In the first few days and nocts of travel, the endless expanse of plains that stretched like an ocean across Drugård Feiranais felt like a holiday. By the end of the first nock, time had begun to drag along like an anchor. As his party approached the end of their second, the Captain began to wonder if it were possible for one to become seasick of land. It hadn't helped that the unusually warm weather they had grown ignorantly accustomed to had at last given way to what was typical at the approach of the roat's end. They had crossed into Yanāyaka, the last of the moons of witherwind; though the south would hold out a bit longer, the rains of witherwind would eventually usher in the snows of frostfall.
And rain it had, at least for a few hours of each of the last three days they'd been on the road. Orwick had grown so tired of dawning and doffing his heavy woolen cloak that he'd decided to keep it on, even if the sun chose to peak out; whether by rain or sweat, he figured he'd wind up drenched either way. Due to the lousy weather, they had been left unable to light a fire even despite the growing chill brought with each noct. These factors had combined alongside Orwick's growing desire for a bath to make him rather sore of the road and longing for a lengthier respite. Most of their party - with the exception of Sir Barney - had quieted to speaking only what words were necessary between them. Sir Lawrence had grown peevish enough in the last twenty-four hours that he no longer spoke at all unless it was asked of him.
Each mile on the silent road before them had given Orwick ample time for thought, and he pondered many things throughout their long and increasingly dull days. He thought of Rivengarde, for one, and what the rest of his comrades were up to in his absence. He had grown so used to their daily routine back in the capital city that he could imagine exactly what he would be doing at each moment depending on the position of the sun. He thought about Alwyn and his company, wondering how they were getting on and smirking to himself at the thought of the northern winds. Most of all he thought of home; not Rivengarde, which he had called home for some time now, but the house he had grown up in.
He thought of his mother and father together - the earliest memories of his childhood. He recalled dozens of fond memories as a boy beside his mother and sister. Among them were many with Annalise; chasing hens, climbing the gnarled crabapple tree in the yard, or helping their mother tend the garden were just a few that he mulled over. Now that he had been told that a visit was not out of the question, his heart ached with longing. A couple of times they had stopped in the quaint pockets of civilization that cropped up near enough their path that they could afford the detour.
Once was in a larger village Orwick and a couple of others were familiar with by the name of Bellecrest, while the second was in a much smaller hamlet of which Orwick did not know the name. On neither occasion did they stay longer than an afternoon.
"We'll be upon Bannock Hollow by the evening." Sir Lawrence announced plainly, his voice as emotionless as a machine.
Orwick started with surprise. He imagined that they had to have made it many miles at their constant pace, but he was shocked at just how far along they had gotten. So far, the journey had been a simple task of following the great Magmine River along its natural course. Bannock Hollow was the last major town, nestled between the Magmine and two of its tributaries, before crossing into either of the two southern duchies. It was also the last stop before they would have to cross through Ashenmarsh.
Orwick came to a near instantaneous decision.
"We'll stop in the Hollow for the noct and replenish our supplies come dawn. Our pace has put us ahead of schedule, and our mounts will be grateful for the rest. If Miss Erisane permits it."
Though their guide nodded her head in amicable acceptance, and Orwick was certain he had conveyed his orders without room for argument, he still noticed the tensed shoulders in front of him, and the clicking of tongue on teeth. He bristled with a twinge of annoyance.
"Is something the matter, Sir Lawrence?"
It was a moment before a response was uttered, "We were informed this was a mission of the utmost importance, requiring both haste and secrecy. Staying within a town - namely one so large - for more than a couple hours at most is … ill advised."
"I thank you for your service, Sir Lawrence, but I am in no need of an advisor." The words came out harsher than Orwick had intended, so that he immediately regretted them. Sir Lawrence, nor the rest of the company, offered a retort. Orwick silently reproached himself, though the exchange had only given him more evidence as to how earnestly he needed to sleep under a roof, and preferably in a bed.
It was just before dusk that the peaks of the tallest roofs in Bannock Hollow came into view. Their approach was ushered in by a natural transformation, as the tall grasslands had become intertwined by encroaching reeds. Clumpy splotches of mud marred the road in greater quantity with every step further that they took - a passing sign kicked up by those who had come before. There was a heavy, natural smell that hung in the air; rich, damp soil mingled with the sweetness of life and the pungent odor of decay. Orwick was never certain as to if the smell was better or worse inside the Hollow.
Though the road remained stone, one could hardly tell once they'd crossed the ancient wooden arch that marked the entrance to town. Traffic was slow, but frequent enough to coat the cobbles in at least an inch of mud. Miss Erisane gazed upward as they passed beneath the threshold.
"How'd they set the log up so high?"
Orwick glanced up as well at the moss-covered tree that had been affixed atop two others to act as the gateway. So rotted through was it that Orwick was surprised it hadn't collapsed cades ago.
"S'not as hard as you might think to lift, Miss," Barney sniffed with pride, "I could give you a demonstration, should we come across one fallen in the days ahead."
Lamira giggled. Orwick rolled his eyes.
"If you throw out your back you're getting strapped to the saddle, Barney."
All around them the aged log houses crowded closer and closer together, until their crooked and leaning eaves nearly touched one another. They slowed to a halt and circled up nearby the well and lichen-covered statue that signaled the village square - if it could be called that.
"Sir Barney, Sir Derich, you've come to be more familiar with the area than I as of late. Find us an inn will you?"
Sir Barney smiled broadly, raising a straight arm perpendicular to the front of his body in salute, while Sir Derich nodded impassively.
"Sir Lawrence, will you be so kind as to locate a trader and a smith? We'll be in need of provisions and feed, as well as some new shoeing for the horses. I wouldn't be stunned to find us losing some in this muck. Some grease too if you come by it, this rain will soon corrode our arms."
Sir Lawrence nodded as Orwick exchanged the coinpurse with him. "Locals are likely to carry wormwood. I'll pick some up, flies get nasty in places such as this."
Orwick nodded his approval, although it had not been posed as a question, before Sir Lawrence headed off opposite of the other two - in the direction of the river's edge.
"Do you have anything for me?" Sir Jonah asked, barely concealing his eagerness to be of use.
"It should be near to the inn, but if you manage a place to stable and water the horses I'm certain the townsfolk would appreciate it more than us utilizing their well here." Orwick smiled warmly, the first time he'd felt like doing so in the last few days, which Sir Jonah returned.
"Will do, Captain."
Sir Jonah nudged his mount with his heel, and trodded off in the rough direction of Sirs Barney and Derich. Miss. Erisane turned towards Orwick with a smirk.
"And what is it you plan on managing, Sir Captain?"
Orwick chucked as he pulled out the rolled-up parchment illustrated with the faded map of the southern region.
"I'd like to understand our route a little better, seeing as it's been several roats since I've visited. If I recall correctly, there should be a bridge spanning the Magmine no more than an hours' ride south of here."
Orwick scrutinized the parchment for several moments, hardly noticing as Lamira circled her horse to the other side of the well in his periphery until her voice reached his ears.
"Who is he?"
"Who is who?" Orwick asked absentmindedly, attempting to decipher if a marking was some sort of writing or a wine stain.
"Him."
Orwick lifted his gaze and shifted in the saddle. Miss. Erisane was standing before the crumbling statue. He blinked at it once or twice, having all but forgotten it was there.
"Lord Darius Bannock. This was once one of the larger villages in his hold."
"A lord?" Lamira turned towards him quizzically, "He must have been much loved by his people, for them to have built such a monument in his honor."
Orwick barked a laugh, "Hardly. He had the statue commissioned himself - one in every town and village in the barony, to be exact. Most locals tore them down after his death and his family was casted out, but some left them up to wither and rot in the elements. It became a sort of tradition from what I recall."
Though Willowgate was still a handful of nocks away by horse, Orwick was not unfamiliar with the tale of the infamy of the local lord, and of the customs that his failures had inspired.
"What could he have possibly done, to make the people hate him so?" Lamira asked, her voice carrying a note of sorrow
"He is the reason the rebel army was able to cross the border into Regganor. Many believed his blunder to have been the beginning of the end."
"Surely the outcome of an entire war could not be attributed to the failings of a local lord."
Orwick meandered his horse around the well to stand beside the lady. Silhouetted by the setting sun, the defaced effigy stood tall despite its near centa of abuse. Tendrils of vines snagged at Lord Bannock's moss-covered legs, threatening to cover his entire form. Long, jagged cracks spiderwebbed along his thick torso, as well as the shield he held planted into the soil at his feet. There seemed to be nearly as much muck on the one-proud face of the local lord than there was on the ground, as well as the colorings of other debris and detritus that had likely been hurled during the annual festival.
"The Imphelenhi mountains make up the majority of the border between Regganor and her former territories to the south. Ashenmarsh stretches as far as the Magmine through the mountains, as far as Slipstream pass, where the rebels contested us with their main force. Lord Bannock was one of just a handful of lords responsible for defending the pass after Duchies Jättemor and Fharsält fell, but he was foolish. Those were the days in which the use of magic was legal, and every lord had a caster by their side. Bannock, from what is known, relied heavily on his own, and dabbled into the practice himself.
When the rebels took the marsh, the lord grew mad. When they stormed his gatehouse and took his bailey, he was enraged. By the time they entered the keep to demand his peaceful surrender, he instead channeled his own lumen against them in a blind fury."
Each of the pair studied what could be seen of the long-dead lord's features in silence, an arrogant smile peeking out from behind a caking of filth.
"And in his final act, did he succeed?" Lamira asked at last.
"Some might call it that," Orwick shrugged, "The smoke was said to have been seen for miles. He'd blown up the keep and incinerated everyone inside it. By the time anyone had gotten there, all that was left was a pile of smouldering rubble."