A Road Less Traveled [Slow]

Thorak groaned with each step he took along the road to Roan's Field. His body ached - the cold of the early morning doing nothing to help his bruises that he gained through rough nights in the Lurkwood Forest. Worst of all, he had nothing to show for his three days being away save for two hares that he had trapped in his snares by some mulberry bushes and a lone fox - shot from afar. His skill with a bow was his only redeeming grace, one of his lone inheritances from his father Merric, and it was what kept him afloat the last couple years.

Another one of the lost skills from his father was leatherworking. Merric used to not only skin his kills, but also fasten them into clothing such as belts, boots, breeches and tunics. In fact, the leather armor that Thorak wore before each hunt had been handmade from his father. But he never had the time to teach his son that particular trade, only showing Thorak how to peel the hide off of a carcass and then wrap it around him as a makeshift cloak or blanket for the bitter nights in the mountains.

This time, however, Thorak was so weary that he had not even found the energy to do even a simple skinning, and was just taking the fresh kills back to his hometown to have Butcher Pete work at it. The heavyset man was used to just butchering the game, but he would be able to skin it just fine ... for a lesser cost. At the moment though, Thorak did not care. So long as he could jump into a warm bath at the inn when he got back, he wouldn't mind living off less for the next couple days.

Thorak stopped for a moment. He had just reached summit of a small hillock and there, to the west, he could make out the sight of Roan's Field in the valley before him. But what truly caught his attention was a gaggle of children by the shoreside. The Diamond Flow sneaked it's way through the Lurkwood Forest towards Roan's Field and Thorak often used it as a landmark to make his way back home. Now though, three children - the Miller twins and their young sister - jumped up as they stopped him on the horizon before hurriedly darting off - their games forgotten. I see. Thorak thought. They were slacking when they were supposed to be working on the farm. It didn't stop him from admiring the handiwork of the wooden toy boats that went bobbing down the waters. Already the children were much better with their hands than he had ever been eight years ago.

But that wasn't the only sight he saw. It was only when he was in the town proper and saw the horse-drawn cart by the Riverblood Inn that he realized that those wheel tracks he had seen on the road before him had been heading to the same destination. But it was only when he saw the young man who hopped out that Thorak understood. The Fallstrikes. They were a family of lumberjacks on the outskirts of the Lurkwood Forests. But outside of the occasional visit to the inn to sell some firewood and the rare times he bumped into the sons when out hunting he didn't have much interaction with them.

Pushing on anyway towards the inn, he saw the youngest brother, Hurrin step out. Thorak couldn't help the scowl from coming onto his face. Great. He thought. Hurrin was one of their local troublemakers - getting caught up in pranks and carried away with gambling. While not in the same vein as his bullies, the Roswell brothers (whose father had lost his job and they took out their anger with their sudden poverty on him) he had been the butt of a practical joke from Hurrin one too many times to give the man anything more than a halfhearted nod before hurrying inside the inn.

He wanted that bath sooner rather than later.

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Note: Sorry for making Hurrin one of Thorak's bullies (more for the pranks listed in your profile than anything physical). If there's something you want me to edit be sure to tell me.

He closed his eyes as Dawngreeter Arlis recited the dogmas of Lathander. She did seem to enjoy repeating them at the end of each of his stints in the temple, perhaps in part to drive them into the young priest-in-training's mind and perhaps in part out of some desire to establish a tradition. Either way, he knew them by heart after the few weeks he'd been apprenticing in the temple of Lathander. He mouthed the words silently as the Dawngreeter spoke them aloud to him, knew they'd be the words by which he lived near in the future.

"Strive always to aid, to foster new hope, new ideas, and new prosperity for all humankind and its allies. It is a sacred duty to foster new growth, nurture growing things, and work for rebirth and renewal. Perfect yourself, and be fertile in mind and body. Wherever you go, plant seeds of hope, new ideas, and plans for a rosy future in the minds of all. Watch each sunrise. Consider the consequences of your actions so that your least effort may bring the greatest and best reward. Avoid negativity, for from death comes life, and there is always another morning to turn a setback into a success. Place more importance in activities that help others than in strict adherence to rules, rituals, and the dictates of your seniors.

"And don't forget, Rayvor, the ceremony to celebrate your Awakening is tomorrow at dawn. You should plan on arriving shortly beforehand, so you can prepare yourself."

Rayvor nodded as he stood, opening his eyes. "I suppose I'll see you tomorrow morning, then, Dawngreeter Arlis."

The woman gave him a smile that dimpled her cheeks. She was maybe forty, a kindly woman who'd been something of a teacher to him for the last few weeks. "Go in the light," she told him.

He repeated the goodbye as he left the temple, slipping on a pair of gloves, adjusting his jacket, and grabbing his cloak on the way out. Looking up at the positioning of the sun in the sky as he walked, Rayvor guesstimated he'd still have a few hours to spend around town before Father expected him back. He turned on his heel to turn towards the Riverblood, just a few buildings down--and slipped on a patch of ice he hadn't noticed, landed looking up at the sky.

Rayvor sighed, closed his eyes briefly. One of these days he was going to have to learn how to keep his feet under him.

The deer ran smoothly across the plains of Roan's Field, it was a beautiful creature, innocent. It snorted, and stopped at a watering hole, the creature was thirsty, and lowered it's head into the water, drinking from the pure waters. It was not alone however, but the thing that was close was not there for the water. Garen, a known hunter of Roan's Field, drew an arrow from his quiver on his back, and strung the bow. He lined the shot up with the soft spot on top of the deer's head, and he took a deep breath. He released his breath, and with it came the fury of the arrow that struck the deer in the head, making it slump into the water.

Garen lowered his bow, and got up from his crouched position. He walked over the side of the watering hole to the spoils of his hunt. The deer in question wasn't a plump creature, but had a decent amount of meat on it, it'd keep Garen living for the next few days. Out came the dagger from his hip, and it got to work on skinning the deceased creature.

The pelts could be sold to the smith for a nice amount, and the meat would be sold to the butchers, or directly to the Inn. The spoils were covered in a linen, and stuffed into his backpack. Then came the trudge back to Roan's Field, albeit a short trip, as Garen preferred not to stray too far, was boring. Garen longed for adventure, and he commonly thought of how if the town came under attack by Bandits, he would slay all of them, and Elane would marry him, and then he would become the Lord of Roan's Field.

His fantasies ended when he arrived at Roan's Field, a good, fair town, where everybody knew everybody. Garen forwarded to the smith, eager to sell what was left of his hunt, the pelts. Roan's Field wasn't too busy today, Garen was able to move freely. Up until he got the the smith, of course. He saw Thomas helping Rayvor up from the ice, and then proceeding to fall back down.

Garen, being the nice man he was, walked up behind them, and helped them both up. Even though Garen didn't detect any alcohol in the bodies of the two men, he said the joke as a mood lightener.

"Too much mead today, boys?"

Garen laughed for a moment, and walked over to the smithy with Thomas. Eager to sell his pelts and getting business over and done with. His father would be worrying about Garen if he took too long, Old Trelan was like that, always worrying about something.

"Now Thomas, could I just get arrows instead?"

Garen pulled the pelts out of his bag, and placed them on the workbench. Just to give Thomas some time to himself, he told that he would be back later.

"Thomas, I'll be back later!"[/b]

His next stop was the butchers, where he would sell the venison from the deer. As Garen walked into the butchers, the man lifted his head from the desk, and he brought his hands together, eager to see what the cat dragged in.

"Garen, my friend, been hunting I see."

"You know me Peter, venison, the usual."

Garen took off his backpack, and lifted the hatch, pulling the linen wrapped venison out of the bag. He stopped it in front of Pete and unwrapped it, revealing the cuts of meat. The Butcher examined it for a moment, and counted the coins, and handed them to Garen. The Butcher took the meat off of the linen, and sat it on a table. Garen grabbed the linen and stuffed it into his bag.

"Good doing business, Pete"

"Aye, Garen."

Now was time for Garen to visit the inn, and have a mug of mead. On the way there, he came across Elane carrying a basket of bread and potatos. Garen, being the gentleman he was, came up next to her, and offered a hand in carrying them.

"Ah, Elane! Great day. Do you need a hand carrying that, I suspect you're on the way back to the Inn? I was heading there myself."

Thorak's room opened up before him in a squeak of oiled hinges. His bed, which he had made days before he had vanished on his hunting trip, lay where it had before – coated up in linen sheets, a navy comforter and a fur blanket of his own make … the only touch to the room that belonged solely to him alone. The painted pictures framed up on the walls one of which displayed glistening waterfalls and the other a eagle eye's view of the city of Waterdeep – though Thorak had no way to know how accurate the painting was to the famed Crown of the North – the oaken drawers, wardrobe, and a table with a set of chairs in the corner were all standard Riverblood Inn quality – cozy and quaint to draw in any weary traveler.

Which suited him fine. Thorak collapsed onto the bed, feeling the sheets, so warm and soft after sleeping on the rough, dirt forest floor. So much struggling and so little to show for it. From where he laid, he blinked up at the string of hares and the fox – his kills during the trip. He had been so eager for that bath, so fixated on it, that he had forgotten all about going to Pete's and dropping off the fresh meat. He groaned into his pillow. After the bath. He decided. Hopefully, Josaline won't mind the smell. It should only be for the next few minutes, besides they'll make some coin off of it.

Or, at least, that was what he kept trying to tell himself.

Thorak was no fool. He could tell that the Inn itself ran at a much higher scale than he could fully comprehend. The wood from the Fallstrikes being carried in was just the most recent example. How much could he really contribute to help his caretakers? And the fact that they didn't consider themselves to be only his providers and had insisted that he early on addressed them by their first name as family had gotten that thought across to him. But the very idea of taking charity set Thorak's heart aflame and caused a darkness to seep down and suffocate his lungs. He couldn't … he couldn't do nothing with his life, not when father had died to save him.

But the boy broke out of his introspection by one hoarse shout.

“Fuck off sheep fucker!”

“Aw, shit.” Thorak groaned.

Timothy. He was the main reason why Thorak had never gotten too chummy with the Fallstrikes. Thorak had never truly talked to him before, and only knew of him through his reputation. But that changed after the fire. When it became clear that Thorak would now be living with the Riverbloods Timothy had stormed up to him in a fit of rage. He had not liked that. Not one bit. Thorak, still overwrought by the death of his father, never forgot the words Timothy said that day.

Thorak was off the bed and marching towards the door to the inn before he even realized what he was doing.

He stepped outside to see Elane and a familiar face being approached by Timothy. Garen was another hunter. Unlike the Fallstrikes or family's who go out to hunt when supper needed to be served, Thorak had seen Garen flit through the forest more often than not. In fact, the wolf skin that served as a blanket in his room was a kill that Garen had aided him in making. That one instance of seeing his archery in play let Thorak know that the man was good with a bow, but how well he stacked up against him was hard to tell without a actual competition of some sort.

Thorak liked Garen enough that even if he didn't despise Timothy he still would have taken that step towards them.

And even if he didn't despise Timothy he still would have seen the sight of the shower of water dousing the boy's head.

He couldn't help it. At first, they were just wheezes that passed his parted lips, then his stomach caved in on itself and he laughed – jerking his head back as beaded tears formed in the corner of his eyes. He slowed and then stopped, but a smile – a strong one for the first time in ages – did not leave his features. He had been the butt of practical jokes from Hurrin and far more malicious ones from Timothy long enough that the boy had forgotten how funny they were. That's a bit spiteful. A voice that sounded like Merric, his father, chided him in the confines of his mind. And more than that, hypocritical.

But, Thorak felt too fed up with it all to care. Because the worst part of Timothy's jealousy over him living in the Inn with Elle? Thorak didn't even like Elane. Well, not in that way at least. Sure, he realized she was pretty and understood why quite a few of the youths in the town fancied her, but he only felt amusement mainly that it seemed to trouble her so – and pity in Timothy's case.

It seemed he was fended off this time, however. And the voice from above told him it was Hurrin who had done the deed, which made him reevaluate the boy. Practical jokes aside, anyone who got in the way of Timothy harassing Elane had to be good in Thorak's books – even if he was the bully's younger brother.

Timothy, now thoroughly humiliated, left the scene with promises to make his brother pay. Slipping on some spilled water on the way, which caused another bout of laughter from Thorak, but he quickly stifled it when he saw Hurrin jump down from the roof. Thorak leaned against the wall of the inn as he let the three, Garen, Hurrin and Elane, chat. Not at all bothered by the fact the two men were catching the young barmaid's attention.

Which was another concern, actually. It would make sense if the reason why he was not interested in Elane was because some other girl had snared his attention, such as that one farmer's daughter (was it the younger one Joetta or the elder one Melida?) had for Hurrin. But the simple fact was that none of the women had caused such a reaction from him. He did not stir with envy at the sight of a couple like some eligible lads in town did, nor did he think of any girl with any but friendly attention. In fact, he had almost feared that he might have been interested in the other sex until –

“So Elane, anyone exciting pass through town in the last few days?”

Thorak's head snapped forward so fast that his neck made a audible crack. That same feeling from before – darkness closing in on his lungs – returned with a vigor but before Thorak could say or do anything the second half of Hurrin's questions registered and he jumped into the conversation.

“Yes!” And when he felt the surprised eyes glanced over to him, he blushed and amended, “I mean, yes, some predator did come down from the mountains and kill the Granger's cattle, but it happened at night and the wolf wasn't seen. They asked a few townsfolk to go scouting the area for it. I decided to look, but came up with nothing. Not sure how the others fared though.”

Thorak recovered from his initial panic nicely, he thought. He wasn't sure what he would do if they started talking about visitors to the inn in the last few days. He still didn't know what to think about her. It happened two days ago. While he was eating his afternoon meal, he heard hoofbeats from outside and saw a cloaked figure on horseback trot by the windows. A moment later the stranger strolled into the inn and approached Olar at the counter. After presumably ordering, she turned on her heel and headed to a table in the corner. All in all, it was not too strange of a sight. It was cold in the north so cloaks were expected, and the face that poked out through the hood was undoubtedly beautiful – framed as it was by blond locks – but beautiful women too were not that odd of a sight.

But still Thorak could not take his eyes off her – his meal before him left unattended.

But it was not her features he stared at, but rather her hip. There hung a scabbard of exquisite make – engraved with intertwining vines and outstretched leaves. Even as he stared at it, Thorak did not understand. It was not like he had never seen a sword. He had occasionally glimpsed one being hammered out at Fall's forge, let alone the racks of them he displays when selling his wares. But that sword was different. Because it was wielded by this stranger, this … adventurer, if the haggard look of her cloak and the hefty bags strapped on her steed outside were anything to go by.

But he would not have become enamored with her if she had not pulled down her hood to eat.

At that moment, Thorak was not the only one whose eyes had trailed over to the visitor.

For while she did have blond hair, weaved into a tight bun at the back of her head, it was what was beneath the hair that caught their attention. Her ears. Her pointed ears.

An elf had come to Roan's Field.

She tried to eat in silence, but the continual stares seemed to get to her, if the tension in her body and the stiff movement of her arm as she ate was anything to go by. A period of silence ensued which was only broken by the sound of a chair being pushed back and someone standing up to their feet to approach her. That seemed to do the trick. The elf stood up, slapped down some coin for the meal, flipped on her hood , waltzed by where Thorak stood and out the door.

It was only when she was gone did Thorak realize he was the one who stood up.

It took some effort not to visibly shake his head as he stirred himself out of his thoughts and memories. He knew it would not take long for Hurrin to hear of the tale one way or another. It was a fairly big deal for a elf to come to this out of the way town, and the fact she had only been here for a short rest and meal before she went off to gods-knows-where to do gods-know-what, definitely did not hurt for rumors' sake. The fact that he himself who had caused the scene had not escaped attention if the gentle teasing he had encountered from some of the wives (Josaline being the most culpable) was anything to go by. So, no, he did not expect the Fallstrikes to stay in the dark for long, no matter how far out of the town they lived.

He could only hope to stall the conversation long enough to excuse himself out of their presence and finally go take that bath.

By the gods, he wanted that bath.

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Note: I only noticed this after I had typed up and posted this, but given my unfamiliarity with this universe I actually don't know how the humans of Roan's Field would act to an elf. Given they live so close to a dwarven city I assume they're not xenophobic, but if they should have a stronger reaction then just surprise and curouisity please tell me and I'll do some research and edit the post.

Thanks ahead of time,

TLT

Rayvor opened his eyes as he recognized a voice addressing him. That would have been Thomas, if he wasn't mistaken. His eyes fluttered shut briefly and he sighed over the inevitable mockery, only for the breath to cut short as he realized the other boy had slipped and fallen as well. That elicited a little bit of a grin; it didn't quite make up for the lighthearted jab, but at least he didn't look quite so absurdly clumsy. Not that being more dexterous than Thomas was difficult by any stretch, but Rayvor felt a little better about himself now.

"Bet it feels better than yours does, eh, Thomas?" The blacksmith's apprentice was a good bit bigger than him, definitely stronger and therefore heavier; and as they said, the bigger one was, the harder they fell. He knew Dawngreeter Arlis would probably frown on little wisecracks like that. She very much advocated general kindness and soft-spokenness, but Rayvor had never been a perfect student. Sometimes he just couldn't resist.

He went to get up as another of the town's youths came over to help the two up. Rayvor recognized the lad rather quickly as Garen - one of Roan's Field's hunters. Just returning from a hunt, maybe. "Thank ye kindly for the hand, Garen," he offered, ignoring the huntsman's--huntsboy's?--quip. There wasn't an easy opportunity to fire back, so Rayvor just kept his trap shut. "I suppose maybe I'll see you two in the Riverblood later, shall I?" Rayvor imagined the other two still had some work to do - Thomas his smithing if the way he'd laughed over from the forge was much indication, and Garen selling his bounty if indeed that was why he was over in this part of town.

Safely on his feet again, Rayvor gave the hunts...boy and the blacksmith a bit of a bow as he went on his way. "Nice to see you two, even if 'twas so brief," he called out. He assumed neither would follow; but you never could know, with blacksmiths- or hunters-in-training. They were an unpredictable lot, much more than the mild-mannered priests Rayvor had been spending much of his time around lately.

It was a meandering path he took to the Riverblood; by no means was Rayvor in a rush, and his clothes were certainly warm enough to shelter him for a bit of a walk around Roan's Field. He was only slightly surprised to see that Garen had beaten him inside. The priest in training settled into a corner of the common area, content to just watch and enjoy the sounds around him.

It's up to my three day limit, and I still can't think of what to post. Just skip me. I'm sorry for the wait.))

“Yes!”

At the exclamation from Thorak, Hurrin's face lit up like a child's. He was always obsessive about interesting things in the world – or what little there were in Roan's Field. He always claimed that one day he'd leave town with the merchant that came each fall to buy the fruits of a years labor from the people of Roan's Field. For the most part, that was their only real interaction with the world outside. Visitors were few and far between, and a year could pass before they saw an outside face again.

“I mean, yes, some predator did come down from the mountains and kill the Granger's cattle, but it happened at night and the wolf wasn't seen. They asked a few townsfolk to go scouting the area for it. I decided to look, but came up with nothing. Not sure how the others fared though.”

Hurrin's face turned into frustration, and he let out a sigh. It wasn't any news that he really cared for. Just another wild story that turned up nothing. Before, he had rallied up the boys and led the ones who would follow on wild goose chases towards the mountains, until they ran out of food and their bellies ached. Once, they had almost even found the ruins of the city that lay somewhere in the Spine, but all they'd managed was a half broken statue of something indiscernible it was so old and tainted.

"Father said the others had found little, too. Except ol' man Willhelm, apparantly while he was out near the mountains he found a piece of fur he swore was from a Dire Wolf. Right next to a chewed up goat's horn. I think he's lieing, but that horn was definately snatched by something with vicious teeth! I'm sure it's nothing, though. Sudden winter is forcing the wolves off the mountains, right? They're all hungry and they snatch a few of the old flock. The old folk are worried, though, with all the sightings of wolves. They're on edge, the atmosphere in the inn has been tense this last week. Like thin ice. But nothing to worry about, we lose a few goats and sheep every winter. Nothing different this one."

“Ah, well that's good I suppose,” Hurrin said halfheartedly. It wasn't that he was unhappy that there was no actual danger. After all, it wouldn't do for some damned wolf to go eating up people's animals. Too many times he had helped with those animals when his father did not need him to help with chopping trees. And too many times he had strung his bow to go hunting the predators that killed the farmers livestock. Still, he just wished that something interesting would happen. Nothing interesting ever happened in Roan's Field.

“Well then, I suppose we should get back to the Inn before your father talks my ear off Elane. Best be getting your bread back as well, aye Garen?” he asked, the mischievous grin returning to his face. Even when disappointed, Hurrin's mood never stayed sour for long. He found life much to enjoyable to be bogged down by worry, and always took the brighter outlook on things. It was why he could take the beatings from Timothy and not be too bothered. They were only temporary, but he could have his laughs for a lifetime.

Above the town of Roan's Field, the sky's began to darken as clouds rolled in from over the mountains, obscuring the sun for minutes. The wind picked up as the shadows on the houses grew longer, and a chill swept through the air. Likely, it would storm tonight, and the rain would freeze again by morning, leaving the road slick and keeping the inhabitants of Roan's Field inside. The weather had been difficult for the farmers lately, and some had even lost crops to the freezing rain that usually did not come so early in fall. Whatever the reason, a dark air loomed over the simple village, bringing an air of dread to all it's inhabitants of the shadow of things to come.