months now- perhaps even a year if he’d been keeping track accurately. In the end it didn’t matter, he supposed. Aeldin was behind him, and the answers he sought were found. By all means he should have turned around and begun the long trip back home to those he loved- he’d even said he would. Yet something drew him farther still- he was reluctant to rejoin the troubles of the world.

Months without hearing the word ‘Bastard’ or the name ‘Jrent’ had been pleasant, and he was reluctant to return to the place where he knew that, by majority, he wasn’t wanted. Regardless, it was his place- especially now.

Peter closed his large fist around the compass, eyes closing as he took a moment to consider. If he didn’t turn back now, he would run the risk of breaking his word. How, he wondered, would that go? Would it be noticed? He hadn’t gotten the strong impression that his presence had been missed, based on his last correspondence with Lorina. That, he figured, was only his pessimism speaking. Or at least, he hoped.

Fine then, it was settled. In the morning he would depart back to Petrus and all of its infuriating, convoluted, and immoral politics. Creator, he hated it… But some part of him knew that hiding in the woods would lose its charm sooner rather than later.

As he kicked more dirt onto the fire to dim it a bit more, Peter headed to bed with a rumbling stomach and a weary smile. Despite everything, he was happy.

 

-Months Later-

 

Peter groaned quietly as the hay-filled cart jolted from a pothole in the road, sitting up to give the carriage driver a sour look, to which the driver’s only response was to pause his whistled tune and give a toothy smile. “You’re lucky you’re cheap.” grumbled Peter, to which the cart driver only cackled and turned back around, jostling the reins of his slow-but-sturdy horse as it trod along the Aeldinian highway.

 

Peter huffed and lay himself back down, reaching up to scratch at his now rather lengthy beard with his eyes set skyward. Clear skies, save for a few cotton-ball clouds off in the distance. He wasn’t going to get his hopes up, but it looked like this last stretch of distance between Aeldin and the Atherian border would be smooth sailing.

 

Bump.

 

He began regretting the comparison as he sighed and closed his eyes, contemplating how he should stop trying to put a positive spin on things. It was going to be a long, boring, bumpy ride. Complain and grumble as he might, however, Peter did find some comfort in the road’s rhythm. It wasn’t long before sleep took him, and held him firm for quite some time.

 

The weather would not remain so tame, however, and for some time Peter would be peacefully unaware. Clouds of cotton would roil and spill over with hail, moving swiftly atop harsh and frigid winds from the northern mountains. Growing and spreading, the weather worsened as the cart made its way through the forest and towards the first hurdle of its journey; a mountain path that twisted and turned outlined by a steep fall and an unstable rock face.

 

 

Most would probably think to give pause and perhaps wait out the storm, but the driver of this cart only glared towards the path with a coy smile and a drunken laugh, spurring on his horse to approach it with haste. So, buffeted by winds and stricken by hail, they trod onwards to the path.

 

Peter woke as he felt a pebble bounce off his forehead, eliciting a tired and annoyed groan from him as he rolled over in his bed of hay. After a moment of moping, he came to his senses and slowly sat up, squinting towards the driver who seemed to be having a jolly good time as he bounced and sang; the words lost in harsh wind. Peter’s laugh was cut off, though, by a sharp ‘crack’ followed by a deep and ominous rumble.

 

In hindsight, Peter wagered he could probably have done something if he’d not been so weighed down by sleep and by surprise. Alas, nothing of the sort was done as Peter looked up to see a conglomeration of trees, boulders, and he was almost certain he could see one very perturbed looking wolf caught in the mix as it careened towards the cart.

 

He shared the wolf’s sentiment as the landslide slammed into the cart, sending it off the path with ease. A blur of crunching, spinning, bumping, bouncing, and general unpleasantries are what followed as Peter, the cart, the driver, the horse, and the wolf all descended the slope of the mountain. At some point perhaps half way down, Peter lost consciousness.

 

He woke to find himself remarkably alive. Trapped, bruised and generally in bad repair, but still alive. Peter strained against the daze of his mind as he peered around and tried to make sense of his surroundings. Where his legs should be was a heaving mass of short brown fur, caked with dirt and blood, and impaled with a shard of wood presumably from the cart. He jolted at the sight, only to find himself trapped beneath it; and judging by the pain it caused even through the shock, he too was impaled with that shard of wood.

 

He rest his head back down, heaving and doing his damndest to keep calm as he continued to look around. The crunched remains of the cart and the driver… He looked rather promptly away from the latter. Boulders and trees all over the place; no wolf in sight. He thought he could see his pack strung up in a half-broken tree still standing overhead.

 

Peter huffed and closed his eyes, smoke escaping his lips as he did his best to center himself and prepare for the long wait for either death or assistance. His concentration was broken as something bounced off his head, followed by a piece of torn parchment landing on his face.

 

He picked up the fallen object- charcoal, it seemed- and the paper, frowning slightly as he peered around. Up in the tree, perched by his pack, was a familiar brown hawk; his messenger bird of choice.

 

“Agh, fine.” he wheezed towards the creature, giving a tired glare before he began to write in a shaking hand. Soon he’d finished his letter and sent it off with the bird, left only now to ease himself back down and prepare for the long haul.

 

To be continued...

[Kalehart 1096]

(Updated)

[The Great Mongol Khan 1110]

Aurelius Tython sits within the de Bar keep, worrying about his dear friend Peter.

[Kalehart 1096]

[updated.]

[Heero 4092]

Moved to the Archive. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.